#how to better understand the scriptures

[dmmwrites]

How to learn scriptures when you don't understand.

The Kid decorated my laptop with diamond art stickers she created herself. And my initial reaction was not what I thought it would be. 🤔 So this happened on Sunday. And at first–I’m just going to be honest — I was a little irked. I know I know. 🤦‍♀️ My Mom Guilt kicked in saying I should be so blessed and excited that The Kid decorated my laptop. But the perfectionist/control freak in me didn’t…

[ominouspositivity-or-else]

this just in: no one reads the bible. send post

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[yvesssssssss]

Hellooo :3

Mayhaps could I request Mydei with spouse reader who is just so atrociously down bad for their husband? It's not even about his title or anything, they are just down horrid (totally not projecting)

Even better if it started off as an arranged marriage

𐙚⋆.˚Mydei — honkai star rail

Hellooo!! I kinda had a hard time writing this one💔 but i hope you enjoy!!😽😽😽

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You had been warned about Mydei before the wedding.

That he was quiet. Stoic. That you’d never know what he was thinking. That he was a difficult man to understand, let alone love. That this marriage, arranged for diplomacy and structure, was destined to be little more than cordial distance and shared titles.

They couldn’t have known that you were a disaster.

Not in the political sense. No, in that you were already, hopelessly, horrifyingly infatuated with him by the time you arrived at the capital. Not with his influence. Not with the legacy he carried like armor. But with him—the elegance in how he held himself, the sheer gravity in his silence, the way he could say your name and make it sound like it belonged in a poem.

He met you with courteous bows and an unreadable gaze.

You met him with heart palpitations and a mouth dry enough to parch stars.

The wedding was brief and immaculate. He offered his hand. You took it like a lifeline. The entire time, you wanted to say, My husband is so beautiful I could scream, but you were trying not to combust in public.

Your chambers were adjacent, not shared.

Your roles were parallel, not intertwined.

Your feelings? Definitely not mutual.

You fell first. Fast. Hard. Unreasonably.

He would pass you in the hall, nodding politely, and you'd nearly drop whatever you were holding. Once he said, “You look well,” and you had to sit down for five minutes to recover. You once caught a glimpse of him in the early morning—hair slightly mussed, collar undone—and it haunted your dreams for a week.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t tease. He spoke to you gently, always gently, and kept his distance with care. Like you were precious. Like he was afraid of hurting you.

And yet—despite how cold others claimed he could be, he never looked away from you. He always answered. He always listened.

It was maddening.

You tried being subtle. Which, for someone as disastrously down bad as you were, meant:

Staring.

Standing closer than necessary.

Fumbling compliments like, “Your hands are so elegant— I MEAN efficient—no, wait—beautiful! NO. STRONG??”

You were a walking embarrassment.

And Mydei? Ever composed.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The change happened quietly.

A shoulder offered when you stumbled slightly in public—fingers steadying your elbow, his hand lingering just a moment longer than required.

“My apologies,” he murmured. “I should’ve stood closer.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Later, during a diplomatic dinner, you’d leaned into him more than propriety allowed. His breath hitched—hitched—when you brushed his arm.

“Do you... mind?” you asked, already wanting to dissolve into the carpet.

He looked at you. Not through you. At you. And said, “No. I rather prefer it.”

You nearly passed out.

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁.𖥔 ݁ ˖

And now, tonight.

He had just returned from a series of long negotiations. Hours of speaking in that calm voice of his, delivering strategies and commands like scripture. You were waiting in his study, legs swinging over the edge of the chair like a child too jittery to sit still.

The door opened. He walked in, loosened his coat, and stopped.

“You’re here.”

“Always,” you chirped. “I mean. Not always. Not in a weird way—well, maybe weird, but not creepy. Definitely not—”

His mouth twitched. The smallest smile.

You melted.

“I made tea,” you added, voice pitching embarrassingly high. “If you want. Or need. Or don’t. I just thought you might. Because, you know, you’re—you.”

He walked to you slowly, soundlessly. Took the cup from your hand.

You felt the heat of his fingers even after they left.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“Am I? Oh. Wow. So I am.”

He studied you then, truly studied you. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No!” You answered too fast. Too loud. “Never. You could ruin me with one word and I’d still follow you around like a lost puppy. Wait. Ignore that. That’s insane.”

“It’s honest.”

“...That’s worse.”

He took a breath, then placed the tea down, untouched. “Why do you speak like that around me?”

“Like what?”

“Like I might vanish. Or like you’re ashamed to want me to stay.”

The air cracked.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, helplessly, whispered: “Because I’ve never been in love with someone who makes me feel like this.”

Mydei’s gaze softened.

“I thought… I was the only one,” you added, laughing weakly. “People said you’d never care. That I’d always be a name on a contract to you. But I don’t care about the arrangement. Or your rank. Or what we were supposed to be. I just—”

You paused.

“I just really, really love my husband.”

There was silence. You waited for his rejection, his polite dismissal, his cool, distant kindness.

But instead—

He stepped closer.

Then, softly:

“I know.”

You blinked.

“I’ve known for some time,” he continued, voice lower now, more intimate. “I didn’t think you’d stay. Most people in my life do not.”

“Why—why wouldn’t I stay?” you asked, stunned.

“Because I’m not easy to love. I’m not expressive. Or thrilling. I move slowly. Deliberately. I don’t chase.”

“I don’t need you to chase me,” you said, standing. “I’m already here.”

Mydei’s hand reached for yours. Hesitated. Then laced your fingers together with a gentleness that felt like reverence.

“I find you… extraordinary,” he said.

You made a sound halfway between a squeal and a sob.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he added. “But I think I’ve always admired the way you look at me. Like I am more than duty.”

“You are,” you whispered.

His other hand cupped your cheek. “Then allow me to return the favor. Stay with me tonight.”

“Just stay, or—”

“Just stay. For now.”

You nodded, utterly starstruck.

And that night, lying beside him in soft silence, his fingers curled lightly around yours and his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your side, you realized something wonderful:

He might not say much.

But you didn’t need declarations. Not when he held you like this.

Not when he whispered, so faintly you thought you imagined it:

“I love my spouse too.”

[miedei]

hii, i saw your requests are open, so i was thinking how about spencer and reader have a fwb thing going on, but he always told her not to get attached, so she breaks things off and spencer seems fine with that, until he realizes that she goes on dates with other people so maybe they fight about it and they confess their feelings

YES i love this concept nonnie my love this is amazing

not jealous

ex-fwb!spencer gets jealous, but he doesn't have any feelings for you... right?

cw: a little suggestive i think, i can't be held responsible for the things i think ab spencer reid, wrote this in a fugue state that's the only way i can explain this

wc: 1.2k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Penelope Garcia is one of Spencer's favourite people in the world, but at this very moment he feels the shameful urge to tell her to shut up.

"Honey, you'd love him! He's a doctor at the hospital a few streets down, so he understands the whole married-to-the-job thing, and he's smart! Just one date, my love, please? You can totally ghost him afterward if you hate him, though I don't think you will," Garcia is perched on your desk, right across from Spencers, so he can't tune this out, despite his repeated attempts to.

You can't help but sigh, staring up at Garcia as she continues to speak. She means well, you know that. You never told her what happened, but she can tell that you've been lonely, and she's doing everything she can to help.

You can't tell her, you know that, but it doesn't stop you from wanting to.

"It's probably best if we stay like this. We can be coworkers, friends. It'd be easier if we stay unattached."

The words Spencer said to you months ago are still fresh in your mind. You'd agreed, drunk on the feeling of being wanted, and you were aware that feelings would make things more complicated. You knew that, and yet-

"Spencer, we need to stop. I can't do this no-strings-attached thing anymore."

"Then we can- we can stop. We'll stay friends, right?"

"Right."

Months of stolen moments, hotel room beds, and tangled limbs had gone to your head, and cutting it off had been the best thing to do. Spencer had made it clear that your arrangement was only viable when both of you didn't have feelings, and you knew that.

Getting over someone is hard enough, but Spencer Reid is worse. He's always there, soft smiles and rambling conversations. He seemingly hasn't been affected by the end of your situation at all.

Snapping back to reality, you look up at Garcia, who's looking at you with a hopeful smile. You can see Spencer out of the corner of your eye, staring at his monitor like he couldn't care less who you date.

It's infuriating.

He's over it! He was probably never as attached as you were, why would he care if you date?

"You know what? Give me his number."

"Yes!" Garcia pumps a fist before swooping down to press a kiss to your cheek. "You won't regret this, I swear!" She grabs a business card out of her pocket and hands it to you, squeezing you one more time before flouncing off.

You fondle the stiff cardboard once, before placing it down on your desk.

Spencer hates him. James Lee. The cursive scripture on the business card stares up at him, mocking him as he tries to work. Your desk is always neat, knickknacks all in their proper spot, so the card is out of place, that's why Spencer can't stop sneaking looks at it.

He's a doctor. So is Spencer. Three times over! If you wanted to date a doctor, why not look for him instead of James Lee, MD.

A PhD's much better than an MD anyway. More effort.

He sighs. He's being petulant, he knows that. You're allowed to date people.

Even if Spencer's the one that knows the way you stretch when you've just woken up. Even if he's the one that's felt your skin under his hands. Even if he's the one that's learned how to elicit those sounds from you.

He can't take it any more, rising abruptly from his desk, stomping over to the kitchenette. The coffee pot is nearly empty, and he pours the dregs into his cup, spooning sugar into it with barely restrained movements.

He can hear Emily humming, Morgan tapping his pen against his desk. He can hear you, typing away at your phone.

He can't take it any more.

Stalking over to his desk, he picks up a random file, and stands by your elbow.

"I need to talk to you about this file. Can you help me find the other report?" He all but melts with relief when you set down your phone, following him to the storage room readily.

Being in close quarters like this causes memories to come rushing back, and you can't help the blush that comes to your face. Shaking your head slightly, you look up at Spencer, resolutely shutting out the images in your mind.

"What report are we looking for?"

He looks sheepish, but his eyes are intense as he looks down at you.

"There's no report. I need to talk to you." You tilt your head in confusion, focusing entirely on him. "Don't go on a date with him."

"What?"

"That guy." He nearly spits out his words. "Garcia's friend. Don't go out with him."

What? He's acting weird, completely still as his eyes blaze into yours.

"Why do you care if I go out with him? Garcia said he's a good guy, I trust her."

He shakes his head. "I'm- I'm sure he's normal. Nice. But you shouldn't go out with him."

He's infuriating, dancing around whatever he means.

"Why, Spencer? I think this would be good for me! I want to have fun."

"With him? You don't know him! Why not go out with someone you-" He cuts himself off, his hand flying to his hair in frustration. "Why this guy? Why not someone you know?" If it weren't Spencer, you'd say he was growling, his eyes dark.

Is he angry at you for going out with this guy?

"What? Are you seriously mad at me? For what?" His eyes flash at your words.

"Why date him? Why not-"

"Who would I date? You? Are you angry at me for dating someone else when we never dated at all? Spencer, you wanted no feelings! I did what you asked, I ended- whatever we were, because you said we shouldn't involve feelings!" Your chest tightens, looking away from him.

"What are you saying? You ended it because... Why didn't you tell me?" He ducks his head, trying to meet your gaze. You've had enough. Enough of his maddening words, making you feel bad for doing what he asked of you.

"Spencer, you're being unfair. What more do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to tell you that I wanted more? I ended it because I caught feelings, and you didn't want that, so I told you we had to stop because I couldn't hide it from you, not when we were always together, and-"

You're stunned into silence when his hands come up to frame your face, impossibly gentle as large fingers trace your jaw.

"You're right, I said that." A hand travels higher, cupping your cheek. "I shouldn't have, though. I should've... should've told you."

You can't help but whisper, the intimacy of the moment blanketing the small room in quiet. "Told me what?"

As if in answer, he ducks his head towards you, and you instinctually crane your head upwards to meet his lips.

It's practised, even if it's been a while. Your hands travel up his sides, bracing your palms on either side of his jaw as his come down to grip your waist.

His lips are soft yet insistent, pressing against you like he's trying to impart a message. Lips part, breath stolen, and it's minutes before either of you pulls back.

Your forehead presses against his, chest heaving. His eyes are light, and a breathless giggle leaves his lips as he looks at you.

"Don't go on that date. Please."

"You're going to have to take that up with Garcia."

[kerryshifts]

18 plus !!!!!!! pick a card. your & your s/o's sexual relationship.

disclaimer. this is for entertainment purposes only……. i was bored & wanted to try something different. so. do not take this seriously. or maybe do if you really like what you read ;)

PILE ONE, sensuality. sacred connection. worship.

they always wanted to be the dominant one. thought about you being on your knees, maintaining eye contact while pleasuring them. but once those fantasies became reality, they started to realize that you were the one they wanted to worship. slow and sloppy kisses made them go insane. their skin is burning, the head is spinning. the eyes are watering by the divine in front of them. everything about you was already a devotional act come to life, and so they just had to give all the energy back by worshipping you. your body is now their holy altar.

they let you stay in the bed, while taking care of you. oral is their act of devotion. even if you don’t have the opportunity to touch them, they still get pleasure by hearing you moan. every whimper, every gasp, it’s a blessing to their hears and makes their toungue just go faster. your cum is their nectar. every juice it’s a reminder of why they make love as it’s a ritual. you spread your thighs like scripture and they eat like they are starving. your bodies start syncing: back arching, cheeks red, dry humping is something you both love.

they get on their knees the moment you are alone. no words, just the sound of their breath hitching as they see you…. thighs parted like you were waiting for them to pray. and maybe you were. their hands are shaking when they touch your legs, lips trailing up the inside of your thighs like every inch is sacred. they call you with devotional names, their voice wrecked with desperation. when they eat you out, it’s not casual. they are possessed. they moans against you,eyes closed, like you are the only thing they’ve ever believed in.

hands pinned under your thighs, face buried, tongue fucking you like they wants to taste your soul. they pull back just to stare; you’re the most perfect thing they have ever seen. their chin wet, mouth open like they are drunk of you. when you grab their hair and grind on their face, they whimper. they want you to use them, licking and sucking until you come so hard you nearly black out. and then they want to make you cum again; you lose count. they don’t.

when you finally let then fuck you, it’s a gift. you tell them to better be grateful, and they nearly cry. sliding in slow, deep, trembling like they are scared to mess up. they watch your face while they are in you, obsessed, reverent. after, when you are stretched out and covered in their juice, they lay on your feet. they kiss your ankles, the backs of your hands, the curve of your belly like you are the center of their universe.

neither of you can’t stop admiring the other. every position it’s an excuse to explore your bodies. you let them put their fingers in your mouth and this, while maintaining eye contact, is all it takes to make them cum. they are pathetic for you. so…they want to make you feel how they feel when you act all cheeky like this.

its petty. they know. but you being a desperate mess when being edged is comparable to the sound of angels singing. everything about you, like that, makes them all giddy. they are slow, as if they are trying to imprint themselves inside you. and you take everything as if this is your purpose. fingers dipped of you, dragging along your thighs like sacred text, and then they lick everything with a smile while admiring the look on your face after you sobbed their name for hours in the pillow. they like to fuck you in front of mirrors, saying that they want you to see how you look like when you break for them. do they want to make you understand why they treat you like a divinity? probably. slow strokes that hit so deep they make your toes curl, overwhelmed, overstimulated.

PILE TWO, intensity. lust. raw desire.

you are destroying them. every night is the same story: they start thinking about you, start touching themselves until it’s two hours later, and they are sobbing while cumming at the thought of you. they can’t get enough. you are their personal hell. everytime you look at them, they get hit by the flashbacks of the night before….you got them wrapped around your finger.

there’s a hunger that sits behind every touch, restrained but barely. your chemistry is the kind that makes time irrelevant; clothes half-off, words half-said, mouths too full of each other to care. they watch you like you’re a flame, and they are the fool who’s always getting burned. there’s obsession here. the kind that makes you want to mark each other up just to prove something. love, maybe. ownership, maybe. the sex is impatient. desperate. the kind where you’re pressed up against walls, pulled into dark corners, whispering just one more time. you always mean it. and it’s never just one more time.

the room never stays clean. where you are up against the wall, biting their neck because your moans feel too loud. their hands leave bruises, their teeth leave marks, and they stretch you until you are crying and begging and forgetting your own name. they spit in your mouth and say how good you are. you are their sweetest addiction. you choke on them, willingly. you fuck like punishment. like you’d die if you stopped.

it starts rough. it always does. the second the door shuts, you are not allowed to speak unless they tell you to. they are grabbing your jaw, pulling your head back just so they can see how wide your eyes get when they call you their little toy. their fingers are already between your legs before you have even made it to the bed. you are shaking with the anticipation of what they will do to you if you say you want it rougher that night. they slap you and say that you only get to come when you earn it.

they hit so deep you go silent for a second, trying to catch your breath, but they don’t give you time. you are already folded in half, your wrists bound behind you with one of their ties, while they ruin you from behind like you asked for it. you did. you always do. they got one hand fisted in your hair and the other wrapped around your throat. they say you look better when you are crying. say this is what you were made for.

they spit in your mouth and you moan like it’s holy water. drooling, moaning, leaking down your thighs while they talk you through it. they say you are so dumb for it and leave handprints across your hips, bruises across your neck, scratches down your spine. they want the world to see you are theirs. and you want to wear it. you want to be their favorite mess. your orgasms come so fast it hurts; they push past your screams, not stopping until you are shaking under them.

and then when they are done, after you cleaned them with your mouth, they kiss your forehead. strokes your hair like you’re precious. tucks you in with the same hands they just choked you with.

PILE THREE, fantasies. corruption. obsession.

this is pure hunger. obsession. they didn’t mean to get addicted at first, but the moment they saw you…… something in you, that look, that untouched thing that made their hands itch… you were the kind of person who’d unravel under the right kind of pressure. and they wanted to be the one to deliver it. you feel it every time they touch you; how they need you not just to submit, but to understand that you belong to them. its not just dominance. its possession. corruption. they want to ruin your innocence, and you let them. maybe you even crave it, maybe you are as depraved as them.

you two play with boundaries like they’re toys. the sex sometimes it’s rough, messy, a little wicked. sometimes it’s teasing, cruel in the way that lovers are when they know exactly how to unravel you. but one thing that the sex always is? theatrical. primal. it’s about the candlewax and ropes, stains on mirrors, laughter muffled against skin. it’s bruised knees, spit and sweat and your hands tied behind your back while they use a knife to make your warm skin colder. but, it never works. all it does is make you more pathetic, more needy.

you call them anything they want because you want everything they give. they make you beg for their come. it’s depravity: it starts with a slap. across the face, across the ass, across your dripping sex. you moan every time. they make you kneel before them, bare and shaking, waiting for orders. they call you their little toy, fuckhole, worthless slut; but their voice is low, calm, sweet. it’s the softness that breaks you. because they call you their dirty lover like they love you for it. they say to open your mouth, and you let them see how grateful you are.

they use you. bend you over anything. the desk, the counter, the floor. ties you down and uses toys until you’re screaming, begging, soaking the sheets. they tell you that you’re only allowed to come if you count out loud. you lose track and they punish you when you break the rules. slaps your sex, spits on you, shove their fingers down your throat. you gag and cry and say thank you, and when they call you their dumb little cumslut, you clench around them like it’s a love letter.

they fuck you until you can’t walk. so deep you go silent, eyes rolling back, drool sliding down your chin. they call you perfect while they wreck you. fill you up, over and over, pulling out only to shove it back in with their fingers. they tell you to hold it in, and you wear them like perfume. and do not be surprised when they tell you to go around with their juices inside you.

they like it when you’re quiet. when you’re unsure. when you shake under them and try to hide your face, as if they don’t already know every part of you now. they talk you through it, sometimes its low, commanding, eyes never leaving yours. take it, they say when you’re trembling beneath them. you asked for this. because you did, didn’t you? you came back. they own the guilt, the shame, the heat that burns between your thighs after hours. and they want you to feel it.

this is not romantic. not in the way most people want. they degrades you when they fucks you…whispers filthy things in your ear that make you cry and come at the same time. they’ll fuck you in places you could be caught, hand around your throat, mouth on your ear, telling you how you’re their little whore, and how no one else will ever get to see you like this. and now you beg for a release.

you love the way they watch you like you’re prey. you love how they want to break you down, fuck the purity out of you, keep you obedient and aching for them. you love the way they control your body and your mind. the way they mark you, bruise you, make you theirs. it’s something that could burn down the world if you let it.

im not ashamed but im still apologising.

[godjustkys]

pleaseee pleaseee PLEASEEEEE write more straight to gay dean or sam or cas or LITERALLY ANY GUY FROM HARRY POTTER OR SUPERNATURAL SJDNJDDJDKDKDKKDK

Dies

SYNOPSIS: team free will (separately) realize you’re their gay awakening!

CHARACTER: male reader x dean winchester, male reader x sam winchester, male reader x castiel

NOTE: made this for funsies and because this anon seems very desperate..

WC: 0.8k

WARNING: —

DEAN WINCHESTER

dean never questioned who he was. women, cars, burgers — simple pleasures, manly stuff. then you showed up, all calm danger and amused eyes, leaning in the doorway of the bunker like you’d always belonged.

at first dean didn’t even like you. you adapted too quickly, too smoothly. he didn’t like taking you on hunts either. you could be standing there, drenched in blood after destroying a vamp in the blink of an eye and you wouldn’t even brag. or gloat, if dean admitted you saved his ass.

the first crack in his built-up walls appeared when you insisted on patching him up. he told you he didn’t need it, that he was a grown man, all that shebang. you didn’t let up, stubborn as ever. the last thing dean expected was your gentle hands. the way you touched him like he was some antique china. like a little porcelain doll. call him crazy, but he needed that soft touch. hell, he craved it. for a guy who’s so gruff and independent, he leaned into the touches, hoping for more.

dean started thinking you were cool.. uh, just a buddy. a friend, if you will. until he started catching himself watching you when you weren’t looking. if he’d hear you laugh, his stomach would twist weirdly. if he’d see you working on a car, all sweaty with greasy hands, his hands would clench.

everything came crashing down when you two decided to have a sparring match. you pinned him to the mat, your forearm on his chest, your breath fanning over his lips. “yield?” you asked. dean’s heart pounded in his ribcage as he looked up into your eyes and thought ‘shit.’

he didn’t yield, but he didn’t stop thinking about that moment for weeks.

SAM WINCHESTER

sam had always prided himself on control. his mind was his shield. even with his complicated past — the demon blood, lucifer, the cage.. he could compartmentalize. rationalize.

until you walked into the bunker and looked at him like you could read him better than any book on the shelf. you weren’t a brute like dean, and you weren’t a soldier like castiel. you were composed. intense. you carried yourself like a man who knew exactly what he wanted. and sam? well he wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of that kind of attention. at first, he dismissed the signs. you were just.. charismatic. charisma wasn’t attraction. but then, you started teasing him. nothing mean — just clever quips, a raised eyebrow, a brush of your hand when you handed him his coffee. sam liked it. too much.

it truly threw him off when he felt seen. you asked him about the lore he was studying, not out of boredom, but pure and genuine interest. you respected his intellect. and you pushed him, challenged his ideas, and didn’t let him retreat behind his usual walls. one evening, he caught you in the library — shirt slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, reading and catching up on his new written notes.

“you really think this passage proves demonic possession predates biblical scripture?” you asked with a small tilt of your head. and sam... forgot how to speak for a second. that night, he laid in bed, heart pounding, staring at the ceiling. “i think i want him.” he whispered to himself.

CASTIEL

castiel had always been distant from human pleasures. emotions, carnal desires — they were secondary to his mission. but something about you pulled at him in a way he wasn’t capable of understanding.

he first noticed it in the way you moved. confidence wasn’t something castiel had words for until he saw it embodied in you. you didn’t need to speak loudly to command a room. you didn’t need a weapon to make people listen. you just existed with that self-assured stillness that hinted at raw power held carefully in check. what unraveled castiel wasn’t just your strength — it was the gentleness behind it. the way you looked at him like he mattered. like his confusion, his silence, his celestial awkwardness — none of it made him any less. one early morning, you patched him up. his grace was dimming and his vessel was bloodied. you sat him down, your hands warm, firm, capable. and when your fingers brushed his ribs, his vessel shivered. “you’re safe,” you said, voice calm. “i’ve got you.” it was then that something stirred inside him.

he couldn’t stop watching you. the way your eyes softened when you were focused, the slight curl in your lips when you teased dean, how you were never truly cruel and never passive. he was standing outside, all alone in the middle of the night, enjoying the feeling of a gentle breeze. “is this what longing feels like?” he murmured to himself, his eyes locked on the stars in the night sky.

he felt human around you.

© godjustkys ©

[rezitio]

۪۫❁ཻུ۪۪┊SEXUAL DESIRES getou s  .⃗  ༉‧₊˚✧  Many of the worlds practices are already cultish

˚♡"I said hold it."

http:˚♡"control yourself."

a/n: i love cultleader getou

warning: virgn r., corruption, manipulation, age gap, cunnlings, orgasm denial, dubcon, anal, orgasm, links at the end, cigarettes after sex,degradation, hymen breaking.

characters: cultleader!getou

syn: your cult leader decides to help you release sexual desires.

wc: 2.05k+

You were pretty young when you first met master getou. At the time you were too young to understand what was going on. You remembered your mother being on the verge of death but, master getou touched her once she suddenly felt better.

It put a mental image in your head. You were only seven but you knew briefly about religion and god, and at that moment you believed if there was really a god, he was standing right in front of you. With his black hair that at the time reached his mid-waist. And the gojo-kesa that made him look like a wise elder.

Your parents must have thought the same thing too because a few days later, you left to a place in the middle of nowhere where you saw your god again. This time with people who thought like you, who had similar experiences with master getou. Who worshipped and adored him.

Over the years, master getou got many more people to join his cult, New World, and you and your parents were as faithful as ever. You were a quiet girl in the cult. Recently turning 18, you noticed a few changes.

Like the new chores, you had involved being in master getous presence in rather vulnerable places. It did not help that whenever master getou was around you there would be something going on, down there, like throbbing or liquid. You always ignored this after all it was similar to something they said in studies.

They called it 'unholy urges' and to ignore it and pray whenever they came up, that they would disappear. It was easy to ignore it the first few times, but as you grew it became worse. Now you couldn't even look at master getou else it would start to hurt. Bad.

Sometimes during your master's teachings, you would rub your thighs together to stop the tingles, and even though you were told not to you touched your cunt but it only hurt more so you quickly stopped feeling the slit.

Little did you know, Getou knew. Ever since your breasts began to bounce every time you walked or when your ass would show a curve on your robe. Getou felt delight in teasing you, by making you assist him in the bath, or calling on you during teachings to come close to him and read the scriptures. He loved seeing your red face and your thighs rub each other.

Getou would send curses to molest you and make you have wet dreams or make you horny just to see you suffer because you didn't know how to touch yourself. He would watch you curl your toes and almost cry because of the pain as the curse would twist your tits or pull your clit.

One time after a teaching your cunt hurt so bad you felt like you were going to die. You blamed it on the evil spirits master getou always talked about. You prayed multiple times but the whole day it was aching and throbbing. You had to act fast. Master getou was getting ready to leave the cult house again. He would often go to the outside world to 'rid the world of evil' sometimes it took him months to come back, and you couldn't withstand this for another second.

You marched to master getous office although he said to not be disturbed.

There would be serious consequences if you were caught but you just needed to see him. You knew if you saw him he would make the pain go away.

Gentle knocks on the door. You almost jumped when you heard his voice. "I thought I said not to be disturbed." He spoke from the other end of the door causing a liquid to run down your thigh. "Master getou, please...I-I can't any longer"

Getou had a smirk on his face on the other side of the door, he'd waited for you to finally submit yourself to him, you took too long coming he thought you must have fought the desires off. But how could he forget you were still a weak naive slut who wants her master to touch her?

"Come in." He saw you walk through the door with the robe he made you wear whenever you were doing something for him. The short shirt that showed off much of your cleavage and waist with the long but side slit skirt that he could see everything from a certain angle.

You knelt and bowed at the door, your head and down as your skirt slowly slid revealing your thin black thong he gifted you.

"Master getou-... please, it hurts" Your tears pooled in your eyes as your voice cracked. "I'm begging you."

It took everything for Getou to not touch himself hearing you plead and beg. "Stand up and come." His voice was commanding.

You did as he said, head looking at the floor with both hands in front of you till you could see his feet. He was on the edge of a bed that was placed because sometimes he would sleep in his office. "Look at me."

You raised your head and looked him in the eye. You saw your shirtless master in pants only, even his hair was down. Your eyes betrayed you to stare at his chest and then the huge bulge coming out of his pants which made your eyes widen with curiosity on what was restrained down there.

"What did I say?" He used his hand to direct your eyes back to his. "Tell me again, what is your business here?"

"Master, I can't any longer. T-the curses they-... I need help." Getou was looking at you right now and there was no curse or anything on you. What you were feeling right now was purely you. Your desires, your needs. He resisted a smile and only sighed.

"Get on the bed and show it to me." Your eyes widened at the request but you did as he said. You couldn't believe you were on the bed your master slept on, if the cult found out about this you would be disgraced but if they knew he was the one who commanded it they would see you as his favourite and always make sure you were well made for presenting. They can't risk a filthy thing on the matsers bed.

You opened your legs and laid back moving your skirt out of the way without having to remove it. He saw how red and wet you were the was cum soaked in the panty and around your lips, he wondered how he would even touch you without overstimulating you.

He grabbed the string of your thong and pulled it up. You let out a loud sound at the ache before promptly covering your mouth. "Remove your hand and don't suppress your voice. I want to hear you."

"But what if, someone hears-" He gave a glare that made you shut up.

"Are you questioning me when I'm helping you?" You quickly apologise and shake your head.

He chuckled at your reaction and tore off your panties. Your cunt was clenching around the air exposed you could feel it twitch.

He stared at it for a while analysing the beauty. He opened your legs wider and slapped your cunt making you moan loudly.

He grazed his fingers along your bare pussy making you moan. By instinct, you started to rock your cunt to his fingers as he just held it in place.

He couldn't believe how much of a needy whore you are to be trying to get off by humping his fingers and how when he pulled away you groaned loudly. He wanted to see what would happen if he went further.

"What were you doing to acquire such a curse?" He asked you as if the feelings you were feeling weren't natural. And a result of you being so touch-starved.

He pulled you by the waist and aligned his face with yours, he first licked it to tease you, already tasting your juices and god you were so sweet. His tongue was skilled. Your cunt was already lubricated making it easier for him to abuse you. It did not take long for you to start squirming and moving around.

Your moans were music to his ears even though they kept getting muffled but your thighs enclosing his head. You ran your hand through his hair and he allowed it. It took everything you had to not shove his head away because he was just helping you out of the kindness of his heart.

He could have let you suffer but he agreed to help you and exorcise the curse that was in you. You guessed this was way worse than the evil spirit that made your mom sick because of the way he aggressively pushed his tongue in and out of you. You felt the vibrations of his grunts and he said words like. "Fucking sweet." and "Needy whore."

But you didn't know if it was to you or the curse or hell a technique. But you were thankful for his help even though it felt like you were doing something wrong.

Eventually, you felt like you needed to piss, and you didn't want to piss on his face but it was like he read your mind. "Hold it." He said before continuing to abuse your clit. This time he added a finger in your hole which made you moan louder.

"master nghh... I can't... It's gonna- mwaghhh~" Getou knows your virgin ass couldn't hold in an orgasm he wanted you to cum on his face, in fact, he got harder just thinking about it.

He just needed an excuse to put his dick in you, to take away your virginity. "MASTER!"

"I said hold it!" He inserted another finger and trusted it roughly while he thrusts his tongue in you. The stimulation was too much and you squirted all over his face. But it wasn't pee. It was a white-ish sticky substance.

"I-I'm sorry I-" He licks the cum of his lips and the outside of your cunt. "Turn over."

When you hesitated he took matters into his own hands turning you on your knees face down. You heard a zipper followed by the ruffling of pants.

"Master getou- what-" He stuck two fingers in your mouth tired of the questions. "Suck."

You did as he said and began to suck his fingers. You felt his hand stretch open your pussy. You heard a chuckle from him and him say something along the line of "It's gonna fucking hurt."

Getou aligned his tip to your pussy he inserted his tip and you moaned at the feeling confused at what he was using. He did it again but his time he trusted something huge inside.

You screamed as it hurt not the good hurt just hurt. You felt something trickling down your thigh. Getou smirked at the crimson that leaked from your hole. "Tell me when to continue." He said.

You didn't know what he meant by that but you started to feel a change instead of pain and violation you felt pleasure, intense pleasure.

"Aah~, master please continue." Getou didn't waste time and began roughly thrusting in and out of you. You felt your pussy clenching on him with each thrust. You felt guilty because you must have made things worse by squirting when he told you not to because now he was being more vocal. He said stuff like. "Fuck, tight bitch.", and "Stop fucking clenching" while also grunting a lot. It's not like you were any better. You were a loud mess.

He kept repeating the exorcism till you needed to pee again, this time he allowed you too before put a similar substance in your hole too. You felt him pull out and grab a cigarette his hand still on your ass.

Your eyes started to haze and you felt like shutting them. Getou noticed and gave you the go-ahead to rest on his bed. When you closed your eyes you immediately fell to sleep.

link, link, link, after

Thank you guys so much for the support! Not less than a week ago I had like 7 followers now I have a 100 and smth! I really didn't expect people to like the sukuna links so much it was just a shit post, but thank you!

[pretend-i-don-t-exist]

ok back to my sy as yang yixuan au bc the brainrot refuses to leave

Luo Binghe's shixiong and shijie do not like him. This is a fact.

Qing Jing Peak and Bai Zhan Peak have long-standing animosity with each other. This is also a fact.

Those two facts are the root cause of why Luo Binghe is desperately running away, ducking and weaving through the bamboo as four Bai Zhan disciples hunt him down during their raid.

He yelps when he trips over a portruding stone, landing harshly on his elbows. He's already scrambling away when one of the disciples grabs his arm, and punches him on the cheek.

Luo Binghe, with all the force he can muster, pushes him away and resumes running. It doesn't take long before he's cornered to a dead end, and he backs away, trying to find an exit.

He does not need to plan his escape any further when a boy– dressed in Bai Zhan blues and blacks, lands down silently in front of the disciples, and proceeds to solidly beat each and every one of them up.

He has them all giving up in just a few minutes.

"Ah, seriously..." this new boy— older than Luo Binghe, stronger and smarter, too— sighs, placing his hands on his hips. "None of you really listen, don't you?"

With one swift, practiced motion, he swings the four rambunctious disciples over his shoulder, looking unamused. "All of you are to present at the Hall of Reflection and copy down the scriptures fifty times, and I will personally oversee your training for the next two months," the boy says, authority dripping off of every inch of his body. "Seriously, you're lucky you haven't injured anyone or else you'll be facing a worse punish–"

The boy's eyes catch Luo Binghe's. Luo Binghe shrinks away, all too aware of the livid bruise on his cheek and the blood from his nose.

There is silence. Then there is a thud, and all the Bai Zhan disciples who came for the raid groan in unison. There are footsteps, and the boy is suddenly kneeling in front of him, his hands inexplicably tender and gentle.

The boy hisses at the sight of the bruise. "I apologize for my shidi and shimei," he says, soft. His hands are marred with callouses, strong and firm and powerful, but they are gentle when they touch Luo Binghe. "They are rowdy and a little feral after being left uncontrolled for too long. May I ask for shixiong's understanding?"

Shixiong? Luo Binghe nods, a little wide-eyed. The boy softens, perceptibly, and begins threading qi to his meridians. "This is to quicken your body's natural healing," he explains. "You should get it looked better, however– I can accompany you to Qian Cao Pe–"

"No!" Luo Binghe blurts out, cringing away. Da-shixiong's friends warned him against going to Qian Cao. He doesn't want to know what they'd do if he does go there.

A pause. "Very well." The boy stops his qi, finding the bruise to be sufficiently healed. He pulls out medicine from his sleeve, just like how his Shizun does. "This is for bruises, and this one for small cuts. All topical– externally applied on skin, not ingested. No, please don't worry, this is the least I can do."

Luo Binghe accepts the medicine under the boy's insistence. He cannot say anything, tongue heavy in his mouth, not to even ask for the boy's name or why he is helping him.

The boy rises to his feet. "Well," he says, hesitantly laying a hand on Luo Binghe's hair. Either he doesn't seem to notice the flinch or he ignores it, but that doesn't matter because the boy is– patting his head. Gently and softly, like he has not the power to defeat all of the disciples here in this clearing on Qing Jing Peak.

"We'll have to get going now," the boy says. "Don't worry, they will be reflecting on their actions and will be sincerely apologizing for them. Take care, shixiong."

With two disciples over his shoulder and two under his arm, the boy flies away on his spiritual sword. Luo Binghe clutches the medicine in his hands tighter, feeling the warmth of the boy's gentle hands lingering on his own, and tries to carve every line of the boy's face into his memory.

[dmmwrites]

Two Tips to Better Understand God's Word

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 (FBV) says, “Always be full of joy, never stop praying, be thankful in every situation—because this is what God in Christ Jesus wants you to do.” While the same verses in the World English Bible (US) version say, “[16] Always rejoice. [17] Pray without ceasing. [18] In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus toward you.” Do you ever read…

[1mnshw]

out with lanterns | s.r.

wc: 1.3k

category: angst

spencer reid x reader

content: breakup, no happy ending, reader hates themselves, i project on reader

this kind of sucks a little but i wanted to write something before i went to sleep! enjoy it or don't! love you nonetheless.

-----

"I am out with lanterns / looking for myself" - Emily Dickinson

-----

The afternoon sun spilled through the windows, striking his brown eyes and turning them into molten pools of honey that seemed to seep into your very soul, warming every corner of your being. The way his button-up shirt clung to his broad shoulders, perfectly tailored as though it had been made for him, sent a pang through your chest—a reminder of all the ways you wished you could hold him instead. His scent lingered in the air, a warm mixture of faded cologne, old pages of treasured books, and something ineffable—something so uniquely Spencer that it left you breathless.

These details—these little, inconsequential details—were carved into your memory like ancient scripture, as though he were the only thing you'd ever truly seen.

He was perfect. Perfect in ways that made your chest ache. You told him as much during the quiet moments you shared, wrapped in the cocoon of his apartment walls. When the soft glow of his bedside lamp traced his jaw like a lover, and you felt the whisper of his eyelashes brushing yours as he leaned in, lips soft and searching, you often wondered how the universe had granted you the privilege of him.

But you didn’t deserve him. Not really.

You were a mess, and you knew it. Everyone knew it. Spencer deserved someone better—someone unbroken, someone who wouldn’t weigh him down with their chaos. Someone who could love him without reservation or fear.

This was why you had to leave, no matter how much it hurt. You were doing this for him—because you loved him. So fully. So completely.

But God, it was so damn hard to force the words past your lips with him standing in front of you, that familiar crooked smile on his face—the smile that made your heart stutter every time.

“Spencer, I’m sorry. But I don’t, um…” Your voice wavered, and his face shifted, his smile falling as your meaning began to take shape. You looked down, unable to bear the confusion darkening his honeyed gaze. “I don’t think I can be with you anymore.”

Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat quickly, desperate to make this as painless as possible. A clean break—a shot instead of a stab. But the moment his brows furrowed, and he took a hesitant step closer, you knew it would never be that simple.

“What?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I—did I do something?”

He sounded as if you’d ripped the breath from his lungs, and his eyes searched yours with a desperation that made your resolve quiver.

Spencer loved you unfathomably, with a depth that scared you. You were his solace, his refuge, his everything. More than books, more than reason, more than life itself. He loved you in ways that made the air feel heavier between you now.

And he couldn’t understand—why were you doing this?

You cleared your throat, swallowing the lump threatening to choke you. You had to hold yourself together.

“It’s not you, Spencer. It’s nothing you did—I swear.” Your voice trembled as you spoke, your fingers instinctively brushing away the hot tear slipping down your cheek. Spencer moved as though to reach for you, his hand stuttering midair before retreating, the hesitation breaking your heart all over again.

Spencer’s hand fell to his side, his fingers curling into a trembling fist as though trying to anchor himself in a reality that was slipping away. His eyes, wide and brimming with a tempest of confusion and hurt, held yours with a desperation that pierced straight through you.

“You can’t just say that and expect me to understand,” he said, his voice rough and uneven. “What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore? You—we—” He paused, his breath hitching, as though even forming the words was a betrayal of the time you’d spent together. “I thought we were happy. I thought you were happy.”

Your chest tightened painfully, each word striking like a blow. “I thought I was too,” you whispered, forcing yourself to look away. If you met his eyes any longer, you’d break entirely. “But I’m not, Spencer. I can’t—I’m not the person you think I am. I’m not someone who can give you what you need.”

His laugh came sharp and bitter, so unlike him that it startled you. “You don’t get to decide what I need,” he said, taking a step closer. “And you’re wrong, you know. I do know you. I know how you push people away when they get too close—how you think you’re protecting them from something. From you.”

Your breath hitched, his words cutting through you like a blade.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. “Every time you start to believe someone might actually stay, you convince yourself it’s only a matter of time before they leave, so you push them away first. But I’m not going anywhere. I love you. I’m here. Why can’t you just let me stay?”

Tears blurred your vision as you shook your head, the weight of his words crashing over you like a wave. “It’s not that simple,” you choked out. “You deserve someone who isn’t—who isn’t a mess. Someone who isn’t broken like me.”

“You’re not broken,” he said, his voice trembling with urgency. “And even if you were, I’d love every broken piece of you. I do love every piece of you. Don’t you see that? I don’t want perfect. I just want you.”

You shut your eyes against the tenderness in his words, against the tears welling up in his eyes, against the unbearable truth of his love for you. The dam inside you threatened to give way, but you couldn’t let it. Not now. Not here.

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you said, your voice breaking like fragile glass as you stepped back, putting the final distance between you. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be what you need.”

“Don’t do this,” he begged, his voice splintering into shards that cut through the silence. A single tear broke free, sliding down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Please. Don’t walk away. Please, Y/N.”

But you had to.

If you stayed, he would tether himself to you, never letting go, even as the weight of your brokenness pulled him under. He would give himself over to your pain, let it consume him, and you couldn’t let that happen. Not to him. Not to Spencer.

Your hand found the doorknob, your grip faltering as you hesitated, a war raging in your chest. You turned your head slightly, not enough to see him but enough for the words to escape like a prayer you didn’t believe in.

“I’ll always love you, Spencer,” you said, the confession splintering under the weight of your voice. “But this is goodbye.”

The door clicked shut behind you, a sound so soft and final it felt like the end of the world.

Inside, Spencer stood frozen, staring at the door as if sheer force of will could make it swing open again. The silence was deafening, the space around him cavernous and empty, echoing with the ghost of your absence. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, his head falling into his hands as sobs ripped through him, raw and unrelenting.

Outside, each step away from him felt like tearing yourself apart piece by piece. The stairwell stretched endlessly before you, the weight of the air pressing down on your chest. By the time you reached the street, your tears fell freely, hot trails cutting through the cold sting of the wind.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

But Spencer did. For hours, he sat by the door, his gaze fixed on it, waiting, hoping, silently pleading with the universe to send you back.

But the universe didn’t listen.

And in the quiet of his apartment, where your scent still lingered like a ghost and the memories of your touch haunted the air, he felt himself unravel.

You were gone.

And for Spencer, the world didn’t end in fire or ice. It ended in silence, in a love too heavy to hold and too beautiful to forget, and in the hollow echo of a goodbye that would never stop reverberating in his soul.

[rnnsdrms]

TELL ME, DO YOU FEEL THE LOVE?

DEAREST READER. i was supposed to publish moriarty brothers’ first but remembered that the 5th and 6th of january was mycroft and sherlock’s birthday! to celebrate their birthdays, and also the return of moriarty the patriot manga, i decided to write a little something ! if you like my work, consider treating me a coffee. it means a lot !

CONTENT SUMMARY. basically how the holmes brothers shows their love for you. this is based on a - z sfw alphabet challenge and this is the a for affection part ! so, THERE IS NO SMUT. i wrote this with female! reader in mind + sherlock is implied to be taller + mention of ‘queen’ in mycroft’s part.

CHARACTERS. mycroft holmes, sherlock holmes.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SHERLOCK HOLMES

music to listen to as you read: i wanna be yours

Sherlock being affectionate is, perhaps, one of life’s rarest phenomena–something you never expected to witness and experience firsthand. The man, by all accounts, is crude, aloof, and generally unlikeable to most. But not to you. Somehow, in a way he does not quite understand, you have managed to see beyond the sharp edges and impossible arrogance. You will say, in a teasing tone, “It’s a part of your charm,” and Sherlock, in his endlessly logical mind, is half-convinced that there must be a small dent somewhere in your delicate skull for finding him admirable. And although he would not like to admit it, it was a good enough reason for him to return your kind disposition.

He has never cared about public opinion, but when it comes to you, it is a different story entirely. Your thoughts of him matter more than they should, more than he ever anticipated. Only in these moments that he becomes the accused, and you are his honourable judge. Words that fall from your lips–whether they are gentle praises or sharp criticisms–hit him harder than anyone’s insult about him ever could, carving every syllable into his mind like a new scripture he should abide by. What you think of him is vital, necessary, as crucial as air to his lungs. So, he listens, often with his head down in contemplation. For the first time in his life, he lets someone mold him into a shape that befits a certain vision—your vision. Because he knows that with your guiding hand, he can transition from a good man to a better man.

But Sherlock is far from a traditional Victorian gentleman. There is no flair for romantic chivalry, no polished manners or well-practiced charm to sweep you off your feet. And he knows this–he knows he lacks the grace and poise most would expect from a man in love. But what he lacks in gentlemanly qualities, he compensates for tenfold with the precision of his sharp intellect, which he dedicates entirely toward easing your life’s burdens.

When crisis unfolds, Sherlock steps onto the scene with his usual calm authority, a quiet grace that steadies the chaos around him–which in this case, the chaos is usually you. To the outside world, he is seen as the blade of reason, but beneath that steely exterior, he watches out for you, always. Anything that troubles you naturally becomes his burden to bear. Your worries are his worries, and his detective instincts won’t let him rest until he has unraveled the knot of your hardship. His mind sharpens into focus, meticulously piercing together solutions, knowing that once he is able to solve it, your relief–that gleam in your eyes as you pull him down to kiss him–will be his greatest prize. He often says he works best alone, but this time, he strives to be a partner you can lean on. For Sherlock, love is not solely about roses or sweeping gestures; it is about showing up in the way he knows best. It is in the way he says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You know I always do,” that makes you feel safe in a world that often feels anything but.

While he might be a man not possessing great ambitions, he does, however, aims to be the best partner you will ever have. Good is no longer good enough. He longs for your recognition, your acknowledgment of his efforts, no matter how significant or simple they might be. And when you give it to him–when your eyes light up at something he has done or your words affirm his care–he practically glows, like a happy child, even if he hides it beneath that trademark smirk you know so well.

Sherlock holds your individuality with reverence, and loves the way you shine differently among the other ladies. He loves the way you tell him random facts about life, the way you bombard him with a lot of questions that he is only too happy to answer, or the way you try to prove him wrong even if you always fail. It comforts him to know that he sees himself in you, that you are just as stubborn as he is. When you achieve success, it sparks something within him that he cannot suppress: pride. Though he won’t erupt in grand applause, you can still catch the tender radiance in his eyes when he holds your gaze, a small smile forming on one edge of his lips. His praise comes in soft, sincere words. “I knew you could do it, honey. I never doubted you for a second.”

Sherlock may not always get it right. He stumbles, he overthinks, and sometimes his temper gets the better of him. But in those moments when he catches you smiling—really, truly smiling—he swears it’s all worth it.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 MYCROFT HOLMES

music to listen to as you read: young and beautiful

People who do not have the pleasure of knowing him will never know how this cold, stoic man is actually a hidden walking-green-flag on earth. When you first met him, you thought he exuded a daunting and untouchable aura, a common characteristic you find in men who wanted to steer themselves clear of any romantic alliances. Of course, that didn’t stop him from looking desirable in the eyes of many women–including yours. In the end, by some strange luck or fate, you piqued his curiosity, held his attention, and the next thing you know, he has got himself wrapped around your little finger of his own will. Everything that he does never fails to surprise you, in a way that makes you think, ‘I didn’t think he would be this kind.’

Because, as it turns out, here is a man who has been anointed with the title of a provider. Mycroft does not just give, because he knows that is what any respectable good man is supposed to do. He provides with purpose, with intention, with an almost acute type of meticulousness that mirrors every other part of his life. Yes, his wallet is loaded, but he is not the kind to randomly shower you with expensive gifts or empty sweet words. His generosity is calculated, deliberate–every act of giving is carefully chosen to mean something. When Mycroft decides to give you something, he wants his gifts to be of use to you. He likes gifting you your favourite brand of personal care products or that specific perfume with a scent he likes so much that he thinks you should spray them on your skin again.

A romantic dinner? He won’t spoil it with unnecessary fanfare or lengthy explanations. Instead, he will step into your space, gently disrupting whatever it is you are doing, place an elegant outfit in your hands, and simply say, “Wear this. I’m taking you to dinner tonight.” No further explanation needed, because the evening will speak for itself. You only have the highest regard for his immaculate tastes, for it never once disappoints you. You can trust that he has chosen only the finest restaurant, a place where every detail–the ambience, the wine, the food–meets his impossibly high standards. For Mycroft, perfection is not luxury; it is a necessity when it comes to you. This is his kingdom, and you are his queen.

He is not one to smother you in repeated declarations of love. In fact, the word “I love you” rarely ever leaves his mouth. But when it does leave his lips, it strikes a chord deeper in you than the most lavish gift or flowery phrase. Mycroft doesn’t simply say I love you. Little do you know, even these three words tugs at every string of his core, threatening to undo him. There was something about the word ‘love’ that strips him bare, and with the combination of your soft gaze on him when the word teethers in the edge of his lips, Mycroft realises he is not as formidable as he thought. He is not above love after all–while the word itself gives him the power to live his days, it was, at the same time, his bane, knowing that the word itself resonates with your name. So, he often rephrases them with other words: “I will take you home,” “What would you like to eat? I’ll pay.” “Is everything alright?”–are the words that decorate your days. And you understand that those words, spoken in his low, steady tone, are his heart laid at your feet.

Publicly, Mycroft is all composure, all restraint. Mycroft is known for his headstrong manner and his solemn words, but watch him listen and obey the second words leave your mouth, for he knows that you care for him, and only have the best of intentions for him. He may not indulge in the frivolity of public displays of affection. But behind closed doors? He is a different man entirely. In private, your existence becomes his gravity, pulling him away from his mountain of work, reminding him to rest. He may need you to distract him, but other times, he will find you himself. You are the soft chaos in his carefully structured world–the calm after the storm–and it’s exactly what he needs. His hands envelop your frame without hesitation, tracing the edges of your presence like he is memorising you all over again.

Mycroft is far from being a master in the kitchen or a patron of words, but he will always save the best slice of food for you. Watching you savour something delicious—shaking your head in delight and doing a small dance—becomes one of his simplest, purest joys. It’s in these moments that his carefully guarded walls lower, letting himself bask in the quiet and intoxicating joy of loving you.

RNNSDRMS ©. SUPPORT WRITERS BY REBLOGGING THEIR WORK. DO NOT PLAGIARIZE, TRANSLATE, OR POST MY WORKS ON ANY SITE. I WILL POST MY POSTS ON OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA SITES MYSELF AND THAT’S ALL YOU GET.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Deity: Boccob, the God of Magic for Magic's Sake

Artsource

It is strange (especially for those who view their relationship with the gods as transactional) that one might offer up prayers to a figure known widely by the epithet " The Uncaring". Why perform oath and ritual for a being that will not intercede on your behalf? Or grant you good favour in exchange for your sacrifices? Those that study the words of Boccob understand they have no need to beg for miracles when they have magic at their command.

Known to commoners as a god of magic, foresight, and balance, Boccob is not so much a deity as he was a great teacher, a philosopher-sage who's now ancient treatise on magic and council on it's use are as much an object of faith for many as a more ordinary god's scripture. In instructing his students how to be wizards, Boccob taught his students how to be good wizards, and these lessons form the ironshod foundations of innumerable magical traditions practised to this day.

Central to Boccob's teachings was the idea that magic was a path that must be walked to gain greater understanding, and that an adherent of this path should study, experience, and witness as much of its wonders as possible in order to become better arcanists, leading to the adoption of the open and unjudging eye as his symbol. Boccob himself followed this path to the outer planes and beyond, never to be seen again, leading many to credit Boccob with being the first mortal to climb the fabled infinite staircase, or perhaps even its architect.

Adventure Hooks:

Millennia after his (literal or figurative) ascension, a scroll containing hitherto unseen passages of Boccob's writings have been discovered in a crumbling library, setting off a disastrous chain of events as jealous archmages scrabble for the text like seagulls after a frenchfry. Their clashes are frequent, leaving the surrounding area scattered with hastily summoned servitors and all manner of misfired magic. Perhaps if the party is quick and clever they could sneak in and take the text for themselves, learning its wisdom or using it as a bargaining chip with one of these powerful spellslingers.

If it’s one thing Boccob’s Acolytes like almost as much as uncovering the arcane secrets of the universe, it’s proving their intellectual superiority by hiding their findings behind inscrutable riddles and logic games, the way The Uncaring did for his first pupils. Ledoran’s Labynthical Libram is an infamous example of this practice, a spellbook containing all manner of useful rituals and genuinely brilliant insights hidden behind a gauntlet of ciphers, mazes, and "gotcha" enchantments. Any self styled master of the arcane is likely to have a copy on their shelves, meaning that' it's only a quick looting spree away from ending up in the party's possession.

If "a wizard did it" is the answer to the age old question of "how?", "because they were listening to Boccob?" is the answer to the inevitable follow up of "why". Arcane crossbreeds, inexplicable puzzle dungeons, magical items amounting to bad jokes with bodycounts, all of these are created by The Uncaring's followers as a means of testing and expanding their abilities.

More of my adventures involving Boccob and his followers can be found HERE

Lets get into some philosophy...

While Ioun promotes the study of arcana for the sake of furthering knowledge, Mystra maintains and obscures the secrets of the weave, and Corellon glories in the wonders spellcraft might create , Boccob focuses on the pursuit of magical ability as a means and end of its own.

To Boccob, " I want to learn magic so I can be great/help people/make life easier" is a false start, because it ties the acquisition and understanding of magic to an external metric, encouraging the practitioner to take shortcuts with the magic to achieve their worldly desires.

Greatness, beneficence, and ease of living are but some of the infinite virtues that follow from being a great mage. Indeed, a reoccuring theme in Boccobian writing (especially in the ensuing literature made by his followers) is the idea of the Panexplicatic endstate of magic, where the perfect mage (and the body of wisdom they represent) has an answer for all things, specifically a magical awnser.

While some followers have taken this to mean that a mage's pursuit should always be towards omnipotence (Vecna's grasping eye motif can be seen as a direct response to Boccob's unjudging one) the largely more accepted thought is that arcanists should specifically dream small, creating a self sufficient life for themselves withdrawn from the world while focusing on the inward path towards enlightenment. That's why you'll so often find wizards at the top of spires in remote areas, interacting only with their apprentices or whatever travellers have gone far afield to seek them out for magical guidance.

This leads into one of the main critiques of Boccobian thought, which is that it alienates the practitioner from the world at large, not only focusing on magic to the exclusion of all else but also contextualizing magic as something that exists only to help the practitioner along their individual path, other people and consequences be damned. A hedgemage living a simple life in the forest may seem like they're hurting no one when they create a tree that grows a full crop of apples every day so they don't need to worry about stocking their larder... but what happens to the local ecosystem when these everladen trees start cross pollinating with others, to say nothing of the drain/disruption to nearby laylines and how such magic might have downstream consequences. To take a completely different tack with the same problem, the poor in the village nearby might LOVE to have a bottomless supply of apples, but the Boccobian adherent would say that because they haven't devoted the years of study required to create the tree, they're not entitled to its fruits.

Titles: The Uncaring, the Master of all Magics, Archmage of the Infinite

Symbols: An eye in a pentagram, often crowned with a crescent arc.

Signs: Light through a cracked open door, stars that seem longer than they should be, the appearance of inexplicable magical text.

Worshippers: Sorcerers, wizards, and any with an access to magic innate or otherwise. Adherents usually worship in private practice but occasionally band together into temples or schools.

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Sin and Holy

Summary: Lorgar wants revenge on Guilliman, but ends up becoming obsessed with his lover, deifying her.

Lorgar Aurelian/fem!Reader (Roboute Guilliman/fem!Reader background)

Warnings: yandere, obsession, possessive behavior, kidnapping, religious kink, foot fetish, voyeurism

Author's note: Blame our mind worms of "lorgar foot worship plotline".

Word count: 2017

Song: Pet Shop Boys - It's a Sin

Everything I've ever done Everything I ever do Every place I've ever been Everywhere I'm going to It's a sin

The end of the perfect city marked the beginning of a new and better world. But not one world, city or even house is built in a short time. Everything requires time and human will. Lorgar Aurelian understood this while he was looking for answers to his questions.

And even with the acquisition of true faith in Chaos, he knew that victory would only come with time. He wouldn't be able to defeat the Emperor right away. Bring the gifts of the four gods to the Galaxy. Just like he won’t be able to get you right away.

You immediately caught his attention. Roboute Guilliman's personal remembrancer, whom he took with him everywhere. The sightless would say that the mortal girl is too talented. Envious people would laugh at the fact that the primarch of the Ultramarines turned arrogant. But Lorgar knew who you were. Chaos told him.

Lover of Roboute Guilliman. A secret that his brother kept from everyone. Even from the Emperor. If Lorgar had been quick to anger, he would have told the primarchs about you. Would separate two lonely souls. But he did not dare to do this. It wasn't time yet. But soon he would make his brother grieve and suffer. He would have destroyed what was dearest to his heart, as he did with the Monarchy.

“I read your poems,” you carefully strike up a conversation with the primarch, clasping your hands. Your look is innocent and full of sincere kindness. Not admiration or awe, no. You saw him. His soul. - “They are wonderful. In truth, your poems calmed me in hard times.”

You don't flatter or mock him. Lorgar doesn’t need to glance around the room to understand that you approached him yourself. Without Guilliman's knowledge. The bastard who dared to smile at Aurenlian when he was forced to kneel humiliatingly. Anger almost covers the man, but your embarrassed smile dispels the rage like wind blows away fog.

"Thank you." - The primarch smiles softly, fascinated by your gentle influence. “The next time we meet, I will bring you a new work that no one has seen yet. I'm sure it will change the entire Imperium."

Aurelian was above mortals, he was a primarch and the chosen one of Chaos. And yet he was wrong. He could never hurt you. Because he loved you. Stronger than Roboute. Tighter. More furious. Almost to the point of obsession, consuming his soul.

You were beautiful. Your smooth movements were like a soft wind, and your voice was like the whisper of leaves. A soft, gentle light emanated from your soul. Like a ray of sunshine on the water. Your kindness and sincerity of words were like music or scripture. How can he wish evil upon such a beautiful and divine being?

And how can someone not notice your beauty? Not to value and treat as if you are worth nothing? But his brother exceeded all expectations. Through the warp, Lorgar watched as Roboute spent time with you like ordinary mortals. You talked heart to heart, laughed and sometimes even argued. And on special evenings, the man would please you while you gave yourself to him without reserve.

Your body bent on the silk like a reed in the wind, your skin covered in hot sweat. You moaned muffledly, holding onto the headboard with force. Lorgar couldn’t take his eyes off the sight, absorbing your figure, desperately trying not to look at Guilliman’s head between your legs.

While you two indulged in sin, Aurelian, with the help of the forces of Chaos, watched over you. Insatiably and greedily, feeding the laughing Prince of Pleasure with his torments. It seemed to the man that he would make a sound as soon as you opened your mouth in a pre-orgasmic state... but the miracle ended when Guilliman decided to stop and looked at your irritated face with a smile.

“You did this again! I beg you, please, one day finish it!” - you giggle and throw a pillow at the primarch, unable to be angry with him for long. Roboute defends himself from the attack with his hand and shrugs. His eyes sparkle with merriment and his smile is self-confident.

“Can’t help it. I love teasing you too much.”

Roboute leans on you with his whole body, and you continue to laugh into his chest, hugging his warm body tightly. Not noticing Lorgar's bestial gaze, full of black rage. But he could do nothing but continue to watch as Guilliman began to enter your holy gates.

It wasn't enough! You deserved better. Real worship, not primitive sentimentality. And Lorgar was eager to show you this. Longed to touch. Inhale the smell of your hair, feel your sweat and tears on your tongue. Feel the warm skin under his palms. Hear quiet moans.

He wanted you to let him love you. Wanted you command him to praise you, deify you and worship you. And he wanted you to beg him for ascension until you both burned in the fire of desire.

But you don't. After all, you are a kind and beautiful girl, whose soul barely casts a shadow in the Immaterium. But bright as a ray of sunshine, which he want to touch. You are too innocent and pure to turn your attention to a primarch mired in the mud. And so he has to act on his own.

Horus's betrayal came like thunder from a clear sky. What a pity for Guilliman that it was at this time that you decided to visit your family and went to your home world on the ship of the Rogue Trader. Lorgar kindly provided you with protection, assuring you that you would be safe on Fidelitas Lex.

And it was true. You weren't in any danger. Lorgal had enough strength to protect and hide you from all the horrors of the Galaxy. And to his delight, he has enough time to spend time alone with you. This is still a relatively calm time for now. To know you. To feel. To open.

“I heard about what happened on Khur. - you stammer, your eyes turned to the floor, full of regret. - I'm sorry. It's horrible. What you went through and how the poor people suffered. Roba- Lord Guilliman did not want to do this, he was following orders.”

“Let what is past remain in the past. I hold no grudge against my father and brother. - the primarch whispered half-truths like an insidious snake. Still, he was grateful to the fall of the Monarchy for leading him to the real truth. - And I don’t want you to be sad. This is between me and Roboute. It has nothing to do with you.”

You look up at him and Lorgar can hardly contain a sigh of admiration. Surprisingly, you, unlike most mortals, were not amazed by his greatness. However, this had the opposite effect. It was Urizen who was amazed by you.

“You are very kind.” - you smile softly, like a mother, seeing the child’s face for the first time. - “Even in this dark time, I am grateful to meet you. I will never forget this moment.”

And although you may now shake with fear at the sight of the primarch and the Word Bearers, Lorgar knew that everything would change. He believed that you would rediscover your love for him. Unfortunately, he had to use... force after the Drop Site Massacre. You were not a prisoner, but you will still have to be kept locked up for some time. For your own good.

He can’t help but admire your beauty, your radiant soul. How you are in only a white nightgown (Lorgar got rid of all the clothes with Ultramarines colors) after walking around the room, run onto the red silk bed. How your pure image merges with sinful chambers.

The man smiles softly and approaches you, forcefully squeezing a basin of clean water in his hands. He has waited so long for this day when you can become his. When a primarch can touch the greatness of a mortal girl.

“Lorgar,” you say his name quietly, trying to calm him down. But the man just clenches his teeth, feeling like everything in his lower abdomen is filled with sinful lead. - “P-please, don’t do this. I’m sure Roboute will forgive you, you are brothers after all.”

You no longer call him Lord Guilliman. You're still in love with him. What a shame. It's making his teeth hurt. But Lorgar, with tenacity worthy of a primarch, continues to smile at you, kneeling. He doesn't want to scare you even more. You are tender and fragile, he must take care of your holiness.

“The floor is dirty, and you walk on it completely barefoot,” - he himself took the shoes from you. A sharp impulse that the primarch himself did not understand. - “Please, let me wash your beautiful feet with clean water.”

His voice gradually becomes lower from the dark secret desire and you, whining, sit down at the very edge, dangling your legs. And like a righteous soul, you try not to tremble or make sounds as the primarch lifts your skirt, all the way to your knees, which he kisses in turn.

Lorgar sighs heavily, fighting the temptation to lick your whole legs. But he still takes your foot and gently massages it in the water. Alas, this action only inflames the furious heat within him. Those little feet, dainty heels and tiny toes. An absolutely exquisite and elegant piece of art. He is so absorbed in what he is doing that he almost doesn’t hear your voice.

“Please let me go. F-For him, duty comes first. H-he will protect Terra.” - you sob from the way Lorgar squeezed your limb. - “Roboute will not look for me, Lorgar. He won’t.”

The world freezes and even the Immaterium trembles from the overabundance of the primarch’s feelings. How terrible agony and destructive rage gives way to peace. Calmness. By grace. And it's all because of you.

"Yes. He won't save you." - his gentle words, designed to calm you down, only make you more sad. And the primarch cannot help but admire your suffering as a righteous martyr. Which only plunges him deeper into sin. - “And this is his greatest mistake.”

Lorgar carefully brings your washed foot to his mouth and kisses the tip of your toe Before wrapping his mouth around it, sucking gently with moan. His mouth filled with saliva, and a shiver of excitement and awe ran through his body at the fact that he was able to touch you. To your wonderful feet that carried you through this mortal world. He was ready to kiss every piece of ground you walked on.

But instead, filled with your blessing, he gently kisses your foot, licking and biting. Every toe of yours, every vein line on your skin. Lorgar bites your ankle lightly and foreign blood seeps onto his tongue. Tastes like heaven.

The primarch looks up at you pleadingly, studying your face, wet with tears. Is this a vision of the future, a trick of the eye, or is your soul shining brighter than usual? He didn't know. But Lorgar was sure that he saw a halo above your head, which his brother stubbornly did not notice, treating you like an ordinary mortal woman. But Lorgar is different. He won't allow you to be treated like that.

He was and will be a sinner. He was always blamed for everything. But you gave him hope. And he will fully thank you for the healing that you brought to his soul. He will put you on a pedestal above the rest of the world. After all, this is exactly what you deserve. You just don't know yet.

The words fall from his bloodied lips so quietly that they are almost inaudible. But you hear. You can’t help but hear and you cry, choking with tears. Praying for help from all the saints from the books you have read, denying that you became one of them for the primarch who kidnapped you.

“Let me worship you.”

[makimacult]

what's the deal with this "love" thing anyways? — part two.

read part one

and now, on the flip side: the humans (a witch is still a human being according to dante, and the extras state that witches can give up their demonic contracts to be human again.) who are intimately familiar with love.

has love saved dante and verge? love certainly did not save mother rosa.

the intersection between love and duty is something mtefil interrogates. leah takes the duty of revenge for her family upon herself & ultimately her love for barbara triumphs.

dante has chosen duty over verge—and what is his thought process for doing so? he is one of the few adult exorcists, he understands verge's grievances with the church, he is clearly miserable (& suicidal. and does in fact kill himself!) so why then does he stay?

something to consider in the mtefil universe is that hell and demons are real. <millions may have died> if beelzebub was allowed to continue his rampage.

who would've stopped him if not the church? beelzebub is most malevolent of the demon lords (he's even referred to as <the worst of the worst> in the latest chapter lmao) but truly, what would stop leviathan or mammon from also cutting a path through a continent? it's not their style to do something like that, but how do ants understand the thought process of giants?

[1] the church exists out of a fear that is concrete in the mtefil universe & i really do appreciate the manga's writing in this regard. it would be very easy to make the church tropey one-note jrpg villains, yet the extras (im too sleepy to add sources rn, but if you send an ask i will note them) take pains to confirm that the church is not a monolith, believers exist within the church that disagree with the overall direction, there's even a schism between the pope and cardinal heisenberg—

and of course ultimately this does not cancel out the church's crimes against innocents.

the church styles itself as benevolent defenders, but to the more cynical church adults (i count daniel and dante here) they see themselves as a necessary evil. see how clinically dante and daniel talk about priest here.

these are adults who have internalised being a cog in the greater machine. they're aware that they are fighting a losing battle (demon lords after all, regenerate and humanity's sins can never be completely cleansed) and they have resigned themselves to that. they feel for the younger generation, but they're all of them soldiers that have been conscripted into a war that's been going on longer than they ever existed.

the demon lords are an unstoppable force, and the church is an immovable object, and witches, human victims like leah's family, and demons like imuri who want to find a peaceful existence—will be stuck between them unless the status quo changes.

the question of god.

this section is just my conjecture—but i personally think we will never really see god in mtefil. we get both views of god:

god as terrifying, high-handed and cruel, and god (or faith) as salvation for the people to hold onto when they have very little else.

schrodinger's cat—two important panels i think of when it comes to god's position in the mtefil universe is priest telling verge that it sounds like he believes in god (and indeed, priest uses scripture from the gospel of john to save people later in the chapter) and dante accusing verge of wanting to "take even god away from people."

verge has come to the conclusion that the current story must be destroyed and rewritten, and god as currently conceived is evil. dante (my interpretation here) insists that god as currently exists is still preferable to no god at all (& remember that this is a practical line of thought given we haven't seen how sinners and the damned are treated in gehenna...)

imagine: you know hell is real; would you still kill god (who is ineffable and ambiguous, for the chance of creating a better world? it's a decision only someone who is extremely determined can make-and i am so interested in what the witches' endgame is.)

lastly: i personally think it would be rather cheap of the manga to straightforwardly state that the faith the church cast has in god has been misplaced, and that god is malicious. like dgmw—growing up, his dark materials was one of my favourite books. im familiar with and love narratives about killing aod. tonally however, i do not think mtefil will go here.

reference to the page where imuri watches in awe while the exorcists save people—this, to me, is what potentially the endgame of the manga could be. a reordering of the world where exorcists do not have to fight demons, and miracles can be used to save people, and not just kill demons.

if you've read this far, thank you. i'd love to hear other people's takes (must add that i am very bad at replying on tumblr tho. i shall try my best.) also tumblr deleted half of this post while i was typing it up so. apologies if i sound incoherent as fuck.