#so it's like it was made for her baptism

[fictionadventurer]

The independent religious bookstore is the only place you can go on an overpriced shopping spree and feel good about it.

[blackhholes]

teen wolf meme: [2/5] motifs -> water

You know, when you're drowning, you don't actually inhale until right before you black out. It's called "voluntary apnea." It's, like, no matter how much you're freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won't open your mouth until you feel like your head's exploding. But then, when you finally do let it in... that's when it stops hurting. It's not scary anymore. It's-it's actually kind of peaceful.

[good-beans]

I know most of our focus goes (rightfully) to the trial songs, but I genuinely believe Baptism of Fire is equally a masterpiece of meaningful writing and intense vocal acting

Incoming tag rant because I need to yell about this, feel free to yell back

[lafiametta]

Just saw Anora and got so obsessed w Igor its not funny i need to see more posts about him 😭😭😭😭

Igor’s on such a journey and I love it.

Can you imagine: it’s your birthday and you get a call from the Armenian guy you work for to pick him up at a baptism so you both can check on his boss’s boss’s rich-ass useless son and see if he has or has not married a prostitute. You understand the job — look tough, provide a little muscle if the situation calls for it — and once it’s done you can go return your grandmother’s car from where you borrowed it and visit with her for an hour or so before maybe heading out for a lowkey night to celebrate.

Instead, the rich-ass useless son runs away and you end up having to make sure the girl he married — who takes great offense to being called a prostitute, by the way — doesn’t take off too, and because she won’t stop throwing things and hitting you in the face and screaming you don’t know what else to do except restrain her with a phone cord.

And then she bites you and breaks the Armenian’s nose even as you’ve got her in a hold on top of you.

It’s not exactly what Igor had in mind for the day, is all I’m saying.

As an audience, we also get our expectations turned on their head: Igor, who at first just seems like your standard Slavic hired goon, turns out to have a heart of gold, or at least a soft spot just big enough for a beautiful, foul-mouthed erotic dancer with an impressive left hook. (Although he’s no slouch either, considering how he wields that aluminum bat.) There’s something about her that he really likes, even from the beginning, and you can see him looking out for her and trying (mostly unsuccessfully) to make up for what he did to her back at the house.

I think he admires her brashness, and the way she’s determined to fight for the Cinderella dream that a life with Ivan promised her. In both the courtroom scene and on the tarmac with Ivan’s mother he secretly smiles as he listens to her argue and threaten, even against people far wealthier and more powerful.

(There also seems to be a class element, at least where her conflict with the Zakharovs are concerned. Igor probably doesn’t love the fact that he’s employed by these rich assholes and Ani saying that she’s going to take half their money has him silently cheering her on, because, yeah, fuck them. And when Galina Zakharov winks at him after threatening Ani’s whole existence, he has to look away in shame, because he still works for them, and they think that means they own him.)

I’d love to know when he decides to steal the ring from Toros. Maybe at some point on the plane, after he can see that part of her has given up. It’s a brilliant display of rebellion, made even better by the fact that he waits until the very last minute to give it to her. (Would we have heard all that shit about “hunchback weirdos” and “rape eyes” if he had surprised her with it the first moment they were alone? But Igor is secure enough to take all her insults, and probably likes the fact that she feels safe enough to keep roasting him again and again. “Touché, motherfucker?” she says, and all he can do is giggle.)

Which brings us to the car scene.

The ring is an act of atonement, something to make up for what she’s been through over the past two days — some of which he knows he’s responsible for — and one last fuck you to the family that humiliated her. Igor thinks he’s evening the score before he says goodbye, not realizing that Ani sees it as a gesture she needs to pay back to keep feeling like she’s in control. So she gives him what she thinks he wants — what all men want from her.

Igor’s an adaptive, street-smart guy, but he wasn’t prepared for what she ends up doing. He doesn’t resist, though, taking initiative only once she’s fully on top of him and then just to take her face in his hands. Does some part of him know this is transactional? Does some part of him want it to be real the way Ani wanted Ivan to be real? He wants to pretend at least, and tries to kiss her, only for Ani it’s too real, too much, and she’ll fight to make it stop, like she fights for so many things in her life. But the emotions bubble up anyway, and even through the haze of sex Igor can see she’s in pain, so he pulls her in close and lets her cry, steady and silent as the sobs wrack her body like waves.

It’s a scene that neatly mirrors the one from the living room — him holding her as she’s on top of him — now cast as an expression of vulnerability and care rather than fear and aggression. He’s always been strong enough to hold her, but it’s only at the very end that Ani is willing to be held.

[confusionmeisss]

baby cousin - c. sturniolo

🫧 chris sturniolo x fem!reader

🫧 where you bring chris along with you to a family party and your little baby cousin absolutely steals all his attention.

🫧 fluff.

🫧 1.4k words.

🫧 hi lovelies!! thank you so much for wanting to read! uh this idea just popped into my head when i seen this picture of chris, i was like, “i got the perfect thing to write based on this” i think i was also heavily inspired by the fact that my baby cousins baptism was coming up so i was gonna be seeing my little cousins! anyway, enjoy bc i loved writing this! much love to you all!! <3 oh also, apologies if ur ovulating or have baby fever 😣 masterlist

Your five year old cousin, Lila, had to be the most bubbly and extroverted of all your cousins. She would chat to anyone willing to listen. Most of all, she’d been attached to you since you could remember, turning herself into your little shadow. She mimics your mannerisms and what you say. And whenever you’re anywhere with her there as well, you have to be so careful with moving about because she’ll be stuck to you like velcro.

So it was normal that as soon as you set foot into your aunt’s backyard and the little girl spotted you, her features lit up and she made a mad dash for you; her small body colliding with yours.

You let out a breath at the collision, a smile overtaking your face afterwards. “Hey Li,” you say, crouching down to her level.

“Hi, Y/N!” She shouts out brightly.

You laugh softly. “Heard you started kindergarten. How’s that been for you, bug? Make any new friends?” You ask, brushing back a piece of stray hair from her face.

She nods her head enthusiastically. “Yes! His name is Austin and we push each other on the swings and play legos together!”

“That’s great! Hey, I have someone I want you to meet,” you say, standing back to your height.

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you say, grabbing her small hand and leading her to where your mother is standing talking to your uncle; Chris standing next to her.

“His name is Chris and he’s my boyfriend.”

Lila stops you before you reach them by tugging at your shirt.

You look down at her. “Do you think he’ll wanna be my friend?”

“Oh for sure. I think you two will get along real well in fact.”

“Okay! Then let’s go meet my new friend Chris!”

You let out another soft laugh as you both finally reach your mother and Chris. Your mother spotting you both and letting out a gasp.

“Oh well if it isn’t my favorite five year old!” She says, reaching down and tugging Lila into a big hug. “How’s school going for you so far, darling?”

“Great! Made new friends! Bout to make a new one now!” Lila lets out from her place in your mothers arms, squirming just a little bit.

“Oh, yes,” your mother lets out a chuckle. “Go on and meet Christopher now, darling.” Your mother lets go of the girl with a pat on her head before wandering off to talk to another family member.

Almost immediately Lila looks at the man now standing next to you. A bright grin taking over her face, making her cheeks squish and her eyes squint.

“Hello! I’m Lila, and I would like to be your friend! Would you like to be my friend?” The little girl asks with a little hand outstretched towards Chris.

His bigger one engulfs hers as he returns her greeting. “I would love to be your friend, Lila.”

Lila lets go of Chris’ hand and claps her hands together with a squeal of delight.

“That’s great! Do y’wanna go play in my sandbox with me? We can make sandcastles!”

“I would love to!” Chris says brightly.

And as soon as the words left his mouth, he was being dragged away by Lila and towards her sandbox.

“So, I heard that you’re in school now. Do you like it?” Chris asks, as he plops down onto the grass next to the sandbox.

“Oh I love it!” Lila replies, picking up two pink shovels, and shoving one towards Chris. “It’s super fun! Like, I get to color, but I gotta stay inside the lines which I guess can be hard sometimes. But like we also get to watch movies sometimes. And now I can count up to twenty! Which is how old Y/N is! How old are you?”

Chris lets out a chuckle at the girl’s enthusiastic debrief. “Well, I’m glad you enjoy school. I’m twenty too, but I won’t be in a couple more months; then I’ll be twenty-one along with my brothers.”

“You have brothers? I’m an only child, I dunno what that’s like. Wait, why are you and your brothers all turning the same age at the same time? That’s not how it works,” Lila says, her head tilted to the side in confusion.

“Ah, you see my brothers and I were born on the same day, so we all turn the same age at the same time,” Chris explains. “We’re triplets. It’s like twins but instead of two, there’s three of us.”

Lila gasps, sand flying up from her excited hand movements - which Chris notes she’s picked up from you - and into her hair. Lila remains unphased by this as she says, “That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, it really is.”

Lila quickly changes topics though as her gaze focuses on something behind her. “Let’s blow bubbles, and then we can chase them trying to pop them before they disappear!”

“Alright,” Chris agrees easily, standing up from the grass. He watches as Lila runs over to a little plastic picnic table and grabs a tube of bubbles.

“Will you blow them?” She asks, running back over to him. Once she reaches him, she holds out her hand with the bubbles in it out to him expectantly.

“‘Course I will,” Chris says, taking hold of the bubble tube and twisting it open. “Ready?” He asks.

Receiving a nod in response, he starts blowing the bubbles, watching them float out into the air and Lila chase after them trying to pop them.

Chris has a happy smile on his face as he watches the little girl giggle while trying to pop the bubbles.

“Chris, can you try and make a super big one? Y/N can do it, and it’s always so cool!”

Chris nods and focuses on attempting to make as big of a bubble as he can. It takes a few tries, all of which Lila giggles at, before he finally gets one out.

“Woah!” Lila gasps out, before giggling and reaching up to pop it with her little finger.

The bubble bursts and splatters against Chris’ face, making him scrunch it up in distaste. “Oh ew, soaps on my mouth now.”

Lila lets out a loud laugh at Chris’ distress.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?” Chris asks.

“Mhm,” Lila says, attempting to suppress a giggle.

Chris doesn’t even hesitate before he drops the tube of bubbles and starts chasing after the girl. Her giggles so loud, they make you look over from where you��re making plates of food.

A soft smile overtakes your face as you watch them run around, your smile widening when Chris grabs hold of Lila and starts tickling her, making her giggles somehow get louder.

“Mercy! Mercy! M’sorry for laughing at you!” Lila squeals out. Chris surrenders and places the girl down on the bench of her picnic table, then sitting across from her.

“You’re silly, Chris,” Lila giggles. “I’m hungry,” she then whines out.

“Ah, well lucky for you, I’ve come to be your savior,” you say, placing a plastic plate in front of her. You place another in front of Chris before setting drinks down on the table as well.

“Thank you!” Lila shouts, before stabbing her fork into her mac n’ cheese.

“Thank you,” Chris says, smiling at you softly and placing a kiss on your cheek.

“You’re welcome, my love,” you reply, going to sit down before you’re stopped by a small hand.

“Sorry Y/N, but only two people can fit at my picnic table and I want Chris to sit with me,” Lila says looking up at you with an apologetic expression.

You let out a gasp of fake offense, placing a hand over your heart. “I can’t believe this! I’ve been replaced!”

Lila gasps. “No! You can’t ever be replaced! You’re my favoritest! Chris move, you can sit on the grass and Y/N can take your spot!”

You suppress a laugh at this. Chris takes it all in stride though, and moves to sit on the grass and you take his spot.

“So I’m taking it you like Chris then?” You ask Lila, taking a bite of your food.

“Oh yeah! I hope you keep him around, he’s real fun! And silly!”

“Yeah. Yeah he is, isn’t he? I hope he sticks around for a long while too,” You say looking at Chris softly.

He reaches over and grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers, resting them on the bench. “I will,” he assures.

[princessbrunette]

limbrey had left the house for a few hours.

“y’know it’s like, it’s not even a sin ‘cus our clothes are still on n’stuff.” jj reclines on the vintage loveseat in your home, cap still on — everything still on infact with his fingers drumming lightly on your waist as you straddle his leg. he knew what his friends would say if they saw him there right now. the head shakes of disappointment. john b’s voice saying ‘jj, stop corrupting her. just let her be.’, pope telling him that he’s a notorious bad influence, kiara screwing up her face. he knew it was bad, but hey — you’re the one who was having all these ‘urges’, he was simply helping you out.

you roll your eyes, trying to play it off but when you suck in a breath it shakes, the nerves getting the better of you as you habitually lift your hand to twiddle with your cross necklace.

“look. you don’t gotta do anything with me right now, or ever if you don’t wanna. m’not tryna make you compromise your faith…liness or whatever—i’m just tryna be a good friend n’ help you out.” jj lets go of your waist to lean back on the seat, taking the pressure off by resting his arms on the back of the seat, staring at you with his wide blue eyes. you slump a little, thighs tightening around his leg as you look down at the space you sit on. you knew this was gonna be trouble when you missed his touch as soon as he removed it.

“no… i want to do it.”

“and your moms not gonna be home for another few hours, right?” he raises his brows, talking slow.

you sigh, nodding. “right.”

reaching forward, he gently takes your chin between his fingers, holding your gaze. “then you got nothin’— and i mean absolutely nothin’ to worry about.” he smiles, and with jj it always just feels easy. like everything is ever that simple. for a moment, you let yourself melt and believe that, sucking on your bottom lip. cautiously, his hands return to your hips and he ever so slightly encourages them forward. “now— what you’re gunna do is rolllll your hips. juuuust like that, dolly.” he instructs casually in that southern drawl that made you weak in the knees, following his instructions.

as the pocket of his cargo shorts catches beneath your panty-clad clit you tense up with a whimper and he grips you securely, looking up with an encouraging smile. “you’re alright, that feels good don’t it lamb chop?” the smile becomes a grin and you pout, getting the hang of rolling your hips.

“dont call me that right now!” you mewl, voice already taking an airy filter to it as you get hazy from pleasure, humping on jj being apparently exactly what you needed on this hot summer afternoon.

“yeah i don’t think you get to call the shots right now when you’re humpin’ on me, mama. but i’ll play nice.” he jokes, helping you along by the waist and bucking his leg a little making you moan. “mmmhm, that’s the stuff ain’t it.”

“this is so wrong. so wrong.” you whimper pathetically, unable to stop your hips from moving as you squelch about in your panties. you couldn’t help how you felt, but you knew you had to be disappointing the lord right about now.

“dont sound wrong t’me.” he shrugs, leaning back to watch you as he lazily guides your hips. he glances to the side, doing a double take at the table with the framed image of you as a baby at your baptism and his arm shoots out, placing the photo down on its face so you couldn’t see it anymore. “there y’go just… hide that.” he mutters under his breath before focusing on you again.

“oh my goodness jj, i’ve never felt…” you trail off, eyes squeezing shut as you greedily hump his thigh, your knee grazing his crotch making him wince.

“felt this good? yeah, well… gets a lot better than this sugar. whatever gets you off though.” he’s a little redder in the face now, more turned on by the moment. “can i like… help you out a lil bit? i mean you’ve already commit the sin, might aswell right?” he doesn’t bother to still you, and before you can answer him he slips a palm beneath you so you roll your hips right into it, all whilst pawing at your tit through your white dress, the fat of it practically falling out anyway as he rolls a thumb over your nipple. you cry out, tensing and clenching around nothing as you grip his shoulders tight — that clean french manicure of yours digging into his skin.

“thaaaats better, right? that’ll do ‘er.” he breathes, your faces closer now, feeling your breath mingle at the proximity.

“this feels amazing.” you pant like a dog, dropping your head to his shoulder to avoid his gaze, squeezing your eyes shut as you approach orgasm.

“plenty more where that came from bo peep. go ‘head n’cum for me yeah? i know you need it. that’s right. good girl.”

[theonottsbxtch]

PREACHER’S DAUGHTER PT5 | MV1

an: AND WE'RE BACK!! WHO MISSED OUR FAVOURITE LITTLE FAMILY! can't wait to hear what you guys think of this part, i've loved being with them this week, this is a shorter chapter but i've got ideas for what might happen next! lmk if y'all wanna see anything in particular

wc: 3.2k

Theo was four when his parents welcomed his sister, and Max very nearly missed it, if not for Danny.

It had been a normal day at the garage, Max elbow-deep in an engine rebuild, grease staining his hands and his focus entirely on the task at hand. His phone, forgotten on the workbench, buzzed furiously with calls and messages. It wasn’t until Danny came barreling into the shop, panting like he’d just run a marathon, that Max looked up.

“Max! Man, what the hell are you doing?” Danny wheezed, clutching his knees.

Max straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Uh, working? What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re dying.”

Danny shot him a glare, pointing accusingly at the phone vibrating incessantly on the workbench. “Your wife is trying to call you! She’s in labour, man! She’s having the baby!”

Max froze, the rag slipping from his fingers. “What?”

“She’s at the hospital! Her aunt’s with her, but you need to move! Now!”

Max’s heart lurched into overdrive. Without a word, he sprinted to the workbench, grabbed his phone, and bolted out the door. “Danny, lock up!” he shouted over his shoulder as he jumped onto his bike.

Danny shook his head, muttering, “You owe me for this one, man.”

Max arrived at the hospital in record time, still in his grease-stained shirt and boots. His wife was mid-contraction when he burst into the room, panting, his face a mixture of guilt and relief.

“You’re here,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening at his frazzled appearance.

“I’m here,” he confirmed, rushing to her side and taking her hand. “I’m sorry, angel. My phone was on silent—”

“Save it,” she hissed, squeezing his hand so tightly he thought his bones might break. “You’re here now. Just don’t let go.”

Max didn’t. Not for a second. Hours later, they welcomed a healthy baby girl into the world. Max cried as he held her for the first time, the tiny bundle swaddled in pink resting against his chest. He looked at his wife, her hair damp and her face radiant despite her exhaustion.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re perfect.”

Their daughter, Mary-Ann, came home a few days later to a little house with a white picket fence that they had purchased not long before her birth. It was a modest place, but it was theirs, filled with laughter, love, and the chaos that only a toddler and a newborn could bring.

Theo was adjusting to his new role as a big brother with enthusiasm and curiosity. He followed his parents around, always asking to hold the baby or show her his toys. “She likes dinosaurs, right?” he would ask, clutching his favourite plastic stegosaurus.

“She loves dinosaurs,” Max assured him, grinning as he ruffled Theo’s hair.

Max had seamlessly embraced fatherhood, splitting his time between the garage and his family. He spent his evenings teaching Theo how to kick a football in the back garden and his nights rocking Mary-Ann to sleep.

The house, with its picket fence and flowerbeds lovingly tended by his wife, was the picture of the life Max had never imagined for himself. Yet, here he was, living it and loving every moment.

The day of Mary-Ann’s baptism dawned clear and bright, the kind of perfect day that made everything feel just a little more magical. Their little family was dressed in their Sunday best, Theo proudly wearing a bowtie that his mother had wrestled him into after much negotiation, and Mary-Ann bundled in a delicate white christening gown.

They arrived at the church to find her aunt, Danny, and a few close friends waiting for them, just as they had for Theo’s baptism years ago. Her aunt immediately swooped in to coo over Mary-Ann, her face soft with affection.

“She’s the spitting image of you at this age,” her aunt said warmly, brushing a soft curl away from Mary-Ann’s forehead.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t inherit my teenage rebellion,” she joked, glancing at Max, who chuckled.

The service itself was intimate and beautiful. As the pastor spoke, Theo sat on Max’s lap, squirming occasionally but staying quiet enough to earn whispered praise from both his parents. When it came time for the baptism, Max and his wife stood together at the front of the church, Theo holding onto his mother’s hand while Max held Mary-Ann close.

The pastor asked Theo if he wanted to say anything, and the boy puffed out his chest importantly, his tiny voice ringing out through the quiet chapel. “We’re all gonna be... um... part of Chris-tain-ity now!”

There was a soft chuckle from the congregation, but Theo frowned, frustrated by his own mispronunciation. His brows knitted together, and before anyone could stop him, he muttered under his breath, “Damn it.”

Max’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at his son. “Where did you hear that, Theo?”

Without hesitation, Theo turned and pointed to Danny, who froze mid-grin. “Uncle Daddy says it all the time.”

The entire room dissolved into laughter, but Max’s expression darkened. “His name is Uncle Danny. Not Daddy,” he corrected firmly. He handed Mary-Ann to his wife with exaggerated care and then fixed Danny with a dangerous look. “Uncle Danny also has five seconds to run.”

Danny’s eyes widened as he stammered, “Now, hold on a second—”

“Five.”

Danny bolted toward the back of the church, nearly tripping over a pew. Max didn’t miss a beat, stepping around the altar and charging after him. Theo laughed hysterically as he watched his father chase Danny out the door, and his mother shook her head, trying to stifle her own giggles.

When Max returned a few minutes later, slightly winded but victorious, Danny trailing behind him with a sheepish grin, the ceremony continued. The pastor, who had been struggling to keep a straight face, resumed his blessing, and little Mary-Ann was baptised without further incident.

As they left the church, Theo clung to Max’s hand, his face lit with excitement. “Daddy, can I chase Uncle Danny next time?”

Max ruffled his hair, smirking. “Not until you’re faster than me, kid.”

The two of them loved the life they had built together and sometimes when Max woke up he had to pinch himself. Just under half a decade ago he was eating dry hotdogs and drinking stale beers in a rundown trailer. Now he was helping his wife. His wife. In the kitchen with his two kids. Not one, two. Max was a father and everyday he woke up he couldn’t really believe. it.

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafted through the house as she stood at the counter, carefully icing a tray of perfectly golden cupcakes. Mary-Ann was nestled in her baby chair nearby, happily chewing on a soft toy, and the kitchen felt like the warm, beating heart of their home.

Out in the garage, Max had Theo standing on a small step stool by the workbench, his tiny hands gripping a wrench that was far too big for him. Max crouched beside him, guiding his hands as they worked on an old oil pan together. Theo giggled every time Max made a joke, his high-pitched laughter filling the air.

She wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a glass of iced tea, and wandered outside to watch her boys. Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms and smiled. “Teaching him how to change oil already? He’s four, Max.”

Max turned, his grease-streaked face lighting up when he saw her. “Hey, never too early to learn the basics, right, buddy?”

Theo nodded enthusiastically, smearing a streak of oil across his cheek as he waved the wrench triumphantly. “Mama, I’m helping!”

“I can see that,” she laughed, walking over and kissing the top of his messy hair.

As her gaze wandered around the garage, it landed on their old motorbike, tucked into the corner, its polished chrome gleaming even in the dim light. Her smile turned into a smirk, and she gestured toward it with her glass. “You know, you’re going to have to sell that death trap.”

Max froze mid-laugh, a look of horror crossing his face. “What? No way. We’ve got so many memories with that bike.”

“We have two kids now, Max.”

He frowned, standing up and crossing his arms. “But what if Theo wants it when he grows up?”

She raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on her hip. “He’s not stepping a foot on that thing.”

Max threw his hands up in exaggerated protest. “Oh, so when it’s us, it’s fine, but when it’s Theo, it’s a problem?”

She grinned, completely unbothered. “Yup.”

Before he could argue further, Danny strolled into the garage, a familiar plastic container in hand. “Alright, where’s the good stuff? I heard there’s baking going on in that kitchen, and you know the deal—Danny gets dibs.”

She laughed, pointing toward the house. “I’ll bring you some in a second. Just made a fresh batch.”

As Danny leaned against the workbench, Max glanced at him, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Hey, Danny, you wanna buy that death trap over there?”

Danny raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bike. “How much are we talking?”

Max grinned. “Fifty bucks.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

Max smirked, holding out a hand. “You buy it, but I still get to use it whenever I want.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head but reaching out to shake Max’s hand anyway. “You got yourself a deal, man.”

Max turned to her with a triumphant grin, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. “See? It’s sold. Problem solved.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head but smiling as she headed back into the house. “You two are impossible.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Max knelt back down beside Theo, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Daddy, what’s a death trap?”

Max chuckled, ruffling his hair. “It’s something fun that your mom doesn’t like.”

From the kitchen, she called out, “I heard that!”

While she packed up some of her baked goods for Danny she too thought of how lucky she was. How all her prayers had been listened to. How she finally made it out of that house. How she was going to witness all her own kid’s life milestones with joy and love, not hatred and jealousy. 

The morning of Theo’s first day of school, the sunlight streamed through the windows as the family bustled to get ready. Theo stood proudly in his brand-new school uniform, his backpack almost as big as he was. Mary-Ann, her curls tied up in tiny pigtails, was toddling around in her nursery outfit, clutching her stuffed bunny like it was her lifeline.

Their mother, however, was a whirlwind of emotions. She double-checked Theo’s lunchbox for the third time and nearly forgot to zip Mary-Ann’s coat, all while blinking back tears.

“I can’t believe they’re both going,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she fixed Theo’s collar for the tenth time.

Max, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, tried to hide his grin. “Sweetheart, they’re not moving out. It’s just school and nursery.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t start with me today, Max.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Come here, buddy,” he said, crouching down to Theo’s level. “You ready for your big day?”

Theo nodded, his little chest puffed out. “I’m gonna make so many friends!”

Max ruffled his hair. “That’s my boy. And you,” he added, turning to Mary-Ann and lifting her into his arms. “You take care of those nursery teachers, alright? Show ‘em who’s boss.”

Mary-Ann giggled, planting a slobbery kiss on his cheek.

After a bittersweet drop-off that left her sniffling the entire car ride home, they returned to their now eerily quiet house. For the first time in years, it was just the two of them.

She walked into the living room, glanced at the toys still scattered around, and sighed heavily, sinking into the couch. “It’s too quiet.”

Max sat beside her, pulling her into his side. “I told you this morning was gonna hit you hard.”

She swatted his chest lightly. “It’s just… I’ve never been in the house without one of them here. It’s so empty.” She buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. “What if they need me? What if Mary-Ann gets scared? Or Theo forgets his lunch?”

Max chuckled softly, rubbing her back. “Sweetheart, Theo’s got this. The kid’s practically running for class president. And Mary-Ann? She’s gonna have the nursery wrapped around her finger before lunch.”

She peeked at him from behind her hands, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple.

For a moment, she leaned into him, letting the comfort of his presence soothe her. But the silence of the house pressed in again, making her sigh.

Max pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, we’ve got the house all to ourselves now.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Max…”

He grinned, running his fingers lightly up her arm. “I’m just saying. We’ve got a whole empty house and a few hours of peace.”

Despite herself, she laughed, smacking his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m practical,” he countered, leaning closer. “We might never get this chance again, angel. Think about it.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting this right now.”

“I’m just trying to make the most of the quiet,” he teased, his hand slipping around her waist. “And besides, you’re way too stressed. Let me help you relax.”

She laughed despite herself, the weight of the morning momentarily forgotten as he kissed her neck, his stubble tickling her skin.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, tilting her head to meet his lips, her heart finally feeling a little lighter.

And if she counted the exact weeks, that day was how she ended up pregnant with her third and final child.

Nine months later, their family grew again with the arrival of a boy they named Daniel. It was a tribute to Danny, their ever-reliable friend who had, over the years, become less like a buddy and more like an honorary member of the family.

Daniel came into the world with a loud cry and a shock of dark hair, immediately staking his place in the chaos of their household. Mary-Ann, now three and brimming with sass, had proudly declared herself the "boss" of her new baby brother. She often toddled around after him, dragging her favourite stuffed bunny in one hand and fussing over Daniel like a miniature mother.

Theo, at five, took his role as the eldest sibling very seriously. He loved showing off to Mary-Ann and anyone who’d listen about how he could hold his baby brother “without dropping him” (a feat Max closely supervised with a hovering hand). Theo also began peppering Max with endless questions about how cars worked, proudly announcing that he’d take over the garage one day.

The house was louder now, bursting with life and love in every corner. Daniel’s cries, Theo’s endless chatter, and Mary-Ann’s theatrical storytelling meant there was never a dull moment.

Max had learned to juggle bottles, bedtime stories, and car repairs, often collapsing into bed with her at the end of the day, marvelling at the whirlwind their life had become.

On quieter days—though “quiet” was a stretch—she’d watch Max play with the kids in their backyard. Mary-Ann would climb all over him, Theo would ask a million questions about the engine of a toy car, and baby Daniel would sit in his lap, chewing on whatever he could grab.

Sunday mornings had become a cherished tradition for her. Dressing Theo in his little button-up shirts, coaxing Mary-Ann into tights and her favourite frilly dress, and cradling baby Daniel in his soft onesie all felt like sacred rituals. She loved sharing her faith with her children, teaching them the hymns, and watching their faces light up during Sunday school.

But as much as she loved church, there was always a weight to bear. Her parents still attended the same church, their presence lingering like a spectre of the past. While most of the congregation had embraced her family with warmth, her parents had not. They’d sit on the far side of the pews, casting disapproving glares, and every so often, there were whispers—cutting, cruel words spread by those who believed her parents' version of events.

Still, she focused on her children. Theo beamed when he memorised Bible verses, Mary-Ann proudly showed off her colouring pages, and baby Daniel giggled at the choir. Sharing this part of her life with them felt like reclaiming something pure.

That afternoon, the church hosted a children’s Bible study, and she stayed to help with crafts and snacks while Max wrangled the baby. Daniel was perfectly content napping on his dad’s chest while Max sat in the corner, earning approving glances from the other parents for his patience and attentiveness.

As they packed up to leave, her father appeared, stepping out of the shadows like a storm cloud. His eyes were cold, his expression a mask of disdain. He walked past her, close enough that she could feel the venom in his whispered word:

"Whore."

The word cut through her like a knife. She froze, her heart pounding, the air sucked out of the room. Before she could even react, Max’s voice broke the moment.

"Angel, hold Daniel."

She turned to him, startled, as he handed her the baby with a calmness that belied the fire in his eyes. Then, without hesitation, Max spun on his heel and marched toward her father.

The sound of Max’s fist connecting with her father’s jaw was thunderous in the quiet room. Her father staggered back, clutching his face, as gasps rippled through the remaining churchgoers.

Max stood tall, his voice steady but cold. “Don’t you ever call my wife that again. You lost any right to speak to her the day you hurt her and abused your power. She’s a better person than you’ll ever be.”

Her father glared up at Max, but he didn’t dare rise. The weight of his disgrace was palpable as the onlookers murmured, their judgement no longer directed at her but at the man who had insulted his own daughter in a house of worship.

She stood rooted to the spot, Daniel cradled in her arms, her cheeks flushed. She could feel every eye in the room on her, but the only one that mattered was Max’s. He turned back to her, his expression softening, and strode toward her.

Max placed a gentle hand on her back, his touch grounding her. “Let’s go, angel,” he said quietly, his voice carrying none of the anger from moments before.

She nodded, unable to form words, and followed him out, their children close by. As they left the church, she glanced down at Theo and Mary-Ann, both wide-eyed but clutching each other’s hands tightly.

When they got to the car, she took a deep, shaky breath. “Max—”

He cut her off with a kiss to her temple. “Don’t. You don’t owe him anything. Not even your anger.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she leaned into him, Daniel squirming lightly in her arms. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Max tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. “You and these kids are my family. No one, not even him, gets to treat you like that.”

taglist: @sinofwriting @le-le-lea @vanicogh @iamred-iamyellow @rayaskoalaland @spookyanamurdock @iimplicitt @hellowgoodbye @maximuminfluencerstarlight @lottalove4evelyn @piceous21 @ladscarlett @leclerc13 @linnygirl09 @labelledejourr @cmleitora @fortunapre @felicityforyou @isagrace22 @bookishnerd1132 @formulaal @mastermindbaby @daddyslittlevillain @inmynotes63 @litllefox @hollstopia

[amartworks]

Elia Martell, princess consort of Rhaegar Targaryen, and her children, Rhaenys and Aegon

I like how while Elia isn’t in the books, she haunts the narrative just as much as her husband – down to her daughter’s kitten literally haunting the Red Keep.

Artist notes below cut for freaks who like that

Oh god this took so long. Oh god why did I let it go this far. Here's the original sketch. Referenced from JookPubStock… I think. It's been so long.

This painting is quite blatantly inspired by Franz Xaver Winterhalter’s The Royal Family. It's decidedly rococo/neo-classical and wayyyy too late for ASOIAF but I don't care.

Elia Martell is described as flat chested and quite sickly. I see her being easily exhausted and therefore wearing dresses that do not weigh much, so as to not put pain on her shoulders and tire her out. I also gave her a strong nose because I am very fond of Pedro Pascal’s Oberyn, Elia’s brother.

Elia is wearing a simple ambigious renaissance dress with small sleeves and a light corset. Kind of cobbled together from looking at Hans Holbein the Younger’s works. The fabric the dress is cut from is however meant to be Dornish – I drew inspiration from this beautiful Ottomanian textile.

Her crown is completely made up. I searched “sun crown” and was greatly inspired by the works of jewelry maker SunFlames.

King Aerys refused to touch his granddaughter Rhaenys because she “smelled Dornish” which tells me Rhaenys probably favored her mother.

Rhaenys was difficult. I looked up what renaissance children wore, and the answer is they wore exact copies of what adults wore. I don’t know how, I feel like the moment you were done with a sleeve the child in question would’ve outgrown it. I decided to freestyle it a little.

Aegon is wearing a christening gown. As far as I can tell the Faith of the Seven doesn’t mention baptisms… but considering the catholic inspiration I think it makes sense. Also I think it's sweet.

They both have deep indigo eyes. My personal headcanon is that Targaryen eyes are purple in the same sense that Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes were purple. Moreover the definition of colors change over time. During the Middle Ages, there was no word for the color “orange” – instead you would say red or yellow. Similarly a lot of languages will use the same word for blue and green.

HOWEVER, this is something that has come with later generations – the first Valyrians had inhumanly violet eyes, which I will be doing concept art for… sometime.

Finally here’s what I know you're REALLY here for, and the part of the painting which I am the proudest of – the 3D model of the chair and table which I made in Blender because I couldn't find a good reference for a renaissance era chair from the angle I wanted.

[secretmellowblog]

Les Mis Hidden Name Meanings: “Fantine” (posting here because it got popular on TikTok)

Every character in Les Mis has a name with a deeper symbolic meaning— here’s a video I made for the official @barricadescon TikTok about the meaning behind “Fantine!”

Transcript and Digressions I left out of the video, under the cut:

Every charcater’s name in Les Mis is either a pun, a reference to a historical/mythological figure, or had some deep symbolic meaning — and sometimes it’s all of them at on.

The name “Fantine” comes from the french word “enfantine” or “childike, infant-like.” Her name basically means “Baby.” And obviously this speaks to her innocence and niavetee. But also “baby” is kind of,.,, well it sounds more like an informal term of endearment than an actual legal name?

And that’s because– Plot twist– Fantine isn’t her legal name! What is her legal name? She doesn’t have one.

And the reason she doesn’t have one is directly tied to political turmoil of the era she was born into.

Fantine grew up an orphan living on the streets, without a family without parents. Hugo tells us the origin of her name:

“she bore on her brow the sign of the anonymous and the unknown. (...)She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, who had encountered her, when a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained.”

This moment is adapted beautifully in the Manga adaptation by Takahiro Arai, which I recommend to anyone who loves Les mis, manga, or any combination of those things.

But now let’s talk about the Directory.

To wildly oversimplifly a lot of complex history: Before the French Revolution, the Catholic Church’s records of baptismal ceremonies were often used as a registry of people’s legal names. During the French Revolution, the Revolutionary government– including the Directory– put in place a series of policies we now call “dechristianization,” where they attempted to dismantle the power of Catholic church.

Fantine was born during the age of these dechristianization policies. So she was never baptised, her baptismal name was never recorded, so she has no recorded legal or family name. She’s slipped through the cracks of the legal system, and ended up completely anonymous.

It sets Fantine up as this anonymous child of the Revolution– a stand in for everyone who was left behind when the Revolution was left behind, and kings were restored to the throne.

Fantine’s namelessness is meant to show atomized . How she has NO support system. She has nothing to connect her to other people, nothing to connect her to a support system.

Finally, the way Fantine tends to “slip through the cracks” is something that follows her throughout her life. When she’s fired from her job at a factory, Maroy Madeleine never learns of it– Fantine has this tendency to overlooked and forgotten. She is born anonymous and she dies anonymous. At the end of the story, she is buried in an unmarked grave, with not even the name “Fantine” on her headstone.

It ties into novel’s questions about which people we consider worth remembering, whose lives are worth being records.

And obviously Fantine is not the only character in Les Mis whose name has a deeper symbolic meaning. If you have any other Les Mis character names you’d like to explain, leave their name in the comments below.

Thank you for watching!

From the description of the original tiktok, here are some things that were left out of the video for time:

How this all relates to Cosette’s name(s)

Fantine’s nickname “The Blonde,” and how this relates to the way she’s dehumanized by Tholomyes

How the 2018 Bbc series fundamentally misunderstands Fantine’s character, and how one sign of this is that they give her a full legal first and last name

How Fantine’s name shows up/is revealed is significant parts of the story (like when Valjean reveals her signature on a letter to Thenardier, allowing him to take Cosette away)

How Fantine’s inability to write ties into the way it’s difficult for her to record her own story

How some of Valjean’s last words are revealing Fantine’s name to Cosette

Thanks again for reading!

[vole-mon-amour]

I wonder what having sex with Silco is like.

I wonder if he pulled Jinx's hair. I wonder if he held her close and tightly, both arms wrapped around her while she rode him. I wonder if he was gentle with her or maybe he lost himself sometimes. Or maybe he was a passionate yet gentle lover, very attentive to her and her needs. Maybe he never made her feel uncomfortable, but if she asked to be rougher with her, he would/did.

Judging by the baptism scene, and how softly he handled her most of the time, and how much he loved her, he would've given her anything. He literally died telling her not to cry and that she's perfect.

This is a pro Silco x Jinx space and antis should block me.

upd: "I know you're sweet on her. I hope you got a chance to, you know. Before..." Jinx was sweet on Silco and Silco was sweet on her. They made love so many times, which probably helped her accept that her sister can have someone she's fond of and has a crush on.

[jenn2sec]

English vers.

Based On My Dreams Series (GD LINE):

❝ Too Dry? ❞

Main Line (part 1)

start - friday21022025

couple - Kwon Ji Yong (G-Dragon) x fem!reader

chapters summary - what if you chose to tease gdragon then? would things have been different?!

note - chaotic, bad words, side characters, time branch if you choose to say something playful with GD, funny, alcohol, drunk, bar, kissing, teasing, age gap

caption section - after reviewing and organizing more ideas for the plot, i decided to officially develop the Based On My Dreams Series into a long fanfic combined with many story lines depending on your choices (follow the Quantum Multiverse Theory). y/n is in the late twenties and about to enter their thirties, a third-year student majoring in film scriptwriting.

We’re always open to feedback and ideas to make the story better!

Don't forget to read the Main Line (part 1) first!!

You quickly let yourself soak in the atmosphere while waiting for your best friend, who was busy flirting with the bartender (and ordering more drinks for both of you). The tension in your body gradually melted away, your shoulders feeling lighter by the second. It was hard to believe this trip was already working wonders—on just the first day.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold liquid spilled down the back of your neck, soaking your entire back. A sharp shiver ran up your spine, triggering an instant wave of shock and discomfort that shot straight to your brain, making you yelp. Luckily, the bar was noisy enough to drown out your outburst.

Spinning around, you searched for the culprit—and found yourself facing a guy dressed in a breezy, casual outfit. His face was undeniably Korean, but he wasn’t bad-looking at all. In fact, when combined with his overall aura, he looked…pretty cool!

His expression, however, was hilarious. Though the dim lighting made it hard to see clearly, his wide eyes, hand-over-mouth reaction, and panicked mumbling made it obvious he was apologizing and checking if you were okay.

You were in too good of a mood to get mad. You were about to say something, but then you spotted your best friend scanning the crowd for you. With no time to linger, you flashed the guy a quick grin, leaned in slightly, and said a few words before slipping through the dancing crowd to rejoin your friend.

"You think I'm too dry, huh? It's fine tho, thanks for the baptism! Amen!"

You take a few steps before instinctively turning your head, wanting to catch his reaction—whether to acknowledge him with a look or just to see if he found your joke funny. But your hair and the bustling crowd block your view, and before you know it, the music drowns out your curiosity.

"Thanks," you say out of habit as you accept your drink from your best friend, quickly following up with a more intentional question, "So? Has the bartender fallen for you yet, girl?"

Your best friend, after a few drinks, is a completely different person from the shy girl who fumbles her native language when placing an order at a new restaurant. With enough alcohol, she’s fearless—every good-looking guy is fair game for her teasing, and she makes them blush effortlessly. The confidence you had earlier when cracking a joke with the guy who “baptized” you with Chivas? That energy was all borrowed from her.

Messing with strangers with harmless little quips? Not a bad feeling at all.

Your friend says something about the bartender, but before long, the conversation halts as both of you rush to the dance floor the moment the DJ transitions into a K-pop remix.

It’s been far too long since you last let yourself taste a night like this. The drinks start as a few cocktails but quickly escalate to each of you holding a full bottle of imported liquor, dancing and sipping away. The music hits deeper when your body is tipsy. You even find yourself openly dancing with random guys and girls—still relatively tame behavior compared to your best friend, who has probably ended up in some dark corner making out with the bartender by now.

The nausea starts creeping up from your chest to your throat. You down the last of your drink, cheerfully settle the bill, and head toward the restroom in search of your friend.

You bump into someone, but you're too unsteady to hold your balance. Just as you're about to fall forward, a strong arm catches you—one hand securely holding your waist, the other steadying your back.

"너! (You!)" The voice exclaims.

It takes you a second to register. You can’t quite recall the face, but the tattoo on his forearm jogs your memory. Your eyes widen, and with a drunken grin, you straighten up and shout:

"AMEN!"

He immediately bursts into laughter, doubling over as he clutches his face, leaning against the wall, unable to stop.

Satisfied that your joke hit its mark, you smirk, looking ridiculously triumphant.

"Yeah, I apologize for that incident," he finally manages between chuckles, switching to English instead of the frantic Korean apologies from earlier.

"Huh?!" You pretend not to hear him over the music, though you definitely did.

He leans in to repeat himself, and you nod along, squinting like an old lady, before teasing,

"It’s fine, but hey, cool guy—" You pause. He instinctively tilts his head closer, waiting for the rest of your sentence.

Then, in a hushed whisper, just loud enough for him alone to hear, you say:

"Do I look less dry now? Juicy enough yet?"

A bold, playful challenge. You didn’t exactly plan on flirting so soon after a breakup, but hey—it’s a foreign guy, so what’s there to lose?

He laughs again, but softer this time. Maybe out of shyness. Or maybe he finds you intriguing?

His smile seems oddly familiar. More importantly, it’s incredibly cute. And combined with the alcohol coursing through you, it’s also..kind of sexy.

You have a thing for watching people’s mouths when they smile. There’s something undeniably attractive about it. And this guy? He already exudes main-character energy, even with that slightly dorky grin.

"Yes, you do," he finally responds—again, leaning in just enough that his lips barely graze the shell of your ear.

A shiver runs down your spine, similar to when the cold liquor was poured down your back earlier. But this time, you like it.

You turn to face him, eyes slightly squinting from your smile, your cheekbones lifting just enough—your grin is not as wide as when you’re joking, but subtly inviting. A silent green light.

Your faces are close. He doesn't pull away. His eyes search yours, gauging your intent. But you? You’re not looking at his eyes. You’re fixated on the corner of his lips, still faintly curled upward.

The DJ let the beat drops.

And in that split second, your gazes finally lock—caught red-handed in mutual attraction.

No time to think.

Your lips crash into each other, reckless and unhesitating, like neither of you care whether the other wanted it or not.

The kiss is strangely familiar. As if you've done this a hundred times before. Your heads tilt instinctively, in perfect sync.

Your bodies press against each other with no space in between. He pushes you gently against the hallway wall.

Both of you kept pushing and pulling, kissing fervently while your hands explored each other slowly and deliberately. Your arms draped over his neck, fingers brushing through the hair at his nape and tracing the curve of his ear before sliding down to his neck, shoulders, chest, and waist.

Unconsciously, you traced and familiarized yourself with his body, your eyes tightly shut.

Unlike you—whose hands had already wandered to his hips—he simply cradled your back and caressed your nape. His slender, cool fingers felt like chilled liquor, gliding up and down the back of your neck in a teasing manner, occasionally pulling your head closer to deepen the kiss. His other hand rested gently at your lower back, pressing your bodies even tighter together—his every movement refined in contrast to your own.

You couldn’t breathe, yet you didn’t want to stop. Awkwardly, you switched between breathing through your nose and mouth, trying to prolong the kiss so there was no pause between you two—a determination that made him chuckle quietly in amusement.

Oh, and he had facial hair—not long, but just enough for it to graze your skin as you kissed. But he was careful, making sure it wouldn’t bother you too much. Not that you minded, because you were far too lost in this kiss to care about a few bristles.

He was an insanely good kisser!

You never understood how couples could shamelessly make out in public, but right now, you're no different. Lost in it, eyes shut tight, surrendering to a kiss from a total stranger—someone you just met, someone whose face you still don’t fully remember.

But deep down, you know that alcohol doesn’t make you lose control. It just gives you an excuse to embrace your most primal instincts.

And the tight, coiling sensation in your stomach? That’s the most honest part of you right now.

You wake up in an unfamiliar room.

A cold wave of panic surges through your chest.

Did you…?

“Hey, Y/n, hurry up and shower! I’m taking you to my workplace today. I started working part-time at this cute little café since I don’t have morning classes anymore. Oh, you can use my clothes, we have a same size right?”

Your best friend steps out of the bathroom, towel-drying her short hair.

Relief washes over you.

Your shoulders, once tense, suddenly feel as light as a feather.

You flop back onto the bed, stretching lazily as you groan, “Good morninggg!!”

Your friend laughs, snapping her towel at your butt.

“Hurry up, we’re getting hangover soup first!”

_____

F i x a r a w S o f t e n

friday21022025

02:40

︾︾︾︾︾︾︾

to speed things up and because my english isn’t really that good, i decided to use a translation tool to help with the language switch.

did yall like it?

hope you all understand and enjoy ♡

[dios-apate-megas]

This is going to be a long read! Definite spoilers for those who haven’t finished the first three books so there’s another warning for those of you whom that applies to!

—The Tower is Limbo—

I theorize that the Tower is Limbo and that it is connected in some way to Cannan House due to that being where Jod “ascended” and the location being the strongest connection for human souls because of it. Possibly as the power source Harrow references in GtN. Possibly that is where the extra souls were pulled from to make Teacher and his companions, and also why they’re a little bit batshit. It would be very Jod to be like, “I wasn’t sure what to do with all the souls I ate, so I popped them all in a mind tower on the liminal plane to worry about later. Then once I felt better I pulled the ones I wanted to bring back the most piecemeal, ya know… Jenga.”

I posit the Tower is also connected to Hell in some way, or that Limbo and Hell are one and the same in TLT and I’m just making the connection messier than necessary. I also think Teacher knew about the Devils (see below) when he says, “there are worse things down there” when referencing the labs because part of him was pulled from there and he remembers being in Limbo!

Word Origins: late Middle English; Latin: limbus, 'edge' ‘border’ ‘boundary' ‘hem’ ‘limbo’

Word Definitions:

[1] (in some Christian beliefs) the supposed abode of the souls of unbaptized infants, and of the just who died before Christ's coming.

{a} an abode of souls that are according to Roman Catholic theology barred from heaven because of not having received Christian baptism

{b} In Catholic theology, Limbo, referring to the edge of Hell

[2] an uncertain period of awaiting a decision or resolution; an intermediate state or condition.

{a} a place or state of restraint or confinement

{b} a place or state of neglect or oblivion

{c} an intermediate or transitional place or state

^Varun:

“You left them too long!” - Referring to the souls that Jod had not placed back into flesh vessels and had become corrupted after so long a time left in limbo.

^Devils:

I theorize that the Devils we are introduced to are the unembodied souls that Jod “left asleep” after the resurrection in Limbo, The Jenga Tower. They became corrupted after so long being in Limbo and their envy of the living made them want to possess their bodies and met out some punishment. They are only able to possess and use freshly dead bodies because the soul is -gone-. They can infect a damaged body, but can’t take over until the soul is gone. I can’t think of a better phrasing for this, but I think they’re able to travel the river and pop up where they smell death.

After being “freed” (see Gideon/Kiriona below), the Devils sought out fresh bodies whose souls had departed to possess. I posit that the Devils possessed the bodies of the freshly dead soldiers on Antioch where they are first introduced to us as a scourge due to it being the first major plane of war/death after my Gideon/Kirona theory. I know the fleet was blown up, but those bodies were most likely also blown up and unable to be inhabited.

I theorize that they hit the Ninth House first because that’s where Alecto’s body was stored and the closer her soul came to accepting death while she was galavanting around in Nona made *something* weaker so they could possess the freshly dead old folks there.

*In the case of Collum Asht, his body was left soul-vacant while he was being siphoned and became a prime target for possession in Cannan House which I believe is directly connected to The Tower.

The appearance of the Devils give off a serpentine vibe. Flappy long tongues and sharp teeth. The eyes are the windows to the soul ya know. And they are pissed and -hungry- for life.

[1] The Leviathan is often an embodiment of chaos, threatening to eat the damned when their lives are over. Christian theologians identified Leviathan with the demon of the deadly sin envy.

^Alecto:

I theorize that Alecto is the Leviathan to Jod. We know she is set up to be his end, as she was his beginning. I posit she is the gatekeeper to The Tower, likely unknowingly due to her origin as Gaia, and her little vacation left that gate open and unguarded. Which means… yet another “tomb” unlocked.

I previously posited that Alecto was based on a humpback whale in a previous post (I don’t know how to link it here but it’s in the group!), and her abilities as The Drinker can definitely be classified as a sea monster.

[1]Leviathan also figures in the Hebrew Bible as a metaphor for a powerful enemy, notably Babylon (Isaiah 27:1). Some 19th-century scholars pragmatically interpreted it as referring to large aquatic creatures, such as the crocodile.[5] The word later came to be used as a term for great whale and for sea monsters in general.

^Gideon/Kiriona: Jebus

I theorize that when Gideon sacrificed herself at the end of GtN, her soul dipped into Limbo and “freed” the souls trapped there which is why we only start to see Devils after her “resurrection”. I’m unsure of how/if her soul being spliced will play into this but I do think it was split at least into two (a piece in Harrow absorbed for Lyctorhood and the second in her own body as the Child of Jod (the part that dipped and returned)).

[1] The Catechism of the Catholic Church describes Christ's descent into Hell as meaning primarily that "the crucified one sojourned in the realm of the dead prior to his resurrection. This was the first meaning given in the apostolic preaching to Christ's descent into Hell: that Jesus, like all men, experienced death and in his soul joined the others in the realm of the dead."

—The River is Purgatory—

I theorize that The River is Purgatory because that’s where all the ghosts are waiting to be called back by Jod. We all know our beloved author uses Catholicism like a sneaky guide book in TLT and I found this quote, “the church's understanding has typically been that purgatory has a temporal (temporary, terminating, non-eternal) component with only God being outside of time” when I was spiraling down the rabbit hole and gasped due to just how well it fit! The River is supposed to be a temporary holding place for the souls of the dead, poor hungry ghosts, and we know Lyctors and Jod traverse The River as a way to collapse time and space to get from place to place when needed. We drove along with Nona as she did the same thing!

I’d also like to note that most of the “fire of purification” references are mostly in art and not in the theological sources I looked through. It’s just as likely to be water as water is used as a purifying substance in many different religions. Baptism is a very good example of this.

Word Origin: Middle English: from Anglo-Norman French purgatorie or medieval Latin purgatorium, neuter of late Latin purgatorius ‘purifying’, from the verb purgare (purge).

Word Definitions:

[1] An intermediate state after death for expiatory purification. Specifically : a place or state of punishment wherein according to Roman Catholic doctrine the souls of those who die in God's grace may make satisfaction for past sins and so become fit for heaven

{a} a place or state of temporary suffering or misery

[2] A state of final purification after death and before entrance into heaven for those who died in God’s friendship, but were only imperfectly purified; a final cleansing of human imperfection before one is able to enter the joy of heaven.

{a} This purification is entirely unlike the punishment of hell in that a soul in purgatory is de facto destined for heaven, but must undergo cleansing from all sin before spending eternity in the unbridled presence of God.

—

Please forgive the wonky way this is written, but this is how my brain works (*insert groan here*) when I hyper fixate on figuring something out. There are a lot of notes that are smashed together from multiple sources and some that are blatantly copy/pasted, but I’m not writing an academic paper here so forgive the laziness! Also I have absolutely no clue on how to mark things as spoilers or go back and edit my post as of right now on my phone, which is dumb but alas this is me. And I’m not a theological scholar by any means, so I did try my best to make my ideas as clear as possible with the religious themes.

[cloudluvrrr]

Change

a/n: rushed and bad im sick andi have to post chat 😔

boothill x preachers daughter

tw : religous themes, slight implication of freaky, erm bad and rushed, i didnt proof read either 😈😈

-Michelle pfeifer - ethel cain

Boothill was often out at night, his family owned a small ranch a little south of the small town you lived in. You knew of him of course, everyone did. He often did some petty crimes, smoking, stealing from people, getting in fights. He was troubled, often coming into church on Sundays with his family begrudgingly.

He entered the southern style church, looking over at the rows of towns people whispering amongst themselves. Hiding away what they've done before, as if attending could simply wash away the tracks of their sins.

Sitting there with a sour look on his face, as your father preached about how to repent and cleanse your souls seemingly being aimed at boothill. As well as informing the town that the yearly baptism & church picnic was coming, and for those who wanted to be accepted to speak with his wife.

Every time he entered the church he saw the back of your pretty head. All done up with a bow, in your Sunday best. He watched as you highlighted and taking notes in your white bible. Your flushed cheeks, the point of your nose, your soft tinted lips, the frills of your dress. You were the towns girl, always dressed in pretty dresses and on her best behavior. Like a doe, innocent, beautiful, graceful. Boothill was like a snake, with the temptation and promise of leading others astray. Poisoning them, leading them astray from the grace of god.

As his thoughts came to a close he saw everyone getting up, and the pastor finishing up his sermon. He was hunched over, hands in his pocket as a soft hand tugged on his forearm.

"boothill" your soft voice echoed in his head, 'she knows my name?'

"uh.. yeah?" he asked nervously meeting your eyes.

"your not going to get baptised?"

"Why would I? everyone in here is fake as hell, I like to enjoy my you-"

"you're going to hell" you interupt, your brown eyes looking up at him.

"You can't be saved unless you change, ya know." you say stepping back and hugging your bible. "Your loved, you got everythin' and you live like that"

"the hell you mean by that" he snapped, but before you answered your father pulled you away to tend to other followers.

"I told you not to speak to him" your father whispered as he lead to the others "I was helping" you whisper back.

"He's beyond help baby"

--

He was out in his fathers wheat field, stargazing. A dimly light cigarette rest on his lips. His mind thinking of what you said, how he had everything yet he still rebelled. He tried his hardest to think of why, he shrugged it off as just wanting to be free from this shit small town.

His thoughts once more interrupted by a small hum, seeing you walking along the fence. Your hands behind your back, as you walked along the fence. God you were beautiful "hey!" he shouted getting up and standing on the other side.

The sweet sound of you hums stop as you look at him.

"made up your mind?" you ask looking into his eyes.

A fence between the two of you, a divide he placed a hand on the fence "fuck no, what you doin' out?" he ask looking around looking for any sign of your family.

"I like to go on walks"

"alone?"

"this town gossips like wild fire, if i do something it'll get to my daddy before I even return home. I ain't stupid like you" you say with an edge

"I enjoy my life" he scoffed putting out his cigarette.

"change is good"

"no it ain't"

"some times it is" you insist.

"why are you so insistan-"

"I want you to change"

"why? I'm a lost cause darlin' your daddy said so too" He added sitting on the fence

"...I don't think so, I wanna talk to yo-"

"the hell? why?"

"...I like you, your everything I'd like to be" your brows scrunching as you hear your own words

Your words hit him like lighting, you wanted to be like him. "why? You got everythin' your families perfect, y'all rich, you love eachother-" He could give you a million reasons why your family was so looked up upon.

"no, daddys.. Gone a lot, mama drinks, my kid siblings just do whatever daddy wants them too.." you said looking away.

'but I could tell that you wanted out of the family.'

--

So began boothills journey to salvation.

He gets baptized, and for the first time he doesn't get tugged away from you.

The both of you are on a swing set, talking about the most mundane things. Your favorite food, his favorite color, your hobbies anything he could to distract you from the town.

it was often cute dates like this, at the dinner, the lake, anywhere.

yet

he was a bad influence, even if he was 'fixed'. He wanted to show you the world outside of the church.

So on one of the days where your father was out and your mother was drowning in her wine cabinet.

the both of you, sat in boothills twin bed drinking some beer he'd stolen from the local store.

Things got hazey from there, you didn't remember much.

Other than boothill slipping off your purity ring, and slipping off your sunday best.

-

He'd become your world

Your everything

the very sin you'd had been protected from.

Your family had learned to accept him, and your friends envied you.

Yet he left,

just like that.

Packed his bags took his dads truck, and left.

You accepted it, moving on but always thinking of him sending him letters you were never sure reached him.

Eventually you dropped off the last letter along with the ring he'd made you, in his jewelry class

-

Dear, Boothill

where did you go?

This is my last letter, I don't know if you get any of them. But I'm finally leaving you behind, like you did with me.

You're like a demon that follows behind me, a reminder of our time and our fun. I can't deny I didn't like it, made me happy.

It makes me happy,

Especially when you changed just for me.

And just for you to leave.

Did you even exist?

or

was it me?

--

sorry if it started off good then slowly got worst i forgot where i wanted to take it, so YAAY i finished it tho :)

i havent been playing hsr but i will be pulling for sunday :D

actually ive been into the silent hill 2 remake and detroit become human :P

BYEYEEYEYU for now

[ay0nha]

Hey! Sorry for spamming your inbox I just was curious if you are open to Mark Grayson requests or if you are going to write more for him? Plese do your writing is so good

HIYA! I saw all your kind messages, thank YOU so much for your words of encouragement and all the others "asks" I've gotten too. I've been busy with family events and a new job so haven't been able to sit down too much.

To answer your question(s): YES, I am open to requests, but I can't promise I can get to all of them. For other fics, I have also incorporated requests into the fics I'm writing!

Below is a SNEAK PEEK for part two of this Mark Grayson fic.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pairing: Mark Grayson x f!reader (slow burn/enemies to lovers)

Warnings: heavy on the religious themes, blood, graphic descriptions of blood, canon-typical things, f!reader, Cecil starting an interrogation, etc.

Word Count: 0.8K

FEEDBACK HELPS ME WRITE. IT IS GREATLY APPRECIATED.

You were found dressed only in blood. 

It was fresh. Sticky. Warm. 

The way your hair matted to your skull and dripped at the ends made seem like it was coming from you. Yet, none of it was yours. You wouldn’t find that out until later the way your body ached for reprieve. 

Things were fuzzy. No—foggy. Your memory wasn’t hazy. It wasn’t distorted. Everything was there from the moment of your creation. Sometimes when you closed your eyes you could still see that overwhelmingly bright light of sentience. This fog obscured things. As if keeping a secret that was once on the tip of your tongue. 

You heard a voice. It was your own in your head. You were still becoming used to having your own thoughts. 

What is your desire?

“I do not know.” Your lips touched the ground. Your first confession. 

You laid face down, neck twisted to the side to rest your cheek. Your arms were spread out beside you and legs joined ankle to ankle, mocking the crucifix above you, prostrating. 

There was a trail of bloody footprints that led to the altar you laid before. It scared away the little life inside the church and summoned those on their way. It was as if you stole the fire from the baptismal candle and promised to breathe vile life back into it. 

Straining to look up, you tried to take in the crucifix for grounding. The only answer it provided you was that even the divine were destined for death. You saw your future. You knew how you died. It was neither humble nor profound. It just was; exactly how you came to be, you will end. 

Maybe that’s all that mattered. Or maybe nothing mattered at all. It would take time for you to decide which brought you comfort. Comfort was foreign. 

Aren’t you tired?

“Yes.” The word came out soft, but it was decisive.

The voice in your head echoed in your skull until it hurt. It felt right to keep still, eyes on the holy effigy. You waited. You saw how this day ended. It was something different from anything you’d experienced. You were consumed with divine fury; you were no longer prey, but predator. 

When you finally knock all the thorns off, do you get a halo?

—-

“Fuck’s sake.” Cecil removed his jacket immediately. “No one thought to get her some clothes?”

The jacket was warm, draped over your shoulders, a layer of fabric that sat over dried blood. Your skin perked at the gesture. Yet, you remained perfectly controlled; as still as the death you left behind you.

“Sir—” Donald began, swallowing the lump in his throat. Your newly started file was held close to his chest for comfort. “She wouldn’t let us this close.”

Cecil rubbed at his chin. It wasn’t in thought, he knew he needed you on his side. On their side. 

“I’ll handle this.” He said. “You are to observe only. That counts for him too. Got it?”

“Yessir.” 

Him. You bore through the reflecting glasses, looking through your unrecognizable self to see who they whispered about. Invincible. On instinct you wanted to see his future, know where he fit into it all, but something held you back. You didn’t want to spoil it just yet. 

“I’m Cecil Stedman.” The authority in his voice brought your focus back.  “Since I’m allowed within three feet of you, I’ll bite. Who are you?”

The dynamics were easy to read; you forced your way up the chain of command. Physical prowess didn’t matter when one was so cooperative because of the man before them. 

Was it the suit? You thought. Did that scare them into submission?

You refused to be God-fearing. Cecil didn’t scare you. Nothing did. 

To them, you were meek. Found vulnerable with eyes frightened. They thought you were in danger of something much larger than them. They brought reinforcements. No—reinforcement. 

Invincible. 

You knew he listened closely. From the start, he was afraid of you. Until now, you only barely understood what was going on. You could tell he felt something that seemed to be closest to fear, or perhaps anxiety. He would teach you the feeling. 

Mark heard your heart.  It was calm. The rhythm was steady. The lungs expanded and collapsed in relaxed intervals. The blood was in no rush to pump through the highways of veins and vessels that branched throughout the body.

He would learn to recognize it instinctively. 

“Tell me, Cecil Stedman…” 

You enunciated your words like a snake would hiss. It would take you a while to recognize your own voice. It was new, as if multiple overlapped from a power imbalance, trying to find your true voice. As if the past and the future were pressing so hard on either side that there was no room for the present at all. 

“...If I'm more powerful than God, more evil than the Devil. Who am I?”

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part IV

Pairing: Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader (with a hint of Sam x Fem!Reader and Samifer x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Michael and Lucifer continue their slow torture of you, through the bodies of the men you love and trust most in the world. This is baptism in the most unholy, blasphemous sense of the word. This is the communion of Heaven and Hell between the legs of a human girl.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, smut (dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral, p in v, dp, overstim, forced orgasms, cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics), heartbreak, pining, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 7,640

A/N: I AM SO NOT SORRY FOR THIS ONE. Not me trying to serve biblical/religious horror/erotica... guess that militant religious upbringing didn't deliver me from evil, after all. Oops, I've disgusted even myself. Please give me feedback, and if you read this series all the way through—thank you from the depths of my putrid, vile little heart and soul!!! <3 This is part four, and it's the final instalment. This has been an absolute trip... I'm most definitely going to write more fics, so if you liked this—keep an eye peeled. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

There is a moment before the fall—before the first stone is cast, before the altar crumbles, before the faithful are forsaken.

It is quiet. It is sacred. It is the breath before ruin.

This is the nature of gods. They do not love. They do not fall. And yet—

He does.

Michael was fully holding you up now.

Not because you wanted him to—but because you could no longer stand.

Your body was boneless, wrecked, twitching from overstimulation, from pleasure so sharp it was bordering on agony.

Your head had dropped against his chest, your cheek resting against smooth, crisp white cotton, the steady rise and fall of his breathing the only thing anchoring you.

But below, Lucifer was still working you open. Still dragging you through it, still curling his fingers inside you, still pressing deep and slow and taunting against that tender, swollen spot inside you that made your thighs shake.

He had not stopped. Michael had not stopped him. And you had not stopped them either. Because there was nothing left of you now.

You had long since abandoned any notion of stopping, of fighting, of doing anything but taking what they gave you.

Lucifer sighed, mocking, indulgent, dragging his lips up the line of your throat as his fingers pressed deeper.

“You know,” he murmured, voice a warm purr against your skin, “I saw the stains on her bed.”

Michael hummed lowly, unconcerned, watching you tremble against him, cataloguing the way your body reacted to the mere mention of it.

“Oh?”

Lucifer chuckled.

“I know what they’re from.”

Michael exhaled slowly.

“Of course, you do.”

Lucifer’s fingers stroked slow, deliberate, pressing against that spongy, swollen spot inside you that made your breath catch in a sharp little gasp.

Michael caught it. Felt the slight hitch in your chest, the tiny stutter in your breath. And he smirked.

“She’s embarrassed,” he observed, tilting his head slightly, studying the way your cheeks flushed darker, the way your fingers trembled as they fisted into the front of his shirt.

Lucifer sighed, as if the mere idea was exhausting.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, “don’t be.”

His fingers curled inside you.

A sharp, high, broken little whimper tore from your throat.

Michael’s grip tightened, his fingers tilting your chin up so he could watch the way your mouth parted, glossy and trembling, the way your lashes fluttered.

“I made a mockery of the Holy Trinity,” he said simply, like it was an afterthought, a quiet, undeniable fact.

Lucifer let out a sharp, delighted laugh.

“Oh, did you?”

His fingers pressed harder, against that tender little spot inside you, against the place he knew would drive you straight over the edge.

Michael exhaled, watching the way your thighs quivered, the way your body twitched, your hips subtly grinding down into Lucifer’s hand.

“I saw it in Dean’s memories,” Michael continued, his voice smooth, rich, steady, “it’s something she and my vessel do often.”

Lucifer groaned, long and satisfied, his fingers dragging wetly over your clit, rubbing slick circles, pressing in just right.

“Well, now that,” he murmured, his tone dripping in indulgence, “that is fascinating.”

Michael hummed, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip, smearing saliva and submission across your trembling mouth.

“Close,” you whimpered, your voice wet and broken and pleading.

Lucifer groaned, low and entertained, dragging his lips up your throat, his fingers not stopping, not slowing.

Michael smiled.

“I made her recite the Lord’s Prayer while I fucked her.”

Lucifer gasped, mock-dramatic, fingers still pressing, teasing, pushing.

“Oh, Michael,” he sighed, clutching his imaginary pearls, voice full of sinful delight. “Dear brother.”

His fingers curled just right, pressing, rubbing, teasing that soft, gummy spot inside you until your entire body locked up.

Michael felt you tighten. Felt the way your breath caught, your fingers clenched in his shirt, your back arched, your body spasmed.

“You led me into temptation,” he murmured against your temple, voice dark, knowing.

“And now?” Lucifer smirked. “You’re delivering her straight into evil.”

You came. Hard. Violently.

A choked, helpless cry tore from your throat as your entire body convulsed, as the pleasure crashed through you in thick, overwhelming waves. Your body locked up, clenched, convulsed, and then—

It happened.

A messy, soaking gush, slick drenching Lucifer’s fingers, dripping down your thighs, hitting the floor beneath you.

Lucifer let out a sharp, surprised groan, pulling his fingers away to admire the slick, watching the way it spread down your thighs.

“Oh, fuck.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his fingers pressing against your throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his touch.

“Look at that,” Lucifer mused, his fingers dragging through the mess, rubbing it against your swollen clit just to watch the way your hips twitched in overstimulation.

Michael hummed.

“Messy.”

Lucifer grinned.

“But effective.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, observing the way your thighs continued to tremble, the way your body still twitched against him, like you had not yet come back down. He smiled.

“Humanity is so fascinating.”

Lucifer hummed in agreement.

“Oh, brother, you have no idea.”

Michael smirked.

“I think I’m beginning to.”

Lucifer groaned, licking the taste of you from his fingers, humming in satisfaction.

“Well.” He mused as his hands slid up your sides, pressing you further into Michael, a warm, satisfied exhale slipping past his lips. “That was fun.”

Michael sighed, dragging his fingers lightly up your spine, studying the way your body shuddered, sensitive, exhausted, spent. Then he smiled.

“A shame she can’t handle another.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.”

His hands slid lower, pressing deliberately against your overstimulated core.

“She can.”

Michael hummed, thoughtful, considering. Then his grip tightened.

“Then we should see just how far she can go.”

Lucifer’s fingers didn’t stop.

Not at first.

Not even as your body trembled violently against Michael’s, as your breath came in rapid, shaky little sobs, as your entire body tried to sink further into the heat of the archangel holding you upright.

Lucifer had dropped to his knees behind you, sharp teeth scraping along the tender flesh of your ass, biting just enough to leave shallow crescents in your skin, enough to make you whimper, enough to make Michael feel the way you shuddered against him.

His fingers dragged slow, teasing circles against your swollen clit, keeping you trembling, keeping you weak, keeping you—

You winced.

A barely-there little whimper, eyes wet and glassy as you tilted your head back, looking up at Michael through damp lashes, silently pleading.

No more.

You couldn’t. Not again.

Michael tilted his head.

Then—

“Stop.”

Lucifer stilled. His fingers froze against you. His teeth remained in your flesh, his breath hot against your skin. Then he hummed, a questioning little sound, muffled against the soft curve of your ass.

Michael ignored him. His gaze stayed on you, studying the way you trembled, the way your lips trembled, the way your fingers weakly gripped at the fabric of his dress shirt. His expression remained calm, composed, unreadable.

Then, he spoke.

“Do you want to pray again?”

Your breath hitched. Your body jerked slightly against his.

Lucifer’s mouth curved against your skin.

Michael leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, voice steady, smooth.

“Or are you done?”

Your throat was raw. You could barely speak. But somehow, you forced it out—a choked, weak little sound, barely a whisper.

“Need… rest.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, teeth dragging lazily over your skin as he chuckled.

“Oh, come on,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “She just needs some water.”

Michael hummed.

Then, without releasing you, without loosening his grip—

He reached for the bottle of water on your desk, fingers closing around the plastic, unscrewing the cap with one hand, the other still pressed firmly against your back, keeping you flush to his chest.

“Drink.”

Your lips parted obediently, your body too exhausted to resist as he tipped the bottle against your mouth, pouring water past your trembling lips, into your aching throat. A few drops escaped, dribbling down your chin, wet and cool against overheated skin.

Michael’s gaze darkened.

His thumb dragged up, catching a stray droplet.

Then he pressed it to your lips, smearing the moisture across your mouth before following it with his own. Finally—finally—he kissed you. Slow, intentional, claiming. Not hungry, not rushed—just deep, just deliberate, just his.

You whined into his mouth. A soft, pathetic little sound, weak and spent and trembling.

Michael sighed against your lips, almost indulgent.

Then he lifted you. Effortlessly. Without struggle. Like you were nothing more than something meant to be carried, meant to be held.

Lucifer exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he watched Michael walk you to the bed, settling down onto the edge, pulling you into his lap, pressing your limp, trembling body against him, keeping you there, keeping you close.

You buried your face against the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Michael exhaled, a slow, measured sound, his fingers trailing up and down your spine, soothing, calming.

Lucifer smirked.

“Soft, Mikey.”

Michael ignored him. His arms stayed wrapped around you. His fingers stayed brushing against your skin. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet.

“You will rest now, little one.”

You nodded weakly against him, breath slow, deep, content.

"But not for long."

Michael sighed.

And for the first time, he let himself hold you.

Not as a vessel. Not as a conquest. Not as an experiment.

But as his.

You weren’t sure how long you had been resting against him—minutes? hours? eternity?—but it hadn’t mattered.

Not when his hand was still trailing idly up and down your spine, absent, possessive, grounding. Not when his body was warm beneath you, solid and unyielding, like an altar built for worship.

Not when Lucifer was still watching. His amusement had not faded. Not even as he stretched out lazily in your desk chair, his elbow resting against the arm, his fingers tapping against his lips in mock consideration.

Michael exhaled slowly. Then, he spoke.

“I’m going to fuck her soon.”

Your breath hitched.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, you have to let me stay for that.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, glancing at his brother with something unimpressed, something chiding.

“Have some restraint.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.” His grin widened, sharp, knowing. “Why start now?”

Michael sighed, his fingers still moving lazily against your back, keeping you soft, keeping you relaxed, keeping you close.

Lucifer leaned forward, resting his forearms against his knees, his voice dropping to something warm, something taunting.

“You do know the vessels—” he gestured vaguely between himself and Michael, meaning Sam and Dean, meaning what they had always done to you. “—have quite a few memories of doing this together, don’t you?”

Michael hummed.

“I’ve seen my vessel’s memories of it.”

Lucifer exhaled sharply, grinning, pleased, entertained, delighted in a way that was wholly unholy.

“So have I.”

Michael sighed, as if this was merely a discussion of inevitability.

Lucifer tilted his head slightly.

“Then I suppose it’s just logistics, isn’t it?”

Michael was silent.

Lucifer exhaled, thoughtful.

“I want to go in her ass.”

Your breath hitched.

Michael hummed.

Lucifer smirked. “Not opposed, are we?”

Michael waved a dismissive hand, not interested in entertaining this right now.

“I do not care.”

Lucifer chuckled, leaning back in his chair, smirking at your body still trembling in Michael’s lap.

“Oh, but she does.”

Michael’s fingers stilled against your spine.

Lucifer sighed dramatically, as if he had the answer to everything, as if he had unraveled the grand design.

“She loves when our vessels do that to her.”

Michael’s grip tightened.

And you? You whimpered.

Michael exhaled sharply, his lips brushing against your temple, his voice rich and smooth and knowing.

“Are you feeling better yet?”

You nodded, weakly, softly, unable to do anything else.

Michael’s fingers slid up, tilting your chin so you were looking up at him. Then his voice dropped, deep, steady, authoritative.

“Words.”

The sound of it—Dean’s voice, Dean’s tone, that commanding weight that always broke you apart—made something inside you melt.

You purred. Soft, helpless, obedient. “Yes,” you whispered, voice raw, eyes glossy, body trembling.

Michael smirked.

Lucifer exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he watched the way your body reacted, the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers clung just a little tighter to Michael’s dress shirt.

Michael hummed, pleased, thoughtful, considering.

“We’re going to do what our vessels and yours used to.”

Your breath stilled. Then you nodded. Soft. Pliant. But vehemently, like you would not allow any other answer.

Michael smirked.

“Good girl.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, brother,” he sighed. “You really are falling.”

Michael didn’t respond. He just tightened his grip, kept you pressed flush against him, and finally—finally—let himself indulge. He shifted slightly beneath you, the movement barely a disturbance, barely enough to break the trance you had fallen into.

Your body was still tucked against his, heavy, pliant, boneless from everything they'd already done to you. You barely even registered it at first—his hands, working his belt loose, slipping the buttons free, shoving the fabric of his dress slacks lower with quiet efficiency.

Michael sighed, slow and measured, and you felt it—the way the heat of him pressed against your slick, sensitive core, the thick, unyielding weight of him resting against you.

Your breath hitched, a soft, hazy sound, a quiet little whimper that barely even left your lips.

Then Michael lined himself up. And sank home. One long, deep, unbroken stroke.

You gasped, sharp and choked, your entire body tensing around him as he stretched you open, as the overstimulation made your muscles clamp down tight, too tight.

Michael inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your hips, his grip tightening as he bottomed out inside you.

He muttered something in Enochian.

A low, ancient string of syllables that rolled off his tongue like a prayer, like something old, something holy, something too sacred to be spoken over what was happening here.

Lucifer let out a sharp, entertained little laugh.

“Watch your language, brother.”

Michael ignored him. His fingers pressed deeper into your skin, grounding you, keeping you still, keeping you present.

“You are tight,” he murmured, his voice rich, indulgent, something reverent curling at the edges of his words.

Your body was still trembling. Still gripping him, clenching, your walls twitching and fluttering in small aftershocks from everything you'd already been through.

Michael exhaled, slow, measured, indulgent.

“Shall I loosen you?”

Lucifer grinned.

Michael didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted, rolling his hips up into you, lazy, controlled, slow, nothing more than a deliberate, grinding pressure, not fucking yet—just moving.

Your breath stuttered, caught in your throat, another weak little noise slipping past your lips.

Michael sighed.

“In the beginning,” he murmured, his voice slow, deep, rich, grounding, like a sermon whispered over your trembling body.

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, are we doing scripture?”

Michael ignored him. He rolled his hips again, just enough, just deep enough to pull another soft, whimpering sound from your lips.

“God created man,” he continued, his fingers tightening against your hips. “And from man,” he murmured, his voice sinking lower, his lips brushing against your temple, “came woman.”

Lucifer smirked.

“Are you saying you own her, Michael?”

Michael exhaled, his grip sliding lower, pulling your hips tighter against him, grinding you down against his lap, making you feel every inch of him.

“She was made for us.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Michael’s hands held you in place, keeping you still, keeping you his.

“Are you listening?” He murmured, his voice steady, calm, patient, a teacher waiting for his student to respond.

You nodded weakly.

Michael sighed, almost pleased.

“Then tell me, little one,” he murmured, dragging his lips over your cheek, warm, indulgent, pleased with your obedience. “What was woman made for?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, I love this game.”

Your breath hitched. You were whimpering, soft, desperate, too hazy to think, too lost in the slow, grinding roll of Michael’s hips, too wrapped up in the way his voice seeped into your bones.

You swallowed, voice breaking. “Man,” you whispered, barely audible.

Michael smiled.

Lucifer hummed.

“Oh, she is devout.”

Michael’s fingers slid up, catching your jaw, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Good girl.”

Your body shuddered.

Lucifer sighed.

“Well, while you’re giving your little sermon,” he muttered, voice mocking, indulgent, entertained, “I might as well get started.”

And then a sharp, intrusive press of fingers, slow, spreading, opening.

You yelped. Your body tensed, jerked, tried to shift away, but Michael held you steady.

His grip tightened, keeping you in place, keeping you grounded, keeping you still in his lap as Lucifer started prepping you with Sam’s fingers, soft and slow, teasing.

Michael sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“You always interrupt, Lucifer.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, please, brother. You should be thanking me.”

His fingers pressed deeper.

You whimpered.

Michael smirked, his lips dragging over your cheek, brushing against your temple.

“Shall I continue?”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, please do. Corrupt Father's teachings further while I corrupt her.”

Michael exhaled. He rolled his hips again, slow, deliberate, deep. And continued the sermon.

You were being worked open from both ends—Michael rolling you against him, keeping you steady, feeding you scripture while Lucifer’s fingers worked at your tight, untouched entrance, teasing, pressing, easing you open.

It was slow. Measured. Inevitable. This was not rushed. This was ritual.

Michael exhaled, his grip on your hips tightening, grinding you down against his lap, making you flutter around him, making sure you were still listening, still learning.

And you were.

How could you not?

Michael’s voice was the only thing anchoring you, keeping you present, making sure your body didn’t collapse completely between them. He rolled his hips up again, dragging another soft, broken little whimper from your lips, forcing you to react, forcing you to stay with him.

“For the husband is the head of the wife,” he murmured, Dean's voice smooth, slow, like velvet wrapping around your spine, sinking into your skin.

Lucifer chuckled, low and entertained.

“Oh, this is getting good.”

Michael ignored him. His grip on your jaw tightened slightly, forcing your dazed, hazy eyes to meet his.

“Say it back.”

Your breath hitched.

Lucifer hummed behind you, pressing another finger inside, stretching you, opening you, preparing you.

Michael felt the way you trembled, felt the way your breath stuttered, the way your body jerked slightly against his. His fingers dug into your hips.

“Say it.”

Your lips parted, a whimper, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you forced the words out, voice weak, breathy.

“For the… husband is the head of the wife…”

Michael’s smirk was small. Indulgent.

“Good girl.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey.” His fingers twisted slightly, pressing deeper, his other hand splaying across your lower back to keep you still as your body clenched around him. “She’s a very good girl.”

Michael inhaled deeply, watching you closely, feeling the way your body responded, taking it all in like you were scripture written just for him. His lips brushed against your ear, voice a quiet, reverent murmur.

“As Christ is the head of the church.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Oh, brother, you are really laying it on thick now.”

Michael ignored him. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you pressed against him, keeping you where he wanted you.

Then—

“Say it, little one.”

You whimpered.

Lucifer’s fingers curled inside you, pressing against that tight, unyielding ring of muscle, stretching, opening, easing you into it.

You trembled. Fingers clutching at Michael's dress shirt, nails scraping against now-wrinkled cotton.

Michael tilted his head.

“I’m waiting.”

Your breath shook.

“As… Christ is the head of the church.”

Lucifer smirked.

“She really is devoted.”

Michael sighed, his lips dragging against your temple, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against damp skin.

“She is.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. That almost sounded affectionate.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

“Hardly.”

Lucifer laughed. Then his fingers pressed deeper, teasing at the final barrier, the last untouched part of you, the only thing left to be claimed by them.

Michael felt your body twitch, felt the way your breath stuttered, felt the way your fingers gripped at the front of his shirt. He hummed, pleased.

Lucifer sighed, his tone mocking, indulgent.

“She’s ready.”

Michael smirked.

“Of course, she is.”

Lucifer hummed.

“She was made for this.”

Michael’s lips brushed against your temple, again. Then he rolled his hips deep. And whispered, so close, so soft—

“Temptation.”

Michael’s grip on your hips was unrelenting. His cock was buried deep inside you, holding you still, keeping you grounded, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Lucifer was behind you now, humming, entertained, pleased, his hands gripping at your ass, his fingers spreading you open, teasing. He sighed, dramatic, indulgent.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured, one hand sliding around to your face, his fingers catching at your jaw, dragging a slow, lazy thumb over your lips.

“You’re drooling.”

You hadn’t even realised. Your breath was hot and wet, your mouth parted, saliva dripping from your lips, slicking your chin, smearing against your flushed skin.

Lucifer sighed, entertained, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He dragged his fingers through the mess of it, smearing your own saliva across your lips, down your jaw, down the hollow of your throat—

Then he coated himself with it.

Michael watched.

Lucifer hummed, satisfied, his fingers gripping at your hips, dragging the thick head of Sam’s cock to your untouched, sensitive entrance, pressing it against you.

You tensed.

Michael felt the way your breath stilled, the way your body twitched, the way your fingers clutched at his shirt.

He smirked.

“Pray.”

Your breath hitched.

Michael didn't let you hesitate. His voice was calm, steady, rich, unwavering.

“Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Lucifer pressed in.

You jolted forward, a sharp little whimper tearing from your throat as your entire body tensed at the stretch.

Michael’s grip tightened. His fingers tilted your chin, forced your glassy, hazy eyes to meet his.

“Follow me, little one.”

Your breath shook. You swallowed, voice trembling.

“Now… I lay me… down to sleep.”

Lucifer sighed, pleased, entertained, pressing in deeper, making sure you felt every inch of it.

Michael hummed.

“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

Lucifer sank in further.

You whined out. Your body clenched down tight, trembling, shaking, overwhelmed.

Michael’s hands smoothed down your spine, keeping you steady, keeping you grounded, keeping you still as Lucifer worked himself deeper inside you.

Michael’s voice did not waver.

“If I should die before I wake—”

Lucifer groaned, pressing all the way in.

You gasped, a sharp, broken sound, your entire body going rigid as you were finally, completely filled, stretched beyond anything you had ever known.

Michael felt it. Felt the way you clenched, felt the way you trembled, felt the way your body struggled to take it.

Lucifer laughed, smug, entertained, savouring the way you tensed between them.

Michael exhaled, slow, steady.

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

You forced it out—

“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

Michael smirked. He rolled his hips up into you, pressing his cock just a little deeper, just enough to remind you who was inside you, who was keeping you in place, who you belonged to. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head back, making sure you were looking at him.

“You’re ready.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, she is.”

Michael smiled.

“Good.”

Michael didn't move at first. Not yet. Not until he'd settled you between them, not until he had felt every inch of you tighten, tremble, adjust, struggle to accommodate the weight of this sin.

Lucifer was the first to break the silence. He sighed, long, indulgent. Then, he laughed.

“Now, this,” he murmured, his voice sliding over your skin like something thick, something wicked, something made for sin, “this is divine.”

This was sin wearing scripture as its skin. This was worship painted in filth. This was the ultimate blasphemy, the union of Heaven and Hell inside your trembling, ruined body.

Michael wasn't just taking—he was consecrating, he was marking, he was etching himself into your bones with slow, deliberate thrusts, with scripture laced between each movement, forcing you to feel every syllable as deeply as you felt him.

Lucifer was mocking, taunting, indulging in the wickedness, revelling in the ruin of something pure, dragging you further into depravity while smirking at his brother’s unraveling.

Michael exhaled. His fingers gripped at your hips, keeping you pinned in place, keeping you where he wanted you, where you belonged.

Then—

He moved. Just a little. Just enough to make you whimper.

Lucifer chuckled.

“Oh, little thing,” he purred, his lips brushing against your shoulder, teasing, indulgent, his hands smoothing over your waist, gripping, feeling, taking. “Do you hear that, brother?”

Michael hummed, rolling his hips just enough, just barely, just teasing you into full, unbearable awareness.

“She is trembling.” Michael smirked. “She is tight.”

Lucifer sighed, feigning exasperation.

“Well, you did make her pray first. That’s bound to have some effect.”

Michael hummed, thoughtful. Then he thrust. Deep. Slow. Measured.

And you broke. Your breath shattered in your throat, your hands flying to clutch at the front of Michael’s shirt, grasping at the fabric like an anchor, like the only thing keeping you from sinking into something irreversible.

Michael felt the way your walls cinched around him, the way your body tried to keep him, the way you sucked him in deeper, the way your entire being reacted to him.

He smirked.

“Woman was made for man.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Michael, must you?”

Michael ignored him. His hands smoothed up your spine, dragging warmth, dragging control, dragging ownership.

“She was made to be filled.”

Lucifer’s fingers dug into your hips, keeping you still, keeping you spread, keeping you open for him, as he slowly pulled out again.

“She was made,” Michael continued, voice steady, rolling his hips up again, forcing you to feel every inch of him, “to take.”

Lucifer sighed dramatically, feigning boredom.

“Oh, please, brother, you don’t have to convince me.” His lips dragged over your shoulder, warm and wicked. “I’ve seen the memories of your vessel. And mine.”

Michael hummed.

Lucifer chuckled.

“They do share, often.”

“I'm aware.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. You don’t even know how ruined she’s been by them.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer sighed, feigning sympathy.

“She’s already been broken by their hands, their mouths, their cocks.”

Michael exhaled.

“She will be broken again.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, you are falling.”

Michael didn't answer. He just rolled his hips forward, deep, slow, dragging another broken noise from your throat.

Lucifer hummed. Then he pressed forward again. The movement was agonisingly slow, deliberate, controlled. The stretch was excruciating, unbearable, unholy.

Your breath hitched, body trembling, body struggling to take both of them at once, body barely capable of withstanding the weight of this sin.

Lucifer groaned, smirking, entertained by the way you struggled.

“Oh, little thing,” he purred, voice warm, amused, indulgent, his lips dragging along the back of your neck, teasing, taunting. “You take it so well.”

Michael’s grip on you was unrelenting. His lips brushed against your ear.

“You will take all of it.”

Lucifer sighed, feigning disappointment.

“Oh, Michael, you ruin all the fun.”

Michael’s hands tightened around your waist, keeping you still, keeping you in place.

Then he thrust. And Lucifer followed. Your breath broke. Your body shuddered. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry, your fingers clenching at Michael’s shirt, desperate, clinging, struggling to hold yourself together.

Lucifer laughed. “Oh, darling,” he purred, his hands sliding up your body, his lips dragging over your shoulder, “you were made for this.”

Michael exhaled sharply. He moved again. Slow. Deliberate. Perfectly in sync. And he watched you.

Your eyes were glossy, dazed, your lips parted, soft, trembling, lost in the sensation of it, lost in the weight of them, lost in the slow, brutal, stretching invasion of their vessels.

Michael’s fingers brushed against your cheek. His lips brushed against your temple. And he whispered—

“Pray.”

Michael was not just leading you to prayer. He was leading you to the water.

And you? You were already drowning.

Your body didn't know the difference between Sam and Dean and the archangels that had taken their place. Your body only knew them. Your body only knew how to be taken by them, ruined by them, worshipped by them.

Michael was moving slowly, measured, unrelenting, his cock pushing deeper, dragging you further into sin, further into something irreversible.

Lucifer matched him, his grip unyielding, his movements teasing, indulgent, savouring every broken noise spilling from your lips.

Your body was trembling. You were being stretched beyond anything you had ever known, your body wrecked between them, trembling, gasping, whining, unable to do anything but take.

Michael felt it. They both felt it. And Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, little thing,” he breathed, his lips dragging over the back of your neck, his hands gripping your waist, keeping you still, keeping you open for them. “She’s shaking, brother.”

Michael hummed, pleased.

“She is ready.”

Lucifer chuckled.

“Oh? Ready for what?”

Michael’s fingers smoothed down your spine, grounding you, keeping you in place as he thrust up into you, slow, deliberate, deep.

“Baptism.”

Lucifer froze. Then—he laughed.

“Oh, Michael.”

He sighed, mockingly exasperated, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed deeper, forcing another broken sound from your lips.

“That is blasphemy.”

Michael smirked.

“Is it?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, you are truly falling, brother.”

Michael did not respond. He only fucked you deeper.

Your breath was broken, your body overwhelmed, your mind drowning in it, lost to it, slipping further beneath the weight of them.

Michael felt the way you clenched tight, the way your body responded, the way you were unraveling beneath them. His lips brushed against your ear.

“Shall we cleanse you?”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, Mikey. That was filthy.”

Michael only smirked at his brother.

Lucifer matched his thrusts, splitting you open from behind, forcing you further into destruction, further into the divine ruin of your own body.

“Oh, sweet little thing,” he murmured, his fingers dragging over your stomach, pressing at the protrusion of their cocks fucking deep inside you, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “You’re coming apart.”

Michael exhaled. Harsh.

“Let her.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, I intend to.”

Your body was breaking, unraveling, slipping further and further out of your control, trembling between them, lost in the sensation of them, lost in the stretch, lost in the weight of it.

Then it hit.

The sharp, unbearable crest of your orgasm, crashing through you like a flood, like something biblical, like something meant to be recorded in sacred text. You came undone completely, legs shaking, body convulsing, a high-pitched, gasping sob falling from your lips as you squirted into Michael’s lap.

Lucifer froze.

“Oh, little thing.” He sighed, slow, smug, delighted. “Seems like you’re the one doing the baptising.”

Michael groaned, his grip on you tightening, his body reacting to the sheer force of your undoing.

Lucifer laughed, smirking, pushing deep, relishing the way you clenched around them both.

“She truly was made for this.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

“Finish inside her.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, now we’re talking.”

Michael’s grip tightened, his movements growing sharper, deeper, more desperate, his composure beginning to slip, his control beginning to break.

Lucifer matched him, groaning, panting, revelling in the absolute destruction of you.

Michael’s fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head back, forcing your dazed, glossy, crossed-eyes to meet his.

“Take it.”

Lucifer groaned.

“Oh, brother,” he purred.

They came inside you.

Lucifer was the first to move. He sighed, low, indulgent, something bordering on admiration bleeding into his tone as he finally, carefully, withdrew from you.

Your body twitched, a small, weak noise slipping past your lips, too wrecked to react properly, too spent to do anything but exist in the aftermath.

Lucifer hummed, amused, watching as Michael barely even acknowledged the loss, as he only tightened his grip around you, only kept you where he wanted you—

—on him.

Lucifer exhaled, pushing himself back into the desk chair, sinking into it, stretching his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back and wiping sweat from his brow.

Then he laughed.

Low. Amused. Inevitable.

“Oh, Michael.”

Michael didn't respond.

Lucifer grinned.

“Still holding her?”

Michael’s fingers slid through your hair, smoothing it, stroking it, his grip unyielding, his cock still inside you, still keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head slightly.

“Well, well, well.”

Michael exhaled slowly.

“Rest.”

The word wasn’t for Lucifer. It was for you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, Mikey.”

He sighed, stretching, watching the way Michael’s fingers moved through your hair, the way he kept you close, the way he refused to let you go.

“You have fallen, haven’t you?”

Michael kept his grip on you steady, firm, possessive, unyielding.

Lucifer smirked.

“What would Father say?”

Michael’s fingers kept stroking your hair.

"I do not care what Father would say."

Lucifer hummed, tilting his head, watching, observing.

“You’re still inside her.”

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly.

Lucifer grinned.

“Do you plan on staying buried in her for eternity?”

Michael exhaled, slow, steady.

Lucifer sighed, dramatic, entertained.

“Oh, Michael.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grin sharp, indulgent, something almost delighted curling at the edges of his voice. “You were always Father’s favourite.”

Michael didn't react.

Lucifer chuckled again.

“And yet, here you are.”

His fingers drummed against the desk, watching, waiting, savouring.

“The perfect soldier.”

Michael’s fingers didn't falter, didn't stop stroking your hair.

Lucifer smirked.

“The mightiest of all His creations.”

Michael stayed silent.

Lucifer leaned back again, tilting his head, his smirk widening.

“And yet, here you are.” His grin was sharp, knowing, entertained. His voice was soft, deliberate, devastating. “Falling for a human girl.”

Michael’s fingers paused—just for a second.

Lucifer saw it and laughed.

“Oh, brother.” His grin was a blade, a dagger between Michael’s ribs. “You’re already gone.”

Lucifer’s laughter was slow, indulgent, something thick and amused curling through his voice.

“Michael.”

Michael didn't respond, didn't react, just held you close, fingers in your hair, cock soft inside of you.

Lucifer sighed, feigning sympathy, watching the way Michael’s fingers kept stroking through your hair, kept keeping you where he wanted you.

“You can keep pretending if you like.”

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly.

Lucifer smirked.

“You can sit there, holding her, keeping her plugged full of you, pretending this is just—what? An experiment? An observation?” His fingers drummed lazily against the desk, his voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “But we both know, don’t we?”

Michael exhaled.

Slow. Measured. Unshaken.

Lucifer grinned.

“We both know you’ve already fallen.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened slightly.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“Oh, come now, brother. At least admit it.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, his fingers never stilling in your hair, never once letting you go.

“Admit what?”

Lucifer groaned, dramatic, stretching his arms over his head, shifting comfortably in the chair.

“That you like it.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer sighed.

“That you like holding her.”

Michael didn't answer.

Lucifer grinned.

“That you like being inside her.”

Michael’s fingers tightened in your hair.

Lucifer hummed, his smirk widening.

“That you don’t want to pull out.”

Michael’s jaw twitched. Muscle ticking.

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael.” His voice was a slow, taunting drawl, dripping with satisfaction. “What would Father say?” He repeated.

Michael exhaled.

“Father is silent.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

“Oh? You don’t say.”

Michael’s gaze remained steady, his fingers still brushing slow, deliberate strokes through your damp hair.

“You mock, but we are both here.”

Lucifer chuckled.

“Well, yes, but one of us has always been a disgrace.”

Michael’s grip on you didn't loosen.

“And now, so are you.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, don’t look so pious, Michael. You were always destined for this. The most righteous always fall the hardest.”

Michael’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

Lucifer’s grin widened.

“There it is.”

Michael tilted his head slightly, voice steady, even.

“There is nothing.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Mikey.” He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning softer, lower, more dangerous. “Then pull out.”

Michael didn't move.

Lucifer’s smirk sharpened.

“Go on.”

Michael exhaled.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“Why are you still inside her?”

Michael’s expression did not change.

Lucifer hummed.

“Why are you still holding her?”

Michael said nothing.

Lucifer leaned back again, tilting his head, his smirk slow, indulgent, knowing.

“You’re still touching her.”

Michael’s fingers brushed slow, soothing strokes through your hair.

Lucifer’s voice dropped lower, more deliberate.

“You’re still keeping her warm.”

Michael’s grip on you remained steady, firm, unyielding.

Lucifer’s grin was devastating.

“You don’t want to let go, do you?”

Michael’s fingers paused. Then he exhaled.

“Be silent.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, brother.” His voice was velvet, smooth, knowing. “You’re lost.”

Michael’s fingers resumed their slow, soothing strokes.

Lucifer hummed.

“You ever think it would be a human girl that did it?”

Michael remained quiet.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head, watching, savouring.

“You, of all of us.”

Michael exhaled.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“You, the first of all of Father’s creations.”

Michael’s fingers kept stroking through your hair.

Lucifer chuckled.

“And she ruined you.”

Michael did not react.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“You know that, don’t you?”

Michael exhaled, slow, deliberate.

“She is mine.”

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, Mikey.” His voice was soft, mocking, knowing. “And there it is.”

Michael’s fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

Lucifer chuckled.

“You really have fallen.”

Michael’s grip remained steady.

Lucifer’s smirk was victorious.

Michael’s voice remained calm, unwavering, even, as he repeated himself.

“She is mine.”

Lucifer hummed.

Michael exhaled.

Then—

“Say what you will, brother.” Michael’s voice was steady. “But I do not intend to let go.”

Lucifer laughed.

“Oh, Michael, Michael, Michael.” His grin was sharp, smug, indulgent. “You already have.”

The, the door opened with a creak.

You barely registered it, still blissed out, still wrapped in Michael’s lap, still trembling from everything that had just transpired.

Michael didn't move. Lucifer exhaled, stretching out lazily in the desk chair, his shirt still unbuttoned, his hair a mess, his entire body humming with satisfaction.

And then—

A familiar voice saying your name.

“I have been looking for you.”

It was stern, serious, ever-so-slightly exasperated.

Castiel.

Michael tensed beneath you. Lucifer grinned. Castiel stepped forward.

“You were not in Sam’s roo—”

He froze. The room went still. There was a long, agonising pause as Castiel’s gaze locked onto the absolute carnage in front of him.

Lucifer, lounging in your desk chair, half-dressed, smug, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Michael, still seated on the edge of your bed, fully inside you, holding you against him, his grip protective, possessive, his expression unreadable. And you?

You were a wreck. Flushed, trembling, completely blissed out, barely aware of what was happening.

Castiel’s head tilted slightly. His brow furrowed. His gaze flickered from Michael to you to Lucifer and then back again.

Then—

“…What is happening?”

Lucifer grinned. The most shit-eating grin you could possibly imagine, then he sat up, stretching dramatically, cracking his neck before chuckling at Castiel like a cat with a mouse.

“Well,” he purred, languid and entirely too pleased with himself. “You see, Castiel—”

Michael cut in, voice firm.

“Enough.”

Lucifer ignored him.

“—your little human pet here has been a very, very good girl today.”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

Castiel’s brow furrowed deeper.

Lucifer grinned, sharp, smug, drawing it out, making sure Castiel felt every single ounce of discomfort.

“I mean, you should’ve seen her.”

Michael gritted his teeth.

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer, the eternal-menace, continued.

“She prayed while we fucked her.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened, his entire body tensing.

Castiel’s expression did not change, but his head tilted slightly again, as though trying to process what he had just heard.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, Mikey, don’t get all holier-than-thou now. You were the one who made her recite the Lord's Prayer while you were buried inside her.”

Castiel blinked.

Michael exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against your skin.

“Stop speaking.”

Lucifer grinned wider.

“But I’m just giving Castiel the play-by-play.”

Michael’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.

Castiel was completely still, his head tilted just so, as if waiting for someone—anyone—to explain why this was happening.

Lucifer sighed, as though explaining something incredibly obvious. “You see, Castiel, I’ve always had a little soft spot for this one.” He gestured your spent form, still curled around Michael. “Can you blame me? I mean, look at her.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer continued, relentless.

“And Mikey, well, he’s a bit of a hypocrite, isn’t he?”

Michael’s eyes snapped up, sharp, deadly.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, brother. You're the one who refused to pull out.”

Michael’s jaw twitched.

Castiel blinked again.

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Face it, Mikey.”

He gestured lazily toward the scene before him, toward Michael, still buried inside you, still keeping you close, still refusing to let you go.

“You have fallen.”

Michael’s expression remained unreadable.

Lucifer leaned forward slightly, resting his chin in his hand, watching, savouring.

“So tell me, dear brother.” His voice dropped, smug, knowing, victorious. “How does it feel?”

Michael exhaled. “She is mine.” His grip on you remained steady, firm, unwavering.

Lucifer hummed.

Michael’s voice was steady, even.

“She belongs to me.”

Lucifer laughed. “Michael.” He tilted his head, grinning, smug, knowing. “I think you actually believe that.”

Michael’s fingers stroked through your hair, possessive, unrelenting.

Lucifer exhaled, stretching lazily.

“Well, Castiel, there you have it. Michael dearest seems to think she belongs to him.”

His voice was all sharp amusement, all self-satisfaction, all pure, unhinged menace.

Castiel did not leave immediately. He stood there, staring, unblinking, unreadable.

Michael held his gaze.

Lucifer only smirked.

Finally Castiel exhaled, slow, measured, something almost resembling disgust flickering across his features.

Then—

“She belongs to Sam and Dean.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened slightly.

Lucifer hummed, watching, waiting.

Michael tilted his head slightly, his fingers still stroking through your hair, still keeping you where he wanted you, still buried inside you.

“They will learn to take it.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed.

Michael’s voice was steady, unwavering, absolute.

“She is mine now.”

Castiel inhaled, slow, deliberate, his blue eyes sharp, cutting.

“They will kill you for this.”

Michael didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't falter.

He only tightened his hold, only tilted his chin slightly in defiance.

“They will learn.”

Lucifer sighed, stretching, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You know, Castiel—”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

Lucifer ignored him.

“You really should have knocked.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his grip on you unrelenting, his entire body coiled tight, tension radiating off of him.

Castiel’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes—

Sharp. Cold. Accusing.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.”

He stretched again, groaning in satisfaction, before tilting his head, gaze sliding to where you were still curled in Michael’s lap, limp, spent, ruined.

“Do you have any idea what we’ve done to her tonight?”

Michael snarled.

“Enough.”

Lucifer hummed. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, smirking. “I think Castiel deserves to know exactly how defiled his little human is.”

Michael’s grip on you tightened.

Lucifer grinned. His voice was smooth, indulgent, taunting as he turned back to Castiel with a smug expression.

“You should've seen her.”

Michael growled.

Lucifer ignored him.

“She repeated Michael's scripture.”

Castiel’s expression flickered, something unreadable, something unreadable settling in his gaze.

Lucifer sighed.

“Mikey had her reciting "Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep" while we fucked both of her tight little holes.”

Michael’s fingers flexed against your skin, his breath slow, measured, forced.

Lucifer smirked.

“And you know what the best part is?” Lucifer leaned back, stretching lazily. “She came for us so many times, I may have lost count.”

Michael’s body tensed beneath you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Didn’t you, little thing?”

Michael’s fingers curled into your hip, warning, possessive, but you—

You couldn’t stop the way your body reacted.

Lucifer noticed.

Michael felt it.

The involuntary clench around him. The way your body responded even now, even in front of Castiel, even while Lucifer taunted and mocked and recounted everything they had done to you.

Lucifer grinned.

“Oh, would you look at that?”

Michael growled.

Lucifer sighed, stretching his legs out.

“She’s still reacting.”

Michael exhaled sharply.

Lucifer smirked.

“You feel that, Mikey?”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“Of course you do.”

Michael’s fingers pressed into your skin.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“She’s squeezing you.”

Michael’s entire body tensed.

Lucifer sighed.

“And you’re getting hard again.”

Michael’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin, his breath slow, deliberate.

Lucifer grinned, wicked and knowing.

“Oh, Mikey.”

Michael exhaled, sharp, warning. Hips beginning to undulate.

Lucifer hummed.

“You’re already fucking into her, aren’t you?”

Michael’s jaw tightened. Teeth clenching so hard you heard it.

Lucifer laughed.

“Even in front of poor Castiel?”

Michael snarled.

Lucifer’s voice dropped, smooth, indulgent, deliberate.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Lucifer’s gaze dropped to where Michael’s grip had tightened on your waist, where he was already moving, where his hips had begun a slow, involuntary roll into you, just a fraction of movement, but enough.

Michael’s breath hitched.

Lucifer smirked.

“Oh, that’s adorable.”

Michael’s grip on you was unrelenting, his fingers pressing into your skin, his jaw clenched, his breath heavy.

Lucifer hummed.

“You like it when she does that, don’t you?”

Michael’s breath was slow, controlled, but his movements were not.

Lucifer sighed.

“She’s still whimpering for you, Mikey.”

Michael’s fingers dug into your flesh, his jaw clenching, his body betraying him, his control slipping.

Lucifer’s smirk widened.

“She still wants more.”

Michael exhaled sharply, his hips grinding up into you just a little harder, just a little deeper, just enough to make you gasp against his neck.

Michael exhaled, forced, controlled, steady.

Then—

“Leave now, Castiel.”

Michael’s fingers slid through your hair, possessive, grounding, his grip on you unyielding.

Lucifer sighed dramatically.

“Oh, Castiel.” His voice was all smug amusement, all absolute indulgence. “Now you know what she's been up to.”

Castiel stared. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze still sharp, still cold, still accusing.

Then—

“Sam and Dean Winchester will not take this lightly.”

Michael’s grip on you remained steady.

“They will accept it.”

Castiel exhaled. Then, finally—he turned, and left. The door clicked shut behind him.

A long silence stretched. Michael exhaled slowly. Lucifer grinned.

Then—

“Oh, Michael.”

Michael said nothing.

Lucifer sighed, shaking his head, stretching lazily in the chair.

“You should just admit it already.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.

“Admit what?”

Lucifer smirked.

“You’ve fallen.”

Michael didn't react. Just kept rolling his hips under you, cock pressing into the over-sensitive heat of you. Wet squelching noises mingling in the air with your soft pants.

Lucifer tilted his head.

“You’ve fallen for a human girl.”

Michael’s fingers did not stop stroking through your hair.

Lucifer’s grin widened. “You’ve fallen.” He repeated.

Michael exhaled.

Slow. Measured. Unshaken. Unbothered.

Lucifer leaned back, stretching, watching, letting the moment sink in.

“You are absolutely fucked.”

Lucifer’s departure was a slow, deliberate thing.

He dressed lazily, as though he had all the time in the world, as though none of this had meant anything at all. He rolled his shoulders, stretched, fastened Sam’s jeans with an absent hum, then ran his tongue over his teeth as he tilted his head and cast one last, knowing glance over his shoulder.

Michael had not moved. He still sat there, his body coiled, his grip unyielding, his presence consuming. Still held you against him, still kept you where he wanted you, still refused to let you go. Still fucked up into you with tight, controlled thrusts.

Lucifer’s smirk deepened.

“Don’t miss me too much, little thing,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement, low and indulgent and taunting.

Michael’s fingers tightened against your waist.

Lucifer noticed. His smirk widened. “Oh, don’t worry, Mikey,” he purred. “I’ll be back for round two.”

Then, with a low, satisfied whistle, he turned and left. The door clicked shut. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.

A silence followed. Thick. Suffocating. Alive.

Michael didn't speak.

For a moment, there was only the slow, steady inhale of his breath, the press of his fingers against your back, the quiet, almost absent slide of his palm as he continued stroking through your hair.

Then a shift. A slow, almost imperceptible roll of his hips beneath you, a deliberate, lingering push into the deepest part of you, a slow press of his presence inside you, stretching, filling, grounding.

You shuddered, exhaling against his throat, too ruined, too soft, too spent to do anything but react.

Michael’s grip was unrelenting. Dean' scent was thick in the air, warm, clean, a sharp mixture of Dean’s leather and whiskey and gunpowder, but beneath it—

Something else. Something ancient. Something holy. Something divine.

He had ruined himself with you, had made a mockery of all that was righteous, had used his Father’s most beloved creation for his own indulgence, had kept you wrapped around him, full of him, and still, he didn't seem to regret it.

His breath was even, steady, measured, but the weight of him pressed into you, inside you, through you.

Then, finally—

His voice. Dean's voice.

Soft. Low. Measured.

“The righteous fall seven times.”

His fingers slid to your waist, securing you, grounding you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His hips rolled again, slow and deep, a rhythm that was not meant to undo but to reinforce, to stake his claim, to seal his ownership in a way that could never be undone.

His voice was scripture itself. His presence was prophecy.

“But they rise again.”

You gasped, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, your breath stuttering against his skin.

Michael exhaled, slow and indulgent, feeling you react, feeling you shudder beneath him, around him, and something in him shifted. His lips brushed your temple, almost absent, his fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, and his next words were a confession, a prayer, an undeniable, inescapable truth.

“I do not know that I will ever stop falling.”

His hips pressed up into you again, a slow, claiming thrust, deep and reverent, deliberate in its possession. His breath was warm against your skin, his voice a murmur, a decree, an acceptance.

“But I do not plan on rising.”

He was not supposed to fall. He was never supposed to fall.

But now—

Now, he had you wrapped around him, warm and spent and still trembling in his hold, still marked by him, still his.

And now, he wouldn't stop. Now, he couldn't stop.

Because Michael had fallen.

And he would never rise again.

There is a moment after the fall—after the altar is desecrated, after the temple is burned, after the righteous no longer rise.

It is quiet. It is final. It is the silence after divinity has turned to dust.

This is the nature of gods. They are unyielding. They are unbroken. They are eternal.

And yet—

He is not.

Not anymore.

Because Heaven’s mightiest has fallen.

And he does not plan on rising.

[kerryshifts]

on the death of summer and baptismal promises.

GAME OF THRONES DR.

“ HOUSE OF MAEGYR… FLAMES OF THE FIRST DAY. ”

MANY CENTURIES BEFORE . . . the house of maegyr were the greatest allies of the targaryens.

the people weren't surprised to see a maegyr with a targaryen, the nobles who ruled by their side from the start. every decision the targaryen made was known first at the maegyrs, their best friends, sometimes lovers, and all time councillors. after all: every dragon needs its creator.

the creation of the maegyr family was told as a lullaby to the kids, which went to sleep thinking of the miracles that came to earth, while century after century the adults came to the conclusion that the story was not real, used from the family to make their enemies afraid. directly created by the gods from the sand and ashes of the fourteen fires, in the old valyria, it was narrated that the maegyrs had the volcano fire instead of blood.

inside them, the women had eggs whom, hatched from their own volcano—blood, came dragons, their fire breath possible because of them. thankful to the family who helped them after their creation, the creatures were given to the targaryens, and since then the relationships of centuries was created.

everything changed with the dance of the dragons, a war that not only divided the targaryens, who fighted for the iron throne, but also the relationships that each targaryen had with each maegyr. betrayals and deaths happened so often that both families started to lose their sanity and, with the loss of so many dragons, the maegyrs felt like all their kids were given to the wrong people. when the maegyrs family made the drastic decision to end their lifetime alliance with the silver haired family, less and less dragons were seen to roam the skies.

LYSAENA MAEGYR’s father promised to AERYS TARGARYEN II that his first daughter would be given as bride to his second son, VISERYS. and so, before the rebellion, a path in order to try to reconcile the two families was done. years later the rebellion, lysaena maegyr was send to pentos in order to marry viserys targaryen — because even without a throne, a pact made with the blood of a maegyr couldn’t be broke. even if that resulted as making her a traitor in the eyes of robert baratheon.

THE TITLES.

i. LADY OF THE LAST DRAGON . . . her first title was given to her as soon as viserys targaryen, second son of the mad king, pronounced his vote. lysaena couldn't understand how viserys was awful to his younger sister, daenerys — same age as her, but at the same time seemed so sweet to her. at least, in private. many things happened after their marriage. three months later, daenerys married khal drogo, and lysaena had to say goodbye to the comfort of her bedroom, to follow the dothraki. all because her husband wanted an army. but at least — lysaena and daenerys became very close friends.

ii. BLACK WIDOW OF ESSOS . . . many things happened, after the marriage between daenerys and khal drogo. viserys could have been a sweet man in their chambers, but he went mad. it didn’t matter if she felt affection for him, she knew that daenerys make the right decision killing him. now, in essos there was a widow who mourned what her husband could have been, and the queen she could have been… one day. in black robes, and with her red hair, she became noticeable at a very first look.

iii. BLOOD OF FOURTEEN FIRES . . . when daenerys dreamt about hatching her dragon eggs, she also dreamt about lysaena. she was the key. her blood; daenerys of course knew about the long alliance between targaryens and maegyrs: she knew she had to keep lysaena close to her. after khal drogo's death, daenerys told lysaena about her dream, and lysaena knew she could trust her. so, with her volcano—blood, lysaena bleed on the dragons, and daenerys entered the fire. and the morning after, daenerys was holding three dragons.

iv. MISTRESS OF SHADOWS . . . after their dragons were born, lysaena started having weird things happening to her. her shadows under the sun seemed to moved by their own or maybe it was just the sun making her hallucinating and, after a while, she understood that using her volcano–fire to hatch dragons along daenerys, made her unlock an ancient magic that only some of her ancestors could use. she could control shadows and darkness.

v. THE VEILED HAND . . . lysaena knew that daenerys was the true queen. they promised to each other to protect, attack, and save the other in any occasion. they both promised to serve the other. lysaena, after unlocking her powers, could only touch daenerys: was because she was the unburnt? her volcano–blood seemed to hurt people. now, her hands were veiled… and that became her new title during daenerys’ campaign against slavery. helping her queen to liberate innocents.

vi. THE DRAGON’S HEART . . . conquest after conquest, city after city, and victory after victory; everyone around them had noticed the affection between the two ladies. daenerys valued lysaena as much as her dragons — who seemed to look at lysaena as a second mother. lysaena’s was daenerys’ sweetness, and if the queen was laughing, it was definitely because of lysaena. the two were in love; and, while reigning on meereen, queen daenerys announced her soon marriage with lady lysaena.

vii. RED DAWN . . . now queen consort, lysaena, with her bright hair, seemed to be a synonym for a new start. a new day. a new era. along side her wife, daenerys, lysaena targaryen was ready to inspire people, protect them, and take the iron throne for her wife. now, daenerys’ people were her people too. and her people treated her like a queen, loving her and looking at her for hopes, for a greater future.

ix. THE CONQUERORS . . . the silver lady and the fire, next to each other, with the three dragons above them, were capable to make the strongest man shake in their boots. every city they wanted was theirs, the strategies they made worked every time. in the end, the iron throne seemed to shine for lysaena’s wife, and the prince who was promised sat there, after the liberation of king’s landing by a tyrant — cersei lannister. next to her, the queen consort sat with her bright red hair, their three dragons roaring the sky.

it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when daenerys targaryen asked for a second throne next to hers, for her queen.