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kiwisbell · 14 days

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helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood.

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth.

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will.

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do.

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver.

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones.

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain.

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love.

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring.

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him.

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother.

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath.

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out.

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job.

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet.

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above.

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep.

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed.

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says.

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear.

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow.

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition.

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time.

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world.

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge.

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does.

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind.

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger.

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing.

Don't hurt me again.

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black.

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before.

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told.

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again.

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention.

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers.

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep.

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly.

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging.

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down.

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop.

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs.

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear.

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to.

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back.

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans.

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply.

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole.

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks.

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter.

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines.

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again.

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you.

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel.

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly.

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.”

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful.

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day.

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…”

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth.

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning.

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs.

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve.

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there. “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.”

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him.

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply.

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor.

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his.

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded.

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental.

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.”

Silent, he waits for more.

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose.

It's raining.

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover.

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall.

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun.

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be.

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man.

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing.

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now.

Joel steps out of the car.

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest.

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left.

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt.

“Joel,” greets Cabrera.

“Manuel.”

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep.

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning.

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals.

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious.

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade.

But the song of death does not call to him now.

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle.

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did.

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now.

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel.

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest.

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket.

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave.

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now.

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call.

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat.

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home.

So he does.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

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taking-thyme · 6 months

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🌅 Lucifer Deity Guide 🌅

Note: This is inspired by both my own experiences with Lucifer and the information I read on @scarletarosa's blog and her devotional guide to him. Please go read that one too!!

The divine rebel, Lucifer is the light of truth and divine wisdom; an ancient light which shines through the darkness, representing illumination. He is the driving force of innovation, liberation and transformation. According to Scarletarosa, who actively works with Lucifer and was told this by him, he was the first-born god of the Universe created by the supreme deity, the Source. He is so incredibly ancient and beautiful. Lilith was created to be his counterpart, the Queen of Heaven. However, Jehovah took the throne of heaven from Lucifer and cast him and his followers into hell. Most of them lost their connection to heaven and their energy became dark and intense. Jehovah claimed the throne of heaven and set himself up as the one true god, manipulating humans into betraying their original deities. Thus, Lucifer became the King of Hell and has been scorned by Christians for millenia.

God of: Illumination, Light, Darkness, Change, Rebirth, Challenges, Innovation, Logic, Truth, Knowledge, Wisdom, Strategy, Persuasion, Revolution, Luxury, Pleasure, Freedom, The Arts and The Morning Star (“Morning Star” is another name for the planet Venus)

Symbols: Sigil of Lucifer, The Morning Star, Violins and Fiddles (instruments traditionally associated with him)

Plants and Trees: Rose, Belladonna, Mulberry, Patchouli, Myrrh, Min, Tobacco, Marigold, Lilies, Hyacinth, Sage

Crystals: Amethyst, Black Obsidian, Onyx, Garnet, Selenite, Rose Quartz

Animals: Black Animals in general, Dragons, Snakes, Owls, Eagles, Ravens, Crows, Rams, Foxes, Pigs, Bats, Rats, Moths, Swans

Incense: Rose, Frankincense, Patchouli, Myrrh

Colors: Black, Red, Silver, Emerald Green, Gold

Tarot: The Devil

Planets: The Morning Star, Venus

Day: Monday and Friday

Consort: Lilith

Children: Naema, Aetherea and many others

How was he traditionally worshipped?

There is not much to say about how Lucifer was historically worshiped seeing as he wasn’t worshiped at all for a large chunk of human history. He seems to have been worked with in some capacity according to the Gesta Treverorum, written in 1231, which is where we first see the term Luciferian being used to refer to his worship. This was by a woman named Lucardis for a religious circle, who was said to lament to Lucifer in private and prayed to him. However, the term Luciferians was later applied to basically any groups Christians didn’t like and wanted to fight, as one might expect. However, the modern Luciferian movement also sheds light on how Lucifer is worshiped. For Luciferians, enlightenment is the ultimate goal. Their basic principles highlight truth, freedom of will and fulfilling one’s ultimate potential, and encourage the same in all of us. Traditional dogma is shunned because Luciferians believe that humans do not need deities or the threat of eternal punishment to know what is good and the right thing to do. All ideas are to be tested before being accepted, and even then one should remain critical because knowledge is fluid and ever-changing. Regardless of whether Luciferians view Lucifer as a deity or an archetype, he is a representation of ultimate illumination and exploration in the name of personal growth.

Epithets

Phanes

The Morning Star

Light-bringer

The First-born

Prince of Darkness

Son of Morning

The Glory of Morning

Lord of the Lunar Sphere

The First Light

Offerings

Red Wine, Whiskey (especially Jack Daniels), Champagne, Pomegranate Juice, Black Tea (especially earl grey), Chocolate (especially dark chocolate), Cooked Goat Meat, Venison, Apples, Pomegranates, Honey, Good Quality Cigars, Tobacco, Daggers and Swords, Silver Rings, Emeralds and Emerald Jewelry, Goat Horns, Black Feathers, Seductive Colognes, Red Roses, Dead Roses, Crow Skulls, Bone Dice, Devotional Poetry and Artwork, Classical Music (especially violin)

Devotional Acts

Acts of self-improvement, spiritual awakening and evolution, knowledge-seeking and dedication to spirituality ; Shadow Work ; Working to overcome your ego to become wiser ; Defending those in need ; Working to better yourself without being too self critical ; Fighting against tyranny and bigotry whenever you encounter it

Altar Decorations

Black or Red Candles, Snake and Dragon Figurines, His sigil, Roses, Fancy Chess Boards and Playing Cards, Silver Jewlery and ornaments, Black feathers, Goat horns

Appearance

For me Lucifer usually appears as a tall light-skinned man with long fiery red hair (so red it looks like it’s been dyed), a sophisticated face with a killer jawline, passionate eyes and dressed in a fancy black suit. From all my experiences with him and what I’ve heard from other followers, it seems Lucifer and most demons dress in full suits and tuxedos.

Personality

Lucifer is nothing if not charming. He’s a protector first and foremost - one that always works to help you better yourself, but a protector nonetheless. He feels like a protective older brother taking care of you while your parents are away. He is a very complex entity, deeply wise and eloquent. He is more serious than one might expect for a demon given their popular depictions in our culture as chaotic forces of evil, but Lucifer is full of courage and love. I often feel him with me even when I’m not doing things related to him. He is proud of his follower’s accomplishments and congratulates them on a job well done, though he also reminds them that the job is never truly over. Growth is constant. Lucifer is the epitome of growth, blunt and gentle at the same time, telling you what you need to do and giving you space to figure out how to do it.

Lucifer values resilience, the pursuit of self-betterment, intellectualism, courage, open-mindedness and responsibility in individuals and wants to see his followers develop these qualities. He is constantly rooting for you to reach your full potential. He won’t hold your hand the entire way, but he will help you take steps in the right direction. Lucifer, like all deities, is different for everyone and will adjust his approach depending on your needs.

^ The Sigil of Lucifer

#deity work #witchblr #witch tips #spirit work #lucifer deity #lucifer devotee #luciferian #luciferian witch #lucifer morningstar

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heart-of-the-morningstar · 19 days

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OKAY LISTEN.. HEAR ME OUT.....

we've talked about lucifer with a virgin s/o. hot. but have we ever considered lucifer corruption/religious kink as well. s/o who stayed a virgin for religious reasons. now being ruined by lucifer.

idk about anyone else but my religious kink goes CRAZY for lucifer. just. lucifer with an s/o who was so devoutly christian during their life and yet still ends up in hell, with the devil himself, worshipping him instead, completely ruined on his cock. i think it'd stroke his ego a little bit that he's brought you this low. taking you away from Heaven all for himself, personally guaranteeing you never see those gates again. sleeping with the devil is not something that can be undone.

i wonder if they can hear you up there, screaming out the devil's name.

I...Yes...JUST YES! As someone who comes from a Christian background...OH BOY

Oh, you were such a pure soul when you were alive, weren't you? You always went to church on Sundays with your family, prayed before every meal and before you went to bed, read your Bible that was on your nightstand. The perfect Christian woman, some might say.

So how was is that you ended up in Hell, now being fucked senseless by the devil himself?

Lucifer was nothing like what you were told in church. He was soft, caring, and a little bit silly. The one thing that held true though was that he absolutely beautiful. You understood why he was so hard to resist. Temptation incarnate, indeed. It didn't take long for you to succumb to your temptations either, and Lucifer was more that happy to satiate them. His cock filled you up completely as he pounded into you for God knows how many times that night. You were a babbling mess, absolutely cock drunk as he rutted deeper and deeper into you. You didn't understand why you didn't make the cut into heaven, but now you couldn't care less. Who needed eternal salvation when you had the devil himself.

"You look so pretty like this, darling," Lucifer whispered against your ear, "taking my cock so well. Were you really as devout as you said you were? Could have fooled me, my little angel." Lucifer's hips refused to slow down as he chased his high, and bringing you ever closer to another mind shattering orgasm.

"L-Lucifer! I-I AHHFUCK!" you screamed, your walls pulsating around his length, coating him in your jucies.

Lucifer chuckled darkly. "I wonder if they can hear you up there, screaming out the devil's name," he teased before emptying himself inside of you once more.

#ask #anon #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel #lucifer x reader #lucifer smut #i'm bursting into flames once this is posted i swear

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beatingdrumspouringwine · 4 months

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every now and then i think about this article that i read which traced the origins of Dionysos back through the ages. and apparently, He's one of the oldest deities known from the Greeks, and His name was seen on Linear B tablets dating back to the Minoans.

this is interesting for two reasons:

Dionysos is so often seen as a "foreign God", who came roaring out of some mysterious mountain in the East. but He's also there with the Minoans, receiving pretty large sacrifices, almost 3500 years ago.

the Minoans were the civilization that Ariadne came from - they were named after King Minos, they were actively on Crete. i can only wonder how old the story of Ariadne and Dionysos is, then. Ariadne wasn't mentioned in the article, but some research shows that it's a not unheard of opinion that Her name is old, and there's a good chance it came from the Minoans.

these two things put together just kind of show how interesting Dionysos is when it comes to being a God of opposites. He's been worshiped in Greece for almost 3500 years, and yet He's a young foreign God. He's married to a mortal woman and yet Her name echoes back to the very birth of Her own mythic kingdom, with an origin that may mean "most holy". together, Dionysos and Ariadne are both eternally young and eternally old, and there's just something that sticks in my head about that, you feel?

anyways, here are the two articles that i used for this:

Ariadne - Wikipedia

The Shocking True Origins of Dionysos - by Spencer McDaniel

#anyways there's something inherently sexy about ancient undeciphered languages like Linear B and all the things they're hiding <3 #dionysos #dionysian #dionysus #dionysos deity #dionysus deity #ariadne #ariadne deity

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psychicdamaged · 2 years

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Quotes from EXU Calamity I'll Be Thinking About for the Rest of Time

"Of course I'm safe. You'd never let anything happen to me." / "I would never let anything happen to you."

"Dad. You know I won't look like this when you get home."

There are a lot of stories in Exandria of mortals who stumbled their way into Feywild and fell in love with an enchanting fairy that they met there. But there's one story of a fairy who stumbled into this world and fell in love.

And in that instant realizes you can hold all the knowledge in the world. But if it dies with you, it doesn't matter.

"I promised you I'd never forget." / "I promised you I wouldn't either."

You hear in your heart, "Darling, no."

Do I know? Do I feel it? That he's gone? / You do.

Laerryn's screams fill whatever secret hallway she's in.

"No, baby. I'll always have my eye on you." And I squeeze their hands.

"I don't know how deeply you have sacrificed to do what must be done, but I know this: There is no god that strides this world that I worship more than I worship your heart... I bear your name. I bear it on this stone. And one day, I will bring you home."

In the kiss, I'll cast Cure Wounds on you.

"It's all on you, smart girl."

And I'll just turn my back on the door and let it close. / No! No, you have to go.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I love you, but I love another more" / "My child, my heart breaks. But I would rather mine break and yours be kept whole."

"But our two cities are like a married couple. We may have our differences. But we are connected by love for eternity. We made a promise to each other, and it's one we must fulfill."

"...and remember the Architect Arcane, Laerryn, the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Yes, it's me. Just look at my eyes. Don't look at anything else. Just look at my eyes, please."

I've kept so many of my thoughts and dreams and wishes for him. I hand it to him. I set it on the ground because I don't expect him to actually take it from my hands. "This is for you. Everything you've ever wanted to know about me and your father, it's here."

"Dad, dad, wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." "You have nothing to be sorry about." / "I do." You see, you haven't even looked in his hands. He's holding a basket with a spell kite attached.

"I don't know why I didn't send it." / "I know why, and it's okay. It's okay. Elias, I love you from the moment I laid eyes on you. Everything that I wished for you to know about me, it's in this book. Take it with you. You'll always be five years old to me no matter how much you grow."

You know me. I would never have let my guard down like that. I took those blows.

As I go down, I make sure I don’t miss

"I know what you gave. You found a path beyond the stars. I do not know whence the gods came from, but I know that you found it in your heart. I promise you, Zerxus, I will find that place. I will find the secret of how these worlds were made, and I will come and find you and bring you home."

"Yes, brother. All will be well."

"You think we'll ever get there one day?" / "Of course we will. We're the Okiros."

When you think of the future and what people will say of this time, do you think anyone will talk about how beautiful your dream was? / No. But that's all right, because it was real for us. For those who survived, they will remember, and it will inspire them to dream of things far greater.

What are Patia's final thoughts? / Just that there are many more dreams to come.

"I've been able to become anyone I want my whole life, but I just want to be with you."

"And for whatever time we have left, I love you. I have always loved you, and I will always love you." / "I love you, too." I'll just kiss her.

"The Brass Ring endures. I want you to know you gave us a chance." / I don't think you hear anything back. Just, you feel relief.

The fire, as brightly as it may burn, does not burn so brightly as your love, which shines the brightest in your last moment, having given this world a chance. Ash, heat, rising faster than you can imagine from the earth. And on a 31, at the very top of that cloud, the last member of the Brass Ring gets to keep his promise to his family.

You fly for weeks over oceans choked by ash and soot. You don't get to give your kids the world that they deserve, but you get to give them the world that they can fight for with you.

In Exandria, I don't know that your story will long be known. I don't know who will remain to tell it. But it did happen and it did matter. And though Calamity is here, because of you, it will not be here forever.

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rin-vana · 1 year

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⠀⠀⠀⠀───◌┈┈─── ♡ 𝇄 𝇃 𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐄 𝟕 ┋ 𝐅𝐓. 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐉𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐄𝐑

⎯⎯ ( 𝙋𝘼𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎 ) : Guitarist!Eren x Single Mom!Reader

⎯⎯ ( 𝙎𝙔𝙉𝙊𝙋𝙎𝙄𝙎 ) : What went from buying baby food for his friend, to stumbling upon a struggling mother, Eren intrigues himself with the woman. What kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't help her out and reep the benefits?

⎯⎯ ( 𝘾.𝙒. ) : Heavily black coded reader, reader is older than Eren so slight age gap, Eren talks in his head a lot, thick coded reader, needy Eren, begging, unprotected sex, lactation (Eren is lowk a perv), nipple play, mutual masterbation (unknowingly), use of nicknames (sweetheart, sweet thing), vocal dirty talker Eren bec that boy can't shut up, reader lives in a 2 story apartment sorta, body worshipping, fully consensual

⎯⎯ ( 𝙒.𝘾. ) : 10,540

⎯⎯ ( 𝙉𝙊𝙏𝙀𝙎 ) : The idea of Eren talking in his head a lot versus verbally came from the amazing @/hellavile who wrote the piece Sketch. The idea resonated with me and literally a light bulb went off in my head like yup, that's so Eren, and I wanted to incorporate that idea into my own writing style bec i had this idea for like 3 years straight but never had the courage or time to write it out until now, and it really made me fall in love with his character in this piece of mine. So enjoy <3

Sex so quick it felt as if it didn't happen. You've been laying in bed for what felt like eternity afterwards because you've grown used to the empty spot beside you after coming back to your senses realizing your boyfriend had up and left while you were asleep, not shocking at all. It was something he had always done to either get weed from a gas station or get IHOP early in the morning, but it felt different, feeling as though it was going to be permanent. It isn't like you haven't had the feeling before, but every part of your intuition was telling you it was. Adding on to your growing headache was your son's wails as the sun's rays hardly peaked through your window, meaning you were forced to get up to tend to him. I'm coming Isaiah, give mommy a minute.

It was still dark in your apartment but you managed to enter your son's room, going over to his crib where he laid in a fit of tears at the ungodly hour of 5 in the morning. You wanted to go back to bed, to forget about where your boyfriend was and taking care of Isaiah, but life had a funny way of not going ways we expect. You pulled your baby out the crib, hoisting him on your hip. Walking to the bathroom was no easy task with a crying little boy throwing a hissy fit at you for not being fed, and he wasn't trying to give you an easy time either. Too much like his father.

”Boy,” you groaned in frustration.”I'mma need you to stop crying so I can clean myself 'n you can be fed. Okay?”

You were talking to him as if he could understand a word you said, but it got him to stop so it didn't linger on your mind much longer than that. You set him down on the counter, undressing him to change his diaper that you did not sign up for when you got pregnant in the first place, the whole process you always found disgusting, but at the end of the day he was your flesh and blood, and somewhat his fathers. Isaiah much resembled you albeit he had your brown skin, but his father's grey, wide eyes and his nose. You couldn't have been happier he got your lips though. As much as you loved him he had absolutely none to save his life.

The process of getting your baby looking right took far too long than you realized, the sun was now fully up at 7:00 in the morning, but you weren't fully up with it. Your bonnet was messily on your head, a few braids spilling out from behind that you had meant to take out today but the world had other plans for you. ”Can you watch your cartoon so I can shower?”

A few babbles left your son's lips, and you took that as an answer not knowing what the hell he said, he was only 10 months old after all, still growing and can't be alone for more than 5 minutes when he's awake.

Your shower was short and getting yourself ready was even shorter. It was gonna be a long day and mentally you just weren't prepared for it.

”Alexa play Clouded by Brent Faiyaz.”

The flat, circular device began playing the song, so you turned off the TV grabbing the rest of your things as well as Isaiah in order to go downstairs while the music softly played in the background. You wanted to forget everything that happened last night, from finding out how much money your boyfriend spent to him selling your things to the mind-numbing sex that lasted longer longer it needed to. It was a lot in one night and you wanted to forget it all over eggs and sausage.

Finally moving downstairs from the loft part of your apartment, you're quick to feel the vibration from your phone and notice a few burnt out cigarettes on the kitchen island. Typical of him. You sat Isaiah in his high chair not too far from you, giving him a little toy to play with to distract him while you read the text message from the sender.

Connie💋 - 7:42 AM

I'm gonna be gone for a bit baby, IDK how long but I wasn't ready to have a kid, I'm sorry and I'll be back when I'm ready.

You knew that was going to be never, so why were you so goddamn frustrated? Not like he was much help anyways, but for him to leave with your money and a baby was heartless, even for him. The fuck is wrong with men. You couldn't help the bubbling rage inside you, but taking it out would only make things worse. Looking into the fridge for something, anything consumable only to find nothing was a big ass slap to the face however.

”Break up with me over text and now eat my damn food? Fucking dipshit,” you heaved the more you stared at your partially empty fridge, then looking back at Isaiah who returned the gaze which big innocent eyes that had not a thought behind them. To the market it is.

With the weather rising, wearing your cotton shorts made of sweatpants material and cropped jacket over nothing but a sports bra was one of the smartest things you've done after fucking with Connie. It was sad to admit your baby looked better than you but it was better than nothing. Getting him into his car seat and pulling off in the direction of your local Giants was silent, but stressful. You had to figure out how you were gonna take care of your baby on your own. Not like you haven't been doing so after Connie showed up to your apartment less and less, but the reality bitch slapped you in the face and you had to deal with it.

You pulled up to the parking lot a little under 15 minutes after leaving your house, getting out to sit in the backseat with Isaiah to give him a quick breastfeed so he would at least not embarrass you in public by crying. It took way too long for your liking to the point where you had to pull him off. ”You can't be eating like that all the time or you gonna be fat like mommy,” you said with the smallest smile looking down at him.

You cleaned yourself up and not too long after that entered the Giants with Isaiah hoisted on your waist again. He played with one of your braids as you chose a cart made for moms like you with small kids, putting him inside the chair that resembled a car seat except with the market's colors. You walked around aimlessly inside, grabbing whatever you needed to make decent meals for yourself and being mindful to grab your son a few things while you were at it. Picking all sorts of frozen meats and fresh vegetables seemed like muscle memory after your mother practically forced you to change your diet for the sake of your baby. It paid off in the end I guess.

You walked down an aisle specific for babies, eyeing all the different toys and miniature furniture made for the smaller humans. You stopped specifically at the section labeled "baby food" looking through each brand and going for whatever looked the most healthiest. You were putting a few of them in your cart one by one until your hand and another's overlapped on the same one accidentally.

”Sorry,” you said rushed to whoever it was, not taking the time to look at them as your hand retracted to grab another bottle.

”You can have it.”

A voice so deep you could've sworn it was an echo and not a real person talking to you. Your face had nearly whipped to whoever it was, eyebrow raising in suspicion at who your hand had brushed against. Standing beside you was a tall looking boy that had brown hair brushing a little past his shoulders, the rest in a very messy bun and stray hairs sprawled across his face. He was young, that much you could tell just from what felt like forever staring at him, but his voice made him sound as if it was aged like fine wine.

”Oh- um.. thank you.”

”Do you always stare?” The question alone caught you off guard, stepping back a little to really get a good look at him. He was wearing a white simple baggy t-shirt messily tucked into black capri pants and black adidas. He had a few bits of jewelry here and there, a thin gold necklace dangling over his chest and a matching gold bracelet to go with it. He not bad looking.

”I don't always stare, jus' in my head.” That was a lie. You were staring at the poor boy longer than any stranger would have, but your ego would never allow you to admit that. Isaiah seemed to have a way of telling when your attention wasn't fully on him because he made a loud noise that partially startled you. You turned towards him to silence him a little by giving him something random in your jacket pocket which happened to be a toy car that somehow got in there.

”I take it he's a handful,” the boy spoke again, looking at Isaiah who is in his seat and smiling at the brown haired male. He returned to looking at you who then looked at him again, smiling awkwardly at that but at the end of the day you couldn't care less. ”He can be but I got it.” No the hell you don't.

The pale boy was staring at you for a little, eyeing you up and down once or twice to get a good at your little get-up. He took in every detail as slowly as possible, carving the image of your shorts riding up exposing your thighs, the cleavage your jacket zipper revealed and the ink you have on your left thigh into his head. To be honest you felt like his gaze was swallowing you whole, so you had to break the eye contact otherwise your body temperature would rise. ”Where's your boyfriend to help you?”

”He's deadbeat and gone.” You scoffed at the mere mention of him, grabbing baby formula and tossing it into the cart suddenly feeling your emotions of anger return from earlier. You noticed how the tall boy's eyes seemed to widen before relaxing to the lazy look he had before, his body now facing you entirely.

His voice was smooth and calm as he spoke. ”Sorry to hear that then.”

”It's no problem honestly, the only good thing the bit- I mean he did leave me is Isaiah here.” You smiled with the words you spoke. Sure you may have hated Connie's guts and wanted nothing more than to beat the shit out of him, but you're happy with your baby nonetheless.

After a semi-long silence of you both skimming over the isle one last time, you decided to speak again with inquiry in your tone. ”I didn't get your nam-”

”Eren.” He beat you to it, his body seeming much closer than before because you could feel his body heat radiating off of him, as well as the faint smell of natural forest lurking the more you breathed in and out your nose. It was intoxicating.

”⌈name⌋.” You replied somewhat shortly after, having the silence engulf you until you got tired of it. ”Do you mind.. helping me with this? Like– moving it into my car or somethin'?”

Eren pondered in his head, his deadpan expression boring into yours as his brain seemed to think of a proper response. He did want to help, you looked so small and fragile like you could break at any moment, and yet he liked it. You needed his help even if you've only known each other for 5 minutes. A hum resonated deep within his chest, vibrating his entire being as he prolonged his answer, the reason being seeing your face impatiently wait for a reply.

You want me to say yes don't you? You're giving it away. ”I'll help. Got nothing better to do.”

Your lips curved upwards into a smile again, your body turning to your cart with Isaiah who was gnawing at his own fingers and eyeing Eren as he began following behind you with his basket in tow full of his own food.

”I really appreciate the help, Eren. I probably woulda struggled on my own.” You spoke and giggled at the same time, but the brown haired boy walking beside you was in his own world of thoughts that were slightly muted in the back of his head.

”It's no problem.”

”Can I ask why you got baby food? You got a girlfriend at home?”

Curious now. We just met.

”Nah,” he replied shortly, turning his head slightly down to look at you as you kept walking forward. ”For a friend of mine. Having his own kid 'n he asked me to buy it for him.”

”So you just helping everybody.”

Eren smiled when you finally looked at him. ”In a way, yes. I don't mind doing it 'cause it's nice watching them from the sidelines.”

”So then why don't you have a girlfriend?”

He thought about it for a minute, his relaxed face seeming so close and so far to yours at the same time, the strong eye contact not being dared to be broken by either of you. It was obvious there was some unspoken tension in the air the more you looked at each other and the more you awaited Eren's answer.

”Never really found time for one.”

Your eyebrows rose and your head tilted to the right a little. ”Is that your real answer or somethin' you made up?”

Do that again. ”You'd have to find out for yourself.”

You finally broke the never ending eye contact that had you in a chokehold, walking forward quicker as to hide your face. Not like any blush would show up regardless but you could definitely feel your face getting hot just from the closeness of your bodies.

With you walking so fast Eren opted to take his time to grab anything else he might need, but the conversation was stuck in his head. He played with the bracelet on his wrist catching up to where you stood now in the snack aisle grabbing all sorts of chips. You felt his eyes on you again but couldn't look at him.

You want to look at me don't you? Why don't you do it?

”Miss ⌈name⌋—”

”Uh-uh boy that make me sound older than what I am.” You both shared a laugh, his somewhat quiet, yours a little louder. Isaiah joined in on the noise making by throwing his toy out the seat. You were about to grab it but Eren got it before you could, handing it to your son who babbled more nonsense.

You need someone to help you with him. I can tell but it's fine. Take all the time you need to ask. ”Then, ⌈name⌋, how old are you?”

You turn to smile at him again, teasing him almost. ”You know it's rude to ask a woman her age right?”

”I'm just curious.”

Eren leaned on the opposite side of the cart where Isaiah was sitting, supporting himself on his elbows and eyeing you as you grabbed more things.

”Late twenties.”

”Not even an exact number but you can ask me about my relationship status?” His grin was nothing short of mischievous and teasing, his nose scrunched and releasing a little at the end of his sentence. ”If it's gonna be like then I'm only in my early 20s.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. ”How early?”

So now you're interested again. What if I make you guess.

”That's something you'll also have to figure out.”

”Stop playing with me,” you laughed to shield your embarrassment from him.

Your little shopping trip went longer than expected thanks to your new found acquaintance. Even if Eren was like a minx he managed to help you as he promised, putting bag after bag in the trunk of your 2015 BMW. It was like nothing for him to lift and honestly it was a turn on. His hand easily grabbed 5 bags at once.

Isaiah was already sitting in the car while the two of you stood outside in the humid air. ”Thank you for the help 'cause I don't know how I've been doing it on my own.”

Eren's lips raise at that, his face showing contemptment. ”Then should I give you my number to continue my "helping"?”

His voice dropped an entire octave as if it was mocking you. You had to readjust your stance in order to respond properly, confidently at that. ”No, you can wait for it though.”

You giggled when his expressions changed to a shocked one as you unlocked your car and sat inside it, starting it at the same time.

”Then how will I find you if I can't contact you?”

She's going to raise her eyebrow again.

You raised your eyebrow at him, long nails hovering over the steering wheel as you looked at him. ”You live around here right?”

”Well, yes, but—”

”Then we'll run into each other eventually.”

Eventually turned into a week because soon enough you ran out of food from eating like a mad woman. Everything in you didn't want to go out, wanting so badly to stay laying on the couch with Isaiah in his playpen in his own little world while you caught up on your shows. Your ankles were swollen from overdoing it the past few days that walking in itself felt like a chore. Maybe I should call him—

Oh, right. You didn't have his phone number.

So now here you were at the same market as last week, grabbing damn near the same thing until this time in the snack aisle you saw the same silhouette as before. Eren this time was wearing a sage green long sleeve loose shirt, however the sleeves pulled up a little below his elbows and light grey pants accompanied with some green and white vans.

What caught you off guard was the glasses on his face. ”You ain't tell me you wear glasses.”

Eren looked up slowly from his bent down position eyeing whatever large bag of chips he was looking at. The same grin he had from last week was on his face when he saw you. Assuming she needs my number.

”I don't actually, these are fake ones that I wear from time to time. But, you didn't tell me you wear sexy maxi dresses on Thursdays.”

Eren watched as you looked down to eye yourself, attempting to flip your now new hairstyle of your wig that looked somewhat styled. The hair seemed to engulf your head almost, but it made you look endearing. You were fogging his head now, pretty woman.

”I don't usually, but I decided to look nice. You don't like it?”

Eren chuckled. ”When did I suggest that? You look beautiful sweetheart.”

You felt your face heat up again and your stomach turn. Why was heat growing in your stomach over a small nickname. Your laugh felt forced and breathy to him, and his smirk only grew in size the more you seemed to shy away. ”So we’re doin' nicknames now.”

You're shy over a few words. You didn't get treated well by him didn't you? He made you so upset. I'll take care of you. ”We can if that's what you'd like.”

He was seriously messing with you. He knew that. He loved how you tried to take little steps to hide from his eyes, he loved how you played with your hands the more the silence dragged on, he especially loved his view.

”That is a one time thing.” You finally spoke, your tone a little broken but it's the best you could do. You felt hot and trapped in your own body, this hasn't happened since your first month of dating Connie.

”Don't like it sweetheart?”

Damn his smirk.

”That's enough out of you Eren.” You were bluffing out your ass at this point, moving on to another aisle but he just had to follow you. He was driving you mad at that point. ”You gonna give me a headache if you keep going.”

I'm sure you won't. You want me to keep going sweet girl. ”But you need my help, right?”

You inhaled deeply before you spoke, turning your head to face him. ”Yeah I might just ask another guy for help if you keep that up.”

Eren's face contorted into surprise, allowing his emotion to show through his face. You wouldn't dare. He moved himself closer to you, his arms crossing with his basket in hand, his face suddenly moving so close you forgot you had to breathe for a second. ”Would you really do that? My heart would be so broken.”

You rolled your eyes and put a hand on his chest, pushing him away slightly leaving him to let out such a sweet, deep laugh. It made you wonder if he was really younger than you or not. You continued walking towards the check out area, getting in a random line with Eren beside you whose eyes were staring so hard you could feel it. I'm just admiring, he told himself, but that was a lie. He couldn't help but to stare at the way your dress hugged your body and how it seemed so soft to the touch, how it developed after your pregnancy, how, if he stood close enough, your behind would be on him and your head on his chest, looking like a real c—

”Eren you're next.”

The boy let his mind wander too far for his own good and he didn't so much as realize it. He just nodded at you, his voice stuck in his throat as he put his own basket of groceries on the conveyor belt. You noticed how he got quiet all of a sudden, giving your son some attention while you waited for him. It wasn't until he finally paid that he looked you in the eyes again, then noticeably trailed his gaze down to your cleavage.

You felt hot again under his gaze, clearing your throat to make him stop. What's with the tension? you ask yourself, walking side by side with him. ”Is something wrong? You staring harder than I did when I first saw you.”

It was meant to be a little funny, you even smiled and was about to force a laugh, but Eren wasn't smiling at all. His face had greed written all over it, and he was well aware of it too. His eyes were more relaxed, lips downturned in a frown. He decided to play along and let a miniscule laugh leave his throat, but his eyes were stuck on you.

”The only thing wrong is how I don't have your number yet,” he finally replied, to which your eyes doubled a little.

You both were standing at your car by time he finished his declaration. Jus' smile 'n laugh it off. You lowered your head smiling like a little school girl, digging in your purse to find your phone and handed it over to him, shifting impatiently as he typed in the digits slowly as if he were messing with you. He handed the phone back over allowing you to see what he put himself as.

”"Personal shopper" with a green heart emoji?”

”Yeah, like that one Nicki Minaj song? It was piggy.. something.”

You smiled even wider. ”Itty bitty piggy? What you know about that?”

Eren's face looked as if he had won a million dollars with the way he gazed upon you, looking happy and all. ”I just know it's by her.. but it seemed to impress you enough.”

You couldn't help yourself. Him going from being a seductive little shit to being adorable wasn't what you were used to. Sure you and Connie had your moments but it hasn't made you feel as strong as now.

”You're going to call me, right?” You questioned him, not knowing 100% if you both had something solid or it was just a few lucky times of meeting. Seeing him hold out his pinkie however took you by surprise.

”I can pinkie promise on it.”

”Are you a five year old?”

With your protests and his coercion, you locked pinkies with him anyway, getting in your car afterwards sealing your departure from one another. Getting home with so much on your mind from today was like being a deer in headlights, and Isaiah wasn't making it easy either with his fits of wanting whatever he wanted at the time.

It was quiet. A feeling that felt foreign after your long day. Your son had already gone to sleep after being fed, so it was almost eerie. It doesn't make sense because you've been living like this frequently after Connie came around less, but having the presence of someone physically there is always better. You were mindlessly scrolling on your phone looking for better things to occupy yourself with, going as far as going through your YouTube playlist because the silence was overbearing.

”It's quiet isn't it,” Eren says, standing not too far from the bed, his face solemn as he sits in his black bean bag, tweaking with the tuning pegs of his guitar, headphones loosely on his shoulders. His eyes are closed as he imagines a melody in his head, one simple that flows and is easy to register as calming. His fingers are finding their way to the strings of the instrument, strumming them softly. His mouth curls into a smile the more his imagination vividly shifts to the guitar suddenly being you, plush thighs enveloping his slender fingers the more he strokes it, a song coming from your lips.

You hum along to the song of choice playing from your phone, allowing the notes to leave your lips as pleasure seeps through your body. Enjoyment taking over your entire being as the music continues, body writhing around more to get comfortable, eyes shut to enjoy the feeling even more of the euphorium that seems to spread. Your fingers try so hard to stop the adrenaline building but they disobey your mind, rubbing at your bud so hopelessly you can't help but to imagine it was Connie that was helping you. His heavy breaths fanning over your face, his body behind yours as you're sprawled across his lap trying to reach your peak.

I'll help you ride out this tune, He says to you. His long fingers are reaching spots inside you, making you cry out an even sweeter song. His long hair— Connie doesn't have long hair, — A strong build is supporting you as you stuff yourself with your fingers. Eren continues moving his digits, curling them to make you emit a wonderful symphony from your lips. He meticulously moves the end of his fingers, head tilted back against the fabric as sweat builds up all over his body, the song becoming so much for him it corrupts his mind almost.

You're trying so hard to submit yourself to your imagination, biting your lip to stop yourself from becoming too loud but you only get louder, back arched from the warmth he provided, his turquoise colored eyes peering down at you, watching your face contort. Connie doesn't have turquoise eyes though, nor brunette hair. Eren. He's on your mind when you feel the most pleasure you've given yourself in a while. Is it wrong? To think of him right after you get his number? You want to say it's wrong, but the sound of lewd squechling clouds your mind the more your fingers feel more like what you imagine to be his.

Brushing against your clit just barely and you're already teary eyed. Your eyes are screwed shut, his hands holding you firmly. He's keeping you down to keep his own composure, stroking and stroking, getting you so close. His lips are parted as he can see you reaching your peak, your ecstasy, as your pretty moans get louder and louder—

You open your eyes to your fingers being coated in your slick, no longer seeing the long strands of brown hair clouding your view, nor feeling the firm front side of him behind you. Your mind echoed Connie, but your body felt someone else, someone who's been in your mind ever since you gave yourself time to think. He's ruining your body and you're allowing it. Your bonnet was now halfway off after being lost in your head, braids sprawled across your sheets, earbuds no longer connected to your ears playing the slow songs you absorbed yourself to.

Eren's jaw is slack, his eyes finally opening from whatever euphoria he got himself into based on your image in his head. He looked down at himself, his shirt slightly raised revealing his v-line, but moreover there was an obvious outline of his erection showing in his sweats. You got me like this. His hair is a mess and his body temperature is different from before, but all he can do is just sit there, that is until he got the idea to call you. He already decided that he wanted you, that he wanted to be the one you could depend on. The brunette grabbed his phone at the thought, opening his phone to the keypad where he typed your number that he managed to memorize after seeing it from your phone.

Personal shopper💚 - 5:27 PM

Can I call you?

You felt the vibrations of your phone at the notification, and looking at your screen you see it was Eren who texted you. You hadn't expected him to ask to call you, but who were you to deny him. Not like you weren't just imagining having sex with him. Your fingers typed away at the screen, replying with a short "sure" and waiting for him to call you, not expecting him to do so immediately. ”Hey Eren.”

”Hey– hope I didn't catch you at a bad time.”

”No not at all actually,” you couldn't hide the smile on your face, why were you getting so riled up over a phone call?

”You sure?,” he breathily laughed midway. ”You sound groggy and out of breath.”

”Isaiah was wearing me out. I should be askin' you that though. What are you doing?” Was it obvious? Did you sound that out of breath? Would he figure out you were touching yourself to him? It was an erotic idea for him to guide you through the phon—

”Oh. 'M not doing anything besides messing with my guitar, nothin' special.” Liar.

”You play?” You couldn't hide the surprise in your tone. You were intrigued and there was no hiding it. You sat up in your bed as if he could physically see he had your full attention.

Eren liked the tone of your voice resonating in his ears, it got him in a better mood even. Aren't you cute. ”Not as much but I can play a decent song when I feel like it.”

”Can you do a song for me then?”

”Haven't played for anyone in a while–”

”But would you do it for me?” You may have been pressing him a little, but your curiosity was getting the better of you and you liked how shy he sounded.

The line on the other end went silent as he contemplated in his head, but it didn't last long. ”Mmm,” he sounded. ”I'll think about it.”

”Can you think quicker?”

You both shared a laugh, one that sounded genuine and filled the silence that was once present. Any awkward feelings were left behind the more you talked, swinging your legs back and forth when you turned to lay on your stomach. You could hear shuffling from Eren's end and heard the sound of sheets ruffling, assuming he was in bed.

”What do I get in return for doing this exactly?” Think real hard about how you're going to repay me and I might give you what you want.

”Would inviting you over work? 'cause I'm not gonna have Isaiah on saturday.” You figured the timing couldn't be better, and you wanted to see him outside of the market. Being a little selfish never hurt, and it's not like you're in a relationship anymore.

Eren smiled despite you not being able to see it, eyeing the instrument beside his bed. ”Works for me. I'll finish the song for you by then.” You're going to do it again.

You raised your eyebrow, a puff of air coming out your nose. ”A song for me? You'd do that?”

”Since you asked like a sweetheart I figured why not.” He was going to be the death of you.

”You stay playin' too much.” You had to play it off otherwise you would've felt your body hot. You weren't easy to crack but this white boy was doing wonders to you for no reason.

He smiled imagining your reaction, eyes relaxed as he focused on the sound of your voice. It'll sound even sweeter soon. Make sure you forget about your ex.

”I'll see you in a few days then.”

”I'll be looking forward to my song then Eren.”

The wait felt like forever actually. The week couldn't have gone by fast enough and you were growing restless, even though you two have been talking in between. Working didn't help either and you were anticipating the time you two were going to spend together. You managed to always work yourself up over small, or big things, making it one of the biggest stresses until it's solved. Right now, your stress is him. Of course not hearing back from your ex at all was worrying at some points, but you knew it was coming eventually, and now have a better distraction from all that.

Once saturday did finally roll around was when you dolled yourself up more than usual. You got to take your braids out thanks to boredom and styled it completely differently, putting on your best lashes and smearing minor hints of makeup on your face. Was it a lot for one guy? Possibly, but it passed the time.

It wasn't long before the doorbell rang, and opening it revealed Eren with a large black case in the shape of a guitar slung across his shoulder. He looked down at you, a smug smile across his face and lidded eyes that hadn't the slightest expression behind them. He was hard to read sometimes. You let him inside your home, not that big but still bright and open.

”Y'have a nice place,” Eren commented dryly, stepping inside and taking off his shoes at the front door.

”I decorated a majority of it. A woman's touch was all it needed to look nice.” It was meant as a funny comment, but his face remained as stoic as ever. Did something happen?

His body had approached yours, and suddenly you felt intimidated by how close he was. Eren leaned down slightly in order to get closer, looking you up and down and intaking every bit of you. You were wearing a dress that stopped at your mid-thigh, the cleavage being low but you threw on those cropped hoodies that stopped at your breasts so even still you were somewhat exposed, and the sight was in his face. ”So your ex didn't help?”

Eren finally stepped away from you after he spoke, following the open floor plan to your living room, sitting on your sofa with you following behind, sitting near him but keeping a bit of a distance. ”He didn't but he wouldn't 've helped that much anyways. But, how have you been?”

You made yourself sound as polite as possible, and to Eren he couldn't fight back his lips curling upwards, his hair flowing with him. It wasn't in the man bun, it was more like a half-up half-down style with a small ponytail and instead of strands sitting on his face, his hair was more free. ”Decent, getting by. How about you?”

”I could say the same. With Isaiah at his grandmother's I can get some peace.”

I could've helped. ”I was wondering why it was so quiet in here,” he commented.

Eren began pulling out the guitar from the bag, and it seemed so small compared to his larger build but you knew it'd be big if it were you that was playing. He flung the strap around his head and positioned himself comfortably on your couch, leaning back and spreading his legs partially. Is he trying to get under your skin on purpose?

”It took me a bit but hope you like it.”

”I'm sure I will.”

He was hesitant, that was blatantly clear enough. His fingers were still against the strings of the guitar and his face looked uneasy with the amount of times he readjusted himself. He knew he was taking too long to start which is why he said something. ”Sorry, like I said, haven't played for someone else in a while.”

”Take your time then,” you reassured him, placing your hand on his shoulder and rubbing lightly. His body was tense underneath when you first touched him, but he let himself go the more you rubbed.

He finally began tugging at the thin strings, a gentle sound emitting from the instrument that filled the silence. His eyes were fixated on the guitar, but yours were stuck on his face. Did he always have that dimple on his left cheek? You were almost lost in his features until the tune registered in your ears. It was soft, a higher pitch on some parts, but it became a slow melody after that. He was actually good. You found yourself bobbing your head a little to it, glancing at the way Eren's fingers gently struck the instrument, how they seemed to so easily know what note to hit, how to direct the tips of them. Did he always have long fingers like that?

You're so dumbfounded at the features you didn't allow yourself to notice before that you didn't see how Eren was now looking at you, contempt with the way your eyes were glued to his hands, and feeling at ease with your hand still on him. It's not the silence he was expecting but he'd take it if it meant you were right there.

Your hands are moving up, it has him a little nervous and even tense but he seems to melt like putty when you stroke his hair just once. His bottom lip is a little tucked in and the tune of his little song quickened, but his eyes are practically burning into your face the longer you look away, and you enjoy it. You felt the power you had in the situation, making him wait longer than he had to. The tension is already becoming suffocating, and you can hardly hold eye contact for shit, but you want to so badly. You're giving in faster than you can think about it, meeting his eyes feeling like you were in a fever dream.

”You're really good at it.”

Eren had to force a small, breathless laugh to even respond. ”You had me worried with how quiet you were.”

”Just keep playing.”

And that he did. For once he was the first to look away and concentrate on his guitar while you stared like a fucking creep when you just couldn't stop yourself. You were drinking every bit of his features including the softness of his hair. He's trying so hard to avoid your face, but you touching him was making him shift. Wanna fuck me so bad huh. You're touching him in all the right places, your fingers with acrylics on them gliding to his mid-thigh the more he plays, the song becoming much lower. He can't help but look at you now. Not with the way you're practically begging for his dick like a greedy whore.

”Y'really know how to tease someone,” he rasps, voice low at how close yall were. Your plump lips were curved upwards in a sly smile, suddenly retracting your hands as if you weren't all over him. You raise a brow at him as if he hasn't done that to you. ”I have experience.”

There you go again. The guitar is long forgotten by now, leaning against your couch. His body is turned towards yours, his build feeling oppressive with the way it towers over you, and you love it. His arm is rested against the back of the sofa, the other one suddenly grabbing your hand it nearly brings you from your senses. He's putting it on his chest, sliding it up and down his body and now you're melting.

”Can ya show me that experience 'cause right now I wanna kiss you so fuckin' bad.”

You're giving in to him as soon as he gets the words out his mouth, pressing your lips against his and taking control of your own hands again by running them all over his body. Eren isn't hesitant to do the same, pulling you forward so it's skin against skin. He's too shy to admit he likes the contrast of tones and even more shy to admit that he's giving in to every bit of you. His mouth fits like a puzzle against yours and it's over when your tongue brushed against his lips, he's already parting them to allow his own tongue to further itself inside your mouth.

Saliva dribbled down his chin and it felt too soon when you both departed to regain oxygen, his pupils blown with clear need. His cheeks are five shades of red just from a kiss and it has you rubbing your thighs together. ”Touch me, please,” you mumble in between the exchange of spit. He's doing as you said obediently, a different kind of feeling running through your body at his hands roaming your curves and the fact that he listened.

Soon enough you're letting out sounds you hadn't made genuinely in what felt like forever, pulling away from his face to catch your breath. It gave you time to really think, to really process what was going on. You've only known Eren for like two weeks and you're all over him. There's doubt in your face the more you pull away, wiping your wet mouth the longer you avoid his eyes, the same ones you've dreamed about while fucking yourself.

Eren couldn't let this chance pass, not when he had you like this. Lips swollen and damn near straddling him. Not yet, don't stop baby, please, need you right now. He's intertwining his hand into yours, fingers curling in between your own so he can pull you back towards him. It was gentle, a stark contrast to before but it had you back in his embrace instantly. ”C'mon, lemme take care of you. You deserve it so much.”

”You want it that bad with me?” You couldn't help but inquire, searching his face for bits of truth because the last thing you'd want is to be used again. You were scared.

He suddenly lifted you from the couch after scooping you up by the ass into his arms, holding you up by the underside of your thighs. ”Do you really–”

”Fuck, yes, been wanting it from ya for a while.” Let me fuck you how you deserve to be fucked. Eren's lips are on yours again as he walked, carrying you upstairs until your back suddenly hit a wall. Your tongues are practically dancing with each other. Your breath hot and so damn rigged. His body is pressed against yours so close you can feel something hard against your leg. His chest heaving up and down. He's keeping you up far enough just to kiss you deep enough. Fuck he's taking over your damn mind.

”Which way,” he paused just to kiss you again. ”..is your room.”

”Door on the left.”

You're out of breath but you still want more which is a damn shame. You can feel your panties become soiled the more you try to move in his grasp. He's already opening your door by then and carefully laying you on your mattress, hovering above your body and looking so far into your eyes you're sure he knows every bit of thought you've had about him.

Your hands are moving on their own traveling up his shirt, tugging at it eagerly to get him to take it off. Eren can't help but grin at this, helping you pull his shirt off and toss it somewhere, but he eyed your dress as if he hated it. ”Y'want me to take it off?” He asked as he eyed you further, hands sliding up your waist and following the outline of your body until you said yes. He pulled it off you and as soon as he did he pulled down your bra. ”Eren wait—”

”I can't wait anymore, need to have you. Please let me [name].” Eren's eyes met yours and every bit of logical thinking got thrown out the window. He looked so damn needy with his hair tussle and swollen lips, hands not stopping the constant kneeding to your thick flesh, all of which he's trying not to get carried away in. His eyes look a much darker shade of turquoise, and in that moment you felt like he'd tear you apart the more he looked at you. ”Go ahead, 'n try not to disappoint me.”

”I don't plan on keeping you bored,” and as quick as he finished his lips latched on to your nipple, a choked whine leaving your mouth because his mouth felt so wet and warm against your skin it was addictive. He kept flicking his tongue and sucking eagerly while undressing himself, and seeing the imprint in his boxers made you whine even more. You needed him, falling into his trap of touches and harsh licks, your thighs locking around his waist to grind yourself on him.

”I know baby, I wanna lose myself to you too, but there's something I wanna try.”

”And what's that?”

He answered your question by placing his mouth on your other nipple. Your mind was in a daze at the built up pressure of your chest suddenly feeling relief and it only then hit you what he wanted to try. He was milking your breasts fucking dry and you were more turned on by it. You had to rub your cunt against him, the ache was becoming unbearable because of the mess he was making on your chest. ”Eren, shit, Eren please, I can't take anymore waiting, need you in me.”

He let go of your nipple with a pop sound resonating in your ears, his mouth a complete mess from indulging himself in his filthy fantasy of sucking your tits and getting something out of them. Really it was something he should've been embarrassed about but thinking of the way your body reacted to it didn't help, he needed you in his mouth, in his hold. He can't let another second pass by where you're not near him chanting his name.

”I wanna savor this a little longer [name], be a little patient with me.”

You're nodding along and even still he sends a firm slap to the side of your thigh where your tattoo is and a small yelp leaves your mouth that distracts you long enough so he can finally pull down his boxers. His length springs free from its confinement and you can't help but let your jaw slack a little.

”God you're bigger than I imagined.”

You thought about us fucking haven't you. ”You've imagined my size?” He lets out a small chuckle.

”Don't get too cocky,” you responded, but Eren wasn't going to let your comments slide, yanking your underwear down your thighs and throwing them across the room, eyeing your mound having a starved haze over it. It wasn't enough for him though, he's greedy and selfish with what he wants.

”Spread your legs,” he orders and you can feel the heat rush to your face, spreading yourself open until his hand pushes your thighs back further, having your pussy sprawled out for him like a meal. His eyes are locked on to how wet you were, reaching a hand down to allow his fingers to spread you more. You couldn't help but giggle at his enthralment, keeping yourself open for him, wiggling your hips just a bit. His fingers spread your puffy lips open and it was then he lost it. Your cute hole fluttered open as more of your slick coated your inner thighs, your clit poking out just for him.

Eren finally began to line himself up to your cunt, lightning sparks in your body the longer he looked at you and the more he rubbed his tip against your already engorged clit, a moan withdrawing from your throat.

”You gonna let me in sweet thing?” You shuddered as goosebumps appeared on your skin, nodding your head slowly because coming up with a coherent response felt impossible. He lowered his head towards your neck, biting and kissing and suckling on your skin as he finally eased the tip inside you.

”Ng..ghh fuck,” you inhaled sharply the more he pushed on, but he suddenly stopped and you whined despite feeling so damn full already. You can feel his breath staggering against your neck as it trails further up to your lips, capturing them in another one of his overpowering kisses that you submerged yourself into. He continued to push himself in again and that's when you felt the pressure to a specific spongy spot within you. He curved a good ways to the right and inside you it was the perfect amount of pressure that had you hyperventilating.

”Let me know when you're ready, y'look like you struggling.” He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching your cute face contort. Eren had a guilty pleasure for watching you struggle to take him. He was big and he knew it. Your mouth had been quivering, trying to adjust to the mere thickness of him, but seeing his face written with knowing had you fixing your own. ”Just.. start moving.”

Your command had been answered with a breathless chuckle once Eren finally started moving his hips back and forth at a slow pace. Every time he bottomed out you felt a painfully good pressure in your stomach. Low mewls resonated in your throat as he kept going, adjusting to both his size and the pace of friction he set. Eren's mouth hung ajar, eyes lidded but locked onto the way he slid in and out of you. You're so goddamn wet.

”Fuck.” He couldn't keep his hands off you any longer. It'd be a waste not to touch you when you're underneath him after all. His body leaned forward until you were face to face, his hands drifting towards yours and guiding them to wrap around his neck. ”I-... want you to hold onto me, alright?” You gave him a meek nod as an answer until you felt a shift in pace. You were only just getting adjusted to the slow and steady tone but with his size going like this had you feeling hazy and lightheaded. You needed him closer to you, feeling his skin against yours, feeling like you'd lose yourself to the feeling of his dick without it.

”Oh my God—” you rasp and claw at his back to ease some of the pleasure, even if it's just by a little bit, but no matter how close you pull him to your body it's not enough. Losing yourself on me, too fuckin' cute.

Eren loves how vocal you are, and it's all for him. The way you shudder when his hips snap against your pussy, the way you squeeze him to damn near suffocation, he has to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning like a bitch. His lips meet the crevice of your neck, his teeth beginning to tug at your skin as a way to muffle his moans, but you feel them vibrate in your body and it has you digging your nails into his back.

”Just like that.. keep grabbing me, not goin' anywhere sweetheart.” The way his voice sounded right at your ear had you whining again. He sounded so fucking sexy. All you can do is just nod.

You're grasping at the chance for air when his pace increases. At that point it felt like he was just so goddamn deep inside you to the point where it even stung a little. ”'Ren.. Eren. Hurts– too deep,” you plead to him, a hand of yours leaving his back to push his hips away a little, but his hand is quick to swat it away and hold your waist. ”Can't help it, you keep pulling me in. Feels so good I can't help it.. fuuck.”

The best you can do is sniffle as a sob leaves your lips. It sounded so beautiful to Eren though, like the beautiful melody that's been playing in his head on repeat. He needed to hear more from you because you sounded so pretty, so cute. But he couldn't see your face like this when he knows it's probably tear stained and fucking slutty, so he moves his head from your neck to get a better look at you, and he couldn't be more right. Your eyes were glued to the way his pelvis met yours, tears on your cheeks from the way it felt like he was in your stomach. Fuck. ”You look so pretty like this. Pretty little face and the prettiest pussy in the world.”

He left you speechless at his choice of words. They were so filthy but they felt so good, just as good as the pressure in your pussy. How could a man fuck like that? Like him? Can't tell if you love him or his dick, or both. His eyes stayed lidded and locked on you, but you looked like you were losing yourself, so he tapped your cheek. ”Don't go passing out on me.”

You giggle with little breath, gasping in between but your body is giving itself away, jerking and writhing feeling heat pool in your clit. ”Sorry, 'm getting close. Mmmh.. I'm gonna cum soon if you keep moving like that.”

”Then I wanna see your face, wanna see how beautiful it is. Wanna see it when you cum.” It's all he can say because there's an eagerness to seeing you unravel. He felt it too, feeling himself tighten and ache feeling the way your warmth squeezed him just right. Shit, forgot a condom. At that point Eren didn't care, he'd just pull out. You didn't seem to care either, your whines getting louder and your hand going to push at his waist again once he startes fucking you harder than before. You missed being able to hold him the way you were before, but you also liked the view of him looming above you, exposed chest, v-line and all.

”Oh fuck, oh my God, Eren– shit.” Your free hand starts gripping the sheet beside your head feeling yourself cum and spasm on his cock, biting your lip as you moan.

Eren felt the new sudden feeling of something creamy on him, looking at where the two of you connected and saw your essence seep out of your hole as he kept fucking into you. The sight had him on the edge, body sweating and full of so much damn regret as he pulled out. He's desperately wrapping a hand around his shaft and fucking his fist, head tilted back trying to imagine that he was still inside you. The sight was so sexy, to watch him get off to the thought of your pussy still hugging him, even as your breath was still ragged and mind hazy you wanted to remember that forever.

”So fuckin' beautiful– ahh. Your ex didn't deserve this perfect pussy, this perfect body— fuck!” He's so frustrated that he has to finish like this, but he's the one that gets to cover you in his cum and the thought alone gets him spurting thick ropes of white onto your stomach and clit, some dripping down onto your partially gaping hole. God your ex. If he could rub it in his face it'd probably make him cum again that he gets to fuck you better than him.

You're admiring the way he keeps leaking onto your body, white pools glistening against your skin. You were breathless and the space where your legs met your pelvis were starting to ache the longer you held them in this position so you put them down. By doing that you didn't think you'd get his attention though. ”Who said we was done, sweet thing? Put your legs back up f'me.” Go ahead and arch your eyebrow.

An eyebrow of yours raised, looking him up and down when all he did was just look at you with that same cocky smirk you remember from the market. ”Oh really?” You weren't gonna back out now, and in all honestly Eren wasn't either. He wanted to test your limits, see and learn what your body likes.

The night before seemed like forever ago, or a messy dream at that, because before you knew it the sun was shining through your black-out curtains signifying that a day had passed. The aching where your legs met your pelvis couldn't be more overwhelming, but the sleep you got distracted you from the dull ache. Horny fucker.

Originally you were meant to go sex-free for a while, but clearly your mind and pussy had other plans. Not like you had much room for regret though because it was one of the best experiences of your life. Eren. He was so much better than you could've imagined, he even changed your bed sheets for you while you showered independently. You smiled reminiscing on the aftermath, but you wanted to see him, see his pretty face again, hear his voice. Should I be like this?

You turned over only to be met with an empty bed, sitting up from your laying position to study your empty room. You didn't hear anything, nor felt movement in your own bed so you wondered if he left. Damn, just how good did he fuck you for you to not hear him leave? Even still, there was a high chance he did since he didn't live with you, and it more or less felt like a one night stand.

You shouldn't feel so disappointed, but at the same time you want to call him and ask him where he is, listen to him talk, just be with him. But he wasn't there, in the same fashion that Connie wasn't there either. For fucks sake. One pretty guy enters your life and he's already imprinted on your mind. You're sitting up by then, legs dangling over the edge of your bed as you sit and contemplate whether you should try to find out where he is, however what if he didn't answer and your apartment is actually empty? You didn't want to admit you were scared, but the questions spiraling in your head made your anxiety spike.

Not again, not like this shit again. You can't let yourself be fucked over by another guy again, you've already been at that point. Being so lost in your own head you got up from your bed, motioning towards your connected bathroom to fix your appearance because you'd be damned if you let yourself be a mess over another person. Except you stop, standing in front of your bathroom door as the strong smell of food hit your nose. Who the fuck?

You don't remember eating anything last night, so you blamed the smell on your hunger, but just as you're about to step fully in your bathroom it hits you stronger until you're already gravitating towards your bedroom door. Opening it, you're met with the sound of your son's giggling. He shouldn't be home yet so how is he inside? Instinct tells you to investigate, rushing down the stairs and seeing the bare backside of a tall man with brown hair sprawled down his neck and shoulders.

”Morning sweetheart.”

Your feet move you forward, eyes a little wide and all. ”But you– how did Isaiah…?”

You can't even finish the question, your voice trailing off as you try to connect the dots. Meanwhile Eren had turned to face you, placing the cooking utensil down from making fried potatoes. ”A lovely woman who looked like you brought him home. Told me I was handsome too.” All you do is scoff while going over to your babbling son, picking him up out of his high chair to hold him.

You didn't mean to stay silent but you're still trying to make it make sense. First you thought he was gone and now here he is cooking you breakfast. Who the hell sent this man to me? ”First of all she lied,” you retorted in an attempt to hide your slight awkwardness. It was Eren's turn to scoff at that. ”Secondly, that was my mother.”

”I guessed that much because she has wonderful taste.” You look him up and down, not being able to hold a wide smile back when you know fully well it was because of the reddish marks on his neck and collarbone. Pretty thing was worrying about me. Eren could tell by how your body language gave you away. You came downstairs tense, but now you look lax.

”I'm assuming you hungry.” He begins motioning to two plates he somehow manages to find in your unorganized kitchen. ”Yes, please I'm starving.”

It's when he begins making your plate that a ring resonates throughout your apartment. Must be mom. You set Isaiah back down in his high chair and went towards the front door, assuming your mother had possibly forgotten to drop off something that belonged to your son since she seemed to do that a lot, so you don't care to make yourself presentable since she's seen you at your worst.

”Ma what you–” You spoke before opening the door, but the last person you expected to see standing there just had to be there. Just fucking had to be. Eren must have somehow known you were just standing there based on your silence, because he came over to stand behind you with his hands in his pockets assuming your mother was standing there. You both couldn't have been more wrong, and you really really wished you were.

#eren x reader #eren smut #eren jeager smut #aot smut #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #aot eren #attack on titan eren #attack on titan #aot x you #eren x black reader #eren x black y/n #aot x black reader

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emelinstriker · 7 months

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{Eternal Servants AU} Nezha ♡ Loyalty

Art drawn by me + the AU itself is mine.

This will just show y'all ESAU!Nezha's character as well as a bit of info on how the servants think/feel about things. The artwork isn't referencing any scene from this one-shot btw.

CW: Descriptions of death and gore

[TL;DR] Ehe, ESAU lore hints wink wink-

♡ ~ Fluff ~ ♡

"That was all her fault for acting so disrespectful! And towards Master's name, no less!"

"I can't argue with that logic. But did you really have to punch her skull in before the torture even started?"

"Well, of course! Her presence was no longer welcomed the moment she called Master insulting names."

Macaque and Nezha were chilling in the torture chamber. The simian was sitting on a table with bloody tools while the celestial was cleaning up some of those tools with a towel. A deceased woman was strapped to the table in the middle of the room. Her skull was smashed, showing how mangled the remains of her brain looked as her head lied in a pool of her own blood.

Macaque sighed, "You can't just eliminate someone before we even tortured them, though. Even if they disrespected our Master while trapped here-" "That's just it! Our Master should always be respected and worshipped! They deserve nothing less than pure adoration!" Nezha cut him off, clearly angered. The dark-furred monkey raised an eyebrow at him, his tail flicking behind him at the surprise of Nezha talking back to him.

"Nezha, I get where you're coming from, I really do. I want our Master to always be respected and worshipped as well." Macaque started as he crossed his arms. "However, see it this way: Would you rather kill those who treated our lovely Master poorly, basically sparing them from pain, or would you rather let them serve their sentence by prolonging their suffering?"

The pink champion froze for a moment as he thought about the other champion's words... The simian was right. It would be a lot more satisfying watching the unworthy suffer by his hands than just simply killing them in one blow.

Nezha groaned as he quietly cussed to himself. Macaque had no problem catching him cussing and chuckled, his tail swaying for a moment in dark delight.

"Well, shit! Guess this is just a wasted kill after all!" The celestial exclaimed. He then heard the other servant 'tut' at him. Annoyed, Nezha turned towards the monkey, glaring.

"I wouldn't say it's fully wasted... This," the simian started as he hopped off the table and moved towards the table with the woman's corpse, gesturing towards her as he continues, "is still our dinner." If Nezha's pupils were visible, his eye roll would've been very much noticeable. He then followed the purple champion over to the table.

Macaque grabbed one of the knives on the way and chuckled darkly. He used it to smoothly cut into the woman's thigh, slicing a big chunk of flesh like a cake. More of the bit of blood she still had inside her body spilled out of the body's new wound and onto the table, the knife, and Macaque's hand. The simian then grinned and held said piece of meat out towards the pink champion. "Well? Go ahead, dig in. It's still fresh."

The pink champion, already used to it at this point, simply took the raw piece of meat and looked at it with a slight bit of disgust. He may have eaten a few remains raw before to prove his worth and loyal devotion to the other champions, but he still didn't exactly like the consistency of the meat. "Thanks... But I think I'll wait till it's cooked..."

The dark-furred monkey shrugged. "Suit yourself then," he said before he shoved the meat into his mouth, loudly chewing on his bloody meal as he already started cutting another piece of the woman's corpse. All while Nezha watched in silence. This little ritual the champions had of eating the remains of the tortured ones always reminded him of how he became his Master's servant himself.

It reminded him of that one demon village that was eradicated off the face of the earth. The huge pile of corpses Macaque made with the bodies of those villagers that disrespected and hurt their Master... And Nezha was the one tasked to set the pile ablaze. Back in that moment, he truly felt awful for taking the torch. But it didn't take long for him to actually enjoy the sight as his vision darkened. Especially once he saw his beloved Master in person again, this time becoming your pink champion. Your touch just felt so addicting to him, as if it was all he needed to forget all the bad he did. Your touch, your love and affection, was all he had ever craved...

No longer was there any guilt or regret. His Master was all that mattered to him. He felt pure happiness he had never felt in all his years of serving the Jade Emperor and the Celestial Realm...

Not that he remembered much about his so-called "past life" anyway.

Ever since he's become one of his Master's eternal servants, he practically forgot all about what his life was like before. He had very limited memories, of which only some were family-related, from when he was just born.

Suddenly, Macaque froze mid-bite. His ear twitched a little before he smiled brightly, joyfully devouring the meat and swallowing it quickly, placing the knife on the table. "Master is calling for me!"

And in a blink, the simian disappeared through a shadow portal that opened up right beneath him. Nezha sighed as he glanced at the corpse of the woman, placing the piece of meat from his hand onto her body. He probably would need to carry her remains to the fridge. After all, he didn't know when the others wanted to eat. He knew Wukong was busy with the palace's guards, Macaque was now gone to answer to their Master's call, and Nezha himself didn't know what to even do. He didn't have any tasks besides torturing that woman, and that already ended extremely prematurely due to his outburst.

"Ugh, fuck! I knew I shouldn't have killed her yet!" He grumbled angrily as he took the knife Macaque used to cut her, and proceeded to stab the corpse's neck in rage. He grumbled out more curses as he twisted the knife around the woman's neck in annoyance. A few minutes passed before he heard a shadow portal open up again. He turned towards it, out came the purple champion again. The simian was about to say something, but then paused and pursed his lips at the sight of Nezha moving the knife inside the woman's neck.

"...You're not supposed to play with your food, pinky. Didn't your friends up in the Celestial Realm ever teach you that?" Macaque teased with a smirk.

The pink champion scoffed in response, pulling out the knife from the woman's neck before slamming it back down, but this time into her eye. Due to his sheer strength, he easily smashed it through part of her skull as well, seemingly ignoring her destroyed eye on the way as her body seemed to weep more blood. "I'm aware of the saying. But what else am I supposed to do? I'm bored!"

Macaque huffed, grinning as he approached the celestial with crossed arms. His tail swayed gently behind him. "If you're bored, then you're in luck! I have a task for you. A very important one..."

Now, due to Macaque having to leave for a mission, Nezha was suddenly happy again. Not necessarily because of the simian being gone, but because of how the celestial was tasked to watch over their Master. Alone. The other champions were busy after all, so their beloved Master needed someone to fill the bodyguard slot for a while. Master's security ink wasn't enough for the monkey brothers. So, Nezha was tasked to be your bodyguard for the time being. And he was ecstatic everytime he was tasked to stay around you. Sure, being bodyguards is like the usual job the champions had signed up for, but Nezha had you for himself in his moment. No other champion could take your attention.

He was standing next to your throne as he stared at you with a soft, loving gaze. You could practically see little hearts floating around his head as his focus stayed solely on you. You looked at him as you hummed in thought. While you didn't mind staying on your throne, you also didn't expect any meeting today. Perhaps you could do something else. You haven't had any alone time with Nezha in a while anyway. And having him stare at you like that for the next few hours wasn't exactly the most entertaining thing. "Sooo... Do you wanna walk around the palace?" You suggested.

Your pink champion seemed to have been caught off guard as he sheepishly nodded. "That would be a wonderful idea, Master. Don't worry, I'll keep you safe the entire time!" He added proudly. You couldn't help but chuckle at his eagerness as you stood up and gently took his hand into yours. Your touch made him smile brightly beneath his mask as he stayed close to you, all while you lead him out of the throne room and down the hall, enjoying your conversation with him. Occasionally, there were a few servants on the way, who all bowed to greet you, but the halls were generally pretty quiet today.

However, that was only until you walked through the activity wing.

There was a sudden bang that startled you and your champion. Nezha quickly recovered from his startled confusion as he took up a more defensive and protective stance, summoning his fire-tipped spear to his side as he shielded you with his body. The loud bang came from down the hall in front of you. When the doors to the library swung open, they swung so strongly that they slammed against the wall, nearly ripping them off their hinges. And out into the hall came a furry beast with six legs. It growled as it moved menacingly out of the library. Then it turned a bit towards you and Nezha... Its four eyes seemed to focus on the celestial in front of you, sensing his energy specifically.

You knew this beast... It was the beast from a book you once read. It was known to be a form of Celestial Hunter. Not much was known about them, other than that they would lure divine entities by copying the voices or looks of someone they love and trust. They would then either bite and infect, or straight up feast on the victim. However, this beast was seen as just simple fiction... How was is real? Where did it come from?

The beast then tried to appear more friendly as it tilted its head at Nezha. Since the celestial already saw its real form, it probably would be unable to get away with a disguise. However, it seemed to have a plan B...

"Nezha? Is that you?" The beast asked in a female voice you didn't recognize. But Nezha did... It was his mother's voice. He gripped his spear tightly, his eyes widening just slightly.

"...Mother?"

The beast doesn't move as it stares at Nezha, lowering its head a bit to try lower his guard. It was trying to get him into a false sense of security.

"Yes, it's me... My son, what happened to you? You don't look so well... We have to leave and get you out of here. This place isn't safe. Come with me, Nezha... Please, come with me... There is so much darkness here... It's so dark here..." As much as it seemed tempting to follow these voice's instructions, Nezha also was fairly aware of the ominous looking creature the voice was coming from. This wasn't any simple demon. Yet, he couldn't help but shake just slightly at the voice of his mother...

That's when he felt you lightly squeeze his hand with yours, bringing him back to the current situation. He glanced behind him to look at you and saw your worried, helpless expression...

He knew he would be a fool if he ever let that... that thing lure him away from his Master...

The temptation to be lured closer to the beast was now gone as quickly as it came, simply replaced by thoughts of his beloved Master. Nezha glared daggers at the beast. He was stronger than whatever it would throw at him. He knew it. And so did you... And he refused to disappoint his beloved, his true Master.

Your pink champion refused to be manipulated so easily.

Not when he had a job to do.

Not when this job involved serving you.

He was one of your champions for a good reason, after all.

The beast seemed to notice the way the celestial seemed more in focus again, and it quickly realized that he couldn't be tricked like its previous victims. So, it dropped its friendly act and let out a loud, hungry screech before it sprinted in his direction. Nezha, with his extreme speed, let go of your hand and swiftly attacked it with his fire-tipped spear, using his now lit up wheels for an extra boost as he stabbed the beast. He grunted in rage as the beast tries to attack him now with the close range. However, he dodged most of its bites and swipes with ease, using his strength to try bend one of its legs and break it. Only to then realize that it didn't have bones...

Nezha seemingly narrowed his void black eyes at the beast as he let out a low growl behind his mask... If he couldn't make it suffer with broken bones, surely tearing it apart limb by limb would work...

Thus, he held tightly onto his spear, making its flame light up more inside the darkened beast. The fire seemed to be its weakness as it began to let out a painful, or rather, seemingly scared screech. However, it was clear to him that it would not go down without a fight as it continued to claw at him. Yet everytime it would claw at him, he held his cold, angered gaze as he started to rip out the leg that it would use to attack. Despite it having no bone structure, it did seem to at least have some form of nerves. The darkened beast seemingly screeched in agony as Nezha managed to rip off one of its limbs.

The beast attempted to get away from Nezha, but he held his tight grip on his spear, refusing to let that thing go unpunished for what it tried to do... How dare it try lure him away from you, his Master...

Upon noticing the beast's attempt to flee, Nezha let out a maddening laugh as he twisted and turned his spear. The fiery tip moved from one side to the other as he enjoyed the beast writhe in pain beneath him. The celestial then slammed his flaming wheels into the beast's chest, letting its fire damage the beast as well. As he noticed a now giant, gaping hole that went through the beast's entire body, he notice how everything inside it was nothing but mass of what its outside was made out of. But it did hold some veins that glowed a very faint red, which were as red as its blood red eyes.

He scoffed as he slammed the beast onto its side, watching it lose its strength. "Ah, got it. You're one of the Oracle's friends, aren'tcha? Well, at least part of whatever the hell he is..." Nezha slammed his fire-tipped spear down into the beast's neck as he let out another painful wail in agony. The pink champion chuckled darkly as his fire spread inside the beast's body. He could practically see his flames glowing past its darkened shell of a body.

"But whether friend or foe, you just attempted a crime so outrageous, it must be punished by nothing less than death..."

Finally, he pulled his spear out of its neck and slammed it into one of the beast's eyes, stabbing it straight through its "skull" with a mocking grin underneath his mask. Just like how he stabbed that woman's corpse earlier... Soon, the beast fully collapsed and stopped moving as the fire inside its body finally seemed to spread to the outside. Nezha made sure it's dead with some extra stabs before he huffed in annoyance. "...Weak. That wasn't even half a challenge."

As he got off the beast's corpse with his spear in hand, the beast's remains suddenly turned into a black, still somewhat burning puddle on the floor. Then it hardened once more, stopping the fire, before finally turning into some form of black dust that easily spread all over the ground with minimal wind around.

Nezha scoffed at the sight before he moved back over to your somewhat shaken form. Though, you looked more intrigued by what just happened. "Master, are you alright? It didn't hurt you, did it?" He asked with sudden concern as he inspected you for any wounds, cupping your cheeks.

"I'm fine, Lotus Dork", you said a bit muffled as he had his hand on your cheeks, squishing them just slightly, looking at you. He sighed in relief as he blushed a bit at that nickname, letting go of your cheeks. But then he noticed you frown at the sight of his own wounds. There wasn't many or even deep wounds, but he did get a few puncture or claw wounds on his skin. On closer inspection, you could see some black inside his wounds. Probably tiny bits from the beast's body.

"Don't worry, Master! It'll heal itself!" He quickly said. You hummed for a moment before taking his hand and practically dragging him down in the direction you came from earlier. He blinked in surprise as he blushed in embarrassment. It probably looked funny to passing servants, just seeing how easily you dragged your pink champion around, when he could just stop moving. But you were his beloved Master, the one in charge of him and his body. Whatever you wanted to do with him was law. But he was still curious. "Master- Where are we going?"

"To the med bay, duh." You said as you pouted at him, still dragging him along like a dog on a leash going to the vet. "I want to have your wound at least disinfected before anything happens."

Nezha chuckled under his breath, which was even more muffled due to his mask. "As if that could happen twice..."

After you forced him to have his wounds cleaned and bandaged, you asked him to take off his mask for a moment. As he did what you requested, you kissed his cheek, right where his old wound was. He blushed as he felt you reward him for taking action and staying by your side.

There was nothing he wanted more than you.

[ Masterlist ]

#lmk esau #eternal servants au #esau nezha #esau macaque #esau x reader #lmk x reader #lego monkie kid x reader #lmk au #lego monkie kid au #emelin oc #nezha x reader #cw: gore #macaque x reader #technically macaque x reader but mainly just hinted

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okiedokrie · 1 month

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High Infidelity (TEASER)

Summary: There are many different ways that you could kill the one you love, the slowest way is never loving them enough. So what happens when you find someone who was all too willing to give you thee attention you craved, you said you'd only dip your toes into the idea, and yet, you find yourself already drowning. The novel you've been writing has been in progress for the better half of two years now, your writer's block beating you up, and your husband hasn't shown you any sympathy. Maybe a visit to the art exhibit from this new artist would jog your creativity, but what happens when this new artist offers you more than just relief from your writer's block?

Characters/Pairing(s): Xu Minghao (The8) x F!Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff

AUs/Trope info: Non-idol!AU, Aged-Up!AU, Right Person (not) Too Late

Word Count: 882 for this teaser (estimated 8-10k final fic)

Warnings: Infidelity, very inappropriate conversations with a married woman, tipsy sex (not drunk), minghao smokes, smut warnings in actual fic

Rating: 18+

A/N: banner and dividers by @daesukiii!! tysm!! This is also a rewrite/reupload of my own fic, "High Infidelity" on @pyeonghongrie, yes I reskinned my own fic.

FULL FIC HERE

The rain soaked into your skin, cold and icy piercing you painfully. All your personal belongings were strewn all around you, your soon ex-husband angrily slamming the door shut, but you can't feel but be relieved.

After all, you were finally free.

"I'm right here, honey, I love you." He whispers into your skin, slowly unbuttoning your shirt, one button at a time. He kisses your skin every time new skin is revealed to both of you, he kisses your skin so delicately as if you'd break at the slightest touch-

"Y/N, you still haven't dealt with the dishes yet." Your husband, Haru, said monotonously just as you were starting to gain momentum in your writing.

You groan, the interruption making you lose focus and motivation to write. You stare at the last word on your document, gaze burning into each pixel as if hoping that this piece would write itself.

Unfortunately, life said, "Fuck you."

With another groan, you rub and pinch the bridge of your nose, a headache starting to settle in as your husband returns to work as if he didn't just cause you a serious inconvenience.

Standing from your comfortable computer chair, you take calm and even strides toward your kitchen, where only a handful of dishes are left in the sink.

And this little shit didn't even bother washing like, what? 8 dishes? he has to be kidding me, men.

You thought to yourself, your inner monologue only making yourself more irritated. But you wash them in silence, thinking of ways to calm down and clear your head so you have a clean slate to work with to get inspired again.

I think I should visit the gallery again, there's this new artist that I've been following. He's getting pretty popular, maybe I could draw inspiration from his work?

You think maybe this is the best idea you've had since you put bacon bits on mac & cheese.

Taking the time to visit this gorgeous gallery was the correct move.

Xu Minghao is a passionate man, you can see his dedication to his craft in all the pieces in this gallery. He was a mixed media artist, sometimes his work was pops of color on a canvas, others were sculptures made of clay, made with the most delicate of hands, and others were more niche, like the stained glass piece in another part of the gallery.

One thing about Minghao's work is that his subjects are also subjects of passion.

Paintings of a man's devotion to worshiping his lover's skin, a stained glass recreation of The Birth of Venus by Botticelli, and his latest masterpiece, simply titled "Passion", a sculpture of a woman in the throws of pleasure, with her lover holding her close to him, no gap between their skin, eternally locked in a passionate embrace.

As a romance writer, this is exactly what you need.

You take in this sculpture, the light of the gallery display emphasizing the delicate attention to detail this piece had, you know the man who made this takes pride in this, his work, skills, and dedication finally being realized.

You stare in awe at this piece for a little over 20 minutes, the more you look at it, the more entranced you become of the mastery of this craft.

You feel a presence beside you, a man around 5'11", slightly muscular build, in a turtleneck with glasses sitting delicately on his nose. He has a peculiar hairstyle, a mullet to be exact, and the most gorgeous face you've ever laid your eyes on.

"I see you like this piece in particular," He started, hands in his trouser pockets while smiling fondly at the piece, "'Passion' was a difficult piece for me to finish, ironically enough, I got bored of it quite easily." He continues, turning to face you.

"I'm Minghao, by the way, Xu Minghao. If you haven't already figured it out." He takes a hand out of his pocket, extending it towards you.

"Oh, I'm Y/N, Park Y/N. It's a pleasure to meet you, Minghao. Your exhibit is astounding, I love your dedication to your work." You take his hand to shake it,

He chuckles at the compliment, "Oh please, save your praise, I know that name from anywhere. I love your latest work, that book was what inspired this entire collection, to begin with."

You gawk at him, oh my god, he reads smut. My smut.

"Oh my, what an honor! I'm glad you also enjoy my work." You receive the compliment gracefully, "Although, I do want to hear more about why you got bored of this piece in particular, such a wonder to the arts community, surely you aren't downplaying your work?"

He smiles, perfect teeth on display, you swear you never looked at a man like this in your life. You were down bad for his smile.

"I'm not saying I think it's bad, I just got bored of the creative process." He explains, "Although I do want to continue adding to this collection, perhaps we can go and get drinks together? Exchange ideas?" he offers.

You ponder on this for a bit. Going out to drinks with a budding friend wouldn't hurt, right?

"Could I give you my number? Let's set aside a day to chat. I have to get home to my husband before it gets too late."

A smirk came into his face, something dark about a seemingly insignificant change in his expression, “Of course, I look forward to our time together.”

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ystrike1 · 7 months

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Rewriting My Tragic Ending - By Kxwon (7.5/10)

She needs loyal dogs! She gets that and more. The usual sweet holy saintess story gets overthrown by a woman who refuses to die. She steals the men that were supposed to worship the true heroine, and her meddling actually prevents unnecessary deaths. So this is junk without the guilt. Some necessary evil. A grey area villainess!

Alicia had the perfect life. The perfect family. Money. High status. She also got a magical and holy adopted sister, who she loved dearly.

Nix was clearly crazy from the start. But Ophelia was too pure and wonderful to kick him out. It was the one thing. The one time Alicia said no to Ophelia. Ophelia was allowed to have whatever she wanted, but Alicia wanted to kick out this one suspicious man! Ophelia fought back, and then Nix transforms.

He's barely human. A dark worshipper intent on sacrificing Ophelia to end their peaceful world. He wants his God to devour all. The entire family dies except Alicia, her baby nephew and Ophelia. Ophelia runs away after attempting to save Alicia...but Alicia doesn't know that. When she wakes up she sees Ophelia fleeing.

She holds her baby nephew. She vows to rebuild his family. She will make money, so he can have the title and life he deserves. The castle has been flattened. Their parents are gone, but Alicia will not give up.

It takes ten long years. Alicia used the money in her name to open a wine business. It's successful. She has managed to keep all of her family lands. Everything is going well, but she cannot share it with her beloved family.

Ophelia has not shown her face.

Alicia despises the coward who left. Ophelia never even came to the funeral, where their shared family was buried en masse.

Alicia is captured by Nix. To add insult to injury he doesn't care about her. He plans to use her as bait, to lure out Ophelia. Alicia wakes in a nasty cell, in chains. With nothing but cult madmen for company.

She dreams, and its a nightmare.

She dreams about a book called Ophelia's Night. She is dead in that book. Nix tortures her. He uses her body, literally, to lure Ophelia out. Ophelia accidentally gave Alicia her divine powers when she attempted to save her. Alicia can survive any torture, so Nix delivers parts of Alicia's body to Ophelia.

When Ophelia finally comes Nix beheads Alicia.

Ophelias powers return to her when Alicia dies. Ophelia gets over her cowardice when she looks at the body. She attacks Nix, finally ready to sacrifice herself for once. She wins and is declared the savior of mankind.

Now Alicia knows she has powers. Great. She manages to use them to escape her cell. She uses information from the book to find Ophelia's weapon. It's a man. His name is Norman and he's an unnaturally strong paladin.

She frees him.

The first chapter is Norman swearing his eternal loyalty to his savior.

It's promising.

He seems like a really sweet guy. He is, at the very least, her slave. He wants to serve at her side forever. There are other men too, and the villains are very bloody. Norman will probably be doing massacres for her soon. Hopefully. I got the yandere vibe from the promo chapter. Right now there's not much.

#Rewriting My Tragic Ending #yandere #male yandere #yandere male #yandere boy #recommendations #recs #rec #recommended #webtoon #otome #otome isekai #isekai

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cowpokeomens · 3 months

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absolution

Pairing: Pastor!Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x fem!reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!! A looot of references to religion (it all takes place in a church, so), smut smut smut (p-in-v) I'm including dubcon bc consent is weird with power dynamics, age gaps (10 yr) (everyone is of legal age though!!), some body horror stuff, power imbalance, I think that's all but if you come across something that I missed please reach out so I can tag accordingly!!! Love u bye!!!

A/N: This was really cathartic to write lmao I have a sprinkling of Religious Trauma and this helped me work through some of those feelings in my own weird horny way. It is porn, please don't start expecting me to be some kinda respectable writer with plotlines or whatever. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS. Okay enjoy!!!!

The guilt of it is eating you alive.

The pressure between your legs- the raw, empty ache that plagues you day in and day out. Sitting on your pew, you are once again swept away by long, glossy hair and inked knuckles, turning sacred pages of a holy book that can do nothing to hold your attention at this moment.

What an impression of Christ he makes, you think to yourself, sounding hypnotized even in your internal monologue.

He arrived when you were 19, to your small town, to your even smaller church. The rest of the folks in town think your congregation is too… fanatical. You can’t imagine a world in which someone could be over-zealous for the word of God, and even so, Pastor Karlsson had done a lot to level the congregation out.

He was a divorcee, not by his choice, he has said. He was only 29 when he first rolled into town, funny accent and even funnier sounding name causing immediate distrust in your tight-knit community.

But God, did he have a testimony. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, the tattoos adorning his body told you the story better than those gaudy stained glass windows in the snobby Catholic churches ever could. A lecherous lifestyle with a woman who didn’t love him, not really - not the way you do. He had humbled himself to you all, and you gladly let him in. He was made a pillar in your community - he became a leader to the congregation.

Which is why you always suppressed your feelings, putting them in a locked sarcophagus and hurling it to the far recesses of your mind. You will not be the thing that tries to come between him and the Lord.

You look up at him as he speaks, standing at the pulpit and wielding the word of God like the Archangel Michael who so valiantly struck down Satan. He who is made in God’s image; Had it not been for your utter devotion to the Lord, you would have wondered if he could sin at all.

But you knew better. Everyone carried their own sins. You had heard stories of husbands and wives who idolized each other so much that they left the church altogether. Your heart broke at the thought of leaving God’s light to worship something as sinful as human flesh, couldn’t imagine risking an eternity of paradise for what would one day be dust.

Not that you’d know, of course. You’d never felt the touch of a man outside of when Pastor Karlsson baptized you the day before your 21st birthday. It had been fuel for weeks, his gentle hand on your back, guiding you underneath the water of the river that ran out behind the church. You had stuffed yourself full of your own fingers that night, stuffed your mouth full of bed linens so that no one would hear how you came undone at the mere thought of him.

Perhaps you are the lecherous one, after all. Though you can’t help but think that God has given you Pastor Karlsson on purpose, as a test of your faith. A test that you believed you were passing, for the most part. You haven’t missed a Sunday sermon since you caught the flu in 2021, and even so, you watched the livestreams on Facebook. You keep your nose in your Bible, and ignore the clench in your gut when he tells you good morning.

This morning is different.

This morning is worse.

You just come off of your period- disgusting and uncomfortable as it was, you are thankful it was over and you can enjoy the rest of your June in peace. But it lingers under your skin, an itch that can’t be scratched. Your emotions are raw, and you burst into tears twice this week, unprompted. Worst of all is the ache.

You didn’t know you could feel so empty. It claws at your insides like a caged beast, mockingly calling in the voice of Moloch himself, “Fill me up, fill me up.”

You threw yourself headfirst into your studies; you reviewed Ecclesiastes as a way to ground yourself, to remind yourself that this was a temporary feeling, and would pale in comparison to the absolution of Heaven.

Still, sitting in your pew, you felt the hunger gnashing at you, gnawing at your throat. It was overwhelming, all-consuming. You stutter through your hymnal, barely reading half the words. Your mother keeps giving you concerned looks, your father aloof as ever. Halfway through the sermon, she hisses in your ear, “What is the matter with you?”

You blink up at her, wide-eyed, and stammer out a “I - I don’t know. I feel… weird.”

She purses her lips, but says nothing, turning back to Pastor Karlsson in the pulpit.

You pass the time in silence, feeling itchy and hot, until the sermon concludes, and everyone makes a mass exodus to the dirt lot where their cars are parked.

“Hold on.” Your mother stops you as you begin exiting your pew.

She walks over and, to your utter horror, greets Pastor Karlsson, pulling him aside and speaking to him in hushed tones. He nods once, glancing at you, then nods again as she steps away. She looks grateful, patting his shoulder in that way that mothers do.

He looks at you then, and his full attention is enough to make you combust. Suddenly your dress is too tight on your chest, your breasts straining with every breath against the linen that encases you. Your bones itch, but your hands stay resolutely tucked into your sides, your Bible held against your chest.

You’re so busy focusing on breathing that you don’t realize he’s walking towards you until he’s right in front of you, smiling warmly while greeting you by name. Your mother is by his side, looking at you in such a way that tells you she had something to do with this interaction.

“Darling, Pastor Karlsson here wants a word with you. He even said he’d give you a ride back to the house! I’ll set aside a plate for you at home, you two take your time here.” She was smiling in a way that made all of her teeth visible, like a snarling animal. A lead brick settles in your stomach at the expression as you look up at Pastor Karlsson.

He was so tall, you think as you peer up at him. Dark eyes meet yours, making your gaze flicker away to something else- anything else to avoid the intensity you find there. Looking directly into his eyes was like looking into the maw of a starving beast- you weren’t brave enough to even consider it.

Your mother departs with a final “Wonderful sermon, Joakim, thank you!” Flashing one of her pageant smiles at him - one she’s never given your father - as she goes.

He nods politely, murmuring a quiet, “All the glory to God.” before turning back to you. He gives you a thoughtful look before he speaks again.

“Your mother is concerned about you.” His tone was not accusatory or pointed, just repeating facts.

You inhale shakily. “Yeah, I feel kind of weird today.” Admitting to such a thing is not a lie - you do feel weird today.

He nods, as if understanding. Then, “Would you like to speak in my office? I have to pick up a few things, then we can head out.”

The thought of being in an enclosed space with him made you almost pass out, but you persevere, giving a meek nod as you follow him out of the sanctuary.

It was a short walk from the sanctuary to his office, your church is small, even among small churches. You love its modesty; It is a far cry from the towering spires and flying buttresses you saw in your history books back in school, but it has a self-effacing quality that makes it approachable to people from all walks of life.

The walls are painted white, though slightly yellowed with age. Dark wood lines the floor, blue carpet cushioning your steps as you walk. There aren’t many windows - it was built for insulation, not sight-seeing, after all. Crosses hang sporadically throughout the hallways, some wooden, carved by members, others purchased at a discount at the craft stores a few towns over.

His office is a glorified coat closet, something the elders threw together haphazardly when God called him to serve. It fit a desk, a desktop computer that was older than dirt, and two chairs, one on either side of the desk. The carpet is green, the walls beige, and you have always thought it is an entirely unbecoming space for such a Godly man. It’s a good thing he was humble; God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble, you think, almost bitterly, as he sits down in the chair by the computer. You make a mental note to work on your own humility as you sit down in the chair opposite him.

“So, what’s got you feeling weird?” He asks with a small smile, putting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. His hair falls over his shoulders with the movement, cascading down in a curtain of silk. You remind yourself to breathe.

Stammering, you try to explain yourself. “I’m- I’m not sure, Pastor Karlsson-”

“Joakim.” He interrupts you gently.

You blink at him, confusion evident in your face. He must find something about the expression amusing, because he’s smiling softly and continuing, “You can call me Joakim. We’re both grown-ups here.”

You swallow loudly, the sound all but ricochets in the stillness of the room. “R-right. I’m not really sure why I feel so weird. I just had a really hard time focusing today.” You suddenly realize what you’ve said, correcting yourself quickly. “Not that the sermon wasn’t good! Your sermons are always wonderful, Pastor Karls - Joakim.”

He’s smiling broadly now, clearly entertained by your flailing. “It’s okay, käresta, I understand what you mean." A pause, then he lowers his hands. "Is there something on your mind specifically? Something that’s preventing you from focusing?”

You go still, scared to breathe too fully, lest it give you away. Your eyes slide to the ground, teeth coming out to gnaw at your lip. You can feel your heart racing in your throat- the throbbing sensation makes you wonder if you’ll actually vomit from anxiety. You freeze further when Joakim places a hand on your arm, gently.

His voice is barely audible when he whispers, “Hey, it’s okay. We all have our sins, and sin is sin -”

“- Is sin.” You finish for him, sounding unconvinced. You take a deep breath, then redirect your gaze back to him. His eyes are soft with concern, mouth pulled into the faintest frown. Hating to imagine you’re the reason he’s so upset, you blurt out before you can even process your words.

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts about a man in the congregation.” Once the words have been said, you fight the urge to grab them clean out of the air and stuff them back into your mouth.

The hand on your arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes again. “Okay.” He begins calmly, pulling his hand back to the table. You resist the urge to whimper at the loss of contact. “I can see where your concern is coming from. Is this man married?”

There were only so many unmarried men in the congregation; it would be an easy elimination if you were truthful. But... You were already coming clean about one sin, no need to add on others, you reasoned. Shaking your head in a negative, you give a meek, “No, he’s not.”

Joakim nods thoughtfully, staying silent for a moment. You can all but see the gears turning in his mind, deducing who it could be. You wonder if he lists himself amongst the unmarried men- or if he is courting some woman, unbeknownst to you all. No, your mind fired at you venomously. He is not the sort of man to slink around in the shadows.

Finally, he spoke. “While lust is never something to give full rein to, it is understandable, biologically speaking.” Upon seeing your confusion, he offers another soft smile, continuing. “You’re at an age where your body wants you to have children. It is what God made you for, it’s only natural that someone as devoted as you are would respond strongly to His plan. You’re not doing anything wrong, käresta.”

Relief floods your body, making your shoulders sag at the loss of tension. You aren’t doing anything wrong, Joakim even told you so. But that makes you wonder- is there anything you should be doing? You’re about to ask when he speaks again.

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you privately for a while now.” He huffs a small laugh. “It seems the Lord thought today would be a good time, so it shall be.”

You straighten your shoulders, sitting up, wanting to make sure he knows he has your full attention. Looking at him fully, you’re not surprised why your body is so responsive to him. He’s so handsome, even with the shadow of dark stubble on his face. You wonder what keeps him up at night, which chapters he gets stuck on for days before clarity dawns on him. It’s no mystery why your body is putting thoughts of lust in your mind; he’s the sort of man who would make a wonderful father.

You cut off that train of thought, needing to focus on the present moment. He needs your full attention for whatever he’s going to say next.

“The Lord has been communicating with me for some months now, on the topic of finding a wife.” You both take deep breaths, though for different reasons, you imagine. “You’ve heard my testimony on my previous marriage, so I don’t need to emphasize how much I’ve prayed about this.”

Your heart breaks, shatters, combusts into nothing but ash at his words. The Lord wants him to find a wife, and it sounds like he has someone in mind. You swallow the lump of bile in your throat, trying to listen to his next words as your guts fight the natural inclination to stay in your body.

“I’ve spoken to God a lot, the last few months- even by pastor standards.” The playful smile he gives you feels like a knife twisting in your chest. “And if I’m understanding his message correctly, I believe God wants me to court you.”

You’re so busy wallowing that you don’t understand what he’s said at first. The words sink in slowly, like the drip of an IV into your veins. When you think you understand, you manage a, “What?”

He chuckles, not a degrading sound, rather like he understands your confusion. “I know, it seems sudden, but I’ve been speaking to the Lord about this for many months, and-”

“Oh my goodness.” You interrupt as realization hits you like a freight train. “No - I know. I know. Because God has been speaking to me, too.”

Joakim’s brow furrows at you, and it feels nice to not be the confused one for once.

You continue, looking up at him shyly. “The… lustful thoughts I’ve been having, they-” You pause, building up your courage. “They’re about you.”

He’s frozen, mouth slightly agape as he processes your confession. His head tilts to the side slightly, eyes darker than usual as he asks, “You’ve been having lustful thoughts about… me?”

You nod, cheeks tinged pink. “When you’re in the pulpit - I try to focus, I really do, but my mind wanders to… other things.”

You should be embarrassed, should be ashamed of admitting something so unbecoming. But the comfort of this being God’s plan washes away any ill regards you have about the situation; this is what He has always intended.

“Other things?” He echoes, eyes focused on you intensely. His voice is hushed, only loud enough for the two of you to hear. “Like what?”

Your blush deepens at his inquiry. “Well, it’s more of a feeling than an exact thought…”

He’s leaning forward now, all but hanging over his desk at your words. He looks hungry, you realize suddenly; Like he’d seen firsthand the famine in Canaan, pupils blown wide, mouth open, breathing slowly. “A feeling?” He prompts.

Nodding, you find yourself leaning forward too, almost desperate to close the gap between you both. You can feel the dust in the air, hear the quiet electric hum of his old desktop computer. Your breath is coming too loudly, it ricochets off the walls around you both. “It feels like an ache.” You explain, sounding hoarse. “It feels like an emptiness.”

He takes a shaky breath, pushing himself back from his desk in a controlled motion. Standing up, he makes his way around the desk to stand in front of you, one of his calloused hands guiding your chin up to look at him.

“Do you want me to help you - with the emptiness? The ache?” He questions, eyes boring into yours.

The thought of it makes your thighs clench together, and the feeling is so delicious that you almost vocalize it. Your mouth is dry, but you feel wetness gathering in your cotton panties already. You almost forget to respond, nodding and breathing out, “Yes, please.”

“Always so well-mannered.” He praises, making you feel warm. You would do just about anything for him to keep going.

The hand on your jaw guides you upward until you’re standing in front of him. You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat emanating from his body, feel the way the air vibrates between you. His eyes travel down to your lips, back up to your eyes, then down to your lips again.

“Have you ever kissed a boy, lillis?” He asks, eyes half-lidded and voice quiet.

You shake your head, a tiny movement. “No.” You pause, then decide to continue. “I wanted to save myself.”

His inhale is sharp, deep. “Such a good girl.” The words light a fire in your belly, and the familiar gnawing is back, worse than ever before. You shift on your feet, subconsciously searching for any kind of friction. He picks up on the movement.

“Do you feel empty, now? Are you desolate?” You can feel where his breath hits your face. If you tilted your head right, your lips would meet. The clothes you’re wearing feel itchy - too tight, too rough.

You can’t speak, so you nod “yes.” His eyes run down your figure, back up again to your lips.

“Show me where.” Is his only command. You can’t read his expression fully, features arranged into careful neutrality. The spark in his eyes seemed to hint at desperation, though.

Your face is probably the color of a sun-ripened tomato, but you do as he says, grabbing his free hand, guiding it between your legs. His fingers curl up through your skirt, cupping your mound. Your eyelids flutter shut at the contact, hands coming up to rest against his chest to steady yourself. Heartbeat racing, you don’t think there could be anything better than the feeling of what’s happening right now.

“Here? Is this where you feel empty?” His lips move against your cheek, breath fanning across your ear, making you shiver.

You blink several times, trying to clear your head. “Joakim, please.” Is all you can muster, fingers gripping at his shirt.

You can feel him sag against you as his lips crash into yours. You’re not completely sure of what to do, allowing him to guide your lips open, licking into your mouth. You hear yourself groaning into the kiss, crowding impossibly closer until your bodies are pressed against each other fully.

He breaks the embrace to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck. The feeling is euphoric, making your hips buck into his without conscious decision.

Hands run down your sides, coming up again underneath your dress skirt to grip at the backs of your thighs, yanking you forward with such force that you almost topple over. His left hand is at your back in an instant, holding you steady before unzipping the back of your dress in a swift motion.

The material pools around your front, hanging loosely until you pry it off, happy to be rid of the too-rough fabric at last. His lips are back on yours in an instant, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other kneads the flesh of your breast through your bra.

You outright moan at the feeling, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip as your mouth opens to let the sound out. He works a knee between your legs, rubbing the meaty flesh of his thigh against your core in such a way that has you seeing spots in your vision. Fingers curling into claws where they grip onto his shoulders, you grind down onto his leg, an animalistic snarl escaping you as you do so.

You know this feeling; Though it’s a sin to give into lust, you’ve made yourself climax before, silently, long after everyone had laid down to rest at night. This is so much more, though - you feel as though someone has soaked you in gasoline and laid a lit match to your flesh. Nothing could have torn you from the carnal desire you felt, being entwined with Joakim like this. You want to take turns ripping each other apart, severing limbs and gluing them back together until you have both been remade in His image. You want to bite and gnaw and lick until you taste blood, to soothe the worried skin with soft whispers and softer hands. Dragged to Hell and back, nailed to a cross and left to rot, rising from the dead with such vigor that Lazarus would envy you - you wanted it all, so long as this moment didn’t end.

“Joakim - I, I -” You choke out, eyes focusing on his, foreheads pressed together.

“Good girl, give it to me, everything you’ve got.” He urged you, the hand on your neck coming down against your hip, ushering your pelvis against his thigh.

Burying your head in his chest, you climax with a wanton moan, body shuddering through the shockwaves of it. Your breathing is labored, vision blurry from clenching your eyes shut so tightly.

He’s gently prying you off his leg then, maneuvering your positions until you find yourself face-down on his desk. Using a knee, he nudges your knees apart until he fits comfortably between them. The new angle has you feeling vulnerable, visible, licentious.

You don’t have time to dwell on the feeling, because suddenly his fingers are playing with your folds through your ruined panties. Your knees almost buckle at the stimulation, so sensitive it almost hurts. Gripping the other side of the desk to hold yourself upright, you do your very best to stay still as he explores your body.

Two fingers hook into the side of your panties, moving them to the side. You know he can see everything like this, and while part of you is screaming at the debauchery of it, another, louder part of you hopes he likes what he sees. You’re fighting the urge to sneak a glance at him when the two fingers that moved your panties aside are thrust deep into your core.

You let out a howl that could rival a rabid dog, nails scraping against the wooden laminate of the desk as your hands clench into fists. He’s curling his fingers inside you slowly, and you can feel every millimeter of it. A string of drool escapes your open mouth, cascading down into a puddle on a stack of prayer requests from this morning’s sermon.

“That’s it, so good, just take it, lillis.” He murmurs, fingers still unfurling deep inside you.

You don’t know that you can do anything but take it. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, taking up twice as much space as you’re used to. You feel wonderfully full, the emptiness inside you finally satiated.

But then he’s pulling them out, and you almost sob at the loss of it. You could feel your hole clenching on nothing, throbbing with want; Whether you enjoy it or not, you aren’t even sure.

You hear a zipper, then the sound of something metallic hitting the carpet. When you turn your neck to see what’s happening, you’re met with the sight of Joakim’s full manhood on display.

You’ve never seen a man naked before. There were pictures, shown to you unwillingly by the cruel boys who called you a “Bible-thumper” in school, but this is entirely different.

Joakim is… prettier, you think is the right word. His tip is pink, almost red, and wet-looking in the glow of the fluorescent office lights. Veins bulge along the length, throbbing at you angrily as if to mock the throbbing happening within you. It’s big, you realize suddenly. You can’t begin to fathom how it’s going to fit inside you, when his fingers alone made you feel so full already.

A hand is placed at the back of your neck, holding you flat in place. The weight is reassuring, grounding in its pressure as you’re pressed fully against the desk, the cool laminate a welcome reprieve from the fever burning in your skin. You feel him press his tip against your folds, running it through the slickness there, before slowly pushing past your threshold.

“It hurts.” Is the first thing you whine, legs already trembling. It does hurt - in a sharp way, like stretching to reach your toes first thing in the morning.

You gasp as he leans over, thrusting further into you as he whispers in your ear. “Shh, I know. It’s the price we must pay for our sin.” His murmur relaxes you a bit, reassures you of what you’re doing. Joakim would not lead you astray; God had spoken to him, given him fortitude in the last months. This was His plan.

The stretch continues as he slowly slides further into you, until your bodies are joined completely. You’re panting, open-mouthed as he fills you entirely. Your toes are barely brushing against the ground from how far he’s pushed you into the desk, corners digging into your hips sharply.

A soothing hand runs up and down your spine, unraveling the muscles that have been pulled taut with anticipation. Your breathing slows, body easing around the intrusion until only the sensation of fullness remains.

Joakim pulls back then, a slow movement that has you inhaling harshly as he drags along your inner walls. Your mouth goes to ask him what he’s doing, when he slams back into you, cutting off your train of thought in favor of gargling on your breath.

“Oh my God,” You keen, eyes so wide they might bulge out of your head altogether.

A jarring slap lands against your backside, stinging skin left in its wake. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Joakim rasps, sounding as out of breath as you do.

He pulls back again, only to crash back into you a half-second later. The force of it jolts you, making you wail as your hands reach out for something, anything to hold onto. Documents and envelopes fly onto the floor in your frenzy, looking as haphazard as you feel.

He continues at an unrelenting pace, hand still firmly gripping the base of your neck from behind. You know you’re being loud; A distant part of you even registers that, given the circumstances, you should probably be much, much quieter. You can’t bring yourself to care, though, an endless chant of Joakim’s name falling from your lips as you do what you can to grind back into him.

The hand leaves your neck, coming down to grab onto your hip while his other hand mirrors the action. Your pelvis is lifted off the desk, thrusts never even pausing as the new angle drives him deeper into you. Tears spring in your eyes from the overstimulation, having climaxed only a few short minutes ago.

This is absolution, You think. Being tangled together, conjoined like this - There is no fear of sin, no guilt at succumbing to the lust-filled desires of the flesh. As Joakim plunges himself into you, over and over, you find yourself almost dizzy with relief at the weight lifted off your shoulders, the panic of condemnation a distant memory.

His arm wraps around the front of your hips, holding you in place, as his free hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head towards him.

“Say the Lord’s prayer.” He groans in your ear, breath hot and sticky. “Beg for His forgiveness. ‘Our Father-’”

“‘-Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.” You whimper, the words slipping off your tongue like muscle memory as your body is rocked back and forth by his thrusts. “‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth-” Your voice is cut off by your own gasp as he reaches something in you that you’ve never felt before. Knees shaking, you dig your fingers deeper into the mess of papers surrounding you to try and stabilize yourself.

“Keep going. ‘On Earth, as it is in Heaven.’” He urges, grip tightening on you.

“‘Give us today our daily bread,’” You continue, moaning pitifully as he drives into that same spot again. “‘And forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.’”

Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, a mixture of pleasure and overstimulation driving you mad. Joakim is mouthing at the junction of your neck and shoulder, tongue brushing over a spot that makes you shiver into him. A fire is building in your belly, lapping at the bottom of your throat as you move closer and closer to climax.

“‘L-lead us not into temp- temptation,’” You stutter, mind hazy with want. “‘But d-deliver us from evil.’”

Joakim’s voice is back in your ear. “‘For thine is the Kingdom,” A harsh thrust, “‘The Power,” Another thrust, “And the Glory forever.’”

The fire burns so hot that it rips the oxygen straight out of your lungs. Your eyes struggle to stay open, fluttering closed each time he rams into you. A particularly harsh pull of your hair reminds you that he is waiting for your response.

“Amen.” You whisper, vision going white as you climax, body twitching forcefully in his arms. His hips stutter once before he buries himself inside you, spilling his seed into you as he does.

Whether you lay there for seconds or days, you don’t know. Eventually, Joakim pulls out, a string of his release coming with him, rolling down the inside of your thighs. You whimper at the loss, still too sensitive to move.

“C’mon, käresta, we need to get you dressed. Your mother will wonder where you are.” His voice is gentle behind you, hand rubbing against your lower back to rouse you.

Your joints pop in protest as you try to push yourself up off the desk. The room is a mess of papers and scattered writing utensils, your dress nothing more than a rumpled pile of cloth on the ground.

You slip it over your head gingerly, every muscle in your body somehow sore. Joakim zips up the garment for you, running his hands over your clothed back, as if to smooth the wrinkles.

Turning to face him, you’re met with a soft pair of lips to your forehead, dark hair brushing against your cheeks. The kiss makes you feel brave as you ask, “Joakim?”

His eyes are warm as he gazes down at you, his fingers coming up to comb through your tangled hair. “Hmm?” Is his response as he works out a particularly knotted strand.

You flutter your eyelashes, a move that feels foreign, but somehow right. Looking up at him demurely, you ask, “Will you be leading tonight’s Bible study?”

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