Ok, weird note, this is not technically part of Oblitus, because you could read this separately, but I do highly recommend you to read it right after The Beginning of the End!
Read it on AO3 here!
Word Count: 9,175 Rating: Explicit
There is something intrinsically wrong with seeing Esra so shaken by such a small thing.
The argument they had just had in the temple had irked him more than he realized it would, something about their outright defiance setting him on edge in a way very little still did these days. They had tried to evade, had become confrontational when he did not allow them to brush past it like usual.
His concerns are valid, and he knows they know it. Had admitted it themself once upon a time, told him when he was still a god that they always crusade better right after a shear, the lack of extra weight making them even more efficient and ruthless. He hadn't understood at the time how very scared they had been, how much of a struggle it was for them to overcome.
Even knowing now, he feels a bit like he can't fully understand it. The weight of something so heavy regularly sets him off, had been the real reason he had shed the outer layer of his robes. The heat had been an excuse, though he's glad he found one by the way Esra had reacted so prettily for him when they first saw him.
He can admit, if to himself, that he's still intrigued to see how far they'll let him go in the name of comfort. A dark thought, certainly, but nothing they haven't done before. He's realizing more and more that there is little Esra is not willing to try, that voice in their head that urges them to always know that little bit more playing to his many fantasies well. They're so amenable to even his darker fantasies, unafraid of taking damage in the way only a god truly can be.
It's dizzying how much he craves it, but he cannot allow even the visceral response to derail him here. It is clear they are not in the same headspace, and he struggles to imagine any timeline where he tells them what to do against their own wishes that he could find even the barest of satisfaction in.
Their dynamic is made sweet by their continued enthusiastic compliance, a god choosing to kneel before him instead of being forced. He has had enough of force for a lifetime, and he would not push it onto them for any reason.
(He is many things, but foolish to his own detriment is not one of them.)
They follow behind him like they are marching to their own execution, though he can see they're trying to hide it. He imagines if he did not know them so intimately, he would not notice the way their shoulders are just a little too high, or the way their eyes keep darting to the archway, like they may flee after all. Their breath is just a touch too fast, and if he looks very, very closely, he can see the almost imperceptible tremble that wracks their entire body.
Everything about the moment is wrong, but he is nothing if not willing to fix broken things.
"Take a breath, Esra. You are trembling," he says, a fact, and they take a single, shaky breath, then another, then another.
He can see them attempting to be The Lamb. It is the way they stand, the way they move. It is the pleasant blankness they offer him, though it does not reach their eyes. They are looking at him oddly, and he lifts a hand to remove his veil, unnecessary while they are alone like this. The light in the room dims, as though it is controlled by his own needs.
He raises a brow at them, and then they are Esra again, slightly bashful, that small smile they get when they are embarrassed painting their cheeks with a flush he has never been anything short of captivated by.
"The time of day changes based on whether your veil is on or not. I didn't want you to get any headaches while you're in here," they say, and it could only be from them that he is able to accept the kindness for what it is.
Were it anyone else, he would suspect an ulterior motive. Few are so selfless as to do such difficult work of giving a pocket dimension the basic awareness needed to notice whether he is wearing a garment or not, and he knows it requires a steady stream of power to keep it active. Even the changing star map they enjoy every night, an addition Narinder is realizing is just as much for Esra's unspoken fear of the dark as it is for Narinder to see them after a millennia, takes a fair amount of power. It is no wonder that they are always so tired, they do not leave enough power for themself.
He's loath to think about how very much they will pay for it as they make their way through the prisons he had made for his siblings.
Still, he lets the gratitude he feels for their consideration wash over them like warm water. He watches it loosen their muscles, even out their breath. He is realizing that Esra wants nothing more than to feel useful, and he can give them use. He may not be their god, but he is happy to continue being their cause. Relishes in it even, the trust they offer to him in such simple gestures as letting him run his hands over their neck unguarded, an action he does not take now. They are still nervous, even if they are relaxing their hand in his hold in the submission they offer him so freely.
"You are too kind, Esra. I struggle to think of any so attuned to my needs," he says, because it is true. It just so happens to be exactly what they want to hear, face slowly morphing to satisfaction, and Narinder wonders how he can use this.
He starts slow, pulls them in so his other arm is behind their back, starts moving them into a dance. They follow easily, reading his signals perfectly when he takes a sharp turn, carefully dancing with them around the countless piles of books.
There is more spinning than would be considered smart for a traditional paired dance, but he's watched them spin in circles for tens of minutes through the crown, claiming the dizziness helps them think better. He uses it now, humming something quiet as they begin to laugh, almost tripping before he dips them low, smiling mischievously.
"Is this better, my lamb? Your thoughts always did seem to spin, are we matching their pace? Shall I go faster?" he asks, voice dipping low as he tempts them. It is easy to do, the way they move where he puts them. It's been true every time, the way they adjust to his tiniest of movements, satisfying in the way scratching an unreachable itch is. It consumes all of his focus, until he's spun them out and let go, watching as they fall onto their bed with a laugh.
"Well, I'm definitely dizzy," they say, and their smile is their own again.
They are appropriately relaxed when he makes his way to the bed, moving to straddle their waist and kiss them soundly. They cannot seem to stop their huffs of laughter, but he kisses them anyway, swallowing them down the same way he's swallowed their moans. It tastes similar on his tongue, the headiness of breathing the air directly from their lungs making him purr just that bit louder, until they are petting sweetly at the spot behind his whiskers, kissing him back with lazy abandon.
He waits to pull back until they seem to have forgotten why they are here in the first place, and his hand comes up beneath their fleece again, this time the one they prefer to wear on crusades.
It is imbued with the power of the cowboy, but the fleece beneath his hands is silk. It is smooth and cool against his hands, his thighs. It contrasts with the grey of his robes beautifully, and he understands why they wear it in place of the fleece he gave them. They are a vision like this, donned in silk and gold, opulence made mortal. He wants to drink them down, but he knows he cannot afford to be distracted. Not when he has the opportunity to permanently rewire their fear into anticipation.
It is questionable, he thinks, what he intends to do. He knows that the difference between fear and desire is paper thin. He's weaponized it before, has made death look like the sweetest of mercies, but never like he's about to. It's another beast entirely to figure out how to make them crave an act that in a vacuum is no more than a simple grooming ritual. It reminds him of his first bath in a way, the intrinsic fear of an unpleasant sensory experience overwhelming his mind's rational thinking.
He has to make it good. Has to make it something they will want to seek out again.
"How do you usually go about it?" he asks, and he doesn't have to elaborate because they are in his mind again, a familiar feeling that is almost like having fingers ghost over the inside of his skull. It's what makes it so hard to focus on what he wants to show them, the almost pleasure sometimes making it hard to think about anything but their fingers doing the same thing on the outside.
They hesitate, about to go tense when he kisses them again, settling his weight more securely over their chest until the tension drains again. It is a careful dance, and his mind spins with ideas on how to keep them loose and pliant.
"I don't think you'll like the answer," they say when he gives them space to breathe, but their pupils are blowing wide, like they're only half here, and the idea he has is just as likely to entice them as it is to push them away.
"Tell me anyway," he says, nuzzling into their throat. There's just the slightest hesitation before they angle their head to give him better access, and he rewards their trust with a slow drag of his tongue just below the line of silk holding their bell in place.
It jingles lightly, his ears perking instinctively at the sound. It's odd, the way it makes him respond, body orienting to it before his mind catches up. He can think of multiple cases where he had immediately wandered away from an important task, searching for the faint sound of Esra nearby. Their voice is normally louder than the bell, but he's noticed the way they take to hiding behind the weeping statue in the graveyard. Nearly every follower they've ever had still remains buried there, countless souls in limbo. He wonders if they know, then pivots his thoughts to avoid the possible conversation for another time.
They don't answer right away, but this time it's because they can't seem to stop squirming beneath him, hips arching up as runs his tongue under the collar, their breath starting to come in gasps.
It isn't the first time he's done this, just grooming their neck until they're desperate, the area so sensitive without wool to cover it.
"I usually just hack it off when I'm taking a break on a crusade. Usually the adrenaline is enough to keep me from flinching though there's been some... incidents," they say, and he doesn't need to hear them elaborate to know they had probably injured themself countless times.
He's done the math before, and the oddest thing about Esra is how often they've died to simple, avoidable things in contrast to the mere six deaths they experienced at the hands of the Old Faith. Eight, if he counts the two times he had killed them before realizing there was no hope trying to sacrifice them.
(He has had enough of force for a lifetime, and he would not push it onto them for any reason.)
They are a puzzle all in one color, the shapes blending together so it is hard to find the right fit. Their fear of being shorn next to their enjoyment of his hands around their throat. Their discomfort at being weighed down by their wool laid out with how badly they need to be regularly squeezed back into their body. Their desperation to hand out kindness, yet flinching every time it is offered in turn. The Lamb and Esra, dancing to a tune he cannot comprehend, faster and faster until it is impossible to tell which is which.
He hums, hand coming up to untie the ribbon, tossing it toward their desk with precision he knows they cannot match. It is why they use the blunderbuss, he knows. Had pulled sin from the followers like blood from a stone, near brutal in their collection once it had been discovered.
It's one of the clear memories of them from the gateway.
He doesn't know what caused him to start paying attention to the cult. He vaguely remembers thinking that the crown was odd, and when he looked through it, it had taken the haze of the serpent, of sin.
He remembers being concerned. He remembers that he had been close to taking the crown back then, uncertain of what they would become when given the opportunity to do as they pleased. Sin would not respond to him, was both the crown and not.
He watched them faced with their first commandment, and his voice was not in their ear. Given the choice between wrath and lust, he thought he would know. They had chosen a fight pit, and he thought their choice here would echo it.
Instead, they had declared a Rite of Lust immediately. Had watched unblinkingly at the acts the followers had committed, a fact he only knew because he could see them when the crown became the serpent. Had come to the jarring realization that his vessel was not against lust, but instead wanted no part of it themself.
Or, so he had thought.
The creature below him now certainly doesn't seem removed from it, and he watches with sly satisfaction as the being who had once claimed to him they were far too busy with their duties to even consider taking a spouse fell apart at just his weight at their hips and his tongue against their scar.
"No complaints if we don't, but I thought you were gonna shear me?" they ask, and the satisfaction flares brighter.
It is exactly what he wanted, Esra offering to continue. They look flushed, eyes hazy as he gives them too little. The fear is washed away entirely, and he relishes in it.
"I am attempting to soothe your nerves, my lamb," he says, and he loves the way they react to the title. He wonders if it is perhaps the distance, another mask to wear to give themself confidence. The lamb is brave enough to cut down hordes, so surely they are brave enough to be laid bare beneath their god.
"Consider them soothed then. I'd really like to get this over with quickly. And also not on the bed, I don't want to wash the sheets again today."
He huffs a laugh into their neck, but doesn't move. Continues the same slow, long licks across their pulse, holding them in place with his weight as they writhe ineffectually against him.
They make a small noise of frustration, but they do not topple him. It would be easy for them, even with his height advantage. He is built for speed, for precision. They are built much like the hammer they seem to dislike so much, slow but unrelenting. They could push him off if they wanted to.
The fact that they don't is just another offering at his altar.
"Nari," they whine after a half dozen more passes, really starting to squirm now. "I'm serious, you are not shearing me in bed," they say, and then he's pulling them back, forcing them to catch him so he doesn't fall off the bed. They are quick to do so, sitting up quickly with wide eyes and a firm grip on his waist.
He's near parallel to the floor, but he has no concern of falling. Esra holds him up easily, and he appreciates their strength a fair amount like this, splayed in their lap and held aloft only by their strength.
"You said you wanted off the bed, my lamb," he says, grinning wide. They roll their eyes in response, but he can see the smile they're fighting. He rarely feels bold enough for this particular brand of playfulness, 'a problem on purpose' he had once been called.
But Esra has never flinched away from the darkest parts of him, and he trusts them not to here either.
"Ok, I should have been more specific," they say, and then they stand, his legs still wrapped around their waist as they adjust their hands under his thighs, holding him up easily. "I would like to get off the bed safely."
They are relaxed again, though Narinder can feel the flex and shift of their muscles as they walk toward the desk. It is captivating, and he takes the opportunity to nuzzle into their throat once more, breathing in the lanolin while he has the chance.
They set him down by the desk, the only area of the room kept mildly clean. It had been at his insistence, the constant clatter of books as they moved in their chair too loud in his ears. He had mentioned it in passing, had meant he wanted them to hold still for just a moment as he battled overstimulation, but they had cleared the area immediately and kept it clean, a feat he had not expected.
He watches as they settle into the chair, shoulders still relaxed. They call down the crown, taking the appearance of shears, a tool Narinder has not seen in a very long time.
He takes them carefully, turning them this way and that before doing a small test snip. His third eye watches them carefully, and he doesn't miss the way they flinch just the slightest bit.
"I have a proposition, if you're amenable," he says, voice intentionally casual. He will not make it a big deal. If he sees it as something mild, uneventful, then hopefully it will help them feel the same. He is banking on them doing what they have done since the beginning, match his energy. Not always successfully, but he uses it here.
"Let's hear it," they say, fidgeting slightly in the chair he had debauched them in just two short weeks ago.
"I believe that perhaps the sight and sound are what trigger the fear. How would you feel if we removed those senses?"
There's a heavy pause as they try to imagine it. He helps by imagining it himself, the feeling of cotton in his ears, the softness of his veil. Their eyes are not as good as his, the veil would be enough in the low light to blind them entirely. It is a pretty picture, the idea of Esra in his garments. He can picture wrapping the chains around their horns, and their breath hitches.
"You, um," they start, and he realizes that the idea is particularly captivating to them. Their eyes are hazy with it, and when he glances down, their thighs are pressed together at just the thought. He has known them to enjoy being below him, but it is apparent that what they really want is to be at his mercy, taking only what they are given.
They are fortunate, then, that what he is desperate to give them is pleasure.
He waits for them to continue, and there is something about watching them squirm that is so enticing. He's already imagining how they'll look after the extra wool is removed, the shape of their body hidden beneath it. He knows their shape, has traced it beneath his hands more times already than he can count. He knows their waist is deceptively small, knows the flare of their hips. He's intimately aware of the feel of the muscles in their abdomen, in their thighs, which have a thin layer of wool as well.
"I?" he prompts when they seem too lost in their need to remember he's asked them a question. Their eyes flash up from their wandering over his frame, and their breath comes in aborted huffs, like they're trying to control their breathing.
"You could do that," they say, attempting to sound casual he thinks, and failing miserably. They sound desperate, voice wrecked and eyes wide. "I don't mind."
It seems they more than 'don't mind' but he's not about to call them on it. He leans over them, taking in the sharp intake of breath they give as he hovers just away from their body, opening the drawer of the desk to find one of the many sets of waxed cotton they keep for him here.
He lifts them so they can see, raising an eyebrow in question.
They nod, and he moves to put them in their ears, careful not to press them too deep. He rotates them once, twice, letting the wax soften slightly for a better mold. He pulls back when both are put in, and he smirks at their lost expression.
"Can you hear me?" he asks, the same volume as the test snip he had done a moment ago. A test, to see if it is enough.
"I know you said 'can you hear me' 'cause I can see your lips, but I can't hear," they say, voice too loud. It is clear they've never been without their ears before, as their eyes dart around, and their ears twitch, causing their earrings to jingle.
He likes the sound of them, so he doesn't remove them. Instead, he thinks, "I know we agreed not to do your head, but I believe it will feel better if we do. Is this acceptable?"
They nod, and he smiles before kissing them long and deep.
They are incredibly pliant beneath him, accepting the drag of his tongue along their lip before they're letting him in, moaning loud as they run their tongue over the barbs. They cannot be still, and he grips their hips as he slowly devours their mouth, a reward. They are making a symphony of small noises, as though being unable to hear themself has made them even more vocal.
He is in no rush, there is still plenty of daylight left. They could stop time in here if they wanted, but not while the crown is in his hands, and not without great cost to themself. Most gods save it for a long slumber, turning years into no time at all as they regain power. He wonders if his Esra would ever be tired enough to consider it. He wouldn't mind a very long catnap himself.
They make another pitiful sound, and he pulls away to offer them a sinful smile.
"Do you want the veil on or off while I handle your head?" he queries silently, and it takes them a moment to collect themself.
"On," they say, barely an exhale. He gives them one quick pec before picking his veil up off the desk, draping it over their head before looping the chains loosely around their horns, a small mimicry of his ears.
They close their eyes, and he can tell it's relief that floods them. For what they are meant to be, Esra's horns seem incredibly sensitive. He imagines it would be difficult for them to use them for duels as they were traditionally used, though he imagines they would have no problem handling it with their fists.
He has yet to see them in a fair fight, their constant urge to learn and improve making them deadly even without the crown as a weapon. They had exhausted it once on a crusade and been ambushed by a heretic while they let it recharge. He remembers their brutality as they shattered the cultist's knee with a swift kick, then the mess as they turned the enemies skull into so much viscera, not stopping until the heretic was unrecognizable.
They hadn't even flinched, just gone to rinse off in the nearby stream as he looked on through the crown, captivated even then. It was the first time, he thinks, that he had felt the low buzz of attraction since before the gateway.
It certainly wasn't the last, the feeling building as he watches their eyes open again, darting around, though they can't seem to notice. They reach blindly for him, and he takes their hand gently, pressing kisses to each of their fingertips.
"Cannot see?" he thinks, and they shake their head, and he can practically feel how the veil brushes against their nose.
"You'll be touching me the whole time?" they ask, and he smiles, though they cannot see.
"As much as I am able while removing your wool," he responds, and they nod. They still do not close their eyes, as though trying to adjust.
He doubts they'll be able to. Their low light vision is good, but the room seems to know the difference between him wearing his veil, and them wearing it, so the space remains painted in twilight. He imagines they can make out vague shapes and movement, but nothing more.
"You're right," they say, in response to his thoughts. They do not leave his mind now, seeking comfort, and he treats them to a view of themself, hands clinging to the chair as their thighs press together, their lip between their teeth. They look debauched, and it makes him crave.
He removes their fleece, folding it carefully. It has seen more blood than any other fleece, their dedication to using it above any others causing them to wear it for the past four decades, but he is delicate with it. He sets it gently on the desk, next to the crown before removing his own robes, quickly so they do not have time to panic.
He picks the shears back up from the desk, but he does not let them use his eyes for this. It is much easier not to share his vision, a fact he does not bring up when he can share so much beauty with them. It had baffled him to learn they are blind to so much of the world, and he has taken every available opportunity to give them a taste of what the world is. He knows soon divinity will extend their senses, will show them all the colors that truly exist in the world, and for a brief moment, he is grateful again to be mortal, to not experience all of the very extensive colors and sounds and senses that come with godhood.
They squirm at his absence, halfway between nerves and anticipation, and he rubs against their horn with his thumb for a moment.
"You extended these this morning," he thinks, envisioning the way they had looked as divinity cloaked them. The horns had extended, and he remembers how they had begun to spiral, as though they would curve back around to frame their face if given a bit more time or power. "Would you be able to do it again?"
They hesitate, though this time it seems because they do not know how to do it. He waits patiently as divinity stains the room, it's honeyed flavor coating the roof of his mouth. He swallows it down greedily as their horns extend, and when they open their mouth, it is full of fangs again.
Their eyes are that lovely shade of gold and red, red at the center with gold around it like a halo. They still cannot seem to see, though their eyes glow lightly through the veil.
He takes hold of a horn, just the right size for his hand to wrap around it, and very gently tips their head to the side.
They gasp, fingers gripping the chair too tight before they seem to notice and loosen their grip, breath coming in uneven pants.
He doesn't start with their head. He's seen sheep being shorn before, and he knows there is a better way than the way the followers had done it when Esra was still willing let the followers help. He cannot blame them, they had never seen a sheep before, had not known wool is not like hair. It cannot be cut like hair, and he circles behind the chair, hand firm on their horn and starting at their thigh, and working his way up in a diagonal.
They go briefly tense before he tugs a bit at their horn, and the desire wins over the fear again.
The shears work across their stomach, and he is quick about it. There is no need to drag it out, no need to make it more than it is. It peels away from them easily, and he can feel the way they start to go limp with relief as their skin is exposed to the cool air of the room.
He does not hesitate as he makes his way down, trusting them to keep their hands out of the way. He could hold them instead, and he flashes them an imagining of him tying their hands, of the feeling of their shoulders extending. They moan low in their throat, and brushes his lips against their cheeks as he moves lower.
He's at their lower stomach now, and he shifts from holding their horn to gripping their inner thigh, holding them open as he cuts away at wool covering their center.
It is impressive how they hold themself, legs wrapping around the legs of the chair, breath held as he cuts over their mound. They are utterly still for him like this, and as the wool melts away, he can see them dripping with desire.
He moves to their inner thighs next, using his thoughts to encourage them to spread their legs wider. They do it with little hesitation, and the whine they give is so pitifully desperate he almost wants to stop and fuck them right now.
His mind flashes with another possibility instead, and they gasp as they see the same vision.
"Will you touch yourself for me Esra?" he thinks, and even without the sound in their ear, they shiver anyway. He can only imagine how sensitive they feel right now, sound and sight stolen from them as he presses the blades repeatedly just away from their skin. He leaves a little behind, no more than half an inch, and something about seeing the grey of their skin just below the wool tightens his jaw with the familiar ache of wanting to bite.
They reach down with one hand, hovering just above their dripping cunt before circling their entrance slowly, a tease.
He watches them for a few passes, enraptured by the teasing pace they set before urging them to turn around, torso facing the back of the chair, legs still spread wide now that there isn't space in front of them.
They brace their hands on the chair's back before he moves them, putting their fingers back to their core and encouraging them to circle with the same speed.
"I want to watch you fall apart for me just like this, little lamb. Do you think you can make yourself cum before I am done?" he asks, and the exhale they give is ragged.
"I don't know," they say, and they sound on the verge of tears. He places his hand back on their horn and tips their head back. He can just make out the tears gathering in their eyes, but their fingers do not stop their slow circling. He purrs loudly, pressing his chest to their back so they can feel the vibration.
"I will make you a deal, Esra," he thinks, and the shiver they give him is divine. "*If you can cum before I finish, I will let you choose how many times you come after. If you don't, I will choose for you."
Their breath trembles, and he hears the sound of them sinking their fingers into their heat as they nod.
He purrs more, still pressed into them as he nips at their ear. They gasp, and the sound of their fingers working speeds up.
He releases his hold on their head, setting the shears down for a moment to pull them back so they are precariously balanced against the edge, and the way their tail wiggles makes him want to bite the base of their spine.
He gives in, kneeling down and biting. The angle makes it impossible to fuck themself on their fingers, so they move to circle their clit, head pressed against the chair back, angled so they can't see under the veil.
He rewards the obedience by circling his own fingers around their entrance before slowly pushing in. He doesn't move them, just feels the way their walls contract around two of his fingers, their noises breathy and unceasing. They lack the leverage to sink on them any deeper, but the slight swivel of their hips as they circle instead draws a particularly loud moan from them.
He withdraws his fingers after only a moment, a tease more than anything. He licks it off his fingers, eyes closing in rapture. They taste like divinity, honey sweet and camelia bitter before he picks the shears back up again.
He is quicker now, clipping the wool around their ass in just a few smooth lines, careful around their tail. He circles back to their chest, a hand back on their horn to pull them in an arch.
His hold on them is firm, knowing how likely they are to panic as the shears inevitably move from their chest up past their neck. He feels the fear start to overwhelm them, and he pours vision after vision of all the ways he intends to make them cum if he wins their bargain, and the noise they make as they plunge their fingers back into their heat just gives him more ideas.
They cannot help but squirm somewhat, but the hand on their horn and the precarious balance he has them in makes it small adjustments instead of full body jerks like he's certain they're fighting off. Their breath shudders into a moan as the shears move past their throat to just behind their ear, and he is as quick about cutting the wool on their head as he had been their body.
He starts again at the bottom, repeating the process over and over again until he's circled around to their back. With the wool removed, he can finally see the dip of their waist, the sweat dripping down their spine. He licks it off, and their fingers falter before they are back to fucking themself, clearly close.
"So quickly, little lamb? It has hardly been five minutes," he thinks, teases, and their moan is empty of shame.
He doesn't have to see their face to know they're flushed, that their eyes are closed. They never can seem to keep their eyes open when they're flooded with pleasure, as if the seeing takes away from the feeling. He can understand it, though he is loath to let them out of his sight when they look so pretty.
He continues his path, making short work of the task they had so ardently fought against just 30 minutes prior.
"Perhaps we should do this again," he thinks, pouring more visions of them bound and aching as they take only what he gives them. "Imagine how deadly you would be if you remained unburdened always, instead of once a year."
They wriggle slightly, and his hold on their horn tightens.
"Or perhaps we drop the façade entirely, and I bind you just for my own pleasure. Fill you over and over again as only a vessel can be."
Their fingers speed up, and the slick sound of it will surely replay in his dreams of them when they are gone. It is clear they are close, which is fortunate, because he is close to done as well.
"You will need to hurry up if you hope to leave before nightfall, my lamb. I want to know how many orgasms I can wring from you before you can no longer cling to consciousness," he thinks, and then that's it.
They shudder violently through their orgasm, hips grinding into their palm as cum drips down their wrist onto the chair. It will likely need to be replaced, the fabric staining beautifully as they whine through it as he makes the last cut to their wool.
It falls away easily, still in one mass, a fact he's feeling rather smug about right now. It had been an age since he had last seen this done, and the wool on their body is smooth and even, the scent of lanolin thick in the air. He presses his nose to the top of their spine, breathing in deep.
The scent soothes him, and he cannot help the way his hands settle on their waist, kneading into the flesh there as they come down from their high. He can only imagine the bliss it must be with their skin finally exposed to open air, the blessed coolness after the blazing heat.
Divinity leaks out of them just like the tension does, their horns back to their original size. He misses them already, but he likes the way they seem to settle back into themself, soft and sweet and his.
"Did I win?" they ask, voice soft but still just that bit too loud, and he reaches up to remove the veil, circling around them so they can see him as he does so. He nods when they can see him, watching as their eyes adjust.
Their smile is blinding, and when they make silly little grabbing motions at him, he does not fight it as they rotate again in the chair, pulling him to his knees once more and enveloping him in their embrace.
Their hold is tight, but it does not overwhelm him. They're clingy in the way they often are when they're overwhelmed, and he lets them burrow their face into the crook of his neck, gently pets down their sides as they shake until all the tension leaks out of them like water through a sieve.
He can feel their wetness against his stomach, and he wishes he were a stronger man. The kind of man who could focus solely on their needs instead of his own, but his own desire is burning and he can't help the way his claws extend as he fights to stay still in their hold.
They can read it from his mind easily, his desperation. There has always been something about Esra's willing submission that makes him feel half mad, and even knowing how very delicate this moment is, he cannot stop the heat from building at the base of his spine at the smell of them.
They reach up and pull out the cotton, and when he looks them in the eye, they're all mischief.
"Aw, poor kitty, so worked up. Are you feeling alright? Desperate, maybe?" they ask, running their fingers up his spine until their fingers ghost along the back of his skull, overwhelming as they rifle around his mind as though exploring.
The dual sensation in and outside his head make his eyes close, dangerously close to rolling back into their sockets. It's almost too much, but it feels like ecstasy.
"Not near as much as you, I'll wager," he responds when he feels he can control his voice, looking at them through slitted eyes. He lets them see themself, bare and radiant. They look so much lighter like this, and he does nothing to stop his purr of approval as they move to scratch behind his ears, rolling their hips into him.
For a moment, his vision feels as though it bends, and he can swear he can see himself, as though through their eyes, but then it has passed and they are kissing him with reckless abandon, biting at his lip until he grants them access to his mouth.
He had not realized how much they liked kissing in the beginning, but he had quickly figured it out. They seem to want nothing more than to drug themself on his lips, his tongue, and their grinding picks up urgency as they begin to squirm again.
When they break away to catch their breath (unnecessary for Esra, very necessary for Narinder), he pulls them up, moving them back to the bed, this time with their legs around his waist.
They moan loud at the feel of his cock against their folds, dragging it through their wetness, barbs catching slightly at the freshly shorn wool. Their eyes are on him, smile dopey as they relax into the sheets, letting him do the work.
"You have won our wager, Esra. How many times do you wish to cum? Three? You do seem fond of the number," he says, continuing his slow grind against their folds. He is already drenched, their wetness coating him all the way down his thighs. It borders on unreal, how wet they get for him, but he would be a fool to call it out. He wonders idly if it is a side-effect of sin, or if they are as perfectly made for him as he sometimes thinkshopesdreams.
"Just one more. I want to come with you inside me," they say, eyes soft with devotion. They are so trusting of him, laid bare and pliant, humming softly as he runs his hand over their stomach, feeling the flex of their muscles without the wool in the way to dampen it.
"Could I convince you of two?" he asks, leaning down to suck a now exposed nipple into his mouth. They arch in his arms, a soft 'ah' noise as he runs his tongue over the pebbled peak before sucking again.
There is nothing for them to give, but he imagines the sweetness if they could give him milk, and moans low and desperate at his own imagining.
"Oh?" they say, hands reaching up to pet over his nose, then his brows, until they have settled into the heat right in front of his ears, oh so gently rubbing the skin where the fur grows sparse. "Would you like that? I suppose cats do have a reputation for enjoying milk."
Their voice is curious, no judgement in their tone. They seem to be considering it, and the fact that they are so in tune with him makes him grind even harder against them.
He releases their nipple, moving to capture their mouth again before he repositions himself, the tip right against their entrance, but he holds himself still.
"I can think of few things I would enjoy more than another way to devour you, Esra," he says, and he loves the way they shudder beneath him, eyes half-lidded. "Is that a yes to two?"
They laugh, and the sound is sweet in his ears. They let him go, moving so he is no longer pressed against their stomach, though he stays close enough to breath the air hot from their lungs.
"Not what we agreed to, but I suppose one more will still leave me time for the sermon," they say, and he knows an agreement when he hears one.
He sinks in slow, and they surprise him by leaning up on their elbows, watching him sink into them inch by inch now that there isn't anything disrupting their view.
They look captivated, which he only knows because he's got the third eye to keep looking at them, his own gaze fixed on the same point. It is so much more obscene like this, the way they stretch to accommodate him. He knows he is not the most gifted in length, but he is thick, and they fit like a glove around him, walls still pulsating with the orgasm they had found around their fingers.
He spreads their thighs wider, reveling in the way the muscles jump beneath his hands, the slight arch of their back as they try to take him deeper.
He pauses when they have taken all of him, and they moan low as he circles his hips, dragging along the walls. Their eyes are closed again, and his smile feels feral as he oh so slowly pulls back again, prolonging their pleasure.
They don't try to speed him up, do nothing but moan and writhe beneath him as he sets a slow pace that drags the head of his cock against the bundle of nerves within them that drives them mad with every pass. They are mindless in their pleasure, moaning and sighing constantly as he feels the tension build slowly.
The pace is good for him, because if he goes any faster he will surely cum himself, and he wants them to unravel at least once before he chases his own release. He is confident they will cum when he does, something about the spill of his seed driving them to ecstasy each time he's offered it.
"Nari," they sigh, and his eyes focus back on their face. They look debauched, smile sticky sweet as they pull him into another kiss that is more of an exchanging of breaths than anything else. He can taste their devotion, and when he breathes in again, it pours into him like it would have before.
It shouldn't be possible, and he wonders if perhaps he is truly losing his mind, because he cannot consume devotion. Not like this, not as a mortal, but they seem to feel it too because suddenly they are cumming without warning, wetness drenching him as they shake through their orgasm, eyes wide and unseeing.
It is enough to distract him, and he begins thrusting faster, the sound they make equal parts overwhelmed and desperate.
"Do you have one more for me, Esra?" he asks, suddenly full of energy. He was struggling to keep himself in check before, but he feels revitalized as their walls pulse around him, and he is enraptured as the bliss seems to extend as long as he keeps thrusting into them.
"I can't," they say, tears beginning to spill from the corners of their eyes, but their hips are rolling up to meet his. He grins, dark, and leans down to lick across their scar again.
"Oh, I think you can, little lamb," he says, taking hold of their wrist before settling their hand on their clit, encouraging them to start circling. They continue when he lets them go, their eyes remaining stubbornly open despite the pleasure clearly pulling them in every direction.
Despite feeling so very close to the edge earlier, he feels as though he can stretch this out for hours. The soreness from their earlier round is gone, his body surging with the sharpness of forgotten divinity. He feels it start to contort his form, just barely, and he has to fight it back desperately, to stay focused on the here and now. He had forgotten what divinity felt like, and he is already desperate for his next fix.
They breathe out his name again, eyes closing, which is good, because he knows his sclera are bleeding black as he tries to manage the power. It is barely a drop, but it feels a bit like it will rip him apart, claws digging into the bed until it tears, and he's half sorry he will have to ask Esra to have another mattress made, because this one isn't going to survive.
They shift restlessly, trying desperately to meet his pace and failing, more pitiful sounds pouring from their lips as he presses down on their stomach, tightening the pressure on his cock. They try to arch, but he holds them down easily, strength more than it should be while their devotion is still fresh in his veins.
He thrusts hard, the bed coming apart beneath his claws again as he focuses all of his sudden energy into something that is not his Esra, who is still radiating devotion to be swallowed down.
He has to pull away, the temptation to drink it all down too good to pass up this close.
The change in angle makes them keen, and he can tell they are close again.
"Do you think we should aim for one more, my love?" he asks, the pet name blowing their eyes wide as they stare at him. He had been certain he had used it for them before, but either he hasn't, or they don't remember, because they tighten dangerously around him again. "You look so lovely painted in pleasure, won't you give me one more?"
They pant, unable to answer, and he leans down to nip at their throat. They gasp, and he can feel their orgasm coming like lightning about to strike.
"No," they manage to gasp, clinging to him desperately as they try to delay the inevitable. "I want you to come now."
Narinder has done much in his life, but resisting their demands is not on that list. He doesn't add it now, lets the pleasure dance down his spine as they cum one last time, and he spills hot and messy into them, the noise they make high and pleased.
He collapses on top of them, and they laugh in his ear, body lax with pleasure. It is a very different feeling without their wool between them, more intimate in a way he knows he'll crave when they pull away again. When they are The Lamb again.
Right now, they are his Esra, warm and soft beneath him, petting gently over every bit of him they can reach. It is soothing, their hands roaming over him in firm strokes instead of featherlight touches, easing the sensitivity. They use his thoughts to gauge how much pressure to use, and it is gratitude that makes him relax further, eyes closing as he allows the moment to just be.
Their mind seems similarly quiet, though they are humming a tune he feels he's heard from them before. He cannot place it, just lets it fill the room alongside the smell of lanolin and devotion, sweet and heady.
"You drank my devotion," they say, and Narinder is slow to lift his head.
They look puzzled, though not upset. He had not expected to do it, so he cannot be sure of how gently he had pulled it from them. He has taken devotion before, and he knows there is a stark difference between devotion taken and devotion given.
"I did. My apologies, I did not realize I could," he says, voice rough. He clears it slightly, oddly embarrassed, and their curiosity changes to adoration.
"That's alright. It was yours to take anyway," they say, light, as though they do not realize the honor that it is. To be the only mortal worshipped by a god, though he wonders if mortal is still an accurate descriptor after what has just happened.
"I believe I may have seen your thoughts as well," he says, and their head tips in confusion, brows furrowing though their smile stays firmly in place.
"Fascinating," they say, and he can tell they mean it. "Why do you think that is?"
He hates to admit he doesn't know. There is no precedence for divinity without a crown, not in his memory. Perhaps not even in Shamura's, though he can think of a few who may have such knowledge.
"I do not know. Collecting power without a crown is nothing I've ever heard to be possible. It would be prudent for us to seek more knowledge on the matter, perhaps out in the lands of the Old Faith. Clauneck and her kin may have answers. I will turn my attention to your library, perhaps we already have the information available."
They nod, considering, eyes turning to their bookshelves. He does not understand why they do not simply turn the walls into shelves, and then they're looking back at him like they've bitten something sour.
"This is so stupid, I didn't even think of that," they say, and then power is pouring out of them, the room expanding in half walls of shelves that go on in rows long enough to house all of their books five times over. They add an arch, separating it off from the bedroom, a nice touch they draw directly from his vision of his own former library.
It takes a fair bit of power out of them, and they go completely limp below him, eyes heavy as they spend nearly all of the very little power they still had.
"Oh, I did not think that through," they say, and he can see the dizziness setting in.
"I never would have guessed," he says, tone flat, but he is still smiling. His Esra, so reckless, rarely thinking.
They stay lax as he pulls out, the mess immediately pooling. Narinder stands, still full to bursting with energy as he makes his way to the wardrobe, pulling out the water bucket Esra keeps there for the countless messes they seem to somehow create throughout the day.
"Would you like your devotion back? I did steal it from you," he offers, and they shake their head.
"No, I think I might actually be tired enough to take a nap right now," they respond, eyes drifting closed, and Narinder is not one to argue with a miracle.
They are asleep before he even makes it back to the bed, and he cleans them off carefully before doing the same for himself, looking around the room at the countless books and deciding that he has had enough of trying to understand their mess.
He is full of energy, and Esra sleeps soundly, sermon undelivered and yet another funeral to perform. They had told him he would take over once they were gone, but he doubts they will come back to before tomorrow with their unwise power expenditure. He thinks of the work to be done, of their odd anxiety at presenting him as a temporary disciple, and decides that perhaps it is easier to simply have it done on their behalf. He is certain the followers will sense the divinity rolling off him in waves, and even if they do not, most are smart enough not to argue.
He puts his robes back on, leaving the outer layer behind once again as he steps back through the pillar, making his way to the pulpit and the rope for the temple's bell, the weight of power settling on his shoulders comfortably once more.
"You'll be left behind if you don't get onboard with AI!" okay let's assume for a second that AI is The Future or whatever. Let's assume that it will be the cornerstone of all future work. Let's assume that, like the investment guys floating on the surface of the bubble are desperate to have us believe, It Is Inevitable. Frankly I still don't think I'd lose much by ignoring it until that day comes. Like I simply do not believe that prompt engineering could take all that long to learn. Call me naive but I think that if AI became critical for my life tomorrow, somebody telling me how to access chatGPT (I imagine they've got a website or an app or something?) and being like "Remember how you used to use google when it still actually worked? Start there" would be enough. I think I could figure it out in like an hour, tops, by fucking around with the site and maybe looking up some tips on reddit. So like. Even if "AI is the future" did somehow magically turn out to be true, I don't see how that affects me at all right now or why anybody bothers saying so. "AI is the future, if you were smart you'd be using it!" no I wouldn't. It still wouldn't be a skill that's worth my time to learn yet. Pointless addition to the discussion. Maybe I'm dunning-krugered or something but I simply do not think that it would be difficult enough that I would need to start practicing right now or I'm missing out on something.
"You'll need AI in a decade so you should get familiar with it now!" I think if you start getting familiar with it now, and I start getting familiar with it in a decade, we're going to end up at the same proficiency pretty quickly. Doesn't seem like the kind of skill where "X years of experience" is relevant. I don't think that's a skill gap that would be hard to close.
You cannot simultaneously have a "it's easy for everyone to learn! Impossible to fuck up!" pitch and a "you MUST learn how to use it RIGHT NOW" pitch for the same product and expect to get taken seriously
Congratulations! Looks like you found yerself a gem. You can keep that gem for your collection, and try for the legeendary crown a’ wonder, or I can buy it from you if you like. Lemme seee what I can offer
"grace. grace! grace give attention. rocky perform human ritual of escape closet now. statement."
"come again?"
"i learn more from thinking machine. human gender preference. attraction to same gender, means word 'gay.' all eridian same gender." rocky stands straight up. "rocky come out to grace now. all rocky plural gay, statement."
"...wow, that's... rock, i'm not sure it makes much sense to apply human ideas of sexual orientation to a monogendered species."
now that the Trans Infighting has reached a point where its not only transandrophobia, exorsexism, and intersexism being levied constantly in the name of "fighting transmisogyny," but also actual constant fucking TRANSMISOGYNY being levied in the name of "FIGHTING TRANSMISOGYNY," can we all take a moment to say "oh my god june I'm so sorry you were right this is just alt right fucks perpetrating infighting and using it as an excuse to hurt trans people online"
i mean its stupid as FUCK that it took shit like the fucking "transmascvoicesproject" (a parody that is very clearly transphobic and I feel VERY safe saying could not possibly have been made by an actual trans person, or anyone other than a grifting anonymous incel) to get people to realize this when I've spent entire months of my time online getting suicide baited at least weekly and getting my existence as a trans woman questioned because I said "wait guys, isn't it strange that this uptick in infighting is corresponding directly with the second term of a president who wants to kill and subjugate trans people, the rise of people like the groypers, the spread of alt-right politics in the UK and throughout Europe... almost like were being divided against ourselves so as not to be able to stand against any attacks from outside our community"
heres a fucking idea, if you care about trans women, stop platforming people who threaten other trans women with rape. stop platforming people who make jokes about annihilating minorities. stop following and platforming and running PR for the campaign to sort everyone into a binary of two gender-based categories that are imposed on others rather than chosen! stop platforming these people because they are literally bigoted fascists! I saw someone making a post who is big on this infighting shit admonishing other people for saying hateful and untrue things about one of my close friends, it was a pretty popular post you may have seen it, but I don't wanna drag my friend into this. and to that person I say... fuck you! fuck you, you are like Ben Shapiro desperately trying to cling to some semblance of order because you have seen the true depths of fascism and now know that what you are platforming can hurt YOU TOO, but you're too scared to cast it off and go another way. you're a fucking coward, and you could turn away from this at any time. and you should, because it's going to hurt you. because it wants to hurt all of us!
Whenever I see some anon asking an artist if it's "okay to take inspiration" from their art it makes me want to make some kind of manifesto or billboard or PSA or skywriting campaign to undo whatever damage strange litigious illustrator types inflicted upon the most basic foundations of the creative process. We can't let them get away with this
I think the reason I still enjoy tumblr is that even though this all still pisses me off, I know that anything that makes me mad on here is 100% earnest. It's not ragebait or engagement farming, y'all are actually just that stupid sometimes
Ozempic scares the shit out of me. You're telling me there's a drug that takes away both the craving side of hunger and targets the brain's rewards center for eating. You're telling me it takes the joy out of eating and it turns you into a skeleton. Why did we turn The Curse of the Black Pearl into a drug. What the fuck.
I actually want to thank the diabetics coming on this post like "actually it genuinely is a great treatment for diabetes and it hasn't affected my mood or my enjoyment of food. The real issue is it's getting abused as a weight loss drug which also makes it scarce and more expensive for those who can genuinely benefit from it." Kind of reminds me of the time my brother got permission from our family psychiatrist to try my ADHD medication and his reaction to it was "what the fuck are you on. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON. WHY DO I FEEL LIKE CRYING. YOU'RE ON THIS EVERY DAY!?!"
Body chemistry! It makes a big difference in how your body processes a drug! What can be genuinely helpful for some folks is The Curse of the Black Pearl for others!
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theartofmadeline
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turnnoffyourmind
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2087
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