#eleanor sharpe

[slytherinsomniari]

HL OC Headcanon: How Aesop Sharp Proposed to Eleanor Knightley

I decided that I would post this here as well. I didn't flesh it out and maybe someday I will fully write it out, but for now, here is how Professor Sharp Proposed to my oc Eleanor Knightley.

Aesop Sharp visits Eleanor's family with her once they've been together for a while & drops a bombshell by asking her father for his blessing. Eleanor is completely shocked, not expecting this at all. She blushes and stutters out, asking what he's doing but is told to be quiet. As she looks into his eyes, she sees a firm determination that she's never seen before—even in him. He is dead set on this. Professor Sharp and her father move to her father's office to discuss business. Sharp puts forth his desires and talks about the specifics like the dowry, where she would live, etc. In the meantime, Eleanor sits there gob smacked in the parlor. Looking to her mother for help, she only gets a wry smile & a giggle. It appears that she was to be left in the dark—a first time for her, especially with something so big. The only thing she can do is anxiously wait until Sharp got done talking to her father.

Eventually he exits her father's office & reenters the parlor. Eleanor jolts as soon as she sees him and his eyes narrow like a hawk. With firm steps he walks towards her, telling her that they are to take a stroll in the garden. She reluctantly agrees, finding the whole situation confusing and flustering. As they stroll through the garden, it is made apparent that the girl that was once so loud, once so confident, is now a confused, meek girl. Her mind is flooded with so many thoughts and as she is led through the garden where she grew up—the place she used to run through & explore so daringly as a child.

After a while, Sharp stops once they are further into the garden, away from prying eyes. He turns to her, staring directly into her eyes. "Eleanor" he says, his voice coming out as both soft and firm at the same time, "You are one of the most foolhardy, arrogant, mischievous young women I know. You brazenly defy all authority, taking no orders from anyone—taking your life as well as others—into your own hands and damning the consequences. You maintain a daring attitude in spite of your proper upbringing and have become such an astonishingly brave young woman—whether that be influence from your brothers or your own choosing.

Despite all this, or rather, because of it, I have grown fond of you. You have somehow made yourself irreplaceable to me. You mean the world to me—a thought in which would have been impossible before. Your chaos, your reckless deeds, your confidence and pride in yourself and appearance that bears no conceit, your uncanny ability to draw people in...they are all parts of you that I adore. The person—no—woman I love is so much more than the sum of her parts. The love I bear for you grows stronger every moment I spend in your presence. You, Eleanor, have changed me. Wholly and utterly changed me. I cannot go on any longer without you—without knowing of your affection—without knowing if you feel the same.

You are young, this is true, and many at Hogwarts will come to question our relationship. But that is no matter. The only people that matter in this are you and I—and only you can end my suffering.

I never would have dreamt that you would become so dear to me. I would love to have you, to be with you, to hold you close every waking moment. You are the one I want in my bed beside me. If time but allowed us to meet sooner we would have had more to spend together, but that is not the case. All I can offer you is the time with me now and forever, until old age makes us part. And that is enough, for I am blessed to spend but even one second in your presence—in the light of your love. Eleanor, would you do me the honor and walk with me? Not under my control, but side by side? Now and forever, will you do the honor of becoming my wife?"

The look on Eleanor's face says everything. Her mouth hangs open and her skin is pale yet rosy, tears pooling in her brilliant green eyes. She had wanted this moment for a while, but never knew if or when it would come. And it was not a leash and collar—it was a marriage of equals, one where she would retain her independence and freedom. She would not have to bow down in meek acceptance like the muggle women do in high society. She could do whatever she wanted, with the one she loves by her side.

"Yes!" She exclaims with a teary smile. Touched by all of the emotion that came from the usually stern professor, Eleanor is truly beginning to understand the depth of his feelings.

"I would love nothing more, Aesop, than to spend the rest of my life with you until eternity and beyond. Now and forever, in everlasting bliss."

#harry potter #hogwarts legacy #aesop sharp #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts legacy headcanons #eleanor knightley #hl oc #hl mc #hogwarts legacy oc #hogwarts legacy mc #harry potter oc #professor sharp #professor aesop sharp #Hogwarts legacy insert #Hogwarts legacy scenario #oc #my ocs #oc scenario

[sleptsolongwithoutyou]

When Alan imagined who'd bring up last night first, it had always been him. A cross he would happily carry up any hill. He knew enough to know that it wasn't about the topic being taboo, more that it twisted her tongue too tightly and made her face red. A trait he found more adorable than anything else.

"So, that-that thing y-y-you did with your..." pointing to her lips as she swirled her Shirley Temple by the stem of the wine glass.

The surprise might've caused him stumble if the wolfish grin that took over his face hadn't been an instinct, "The thing I did with my mouth?" She nodded, taking a grounding sip, "Which thing?" Which came with a predictable roll of her eyes, "Seemed you really liked it."

Her eyes widened, "I-I-I mean- N-n-not s-s-" shaking her head as if it would make her mouth cooperate.

He hurried across the room, holding her face in his hands as he smiled down at her, "Sometimes I forget I can't play that way with you," nothing but love in his eyes, "Let me try again. What about that thing I did with my mouth?"

"Would- would you d-do it again?"

The long silence is shattered by the chair legs squeaking across the floor and his knees hitting the floor, "I'd never stop if you let me.*

#alan sharpe #eleanor bailey #alanor #writing tidbits #spotify

[moffie-moff]

Finally: proper character refs for the literal main characters of my furry magical girl story! Yay!

Working on a doc at the moment with lore n’ stuff that doesn’t have major spoilers everywhere and actually makes sense to anyone but me

It should be done in the next day or two :D

#red stained soul #Cecelia #Minerva #Eleanor #Gwen #Azzy #my art #ocs #my ocs #character design #furry oc #magical girl #oh my god i forgot azzy’s fangs in her transformation :(((( #just know her teeth are all sharp and stuff

[lucifers-horror-harem]

Alan Sharpe x Eleanor Bailey

From the moment both laid eyes on each other, they knew their love was meant to be and would do anything to bring it to fruition. But neither knew just how far the other would take it. Casual watching from afar turned into learning each others schedules and patterns, which turned into breaking into each others homes just to see how they lived when the other wasn’t around. And once the jig is up, mutually catching the other in the act, they realize just how alike they really are. How their meeting was destined from the very start. Nothing could split them now. Not when they were finally experiencing true love.

Alan Sharpe @lucifers-horror-harem Eleanor Bailey @darkestamralime

#Alan Sharpe #eleanor bailey #alan sharpe x eleanor bailey #others ocs #yandere oc #slasher oc

[refrigeratedboombursts]

Are we not gonna talk about Jonah going to prom with his friend’s abusive ex boyfriend?

#nhie #never have i ever #eleanor wong #jonah sharpe

[haveyoureadthispoll]

[sticcmann]

Eleanor redesign the official ones all suck

So she’s a supermodel-like robot, who looks like circus baby and has sharp teeth in the written book

So that’s my design

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf fanart #eleanor fnaf #fnaf eleanor #to be beautiful #fnaf fazbear frights #fazbear frights #fazbears frights #fnaf books #circus baby

[misseviehyde]

TRIPLE THREAT

Eleanor was rich, mean, spoiled and entitled. She was a pretty blonde girl with rich parents and massive social status. As head cheerleader she policed the popular girls.

Lia was slutty, curvy, sexual and nasty. She was a dirty chav slut with massive tits, fake nails, blowjob lips and a mean attitude. She ran the chav gang that dealt with the bad girls.

Together they were the two nastiest girls in school and everyone was scared of them. However they hated each other with a passion and spent most of their time fighting. That wasn't entirely by accident of course.

For years - nerdy Rosa had cleverly played the two of them off against each other. She'd engineered it so they came to hate each other and now spent most of their time fighting.

Until tonight.

A hasty email sent to the wrong person had accidentally exposed her manipulation. Now the two bitches were chasing her home, determined to kick her ass.

Rosa had detoured through the old waste ground hoping to deter her assailants. It had once been the dumping ground for a huge chemical plant and the whole area was sealed off - but after 15 years the chain link fence had plenty of holes in it and she had slipped through.

So unfortunately had Eleanor and Lia.

Both girls were fitter than her and gaining fast. Rosa scrambled up a small mound and seeing a rusted barrel at the top grabbed it and used it to steer her momentum. It toppled over as she passed and the rusted metal split.

Thick black goop surged out and Rosa heard Lia and Eleanor shouting in alarm.

"Ughhhh like what IS this stuff?" squealed Eleanor. "My Chanel is like RUINED! You are soooo dead."

"You fucking bitch, you ruined my Nike trainers," screamed Lia.

Turning around Rosa saw her two bullies had been engulfed in a puddle of black slime. They tried to step forward and both screamed as they fell over into the puddle.

Black ooze surged over their bodies and coated their skin... their hair. They grunted and groaned, dragging themsleves out of the puddle still dripping in slime.

"What the hell is this stuff," gurgled Lia soporfically, "I feel fucking weird."

She turned and grabbed Eleanors arm to help haul her out of the puddle and grunted in surprise. Her skin flowed like wax and seemed to melt and merge into Eleanors arm. Both girls moaned and gasped in surprise.

"Ughhh what's happening... I'm melting into you," groaned Lia. "I need... I need to merge with you."

The two seemed magnetically drawn together. Eleanor grabbed Lia and pulled her in close and the other girl eagerly slid her arms around her. They began to kiss, their bodies flowing and melting into each other.

"Ohhhh fuck yes, that feels gooood" groaned Eleanor as with wet sucking sounds the two of them combined.

Spinning Eleanor around Lia thrust her hips and grunted as she slid forward. Now they were joined at the hip - Lia's large ass and Eleanor's tight pussy perfectly merged in their lower torso.

They fell into the black goop rolling around in the slime, moaning and gasping in pleasure as their bodies melted into each other.

"Yessss I fucking love it... I need more," groaned Lia scooping up the goo and ripping off her clothes.

Naked the two bitches rubbed and scissored, melting in and out of each other... their forms becoming as one. Wet pops and cracking sounds, grunts and moans filled the air. Pussies gushed with juices and sexual screams of pleasure rose high.

"Yessssss... get inside me you bitch," grunted Lia as Eleanor moaned in her arms.

"Mmmmmh we're becoming one. I can feel your big tits on my chest, your slutty claws on my fingers. I LOVE THIS," orgasmed Eleanor.

Lia giggled and lifted a merged arm. Sharp nails glinted on the end. "Mmmmh I always wanted to be a rich spoiled blonde. We can be so evil together. The two biggest bullies in school, stronger... smarter... sluttier."

"Yesssss let's join together and rule forever," laughed Eleanor.

With a wet sucking sound, arms and legs slid together and faces met. With a slurp the merge completed and a new Goddess was born. She rose from the black goo and it seemed to solidify on her body taking the form of a stylish figure hugging black dresa.

The new bitch was an obscene blend of Eleanor and Lia. She was beautiful rich and stylish like Eleanor, but possessed the curves and hungry slutty look of Lia. She laughed sluttily as she grabbed her big tits and squeezed.

"You fucking loser - you have created a Goddess. We are no longer Eleanor and Lia. I AM ELLIE."

Striding forward - black high heels forming out of the goop Ellie towered over Rosa and grabbing her hair forced her down to her knees.

"In fact I am Goddess Ellie. I am all the nastiest most evil parts of my former selves. I also have double the strength, stamina and sexual urges of a normal woman. I have become super human."

A hand closed round Rosa's throat and she gurgled as Ellie lifted her effortlessly from the ground as if she weighed nothing. The other girl was clearly inhumanely strong and Rosa noted she was nearly six foot in height... an amazon Goddess.

"That's right bitch - enjoy looking at me. Don't you wish you could look like this? Well don't worry... you can!"

With a laugh Ellie hurled Rosa into the puddle of black slime and the nerd screamed as ahe began to sink into the ooze.

Turning on her heels Ellie grinned and began to walk into the slime. "With you as part of us, we will be even more powerful. You manipulated us both for years - you're smart, intelligent and cunning. Soon we will be too. Don't worry loser - this is going to feel soooooo good."

Rosa screamed as her bully pushed her down into the slime... and everything went dark.

********

Ellie-Rose adjusted her booted heel so that her male slave could better lick the shiny latex.

She watched him lapping away whilst idly examining her phone and watching the push notifications indicating another $1000 dollars had just been transfered to her account by one of her other subs.

That was $10,000 this week and it was only Tuesday.

Kicking her slaves face away with a bored bitchy look she instructed him to open the door of her Bentley. She had just arrived at her Bulls house.

Walking down the drive to her black lovers mansion, her pussy already tingling at the thought of the pounding it was about to receive from his thick black cock - she idly scrolled through other messages on her phone.

Ellie-Rose's cruel lips twisted into a smile as she saw the message from her science team.

"Goddess - the goop has been synthesized and is available for mass production."

Sliding down her panties and throwing them into a bush for her slave to retrieve and sniff later, she walked into her bulls home wet and ready to fuck whilst her hands slid her phone back into her handbag.

Her final action before she let go was to push the send button on her response.

Proceed...

THE END

#evie hyde #merging #black goop #slime #bitchification #f2f #bullies

[astudyincontrasts]

Penance IX (redux)

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A/N: Its my birthday! Last year everyone in this fandom and all the friends I have made because of it made today one of the most special birthdays I have had in a long time. I felt more loved and surrounded in celebration with sweet friends then I had in years, and the cup of that happiness has not stopped running over. There are not enough ways to express my love and gratitude for everyone I've had the joy of meeting here.

So this year, I wanted to offer a gift to all of you. Everyone has been exceedingly patient about my writing struggles to continue Penance, so I'd like to give you the alternate Penance XI chapter- blood I have managed to wring from that stone of writers block. The fate of the continuation of this story may still be up in the air until inspiration comes knocking again, but at least I can share this with you today.

To all my fandom friends, and everyone who has been so supportive of this silly little smutty story. You have my heart.

This picks up after Chapter VIII

“Girl, are you listening?”

Sister Marta’s sharply scolding voice brought you back down to earth with a little jerk, blinking as you turned attention back to the tall, thin, sallow faced nun to meet the exasperated gaze of her cataract-hazed grey eyes.

“Sorry Sister.”  You mumbled, casting about for a context clue of whatever it was she might have been speaking about while you’d been off daydreaming about the priest of her parish.  Nothing jumped out at you in the dusty old store room of the basement where you both stood in the dim light of one naked and straining lightbulb still swinging gently upon its cord from the nun’s yank of its chain a moment before.

You hadn’t meant to drift off, but it had been four days since you’d seen Father Silco last and that painful, sweet contrition you’d done across the desk of his office was still fresh in your mind as if it had just happened.  You ought to have been angry at the fact he’d left you such an unsatisfied mess, and the fact he’d spanked you like a wicked child, in spite of his promise he’d never hurt you as they had back in school.

Truly, he had not.  Those sharp little slaps of his open hand were nothing compared to the cruelty of a sharp ruler across knuckles or the backs of thighs delivered by an angry, bitter nun.  You smiled faintly at Sister Marta’s increasingly irritated, withered old face and privately thought perhaps she could teach the Father a few things about corporal punishment.

“The candles, girl!”  Sister Marta exhorted at last, the thin limit of her patience snapping.

Unlike the ‘my child’ diminutive that the other nuns like Sister Eleanor or Sister Angelica were so fond of using with you and other parishioners, Sister Marta had no use for any such hollow faithful endearments.  You hadn’t yet made up your mind if it was an honest gruffness about her you liked, or an insulting mein you did not.  You had the notion it would have hardly mattered to the old woman either way.

She nudged one of the pair of low boxes with the toe of her sensible black shoe from under her long, dark habit.

“Take them to the Father to be blessed and then kindly refill the votive stands.  You can remove the spent ones and toss them.”  She explained, slower this time as if she was speaking to a simpleton.

You bore it with a tight little smile and bent to lift the box on top, surprised by the weight of it, staggering a bit upon rising only to catch a smugly satisfied look on the wrinkled old pucker of a face before Sister Marta reached up to pull the chain of the light and leave you to struggle out the door of the closet and back up the rickety old stairs of the basement in the dark, save for the light from the open door at the top of the steps.

Quietly you wondered if you accidentally fell and broke your neck, if the church would have their endowment free of the burden of your presence that came with it.

Cold comfort, knowing you’d crush the brittle bird-boned old woman climbing up, wheezing softly behind you, and take her with you if you did pitch backward down the steps.

The real trial wasn’t making it to the top of the stairs with the heavy box full of candles, though.  No, that one still lay ahead once you’d reached the top without incident.  The real trial lay in taking that armload into the rectory to face Father Silco once more and ask his blessing.

You’d thought you’d be safe if you came on a Thursday.  You’d avoided the parish planning committee on Monday, as well as your usual Wednesday session with the Father.  You’d hardly doubted you’d be missed at the planning meeting, and Wednesday, well.  You’d chosen to skip it half in a little act of spite, half just to see what might happen.  When no scolding phone call or visit had been forthcoming after shirking both of those commitments the victory felt hollow.  

Turning up to make yourself useful to the nuns on Thursday seemed like a good way to cover for your failed gambit and to keep from looking as if you were avoiding the church.  Foolishly, you’d thought perhaps you’d manage to skim by with just catching a glimpse of Father Silco in passing.  

Unsure if it was because you wanted to see him, or wanted him to see you.

You’d been on rocky footing ever since your little transgression in the confessional, and you knew it.  

The door to the rectory lay open just across from the basement door in the open nave of the large narthex, and you waited until Sister Marta crested the steps behind you and shut the basement door to hobble off heavily upon her cane, before you started the slow walk toward his office.  You didn’t let yourself hesitate in the doorway, and didn’t have a free hand to knock on the open door with anyway.  Instead, summoning all the calm composure you could muster, you simply walked in and paused before his desk.

He sat there, scribbling away in an open book, papers and letters and other books opened in a slightly scattered mess about his work, dark head bent and eyepatch on.  He left you standing there until he’d finished what he was writing. Until your elbows and wrists had begun to ache a little from the weight of the box you held.  Only then he sat back, letting his pen drop upon the desk as elbows found the armrests of his tall-backed chair and he turned the cool glint of that duplicitously calm ocean colored eye upward.

The thin, scarred cut of his mouth tugged a hint of a smile at one corner.

“Lamb.”  He stated mildly, as if unsurprised in the least to see you there and only half interested as to what you might want with him.

Infuriating, how badly you liked hearing that little endearment again.  How flustered it made you feel to get hooked on the edge of that smile.

The box shifted heavily in your hands as you juggled its weight and stepped forward to set it upon his desk.  Damn his paperwork.  

“Sister Marta asked if you’d bless these candles so I could put them in the votive holders.”  Your attempt to keep your voice as even and disaffected as possible only resulted in it coming out far softer than you’d meant for it to be.

Leaning forward a touch, Silco flipped one of the flaps of the cardboard lid back to glance at the candles inside with a little hum.  One by one he folded each of the other three flaps back and rose to his feet.  Elegant fingers stroked absently along the edge of one packaging dividers hashed between the votives within before he plucked a single candle out and set it aside.

Letting that cool eye of his drift shut he made the sign of the cross over the open box of remaining candles before opening both hands before himself, palms cupped upward.

“Lord Jesus Christ, true light that enlightens every man who comes into this world, bestow thy blessing upon these candles, and sanctify them with the light of thy grace. As these tapers burn with visible fire and dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts with the help of thy grace be enlightened by the invisible fire of the splendor of the Holy Ghost, and may be free from all blindness of sin.”  

His eye opened and fell upon you, and suddenly you were profoundly aware of how you just stood there, staring at the tall, lean lines of him in that dark cassock, soaking in the sound of his voice and very obviously not with your hands folded in reverent prayer or eyes downcast as they ought to have been. Something entirely ungodly flickered at the edge of Father Silco’s mouth as he continued on, holding your immobilized gaze. 

“Clarify the eyes of our minds that we may see what is pleasing to thee and conducive to our salvation. After the dark perils of this life let us be worthy to reach the eternal light.”  His eye closed once more and again he made the sign of the cross over the box as he finished, “Through thee, Jesus Christ, Savior of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest, God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

His hands lowered, one coming to settle over the glass edge of the candle he’d set to one side, and he considered you as you crossed yourself hastily and reached forward to gather the box back up again.  He stopped you lifting it with a touch of the fingertips to its lid.

“When you are through with these, perhaps you’d come back here?”  Couched so carefully as a question, yet all you could hear was the quiet order in it.  Come back here.  Your head was nodding before he even finished speaking and the thin, dark brow not covered by his eyepatch quirked slightly.

“Yes, Father.” Your correction of yourself came nearly automatically.

Another little humming assent and with a slow blink he removed the touch that had stopped you lifting the box, resuming his seat.  You hoped he’d resume his work as well, but instead he sat there, watching you go, fingertips drumming thoughtfully upon the little glass votive.

You took your time with the candles, mostly because your hands were shaking and the very last thing you wanted to do was drop one of the blessed things and have it shatter across the church floor.  But also, to give you time to scrape yourself together, collect calm and poise.  It was no good, heart hammering anticipation equal parts nervousness and excitement.  The part of yourself that had wanted so badly to keep up this little charade of wishing to avoid him had succumbed without so much as a whimper.

Again thoughts drifted back to Sunday.  To the stinging warmth of skin under his hand, to how he’d teased you to a sodden mess without once slipping fingers beneath the barrier of cotton that had separated you.  To how he’d left you wanting and writhing and nearly in tears.  A perfect act of contrition, indeed.

It was a struggle not to let yourself wonder what next punishment he could possibly have in store for you.

Spent votives replaced with fresh ones, and the box filled with the clatter of the empty candleholders, you made your way back to his office.  Dropping the detritus of other people’s prayers off in the dumpster out back could wait.  You had your own worship to attend to.  

Father Silco’s desk was far less littered with papers when you returned, open books stacked neatly to one side now and everything else put away save for the book he was still writing in.  And that little candle he’d taken.  His dark head didn’t even lift as you set the softly clattering box down upon the settee against the wall.

“Office hours are over.”  He intoned flatly as you wiped palms nervously over the skirt of the dress covering your thighs.  

It froze you, cold like ice water suddenly filling the pit of your belly.  Had he just dismissed you after ordering you to return?  

“...Father?”  It came out a strangled little question and you almost hated how needy the note of your voice made that singular word.

He glanced up and you realized with a start that he’d removed that eyepatch, the hellish orange-red fire of his darkened eye a constant little shock every single time.  Ruined eye and teal flicked from you to the door and back again as if in blatant explanation.

“Lock the door.”  He elaborated.

It should not have been a matter of pride that you managed to turn and do his bidding without falling all over yourself or scrambling in an embarrassing rush of eagerness, and yet.  Far more collected than you felt within, you managed to push the door shut soundlessly and throw the latch, pausing for a moment with your back to him, safely sheltered in the little alcove of the doorway, to breathe through the easing of that sudden cold panic that had surfaced at your earlier misunderstanding.

When you returned to him he’d shut his notebook and set it aside atop the others, and reached to slide that pilfered votive candle before himself as he watched you sidle up to his desk.  Watched you stop, smooth the skirt of your dress only to fist it again in fitful hands, watched the tight little press of thighs as he drew out the silence.

“Do you know what these are called?”  He asked, nudging the little candle forward with the press of one elegant fingertip before rising from his seat.

“Devotionaries.”  You answered, and watched him cross to the wall to the right of you, to a tall coat stand that stood near the door to his quarters.  

“Very good.”  

A child could have answered that question, but it did not stop the little smile of pleasure that tugged at the corners of your mouth.  His praise as euphoric as a drug and twice as addictive, even for the smallest of successes.

Your mouth went dry however, as he turned profile to you, tugged a button or two open upon the throat of his cassock, and then turned his back to undo the rest before shrugging out of the long, dark cloth to hang it upon the coat stand.  The black fabric fell in a long and shapeless mass without him, hem puddling ever so slightly on the floor.  

It put you in mind of Peter Pan hanging up his shadow, or it would have done, had you not been so preoccupied with the shape of him divested of the dark habit.  Of that petulant posture and taut lovely lines, proud set of shoulders and careless, dangerous beauty in how he moved.  It was patently unfair that a man sporting licks of sliver at his temples and etched crows feet at the outset edges of his eye should have the lithe shape of youth the way he did.  

Devoid of the cassock, he was left instead in the black roman-collared linen shirt and dark, sharply pleated trousers he wore beneath. 

He turned back to you and came wandering back toward the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.

“Do you have a lighter?”  The question was so casual it caught you off guard and you had to shake your head, tugging at the pocketless skirt of your dress on either side of thighs by way of explanation.  

His mouth twisted the merest fraction of a smile as he tucked the cuff of one of his sleeves back, began rolling it neatly toward his elbow.  Lean hips turned a fraction as he stepped closer.

“Left pocket.”  He instructed, helpfully.

Hesitation grasped you but a moment before you inched forward, stepped into his space and paused.  Glancing upward, you found his attention fixed upon meticulously still folding his sleeves back, crisp turn by turn.  The focus of those mismatched eyes not even flickering to you, to how every fine hair upon your bare arms stood on end like they were aching toward him, toward that magnetic draw of snapping static thrumming in the air between you both.

Easing half behind him, you reached for the little gap of the pocket and slowly slid fingers into the warmth of its silken confines.  Over the bone of his hip and down, wrist deep until you hit the bottom of the pocket and touched the smooth, rectangular shape of the lighter within.  Metal heated to body temperature from where it nestled.  

Fingers curled around it before you stopped.  Let it go, and moved just a little closer, pressed fingers flat to that join between hip and thigh his pocket lay against.  Pushed the delve of that pocket just a little deeper and felt his stomach tense beneath your fingertips as your cheek brushed the outside of his upper arm.

“The lighter, lamb.  If you please.”  His tone was darkly amused at least, though if you kept pushing your luck it would be at your own cost.  That much was clear.

You scooped up the lighter once more, but withdrew your hand slow, knuckles grazing softly along the cut of muscle you could feel running from his hip inward and down.  Air felt unwelcomely cold against your skin once you pulled your hand free, and before you could step back, he moved away for you.  Walked away to resume his seat behind the desk as he finished doing up his other cuff to just below his right elbow.

A small push of his foot made space between the seat and the desk, and you only needed the flick of his eyes from you to the room he’d made to set you in motion to come and stand before him, his lighter clenched tight in your closed fist, unwilling to relinquish the little bit of his heat you held in your palm.

Gazing up at you, his attention licked over the details of your dress, your posture, your hesitant composure, as he tugged at the give of trousers a little at the bend of thigh and hip and settled himself more comfortably.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”  He observed as he relaxed back against the tall chair, a flicker of a blink over that oceanic eye.  You held your tongue and his gaze fell to the candle upon the desk just beside where you stood, and you wondered if your absence had made him angry, filled him with regret, or perhaps just left him lonesome.  You wished there was a way to tell, any little crack in that stoic mask of scarred features and sharpness to let the truth of what he was thinking seep out.  Nothing there though but that calculating, penetrating gaze and a subtle shrug of broad, lean shoulders,  “I suppose we might make up for lost time, then.  Contrition may be an important facet of faith, but so is devotion.”

He reached forward to scoop into fingers the loose end of the bow that tied the wrap of your dress shut beside your waist.  His good eye narrowed, the fine lines of crowsfoot deepening.  He’d seen that dress before, yes– the same one you’d worn to catch him by surprise in the confessional.  

You allowed yourself the most innocent little smile you could manage when those mismatched eyes flicked sharply to your face, and willed breath to stay even, slow, no matter how skin had begun to sing his name in soft coursing waves of prickling goosebumps.

“I don’t suppose you have your rosary?”  He asked archly, letting the ribbon of the bow drop from his open hand as he sat back once more.

He’d every right to ask it of you so dryly, given your lack of pockets.  And you had every right to feel as smug as you did when you lifted a hand, reached into the low, criss-crossed neckline of your dress and drew out the strand of little purple beads from the nestle of your bra.  

The war between shock, dark delight, the struggle to keep his poker face, and perhaps even a hint of righteous outrage that overtook the sharply handsome ruin of his features was nothing short of spectacular.  You’d replay it, over and over again at night.  Reveling in how well you toppled the high and mighty cold ivory pillar he so often perched upon.

Out and out you drew the beads until the little cross popped free and the rosary hung, swinging, upon your forefinger.

His hand, resting upon his knee, tightened, fingers twitching slightly, before it stilled, then lifted, palm open in demand.

You dropped that little holy object into his hand and watched his fist close around it, knowing full well he now held a little piece of your heat as surely as you held his within your other hand.  There was a slight softening to the creases where thin brows met over that sharp nose that told you he felt it, too.

“Good girl.”  He murmured, and the flush that crept up to warm your ears was nearly as delicious as the thrill that both chased up your spine and tugged at the backs of your knees to fold, to kneel.  You rested the heel of your palm upon the desk behind you and let it take your weight so that you did not cave.

By the time he turned his face back up to you he’d mastered his expression once more, beatific calm singed at its hard edges.

“Turn around,”  He instructed, making the simple order sound heavy, dangerous.  Bringing thighs together from their slight sprawl, he patted the top of one, “Have a seat.”

Heart thudded hard in your ears as you did as you were bade, turning to sink onto his lap carefully, perched upon his knees.  He sucked chipped teeth softly at it.

“Have a seat,”  That grit velvet voice scolded gently from behind you as both his hands curled about your waist and urged you backward, until you sat comfortably fully upon him, back fitted to his front.  

A hand upon your hip skimmed over stomach and waist, back to the bow of your dress.

“Why do we say devotions?”  He asked, and you could feel the question purring through his chest against your back as he claimed the thick ribbon of the bow and tugged.  The knot gave with no resistance, and the part of it he held served nicely to pull the cross of your dress open, just enough to part the skirt of it and leave you bare from stomach to thighs.  

The shudder that overtook you was sweet and slow, wringing from core to limbs, leaving a little shivering tingle rising over scalp and curling toes, that familiar little throbbing ache back with a hot and hungry vengeance.  Hips shifted in your seat as his fingertips ghosted skin to part fabric and push it aside, leaving your lower half bare save for the dark, smooth satin of underwear in the same shade of inky black as his habit.

“To remember the dead?”  You chanced, feeling halfway there yourself, pulse racing erratically.

“Sometimes,” He agreed, and you swore you felt the whisper of scarred lips at your neck.  Certainly felt the wash of warm breath plume over skin, “More generally devotions are an act of prayer or private worship.  Remembrance is one act, as are service, reflection, beseeching, prostration… your rosary, for example, is considered a devotion.”

His hands slid along your arms, touch warm, bringing your hands together to press in prayer before he began to wind the beaded strings around your wrists again to bind them together.

“I thought that was a penance.”  You exhaled in a shuddering little rasp.

“It can be, but not today.”  The tip of his sharp nose drew a long, slow line against the rise of your spine, above the neckline of your dress between shoulder blades and to the base of your skull, “although that can be a devotion too.”

The heel of his foot caught the floor and pulled the seat with you both in it forward towards his desk, so that he could reach around you and lift the candle from where it sat before pushing you both back again.  He held the votive before you.

“Light it,” he asked, free arm curling about you, fingers trailing the soft of your stomach from navel on down, “I owe you a devotion, lamb.”

Fingers bound in prayer fumbled with the thick golden rectangle of the lighter as you struggled not to simply sink back against him with a little shiver and beg that he stroke that little path across vulnerable skin once more.  A flick of your thumb sent the hinged lid open and the circular little flint struck on the second attempt, hot flame bursting to life.  Silco turned the candle so that you could light it and then pulled it away as you flicked the lighter shut and slipped it back between folded hands.

“Do you know the devotional prayer?” He asked, hand holding the candle coming to settle upon an armrest as his lap shifted beneath you, lean legs pressing together beneath your own and lifting before spreading wide, the hook of his knees beneath your thighs opening them in an indecent slow splay.  

It set you writhing; the kissing chill of the air of the room contrasting sharply with the heat of him beneath you, so very bare, bound in his lap, spread open like an invitation.  The door was locked, yes, you’d made sure of it but what if you were wrong?  What if someone had a key?  There’d be no explanation for the position you found yourself in, no way to hide.

The thrill of that little licking fear warred with the light caress of his free hand as it curled over the top of one thigh and smoothed toward your knee, only to hook it better in its drape over his own before it began the slow teasing, lazy circles that drew it back toward the little throbbing want hidden beneath the black satin gusset of thin panties.

“Bare legs.”  He murmured, and you gave another little squirm, folded hands pressing together tighter.  You’d not worn what you were coming to suspect was his favorite item of your clothing because you’d not expected to see him, and also to spite him if you did.  The move seemed to have backfired spectacularly.  When you had no excuse or answer, Father Silco simply carried on, a note of pleased amusement in his tone, “The prayer?”

“N-no.  That is, no I don’t know it.”

“Hmn.”  His little hum of disapproval at the gaps still existing in your liturgical knowledge colored your cheeks, and you could only hope that from his position he could not see the frustration that joined the embarrassment upon your face.  

You watched him lift the candle slowly from where he’d held it at your side, bring it to hover over your open lap.  His hand upon your thigh stilled its toying little strokes and instead closed in a taut grip of your leg, soft skin denting tenderly beneath his fingers.

“That’s alright,” he reassured you quietly, and you could hear the dark little smile in it, “This is my devotion anyhow.”

The flickering little candle he held hovering before you began to tilt, turn, and the inward gasp of breath caught in your throat as the clear melted wax welled at the lip of the red glass before spilling over, heat spattering in a little drip against the sensitive skin of your knee.  

He paused, and you could feel him shift under your restless hips, feel the little roll of his own and the way his breath strained ever so slightly for just a moment.

“Does that hurt?”  Low and velvet that voice mumbled up against the skin behind the fold of your ear and again he tipped a little burning drop of wax onto waiting skin.  

Your knee jumped the barest fraction, reflexive little jerk at the soft scalding that faded quickly into gentle warmth, and you nodded, folded hands pressing the knuckles of forefingers tight to your lips.

“A little.”  You breathed, raggedly.

“Enough to stop?”  He pressed, and the soft moan of a sigh that broke from you when the warmth of his mouth touched to the hard thrum of your pulse answered well enough for you before your shattered little ‘no’ eked out.

His fingers had strayed far up the leg they’d been casually toying across, toward the heat that he had to feel absolutely radiating from the apex of thighs.  One long forefinger drew a tracing line around the triangle of slippery black satin, up both edges and across your lower stomach slowly.

Air seized in your throat as his fingertips plucked at the smooth waistband.

“Lord, may this candle which I light illuminate all my difficulties and decisions.”  Silco began, waiting to feel the tension stringing through you begin to ease before he spilled another dollop of wax, and then a second and third a bit further up each time.  The soft sting of it had you writhing, the little shock of burning heat fading to a warm tickle as the wax rolled down in heavy drips, cooling against your skin.

Behind you, Silco’s breath caught in a little huff once more, a soft whistle between clenched chipped teeth on the inhale.

“May this candle be a fire,”  He continued after a beat, spreading the warm little shocks and sudden pinching stings to the tender inner thigh of your other leg, “that burns away all my pride, selfishness…” 

Writhing and shifting, you struggled in his lap, not wanting to escape yet fighting the way every fibre of you recoiled from the spattering searing sting of the wax in a reflexive, uncontrollable urge.  Several of these squirming jerks of your hips and the hand teasing at the edge of your panties caught suddenly in a taut cup between your legs as you felt Silco’s own hips give a hard little shove upward.  

Stilling breathlessly, he kept you waiting a long moment while he seemed to struggle to master himself, the fingers cupping you picking up an almost absent little up and down stroke over the satin covering the shape of your sex, unerringly finding the cleft between lips.  

Cooling wax flexed and tugged at skin as you tried to spread a bit further for him, to press into his touch, scared if you were to beg for more with words that it might stop the tease entirely, as it had the last time he’d had his hand between your thighs.  God, how he’d tormented you, brought you so terribly close… Hips rolled hard and slow against him in retaliation as you relived your humiliation.

As if reading your mind, his touch skimmed higher, and fingertips tucked themselves beneath the satin confines of the upper edge of panties, teasing little strokes at skin that tensed and trembled beneath his touch before they began to slip lower, “and all my other sins.” 

Wax was flowing freely, dripping to punctuate each word, taking his sweet time as you wriggled and bucked in his lap, swallowing little gasps and hisses as your skin sang.

At least one shift of your hips must have caught him just right because for a moment you could hear him choke on his words, feel him tense beneath you again.  Determined to give as good as you got you did it again and felt the rush of his breath fan against your neck.

His free hand tensed where it lay, fingertips so tremulously close to the cleft of lips, and delved to catch a second taut grip over the shape of your bare sex.  The sudden hard grasp of naked contact had you spiraling, arching hard back against him.  He was hard beneath you, you could feel it, and caught between his hand and that hint of hardness digging into the soft of your bottom you rocked slowly, only to be rewarded with a long pour of hot wax up your thigh that turned the gentle motion of hips to a wild little ride.

“May this candle be a flame,” He continued, and the broken rasp of his voice was nearly, nearly as sweet as the single slow caress of his finger that found the slick part of your folds and pressed between slippery skin to drag upward.  Unerringly found the proud, eager little swell of your clit and sent your lower back into a hard strung arch with one little nudge, “that warms my heart and incites me to love.”  He concluded, raggedly, and you swore you felt the graze of chipped teeth scrape over your shoulder.

Riding the light touch of his fingertip and behind you, the hard press of his cock through his pants and your open dress, you sprawled redolently back against him, let your neck find a home in a comfortable arch over his shoulder before turning your head, nestling forehead in the hollow of his throat before shifting to tuck a begging little kiss to the sharp of his jaw.

“Amen.”  You finished for him, and felt the sting of wax hit your hip and then your stomach that made you hiss and buck hips once more.  Your reward a groan of breath from him and another lingering stroke of his fingertips through soaked folds to flick caressingly at the sweet throbbing ache of your clit.

How long, how many bitter nights now had you wished for this, how many feverish and filthy dreams had you endured, just longing to feel his bare touch?  It had become so much worse after your last meeting, all that sharp longing redoubled after his heartless punishing teasing.

No more, no more thin cotton or sheer lace or anything at all between his touch and you.  The heat of his hand was nothing to the splashes of searing wax you’d endured, yet it was so much sweeter.  That little flicking touch came ghosting over the sensitive little nub of your clit and you writhed unashamedly, trying every which way to force his touch more, closer, deeper.

The prayer was far too short for your liking.  What good were hollow words meant to convey something as strong and fervent an ideal as devotion if they were over in mere minutes?  Grumbling a little whinging protest you pushed back against him with a hard roll of hips.

“Father…” You objected, voice cracked with pleading.

“Who?”  The grit dark velvet of his voice asked at your ear, delighted and tormented as the devil himself.

“Daddy.”  The word was out before you could even think it, like it teetered perpetually on the edge of your teeth ever since the first time he prised it out of you,  “P-please, please, daddy…”

The sharp blade of his nose shoved hard behind your ear, his ragged breathing a hushed tickling whuffle from narrow nostrils, and any further pleading you were on the verge of was stifled with a squealed little gasp as he spread the sodden petals of your pussy with the splay of three fingers, and the center one of those long, elegant digits found its way down between slicking folds, delving deep into the welcoming clenching grip of your want… only to withdraw his entire hand in a long, slow drag, tracing a line of accusatory wet all the way up to the dip of your navel.

It left you sobbing tearlessly, gasping and gulping and lifting hips in a wordless eagerness that only earned you another splattering of scalding wax across the strain of thighs.

Father Silco ignored your plight as steadfastly as any man of the cloth could ignore temptation, and began a new prayer.

“Earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

    my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

    where there is no water.”

The psalm he recited washed over you like a slow caress while you squirmed fitfully on his lap and watched his hand lift, middle finger glossed to its base with your wet.  Vanishing in your periphery, the sound of him sucking that long digit thoughtfully clean acted perfect punctuation to the sacrilege of his misappropriated prayer.  

Guilt spiced the edge of half-denied pleasure and soft pain.  As his hand slid back down your skin and toward the clenching, shivering yearning of your core, you’d never felt so debased, so deeply wicked and wrong.  Burning wax hit your thigh once more in heavy, rolling drops and you arched, straining, hissing between clenched teeth; become more serpent in the garden of Eden than Eve.

“I have seen you in the sanctuary

    and beheld your power and your glory.

Because your love is better than life,

    my lips will glorify you.”

He teased the upper edge of soaked panties once more, tracing the pucker of their hem, slipping fingertips just beneath them, savoring the softness of skin and the way the taut of your stomach quivered beneath his touch.  Desire welled like a dark stone filling your throat, heart coated in the sticky sap of filthy blasphemous sin as his scarred mouth tickled at the hook of your jaw and tender line of your throat.  This was wrong, so wrong, so deliciously perfectly throbbingly wrong.

Heat flooded your face as you crushed the press of prayer folded hands to your forehead, eyes shut tight against the rushing high of mortifying lust.  Forbidden, taboo, illicit; whatever you wanted to call that gut-deep and undisputed knowledge that this was unforgivably wrong, it excited you in a way nothing else ever had.

He could see it in you, you knew he could.  He saw how horrible your deepest darkest thoughts could be and he just kept dragging them out into the light, smiling as he let you dirty yourself with the honesty of your predilections.  

The line of his arm tightened against your side as he reached to slip fingers back into your heat, another lazy circling tease to against clit that left you wrung out and breathless before he delved back inside of you and let you ride the slow pumping slide of one long finger.

“I will praise you as long as I live,

    and in your name I will lift up my hands.

 I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;

    with singing lips my mouth will praise you.”

Your head rocked as he butted his forehead gently to your temple, words a warm, seeping whisper at your cheek, that stern, gravel worn seduction of his voice undoing you, taking you apart at the seams until you felt sure you’d fall open there in his lap like a ragdoll with the sin-like sawdust spilled out.

Inside of you, he was inside of you- and just that knowledge, just the wretchedly wonderful wrongness of it made the whole of you jerk in a taut little shiver of surrender.  That slender artful finger kept up its torment like he had no notion of your mortal struggle; curling, thrusting, buried deep.  It had you in a tailspin, hips working devoid of conscious thought, all sensation dialed down to the hard, hot, fluttering building to a crescendo within.  Greed, gluttony, lust… were they called deadly sins because you felt fit to die if you did not satisfy each one right this moment?  

The stinging pain of the wax he kept dripping in erratic little patterns jerked you from the sinking, seeping pit of ecstatic bliss over and over again, a cruel and wonderful see-saw that kept you gripping white-knuckled on the sharp edge of insensible pleasure.

“On my bed I remember you;

    I think of you through the watches of the night.

Because you are my help,

    I sing in the shadow of your wings.

I cling to you;

    your right hand upholds me.”

His right hand was all that stood between you and heaven; the grinding press of the heel of his palm to the throb of your clit, the smooth slow fucking his single finger was giving you, all of it an overwhelming agony of delight but just shy of what you needed to crest the rising wave of tense bliss he was intent on drowning you with.

Head tossed back, you groaned that little, broken, sordid version of his holy title once more, hands bound at the wrists with your rosary clenched in fervent prayer to your chest that he’d let you come, please God just let you come... 

And with that one word, beneath you Father Silco went suddenly still and rigid, something like a strangled gasp caught in his throat as hips pinned under your writhing ones jerked their own stilted thrust upward… and held for a long and breathless moment before you felt him sag with a rushing, panting release.  His hand cupped to you had gone quite still, and you could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Had he… had he just…?  You shifted hips experimentally and heard him hiss a wordless scolding as his hand gripped the shape of your pussy hard.  Stilling obediently, you had to struggle not to smile sinful bliss.  

Just a little touch of you combined with the friction of your hips working in his lap and he’d cum those dark, well tailored pants of his.

In spite of being robbed of your own relief, for the moment you felt nothing but powerful, smug and heady with the evidence of how your infatuation was not one-sided, just as you had in the confessional, and it made you foolishly proud.

Proud, right up to the point when he withdrew his finger from within you and in the space of a half second, just before your mouth could open in complaint, caught a little pinch of your clit between thumb and middle finger only to assault that overstimulated cluster of slick nerves with his forefinger in such lashing that you pitched clean into the waiting arms of your release.  

It was hard and fast, unmerciful, the lovely strain nearly ruined by how long he’d kept you waiting and how hard he’d teased you up to it.  

“Amen.”  He was purring in your ear, voice near drowned out by the hard thrumming pound of blood rushing in your brain.  Thighs shivered in their hook over top of his own, gone weak as every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you lolling, warmly pliant and sighing devoutness far more fervent than any stale saint could have possibly understood. 

There was a little click of glass as he set the remains of the candle back upon his desk and turned your face toward himself where your head lay back upon his shoulder.  Fingers traced the curve of your cheek, and when he licked at the open part of your lips the faint taste of yourself mingled with him lingered.  Bless me father, for I have sinned.  

Profane and perfect, you felt his smile stretch against your mouth.  

“Do you doubt my devotion, lamb?”  He asked quietly, hands smoothing away the cooled and peeling wax in long strokes that left gently welted and red splotched skin stinging sweetly.  

Your head shook infinitesimally, not wanting to break the scant contact of his mouth to your own.

“Do you pray for me, Father?”  The urge to know felt crushing, the weight of guilt creeping in to gnaw at the edges of sordid bliss.

“Oh lamb.  You’re the only thing I pray for anymore.”

#penance #silco #father silco #priest silco #silco au #arcane au #silco x reader #silco arcane x reader #no y/n #more penance at last! rejoice! #my birthday gift to you

[ekdarnellbooks]

Enzi the alien and Eleanor the human give in to their feelings for each other

Excerpt from Jury Duty

Pairing: male tentacled alien x female human

Tags: nsfw, 18+ only, tentacle smut, double vaginal penetration, creampie

Word count: 878

Enzi peered down at her, and between the intense stare and the tentacles enveloping her body, the pinch of arousal became a pulse, electricity shooting up her spine.

“Enzi,” Eleanor whispered, her voice raw with emotion.

“Yes, little human?”

What did she want from him? Her head swam, no longer with the incoherence of the concussion, but with the confusion of her own thoughts, of the way her body responded to him. The tentacles were warm and smooth as they caressed her body, one moving to brush her cheek.

“Do you fuck all of your guests?” It was a rude question, yes, and was that even what he wanted? Still, she had to know the answer. And when had she cared about propriety?

Laughter grumbled in Enzi’s chest, that wicked grin replacing his somber expression.

“No, I do not. I have never had sex with anyone on this ship, with any of the species I’ve eradicated.”

“Do you want to fuck me?” Eleanor’s chest constricted as she awaited his answer, the arousal pulsing through her core in time with her heartbeat.

“Yes, Eleanor, I very much want that, if you would let me.”

His words set her heart on fire as she grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down towards her. Without thinking, she pressed a kiss against his mouth, though it was difficult with the way each of their faces were constructed. An electric shock to her core as Enzi’s tongue slipped out, brushing against her lips before moving its way down her jawline and neck.

Eleanor unhooked her bra, tossing it aside as Enzi worked his tentacles underneath her underwear, sliding them down her thighs and throwing them to the floor. His tongue was on her bare breasts now, wetness coating her nipples as Enzi swirled circles around them. Tentacles massaged her stomach and thighs, remaining agonizingly far away from where she wanted him.

“Please… Enzi.” Her need was frantic, a desperate urge to be filled, to be whole, after all that had happened.

Another grumble of laughter, not mocking, but gentle. Enzi ran a tentacle across her entrance, already slick with longing, and Eleanor let out a low moan. Over and over again, he caressed her, pressing in the tip and then retreating, before penetrating her fully.

Eleanor gasped at the sudden profusion, the way his tentacle pulsed in time with her quickened heartbeat, though a question nagged at the back of her head.

“You… don’t have a penis?” she asked between moans, as Enzi thrust his tentacle into her.

“I can use all of my functional appendages for pleasure and reproduction,” he said, and Eleanor took in a sharp inhale.

The tentacles were dicks!

All coherent thought left her mind as Enzi fucked her, a delicious rhythm that fanned the flames of arousal. Still, it was not enough.

“More,” she begged, desperate to be filled, desperate to forget.

Enzi obliged. A second tentacle snaked up her thigh, pressing at her entrance as she writhed against him. It prodded at her before sliding its way in, fitting snugly next to the first, like another piece of the puzzle.

Eleanor groaned and Enzi’s eyes flared, glued to her cunt, his tentacles thrusting in synchronicity. The sight should have been repulsive, fleshy pink appendages penetrating her, filling her to the brim, but it wasn’t. It was erotic, sensual, stimulating. It made all of her muscles clench as she teetered on the brink of orgasm.

“More!” she yelled and Enzi gripped her throat with a clawed hand, the tentacle extending from his elbow slithering towards her mouth.

Eleanor parted her lips for him as he pressed his way in, fucking her mouth in time with the tentacles in her cunt, leaving her dizzy with lust. A salty musk coated her tongue as her muscles tightened, contracting against him, the excess fullness pushing her over the edge.

All she could manage was a mumbled groan with her mouth full, bucking against him as the waves of pleasure washed over her. Eleanor wanted to cry his name as they became one, but this was enough. Aftershocks trembled through her, yet Enzi continued to fuck her.

“Are you ready for me, my bold little human?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

Ready for what? Eleanor just nodded, and Enzi let out a fierce groan.

Salty warmth in the back of her throat and filling her cunt, running down her thighs as the Khureno spurted his seed into her. Holy shit. It went on for longer than one would expect, until the groans turned to trilling moans, and then hushed silence.

Slowly, Enzi extricated his tentacles, first from her mouth, and then from her cunt, before collapsing next to her. Sticky seed spilled from between her legs, and she wiped the residue from her lips, swollen from his appendage.

Eleanor curled up in Enzi’s arms, exhaustion sweeping over her like a gentle wave. She should regret this. She should be disturbed by what she’d just done. Enzi was an alien, an alien who just killed a man she’d spent the last three weeks with. An alien playing God against the whole of humanity. The Khureno had wiped sixteen species out of existence. She should hate herself.

But she didn’t.

Not one bit.

#sci fi romance #writers on tumblr #monster fucker #monster lover #alien fucker #alien lover #tentacle monsters #tentacle smut #tentacles #alien boyfriend #alien x human #human x alien #terato #terat0philliac

[slytherinsomniari]

My Hogwarts Legacy MC OC Quartet!

Here is my drawing of four of my Hogwarts Legacy characters using the base by dalgyu_777! My art is still not as good as I'd like and it has many problems, but I need to keep practicing. I headcanon that Eleanor is secretly jealous of how close Oleana is with Professor Sharp once she realizes her feelings for him, so when I saw this base I knew I had to draw them 😂 Also didn't realize how many of them had blue eyes, sorry! I'll try to use other colors later.

#hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy fanart #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy oc #hl mc #hl oc #verity wainwright #sophronia de vere #Oleana #Oleana Sharp #Eleanor Knightley #harry potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter oc #hp oc #drawing #digital art #fanart

[sleptsolongwithoutyou]

Alan has never really been religious. Christmas, Easter, maybe a baptism or two. Performative Catholicism is always how he'd thought of it. And the rosary in his dresser has been more of a memory to hold onto, something left of his mother, than anything to do with the Father, Son or Holy Spirit. But here he was, knelt in front of one of the few relics left behind of an old life, running the beads between his fingers and hoping that if there was something up above it was still listening.

Nothing was more important than this. Giving Eleanor something she had denied herself since long before he'd know her. It was sacred, far more sacred than these totems but he refused to let the thought cross his mind otherwise it taint what little help he was asking for her. This night would change everything. But how is not something he was willing to leave up to chance.

Perfect. It had to be perfect. Just like she was. Just like she looked now, opening the door in the open robe and fluffing her hair with a nervous smile. She doesn't trust her voice as much as he doesn't trust his own.

"Amen."

Alan wasn't sure who he had been praying to anymore but it felt more like Eleanor.

#Spotify #alan sharpe #eleanor bailey #alanor #writing tidbits

[flowerandblood]

Sweetly desire, bitterly deprive

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Victorian Horror • Aemond x female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, partial rape, choking, violence, murder and suicide, obsession ]

[ description: Lost in his own emptiness and cold, Aemond lives with his family in their large estates, wandering their halls like a ghost, lost in his own madness. One day, his mother's friend arrived at their manor with her husband and daughter. He becomes obsessed with her, which leads to a series of unfortunate events. Obsessive, delving into madness, poetic, very dark! Aemond. ]

This oneshot is my idea and a reference to the wonderful work of Edgar Allan Poe, his Eleanor and Morella and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

_____

It seemed to him that something in him had disappeared, collapsed when he lost his left eye, that he had partly ceased to be human and had become some kind of caricatured creature, menacing, tall as a tower, pale and cold as marble.

He had never lacked anything, his family was wealthy, owning many mansions all over the country, all identically decorated, sumptuously adorned with portraits of their ancestors looking at him melancholy and proudly out of the canvas, continually judging him.

He had the impression that at night their faces changed, his great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers seemed suddenly to be some kind of phantoms, their faces contorted, displeased at the sight of him, his existence.

He still felt watched, he felt overwhelmed, he felt that something hovered over him, but he could not name this premonition, this certainty.

He had tried to explain it to his mother once, but she had looked at him with such concerned, frightened eyes that he decided he would never mention it again.

He knew that his family considered him insane, a man out of his mind, irrational, aggressive in his words, with a gaze that cut like a sharp blade, making interlocutors turn their faces away from him, unable to bear it.

He saw her for the first time when she arrived at their residence with her parents, Mr and Mrs Orwell, at the invitation of his mother, who had been friends with Mrs Orwell as a child. He watched closely her small, slender figure standing in the corridor behind his parents, her gaze lowered downwards, thoughtful.

She shuddered as if she subconsciously sensed that she was being watched and glanced in his direction, her pupils dilated suddenly, as if from a dream world she had returned to earth with the cruel pull of some unknown force, as if his figure, his silhouette had crushed her.

They stared at each other for too long to be considered in accordance with good manners, only when her parents entered the living room where he sat did he rise from his chair, reminding himself of such a basic thing as breathing, and straightened up, folding his arms behind him, allowing himself to introduce the people who would be guests in their home from now on.

He knew that Miss Orwell could feel his burning gaze on her, fleeing from him to the far end of the room, looking at the books stacked on the shelves of the old oak bookcase. He watched from behind her beautiful neck, her hair pinned up in a bun and braids framing her head on either side. Her gown was sewn from a delicate, light-coloured fabric, its cut was simple, perfectly emphasising her figure, her almost bare shoulders.

Her neck and her shoulders drove him mad.

The perfect curve of the transition of one part of her body into the other, her shiny, soft skin, the softness of the shape that was forming.

Then he lifted his gaze higher and discovered her slightly rounded, short, proportionate nose, forming a perfect angle with her straight, smooth forehead, the totality of this view framed by her eyes like precious stones, bright, shining, surrounded by long lashes like veils, emphasising her depths, giving her an aura of mystery.

Finally, he struggled to dare to shift his attention to the most intimate exposed part of her body, her fleshy, full, pink lips, both pressed against each other, still remaining virtually imperceptibly parted, the point of their contact seeming incredibly soft and moist to him.

He saw her throw him an uncertain, frightened look and clench her hands in front of her, not knowing how to act, how to dissuade him. She only relaxed when his sister walked into their living room.

They greeted each other as if they were old friends, even though they were seeing each other for the first time, grasped each other's hands and from then on they were inseparable.

He often watched them through the window, seeing their silhouettes move unhurriedly ahead of them through their vast park, talking to each other about something in a cheerful voice and laughing, their pearly sounds reaching his ears muffled by the glass.

In his presence, her smile disappeared from her face, her laughter sagged in her throat and a faint dread coated her, her pupils dilated suddenly, her lips tightened.

His tall figure standing over her frightened her, his hands folded stiffly behind his back seemed frozen in stone, as if he were just a statue breathing for some reason. Unable to make a sound near him, she lowered her gaze quickly, terrified.

One day, however, she dared to take a step towards him, a step towards the unknown, as, realising that he spent every evening by candlelight sitting in their library reading books, she joined him. He watched her every move vigilantly, not taking his eye off her, her delicate figure moving around the room in a light, slow motion, her hands folded in front of her in a humble gesture.

He could not express how melancholic and heavenly she looked walking like that in the faint light of the candles, her person seemed as if enveloped in a mist, a glow.

He felt himself to be merely an observer of events, a point to which all her presence referred, being a counterbalance to her subtlety, spread out around her like the blackness of the night that surrounded them.

She looked at him at last, for the first time as if she really wanted to see him, what was inside him, what was inside his heart, inside his mind, and he looked at her with empty eye, knowing that there was only nothingness there, an abyss, a coldness without end or measure.

He was surprised at her courage, at how confidently she walked towards him, standing by his side, looking over his shoulder wanting to see what he was reading.

He did not turn his head behind her, he only watched the shadow of her silhouette out of the corner of his eye, he could feel beside him the warmth emanating from her body, her scent, the rustling of her gown made him feel a tickle in his fingers.

"Machiavelli. What a brutal choice." She whispered, but there was no disapproval or judgement in her word, more a soft surprise, there was something in the way she said the last sentence, in the way the tip of her tongue clicked as she uttered the syllables, that he licked his lower lip involuntarily, turning the page.

"Brutal?" He asked lowly, hearing the timbre of his own voice, glassy, cutting like a blade, clear, assured, cool. He heard her swallow quietly and draw in the air, her body standing beside him, somehow enveloping him in her existence, pleasantly teasing all his senses.

"Cesare Borgia was his ideal of a ruler. That says enough about him." She said lowly, he heard her avert her gaze thoughtfully, looking at some point in the distance. Involuntarily, the tip of his tongue ran over his lower lip, moistening it, he smirked at her words, shifting in his seat.

"They are both no longer among us and have no way to defend themselves from your cruel judgement." He murmured softly, lifting his eyes to her at last.

Their gazes crossed, her eyes at once full of uncertainty and curiosity, and he had the feeling that her figure was quivering and trembling, too filled with life, the desire to breathe, to move, to feel.

They looked at each other and he knew that they had both experienced this when he first saw her, when they were unable to stop, when they both realised that something was happening between them that they could not tell anyone about.

He didn't know how it happened, what moved his loins to stand up, towering over her to grab her with ease and seat her on the table. He decided that it was just purest curiosity, as his fingertips ran over her shoulder, over that gorgeous arm, and traveled up the hill of the length of her neck, his hand tightened around it, again, merely in curiosity, and he found to his surprise that it fit there perfectly.

He looked at her face, into her eyes glittering like the most expensive precious stones darkened by the veil of her lashes, looking at him hazy, hesitant, at once fearful and devoted, wanting and demanding. When he took a step towards her her thighs spread between him like a book, as if it were the most natural of reflexes that didn't even surprise him.

Without letting go of her gorgeous neck he began to travel and explore the mysterious nooks and crannies of her body occupying his mind, the finger of his free hand lifting tentatively the material of her gown and her petticoat, running over her ankle covered from him by the woollen material.

He ran his hand upwards, higher and higher, as if running his finger over to the surface of the water, until he reached the soft, surprisingly hot skin of her naked thigh and they both parted their lips, looking at each other wordlessly, breathing deeply.

His fingers ran over her flesh as if it were the keys of a piano, pressing her skin, and made their way to what was between her thighs, to what he could feel the pulsing heat from, the source of her trembling, of her sleepless nights.

She let out a shuddering, sweet sigh as he touched her there and found her sticky moisture, with circular motions collecting it on his fingers, both of them looking at each other as if surprised by this discovery, this disturbing, intimate act.

With each movement of his fingers, with each circle across her warmth, her thighs spread wider and wider in front of him, her body finding support on her palms placed on the table top, her breasts hidden under her gown rising and falling, her hips beginning to meet his movements.

He had the feeling that they were both in a trance, that they didn't understand what they were doing and didn't want to understand it, they weren't thinking about it or judging it, they were simply discovering a new experience, testing the taste of the sweet, unspoken secret that hid deep between her thighs, the loud, shameless click of her wetness accompanying every movement of his hand.

He licked his lips involuntarily when at last the tip of his finger met the entrance between her folds which throbbed with heat, wet and pulsing. Encouraged by this intriguing discovery, he slid his finger there, wanting to see what she felt like inside. He found with interest that her core was rough and fleshy, throbbing and wet, clenching steadily on his skin, her head arched back with a cry of exertion.

He slid his finger deeper, feeling it stretch her entire structure, pushing deep into her flesh, and a quiet, ungodly mewl erupted from her lips, her eyes clenched, her mouth parted in something akin to elation, delight.

He felt his body react, a pleasant heat and pulsation, the same as he felt inside her. He thought they were like two parts of the same thing, like two sides of the same story, beginning and end, day and night, sun and moon.

Just as everything had its companion, just as the world had for centuries misunderstood the nature of loneliness, telling people to discover the joys of living with someone, man and woman were destined to explore themselves with amazement.

He slipped his finger out of her and, with a light, unhurried movement, untied the fabric of his trousers, lowering them slightly so that she could not see what was beneath them, hiding that sickeningly physical, animalistic sight beneath her gown.

She knew what was about to happen, and though she didn't understand it, she felt subconsciously that from the moment they looked at each other they were destined to connect, to take something and give something to each other.

She trembled all over as he directed the tip of his length with his palm against her burning, hot entrance, her body instantly refusing this sudden, unholy act of divine violation.

"− don't −" He hissed coolly, and she froze, looking at him tearfully, letting him force his pink tip, dripping with his liquid moisture, inside her.

With surprising patience and devotion she endured the discomfort of fitting him inside her, a weary, helpless sob came from her lips. He slid his manhood into her slowly, bit by bit, stretching her tight muscles, sinking into the warmth of her flesh.

He realised suddenly that he was inside her, that he was her and she was him.

That they were a whole, that he would never be complete again without her.

His hand tightened around her neck and did not let her escape, impaling her on himself, on what he was putting into her so deeply that she throbbed, seeking fulfillment in it, any kind of relief.

He gave in to his animal instinct, the feeling that he craved to rub against her, craved for her to squeeze him, craved to move inside her, the thrusts of his hips violent, intense, deep, sure, as if taking her, filling her with himself again and again, physical stretching of her body with his flesh was written into his nature.

Their bodies slammed against each other with wet, loud clicks of her moisture as if they were fighting, as if he was about to pierce her with himself, her head tilted back, her expression showing simultaneous delight and horror at this unexpectedly pleasurable act.

She was panting along with him, giving herself over completely to his brutal thrusts, needed to be filled, to be satisfied.

"− you won't escape from me − you know that, don't you? − I'm going to fill you −" He growled between one quick, hard thrust and the next, and she only mewled a desperate plea, refusing and at the same time asking him to do it, writhing beneath him, her face all flushed with pleasure.

"− no − please − God, forgive me −" She cried out with difficulty, tears of effort, pain and delight running down her cheeks, her body leaning back, surrendering at last.

He felt her insides suddenly clench violently against him and begin to convulse, a moan of sweet suffering came from her lips, her body shook with a wave of something he was yet to understand.

This sight made him speed up instead of slowing down, feeling that something was about to happen, that he was already so close.

"− yes − don't resist me − fuck! −" He cursed for the first time in his life, feeling that his whole body was in a hot frenzy, his hips moving deep inside her throughout her fulfilment, her hands trying fruitlessly to push him away with her loud, broken moans, unable to take any more, overstimulated and sensitive.

He made a low, throaty, animalistic sound as a wave of pleasure shook him, he felt his own fluid spilling over her insides, filling her like wine fills a chalice, and he thought it made him feel the most natural reflex in his life, the filling and that she felt exactly the same way about the sensation of being filled, as if it was her primal, most important need.

Not to be empty.

They stared at each other, breathing loudly, feeling the fog around them begin to blur and disappear, their vision began to sharpen, their cool judgement returned to their minds, and with horror they realised at last what they had done.

They pulled away from each other in pain, both feeling that the fact that they were no longer one was unnatural, ungodly, against some fundamental law, that they were incomplete again, that they were imperfect again.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as she corrected her gown in despair, she stepped down from the table and ran out of the room with a loud, broken sob, terrified of their act, of what consequences it might bring.

He tied his trousers sitting down in his chair with difficulty and listened to the intense pounding of his heart, staring blankly ahead, trying to calm his breathing, feeling more empty than ever.

Over the next few days she avoided him again, her face even paler than when he first saw her. He had the feeling that she was in a progressive agony, that she was dying before his eyes.

Wanting to put an end to their torment, one morning he moved after her, seeing that she had gone for a walk through their park, and asked for her hand.

Only then did she confess to him, crying with unspeakable pain, that her fiancé had been waiting for her for weeks.

He felt like he had fallen into a state of complete emptiness and wasn't sure he understood her words.

He even thought they were amusing as he sat in the living room taking a sip of wine from his glass, chuckling under his breath, much to the consternation of those gathered.

It wasn't until several hours later that people began to be concerned about her disappearance.

He took no part in the search.

As he walked down the corridor of his mansion in the evening heading towards his room, he looked at the appraising faces of his grandparents, their eyes seemingly bulging, terrified, their lips clenched as if in rage.

He began to rip portrait after portrait off the wall, destroying frames and canvases, causing a commotion all around him. His mother tried to calm him down, but he broke free from her embrace.

It was only when he entered his bedroom that he noticed her silhouette, pale and corpse-like, her eyes wide open, looking towards the door as if she was waiting for him, his bedclothes all covered in her blood.

He saw out of the corner of his eye an open window facing straight into their park and realised that she had broken in here, taken his letter knife and slit her wrists.

He approached her slowly, feeling the pounding of his heart, the sweat on the back of his neck as he noticed the bruises on her neck, a clear marks matching his hands that he was sure he hadn't seen when he had spoken to her that morning.

How could that be?

He glanced at the floor out of the corner of his eye and saw his chemise, all dirty from the sand and grass. He began to breathe deeply, feeling the whole room swirl around him.

He pushed from his mind the sight of her terrified face, the sight of her tears when she fell with him to the ground, when he told her that he was empty without her, that he had filled her with himself and she could not be anyone else's, just as he could never be anyone else's again.

It seemed to him that she had come to terms with his words, for she stopped struggling, looking at him with affection, and he praised and comforted her, telling her that the end would come soon, that she would fall asleep, that he promised she would not be in pain.

When she stopped moving and fainted he took her body in his arms, numb and spilling in his fingers, and walked as if in a trance through his open window into his bedroom.

He laid her on his bed, where she belonged, right beside him, and left, longing to return to her in the night, believing that she had fallen into an eternal sleep.

She woke up.

She finished his work.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic #dark aemond smut #dark aemond #dark aemond targaryen #modern dark aemond #dark aemond angst #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell smut #modern aemond angst #dark modern aemond #modern aemond smut #modern aemond #aemond targeryen angst #aemond targaryen angst #aemond angst #hotd angst #aemond kinslayer #prince aemond #aemond #aemond one eye #aemond fanfic #hotd fanfiction

[lucifers-horror-harem]

uhm. so i may or may not need alanor with flower field.

aWWWWW thank u bug!! This one is short but I hope you like <3

Alan Sharpe x Eleanor Bailey Warnings: None

A sharp inhale, the smell of flowers and the summer breeze wafting over him. Alan felt warm and comfortable, a gentle weight on his chest. He didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes opened a crack, only being able to squint against the sunlight that still shone so bright even as it begun to set.

The shadow of a face came into view, the sun radiating around her head like a halo. She was perched on his chest, blue eyes watching intently as Alan slowly came back into consciousness. “Welcome back, sleepyhead,” she whispered as she smiled down at him. 

 Alan sighed, lifting his hand up to Eleanor’s hair and brushing it behind her ear. “Hey baby,” he mumbled. “How long was I out?”

Her fingers ran through the curls that peeked out from under his collar. “Not long.” Eleanor leaned in and pecked him on the lips. “You looked too cute to wake up.”

Alan chuckled, but leaned back and wrapped his arms around Eleanor as she snuggled up closer to him. This was everything he could ever ask for. Having someone who loved him in his arms, and being somewhere so beautiful like the flowers that surrounded them while the sun dipped below the horizon. 

After a few moments sharing a loving gaze with each other, Alan brought his hand up to her ear again, only this time he placed a few sprigs of wildflowers he picked next to her while she was too occupied with him to notice. She pressed her forehead to his chest, giggling into him as he smiled. When she looked back up at him, all he could see was the love in her eyes. 

“I love you Alan,” she whispered, leaning in to steal another kiss. 

“And I love you too, Eleanor.” He would love her as long as he lived.

#alan sharpe x eleanor bailey #alan sharpe #eleanor bailey #others ocs #slasher oc #yandere oc #oc: alan sharpe

[gabessquishytum]

Following the cow!Hob/cat!Dream and warprize brainrot - 1689 AU?

King Hob is mentally and physically defeated when he’s bound and dragged into Dream’s throne room to be given as a gift. He’d fought as long as he could, but the final siege had left him scrawny and gaunt. Queen Eleanor and Prince Robyn had succumbed to fever so recently that his chest is still swollen with milk despite his poor condition. He’s expecting that whatever they’re going to do to him, he won’t survive much longer.

King Dream seems unimpressed with this gift from Burgess’s warmongering kingdom, but his interest is clearly piqued when he scents the fresh milk staining wet patches on Hob’s thin tunic. He beckons for the cow to be brought closer, then slashes the fabric in half with one sharp claw. Hob blushes at this latest torment - he’s already lost everything and now he’s standing in front of this court with his tits out on display.

Of course his embarrassment isn’t complete yet - King Dream leans forward and licks delicately at one plump nipple with his rough tongue and Hob moans involuntarily, deep and lowing. King Dream’s eyes flick up to meet his as he carefully takes the nipple in his mouth and suckles deeply - Hob discovers what a humiliation kink is when he realises he’s hard in his breeches. Dream drinks his fill, purring the whole time, before ordering this cow to be taken to his personal chambers.

As he’s dragged away, milk-stained tunic flapping around his bare breasts, Hob’s not so sure he’s ready for death to take him just yet - he’s got so much to live for!

🐙

Poor sweet Hob 😭😭 he's having such a rough day.

But. It gets better. Once he's deposited in the cat King's personal chambers, Hob is immediately tended to by Dream’s closest personal servants. Jessamy kindly removes his ruined and stained clothes, without any judgement towards his state of arousal. Hob is then thoroughly bathed (the servants are clearly expecting a fight over this, but Hob is not a cat - he quite enjoys his soak in the warm water). He's so sleepy by that point, but then he's served a lovely dinner (the cat people do at least realise that Hob is a strict vegetarian) and of course he's starving, so he foregos sleep in favour of eating his fill for the first time in many months.

Dream comes to his chambers and finds his new cow companion spread out and snoring on the royal bed. This brings a smile even to the King's face, and he dismisses the servants silently before climbing up onto the bed and curling around Hob. Despite the recent hardships Hob is still pleasingly soft and Dream purrs in contentment as he settles in for the night.

Next morning Hob wakes to the familiar sensation of a hungry mouth at his teat, and he almost imagines that he's back with Eleanor and Robyn... but he quickly remembers the true circumstances. Its not so bad though. Soft, warm paws are kneading gently against Hob’s thighs, and it's like a nice massage. It's not long before Hob is hard again, and this time there's nothing to preserve his dignity. One of those soft paws moves upwards, and all two soon Hob’s cock in being thoroughly petted by Dream. And the king doesn't stop sucking away on his tits until there's nothing left to give.

Hob discovers that now, his purpose is to sate the cat King's thirst. No longer a king in his own right, he exists only to please Dream. And yet, there's something rather freeing about that. Not to mention, Dream seems to be generous, and fascinated by Hob’s pleasure... perhaps he'll be more than just a source of milk for the King after all...

#🐙 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #cw lactation #cw humiliation #cw hybrids #cow hob

[best-fictional-band-poll]

ONLY the top THREE bands from this poll will qualify! Good luck!

#preliminary round #splatoon #spongebob squarepants #studio killers #amphibia #pitch perfect #synthv #ensemble stars #breaking bad #& juliet #empire records