#Scripture Press Publications

[mudwerks]

(via Mike Lynch Cartoons: Choosing Gospel-Graph Flannel Figures Book 1976)

Here's one of a series of Christian books from Scripture Press Publications, Inc. This oversized booklet is titled Choosing, and is part of its Gospel-Graph series published in 1976.

no artists credited

[nvrngl]

˚ · .˚ ༘ 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌

synopsis. law is boring. you need a break.

pairing. supernatural﹢ stanford!sam winchester x gf!reader ﹢ smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1.9K

warnings. public oral sex (m!receiving + f!receiving), fingering, praising, begging, overstimulation.

The campus library is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that tastes like dust and fluorescent lighting, and your fingers are cramping from how long you’ve been highlighting. Your back is aching. Your brain is buzzing. And Sam? He’s not even blinking. Just sitting across from you, leaned over his textbook like it's some ancient scripture.

You try to focus. You really do.

But Sam has that look on his face—the one where his jaw is clenched just slightly and there’s this little crease between his brows. His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and every once in a while, he runs his thumb across his bottom lip while reading. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

And he’s got his sleeves rolled up. Forearms on full display. His knuckles stained with ink. And you’re about to lose your damn mind.

You shift in your seat, crossing your legs and swallowing hard. Your pen taps against your notebook. Sam glances up at the sound, and when your eyes meet, you give him a soft smile. His mouth lifts at the corners, warm and knowing.

He knows.

God, of course he knows.

You scoot your chair a little closer under the pretense of showing him something in your textbook. He leans in, and the air shifts—slow and heavy, suddenly rich with something else. Your thighs press tighter together when you feel the heat of his body near yours, the way his eyes flick to your lips before dragging back up.

Your hand finds his under the table. Just a little brush of fingertips at first. Then your palm sliding against his, your fingers threading through. He squeezes your hand, and you’re pretty sure you stop breathing.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, amused.

You nod. “Just… distracted.”

He smiles, like he’s trying not to. Like he’s proud of himself for pulling you under like this without even trying. He leans in a little more. “I could help you focus.”

You bite your lip. Your heart’s already in your throat, hammering against your ribs. You know that look in his eyes. Mischievous. Hungry. Warm and dark and entirely Sam.

You exhale shakily. “Or maybe I could help you relax.”

His brows rise, and he tilts his head just slightly, watching you like you're a challenge. Like he's already imagining what you might do.

“Library’s not exactly private,” he murmurs.

You smile sweetly, voice soft and teasing. “Not the way I do it.”

That’s all it takes.

Within seconds, you're packing your stuff in a haphazard rush, shoving books and pens into your bag, giggling softly when Sam follows suit, looking way too flushed for a guy who was just reviewing constitutional law. He guides you with a hand on your lower back, the two of you weaving through the maze of bookshelves until you’re somewhere deep and forgotten—where the air is colder, the lights are dimmer, and no one ever really comes.

You turn to face him, heart racing. He’s already watching you like he wants to devour you whole.

You drop to your knees before you can second guess it.

Sam’s breath catches.

You look up at him as you reach for his belt. “Wanna be good for you.”

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s trying to keep them to himself.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, already thick with need.

You undo his jeans slowly, watching his eyes. His lashes flutter as you pull him out, already semi-hard and heavy in your palm. You stroke him gently, loving the way he starts to throb under your touch, the way his abs tense and his breath hitches.

You lean forward, lips brushing the head of his cock, featherlight.

“Don’t tease,” he groans, voice strained.

But you love teasing him. You love watching him fall apart, watching how quickly the calm, collected student disappears under your touch.

You kiss down his length first, then lick a slow stripe up the underside, watching his hand slam against the nearest bookshelf to steady himself. Then you take him in your mouth—just the tip at first, sucking softly, tongue swirling.

He moans low in his throat. His other hand finds your hair, gentle but possessive, curling around the strands like he needs something to hold onto or he might shatter.

“F-Fuck, baby—”

You hum around him, loving the way his hips twitch. You take more of him, slow and steady, letting your throat relax as you work him deeper. His breaths come sharp and ragged above you, and you can feel the tremble in his legs as you slide your hands up his thighs.

“You’re… fuck, you’re so good at this,” he whispers, voice broken, reverent. “Always know how to drive me crazy, don’t you?”

You glance up, eyes glassy, spit dripping down your chin as you hollow your cheeks and take him even deeper. His knees almost buckle. He grips your hair tighter, not to force you—never that—but just to anchor himself, to keep from flying apart.

You bob your head faster now, using your hand at the base to stroke what you can’t fit, twisting slightly as you suck, letting your tongue press against that sensitive spot just beneath the head. He lets out a choked moan, hips jerking forward before he catches himself.

“Fuck, if you keep looking at me like that—” His voice cracks. “You’re gonna make me come in like two minutes.”

That only makes you more determined.

You hum again, faster now, your rhythm slick and messy, wet sounds filling the quiet as you swallow around him. His head drops back against the bookshelf, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“God, baby—gonna come—where do you want it?”

You pull off him just long enough to whisper, breathless and sticky-lipped, “In my mouth.”

He groans like that alone almost finishes him.

Then you’re back on him, working him desperately now, hands and mouth and tongue all in sync, coaxing him closer and closer until his whole body tenses—his thighs trembling, his grip in your hair bruising.

Then he spills down your throat with a guttural moan, panting your name like a prayer.

You swallow every drop.

He’s still breathing hard when you pull off him with a soft pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes gleaming. You smile up at him—flushed, proud, glowing.

Sam stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Holy shit,” he says, still catching his breath. “That was… fuck. That was the best head of my life.”

His kiss is hungry.

You’ve barely stood up before Sam’s mouth is on yours—desperate and deep, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like he needs to feel every single place your mouth just was. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in so tight you can feel the flutter of his still-racing heartbeat against your chest.

You’re still panting, still flushed, still shaky from the way he came undone for you. But he’s already tilting your chin up, trailing kisses down your jaw, whispering against your skin.

“My turn.”

You blink up at him, breathless. “Here?”

He smirks, all dimples and blown pupils. “Sweetheart, you just sucked my soul out of my dick in the middle of a library. You really think I’m letting you walk out of here without returning the favor?”

You whimper when his hands slip under your skirt, fingers warm and possessive as they stroke along your thighs.

He backs you up until your spine brushes against the shelf behind you, cool metal against your sweater. Your bag hits the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Leg up,” he whispers, nudging your knee with his own. “C’mon, baby. Let me see you.”

You obey—dizzy and trembling, lifting one leg onto the lower shelf behind you. It opens you up perfectly for him, your panties already damp and sticking to you from how turned on you still are.

Sam kneels.

And your breath catches.

He’s looking up at you like you’re sacred. Like he wants to worship every inch of you. His hands glide up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs teasing just beneath the hem of your underwear.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. “You get off on sucking my cock, baby?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “I love it. Love how you taste. Love making you come.”

His growl is low and dangerous. “Fuck.”

He kisses your inner thigh again, then again, working higher and higher until you’re squirming, one hand flying to the shelf behind you for balance, the other tangling in his hair.

When his mouth finally presses over your soaked panties, you gasp.

He moans into you—deep and guttural—his tongue dragging slowly over the fabric before he pulls it aside with his fingers, exposing you.

“You’re dripping,” he whispers, dark eyes locked on yours. “So fucking pretty, baby.”

Then he dives in.

You choke on a gasp, your back arching hard against the shelf as his mouth finds your clit and sucks, hot and slick and so good you nearly collapse. His tongue works you with slow, filthy confidence, alternating between long licks and soft, maddening flicks.

You grab the edge of the bookshelf with both hands now, struggling to stay upright. “S-Sam—fuck—”

He hums, sending vibrations through your core, and your legs tremble.

Then he pushes two fingers inside you—so thick, so deep—curling them just right, finding that spot instantly like he’s memorized your body.

“Oh my God,” you moan, head falling back. “Sam, baby, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

His fingers thrust slow and deep, working you open while his mouth devours you. The sounds are obscene—wet and slick and echoing faintly in the silence of the stacks—but you don’t care. You can’t care.

His pace quickens. His free hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, and the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin sends shocks straight through your belly.

You’re falling apart.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, barely coherent. “You’re so fucking good at this—gonna come, baby, I—”

His fingers speed up, mouth never leaving your clit.

And then you break.

You cry out softly—biting your lip, desperate to keep the noise in—as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming and so deep. Your thighs quake. Your vision blurs. You clamp down around his fingers, still pulsing long after the peak.

But Sam doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, relentless, tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers stroke inside you, dragging every last ripple of pleasure out of you until you’re sobbing his name.

“S-Sam, oh my God, please—”

He finally pulls back, licking his lips like he just tasted something divine, and kisses the inside of your thigh with a soft, worshipful sigh.

“You always taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined.

You collapse into him the second he stands, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifts you effortlessly off the ground. He kisses you then—really kisses you—slow and messy and aching, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Can’t believe I got this lucky,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You laugh breathlessly, dizzy and blissed out. “We’re in a library, Sam.”

He grins. “Exactly. Best study break of my life.”

You nuzzle into his chest, still catching your breath as he smooths your skirt back down, both of you flushed and giggling like idiots.

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ navigation : all works ; guidelines ; let's be friends .ᐟ

[morganlism]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ let it roll, baby, roll. | trailer park!ellie williams headcannons.

︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎︎ ︎ ︎ ︎she’s got a knife in her boot, a blunt behind her ear, and your thighs memorized like scripture. ︎ ︎ ︎| ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ellie williams. ૮ – ﻌ–ა

warnings: 18+ content, cnc, strap-on use, dom!ellie and sub!reader, oral sex (giving and receiving), overstimulation, kink, praise kink, breeding kink, semi-public sex, recording (audio/video, consensual), orgasm denial, dirty talk.

heath's note: lol I uploaded this last night and when I woke up I saw that my post violated the app policies :( honestly I felt sad momentarily, I guess someone reported my post, but I don't want to draw conclusions without knowing the problem, I hope you like it just like the first post. Btw, if this au was someone else’s idea, please let me know so I can give it the proper credits.

trailer park!ellie who lives in a shitty, rust-bitten trailer on the edge of a dried-up boston, where the air smells like motor oil and cigarette smoke, but you? you're her favorite little secret, no one in the park knows about the way she keeps you up 'til 3am, legs shaking and mouth stuffed full of her fingers.

trailer park!ellie's cock? big, rude, and permanent. She wears it under basketball shorts, gray boxers, or sometimes just free under low-hung jeans, it’s veiny and mean, and she loves to grind it against your cunt when you’re too tired to fuck properly, lazy, humping little motions, "C’mon, baby. Let me in. Just a lil".

trailer park!ellie loves sex in the beat-up truck out front. The backseat smells like weed and old leather, she’ll flip you onto your stomach, window cracked, and fuck you slow while her hand presses your cheek to the fogged-up glass. Her voice right in your ear, gravel-thick: "Anyone walks by right now, they're gonna know who this pussy belongs to".

trailer park!ellie who will show up to your shift at the gas station in a muscle tee, neck covered in bite marks you gave her the night before, asking for "one blunt wrap and a taste of that attitude", she’ll drag you to the back and eat you out next to the mop bucket if you let her.

trailer park!ellie who spits in your mouth like it's a blessing, especially when you get mouthy. One hand on your throat, her other working her cock into you — slow and filthy — and when your eyes roll back, she leans in: "Open up", and you always do.

trailer park!ellie who's into freeballing at home. Dirty tank top, legs spread wide on the busted couch, cock poking up heavy and leaking. She’ll jerk it slow, eyes on you in her lap, muttering, "You gonna suck it, or just stare all day, baby?"

trailer park!ellie who smells like gasoline, weed, and heat, makes you dizzy. Makes your thighs rub together, she knows it, too. "Fuckin’ slut for my sweat, huh?" as she presses her armpit to your face and makes you beg.

trailer park!ellie who quickies behind the trailer. Bent over the plastic patio chair while the neighbor’s dog barks, no panties, Ellie’s cock already lined up, her palm muffling your moans "Gotta be quick, baby. Be good for me".

trailer park!ellie who records you, just audio. Crackling tape-recordings of you moaning, choking, crying out her name — she jerks off to them when she’s alone, or makes you listen to it on her shitty speaker while she fucks you again.

trailer park!ellie who calls you her "good girl" and her "nasty lil slut" in the same breath. She’ll fuck you until you’re drooling, and then hold your face after like you're something soft, "y'feel safe with me, huh? Even when I ruin you".

trailer park!ellie who's addicted to the way you cry when she ignores your clit. She'll fuck you slow and deep, rock her hips in a rhythm that barely gets you close. Your nails dig into her arms, whimpering for more. Ellie just grins, "not yet. I like you like this — all pathetic".

trailer park!ellie who's still inside you, cock twitching, while you lie on her chest in the shitty twin bed she's had since she was fifteen. She lights a blunt, exhales slow into your mouth, and mutters, "you're mine, you know that, right?" And you nod, cum still leaking out of you.

trailer park!ellie who gets jealous. Real fucking jealous. One look from some guy at the gas station, and she's got you shoved against the wall five minutes later, legs spread, "you smile at him like that again and I'll fuck you so dumb you forget your name".

trailer park!ellie who owns a cheap camcorder. Sometimes she props it up on the microwave while she fucks you against the kitchen counter, she talks to the camera like it's some sick audience, "look at her — takin' it so good, she's fuckin' made for it".

trailer park!ellie who wears your perfume secretly, just on her wrist or under her neck. Says it reminds her of your thighs and sometimes she'll jerk off with it sprayed on her hoodie, tongue biting her lip, muttering your name like prayer.

trailer park!ellie who doesn’t let you cum until you're crying, not out of cruelty, out of obsession. Ellie wants to see you wrecked, broken, absolutely fucking ruined — so when you finally cum, it's a sobbing, leg-shaking mess and she fucks you through it like she owns your soul.

trailer park!ellie who will fuck you while you're on the phone. Doesn’t matter who it is, she'll go slow, deep, and quiet at first — until your voice starts shaking, until the person on the other end says, "are you okay?" and you gasp out a lie while Ellie licks the sweat off your spine.

trailer park!ellie who's into filming your voice. Not just your moans — but the little stuff, your sleepy giggles, your whines, the way you say "Ellie, please" like it's a sin, she just loops it while she fingers herself in the bathtub, she came in your panties once just from that.

trailer park!ellie who loves to finger you while you're half-asleep, lazy touches, knuckles deep, lips at your neck, "go back to sleep, baby, just makin' sure your cunt remembers who it belongs to".

trailer park!ellie who calls it "feeding her ego", which means sitting on her face until she can't breathe and you're begging her to let up, she just wraps her arms around your thighs like a lifeline and mutters, "nah, you're not goin' anywhere. I'm fuckin’ starvin'".

+

trailer park heatwave:

it’s 103 degrees inside that tin can of a trailer, the AC’s busted, the fan’s making noise but not doing shit, you're half-naked in just your panties and Ellie's worn-out sublime tank, sweating through the fabric, thighs sticking to the vinyl couch.

ellie's sitting across from you, legs open, blunt in one hand, the other palming her strap under her shorts, she hasn’t touched you in hours — just watches, eyes lazy, mouth parted, cock hard and twitching where it presses against the waistband, and you beg, twice, she ignores it, she’s waiting for you to snap.

and when you do? She makes you crawl across that sticky-ass floor, sweat dripping down your back, while she spreads her legs wider, "you want it so bad? Come earn it".

you suck her off like you’ll die without it, gagging in the heat, eyes rolling, while Ellie hums all sweet and smug, pretty little bitch can't even think straight, bet your brain's fried, all that sunshine cooked it right outta you".

she fucks your throat until tears mix with sweat, then bends you over and fucks you right there on the floor — no lube, no warning, just raw and mean, moaning into the wood. "Told you not to whine, baby. Now you're just gonna take it".

possessive ellie after a fight:

you stormed out earlier. Some dumb fight about weed, or bills, or the way she let that girl at the bar touch her arm. You didn't even say goodbye — just slammed the door and vanished for hours, ellie sat on the steps of the trailer, chain-smoking, jaw tight, fuming, when you come back, she doesn’t say a word.

just pulls you inside, slams the door, and grabs your jaw hard, "you think you can leave me like that? Walk out dressed like a fuckin' slut, leavin' every guy in town wonderin’ if they can get a taste?"

her voice is low, dangerous, you try to argue — but she's already pulling down your shorts. No prep, no softness, just Ellie spitting on her cock and ramming in, possessive, brutal, her hand's on the back of your neck, pushing you down onto the mattress like she's staking her claim.

she fucks you until your voice breaks, until the fight is long gone and your thighs are shaking, and even then, she doesn't stop. Just leans in close and whispers, "you’re mine, you don't run from me, you belong to me, say it".

and you do, over and over until it sounds like worship.

© 2025 all rights reserved — morganlism. do not modify, repost, plagiarize, or claim my work as your own without permission.

[jareaufiles]

⸝⸝ FORGIVE ME, FATHER — c.novak x g!p priestess

⸝⸝ PREMISE: You took a vow of purity. A sacred life, untouched, unsullied — until Casey Novak walked into your church at midnight and made the altar her bed. She taunts your restraint with every look, every touch, and when you break, you break hard — bent over scripture, moaning her name, tasting sin like it’s salvation.

⸝⸝ WARNINGS: explicit sexual content · altar sex · religious guilt · sacrilege kink · priestess!g!p · oral sex · creampie · size kink · power imbalance · rough + emotional intimacy · semi-public setting (church) · light restraint themes · dirty talk · Casey being very smug · reader being very conflicted.

⸝⸝ WORD COUNT: 2.6K

It’s nearly midnight when you hear the heavy wooden door of the church creak open. The sound echoes through the stone hall like a whispered dare. You're standing alone at the altar, candlelight casting long, flickering shadows on the floor. The air smells like incense and wax — holy, ancient. You shouldn’t be here this late, and neither should she.

But it’s Casey.

Her heels click softly against the worn floor as she walks toward you, trench coat wrapped around her body, eyes glinting like she knows something you won’t admit out loud. She’s always like this — bold where you’re meant to be restrained, sharp where you’re taught to be soft. And lately, she’s been making it very hard to stay untouched.

You’re meant to be pure. Unclaimed. Your role, your vow, your entire life has been about denying yourself. No lovers. No release. Not even your own hand. And gods, do you try. Every night you lie in your narrow bed, staring up at the ceiling, sheets kicked off from the heat in your skin, your cock aching — swollen, heavy, rock hard — and still, you don’t give in. You clench your fists, whisper prayers into the dark, grind your hips into the mattress just enough to feel, but not enough to come. It’s torture. And it’s all because of her.

“Didn’t expect anyone to be here this late,” Casey says, her voice echoing slightly in the high ceilings. Her eyes slide over you like a caress — slow, deliberate, and far too knowing.

“I could say the same for you,” you manage, keeping your hands folded in front of you, hiding the way they’re twitching to move — to touch. She always makes you feel too much.

She tilts her head. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe a little... spiritual company would help.” There’s a tease in her voice, a curl of something darker underneath. She steps closer, far too close for comfort, the scent of her perfume curling around you like a sin.

You try to retreat, but she keeps pace, casual, calm. Like a lion stalking something it knows it’s already caught. Her fingers brush your arm — an innocent touch, on the surface — but your skin burns under it. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard.

“I’ve always liked it here at night,” she muses, pretending to admire the stained glass behind you. “Quiet. Private. No one watching.”

You swallow. She knows.

She glances back at you, one eyebrow raised like she’s daring you to pretend you don’t want her. “You look tense,” she says, stepping even closer. Her hand drags down your forearm now, slow, possessive. “You should let someone help with that.”

Your breath catches. You try to focus on the altar behind her, on the candles, the icons — anything but the warmth of her body just inches away. She’s pressed to you now, her hip grazing yours, her fingers lingering on your wrist. You can feel her. The heat of her. The curve of her breasts beneath that button-down blouse she only pretends not to leave undone. The press of her thighs when she shifts her weight.

“Casey,” you rasp, voice strained. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She leans in, lips ghosting near your ear. “And yet… you haven’t stopped me.”

You can’t breathe. Your cock is already stiffening — traitorous, eager, straining beneath your robes. You silently beg your body to behave, but she’s right there, warm and wicked and real, and you’ve denied yourself so long. You’re so tired of pretending you don’t fantasize about her — her mouth wrapped around your cock, her thighs trembling under your touch, her voice cracking as she moans your name like a prayer.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispers, and her hand — her fucking hand — glides down your stomach, stopping just short of touching you where you’re hardest. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

You can’t. Your vow was never meant to withstand her. And she knows it.

Your restraint shatters with a groan, your hands grabbing her waist and pulling her into you like gravity itself gave up trying to keep you apart. Your mouth crashes against hers — hot, rough, frantic — and she responds with a low, pleased noise, like this is what she’s been waiting for all along. Her hands tangle in your hair, and you kiss her like you’ve been starving for years. In a way, you have.

“It’s wrong,” you murmur against her lips, but you don’t let go. You can’t. You’re already sliding your hand up the back of her neck, fingers gripping like you’re afraid she’ll vanish.

Casey laughs into your mouth, breathless and wicked. “Catholic guilt? Sweetheart, you’re about ten years too late for that to scare me.”

You both strip like you’ve been lit on fire — not slow, not gentle. Your hands yank open the buttons of her blouse, baring skin you’ve only dreamed of. She tugs at your robes with trembling fingers, laughing when they catch around your hips. You pull the sash loose, and the fabric falls away, pooling at your feet.

She’s bare to the waist now, her bra shoved down around her ribs, and your mouth is on her collarbone, then lower, dragging across her chest. Her nipples are stiff, flushed, and you take one between your lips, sucking just hard enough to make her whimper.

Casey’s hands roam your body like she’s mapping it — fingers skimming your chest, stomach, then down. When she wraps her hand around your cock, you almost buckle.

You’re thick and flushed dark with need, veins pulsing beneath the skin, the head already leaking precum. Her thumb teases it, spreading it, and she hums like she’s found something sacred. You gasp when her grip tightens.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “You’ve been hiding this under holy robes? That’s almost criminal.”

You open your mouth to protest, to say something, but then she’s dropping to her knees right there in front of the altar, her hands braced on your thighs, her eyes locked onto yours with that fierce, hungry look you’ve seen in every single fantasy you’ve denied yourself.

When her lips wrap around your cock, you nearly lose it.

Her mouth is hot, wet, perfect. She takes you in slowly at first, tongue swirling, one hand stroking the base. Your hands bury themselves in her hair, and you hiss through your teeth, head falling back. The way she moans around you — like she’s the one getting off — drives you insane.

She takes you deeper, inch by inch, until her nose brushes your skin and her throat flexes around you. Your knees tremble. Her hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred times, but nothing compares to the reality of Casey Novak on her knees for you, worshipping you with her mouth like you’re the one she came here to pray to.

You feel the pressure coil low and tight, heat building, pleasure riding the edge of unbearable. You groan her name — a warning — but she pulls back, eyes wicked, lips slick with spit.

“No,” she pants. “Not like that. I want you to come inside me.”

She stands, pulling you with her, and as she peels off the rest of her clothes — her panties clinging, damp and ruined between her thighs — you see just how soaked she is. Her folds glisten in the candlelight, slick and inviting. She guides your hand down, and when your fingers slide against her, you both gasp.

“Feel that?” she whispers, voice rough. “That’s what you do to me.”

You grip her hips with trembling hands, guiding her back until her body presses against the edge of the altar. The stone is cool beneath her stomach, but her skin is burning. Her breath hitches as she braces herself, palms flat against the worn surface, back arching beautifully beneath your hands.

“Here?” she says, breathless. There’s a hint of disbelief in her voice, but her hips are already tilting back toward you. “You’re gonna fuck me on the altar?”

You press your body to hers, cock sliding between her thighs, not quite inside her yet. You reach up and brush her hair away from her neck before leaning in, lips grazing her ear.

“God forgive me,” you whisper. “Because I can’t stop.”

She groans at that — a needy, desperate sound — and then she’s reaching back, guiding you into her, her slick folds parting easily around the head of your cock. You both freeze for a second when you push in — just the tip, barely breaching her — because it’s so much, and you’ve waited so long.

She’s soaked. Heat pulses off her in waves, and she’s dripping, her arousal clinging to you, making it easier to slide in deeper. Inch by inch, you sink into her, gripping her hips tighter, until you’re fully seated, buried to the hilt inside her tight, wet heat. She gasps, knuckles white against the altar, and you groan like the air’s been knocked out of you.

She clenches around you, her body already trembling. “Fucking hell,” she breathes. “You feel... Jesus, you feel so good.”

You pull out slowly, almost all the way, then slam back in, hard. Her body jerks forward with the force of it, and her moan echoes off the stone walls. There’s nothing slow now. The restraint you’ve held for so long is gone, shattered like stained glass. You fuck her with everything you’ve got — hips slamming against hers, your cock sliding in and out of her soaked cunt with slick, obscene sounds.

The altar shakes beneath her. Candles flicker. Your fingers dig into her waist, then her back, then her shoulders — needing to hold her, ground yourself, own this moment.

Her cries grow higher, breathier. “Don’t stop,” she begs, voice breaking. “Fuck, don’t stop—please, please, I’m so close—”

You reach around, fingers sliding between her thighs. She’s soaked, her clit swollen and sensitive, and when you rub tight circles against it, she nearly screams.

“Come for me,” you rasp, mouth against her spine. “Let me feel it.”

She shatters around you with a loud, desperate cry — back arching, pussy clenching tight around your cock as she comes hard, shaking under you. The way she grips you, how wet and hot she is, how beautiful she sounds breaking apart in your hands — it rips the last of your control away.

You slam into her a few more times before you feel it crest — pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave. With a guttural groan, you bury yourself deep, your hips stuttering as you spill inside her, pulse after pulse, filling her with everything you’ve held back for so long. She gasps when she feels it — warm, thick, sinful — and pushes her hips back to take every drop.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, bodies trembling. Your hands stay on her waist as your forehead drops to the center of her back.

Casey finally breaks the silence, voice hoarse but smug. “Think the big guy’s gonna smite us for that?”

You laugh, dazed and wrecked. “If he is... it was worth it.”

You stay buried in her for a few more heartbeats, the warmth of her body wrapped tight around your softening cock, her breath still coming in shallow gasps. Her head’s bowed, hair clinging to her neck with sweat, but she’s smiling — that soft, wrecked kind of smile that says she’s somewhere between bliss and disbelief.

You lean in, kiss her shoulder, her neck, murmur her name. She hums in response, lazy and sated — but you’re not done. Not even close.

You slip out of her slowly, and she winces just a little at the loss. A thick, creamy mix of your cum and her arousal slides down her inner thigh, and your mouth waters at the sight.

“Lie back,” you say, voice rough, barely holding together. She turns her head to glance back at you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise.

“Already?” she teases, but there’s no real protest in her voice.

“Not like that,” you murmur, already gripping her waist. “I want to taste you.”

Her eyes widen slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching up in a grin — and then you’re lifting her easily, strength surprising even her. She laughs breathlessly as you set her down on the altar, body loose, legs dangling off the edge. But you don’t let her relax for long. You step between her thighs, spread them open with your hands, and look at her.

She’s soaked. Puffy, flushed, glistening with slick and your cum. Her folds twitch slightly under your gaze, like her body’s still craving more — already aching for your tongue.

“Holy fuck,” she whispers, watching you. “You’re really gonna eat me out on an altar?”

You don’t answer. You just lean in, kissing her again, slow and deep and almost too tender for what you’re about to do. Her hands come up to cradle your face, pulling you closer, melting into the kiss. Then your mouth trails lower — jaw, throat, the rise of her chest.

You kiss your way down slowly, deliberately — over her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the valley between them. You take your time, sucking a nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak until she gasps and arches into your mouth. She threads her fingers into your hair, already needy again, already aching. And you’re just getting started.

You move lower, lips tracing her ribs, her stomach. She’s trembling now, her thighs already shifting open wider as you settle between them. You hook them over your shoulders, locking her in place, and then you press your mouth to her soaked cunt like it’s the only thing on earth worth worshipping.

She cries out, hips jerking against your face, one hand flying back to grip the edge of the altar. You moan into her, tongue sliding between her folds, tasting everything. She’s warm and slick and intoxicating, your cum still thick inside her, and you lap at her like a man possessed.

You suck her clit gently, then harder, circling it with your tongue. Her moans grow higher, breathier. She’s twitching under your mouth, thighs trying to close around your head, but you hold her open, keep devouring her.

“Jesus, your mouth—” she gasps. “Fucking hell, don’t stop, please, please—”

You groan into her, and she feels it — the vibration of your mouth against her clit makes her cry out again. You fuck her with your tongue, then tease her with slow, open-mouthed kisses, pulling back just long enough to glance up at her.

She’s flushed, trembling, her lips parted, eyes dazed and hungry as they meet yours.

“Look at you,” you murmur, voice thick. “Falling apart for me.”

Then you dive back in.

You work her open with your tongue, then suck her clit again, harder this time. One of her hands clutches at your hair, the other at the altar, her whole body tensing. She’s so close — you can feel it in how she moves, how she grinds into your face now, chasing the high, moaning shamelessly.

When she comes, it’s loud and desperate — back arching, thighs clamping tight around your head, her whole body shuddering as your name spills from her lips like a prayer she never meant to say.

You stay with her through it, licking her gently, easing her down until she’s shaking with aftershocks, panting and completely wrecked.

Only when she’s finally still do you rise again, wiping your mouth, kissing her thigh.

She looks at you with half-lidded eyes, lips red and kiss-bruised, chest still heaving.

“If I knew church was gonna be like this,” she whispers hoarsely, “I’d have started coming years ago.”

You smile, dragging your thumb along the inside of her thigh.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur. “We’re just getting started.”

[bbokaricentral]

christ, I'm bout to sin again - MDNI

pꪖⅈ𝕣ⅈꪀᧁ: pastorsson!lee felix x fem!reader

part one

Ｓｕｍｍａｒｙ: part two of doing something unholy, felix starts to let go of the beliefs he once held so tightly, pulled instead by the raw, messy power of love. It isn’t clean or holy. Lust, sin, and desire blur the lines he used to live by, and for the first time, he’s not sure if he’s falling or finally waking up.

authors note: I hate this so much, and I didnt really revise or edit that much so it might be repeating with lots of spelling mistakes.

I hate this but fuck it we ball

taglist: @hanjisunnnng @taniaskibidimeowmeow1 @shortcake-whoops @skybluelixie @hwangjoanna @kexiksexik

Ɯαɾɳιɳɠʂ: religious guilt, swearing, porn with plot, semi-public, sex in church’s confessional room, head(f receiving) dom felix, praise, fingering, unprotected sex (don't be silly, wrap your willy) like two spanks , lmk if I missed anything. 

ᴡᴏʀᴅ-ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5k

It’s been months now, and Felix still carries it like a sickness in his soul.

He can feel it in his chest, tight and cold, like something hollowed out and filled with ash. He walks through his days like a man half-alive, smiling when he must, nodding when expected, but beneath it all he’s rotting. Quietly. Privately.

He has prayed—God knows he has prayed.

Morning and night, on his knees until his legs ache and his throat burns from whispering the same words, over and over. Have mercy. Forgive me. Take this from me. But there’s no thunder in response, no divine fire from heaven. Just silence. Heavy and endless.

And yet—he can’t stop.

He hates that it’s not love. If it were love, maybe he could make sense of it, twist it into something noble or selfless. But this is not that. This is flesh. Hunger. Lust, raw and vivid and burning through him like a wildfire through dry wheat. And it’s you. Always you.

He sees you and feels the fault lines in his soul split wider.

The first time it happened—really happened—he’d stared at the ceiling of his bedroom afterward with tears on his cheeks, unsure if they came from guilt or rage or both. His hands are still shaking. His mouth was full of the taste of betrayal. He hadn’t even touched you. Hadn’t spoken a word of it aloud. But it didn’t matter. In his heart, he’d already fallen.

He remembers the verse: "Anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

That line stings more than any whip ever could. He repeats it to himself like a curse, lashes himself with it, hoping maybe it will beat the desire out of him. But it doesn’t. It just bruises deeper.

He wants to be righteous. Holy. Clean in the eyes of the Lord. He wants to be the man who stands tall before the altar with steady hands and a pure heart. But he knows—God knows—that he isn’t.

What he is... is weak. Filthy. A hypocrite in a pressed shirt and polished shoes, singing hymns with a mouth that’s tasted sin.

He used to feel close to God. There was a time when prayer felt like breathing, when scripture felt alive in his chest, when the quiet moments in church felt like being held by something eternal. But now? Now it feels like God is watching him from behind a veil of disappointment. Like heaven has turned its face from him.

He sees your smile and feels like a thief in the temple.

You are kind. Good. You speak to him with warmth, with innocence. And all he can think about is the fire that rushes beneath his skin. He turns his eyes away, clenches his fists, begs for grace—but it comes anyway. The thoughts. The wanting. The heat. Like a serpent coiled around his ribs.

And afterward, when the moment passes and the shame returns like a flood, he feels unworthy to even speak God’s name.

He’s not ready for confession. Not yet. Because to step into that booth, to look into the shadowed face of a priest and admit, I have desecrated the temple of my mind with unclean thoughts, feels too unbearable. He imagines the words catching in his throat. He imagines the priest’s silence—whether merciful or stern—and it’s enough to make him sick.

He’s not afraid of punishment. He’s afraid that this is the punishment: to want, and to fail, and to keep failing. Over and over.

having denied his Lord three times—not with his mouth, but with his mind. And every morning, the rooster crows in his chest. You’ve done it again. You turned your eyes away from holiness for a passing shadow.

He fasts sometimes. Not for show, not out of pride, but because he hopes that hunger of the body might silence the hunger of the soul. He avoids you now, when he can. Comes in later, sits farther away, looks away when your pretty ____ eyes meets him. 

But it hasn’t gone away.

He wonders if this is the thorn in his flesh—the one Paul spoke of. A reminder of his frailty. A tether to humility. Or maybe it’s something darker. A sign that he’s already drifting, already sinking like Peter in the waves, his eyes off Christ, fixed instead on the storm within.

He hates what this does to him. Not just the guilt. But the distance. From himself. From God But still, every night, he returns to the floor beside his bed. The old wood cool beneath his knees. He bows his head. Closes his eyes.

And in the dark, he whispers—not with confidence, but with desperation: “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for this. Please, take it away.”

And somewhere in his heart, he wonders if God is still listening.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The church had always been a peaceful place for you. A place for reflection, calm. Lately, though, it had become something else entirely. Ever since Felix started helping out more—setting up chairs, organizing hymn books, always quietly moving around the space—you found yourself showing up more often. You told yourself it was just because you liked being involved, but that wasn’t entirely true.

There was something about Felix, something that pulled you in. He wasn’t just any guy at church—he was... different. Kind, shy, and completely unaware of how much his presence seemed to calm everything around him.

At first, you tried to ignore it. There was no way you could just waltz up to him and start a conversation, right? But as the weeks passed, you found yourself looking for reasons to be in the same room as him.

Eunchae, being your best friend and all, noticed the way your eyes lingered whenever Felix walked by.

“You like him,” she said one day, not even looking up from her phone as she casually dropped the bomb.

You sputtered, your drink nearly spilling. “What? No, I don’t!”

She didn’t even bother glancing at you. “Come on. Don’t try to act innocent. I see how you look at him when he’s not looking.”

You groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Eunchae, seriously? We’ve been through this. He’s just a guy.”

Her eyes finally met yours, full of mischief. “A guy? Sweetie, I think we both know you don’t get all flustered over just any guy.”

“Stop it,” you muttered, trying to deflect.

But Eunchae wasn’t done. “It’s okay! I’ve got a solution for you. I’m going to start volunteering at church too. You know, help out with the youth group stuff. That way, you’ll be around him more. I’m just being a good friend here.”

You blinked at her. “Wait. You’re really going to volunteer just so I can see Felix more?”

Eunchae shrugged, giving you her signature sly grin. “I mean, you’re too shy to do anything, so I’m helping you out. Plus, it’s a good cause.”

You could tell by the way she was smiling that she was enjoying this way too much. “I don’t need your help. I’ll figure it out.”

“Sure,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Keep telling yourself that. But you do need help. And I’m here for it. Anyway, I’m starting this weekend. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you found yourself volunteering alongside Eunchae that Sunday. Felix was already there, of course, moving around the church like he owned the place (in the most humble way possible). He was still the same quiet, distant figure you’d noticed before, but now you had a reason to be there.

“Okay,” Eunchae whispered as you both walked in, nudging you. “Go talk to him. You’ve been staring at him for the past five minutes, and it’s starting to get awkward.”

“I’m not staring at him!” you hissed, but you knew she was right. Felix had caught your eye a few times, and each time, you’d quickly looked away like a deer in headlights.

Eunchae rolled her eyes. “Right. Like you’re not obsessed with him. Go on. Just go say something normal. Like, ‘Hey, Felix, how’s it going?’”

You sighed and finally gave in, walking over to where Felix was adjusting some hymn books on a table. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

“Oh, hey,” he said, looking a little surprised. “I didn’t see you there.”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Hey, Felix. Eunchae and I are here to help. What do you need us to do?”

He blinked for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what needed doing, before he pointed toward a stack of chairs in the corner. “Could you set those up? That would be awesome.”

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was still going fine. You grabbed a chair and started moving it to its designated spot, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Eunchae practically vibrating with excitement as she walked off to grab more supplies.

“Just act casual!” she called out as she passed, loud enough for Felix to hear.

You shot her a look, trying to signal for her to be quiet, but she only grinned wider.

“Shut up,” you muttered, turning back to Felix. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that you were clearly in the middle of an embarrassing moment with your best friend.

Felix’s soft humming broke the silence as you worked. It was so quiet in the church, just the occasional sound of chairs scraping across the floor, and you found yourself listening to his voice—gentle and almost melodic. You couldn’t help but glance up at him again, only to catch him doing the same thing to you. His eyes quickly darted away, and his cheeks pinkened slightly.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Was he... blushing?

You quickly turned back to the chairs, your mind racing. Felix was sweet, but he was so hard to read. Was he nervous? Did he even notice you were here, or was this all in your head?

You shook off the thoughts and focused on setting up the chairs. You could feel Eunchae’s eyes on you from across the room, and you knew she was watching to see how this was going to play out.

Then, it happened. As you were moving past Felix to adjust a chair, your arm accidentally brushed against his. It was a light touch, nothing more than a quick graze, but Felix froze. You could see the shock flash across his face as he stepped back.

Before you could even apologize, he stammered, “I—I need to go get something. I’ll be right back.”

His voice sounded shaky, almost panicked, and before you could say anything, he rushed off toward the back of the church, disappearing through the door to the confessional room.

You stood there, blinking in confusion. What just happened? He barely even looked at you before he bolted. Did you make him uncomfortable? Was it the touch? You didn’t mean to—

“Dude,” Eunchae said from behind you, clearly trying not to laugh. “You made Felix blush.”

“What?” You turned around, wide-eyed. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t mean to make him blush.”

“Girl, you totally did,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual but failing miserably. “I mean, come on. He can barely talk to you without turning red. Now you touched him? He’s probably freaking out in the back right now.”

You felt your stomach twist. “I’m seriously going to die of embarrassment.”

Eunchae just grinned. “Relax. It’s cute. He likes you.”

“No way,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I messed things up.”

Eunchae was still grinning, but her tone softened a little. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s shy. But you definitely made an impression. If anything, now you know for sure he’s into you.”

You didn’t know if you believed her, but you did know one thing for sure: you couldn’t just let Felix run off like that without talking to him.

Maybe ten or more minutes pass and you abruptly say. 

“I’m going to check on him,” you said, trying to sound confident.

Eunchae’s smile turned into a teasing smirk. “Go for it. Just don’t make him run away again.”

You gave her a half-hearted glare as you made your way to the back of the church. Every step felt like it took you closer to some kind of turning point, but you weren’t sure what that would be. When you reached the door to the confessional room, you hesitated. Should you knock? What would you even say?

You raised your hand, taking a deep breath.

“Felix?” you called softly.

The door was slightly ajar, you could hear movement inside, continuous gasping and moaning..? You shook off those thoughts and called out again —louder this time but there was no immediate response. You stood there, waiting, unsure whether to go in or wait for him to come out. You ultimately choose the first option, and you  walk closer to the door and open it up.  

—  

Felix sneaks into the church's confessional room, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and guilt. He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, taking a deep breath. His cock is hard and aching, straining against his pants, begging for attention. He quickly unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down, letting his erection spring free. He starts to stroke himself, his hand moving with a desperate need.

"God, I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. He pulls his shirt up and bites down on it to suppress any sounds that might escape. His other hand grips a nearby shelf for support as he leans into his pleasure, the wood digging into his flesh.

He hears a noise outside the door and freezes, his heart pounding. The doorknob turns, and the door creaks open. He sees you standing there, your eyes wide with shock as you take in the sight of him—his hard cock, his desperate strokes, and the sheer embarrassment on his face.

Felix's world crashes down. He's caught, exposed and vulnerable. You see everything, and he can't hide his shame. His hand stops moving, and he stands there, panting and ashamed, his pants around his ankles, his shirt still in his mouth. You take a step closer, and he can see the mix of surprise and something else in your eyes—something that makes his heart race even faster. 

You stutter, "O-oh! I'm so sorry," your eyes locked on his growing hardness, lingering way too long. You ignore the soaking wet feeling in your panties, trying to focus, but fuck, what a pretty dick.

 Your thoughts race as Felix's face turns a deeper shade of red, his hands shaking slightly as he starts to buckle himself up, avoiding your gaze. "You know what? Fuck it," you murmur, stepping closer. 

"Can I help with that?" you offer, your voice huskier than you intended. His face contorts in shock, and for a moment, silence hangs heavy between you. He nods, a jerk of his head, yes, yes, yes. He releases his shirt from his mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You drop to your knees between his legs, your hands already eager to explore. You start slow, kissing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasing him, making him wait. He squirms, his hips bucking slightly, seeking more friction. 

You oblige, taking him in your hand, stroking him slowly as you lean in and lick the tip, tasting the pre-cum beaded at the head. He lets out a shuddering breath, his hands finding your hair, gripping tightly as you take him fully in your mouth.

Felix's a head pusher, alright, thrusting his hips up to meet your mouth, fucking your throat with abandon. You relax, taking him deeper, your nose buried in his pubic hair, inhaling his musky scent. He tastes so fucking good, and the sounds he's making are driving you wild. 

You moan around him, the vibration making him cry out, his grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain. "You feel so fucking good, ___," he grunts, his voice strained. "Your mouth is perfect." You hum in response, your hands roaming his body, squeezing his balls, tracing the vein on his cock. He's close, his body tensing, his breaths coming in short gasps.

With a final thrust, he comes undone, his hot seed spilling down your throat. You swallow every last drop, looking up at him with a smirk, his cock still pulsing in your mouth. He helps you up, his hands shaking as he cradles your face, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your lips. 

"Fuck, ___," he whispers against your mouth. "You don't know what you do to me." You smile, your body already aching for more. He spins you around, bending you over the nearest surface, his hand cracking down on your ass. You yelp, more from surprise than pain, your pussy clenching at the sensation.

He enters you from behind, his cock filling you completely. He starts to move, his hips slapping against your ass, his balls hitting your clit with each thrust. You're so wet, so ready, your body meeting his thrust for thrust. He leans down, his voice a deep growl in your ear. "You're so fucking tight, ___. Your pussy feels amazing." He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. You're close, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. 

"That's it, ___," he encourages. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock." 

With a cry, you do, your body convulsing as you squirt, your juices running down your thighs. He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you. He spanks you again, the sting of his hand on your ass heightening your senses. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, your body already building towards another orgasm.

He pulls out suddenly, flipping you over, his cock poised at your entrance. "I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. 

"Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your ass, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "I think I'm in love again." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning.

Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you.

Felix rolls you over, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, making you arch up into his touch. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer, needing to feel him inside you again. He obliges, positioning himself at your entrance, and sliding in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. 

You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you, drawing out your orgasm, making you see stars.

He flips you over suddenly, his cock still inside you, his hands gripping your hips tightly. He starts to pound into you, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper, harder. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "Fuck, Felix," you cry out. "I'm gonna come again."

 "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. He pulls out suddenly, flipping you over, his cock poised at your entrance. 

"I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. 

You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. "Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your tits, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "You're amazing." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning. Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. 

You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you.

He rolls you over, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, making you arch up into his touch. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him closer, needing to feel him inside you again. He obliges, positioning himself at your entrance, and sliding in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. 

You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. 

"That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that pussy milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. 

He doesn't stop, his cock still hard, still moving inside you, drawing out your orgasm, making you see stars. He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, heightening your senses, making you feel like you're going to explode. 

"Fuck, Felix," you cry out. "I can't take it. It's too much."

 "You can take it, ___," Felix grunts. "You're a good girl. Come for me again." 

With a scream, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you. 

He pulls out suddenly, his cock poised at your entrance. "I want to see your face when you come again," he says, his voice a deep growl. He enters you slowly, his eyes locked on yours. You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper, faster. "Harder, Felix," you beg. "Fuck me harder." He obliges, his hips moving faster, his cock filling you completely. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me again. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock. He pulls out at the last second, his cock in his hand, stroking it quickly before coming all over your stomach, marking you as his.

He leans down, kissing you softly, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck, ___," he whispers. "You're incredible." You smile, your body sated, your heart full. You kiss him back, tasting yourself on his lips, knowing that this is just the beginning. Your hands explore his body, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the sweat that glistens on his skin. He shivers under your touch, his breath hitching as you scrape your nails lightly down his back. 

You can feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own. He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. You can feel his cock already hardening again, pressing against your stomach. You smile, grinding against him slightly, loving the feel of his hard length against you. He flips you over suddenly, his body covering yours, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, squeezing your ass, spreading your cheeks, his finger circling your tight hole.

 You moan into his mouth, your body arching up into his touch, urging him to explore further. He obliges, spitting on his finger, and slowly inserting it into your ass, making you gasp at the foreign sensation. 

He starts to move his finger in and out, scissoring it, stretching you, preparing you for his cock. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps. "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Relax and take it. You're doing so well." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your ass clenching around his finger, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you.

 He pulls his finger out, positioning his cock at your entrance, and slowly slides in, inch by inch, filling you completely. You moan into his mouth, your nails digging into his back, urging him to move faster, harder. He starts to thrust, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. You can feel another orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths coming in short gasps.

 "That's it, ___," he grunts. "Come for me. Let me feel that ass milk my cock." With a cry, you do, your body convulsing, your ass clenching around his cock, your juices squirting out, soaking both of you.

—

After that freaking scene you both left the confessional room and were making your way back. 

Fuck what were you going to say to the other volunteers…

Felix hesitates breaking you out of your thoughts, fidgeting with his hands as he glances at you. "D-did I do good?" His voice is soft, almost vulnerable, like he’s waiting for a verdict.

You turn to him, still trying to shake off the adrenaline from the whole experience. "Of course you did, Lixie!" you reassure him, your voice warm, even though your heart's still racing a little, your lipstick smudged, your sundress no longer perfect and ironed and let's not talk about your hair.. 

Felix’s shoulders relax a fraction, but there's still uncertainty in his eyes. "Phew... I thought I’d totally mess up on my first time..."

Your eyes widen in disbelief, and you stop walking for a moment to look at him. "That was your first time?!"

—

[faithsmadhouse]

Devine— Angel!Daniel Ricciardo x fem!Reader

Summary—Daniel Ricciardo is an angel—but you make him fall. He’s not supposed to want you, not supposed to touch you, and certainly not supposed to fuck you like it’s salvation.

Warnings— Explicit Sexual Content (18+) Religious Themes / Blasphemy angelic kink, desecration of sacred imagery, sex in a chapel Divine/Forbidden Kink angel x human dynamic, holy hands doing unholy things Praise & Degradation Kink (Mild) Wings/Wingplay Power Imbalance (immortal/angelic being + mortal reader) Obsession/Reverence Themes Rough Sex / Semi-Public Setting (ruined chapel) Consensual but Intense Language Sacred Corruption / Religious Imagery During Sex

Word count—962

A/n—this is my edition to my 1k celly

You know you shouldn’t touch him.

But you crave him like communion.

Angel or not, Daniel Ricciardo is temptation wrapped in golden light and something darker coiled beneath. His eyes are too knowing, too soft around the edges, but there’s hunger in them that makes your knees weak. That makes you wonder if Heaven ever taught him how to want—or if he learned that with you.

“Say it again,” he says, voice low and cracked around the edges.

Your hand is already on his chest, palm flat against his heartbeat. “I want you,” you whisper.

The words hang between you like incense, thick and impossible to ignore.

His jaw clenches. “I shouldn’t want this,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t want you.”

But his wings twitch, feathers rustling in warning no, in yearning and then he’s cupping your jaw like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, reverent and trembling.

“You have no idea,” Daniel breathes, “what you do to me.”

You kiss him like it’s prophecy.

And when he kisses you back God, it’s ruin. His mouth is hot, demanding, and the moan that spills into your throat is something sacred turned profane. His grace pours into your skin where he touches you, seeping under your ribs, making your blood thrum like a hymn.

“I’ll fall again,” he groans, “I swear I will—fuck, don’t look at me like that—”

You’re already arching into him, fingers sliding down his hips, reaching for his belt.

“You’d fall for me?” you tease, even as your voice shakes.

“I already did.”

He lifts you like it’s nothing. Like you’re already halfway to Heaven, legs wrapped around his waist, back pressed to the wall of the ruined chapel he hides you both inside. His wings stretch wide behind him, glorious and gold-dusted, before curling forward shielding you from the world. Shielding Him from you.

“You taste like sin,” Daniel growls against your throat. “And I want every drop.”

He grinds up into you, thick and hard through his trousers, and you whimper, grinding back. “Then take me.”

He freezes.

“No,” he whispers, breath shuddering. “Not like that. Not fast. I want to bless you, slowly. I want you to feel how holy this is.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Then do it. Bless me slower.”

His groan is animalistic. You swear you hear something crackle his grace, restraint, his very soul splitting at the edges.

Daniel peels your clothes away like they offend him, like every inch of bare skin is another test from God he’s determined to fail. He kisses your collarbone like it’s sacred. Bites your thighs like they’re his last meal. His halo dims behind him, flickering gold over the curve of his shoulder.

When his mouth meets your cunt, it’s not lust it’s devotion. He moans like he’s grateful, tongue working slowly, methodically, like he’s reading scripture from your skin.

“Sweet fucking Heaven,” he gasps, lapping at your clit until your legs shake. “You’re divine.”

You shudder. “You—you shouldn’t talk like that—”

He looks up, mouth glistening. “Why not? You are divine. You were made for this—for me.”

You should rebuke him. Tell him he’s broken something sacred.

But instead, you drag him up and kiss the blasphemy from his mouth.

He fumbles for his belt, cock already thick and flushed, dripping at the tip as he strokes himself between your soaked folds. The stretch is unbearable as he pushes into youlong, hot, perfect and your head falls back, hitting the cold stone wall with a dull thud.

“Daniel—” You choke. “Too much—”

“No,” he groans, gripping your hips tight. “It’s just enough.”

His wings cage you in, trembling with every thrust. Each snap of his hips is slow and full, dragging every nerve in your body closer to collapse. You cling to him, trembling, as he kisses your temple, your cheek, your lips like he can hold you together even as he tears you apart.

“You’ll never pray the same again,” he whispers, voice gone to gravel. “You’ll think of this every time you close your eyes. Of me—fucking you full.”

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Say it again.”

“I want to fuck you full of grace. I want you leaking it—leaking me.”

You feel the pressure cresting hot and holy, white-hot behind your eyes.

Daniel slams into you, deep and brutal, as his voice breaks on your name. “I’d burn in every circle of Hell just to feel you come.”

You fall apart like something sacred. A cracked vessel overflowing.

He follows you down, hips stuttering, breath ragged as he empties inside you with a growl. His wings flutter violently, curling around you both as he sinks to his knees still inside you, still trembling.

You cradle his head to your chest, both of you panting, slick and ruined and wrapped in the faint glow of something too divine to name.

“You good?” you whisper into his hair.

Daniel lets out a shaky laugh. “Good? I just fucked salvation. I’m perfect.”

You chuckle, fingers running through his curls.

And still, his wings never leave you. Draped over your back like the weight of a blessing you were never meant to carry.

[er1nne]

…INTRODUCING INTERVIEWER!READER

ᝰ.ᐟ⋆°•☁︎

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER is all soft sweaters, warm skin, and a brain that never stops observing. she’s always got her headphones half-on and her mind half-somewhere else—looping film scores like prayers. her mornings start with crossword puzzles and the perfect cup of coffee (extra cinnamon, no sugar, just right), and if she doesn’t get either, the day feels wrong. ⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who actually has a fear of too much attention.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER she’s not a romantic—she thinks love is messy and a little inefficient—but that doesn’t stop people from falling for her anyway. it doesn't help that she's a bit flirty too. oh well. she gives off the girl-next-door energy that lingers in rooms long after she leaves. she’s calm, until she isn’t. she’ll fight you if she has to, and she won’t miss. maybe because she’s so pretty it doesn’t feel fair. so pretty it hurts.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER her ADHD is through the roof—she’s forgetful, scattered, talks with her hands, and loses everything except her passion. she jumps from idea to idea like it’s a game of hopscotch, and somehow she still lands on her feet. hyperfocuses for seven hours straight without blinking, then forgets to eat. reads movie scripts like scripture, leaves voice memos in the middle of the night about film ideas, quotes dialogue during arguments by accident. (“it’s not personal, it’s just structure.⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who loves crossword puzzles because they give her just enough chaos and just enough control. she wears oversized headphones in public even when they’re off even though secretly she's listening to Summer Walker. keeps Polaroids in her back pocket like receipts. her signature scent is cinnamon, caramel macchiato, and clean laundry warm from the dryer. soft. toasty. unforgettable. ⌝

⌞ INTERVIEWER!READER who never meant to end up on red carpets, but found herself there anyway. interviewing people when she wanted to be the people. making a career from the sidelines while secretly storyboarding her own future in the margins of every press pass she’s ever worn. she’ll lose her keys, forget what day it is, talk through a scene while pacing the room barefoot. but she feels everything deeply. knows when a shot is right just by instinct. and when it’s time to show up, she does—sharp, on time, and locked in. ⌝

—

INTERVIEWER!READER WORKS

interviewing drew for queer the interview with drew goes viral unexpected encounters

inspired by @rafesangelita

comment if you’d like to be tagged for this series

last updates, May 10th, 2025

[jvnluaa]

“To Love the Void”—A Life with Chrollo Lucilfer

Your marriage to Chrollo Lucilfer does not begin with a kiss.

It begins with a choice.

A gaze across a blood-slicked floor.

A voice that spoke like scripture unraveling in the dark.

A hand outstretched—not to save you, but to ruin you beautifully.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

He said:

“There is a place beside me. Cold, yes. But eternal. Come, and I will make you part of the story.”

And you went.

Because some people don’t fall in love.

Some people drown in it.

─────────────────────────

Morning in the House of the Spider

The room you wake in is not warm.

Minimalist. Stark. High windows where moonlight lingers far longer than sunlight dares.

He sleeps next to you like a king fallen from grace—shirtless beneath black silk, pale skin against ink-dark sheets, a rosary still looped around his wrist. He doesn’t sleep often. But when he does, it is near you. Always near you.

Chrollo wakes with no startle.

No groggy disorientation.

Just presence.

His eyes open, and they see you—truly see you. As if he’s trying to memorize your soul before the day strips it from you.

“You’re awake,” you murmur.

He leans forward, presses his lips against your collarbone, lingering like a prayer.

“Of course. I dreamt of you.”

He doesn’t mean it romantically.

He means it philosophically.

You are his dream.

His obsession.

The last thing in this world he cannot dissect or fully predict.

─────────────────────────

The Way He Moves Through the Day

Chrollo moves like a man who owns every room—but mourns each one he walks through.

He’s always in black.

Not for fashion.

But because he considers mourning a lifelong discipline.

He reads before speaking.

He watches people like a god amused by ants.

But around you?

There’s a reverence in his gaze.

He touches the small of your back lightly in public. Not to show affection, but to remind you: You are not forgotten. You are always known. Always claimed.

The Phantom Troupe often watches you two in silence.

They don’t understand how he can kill with a smile one moment, and hours later, sit beside you with his head in your lap, quoting ancient texts about fate, entropy, and the meaninglessness of life… with his fingers tangled gently in yours.

But they don’t need to understand.

They just accept:

He doesn’t bleed for them.

He bleeds only for you.

─────────────────────────

When He’s Gone

When Chrollo leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye.

He leaves a page open in one of his worn books. A message hidden in poetry. A single glove folded over your favorite mug.

He disappears for days. Weeks.

You don’t question it.

Because you understand the paradox of loving Chrollo Lucilfer:

You are both everything to him—and nothing.

You are the final tether to something real, and yet he could vanish into the void at any moment without looking back.

But when he returns?

He never walks in.

He appears.

Black coat, blood-slick boots, eyes void of guilt.

And always—always—he says:

“I missed you. Or at least, the shape your presence makes in the silence.”

He doesn’t ask if you missed him.

He already knows.

─────────────────────────

When He Touches You

Chrollo is not rough.

He is precise.

His fingers trace your throat like a sacred path.

His hands are cold, always, but they warm only for you.

When he kisses you, it’s not with lust.

It’s with thought.

As if each movement means something. As if each brush of lips is one verse in a holy text only the two of you understand.

He whispers things like:

“If I lost you, I wouldn’t rage. I would simply burn the world in silence.”

“Your heartbeat is the only rhythm that breaks through the noise.”

“You are the only variable I never wanted to control.”

He does not possess you.

He includes you—in his madness, in his rituals, in his universe of scripture and slaughter.

And when you say his name—truly say it, with devotion, not demand—his eyes close, and for one moment, the chaos in him quiets.

─────────────────────────

Night – Ritual, Power, Worship

You once asked him why he sleeps beside you when he could be anywhere, alone in the dark, building plans inside his head.

He answered:

“Because gods do not sleep. But men do. And I want to remember I am still human while I have you.”

He doesn’t hold you like a lover.

He surrounds you like a religion.

One arm draped over your waist.

Fingers ghosting your pulse.

Always listening for your breath.

Always tracking your dreams.

Sometimes he wakes before you, watching.

Always watching.

Reading you like scripture.

And when your eyes meet his, he doesn’t smile.

He says, softly:

“You’re still here. Good.”

─────────────────────────

To Love Chrollo Means…

Accepting silence over promises.

Being the one place he returns to after death dances in his shadow.

Being quoted poetry instead of affection.

Watching him kill and knowing he does it with full control—and no regret.

Feeling his gaze like a cathedral collapsing over your body.

Knowing he would destroy everything if the universe took you.

But most of all?

Being the only thing he cannot understand.

And yet, the only thing he cannot be without.

─────────────────────────

Final Whisper Before the Next Chapter

One night, he murmurs against your bare shoulder:

“I was never supposed to belong to anything but death. But now you sleep beside me—and I fear I have become real.”

And you answer:

“Then let me be the only lie you ever believe.”

And in the dark, you feel him smile—for the first time in weeks.

[p0orbaby]

If your still doing blurbs, could I request something with Leah x Reader, Leah being drunk, like smashed, could literally be anything.

-

It starts with “just a couple of drinks” at some fancy bar Leah swears up and down she won’t enjoy. She’s not even supposed to be drinking—training starts Monday—but someone ordered tequila shots, and Leah has the willpower of a toddler in a sweet shop.

By the time you show up to collect her, she’s perched on a stool, gesturing wildly about something to Katie, who’s cackling like a banshee. Leah spots you instantly.

“Baaabe!” she slurs, nearly toppling off the stool in her enthusiasm.

Katie snorts. “She’s all yours”

You sigh, already sensing this is going to be a long night. “Leah, what did we say about tequila?”

“That it’s the devil’s drink,” she says solemnly, like she’s reciting scripture. Then she grins. “But I tamed the devil!”

She has not tamed the devil. She’s lost a very public battle with it.

You take her arm, but she’s too busy rummaging in her pocket. “Wait, wait, I got something for you”

“Oh, God”

She produces a crumpled napkin with what looks like someone’s phone number scribbled on it. “This guy tried to chat me up,” she says proudly. “I told him I had a girlfriend who could bench-press him”

“Romantic,” you deadpan, shoving the napkin back in her pocket.

Leah grins. “You’re welcome”

The walk home is even worse. She insists on stopping every five minutes to either a) pet a dog, b) tell a stranger they have “great vibes,” or c) try to climb something.

“Babe, get down,” you hiss as she attempts to scale a lamppost.

“I’m reclaiming my childhood!”

“You’re going to reclaim a concussion”

Eventually, you manage to bundle her into a taxi, where she spends the entire ride insisting the driver “looks just like Pep Guardiola” and trying to play footsie with you despite the fact that you’re sitting next to each other.

When you finally get her home, she collapses onto the sofa dramatically. “I’m starving,” she announces.

“You’ve had chips and a kebab,” you point out.

“I could eat again”

You leave her to wrestle with her hunger demons while you grab a glass of water and some paracetamol. When you return, she’s lying flat on the carpet like a starfish, mumbling about how the ceiling is “so big.”

“Alright, lightweight,” you say, kneeling beside her. “Time for bed”

“Can’t move,” she moans. “Floor’s my home now”

You roll your eyes but eventually manage to coax her into the bedroom. She flops onto the mattress with all the grace of a bag of wet cement, immediately trying to pull you down with her.

“Leah, you smell like a distillery”

“But I love you,” she says, her voice muffled by your shirt.

You can’t help but laugh. “I love you too, but you’re sleeping on your side. I am not cleaning up after you if you puke”

She grumbles something unintelligible but lets you tuck her in. By the time you turn off the light, she’s already snoring softly, one arm flung over your waist.

[midnightquips]

Something Like Salvation

Owen Taylor x Reader

Summary: You visit home reluctantly, only to find Owen Taylor has returned. But some things are different now. No longer are you the obedient girl nor is Owen Taylor the pious golden boy. In quiet corners and long drives, you chase something warm and reckless. It may not be redemption... but for Owen, you felt something like salvation.

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, religious guilt & themes, explicit sexual content, nsfw, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, semi-public sex, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Please note that this is set in a universe the Jem Starling DOES NOT exist. Owen is also NOT married here. Although I set this to be in a 2nd Person POV, my entire intention is to establish that Y/N is a full-grown adult.

💫 Something Like Salvation Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 4: Deliver Us

It happened fast.

You were just outside the back of the chapel, tucked between the brick wall and the church’s long-forgotten storage shed. It was supposed to be a quick goodbye. One more kiss before you both returned to your separate, practiced lives. But then a door creaked open. 

One of the older women from the congregation stepped outside. It was Sister Marianne, the one who always wore florals and carried gossip like scripture. You saw the pause in her steps. Her eyes narrowed, gaze dropped to your swollen lips, making it apparent she noticed how close Owen’s body was pressed to yours.

She didn’t say anything though, just turned back inside with a knowing flick of her skirt.

But the silence that followed felt thick with doom.

In the car, Owen stalled starting the engine right away. His hands were gripping the wheel, knuckles white. His leg bounced once, sharply. Then blurted.

“We can’t do this,” he said.

You felt the irritation stir in you, before you turned to him slowly. “We already did.”

“Not like that. Not where people can see.” 

“I wasn’t the one who kissed you out in the open.” 

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t thinking.”

You looked out the window. “That’s obvious.”

The silence between you stretched long and loud, but you hear the walls of your pretend days slowly crumbling. Brick by brick. 

He hadn’t meant to pull away from you or the version of himself he was finally starting to like. The version of him that was freer, unraveled, a little braver. But the moment he saw the flicker of recognition in Sister Marianne’s face, he felt something old and ugly twist in his chest.

Fear. Shame. The voice that still sounded like his father’s saying, you’ve ruined everything. It all comprised the anchor that continued to bind him and it felt heavier than ever.

He truly desired to want more. He wanted to say yes, to leap, to believe that he could leave this place and not unravel entirely. But he didn’t know how. And worse, he didn’t know if he truly wanted to let go of everything he’d built his identity around.

So he stayed quiet, letting silence fester where words should have gone. 

And he could only hope that you couldn’t see how much he hated himself for it.

You didn’t hear from him the next day and it didn’t surprise you. 

But when you decided to get some sandwich in town, he passed you by on the street and barely nodded. And that’s when it creeped it. The shame. Not for what you’ve done, but for almost believing he could set himself free.

You pull up at the gas station and a woman you didn’t know — tall, tidy, the type who probably memorized Bible verses to win arguments — muttered loud enough for you to hear.

“Some girls are really just walking temptations by Satan.”

You turned and met her gaze dead on. She looked away as you stared her down. 

But the words were enough to trigger the ache in your chest and it hardened into something sharper.

You began writing again. Not for anyone else. Just for yourself.

You’d pulled out your laptop, the one still covered in stickers and scratch marks from Austin, and started typing. Once it started, it kept flowing. Everything about being home, about what this place tried to erase. About him. About you. About how easy it was to lose yourself here if you weren’t vigilant. About the version of you that was vanishing again, piece by piece.

And it actually helped somehow. But it didn’t stop the gnawing ache that something was unraveling.

Then the dawning realization seeped in, that this wasn’t just about love anymore, it was about the survival of the person you’ve become.

When he finally did text, it was a short message, no punctuation. It was after dark and you found yourself not even wanting to respond. 

And when you finally did, he asked you to meet at the same secret spot you first rode him. But it didn’t feel special anymore. It felt tainted. Especially by the way he kept looking back behind your head, as if he hadn’t pushed you enough behind a tree to hide. 

It felt like he’d shoved your entire story into a dark drawer and only opened it when no one else could hear.

You don’t beat around the bush, looking at him directly. “I didn’t come back to disappear.”

He flinched at your words.

You stepped closer. “You said you wanted to leave. That I made it feel possible. Was that just something you said to get me into bed?”

He looked at you, pained and pleading. “No. I meant it.”

“But now?”

His voice cracked. “I–I don’t know.”

You swallowed, throat tight, but your silence tugged at the tension between you. 

“I’m trying,” he added, desperate. “But every time I think about leaving, I wonder if I’ll survive it. If I’ll still know who I am.”

It was only a few seconds but Owen felt you’d been silent for hours. 

Then you spoke softly but clearly, “My time here is running out.”

His breath caught.

“I have a life out there. One I built from scratch. And I won’t lose it for anyone… Not even for you.”

You took a steadying breath. “This… whatever it was… maybe it was just an experience for both of us. Something that felt real in the moment.”

He looked like he wanted to argue and his fingers itched to reach out. But he did neither. 

You finally stepped back. “It was silly of me to think you’d be brave enough to leave.”

And maybe it’s true that he’s hurting and that he’s trying, but it wasn’t enough and you weren’t going to bleed for him anymore. Not when you worked so hard on your own learning how to heal.

He didn’t follow you when you walked away. His feet kept him mounted to the ground.

And this time, it was okay because you didn’t look back.

The whispers only took another day.

By Sunday morning, you could feel the weight of it. The glances turned to stares, conversations that stopped as you walked past. Sister Marianne’s gaze followed you like a shadow through the sanctuary. She didn’t have to speak, because the judgement was already so loud. 

Everyone there knew who the sermon was about. And almost makes you laugh at how ironic that the first and last sermon you heard from this place was about you.

“You heard what they’re saying, right?” your sister asked, catching up to you by the car.

You didn’t answer.

“People are talking, Y/N. Loudly.”

“I know.”

“They’re saying it’s you and Owen.”

You leveled your gaze at her. “Is it that surprising?”

She frowned. “You’re not denying it?”

You opened the car door. “I’m not going to lie just to make people comfortable.”

It took another day for Owen to be called in by the elders. The texts between you have ceased and so he couldn’t even tell you. It was your sister who did and despite the previous night, you found yourself rushing to him, waiting behind the chapel after evening prayer.

“What happened?” you asked without hesitation

His expression tightened, eyes avoiding. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“That’s not an answer.” You pressed, voice firm.

“They just... wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” You crossed your arms. “Owen.”

He exhaled hard. “They asked me to step back. For now. Until things... settle.”

You stared. “Because of me.”

“They didn’t say it directly.”

“They didn’t have to.”

You walked away with only more proof that the time to leave was imminent.

He felt the squeeze in his chest while he watched you leave. As he leaned against the brick wall of the church, he could still hear their voices, could still see the curve of Sister Gwen’s frown, the way Elder Thomas laced his fingers together like a man preparing to pass judgment.

“This isn’t about punishment,” one of them had said, like it made it more believable.

But he knew this was. Specifically when they spoke about moral responsibility, about optics, about “what the youth might think,” they meant her. They meant you.

He wasn’t repentant at all, but he despised himself for not defending you. It wasn’t because he couldn’t, but because defending you would have been admitting it. And that would’ve meant giving you up in front of them. Making what was sacred between you into something they could crucify. And that he could never let them do.

So he sat, nodded, swallowed and folded into himself. And hated how easy it was to fall back into obedience. He hated even more that he couldn’t be like you or even ever be good enough. You were fierce, unwavering, already halfway out the door with a world waiting. He was still tethered to a version of himself he didn’t even like, too afraid to burn it all down.

You had chosen yourself. Time and time again. And he admired that. God, he envied it.

But he couldn’t tell you that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Owen’s body was on autopilot. Driving to your house after sulking at the back of the church. Already there before he could stop. Texting you he’s outside your house. He didn’t expect you to come out but you did and when he allowed himself to look at you as you walked toward him, he realized his breath still stopped at the sight of you.

Once you were in the car, he admitted to you what happened. Or at least the gist of it. Inside, he’s ashamed because after all that he lacked in action, he still had the audacity to look to you for some semblance of comfort. You only stayed silent.

He stopped short, shoulders tense. “Y/N…”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”

“You mean you didn’t want them to know how far it’s already gone.” You accuse.

He looked away. He couldn’t explain. You didn’t have to deal with the mess in his brain.

You shifted closer, with a decisive look. “Come with me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours. He expected the opposite, but this made his heart beat faster.

“I mean it,” you press. “Come with me. Let’s leave. Tonight.”

One of his hands rubbed his knee nervously while the other held the wheel tightly. He didn’t speak for a long time when finally: “It’s not that simple.”

Your face went blank. “Yes, it is. You just don’t want it to be.”

He reached for you, but you pulled away instantly. Like his touch would poison through contact. Maybe it already did. 

“You can’t ever expect me to stay,” you said. “Not when you don’t even want to. You’re just too afraid to leave.”

“Y/N, I just... I need time. I’m not ready.”

You felt something in your chest fracture. The last air of hope fizzing through the cracks.

“I see that now. Perfectly clear.”

He tries to reach out again. “Please.”

But you shook your head. “I refuse to keep chasing a version of you that only shows up in the dark.”

He stopped arguing because that hurt more than anything.

You entered your home and found your mother in the kitchen, standing by the sink with the lights off. Only the blue of early dusk filtered in through the window, painting everything in that hollow in-between gray. Your mother stood hunched over the counter, scrubbing a glass that had been clean minutes ago, her knuckles tight from the same motion over and over.

“I’m leaving,” you said, voice calm. Final.

She didn’t look up, just kept scrubbing.

“So that’s it?” she said, tone clipped. “You come back, stir up a mess, and then run again?”

You stepped farther into the room, making the old linoleum squeak under your feet.

“I didn’t come back to stir anything,” you replied. “I came back to rest. And I never ran. I left.”

“Then why,” she said, finally setting the glass down, “does it smell like sin every time you walk through the door?”

That landed hard. The air between you grew brittle. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let her see the crack.

“Then maybe…” you said softly, “you should open a window.” 

She turned toward you then, slow and deliberate. Her eyes were cold, narrowed. Her hand trembled, still holding the dish towel like a lifeline.

“I raised you better than this.” 

You shake your head gently, light scoffing. “You raised me to be quiet. And obedient. And ashamed. And I unlearned every bit of it the second I left.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. The clock ticked behind you. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe creaked.

“So you think you're better than all of us now?” she asked with disdain, baiting you with words

You held a gaze as steady as your voice. “No, but I know I deserve better than this.”

You were somewhat thankful that you’ve already started packing the past few days. You were finalizing things when your sister stepped into the doorway. She leaned against the frame like she didn’t want to fully enter, afraid of what it would mean if she did.

“You’re really going?” she asked quietly

You zipped your suitcase. The sound sliced through the stillness.

“I can’t stay,” you said

She hovered there, arms crossed over her chest like a shield. Her eyes shimmered with something between guilt and longing.

“You could wait,” she said. “Just a little longer.”

You turned to her, voice softer now. “For what? For this place to stop being what it is?”

She stepped inside. A single step. “No. Maybe… For me. Because I’m also scared of leaving and not knowing who I am out there. Of not belonging anywhere. Of being alone.”

You feel your heart break for her. Because you knew the exact feeling before you left. You were her.

You walked over and took her hand. “I know. I was too. But just know, staying here won’t keep you from feeling lost. It’ll just convince you you’re supposed to be.”

She swallowed hard as her grip tightened.

“But when you’re ready,” you assure, “find me.”

“You’ll be there?” she whispered.

“Anywhere… As long as it isn’t here.”

You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to but still left a note on the kitchen table anyway. Just a few lines, scribbled in handwriting you barely recognized as your own.

I can’t be who you want me to be. I hope one day that’s okay.

You stood by your car in the waning light, sky streaked in orange and indigo. The air smelled of earth and fading summer. It was then you finally decided to text Owen one last life line.

I’m leaving. If you want this, come with me.

No response. Minutes passed. The sky darkened. You almost laughed at your stupidity.

Then you heard footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Familiar.

He came into view from the side yard, his figure backlit by the dying sun. There was dust on his boots, sweat in his forehead, a crease in his brow that seemed it hadn’t smoothed in days.

You straightened as he approached.

“You got my text,” you said.

He was catching his breath as he nodded. “I did.”

Silence settled between you like a weight.

You looked at him. Half expectant, half heartbreak ready. “So?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer and reached out, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he was memorizing it.

“I thought I could,” he whispered. “I really did.”

You closed your eyes, as if pained by it. His touch was gentle, reverent, but it didn’t anchor you. It couldn’t.

“I’m not angry,” you said quietly. “I’m just… disappointed.”

He looked down, ashamed. He presses his lips in a tight line.

“I understand why you’re scared, Owen. I do. I know what it costs to leave. I just didn’t think it would cost me my heart.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but nothing came. You reached out first this time. Pressed your forehead to his.

“I wanted you to be braver than this place,” you whispered. “But I can’t be the only one fighting.”

He finally leaned in and kissed you. It was deep and slow but the finality fully expressed. It wasn’t a promise. It was a goodbye.

When he pulled away, you watched him step back not too far, just enough. You opened your car door and sat in the driver’s seat, eyes on him still. He didn’t reach for the passenger door. He didn’t ask you to stay.

“I’ll always wish to be as brave as you,” he said.

You blinked, while the ache in your chest sharpened.

“I know you are,” you said.

“I wish I was.”

You stay silent. One last glance. One last breath.

You finally started the engine, backing out of the driveway slowly. And this time, you really didn’t look back.

The road out of town was quiet.

You didn’t put music on. The hum of tires and the occasional whisper of wind curling through the open window filled the car. Your fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, holding steady, like an achor to remind you where you should go.

Your hometown disappeared behind you fast. Nostalgic roads gave way to the familiar open space again, the sun finally dipping below the edge of the hills. For the first time in days, your chest felt like it could rise all the way without caving in on itself.

But you didn’t cry. Not even when the town limits sign faded in the rearview. Not even when the phone stayed silent. Not even when your heart gave one last stutter in the shape of his name.

Because you won’t cry for people who couldn’t choose you.

By midnight, you’d decided to stop at a roadside diner. There was a flicker in the neon, a waitress with tired eyes and hot coffee, and no one who knew your name. It was perfect to calibrate your body, your mind.

You opened your laptop at the corner booth again, fingers hovering over the keys. And then, it started to move, type about the heartbreak that you won’t let come in tears. Processing the grief for a possible love lost.

You didn’t try to make it neat, only honest. 

Somewhere near dawn, you pulled into a motel on the edge of another nowhere town. It was sufficient with its clean sheets & cheap soap. A window cracked open to let in the coming light. It was the same motel you stayed in when you left the first time. A deja vu.

You sat on the bed, laptop on your thighs, bare feet tucked beneath you.

You stared at the wall, trying to process how a few weeks at home had thrown you completely off track. Owen’s face flashes across your mind. You know why and your heart clenches.

But you know you’re going to be okay, because you’ve done this before. You’ve walked away both times.

You’re not sure how long it will take to forget him or if you ever will, but it’s enough for now.

Back in the town you left, the chapel lights flickered in the morning haze.

Owen sat in the back pew, hands clasped tightly, head bowed low. He didn’t pray. He just sat there in the silence you left behind.

The pew beneath him was familiar, worn smooth by years of routine. His body knew how to fold here. His knees, hands & head bowed like a reflex, but nothing in him felt anchored.

He had spent the whole night replaying the sound of your car engine starting, the way you didn’t hesitate. The way your voice didn’t crack when you said goodbye.

He was angry but only at himself. That he couldn’t be as brave as you. That he didn’t have the same willpower you did when you’d chosen yourself, even when it broke your heart. That he’d watched you drive away and didn’t take a single step forward.

A hundred excuses crowded his mind but nothing made sense. The weight of the town. The legacy he thought he had to uphold. The fear that leaving meant erasing the only life he’d ever known. None of them made him feel better.

He missed you already. Not just the body, not just the nights. It was specifically the way you looked at him like he was more than what this place told him to be. Like he could be something else. Something better. And he hated that he let fear steal that from him.

Sunlight crept in through the stained glass windows, painting fractured colors across his hands. He stared down at them, open and useless.

He wasn’t ready to follow you. But he wanted to be.

He could only hope that one day courage would take over.

Taglist: @shantellorraine @slvt4her @anxious-alto @irlbaristaoc @dontpulloutman @re-permadrivercurse @lostwhitebunny @loonysbarn @msbyjackal @lewispullsman @wildflowernightmere @ae-aeitch @midnighttithe @sarapixieelliott08 @cloudyzip @yoong1stangerine @crashingout2point0 @alltimelowsuckedmydick @kez-bez @a1exisdelreys1eepy-bear @louloulemons-posts @dazed-and-confused101 @wowitsafemale

[darkseidex]

Can you write an Austin Butler x reader imagine where tired of the public scrutiny due to their age gap , the reader and Austin attempt to go off-grid for six months. no press, no social media, just the two of them in a house in Big Sur. At first, it’s bliss: fireside dinners, hikes, handwritten love letters. But isolation brings up unresolved trauma from the readers past. She spirals, and Austin has to help her through the darkest part of herself.

oooooh okay kinda edited the request for something that suited me a bit more!! i hope you love it nonnie <3 OKAY UH,, smut ?? but like, we have anal this time around too- so if you're not into that jazz then you might wanna skip this one loves.

Every now and then, Uma is reminded that love—real love—is not effortless. It is not passive. It asks of you. It requires presence, patience, and the terrifying courage to be seen. It demands you strip yourself bare, peel back the layers you’ve built to survive, and place your trembling heart in someone else's hands. And you do it with the quiet, aching hope that they won’t flinch. That they won’t scoff at the offering, won’t turn away from the bruised, beaten thing you present—but instead, they’ll accept it. Gently. Reverently. That they’ll cradle it like something precious, and in return, offer you theirs with the same trembling trust.

It sounds beautiful—holy, even—but there’s more to it than that.

Because when you give someone your heart, you’re not just giving them your capacity for love. You’re giving them everything that’s ever shaped it. The shadows that haunt it. The wounds still bleeding beneath your ribs. You’re handing over your daddy issues, your trust issues, the betrayals you’ve filed away but never truly forgot. The heartbreaks that still echo in your chest. The anger you’ve swallowed. The shame. The silence.

You give them your rot alongside your bloom.

And maybe—if they love you right—they’ll take it anyway. Maybe they’ll sip your poison like it’s wine and ease the sting with the sweetness of their mouth on yours. Maybe their hands will trace every scar like scripture, and their warmth will seep into the cold places no one’s ever touched before. A kiss here. A whispered name there. A soft sigh against your skin that makes all the mess feel worth it.

That’s what Uma wants. What she fears. What she’s holding her breath for.

To be known in full—and still, somehow, to be chosen.

As she watches him sitting by the fire, shoulders hunched, jaw tight, Uma feels the heat of their argument still simmering in the room—clashing harshly with the low amber glow that flickers across his profile. The fireplace crackles softly, but all she hears is silence. That hollow, post-fight quiet that settles like ash on the tongue.

Just hours ago, they were all kisses and laughter, sighs pressed against skin, tangled limbs and lazy, wine-slowed afternoons. This cabin had been their sanctuary. Every room still smelled of them—of warmth, of desire, of a love so sweet it made her dizzy. But now, all that tenderness felt like a dream fraying at the edges. The fight, sharp and sudden, had taken a blade to the illusion.

And maybe… maybe that was a little bit her fault.

Uma knew she was young. Knew what it looked like: a wide-eyed girl playing house with a man the world had already crowned golden. Nine years older, famous, carved from experience and charm and late-night wisdom. He loved her. Not just with words, but with actions—with touches that lingered, with protection that made her feel wrapped in velvet, with a love that was so much it often left her aching, overwhelmed, teary-eyed from the sheer weight of being adored like that.

But it wasn’t always easy.

Dating him meant navigating whispers—critics who insisted she wasn’t enough. Too young. Too naïve. Too new. And maybe they were right. Maybe she was still growing. Still figuring out who she was, still learning when to speak, when to stay silent, how to hold space for someone without losing herself in the process.

But wasn’t that the point? That she was still becoming? And wasn’t part of loving her—truly loving her—being willing to witness that evolution without using it against her?

She clenched her jaw, watching the firelight dance along his cheekbones, illuminating the strain there. He hadn’t looked at her since she walked back into the room.

They’d hurt each other tonight. With words flung too fast, with old insecurities unearthed like splinters. But still, beneath it all, Uma could feel the pull—could feel the quiet ache of her heart begging to be offered again.

To be seen. To be chosen. Even in this.

Hell, they were in Big Sur for her. Because everything had started to feel like too much—too loud, too invasive, too cruel. The kind of cruelty that seeps through a screen, hidden behind comment sections and stitched videos. She couldn’t even open her phone without seeing herself dissected under harsh lighting—every gesture, every glance, every slip of her tongue turned into proof of something ugly. Immature. Vapid. Unworthy.

As if she wasn’t a real person. As if she didn’t breathe the same air as them. As if her heart didn’t break the same way theirs did.

She had scrolled past the umpteenth TikTok that day—some stranger narrating her expressions like a wildlife documentary—and something in her just cracked. And maybe he saw it. Maybe he always saw it before she could say it.

So he brought her here. To this house tucked against the cliffs, where the ocean roared like a lullaby and the rest of the world felt far, far away. He gave her an out. An escape. But more than that—he gave her himself.

Austin loved her loudly in these walls. Kissed her in the kitchen with the windows open. Traced “I love you” down the curve of her back like prayer. Held her too tight in the mornings and didn’t let go until she laughed. He wanted her to know—really know—that even when it hurt, even when the world made it unbearable to love in public, what they had was still worth it.

That she was worth it.

And for a while, that had been enough. The quiet. The ocean. The warmth of him. Their little world of shared glances and whispered promises. But tonight... tonight they’d let the weight of it all spill out too fast. They’d fought. And now he sat by the fire, alone, and she stood behind him, heart in her throat, unsure if the silence meant endings—or the calm just before someone finally reaches for the other.

It started with a joke.

Or at least, Uma thought it was a joke.

She’d laughed—halfhearted, wine-blushed, cheeks pink from the firelight. “You must be getting tired of defending me. Your little PR disaster in heels. The girl who makes the headlines and makes you look—what do they say?—unserious.”

She said it with a crooked smile, swirling her glass like the words were nothing. Like they didn’t claw at the underside of her ribs.

Austin didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just looked at her. Slowly. Quietly. That kind of silence that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I really wish you’d stop talking about yourself like that.”

The air shifted. The fire popped behind him, a soft hiss of flame against stone, but all she heard was the sharpness in his voice—low, measured, frayed at the edges.

She arched an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “I’m joking. Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he said. But he wasn’t. His jaw was tense, thumb tracing the side of his whiskey glass like he needed something to hold onto. “It’s just not funny anymore, Uma. Every time you say shit like that, it sounds like you believe it. Like you're just waiting for me to agree with you.”

She felt the heat creep into her chest—not from the fire, not from the wine. From the words she’d swallowed too many times.

“Maybe I do believe it,” she said, voice tight. “Maybe I see what everyone else sees. That I don’t belong in your world. That I’m the immature little girlfriend who runs her mouth too much, wears the wrong things, says the wrong things, is the wrong thing—while you’re the poised, polished, Oscar-nominated man of the hour.”

Austin’s mouth twitched, but not into a smile. Into something bitter, barely held back. He sat up straighter, like her words had struck bone.

“So now I’m the asshole for loving you?” he asked, cool and measured. “You think I flew us up to this house, gave you space from all that noise, just so you could remind me how little you think of yourself?”

“No,” she snapped, pushing her chair back. The legs scraped the hardwood like a scream. “I think you did it to convince yourself this was still worth it. Because you could have someone else, Austin. You could find a woman who fits your world. A woman on your level. One with flawless skin and publicist-approved statements and no history of panic attacks in dressing rooms.”

He stood then—too fast. His chair tipped slightly before he caught it.

“You really think that’s what I want? Some media-trained mannequin who doesn't challenge me? Who doesn’t feel anything?” His voice was rising now, sharp and hurt. “You think I don’t know what I signed up for with you?”

“I think,” she said, staring him down, “you’re going to get tired of holding me up.”

Austin flinched. Just for a second. And then came the words she wasn’t ready for.

“Then maybe you should be with someone who doesn’t need holding.”

Silence. Wide. Dreadful.

The fire crackled behind him. Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t even know if she was angry or just bleeding out beneath her skin.

He looked at her like he wanted to take it back. Like he already hated himself for saying it.

But it was out there now. And some things, once said, just hang in the air like smoke you can’t cough out.

She turned. Walked out of the kitchen, past the glass doors, into the wide, aching quiet of the house. The cold mountain air slid through the cracks, and for the first time since they’d arrived, Big Sur felt like too much space between them.

She watches him from across the room, the fire painting gold across his skin. He’s still in the sweater she’d tugged him into this morning—cable-knit, too soft, too expensive, sleeves shoved up his forearms the way she likes. He hasn’t looked at her since the argument. Not once.

There’s a chill in the air now that the sun’s gone. It creeps through the stone floors of the house, nestles into her bones. But it’s not the cold that makes her shiver.

It’s the distance.

Two hours ago, this room held laughter. He’d been humming some stupid 70s song, barefoot, hair a mess from the way she’d run her fingers through it while he cooked. She remembers how the butter sizzled on the pan, how he bumped his hip into hers just to make her smile. How she’d leaned into his chest and pressed her face there, breathing him in like he was something holy.

And then—just like that—her mind slips.

Not to the fight. But to the morning before the storm.

The bed, once too big for her, now cradled the perfect imprint of them. Of togetherness. His side was always warmer, always deeper somehow, like the mattress had long since learned to hold the weight of him—and now her, too.

Austin was curled around her like instinct, chest pressed to her back, arm heavy across her waist, anchoring her with that quiet, sleep-drunk possessiveness she’d come to crave. His breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck in slow, even waves. That deep, steady rhythm of a man utterly at peace.

She lay there for a moment, eyes open, suspended in the softness of dawn. Then, slowly, carefully, she shifted—just enough to turn and face him.

God, he was beautiful like this.

His face slack in sleep, mouth parted just slightly, letting out the faintest snore—gentle and almost childlike. Lashes long and dark against his cheekbones, catching the muted gold light that spilled through the curtains. One hand was tucked under the pillow, the other still wrapped around her middle, even in his dreams.

He looked younger like this. The weight of the world nowhere on his shoulders. No red carpets, no cameras, no sharp suits or charming deflections. Just him. Just hers.

And she couldn’t help herself.

With the kind of mischievous reverence only lovers are allowed, she dipped her head and began the slow, serious business of counting his freckles.

First, the ones scattered across his cheeks—tiny, sun-kissed constellations she kissed once… then twice. She smiled against his skin. Whispered numbers into the quiet like a spell.

Then she moved downward, her fingers trailing a warm path across the slope of his shoulder, the curve of his collarbone. She followed the freckles like breadcrumbs—pressing soft kisses to each one, some fleeting and quick, others lingering with open-mouthed affection. Her lips brushed the subtle dip at the center of his chest, the scar near his ribs, the line of muscle that disappeared beneath the rumpled sheets.

She paused where the blanket rested low on his hips. He shifted slightly in his sleep, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, and she swallowed a laugh—giddy and breathless.

Then she kept going.

Down the ridges of his abdomen, along the V of his hips. Her mouth ghosted over the hollow of his navel, then the hard lines of his thighs—strong and relaxed now, but she knew what they could do. She kissed the back of his knee, the inside of his calf, the smooth muscle of his back when he shifted and half-rolled into her touch.

Ten freckles. Fifteen. Twenty-three. Then she forgot what number she was on.

Because the counting didn’t matter anymore. Only the feeling did.

The knowing that he was hers to map. To memorize. To love like this—in tiny kisses and quiet devotion and the sacred silence of morning.

She was somewhere around his lower back—her lips barely grazing a freckle just above his waistband—when she felt the shift.

A slow inhale. A subtle tightening of the arm still draped over her waist.

And then—his voice. Thick with sleep, low and amused, curling through the quiet like smoke.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Her heart stuttered.

She froze, her lips still a breath away from his skin. “No, you don’t.”

A lazy smirk tugged at his mouth before his eyes even opened. His voice was all gravel and heat. “You’re mapping me.”

She pressed a kiss just below his shoulder blade, trying to recover, trying to play it cool, though her cheeks flushed instantly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m flattered anyway.” He shifted, rolling onto his back, dragging her with him like she weighed nothing. One arm stayed curled around her, the other came up to brush a piece of hair from her face as he cracked one eye open. “How many did you get to?”

She rested her chin on his chest. “Somewhere between fifteen and losing my mind.”

“Sounds about right.” He smiled, slow and soft. One of those smiles that made her stomach drop and her heart climb into her throat.

His fingers traced idle shapes on the small of her back. “You kiss all of them?”

She arched an eyebrow, feigning offense. “What do you think I am, lazy?”

He laughed—a real one this time, chest rumbling beneath her. And then his voice dipped lower, teasing, but not unserious. “You missed one.”

“Oh yeah?” she murmured, tilting her head.

“Mhm.” His hand slid beneath the sheet, slow, suggestive, trailing heat along her thigh. “There’s one on my hip. Right here.”

She laughed, breathless, rolling her eyes even as her heart raced. “Convenient.”

“Extremely.”

And still, somehow, he was looking at her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered. Like she was soft light and shelter and his.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, slow and lingering, then whispered, “Consider it… corrected.”

“You’re mine.”

The words hadn’t even finished leaving her lips before he was kissing her again—deep, consuming, with a hunger that had been coiled beneath the surface all morning. Austin moved over her like he couldn’t stand the space between them, mouth hot and desperate against hers, tongue sliding past her lips in a kiss that stole the breath right out of her lungs.

His hand slid under her shirt, and this time, it didn’t stop. He pushed the fabric up slowly, fingers dragging along her ribs, her waist, reverent like he was touching something holy. She lifted her arms for him without a word, and the shirt was gone, discarded in a soft thud to the floor.

He pulled back, just enough to look at her—eyes dark, blown wide, chest rising in shallow breaths.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The way he said it—not just lust, but awe—made her skin flush, her thighs press together under him. She reached up, running her hands through the mess of his hair, tugging gently until he groaned and kissed her again, this time slower. Deeper.

Austin’s hands wandered like they’d missed her. One cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until she arched beneath him. The other trailed down—slow, teasing—until it found the edge of her underwear.

He looked at her once, checking.

She nodded. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Fingers dipped beneath the waistband, sliding over her slick heat, and his breath caught like she was the one wrecking him. He kissed her harder as he stroked her, fingers working her open while her hips lifted to meet him, soft gasps leaving her lips with every curl of his hand.

“You’re already so wet,” he muttered against her mouth, half in disbelief. “All that for me?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Always.”

That did something to him. He groaned—deep and guttural—then slipped a finger inside her, then another, curling just right, thumb circling her clit until she was trembling beneath him, thighs tightening, hands scrambling at his shoulders for something to hold on to.

She was close—right there, breath shallow, lips parted—

And then he stopped.

“Austin—”

“Shhh.” He kissed her jaw, her throat. “I’ve got you. I just need to be inside you when you fall apart.”

She whimpered at the promise in his voice.

He stripped quickly, underwear kicked to the floor, then lined himself up between her thighs, dragging his cock slowly through her slick heat, teasing her until her hips bucked. She was shaking, nails in his biceps, eyes wide and begging.

“Please.”

He pushed in with one long, slow thrust, and they both moaned—his name on her lips, her name rasped from his chest like a prayer. He filled her completely, perfectly, and then paused—just for a second—to feel it. The stretch. The heat. The way she clenched around him like her body was made for him.

“You feel—” he gasped. “—so fucking good.”

He moved slowly at first—deep, dragging strokes that made her gasp and reach for him, made her feel every inch of him. His hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing her bottom lip.

“Open,” he whispered.

She did. He slipped the thumb inside her mouth, watching her suck on it, eyes half-lidded, moaning around the weight of him inside her.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

That ruined her.

Her hands curled into the sheets. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist. And he snapped, his rhythm shifting—deeper, faster, the sounds of skin meeting skin echoing through the room as he drove into her like he was trying to carve his name into her bones.

“Say it again,” he groaned. “Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” she gasped. “Yours, Austin, yours—”

And that was it. That was all it took.

He reached down, rubbed her clit hard and fast, and she broke with a cry—head thrown back, body arching into his, shattering around him like stars collapsing. Her orgasm pulsed through her, rippling tight around him until he cursed, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside her with a moan that was nothing short of worship.

They stayed there like that—panting, trembling, pressed forehead to forehead. His weight still on her, his breath still warm against her mouth.

“Still counting my freckles?” he asked hoarsely, a half-smile ghosting across his face.

She laughed weakly, threading her fingers through his hair. “I lost count. Somewhere around eternity.”

Granted, Uma should’ve said something. She should’ve opened her mouth before the silence bloomed into a monster neither of them could name. Before her thoughts began to scream louder than his voice ever could. Before the fear rooted itself so deeply in her chest, it became part of the rhythm of her breath. A steady, quiet panic. A thrum beneath every word she never said.

She should’ve told him—God, she should’ve told him.

Told him how the dread didn’t come all at once. No, it arrived like a ripple in still water—small, harmless—until it swelled into a tide and dragged her under. Told him how the weight of being seen by millions, picked apart by strangers with sharp tongues and blurred faces, made her retreat from the only place that had ever felt like home: him.

She should’ve said that her silence wasn’t indifference—it was fear. The kind that calcifies in your throat, that wraps around your ribs like barbed wire. The kind that whispers, You are too much, and not enough, all at once.

And he wasn’t a mind reader. She knew that. He was flesh and blood and tenderness and temper. He was flawed, real, trying. He couldn’t possibly know the wars she fought within herself unless she handed him the map. But she didn’t. She left him standing in the dark, alone, while she bled quietly in the corner and hoped—prayed—he’d just know.

That failure haunts her.

She should’ve told him she needed to hear it. Needed it. Not once, not twice—but endlessly. Like breath. Like heartbeat. Like her life depended on it.

She should’ve told him she wanted him to claim her—gently, ferociously. That she wanted to be called his. His baby. His sweet girl. His beautiful mess. That even when she was all sharp angles and contradictions, even when she didn’t know how to be soft, she still wanted to be his. That she wanted to belong to him the way the sea belongs to the shore—wild and constant, crashing and returning, always, always coming home.

She wanted his voice to drown out the ones in her head. Wanted his words to stitch the broken pieces back together. Wanted to be wrapped in certainty—not because she was perfect, but because she was enough.

She wanted to be wanted. Completely. Unconditionally. Even when she was a storm. Even when she didn’t know how to ask for it out loud.

But instead, she said nothing.

She’d stood in front of the man she loved more than air, bleeding in silence, hoping—desperately—that he’d recognize the shape of her wounds without her ever naming them. Hoping he’d reach for her anyway.

And now, here she sat—curled on the edge of the room, watching firelight dance across his profile, wondering if the space between them had become too wide to cross.

She wanted to go to him. Fall at his feet. Press her face to his chest, not say a word, and beg with her being.

Say it. Say I’m yours. Even now. Especially now.

She sighed—soft, shaky, almost inaudible—and gave in.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa beside him. Close. Achingly close. But not close enough. Not nearly.

She could feel the heat of him beside her, could see the way his fingers were flexing against his knees, like he was holding something back. His jaw was tight, his eyes trained on the fire, flickering gold and shadow against the beautiful bone structure she loved too much to admit out loud.

But still—he didn’t look at her.

And that was what broke her.

Because she couldn't take the silence anymore. Couldn't take pretending that distance didn’t hurt.

So she rose again, slowly, almost dazed, like she was being pulled by something magnetic and ancient. She stepped between his knees, her bare feet silent against the floor, and placed her hands gently on his shoulders.

He looked up, startled at first—but he didn’t stop her. He didn’t move.

So she guided him back, eased him into the cushions, then climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her knees sank into the sofa on either side of his hips. Her fingers threaded into his hair as her gaze—God, her gaze—searched his face with a desperation she couldn’t hide anymore.

And then she saw them.

His eyes. Those impossibly blue eyes that had always undone her.

They were darker tonight—not quite storm, not quite sky. Somewhere suspended in between. And in them, she saw everything she was afraid of. Everything she wanted.

So much depth. So much weight. So much love, unspoken and trembling on the edge of his lashes.

She leaned in. Her forehead nearly brushed his. Her hands cradled his jaw like it was something sacred. And when she spoke, it was a prayer disguised as a plea.

“Tell me I’m yours.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

His eyes widened. His mouth parted like he might say something—but no sound came out.

So she said it again. Softer. Broken.

“Please.”

She swallowed hard, her thumbs brushing across the scruff on his cheeks, memorizing the shape of him. She wanted to bury herself in him, crawl beneath his skin, live in the parts of him that never turned away.

“Even now,” she whispered, her voice nearly shaking. “Especially now.”

Because what she was really saying—what she couldn’t say—was:

Remind me I’m safe. Remind me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m still yours, even when I’ve made it hard to be.

And she waited.

Wide open. Bare. A girl holding out her heart, hoping the boy she gave it to still wanted it.

She trembled in his lap, her legs on either side of him, fingers curled along the line of his jaw like she was holding him together. Like if she let go, the space between them would swallow her whole.

Her eyes, glassy and dark, searched his face like they were reading scripture—like somewhere beneath his silence, his stillness, was the answer she needed to keep breathing.

“Tell me I’m yours,” she whispered, the words tumbling out so softly, so broken, they barely made it across the space between them. “Please. Even now. Especially now.”

The silence that followed was thick, trembling with things unsaid. The firelight danced between them, casting gold on her tear-glossed cheeks, warming the shiver in her shoulders.

And Austin— He didn’t answer right away.

Because how could he, when her words had just gutted him?

He felt like she’d opened his chest and dropped her heart inside it, still beating, still bruised, still so trusting—asking, do you still want this?

He reached for her slowly, as if any sudden movement would send her vanishing into smoke. His palms came to rest on her thighs, fingers spreading gently, grounding him in the warmth of her skin. He could feel the faint tremble in her legs, the tension in her hips, the way she was holding herself like she might break in his hands.

“Uma,” he breathed—her name nothing more than air and ache.

He tilted his head back just enough to see her clearly, to take in every inch of her: flushed cheeks, lashes wet, lips parted, a furrow between her brows like hope and fear were still battling behind her eyes.

And then—his voice cracked like something sacred and breaking.

“You’re mine.”

She blinked hard, lips quivering, but he kept going.

“You’re my baby,” he whispered, voice thick, each word soaked in reverence. “My girl. My everything.”

He leaned in, their foreheads brushing, breath mixing. The air between them hummed like the last second before lightning.

“Doesn’t matter how hard it gets. Doesn’t matter if we yell, if you go quiet on me, if the world tears you up and you don’t know how to find your way back—I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing her waist with worshipful care. Like she was something delicate. Like he wanted to rebuild her from the inside out.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, voice near breaking. “I would’ve said it a hundred times. A thousand. I would’ve screamed it if that’s what you needed.”

Tears were sliding down her cheeks now, silent and aching. She didn’t wipe them away.

“You’re mine when you’re soft,” he murmured, “when you’re kind and sweet and full of sunlight. And you’re mine when you’re a fucking hurricane. When you’re too tired to talk, when you pull away. When the fear gets louder than your love—I’ll still be here.”

His voice dropped, barely a whisper now.

“You’re mine when you can’t say it. When you can’t ask. And I’m yours, Uma. I’m yours. Not halfway. Not when it’s easy. Always.”

She made a sound—shattered and quiet—and then she moved.

She surged forward like she couldn’t take one more second of space between them. Her hands fisted in his hair, her mouth crashed into his with a desperation that made his whole body jolt. The kiss wasn’t neat, wasn’t perfect—it was wet, gasping, starved.

She kissed him like she was drowning and he was the only thing keeping her above water. Like she was pouring everything she didn’t know how to say into the heat of his mouth, the clutch of his shoulders, the way she whimpered his name into his skin.

And Austin held her like he’d been waiting for her to fall apart just so he could catch her. His arms wrapped around her back, hands pressing to the bare skin beneath her shirt, pulling her closer—closer—until not even the air could slip between them.

She sobbed into his kiss, and he kissed her through it.

She gasped his name, and he pressed his lips to her cheeks, her forehead, the corner of her trembling mouth.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. Again and again. “I’ve got you. You’re mine. I’m yours.”

And somehow— Even in all the aching mess of it, all the tears and the heartbreak and the things they still had to learn—

It was enough. It was everything.

He kissed her like he needed her to feel it—not just on her lips, but in her chest, in her bloodstream, in every place she'd ever doubted if she was worthy of being wanted like this.

She moaned softly into his mouth as his hands slid beneath her shirt, rough palms dragging up her spine, slow and unhurried. They were learning each other again—not as strangers, but as lovers rediscovering how to say I still want you with their bodies.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, fingers curled into the hem of her shirt.

She nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Please.”

He tugged it over her head gently, reverently, like he was unwrapping a gift he’d been too scared to open before. And then—he just looked. His eyes dragged across her bare skin, and everything about him stilled.

Like he couldn’t believe she was real. Sitting in his lap. Letting him see her.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and uneven, like it hurt to say it out loud.

Her heart thudded against her ribs as his hands found her waist, thumbs brushing the dip just above her hips. He leaned in and kissed her collarbone, then lower—his lips warm and open, grazing the slope of her breast. She gasped when his tongue flicked over her nipple, and he groaned—deep and low in his chest—like her pleasure was his own.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he whispered, dragging his mouth across to the other side. “Missed you.”

She threaded her fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucked a little harder, a little deeper—until her thighs started to squeeze around his waist.

When he finally kissed down her stomach, she couldn’t breathe.

Each kiss was deliberate. Open-mouthed. Wet. His tongue teased the dip of her navel. His hands gripped her thighs, thumbs brushing the soft flesh at the top, and then—

He looked up at her.

“Let me taste you.”

Her breath hitched.

She nodded, unable to speak, and he smiled—soft and filthy—as he slid her panties down her legs, kissing her knees, her thighs, the crease where leg met hip. She was already shaking before he even touched her there.

And then his mouth found her.

He groaned the second his tongue slipped through her folds, like she was something he’d been craving. His arms wrapped around her thighs to hold her steady, to keep her here, and then he went to work.

He was slow, at first. Wide, teasing licks from bottom to top, the flat of his tongue dragging up her slit before flicking—soft, rhythmic, devastating—against her clit. Then again. And again. Until her fingers clawed into his hair and she couldn’t hold still.

“God—Austin—” she gasped, hips stuttering.

He moaned into her, his fingers digging deeper into her thighs. Then one hand slipped between her legs, fingers slick and confident as he eased one inside her—then two.

The stretch made her cry out, and he smiled into her heat.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice muffled. “Let me have you. Let me make you feel good.”

His fingers curled inside her with precision, the rhythm of his thrusts syncing with his tongue on her clit. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy.

It was intentional. Worshipful. Like he wanted her to fall apart slowly—wanted to earn it.

Her whole body arched, mouth open in a silent cry as her orgasm crept up like fire licking through her veins. It hit her like a wave—sharp, overwhelming, perfect. She pulsed around his fingers, thighs shaking, cries spilling out of her like she was exorcising every fear she’d ever swallowed down.

He kissed her through it, gentle now. Kisses on her thighs. Her stomach. The inside of her knee. Like he couldn’t stop loving her just because she’d come.

She collapsed into his chest, dazed and breathless, her skin flushed and damp, her mouth still parted like she might cry again.

Austin wrapped his arms around her, pressing kisses into her hair, her temple, her cheek.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips grazing the corner of her mouth.

She nodded against him, whispering, “Don’t stop.”

His breath caught.

She looked up at him—wrecked, glowing, eyes glassy with need.

“I need you inside me,” she said. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

And the look he gave her in that moment—utterly unhinged with love—would’ve made her weep if she hadn’t already.

“Then baby,” he said, voice shaking, “I’m not gonna leave your body all night.”

He entered her slowly—agonizingly so—like he was afraid too much too soon might shatter her. Might shatter them.

Uma gasped, back arching slightly as he pressed into her, inch by careful inch, stretching her open, claiming the space between her hips with reverence. Her hands clutched his shoulders, her breath hitching at the sheer depth of it—not just the physical stretch, but the way it felt like he was slotting into something more than her body. Like he was sliding into every part of her she’d left empty.

Austin’s eyes fluttered closed, his jaw tense, breath trembling. The heat of her surrounded him, warm and wet and home, and it took everything in him not to lose himself right there.

He sank down onto his forearms, chest pressing against hers, mouth brushing her temple as he held still—deep inside, grounded in the feel of her.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice raw. “You feel… so fuckin’ good.”

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, needing more. Needing all of him.

“Move,” she whispered against his neck, her voice barely more than air. “Please, Austin…”

So he did.

Slowly. Gently. He rolled his hips in a steady, aching rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate. Like he wasn’t just trying to make her come—he was trying to reach her. Reassure her. Ruin her for anyone else who’d ever dare try to love her this way.

Their skin slid together, slick with sweat and friction. Her breath came in soft little gasps, lips parted, eyelids fluttering as pleasure built sharp and slow in her belly.

He kissed her everywhere—her cheek, her throat, the spot behind her ear that made her hips jerk. His mouth moved down to her collarbone, open and wet, tongue tracing the ridge before he sucked gently, leaving a faint red mark that would blossom into a bruise.

His name spilled out of her mouth over and over—sometimes a whisper, sometimes a moan, sometimes just a broken sound she didn’t know how to shape.

“I love you,” he said into her skin, between thrusts, like a prayer. “I love you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer until their mouths met again—sloppy and desperate now, all teeth and tongue and emotion too big to hold.

He moved deeper, slower, hips grinding into hers just right, the angle of each thrust making her thighs tremble, her hands fist in the cushions, her breath catch in her throat.

The build was unbearable.

And still—he didn’t speed up.

He kissed her like he had nowhere else to be. Like there was no world outside this room. No fire still crackling behind them. No argument. No pain. Just her and the way her body gripped his and begged him not to stop.

“I need—” she gasped. “Austin, I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby. I’ve got you,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to hers, eyes wide open and locked on hers like he needed to see her fall apart.

She came with a cry that was all throat and surrender, legs tightening, hips lifting, body shaking. Her orgasm tore through her like a wave—endless, aching, all-consuming.

And as she clenched around him, pulling him deeper into the tremors, he groaned—low and deep—grinding against her once, twice more before he came with a curse against her mouth, his release slow and hot and holy.

They didn’t separate.

Didn’t untangle.

He stayed inside her, their bodies still joined, her heartbeat fluttering under his hand where it rested just below her breast. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth—so soft, so gentle now.

“Still with me?” he whispered, brushing back her hair.

“Always,” she murmured, voice wrecked, lips swollen.

He smiled. Kissed her again.

And held her there, in the quiet, in the glow of the firelight, where nothing could touch them except the echo of I’m yours. You’re mine. Still. Always.

She was still trembling when she whispered it.

“Wanna try something.”

Austin paused. His thumb was still circling the slick mess between her thighs, and he leaned in close, catching the shift in her tone.

“Yeah?” he murmured, low and rasped. “Tell me.”

She swallowed. Her cheeks were already flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her thighs still sticky from the way he’d just had her crying into the pillows.

“I want you…” She bit her lip. “Back there.”

Time slowed.

Austin blinked, then stilled completely—his eyes dropping to her parted lips, then lower, to the flushed curve of her ass. Her voice was shy, but the look in her eyes? That was brave. That was a gift.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered. “You sure, baby?”

She nodded. “I want to be all yours.”

And just like that—his control snapped.

He didn’t rush. He dragged her over his lap, one hand spreading her open while the other reached for the drawer. She heard the lube bottle open, the squelch of it hitting his palm, and then—

Cool. A long, slow drizzle of lube poured between her cheeks.

She gasped.

Austin grinned.

“That’s it,” he purred, rubbing it in, slow and firm. “Gettin’ you nice and wet for me. Can’t just shove it in like some dumbfuck rookie.”

His fingers worked her open gently—obscenely slick, the lube making every stroke, every press, soaked. When the pad of his finger circled her rim, she twitched, breath hitching. He leaned down, lips brushing her spine.

“Let me in, baby. C’mon, open up f’me.”

She moaned—needy, high-pitched—and he slid the first finger in, watching with dark, reverent eyes as her tight heat gripped him.

“Fuck. So tight. You’re squeezin’ the hell outta me.”

He worked her open—one finger, then two—slow pumps, twisting gently, until her moans turned into cries, her body pressing back into him shamelessly.

“That’s it. My filthy little angel.” He kissed her neck. “Gettin’ ruined for me like it’s what you were fuckin’ made for.”

She whimpered. “Please, Austin. Want you in me.”

He slicked up his cock—coated it—lube dripping down his shaft as he lined up behind her. Her body was trembling, her hands clenched in the cushions. Her pussy was still wet, twitching, aching.

“Stay still,” he growled. “Let me stretch this perfect fuckin’ hole.”

And then—he pushed in.

The stretch was blinding—hot, slow, filthy. She gasped, back arching, lips falling open in a silent moan.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take it. Take it all. You’re doin’ so good, baby.”

She sobbed—pure sensation wrecking her.

“You feel me?” he growled. “Feel how deep I am? This ass is mine now, you fuckin’ hear me?”

She nodded, tears in her eyes from how full she felt.

“Say it,” he demanded, snapping his hips once, hard enough to make her jolt. “Say whose you are.”

“I’m yours,” she cried. “Yours, Austin. All yours—oh, God—”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ are.”

He started moving—slow at first, making her feel every inch. The lube made it slick and sinful, every thrust loud and wet, her whimpers echoing off the walls. He reached around and grabbed her throat—gently, a hand there to steady her, thumb brushing her jaw.

“Look at you,” he murmured in her ear. “All cock-drunk on somethin’ you weren’t even ready for ten minutes ago. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

He circled her clit again, watching her come apart.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, grinding deep. “Gonna make a mess while I’m buried in this tight little hole?”

“Yes—yes, I’m gonna—fuck—”

She shattered—loud, shaking, undone. Her body clamped down, rippling around him, and he fucked her through it, biting down on her shoulder to muffle his own moan.

When he came, it was rough and raw—hips stuttering, cock pulsing, lube and come leaking out around the seal of her ass.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Instead, he kissed her cheek, then her shoulder, then her spine.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, still trembling.

He smirked.

“Good girl.”

He was still buried in her when the tremors started to settle. Her body had gone lax—shaking slightly, breaths uneven, a flush creeping down her spine as the fire crackled in the distance.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick, reverent. “You’re somethin’ else.”

And then, without warning—he pulled out.

She gasped, hips twitching from the loss of him, the leak already starting down her thighs, warm and filthy. But before she could even catch her breath, he gripped her waist and dragged her back—gently, firmly—until she was spread over the arm of the couch, legs trembling.

“Wait—A-Austin—what’re you—”

He was already dropping to his knees.

“You didn’t think I was done,” he growled, breath hot against her swollen, wrecked heat. “Not when you’re drippin’ like that.”

And then—

his mouth was on her.

No warning. No hesitation. Just hot, wet, sloppy worship.

He licked up everything—everything—his tongue slow and flat, dragging up from her pulsing pussy to the soft mess leaking from her back hole. His groan was guttural, deep in his chest, like he was tasting something sacred.

“Fuckin’ ruined,” he murmured against her, licking messily. “Can’t believe how good you taste.”

She choked on a moan, hands clutching the cushions like a lifeline.

Austin’s grip tightened on her hips. He spread her wider, tongue sliding between her folds like he was starving, sucking her clit with practiced precision before flicking it, then dragging his tongue down again to where his come was leaking out of her.

“You feel that?” he rasped, licking up his own mess. “That’s mine. Soaked in it. Filled you so deep you’re still dripping.”

She moaned shamelessly, trying to shift—but his hands were iron.

“Oh no,” he said darkly, pulling her hips back again. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He dove back in, this time using his tongue and two fingers—curling them deep, lips suctioning around her swollen clit while his thumb rubbed slow, slick circles against the messier part of her. Messy, nasty, perfect.

“Gonna make you come again,” he grunted, voice muffled by her. “Wanna taste you fall apart.”

“Austin—A-Austin I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice was low, possessive. “You will. I said I wasn’t done.”

He pushed deeper, sucked harder, and she screamed into the cushions, coming so violently her whole body seized. Her thighs shook. Her voice broke. Her vision blurred.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He kissed her through it. Licked up every aftershock. Kept murmuring “mine” between each stroke of his tongue until she was limp, drooling, wrecked.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were shiny, his voice thick with worship.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Her body was still flushed—skin dewy, lips kiss-swollen, thighs slick with the aftermath of everything he’d given her. But she wasn’t done. Not even close.

She blinked up at him, eyes glassy with exhaustion and need, and whispered, “Sit down.”

Austin was still catching his breath, chest heaving, one hand dragging through his hair. “Baby—”

“I wanna taste you.”

That shut him up. Instantly.

She pushed at his thigh until he dropped back onto the couch, still sticky and softening—but not for long. Not with the way she looked at him. Not with that raw hunger in her eyes. Not when she crawled between his legs like that—messy and radiant, fingers tracing the trail of lube and come down his length with reverence.

She licked it—slow, one stripe from base to tip, eyes never leaving his.

“You’re such a fuckin’ problem,” he muttered, hand falling into her hair.

“Say thank you,” she whispered, licking again, tongue tracing the underside of him like she was committing it to memory.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “Jesus.”

She smiled, then swallowed him whole.

He let out a choked moan, hips jerking forward—but she held him down with one hand on his thigh, the other wrapped around the base of his cock as she bobbed her head, slow at first. Worshipful. Taking her time. Letting him feel the wet, velvet heat of her mouth, the way her tongue circled him on the way back up, her lips popping off the head with a soft, sinful sound.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “Such a good girl—fuck—suckin’ me clean after I filled you up.”

She whimpered around him, taking him deeper, until tears welled in her eyes and spit dripped from her chin.

“You want me to come in that pretty mouth?” he asked, low and dangerous. “Or you want it all over that sweet fuckin’ face?”

She pulled off with a gasp, blinking up at him, lips swollen. “Whatever you want.”

He clenched his jaw. “Goddamn.”

Then she was on him again—faster now, hand and mouth working together in perfect rhythm, a filthy wet symphony as his hips began to stutter.

“Just like that,” he gasped. “That’s it, baby. Fuck—you’re gonna make me—”

He groaned, long and low, as he came—hot and thick, spilling across her tongue and lips. She swallowed once. Twice. Let the rest drip down her chin, her throat, her chest.

And smiled.

He stared at her, wrecked. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

She licked her lips and sat back on her heels, glowing.

“Good,” she whispered. “Die madly in love, then.”

She was still on her knees—messy, blinking, glowing—but the tremble in her thighs told him she was spent. Not just satisfied. Spent.

Austin reached for her the second she sat back on her heels, pulling her up into his lap like she weighed nothing. Her skin was warm, flushed, sticky where their bodies had met over and over again. But he didn’t care about the mess. He tucked her into him like she was made to fit there, pressing kisses to her temple, her shoulder, the damp curve of her neck.

“You okay, baby?” he asked softly, brushing the hair out of her eyes.

She nodded, eyes still dazed. “Mmhm.”

But he didn’t take that for granted. He kissed the top of her head. “Color?”

She breathed out a tiny laugh—touched by how serious he was about checking in, even now. “Green.”

He relaxed. “Good girl.”

Then he was on his feet, carrying her bridal style straight to the bathroom. The lights were dim, the air still heavy with heat and sweat and firelight. He nudged the faucet with his knee and started running the bath, his chin tucked over her shoulder, murmuring to her as the water filled the tub.

“You were perfect, you know that?” She smiled, half-asleep on his shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect for me,” he added, setting her down on the edge of the tub.

When he undressed her—what little clothing remained—he did it gently. No rush. No hunger left in him. Just soft fingers, tracing bruises and bite marks like they were precious. He helped her in first, then slipped in behind her, settling her between his legs. His arms came around her like instinct.

The water was hot. Her breath hitched.

But then she melted.

Austin pressed his lips to the top of her spine, rubbing her thighs under the water, then her hips, then her arms—gentle, circular motions. Her breath evened out. Her head fell back against his chest.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, his voice barely there. “Need to know you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “More than okay. I just… I feel full. Loved.”

He smiled into her damp hair. “You are.”

They sat like that for a while—his fingers still moving, rinsing the sweat and lube and come from her skin, brushing over her body like he was trying to memorize it all over again.

Eventually, he reached for the soap, lathered it up in his hands, and washed her. Her arms, her neck, her thighs. Between her legs, with reverence. Not arousal. Just care.

And when they got out, he wrapped her in the softest towel they’d brought, pulled her back to bed, and tucked her under the sheets. Clean skin, warm limbs, her body folded into his again like she’d never left.

He kissed her slow this time—no urgency. Just lips to lips, over and over.

“You’re mine, you know,” he murmured. “Not just when I fuck you. Always.”

She nodded, barely conscious, fingers curled against his chest.

“Yours,” she whispered. “Always.

He didn’t crawl into bed right away.

She was tucked beneath the comforter, her body still warm and pliant from the bath, her lashes fluttering, that post-bliss daze softening every line in her face. But Austin didn’t move to join her—not yet.

He dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed.

And she noticed. Her brow knit, just faintly. “Austin… what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer with words—not at first. Instead, he reached for the cocoa butter lotion, uncapped it quietly, and began rubbing it between his hands. The scent rose up—warm, nostalgic, soft. It smelled like safety. Like something that had existed long before him, but something he wanted to be part of now.

Then he lifted one of her legs, cradling her foot in his lap like it was something delicate. Sacred.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispered.

“I know.” His voice was low, near reverent. “But I want to.”

His fingers began working the lotion into her foot—slow, strong strokes over the arch, the heel, the ball. Every pass of his thumbs said: I see you. I’m sorry. I’m still here.

He looked down at what he was doing like her skin deserved all his attention. Like the act of soothing her was more holy than any apology. And maybe it was.

“I hate when we fight,” he murmured, not looking up. “Not ‘cause we don’t bounce back. But because I know what happens in your head when we do.”

Her throat tightened.

“You go quiet,” he went on. “You start thinkin’ I don’t want you anymore. That you’re too complicated. That I’m regrettin’ all this.”

He moved up to her ankle, thumbs pressing in gentle, firm circles.

“But that’s not true,” he said. “Not for a single second.”

He brought her foot to his lips, kissed the inside of her ankle—slow, lips lingering like a vow. Then set it down carefully and took the other.

“You don’t have to be easy to love for me to stay,” he whispered, working the lotion into her other foot, her toes, the softest parts of her. “You don’t have to shrink your fear. Or hold back what you need. You think I don’t wanna hear it, but baby…”

Now he looked up.

“I want every fucking messy piece of you.”

Her lip trembled.

“I want the girl who spirals sometimes. Who needs to be held a little tighter. Who needs me to say it again, and again, and again.”

He kissed her shin. Her knee. The inside of her thigh. Not to start something, but to finish what they began—to love her through the cracks, the silence, the aftermath of not knowing how to ask.

He moved up the bed, pulled the covers back, and finally—finally—gathered her into his arms like she was something he’d nearly lost.

And she melted. Instantly. Her cheek pressed to his chest. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she couldn’t bear the idea of space between them. Not now. Not again.

He held her like she was breakable and beloved. And then he whispered, lips at her temple:

“I love you. I love you when you’re sweet. I love you when you’re scared. I love you when you shut down. And I love you even when it’s hard.”

She swallowed hard. “Say it again?”

He cupped her jaw, tilted her chin gently, kissed the tear from the corner of her eye.

“I love you,” he said again. Slower this time. Deeper. “I’m proud of you. You don’t scare me. You’ll never scare me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She fit against him like she was made to be there.

Curled on her side, legs tangled in his, face tucked beneath his chin, the soft sighs that slipped from her lips were the kind that only came after being loved fully—through the ache, the apology, the silence and the surrender. She had nothing left to hold up now. No shield. No sharp edges. Just soft skin and raw honesty, wrapped in warm sheets and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek.

And he—he didn’t let go.

One arm lay snug around her back, the other traced lazy, featherlight lines up and down her spine, fingertips brushing the bumps of her vertebrae like a devotion. He was whispering still. Words that meant everything and nothing at once, the kinds of things you say when someone’s already asleep but you say them anyway—because they need to be said. Because she needed to hear them, even if only in her dreams.

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmured. “You’re safe.” “You’re not too much.” “You’re my girl.”

The quiet pressed in all around them. Outside, the wind danced gently through the redwoods. The fire had burned down to embers, its glow a soft flicker in the distance. But in this bed—in his arms—she was wrapped in something warmer than flame.

Her breath began to slow. So did the faint twitch of her fingers that had clung so desperately to his shirt just minutes ago. Her lips parted slightly. Her lashes fluttered. And then… peace. Sleep, slow and heavy, finally claimed her.

He felt the shift.

The way her muscles melted fully into him. The way she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for days. The way she pressed her thigh tighter over his hip in sleep, even unconsciously seeking him out.

And God—if his heart didn’t crack open just watching her.

Austin didn’t sleep right away. He couldn’t. Not with how perfect she looked like this. Wrecked and clean. Loved and vulnerable. A girl who’d peeled herself open for him and let him love every scared, stubborn, beautiful part.

He studied the faint glow of her skin in the dark. The crease of her brow, now smoothed. The smudge of cocoa butter still lingering behind her ear. The place at her throat where her pulse fluttered like a secret only he knew.

She was still here. Still his.

He kissed her there—just below her jaw, where her skin was warm and familiar—and whispered, softer this time, almost like he was telling the night itself:

“You’re mine. Not just tonight. Every night.”

And then he wrapped both arms around her, tucked her close like a prayer, and closed his eyes.

Not to sleep. But to rest. Finally.

[motheroffeline]

Hymn for the Damned

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Black fem reader (Cheyenne) x vampire Elias "stack" Moore (what if scenario, smut)

Everybody in the community knew that Cheyenne was extremely religious. Never drank, never even listened to certain songs on account of how they went against her faith. She was strong willed, but her father had sheltered her for most of her life.

Before she became the nightmare whispered about in Clarksdale, Cheyenne Cornel was known as the preacher’s jewel—the daughter of Reverend Elijah Cornel, the firebrand shepherd of St. Matthew’s Apostolic Church. But everyone simply called him Reverend Cornel.

From the time she could walk, Cheyenne lived beneath the heavy shadow of scripture. Her mother died giving birth to her, a wound the reverend never recovered from. Instead, he poured all his grief, hope, and divine obsession into raising Cheyenne.

The Cornel house stood at the edge of town—tall, whitewashed, and quiet, like a mausoleum of faith. Every window had a curtain. Every bookshelf, a Bible. No secular books, no music but hymns. No visitors but church folk. There was no radio, no dancing, no lipstick, and no birthday candles—only prayer, silence, and modesty.

“The world will tempt you, child,” Reverend Cornel used to say. “But you are not of the world. You are set apart. Holy. Righteous.”

At five, she had memorized half the Psalms.

At eight, she recited the entire Sermon on the Mount from memory.

At ten, she spoke in tongues in front of the entire congregation and fainted afterward from the power of the Spirit—or so they said.

Her father never raised his hand to her. He didn’t need to. His disappointment could shatter her. He ruled her world with biblical absolutism and a gentleness that could freeze your bones.

But as Cheyenne grew older, the tight walls of her life began to press in like a coffin. Puberty became a battlefield. Her body blossomed, but her father wrapped her in long cotton dresses and quoted Corinthians about modesty. Boys at church glanced her way, but Reverend Cornel saw them as wolves at the fold. He warned them. And they stayed away.

“Your body is a temple,” he’d remind her, often after she’d look at herself too long in the mirror. “But only a fool worships the temple and forgets the God inside.”

The only time Cheyenne ever saw the outside world was when she walked to the church or fetched water. On Sundays, she sang—her voice haunting, clear, too powerful for someone with no joy in her life. Parishioners cried. They called her touched. Blessed. Even angelic.

The night the juke joint opened, the sky cracked open with heat lightning, like God Himself was watching and holding His breath.

Folks from every corner of Clarksdale drifted in under cover of night—black farmers, bluesmen, riverboat workers, and girls with flowers braided into their hair. Even the judgmental church ladies couldn’t help but sneak glances from behind their curtains as laughter, tambourines, and guitar riffs rippled out across the town like waves of warm sin.

Inside, it was alive.

Sawdust on the floor. Oil lanterns flickering with orange flame. Tables handmade from cypress wood. And a stage kissed by a single spotlight, where Sammie played a twelve-bar blues that made grown men weep into their whiskey.

And there she was—Cheyenne, the preacher’s daughter, standing just beyond the threshold.

Her dress was still modest, but the way it clung to her sweat-slicked skin betrayed something deeper. She had her hair down for the first time in public, and her eyes were wide with wonder, but underneath them brewed a storm of guilt and defiance.

She stepped through the doorway slowly, like stepping into a fire she knew would consume her.

Inside, heads turned.

“Ain’t that Reverend Cornel’s girl?” “She got no business here…” “Hush, she’s grown now.”

But no one dared stop her. A light-colored lavender dress hugged her form from years of wear, she was barefoot, and her eyes were lined with charcoal stolen from her father's study ink.

“She ain’t wearin’ no shoes…”

“Ain’t that the reverend’s daughter? Lord have mercy…”

“You seein’ what I’m seein’? Girl done lost her damn mind.”

Pearline, Preacher boy, and everyone else's words lingered heavily in Cheyenne's mind, but she did not turn away.

The first song stopped. And all eyes turned to Cheyenne as Preacher boy leaned into the mic with a crooked grin.

“Y’all, the Lord just sent us an angel... and I think she’s got a song to sing.”

Cheyenne didn’t hesitate.

She walked barefoot to the stage. Took the mic in both hands. Closed her eyes.

And when she opened her mouth, it wasn't gospel. It wasn’t Sunday-safe. It was low, slow, and dirty, dragged from the roots of her soul. She sang about want, about hunger, about a man with blood on his hands and a mouth that tasted like damnation.

And every note was a slap in the face to her father.

Every lyric was a crucifix turned upside-down.

The crowd cheered, half-mesmerized, half-terrified.

But then came the cold.

The music stopped. The air shifted.

From outside came the sound of hooves—or was it footsteps? Dozens of them. Fast. Sharp. Unnatural.

Smoke burst through the side door, eyes wide.

“Don’t open the doors. Don’t let them in.”

Panic bloomed. Chairs overturned. Bottles crashed.

And then the pounding began—fists against the walls, the windows, the doors. Shadows with eyes like dying stars moved like smoke around the building, snarling, whispering.

They couldn’t come in.

Not unless invited.

“They can’t cross the threshold unless one of us—” someone shouted.

But it was too late.

Outside, Stack staggered toward the front entrance. Blood on his mouth. Eyes flickering between gold and black.

“Help me, let me in.” he whispered, collapsing into the dirt.

Mary had bitten him only moments earlier cruel and seductive, had fed him eternal hunger.

Inside, they all watched from the windows.

“Don’t open that door,” Smoke growled. “That ain’t Stack no more.”

Cheyenne stood frozen—half on the stage, half in some dream she hadn’t yet named.

Stack’s eyes met hers through the doorway.

He didn’t speak, but she heard him. Inside her blood. In her marrow.

“Come to me.”

And she ran.

People screamed.

“No, girl!” “He’s turned! Don’t go to him!” “Close the door!”

But Cheyenne didn’t stop.

She burst through the threshold barefoot, ran past the holy ground of safety, and leapt into his arms like a bride at the altar of fire.

She wrapped her arms around him, fingers in his hair, lips to his neck. Her breath was a prayer of rebellion:

“Take me. Make me yours. I ain’t my father’s child no more.”

And he bit.

It wasn’t savage—it was slow. Intimate. He pierced her neck with trembling restraint, letting her feel every beat of her mortal heart before it would stop forever.

From the windows, those inside the juke joint watched in horror.

Smoke stood at the door, fists clenched, eyes glassy with grief.

He could have opened the door. He could have saved her.

But doing so would have let the entire vampire horde swarm in—and once inside, the juke joint would become a slaughterhouse.

The night Cheyenne turned, the world became wider—and hungrier.

She ran through the Mississippi backwoods with Stack at her side, blood singing in her veins like gospel turned feral. Her senses sharpened: the scent of sweat and moonlight, the beat of hearts behind shuttered cabins, the thrum of cicadas that now sounded like drums before a battle.

The vampire horde—Remmick, Marla, Bishop, and the others—trailed behind like shadows, fanning through the trees. But it was Stack she stayed closest to.

He was her first breath of immortality.

Her first death.

Her first want.

They stopped at an abandoned plantation chapel, long gutted by fire and vines, where Remmick swore the sun never touched the altar. The others curled into dark corners or fell into blood-drunk sleep, but Cheyenne lingered at the cracked pulpit, her fingers brushing the charred wood.

Stack found her there.

“You ain't prayin', are you?” he murmured.

“No. Just remembering what it felt like to be afraid of Hell.”

He stepped closer, boots silent on the ashes. His eyes—still glowing faintly with that newborn hunger—drank her in.

“You ain’t afraid now?”

“Only of not feeling this again.”

They stood inches apart, the air between them charged and trembling.

She could still feel where his teeth had broken her skin.

He could still hear the way she had gasped, not in pain—but in welcome.

When he kissed her, it wasn’t gentle—it was posession, a claiming made from need and memory. Her fingers tangled in his shirt. His hands gripped her waist like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

Stack's hands gripped Cheyenne's thighs, pulling her to the edge of the altar. He looked up at her, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Let's see if you taste as good as you look."

His head dipped between Cheyenne's legs, and she gasped at the feeling of his tongue tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, moving closer to her center. Stack took his time, teasing her with slow, deliberate licks and kisses. When he finally reached her clit, she arched her back so hard that it popped.

He spread Cheyenne's legs farther apart tasting all of what she had to offer. His tongue licked and his mouth sucked on her sensitive clit unto she came apart screaming cumming into his mouth. Stack groaned as the taste of Cheyenne flooded his mouth.

In that raw, electric moment, Stack’s eyes darkened—not just with hunger, but with something fierce and protective. The taste of her, the vulnerability she showed, stirred a brutal tenderness inside him.

"Baby, it's like you made out of sugar or somethin'..."

Cheyenne's breath came out in short gasps as she tried to recollect herself.

Cheyenne’s connection with Stack ran deeper than words—because as newly turned vampires, their minds were no longer private sanctuaries, but open books laid bare between them.

At first, the thought of sharing every feeling, every secret desire, and every shadowed fear terrified her. There was no room for lies, no hiding the fractures beneath her rebellious facade.

But with Stack, it wasn’t cold or invasive—it was raw, intimate, and strangely comforting.

She felt his thoughts ripple through her like whispered confessions in the dark: his guilt over Smoke, his hunger, his fragile hope to cling to something real amid the damnation.

In turn, Stack sensed her turmoil—the clash of faith and hunger, the war between the girl she’d been and the monster she was becoming.

Their minds intertwined like two rivers merging, flowing with pain, lust, memories, and unspoken promises.

This telepathic bond made their relationship more than just physical—it was a merging of souls fractured by the curse of vampirism but desperately reaching for connection.

Cheyenne found solace in the unfiltered honesty, even if it burned like holy fire—because in a world where trust was rare, Stack was the only one who truly knew her.

[yanderefarm]

about nephite bullying for 🐝 anon

cw;; dead dove, dark content, domestic abuse, religion, omegaverse, public sex, free use, dub-con, non-con, pregnancy

i think its very similar to ares but with the cult twist

theres two ways to go about breaking this wife into a good obedient wife. either you lean hard into his religious beliefs or you completely break his faith.

imagine everytime he starts to get out of line; talking back to you, refusing your public advances, leaving to go work you hit him just like you would ares. he starts to cry and beg you to stop but you remind him that according to his scriptures it's your job as a husband to discipline him. that breaks him quickly. you quote the passages in question to him and he can't argue, can't beg, all he can do is cry at the pain and say thank you afterwards. he gets to a point where whenever he does anything out of line he comes to you and asks you to discipline him.

imagine groping him in the middle of the town because he got embarrassed and told you not to. his eyes full of tears as you rub him through his underwear. make him quote his scriptures about how a wife is always supposed to submit to his husband. if you catch other alphas leering at him, especially ones you know wanted him for themselves originally, make him show off his body to them. take him to a more private location and pull up his dress and make him explain why he was being groped. if you're feeling generous you can let the other alphas use his mouth or hit him a few times as discipline.

imagine him being really bad. maybe he tried to fight you back, maybe he refused to clean the house, maybe he tried to get his father to help him. you go to the pastor and ask if you would be allowed to give your wife old fashioned discipline in front of everyone after church and the pastor is so enthusiastic he makes his whole sermon around it. on Sunday you bring nephite up to the stage and while the pastor begins to preach you undress him, put him in stocks, and start flogging him. the pastor praises your dedication while your wife is sobbing and embarrassed and apologetic.. he's begging you to stop he's so sorry he'll never do that again he won't! you make him look where his family is sitting and tell him no one is going to "help" him. you're the only one here who can actually help him. you continue to flog him until he's lying on the floor bruised.

he becomes a perfect broken wife after that.

———

or if you don't want the cult to have anything to do with your wife you're going to have to work harder to break him. you have to start challenging everything the church says, really push at it. until he becomes turned against them and agrees to leave with you. leaving means isolation though. he loses all his friends, all his family, his purpose. the only thing he has is you.

when you're both comfortable and safe in a little cottage far away from the cult that's when you start to teach him. mold him the way you want. he cries and fights so much at first but after you beat him into submission you remind him that without you he has nothing. he can't get a job, he can't see his family again, he has nothing but you. remind him that every time. make him understand that if he doesn't give in to you you'll throw him out. make him sleep outside or in a shed. he'll learn.

rebuild his poor little mind from the ground up. tell him your rules and what it takes to be a good wife, dinner when you get home, a clean house, an obedient submissive partner.

the hardest one for him to get over is his embarrassment when you want his body to be free use. the best way to cure this is to fuck him when he's outside, press him against a tree and lift his skirt. if he starts to whine or complain give him a good slap and make him tell you the rule. he'll be sniffling and crying as he softly recites it. make sure he keeps saying it as you use his body mercilessly.

once he's leaking your cum and dirty from the ground go get the garden hose and spray him off. his dress is filthy so he has to stay naked the rest of the day. he has to get used to being free use so he can be the perfect barefoot always pregnant wife.

[siravalondulac]

this is what i tell the world at the end, full of pride [part two of three] | j. snow x fem!oc

part 6⅔ of the modern!holiday au

summary: after a frustrating day at work, cerelle suggests jon try out something new to get his mind off things.

contents: modern au, pride month, smut (face fucking, eating out from behind, edging, anal fingering), use of a safe word

words: 4250

author's note: the pride madness continues

tag list: @sunraysoverthevalley @idohknow @sammybirdseed

masterlist

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The window on the other side of the room clatters as he throws the door close with all his might. He lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and leans back against it.

He has dealt with rude people before. He has dealt with idiots before. He has dealt with assholes before. But never before has he had to deal with all three on the same day, within the same last hour before closing. It is clear Thorne hates him, otherwise he would have defended him from any one of these godawful men today.

“Everything alright?”

Jon looks up in surprise to see Cerelle sitting on his bed, books and binders spread around her, and… and dressed in one of his hoodies.

Since having exchanged apartment keys last week, they have agreed that either of them could simply show up to the other's place, even if they aren’t home. Neither have used it yet - until today. And he couldn’t be happier.

He hastily drops his jacket and backpack, slips out of his shoes, and lets himself fall onto the bed and into her embrace. She chuckles as he presses his face against her stomach, but he only tightens his hold around her waist.

“Tough day?”

He nods.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

On a different day he would have liked nothing more than to get all his troubles off his chest, to share them with his girlfriend and have her ease his worries. But not today. Not after being screamed at for almost half an hour. And definitely not after reading that article Rast had sent him.

What is going on with Cerelle Baratheon-Lannister?

By now, I believe we have all become accustomed to the scandals our president’s daughter serves to us on a weekly basis. Whether it’s some weird sex story, another dead body, or the desecration of a public monument - everyone remembers the pictures of the remains of the dragon statue in Summerhall from last year - her exploits have become part of the newscycle. Election - robbery - Cerelle. Budget cuts - drugs - Cerelle. War in Essos - football - Cerelle. Her life is a trainwreck we simply cannot look away from.

But something seems to have changed since the beginning of the year. Sure, she still gets near black-out drunk in every single night club in the city, got arrested three times in the last three months, and had yet another exposé written about her by an ex lover, but that is tame by her standards. Where are the orgies? The cannibalism accusations? The murder charges? What happened to the woman who was caught in bed with her father’s greatest political rival? Who dyed the Blackwater Rush blood-red? Who almost bombed a fascist rally?

Theories have started popping up in every corner of the internet, each more unbelievable than the last. The most common conclusion people have reached is that she has either become pregnant - likely from someone she doesn’t even remember the name of, which could lead to some interesting court proceedings - or that someone has finally snatched her up and married her. Maybe Aurane Waters has finally succeeded in his year-long quest, maybe one of her previous lovers actually belongs to the Church of Old Valyria and has demanded she fulfil their strange scriptures, or maybe, most boringly, her grandfather has forced her to finally marry Alyn Estermont to secure him as a son-in-law.

That a beauty surgery has gone wrong or that she is suffering from cancer (or any other mysterious disease) is unlikely, considering her looks have not changed. More likely than this is that she has been sent to rehab again, or that she even - gods forbid - is preparing to run for a public office. Though hopefully even she knows how useless that is. No one would want someone like her running even a soup kitchen.

Well, no matter what the reason for Cerelle Baratheon-Lannister’s strange behaviour is, chances are high we will see her old self again very soon. Women like her are incapable of a “normal” life.

Jon knows the article is nothing but an opinion piece posted to a random gossip site. And yet the opinions of the people it mentions are very real, the links at the bottom leading to actual discussions as to what might be wrong with their favourite starlet.

Cerelle cannot find out about what these people say about her. And so he merely shakes his head and hides his face underneath her hoodie. His hoodie, that she is wearing.

His girlfriend laughs, her fingers tracing his hair through the fabric. “Looks like someone is in need of a distraction.”

He wants to move downward, to take her up on her offer and lose himself in her, but she quickly lays her fingers underneath his chin and forces him to meet her gaze.

“I meant something different.” She smiles seeing his confusion. “You could… try letting out some of your frustrations on me.”

He jolts upward in shock. “No! No, I could never-”

“It's alright, it's alright.” She quickly takes his hand in hers, laying a gentle kiss on its knuckles and squeezing it in encouragement. “You don't have to, it's just… I actually think it's really hot when you take control sometimes. When you grow demanding and take what you want. It's… freeing in a way. And I wouldn't mind if you got a bit rough with me.”

He considers her words. His fingers absentmindedly draw shapes on the back of her hand, and eventually start tracing the edge of her hoodie.

“Like the time I fucked you against your apartment door?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “Just like that.”

“Or when I took you from behind and made you cum three times?”

She bites her lower lip and hums in agreement.

“How about that time I-”

“Stop talking and fuck me already.”

He takes ahold of her chin and tips her head back. “What happened to wanting me to be in charge?”

“You can't expect to taunt your needy girlfriend forever.” She grins, almost in a challenge. “If you don't start something soon, she might have to get her pleasure from somewhere else.”

Jon knows what she is doing, of course - intentionally playing bratty and riling him up to get him more comfortable with the situation.

And so he grins in response and pushes Cerelle off the bed.

She lets out a sound somewhere between confusion, anger, and surprise, but before she can mutter even a single word, he has sat down on the edge of the mattress and started unbuckling his pants.

“If you're so desperate to be fucked-” he pulls his still soft dick out of his pants and gives it an insistent tug- “You need to earn it.”

And before he knows it, his girlfriend has already swallowed him to the base.

By now he should have already been used to her warm mouth, the way her skillful tongue traces along the veins and how her throat tightens around his tip, yet it still takes him off guard how good it feels every time. It's no surprise, then, that she has him rock-hard and throbbing within a minute.

Maybe a wiser and more experienced man would be terrified if another person knows his body better than he does, but Jon doesn't care. Not with Cerelle. Not with how she moans so prettily when pleasuring him, how she leans forward on her knees to take him even deeper, and how she sometimes stops to make out with his tip as if it were his lips.

He groans and jerks his hips forward and further into her warmth at that particular sight. She grins - or attempts to do so, at least, yet her lips are still stretched around his spit-covered dick - but just as she is about to reach her hand up to assist her work, he reminds himself of what she asked for.

One of his hands closes itself around her wrist, the other buries itself in her hair and pulls her off his length.

(The string of spit connecting her lips to his tip make his hips almost surge forward.)

Cerelle looks up at him - still grinning, still cocky, still urging him to go further.

“Do you need a break?” she asks in such a sugary-sweet voice he almost laughs.

“You might need one soon,” he responds.

Her lips part slightly in surprise, then she tips her head back, baring her long and pale throat to him.

“How so, my love?”

Oh, how desperately he simply wants to stuff his cock into her mouth and fuck her the way he has fantasised about so many times before, but… Not yet. Soon, maybe, but his anxiety is still too strong.

He lets go of her wrist and brings his hand up to her mouth, pressing his thumb against her lips. She opens them readily and sucks his finger into her mouth, humming against the digit as it presses down on her tongue.

The sight alone almost makes him cum.

“There is something… Something I want to do,” he says slowly. “But you wouldn’t be able to talk during it, and I'm scared of hurting you and not even noticing.”

Cerelle gently takes ahold of his wrist, frees his thumb from her mouth with a pop (gods!), and interlaces their fingers.

“Two squeezes mean you should stop.” She shows him what she means. Once. Twice. “I will not let go of your hand, no matter what you do.”

He almost kisses her red lips, yet manages to hold himself back.

Later.

For now, his other hand tightens the grip it has on Cerelle's hair, and guides her head towards his dick.

He starts off slow, just to get them both used to the feeling. Being the one in control of a blowjob - and the movement of his girlfriend’s head in particular - feels strange, and yet he cannot help but love it. Love the way her lips move along his spit-covered cock, how he keeps her mouth pressed firmly against his tip when she clearly so desperately wants to take him deeper, how he jerks his hips forward suddenly and takes her off-guard.

It takes him a while to find a rhythm he is comfortable with (and one Cerelle might be as well). He drags her head forward and back, tilting it, speeding up and slowing down. She does her fair share of work as well, of course, moving her tongue across the sensitive veins on the underside, humming, smiling, whining, and almost threatening to bite him when he keeps her in one place for too long.

Jon rewards her with a sudden thrust of his hips that makes her gag around his dick. He almost draws her back, preparing to ask if she is alright, if he hurt her, when she looks him directly into his eyes and swallows around him.

He begins moving her mouth along his cock quicker, then, preparing to stop at a moment's notice. But even if the grip he has on her hair must surely hurt already, even if he never gives her a moment to breathe, she continues sucking him off.

He starts losing himself in her more and more. His head falls back, his eyes fall close, and all he can focus on is the sound of his dick fucking into Cerelle's throat.

It's disgusting. It's beautiful. It's addicting.

His hand flattens against the back of her head, keeping her face pressed against his groin and his tip locked firmly in her throat. Breathing slowly and heavily to avoid cumming, he plays with lone strands of her hair, jerking his hips forward slightly to-

She squeezes his hand.

A string of curses flies through his head as he rips her off his dick faster than he should have.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so-”

Cerelle coughs, retching a bit even, and wipes some of the spit from her chin with a trembling hand.

“I'm so sorry.” Jon falls on the floor beside his girlfriend in a frenzy. “I shouldn't have- Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

She laughs shakily. “Yeah, I'm okay.” Her hands find his and tighten around his fingers. “It's just… You're a bit too big for me to deepthroat you for long.”

“Still, I shouldn't- I shouldn't have used you like that, what if something had-”

“Hey, hey. Jon, it's alright.” She cups his face in her hands, tracing the lines of his beard. “I enjoyed it. I asked for you to take control, and I knew this was one of the things you could do. And I still wanted it. Besides…” She takes his hand again, and squeezes twice. “That's why we have this. I tapped out in time, you reacted in time. Nothing happened.”

He presses his lips to her forehead, and cradles her body in his arms, attempting to stop the trembling wrecking through him.

Nothing happened. Cerelle's right. She is still here, she is not hurt, she is still smiling and breathing.

“If…” he says slowly. “If this had been a colour, which would you have said?”

She had introduced him to the concept of safewords last week, and they had agreed on using the traffic light system. Green for continue, orange for dialling it back or going slower, red for a full stop. Either could ask at any time, or simply say the colour at any time.

“Orange,” Cerelle answers. Her breath fans across his throat.

“So you'd want to continue?”

She nods. “If that's alright with you. The whole thing really turned me on.”

He grins, and moves his mouth directly next to her ear. “Then onto the bed, my love. Hands and knees.”

His girlfriend follows his command - only after kissing him, of course. She looks divine in that position, especially with how her long curls fall all around her body and collect around her hands.

He moves behind her, tracing her ass and thin legs through the fabric of her leggings, before slowly and carefully pulling them and her underwear down, over her knees, and throwing them onto the floor.

She audibly inhales, then almost squeals the moment he latches onto her clit.

After what just happened, it feels comforting in a way to kneel behind her and get drunk on her juices, on the moans and whines that spill from her mouth. He grabs her thigh, digging his fingers into the soft flesh to draw her legs further apart and provide him with better access to her cunt. 

His tongue draws circles around her hole, pressing against it without ever entering. Cerelle whines, trying to push herself closer against his face, but he only smiles and moves back to her clit, showering it with attention instead.

Pleasuring her has become far too easy, and yet it doesn't bother him. There is a sense of satisfaction to knowing his girlfriend's body inside and out, to know which licks of his tongue and which presses of his fingers will get her moaning the loudest. A sense of pride in being her access to pleasure.

His nose presses into her cunt as he continues sucking her clit and making out with it as if it is her mouth. (Though nothing could compare to that.) A mixture of her juices and his spit run down her legs and get caught in his beard, but that does nothing to deter him. It's the opposite, in fact.

Her taste, her scent, her entire being needs to become a part of him, needs to enter his mind and blood so that he will remember it even into death.

Cerelle rocks her hips back and forth, almost starting to ride his face. He swiftly lays his hand in between her shoulder plates and starts to push down with enough force to make her arms crumble underneath her. Her face and front are now pressed into the mattress, while the arch in her back makes her ass point upward, providing him with an even better access to her cunt. And a good look at…

Oh, how desperately he tries to ignore it, tries to drown himself in the wetness spilling out of her. But the thought simply will not leave him alone. No matter how hard he tries.

She won't like it, we haven't talked about it, this is not what either of them are here for…

He gently bites her clit, making her let out a quiet scream.

No, she has said she likes it, and would be up for it at any time. And if she wants to try something different, wants to feel what it's like when he has complete control over her…

His hand, previously locked tightly around her leg, starts slowly inching upward. His mouth doesn't leave her hole, of course, keeping her distracted and hiding his next goal. But he cannot focus properly on that (not even on her beautiful moans), as he grabs a handful of her ass to squeeze it, before moving further.

His thumb stops a hair’s breadth away from her puckered hole.

And based on the sudden shudder that went through her body, she might have noticed what he is planning.

“Colour?”

“Green. Green, please- Please, continue, I beg-”

He swipes his tongue along her cunt, starting at her clit and almost reaching her ass, as his thumb dips into her wet hole, collecting as much of her juices as possible. Then he returns it to its previous position, and starts pressing down.

There is a lot more insistence than he is used to, even if he clearly feels her trying to relax herself for him. Despite wanting nothing more than to watch his own work, he keeps his mouth locked firmly on Cerelle's clit, absentmindedly sucking on it as he moves his thumb in circles over her asshole.

Slowly, the tip of his finger passes her rim. It's so incredibly tight, squeezing around the intruding digit and seemingly wanting to draw it further in and press it out at the same time.

Cerelle arches her back even more, almost folding herself in half as she tries to move against him. His free hand quickly grabs her waist to keep her in place.

“Y'like this?” he mumbles against her cunt.

“Y-Yeah.”

His chuckles send vibrations straight to her core, making her shiver. “You’re desperate for me.” He swipes his tongue across her hole. “Can't spend even a day without me.” He runs his finger through her wetness again, and quickly presses back it into her ass, slowly moving it deeper and deeper. “You look so good wearing my things. You have no idea what that does to me.”

Cerelle moans - whether at his words or the continued assault on her holes he cannot say. Her breathing quickens, her legs start to tremble under the continuing strain of keeping her upright, and her hole begins to pulse around his tongue. All the signs point to-

He moves his mouth away swiftly, and presses against her legs and waist to stop her from chasing his touch.

She whines. “Jon, please.”

“Something the matter?”

Her panting sounds muffled against the pillow she has buried her face in.

“What was that?” he asks with a grin. “I fear I didn't understand you.”

“Please,” she whispers. “Let me cum.”

He hums as he stares at his abandoned work, gently moving his thumb inside her ass, pressing it against her walls. “Could you cum from this? If it was my dick inside you instead.”

“N- No,” she answers shakily. “Not if you didn't touch my clit.”

“Hmm.” He moves closer slightly, his breath fanning over her skin. “Sounds like I need to try that some time.”

He continues eating her out, yet stopping just before she cums every time. By the time he has denied her yet another orgasm - he has lost count by this point - her crying and begging has devolved so much he cannot even make out proper words anymore.

It's so terribly addicting.

The moment her legs give out under her, he quickly catches her and turns her onto her back.

Cerelle looks at him with half-closed eyes when he moves up to her, and lets out a small whine when he cups her cheek in his hand.

“How are you?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

She nods, her breathing coming out in ragged bursts. “Yeah. Though I'd really like it if you made me cum now.”

“There is one more thing I would like to do before that.” He hesitates. “Colour?”

“Green.”

“Then close your hands around the headboard.”

A smile creeps onto her face. “And if I don't?” she asks, raising her chin.

He moves so close their lips almost touch. “I can always tie them up for you if you're too weak.”

Cerelle’s grin hides something mischievous, and he could not wait to find out what plans are forming inside her head.

Later. For now, he kneels above her chest, legs on either side of her body as she raises her arms above her head just as he commanded. He quickly leans forward and interlaces one of his hands with hers, feeling stupid for almost forgetting.

“Squeeze twice if I should stop.”

She nods, and then he moves his hips forward and presses his dick against her mouth.

Eating out his girlfriend should not have made him this hard, but looking at his red and throbbing cock, and the pre already leaking out of it, he is glad for it. He desperately needs to cum, and could not manage having to start from zero again.

Cerelle swallows him straight down, even in this strange position they have found themselves in. And when he starts pulling out and snapping back into her mouth over and over again, his balls slapping against her chin and his tip close to entering her throat, she takes it as if she had done so a thousand times before.

He sometimes draws halfway out to let her tongue run along his dick, mindful not to accidentally choke her again. She makes this a bit difficult with how desperately she chases after him, never properly letting go of him.

Eventually, he does start to lose himself inside her, yet his loss of control doesn't last long, because then suddenly Cerelle runs her teeth across his dick and swallows around him, making him jerk into her throat one final time before cumming.

He almost falls down on top of her, only barely holding onto the headrest as his hips slightly jerk into her mouth and he spills himself into her.

It’s blinding, in a way, the very kind of pure euphoria he knows he cannot find anywhere else. Cannot even find with someone else, no matter how many people he could fuck over his life - only Cerelle could make him lose himself so from a mere orgasm.

When he does finally manage to retain control of his senses, he almost falls off the bed in his haste to free his girlfriend’s chest of his weight. How her reaction time is still quick enough to catch him and draw him into her embrace even after everything he did to her is a mystery to him.

Jon wipes away some of the escaped seed from her lips and chin. “Are you alright?”

She nods, tightening her grip on his shirt. “Will you now please make me cum? Please?”

“Do it yourself.”

“What?”

He smiles, takes one of her hands and guides it to her core. “I am tired after everything today. If you are so desperate, you need to make yourself cum.”

A million different emotions rush across her face, before her eyes darken and she matches his grin.

Not surprisingly, it doesn't take Cerelle very long to reach her orgasm, especially after everything they just did (and everything he did to her). She arches into his chest, throws back her head, and moans loudly as her juices spill out from between her legs.

They lie in each other’s arms afterwards. Just breathing, just existing with each other, and recovering from what just happened.

“Where did you learn all that?” she whispers.

“Nowhere. I just… It was just an idea I had. Something I wanted to do with you.” He chuckles. “I don’t think there is very much to learn about denying my girlfriend the chance to cum.”

“You really like that word.”

“Girlfriend?” She hums in agreement. “Yeah. I don’t know why. You’re not my first, and before you the word was never anything special. I can’t explain why it feels so different now.”

Cerelle is quiet for a moment before she says, “You’re my first boyfriend.”

“What? Really?”

She nods. “I’ve had one-night stands and situationships and friends with benefits and maybe sometimes things that could have evolved into something proper had we both only wanted it, but I have never had a serious partner before. And especially not someone I was exclusive with.”

Jon’s heart races at the revelation.

Before this, he had always assumed the reason Cerelle is such an expert about their relationship, the reason she always knows what to say and what not to say, when to discuss something and when to simply fall asleep next to him, was because she had done it a thousand times before. But now-

He hugs her tighter. “Thank you for trusting me enough to give you this experience.”

“There is no one better I could have imagined for this.”

previous | next

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

why do all the publicly available copies of the Arcanic Scriptures have Chapter 2 missing?

For context: I'm answering other people's lore questions! Drop me an ask about your lore and watch me get it comically wrong!

Alright, let's begin!

The Arcanic Scriptures are named after Bob Arcanic, a famous woodworker. He wrote the widely renowned manual, which were called scriptures for the reverence with which other woodworkers treated it, for free and distributed it widely to make woodworking a more easily accessible trade <3

Chapter 2 contained a special secret technique called woodbending, which entailed turning wood liquid so it could fit any form and didn't have to be sanded smooth.

Unfortunately, Bob's greatest competitor, Meanie MacFuckFace, didn't want such a precious secret to be spread, because it would lead to a decrease in his and other master woodworkers' profits. So he hired the world's greatest assassin and thief to kill Bob and destroy all copies of Chapter 2:

Fluffypaws. *Gasp*

Fluffypaws demanded all the fish in the Great Lake as compensation for her services, and Meanie agreed. She snuck into printing presses and homes in the dead of night by sitting at people's front porches and meowing piteously until they let her in for warmth, before clawing the pages of Chapter 2 to shreds and disappearing.

Before she could get to Bob, however, he caught wind of the contract. In what would come to be spoken in awed whispers for aeons to come, he performed a great act of woodworking. Using his wood-bending, he took all the trees surrounding the Great Lake and bent it to become a massive sieve. Then, as Fluffypaws descended on him, he used the sieve to fish up every single fish in the Great Lake and handed it to her.

Fluffypaws, delighted, agreed to forsake her contract and protect him instead. Though he could not afford to pay her to protect every copy of the Arcanist Scriptures, he kept her by his side to protect his life and his personal copies of chapter 2. And though Meanie MacFuckFace's new hired goons could destroy publically circulated copies of Chapter 2, none could get past the magnificent Fluffypaws, long may her white fur be luscious and easy may the blood wash off it.

Tagging the list for this work of art <3

Taglist: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @paeliae-occasionally, @an-indecisive-nerd, @thecomfywriter

@seastarblue, @wyked-ao3

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[skmhlml]

Hello, I hope you're having a good day! Can I have The Three Sisters X Reader please? (Platonic for Pudding á la Mode Cookie) Thank you so very much!

-Akbrain

The Three Sisters x Reader

|General + Romantic + Platonic|

Pudding á la Mode Cookie

🍮 Whether you can sing or not, she’ll drag you into a two-mic moment during her sets. She’s all about confidence over pitch. Her favorite duet with you is a sparkly, over-the-top number where she makes you wear matching accessories (expect pudding-themed pins and glitter).

🍮 The two of you trade desserts constantly—it’s practically a love language. You bring her your homemade snacks (which she posts on her CookieGram stories), and she showers you in parfaits, jelly drinks, and limited-edition idol merch that somehow always smells like whipped cream.

🍮 She’s always designing “casual idol” looks for you two to wear together—expect crop jackets, glittery boots, and frilly pastel pieces. She adores giving you mini-makeovers before shows or parties and will not let you leave the house looking anything less than ✨fabulous✨.

🍮 She takes so many pictures of you two. If you’re chilling on a bench? Selfie. Eating pancakes? Selfie. You tripped and landed in a flower bush? She’s already filtering it for aesthetic. Your shared scrapbook is legendary in the kingdom—and a source of embarrassment when guests come over.

🍮 Behind her pop idol persona, Pudding à la Mode Cookie is incredibly loyal and protective. If anyone tries to bring you down or mess with your self-esteem, she’s on them with a sugary sweet smile and a terrifyingly sharp mic stand. She’s your #1 hype Cookie and believes in you no matter what.

🍮 She’s the type of friend who’ll randomly show up at your door with glitter slime, comfort food, and a whole playlist of songs she wrote just for you when you’re down. She feels deeply, even when hiding it behind sparkles, and your comfort genuinely matters to her.

Green Tea Mousse Cookie

🍵 Green Tea Mousse Cookie is all grace and intention. She doesn’t fall fast, but when she does, her feelings are deep and quietly consuming. Her courtship is poetic: handwritten letters sealed with pressed flowers, shared quiet walks, and tea poured with trembling hands when you’re near.

🍵 She doesn’t say “I love you” easily — instead, she shows it in the way she remembers your favorite flower, the warmth of her gaze when she brews tea just the way you like it, or the way her fingers brush yours like wind through leaves. To her, love is sacred, not rushed.

🍵 She often invites you to join her under the cherry blossoms or to sit by a koi pond as she plays her flute. You sit close in silence, letting the breeze carry the sound of wind chimes and soft birdsong. Time feels slower with her, but in the best way.

🍵 She’s refined, yes—but that doesn’t mean she’s immune to jealousy. If someone flirts with you too boldly, she won’t start drama, but her tone gets a little cooler. She’ll pull you gently aside later and say something soft like, “May I be enough for your affection?” with eyes that plead for reassurance.

🍵 She isn’t overly touchy in public, but in private? She melts at the smallest closeness. Holding your hand in her lap while sipping tea. Brushing your hair with long, delicate fingers. Cuddling on rainy afternoons in thick robes, the scent of fresh herbs around you.

🍵 Though serene on the surface, her love runs fierce and wild beneath. If you’re ever hurt or insulted, her protective streak emerges like a silent blade. She’ll confront others with a composed smile and razor-sharp words that cut deeper than any weapon.

🍵 If you’re upset, she won’t push you to talk immediately. Instead, she sits beside you, maybe offering a warm drink, a blanket, and soft music. Her presence is grounding. Once you open up, she listens like your words are sacred scripture.

Choco Drizzle Cookie

🍫 Choco Drizzle Cookie plays it cool around everyone—but with you? Her carefully curated image cracks just a little. She’s still got that fashion-forward confidence and smooth voice, but her eyeliner gets smudged when she rushes to see you. She pretends not to care… but she cares.

🍫 You inspire her. She claims it’s just for “styling reference” when she snaps dozens of candid pictures of you—laughing, eating, daydreaming. But you’ll later find drawings, fashion sketches, and mood boards based entirely on your vibe. When you find them, she acts like you broke into her diary.

🍫 Her tone might be sarcastic or dry, but her actions betray her feelings. She notices when you’re feeling off, even if you say you’re fine. She’ll drop a designer scarf on your shoulders and mutter, “You looked cold, don’t make it weird.” That’s basically “I love you” in Drizzle-speak.

🍫 She makes you mix playlists, sleek and full of lo-fi, indie alt, and experimental pop. She’ll never admit she made a “soft” playlist for you, but if you catch her with earbuds in and she blushes when you ask what she’s listening to—it’s you. Always you…

🍫 She’s all about layers, accessories, statement pieces—but if you need comfort, she’ll ditch the heels and throw on an oversized hoodie just to make you feel less underdressed. She’ll never say it, but she kind of likes looking like your casual match.

🍫 Her kisses taste like dark chocolate with a faint hint of burnt caramel—sharp, sweet, and a little intense. She kisses slow, savoring you like a luxury treat. You’re her indulgence—one she never thought she’d want so badly.

🍫 Choco Drizzle doesn’t throw tantrums. When someone flirts with you, she simply walks up, slips her arm around your waist, and stares them down over her sunglasses. No words. Just vibes. The message is loud and clear: They wish. You’re mine.

🍫 She buys you things with little notes: luxury accessories, chocolates shaped like hearts, exclusive merch drops—each with a casual “Thought this screamed you.” But the truth is, she thinks you deserve everything beautiful in this world.

🍫 Under her fierce confidence, Choco Drizzle Cookie is a little lonely. Your love makes her feel seen without needing to be on. You let her rest. And in return? She’d burn the whole kingdom down just to keep your smile warm.

Dividers made by: @cafekitsune