#studios hear my prayer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lina-lovebug · 1 year ago

Text

I'd Fight The Devil

Alastor x fem! reader

Background: (Y/N) is the elder Morningstar, and wants to fix her relationship with her dad. But her dad hates her boyfriend.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 - Finale

Allusions to sex, actual sex, angel being angel, and cannibalism

_____

Angel spit out his drink, "You're with Alastor?!"

"Yeah, thoughts?"

"And prayers, girl," Angel could never imagine a sweet girl like (Y/N) getting it on with the Radio Demon himself.

But everyone has their kinks, he supposed.

Alastor manifested behind her, and she immediately felt his presence. Pressing herself against him, he leaned into her warmth and kept his arms around her shoulders.

"How was your day, mon amour?"

"It'll be even better," She trailed off, turning around to face him, "when we meet my dad for dinner."

Silence.

And not even radio silence.

"Not to be rash, but I'm sure your father would sooner see my head on a pike than on my body," Alastor adored the fact that she was mending their bond, even more so when Lucifer makes the effort.

But announcing their relationship to him?

He could see it ending in flames.

"I know you two don't get along, but I thought a nice dinner might smooth things over."

"And if he disapproves of us?" He lifted her head upwards with his finger, bemused as to what her answer may be.

"Then he'll have to get used to it," (Y/N) replied, sending a shiver of excitement up his spine.

Only a feeling that the she-devil he was utterly obsessed with could provide.

"Ugh, can you guys go fuck somewhere else?" Angel said, "or at all? I can't imagine going a lifetime without dick."

Alastors eye twitch, "now that's our business, isn't it?"

"Okay, okay," Charlie spoke up, "you guys go get ready."

Charlie couldn't help but notice the change in Alastor. It had only been a few months, but being in her sisters presence alone has made him kind. Sure, the both of them would skin someone alive over an insult, but Alastor would rip out his own eyes if (Y/N) asked.

A perfect match.

(Y/N) dawned a black dress with a pearl necklace that Alastor bought for her. Well, she thinks he bought it but he actually stole it off of a fresh kill.

How sweet.

"Pumpkin! Oh look at you! You're as radiant as ever!" Lucifer fawned over his daughter as they made it to the restaurant, making it a point to ignore the red demon behind her.

"Catching strays?" Lucifer gestured to him.

"Lovely to see you again," Alastor retorted.

"Dad, why don't we go inside? And Alastor will be joining us," now, Lucifer didn't forget what he said. He recognized that the fearsome deer demon had the intention of claiming Princess (Y/N) as his own, but did his daughter return such feelings?

Honestly, Lucifer feared that.

Not it being Alastor persay, but his little girls being hurt.

He knew how awful it felt to go through the divorce with Lilith, and then her disappearance.

He didn't ever want his daughters to feel that way.

"So, Alastor, what do you do again?"

"I have a radio broadcast. Your daughter has actually helped me repair the studio after the attack," He laid his land on hers.

And Lucifer picked up Alastors hand.

And placed it away from hers.

"Uh, dad-"

"Look, if you two are fucking, don't tell me."

"Dad!" Her face burned red, "we aren't-that's not. . .I love Alastor, and he loves me. I want you to accept us both."

"Love? Whoa, whoa, whoa! Pumpkin, I don't think-"

"I'm not a little kid," She interrupted, "I'm a grown woman, and I'm able to make my own decisions. I want to be with Alastor because I love him. You may not think I know what love is, but I know it's what I feel with Alastor."

That's when he saw it.

That look.

Whilst (Y/N) was defending herself, defending their love, Alastor looked at her. Only her. And it was like he was staring at the nebula itself, seeing all its beauty in the Heir of Hell. His smile faltered, closing his mouth, and his eyes softened.

It's the same look that he used to give Lilith.

"If I ever hear that you've made her cry, or even laid a single hand upon her," Lucifer stared him down, "I'll make you disappear."

"A man true to his word. Looks like we have something in common," Alastor agreed, his hand back on hers. She gave him a smile, one that reminded him of Lilith.

The rest of dinner went off without any incidents. The small jab here and there, but no one died, and no one was stabbed. Lucifer learned more about his daughters business and how she lit up talking about it.

"You hardly ate, Alastor. Is something wrong?" (Y/N) asked when her father went to the restroom.

"Oh no, my dear. Just hungry for something else, is all," His eyes raked up her form, earning a cough from the she-devil.

Honestly, she didn't know where he was on his spectrum. She was fine never even being intimate, so long as he was happy, but this spark in his eyes lit a fire within her.

"O-oh. . .are you sure?" Believe it or not, (Y/N) had only had sex twice and both times she'd call it lackluster.

"I don't want you to force yourself if you don't want to," oh how innocent she was. Honestly, Alastor assumed he was aroace before he met the she-devil. Her ferocity - her chaos in fights, her genuine kindness, and her soul - itself brought out that spark.

There are moments where the carnal desire needs to be satisfied.

"Mon cher, I'd never ask if I didn't mean it."

That look, it made her softly gasp.

"Alast-"

"Ew."

Right.

Lucifer.

He showed up from his restroom break and found the pair giving eachother "fuck me" eyes.

"Could I eat my dinner without you groping my child?" Lucifer hissed, despite Alastor only touching her hand.

He blinked, thinking how he's never even groped a woman.

"Maybe."

Sick bastard.

_ _ _ ☆ _ _ _

"Fuck! Alastor!"

(Y/N) had never cum before, so Alastor being her first to ever do so and smiling away at her quivering legs made it so much better.

"Oh fuck. . ." She moaned weakly, his tongue slithering in and out of her to lick up every last drop.

"Al. . ." She was breathless, staring at his strained member. Reaching up to unzip his pants, he tutted as he grabbed her wrist.

"Al?"

"It's about you. Don't worry about me, amour," He purred, kissing the bite marks on her thighs.

"But you-"

Before she could detest further, wishing to satisfy him, the door opened.

"Oh my God, they were right! Alastor, you sly dog," Angel Dust was at the door, and Alastor quickly covered his beloveds' body with the covers before his horns started to grow and his back stretched.

"I'm going to kill you."

"Not before you make love to me, you're not," still in his demonic form, (Y/N) blew a gust of wind to slam the door shut.

Her body displayed on the bed, Alastor agreed.

"And stay in that form. It suits you."

#alastor imagine #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel x reader

4K notes · View notes

smutmind · 2 months ago

Text

Show & Tell pt 2

Tiffany & Winter x Male Reader.

note: this is the continuation. i just placed the reader in the POV of the OC to make it better. enjoy

You’re still catching your breath when she steps in front of you.

Winter’s bare feet move like thought—silent, certain. Her ribbon sways with each slow shift of her weight. She doesn’t speak. Just stands there, looking down at you.

You can’t hold her gaze. Not for long.

The silence stretches. Tightens. Your fingers dig into your jeans.

She kneels again.

Not behind you this time.

In front. Close.

So close you can feel the heat off her skin. But she doesn’t touch. Doesn’t even lean. Her hands rest on her lap, posture perfect, like this is a prayer session and you’re the confession.

Tiffany doesn’t interrupt. You’d forgotten she was there.

Winter tilts her head slightly. The ribbon slides down her shoulder. She blinks once, slowly. Her lips part—but she doesn’t speak.

Your chest lifts. Drops.

And then you break.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice barely yours.

She doesn’t react. Not even a flicker.

You lean in, just a little. “Please, Winter.”

Still nothing.

You can feel how hard you are. The ache, constant now. You’re throbbing against the inside of your jeans and you swear she can see it. She probably can.

Her eyes stay soft. Curious. Not cruel.

That makes it worse.

“Please…” you try again, quieter. “I need… I need your mouth.”

A tiny lift of her brow.

Not rejection. Just a question.

You drop your voice lower, words catching in your throat. “I want to feel you… I want to come in your mouth.”

She blinks.

Then finally speaks.

“Why?”

It floors you. That one word.

Your throat tightens. “Because I’m losing it.”

She leans forward—just enough for her breath to brush your jaw.

“I haven’t touched you,” she says again.

“I know.”

“I haven’t kissed you.”

You nod, swallowing. “Still—fuck—I want it. I want you.”

Her lips twitch, the ghost of a smile.

“You want to come?”

“Yes.”

“You think I should help you with that?”

You nod.

“Beg better.”

The words slap the air between you.

“I…” You clear your throat. “I want you to take it from me.”

Still not enough.

“I want to beg on my knees if that’s what it takes. I want to feel your lips. I want to hear you breathe around it. I want to watch you own it. Own me.”

Now her eyes light—something behind them snapping into place.

She shifts—just one movement forward—until her chest brushes your knees.

Still not touching.

Still not giving.

She smiles, finally, and it’s slow, deliberate, devastating.

“Good,” she whispers. “Now suffer for it.”

She rises, steps back.

You nearly fall forward.

Tiffany clicks her pen, nodding from the shadows.

“Scene’s good. Let him sit with that.”

You look up.

Winter’s halfway off the set already.

The ache doesn’t fade.

And you don’t move.

Time: 3:17 A.M.

The studio had gone still. No cues. No camera. Just you, the mattress beneath you, and the taste of heat in the air.

Tiffany stood beside the bed, arms folded, eyes pinned to your lap.

Winter crouched low, chin on her knees, watching you like she already knew how the night would end.

Tiffany’s voice broke the quiet.

“Lesson two,” she said, slow and clear. “You don’t reward desperation.”

Winter looked up. “Then what do you do?”

“You own it.”

Tiffany stepped forward, heels discarded somewhere behind her. Her blouse was loose now, collarbones sharp in the low light.

She didn’t ask.

She undid your belt with a practiced flick, exposing just enough to make your breath catch.

Winter followed her movements carefully, like choreography.

“Don’t rush,” Tiffany said, voice low. “Let them feel the waiting. That’s where the break lives.”

Winter nodded.

You tried to sit up.

Tiffany pressed one hand to your chest—flat, firm. “No. Stay down.”

You obeyed.

She knelt, movements slow, and took you in her hand—just her hand.

Winter leaned closer, brows lifting. “Like this?”

“No,” Tiffany murmured. “With control.”

She guided Winter’s fingers over you, adjusting the grip.

“Not to please him. To possess him.”

Winter mimicked the motion, watching you twitch.

Your breath caught.

“See that?” Tiffany said. “That twitch isn’t pleasure. It’s surrender.”

Winter looked up at you, eyes wide. “He’s not even speaking.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tiffany said. “He’s already ours.”

Then she bent forward.

Took you into her mouth—slow, steady, her eyes never leaving Winter.

“Control isn’t in the act,” she said between strokes, voice calm. “It’s in who leads the rhythm.”

Winter watched, lips parted, then slid beside her and took over.

Her mouth was warmer. Slower. Less practiced but hungrier.

Tiffany smiled. “Good. Now pull back. Don’t give him what he wants—give him just less than that.”

Winter obeyed.

You whimpered.

Tiffany cupped your thigh. “Now you hear that? That sound means he’s cracking. So ask him.”

Winter looked up. “Ask what?”

“If he deserves it.”

Winter tilted her head. “Do you?”

Your answer was a gasp.

Tiffany chuckled. “That’s not an answer. He should beg, not breathe.”

Winter leaned in, lips against your thigh. “Beg me.”

“I—I want to come,” you stammered. “I need to.”

Tiffany raised a brow. “Need?”

Winter pulled back, her tongue tracing the air just above you. “Why?”

“Because I—fuck—I can’t hold it.”

“You don’t get to hold it,” Tiffany said, voice like silk over steel. “We do.”

They both leaned in again.

This time, together.

One tongue teasing, one mouth full.

Tiffany held your jaw in her hand as Winter sucked harder.

“You’re not coming because you want to,” she whispered. “You’re coming because we allow it.”

And you did.

Hard.

Fast.

Twitching beneath them, undone.

They pulled back together—matching breath, matching pace.

Your cum between them.

Winter looked to Tiffany.

Tiffany nodded once.

They kissed.

Slow.

Hungry.

Deliberate.

Your taste passed between them—shared, savored.

Winter exhaled, lips wet. “So this is control.”

Tiffany smiled.

“No,” she said. “This is just the warm-up.”

----- is this one better? don't be shy, send an ask or a message.

#aespa smut #winter smut #winter aespa #aespa winter #smut #tiffany smut #snsd #snsd smut #tiffany hwang #girl group smut #smut girl group #kpop idol smut #kpop idol fantasy

268 notes · View notes

atinyslittleworld · 2 months ago

Text

Studio 3

hongjoong x f!reader

Summary: One late night in the studio, your forgotten charger leads to a confession neither of you were ready for—but one that changes everything.

Word Count: 700

Genre: angst-turned-soft, slow burn, confessional, almost kiss

Warnings: none, just a lot of aching emotion and unspoken feelings

You only came back for your charger.

You’d left it plugged in under the mixing desk hours ago, during chaos and rehearsals and caffeine-fueled costume runs. The building was empty now, lights dimmed, silence thick in the corridors — the kind of quiet that wraps itself around your shoulders like a blanket you didn’t ask for.

Except, when you pass by Studio 3… There’s music.

Not blasting. Not polished. Just a piano, looping soft chords like an exhale. Like a sigh someone’s been holding in all day.

You pause at the door.

He’s inside. Hongjoong.

Hair messy. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Face dimly lit by the soft glow of his laptop screen. He’s mouthing something — lyrics maybe. Or prayers. You’re never sure with him.

You knock, once.

His head lifts fast — startled — but when he sees you, his eyes soften immediately. His lips twitch into that crooked little smile that always feels like it wasn’t meant for anyone else.

“You’re still here?” he asks.

“Forgot my charger.” You nod toward the desk. “...And heard music.”

He hums. “Guess I wasn’t being as quiet as I thought.”

You step inside carefully, like any movement too loud might shatter the mood entirely. “What are you working on?”

He glances at the screen. “It’s… not for anything. Just a song.”

“For fun?”

Hongjoong gives a half-shrug. “For sanity, maybe.”

You sit on the edge of the couch behind him, watching his fingers hover over the keyboard. The music is on loop — soft, simple, unresolved. Waiting for something.

“It sounds like a love song,” you say quietly.

His fingers still.

A beat of silence passes. Then another.

He turns slowly in his chair, until he’s facing you fully.

And then, just like that — no drama, no buildup, no fireworks — he says it:

“I think about you when I write love songs.”

You blink.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches somewhere mid-throat. “...What?”

Hongjoong’s voice doesn’t waver. Not even a little.

“It always ends up being you,” he says. “Even when I don’t mean for it to be.”

He’s not looking away. He’s never been this still around you. There’s something naked in the way he says it — something that feels like tearing open a sealed envelope just to let you read it.

“Joong…” you whisper, because it’s all you can manage.

“I’ve been trying to keep it in,” he admits. “Because it’s not safe, right? Not with the cameras. Not with the fans. Not when we live in the eye of everyone else’s expectations.”

He exhales.

“But then you show up in my studio. At 2AM. And you hear a song that was never meant to be heard. And now you’re here. And I can’t lie anymore.”

You look at him, your chest tight, your thoughts louder than they’ve ever been.

He continues.

“Every lyric I’ve written that ever meant anything... it’s been you.” A breath. “I’m tired of writing around it.”

Your voice shakes. “So don’t.”

His eyebrows lift just a little.

You walk closer — slowly — until you’re standing between his knees, close enough to hear his heartbeat echo in the silence.

“Don’t write around it,” you whisper. “Write me.”

His lips part, like he’s not sure if this is real.

And you don’t kiss.

Not yet.

But your hand finds his. Your fingers intertwine with his, and he holds on like he’s been waiting all year to do it.

His forehead leans against your stomach, and he lets out a breathless laugh — soft and overwhelmed and maybe a little in love.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile.

“You already wrote the song, didn’t you?”

He nods against you.

“...Do I get to hear it?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are glassy in that honest way — not tears, just everything he’s been carrying, finally allowed to be seen.

“Only if you stay,” he says. “Just for a little while.”

You squeeze his hand.

“For as long as you want.”

#ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez #kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong imagines #hongjoong imagines #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong

227 notes · View notes

emmiesoverthemoon · 2 months ago

Text

bloom

pairing: ot8 x reader

word count: 4.1k

summary: my description of what i think each stray kids member's primary and secondary love languages are

tags: established relationships. tooth rotting sweetness. requested! thank you anon, i hope u enjoy :3

chan

primary: acts of service – chan’s love slips in quietly, like sunlight through kitchen curtains on a slow morning, drowning the room with comforting warmth and melting the dewy chill from the previous night. he ties your shoes without asking, scribbles your name on your takeaway coffee lid with a tiny heart when you're looking the other way, fixes the things you did not get the chance to know were in need of mending before you could ever worry your pretty head about them. his care is pre-emptive, almost psychic. he wakes early to prepare your favourite things for breakfast—eggs just how you like, toast the right shade of golden—so you can rise slowly, stretch into the day without rush. he memorises your schedule like a devotional hymn so he can meet you halfway through your hardest days, arms open, smile soft, always prepared to ease the weight before you ask him to. he is a man of many burdens, yes—but he never lets you carry yours alone. his habit is simple: he notices. always. your yawn becomes his cue to fetch you water and ask how long you have been pushing yourself. your silence becomes his reason to stay close, quiet, and steady beside you. his hands are always doing, always giving—braiding your hair because he saw a tutorial and wanted to try, massaging your shoulders with firm, thoughtful pressure when he senses the tension creeping in. this is how he proves he loves you—through small, constant acts, each one stitched with intention, each one an echo of those sweet three words he will say freely, often, and at the most unexpected but perfect moments. and sometimes—when he thinks you are not looking—he will dance a little silly in the kitchen just to hear you laugh. he will send you links to the strangest memes, claiming they “reminded me of you,” and if you tease him, he will feign offense with his hand to his heart before immediately folding into bashful laughter. chan’s love is not loud, but it is ever-present—steadfast, patient, and quietly blooming in the way he stays, every single day.

secondary: words of affirmation (giving) – and when the words come, they fall soft and certain, like prayers that never ask—only give. “you’re doing so well, angel,” he’ll say as he hands you a cup of tea, fingers brushing yours like punctuation. “i’m so lucky to love you,” murmured in the tranquillity of a sleepy moment in bed, his voice low and raw with sleep, head nestled against yours. he weaves love into the everyday, lets it live in the pauses between your tasks, in the soft inhale before sleep, in the breathless hush after a kiss. chan never lets a moment pass without turning it into a reason—to remind you of your worth, to anchor you to his love, to pull you back to the truth when your own doubts get too loud. his habit is simple: he says what he feels before the feeling can ever go unspoken. before the feeling could even have the chance to think about becoming a doubt in your mind. he leaves you notes in the pocket of your coat, on the fridge, beside your mirror. not just “i love you,” but “you’re brilliant. you make every day lighter. i’m proud of you always.” he’ll text you from those extra busy late nights in the studio at 2:17 a.m.—“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”—even if you have not said a word. he senses your silence and fills it with light. with warmth. he does not speak to impress; he speaks to witness, to hold up a mirror to the version of yourself you sometimes forget to believe in. chan’s love is constant, but his words are the thread that sews the softness into your skin. you don’t have to ask for reassurance with him—it’s already been woven into the way he says your name.

minho

primary: acts of service – minho’s love is tucked inside the quietest parts of your day. he makes sure the fridge is stocked with your favourite essentials, and then a few more. he changes your pillowcases before you even think to. love, to him, is precision—remembering the way you like your tea or coffee, the sound of your footsteps gradually growing a little heavier when you are tired, the look on your face when you need something but don’t say it. he has a habit of checking the weather forecast before you wake, if it's predicted to be sunny, the high spf level sunscreen is left obvious and visible on the bathroom counter where he knows you will look upon entering. if it's predicted to rain, an umbrella is noticeably propped by the door next to where your shoes are stored without a word. when it’s predicted to be cold, your favourite hoodie—his favourite hoodie, the one he knows you borrow—is laid out atop the bed like an invitation. there is no announcement. no expectation. just care, in its purest form. he irons your clothes when you oversleep. leaves your laptop charging when he knows you forgot. places snacks on your desk during long days like offerings of devotion. and when you thank him, he only shrugs—“it’s nothing,” he says, eyes soft and amused. but it is never nothing. every act is a sentence he is too shy to say aloud. you’re mine. i see you. let me take care of you. minho moves through your world like a secret guardian, tending to your life like a garden he wants to see bloom—never loud, never forceful, but always, always there.

secondary: giving gifts – his presents are never random. they are always too perfect. the exact notebook you wanted that you thought to be just out of budget for this pay period; the sweater that matches your favourite shade of your favourite colour, dressed on a mannequin in a shop window that you passed one day and hummed positively at; a snack from the convenience store you mentioned you had yet to try but were interested to once in passing. he protects your preferences like treasure, and his habit is this: he shops like he’s building a map of your heart. sometimes he leaves little things at your door, unsigned but unmistakably from him. other times, he’ll drop something in your lap with a soft “thought you might like this,” and walk away before you can even say thank you. he does not need the attention. he just needs you to feel remembered. to feel adored.

changbin

primary: acts of service – changbin’s love is in his hustle. he wants to help, always. he picks up your misdelivered package from the post office even when you said you’d go after work, so that you can get home sooner because he knows you're exhausted. he organises your playlists in a way he thinks could be optimal for listening, but only in a copy of it just in case you wanted to preserve the original order. he carries every bag without asking, even before second to complain about the straps slipping off your shoulder. his habit is one of constant motion: keeping your keys in the bowl by the door, heating your leftovers so you don't forget to eat, opening doors before you reach them. he wants your life to feel easy, smooth, touched by his presence even when he is not there. loving you is being your foundation—and if he can be your calm, your steady, your shield, then he is already happy.

secondary: physical touch – his hands are warm, always reaching, always comforting. he loves using the strength he devotes himself to build to lift you into hugs that make you laugh, feet dangling, nose pressed into his neck while he holds you like he could keep the world at bay if he just squeezes hard enough. he drapes himself across your lap with a dramatic sigh after long days, content to melt into your touch like a blanket freshly pulled from the dryer. “hold me, i’m tired,” he mumbles, even though you were already reaching for him. even though you always do. his habit is proximity—if you are near, he needs to feel you. fingers tracing idle shapes along your back when you lie beside him, kisses to your cheek during pauses in conversation, his arms looping around your waist from behind as you cook. he rests his chin on your shoulder and hums nonsense songs. presses his cold nose against your neck and giggles when you squirm. he is sunshine and safety, all wrapped in the warmth of skin against skin. he plays with your fingers like they are the most interesting thing in the world. he kisses your temple when you pass him something. for changbin, your touch is both comfort and confirmation. it says i’m here, i’m yours, louder than any words could. being close to you reminds him that love is not just something you say—it is something you feel. and every time he reaches for you, he is quietly reminding you that you are home.

hyunjin

primary: quality time – hyunjin’s love language is his presence—full, romantic, and unfiltered. when he loves you, you feel it—not in grand declarations, but in how he puts down his phone when you speak, how his eyes follow you like you hung every little star that sprinkles across the inky sky that is nightfall. he wants you in his moments, in his space, in the air around him—reading beside him on slow afternoons, sitting cross-legged on the floor as he paints, napping in the same room just to breathe the same stillness. silence with you is never empty. his habit is building rituals, sacred little rhythms between just the two of you. sunset walks where your hands swing together, pinkies linked; late-night tea sipped from mismatched mugs while your voices melt into the dimness. there is a playlist you both add to, full of songs that remind him of the way you blink when you are sleepy or laugh when you do not expect to. he treats time like a love letter—always addressed to you. when you laugh, he records it in his heart. (and, sometimes, also on his phone. the first time you caught him playing it back, he flushed pink and claimed he was just checking audio quality—but you both knew better.) he is serious and dreamy, but he is silly too. he will make heart shapes out of your snacks and pout when you eat them without noticing. he will nudge his cold toes against your leg under the blanket and grin when you shriek. he will say, “i need you near me to recharge my energy,” even when he just wants to lie on your lap like a sleepy cat. with hyunjin, time is how he worships you—both quietly and with a joy that spills into everything he does.

secondary: physical touch – his hands are poets. they find your skin like it is something sacred, like each inch of you is a line he wants to learn by heart. he links your pinkies under the table when no one is looking, brushes your lower back when he passes behind you, smooths your hair as you drift off beside him like your peace is something he wants to tend with his fingertips. hyunjin’s habit is to linger—his touches are slow, soft, careful, like he is memorising you with his hands and afraid to miss even a breath. when he kisses you, he holds your face like you are something he is grateful for, something too fragile to rush. he rests his palm over your heart when he tells you he misses you—not to be dramatic, but because he wants to feel it beating beneath his skin. feel you alive. feel you still here on earth with him. but his love is not always serious—it is also shy giggles against your neck when he tickles you from behind, forehead bumps when he forgets how close he is, half-tackling you onto the couch just to trap you in his arms. when he is especially sleepy, he becomes all limbs, draping himself over you like a warm, clingy blanket. he mumbles into your skin, kisses your shoulder and says things like “you are mine forever” in a voice that sounds almost bashful—like he means it with everything he has but still cannot believe he gets to say it aloud. hyunjin touches like a man in love, touches like every moment with you is a small miracle, touches like your warmth is the only home he has ever needed.

jisung

primary: words of affirmation (receiving) – jisung lives off your voice like it's his lifeline. your praise is of equivalence to sunshine to him—he blooms under it, seeks it out, and keeps it in the quiet corners of his heart for the days when the noise gets too heavy to bear alone. he stores your compliments like pressed flowers between the pages of his soul, delicate and cherished. “you’re proud of me, right?” he will ask with a sheepish grin, trying to sound casual—but there’s always that flicker in his eyes, that silent question behind the words. he needs to hear it to believe it. his habit is fishing for your love in ways so obvious it becomes endearing—“did i do good?” when he knows he nailed it, “you really like me that much?” said half-laughing but fully hoping. every “you’re brilliant,” “i love your brain,” “i’m lucky you’re mine” wraps around him like armour, and he glows in it. he becomes more himself when he knows you see him—not the version he performs, but the soft, anxious, dazzling heart underneath. and oh, when you whisper it to him when no one else is around? that's when he melts completely—eyes wide, smile small, voice caught somewhere in his throat as he tries to play it off like he is not about to combust.

secondary: quality time – jisung wants you like background music: always there, steady and sweet. he craves your presence the way others crave solitude, wants you with him through everything—even if you are just sitting in the same room doing completely different things. his habit is curling into your side like it is instinct, draping himself across you when he is sleepy or bored or just feeling extra soft. feet in your lap while he games, head resting on your stomach as you scroll through your phone, half of his focus always on you. he shows up unannounced with snacks, or says “come over?” with a pout that already expects yes. jisung thrives in the kind of love that exists in shared silences and interrupted laughs, in hours spent doing nothing and calling it perfect. he does not need fancy dates or grand plans—just you, your voice, your time, your warmth. and maybe your hoodie, too, because he has a habit of stealing it and then denying it with a grin and glittering eyes that give everything away.

felix

primary: gift giving – felix’s love glows in the things he offers. everything he gives you is wrapped in warmth, in thoughtfulness, in the soft kind of care that says i see you. i think of you. i love you, even in the smallest ways. he makes gift giving an art form—handmade cookies shaped like both of your initials, surrounded by little hearts on a pretty platter. bracelets woven with delicate patterns, each colour chosen with purpose. fresh bouquets of flowers continuously stocked in your favourite vases—which he also bought—because he likes watching your expression soften as you smell their aroma when you pass by. his habit is turning his affection into tangible magic: tiny jars of folded paper stars with notes tucked inside, stickers for your journal that reminded him of your smile, dried petals pressed into the pages of a book he picked up on a whim, because he thought the story would feel different in your hands. you are a constant in the forefront of his mind. during brand shoots, he finds himself tucking aside the newest items just because he knows they would suit you—“you’d look so beautiful in this,” he says with a sparkle in his eye, like there is not a version of the world where you wouldn’t. felix thrives when he gets to treat you. you are his girl, his favourite person in the world, and if he can make you happy with a gift—big or small—he will do it without hesitation. anything. say the word, and it is yours. the sky is not even the limit. he loves to watch your eyes light up and tucks that moment deep into his heart like something sacred. giving is how he loves out loud, how he places pieces of his soul into your palms—sweet, soft, and full of sincerity. you never have to earn it. he gives because loving you is the most natural thing in the world.

secondary: physical touch – felix is all cuddles and sunshine, a golden glow wrapped in arms that always reach for you first. he leans into you like gravity itself pulls him there, like your side is the only place he ever wants to be. his habit is slipping his hand into yours in crowded places, always with a little squeeze like i’ve got you. he rests his cheek on your shoulder with a quiet hum, his voice low and warm in his chest, kisses the top of your head like it is just part of his breathing. he touches to soothe, to share, to remind you that you are never alone—i’m here. i’m yours. i’m not going anywhere. but felix is not only just soft, he's silly with it, too. he likes to fall on top of you dramatically when he's tired after a long day, arms flopped across you like a human blanket, giggling childishly into your neck because “you’re comfier than the couch.” he traces little shapes on your arm—stars, smiley faces, a lopsided heart with your initials in it. sometimes he bonks your forehead with his own just to make you laugh, then kisses the spot and proclaims that he “healed it” like some kind of chaotic wizard doctor who uses love as his magical medicine. he turns hugs into spinning twirls in the kitchen, wraps around you from behind while you brush your teeth, and insists on holding you in bed even if he overheats and kicks off the blanket five minutes later. when felix loves you, his touch is constant—not clingy, but full of quiet devotion. his hugs are tight, his kisses are everywhere, his hands always reaching. he holds you like something precious, like he knows how lucky he is, and he never wants to let go. in his arms, you are safe. adored. home.

seungmin

primary: quality time – seungmin’s love is subtle but steady, like the hush of rain against your window as you curl up together under the same blanket. it is not grand declarations or showy gestures—it is presence. he does not say “i love you” with words nearly as often as he says it with time. his love is sitting next to you through hours of quiet, eating lunch beside you even if it means squeezing it into his schedule, tagging along on errands just because he wants to be near. his habit is choosing you in the small ways—always choosing you. slipping his hand into yours in the grocery store. brushing shoulders with you as you walk. resting his head on your lap while you both scroll through your phones in silence. his love is the comfort of routine with a softness just for you. he plans evenings around you without ever saying it—your favorite dramas cued up before you even ask, your side of the bed turned down, a hoodie tossed your way with a casual “you’re cold, right?” he does not demand your attention, only hopes to exist within your world. and somehow, that makes his presence feel all the more precious. he keeps a toothbrush for you at his place. learns how you take your tea. remembers the names of your coworkers even though he claims they are not interesting. and even when he teases you, it is never cruel—his loyalty is a thread that runs through every look, every laugh, every quiet moment shared. with seungmin, time is love written in lowercase: soft, constant, true.

secondary: acts of service – seungmin notices everything. he is always three steps ahead of your needs, like he has studied you in secret and taken notes on the way you live, the way you forget to charge your phone or skip meals when you are stressed. he folds your laundry before you get to it, refills your cup halfway through a movie without a word, plugs in your charger when you fall asleep on the couch. his love is not loud—but it is efficient, meticulous, and impossibly kind. his habit is in the hands-on care he offers without expecting praise: quiet gestures that carry the weight of devotion. he takes care of you like it is second nature, like your comfort is built into his daily rhythm. he might roll his eyes when you gush over how sweet it is—“it’s not a big deal,” he’ll mumble, already fluffing your pillow. but his smile lingers when he thinks you are not watching. he will never say he is romantic—but the way he reads your needs before you speak, the way he remembers every offhand comment and turns it into something thoughtful later... it is romance, just wearing a hoodie and a soft scowl. and when you kiss his cheek and whisper, “thank you for always taking care of me,” he pretends to groan—but his ears go pink, and he looks at you like you are the softest thing he has ever known.

jeongin

primary: quality time – jeongin loves like golden hour—soft and slow, warm around the edges, full of quiet wonder. he wants you in every version of the day: sleepy-eyed mornings where you brush your teeth side by side, long lazy afternoons filled with shared snacks and tangled limbs, late nights spent lying on the floor whispering about nothing and everything. he does not need constant plans, just your presence—your voice humming beside him, your laughter rising like music into the still air. his habit is pulling you close when he plays games, making space in his world for you to belong. he offers you bites of his snacks without asking, hands you a second controller and lights up every time you join in—even if you lose. especially if you lose, because then he gets to nudge you with his shoulder and say “i’ll carry you,” all smug and soft at once. he wants to share what he loves because he loves you. his playlists, his favourite comfort shows, the weird videos he replays until they are inside jokes only you two understand. to jeongin, time is the sweetest gift, and he gives it to you in hours that feel like seconds. being with you, beside you, near enough to hear your little sighs and watch your face light up—that is his favourite kind of love. and sometimes he will just stare at you, eyes soft and unfocused, and when you catch him, he only shrugs, smiles, and says, “you’re just really nice to look at.”

secondary: words of affirmation (receiving) – though he jokes and plays it cool, your words mean more to him than he ever says out loud. he acts like compliments slide right off him, grins and brushes them away with a shy laugh or a teasing quip—but he holds onto them. all of them. he saves your voice notes and replays them at night, clutching his phone to his chest when you whisper, “i love you,” like it is a secret spell only he gets to keep. he does not always ask directly, but his habit is in the sideways questions—“do you really think i looked good today?” with a tilt of his head, or “you’re not tired of me yet, are you?” half-laughed, but threaded with a hope too soft to name. he wants to be enough for you. he hopes he is. and when you tell him he is—when you say “you make me so happy,” or “i’m proud of you,” or “i’d choose you over and over”—he goes quiet for a second, like his whole heart has paused to feel it properly. your praise is a balm to the parts of him he hides behind jokes. your affection is the light that melts his shyness. he listens even when you think he is not, remembers every sweet thing you say like a treasure map he reads in the dark. and when you kiss his cheek and tell him, “you’re everything to me,” he pretends to grumble—but his ears go pink, and his smile could outshine the stars.

want more like this?

taglist (ask to be added here): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho

298 notes · View notes

theethighpriestess · 21 days ago

Text

Chapter 1 - The First Bite

A/N: First off, I wanna thank @nahimjustfeelingit-writes for coming up with this dope ass idea & @anaiyaflys143 for suggesting I write it. I hope I do you both justice. I think I want this to have multiple parts, but I need life to cooperate. Hope y'all enjoy!

*All character images created by me ☺️*

Characters: Elias "Stack" Moore, Eden Taylor (OC)

Warning(s): 18+, Adult Language, Supernatural Elements, Typical Vampire Shit, Vampire Kink, Explicit Sex (Not yet, but it's coming)

Summary: Eden’s broke. Her rent’s late, her car sounds like it’s choking, and her dreams of making it as a singer in New Orleans are getting harder to hold onto. So when she sees a sketchy little ad offering big cash to be a “discreet donor,” she answers it. She tells herself it’s just money. Just blood. Just once. But the contract’s signed, the room is breathing, and Eden? She might’ve just stepped into something deeper than debt.

Word Count: 5.5K

New Orleans, 2005

Eden stared blankly at the digits on the weathered ATM.

$14.26.

All the money she had left from her work-study check that wouldn’t replenish for another week. Between rent, paying for studio time, and outfits for her upcoming shows, Eden had left herself broke and destitute yet again.

“Who told you to take the term ‘starving artist’ so literally?” she muttered to herself, tucking the receipt into the pocket of her tattered jean jacket.

She hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. Just a gas station honey bun, half a bottle of warm Sprite, and whatever sleep could trick her body into thinking it was full. Her rust-colored Honda ran on a quarter tank and prayer, the engine coughing every time she turned the key. The inside smelled like jasmine body spray, fried hair, and quiet panic.

Fishing her Motorola Razr from the depths of her tote, she scrolled to the contact labeled “Pops.” She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, before finally pressing CALL.

Three rings. A click.

“Yo,” came the gravelly voice on the other end. Always detached. Always mid-something more important.

“Hey,” Eden said, trying not to sound too pitiful. “You got like…twenty dollars I could borrow?”

A long pause. She could practically hear him blinking.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m all tapped out.”

She knew it was a lie. He always said that. She could hear a game show buzzing faintly in the background, followed by the sound of beer cracking open. But she didn’t press it.

“It’s cool, Pops.” She cleared her throat, pushing down the lump forming there. “I’ll make something shake. I saw an ad for a babysitting gig in the Garden District, so I’ll try that.”

“Good,” he said, voice already drifting. “See? You ain’t gotta always be runnin’ after those stage lights. Just find somethin’ steady.”

She didn’t respond. Just hung up and slid the phone back into her purse like it was a loaded gun.

Back at her tiny studio apartment in Mid-City, Eden sat cross-legged on her futon, her open planner in her lap. A flyer for an open mic night at Tipitina’s was pinned above her bed with a pink glitter pushpin. She had two weeks to come up with a new track and scrape together the $80 she owed her producer for the beat she was using.

She opened her laptop, praying it would connect to the neighbor’s spotty Wi-Fi. While it loaded, she scribbled in the margins of her notebook:

“I ain’t tryna sing for scraps, I want velvet on my mic stand Moët in my vocal booth, not noodles from the nightstand…”

Cute. Maybe.

She clicked over to Craigslist. Typing “cash gigs” in the search bar had become second nature.

Dog walking. House cleaning. Foot modeling?

But then, something new. Something far from anything she’d seen listed before.

“DONOR OPPORTUNITY – NIGHT WORK. DISCREET. HIGH COMPENSATION. 21+ ONLY. Must be comfortable with blood. Text 504-9VAMPYR.”

Eden raised an eyebrow.

“Blood?”

She clicked anyway.

The ad was vague but intriguing. It promised “stress-free, safe work” for “exclusive clientele.” It also mentioned “consent-based feeding arrangements,” which sounded... weirdly medical. Or criminal.

She almost exited the tab—but her mouse hovered over the last line:

“Neck: $300/hr. Wrist: $400/hr. Inner thigh: $550/hr. Discretion required.”

She burst out laughing, sharp and alone in her little apartment. “Yeah, okay. That’s definitely a scam. Probably run by some dude named Clarence with a fake fang kink.”

But something about it stuck. Along with her passion for music, she also had a passion for all things occult: vampires, black magic, and everything in between. She was the bayou bruja stereotype personified, save the fact that she didn’t actually know any spells.

Eden wasn’t sure what it was about this ad that had her so curious. Maybe it was the dollar signs flashing in her mind. Perhaps it was the way her stomach twisted with nerves and low-grade hunger. Or maybe it was the fact that being bitten on the thigh for rent money somehow felt less soul-crushing than waitressing at a chain diner where the manager hit on her.

She grabbed her phone and typed quickly.

Eden T. | Type O- | Available Nights

Then she added, like a joke she hoped the universe would get:

“I sing too, in case that’s relevant.”

She snickered to herself until the number responded, almost immediately.

504-9VAMPYR:

“Voice matters more than you know. You’re expected tonight. Come dressed in black. No perfume. Bring ID.”

Attached was a pin drop to an address in the Warehouse District. The kind of place that always looked abandoned from the outside but was crawling with secrets beneath the surface.

Eden stared at the screen. Then at her closet.

She had a mesh crop top, a fake leather skirt, and her beat-up Doc Martens. Close enough to black. She pulled them out with a sigh and laid them across her unmade bed. Her hands lingered on the hem of the skirt, suddenly wondering if she should shave. Then she laughed out loud, dry and humorless.

“Girl, if he’s a vampire, you think he cares about some stubble?” she mused, glancing down at her untamed bikini line.

She peeled off her hoodie and leggings and tugged on the outfit with practiced ease. The crop top rode up a little too high, showing off the silver belly ring she got impulsively after a poetry night and three Hennessy shots. She tightened the straps on her Docs and pulled her curls into a high puff, fluffing it just enough to look intentional.

Eyeliner came next. Heavy, winged, and slightly uneven, like it had been applied in a moving car or in the middle of a breakdown. She smudged a bit of charcoal shadow beneath her lower lashes for good measure, giving her eyes that soft, smoky bruised look, like she hadn’t slept in days but might still stab you if you stared too long.

A dusting of translucent powder dimmed the natural shine of her skin, but she let her freckles peek through. She dabbed a hint of burgundy gloss on her lips and pressed highlighter onto the high points of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Just enough to glow under bad lighting.

She looked like something out of a Southern ghost story. Part beauty queen, part grieving widow. Like the kind of girl you'd see barefoot on a sagging porch in the heat of July, black veil over her eyes, sipping sweet tea that might just kill you.

She stepped back from the mirror and tilted her chin to the left.

She didn’t look like someone about to audition for a vampire sugar daddy.

She looked like someone who had nothing left to lose.

But that was the thing about having nothing. It made you bold. Eden didn’t feel fear. Not yet. What she felt was unavailable. Numb, on the edge of something primal. Like her instincts were holding their breath, waiting to see if she was about to step into a miracle… or a casket.

She grabbed the rose water mist from her nightstand, hesitated, then spritzed a light veil of it over her curls instead of her neck. Just a whisper of hydration and a ghost of a scent that faded almost instantly. The text had said no perfume, and she wasn’t trying to test boundaries with creatures who drank life juice for breakfast.

She grabbed her keys, slipped her phone into her bra, and stared down at her chipped black nail polish before muttering, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Then she locked the door behind her.

The drive to the Warehouse District felt longer than it was. The rust-colored Honda coughed once at a red light and stuttered like it was nervous, too. Eden slapped the dash like she was coaxing a stubborn mule.

“Not tonight, baby, c’mon…”

She turned up the radio, some old Destiny’s Child track with a beat strong enough to drown her thoughts. She sang along half-heartedly, mouthing the lyrics more than meaning them, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel like she was trying to tap the fear out of her bloodstream.

Her mind didn’t cooperate.

What if it’s a cult? What if they drain you and leave you in a ditch behind a daiquiri shop? What if it’s real?

She wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.

She pulled up to the address just after midnight. The building loomed like it had been waiting for her. It was tall, industrial, and built from bones and bad decisions. The kind of place that still smelled faintly of sweat, rust, and prohibition. Like someone had converted a cotton mill into a nightclub and then forgotten to put up a sign.

All the windows were blacked out. No buzz of neon. No music. No movement. Just that single red light above the steel door, blinking slow and steady like a pulse. Or a warning.

Eden sat there for a second longer than she meant to, the engine idling as her hand hovered near the key. Her stomach flipped, hard and sudden. It was that same twist she felt before going on stage, before she opened her mouth and let the world judge her voice, her dream, her want.

That anticipatory ache. That leap of faith you had to take before a mic, a man, or a monster.

Then she got out.

The air hit her like a wet rag, thick with humidity, heavy with something else. Something older than the pavement beneath her boots. The breeze curled around her ankles and crept up her spine, stirring the hem of her skirt and making the back of her neck prickle.

There was a scent in the air, faint but unmistakable. Jasmine. Smoke. No, ash. Burnt incense. Like the end of a ritual.

She stepped forward, gravel crunching beneath her boots, the only sound in the stillness. No music. No voices. Just her breath and that red light, blinking above her like a slow countdown.

When she reached the door, it opened before she could knock.

Not with a creak. Not with a dramatic hiss. Just a smooth, effortless glide, like whoever or whatever was on the other side had been expecting her the whole time.

Eden paused in the threshold, heart thudding against her ribs like a warning bell. She glanced once over her shoulder, back at her Honda parked under the flickering streetlamp, its paint dull and flaking like old blood.

She could leave. She could run.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she squared her shoulders, tucked her gloss-smudged lips into a tight line, and stepped into the dark.

A man stood just inside. Pale. No older than thirty, if you could even put an age on someone like that. His black dress shirt was perfectly pressed, tucked into tailored pants that caught the low light like water. Silver chains shimmered across his collarbone, subtle and cold. White gloves on both hands, like he was either about to serve a five-course meal or prep a body for burial.

His eyes swept over her. Not sexual, not even curious. More like he was measuring her for something. A scan. Efficient, impersonal. She might as well have been a barcode.

“You’re Eden,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I am,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady.

“Follow me.”

So she did.

The hallway was long and narrow, padded in deep red velvet that brushed against her shoulders every few steps. The walls breathed warmth, but the air stayed cool, scented faintly with clove, old paper, and something floral that had long since dried out. Dim amber sconces flickered along the path, casting warped shadows that stretched and curled with her movements. It didn’t feel like walking into a building. It felt like being swallowed.

Each step took her further from reality. Her dad’s voice in the car, still ringing with disappointment. The zeroes in her bank account. The half-finished demo she couldn’t afford to master. All of it fell away, like static detaching from a radio dial. She wasn’t sure if she was floating or sinking.

The man said nothing, just led her deeper.

Eventually, they reached a door. It looked ancient, carved with symbols she didn’t recognize. Something that felt older than language, older than the city itself. They pulsed faintly under the glow of the hallway lights, as if alive beneath the grain of the wood.

The man knocked once. A dull, heavy sound.

Then he turned the handle and pushed the door open. He didn’t go in. Just stepped aside and motioned for her to enter.

Eden hesitated. Only for a second. Long enough to feel her heart rise in her throat, thick and loud. Then she stepped over the threshold.

And the world changed.

The air inside was cooler, denser, but it didn’t chill her. It settled around her skin like silk. Everything glowed in shades of wine and shadow. Low lights glinting off crystal, velvet drapes billowing near tall windows sealed shut. Music played somewhere far away, too soft to follow but rich enough to taste.

It wasn’t a room. It was a scene. A set. A spell.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn toward the figure seated at the far end.

And that was when she saw him.

Her eyes adjusted slowly, drawn to the figure at the far end of the room.

He sat like he owned more than just the building. Like he owned the hour, the tension, even the breath in her lungs. Leaning back in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers resting loosely on the armrest, he looked every bit the gentleman devil.

He wore a deep burgundy suit that soaked up the light like velvet. It was tailored so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. Gold embroidery traced the lapels in delicate patterns, only catching the light when he moved. Serpents, maybe, or ivy, curling like secrets. A thick gold Cuban link chain sat heavy against his chest, and a matching pinky ring caught the lamplight when he lifted his hand to his jaw.

His skin was smooth, the kind of smooth that didn’t come from skincare, but from time. A warm brown, almost bronze, like whiskey left out in the sun. He looked like he could be in his late twenties, but Eden could feel the weight behind the stillness. The kind of quiet you feel in old houses or graveyards.

Then there were his eyes.

They held a faint glow, not glaring or artificial, but soft and strange, like candlelight burning behind thick purple glass. The color wasn’t the unsettling part; it was the depth. If she stared too long, she’d probably see everything he’d done and everything he wanted from her now.

And when he smiled—

It wasn’t wide. Just a small curl of his mouth, more on the left side, like he was letting her in on a secret she didn’t deserve to hear yet. That’s when she saw it. A gold open-faced grill on one of his fangs, subtle and gleaming. Not flashy or loud, just intentional. The kind of accessory that told you he’d been rich for longer than you’d been alive and had nothing left to prove.

Eden’s breath caught before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or fascination. Probably both.

He didn’t stand.

He didn’t need to.

His voice rolled out, low and velvet-smooth, the kind that made people lean in without realizing.

“Eden,” he said, her name sitting on his tongue like something rare and expensive.

She nodded once. “That’s me.”

His gaze flicked downward, taking in her boots, her skirt, the smudge of eyeliner she hadn’t meant to look perfect. He wasn’t judging her. He was gathering details, building a file in his mind.

“Pretty name,” he said. “Pretty girl.”

Her jaw tightened at the compliment. She’d heard it too many times before from broke boys and drunk strangers. But from him, it didn’t feel cheap. It felt like a warning.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

Stack tilted his head just enough to shift the mood. Not much. Just enough to make her uneasy.

“I’m Elias Moore,” he said. “But folks around here call me Stack.”

“Stack,” she repeated.

He gave her that same half-smile.

“I like a girl who listens.”

Then he rose from his chair.

Not quickly. Not slow either. Just smoothly, like he didn’t have to try. He was taller than she expected, and his frame filled the room like music you couldn’t turn down. He moved with purpose, not just confidence, but certainty, like the floor had always been waiting for his footsteps.

When he stopped in front of her, close enough for her to feel the stillness coming off him, she realized he didn’t wear cologne. The flyer had warned against perfume, and he clearly followed the same rule. But still, there was a scent. Faint and warm, like sandalwood, old leather, maybe even dried jasmine crushed into parchment.

He raised a gloved hand.

“You can leave anytime you want,” he said. “But if you take one more step, you’re choosing not to.”

She looked at his hand. Elegant. Dead. Gold ring catching the light.

Her heart kicked hard in her chest.

She didn’t take his hand.

But she didn’t move away either.

His hand hovered in the space between them for another second before he let it fall.

Stack nodded toward a low velvet chair across from his own. “Sit if you want. Or stand. Some people feel safer that way.”

Eden moved without thinking, sliding into the seat like her knees might give out otherwise. Her palms were sweating, but she kept them in her lap. He didn’t look like the type who’d offer napkins.

The silence stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt full of decisions. Stack poured two fingers of something amber into a crystal glass from a decanter by his elbow, then slid it across the table toward her. He didn’t pour himself one.

Eden stared at it. “Is it safe?”

Stack grinned, just a flash of gold and teeth. “Safer than most things you’ve done to chase a dream, I’d bet.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the drink and finally lifted it, more out of pride than thirst. It burned, but not bad. Smooth like molasses with a bite at the end, like it knew you had secrets and didn’t mind.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about the job.”

Eden sat straighter. “Alright.”

“You know the basics,” Stack said. “You let someone feed. You get paid. How far you want to go is up to you.”

He tapped a long finger against the table, slow, like a metronome counting down something important.

“Neck’s three hundred an hour. Wrist’s fourhundred, thigh’s five-fifty. Shoulder anywhere else, we can negotiate. You can sign on as a regular, or keep it casual. We also offer exclusive arrangements. More private. More lucrative. More dangerous.”

Eden pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, pretending she wasn’t halfway to hyperventilating. Her mouth felt like cotton and her stomach wouldn’t stop fluttering. But her voice held steady.

“What’s the risk?”

Stack shrugged. “Some vampires don’t know when to stop. Some donors fall in love. Some folks just aren’t built for it. We vet both sides, but accidents happen. That’s why we sign oaths. Confidentiality. Consent. Boundaries.”

She stared at him for a moment. “And you? What do you do here? Besides sit in velvet and look... like that.”

He smiled again, but slower this time, like he appreciated the jab. “I run this place. I built it. I make sure the hungry don’t get sloppy, and the desperate don’t disappear. That’s my job.”

“And if I disappear anyway?”

Stack’s smile faded, not into anger, but into something quieter. He looked at her in that same scanning way from before. Like he was looking past the makeup, past the attitude, down into the parts of her she didn’t let people touch.

“You got people who’d come looking for you?”

Eden thought of her dad. His voice on the phone, always clipped when she brought up music or asked for help. She thought of her name on the caller ID and the way he probably paused before letting it go to voicemail.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

Stack didn’t look surprised. “Then you’re the kind of girl this place was made for.”

The room settled into stillness again, thick as gumbo. The only sound was the soft buzz of something electrical and the faint thump of music far beneath them. Eden’s thoughts were running in circles, dragging every old warning and new curiosity with them.

She thought about her bank account. About the way her car shuddered when she turned the key. About the silk dress she wanted to wear for her next show that still sat in the consignment window with a tag she couldn’t afford.

She thought about her voice. That gift she was chasing like it owed her something. Every sacrifice. Every studio hour. Every burnt-out candle and scribbled lyric.

And then she thought about this room. This man. This offer that felt like it came from a door she didn’t know she’d already opened.

“What happens if I say yes?” she asked.

Stack’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you’re fed, rested, paid. Protected. You give me your time and a little of your blood. I give you everything else.”

“And if I want more?” she asked, softer now. “Not just money. I want freedom. A little power of my own.”

For the first time, something shifted in his face. Not surprise, but interest. Real interest.

“You’d be surprised what blood can buy,” he said. “Especially when it’s yours.”

Eden exhaled slow. She didn’t know if she believed him, but she wanted to. That scared her more than anything.

She looked down at her chipped nail polish, at the ring she kept on her pinky for good luck, then back up at him.

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Once.”

Stack nodded like he already knew. He stood again and reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of parchment. Not paper. Parchment. The kind that smelled like it belonged in a museum. He laid it on the table with a small, weighted pen.

“Name, date, initials here and here. Once you sign, the room changes.”

Eden raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Stack’s purple eyes gleamed. “You’ll see.”

She stared at the parchment. Her heart thumped a little faster now, but she didn’t hesitate.

She signed.

And the room breathed.

Not literally, but that’s how it felt. The wallpaper shifted, shadows deepened. Something behind her spine tingled, as if the walls were watching now.

Stack watched her, too. “You hungry?”

Eden blinked. “A little.”

He extended a hand. This time, she took it.

His hand was cool. Not cold like death, just cooler than it should’ve been. Like he hadn’t been touched by sun or sweat in years. Eden followed him through a second doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago. She could’ve sworn that wall was solid when she walked in. Now it opened like a secret.

The new room was quieter. Darker, too, but not in a threatening way. It felt... sacred. The lighting came from candles tucked into glass sconces, their flames barely flickering. The walls were painted a deep garnet that made the space feel like it had been dipped in wine. Heavy curtains hung in the corners like they were hiding more than windows.

At the center of the room sat a low velvet couch and a wide leather chair shaped like a throne, but not gaudy. Worn in. Like someone had loved it for a long time. The air smelled faintly of clove and something richer, something warm. It wrapped around her like a robe.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Stack said, his voice lower now, closer to a whisper.

Eden moved to the couch. Her legs didn’t feel like her own anymore. The velvet was soft under her fingers, like the kind of fabric rich people bought without checking the price tag. She leaned back and took a breath.

Stack remained standing. He didn’t hover, didn’t crowd her. Just watched.

“I’m going to ask again,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

Eden nodded. “Yeah.”

He smiled, slower this time. Less show. More meaning.

“Good. Then we’ll make it clean.”

He walked over to a cabinet near the back of the room and pulled out a shallow silver bowl, etched with symbols she didn’t recognize. Then he lit a bundle of dried herbs and let the smoke curl into the corners. It didn’t choke the air, just warmed it, changed it. Eden felt something loosen in her chest. The fear didn’t vanish, but it dulled.

“This is how we start,” he said. “No one touches without consent. You say stop, I stop. You say no, we’re done. Say the word mercy if anything feels wrong.”

She nodded. “Mercy.”

“Good girl.”

The words should’ve felt patronizing. But they didn’t. They felt like a key turning in a door.

He set the bowl on a low table beside the couch, then took off his gloves. His hands were ringed in gold and the veins under his skin looked faintly violet, like there was something strange running through him.

“Where?”

Eden’s throat went dry.

She remembered the ad. Neck. Thigh. Wrist. Options like a damn menu. It sounded transactional until it was real. Until you had to say it out loud to someone who would actually do it.

She tilted her head, just slightly, exposing her throat.

“Neck,” she said. “Just there.”

Stack moved slowly, no rush in him. He came to sit beside her, close but careful, like she was a page in a holy book he wasn’t sure he had permission to read. He didn’t touch her at first. Just looked.

His eyes had that same violet glow, soft and low like candlelight. There was no hunger in them, not the way she’d imagined. No animal in the shadows. Just need, steady and patient.

He brushed her curls back with a single finger. His touch was deliberate. Reverent.

“You’ll feel pressure,” he said. “Then warmth.”

She nodded, even though her heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear her own breath.

He leaned in.

His mouth was cool against her skin, not open at first. Just resting there. Then she felt it. A brief, sharp ache, like a pinprick from a needle that knew where to go. Not pain exactly. More like being opened.

Then came the warmth. A slow pull that tugged at her chest and her belly and somewhere deeper. It was dizzying. She gripped the couch cushion beside her and let her eyes fall shut.

She thought it would feel like something being taken from her. But it didn’t. It felt like something shared. Something circular. Like her blood was telling a story and he was just listening, slow and careful, taking only what he needed.

When he pulled back, he let out a slow breath against her skin.

“That’s enough.”

Eden blinked her eyes open. Her limbs felt light, her mind foggy but soft, like she’d just come out of a warm bath.

He pressed a cool cloth to her neck, then leaned back to give her space.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

She had to think about it. Then she smiled.

“Like I just got kissed by something dangerous.”

Stack chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s because you did.”

He stood and reached for a small black envelope on the side table. Inside was a stack of crisp bills. Cash. The real kind. Eden took it with fingers that still tingled.

“This is yours,” he said. “For tonight.”

She didn’t count it. She didn’t need to.

Stack looked down at her, head slightly tilted. “You ever want more, you know where to find me.”

Eden stood, a little shakier than she expected. She gathered her purse, her keys, her thoughts. Her neck still throbbed gently, but not in a bad way.

“Thank you,” she said, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And Eden?”

She turned.

His eyes were glowing again, soft but unreadable.

“You were made for this.”

She didn’t answer. She just walked out into the night, heart pounding, mouth dry, and mind racing. The street outside was the same as when she’d arrived. But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

The rust-colored Honda didn’t shudder this time. It purred like it was just as stunned as she was.

Eden drove with the windows down, letting the thick New Orleans night wrap around her like a wet velvet shawl. The air was rich with honeysuckle, oil, and the ghost of a second line that had long since moved on. Her neck still buzzed, not with pain, but with presence. A lingering echo of fangs and breath and a moment that felt like it cracked something open inside her.

She rolled past the neon flicker of corner stores and daiquiri shops, the cracked sidewalks of uptown giving way to potholes and porch lights. Her thoughts moved as slowly as her car did. Heavy, syrupy things that stuck to the edges of her brain and refused to form full sentences.

She’d sold her blood. Just handed it over like a receipt. Signed her name on a scroll older than any contract she’d ever seen. Sat inches from a man with glowing eyes and a golden fang and said yes.

And yet… she didn’t feel wrong.

Her heartbeat was steady now, settled. Her limbs were loose and lazy, like her body knew something she didn’t. Like it had crossed a threshold and didn’t see a reason to go back.

At a red light, she glanced at the cash in her passenger seat. Real money. More than she’d made in a month of folding sweaters at the campus bookstore. Her fingers twitched with the urge to count it, to be sure, but something in her resisted. That wasn’t what mattered.

What mattered was how she felt. And for once, it wasn’t desperate.

It was dangerous.

She parked outside her apartment just after two a.m., the same flickering streetlamp buzzing above her like always. Normally, she would’ve slumped inside, peeled off her shoes, microwaved something sad, and stared at her ceiling until sleep came to find her. But tonight she sat still in the car, engine off, listening to the sound of cicadas and the low rumble of the city that never really slept.

She touched her neck. There was no bandage. Just skin. Tender, yes, but smooth.

Like he’d never been there.

But he had. And her body remembered.

When she finally made it inside, Eden didn’t bother undressing. She collapsed onto her bed face-up, curls fanned across the pillow, clothes still sticking to her from the sweat of the night. She meant to scroll her phone, maybe check her email. Instead, sleep came hard and fast.

And with it, the dream.

She was back in the velvet room, but everything was softer. Louder. Redder. The walls pulsed like they had a heartbeat. Candles melted into puddles on the floor, filling the air with the smell of blood-orange and clove.

Stack stood across from her, suit jacket off now. The sleeves of his burgundy shirt rolled to the elbows. The gold on his wrist glinted in the candlelight, and his grill caught her eye when he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not cold.

This smile was hot and low and deliberate.

He crossed the room without a word, steps soundless, until his hands were on her waist. His touch wasn’t demanding. It was magnetic. Her body leaned in before her mind caught up.

“Still not scared?” he murmured.

His voice brushed her skin like silk and sin.

“No,” she said, or maybe just thought it. In dreams, it didn’t matter.

He pressed his forehead to hers, just long enough for her to feel the thrum of something ancient behind his skin. Then his lips traced the spot on her neck he’d bitten. Not kissing. Not quite.

Tasting.

She gasped.

And woke up breathless.

Her bedroom was dark and quiet. The fan whirred above her, and outside someone’s dog barked once, then stopped. Her skin was slick with sweat, but she didn’t feel hot.

She felt hollow. Wired. A little drunk on something that hadn’t happened.

She stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, and reached for her phone.

The screen lit her face in blue, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. Her eyes were too sharp. Her lips too calm. She looked like someone with secrets. The kind of girl you warned people about.

Eden opened her messages and scrolled to the last number in her phone.

504-9VAMPYR.

She stared at it for a long minute, thumb hovering. Then she typed three words.

When’s the next?

She hit send. No emoji. No punctuation. Just intent.

The message delivered with a quiet chime.

And Eden leaned back in her bed, the dream still clinging to her skin like smoke.

She didn’t know what came next.

But she knew she wanted more.

Her phone buzzed again.

Tomorrow. Midnight. Same place. Wear red.

Tag List: @whoaitslucyylu @omgffs @healanette @secret89sblog @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @uzumaki-rebellion @soufcakmistress @thickemadame @blackpantherismyish @kumkaniudaku @youreadthatright @post-woke @chaneajoyyy @kissmyafropuff @empressdede @melodyofmbaku @blktinkerbell @turbulentvoids @writerbee-ffs @jasssdee1 @cerya @hearteyes-for-killmonger @theegoldenchild @theogbadbitch @honggihwa @dashhoney25 @jackierose902109 @hotcommodityyy @browngirldominion @j0ysyndr0m3

#my shit #thee thigh priestess writes #sinners #sinners fanfiction #elias moore #elias stack moore #vampire!stack #stack x black oc

188 notes · View notes

littleapplle · 2 months ago

Text

change. 𝐈.

melancholy and the bitter taste of homesickness fill each corner of his brain when you're away. between broken sobs, stormy skies and lost pearls, rafayel is glad he can still find comfort in what is left of his long forgotten home and loved ones.

cw: nothing really. fluff, angst if you squint. mentions of fem!reader. weird way to describe jellyfishes... bare with me. 2.1k w. mermay event masterlist.

note: first chapter for mermay out! this was so fun to write<3 talking about lemuria and writing about it are one of my favorite things. i hope you all enjoy it. also this turned out a little angsty?? it wasnt the intention really LOL.

There are some days where getting his hands dirty with paint isn't enough to drown the feeling of being homesick. The days where you're away and his melancholy gets the best of him.

There are days where Rafayel’s eyes match the dark stormy skies and he doesn't bother to pick up the solidifying tears that quickly turn into pearls and bounce on the floor.

And like a toddler in search of comfort, his limp body crosses the sand, getting soaked by the rain in the process. He doesn't bother to take his shirt off, nor his watch and jewelry. As soon as he's knee-deep in the water, Rafayel lets the following harsh wave swallow him entirely.

The scene would make anyone witnessing it panic. A man, apparently out of his mind, mindlessly walking towards the ocean while a storm roars in the skies and creates turbulent waves that crash against the shore violently. His figure is engulfed entirely in a single breath, leaving no traces behind.

Rafayel does not fight against the raging waters. Instead, he lets them guide him to wherever they want as a punishment. Shame hits his bones with the pain of a gunshot, crawling up his spine like an itch he can’t scratch. His wish was for the waters that created him to eat him from inside out, filling his insides with salt and sand and devouring him whole.

An unfortunate, hypothetical end that was impossible for the lemurian to reach. How would the waters of fate, that sculpted him with prayers and devotion, fill the lungs of the god of tides with agony and disrespect and take his last breath?

God of what now? Rafayel scoffs in his mind.

Rafayel would trade his royalty, adoration, praises, people, everything, for you a hundred times again and never look back. He'd wait for you, alone, looking for you in every corner of the world, more than a thousand times. Rafayel would trade the whole sea for the bond you two made all those years ago but still – his heart aches with loneliness.

With his pale arms holding his tail close to his chest, Rafayel lets his body sink as deep as it can. He no longer can hear the raindrops stabbing the surface, just the misery haunting his mind.

He misses home. His studio is right there, the white curtains on his tall windows are probably waiting for him to get back and close them so the rain doesn’t soak the fabric. The painting he started earlier, a frustrated attempt to soothe his troubled mind, still waits for him to be finished, or burned. Everything he has achieved as Rafayel Qi is right there but he misses home.

He misses Konche and Algie’s rare banters, where he’d pet their heads with a hearty laugh and make both go quiet in the blink of an eye. He misses being surrounded by art, his culture. He misses his aunt brushing his hair while singing him praises, he’d puff his cheeks and say she’s family and he’d rather be viewed as a nephew than a god. Talia is alive, Verona is a flight away. He should call her later. She’d listen and if he cried for a lullaby, she’d fulfill his wish. But it’s not the same.

He isn’t sitting on his vanity while Talia plays with his hair. His luxurious room, where he’d lock himself in and silently curse the tome of the sea god that everyone expected him to follow strictly, does not exist anymore. The mothers with their chubby babies cradled in their arms that would stop him in his tracks and ask for a blessing — not an actual one, but the comfort of being seen by their leader — vanished. Corals dyed in crimson are the only things proving they once existed.

If Rafayel didn’t care for the pearls leaving his eyes and hiding in all the tricky and messy spots back in his studio, then he definitely doesn’t care for the ones slowly sinking in the deep. Maybe humans would find them years later and sell his suffering. They did it before, they’d do it again.

He does not dare to move, only sobbing and hugging his tail closer, maybe in an attempt to shift into something smaller and dissolve like sea foam.

The world is quiet around him, nothing dares to move.

“Is that him? Is he back?” At a chirp from afar, his ear fins twitch.

Another voice joins, answering the first one with a ‘pruuu’ sound. “Of course it is him. Who else would swim this deep?”

Rafayel’s inhumane eyes dart to the direction of the noise. He isn’t scared. It is not fear that fills him. Maybe some embarrassment for being acknowledged by the, apparently, unknown in such a weak moment.

His body relaxes once he realizes it’s no human language. It is fish language he hears. Rafayel does not know what goes through his mind at the moment but relief washes over every scale in his body. Maybe it was the quick distraction from his desperation, maybe it was the comfort to not have his mistakes pointed out by the first thing his sharp hearing could focus on in the deep. He doesn’t know.

Swimming closer, his long body moves flawlessly to the direction the voices come from.

“Ouughh!! He’s coming closer! Do my tentacles look okay?” The first voice fusses. To human ears, if they were ever capable of listening to the voices of the abyss, it’d sound more like a bunch of high ‘mimimi’s’. Rafayel is already certain of what he’ll find.

Taking shelter under a few large rocks that made it impossible for the human eye to see anything, he finally finds what has silenced his cries. Two jellyfishes ‘stare’ at him. The color of their tentacles almost drain out comically from being caught stalking the merman they’ve missed so dearly.

“Stalking is a crime on the surface, you know? You two are lucky my bodyguard isn’t here.” He teases but his stuffed nose fails to make him as intimidating as he wished to be.

“Oh, we are so very, very sorry mr. Rafayel! We did not mean to intrude!” The pink jellyfish, Mimi, apologizes with high pitched chirps. Kiki, her lilac friend, swims in slow circles in agreement. “Yes, ‘ayel. We meant no harm but there are barely any visitors that swim this deep.” She sleepily adds, helping her friend out. “Only you.”

Tiny, misshapen pearls leave his eyes as he closes them tightly and laughs softly at their antics.

Kiki, once stuck in the sand thanks to the high tides, was saved by Rafayel, who was taking a walk for inspiration. In gratitude, all the following times Rafayel’s body sinked into the dark abyss trying to find some comfort in what was left of his world, Kiki, and her loud friend Mimi, would make an appearance. Today wouldn’t be different.

“I’m not mad.” He chuckles and sniffles, cleaning his red eyes with his wrist. Mimi’s thin, pale pink tentacles twitch. “Were you crying mr. Rafayel? What troubles your mind?” She squeaks, worried ‘mimimi’s’ buzzing in his ears.

Everything. Rafayel thought. The absence of lemurian children that would love to play with you two, he’d like to say. Algie would adore them. The pair acts just like the siblings sometimes. Another tear falls from his bicolor eyes and quickly solidifies into a shiny, white pearl.

He sits down on one of the rocks with a sigh, like a father that was about to give them the biggest and most valuable advice of their lives. The two delicate bodies rush to his sides like little kids, frightened to see a rare display of weakness of their guardian.

“Back on the surface, I messed up one of my paintings,” he tries, “A commission. I did everything the clients asked for, but once I tried adding another person to the picture, the paint I used blended into everything else and it turned into a big mess.”

His voice softens, he talks to them like they were toddlers. “And it made me really, really upset since the person I tried to paint was beautiful. The prettiest lady I've ever seen.” Rafayel’s does not care if he is making any sense or not. Well, venting to jellyfishes wasn’t already something common but he does not feel like being direct and say ‘I want my home, Lemuria. The one you two didn’t have the privilege to be born in. Algie’s favorite color was lilac, you’d be her best friend, Kiki. I miss my people.’

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier.”

Another whistle like, ‘pruuuu’ noise escapes both jellyfishes in acknowledgment.

“She must be really pretty then!” Mimi chirps but Kiki turns her translucent crown to the side in confusion. “Can’t you start again, ‘ayel?” She whispers with her tired voice.

Rafayel bites down on his already bruised, pink under lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering. “I can’t.” A pitiful whisper.

They all remain silent for a long time. The pair spins around him in gracious, slow circles. Their long tentacles tickle his face and sides by accident. He chuckles.

“Well!” Clapping his hands, he gulps down a weak sob. He has been busy lately and did not have enough time to visit his little friends. The little ones shouldn’t be fussing over him while he drowned in his own pearls. “I’ll paint something prettier when I go back to the surface.” A peaceful life with his bride.

“How have the two of you been?” A webbed finger pokes Mimi’s pale crown, she whistles as a response. “Good! But the water has been colder and it makes Kiki too sleepy.” The pink one chirps, whatever sound a jellyfish could make closer to a giggle. Her lilac friend fights back, her crown pushing Mimi away weakly, “Not true…”

‘Mimimi’s’ and ‘pruuuu’s’ escape the pair while they discuss in whispers Rafayel’s ears can’t really catch a glimpse of. He chuckles anyway. Mimi, as energetic as a jellyfish can be, is the first to snap out of their argument, tentacles going static when she suddenly remembers something.

“Oh! Mr. Rafayel! With spring coming soon- did you find your mate?” Not ‘a’ mate, your. Lemurian’s mate with someone they are completely devoted to and their bond is sealed with the ocean’s approval. At the subtle mention of your name, his usual smug smile returns to his face.

His back hits the cold rock and his arms rest behind his head. If he had to be honest with himself, he has been holding back since you two started dating, afraid his ‘inhumane’ side would overwhelm you. Lemurians love with fervor, it’s intense, they’d trade everything for their soulmates in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to scare you, really. It’d break his heart in a thousand pieces if he ever saw you shy away from his touch.

He smiles, looking fondly at the animals that acted more like little children. How could he not get baby fever with two little ones that clinged to his arms every time they spotted him underwater? His grin grows bigger, a ‘Yepppp’ leaves his pretty lips, his mouthing making a ‘pop!’ sound for the dragged p’s.

They giggle at his silly smile, multiple tentacles twitching with their tiny, breathy laughs. “Lucky fish…” Kiki murmurs and swims closer to Rafayel’s tail like a lapdog. “Indeed! Are they pretty, mr. Rafayel?” — “The prettiest.”

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier, Mimi. Like an angel.” Prettier than anything in this world, was his sincere answer but maybe the concept was too complex for a jellyfish.

He laughs as they have the same dialogue once more. Kiki does not intrude nor does she try to keep up with the conversation, quietly resting on the lilac and blue scales on Rafayel’s body.

An understanding ‘ohhh’ sound escapes the little one as she swims in circles. “Mr. Rafayel! You must show them to us! What could possibly be prettier than a lemurian?”

“Do not fret, silly.” Again, a finger, glossy with mucus, pokes her crown. “I plan to, but she’s a dummy. Does not trust me when I say she won’t drown with me by her side. Humans are a pain, Mimi, do not talk to them, ever.” Rafayel sighs dramatically.

Misery and torment let go from his scales and bones and sink alone into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness they once came out of. Comfort is found in the silliest and strangest places.

Rafayel sighs in relief as his eyes close, he keeps chatting to the energetic, pink child, entertaining her as much as he can before he has to come to the surface once more and deal with the, most likely soaked, curtains and maybe burn his half finished painting.

His only wish now was for you to be able to understand fish language. Oh how delighted you’d be to chat with a jellyfish that acts like a four year old. The pair would love you, too, he thinks. He finds his mind in peace, the storm no longer suffocates him and pearls no longer try to choke him.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

#.littleapplle's pastries #lads #lads fluff #love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #lnds rafayel #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #rafayel fluff #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lnds x reader

190 notes · View notes

ladywhistlewrites · 1 year ago

Note

Hi can I request a wife x Anthony bridgerton story where reader is finally pregnant and how she would tell Anthony and the family

hi darling, ofc!! (omg thanks for sending an ask)🩷

Anthony Bridgerton x female wife! reader

warnings: mentions of period/blood, pregnancy

***

The morning light filters through the delicate lace curtains, casting a warm glow over the room as you stretch beneath the covers. It’s early, and the house is still wrapped in the serene quiet of dawn. You take a deep breath, feeling the familiar tug of routine urging you to start the day. As you move to rise, a sudden realization freezes you in place. You glance down at the crisp white sheets beneath you and feel a jolt of surprise and anticipation. There is no sign of your monthly visitor.

Your heart begins to race. Could it be? After all these months of hope and disappointment, dare you believe it? Your hands tremble slightly as you press them to your abdomen, a wave of tentative joy washing over you. You have to be sure. Quietly, so as not to wake the household, you slip from the bed and dress quickly, your thoughts a whirlwind of hope and possibility.

Making your way down the hall, your steps are light, almost as if you are floating. Each breath feels like a prayer, a silent plea for your dreams to be true. As you approach Anthony’s studio, you hear the soft scratching of his pen against paper. He’s been up for hours, as is his custom, losing himself in work before the household stirs.

You hesitate for a moment at the door, gathering your courage. Then, with a bright smile breaking across your face, you push it open and step inside. Anthony looks up, his eyes lighting with surprise and pleasure at the sight of you.

“My love,” he greets, rising from his desk. “What brings you here so early?”

You can barely contain your excitement as you close the distance between you, your hands reaching out to grasp his. “Anthony, I have news. The most wonderful news.” Your voice trembles with emotion, and you see his eyes widen, a spark of anticipation igniting within them.

“What is it?” he asks, his tone eager, almost breathless.

“I… I think I’m pregnant,” you whisper, tears of joy welling in your eyes. “I checked the sheets this morning, and there was nothing. I haven’t felt any of the usual signs. Anthony, I believe we are finally going to have a child.”

For a moment, he is silent, the words hanging in the air between you. Then, with a cry of joy, he sweeps you into his arms, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around. Laughter bubbles from your lips as you cling to him, the room a blur of motion and happiness.

He sets you down gently, his hands framing your face as he gazes into your eyes, his own brimming with tears. “My love, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “We are going to be parents.”

You nod, unable to speak, overwhelmed by the depth of his joy and the love shining in his eyes. He kisses you then, a tender, reverent kiss that speaks of promises and dreams and the future you will build together.

In the hours that follow, you and Anthony make plans to share the joyous news with the rest of the Bridgerton family. The day seems to fly by, a whirlwind of preparations and secret smiles, your heart soaring with the knowledge of the life growing within you.

As evening falls, the dining room is a picture of elegance and warmth. The table is set with the finest china, gleaming silverware, and fresh flowers that fill the air with a sweet fragrance. The soft glow of candlelight bathes the room in a golden hue, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

The family gathers, their faces alight with curiosity and affection. You can barely contain your excitement, your eyes meeting Anthony’s across the table, a silent communication passing between you. Finally, as the conversation lulls, Anthony rises, his hand reaching for yours.

“Everyone,” he begins, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “we have some wonderful news to share. We have just learned that we are expecting a child.”

For a heartbeat, there is silence, and then the room erupts in joyous exclamations. Daphne and Eloise rush to embrace you, their laughter mingling with yours. Benedict and Colin slap Anthony on the back, their congratulations hearty and sincere. The younger Bridgertons dance around the room, their excitement infectious.

Violet, her eyes shining with tears, crosses the room to you. She takes your hands in hers, her smile radiant as she draws you into a warm embrace. “Oh, my dear,” she whispers, her voice trembling with happiness, “this is the most wonderful news. I am so happy for you both.”

You hold her tightly, the love and acceptance in her embrace filling you with a profound sense of belonging. “Thank you, Violet,” you whisper back, your voice choked with emotion. “We are so blessed to have all of you to share this with.”

As the evening unfolds, the room is filled with laughter and celebration. Glasses are raised in toasts, and stories are shared, each one adding to the tapestry of joy that weaves through the night. You sit beside Anthony, your hand in his, your heart full to bursting with love and happiness.

This is the beginning of a new chapter, a future filled with promise and hope. And as you look around at the faces of those you hold dear, you know that this child will be welcomed into a world brimming with love and joy, surrounded by family who will cherish them always.

***

hope you like it!!🩷

823 notes · View notes

revasserium · 1 year ago

Text

entwined shadows

zayne, rafayel, xavier; 1,872 words; fluff, semi-canon compliant, spoilers! for entwined shadows cards, v!suggestive, no "y/n", genderless!reader, lapslock cause lazy, so! many! kisses!

summary: kiss me once, kiss me twice, kiss me thrice or a thousand times

a/n: inspired by the poems of robert frost and also obviously by the entwined shadows cards cause... bruh.

perish, twice - zayne

the hideout is cold — but his lips are warm, hungry.

“z-zayne!”

there’s fire in his veins, pulsing beneath your fingertips, the kind that his ice has never been able to put out — not even once.

“please…” he sounds like a broken man; you know better than to believe him, “i told you… i warned you…” he trails his lips along the column of your neck, his fingers digging into the bend of your hips, his other hand pinning your wrists above your head, “that i might not be able to control myself this time…”

he lets out a breath, the heat of it fogging the air between you in the dark chill of the room. you feel your skin burning, even as you shiver. your mind spins with the incongruencies, the push and pull, the icy bite of the air, the stinging heat of zayne’s body against yours.

“i-if we freeze tonight —” your voice is unsteady, heady with desire, but zayne cuts you off.

“i won’t let you.” he cups your cheek and you feel the skin there tingle with warmth. slowly, you watch as the vines of pale blue begin to fade from his skin.

you shake your head even as you pull him down for another deep, long kiss, the kind that sears —

“no… i won’t let you.”

when you break apart again, there’s a wild, unfocused light to his eyes, a shallowness to his breaths. he looks dazed, but as his gaze flickers down to your kiss-swollen lips, a razor like focus shifts inside him and suddenly, he’s caging you in, his teeth skimming the delicate skin above your fluttering pulse.

“tell me… tell me this is okay…” his voice is barely a whisper. but you hear it loud as the howling of the storm outside. you breathe out.

“zayne. i want this — i want… you.”

a groan rumbles through him, base and heavy as an avalanche.

he murmurs something that sound suspiciously like a prayer before he sinks his teeth into the bare skin of your shoulder and rips open the front of your shirt in one smooth motion.

the storm outside continues to rage, but at the very least, you can be certain — the ice pulsing beneath his skin is slowly beginning to thaw away.

taste of desire - rafayel

“but this one… i think i like this one best.” rafayel grins as he leans down to press two quick kisses to your cheeks, pulling back to trail his gaze over your blush-tinted skin. heat prickles at your neck but you refuse to look away.

instead, you attempt a glare, “y-you said that three seconds ago.”

rafayel makes an aggrieved expression, “it’s not my fault your cheeks can turn so many colors so quickly! do you know how tiring it is to try and pick my favorite color when i can see so many? ah — there, this one’s nice too!” he taps his finger against the tip of your nose even as you feel your entire face flush.

you bite your lips and push back against him, toppling the pair of you over onto the sofa in his wide-open studio. the windows are cracked, and the spring breeze flirts with the gauzy white curtains; the setting sun paints the entire room in a soft, dreamlike glow.

“why can’t you just call it blush pink like everyone else?” you crinkle your nose and try to turn your head away, even as rafayel shifts beneath you, running a warm palm down the length of your spine to shift you closer.

he cocks his head, lips pushing into a familiar pout, “how can an artist like me be so vague?” he shakes a few strands of hair from his eyes, batting long lashes up at you, “in order to achieve perfection, you have to be specific with your words, you know.”

you’re about to say something else but he sits up, pressing in close enough for your noses to brush, “for instance — if you want a kiss…” his eyes flicker down to your lips; you feel your breath hitch, your heartbeat scattering within your chest like a handful of tossed marbles.

he inches forward, agonizingly slowly, till his lips are hovering only a hair’s breath away from yours. your fingers tighten in his shirt but he makes no move to kiss you.

“you should tell me where…” he makes to lean in, but turns his head at the last moment to skim his lips along your cheeks, his breath tickling your earlobe for a second, “like… here?” he lowers his head, trailing a light kiss against your jaw, “or… perhaps here…” he drops his lips to the bend of your shoulder.

you tremble in his arms, fingers fisting as you attempt to pull him closer.

“r-rafayel… you’re not playing fair.”

he pulls back, an almost gleeful grin spreading across his lips, the light cascading across the room drawing his lashes into long, mesmerizing shadows across the highs of his cheeks.

“why should i? you humans’ve never played fair before. for my own self-preservation… i’ve gotta have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

you squirm in his lap as you feel his fingers tickling at your sides, but as he pins you to his chest, you let out a surprised yelp, palms pressing flat against his chest to steady yourself.

“so, tell me, strange human…” he leans in, nose nudging yours, “what exactly do you want from me, hm?”

you lick your lips, a dull, pulsing ache echoing up from the base of your belly to the top of your spine. you reach up to trace a thumb against the pad of his lips and watch with a stomach-twisting satisfaction as his breath goes shallow, his eyes go wide, go dark.

“kiss me,” you say, leaning down till you’re sure he can almost taste you on his tongue.

you feel him swallow as you trail your thumb down along his neck to the place where his pulse flutters, light and fast as the flurried beats of a butterfly’s wings.

“i thought… i thought i told you… you have to be more specific.”

you allow yourself a grin, fingers tightening ever so slightly around his neck; his cheeks flush the most gorgeous shade of sunset pink and you take a second to marvel to yourself that you’d never quite seen this color on him before. it might just be your favorite yet.

“rafayel… kiss me… right here.”

here come the stars - xavier

looking back, it had felt like a dream — twenty-one days of living together, of grocery shopping and tv-watching, of sleeping next to each other, of waking up to the warm scent of his skin.

“what if we just stayed here forever?”

you twist to face him in the dark; it’s your last night here, and the previous afternoon, you’d sat beneath the thick slices of lemon-yellow sunlight pouring through the windows with a bowl of cherries and the taste of each other resting on your tongues.

“we’d be implicating ourselves in the mission.”

xavier sighs, shifting a bit closer and reaching out to cup your cheek. you lean into the touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as you nuzzle into his heat.

“i know. but…” his finger traces the line of your nose down to the soft of your lips. you let them fall open a second before you feel him pressing in closer, before his lips graze yours and you feel yourself falling into his embrace.

the sheets twist around your ankles. outside, the the scimitar moon watches with slitted silver eyes.

“but…” you say, your voice thick with the honey of recent kisses, “who says that it can’t be like this when we get back to linkon city?”

xavier makes a soft noise at the back of his throat, pulling away to glance down at you.

“what… are you…”

there’s a breathless anticipation pulsing beneath the current of his voice; you sigh and lean up for another quick kiss.

“and you were calling me a dummy earlier…” but even as you steel yourself against the words weighing down the tip of your tongue, you feel your cheeks go hot and silently thank the heavens that it’s too dark in the room for him to see just how red you’d probably gotten.

“i — i’m asking if you want to — i mean, we’re already neighbors so, it wouldn’t even be a very hard move…” you lick your lips, mouth suddenly very dry. beside you, xavier’s gone white-rabbit still. if it weren’t for the shallow sound of his breaths or the wild beating of his heart beneath your hands, you might’ve wondered if he were even there at all.

“i just thought —” you quickly amend, the silence thickening around you like churned butter, “if you really did l-like it like this… it wouldn’t be hard for us to —”

he silences you with another kiss, more forceful this time. and whereas the previous ones were all soft and languid, this one is open-mouthed, a stomach-clenching hunger pouring itself from his mouth to yours as he presses you down beneath him and pins you to the bed.

his knee presses up between your legs and desire lances through you, bright and sharp as lightening. you gasp, biting down on his lips as he groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“i don’t know — if that’s a good — idea —”

you lick your lips, frowning up at him. you’ve never seen him so winded; you’d barely even seen him out of breath, but right now, even in the dim light, you can see him shaking apart at the edges.

“w-why?” you have to fight to keep the hurt from your voice, but the next second, xavier is pressing his tongue back into your mouth and running it along the backs of your teeth. he kisses you so hard and so thoroughly you nearly pass out from the lack of air.

“because — i — we’d never get any sleep. and —” his hair tickles the skin of your cheeks as you let out a surprised laugh, his lips trailing down the length of your throat, “and i rather like my sleep…”

you let your eyes fall shut again, tangling your fingers in his starlight hair as he hisses against your chest.

“well — at least tomorrow we have the day off… so, i suppose if there’s any night we won’t need much sleep…”

xavier lets out a soft groan, shaking his head even as he peppers your skin with even more kisses, “don’t… don’t say stuff like that. people might get the wrong idea.”

you give his hair a playful tug, reveling in the way his whole body seems to go taut above you as he lifts his head.

“or,” you smile, slowly releasing his hair from your fingers, “they might be getting exactly the right idea.”

587 notes · View notes

mviswidow · 13 days ago

Text

pas de deux

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: Natasha sees a familiar face at her weekly ballet class. A/N: this got me out of my writer's block and was so much fun to write! i was lowkey geeking while writing this. i’m obsessed with this concept (also sorry for all the ballet jargon)

Every Sunday she had available, Natasha took ballet. It was something she started doing a couple of months after Ultron to make herself feel more normal. Her SHIELD-mandated therapist had recommended it as an exposure therapy of sorts. It had helped, though she wouldn’t admit the fact to anyone but herself.

She’d found a few studios that she loved, but would leave and find a new one every time she was recognized. The longest she’d made it before was shockingly 10 weeks, though a 7:30 pm class didn’t have many attendees. Sometimes people would come up and ask, sometimes she could tell she had been recognized by the way they looked at her. The latter felt worse. She could see the hint of fear in their eyes as they pretended not to stare. It made an uncomfortable knot in her stomach.

Today was her first day at her 9th studio. She was hoping this one could stick for a while, or she would have to begin to circle back to old ones and try to take class at a different time. That, or make use of a spare room in the Compound, which would likely be much easier than having to find new studios all the time, but wouldn’t be as therapeutic.

Nat considered herself to be a composed person, but she couldn’t avoid the pre-class jitters she felt, though they mainly stemmed from not wanting to be recognized. She made a silent prayer that the receptionist wouldn’t recognize her.

(The shortest she’d stayed at a studio was two minutes; she couldn’t make it through signing in for her class reservation that she’d made online before the perky blonde receptionist had a look in her eye that screamed, “I know you from somewhere”. Natasha was out the door after, “Aren’t you-”.)

Luckily, she didn’t get more than a second glance from the receptionist, an elderly Ukrainian woman, who simply complimented Natasha on the color of her hair, saying it reminded her of her daughter.

She thanked her, letting a gentle smile reach her eyes at the sentiment, and headed up the stairs to the studios.

Natasha liked to arrive early. It gave her time to take note of all exit points in the building, stretch, and relax a little before people started to show up.

The place was calm. She could hear music coming from the first studio in the long hallway.

She gave a polite nod to the mothers sitting on a bench watching their children finish up their class. Her chest tightened as she stole a glance at them, a glimpse of what her childhood should have been.

Nat walked to the end of the hallway to Studio 5, surprised to see someone already inside. She assumed it was just the teacher and took a few steps closer to the door, trying to read the name listed on the printed schedule for the day.

“Y/n Y/l/n,” she whispered. The name felt foreign on her lips, heavy on her tongue. Her blood ran hot, and anxiety swelled deep in her chest.

One look at you was all it took for memories to come flooding back. The two of you standing beside each other at the barre, stealing glances at each other during class, always pairing up to go across the floor at the same time. You were a troublesome duo in your youth; the only times you or Natasha ever got in trouble for misbehaving were when you were together.

You’d been each other’s weakness.

She hadn’t seen you since she defected from the red room.

She remembered stopping by your bunk the night before her mission that led her to meet Clint.

She remembered the kiss she pressed to your knuckles after she squeezed your hand goodbye and how badly she’d wanted to have kissed your lips instead.

She remembered how beautiful you were, even more so now as she watched you practice an adagio gracefully in the center of the room. You’d always been a better dancer than her; she’d told you so countless times.

You felt eyes watching you and glanced at the large window into the studio through the mirror, seeing a familiar red bun. For a second, you thought you might be hallucinating, but as soon as you saw her cheeks flush upon realizing she’d been caught staring, you knew your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

As soon as you were able to shake off the shocked look on your face, a smirk tugged at the edge of your lips, but when you turned towards the door to greet her, she was gone.

Natasha beelined for the bathroom, knuckles almost white from gripping her bag. The door clicked loudly as it locked. Her head was swimming with exit strategies, excuses, and you. She couldn't decide if being stuck in a room with you for an hour and a half was a blessing or a curse.

She checked the time on her phone, trying to rationalize her situation. The whole reason she was doing this in the first place was to replace negative memories of dancing in the Red Room with positive ones, but how could she possibly do that when you seemed to be in most of her memories from childhood? For the first time, she wondered what her therapist would suggest.

As easy as it could have been for her to leave, she felt frozen in place. Her brain was screaming at her to go and make sure that your paths never crossed again, but her heart felt warm. It was an unusual sensation, but she felt an odd sense of comfort knowing that you were near.

Natasha missed you.

“What the fuck is happening?” she huffed, letting her head thump against the tiled bathroom wall.

Nat shut her eyes as her jaw clenched tightly, trying to keep her anxiety at bay. She felt embarrassed. She ran away from you. Who fucking does that?

“Christ,” she splashed cold water on her face and left the bathroom.

There were now two girls stretching in the studio. Natasha was relieved at the sight of new people, though it was probably fair to assume that you’d gotten the idea that she didn’t want to talk to you.

She wasn’t even really sure if that was true. If she hadn’t wanted to see you right now, she could have easily left.

Your eyes met again. You were standing beside the sound system in the far front corner of the room, making casual conversation with your students (You were barely listening).

Natasha offered you something that could hardly be described as a smile, but she looked apologetic. The corners of your lips quirked upwards as you tilted your head to the side. A soft gesture that said, “I won’t bite.”

The redhead finally crossed the threshold of the room, settling herself in the back corner, far from everyone.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Natasha’s quads were burning. You were 45 minutes into class, finishing up barre before moving on to work in the center of the room.

You’d kept your distance from Natasha thus far, not wanting to cross a line. You figured she’d come to class to do what she enjoys, not be plagued with memories of her past.

You caught Nat wobbling in her arabesqué before the group started to do the combination on the other side and walked over to her.

She seemed to stiffen up slightly as you got closer. You watched carefully as she brought her left leg up into passé.

“Tuck your pelvis more.”

Her eyes flickered to you after she made the correction. You weren’t sure if she was looking for approval or fantasizing about ways to strangle you for talking to her, but you gave her a nod regardless.

“Relax, Natasha,” you murmured as she brought her leg up in developé. The tension in her body was restricting her flexibility.

It had been over a decade since she last heard you say her name, and though she was sweating, it almost sent a shiver down her spine.

“Arabesqué and balance,” you call out to the class, your eyes still fixed on Natasha. You were selfish to let yourself stare just because you could.

You dared to touch her, placing the palm of your hand under her knee, “higher.”

You didn’t push her leg up yourself; you simply allowed her to lift it off your hand.

“Good,” you smiled as the music faded before walking back to the sound system.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Another 45 minutes later, some of Natasha’s baby hairs were curling around her hairline. It made her look softer.

To finish your class, you lead your students through the révérence you’d learned as a child.

The sequence of bows and curtseys done at the end of every class was different almost every time Natasha had a new teacher, but she recognized this one immediately.

Tears pricked her eyes as her body moved through the simple combination that had been drilled into her at such an early age.

Your eyes met again through the mirror; you didn’t miss the glossiness of Natasha’s eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Have a great week, everyone. Great job today!” You smiled, watching your class file out.

You turned to the sound system to unplug your phone and pack your things away.

The last person you expected to stick around after class was Natasha, yet there she stood.

“So, you teach every Sunday?”

The familiar rasp in her voice brought a soft smile to your face, “I teach every day, but yes. I’m glad you stayed.”

“Me too… I’ll see you next week?”

“I’ll be here.”

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #mcu #marvel #wlw #wlw imagines #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x gn!reader #natasha romanoff ballet #black widow x reader #red room #natasha romanoff x ballerina!reader

142 notes · View notes

teecupangel · 7 months ago

Note

Нi!

god, I read your blog literally every day, it's amazing! helps me cope with stress

anyway, i had a little idea i thought you might like. we often give Desmond godlike powers because of the isu crap. our boy is an angel, that's clear, but what about the devilish appearance? horns, seductiveness, gold accents and maybe a tail?

a creature that would make religious people scream in horror, that's what

and let him get attached to Leonardo da Vinci. my boy must be confused. like, he already thought he was going to burn in hell for his wishes, so a literal devil in his studio admiring his work? well, it couldn't get any worse!

it gets worse when Ezio finds out about Desmond and thinks that literally the devil is going to take his friend. Ezio is very against

I’m so happy to hear that. I’m glad this blog is able to help you cope with stress <3

Soooooo… shall we make Desmond’s life much more miserentertaining?

Desmond actually returned to the past while Leonardo was studying the Apple under Borgia’s lock and key.

Leonardo is smart enough to know that he wasn’t the one who summoned an actual demon.

But he has been using the Apple against his will far too long and too much that he has started to question his own sanity.

So when Desmond appeared in all his demonic glory and the guards started to scream and pray, Leonardo’s brain just short circuited and thought “the Apple can summon a demon, yeah, sounds about right.”

Desmond didn’t really have any plans other than stop these guards from trying to kill him or burn him or behead him or… uuuuhhh… chant prayers at him?

Okay.

Maybe going “God can’t save you” was a bad call if he was trying to not be known as the devil or whatever but Desmond is just going to shake that off.

So… he already killed too many people and now he’s worried that Leonardo will come to harm.

Especially since Cesare was a coward who ran away as soon as shit hit the fan, even forgetting the Apple.

So Desmond just took the Apple and Leonardo (who quickly took all of his papers and journals) and called it a day.

…

A non-lethal version of events happened after he reached the Brotherhood’s headquarters and, really, Ezio should teach his recruits to not scream in terror even if someone who looked like a demon (allegedly) walked inside their supposed secret secured base.

And Desmond has his work cut out for him because Ezio?

Oh, Ezio thinks he’s the real devil, summoned by the Apple, to seduce Leonardo to sin (Leonardo and Desmond just glances at each other without saying anything at this)

Desmond’s attempt to tell Ezio that he’s Ezio’s Desmond only served to make Ezio believe he is the devil.

Why else would he know of Desmond?

How shameless of him to try and pretend to be Desmond when he looks like a devil.

Desmond just wants to bash his head when he remembered this Ezio has not seen him in a hologram near Altaïr’s bones yet.

Hell, even if he did, who knows?

Ezio might just think that a devil was trying to copy Desmond’s appearance.

Okay then…

Time to try and make Ezio see that he means no harm and that he is Desmond.

… with Leonardo’s help, of course.

(Leonardo does not have a say on this but he doesn’t mind, Desmond was nice and he didn’t necessarily believe that he’s the devil. If he is, he hopes assisting him would, at the very least, make Desmond think of taking Leonardo’s soul instead. It won’t be bad to suffer in eternal damnation under a devil like Desmond)

#assassin's creed #ask and answer #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #desmond miles #ezio auditore #leonardo da vinci

147 notes · View notes

windvexer · 6 months ago

Note

But considering then that maybe one should learn a form of banishing, just in case, but doesn't relate to the golden down practices, what could be a practice of banishing that is more connected to witchcraft ?

We are in reference to this ask about whether or not the LBRP is required learning for all sorcerers & practitioners (it is not).

Someone asked me for my opinions and I'm giving them! Please understand this to be a post full of my personal opinions and methods.

I think a fine way to regard any practical sorcery is to consider it to be a mundane action extended into the spirit world.

Therefore the best way for a witch to deal with banishment is to ask what you if you were in a nice Studio Ghibli anime where magic is tangible. If a rambunctious pig spirit were tearing through your house, knocking over furniture, what would you do?

Banish for your needs based on what you have. Any banishment spell is better than no banishment spell. Here are a few for the intrepid witch:

Ask It To Leave

This is a good starting operation, especially if you have ethical concerns. Especially helpful for troublesome household spirits and energies.

Go to where It is. If that is not possible, create a sympathetic image (drawing, sigil, poppet, etc.; then correctly consecrated*).

Speak to the image and tell it firmly and sternly to leave. Do not ask, do not show your belly. "You have got to stop coming to morning meetings, Greg. You have better things to do and you are not helping. I am sick and tired of hearing you before lunch, Greg. Stop doing it."

Open the Door and Smack It With a Broom

Another good starting operation, but you must have access to the location; best reserved for spirits or intruders.

Open all the doors and windows you can. Speak a prayer over the broom, vacuum, or mop; invite it to cast off its lampshade and glow with the vigor of four hundred generations of exasperated grandmothers.

Sweep out the house, all the while staying intent on the idea that the intruder is going to be chased out.

Close doors and windows after, as desired.

(Modifications on the above: blessed water in a spray bottle, rolled up newspaper swatting the air, and so forth; the studious witch will observe that if a place is consecrated to be other than what it is, things on other strands of fate can be swept away.)

Cast Dispel Magic (wizard 3 abjuration)

A fine early step, but it draws a line in the sand. It's more like a temporary ward, but it'll do in a pinch. It's also energy intensive, but requires no materials.

Using energy work, root yourself down into the earth. Call up a great deal of power from the earth into your body.

Coalesce a ball of power in your abdomen (or wherever suits you best; you must already know how to work energy in this matter to use this method).

In your preferred method, program the energy to be immensely banishing; envisioning ultraviolet flame can work well.

Expand the ball of energy outwards from your center so that it grows and eclipses the space around you, sending the unwanted thing out and away.

If possible, then work the far boundary of the energy sphere to become like a wall that can't be crossed over again.

Call the Magistrate

Not so harsh, but certainly drawing a line in the sand. This can be performed not only on spirits or intruders, but also on situations (to banish unfair treatment, etc), on people, and so forth.

Take one or three dried Bay Laurel leaves, or the equivalent crumbled. Say, think, or sign, "Bay Laurel, I call you here today to assist with removing an unwanted force."

Read over them the Orphic Hymn to the Sun, all the while envisioning that the leaves begin to glow with an immensely bright light, as if you're staring at the sun.

At the completion of the hymn, politely address the leaves and explain to them exactly what you would like chased away. Ensure you clarify if this thing may come back later, or never at all, and how far away from you it should go.

When you've said you part, seal the spell (classically, "as my will, so mote it be").

Use charcoal disks or your preferred method to burn the leaves. This should be done as close as possible to the thing intended to be banished. If burning is not an option, put them in some tap water and boil it on the stove until the scent diffuses.

(To further energize: read the hymn between three and nine times, each time following up with fervent prayers)

Call the Mob

Harsh. For use when you do not want to be polite. Can be directed at anything, but be sure there is no concern of behavior escalating; this is an aggravating spell.

Take one or three dried red peppers, or a teaspoon of red pepper flakes. Say, think, or sign, "Red Peppers, I call you here today to assist with removing an unwanted force."

Read over them the Orphic Hymn to Mars, all the while envisioning that the peppers ignite into a black and scarlet flame that's like hellfire.

At the completion of the hymn, rambunctiously address the peppers and explain to them exactly what you'd like chased away. Encourage the peppers to chase after the thing like the baying hounds of hell, to chase it to the ends of the earth, and past the earth, and so far away that the thing cannot be returned.

When you've said you part, seal the spell (classically, "as my will, so mote it be").

You should not burn the peppers at all unless you can do so outside, because breathing in pepper smoke is Bad. But fire greatly improves this operation. If possible, arrange the peppers around a candle and burn the candle to activate the spell. Otherwise, use the simmer pot method.

---

*Consecrated: In this context, to assign a new magical identity, purpose, and fate. This may be done organically during its creation, or all at once with a ritual. A poppet shouldn't be used in sympathetic magic until it has been magically given the true identity of the thing you want it to represent.

#answered #witchblr #banishing #spells #banishing spells

73 notes · View notes

kier-with-a-k · 1 month ago

Text

I Don't Wanna Break Up With You - N. S.

Photographer!Nick x Artist!Oliver(oc)

A/N: this one took so long to write lmao! I had to redo a lot of things to get it where I want it to be... This was their biggest argument ever based on this ask! By @sturnsblogs!

Warning: angst? Idk... Fluff at the end, arguing.

Nick and I have been bickering for weeks now.

It started small—whose turn it was to pick the show, what to have for dinner. Silly things. Mundane things. The kind of arguments that are supposed to end in laughter, curled up on the couch, someone surrendering with a smile.

But we never laughed.

Somehow, the small stuff mutated. Grew claws.

Now it’s full-on shouting matches—dense with static, thick with tension and invisible bruises we don't name out loud. We stopped kissing goodnight. Stopped asking about each other’s day.

We started keeping score.

I didn’t mean to raise my voice—I swear I didn’t. But when Nick started in again—about the dishes, or my brushes soaking too long, or how I "never make time for him anymore"—something inside me cracked like glass under pressure.

Each comment landed like a jab, like he was naming everything wrong with me out loud.

And I was tired. Bruised. Prideful. Too proud to retreat.

“You don’t get it,” I snapped last night, voice cutting sharp enough to bleed. “You’re always behind that damn camera, chasing light, chasing moments, but you don’t see what’s right in front of you.”

He flinched. Barely. But I caught it—the twitch in his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists.

And I hated that.

Hated how deeply I wanted him to feel hurt. To ache like I did.

His voice came back, louder than I’ve ever heard it. “And you—”

Shouted. Nick shouted.

“—you drown yourself in canvases and turpentine and shut me out. I try, Oliver. I try. But maybe you’re too wrapped up in your own mess to notice.”

The words didn’t just hurt. They hollowed.

I grabbed my keys. Slammed the door hard enough to make the picture frames quake.

And then I was gone.

I didn’t have a destination. Just... not here. Not near him. Not near this version of us—bitter and burning.

I walked for hours.

Ended up pacing the edge of a grocery store parking lot like some sleepless ghost, my shoes scuffing the pavement, chest tight and trembling.

Was this it?

No.

It was just a fight.

A really bad one.

We’ve been through worse... haven’t we?

But panic bloomed—wild and fast like ivy up a wall. I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed. My heart felt like it was trying to claw out of my chest. I wiped my palms on my jeans. I wanted to scream. To call him. Apologize. Rewind.

But I didn’t.

I stood still. Alone under a flickering streetlight, watching my breath fog in the night air.

Eventually... I went home.

But he wasn’t there.

And then came the silence.

Three long, echoing, grief-heavy days.

The apartment feels... haunted. Every room a ghost town of old routines. Old warmth.

I keep expecting to hear the shutter click of his camera. The soft murmur of his music edits. The laugh that used to roll from the kitchen.

The way he said my name—half-asleep, low and reverent like a prayer he didn’t know he was saying.

Today, while digging through the clutter of my studio, I found one of his prints buried beneath a pile of sketchbooks.

It’s me. Mid-laugh. Eyes squinting at the sun. Frozen in a slice of light like something holy.

I don’t even remember him taking it.

On the back, in his chaotic scrawl:

Even when you’re not looking, I see you.

I stared at those words until my eyes burned.

He sees me.

He always has.

And maybe that’s the problem.

His art—his life—is built on the now. On noticing what’s real, what’s raw, what’s here.

And me? I’ve been painting memories. Stretching backward. Grasping for something that was, instead of showing up for what is.

God.

I miss him.

I miss the way our hands found each other without looking. The way he hummed while kissing the back of my neck, paintbrush in my hand, heart in his. The way he believed in me when I barely believed in myself.

I don’t know if we can fix this.

But I know I want to try.

So I grab my coat. I don’t think. I just move.

I walk. Past streetlights, closed cafés, the bookstore we used to loiter in.

My heart hammering faster with every block. Until I’m standing in front of his studio, breath catching.

I raise my hand. Knock.

Once.

Twice.

It takes a while. Long enough for panic to crawl back in. Long enough for me to start convincing myself he’s not home—or worse, he is and doesn’t want to see me.

Then—

The door opens.

Nick stands there, bleary-eyed in the hoodie I gave him last winter. His curls are wild, like he’s been running his hands through them. His lips part, then stop, like he forgot how to talk.

He looks like home.

Like my home.

When our eyes meet, something flickers. Not quite certainty. Not yet. But something softer. Like hope disguised as hesitation.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He just stares for a second, then exhales—like he’s been holding his breath for three days too—and pulls me in.

It’s not perfect. It’s clumsy. A little stiff, like we’re both afraid we’ll break each other.

But then his arms settle around me. And mine around him. And it clicks.

We fit.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low against my shoulder.

I pull back, just enough to look at him.

“Me too.”

A quiet pause.

“I hated being away from you,” I say, voice thick.

He nods slowly. “I know. I hated it too.”

His hands find mine. Cold fingers, familiar warmth.

And then, through the quiet hum in my head—some weird mental background music—I hear his whisper:

“I don’t wanna break up with you.”

So soft I almost think I imagined it.

But I didn’t.

“I don’t too,” I whisper back, awkward and breathless.

He chuckles once, almost shy. “I love you more than anyone. Is that... weird?”

“It’s not,” I say. “Guess I’m weird too.”

I don’t tell him that I love him more than anyone, even though I do. The words catch somewhere between my heart and my mouth—too sacred to say out loud. Not yet. Maybe later. Maybe soon.

We don’t say let’s try again. We don’t need to.

We already are.

Standing here in the middle of his messy studio, surrounded by coffee cups and the faint smell of chemicals and something so uniquely us—we’re already beginning again.

Nick reaches for my hand. Our fingers thread together like muscle memory.

And maybe we’re still messy. Still bruised. Still learning how to speak each other’s language without shouting.

But maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

For now, it’s enough.

And maybe tomorrow, we’ll wake up and pick the same show without arguing.

Or maybe we’ll argue again.

But this time, we’ll know how to come back.

A/N: I had fun writing this! I know that the last one was low key argumentative too but yk... This one was worse ig lmao

TAGLIST: @sturnsblogs @thenickgirl @sturns-mermaid @sarahsturnn @jacksonsturniolo @certifiednickboy @nickssidewitch @fentiesturns @oopsiedaisydeer @messi10-fcb @nickscoconutwater @ed1tssturnn @lilyswirly @ev1ldeadboy @mattsfrenchtoast

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo #christopher owen sturniolo #the sturniolos

35 notes · View notes

pxnsneverland · 4 days ago

Text

Heartbreak Hotel | austin!elvis x oc (part 11)

(gif source: theresalwaysep)

plot summary: Angel Casteel is a small town girl who lucked into working as a costume designer at a film studio. Unfortunately, her confidence in herself wavers as she is assigned to work with Elvis on his latest motion picture. Overcome by his star power at first, she slowly starts to realize there is a man behind the fame, a man she understands. But as they grow closer, the world grows more turbulent, especially Elvis's world. Will this Angel be able to save Elvis from himself and the people around him? Or will getting mixed up in his word prove to be her downfall as well?

pairings: austin!elvis x oc

word count: 5197

warnings/notes: This chapter came out longer than I intended, but so much happened that I just put it into one part instead of splitting them up. Hope you all don't mind! TW: drugs, mentions of overdose, withdrawals

Chapter 11: The Battle for Elvis

The hospital corridor seemed endless as Angel paced outside the emergency room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished floor. Each step was a prayer, each turn a desperate plea that Elvis would survive the night. The harsh fluorescent lights cast her shadow in sharp relief against the sterile white walls.

Jerry sat on a nearby bench, his face buried in his hands. "This is my fault," he muttered. "I should have gotten Dr. Preston backstage sooner."

"It's not your fault," Angel replied, her voice hoarse from crying. "It's the Colonel. It's always been the Colonel."

The emergency room doors swung open, and Dr. Preston emerged, his expression grave but composed. Angel rushed toward him, her heart pounding.

"He's stabilized," the doctor said before she could speak. "We've pumped his stomach and are administering fluids to help flush the drugs from his system. The next twenty-four hours will be critical, but I believe he'll pull through."

Angel's knees nearly buckled with relief. "Thank God," she whispered. "Can I see him?"

"Briefly," Dr. Preston nodded. "He's unconscious, but sometimes patients can hear even in that state. Your voice might help."

Angel followed him through the double doors into the treatment area. The sight of Elvis lying motionless in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and IV lines, sent fresh tears streaming down her face. His face was ashen, the vibrant life force that made him Elvis Presley temporarily extinguished. Angel approached cautiously, as if afraid her mere presence might disturb the fragile balance keeping him alive. She slipped her hand into his, shocked by how cold his fingers felt.

"I'm here, Elvis," she whispered, leaning close to his ear. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. You just rest and get better. I'll handle everything else."

A nurse entered quietly to check his vital signs, offering Angel a sympathetic smile. "The doctor says his heart rhythm is improving. That's a good sign."

Angel nodded gratefully, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. When the nurse left, she pressed her lips to Elvis's forehead, inhaling the familiar scent of his hair beneath the clinical hospital smells.

"I love you," she murmured. "More than anything. And I'm going to fix this, I promise."

Dr. Preston appeared at her shoulder. "Mrs. Presley, I need to speak with you about something important."

Reluctantly, Angel followed him to a small consultation room adjacent to the emergency department. Jerry was already there, along with a serious-looking man in a business suit whom Angel didn't recognize.

"This is Martin Feldman," Dr. Preston explained. "He's an attorney who specializes in medical guardianship cases."

The lawyer extended his hand. "Mrs. Presley, I understand you're in a difficult situation."

Angel shook his hand warily. "What kind of situation exactly?"

"Based on Dr. Preston's preliminary examination and the hospital's toxicology report, your husband is suffering from severe polydrug dependency," Feldman explained. "The substances in his system include barbiturates, amphetamines, opioids, and several unidentified compounds."

"The Colonel's doctor," Angel said bitterly. "He's been pumping Elvis full of God knows what for months."

Feldman nodded grimly. "Dr. Preston believes your husband requires immediate, intensive treatment for addiction. Given the severity of his condition, we'd like to petition the court for temporary medical guardianship. This would allow you to place him in a rehabilitation facility without interference from... outside parties."

"The Colonel," Angel translated.

"Precisely. As his manager, Colonel Parker could potentially argue that Mr. Presley's contractual obligations take precedence over medical recommendations. With court-ordered guardianship, you would have the legal authority to prioritize treatment over performance commitments."

Angel felt a glimmer of hope for the first time in weeks. "How quickly can we do this?"

"I've already drafted the petition," Feldman replied, producing a folder from his briefcase. "We can file first thing in the morning. Given the emergency nature of the situation and Dr. Preston's credentials, I believe we have a strong case."

Angel took the documents, scanning them quickly. “No facilities. The Colonel has reaches everywhere. I’m taking Elvis back to Memphis, to Graceland. We can set up a private facility for him there. Nurses, doctors, medical equipment, whatever. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll be able to watch him and make sure no one gets past those gates, especially Colonel Parker.”

Feldman nodded approvingly. "That's actually an excellent idea. Home-based treatment programs have higher success rates for high-profile patients. The familiar environment can be psychologically beneficial, and you'll have complete control over who has access to him."

"How long would the guardianship last?" Angel asked, already mentally cataloging everything she'd need to arrange.

"Initially, thirty days," Dr. Preston explained. "But it can be extended if necessary. The key is getting Elvis through the withdrawal process safely and then establishing a long-term treatment plan."

Jerry leaned forward. "What about the Colonel? He's not going to just stand by and let this happen."

Feldman's expression grew serious. "That's why we need to move quickly. Once the guardianship is in place, Colonel Parker will have no legal standing to interfere with medical decisions. However, until then..."

"He'll try to stop us," Angel finished. "We need to get Elvis out of here tonight."

"Mrs. Presley," Dr. Preston said gently, "moving him too soon could be dangerous. He needs at least forty-eight hours of observation."

"Then we make sure the Colonel can't get to him here," Angel said decisively. She turned to Jerry. "Call Red and Sonny. Tell them to get to Memphis and secure Graceland. Nobody gets through those gates without my permission. And I mean nobody."

Jerry nodded and stepped out to make the calls. Angel felt the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders, but for the first time in months, it didn't feel crushing. She had a plan.

"There's one more thing," Feldman said quietly. "The Colonel's contract with Elvis. We'll need to review it carefully to understand what legal challenges he might mount."

Angel's jaw tightened. "Jerry mentioned something about the contract being ironclad."

"No contract is truly ironclad," Feldman replied with a slight smile. "Especially when one party has been endangering the other's health and well-being. If we can prove that Colonel Parker knowingly contributed to Elvis's condition, we might have grounds to void the entire agreement."

Hope flared in Angel's chest. "You really think we can break it?"

"I think," Feldman said carefully, "that a man who forces his client to perform while under the influence of dangerous drugs might have violated his fiduciary duty. That could be enough to invalidate the contract entirely."

Angel felt tears of relief threatening. "What do you need from me?"

"Everything. Medical records, witness statements, financial documents showing how the Colonel has been managing Elvis's money. We need to build a comprehensive case."

"I'll get you whatever you need," Angel promised. She looked back toward the emergency room doors. "But first, I need to make sure my husband survives this."

As if summoned by her words, a nurse appeared in the doorway. "Mrs. Presley? Your husband is asking for you."

Angel's heart leapt in her chest. "He's awake?"

"Just barely," the nurse replied. "But he's asking for you specifically."

Angel rushed past her, nearly running back to Elvis's bedside. His eyes were open, though heavy-lidded and unfocused. The harsh hospital lighting made his pallor even more pronounced, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises against his skin.

"Angel?" His voice was barely audible, a cracked whisper that broke her heart. “Where’s—where’s my Angel?”

"I'm here, baby." She took his hand, careful not to disturb the IV line. "I'm right here."

Elvis's fingers tightened weakly around hers. "What happened?"

Angel hesitated, unsure how much to tell him in his fragile state. "You collapsed after the show. We brought you to the hospital."

"The Colonel," Elvis murmured, agitation creeping into his voice. "He can't know you're here. Not safe."

"Shh," Angel soothed, stroking his hair back from his forehead. "Don't worry about the Colonel right now. Just focus on getting better."

Elvis's eyes, though clouded with exhaustion and medication, fixed on her face with unexpected clarity. "You don't understand. He threatened—"

"I know what he threatened," Angel interrupted gently. "I know everything, Elvis. It doesn’t matter, okay? I just need you to rest, baby.”

Elvis's eyes widened, a flash of panic cutting through the haze of drugs and exhaustion. "You know?" His grip on her hand tightened with surprising strength. "Angel, if you know, then you're in danger. Real danger."

"I'm not afraid of him anymore," Angel said firmly, though her voice trembled slightly. "We're going to beat him, Elvis. Together."

"No." Elvis tried to sit up, but the effort left him dizzy and gasping. "You don't understand what he's capable of. The things he's done to people who crossed him..."

"Like Scotty Moore?" Angel asked quietly.

Elvis's face went ashen. “He almost killed him…” Elvis's eyes filled with tears. "Scotty was like a brother to me. When I found out what happened... what the Colonel had done..." His voice broke, and Angel squeezed his hand, willing her strength into him.

"That's why I'm not letting you face this alone anymore," she said firmly. "We have a lawyer, Elvis. And Dr. Preston—a real doctor, not one of the Colonel's puppets. We're filing for medical guardianship so I can get you the help you need without the Colonel interfering."

Elvis's expression wavered between hope and terror. "He'll never let that happen."

"He won't have a choice," Angel insisted. "This is about your life, Elvis. You almost died tonight."

Elvis closed his eyes, tears seeping from beneath his lashes. "I'm so tired, Angel. So damn tired of all of it."

"I know, baby." She leaned down to kiss his forehead. "That's why we're going home. Back to Graceland. You'll heal there, away from all this."

"Graceland," Elvis whispered, the word itself seeming to bring him comfort. "When?"

"As soon as the doctors say it's safe to move you. Two days, maybe three."

Elvis's eyes drifted closed, exhaustion claiming him once more. "Don't leave me," he murmured. “Please…”

"Never," Angel promised, settling into the chair beside his bed. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

***

The Colonel arrived at dawn.

Angel had dozed off in the uncomfortable hospital chair, her hand still entwined with Elvis's, when the sound of raised voices in the corridor jolted her awake. Elvis remained deeply asleep, the monitors beside him beeping steadily.

Jerry burst through the door, his face tight with anxiety. "He's here. With lawyers."

Angel stood, smoothing down her rumpled dress. "How did he find us?"

"Someone at the hotel must have talked. He's demanding to see Elvis, saying he has medical power of attorney."

"That's impossible," Angel said, though a cold dread settled in her stomach. "I'm his wife."

"Apparently there's paperwork from before you were married. The Colonel's waving it around like a flag."

Angel's mind raced. "Get Dr. Preston and Feldman. Now."

Jerry nodded and disappeared back into the hallway. Angel moved to stand protectively between the door and Elvis's bed, her entire body tense with anticipation. She didn't have to wait long.

The door swung open with enough force to bang against the wall. Colonel Parker stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the light from the corridor. Behind him, Angel could see Andrews and another man in an expensive suit—presumably one of the lawyers Jerry had mentioned.

"Mrs. Presley," the Colonel said, his voice dangerously soft. "I believe we have some matters to discuss."

Angel straightened her spine, refusing to be intimidated despite her exhaustion. "There's nothing to discuss, Colonel. Elvis is under medical care and will remain so."

The Colonel's smile didn't reach his eyes as he stepped further into the room. "Now, let's not be hasty. I understand you're upset—any wife would be after such a frightening episode. But Elvis has commitments that need to be addressed."

"The only commitment Elvis has right now is to his recovery," Angel replied, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

The Colonel gestured to the man behind him. "This is Howard Brenner, my attorney. He has some documents you should see."

The lawyer stepped forward, opening a leather portfolio. "Mrs. Presley, this is a medical power of attorney signed by Elvis Presley in 1963, granting Colonel Parker authority to make medical decisions in the event of incapacitation." He extended the document toward her. "As you can see, it's properly notarized and remains legally binding."

Angel didn't take the paper, her eyes fixed on the Colonel's smug expression. "That document, if it's even legitimate, was signed years before our marriage. Spousal rights supersede prior arrangements."

"Not necessarily," Brenner countered smoothly. "Especially when the document contains specific language maintaining its validity regardless of marital status."

Angel's confidence wavered slightly, but she held her ground. "I don't care what piece of paper you've produced. My husband nearly died last night because of the drugs your doctor has been pumping into him. I won't let you near him."

The Colonel's façade of reasonableness slipped, revealing the cold calculation beneath. "Mrs. Presley, I've been patient with your... interference. But my patience has limits."

"So does mine," came a firm voice from the doorway.

Angel turned to see Martin Feldman entering the room, a court document in hand and two uniformed police officers behind him. Dr. Preston followed, his expression grim but determined.

"Colonel Parker," Feldman said, his tone professional but unyielding. "I'm Martin Feldman, attorney for Mrs. Presley. I've just come from Judge Harmon's chambers with an emergency temporary restraining order." He held up the document. "This prohibits you from approaching within one hundred feet of Elvis Presley pending a full hearing on medical guardianship."

The Colonel's face flushed dark with anger. "This is preposterous! I have legal—"

"What you have," Dr. Preston interrupted, stepping forward, "is a patient who suffered a life-threatening overdose while under your supervision. The toxicology report shows dangerous levels of multiple controlled substances, several of which were administered by your so-called physician—a man who lost his medical license three years ago."

Brenner placed a cautioning hand on the Colonel's arm. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately."

"There's nothing to discuss," Feldman replied. "The restraining order is effective immediately. These officers are here to ensure you comply."

The Colonel's gaze shifted to Elvis's unconscious form, then back to Angel. His eyes were cold with fury and something else—calculation. "This isn't over, Mrs. Presley."

"Actually, Colonel," Angel replied, finding strength in the protection surrounding her, "I believe it is. You've controlled Elvis for the last time."

The Colonel's mouth twisted into an ugly smile. "We'll see about that." He turned to the officers. "No need for an escort, gentlemen. I know the way out."

As the Colonel and his entourage disappeared down the corridor, Angel felt her legs give way. She sank back into the chair beside Elvis's bed, adrenaline leaving her system in a rush that left her shaking.

"That was too easy," she whispered, voicing the fear that had been growing in her chest. "He gave up too quickly."

Dr. Preston checked Elvis's monitors, his expression troubled. "The Colonel doesn't strike me as a man who accepts defeat gracefully."

Feldman was already on his phone, speaking in rapid, hushed tones to someone on the other end. When he hung up, his expression was grim. "My contact at the courthouse says the Colonel's attorney filed a counter-petition an hour ago. They're claiming Elvis is being held against his will and requesting an immediate psychiatric evaluation."

"On what grounds?" Angel demanded.

"They're arguing that your actions constitute kidnapping and that Elvis's condition is the result of exhaustion, not drug abuse." Feldman ran a hand through his hair. "They've also produced medical records from Dr. Nichols claiming Elvis has been receiving legitimate treatment for chronic pain and insomnia."

Angel felt the walls closing in around her. "Those records are fabricated."

"Probably, but proving that will take time we may not have."

A soft groan from the bed drew everyone's attention. Elvis's eyes fluttered open, immediately searching for Angel. "What's... what's happening?" he asked weakly.

Angel was at his side instantly, taking his hand. "The Colonel was here, but he's gone now. We have a restraining order."

Elvis's grip tightened on her fingers. "He won't stop, Angel." His voice was stronger now, clearer than it had been hours earlier. "What did he want?"

"To take you back to Vegas," Angel said gently. "To make you perform."

Elvis closed his eyes, a shudder running through his body.

Feldman stepped forward. "Mr. Presley, we need you to formally revoke any medical power of attorney you may have given Colonel Parker. And we need you to state clearly, on record, that you want treatment for substance dependency."

Elvis nodded without hesitation. "Where do I sign?"

As Feldman prepared the documents, Dr. Preston moved to Elvis's other side. "Elvis, I need you to understand what this means. Withdrawal from the combination of drugs in your system won't be easy. You're looking at several weeks of difficult detoxification, followed by months of rehabilitation. The physical symptoms will be severe—tremors, nausea, pain, insomnia. And the psychological aspects..."

"Doc," Elvis interrupted, his voice hoarse but determined, "I don't care how bad it gets." He turned to Angel, his blue eyes clear for the first time in months. “I can’t live like this anymore. And I can’t let him take you away from me.”

Angel's heart swelled at his words, but she could see the fear lurking behind his determination. "You won't have to do this alone," she promised, squeezing his hand. "I'll be with you every step of the way."

Elvis managed a weak smile. "Even when I'm sweatin' and shakin' like a leaf?"

"Especially then."

Dr. Preston cleared his throat gently. "There's something else we need to discuss. The Colonel's counter-petition includes a request for an independent psychiatric evaluation. If the judge grants it, they could potentially argue that you're not competent to make medical decisions."

Elvis's jaw tightened. "What kind of evaluation?"

"Standard psychological assessment, but administered by a doctor of the court's choosing. The Colonel's attorney is suggesting your judgment has been compromised by... emotional manipulation."

Angel felt her cheeks burn. "He's saying I manipulated Elvis?"

"It's a common tactic," Feldman explained. "They'll argue that you've isolated him from his support system and convinced him to make decisions against his own interests.” He paused. “On those grounds, they may even ask for an annulment of your marriage.”

“What?” Angel’s face went white. “They can do that?”

Feldman nodded. “With enough evidence, yes.”

Angel felt the room spinning around her. An annulment? After everything they'd been through, everything they'd fought for? "But we love each other," she whispered, the words sounding pathetically inadequate even to her own ears.

"Love isn't always enough in the eyes of the law," Feldman said gently. "If they can prove undue influence, demonstrate that Elvis wasn't of sound mind when he married you due to drug impairment, or show that the marriage was entered into under duress..."

"That's not what happened," Elvis said, his voice gaining strength despite his weakened state. "Angel, look at me." When she met his eyes, she saw a clarity there that had been missing for months. "I married you because I love you. Because you're the only person who's ever seen me—really seen me."

"I know that," Angel replied, tears threatening. "But what if the judge doesn't?"

Dr. Preston moved closer to the bed. "There's something else. The psychiatric evaluation could work in our favor if we handle it correctly. A competent psychiatrist would be able to document the effects of long-term drug abuse, confirm that Elvis's judgment was impaired by substances administered without proper medical supervision."

"You mean prove that the Colonel was drugging him?" Angel asked, hope flickering in her chest.

"Exactly. The toxicology report already shows dangerous levels of controlled substances. If we can demonstrate that these were administered systematically over time, it supports our case that Elvis was being chemically controlled."

Feldman nodded thoughtfully. "We'd need to be strategic about which psychiatrist conducts the evaluation. I have contacts who might be willing to expedite the process."

Elvis struggled to sit up straighter in the hospital bed. "Do whatever you need to do. I want this over with.”

***

One week later, Angel gazed out the window as the private ambulance turned onto Elvis Presley Boulevard. After a tense legal battle that had consumed every waking moment, Judge Harmon had granted her temporary medical guardianship. But everyone knew it wouldn’t be enough to deter the Colonel and his counter-petition was still looming over their heads.

"We're almost home," she whispered, squeezing Elvis's hand.

Elvis lay on the stretcher beside her, pale but conscious. The week of monitored detoxification had taken its toll—his body was thinner, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, his hands still trembling slightly. But those eyes were clear now, no longer clouded by drugs.

"Graceland," he murmured, a hint of his familiar smile touching his lips. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see those gates."

The ambulance slowed as it approached the famous musical-note gates, where a small crowd of reporters had gathered despite their efforts to keep the homecoming private. Flashbulbs popped against the windows as they passed through, the gates swinging closed behind them with a reassuring finality.

The winding driveway seemed longer than Angel remembered, the massive white-columned mansion growing larger as they approached. Vernon Presley stood waiting on the front steps, his weathered face a mixture of worry and relief.

"Everything's ready," he said as the ambulance doors opened. "Just like you asked."

The medical team carefully transferred Elvis to a wheelchair despite his protests that he could walk. "Hospital policy," the lead nurse said firmly. "We don't need you falling and undoing all our hard work."

As they wheeled him up the specially installed ramp and through the front door, Elvis reached for Angel's hand again. "Feels strange," he admitted quietly. "Coming home like this."

"But you are home," Angel replied, "and that's what matters."

The grand foyer of Graceland welcomed them with familiar opulence—the stained-glass peacocks, the sweeping staircase, the crystal chandelier overhead. But now medical equipment lined one wall, and unfamiliar faces—nurses and rehabilitation specialists—moved purposefully through rooms once filled with the Memphis Mafia's boisterous energy.

They had converted the downstairs den into a temporary medical suite, with monitoring equipment, oxygen tanks, and a hospital bed positioned to allow Elvis to look out over the grounds he loved. The room still held touches of his personality—gold records on the walls, family photographs, his favorite books within reach.

"Mr. Presley, we'd like to get you settled and check your vitals," said the head nurse, a no-nonsense woman named Margaret who had come highly recommended for her experience with addiction recovery.

Elvis nodded, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. As the medical team helped him into bed, Angel stepped out into the hallway where Vernon waited anxiously.

"How bad is it, really?" he asked, his voice low.

Angel looked through the doorway at Elvis, now surrounded by nurses checking his blood pressure and adjusting IV lines. "Bad enough that he almost died, Vernon. But he's going to make it. We caught it in time."

Vernon's eyes filled with tears he quickly brushed away. "That damn Colonel. I never trusted him, not from the beginning. But Elvis... he believed Parker was protecting him."

"He was protecting himself," Angel said bitterly. "Using Elvis as his personal cash machine while slowly killing him." She placed a gentle hand on Vernon's arm. "But it's over now. The restraining order keeps him away, and once Elvis is stronger, we'll break that contract for good."

"What about the annulment petition?" Vernon asked quietly. "Jerry told me about it."

Angel felt her stomach clench. "We're fighting it. The psychiatric evaluation is scheduled for next week. If we can prove Elvis was being drugged against his will, that his judgment was impaired when he signed the Colonel's contracts..."

"Then the marriage stands," Vernon finished. "Good. You're the best thing that's happened to my boy in years."

Through the doorway, they could see Elvis trying to charm the stern-faced nurse, his natural charisma flickering even in his weakened state. Margaret wasn't having any of it, firmly directing him to lie still while she adjusted his medication drip.

"No more of those pills, Mr. Presley," she said briskly. "We're switching you to a medically supervised withdrawal protocol. It won't be pleasant, but it's the only way to get your system clean."

Elvis nodded obediently, too tired to argue. His gaze found Angel in the doorway, and he managed a weak smile. "My Angel," he murmured, reaching his hand toward her.

Angel moved to his side, taking his trembling fingers in hers. His skin felt papery and cool, so different from the vital warmth she'd known. The change in him since Vegas was startling—his cheeks hollowed, the vibrant light in his eyes dimmed to a flicker. But it was still there. Still fighting.

"I'm right here," she assured him, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Margaret cleared her throat. "Mrs. Presley, we need to discuss the withdrawal schedule. The next forty-eight hours will be critical."

Angel nodded, though she didn't release Elvis's hand. "Whatever he needs."

"It won't be easy," Margaret warned, her clinical tone softening slightly. "The cocktail of substances in his system... the withdrawal symptoms will be severe. Tremors, nausea, anxiety, possibly hallucinations."

"I can handle it," Elvis insisted, his voice stronger than his appearance suggested.

Margaret's expression remained skeptical. "Most patients say that before it begins, Mr. Presley."

"I'm not most patients," Elvis replied, a flash of his old defiance sparking in his eyes. "I've got something worth fighting for."

His gaze shifted to Angel, and the naked love in his expression made her heart constrict. She leaned down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

"We'll get through this together," she promised. "One hour at a time."

***

By midnight, the withdrawal had begun in earnest.

Angel sat beside Elvis's bed, watching helplessly as he twisted in the sheets, his body wracked with tremors. Sweat soaked through his pajamas despite the room's cool temperature, and his eyes darted restlessly around the room, fixing on shadows only he could see.

"Make it stop," he groaned, clutching at his stomach. "God, Angel, make it stop."

"I can't, baby," she whispered, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth. "But I'm here. I'm right here with you."

Margaret appeared in the doorway, her expression softening at the sight of them. "Time for his medication," she said, approaching with a small tray of pills.

"No more pills," Elvis protested weakly, turning his face away. "That's what got me here."

"These are different," Margaret explained patiently. "They'll help ease the withdrawal symptoms without creating new dependencies."

Angel gently turned Elvis's face back toward her. "Trust me," she said softly. "These will help."

Elvis's eyes, glassy with pain, searched hers for a long moment before he nodded. Angel helped him sit up enough to swallow the pills, then eased him back against the pillows.

"Try to rest," Margaret advised. "The medication should take effect soon."

After she left, Elvis gripped Angel's hand with surprising strength. "I can't do this," he confessed, his voice breaking. "I thought I could, but I can't. It hurts too much."

"You can," Angel insisted, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead. "You're the strongest person I know, Elvis Presley."

He laughed bitterly, the sound dissolving into a groan as another wave of pain hit him. "Some strength. Look at me. Shakin' like a leaf in a tornado."

"This is just your body fighting back," Angel said. "It got used to those poisons, and now it's angry they're gone. But you're stronger than the addiction. I know you are."

Elvis closed his eyes, his breathing ragged. "When I was a kid," he said after a moment, his voice distant, "my mama used to sing to me when I was sick. Gospel songs, mostly. Said they had healing power."

Angel squeezed his hand. "Would you like me to sing to you?"

Elvis nodded weakly, his eyes still closed.

Angel took a deep breath and began to sing softly, her voice carrying the sweet, familiar melody of "Amazing Grace." It wasn't as polished as Elvis's performances, but it came from her heart, each note wrapped in love and hope.

As she sang, Elvis's trembling seemed to ease slightly. His breathing grew more regular, though his grip on her hand remained tight. By the time she finished the song, his features had relaxed somewhat, the medication beginning to take effect.

"Don't stop," he whispered. "Please."

Angel continued, moving through the gospel songs she'd learned growing up in church. When she ran out of those, she sang Elvis's own songs back to him, gentling their rhythms into lullabies. She sang until her voice grew hoarse, until Elvis finally drifted into a fitful sleep, his hand still clutching hers as if she were his lifeline in a stormy sea.

Only then did she allow her own tears to fall, silent tracks down her cheeks as she watched the man she loved battle demons she couldn't fight for him. A soft whimper from Elvis jolted Angel from her thoughts. She gently released his hand, placing it carefully on the bed beside him. His features had relaxed into sleep, though occasional tremors still ran through his body. The medication had finally taken effect, giving him a brief respite from the agony of withdrawal.

Angel stood, her legs stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. She stretched quietly, feeling every muscle protest after the long vigil. The clock on the wall showed 3:17 AM—nearly four hours since Elvis had last been fully conscious.

"I'll be right back," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her.

She slipped from the makeshift medical room into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door softly behind her. The sudden brightness of the fluorescent lights made her wince. Angel leaned against the counter, finally allowing herself a moment of vulnerability now that she was alone.

The face that stared back at her from the mirror was almost unrecognizable—dark circles shadowed her eyes, her skin was pale with exhaustion, and worry had etched new lines around her mouth. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away some of the weariness that had settled into her bones.

As she straightened, her hand moved instinctively to her abdomen, resting protectively over the small, firm swell that had been hidden beneath loose dresses and strategic draping. The secret she'd been carrying for nearly seven weeks now.

"What am I going to do about you?" she whispered, gently caressing the barely visible bump.

Stay tuned for part 12!! Click HERE to view!!

32 notes · View notes

melyxssa · 2 months ago

Text

Burning Desire

warnings: smut (fingering in public)

“I drive fast, radio blares, have to touch myself to pretend you're there

Your hands were on my hips, your name is on my lips

Over over again, like my only prayer

(Come on tell me boy)”

-“Burning Desire” by Lana del Rey

I’ve been dating James for almost three years now, the most chaotic of my entire life, since he has been dealing with alcohol, drugs and his usual anger issues.

He had his days, we can say: days where he was more loving and passionate, and others where he wanted to be alone, just writing his music. Our relationship always been a roller coaster, mostly because of his mood. There were times when he wouldn’t call me for days, as it happened this week... he got so angry with me when I simply told him I had to hang out with one of my university's classmates to complete a project, so I couldn’t stay with him after his studio session with the band... I didn’t hear from him for five days, until he called me this morning, just before my literature class.

"Hello?", I asked still in a sleepy voice, rubbing my face with my left hand trying to wake up completely.

“Get ready, today you are with me."

James' deep voice filled my ears, making me jump.

"James? What-"

He doesn't even let me finish that he continues speaking in his low and warm tone.

"I'll be there in front of your university at 4pm, don't be late".

I couldn’t even find the words to reply, my mouth just slightly opened, and the words got stuck in my throat.

"I have an exam in a few days, James. I gotta study, I don't have time for-"

I try to explain him, but of course, he refused to let me finish a single sentence.

“You'll study at my place”, he simply says, I stay silent.

I couldn't believe it, he disappeared for almost a week and now all of a sudden he wanted me to hang out with him, or whatever it is.

“I’ll see you tonight", he continues, before hanging up, leaving me with the phone in my hand, clueless about where he wanted to take me tonight.

I spent the day, getting ready and packing some stuff to bring with me, including my books, knowing that I never used them when I'm at his place...

The time comes, I get out of my college room, waving at some friends in the hallway, walking towards the exit of the campus. That’s where I spot a tall, blonde long haired man, with dark sunglasses on, wearing a cowboy hat and covered in a tight total black outfit that exposed his muscular body, leaning against his Harley, luckily waiting for me.

I move closer, thinking that I had to act as cold as possible, after he disappeared, once again. I finally reach him, keeping my cool.

He grabs my bag without saying a word, throwing it on the ground next to him, before suddenly pulling me closer in a hungry, rough and passionate kiss, almost desperate.

His hands tight around my waist, before reaching for my hips, squeezing them.

My hands find his long hair, pulling it a bit, making him growl in the kiss, pressing me even closer to his body. I pull away exactly when I feel his hands reaching for my ass, I look up at him, and a smirk grows on his lips noticing my cheeks blushing, noticing some students around staring at us.

“You disappeared", I finally say, trying to be as cool as possible.

“I didn't have time to call you", he answered calmly, with a smirk stuck on his lips. “Yeah, sure", I scoff at his excuse, which he used for the past three months.

I look away, seeing that he was quietly amused by my behaviour.

"You mad at me?", he asks leaning a little bit trying to search for my sight again. I raise my shoulders in response, ignoring his question.

He chuckled at my attitude. “Of course you are", his tone was sarcastic this time, he knew I was mad at him and he enjoyed it.

"Come on, let’s go now."

He bends down to grab my bag that he dropped on the ground a few minutes ago, before reaching for his seat.

"Where do we have to go, James?", I ask him, in a cold tone.

"Music event tonight."

"What? I thought… I didn't bring anything for that. James I-", I was basically speechless, again...

“Hop on", he almost ordered me.

I do as he says, holding tight at his waist, before he loudly starts the engines.

Once we got at his place, the entire afternoon has been about complaining about getting ready, fix my school sleepy face, and most importantly, what I should wear.

I open the bag that I brought with me, where I just find causal clothes and books.

I walk towards the closet that I used during the weekends here at James'... and here we go. A few dresses and a pair of shoes that I probably wore twice, which I left here "just in case".

I quickly walk towards the bathroom to change myself and get ready for the night, spending almost an hour in there.

I could hear James' heavy steps on the other side of the door.

“Y/N?! You've been in there for an hour, are you ready now?"

His tone is heavy and deep, and definitely annoyed, he hated to wait for me this long. I ignore him and I open the door getting out of the bathroom still in my underwear, I walk for the closet to pick what to wear.

James looks at me with a smirk, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he leans against the wall watching me rummage through the dresses.

"Still pissed, huh?" he asks, his deep voice cutting through the tension. He takes a swig of his beer from the bottle that he was holding in his hand.

“Pick something nice. We gotta look good tonight", he adds, his gaze roaming over my exposed curves appreciatively.

"I like that red one. The one you wore to that charity thing last year", he says, pointing with the bottleneck a crimson dress hanging in the closet. "It showed off your ass real nice", he exhaled through a grin.

"Fuck, you look hot in red."

He steps closer to me, placing his hand on the lower part of my back, pulling me close to him.

He leans in and starts kissing my neck, his mustache tickling my skin as he presses his lips against my bare skin.

"I missed you, ya know", he murmurs against my skin.

“Missed your tight little body. Missed fucking you", he growls lowly, making my entire body burn at that comment.

"Come on baby, get dressed. I wanna take my girl out tonight", he says before giving my ass a sharp smack.

"And don't keep me waiting.", he warns as he stepped back out of the room, leaving me to get ready.

James was already waiting by the car when I emerged from the house, his tall frame leaned casually against the black vehicle.

He straightened up as I approached, his eyes roamed over my body appreciatively. The dress hugged my curves in all the right places, the hem stopping mid-thigh to show off my toned legs. His gaze lingered on the plunging neckline that revealed a tantalizing peek of my cleavage.

He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close to him. His other hand reached up to tilt my chin, his calloused thumb brushing over her lower lip.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous.", he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire. "Gonna be the hottest chick there tonight," he said, his eyes darkening as he leaned in closer. "And all mine.” He growled possessively before capturing my lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into my mouth to claim me thoroughly.

After a long moment, he pulled back, leaving me breathless.

He opened the car door for me, ushering me inside the luxurious interior before sliding in himself. As we pulled out of the driveway, he reached over to rest his hand high up my thigh, his pinky finger teasing the hem of my dress.

As we arrived at the event, a flurry of flashbulbs erupted around us as photographers eagerly snapped pictures of James, while he kept me close, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist as he guided me through the crowd and into the venue.

Inside, the atmosphere was electric, with people from all walks of life mingling and celebrating the power of music. His demeanor shifting from the possessive lover to the charismatic rockstar. He introduced me to various industry professionals, his hand never leaving my back.

As the night went on, James stayed close to me, his eyes rarely leaving me. He made sure to keep my glass full for the whole night. Whenever a man approached me, he would step in, inserting himself into the conversation and making it clear I was off-limits.

The time for the awards has come, I sit next to him and his band in front of the stage where they will perform and eventually receive their awards.

His hand resting on my bare leg,

squeezing it a little bit, while my fingers rubbed his big arm.

As the lights dim down, I decide to move closer to him, playing the little game he loves the most.

“You know… you treated me awfully this week.”

I whisper in his ear sensually, he turns to look at me, amused by my tone.

“Mhm? I’m sorry then.”

A smirk appears on his face, his tongue licks his lips when his sight locks with mine.

“Yeah, you should be.”, I say moving back on my seat.

“Should I?”, he continues lowering his voice as soon as someone on the stage started speaking.

“Yes…”, he moves closer, his large fingers slowly lifting up my dress, reaching for the inside of thigh.

My breath got stuck in my throat.

“You’ll be this mad the entire night then?”, he whispers in my ear, his breath caressing my soft neck skin.

“Probably… maybe you can change my mind, you should try.”

I provoke him, I could tell that he loved it. While he kissed my jawline, his fingers start tracing little circles on my skin moving, closer and closer to the lace of my panties.

“Maybe like this?…”, he quietly asks, making me breathe heavily at his touch after I didn’t feel it since almost a week ago. I could feel his fingers moving my panties on the side, finally touching me. I gasp of the feeling his bare hands on me, his touch moves closer to my clit, rubbing it softly.

“You missed this, didn’t you?”, he asks, making me nod desperately, I couldn’t say anything, I could just bite my lip. I was already breathless, and overwhelmed about the context, the people around us, James next to me and his hand between my legs.

“You touched yourself like this during these days without me, didn’t you?”

His heavy tone was so turned on that the movements on my clit worked faster, making me escape a low moan.

“Answer me, baby.”, he demanded.

“Yes…” I reply, almost in a whisper.

“Good girl.”

He smirks, knowing damn well I always do it thinking about him.

After placing another small kiss on my neck, his hand moves back a little bit, before suddenly sliding two fingers in my already wet walls.

I moan trying to keep it as quiet as I can. With his other hand, he fixes the erection in his pants, without drawing the attention of his bandmates sitting on his left.

I turned to face him, pressing a weak kiss on his lips.

“Keep going James… please”, I begged him, biting my lips, my eyes slightly closed as I felt the motion of his fingers grow faster, pressing deeper inside of me, while he kept rubbing my clit with his thumb.

“Come for me baby, come for me.”, he whispers before biting my earlobe. I kept my moans low as he spoke with his hot voice, sensual and full of passion.

The moment that he curls his strong two fingers deeper inside me, faster and harder, my throbbing walls started tightening around them, he kisses me again to block the loud moan that was escaping my mouth, pressing his tongue deep in my mouth, intertwining with mine, as I reached the climax of pleasure.

He slowly moves away, a grin on his lips. Moving away from my core, caressing one more time my trembling legs, he reached for his mouth, sucking the fingers that were earlier inside of me, tasting them.

Before he got announced on the stage with his band he turned to look at me one more time, whispering in a cocky smile.

“Am I forgiven now?”

hello!! welcome to my blog!! i finally decided to open one. this is my first one shot, i hope you like it!

-mel

#james hetfield #metallica #heavy metal #rock n roll #smut #80s aesthetic #oneshot #metal #thrash metal

29 notes · View notes