Writing blog for all things I find interesting (nsfw + sfw): x Reader, Monster Romance, fantasy, character breakdowns and explorations, etc.
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18+ ONLY. (Please do not follow or interact if you're not 18+. In any way.)
Blogs will be blocked if they look like bots.
Rudeness, dismissiveness, terfs, etc. aren't welcome. Let us not waste each other's times.
No reposting of my works anywhere.
Statuses:
Asks: OPEN
Requests: OPEN
Generally open to anything except:
noncon (CNC is fine.)
body waste
offensive and dismissive dynamics/topics
[ List will change/increase as we figure things out. ]
My general rule of thumb is "any idea is good, it depends on the handling/delivery." so feel free to send a request/ask, and I'll see if I am the right person for the writing, or inform you if I cannot.
If you have specific story beats in the story that you wish to be hit/consider a requirement, please include it or highlight it in some way.
Writing Content:
I consider this as an exploration space. In relation to this:
I am unexperienced to writing MLM and WLW pieces. I am bisexual, so I wish to explore and try my hand on them. So if you have any feedback/tips or things I write that needs more concept, feel free to inform me.
x Reader fics won't be sorted/tagged or categorized as Female vs. Male, but in relation to the genitals/body features they have or lack.
Example note:
reader: has a vulva and a vagina. has breasts.
Sorting and tagging stuff will be a work in progress.
There will be pieces with images in them, and because my writing program, Obsidian, has an option for inline images formatting with PDF export, that would definitely be attached.
but what if they hugged?? What if they touched foreheads??? What if they cried together????? What if they laughed together???? What if they loved each other SO DAMN MUCH??????
You burn.
With him.
And a realization that only now clicked.
If he didn't need a prophet, then what did he need?
Even more, what did he want?
You burn.
Peace, the one you cultivated and had defended for so long, had become an effort to keep for the next days. A decision to keep your routines intact even when there's a restlessness beneath your skin. A fight to wage for your focus, as phantom sensations pulled your attention.
To trap you into reminiscing.
Into introspection.
To let go and slip into 'what ifs'.
Into fantasy.
You broke routine instead, stepping out of the house that was now filled with memories.
Forest. Herbs. Fruits. Wood.
Was how it was supposed to go.
Truthfully, how it went was—
Forest. Waiting for the sound of hooves against the ground, because he did ask if he could visit. You agreed. Herbs. Imagining what he could tell you about the ones you're collecting. Thinking of excuses to hear his voice and to meet. Fruits. Of the memory of how he enjoyed the food you both prepared that dinner. Of the delighted hums at the taste of their cooking. Wood.
You burn. Throwing the herbs you picked into the basket you ever carried. You pressed your hands against your heated cheeks. Profanity spilling from your lips because you knew what would follow that thought. It wouldn't just be his solid form against your palms. It wouldn't just be his grip on your arms, your shoulders, your face. It wouldn't just be his body against yours.
You slapped your cheeks and huffed out loud.
"Stop." You could only try.
For peace was still elusive for days after that, and routine had long been derailed. You've surrendered and left for town, telling yourself that you needed to buy some things anyway. You didn't catch yourself when the next thing you told yourself was that you needed to check on the midwife and the family you helped. You didn't scold yourself when you made sure that the book you thought he would like was still in the satchel you carried with you.
Instead, you used those same words when the people in town commented on your sudden presence. The words coming out of you with ease and with a smile. You even haggled with the merchants who laughed and gave discounts because of the novelty. You blushed when your older patients told you to visit them even more often. You tried not to deny the gift of the parents you helped, relieved that the babe was healthy and robust.
All the while, you kept your route away from the roads that led to the church, yet your gaze kept sweeping around you—waiting and searching. Hoping that like how it often was, he would be the first to spot you even though he's a beacon of a divine.
You went home listing excuses to yourself to alleviate the disappointment of not seeing him. To muffle the single word chanted by your mind—coward—for you avoided the church more than a plague.
Coward.
And thus restlessness fully moved in as your housemate, kicking out peace and digging it's roots into your skin. Routine was diminished to what was truly needed and even that requirement was a shaky foundation. Pride—what was pride?
"Did the good Father visit your family already?" You asked your friend once you finally gave up and visited them. A rarity that was welcomed with great teasing and surprise.
"Yes. I've told you when I last visited, didn't I?"
You flushed. You couldn't even bluff and tell them that you've always been forgetful—your focus held by one divine.
"If you must know," Their tone was dripping with amusement. "He visited us in a rush. A squeezed appointment because he mentioned he received correspondence from the Bishop about the diocese. He's most likely busy."
Your relief was much more important than the embarrassment of being caught.
"You could visit him. It'll brighten his day just as mine did."
And because you're weak, you did.
"He was called to the Bishop's side, my child." An older priest patted your arm. An unspoken comfort to the slither of worry you were unable to keep. "He had been there for a couple of weeks now."
You exhale, but the restlessness only dug its roots deeper.
"Do not worry. He will be back by week's end to hold mass." Another pat on your arm, this one an attempt to encourage. "Is it something that couldn't wait, child?"
"N-no. It's just a book. I..." Flustered, you pulled out the book from your satchel. "I thought he would like it."
You finished the statement lamely, and lowered the book too. How pathetic, you couldn't help but think.
"You can leave it in his office." Before you could deny, the priest was already huddling to lead you and motioning you to follow. Without any other option, you followed. Watched as they unlocked the office and motioned you in. "You can place it on his desk."
You.
So you did.
Stepping inside with a shaky breath, you took in the room with the greed of the starving. Across the door was a green wall with a cross hanging upon it. A turn and you saw shelves filled with books that you gravitated to. Titles unknown, and curious, and those familiar because he recommended and let her borrow them. Unable to help yourself, you ran your fingers across their spines and took note of the signs of use. Would he be someone that read standing, forgetting that he could bring it to his desk to read? Which among all of these was the one he planned to recommend to you next?
"Interesting, isn't it?" The old priest's voice shattered your train of thoughts. "The scope of material."
"Ah... Yes."
"That young man would read anything." A chuckle as he pointed to the desk. "He would be requesting another bookshelf soon."
On one side of the desk were multiple piles of books stacked quite high, and you couldn't help your own amusement. Like before, you ran your fingers across their spines unaware of the fond smile upon your lips. You pictured how he would've moved in this office. Questions filling your mind as you imagined him—
Real.
Here.
With you.
He's not.
You set the book you brought on his desk. Tried not to think too much how you made sure it's the first thing he would notice.
Another deep breath as you finally stepped away and accepted—
—that you were yearning.
For him.
You, a flawed mortal, craving him and his divinity.
Now hoping that he sought a prophet after all, and that you were even worthy of being one.
It had been decades since you last attended mass, so when you sat on the last pew every fiber of your being was screaming that you leave. That every member of the congregation had their eye on you and your name upon their lips. That they would be expecting you more and more. That you would be the talk of the town before the mass even ended.
An out of schedule trip to town paled in comparison to you willingly attending mass.
Only for all of those anxieties to be deemed unimportant. Because there he was—divine, beautiful—and he spotted you. The bob of his golden rings paused, and all of his eyes turned to you. You couldn't look away. All throughout the mass, your gaze was his. Your hands clasped together as you realized that a few of his many eyes didn't look away as well. His voice was an anchor. Your mind trapped in the reality of him and how he kept you in his sights.
He's real.
He's here.
With you.
You didn't even notice when the mass ended. Having to blink and pull your legs to the side to let others exit the pew you sat on. That's the most you could do. The bulk of your attention still on him. A beacon surrounded by a crowd welcoming him home.
You didn't mind the comments of the older townspeople about your attendance, and didn't bother to give any answer of substance. They were distractions, and you needed to be left alone. Once they thought it best to do just that, you witnessed the moment he excused himself from the parishioners and went straight to you.
Hurried.
Beaming.
His hands reaching out before he caught himself. Letting them fall to his side to crouch before you instead. "You're here."
You licked your lips and gave a shaky exhale. "So are you."
And for a good few moments, you just smiled at each other.
"And I worried you."
"Enough that I'm here, Father."
"And braved leaving a surprise!" He pulled you up with him, then led you to the direction of his office with a childlike giddiness. And for a being of his age and divinity, it made you giggle. "Imagine my surprise when I came back, ready to catch up with my work, and found that!"
"It's just a book. One that I'm letting you borrow. Hardly a surprise."
He paused and turned to you. Gaze like a physical weight, while your own dropped to his lips as it shaped, "To you, maybe. The book itself, maybe."
Watched as those same lips pressed against the back of your hand. The same hand he had been holding this whole time. Your breathing stuttered. A spark set.
"Everything about it? Precious to me." Murmured against your skin, igniting heat from the contact point to ignite the rest of your body.
You burn.
And you tried your hardest not to sin.
Not that way.
He led you further into the depths of holiness. Stained glass saints welcoming a greater divine.
You burn.
Your body betraying you, while you leashed your mind to keep it in the straight and narrow.
Thoughts of what if, what if, what if, killed before the next word be spawned.
Not that way.
He opened the door to his office, and the sight of the cross on the wall across had you pulling your hand back. His hand tightened around it, confusion clear with how his fire-head flickered. How he moved closer. How his other hand reached out to almost cup your cheek. His lips were already shaping the words—
Be not afraid.
I seek no prophet, dear lamb.
And shame soured like milk down your throat, for now you wished that he did seek a prophet and that it was you—unworthy you might be.
The words didn't come.
"Stay here."
Eyes wide with surprise, you nodded.
He let go of your hand and moved deeper into his office. Your thoughts spiraling through realizations upon realizations, while your body housed sensations and emotions you couldn't easily parse.
You're afraid.
"Ah!" His voice from inside the office as the sound of rummaged books followed.
Not of him. No longer of him. Maybe never him in the first place.
"Where is it?"
You're afraid of yourself. For an inevitable laid within that office, and the next time you stepped into it with him there—you wouldn't be the same again.
"Ah!"
You pressed your hand against your bosom, the same one he held. A talisman already treasured before your mind could catch up.
"Here we go!" He returned with a book and a devastating smile.
You accepted with a surrender.
The book.
The realizations.
And when you're far enough from the church's view, taking the chance to flee home—
The burn.
The sin.
Your lower belly heavy with arousal.
Your clit swollen.
Your cunt wet.
Mouth salivating.
I had a clear visual on the vibe of the smut section of this, I just didn't expect that, given how I started this, that it would need this much build up.
Part twooooo~~~~
Based on how it's going, there could be 5 parts for this.
Previously:
"I'll search for the grater as soon as I could." A touch upon your elbow once you reached the church's entrance. A smile bestowed upon you, filled with hope you could crush—should crush. Even with all the information and lessons, he was willing to share and had shared. Even with all the understanding and listening he had given. You were no prophet. He bore no divine task.
A deep breath. "For scholarly interests."
His smile widened. "For scholarly interests."
A line drawn upon earth, as curiosity deemed itself the winner, with daring as its accomplice. The bud untouched and, instead, given space to bloom. Not freely, but still.
Thus, a new normal was inevitable.
You found him during your rounds the following week. His countenance catching your eye the moment you stepped out the house of the merchant family you visited. His attention on you before you even got through the surprise, the remembrance, the hope that you held the days before. That you would have time and control on when you would meet next. His long steps swallowed the distance between you two, and you knew, he was smiling.
He was.
In his hands, wrapped in cloth and with obvious care, the extra grater. Presented. Accepted. Thanked. Then, without missing a beat, small talk, exchanged. Afterward, discussion, engaged. And, as before, cut short when the two of you reached the town's gates with your home beyond it.
"Next time." His words.
"For scholarly interests." Yours.
Again and again. Littered amid them, the sharing of books read and hoped to read. Until he brought you one when you met on the road, and you, quite delighted and thankful, did the same. There, in pauses of treks to the town gates, the revelation that he was finishing his duties as fast as he could just to be able to join you, making you sheepish.
"Next time." His words, because you stopped him once again from walking you all the way to the town gates.
"For scholarly interests." Yours, with laughter, as you stepped out of the church with your satchel lighter because of that book you let him borrow.
Again and again.
Until the banging on your door just when you were about to sit down for dinner. Its urgency made you abandon the spread meal, and dictated your first choice to grab the satchel you dedicated for healing. It pushed every question in your mind when you saw his haggard form beyond the door. It set your course with his first words the push you needed.
"The midwife needs you." A frantic horse ride. Seven hours of a complicated birth full of too close brushes with mortality's end. A successful theft from death's jaw for both mother and child. A soft celebration of a new life, a continued one, and a reunion of a family after a fraught temporary time apart.
Not wanting to disturb the emotional moment, you stepped towards the living room of the small abode. Wanting a moment to yourself. Needing a moment to breathe. Only to be enveloped in a warm hug, and steadied by those strong arms that held you up. A moment to yourself, as you surrendered and sagged against him. A moment to breathe, as you buried your face in his chest. With these, exhaustion and hunger deemed themselves allowed to be felt now, instead of how you've always held it at bay until you reached home.
"Let's get you home." A simple exchange of congratulations, of relief, and goodbyes you weren't required to participate in. A slower horse ride, but not by much because of the late hour. The travel you didn't fully notice, for adrenaline had bled out now that the urgency had passed and exhaustion demanded addressing.
Not wanting to disturb your rest, he dismounted and took you in his arms. He hushed, a puff of breath against your skin, the little resistance you tried to utter. Carried you past the threshold of your home, then past the door of your bedroom. Upon your bed you were safely set down, a request that you rest he whispered in the space between your faces. Logic and control frayed to absence, you hummed and gave in to ever there curiosity, reaching out to touch his face.
"Oh." A mumble full of wonder, as your touch became a cupping of his cheek. Spellbound by the feverish warmth that you found, you rubbed your thumb against it. "… You're solid."
You heard him chuckle, but you were too tired to realize that it sounded strained. For whatever was left of your focus zeroed in the kiss he pressed upon your palm. "Of course, I'm solid."
A huff, then you were asleep.
Waking up was to the sound of movement in your kitchen, and the smell of cooking food. You tried not to analyze why your first instinct was to burrow further into your pillow and sigh. Tried to ignore the relief felt at not being forced to face the aftermath of nights like this alone. Buried the truths those emotions implied when paired with the fact that you knew who was outside your bedroom, and you remember what happened.
And you didn't mind.
Instead, you snuggled further against your bed and set all those troublesome thoughts aside. Shedding the stress off you was better and easier, you rationalized. Especially, when you were welcomed by bustling warmth when you opened the bedroom door. The meal you abandoned was cleaned up, your medical satchel returned to its place by your desk, and there he was in your kitchen with grater in gloveless fire-orange hand. His head of flames lit up most of the room, and with it, you saw some imperfectly closed cupboards and in contrast, perfectly stacked plates in the sink. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His eyes, the ones that should've caught sight of you, missed in squinted concentration. The sight made your lips quirk into a smile and lean against the door frame, your mind adding the view before you to the growing list of experiences you could never deem normal, but was becoming usual.
Whatever would come next?
The image of him maneuvering your tiny kitchen and trying not knock things over got you chuckling. That took his attention, and the sight of a divine whirling to face you, caught in doing something he shouldn't, pushed you to snickering. The clink of rings. The frozen pose with grater in one hand and was it a ginger root he held with the other? Unimportant, because all of his eyes blinked in perfect sync.
You froze, gripped by curiosity and fascination. You couldn't even hold back your smile, and even more, the teasing that followed. "Again?"
And oh, wonderful he—blinked.
You burst out laughing.
Each peal of laughter made your shoulders shake and your body to slide lower against the door frame. Your bottom hit the floor, and you're still laughing with an arm wrapped around your middle. Warmth bloomed from within and spread to the very tips of your fingertips. How long had it been since a new presence in your home didn't cause worry and fear? When he approached you, baffled and concern, you just laughed so much more because he wore your raggedy apron. It only added to how out of place he looked. You bit your lip and wiped the tears, another burst of laughter.
"Whatever did I do?" He huffed, amused, as he rounded the kitchen counter.
"… Heeeh! Look silly."
An intake of breath, a widening of his eyes, and a grin bloomed on his face. Easily missed, but you didn't. "Really? This is how you thank me?"
Another burst of laughter.
"Oh! Oh!" His arms set akimbo, and leaning forward over you, he puffed his cheeks before huffing it out and grinning. "How dare!"
A moment, as you held back your laughter, and he stared at you with all of his eyes. He blinked.
You devolved to laughter together. Pushed to hysterical guffaws when he gave you variations of blinks and flutters of his many lashes. Breathless wheezes when you exclaimed how unfair it was that even his many lashes were so pretty.
Chuckles, as you worked together in the kitchen for that dinner long delayed. Warmth, when you finally sat to eat, seats across each other. You, on your usual. Him, where your dear friend would often sit.
You didn't miss what it meant. Didn't miss how acceptance calmed the flare of fear and worry, and how your motion to the food spread before you was a choice. Just like, your next smile and two words. "Dig in!"
"How deeply?"
You giggled at how earnest his question sounded, taking up your spoon to start eating. "Until you're full."
And, oh, how fulfilling the rest of that night was. Good food to fill the belly. Long and fun talks to fill the mind. Laughter close by, with warmth staying by its side.
And what a good morning it was to start with. Languid jests thrown at each other while cleaning up, because you lost at insisting that he stay seated, and he won at insisting, once more, to help.
Soon, you were standing by your door, mid-huff. "At least let me walk you to your horse."
"Nonsense."
"It's just up to my yard." You watched as his rings made space to the hooded cloak he now wore. A slight lift for the folds that were set on his shoulders. A more prominent shift as he pulled the hood over his head.
His fire didn't burn the fabric, and the flames were kept under the thick fabric. His light? That had you staring. Strong enough to break through layers. The threads instead served to soften the blaze and bring to attention the swirl of his colors. His living fire-form.
Oh, how you wanted to touch.
And to what deliciously dangerous roads that want would lead.
"May I?" Your hands reached out but didn't dare reach farther. An excuse to touch, for your palms itched and your memories stirred. A phantom sensation that you were sure was real.
Golden rings shifted. He took a step closer.
Your fingers gave a twitch. You took a step closer.
"Feel free." He leaned forward, and from the corner of your gaze you saw his eyes close—all of them.
You reached farther. You touched.
Fever-warm skin and solid soft flesh.
His breath hitched, and you realized that he might've thought you were offering to fix his cloak. Before you could pull your hands though, his own covered them. It was your turn for your breathing to hitch.
Your eyes' turn to close as he nuzzled your palm and pressed his lips against it.
Not for a kiss.
And for some reason, you knew that it's a 'not yet'.
A deep breath—his or yours—maybe both.
"You're solid." Breathless, and unknown to you, just as full of wonder as you've first said it.
"Of course, I'm solid." He spoke against your palm, and you couldn't stop the shudder that flared through your spine. He felt it, and he chuckled, resulting to another shudder through your spine. His hand that was cupping yours against his lips pushed it against himself harder. Not a kiss. Not yet.
Your eyes opened.
You couldn't look away.
He shifted his face, both hands now once more cupping his cheeks. "I'm real. I'm here."
Then he moved, closer.
You wouldn't remember how and would only be able to surmise through what was logical. His hands letting go of yours only to slide against your arms, guiding them to bend to the elbows. One hand then bracing your upper arms to hold you still. The other cupping your own cheek.
"With you."
Your eyes, unable to meet his, unfocused. Your mind defaulting to your other sensations to comprehend—
—the puff of his breath against your lips.
—your hands against his chest.
—breathe.
—breathe.
—match his.
"Be not afraid."
You felt his lips against your forehead.
A kiss.
You shuddered through an exhalation of a breath you didn't even know you held.
Finally.
"I need no prophet, dear lamb."
Then he stepped away, something you only realized once the solid body beneath your hands was replaced by the chill of the early morn. Your eyes focused, an anxiety blooming within you at missing him as he left, but he's there still. A beacon. A reality.
Smiling.
"Get some rest. I'm sure the town would understand given the help you've given bringing life among us." He made sure his cloak's hood was properly set and mounted his horse. "May I come visit again, without an emergency bringing me to your doorstep?"
You nodded, your arms falling to your side as you watch him smile. His eyes so expressive that the very air around him softened with the gentleness of his wordless response. His playful shooing of you back into your home was followed, but the playfulness was left outside the door.
For you burn.
Arms wrapped to yourself as you leaned back to the closed door. Your breathing too loud that you almost didn't hear the stomping of his horse as he left.
You burn.
The pressure of his body against yours. The heat of him that not even the fabric of both your clothes could stop.
They followed you as you slid to the floor for the second time.
You burn.
With him.
And a realization that only now clicked.
If he didn't need a prophet, then what did he need?
Even more, what did he want?
not sure what kind of a beast this is. a little bit of a bird, a little bit of a troll, somewhat celestial.
the idea for the floating ribbons was an accident. i had some trouble getting these shiny filaments to stick to the build plate -> one of the doll's hands has a big gap in the middle where i had to glue a failed print together. i wanted to cover that up in some way, came up with tying a ribbon around the palm, and the ribbon idea spread to be a big element of the design.
I had a clear visual on the vibe of the smut section of this, I just didn't expect that, given how I started this, that it would need this much build up.
Thus, part 1.
Pale gold, like spun sunlight lovingly arranged by the wind, was how the people described his hair. Eyes the gray of a coming storm, your friend swooned over, during one of their regular visits to your home at the edge of town. Lips so finely shaped that it made perfect sense that all the hymns sung from them were in utter magnificence. Praises followed those first three in abundance, the consensus that the new priest was a godsent, quickly carved into stone without issue.
You found it endlessly amusing. How your friend trekked the distance to your home just to gush about the priest, and even more, because they claimed it their job to inform you of what you're missing.
It made you curious, but when your friend tried to invite you to come to church, for religious or priest-viewing reasons, you turned them down with a soft smile. Because even with divinity proven real and alive, you've long realized that you're not quite ready for its scope, and what it required from your life. Ever doubting, and unable to wrap your head around the matter of divine faith to accept it fully.
So you smile, tease, and do your best to ask the right questions to get your friend going. The amount of praises, gossip, observations they have of this priest growing with every encouragement. All the while, you try to live your life as you always did.
"The good Father asked about you today!" Were the first words out of your friend's mouth as they rushed into your home. Excitement making them miss how you froze, and how you covered it up with a smile.
"He knows of my existence?"
"Of course. He's been given the census of the town, and he's been taking his time visiting and introducing himself to everyone."
"He's visited you and your family, then."
"No." Their smile turned comforting. They didn't fully miss your discomfort. "He's working on a schedule with Mama and Papa. He's quite vocal on not wanting to intrude out of the blue."
You wanted to believe that you would be given the same kindness, and that's enough for tension to cease. You crossed the distance to your kitchen before you second-guessed yourself, searching for comfort in routine.
"He said he saw you in passing in the marketplace, and when you were doing your rounds." They followed you, stepping into the space with ease and already reaching for a cupboard. "He then asked your patients, and none gave an ill word. Which is as it should be."
You took the cups they passed, and started preparing snacks.
"I told him I'll ask you in his behalf."
Biscuits. Fruit slices. Jam.
"So, what lie are we planning?"
That made you pause, then chuckle, leaning and tapping your forehead against their shoulder. How many times had they held back curious strangers from your home? How many lies coordinated to buy more and more time? It's not like you're doing anything suspicious, but you're very protective of the home you've built and the peace you've cultivated.
Intrusions to your sanctuary was something you avoided at all costs, so with any hint of a possibility, you attempted to nip in the bud.
"Are you free next week?" You set the tray on the table as they slipped onto the chair across yours. They reached out and helped, setting the snacks out as you sat down too.
"What time?"
"An hour before sunset, maybe two."
"You have me."
"Then can you also tell him?"
"It would be my pleasure."
All that was left was to prepare for the meeting, of which you could only do so much. And in the way time always was, the day of the meeting arrived, and soon after, the appointed time. You were early, too. The lack of any medical emergency or high priority need, a relief in one hand and in the other, you chastised yourself for wishing. An internal battle commencing, while your friend accompanied you with much appreciated chattering. Excuses viable enough to retreat on one side. Wanting to get this over with on the other. That persisted even when you reached the great doors of the church.
Your train of thoughts was disturbed by one of the older priests engaging you in small talk. You haven't been around for a long while. The last time was when they needed your help in a medical situation that even their resident healer was stumped by. They've always been kind, some of them even knew you since you were a child.
"I'll tell him you're here." You almost missed your friend's words, but you felt it when they broke away to go deeper into the church. Soon enough, even the old priest left you. Alone in the threshold, you found yourself enveloped by the atmosphere of the holy place in the closing of the day. Your eyes following the lines of the walls, jumping from one stained-glass window to another. Taken by how the light played with the colored glass pieces. Appreciating the artistry and the careful hand obvious in their execution of beauty.
Your thoughts danced dangerously close to thinking this place was similar to home, and how in times like these, you would've found peace, when you heard your friend's voice coming from the distance instead.
You looked.
Pale gold, like spun sunlight lovingly arranged—your eyes widened, and you couldn't breathe. Breath stuck in the center of your chest, like a dagger stabbed in.
Pale gold, like spun sunlight—your jaw was locked shut, and you couldn't move an inch. Cold sweat breaking on your back like icy fingers dragging their way down.
Pale gold—
Pale gold—
Pale gold, like spun sunlight trapped in two big rings, floating over human shoulders. Floating around a flaming head of white fire, one with blazing licks of red and yellow on its tips. Eyes the gray of a coming storm—eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes—adorning those golden rings. All of them unblinking. Lips you couldn't see on that flaming head, yet you could hear words muffled and coming from far away. An amalgamation of emotions followed those first three revelations in a torrent, the truth that the new priest was a godsent, burned its way through your consciousness as a holy sword would through darkness.
You were frozen, with your throat full of sounds you couldn't dare let slip. Reality at a distance and muffled still. Questions starting and dying before it could even find footing. Left to bask at the countenance coming closer to you.
And those eyes snapped to your direction, and, upon their golden rings, they gentled. An action undeniable.
"Be not afraid."
Terror, awe, and a cacophony of more you couldn't dare sort, unlocked your jaw to give in return—
"I am no prophet, good Father."
"I seek no prophet, dear lamb."
Liar. You dared think in the presence of a divine. Aware of the truth that beings of his glory only showed such truthful inhumanity to prophets to be bestowed with saintly responsibility. And you're not worthy of it, not ready for it. Didn't want it. Blasphemy lining themselves up after that attempt at courtesy, demanding to be sounded out to stain yourself further and further with impurity.
"Whatever are you two talking about?" Your friend stepped to your side, with a tilt of their head and a wordless question in her eyes. One you couldn't answer.
"An icebreaker of a kind." He chuckled, then smoothly asked your friend if they could give the two of you, privacy. A chance to speak and to get to know each other, as he had done with almost every adult of this town so far. Your friend agreed, and told you that they would be waiting for you in the church's kitchen. You barely heard it, still frozen and staring at the priest before you.
You're alone at the threshold of the church.
With him.
"Fear not." He offered a hand, gloved in pristine white. A hand you couldn't take, still locked in the turbulent waves of emotions you don't even know where to begin to swim against. Terror. Awe. What more? What more? "Breathe, dear lamb."
You tried to. A hissing exhale that you hoped to not erupt into a scream. A stuttering series of breaths because you couldn't fill your lungs enough. "I am no prophet."
"And I seek no prophet." A glancing touch against your elbow. Simple and warm to guide you to moving onward, and a part of you was surprised when you took a step, and then another. "I bear no divine responsibility to pass forth. No burden to give."
"… T-then why?"
"You know not." A statement, not a question. And before you could even utter anything in response, he continued. Walking by your side, deeper into the church. "It's not important right now."
He paused and turned to you, reaching out to cover your clenched hands with his own. A shock of heat that seared into you how he was more than mortal. Like being under the late morning sun after you've stepped out of the cool shade.
"I give you my word, dear lamb, in the name of the eternal divine." His voice was full of comfort, and you finally took notice that his jaw moved as he speaks. That he had lips, as white as the flame of his head, and he was smiling. "You are not a prophet, and I am here bearing no divine task for you."
Partly trusting in those words, and greatly needing to function—to carry on living, you willed yourself to believe him, and to calm down. It took time and so much energy, but at some point you reached a level of calm where you could, at least and in some way, look at him. Let curiosity be felt at the forefront instead. And surprisingly, as you walked together in the inner garden of the church, you found yourself relaxing and even enjoying the conversation.
Found yourself talking too. More about your work as he asked questions about your patients. More about your healing knowledge as he talked about his own. You even talked about your little hardships and exchanged—
"You grate them instead?" Your voice high in surprise and your mind rushing through the solution presented. "Why haven't I thought of that?!"
"Not only garlic, but ginger and turmeric too. A cook mentioned it to me during my travels, and I've incorporated it in my little dabbling in healing. I've tried it with most root crops, too."
"I would have to find where I stored my grater. I never really used it, even for cheeses." A tilt of your head. A rummaging of memory. A sigh as you gave up. "Or, I'll just ask the blacksmith to fashion me one."
The way he paused took your attention. Even more, how he moved one of the hands he held behind him forward, to rub his chin in thought. Curiosity bred fascination at how normal that movement looked given his form. Fascination brought in observation and the latter provided—
"You've been among us for very long." You couldn't stop the comment. You didn't know how to explain or what words should follow it, and could only watch as he looked at you— "It's very jarring to see you move while looking this way though."
Those eyes looked away, the rings they're set on rotating with the movement. You carried on looking until they returned to meet yours. Even then you kept looking, believing that this would help make this view, this form, this being, become normal. For you need it to be.
"How many see you in this form?"
How many—
—can I talk to about the divinity among us?
—can I share this terror and awe to?
—can I ask—
"In this town, just you."
—why—
—why—
—why—
"In my days traveling among you, more than the number of my limbs and fingers."
—why can I see you while not being a prophet?
"I might have an extra grater."
You blinked, taken out of your spiraling thoughts. "… What?"
He chuckled, his shoulders shaking, and the rings that hovered over them bounced to follow such movement. Storm-colored eyes gleamed as they took you in, squinting with undeniable amusement because you blinked again. "For the garlics, gingers and turmeric that need crushing."
Another blink, and his cheeks pushed upward as his smile widened. Your eyes followed the movement, while your mind marveled at the strangeness of witnessing it, but also the humanity of such an expression. "Oh, right."
"When I find it, I'd like to give it to you." He nudged you with a soft touch on your shoulder, and before you could watch his next expression, you were forced to look onward to avoid tripping. "It's of no trouble, and it will save you the trip to the blacksmith."
"Why?"
"Scholarly interest, and as personal thanks." He leaned sideways towards you. The intention to share a private thought quite telegraphed. "You see, I've shared the idea with the church healer, but he's more inclined to keep to tradition. Since then, I've been unable to share my other ideas and lessons learned."
Your lips shaped into an O, and you nodded quite vehemently after. "He's a very good healer, but keeping to the traditions without taking into consideration the new discoveries or tools…" You missed the way his eyes were on you, as you launched into a monologue of your worries about the church healer. "… I do understand why he might want to stick to tradition, even to something like a grater, his hands would definitely struggle, but he's yet to take a student among the townspeople or even in the church, and we need all the hands we could get." A breath. "I, for one, would love to hear of the lessons you learned and your ideas."
"Really?"
Boundless curiosity unstoppable, you beamed. "Of course! I heard how well-traveled and well-informed you are from the townsfolk. I would like to learn more from you."
Boundless curiosity whispered, I would like to learn more of you. A whisper that died as he offered a new tidbit of information that you deemed more important; to listen to, to think about, to ask questions about, to discuss. Soon, a discussion it became. In rapt attention, it pulled words from your lips in speed caused by excitement, and thoughts rushed through your gaze in engagement.
"There you are." Your friend found you with the sun halfway through the horizon, and the sky a battlefield of colors. Sitting on a bench in the inner garden, mid-gesture as you were explaining your latest scholarly procurements to him as he stood before you, listening. Your words cut off, you turned to your friend to find confusion upon her face as she asked, "Are you ready to go?"
You looked up at him in regret—for the conversation cut short, for the tidbits of information you could no longer share to each other, for the words and ideas you wanted to pick his mind on—to see him looking at you with a soft smile. From the eyes upon the rings to the smile on lips you can now distinguish. A beat after, horror.
"Will it be too late by the time you get home?" Mistaking the reason for your expression, he offered a hand to assist you. An offering you tried not to notice as you shot up to your feet. A comfort you're too panicked to accept or deny. Too horrified as realizations made themselves known, along with reminders that you conveniently forgot. His hand fell to his side as you hurried to your friend's side. His smiled disappeared and the air around him turned apologetic. "I should've been more aware of the time, I am—"
"No!" You tried not to notice. The tilt of his head and the bounce of the rings at your exclamation. You tried not to notice. A smile you stretched as wide as you could, hoping it didn't look shaky. "No. I'll be fine. I live at the edge of town, yes, but it's not that far."
"Still, let me escort you to the door, at least." He smiled, then chuckled as he motioned towards the hall. "And next time, I'll try not to lose track of time and get sucked in by your interesting insights."
Next time. Two words that started so many sentences you needed to cut short. Rapt attention that you forced to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, and looking onward, trying not to listen as he started conversations that your friend only replied to. Next time. Reminded that the point of this meeting was an introduction to avoid an intrusion to your sanctuary. To nip interest in the bud.
"I'll search for the grater as soon as I could." A touch upon your elbow once you reached the church's entrance. A smile bestowed upon you, filled with hope you could crush—should crush. Even with all the information and lessons, he was willing to share and had shared. Even with all the understanding and listening he had given. You were no prophet. He bore no divine task.
A deep breath. "For scholarly interests."
His smile widened. "For scholarly interests."
A line drawn upon earth, as curiosity deemed itself the winner, with daring as its accomplice. The bud untouched and, instead, given space to bloom. Not freely, but still.
english isn't my native language, if you see anything that is iffy, feel free to tell me.
do not use, publish, reproduce or post anywhere without my explicit permission.
If you want to read the story with some Illustrations: PDF
Link is to Google Drive
Illustration count: 4 + cover
Reader: Blank Face — Plus-size body.
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Waking was summoned by a soft touch. A spell bestowed upon your bare shoulder, so light that consciousness almost missed its contact, but it did lose its chance to clasp in the sluggishness of sleep. For the moment was too short, so with rest as its lure and exhaustion as your ferry, sleep tried to tell you that at this moment, this was most necessary.
You've spent the last week so far from home, after all. Doing business. Doing your best. Determined to meet goals that were now successfully met. So you deserved this, this wonderful rest. Let your body sink into the bed, and let the bone-deep weariness have a chance to fade away. The world need not intrude. Not until you're ready.
You got time.
Not only that, you made sure that you were off work the next four days. That was one of the many reasons you even agreed to spend the last week working.
So rest.
Sleep.
Let your mind be emptied of thoughts unneeded, and let dream cultivate wonders in the space that was freed. Waking was, at the moment, unimportant.
Waking was unneeded—
Waking—
—was summoned by another soft touch. Once more upon your bare shoulder, but this time tracing a path. Fingertips over the slope, then down your arm. This time, consciousness seized the chance through sensation, and when the touch disappeared, longing wanted it back.
For you know this touch, and that simple recognition was enough.
With a sigh, you followed its retreat, turning from your side to lie on your back, then waited. You knew it would come back, an inevitability proclaimed truth by memory. So, wait you did.
For him—
—to follow through the weight of his gaze on you.
—to leave his perch on the edge of your bed and move closer.
—to hold you in the way you knew he wanted to, and the way you longed for.
For him to be with you.
For you to be with him.
For the two of you to be together.
And for him to please, please touch you.
He didn't.
You whined.
He chuckled.
And from that sound alone, warmth bloomed within you with mirth following its heels. They chased away exhaustion, and made sleep surrender its hold. You're fully awake now, and when he cupped your cheek, you're home.
"Gods, I missed you." You cupped his hand and pressed it even harder against your cheek. Then, you burrowed your face onto his palm. A deep breath in, then a shaky exhale. A kiss. "I missed you so much."
You felt his other hand against the side of your face, and you let him cradle your head, content for now to bask in his hovering presence. The puff of his breath on your face. The dip of the bed because of his weight. The press of his body to your side.
You clung to his wrists as you waited, eyes still closed.
Please.
He kissed your forehead, and with a gasp, the warmth within you turned to a burning. Your clinging fingers dug for purchase on his muscles, and your back arched slightly in offering. You heard him take another inhale, louder and longer. Acceptance. More kisses followed. Praise. Once more on your forehead, then on your eyelids, then on the apple of your cheeks, then on the tip of your nose, then on the corners of your lips, then on your jaw. There again, and again, and again, ending with a nip at your chin with sharp teeth.
You were already struggling to breathe when he pulled back, a whimper spilling from your lips as you opened your eyes.
"Welcome home," he said with a cocky smile and gleaming eyes. As if you didn't know the control he exerted in every kiss he gave you. As if you didn't feel the tension of his muscles beneath your hands, and the dark tendrils of his body that latched onto your skin at every chance. As if you weren't away for the past week, and you merely went out for a grocery run.
As if.
"You—you weren't here when I got home." You accused with a tug of his wrists and a pout.
"You're a day early, dearest."
"I called." You shifted and nipped at the pad of his thumb. "I texted."
"Hmm." He pressed his thumb against your teeth even more, his gleaming eyes filled with expectation. "And I received them."
You bit on his thumb a tad harder, delighted when his eyes fluttered closed. "Busy?"
"Very." A single word that was the herald of more, delivered low. He took back his hand with a swipe on your lips. "I took every job at work that I could find and do. Helped with every backlog, struggling workmate, new hire. I even asked our cleaners if there's anything I can help them with. Anything. Just anything to make sure that I stay inside that building and not follow you. It'll be so easy. You know it. Step into the shadows and go to you."
You watched as he undressed, his shirt set aside and the dark cords of muscles, with the tendrils that rose and sank in the black of his form, revealed. The urge to touch him slammed against your ribs, and you curled your fingers to dig on your palms. Wait. Your heart hammered against its confines and disagreed.
"I kept telling myself," He crawled over the bed to you. His gaze a sensation you felt, as it devoured your form. "Just one more night, one more sleep. I can keep my word, because you asked. You told me your reasons, and I understood. I still understand. As much as I keep claiming that I am your shadow, and I will follow you wherever you go, but also—"
You parted your legs in invitation, and he moaned. His intentions immediately abandoned to instead partake of what you offered. He reached out and touched your feet, then up your legs, then your thighs. There it took hold, gripping, then digging, with his eyes—all of his eyes—riveted by the way your flesh yielded. As if he hadn't seen it before. As if he was making sure that you were indeed here and real.
"—I am your lover," A squeeze served as punctuation. "I am your lover, and I want you happy. So when you asked me that night, determined and ready to explain, ready to bargain, there was only one choice."
"Do you regret agreeing to it?" You parted your legs even more and no longer wanting to wait, reached out for him.
"No," He reached out in return, and met you halfway. Palm to palm. Fingers entwined. Kisses upon your knuckles, and gentleness that cannot be denied. "You were so excited to be recognized for your work. Every call, every text, I was so proud."
"But?" You wrapped your legs around his hips, and pulled him to the cradle of your form. He succumbed, and both of you quivered when your clothed groins met.
He struggled to breathe, his nostrils flaring and his grip on your hands fluctuating in strength. An attempt to find a rhythm to use to return to composure. An attempt to keep the rest of his body unmoving. The latter failing and failing, with how the tendrils kept latching onto you more and more, then retreat, and then, repeat. You watched, fascination curling low in your belly at the sight. And with it, delight wanting you to catalog everything you can.
Love?
Love clawed its roots deeper to your marrows, because you understood what an honor it was to bear witness your beloved's battle with composure and control, while he's proclaiming his love to you through a ramble of almost complaints.
Want demanded more, so you squeezed his hands in return, there to meet his gaze when he focused once more. "But?"
"But I wanted—"
You squirmed against him.
He growled, teeth bared.
And oh, how your mouth just watered.
Before you could tease him again, another growl. Lower, as he untangled his hands from yours. "Hands on the pillow, dearest."
Your insides clenched. Around nothing. So empty.
"Now."
Trembling and licking your lips, you followed.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"I wanted you here," His hands held your sides, holding you down to the bed. Eyes heavy with thought and what you were sure were memories. "I wanted to be there with you."
"I wanted to touch you." He pushed his fingers under the hem of your top and played with the flesh of your belly. You gulped in a breath, and your lips stayed parted as you descended to panting. Higher those hands of his moved, brushing against the underside of your breasts, and you braced yourself for more. For the tingling of your nipples to be soothed, and the heaviness of your breasts be held. For his mouth to be on you, tasting— "And as lovely as those video calls were, they paled in comparison to this."
He brushed his fingers against your skin again, and suddenly, you wanted to weep. Because yes, the week away was a success and you too, didn't regret your decision, but—
"I wanted to ask you to fool around with me during those calls, at least once, but you always looked exhausted, so I didn't dare. Told myself I'll wait." Another brush of his fingers, lacking and maddening and— "Only to wake up in the middle of the night with a hard cock, humping on the bed and moaning your name."
"Please."
He moaned your name and rocked his hips forward.
"Gods." Your breathing stuttered, legs tightening around his hips while yours bucked. Your cunt wet beneath the fabric of your clothes, and so damn empty. All the while, your mind supplied images to accompany the story just told, and lust generated fantasies that made you need to see it for real.
"Yes." He moaned, clued in to the thoughts in your mind. "I was wrecked and left to fuck my hands, love. One moment, begging for you to come home, or that I be allowed to come to you. Then the next, viciously planning how I will welcome you home."
"And is this part of the pl—ah!"
Your bastard of a lover cupped your breasts, pinching your nipples and squeezing. He watched unblinking as you responded. Salivating at how you lost control. Your hands tugging at the pillow. Your body lifting from the bed. Your thighs—he groaned—trying to bodily make him yield and get him to grind harder against your core. Again, again, he pinched your hardened nipples and peppered amid it, flicks, brushes, and taps.
"Not part of the plan, dearest." He didn't stop. "There's too little to constitute a plan." His thumbs rubbed circles on your nipples. "Too focused on not breaking my word." Lightning burned through your nerves. "So imagine when I saw your call and texts once I finished overtime." Kneading your breasts to give your nipples respite. "Imagine when I saw you here. Real. So fucking real. Asleep." Resistant to your grinding hips and any attempt to get him to please, move. "I had to leave the room and take a very cold shower. Then had to go outside because the moment I checked on you again…" His tongue slithered out of his mouth, wet and dark. It reminded you of all the ways and times that tongue brought you bliss. How you haven't felt that bliss in quite a damn while. "You needed your rest."
"I need you."
"Are you rested?"
"Just." You locked your legs around him and arched your body even more, knowing he was watching. Knowing what he's doing. Knowing him. "Fuck! Me!"
The smile left his expression, along with mischief that gave center stage to another. Your beloved's hands moved lower, abandoning your breasts for your sides, your waist, your hips, and there it stayed.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
"Are…" Unblinking eyes widened. Color-rimmed darkness, stared. All of them, on you. Parted mouth stretched into a maw and loomed. Guttural, "…you rested?"
Intent and meaning as layered as the otherworldly echo now freed in his voice. This exchange an iteration of so many others that came before. You knew this. You knew him. You knew the depths he would pull you under, and the precipice he's going to hurl you both over.
Breathe in.
Moan it out.
"Yes."
Just like that. Again.
"Yes."
Beg.
"Please… I need—I want—"
His finger brushed the tear that clung on the edge of your eyes. Then, he brought that same finger to his maw and licked it. Eyes fluttered close. A moan. Every bit of you, sustenance. Desperate for more, he kissed you. Gods, his lips against yours. Chaste, as he breathed you in. Pressing, as his lips started moving. And oh, you knew that he could spend hours like this, his fixation of you down to the granular. Something he had admitted. A torment that right now you couldn't take without going insane.
So you whined, shoved yourself to him, and opened your mouth. Your tongue licking at his lips and trying to push past its seam.
And control threatened to collapse with a shudder, and hunger waged a coup for the throne. Your mouth was filled with that tongue, thick and serpentine, wrapping around your own and muffling your moans. It rubbed against your teeth, following the edges and counting each pearly piece. You bit down, and you saw some of his eyes roll back, while the rest filled with glee. More and more, biting and slithering. He would pull back to give you both a moment, then dive back in and then repeat. Somewhere along the process he covered your ears until all you could hear was the sound of your kiss.
Your mind surrendered to bliss, a switch flicked quite easily because it's him. You wrapped your arms around him and ran your nails on his back, moaning as his body gave another quiver. Moaning some more when he tugged your tongue into his mouth to suck and nibble.
Drowning in the pleasure thrust into your mouth, you didn't notice his tendrils wrapping around you. When you did, it was when he broke the kiss to look.
"Beautiful. So…Beautiful." You, adorned in living darkness in swirls of ink that breathe and pulse, were a gift. One that's now back in his hold, and he's quite determined to unwrap.
And with reverence, he did. Agonizingly slow to the point that you gritted your teeth. All proper. Control in some level restored. He even folded your clothes, and you were sure he would've left the bed to bring it into the closet if you hadn't growled. He had done it before.
Sometimes he would call it a teasing.
Sometimes, punishment.
Always, a sign to even more.
And that more came with the press of his body down yours, and his return to the cradle of your thighs. In press of his lips, in the nipping of his teeth; kiss then a nip, kiss then a nip. More and more after, those sharp teeth of his following the shape only he could see. Harder, bites that lit pain and burned it into bliss.
"I can kiss you for hours." He murmured against your lips before sucking the lower one and scraping his teeth against its inner side. His hands clamping against your hips and stilling any squirming, and denying your want for friction. Nails digging just enough to be felt, but also with promise and with knowledge of what's to come next. "Let me."
"N—" A kiss muffled your answer, heavy and full of teeth, robbing your breath with the slide of tongues and the push of his chest. You growl, and he moaned in response, body shivering and the tendrils wrapped around you tightening. His want to push against you, into you, was palpable and familiar. You pushed back, gasping for breath at every chance and wanting, just as wanting as he was. Pulling him in, pulling, only to then remember what it was you were going to say. "No."
He stilled and watched as you caught your breath. Each movement followed, catalogued.
"We have days. I want—" Voice tapering to a whimper. "I need you."
He ground his clothed, still clothed, cock against your cunt. The push. The friction. The way it nudged against your nub.
"Now." You dig your nails into whatever of his body you held. "No long foreplay. You can kiss me for hours later. You can make me come through just my tits, through just whatever you want, damned later."
You pushed your hips up, giving him no choice but to yield, and against him, you rolled your hips. The neediness, as deliberate as his teasing.
He stilled.
No, not stilled.
Poised.
The thrill of anticipation ran through your spine.
"Take me." Two words that derailed thoughts and ideas considered. Made priorities shift and arranged hierarchies.
The tendrils wrapped around you thickened and started moving. Up your arms. Down your legs. Into your mouth, guiding it open and tangling with your tongue. Your tits were squeezed, and your nipples pulled and flicked. Your thighs were pushed apart even further. A step beyond comfort, shy burning strain. It made your hips give a sharp twitch and your back to arch, as you succumbed to instinct, feeling and trust. Juices dripped from your slit, the same way drool did from your occupied mouth.
He returned his grip around your squirming hips and ground his crotch against yours. You gasped, eyes fluttering closed and body shuddering—naked cock, naked cock. Once. Twice. Pushing and parting your nether lips. Thrice. Hooking against your clit.
The fourth was a breaching that had you pause breathing, then crying at the rightness of it. The push. The stretch.
"Oh, love." He choked out the words, his forehead lowering to press against yours. Two words became a chant as he slowly moved. The both of you remembering how it was. Overwhelmed and relieved by how it still is. "Oh, love."
He kissed the tip of your nose, then your tear-stained cheeks, and then, the corners of your tendril-occupied lips. Almost chaste. His body shaking. His claws digging then retreating, digging then retreating, in time to the pulse of his being. Trying. Trying. Not to spill blood and deem it as marking. Not rip you open and sink into you, proclaiming it as becoming one. Not devour you, carry a piece of you ever with him, so you're never apart, and you're never truly gone.
A deep breath in.
A shuddering exhale choked out when you held him. An inhale sucked in when you licked his lips.
His whole body twitched when you nipped his jaw, hips pushing harder against yours and his cock hitting spots that made your eyes roll back. Before you could empty your lungs, he moved. Dragged his cock with maddening slowness even when your cunt clung and squeezed to keep it in. But he carried on moving away, chuckling when you whimpered around the tendrils filling your mouth. Grunting when you dug your nails and tried to pull him back, but failed. Purring when he disentangled himself, and you bit through the dark tendrils hard enough that they dissipated. That resulted to his strained huff, the sound full of amusement and praise.
"Don't you dare. Don't you dare." You moaned while scrambling to keep him there with you. Trying to bypass the way he held your hands, palm to palm, so you could press him back to you. While in halting thoughts, a part of you cursed your weaknesses, and another complained about your mortality, and another hissed at how, and why were you human? For he had greater strength, greater control, even just pure damn fucking stamina, he had more. And with all these, he toyed with you in so many delightful ways. "Not n—"
He slammed back into you to the hilt. A starting beat of a rhythm.
"—Ah!" Your exclamation a starting note to accompany it.
Then he went and made you sing.
"Fuck. Yes. Please. Fuck me. Fuck me." You panted and squirmed, while he looked down on you with a grin. His hips settling into a rhythm, while you descended into relying on instinct. Hips meeting his. Your cunt squeezing with every deep thrust that filled you. A note pulled from your throat with every retreat. Wanting the friction. Wanting the fill. Digging your feet to the mattress as you tried to maneuver, tried to chase, only to moan loud when he slammed his cock deeper back in. Again and again, this verse continued, defined even more by his grin set on his face, your relief, and the sounds of meeting flesh.
You didn't know how long this part went, didn't care. The climb to the zenith focused on the apex between your legs. Pleasure in doses that to your deprived self was enough. Because you're now allowed to reach release and would take it whatever way it comes.
And oh, it came fast and sudden, breaking through the rhythm that it seized all of your attention, and you could only feel. Your legs kicking out, toes curling. Your body thrashing in convulsions. Lips parting to let free a crescendo as the shadows hurled you to the abyss of little death.
Finally.
Finally.
But before you reached the ground where the bliss of an afterglow awaits, he snatched you back to debauchery's path and into greed's embrace.
"Wait! I just—" Through the haze pleasure cast upon your gaze you saw him. "I'm still—cum—ming!"
"More." The grin gone from his face. His eyes, and the others that opened on his body, all on you. "More."
A new verse, heralded by new limbs growing from his back and how they took hold of your twitching legs. Whatever words you had warped into moans, for you could only watch and appreciate his manhandling. Tilting your hips. Almost folding you completely in half. Leaving you with no choice but to feel his cock press down even more and make pleasure crawl up your spine, then muffle the little logic left in mind.
"Good?"
"…Go—ood!" The only thread of logic and awareness you could still hold onto. Enough for you to marvel as your beloved's form started to reflect the true unraveling of his control.
"Good." Growled through a mouth now bearing and baring too many teeth. Saliva like ink dripping and staining your body. Through a throat with an anatomy for a language you could only dare to butcher. A language that spilled echoing after, delivered lower, rougher.
"Gods. Please."
His tendrils continued the halted ministrations of the previous verse. Tightening around your nipples. Flicking your clit. Coaxing new notes and higher pitches from your lips. A part of you thought it was him easing you in, a greater part knew and screeched when he restarted the thrusting of his hips. Just as heavy and as intense, but with everything else in addition—
"—?" He goaded you in a growl of words in his native tongue, and you couldn't even think of any response. Only that—only that—
"Wait—" You tried to push the words out. "Cock—getting bigger!"
Bigger.
Bigger.
"—Too much!" You thrashed against his hold, only to be drilled back into the bed. "Please!"
"Mmmore?" He fucking had the audacity to chuckle, however strained.
Bigger.
This verse featured your aroused and fuck-drunk screams, and whatever palatable humanity of his getting lost to give way to the uncontained creature that he is.
"More."
How many verses your maestro coaxed you to sing with him, you've lost track. How many climaxes reached, alone or shared, you've stopped counting after the second one. Only that near its ending, your screams were voiceless, your throat was raw, and he was roaring. Your womb was overflowing with his seed, and your sticky cunt, plugged by his too big of a cock, leaked.
Freed and boneless, you laid on your bed beneath him. Unseeing. Just feeling. That delicious ache, and how much you're now a mess. His gaze on you, and you alone.
"…with me?" Broke through the haze and made you blink, focus returning.
"Ye—es." You croaked with a hum. "You?"
He smiled. "With you."
You reached out for him, and he met you halfway, flipping your positions so you settled over his form. Moaning when everything in you shifted and made you tremble, while he chuckled and nuzzled his face to the side of yours.
"Few minutes before cleanup?"
"More minutes."
"Then more fucking later?"
"Hngh."
"…Or tomorrow?"
You lightly smacked your hand over his mouth to shut him up and settled in.
"You promised." Another mouth somewhere on his body, just as easily summoned as his plenty of eyes.
So I've done my first aid + CPR a few times. And every single time I try and bring up scenarios for fat folks
Specifically like 'what if someone is too large for me to wrap my arms around then to do the heimleich'
And its incredibly rare I get a decent answer.
How absolutely insane is it that me, as a fat person, is asking how to have MY life saved or to save ANOTHER life, is an impossible feat if someone is fat.
Most of the time they tell me to 'just try anyways uwu'
From a first aid and CPR trainer, who is also fat.
The heimleich is scientifically as effective as slapping someone VERY hard on the back. The only reason it's so well taught is the man that invented it did a lot of great PR for himself. It's also a bit easier for smaller framed people to get the necessary force in, because people are often extremely scared to hurt people, even in life threatening situations.
With larger bodied people, whether they be fat, tall, muscular, etc. If you cannot get your arms around them, literally just slap the shit out of their shoulders. You want hard, open palmed slaps right in the center of the shoulders or slightly below.
If they are too tall for you to reach that high, guide them to lean over the back of a chair, and then slap slap slap slap slap.
It's been proven to be just as effective through many studies. It just doesn't have a trademarked name and a dramatic effect in film.
If you have to do CPR on a larger bodied person, again, fat, body builder, tall and broad, whoever, the trick to finding where you want to put your hands if going to be to take your hand and shove it in their armpit. No seriously. Put your hand in their armpit, then drag it in a straight line towards yourself until you're in the center of the chest, then put your other hand beneath that one. This is where you push. Then you are going to move the arm closest to you out of the way so you can get closer to them, and get the leverage you need to press down for compressions. The more of your body weight that is over your hands, the better the compression will be. Act like you are trying desperately to pack the last of your clothes in a suitcase, and just slam down hard on their chest.
They will make *horrible* noises. You might even break ribs.
But a broken rib is better than being dead.
One day, perhaps, other CPR and First Aid instructors will actually know and teach this shit. But the medical field is filled with people who don't know, don't care, or just outright hate fat people. So while this information won't fix your complaint, I do hope it helps someone out there with saving their loved ones, should it ever be needed.
OP, this is genuinely a masterpiece, three poems in one, moving and well crafted. Please tell me you have submitted it to at least some poetry contests, and if not, please do so.
You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.
Your writing is sooo fucking amazing. Please keep up the excellent work! I think my favorite was about the shadow demon. It was steamy as hell 😮💨
Ayieeeee. Thanks for your kind words. Was working on another project so wasn't able to write much, but there's definitely some more coming.
The dear shadow creature piece and pieces like those take quite a lot of time and mind-energy (both in terms of art and writing) and I most likely will focus on them or just have this blog mainly be like those because I also like them the most.
I write quite long stuff, especially when it comes to smut. It's so fun to dig into the brains, dynamics, fascinations, when it comes to those situations.
It will take longer, but I hope for your patience and kindness.
Speaking of, here's the first paragraph of the next piece (currently past 2k words already)
Pale gold, like spun sunlight lovingly arranged by the wind, was how the people described his hair. Eyes the gray of a coming storm, your friend swooned over, during one of their regular visits to your home at the edge of town. Lips so finely shaped that it made perfect sense that all the hymns sung from them were in utter magnificence. Praises followed those first three in abundance, the consensus that the new priest was a godsent, quickly carved into stone without issue.
Once more, many thanks! If you have any dynamic, characters, ideas that you would be interested in seeing me take on, please do not hesitate and throw them at me.
Well-paced variation in tone is important in fiction to avoid desensitising one's audience. No matter what tone a given work sets, if it sticks to that tenor without respite, eventually the audience will become habituated and stop feeling it. That's why it's important for media where everybody is miserable all the time to occasionally throw in some really weird sex.
