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freelancearsonist · 2 months

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Won't You Suffer for the Angels to Fly?

➔ Joel Miller x fem!Reader - 2k

➔ Joel finds religion in the last place he expected to--a preacher's daughter.

➔ Rated MA for pure blasphemy. a lot of religious imagery and defiling of holy places--please read at your own risk. unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, fingering (f receiving), corruption kink, HEFTY age gap (r is early 20s [unspecified], joel is 56), reader uses feminine pronouns and has female anatomy [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ this is for my mid to plus!sized readers :) you're beautiful and valid and i love you. this was written in basically one sitting after i binged mike flanagan's midnight mass in one night. thank you to my lovelies @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @shakespeareanwannabe for talking me through this <3 title is from "heaven only knows" by bob moses

The Bible teaches–at least according to what Joel was able to gleam from the Easter service–that everything happens for a reason. That every pelting raindrop in its descent from the sky, even before it lands heavy and dark in his hair or soaks the lush green landscape of Jackson, has a purpose.

He’s struggled a lot with purpose ever since hearing that existential crisis-inspiring sermon that Tommy had dragged him to.

In the preacher’s defense, it went over well with everyone else. So many people are lost nowadays, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to have space for them. They need that hope, that reassurance that they’re here for a reason. That they’ve survived hell on earth not out of luck, but out of purpose. He pulled out the big gun that everyone needed to hear on one of the two days a year that everyone in Jackson has their ears open to him. It was tactful, and Joel has to acknowledge that. Your father is clever, if not cunning.

It’s a trait that you’ve learned directly from him, whether purposeful or not. But you sat right in the front row and nodded along to every word, accepting without thought or conflict that purpose is in every action, every reaction, every change of tide and every gust of wind.

And if everything has a purpose, your purpose must be to torture him.

You never have anything but a smile on your face for Joel. Joel, a man older than your own father, a man whose hands have broken every commandment that you hold so dear. A man that should know better than to let you get under his skin and infect his dreams.

He wonders what it would be like to hold someone so perfectly untainted in hands that have killed and destroyed and sinned. Hands that are strong, hands that are experienced, hands that are greedy. He’s certain he could teach you all about greed. He could make you beg, plead, sob for more and more and more until the only thought remaining in your pretty little head is how much you want to take from him. Until you become a glutton at the altar of his generosity.

And oh, how generous he could be once he had you begging. Minding your manners and asking nicely for what you need, of course, but he would never deny you anything you asked of him.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Miller?” He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling–and he wouldn’t be, really, if he wasn’t so distracted. Putting new legs on a pew isn’t the issue after all; it’s the fact that you’re sitting there on the stairs that lead up to the altar and absentmindedly swinging your legs as if you’re taunting him. As if you understand that his resolve is slipping with every passing second he’s alone in this room with you.

“Joel.”

“Hmm?” You shift your posture to lean closer, and that skirt that’s already way too short to be worn by the pastor’s daughter, in a house of God of all places, rides just a little further up your deliciously full thighs.

How is he expected to work, to keep his mind on the job, when all he wants is to know what those thighs might feel like wrapped around his head?

He clears his throat and adjusts “You can call me Joel, sweetheart.”

He sees it, then. It’s so subtle, but it’s not imagined. You squirm at the pet name, at the raspy drawl of his voice, and it changes everything for him.

He sees in his mind the sweet girl, barely out of her teens, who sits in the front pew with a Bible in her lap. He sees the girl who sings so sweetly to the tune of every hymn. He sees the girl who’s so shy that she blushes every time she catches his gaze.

And then he sees everything underneath the act. He sees the girl who’s bold enough to wear a bright red dress to the Easter service. He sees the girl who makes eye contact with him across the dining hall every night to watch the way he reacts to her lips wrapped so tantalizingly smoothly around her spoon. He sees the girl who knew he would be alone in the chapel today–the girl who wore an easily accessible skirt just for the occasion.

You bookmark the page you’re on and set down the book you were reading, eyes fixated on him all the while. “Is there something I can help with, Joel?”

There certainly is, and it’s not the pew he’s supposed to be repairing.

He remembers, vaguely, hearing something about how God spares guilt from sinners when sin is necessary. It must be necessary to teach you a lesson, then–as you stride over and kneel beside him, your eyes heavy with anticipation and lashes fluttering, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Hasn’t your daddy taught you not to dress like this?” He takes the hem of your skirt idly in his hand, rubs the silky fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He’s not touching you, not really, but his hand is so achingly close. An inch or two, and he’d feel your warmth–those plush thighs that God created to rule over Joel Miller’s mind, body, and soul; ‘til death does he finally know peace, amen.

You shake your head and even manage to seem smug as you say, “No. He just teaches everyone else to resist temptation.”

“I’ve never been much good at that,” he murmurs.

He thinks that you know that. He thinks that you’re his crucible, his most important moral trial–that maybe, if he can turn you away now, he’s a good man.

Joel Miller is not a good man. His kiss is crushing. It’s hellfire, it’s brimstone, it’s everything you’ve been taught to fear your entire life. You melt into it so prettily, accepting your damnation with parted lips and eager eyes. A wanton moan gets caught in your throat when his hand slips further up your skirt.

No panties–in a place of worship, no less. He should bend you over his knee for this transgression, make sure you understand how filthy you are. But there’s hardly time for that now, not when he’s even more desperate than you are. And you are desperate–dripping down his fingers into the palm of his hand as your teeth leave perfect little indents in the plush skin of your bottom lip.

His free hand grips your chin firmly, guiding your eyes to his. He wants to see your depravity, the flickering embers of lust in your eyes as you come on his fingers and cry out for salvation from the all-consuming pleasure.

“Oh my God–”

His hand tightens around your jaw just the slightest bit in warning. “No, baby. You moan my name when I’m touchin’ you.”

And you do–thighs trembling, eyes watering, you cry out his name like a prayer as your cunt pulses and squeezes around his willing fingers.

There’s an unpracticed tremble to your hand as you reach to work open his belt, and it makes his cock throb under the confining material of his jeans.

You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours, so desperate for it that you’re nearly in tears when he pulls your fingers away from the buttons on his shirt. He’s not foolish–no one steps foot into this place during the week, but he knows better than to tempt God��s sense of humor. This has to be quick and contained, and you know it too; you picked your little skirt for exactly that reason.

He catches a glimpse of your glistening need as you settle over his thighs, and once again he battles to resist temptation. He whispers in your ear as you settle your chest against his and grind that fluttering, sensitive cunt along his length–promises himself more than you, really, that he’ll bury his face in your folds and drink from you next time. Next time–the promise makes you clench impossibly hard around nothing.

His eyes have never been quite as heavy as they are when you start to sink that dripping heat down his cock. Head tipped back, throat exposed, completely at your mercy. He has to force himself to look up at you–to worship the goddess enshrined on his altar, all his for the taking.

You bite into your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as your hips settle against his, completely overwhelmed by the burning stretch of his size. He’s a challenge, certainly, but one that you are determined to overcome.

“Easy, baby girl,” he grumbles as you start to rock against him before you’re truly accommodated. His hands rest heavy on your hips–not anchoring, but encouraging. As wrong–as depraved–as this may be, he wants you to enjoy it without pain. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

It doesn’t stay that way, though; the desperation mounts to a boiling point until you’re bouncing fervently in his lap. It’s delicious, the way the thick head of him drags against something deep and sensitive within you. He guides you when your thighs start to burn, grip tightening enough to leave forbidden bruises in the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth presses to yours, breathing the oxygen straight from your lungs as he presses his hips up. There’s nothing you can do but take it, pliant in his hold, head rolling back to accommodate the wet drag of his mouth and the tickling scratch of his beard against your throat.

He feels it before you do–a subtle flutter as your cunt tries sucking him in even deeper. And maybe, if he was a good man, he’d lean away from it and have mercy on you. But he’s not a good man–he’s a greedy, wanton, desperate man. He angles his hips and thrusts as hard as he can, shoving you into your release with force.

You overflow with it; gushing over him like a flood, staining his hastily pushed down jeans and the floorboards beneath.

He pushes you onto your back like you’re weightless, adrenaline coursing as he starts to slam into you. It’s not polite or sweet or loving–he fucks into you and empties himself like an animal. He growls deep in his throat as his cock pulses within you, instructing you to “take it, baby girl” as if you’d consider anything less.

You don’t know where your release ends and his begins. All you know is his weight on top of you, his mouth on your jaw, the collective breathless pants that fill the room as you both come down together.

You’re not sure how long it is before he pulls out of your warmth with an actual whine, breath heavy against your neck where his face is so comfortably nestled.

And you start to laugh, because you wish you’d worn panties after all–you don’t know how you’re going to get home with the mess of cum that’s dripping down the curve of your ass.

He even chuckles with you, until he tears his eyes away from your blissed face and sees the cross hanging heavy on the far wall.

“Th-that…” he gulps. “That can’t happen again.”

“It can,” you assure him, and he supposes you’re right.

You keep your head down and your eyes to yourself on Sunday, even as you spot the barely-noticeable stain on the hardwood floor next to the newly-repaired pew on the right side of the aisle. It’s so faint that no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, but it’s glaringly obvious to you. You should be ashamed; you should be begging for forgiveness. But then you meet Joel’s watchful eyes, and the shame washes away. How can you feel guilty over an act of worship?

THE END

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youryanderedaddy · 3 months

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Summary: An unlikely encounter brings you and Cassian together, resulting in a decade - long obsession born out of lust and hatred. tw: female reader, hinted non-con, abuse/violence, obsession, jealousy, misogyny, degradation, slut-shaming, bullying, threats, choking, religious trauma, religious imagery, religious inaccuracy My ko - fi <3

Cassian still remembered the day you first met, the one he dreaded the most - the early spring warmth mixing with the smell of frost-hidden snowdrops. The earth being cleansed and reborn after a long, sluggish winter filled with challenges for the sinners' burning souls. Back then he was still working at the altar, freshly out of high school - barely nineteen, somewhere between a confused boy and a man of Christ.

He was called to fetch water from the well - it was nothing out of the ordinary, this was the sole reason he was part of the church, to help the elders with baptising and burying the dead. He was coming back with a rushed step when he saw you - bumped into you, to be exact. You were wearing a light white dress that covered just above the middle of your thighs, your ankles and feet fully exposed with just a pair of brown flowery sandals to go along with. You looked a bit older than the boy - maybe two or three years, he decided, as there was something mature in your beauty, an air of influence most girls his age didn't possess yet.

It all happened so fast - Cassian gasped in surprise as the water spilt all over you, sticking to each and every little crack and hem of your thin cotton dress. The wet fabric hugged all your curves, as if damp just to tempt him. He immediately looked down, covering his face with one hand as he tried to collect the fallen jug with the other, cheeks beet red. You, in turn, smiled playfully, reaching for the small pot before the man could grab it. You wiggled it in the air, laughing with your teeth out - glowing in the soft sunlight. He mumbled something incoherent, perhaps begging you to return it - but you were quick on your feet, running towards the river with the tool in hand, your soft giggles bursting like bubbles.

The boy hesitated for a second before eventually following after you, innocent brown eyes widening with a mix of fear and surprise, heart beating violently against his chest - this was the first time he was so close to a woman. After chasing you around the forest for a while, he stopped to catch his breath just to realise he had lost you somewhere along the way. He looked around, already panicking - too frightened to even begin imagining how the elders would react once they knew he had lost the ceremonial canna.

“Looking for this?” You suddenly called out to him, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your pink lips. He quickly turned to face you, blushing once again as he spotted you sitting among the rocks surrounding the stream with the sun caught in your loosened locks - and his jug in your soft palms. You looked just like the nymphs his mentor had warned him about - cruel, whimsical creatures, yet painfully, breathtakingly beautiful. They liked to trick lost travellers and lonely shepherds, taking their soul for all eternity.

Cassian took a deep breath and mouthed a quick prayer to his patron, bringing his hands together. He could do this. He wouldn’t be swayed by you no matter how cunning you may be - for his soul belonged to Christ and Christ alone.

“Stealing is a g-grave sin, Miss.” The boy exclaimed, voice shaky yet unrelenting as he took a step towards you. “So please return the can to me at once!” This time he sounded almost breathless, whiny like a mere child. You couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped your parted lips. “Aww, no need to get mad. I am simply borrowing it.” You cooed at the disciple with slight mockery, pretending to eye the item in your hands with great interest.

“I am n-not mad!” Cassian swiftly contested, crossing his arms to appear more intimidating, if that was even possible. “I am just frustrated - righteously so, since y-you took something that belongs to me, and refuse to give it back.” He continued, puffing his chest out towards you in annoyance. You found his attempts to convince you utterly adorable - but the only thing they accomplished was making you want to pick on him even more. “If you want it so bad, come and get it!” You egged him on, dingling it just above his head once again.

Then suddenly, just for a split second, something in his eyes changed. The brown turned dark and muddy, almost glowing with fury, his teeth grazing his cheek until he could taste the blood on his tongue - and next thing you knew, he had pushed you into the stream, soaked up to your chin. You started coughing, desperate to keep the water out of your lungs, but his hand pressed heavy against your chest, shoving you towards the very bottom of the river.

It was your turn to panic, cheeks heating up with uncertainty. You looked up at Cassian with soft, pleading eyes - begging him to let go. It was all too much for the sheltered boy - your prior teasing, your pitiful gaze, your warm skin shivering against the drenched, transparent clothing, leaving little to the imagination… He subconsciously began tugging at his tight golden collar, feeling the cold sweat creep upon his neck - then he slowly released you, letting your body rise up to the top without any added weight on it.

The disciple stared at your trembling form for what felt like eternity, unable to look away. Soon enough you came to your senses, scurrying to cover your breasts - but despite your best attempts at hiding, his fervent gaze kept threatening to burn a hole into your flesh. You opened your mouth to say something, perhaps an apology of sorts, or even an accusation - yet no sound came out.

And just like that the boy was gone.

***

Cassian cried the whole night, he cried his little heart out, hugging the Mary Magdalen icon close to his chest - hoping, praying that he could be redeemed. He was sick, utterly sick. The way he had felt, the way his body had reacted to you - it was sinister, devilish, unholy. Something completely unbecoming of the sacred figure he aspired to become once his altar duties were finished. He was supposed to be different, a beam of light in a crowd of darkness and misery, and now he was filthy, reeking of sin - of you.

His racing thoughts left him restless, unable to close his eyes. He had no other option left - he had to confide in his mentor, it was the right thing to do. It was going to be alright, he tried to rationalise. Repent, and you will be saved. A sin admitted is a sin resolved and punished from within, from your very core. That’s what the elders always said - sin was human, but deceit was intentional, it meant that your soul was purposely straying away from God’s love and protection. The ones who were truthful and eager to accept their faults could still ascend to Heaven.

And Cassian was lucky - so, so lucky, because his mentor proved understanding to the troubles of his soul. He reassured him, taking him into his arms, the smell of incense and wax and home enough to soothe any heartache. The old man smiled gently, petting his hair - telling him that beauty was a Godly virtue, and there was nothing wrong with admiring it for his body itself was a fruit of desire and love. Then once the boy had stopped sobbing, his breathing finally even, the priest pulled him to the side and reminded him that he was one of his best students, and as such he simply could not be tempted and swayed by the weakness of the flesh. The deacon had seen him - had felt the cleaness in his eyes, and that’s precisely why he had chosen him; for his unyielding chastity and goodness. And he was never wrong about his pupils - so it was obviously the woman’s fault.

Cassian could understand it now, clear as day. You had tempted him. You had stolen his sleep and his tears like a siren, like a Jezebel. But that was fine, completely fine. It was all part of the big plan. Temptation was good - faith always had its challenges, and he’d be damned if he let someone as wretched as you lure him into severing his ties to God. This was his future. This church was his home, and so it would remain. He would become the next deacon of Holy Agnes, and you would be no obstacle. Just an underwater stone - a bug he had to crush so he could be free and whole again.

***

Several years passed by with a snap of a finger. Cassian slowly matured, soft cheeks and bright eyes turning sharp and mundane with his newfound restraint. He had adapted some level of unconscious stoicism, set on raising above the lowly human needs. And yet he kept seeing you everywhere he went, like a ghost of the past.

Sometimes you were in the garden by his church, laughing and smiling with avid colours covering your body. Countless dingley pearly bracelets stacked one on top of the other heaving on your little wrists like a fire circle. You were loud, never one to suppress your silvery ringing voice. Other times you were sitting by the nearby lake, sewing or knitting, writing in a worn out notebook with fleeting papers all over your lap. You were in the bakery he walked by after Mass, on the opposite side of the farmer alley he frequented on the Sabbath. Always just a breath away, but never quite close enough.

He wanted to touch you. He wanted to drag you in by your hair and yell in your ear until it bled - you, who so innocently strolled left and right with your pretty twirly dresses and skirts that never covered your knees, you with your naked hands parading around the park with nothing on your mind, but rainbows and sunshine. As if you didn’t know you had ruined his youth with aching sickness over you - as if you didn’t care he had spent countless hours agonising, wondering whether he’d see you again. Wondering whether he’ll be able to hold back from reaching out and completely devouring you.

Were you looking for attention, looking so bubbly and careless, bright shouting colours on display? Were you hoping to tempt him again by showing all this vulnerable, ripe skin? Had you completely forgotten about that unlikely encounter that was permanently engraved into his memory with the burning mark of hellfire itself?

Because it certainly seemed so when the whole village was whispering about you and your countless misdeeds. People were saying that you were pursuing a crafting clerkship in the nearby town - that you were travelling alone, or in the company of strange men, sleeping in unknown taverns on the road for days. Drinking and drowning in debauchery. Rumours had it that you would give yourself away to the highest bidder, thus being able to fund all those adventurous trips across the land.

Cassian didn’t want to believe them, and he refused to partake in the tired, painfully repetitive conversations of the common folk who flocked to the church for warmth and food like a herd of sheep to a master. To him tattle was a sin of itself, a needless effort to drop the Lord’s name in vain just to curse a harlot or to mock an innocent, unsuspecting widow - but from day to day their words became harsher, crueller, ungodly. You were made to look like Lilith herself, and he couldn’t help believing what he could feel with his own heart.

It was a simple fact, really. You were just a whore, and nothing more - because he could clearly see you clinging to another man’s shoulder through the small glazed window of his, pushing your chest towards the dark stranger - laughing unabashedly at his jokes, gazing into his eyes, prompting him to claim your sweet lips. You were a whore, because you let them all have you, yet you belonged to neither. Not even to him - not even when you appeared in his dreams, tormenting him even in the comfort of his own psyche.

You would share your warmth with him then, caressing him - letting him rest against your soft breasts, letting him inhale your tantalising aroma. Teasing him endlessly, just to disappear at dawn, just before he had his final fill of you. And just like that the cycle repeated, driving him crazy.

***

It was another warm spring day when you two met again face to face. When he saw you, hair dishevelled and clothes torn apart, he thought he was still dreaming - but you were even more beautiful, even more radiant now. That’s how he knew you were real. He could finally touch you, he could smell the salt and morning dew on your skin, could lick the tears off your puffy, swollen eyes.

You had been dragged to the church early in the morning by the wife of the mayor, kicking and screaming. The older woman had been furiously gripping your wrist, forcing you to trip after her in a desperate attempt to keep up. Once inside the ceremonial hall, she had pushed you down at the deacon’s feet like a sacrificial lamb before a pagan god’s altar.

“Martha, dear, what’s wrong?” Cassian was quick to intervene before the woman could mess you up even more. “You know it’s unbecoming of a lady of such wise age to engage in this ungodly behaviour.” He explained calmly - it was obvious that he held no wrath for her, and this was all just a performance. The mayoress was very influential in the village, so he had to be careful with his words, lest you’d both be in trouble.

“Oh, Cassian, Cassian!” The wife all but crumbled against the man, heavy, accusatory sobs strangling her speech. “This harlot has done it again! She tried to destroy another family.” Martha kept wailing in a theatrical way, hanging off the deacon’s white collar. “My family, Reverend! I saw her talking to my husband, oh, it was utterly despicable! I might faint just thinking about it.” She rambled on and on, cheeks turning comically red. “She must be possessed by the Devil - I see no other explanation behind her constant sinful endeavours.” She fluttered her lashes as if attempting to persuade the deacon, going as far as to use the title only given to priests. “I beg you, Father, do something. Teach her the right way, make her repent. Our village can’t keep tolerating these… these outrageous conducts!”

You looked up at him just as he lowered his head to you, your eyes meeting. Your orbs were wide and filled with fright just like that day in the forest when he had pushed you into the river. You were gripping the end of his robes pitifully, tearfully shaking your head as if trying to deny all those ugly lies, mouthing off little sounds he couldn’t quite understand - and just like that he was nineteen again, sweating and mad all over you, lost in your sweet pleas for help. And help you’d receive.

“Calm your senses, Martha. I will deal with this.” Cassian patted the wife’s shoulder reassuringly, nodding at the big gate leading to the garden. “You must not worry anymore, you know you have a weak heart. Just - just go home for the day.” He looked at you one last time, and the sheer black burning intensity of his gaze made you shiver. “I know what to do from here.” He made an airy gesture at the older woman, smiling benevolently. “You’re right. Enough is enough.”

With that she finally left, satisfied that some order would be restored ultimately. The hall remained silent for a while; massive, dim-lit, over-decorated with various gorgons, demons and monsters - designed specifically to scare those who wouldn’t give in to salvation. “Leave us alone.” The man mumbled at last, snapping his fingers at the altar servants and nuns, who in turn hurriedly flocked to the back rooms, nowhere to be seen. You could feel the tears drying on your skin from the freezing cold air, leaving trails all over your scorching hot cheeks. He was observing you carefully, scared to miss even the slightest of reactions - your pain was so expressive he wanted to seal the memory forever in his brain. After all, he had dreamt of this for years. The day when he finally has you at his mercy with nowhere to go.

“I see that you’ve decided to succumb to a life of sin.” Cassian started off haughtily, moving just a bit closer - you were still kneeling on the floor as if you had assumed an eternal repenting pose. His fingertips grazed against your chin, his touch radiating pure ice - cold frost as his head tilted down in rehearsed condescension. “It’s quite unfortunate to see someone so beautiful give up on Christ.” He continued, eyes practically glued to your quivering form from above. It was intoxicating to have you in this position, quivering below him. He wanted to see you like this all the time, he decided. It suited you to be underneath him - you were a filthy, wicked adulterer and he was your saviour. He deserved your worship. He deserved your pain, and everything that would come with it.

“But then again, you’ve always been a temptress.” The man crouched next to you, quick as a snake - gripping your chin between his two fingers. “It must be oh-so difficult for you to act like an honest woman.” His grip got tighter. “Especially when you possess such a dirty, sinful bod–

“S-shut up!” You cried out, pushing yourself to stand on your knees. “Shut up, you know nothing of me, Reverend. You look at me with those eyes… Don’t think I don’t remember.” You hissed, suddenly gaining back the courage the woman had knocked out of you earlier, adrenaline pumping through your veins. “I’ve seen you follow me, I’ve seen you in my nightmares… You want me! You want me, and it’s driving you insane.” You gave him the cruellest look you could muster.

“The dirty one, the sinful one is you - you, and every single bastard in this goddamn village that seems to think they own me.” You spat it out, everything that had been building up over the past few months. The hurtful rumours, the nasty remarks on the streets, the way everyone was measuring you up, touching you without permission… This was your breaking point. “You don’t own me. You never will.”

Cassian was seeing red. Before he could even begin to summon any reason, his hands had tangled into your hair, pulling on it with malice he had never experienced before in his life. He was a being of love and kindness - yet any time he faced you, he turned to this gruesome, unholy beast of a man. It was all your fault. You had ruined him, since the moment you first met him you had been ruining him. You made him like this and there was no going back now. No amount of tears or pretty pleads could save you from the horrors that inevitably awaited you in Hell - the one on Earth. The one he was going to create just for you. Anything for you.

“Do not sully me with this blasphemous tongue of yours, wench. Don’t you dare utter a single word to me, lest you want to lose it.” The man hissed, venom dripping off every over pronounced syllable. His whole body was shaking with fury, skin red and painful as if on fire. One wrong movement could set him off into a flame that would kill you both. “I don’t want to hear a sound from those tainted lips of yours. Who knows how many have kissed them, hmm?” His face got dangerously close to yours - so close you could feel his warm breath across your cheek. Your heart was pounding violently against your chest in a fruitless attempt to escape the rib cage. You tried to push the deacon off you, but he didn’t bulge an inch.

“Aww, you’re going to hurt me with the same hands you caress your lovers with?” He grinned manically - you had never seen a man so unhinged. You had always known he was dangerously unstable as the forest incident had proven - which was the reason you kept your distance over the years, but you could never imagine he’d be so… bloodthirsty. “Have you got no shame?” Cassian was spiralling, going in mental circles.

He finally had you in his arms again, your skin warm and malleable against his - yet the only thing he could think of was all those men you had allowed by your side over the years. It was like he could see their fingerprints all over you, red and scorching on your body as if to mock him. As if to laugh at him for ever trying to fight the temptation in the first place. Your lips were wet and pink, so perfect and vulnerable trembling before him, just begging to be bitten. He reached in to kiss you - just like he had done so many times in his dreams, but he was met with your equally wet, cold cheek instead. You had turned your head away.

“Anyone, but me, huh?” The man screamed at the top of his lungs, beyond wild as he shoved you to the ground, crawling over your body in quick succession. You felt the blood drain from your face - could this be your final moment? “You are willing to give yourself to anyone, but the one who actually deserves you…” His hands travelled to your neck as if they had a mind of their own, voice suddenly dropping to a desperate, shaky whisper. “The one who craves you more than anything.” His fingers danced over your throat, holding your life in one tight grasp.

“What do you mea–”

“All my life I’ve been a good man.” Cassian interrupted you once again, tone back to its initial biting spite. “An honest man, goddammit! And I am not going to lose everything because of… because of some fucking whore!” Your words aimed at your heart just like daggers, and your eyes watered. You squirmed like an injured animal, praying to whoever was up in the sky that he would release you, but God wasn’t so merciful to sinners, apparently. “So you’re going to kiss me, right here, right now.” He was holding your wrists over your chest as he positioned himself between your legs. This couldn’t be happening right now, but it was. You were doomed, you had been doomed from the start.

“You’re going to kiss me like you kiss your lovers.” The deacon paused to lick the tear running down your chin, groaning at the heavenly taste. You wanted to drop dead. “Like you love me.” He pressed down on your neck, squeezing tighter just so your eyes would fill up with hundreds of tiny little tears - it made you look so glossy and cute. “Did you hear me? You are going to kiss me like you fucking love me, you damned slut.” Your face was turning blue from the lack of oxygen.

“And then I am going to fuck the Devil out of you.”

#yandere #yancore #male yandere #male yandere x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere x you #yandere male x reader #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere priest

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holdmytesseract · 5 months

Note

Hello sweetie!!!

Good to know that you've opened requests because do I have A WONDERFUL request for YOU!

Okay okay, of course for me I'm going to request Loki so here goes...

Loki and Reader are arranged to marry and have never met before (either Reader is a princess or just a lady). The day of the wedding, reader suggests a first touch with her fiance - how could Frigga deny that? So they do it. Then, when they see each other at the altar, it's as if the world stops for them both.

I left it a bit vague so you can expand but I am so excited to see what you make of it! I love you so much and please do DM me if you need something 🫂🥰❤️

~LRM

Marrying a Stranger

Loki Odinson x fem!Princess!Reader

Summary: You are arranged to marry Prince Loki of Asgard. Fear and pre-wedding nerves get the better of you and you can't help but ask Frigga for help. Of course is the good-hearted Queen more than willing to help out...

Warnings: arranged marriage? angst, fluff, sweet Loki

Word Count: 2,5k

a/n: I actually wanted to post a new chapter of 'Through the Years' today, BUT the birthday of my wonderful friend @lady-rose-moon is definitely more important. 🥰 Therefore, I'd like to post this lil' oneshot as a gift. 😊 Again, happy (belated) birthday, friend!

Ps. I'm also incredibly sorry that his took me so long to write... I hope you like it nevertheless! I love you, too! 💚

Tags: @lady-rose-moon @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbsblr @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @chennqingg @smolvenger @alexakeyloveloki @theaudacitytowrite @jennyggggrrr @asgards-princess-of-mischief @eleniblue @vanilla-daydreaming @loz-3 @valencia-rou @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @fictive-sl0th @bunny24sstuff @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @lovingchoices14 @linaax @mochie85 @goblingirlsarah @glitchquake @lokidbadguy @icytrickster17 @gruftiela @lulubelle814 @mandywholock1980 @november-rayne @chantsdemarins @simping-for-marvel @lou12346789 @aagn360 @lokiforever @anukulee @multifandom-worlds (Continuing in the comments!)

Masterlist °☆• Loki Masterlist

The day had arrived. The day you looked forward to in excitement and anticipation, but also with fear and nervousness. Your wedding. Your arranged wedding, to be precisely.

You were a princess. Only daughter of the king and queen of Vanaheim. And due to the royal blood pumping through your veins, you were not allowed to choose the man you'd marry. The man would be chosen for you. At first, you didn't approve of this and were literally appalled by the mere imagination of marrying a strange man you had never seen before, but your mother and all your tutors had quickly put you in your place.

There was no way out of this - and you had to accept that. It was your fate. Your destiny. The destined path for a princess.

This is not of importance, sweetheart. You don't have to meet your future husband, in order to marry him.

A few centuries ago, when you had reached womanhood, your marriage was arranged and announced within the kingdom. You were bespoken to king Odin's and queen Frigga's youngest son... Prince Loki of Asgard.

Throughout all the years you had never met your betrothed.

That is the man I shall marry?

That was what your mother had answered to your question if you could meet the prince you were going to marry.

So, the topic was off the table. You had been taught to obey your mother, so why would you dare to ever ask her again? The decision was made. No meant no. You only ever heard stories of your future husband... That he was quite special - and not in the good way. Most people spoke of his mischievous and cunning nature. Some even said villainous, brute and rebellious. To hear those words scared you.

You had dreamed of true love and romance. Of being courted and wooed. You dreamed of a sweet, kind man who would treat you like you deserved - and not of a brute who would treat you like his maid. You spent endless sleepless nights within your chambers, thinking about your future with Loki. What if he truly was just a harsh, mischievous scamp? What if your dreams were about to shatter?

And now, suddenly the moment had come...

But then you started to hear other stories of Loki Odinson as well. About how charming and witty he is. How gentlemanly and eloquent. And how utterly handsome he shall look.

You were torn. Torn by every story they told you - and the worst part was that you never got to find out what the truth was and which talk was cheap. At least not until the day you would marry him. It left you a mess.

You were standing in a huge chamber in the royal palace of Asgard. The room bustled with maids, who were preparing everything to get you ready for the wedding ceremony. You nervously fumbled your fingers; constantly tugging at the soft fabric of your wine red dress. Your mother had just left the room along with your father; leaving you and your troubled mind alone.

From the first encounter with Frigga, you could tell that she had a heart of gold. She was so kind and lovely. Perhaps the most good-hearted person you ever met. You got along with your future mother-in-law instantly. She had welcomed you with open arms. And right in that moment, you couldn't picture another way out.

You couldn't deny the anxiety any longer. It hit you full force; realisation dawning on you like the sun... I can't marry a man I never saw in my life.

So, you decided to order a maid to fetch the only person you hoped would be kind enough to help you. Queen Frigga. The Allmother. You and your family had arrived about a week ago and even in that week you never got to see Loki. Only the king and queen. Not the princes.

Frigga gently took your hands in hers and led you over to the bed; sitting down with you. "What is the matter, dear? The fear within you is stronger than your nervousity. I can feel it." You swallowed hard, "I- It's... It's just..." and had to take a deep breath. "I'm afraid of marrying a man I never saw in my life. I-I know that this is not of importance and probably even forbidden, but-" A radiant smile forming on the queen's lips interrupted you. You furrowed your brows; were confused. Even more when she started to chuckle.

Only a few moments passed, before the young maid returned to your chambers; following the queen.

"Y/N, my dear..." She immediately walked up to you. "You called for me?" You just nodded; anxious eyes meeting Frigga's beautiful blue ones. "I-I did. Could we... Could we talk in private?" "Of course!" She reassured you, then clapped her hands twice. "Would you all please leave and give us some privacy?" All the maids stopped in their tasks and immediately rushed to leave your chambers.

"My son requested the exact same. Barely before you called me to your chambers, I sat with Loki and spoke about this with him as well. I guess you are quite similar in that case." She chuckled again and reached for your hand again. You just stared at her; not quite believing what she just said. "I understand you, dear. I couldn't do such a thing either. Back when I had to wed my husband, I demanded to at least see him and share a few sentences with him beforehand as well. It helped me to adapt to the situation I was in. Therefore, I can't deny yours, neither my son's wish." Frigga stood up and offered you her arm. "Come on."

You swallowed hard; feeling your heart beat rapidly against your chest, as you approached the little pavilion.

You blinked; were utterly speechless. You knew Frigga would understand you, but that... That wasn't something you anticipated to happen. Still a bit stunned, you stood up and took her offer. She led you out of your chambers, down several hallways you had never seen before, until you were outside the palace and had reached a beautiful garden. She stopped, nodding towards a small pavilion quite a few meters away, which was surrounded by rose bushes and cherry trees.

"My son is waiting for you in the pavilion." Frigga let go of your arm and gave you a smile. "You have about an hour before the maids will return to get you both ready for the ceremony. Make sure to be back at your chambers by that time." With a wink and a soft pad on your arm, she turned around and left.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Carefully - almost shyly, you peeked around the corner.

A man was standing in the middle of the small pavilion, with his back towards you; hands clasped behind his lower back. You could see that he was wearing a green tunic and black leather boots. Gold accents highlighted his whole outfit.

He had long hair - as black as the feathers of a raven. It fell in soft curls over his shoulders. Your gaze climbed up and down his body. He was tall. Norns, he was so tall - and his hands were big. You could tell. They would swallow yours whole.

"H-Hello?" A dark, smooth and slightly high-pitched voice spoke. "A-Are... Are you Princess Y/N?" You could tell by his voice that he was nervous, too. Probably even afraid - just like you.

You didn't even notice how your mouth fell agape. Or how you made another small step forwards; totally enhanced by the God you saw standing in front of you.

Barely after you set one foot in front of the other, a small twig snapped underneath the weight of your body. You flinched - and the man quickly turned to face you; flinching the slightest bit as well. The gust which was created by Loki's quick spin was sent directly into your direction and no second later, his scent hit you; invaded your nostrils... Leather, something dark and musky, charred wood and a slight hint of mint and something fruity. It smelled so rich, so divine, but also so addictive and cosy. You almost fainted.

You needed a moment to get yourself together. "Y-Yes, I-" Your words faded into a gasp as your eyes met his for the first time ever. He had the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. Blue like water and as deep as the oceans. They held so many emotions. Nervousity and fear, but also curiosity and excitement. But above all kindness - the same kindness which sparkled within his mother's eyes.

Loki smiled and took a few cautious steps towards you. "It is my utmost pleasure to meet you, my princess." He gathered a bit of his bravery and hesitatingly reached for your hand, taking it gently in his. With a soft bow, he bestowed a small kiss upon your knuckles; soft, smooth lips brushing against your cold skin. A shudder rippled through you.

"The- The pleasure is a-all mine, my prince." You more or less stammered out, now utterly distracted by his chiselled facial features. High cheekbones, sharp jawline and a perfectly shaped nose. Norns, you thought. He looks like carved out of marble.

Loki gave you a smile. "Thank you for agreeing to this little... secret meeting. I-I just had to see you before the ceremony, I-" You gave his hand - which still enveloped yours a soft squeeze. "I know. I felt the same way." A nervous chuckle left his lips, followed by an even bigger smile. "That makes this situation so much easier..." You reciprocated his smile. "Indeed, my prince."

You took a seat on the small, cosy bench and decided to use the time you had left to talk and get to know each other at least a little bit, before you'd become husband and wife. It was exactly what you - and Loki needed. But especially, it calmed your fears of marrying a brute, despiteful man. They had been wrong... Oh so wrong. Loki was not like that. He was like you hoped he'd be. Kind, gentlemanly, sweet - and utterly romantic. His heart may be battered and bruised, but you could feel that this man would do everything to be a good, loving husband for you.

The hour flew by way too fast; within the blink of an eye and soon it was time to part ways - for now.

"Thank you, my pri-" "Loki. Please... It's Loki for you." That made you blush even more - if that was even possible. "Thank you, Loki." You smiled. "I can't believe I'm going to be wed to such a handsome, polite and sweet man either."

"Again... Thank you for agreeing to this." Loki said; voice soft. You shook your head. "No need to thank me. I wanted this, too, you know..."

Silence settled over the both of you, until he let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "I can't believe I'm marrying such a beautiful, kind-hearted woman in barely a few hours." You blushed in the darkest shades of crimson at his words; suppressing a girlish giggle to slip past your lips.

That caused Loki to blush.

A nervous chuckle bubbled from deep within his chest. "Thank you-" "Y/N." You interrupted him. "Y/N." The way he rolled his name off your tongue almost send you into another dimension - you were sure of it.

His words hit you straight into your heart. You could swear it was aflame by now, burning for this man you knew so little, but were going to wed in a few hours.

"Are you still nervous?" Loki asked then; eyes soft. You nodded. "Y-Yes, I- I'm afraid it's going to get worse..." You giggled nervously; desperately trying to play it cool, but failing.

He took your hand in his again; gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. "I know this is normal. I-I am nervous, too, but... Please don't worry. You are not alone in this. I'll be there - and I won't ever let go of you."

You took deep breaths; smiling brightly. Now you could say that you were really looking forward towards your wedding. For the first time in centuries.

"T-Thank you. That is really reassuring to know. I-I won't let go either." Loki smiled, "That's good to know, my darling." and leaned in for a delicate, small peck on your lips. It was gentle and barely lasting - but it felt so right. So good.

Before you were able to answer something, his hand slipped from yours as he was passing you by; stepping out of the pavilion and out of your sight.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." Your mother said with tears in her eyes. She placed her pointer finger underneath your chin. "It's time for you to enter the next chapter of your life. A lot is going to change, I know - but your whole life was spent preparing you for exactly that moment. You're a strong woman, Y/N. Never doubt that. And Loki is going to be a wonderful husband. He's the perfect match."

By now, you had to fight off the tears as well.

Your mother leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on your forehead. "I'm so proud of you, just like your father. I love you." You smiled; swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in your throat. "Thank you, mama. I love you, too." She gave you a loving, motherly smile and left to sit with the other wedding attendants.

You took a deep breath and with the sounds of the fanfare, you stepped through the golden doors and slowly walked down the red carpet towards Loki - who stood at the altar; dressed in his ceremonial armour, waiting for your arrival.

All eyes were on you, but you only had eyes for your prince.

When his eyes landed on you, they widened immediately; his mouth falling agape. He watched how your wedding dress swayed softly with each step you took.

She looks absolutely beautiful, he thought; feeling his heart beating rapidly against his chest.

It was all you needed in that moment.

You walked slowly, gracefully - like you've been taught. It felt like an eternity, until you finally reached him.

Loki immediately stretched out his hands for you to lay yours in his - and you did. The moment you touched, it felt like you could finally breathe normal again. His skin was so soft and warm; giving you the feeling of warmth and comfort. For you, his touch was a safe haven. He was anchoring you; preventing you to get lost in the sea of no-man's-land.

You looked up. His endless blue eyes met yours for the second time - and time seems to stand still around you. In that moment, it was only you and him.

You smiled and finally weren’t afraid anymore of the future. Not if it involved the man right in front of you.

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki x female reader #loki #loki x you #loki fanfiction #tom hiddleston x reader #loki fluff #loki x y/n #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson

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shockedemojiatsv · 1 month

Text

▪︎■☆ Worship⛧🩸 ☆■▪︎

(Part 1.)

☆ 🔞!!VIOLENT AND VULGAR!!🔞

☆ cult!Miguel ohara / forrest monster/cryptid! Reader

☆ a little gift for @miguel-owhora !!

☆ violence is written in this work of FICTION. Things such as infant deaths or death in genera

☆ Hi!!! So I'm sorry for not writing as much but I've been verrrryyyy very busy‼️ (laughs and throws myself off a cliff) any who! Enjoy this little thingy!! I'm still in love with dad's cryptid AU after all this time 💕

°○☆Violence under the cut☆○°

Blood. Metal rust. And other animalistic things that would have a normal camper running for their lives. Then dying. Not out of some beast or an accident. But out of exhaustion. Limbs failing. Eaten away by the very grass of the ground only to be picked up by another predator.

Any normal person would run away. Any normal person would have thought twice before doing something stupid in uncharted woods.

Miguel was different. He was a cunning man. Frighteningly intelligent. Charming and observant and curious. Leave him in the woods with nothing and he's already built a somewhat stable community, sheltered and protected by... something out there. Something unexplainable. Something... you.

This was your forest. From the very beginning. Your memory is hazy of how your form, reeking of the more purer forms of mother nature herself, birthed upon the world to reek order. Not havoc. Not peace. Just a simple balance that you maintained for centuries.

You followed nobody. You didn't need to. And you killed if necessary. Or if you simply wanted. You had free will. Unbound by anything. Literally. Not even any mental constraints could keep you from moving through the night unexpected. Unlike any kind of animal the the world has ever witnessed.

Miguel was a different man. When he came into your forests, the winds tasted like he or his sheep didn't deserve to die. Unlike every other settler or founder who decided to try to poison your grounds.

You let him be. His little village growing with the so called refugees he gathered. Creating houses with the trees surrounding the area.

Surprisingly, they weren't greedy. They didn't chop down every tree they laid their human hands on. Because Miguel didn't allow them to. And you were greatful for that. But you paid no mind to his existence. Other than killing of unwanted organisms. But Miguel, or his sheep never dare trek past the space you let them in. And if they did, they didn't make a mess of their tracks.

Respectfully respecting the environment. Respectfully Respecting you.

Time went on and you continued to observe Miguel and his little underlings carefully. Usually under the darkness of the night. They seemed obedient to Miguel. You could smell a mixture of fear and adoration, and that drew you closer to him. After all, this was your domain. And you had the right to dive deeper into the minds of these obedient critters worshipping you in a way.

One day, Miguel comes along bringing a surprising, pleasant little gift. From out of his own home, he creeps towards the darker shadows of the village. Where the trees grow tall and strong. Uncut and left alone.

An infant. Brought to your feet. An offspring that smells very familiar with Miguel's species. Only, it's cold. It isn't breathing. You can't hear it breathing. Its wrapped in grey sheep's wool and it smells fresh. Like it had died the moment it escape the womb first breaths being its last. And he leaves it there on the mossy rock in front of the trees and walks quickly back to the safety of his own home.

A few hours pass. You're intrigued at the gift. You haven't received such offerings in centuries. So when this, frail human being offers a dead infant like a gift for the altar, your curiosity gets the better of you.

You snatch the child. In yours jaws... or your arms? It could be anything. You were an indescribable creature manifesting the more chaotic sides of nature after all. The little infant, you've seen it all before. Chubby, quite noisy, fragile. And most importantly, delicious. You cannot explain the slightes, but in all of your years of being in this realm, despite not having the needed nutrition you'd usually intake, human offspring has a certain charming flavor. Something you'd feast on with gusto. Maybe it was the fact that through the cycle of life and death, you've always defied both aspects. And the loss of something brought to this world so sudden felt like experiencing the gifts to be caressed upon your tongue. Consumed. And valued.

Miguel does this more often. Leaving you gifts. Little sacrifices. Whether it be piles of wheat or fish. Or, on other days when one of his "sheep" go disobedient, you find their corpse carefully gifted in the same spot on the mossy rock. Like a gift. A gift for your generosity of giving them their home, and protection. Your little gift mauled and torn apart limb by limb and licked ever so viciously. In a graceful matter. Until there was nothing left. Not a spec of blood or bone.

You favored Miguel out of the rest. And it's obvious as to why.

Miguel was a curious man. Perhaps a little too curious, so to say. So when he comes out with his little gift at night rather in the morning and stays there, waiting for you, you waste no time to throw him onto the ground. Your weight practically crushing him. And you bite his neck and drink his blood. A taste of the person who's been so devoted to... amusing you. He tastes like any other ordinary person you've eaten before. Salty. Metallic. A little sweet. But his flavor is laced with sheer utter adoration. Rather than fear. Curiously, you drink a little more. And in fact, he doesn't push you away. He doesn't grab his weapon and attempt to cut your throat. He fully accepts it. He holds you while you take your fill of his own crimson fluid.

And you don't kill him. You leave him there as you disappear into the woods. And he's even more insatiable.

#🤯 writes #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel ohara x mreader #Miguel O'Hara #spiderman 2099 #Monster x reader #monster x human #top reader #dom reader #atsv #atsv Miguel O'Hara #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse miguel ohara #spiderman: across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #reader

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aphroditelovesu · 7 months

Text

The Bloody Viscount - II

— summary: You had fallen in love with Viscount Bridgerton and he had fallen in love with you. The marriage seemed perfect, but then why did Anthony Bridgerton always come home late and bloodstained?

— gender: yandere, dark!au.

— warnings: obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, kidnapping, angst, fluffy, dub-con (?), possibly smut.

— pairing: yandere!anthony bridgerton x female!reader.

— word count: 1,705.

— tag list: @will-delete-this-later-probably, @cayt0123, @flowercrowns-goodvibes, @czarinera, @remuslupinwifee

— prologue, chapter 1;

Chapter 2

''Viscount Bridgerton was seen dancing with Lady (Y/N) (L/N) at Lady Danbury's ball last night. I have no information on how she had the cunning to attract Lord Bridgerton's attention, yet. He seemed quite enamored with his partner, dare I say. Will we have a Viscountess soon? After all, who better to play the role of viscountess than the diamond of the season?

Chronicles of the Society of Lady Whistledown, April 27, 1813.

''Ah!'' Your mother's scream of happiness was hard to ignore. You were trying to embroider some flowers, but with your mother's constant shouting it was difficult to concentrate.

That's because you were in separate rooms.

''(Y/N)!'' She shouted your name. Sighing, you got up from the couch and placed your unfinished embroidery aside. You smoothed your light blue dress so she wouldn't scold you and went to the dining room.

''Yes, mom?'' You asked as you entered the dining room, where your parents were together. Your father was drinking a cup of tea and your mother had Lady Whistledown's newspaper open.

''Have you read today's Whistledown?''

You shook your head in denial.

''Well then, read it!''

You fight the inner urge to scoff. She always scolded you every time she saw you reading, but you suppressed your words. You sat down on the padded chair and began to read.

What you had read did not please you in the same way it had pleased your mother.

'Isn't this wonderful?'' Your mother looked at your father.

He cleared his throat, ''I suppose.''

She wasn't even listening to his words, ''Our daughter has captivated a viscount! Imagine what this could do for us?'' She rambled.

''Mom...'' You sighed.

''This is perfect! You will be a perfect viscountess.''

You sank into the chair, wanting to hide. She wouldn't listen to you. She never listened. She seemed very happy with the idea of being part of the british aristocracy.

''Lady Whistledown has been writing about you, brother.''

Anthony looked at Benedict who was drinking tea and biscuits. He frowned at him.

''Really?'' Anthony muttered disinterestedly, looking at his gathered family. His mother was sitting on the couch with Hyacinth, Francesca, Gregory and Eloise. Colin and Benedict were beside him.

Damn Whistledown always wrote about him. He just wanted to find out who the damn woman was and choke her.

Until death, preferably.

''Apparently you found your viscountess.'' Benedict teased, sharing a knowing look with Colin.

His mother turned her face towards them the moment the word “Viscountess” left Benedict’s mouth. Anthony mentally cursed him.

Anthony knew who they were talking about and as much as it irritated him, they were telling the truth. He had found his viscountess and was determined to marry her.

Lady (Y/N). She was quite lovely and captivated him in a way no woman ever had. He wanted to make her his wife.

And he would.

''Is it true?'' Colin asked.

Anthony rolled his eyes. Benedict held back a laugh.

''Yes. I'm going to marry Lady (Y/N) (L/N).''

He ignored it when his mother looked at him, curious and shocked. He ignored his brothers' curious looks. All he thought about at that moment was her. Beautiful and wonderful, dressed in white at an altar.

All perfect for him. Perfect for him to ruin.

The park was beautiful and full, as always. Looking around, you saw several debutantes and suitors, with their mothers at their heels. You liked Hyde Park, it was a beautiful and comfortable place.

Well, it tends to be when your mother isn't on your heels.

You loved her. You really loved her. But sometimes you wish you didn't depend on her, that you didn't have to deal with all of this. It's suffocating.

And hearing her talk about the viscount didn't make you excited. And you didn't even like it. He was an attractive man and your dance at Lady Danbury's ball was something special.

You admitted all of this, but...

But you knew how to handle it right. You didn't even know if he was really interested in you. You knew his reputation, how he was a libertine and that didn't make you comfortable at all.

You would like to marry for love, or at least to a gentleman who did not have such a reputation as the viscount possessed. It was unlikely to happen, but you couldn't give up hope.

Sighing, you looked around.

You and your mother were sitting on a picnic blanket spread out on the lush green lawn of Hyde Park. You were sitting between some pillows that had been placed and drinking a glass of lemonade.

Near you were the Featherington's. You waved at Penelope when she looked at you and, seemingly embarrassed, she smiled and waved back.

"So, she said- (Y/N)!" You turned your scared head to your mother, "Are you even listening to what I'm saying?"

No, you weren't.

"I'm sorry mom."

She rolled her eyes, "As I was saying..." You didn't even bother to listen to her. You looked over at the Featherington's and saw Miss Eloise Bridgerton talking to Penelope.

You didn't pay much attention.

Until you heard that voice. That damn voice that haunted your dreams last night.

"Lady (Y/N) (L/N)."

You stood up quickly, smoothing down your dress. You gave a small curtsy, "Lord Bridgerton."

He looked impeccable as always. You couldn’t help but blush at the intensity of his gaze on you. You felt your body tremble a little when he took your hand and kissed your right hand, gently and kind.

"Lord Bridgerton!" Your mother quickly stood up and greeted him.

"Lady (Y/M) (L/N)." Anthony took your mother's gloved hand and gave it a polite kiss.

"It's a pleasure to see you here."

"My mother insisted that I accompany her." He replied.

"Oh, is Lady Violet here?"

Anthony nodded, "She's right there." He pointed out to his mother that he was talking to Lady Danbury.

"I see." Your mother muttered, looking at the two women vehemently.

"I would like to ask your permission to walk with Lady (Y/N)." You choked on his words.

Your mother's eyes perked up.

"Of course. (Y/N) would love to walk a bit."

You mentally rolled your eyes. But your mother's reprimanding look made you stiff.

Anthony reached his arm out to you and without much of a choice, you hooked his arm with yours.

You tried to ignore the shiver the contact brought you.

With your mother in the behind, you and the viscount began walking through the park in silence at first.

"Does my presence make you uncomfortable?" He asked suddenly.

You shook your head quickly.

"No. It's not that. I just... I get lost in my thoughts sometimes." Your words were not lies.

"Good." That's all he said.

You kept your attention on the flowers and trees in front of you. All very beautiful, well-groomed and full of life.

"It's very beautiful, isn't it?" You murmured to a small bed of roses.

Anthony followed your gaze and nodded.

"Do you like flowers?" You knew it was probably a silly question to ask a man, but you didn't care.

Anything was better than the silence that had become uncomfortable.

"I have nothing against them." You laughed a little. He smiled and continued, "But I think hyacinths are beautiful."

"They are."

Anthony let go of your hand and went to a white rose bush, he picked up the flower and removed its thorns. You looked at him confused, until he handed you the rose.

You felt your heart speed up at such a gesture. It was the first time you received flowers from someone and you never realized how much you wanted flowers until you received them.

"T-Thank you, Lord Bridgerton."

"Lady (Y/N)." He took on a serious tone and you were alarmed, "You can call me Anthony."

"That wouldn't be appropriate..."

When he approached you and touched your free hand, your breathing became heavy. This was wrong. You shouldn't be this close.

"I think I've made my intentions pretty clear." He whispered, looking straight into your eyes. "I believe I've made it clear that I want to court you."

You couldn't respond.

"I want you to call me Anthony..." He murmured, his breath very close to your face, "Because I want to become your husband."

You weren’t sure if you could breathe.

''I...'' You swallowed, pulling away a little.

Anthony frowned but didn't protest.

You coughed and squeezed the rose a little tighter.

"I think we need to go back."

He watched you like a predator watched its prey. He remained silent for a few minutes before nodding.

"Of course. It's getting late." He offered you his arm and you took it.

The walk back to where your mothers were was silent and under the watchful eyes of other people.

You just wanted to lie down and not have to deal with the interrogation your mother would do later.

Anthony couldn't sleep.

He tried and tried. He changed position several times, but sleep never came.

His mind was stuck on you.

How he had touched you. Even though it wasn't a direct touch, due to the glove you were wearing, he still thought.

He thought about what it would be like to slip on that glove and feel your skin against his.

Anthony tried to fight the feelings, the desires that were growing but he couldn't. All he found himself thinking about was kissing you, tasting your skin and touching you in places you had never been touched.

So pure. So inocent. So virginal.

His. His perfect diamond.

It was these thoughts that brought him to climax in the silent and lonely night in his room.

He caressed himself thinking about what you would look like under those dresses, the expressions you would make when he was inside you. How you would moan his name when you reached your own climax.

It was these thoughts, these mental images that caused him to moan your name like a prayer as he released himself into his hand, making it dirty.

Anthony closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

He needed to marry you soon.

— lady l: What did you think of the chapter? I hope you liked it, I'm sorry for the delay and any errors there were! Feel free to give me your feeback. Drink water and I love you you all! ❤️

#bridgerton #the bridgertons #yandere bridgerton #yandere the bridgertons #yandere anthony bridgerton #yandere anthony bridgerton x reader #the bloody viscount #anthony bridgerton x reader #long fic #fanfic

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ladydostoevsky · 1 year

Note

can i request some dating hcs w lingwen :D??

𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐞𝐧

𝐿𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑒𝑛 𝑥 𝑔𝑛/𝑓𝑒𝑚!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

We all know what happened with the last boy that liked her😶

Don't worry she is a changed woman

It doesn't really matter if you are mortal, ghost or heavenly official. She loves you eather way.

Spending time togather is kinda hard. She is the top 1 civil god who is holding the whole heaven from collapsing. She has SO MUCH responsibilities. But when you get to be togather, she makes the lost time up.

Now, if you were heavenly official things would be kinda easier. You work and live in the same realm after all. You can visit her in her palace, help her with her paperwork, sleep togather in one bed (if she even can get some sleep) and so on. She helps you out when Pei Ming tries to seduce you into his bed. She knows you can take care of yourself but she likes to protect you. She LOVES to listen to you talking about your past life as a mortal, before you ascended. You, talking about how your parents and friends would have loved her, how your home looked like made her heart warm. She wondered, have you made any crimes to get where you are now. But looking at you, being so carefree, she wouldn’t dare to think that again. It's not her business she is just lucky to have you and happy that you help her❤️

If you were a Ghost, things would be harder, but it wouldn’t change anything between you two. Love is love and you can't choose who you love. Heaven doesn't like ghosts, so the relationship has to be a secret. If someone finds you two hanging around she pulls hualian and tells them that you are 'just friends' or 'sisters. She doesn't care for your true form, for her you look wonderful which ever form you take. When you tell her how you died, what a tragic life you lived, she comforts you and tells you how you have her and that she would NEVER leave you. Sometimes when she gets some free time she comes to the Ghost realm to see you. You go the gambler's den, ghost city salon, baking at your place or just cuddling and being in each other's embrace❤️

Last time a mortal loved her it didn't end well. You are different. If you were a mortal the relationship would be easier. At night she would appear in your dreams, sometimes in her female form, sometimes in male form. You have a whole table as an altar for her where you worship her every day. You give her offerings, burn incense stiks and light candles. You never pray to her. You know how much work she has, how many other believers, you don't want to put more work on her shoulders. You know you can get and say anything you want when she descends to you again. You wait for her everyday, talking and speaking with her through your dreams isn't enough. But when she comes down twice in a month, she gives you the day and night you would never forget❤️

Ling Wen is a romantic and gentle Lover. She would never harm you or your loved ones. But let's not forget she also has a darker side. She is VERY smart and cunning, we know she can be manipulative and gaslighting. She won't hesitate to use these traits to protect you or get what she wants.

#heaven official's blessing #mxtx #danmei #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #mxtx x reader #mxtx fandom #x reader #hualian #tgcf x reader #ling wen #Ling Wen x reader #heaven official's blessing x reader #x female reader #x female y/n #Ling Wen x female reader #tgcf fanfic #tgcf headcanon

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spiralhouseshop · 3 months

Text

The Ritual Object: The Ritual Object

Scavenged Rituals: The Ritual Object is the fourth issue of this captivating zine delving into the world of esoteric arts and ritual practices. Prepare to be wowed by stunning 3D photography showcasing:

Arùn Ragán's mesmerizing masks and altars, blending inspiration, meticulous craftsmanship, and deep esotericism.

Troll Cunning Forge's fiery founder, Marcus McCoy, working his magic on metal and exploring the intricacies of magical fabrication.

An exclusive interview with the enigmatic Kai Uwe Faust and a mesmerizing photo essay capturing Heilüng's final North American ritual of 2023.

Immerse yourself in the captivating world of rituals, objects, and artistic expression with this unique zine. Each stunning 3D image comes to life with the included red/blue glasses, offering a truly immersive experience.

#Arùn Ragán #arun ragan #scavenged rituals #scavenged rituals zine #Troll Cunning Forge #Marcus McCoy #Kai Uwe Faust #zines #fanzines #ritual #occult #3D glasses #Heilüng

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wytchoftheways · 2 months

Text

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ocean-not-found · 4 months

Text

My winter solstice ritual (listening to The Goddess Temple, Glastonbury, 2021 Winter Solstice)

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ssnake-eyes-uc · 1 month

Text

Made my official intro for now..

ADULT CONTENT READER BEWARE

ADULT CONTENT VIEWER BEWARE

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Kinks:

Cuckold/Locked

Hotwife

Race Play

Rape/Forced

Torture/Murder

Abduction/Kidnapping

Beastiality (Role play not IRL)

Forniphilia (Human furniture)

Forced Castration/Penectomy

Forced Amputation

Forced Bi

Forced Feminization

Group Sex

Trans Women/Sissy

Pimped Sissy

Sissy Maid

Crossdressing

Bimbofication

Dumbification

Degradation

Emasculation

Cum Play

Cum Kiss/Snowball

Creampie Cleanup

Gloryhole

Femdom

Facesitting

Foot Worship

Ass Worship

Fem Training

Cum Training

Face fuck(Strap-On)

Pegging(Strap-On)

Reverse Pegging(Man in chastity wears strap-on to fuck wife.)

DD/LG & DD/LB

Deepthroat

Facefuck

Throatpie

Lingerie (LACE/SATIN/SILK/LEATHER/LATEX/RUBBER/METAL STUDDED-RINGS-SPIKES-CHAINS)

NEON COLORS (NAILS/HAIR/TATTOOS/CLOTHES/MAKEUP.)

Think that's most of them... LoL

I'm a 37yo/wm hypno content creator and practicing hypnotist with lots of kinks and fetishes, single and I tend to live on the razor's edge. I'm a switch but I tend to stay dominant unless I meet a particular woman. While being bisexual I tend to lean towards trans or sissy girls although breaking in a new sissy can be quite fun as well. I'm an open book come have a look. I'm an artist of all sorts: Digital, Pen/Pencil, Tattoo, Paint, Sculpture, Etching, Home design, Drink design, Culinary design, Bondage design, Spoken word, Poetry, Landscaping, and I make altars/Practice the Craft/Study intensely of my origins and of the world. I'm a nature lover, Astrology lover, Birth chart reader, History buff, and Math/Physics student . Who has traveled all over the world, currently residing in the USA. I came by the name Snake Eyes from wearing a spike studded leather suit to BDSM parties along with many other affairs, but I always wore a mask I made out of rattle snake skin, at these parties I would wear red contacts and hypnotize people to obey my snake hiss and if I shook my rattle snake rattle that is a warning alert someone they were close to my punishment which for some is heaven and others it's hell. Now I also produce online hypno's for clients with specific tastes under the banner snake eyes production. I am poetic when I speak without my mask, high intellect, cunning, and charming. With my mask on I command the utmost authority and I will have my way ;) Beware of the Snake ;)

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Open for roleplay of almost any kind, Also open to collabs, and DM's

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_____________

|COLOR KEY:|

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---*Pink: Obey these Commands they give you a sense of purpose, while relaxing and feeling great.

---*Red: Adds urgency to a command even if that command is to stop immediately, or flag a command of great importance.

----*GREEN: Activates word and it stays active until turned off by spelling the same word in red.

---*ORANGE: Defines a words intended affect or a meaning... or alerts the reader to pay attention to phrase or information.. can also flag anchor or trigger for the reader.

---*Blue(two kinds):

---*DARK BLUE: drop commands and deepening commands.

---*LIGHT BLUE: can redefine,edit, rearrange, anchor or set a trigger.

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My HYPNOSIS INTRO:

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foxglovethicket · 3 months

Text

The Altar of Her Hips

Summary:

Cardan's POV during the scene in The Wicked King where he and Jude meet in the room behind the dais, except I added smut. Enjoy!

Chapters: 1/1

Read on AO3

The small green room off the dais is wet and alive.

I can nearly feel its heart thumping in time with mine; a syrupy, cunning pulse that presses in on us from all sides. Jude’s eyes strip it all bare as she takes in the moss-carpeted walls, ivy-laden door, clusters of gently-glowing mushrooms weeping pale light over our faces. I can practically see her tucking it all away for some nefarious later use.

It is quiet, the moss sucking away any softer sounds our shoes and breaths make. I take a step towards her and watch her flinch. I am a little delighted that I can still scare her; yet, some uncomfortable, nameless feeling itches my neck at the same time. I brush it away, irritated, and fish the letter from my pocket.

“My brother sent me a message,” I say. No longer is there any need to specify which one I speak of. I should resent her for that, but I am too busy resenting myself.

She takes the letter in callused fingers, careful not to touch me. That bothers me more. I am so irritable when it comes to her.

“So,” I prompt, “what have you been about?”

I want her to look at me. I want to have her on some kind of leash, as the letter suggests I should. I want to put my fingers around her neck and close them until I feel her windpipe pushed out of place. I want to push her and hurt her the way we all want to hurt small, delicate things, but Jude is hardly either.

Jude sighs in relief, a sweet, short exhalation that I want to take right off of her tongue. I want so much of her. I know by now I never get what I want.

“I stopped you from getting some messages,” she says. I flex my fingers.

“And you decided not to mention them. Just as you declined to tell me about Balekin’s meetings with Orlagh or Nicasia’s plans for me.”

“Look, of course Balekin wants to see you,” she says, in the same insufferable tone she used to use at school that suggests that I am very simple. “You’re his brother, whom he kept in his own house. You’re the only person with the power to free him who might actually do it. I figured if you were in a forgiving mood, you could talk to him anytime you wanted. You didn’t need his exhortations.”

It is fascinating to watch her justify it to herself. Fascinating, and infuriating. I snatch the paper out of her hands. “So what changed? Why was I permitted to receive this?”

Permitted. The concept of permission should have been lost to me the second the crown lay atop my head, but instead I am shackled to the whims of a mortal girl who’s learned too much from her foster father. “And I am supposed to reply to this little note?” I grind out.

She reaches out to swipe the paper back. Its corner slips against the side of my finger, leaving a thin red line. I bring my finger to my mouth, scowling and unreasonably angry, but she’s not looking at me. She is too drawn into her own head, scheming, to notice me. “Have him brought to you in chains. I’d be interested to know what he thinks he can get from you with a little conversation.” The paper curls as she shoves it into her pocket. So fucking proprietary. “Especially since he doesn’t know you’re aware of his ties to the Undersea.”

I can feel the lie hanging somewhere in the humid air between us. I want to bite it out of that space and spit it at her feet, call her bluff, make her kneel. I watch her thumb glide over her missing fingertip. Instead, I say, “I expect he will try to shout at me until I give him what he wants,” and I swallow it all down. I swallow everything down. “It might be possible to goad him into letting something slip. Possible, not likely.”

Jude nods, and I can see the map of her thoughts in the crease between her eyebrows. I want to press my thumb there.

I want, I want, I want.

“Nicasia knows more than she’s saying. Make her say the rest of it, and then use that against Balekin.”

I tuck down a harsh laugh. “Yes, well, I don’t think it would be politically expedient to put thumbscrews to a princess of the sea.”

She looks at me like she is analyzing a particularly strange beetle. “Not thumbscrews. You. You go to Nicasia and charm her.”

She stumbles over the words charm her but lifts her chin when she finishes speaking. She is embarrassed by the very notion of seduction. I’m embarrassed of her embarrassment.

“Oh, come on,” she says, doubling down because Jude has never once conceded anything. “You’re practically draped in courtiers every time I see you.”

She’s looking, an ugly corner of my mind croons. “I’m the king,” I say stupidly.

“They’ve been draped over you for longer than that.”

“You mean back when I was merely the prince?” I mock. I’m well aware of the reason everyone fawns. Of the reason Nicasia wanted me in the first place. I don’t know where Jude is going with this conversation but this room is too small, too hot for the ending.

“Use your wiles,” she says, and oh, she’s blushing magnificently. It feels like a triumph to witness it, the timid pink flushing her cheeks and her neck. I’m going to run this moment through my head very, very often. “I’m sure you’ve got some. She wants you. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

Jude spits those last two sentences like salt from her tongue. I nearly laugh, but it is too strange, too heavy, sitting in my chest. “You’re seriously suggesting I do this.”

It’s an effort to breathe like normal. Even Jude seems to struggle in this air, sucking it in heavy and deep. “Nicasia,” she says after a moment, “is the one who came through the passageway and shot that girl you were kissing.”

It sounds like an accusation when she says it. “You mean she tried to kill me?” I reply, half laughing even as my voice tilts high with frustration. “Honestly, Jude, how many secrets are you keeping?”

She looks away, tipping her head in a way that makes a triangle out of the mushrooms’ light and her nose’s shadow. “She was shooting at the girl, not you,” says Jude. She shifts her feet into a wider stance like she wants to run, and speaks the rest of her sentence very quickly. “She found you in bed with someone, got jealous, and shot twice. Unfortunately for you, but fortunately for everyone else, she’s a terrible shot. Now do you believe me that she wants you?”

“I know not what to believe,” I snap. A fresh wave of frustration boils up from my stomach, heating my fingers, and I clench them into fists. She is such a liar, such a—

“She thought to surprise you in your bed.” Her voice rises; she’s frustrated, too, though I can’t imagine why. I’m the one who got shot at with a crossbow, and I feel that we are paying entirely too little attention to that fact. “Give her what she wants,” says Jude, “and get the information we need to avoid a war.”

My feet move my body closer to hers. There’s a string tying our bodies together and she’s pulling at it, hard, with the way she frowns and furrows her brows and seethes at me with those horribly soft brown eyes, and then I’m standing before her, far too closely. The sensible bit of my brain that has been screaming at me to stay far, far away from Jude has gone suddenly, dreadfully, quiet; snuffed out like a candle pinched between the fingertips.

She’s so much shorter than me. I don’t mean to notice, but Jude is so unlike the folk that I can’t help it. Where we are tall and spindly, she is a full head shorter than me; I dip my head down to her ear and speak into the strangely round shell.

“Are you commanding me?”

“No,” she says quickly, genuinely surprised. Her eyes don’t quite hit mine before falling somewhere around my shoulder. “Of course not.”

With a distant horror, I watch my hand rise to her face, my fingers nudge at her chin until her eyes are back on mine.

“You just think that I ought to,” I say tightly. “That I can. That I’d be good at it.” I swallow away an uncomfortable, unnamable feeling that’s rushing up my throat. I’m angry, and something else, something worse. “Very well, Jude. Tell me how it’s done. Do you think she’d like it if I came to her like this, if I looked deeply into her eyes?”

My hand slides to the nape of her neck, where it grasps at the roots of her hair and tugs her head back.

“Probably,” Jude says warily. Her breath comes out a little more sharply, and I can feel her heart speeding up like she’s afraid. But she’s not. I see it in the widening black of her eyes, in the flush scattering up her neck, in the slight part of her lips before her tongue darts out to wet them. “Whatever it is you usually do.”

She wants me. She does. She must. And yet—she’d happily see me crawl back to Nicasia’s bed. And she’s lying, she’s always fucking lying, as if her body doesn’t betray her every single time. Would it kill her to just tell the truth one fucking time?

She would never, never admit to it. But I can make her. I am going to make her.

“Oh, come now. If you want me to play the bawd, at least give me the benefit of your advice,” I hiss. My words are sharp and cruel but my touch is gentle, skimming the edges of her face. I nearly get distracted by all the soft, round curves of her face. The desperately vulnerable fluttering of her heart in her throat, just under her jaw. “Should I touch her like this?”

“I don’t know,” Jude whispers. Her eyes flutter shut as my hands move, exploring the slopes of her shoulders, her ribcage, the small of her back. My mouth moves to her ear; I can’t stop myself from coming back to the shape of it. When my lips brush the skin there, I taste the salt of her skin and nearly groan.

“And then like this?” my mouth is saying. It’s functioning separately from me, at this point; all of me is focused on the newness of Jude’s body. I’ve never had a chance to study her like this. “Is this how I ought to seduce her? Do you think it would work?”

I am present enough to know I am not speaking of Nicasia any longer.

She trembles under my hands. Nothing so maidenly; she’s angry, she hates me that I’m not repulsive to her. I hate myself for it as well; she can dispense with the dramatics. “Yes,” she grits out. She is not speaking of Nicasia, either.

Our time in this green room has been all hot, sparking, strangled anger, an anger that we have each held onto for so tightly for so long that when my mouth meets hers, sans teeth, sans blood, I nearly startle myself into pulling away.

An agonizing millisecond passes with my mouth pressed to hers and our unbeating hearts lying still and red in our chests; then her fingers are sinking into my hair like a confession.

The moment of tenderness dies. Our movements are famished as we stumble across the room, gasping into each other’s mouths; when we reach a low couch, I put a hand on her back to ease her down. She digs her fingers into my tunic and pulls me down over her, so abruptly that I nearly fall, but catch myself on my hands with my face just over hers.

What am I doing, I think, distantly and a little desperately. Jude stares up at me as if she does not entirely trust me not to stab her. Whatever we are about to do, we probably should not. But we are both watching as we wreck each other anyway, neither of us moving to stop it.

“Tell me again what you said at the revel,” I say as I nudge her knees apart with my own.

“What?”

“That you hate me,” I croak. I am depraved. I should not want this. I should stand up now, before it’s too late, find someone else to distract myself with, but I know I will not. My stories do not end that way—with good sense, disasterless, happy. “Tell me that you hate me.”

Jude looks up at me with those wide brown eyes. I watch her lose the same doomed war with herself. She says, “I hate you.”

The frustration and anger in me turn hot and liquid.

Our mouths come together again, over and over. “I hate you,” she says into my mouth, and I feel like a mortal dancing in a faerie circle—caught fast in an enchanted reel until I dance myself to death. “I hate you. I hate you.”

She gasps onto my teeth, bites my lip. She says, “I hate you so much that sometimes I can’t think of anything else.”

I am so fucking ruined.

I can’t hide it when I shudder against her. It’s too late for that, anyway. It’s too late for anything now.

My fingers are quick against the buttons of her jacket. I think I feel her stiffen, but when I sit back, she looks just as hungry as I do, making quick work of her top as I tear away my own jacket. I’m reaching for the hem of my shirt when she strips off her undershirt, revealing a swath of tan skin that empties my head of all thought save for an overwhelming feeling of want that dizzies me.

“This is an absolutely terrible idea,” I blurt out as I watch her fumble with her boots. I don’t even like her. She hates me. Surely, I can’t want her this much.

“Yes.” Her hands shake on the laces. She’s nervous. Afraid. Something. It unbalances me, the way she bares herself for me so readily, vulnerable and far too trusting. I don’t think she’s done this before.

In my dreams, the ones I wake from sweating, she’s done this many, many times.

I take her hand to still her trembling and press kisses to her knuckles like bruises. She almost flinches, as if they are.

It’s entirely too soft, and the realization scares me into dropping her hand in favor of touching all the skin she’s bared for me.

“I want to tell you so many lies,” I confess. I want to tell her I hate her. I want to tell her this means nothing to me. I want to tell her I would be happy to seduce Nicasia, thank you very much. I want to tell her how awful and loathsome and hideous she is.

I can’t.

I can’t stop myself from touching her, either. I watch, horrified, as my own traitorous hand slips over her thighs, then between them. I groan against my will at the slick, wet heat, entirely distracted by the feeling until her hands reach for my waist and I realize I’m still half clothed. I scramble out of my clothes and don’t think about how eager I am to go back to touching her.

Jude reaches for me. She slides her hands up my chest, then back down, and takes me in her hand like a dream. She strokes me once, almost hesitantly, and so softly, as if she is afraid of hurting me. We should stop, I mean to say. What comes out is a strangled, “More—Harder.”

To have Jude under me, doing as I say, is almost as heady a sensation as that of her hand as it works me. My fingers stroke her lightly, circling at the apex of her thighs. My eyes devour her as she begins to pant and push her hips up against my hand; she stares right back, her expression half a glare, half…embarrassment, almost.

It’s too much—too close. I want to make this last long enough to at least convince myself it’s not a horrific decision. I pull back, out of her touch before I can embarrass myself more than I already am just by—just by being here. She stills, watching my movements with the wide-eyed, careful intent of prey.

“Jude,” I say, lifting her leg and pressing my mouth to her ankle. I kiss up the length of her leg until I hit the crease of her thigh, the scattering of soft, downy hair that reaches towards it. She sucks in a breath and her whole body tenses, so tightly that I can see the muscle on her stomach shift. “Are you afraid of me?”

I put my tongue to her before she can respond. One long, slow lick, and I know right then that the taste of her is something I will never forget.

Jude shudders. Her hand shoots out to grip the roots of my hair, and she pushes me closer as I lay an open-mouthed kiss over her center, then another.

“Cardan,” she says, too sharply to be a plea, but that’s Jude; she is all sharp edges, never softness, except for here, now, under my tongue where she tastes electric and warm and new.

It’s clear Jude wants me to get to work if the strength of her grip is anything to go by, but I take my time to explore. Little licks at the crease of her inner thigh, the apex of her center, the tendon where her thigh and her pelvis meet. Jude writhes, panting under my touch, and this—this small control I have over her is nearly as heady as the taste of her.

“More,” she orders as my tongue skirts around the place she wants it most. Her hips buck up uselessly under my arms.

“Beg,” I say sweetly, and her answering growl makes delight unfurl in my stomach, hungry and unfamiliar. She could command me if she wanted to. The thought of it makes my skin tight and hot, sending all of my blood south.

I lay my cheek on her thigh and look up at her. She flinches when I meet her gaze, then sets her jaw and glares right back at me. Wariness still edges her frustration; I can feel it even more so when I smirk up at her and return my attentions to her center.

My tongue laves over her in broad licks now. I hear her strangle a noise in her throat as I push the tip of a finger into her body, and a rush of wetness coats my chin.

“Relax,” I coo, an attempt to maintain nonchalance while my brain empties at the tightness of her body around my finger. I grind my hips into the couch as if that could ever take the edge off. In truth, I am one breath away from finishing, and panicking at the realization of how good she feels, how right, when a part of me had been banking on this getting her out of my system, or—or something.

“Fuck,” Jude grits out, “you.” She relaxes infinitesimally and I am able to push in further, curl my fingertip against a spot that makes her arch off the couch and let out a small sound.

I lose all finesse, if I ever had any. I lick at her like I’m starved, groaning against her skin. Her hands dig into my hair, pulling harder and sharpening the pain at my scalp. I only want more.

“Jude,” I say, chant, plead. “Jude, you’re divine.”

“I hate you,” she tells me. “I hate you.”

The sounds coming from us are gruesome and slick and wanton; Jude does not moan, but her breaths become harder, sharper, messier—

When she throws her head back and comes, I think: I want to worship you.

She grinds into my face, using me to ride out her orgasm, and pushes me away when she becomes over-sensitive. Mechanically, I reach for her, wanting to watch her come again and again, but she grabs my face and pulls me up until her mouth is on mine. She licks the taste of herself out of my mouth and I etch the memory deeply into my mind. She will never let me do this again, and it has become the only thing I will ever want to do for the rest of my life.

“Let me—” She breaks off, bites her lip. Her nails sink into my shoulders. “Show me how you like to be touched.”

Hardly daring to believe this is real, I take her hand, maybe too tightly, as if I believe she’ll vanish into thin air at any minute. I put her hand on me, and my own hand over hers, guiding it—

And, fuck. Fuck. She grips me just this side of too hard as she strokes, as if she wants to hurt me. I know she does. But contrary to her probable intent, it feels divine. She stares up at me the whole time she touches me, the whole time I unravel under her, and I do unravel, I do, I’ve never felt such a tenuous control over my own self, and that whole time, something burns in her eyes like violence.

“You’re so good for me, Jude,” I say, pushing my luck as I fuck into her hand. “You feel so good, wrapped around me like that.”

Those eyes, cold and brown like winter leaves, like the shell of an acorn, soft like quicksand. I could sink right into them. I sink right into them. I don’t look away. Heat builds in my stomach, and all my muscles seize, and I come onto her stomach, her breasts, without looking away.

Just our damp breaths in the room, and quiet. She blinks away. I let my body collapse next to her on the couch, then reach for my discarded coat to wipe off her chest. It is sobering.

I don’t say I’m sorry, but the words are right there. I could say them if I wanted to.

Jude looks up at the ceiling. She likely regrets it. She hates me, anyway. Said it over and over, so I wouldn’t forget.

She sits up; I follow. She reaches for her shirt; I for my trousers. She looks unbothered, unchanged, unafraid. I keep searching her face for something else, but she’s so good at lying, not only with her words.

“You keep looking at me,” she says as she pulls on her underwear. Mortal underwear—light blue, lace trim, form-fitting. I will never, ever get them out of my head. And it hits me—that I could have had this. We could have had this. Had we not been so horrible to each other, we could have been doing this for so much longer, and I could have her on my tongue whenever I wanted, I could have her clever hands wrapped around me every day—

But it’s too late for that now.

“We should’ve called truce,” I say, frustrated, only one arm through a shirtsleeve. I run my hands through my hair as if I can clear it all away. “We should’ve called truce long before this.”

Jude says nothing. I know what we’re both thinking: there can be no truce, now. Not after everything we’ve done to each other.

#tfota #the folk of the air #jude duarte #jude x cardan #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #mine #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing

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safrona-shadowsun · 2 months

Text

Day 3: Bargain / Myth Daily Writing Challenge 2024 February 20th - Day 3

Demonology cut into her late on the Path, the study netting her now as it should have so many years ago when she had called her first imp from the Nether Reaches. Her aim had been different in those days, as different as she was now in the flesh. Vaguely, she could recall the wisps of anger from some forgotten corridor of memory, some betrayal she could no longer source. Such slight vibrations of memory that could have easily been the old slivers of soul from entities she had collectively taken through the years.

It would be sensible to think of these alien fragments as pieces to mold to her own identity and accept them as such, but speaking the words did not always fit them conveniently into the mind, the heart, the fractured soul. Stolen life and memory without a vital component of experience never seemed the very normal transition of growth, no matter how appearances could deceive.

Still, the desire to inflict pain was an old vice that seemed integral to the core now, a desire she knew had lead her into the obsession with curse-weaving, the eventual sharp hunger for souls. A wild obsession that her demons fed her into for so many years, that she had inexplicably bonded with them over, and became too close in a way she regretted now in some ways.

Elernia was by far the strongest example of how she had gone wrong on the Path. The succubus had been allowed too close, too deeply embedded in her histories, attached to who the warlock may have been in years prior rather than who Safrona strived to be now. And while having the cunning Elder Sayaadi in her menagerie proved advantageous on many occasions, the demon’s audacity had never cooled, nor her jealousies or avarice. Inflicting death as punishment was only really ever temporary through the years - Safrona was beginning to feel Elernia was becoming eager for each murder. Far be it for her to cut the strings from such a willful demon and loose her on the universe. No, Elernia needed to be cowed.

So now Safrona followed the myth of a solution to the Tomb of Sargeras, irritated that she was strategizing a more dire method to keep the damned succubus in line. Much as she held her dismay for collecting another grimoire, the glowing tome she’d spotted on the altar of offering in a particular alcove looked promising. Safrona found herself reading, for once, or rather skimming past the Eredun text and admiring the illustrated imagery, the debased scrawlings of ritual reagents–

A scourged whip lashed out at her knees, a nasty weapon embellished with felflame. The void resonance around the warlock was strong enough to absorb the damage however - or consume it. “Really?” Safrona retorted in deep annoyance at the succubus who dared, who did not know she had slaughtered the lower floor of demons beneath them with a single notes of whispered death.

“Hello Pretty~” The indignant reply only caused the fel-tinged succubus to lash out again, as if it would make a difference. She laughed, even, a strike of madness to overcome the inkling of doubt the demon may have had in seeing her strikes fall useless. “It’s so nice for a sacrifice to bring themselves to the door for once! Let me thank you for the delivery!”

The long-time courier in Safrona actually scoffed in mild amusement, standing in place as the void aura absorbed each futile lash, unharmed. The whip-play in itself was quite a skill, the demon’s flourishes and lethal dance no doubt intimidating if the power had matched the display. The demon had signs of evolution by Legion standards, her wings marked by Fel flame, armored for battle. Clearly the Sayaadi was trained for more than petty games, but the warlock wondered if the Fel progression had eaten her mind too far to even comprehend manipulative tactics.

“Come now, you must be smarter than this.” Safrona sliced out with her scythe to sever the whip’s lashing. It was the least she could do that would not annihilate the lesser demon outright. “It’d be worthless for me to spend energy in killing you. The Nether would spit you right back out - what a week later? And you're not strong enough as you are for me to even bother collecting. So why don’t you just stand pretty and answer my question instead?”

“Why would I bargain with mortal trash?” The Sayaadi spat, but was caught off guard enough by the idea to cease her attacks.

“Because your sisters believe it to be fun, I imagine?” Safrona slipped into Eredun, which the demon seemed further surprised by. Clearly she had never bothered to hold a conversation with any that entered the ‘temple’, besides her own kind.

“You desire something then?” The succubus tilted her head with a progressing curiosity. A smile began to curl smugly on her fanged lips. “Power? You come to the Tomb of Sargaras for Power.”

“Ugh, nothing so simple or trite.” Safrona sighed. It was a truth, but she did not like the demon’s wording. “I am not looking for…’evolution’, get that right out of your head now.”

The demon pouted, her urge for violence temporarily stalled for the interest of a new entity, a new power, stronger than her own. Her baring of teeth in a smile loosened, inviting the thrumming power she sensed to prickle at her senses, as well as something distinctly abnormal from the Warlock. “You are blessed with power already, and you know my tongue enough to have tasted our ways. You crave power, right down to the pretty little light you call a soul.”

“And you crave possibly to not suffer another inconvenience of being cut from the waking world, so why don’t you stop trying to analyze me before I tire of this and displace you?”

A heated chuckle was dredged up from the demon’s throat, but she quieted and gave her attention.

“I am looking for a grimoire or texts on Sayaadi-specific spells. Augmentation, perhaps…anatomy maybe.”

The Sayaadi laughed. “You are looking for a scroll of instruction on what… Sayaadi customs? We do not write stories, my Pretty.”

“Maybe you should. The leading heads of the Legion have been severed, and Sargaras himself has been thrust away to the ends of the universe, as I hear it. And you are bound here eternally, waiting for orders that will never come.” Safrona mimicked the common Sayaadi, casually eyeing her nails. “Or, what? Waiting for the next opportunist to march in here and slaughter you for the laughs?”

This drew a hissing response from the Sayaadi. “There is nothing here for you. And we are many.”

“Well,” the Warlock shrugged. “I’m sure someone enjoys bowling through the masses of you?”

The succubus hissed violently and leapt upon Safrona, wings buffering her assault. The resulting explosion of Fel mouths from the Warlock manifested within seconds, the Felhounds eager to tear into any flesh for their Mistress. Each dog wrestled the Sayaadi to the ground, rejoicing in her screams as they held each wing fast, pinning her to the floor of the debauched temple. It was by pure luck that the demon had not suffered full death on the initial result, but now the Sayaadi’s life’s breath was a single thread hanging in the balance. As potential ideas washed over her thoughts, Safrona felt the collector in her rise with a need, and that inkling of desire for power bloom beneath it.

“You know you will never leave this silly little haunted house, demon. You are without a leader. Without a goal. You are stuck, dying here every week, never progressing, never knowing what lies outside those doors.”

“Kill me already and leave then, pfhah!”

The warlock smiled inwardly, and heeled her own demons, eventually watching them be pulled back to the realm they emerged from. “I could free you, in a manner of speaking. Bind you to me.”

Now the succubus cackled, choking on her blood. “You mock me! Why would I agree to that?! You entered this place to destroy me."

“And now I ask you to join me.” The warlock stepped away from the dying demon, casually stepping from the mess on the temple floor as easily as one might step away from casual notes of conversation. “Or you could not. You could die here again, enter our world a week later again, and repeat the whole stagnant cycle for another decade, or century. And I will move on to better things, more secrets. More power.”

“A slave…to the legion’s whim…” the demon rasped. “Or a slave to yours? Tell me…what is the difference?”

“Well, you won’t be trying to decimate Azeroth anymore, that is for certain. It’s various degrees of change, potentially. Not that you’d understand it now, in this place. But it will be more than you ever had now,” Safrona breathed out a full sincerity. “You do not truly begin to evolve clinging to the past.”

Binding a new demon to her 'employ' hadn't exactly been Safrona's plan, but it was a progressive step in the long run.

{ @daily-writing-challenge }

#safwriting #About Safrona #februarydwc2024 #februaryday32024 #Orb of the Fel Temptress #How Safrona got a new succubus #warlock #world of warcraft

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