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fr0stf4ll · 17 days ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

Part 2

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The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

��Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

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The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

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redvexillum · 14 days ago

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A/N: Get it? Grace-fall? It's Graceful. Lol! This brilliance can only come from licking the most expensive and luxurious of doorknobs made of diamonds. Just saying.

SUMMARY: Once a devoted nun, your mortal life ended steeped in sin, condemning you to Hell. You pray relentlessly for redemption, though salvation seems far out of reach. The claws of lust have sunk deep into your soul, your very being dripping with unholy desire. Fallen from grace, you find yourself ensnared by two devils who revel in your surrender, indulging in your flesh and your corruption with wicked delight.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, p in a, double penetration, underlying sexual tension between Alastor and Lucifer, corruption kink, Lucifer has it bad for religious kink, nun!reader, threesome

Hell was not supposed to feel this... warm.

You had been devoted to the Lord, a devout Sister draped in virtue, but even devotion hadn't saved you. Somehow, someway, you’d landed yourself in the depths of Hell. Each morning and every night, you knelt on blistered, infernal ground, your trembling hands clasped in prayer for forgiveness that never came. This place—a supposed refuge for sinners seeking redemption—mocked you. Perhaps your soul was too stained, your sins too vile, to ever dream of Heaven.

Because you carried a shameful secret.

By day, you were the perfect image of piety, wrapped in robes and righteous words, sharing scripture with a voice that trembled with supposed faith. But when the moon rose, so did your desires. Behind closed doors, in the hushed, hidden dark, you cast away chastity like trash. You indulged, flesh against flesh, sin layered upon sin, until your moans sounded like prayers to something other.

And here, in Hell, it seemed you hadn’t changed.

“A-ah, A-Alastor—!” your voice broke as his hands guided your trembling body back against his chest. His claws traced a teasing path up your bare thigh, the sharp tips leaving tingling trails of heat on your sensitive skin.

Once he learned about your past, Alastor couldn’t resist. He delighted in theatrics, and what better costume for his new obsession than the very one that had shielded you in life? He’d conjured a habit reminiscent of your old one—but he’d tailored it.

Or, more accurately, ruined it.

The fabric was thinner, so sheer you could see every contour of your body beneath the strained, clinging cloth. It was tighter, accentuating every curve you once tried to hide. Worst of all, a scandalous slit cut up the side of the tunic, revealing the sinful truth that you wore nothing beneath. Every step threatened to bare your soul—along with everything else.

“T-this isn’t w-what we wore,” you stammered, your voice soft, trembling with both shame and something far more dangerous. You prayed he wouldn’t notice how your body betrayed you, prayed his hand wouldn’t slip lower. But you knew if he did, he’d find the damning evidence of your arousal soaking your thighs.

“Nonsense, dear,” he purred, his voice rolling over you like warm molasses. His breath curled against your ear as his hips pressed insistently into you. "We’re even matching. Look.”

Despite your better judgment, you dared to glance. Alastor stood behind you, garbed in his own blasphemous rendition of a nun's attire. His coif bore an upside-down cross embroidered in crimson, the stitching precise yet sacrilegious.

It was wrong. It was so wrong.

Yet, it set your skin aflame.

“D-does it please you to torment me?” you whimpered, trembling as his palm ghosted over your breast. His thumb brushed the hardened peak of your nipple through the taut fabric, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, desperate to muffle the sinful sound that escaped.

“Torment you?” Alastor chuckled, low and rich, like a velvet sin. His hand slid down, grazing your quivering stomach. “Why, my dear, I would never! I’m simply guiding you on your new path—one of passion, indulgence, and…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that danced over your skin. “…pleasure.”

You didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t stop him.

Shame pooled like molten lead in your chest, mixing with the treacherous pleasure that dripped from your core. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you croaked, “P-please, Alastor, d-don’t tease me.”

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet tender, “I don’t tease. I teach.” His fingers edged lower, tracing lower, lower still—almost slipping beneath the slit of your tunic.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Your entire body froze, your muscles locking in mortified panic. The air felt thick, suffocating, as you whipped your head toward the sound.

“Hey, Alastor, why’d your shadow—”

The voice halted, the words hanging in the heavy silence. Time seemed to stop as the intruder took in the sight of you—trembling, dishevelled, pressed against Alastor’s chest in your barely there nun’s habit.

Your breath hitched.

It was Lucifer standing before you.

The Morning Star, the fallen angel whose name was both a cautionary tale and a forbidden promise, stood before you in the flesh. His aura radiated power, a blend of overwhelming authority and unearthly beauty that stole your breath. You should hate him. Every scripture had told you to loathe his existence, to see him as the ultimate deceiver, the tempter of mankind.

But as his crimson, molten eyes softened when they rested on you, it was impossible to feel only hate.

Your feelings for him were complicated—a tangled web of reverence, fear, and an unwilling fascination. The longer you were in his presence, the harder it became to deny that he was not merely a villain. He was something far more nuanced, far more intoxicating.

But all thoughts scattered as you felt Alastor’s hardened length press against your backside. His arousal grew unmistakable, and the firm weight of it sent a jolt of heat through your already trembling frame.

“Ah, did my pesky shadow cause this little interruption?” Alastor mused, his tone smooth yet dripping with mockery. “Hmm, no matter. You can run along now, King,” he added with a laugh that was as sharp as broken glass. “I’m spending time with my dear, after all.”

You flinched as Alastor’s hand slid down, lifting your leg with practised ease. The slit of your habit widened, the cool air licking against your exposed, soaked core. Every inch of you screamed in humiliation as Lucifer’s gaze dropped, his eyes roving over your quivering body until they landed on the most intimate part of you.

His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lucifer finally growled, his composure cracking as his brows furrowed in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to bastardize this?” He jabbed the apple-shaped head of his cane toward your altered nun’s habit, his disdain palpable.

But Alastor only chuckled, his amusement unfazed. “Oh, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we, dear?” His voice dipped with a teasing lilt as he pressed his cheek to the crown of your head, the motion emphasizing the sharp grin you knew was stretched across his face.

His hips moved subtly, his hardness grinding against the cleft of your ass with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and despite your better judgment, a soft, breathless moan slipped from your lips.

“A-ah—” You couldn’t stop the sound, and shame burned hot in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your flushed cheeks as you whispered, “I-I’m sorry… p-please, forgive me.” Your words were breathy, punctuated by quiet cries as your hips began to move on their own, seeking more of the sinful pleasure Alastor offered.

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.” His voice was a mix of anger and something darker—something that made your stomach flip.

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning with a finality that sent a thrill of both fear and anticipation racing through you.

“You did this on purpose,” Lucifer accused, his voice low as he stalked toward you. His serpentine tongue flicked out briefly, a glint of heat in his crimson eyes as they roamed your trembling form.

“Hmm, perhaps,” Alastor hummed, his tone light but his actions deliberate. You gasped as you heard the fabric tearing—not yours, but his. You felt the unmistakable heat of his cock sliding against your soaked folds. He moved slowly, deliberately, coating himself in your slickness as if savouring every second.

“I’d be lying,” Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl, “if I said your little stares every time she prayed didn’t irritate me, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed with golden light, his composure cracking under the weight of Alastor’s accusation. “I-I—!”

“Oh, you didn’t think I noticed?” Alastor’s grin was audible in his voice, wicked and triumphant. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with shallow movements that had you sobbing with need. Your chest heaved as desperate pleas spilled from your lips, the heat inside you unbearable.

“P-please,” you cried, your voice trembling with the weight of shame and lust that burned away all restraint. “I c-can’t—”

Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his conflicted expression twisting into something more primal.

Alastor chuckled darkly, his voice a slow ripple of sinister delight as he teased you with the head of his cock. The stretch was exquisite, a sweet, aching burn that had you trembling against him. Every inch he pushed into you was a battle between agony and ecstasy, your body straining to take him deeper. You craved it—wanted it to hurt, to feel the sharp edge of your desires as penance for the sin of yearning for something so profane.

Yet, Alastor moved with an almost mocking grace, his control absolute as he bared you to him. His slender hands slid the front of your tunic aside, completely exposing the glistening heat of your cunt to the cool air. Without effort, he lifted your other leg, thighs splayed wide in his grip, and fully sheathed himself inside you.

The sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and you cried out—a broken, helpless apology spilling from your lips. “Forgive me,” you sobbed to a silent heaven, your tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Forgive me, Lord, for indulging in this sin with a devil.”

Alastor groaned deeply, the sound reverberating through you as his cock throbbed against your quivering walls. “Do you know, dear?” His voice was a sinful melody, tainted with amusement and heat. “You’ve driven the king of Hell to fuckhimself with his hand while watching you pray so sweetly to your Lord.”

Your tear-filled gaze lifted, meeting Lucifer’s smouldering, fiery eyes. His sharp features were shadowed with hunger, and there—pressing against the fabric of his tailored pants—was the undeniable proof of his desire.

Alastor’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that, my dear king,” he crooned, his hips moving with agonizing slowness as he withdrew, only to thrust back into you. The slick sound of your arousal filled the air, making you burn with humiliation and desire. “If anything, you should be thanking me for giving you this chance. Go on, my dear,” he growled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Beg him. Revere the king of Hell. Pretend it’s just you, alone in your bed, consumed by your wicked little fantasies.”

Heat flooded your cheeks as the memory clawed its way back into your mind. Last night—your knees sinking into your mattress, your cries muffled by your pillow as your fingers worked frantically to fill the ache inside you. You had moaned for it, begged for it, your body trembling with the desperate need for a cock to stretch you open and take you to pieces.

Alastor had seen it all.

A sob broke from your throat, your lips trembling as the weight of his gaze bore down on you. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you moaned, “Please…”

The word lingered in the charged air, and it was all Lucifer needed. The devil sank to his knees, his movements predatory as his hands gripped your hips. His tongue found you—hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a path from your swollen clit down to the dripping heat of your folds.

Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch, and Alastor groaned above you, his breath ragged. The devil king’s tongue swirled and slithered, exploring you with a reverence that bordered on worship. You felt his expert hands move to cradle Alastor’s heavy balls, fondling them with a precision that had the radio demon’s voice breaking into a strained moan.

And then, in one smooth motion, Alastor withdrew from you. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but your eyes widened when you looked down to see Lucifer take him into his mouth.

The sight was devastatingly sinful: Lucifer’s plush lips wrapped around Alastor’s cock, his throat working as he took him in deeply, while his thumb slipped back to brush over your clit in teasing strokes. Your hips bucked against his hand, your body caught in a storm of sensations as pleasure spiralled higher with every touch.

Alastor’s hips began to move, thrusting into Lucifer’s eager mouth with low, guttural groans. The sensation of his movements sent shockwaves through you, the mingling sounds of slick arousal filling the air. But Lucifer wasn’t done with you. With a loud, wet pop, he released Alastor’s cock, his hands stroking the length with practised ease, before his mouth returned to you.

You cried out as his tongue plunged into you, curling and twisting inside your heat. His lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking with a hunger that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Alastor’s laughter—low and strained—filled the room as he watched Lucifer lose himself in you.

And you?

You were drowning in it, consumed by the sheer decadence of being ravaged by two devils who seemed determined to ruin you, body and soul.

A strangled cry tore from your lips, your tears streaking down in hot, salty trails as you trembled under Alastor's punishing grip. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving faint crescents in your tender flesh, a stark reminder of his control.

“More… more,” you begged, your voice raw and breathless. Your body ached, caught between the sharp edge of need and the shame of your surrender.

Alastor’s dark chuckle filled the room, rich with cruel amusement. “Oh, you naughty, naughty girl,” he chided, his voice a silken blade. “This isn’t enough for you, is it? Always craving more, no matter how much you’ve taken.” His words cut deep, each one a taunting echo of your fractured piety, your countless nights spent giving in to your base desires.

Behind you, the wet sounds of Lucifer’s mouth stilled. His fiery gaze raked over your trembling form, lips glistening from the evidence of his ministrations. Without a word, he snapped his fingers, a crackle of hellfire igniting around you. The fabric of your outfit dissolved into nothingness, replaced by a fleeting, fiery heat that licked over your skin.

Now bare, you shivered—not from cold, but from the vulnerable intensity of their attention.

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed—not at you, but at the smug demon holding you open like a feast laid bare. “You…” The words rumbled low in his throat, his fury palpable as Alastor’s grin widened.

With a growl, Lucifer’s composure snapped. He tore at the front of his pants, shoving them aside with deliberate impatience until his cock stood proud—thick, long, and demanding your attention.

Your breath hitched, your mouth watering as heat coiled low in your belly. The sheer size of him sent your mind spinning, imagining how it would feel, how he would stretch and fill you.

Alastor’s voice broke through your haze, a taunting melody dripping with mockery and delight. “Will you pray for forgiveness tonight, my dear?” His words were a cruel caress against your soul. “Perhaps you can taste the king while begging for the Lord’s mercy.”

Lucifer’s muscles tensed, his eyes widening in shocked restraint as his hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. The tension in his body betrayed the effect of Alastor’s words as his knuckles whitened, trembling.

“Go on,” Alastor purred, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “Say your prayers now, while your purity is torn asunder by two devils who know no mercy.”

A broken sob escaped you, a sound dripping with desperation and forbidden lust. Your body quivered as Alastor shifted behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against the tight ring of your ass.

Lucifer growled low in his throat, his cock brushing against your soaked, trembling folds. He lingered, waiting—demanding your surrender not just of body, but of soul.

“F-forgive me, Father—ah!” The words barely left your lips before Alastor surged forward, breaching you in one merciless thrust. Pain and pleasure collided as your body strained to accommodate him, your cries loud and uninhibited.

Lucifer didn’t wait. His cock drove into your slick cunt with equal ferocity, stretching and filling you until there was no room for anything but them.

Your body burned, every nerve alive with the overwhelming sensation of being taken, utterly consumed by them. Tears streaked your face anew as your fingers scrabbled for purchase, finally clutching at Lucifer’s shoulders for support.

Their groans filled the room, deep and primal, vibrating through you as they moved in tandem. Alastor’s breath ghosted against your ear, his voice a sinful whisper. “Don’t stop, darling. Continue your prayers.”

The command was both a taunt and a promise, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he thrust into you, sharp and precise. Lucifer’s hands gripped your waist, his movements relentless, dragging cries from your throat that echoed like hymns to your undoing.

The world blurred, every sensation heightening as their bodies claimed you, leaving you gasping and trembling between them. Your prayers turned to pleas, the words dissolving into moans as you surrendered completely, letting them unravel you piece by sinful piece.

“F-forgive me—ah—” The words faltered on your lips, swallowed by the sinful symphony of their bodies entwined with yours. Alastor’s hips rolled with an exquisite precision, sending shivers cascading down your spine. Lucifer groaned deeply as the thin wall separating your cunt and ass flexed with every thrust, their cocks filling you beyond what you thought possible.

“F-Father, f-for I have s-sinned—hah—” Your head fell back against Alastor’s shoulder, your body arching as though in prayer. But this wasn’t piety—this was surrender. Held aloft by their unrelenting grip and their thick, pulsing cocks, you were trapped in a sinful rhythm, their thrusts alternating to keep you on the edge of madness. Sometimes they moved in tandem, stretching you impossibly full, and other times their rhythm broke, their erratic movements overwhelming your senses.

It was too much—your body couldn’t take it—but never in life had you felt such raw, unbridled pleasure.

“K-keep praying,” Lucifer growled, his voice husky with need. His lips descended on your breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth. The sharp sensation of his teeth grazing your nipple made you cry out, your back arching further into his touch. He bit down lightly, tugging before resuming his fervent suckling, each sensation sharpening the ache coiling in your core.

The intensity of it all made your body clench instinctively, gripping the two cocks inside you. Both devils moaned, their pleasure vibrating through you.

“M-my l-last c-confession—hah—please, ah—” Your voice broke as your body gave itself over to the debauchery, your cries mingling with the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts. The squelching echoed in the room, each sound a testament to your sinful surrender. Your slick dripped down their lengths, leaving trails of debauchery on their thighs.

Lucifer groaned, his teeth grazing your nipple again before tugging it firmly. His hips rolled with increasing fervour, his cock stroking every sensitive nerve inside you. Behind you, Alastor’s pace quickened, each thrust a deliberate claim as he ensured you would feel his presence long after this moment ended.

“M-my last confession w-was yesterday,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you turned your head to the side. The vulnerable expanse of your neck was laid bare, and Alastor wasted no time. His teeth sank into your skin, sharp enough to draw blood, the sting mingling with the pleasure coursing through you. The heat of his bite spread through your body, making your thighs tremble as he pulled you open even wider.

Lucifer took advantage of your vulnerability, slamming his hips into you with reckless abandon. The head of his cock hit your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of ecstasy radiating through you. The sensation tore cries from your lips, your voice cracking under the weight of your pleasure.

Your body began to quake, every muscle tightening as you climbed toward the precipice. “Th-these are my s-sins,” you whimpered, your voice choked with desperation.

And then it hit you—a tidal wave of release that crashed through your body with devastating force. Your eyes flew open, unseeing, as your orgasm seized you. Your inner walls convulsed wildly, clutching at their cocks in a desperate rhythm as your juices spilled over, drenching them in your shameful surrender.

A broken, anguished cry tore from your throat, echoing off the walls.

Lucifer groaned, his glowing red eyes narrowing as his restraint snapped. His fangs elongated, glinting in the dim light as he growled. He gripped your hips tighter, slamming into you with renewed vigor, his movements fuelled by the sight and feel of your release.

Behind you, Alastor moaned deeply, his hips rolling as he chased his own pleasure. The rhythm of his cock driving into your ass became erratic, his voice trembling with wicked delight.

Together, they claimed you completely, leaving no part of you untouched or unmarked, their sinful union branding your body and soul in ways you would never recover from.

Your body quaked, overwhelmed by the sensations tearing through you. The remnants of your first orgasm still pulsed faintly when a second wave began to crest, building swiftly and mercilessly. Your muscles clenched again, pulling tight around them both, every nerve alight with searing pleasure.

Your cry was raw, piercing the room as your release overtook you once more. Every inch of you spasmed, your inner walls fluttering as the force of your climax rippled through you. Lucifer groaned deeply, the sound guttural and primal as his own restraint snapped. His cock throbbed inside you, releasing hot spurts of his seed into your womb, filling you to the brim.

Behind you, Alastor followed swiftly, his thrusts faltering as his hips slammed forward one final time. He shuddered, a strangled moan escaping his lips as his warmth flooded your ass, mingling with the sinful heat of Lucifer's release.

The room stilled, save for the sound of ragged breaths interwoven with the heady scent of sweat and sex. You felt their combined arousal spilling from you, dripping down your quivering holes and pooling onto the floor. The sensation sent another shiver through your body, shame and satisfaction coiling together in an intoxicating mix.

When Alastor released his grip, you collapsed onto trembling knees. Your hands reached instinctively for Lucifer, your lips finding his softening, spent cock. Pressing reverent kisses along his length, you tasted the salty mixture of his essence and your own arousal on his heated skin.

“P-please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desperation. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You were insatiable, a vessel of endless need, the embodiment of Lust itself. Your lips trailed down his shaft, leaving a wet path of kisses before you flicked your tongue over the sensitive head.

“Please… more,” you murmured, kitten-like licks teasing the tip as a small bead of seed lingered there.

Lucifer hissed softly, his cock twitching faintly at your touch. His crimson eyes softened, a dark smile gracing his lips as his hand lowered to cradle your head. His fingers combed through your sweat-dampened hair with surprising tenderness, an almost possessive gesture that made your heart race.

Alastor chuckled from behind, the sound low and indulgent. “Oh, my dear, you are truly something sinful,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. “But isn’t that why we adore you?”

You should have felt shame—a deep, bone-chilling regret for your weakness, your inability to resist this sinful allure. But as Lucifer’s hand guided you back to his cock and Alastor’s fingers traced possessively down your spine, the warmth of their attention ignited something darker inside you.

Perhaps this was your punishment, a divine reckoning. To know this insatiable hunger, this endless need, and to revel in it despite the crushing weight of shame.

You opened your lips, ready to receive more, your body trembling with anticipation. If this were to be your punishment, you would take it with open arms, submitting fully to the sinful ecstasy they offered.

Forever bound by pleasure and despair, you realized one undeniable truth: you would never escape this, nor did you truly want to.

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gurggggleburgle · 24 days ago

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I would like to make the joke that this winter you could sacriligously call Shen Yuan a Jesus figure who deserves a spot on your mantle and tree.

And why would we say that?

1) Father Son and Holy Spirit

Okay so we acknowledge the very real fact that Airplane is God of this world and what is the system if not an abstraction of the holy spirit? And I know what you're thinking how does this apply to Shen Yuan? What is his transmigration into Shen Qingqiu if not a Virgin Birth into a son of Airplane's writing who in PIDW is the narrative justification for all of Binghe's hate and also the eventual release of Binghe's trauma and corruption. Both a sacrificial lamb if you will.

2) resurrection

OK so while his deaths (for the sake of comedy accept big dick death) are all for binghe's sake in the end could one not argue strongly that these deaths carry the symbolic nature of self sacrifice, revival, and of course stigmata. The first death is of course the one that starts the novel where the humble Shen Yuan asks for absolution for the characters and the world of PIDW with his astute words of "dumbfuck novel dumbfuck author" in which he notes the fault of Lord Father Airplane and is born so he may die at the hands of his disciple who will ultimately betray them. His second death comes 3 years later and is the process once makes a statement of absolution towards his betrayer and to once again spare his fellow eleven other peak lords and and binghe who you can read as the 12 apostles. He then dies again in order to save both the world and in the process and absolve guilt and sin in the name of love and forgiveness.

3) stigmata

Much like our favorite anime protagonist from Saint Young Men our boy Shen Yuan experiences multiple cases of gaining stigmata. Stigmata in this instant referring to multiple injuries that Shen Yuan receives in one particular hand and visually in the animated adaptation appears to be the palm. Shen Yuan's hand which was used to read the sacred PIDW text and give head pats to his disciples was injured in saving Luo Binghe multiple times. In first gaining a deadly poison that seals his fate, then in being infected with a disease that ravaged the meek and innocent, third he gets plant spores that need to he repeatedly burned out of his flesh. These stigmata are symbols of his devotion and faith.

4) kindness to snakes and the less fortunate

In showing kindness to a snake Shen Yuan is able to restore Zhuzhi-Lang back to a more desired state much like the way Jesus cured disease. His efforts also resorted in saving the life of Liu Qingge who is restored much like Lazurus. These miracles act as proof of Shizun’s miracles. Proof of his acts as savior

5) god why have you forsaken me

Multiple times throughout the novel Shen Qingqiu can be seen raging against the system as well as Airplane which as we've discussed are both aspects of God. Jesus himself raged against God when forced to confront his own death and spoke of feeling betrayed and forsaken. The same can be said for the way Shen Yuan feels towards both his fate or and for the state of PIDW and Airplanes shitty writing.

6) throwing the money lenders from the temple

Honestly this is just an excuse to make a joke about Huan Hua palace and killing the old palace master.

7) knowing his own betrayal

A large element is that Judas's betrayal is not a surprise to Jesus. It is an inevitability he sees coming in much the same way that Shen Yuan sees Luo Binghe trying to kill him in revenge coming. There is an acceptance of an inevitable betrayal that both figures share

7) Gay

Much like Jesus our boy is gay and problematic

#svsss #scumbag system #svsss shitpost #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #scum villain self saving system #sqq #would you betray me with a kiss

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godhandler · 4 months ago

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[ #1, Lord!Sukuna x knight!reader, heian-era trueform Sukuna, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, d/s relationship, graphic details, gnc reader, 600+ words ]

pt.2 (jealousy)

Ryomen Sukuna is to feast tonight. You, his right-hand knight, his first line of defence, his ever-faithful dog, his closest confidante, have prepared a banquet: you’ve slaughtered an entire Suguwara battalion. A fine stew they made, but Sukuna is still unsatisfied.

“Be there no noble or peasant to fill my belly? No ample morsel in all these fertile lands?” Sukuna drawls, brows curled in annoyance. His entire court stands fearing their fates. The stew is finished, so is the rice and the wine.

“Then must I fare pale today?” His anger is terrible. Play your part, strong knight, save these trembling men.

“O Lord,” You kneel onto one knee amid a parting crowd. “Point your finger and I shall hunt. My bow shall I draw, my sword shall I swing. You shall not go without your heart’s content.”

“Is that all you offer me, then?” His silken robes tinkle as he leans forward.

“For you, I give you my teeth and nails,” comes your feverish vow. “My self and my soul, too. Pledged yours am I.”

“Hearty words, but my stomach goes unsated.”

“Then request, Lord. The sky itself will not be spared if you desire it so.”

“Will sky-air fill my hunger? I shall dine on something more precious.” His eyes burn crimson-flamed. “Your meat.”

For a second you are taken aback, but the next one fills Sukuna with your aroma. Your unsheathed sword screeches against the marbled ground as you drag it with you up to his throne. In his lap you lay yourself and present your sword to him: Take it. Carve my flesh out as you desire. It’s all yours, anyway.

If his courtiers, wives, concubines, soldiers and subjects gawk at the spectacle, Sukuna does not care. He caresses a gentle hand through your hair lest they cover the unwavering sincerity in your eyes. “No,” he declares, “Your deflowered sword shall not touch your skin. You deserve–,” his head leant down to yours, you breathe in the warmth of his exhale, “–a touch more worthy of you.”

You see the delight in Sukuna’s eyes before the horrifying pain rends through the centre of your chest. With one hand he’s broken your sternum apart and digs elbow-deep into your bloody mess of organs. Even with your reversed cursed technique it’s hard to keep awake: the hollow in your chest, the bloodloss, the unimaginable torture of it all pulling you under, away from your Lord’s blazing eyes that are all that you can perceive. You can feel every stretch of his finger inside you, every ripping tissue, every pulse on his heaving breath that echoes a desire that only you bring him. Only you and – found it – Sukuna, robes drenched in your blood red as his eyes, rips your heart out of you. It still beats for him.

You can only lie limp cradled on his thighs and left arms as he sinks his teeth in, devotedly. An eye on his meal, another on his audience, and two on you. He does not say a word as he eats. What is there to say that you do not already understand? He eats your heart with overwhelming love and respect.

Sukuna takes his time to chew through each bite, savouring the taste of your rich blood and strong sinews. This heart that nourished you since your birth, the one that stored memories of your childhood loves and dreams, all melt on his tongue. The flavour of your cursed energy, unparalleled. It pairs well with his own.

He licks his fingers clean when he’s done. Not a single drop of blood of yours is wasted. You’re too pale, lips blue and palms white; Sukuna carries you to your chambers in his own arms. He does not offer to help you regenerate, he knows you can do it yourself. He trusts you.

When you wake up, you find your sword next to you. Sukuna’s own blood, you can tell by its taste, is drying on your blade.

pt.2 (jealousy) masterlist

a/n: obsession x consumption x devotion my beloved trio

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devieuls · 3 months ago

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ˋ Haunted . ༄

Qimir x Ex Jedi Fem Reader < SERIES >

Warning of the Serie: MDNI. Sith Lord Qimir x Fem ex Jedi Reader.

(during the series)

SMUT: Dirty Talk; Bites; fingering; Blood; Spit; Jealousy and Possessiveness; Foreplay; violence; Swearing; Teasing; Unprotected Sex; betrayal; oral sex; dacryphilia; outdoor sex; jealousy BDSM. Dom Qimir ANGST: toxic relationship, self-harm, derealization, suffering, Requited / Unrequited love, prejudices, bullying and insults. There will be flashbacks in this series

Aged characters: Qimir 35 y.o / You 22 y.o.

Synopsis: In a twisted web of light and darkness, two opposites are facing each other, dancing on a thin thread called fate. What happens when light and darkness dance on a wire called destiny, two eternal opposites that inevitably attract each other and create something perfectly powerful and chaotic to unite the power of two in one? The answer emerges in a journey of tension and attraction, where yin and yang discover that their opposition is nothing but a reflection of a deep and unexpected connection. This is the story of how destruction is akin to peace, how the moon one day decided to save the sun, how darkness is not so dark and evil so bad. A journey towards change and desire, where opposing forces merge into a future that no one could have predicted.

(Following some events of the series)

Lenght: 5.8k

TW: THE SERIES WILL BE FULL OF DELICATE TOPICS!

⇠ Previous chapter ✵ Next Chapter ⇢

· · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · ·

⠀⠀ Chapter VII: Mistakes

The night passed slowly, every minute feeling like an eternity, and you found yourself running your fingers over your lips, as if you still wanted to taste his. Every time you thought of Qimir, of the way his lips had found yours with such longing, your heart began to beat faster, your chest tightened, and desire burned inside you. You couldn't push him out of your mind; it was as if his touch had stayed on you, imprinted on your skin like an invisible tattoo.

You turned to the side in bed, gripping the sheets in your hands as the memory of those fingers that had clung to your flesh, digging in with an insatiable hunger, tormented you. You swallowed with difficulty, desperately trying to free yourself from the images crowding your mind: your mouths joined in wet and desperate kisses, his deep breaths against your neck, the shared gasps filling the air as if they were the only language you both knew. You had started it all, you, and it was as if you had unleashed a force you could no longer stop, and you were ashamed of it.

His words echoed in your head, piercing like a wound that refused to heal. “Let me be yours .” Those words had broken something inside you, revealing a Qimir you had never seen before: vulnerable, open, yet still so imposing, so dangerous. His pleading voice as he looked at you with his mouth still on your breast, as if he had desired nothing else in the world but to belong to you, was impossible to forget.

You closed your eyes, but the scene continued to haunt you. "Completely." The sincerity in his eyes, the need that resonated in every word. You wanted to forget everything, to drive away the feeling of his hands on your body, the warmth of his skin against yours. But the more you tried to push him away, the more you found yourself wrapped in those memories, as if your own body refused to let him go.

It was as if the memory of that night was alive, pulsing beneath your skin. Your breathing became irregular, and every heartbeat seemed to amplify his absent presence. His voice echoed in your mind, a whisper blending with the night wind, making you shiver. "If isn't right, then why do you like it so much?"

The memory of his touch was vivid, warm, and your intimacy began to burn at the spot where Qimir had brushed his fingers over your pants. And without even realizing it, your hand slid toward that heat that was slowly consuming you, a desire that burned without extinguishing. Every inch of your skin wanted to keep that memory of a few hours earlier alive, and the need to feel him again, to have that moment back, was becoming more unbearable. You urgently pulled off your pants, throwing them to the floor.

Your breath grew heavier and more erratic, the images in your mind more real, as if his presence was right there with you, now. His name surfaced on your lips with the same intensity as the night wind, a choked whisper, as you began to rub your fingertips over that increasingly needy bundle of nerves. Your mind couldn’t escape the thought of him. You imagined his shoulders, so broad, so strong, where you had dug your nails in. His arms wrapped around your body to keep you from going anywhere. His mouth claiming yours with hunger.

You bit the side of your lip lightly, closing your eyes and letting out a deep breath. You tried once again to push away your thoughts, but your left hand began to brush over your breast, imagining it was his. "We’ve barely begun" his slow, warm voice, gentle yet deep, echoed in your head.

You began to move your hips back and forth against your fingers, feeling your warm, wet skin, seeking more friction to relieve that strange sensation that kept growing. Suddenly, you felt breathless when you touched the sensitive tip of your bud, your eyes wide, your body trembling and slightly arched, eager to discover what else you could touch to satisfy yourself.

An irrational need to explore your intimacy further took hold of you. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, pressing your palm against your swollen clitoris, and immediately began moving your fingers, feeling shivers run down your spine, almost forgetting where you were and that, who knows how many meters away, the man you were now imagining as you touched yourself was sleeping.

This was not Jedi behavior; nothing you had done that night was. Yet, why did you keep thinking about it? The lessons from your masters echoed in a distant corner of your mind, warning you that desire was a corrupt path, a road that would inevitably lead you toward the dark side. Pleasure, especially carnal pleasure, was even worse: it would cloud your clarity, undermine your balance, and weaken your connection to the Force. But how could something that had made you feel so alive, so real, after so much time spent in apathy, be wrong?

The memory of Qimir, the way he had touched you, kissed you, and the warmth of his body against yours, made you feel free in a way you had never experienced before. It was as if he had awakened a part of you that had remained dormant, buried beneath layers of discipline and control.

You weren’t used to these sensations; you had never thought that your body could crave something with such intensity. Your masters had taught you to keep your mind pure, to not allow distractions to divert you from your path. But now, both your mind and body seemed estranged from such restrictive teachings.

The idea of exploring your body, of giving yourself permission to touch and discover yourself as Qimir had, had become irresistible. His attention to you had opened a world of desires you had never dared to explore or imagine. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw his hands, felt the warmth of his breath, and the burning of his kisses, accompanied by small bites. It was as if he had unlocked a part of you that had always been there, but that you had ignored and repressed.

It was wrong, you knew that, and yet, in that moment, it felt like the most right thing you had ever experienced.

You turned once more in bed, the sheets feeling too hot, suffocating against your tense and restless skin. You gripped a corner of fabric with such force that your nails dug into your palms, leaving small crescent marks. The memory of his hands, his lips on you, continued to torment you. You bit your lip, trying to push those images away, yet every effort was in vain as you pumped your fingers in and out, searching for the most delicate points of yourself, feeling a new kind of tension building inside you, an insistent need to give more to feel more.

Your eyes clenched shut, trembling, while your toes curled with every movement you made to satisfy yourself. Your heart started to beat faster, and you felt more sensitive and weaker, reaching the point where your mind was emptied of everything, focusing solely on pushing yourself beyond the limit that seemed to slip further away.

You brought your hand to your mouth, stifling a deep moan. Your face was slightly sweaty and flushed as you felt liquid slipping from your fingers once they were pulled from your intimacy. You breathed deeply, almost panting, as your fingers slipped through your hair, desperately trying to bring some order back to your mind. You ran your hand over your face, as if that simple gesture could erase your mistakes, the ones you kept collecting, one after another, dragging you further from the path you had sworn to follow.

You got out of bed, your body still trembling, and a wave of pain shot through your ankle, reminding you of the sprain. Limping, you reached the rudimentary rock faucet inside the cave, cold water running over your hands as if it could wash away not just your fluids, but also the memories of the man who had led you to commit such a pleasurable act. You scrubbed vigorously, trying to erase every trace of that night.

You returned to bed with difficulty, massaging your aching ankle. Every step felt like divine punishment for what you had done, as if to remind you it was wrong, and you kept making mistakes. You leaned against the pillow, your gaze lost in the emptiness, until your eyes fell on the small Nexu, peacefully sleeping next to your bed. That cub, unaware of your dogmas, had become your only anchor. You reached out to him, your fingers threading through his rough fur, finding comfort in a place you could no longer find within yourself. "Shit" you hissed through clenched teeth, the frustration suffocating you. You stroked the cub, trying to find peace in that gesture, but your mind was in turmoil. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Qimir again. You couldn’t shake him off, no matter how hard you tried.

But maybe, deep down, a part of you didn’t want to forget anything about that night.

You only fell asleep after hours of fighting your own thoughts, your hand still resting on the cub. The sleep was shallow, disturbed by images and sensations you couldn’t push away. When you woke, Qimir was there. You felt him approaching, his gaze burning on your skin as you kept your eyes closed a little longer. He watched you in silence, almost affectionately, as if he were trying to understand every single detail of your face. He leaned slightly over you, moving a rebellious strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment on your still-warm skin. There was something different about your face, something he couldn’t fully decipher but that intrigued him.

As soon as you opened your eyes, you sensed his presence retreat. Qimir stepped back, turning his back to you as he grabbed something from a natural shelf in the cave, his movement slow and calculated. His tone was light, almost distracted, when he spoke.

"Rough night?" he asked with a casual air. Panic hit you like a punch to the chest. You sat up quickly, clutching the blanket around you, swallowing as you tried to find an answer that wouldn’t betray the turmoil inside you after a night spent touching yourself, thinking of him.

"Not at all." you replied too quickly, your voice louder than normal, and you realized it only after you had spoken. Qimir turned to look at you, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. He raised an eyebrow, staring at you with a gaze that seemed to see through every barrier, every excuse.

His eyes immediately settled on your disheveled hair, then on your wrinkled and slightly twisted tunic, before trailing down to the pants lying on the cave floor. His lips curled into a barely restrained smirk as he leaned casually against the rocky wall, arms crossed over his chest in a way that made it clear he was amused, as if he knew exactly what you'd done that night.

"It's not what you think" you stammered nervously, your voice a little too high-pitched as the blush spread across your cheeks. The instinct to defend yourself against any accusation clashed with the awareness that you were in an indefensible position, no matter how obvious it seemed.

Qimir tilted his head slightly, his smile widening, mischievous, as if savoring every second of your clumsy attempt at dissimulation.

"And what do you think I'm thinking?" he replied, his voice low, a velvet whisper, his eyes narrowing in amusement but also in a dangerously inquisitive way. Your heart pounded faster as you desperately tried to find a response that wouldn’t make things even more awkward.

"There's nothing to think about," you finally answered, trying to regain control of the situation, even though you felt the tension rise with every passing second. Qimir chuckled softly, a laugh that sounded almost affectionate, as he ran a hand through his hair with that relaxed manner of his, as if the situation didn’t bother him in the least.

"There’s nothing wrong if-"

"Qimir!" You cut him off, grabbing the pillow and throwing it at him, overwhelmed by the embarrassment washing over you like a violent wave. The very concept of sexuality was something you had always ignored. And now, to find yourself discussing it with him made everything unbearably real.

"Alright, alright…" he began, laughing as he handed you the pillow back. "I just hope that whoever put these ideas in your head at least… satisfied you. In your imagination, I mean" He dropped that line with a calm and malice that sent a shiver down your spine, offering you the pillow as if he hadn't just implied the most audacious thing you’d ever heard.

"Shut up" you muttered, snatching the pillow and looking away from him, burning with embarrassment. The silence that followed was thick with tension as you tried to ignore him, pretending that conversation had never happened.

Qimir, however, didn’t seem ready to let it go. He cleared his throat lightly, coughing in that deliberate way that always seemed to signal he was about to stir trouble.

"Oh…" he murmured softly, as if a piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place, realization dawning on him. Your body tensed instantly, your heartbeat thudding in your ears as you felt his eyes studying you with a renewed interest. "You were thinking…" he started, but didn’t finish, because your sharp glare immediately silenced him.

"No." You responded curtly, hoping the firmness of your tone would be enough to end the matter.

He turned away, but not before shooting you a look of pure understanding, paired with a smirk that made you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable in front of him.

"I wouldn’t take offense, you know, if I happened to be the object of your desire" he said with unsettling ease, moving towards the corner of the cave where he had stored some fruit a few days earlier.

"I wasn’t thinking about you." Your voice was icy, tinged with nervousness—a desperate attempt to salvage whatever dignity you had left, though you knew your reactions betrayed every word you spoke.

"If you say so, my lady" he replied, emphasizing that "my lady" with a soft and delicate tone, almost reverent, sending another wave of shivers down your spine.

"But, you know, autoerotism isn’t exactly something the Jedi Masters teach their Padawans, if I remember well. So, it would be quite a honor to be the cause of your… desire." His words dripped with teasing affection, a taunting edge to them, but beneath it all, you could feel an underlying sincerity that only made your predicament more infuriating.

The word "autoerotism" hit you like a cold blade. You had never heard it used in that context, and as much as you tried to maintain an impenetrable façade, your mind was in turmoil. You were trained not to think about certain things, to never let yourself get distracted, but now it felt as if Qimir had opened a secret door that you had always ignored. Sure, once you left the Order, you could have explored all those emotions that had been forbidden to you, but retreating into solitude meant you had renounced that curiosity toward worldly pleasures of a carnal kind.

Your face flushed even more as you bit the inside of your cheek, holding back words that you knew would be either too aggressive or too… desperate.

Qimir was watching you carefully, his gaze suddenly growing more serious, almost surprised, as he noticed your reaction.

"Wait…" he said, as if he had just understood what he had deliberately ignored all this time. "You've never… touched yourself?" His voice was low, almost incredulous, as if he were realizing just how distant you were from that world.

His question struck you like lightning. You couldn’t respond. You suddenly felt trapped, as if there was no way out of that situation without addressing the topic.

"A Jedi doesn’t experience… certain types of-" you started, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but your voice cracked under the weight of the emotions as you searched for the right word.

"Desires? Cravings? Needs?" His voice was a warm whisper, finishing your sentence with a curiosity that seemed to dig deep into your being. His eyes were fixed on you, studying you with an intensity that made you feel exposed.

"Emotions." you quickly corrected him, taking a deep breath to regain your composure. But his proximity, that penetrating gaze, made it hard to focus.

Qimir paused briefly, his face relaxed, though his eyes were full of malice and curiosity that he couldn’t hide.

"For quite some time now, you haven’t been a Jedi," he said in that velvety voice of his, laden with a gravity that didn’t expect any rebuttal. "Do you really want to tell me that you’ve never been curious to… explore yourself intimately?"

You lowered your gaze, seeking refuge in the sight of the Nexu, which was slowly stirring awake. His words, however, lingered in the air, pinning you to his question.

"This is not a conversation that should interest you" you replied through gritted teeth, trying to steer the discussion elsewhere. But your answer betrayed your firmness, and he knew it. Your nervousness grew as Qimir watched you closely, his smile barely noticeable. He seemed to savor every shade of your reaction, as if he were playing with something delicate and dangerous.

He approached with slow, confident movements, offering you the fruit.

"You’re terribly beautiful when you’re embarrassed and nervous, you know?" His voice grew warmer, sweeter, almost a caress on your moral wounds. He sat on the edge of the bed, his closeness somehow reassuring you.

"Stop it" you ordered, trying to maintain distance, but your voice lacked true conviction. It wasn’t a command; it was a plea. Overwhelmed by growing embarrassment, you grabbed the Nexu cub in your arms, seeking a physical barrier between you and him. Qimir chuckled softly, but with no hint of mockery. He seemed to understand how you were struggling between what you believed was right and what you felt.

"You don’t have to fight everything" he whispered, his tone low, intimate. "Not with me." His hand lightly brushed the back of yours, almost reverently, as if even that minimal contact were sacred.

Your gaze fell on his hand touching yours lightly, and you swallowed slightly as you reluctantly took the fruit.

"I already told you I’m not your sister," you whispered, trying to establish a distance that was nonetheless growing thinner. Seeing his jaw tighten as he seemed to press the tip of his tongue against his sealed lips, and his expression darken, made you realize that your words had affected him.

"You definitely not" he replied, his voice hoarse, almost a lament hiding a mix of desire and frustration. Slowly, almost cautiously, Qimir moved closer to you, as if testing your boundaries.

You allowed him into your personal space.

"Then you know that…" you tried to explain, but he interrupted you, his tone so similar to yours that it made you smile internally for a moment.

"I already told you" he whispered, his voice full of a sweetness he reserved only for you. "I’m here for you." He murmured with a devoted tone. You bit your lip, lowering your gaze and letting it wander over him, his imposing figure filling the space between you.

"Yesterday, I said many things while we… you know." You began, your voice uncertain and almost trembling, trying to rationalize the whirlwind of emotions. "A part of me is still connected to the Jedi Order."

"Despite everything they did to you?" His question was a direct hit, full of disbelief and pain. It was as if he couldn’t understand how you could still hold loyalty toward those who had betrayed you. Hurt you.

"Despite what they did to me…" you repeated in a low, bitter voice. You felt torn, broken in two. "I don’t want to believe that Mae… that Sol" The sentence stuck in your throat, too painful to complete. It was as if every word was tearing you apart inside.

"You want to go back to him…" he murmured, and in his voice was a shadow of sadness that hurt you more than you wanted to admit. He wanted to let you go, yet couldn’t. It was as if his soul were anchored to the hope that you might stay with him, choose him.

But he knew that moment had not yet come, and maybe it never would. His eyes, however, still held a glimmer of hope, as if he hoped you wouldn’t actually want to return to your Jedi master.

"I need answers…" you whispered, with a tight throat, each word a searing cut on his heart. You knew it, you felt it. Yet you couldn’t avoid that truth. The answers you sought could not come from him.

Qimir lowered his eyes, the tension in his face evident, as if those words were poison to him. With a gentle gesture, you placed your hand on his cheek, feeling his warm skin under your fingers.

"I can’t give you what you’re looking for now, Qimir… I’m not Mae." It was a difficult truth to say, a truth that seemed to crack everything you had slowly and silently built together.

Qimir leaned into your caress for a moment, closing his eyes as if he wanted to savor that moment before it faded. His skin seemed to melt under your hand, as if every second was too precious to waste.

But then, with a slow and painful decision, he pulled away.

"I understand." He said in a tone that didn’t reflect at all the depth of his disappointment. He took a step back, breaking that contact which for a moment had given both of you a semblance of illusion.

You opened your mouth, desperately trying to find something to say, anything that could ease that painful moment, that could slow down the time that seemed to be slipping away too quickly. But no sound came out. You felt empty, devoid of the right words and voice, yet your heart screamed the truth you were ignoring with such insistence. You wanted to give him a chance. You wanted to give yourselves a chance, but it couldn't be.

"We leave in a few hours." His voice was flat, distant, and the lack of warmth in those words struck you like a thunderbolt out of the blue sky.

Qimir didn’t look at you; his eyes were turned elsewhere, perhaps to hide the bitterness written on his face. Perhaps to avoid showing vulnerability in a moment that was suffocating both of you.

You felt a sharp, dull pain in your chest, as if your heart had been ripped away with a harsh gesture. You hadn't expected to have to leave him so soon, not now, not like this. The idea of leaving that refuge of stone and silence, of abandoning the fragile bond that had formed between you, made you feel as though you were losing something invaluable.

"Qimir…" you finally managed to whisper, your voice barely a breath.

The hours seemed to pass in an oppressive silence, heavy with all that neither of you dared to say. Qimir, in his silent way, had once again used the Force to tend to your ankle. His hands were precise and sure, but lacking the warm touch you had come to recognize in him. After finishing the task, he had avoided you. Not a single glance, not a word. Just… distance.

You gathered the few belongings you had, each small action done in silence, as if even the faintest noise could shatter the fragile truce that had been established between you. When you finally found yourselves in his spacecraft, the tension was still palpable. The Nexu roamed around the metallic room with curiosity. Its carefree behavior made you smile for a brief moment, but the weight of the situation quickly returned to your shoulders.

You took a deep breath, trying to find the courage to confront Qimir. His gaze was fixed on the control panel, his fingers pressing the buttons with almost mechanical precision.

"Are you angry with me?" you finally asked, your voice a thread of sound, fragile and unsure. You didn't expect an immediate answer, fearing the weight of his words.

Qimir paused for a moment, his hands hovering above the controls. He took a deep, almost imperceptible breath, as if he was trying to gather his emotions before speaking.

"I could never be." His voice was dry, distant, lacking the warmth you had longed to hear again. It was as if he had built a wall, a barrier that prevented you from getting closer to him and hurting him further.

The spacecraft began to take off, the sound of the engines filling the surrounding space as the ground beneath you receded further away. You looked out the viewport, the idyllic landscape slowly fading away, giving way to the emptiness of space.

"It doesn’t seem" you murmured, your gaze shifting back to him. Qimir didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed ahead, as if he didn’t want to confront the conversation. You felt a pang of disappointment and pain, but you held it back.

"It’s not your fault" he finally said, his voice lower, almost choked by the emotions he was trying to suppress. "It’s me who shouldn’t… feel what I feel."

You felt guilty for not being able to allow yourself to freely experience what you so desperately wanted. The emotions you had tried to suppress now overwhelmed you like a raging wave.

"What you said yesterday… did you really mean it? Do you truly want to be mine?" you asked with a delicate, uncertain tone, your voice a whisper barely audible over the noise of the spacecraft.

"What do you think?" Qimir replied, his voice a mix of hope and resignation. His tone seemed to have softened slightly, just as your gaze had.

"You’re a Sith, Qimir… How could you ever want to belong to me?" Your voice broke as you moved closer to him, the pain and confusion clearly visible in your eyes, which he couldn't see.

He hesitated, a shadow of sadness crossing his face as he contemplated the question. Time seemed to slow as he searched for the right words to express the whirlwind of emotions inside him.

"Why do you think I don’t really want it? You’re no longer a Jedi, and I see who you really are." His statement was filled with a sincerity that struck you deeply.

He set the autopilot, allowing the spacecraft to continue on its course without his direct control, and turned toward you. His posture was more relaxed now, as if your question had released a tension he had been holding for a long time.

"The fact that I am or am not a Jedi doesn’t matter… You follow a path I cannot follow" you said, gently cradling his face in your hands. The contact was light, but your heart pounded strongly, almost in sync with his.

"Can’t you… or don’t you want to?" Qimir’s question was sharp but tinged with desperate curiosity. It unsettled you for a moment, unsure how to respond.

Your hands trembled slightly as you caressed his cheeks, feeling the warmth of his skin under your fingertips. His deep, dark eyes scrutinized you with such intensity that it made you waver once again. The question he had posed hung in the air, laden with a truth you were trying to ignore.

"I can’t…" you finally whispered, your voice almost a breath. It was the most certain answer you could give, but deep down, you knew the truth was quite different. It wasn’t just a matter of possibility, but of desire. A desire that grew every time his eyes fell on you, every time his body drew near yours. Every time you abandoned your ideals for a dangerous freedom.

"I’m not asking you to change your path" he said, his words carrying a hint of tenderness and determination as he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his face against your abdomen. "I’m just asking if you can see beyond my choices. If you can accept who I am, just as I accept who you are."

"I don’t know who I am anymore…" you whispered, your voice faint. Your arms gently cradled his head, feeling a bitter taste in your mouth after that statement. You felt a warm tear slide down your cheek, a sign of how disconnected your heart was from your mind.

Being with him, beginning to feel deep and genuine emotions, experiencing that dark freedom, had stripped you of everything you had always believed in. Your identity, built with years of discipline and sacrifice, seemed to have vanished with him. You were a Jedi, you defined yourself as such even after leaving the Order; their rules, their beliefs, had formed the foundation of your existence even after your departure.

But now, after defying every principle you had followed for your entire life, what remained but a name and an identity that no longer belonged to you?

You were no longer a Jedi, that was evident, but neither were you a Sith. Following a dark path would inevitably lead you to a fate similar to that of your sister, and you knew you couldn’t allow that to happen.

You couldn’t become the person you feared becoming, the kind of person you had sworn to destroy for the greater good. But at the same time, you had no right to decide for Qimir, to force him to change to satisfy your whims. You might think you were "saving" him, but what was salvation to you if not a prison for the man who was offering himself to you with such pure devotion?

Qimir lifted his face, noticing the tear on your cheek, and gently wiped it away with a caress. "Y/n…" he whispered, as if to bring you back from your own thoughts.

"I… can’t" you whispered, your voice breaking. You avoided his gaze, feeling as though you were relinquishing a fundamental part of yourself that you had given to him over the past month.

"Lying doesn’t suit you, sweetheart" he said softly, trying to capture your gaze with his pleading eyes. His tenderness, his devotion, made you sensitive.

"Please…" your plea was a desperate whisper, a supplication that cut like a knife.

"Y/n. Deny my path, reject who I am, forget what I have done, or if you don’t want to, tell me that you want me, and I will no longer be a Sith. Only what I am is your enemy, I am I, and you are you," Qimir said, his gaze filled with fervent hope and undeniable sadness. His plea was a mixture of desire and acceptance, an offer that seemed to challenge every rule you had ever known.

You leaned in and pressed your lips against his. You didn’t know exactly why you were doing it. All you knew was that at that moment, as you looked into his exhausting eyes, you wanted to feel his taste once more. At least for one last time, and you would be damned if you didn’t get what you wanted.

"If I accepted, I would deprive you of your freedom" you whispered, the words a warm murmur between the cracks of your kisses.

"Then be free with me" he replied, holding the edges of your dress. The kiss grew more intense, your lips consuming each other with a rising and persistent passion. Your breaths mixed in a frantic rhythm, seeking relief, as a warm and steady wave clashed against your tongues.

Qimir lifted you slightly, seating you on him, his hands sliding over your hips, holding you with a gentle strength that made you shiver with pleasure. The warmth of his body was enveloping, and his touches were like a flame igniting every fiber of your being.

"If I did…" The words mixed with your kisses, your voice trembling as you wove your fingers through his hair, holding him close. The sensation of his hair between your fingers was enveloping, and his scent was a mix of distant lands and a fragrance that had become too familiar. "I would become like you…" you finished with difficulty, as you shivered at his touch on your back now.

"For once, choose yourself… Not the Jedi, not me. But you. Be free" he whispered, pulling away from your lips, placing two fingers under your chin. "Be yourself."

Your eyes lingered on his. Your breath was short, your lips reddened from the voracious kiss, and his delicate touch on your body, while he implored you to choose yourself.

"If I choose myself, I would betray everything I believed in" you whispered, your tone faint. Your forehead rested against his, closing your eyes to seek some comfort and reflection. His hands slid gently over your hips, the warm and reassuring contact as he tried to offer you all the support you needed.

"But if I choose the path I have always followed, I would betray myself. I would betray the peace I found with you…" you admitted through clenched teeth, the words almost choked by emotion and inner conflict.

The realization that you had to make an impossible choice tormented you, and the pain of parting from him made you feel as though you were breaking something precious inside you.

"Choose yourself…" Qimir whispered, his lips touching yours with a tenderness laden with passion. He moved to your jaw, leaving more wet kisses on that spot. "Choose freedom," his voice was a warm and pleading whisper, as his lips glided over your exposed neck, causing a deep shiver and making you gasp. His tongue traced fiery paths on your skin, making you gasp as the warmth of his body grew more intense.

"Choose me." The warmth of his breath on your neck, the way his hands moved along your back, everything was a dance of passion and intensity that left you clear on one decision.

"I… have to kill Sol." you stated, your voice trembling but determination palpable. Qimir slowly pulled away from your neck, his astonished and penetrating gaze meeting yours, trying to decipher the turmoil in your words.

"If he killed Mae… I have to do it. I have to do it for her, I have to do it for me" you explained, your heart heavy and your mind crowded with too precise thoughts.

Your declaration was followed by a silence heavy with tension. You moved closer to him again, seeking comfort in his lips, with an urgency and need that seemed deeper than any words you could express. Your lips brushed his with a trembling sweetness.

"After that, I’ll be free" you murmured between kisses, your voice a burning whisper on his lips.

The kiss became voracious and insatiable, an explosion of desire that overwhelmed both of you. Your breaths mingled in a harmony of shivers and overwhelming sensations. Qimir’s lips were warm and expressive against yours, and every touch seemed to intensify the connection you had, transforming the moment into a storm of passion and desire.

His mouth, experienced and hungry, explored every corner of your mouth with an intensity that seemed to consume you both. Your tongues intertwined with his, dancing in a passionate and intense rhythm that spoke of all the emotions you felt, from despair to desire.

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TAGLIST: @neteyamtanhi @blossomedfloweroflove @muffledgorillaviolence @princessakirika

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Notes :

Okay, it took me a while to write this one, and it’s a bridge chapter for the next one. I hope you liked it anyway. Y/n who finally melts with this man desperate for her, I scream.

Tell me what you think

-Mel

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remembrancer-of-heresy · 5 months ago

Text

The Eternal Night (Part 1)

Summary: You ask for protection from the Night Lord in the hope of being saved from other space marines. Not realizing that you yourself walked into a mousetrap.

Jago Sevatarion/fem!Reader

Warnings: yandere, power imbalance, violence, body horror, torture, predator/prey

Word count: 2560

Song: She Wants Revenge - Out Of Control

But then she noticed me glance at her I had no choice but to dance with her

The funny thing is that mothiir just recently released headcanons about the first captain. Today is Sevatar's day.

The very thought of serving on a Night Lords ship was terrifying. Many remembrancers chose Fulgrim or Horus Lupercal. Some ventured to the Conqueror. But as your lady noted, only the bravest and courageous are ready to board the Nightfall.

Stupid and naive, you wanted to tell her. But your mistress was too self-confident, too spoiled to listen to anyone. She justified her reckless action by arguing that the Night Lords were still Astartes, the Space Marines of the Imperium. And you…

What are you? You were her personal maid. You weren't supposed to have an opinion. You kind of missed freedom. But is it better to be a healthy serf than a hungry child? You are already lucky that her kind family took you into their home.

But while cleaning the mistress’s room on Nightfall, you want to return to the depths of poverty. It was dark here. Cold. And scary. No matter how much you smelled the chlorine or your lady's perfume, you couldn't get rid of the smell of blood. It seemed to be absorbed into the ship.

You behaved as quiet as a mouse. Didn’t interfere, didn’t talk too much. Made friends with a couple of serfs without distracting them from their work. Tried not to tremble in the presence of the Astartes passing by. The main thing is to continue to remain invisible. Hide in the darkness and it doesn’t matter what these lords rule the night.

The lady was an easy prey. She just asked to be gutted. You shouldn't think that way, but it was true. The way her knees shook and she sweated out of fear. Although it was difficult not to do so when even in the quietest corners of the ship distant cries of pain could be heard.

“I'm so scared. They look like that, as if a little longer and they will twist my head.” - the lady once complained to you before going to bed.

“You shouldn’t be afraid. This won't happen." - you calmly notice. The girl’s calm face, full of hope, changes to horror and disgust as soon as you continue your thought. - “First they will skin you alive.”

Compared to her, you seemed so gloomy and strange. Weird. The other servants jokingly called you lady crow. Although you didn't understand the humor. Nightfall looked more like a burial ground. How could you want to stay here for even one minute if you are not a scavenger? Besides, you are not a bird, you are a human.

And despite this, your mistress tried to gain respect among mortals who had seen the real horrors of war. And her desperate attempts to personally meet Konrad Curze are akin to a desire to quickly depart to the afterworld.

And she achieved her goal. Even more. The primarch himself decided to visit the chambers of the restless scribe. Either out of idle curiosity or out of a desire to calm down the annoying woman. Just the knock on the door sent a shiver down your spine, and his massive black figure in the doorway sent a terrible feeling of foreboding.

Konrad Curze, in his grim elegance, entered the chamber and greeted the woman. And then he looked at you. Long and drawn out, cold and concentrated. His black eyes probed every piece of your flesh and soul. And then he smiled.

The lips stretched to the ears, revealing clawed teeth. But the worst thing was when he laughed a nasty laugh. The kind that makes your bones crack. He continued to look at you and laugh, putting the lady in a stupor. And scaring you terribly. A gloomy foreboding clouded the little mortal heart, and the words only nailed you more firmly to the floor.

“How interesting~” - the primarch grinned carnivorously while saliva collected in the corners of his mouth. - “The little mouse will offer itself to the crow. And he will only be glad. What's worse? To be eaten by scoundrels or to be protected by a monster?”

He bursts out laughing again, this time quiet. He sighs, disgustingly satisfied. Until he finally pays attention to your mistress. And something in his face changes. You can’t explain it, but it’s as if doom and anticipatory bloodthirstiness have merged into one. As if Konrad Curze saw something terrible. And he liked it.

“Perhaps we should discuss everything in private,” his voice softly envelops you like night. It is impossible to explain how a man turned from madman to primarch. Although no one knows whether the Emperor's son can go mad.

Your mistress nods and with a wave of her hand kicks you out of the chambers. You quickly leave the room, closing the door behind you. The primal desire to hide increased a hundredfold. You rush to one of your secluded places, which you discovered by accident. For the first time in your life, not watching the road and not hiding too much from prying eyes.

You should never give in to fear. You must always be on your guard. A momentary weakness can and does lighten the soul. But you will definitely have to pay later. And you understand this as soon as you hit your forehead on something iron at a turn.

A characteristic sound is heard and you whine and grab your forehead. There will be a bump and most likely a huge one. But the pain just vanishes when you understand where it came from. And especially when you hear an unpleasant chuckle.

He looked intimidating. Outstretched wings of a gargoyle and a skull on a huge armor not intended for an ordinary mortal. The characteristic appearance of the Nostraman did not frighten you. As well as the scars on the eyebrow and lip.

But his smile was scary. How his black eyes filled with sparkle, and the corners of his lips twitched strangely. It’s as if someone is touching the threads sewn into the skin of a corpse, imitating human living emotions. All the sons of Curze were terrifying, their “smiles” were more like the grin of animals. But this one was different.

“Careful, little one. If you had met one of my brothers, you would already be hanging on a hook” - his eyes sparkled with mischief, but nothing more. - “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

You swallowed. Didn’t want to answer, but silence could only provoke.

“My lady is speaking with Konrad Curze.” - the unpleasant meeting still echoed in your brain. It became more uncomfortable. - “I was told not to interfere.”

“Oh, that annoying scribe still managed to snag a meeting with the primarch. Your mistress talks too much and goes where she shouldn't. These usually end up with their guts out.” The man smirked and looked at you. Attentively. Like a carcass ready for slaughter. - “And where are you going?”

That's why you didn't want to get caught by the Night Lords. They played with mortals as if they were food. Important people for the Legion were still protected, but the serfs were meat. One is gone, it’s easy to replace it with a second one. The only thing that saved you was to be the remembrancer’s serf, her personal maid. Although judging by the attitude of the Space Marines towards her, this could only egg them on.

“To the compartment” - you don’t want to say where you’re going, but there’s no choice. In addition, it is unlikely that the Astartes will specify the exact location of your secret home. - “Into the trash compartment.”

A strange range of surprise spreads across the man’s face. Not disgust, but misunderstanding.

“Why the hell did you decide to go there?”

“There are a lot of rats there. They are my friends” - you almost calmed down as soon as you remembered the familiar sounds coming from under the garbage. You almost whisper a confession. - “They calm me down with their rustling.”

It was true. They listened to your stories, entertained you with fights between each other. They were soft and fluffy, although dirty. They were not evil from birth, they simply survived as best they could in such a place. And alas, the rats were much better than some of the people here.

The man just chuckled at these words. Did it seem to you or did a strange understanding flash in his eyes? And curiosity.

“Well then go.”

Not believing your luck, you open your mouth in amazement and blink your eyes. But you obey. While he gives you a head start, you need to run. There is no need to waste your luck. Especially when the one who could easily break you and not notice, lets you go while the going's good.

“And since they calm you down, mouse,” you turn around sharply and notice the same terrifying smile. But this time it's not scared. Something in a man changes when he calls out to you. - “It’s worth thanking them. Bring them meat... and fresh is best.”

Good advice. Maybe you're already used to Nightfall or this Night Lord seems less terrible. Or maybe you should really bring your little friends a well-deserved reward. You'll try to find something fresh and something... not made from human flesh.

You nod and quickly, trying not to attract attention, walk further down the corridor. You wish you could say that you didn’t feel the Space Marine’s gaze on you. But you felt it even when your figure disappeared from his gaze. Dead, mischievous, carnivorous. It was as if he had just found an interesting prey, but decided to let it go.

For a while.

***

You started to notice him. Previously all Space Marines looked alike. You just didn't look closely. Why the hell do you need this if they will torture you almost equally. But he wasn't like that. Or rather, a little more... humane? Kind? No, those are suitable. Wrong. Yes, that's much better.

First captain. Jago Sevatarion. You learned the name and title from one of the local serfs. You immediately became friends with him when you saw him. He was old. That's why you called him grandpa. He lasted a long time. Good sign.

Grandpa said that you were very lucky that the captain didn’t touch you. He did not participate in the local amusements so often, talking more with the primarch. Or keeping an eye on other Space Marines and a Atramentar. But still he was just as sadistic as the others. He killed, dismembered, skinned with grim pleasure. You couldn’t help but notice that he was the most feared of all. Unpleasant vibrations emanated from him.

It seemed like you were scared too. But it seems not. Alas, just as you were strange in childhood, you remains so. Although the local inhabitants even liked it. As if you almost one of them, unlike the other servants of the scribe. But you really couldn’t understand why no one noticed.

His weirdness. How he communicates with a couple of mortals. The same ones. You were sure he was keeping an eye on them. He made sure nothing bad happened to them. And he didn't touch you either. It is unlikely that your “status” would in any way prevent Sevatarion from quenching his thirst for murder. And he didn't laugh at your friendship with rats. Didn't find it disgusting or weird. It was nice gesture.

He also began to notice you. On distance. Didn't come up to you, didn't call you. No need. It’s just that now he knew what kind of new person was running around here. The Astartes began to notice you in the shadows, as you headed towards the rats or the local serfs. You didn’t see, but you were almost sure that at such moments he smiled unpleasantly.

Although probably all the Space Marines smiled when Curze called your mistress a traitor. He said that she decided to steal something and violated the Imperial Truth. You still couldn’t understand the words of the old serf who caught you in the corridor.

Rave. Your mistress was spoiled and annoying, but she would never betray the Imperium. She wouldn't even have such a thought. Is this a mistake or some kind of joke? The primarch could not blame her for something she had not done. Did he really decide to come up with justice just to send her to her death? She was kind. She didn't deserve it.

But a judgment is a judgment. Grandpa wasn't making fun of you. Now you and the other servants belonged to the Legion. But given the way this happened, you are unlikely to stay here for long. Alive.

With a feeling of guilt and tears in your eyes, you look at her mutilated corpse, nailed to one of the gates. They removed the skin from her, and then they squeezed out the body so that all the bones were broken, and most of the blood flowed away. Now her eyeless body, folded like a rag, looked at you accusingly.

Once you said that they would skin her, don't you?

Footsteps are heard behind you. Not lurking, but quiet. If you can say so, taking into account the armor of the Space Marines. You turn around and see Jago Sevatarion behind. The captain looks...tired. It was like he hadn't slept for days or weeks. A little bored. But quite happy with his work.

Apparently he also took part in the verdict.

“Your screaming scribe got into trouble herself, little mouse. You shouldn't mourn her when your life hangs by a thread. You will serve the Legion well and we will not touch you. Maybe." - the man falls silent and looks at you carefully. - “Or are you so used to being a personal servant?”

Maybe. If this world were a little kinder, you would even call your mistress a friend. But the Galaxy is full of horrors, and your patroness has turned into a leather rag. And you will be the same if you get caught. Or if you are not protected...

Grandpa said he was lucky. He had a tattoo. The ink mixed with the blood of the Space Marine he served. And no one touched him. Nobody offended him. Because he was not a “free” serf. He was no one's toy on the road. He had his own tormentor. But it's better than the unknown. Isn't it?

The First Captain raised an eyebrow. Apparently a little hope slipped across your sad face. It’s alarming to ask, scary to beg. But what choice do you have? Sooner or later you will be found and gutted. So you have to take risks.

“Take me to you,” you almost devour the man with your eyes, trying not to cower in fear. - “I will serve you. I'll be obedient. Will not interfere. I'm very quiet. Please."

You didn’t know why you mentioned that you are quiet. It came out on its own. The Night Lords rather like screaming, begging, and crying. The louder the better. But before your eyes was the tired appearance of the first captain. Even now he didn't look his best. Although something lights up in his eyes. For a moment, the walking corpse looks almost alive. A terrible sight.

“Call me Sevatar.” - the voice is surprisingly soft and relaxed. You look at him in disbelief. The man just grins at your funny look.

"This means?"

"Yes."

#warhammer 40k x reader #space marine x reader #yandere space marine #night lord x reader #jago sevatarion x reader #sevatar x reader #tw: yandere #tw: violence #tw: body horror #tw torture

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forsworned · 4 months ago

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a thought i couldn't get out of my head about kyle because of this image

cw: religious themes, sexual themes, sacrilege, religious guilt, temptation, power dynamics, Kyle being a delicious temptation.

Penitent!Kyle is beaten, battered, and bruised seeking salvation when he has a terrible run-in with God’s Judgement. He’s the biggest talk around your small, docile, God-fearing town, caught stealing apples with pockets full with of hardtacks. He begs the Minister to let him go, he was running from his “demons”, he says. And that single-handedly saves him from losing his head. Poor, wretched soul, tortured by the voices in his head.

You spot him in the dim sanctuary, a lone figure at the witching hour, talking to the altar, begging for forgiveness in the form of penance. To be gentle, graceful, and the utmost serene. And you, the town beauty, who has been spying on him for the past half hour or so, step out. There’s a creak in the wooden floorboards that captures his attention. And then he sees you, face illuminated by the candle you carry with both hands. It casts a warm, angelic glow over your dulcet features, and his amber, dewy eyes team at the sight. An angel.

He curses himself for the lack of restraint his cock is practicing, but he holds himself still as you approach him. Hands interwoven on the prayer rail, kneeling before God, tears cascading down his smooth golden brown face—looking like an angel himself.

“You’re seeking salvation,” you take him in once more, heart thrumming like a hummingbird's wings in your rib cage. “I see your struggle, I can help guide you,” you murmur, each word a tender caress, “help you find the forgiveness you seek.”

God has heard him. The pathetic sinner he is, He has heard him.

“You’d do that for me?” His whisper is faint, but you hear him clearly in the still night.

You don’t even skip a beat, “Yes.”

And his honey eyes analyze your every move, from the beat you gentle place your pricket candleholder atop of the prayer bench to the way you gracefully glide to the ewer, pouring out holy water into the a bowl. His heart beats louder with every stride you take toward him and you stand tall, poised and maternally before him. Like Mother Mary in the flesh, the light cascades a heavenly glow upon your skin. It’s as if the voices in his head grow silent with every word you utter.

Your voice echoes along the church walls as you begin the ritual, he’s hardly paying attention to the declarations that fall from your mouth. Only imagining how your lips would look puckered around his twitching, rock hard length, “…and renew your soul, granting you the redemption you seek.”

The candlelight dances, outlining your visage, and his Adam’s apple bobs. He’s no longer obstinate in the path God creates for him. He is more than willing to embrace humility, show remorse, and let go of his pride. His eyes quiver, body spasming from the long hours he's spent in these four walls to subdue his demons, to strive for the quiet, serene life of man and wife, and to give up his incubus-like ways. The route to redemption lies right there in front of him, right between your bosom. So soft, so sweet, so willing to bring him to the light, coax him through your expressions of adoration toward the Lord.

“I accept.” He bows his head in acknowledgement, before you tip the bowl to have his sweet, supple lips touch the rim. His knees touch the wooden floor and he looks so sweet, so submissive and willing to give anything to have his sins wiped clean.

Your core throbs with heat, envisioning him hiking up your wool skirt to lap you up. But you allow him to drink, holding the bowl steady as he takes his first tentative sip, water dribbles down his chin and wets his breeches as he sups it up with a haste that makes the desire coil tight within your belly. It’s hard to ignore the large bulging between his thighs, the clamminess in his hands as he puts them over yours. He hears the sudden shudder in your breath, stumbling over as you lose your composure, water spilling into his lap, and apologizing profusely for your clumsiness.

His hardened length presses against his breeches and your innocent eyes broaden at the profane and luscious sight. You’re quick to pull on the discarded surplice that lies on the prie-dieu to blanket his sodden form. Temptation still lies heavy in the air, but you swiftly turn your back to him, rushing out of the chapel. Heart on your sleeve for the man that showed up on your town's doorstep for deliverance as you rush back to your home. You creep back through your window you leave ajar, un-wedging the fork and softly placing it on your nightstand as you catch your breath.

Fingers trembling at your sides with desire and adrenaline, and the memory of his hardened length outlined through the thin fabric of his breeches, tear stained bronzed cheeks, plump lips, woolen hair and taut chest that peeked through the loosened placket of his cotton shirt. And how can you forget his eyes? Eyes the color of golden, everlasting hearth, of polished amber in the first rays of dawn.

With clammy fingers, interlaced at the edge of your bed, you pray to God to let your provocations dissipate into the zephyr of the cool Autumn wind. Part of you doesn’t even want the enticement to leave you, to give into human nature. After all, man was weak.

This deserves a part two, yess???😇

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adolin · 6 months ago

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Alright, I've got another fic question for you! What are your favorite tlt gen fics?

you say “what ARE” I took this as permission to rec Many

A Mild Sort of Resurrection by sigaloenta [Bari Star AU]

In all the extensive special briefings and all-hands bulletins and strict sets of orders preparatory to the Emperor Divine's inspection tour of the Avernus, no one had considered that God might desire to fetch Himself a coffee.

An Impromptu Christening by orphan_account

The Ninth house finds a body and a baby. Nobody who matters is really thrilled about this turn of events.

believing in everything (and knowing nothing at all) by LesbianJesusLovesYou

A series of childhood memories from the Ninth.

“Fuck it, I'm adopting her," said John Gaius, not knowing the paperwork wasn't necessary by @naamah-beherit

Gideon, a highly distinguished Cohort lieutenant, saves the day—and the girl—and then gets stuck in the lift of The Erebos with a man feeding her peanuts as if they have all the time in the world. They don't, but if he doesn't mind, then why should she?

High But Very Drear by @honorarycassowary. (written pre-NtN)

Aiglamene and Crux receive the five hundred ancient dead gifted by the Emperor for the renewal of the Ninth, and also do something that could be construed as mourning.

John 25:12 by @halfeatenmoon

John and his friends escape the cow fortress to spend Christmas Day at the beach. With beer, salads, pavlova, and the corpses of a million fish killed by nuclear weapons testing.

Mortification of the Flesh by @theriverbeyond

In the myriadic year of our Lord—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the Lord of the Sharpest Edge!—Harrow Nova challenged the cavalier of the Ninth for his title.

Purgatory Is Mandatory by @urban-sith (written pre-NtN)

Ianthe figures out the true secrets of Lyctorhood while stuck in a time loop at Canaan House.

recognize them by their fruits by @ceruleanvulpine (written pre-NtN)

John and Ianthe deal with the fact that his only remaining Lyctor is the one he never liked much. Maybe they can bond over the fact that they're both egotistical manipulators who lie like breathing? No?

so I open the window to hear sounds of people by @sunderedstar [but really that whole series!]

John misses the beach. The real beach. The current one is mostly soil with a lacy veneer of nuclear ash, clammy and streaky and hilariously radioactive, which is a real bummer when he thinks about it too hard. But the twenty-five meter sea level rise that came when all the freshwater ice finished melting around the mid-century mark ate away at the shoreline, rolled in between the skyscrapers on a new tide, swallowed up all the people who couldn't afford to move anywhere else. Have you seen the rent rates lately?

some part of me must have died by @theriverbeyond

What if Wake survived long enough to bring her newborn baby to Tomb, and killed her. and then the baby didn't die.

the kingdom of heaven by bittybelle

John puts that first-draft dream of his to bed.

Two Things by Isis

There were two things Jeannemary Chatur wanted: to fight for the Emperor Undying by the side of her necromancer, and for the stupid pimple on her chin to go away already.

when I call, will you come to me? by LesbianJesusLovesYou

“My Lady,” Ortus wheezed, shifting uncomfortably. “I only thought you should know… Gideon Nav was flogged before the congregation.”

#Anonymous #ask #tlt fic #fic recs #tlt

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geminiagentgreen · 11 days ago

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It is truly terrifying that suicidal thoughts and even tendencies are a thing we experience as humans, and the more I think about it the more I feel abhorred by it. Your life matters. You were made in flesh but your existence was and is overseen by an Almighty artist and scientist; you were made intentionally and with utmost care. You matter, your enemies matter, a human's life is a gift altogether, to the individual and to the world around them.

God loves you, and that you are here on this planet and that you are reading this tells me that the Lord Almighty wants an eternal relationship with you. In Christ Jesus, through His death and resurrection, are you saved from your sins and your life promised for eternal glory and joy. This life right here is a gift - even though the world is fallen - but it is also just a mere taste of what is to come, and through Jesus Christ that taste becomes sweet and wonderful.

While your salvation is not in your repentance - that is, your turning away from, doing a 180⁰ from, deciding against sin - of your sins alone, Jesus calls us to do, and to call upon His name to be saved, to give our lives over to Him so that we may receive a new life with Him. All of this is not a work to perform before Christ saves us, but rather a work that follows with and after.

If you made it this far, please read further from the Word of God directly: Ephesians 2: 1-10

Made Alive in Christ

¹ As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, ² in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. ³ All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature deserving of wrath. ⁴ But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, ⁵ made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. ⁶ And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, ⁷ in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. ⁸ For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— ⁹ not by works, so that no one can boast. ¹⁰ For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.

#suicide #tw sui ideation #tw sui talk #tw suicide #content warning suicide #ephesians 2:1-10 #the gospel of jesus christ #salvation in christ alone #salvation in jesus

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ukdamo · 1 month ago

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Judas Iscariot

Countee Cullen

I think when Judas' mother heard His first faint cry the night That he was born, that worship stirred Her at the sound and sight. She thought his was as fair a frame As flesh and blood had worn; I think she made this lovely name For him— "Star of my morn."

As any mother's son he grew From spring to crimson spring; I think his eyes were black, or blue, His hair curled like a ring. His mother's heart-strings were a lute Whereon he all day played; She listened rapt, abandoned, mute, To every note he made.

I think he knew the growing Christ, And played with Mary's son, And where mere mortal craft sufficed, There Judas may have won. Perhaps he little cared or knew, So folly-wise is youth, That He whose hand his hand clung to Was flesh-embodied Truth;

Until one day he heard young Christ, With far-off eyes agleam, Tell of a mystic, solemn tryst Between Him and a dream. And Judas listened, wonder-eyed, Until the Christ was through, Then said, “And I, though good betide, Or ill, will go with you."

And so he followed, heard Christ preach, Saw how by miracle The blind man saw, the dumb got speech, The leper found him well. And Judas in those holy hours, Loved Christ, and loved Him much, And in his heart he sensed dead flowers Bloom at the Master's touch.

And when Christ felt the death hour creep, With sullen, drunken lurch, He said to Peter, "Feed my sheep, And build my holy church.�� He gave to each the special task That should be his to do, But reaching one, I hear him ask, “What shall I give to you?”

Then Judas in his hot desire Said, "Give me what you will." Christ spoke to him with words of fire, “Then, Judas, you must kill, One whom you love, One who loves you As only God's son can: This is the work for you to do To save the creature man."

"And men to come will curse your name, And hold you up to scorn; In all the world will be no shame Like yours; this is love's thorn. It takes strong will of heart and soul, But man is under ban. Think, Judas, can you play this role In heaven's mystic plan?"

So Judas took the sorry part, Went out and spoke the word, And gave the kiss that broke his heart, But no one knew or heard. And no one knew what poison ate Into his palm that day, Where, bright and damned, the monstrous weight Of thirty white coins lay.

It was not death that Judas found Upon a kindly tree; The man was dead long ere he bound His throat as final fee. And who can say if on that day When gates of pearl swung wide, Christ did not go His honoured way With Judas by His side?

I think somewhere a table round Owns Jesus as its head, And there the saintly twelve are found Who followed where He led. And Judas sits down with the rest, And none shrinks from His hand, For there the worst is as the best, And there they understand.

And you may think of Judas, 'friend, As one who broke his word, Whose neck came to a bitter end For giving up his Lord. But I would rather think of him As the little Jewish lad Who gave young Christ heart, soul, and limb, And all the love he had.

#Judas Iscariot #love #commitment #honour #fidelity #Countee Cullen #poetry

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aegonification · 2 years ago

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His Property

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Drug Boss!Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Aemond is your drug lord boyfriend with tattoos and he wants to show you off at his bar.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ au, explicit language, mature content, teasing, dirty talk, semi public play, exhibitionism

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.8k

𝐀𝐍: been a while since I wrote something and this idea really came out of nowhere lol I was inspired by this gifset [x] and kept picturing Aemond with tattoos and being very dominant and possessive so I wrote this. it was meant to be a short drabble but I can’t shorten shit to save my life - hope you guys enjoy, as always feedback is welcomed and appreciated! ♡︎

“Yes, what?”

His deep, gravelly voice boomed into your eardrum even over the heavy rock music blaring from speakers throughout the bar, stirring the growing ache in your gut.

Aemond chuckled sinisterly in his throat, the heavy hand that once rested on your thigh snatched you by the jaw, tilting your head back. He stared down at you with his icy violet eye and the scarred, sapphire one, grinning devilishly and boy, if it didn’t make your heart flutter.

“Yes, sir.”

Your hips twisted slightly, skin rubbing the leather bench through your fishnets and a whimper escaped you, the slight pain from his fingers piercing into your jaw with a vice made you pathetically wet, more than expected.

He snickered, watching the pleasure unfold on your face and he’s quickly reminded that you’ll do anything he asks of you because you’re his.

“That’s my good girl.” He purred, gently running his thumb across your chin as he released your face from his grip. “C’mere.”

You leaned forward and lifted your leg over him, his arms guiding you into his lap. He sat back, watching you turn and straddle him, settling your ass against his black jeans.

“You know what I want, and you want to make me happy, right?” He teased, his hands sliding up and down your thighs, squeezing your flesh and dusting his fingertips under the hem of your skirt.

You nodded furiously, gazing at the ends of his platinum hair hanging down his chest, admiring how they glowed around his porcelain face. His perfectly chiseled jaw clenched, accentuating his soft pink lips but you bite your lower lip, taking a deep breath.

If you did what you desired first and kissed him on the lips, he would be very displeased and you took immense pleasure in pleasing him, in serving him. Aemond wanted you to tease him, kiss all over him, make him hard.

Swiftly dipping your face into the curve of his neck, you kiss along the large, eccentric tattoo on his throat, hungrily licking and sucking on his smooth skin, peppering kisses in between.

“Hmm…” His guttural hums vibrated into you, splaying your hands across his muscular chest and tucking them beneath his leather jacket. “Say it, baby.”

The warm air swelters around you, mixing in the heavy bass of the music and sweaty bodies dancing and drinking nearby, and two of Aemond’s bodyguards stood on either side of the vip section you two sat at, so it was safe to say there wasn’t privacy.

Eyes are everywhere, but they are especially glued on the owner of the bar and his girl.

Now that you were on top of him, you suspected more people were looking, but Aemond never cared, he enjoyed showing you off in public and he knew you delighted in it too, even if you were shy about it.

He craned his head to the side, giving you better access to his neck and jawline, moaning hoarsely as you take his ear between your lips, sucking on the sensitive skin. Listening to him vocally melt under your touch left you with a sense of pride.

Aemond’s bruising clutch roamed behind you, fisting your ass roughly and boldly beneath your flowing, short black skirt. Whoever was watching him grope you had a free show of your ass covered by only black fishnets. No panties on—Aemond hated those.

“Mmm, say it.” He growled, uttering the demand once again.

Whimpering, you let out a frustrated groan, twisting your fingers into his cotton black shirt and Aemond relished in how you squirmed; impulsively, his palms spanked you repeatedly and your sharp cries echoing into his ear only encouraged him to hit harder. You could picture the bruises that’d appear tomorrow as the stinging sensation radiated through you.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, “only yours.”

“You certainly are, and don’t you dare forget it.” He groaned, his hands making their way under your skirt and resting at your waist.

It was his full intention to get you riled up, practically salivating at the thought of him being inside you, owning your body, and if he wished to fuck you in front of all these people, you wouldn’t be able to refuse.

Nothing got Aemond excited like flaunting you around and making others jealous; envious that they didn’t get to touch you the way he did, that they didn’t have a passionate lust like you two shared for one another. You and Aemond fit together, and that’s why...

“You’re my property. You belong to me.” He growled, putting pressure on your hips and subtly pushing them down, as he turned his head and latched his mouth to yours, kissing you sloppily.

His hot mouth moved lithely against yours, sucking and nipping your lips, devouring you as he massaged your tongues together. You moaned into him, whining and unconsciously rutting your hips back and forth.

The wetness that leaked from your core spread between your folds, dampening the front of his pants as you continued dry riding him, and soon enough his cock grew harder under the denim, poking your cunt at the perfect angle for you to thrust against.

“Fuck…” He cursed against your lips, curling his large hand around your throat, choking you lightly and pushing you back to break the kiss.

“Aemond, please.” You begged through gritted teeth, clawing at his arm frantically.

You desired more of him, craved more. It was difficult to describe his control over you, it had no bounds, and you had an absolute devotion to him that terrified you. The mocking chuckle that erupts from his chest has your cheeks blushing warm with embarrassment, heart racing as your eyes lingered on his dimples.

“God, I love when you beg.” Digging his fingers into your skin, he leaned forward, inhaling the honey vanilla scent along your throat and playfully nipping your jaw with his teeth. “My needy girl, how bad do you want it?”

His raspy, teasing tone raised the hair on the back of your neck and you swallowed hard, swiveling your hips in a steady motion. It’s barely audible but Aemond growls like an animal and your gut clenched from the vibrations.

“Do you want me to fuck you right here, (y/n)?” Gripping the side of your neck, he pulls your face lower to his, his breath softly blowing over your ear. “Hmm…you want me to bend you over in front of all these people and shove my cock inside you?”

His vulgar words raised goosebumps all over you, feeling as if your body was on the verge of exploding from the sexual tension. Aemond could tell by the choked moans spilling from you meant you were on edge and very willing to let him follow through on what he wanted to do to you.

“I could tear these strings apart so easily. Is that what you need, babe?” His hand instantly dropped from your face and slapped your ass, releasing a sharp gasp from your mouth as he gripped tightly and tugged at the strings with his fingers. “Do you need me to rip these to shreds and fuck your tight cunt for everyone to see?”

Your hips continued grinding against him, rubbing your semi-covered clit but there wasn’t enough friction to get yourself off. It was clear you were becoming insanely desperate for him to grant you the relief you were seeking.

“I don’t care anymore. I need you. Please Aemond…” Your pleading whines turned to muffled cries as you stuff your face in the crease of his neck, your hand finding his head and tangling your fingers in his silky locks. “Do what you want to me, daddy.”

That singular word and your voice singing it into his ear turned Aemond on like a light switch. An intense snarl ripped from his chest as he aggressively pulled at the strings covering your ass, tearing a few of the tiny holes wider, exposing more of your plump flesh.

He quickly reached between your bodies and unbuckled his belt, letting a hand wander under you to find your bare pussy dripping onto him, his calloused fingers gently brushing the wet bundle of nerves, your mind becoming dizzy.

“Hey, boss!” A tall man shouted as he approached you and Aemond from the bar.

You moaned in Aemond’s ear, still moving your hips and sliding his fingers between your slit, working to create that stimulation you needed. Aemond, unfortunately, wasn’t moving his hand anymore and his attention was taken by his bodyguard.

He removed his hand from your cunt and grabbed your hips hard to stop your movements. The man leaned down in Aemond’s ear and whispered about business—something about a man here to see him, but the man came empty handed. You raised your head to see Aemond roll his eye in disgust then nod and wave away his guard.

“Babe…I’m going to have Antonio take you home. I have to handle some things.” He murmured, sitting up and softly pushing you off of him.

“What? Aemond, wait—don’t tease me then leave me like this. I-”

Panic seeping from your voice, eyes darting around as your brain scrambled for an excuse to get him to say. Aemond chuckled at your babbling, trying to pry you off of him but you weren’t budging.

“Fuck me. Please, Aemond. Fuck me on this table, in front of all these people. Let them hear me scream your name, daddy.” You pouted, staring at him with wistful eyes.

Grabbing his hand, you lifted his knuckles to your lips and kissed them, glorifying each metal ring with your mouth, continuing to kiss up his pale, vascular skin.

The combination of praise and hearing you beg him to make you cum, even at the expense of other people witnessing the degrading act, nearly convinced Aemond. You were about two seconds away from bending over the table behind you, revealing your entire ass and cunt to him and the two guards nearby.

It was worth it to have him defile you in public and release you from this fierce titillation.

He shook his head, hoisting you down to his side on the bench and standing tall, towering over you.

“You are so cute when you beg like that, but waiting is exactly what you’ll do for me.” He insisted, taking your hand in his to help you stand up beside him. “Tony will take you home and I’ll make it up to you when I get there.”

His arm scooped around you and pulled you against his chest.

“You’re going to behave and listen to me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll do all those things I talked about and more.” He cooed, leaning down into your ear. “My only request is that you not touch yourself. I want you to be yearning for me like this when I get home, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You pressed your thighs together, fire tingling in your belly, reminding you of the throbbing ache in your cunt that you had to ignore for now.

“Good girl.”

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