#day 6: creatures of light

[pluto-hweat-halcyon-skytober]

Day 6: Creatures of Light

skytober prompt from @coatl-cuddles !

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent-ish life pictures and etc.

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

6: gut

tw: grief, mentions of non-con

The clock keeps ticking, but nothing moves. 

Stagnant time hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you as you stare at your tenth spreadsheet of the day. Your eyes have grown sensitive to the light recently, easily fatigued by screens and the overhead lights beating down on you worse than the sun in the midst of summer. It burrows into your retina. Worms until the pressure builds in your cranium and it throbs with each beat of your heart. Too much pressure—both internal, and external. 

Yet as you scan the same row you’ve stared at for the better part of the last half hour, you find that you can’t get your brain to stray away from Simon. Muddy thoughts attempt to surface as you remember the events of the weekend. How he showed up to your apartment to pick up his items, how he cooked your food and took care of you, and then… fuzzy. Half connected thoughts of you in bed and him leaving you tucked in. Caring hands. Warm skin.

You woke up to a text from him the next morning. He’s oddly polite—bluntly so. Heavily insisting on checking up on you. On seeing how you’re doing. His kindness makes you uncomfortable, but you’re unsure if it’s because of him, or you. Plagued with an uncertain mind, you have a hard time telling when aid is given out of avarice or sincerity. 

As you close your spreadsheet, you decide that Simon’s actions are certainly out of candor. What could anyone expect or want from you—a single, pregnant woman who hardly has anything to show for herself?

As the ticking of time grows louder, you find the pressure in your bladder growing until it’s unbearable. A balloon stretched to its limits, weight bearing down on it until it threatens to burst, soiling your offals, wetting them. Huffing, you place your hands on your lower stomach for support as you stand before waddling out of your cubicle, thighs pressing together as if to put a cork in the raging tide that yearns to flow between your legs. 

You hardly make it to the toilet before you burst. Knees trembling, diaphragm melting—your head falls into your hands as you will your muscles to relax. You sit on the bowl until your legs grow numb before you force yourself to wash up. Hands running under warm water, you stare at yourself in the mirror with disbelief. 

People always say pregnancy makes you glow, but you wonder if that incandescence has been lost on you. Void of any glimmer, you can find only the dull sheen of fatigue beneath your eyes where it wanders low and deep into your skin, crevices that pull open and wide. Even the thought of attempting to muster a smile only makes your bottom lip quiver, and still you stare at yourself. At this mess. You. 

Nothing but a contemptible creature. 

Drying off your hands, you exit the bathroom where you’re once more surrounded by the dull buzz of conversation and incoming faxes. Sunlight streams from the open office windows, chairs squeak as employees get comfortable, and—

“Do you think it’s some sort of ploy for attention?” 

There’s nothing but a thin privacy wall to separate you and this hushed conversation, but the words bleed through it all the same. Freezing, you keep your eyes straight ahead as you hear paper rustle by the printer hidden somewhere on your left. 

“Attention?” The second voice belongs to a man—Ed, you think. A nasally voice that’s trying too hard to sound deep and throaty. 

“Well, think about it.” Jane. You’d recognize her voice anywhere—your friend. The only person in the office who manages to drag you outside of your home. “She’s not finding any man of her own, and she can’t really compete with any of the rest of us as far as personality.” 

“That’s a little blunt,” Ed defends. 

Plastic scrapes against itself as something slams shut on the printer. “Just speaking the truth is all. Seriously, I think this pregnancy is her way of garnering sympathy. She’ll get people to coo over her, maybe even pity her because she doesn’t know who the dad is and will probably swindle some poor guy into giving her help.” 

Ed scoffs. “Only an idiot would step in to help with a mess like that.”

“I think an idiot is exactly who she’s looking for,” Jane says with a bitter chuckle. “Doesn’t matter who they are as long as they’re willing to feed into her sob story, right? Look, all I’m saying is don’t expect to see me at the baby shower. Lord knows I’ve given that girl enough as is.” 

A barbed hook pierces through your chest, curls, then tugs. It catches on everything. Flesh, tendon, bone—it does not discriminate. You feel it cut. Shatter. Split. It leaves behind nothing but a gaping hole large enough that not even this growing creature inside of you can fill. 

The rest of their conversation is lost on your fuzzy hearing as you trudge back to your desk. Your monitor has managed to turn off, but you pay it no mind as you hit the power button on the tower. Fans slow to a stop as your computer powers down, and you make quick work of the sparse items at your desk. A water bottle, a cardigan, a stress ball—it’s all shoved into your bag before you turn on your heels and dart out of the building as fast as your swollen feet will carry you. 

You do not say goodbye. You doubt anyone will miss you anyway. 

No one pays you any attention on the transit home. You shove yourself into the tube and keep your head down and pretend as if the moisture isn’t welling in your eyes. Nobody spares you a second glance. There’s no pitiful nods or awkward smiles. There’s not a single shred of kindness to be found underneath the streets of London, and the same can be said for the space above ground. Shoulders scrape against yours during the afternoon rush as you dart into your apartment building, fingers trembling as you hit the buttons on the lift, lips pressing together as you rise up several floors. 

The waterworks start the moment the door closes and locks behind you. Hot tears that have no care for your skin or the way it burns as it streams down your cheeks. Hand clasped over your mouth, you stumble into the living room and collapse onto the couch, knees curling up to your chest as far as your stomach will allow. A sinking suspicion has nettled beneath your skin for a long time now that this is how people truly see you—some useless thing that’s better tossed aside rather than cherished. 

The nettling has turned into poison now that you’ve heard proof exit the mouth of the only person you could have ever cared to call a friend. 

It takes you half an hour to pull yourself off of the couch and into your bedroom. Shoes abandoned halfway through the hallway, you peel your work clothes off of your body and leave them in a heaping pile on the floor, wiping at the stray tears on your face with the discarded cloth. 

Waves of hormones hit you relentlessly until you’re drowning beneath the surface. You’re hardly able to get your nightshirt on before you’re sobbing again, knees collapsing until you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, ugly crying into your palms. It is beyond you how you are capable of growing a new life and yet you still feel the most alone and isolated that you ever have. 

A knock sounds on your door just as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. You’ve moved back to the living room, cuddled up underneath a blanket as some show drones on the television loud enough to drown out your thoughts of self-deprecation. Something within you tells you to ignore the noise, but when it happens again you know the musician behind such ruckus will not retreat until they are heard. 

You drag yourself to the door, hands pulling at your nightshirt. It’s long enough to be a dress, falling just above your knees, covering the swell of your stomach—you’ve started to outgrow all your other pyjamas. Trying not to care for your appearance, you swing the door open just enough to peek your head through. 

“Evenin’ Angel.” 

It’s him—Simon. 

Who else would it be? 

He stands just as tall as ever, hands shoved in the pockets of his jumper, but his hood is down this time, revealing short cropped hair. His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes tracing you up and down as he awaits your response.

“Oh. Hi, Simon,” you greet. Your words are tense and awkward on your tongue, falling from your lips like a baby bird flung from the nest too soon. Wiping at your face, you try not to curse at the swelling of your eyes and the visible evidence of your near mental breakdown. “Uh… is there something you need?” 

“Just wanted to check up on ya,” he says bluntly. 

“That’s okay, you don’t have-”

His palm lays flat against the door, forearm following after it, and with his jumper for cushioning he pushes against the wood. It falls out of your grasp, but it is gentle—leaves knocking around in the autumn wind. Stepping back, you watch as he enters your home as if he has each step memorized. He locks the deadbolt behind him but his eyes don’t leave you for a moment. 

“Simon, you don’t have to do this,” you finish. 

He silences you with his fingers against your cheek. You freeze. Algid blood in your veins, slowing down your heart, widening your eyes as he drifts far enough until he’s cupped your face in his palm. He’s warm against your tear-stained skin. Almost warm enough to evaporate all the moisture that remains. 

“You’ve been cryin,” he notes, thumb pressing into the plush fat that lies beneath your eye. “What’s wrong, Angel?” 

Taut lips roll inwards on themselves as you close your eyes. There’s no breath deep enough in the entire world to prevent this next onslaught of tears that spew out of you. Snot thickening in your nose, head shaking, your head falls forward, but Simon refuses to remove his hand. 

His grip finds your lower back just as you curse. Boots still heavy on his feet, he leads you back to the half-formed nest you created on your couch where he sits and drags you next to him. The pressure of his palm leads you to his chest, but you fight. Shaking your head, he allows you to, and instead opts to run his fingers along your spine instead. 

“This isn’t fair to you.” Nearly each word you speak is punctuated with a sniffle, uncontrollable and painful in your chest. 

“What do you mean?” Simon asks. 

“Oh, I know how this looks!” you wail. Your hands finally fall away from your eyes, shame consuming your heart as you look at him. He’s leaning forward, an elbow on his knee, head bent forward as he listens, as he watches, as he studies. “Some unmarried woman, pregnant with someone else’s kid. I know what people think. That I’m just trying to garner sympathy, or swindle you for help, is that it? I’m just taking advantage of you and your kindness.” 

Simon’s eyes darken as you speak, like storm clouds closing in on a pale horizon. His hand stills on your back, palm pressed against you, warmth seeping through your shirt and into your skin. His fingers twitch along your spine, and it nearly stuns the hiccups out of you. 

“Who got you all in your head like this, Angel?” he questions. 

Angel. What a cruel nickname, you think. Is that why you’re stuck in this mess—because you’re one of God’s chosen? His most loved? Are you truly loved enough to be forced to endure such turmoil? 

“Nothing,” you say, defensive. You are wary of this kindness. “No one. Just some stupid conversation at work. It’s nothing.” 

Simon’s hand begins to move again, fingertips tracing up to the nape of your neck where he lets his thumb swipe just below your hairline before traveling back down. “It isn’t right, blamin’ you for this. You’re so tired, aren’t you? Yeah, I can see it. Workin’ so hard, all alone with no one to help you.” 

Hearing it out loud is worse than anything your own mind could conjure. Each syllable twists the knife deeper and deeper, forcing your gaze away from him as you try to hold back another sob. 

“But you remember what I said the other night, don’t you? Said I’d take care of you. Both of you,” he continues. His hand stills as he slides away from your back and to your side, grip curling into your waist as he scoots closer. “If you want it, Angel. Doesn’t seem like the daddy’ll be comin’ back ‘round anytime soon, anyway.” 

You’re shaking now. Tender flesh trembling beneath his touch as you keep your hand plastered over your mouth, eyes squeezed shut as tears soak your lap and fingers. The lack of response has Simon tilting his head—nothing but a curious animal—and he reaches for you. Chin tilting up to look at him, thumb pressed against your cheek, urging your eyes open; you’re beautiful. Even as you fracture and crumble in his hands, he feels his core growing tight. 

“Tell me ‘bout him, Angel. The man who gave you this little gift—” his hand falls to your stomach now, “—did he hurt you?” 

There it is—the last wall comes crumbling down. 

It takes everything within him not to grin when you collapse against him, wet face tucked in the crook of his neck as you let him hold you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you as close as you can get, and he hums as he feels the swell of your stomach press against his ribs. Nose against the crown of your head, he murmurs sweet nothings to you. Petty promises. It’s an impressive feat that his teeth don’t puncture your skin as he speaks—wretched animal, all bite with a bark that comes only after the slaughter. 

“It’s all right,” he whispers, voice low in his throat. “I’ll be here to take care of ya, yeah? Both of you. Like I said. Nothing’s gonna hurt you again, Angel.” 

You’re clinging to each word he speaks; the only ounce of comfort you’ve been given since this whole ordeal started. Hands pawing at his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, you nod—you thank him for his kindness. You’ll take anything he gives you, even if you’re not sure why he’s offering it to begin with. 

As Simon continues to whisper comforting promises against your skin, you sob, each shuddering breath forcing you to inhale the scent of him, and you try not to wonder why this redolence seems so familiar.

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[salemwasnteverhere]

Yandere!Tentacle Monster x Fem!Lighthouse keeper! Reader

Damn that title long

Cws: Tentacles are referred to as more than one, reader is a bit of a perv for wanting to bang monsters, consensual somnophilia, excessive cum, cumflation, penetration, the monster is buff ngl 💦, this is supposed to be freaky/kinky :p also reader is morally grey

SFW

You've always loved solitude. Even when you were a young girl in foster care.

Fog, mist, rain, thunder, dark clouds, all of those added to the feeling of being enclosed where no one else was.

You don't like sunny days. Not in an emo way but in a need for a calm, and the blistering sun couldn't bring you that.

Fast forward 20 something years and you struggle to stay at a job because of people. Rude customers, loud kids, lazy coworkers. Hell you got fired from your local grocer because you threw a cabbage at some entitled asshole.

And by some luck, you weren't in cuffs yet. Fate? Prolly lol

You were reading the newspaper one day and saw an ad for a lighthouse keeper. It must have been urgent if it was in the paper 4 times.

The people you met for the job were shady as hell. But they offered to pay good for you to just take care of the lighthouse completely alone for 6 months.

They put you on a boat and shipped your ass out to an island hours away from the mainland.

It had the lighthouse (duh), a cabin for you, a very small forest, and beaches covered in driftwood and seaweed.

It was foggy, cold, and wet with no sun peeking through the clouds.

Perfect.

The people who hired you were eager to get off the island. So immediately after showing you the basics they ran off.

The cabin was old and rustic, with a few holes in the roof that were covered by aged duct tape.

There was an outdoor shower and the place used gas lamps for light.

But you enjoyed it. The solitude.

Now let's skip to two months later.

You got the hang of keeping the light on and keeping it fixed. The stairs definitely worked you out though.

You spent 80% of your time using the small workshop to repair the cabin. It eventually looked slightly livable.

Everything was completely normal

Until that day on the beach.

You were outside your cabin showering.

The outdoor shower didn't exactly have curtains so you were exposed to the beach it faced.

The hot water kept you comfortable in the cold weather and you were relaxed...until you heard a growl.

You assumed it was an animal and looked around when you saw something light purple disappear into the ocean waves.

Coral you thought just coral

You went on with your week like nothing happened but you always felt watched.

It wasn't until one night during a storm you felt it.

A storm had hit the island hard, it was freezing and your shitty blankets did little.

You barely managed to fall asleep when something warm engulfed you, arms and slimy embraces.

You screamed in shock and fear but your unwelcome bedmate held you harder and wouldn't let you move.

It was only after you calmed down that it relaxed.

Light purple skin was what you noticed when looking down. With scales in areas that were slightly darker.

The tentacles were wrapped around your legs tightly, writhing in certain areas.

You got a better look when your holder put you on your back and sat above you.

A humanoid creature with light purple skin and what seemed to be a jellyfish head sat on its actual head. It had no nose and completely white eyes, not to mention a gentle smile.

It cooed at you, dragging it's hands up your stomach and sliding up your bra.

Slimy and warm, that was it's skin.

You normally would have thrashed and kicked, but maybe it was the pheromones the creature left out, or how one tentacle pressed right against your cunt through your damp shorts.

But you moaned when it touched you. A soft, unashamed moan.

The tentacle at your shorts practically tore them off, panties included, and it slid up and down your slit and flicked against your clit.

You watch as it's hand fondled your tits and pinched your nipples, its eyes slightly lidded.

You let your body roam down it's chest and saw it didn't have a cock. It was kinda like a ken doll. But the tentacles must have the same effect as one when you saw white precum drip from the larger tentacles tip.

More tentacles held your arms and legs open while the tentacle squirmed into you, thick and struggling.

There wasn't a part of you it didn't fill. Your stomach bulged slightly as it didn't wait and immediately moved in you, wiggling before pulling out and slamming back in.

The cabin was full of lewd wet noises and your cries, along with the creature chirps and coos while it pet your head that night.

NSFW

There wasn't a second it didn't have a tentacle on or in you.

Despite its main body being in the water there was a tentacle wrapped around your legs that you never found the start of.

It had an iron grip and wouldn't come off unless the creature itself was nearby.

When the tentacle wasn't dormant it would rub against your clit through your pants or would be in you, gently drawing orgasms after orgasms until you begged it to let you breathe.

The creature was never gone for more than a few hours. And when it came back it came with gifts.

Shells, pearls, fish, jewelry it made or rusty jewelery it found on the bottom of the ocean.

You noticed it liked it when you wore the jewelry during sex, mainly due to how much rougher it was.

Then there was the slight fear of getting knocked up.

Every single time you had sex you would try and tell it to pull out but it would just smile and pet your head before cumming in you for the third time that hour. And you loved it.

Sometimes, when you were especially needy, you'd put on more of a show when showering.

Even touching yourself when you knew it was watching. The creature loved it.

You'd see it stand in the water and would beckon you closer, to which you happily obliged.

You'd meet in the water and it would kiss you roughly before lifting your legs around its waist and kept you above the water as it fucked its tentacles deep into you. The water mixing with the (possible) gallons of cum that spilled from you

One of your favorite things was waking up to its coos and growls.

You'd be held tight by its tentacles while it found shoved it's tounge in your cunt, hitting deep spots with its flexible prongs.

Other times it would wake up to you using one of its tentacles, whining when you couldn't get it to stay stiff by itself. It would act asleep and slowly stiffens the tentacle so you could have your fun.

What a perv you are

But then again the sun's gonna blow up one day so :p

It seemed to have infinite stamina and an infinite libido.

It could be the most inconvenient time ever and all you need to do is give it a look before your suspended in the air by your hands while it curls a smaller tentacle around your clit and fucks you with its thick one.

The creature was possessive before you knew it was there, especially when people dropped off your supplies.

But now that your it's? A whole new genre of possessive.

On time you had to keep a straight face while talking to someone cause the mini tentacle was rubbed right against your g-spot while somehow rubbing your clit under your skirt.

It even started biting you hard enough to leave marks.

--

Requests are open :)

[onlymexsarah]

Burning Flames IIX || Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: ANGST, mention of death, language and my english :) A/n: And she is not death! I'm talking both about me and the reader, lmao. I'm sorry for the waiting, god knows how this month had been full for me, but don't worry, even if it will take me months to finish this fic I will! I have everything planned out and I won't leave you unsatisfied🫶🏻 Let me know if you liked this chapter, what you think of the fic so far and if you want to be added at the taglist ;) Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3- Chapter 4- Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

You were nothing and you were everything. You were drowing and you were flying. Everything felt infinite and yet so small. Darkness filled you, but a bright light seduced you to follow it.

Stay.

A voice as familiar as your soul filled the infinite, little space around your entire existence.

Come back to me.

Home. The voice was home and you had been wandering what felt like forever looking for it.

Stay a little longer. Fight to live, please.

Home was calling for you. It was guiding you away from that bright, warm light.

Please, Little Flame. Don't leave me.

Your existence smiled, and then you launched yourself toward it. You wanted to go home. There were so many things you still had to do that you remember no one of them. You could see it now, the golden string leading you home. You grabbed onto it and hold it tight. Gold erupted around you, warm hugged you, and then your entire existence burned.

***

Your niece was the most beatiful creature you had ever seen. Currently sleeping in your arms you got lost observing how the beauty of both Rhysand and Feyre had crafted that tiny, little, breathtaking child.

You had asked Rhys how to hold him without hurting his wings at least a dozen of times. They were so fragile and thin that you were afraid they could get broken even with a wrong look.

"You had wasted money on that crib, Rhys." Mor softly said, not wanting to wake up Nyx. "He'll always sleep in someone's arms."

You wanted to speak in, to joke too, but your sore throat didn't allow you. It turned out that while Eris had tried to hold back from killing you, his fire had burned part of your vocal cords, and Madja had forbidden you from speaking for at least a week.

"Poor boy," Madja had said. "he must have suffered an atrocious pain to fight the Crown and not kill you."

"He is going to be a heartbreaker with those eyes." You joked in your head, knowing that only Rhys could hear you.

The male laughed while he poured a glass of wine to Mor. "Just like his father."

You rolled your eyes playfully as Cassian entered in the living room with a serious look on his face. He approached Rhys while giving you and Mor a quick smile. "I'm going to visit Eris."

Your eyes snapped on him, your whole body going rigid. Eris. Only the name sent shivers all over your body. You hadn't seen him since you blacked out in his arms, after you stupidly, recklessy, kissed him.

The heat that rose on your face was enough to make you look away, toward Nyx in your arms, hoping that your hair hid your blush.

You had tried not to think about him in those last days. Not to think about how he had kissed you back. How soft his lips were. How he tasted of honey, making you wonder if he tasted like that down-"You should go too, Y/n."

Rhys' voice snapped you out from your unholy, undecent, inappropriate thoughts. You watched him visibly confused, knowing there was no point in hiding that you were absolutely not listening.

"Eris had arrived at Hewn City this morning under my request." He informed you while his violet eyes seemed to look like through your soul. "I think your presence might be...welcomed. You saved his life after all."

You really hoped not to have flinched at his words, knowing that Mor was right beside him, looking at you curiously. Gods, what did she think of you? Saving the life of the male she hated. What would she think if she find out what you really think of him?

"If you think so." Your voice was barely a whisper, knowing that their fae's ears would catch it up.

The truth was that you had been dying to see him again. When you had woken up in Azriel's arms you had barely had the time to breath again that Feyre had started her labour. There had been no time to ask about what had happened, and when the baby was born Azriel informed you that Eris had gone back to his court, not remembering much about what had happened.

"I'll take him." Mor said standing up from the couch and gently taking Nyx from your arms and giving you a warm smile. "Be careful."

You gave her a nod before taking Cassian's arm and let him winnow you inside the Hewn City, right outside a poolished, black door. You guessed was Eris' suite, and the confirmation came when an angry Keir rushed out of it.

Mor's father stopped on his feet as soon as he saw you two, and gave you in particular a sneer. "If you take away some of her clothes he might be tell you something."

You had barely widened your eyes when he stormed away, probably sensing the death glare that Cassian was giving him now. You wondered if now that he was a fresh, mated male he felt more eager to tear apart other males, but you guessed that Keir didn't want to know the answer.

"Let's get this over." Cassian's breathed as he opened the door and entered before you, shielding you with his wings as he always did.

You thought you were past the point where they would still think that Eris was a danger to you, but after what happened with Briallyn you couldn't blame them. Mor had told you that Azriel had found you nearly dead in Eris' arms and, her words not yours, Gods knew what he would have done to you if Azriel hadn't arrived.

Jokes on you, you really hoped that Azriel hadn't seen how you had tried to save yourself. Not that the shadowsinger would ever let anything slip from his mouth, but still it would be...what? Mortifying? Yes, mortifying that you didn't feel ashamed at all.

Eris was reading a book by the roaring fire, an ankle crossed over a knee, as if his presence there were nothing unusual. As if he hadn’t been kidnapped, enchanted, and manipulated by a vengeful queen and a death-lord. As if you hadn't shagged him until blacking out.

Cassian shut the door behind you, and Eris lifted his amber eyes, meeting yours. Did he remeber? How much? Did he want to kill you for what you did? Would he start laughing and mocking you?

His gaze lowered to your neck where you knew you had a nice, red necklace made of burned flesh and purple bruises where his hand had choked you. You saw his jaw clenching and his posture stiffining as he looked back at Cassian. "I can't stay long."

His whole body and tone screamed that he didn't want to be there, and by the way he had stiffened as soon as he saw you, you were perfectly sure to be the reason why.

"Good." Cassian said dropping into the seat opposite him, trying to make room for you on the loveseat without succeding.

You gave him a smile, shaking your head to say that it didn't matter as you sat on its armrest. You saw Eris studying your interaction carefully as he closed the book in his hands. His eyes fixated on you, his amber eyes scorcing your soul with the intensity of his gaze, then they fell on your lips.

You ashamely shivered as his eyes seemed to relive the kiss you had shared. Mother...he remeber, you thought feeling a hint of heat appearing on your cheeks. Then, his hand tightened around his book as his eyes met your again. "You cannot speak."

It was a statement. Not a question. He was not thinking about your kiss, he was noticing how you still hadn't opened your mouth to speak. You were about to do so when Cassian spoke before you.

"You gave her quite the necklace, you prick." Cassian sneered, suddenly in a mood. Your gaze snapped on him, burning him with your eyes as he kept looking at the prince. "Her lungs and vocal cords were all burned."

You cleared your throat, preparing yourself for the pain that was going to come. "I can speak, you overprotective asshole." Your eyes immediately stung with tears as you felt sharp rocks rubbing the inside of your throat. You hated how your voice sounded rough, low and weak. "I was just advised not to."

You could have sworn Eris flinched as soon as he heard you speak. Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, flinched at the sound of your voice. You weren't sure if you should get offended or feel touched.

"Don't worry, nothing permanent." You gave him a smile as you whispered, the only way to not ending up crying for the pain. "I'm fine."

Something shifted in his face. The worry, the hesitation were gone. If it hadn't been for his red hair you would have mistaken him for someone of the Winter Court. His face was a mask of pure coldness, his eyes, where flames usually danced, were now unmoving.

"I suppose you want to know what I told Briallyn." Eris said Cassian, as if the conversion you had never happened.

“Rhys already looked into your mind. Turns out, you didn’t know much.” Cassian gave the male a slashing grin.

You froze on your seat. Did Rhys saw the kiss? Was this the reason why he had watched you carefully those days? Why he wanted you to go and see Eris?

Eris rolled his eyes, not touched at all by the violetion of privacy. "So why am I here?"

Something was off with him, and it was not only his behaviour toward you. He seemed to not care about that conversation at all, he seemed like he wanted to do anything rather than talking about that.

"We wanted to know what you told Beron. Since you're sitting here, in one piece, I'm assuming he doesn't know about our involvement in your rescue." Cassian said, and your head snapped toward the Illyrian male.

That was not the reason why you were there. You had just wanted to know if Eris was alright. You were smart enough to trust that he obviously wouldn't have told Beron anything important, but for Cassian to imply just that was insulting.

"Oh, he knows that you...assisted me." the mocking in his tone, the hint of a smirk on his lips, were a relief compared to the emptiness you had seen in his eyes while Briallyn controlled him. "Always mix truth and lies, General. Didn't those warrior-brute teach you about how to withstand an enemy's torture?"

His words hadn't time to register in your head as Cassian spoke. "Beron tortured you?"

You watched Cassian confused. Why was he implying that? You knew that Beron was a monster, but Eris was his son. He would have probably tortured whoever he thought responsible for his kidnapping.

"Who cares what my father does to me?" Your eyes snapped to Eris as he stood up, tucking his book under an arm. No. You were undertanding wrong. "He believed my story about the shadowsinger's spies informing him that a valuable asset had been kidnapped by Briallyn, and that you lot were disgusted to arrive and find it was me, rather than someone from the Summer or Winter Courts or whoever stoops to associate with you."

The more he talked the more you felt sick. Beron had tortured him. Beron had tortured him. Beron had tortured him.

Beron.

Had.

Tortured.

Eris.

While you were uncoscious. While you were celebrating Nyx's born. While you were resting and healing and laughing, Eris was being tortured by his own father.

Tortured.

Did you even understand the meaning of that word? Could you even imagine what Beron actually did? To Eris. To your Eris.

Cassian was talking, Eris was answering, but you hear none of that. Blood was pounding in your ears. Fire was running in your veins. Red was filling your vision.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to burn. You wanted to leash out your fire and let it find Beron. Let it burn him and the entire castle. Anger. Anger was all you knew. Anger was all you had ever known.

You saw Eris wincing as he moved. Were he still hurt? Did he not get to a healer?

Beron had tortured him. How dared him touching what was yours? How dared him hurting what gave you happiness?

You will kill him. You will find Beron and kill him. You will burn his flesh piece after piece. You would let Eris' hounds eat him alive. Then you will heal him completely and start again. And again. And again. You will keep doing it until you crashed his brain. Until he wouldn't know what to beg for.

Fire. You would use the very thing Beron thought he controlled. You would shape it as his biggest nightmare and use it against him.

"Y/n." Were those voices? "Stop." Were those hands on your shoulders?

You were an arrow aimed straight, and the target was inside the Forest House in the Autumn Court. You would find him and stop him existence.

Look at me.

The words vibrated in your soul as amber filled your vision. Those were eyes you were staring into. Amber eyes. Beautiful, enchanting, living amber eyes.

Stay with me. Focus on me.

Eris' voice filled you whole, and then you realized that it was Eris standing in front of you. His hands had been the ones holding you. His eyes had been the ones you had been staring to.

He was speaking to you, but not really. His lips weren't moving, his breathing didn't shift.

Breath for me, Little Flame.

Little Flame. You recognized that name. It was Eris' name. It was your name. You blinked once. Twice. You took a better look at his face and knew that you would kill everyone who hurt him.

Smoke rose from his tailored shirt, and you needed another blink to notice the flames circling the both of you, making the world outside disappear. Making you two disappear from the world.

Gods. It was your flames that were slightly burning his shirt, and with a panicked wave you pushed the fire walls two feet more away from you. Since when you had that control? Since you don't want to hurt him.

"Your shirt." you whispered as the pain in your throat brought you completed back to the real world. "I burned it."

"Your neck." he replied so softly that you barely heard him. "I burned it."

His hands winced on your shoulders, and you felt his need to both push away and hold you tighter at the same time. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and as he leaned closer you let your foreheads meet in the middle.

Your hands were shivering, begging you to seek revenge. You gripped his shirt's collar, inhaling the scent of him. Honey, burned wood, cinnamon, cedar. It felt like the home you had always dreamed about.

"I'm going to kill him." You didn't recognize your own voice when you spoke. It was the voice of death. You watched as Eris opened his eyes and met yours. "I'm going to make him suffer and then kill him."

Something shifted in his eyes. Something you couldn't decipher. Something cold and yet warm. Something dangerous but soft. He was having an internal battle, his hands were slowly letting you go and you didn't want it.

"Let me heal you." You whispered, hoping to smooth the anger inside you.

"Make the fire disappear." it was his only response as he took a step back, leaving you confused and lost. "Now."

You had to blink twice because you almost didn't recognize the male in front of you. His voice had turned cold, he had straightened his posture and his eyes were nothing but demanding.

You gulped as you started to call the fire back into you. Suddenly you realized you were still standing in the suit inside the Hewn City. A confused, worried Cassian was looking at the two of you from a spot beside the window.

When did you move from the couch?

But you didn't look at the Illyrian male. You didn't look at the burned forniture that needed to be replaced, or at the smoke that rose from it. Your eyes stayed on Eris, pinning him with your stare.

"Let me heal you." You whispered again, testing the air between your bodies.

He clenched his jaw, his hands fixed in two fits at his side, as if he was preparing phisically for what come next. "Take your pity and leave."

***

He saw your eyes widening. He saw your breathing catching and your eyebrows furrowing, as if you tried to understand what he had said. You were taken back, you tried to mutter words but with your burned neck nothing came out.

Good. Lets be quick.

He had to strike before it was too late, and he did. He had come too close to you. He had come too close to killing you. And he needed to put distance between the two of you again. He didn't need you to hate his father, he needed you to hate him. He needed you to hate him as much as he hated himself for what he did to you.

"It's not pity." you sounded almost insulted by his implication. "You're hurt, I can heal you."

But why would he deserve to be healed by you when you couldn't heal yourself from what he did? He deserved nothing. Nothing. Not to be healed. Not to be cared for. Not you.

"Don't bother to do something I wouldn't." he saw the physical punch his words gave you. He saw the lies he said placing roots inside you.

Gods, he could be so cruel when he wanted. He knew exactly how to hurt people without touching them, and he was doing it to the last person who deserved it.

He had been so close to killing you. He had seen the life leaving your eyes, and he couldn't have done nothing to stop it. To stop him. The Gods had played a sick joke on him. The very right moment he had got close to you, when he had started to believe that he might become someone worthy of you, they had reminded him the danger he was to you. They had reminded him that you would never be safe beside him. Too many enemies. Too much of his father's blood run into his veins. And he would have cut them open if it meant he could spill all of it away and replace it with something else.

The worst, most terrifying thing was not how he felt about you, he was too gone to be ever saved from it, but it was that you cared for him. In his way to get to know you, you had started to care for him, and where did it bring you? Right into death's hands. His hands.

You had kissed him to save him. You had kissed the very lips that were now spilling hurtful words to you. You had kissed him and let him take all your air to save him.

He couldn't let you be so reckless. Not for him. Not when he just found out that the universe must have born from one of your kisses, because nothing could ever feel as godly as your lips on his.

"I thought..." you gasped as you tried to speak throught the pain he could clearly see. "I thought we were..."

Dangerous were the words that could follow. But he needed to hear them. He needed to hear them in order to destroy them.

"What?" It was easy using his mockying voice. It was easy protecting you from him. "What did you think we were?"

He saw in your eyes you were searching for the right word. He dreaded you would find it. Not now. You couldn't know now. Because if you did, he wasn't sure he would control himself and go away.

"Friends..." your voice was broken, but not from the pain of your throat. "I thought we were friends."

Friends.

After five hundreds years of living on that earth Eris finally understood the meaning of the word 'devastated'. He felt devastated. His soul was being ripped apart and he was the one doing it.

You had considered him a friend.

Nothing could ever compare to it. Not mates. Not partners. Not family.

Friends.

Something you choose to be. Something you work hard to be. Something that in his world had never existed. Had someone ever considered him a friend? Had he ever considered someone a friend?

He would endure the horrors on his life another thousands times if it meant being worthy of being your friend. Worthy of being called such. Worthy of your trust, and not because a bond told you so but because you had decided it on your own.

And you did. You had actually choosen to give him your trust, to call him your friend. And now he was breaking it. Stripping himself from the honor of that word.

He laughed. At you. At himself. At the Mother for having given him something so perfect while he would never be able to have it. He laughed because he felt he would cry otherwise. He laughed because he wanted nothing more than kneel in front of you and beg for forgiveness.

"I don't need your pathetic excuse of a friendship. I need your power." Never in his life had words left such a bitter taste in his mouth. "Do something useful and keep training it."

He didn't need the bond to know how much his words hurt you, because you were letting him see everything on your beautiful face. You were letting him see how he was breaking the trust you had in him piece after piece.

You gulped, and he traced every movements with his eyes, wondering if this would be the last time he saw you for a very long time.

He saw in you eyes that you wanted to say something, but he guessed you decided that he was not worth the pain in your throat, and he surely was not.

He watched as you silently walked out of the suit, unaware that you were taking away a piece of his heart with you. A piece he had willingly, stupidly gave you.

He watched as the door closed behind you, as the silence that followed filled his ears. As the damage he had done took form in the emptiness he felt inside him.

“You know, Eris,” Cassian said, a hand wrapping around the doorknob ready to follow you. “I think you might be a decent male, deep down, trapped in a terrible situation.”

Eris scoffed, hating the pity look that the General was giving him. Cassian out of everyone should hate him. Both for what he presumely did to Mor and for what he just saw.

"You should be happy your little 'sister' won't speak with a monster like me ever again." If with you every word had been strecthed, with Cassian was easy. A dance they had been doing for centuries. "A pity you are mated to her twin. I heard Illyrians have the habits of fucking their sisters."

Cassian studied the burned furniture around them, the only proof of the rage you had felt. The only proof that something glimmering gold tied Eris to you.

“I grew up surrounded by monsters. I’ve spent my existence fighting them. And I see you, Eris. You’re not one of them. Not even close. I think you might even be a good male.” Cassian opened the door, turning from Eris’s curled lip. “You’re just too much of a coward to act like one.”

FInally the Illyrian walked away, giving Eris the pleasure of the solitude. Alone he couldn't hurt anyone but himself. Alone no one could hurt him but himself.

He winnowed right back in his bedroom back at the secret cottage he owned deep in the forest of the Autumn Court, close to the border of Winter. Everything was still, unmoving. He had not been able to go there for over two months.

Every window was rightfully closed, every fire out, and in the darkness of the house he could not bring himself to regret what he had done. Memories of your lifeless body hunted his mind, because you had died.

He had never noticed how a second was long, and he had not been prepared when for twenty-three long seconds your heart had stopped beating. For twenty-three long seconds his life had lost any meaning. For twenty-three long seconds he had wished to be dead.

Eris had grabbed into the bond, he had grabbed it with teeth and claws, and had begged you to stay while Azriel had held him down with his shadows and Cassian tried to reanimate you. He had yelled at you to come back. He had show you the image of the cottage, of the Autumn's forest around it, of his hounds peacefully sleeping in the grass. He had promised you to show you all of it if you came back.

You could not breath, he had realized while Cassian tried to make your heart beat again. You could not breath for the damaged he had caused you. So Eris had grabbed a hold on your power too, he had found the last strike of flames left in you and healed you from the inside. It had not been much, but it had been enough to allow the air to enter in you again.

You had died for twenty-three seconds.

Eris could live without a mate. He had done it for five hundreds years. He had never wanted one. Never needed one. But it had been in the brightness of the day, as the sunlight hit the falling leaves of the trees, as the sounds of his hounds running through the forest filled his ears, that he realized he could not live without you.

A/N: I do have a question: The Eris in your head has long or short hair? I was talking about it with a new dear friend of mine and I am curious about your opinions!

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[shaysplanet]

what vampires are like in my twilight dr !

because i did change certain things from canon since stephanie is actually unhinged omg??? if this does well i'll do a pt. 2 and 3 and… yk how this works already

vampires have hard skin compared to humans, it is as if a human muscle was tensed but all over a vampire body 24/7.

75° F body temperature. they have a working heart but it doesn’t pump blood, it pumps venom through their veins which gives them their icy temperature. It also doesn’t accelerate—their heart beats steadily, as if on a loop.

vampires look their most alluring after feeding (3 days before the dark circles return). feeding does affect the strength capabilities of a vampire but the type of blood they drink does not.

vampires do not sparkle in the sunlight, but do carry a subtle luminescence, not to the point where it’s blinding but to a point where if a human eyes looks at them too hard, they’ll know something is different.

vampires are naturally incredibly still. they don’t need to blink or breathe for long periods of time.

vampires on an animal diet have an easier time creating connections and bonds than vampires on a human diet as the time away from human blood limits their ravenous frenzies and allows them to keep a greater sense of empathy.

vampires can eat human food though it gives them no nutritional benefit. the venom in their systems will simply break the food down quicker than the acid within a human system.

once turned, they lose some pigment in their skin and become paler/cooler in complexion (because of the loss of blood) but will still ethnically look the race they were born. vampires of all races exist around the world.

vampires do not have fangs contrary to how they’re portrayed in folklore. their teeth are incredibly sharp and cut through skin like butter. venom slicks their tongues and coats their mouth similarly to saliva which is how people are turned.

the reason evidence of vampire attacks always seems so brutal is because of the frenzied state vamps get locked into the moment they taste human blood. a vampire with enough restraint to turn a human instead of mangle its body is few and far between.

once turned, the appearance freezes at the age you were turned but not the mind. the only massive change that takes place in a vampire’s lifetime is if they find a mate (they only mate with one person their entire lifespan). finding a mate is rare for vampires on human diets.

vampires don’t become exceptionally attractive unless they were attractive as humans.

however, most vampires are choosy when it comes to producing newborns so even with that knowledge, it’s rare to find a vampire that is not spectacularly beautiful.

the only vampires that will always be extraordinarily beautiful are immortal children. vampires around the age of 2-6 have an extreme pull on anyone due to the pheromones they release as toddlers and the natural inclination to protect babies that humans are born with. this is why immortal children are illegal.

when the Cullens aren’t being watched by humans (not including me) they’re incredibly peculiar.

a vampire will always view a human as prey first, even the ones who don’t partake in human blood can’t help their predatory inclinations. however bonds can still be formed with humans overtime which heightens a vampire’s compassion.

a vampire’s scent is rich and intoxicating, with hints of dark spices, sweet vanilla, and a touch of metallic twang.

a vampire is practically indestructible. their skin is near impenetrable, only being able to be harmed by another supernatural creature. their regenerative factor is nearly faster than the speed of light. they can easily lift objects that are several hundred times their weight, potentially even thousands while in their newborn state. they run upwards of 120 miles per hour (Edward is the fastest vampire Carlisle’s met and he runs close to 140).

the only ways to kill a vampire are to dismember it and burn the body or smite the vampire’s immortality and dismember it afterwards (the seraphic way).

shapeshifters have the most potent scent to vampires as it’s not at all appealing to their appetite so they recognize it immediately.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime

wc: 3.0k

summary: ​​hajime thinks that it's been a long time coming for him to wake up with this realization.

contains: implied f!reader, lingerie, use of slut (teasingly/jokingly, not to reader), lots of suggestive stuff (touching, implied sex), so much love!!, hajime is also a wee bit sentimental here, established relationship

a/n: not a lot of plot, just a lot of love! haven’t written hajime in a while, but he’s on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, it’s you, and forever right now. 

part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas) + the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—good health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine he’s built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running. 

He firmly believes that if you want to live the life you want, you have to start with yourself. A simple choice, the first step. 

And Hajime’s chosen the mornings, an old conscious effort to wake up at 6:00 on the dot now transformed into a natural rise to the softness of daylight. 

You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentine’s Day. 

Sunlight trickles between his curtains, ripples of translucent white highlighting the tip of your nose. He sees you through a sleep haze, olive eyes blinking awake like the leaves on your bedside, ready to tickle your cheek and wave when you turn the other way. 

It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you don’t know it. 

You’re warm under the palm of his hand, bare flesh a soft place to rest between him and your hip bone. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the faint thump of your heartbeat, almost in tandem with the small puffs of air hitting his chin. 

He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment. 

A good life. 

Evidence of last night is strewn across the room—the red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt he’d worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.

The memory replays vividly—bites to his neck down to his collarbone, a pull of his hair and his lower lip caught between yours. You handle Hajime roughly because you know he can take it, know that it gets him going the more you want him. 

But with you, he takes his time—runs his fingers over every area he’s grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently. 

Then, he savors it—you.

The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy. 

A perk of celebrating Valentine’s Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to you—a team effort to make the day as special as it can be. 

He shifts, hand sliding up to rest on your waist. The movement causes you to stir, digging your cheek deeper into your pillow as you scrunch your brows—a sign of you coming to wake. 

Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all his—flowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in. 

How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise? 

The bed dips on your side, no doubt you reaching for the bedside to check the time. Even with his eyes shut, he has your mornings memorized. A whispered ‘shit’ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady. 

You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. There’s a momentary pause that makes him worry you’ve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do. 

(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, he’s learned.)

It makes him nervous the longer you linger, the tips of your fingers sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips, running over it once, twice. Then you sigh, inching closer before gently nudging his nose with yours.

The small peck you land on his lips almost makes him break, but he holds it in, letting you sneak away (albeit badly) for whatever it is you’re planning for today. 

(The bed dips too deeply, comforter rustling as you untangle yourself from it. You stub your toe on the edge of your bedside table and attempt to muffle an ‘ouch’, even though he can hear you—pretty clearly actually. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from chuckling.)

If it were up to him, Hajime would just keep you here, no sneaking around or stubbed toes, no surprise or anything—just you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets. 

.

Just as he’d promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that). 

The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirt—the sheets beside him crinkled in the shape of your haste to get up from it. He yawns, running a hand through his hair to fix up the mess you made of it last night. 

As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neck—side-to-side, up-and-down—then with his back, twisting left and right. Next, he changes, puts on a pair of gray sweatpants that you claim must be a staple in his wardrobe (you say he looks like he could fuck you up, its hem hanging dangerously low to reveal the grooves of that deep v-line leading to his pelvis).

After pushing aside the curtains for sunlight to stream through, he cleans the room, picking up the mess of clothes on the floor and making the bed; you usually do this, because you’re particular with the pillow placements, but he’ll take over for now. 

This should buy you enough time, right? An extra 10 minutes for your planned surprise.

He takes a breath, doing one last scan of the room before stepping out. 

As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate. 

Each step he takes is consciously softened as he carries his weight, carefully making his way to the sight of you, back towards him in nothing but his t-shirt hanging temptingly high to barely conceal black lace. You seem focused, entirely preoccupied with the kitchen stove.

A familiar feeling settles into his stomach, warm and soothing, one he’s been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up. 

For Hajime, the best way to start the day is with the morning light and you.

He sneaks up behind your back, peeking over your shoulder at the chocolate pancakes you seem to be slowly ladling into the pan. And just when you’ve formed a figure he can only assume is a heart, he takes a step closer, hands resting on your hips as he scrunches up the fabric between his fingers.

“Morning,” he whispers, chin resting on your shoulder as his lips brush the side of your neck, soft and ticklish; you shiver, just a little bit. 

The greeting comes out rough, husky, and you lean into him, your hand coming to rest over his, hiking up your (his) shirt to reveal a slight peek at the black lace hugging the curves of your buttcheek. 

“Morning.” you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side. 

“How’s your head?” he moves to peck your temple. Hajime knows you get the worst hangovers no matter how little you have to drink, and last night was by no means little.

You groan, turning off the stove, letting the residual heat cook the pancake through. 

“Terr–” 

As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajime’s bare skin in front of you. Your eyes go wide, zeroing in on the full chest beneath your palms, the cuts of his shoulders, and his arms. Oh—

“Slut.” your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile. 

Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back. 

“Put on a shirt, you know I can’t focus like this.” 

He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time. 

“I would,” remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, “but someone stole it.” 

You giggle, arms coming up to wind around his neck, fingers playing with the shorter strands of his hair. Then, you tiptoe, white fuzzy slippers slotting itself between his matching green ones as you tilt your head up for a kiss. 

As it is, Hajime’s liking how this surprise is going. 

He leans in, eyes falling shut as he presses against you. His hand cradles your jaw, callused skin tickling you ever so slightly as he guides your head to turn the other way. Hajime can hardly stop whenever you get him started like this, your lower lip already caught between his teeth. 

But you nip it, right as his other hand crawls underneath your shirt, pulling away as he tries to chase for more. The frown on his face is hard to miss. 

“Gonna get dressed,” you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.

“Isn’t this already too dressed?” he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear. 

“Don’t be a flirt,” you scrunch your nose, “I feel gross.” 

He squeezes your hip, “I’m gross too.” 

You give him a look. 

He gives you one back. 

If Hajime had the words, he’d tell you you’re the furthest thing from gross, making him breakfast in his clothes and that pretty black number you know drives him up-the-wall crazy.

This is the stuff of his dreams. 

But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well he’s weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away. 

“I’ll make you eggs!” he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom. 

Your breakfast spread for him is set up on the counter, the chocolate heart pancake on the pan the last needed addition to complete everything. It’s sweet, how you prepared a full-on chocolate feast for him: hot chocolate with chocolate heart pancakes, and butter also in the shape of a heart. The tulips he’d gotten you rest prettily inside the vase he remembers from your first anniversary pottery date.

He feels especially sentimental today taking everything in, noticing how the mug that holds your half-finished coffee matches the one that holds his hot chocolate. 

In the little over two years that you’ve been together, you’ve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like you’ve always just been here—that it feels right how all your chips fill up the entire bottom shelf of his pantry because you love snacking on them whenever, wherever.

He cracks in two eggs. 

The throw on his couch matches the pillows all because of you, and bottles of your daily vitamins sit perfectly beside all his supplements in the spice-rack turned morning-essentials-rack (one of your so-called organization hacks). 

The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crisp—just how you like it (lately, it’s how he’s been liking it too). 

When you step out of the bedroom, Hajime’s begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits. 

(Today, it’s strawberries—one of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.) 

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—

He prides himself on his routine and the stability of his day-to-day: the mornings, with you raiding his closet and stealing his clothes; the late afternoons, when he picks you up from work and you crash his place because it’s begun to feel so much more like home. 

The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. It’s too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesn’t mind the warmth when you’re pressed up skin-to-skin. 

And when he sees you in his sweatshirt—the one paired with the sweatpants he’s wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face. 

This is good. 

—his life that you now also fit into. 

“Sorry you had to prep the rest,” you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, “thank you.” 

Without even a word, there’s a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already. 

You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, “I love you.” 

He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.

Shyness still hits him when you’re so vocal like this, but Hajime has known he’s loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but you’d insisted it was an experience he shouldn’t miss, so he agreed—packed an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case. 

But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when you’d beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face. 

“Love you too,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, “happy Valentine’s Day, babe.” 

Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isn’t until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip you’re set to leave for tomorrow.

So, this is nice. You both have time.  

You’re talking about all sorts of things—some work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; there’s the whole itinerary for your business trip too—meeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on. 

But as he’s chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just can’t, for the life of him, stop thinking. 

The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more he’s realizing that this is the longest time you’ll be apart.

And he wonders, what’s that gonna be like? 

Most of your clothes will be gone from his dresser, his bathroom counter half-empty without all your skincare. No overheating at night without your arm wrapped firmly around his spine. Just one mug during breakfast, not two, and only a single pair of green fuzzy slippers pacing around the rooms. 

It’ll be a little like how it was before you.

And he hates how that’s even a possibility.  

He takes a sip from his mug.

“So, Oikawa’s taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?” you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter. 

He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate. 

“Hajime.” you hide your smile. 

He snaps out of it, “Hm?” 

“So you’re okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?” 

His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it. 

“That fucker asked you out?” 

You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, “Just seeing if you were listening.” 

A pause, then a squeeze. 

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?” 

He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. There’s something about this—breakfasts in his kitchen, with you wearing his clothes and the morning light streaming in. You share a joke or two (or five), a few teasing touches here and there, the mood relaxed and just overwhelmingly nice. 

Hajime is so authentically himself when he’s with you that he doesn’t want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you do—

Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when he’s let loose; he’s made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too. 

The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and they’ll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during ‘boys’ nights’ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you. 

This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows you’re the key to all of it. 

—so, Hajime chooses you, much like he’s chosen the mornings. 

“Move in with me,” he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity. 

The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you don’t get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold and—

“When you get back.” he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, “What do you think?” 

All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal he’s been working his ass off to reach, but somehow, with his hand in yours, this feels easy. Comfortable in all the good ways because loving you has always been just that. 

“Sex last night was that good, huh?” 

And this—there’s never been a problem with this too. 

He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach. 

“Just realizing that mornings don’t feel the same without you,” he admits, pulling you closer. You hop off the stool and inch closer, standing between his legs as he rests his hands on your lower back.  

“Flirt.” you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist. 

You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze. 

“Okay, muscle boy,” your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, “better do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.” 

.

And he does—

When you get back, he’s contacted his landlord to get you on the lease. Your clothes are all in his (or now your?) apartment, some still in boxes but the essentials already organized in the closet now split to house both of your things. 

There’re pieces of you everywhere now, not just touches like a person half-there. A lot of the big furniture is still at your place, but that’s really just because he wants to leave that part up to you. 

—after all, it’s your home now too.

thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do 🥹 lights down low used to be a normal soft song for me before, now it belongs to him bc of u + @soumies @mysugu bc this is kinda really so self-shippy and every time i think of seiwa i think of you both 🥺 + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway 🥺

a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him 🥹 but i hope this comes close 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[hellsitegenetics]

Blast the Book of Genesis, Chapter 1 from the Bible so we can finally know what was the first creature God created.

[1:1] In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth,

[1:2] the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep, while a wind from God swept over the face of the waters.

[1:3] Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.

[1:4] And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness.

[1:5] God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

[1:6] And God said, "Let there be a dome in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters."

[1:7] So God made the dome and separated the waters that were under the dome from the waters that were above the dome. And it was so.

[1:8] God called the dome Sky. And there was evening and there was morning, the second day.

[1:9] And God said, "Let the waters under the sky be gathered together into one place, and let the dry land appear." And it was so.

[1:10] God called the dry land Earth, and the waters that were gathered together he called Seas. And God saw that it was good.

[1:11] Then God said, "Let the earth put forth vegetation: plants yielding seed, and fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it." And it was so.

[1:12] The earth brought forth vegetation: plants yielding seed of every kind, and trees of every kind bearing fruit with the seed in it. And God saw that it was good.

[1:13] And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.

[1:14] And God said, "Let there be lights in the dome of the sky to separate the day from the night; and let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years,

[1:15] and let them be lights in the dome of the sky to give light upon the earth." And it was so.

[1:16] God made the two great lights - the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night - and the stars.

[1:17] God set them in the dome of the sky to give light upon the earth,

[1:18] to rule over the day and over the night, and to separate the light from the darkness. And God saw that it was good.

[1:19] And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.

[1:20] And God said, "Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the dome of the sky."

[1:21] So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, of every kind, with which the waters swarm, and every winged bird of every kind. And God saw that it was good.

[1:22] God blessed them, saying, "Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth."

[1:23] And there was evening and there was morning, the fifth day.

[1:24] And God said, "Let the earth bring forth living creatures of every kind: cattle and creeping things and wild animals of the earth of every kind." And it was so.

[1:25] God made the wild animals of the earth of every kind, and the cattle of every kind, and everything that creeps upon the ground of every kind. And God saw that it was good.

[1:26] Then God said, "Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth."

[1:27] So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.

[1:28] God blessed them, and God said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth."

[1:29] God said, "See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food.

[1:30] And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food." And it was so.

[1:31] God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

String identified:

[1:1] t gg G cat t a a t at,

[1:2] t at a a a a c t ac t , a G t t ac t at.

[1:3] T G a, "t t gt"; a t a gt.

[1:4] A G a tat t gt a g; a G aat t gt t a.

[1:5] G ca t gt a, a t a ca gt. A t a g a t a g, t t a.

[1:6] A G a, "t t a t t t at, a t t aat t at t at."

[1:7] G a t a aat t at tat t t at tat a t . A t a .

[1:8] G ca t . A t a g a t a g, t c a.

[1:9] A G a, "t t at t gat tgt t ac, a t t a aa." A t a .

[1:10] G ca t a at, a t at tat gat tgt ca a. A G a tat t a g.

[1:11] T G a, "t t at t t gtat: at g , a t t at tat a t t t t." A t a .

[1:12] T at gt t gtat: at g , a t ag t t t t. A G a tat t a g.

[1:13] A t a g a t a g, t t a.

[1:14] A G a, "t t gt t t t aat t a t gt; a t t g a a a a a a,

[1:15] a t t gt t t t g gt t at." A t a .

[1:16] G a t t gat gt - t gat gt t t a a t gt t t gt - a t ta.

[1:17] G t t t t t g gt t at,

[1:18] t t a a t gt, a t aat t gt t a. A G a tat t a g.

[1:19] A t a g a t a g, t t a.

[1:20] A G a, "t t at g t a g cat, a t a t at ac t t ."

[1:21] G cat t gat a t a g cat tat , , t c t at a, a g . A G a tat t a g.

[1:22] G t, ag, " t a t a t at t a, a t t t at."

[1:23] A t a g a t a g, t t a.

[1:24] A G a, "t t at g t g cat : catt a cg tg a aa t at ." A t a .

[1:25] G a t aa t at , a t catt , a tg tat c t g . A G a tat t a g.

[1:26] T G a, "t a a ag, accg t ; a t t a t t a, a t t a, a t catt, a a t aa t at, a cg tg tat c t at."

[1:27] G cat a ag, t ag G cat t; a a a cat t.

[1:28] G t, a G a t t, " t a t, a t at a t; a a t t a a t t a a g tg tat t at."

[1:29] G a, ", a g at g tat t ac a t at, a t t t t; a a t .

[1:30] A t at t at, a t t a, a t tg tat c t at, tg tat a t at , a g g at ." A t a .

[1:31] G a tg tat a a, a , t a g. A t a g a t a g, t t a.

Closest match: Naumovozyma dairenensis CBS 421 chromosome 11, complete genome Common name: Budding yeast

(I could not find an image of this organism, so here is an image of Naumovozyma castellii instead.)

[matmiraculous]

Encanto TV Show

So. I had Ideas. I want to know peoples thoughts before I actually start writing. (Ignore the fact that i'm almost 4 years late to the fandom)

Season 1

1 - Pilot: The Family Madrigal (Whole Fam Feat: Mirabel)   Mirabel helps the family adjust to healthier habits in the early days after Casita is rebuilt, gently guiding them into a new chapter of life together. 2 - A Room of Ones Own (Mirabel)   Mirabel feels like the family is avoiding her and gets really upset and lonely, only for the family and Casita to reveal that they made her her own room! 3 - Luisa Lets Go (Luisa)   After accidentally breaking something during a vulnerable moment, Luisa realizes she still ties her worth to being strong and learns what it means to rest. 4 - Camilo Cares To Much (Camilo)   Camilo shapeshifts nonstop to please everyone, but when a young fan copies him a little too well, he starts to unravel. 5 - Of Rats and Men (Bruno and Julieta)   When a strange illness spreads in town, Bruno’s rats are unfairly blamed. He and Julieta team up to solve the mystery, healing a bit of Bruno’s reputation. 6 - Antonios Big Adventure (Antonio)   Antonio discovers a creature that can’t speak to him, forcing him to explore other ways of understanding, and learning that connection takes more than magic. 7 - Game Night (Madrigal 3rd Gen + Mariano)   The Madrigal kids (plus Mariano) have a game night that quickly devolves into chaos, competition, and comedy, before ending in giggles and heartfelt bonding. 8 - Flashback 1 (Madrigal 2nd Gen as Teens)   Teenage Julieta, Pepa, Bruno, Félix, and Agustín navigate early gifts, clumsy romance, and Alma’s rising expectations during the miracle’s first years. 9 - Guys Night (Agustin, Felix, and Bruno)   Félix and Agustín drag Bruno out for a night in town, challenging the village to treat him better while Bruno learns how to loosen up and be seen again.

10 - Power Swap (Whole Fam)

   The family wakes up with their gifts completely shuffled. Cue hilarious chaos, instant regrets, and a whole new respect for each other’s daily struggles. 11 - An Artists Touch (Isabela and Mirabel)   Mirabel and Isabela try to collaborate on a mural, but their wildly different creative styles clash until they find a way to blend beauty and mess into something uniquely theirs. 12 - Pranksters (Mirabel and Camilo Feat: Whole Fam)   Mirabel and Camilo start a petty prank war that escalates into full family participation where everyone picks a side. 13 - Flashback 2 (Madrigal 3rd Gen. Pre Camilo and Mirabels Door ceremonies)   A goofy happy episode about the Madrigal grandkids before Camilo and Mirabel both ahd their gift ceremonies. 14 - Still Abuela (Abuela Alma)   As the village moves forward and relies less on her, Alma questions her place in the family, until Mirabel reminds her she’s still their light, even without the candle. 15 - Bedtime with Bruno (Antonio and Bruno)   Bruno tells Antonio a bedtime story, and one by one the other kids gather to listen. Bruno feels like a part of the family finally. 16 - The Babysitters (Mirabel and Camilo)   Mirabel and Camilo babysit a group of chaotic village kids and clash hard on parenting styles, until they learn that fun and structure can coexist. 17 - La Ratonovela (Rat Telenovela Feat:Bruno and Dolores)   Bruno narrates one of his full-on dramatic rat telenovelas in person for once while Dolores keeps interrupting with ideas and questions. 18 - Hearing Hearts (Mariano +Madrigal 3rd Gen)   Mariano tries to plan a romantic surprise for Dolores, while navigating the absolute nightmare of dating someone who can hear literally everything. 19 - Flashback 3 (Pepa Feat: Newborn Antonio)   The story of Pepa’s pregnancy and the day Antonio was born. Its chaos obviously. 20 - Birthday (Madrigal Triplets)   The triplets celebrate their first birthday together since Bruno returned, unlocking sweet childhood memories, unresolved guilt, and the quiet power of forgiveness.

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 6

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Johnny and Simon argue.

CW: mentions of dub con/non con; domestic abuse; ableist slurs

-

Just when you settle in at your job he starts showing up at the diner to terrorize you, like an illness you cannot shake or a cloud you cannot outrun. Maybe he knows that that’s where you’re hiding your phone.

Maybe he knows that you have almost two thousand dollars stashed in your locker in the break room.

Either way, there is no rhyme or reason to his visits. He sets a pattern (once a week) and then breaks it, coming two days in a row, and then doesn’t visit for a whole month, until you are constantly off balance, always dreading the sound of the bell over the door.

Today when he comes, he seats himself at the bar where you are required to talk to him. He watches you work, delighting in the way your hands shake while you pour his coffee. You’ve never met someone who feeds off of fear like this, who gorges themselves on your flinches and trembling.

You think about shattering the coffee pot and taking one of the shards to his throat. You long to slit open his bloated belly and steal back all the feeling he has stolen from you. But you are useless, neutered by the fear that still remains, the fear yet to be eaten. One day…

“This one’s new,” he says, nodding to the new girl: young, with hair in a glossy, gleaming braid over her shoulder.

You tell him her name. How long she’s been working there now. That she’s nice. He hums, filing all the knowledge away in his head and dubbing it all useless by remarking, “Pretty.”

Your hand clenches into a tight fist around the rag you are using to wash down the bar. You don’t know why that bothers you. He hasn’t called you pretty since the early days when he was still trying to win you out from under your family’s thumb—like you wouldn’t have gone anywhere with anyone to be free of them, at the time (You’d had no idea that there were worse creatures out there than the ones who raised you). Maybe there’s some sick part of you that still wants to be wanted by him, that still wants to be pretty.

“Where’s Jackie?” he asks. Then, just to make your head spin: “You’ve been texting her more lately.”

Your skin flushes hot and then cold. You want to ask how he knows that, how he knows at all about the contact in your phone you named JACKIE when you keep your phone in your storage locker at work at all times, charging it in the breakroom, never to bring it home.

You hadn’t been stupid enough to save Simon’s number under his own name. No, God might not have given you enough sense to fill a teacup, but He gave you enough to fill a thimble. You just had to hope that would be enough. You had to hope that you could pull Jackie aside the next time you were both working together and that she would be willing to cover for you, should your boyfriend ask her about your ‘texts’. You hated bringing anyone else into the network of your own lies, but wrote it off as a necessary pain.

“It’s her day off,” you tell him.

He hums, doubtful.

The bell over the door rings.

Johnny looks thin and tired, arm crutch in place as Simon holds the door open for him. He’s dressed for the warm weather in a t-shirt and shorts which show the surgical scars at his knee, vivid purple lines in the fluorescent lights of the diner.

Simon spots you first, and a peculiar look comes over his face, one that you hope your boyfriend doesn’t see because you would have no way to explain it. You wouldn’t call it fondness, but it’s one of recognition certainly, a deeper understanding than you can just pass off as having run into each other a few times in the building.

Johnny sees you next and his face brightens. The strangest thought comes to you: I have made a friend. Then his eyes naturally flicker to your boyfriend, and his entire demeanor transforms—into one of such strange, dark, poignant delight, as if he and your boyfriend are old pals who have run into each other after years apart.

It makes your stomach turn over, and you don’t know why.

You’ve been silent too long. Your boyfriend has noticed, his head turning to take in the new patrons. He asks, voice mild and amused: “You know them?”

“They’re our neighbors. 5C.”

He sits up straighter. “No shit? That’s the cripple you almost killed?”

“He’s not a cripple,” you mutter.

“Sure looks like one from here.” Your boyfriend gives a little salute in greeting.

Johnny makes a beeline for the bar, crutch thudding rhythmically against the tiled floor with every purposeful step. He sits in the seat beside your boyfriend, removing his arm crutch and shifting it to rest on his other side against the edge of the bar. Simon reaches out and adjusts it to keep it from sliding over.

Simon slips into the seat beside him, quiet and solemn, looking like a man braced for bad news.

“Hey there, neighbor. Sorry about all that mess in the parking lot the other day,” your boyfriend says. He jerks a thumb toward you. “She never should have been behind the wheel if we’re being honest.”

“Then why the hell was she?” Johnny wonders, accent thicker than usual, rough. His tone is mild, but the grin pinned on his face is like a wolf’s: hungry for blood. Dangerous. It is so at odds with his happy demeanor that it makes goosebumps rise on your arms. For the first time since you’ve met him, Johnny frightens you.

Your boyfriend is no idiot. He senses the thinly veiled malevolence beneath Johnny’s words but doesn’t understand it (and neither do you). Maybe Johnny really is still upset about almost getting squished like a bug beneath your car, but in that case, his anger at your boyfriend is misplaced. You turn away, grabbing two empty mugs, shoulders tensing. Waiting for all that anger to find somewhere to go.

Your boyfriend shifts on his seat, sighing through his nose a little. He doesn’t like to admit this. “I had some trouble a while back. Got my license revoked.”

Johnny coos, condescending and mean: “Bad luck.”

“Johnny,” Simon says, voice flat with a warning. You place the mugs down in front of him and Johnny, your hands shaking. Reaching for the coffee pot, you fill both their cups to the hallway mark, leaving room for sugar and cream. Some sloshes over the edge of Johnny’s cup.

“Stupid. Stupid,” you mutter, reaching for your rag to wipe it away. The three of them pay you no mind.

“We should have you over. I get a couple of close friends together on Saturdays and we play poker. You’re welcome to join us,” your boyfriend says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

You blanch, rag dropping uselessly to the counter from your lax hand. The idea of Johnny and Simon being in your personal space, in the place where Bad Things Happen is a nightmare. Though you know they wouldn’t, (good people. They are good people), the thought of them taking place in Saturday poker rituals makes you feel sick. Fresh in your mind is your dream from the other night when you had ridden Simon until your boyfriend passed you on to someone new, and the thought of it becoming a reality is—it’s too much.

You leave your body.

“What do you think, baby?” he asks you, smiling. “Would you like to have them over? Would that be fun?”

“Yes,” your mouth answers numbly, because it has to.

“Then it’s settled. First deal is at noon and we play through the evening.”

“We’ll fucking be there,” Johnny says, words sounding adjacent to a threat.

Your boyfriend doesn’t stay long after that. Perhaps a part of him feels threatened by the presence of Simon, or perhaps he’s grown bored with tormenting you, but eventually he places money (your money. It’s your money. It’s your fucking money—) on the bar top and leaves, the bell ringing at his exit.

Johnny turns his blue eyes onto you. The wolf-like quality that had frightened you so much has fled, receded back into the man, no longer needed. But you know it is there. It’s in every man.

His voice is remarkably gentle when he asks you: “Lass, are you alright?”

“Yes,” your mouth says.

“You’re crying,” says Simon simply, reaching for a napkin to hand you. Your hand reaches for it numbly and uses it to pat at your face.

“It’s just something in my eye.” Your hands stuff the napkin in your apron and pull out your pad and pen, hand poised to write, eyes empty and unseeing. “What can I get for you?”

-

“He’s beatin’ her,'' Johnny says mildly. He waits until they are inside Simon’s car, stuck in traffic on the way back to the apartment. The heat is stifling, the AC not yet working after the time the car spent baking in the sunlight of the diner’s parking lot.

Simon reaches out and adjusts the knobs, turning them more toward himself. Johnny doesn’t like the cold much anymore, making Simon dread the thought of winter coming to the city, of snow. He can’t imagine what it will be like to be Johnny then, surrounded by ice all over again. Clearing his throat, he says: “I know.”

Johnny’s head snaps over to look at Simon, and the expression on his face is one akin to absolute betrayal. It’s the deepest of hurts, like Simon has reached out across the center console and slapped him. Johnny’s never given him that look in his entire life, and Simon could have gone the rest of his life without seeing it.

“You know. You know. And just what have you done to help her?”

“Help her?” Simon asks, bracing one elbow against the driver’s side door and massaging at his temples where a headache has been growing for the last two days. “How the hell do you want me to do that?”

“I can think of a few ways,” Johnny says darkly. “A few accidents that could happen to that cunt next door—”

“No,” Simon snaps. “Don’t even think about it, Johnny. Not only are you in no condition, but it’s fucking illegal.”

“So was half the shite we did in the name of Queen and Country,” Johnny hisses.

“We were following orders,” Simon says, hackles rising. “There’s a difference.”

“The difference is that now you’d have to use your own mind instead of letting someone else do the thinking fer you,” Johnny says, anger making him cruel.

Simon grits his teeth together. The car inches forward in traffic, and it takes all of his self control not to slam on the gas and rear end the car in front of him just to end this fucking conversation with Johnny.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, aiming for calm. He tries more sense, even if it feels like pushing a boulder uphill: “We have no resources to help her, and no idea that she even wants help.”

“Of course she wants help!” Johnny cries. “Why the fuck wouldn’t she?”

“Lots of reasons,” Simon says, thinking of his mother. What had been her reason for staying with his father for so long, for always being willing to open the door to him when he came knocking? Children. Money. Her religion. “You’re thinking of it in black and white but it isn’t. Nothing is.”

“Some things are. Some things are just wrong.” And then, voice laden with disappointment: “Yer a coward, Simon Riley.”

Simon feels these words in his chest, like Johnny has shaped them into a knife and jammed them between his ribs. Simon stares at the license plate in front of them until the numbers and letters blur together, until his eyes burn. His jaw aches from biting back so many hurtful things that he knows he could say, that he wants to say, just to hurt Johnny the way Johnny has hurt him.

But that’s just the imprint of his father on him, like a smudged thumbprint on the glass of his DNA. He’s a better man than that.

He knows it, even if Johnny doesn’t anymore.

[illyrianbitch]

Handsome as Life and Poison

For @erisweekofficial Day 6: Retellings

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Defying your father’s sacred command, you wander to the grove where Spring and Autumn blend, only to encounter a sinfully divine figure with glowing amber eyes.

Warnings: sexual content/smut, nsfw! religious & biblical undertones & allusions, reader is overly innocent/naive, implied loss of virginity, sinner eris

Word Count: 3.5k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You shouldn't be here.

You can feel it in your bones.

You've never traveled this far, never managed to make it to the border. Your father warned you about this area, where the bloom of spring meets the decay of autumn.

He says that there is evil that lurks under the canopy of fire trees, that the blood of Autumn is so cruel it's cursed their very ground. Father has warned you that if you were to come across a fall beast, you would never return. At least, not the way you once were.

You understand his concerns—to a certain extent. He's protective. He has a certain plan for your life. Safety, purity, security above all. And father has been stressed recently, twitching hands and sharp reprimands.

Your High Lord has descended into madness, moving on all fours, his paws sinking into the mud, more beast than man. He prowls in the darkness now, no better than the creatures he once cared for, and your father believes there’s safety in the small village you call home.

It’s far enough from the heart of Spring to grant a quiet, predictable life. The faces around you never change, familiar and worn like the stones that line the village paths. It's peaceful, quaint—a life promised to you forever once you marry Adramis, the neighbor’s son.

Until then, your father urges you to stay safe, to temper the curiosity he knows stirs within you, the kind that might lead you too far, too soon.

Yet, despite his warnings, you find yourself here, day after day, drawn to the very place you’ve been commanded to avoid.

It's prettier, somehow, at this time of day— in the dim dusk, when the birds are beginning to tire. The air is tinged with an unfamiliar chill, a whisper of the season’s change that beckons you closer. You can see the colors of the autumn leaves clearly, watch as they sway in an intricate dance of red, orange and gold.

The movements stir something within you—a call like the ancient siren songs your father once spoke of, drawing you into the twilight's fire embrace. You take another step further into the shifting hues of the forest.

The rustling of leaves comes to your ears—soft, hesitant, as though a beast moves swiftly through the underbrush. The sounds intensify, multiplying by the second.

Beasts, you think, multiple.

You catch a fleeting glimpse of red hair through the tangled foliage, a figure half-hidden by the encroaching shadows.

You stop, and a sickening thrill rolls through you. You should turn back. But a phantom hand seems to beckon to you, an invisible thread leading you deeper.

Then you see him.

His clothes, finer than any you’ve seen even at your High Lord’s court, cling to his tall, lean frame, the dark green fabric glinting with gold thread that catches the last remnants of the fading sun. Each detail—his long, tailored coat, the sharp lines of his collar—speaks of wealth, power, and a meticulous cruelty you’ve only heard whispers about.

Your breath hitches. You know, deep down, who he is.

He’s surrounded by beasts, ferocious creatures with eyes gleaming in the half-light, their snarls low and guttural. Their presence should terrify you, yet you can barely hear them over the thundering in your chest. You count more of them than you have fingers, but with a subtle motion of the prince's hand, they fall still. Regal, patient, they sit at his side, watching you with the same unnerving calm as their master.

He studies you.

You want to take a step forward, to speak to him, but a rustling sound breaks through the stillness behind you. You turn sharply, scanning the underbrush.

From your side, a firm hand clasps around your arm, jerking you back with startling urgency. Almost immediately, once your body has been moved, the touch leaves you.

You meet the frantic gaze of your fiancé. His eyes are wide and his chest is rising and falling with uneven breaths. He ran here, you conclude. Past the border of Spring.

He's scared. Not just for you—but of something else entirely. Adramis is afraid of your father more than he is of what lurks in these forests.

"What are you doing here?"

“I saw—” You turn quickly, pointing toward where the figure stood moments before, but the woods are empty. The fire hue of his hair, the regal presence, the hounds—all gone, swallowed by the shifting shadows of the trees.

You glance back at Adramis. He's staring at you with furrowed brows, lips pressing together as if he's unsure whether to scold or comfort, wary as if you were troubled in the mind. His eyes scan your face, searching for something. You're not sure what.

“It’s almost dark,” he says, his voice calm but insistent. “We should get back.”

There’s no question in his tone. It’s not a suggestion, not really. He’s telling you—gently, but still telling you. He'd never force you, no, Adramis is sweet. Simple. But he’s a male and you are his promised bride. What good would you be if you were to get lost in the autumn woods?

Nothing at all, you suppose.

You don’t answer him. Your mind wanders to the fire-haired prince, to his amber eyes and the strange pull that brought you here.

Your silence seems to worry Adramis more. He steps closer, his hand hovering near your skin but never making contact, as if he’s afraid to touch you.

“Are you feeling alright?”

His voice is soft. Too soft, almost, to where it makes you shiver uncomfortably, like the touch of something too light, too ghostly.

You momentarily expect him to reach out, to place his delicate hand on your forehead or gently touch the flushed skin of your neck. But Adramis only hesitates, his hand hovering in the air for a moment longer before pulling back.

Too good for his nature, too holy to even touch you with a bare hand.

With a slight shake of your head, you dispel the strange sensation that lingers.

“No, I’m alright." You blink and muster a smile. "Thank you.”

He nods, though his eyes remain troubled. You follow him back toward the familiar warmth of home, casting one final, reluctant glance at the encroaching shadows of where autumn's decay kisses the air.

The leaves are aflame with fading light, but beyond them, the darkness waits—quiet, watchful, tempting.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You're grateful for the familiar routine of your father’s sleeping hours, for the certainty that he wouldn't wake for another few hours.

The sun is still waking now, too, its low, gentle light spilling into the navy sky. It is as slow and tentative as you, quiet in its bearings.

The air is cool and biting, the kind of chill that lingers in the space between night and day.

You wrap your cloak tighter against yourself. It's a thin fabric, white with green thread. It does little to ward off the morning’s bite, but you don’t mind. You welcome the cool breaths that manage to slither past the soft cloth.

The scent of the autumn forest is sharper, more vivid than the soft blooms of home, where everything is neat and ordered. It smells richer, more alive. As traitorous as it feels, you almost prefer it.

It’s only a short walk before you find yourself in the familiar patch of trees. The autumn leaves sing their song, that same siren call that led you here again.

And he’s there—alone this time. Waiting.

His amber eyes gleam and shine with a glow that you’re certain is sinful. You know, deep down, that you should leave, that holding even his gaze, with that burning stare, is treacherous. But you do not.

You're unsure of what to say, unsure if you should wait for him to speak. He pushes himself off the tree he'd rested against.

"Hello again, little lamb."

His voice drips with a smooth, hypnotic cadence. It wraps around you like an incantation, compelling and unholy.

It's strange to see him before you, to have him acknowledge you, to hear his voice directly. You glance around him almost instinctively, as if expecting his hounds to materialize from the shadows, to form a regal, beastly, floor-lain crown once more.

As if he senses your question by look alone, he lets out a small laugh.

"It's early," he says. "Even beasts must sleep at times, too."

Against your better judgment, the corners of your lips twitch upwards. He scans your face, taking another step towards you. You stand still, remain in the spot you had froze in. He begins to study you, walks around you like a shrine.

"A bit far from your home. Curiosity must be a powerful force."

He stops before you. You can smell him now. It envelops you—rich and intoxicating, a blend of autumn leaves and something darker, more primal. You clench at the sensation, a sweet tingle spreading through your body. It courses from your head to your fingertips, settling deep in your now aching core.

"My father says it's my nature."

Eris hums. The answer seems to please him. "And what else does your father say?"

You admire him for a fleeting moment. When the gentle breeze rakes its fingers through his hair, it glows like a live fire. Freckles dot his skin, spread across the pale coloring like the stars you adore in the sky. His eyes are a molten gold that match the detailing on his fine coat.

"That I shouldn't be here," you finally respond.

A serpent-like smile curls at his lips. It spreads slowly.

"And yet here you are."

You nod. The faintest shiver of fear lingers in your veins, but you're unable to tear your eyes from him. You feel an inexplicable pull, wishing for him to come closer, to feel the brush of his presence against you. 

Eris takes a step forward, his hand extending to graze the edge of your cloak. The touch is feather-light, a barely-there whisper of contact that sends a jolt through you. But it's firmer than Adramis's touch. It leaves you wanting more.

"Do you know who I am?"

You nod again. "Prince," you say, almost timidly. Quiet like a prey. "Son of the High Lord."

"Eris," he corrects. "My name is Eris."

"Eris," you repeat, his name falling from your lips like a comfortable prayer. You want to say it again, to taste the sweetness it offers your senses.

"And you are?"

You pause, brows furrowing slightly as you hold his gaze. His eyes still gleam, still glow with something so deliciously sinful, but something in them coaxes an answer from you.

"Y/n."

A moment passes. Eris takes a breath.

"Why did you return, Y/n?"

The way he says your name—a silky caress, a whispered secret—makes you yearn for him to repeat it, to let it roll off his tongue again and again. You have never heard anything so beautiful, so mouth-watering. You've never felt a desire this strong.

You struggle to find words, your head shaking slightly. “I-I don’t know.”

Eris’s gaze drifts to your lips, eyes darkening with a predatory curiosity. You're acutely aware of your lip trapped between your teeth and self-consciously release it, swallowing hard.

His eyes are intense as he meets yours again, almost devouring. But not scary. Not terrifying like you'd once believed.

"Does your village bore you?"

He knows where you live. That buried sense of fear begins to flare and you blink, swallowing hard as you take his presence in once more. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything else. Slowly, the fear dissipates.

"Yes," you admit. There is a stillness in your home that bores you. It makes your bones ache with craving. "But it is all I know."

He studies you for what feels like an eternity, his gaze intense and all-consuming. His hand, almost imperceptibly, brushes against the fabric of your cloak once more.

"You should return home, little lamb. Your father is going to worry."

Eris turns and leaves before you have a chance to respond.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The secret should make you feel dirty, feel guilty like a reckless child, but it does not.

You wake before dawn and, like clockwork, you're traveling before the first ray of morning.

It's become routine now.

You approach the familiar area, where the border of Autumn seems to hold its breath, waiting for you. And there, amid the crimson and gold of fallen leaves, lies Eris.

He’s sprawled on a blanket laid out on the ground, a feast spread before him. The array of foods is a vision plucked from your most indulgent dreams, an array of rich, and tempting dishes. Your mouth waters at the sight—at the lavish feast and the male who has provided it.

"Come," he beckons and pats the blanket beside him. "Sit."

You lower yourself, the fabric soft beneath you. The scents of the feast rise to meet you, mingling in the crisp autumn air. You turn to him, your large eyes drinking in the sight before you, the face of celestial allure: hair like a smoldering fire, eyes glowing with the golden light of autumnal sunsets. Eris’s features are etched with an ethereal grace that seems both ancient and timeless.  With each passing day, you find yourself yearning to worship at his feet, to forge a devotion just for him. 

“Eris?”

A melodic hum leaves his throat. “Yes, little lamb?”

“Why do you call me that? ‘Little lamb.’”

Eris's fingers graze your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. "I believe you know," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress.

"Why did you seek me out again?” You ask him, “Why do you wait here?"

A smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He lets his fingers trace the line of your lips, his touch light as a sigh. “I believe you know that, too.”

Eris's eyes glint with something that seems almost divine. It is unlike anything that you’ve ever known, nothing like the stories your father has told you. Your gaze drifts to the feast laid out before you. You reach for a small, perfectly ripe apple, its glossy skin catching the muted light. The fruit feels cool and smooth against your fingers. 

Somehow, autumn's bounty surpasses even the lush abundance of spring. 

A sense of longing stirs within you.

How naïve you had been to think that your village, your court, held all the wonders the world had to offer. You had planned to stay, to settle into a life of security and predictability, never daring to venture beyond what was known.

You turn to Eris once more. His eyes flicker, amber catching the light as he reaches out, fingers brushing against your arm. His touch is featherlight, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through you. 

Your voice is barely a whisper as you confess, "I want to know a life bigger than my village."

“You wish to be free, little lamb?” He trails his hand down to where the apple rests in your grip, and with a slow motion, he gently takes it from you. "I can show you," he murmurs, turning the fruit over in his palm. His voice is like honey, rich and smooth. "You’ll know life—pleasure, want. All of it."

A tingle spreads through your body at his words, your breath shallow as you nod, leaning unconsciously into the heat of his presence. 

“Yes," you breathe, the word barely a whisper. "I want to be free.”

Eris’s lips curl into a grin, a quiet satisfaction settling in his gaze. He looks pleased, eager, as if he’s waited for this moment since time itself began. He draws closer and you can feel his presence everywhere, consuming, enveloping.

His lips brush against your ear. “Then let me show you.”

The apple falls from his hand, forgotten. He inches closer, the space between you dissolving as his warmth spills over you. A hand finds the delicate line of your throat, fingers grazing against your pulse.  With the lightest pressure, he lifts your chin, tilting your face toward his. His touch feels like a benediction.

He’s so close now that his breath melds with yours, the air around you thick with the scent of earth and fire. The world shrinks and the only thing that exists is him—his heat, his gaze, the slow, measured closeness that steals away your reason. His lips hover just above yours, and the ache of not touching nearly brings you to begging.

The first brush of his mouth against yours is light, a whisper, a tease, and you tremble beneath it. And then he claims you, his lips pressing against yours with a slow, haunting fervor. Your body goes slack as his movements seem to weave a spell, binding you to him with every caress of his tongue, every sigh he draws from your lips. 

You feel him guiding you, lowering you gently onto the blanket beneath, the world beneath you falling away. Eris hovers above you and dips his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of your neck. His mouth sears your senses as he works his way down, the press of his touch growing heavier, more possessive with every inch.

“Such beauty,” he murmurs, “Unfolding before me like the dawn. You were meant to be here.” 

His words fall like a decree, a promise, and his lips continue their journey down, parting from your skin only to explore further. His fingers find the fabric of your dress. 

The air shifts around you, something soft brushing against your skin, falling away with the gentleness of leaves in autumn, leaving you bare to the elements—and to Eris. The cool air grazes your skin in places untouched by even the sun.

His calloused hands explore your bare form, one cupping your breast, fingers pressing and kneading with a practiced touch. His lips follow, settling on the other, and your hands grip the blanket beneath you— knuckles white as he demands your gaze to remain on him. His tongue circles your nipple, amber eyes locked with yours, burning, all consuming. 

Eris continues his careful exploration, moving downward as his lips follow the path of his hands. 

Fingers spread you apart with a confident touch. 

The sensation is profound and awakening, a mingling of sacred heat and cool anticipation. The essence of your very being is laid bare before him. You feel the brush of his fingertips against the tender places, feel as his lips follow with a similar reverence, their touch becoming a worship of its own.

And then he devours you with his mouth and hands. 

His tongue traces every inch of your throbbing core, flicking and teasing your sensitive nub. Your entire body quivers beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by a tidal wave of sensations you’ve never known before—an innocent purity being slowly unraveled and transformed by his touch alone. You tangle a hand in his auburn hair as his fingers plunge deep inside you, scissoring and pumping, working you over until you’re a quivering mess of desire.

Your body responds instinctively. You’re writhing and squirming, small sounds of pleasure falling from your lips. He bathes in the moans, groans in response as you repeat his name like a prayer. 

Eris sits up and soon you’re staring at his sculpted form, bare before you, ready to be worshiped, touched as he had explored you. His hardened length rests against you, blunt tip against your aching core, and you tighten your legs around him, pulling him closer. The crown of him splits you open with a steady pressure and he fills you completely, a divine intrusion that makes you gasp with the pleasure of being so thoroughly claimed. 

Eris stills, his body pressed flush against yours, your walls clenching around him as you adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation. His face nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hand cupping your breast, thumb teasing your nipple in slow, deliberate strokes.

“Let me show you how pleasurable life can be.” Eris leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a tender caress. “Just tell me you’re mine.”

You arch into him. “I’m yours,” you whisper, voice trembling with surrender. “Free me.”

And as he begins to move, begins to roll his hips against yours, you turn your head, gaze falling to the apple lying beside you, untouched yet no longer gleaming—its perfect surface now bruised, smeared with the dirt of the earth.

Father was right about one thing.

You'd come across a beast, indeed, and you could never return.

Not fully.

Not the way you once were.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

author's note: happy retelling day from ur local exmormon!! im an eve defender till i die. biblical lore goes crazyyyy

as always, thank you for reading <3

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@angel-graces-world-of-chaos

[nasa]

Sharpening Our View of Climate Change with the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem Satellite

As our planet warms, Earth’s ocean and atmosphere are changing.

Climate change has a lot of impact on the ocean, from sea level rise to marine heat waves to a loss of biodiversity. Meanwhile, greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide continue to warm our atmosphere.

NASA’s upcoming satellite, PACE, is soon to be on the case!

Set to launch on Feb. 6, 2024, the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem (PACE) mission will help us better understand the complex systems driving the global changes that come with a warming climate.

Earth’s ocean is becoming greener due to climate change. PACE will see the ocean in more hues than ever before.

While a single phytoplankton typically can’t be seen with the naked eye, communities of trillions of phytoplankton, called blooms, can be seen from space. Blooms often take on a greenish tinge due to the pigments that phytoplankton (similar to plants on land) use to make energy through photosynthesis.

In a 2023 study, scientists found that portions of the ocean had turned greener because there were more chlorophyll-carrying phytoplankton. PACE has a hyperspectral sensor, the Ocean Color Instrument (OCI), that will be able to discern subtle shifts in hue. This will allow scientists to monitor changes in phytoplankton communities and ocean health overall due to climate change.

Phytoplankton play a key role in helping the ocean absorb carbon from the atmosphere. PACE will identify different phytoplankton species from space.

With PACE, scientists will be able to tell what phytoplankton communities are present – from space! Before, this could only be done by analyzing a sample of seawater.

Telling “who’s who” in a phytoplankton bloom is key because different phytoplankton play vastly different roles in aquatic ecosystems. They can fuel the food chain and draw down carbon dioxide from the atmosphere to photosynthesize. Some phytoplankton populations capture carbon as they die and sink to the deep ocean; others release the gas back into the atmosphere as they decay near the surface.

Studying these teeny tiny critters from space will help scientists learn how and where phytoplankton are affected by climate change, and how changes in these communities may affect other creatures and ocean ecosystems.

Climate models are one of our most powerful tools to understand how Earth is changing. PACE data will improve the data these models rely on.

The PACE mission will offer important insights on airborne particles of sea salt, smoke, human-made pollutants, and dust – collectively called aerosols – by observing how they interact with light.

With two instruments called polarimeters, SPEXone and HARP2, PACE will allow scientists to measure the size, composition, and abundance of these microscopic particles in our atmosphere. This information is crucial to figuring out how climate and air quality are changing.

PACE data will help scientists answer key climate questions, like how aerosols affect cloud formation or how ice clouds and liquid clouds differ.

It will also enable scientists to examine one of the trickiest components of climate change to model: how clouds and aerosols interact. Once PACE is operational, scientists can replace the estimates currently used to fill data gaps in climate models with measurements from the new satellite.

With a view of the whole planet every two days, PACE will track both microscopic organisms in the ocean and microscopic particles in the atmosphere. PACE’s unique view will help us learn more about the ways climate change is impacting our planet’s ocean and atmosphere.

Stay up to date on the NASA PACE blog, and make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of sPACE!

[readychilledwine]

Hi!, here's a Tamlin x reader request. So reader is always so fun and smiley and happy but every night, when everyone is asleep, she goes to the garden and sits there alone crying because of her abusive past. One day, when Tamlin goes to open the window at night, he notices you crying while sitting in the garden. Then he realises you do it every day. So one day, when reader goes to the garden, she notices he's sitting there. He asks her why cries there every night and they have a lil chat, and then tamlin eventually cups her face, looks her in the eyes and tells her "you mean everything to me. There's no one that matters to me more than you" or something like that. And then he just comforts her 🥺. Just make it super fluffy ✨️.

Among The Lilies

Summary - There was always a pro and con to every situation, and being Lady Spring was no different.

Warnings - Mentions of alcohol, overstimulation, feelings of being out of place and not belonging

A/N - This has been sitting in my drafts for a while. I am so sorry to the anon who requested this. I'm still not sure I captured what I was hoping for with this, but fingers crossed.

🌹Tamlin Masterlist🌹Master Masterlist🌹

You sighed as you chugged your second glass of sweet floral wine, watching the fae of your court dance for another night of celebrations. You weren't used to this. You were a forest nymph, a low fae who the Cauldron seemed to think belonged with Tamlin, a High Lord. You were not used to loud parties filled with fae laughing and dancing the way Tamlin was. You were used to silence, to fireside celebrations, small groups among a large crowd. You made the best of his gathering, though. Becoming known for being the life of the party and dancing the night away.

Celebrations like this had started to become a norm. Every accomplishment was met with wine, music, and dancing as Tamlin brought your home back to its former glory. The fae of Spring had been so excited to celebrate the Equinox this year that they had asked you and Tamlin to take it from a night of debauchery and fun to a week of dancing, drinking, and revelry. It would be the first the court had celebrated in 6 years and with the new court voted taxation system, the new faith in their High Lord, and if rumors and whispers were true, the influence of you, it was hard for Tamlin to deny them anything.

So here you were. Wearing the smile that didn't reach your eyes, struggling to breathe in the corset dress you had a love-hate relationship with, and waiting to slip out unnoticed. You had been enjoying yourself, but you were slowly becoming over stimulalated from the countless males and females touching you, thanking you, trying to dance with you. You were exhausted from the late parties that quickly faded into morning duties and after assignments.

You finally saw your chance, sparing one last look to where your husband stood, Lucien by his side, laughing at something Tarquin said. You bolted then, running to the doors and through the halls before slowing to a walk at the private garden Tamlin had planted for you.

The garden had become your safe place. A place for you to cry, to use your magic to recenter yourself, and to find peace. You felt almost guilty, coming here again and bombarding the poor sprites as they danced and enjoyed their little fires and celebration. Such small, kind creatures, but yet some of Springs most important. "Forgive me," you inclined your head before heading to the fountain you knew they'd be nowhere near.

This had become a ritual for you the past few nights, hiding out here with your back and head against the cool marble, breathing in the scent of fresh blooming roses and lilies. You typically stayed here until you relaxed before heading back in, but a sprite had different plans this time.

Small hands touched your cheek, wiping the tears that were falling as you finally collected yourself. A female fluttered her gossamer like wings next to you, her light green skin contrasting her flower petal dress. "Why is my lady sad?"

You smiled, holding a hand out to her and allowing her to land. "Not sad, just tired."

"Lilies are the flowers of sadness. You come here when you're sad. You go to the roses when you're blushing. The daisies for joy." She stood and held your thumb as if to hug and hold you. "Please tell me what's wrong?" Your heart ached, burdening this innocent creature with your frustration. Yet, she only nodded, seeming to understand the feelings you were having. Soon, you two became so engrossed in conversations that you didn't notice green eyes watching from a window and a sharp mind wondering why his wife had closed off their bond.

The next night was more of the same. More fae dragging you to dance. More hands touching your exposed arms. More music. More everything. You were not sly as you escaped this time and all but ran to your beloved fountain. Faltering, you saw Tamlin, a single rose in his hand as he sat watching the sprites.

"I had thought to myself, perhaps my rose just needed fresh air the first night you ran out here," his voice washed over you like rain as you walked over, sitting next to him. "Then it happened again. And again. Then, for the fourth time. And again tonight. You're coming here to cry, and evidently do so frequently, your friends have told me that much," a sprite with a familiar smile disappeared from your view. "But she will not tell me the one thing I want to know." His eyes finally met yours, lingering and studying your expression. "Why," the question was simple, one you should have been able to answer.

You finally found it in your mind, looking at the root of the complicated problem. "I struggle to feel I belong among the high fae still." You took a spot beside him, pulled your knees up and hugged them. "I offer pretty smiles, I give them the positive words they expect, and I play the part of happy wife, but I still struggle."

He hummed, his calloused hand finding yours, "Are you a happy wife? Or do I need to provide more?" His tone had changed, realizing this was more than feeling overcrowded. This was his mate, opening that dark feeling he knew was festering.

You could only smile at him, a real one that did reach your eyes, "I am happy in all aspects of our marriage. I just want a sense of belonging when it comes to other courtly matters." That was where you struggled. You struggled with the weight that came from the jewels you wore, the circlet on your head.

"Oh, you belong," he murmured as he pulled you closer. "You are this court. The very soul that drives it. Being a nymph does nothing to change that." His thumb came up, wiping a tear you had not realized was falling. "There is more. I can feel an ache in your heart wanting to come forward."

Moments of silence passed, "Am I enough?" That question had him cupping your chin, forehead resting against yours as you continued. "I don't want to be High Lady. I don't have the drive and ambition Lady Summer, Lady Night, or Lady Day have. I enjoy my place at your side, but not-"

His free hand came up, holding both sides of your face as he shushed you, thumbs continuing to swipe your cheeks. "You are more than enough. You are everything to me." His forehead stayed touching yours, your noses brushing as he spoke, "I love you as you are, for who you are. It would break me to see you change your drive to match the desires of others instead of your own."

You nodded as you were listening to his words. You could feel the beat of your heart beginning to match his, your body relaxing to match his. "I just want to be everything you've ever asked for," you confessed.

"And you are more," his lips twitched, "Cauldron, you are so much more. You are perfect for me. Perfect for my court. You are-" Tamlin paused trying to find the words. "I could write all the poetry in the world, source from the greatest love stories of legend, yet nothing could compare to what you are to me."

Those tears changed at that, sadness replaced by warmth as he touched his lips to yours in a comforting kiss before pulling back. "You are my sun," he whispered. "You are not just my world. You are the center I orbit. You are the source of light and warmth. You are how I time my day." Your smile was growing as he continued to speak, hands finding his broad chest as your eyes closed to fully process and enjoy the timber of his voice.

"I love you. I just.. I love you." He ended it so easily. Three words that encompassed thousands of emotions he could describe. "Never change and never hide these feelings from me. Let me help shoulder your burdens."

You leaned up, kissing him as you opened the bond, "And I love you." Your arms wrapped around him, head resting on his chest. "We should go back before our guests worry."

"Let them worry," he kissed the top of your head. "Let's enjoy the garden and the sprites."

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[punkpandapatrixk]

🥖Establishing Your Identity ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

I promise you there isn’t a single thing that’s exciting about being a copy of someone else’s elegance or magnificence🌹Since that in itself is already effort anyway, if you must establish a unique identity, why not stay true to your Divinity?🌻After all, isn’t everybody already singularly UNIQUE within themselves?🌸Just as a tulip isn’t to be compared to a jasmine or a magnolia, each specimen of flowers is fully accepted to be uniquely BEAUTIFUL in its own way~🌷

As a human woman, all you need to do to become the highest expression of your DIVINE BEAUTY, is to think like a flower… DECENTRE THE OPINIONS OF THE PATRIARCHY, BIH!🥖🥖🥖

Who the fuck cares what some penis-wielding creature thinks a woman can or can’t do?🐙Why should you allow the self-restrictions of femcel women define the limits of your personal interests?🦐

In this world that’s only forgotten the value of individual beauty, never underestimate the importance of YOUR unique imprint~🐾Being individually, organically, singularly and identifiably ORIGINAL in a garden of factory-produced plastic flowers is possibly the greatest, most valuable gift of fragrance you could share with the Divine Femmes of this world~💐

Psst...did you know that flowers are an enlightened expression of plants? Yup.

music: Like A Flower by IRENE

film: Flowers (2010)

deck-bottom: XI Judgement Rx, Gold Astronomer (John Dee), Priestess of Healing

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

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Pile 1 – Sweet Thorny Rose Who's Only for the Strong

vibe: Mafia In the morning by ITZY

seeds of Light – 6 of Cups

A bit dramatic. A bit over-emotional. More often than not, you’re super chaotic on the inside! Do you realise that you possess the superpower of HILARITY?🤪Yup, apparently that’s a word. You’re…rather unexpectedly…friendly, and actually pretty funny once people get to know you. Your hilarity, when displayed to the right people, can be panacea to their insecurity, confusion and even heartbreak🌿Oh my gosh, isn’t that a rare superpower—because obviously not that many people have your special kind of social intelligence!🐬

Most of all, you’re somebody who’s fiercely loyal to yourself! In the way that you simply exist, you sow the seeds of loyalty-to-self in the hearts and minds of those who are similar to yourself but lacking courage🦔In this world, people get swayed by external opinions, expectations and all that shit (blame the media, culture or whatever) and they become very doubtful of their worth and place in the world, so your particular kind of confidence in your sense of humour and self can be deeply healing, on top of inspirational~🌞

The thing about your confidence is, no matter what is at stake or what you have to sacrifice, you won’t let even the most expert manipulators, gaslighters or enablers bend and beat you into whatever stupid shape they wish you to be👻You stay true to your heart and vision no matter what it costs you to ‘lose’ in a battle of wit. You can ride the wave but you won’t lose yourself in the sauce. You never let society’s dictation—which is often highly unintelligent—influence your dreams or ideas about how you wanna go about Life~🧠

And that’s…how you win the war over your psyche! Now tell me how this isn’t a thing of the superheroes?🦄

growing and glowing – 7 of Pentacles Rx

In your boss babe aenergy, you tell yourself, every day, that you decide the pace of what you want to see manifest in your world. It sounds crazy and if you’re met with the wrong people, they’re gonna assume you’re a narc or a self-serving megalomaniac—but the whole time, you’re just a SIGMA or some shit🤪You’re the type of person who doesn’t require even an ounce of other people’s approving look to know that what you’re thinking for yourself is right. You, don’t even respond well to rules and orders that have ‘unreasonable’ written all over them🥴

And about ‘hard work’ or ‘hustle culture’? Well, if whatever is being discussed involves a lack of intelligence or sensibility, you ain’t buying it. It isn’t to say you can’t work hard at anything—it is to say that you will only devote yourself to endeavours that truly matter at the core of their conception🫀You don’t even buy this whole ‘work smart not hard’ narrative; for you, it’s always been about whether or not an effort is meaningful to your growth or the growth of the community in the grand scheme of everything. That, is how BIG your thinking gets🤯

And this is exactly what most people can’t even begin to grasp. People often frustrate you. And more likely than not, if you remain clear about these values of yours, you may be shunned by those that are weak and lazy in their minds🧳Their loss. You ain’t even interested in working or even walking with them slow ass fools—although you do possess enough empathy to understand that such fools are just afraid. But oh well~ can’t let other people’s Realities slow you down, now can you? So just like that, you keep on flying higher like a motherfucker🚀lmao

enlightened crown – King of Pentacles

Oh, you are certain to be richie rich at some point in Life—even if you had come from poverty, for instance, but that’s not the point. You’ve got this tenacity in you that’s obviously gonna be rewarded by some financial abundance in this lifetime. ‘Richie Bitchie’ is written all over your birth chart—go check, maybe you have strategic Capricorn/Saturn placements?🪐Anyway, keep your ‘genius hustle’ all to yourself and remember that you don’t gotta share your secret sauce to abundance with nobody who don’t respect you for you, OK?🍅🌶🥫

You’re free to live for yourself, in a paradise of your own making, with only your people—you know what I’m saying? When it comes to other people’s company, I always say: ‘Never chase after anybody’s attention. Let them prove themselves worthy of your affection.’ Then again, who am I to even be telling you this?🤡Your mind is strong and you already know all of this. Maybe you just need to be validated/reminded every now and then, so you don’t feel so alone in your ‘sigma’ aenergy🎃

Anyway, in a world so social, surely every one of us needs to compromise every now and then—after all, we live in society. But I think, you shouldn’t ever give in to its rules and expectations when it comes to your guarding your values🛡It’s weird how some people be making it sound like being assertive or introverted or shy or a loner is a crime—the world has bigger problems than girls liking their own company and focused on their personal goals🤹

UNLOCKING SUPERPOWERS🔻💜

courage to be yourself – Silver Historian (Polydore Vergil)

always be alright – Priestess of Luxury

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Pile 2 – The Caterpillar Who Became the Butterfly Who Became a Dragon

vibe: New Woman by LISA

seeds of Light – XVII The Star

Hello, natural-born Superstar!🎇Do you have strong Aquarius placements or 11H Stellium? Maybe you have strategic fame-degrees in your natal chart? 5°, 17°, and 29° are three of the most common ‘fame degrees’ in astrology, so you might wanna check that out, too. Basically, since your preconception, you were written to be a trailblazer of sort. It doesn’t matter the capacity or the variety—you were designed to achieve some level of publicity or notoriety in this lifetime🎳huehue

For that very reason, in this incarnation, you were never meant to be static, just this one thing that appeals to everybody’s palates. Part of your ‘blueprint’ involves constantly changing and transforming yourself, your paradigms, again and again, numerous times until you become one again with your Higher Self whilst in a physical form💞REINVENTION is your middle name. You are boundlessly creative and fresh! Although sometimes you may get exhausted…

That said, if you’re somebody who isn’t easily defined, it’s only because you’re too ORIGINAL. It’s because you’re a PROTOTYPE fresh out of the blueprint; people are still catching up with figuring you out~🧬hahah But that’s what’s really exciting about being BORN EXTRAORDINARY, right? Many would love to be reborn as something similar to you in their next lives, did you know that?🎈

growing and glowing – 6 of Pentacles

The reason that you’re a prototype, which obviously can be quite a lonely experience, is that your Soul wanted to bring more extraordinary colours to the whole Human Experience itself. Your Soul saw and understood how drab and dull the lives of many on Earth look to the Celestials, so you came down to contribute something more exciting~☄️That was all, really. Uplifting of the human spirit, so that their eyes become upgraded enough to perceive more colours of Love~🌈

Prototypes are rarely the most popular things or people, but one thing for sure is that they’re remembered, venerated almost, as the ones who started this new thing no one had even thought about. Prototypes are ones forever remembered as a positive force of change; the opener of new pathways of thinking or being, breathing, living, expressing~🍏Of all the Piles, you really came down here to be of service—first and foremost by just being yourself😘

The truth of the matter is, it’s enough that you’re here. And if you really feel a pull towards that fame and notoriety, all you need to do right now is keep doing this one thing that’s most authentic to your Soul. Keep at it until you become so masterful at it the world can’t help but MANIFEST you into the world stage so people can actually benefit from your Lightwork! Crazy, right? But it’s really that easy! You really be magical like that, hoe~🤩

enlightened crown – 8 of Wands Rx

The 8 of Wands in reverse here is basically saying: ‘close your ears to the world!’🙉hahah No, no, it isn’t telling you to become a narc—it’s saying that you can safely listen to your Heart’s whisper when it comes to establishing your identity in this loudly confused world~🙈Babe, you’re the voice of reason that’s meant to tear down the old paradigm of boredom, where’s the sense in you instead following the crowds?🙊Ya got that?

If you’re going to grow and bloom into anything magnificent at all, might as well grow and bloom into the most enlightened expression of Yourself🌺Be honest, speak your truth, don’t get yourself killed lmao The way to immortality, the way to remaining evergreen in the minds of those still living on Gaia, is through being the most ICONIC person to ever walk there. And you can only be that way if you’re honest to your heart to boot🌼

Let yourself grow day by day, breathing deeply at every moment, and should the occasion arise, always be ready to paint yourself anew, to serve a new era of Mankind, where people actually get to establish their Heaven on Earth through conscious choices that reflect the Divinity within🐛Remember that you are the Prototype—one day all of Humanity is going to be just like you🦋But for now, you’re the caterpillar who turned into a butterfly who became a DRAGON!🐉

UNLOCKING SUPERPOWERS🔻💚

courage to be yourself – Silver Astrologer (John Dee)

always be alright – Priestess of Patience

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Pile 3 – Sensitive and Strong Shine On Soft Spectre of Surreal Sunshine

vibe: Mantra by JENNIE

seeds of Light – 5 of Pentacles

Oh, you silly goose🦆On the outside you look unrealistically beautiful and almost intimidating, but on the inside, you’re just a smol hamster who wants to be friends with everybody🐹At the core of your being, you’re thee definition of a girl’s girl—anybody would be lucky to have you as a friend. You’re loyal as fuck. But hey, society is rife with losers, right? Your looks have gotten you misunderstood and hated for literally the lamest reasons. That’s a little ‘problem’ we could have for being a natural-born Royalty—those with a peasant mentality tend to harbour resentment to those they recognise as possessing an ✨EXPENSIVE✨ aura. You know that, right?🌛

Thing is, you’re not at all intimidating like Gordon Ramsay or Marco Pierre White or Anna Wintour. You’re a different kind of intimidating altogether. You’re sweet, beautiful, polite and friendly, basically you’re a ray of sunshine. People think you’re gullible—whoops!💀With you, it isn’t just a matter of status or accomplishment, but that people hate with a passion women like you who know exactly what you’re worth. Your standards for almost every aspect of your own existence are sky-high! Babe, you are the standard of existence🪁

Women like you are rare and should be cherished as a role model for young girls. High-quality Human female who not only possesses a good heart and brains but also has the audacity to own your pretty!🩰What’s society gonna do with a mutiny like this? Woman was supposed to take a supporting role and remain eternally humble and doubting herself so that man could take on the role of uplifting her from her 'default' confusion, right?🎣

Men have composed sleazy scriptures to confound the Divine Feminine; how dare you sing against their gospel?😫pffft

growing and glowing – Knight of Pentacles

Keep confounding them then. Give ‘em a taste of their own medicine, gurl. See, people think you’re gullible or stupid, right? That makes everything a lot easier—because in reality, you’re the kinda gal who strategizes immaculately, all while thinking to yourself: ‘This is how big girls play. If you can’t play the big games, go away.’ Actually, you take great pleasure in outdoing everybody if only you’d vocalise this😜Buuut, you’re too graceful for that~🤭

You’ve got sense. You’re superbly intelligent. You were most likely born rich or have that presence about you that gets everybody thinking: ‘Surely one day she’s gonna be stupid rich.’🫦Beware of leeches at every turn, girl! You’ve gotta be able to admit to yourself that not everybody’s gonna have your best interest at heart, OK? You could totally be targeted for your resources when people realise that they can’t even begin to compete with you on an even ground, let alone WIN against you. And that’s truly, really the sad part of all of this…🩸

Because you never wanted to compete with anybody. If you’ve ever competed with anybody it is with the you of yesterday. People are weird to be feeling a sense of competition with you, because the whole time, you chose to be born at this passage of time exactly to uplift other women—to awaken them from their own complicity in upholding the patriarchy. To simplify, and if you’ve never thought of this before, let this be the first time you’re hearing it…

enlightened crown – 9 of Wands Rx

Women who are inclined to feel inferior to you are those who possess a femcel psychology deep inside of them. These are the dangerous pick-mes, queen-mes, and malignant female narcs and manipulators. These types of women seek to be a harbinger of chaos in the lives of PRETTY GURLS like you. Don’t be wasting your time on these Ghislain Maxwell wannabes if you wanna live a prosperous Life!🤠

This that pretty girl mantra. Pretty girls don’t do drama… ‘less we wanna

Yup, ‘less you wanna and it’ll be depending on the type. ‘Bring the drama only if it’ll make me munny’📞lmao You smart like that. Drama is a hustle. Hustling can be dramatic. Reputation on the line? Might as well gain something out of it, so that whichever way the wind blows, you WIN BIG either way. Total boss babe move🚬

You’d never let people waste your time. Since dealing with people is exhausting anyway, you gotta make sure that you get some kind of compensation. Hmm I’m sure you’ve got some strategic, auspicious Capricorn/Saturn/10H placements hahah Jennie Kim, Jang Wonyoung and Lily-Rose Depp come to mind when I think about your aenergy. Such unfailingly kind, optimistic and beautiful aenergy~🎀

UNLOCKING SUPERPOWERS🔻💗

courage to be yourself – Silver Physician (John Dee)

always be alright – Priestess of Opulence

Access bonus, cards + affs on Patreon🌸

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[PAC Masterlist] [Part 2] [Part 3]

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[keravnous]

CORINTHIANS 6:19 ; papa v perpetua/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

being perpetua's favourite pet - the playlist

Perpetua hates having the spotlight taken away from him. When Copia does exactly that for the umpteenth time, Perpetua decides to use you to gain back the congregation's undivided attention and stroke his ego while he's at it.

word count: 9,3k

warnings: fem!reader, dubcon, public (undernegotiated); vampire!perpetua/creature!perpetua; (satanic) altar sex; catholic and satanic themes, imagery and language; Black Mass; descriptions of blood and gore, horror themes (death and undead); Perpetua is a pervert change my mind, free use (kinda), spit kink, power play, oral (male receiving), blowjobs, pet names, name calling, face slapping, cumplay, bimbofication, degradation, hair pulling, praise kink, mentions of breeding kink and pregnancy, he wears the mask and make-up, god-complex, dry humping his louboutin boots, copious mentions of pubic hair due to bush reveal; expansive use of stilized capitals and italics, sibling-rivalry as a plot device, he's way more icky in this than he is during rituals lmao

soo, i attended the ritual in berlin and it was great and all BUT we also saw his bush and i just really really had to get this out of my mind; ty ann for letting me yap about perpetua day and night, you're a good one <33

"Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own." corinthians 6:19

"Show them what worship truly means, darling", Perpetua's voice is velvety and soft, as you look up at him, hands folded devoutly in your lap. The polished marbled at the altar bed digs into your knees harshly and you know, that blemishes will form on your soft skin where it is being crushed between your own bone and the cold church's floor. At his feet his purple cassock pools, your white coif discarded upon it, while your vision zeroes in on the ribbons on the fly of his dark pants; currently fighting for their life to keep the fabric tied together - the outline of his rock-hard dick stretching the black denim out.

Your mouth runs dry as his gaze meets yours - his unmatching eyes, one green one white, staring down at you - demanding your undivided attention, while fire and fury burn and churn away in his look.

Around you, a thousand candles are burning, illuminating the altar room and the mural of Satan - the Evil One sitting on a pile of non-believers, his hands pointing up and down in the familiar sign of Synchronicity - that adorns the huge walls of the church behind the upside-down crucifix. From the corner of your eye, you can see the congregation watching you intently, incredulously, and you force yourself to look away.

Earlier, you and your fellow Sisters and Friars of Sin had flocked to the ministry's church for tonight's black mass, the sun setting behind the neighbouring pine forest. The dark-blue sky was soon filled with a tantalizing red tint, like the sun was set ablaze and you knew that He was with you, your mind already feeling lighter and a little foggy when you crossed the threshold of the church. The Evil One's spirit had filled you completely once Frater Imperator stood on the pulpit - that still bore his red colours despite everything else now being tinged in deep purples around him, to honour the election of a new Papa - delivering an inspiring homily.

_

And the new Frater Imperator - Copia, promoted but demoted nonetheless - had been raving on and on about belief, the subsequent fulfilment from belief throughout his sermon; but most of all, he had put emphasis on worship. Worshipping the Unholy One. Sacrificing yourself to him. Body and soul.

Perpetua had been slumping on his throne at the side of the altar, looking more and more bored with each passing minute, watching the red-tinted light that fell through the colourful glass panes next to him, reflecting off the metal of his claws. As he looked back up, after what felt like an eternity of suffering through his brother's senseless and pointless ramblings - he had to discover that the congregation clung to the Frater's lips. Transfixed by his words every single pair of eyes followed every single flick of his hand; Perpetua could watch them collectively holding their breaths, and see their eyes light up when he concluded a hopeless anecdote with an unforeseeable twist that surely - if one were to listen - consisted of some deeper insight of belief, but Perpetua simply couldn't be bothered.

It made his blood boil to see the Ghouls, - his, his fucking Ghouls - clinging to each and every word of the former Cardinal and Emeritus said, their tails wagging, too enamoured by his dark preachings to even consider feasting on flesh and pleasure of the Siblings of Sin sitting on the other side of the chapel.

He had let his eyes wander over to them, more out of boredom than anything else and had huffed in annoyance when he too, saw them leaning forward, hands clasped in their laps, eyes wide with adoration and revelations.

And he hated it. It infuriated him. These people - the flock - were his now. His to teach. His to nurture. His to tend to. His his his.

He should be the one possessing their hearts and minds and spirits, to make them bend at a flick of his wrist. Copia had been demoted to desk duty. So, he might as well just fuck off for good.

Perpetua's gaze travelled through the rows and rows of members of the Clergy - Sisters, Friars, Ghouls, Monastics - and took a deep breath; inhaled their mingled scents, and that was when it hit him. The sweetest, most intoxicating scent at the abbey. His eyes flickering to its source, he spotted a familiar face.

There you sat, perched between two Sisters that you had met way back at the monastery. Cheeks rosy, flushed full of life - life that pulsed through your veins so excitedly that he could hear it's rush and taste it on his tongue.

He loved how you smelled. And he loved to have a taste of you, and your blood right after.

That's why he kept you around. Made you the one to clean up his personal chambers, watching you from the shadows and inhale lungsful of your delicious, tantalizing smell. Watching how your habit clings to your curves, how sweat shines on your skin on hot summer nights. Steal away some of your worn underwear when you were sleeping - watching how your blissfully asleep body inhaled air steadily, human human human - listen to the slow rush of your blood; fisting his cock into your panties in his boudoir later, your scent engulfing him in the wee hours of the morning before he crawls back to his crypt.

That's the sole reason still keeping him from ramming his teeth into your neck and drinking, tasting you until you were no more, all life drained from your pretty, little body that would snap like a twig in his hands: It would be incomparable to the way your sickly-sweet stench filled every room you were in. And he loved it. Loved how it made his mouth water and his dick harden.

Perpetua knew he could just have you. He was very well aware that this was his right. He could have just torn your habit apart and bent over the nearest surface, have his way with you. Pleasure always mattered the most at the abbey. And his pleasure now mattered more than anything else.

His tongue, lifelessly pale, had just darted out from his mouth as he dragged it across his lips hungrily when Copia had said, voice full and agitated, like Satan himself had filled his body out: "And thus, Brothers and Sisters, thus thou shalt worship!"

You should. You really should. He could feel his cold heart stuttering, coming back to something like life with a few heavy thuds as he looked down upon you. You should really worship him.

Perpetua had been on his feet quicker than he could have even thought about it - Mitra discarded on the throne-, the heels of his shoes clicking against the marble as he strutted to the front of the altar. Copia, on the pulpit with his hands in the air, froze, turned his head around slowly.

"Such - insightful words, no?", Perpetua had been all smiles but his voice sounded stern, lips crinkling up ghostly, and from where you sat you had been able to see his long canines gleaming in the dim candle light. A chill crawled up your spine, made you shiver in your habit. "Let's show the congregation how worship is done, hm?", his head tilted in your direction and you considered it to be just a coincidence, but then his gaze fell heavily upon your form, "Child, come to me."

This is how you have found yourself kneeling in front of the chapel's altar - the upside down cross above looming and lurking, as Perpetua runs his cold cold thumbs over your cheeks, iron talons nibbing and pricking at your skin as he drags his fingers through your hair and over your skull. They do not draw blood, yet, but the promise of pain blooms in his movements and it makes you squirm, gasp. You think of the crescent moons they might leave on your body, your thighs and your waist, your arms, and your neck - and heat floods your belly at the thought, like it did so so many times before when you laid awake in your bed late at night, one hand diving between your legs the other draped over your lips tightly, keeping your mouth shut.

You still remember the day you had met him for the first time vividly. It had been in the early hours of the night, when Cirrus had knocked on your door and informed you, that the newly elected Papa had chosen you as one of his chamber maids and now wished to see you. Your heart had been beating just as forcefully as it does now, the same buzz spreading through your limbs as you felt your skin tingle with anticipation.

Following the Ghoulette, she had led you to a wing within the abbey that you had never been to before, and which had been dimly lit by what must have been at least few hundred candles. But that hadn't been what made your breath hitch, the hairs on your body standing up.

What was, had been the man standing in the middle of the room. His room, judging by the neatly made and seemingly untouched bed, desk, chaise longue and a breathtaking collection of books and tomes and sheets of music scattered all over the floor and furniture.

The man's dark hair curled around his sharp, elegant face, framed it like a picture. Perfect statuesque features that could cut through stone, a posture as straight and powerful as a fighter's, with limbs as long and delicate as a dancer’s as he had swayed toward you. His hand had reached out, slender, and soft fingers ice cold, as you laid your trembling hand into his.

And the sight of him was mesmerizing; terrifying in its own, unknown, and foreign way.

The man was beautiful. Uncannily beautiful. So beautiful even, that terror had risen in your chest and your heart started hammering against your ribcage, the pressure of your blood accelerating and leaving your head a spinning mess. Shivers ran down your arms as your fight-or-flight kicked in, but you had been physically trapped by him, by his gaze as well as his larger-than-life presence, couldn't fight your eyes wandering over his spotless and smooth skin, the curly light chocolate-coloured hair, the defined lips. He had smirked, and your free hand had grabbed a fistful of your habit.

You wanted to run. You wanted to linger, take him in. You didn't know why, but the sight of him left you feeling lightheaded quickly, a quiet voice in the back of your head whispering that You do know why and that It's all there. The evidence to his beauty, the Why was so close to you like you could touch it; grab it from thin air, right on the tip of your tongue, you know it you know it you know it --

"Good evening, my dear", his voice sounded as sweet and deep as honey, with a slight rasp to it, his mismatch eyes deep and comforting like a stroll through the cool forest on a late summer's day, "Apologies, my love, I do not think we have been properly introduced yet. My name is Perpetua." He bowed a little, like a noble's son from long-gone times at a king's dance, and the gesture had sent your head into a spin. He was radiant.

You should have been the one that bowed before him - for he was the most striking creature you have ever laid your unworthy eyes upon. However, his truly uncanny beauty also had anxiety pooling in your stomach; a shiver running down your spine, the muscles in your legs tensing under his intense gaze - which he had kept locked to yours, as he placed a soft and cool kiss on the back of your hand. His lips tingled on your skin.

The man - Perpetua - looked like a prince. And somehow, he had felt oddly familiar to you, with his classical face looking like he just crawled out of one of the finest paintings of one of the world's most refined museums. But he felt foreign just the same, like he wasn't from these plains, something entirely otherworldly. Something dangerous.

He had said something then, but the sound of your own blood had been rushing and pumping through your veins at such an alarming speed, that it had drowned out all sound.

Your memory bleeds together with reality, as you can see his lips moving now, too - the prominent cupids bow bowing and bending, as he says: "Worship me."

Voice a husk as his gaze keeps itself chained to yours and you swallow.

His presence is looming and electrifying, and he looks rightfully ethereal from where you are kneeling, looking up at him. He still carries his head high and mighty on his shoulders, chin tilted upwards just a little even though he does not wear his Mitra any longer, looks down on you through the thick fans of his lashes.

And you want to. You really do. You have thought about this a hundred times cleaning his personal quarters in the dim candle light late at night, when he wasn't around - arranging his books, his clothes, the notes scattered around the floors and furniture with melodies and poems scribbled across them. More than once have you brought one of his silken shirts up to your nose - before folding it neatly and carefully putting it away - inhaling the thickly scent of incense and patchouli.

The same smell wafts around you now, too, and your hands are getting clammy with excitement. But there is one thing holding you back.

Approximately a month after he had arrived at the ministry, the rumours started to spread. Some Sisters and Friars reported that they never spotted him at the meals in the Great Hall. Other said they never saw him eat, at all. You paid that no mind - until one night, when the realization had hit you like a freight train: Of all the things you cleaned or carried in and out of his quarters, dishes had never once been one of them.

Soon after, others told stories of his eerily long and sharp canines - their voices hushed behind closed doors - and others said that they rarely ever saw him roaming the halls or the grounds during daytime. Some said, that they heard screams echoing through the ministry, late at night when everyone was usually fast asleep and the hallways laid quietly. That was, when the rumours started to spread through the ministry like a wildfire.

A creature. A vampire. Death Incarnate.

In a short while, you will come to his chambers to clean, late at night. The doors to his private chapel will be opened, and you will - because curiosity never truly did kill the cat, now did it? - take a peek inside.

And then you will see it.

See him.

Dressed only in dark slacks, blood will run down his torso like rainfall. For a second you will naively believe him to be seriously injured, gasping in shock and running towards him. He will smile at you - genuinely entertained by your unashamed display of care for your Papa and your human stupidity because You just cannot be that foolish - and you will see the clogs of blood and flesh sticking grotesquely between his teeth. The beautiful prince, long consumed by death.

This is when you will stumble upon your own feet, slipping on the wet red copper on the floor, knees and palms scraping on the chapel's marble floor; a true nerve-wrecking cry of terror ripping from your throat as you fall to the ground. The marble will be wet with blood and so will be the palms of your hands, and your knees will sting badly as your own skin rrrips.

He will just stand there, between the carnage - half-eaten body parts around him, like a wild animal tore them apart with a ravenous hunger - blood dripping from the ceiling and sprinkled across the stone walls like a hundred cans of tomato soup had exploded in the room; his naked chest wet and shining with coppery red, and so will his hair and his face. Red red red replacing the usual black and the white.

Then, he will dash forward. You will run run run, out into the cold night, cold snow creaking beneath your feet like thunderous leaves as you run and run until your lungs burn and you feel all sense of orientation slipping from your mind between the seemingly endlessly tall pines of the forest. Behind you, the snow will creak under his measured footsteps.

But for now you just look at him, at his pristine and beautiful frame. Toned muscles beneath the silk and denim of his clothes, his posture straight and elegant and cocky. You can already see a prominent trail of dark hair leading below the waistband of his tight tight pants, his dick bulging the fabric, thickening right above the dark fabric and you lick your lips.

"What are you waiting for?", and he sounds impatient now, anger lacing through his voice that rasps and rumbles and you nearly jolt.

For great is the Son and most worthy of praise; he is to be feared above all who wander this wretched Earth.

You are younger. A teenager. The study room at the monastery is chilly, despite the air outside being humid on a hot summer's day. Birds chirp and a bee has lost its way into the study; a ray of warm sunlight falls into the room through the stained-glass windows. They show Lilith, killing Adam. Your Mother Superior leans forward on her desk, her upside-down cross clattering loudly against the polished wood, and paints a vivid picture with her words: Satan's sons, descending onto Earth, born from a strong woman's womb in blood and pain and agony, three of them unsuccessful, one of them weak and one of them -

Eternal.

He will bring the end times. By his side a woman, from whose womb will crawl damnation, and rebirth.

Behold, he is coming with Fire, and every eye will see him, even those who renounced him, and all tribes of Earth will wail on account of him.

Who are you to refuse him?

Despite feeling the burning, heavy gazes of a few hundred people on your quivering body, your hands dart out - like you are on autopilot, like your body is not fully yours anymore; and your fingers - cold sweat and shakes - move up from your lap, unbuckling his belt that clinks loudly as it falls to the sides; before your hands fly to the leathery ribbon of his pants.

That is, when he smacks them away. Shakes his head and tuts at you. "Use your mouth", palms of his hands rubbing the sides of your skull gently.

You swallow, shame burning high and hotly on your cheeks as you lean in, teeth latching to the ribbon. The leather itself feels stiff but the surface is surprisingly smooth between your teeth; however, it takes you a short while until you figure out how to pull the ribbon loose and out of the eyelets one by one. The fabric tastes stale and of leather, and gets drenched in your saliva quickly. The act is humiliating and you notice, not without terror rising in your chest, a sharp electric pang in your belly, that tingles and blooms and shoots right between your thighs.

"There you go", Perpetua hums, his thumb gently stroking your temple, "Good girl, hm?"

Be good be good be good.

Your body sings with the praise crawling down your spine warmly, but you do not have much time to relish in it, as the sight of him knocks all air out of your lungs. The fabric falls apart easily, like it is exhausted from clinging together and relieved that you resolved it of its unfeasible task. You come face to face with a thick bush of trimmed pubic hair. No underwear.

The dark hair curls a little above and around the thick base of his hard cock, that does not immediately spring free. Instead, Perpetua reaches for it, grabs it and fully pulls it out.

Obscenely, it bounces against his adonis belt (where small beauty marks are scattered across the marble skin) rock-hard already and the tip flushed in an angry red. His dick is nearly as pale as the rest of him, with a prominent vein on its bottom that nearly shines through the snow-white skin. Your mouth waters at the sight.

His cock is long and girthy, cut - the head is thick and looks deliciously heavy. You have had your fair share of dick, as sex and especially female orgasms are considered one of the highest forms of pleasure, one of the highest forms of prayer to be offered to the Unholy One, but you have never ever seen a cock that has spit pooling on your tongue like his does. You need to feel him, but you also know that it is not your place to press ahead so brazenly and thus, for now, your hands rest uselessly on his thighs, fingers gliding rather impatiently over the fabric and the strong muscle beneath.

Perpetua looks down at you, eyes gleaming darkly, lips curling up in a smug smile. Takes his cock by its base, gives it one, two firm strokes that have you reeling, stretching your neck a little, eyes glued to the flushed head. That is when he guides it down and --

And ruuubs the tip of his dick over your lips. Your mouth falls apart a like you are possessed - tongue darting out, jaw going slack, ready to welcome him in. But he just tsks at you, pulls away and slaps his cock against your cheek instead. The cold, hard flesh connects playfully with your warm skin - tip a little wet with your saliva - and you gasp, eyes growing wide.

Your stomach flutters and tingles, while your heart misses a beat.

"So eager to take it, darling", he sounds genuinely amused and you whine, batting your lashes at him because - Yes, yes you are - but he just rubs his cock over your cheek, watches intently as a few drops of precum quell from it, run over your cheekbone.

A bench in the nave creaks. If you were to look over, you could see Dew leaning forward, smoke curling from his nose, claws digging into the wood until his knuckles turn white and the bench splinters; and Swiss, grabbing his wrist firmly, holding him back - while Mountain sits behind them, back unusually straight and stiff like an ancient tree, looming over the Ghouls that can very well smell your arousal, your cunt growing wet with the humiliation.

And Perpetua can smell it. Can smell your arousal as much as theirs, wafting around him like a thick cloud. It fills his nostrils up, stronger than the delicious scent of your blood.

It is taking all of his strength not to bite you, to ram his teeth into your carotid artery and make your neck spurt with blood, drink you up; it is an actual mental effort keeping himself focussed on that pretty, pretty mouth of yours. So instead of ending your pathetic little life right then and there - because, who do you think you matter to? This is the only good thing you will ever do, the only righteous act you will ever achieve to commit -, he shoves his cock back into your field of vision.

You do not hesitate one bit, tilting your head a little and tongue darting immediately, to glide along the vein on the bottom of his dick - traces it up to the tip - and you can hear him hiss, before you lick a fat stripe back down, over the unnaturally cold and hard skin.

His pubic hair tingles your cheek as you put wet kisses on the thick base of his dick, right above where his slender and elegant fingers grip himself, looking up at him. Perpetua's gaze meets yours, the pupils of his unmatching eyes blown and dark, eyes gleaming with lust.

You want all of him. All the sweet sounds that might escape his lips, all the tastes his cold body has to offer. Your hand sneaks up to meet his, and he lets go off his cock, fists your hair instead.

His dick is terrifyingly cold to the touch - but hard and heavy and it twitches a little, and thus, it has your mouth watering anyways. You can barely wrap your hand around it fully and your cunt throbs and clenches around nothing, as you think about how full you would feel with him inside of you. Arousal ping-pongs through your abdomen and you lean in again, tongue licking another fat wet stripe from the base of his dick up up up to his head, where it flicks around the head, runs through the cleft on top - before you put your mouth onto him, gently kissing and sucking on the side of his cock; letting your mouth wander freely over the thick shaft, taking your time. Obscene sounds of your lips smacking wetly against his dick fill the heavily scented air of the church, and you close your eyes, listening to the deep, rumbling hums that slip past his lips.

Technically, you are just trying to get him nice and wet, but he just tastes so so good - the soft velvety skin tastes of musk and salt - divine, and you simply cannot stop; your spit slicking his cock up as you kitten-lick all over it, placing open-mouthed kisses onto the cool, hard flesh.

Perpetua's hand gently cradles your neck, the metal talons solid against your skin. His breathing grows heavier as your lips make their way down his cock, tongue licking over the thick base and you cannot resist, a little cock-drunk already; tugging his tight pants down just a little more, his balls spring free and your mouth immediately clings to them. They are firm and swollen already, and taste just as musky as your tongue runs over them - blending with his pubic hair's tangy scent, that smells just the faintest bit of soap.

Gently placing kisses on his balls, your tongue darts out, wraps around the bottom of the right one and then you close your lips around it fully, sucking it into your mouth while your hand keeps pumping his cock. His heavy breathing - more a force of habit, a faint memory of how his body used to react - stops for a looong moment, before a low drawn-out hum escapes his throat.

You open your eyes at the sound, looking up at him, already a little dazed yourself. His lips are slightly parted, brows a little furrowed behind the mask. And you realize:

He's turned on. Papa Perpetua, his Unholy Eminence, is turned on.

And Satanas, does that spur you on. Running your tongue along his sack, you eventually let it slip out of your mouth and take the other between your lips, and that's when he groans. The sound shakes your body to the core, goosebumps spreading over your arms and your back, your loins practically fucking igniting with lust as you feel pussy growing even wetter. His dick twitches in your hand - a ripple that erupts at its base as you can see his cock swell a little, the shaft shivering under a heavy contortion - pulses and then throbs. Letting go off his balls with a wet pop, you lean back on the heels of your shoes to watch a small bead forming on the thick, flushed head.

Thick, shiny droplets of precum quell and drip from the tiny hole like holy water, and you just need need need to taste that, too. Your tongue immediately darts out - body nothing more than a tool to your most primal urges - licks them off. He tastes of revelation.

It is the way you look up at him while you do it, relentless in keeping eye contact with him that nearly makes him blow a load - all hooded eyes gleaming with arousal, cheeks flushed. A temptress. Seduction in the flesh. The Original Sin.

His personal sacrilege.

And fuck, you are good at being his demise.

"You're made for this, hm?", Perpetua's voice is deep with lust, laced with contempt and arrogance, hands and claws still cradling your head, "Made to serve your God."

"Uh-huh", you make, humming against the tip of his cock, tongue gliding around it. You would gladly serve him however he wishes. On your knees, on your back, on all fours, in his lap. You would serve him with thick streaks of a paddle welting up on your ass in an angry angry red, as much as you would serve him with his cum running out of your used cunt. Arousal rummages through your body like a wildfire, a dark pit in your chest that clenches and tugs and you moan against the tip of his dick.

Behind you, the candle light flickers over the mural in the altar room, its shadows creating a rather lively illusion of the Evil One. For a split second, it seems like the painted eyes of Satan follow your cojoined movements - like He is watching you.

The both of you are oblivious to it, too enamoured and lost in the way you go to town on his cock - peppering the thick head of his cock with soft kisses - but faint gasps, and a few uttered prayers from the nave reach your ears nonetheless, even though you cannot find rhyme nor reason in them. All that exists to you is Perpetua, the way his hands grab at your hair, thenar of his thumbs rubbing against your skull and how his eyes stare deep deep into your soul. His groan echoes in your head still, and you need more more more - closing your lips around the tip fully, sucking it into your mouth.

You nearly forget to breathe, that's how good he already feels in your mouth. You can feel your brain going mushy in real time, feel it turning all soupy with arousal and the headrush you are experiencing from barely breathing and the way your thundering heart pumps your blood through your body. Swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, you quickly grow desperate, eager, and let him slip further into your mouth.

Perpetua moans as your lips closes around his dick, "That's it, darling" and he is so so heavy and huge on your tongue that you are really having trouble taking all of him in. Thus, your hand tugs at the thick base of his cock - jerking it up and down to the slooow rhythm of your head bobbing on his dick that you pick up.

And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the unholy Son of the dark Father, full of grace and truth.

A complacent smile tugs at his lips as one of his hands - the one at the back of your head, gently resting above the crook of your neck - caresses your skin gently while you let him sink deeper into your mouth. "Can't get enough of me, hm? Cheap whore", his voice raspy, sounding like he is trying to suppress another moan. Tugs at your hair lightly as he spits out the insult, your stomach growing hot and your loins clench.

Seeing the lust moving over your face - your eyelids fluttering, eyes rolling back a little - he grins, flashes his razor-sharp teeth at you, tuts. "You're properly rotten, aren't you?", he croons, all affectionate and bewitched, but his eyes gleam down at you mischievously.

The candles' flames quiver and flicker, painting ghostly shadows on the mural - their golden hue dancing over Perpetua's form. You can hear the night sky rumbling faintly with thunder, and then lightning cracks through the darkness, illuminates the world outside in a flash. Usually, you would flinch - just like the congregation does - but an otherworldly calm fills your body, down to your bones, that drowns out anyone and anything but the way your cunt presses wetly against your panties, his cock feels inside your mouth.

Humming around his dick you bat your lashes at him, wanting to show him just how much you strayed away from the lies of the Lord and embraced the Evil One's teaching. But most importantly: You wish to please your Papa. Give him what he is asking for. What he deserves.

And it makes you so so wet, the heavy weight of him on your tongue, how his dick throbs as you let it sink deeper into your mouth. You can feel fresh wetness pooling between your legs, rubbing your thighs together to get any sort of friction; your tongue pressing flatly against the bottom of his cock while hollowing your cheeks.

Your eyes prove to be bigger than your mouth, as his dick slips in further, your mouth connecting with your thumb, and you sputter around him. Your throat protests the sudden intrusion, as the tip of his dick knocks against your palate, and you choke, gargling against his cock.

"Sh, sh, sh", Perpetua pats your cheek patronizingly, regards you with a pitiful look, "Careful, doll. Take your time, hm?" He does not want you to. He needs it hard and fast, needs you to open up for him. He has waited long enough.

But he also cannot deny how good it feels, to let you take the lead just a little; how good it feels to watch you scrambling for ways to make him feel good.

It's rather addictive. He could do this all day - just take his cock out and watch you having your way with it, pleasuring yourself and trying to get him off, to be good for him.

And you are trying so hard right now. Taking him out of your mouth, sucking in a few deep breaths while he cradles your cheek; and then your mouth is back on him - with more vigour, more ambition - your hand giving his cock one, two forceful pumps, before your head sinks down on it, swallowing more than the half of him.

Your mouth is sacred.

Perpetua marvels in your beauty, the curve and stretch of your lips as you close your mouth around him fully - looking up at him through lust-hooded eyes, gleaming with arousal, a soft rose tint to your cheeks. He wants to keep you, for all eternity if he must. Strike a bargain with his Creator if he has to. Just because-

"You are made for this, doll", he groans, Made for me, as your tongue rubs along the bottom of his dick.

He feels so good in your mouth, the cold skin growing warmer by the second and you can feel his dick pulse and twitch, as you reach for his balls once more with your other hand, stroking and fondling his sack. A moan, deep and coarse - powerful and earth-shatteringly beautiful like a prayer - slips from his mouth, and his eyelids flutter, while his head tips down a little, brown hair cascading down the sides of his painted face. The silver of his mask catches the candle-light and you know that you bask in the sight of Satan's most unholy, most precious creation.

And Perpetua feels so alive.

He can feel (for the first time in a long time) how the heavily scented air of the church enters and fills his lungs - that inflate and deflate uselessly - feels lust creeping up and down his spine hotly. Fuck, he has missed this.

He hasn't felt this good, this lively, since he opened his eyes on the cool and steely autopsy table in the mortuary. Has not felt this free since he plucked the embalming tubes from his nose and arms and felt the chemical liquid rushing out if his eternal corpse. Has not felt this good since he realized how strong, how powerful, His Unholy Majesty made him as he dug his teeth so deeply into his first victims throat, that he broke the bones in its neck.

Satan in Hell, he feels like he is going to burst. He cannot believe that your mouth feels so heavenly, and he cannot help but wonder if your cunt is just as warm and wet.

The thought has him reeling on the edge, dick twitching on your tongue as you bob your head back and forth like you are fucking crazed for him.

You are perfect. A gift from the Lord, tainted by his Master. And Perpetua will reward you for it.

He is going to make you the God-bearer. Pump you full of his cum, until you feel like you are going to burst and then he is going to shove his dick back into you, so not a single drop of his goes to waste.

Perpetua cannot help himself - and later he will ponder whether he had a divine vision then and there - but to think of it. Really think of it.

His brain, long without vivid electric impulse, stutters back alive as it cooks up a delicious imagery. He can practically feel your warm flesh beneath his fingertips and against his body. And he cannot - for the love of Satan - stop thinking about it, the thought swallowing him whole.

How you would lay on his bed - his unused, cold bed - legs tightly wrapped around his waist. Moaning sweetly with the way his cock plunges into you deeply, pubic hair brushing over your folds and clit with every single thrust. It'd be the third time in a row he's fucking you, and your pussy still clutches around him greedily. His own cum and your squirt clinging to his curly bush and your mingled juices glisten on your wet folds that squelch with every thrust. You'd be so so full with his cum, that you mewl as he practically bends you in half, drills into you. Feeling like you are about to burst, you can feel his cum pooling around the thick base of his cock.

Perpetua is going to fuck the Antichrist into you. He will make you round and plump and he will do it over and over again. He will make you the Mother of the Devil Church, a Saint to behold, a guiding light for those lost to false promises. His cock hits your cervix over and over again, until you are babbling nonsense, his name on your tongue as you beg and plead and he leans in - eternal stamina, eternal lust - peppers your cheeks with kisses. "Take it all, darling, be good and take what I offer you", he croons, and when he lays his fingers onto your cunt you will milk his cock with an orgasm stronger than the ones that ripped through your body earlier, and he will spill and spill and spill thick, seemingly unending ropes and ropes of hot cum into your thight, fucked-out hole.

The thought nearly has Perpetua toppling over. Fuck, you are so damned hot, and he wants to ruin you. He has waited long enough; limited himself with a false ideal of decorum. You are his. The whole ministry is. He might as well start taking what rightfully belongs to him.

The candles scattered across the altar room flicker once more and then erupt in a flash of a flame, almost like a spontaneous combustion; outside, thunder rumbles once more while Perpetua tips his head back and groans - hands cradling your head, pushing his hips forward.

The thick tip of his dick hits the back of your throat, way back, and the congregation can see your throat bulging where the thick head slips past your palate; while you sputter and gag around it. Your nose is buried in his pubic hair, curling softly against your cheeks and bridge of your nose; inhaling hastily you catch lungsful of his scent - mouth salivating with both: his smell and the massive weight pushing into your throat. Eyes welting up with tears at the sudden intrusion and the nausea that bubbles in your stomach, you look up at him, hands clawing helplessly at his thighs, the thick material of his pants. Panic settles in your limbs at the sudden asphyxiation, feet kicking out a little.

Although he hears you gargling around his cock, watches your frame writhe, he does not budge; instead he holds your head close to his crotch, mismatched eyes rolling back at your sweet sweet, desperate sounds and the way your throat clenches around him.

Lightning cracks like a whip.

And then he moves. Sets a quick pace as he ruts into your throat, uses your mouth like a fucking fleshlight. His balls slap against your chin wetly, as your saliva runs down your lips, pooling at the thick base of his dick.

Your jaw hurts and so does your throat, growing sore with the he recklessly fucks into your mouth, bruising the back of your throat with the thick head of his cock that he drills down down down your mouth.

"That's it", he groans, mumbling to himself like a madman, "Take it, fucking take it, you slut -- There you go, fucking suck - my - cock". Each word one sharp thrust, that push tears from your eyes.

Your dirty fucking mouth feels so so good. He wishes he could relish it more; take his time, savour how your mouth and tongue feel - but you nearly feel too good, and he really really needs to cum. He could do this all day, have your lips wrapped around him all the damn time.

"You fuckin' bitch", he slurs, tips his head back, one of his hands coming lose from your head and runs it through his own instead, suddenly feeling as hot as if he'd be facing all Seven Hells at once.

The grip on your head is still lethal, strong like a vice, and you try your best to just relax your throat, to keep inhaling deeply through your nose; but, to no avail - your jaw already hurts from his assault on your mouth and your throat feels so so sore. Tomorrow, your voice will be a dry croak.

Desperate for any sort of leverage, any control your hands wander upwards, clinging to his silken shirt; one hand splayed out on his abdomen, the other reaching higher, nearly reaching his chest. You cling and tear at the fabric, groaning and gargling around his dick as he uses your throat, making you choke on his fat cock. Spit runs down your chin freely, your nose is still buried in his pubes, and you can feel his muscles ripple beneath your touch.

The lack of air and the way his dick repeatedly hits the back of your throat has even more tears welling up in your eyes that quicly topple over, running down your cheeks as you look up at him. Satan's Child using you for his pleasure, basking in the glow of a thousand flames burning oh so brightly, like twinkling stars as your tears contort and blur your vision. You can see and feel his muscles moving, as he fucks into your mouth.

You are truly blessed.

And Perpetua wants all of you, still. Wants so taste your blood, feel you clench around his dick, your hands running down his body.

But he will look for other ways to eat - devour - you, and will find himself between your spread legs, his tongue buried deep deep between your folds and inside your hole, his canines scraping dangerously over the soft, wet, and delicate skin.

His hips will rut into the bed as he humps his hard cock onto the mattress, hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping your spread open for him.

It will be hard for you to breathe, as he laps at your cunt like a starving starving man; and it will be hard for him to think, jaw hurting and chin drenched in your juices and his own saliva, grinding down onto the wet spot that is forming in his pants. He will come like this, after you do, shoot his load into his tight jeans, lapping at your squirting cunt.

Still, you want to offer it all to him. Throw your head back and give yourself to him, arteries prominent beneath your sweaty skin - all the while he is balls deep inside of your seeping-hot cunt that wets his pubic hairs, juices running down his sack and splattered across his abdomen; his face buried in your neck, lips latching onto your throat. And you would let him break your skin, let him drink from you. Give him everything you have. Let him have your life.

He must see it in your eyes - the promise, the submission, and the suggestion all the same - because his cock twitches in your throat and he moans freely, all mangled and raw and loud and his hips stutter, as he sacks forward a little. You know he is close. You just do. Like you have done this a hundred times before, like you know him better than he knows himself.

Fighting the gag reflex you push your tongue against his dick, rubbing it along the bottom of it and that is when he throbs in the most delicious way.

You close your eyes, ready to swallow each and every last drop of him, taste his cum on your tongue; moaning around his cock deep in your throat but--

But he pulls out, a sharp gasp slipping from his lips as he pumps his cock once, twice and then moans - a raw, coarse sound that echoes from the walls, and then hot streaks of cum hit your face. You can feel it hitting your cheeks, your forehead all warm and sticky, specks of it landing on your lips and in your opened mouth. Some of it gets in your eyes, but you just blink it away, gaze trained on his face that first contorts with pleasure beautifully, before his jaw goes a little slack, a blissful smile settling onto his lips, head tilted back a little. Your hands wander over his firm, toned abdomen, caressing the eternally frozen body beneath the soft fabric, while he shoots hot rope after rope of cum onto your face.

Eventually, he is spent, and he groans, rolls his shoulders, and looks down at you - like he is assessing his work - before his hands leave your head. Your scalp stings and your neck hurts, but he does not care much for your wincing, as he takes his cock back in his hand.

You watch his slender fingers, adorned with his metal claws that shimmer in the candle light, stuffing himself back into his pants; the dark fabric around the fly stained with your saliva, while you rub your thighs together.

You want him. You need him.

Arousal crushes over your body in hot, suffocating waves and you feel like you are running a two-hundred degrees fever. Whining and still feeling a little loopy and out of it from the lack of oxygen, you look up at him, hands pressing onto his thighs needily, grabbing at the fabric. Your cheeks are wet with tears and his cum.

He tilts his head at you, blinks - visibly irritated. "What?"

"Papa, p-please", you sob, voice small, his cum in thick streaks on your face, clumping your lashes, "I -- I, I need - just, f-fuck me please."

And he huffs at that, the coil in his stomach tightening again. Already. "You don't know what you're asking for, silly", voice coarse - because you certainly don't. He would ravish you, skin and bones, leave nothing but a puddle of blood and cum.

So instead, because his education reminds of that much - nothing but a faint voice in the back of his skull, reaching for him through the thick haze of arousal and post-orgasmic bliss - he shoves his foot between your thighs, presses the tip of it riiight onto where he suspects your clit.

"That's all you'll get", his hand strokes your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, "Be good and I'll might give you more."

Sometime. When he has tamed the beast inside himself.

You gasp, hips stuttering forward as your body writhes at the sudden, harsh contact; and then you start to grind down onto his suede boot, shame burning high on your cheeks.

You can feel all of their eyes resting heavily upon you - defiled with your tears and his juices. It is an honour to serve a Papa in such a way, and you are very well aware of it. Some of your fellow Siblings will most likely not be able to suppress their jealousy, make you feel their envy with harsh words and harsher hands. A few others will most likely be joyous for you, steam your tunics more carefully now, tend to your hair and nails as his newly-found, favourite concubine shares her stories with them. The Ghouls will, from now on, most likely keep themselves away from you.

There, there - you are marked now. You are his. You should be joyful. It is a gift from the Hells: His Majesty has chosen you to pleasure the new Papa.

You.

Something churns away in your stomach, blends with the shame at being so publicly displayed in both, your lust and your servitude: pride.

It tingles in your stomach, blends with your arousal, shoots up up up to your brain and releases a firework of euphoria, sweet moans slipping from your lips. Your head sacks forward a little, his grip on your hair stinging, and you groan with both - pain and pleasure.

Fresh wetness pools between your folds, and you can feel your panties clinging wetly to your cunt, staining the leather of his shoes. And you are so fucking turned on. Lust runs rampage on your nerve-endings, sending your head into a spin and reduces all bodily desires to just wanting to come. Gasping, you speed up, your hands running up your body and grabbing your tits through your habit as lust rummages through your body, leaving your skin prickling and hot; suffocating like a heavy, feverish blanket.

And Perpetua tips your head back by tugging at your hair, making you moan. You meet his gaze, that wanders over your sweaty, flushed face, and then his thumb runs through the sticky streaks of cum on your cheek - gathers it on the pad of the metal claw before brushing over your lips.

And you part them, still plush and wet from sucking his cock, carefully taking the talon in your mouth. It rests heavily on your tongue, cold and hard, and then the salty, musky taste of his cum hits your palate. You moan around his finger, tongue carefully lapping his juices off the metal.

The taste and the humiliation gets you going, all thought of all these Clergy members watching washed from your mind as your eyelids flutter. Perpetua pulls his thumb from your mouth gently, only to run it through his cum once more, feeding you more of his spend.

You hum around his thumb, as it enters your mouth once more, tasting his cum, licking and sucking it off the cool metal eagerly, swallowing it has your eyes rolling back.

He tastes like Heaven and Hell. You wish you could do more than just taste him.

You wish he would touch you. Really touch you - take his time, too. Run his hands down your body, fingers digging into your curves, lips latching onto you where your pulse thunders beneath the thin and soft skin. You wonder, what his hands would feel like - his touch firm and cold - and you squeeze your tit, eyelids fluttering as your mind conjures up the delicious image of you; sitting on his lap in the confined space of a confessional, knees digging into the hard wooden bench. Him rrripping your habit apart, groping your tits hungrily, thumb flicking over your nipples.

Just as yours do now and they are hard like glass beneath the soft, dark cotton of your tunic.

"Look at you", he muses, hand caressing your cheek, his thumb still in your mouth, feeling you suckle around it, "Aren't you just such a good little slut?"

Putting pressure on your tongue he pushes your mouth open, a dirty grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Such a dirty, little thing - y'just really love to have something to swallow, don't you?", he whispers, watches you whine and nod. Then, he swirls his tongue through his mouth, along his teeth and razor-sharp canines - gathers some spit and then leans down - lets his saliva trickle from his own mouth into yours slooowly, a thick rope dropping down onto your tongue. His spit is cold and tastes coppery, and your stomach does a flip at the gesture, while the taste sends your brain into a tail-spin.

The thought of him hunting people through the ministry's ground, just moments before the black mass, haunts your mind. The way they seek a way through the darkening pine forest, the icy air piercing their faces and lungs as they run and run and run from him - maybe they are unsuspecting tourists thinking they rented an Airbnb in the nearby monastic granges or maybe the ministry just plainly kidnaps people now - as he struts after them. Measured steps, as he is not in a hurry - they won't be able to outrun him forever, and he is quicker, stronger, deadlier anyways - a tall looming figure always behind them, rising high between the dark tree trunks.

But you only know the half of it, unable to imagine what follows. For then the creature screeches, hurls itself forward, because it is just growing tired of the hunt and their desperate, futile attempts at escaping their certain demise - inhumane, supernatural speed as it starts to run, brown hair fluttering and it giggles; elegant frame connecting forcefully with a victim's as it tackles the human into the cold snow and buries its canines, its whole denture in the livestock’s face. Bones crush, blood spurts like a fountain and the creature slurps as it feasts.

You wonder how Perpetua's lips would taste, feel on yours. If he were a lover you would just lean in freely, let him feel just how much he makes your stomach flutter and heart ache - but he is not from this world, something more, utterly divine and you just aren't worthy.

Instead, you swallow obediently, keeping your gaze chained to his. And that is when he tilts the tip of his boot juuust right, moves it against your desperate humping --

A sweet sweet moan, high-pitched and a tad strangled, slips from your throat as you cunt clenches around nothing and then squirts; your juices drenching your panties and soaking the suede of his shoes as you finally, finally come. Your head flies back as your body tenses up, shakes rattling you and the dark sky outside the colourful windows singes in a deep, deep red, just as thunder rumbles, makes the ground shake - like the Earth has been plunged into the Seven Hells, fire erupting around the globe. Perpetua watches you, the red light engulfing him, a smile tugging at his lips.

The red subsides as quickly as it exploded across the night sky, and he knows that Father is pleased. Leaning down to your gasping, quivering form, he cradles your face in his hands, claws wrapping around your skull. "You did well, darling", he whispers, faint groans and heavy breathing coming from the nave but he doesn't care much - it is their time now, he will continue to indulge in yours. He doesn't know, doesn't check where his brother is - if he regards him with open disdain or if a Sibling of Sin is on his cock already - and for the first time in a long time he realizes that he just does not care.

Placing a soft kiss on your sweaty forehead, he inhales your scent, listens to your laborious breathing and your thundering heartbeat; in the nave, a ghoul hurls itself over the bench and at a Friar.

"You're mine now", he whispers, and your eyes flicker open at that, pupils still dark and blown with lust, your body writhing from your orgasm. Oh, he is so so far from being done with you.

And he knows that you know it, too.

[onekindredspirit]

I don't care to photograph cars. There's something about it I don't like, something to do with the male gaze. In feminist theory, the male gaze describes the depiction of women in the visual arts and literature, from a masculine, heterosexual perspective, with women being depicted as sexual objects for the pleasure of the heterosexual male viewer. It's about objectivity and patriarchy. Am I woke for cars? A friend once said, "Wokeness is just embracing empathy for other people, creatures and the environment." I liked that, but I'll add 'things' to the list. I don't care to photograph cars because it feels eerily like an extension of the male gaze. Those sinuously sleek, curved lines of the XJ6 Jaguar beckoning, beguiling and seducing the heterosexual male photographer. It's not the car's fault, I know that. I do, however, photograph a lot of headstones. I love the dead. They are peace loving, generally. Their sins and flaws of character, great deeds and wealth are all flattened out, 6 feet under, in a democracy of clay. So when I passed this car the other day and caught the light on the bonnet and the organic nature of the lichen and moss growing on the panels, glass and grill, I was put in mind of a headstone, with good reason. This car is the site of a personal tragedy for someone I briefly knew. He was a man engaged in a complicated relationship with himself, an engagement that eventually lead to his self-destruction. Highly intelligent, yes. Gifted, definitely, but suffering from a personal resentment and grievance that was unappealing to many. Instead of internalising it, he shared it around or, at best, left it thinly veiled. I like the ideas of Gabor Maté, the Canadian psychologist. He said - Don't ask, "What have you done?" But rather ask, "What happened to you?" This is a photograph of a headstone, for one of the democracy of the dead. Don't cry It's not a car It's a cradle for the democratic journey. Words and Polaroid - One Kindred Spirit