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feralgodmothers · 3 months ago

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THIS SHOULD BE TERRIFYING, YET HERE I AM GIGGLING, KICKING MY FEET, AND COMPLETELY LOSING MYSELF

“You nurture life so effortlessly,” he says, his voice low, watching you tend to the plants with care.

Is he… is he gonna impregnate us?

Seeking Salvation

Label Mature 18+

Summary spiritually broken, lost, and living in a world turning to chaos, you seek refuge at Peak Ranch, where the charismatic cult leader Vernon Jefferson Peak takes you as his chosen one, stripping you to your core to rebuild you as his own.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut ❤️‍🔥 Cult leader x curios girl •temptation• ulterior motives• brainwashing • persona splitting • chosen one •isolation • indoctrination• celibacy •sacred union • body worship • talks you though it •nipple play•clit play• fingering • stretch fingering • simultaneous stimulations • multiple orgasm denials• squirting• p in v • lotus pose • devine orgasm • cream pie •after care

📖 Proof readers / plot consultants @peggyao3 @eternal-love ✨ Inspo multiple DMs comments & requests ☺️ made this from seeing nine seconds of a trailer clip.

Seeking Salvation

You were never one to follow blindly. Restless, curious, always chasing something just out of reach, that was you.

You lived in a place where everyone had a plan for you, their voices a chorus of shoulds and musts that drowned out your own.

You were always, too defiant and sharp-witted with a heart guarded just enough to survive, and when the weight of their expectations pressed in, you left.

You left in search of your purpose, your meaning in life, only to discover the world was just a bigger cage, lined with obligations and responsibilities.

You sought solace online, scrolling through endless social media content seeking something that resonated in a sea of voices.

That’s where you first found Vernon Jefferson Peak.

His words were clipped from a speech about freedom, rebirth, shedding expectations. It hit like arrows, piercing the armor you’d built.

You’d watch his videos late at night, your phone glowing in the dark, his voice a quiet storm that stirred something deep.

He wasn’t like the others, peddling quick fixes or hollow promises. He spoke like he saw you, like he knew the ache you couldn’t name.

In those clips, he was striking, his messy blonde hair, and handsome features expressing so passionately, but it was his eyes that drew you in. Blue and intense, like they could see right through the lies.

You’d pause the screen staring a him, wondering what it’d be like to feel that gaze in person.

You weren’t a follower, not yet, just curious, drawn in to the way he seemed to be both dangerous and divine, a paradox wrapped in white shirts and casual suits.

Your curiosity led you to one of his gatherings, a makeshift auditorium filled with restless bodies. The world outside was unraveling, masks, lockdowns, fear, but here Vernon Jefferson Peak was a beacon, a voice in the chaos of uncertainty.

As you gather among a sea of countless others you feel your pulse quicken with anticipation, a spark of something raw and real, like you’re teetering on the brink of revelation.

You linger at the back, your fingers pulling at the edges of your sleeves, caught between curiosity and unease, as your heart races with the promise of finally seeing those blue eyes in person.

You’re not here to become one of his followers, you just want to see him, to know if the man matches the myth.

The stage is bare worn wood, with an orange and yellow backdrop spreading like rays of sun, with a single spotlight that seems to bend toward him, as if even the light can’t resist.

As Vernon steps forward, the crowd goes still. His sandy blonde hair is messy and long, falling to his nape in soft, defiant waves.

His blue eyes are a paradox, calm yet searing, like a sky hiding a storm, his full lips and strong jaw framing a face that feels both angelic and dangerous.

His white shirt beneath his matching blazer hangs loose, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of ink, the edges of wings expanding across his chest.

At the hollow of his throat, a small tattooed happy face stares out, jarring in its simplicity against the intensity of him. He is untamed, physical perfection to behold, but it’s the impact of his aura, that truly holds your captivation.

“The world teaches you fear,” Vernon says, his voice a low, velvet cadence that weaves through the air like whispered truth. “Your leaders teach you guilt.” He steps to the stage’s edge, peering out. “Your body is uncertain, weary, carrying the weight of those expectations. Your pain is not a coincidence. We are not a coincidence.”

His blue eyes find yours immediately in the crowd. Not wandering, not by chance, they find you pinning you in place, and you’re unable to look away.

In that moment, you feel seen, not your face, not your clothes, but the raw, hidden truth beneath your skin. The truth you’ve spent years burying.

You find him just after the crowd has started to disperse. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, tall and still, his white shirt open at the collar beneath his white blazer. He’s mesmerizing, not just in how he looks, but in how he commands the space around him.

His gaze meets yours and he doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes… they admire you. Not in a way that feels performative or polite but in a way that feels deep, private, like he’s seeing something you didn’t even know was there.

You hesitate before you step closer. “I wasn’t sure if I should come over,” you admit, your voice low, uncertain. “But I wanted to thank you, the things you teach really resonate with me.”

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head just slightly. “I know the look in your eyes.” He confirms his expression shifting still unreadable, but slightly softer. “You’ve been living in pieces, haven’t you? Never fully allowed to be whole.”

The words strike you deeper than they should and your eyes widen.

“I don’t know how you…” you trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the way his voice touches places inside you that no one else ever has.

He steps closer, his presence quiet but absolute. “You don’t need to explain,” he says gently his eyes lowering to your heart. “You just need to explore what’s already there… what’s been aching to be found.”

He looks back up and your eyes lock, his stare is calm, unwavering… hypnotic, reaching into you with nothing but his presence.

He leans in slightly just near your ear, his voice low and intimate. “Come to Peak Ranch,” he says, and as he pulls back, something inside of you opens without resistance, like a silent agreement has already been made.

You don’t intend to follow him, not really, but you know the invitation to join him at Peak Ranch is always there, lingering, waiting and all you have to do is ask.

The weeks blur as the world outside becomes sharper, crueler. Lockdowns begin, news flashes scream mandates, pandemics, hoarders empty shelves, offices shutter, schools close, and hospitals overflow.

It feels like doomsday the way panic spreads so widely, and as the fear of the unknown seeps in and the world is thrown into chaos, you finally choose to seek the solace in the haven Vernon promised.

Peak Ranch is a sanctuary sprawled across wildflower fields, with open skies, and wooden cabins, a valley of abundance hidden in the middle of nowhere.

His followers move with purpose, tending gardens, building structures, their faces lit with something you can’t quite name…devotion… or maybe even fulfillment.

You plan to stay here, hidden from the chaos of the outside world for as long as you can, even though you don’t know how long that will be.

As the days weave into weeks , Peak ranch finds you.

You savor the simple structure, rising with the sun, sharing meals, tending the earth.

You lie in the grass midday, the blades tickling your skin, the sky above endless and free, a stark contrast to the cage of the city.

You swim in the hot springs and lake, the pure water washing away the weight of fear, each ripple a retreat from the world’s clamor.

Here, time slows, and you breathe easier, as if the ranch itself is a safe haven carved out from the madness you no longer hear beyond.

Vernon is everywhere, a vision in white shirts or casual suits, the fabrics tailored but relaxed, his tattoos teasing at the edges of his collar. Those wings, always half-seen, remain a mystery you can’t quite unravel, their curves a silent promise that pulls at your curiosity.

He holds small sermons daily, often at dawn or dusk, gathering followers under the open sky or beneath a large wooden pavilion.

One evening, as the sun dips low, painting the wildflowers gold, he stands before the group, his blue eyes scanning the crowd as he speaks, and every time they land on you the weight of his gaze feels like a hand resting on your soul.

“You’ve all been taught to shrink,” he says, his voice a low, velvet tide that washes over you, warm and commanding. “To fold yourselves into shapes that fit the world, to be small, obedient, afraid.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours, “But you’re not small. You’re vast and boundless, waiting to break free to let go of the lies and discover the truth.”

His words hit deep, stirring the restlessness you’ve carried since the ache you felt scrolling his videos.

He makes you feel exposed, yet alive, like he’s speaking only to you, pulling back layers you didn’t know you had.

Your fingers curl into the grass where you sit, a flush creeping up your cheeks. You want to believe him, to step into that vastness he sees, and the way he watches you it makes you think he believes it too.

He observes you with quiet patience over the next few days, like a sculptor studying stone, his blue eyes tracing your movements with a veiled intensity.

One afternoon, as you kneel in the garden, tending rows of blooming herbs, your fingers brushing the soft leaves and rich soil, he approaches.

His white shirt is loose, the tattooed wings peeking from his chest and his messy blonde hair catches the light like a tarnished halo as he stands over you.

“You nurture life so effortlessly,” he says, his voice low, watching you tend to the plants with care. You stand to face him, brushing dirt from your hands, your pulse quickening under his gaze.

“You’re finding your purpose here,” he says, his voice a velvet current, his blue eyes locking onto yours, like he sees every nervous spark within you.

“Yes,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere… until now.” You admit. His eyes darken, taking in your vulnerability, his lips curving just shy of a smile, like he’s savoring a secret only he knows.

“It’s because you have a higher calling,” he conveys, his voice softer like a sacred vow. “Ive always known and I can see it inside of you just waiting to be awakened.” He confirms, his voice low and reverent.

Your cheeks flush at his words, a warmth spreading through you. His praise makes you feel special, chosen, like your right where you belong.

You gaze up at him and a soft smile breaks through your usual guardedness. For the first time you feel a flicker of hope that he’s the one who will finally be able to fix what has been broken all along.

At dusk, as you make your way to your cabin, you spot him sitting barefoot on the edge of his sprawling porch. His sandy blonde hair catching the last rays of the sun’s glow, as his blue eyes track your every step across his ranch.

You wonder what goes on in the mind of a man who seems so untouchable by anyone, but the weight of his stare makes your heart race with questions you’re not ready to voice.

The next morning, when he summons you to his study, you can already feel the shift, like a current pulling you under, drawing you somewhere deeper where you won’t return from the same.

His study is austere, steeped in the faint scent of jasmine and sage. His shelves are lined and filled with leather-bound books of philosophy, and ancient texts.

Handwritten journals lie in uneven stacks on a side table next to novels marked with his name.

The high steepled windows let in slanted light, casting shadows across his large oak desk piled high with books.

The room feels instilled with his presence, every object a piece of his carefully crafted enigma.

He gestures you to sit in a velvet chair, the deep fabric soft under your thighs, and he rests a hip against his large oak desk, staring at you.

His blue eyes are soft but unyielding, his messy blonde hair falling slightly over his face as he tilts his head to study you.

His voice is smooth and steady as he speaks, each word intentional. “You’re carrying something that’s holding you back,” he finally says, leaning forward, his fingers steepled like a prayer. “What is it?”

Your throat tightens, your hands knotting in your lap, finally forced to face it.“I—I don’t really know how to say it,” you confess.

He tilts his head, the happy face tattoo on his throat shifting with the movement.

“You don’t have to say it perfectly. Just say it from here.” He reaches out, his fingers pressing your chest, just over your heart. “It’s here, isn’t it? Heavy. Like a stone.”

You swallow, his touch anchoring you as much as it unravels you and his eyes search yours, his fingers pulling back, leaving a warmth that lingers.

Then he waits, expectant, unmoving until finally the silence breaks you.

“I-I’ve always felt… wrong,” you admit, the words forcing their way out. “Like I’m not good enough. Like I’m failing..at my life at whatever I’m supposed to be doing… at even just being me….”

He nods slow and deliberate. “That’s not yours,” he says, his voice a quiet blade. “That’s what was forced upon you. Your shame, your memories, your fears … your pain ……they’re chains.” He says as his finger moves to your temple, faintly making contact. “You were never meant to be who they told you to be. Let me show you who you are beneath this skin.”

Your breath trembles. His words aren’t just words they’re a current, pulling you under.“How do you do that?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, a flicker of something warm, almost tender. “By letting me take what was once yours.”

You want to ask what he means, but his gaze holds yours, those blue eyes a tide you can’t resist, and the question dissolves. All you can do is nod, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and longing.

The next day when you are moved from your cabin into Vernons main ranch it feels like crossing a threshold, a shift from self discovery into something deeper, more binding.

The ranch is vast, a haven of blooming meadows, and boundless skies, but in the main compound, in Vernon’s inner sanctuary it’s different.

You’re given a room on the second floor near his, simple but intimate with a single window overlooking the valley and a canopy bed draped in white linens.

Living with him brings structure and discipline something that makes you begin to feel both favored and ensnared.

He begins teaching you one-on-one, his philosophies unfolding in private sessions that blur the line between guidance and submission.

He isolates you slowly, praising your unique potential and pulling you from the group, assigning you tasks only to him, organizing his journals, tending to his personal gardens.

“You’re different,” he says, his fingers lingering on your arm as he hands you a book of his notes. “You see in me what others miss.” His praise fills you and makes you crave his approval, and you start to measure your worth by his words.

He controls your environment, limiting outside news, framing the world beyond the ranch as a place of “falsehoods” and “distractions.” “The world wants to keep you in fear,” he says, his voice sharp as he paces the study. “Here, you’re boundless. What do you need from out them that you don’t already have?”

You nod, your mind softening, the ranch feels much safer than the chaos you left.

As the weeks wear on, you become devoted, hanging on his every word, his philosophies reshaping your thoughts.

You don’t notice how he’s rewiring you, how your old self, sharp, and skeptical, fades under his gaze.

He starts hinting at a deeper union, his words laced with promise. “To be one with me, is to be initiated, to be broken and remade.” he says on a night where you sit beneath a giant oak, its branches casting shadows in the moonlight, “It is the final step to freedom.” He says as he looks over at you.

Your throat tightens, a mix of awe and fear. “What does it mean… to be broken and remade?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, slow and knowing, his fingers tracing your jaw. “It means you give me everything, your body, your mind, and your soul.”

You shiver, his words stripping you bare, realizing he doesn’t just want to have you —he wants your very existence. As your eyes meet, his hand slides to your neck, resting there, a gentle claim. “We’ll be together soon,” he says, his voice a hushed vow. “You’ll see what it means to be truly free.”

He chooses your union ceremony to fall on a moonless night. You walk down a long hall toward a black door, the air heavy with wax and rosemary, candles flickering along the floor like fallen stars.

At the end of the hall, you push open the door to reveal a room glowing by candlelight, its walls draped in soft curtains.

In the dimness, you make out a full-length mirror standing in the center, and in the reflection, your thin white robe hides the pulse thrumming wildly in your chest.

Vernon enters, barefoot, his white shirt open at the collar, his hair loose and wild, the winged tips on his chest spreading like a promise, the happy face at his throat a quiet taunt.

He steps behind you, his reflection merging with your own, his presence a weight you feel in your soul.

“Tell me who you see,” he says, his voice soft, encouraging.

You stare at the mirror at your own reflection now with his. “I… I don’t know.”

“Name it,” he says, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, grounding you. “What do you feel?”

“I feel changed,” you admit , your voice cracking slightly. “From my former self.”

“Again but claim it,” he whispers, his lips close to your ear, his breath warm.

“I am changed,” you say, the words softer but certain. He nods, his fingers tightening briefly on your shoulders with approval. “Free yourself from your pain,” he says, his voice soft but commanding. “Shame your former self and watch it vanish.”

He steps back to watch, and you pour out every thing into your reflection, all your failures, your rejections, the weight of every expectation you never met. Each word feels raw and painful, but it’s unapologetically true, and as the pain shifts from guilt into release you feel like you can finally breath again.

Vernon watches you fall silent your chest heaving, laid bare, and takes the mirror, his movements graceful and methodical as he pushes it to the floor, shattering it to pieces behind its frame. The sound is jarring in the quiet, and you gasp, your body tensing.

The air becomes heavier with the scent of molten wax, rosemary, and the unfiltered silence of surrender.

The shards of the mirror glint on the floor, a chaotic mosaic reflecting your former self, broken apart to make way for the new.

“Now we can begin,” Vernon says, his voice a low vow.

He approaches you with reverence, his blue eyes locked on yours, unwavering and knowing, as if he’s peering into your very soul.

His fingers find the tie of your robe, undoing it with care, and as he slips it off your shoulders he unveils you as if you are something sacred to him.

When the fabric falls at your feet you shiver standing naked before him, not just from your body but from feeling your very essence laid bare.

He doesn’t touch you, he circles you, his blue eyes tracing your every curve with unrepressed desire.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, the words landing like a truth you’ve never felt before. “Come with me,” he says, extending his hand. “Let me take you where our union will set you free.”

He guides you to the back of the room, parting the curtains to reveal a smaller chamber within.

A woven mat lies encircled by candles, their flames flickering in the intimate setting, and he turns to you as he stands at the edge.

You watch as he reaches for his shirt, unbuttoning the fabric to reveal the full expanse of his tattoos, the wings spreading across his chest, stretching toward his shoulders.

His torso is lean and chiseled, every ridge taut with restrained power, and as his hands move to his waist, his fingers deftly untie the fabric, sliding it down his thighs as your eyes follow the motion.

His body is a revelation, long limbs, golden skin kissed by candlelight, and between his legs, his cock sways with each step, unapologetic, commanding.

Your eyes are drawn to it, the movement hypnotic, a primal pull that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

He is beautiful, not just in form but in the way he inhabits it, every inch radiating a quiet, terrifying power.

He crosses the small distance to you, his gaze never wavering, and he takes your hand. His touch is warm and laced with affectionate. “Come,” he says, his voice a low, a hymn.

He guides you to the mat, easing you down with a gentleness that defies the intensity in his eyes. “This is sacred,” he says, kneeling before you, his hair falling slightly over his face. “This is where we form our union.”

You lie back, your skin prickling against the woven fibers, your heart pounding as he settles above you.

His hands begin their work, trailing down your skin, slow and methodical.

“Your body is a map,” he says, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. “Every part holds a truth.”

His hands slide lower, palms warm against your chest. “Here,” he says, his fingers pressing gently, “is where you’ve hidden your love.” His hands brush the peaks of your breasts with a reverence that makes you shiver. “You’ve been taught to guard it, but I want it open.” He says.

Your nipples harden under his touch as he circles them, slow and knowing, making a sigh escape your throat. His eyes flick to yours, reading every reaction, every sound, and you feel seen, not just your body, but the raw, aching need deep inside.

He moves lower, his fingers gliding across your stomach, pausing at your navel pressing firmly into a grounding point that makes your core clench

“And here,” he says,” is where you hold your trust.” Your breaths are shallow, your hips shifting instinctively, seeking more, but he holds you in place with a look in his eyes.

His hands slide lower, his fingers pressing into your inner thighs and parting them with a care that feels ceremonial.

Your slickness is evident, your body filled with need for him, and his eyes glint with approval. “You’re already offering yourself to me,” he says, his voice laced with veneration.

His fingers trace your outer folds with featherlight strokes, teasing you in ways that make you sigh with pleasur . “This is your sacred gate,” he says, his voice hushed as he presses a single finger against your clit, holding it still.

The pressure without movement is maddening, and your hips buck, seeking friction as a whimper escapes, but he pins your thigh to the mat, his free hand forcing your surrender.

He holds you in place pressing your clit until your body twitches as you whine for relief, then he slides his finger inside of you, slow and methodical, curling it to stroke against a ridge that makes your hips writhe uncontrollably.

His thrusts are rhythmic, hypnotic, syncing with your breaths. “Feel it more,” he says, adding a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb brushing your clit in slow, alternating circles, the varied stimulation driving you to the brink.

You can’t hold on in your current state, the sensations too powerful, too overwhelming, like a current surging through you, and your body trembles as your thighs shake, your sounds of soft gasps and desperate moans rising like a chant.

You feel yourself slipping away as your consciousness becomes tethered to his touch, his voice, his will.

Your hips surge up against his hand as you whine and just as you reach the edge, your muscles clenching, your breaths hitching, he stops, his fingers stilling inside you pausing the intensity flowing through.

A cry tears from your throat, your body twitching, slick and aching, your core screaming for release. “Not yet,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring reveling in your desperation.

“I want you to offer more for me.” He says. The denial is exquisite torture, filling you with such an a intense need your hips rock by force, seeking relief, but he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you firmly in place, his control absolute.

You look into his blue eyes, your gaze pleading, begging, and he watches you, unyielding, until your breathing slows, your body calming despite the throbbing ache deep inside.

Then he begins again, slower, pulling his fingers all the way out to circle your clit before dipping them back inside. He does it repeatedly, alternating the depths and speed, until your hips rock against his hand and you plead to him with soft whimpers.

When he pushes in a third finger, it shocks you to your core, the fullness pinning you in place, making you unable to move.

His fingers stretch you wide, shoving in over and over again, his movements precise, scissoring, curling, and driving you to a deeper level of sensation beyond anything you’ve ever known. You choke back sobs as his thumb flicks your clit at unpredictable moments, your moans rising higher and more depraved as your body tries to lift from the mat uncontrollably

Your moans turn into high, broken whimpers and pleas, that merge together like a desperate prayer. Your need is shameless as he reshapes you, forging you into something raw and divine.

“You’re transcending,” he whispers, his breaths syncing with your own as he pulls his fingers from you again. The withdrawal causes a raw sob from your throat so helpless it sounds like it was torn from your soul.

You softly whimper feeling your core throb so painfully, and as a warm slick pools beneath you, your hands clutch the mat as if it could save you.

“Not yet“ he says his blue eyes glinting with approval . “Not until you’ve given yourself completely.”

His denial amplifies your need to a fever pitch, pushing you into a state of heightened awareness and everything feels intensified.

When he positions himself to take you, it is like reverence laced with divinity, a union of body and spirit as he settles above you, his cock heavy and hard, leaking with his desire.

“This is holy,” he says, his voice a low chant, his blue eyes locked on yours. “This is where we become one,”

He pushes into you slowly with shallow thrusts, letting you feel every inch, every pulse and your consciousness struggles to maintain, every push into you deeper for his devine claim.

Your breaths are short gasps, each one laced with a soft moan that breaks into a whimper. Every part of you is overstimulated and aware, your pulse thundering as your hips shiver trying to take his thrusts.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice steady and calm, guiding you back to him, syncing your rhythms together. His cock nudges your cervix with every stroke, and as your body trembles your core clenches around him, teetering on the brink of release again.

He shifts angles, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, his thrusts precise hitting a spot that makes you see stars on every stroke and as your walls clench around him on the verge of an orgasm he stops.

“Stay with me,” he demands, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place and your core throbs around him, as your moans fracture into soft needy whimpers.

He thrusts in again alternating rhythms from shallow and quick, to long and deep, his hips slamming against you prolonging your pleasure for as long as he can.

Your sounds spiral, losing coherence, a cascade of breathless cries and choked sobs as you lose yourself entirely, your voice no longer yours but a primal echo of surrender.

Each thrust is a promise and a punishment, building a pressure so intense it feels like you’re consumed by the intensity.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, your slick coating your thighs as your sounds merge with his in a symphony of moans and desperate gasps.

Your consciousness fragments into a state of pure sensation, pushed beyond the limits of flesh, your mind lost in a haze of euphoria, of exhaustion, transcending the physical into a realm where pleasure blurs into divinity.

His rhythm shifts, his thumb returning to your clit, and this time he doesn’t stop. “You’re there. Let me take you,” he says, his thumb spiraling on your clit with relentless precision as his thrusts deepen, each one striking your core with devastating accuracy until suddenly you break.

You orgasm is cataclysmic, an inner-body experience that tears through you, your vision whiting out as your body pulsates, a raw, primal scream ripping from your throat.

It’s more than physical, it’s spiritually binding, you see the light, you see him, his face above you like a deity forged from pleasures you can’t name. He holds you through it, his movements steady, his blue eyes locked on yours, and in that moment, he’s more than a man—he’s a god, and you’re his creation.

Your slickness drenches you both, making every thrust wet and obscene as his cock glides through your soaked folds with a rhythm that’s profane.

His abs pull tight, muscles flexing as he holds your leg over his shoulder, his hips thrusting into you hard, each plunge driving deeper, claiming you fully and the sounds escaping his throat are so pleasurable they cause you to moan too.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, bruising with need as he nears release, his cock pumping faster, his muscles flexing with strain. Then he slows, pulling his cock back, only to plunge in again at his deepest, his eyes never leaving yours.

Watching him climax is like the universe aligning, his face softening in divine ecstasy, his blonde hair falling in his face, the wing tattoos stark against his flushed skin. You pant beneath him, your body a trembling wreck, bound to him in this sacred act.

As he comes, he spills into you hit and thick his release filling up your core as your walls throb faintly unable to take anymore. His fingers splay across your stomach, grounding himself as he ruts the last few ounces into you, and his hips stutter with the force of his release.

He lowers your leg and stays close his chest heaving as his body hovers over yours one hand resting on your stomach, as if sealing what he’s given you.

Your breaths are shallow, your mind still half-lost in the haze, every touch sending aftershocks through your oversensitive nerves.

He slowly eases out of you, his cock slick and softening, leaving a warm trickle that makes you shiver.

He doesn’t pull away, instead he lays beside you drawing you closer, his arm curling around you, his lips brushing your temple in a gesture that feels both possessive and tender.

His voice is low, sated his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light. “You’re mine now,” He breathes his as fingers tighten slightly on your hip, grounding you in his words, his presence.

You nod, your throat tight, still reeling from the intensity. “ I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice raw, your body humming with the weight of what you’ve become under his touch.

The candles have nearly burned out, their wax spilling like tears, and as you lie beside him and his fingers trace your shoulder, you look into his blue eyes, and you truly want to believe in his divinity.

“You are my chosen one,” he says, his voice serene almost worshipful “Never forget who you are becoming.” He says placing a soft kiss to-your forehead.

The truth settles down like ash. Vernon hadn’t freed you. He bound you to him, to his touch, his words, his teachings. And the terrifying part is how much you want him, how much you see him as your salvation, even though deep down you know he will be your ruin.

END 🌻

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@purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @dunevitani @unicoo @thejoywillburnoutthepain @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader73 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @12joeywheelerfangirl @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @stars-remain2 @skulliecadaver-blog @jjubilee-fluff @laurenmcquilty @louisejoy86 @butlerrizz @kulturalismellektermek

#SIGN ME UP #IDC #I’m gonna lose my mind fr I can feel it 😆😩🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠#THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME!!!!!!!!!!!! 💖💓💓💗💝❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️🩷💞💞💕💖💘💖💖💖#Unfortunately I’ll have to wait and read the second one later but this one was so good and everything I hoped for omg 😍😍😍🥵🫠🫠#austin butler #fanfiction

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