#my utmost for his highest

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

As soon as we abandon ourselves to God and do the task He has placed closest to us, He begins to fill our lives with surprises.

Read today’s devotional: https://utmost.org/gracious-uncertainty/

[idratherdreamofjune]

It is ungovernably bad taste to talk about money in the natural domain, and so it is spiritually, and yet we talk as if our Heavenly Father had cut us off without a shilling! We think it a sign of real modesty to say at the end of a day—"Oh, well, I have just got through, but it has been a severe tussle." And all the Almighty God is ours in the Lord Jesus! And He will tax the last grain of sand and the remotest start to bless us if we will obey Him. What does it matter if external circumstances are hard? Why should they not be! If we give way to self-pity and indulge in the luxury of misery, we banish God's riches from our own lives and hinder others from entering into His provision. No sin is worse than the sin of self-pity, because it obliterates God and puts self-interest on the throne. It opens our mouths to spit out murmurings... "God is able to make all grace abound," then learn to lavish the grace of God on others.

Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest, for May 16th

Let us approach the throne of grace with confidence!

[professorgtnt]

你可能不知道章伯斯 (Oswald Chambers）的故事。他從未向一大群人演講。他的事奉只維持了八年。若沒有他那卓越的妻子歌楚 （Gertrude），我們今天可能都不會知道他。 歌楚生下來就有缺陷，她無法獵得清楚。為了補道不足，她學會讀唇語，她還學速記，把說話的人快速地記下來。在章伯斯的聖經事奉中，她都伴他。章伯斯短暫在美國和英國事奉之後，就搬到埃及的開羅，在那裡他服事在第一次世界大戰的士兵。權柄。 章伯斯年輕時就因盲腸破裂而過世，留下太太和他們年幼的女兒在開羅。歌楚突然在異鄉愛成單親媽媽，而且她不會說埃及的語言。更糟的是，她没有錢，因為章伯斯為基督教青年會作隨軍牧師只賺取微薄的收入。 雖然從外在看，章伯斯的妻子與女兒很窮，雖然從外在看，章伯斯的妻子與女兒很窮，她記策下丈夫教導型釋的每個字。他說的話没有一個宇掉落地上•因為她都在場讀他的唇，並寫下來。在畢蒂成為寡婦後，一位親密的好友到開羅探望她，並建議她把她所記錄下的集結成為屬修藉，那本書就成了 「竭誠為主」 （My Utmost for His Highest) • 透過神的供應，畢蔕與女兒凱薩琳不再需要為她們的財務保聯酸到害怕。從1927年起，這本書就成為有史以來最暢銷的靈修書籍。在80年後，這本書的銷售與普及持續到今天。神快應她們。章伯斯是一個說卑的人，他盡心盡意事奉，永遠不必害怕神會如何照顧他和他的家人。

[intheimageoflove]

(Hebrews 11:8. The Road to Emaus.)

We get to know Jesus on our way to 'Emaus', it's about what we learn on the road walking with Him in every step of the way, it's about the climb to Jerusalem.

We end up being a totally different person from the one we were when we first began.

This is Christian life.

"It is a life of faith, not of intellect and reason, but a life of knowing Who makes us 'go' ".

Oswald Chambers March 19th

[kellyis4jc]

My Utmost For His Highest!!!

We need to show God our total respect and fear we have for Him. Oswald Chambers classic work, "My Utmost For His Highest", shows us this reality because our relationship with God needs to grow on an intimate level. Show God your utmost for His highest!!

As Christians, we need to give God our utmost respect. We need our relationship with Him grow stronger on a daily basis. To help us develop a deeper relationship with our Heavenly Father, Oswald Chambers’ classic book, “My Utmost For His Highest”, guides us on a journey of complete respect for God while we show Him our true devotion. God is the number one person we need to respect because He is…

[soaringeaglesingingjoy]

Today's devotional:

Intimate Theology by Oswald Chambers

Do you believe this? John 11:26

[benjaminasimpson]

An Unsexy Idea about Discipleship

An Unsexy Idea about Discipleship

Photo by Reiseuhu on Unsplash Discipleship is built entirely on the supernatural grace of God. Walking on water is easy to someone with impulsive boldness, but walking on dry land as a disciple of Jesus Christ is something altogether different. Peter walked on the water to go to Jesus, but he “followed Him at a distance” on dry land (Mark 14:54). We do not need the grace of God to withstand…

[progressum]

The plaintive, self-centered, morbid kind of prayer, a dead-set that I want to be right, is never found in the New Testament. The fact that I am trying to be right with God is a sign that I am rebelling against the Atonement. “LORD, I will purify my heart if you will answer my prayer; I will walk rightly if you will help me.” I cannot make myself right with God, I cannot make my life perfect; I can only be right with God if I accept the Atonement of the LORD Jesus Christ as an absolute gift. Am I humble enough to accept it? I have to resign every kind of claim and cease from every effort, and leave myself entirely alone in His hands, and then begin to pour out in the priestly work of intercession. There is much prayer that arises from real disbelief in the Atonement. Jesus is not beginning to save us, He has saved us, the thing is done, and it is an insult to ask Him to do it.

Oswald Chambers, My Utmost For His Highest

June 20, 2022

[bachiles]

Open and Closed Doors

Open and Closed Doors

I am a huge fan of Oswald Chambers who wrote “My Utmost For His Highest”.  Sometimes I have to read the selection several times before I can really understand what he is getting at.  He is a pretty deep fellow.  This selection got me thinking about doors. ” God never again opens the doors that have been closed.  He opens other doors , but he reminds us that there have been doors that we have…

[diejager]

Not gonna lie, love the Only Human Series and some of the fluff you do.

Thinking of including this in my own fanfics, but want to see how you would make it. Hunter is a medic and a smart one…

How soon until she exploits the 141’s monster weaknesses?

Soap pinning you down only to give out to belly rubs, Gaz getting preened and his feathers ruffling when you hit the relaxing sweet spot, etc.

Cw: teasing, using vulnerabilities, tell me if I missed any.

At a certain point, you’d gotten tired of their shenanigans, the small pranks and fright they pulled on you when they felt especially cheeky. Gaz and Soap were the biggest culprits, their streaks of mischief the highest than any. Soap would jump you when you lounged around in the Task Force’s personal red room, his round fingers finding a sensitive spot under your ribs and sinking into it with a conviction as strong as he had in battle. Gaz was the cheekiest of them all, throwing you a flirtatious grin before he swept you off your feet, pulling you left and right to appease his little need for attention, his talons finding comfort under your arms and teeth under your jaw. 

Whereas Horangi and Rudy were more… mellow, their mischief calmer and rarer than the two first. Horangi, being a stalking feline, stealthily made his way around you, feet carrying him from shadow to shadow with utmost silence without alerting you of his presence and jumping at you when the moment was perfect. Rudy was the least problematic, his gentle soul a being of tenderness, yet still full of eager teasing, whispering sweet words in your ears while you worked, drawing your mind elsewhere until you shooed him off, still squirming in your seat.

You swore the others knew —you knew they did. Ghost’s shoulders would shake in silent chuckles, his eyes warmly staring at you and Soap fighting on the couch after you fell down. Price smoked his cigar while he watched you, his shoulders slumped down and posture relaxed, unbothered by your screeching and Gaz’s cackling. Alejandro, for all his sugary smiles, did little to hide his wide grin, enjoying watching your thighs clench and bite your lip when Rudy pressed himself against you, breathing flirtatious words in your ear. And König, the giant percht was consciously acting as a wall between you and Horangi, helping him get an upper hand into scaring you, his low rumble and big hands caging you between them after a scare, wandering over you until you scolded them.

You would get back at them —you did. Soap was your first victim, the first out of eight that you would make him regret ever tiring you. You knew his tail was sensitive, the soft furs and the nerves connected to his spine made it especially prone to overstimulation, which made it your perfect weapon against him. When you found him relaxing on the couch, his body draped over it, tail swaying softly, you stalked towards him and pulled on it. He jumped, a loud moan slipping from his lips, his back shuddering as your brushed your hand from the base to the tip of his tail, his fur bristling up.

Horangi had the same vulnerability, his tail standing out like a red signal, dangerous and weak. This time, you used Königagainst him, walking as quietly as you could behind the percht, following them and only sliding aside when you found his tail curling upwards. You’d never heard him screech as loudly as he did, his ears raised so high as he whipped around, cheeks flustered and eyes wide as he stared at you, his pupils dilated. Your stroked his twitching tail, smirking at his dark blush as he stumbled on his words, forcing him to curled towards you with shaky hands clutching your arm and waist. You turned a big, bad tiger into a small house cat.

Gaz was more tricky, you knew his wings were sensitive, the pin feathers prone to feeling the change of air current or touch but the muscle of his back, between both wings, was the most sensitive, it was robust, but a weak point for most flying hybrids. You teased him when he came for a check up, realising his wings had a few new feathers, short and young, still so new as they grew out of its root. You unconsciously brushed your fingers over them, gazing at his bare back ripple and tense, his sculpted back jerking and muscles moving at the slightest touch, then you found an excuse - you couldn’t even remember - to knead his pectoralis muscles and watch him stiffle his moans and squirm beneath your touch.

Rudy was the hardest to pick at, he didn’t have any animal characteristics or sensitive spots a monster would have, he - essentially - was a human with special powers. Then, you figured that you might as well give him a taste of his own medicine, turning the tables against him and tease him red. You had no qualms in hissing out promises and filthy secrets into his ear, your hands running over his shoulders and sliding down his arms, holding him still by the hips. You couldn’t hold down the smile that kissed his lobe, feeling the skin warm with a fiery blush, listening to him stammer and choke down any whimpers that threatened to slip. It was your turn to leave him squirming and blushing, biting his lip to stop himself from following the sway of your hips, eyes bleeding out his need for your touch and affection. 

Revenge tasted the sweetest when served cold. 

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

by Oswald Chambers | Not being reconciled to the fact of sin— not recognizing it and refusing to deal with it— produces all the disasters in life. You may talk about the lofty virtues of human nature, but there is something in human nature that will mockingly laugh in the face of every principle you have. If you refuse to agree with the fact that…

[netherfeildren]

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy

Series Masterlist ; Part 2.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. 

She'll still come for you. 

-OR-

the A/B/O outbreak AU 

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink

A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.

Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

Genus : Tragedy

To a one Mr. Joel Miller,

500 Sheahan Road

Clallam Bay, WA 98326

United States 

We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her. 

The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer. 

Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature. 

Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:

Dear sir,

I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear. 

At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people. 

Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega. 

It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates. 

Joel had been one of these people. 

The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.

It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom. 

It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity. 

Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand. 

Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too. 

With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either. 

The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit. 

He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.

He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite. 

Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was. 

He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father. 

He did not want to be an alpha. 

He did not want an omega.

He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures. 

The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever. 

He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized. 

He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately. 

That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever. 

-

“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all. 

“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.” 

Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby. 

White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside. 

A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet. 

When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are. 

He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”

He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want. 

He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you. 

Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear. 

He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence. 

Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like. 

Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same. 

Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched. 

He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop. 

You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”

He could never have forgotten.

A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?” 

He could never have forgotten.

-

The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely. 

He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled. 

“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting. 

“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding. 

And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him. 

It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older,  sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.

After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday. 

It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky. 

You want to see the sky every single day. 

His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him. 

You want to know things. You want to know him. 

He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement. 

You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him. 

He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him. 

The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet. 

He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.

Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

You don’t believe him.

He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen. 

He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well. 

There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long. 

He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big. 

Joel.

You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations. 

He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even. 

Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate. 

He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness. 

“How do you feel?”

“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping. 

He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely. 

“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of. 

It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.

You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you. 

“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.

2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[idratherdreamofjune]

It is one thing to go on the lonely way with dignified heroism, but quiet another thing if the line mapped out for you by God means being a door-mat under other people's feet. Suppose God wants to teach you to say, "I know how to be abased"—are you ready to be offered up like that? Are you ready to be not so much as a drop in a bucket—to be so hopelessly insignificant that you are never thought of again in connection with the life you served?

Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest

[ajconstantine]

My access to AO3 at home was recently blocked by the website filtering program my husband maintains. Aghast at the atrocity, I was compelled to tell him of my outrage in prose.

Dear Internet Overlord (husband),

I pen this missive with an air of utmost dismay and disbelief, for it has come to my attention that your internet system is exhibiting a most egregious behavior—the blockage of access to the AO3 website.

The sheer audacity of this act is an outrage of the highest magnitude, and I find myself compelled to express my profound displeasure in the most vehement terms. To compound the injury with an insult, the site category has been labeled as "tasteless."

Tasteless, I say! I implore you to reconsider such a gross mischaracterization, for the AO3 realm is a sanctuary of literary and artistic brilliance. It is a place where words dance upon the page like nimble ballerinas, and where the brushstrokes of creativity paint a canvas of unparalleled beauty. (Admittedly, there may be a smattering of less refined content, but let us not dwell on such trivialities.)

Picture, if you will, an artist of words, now shackled and denied the opportunity to share their craft with a community that thrives on supporting and nurturing such artistry. My very soul, once vibrant and full of creative vigor, is in danger of withering into the desolate existence of a literary crone—miserable and deprived of the camaraderie that AO3 provides.

I beseech you, noble custodian of the virtual realm, to rectify this atrocity with the urgency it deserves. Failure to do so may force me to embark on a quest into the perilous wilderness (or the nearest Starbucks, whichever proves more accessible) in search of alternative sources of the exalted webpage that is AO3.

Alternatively, I may succumb to the depths of madness, rendering me unfit to share in the responsibilities of co-parenting. In such a lamentable event, I would, of course, be compelled to bequeath unto you the solemn duty of tending to our progeny for all eternity. The choice, dear sir, rests in your capable hands.

Yours incredulously, AJ Constantine

His response:

Dear AJ Constantine, I hope this message finds you amidst some peace, despite the trying circumstances you've encountered in attempting to access Archiveofourown.org.

First and foremost, please accept my deepest and most sincere apologies for any frustration, inconvenience, or distress these technical difficulties may have caused you. I understand that Archiveofourown.org holds a special place for individuals such as yourself seeking solace, inspiration, and community, and I deeply regret any disruption to the refuge it provides. I recognize that your connection to the content on Archiveofourown.org goes beyond a mere online presence—it's a source of joy, escape, and connection. The pain and suffering you may have endured due to your inability to access the platform is not lost on me, and I genuinely empathize with the impact it may have had on your life. I have identified and resolved the issues and reinstated seamless access to the website, and I hope that this will alleviate the distress you may be feeling. (Please don’t leave me over this. Think of the children.) Your husband

(I decided not to leave him over it, but it was a close call. 😁)

[moremaybank]

NASTY — k.m

pairing klaus mikaelson x gf!reader

summary you and klaus finally take the next step in your relationship (based on the song "nasty" by ariana grande)

warnings 18+, unprotected sex, oral sex (f. receiving), choking, hair-pulling, creampie, let me know if i missed any :)

author's note pls don't roast how corny the summary is, i didn't know what else to put 😭 i'm really proud of this one so likes/reblogs are much appreciated ♡

klaus masterlist ;; softcoremaybank's nav

You got me all up in my feels, in all kind of ways

I be tryna wait, but, lately, i just wanna keep it real (real)

No more playin’ safe, let’s take it all the way

I’m just sayin’

After spending months secretly pining for each other, you and Klaus knew your chemistry was real. More real than anything you’d ever felt. It was a once-in-a-lifetime connection that neither of you could walk away from — not that you wanted to.

That being said, when the two of you finally decided to take things to take things to the next level, you agreed to move slowly. You wanted to build up to that first shared moment of passion organically. You wanted it to be special and worth the wait. The first physical expression of your love for each other deserved to be given the utmost respect, and held to the highest of standards.

But then, tonight, Klaus had gone the whole nine yards with your date, and looked drop-dead gorgeous while doing so. He said all the right things, did all the right things, and showed you how truly well he knew you. You felt loved and cherished, special beyond compare. Klaus always treated you as if you were a rare and precious gem (he’d also argue that you actually were one), and tonight was no different. 

Now on a walk around the city, taking in the city's bright lights and bustling nightlife hand in hand, Klaus looked over at you. “So, on a scale from one to ten, how’d I do tonight?”

With a knowing smile on your face, your eyes met his. “I think you did all right.”

“Oh, come on, love. We both know I did far better than just all right.”

“You just want to hear me say that you were perfect,” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him. 

Klaus’s steps slowed and came to a stop, yours along with his. “Maybe I do,” he breathed, now holding both of your hands in his. You grinned, inching closer to his face. You gave him a soft kiss, long enough to answer his question from earlier but short enough for him to chase your lips when you pulled away. 

“You were perfect. You are perfect. I’m so in love with you, Klaus.”

Klaus’s face lit up at your words, and a shade of crimson dusted onto his cheeks as he smiled widely. His dimple was on full display and he looked like a kid in a candy store. “i love you too,” he spoke, his hand finding your cheek and guiding your lips to his. He met you with a slow and steady kiss, his touch instantly spreading a warmth deep into your bones. 

As he pulled away, the sounds of the world around you silenced. Your eyes were stuck on each other, shy smiles plastered onto your mouths. 

“Klaus,” you murmured, so present in the moment that you were encouraged to take a risk. 

“Hm?”

“Take me home. Make love to me.”

I just wanna make time for ya (yeah)

Swear it’s just right for ya

Like this pussy designed for ya (yeah)

Ten outta five on ya

Know I would sign on the line for ya (yeah)

Bet I look nice on ya (yeah)

Open my mind for ya (yeah)

When the two of you had reach Klaus’s bedroom in the compound, he takes his time with you. He unzips your dress, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he does so. He lets your dress fall to the floor before hooking one of his fingers under your bra strap. He tugs it down your shoulder, letting his lips leave wet kisses behind. His hands trace over your curves, down to your hips and over the expanse of your stomach. When his fingers tease the hem of your panties, you shiver, feeling your slick coat the inside of the silken fabric.

“You’re so beautiful, love. Turn around. Let me get a proper look at you,” Klaus rasps. He helps you turn to face him, and his eyes trail over your partially naked form. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he reaches behind your back and unclasps your bra. It falls away, leaving your bare breasts in plain sight. “So bloody perfect,” he speaks, cupping both of your breasts in his hands. His thumbs swipe over your nipples, and they perk up at his touch. 

“Klaus, please. I need you,” you beg, urging him to get things moving.

“Let me take my time with you, love. I want to make you scream my name as many times as I can.” 

Klaus leads you backwards, watching you lay down on the bed. He quickly discards his shirt before climbing onto the bed and towering over you. His breath fans over your clothed core when he spreads your legs and levels his face with it. He can see your arousal soaking the lace that barely covers you. His tongue darts out, licking a stripe up your lace-clad pussy and teasing you through the thin fabric. Your hips slightly grind against the tip of his tongue, yearning for more pressure. He lets his teeth graze over your clit, and you let out a quiet gasp, one so hypnotizing that Klaus wonders what you'll sound like when you fall apart under his touch.

Next, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down your legs agonizingly slowly. He cast them over his shoulder before returning to your dripping core. He laps at your entrance once, letting your taste coat his tongue. He seems pleased when he lets out a satisfied groan. “Christ, you’re so sweet, love. I could bury my tongue inside you and stay there forever.” His lips leave wet kisses up your folds until he reaches your clit. He flicks it with his tongue and smirks instantly at the small mewl that leaves your lips. Dying to hear more, his lips circle your clit while he teases it with his tongue. He licks and flicks and sucks your bundle of nerves with precision, already pushing you closer and closer to your impending high. 

“Klaus, yes. Right there,” you whine, arching your back and grinding your hips against his face when he grunts around you. It sends a jolt of vibrations through your body, and you revel in the fact that you and Klaus can now have each other in the way you’ve been longing for all this time. 

Interrupting your thoughts, you feel Klaus’s finger probe your seeping entrance, and he looks up at you as he draws his mouth away from your core. He fucks you with his thick digit, being sure to curl it inside of you with each thrust. “Close already, love?” 

You nod furiously, “So close. Don’t stop, please.”

“That’s it, my love. Beg me to make you cum,” he rasps, bringing his lips back to your clit. He sucks it into his mouth, pulling on it with his pressure. His tongue swirls and strokes against your sensitive bud in a savorous manner, and if that wasn’t enough, he slips another finger into you. Klaus smirks against you when he hears your gasp. 

“Klaus. Oh, shit, please. I’m so close,” you whine. Your hand threads through his curls, tugging on them as you writhe around on the now dishevelled sheets. “Yes, yes. Oh my god, yes.”

You feel the coil in your belly snap, immediately falling over the edge at Klaus’s mercy. Your cum coats his plump lips, and when he licks you up, his face glistens with your release. You tug on him, signalling that you want him closer. He leans in and grants you a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you weak in the knees. 

“You taste good,” Klaus says.

“Oh, yeah? What do I taste like?” You question.

“Mine.”

Don’t wanna wait on it

Tonight, I wanna get nasty (yeah, yeah)

What you waitin’ for? (What you waitin’ for?)

What you waitin’ for?

Don’t wanna wait on it

Tonight, I wanna get nasty (yeah, yeah)

What you waitin’ for? (What you waitin’ for?)

What you waitin’ for?

Don’t wanna wait on it

Tonight, I wanna get nasty (nasty)

Tonight, I wanna get nasty (nasty)

“Klaus, please,” you say, urging him to get things moving. “You don’t have to be so gentle. You don’t have to take your time.”

Klaus’s brow arches, “Is that so?”

“I don’t want you to hold back. I can take it. Just— I need you inside of me.”  

Klaus doesn’t need to be told twice. He strips his pants and briefs off, quickly casting them aside and climbing onto the bed to join you. With his body between your legs, his hand slithers its way up your thigh, purposely ghosting over your cunt and continuing its path up your stomach, then the valley between your breasts, before finally coming to a stop when his fingers curl around your neck. He gives it a squeeze, the lust completely blowing out his baby blue irises and letting the darkness take over. “You want it rough?” He asks, pushing your head further into the pillow. “Have it your way, love.”

Klaus’s free hand takes the opportunity to bend your right leg, pressing down forcefully on the back of your thigh and exposing your pussy to him. He spits down onto your cunt, and his hand leaves your neck to slide his cock through your folds and lube it up. Then, without warning, his thick length slams into your cunt as his hand grips your throat again. He buries himself to the hilt immediately, and you let out a loud gasp at how full you felt within a single second. He drags his cock out slowly before rutting himself into you harshly again, eliciting a cry from your lips. 

“So bloody tight,” he grits through his teeth as he starts to snap his hips against yours. The feeling of your sopping wet walls gripping him like a vice pushes Klaus to lose his control little by little with each thrust. He had always thought you intoxicating, but at this moment, finally being inside you and getting to learn your body as well as he knows your mind drives him up the wall. Something that adds to that fact is that he now has a whole other way to show you convey how much passion he feels for you.

“Oh, Klaus. Shit, you’re so big,” you moan, gasping for air as his cock fills you up to the brim. It rams into you so deep that you swear you already see stars. There isn’t a single square inch of your walls that goes untouched by him, and you wish you could keep him right where he is forever. Stuffing you full and taking up all of your senses. 

You’re already beginning to feel the coil in your belly forming as Klaus fucks you, your walls clutching his cock and squeezing him as if it’s milking him for all he’s worth.

“Baby, I-I’m close,” you stutter his hips rock mercilessly into yours. 

“Not yet. You don’t cum until I say so. All of it belongs to me,” he grunts, pulling out of you and flipping you onto your stomach. His calloused palm presses down on your spine, arching your back as far as possible before slamming himself inside you again. Klaus’s hands find your hips and tug you backward to meet his thrusts so forcefully that they elicit weak and whiny strings of profanities and moans from your lips each time. 

“Oh my— Fuck,” you cry, burying your face into the pillow and biting the thick material. 

Klaus’s hand threads through your hair, pulling your head up and out from the pillow, while the other one lands a harsh smack against your ass. “Do not hide from me. I want you screaming.”

Your cunt clamps down on his cock again, threatening to prevent his escape, but this time, Klaus is willing to let you bask in the glow of your high. 

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Soak me. Show me what a good girl you are, how pathetic you are for my cock,” he speaks. He starts to fuck into you harder and deeper still, his cock rubbing against your sweet spot and sending tingles throughout your body. Your skin is buzzing and is covered with a dewy sheen as you finally fall over the edge with a loud cry. 

promise i’ma give it to you like you never had it

i do it so good, it’s gon’ be hard to break the habit

you’re like a whole constellation (yeah)

swimming like you on vacation (yeah)

promise i’m still gonna love you when you wake up in the a.m.

You’ve barely started to come down when Klaus’s hand wraps your hair around his hand, giving him the leverage to pull your back up against his front. That same hand snakes around your throat to hold you in place when he speaks. 

“You didn’t think I was finished, did you?” He asks, mock-filled concern evident in his voice. His other arm wraps around your waist, holds you tightly, and he gives you a sharp thrust. He smirks when he hears you gasp and fucks up into you once more. “We won’t be done until the morning, darling. And even then, I’m not sure I’ll be able to let go of you.”

Your hands brace themselves on top of his, your nails digging into his skin when Klaus starts to move faster. Each bounce against his cock causes your ass to clap against his front, and your skin is already so raw from his previous actions that the contact adds some pain to your profuse pleasure. 

The squelches from your past releases fill your ears and spur you on as you think about how Klaus already had you at his mercy twice without taking anything for himself. He's prioritizing you and taking pride in making his girl feel good. 

“K-Klaus,” you mewl, feeling your legs tremble when the hand around your waist moves to your clit and begins to toy with it. “Oh my god.”

Klaus’s mouth nears your ear again, flicking your earlobe with his tongue before taking it between his teeth. “God, I love how you sound when my cock is inside you. How deep am I, sweetheart?”

“S-so, so deep,” you speak, the struggle evident in your tone. 

Klaus slaps your clit rather harshly and speeds up his thrusts, causing a shriek to leave your lips. “No stuttering, love. Let’s try that again. How deep am I?”

You inhale shakily as you try your best to collect your bearings. “So deep."

“Yeah? Are you going to cum for me again? Let me see how gorgeous you look up close?”

“Yes. Yes,” you whine, feeling the tide approaching you. It crashes over you even stronger than the last one, the overstimulation doing wonders when it comes to leaving you breathless. You feel him everywhere like he’s taken over all your senses, and it's as if he’s the only one that exists in your world. 

And he is.

boy, you know the vibes, i don’t waste no time

take what’s on your mind, make it real life

get all the homies to bounce

switch from the bed to the couch

and get to know what i’m feelin’ inside

so much conversation, words so sweet

been so well-behaved, but, boy, i’m weak

yeah, my body’s gotta say something to you

that’s one way to tell i speak the truth

You sag against Klaus’s front as you try to regain the remnants of your sanity from your last orgasm. “Klaus,” you breathe, your hand curling behind you and caressing the back of his neck. “Come here.”

“Still inside you, love,” he speaks. 

“I know, but I wanna make you cum. Sit over there, lean against the headboard.”

Klaus obliges, granting you a saccharine kiss on the cheek before slowly pulling out of you. He takes a seat, resting his back against the headboard of his bed. His cock is still standing tall and proud, not having allowed himself to release just yet. You crawl toward him, your legs still shaky as you do so, and straddle his lap. Your hand circles his cock, stroking him gently and watching him let out a satisfied breath. You guide it toward your entrance, probing the tip before sinking onto him. 

“Your tightness should be a sin, sweetheart,” he rasps.

You give him a wink, your hands smoothing up his arms and resting firmly on his shoulders. You begin to roll your hips, the angle instantly allowing his cock to stroke against your g-spot. You first take things nice and slow, allowing yourself to control each of Klaus’s reactions. His gasps, low and raspy groans, the way he screws his eyes shut as he tries to keep his composure when his teeth sink into his plump bottom lip. He was beautiful, so achingly stunning that it twisted you up inside in the best way possible.

Because he was yours.

You decide to change your position slightly, lifting onto your feet and gaining the leverage to start bouncing on his cock. Klaus’s hands find your waist as you fuck him, and he tugs you closer so he can bring one of your nipples into his mouth. His teeth scrape over it, and you arch your back in response, yearning for more.

“Stuff me with your cum, Klaus. I won’t waste a single drop. Want it all,” you moan, goading him on. You know your words have the desired effect when he twitches inside of you. “Please.”

One of your hands drops from his shoulder and runs up his chest, resting around his throat as you hold his gaze on yours. The other reaches behind you and starts to massage his balls as you bounce on him harder. “Look at me, baby. Wanna watch you fall apart, see how sexy you look when you fill me up.”

Klaus’s breath hitches, and you can see him slowly letting go of his restraint until he finally snaps. He groans deeply, followed by a few curse words as his seed releases into you. You continue your movements while you let him ride out his high, cradling his face in your hands and peppering kisses all over his face. 

When Klaus comes down, he’s quick to give you a smug grin, and you immediately know he’s up to something.

“That smirk of yours should be illegal,” you smile, shaking your head at him. “Do I even want to know what’s going on in that forever-scheming mind of yours?”

His hand cups your cheek, his rough thumb stroking your smooth skin as he looks at you like you hung the stars. “I’m just so lucky you’re mine.”

updated klaus tag list (join here!): @oncasette @moon-in-nostalgia @hopesdadswife @klaustopia @maybankslover @her-violent-delights @bmo-bri @milly-louise @aliyahsomerhalder @twelfthmortalofcrimsonpalace @adoreyouusugar @klausluvr

[after-witch]

Just Don’t Look [Yandere Diluc x Reader]

Title: Just Don’t Look [Yandere Diluc x Reader]

Synopsis: Diluc is a perfect gentleman. He must be. Because if he isn’t, you don’t think you can handle it.

For Horrorfest request: Diluc and "I'm scared to close my eyes; I'm scared to open them."

Word Count: 870

notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, bondage, noncon touching

Dawn Winery is a beautiful estate.

And you can’t complain about the company, either.

Diluc Ragnvindr is the perfect gentlemen. He pulls out your chair before every meal he attends--almost every dinner, and sometimes he stays long enough in the mornings for breakfast. He inquires about your day with the utmost of sincerity, even though it is almost always the same (you read, you embroidered, you took a bath).

He ensures that his staff treats you with respect and gentleness, never raising their voices or throwing furrowed brows your way. They  help you get dressed in clothes that are softer and finer than anything you’ve ever owned. They prepare your baths, filled with sweet smelling soaps and oils. They fetch you things to do, if Diluc has permitted it.

You’re treated so well here. Like royalty, some might say. Kindly. Finely. Like some precious jewel that must be handled with the highest of grace and care.

But… and there’s always a but, when you are treated so well.

But.

Diluc Ragnvindr won’t let you leave the beautiful, spacious Dawn Winery.

The doors are locked, when he is gone. When he is here, too. Just in case.

The windows are closed, and when they are open to air out the rooms, they are guarded.

You’re never given clothing that might be suitable for out-of-doors. The shoes on your feet are thin and delicate. They would rip on the first bit of rougher terrain. Your gowns are ornate--they would snag, you’re sure, on the first branch you encountered.

Even your nightgowns are flimsy. Thin, frilly white dresses that touch the floor. You feel so dramatic when you walk in them. You have your own bedroom--Diluc does not expect you to sleep in his bed, because he is a gentlemen, he reminds you; you remind yourself of this, too. At night, he deigns to tuck you in. Before he leaves, he presses a kiss to your forehead. Sometimes, he takes your hand and you feel his warmth--just an edge of unnatural heat to it--and listen as he bids you good night.

Sweet dreams.

And they often are; you’ve discovered, quickly, how being in a secure place gives you deeper dreams than any thready, shaky dreams from the nights when you slept on the streets.

The streets seem far away now. Did you ever really roam them? Your world has become compressed, limited. Simple and expected and routine.

He keeps you on a strict curfew, and no, you are not permitted to walk the grounds. It’s unsafe, he says. He’s not necessarily lying, which makes it harder to disagree. You’ve been in the world. Maybe you weren’t fighting monsters or foreign troops, but you were fighting things just as hard. Hunger. Homelessness. People who wanted to hurt you.

You were safe inside, and he wasn’t wrong. That didn't necessarily make him right, but…

The maids are instructed to inform him of any suspicious behavior, which they do. They are your guardians, his eyes, when he’s not here. Can you blame them? He is their employer, and you know he treats them well. There is loyalty earned through kindness, you think. The thought sometimes scares you.

Any attempts to get them on your side are met with thin frowns or, in the case of Adelinde, a soft yet stern lecture on how ungrateful you’re being.

She’s right. You are ungrateful.

You’re well fed, well dressed, well kept. You never have to worry about where you’re going to sleep or what you’re going to eat. You never have to keep watch for men who might hurt you, rob you, rape you, kill you. No one yells at you. No one hits you.

You shouldn’t be ungrateful. You shouldn’t complain. You shouldn’t run your fingers over the locks on the doors, you shouldn’t try to creep out of your bedroom at night to see if, by some chance, someone has kept the way out unlocked. You shouldn’t do these things because for once in your life, you are being treated well.

Well, well, well--and in a cage.

But it’s gilded, isn’t it? And that makes all the difference.

So yes. Yes. Diluc is a perfect gentlemen. He pulls your chair out before every dinner. He ties you to the bed when  you tell him you want to leave. He gently asks you about your day. He locks your bedroom door at night. He never lets you go hungry. He gives you slippers so you won’t run from him. He dresses you in fine clothes worth more than anything you’d ever make on the streets. He kisses you goodnight on the forehead, chaste, safe.

Diluc… is a perfect gentlemen. Above everything else, that is what matters. Surely?

It must be. Because if it isn’t. If Diluc is not a perfect gentlemen, if you cannot ignore the locks on the doors and the invisible chains keeping you tethered to the estate…

Perhaps velvet ribbons would not be enough to hold you.

Perhaps the frowns of the maids would not be enough to dissuade you.

Perhaps you would scream and scream and scream, instead of meekly accepting the life he has given you.

It’s best not to think about it.