#morning supplication

[vclko]

🌿☀️اذكار الصباح ☀️🌿 ☀️🌿 morning zikr☀️🌿

أَصْبَحْنَا وَأَصْبَحَ الْمُلْكُ لِلَّهِ رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ، اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّـي أَسْأَلُكَ خَـيْرَ هَذَا الْـيَوْمِ ، فَتْحَهُ، وَنَصْرَهُ، وَنُورَهُ وَبَرَكَتَهُ، وَهُدَاهُ، وَأَعُوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَرِّ مَا فِيهِ وَشَرِّ مَا بَعْدَهُ.

We have reached the morning and at this very time all sovereignty belongs to Allah, Lord of the worlds. O Allah, I ask You for the good of this day, its triumphs and its victories, its light and its blessings and its guidance, and I take refuge in You from the evil of this day and the evil that follows it.

اللَّهُمَّ عَالِمَ الْغَيْبِ وَالشَّهَادَةِ فَاطِرَ السَّماوَاتِ وَالْأَرْضِ، رَبَّ كُلِّ شَيْءٍ وَمَلِيكَهُ، أَشْهَدُ أَنْ لَا إِلَهَ إِلَّا أَنْتَ، أَعُوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَرِّ نَفْسِي، وَمِنْ شَرِّ الشَّيْطَانِ وَشِرْكِهِ، وَأَنْ أَقْتَرِفَ عَلَى نَفْسِي سُوءاً أَوْ أَجُرَّهُ إِلَى مُسْلِمٍ.

O Allah, Knower of the unseen and the seen, Creator of the heavens and the Earth, Lord and Sovereign of all things, I bear witness that none has the right to be worshipped except You. I take refuge in You from the evil of my soul and from the evil and shirk of the devil, and from committing wrong against my soul or bringing such upon another Muslim.

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ الْعَفْوَ وَالْعَافِيَةَ فِي الدُّنْيَا وَالْآخِرَةِ، اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ الْعَفْوَ وَالْعَافِيَةَ فِي دِينِي، وَدُنْيَايَ، وَأَهْلِي، وَمَالِي، اللَّهُمَّ اسْتُرْ عَوْرَاتِي، وَآمِنْ رَوْعَاتِي، اللَّهُمَّ احْفَظْنِي مِنْ بَيْنِ يَدَيَّ، وَمِنْ خَلْفِي، وَعَنْ يَمِينِي، وَعَنْ شِمَالِي، وَمِنْ فَوْقِي، وَأَعُوذُ بِعَظَمَتِكَ أَنْ أُغْتَالَ مِنْ تَحْتِيَ.

O Allah, I ask You for pardon and well-being in this life and the next. O Allah, I ask You for pardon and well-being in my religious and worldly affairs, and my family and my wealth. O Allah, veil my weaknesses and set at ease my dismay. O Allah, preserve me from the front and from behind and on my right and on my left and from above, and I take refuge with You lest I be swallowed up by the earth.

حَسْبِيَ اللَّهُ لَآ إِلَهَ إِلَّا هُوَ عَلَيْهِ تَوَكَّلْتُ وَهُوَ رَبُّ الْعَرْشِ الْعَظِيمِ

Allah is Sufficient for me, none has the right to be worshipped except Him, upon Him I rely and He is Lord of the exalted throne. (seven times morning and evening

أَعُوذُ بِكَلِمَاتِ اللَّهِ التَّامَّاتِ مِنْ شَرِّ مَا خَلَقَ

I take refuge in Allah’s perfect words from the evil He has created. (three times in the evening)

اللَّهُمَّ عَافِـني فِي بَدَنِي، اللَّهُمَّ عَافِـنِي فِي سَمْعِي، اللَّهُمَّ عَافِنِي فِي بَصَرِي، لَا إِلَهَ إلاَّ أَنْتَ.(ثلاثاً) اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَعُوذُبِكَ مِنَ الْكُفْر، وَالفَقْرِ، وَأَعُوذُبِكَ مِنْ عَذَابِ الْقَبْرِ ، لَا إلَهَ إلاَّ أَنْتَ

O Allah, grant my body health, O Allah, grant my hearing health, O Allah, grant my sight health. None has the right to be worshipped except You.(three times) O Allah, I take refuge with You from disbelief and poverty, and I take refuge with You from the punishment of the grave. None has the right to be worshipped except You. (three times)

اللَّهُمَّ مَا أَصْبَحَ بِي مِنْ نِعْمَةٍ أَوْ بِأَحَدٍ مِنْ خَلْقِكَ فَمِنْكَ وَحْدَكَ لَا شَرِيكَ لَكَ، فَلَكَ الْحَمْدُ وَلَكَ الشُّكْرُ

O Allah, what blessing I or any of Your creation have risen upon, is from You alone, without partner, so for You is all praise and unto You all thanks

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَصْبَحْتُ أُشْهِدُكَ وَأُشْهِدُ حَمَلَةَ عَرْشِكَ، وَمَلَائِكَتَكَ وَجَمِيعَ خَلْقِكَ، أَنَّكَ أَنْتَ اللَّهُ لَا إِلَهَ إِلَّا أَنْتَ وَحْدَكَ لَا شَرِيكَ لَكَ، وَأَنَّ مُحَمَّداً عَبْدُكَ وَرَسُولُكَ

O Allah, verily I have reached the morning and call on You, the bearers of Your throne, Your angles, and all of Your creation to witness that You are Allah, none has the right to be worshipped except You, alone, without partner and that Muhammad is Your Servant and Messenger. (four times).

#islamic design #islamic #zikrullah #zikr #اسلاميات #islam #دعاء #islamic dua #supplication #quran #islamic post #ادعيه اسلاميه #جمعه #جمعه مباركه #اذكار صباحيه #gif #morning supplication

[dai-ilallah]

#मगफिरत की दुआ #Duas after Fajr & Asr/Maghrib #Friday Wazifa #Morning/Evening Azkar #Supplications of Forgiveness in Quran & Hadith

[restorationofthetentofdavid]

MORNING DEVOTION AND PRAYERS. PROVERBS CHAPTER 16. PART 3 - INTERSESSION

1 Timothy 2:1-4 (ESV) First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the…

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#Anointing #Bible #Church #Deliverance #Dignity #Gospel #Knowledge #morning Devotion #Pleasing #Pray #Prayer #Revival #Salvation #Supplication #Thanksgiving #Truth #Worship

[kalisbaby]

“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of

every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every

sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

#free palestine #poetry #samer abu hawwash #huda fakhreddine

[betterlifeinoverall-rethabilep]

Try A New Productive Morning Routine

Try A New Morning Routine: A Tea And A Quick Daily Meditation Lesson!! Like, Shares and Follow Please don’t forget to comment

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#60 Minutes Of Prayer And Supplications #Daily Devotions #Devoted Self In Preparation #Faithful Love Of God #Fighting On Knees #Holy War #morning devotion #Morning Meditation #Morning Meeting #None Blood Fight #Personal Meditation #Psalm 91 #Sacrifice In Love

[midknighttalks]

could you imagine if some of the hive actually started worshipping eris morn and that was how we'd get actual hive allies instead of the situationship we have with savathûn.

could you imagi-

OR

instead of allies they just throw themselves at the last city's gates in relentless supplication to eris and meanwhile she's ardently refusing to associate with them

#destiny 2 #season of the witch #eris morn #random hive acolyte #listen the hive are running low on gods to worship #idk if savathûn is alive alive after the end of season of the witch (i think it's implied that she is) but still #some random hive acolyte/knight/wizard is bound to get the big idea of 'we have a perfectly good hive god to worship right there' #and eris morn would NOT be here for it #just did all of the main quests for season of the wish so naturally i'm thinking of season of the witch

[samodivaa]

frenzy of lust and sin 2〗

Part 1 Pairing: Instructor!Bucky x Recruit!Reader

Summary: During your training to become an agent, you've earned the moniker "Sergeant's girl" around the base—that doesn't give him the right to be possessive or jealous, but what gives you the right to be a brat? Warnings: sexual tension, age gap Words: 2.4k

Cause and effect are erratic. Sometimes the first precedes the second, sometimes the second the first. Or perhaps cause lies forever in the past while effecting in the future, but future and past are entwined.

“Is SHIELD so desperate that they allow to recruit women here?” 

Vlad says loudly, placing the glass down before bringing up his hand to rub his jaw as he chuckles. But nobody else on his table or the other dares to chuckle or laugh. As the room goes quiet, the man feels something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something agonizing and revolting that is in that room now, at that moment, Bucky Barnes has heard him speak—he changes the expression of joy on his lips to one of alarm, but he doesn’t dare move from his seat. Someone makes his presence known, quiet thud of his boots cracking the stillness. The deathlike silence is broken—he seems petrified when he hears the melodious ringing sounds of Bucky’s dog tag chimes deep into his soul as if a funeral bell is ringing, pealing for his farewell. He puts the metal arm on the man’s shoulder—a beautiful yet deadly ornament, he can’t shake hands with the Devil and not get sulphur on his hands—his arm is a reminder not only to himself, but to others as well.

And some words set the devil’s creation which has been long caged, to come out roaring, dooming people to eternal perdition. Bucky’s expression is simple and confident, and his manners are always very polite and engaging. 

”I-I was just joking”   he pants, trembling while Bucky’s large blue eyes wander timidly over everyone in the room, the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness, the languid expression they usually possessed. Nothing happens. No words are needed, just one nod and one look with his predatory evil eyes. A warning. Bucky leaves the room. He never exhibits rudeness, loses control of himself, or turns violent. Not that easily.

“Vladimir, you don’t speak about the Sergeant's girl like that”    the man seating next to him says, shunning his puzzled gaze. “The Sergeant's girl?”    he asks, speaking short and with difficulty as shivers, and glances at his friend, half supplicating, half ashamed.

“Yeah, that's what we call her. You are on his blacklist now” “What does that mean?”   Vlad has an expression of agony, he seems convulsed with terror. He sinks in prostate of helpless fear, caused by his friend’s words and glance towards him, there is nothing else to produce such humiliation. He draws in his breath, strikes the table, and swears to himself. The other man is incapable of regarding the childish act with sternness, but he scowled at Vlad and mutters: “Well...that is for you to experience”

That fills Vlad with dread, no one has means of discerning, but there he is, powerless under the gripe of guilt. He shrugs his shoulders, shakes himself, indeed, as if his flesh creeps with aversion, and thrusts back his chair—he is deaf to every attempt at moving his sense of ego or pride.

============================== The same morning, rather afternoon, a different step approaches in the gym—heavier and longer, Bucky enters slowly and Vlad pursues his movements with apathetic eyes. The Sergeant makes no ceremony of greeting, availing himself of his privilege to walk straight in, without saying a word. His dark face is rather composed, his frame is scary, huge. Vlad rises with an impulse to dash out, when he sees him.

“Wanna spar?” Bucky demands sternly, supposing he can frighten Vlad by catching him thus, alone—Vlad perceives that the wretched creature has no power to sympathize with his mental torture since yesterday.

“No, thank-”     What a whining coward, Bucky thinks. “I am not asking” He invades Vlad’s personal, calmly, but only in appearance as his gaze fixes on the younger man’s features, his eyes that seem dilating with ecstasy. That radiant gaze makes his pulse seemingly imperceptibly stop and his soul departs. Vlad is a tall, athletic, well-formed man, beside whom, Bucky seems quite slender and youth-like, but no amount of muscles can outmatch decades of skill and murder. Bucky is brooding over the past sometimes, the strain of it is too much, but there is nothing that would make him escape from his old self altogether. Hydra taught him to endure, not to lose his temper easily—the best fighter is never angry, his actions are driven by a mechanical precision. Vlad’s self‐preservation rises up in him at once as Bucky comes closer and he looks at his instructor with questioning, suffering eyes, studies him, his face, uncertain if Bucky would strike or not. Vlad’s head is clouded with fear and regret, his faculties feel half asleep, but his eyes are fastened upon the older man. Ferocity still lurks in the ex Winter Soldier’s brows and his eyes full of black fire. 

Whatever has happened, Vlad exits trembling and scared—Bucky’s eyes are usually blue and in a certain light look soft, gentle, and even innocent. Then the light would change, the innocence would vanish, and the eyes look ice cold. This ferocity lurks yet in his angry browns and eyes full of black fire, but it is subdued when he realizes that he has a training session with you. ============================== You don't paint dreams or nightmares, you paint your own reality—but they don’t work unless you take action and you have the power to make it true. That’s how you ended up on the SHIELD’S training camp. All your life has been training—this is the final path before becoming a certified agent. And you have always been an object of discourse, as people might do at a strange repulsive animal—because you don’t have an ordinary childhood nor teen years. But despite that, you have proven yourself as one of the top recruits and yet, your dignity continues to be mocked, abused, compromised, toyed with, lowered and even bad-mouthed, but it can never be taken from you. You wear your skills like a suit of armor—in a dog-eat-dog field, you naturally lose parts of your humanity and emotions in order to survive.

The trashy rumors flourish like a weed—even though you were not there, you knew exactly what was said and what happened earlier in the day. You are grateful for Sergeant Barnes. For protecting your mind. Protecting your value, trying to create peace in your day to day life at the base. He doesn’t let you be exposed to mockery, shame, counterfeit friends or allies, even defending you even in your absence—but now it is different, you see it as a way to show all startling demonstrations of feeling—possessiveness, it makes you experience irresistible attraction towards Bucky, you have not been aware that your attachment has been rising unsolicited since you heard the rumor about Vlad, but for the minute you discover its’ existence, you lay all the blame on him. 

Pushing open the door to your room, you look at yourself in the mirror. Your face looks drawn. Tired. Because you have four different courses and it is hard to keep up sometimes. And all those terrible words are inked all over your skin. The scars, the struggles and all the names of those men who have done you wrong. But it makes you unstoppable and much more proud of your journey, how far a woman like yourself has improved, amongst all those people. Reaching for the cropped sweatshirt over the table, you head out of your room—you can’t wait for the training session with Bucky. It is nerve racking, knowing what you wear underneath. But you don’t flatter under pressure easily, you thrive. ============================== As you enter the training room, Bucky’s expression is serious and his cock twitches when he sees you—you love how his eyes soften slightly when he looks at you. The way he looks at you is always different than anyone else—but it all makes sense. From everyone else’s perspective it looks like he is being protective, but it is not just that—it is so much more than that. His throat bobs as you approach him towards the bench he is sitting on, just to surprise him and take a seat on the floor, right in front of his legs. “I'm tough, I could have handled the new guy by myself later” He is pressing his lips together, avoiding a smile. “I know you are” “That guy can’t even bruise my ego, I could have beaten the shit out of him” You force a grin, peering at him through your lashes which makes his blue eyes spark. You undress your cropped sweatshirt slowly, making sure he is looking at your cleavage which is purposely pushed up by a sport bra that you chose. His gaze drops from your eyes, to the swell of your chest—you bite back the disgust at how predictable he is. He even licks his lips. Your chest tightens and you bite your lip to hide the grin wanting to escape. “Well, you can practice on me today”  His eyes glow dark, his vibranium fingers tapping against the metal bench. For a slight second, confusion spreads on your feathers, brows drawing inwards and eyes moving back and forth as if you are trying to solve an invisible puzzle. But it all lasts for a moment as that looks vahines, eyes clearing as a smile spreads across your face. Blowing out a heavy breath, you stand up and stare at him—his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, let’s do it”

He narrows his eyes before standing up and cracking his neck, taking in your perfect look—you are always put together, but today, you look a little extra, revealing more of your body than usual. “After you”    he says as his eyes follow you turning and heading to the mats. He breathes in deeply, trying to find a sense of calm. Anything to keep his mind away from the simmering feelings bubbling underneath his skin.

Get it together, Barnes 

==============================

Bucky loves to go to the gym at night. It's quiet. So quiet that he can almost hear other people's dreams he wishes he has. He stands weary and motionless before the window, gazing at the feathery clouds gliding around the moon which is by no means a waste of time when suddenly a faint rustle makes him turn round. You enter the gym, walk towards him until you are standing before him. His lips are pressed tightly together and twitching at the corners. For ten full seconds he looks at you in the eyes in silence with a firm relentless gaze as your fragrance touches him—healing and breaking him once again. 

“How do you know that I come to the gym at night?” You only stare at each other for a second longer and when your breath begins to slow beneath his penetrating eyes, you force words past your lips:

“Found a reason to practice my spying skills” you pursue anxiously. “Then why do I know that you came by three times this week?” Horror gradually passes from your countenance, the paleness gives place to a glow of your shame. Something has shifted between you, faintly, but the change is almost palpable. Your friendship has sat lightly between you, an ephemeral thing, without weight or gravity. But since you have learned that he has feelings for you—you are bolder in the pursuit of more. More of what? More of him? More of this side of him? Your body unwillingly tilts forward, unable to resist his gravitational pull. 

“If you knew, why did you let me do it?” A corner of his lips tips up “Following me like a stalker makes me feel special” Bucky says with a timid tone as he continues to stay still in his place, looking at you with a strange, bewildered expression, as though he is trying to collect his thoughts, and can’t. His mind is a prey to lust, which sets all the muscles of his face quivering. There is some damage to his soul this time, the lack of sleep showing underneath his eyes. He smiles absently. You are like a siren, singing to his shipwreck—he loves your songs.

“You are already special” you chastise. His shoulders pull taut. “I am one hundred and six…and you are, what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen” you release a shallow breath “How old were you when you were presumed dead?” And there is, Bucky fears, both your boldness and naivety—your desire, failing to guard you against your own deceits. Nefarious young woman with logic of your own. These necessities of upspringing in the seed, these beautiful determinations, on the part of a possible relationship entertained, to grow as tall as possible, to push into the light and the air and thickly flower of love.

—Nefarious young woman.

“About 30”   His hand muscles flex as he takes your hand in his, and bid you be composed, for a succession of shudders convulses your frame. He lifts his gaze and meets yours and you realize that never before has silence seemed to have its own sound. Like a buzzing hive of bees, it settles on his mind with ferocity, making you tremble. Things are blurry for a second, and at first you don't believe that he is really touching you. “You are so persistent, kotyonok, but you need to get some sleep.”

His eyes are nearly black, the pupils dilated. He can see it takes every last bit of your terrible will for you to remain still beneath his touch. And yet, you do not pull away. You know it is the best he can offer. It is not enough. He drops your hand. You take a deep breath. He still dwells in your soul, but it leaves you both sparkling and broken, because he is warning you away from him.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky imagine #bucky barnes x female reader

[chiefhellenist]

Daily Devotions with the Orphic Hymns

Today is 4th of Metageitnion (21st of August)

This modern system of daily devotions blends material from two sources: Hesiod's sacred month, as described in his Works and Days, and the Orphic Hymns. The ideas in the Orphic Hymns sometimes don't match with more mainstream beliefs of the polis. But using these hymns is worth it because it helps us honor not just the main gods, but also many smaller ones. This way, we can pay our respects to a wide range of gods throughout the whole month.

Other hymns may of course be substituted at the individual's discretion. The numbers given for the hymns correspond to those in Apostolos N. Athanassakis, The Orphic Hymns: Text, Translation and Notes

Thomas Taylor's 1792 translation of the hymns is available online, free and in its entirety, at the Internet Sacred Texts Archive. Here:

Morning and Evening Devotions

Morning

Wash hands and face

Light lamp or candle

Hymn to Hestia (#84)

Light incense

Hymn to Eos (#78)

Hymn to Helios (#8)

Hymn(s) to special god/dess(es) of the day (see chart)

Additional hymns as desired (see chart)

Pour libation

Make personal supplications and thanksgivings

"Orpheus to Mousaios" (pp. 2-5)

Extinguish lamp or candle

Evening

Wash hands and face

Light lamp or candle

Hymn to Hestia (#84)

Light incense

Hymn to Nyx (#3)

Hymn to Selene (#9)

Hymn to the Stars (#7)

Hymn(s) to patron/matron god/desses

Hymn to Sleep (#85)

Hymn to Dream (#86)

Pour libation

Make personal supplications and thanksgivings

Hymn to Zeus (#15)

Extinguish lamp or candle

A shortened version of the devotions may be done by simply lighting a candle, reading "Orpheus to Mousaios," saying any personal prayers, and extinguishing the candle.

Notes on chart:

Days mentioned by Hesiod as sacred to specific deities are marked.

Horkos is the god (or, if you like, personification) of Oath. Days sacred to this deity are considered difficult.

As the lunar calendar months range between 29 and 30 days in the Greek reckoning, it may be necessary in short months to recite all the hymns for both day 29 and day 30 on the day of the dark moon. As the last day of the month is sacred to Hekate, Her hymn should always be included.

About Incense

The Orphic Hymns specify particular types of incense to be offered to each deity. In cases where one is saying multiple hymns with differing instructions, one might either choose a single type or make a blend of all those indicated. Pure frankincense makes a good all-purpose offertory incense.

The incense specifications from the Orphic text are as follows:

Frankincense: Apollon, Ares, Artemis, Asklepios, Bakkhai, Dike, Eos, Hephaistos, Herakles, Hermes, Hygeia, Kouretes, Muses, Nike, Satyros, Silenos, Tethys, Themis, Titans

Myrrh: Leto, Nereus, Poseidon

Storax: Chthonic Hermes, Dionysos, Eleusinian Demeter, Erinues (also frankincense), Graces, Kronos, Semele, Zeus

Aromatic Herbs: Adonis, Athena, Eros, Eumenides, Fates, Hera, Hestia, Horai, Nereids, Nymphs, Okeanos, Rhea

Various: Mother of the Gods, Pan, Chthonic Dionysos (any except frankincense), Gaia (any grain; no beans or aromatic herbs)

No Incense (underworld deities): Hekate, Nemesis, Persephon

#paganlife #pagan community #pagans of tumblr #paganblr #hellenism #hellenic polythiest #hellenic pagan #hellenic polytheism #hellenic polytheist #hellenic deities #hellenist #hellenic gods #greek gods #paganism #polytheist #polytheistic #greek polytheism

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER FOUR: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense). Cannot stress the ED/anorexia warnings more strongly for this chapter guys!

This is chronologically the fourth chapter in the series

--

You sit with your back to Dr Lecter as he readies himself to leave for his morning appointments, feeling like an ancient sacrifice to some forest beast, blindfolded and anointed, its snail-fed bride; the dread of unseeing, of not knowing what he does as you stare at the wall is so clever a punishment that you comprehend entirely why more brutal forms were inflicted before it.

He is ingenious in his malice, this man. The fear of the worst of things is the stick that will make you the supplicant to his merest whim.

In cyclical paths you think of Hannibal’s attack at the breakfast table, how he had intuited your intent to cut his throat before you had finalised the thought. The gymnast's grace with which he’d caught you, the psychic recognition of revolt— he has held others captive, before you, surely.

Likely he has killed.

There are many like Dr Lecter, in the medical field, rapists and murderers in their masses, scything the weak, and allowing their names to fall through the cracks in the system, where few care to retrieve them. Already you feel yourself staggering into that hopeless black, soundless as your gaoler guides you back into the en suite by a hand at your nape.

“You may take a bath, if you wish,” he says— how had he known you’d only stood at the sink that morning? “I have provided toiletries for you. No razors, I’m afraid. If you desire to shave, then Will or I must be present, which I doubt you would prefer, at this time. Besides, I have to leave for my first appointment in a few minutes. I trust that you will enjoy the solitude.”

You keep your back to him, half-swooning under your dread of those pitiless eyes.

“I hope that you will not do anything unwise, while I’m away,” says Hannibal, into the frigidity of your silence. “There is no mention of active suicidal ideation in your records. I would be surprised if you drowned yourself; of all the poetic figures you resemble, Ophelia, in her madness, is not of their number.”

“Why?” you whisper. “After what’s happened, I should want to die.”

Hannibal’s arm glides past you, twisting the faucets of the bath until water beats a war drum rhythm against the porcelain.

“But you do not,” he says, his voice so close to your ear that you jump. “Death, to you, would be an unfortunate symptom of the habits you keep. You are ambivalent about life, at the best of times, yet your goal is not to leave it. Your inherent belief is that you can maintain starvation at such a balance that you defy both those who have hurt you and God Himself.”

You watch hot water spin the air into steam, and a tear condenses on your left cheek, quite as warm.

“Does God even exist?” you ask. “If He did, He’d get me out of this.”

Dr Lecter unscrews the top of an expensive soap bottle and pours it into the bath, smoking the room with the scent of dusky vanilla; of course, his perfume for you would be gourmand.

“God kills and aids with equal relish. Who is to say that it is not your suffering that he would prefer?”

“That’s what you want?” you ask, in a whisper like a fragment of snow. “For me to suffer?”

“No, little one,” says Hannibal, touching your quivering lower lip with a gentle thumb. “If that was so, I would have left you to die in your parents care. What I want is for you to eat, and gain trust in those that yearn to help you.”

He straightens, smoothing down an imaginary crease in his suit.

“I have prepared lunch for you to eat while I am at work. I expect to see that you have eaten it.”

Your stomach, hard with breakfast, is nevertheless hollow enough to moan.

“All of it?” you ask.

“Yes,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “It is only a light portion. Will is joining us for dinner tonight.”

You sit down on the edge of the bath, your voice rising to a petulant note, as though Will were an unsavoury family friend, and not a man driven to rape by a whisper in his ear.

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Nevertheless, you will,” says Hannibal. “Like hunger, he is the spectre you must face, regardless of your fear of him.”

Hannibal switches off the taps and smiles down at you, undeterred by your unchanged, fearful disgust.

“Goodbye, little one,” he says. “And be good.”

You don’t reply, refusing to turn as he pats your shoulder and quietly retreats from the room. His leaving should be a relief, but his presence drenches the house like blood through a shroud. He scarcely seems to leave it at all.

You bathe rapidly, loathing to be at one with your nakedness, seeing it through your captors’ eyes.

Another set of clean clothes has been set out for you, a perfume of further vanilla, a clear bag of cosmetics, a weighty tome by Dostoevsky, and lunch in a pristine Tupperware box, which you avoid as you would a sleeping asp.

The bedroom door is locked, the sole, small window barred— new additions, you note from the shine on the steel. Hannibal has made definite your inability to escape; the only hope left bare to you is to draw attention from passers-by.

Desperate, you write a haphazard ‘HELP ME’ message in lipstick upon the window, hoping that the letters are large enough to be glimpsed from below.

That done, you sit in a convent-goer’s silence, cowed by the enormity of danger that has found you. The only thing that protects you from the engulfing depths of your abjection is anger, defiance that Dr Lecter thinks himself dictator of what may enter your body, food or flesh.

With a reedy surge of courage you vow to challenge his every attempt on your autonomy, even if you must do so quietly.

You begin with lunch. With a percussive gusto you throw the Tupperware into bathroom bin, thinking you’ve done well to avoid another round of narcotics, and to deny yourself what you do not think you deserve, after failing to abstain at breakfast.

The pasta smells delicious, of cloves and some ingeniously mixed sauce you know would break across your tongue in a tide of exceptional flavour. You pace from the bedroom to the en suite, close to retrieving the plastic tub from the clean trash bag and eating from it, unashamed of such a low; you’ve done worse, in your time, giving in to an animal urge to forage.

You lean against the wall, breathing in and out with trembling difficulty. Then you prise the Tupperware from the trash can and empty it out into the toilet bowl, flushing again and again until every remnant of food is washed down where even you cannot salvage it.

You are exuberant in your resolve, barely weakened under the burden of your captivity.

You shouldn’t be hungry, so soon after breakfast, yet you are— not in the way other people feel hunger, the ordinary cues having been lost to illness, long ago. Your desire for food is like that of a man-eating animal, driven more by a taste for flesh than necessity to eat.

That Will and Hannibal have given you a secondary conflict to wage war against your obsession is almost a gift— there is no longer much room amidst your crowding fears to pine over the food in your stomach.

Yet, there is enough. Purging has never been your particular habit—you’ve found it too difficult, requiring water you are too afraid to drink more than a glass of for fear of the added weight on the scale.

The French toast lies upon you like a sleep paralysis apparition in its density. Hanging over the toilet bowl, you choke on acid spittle, and promptly abandon the venture. Had there been laxatives, they would have been a fair alternative, but Hannibal has kept you as simply and functionally contained as a vivisectionist’s subject, which, to him, it seems, you are.

You bow to your defeat, on this count, allowing yourself another indulgence of tears. Only the fear of the calories you must burn thrusts you back on your feet, striding laps of the room until your vision swims with sparks.

Light-headed, you sprawl on the bed—the same that you were raped in, you think, and move to lie on the floor instead, comforted by the changed perspective of the room.

As a child you used to lie on your back like this, imagining that you could walk upon the ceiling. You’d lived years in such imagined lands, and would have remained in them, still, had they not grown dark, and overgrown by infiltrating matter. As you stare at the ceiling now it seems to blacken at the edges as though with a quickening mould, or else the fingers of some unseen thing, folding over your eyes until they shut.

*

You start from unsettled sleep to the gentle purr of an expensive car drawing in at the front of the house. Recalling your lip-sticked message, you blunder in a drowsy panic to the window and rub at the glass with your dress sleeve, spitting on the hem when the cosmetic merely smudges obstinately under your ministrations.

You cannot tell if the monster in the sleek Bentley below can see the window clearly, but you work rapidly, your breath sawing a panicked melody through your throat.

Though your dress is black, the cosmetic shows tellingly on the fabric. You wrestle the garment over your head and hide it at the back of a drawer, shoving on an almost identical item as movement stirs in the house below.

You sit down on the bed, picking the skin at your fingers as Hannibal approaches. When his key clicks in the lock you start, tearing a hangnail up to the cuticle. You suck your thumb like a child to soothe the wound, aware how infantile you must look.

“Hello, little one,” says Hannibal, politely, as he enters the room.

“I ate it all,” you say, in an all too eager rush. “The food. You don’t have to punish me.”

Your jailer looks at you levelly. His eyes are crow’s eyes, clever, and gelid.

“Let me see.”

He picks up the Tupperware, examining the box. Abruptly he circles the room, then the en suite, his slow tread an axe-man’s gait.

“You have lied to me,” he says, suddenly. “Lunch was disposed of. The toilet, I presume? Please do not insult me by claiming to have eaten it.”

You stare at him, nonplussed.

“I... how did you know?” you falter.

“I have a keen sense of smell. The scent of herbs is very clear in the air. An unusual aroma, for this particular room.”

There is a humour in his voice, but of a sinister kind you know well to fear.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t. I already ate so much, and you said I have to have dinner, so I...”

Hannibal shakes his head gravely.

“You must never waste food, if you can help it, little one.”

On a whim, you reach out to sieze one of his hands in yours.

“I didn’t mean it. Please don’t hurt me, Dr Lecter.”

He shakes his head regretfully.

“That is not for me to decide.”

You squeeze his hand as tightly as you are able, aware of how cold your fingers are in comparison to his hale warmth.

“Please, I’ll stay in solitary, or... or forfeit stuff, like they do at regular hospitals. Just don’t... touch me again. I can’t take it.”

“You discredit your endurance,” says Hannibal, smoothly. “It has presented itself as your greatest strength. It would be startling to see it fragment so early into your induction.”

You snap your hand back from him, cradling it as you would a broken bone.

“What’s wrong with you?” you hiss, and Dr Lecter releases a little grunt of amusement.

“I can only echo the interrogative. You have never opened up to any therapist about the most crucial traumas in your past. I am intrigued by their mysteries.”

You glance away, lips tightened. You will give him nothing of your secrets, not even the sheerest slip. He will use them against you, this you know.

“I must prepare for dinner,” says Hannibal. "Come along, little one. You will assist me. It will do you good to be in the presence of food through its preparation.”

*

As anticipated, your presence in the kitchen is fraught with excruciating temptation. As you grate vegetables and slice meat you often clear your throat to mask the thunder of starvation in your abdomen, which Dr Lecter politely ignores.

Though he maintains a flow of light, one-sided conversation, you know how narrowly he watches you, analysing every twitch and attempt to mentally detach from the scents and sumptuous plenty spread out on the countertops before you.

At last, he relents, an unexpected mercy.

“That’s enough. You may wash your hands and sit at the dinner table.”

You linger, gawking at him, not quite believing in your release.

“Go on,” says Dr Lecter, chuckling slightly. “I will join you presently. Our guest will be arriving, soon.”

Blinking, you say, “I’m... allowed to sit in there alone?”

With an almost fond glance, Dr Lecter says, “Certainly. You will not run, for you know that I will follow.”

Will arrives half an hour later, smelling of night rain and cologne. His expression is sullen and furtive as he greets you, his eyes floorwards, lashes fluttering behind his glasses.

You clutch the sides of your chair, silent, sickened, resentful; the man behaves as if it is he who was injured by the assault, as though the shame gnaws down to the core of him, leaving him raw and naked before you.

He sits in the chair closest to the door, whether to guard the exit or to forge the path to a quick egress you cannot say.

Hannibal sets a glass of wine before him; you he only gives water, as though you are not old enough to drink.

“The first course will be served presently,” he comments, surveying the tension at his table. “I hope that you will both enjoy it. You must be hungry, little one.”

You shake your head, afraid that if you open your mouth to speak you will only scream. This meal isn’t meant to tantalise the senses, but to torture: you know it from the unwilling reunion of his guests, of the punishment that leers from a narrow future upon you.

A quivering shrew, you stare at your untouched glass as Will clears his throat, pressed by the pains of your silence to speak.

He invokes your name, making it as foul as a curse.

“I don’t claim to be a master at first impressions, but the other night...”

“Please don’t talk to me,” you whisper, and Will flinches, pushing his glasses up his nose with bumbling fingers.

You’ve upset him, you realise, with a cold start of revulsion. Him, the violator, bruised by his own brutality, as though he’d no choice in the matter. Had he expected you to be his friend, to care for his sensitivities?

There is something wrong with Will Graham, you think, like a flaw in some creaking ship apt to annihilate the vessel, under pressure. That, or bleed all around him in his shrapnel, while he tends to their many pieces with all the moroseness of Beauty’s beast.

It strikes you that you should make him your ally, this hopeless Caliban, if you can stand it. You will need his favour, against Dr Lecter, to convince him to set you free.

Still, you cannot yet bring yourself to earn it. When Hannibal returns to set the first of many plates upon the table you are wordless in your terror, your fork as slippery as a salmon in your grip.

Will and Hannibal make conversation about a murder case in the area— both seem intricately involved in the psychology of the killer, discussing at length his motives in the poetic lexis you are becoming accustomed to, in this prison.

Still, their eyes and words wind back to you with a potent eventuality, displayed before them in your borrowed dress like a goldfinch chained to an elaborate perch.

Your food remains on your plate, flattened beneath your knife, a childish attempt to conceal your inability to eat it. There is too much weight in these scarce morsels, calories that would swell you into some fantastic horror, or so your thoughts inform you.

If you could eat, you would do so; even to save yourself it is beyond you.

Only water do you swallow, the bottom of the glass thick with a bitter sediment.

“We should talk about her, shouldn’t we?” asks Will, reluctantly, his gaze darting to your plate.

"Indeed we should," says Hannibal, his hand tracing the stem of his wine glass as he would the length of your throat. “Specifically, your response to her residence here, and to her treatment. You feel guilt for having carried out a punishment you feel was not entirely deserved.”

Will swallows, the click of saliva in his throat like the folding of a leaf underfoot.

"That's the problem," he says. "It did feel deserved. Violence for violence. There was a righteousness in defending you. I've felt it before, with GarretJacob Hobbs."

The name holds significance you cannot grasp. Who was this man, and what does he mean to your wardens?

"And like that day, protecting Abigail," Will continues, "I'm left looking at my own hands, repulsed by my own readiness to engage in a taboo and... enjoy it. But she isn’t like either Hobbs."

This, directed at you with a glance of murky guilt.

"She's unwell. Confused. And, as far as your patient was concerned, she was as in her right to protect herself as I was in correcting her."

"Stop,” you say, quietly.

Both men turn to you, startled by your sudden interjection.

"You disagree with Will's analysis of last night's events?" asks Hannibal, with interest. "By all means, tell us what you see. There is no sole analysis of any art; what picture do you glimpse from within the canvas?"

"I'm not yours," you say. "You can't correct me, like I'm something you own, that you made."

Dr Lecter examines your face with a dangerous patience.

"But we are making you. Or remaking, it you prefer. That is why you are here: a construction of what we two will define from mortar and broken glass."

You cannot respond to such unhinged logic without lowering yourself to entertain it, an undeniably clever tactic.

Hannibal brings another course to the table, another, another; Roman emperors could not have gorged like this, yet the two men—both lean, and Will particularly small—clear their plates as though swallowing mere air.

You pretend to eat, chewing food and spitting it into napkins or an empty glass when the other diners look away. It is only when Will barks at you suddenly that you realise he's been watching you, all along.

"What are you doing?" he asks, sharply.

"Nothing,” you mumble.

Will scoffs.

"Nothing? Nothing is not why you're here. You’re starving yourself. Why?"

Disgust pours from him like a vapour, tainting the air you breathe with his unearned judgement.

"Because... it's just what I do,” you say, limply. “It... helps. It's taken over everything.'

“Then stop letting it,” snaps Will; you don’t understand why he’s so affronted, why he has suddenly taken up the reigns of the game. “You're giving into this, letting it cut holes into you. You'll die trying to achieve some abstract state of being that you will never reach. Do you want that?"

Strange, the echo of your conversation with Dr Lecter by the bath.

"I— don't know,” you say, after a strained pause. “Sometimes I'm not sure if I care what happens to me. And sometimes, I get scared."

Will speaks through gritted teeth.

"So let go of it."

You could laugh at so preposterous a command, but instead you say, "I can't."

The atmosphere at the table has subtly changed, all players on the board at last.

"Why not?” asks Will, softly.

You perceive something like care in his voice, an impossibility.

"Because it makes me feel better," you say. "Stronger. I don't want it to go away."

Hannibal sits back, listening in purposeful silence.

Will removes his glasses, placing them into his pocket.

"Today, at this meal, you’ll try,” he says. “Appreciate the effort that was made for you."

At this you do laugh, a soft, broken sound.

"Go to hell. You're a monster. You did what he told you to, and— and you jumped like a dog to do it. Aren't you ashamed?"

Dr Lecter’s posture tightens slightly, and Will flounders, losing a little of his confidence.

"I know it's probably not what I should have done,” he admits. “It’s a radical treatment. And dangerous. But I— we can't take it back. And if I can contribute to you evolving from this then I'll do whatever it takes."

There is honesty in this confession, somewhere, even empathy.

"Don't act like you care about me,” you mumble, and shove your plate away from you, across the table, knocking over your glass in the process.

The effects of whatever drug was in the water are taking hold, making you feel loosely unstable, your inhibitions cast down, and forgotten.

Hannibal’s smile has fallen.

"Will,” he says, curtly. “I think you have tolerated quite enough from our obnoxious guest. I suggest that you consider discipline. She has already broken the rules in place for her today. A meal discarded, a message for help written on her window— It is fortunate that no one came close enough to the house in my absence to see it."

You stand up from your seat, swaying slightly, your heart shuttering like cards on a bicycle wheel to find yourself caught you in your efforts to escape.

"I hate you,” you say. “I want to leave. Let me go."

"Hannibal,” Will cuts in; his face is white, and greasy with anxiety. “I'm not ready to handle this again."

Dr Lecter’s expression shifts darkly.

"Then I will fulfil that responsibility on your behalf."

He rises from his seat and is behind you for the second time this day before you've the sense to run. Shunting you forward onto the table top, he tears your dress methodically up your back, his free hand holding you down with the same carelessness with which he’d handle unsatisfactory meat.

"You are sure that you do not wish to participate?" he says, over your shrieks of protest.

Will shakes his head. His eyes are rolling like a bull’s in his distress.

"No. I— can't."

Hannibal stills; you feel his hand between his belt and your behind, on the precipice of setting loose his sick lust.

"Then should I choose another punishment? There are many at our disposal."

"Don't leave it up to me to decide,” croaks Will. “I feel... precarious."

"I forgive you your uncertainty,” says Dr Lecter. “I, however, have none."

A drugged swell flows through you, looping a weird ecstasy about your abdomen as Hannibal leans down to speak to you directly.

"You are a very disobedient girl. You know the consequences, and yet you do not abandon your misdeeds."

"I'm not playing your stupid game,” you whine, dimly away of how foolish you sound. “I'm not playing.”

“Of course you are,” says Hannibal, coldly. “In time you'll forget that it was ever a game, to begin with.”

He forces himself within your cunt in a smooth and gliding viciousness, sending another brocade of sensation through your loins. The drug you’ve ingested makes the pain a most succulent wonder, playing your nerves with all the sinister beauty of the Theremin.

You sob as he fucks you, slow, and sure, and deep. It should not possibly be pleasurable, is intended only to exert power, and to humiliate— but he cannot help but create art, casting you on the stage of his design.

As Hannibal hurts you, he is looking at Will, whose face bears a quickening darkness. It strikes you quite suddenly that Dr Lecter wants the other man’s approval, perhaps even his jealousy; you understand that you are a disposable object that holds the temporary interest of these two.

It may not last.

Should they tire of you, what then? Thrown back to your parents, perhaps, more broken than you arrived. Surely not, for you may spill their secrets to the world, and ruin their lives.

Something worse, then.

You circle back to that earlier thought, and terror flies back in all its night glory.

Suddenly you twitch and shake in horrified spasms, and though Hannibal continues to fuck you something alters almost imperceptibly in his pace.

"Stop," says Will, suddenly. "That's enough."

"You cannot leave a deer half-killed, Will,” says Hannibal; glancing back over your shoulder, you are horrified by how calm he appears, even now. “Maimed, it will stumble, weakened, until another predator picks it from the herd. I must hunt her to the end, Will. It is all that can be done."

You see your tears soddening the tablecloth, mucus pooling beneath your cheek.

"Don't kill me," you whimper. "I don't want to die."

Hannibal stills a moment, pulling your head back to look into your eyes.

“We do not intend to kill you, little one," he says. "Only for you to accept what you are. You will humour what we ask of you?"

"Yes!” you cry, with a delirious bray in your voice. “I— I’ll try!"

Blue eyes, black eyes, both pairs so equally bright.

"Good girl,” says Hannibal, and resumes his use of your flesh, his cock making a gauntlet of you, every thrust grinding you against the elaborate tablecloth with such intelligent pressure you groan beneath him, juddering with the effort it takes not to come.

Will's gaze has changed, and there is colour in his cheeks. He grips the edge of the table as though to prevent himself from falling, or else rising to join his companion in your debasement.

"Please stop," you stutter out, wanting to bite your own tongue off for the embarrassment of the utterance. “I won’t be bad anymore.”

Hannibal slows deliberately, his cock withdrawing to the point it almost slips from your cunt before he sinks it in the lake of your arousal again.

"Come, then," he says, simply. "And you may go to bed."

In a wailing convulsion you climax at once, scrabbling at the floor on steepled toes as the pleasure rolls from your cunt through your thighs. Hannibal waits for your last twitch to cease before he finishes within you, utterly soundless as he leans down, kissing the back of your neck in a gesture that is curiously gentle.

He steps away from the table and helps you stand, holding you to his chest as you whimper in the after bursts of sensation.

"Are you still troubled, Will?" he asks, over the top of your head.

The other man looks shell-shocked, his pallor an almost grey.

"I'm... undecided."

You pull away from Hannibal, remembering with a flare of insane joy that you are released from the table, that you need not eat, after all.

"Then I am mistaken in perceiving another response in you," says Dr Lecter.

Will looks hurriedly away, and it is only as you push past him to flee for your room that you understand Dr Lecter's meaning. The younger man adjusts himself, flushing, sitting as close to the table as space will allow.

He is hard, having watched his friend fucking you.

Will Graham is not so repentant as he'd taken such pains to seem.

#manna fic #hannibal fanfiction #dark fic #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #tw noncon #dark!fic #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter

[vclko]

Allāhumma innī a`ūdhu biriḍāka min sakhaṭika, wa bimu`āfātika min `uqūbatika wa a`ūdhu bika minka lā uḥṣī thanā'an `alayka anta kamā athnayta `alā nafsika.

#seeking protection #morning dua #arabic and english dua #islamic design #islamic #اسلاميات #islam #دعاء #islamic dua #supplication #quran #islamic post #ادعيه اسلاميه #hadith #hadeeth #حديث شريف #حديث

[dai-ilallah]

#Dua for Jannah #Duas for Istighfar #Morning/Evening Azkar #Supplications of Forgiveness in Quran & Hadith #Syedul Istighfar Hadith Urdu Tarjuma

[chaotic-iguana]

Home

masterlist. ao3.

Summary: reader leaves joel and sarah to pursue a job offer in nyc, thinking it would be easier than watching the relationship die from a distance. she soon realises her mistake and scrambles to fix it. based on this request. 

Pairing: joel x fem! reader (no use of y/n) no outbreak au

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings: no smut, just a lot of angst, fluff and attempted humour

A/N: So, I’m clearly incapable of writing short drabbles (sorry lmao) let me know your thoughts!

“‘M just not gettin’ why we can’t make it work?” Joel throws his hands up, hot at your heels while you wipe your eyes on your sleeve and rush to the bedroom. 

“I’m not saying I don’t want to. I’m just saying its unfair to the both of us. I don’t know how long I’ll be down there. What if we find other people? Long distance never works, Joel. I don’t get why you can’t just let it go.” Yelling over your shoulder, you start shoving your clothes into your suitcase, wincing at the harsh scoff he lets out. 

You’d known how this was going to go. You loved Joel, so much. But you had worked practically your whole life to get the job you’d been offered last week. It started in a month, but it was all the way in New York. And you’d known while reading the email, as your initial excitement settled, that the slimy feeling coiling in your gut was right - you’d have to leave Sarah and Joel behind. 

Your experience with long distances in relationships wasn’t great - and more importantly, it would be unfair to both your boyfriend and the girl you considered your own daughter for you to expect them to sit around and wait for you, indefinitely. Because you truly had no idea how this was going to go, at all. 

You wanted to wait until the flight tomorrow morning to break things off with Joel, but he’d been so sweet while helping you get everything together last minute and he’d figured out that something was up almost immediately. So now, here you are. Having a messy breakup with the love of your life 9 hours before your flight to New York. Where you’d live, for god knows how long. 

But this was good, wasn’t it? You were finally reaping the benefits of all the summers spent indoors and working, the missed birthday parties, the cancelled plans. You were finally getting everything you’d ever wanted, right? Except your palms felt clammier, your eyes glossed over with tears and your mind was completely blank as each sharp breath you gulped made you wince like a shard of glass. 

Joel stood to your sight, arms hanging limp to his sides and his eyes on the ground, brows furrowed. He looked heartbroken, and it felt like it was physically tearing you apart not to go and smooth his frown away, kiss away his scowl. You wanted to fix his hurt, but you couldn’t - you were the one hurting him. It was for his own good though. He’d find someone nice, how could he not, and he would be happier. The thought of him holding someone else, of Sarah running up to anyone else with that twinkle in her eye, of someone else fitting into your family made your chest ache.

Nothing is permanent, and they know I love them. They have to know I’ll always love them. They’ll get someone better, they’ll be happier. It’s going to be okay, everything’s gonna be just fine. A stream of rambling consciousness starting playing like a broken record player in your mind, reasoning and justifying what you were doing even as your body-your whole fucking being was protesting it. Your hands were trembling, it’d taken you three tries to close the damn zipper and you knew it. 

Turning to your Joel-not anymore, is he? you’re letting him go, you goddamn idiot (helpful supplication, brain, thank you for making me cry harder)- you sidestep him, leaving him standing dejectedly in the bedroom to drag your suitcase to the curb. The image of him with his head bowed; shoulders slumped as he closes his eyes and clenches his fist, agony radiating from him, is one that sears itself into your memory on your way out. Double checking your passport, boarding pass and phone, you walk in to stand in front of him again, gently bringing a hand up to his cheek to make him look at you. When he opens his eyes, they’re completely bloodshot and lined with unshed tears, breaking you; using all your willpower not to break down and pull him closer, take his pain away. Reigning your raging feelings, you stand on your tiptoes to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Be happy, Joel. Tell Sarah I love her.” You whisper into his skin and turn to leave, startling when he grabs your wrist. 

“Tell her yourself. ‘S gonna break her heart tomorrow mornin’ if she wakes up an’ you’re not here.” He’s searching your sorrowful eyes, watching his words break your façade as you clamp your teeth down on your bottom lip and shake your head fast as more tears spill down your cheeks. 

“C-can’t. I can’t. Please.” 

Joel wants to gather you in his arms, stroke your hair till you calm down. But you’ve got your walls up now - crumbling, shaky walls but still, a barrier you’ve very much built between the two of you. He wanted your happiness, your successes, more than anything, but he wanted to cheer you on by your side, too. He was willing to wait, to call when you could - phones were getting smart now? - but you’d convinced yourself you were doing yourself and him a mercy by ending it. So he just nods, once, before gulping and pawing at the table to swipe his keys. The question written all over your face makes him want to laugh - did you really think he loved you so little he’d leave you to find your own ride to the airport at 9 fucking pm even if you couldn’t stand to look at him anymore? 

So he hauls your bags off the curb and into his truck, yanking the passenger side door open and gesturing for you to sit with a jerk of his head. Once you clamber in, he walks over to the other side and starts the truck, hating every second of this. He wants to scream, shout, and beg you to stay so badly. But if you think this’d make you happy, he’d do it. Anything. 

He just couldn’t understand why you kept saying he’d find better, be happier. As if he’d even try. Sarah’s mother had left, and he’d been crushed - had sworn off dating altogether. But you had come along; your lilting giggles and twinkling eyes carving a place in his heart. He hadn’t been with you because he was looking for anyone, he’d been with you because he thought he had found the one. But clearly he was wrong. Again. 

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he clenches his hands tighter around the wheel to steady them . His mother had always told him if it’s meant to be, it’ll be - and you won’t have any say in it. He knows it’s cliché, but if there’s even a grain of truth to be found in it, he’ll treat the saying as if it were gospel.   

He can hear you sniffing your way there, heart breaking at the soft sobs that escape you, but he makes no comment. There’s no need to make this harder for you. You’d nearly fallen apart when he mentioned Sarah, and he could see in your eyes that if he asked you to stay with him, to sacrifice everything entirely, you’d do it without thinking. But he didn’t want that- could never want that for you. And so he stayed quiet, the stifling silence of the truck broken only by your muffled crying. 

Pulling up outside the airport, he steps out and takes your bags down in complete silence. Itching to fix the awkwardness, he smoothes his hands over his shirt and sneaks a glance at you. You-his headstrong, terrifying little thing - looking this small, this defeated  - feels so wrong that he can’t help but grasp one of your hands in his. Hooking a finger under your chin, he tilts your head up and smiles softly when you meet his eyes. “‘F you ever need me, you call me, you hear? Don’t matter if it’s five am and you’re thousands of miles away. I’ll find you, okay?” Your head barely dips in a nod as you stare at him like you’re trying to memorise the curve of his nose; the set of his jaw. 

Releasing you and stepping back, he plasters a wider grin on his face as he ushers you inside, stopping only to whisper “Don’t be a stranger, hotshot.” The tiny grin blooming on your face sends victory-fueled adrenaline pumping in his veins, his stomach twisting with butterflies at the final step: watching you walk away. He waits till you’re inside and out of his sight, letting a long breath loose in resignation. 

He can see how unsteady your feet are, how you stumble and nearly trip over yourself. She’ll be okay, she’ll be happy. If Joel was a better man, he’d try and understand why you just left him. He would gladly have learned it all for you - the SMS texting, even the Skype stuff he’d heard of from a colleague; apparently you could see someone on your phone while talking to them - even if he was all thumbs at it. Sarah would likely have helped him with it, too, the girl loved you so damn much she would have gone outta her way to find ways to make the distance feel as normal as possible. But you didn’t ask for any of that. No, you asked him to let you go. So he would. 

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You sit in the lounge, miserable. Forcing yourself to take your mind off the clusterfuck that your life has become, you reach out for a magazine and start flicking through some mindless droning bullshit about a celebrity being spotted at a bar. Anxiety and unease had the wheel now, so you decide what the hell, and walk to the airport bar, ordering whiskeys one after the other until your head is swimming and you can’t remember how to stay upright walking in god knows which corridor of this too-big airport. Funnily enough the only thing the alcohol isn’t strong enough to wipe is Joel. How you didn’t even say goodbye properly, not to him and not to Sarah. They deserved better. You’re doing them a favor by leaving. 

Your head swarming with stinging taunts directed towards yourself, you stumble into the bathroom and begin a four-hour-long stint of curling up next to the milky white porcelain, hurling intermittently as you lay on the filthy vinyl floor and relish the cold bite against your burning skin. Drinking on an empty stomach had been shit oversight on your part, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d made more mistakes than one tonight…

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Your job was all you could have asked for. The opportunity of a lifetime, with a salary high enough that your account was close to hitting 6 figures in less than a year. It had taken a long time and a lot of hard work to reach here, but it was worth it. The job was, atleast. But when you swung your door open late at night, walking into a dark, cold apartment; when you got sick and had to lay shivering in bed alone for a week; when the weekend rolled around and all you could do was curl up in bed and sob into your pillow - you knew that this wasn’t worth the cost of your relationship. You’d lost weight, your eyes had semi-permanent bruises under them, your hands shook most of the time now. 

It was getting worse and worse, until one morning when your alarm went off for work, you just shut it off and slept in some more. Then cleared out the depressive clutter that had started to overflow on every table, in every cabinet. Threw out the half-empty liquor bottles and for the first time since you had landed here, you knew what you were doing.

You were going back to Texas. Fuck your two-week notice. You’d made enough money to sit on your ass and do small jobs for the rest of your life if you wanted to. The eight-month stint at the firm you were currently working at - even just summarized in two lines on your CV - would help you get better jobs than you were doing before. But you weren’t going back to Austin for work, not really. 

You missed Sarah like a phantom limb; it felt like someone had ripped away a part of you and forced you to live with it. You missed her jokes, her laughter, the way she’d get excited about something and talk your head off. And him. You didn’t miss him, you fucking ached for him like a lovesick puppy. His name alone made you ache, and he plagued every single minute you spent awake since you left. You kept replaying that night over and over again; every single minute of it immortalized in your memory like your own personal purgatory (fun!). Joel, who would have held your hair back when you hurled your guts up at the pavement on the bad nights. Joel, who would have held you and fed you and loved you and why the fuck did you ever think it was a good idea to leave him, again? 

Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you packed your things into the same bag you’d arrived with. You hadn’t even bought anything to furnish the apartment, making do with the too-small bed, cabinet and wonky table the landlord had provided - as if you’d known you wouldn’t stay. And you suppose, perhaps, a part of you did know. How was any of this worth anything if he wasn’t with you? The long-term good can go fuck itself. I need to see him. Should I just knock on his door randomly like a creep? No, that’s weird. What if he has another girlfriend now? Yeah, I should ask him before showing up. What if he doesn’t pick up? Where will I go if he isn’t there? God, fuck this. Get on a goddamn plane before you change your mind, idiot. 

With these (wonderful) thoughts dizzying you, you reach the airport and ask the counter for a ticket home. Turns out there’s a flight in thirty minutes - which is great because on one hand you can get rejected earlier - but also means that you need to decide whether or not to text him beforehand. Within the next half hour. Which you then spend wringing your hands, pacing, and by the time you decide to text him, your phone has run out of battery. See this? This, my friends is luck. (or, you know, dramatic plot writing.)

Huffing, you debate yourself every single step of the way onto the plane, practically having a panic attack by the time you find your seat and settle in. There are just so many reasons this could just be another shitshow. You can’t go back in time and fix what you did, but you owe it to yourself and to him to apologise and give him the truth. And so you lie back in your seat and browse yet another crappy magazine to pass the time, eventually giving up and fitfully sleeping through the turbulence. 

By the time you reach his door, its eleven pm on a Tuesday night. Meaning Sarah’s gone to bed, and Joel’s halfway there himself. This is not the time. Or the place. But you don’t find yourself having any better, genius ways to do this - so before you talk yourself into going home quietly - you’re rapping a fist against the door, careful not to be loud enough to wake Sarah up. It’s a school night. Holding your breath, you become suddenly all too aware of your flushed face and the sweat on your palms as you hear familiarly heavy footsteps reaching the door. One half of your mind is yelling at you to turn the fuck around and run what are you doing he won’t take you back you broke his heart get out get out get out while the other half seems to have just short-circuited, leaving you frozen on his porch as his door swings open. 

You watch his eyes widen in surprise, and the slight furrow in his brow as he starts scanning you - for injuries, you realise - he thinks you're hurt or that something’s gone completely sideways. Clearing your throat, you wait for his gaze to snap back to yours before flashing him a meek smile. “C-can I come in? Please?” He just stares at you for a second, and then he’s nodding, stepping to the side and opening his door wider. And God, even that’s enough to have butterflies fluttering in your stomach, your throat going dry. He’s clearly mad at me, but he’s letting me in. At eleven pm. Fuck, I love him. 

You sit on your side of the couch and the sheer mundanity of it hits you like a brick to the face. Joel brings you both beers from the kitchen before sitting across from you, still eyeing you with equal parts suspicion and concern. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking down at your hands and trying to figure out what the fuck to do with my mouth what do I even say until he breaks the silence. “So, how’s work been?” 

And now your hands are shaking again, and you freeze. Because what do you say now? Work’s great, practically a corporate wet dream, but useless. See, turns out I made the biggest mistake of my life by leaving - fucking moped about like an idiot the whole time, was practically a minute away from writing you some big shitty sonnet or something to beg you to take me back. Decided against it because that would have taken like $50 dollars just to SMS. ‘Course I could have boom-boxed it, ‘Say Anything’ style, but recording a fucking sonnet on a cassette would probably have shredded my dignity irreparably. Not that this isn’t, it’s just less of a socially-masochistic option, you know?

And it isn’t until you hear him choke on his beer and look up at the amusement on his face that you realise you just said all of that, out loud. You slap a hand to your mouth just as he starts laughing: head bowed, eyes closed and his shoulders shaking - just like that night, but he’s not in pain this time; he’s practically howling with laughter, clutching his stomach with one hand and holding his beer in the other. 

You freeze again, eyes wide and staring in shock at the fact that that just came out of my mouth. And he just heard it. He shakes his head, still chuckling, and pointedly wipes a tear from his eye. Bastard. You, on the other hand, are completely panicking still - that was the shittiest apology you could have given him and where the fuck did that messily written draft you wrote drunk on the takeout bill last night go? It isn’t until he’s looking right at you with a shit-eating grin on his face that you react, blinking and looking down at your hands again. 

“What I meant to say was that I’m sorry. I think I was just so convinced that I’m not the effort of you trying to stay with me long-distance that I convinced myself the only thing possible was to end it. Which, y’know, of course it wasn’t. And I didn’t even say bye properly. You drove me to the airport and I said nothing. I was trying so hard not to cry, because I thought I needed that job since I’ve been working for it so long, but fuck the job. I mean, it was amazing, don’t get me wrong. Great pay and everything, the work itself wasn’t too bad. All in all, amazing. But I was fucking miserable without you. And I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve what I did to you. I fucking love you and Sarah. You’re my whole goddamn world, y’ know? Sundays weren’t the same without chocolate chip pancakes and Sarah telling me about something that happened at school first thing in the morning. I just-I get if you’ve found someone - and feel free to tell me to fuck off even if you haven’t - but I just can’t anymore, I can’t stay awake every night and cry in bed and feel like shit all the time and not tell you that I just miss you so much all the fucking time and I’m so-“

“Breathe.” One word, he’s cutting your rambling off with one word, and you’re fucking obeying it. You swallow a deep breath before opening your mouth again, before he cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours. It’s not a soft kiss, but it isn’t forceful either. Desperate, like he needed to touch you again - the way you’ve needed to every single minute of every single day. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s smiling again. “Sonnet, huh? Would’a been a pretty shit one, I reckon. Lost your train a’thought like four times there, sweetheart.” Your stomach is doing somersaults at the fact that he’s abandoned the beer to cradle your head against his, at how he’s right there and he isn’t pushing you away. 

“Wasn’t right, what you did. But we can’t make the right decisions all the time. I know you thought you were doing us a favor, but thinking you weren’t worth the effort? Now that’s a fuckin’ lie, baby. Woulda learned all kinds of phone voodoo to talk to you, and it would have been worth every damn secon’ of my time if it saved you from whatever the hell New York has done to ya. Staying awake every night and cryin’ in bed?” He tuts disapprovingly, continuing: “Shoulda called me, honey. How’s this: let’s get into bed now, an’ I’ll make you those pancakes tomorrow mornin’, I promise. And we can figure it out from there, okay?” And it takes you a second to process the fact that everything’s okay, before you’re nodding and your face is scrunching into a sob. His hands are immediately cradling you on either cheek as he’s shushing you softly, moving closer to move you into his lap. You were right. No matter how far you went, nothing could replace this right here. This; Joel; Sarah. After a long, tiring, painful eight months, you were finally home.

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings @suckerforfanfic (sorry this tag wasn't working earlier)

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou hbo #the last of us fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #sarah miller #joel miller/you #no outbreak au

[betterlifeinoverall-rethabilep]

THE WORD MADE FLESH

First foremost, I have given much thought and contemplation to the sweetest and tenderest of all of the mysteries in God’s revelation to man-the Incarnation! Jesus, the Christ, is the Eternal One, for in the fullness of time He humbles Himself. Continuously, John’s description is plain: “The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” I confess that I would have liked to have seen the baby Jesus.…

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#60 Minutes Of Prayer And Supplications #Body Of Humiliation #Devoted Self #Father&039;s World #God&039;s Revelation #Holy Prayers #Holy Prayers Against Evil Spirits and Depression #John&039;s Plain Description #Kneel And Pray #Little Town of Bethlehem #Manger Straw #morning devotion #Salvation Prayers #Secret Prayers #Thanksgiving Prayers #The Word Made Flesh #Unceasing Healthy Prayer

[call-sign-shark]

Loose Cannon|| Arthur Shelby x Reader

Summary: The heatwave continues and you have an excellent --and illegal -- idea to refresh yourself... To Arthur's greatest despair. But let's be honest, your antics only make him fall harder for you || . Modern!Peaky AU Loose Cannon

Words: 4.2k

TW: language, mutual pinning, unresolved sexual tension, idiots in love, physical description of the MC, quick allusion to child abuse, no proofreading we die like John.

Notes: Each part is individual and can be read as one-shots in no particular order.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU!” A painful moan escaped from your quivering lips, your voice rendered croaky by all the effort. If your heart could break free from your ribcage it would have done it already but yet he was, drumming and agonizing in a prison of bones.

“Shut up and take it.” A low growl underlined by a light tremor of fatigue replied to you, its owner wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand as he kept on moving increasingly faster. The cacophony of his pulse hammering in his temples almost covered your complaints but, unfortunately for him, it wasn’t enough, and still heard you scream at him. Arthur should have known that you wouldn’t be docile.

“You’re torturing me!! I’ll sue you, Arthur Shelby!” Forced to pause between each word, you tried your best not to faint well aware that the soldier had no pity for you. He would continue what he was doing whether minding your consciousness. Why would he while you were the one who asked for it? All you wanted was for him to stop and yet he remained criminally deaf to all your supplications, “I can’t… I can’t anymore.” Your voice cracked.

“You wanted to do this with me so now yer going to assume your choice. Faster ey.” He ordered through gritted teeth, and the gravel in his voice made you crumble from inside.

“ It— It hurts. My legs are fucking shaking! Please stop! St—” You were about to keep whining when all came to a quite brutal halt. Indeed, this confusing chaos ended up with your face suddenly bumping against the soldier's chest. “Aouch!” You exclaimed, pushing yourself from him and ready to excoriate the fucker. “Couldn't you fucking warn me, bastard” You brought your hand to your nose and rubbed the pain away, your furious eyes shooting him a murderous look.

“And can’t ye stop fookin’ complaining? I told you that each afternoon I go for a run with Hannibal. You’ve spent all the morning begging to come with me and now that you’re here, ye do nothing but whine like a fookin' kid.” As Arthur lashed out his frustration on you, his chest rose and fell quickly for his lungs had troubled to understand he wasn’t running anymore. And despite his erratic breathing he still found enough air to scold you. Usually, you wouldn’t have minded his explosive anger but a particularly harsh night of nightmares and insomnia had turned you a bit overemotional today. While holding a bit of truth, his words still vexed you which resulted in you fleeing his eyes and crossing your arms on your tight chest.

“You don’t understand.” You mumbled, nervously chewing the inside of your cheek as your brain processed with forming a kind of explanation to offer him.

“And now she's sulking!” Arthur roared and rolled his eyes, losing the remnant of patience he had left. “Yer a fookin’ pain in the ass, that’s what you are ay. Go home if ye too tired to keep running, but I ain’t gonna change me habits for you.” An arrow through the heart would have been less painful. Your lips parted, willing to speak, but not a single coherent thing came out. You stuttered a very brief while before definitely giving up and the only thing you knew: being insolent.

“That’s not what I asked for!” You exclaimed, fists closed tights and blood boiling in your veins. Obviously, the corrosive effects of anger didn’t help. “You’re a bloody idiot, that’s all you are ay!” If there was one thing positive about this whole scene it was your perfect imitation of him.

“So what the fook d’ya want?!” His hoarse voice resounded so loud in the park that a few passersby couldn’t help but glance at you with curiosity. Lacking proper words, you ended up stomping your feet and screaming with frustration, hands pulling your own hair. The noises, the images, the smells in your head… They were all too much. Caught in a whirlwind of panic and anger, you would have given everything to be able to calmly explain that all you wanted was to be with him and not alone with your twisted thoughts, bad memories, and the faint voices in your head. Then, you would have proceeded to tell him that the only moment your mind was quiet was when he was by your side, as hard as it was to admit it. If it had been the case, everything would have been easier but no, and you hated yourself even more for all of this. Come on Rat, say it, you thought.

I just want to be with you, Arthur. Because it feels good when I'm with you. I might want to murder you sometimes but your presence is comforting to me. Please, let me stay by your side and protect me from myself.

But words remained stuck in your throat and all of it was because of a deep-rooted and still open wound you carried with you every day of your life. From the day Uncle Jack entered and destroyed it the only way you could express yourself was with violent emotional outbursts and tantrums, your body and mind still not recovering from the pain he had inflicted on you. And here was the reason why you were in the middle of the park sulking at Arthur Shelby after he had scolded you like an unruly kid.

Woof. Between the two of you sat the soldier's huge malinois, wondering why his master had stopped running and why everyone looked so angry. Curious, Hannibal stared at him with his dark beady eyes reflecting the sunlight. Then, his focus shifted to you before letting out a louder bark. In the end, what caught his attention the most was the girl's utter sadness he could sense. That was why he walked to her and gently bumped her legs with his head.

“What?!” The soldier barked back, his steel-blue eyes diving into the dog’s chocolate-brown irises, quite not believing that his own K9 had turned against him. Hannibal finally sat by your side and barked at Arthur again, and his antics brought a pause in all this senseless chaos.

“Listen...” You started, your free hand nervously spinning one of your long blue braids, “I’m sorry,” You finally mumbled, losing your slim fingers — which were wrapped with multicolor bandaids — in the beast's fur. The softness of his hair under your flesh sends you a wave of comfort. “Fucker." You added, for you couldn't address him without at least calling him names.

“Yeah.” Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he wanted to stop his dawning headache — which was the case. At least you apologized and that was already a win. "Alright." He finally said with his thick Brummie accent, his muscles finally relaxing and the handsome features of his face softening, “Alright.” He repeated, running a hand in his scruffy beard as he looked for an idea to maybe make amend for how he had yelled at you in public. "I wasn’t feeling it today anyway. It's too bloody hot out 'here. Wanna get an ice cream instead?" He suggested, one brow raised. For once, you didn't need words to be understood for the way your eyes enlightened at the mention of the frozen treat had been more than enough for him to understand. Just like the sun coming after the storm, your lips curled in a faint smile.. A smile that made Arthur's anger vanish and his heart melt more than he was willing to admit.

Did you, two independent and tough adults, fight over ice cream's flavors? Absolutely yes.

"Pistachio and chocolate is THE banger."

"Suck my dick you unoriginal dumbass, lemon and raspberry is the best combo."

"No one fookin' likes lemon sorbet, dumb bitch. You're just being a weirdo."

"If I were you I would shut the fuck up right now because I'm about to smash my ice cream on your ugly face!"

"Oh yeah? Go ahead and I'll beat your fucking ass -- don't care if people see me, you bloody brat!"

It was the kind of heated conversation you had during the whole way home, to Hannibal's greatest despair. At one point, you even swore you had heard the dog sigh loudly, probably bored of your stupid fights. The beast had found hope when you almost tripped on your own feet and Arthur, with his sharp reflexes, had managed to grab you by the hand right before you hit the ground. With that little unfortunate event, he assessed that you were far too clumsy for your own good and that keeping your hands in his was the best way to avoid injury. The more minutes flew by, the more your fingers intertwined together. You finally reached home, reluctantly letting the soldier's large and calloused hand go. As he searched for his key, you simply stretched your body with your hands high and your body weight momentarily resting on your tiptoes, the intense temperatures of the heat waves had exhausted both of you.

"Arthur." You called him, something catching your attention nearby.

The soldier replied with an uninterested "hm" as he opened the door to let Hannibal rush inside before he finally looked at you from above a freckled shoulder. For a split second, he completely forgot that you were talking to him, far too hypnotized by the way sweat made your silky skin glow and how your bright blue braids danced in your back at each of your movements. Arthur couldn't lie to himself -- You were an otherworldly and unusual combination of beauty and chaos.

"Did you know that your neighbor owned such a big-ass pool?!" You exclaimed, your little fists on your hips and your broken-doll face adorned with an outraged pout.

"Hm, yes I did." He absentmindedly replied, too busy carefully observing your lean frame, which exuded a sense of boundless energy that perfectly matched with your vibrant and expressive powder-blue eyes, filled with a mischievous spark. From your grunge makeup and your colorful hair to your attractive body and the blue clouds tattooed along a whole arm, everything of you enticed him.

"Fucking cunt. It's a shame to have such a big swimming pool and not use it." You shook your head and pout, shifting your body weight on one leg more than on the other, hence making your seductive hips tilt. Arthur forced himself to look away -- it wouldn't be that hard if you weren't wearing the shortest shorts he had ever seen.

"Well, he's on vacation." He shrugged, "C'm'here Rat. I ain't your bloody door holder."

"Do you ever stop being grumpy?" You kicked a pebble with your combat boot in his direction.

"Do you ever stop being an annoying little shit?" His lips stretched in a carnivorous and teasing smile at your childish antics.

"Fuck you, Arthur." You retorted, laying a kiss on his jaw before disappearing inside the house.

Please do, he thought.

Just one night.

There was the exact wording he had used when you forced your presence in his bed two weeks ago, arguing that the only fan in the whole house was in this room. While your excuse could be believable, it didn’t explain why you ended up in his arms. So when you came back the night after and slipped under the thin sheet to snuggle up with him without uttering a single thing, Arthur told himself “Just another one”. But the heart was a strange creature and when it fell, it fell hard. Your surprising demonstration of affection was all it took for Arthur's mind to quickly forget about chasing you away, the idea gradually becoming unthinkable until he genuinely wondered how he managed to sleep without your presence next to him. From then an odd game of pretend settled between you and him: During the day you were fighting about the most ridiculous details, never missing a moment to get under the other’s skin, and yet, when the night came and the world turned silent, you found yourselves melting against each other, your lips brushing his neck to make him shiver and his nose buried in your vibrant hair to lured the demons of war away.

As Arthur woke up, his eyelids still heavy and his mind still foggy, he growled in dissatisfaction at the realization that you weren’t in his arms anymore. Maybe the heat had finally won, and his body temperature really kept you from sleeping? It was with this in mind that he stretched one arm, his hand patting the mattress. Not only he want to make sure you were still next to him, but he also already missed your touch. His fingers were met with empty sheets as they collided with the soft fabric. Blood immediately rushed through his entire body, adrenaline rattling against his every nerve just like it used to when his squad had to wake up to gunshots and bombs. For one second, Arthur couldn’t tell if he was in Birmingham or back to Iraq and somehow, he didn’t mind. Jumping from the bed and trying not to drown in his PTSD-induced paranoia, the soldier looked around him with haste, “Love?!” He called, rummaging through the room until the sight of the wide-open bedroom window made him freeze. After a few microseconds of complete panic, Arthur leaned over the window sill in a desperate attempt to see you and fortunately did. You were here, safe and sound in Small Heath. Far from death, maimed bodies, and agonizing soldiers. His shoulders dropped as he relaxed, watching you swimming in the neighbor’s pool. The information soon reached his brain: the neighbor’s pool? “Fuck me.” Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes at the thought of you trespassing the garden to take a midnight bath in his pool.

Unbelievable.

Wasting no more time, the soldier left the house without minding the fact he was wearing nothing more than his sweatpants. It wasn’t difficult for him to climb the fence and jump on the other side of it, right into the neighbor’s garden, considering how he had learned much more during his military training with the SAS. With both hands on his head, he roared “Are you fookin’ crazy?!” His steel blue eyes, whose color shone brighter under the glow of the pool’s lights, also noticed a familiar bottle in your hand, “Is it me or you’ve stolen me whisky? Jesus Christ, I’m going to drown you, you fucking disaster of a girl!” He looked so dramatic that you couldn’t help but giggle, his screams not impeding your little bathe. “LAUGHING AT ME FACE SHE IS!” This time Arthur, breathless with rage, was yelling so loud that the pale skin of his face had turned bright red.

"Sheeesh, calm down, you gonna pop an artery.” You swam closer to the edge of the pool, slightly lifting your body to cross your arms on the warm tiles. The way your two long blue braids danced behind you, waving like two water snakes, captivated his attention for a very short while. The soldier was about to retort something murderous when you cut him for a second time, “Why don’t you join me instead of making a fool of yourself eh? The house’s empty anyway.”

“You wish,” He exhaled slowly through the nose, his nostrils flaring as he tried to contain his boiling anger and not wake all the neighborhood up, “This ain’t fun, Rat. Get the fuck out of the pool right now.”

“Come and get me then.” You challenged him with a finger gun gesture.

“I don’t think you understand you stupid brat. Do you realize that what you’re doing is illegal?”

“Yeah.” You giggled.

“And that you could be in fookin’ trouble for it?”

“Yeaaaah!” You exclaimed, pale eyes shimmering with excitement and recklessness so childish it baffled the poor soldier. Taken aback by your behavior, Arthur blinked several time as he looked at you — Somehow he should have known that you weren’t going to obey him. After all, he could tell from your chapped lips and always bloody knees that you were everything but a nice little girl. No, you were an unhinged little shit and he liked it despite everything, “so? Do you really wanna catch me ‘cause I’m getting bored.”

“Okay, I’m done.” The soldier quickly took off his sweatpants to be in underwear and, with a nimbleness you didn’t suspect, dived into the pool. Engulfed by the water, Arthur had disappeared amidst the bluish light and the rippling tiles at the bottom of the pools. All you could see was a quick silhouette coming at you with what seemed to be the speed of a torpedo.

“Oh no, no, no!” Before you could do something, two large and calloused hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled you under the water, leaving you just the time time to take a deep inhale before getting swallowed by a chlorine tide. All your vision turned into a blur for a brief but intense second, chaos taking the form of confusing bubbles and foam until everything stopped. Reopening your eyes under the water, you found yourself transported in a parallel world in which a tranquil hush enveloped your senses. With each graceful stroke, you embraced the weightless sanctuary, finding solace in the quiet depths of the pool, where worries dissolved, and the rhythmic pulse of water echoed a soothing lullaby powerful enough to shut the insufferable screeching of both sickening memories and psychotic thoughts. Surprisingly enough, Arthur wasn’t there — or at least he wasn’t in sight. All you could see was an odd combination of bluish tiles and underwater spotlights that created a surprisingly serene and liminal landscape. It seemed like the cool water had the same calming effects upon the soldier, for when you turned around at the feeling of fingers gently brushing your ribs you were met with a playful smirk. Raising an eyebrow, you gently shove him before trying to escape several times but he inevitably caught you. A small bubble escaped from your lips as you tried not to laugh, amused by how Arthur made both of you slowly spin under the water, as a jolly sailor waltzing with her mermaid lover. With your bodies moving elegantly together, halfway between dancing and gently fighting, your fingers cupped his face. Despite the underwater hush, Arthur’s interrogation is visible through the way one of his eyebrows arched when he saw your face getting dangerously closer to his. Closer. Closer. Until your mouth finally crashed against his. Arthur’s eyes widened in shock, pupils suddenly dilating under the effect of adrenaline when the warmth of your mouth found his. The peck was brief, so brief he wondered if he hadn’t hallucinated it but it was enough for him to lose control of everything. His body softened, letting you a short moment to break free from his playful embrace. Offering a last wink, you trashed your legs to come back to the surface and took a deep inhale. As the warm air of the night filled your lungs, a strange state of calmness possessed you a with it followed a genuinely amused giggle at the remembering of Arthur’s surprised expression. The man broke from underwater a few seconds after you, quickly sliding his hair back with his hands before swimming to you, eyebrows knitted together and lips sewn tight in a thin line.

“What did ya do?” He rasped, his steady breathing rendered irregular for his heart raced in his chest. The taste of your sweet yet damaged lips was still tingling on his skin.

“What are you talking about?” You pouted even though you didn’t make a peculiar effort to hide your amusement. “Hey!” The complaint fell from your mouth when his strong arms wrapped around your waist to press your body against his. A wave of fire spread through your being.

“Do it again.” Arthur could barely believe he just said that and yet he did and now that it was too late, he decided to go for it and see what would happen. Taking advantage of your surprise, he nuzzled his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing the soft skin sprinkled with tiny droplets of water similar to translucent pearls engraved in your flesh. A delightful thrill crossed through your body as his beard scratched your skin -- A thrill that soon turned into a wave of heat that made you feel feverish.

“Do what?” Your fierce and loud voice was merely a whisper as your cheeks flushed red, as red as the blood simmering in your veins. You might have been slightly confused by the situation but your bandaged fingers seemed to know what to do when they lost themselves in his wet hair to slick it back with a tenderness you never knew you possessed.

“Kiss me.” The low rumble made your own soul quake. Punctuating his sentence with actions, the soldier's face left your neck to lean his forehead against yours. In this whirlwind of emotions and arousal, you batted your eyelashes while drowning in the dark blue of his eyes and wondered if they had always been this charming. What happened next none of you could tell for any thoughts left disappeared. Mouths grazed each other, the two of them timidly discovering the shape and details without daring to break the few inches remaining. Soft lips against chapped ones, and against all expectations the rougher pair was yours. How could such an unsufferable and brutal little minx like you feel so fragile in his scarred hands? A frail moan escaped from your mouth at the blissful sensation of the soldier's hips moving with yours at the water’s discretion and, for once, you weren't ashamed of it. With your underwear fabric sticking to your skin and bodies closely interlocked, you could both feel every intimate detail and shape, gently and sensually grinding against each other due to the flow... Or maybe the flow wasn't the cause and you were both actively asking for more, who knew? Arthur growled again, for even in the cold water of the pool the warmth between your legs made him weak and far too aware that you yearned for him.

"No, you kiss me first you coward." You tried to sound mean but your voice could produce nothing but an enamored tone.

"Ah, shut up Rat." Arthur softly bit your lower lip, trapping the juicy flesh between his teeth and pulling it a little bit. The taste of anticipation lingered in the air, mingling with the heady scent of perfume, chlorine, and the warmth of intertwined breaths.

"Go on then, shut me up..." And your wish became his command. His warm tongue gave a faint lick on your lower lips just to taste the water, almost too shyly for the man he was. Then a second one and a third, and as he did he kept his hands busy by slipping them under your panties. His large palms conquered your buttcheeks and then pressed on your flesh to bring your core closer to his until you could clearly feel how enthusiastic he was to have you so close. In reply, your fingers hung at the hem of his boxer, slightly pulling them down to disclose his V-line. In the secluded haven of the dimly lit swimming pool, the water's gentle caress enveloped both of you as you shared this moment suspended in time. Arthur's patience finally reached its limits and pressed his lips against yours for another chlorine kiss you were both eager to deepen. A kiss that felt like a car crash and still sounded like water lapping and the rhythmic beat of hearts. It could have been perfect if Arthur hadn't back up suddenly, eyes wide open at the sight of a car's headlight in the house's alley.

“Out of the pool, now!” He exclaimed, hauling himself from the water quickly to grab the bottle of whisky, then his pants before seizing your wrist to lift you from the pool.

"HOLY SHIT!" Adrenaline rushed through your body, momentarily shutting down everything except your flight instinct. That was how you both ended up dashing across the garden half-naked and completely soaked up. Fortunately enough, you both managed to climb the fence and lock yourselves into the house, banging the door so close that poor Hannibal jumped from the sofa and barked. Time stopped for a while, the two of you with your back leaning against the door and trying to catch your erratic breath, bodies dripping with water. A heavy silence floated in the corridor, only broken by the sound of your own heart drumming in your ears. And then, you heard it... It started with a little nervous giggle and then it became a loud and gravelly laughter. Despite the whole panic, you were soon infected by a fit of hilarity too, your aching heart drowning in a feeling you hadn't experienced in a long time: joy in its purest and most innocent form.

♠️ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

♠️ Tag list: @cljordan-imperium @1nterstellarcha0s @raincoffeeandfandoms @babaohhhriley @zablife

#arthur shelby #arthur shelby x reader #peaky blinders #Peaky blinders imagine #Arthur Shelby imagine #Arthur Shelby x you #arthur shelby x y/n #Paul Anderson #peaky blinders x reader #Peaky blinders fluff #peaky blinders fanfic #arthur shelby x oc

[julaibib]

Recommended acts of worship during these nights include: constantly remembering Allah, abundant seeking of forgiveness, reciting the Quran, standing in night prayer, giving charity, supplicating and begging Allah in the early hours of the morning, and frequently saying: "O Allah, You are Forgiving and love forgiveness, so forgive me."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Dark!Amarantha x Human!reader: Her New Whore[***]

A/N: man, I caved at the end, I’M SORRY.

Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, some specklings of Greek Mythology, pussy-eating, face-sitting, manipulation I guess, corruption kink? 6.4K words

Summary: After the Wall fell, the High Queen easily seized control of the human lands. Every month, a name is picked from the largest cluster of houses—the closest any of your kind have to a city. You manage to keep your head down for long enough, until your sister’s name is read aloud, condemning her—and inevitably the family she’s made—to a tragedy.

“Cynthia.”

You freeze. Eyes slide to the matching pair beside your own, locking onto her widened gaze. No. There’s mirrored terror streaking your faces, and already people are taking precautionary steps back, making sure to distance themselves from the damned.

The guards don’t even have to search for her, the steadily widening circle around your sister condemns her itself. And sure enough, clawed hands are gripping her upper arms, already beginning to drag her away, and you lunge at her, only to be shoved back. You crash to the mud, dress dirtying as the wet cold bites at you, already setting in. “Cynthia…!” You rasp, throat wet with tears, chest tight with grief. “Cynthia!” You scream, pushing up from the dirt, stumbling after your sister as she’s flung to the foot of a stage.

The High Queens’s eyes are sharp, and piercing into her with a strange look. Your sister shrinks beneath the cold, ancient eyes, hands wrapping around herself, as though it will give her a modicum of safety against the innately powerful fae. Her blood red lips open, permanently set in a cruel, hateful twist, as she intends on beginning her riddle. You scramble forward, pushing through the crowd that has gathered eagerly to watch, delighting in her misery. Because they get to live another day.

You race forward, kneeling by your sister’s side, throwing your arms over her protectively, keeping her tight to your form. “I’ve got you,” you murmur, fingers trembling. “You’re safe, I’m here, Cynth.” She presses against your side, shaking badly, cowering before the High Queen. Amarantha watches, her words halting as she takes in the act of disobedience. No one else has dared interrupt a ceremony.

You swallow, meeting her icy, taunting gaze. “Please…” you manage, voice cracking. “Please— She’s my sister, please.” The tears fall and you know you need to do better. “I beseech you, my Queen. Please. She has a family—a husband and children.” You release Cynthia, pushing away from her as you bow, pressing your hands into the mud and lowering your head in derogatory supplication. “Take—… Take me in her stead. I beg you.” Salty tears wet the earth as you shake, Cynthia weeping by your side, copying your movement, and it pains you to see her like this. Splattered with mud. Cowering before a tyrant.

“Rise.”

Immediately, you follow the command, raising beneath her amused gaze. Her long nails click against the temporary throne. She’s no longer watching Cynthia, her eyes have moved to you. “What walks on four feet in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at night?” Terrified relief slides down your spine. She’s directing the riddle at you—not Cynthia. You could weep.

Her brow narrows, “behead the first one.”

Your eyes widen as her soldiers come forward. Cynthia grasps onto you and you to her: nails slicing into thin, worn fabric. “No! Please, my Queen! Please!” You scream, holding your sister tight as the creatures tug away from you. She’s torn from your arms, and you thrash, trying to reach her. You turn your head to the female sat atop her throne born of bloodshed, “my Queen! She’s my sister, please!” The tears are streaming down your cheeks as you writhe against the talons that slice into your skin.

Cynthia is shoved to her knees, more mud saturating the already wet fabric of her dress. The High Queen’s eyes are on yours, paying the torture of your sister no mind, as if it hardly even registers to her. You can’t look away from her.

A guard raises his blade, and ire blazes inside of you, fury at the injustice. Rage at how they’re about to cleave the gentle slope of her neck in two, sever it from her body, then leave her to rot in the piss-coated mud.

“Stop.”

Your breath catches, your chest stilling as the blade halts it’s slicing. The High Queen rises from her throne. A metallic smell crackles in the air and a rug rolls down the steps of the stage—her shoes will remain clean of the filth. She comes to a stop in front of you, and you’re petrified. The Queen, The Conquerer, is stood one pace away from you, and you’re staring into her eyes—holding her gaze as if your life depends on it.

“Release her.”

You’re close enough you can see the shape of the words cutting through her blood-red mouth clearly. Her soldiers release you, so suddenly that you crash to the floor, on your knees before her. You make no move to shift from the placement.

Slowly, she pulls the fabric of her orchid coloured gown upward, revealing a pale ankle, leading up to a creamy thigh—perfect skin. She’s flawless. The High Queen raises her foot slightly, a silent command. Your cheeks flush with hatred. Her lips lift at the edges, her eyes flicking from Cynthia, then back to you. You hang your head in shame, but blink away the tears. If she’s giving you a way to save your sister, you’ll take it.

Reluctantly, you begin to lean forward, but stop. You crane your neck to look at the High Queen, icy gaze piercing down on you. “I do this…and you’ll let my sister go?” You aren’t foolish enough to phrase it as an order. “Indeed.”

“You won’t harm her? Ever?” Her lip curls, a sign she’s already tiring of you, but you need to make sure. “Insolent,” she growls as she glares down at you. It’s difficult not to shrink from her. “If you give yourself to me—” your breath catches, “—and follow through, she will be released instantaneously. Unharmed.”

The word rings through you. Unharmed. She’ll be okay. She can return to her girls, and her husband. She’ll live.

“Whether she remains that way…” she grins, cruelty lighting her eyes, “…is up to you.” You feel the blood drain from your face. Brutality sparks in her gaze as she taps your chin provocatively with the tip of her shoe. “Make your choice, human.”

You refuse to cry. You won’t. Not in front of her.

So you grit your teeth, steel your spine, and settle your lips on the point of her shoe.

————

She didn’t waste a second—by the end of the day, you’d been shoved into the arms of one of her beasts, a weightless sensation had overtaken you, and then your surroundings had completely shifted, the air slightly tinged with a strange metallic scent. You’d been walked through cavernous hallways lit solely by flames that sent shadows flickering along the walls.

Then you were brought to a large chamber, dragged across the smooth stone floor, and tossed onto a wide, circular bed that was lined with various fur blankets and beautifully embroidered duvets. Atop lay a circular instrument, thick, opaque fabric hanging down like curtains to seal the bed from the rest of the room. They were dark velvet, such a deep red they were nearly black, with small tassels weighting the material at the edges.

An unknown amount of time later, another creature enters, dropping new clothes on the bed—night robes—for you to change into. Its eyes run over you with intrigue and barely masked hunger. You manage a quiet thank-you, along with a small dip of your head before it’s stalking from the chamber. You decide it would be best to follow their implied instructions, thankfully left by yourself while you bathe and clothe yourself.

Heat flushes your cheeks as you lift the fabric to the strange lights. It’s almost completely sheer, a failed imitation of clothing. Hardly a breath of thread. You double…triple check the pile, but there are no underthings to keep you hidden. You drop the material as if it’s stung you, taking a step away from where you had dropped it—beside the bathing pool.

“Insolent humans.”

You yelp, spinning around. The High Queen has snuck up on you, silently entering the bathing chamber. You hadn’t even heard the snick of the curtain rings slide back into place. Your hands fly to cover your naked body, stumbling back in fright. You slip, squeezing your eyes tight as you fall backward—into the pool.

When you surface, you hear her laughing, like the ringing of silver bells, warm and amused. You shiver. “I forget how uncoordinated you all are,” she grins, that cursed crimson like a blood-red slash across her mouth. Slowly, you back away in the lagoon-like pit, distancing yourself while keeping your arms across your chest.

A dainty nail points to you, then curls as she beckons you forward. “Come here.” Your arms tighten around yourself, and you’re sure that if the water wasn’t there, your legs would have given out. Her lips twitches, as if knowing exactly what she’s doing to you. “You’ve hardly been here for half a day,” she growls in warning, “and you’re already testing my rather generous patience.”

You tremble, but begin to move toward her. Her growls settle as you draw near, stopping at what you believe to be a safe distance. She almost laughs at your naïveté. She settles by the edge of the pool, “closer.” Her teeth are bared beneath the superficially gentle smile, eyes gleaming with harmful glee as you shudder, but follow her orders.

She spared your sister. She spared your sister. She spared your sister. You can do this for Cynthia. Cynthia and her girls. Cynthia and her husband. For Cynthia, you’ll manage. The High Queen’s hand raises from the carved stone, and you flinch when he cups your cheek, eyes piercing down at you: half-submerged in the pool, the water reaching just above your midriff. “There you go,” she drawls, lips quirking at the terror in your eyes. Her thumb brushes your cheek and you tremble, her sharp nails scraping beneath your lash line, as if poised to dig into the soft flesh that would rupture beneath her claw.

The High Queen must have read it across your features, as she grins wickedly, “your Cynthia is alive.” You don’t allow yourself a moment to relax, not with the Queen of the fae so close. Her brow rises, “no words of thanks? No offers to appease me?” You swallow, inhaling quietly. “Thank you, my Queen,” you manage, voice cracking from fear.

Her hand lowers, and you still as her thumb brushes over your lip, and you wonder if she’ll tear it from your body. She merely lays a surprisingly soft pat to your cheek, her eyes flicking to the mesh robe, untouched, by the pools edge. “Put it on,” she orders, quietly. You double check all of your chest is covered—as much as you can, anyway—before meeting her gaze. “My Queen?” You ask, uncertain. She wants you to wear to robe while in the water? Or to get out, dry, and then adorn it? Her fingers clasp the sheer fabric, bringing it within your reach, “did I stutter?” Her lips are still up-tilted, but ice is beginning to frost in the depth of her eyes.

With a trembling hand, you reach forward, taking the robe from her hand. Your fingers brush, and you flinch, preparing to be hit, squeezing you eyes shut. She merely watches you, marks your reaction with quiet anger. “Put. It. On.” Her voice has dropped, and you flush with shame as you lower your arms to adorn yourself in the dress. Despite being underwater, you push it down, allowing it to rest at your ankles.

The High Queen smiles, though it’s lacking something. “Keep up the obedience and you’ll be just fine.” She gets to her feet, flashing you a snippet of smooth skin as she stands and you feel dirty for looking. Instinctively, you falter a step backward, at last easing a small breath of relief.

It’s cut short as her fingers drop to the buttons of her dress, slowly unpinning them, revealing small glimpses of her porcelain skin beneath. You hurriedly turn away as she undresses, cheeks ablaze as you catch sight of her sleeve descending over a creamy shoulder. You can hear the soft wisps of chiffon falling to the floor, and flashes of soft and supple skin whisper through your mind. You pinch your forearm hard, just one mark among many.

Amarantha scowls at your turned back. Foolish human dignity. Do you not understand she could slice you up in seconds, sink her teeth into the soft flesh of your throat? She swallows, licking her lips as a slow smile lifts her edges.

Silently, she descends into the lagoon, allowing the peacefully warm water to lap over her skin. Prowling up behind your unaware form. The sweetest prey.

Your breath catches as her arms wrap around your waist, pulling your back flush against her front, and you feel the soft pressure of her breasts. She’s naked. She’s completely bare. Your mind short circuits, fire heating your body, licking over you like it’s a phantom touch. Her fingers dancing over your skin, her lips feathering over your own, her—

You dig your nails into your forearm. It must be some faerie magic. Your mind must not be your own to have such horrifically impure thoughts in it. A quiet sound of fear drags from your throat as she noses a space beneath the shell of your ear. “My Queen…?” You stammer, “what—…what are you doing?” Each breath that falls from your lips is wracked with a silent tremor.

She laughs against your skin and you subtly try to squirm away from her. Her arms wrap tighter. “You live such short lives,” she croons, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “yet you deprive yourself of the pleasures the Mother has provided.” A shiver spider-walks down your spine, her fingers beginning to trace circular patterns over the base of your sternum.

“It’s a sin,” you rasp, voice failing you under duress. “It’s an equivalent exchange. Pleasure of unity for the pain of reproduction. My Queen.” You hurriedly add on the title, a way to soften your brazen defence. “If it’s a sin, why are you craving it so badly? The mother wouldn’t wish for her creations to suffer,” she whispers, and her fingers raise higher, dancing beneath the swell of your breasts.

You turn your head, and Amarantha greedily drinks in your mortal beauty. “Is that why you spared her? My sister?” There’s a devastating spark of hope in your eye, looking to her for answer. She blinks, and you quietly await her response. “I spared Cynthia because you promised yourself to me.” Her eyes pierce into you, “equivalent exchange and all that. A life for a life. However fleeting, or pitiful.”

Your brow narrows in hurt, “our lives may be short, my Queen, but it gives us meaning. We are to make the best of ourselves, however slim our chances. It is the beauty of being human.” She smiles, settling her chin on your shoulder, feeling you stiffen. “You are, indeed, quite beautiful.”

You don’t know how to respond. Is it a concealed taunt you don’t understand? Is she using her faerie tongue to deceive you in some way? You can’t figure it out. “You…remember her name, my Queen.” She laughs, but it lacks amusement. “It is not a difficult name to remember. Neither is your bond with her.” She seems sad. A quiet wash of anguish fleeting across her gaze.

And maybe she’d been gentle enough with you, been so unexpected that you reached out. You’ve been raised that it’s a woman’s role to reach out and help others—always. Why would she be any different. You move your hands from where they’ve been suspended above the water, gingerly settling them overtop hers. “Why not?” You murmur, watching her.

The High Queen’s eyes drop to your fingers, and for a moment you’re concerned she’ll see it as an affront—for a human to touch a faerie. But they entwine with your own, keeping as much of you close to as much of her as she can. “My sister was murdered by a human. Tortured and murdered. For weeks.” She hears the quiet gasp you release, and raises her gaze to your own, shocked and wide.

“Her name was Clythia, and I cared for her more than anything. More than I should have let myself.” Her eyes seem to regain their sharpness as they drink in your features. Her arms tighten around your rib cage, “I will not be making that mistake again.” Her words are clipped; pained. You squeeze her hand, “isn’t it lonely?” Her eyes are narrow on you, a quiet warning, but allowing you to proceed. You gulp and you’re certain she can hear it. “As an immortal. With no clear end to your life? You should find yourself a love, take a husband, and—”

She snarls, lip curling back from her teeth, muscle rippling; power thrumming. Your body freezes in response, but she spins you round, roughly. Her nails dig into your hips, pulling you tight against her.

It’s so much worse.

You can see her. See the pale skin of her collar bones, the smooth skin of her shoulders, the feminine swell of her breasts, pressing against your own—

“A husband?” She snarls, watching with fury as you cower, trying to shrink away from her. Your hands land hesitantly—even as you’re terrified—over the top of her chest, attempting to push away. “I treat you as I have, and you tell me to find a husband?”

“I’m—I’m sorry—… I simply mean—” She snarls again, more viciously, cutting you off as she grips you tighter, walking you backward in the pool.

Initially, you’d been wary about bathing, not knowing how deep the pool went. You knew the depth was more staggering at the back, and being unable to swim, you’d kept far from it.

You shove your feet onto the floor, but it’s rough, and bites at the soft pads. She’s so powerfully fae, and has no trouble shoving you further and further back to that drowning depth. “My Queen!” You cry, reaching for her but she keep you at arms length. The water gets deeper, rising over your chest, and you know you’re right over the precipice. “Please! I can’t swim!” You panic, “please, my Queen! I didn’t mean to offend!”

The High Queen shoves you away, sending you off into the deep. That terror again engulfs you as you begin sinking. Your eyes go wide, latching onto her own beseechingly, just before the water’s surface swallows you. It’s suddenly no longer comforting—the peaceful warmth. It feels as the air before a storm, hot and humid, too still to be safe.

You thrash, not knowing how fast you’re descending, but you claw about. Maybe if you can reach that edge again, you can pull yourself up. You stretch out your hands, and they find the ledge. Rough and hewn, but it’s there. You could cry. But then you feel as she presses the heel of her foot down, digging your fingers into the rock and you cry out, releasing precious air as you lose your grip.

You try again, this time taking hold of her ankle, tightly—even if it enrages her. But she holds still, allowing you to touch her as you begin to pull yourself to the surface. Your lungs are burning as you reach her thigh and your hand freezes, realising where you’re going to have to go past. You take too long, strength seeping from your arms as you begin to lose conscious. You practically feel her growl thunder through the water as a force lifts you from the depths.

When you break the surface, your religious worries are far from the front of your mind. Your arms snake over her shoulders, clinging desperately as you splutter, hauling yourself over her arm as you gulp down air, tears of panic spilling over your cheeks. Your legs wrap over her hips, circling tight in fear.

Before you’ve even had the time to regulate your breath, her hand is tightening in your wet hair, pulling you back just enough for her to glare into your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you rasp, tears streaming over your already wet cheeks. “Please,” you plead, brows curving upward, “please don’t kill her.”

The High Queen’s eyes do not soften as she pulls back from the ledge, carrying you up into shallower water. You daren’t tear your eyes away for fear she’ll have a change of heart. “I hold you as I do,” she seethes, “I treat you as one of my own, instead of one of those humans. I touch you as I do— cherish you as I do—” Your lower back presses against the hewn rock of the pool, and you attempt to unwrap your legs from her hips. Her grip tightens and she snarls up at you. “—and you think a husband would please me?”

You keep your lips pressed tight, deciding it wise to not speak anymore. But her eyes pierce into your own, commanding you to respond. Whatever you say, it could be you last. “What would please you, my Queen?” You stammer, softly, trying to banish the tremors from your arms.

Her eyes flicker for a moment, and then her mouth is crushing down onto your own. You seize up, paralysed as one arm snakes up your back, between your shoulder blades, making your back curve, pressing your breasts to her own. You’re all but naked before her, save for the sheer fabric that clings to you relentlessly. A whimper claws up your throat at the sudden move.

She pulls away, eyes dragging from your mouth up to your own.

Then she’s returning, lips warring over your own, teeth biting, tongue slashing as she dominates your mouth. One hand grips your ass while the other tightens around the nape of your neck, crushing you against her, pressing between your thighs as she devours you. She gets lost in your flavour, raising both her hands to cup your jaw, pinning you to the pool’s wall with her lower body.

Her grip slackens as she takes you in, breathing shakily.

You take your chance.

You slam your hands down on the pool’s ledge, lifting yourself out as you kick away from her, panting as you scramble back. You tumble over the lip of the lagoon, falling down onto the smooth rock of the bathing chamber. The High Queen snarls from the pool and your eyes go wide as she heaves herself out of the water with such ease.

Immediately you’re scrambling back, flipping onto your front to crawl away, to stumble to your legs but she catches you on the threshold of the two rooms. Her arm wraps around your hips, once again pulling your back flush against her chest as her hand snakes up your front, gripping your throat. “I thought you wanted to protect your sister?” She snarls, so close to your ear you feel the scrape of her teeth.

You simply writhe in her grip, terror spinning and spinning until you feel dizzy. “You’re okay if she dies?” The High Queen growls, gripping tighter, and you choke. “Maybe I’ll make you watch when I kill her. Nice and slow.” You shake your head vehemently, colours swimming as you splutter. Your fingers claw at her hand but she holds fast, so much stronger than you could ever handle.

Then, she’s picking you up from the floor, your legs pulling to your chest, kicking wildly in attempts to disorientate her. It’s a pitiful attempt. She sets you on your feet before the opening to her bed, turning you around roughly. Then power crackles in the air and you’re completely dry, as if neither of you had even stepped foot in the bathing chamber.

With a hard shove, you’re falling backward, sitting on the circular mattress, clothed in only the sheer fabric and nothing else—no undergarments to conceal you from her hungry and furious gaze. You start crawling backward, but she only laughs, as if delighted by your actions. You understand why when you hit the edge of the bed. Your back collides with something solid, despite it being curtains. She laughs at your confusion. “There’s a barrier around the mattress. Once you have entered, you cannot exit unless I permit it.”

You’re trapped.

“Please,” you whimper, watching as she climbs onto the bed, the curtain shutting behind her, sealing you in a cocoon of dark red light. “Please, my Queen. This is wrong!” She simply grins, prowling closer until her hand wraps around your ankle. You don’t even try to resist as she drags you beneath her, caging you in. “There’s nothing wrong about enjoying the pleasures of life,” she snarls down at you. You shake your head weakly, “no…the first time…” Tears roll down your cheeks and she stills. “The first time should be with someone you love!” You scream at her with a fury you don’t recognise.

Her eyes change, something indiscernible flashing across her features. “Pleasure is for…for man and woman,” you cry, reciting the words that have been flung at you since you came of age. “They couple…and the woman bares his children…and—…and he works! While—…while she stays at home…raising his children, in his house, for him!” You’re sobbing, wanting to scream and kick and just lash out in some way. “It’s the wife’s duty— My duty, to serve my husband one day. And that is…that is how it should be…” you trail off, crying as you push away tears with your fists.

Her hands strangle your wrists, roughly pushing them aside as she glares down at you with renewed ferocity. “So insufferably human.”

“And you’re insufferably cruel…” you weep, though the words lack any bite. “Yes,” she snarls, “I am.” You peer up at her through teary eyes. “And do you see me crying? Do you see me being forced into something I don’t want? Do you see me serving a man in the way you believe is a duty?” You stare at her, lower lip trembling as you manage to shake your head.

“No. You don’t. Because I am High Queen of Prythian. I rule over this land. It is mine. The food, the country, the people. They’re mine. Just like you are mine. At the end of the day I do not submit to a husband, or a father, or a brother. Because I am my own keeper.” She practically spits the last part, dripping with venom as she glares down at you.

Your brow narrows at her anger. The anger that isn’t directed at you, not this rage. Not really.

Her hand again wraps around your throat as she lifts your head from the sheets. “I can fuck you better than a man ever could. Than anyone.” You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as you struggle as much as you can. “Open your eyes.” You refuse, screwing them shut tighter. “Open your damned eyes before I pluck them from your skull.”

Tears roll as they land on her, working every silent plea you can into your gaze. You would beg on your knees for her to stop. For her to leave Cynthia alive. “That’s more like it,” she breathes, hand loosening around your throat, allowing you to gulp down air. “Now, let me show you what you’ve been missing out on.”

Her mouth reattaches to your own, but it’s softer. Until her teeth nip at your lower lip. You flinch, and it spurs her on, canines tugging relentlessly until you whimper. “Touch me,” she commands, between kisses, “pull me closer.” You remain how you are, hands paralysed at your sides as she pulls you apart. “Reciprocate or I swear on Clythia I will shred your sister alive. Piece by piece.”

You’re trembling, shaking and on the verge of shattering, but you manage to wrap your arms around her neck, parting your thighs to hug her hips. “Now touch me like you mean it. I’m giving you one damned chance.” The snarl is more beast than faerie, but it’s for Cynthia. For Cynthia, you will put everything the High Queen has done aside. For Cynthia, you will commit this sin, that will damn you far below hell. For your sister, you will give in to those desires that have caused the crescent shaped indents in your forearms.

Your vision blurs as you shove it all away, and follow her commands.

Your mouth opens, tongue dancing with her own as she grips your hair, yanking it. A growl of innate satisfaction thunders through her chest and her free hand lands atop your breast, palming it. You want to scream, but force a moan instead. You doubt you’d be able to pull yourself back together if you started screaming.

She thumbs your nipple, and her mouth leaves your own, nipping and licking at your neck as she works lower, ignoring the quiet tears that roll back into your hair, dampening the bed. Her teeth sink into the junction of your throat and shoulder, biting down and you know it’ll bruise. It’s her way of claiming you. To have her scent entwined with yours isn’t enough. She needs to have her bite marks littering your skin, to have bruises of her fingertips blossoming over your neck, hips, thighs— everywhere she can.

Quicker than you can think, she’s tugging the erotically teasing dress up your thighs and over your head, baring you to her. The High Queen doesn’t waste a second: her mouth latches over your nipple, just over your heart, and this time you don’t have to force it. Pleasure sings through you, lighting you up as your back arches. As much as you hate it, as much as you know it’s a sin, it feels undeniably good.

You don’t want her to stop, you realise.

It brings a new wave of emotion looming in the background of your mind. But you cannot allow it to crest. So instead you thread your fingers through her beautiful silky hair, so soft to the touch, encouraging her. She growls with pleasure as she goes lower, sucking bruises into the skin of your stomach as she descends, leaving a trail of obscenity until she reaches between your thighs.

“My Queen…” you whimper earnestly, knowing what she’s planning. “That’s—” She snarls, teeth scraping over your inner thigh.

“Are you trying to stop me?” And you can hear the threatening displeasure coating the question. You hurriedly shake your head, flushing in shame. She shouldn’t be seeing you like this. It should be a man. But you meet her eyes and undeniable arousal flows through you and the possessiveness. Had anyone ever displayed such a strong instinct to protect you? Bordering on fanatic obsession. Infatuation.

“I’d feel…guilty. Not doing anything, I mean,” you manage. As soon as the words have left your tongue you realise their truth. Nausea roils in your stomach. How sick are you? Could you ever be forgiven? A dark laugh breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and it sends another wave of heat rushing between your legs. You’re practically aching for her.

“Not so innocent after all,” she drawls, and you flush.

“I simply mean—”

“I know what you said.” She snarls, crawling up your body until she’s over you, her deep red hair hanging like the deep red curtains trapping you on the bed. “You want to have your mouth between my legs, don’t you?” Shame sparks in your chest, licking between your thighs as your eyes dart away from her. She grips your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Say it. Let me hear you beg for it. Beg for me to mount your tongue, like an animal in heat,” she snarls.

For Cynthia, you can do it. For Cynthia—

Fuck Cynthia.

“Please,” you beg, that religious yarn the priests had twisted tight, now unraveling at an alarming pace. “Please, my Queen. I need to know. Let me know what if feels like. What you taste like.” Her eyes roll as she lowers her face to the crook of your neck, burying against you, nosing at the skin as she laps over the erogenous area. Your back arches and you wish you could resist her. Wish you could return to your discipline, and your unruffled life before she came along with her chaos and her fury and her devastating beauty.

“That’s it,” she pants, pleasure flushing her cheeks. “Look at you,” she hisses, “already settling so well into your new role.” And then she’s prowling further up your body, swinging a leg over your head and your arms have already wrapped snuggly over the elegant sweep of her hips. You tug against her but she doesn’t move, keeps herself suspended above you, teasingly. You can’t stand it.

Your nails bite into the flesh of her waist and she keens, hands pushing your thighs apart. When her eyes land on your glistening heat, she growls. You’re hers. “Now, now,” she croons, “see how far you’ve come already? Dying for a taste of a female.” Your hips buck, urging her to devour you, set her mouth on you, anything. “My Queen, please. I need you. Mother above, I need you so badly.” She just laughs.

“Maybe I should punish you for taking so long to come around, hm? Maybe I should bring you to the edge, and suspend you there. Maybe I should—”

You take initiative. Your grip tightens as you raise your mouth to her cunt, lapping all over her, pressing against her hole. Anywhere you want, really. She snarls, but it’s full of pleasure and feminine satisfaction. The High Queen decides she’ll punish you later. Right now, she has you, and she’s in no mood to deny herself of you. Not after so long. She shifts her weight back at the same time she sets her mouth on you and you moan.

Her wet heat encases your mouth, and you groan as you feel her tongue lap over your centre. You flinch when her teeth nip a deliciously sensitive spot between your legs and you follow it on her, locating the small bud. You place a gentle lick to it, and her hips grind over you. Perfect. You focus on that mark, abusing it over and over, occasionally raising your tongue to her entrance, needing to refresh her flavour before diving back down.

Moans echo throughout the room and you feel a tightness in the pit of your belly. “My Queen,” you stammer, confused. She snarls, shutting you up, but the coil tightens— but it feels so good. Like an itch you can’t quite scratch. You just need her to find a spot, a spot that will just get you. Her tongue flicks over that bud and pleasure rushes your veins. You bury your face between her legs as you desperately nip, flick, suck and fuck all of her, memorising her taste as you bathe in the euphoria.

You feel her fluttering on your tongue moments later, your own high triggering hers as she sits upright, shoving you down into the soft mattress. You don’t even try to escape. You relish in her scent, in the wet heat of her, the way she encompasses you as she rides your face, moans spilling from her mouth until she’s ready to leave.

As she lifts from you, you notice threads of slick attaching your mouth to her, and you moan at the sight, already desperate for another taste, but she shifts. And her mouth is over your own. She’s ravenous, tongue licking and lapping, teeth nipping and biting as she drinks down your moans until she’s rolling off you.

Her arms circle possessively around your waist as she tugs you against her. “You’re mine,” she hisses down at you, and no matter how much it goes against the teachings, you can’t bring yourself to repent. She’s sunk her claws into you, and they run deep. Even if you wanted to, she wouldn’t let you go. You nod, pressing against her, melting into her possessive warmth.

She snarls, looking down at you. “You’ll stay here. In my bed. Warming it for me.” You nod again, and as the pleasure fades, as the adrenaline seeps from your blood, that familiar primordial dread begins to surface. You’ve promised yourself to her. You’re bound together. And you have no hope of escaping.

She bares her teeth and you hurriedly reply. “Yes, my Queen.” Her eyes soften ever so slightly. “Amarantha. I want you to call me Amarantha.” Your cheeks flush and you take the time to appreciate her beauty. The glow about her skin, the softness of her lips, the ferocity in her eyes. You feel safe. But maybe that’s just her power as High Queen. Maybe she’s gotten you so far under her spell you’ll never see her commit wrong.

“Amarantha,” you repeat, softly. A small, sane part of you screams at your compliance. But you’re too enchanted by her otherworldly beauty to pay it the necessary attention. To realise what you’ve done. What’s she’s done to you.

You reach forward, pressing your lips against hers, revelling in the plushness of them. You moan, and she’s never heard a sweeter sound. She’ll never let you leave her side. She’ll take you round on a leash if she has to, with chains decorating your wrists and ankles. Anything to ensure you stay at her side at all times. Because she’s never met someone she recognises so instinctually. Like a warped mirror.

If Clythia hadn’t been killed, if the High Queen hadn’t lost that part of herself in the war five hundred years ago, would she be as beautiful as you? She doubts it. You’re perfect. Living perfection. Crafted for her.

Her perfect new whore.

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