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transthomastaylor · 2 years

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Ad abbātissam Agatham (Bergīs) Mārcella (Nīdrōsiae) mittit epistolam.

Cāra abbātissa, tibi scrībō dē rē, quam, nisi mē teste ēvēnisset, nōn ipsa crēderem accidisse. Tam mīra est, ut tibi quoque fortasse in mentem subeat dubium — quōnam modō in haec, quae sōlum Diabolō jubente, Deō ipsō oppugnante et Nātūrā, ambōbus in proeliō hūmānōrum spīrituum perpetuō ā Satanā victīs, potuissent fierī, rēvērā humilis Deī famula inciderit — sed fidēlis semper erās vēritātis inquīsītrīx, rēctae sententiae prōpugnātrix, mea amātrīx. Nōn dubitō, quīn mihi pōscentī opem ferās.

Quid plūra? Brevī ōrātiōne et parcā expōnam, quae ante noctem illam, quā prīmum Diabolī servam intuita sum, facta sint, nam, contingentibus ēventīs omissīs, vereor, nē eō difficilius fīat crēdere et intellegere: hāc aestāte occidente, migrātiōnem parāvī in oppidum nōn longē procul Nīdrōsiā, quod subjectum erat castellō lapideō atque antīquissimō, quō familia dignitāte et nōbilitāte longē excelsa, leōniparmēnsis, rēge Sigurdō Magnī fīliō mortuō, rēgnō cūnctō perturbātiōnēs magnās patiente, dolō potīta esse dīcitur, quum (nam ita in annālibus lēgeram) castellum quondam ligneum ferēque omnēs comitiālis gentis incendiō periissent. Comitem inibī habitāsse sōlitāriam agricolās percontāns nācta eram, at plūra nōn dīcere audēbant; saepe crucem sanctam manibus gestulantēs significābant, neque ūllam ex ōre ēliciēbant vōcem. Aliī Deum imprecābantur, aliī in terram spuēbant, etiam aliī innumerīs superstitiōnibus populāribus cēdēbant. Eō tempore, ut mē nōrās, quamvīs fidēlis et bona christiāna semper eram, nōn facile in superstitiōsīs numerābar. Chrīstum et Deum ōrāre aliud, daemonēs, larvās, maleficās pugnāre longē aliud esse crēdēbam. Sed dē hōc aliās.

Pergēbam ā praediīs sēmitā, quae dūcēbat ad oppidulum, cuj nōmen latīnum Pontī, cujus multiēs dē superstitiōnibus et narrātiōnibus vulgāribus scrīpta ā variīs ērudītīs sacerdōtibus relicta invēneram. Parvum vērō est, cujus incolae ad centum tantum jam videntur superesse; multī autem nōminis hīc apud superstitiōsōs.

Quum per viās angustās atque ātrās equō advecta essem ad ecclēsiam, quam archepīscopus nīdrōsiēnsis paucīs sēstertiīs ēmerat restituitque, ut ancoram Fideī conderem, utque Jēsū Chrīstī lūcem extenderem in etiam longinquissimam et rudissimam rēgnī partem, mīrābar: nōn enim tam parva erat quam fore crēdideram, nec tamen ōrnāta velut ecclēsiae Nīdrōsae Bergīsque. Duo tabulāta habēbat, pullīs quasi igne dēnigrātīs parietibus ligneīs. Fenestrīs nūllus color erat nec effigiēs, neque intus quicquid vidēre poteram propter tenebrās, quod ego prīma hujus fānī antistes eram (aliae enim monachae cōnsecūtūrae erant, ubi cōnsecrāta esset). Etiam extrā aedem vespertīnae tenebrae optegere coepēre, ergō intrō fūgī, nē frīgoris nocturnī causā in nescioquō morbō inciderem. Equum in stabulum dūxī, nummō solūtō, ibīdem relīquī, ut stabulārius eum cūrāret.

Nihil mōmentī accidit, quum dormiēbam in dormātōriō ecclēsiae. Prīmā lūce, gallō canente, experrēcta per fenestram dormātōriī viam propinquam intuita sum. Nēmō in viīs aderat, neque multī hominum apsentiam fēcī, quod plērōsque hīc habitantīs subagrestī ingeniō crēdēbam pigrōs et inhonestōs, quārē māne nōn ōrābant nec labōrābant. Ego vērō mūnere antistitis fungēbar quam optimē poteram.

Vesperī iī cum incolīs collocūtum, quia ignōrābam quantā rūsticitāte oppidulum maledictum esset, neque superstitiōsī istī agricolae, quōs hūcūsque tendēns offenderam, vidēbantur bona exemplāria chrīstiānōrum virōrum. Nēmō ecclēsiam vīsitāverat interdiū, quō mīrābar. Sōla multum sedēbam in ecclēsiā precāns, arāneāsque nōnnunquam surrēpentīs calcitrāvī. Mē adeō taeduerat inertis sōlitūdinis, ut laetō animō, sōle occidente, exierim locūtum et, ut spērābam, agnōs in lūcem ductum.

Jam vērō, etiamsī vesper immātūrus erat, plērīque omnēs hominēs domī inclūsī erant. Aliquem autem rūfum virum dēprehendī domum, ut appārēbat, tendentem, quī, rogātus, quid sibi nōmen esset, respondit ʻAlbertus.’ Cuj ego, ‘Quid domum nōndum nocte tendis, Alberte?’

Stupēns aliquantulum, ‘Nefās,’ inquit, ‘post sōlem occāsum extrā aedēs versārī.’

ʻNefās?’ rogāvī multō potentius stupēns quam ille.

‘Num nescīs,’ inquit, ‘ubi sīs? In Pontōrum umbrīs latet, manet, intuētur, antequam prōsilit trucīdatque!’

Similia plūrima lēgī in annālibus Nīdrōsiae, sed, ut ante nōn crēderam, neque tunc vulgāribus superstitiōnibus cēdēbam. Itaque, ‘Sciō equidem,’ inquiī, ‘ubi sim. Nōn autem crēdō superstitiōsās fābellās. Num tū,’ inquiī, ‘nescīs Deum suōs agnōs pāscere et fovēre? Num crēdis Deum mē relictūrum?’

ʻSī deus est, sunt loca, quae eum nōn nōvērunt, aut quae nōn ipse nōvit. Nōs nōn nōvimus Deum, tantum…’ Crucem sanctam manibus ita ut agricolae gestiēns signāvit antequam discēderet. ‘Bene valē,’ inquit dīmissā vōce, ‘sī vīvere in vōtīs habēs, mē domum sequere et prīmā lūce crāstinā fuge!’

Prōh pudor — mē monacham domum invītāvit! Ērubēscēns eum sine morā discēdentem, semel tantum respicientem, stupefacta spectābam. Sī sapientior essem, cōnscūta essem. Viae jam omnīnō hominum vacuae erant, ergō ad ecclēsiam trīstis redīre cupiēbam — quid enim mē opus, quum hominēs tam perterritī ac timidī in superstitiōnem potius quam religiōnem cōnfugēbant? Mēcum susurrāns, ‘utinam,’ inquiī, ‘in prōpatulō mōnstrum nōn extāre probāre possem!’

‘Nōn,’ nescioquae inquit melliloqua, ‘difficile profectō istud suscipiēs, quod, mōnstrum nūllum hīc habitat.’ Vōcem suāviloquam ā tergō audiēbam, cito igitur mē vertēns ad mulierem tam probē monentem parvum gemitum pavōris causā ēdidī. Quum autem eam in mediā tenebricōsā viā aspicerem, suāvem ejus fōrmam vōcī parem in umbrā discernere vix poteram, sed virginem eam juventūte adhūc fungī comperī, staturā vērō prōcēram, oculīs ut nigrī igniculī lūculentīs, capillō longō ac fūscō. Surrīsit.

‘Salvē,’ inquiī quam cōmitissimē poteram, ‘quō tendis hāc noctū?’ Vultū dissimulābam mē gemitāsse brevīque mē timuisse.

Rīdēre nōn dēsistēns, ‘Nesciō,’ inquit, ‘quid vesper sērus vehat — num tū tē scīre dīcere vīs?’ Italicam atque ērudītissimam loquēlam vetustāte mīrā et venustāte suptīlī īnsignem exhibēbat — crēde mihi, soror venerābilis; tandem Fideī nostrae ecclēsiasticaeque ērudītiōnis exemplar haud invīta accipere inter incolās ratiōnis aliēnōs, ingeniō silvestrīs, mōribus incompositōs, gestū et animō bēstiālīs poteram; tantā ēlatiōne nunquam ante affecta eram. Mihi vidēbar lacrimābunda gaudiī grātiā.

Laeta igitur, ‘Ō ērudītissima,’ imquiī, ‘fēminārum! Sēriō vērō loquor, quum rogō, quō tendās.’

‘Cuj ego,’ inquit, ‘sēriō respondeō mē nescīre, requīrōque, num tē scīre crēdās, ō blandissima animantum.’

Mīrābar, an injūriam modo accēpissem necne, ignōrāns. Fortasse mē silente gāvīsa — dentēs enim candidī inter sanguinolenta labra fulgēbant — perrēxit ad hunc modum: ‘Ēnumerābō, quae fore, ut accidant, spērō, dum per hās sordidās viās deambulō: quaerō vidēlicet cēnam.’ Quam in viīs cēnam quaereret, nē conjectūrā quidem tangere poteram. Nōn vidēbātur mendica — immō dīvitem eam rata eram. Mē rem mente volventem oculīs extrā ōrdinem veteribus vīsīs intuēbatur, dōnec, ‘Vīn’ mēcum cēnāre, domina?’ rogāvī; ‘Ērudītārum mē egestātis in hāc regiōne piget.’ Tam sōlitūdine laesa eram, ut cum mendicā cēnāre vellem.

At illa, ‘Sapis quidem,’ inquit, ‘sed hāc nocte nōn tēcum mihi negōtium est. Alicubī quaeram. Sed tamen nōn tantum cibus quaerendus est; ērudītārum sodālicium aequē dēsīderō. Sī crāstinō,’ inquit, ‘vespere castellum leōniparmēnse, quod quondam dītissimum omnium meā subāctum est gente Leōniparmārum, in quibus animam dūcēns numeror ultima, jam invītāta vīsitāre in animō habēbis, pergrāta recipiēris. Cēna parāta erit doctā virgine digna.’

Aliquae in ōre suptīlitās mihi facile persuāsisset, nisi ante quoque dominae cēnā et amīcitiā haud invītā dēlectārī cupīssem, ergō statim, ‘Tuā grātiā, domina, fēlīx hospes erō.’

Vidēbātur haec ej satis facere, nam laeta rīdēns, ‘Optimē,’ inquit, ‘faciēs.’ Perrēxit hunc in modum: ‘Sed quid ais? Fessa vidēris, et ego quoque languēscō; utrīque abeundum cēnātum, utī bonā valētūdine in crāstinum ūtāmur.’

Eam valēdicta relinquēns animadvertī mē cōnstantem intuentem, et penitus tremere coepī; quīdam horror occultus mē per noctem — edentem, ōscitantem, dormientem — sequēbātur.

Posterō diē ubi prīmum experrēcta eram, habitumque nocturnum immūtāveram, homo quīdam, quem nōn nōram, ecclēsiam pallōre et rūfā caesariē īnsignis manibus gestiēns et clārā vōce gemēns intrāverat in hunc modum lacrimōsus clāmitāns:

‘Mortuus est! Mortuus est!’

Rogātus, quis mortuus esset, respondit frātrem suum mortuum noctū, cuj nōmen Albertus. Cuj ego, ‘Albertum,’ inquiī, ‘herī vespertīnō colloquiō cognōscēbam.’ Celeriter, ‘nisi multī assint Albertī,’ adjēcī.

Nihil lūgēbam tam superstitiōsum atque impium virum, sed, quamvīs erat rudis, frātris lacrimantis dolor mē quoque ad lacrimās mōvit. Mē autem collacrimante, aliquae animī fortitūdō virō rūfō accidit.

Lacrimās tergēns, ‘Nōnne tū,’ inquit, ‘chrīstiāna es et Fideī prōpugnātrīx?’ Mē annūtante, loquī perrēxit: ‘Ergō meum fratrem sepelīre poteris? Nefās est extrā Deī beātitūdinem sepelīrī, etsī, multī praeteritīs annīs ita periēre.’

Nōn vidēbam causam recūsandī, itaque eum domum sequēbar. Domus erat parva — multō ecclēsiā minor — trium conclāvium minimōrum, ex quibus duo erant cubicula magnae familiae. Ab Isaacō, ut erat frāter Albertī nōminātus, inducta sum in cubiculum, ubi Albertum placidum sed pallidum in lectō, oculīs clausīs, quasi dormīret, jacentem. Līberī uxorque ejus collacrimābant.

Accessī ad cadāver, Deōque precābar, ut animum mortuī servāret utque in caelīs acciperet. Precābar etiam prō postumīs, ut beātē vīverent, etiam patre tam cārō ēmortuō. Ad extrēmum aquam benedictam in cadāveris frontem sparsī (arcam enim nōn habēbant, neque emere poterant), at, dum ad caput inclīnābam, parva forāmina, quae morsum indicābant, in collō īnspēxī. Nihil tamen postumīs super forāminibus dīcere ausa sum, quae in mentem revocāre dolōrem nōllem. Albertō sanctificātō atque sepultō, ad ecclēsiam tandem reversa, sōlis occāsū propinquante, memineram comitem Leōniparmam mē cēnātum invītāsse. Immūtāvī iterum vestīmenta, ut aliquantulō lautior pulchriorque vidērer quam sōlitāria monacha, quae nūper hominem sepulcrō condidissem.

Sēmitā, quae per silvam dūcēbat ad castellum pulchrum, ōrnātum, omnium norvēgicōrum veterrimum, ambulābam lentē, nam, etsī iterum omnis oppidulī via hominibus vacābat, nūllum in mē terrōris, nūllum superstitiōnis sēmen virēscēbat. Pietās, sī quod mōnstrum vērum, quod fingere hau poteram, in umbrīs latuisset, tam corpus quam spīritum prōtēxisset. Cadāveris vērō memoriam volvēns aliquid dubiī in animum penetrāvit; quō morbō mortuus esset, nesciēbam, neque nōveram, num pestis in oppidō saevītūra esset. ‘Prōh dolor,’ mēcum murmurāvī, ‘sī quae hūc mē persecūta est pestilentia, peream nōn sine lacrimīs, quum tandem cursum, quem Omnipotēns mihi parāverat, crēderim mē repperisse.’

Cōgitātiōnēs vērō istās in animī adytum remōvī religāvīque, nē hospes dēfatīgārem Dominam tam ērudītam et probātō locō nātam. Ubi tandem ad castellī līmen pervēneram, jānitōrem nōn adesse adepta, eam ter lēniter pulsāvī, nē rudis vidērer, nēve adeō silenter pulsandō strepitum ingōrāret quisquis forīs custōdiēbat.

Nec mora, custōs probē armātus, omnīnō ferrō tēctus, jānuam aperuit, quī, quum grātiās agerem profundissimās, tamen nūllam vōculam, nē minimam quidem, ex ōre respondēns ēmittī patiēbātur. Enimvērō, modo intrō recēdēns, digitīs ferreīs mōnstrāvit, ut sequerer, quod, jam pavēscēns, nōn temerāria faciēbam.

In castellī ātriō lucernae incēnsae erant et pulcherrima candēlābra aurea nitentia dēmōnstrābantur. Quōcunque dīrigēbam aciem, aut in aulaeīs magnificentissimīs, aut statuīs saxeīs, aut imāginibus veteribus ingentibusque incidit. Mīrābar, quia nūlla ante castra intrāveram tam lauta. Sequēbar mūtum custōdem per aliquot andrōnēs, modo ad dextram, modo ad laevam, modo sūrsum, quoad pervēnerimus ad apertum ōstium, per quod lūcēbat parva lūx. Mōnstrāvit mihi custōs manibus suptīliter gestiēns, ut intrārem.

Quum ad līmen stābam, quam lēnissimē poteram ōstium totidem vicibus, quot paullō ante, pulsāvī, ōstiumque pulsātum amplius aperiēbātur. Introiēns aspiciēbam tot artificia aurea, argentea, aēnea, ut paene stupērem. In sellā apud mēnsam, apud quam, crēdō, duodēvīgintī hominēs ūnā comedere possent, fēmina sedēbat pulcherrima, ātrā stolā indūta, quasi prō fūnere vestīta. Bibēbat ex pōculō aureō. Post eam magnae fenestrae vēlātae ōrnābant mūrum saxeum ātrumque.

‘Salva sit,’ inquit suāviter, ‘tua beātitūdō. Dubitāre occēpī tē mē conventūram.’

‘Quid,’ inquiī, adeō stupefacta, ut oblīvīscerer salūtem impertīre, ‘tēcum, speculum omnis hūmānitātis fōrmōsitātisque, convenīre praetermitterem?’ Dulce rīdentem intuēbar pōculum bibāciter haurientem.

‘Amābō tē,’ inquit, ‘ut mēcum sedeās, bibās, atque edās. Vērum enimvērō dēlectābis mē loquāx magis quam mūta.’ In mē aciēs dīrēxit perfīxitque nervōs et carnem; cor perfrīxit.

Cōnābar ēloquī quam minimē blaesa, sed frūstrā: ‘F-faciam,’ inquiī, ‘ut im-imperās!’ Vae mihi, cōgitābam; clāmāvī, neque clāmor eam fefellit. Auscultābam enim eam magnā vōce rīdentem.

‘Nē timida,’ inquit, ‘estō, opsecrō. Hūc accēde et hīc,’ dexterā sellam apud sē mōnstrāns inquit, ‘cōnsīde.’

Accessī et cōnsēdī, ubi volēbat. Rīsit apertō ōre, canīnīs dentibus extrā ōrdinem grandibus candidīs patentibus. Prīmō dē dentibus rogāre volueram, sed, quum brevī cōgitāveram, nōn mē fallēbat illud rogāre minus cōme vidērī. Cēnam expectābam.

‘Cēnāturīs,’ inquit, ‘certē; tibi prōferētur optima et lautissima cēna!’

‘Benigne,’ inquiī, ‘dīcis,’ ast haud ōs aperuī antequam plūrēs ferreī custōdēs mūtī ingrederentur variōs cibōs portantēs. In mēnsā epulam positam ēsse coepī. Āh, quam venusta cēna! Piscātū, aucupiō, vēnatiōne vēscēbar; dēgustāvī aprum assum, jūs piscīnum, carōtās ēlixās, nucēs mellītās. Comes Leōniparma vīnum ātrum in pōculum meum fūdit ē paterā largā. Scīlicet apstēmia eram, ut plānē appāret ex victū, sed, quae tam cōmiter, ‘Mēcum,’ inquerat, ‘combibe, amābō, et amīcissimae fīāmus,’ negārī nōn poterat. Propīnāvimus prō aeternā amīcitiā et prō ērudītiōnis studiō. Vīnum nunquam gustāveram, sed gustātum statim adepta sum mihi nōn placēre; paene respuī prīmum haustum, sed, tam venerābilī muliere teste, nōn tantum opprobrium ferre poteram. Viscidius in ōre et in pōculō vidēbātur quam tēmētum, quod alibī vīderam fundī, ferreumque velut sanguinem redolēbat. Plūriēns hauriēbam, nē mihi displicuisse suspicārētur.

Jam satis dē cēnā, dē colloquiō plūra. Percontābātur saepe et vēmenter dē vītā meā: ubi nāta essem, cuj respondī ‘Bergīs;’ num multās illīc amīcās habērem, cuj respondī mē tē sōlam, Agatha cārissima, in amīcārum numerō Bergīs habēre; quid igitur, rogāvit, mē ad victum religiōsum trāxisset, nisi amīcitia, cuj respondī pietātem et studium chrīstiānārum litterārum mē ad monastēriālem vītam attrāxisse.

Ultimīs verbīs dictīs rīsit et, ‘Quid istā fidē opus est, ut studeās litterīs? Quae chrīstiāna pietās?’ Ego quidem stupefacta, ōre apertō, nihil respondī. Perrēxit, ‘Neque mē puellam,’ inquiēns, ‘litterīs studēre parentibus placuit, sed scientia vidēlicet vetārī nōn potest.’

Ut ā fidē et parentibus, quōrum urtumque vidēbātur molestāre, sermōnem dūcerem, ‘Ubi litterīs et doctrīnā ērudīta es?’ rogāvī.

Cuj illa, ‘Plērumque,’ inquit, ‘ego in Italiā; Mediolānī, Rōmae, Genuae; aliās in Germāniā; Hamburgī, Vindobonae; aliās Lutetiae ērudīrī, aliās etiam ad orientem fugere, ut ērudītōs magistrōs et illūstrīs quaererem, exemplī causā in Dāciā et Cōnstantīnopolī necnōn,’ inquit, ‘apud sarracēnōs —’ Ingemueram sed continuō mē continēre poteram et reticēre. Perrēxit, quasi nōn audīverat, sed surrīdente eā plānum erat mē lūdī. ‘—apud eōs enim,’ inquit, ‘studuī alchēmiae.’

Paullīsper conticuit mē intuēns. Jam perterrita virīliter metum oppugnāvī, nē lacrimāns clāmitānsque tergum darem.

‘Nisi alchēmiae,’ inquit, ‘disciplīnae studiōsissima fuissem, nunquam tam dīves facta essem, utī castellum ē ligneō et cineribus in lapideum verterem atque aurō, argentō ōrnārem.’

‘Āh,’ inquiī, aliquod mendum suspicāns, ‘lēgī equidem in annālibus nōn minimā fidē dignīs castellum ex lignīs factum flammīs cōnsūmptum esse rēge Sigurdō Magnī fīliō nūper ēmortuō. Mēcum Nīdrōsiam mox iter faciās, ut annālīs ēmendēmus.’ Frūstrā cōnāta sum ej item ac mihimet ipsī id mendum fuisse suādēre.

‘Immō,’ inquit, ‘hīc retinēbimur ambae, nisi molestum erit. Neque enim annālēs prāvē īnscrīptī sunt.’ Clārā vōce rīsit. Pōculum — nesciō — fortasse quārtum vīnī exausī.

Ita plūra dē alchēmiā loquēbatur, mē tacente et, quōnam modō effugerem, volvente ‘Necromantiae,’ inquit, ‘quoque operam dō; num nescīs, quid sit?’ Nōn sat temporis datum erat, ut respondērem. ‘Invocō daemonēs,’ inquit mē omniaque sacra irrīdēns, ‘utī meā causā labōrent. Ecce,’ inquit ē sellā surgēns, ad alteram conclāvis partem trānsiēns, cistam, quae quasi ex tenebrīs subitō extāre vidēbātur, aperiēns, nescioquid ex eā tollēns, ‘hōc gladiō ūtor ad experimenta.’ Dēmōnstrāvit gladium capulō aureō cum gemmulīs exōrnātum, quī splendēbat et reflectit candēlābrōrum lūcem. Sciēbam mihi illō gladiō opus esse, ut mūtōs custōdēs oppugnārem, sī illinc vīva fugere cōnātūra eram. Reposuit gladium in cistā, neque tamen eam operuit.

Sī modo abierit, cōgitābam, gladium tollam, eamque vincam, castraque cūrābō combūrenda cūncta. Precārī, etiam dēspērāns, coepī, ut Deus Omnipotēns angelum mitteret mē servātum et ex lupae lupānāre ēreptum.

Subitō, post mē precantem, strepitus vitrī dīlapsī assonāvit, lapidemque aspexī in jūs piscīnum jactātum lābī. Audīre poteram vōcēs hominum clāmitantēs multum ac precantēs. ‘Per Deum,’ quīdam inquit, ‘ōrō, ut, illam sī servārimus, vōbis aurī plēnam cistulam trādet. Dīvitēs enim scīre licet illī urbānī.’ Vōx erat clāra Isaacī, quā audītā admodum gaudēbam, quamvīs vultū ēlātiōnem dissimulārem.

Comes vērō Leōniparma, quum iterum in eam aciēs dīrigēbam, perīrāta vidēbātur et cito ex cubiculō fūgit. Quā fugiente vīsā, nēdum frēta, ad arma properāvī. Invēnī gladium in cistā apertā cum multīs nummīs antīquīs et ē variīs gentibus ortīs, pōculōque argenteō. Gladium cēpī tam gravem, ut duārum manuum potentiā opus esset, quā sustinērētur. Ōciter ad fenestrās cōnfūgī, sed vidēns nūllō mē pactō incolumem dēlābī posse, in andrōnem sequēbar Comitem. Cucurrī per andrōnem rēctā viā, ut putābam, quā custōdem ante secūta eram, sed, vīnō per vēnās fluente, difficile erat meminisse. Semper, sī poteram, deōrsum tendēbam.

Tandem pervēnī in ātrium, quod nunc omnīnō tenebricōsum erat et vacuum, statuā armātā ūnā exceptā, quam vix cernere poteram. Forēs clausae adhūc erant, sed strepitus mortālium turbae forīs pulsantium ac clāmantium clārē sonābat. Cursus ante statuam datus erat meus; nihil cōgitante igitur ad eam properāvī, sed continuō, ad mē appropinquantem versa, mucrōnem ē vāgīnā in balteō sitā sūmptum hūc illūc agitābat. Ego contrā cōnstābam et fortiter pugnābam, eamque omnibus vīribus in capite percussī, sed — mīrābile dictū — praeter strepitum magnum, nihilī mōmentī vidēbātur tanta percussiō. Dēnuō percussī, et magnam spem adepta vidēbar, ubi mucrōnem ex statuae animātae gladiī concussū exēgeram, at fallēbar; statua subitā vī, velutī īrāta, mē manibus captābat, mēque faucibus tenēbat etiam virīliter oppugnantem. Quum spīrāre nequīrem, vīrēs dēficiēbant. Forēs magnō cum magnitūdinis labōre impingēbantur, dum saxeō mōnstrō exanimābar.

Aliquot diēs post in lectulō Nīdrōsiae experrēcta sum, nesciēns, ubi essem, quōve Mārte pugnātum fuerit. Sorōrēs autem mihi omnia narrāvēre: mē domum vectam esse ā virō surrūsticī ingeniī, Isaacō; eumque esse fātum mē aegrōtāre; monuisse, nē rūrsus oppidulum temptārēmus; brevī post cum parvā pecūniā regressum. Ō illūstrissimum virum! Dominī vērum famulum! Vīderat, putō, mē ad castellum mōnstrificum tendentem! Comperī posteā ex sorōribus castellum Pontīs vetustum combūstum esse, in eōque habitāsse horribilem maleficam, cujus tamen nūllum ūsquam gentium vestīgium inventum sit.

Nudius decimus in lectulō suscitāta sum, at mīra quaedam memorātū digna tibi tribus verbīs narrābō, nē prōductō nimium diū sermōne fatīgēris: mē semper mārcēre, praecipuē post sōlem ortum; sorōrēs mihi suādēre cōnārī, utī sōlis intempestīvō ārdōre gaudeam, quippe quae nimis saepe nunc in umbrātilibus latebrīs cōnsīdam; terrōribus nocturnīs somnia complērī; faucēs mihi semper dolēre, in īsque duo cruenta forāmina facta; neque ēscam neque pōtiōnem dēlectāre ut soluerant; herī mē speculum īnspexisse, neque quicquam intuērī potuisse, praeterquam quae post mē latēbant; nec praetermittam mē prīmō horrēscentem noctū, jam etiam interdiū, nunc adūlantem vīsere eam, quam in castellō leōniparmēnsī incendiō perīsse crēdidī.

Mē vocat interdicta scientia, quam illa sōla poterit ostendere. Proximā nocte in ejus amplectum ultimum fugiam, utī moriar, nē moriar, sed in aevum redivīva studiīs mē dēdam aeternīs et nigrīs, animā oculīs diabolicīs nitentibus subāctā. Quārē ad tē hās scrīpsī litterās, quaerēns, ut nostrae turbae nōmen dēs; sīve velīs, sīve nēvīs, adjungēris et sanguine et daemonibus et mortālium lūctū laetāberis. Litterīs pellēctīs sciō tē in nostram sententiam pedibus itūram, soror quondam in Fidē – futūra in morte. Ōlim nostrā manū subigētur genus hūmānum et prō falsō deō, quem colunt vīvī, imāginem adōrandam extruēmus Īnfandī, cujus mentiōne factā etiam fortissimī pavēscunt et cōnstantissimī tābēscunt! Euhoe! Euhoe! EVHOE!

#latin language #lingua latina #longissima fabula #mitis esto amabo

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chouxsardine · 3 months

Text

Amabo Te---Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: When jealousy and insecurity get the best of you, when he wants to teach you a lesson. Will you give him a chance?

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 5002

Warnings: 18+! Minors DNI, established BDSM relationship, dom!jake/sub!reader, brat! reader, the infamous Jake snap, caning, alcohol, language, jealousy, insecurity, self-esteem issue, self-deprecation, unprotected p in v sex, crying, a mix of soft and mean Jake (?), nerdy Latin sh*t,

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort (with fluffy ending?)

Author's note: Sorry for the wait! inspired by this idea from @hearts-hunger. I've been wanting to write about this since the first day I've seen it, so I kind of took the idea and run with it. It turns out a lot softer than I expected (oops). A new attempt for me to toy around with power dynamics. Every single one of you is deserving of love. I love you a lot. Enjoy!

🎧: How Many More Times by Led Zeppelin; Sorceress by Jess Williamson; When Anger Turns to Honey by Chelsea Wolfe; Hey Now (When I Give You All My Lovin')" by Romare

You know damn well what you’re doing. The thumping of the drum aligns with your heartbeat, melting into your veins along with the few martinis that you’ve downed consecutively. The air is a mix of ostentatious colognes, sweat, and smoke that wafts off dancing and heaving bodies. The floors feel sticky under your feet, and the label of the dress you are wearing has irritated you all night. You can feel it digging into your sides, the two almost invisible row of plastic nubs cutting into your skin with each exhale and rubbing against it with every movement. Isn’t it amazing that such a trivial and hidden matters can make such a fuss? You know damn well what you’re going to do—bratting to get Jake’s attention—but you don’t know why you’re doing it. At this point, the anxiety and the alcohol in your system have managed to form itself into a vicious ouroboros, and you can’t tell which one is the cause.

Have you and Jake been spending less time together recently because he was busy? Yes. Have you been honest when Jake asked if you want to go to this party with him? No. You have also had a rough week, and you just want to cuddle with him on the sofa, watching some silly rom com while languidly poking at a bowl of Mac and cheese with generous amount ketchup squirted on top. However, you are afraid to say no because you don’t want him to think that you are a spoiled and needy brat. Welp, you guess this is where lying about your feelings leads to: uncomfortably standing in a night club, being a brat in another way. In the back of your mind, you know that if you’d only be honest and tell the truth, Jake will get you out of here in a heartbeat with no judgement. But the alcohol is messing with you, and it doesn’t help that a girl has been hitting on Jake this whole time.

She was also wearing a tight minidress—a searing red one with spaghetti strap, hugging her body in all the right places while also showing it off just enough skin to leave space for imagination—one that makes the one on your body eclipse. She puts her elbows on the bar counter while leaning purposefully so that all it takes is one careless movement while reaching for one’s drink to touch her breasts. Jake wasn’t paying attention to her, or at least not now, not yet. You feel jealousy shoot up your veins. Having left Jake’s side when he met an old acquittance and their conversation was getting too long , then being blocked by the crowd rushing into the dance floor when you plan to stride back, you are now standing on the other side of the room, anxiously tapping your feet, waiting for the hideous song to end.

You take another sip of your drink, and as you raised your eyelids, you saw the girl getting off the bar stool. She should’ve known better than standing up holding a full shot glass in her hands or perhaps she shouldn’t have done that silly little hop trying to impress. Of course, her heels got hung on the footrest a second too long, and she fell forward, throwing herself on Jake. He caught her, his hand on her shoulder to restore her balance. His action was neat and brief, his complexion barely changes. It is clear as day a spontaneous and innocent response, but for you, that’s the last straw.

You didn’t even care continue watching for their further exchange—or whether there was one. You down your drink and slam the empty glass on the counter a bit too harsh before stepping onto the dance floor. You make eye contact with the nearest guy. “Would you like to dance?” The music is loud and it is dark. You lean in closer and ask again when he doesn’t hear you.

Now you are sure that Jake has seen it. When he catches your eyes, a pang of guilt and shame zips through you, you feel like a child being caught red-handedly cheating on a test. You know what you are doing is wrong and petty, you are doing it to get his attention. But in the heat of the moment, with your emotions tangled up, jealousy gets the best of you. You try to look away, and that’s when you see the snap.

It is something that he has conditioned into you. Whenever you’re acting up in public, Jake’s snap is his warning to you. And when it’s quiet around, it’s a gentle but firm squeeze a little above your knee under the table. You got three strikes, but you usually get back in hand just with his warning glance or him simply raising his hands a little.

Jake was leaning back against the bar, his elbow resting on the counter. It is a quick snap between his fingers with a flick of his wrist. There was no way that you would hear it above the music, but in your brain, it rolls loud like thunder.

Out of the reflexive response, your body acts before your mind catches up. You freeze for a second, and you feel a phantom touch like a subtle current rolling over the area above your knee. You try your best to feign your indifference, peeling your glance away. He started it, you lie to yourself.

As the song comes to an end, the guy you were dancing with asks to buy you a drink. You accept and follow him to the bar. Before you even sot down, you feel Jake coming over and standing behind you. His hand is on your waist. A gentle squeeze. Subtle but possessive.

“Hey, what—” The poor guy is confused.

“Would you please excuse us?” Jake’s voice is calm and smooth. You don’t have to turn back to know that he is smiling politely. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The man cocks his eyebrows. You don’t dare to read his expression. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heels and let Jake lead you out of the bar. Jake isn’t even gripping hard on you, but by now, every nerve in your body has learned to be attentive and obedient to his touch. It is only when the cold air outside hits you that you try to break away from him.

You knew you have gone to the point of no return. You have achieved nothing with your childish act, and to continue a tantrum is your only way to save face.

“Let—”

“Shut it,” Jake cuts you off, rage boiling behind those two words.

“I’ve got three strikes! That was only one!” You retort.

Jake narrows his eyes. “Then consider this your strike two.”

“Fuck you!” You blurt out, instantly regretting as the words left you lips. You see a moment of confusion and incredulous flash through Jake’s eyes before anger takes over. He lets out a dry laugh. You shiver.

“That’s it.” Jake releases your hand, taking off his jacket, flings it over your shoulder with a push at the small of your back. He walks the two of you to where the car was parked. He still opens the door for you and puts his hand up to protect you from hitting your head before circling to his side.

In the few seconds of silence between your side of the car door closing and his side of the car door opening, you sag like a bounce house with a puncture, all the furiousness has left your body, replaced by the bone-deep regret and exhaustion. You want to go back to a few hours ago, where you would say, “I don’t feel like going out tonight. Can we stay in and watch a movie?”, where you would say, “I don’t want to be here anymore. Can we go home?”, where you would straight up look into his eyes and tell him, “I miss you so much, I just want to spend time with you, alone.”

The broody silence stretches through the whole way home. You almost hop he would just leave you in the car. You feel ashamed when he yanks your side of the door open with his hand up on the frame.

Once you are in the house, Jake walks directly to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of whiskey and pouring himself a glass. He stands in front of the French window, his thumb hooked in his belt, the left side of his jacket riding up.

There is no sign of the rage you expected. You are still wearing his jacket, your fingers curled up in the leather. The shame that was burning inside you clashes with the icy feeling down your spine.

You expect him to push you against the wall, or spit out “strip”, or at least a “go upstairs”. You know that you will drop down on your knees the second the first syllable of any those words parts his lips. Or something through his eyes, a silent scowl, a stern look. Even when Jake is silent, his eyes always convey something—-or at least you can always read something from them.

But he is not even looking at you now.

Please don’t ignore me.

“The silent treatment now, really?” It can’t be any clearer that you are fighting a lost battle. Your voice bounces off the silence and stabs you like a boomerang.

Jake finally turns around. He lowers his head and smirks. The next words he says make you icy cold. It’s like you are standing on a frozen lake and have misjudged the thickness of the ice beneath you feet; with a misstep, it cracks, and you fall into the piercing cold water.

“Do you think you deserve ‘treatment’,” he accentuates the word, “of any kind, my dear?”

The nickname is stripped off all its concomitant affection, only adding to the insult with biting irony. You’d rather he didn’t use it at all. The tears threaten to spill. You clench your fist.

“That’s your way of talking, huh?” Jake paces towards you, each step slow and steady like a confident predator cornering his prey, “some yaps and some whines, but my little brat just loves running her mouth.”

Brat. That word punches you like a left hook. A brat. That’s exactly what you have been tonight.

You know for sure you are finally going to submit, and once you reached that stage, it’s going to be pure bliss; it will be the closest you’ll ever felt to him. And that’s all you want, to be close to him. Sure, a beeline from point A to point B is straight and clear, but where’s the fun in that? Being a brat feels like an elongated foreplay. Just as you are ashamed of the amount of swearwords and moans you let out when being edged, you can’t deny that you love it. Love it so much that you are doing it to yourself. You wanted it so much, but you refuse to accept it without some struggle. You feel unworthy when things land on your lap easily. The emotions you will experience after winning the lottery probably would be fear and suspicion, as you contemplate “now that I’m hit on the head with pennies from heaven, what will I lose in exchange? You are plagued by the fairy tale in which the king is ravished with joy when he finds a precious jewel but then proceeds to lose his beloved once as the backfire. After all, life never gives anything for nothing, a price is always exacted for what fate bestows.* You believe the same goes for love. Jake came into your life so suddenly, sweeping in like a whirlwind, with such velocity and intensity that you are afraid one day he will exit like one, leaving your heart in the ruins. You have to earn his love, you will be his good girl.

“Have I been ignoring my princess? Attention, is that what you want? Jealousy, is that what got into you tonight, um?” His finger grips your chin.

You both love and detest how Jake has always been able to strip you bare with such ease, your body and your desire. To see through the “yes” behind the “no” when your pride and stubbornness get the best of you, and the “no” behind the “yes” when you overexert yourself and try to please while ignoring your limits. It does takes quite some effort to reach this almost telepathic stage, a bumpy trail full of frustration and trial and errors, but it’s worth the effort. When the voice inside your head gets loud and your body is aching with unsoothable desire, the wrong punishment will immediately send you crying in a non sexy way.

You have no choice but to look into his eyes. One simple stare from him dissects your thought like a scalpel. With one clean, cold cut, he slices you open. Exposed, vulnerable.

You are already playing a dangerous game, walking the tight rope, teetering on the edge. Now, you are pulled off balance by his eyes drilling into you, demanding complete honesty and obedience.

“Please.” You mumble, lowering your eyes.

“Please, what?” He tilts your chin right up.

Your voice is meek, barely audible, but legible enough for Jake. “Please punish me, Sir.”

He lets go of you. Immediately you miss his touch.

“Upstairs. You know what to do.”

You are on autopilot as you remove your clothing, leaving them in a pile on the floor and nudging them into the closet with your feet. Out of sight. The sequins on your dress shine like a flamboyant humiliation.

It can’t be more than five minutes until Jake comes into the room, but every single second feels like purgatory to you. You let out a long sigh of relief as you heard his footsteps. You hear him shuffle behind you, and then the sound of him rummaging through the drawer, collecting the things he needs. Finally, you see his feet in your lowered sight as he steps in front of you. You keep your head down, knowing better than looking up to see what he has in his hands. But you can’t escape the shadow that was projected onto the floor. Something long and thin.

“Please don’t tie me up.” You blurt out before immediately biting down on your lip.

“I’m afraid you’re not in the position to bargain, dear, ” He’s right. “This is a punishment; it’s not supposed to be what you want. You take. Is that understood?” His voice looms over your bare skin, giving you goosebumps.

“Yes, Sir.”

Then something hard touches your thigh. You look down and see the end of a cane. The cane. A blessing and a curse. It isn’t very often that Jake uses a cane on you. To you, it hurts more than a paddle but turns you on more as well. The cane draws a wiggly line down your legs, stopping at that area above your knee with three taps. Your kneeling frame perches up in response, your body instantly connecting the touch with Jake’s warning squeeze.

Then, a clear and crisp snap break through the quiet room. Your head shots up spontaneously and you crash into Jake’s eyes. His dominance is dialed up to the fullest from this angle. His long eyelashes cast shadows under the eyes, deepening his brown pupils. His lips are lightly parted, his eyebrows relaxed. He looks appreciative, like admiring an art piece of his own creation.

“Ah, so you do remember.” He makes a statement, but it sounds like a reprimand in your ears.

“I…”

“You will have plenty of chance to speak tonight, but not now.” Honestly, you are secretly glad that he stops you because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The apology lodges and throbs in your throat.

“We put a lot of time and effort into our warnings. It doesn’t come easy, I think you know that,” Jake continues, “you chose, deliberately, to ignore and violate them tonight. So I’m sure you have good reasons to do so.”

The cane nudges the inner side of your thigh, signalling you to stand up. And then a goad with the tip on the back of your sacrum, making you topple forward, with your hands gripping on the end of the mattress.

The whoosh sound of the cane as it comes down startles you even more than the stinging, closely followed by Jake’s gruff demand: “Enlighten me. Why?”

The delayed pain is now blooming over your skin. Why? All the previous shame resurfaces, forcing you to recall every detail. You drag your teeth over your bottom lip.

The next hit comes down harder, moving up slightly from where the last one lands.

Still silence. You close your eyes tightly, tears burning behind your eyelids. You want nothing more than being honest with Jake, but somehow you just can’t squeeze the words out of you. Thinking back now, it is so not worthy to act up something so trivial. Everything would have been fine if you just be honest right from the start, if you communicate your feelings directly. But why can’t you?

Whack.

The next one hits an inch to the left. The cane is worse because it gathers the sensations. If the paddle feels like putting your hands into a basin of hot water, the cane feels like splashes of hot oil. Obviously, you are still an independent grown-up with full control of your body autonomy, but at the moment, you so desperately need to transfer that control. Even if it’s temporary, so that your brain would stop lying to you. And Jake is demanding exactly that.

Why? Why can’t you be honest with him? Time has proved that this man has been nothing but respectful, understanding, and non-judgemental. What are you afraid of? What more can you ask for?

Whack.

“What’s your color?”

“G..green, Sir.”

You press your lips together hard. An involuntary tear escaping from the corner of your eyes. Your brain is determined to play a tug of war with the help of your stubbornness, but your body revolts. The pain is numbing your volition.

Whack.

Now that you’ve known each strike is calculated. Jake never hits the same place. They are always placed from each other with some space so that the pain spreads and connects like drops of paint on paper, spreading into a watercolour in different shades of pink. Your muscle contract. You are absurdly wet; it feels almost purely physiological, even though you know the agony is only a calling. Deep down there’s the yearning— craving to be touched, to be soothed and caressed. But are you worth it?

Whack.

“I am an ungrateful, attention-seeking brat.” You cry, your forehead dropping down on your laced fingers.

Jake is grateful that you can’t see his expression. And maybe that’s a good thing for you too. Because if you see the heartache in his eyes, your pretense of strength will fall apart in an instant. It rips his heart to hear you degrading yourself. It tortures him when you can’t see how worthy, beautiful, and precious you are the way he does. It hurts him to know that he fails to earn your trust, to earn your complete honesty. He knows your body; he has learned your threshold of pain and pleasure, and has the skill of a pharmacist when it comes to mixing the two to give you euphoria. However, he is an unarmed man facing the voices inside your head, he is clueless standing in front of the thorny-hedged gate of your heart. And it confounds him too when sometimes hurting you is the only way he can show you love. If you would only let me, princess, if you would only let me love you.

This time, there is only a gentle tap on the fleshiest part of your butt.

“Nice try. That’s not the answer I asked for.” It takes everything in Jake to maintain his domineering facade. Bullshit. You’re a loving, gentle, poetic, sensible soul that just happens to be too good at feeding yourself deprecative lies.

By now, all the fight left in you is a poorly-crafted sandcastle swilled over and over by waves of pain. The good pain. Cathartic. Liberating. Hypnotizing, almost. They converge into the mysterious song of the siren, whispering in your ear: “Stop fighting. Give it up to me.”

The voice sounds warm, assuring, familiar: “Let me in.”

That busts you right open.

“I know there was nothing, I only did it to get your attention.” Once the hardest part was out, you find yourself unable to stop. The box-ed up feelings cascade out of you. “I..I don’t want to be there! I d-didn’t tell you because…I don’t want to look n-needy. You’re too good for me. You’re one of countless good things that have happened to me, w-what if you leave?”

Ugly sobs ripple through your body. Your legs threatening to give out as you shake your head in guilt. Tears burn you blotched skin and gone cold way too quickly, leaving damp trails on your cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Jake. I’m sorry.”

Between your whimper, you hear another swoosh of the cane coming down. You tense up subconsciously. There is the sound of the cane hitting flesh, but the anticipated pain never came. Before you could think further, your were pulled up and sat in Jake’s lap. His woodsy musk envelops you as he tucks your head under his chin. Pangs of guilt shoot through your body, hurting way worse than your behind. Slowly but surely, Jake’s warm and strong hands find the nape of your neck, pulling you towards his chest where you bury your face, your shoulder shudders, and you cry. Jake's heart contracts painfully along with each of your sob. He closes his eyes tightly.

“You silly, silly little fool.” He sighs, rocking you back and forth, “it would be so much easier if you just say so from the start. But my little kitten just won’t go down without a fight, will she?” His finger combs through your sweaty strands.

“Is that how you love, little flame?” Jake murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple, “always so fierce, so effusive, like a supernova?”

You keen on that word. You think you’ve never loved a a nickname more. Jake’s steady heartbeat against your chest grounds you and slowly restores all your senses like books being put back onto the shelf after being swept down to the floor in a storm. Slot by slot, mise en place.

Feeling that you’ve calmed down, Jake takes your face in his hands. “Let me show you.” He leaves kisses all over your face, pausing between each one to speak.

“This. Is. How. I. Love.”

He touches his forehead to yours. It is impossible to look away, impossible to feel anything else other than him.

“Allow me to love you.”

The sentence is like a curse, one that undid some wicked spell, one that wilts all the thorns on your heart, one that undid you completely.

Your eyes flutter shut as you feel the butterfly in your stomach. You know it was triggered by the long-caged bird in your heart flexing its wings. Soar. Soar head-on into love. Take the fearless flight and never regret thy fall.

The slightly weird sensation on the left side of your face makes something click in your brain. You hurriedly pull Jake’s hand down and see a swollen mark welt across his left palm.*

That’s where the last hit lands. He takes it for you.

“See? equal.” He holds up his palm.

“Jake…” Your lips quiver. You hold his hand in yours, desperately kissing it. Jake hardly seem to mind at all, using his other hand to wipe away your tears. His eyes infinitely gentle.

“Do not feel guilty, that’s not my point. I am sorry for not letting you trust me enough. I love you, it is my fault to not make it known to you it all the while.* We’re even now, clean slate. Only trust from now on, okay?”

Nothing reassures you more than a clean slate; that means you are not completely fucked up, that means you still have the opportunity to redeem yourself, to do better, and this time you know that you have a better chance because you are not doing it alone, you have Jake by your side, and he has managed to make you believe that he will always be by your side.

You press your lips against his. His tongue dips into your mouth. You roll your hips on his thighs. The need rekindles inside you.

“Tell me what you want, princess. Anything for you.”

“I want you. Jake. Please make love to me.”

With that, he lifts you up and flips you over. You land on the bed, letting out a chuckle as you watch him get rid of his shirt and pants. Your limbs go warm when his body covers yours. The pendant of his necklace drags down your sternum and dipping into your navel as his kisses your breasts. His mouth finds your nipple, his tongue circling around your areola, feeling it grow harder and perk up even more. You let out a squeal, arching your back, your clit meeting his pelvis for a futile relief. You feel him, hard and determined, flush against your entrance. Your muscles tense up, clenching around the emptiness. The silky desire flows down through your veins, gathering downward.

You lie open like a book, allowing his velvet tongue to explore every letter and punctuation. You are completely at his disposal. Jake’s movements are slow and skilled, tentalizing and hypnotic

“Please.”

“Please, what?” He repeats the question with a cheeky grin.

“Please, fuck me already.” The verb sounds so vulgar, yet you’ve never said it with so much love and tenderness. Fuck. You love the plosive in the end. Explosive, fervent, triumphant.

“Please,” Jake mused. His hand snakes between your bodies, his finger plunging into your wetness.

“Do you know,” his fingers curls and scraps, collecting your slickness and stroking them up and down your labia, “how do they say ‘please’ in classical Latin?”

“Poetic nerd.” You quipped, followed by a vindictive press of his finger against your tissue that makes you mewl.

“Amabo te.” He whispers as he holds his cock in his hand, his tip tapping on your entrance along with each syllable, each of them dripping onto your skin like honey. Knock, knock.

“Amabo te.” You mindlessly repeat after him. The sound is magical and mesmerizing, rumbling off your tongue with such gracefulness.

“And it just happens to also literally mean,” he pushes his hip forward, making every inch pronounced. The double suspense makes your breath hitch.

“I will love you.”

He bottoms out in one long, silky thrust. Every sensory system in your body fires up. Air is whipped out of your lungs and restored by his kiss. Your hands map his back, hugging him tighter, nailing him into you even deeper. Jake only pulls back slightly before pumping right back, cherishing the silky heat of yours as if there’s no tomorrow. His sharp pants fall all over your neck and your collarbone. The pleasure is building up at a scary pace.

Jake’s face is so close to yours, you see yourself in his eyes, fused with nothing but bliss and desire that danced through his blown-out pupils. At this moment, you are love. The realization sends a tremor through you. For the first time tonight, your body and brain and in sync. No more fighting.

“Can feel you, love,” Jake grunts, the vein visible on his sweat-coated forehead. You buck up your hips, spurring him on.

“Take me with you.”

For a few heartbeats, the world went silent. Never has an orgasm felt so good. Zings of fire sparkles and spreads. Your mouth hangs open; the pleasure robbed your voice, pinning you down as a time stamp. You are preserved in the moment like a butterfly specimen. It makes you want to exist like that forever.

Your leg jerks, urging him to stay as he rolls off you. In your peripheral vision, you saw you were still holding hands, his fingers laced and lodged with yours like a promise.

Jake’s lips graze your ears, a strand of his curls falls across your lips. His voice is raspy and low, with an easily detected tenderness. “Did I do it? Will you let me love you?”

You know it takes a lot of energy out of him as well. And now, a faint trance of postpositive guilt and the languid afterglow mixed with the subspace are catching up with you. Every inch of you is uncurled and loosened, but in the back of your mind still remains some sanity the size of a laundry basket where you have a heart to be strong, be strong for him; he takes such good care of you. You pull Jake’s welted palm against your bare chest, close to your heart. You squeeze his hand, followed with three gentle pats on its back. Just like the way he tells you that you are safe and he’s not leaving when you are blindfolded and tied up.

You know you will talk more about it in the morning over plates of French toast or blueberry pancakes, but for now, everything is good…..and that conversation doesn’t sound scary to you at all. You know that the man lying next to you will dote on you with nothing but pure love and acceptance. And that doesn’t sound half bad at all.

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*1: adapted from Stefan Zweig, Marie Antoinette: The Portrait of an Average Woman

*2: inspired by Three-Line Whip: A First Time Maledom BDSM Novella by James Hardcourt

*3: adapted from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

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Yay! you made it! Thank you SO MUCH for reading :))

any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated.

my other works: Permission to Fall || Mariner's Complex || Ticked (all my boxes) || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones || Coming back to me || Warm Honey || He Would || Hold Me (1) (2) || blurb: Chin Tattoo, Ribbon Bow 🎀, post-show

#greta van fleet #gvf fanfiction #jake kiszka smut #jake kiskza x reader #greta van fleet smut #jake kiszka #gvf fic #gvf smut #jake kiszka fanfiction #jakedown

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