#the dark mother's scriptures

[comewithmeintothedeep]

Fem!Reader X Male Werewolves

Word Count: 4580 Explicit: Yes. Warnings: Size difference, dubcon, noncon, threesome, knotting, oral knotting, breeding, marathon sex, somnophilia.

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Summer. What everyone looked forward to. Warm sunny weather, longer days, chances for beautiful outdoor activities, the works. Granted, the heat could certainly get to you, but it did at least die down during the night, so you tended to get out during the evenings for either a walk or a run, depending on how active you felt. You usually turned to go back home right as the sun went down, so you never took your chances.

Not that you ever thought you were in any danger. You knew the people here and this was a very small rural neighbourhood. Everyone knew everyone and everyone looked out for everyone. You were really only close with a few people, though you lived on your own. You worked a bit of a ways away from here, but that just made the disconnect from work that much better for you.

It felt like you could actually leave work at work, so to speak.

Aside from your acquaintanceships with the locals you’ve cultivated over the years since you’ve started living here, you’ve made friends with two lovely gentlemen around your age who share a home together – Riley and Eric. You’ve been at each other’s places enough times that you could confidently say that they were friends. They had a friendly and playful rivalry with each other.

You tried to spend equal time with both of them. After all, you didn’t want to make either one of them feel like you liked one of them more than the other. They were different, but you liked them both equally. Riley was usually the one that found it difficult to decide what to do when the three of you hung out while Eric was usually the one making suggestions. Riley was the one who usually asked you what you wanted to do since he had trouble deciding while Eric was the one who offered you things to do before asking.

They had a dynamic that worked, you supposed. Truthfully, you couldn’t imagine having one without the other. They came as a set in your mind and the last thing you wanted was to make either of them jealous – they did tend to get into play fights quite often, but never enough that it wasn’t easily forgivable or that they actually hurt each other.

It was somewhat endearing. Sometimes they fought over you and it made you feel a bit guilty, but you didn’t actually mind it.

Somewhere deep down inside, you had a bit of a crush on them…but you didn’t want to separate them or pit them against each other, which was why you never acted on your feelings in any capacity. You liked the dynamic the three of you had as friends and you didn’t want to ruin that.

During your evening run you started a bit later than you wanted, said men stared at you as they watched you go down the trail from your house. The full moon was beginning to properly rise and their feral and wild instincts were already making their burgeoning drives and instincts that much worse as they began to fight each other, yelling about who should get to court you. It didn’t help that they practically salivated over the way your athleisurewear hugged the curves of your body so perfectly.

It wasn’t long before they had fled their home together, dashing out the back door and running across the yard into the woods where they knew you were waiting. It was no use fighting each other, they were in the same pack and competing against each other wouldn’t do their dynamic any favours. Though it didn’t make any sense in their human brains, in their werewolf brains, it made perfect sense.

Whoever caught you first got to claim you as their mate.

You, naturally, were completely unaware of this. Every time the full moon came around, they weren’t available and you just assumed they were busy and had some other activity they participated in. You couldn’t blame them, of course. They had lives outside of you, after all. Obviously.

The woods had never been this dark when you went on your evening ventures, before. Then again, you never went out this late, so you supposed you should have expected this. Still, you weren’t afraid. You knew this place like the back of your hand.

What you weren’t prepared for was the sound of howling in the distance as you jogged. That had never happened, before. It stopped you in your tracks when you heard it and it made you second-guess proceeding further. You liked your evening walks, but not enough to risk getting eaten alive by wolves.

Just as you turned to run back the other way to go back home, you saw something that took your breath away and made you freeze in place. Wolves didn’t stand on two feet, and they certainly didn’t have shoulders that broad or hands that big. And the way it looked at you had you trembling in place, its dark fur outlining it against the barest windows to the twilight sky.

Stepping back in fear, you had no idea what to do. Running further into the woods would get you lost and you weren’t sure if you could outrun it…but it was blocking your only way home.

Another howl could be heard directly behind you, practically raising your hackles straight up. Operating on instinct, you made the foolish decision to run, thereby activating both werewolves’ prey drives as they proceeded to chase after you. You didn’t dare look behind you at the risk of slowing down and getting caught and killed by them.

But you never went off the trail, certainly not like this. Unfortunately, your foot caught on a stray root and it sent you tumbling into the foliage, dropping your only light source and leaving you vulnerable. Shocked and winded, just as you were trying to get back up from the ground to try and find somewhere to hide, a paw suddenly shoved your face down into the foliage, making you yelp in shock and fear. For all of your life since you could even contemplate death, you were afraid of something just like this – dying during just an everyday normal activity unable to make peace with it and doomed to just disappear.

And now, that fear was becoming a reality when you could hear the growls of the werewolves and their hot breaths coming towards you and you started to whimper, shaking uncontrollably as adrenaline coursed through your body, heart thundering out of your chest as your cheeks grew wet with mounting fear. “P-please! Please don’t hurt me!”

The moment you began to whimper, one of the werewolves snarled and nipped at the other, causing you to flinch. The other seemed to back down, but the one that reprimanded the other bent down and to your surprise…it started to whine softly, licking at your tears in an attempt to soothe you and nuzzle at you.

It took you by surprise and almost shocked you out of your fear response as you looked up, the lantern you were holding illuminating the werewolf’s face as you stared at it for a moment. Bright yellow eyes stared concerned at you from bright ginger fur.

As you examined it, you realized that you recognized that exact shade of ginger. You couldn’t believe it…! “…Riley?”

Once you called him by name, the man you thought was your friend’s tail began to wag, looking to the other. The other werewolf approached and licked your other cheek, grumbling at you. If the ginger werewolf with yellow eyes was Riley, then the dark-furred werewolf with amber eyes had to be… “And Eric…?”

It seemed that you now knew who they were, so they had to change tactics if they wanted to get what they wanted. Besides, since they had both caught up to you at the same time, they both had rights to mate you. But since you knew who they were, that might complicate things.

You, however, were none the wiser to their true intentions and were just glad that they weren’t going to kill you nor eat you, Eric nuzzling against you as well, now. Your heart was still thumping out of your chest, but you could at least stand up and grab your lantern, getting a better look at them. Even like this, you could easily tell who was who. The fur on Riley’s head had a fluffier and curlier texture while the fur on Eric’s head stuck out messily and unkempt, with that signature rebellious strand of hair draped across his snout as it was when he was human.

Attempting to calm yourself down by reaching up to pet them and scratch them behind the ears, Riley leaned easily into the affection, lowering himself down to your level and practically cuddling you like a big dog. Aloof, though Eric typically was, was not immune to your affection and groaned happily. Both of their tails were wagging, glad to see that their wolf forms didn’t frighten you too much.

More than anything, they were afraid that their werewolf identities would cause you to not want to be friends with them, anymore, hence why they kept it secret from you for so long. They were at least glad that that fear was unfounded.

But…now what? It seemed that you weren’t afraid anymore, but they couldn’t just…take you, could they? Eric would, his primal instincts were difficult to control and stave off while Riley was a bit better at keeping his wits, though not by much, depending on the circumstances.

Though you were happy that they weren’t going to kill you, even admitting that they were really cute like this (you were already imagining cuddling all together like this during the next full moon), you were still wondering why they chased you down. Did they just not recognize you at first? Was there some other reason? Did you mistake their play chasing for a hunt?

As you pondered, the thought occurred to you to actually ask them. They might not be able to answer verbally, but maybe they could still communicate. “So, if you weren’t going to eat me…what did you want with me?”

Riley and Eric shared a look between each other. They weren’t able to think completely logically when they were shifted like this, they shared the same thought. If you wanted to really know, they could just show you. After all, you would probably forgive them afterwards – it wasn’t like they could control themselves like this, after all.

Or you could end up really enjoying it. And perhaps afterwards, if they were lucky, you would choose the both of them as a mate.

Though Eric was typically the alpha in situations like this, Riley was the first to take charge, tackling into you like a puppy in play, heart fluttering when you started to laugh while he play wrestled with you, licking at your face and nipping at your ears and even your neck.

It was such a strange feeling. The fur tickled you and the hot breath on your neck and attention being given to it made you feel strangely warm. This wasn’t right, you shouldn’t feel like this…it wouldn’t be fair to them, especially when they were like this. They couldn’t think clearly, and the last thing you wanted to do was take advantage of them.

But Riley was cleverer than you gave him credit for in this situation. He was deliberately distracting you so that he could hold onto you from behind, wrapping his arms around you and keeping your back pressed against his chest, arms restrained while your legs were free.

He continued to lick and bite at your neck, growling softly as you started to realize you couldn’t move, involuntary whimpers and moans spilling from your lips. This wasn’t right, you had to stop this. “Guys, I…I don’t want to do this to you, I-I mean, it wouldn’t be fair.” You attempted to reason with them, not wanting to hurt their feelings nor offend them. “It-it shouldn’t be like this, I don’t want to take advantage of you. B-besides, I can’t choose between you.”

They both could smell your growing arousal and the human reason they were capable of was starting to die, whatever second thoughts they might’ve had fading away quickly. They only shared a look between them to know what to do.

You didn’t have to worry. There was no reason they couldn’t share you.

Riley went back to giving your neck attention, making you whimper as Eric grabbed at your legs, lifting you up and pulling them apart. They weren’t listening to you! Crap! Were their wolfish instincts really that strong that your words fell on deaf ears?

You supposed you didn’t have a choice, then…you just hoped they would forgive you afterwards for complying with their advances. The last thing you wanted was to hurt them. They couldn’t help themselves, after all…

Hooking his claws into your pants and your underwear, Eric promptly tore them off and growled softly at you. You could feel him sniffing at you and it made you feel incredibly embarrassed as Riley held you firm, still giving your neck attention. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but once Eric’s tongue met your flesh, you audibly gasped, whimpering and moaning at the sensation. His tongue was warm and…incredibly soft as he lapped at your folds, swiping his tongue up your clit.

Guiltily…you couldn’t help but rock your hips against Eric’s maw. His tongue just felt so good against you and if you didn’t have a choice in this…you might as well make the most of this and then apologize tomorrow in the morning. Hopefully they would forgive you for this…you wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.

While Eric was gently lavishing you with his tongue, Riley released his grip a bit on you, electing to take your soft breasts in his hands and feel them up, his large handlike paws practically engulfing them. Though, since you were wearing a sports bra, they weren’t as pliable as they would be normally, something that didn’t seem to bode well for Riley as he whined in frustration.

Poor things…maybe this was why they tended to avoid you around this time every month. This was a need they just suffered through and nobody tended to be in the woods at night, so they had to take out their frustrations in other ways.

As guilty as you felt about taking advantage of the situation, the thought of them suffering like this made your chest hurt for them. So, smiling at Riley through your soft contented moans, you made a show of taking off your shirt to give them more access to you. Riley didn’t even wait for you to take your bra off before he was tugging it off himself. He was considerably less careful than Eric was when taking off your clothes, assuming in some capacity that you cared about these clothes, but once your breasts were free, his hands were back on them. You could feel him groan through his fuzzy chest and you could even feel him dry humping against your back as he fondled you.

It was an action that earned him a warning growl from Eric, prompting him to still his hips as he submitted. Riley whined quietly. He knew how aggressive Eric could get when they shifted and the last thing he wanted was for him to take it out on you and then feel guilty for it afterwards. Lord knows what Riley would do if anything bad happened to you because of them.

Squeezing your breasts and softly pinching your nipples between his fingertips made you starts to squirm, the scent of your arousal worming its way further into the werewolves’ brains as they indulged in you. Your soft sounds getting louder as you rolled your hips to the pleasure was such a beautiful sight. They had always admired you, but they never thought they would get to see you like this.

And under the light of the full moon, too. What a true delight this really was.

Once you started getting more animated and showing more reciprocity, Eric took this chance to fully slip his tongue inside of you, lapping at the inside of your walls and suckling at your clit, making you gasp and cry out even louder. Riley’s answer to this was to crane his neck and slip his tongue into your mouth to muffle you, ensuring that no one would be able to hear you and catch what they were doing to you.

All of your senses were being filled, Riley grabbing, squeezing, and pulling at the tender mounds of flesh on your chest while he kissed you (at least as best as he could, anyway) and Eric lapping and suckling at you while he kneaded at your thighs with his claws. You didn’t get a chance to try and deny the invading tongue in your mouth, but you surprisingly didn’t hate the taste.

Enthusiastically, you managed to find a way to properly kiss Riley, a hand on the back of his head with a fistful of his hair in your clutches. To both of their delight, you had reacted better than either of them could have hoped. Maybe there would be room for all three of you together after all of this…

If they managed to get you off of their knots.

Which reminded Eric not to get too deep, as much as he wanted to drive you over the edge and lap endlessly at you, pulling climax after climax from you and drinking your juices. Not when his cock was starting to ache and protrude from its sheathe.

As he pulled away from you, causing you to whine at the loss of sensation, Riley kept your attention on him, grabbing onto your face to keep you from looking in Eric’s direction while his other hand still squeezed and tugged at your breast. As Eric stood up while lowering you to his hips. You could feel the tip of his cock, wet and hot against you against your entrance, and before you could protest or pull away, Eric suddenly pulled you flush against his hips, slotting his cock into you and grinding into you as it slowly came out of its sheathe and filled you up, Riley swallowing down your pleasured and shocked moans with delight.

Once you were pressed flush with his knot, Eric started to properly rock against you, hands gripping your hips tightly as he used you as a personal fleshlight, grunting and growling as his knot slapped against your clit and his balls slapped against your ass.

Finally releasing you and knowing that you weren’t going anywhere, Riley slid out from under you, still holding onto you so that you weren’t just laying on the rough ground. He held you by the arms and as your head hung upside-down, you were face-to-face with his cock, throbbing and veiny and tapered to a tip at the end, poking out from its fuzzy sheathe. You were being held in midair by the werewolf men and Riley pressed his cock to your mouth while you struggled to maintain your breath while Eric was still thrusting his cock into your cunt.

Riley’s cock slipped easily into your mouth, slick with precum and your mouth already stretched from his tongue sliding down your throat. Both werewolves were now growling as they proceeded to fuck you, but Riley was considerably gentler with your mouth, holding you up by your wrists with one hand and the back of your neck with the other. His knot slapped hotly and wetly against your lips just like Eric’s was against your other set of lips.

Like his tongue, you didn’t hate the taste. Salty, musky, but not awfully unpleasant. You didn’t mind this, and the harder Eric fucked you, the closer you were to cumming.

And oh, how they were thoroughly enjoying this. You could feel them twitching and throbbing inside of you as they fucked you, hear them panting and growling the more frantic they got, and though your eyes were obscured by Riley’s balls slapping against your brow, they were watching your breasts bounce back and forth with their movements. It was addictively hypnotizing to watch. But the ache in both of their bellies was getting agonizing to endure…it was time to switch things up.

The pair shared a look. It was time to lock you in.

Pulling his cock out of your mouth, Riley took in the sight of the line of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his dick, shivering when the night air hit it. Eric stilled his hips as Riley pulled you up, the pair walking towards you to sandwich you between them. They both took a moment to lick and bite at your neck, Eric’s cock still inside of you, though not for long as with painful self-control, he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting.

Facing Eric, you reached up to pet him behind his ears, pulling him close so that you could kiss him the way you kissed Riley, the darker werewolf growling when he could taste all the mixed fluids together on your tongues, suddenly grabbing your face so that he could explore your mouth more with his tongue, forcing you to practically swallow the squishy and spongey appendage as you moaned helplessly.

In a moment of weakness, Riley couldn’t help himself and speared you on his cock. He wasn’t going to knot you – Eric had already decided that he would be the one to breed you first – but he wanted to feel you around him for at least a moment. Dear lord, you felt amazing.

They couldn’t help themselves. It was now Eric’s turn to enjoy your mouth and your breasts while Riley enjoyed your pussy engulfing his cock. The longer this went, the less reservations you had. You still felt a little guilty for enjoying this so much, but could anyone truly blame you when they were clearly enjoying themselves, too?

It didn’t take long for Eric to pull away from you, grabbing onto your shoulders as Riley suddenly grabbed your hips, hoisting you up towards his face as he slowly lowered himself to the ground, leaning back so that you could lie together stomach-to-stomach.

Being the generous alpha he was, Eric allowed Riley to have a moment with just the two of you, your lips wrapped around his cock and his tongue inside of your cunt. Oh, how you tasted so wonderful and how you sucked him off so good. He couldn’t wait for everyone to completely lose themselves under the light of the full moon.

Once Eric grew impatient enough, feeling as though he was going to burst, he pressed himself down against you, properly sandwiching you all together, as he slipped his cock into you again, this time setting a rapid and punishing pace that quickly began to push you to the edge. Riley was suckling at your clit while Eric’s knot slapped against it with each mighty, rapid, and deep thrust while you were being facefucked by Riley. Both of them kept one hand on your hips to keep you in place, Eric used his other to keep himself propped up while Riley used his to keep your head still and in the best position for him to thrust himself into your mouth.

The breath was getting knocked out of you from both sides, sinful wet slapping and slurping noises coming out of you as you were reduced to a double-sided fleshlight for your werewolf friends. The speed and force at which they were both fucking you was nearly unbearable, the thread within you threatening to snap and send you screaming over the edge.

Riley was the first to cum, unable to contain himself as with a harsh thrust, his knot slid past your lips and teeth and swelled up into your mouth, his cock practically halfway down your throat as he whined against your clit, twitching and shuddering as he came. Your mouth and throat were throbbing, his cock pulsing rhythmically in you. You tried your best to drink down and swallow as much of his cum as you could, but it was difficult with how much he was filling up your mouth.

But with horror as you tried to pull away, your mouth was stuck. You couldn’t pull yourself off of him even on the verge of choking. As you started to panic, you started to tighten around Eric, your whining and mewling making aftershocks rip through Riley since he could feel the vibrations through his poor dick, knot firmly inflated inside of your mouth.

You were not going anywhere.

With mounting speed and accelerating force, Eric could feel himself about to release in you, could feel you tightening and clenching around him. You were close, too. He could feel it. He wanted you to cum on his cock and wanted to milk as many orgasms as he could from you while you were knotted together.

The combination of Riley’s mouth on your clit and Eric’s cock pistoning so rapidly into you, you knew it was only a matter of moments before you would fall apart.

And, just as Eric pushed in as hard and as desperately as he could, it was when his knot finally slipped past your walls that you came, squealing around Riley’s cock as you spasmed and thrashed in their grasps, Eric’s knot swelling and locking you in as he tip of him was pressed flush with your cervix, spilling rope after rope after rope of werewolf cum inside of you. Riley did not stop suckling on your clit, Eric still grinding inside of you in circles to draw our your orgasm for as long as possible, your insides a mess of twitches and contractions, almost like they were trying to suck Eric even deeper than he already was.

Once they were finished, you were locked together for quite some time, your jaw particularly sore despite Riley’s efforts to be gentle with you. And just like they intended, they didn’t stop once you all came. No, until Eric’s knot deflated, Riley continued to make you cum over and over again just by suckling on your clit.

Foolishly, you thought they were finished once their knots did deflate and they pulled themselves out of you, licking at you and lavishing you with attention to clean up the mess they made of you. Foolishly, you thought that that was it. That they’d had their fill and it was over.

Until Riley grabbed you and flipped you over so that your back was flush against his chest, again, and his cock was stuffed inside of your cunt, fucking rapidly up into you as Eric took this chance to suckle at your breasts and grind his cock against your naval.

You were going to be here for a while…and now that you were used to werewolf cock, they weren’t going to be gentle with you, anymore.

They were going to keep you here either until the sun rose or until you passed out. Whichever came first.

And even if you did fall unconscious, they would just take you back to their house and continue until morning anyways.

Collateral could wait until tomorrow – that was future you’s problem.

[bitchlessdino]

scream : the death of a nympho (m)

Pairing: ghostface!seungcheol x ghostface!wonwoo x afab!reader

Genre: horror, scream au, smut

Word count: 6.8k

rating: rated R for ROUGH FUCKING SEX (probably the meanest i've ever written anyone)

tags: THIS IS COMICAL BUT VERY DARK FIC, PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. CONTENT MAY NOT SUIT MOST READERS. Morally black woncheol with no redemption arc, VIOLENCE IMAGERY (stabbing, physical fights), mentions of knives, Mentions of blood, Mentions of alcohol, humiliation, degradation kink, name calling sexually and none sexually (bitch, slut, cum bottle, ECT), manhandling, slapping kink, deep throating, face fucking, double bjs, cum swallowing, unprotected sex

Summary: This worn-out little town has seen its fair share of bloodshed, but now there are two new Ghostfaces in town—and their eyes are set on you. Someone who craves intimacy just as much as they enjoy sinking their daggers into something.

author note: thank you @highvern for being a great betaread, they got some giggles in so i hope you guys get to as well! This idea was initially requested and offered by @smileysuh and I hope you enjoy the journey babes!!!

Tag: @shiningstar-byulxx @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @camisun93 @emmmui @toruro @jeonride @novalpha @nvmrljk @feat-sun @tinkerbell460 @aaniag @tacosandbitch @kyeomiis @wonwooz1-blog @horanghaezone @stagefrjghts @pantumin @aaniag @mochisdayone @gyuguys

The town has witnessed its fair share of bloodshed, with pages upon pages of stories about murders staining its history since its settlement. Transplants from the past couple of decades knew of the Ghostface murders, had experienced their horrors, and were relieved to finally learn the identities of what they believed to be the only culprits, known by the nicknames BL and SM. What they didn’t seem to grasp was that there was a lineage—a deep-rooted legacy that would take the eradication of many Ghostfaces to completely sever.

One that has yet to happen. But now there was another problem.

With nothing left but their dread, the townies embraced twisted ways of coping. They chased oblivion in reckless sex and drugs, feeding a festering culture of heightening promiscuity and sexual deviants to businesses catering to their darkest urges. But this decay only primed the ground for blood, making it easier to spill.

The Ghostfaces, known privately among themselves as the Spirituals, saw it as their duty to cleanse the town. In their eyes, there was no room for the filth that seemed to taint their almost perfect town, and so they took matters into their own hands, delivering judgment on their own terms.

Seungcheol took after his father, who was currently detained after being caught serving judgment to the town’s notorious transplant mayor, infamous for his monthly group-sex gatherings. Now, as the head of the Spirituals, Seungcheol was determined to continue following his father’s creed, not once forgetting the scripture carved into him as a child.

Whereas Wonwoo took after his mother, a caretaker of many children within their society's education system who had fallen in sacrifice for the greater good. Now the right-hand man to the leader of the Spirituals, once a soldier and now captain to many of its followers, he knew nothing but how to uphold and worship the Spirituals' beliefs.

They were a duo not to be reckoned with—the youngest in history to hold the highest possible ranks, and the most effective at slaying the vermin of the town. Unmatched to even their predecessors. If they wanted something to happen, they knew just how to do it.

Their targets had a history of overlooking them, their spry bodies and youthful faces seeming harmless to anyone they encountered—until their daggers found the light under a bright moon. They killed victim after victim, and were careful to not have a single clue that could be traced back to them or the society. It was the perfect ruse, ideal for victims like you.

Fresh-faced and eager to start your next chapter, you arrived in town for college and had stayed ever since. You’d dated here and there, with more than the occasional fling—so the thought of the murders never really intimidated you. As an aspiring journalist, you found the town’s dark history more fascinating than frightening. To you, it was just material for dark bedtime stories. Yet, while many who had survived the horrors saw them as more than history or folklore, those who had evaded them were a lot like you—they saw nothing to panic over, just a few rotten apples already put behind bars.

But you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been tempted to test some of the theories. Almost eager, you found yourself wanting to investigate the current-day Ghostface rumors, wondering if they might be linked to the recent disappearances.

You pondered even now, nursing your third glass of red wine, the deep red hue swirling in the glass, mesmerizing under the effects of a light buzz that calmed your body. You and the bartenders of the high end Diamond Club, Hansol and Chan, had gotten acquainted in your time here—perhaps more than necessary—so they had a good idea of your usuals, whether it was your drink of choice or preferred form of entertainment.

“Red wine tonight, I see,” Chan flirtatiously engaged, wiping down whiskey glasses.

“Tonight called for something sweet, a little treat for working so damn hard,” You replied, finishing the last bit in your glass. “Where’d Hansol go? He had just serviced me.”

“Just getting something from the back, probably more of your wine.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, setting the wine glass down politely in front of him. “You both do know me so well. I don’t suppose there’s room for me to check back there too.”

“No can do today, beautiful,” Hansol said, emerging from the backroom as he rolled up his sleeves. “We’ve got a big meeting tomorrow morning, so we need to be on our A-game.” He threw an arm around Chan, signaling caution to his coworker, then regretfully scanned your attire.

Hansol’s gaze traced over the perfect lines and curves of your dress as he tightened his grip on Chan’s shoulder, both of them watching as you patted your lips against your napkin, leaving a kiss stain in mauve-red lipstick. He knew soon enough he’d regret his responsible decision-making. “But we’ll be sure we’ll leave a slot available for you after.”

Hansol turned toward Chan, looking for reassurance as the other man held the middle seam of his pants. “Right, Chan?”

“R-right,” the other bartender responded with a tinge of disappointment.

You softly pouted. “Okay. Another time. I’ll let you guys get back to work.”

The prospects tonight were slim, but not impossible. There were group gatherings and couples, but no one alone like you—that made it more challenging, and you loved a good challenge. You turned away from the bar on your stool, twirling your freshly topped-off glass from a new bottle, and scanned the room for another late-night treat.

In the corner, you spotted a diamond in the rough—a pair of men who couldn’t seem to tear their eyes off you, each idly toying with the dark liquor in their glasses. You flashed them a sly grin before turning away just enough to keep them in your peripheral vision, watching as they drank you in. They smiled back, one darkly handsome man to the next, their gazes unmistakably intrigued.

“Isn’t that a beaut,” Seungcheol muttered under his breath, hiding it under his glass drenched in bourbon.

“They are,” Wonwoo agreed. “Their reputation precedes them. We complete our duty tonight.”

Before Wonwoo could stand to approach you, Seungcheol tugged him back down, something more than authority in his gaze. “Hold on, brother. What’s the rush? It’s not every day we come across a sacrifice as…delectable as this one. I say we take our time.”

“But, sir… Seungcheol,” Wonwoo corrected himself, remembering they were in a public setting. “We shouldn’t leave any evidence.”

“And we’ll make sure of that.” Seungcheol grinned at his capable, steadfast captain. “Besides, I saw the way you looked at them. Don’t pretend you didn’t, soldier.”

Wonwoo had looked at you—perhaps longer than he should have. Sinful deviant or not, he could understand why others found it impossible to resist you. You were a vision to behold, a captivating stain on the town he might have allowed to linger under different circumstances. But there were no exceptions in the scripture. You would meet the same fate as everyone else they’d killed.

“Nonetheless, we have demands to meet… Seungcheol.” Wonwoo’s tone was even, but his eyes held a flicker of impatience.

The elder man sighed, swirling his drink with a slow, deliberate motion. “Sure taking advantage of my given name, aren’t you…Wonwoo?” He raised a brow, an amused glint in his gaze, though his words held an edge.

“We must stay focused, even if the distraction is so… distracting,” Wonwoo replied, his voice steady but his gaze briefly drifting to you before snapping back.

Seungcheol smiled cunningly, leaning back in his chair as he let his eyes settle on you. “All I’m saying is, why not reward ourselves with a taste of their mercy? Give them a final moment of sin before they see the flames of the inferno where they belong.”

Wonwoo’s jaw tightened. “And would we not be sinning too, brother?”

Seungcheol’s smile faded, and he leaned forward his captain in arms, voice low and commanding. “You dare question my judgment?”

A silence hung heavy between them before Wonwoo let out a resigned sigh. “We need our affairs in order,” he murmured, his tone weary yet resolute.

Seungcheol scoffed, rolling his eyes as he straightened. “Fine. We’ll do it your way,” he conceded.

They adjusted their jackets, sharing a brief, knowing glance before rising from their seats and approaching you with a leisurely stride, intrigue glinting beneath their composed expressions. Seungcheol met your eyes first, flashing that boyish dimple—the one that had gotten them out of more than a few tight spots. 

“Mind if we join you?” he asked, his tone smooth, and inviting, but with an edge that hinted at something far less innocent.

Your teeth grazed your bottom lip as you gave a slight nod. “Both of you?”

“If that doesn’t intimidate you,” Wonwoo replied with a polite smile, the bar light catching his glasses and casting a faint glare that concealed the depths of his true intentions.

“Not at all. Sit.”

And they did, boxing either side of you, each exuding an intoxicating mix of decadence, spice, and something darkly earthy. The scent was almost hypnotic, stiffening the hairs on your neck. 

Every glance, every subtle movement, spoke of a carefully restrained danger, like a coiled snake waiting to wrap around its unknowing prey. Their intensity crackled in the air around you, unsettling yet somehow magnetic. Something about this pair was dangerous on belief and your gut was screaming it loud, but instead of listening, you were anchoring yourself in place, wanting to find out just what it is you should be afraid of.

“I’m Seungcheol, and my colleague here is Wonwoo. And you are?” The dimpled man asked.

As you introduced yourself, both men let your name roll off their tongues, savoring each syllable as if committing it to memory. Wonwoo angled his body toward you, his gaze intent. “That’s quite nice to say,” he murmured, repeating your name slowly, watching closely to see how you reacted to the sound of it on his lips.

“What brings you both here?” you asked, subtly crossing your legs with a teasing smile. “Date night?”

Both men chuckled, clearly amused by how effortlessly they’d caught your attention. “Something like that,” Seungcheol replied, leaning in just slightly. “We’re just looking for a nightcap before calling it a night. Came straight from the office.”

You raised a brow, laughing softly. “It’s 10 p.m. You both work this late? And turn in this early?”

“Well,” Wonwoo countered, a strategic smile on his face, “we never said how long we’d be here… or how brief our nightcap might be.”

You hummed, sipping your wine as you eyed them over the rim of your glass. “You two really do everything together.”

“Yes,” they answered in perfect unison.

“Everything together?” you pressed, a playful edge in your voice.

“Yes,” they replied again, this time with a hint of menace that made the word linger in the air just a moment too long.

The longer you stayed in their presence, the more you couldn’t shake the feeling that something about their composed demeanor didn’t sit right. Call it survivor’s intuition, but something was off. Still—“I suppose neither of you has time for anything else tonight?” you asked a slight challenge in your tone. “A way to truly acquaint ourselves before the night ends.”

“That does sound interesting,” Wonwoo mused, pretending to consider, his gaze never leaving you.

“And what better way to end the night than with a new…friend?” Seungcheol added, his smile sharp as he leaned in.

It was almost too easy. One moment, you were at the club, indulging in a reckless amount of wine courtesy of these fine gentlemen, the night unfolding in a haze of alcohol and sultry gazes. The next, you found yourself in their penthouse, entangled in a kiss with Seungcheol as Wonwoo was tearing off your clothes, the world outside suddenly distant and irrelevant.

You could feel the warmth of the man’s breath against the back of your neck. His spectacles brushed lightly against your skin as he leaned in, the metal sending a subtle shiver down your spine as you counted the beats of his pants. He explored your body with reckless abandon, uttering your name under every tender kiss.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol was evidently impatient, his lips quickly latching onto yours in a frenzy. He wasted no time tracing the surface area of your mouth, as if time were ticking and he knew that sooner or later, it would run out. “By gods, you are something else.”

He pressed up against your body, only the thin layer of your lingerie to protect you as you began to undress him, the concaves and curves of his body scorching under your fingertips. Your moans muffled under Seungcheol’s lips as Wonwoo's moans muffled under your skin, the tautness of their body sandwiching you into a sweltering trap.

“You both have no idea how much I needed this,” you panted, hands roaming in Seungcheol’s hair as his lips latched around your tits.

Wonwoo softly scoffed, loud enough to hear but soft enough to be dismissed. “On the contrary, you don’t know how badly we needed you.”

You mewled under the sounds of his false pretenses and squealed when they brought you naked over the sofa. Seungcheol took a moment to admire your vulnerability, caressing along your sides, spreading your legs so he may position himself between them, and just behind you stood Wonwoo. Impatient for something else entirely, procured a knife from under the couch, just where he had left it. 

Seconds before the spectacle man lifted it up, deciding to plunge it through your shoulder, chest, or even throat, Seungcheol stood up. “Just a moment, darling,” his eyes flickered over to the armed captain in caution, frozen with the hunter’s knife inches above you, “Me and my buddy got to do one last thing before we proceed. Wait for us patiently?”

“All right…don’t keep me waiting too long,” you purred, a slow smile curling on your lips, your heavy-lidded gaze smoldering with anticipation.

Seungcheol steered Wonwoo into a separate room, shutting the door behind them with a quiet finality. He fixed his subordinate with a piercing glare, the urge to drive him to his knees simmering just beneath the surface. “Tell me, soldier—what do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s not ‘soldier’ anymore, sir,” Wonwoo muttered, his voice tense. “I’m doing what we’re supposed to. We can’t indulge in this…” he hesitated, searching for the word, “…depravity. It only complicates the operation.”

Seungcheol stepped closer, his figure casting a shadow over Wonwoo as he instinctively leaned back, nearly cowering under the weight of his leader’s stare. “So you doubt our abilities, is that it?” he demanded, his voice low and venomous. “It’s been a minute since I took on my bitchbreaker on for a ride and you of all people are deciding to be a nuisance. If you’re so certain we can’t balance pleasure and duty, perhaps you should step aside—so I, your capable and trusted leader, can finish the job without you repeatedly defying me.”

He turned to leave, his movements sharp with frustration, but before he could take a full step, Wonwoo’s hand shot out, gripping his bicep tightly. The hold was firm, almost defiant, and Seungcheol could feel the strength behind it—a mix of resolve and the fear of regret that held Wonwoo back. Their eyes met, and in Wonwoo’s gaze was a fierce determination, teetering on the edge between loyalty and a barely restrained desire.

“I’ll follow orders,” Wonwoo said, his tone unwavering. “Your orders. I won’t question you again, sir.”

Seungcheol gave a smug smile, brushing off his right-hand man’s grip before leading him out of the room.

When they returned, they found you still lounging on the couch, but now holding something you hadn’t had before—something stark white and blinding, something that didn’t belong to you and should’ve gone unnoticed.

“Boo!” you laughed, lifting the Ghostface mask to your face with a playful grin as the rest of you was still nude, offering an enragingly tantalizing image.

Wonwoo’s voice nearly boomed as he tried to keep his rage in check, suppressing another sensation that fought him to break out. “What do you think you’re doing?” His eyes flashed a sign of panic, quickly narrowing at you. Had they been caught? Exposed? You were already a risky target, and now you were making things a lot more complicated.

You pulled the mask off with a casual smile, unfazed by the shift in Wonwoo’s demeanor, which was colder than it was moments before. “Sorry for snooping; I couldn’t resist.”

Seungcheol’s calm voice cut through the tension. “Where’d you find that?”

You held the mask in your hands, inspecting it from front to back, not fearing the consequences. “Under the coffee table,” you said, turning it over, admiring the attention to detail. “It looks really real.”

Seungcheol stepped forward, his presence looming as his eyes flickered over from the mask to you, its captor, with an intensity that bordered on possessive. “It is real. We believe it belonged to one of the original Ghostfaces...As historians, we collect these kinds of things.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ooh,” you grinned, your lips curling in slight admiration.

Seungcheol studied you for a moment, his arms crossed in calculated intrigue. “You’re not scared?” His voice dropped slightly in defense. “Why?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know… I just find it more interesting than scary. And maybe kind of sexy… I don’t know.”

Wonwoo couldn’t hide his disbelief. His voice came out sharp, almost incredulous. “Sexy… you find centuries of bloodshed and thousands of lost lives sexy?”

You paused, your fingers tracing the edge of the mask. “Okay, well not that—the mask! I know it’s tied to awful, disgusting, horrific events, but…” You brought it up to your face, tilting it as you peered through the narrow slits, your voice trailing off in their signature tone of voice that the articles quote were ‘shrill and cunning.’. “There’s something about it that’s...captivating. Like, what kinds of things did they do, and why this mask? What makes it so...iconic?”

Seungcheol’s eyes darkened for a split second, a flicker of something realization passing through them, but he said nothing. Instead, he watched you with a calm amusement, his lips curling into a slight, almost imperceptible smile.

“Really?” Wonwoo’s voice cut through the silence, laced with disbelief. His eyes narrowed as he processed what you had just said, a quiet judgment simmering beneath his calm exterior. “You really think that is sexy?” His words hung in the air, thick with the implication that he couldn’t fathom how anyone could glorify such an image.

Wonwoo was quiet for a moment, his thoughts clearly racing. Yeah, I’m the one doing the killing, he thought, but they were sacrifices—an entirely different kind of thing. They were meant for the greater cause, something you could never understand. He had been the one to offer the death, to carry out the act, and yet you—you—were somehow making it seem like some kind of twisted, romanticized thrill.

He glanced at Seungcheol, whose only response was a raised eyebrow. The corners of his lips curved into that unsettlingly knowing smile, the kind that signaled anything but anger.

Seungcheol retrieved the mask from your fingertips, put it towards him, and shielded his facial features. “So if I wear it like this,” He stuck out a hand to grab you, tugging you by the waist and gliding his hand over your sides, “and touch you like this…”

His palms cupped the underside of your ass, digits digging into your flesh roughly, releasing a sharp breath from you. His body, gloriously exposed, was firm and warm, so inviting you couldn’t help but throw your arms over his shoulders to press against his waist. You stared into the eyes of the mask, stomach-churning at the increase of stimuli and you almost heard yourself growl under your breath. “I don’t think I could resist you.”

Seungcheol removed the mask, holding it in one hand and tightening his grip on you with the other. “You’re a weird little thing, are you,” he asked, narrowing his eyes, voice rich and dark.

“I’ve always wanted deep throat the cock of someone wearing one,” you blatantly confessed, your bottom lip caught in your teeth. 

Seungcheol quirked a brow, interest piquing before tossing the mask in Wonwoo’s direction, who caught it flawlessly, looking back at it in concerned confusion. “Wear it,” said the fellow conspirer, “Make our little guest dreams come true while I enjoy the show.”

Wonwoo didn’t argue, and against his better judgment followed his leader’s orders, securing the mask on his face as he bared his nether region, regrettably taut and aroused. As soon as Seungcheol released you, you fell to your knees, gazing up at the Ghostface mask before drawing your gaze down to Wonwoo’s cock that stood on its own, full of life.

Beneath that mask, Wonwoo held on to his uncertainty, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t look forward to the image of your lips wrapped around him. It was about all he could think about since being aware of you, other than killing you that is. Even as you beckoned him closer, with your knees on the ground of where the blood he’s shed–the bodies he’s slaughtered–he couldn’t help but think about how to dispose of you. How to get rid of your stain next. But the moment your lips reach the tip of his cock, his worries and schemes seemed to fade away, vanishing even faster as your pace quickened so eagerly.

Your hands palmed over his waist, and the lust in your eyes was insatiable, making a man—even Wonwoo—wonder how that pretty little mouth could take so much cock. He groaned, grabbing you by the crown of your head, and pushing you closer as he started to thrust, gradually adjusting to the tight, warm press of your mouth. “Oh fuck,” his voice gave out, muffled by the mask. 

He winced as he felt himself hit your throat, swallowing as he heard you gag on his cock—trying to fit all of him and he broke out in a hidden smile, and if he was being honest, he hasn't held a smile like it in a long time.

Why, Wonwoo hadn’t realized how long he’s had a good fucking like this. Ever since he took on as captain, sex was a thing of the past, something not even in the back of his mind, but you. Oh, you. You awoke something that should’ve stayed dormant. Years of training and discipline are suddenly out the window. And now he’s had a taste, he was going to ruin you until you didn’t even have the energy to breathe.

His hand locked between your tendrils, shoving your head impatiently. “Little toy that knows how to play. That’s rare.”

One hand found the underside of your chin, bringing your face up to gaze upon his, and watched as the mask on his face tilted in curiosity. Vice gripping that head of yours, he used your throat, letting his length slide down inside you. “Aren’t you a little slut? Just fucking wet having my cock down your throat, are you? Don’t try to deny it. I don't have to see or feel it. I can smell it.”

You confirmed with a strugged nod, salvia dribbling down your chin as tears began to burn your eyes.

Wonwoo let out a staggered breath, hitching another in his throat with a groan as felt your face touch the base of his cock, holding you in place and hearing you breathe with immense difficulty l. He pulled himself out of you, dragging you by your head, watching you cough on the ground, strings of your salvia ruining the floor and stretching from your cheeks. “You’re such a try-hard, taking my cock when I hear you practically gasping for air.” 

He bent down to level with you, the mask staring back at you menacingly, so realistically. “What? You’re not gonna beg for more?”

“I will, I will,” you assured, a blubbering mess, gasping while the tightness in your throat failed to bother you like it should’ve.

“Is that right?” Wonwoo chuckled, squeezing your cheeks in a rough grip. “You gonna beg for me to fuck your face? Huh?” He inhaled your gasps, body convulsing. His voice was gravelly and stinging with repulsion. “Cockbreath.”

You whined, pleading: “Please, I want to feel it deep, deep inside me, Mr. Ghostface. Give me your cock.”

“Then let me hear how much you want it.”

Your mouth parted, fumbling for the right words, struggling to release them from your strained throat, the sound coming out rough and raspy. “I want your cock shoved in my throat. I want to feel it from one end and out the other. I live for you cock. I’d die on your cock. Please just stick in my throat and don’t stop please.” 

Wonwoo looked down at you, surprised with the spew coming out of your mouth but went with it, shoving himself swiftly back in you, the sensation of your throat welcoming him like it never left. “I better see you swallow every inch,” he warned, his voice thick with malice. “If you so much as breathe, I’ll give you more than enough reason not to,” a smile laced with dark amusement edging his tone.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol watched as he promised, laying aloof back on the sofa with cock in hand and reveling in the sheer desperation from your voice as he stroked his cock to the pace of Wonwoo’s thrusts. 

As the reigning leader of the Spirituals, he was accustomed to having others do his bidding, just as his father had planned. But through his experience in leadership, he discovered he preferred being directly involved. Very involved. And it was moments like this that confirmed it.

“Good little cocksleeve, ain’t they?” Seungcheol commented, licking his lips.

“They certainly know how to make use of themselves,” Wonwoo drawled, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he observed your efforts, taking him with as much excitement as you initially came with.

Seungcheol started getting up, standing beside his partner in crime with a growing cock firmly in his grasp. He cast his gaze down at you, his presence domineering and intimidating, yet all the more mesmerizing. Seungcheol scoffed as soon as your eyes flickered in his direction, and his hands found themself in your hair. “I wonder how they’d take two cocks. How does that sound?”

Seungcheol helped release you from Wonwoo’s clutches and invited you into his as he met your eye level. “Can two cocks,” He produced another Ghostface mask, lifting it to his face, “fuck that pretty mouth full? There’s only one right answer.”

“Yes,” you managed to answer, your voice trembling, tears streaking down your face as you exhale, your flushed cheeks betraying the weight of your words. “Always.”

“Exactly what I was looking for.”

Kneeling between them, you held them both in either hand and traveled down both their lengths. Each Ghostface was more wicked than the other as you shoved a cock down your throat, Seungcheol’s groan following in response. Your tongue dragged along its underside, mouth stretching to adjust its size and familiarizing with your throat just as Wonwoo’s had, and the familiar sting of your tears had caused another stream of heat down your cheeks.

“You dirty little slut, so this is the kind of treatment my partner here has been getting,” Seungcheol took you by the hair, and slammed you against the base before pulling you back to only reach the head, another fit of coughing to ensue. “You better work five times as hard if you want to please me too.”

You nodded, each stroke to either of their cocks deliberate and purposeful, the masked individuals looming in front of you anticipating your next move. Taking Seungcheol back in your mouth, you sucked all around his circumstances, memorizing the veins of his shaft to then do the same with Wonwoo, batting your eyes back at him, your mouth parted wide letting both exit and enter on your own accord.

It was then either tip breached one another, both of your hands rubbing against each other at once that you heard something so delicious in their voices, so real and so pure. And before you could truly savor it, both of them pried your mouth part, either cock rubbing against either inside of your mouth, stretching your cheeks, as they unevenly thrust into your mouth.

It looked like it hurt, and either man was glad for it because, in its own sick way, it was another form of punishment, catering to them would only guarantee your ultimate demise and proving to them once and for all how necessary their roles really were.

Still, they enjoyed it—hell, they were euphoric seeing you put so much effort into such an ordeal, but not more impressed than about how it felt. Each twist of your wrist aimed to pump ego in their lengths, the dampness of your slobber stretching from your chin to their shafts creating a path of viscous filth, and the tension building in their manhoods that never seemed to fade as they attempted to bury themselves inside of your face.

It was momentous, and Wonwoo, who was initially concerned, was elated to reap more of the benefits just as much as his leader.

They shoved you off as soon as one of them was close, landing you on the sofa, flushed with a thin layer of sweat. Wonwoo, lifting the mask slightly above his face, let his lips run down your body, the hard, cold of plastic the mask chill on your body, while his teeth were nipping your torso and soft growls hummed against your skin. Startled, you yelped as he tugged your legs toward him, his cock position almost perfect at your warm entrance before he inserted himself, not wasting time by giving you a warning.

You mewled at the sensation, his rock-hard length plunging against your moist, plush walls. You instinctively gripped his arms for support, his ruts definable sharp, guttural, and primal. He loomed over you, mask still in place, but the shadow cast over his face in combination with just the barest hint of his mouth exposed showed a twisted smile of lunacy, dangerous beyond recognition.

Wonwoo was rough, hurting you in a way you’ve never been fucked before, but it made it all the more pleasure and Wonwoo knew it more than you thought. Seungcheol joined your side, squeezing himself between you and the couch as he propped his cock towards your mouth, slapping it against your cheek. “Open the fuck wide,” he said in a gnarly rasp through his mask.

As you opened, he seized you by your chin, slapping the cushion of your cheek where it already stung, before slapping the shaft of his cock on your tongue. You looked up at him, panting in excited gasps before he filled your mouth, then emptied it, and then filled your mouth again. His free hand claimed your breasts, ruthlessly squeezing them, pinching at your peaks, before ultimately slapping them, every action you could only swallow at. At almost every end, you were filled to the brim, hung in the balance of their mercy, and not once could you open your eyes without seeing stars.

“Can’t fucking stand it, what’s a fucking slut like you think you deserves our cocks for,” Wonwoo slapped the underside of your thigh, the sting of it ringing in your ears.

Seungcheol chuckled, fingers threading through your hair, pulling your head back to see the glisten in your eyes, how they beg without saying so, or how they water in delight. “One would be lucky to be so fortunate. You’ll thank us later and it won’t just be with gratitude, it’ll be a plea for more.”

Wonwoo, almost as blinded with lust as either you or Seungcheol, gave a deep heart laugh as he folded your legs back towards you, feeling him bottoming inside you and hitting a spot that shot you up in space. At this point you were immobile of making conscious decisions that didn’t have to do with sex, deducing you to only something they could use—something they could fuck until they were sick of you. 

You’d muffle something around Seungcheol’s cock, whether it be their names, or calling them Ghostface, it didn’t matter. It was as if the world outside this room didn’t exist and none of them cared for it to exist. Just them and you, and the sound of raw, unbridled sex. Succumbing to their primal urge to unleash pent-up tension and energy—and how effortlessly they did so.

Wonwoo felt his stomach seize, his abdomen tightening as the involuntary contractions slowed his pace, the warmth starting to overcome him, and his low groans took power over his voice as he doubled over. His cum up and out of him in thick ribbons up your path, the twitching of your orgasm quickening in response to his warmth. Simultaneously, Seungcheol filled your mouth, expanding your cheeks, and he gently stroked your throat, “Swallow every fucking bit of it, you fucking cumbottle.”

Your eyes fluttered, pushing the cum down your pipes as he still stood in your mouth, feeling it slide down with a heavy swallow, and you opened your mouth wide to show just how thorough you are.

Seungcheol finally peeled the mask from his face, revealing flushed pink on his cheeks and damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, making him an undeniably captivating sight—nothing short of a perfect reward. 

Wonwoo followed, his presence marked by a familiar mirage, his smile shifting into a Duchenne grin—a smile that sparkled in a way most didn’t, reaching his eyes and revealing just how genuine it truly was. Underestimating the relief that consumed him. “Finally,” he gasped out.

He stood up, towering over your frame, his shadow falling over you. “Nothing short of our expectations,” he complimented before pressing a kiss to your lips, explosive and electric, foreshadowing how it’d be the last.

He started to retrieve the additional knife from under the couch, its steely presence finally making a comeback, and you managed to catch the glint of it peering at you at a lower glance. Jumping into action, your feet aimed for his gut, throwing Wonwoo off base as the knife scattered on the ground and crashing him hard into the glass coffee table behind him. 

“Fuck!” Wonwoo shouted, pain pricking him at all sides of his body, blood gushing from the holes from which the glass had penetrated. “You bitch!”

“Like I was going to let that happen,” you spat, recovering from your fatigue. 

Seungcheol pinned his arms behind you, an evil smile visible in your peripheral. “And you think I’d let you damage my property like that?” He hissed.

Before Seungcheol could avenge his comrade, you head-butted him from the back of your skull, momentarily blinding him as he clutched his face in agony. “Fuck! Holy fuck! My fucking face! You broke my fucking face!” He growled from the depths of his gut as you backed off of him. “I’m gonna enjoy fucking killing you.”

“God fuck, you knew! Didn’t you, you stupid bitch?” Wonwoo started inching closer to you, the knife a good distance away from him. “You knew who we were and came up here anyway. To what? Get one good fuck? Are you that stupid?”

“Of course, I didn’t fucking know! But I had a gut feeling,” you panted.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol taunted, eye swollen, cheeks and forehead red as he procured a knife from between the couch cushions. “Where that gut feeling take you? Besides getting them rearranged, that is?”

Wonwoo scoffed, finally finding the strength to get up. “Dumb slut like them didn’t get that far. Just good for a fuck.” He spat on the ground blood, gritting his teeth.

Your gaze flickered from one to the other, bare fisted, preparing for the worst. “Why don’t you test that theory then, boys?”

“Fucking gladly,” Seungcheol agreed, voice falling several octaves.

They bolted towards you in blind fury, grasping at you like straw and swinging a knife in your direction, barely nicking you. When Wonwoo ran at you from one end, Seungcheol came at you from the other, attempting to corner you. Determination oozing in their gazes, piercing through your very being, the mirage of the devil’s on both of their unsettlingly handsome faces. 

“Nowhere to run now, you little bitch.” Wonwoo screeched venomously.

Seungcheol twirled the knife between his fingers, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “This is where you start crying. Or begging for mercy? It doesn’t matter like it won’t matter where or what we stab you with next.”

You slid underneath their swinging arms, the knife briefly slicing, forearm and you gasped in response, stumbling backward. Feeling cornered. You slowly backed away, searching for an escape, but by luck, you find something in your purse instead, abandoned on the ground just out of your assailants’ sight. “You fuckers aren’t gonna get away with shit by the way. You should be careful where you leave your things around here.”

They both laugh at you condescendingly, not an ounce of doubt in their eyes. “No one is believing your bluffs, darling. Just come over nice and slowly. We’ll only stab you 20 times each,” Seungcheol feignedly reassured.

Thinking you were defenseless, they charged at you at full speed—until you lifted what you’d hidden behind your cowering figure. A burst of pepper spray erupted from the canister into their eyes, and the sound of grown men screaming from the tops of their lungs, like terrified final girls, seared itself into every wrinkle of your brain.

”You stupid slut! Pepper spray? Seriously?”

”First you swell up my face, then fucking blind me? You’re in for a real one, cum guzzling little shit.”

Seizing your chance, you delivered a final kick, shoving Wonwoo in Seungcheol’s direction, sending them into an unexpected embrace. In the haze of pain, Wonwoo's eyes shot open, the piercing ache in his chest telling him everything he needed to know about what had just happened. “S-Seungcheol…what the fuck…”

As he stared into his comrade's eyes, Seungcheol’s eyes grew wide in realization, and looked down at the knife he held in his hand, now plunged into their chest. The leader followed him as he collapsed, taking the longest moment to register the events leading up to this as Wonwoo’s eyes began to drift close. Gripping his brethren’s shoulders with the anger of a million suns, Seungcheol bared his teeth, voice singing in regret. “You…I’M GOING TO CHOP AND FEED THEM TO MY PET SHARKS, YOU TRAMP.”

He turned to face you swiftly—too swiftly—because as soon as he did, his neck met the blade, slicing from one side to the other until you plunged it deeper, twisting it down his throat before pulling it out. Fury lingered in his eyes, barely alive, as he began to spit up blood, several drops landing on your face and body. Moments later, he collapsed beside his partner, his eyes dulling as the life slowly drained from his face and body.

You collapsed to your side, shakily reaching for the phone in your bag and dialing the authorities. “H-hello…I just killed two men that attempted to kill me…I think I know the address.”

Once you hung up, you summoned the courage to flip your phone to camera mode to capture the evidence, gasping for breath, ensuring yourself of the life left in you. As soon as you did, a gravelly voice cut through the silence. Its owner raised the knife that had once been lodged in his chest, charging at you with bloodshot, deranged eyes. “DIE, FREAK, DIE!”

You managed a quick, well-aimed strike where the sun doesn’t shine, slowing him down just enough. As he stumbled, you seized the knife you’d stolen from Seungcheol’s throat and plunged it into his head, again, and again, and again, screaming at the top of your lungs until he finally collapsed to the floor.

With trembling hands, you struggled to hold the phone steady to capture the scene. Blood streaked down your forearms, and your sniffles provided the only soundtrack to the aftermath.

You’d done it—you’d finally done it. It only took a hundred tries and countless hours of risk, but it happened. You had become the one–if not the only–true survivor of the town’s Ghostface murders. If this didn’t launch your career, you weren’t sure what would.

You just had hoped they wouldn’t come with backup.

[holybibly]

Unholy thoughts of the day, my divine bunnies: Dark priest San, fucks you in the confessional. Warnings: hierophilia, sex in church

The majestic, mournful sounds of the antique organ rose to the high Gothic vaults of the church, mingled with soft, silken moans and the barely audible, panting words of haphazardly recited prayers that settled on San's heated, moist, sun-kissed skin, like stained glass chips scattered on the faded velour spilt by the dark maroon sea between the rows of narrow, lacquered pews.

Unlike your airy sighs and whimpers, muffled by the rhythmic beating of San's pulse beneath your lips, Pastor Choi himself could rival the thunderous volume of church chants and the cacophonous sounds of bells echoing through the hallowed, frescoed walls of the church.

San didn't seem to have any remorse at all, as he fucked you deeply and sensually in the dark, wooden, cramped confessional while Pastor Jeong's angelic voice echoed the sacred lines of the Holy Scriptures.

San didn't want to hide how good it made him feel when he pounded his thick cock into the moist, tantalising warmth of your beautiful, tight pussy; on the contrary, he wanted his moans of pleasure to reach heavenly heights. Hell, he wouldn't mind the whole congregation hearing your cunt whip for him every time the massive girth of his dick slides between your lusciously open labia, which generously coating his velvety hot length with your sweet goo as the edges of your tiny hole stretch to accommodate him.

"Did I ask you to stop, divine? I want to hear all your sins, angel." San purrs sultrily in your ear. The hot ghost of his command sends shivers of excitement down your spine. His fingers dig roughly into your juicy, plush thigh flesh as he pushes you harder against the confessional's roughened wood back wall. "C'mon, tell me everything. Repent, divine one, and I will grant you salvation."

Spurred on by the passionate kisses of San's bitten, devilishly curved lips, which tasted of the sweet, sinful bitterness of wine and vintage white tea that had bloomed like a translucent ghostly flower at the bottom of a small porcelain cup, you tighten your grip on his broad, muscular shoulders and whimper softly.

"Forgive me, Holy Father, for I have been a sinner..." You begin, rolling your eyes in pleasure and sobbing softly as San's swollen, dripping with pre-cum cockhead kisses your cervix. "My thoughts weren't pure..." Your words are accompanied by the wet, squelching sound of skin slapping against skin. His heavy, tight balls slap against the soft skin of your thick buttocks with each of his powerful, deep thrusts.

The pink mother of pearl of your rosary beads slips from your sweaty palms and falls to the floor and splinters into hundreds of pieces as San's thick cock continues to slide insistently between the trembling walls of your tight cunt.

"Is that all, my angel? I think there's more." San's voice is nothing more than a solid darkness wrapped in velvet. "You know good girls shouldn't lie."

"I... I... I have done some bad things." You blurt out immediately, as if San will be disappointed in you and stop fucking you if you don't act like his good girl.

"Like what, angel? Fucked a priest in church? Seduced an older man just so you could ride your slutty little cunt on his cock until it was completely filled with hot, thick cum? Tell me, are these all bad things, Divine? Didn't you enjoy it all?" You'd never really thought about it, but hearing San say it out loud made you feel incredibly ashamed, but you still didn't do anything to stop it; instead, you arched your hips invitingly towards him, trying to get even deeper on his cock.

You wanted him so deep inside you that you could see his amazingly thick cock bulging against your belly.

"Yes, Father, I have done all these things... And I love it so much... I want more..." You practically squealed as you felt the head of his cock hit your sweet spot. The sudden jolt of pleasure almost made you faint.

"You're such a bad girl, Angel." San lustfully whispers into your neck. "But, you know, that's just the way I like it." You can't see his dirty grin, but you can feel it on your skin. "We'll come back to your sins later; we may even have to ask Yunho to help you atone for them, but that will be later; for now I want you to milk my cock dry. We need to make sure your cunt is full and warm from all my cum, divine".

You whine and nod your head stupidly in response to his words. Yes, yes, you want to atone for your sins under the gentle guidance of Father Jeong Yunho and, of course, San, but right now he is absolutely right: you have to milk his cock dry. You can't let him down.

You were so close to orgasm, the hot, tight knot of lust in your lower abdomen tightening with each thrust of Pastor Choi's juicy, thick thighs.

The velvety, thick length of his dick rubs insistently against the quivering walls of your cunt, causing more and more of your mucus to spill out of your hole, hinting at an impending stormy orgasm, and San cunningly presses the rough pads of his fingers against your sensitive, swollen clit as he begins to rub your sensitive bottom sharply and aggressively, pushing you faster to the edge of pleasure. Your toes are squeezed in your shoes by his actions, and your thighs begin to tremble weakly.

"S-san, I'm so... so close. Please, Holy Father..." You gasp.

Your orgasm rushes through you like a tsunami, coating your thighs and the velvet floor beneath your feet with copious amounts of goo. You cum so hard it's almost embarrassing, your goo spurting out of your hole like a fountain, completely soaking San's clothes and running down the inside of your thighs.

Your cunt clenches tighter around San's massive length, milking him until his cock begins to soften inside you. Hot cum floods the narrow channel of your pussy, painting your fluttering walls with viscous milky fluid.

What could be more righteous? What could be more holy? Than something so breathtaking and heavenly. You're almost on cloud nine as your belly continues to swell from the sperm pumping into you.

You whimper softly, the remnants of your orgasm tingling your skin like little bolts of electricity.

"You're such a good girl, Divine." San coos sweetly, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead. "Keep me inside, baby. Keep me inside. Yes, like that. My good girl, my sweet angel."

"Yes, Holy Father." That's all you can manage, burying your face deeper in San's neck, feeling his massive jewelled cross digging between your tits. "Whatever you say."

[julietsbody]

divine figures — luke castellan + reader : nothing could steer luke off his path to god now, until you came along. 

tags : southern setting au, small town setting, loser!luke, idolization, christian religious references & imagery, religious inconsistencies, church sex, religious guilt, body worship, sex but poetic, cannibalistic imagery…………..

a/n : heavily inspired by the lovely @murdrdocs!! 

luke castellan was never one to follow a religion, well, not at first he wasn’t. he thought it was all bullshit, to put your all into someone nobody is sure even exists, it’s bullshit. but then his mom began insisting that he went, that he needed to find god, they both did, so he went.   

luke lacked a father figure, so when he stared up at the statue perched at the apse of the church, he found the man he always lacked in his life, no matter how much the statue ignored his gaze, never bothering to look his way. he was quick to read the bible like it was a drug he just couldn’t get enough of, he sat straight with his eyes forward during each sermon, he kept himself pure. 

and he stuck true to that, until you came. 

he never really noticed you at first, but you were always there. 

always looking over your shoulder to his place in the pew, always smiling at him when he accidentally glances your way, always passing by his house on your bike on hot summer days in hopes of seeing him outside, shirtless and working on his mother’s car. 

you hadn’t mustered up the proper courage to speak to him, not until your parents have tugged you over to where he stood with his mother in the nave. your mother and father immediately sparked up conversation with his mother, leaving you to awkwardly look around the church in hopes of finding something worthy of speaking of. nothing, there was nothing. so you just mumbled out a, “hey.” 

he hesitates for a second, “hi.” 

“did you like the sermon?” your southern drawl, along with your sugar coated smile, luke can feel the thumping of his heart against his knit sweater. 

“‘course,” he smiles shyly, “i always do— um.. did you?” 

you nod at him, your ability to hold eye contact so well had him feeling nervous, constantly breaking it to glance around the room, “are you excited for easter?”

luke’s lips curve to a brighter smile, one that proves that he hopes that with jesus’ return, there will be a proper savior for him, his prayers will finally be listened to, maybe for once the statue on the wall will glance his way. 

jesus molded everything about luke, at this point, if he couldn’t believe in his father, jesus was going to take that place— and he did, luke was taught everything by the bible, all he ever relied on was the words of the lord, everything he ever did was a representation of what lied in those scriptures. he never worshipped another god, never said the lord’s name in vain, always remembered sabbath day, as well as honored his mother and… father. 

he didn’t commit adultery, in fact, he never spoke to women, really. his mother kept him sheltered, he was only allowed to speak to the women at church, not any of the women who rode on their bikes past his house, or smiled at him in the library. he just stared at them for a minute and looked away, contemplating how different things would be if he was able to speak to them. 

at the thought of women, luke’s mind races back to you, who is currently blinking at him and thinking he didn’t hear you. “i am excited— for easter, will you be at— the um.. the church that day?” 

another nod, then an awkward silence as you find nothing more to say, and neither does he. the church was a beautiful place, decorated with swirls of gold and dark wood, colorful stained glass windows that painted pictures of jesus, or virgin mary. if luke could move out of his home and live somewhere he genuinely enjoyed, it would be the church. 

there was something so comforting about it, maybe the faint music that played in the background, or the way it smelled of old books and floral perfumes, or the fact that it was just a place where so many people went to put their faith into someone. god was just so important, if luke didn’t know any better, he’d envy him. 

“you should come on sabbath days,” you interject his thoughts, leaning in to his vision. 

he blinks, eyes refocusing on your face, and he awkwardly chuckles, scratching the back of his neck, “i thought they were for relaxation?” 

“and worship,” you correct, and he crystalizes the memory of how each word sounds on your tongue, how it flows out so well, how it makes him swallow. 

“right, right,” he wets his lips nervously, “i’ll just— ask my mom. mama?” 

as soon as he asks his mom, she’s all smiles at him, nodding and even shaking your hand, thanking you for urging him to go to church more. 

“i’ll see you there,” is the last thing you say to luke that day. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

luke would be a liar to say he wasn’t riddled with visions of you in the darkest parts of the night, they started from the day you first spoke to him, and never left him since. he hated how much it plagued him, because it tempted him so well. it was like you were eve, offering him, adam, the apple. you reassure him that it’s sweet, that there’s no harm in taking a bite, and luke is parting his lips, ready to taste it, when he finally wakes up. 

the heat of the room is beating down on him, even in the cool of the night. his skin is sticky from sweat, and all he can ever think about is you. it should be a crime, really, how much you had consumed his every waking thought. for once, he wasn’t thinking of the bible verses he would be reading that day, what prayer he would be saying. 

luke didn’t know one thing about women, but the way you spoke to him, the way you smiled at him, the glints in your eyes, it had him wondering how he could make your face twist up in pleasure— fuck. he shouldn’t be thinking like this, it’s unholy, it’s weird, but he’s already in too deep. 

he’s already fed the memory of how pink your lips are, how soft they look, they probably feel the same. is it a sin to wonder how well you kiss? would you be all - consuming? or slow, sweet? luke doesn’t know why he prefers if you’d be hungry, if you’d bite and nip at him like you’re hungry, like he’s the last supper. 

his boxers feel tight on his skin, dick twitching in the confines of them. luke hardly knows this feeling well, he wasn’t one to allow himself to get hard, nor was he one to properly take care of it. but something about the idea of your teeth clashing against his when you kiss him, pushing your tongue into his mouth to taste him properly— it had his fingers pushing underneath the waistband of his underwear. 

when his fingertips graze his cock, he immediately shudders, lashes fluttering. every time luke touched himself, it felt like the first time, only now it felt.. better. better because he was thinking of you. luke had never watched porn, he hardly knows what it is, so the idea of what sex would be like is.. a gray area for him. 

but he works with what his mind is capable of, which is dry humping. the first setting that comes to mind is the church, which leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he goes with it. it comes to vividly, you on his lap, wet patch evident on his jeans from where your hips push down, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. when you moan, he does, when you whimper, he does, when you roll your hips, he does. 

everything was in sync, and it was all so sinful. masturbation itself wasn’t a sin, unless you thought of someone, and for the longest time, luke never thought of anyone, but you were a parasite he couldn’t shake, and he honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to. 

luke wonders how much the priest will judge him when he utters these thoughts, these events in the confessional tomorrow. he has only ever uttered small, pitiful confessions, i didn’t help my mom with dinner, i turned in a book to the library late, i forgot to pray. he’s never had to confess anything larger. 

heat bubbles in luke’s stomach, it’s pleasant, sweet, but it curls, and curls until it’s suffocating, until his wrist is hurting from the fast pumps of his cock, sweat glistening on his skin, cheeks flushed. he can feel a whine scratching up his throat, in the confines of his mind, something is screaming at him, telling him to stop, but it’s too late, he can barely hear it over the blood pumping in his ears. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

when luke comes into the church the next day, it’s a saturday, a sabbath day. typically on these days, he would be spending his time lounging around his house, reading some piece of classical literature that he has hidden from his mother, wishing to keep the inked pictures of statues reeking of desire for one another a secret. 

but he was here, and so, he prayed. 

the sun had barely risen over the horizon (courtesy of daylight savings), yet the candles in the church were lit, leaving an orange hue to project around the empty room. 

luke felt gross, corrupt, unholy. 

for once, luke feels as though the statue above is glaring down on him, and he tries his best to not shrink into himself under the piercing gaze. he knows. his mouth is dry with each prayer, fingers sweaty around the rosary, but he wouldn’t allow himself to falter once more. 

as soon as he starts his fifth prayer, he hears the creak of the floorboards that he knows all too well, eyes fluttering open so he can look back to see who was there, hoping they hadn’t heard his last confessions in his prayers. 

you. his mind is tugged to a halt, every prayer he had rehearsed on his way to the church, completely forgotten. it was all just.. you. you seared on his skin, burned him until he was nothing but smoke. your gaze softens on him, a stark contrast to jesus’ pointed glares, “i didn’t think you’d come.” 

his voice is coarse from the nonstop prayers, “of course i would.” 

all he can think about is you underneath him, his own skin bitten and scratched, decorated in mulberry and deep pinks, he’s practically salivating at the idea. he wonders if, behind the confines of the church walls, would anyone hear you? would the priests dare to look for whoever is letting out such unholy noises? 

luke feels frozen the second he comes back to reality, dick hardening underneath the fabric beyond his control, his mind is tearing itself apart before he can even realize you’re speaking to him. 

“— wondering if you’d like to sit next to me tomorrow,” you pose, seemingly unaware of the bulge in luke’s pants that he is desperately trying to naturally cover with his hands. but you knew, you knew the effect you had on him, and he had the same effect on you. 

is it so cruel to only tease him harder? 

luke swallows the remaining saliva in his drying mouth, quickly moving to a stand, rosary bringing more attention to his covered crotch, “sure, yes— um.. i need to— go.” 

before you can even say anything, he is pushing past you, hand moving only to chastly grab your waist for a mere second as he passes, an instinct of trying to keep you stable, but it only makes a heat between your legs grow. 

desires go both ways, and it’s only a matter of time before they snap. 

˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

easter was once luke’s most anticipated day of the year, but now it was the day of his nightmares. he barely slept last night, kept himself awake with chores, prayers, and reading the bible until it made him sick. he couldn’t have another dream, he couldn’t let you get to him anymore. he thought it would be easy to avoid you today, but he was cursed with his own mistakes as you sat down next to him in the pew. 

the worst part wasn’t that you sat down next to it, it’s that his mind was riddled with disgusting thoughts as soon as he saw how your dress brushed up your thighs, it was so simple, such a small act, but it just made him think the worst possible things. 

you bent over the pew, the bottom of your dress tugged up to show your panties, his hands are gripping your hips like his life depends on it, crotch pressed to your clothed pussy from behind. 

luke blinks back with his cheeks hot, noticing the bible in your hands. when he speaks, he doesn’t even realize what he’s saying, it’s like he’s possessed, “what verse are you reading?” 

“luke 22:40,” you say it so simply, a smile barely teasing your lips. 

on reaching the place, 

he said to them, “pray that you 

will not fall into temptation.” 

the saliva on luke’s tongue is sour, near poisonous, his lips were stained maroon from the skin of the apple. luke 22:40 was the exact line he had been reciting to himself, luke was his name. the serpent was squeezing him tight, his breath felt swiped away from his lungs. 

luke is quiet for the rest of the evening, even through the sermon, when he should be smiling when everyone else is, clapping when everyone else is— he is just silent, blank - faced. 

you can’t decipher what he’s feeling until everyone has gone off to eat after the sermon, and he’s tugging you back into the pew once it’s vacant, fingers forming a tight grip around your wrist, “why are you doing this?” 

he’s out of breath, and no matter how tough he tries to seem, he sounds pathetic, his voice a near whimper, like he’s pleading with you. 

“doing what?” you blink up at him, doe eyes making his teeth press together. 

“you’re tempting me— this, this isn’t fair, why?” his breath is shaky when he exhales. 

“i’m not doing anything, luke.” 

“you’re making me think— making me imagine things.. sinful things.” 

“what exactly are you thinking?” your voice is softer, and the heat of the sun is seeping into the church. 

“i..” how can he explain himself? every image that he wants to communicate is all too disgusting, a mixture of hunger and desire, it seemed luke wanted you to eat him alive, “you know what i’m thinking.” 

“why don’t you show it to me?” 

absolution; 

formal release from guilt, 

obligation, or punishment. 

or.. 

an ecclesiastical declaration

of forgiveness of sins.

morals trickle down luke’s back when he kisses you, he knows it’s all wrong, he knows he could just leave it at a kiss, but he didn’t want to be haunted with these visions any longer, maybe if he made them a reality, they would just leave. he could be himself again, the picture - perfect religious boy he was always supposed to be. the kiss is small at first, the hesitant movement of lips, the adjusting to the feeling, but it quickly grows into something hungry. 

luke didn’t know how to properly kiss, so he just followed your lead, and soon enough, he was kissing you like a starving man. from tongues clashing, to his hand mindlessly moving to your hip, body pressing against yours, it was everything he saw in the pictures printed in those books he read. 

when luke falls back into his seat on the pew, you had pulled away from him, admiring how flushed his lips are. when your hand meets his jaw, luke forgets who his god is supposed to be, all he can think about is you, even on the day dedicated to the man he has spent all of his life worshiping. 

“please,” it’s barely even audible, only made out by the slight flick of his tongue from the l. 

“tell me what you want.” 

it felt like luke was sitting in the confessional, admitting all of his nastiest desires when his lips part, finally being able to say his thoughts out loud, “can you— ride me? or.. if you don’t want to— that’s okay.” does luke know what riding is? only from the overheard gossip of other men, but he was told it was something he had to try, when he got married, of course. 

“i want to,” it’s as if you aren’t in a church, as if nobody could just walk in and see how you’re moving onto his lap, moving his hands to your ass, letting his desperate fingers tug your dress up. his purity bracelet brushes against your skin when you move to guide his hands to your ass, watching the nervous look in his eyes when he squeezes the flesh. 

he has no idea what he’s doing, he just wants to please you, to make you feel as good as he made himself feel to the idea of you the other night. maybe, at this point, luke isn’t praying to jesus, maybe he never was, because you were always in the back of his mind. no matter how guilty it made him feel, how many times he had squeezed his tear - ridden eyes shut and wished he was different, wished he wasn’t so easy to fall for temptation. 

god is watching, is what his mind tells him, but your eyes tell him to keep going, watching as he moves his hands to unbuckle his belt, the sound of metal clinging being so improper for the walls ridden with crosses, but it just felt so right. he sucks in a sharp breath when he pulls out his dick, the cool air searing his delicate skin, pupils blown wide when they watch your lips slightly part at the sight. 

 “you’re so big,” is all you can manage out. 

luke’s lips twitch around a small smile, “is that a good thing?” 

“if it fits,” you move through a few twists to properly take your panties off, letting them hang off your ankle when you reposition yourself to have your entrance pressing against the tip of his dick, “then yes.” 

luke’s lips press together as soon as you start sinking down on him, you’re so slow with it it’s almost torturous. the holy water he had dipped his water in and pressed to his skin, was now scorching him with each inch that filled your velvet walls. when you reached the hilt, it was safe to say you felt stuffed, and luke was making more noise than you. 

whimpers, grunts, he tried to hide them all behind the confines of his lips, but they dug their nails into his throat and crawled their way up until it was impossible for him to hold them back. as soon as you began moving, luke was purely fighting for his life against the own noises leaving him to the point of where he had to sit up, pressing his lips to your neck, he was quick to press his lips against the sensitive areas, biting, sucking— he wasn’t even sure if he was doing it properly, but he was just so desperate. 

he wanted you to shatter him like fine porcelain, to snap off his glass parts and crush them underneath your fingers with pure ease, to deconstruct every inch of him that he had taken years to build. no matter how empty he would feel in the end, to put himself in your hands, like a lump of clay in the hands of a goddess, he trusted your instincts. 

“i want you to ruin me,” he mumbles against the flesh of your neck, barely audible. 

“what?” your voice is breathless between moans, walls tightening around his dick with each movement of your hips. 

he whimpers out a simple, “sorry.” 

you didn’t forget his words, though, in fact, you let your fingers run through his dark curls, tangling through them until you tugged him back from your neck, just so you can take his place, now the one pressing your lips to his neck. he felt small underneath you, but he didn’t hate it, he liked the way that your lips felt on his skin, enough for him to lean his head back to provide you more blank canvas. 

you painted him in maroons and mulberries, blooming rose petals on his skin, marking him as your own. no matter how much luke knew he would be praying for forgiveness tonight, in this moment, everything he’s ever stood for has fallen off his broad shoulders. his hair is messy and sticking to his sweaty forehead, skin peppered with bite marks, deep reds, purples, every color in between and beyond.

“‘m gonna—“ luke’s words come out choked, dick pulsing inside of you, “gonna cum—“ 

luke’s orgasm hits him hard enough to have tears pooling into his eyes, maybe it was the guilt, or the everlasting pleasure, he wasn’t entirely sure, how could he even be? all he could think of was you, now. 

“do you still believe in god?” you offer him once you’re off him and he’s putting his belt back on. 

he stares at you for a second, hesitating, then his lips part, “yes.” 

[floatyflowers]

Hello❤️I really enjoy your works!!

I was wondering if you would ever do anymore Egyptian pharaohs like ramses ii head-canons?If not feel free to ignore🫂Have a great day!!

Dark! Platonic Ramses II

You are his favorite child out of the one hundred children he had with his wives and concubines.

Maybe it's the fact that he was obsessed with your mother before she passed away during childbirth.

He remembers every small detail about you from what you like and dislike to what are your favorite hobbies.

Ramses is so focused on you to the point where he knows what decisions or actions you are going to make in the situation before you even do it or say anything.

Maybe that is why it's so easy to manipulate you because he knows exactly what you are thinking.

There are statues, engraving on walls, and many scriptures that dedicates that Ramses II favored you despite being the daughter of a minor wife.

He instructed the writers to exaggerate your good qualities, and if you have a flaw, they delete it.

Even though you are pretty, intelligent, and kind, so no one is lying here.

He even made the writers to make the suitors he rejected appear awful, like how they tried to sexually assult you so Ramses II killed them.

Ok, he is trying to hide his murders and make himself appear as the greatest father in the world.

Unfortunately, you pass away before him, yet that didn't stop him from mummifying your body and placing you in a golden coffin made out of the finest gold.

He kept that coffin inside his room.

The pharaoh believed that both of you would meet in the afterlife so Ramses made sure that when he passed away, you and him would share the same tomb.

[undaughtered]

do you have any favourite historical overviews or introductions to christian mysticism that you could please recommend? ilysm habibti

works marked with * are what i would recommend for absolute beginners on the topic.

introductory works:

thomas merton, a course in christian mysticism: thirteen sessions ith the famous trappist monk*

william a. richards, sacred knowledge: psychadelics and religious experiences (on the practical applications of entheogenic, or drug-induced, mysticism)

william james, the varieties of religious experience, especially lectures 16 and 17*

bernard mcginn, the essentials of christian mysticism (arguably the best starter anthology of christian mystical writing)*

mircea eliade, the sacred and the profane

robert s. ellwood, mysticism and religion*

ed. amy hollywood, the cambridge companion to christian mysticism*

steven t. katz (ed.), mysticism and sacred scripture, especially the first chapter, "mysticism and the interpretation of sacred scripture," and the second chapter, "mysticism and scriptural justification"

primary works:

anon, the cloud of unknowing and other works (a.c. sperings translation for penguin is probably the most accessible)

teresa of avila, the life of saint tereesa of avila by herself

simone weil, waiting for god*

julian of norwich, revelations of divine love*

john of the cross, spiritual canticle (i recommend this to newcomers to christian mysticism over dark night of the soul, which is extremely dense and often devastating)

meister eckhart's sermons- though the book i'm linking is essentially a primer to german mystics

hildegard of bingen's scivias; but this selected works is a good place to start

margery kempe, the book of margery kempe by herself*

bernard of clairvaux’s sermons on song of songs*

marguerite porete, the mirror of simple souls

rebecca jackson, gifts of power*

catherine of siena, dialog

secondary works:

evelyn underhill, mysticism: a study in the nature and development of spiritual consciousness

evelyn underhill, practical mysticism*

caroline walker bynum, jesus as mother: studies in the spirituality of the high middle ages

caroline walker bynum, wonderful blood: theology and practice in late medieval northern germany and beyond

caroline walker bynum, holy feast and holy fast: the religious significance of food to medieval women*

grace m. jantzen, "eros and the abyss: reading medieval mystics in postmodernity"

grace m. jantzen, becoming divine: towards a feminist philosophy of religion

denys turner, the darkness of god: negativity in christian mysticism

jeffrey kripal, roads of excess palaces of wisdom: eroticism and reflexivity in the study of mysticism (+a lecture by him)

marsha aileen hewitt, freud on religion*

sarah clairmont, "she'll eat him up she loves him so" (one of my all time favourite papers)

also, the bible: which is probably the most vital of works on christian mysticism, as nothing you read about mysticism will not be influenced by it. i personally have recently been reading a combination of the JPS tanakh and the jewish annotated new testament, but the new revised standard edition (+apocrypha) is generally standard. if you are reading the bible academically for learning about mysticism, or have absolutely no background with reading the bible, i recommend the following books specifically:

the torah (genesis*, exodus*, leviticus, numbers, deuteronomy*)

the major prophets isaiah* and ezekiel*

the minor prophets (all of which constitute my favourite part of the bible) joel*, jonah*, micah*, malachai*

psalms*, job*, the song of songs*

the gospels, especially mark* and john (mark is the oldest and most "jewish," john is the most recent and most "gentile"; matthew and luke are probably more familiar than both)

the epistles: james*, jude*, 1-3 john, 1-2 peter, hebrews

the revelation to john

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. “Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @unhinged-reader-36 @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @cod-z @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@xxkay15xx @daemondoll @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez

@ash-tarte @randomgurl2326 @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[rustedhearts]

black swan: a severed lamb continuation

(pastor!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: pastor steve pays you a visit at college "on behalf of your mother."

♰ roller girl’s pie stand! 🍒 ♰ severed lamb ♰ 'tis autumn

tags: this is a blurb, not a “part” of the series!!; age gap (steve is 35, reader is 19); religious manipulation + regular manipulation; fear + intimidation; stalking i guess; a loooot of religious guilt; actual scripture quoted; forced prayer; like almost dollification; pls do not read this if any of this makes you even the slightest bit uncomfortable. (did not edit, don’t come for my mistakes.)

for @softagardenblooms ⭐️ giving us all what we really want: more pastor!steve <3 sorry it took so long!

rural pennsvylvania, autumn, 1981

Outside the iron lattice of your Lane Hall window, an early winter brewed. The leaves turned and died quickly, and those that clung to their boughs appeared rusted and limp. Walking through campus was now a noisy feat. The soil seemed eternally damp and dull, what grass remained more blonde than green. The thing you missed most about Georgia was the robin's egg sky. Here, everything was grey.

The glass of the window fogged terribly. The girls in Lane cranked the heat up high enough to have an excuse for minimal clothing, yet the outdoors remained bitterly cold.

In an effort to enjoy a moment of quiet solitude in your room, you stood from the creaky wooden bed and wiped your palm over the window. It squeaked over the condensation, creating a streak of clarity to the street of houses below.

A maroon two-door waited on the curb across the black road. It had an Indiana license plate.

"Delilah? You got a visitor!" one of the girls called from outside your room.

You stepped back from the window, lowering your hand and its cold fingertips to your side. Another cold swept through you, settling somewhere in your chest. As bitter as a Pennsylvanian autumn, and as a sour as a cherry from your tree back home. The cherry that once stained his fingers, dipping between his mouth and your mouth.

Bloody fingers that delivered evil through pleasure.

Bred to obey the calling command of male visitors, you turned away from your bed and started toward the door. But you stopped on the toe of your socked foot.

You could feign slumber. But he came in when you were sick and tired.

You could hide in the closet. Your eyes darted toward the lone door near your desk. But he always knows where to find you.

You swallowed as your hand touched the door. It yawned open on its hinges. Immediately, the murmuring of the girls scattered amongst their rooms and the lower floor emitted in a low hum. The floor released little snaps with each step toward the stairs. The Hall was old and worn, taped over with celebrity posters and glittered name stamps.

As you took the first step, another cold gathered. This one in your belly, behind your navel where that sweet, sickening, nauseating pleasure festered under his hands and his touch. You pressed your hand there, pausing on the second step to take a breath.

You could feel him.

The way you felt him from the moment he arrived back home. How he lingered in every room with the omnipotence of his Savior. How his stare sat like hot coals upon your shoulders from across the room. How the promise of his hands came with the fleeting breeze of his body in your vicinity.

His presence had a warmth and a wholeness to it that made your throat tighten. Like being locked in a tight, black room that grows tighter and yet seemingly vaster with every second inside. As though the limits of the darkness are endless, though its bounds are tangibly sworn.

"Delilah? Deli—oh, here she is!" one of the older girls, Rachel, cooed as she collected you with a hand around your arm on the steps.

She came bounding down, and you swore it was only because she pulled you that your feet remembered to go.

He stood tall in the center of the lounge, barely past the doorframe, feet still angled to go further. They flocked around him like pigeons, pecking at the affections of his slow, sideways smile, and roaming gaze. It turned to you as your hall mate pulled you into the room.

You could have sworn something pierced your lung, eliminating all possibilities of keeping in air.

“Hello, Delilah.”

His voice hit you like the gong of a church bell at noon. Familiar, expected, but with a resonance of something to come. An image of his eyes hovering over you while his hands swept through your nightgown flashed through your mind. You had to pinch away a shudder.

“H-hi,” you murmured, and cast your eyes down to your socks.

“She’s always so shy,” another girl piped up. “Lilah, aren’t you gonna introduce us?”

A warmth spread to every inch of your face. It singed the tips of your ears. You fiddled with the strings on your bed shorts, suddenly feeling bare. Though he had seen you in far less—had seen you as bare as the day you were born—you could not fathom to stand before him like this with the audience growing in the lounge.

“I’m Steve,” he said for you, and cast a smile upon the girls that had them elbowing each other. “But I’m afraid we can’t stay for pleasantries, girls. Delilah and I were just headin’ out.”

Your eyes flitted toward him, a panic setting like stone in your limbs. “R-really?”

He seemed to only look at you, though the girls tipped and cocked their heads to assess him and his garb, alternating between his corduroy jacket and your tattered sleep clothes.

“Yes,” he purred, and the smile the others swooned at made you take the smallest step backwards. “I’ll wait while you change.”

♰ ♰

It took you another ten minutes to change, fumbling through every drawer and hanger knowing everything he'd ever touched you in was packed away and left back home, and nothing in your collection seemed worthy enough to dispense so easily.

When you met him on the lawn, his eyes went directly to your chest, where he became accustomed to finding the gleaming gold of a delicate cross. Today, it came up bare.

He said nothing of it as he turned toward the car, and you followed with silent, tip-toed steps. You kept a distance as you passed through the door he opened for you and took your place on the leather passenger seat.

The cold condensation of a milk carton between your thighs against the sticky heat of a Georgian summer haunted the car. Even in the white-breathed cold settling in the car, you felt a scorching heat crawling up your spine. You pulled at your sweater sleeves to invite the cold in.

The car jostled when he slammed the driver door. You kept your eyes on the dash, fingers curling into your palms as he turned the keys in the ignition.

"Your mama's worried about you," is the first thing he says to you.

You wet your lips, turning to the window to watch the street go by. The town was built for the university's accommodation. The library marked the edge of town, and everything past that was farmland and desolation. You hoped he wasn't taking you there.

HIs statement settled like spoiled milk. You wanted to proclaim it a lie immediately. Mama hadn't answered a letter once this semester. Every weekend phone call went unanswered. You called one of the neighbors and asked them to check on her in case the liquor finally got the best of her. But they assured you she was doing well. Just busy.

Yet, he wouldn't lie...right? He wouldn't drive the half day it took for his own pleasure, would he? He once told you that God sent you here for him, that God placing the pair of you in the same vicinity was no mistake. God does not make mistakes, he said. And He always has a plan.

You were His plan for Steve.

At least, that's what he told you.

"I can see why," he continued.

Your head moved on its own, and you were looking at the frown etched between his brows before you could stop yourself. He took glances every few moments as he headed away from the residence halls into campus. Few times they fell to your empty neck.

Your fingers ached to fiddle with the missing token. You hadn’t worn it in months. When you left home, you left the necklace on your dresser. It grew more and more difficult as the weeks went on—free of the Georgia heat and all that grey hazy because of it—to believe you were worthy of wearing the cross. Worthy of speaking to Him knowing what you’d done.

“Oh, Delilah,” he sighed and he shook his head out at the road. “You poor thing.”

He took a turn down the main strip of campus buildings and fit the car into a spot against the curb of your most-frequented. The ballet studio, unlike your splintered and rotting barb back home, nestled on the second floor of a red brick building home to the arts. Steve took his keys from the ignition and opened the door with the sureness of someone like you, who spent most of their days there.

“Come on,” he said when the passenger door was open.

You stepped onto the sidewalk, avoiding his outstretched hand. He placed it on the small of your back as he guided you up the steps and through the door. Your shoes, having collected the dampness of the pavement, squeaked over the gleaming tile. This hall always had a chemically lemon scent to it, and today it made you particularly queasy.

"Up here, isn't it?" He pushed the heavy door open to the stairwell and the steel latch echoed hollowly against the concrete.

His hand seemed to be locating your spine. Reaching for it, through the material of your cardigan, through the thickness of your flesh. The bone ached dully with every step upward. Around the chipped iron railings, winding through the twists of the building. His loafers were black and recently shined. He'd taken to wearing a gold band around his pinkie. His fingers were as long and slender as you remembered, but his skin appeared paler.

It was no longer summer and the cold was an affliction to the body.

Another door thrown open to another linoleum-tiled hall. You traced the black streak marks from boots and sneakers like a set path to the arched doorway to the studio. At the end of the hall, a large latticed window overlooked the yellowed lawn. Often after rehearsals, bundles of ballerinas squished within the bow of the windowsill and blew cigarette smoke against the glass. Permanent fog marks gathered at mouth-height.

The studio was empty. Four mirrored walls, ever-polished hardwood floors the color of sand. Barres cleaned of blood from blistered heels, and a cushioned folding chair near the head of the room, pressed against the mirror. It was the seat of Madame Celeste, the slender, wrinkled woman who commanded the company.

Today, it was empty.

You jolted when the wooden doors clamped shut behind you. The pressure in your spine released and when you turned, it became evident why. He stood before the doors with his hands behind his back, long coat unbuttoned to reveal the white band of his Roman collar. The black shirt of his permanent uniform remained buttoned to the top, snug against his throat.

He fixed his eyes upon you with the intention of a wolf.

Oh, yes. You remembered how this felt. It was almost as though you'd never left.

The blackness of your confinement began to close in around you.

He inhaled deeply and it whistled through his nose. Your own breath shuddered into the room. Madame Celeste did not believe in heat and kept the radiator off. Even when bolts of snow gathered on the window in the hall, the dancers were made to spin until sweat managed to appear. It never took long.

And now, a cold sweat festered under your sweater.

"I am fearful of what I see here," he proclaimed. His gaze left you to trace the room, taking a large step away from the door. The clunk of his shoe resounded like a gunshot.

"'What are you doing, you devastated one? Why dress yourself in scarlet and put on jewels of gold? Why highlight your eyes with makeup?'"

You swallowed as he began to pace the room. Hands settled against his back, one hand closed over the other. Each step like a bullet inching closer to your place in the center of the room. Each word like a slice against your flesh. Stinging, piercing, bleeding you out. He would not look at you and you grew smaller by the second.

"'You adorn yourself in vain,'" he emphasized, shaking his head down at his feet.

His hands had released to press his fingers together as they often did at mass. While he preached and prophesied, and chewed off more of your soul with every syllable. The room felt as off kilter as the chapel back home.

He stopped suddenly before the rear wall of mirrors and fanned his arms wide.

"Vanity!"

You stumbled back with another gasp. A vein protruded between his brows, eyes filled with serpentile venom.

"All this..." He spun slowly, a performative flair that rivaled even yours. His voice dropped to a whisper nearly drowned out by your own pulse. "...mere vanity."

He took a moment, eyes still trained on the mirrors behind you. The proclamation hung in the thin air of the room. Your fingers felt numb pressed into tight fists against your back.

He tipped his chin down and blinked at you. Slowly. There were no charming grins or sideways smiles. There was no softness to the beauty of his features.

“You’ve abandoned God.”

Your hand touched your bare chest. He tracked your movement with his eyes. Stepped closer. One, two—you could feel the warmth of him again. It buzzed in your feet. His proximity stirred a nausea in your gut.

“But I will save you,” he whispered, touching his hand to his chest.

His foot thumped on the floor. Another step. Inching his way to you. The gap between your bodies: shorter, shorter. You jerked backward when you could feel his breath.

He moved one hand your way, palm cupped and fingers bent as though approaching a kitten in the road. He hunched his shoulders a little, lowered a little closer to your eye-line. Every breath taken felt like a load on your lungs. Like at any moment they’d explode from the pressure.

“You will be saved,” he breathed.

The serpent had abandoned him, and its place was something dangerously soft. With warm, round eyes and cinched brows, he appeared transformed in a near instant.

How one gazes upon an infant in the cold. A thing to save. A token of helplessness.

Both hands approached you now, outstretched at shoulder length. You tipped your head away from his incoming presence, eyes squeezing shut when he took hold of your shoulders and spun you around. Every muscle in your body came to a cold front. They cemented together, and maneuvering your body felt like turning a mannequin.

“Kneel,” he murmured. “He wants us to pray.”

He guided you there, and your black tight-clad knees collided into the floorboards with a dull, painful thump. You kept your eyes shut, but heard another pair of knocks behind you. A mirrored vision of your kneeling, he kept arm’s length between your feet and his hands, now letting you go to retrieve the leather bound bible in the pocket of his coat.

The spine tapped on the floor. You could hear a nose drip in the silence. Your own blinks registered with tiny clicks.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

It was as though someone had scrubbed the inside of your mouth with sandpaper. With the vigor of a rusted pan and a woolite sponge, leaving the soft pink tissue of your inner cheeks and writhing tongue raw, useless, and scarred.

Your mouth could not utter the pastor’s words.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

His own voice was that of an instrument, hollowed with an echo that reverberated through your spine and around the room like a boomerang. Like whistling into a cave and waiting for the pitch to make its way back.

Your fingers curled over your knees and grabbed on tight. Every tiny bone in those ten ligaments began to ache.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.”

In the lull, his breaths were heavy. Shallow gasps rasped in the emptiness behind you.

He waited, and he watched. He watched your shoulders rise and fall, your toes curl against the thin suede of a pair of ballet flats. You left your new pointe shoes back in Georgia. Against your every attempt to banish him to the past, Steve wriggled through the gaps.

The pointe shoes came in the mail a month ago.

Steve inhaled sharply, and you squinted one eye open to find him in the wall of mirrors. His chest ballooned, head tipped back to the florescents. After all this time, this was the first you'd seen him worship.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," he began again, and you hung your head toward your knees with a wince.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

Tears stung behind your eyes. His Sunday Morning Mass bravado distorted every syllable of his prayer. Your eardrums quaked with the birth of a buzzing.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory- say it!"

The bible slammed into the ground with a thundering boom. Your entire body lurched forward with a shriek, setting forth the cry building in your throat.

Through wavering vision, you watched him crawl forward and hover near your shoulders. It took only a moment for to realize that the horrible whining sound was coming from you.

“F-for ever a-and ever,” you croaked, blinking hot tears into the reflection before you.

The pastor stood, towering behind you in the mirror. A menacing shadow, once more the serpent with fangs.

You sniffled, bubbling forth a pitiful hiccup when he placed his hand on your shoulder. His fingers danced over the bone for only a moment before they swept under your chin. He turned your face toward him, shoes thumping around your knees until he stood beside you.

You gave in to his wishes, allowing your gaze to meet those reptilian eyes.

It was only a matter of time before your weakness divulged. Only a matter of time before he sunk his teeth in again.

The slightest pressure pulled on your chin, just as he stepped back and held out his hand, palm upended.

Each blink came with warmth on your cheeks, every breath with fire in your lungs. You slipped your hand into his palm and pressed to your feet.

He lifted your hands, only gently cupped together. Gave his wrist the smallest curve, enough space between your bodies for you to twirl.

You pressed to the tops of your toes and spun just once. A complete rotation, heels pressed down once more. You were met with a vision of yourself before you: red-eyed and puffy, and holding the hand of the devil.

From behind you, he collected both your hands. Held them upwards, bent the elbows with another feathered pressure. You sank back to the floor with graceful repose. Every fiber of your being yawned for relief. The weight of his presence fatigued.

On the glossy floor, you knelt in your former position of prayer. He caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

From the inner lining of his pocket—where the bible conjured from only minutes ago—appeared a chain of gold.

Unclasping the adornment, he swept it over your head and toward your throat. The pendant clung to your chest like a magnet, kissing your flesh in relief to be home.

You knew what it was before you could even find it in the mirror.

He clasped the chain around your neck and laid your hair back in place. Gently fluffed around your face, meticulously drawn over your shoulders. He watched all the while in the mirror, intently observing his own craftsmanship.

He pinched two fingers under your chin and nudged it downward. He tipped your head a little to the left. He bent the elbows a little more, placed your clasped hands on your right knee.

He stepped back.

Patted you twice on the head, and in the mirror, smiled.

“My lovely Delilah.”

He smoothed his hand down the back of your hair just once.

And there you sat, soaking the cross on your chest in tears.

Foolish girl. You can never escape the mark of God.

[angel-of-the-moons]

Doppelgänger

Miguel x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Angst, self-image issues, mentions of childhood trauma, addiction, our mans has had it rough as fuck™

A/N: Brought on by this post from @tarjapearce and the comments i made (I'm sorry i am a ho for some angst sometimes) I'm merging ATSV stuff with comic stuffs because NO WAY IS HIS MOVIE DESIGN LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE WITHOUT IT POSSIBLY COMING UP IN FUTURE MOVIES ASDFGHJKL

Taglist: @tojishugetiddies

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

You came home and it was quiet. Quiet and dark; and already you knew something was up. You left Miguel sleeping so you could attend to some meetings and paperwork at your office, and pick up a few groceries.

Miguel had been acting strange the past few days. You'd asked him if it had something to do with work and he simply shrugged the question aside, like it was a small chip on one of his broad shoulders.

You'd asked him what was bothering him again, and he simply stared at the carpet, muttering something you didn't quite catch, and he went straight to bed.

You were so worried you'd even texted Gabriel on your walk home:

Hey, Gabe...

Heyyyy! If it ain't my favorite brother's girlfriend!

You couldn't help but roll your eyes with a soft snort. You only have one brother, Gabe.

No no, chica, I meant that you're my favorite of any girlfriends he's ever had. 😂

Gabe that sounds a little... Bad. 😬

Does it? Woops! Anyways, what's up? My big dumb, brick-house brother do something to make you mad?

No, Gabe... He's acting weird. Has been for the past few days, and he won't open up to me. I'm worried.

You could see the chat bubble pop up over and over again with '...' signifying that he was in the process of texting. With how many times it popped up and went away you were expecting a bible scripture's length of a text wall.

But what you got instead made your heart sink.

He saw our mom. She... She brought up Tyler.

Oh, god. You knew that Miguel and Conchata had a rocky relationship. Miguel had told you why. It was so bad, even just recalling everything, that you felt Miguel's pain like it was your own.

You also knew that Miguel's biological father, Tyler Stone, was the one that manipulated him, that used him, got him addicted to Rapture and almost killed him...

But it wasn't even the real dose of Rapture. It was simulated. Just another manipulation tactic. It was overhearing that conversation that Miguel found out the truth of his heritage, and you could tell that nugget of knowledge permanently chipped his sense of identity.

Even moreso when he confessed to you about Gabriela--

Your phone pinged.

They fought. It was... It was ugly. I... I didn't know about Tyler. God, chica, I didn't know. Dad was...

You felt your heart flop, knowing poor Gabriel was shielded by Miguel for so long so he didn't have to suffer like he did at the hands of their gaslighting and manipulative mother, his sadistic sperm donor... Miguel wanted nothing more than to protect Gabriel from that pain.

Your fingers flew fast on the little keyboard, a few spelling errors here and there;

God, Gabri im sory you had to fidn out that way

I know. It figures Miguel would have told you, before me, tho. He loves you.

He loves you too, Gabri. God, more than you know. He loves you.

I know. He was trying to keep me safe and out of Mom's drama.

No offense, Gabri, but if I ever see that woman I'm rearranging her face with a shovel.

OMG. I mean... After the things she said to Miggy, I... Kind of want her to at least feel consequences of her actions, y'know?

Oh, she will. Don't worry. Thanks for telling me this, Gabri.

Go cuddle my big brother and tell him I love him, k? Let me know how he's doing.

OMW home now, I'll text you when he's feeling better.

KK, see ya.

🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

Yeah. You knew for sure Miguel was still heartbroken when you came home after that.

You put the groceries away, a somber expression on your face as a million thoughts went through your head.

God, of course Conchata had to come see Gabriel at the same time Miguel was there. You wouldn't be surprised if either she could have tabs kept on him, just to... to try and lord her power over him somehow, like he was still that scared little boy, holding onto his baby brother, being his shield and buffer from their parents' fights.

That bitch had to have had a hand in Tyler using him the way that he did, that she had to have known about--

Your mind was knocked away from those dark thoughts when you heard glass shatter.

You dropped the bag of apples onto the ground, the fruits tumbling out and rolling across the floor as you made a mad dash to your bedroom.

Noting Miguel wasn't in there, you turned to the adjoining bathroom door, seeing faint light come down from below, small wafts of steam rolling out.

"Miguel?" You frantically called out, knocking on the door and leaning your ear against the smooth metal.

You could hear shuffling and the tinkling of glass shards, as well as the shower running; but no verbal reply.

You knocked on the door again, hurried and a little too hard, your fingers hovering over the control panel.

Before you could push a button, the door slid open.

Miguel was in nothing but a pair of boxers, leaning over your bathroom sink, his hands gripping the marble countertops, threatening to crack the material. Beads of water rolled down his muscular, tanned skin; droplets of water dripped from the ends of his thick, wavy chocolate locks, the natural curls more apparent thanks to the water.

That's when you noticed it. Your bathroom mirror, shattered into a hundred pieces, scattering the counter, floor, and in the sink.

Bright, scarlet droplets were on the floor, steadily building into small puddle from his right hand, his knuckles split, shards of the reflective material sticking out of it.

"I'll pay for it." His voice croaked out, unable to lift his eyes to meet your horrified gaze. "I just--"

"Oh, god! Miggy!" You breathed, reaching out, taking a step towards him, only to wince and hiss when the pieces of broken mirror stabbed the soft, delicate soles of your feet.

You gritted your teeth as the glass crunched, but you grabbed Miguel.

Instantly it was like a switch flipped inside of him, Miguel's head snapped up and he looked down at you, seeing the bloody footprints you now left on your tile.

He looked terrified at what he was seeing. How you just ignored the shards in your body in favor of frantically digging around one of the cabinets for your first aid kit.

"Bebita... I..." Miguel choked out.

When you found it, you killed the shower and stepped into the glass once again, pulling him into your room, and onto your bed, your feet leaving bloody prints as you walked, like macabre rose petals being left in your wake. Miguel had a large enough stride that he was careful to avoid getting any in his feet, but the smell of your blood permeated the air, it made him sick to his stomach. Not with disgust.

With guilt.

Of course, you checked him over first, plucking out the shards of glass from his knuckles and cleaning the cuts out with wound wash, ignoring the blood welling up onto the tile floor of your bedroom from.

You carefully roll his hand as you try to wrap the gauze around his knuckles. "Miggy, can you hold your--"

"I'm sorry." He interrupts.

You looked up at him, and only then do you see his face. Framed in his wet curls, his face was shadowed and haunted, his eyes dark and as tumultuous in a maelstrom of anxiety and fear.

You bring your hand to his cheek, caressing one of his sharp cheekbones with your thumb. "Baby, it's okay. It's just a mirror, I can--"

He shook his head, as if your touch to his face burned him like a hot iron.

He leaned over, grabbing your legs and pulling your feet into his lap so he can assess the damage, and return the favor of cleaning and dressing them.

"You're hurt because of me." He whispered sadly, dabbing the blood away.

"I'm hurt because of the glass, honey." You tell him gently, letting him apply the "honey" to the cuts in your feet, sealing them.

His massive hands encapsulated your ankles, his thumbs rubbing small circles as the rough pads caressed your skin. Like you were made of the delicate gossamer of a butterfly's wing.

He sits like that, not meeting your eyes. And god, did that hurt you so badly. You knew how important eye contact was with Miguel, he almost always went out of his way to keep eye contact when he was conversing with someone. Having him avoid your eyes... hurt.

Because you knew he was hurting.

"Miggy." You breathed. "Talk to me."

You move your feet from his lap and scoot closer to him, moving your face until he locked eyes with you again, and you could see the pain and the tears fill his own as he looked at you; his full, pouty lips trembling in an effort to hold his emotions at bay.

His shoulders dropped low, and Miguel leans forward until he was practically bent in half, clinging to you, burying his face in your chest as he fisted your shirt in his hands.

You rubbed his shoulder with one hand, biting your lip as he softly cried into your blouse, your other hand combing through his messy wet hair.

You stayed like that, for what felt like hours. You weren't sure how long it was exactly, with the blackout curtains drawn and the lights off. The only light that dimly illuminated the room was from your bathroom, and the open door.

He finally calmed enough to speak, to explain why he shattered the mirror.

"...I look like him." Miguel said, his heart in his voice, his soul stripped down and naked with raw pain.

"Mig--"

"God, I look like him. That... that cabrón." He hissed, tugging your shirt in his fists.

"I look like that bastard that... that made me into this." The self-contempt in his voice broke your heart.

You kiss the top of his head, murmuring against him. "No, you don't, baby."

"Yes, I do!" He snapped, pulling himself away from you and throwing himself to his feet. He paced like an angry tiger in a cage, waiting to swat at whatever keeper dared enter his enclosure. He didn't notice that he was stepping into the sticky, dried blood trails you left.

"I have his--his face. His fucking face--" He said, gripping his hair in his hands, tugging as he started to hyperventilate. "My fucking nose, my fucking cheeks, my fucking lips--they're all him! I'm not allowed to be me, every time I look in the mirror I see him! I can't ever get away from him! He's a part of me, he always will be! I fucking look like him!"

You get to your feet, ignoring the throbbing in your soles as you dared to reach out, to touch the pacing tiger.

Your hands smooth up his back, gently, softly; then back down until they wrapped around his mid-section.

You feel him, how tense he is, how his muscles flex at your touch almost like he's bracing himself for some kind of blow that simply will never come from you.

You rest your cheek against his back, feeling how hot his skin was burning.

"Baby. You don't look like him. You aren't him, and you never will be." You whisper.

You plant kisses wherever you could reach, not letting him go, feeling his body shake with each shuddering breath as your soft lips made contact.

"More importantly, Tyler will never be you."

"I--"

You cut him off. "Listen to me... Did Tyler figure out multi-dimensional travel, build a strike force of super-powered people from across the multiverse? Does Tyler, almost every day, work to keep dozens--no, hundreds--of universes safe from monsters?"

He didn't answer.

"And did Tyler Stone protect your baby brother from your mother all these years?"

No answer.

"You are Miguel-goddamn-O'Hara." You tell him. "I love you, with trauma, quirks and all. I love your little scritch-scratches you make, the way your bottom lip pokes out when you pout, your crooked teeth when you smile. I love your ridiculously large body, I love how you hug me. I love the little snores you make when you fall asleep at your desk, how you crinkle your nose when you're about to sneeze.."

You feel his hands slowly rise to touch your arms where they're almost-locked around his larger frame.

"I love how sweet and gentle you are. I love hearing you curse to yourself when you shock yourself with your soldering gun... I love listening to you bicker with Lyla, or complain about one of the other Spiders bugging you." You place more kisses after each sentence; hoping each one plants a seed of love beneath his skin, to bloom into a garden that he can admire and love, not hate for the very skin he was born with out of illegitimacy and infidelity.

"Tyler Stone is not you. He never will be. He will never be as good as you." You sigh against his skin, feeling the goosebumps form in the cold of your room, now that the adrenaline of his anxiety was beginning to fade, and his body became aware of the water that was slowly drying and cooling his skin.

"I love you, Miguel O'Hara. You and no-one else. Don't ever think for a second that you don't have your own identity because of your genes."

He slowly turns in your grasp, looking down at you with raw, unclothed emotion as his hand touches your cheek.

"You're more than that. You're you, and I wouldn't have you any other way." You say, your tone set and jaw tight; every word you spoke carrying a hefty weight of seriousness and honesty.

He smiles, almost sadly as you feel the rough pads of his thumb against your cheek, the little talon there poking you but not breaking the skin.

"...I..." He said, his voice stiff as he swallows the lump in his throat.

"I really will pay for your mirror, you know."

You grin up at him and turn your face so you can kiss the palm of his hand.

"I know you will, Miggy."

"But I am curious... I felt like you were going to keep going with the affirmations." He said, raising an eyebrow slowly.

"Well, the last one..."

"The last one?" Miguel tilted his head down at you quizzically.

You grin at him again, your teeth showing and eyes creasing as you barely manage to reach around him, swatting his ass playfully.

"I also love the fact you have the nicest ass I've ever seen on a man."

He couldn't contain the snort that came out of him, and he reached up to cover his whole face with his other hand.

"Mierda..."

You giggle as you step around him, giving a playful swat to his ass once again as you walk by.

"C'mon, Miguel O'Hara. You got a broken mirror to clean up."

His shoulders lifted as he watched you, his eyes softer than you've ever seen as he smiled.

Yeah. You were right.

He was Miguel O'Hara.

And he was certainly going to pay you back for the smacks to his ass.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Angel of Small Death

Part 1 of my Halloween mini series!

Dark! Frank Castle, Dark Priest! Billy Russo, Dark Priest! Matt Murdock

Warnings: Horror, Blasphemy, Blood play.

A/N: Special shout out to @ittybxttykxttytxtty who heard my idea and just... made it soooo much worse 😂😂😂

When your lamp flickers halfway between the dormitory and the groundskeeper’s cottage, you freeze in fright.

The night is cold, damp, and uncharacteristically dark. The moon, in her waning gibbous glory, is hidden behind the clouds of a departing thunderstorm.

All you have, to see the rocky pathway, is the oil lamp in your hand, that you’d been forced to top up with a touch of holy oil so that you’d make it to your destination and back.

If Mother Superior could see you now, she’d no doubt be rolling in her grave.

When you’re sure the lamp won’t go out, and the wick’s adjusted just right, you continue on, your eyes locked onto the little stone cottage, the low light of a fire flickering through the small window.

He could still be awake, you really hope so, you didn’t want to handle the mortification of having to wake him, and then have to ask him for help in the dead of night.

You shiver, trying not to look around, your mind threatening to spin tall tales of creatures lurking in the dark, watching you, waiting to strike. You count the stones you pass, ignoring the feeling of being observed that washes down your spine.

At his door, you climb the few steps, fingers wrapping around the icy knocker, and tapping it three times.

You wait, and you wait, and you turn around, contemplating giving up, and trying to fix the problem yourself. You can’t see far in front of you, the moonlight was usually your source of light in these dark hours.

You face the door again, trying another three knocks, before softly calling out.

“Hello?” You call, “It’s me, I-I’m the new Reverend Mother- I need your help.”

There’s a loud clicking as the latch is undone, and then you swallow, stomach twisting as the door cracks open.

By the mercy of God, you think, blinking up at him as you meet his eyes.

He’s- more attractive than the sisters had described.

“Mister Castle?” You ask softly.

“I am,” He answers. You feel your toes curl at the sound of his voice.

You shiver, and he blinks, widening the door and stepping to the side.

“Please, come in, it’s freezing outside.”

You let out an exhale of gratitude.

“Thank you.” You say softly, stepping in, sighing in relief as the heat of his cabin envelops you.

He strikes a match, lights a few candles at his kitchen table. You study him as the room gets a little brighter.

Such a defined jawline, a gorgeous mouth, his eyes, deep and dark and with an aura of sinister wrapped around him.

“Did I wake you?” You ask, voice light as you inch toward the fire, aching to settle into the cozy chair he had right near the fireplace. 

“Only a little. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes please.” You say, turning to watch him pick up an iron kettle, and pour some steaming liquid into a ceramic mug.

“What is it?” You ask when he extends it out for you. You accept it gratefully, bringing it up to your face to let the steam warm the tip of your nose.

“Ginseng.” He answers, and as you take a tentative sip, you try your best not to frown at the strong herbal taste.

You drink it gratefully because the tea is warm and makes your insides a little less cold. It brings comfort, soothing your nerves to being alone with this strange man.

You study his place, the little cot in the corner of the room, the kitchen to your right as you step through the door. A single seat near the fireplace where you think would be the best sleep of your life in this frigid cold.

“I’m sorry for waking you, and I’m sorry I have to ask, but during the storm there was a creaking noise and water started dripping from several places. I would have waited till morning to get you, but I’m worried the water reaches the library.” You finish, thinking about the delicate scripture stored there by monks long ago.

He listens, nods, sips from the cup of tea he’s poured for himself.

“Something might have shifted out of place on the roof, I'll go up into the attic to see what I can do from below.”  His gruff voice sounds, and you try not to feel affected by it.

This was simply a biological response, one you could do your best to ignore.

“I'll accompany you.” You say, feeling determined.

In the low light, you can't read the expression on his face well.

“Are you sure? The attic can be off putting in the dark.”

You give him a small smile.

“What kind of Reverend Mother would I be to make you go alone?” You say smoothly.

He grins, his teeth glint in the flickering light. He reaches, grabbing a jacket before opening the door and allowing you to step out before him.

You place the unfinished cup of tea on his kitchen table before you go.

Even inside the church is cold, the stillness of it is a big contrast to way it usually is on mornings, with the sunlight streaming in, catching on the occasional stained window.

Now, there's no light, no hearth, the pews are empty and the altar is dark.

You follow behind Mister Castle, trying not to shiver, his large shoulders and strong hands tell of a forbidden type of heat.

He turns his head on the stairway, looking at you in his peripherals, holding his own lamp in front of him. 

“Where were you when you heard this creaking sound?”

You angle your head.

“I was in the pews, praying.”

“All by yourself?” Mister Castle asks.

“Yes? It helps calms me before bed. And… also… it's hard to sleep during the storms anyway, so I best make myself useful.”

He hums in contemplation of your words.

“Your knees must ache from kneeling for so long.”

“I'm used to it.” You say lightly.

His shoulders shake and you tilt your head in confusion, wondering what about that was amusing.

The church was the largest building in the monastery, and though the ceiling was parabolic in shape, and looked to be a part of the roof, it really wasn't.

There was a space between the ceiling of the church and the true roof, where the support beams resided and could be maintained easily without causing interference to the church below.

You watch Mister Castle use a wooden stick with a metal hook at the end to tug on a piece of rope. He makes a low grunt as he pulls, and the wooden stairway descends.

You'd never been up here, and you were a little curious to see how it looked.

“Be careful,” he says, turning back to look at you, his eyes holding a mirthful light, “There's a few nails sticking out of the steps, watch where you put your feet.”

You nod, and watch as he climbs the wooden steps remembering what he does so that you can follow.

You have to tug your skirt up, from its normal length around your calves, all the way up to your knees so that it's easier. You leave your lamp behind, placing it on a table nearby and dimming it in favour of holding your skirt up for the climb.

If you thought the church was cold, the attic is worse, he extends his hand for you to take when you're near the top and you accept gratefully, having the answer to a question you didn't know you'd been asking.

His hand is warm, rough, you take a deep breath, trying to rid yourself of unwanted thoughts, you try to simply experience his touch, rather than feel it.

You give him a nod of thanks, before looking around the room.

There are objects shrouded in cloths all around, you can't tell much more than that, and you follow behind Mister Castle as he searches for any evidence of water leaks.

You wrap your arms around yourself, thankful at least that you weren't alone, that there was some comfort of having another person with you in such a quiet, dark place. You hope you brought him some comfort as well.

“Here.” He says, placing the lamp down on a nearby surface, and tugging his jacket off.

You open your mouth to protest, but he's already extending it to you and you really are cold.

“Thank you.” You say simply, accepting the heavy garment.

It's warm from his residual heat, you press your thighs together to ignore whatever was going on within you.

When he turns away, you bring the collar up, pressing it to your nose.

It had been years since you last breathed in the scent of a man like this, and Mister Castle certainly had a scent worth memorizing. A hint of smoke and sage, a touch of his unique musk, you feel your head swim at his smell.

Your body tingles as you watch him, examining the area, his arms are large, you suspect you would have difficulty in touching your fingers together if you tried to hold his arm with both hands.

You don't take your thoughts further than that, reciting a small prayer in your head, one that would give you strength to resist temptation.

“Here,” he murmurs, glancing back at you. You step up, looking around him to see that he's pointing up at a beam, that appears to have shifted, a stream of water coming down, even though the rains had stopped for at least an hour now.

He presses both hands against it and pushes, and when that only shifts it a fraction, he draws back and delivers a harsh kick to the beam. 

Your eyes widen at the sound it makes, moving back into place, the noise reverberating through the room.

“That should do it for now, in case it rains again. I'll have to come back in the morning to secure it, but this should be okay.”

You blink, nodding, reaching for one of the shrouds covering a random object and you tug, using the dusty cloth to soak up as much water as possible.

When you tug on another shroud, you pause in surprise to find a bed, where the last object had been a pile of boxes.

“I didn't know there were beds up here.” You murmur, glancing over your shoulder at the groundskeeper, watching as he studies the bed, his eyes then sliding over to you.

You gulp, tensing up for a moment, trying to avoid thinking about the dull ache inside of you.

“I suppose,” He says, taking a step toward you, “Maybe this was a makeshift living quarters for when there were more people than the dormitories could hold.”

You swallow, nodding, fighting with every atom of you not to think about the implications of you, Mister Castle, and a bed.

You smile politely, moving in the dark to retrace your steps. Since the beam is fixed, you want to leave, no longer willing to be in his presence.

You weave through the dark, until you find the steps, watching him struggle to keep up with you, ignoring his words to be careful.

You've had enough temptation for tonight, angry at yourself for feeling the way you do, your uncontrollable desires had been the very reason you'd joined the community, seeking salvation from your earthly desires, and here was one rugged man, stirring trouble.

You were better than this, you were holy and you were pure and no one would take that from you.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don't realise you've missed one of the steps until you slip, your shin of your right leg banging on the last two rungs of the ladder while your skirt catches on a nail, the fabric tearing and the nail digging into the skin of your inner left thigh.

You gasp in pain, your legs stinging as you grip the edge of the ladder to stay upright.

He glides down in seconds, placing his lit lamp besides your extinguished one before dropping to his knees in front of you.

“Let me see,” he says softly, pushing your skirt up, hissing in empathy when he sees the scratch. You can feel blood beading on the edges of the wound, starting at your knee and coming up to mid thigh.

“It's not too bad,” he says, examining it in the low light, “It feels worse than it is, there's only a little blood.”

You can only whine in pain.

He glances up at you from between your thighs and you feel something stir inside of you.

“I have a good remedy- May I?”

You nod, desperate to try anything to stop the stinging pain.

You definitely should have clarified what the remedy was before you agreed.

When his hot tongue meets your thigh, you choke on your breath.

He drags his tongue up, up over the length of the scratch, a weak sound leaves your lips.

“Frank.” You breathe his name shakily. 

He makes a low noise, before retracing the path, his saliva cooling on your skin.

When he draws back, looking up at you once more, his lips are wet.

“Is that better?”

You can't speak, but by some miracle the pain does ease, when he turns his head, you catch sight of your own blood smeared onto his lips.

His eyes are- too sinister to describe, you watch his tongue dart out to- you glance away before you can see him lick your blood away.

He drops his head again, and once more, his tongue makes a path over your now tingling wound.

You jerk, pushing him back, watching him rise to a stand, towering over you.

You pant, eyes locked onto his, trying to look for an explanation for the way he makes you feel beyond the obvious.

“You're okay.” He soothes, bringing a hand up, tracing his thumb gently over your bottom lip for just a second, your lips tingling at the contact.

You suck in a deep breath, sliding out from between his large body and the step, you keep your eyes on him as you back away, the lamp flickering in his eyes as he studies you.

At the door, you turn, scrambling down the nearby stairs in the dark and heading back to your dormitory as fast as your shaky legs and limited vision can take you, the shadows chasing you all the way there.

You make it into your room quietly, panting, you pull off his jacket, dropping it onto your bed. You shed your outer layer of clothing, dropping to your knees beside your bed in your panties and chemise to begin praying.

You fall asleep like that, on your knees beside your bed, your rosary wrapped around your fingers. When you wake, it's with damp thighs, aching knees, and dangerous dreams of being bent over and filled in an unfamiliar way, by a man that smells distinctly of sage.

The scratch on your thigh is nothing more than a fading red line. You study it, amazed at the advanced state of healing, wondering how such an unconventional remedy actually worked.

.

.

.

[comewithmeintothedeep]

Fem!Reader X Male Red Half-Dragon

Sequel to: Here. Word Count: 10,397 Explicit: Yes. Warnings: Size difference, breeding, marathon sex, somnophilia.

——————————————————

It was borderline unheard of for a queen to rule a kingdom unanimously without a king. News of the usurpation spread quickly throughout the surrounding kingdoms, the Red Queen making her presence known once she took the throne from King Frederick by force and changed the kingdom completely. You remembered the fear in your father when he heard of King Frederick’s death.

Rumours spread quickly. They say that the Red Queen made a pact with Ammar, the Red Dragon, destroyer of kingdoms, and bringer of fire and death. Ever since you were a young child, your father, the king of the Kingdom by the Sea, became overly protective of you. He forbade you to accompany him to any of his meetings with the Red Queen, but he always returned…perplexed? Angry? You couldn’t say for certain.

Either way, he always seemed confused and it upset him greatly. You could always hear him shouting in his study or muttering under his breath about some sort of trick, some sort of deception. A woman who would murder her own queen and fraternize with an evil Red Dragon could never truly be kind or courteous. That it was some sort of plot to undermine him and the other kingdoms.

Rumours of her connections to Ammar were only confirmed by the announcement of the Red Queen’s son, Prince Balmorn – a Red Half-Dragon.

Your father only grew more overprotective despite your growing curiosity. You were the princess, didn’t you deserve to know what was going on in your neighbouring kingdoms? Shouldn’t you have a say in interkingdom relations? Even now, as an adult, your father still forbade you from any business involving the Kingdom of the Red Mountain…until one fateful day when your father, brows furrowed and jaw set, met you with a most peculiar proposal.

One you would not have expected in all of your wildest fantasies. “The Red Queen and I have made an arrangement – you are going to marry her son, Prince Balmorn.”

You weren’t outraged, exactly. More than anything, you wanted to meet with the Red Queen and see for yourself why your father was so apprehensive when it came to her. But why marriage…and why now? Your father had always kept you away from most other children when you were young, the only other children you were allowed to meet were the children of other nobles or royalty from other kingdoms. Your father even said that it was likely you would marry one of them.

So why the Prince of the Kingdom of the Red Mountain? Why the son of the Red Queen? “Father, you have always been suspicious of the intentions of the Red Queen. Why marry me into her family?”

“I’m still suspicious, (Name).” Your father promptly reminded you, lips curled into a sneer. “But I’m no closer to figuring out her secrets or discovering that witch’s true motives or her plans…but she was curious about you, and she made a proposition. Our kingdoms would be united through your marriage to her son, Balmorn. But I know this is a trick.”

You tilted your head. Your father had always gone on and on about how everything the Red Queen did was a trick, but he was never able to procure any evidence to his claims. All he ever did was cast suspicion on her acts of good will, but to your knowledge, the Red Queen never made any threats to the other kingdoms nor did she act in a way you would consider to be duplicitous, at least from the accounts the nobles in the other surrounding kingdoms gave. So far, there was nothing to denote that your father was right about any of it being some kind of deception.

Naturally, you had your own reservations about marrying Prince Balmorn – you hardly knew each other, on account of your father forbidding you to accompany him to his meetings with the Red Queen.

Your father, however, was quick to reassure you. “That’s why I want you to marry her son.” He stated, shoulders square and head raised, crown glinting in the light of the sun, the sounds of the sea lapping on the nearby shore cascading into your ears as he spoke, the familiarity of home like a comforting blanket draped across your shoulders. “I want you to earn the Red Queen’s trust and discover her secrets within. I want you to discover what precisely her schemes truly are and report back to me once you do. And once you discover her true treachery, I want you to end both the prince and the queen’s lives.”

Audibly, you gasped, rising from your seat and raising your voice with a defiant tone towards your father. The king though he may be, had never asked nor demanded anything like this of you before and you didn’t have even the slightest idea how he thought you could do such a thing. “Father, I’m not trained in the art of skullduggery. I’m not a violent person. What makes you think I could accomplish this?”

“You will because I am asking you to.” Your father said sternly, sighing heavily as he took his crown off of it head and laid it in his lap, taking a seat in his throne. “The Red Queen is dangerous. Every day that her true intentions are a mystery is a day that the threat of her and that monstrous dragon hangs over our heads. She won’t even grant her name to us, insisting that we call her only by her title. Not even her knights, guards, or citizens know her name and even if they do not it, they will not speak it. A queen who rules alone with secrets held that closely cannot be trusted…I’m asking you to protect our kingdom.”

The fear of the unknown was a powerful one. Humans were not immune to it, truly. Your father was seemingly no exception, but you would be lying if you said you were not uneasy with the prospect of meeting the Red Queen and marrying her son. But it was not because of anything your father told you, but because these people were effectively strangers to you. You were never allowed to form your own judge of character about them because your father never allowed you to.

And, that was before asking the most obvious question. “And what if you’re wrong, father?”

Your question was met with a sharp glare, your father’s head lowering as he growled under his breath. “I am not wrong. A woman with secrets held that closely is dangerous and it’s only a matter of time before the knife in her sleeve is brandished and used to cut all of our throats.” He replied without yielding, reaching down to take his crown and place it back upon his head, staring you down. “It is why your mother no longer graces our palace with her presence.”

Right…your mother. Your father had told you that your mother had attempted to kill him in his sleep one night. Your father claimed she wanted sole claim to the throne, but the idea just didn’t make sense to you. Not from what you remembered of her.

But you accepted your role. If your father willed it, it was what needed to happen. And if he was wrong, then no harm would come to him or your kingdom and he would have nothing to be concerned about

Though…somehow…you couldn’t be entirely sure of that.

The carriage ride to the Kingdom of the Red Mountain was a long and anxious one, anticipation causing you to practically rattle in your draperies. You weren’t afraid of the Red Queen nor her son, but your fathers worries echoed in your head. You weren’t so sure you could go through with what he asked of you, even if he was right.

But he was so sure that because you weren’t the woman your mother was that you could. You had no idea how that made any sense, so you simply put the thought away and focused on rehearsing your manners and pleasantries. You didn’t want to make a poor first impression, after all.

Once you promptly arrived in the kingdom, the Red Queen was the first to greet you, her knights standing at attention and opening the door to your carriage, allowing you to step down and offering a hand for you to take, of which you accepted out of politeness.

Facing the Red Queen had you…surprised. She did not wear lavish draperies nor expensive jewelry, nor did she seem to carry herself any higher than her knights. The only remotely expensive thing she wore was her crown. She did wear a suit of armour, but it didn’t look any different from that which the knights wore.

You remember your father mentioning that King Frederick’s throne was usurped by one of his knights.

And off by her side was a large humanoid Red Half-Dragon, tough scales practically glowing like rubies in the light of the summer day, eyes glowing a burning amber as fierce as a raging hot fire. His horns curled gracefully behind his head, though the fins protruding from behind his head seemed flattened against him. What struck you as particularly odd was that this had to be Prince Balmorn, yes? So why did he seem so…meek? His head was ducked, wings resting on his shoulders like a cape, and his tail was curled around his feet. He even refused to meet your gaze.

Was he…nervous? Well, I suppose the feeling is mutual, then. Clearing your throat, you bowed and performed a curtsy as was customary when greeting royalty, head lowered to show respect to the Red Queen. “Your Majesty,” you said with a pleasant tinge of honey to your voice, “I’ve been anxious to meet you for some time.”

To your surprise, the Red Queen put up a hand and shook her head at you. “No, please. You do not have to bow to me. You are Princess (Name), yes?” She said, encouraging you to stand tall once again, which you did. You did not want to disrespect her in her own kingdom, after all. “I’ve been just as eager to meet you, but your father, King Richter, has been adamant in not taking you with him to meet with us. I was quite surprised to hear he accepted my proposal for you and my son to marry.”

“Yes…quite surprised.” Prince Balmorn spoke, voice low and unsure as he tucked himself a bit lower, still attempting to avoid your gaze. Even when he was trying to appear smaller, it was clear he was much bigger than his mother.

You nodded in agreement as you walked up, approaching her. Your father was so suspicious of her, but you could sense no trace of malice from the Red Queen, nor her son. In-fact, he seemed more afraid of you than you were of him. How odd. “I was rather surprised, too. But I understand that it would be advantageous for our kingdoms to be united by marriage, given outside threats to our kingdoms across the mountain pass.”

“Yes, it would be advantageous to be united as one, especially given your father’s famous naval fleets.” The Red Queen said plainly before shaking her head. “However, this agreement is not binding. It would be a blessing for you and my son to be wed, but if the both of you don’t find the arrangement agreeable, I will not force it and I will send you back home to your father and we can negotiate some other avenue for unification.”

Finally, Balmorn nodded and met your gaze properly, standing up straight and squaring his shoulders. Stepping forward, he knelt onto the ground, looking up at you as he gently took your hand in his. Your heart was beating in your chest once his scaly claws met yours, his rough, yet polished scales against your skin and his talons grazing it. Yet, he handled you so delicately, keeping his claws carefully tucked so that he would not hurt you by accident. You could even feel him tremble as he brought your hand to his snout, placing a tender kiss on the back of it.

You did not expect his lips to be so soft when they met your skin, but they felt warm. “I would hate for us to be bound in a state of dislike. Her Majesty emphasizes that a marriage should come with mutual respect and…an appreciation for each other’s company.”

That caught your ear, and you could not help but tilt your head. “Not love?”

The fins on the sides of Balmorn’s head twitched at your words, a hint of warm amusement behind his amber eyes, slitted pupils rounding ever so slightly when he gazed up at you. “Love is…most ideal.” He replied, rising up to stand, gazing down at you. A small smile tugged at his lips, creasing his maw as he took in your features. You were smaller than his mother, which meant you were very small compared to him. Even the thought of handling you made him feel anxious. Too harsh or too rough, even by accident, and he could break you. You were not a knight like his mother, nor were you raised among the common folk.

No, you were a delicate flower. Though he never attended meetings between your father and his mother, he could hear clear as day that he treated you as such. That he thought you were too fragile to be in the presence of the Red Queen and her son. Of course, King Richter never said as such, but it was what Balmorn could discern through the veiled meanings and subtext your father often spoke in.

It was something that quietly irritated the Red Half-Dragon. His mother spoke plainly and openly, never veiled, and yet King Richter always hid his intentions behind secret meanings and coded language. A dishonest man…it was what had him so anxious to meet you.

That didn’t mean he held any ill will towards you. If anything, it only motivated Balmorn to show you his true nature, that he truly harboured no desire to harm you or anyone. “But sometimes marriage doesn’t come with love and I cannot expect that from you.” He admitted, ducking his head a bit and glancing down at his feet. “I don’t want us to marry if you dislike me. I could never forgive myself if that happened. So, instead, the best I can hope for is that…you like me and…enjoy my company, at the very least.”

You did not expect the Red Prince to be so meek, but you supposed it was a pleasant surprise. This was the man your father was so afraid of? It was somehow both shocking…and unsurprising.

Allowing him to continue holding your hand in his, the Red Queen cleared her throat to get both your attention and nodded. “Well, now that we’ve made ourselves acquainted, why don’t I show you to where you will be staying and we can become more familiar with each other over dinner this evening?”

Nodding in agreement, you allowed the Red Queen, Prince Balmorn, and her guard to escort you to the palace. Though, once you arrived at the palace, the guard simply returned to their posts, allowing you to be mostly alone with the royal family of the Kingdom of the Red Mountain.

Your bedchambers were quite comfortable. It was much more modest compared to your own, but you didn’t actually mind that so much. You got the sense that nothing in here was meant to be superfluous or opulent. Everything here was meant to be comfortable. You had your bedchamber and then a lavatory through a door within your bedchamber.

One thing you noticed was that though the bedsheets weren’t expensive, they were incredibly comfortable and clearly well-tended to. It was evident that the Red Queen cared very much about her guests’ comfort. Your clothes almost seemed excessively gaudy compared to all of this.

Dinner went quite amicably, the cook attempting to be conscientious of your more expensive tastes, but quite honestly, you were more curious about what the actual local cuisine was. You were surprised to be greeted with something like a stew. Though it didn’t look too fancy, it was immensely flavourful and quite filling.

The Red Queen was naturally interested in your upbringing, given that throughout all of her dealing with King Richter, she knew next to nothing about you. Balmorn, of course, was curious about you as well. And, naturally, you couldn’t help but be curious about him, too. As he spoke about himself, his muted and more demure demeanour began to make sense.

Naturally, as the son of the Red Dragon, Ammar, and the kingdom’s new queen, the people were skeptical of him. Some still were left uneasy by Balmorn’s status as the prince. But, as the people grew used to the new rule, the majority got used to Balmorn as well.

And when the Red Queen gave you a proper tour of the Kingdom of the Red Mountain, you immediately began to understand why. The people’s spirits were bright, they greeted the Red Queen eagerly like she was an old friend, like she was one of the townsfolk. Given that she was a knight before she was a queen, that was likely true.

But what struck you was that none of the people lived in squalor. None of the people’s homes had holes in their rooves, none of the people’s clothes were ragged or torn, and none of the people seemed to struggle to eat or make a living. Indeed, none of the people seemed to be left behind.

It was a stark difference between the Red Queen’s kingdom and your father’s kingdom. The difference between the nobility and ruling class as compared to the common folk was…glaringly obvious, even when you were a child. Though your home was the palace, it wasn’t hard to see the state of things from your tower window as a child.

The days were quite pleasant as you spent your time with the Red Queen and her son – your fiancé, you supposed. However, it was not only them that you spent your time with. Your sheltered life led your inclinations towards the common people and the people who worked for the palace. It was quite easy to get to know the people as they were quite eager to share.

They could tell you were a bit out of your element and treated you quickly with kindness. The cook that made the food for the Red Queen and the knights was eager to share her family life with you. The food she made was often the favourites of her children when they grew up, and it was well liked by those that inhabited the palace and those who came to the palace gates to take what was left.

The cook was very quick to tell you that any food that was left was given to the townspeople to share. Thus, she always made a little more than was necessary so that more of the townspeople could have a hearty and healthy meal.

The townspeople remarked often about how young you were, and thus commented that you were probably too young to remember the scourge of Ammar. You replied that your father often frightened you with stories of the Red Dragon when you were a little girl, but the people here actively lived those nightmares for a very long time through the generations.

It was not until the Red Queen took over the kingdom that the people no longer feared the shadow of the Red Dragon over their heads. And it was now that they did not have to fear losing their homes or means to live, thanks to being freed from the rule of King Frederick.

That struck you as odd. Your father had always said that King Frederick was a good man, but every time his name was uttered by the people, the life would die out in the conversation and they were rather quick to change the subject.

You wanted to know more, but you weren’t sure who to ask. Though, your father did say your mission was to discover their secrets.

So, you asked, attempting to ask in a veiled way as to not give yourself away as a potential spy. However, the Red Queen knew what you really wanted to know right away, and to your surprise, she was not only unoffended, but quite quick to tell you her story.

The version of King Frederick that the Red Queen spoke of was not the one your father had told you. The King Frederick that the Red Queen spoke of was nothing short of a tyrant who bled his people dry, sent them to die in a battle they could not win, and executed those who survived to fight another day.

And that was only in his kingdom. The Red Queen was quick to pull out a map of the kingdoms King Frederick had conquered. She had wondered why the other kingdoms seemed amicable with the Red Queen while her father constantly distrusted her – the nobility of the other kingdoms had their power restored by the Red Queen after King Frederick had conquered them.

You had to wonder what kingdoms your father had conquered in much the same way for him to still hold King Frederick in such high regard. Come to think of it, you remembered arguments between your father and the other nobles when he thought you were asleep at night…perhaps that had something to do with it.

The Red Queen told you of how the Red Dragon Ammar had spared her to teach her a lesson about her own kingdom and her own king, as well as a lesson in what it truly meant to slay a monster. And…his attempt to force her to marry him in exchange for her life.

You couldn’t help but wilt. It was no wonder she was so adamant about your choice in this arrangement with her son…and you had to admit, you had found him quite pleasant, thus far. Throughout the week, he often presented you with small gifts, things that you either told him you liked or things he overheard you speak of. Or even small things that reminded him of you.

Something of a small hoard began to accumulate in your bedchambers. The dresser was the perfect space to display the trinkets Balmorn found for you. You never thought of a hoard as something that could be so sentimental, but seeing it all together changed your opinion of dragons in a small way.

The Red Queen finally told you the end of her story – how she took the kingdom and the throne from King Frederick for herself to free her people and the Blazing Star made a proposal to her – marriage, not unlike the proposal the Red Queen made to you and her son. And, just like with you, Ammar made it clear that the choice was hers whether or not she wanted to pursue peace through marriage and begetting a child or through some other avenue, and the Red Queen chose marriage.

So, the Red Dragon now protected the kingdoms that were under King Frederick’s rule. Now you knew why your father was so anxious about the lack of activity from the Red Dragon and the Red Queen’s dealings with him. And why the Red Queen proposed marriage.

If their kingdoms were united through marriage, there was no risk of them being at odds and your kingdom would be under the Firewyrm’s protection as well. But if not, and for whatever reason your father decided to attack the Red Queen and the kingdoms she was allied with…the Red Dragon would not take kindly to such an offense.

There was no doubt that there was a reason to fear the Red Dragon…but the Red Queen was nothing but kind to you since you arrived and given how highly her own people and even people affiliated with her spoke about her, you were inclined to believe her.

At the end of the week, the Red Queen announced her departure from the kingdom, leaving it in the care of the captain of her knights. She needed to converse with her husband at the top of the mountain where he dwelled and she trusted her knights to keep a careful watch and guard over you. So, you took this opportunity to spend some alone time with Balmorn.

It was easy to approach him. He often spent his time in the palace garden, tending to the flowers, there. Though, you noticed that he paid special attention to the flowers you pointed out were your favourite since you told him – Salvias, specifically the blue variety.

And once again, that was where you found him. He knew your presence immediately. You made no effort to hide yourself and your presence was warm and welcome to him. And he knew that his questions were not unwelcome. “What’s it like by the sea?”

Blinking, you tilted your head at him as you approached, putting a hand on his powerful shoulder. “You’ve never been?”

“No. I’ve never been outside of this city.” Balmorn replied, a hint of solemn sadness to his tone of voice as he answered. “My mother thought I would be…safer if I stayed in the city, at least until I could prove I could establish myself. Both to my mother and my father.”

You were glad that Balmorn had grown comfortable enough around you to stop referring to his parents by formal titles, at least when it was just you two.

Sitting next to him, you leaned against his side. You didn’t know a lot about his past, but his nature told you a lot about who he was. He was sensitive, careful, and incredibly considerate, always putting your comfort first. He paid close attention to not only what you liked, but what you disliked. Indeed, it seemed his first priority was ensuring you never felt unsafe, uncomfortable, or even like you were disliked.

In-fact, that was one of the first things you noticed. He seemed to like you very much and you didn’t have to perform for him. He was to be your husband, after all, and at this point, the Red Queen was going to be your mother-in-law. The thought made you feel…comforted. It had been a long time since you could call anyone a mother. It felt…nice. “It’s…cool.” You replied, taking in a deep breath and remembering the time you spent on the seaside as a child. “The ocean breeze against your face, the sun on your face…the soft and warm sand beneath your feet. The smell of the ocean isn’t like anything else.”

Balmorn hummed at your answer. It was hard for him to picture, but it sounded lovely. He hoped he would be able to see it, someday. Though…he wasn’t sure your father would be happy to see him with you on his doorstep. That led him to his next question, since his mother was going up to convene with his father. “What’s…your father like?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean you’ve never met him?”

“No. I’ve overheard his meetings with my mother, but I’ve never attended.” Balmorn replied, throat rumbling as he tried not to let his displeasure for the man be too obvious. “I had a feeling we…wouldn’t get along.”

“From the way he speaks of you, he makes you sound like some creature dragged in from the streets.” You confessed, your walls down after you spent so much time with him. The prince looked a bit wounded, his fins drooping sadly and eyes glittering with disappointment. Though…he didn’t seem surprised. “He…always made it sound like he’d seen you, at the least.”

Balmorn shook his head. “No…not once. Not in-person, anyway.”

Regarding him for a moment, you sighed through your nose. You were sure there was no way to fake the deep sadness and disappointment he seemed to feel in that moment. The way his shoulders sagged and his hands fell in his lap…your heart ached.

You put your hand on his, having grown used to the texture of his scales and his claws. Glancing down at you, his tail then curled around you, pulling you closer to him, draping his wing over your shoulders. The warmth he gave off was comforting. You were almost tempted to fall asleep like this. “My father is…a cautious man.” You admitted, seeing no reason to hide your secrets, given how open both Balmorn and his mother have been about theirs. Even calling them ‘secrets’ was a bit misleading – they were so open about their pasts that they weren’t even really secrets at all.

It was even common knowledge to the common folk in this city. “He refuses to believe in the kindness my mother has consistently shown him.” Balmorn pointed out, a small nervous laugh behind his words as he spoke to you.

“He’s convinced that your mother’s hiding some sort of nefarious secret, that she has plans to conquer him and that her kindness is a front.” You continued to admit, laughing yourself. It was only now after you had spent some time away from your father that you realized just how ridiculous he had been about all of this. “He simply refuses to believe that any of her kindness is genuine and that her secrets make her dangerous.”

Laughing more light-heartedly, Balmorn let out a small ember through his snout as he snickered, utterly beside himself. “If your father refuses to believe anything my mother says is the truth, I can see why he would think we’re hiding something.” He replied, the corners of his mouth tugged up by his eyes creased with laugh lines even underneath his scarlet scales. “Such a shame he lives his life that way…I can’t imagine he has many genuine allies if he believes that transparency is a farce.”

You nodded in agreement, sinking into his muscled arm. Your other hand held onto his tail that was draped over your lap. You felt him rest his chin on your head and felt his chest heave with every breath. Another thing you noticed was how affectionate he was towards you, at least away from prying eyes. Never enough to make you uncomfortable or to seem like he was claiming you, but enough to make you feel like your company was liked.

Though, you couldn’t help also being curious about him and his upbringing. “What’s your father like?”

Fins twitching in response to your question, Balmorn hummed as he contemplated it. It was very difficult to describe his father…but he supposed he should try. After all, you did when he asked about your father. “Tired…” Was his response, looking up towards the mountain where his father lived. “Larger than life…intimidating…older than old…aging gracefully. He wasn’t involved much in raising me, that burden fell to my mother. Though, his expectations of me can be…heavy to carry.”

Looking up at him, you furrowed your eyebrows. People seldom spoke of Ammar as an individual, mostly seeing him as a presence. The Red Queen and Prince Balmorn were the only people who knew him as anything more than that. “What sorts of expectations?”

Humming, Balmorn softly nuzzled you with his chin, softly putting his arm around you, leading you to sit in his lap between his legs and only persisting once he was sure you were allowing it, wrapping around you for comfort. “I am…not my father.” He said quietly. “I have no desire to own land. I have no desire for great riches. I have no desire for great battles or to rule kingdoms. I am not the heir to my father��s legacy, but my mother’s. He always knew that…and I don’t think he begrudges me for it, but…sometimes I can sense that he regards me with…something like disappointment.”

Glancing up at him, you craned your head to regard him closely. His words rang true and more than anything…you wanted to know who he was rather than who he was not. “And…what do you want?” You asked.

Meeting your gaze, amber eyes glowing with an affectionate warmth towards you, he smiled. “I want…to care for the land.” He stated, his chest burning deeply with something he couldn’t quite describe. “I want to make maps. I want to travel and know more than this. I want to plant gardens and create new life. I want to write stories, paint pictures. I want to do more than just own, I want to give to the world.”

Then, his gaze burned hotter when he looked at you. Before you arrived, he wasn’t entirely sure about you. He wasn’t sure if marriage to you was what he truly wanted. You seemed pleasant, and he didn’t want you to be afraid of him. He wanted to like you, at the least, and he did.

He liked you very much.

Gently tracing his claws along your jawline, he held your face tenderly in his rough hands, his smile soft as he gazed down at your delicate beauty. How a human could seem so…harmless, yet so hauntingly beautiful he would never know. Was this how his father felt about his mother? He dared not ask.

He knew what he wanted…now more than he ever did, before. “And…perhaps selfishly – please forgive me for this…” He swallowed before making his proclamation clear, tilting his head as you followed his gaze. “I want you, (Name). You’ve been…kind, patient, and understanding. But you were never afraid of me…I never had that.”

Every sincere word that tumbled out of his lips made you feel guilty. You knew what your father wanted from you and you knew you couldn’t do it. You never could, but now being faced with the possibility that your father would expect you to murder this man, your future husband and mother-in-law?

You couldn’t do it…and you owed it to him for him to know the truth. He had been so forthcoming to you thus far…it was what he deserved. “Wait…Balmorn, I…have something I must confess.” You interrupted shakily, taking a deep breath. The Red Half-Dragon pulled back a bit, giving you space to collect your thoughts and say what you needed to say. His face betrayed only concern and worry for you, and that just made this more painful to admit to.

But…he needed to know. He needed to know the pretenses upon which you were here. “My father…the reason he agreed to this…was because he believed I could learn your and your mother’s secrets…and…” It was so difficult for you to admit to out loud, but you needed to…you needed to no matter what. If you were going to be married, you needed full transparency with one another. “My father told me…to kill the both of you once I learned. But I could never go through with it, that’s not who I am! I’m not…dishonest. I’m not violent…I could never do such a thing…”

You couldn’t meet Balmorn’s gaze, fearful that his sweetness and his kindness and gentleness would fade away. Truthfully, you were afraid – afraid that your father had been right all along and you would meet your fate, here. “I can…understand if you don’t want to marry me, knowing that. But you deserved to know –”

Pulling your face towards his, claws still as gentle as they had always been, he traced your chin, tilting your head up towards him. His lips were merely a breath away, his eyes on yours. There was a heat behind them you hadn’t seen, before, and for a moment you were afraid he was angry with you.

But instead…his voice was gentler than you had ever heard it, before. “I know you would never hurt me…” He murmured, thumb softly tracing your bottom lip before he softly pressed his snout against your nose. “Thank you for telling me, (Name). I trust you…”

Before you could even realize what was happening, he pulled you close, lips pressed against yours as he gingerly kissed you. You gasped through your nose, eyelids falling closed as you sunk into it. His lips were very warm and inviting and he smelled pleasantly like a bonfire. The half-dragon didn’t dare move to elevate the kiss, letting you be free to pull away if you wished.

You didn’t move. Instinct, instead, pushed you to climb further into his lap, seated down comfortably on it as you grabbed his head and tilted it, deepening the kiss and feeling him rumble from within his chest. You had no idea what propelled you to continue like this, but tender turned heated as breaths turned heavy and grip turned firm. You could feel him grow hard from between your legs and when he pressed against you, you whimpered at the sensation you had never felt, before.

Balmorn’s hands grabbed hurriedly at your rear as he pulled you against him, you grinding down against him in response. You were holding onto his horns as you had opened your mouth to let him in, his long tongue filling your mouth and almost tempted to reach down your throat.

When he pulled away, fearful for your sense of safety and comfort, his breaths were heavy, mouth hanging open as he drank you in. His deepest instincts demanded that he make you his mate right then and there, breed you in that garden and fill you with wyrmlings that belonged to him.

But he would not do so. His mother taught him better than to follow his baser instincts like that. No, he didn’t even have the first idea whether or not you were even a virgin. He had to be gentle with you, ease you into this.

And the first thing he needed to do…was make sure you really and truly wanted this. “Should we…continue this in the privacy of my bedchambers?”

Just as short of breath and feeling unbearably warm, you nodded, arms wrapped around his neck. You had never felt anything like this, before, and you were sure you would never feel this way about anyone. Whatever your father said about your union, you didn’t care. Balmorn’s heart was pure and you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

You wanted to be his wife. You wanted him to be your husband.

And – right now, more than anything – you wanted him to deflower you. “Please, my prince…” You purred, meaning that now and truly.

Groaning lowly, Balmorn’s rough clawed hands were on you, hoisting you up and carrying you bridal style in his arms, wings flared open as he lifted off from the ground and flew up. You had never flown before, so you naturally clung to him, knowing that he wouldn’t dare drop you.

He carried you up and up and up, to the highest room in the tallest tower of the palace. Lighting down on the balcony, he opened its doors and carried you inside of his bedchambers, closing the door behind him and locking them promptly. You had never seen so much red, before, and it was a deep wine red. In his room, a pile of treasures was haphazardly kept in the corner of the room, a nest made of comfortable and worn blanket and pillows taking the place of a bed just across from a fireplace that was not lit.

Until Balmorn set you down in his nest and turned away, leaning forward and blowing a flame into the fireplace, taking the poker to stoke it before closing it promptly, letting its warmth and its light fill the room. All of the curtains were drawn and the only other door into this place was closed and seemingly locked.

You looked up at him, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. “No one will interrupt us, right?”

“No.” Balmorn replied gruffly, shaking his head. “The only way that leads to my chambers is from the lower levels. There are secret passages along the stairwell if I need to get somewhere quickly, but only I and my mother know them. No one else. So we will not be bothered unless it’s truly important.”

Nodding at him, you sighed shakily. You supposed that made sense, but this sudden domineering attitude was…unexpected. And it made you uneasy. “So…what happens now?”

Raising an eyebrow at you and seeing how you curled in on yourself, Balmorn took in a breath and let it out, trying to calm himself down so that he would not accidentally hurt or frighten you. After all, you may be his bride-to-be, but you were only human.

You were still fragile…he needed to be careful with you. “Now,” he said, wings flared as his tail began to swing languidly back and forth as he approached you, broad shoulders making him appear even larger as he leaned over you, arms propping him up on either side of you as he gazed down at you with eyes that blazed brightly in the dim light of his room, “I make love to you.”

Your heart practically leaped into your chest when he said that in such a low and husky tone. You had never felt anything like this, never felt so…desired. You whimpered when he leaned in, pressing his chest against you as his snout buried itself into your neck, the half-dragon deeply inhaling your unique scent of sea breeze.

The moment your arms threw themselves around him, Balmorn had to fight every instinct not to bury himself in you right then and there. He was a prince and you were a princess. He needed to conduct himself with manners. You were to be his wife, for gods’ sake.

Restraining himself, he pulled back, gazing down at you with all the affection in the world, admiring your flushed cheeks and the way your eyelids fluttered at him. He felt like his heart would stop if he looked at you any longer, but he needed to persist. For your sake. “I must ask…for your sake, my dear: you do want this, yes? You want me? You want me to bed you? To mate you? To make love to you?”

Smiling softly at his meekness coming back just to ensure you were safe and comfortable, you giggled sweetly at him, putting a finger up to silence him and reassure you. “I wouldn’t allow anyone else but you to deflower me, Prince Balmorn.” You said, holding his draconic face in your hands as you pressed your forehead to his, basking in the tender intimacy of this for the moment while you had it. It was necessary…to take a moment to bask in the warmth before it became an all-consuming blaze. “So yes, I want you to make love to me. I want you to claim me as yours. I want to be your wife. I want to have sex with you and I want to marry you and share our lives and our kingdoms together.

“And most importantly…I want to show you the sea, someday.” You added with a cheeky grin.

Laughing a little, you could hear a deep rumble in his throat as he pressed himself into your touch, Balmorn practically melting into you. You had never felt him be this pliant and relaxed, but he still had himself propped up on his elbows. It was then that you could hear him start to growl, his maw right by your ear as his hot breath rolled over your sensitive skin. “Then…I have one last question, my princess…” He hissed, claws tugging at your clothes as he practically pawed at them. “Do you care about these rags?”

Chuckling at his impatience, you gently stroked at the scales on the back of his head and shook yours. “No. Tear them off, if you wish…they’re not important to me.”

With a low hungry bellow, Balmorn could hold himself back no longer, growling as his claws quickly tore apart your blouse and ripped apart anything else that laid underneath, leaving your chest bare and on display for him to admire and gawk at. So much tender beauty encased in supple flesh and it was his.

You were his. You had given yourself fully to him and, with your enthusiastic permission, he was going to take all of you and mark you as his inside and out. Not an inch of you would be left untouched by him. Normally, it was customary to wait for marriage to initiate the consummation, but he didn’t want to wait. This was a consummation of sorts, of their commitment to this relationship and this marriage, but he could just keep this as their little secret from his mother and pretend the night of was their first for her sake.

After all, Balmorn wasn’t going to complain about ravaging you again. Your soft and supple body was nothing short of exquisite.

All at once, your groom-to-be’s long tongue and teeth were everywhere they could find purchase, nipping and lavishing at your neck, holding your body still as you tried to hold onto him for dear life, to grasping at and fondling your soft and plush breasts in his rough hands. He was rutting against you and all of your senses were filled with nothing but him.

Words were beyond you as he began to ravage you, your senses overloaded with pleasure and sensation, but you didn’t mind. It was Balmorn. He could have as much of you as he pleased and then some as far as you were concerned.

His lips and tongue were on your breasts immediately, the soft flesh pliant under his attention and your whimpers and whines music to his ears when he found that your nipples were especially sensitive. Suckling one and rolling the other in his fingertips, he alternated, getting you writhing and riled up as he handled you.

He could tell that you were trying to stifle your noises, but with a wet pop, he scolded you, but not before grabbing your face harshly and stuffing his tongue into your mouth, again, gladly swallowing him down as you grabbed onto his horns, making him hiss and harshly thrust into you, pulling away and leaving a string of saliva connecting you. “Don’t stifle yourself. No one will hear you but me, and I want to hear you sing for me when I make love to you.”

Nodding, you were barely even given a second before your pants and remaining undergarments were torn off of you, leaving you completely bare for him as he suddenly hoisted you up by your hips, your legs slung over his shoulders and his claws pulling your thighs forcibly apart.

Embarrassed, you instinctively tried to shut your legs, but Balmorn would not allow you to hide his most precious treasure from him. And there it was, glistening, wet, hot, and puffy for him. He could smell the musk you were giving off, taking a deep breath of your scent before blowing hot air on your plush and soft mound of flesh.

You felt strange and a bit sheepish when he was examining your most sensitive and private area with such hungry intensity. He didn’t even give you a moment to realize what he intended to do before he pressed his long tongue against you, licking a stripe up your plush and soft folds and causing you to yelp when he dragged it up along your clit.

Once Balmorn got a taste of you, your hot searing silky sweet wetness on his tongue, his appetite was ravenous. His lips formed a seal over yours and his tongue plunged deep inside of you, claws tightly digging into your soft skin as he suckled hungrily and roughly at you, growling and groaning into you as he practically devoured you from the inside out.

Wriggling tongue and suckling lips had you writhing and whining, unable to escape his grip but somehow wanting to draw him even deeper in, even when it wasn’t physically possible. Your entire body was set alight with fiery blaze running red hot through your veins, sensation after sensation wreaking havoc on you as you fought to maintain any coherent thoughts.

Your hands found purchase on his horns, squeezing them in your hands as you fought to ground yourself to something, and it only spurred Balmorn on even further. He suckled even harder at you, swirled his tongue around and pumped it in and out of you even faster. He could feel you dripping down his chin, feel your walls twitching and clenching around his tongue. He was almost tempted to drive you over the edge and finish you, but he wouldn’t.

Not here…not like this. If there was a time you should unravel, it should be while he’s properly mating you.

Breaking the seal his mouth had over you, he pulled away, sliding his tongue out of you at an agonizing pace, maintaining eye contact with you as he allowed you to see just how much of his tongue was inside of you. Your eyes widened as his tongue rested on your naval, your own fluids dripping down your skin and past your breasts.

Before you could even bashfully comment, he kissed you again, snaking his tongue soaked in your fluids into your mouth and letting you taste yourself as he grinded you against his leg, the rough scales making you whimper and jerk in his grasp.

Pulling away from you, he leaned back and began to properly disrobe, shedding his clothes almost as hastily as he tore yours off of you. It didn’t take much to be completely nude, crimson scales glinting like rubies embedded in his hide in the light of the fireplace, his cock standing fully erect as you admired the twitching, leaking, angry looking thing.

It was a fleshy pink colour, and you could almost feel its heat rolling off of it as you stared at it. It was thick, thicker than you thought you could reasonably fit. The tip was tapered at the end to a point and along the underside of it were several fleshy, spiny ridges that formed an unbroken line down to the base where it protruded from its slit. The base was somewhat bulbous in nature where it protruded from.

Nervous, you curled in on yourself, an action that Balmorn took notice of before he sighed, looking over at you and purring affectionately at you, pressing a kiss on your cheek and nuzzling you. “Don’t worry…I won’t hurt you. You can take it nice and slow, a bit at a time until you don’t think you can take anymore. And then we’ll go from there.”

As he softly lapped at your neck affectionately, you relaxed. Even at his most primal, at his most unhinged and most beastly, your safety and wellbeing was his highest priority. What else could you possibly want from a husband?

Nodding, you put your arms around him, holding him close. “O-okay…I trust you.”

Smiling, Balmorn purred softly pulling your arms off of him as he met your gaze hotly. “Turn around, on your hands and knees. Present yourself to me.” He murmured, whispering softly into your ear. “It’ll be more comfortable that way.”

Doing as he told you, you turned around, spreading your legs open for him and resting on your elbows, looking back towards him. “Like this?”

Smirking as he admired the position you were in, he approached you from behind, hands on your hips and hot erection pressed against your naval when he started to feel up your side and your back. “More like,” suddenly, he grabbed you by the back of your head and forced your face down into the blankets and pillows of his nest, releasing his grip and gently running his hands along your back as he hummed contentedly at you, feeling incredibly dirty and indecent presenting yourself to him this way, “this.”

Pressing his hand on your shoulder blades, his other hand kneading at your hip, he then let go of you to line his throbbing hot cock up with your sopping wet entrance, the tapered end allowing easy penetration. Once you felt the intrusion, you gasped, moaning loudly when he started to fill you properly. Once his head was firmly inside, he hissed through his teeth. Fuck, you felt so hot around his cock. Were he not made of fire, you would have burned him.

As he began to press further in, you whimpered, hissing as the painful sting of the stretch proved sharper and more unexpected than you anticipated. Thankfully, Balmorn was quick to soothe you, leaning forward to press his chest against your back and leave kisses and licks along your neck and jawline, whispering encouraging and gentle words into your ear. “Easy, it’s alright…just relax, I’ve got you. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” He murmured, hand reaching down as he circled your clit with his fingertip, making you involuntarily grind on him, earning a soft hiss from him. “That’s right…I won’t let anything hurt you, just relax…and feel me reach deep into you.”

Slowly in increments, he pushed his way into you. You could feel the ridges of the underside of his cock bump against your clit on its way inside, making you yelp and whimper as you ground yourself even more on him. The stretch was painful, but his cock felt so good. His gentleness with you helped the pain melt away with each inch he pushed into you.

Bit by bit, he sheathed himself into you. It wasn’t until your lips met the base of him that you decided you were ready.

Once you gave him permission, Balmorn wrapped an arm around your shoulders from underneath your chin with one arm, the other gripping your hip tightly in his hand. His wings tented around you, serving to help hold up his weight as he prepared to rock his hips into you properly. He had every intention of making this well worth it.

His thrusts were slow and methodical, his focus on dragging himself slowly against your walls, making you feel every inch of him. You had never felt anything this good, every bump on the underside of his cock bumped against your clit with every pull and push of him. It practically had you seeing stars, shuddering and wriggling your hips so you could feel more of him. The more you moved, the more impatient you got. The pain didn’t even seem to matter much, anymore.

It didn’t take very long before Balmorn started to fuck you like he was going mad, your sonorous voice echoing around his bedchambers as he plowed you into his nest. Rapid wet slaps accompanied the songs of pleasure and carnal desire, the half-dragon snarling as he bred you and mated you like his deeper draconic instincts demanded that he do. The ridges on the underside of his cock were no longer bumping against your clit one-by-one in slow long drags, but pulled all together against it with his rapid punishing pace.

You had never felt anything like this before, nothing this good. You were practically screaming wildly as he fucked you madly, chasing his high like he would die if he didn’t fill you with his seed. You wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, twitching and jerking like mad as the assault on your senses began to build to a breaking point.

With a snarl, Balmorn paused for a moment, pressing himself as harshly into you with a sudden snap of his hips as he stilled, his cock pulsing and throbbing into you as something hot then began to spill into you. The thought of pregnancy never occurred to you before or during your act of lovemaking, but before you could think any further with what little thought you were capable of having, the half-dragon suddenly fastened his teeth into your neck and bit down, tongue lavishing at the site as he started a punishing pace once more. Even after he had already cum, he still wasn’t empty.

No, his loins still burned and he had a need to put out the fire by any means necessary.

The sounds and smells of sex only intensified as he fucked wildly, fast, hard, and deep. You could hear how wet and sloppy this was becoming with his fluids added to yours and you could feel his base popping in and out of you, your body managing to stretch enough to accommodate his full size, somehow.

It wasn’t long before you were wailing, your insides pulsating, spasming, and contracting as you came and came hard, fluids practically leaking and dribbling out of the both of you as he still continued to fuck you, desperate to chase his second release.

Your mind was mush, your thoughts nonexistent, and your words incoherent as Balmorn made an absolute mess of your insides, snarling by your ear as he grew closer and closer to release.

Then, finally, while you were still cumming on his cock, his second orgasm followed swiftly after, Balmorn fucking himself as deeply inside of you as he could as rope after rope of white hot cum stained your insides and cascaded out of you, the half-dragon reaching down to circle your clit just so he could hear you shudder and clench around him as he came.

The both of you were shuddering messes, hot, sweaty, and filthy with the scent and slick of sex on the both of you. You were both breathing heavily as you came down together, Balmorn feeling satisfyingly empty and you feeling satisfyingly full. More and more fluids trickled out of you as you remained locked together, the half-dragon scooping you up in his arms and rolling on his back with you still impaled on his cock. You were completely limp, barely weighing anything as he held you in his arms, you going completely slack against his chest.

You stared down at yourself, your belly looking slightly swollen when you examined yourself. You could see the growing trail and puddle of fluids forming on the ground, feeling so embarrassed and trying to curl in on yourself, but having no strength in your arms or legs.

Balmorn noticed and laughed, wrapping his wings around you to cover you and kissing at your neck and your cheek, purring softly as he held you in his arms. He never would have expected to be able to have this with anyone and of everyone in the world…he was glad it was with you.

Licking at the bitemark he left behind on your neck, he nipped at your ear, getting your attention. “Did that feel good? Did you enjoy that?”

Sharing his sentiments, you laughed softly, nodding blearily as you kissed the tip of his snout, nestling yourself as best you could under his chin, suddenly feeling quite tired and sleepy once the fervour had died down and you were basking in the afterglow.

Softly, Balmorn rumbled, happy with you in his arms and feeling completely safe and pliant against him. He was glad he made this a good experience for you. “I’m glad…I can’t wait for us to be wed.”

But just as he started to pull out of you, you whined, wriggling your hips in an attempt to stay sheathed on him. At this, he couldn’t help but laugh, amused by your refusal to be separated from him. “What? Can’t get enough of me now that you’ve had me twice?”

You shook your head, clinging to his arms as you pressed as much as you could against him, mewling softly. “Just a little longer…wanna…enjoy this for longer…”

Enjoy this for longer, you said? Now, what a lovely idea. “Well, now…if you’re not in a hurry to get off of my cock, then…” He purred, pulling your legs up so that your knees were pressed against your shoulders, his hands locking behind your head as this angle made his cock feel so much deeper inside of you, whimpering as your inside involuntarily shuddered around him. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I…indulged for a bit? I’ll be gentler, this time. Nice, soft, and slow…would you like that?”

Eagerly, you nodded yes. Anything to not be separated from him. You were perfectly content to just let him use you for a little while to relieve himself of everything he had pent up all this time. You were safe in his arms. You knew it, so you surrendered yourself to him completely, head rolling back against him.

Purring at you and nipping your ear affectionately, he planted his feet into the floor and let his tail assist in lifting his hips. “As you wish, my princess.” He murmured sweetly, voice dripping with honey.

Just like he promised, he languidly began to thrust up into you, the position allowing him to reach deeper into you as he kissed you, nipped at you, and licked you while rocking you on his cock.

If this was what you could expect for the rest of your life, you had no complaints. Fuck everything your father said, Balmorn was a good man and you were certain that no man would ever make you feel this good, this warm, this loved.

The rest of the evening continued like this. You drifted in and out of consciousness, feeling completely safe in his arms as he gently rocked his cock in and out of you. He was no longer in any hurry, so he could take his time with you until you both grew tired and fell asleep.

He had two more climaxes left in him before he decided it was time to get the both of you washed up and ready to sleep, as tempted as the both of you were to fall asleep with his cock sheathed in you. Though, as you cuddled in his nest together, that somehow ended up happening anyway, Balmorn’s cock slipping out of his slit in the night and directly inside of you, involuntarily having sex with you while you both slept and achieving one last climax before he fell into deep sleep, nestled deep inside of you and twitching as it slowly softened during the night, still buried inside.

Perhaps his inner dragon knew where it belonged, and that was inside of his mate at all times.

[krsnaradhika]

can I ask about what the drama around "palace of illusions" is about and why it's bad?

Hey! Sure thing. Lemme list my problems with the book :-

1) The author presents Karna as some tragic hero compelled to be in the company of Duryodhana who clearly committed multiple murder attempts, went on to sexually harrass his sister-in-law and troubled another woman during the Ghosha yatra. Karna was NOT an outcaste. He was a Suta— meaning one with a Brahmin mother and a Kshatriya father. Adhiratha, Karna's adoptive father, was a wealthy man as he was Bhishma's charioteer. Keep in mind that charioteers used to play important roles in warriors' lives - as advisers, close friends and well-wishers. Krishna was the charioteer of Arjuna. Karna had all the opportunities the Pandavas didnt. He had parents who loved him, while the Pandavas were left halfly orphaned with the death of Pandu and Madri. Veda Vyasa describes Karna as "the trunk of the tree of adharma".

2) The Karna Draupadi ship is bullshit because Karna called the latter a whore during the disrobing sequence as well as presented the idea of "there should be no clothes on servants." Yes, Karna was the one who suggested her public sexual assault. She had blood stains on her garment and was dragged into the court of nefarious men by her hair. People who blame her for the assault inflicted on her are sick and need serious psychological help. You cannot defend attempted rape as one with working braincells.

3) So, shipping a victim with her abuser is not fun y'all. This is not some mentally unstable wattpad dark romance. It's itihāsa. The true history of Bhāratavarsha. Let's draw the line. She was an ekavastraa (meaning a woman in a single cloth, as she was menstruating) during the attempt at disrobing, and the man who called for it shouldn't be hailed. Karna also lied to Parashurama of his caste due to which he got cursed, had an unhealthy obsession with Arjuna and because he wanted to kill him for competition, Drona did not provide him with the knowledge of celestial weapons.

4) It is an ignominy against Lady Draupadi to ship her with anyone apart from her husbands because clearly, the Mahabharata says that she's Indra's wife Shachi while the Pandavas are the cursed five Indras of different kalpas. It is . . . not nice to ship one's wife with another man. It is creepy. Draupadi is one of the panchakanya, one of the five pious women whose names if chanted with sincerity wash off one's sins. She expresses her pride over her husbands multiple times in the text because all of them cherish her to no end. Yudhishthira does not hesitate on the fact that Draupadi is the five brothers' fortune, calls her ‘Kalyani’. Bhima kills Keechaka for her, threatening the revealing of their identities. Arjuna becomes Brihannala and spends most of the time near her during the incognito. In the book, however, the Pandavas do not give a damn about her. Yikes.

5) The book says that Draupadi faced prejudice because of her dark skin. I call bullshit again because Madreya Nakula, Partha Arjuna, Krishnatmika Devi Rukmini according to the Harivamsha, Devi Shri Jambavati (who is said to have a blue lotus like complexion), and lastly Shri Rama and Shri Krishna themselves are dark according to our scriptures. And, none of them faced discrimination because of it. Kanha is in fact called "Bhuvansundar" - the most beautiful one on the earth while Draupadi herself is hailed as one of the most beautiful women canonically.

6) Draupadi was never attracted to Karna. Neither did she pine for him, as the author portrays. Sheesh. Please please, we do whatever with human characters. But with divine ones, you have to be careful with the message you get across. This book is saying that ancient india was casteist and colorist, literally the times when the son of a fisherwoman, Veda Vyasa became a Brahmin and the said fisherwoman went on to become a queen mother of one of the most influential dynasties back then. Krishna was raised a cowherd, though a prince. He went on to become the most erudite diplomat and established Dvaraka, which was en engineering marvel as it was constructed on reclaimed land.

7) According to the author . . . Draupadi felt something more than just friendship for Krishna too. Heavens, I can't do this. Let's normalise a man and a woman being just friends now, shall we? Krishna is Mahavishnu, he's not supposed to invoke romantic feelings in Draupadi who is Shachi, Indra's wife. Indra and Upendra (Vishnu) are brothers, since Vāmanadeva was born of Mata Aditi's womb, who is Indra's mother and of all the Adityas' too.

[kingsmakers]

Empire Now: Chapter 1

Read it here: AO3

Update banner by @juliaswickcrs

Maelora Targaryen has always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Rhaenyra. With dark hair and no dragon, whispers circulate about how Targaryen the younger princess really is. When she is betrothed to Gwayne Hightower, Maelora is indignant; the pair cannot stand one another. Yet it will be in Oldtown, a city of fractured magic and ancient gods, where Maelora will discover herself. For Rhaenyra may be made of fire, but Maelora is built from blood.

“You must not be cross with your sister, dearest.” Aemma glanced over at her daughter, who had reclined in a chair beside her mother’s and picked irritably at her stitching. Not as sloppy as Rhaenyra’s, but far less perfect than Alicent’s. Mediocre, as all things tended to be when it came to Maelora. “I’m not.” Maelora’s response was curt. It was certainly not Rhaenyra’s fault that she was the older twin, nor that she had claimed a dragon. Yet the facts did not stop the sour swirl of jealousy that simmered in the pit of Maelora’s stomach. To their father Viserys, she may as well be invisible.

Forever tag: @juliaswickcrs @thatmagickjuju @starcrossedjedis @darkwolf76 @akabluekat

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[romanceclub-confessionss]

Confession:

"I am on season 3 of kcd and there's something that has been annoying me a lot. Forget everything else before this but I need to tell you all about this. I know many of you are non Indian and especially non hindu and in s3 when amrit talks about the kali yuga, the cg of mother kali is shown in the background. Fyi the deity who controls kali yuga is male and described as dark skinned and malevolent in the scriptures. Mother kali has no relation to the kali yuga. That part seemed a little ambiguously explained to me (and ik the names are similar) so i wanted to clarify. Idk if this gets cleared up in later episodes but yeah. Also we are already 5000 years into kali yuga (ps this is the 'golden' period of kali yuga...). Alos after kali yuga ends, the cycle will restrart. The world doesn't permanently end. That's all, thanks for reading."

[idylls-of-the-divine-romance]

Your thoughts on demons?

Thank you for the ask <3

Absolutely real. Demons and The Adversary are absolutely real and absolutely have an affect on our lives. We see this 2 ways in particular in the Gospels and the Letters. In the gospel accounts we see demonic possession, which is something I do believe happens (my friend's mother, tho she doesn't like that word). In the letters however, this is not what is discussed. Rather in both the gospels and the letters there is another demonic influence: oppressive political powers.

Paul speaks of "powers and authorities" behind political entities (because "flesh and blood" are not our enemies). Jesus says the the hour of his arrest belongs to "you (the religio-political leaders) and the powers of darkness (the demonic forces behind them)". This revelation has completely changed the way I think of demons and politics, because I am not firmly convinced that spirituality and politics cannot be separated. But that when we see a nation that worships sex and money and (military/national) power, we are seeing a nation that is being energized by dark spiritual powers. Not that the demons conquered the government or something, that's not what I'm saying. Rather that those in power (and, sometimes, us as citizens) have unknowingly allied themselves with a dark spiritual reality, whether or not they even believe in one.

The list I've arrived at for recognizing a nation allied with demons (which I and the Bible term "Babylon") is: slavery; nationalism; oneness at the cost of diversity; the murder of the innocent; oppression of the immigrant, women, children (esp orphans), and the poor; extreme opulence for a select group of people; idolatry of money, sex, and power.

So, yeah, I unfortunately live in Babylon. We all do. This is why we "exiles scattered across the world" must pray for our nations.

I've talked before about the "horror of abandonment" and how it's not that God abandoned us, but that we abandoned God. Demons are a good example of this. Nations and individuals come under the influence of dark spiritual powers when they separate themselves from God's love and light. When the people built Babylon and elevated themselves to the roll of gods, Yahweh scattered them and handed them over to the rebel spiritual beings. When Saul continuously and arrogantly and cowardly (I really don't like Saul lol) disobeyed and disregarded Yahweh's instruction, Yahweh allowed him to be afflicted by an injurious spirit (whether this is a demon, rebel spirit, or not is actually complicated and I'm on the fence but the point stands). When the nation of Israel left Yahweh, their God, to marry foreign women, worship the gods of other nations, and enter into alliance with them, they were conquered by Babylon, the archetype of the city aligned with dark spiritual powers.

I am not sure if the Family of God cannot be possessed or not (I've seen people say that but I've yet to come to a thought on it) but I am positive that the longer you stay away from Jesus, the more you open yourself to that influence.

That said I also agree with C.S. Lewis that one can go too far in the recognition of dark spiritual powers. Yes demons are real; no we should not be terrified of them, nor should we be speculating about their names and whatnot (yes, people do this T-T). But we should be aware of their influence in the world, and firmly stand against it.

This was a lot so summary:

Demons and The Enemy are real and have power.

They are rebel spiritual beings and have rebelled quite often in Scripture, usually alongside a human rebellion (Gen 3; Gen 6; Gen 11; Ps 82).

The only power and influence they have is that which 1) God allows them and 2) we allow them. And thus we should not fear them. Rather we should "resist the accuser and he will flee".

Basically all of our countries have given themselves over to the worship of demons, though in the subtle forms of sex, money, and power. Thus it is our job to "seek the shalom (peace; wholeness; well-being) of Babylon" but also to call out the nations for their crimes against God and humanity.

One day all the nations will come to worship King Jesus and all spiritual powers will be destroyed and those humans who, in the end, chose to align themselves with them will be cast into Outer Darkness.

[nekro-infern]

Q: What was your name before the fall? Why did you take Oizes? What does it mean?

"Anael is one of the 72 guardian angels. He is an angel of love, so he is dressed in pink. In various sources, it is mentioned under the names Haniel, Haniel, Daniel, Anael, Aniel, Onoilus and even Uriel. It is not mentioned in the Bible or the Holy Scriptures. They turn to Anael when they want to get rid of laziness, to acquire love."

Oyzis (Greek: Ὀϊζύς) — in ancient Greek mythology, the primary goddess or demon of suffering, anxiety, grief and depression. The ancient Greek poet Hesiod believed that her mother was the goddess of night Nyukta, who gave birth to Oyzis without a father, and the ancient Roman writer Gaius Julius Gigin and the philosopher Cicero believed that her father was the god of darkness Erebus. Her Latin name is Miseria, from which the English word misery "suffering" is derived."