"slut era" i say as i rot and decay in my bedroom and watch the years pass me by as i miss out on core experiences other people my age are having while i think about the past
what ao3 would look like with ads. no, you do not want this. support ao3 because it’s one of the last few places on the internet that is not tainted by capitalism bullshit. support ao3 because it’s one of the last few places on the internet that is genuinely about the connection between audiences, artists, their works and the love/passion artists have for what they do
i saw a tiktok of this lady who told her husband to put the leftovers away. this stupid bitch of a man put the whole air fryer in the refrigerator. y’all need to start divorcing or killing these men
these men know exactly what you’re asking them to do. but because they don’t wanna complete the task, they love to act like they’re incompetent, leaving you no choice but to do it yourself. kill them.
Summary: A wedding shrouded in devotion and fire: between eternal vows and glances that seal destinies, you and Vlad unite soul and crown, consecrating your love as an oath that transcends life and time.
Wc: 4.8K
Warnings: 18+ mdni, unprotected sex, lost of virginity, tit play? (I don’t now, I just love a man yearning)
An: Happy Halloween!! After two weeks of labour exploitation, final exams for my last year of college, and a quick visit and stay in hospital, I can say that I am alive and back!! This request is for my Wattpad sweethearts who have been waiting for me to pay attention to them for a long time. If you have also sent me a request... I will upload yours soon, don't worry. I love you all very much and thank you for your patience.
Masterlist
Your entrance was fit for a queen, yet within your breast beat the heart of a mere woman. The very air seemed to bow as you passed, and the bells poured their solemn song upon the streets like a rain of bronze blessings. Each peal did not merely announce your arrival; it hammered the death of one age and the dawn of another. Men, women, and children chanted your name, yet in their voices was not only jubilation; there was a blind faith, an adoration that verged upon the divine and which, for an instant, rendered you as powerful as you were vulnerable. Flowers burst into petals at your feet, an ephemeral and fragrant carpet the wind seemed to weave solely to honour you. The soldiers guarding you did so with the martial reverence of those who protect a being beyond their comprehension. You were no maiden, no common bride: you were the heart of a kingdom and, for one man alone, his only reason for existence.
As you crossed the threshold of the church, the doors, tall as centuries, groaned open, unleashing a gust of cold air that kissed your skin not as a whisper, but as the very breath of history. For a moment, the world outside faded. The murmur of the multitude was extinguished, drowned by the sound of your own heart, a slow and tremulous drum beating the measure of your destiny. You felt something within you, the last seed of the girl you had been, break open to make way for the sprouting woman you were to become.
Incense floated in the penumbra, a veil of sanctity that your very step illuminated. Your gown, woven with threads of sunlight, flowed like a liquid current of light, and every fold glittered, stealing fire from the votive candles. The gaze of the congregation fixed upon you, they bowed, but your eyes were only for the figure waiting at the end of the nave.
Vlad.
His eyes, a blue as deep and tempestuous as the northern sea, lifted to yours, and in them was no trace of the warrior prince, the sovereign of iron will. There was only the devotion of a man who beholds, at last, his own salvation. Upon his face was no doubt, no pride, but a tenderness so intense it seared your soul. An intensity that promised his love would be both a refuge and an eternal fire.
When he saw you, the world lost its contours, its logic. His lips parted, a near-imperceptible gesture that betrayed how your mere presence had stolen his breath. And in that instant, you felt it: that invisible thread, that shared pulse beating in the space between you, a secret known only to you both.
He extended his hand to you. A hand, firm and pale, whose marks told tales of battles and an ancestral lineage. And yours, tremulous and warm, surrendered to his with the certainty of the dawn yielding to the horizon. In that first contact, skin against skin.
It was desire and absolution, strength and vulnerability, all as one.
Then, the priest spoke. His grave voice resonated beneath the vaults, and the sacred words—"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…"—wove themselves with the crackle of the candles.
But you scarce heard him. The altar, the relics, the stained glass that cut the light into blades of colour… all blurred into a distant dream.
You saw only him. His gaze was your only world.
And then, unable to contain yourself, you smiled at him. It was not the conscious smile of a queen for her people, nor that of a bride for foreign eyes. It was *that* smile of yours, the very same you had gifted him long before your mind understood what your soul already knew: that he was the man with whom you yearned to share not just one life, but all that might ever exist.
When the moment for the vows arrived, the words flowed from your lips with a terrifying ease.
"You are the storm I was never afraid of, and the peace my soul never knew it craved. I am not merely giving myself to you, for I have been yours since the beginning of time. I am choosing you, Vlad Tepes. Before this altar, before God and our kingdom, I choose you. I vow to be your sword and your shield, your sanctuary and your strength. I will walk with you in sunlight and stand with you in the deepest shadows. My love for you is not a fleeting emotion; it is the very core of my existence. I am yours, completely and eternally, bound to you in this life and in every life that may follow."
To pronounce the oath that would bind you in life and, if need be, beyond death, was the simplest and truest promise you had ever made.
His eyes, glistening with a raw, unchecked emotion, held yours captive. His voice, usually so commanding, was a low, fervent whisper meant for you alone with your name.
"From the moment I saw you, I knew the emptiness had been a prelude to your light. You are not just my wife; you are the resurrection of my heart, the purpose forged from my every sin and battle. I vow to honor you as my queen, cherish you as my wife, and protect you as the most vital part of my own soul. No kingdom, no throne, no power will ever hold a fraction of the meaning you hold for me. My life is yours. My name is yours. My eternal fidelity is yours. I am bound to you, body and soul, until death do us part."
Your hands, now firm, clung to his as anchors in a silent storm. You felt the coolness of his skin and the heat of your blood merge into a single torrent. To speak his name was not a mere sound, it was an invocation, a key closing the circle of your destiny. You swore to stand by him in every joy and every shadow, until Time itself, exhausted, should surrender and part you.
The ceremony advanced, a river of rituals towards its culmination. And then, when the Archbishop proclaimed your union with a voice that rumbled in the stone—"…I declare you husband and wife"—the world held its breath.
He did not wait. There was no protocol that could contain the torrent of his waiting. You are his wife.
His hands rose to frame your face. His palms became the most tender of sanctuaries. His touch was at once firm and infinitely delicate, as if he were holding the very essence of light.
And then, he inclined his head.
His kiss was not a simple seal; it was a consecration.
It was the first kiss of Vlad, the Voivode, with his wife. It was soft yet deep as the abyss in his eyes. In that contact, there was not only unleashed passion, there was a silent oath that pierced flesh and engraved itself directly upon the soul. It was not merely the kiss of a man to a woman; it was the promise of the warrior to his only love, of the eternal being to his reason for existing through eternity.
As you parted, the air that filled your lungs was new. The world remained, yet nothing was the same. You had ceased to be "you" and had become "we." And in the stillness that followed, there was only the echo of his lips upon yours and the absolute certainty that, finally, everything had begun.
Upon stepping from the sacred gloom into the castle corridors, a boundless energy, too long contained, was unleashed in a torrent of pure jubilation.
The solemnity shattered like a spell felt his arms encircling you, and from your throat sprang a crystalline laugh that flooded the ancient stone, a sound so vital and carefree it seemed to restore the soul to those walls.
He lifted you into the air as if you were light as the petals that hours before had kissed your feet. The world became a whirl of lights and shadows as he spun with you, possessed by an ecstasy as primitive as it was powerful. No protocol held value, no other glance held meaning. There existed only the vertigo of his embrace and the promise of his lips seeking yours.
When they found them, the kiss was as ardent and possessive as the first had been reverent. He leaned over you, arching you backwards in a perfect, daring curve, and in that total surrender, with blood singing in your ears, only one mundane concern managed to filter into your ecstasy.
"My crown!" you murmured against his lips, unable to suppress a smile that belied all protest.
Your hand, clumsy and joyous, did its utmost to keep the heavy diadem of gold and gems in its place, the symbol of your rank which in that moment seemed the most frivolous thing in the world. He broke the kiss for but a moment, his blue eyes shining with amused mischief and a love so vast it made you dizzy still.
"Damn the crown," he murmured, his voice a hoarse, loving echo that coursed through you like a shiver of desire. "The only crown that matters is this," he added, letting his lips brush your forehead with a sweetness that contrasted with the ferocity of his embrace. "The place where resides the woman who has just crowned me king of her own heart."
It was a wonderful, intoxicating madness, absolute and wholly yours. A happiness so complete it defied words, for it had transcended language to claim every fibre of your being. You did not understand how he had managed to conquer every corner of your heart, but you knew it with the same certainty with which you knew the sun would rise at dawn: just as he was irrevocably yours, you were, and always had been, the most precious possession of his soul.
With a deliberate slowness, almost reverent, you brought your fingers to his chin. Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, a gesture of tenderness and adoration that mapped a territory already known, already beloved. Your eyes drank from his, travelling the familiar landscape of his lips, the abyssal intensity of his gaze, as if you were etching every detail for the eternity they now, at last, had permission to share.
"You always were," you whispered, your voice a thread of sound. "You were always the king of my heart, Vlad. Only now..." A shy smile, filled with the complicity of all shared secrets and stolen glances, played upon your lips. "Now I need not hide it. The entire world may see."
His eyes, for an instant, seemed to mist with an emotion so raw and powerful it stole your breath. It was the vulnerability of the warrior who, before the truth of your love, let all his defences fall.
"And I love you," he confessed, and the words sounded not as a simple declaration, but as a vow more sacred than any uttered at the altar. "I love you with a fervour that terrifies me. You are the heartbeat that returns life to my veins, the light that banishes the darkness of my nights. To love you is the only and truest law of my existence."
No further words could contain the storm of feeling his confession had unleashed. His seeking of your lips was not a kiss, but a reaffirmation.
When you finally parted, breathless, your forehead resting against his, a fanfare of trumpets sounded and the world outside returned to your bubble as a distant rumour.
"They await us," you murmured against his lips, your voice still tremulous from the intensity of the moment.
He gave a broad, carefree smile, an expression that made the years of war and darkness seem but a fleeting bad dream.
"Let them wait," he whispered, but then a spark of pure mischief shone in his blue eyes. "Or not."
Before you could question him, he bent and, with one fluid and powerful motion, swept you into his arms as if you were little more than a feather. A stifled cry of surprise and delight escaped your lips as your arms instinctively encircled his neck.
"Vlad!"
"Hush, my queen," said he, and his voice was a caress filled with pride. "A royal entrance demands a royal extravagance."
And thus, carried in the arms of your husband, you made your entrance into the great hall of the banquet. The massive oak doors were thrown wide and an explosion of sound enveloped you: the roar of hundreds applauding, the thunderous cheers of the boyars and soldiers, and the joyous melodies of the minstrels filling the vault with lutes and flutes. It was not a procession; it was a conquest. He, your Voivode, carrying you as his most precious spoil of war, and you, radiant and laughing, the queen who crowned his sweetest victory.
The hall was an ocean of light and colour. Immense fires crackled in the hearths, and hundreds of candles glittered in the gold of the tapestries hanging from the stone walls, where scenes of the hunt and ancient legends seemedq to spring to life with the dancing shadows. The long tables groaned with an abundance worthy of legend: boars roasted with apples in their mouths, golden loaves, mountains of winter fruits and rivers of red wine that gleamed like rubies in silver goblets.
But the true magic lay not in the opulence, but in the joy. A palpable happiness hung in the air, a spirit of celebration that united lord and servant in a single dance of jubilation. And at the centre of that universe, were you.
You were the living image of pure love, the embodiment of a fairytale sprung to life. He, with his sovereign's bearing, softened his gaze only for you. You, with your grace, found rest only in his arms. You danced until your feet burned, a spinning, joyous dance where the world narrowed to his eyes and the firmness of his hand at your waist. Your laughter—his, low and husky; yours, crystalline—intertwined and were lost within the music, a sound sweeter than any melody.
The guests toasted again and again. "To the Voivode Vlad and his Queen! Long life and prosperity!"
The final toast still echoed in the hall when, with a conspiratorial smile towards Vlad, you withdrew amidst applause. Your ladies led you to the nuptial chambers, where the gown woven with threads of sun was replaced by a robe of the finest white linen, simple and light.
Seated on the edge of the conjugal bed, a goblet of red wine held between your hands, you waited. The silence here was different, a sweet nervousness that made your blood pulse more fiercely. Whatever was to transpire this night, it would be for a future you had so often been told was impossible.
The door opened with a soft creak and he was there, framed within it. The fire from the hearth gilded the contours of his body, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the firm line of his jaw. Your heart, already beating furiously, quickened to an almost painful rhythm.
The overwhelming certainty of how his mere presence filled the chamber with a warmth that prickled your skin.
A roguish smile, full of a newly discovered confidence, curved upon your lips. You brought the goblet to them and took a slow, deliberate sip, never taking your eyes from him.
"My lord husband," you said, your voice low, laden with a playful tone that was an invitation in itself.
Vlad's eyes, which already watched you with intensity, darkened with desire. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.
"My lady wife," he replied, and the two simple words resonated like a caress in the penumbra.
He advanced then, with the deliberate slowness of a predator savouring the moment before the feast. Your pulse quickened, feeling the air thicken around him. When he stood before you, you expected him to take your hand to help you rise, but to your surprise, he did not touch you. Instead, he knelt.
It was a gesture of such profound and powerful humility that it stole your breath. The feared Prince of Wallachia, on his knees before you. His hands came to rest with infinite tenderness upon your thighs, over the white fabric of your robe. The heat of his palms seared through the cloth, an intimate brand that affirmed his possession.
"I missed you," he confessed, his voice a husky whisper, a breeze laden with storm. His gaze, fixed on yours, burned with a devotion that bordered on worship.
A slight, nervous laugh escaped your lips. "It was only a few minutes, my love." You brought your fingers to his hair to sweep it back from his face.
"Minutes," he repeated, as if the word tasted of gall. One of his hands rose to caress your cheek, and you leaned your face into his touch. "Every instant I breathe in this world without you at my side is an eternity in hell. It is as if the sun itself refuses to rise, leaving me in a cold twilight." His thumb traced the line of your lower lip. "You are the beat of my heart, the air in my lungs. Without you, I am but a shadow, and shadows cannot love. They cannot live."
His words, as possessive as they were desperate, only served to stoke the fire burning within you.
Without a sound, you brought your hands to his face, framing that countenance you had loved even before understanding why.
"Now you have an entire lifetime to ensure you never become a shadow again, my lord," you whispered, bringing your face closer to his. "Your life, and mine. Entwined forever."
The groan that emerged from his chest was pure, satisfied yearning. It was the final surrender to a love that consumed and redeemed him in the same breath.
And when his arms encircled you, drawing you against his hard, muscular body, and his parted lips met yours, your consciousness abruptly stilled. It was a kiss unlike all others, because he knew where it would end: a kiss of exquisite restraint, of pagan hunger.
His tongue swept over your lips, urging them to part, insisting, and when they did, he plunged into your mouth. His hands slid restlessly, possessively, up and down your back, over your breasts, tracing your spine, pressing you firmly against his hardened thighs, and you felt yourself slowly falling into a dizzying abyss of sensuality and awakened passion. With a silent moan of helpless surrender, you wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him for support.
Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you felt your robe slip away, and then the touch of his palms against your swollen breasts, the sudden increase of fire in each searing kiss. Arms like bands of steel encircled you, lifted you, cradled you, and then carried you to the bed, laying you gently upon the cool sheets. Abruptly, the warmth, the security of his arms, his body and his mouth withdrew.
Emerging slowly from the dreamy stupor in which you had deliberately sought refuge from the reality of what was to come, the cool air touched your skin. He was standing by the bed, removing his clothes, and a tremor of alarmed admiration shook you. In the firelight, his skin resembled oiled bronze, and the heavy muscles of his arms, shoulders and thighs rippled as his fingers went to the fastening of his breeches. He was splendid, you realised, magnificent.
Swallowing a knot of awe, it finally dawned upon you that this man was your husband, yours alone.
The bed dipped under his weight, and you could not maintain your composure. You never could, not when it came to him. You stretched your arms to feel the heat of his chest beneath your palms and to look directly into those blue depths that somehow conquered your heart each time they met yours.
Vlad was not so hasty. Stretching out beside you, he gave a light kiss to your ear and, with gentleness but determination, pushed aside the little that prevented him from seeing you completely. His breath caught as he beheld you in all your naked splendour. A blush stained your skin from your hair to your toes as he gazed upon you. Without thought, he voiced his thoughts aloud. “Have you any conception of your own beauty?” he whispered, his voice husky, as his gaze drifted slowly upward to your enchanting countenance, tracing the hue and light of your hair, which lay in luxuriant waves upon the pillow. “Or of the depth of my desire for you?”
A tremor, born of awe and sweet anticipation, coursed through you as his hand came to rest upon your cheek, his thumb caressing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the fervour in his smouldering regard.
“Open your eyes, my love,” murmured Vlad, and his voice was like rough velvet, laden with a desire that resonated in the penumbra. “I wish to look upon you. I wish for you to look upon me.”
Your eyelids, heavy with pleasure, lifted slowly, and you found yourself captive to his blue gaze, an ocean of stormy devotion. His hand slipped from your cheek to your neck, and then, with a reverent possessiveness, to your bosom, where his palm curved about your gentle swell. A tremulous sigh escaped your lips.
“Don’t fear,” he murmured, as his fingers found your nipple and stroked it with a deliberate slowness, tracing circles of fire that made you arch your back. “Never fear my love.”
His mouth then descended upon yours, not as a conquest, but as a question. The first contact, soft as a butterfly’s wing, sent a shiver of pure pleasure down your spine. Then, his tongue traced the contour of your lips, beseeching entry, tempting with a patience that was both torture and ecstasy. And when you yielded, when your lips parted for him, his kiss became deep, moist, and hungry, a feast of shared tastes and mingling souls.
“Kiss me,” he pleaded, his voice ragged, and you obeyed, tangling your hands in his hair, returning every caress with an urgency you knew not you possessed. A growl of pure satisfaction vibrated in his chest, and his arm closed about your waist, pressing you against the evident, firm proof of his desire.
When he finally parted his lips from yours, his breath was a ragged gasp against your skin, and you felt the very blood singing in your veins, each beat of your heart a drum marking the rhythm of this new, glorious madness. With fingers that could scarcely be stilled, you touched his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, feeling the texture of his skin beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze then travelled downward, and in the faint light, you glimpsed the marks that furrowed his torso. They were not mere scars; they were maps of battles, histories of pain which your heart read with a pang of agony. Without thought, your fingers followed the path of one such mark, the longest, that drew most perilously near his heart.
He held his breath, watching you, awaiting the revulsion or pity he had ever found in the eyes of others. But in your eyes, there was none of that—only a reflected sorrow, an empathy so profound it clouded your vision with unshed tears.
“My God, how you have suffered,” you whispered, your voice fractured with emotion.
And before he could react, you bent forward, and your lips, soft as petals, touched each of those marks in turn, kissing them, as if by that simple act you could absorb his ancient pain and grant him succour. A violent tremor shook him. “For you,” he growled, his voice rough, charged with a raw emotion. “All the pain of my past… for you, it is transmuted into light.”
His control shattered.
With a hoarse moan, his hands tangled in your hair and he turned you gently, placing you beneath him. “My love,” he murmured, again and again against your skin, kissing every inch he could reach: your eyelids, your brow, the line of your jaw, before reclaiming your mouth with a passion that left you breathless.
His mouth descended to your breast, and the world dissolved into sensation. His tongue and lips toyed with your nipples until they were hard and sensitive, and every suckle, every caress, made you moan and writhe, your hands clutching his shoulders as anchors in a sea of pleasure. His hands, meanwhile, roamed your form, tracing lines of fire from your hips to the inner softness of your thighs, urging you to open for him.
A vestige of nervousness made you tighten your legs, but he answered with a whisper against your skin. “Trust in me,” he murmured, and his fingers found the very core of your desire, touching, stroking, preparing you with a skill that drove you to distraction. “I shall make you feel only pleasure, this I vow.”
You yielded to his words, to his caresses, and as your muscles relaxed, his fingers delved into your warmth, an expert intruder that found a rhythm which made your body arch from the bed. Sensations mounted within you, a sweet, burgeoning pressure that made you forget all but his name upon your lips.
He settled over you then, and through a fog of desire, you saw his face, marked by an inner struggle, his muscles taut with the strain of holding back. His hands slid beneath your hips, tilting you towards him, and you felt the heat of his manhood pressing against your very entrance.
“You are mine,” he whispered, and in his eyes there was no doubt, only an absolute truth. “For ever.”
And then, with a slowness that was both a blessing and a torment, he sheathed himself within you.
A stifled moan, a pang of sharp, unknown pain, and your nails dug into his arms. He stilled at once, frozen, his gaze seeking yours with a heart-rending concern.
“Breathe, my love,” he begged, his brow resting against yours, his very frame trembling with the effort of stillness. “Only breathe. I have you.”
He waited, patient as the night, until your body acclimated to his incredible fullness, until the pain ebbed and was replaced by a sensation of union so profound it filled your eyes with tears. Only then, when a sigh of acceptance escaped your lips, did he begin to move.
It was an ancient dance, a primal rhythm your body recognised at once. Slow at first, each thrust a deep caress that explored every secret part of your being. Then, as your breath quickened and your hips began to move in unison with his, his rhythm intensified.
Pleasure built within you, a rising tide that threatened to sweep all before it. Your names mingled in the air, a mantra of desire and surrender. Your gazes remained locked, and in his blue eyes you saw not the dreaded Voivode, but the man who was surrendering utterly, as vulnerable to your love as you were to his.
“Vlad,” you cried out, and it was a torn sound, a plea and an affirmation.
It was his undoing. With a guttural groan that was your name, he sank into you one final time, deep and complete, and you came undone. The wave of pleasure broke, shaking your body with countless spasms, a blinding ecstasy that made you cry out as his own release filled you with warmth, sealing your union in the most primal and sacred of ways.
He collapsed beside you, panting, and immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his sweaty chest. His heart beat strongly against your ear, a wild rhythm that gradually calmed. His lips found your forehead, your hair, your shoulder, in a rain of silent kisses that said more than any words.
Beneath your cheek, you heard the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart, and you swallowed hard to hold back a knot of painful emotion.
As if your need to hear his voice had been communicated to him, he spoke:
"Did I hurt you too much?"
You shook your head and, after two attempts, managed to whisper: "No."
"I'm sorry if I hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me."
He asks, his eyes searching your face for any signs that you might regret this or that you’re somehow hurt. But there was nothing that made you regret this decision.
Not being by his side, nor having married him.
Somehow, you knew you were meant to be together forever.
just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:
— is anti ICE & fascism
— is pro-choice & feminist
— supports trans & queer people
— hates generative AI & capitalism
— supports immigrants & people of color
— is pro-environmentalism & social justice
— supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering
he’s also never going to acknowledge this or answer for it bc people will pay these prices and the shows will be sold out and he’s just never been more out of touch w reality in his life and sure it’s the azoff influence but he’s also a fully grown man in his 30s who is in full control of his career and wants to make a lot of money.
he can talk about togetherness all he wants but he wants a tour schedule that’s convenient for him & makes him a lot of money
as much as we must mourn and stand in solidarity with Renee Nicole Good, please do not forget the other victims of ice raids, who are not white.
Silverio Villegas González, a cook from mexico who was dropping his son off at daycare and was murdered
Jaime Alanis, a farmer from mexico who fell off a green house at the farm where he worked to send money to his wife and daughter
Roberto Carlos Montoya Valdez, a father and grandfather from Guatemala who was hit by a car
Josué Castro Rivera, a garden from Honduras who was struck by a car
And so many others who were killed or are dying in detention centres, prisons ect
racial bias is always something we must be aware of, Renee will be focused on because she was a white woman and a US citizen, but do not forget all the other victims of ICE, may they all rest in power
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