I'm CACKLING

Good golly Miss Polly 🥵

Eden found

Summary: In the shadow of a secluded New Mexican commune near Eddington, you, as journalist, seek answers from Vernon Jefferson Peak, a preacher shrouded in mystery at the wake of the Covid-19 pandemic. What begins as a quest to uncover his cult-like following spirals into an intoxicating world of biblical subversion, unbridled liberty, and a surreal journey through desire and control. As the line between observer and participant blurs, you are drawn deeper into a vortex of psychedelic rituals and forbidden ecstasy, orchestrated by Vernon’s commanding presence, in an attempt to find ultimate freedom in a worldly Eden.

Tags: MDNI, erotic surrealism (explicit), cult fiction, biblical allegory, psychedelic rituals, spiritual awakening, gothic sensuality, pandemic exploration, psychological entrapment, power dynamics, hedonistic utopia, journalistic descent.

Word count: 4.2k

Note: inspired by Aphex Twin's Windowlicker on repeat for hours, pictures by @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal

List of Austin inspired one shots

+++

You were scrolling through the Instagram page of a preacher from a small town called Eddington in the US, while your Amtrak train glided through the New Mexican landscape, through deserts and mountain ranges. As nearly every journalist, you too had been looking to cover the implications of the Covid-19 pandemic. With this profession you were exempt from several travel limitations, and your newest subject, a man called Vernon Jefferson Peak, had been more than willing to invite you out to his commune.

Stories reached you that he tried to have his little oasis protected against governmental restrictions. But why he was so adamant, what exactly he was trying to protect, that remained a mystery for you to uncover.

What you did not know as you cruised cross country, was that you would never use your return ticket back home.

Clad with a mouth mask, you listened to his sermons for hours at an end. Rants, they were better called. He spoke about his absolute distrust of governmental authority, about his desire for ultimate freedom, his refusal to wear any protection. He spoke about the guns he owned, the drugs he used, the sanctuary he created.

An intriguing man, scruffy shoulder length blond hair, deep dark eyes. With time, he seemed to become more ominous, as if emotion was eating into all his constraint. While he was an obscure, not well-known nearly 40-year-old preacher before Covid hit, his audience changed overnight. His teachings of complete autonomy appealed to many.

You, not doubting the good intentions of the government, were not appealed by that part of his message. But you were captivated by his delivery, his passion, his shroud of mystery. He was so easy to listen to, yet so difficult to grasp.

What made him like this? What was his background? How did he come of this vision? All questions you hoped to find. But none you would gain.

After a long travel, a driver brings you to his commune, and wishes you good luck, while giving you a knowing wink. It grabs your attention, but not too much, as your focus soon shifts to the place you have arrived at. A ranch it seems to be, built in traditional New-Mexican architecture, showing influences of many cultures coming together into a melting pot.

As you step through the front gate, smells of incense and marihuana plants hit your nose. Unapologetic.

You traverse the plain to the main building. The distances between the walls surrounding this part, the gate and where you are walking towards are so grand, they nearly distort your view. Halfway you stop to close your eyes and shake your head, as if you are trying to recalibrate yourself. Probably the expedition and lack of food have taken its toll. But this would soon be resolved, as Vernon had kindly promised you a place to stay and bread to eat for as long as you decided to observe him. You had offered him pay, but he said the lord would decide how you would repay.

It felt like ages before you arrived. As you stood under the steps you needed to take to climb up to the porch, it opened with a soft creak.

And there he stood, as you lifted your head to look upon him, the sun coming from behind him, as if he was wrapped in god's appraisal. Wearing white flowy trousers and a white linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up displaying his sun-tanned underarms graced with veins and tattoos, the strings left dangling showing his chest, giving a glimpse of more tattoos that covered his otherwise lily-white skin. Broad shoulders. He was fit, for a priest. His hair as wavy as you saw online. A man true to himself.

Yet, still an enigma.

“Come, my guest. Let me get you something to eat, so you can be refreshed.” Hearing these words caused a shiver to run down your back. His voice, softer than on social media, while still remarkably intense. It was the first time you heard his voice life, as he had refused to speak with you. He only sent text messages, at random times and long intervals apart. You did hope you would not be spending the coming three days and nights, before your return home, following with a man who only recited bible verses.

He walked down the stairs to grab the backpack from your back, as he extended his muscular arm into the space beyond the porch: “All for you to traverse. You will find rare and beautiful treasures in every corner.”

“Thank you, mr Jefferson Peak” you replied, thinking how you never knew a man of the lord could be so... so strangly appealing. There was something about him. Something that drew you to him.

“Please, call me father Veron.”

You followed him through his path of musk, orange and incense. Looking around you, in the cool and softly lit hallway, the rooms you passed held faint shadows of what appeared to be people wearing white dresses. He had told you before quite a few people lived here in freedom, under his protection. He did not wear a white dress, his lined trousers did a good task in hiding his curves, although you could not avoid seeing the sculpted round shape of his behind as he stepped up some stairs and the tattoos around the uncovered skin of his ankles.

He brought you to another courtyard, about 10 by 15 meters of sand with a bit of shrubbery, surrounded with white painted walls, holding white painted wooden doors and windows covered with white painted shutters.

“I will bring you to your room” looking over his shoulder, showing you a hint of a smile. For the first time, you felt there was life behind his dire eyes.

Reaching your room, he pushed the door open, waved his arm to emphasise the room and said: “refresh and find me.”

And that is what you did. You walked through the room, which was filled with the same smell as he had radiated. As if he had spent considerable time in this very place.

You splashed water in your face, trying to get the lightness out of your head. As journalist you had learned that in places like these, you needed to be on your a-game not to be swayed by sweet words and pressing gestures. Emptying your backpack into the closets, you found similar white robes as you saw earlier.

The water did not help. Whether it was the journey, the lack of food and water, or the penetrating smells, your brain was trying to escape your head. You tried googling to get some idea on how to quickly relief yourself from the pain, but your phone did not seem to have any reception here. A quick nap of 15 minutes might help you, you decided, together with a large sip of the carafe of water placed on the table. Your host did not give you any pressure to be somewhere on time, so he surely would be fine with this.

15 minutes turned into 3 hours, feeling like days, awakening in the dark. You had overslept. But, your head no longer felt like exploding. Light yes, but no longer painful. You felt relaxed, at ease. More than you had experienced for a long time. Going this far from the city you grew up in, was a way to find a new story. But it was more of an escape from the daily pressure of your family's hope that started to mount on you. Expectations you would never be able to meet, as you decided – as their only child – not to become the desired doctor or lawyer.

With a little bit of guilt, you took another sip of water tidied up your clothes and went out to find the man you came to visit. Walking past the courtyard, your path was lit by low-burning torches. The premises even more beautiful than during the day, you could not shed the eerie feeling this place gave you. There was something unalive about it. Something was off. As if you did not see everything.

The walk brought you through different parts of the compound. Past many other white doors, buildings, trees.

There, entering through a narrow gate, you found him. Sitting on a white wooden chair behind a fire, which was surrounded by a few dozen people sitting or resting on their knees on the ground. Big platters of food laying next to them, from which they jointly ate with their hands. Chatting. Nothing surrounds this place, other than mountains and far away forests. They are in the open, yet so secluded.

Vernon saw you, as he lifted his arm to softly wave at you.

Walking as softly as you could, not to have any dust arise on the dishes, you circled around to say hello.

“I hope you slept well” he asked with a smile, the fire crackling as the light radiated on his face, emphasising his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, while making his eyes look darker than before.

“Yes, thank you... father Vernon.”

He chuckled softly.

“Come, sit next to me” as he pointed at a place next to him that was evicted that very moment.

You decided to play game. That is what you always did. That is why people trusted you. You immersed yourself, allowing you to paint the full picture. It made you a respected observant.

Kneeling next to him, the only person not clad in white, you looked up and saw his eyes slowly grace over his followers that surrounded him in the circle. He looked pleased, until he found your gaze staring at him.

His smile disappeared as he pursed his lips. “Why are you here?”

“To learn about you” you replied, “father Vernon.”

“Hmm. I see” he replied. “If you want to learn about me, you will need to understand why these people come to me to show them the path.”

“I am all ears, father Vernon. I am here to be taught, to understand” you replied, truthfully, while glancing around and seeing his followers lean against each other, finding each other vicinity, chatting softly.

“I see, my dear” as his smile returned. “Do you want to immerse yourself in my teachings?” he asked.

“Yes” you responded immediately.

“You know what this means?” he asked, as the wind blowed softly, giving the fire a bit more room to grow.

“Uuuhm” you replied. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Please, do explain, father Vernon” with the smell of the incense infused bonfire hitting your nostrils, spreading through your veins, while the chatter of his people seemed to turn into something softer. But you only paid attention to him, so you failed to see the mood shifting around you. From a light feathery ambiance, transitioning into something more suggestive, more amorous.

“I believe in liberty. Unencumbered liberty. We believe that through the ingestion of certain medicines we become conscious. We open a spiritual gateway to god through our joint entanglement. This combination will set us free” he bellowed as if he was preaching. At the same time, he spread his arm to your shoulder, as if to exemplify what he meant with entanglement: a physical touch. Human's becoming one. Finding each other.

“I prepared the food myself, as I do every day for my flock” he said at a normal tone again, extending his other arm as if to embrace his people, only to find his heart. He did not offer you anything, nor did you long for it.

You finally tore your gaze away from him, following his lead, and saw the people surrounding you finding one and other. Not just embracing, unpacking, cherishing, touching, kissing. You managed to zoom into what was happening, the new sounds now reaching your ears.

It suddenly dawned on you. This was not just an innocent embrace, this was set to become a full-on psychedelic infused fest. As your mouth nearly dropped open, you heard him start to prepare for yet another rant: “take each other, ravish each other, become one. The lord has always intended that all people in Eden devour each other, regardless of bond and sex. The garden is meant to eat, to live, to enjoy - not to be ashamed and bound. Never did the lord proclaim that enlightened and free people should be shackled. Live, as life was meant to be in paradise. In this paradise we know no sin. Man and woman were both naked and were not ashamed in the holy gardens of Eden. We are made to consume, to unmake, to ruin, to claim, to desire, to take, to worship.”

Upon hearing those words, the crowd responded: “to unmake is to worship, to take is to glorify.”

As he continued to evangelize, nearly oblivious to what was happening around his feet, you just sat there and watched the sight unfold. In an atmosphere filled with divine lust, people started to fall on top of each other, help each other undress, bring each other to a state of oblivion. Every now and then united through another chant. Another mantra, solemnly spoken. All, to satisfy their god.

Their bodies turned to unify into one throbbing thrusting mass, producing obscene yet blessed sounds, under the watchful eye of their father, Father Vernon, who enticed them with his rapid fire, almost speaking in tongues as the night grew older.

Every now and then he would look at you, benevolently. See how you were still there. He enjoyed your presence, he saw the awe that you had for his work.

You were not taken aback, or perhaps a bit, but only momentarily. You looked in trance at the marvel unravelling before your eyes, the people that came apart at his mere will. You did not consider to participate – you did not yet know that this would come sooner rather than later. But you allowed the sight to pass straight through you, and the react to the little particles within you, setting a chain-reaction in motion.

That night, he physically only touched you on your shoulder, and only once. It was sufficient.

Mentally, he already started to settle you to receive him.

But you did not know that, not yet.

“Sleep well. I will see you tomorrow night” he whispered, knowing you would return.

+++

He knew. He knew that you would sleep for many hours, a longer stretch than usual. Breakfast displayed in your room, lunch brought to you on the porch where you sat staring at the never changing landscape.

You were not sure what you had witnessed yesterday evening. You tried finding more information online, but your cell phone connection was still not working, and wifi was not available.

So, you needed to rely on your other sources: other guests and your own deduction.

Other guests remained shadows during the day, fleeting past you without making a sound. You knew you were not alone, yet you only saw servants.

You did try to find your host, but not with too much urgency. You had two days and two nights still.

On the porch, looking in the distance, you found solitude you had yearned for. It allowed you to dive deep into your mind. Yet, however you tried to formulate the right questions you needed to research here, you could only think of him. The man that had created this little oasis san sin. The preacher who tried to recreate Eden on the face of earth. The man that started to occupy you, dictate your thoughts. Vernon Jefferson Peak.

Mesmerizing. He had this glow over him that drew you. Wild yet sophisticated. Dark yet welcoming. Enrapturing yet distant. The man was an enigma.

What did you know of this man? Why did these people follow him? How did he manage to create this place?

All legitimate questions, to which you would perhaps find the answer, after yet another lightheaded day.

A day on which you failed to make any notes.

+++

The second night repeated as the first. You woke up after a long nap, finding darkness broken by torches that set the path.

A path you followed.

Again, the person next to him allowed you to sit, the psychedelic laced food was served while he spoke. While he preached. Lecturing on freedom.

This time, you ate.

You knew that you ate. Not much, but a bit. You knew what this would mean. It would cause you to shed the line between observer and participant.

But you decided, after all, you needed to experience the world he was creating here. And that meant following in the steps.

The ritual of the day before was repeated. People started to undress and find each other.

And that was when the drugs kicked in. That is when you started to understand. The impact of what Vernon had prepared in his kitchen found path into your brain to shed your inhibitions. You looked from the mass of people to the fire and back, and saw how this was all connected. They were just... recreating the dance of the flames. Recreating how paradise must have been, when all of humanity was still united. They were seeking and finding their salvation through this ancient ritual.

It suddenly all made sense. You now knew why you felt off before, a feeling that had vanished.

One follower found Vernon, as he sat in his chair, having finished his second monologue. She kneeled between his legs, and asked: "I am here to worship and receive blessings, father Vernon” while letting down her head.

She was fully undressed while he was fully clothed, and he responded kindly: “come, my child.” Her signal to move closer and start to massage his thighs and waist, while he moved his pelvis a bit forward to allow her better access.

As she opened the buttons of his shirt, he allowed himself to relax and look over to you, one hand on her head, while the other reached out to yours. “Observe, my dearest guest, this is what praise of the lord means” nodding at the sight in front of him.

Soon, his chest and arms were fully bare, showing the ink that covered his body. Pictures that depicted Eden. Beautiful trees, water running, people in happiness. It could have been a fifteen's century Dutch master, recognisant of the style of Jeroen Bosch, were it not that it was covered on his sculpted body and not displayed in a museum. Beneath all of this, the constraints of his loose-fitting pants were starting to show.

Her hands sought the divine, as she caressed his torso in a gesture of blessing. First with her hands, later with her tongue.

You just felt, you just knew: ‘this is not what Vernon wants. He wants something else. His need for absolution is somewhere else.’

Just that moment, you saw Vernon lose some of his control for the first time. Just the tiniest of growls came from him. You eyes shot to his face, where you saw his smile disappear behind his luscious lips, his jaws clenching, his eyes further darkening. It had the right impact, causing an immediate reaction within her. She fell to her knees to unbutton his trousers, to allow her to unleash his growing length from its holding. This was less ceremonious, as she did not take a lot of time before opening her mouth and welcoming him in.

You looked at this picture unfolding in front of you without any shame or constraints, your mouth falling open ever so slightly. As if you were readying yourself as well.

It was a holy sight of a man who clearly received the blessings of his lord. She struggled to wrap herself around his girth and length, and he let her. He looked at you as he spoke: “this is her path. This is her struggle. She needs to earn her place in heaven by becoming a vessel for the sacred intent of god” as he petted her head, complimenting her for her efforts with soft hums.

His other hand was still resting on your neck as you were still kneeling down: “you are no longer an observer, you are a participant. Disrobe. Take off those foreign threads.”

A shock waved through you, but you did not protest. You had decided to see more of his world, and that meant following. It was just for one night, so you told yourself. And truth be said, being the only person not fitted in white linen, or now clothed at all, did make you stand out.

“Yes” you responded, adding softly “father Vernon.”

“My lamb” he answered pleased with his husky voice, while your clothing softly dropped to the ground.

With his cock being consecrated and you kneeling next to him with his hand softly around your neck, undressed, he started yet another sermon. But the words did not find you anymore, it was the tone, the sound, the melody that hit you.

It brought you euphoria.

It brought them euphoria.

It finally brought him euphoria.

And that is when you understood.

+++

On the third day, you woke up with an excruciating headache.

Scavenging through your bag for pain killers, you found your return ticket, and hold it in your hand. You will be leaving tomorrow. Leave this place. A last day to find the answers you were looking for, to be able to finish your article.

Again, breakfast has been brought to your room. Lunch served on the porch.

Gazing over the mountain range, you found yourself, asking: ‘I feel so at ease here. Why is that? Is that not the question to ask?’

You could remember in vivid colours, sounds and smells what you witnessed the night before.

It hit you. You knew. You knew what you needed to do to find the answers.

That night, you followed the path in flames again, after you awake from your nap. For the first time dressed in the same robes.

As you entered the ceremony, something was different. You could not identify what it was, as your eyes were drawn to the fire to guide you to your place next to father Vernon.

No-one was sitting there, the place next to him was already yours.

“Come, my child” as he pointed at the place next to him. “But don't sit. Today, I have a trial to show if your faith is genuine.”

You gulped.

“Have a drink” as he handed you a glass of water. “Fear not.”

You took a sip. The water had tasted... differently in this place. You blamed it on the local sanitation process. But perhaps, perhaps that was incorrect.

“The flock is yours. Tell them what you saw” he instructs with a tender yet forceful voice. “Stand in front of the spiritual fire and declare. Lead us tonight.” And on those words, he placed his hand on the small of your back, gently pushing you to take a step forwards, guiding you stand exactly in front of him.

There you stood. A journalist, a writer, an observer – being observed, being witnessed. Eyes open in anticipation, nobody engaging with each other as all focus was on you.

What more could you have ever wanted, than such undivided attention for your words?

You started to speak, softly, but soon rapturing into reverie.

You spoke, first of pleasantries. Of the nice architecture, the hospitality, the weather.

His hands soon found you, separated just by fabric. Starting on the top of your buttocks, moving up, slowly, to the small of your back. You thought you felt him ever so softly raise your robe.

Soon you declared. The kindness you met here. The solemnness. The liberty.

One hand held the dress up, allowing his other to find the path underneath to the back of your thighs.

As you proclaimed, he mapped. He mapped every single centimetre of the skin of your upper legs, getting closer and closer to your heat.

You recited, as the top of hand and thumb graced your folds.

He whispered: “you are doing well, my good and faithful servant.”

Soon, your sermon transitioned into your observance of the absence of limitations and inhibitions.

His fingers rewarded you, pressing into you, sight hidden from the flock.

You thought you were still making sense, failing to notice that you had started speaking in tongues, all eyes still burned onto you.

Your arms lifted up to the sky, as you declared. Your response to his machinations. Through his thrusts he handled you as a puppet.

The end of your homily coincided with the peak he brought you, his long fingers offering you salvation as your eyes were fixed on the fire.

“Fall” he told you, and you fell, on your hands and knees. Worn. Spent.

“Brothers and sisters, today we will embrace a new sister in our midst” he declared, as he let himself fall behind you. Folding away your linen, unearthing himself from his own, he took his length, placing it behind you, having the tip wait at your entrance, to entice your anticipation.

“Followers, find your own way” as he joined your bodies with a fluid motion. The sign they needed as the group slowly but surely erupted into their own oblivion.

While they met each other, embraced each other, mixed fluids and feelings, you were initiated into this group. This very group, led by the man behind you.

You knew you did well, as he showed you the stars by thrusting into you with divine intent.

You knew you found your place, as he allowed you to gain enlightenment through his torch.

You knew you would not leave, as he blessed you with his holy seed.

Your exile from humanity was over. You belonged.

+++

Post note: daily sermons for our dearest Austin Vernon, taking naps every day, being fed, living a god alike – I mean... I would follow him... wouldn't you @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @f3ytal @austinbutlerslovers @peageetibbs-ab @houserautha @sandwormrp @thefloatingpickle @arianatheangel-girl @wiseyouthinfluencer @jjubilee-fluff @unicoo @pomtherine @buckysteveloki-me @eternal-love @aust-een @destinymoore05 @nextlevelstupidity @slowsweetlove? Thank you for engaging into my rambles, yesterday and today.

List of Austin inspired one shots

You and @psycheetamore are fucking

ON IT!!

It's not even been TWO DAYS since the trailer dropped and we're getting FED --- FEASTS !!!

I will be reading this as soon as humanly possible but I just gotta thankyou right this instant.

Y'all are the best. Angels sent from horny heaven, giving us BLESSINGS---MIRACLES EVEN.

Seeking Salvation

Label Mature 18+

Summary spiritually broken, lost, and living in a world turning to chaos, you seek refuge at Peak Ranch, where the charismatic cult leader Vernon Jefferson Peak takes you as his chosen one, stripping you to your core to rebuild you as his own.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut ❤️‍🔥 Cult leader x curios girl •temptation• ulterior motives• brainwashing • persona splitting • chosen one •isolation • indoctrination• celibacy •sacred union • body worship • talks you though it •nipple play•clit play• fingering • stretch fingering • simultaneous stimulations • multiple orgasm denials• squirting• p in v • lotus pose • devine orgasm • cream pie •after care

📖 Proof readers / plot consultants @peggyao3 @eternal-love ✨ Inspo multiple DMs comments & requests ☺️ made this from seeing nine seconds of a trailer clip.

Seeking Salvation

You were never one to follow blindly. Restless, curious, always chasing something just out of reach, that was you.

You lived in a place where everyone had a plan for you, their voices a chorus of shoulds and musts that drowned out your own.

You were always, too defiant and sharp-witted with a heart guarded just enough to survive, and when the weight of their expectations pressed in, you left.

You left in search of your purpose, your meaning in life, only to discover the world was just a bigger cage, lined with obligations and responsibilities.

You sought solace online, scrolling through endless social media content seeking something that resonated in a sea of voices.

That’s where you first found Vernon Jefferson Peak.

His words were clipped from a speech about freedom, rebirth, shedding expectations. It hit like arrows, piercing the armor you’d built.

You’d watch his videos late at night, your phone glowing in the dark, his voice a quiet storm that stirred something deep.

He wasn’t like the others, peddling quick fixes or hollow promises. He spoke like he saw you, like he knew the ache you couldn’t name.

In those clips, he was striking, his messy blonde hair, and handsome features expressing so passionately, but it was his eyes that drew you in. Blue and intense, like they could see right through the lies.

You’d pause the screen staring a him, wondering what it’d be like to feel that gaze in person.

You weren’t a follower, not yet, just curious, drawn in to the way he seemed to be both dangerous and divine, a paradox wrapped in white shirts and casual suits.

Your curiosity led you to one of his gatherings, a makeshift auditorium filled with restless bodies. The world outside was unraveling, masks, lockdowns, fear, but here Vernon Jefferson Peak was a beacon, a voice in the chaos of uncertainty.

As you gather among a sea of countless others you feel your pulse quicken with anticipation, a spark of something raw and real, like you’re teetering on the brink of revelation.

You linger at the back, your fingers pulling at the edges of your sleeves, caught between curiosity and unease, as your heart races with the promise of finally seeing those blue eyes in person.

You’re not here to become one of his followers, you just want to see him, to know if the man matches the myth.

The stage is bare worn wood, with an orange and yellow backdrop spreading like rays of sun, with a single spotlight that seems to bend toward him, as if even the light can’t resist.

As Vernon steps forward, the crowd goes still. His sandy blonde hair is messy and long, falling to his nape in soft, defiant waves.

His blue eyes are a paradox, calm yet searing, like a sky hiding a storm, his full lips and strong jaw framing a face that feels both angelic and dangerous.

His white shirt beneath his matching blazer hangs loose, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of ink, the edges of wings expanding across his chest.

At the hollow of his throat, a small tattooed happy face stares out, jarring in its simplicity against the intensity of him. He is untamed, physical perfection to behold, but it’s the impact of his aura, that truly holds your captivation.

“The world teaches you fear,” Vernon says, his voice a low, velvet cadence that weaves through the air like whispered truth. “Your leaders teach you guilt.” He steps to the stage’s edge, peering out. “Your body is uncertain, weary, carrying the weight of those expectations. Your pain is not a coincidence. We are not a coincidence.”

His blue eyes find yours immediately in the crowd. Not wandering, not by chance, they find you pinning you in place, and you’re unable to look away.

In that moment, you feel seen, not your face, not your clothes, but the raw, hidden truth beneath your skin. The truth you’ve spent years burying.

You find him just after the crowd has started to disperse. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, tall and still, his white shirt open at the collar beneath his white blazer. He’s mesmerizing, not just in how he looks, but in how he commands the space around him.

His gaze meets yours and he doesn’t quite smile, but his eyes… they admire you. Not in a way that feels performative or polite but in a way that feels deep, private, like he’s seeing something you didn’t even know was there.

You hesitate before you step closer. “I wasn’t sure if I should come over,” you admit, your voice low, uncertain. “But I wanted to thank you, the things you teach really resonate with me.”

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head just slightly. “I know the look in your eyes.” He confirms his expression shifting still unreadable, but slightly softer. “You’ve been living in pieces, haven’t you? Never fully allowed to be whole.”

The words strike you deeper than they should and your eyes widen.

“I don’t know how you…” you trail off, suddenly unsure how to explain the way his voice touches places inside you that no one else ever has.

He steps closer, his presence quiet but absolute. “You don’t need to explain,” he says gently his eyes lowering to your heart. “You just need to explore what’s already there… what’s been aching to be found.”

He looks back up and your eyes lock, his stare is calm, unwavering… hypnotic, reaching into you with nothing but his presence.

He leans in slightly just near your ear, his voice low and intimate. “Come to Peak Ranch,” he says, and as he pulls back, something inside of you opens without resistance, like a silent agreement has already been made.

You don’t intend to follow him, not really, but you know the invitation to join him at Peak Ranch is always there, lingering, waiting and all you have to do is ask.

The weeks blur as the world outside becomes sharper, crueler. Lockdowns begin, news flashes scream mandates, pandemics, hoarders empty shelves, offices shutter, schools close, and hospitals overflow.

It feels like doomsday the way panic spreads so widely, and as the fear of the unknown seeps in and the world is thrown into chaos, you finally choose to seek the solace in the haven Vernon promised.

Peak Ranch is a sanctuary sprawled across wildflower fields, with open skies, and wooden cabins, a valley of abundance hidden in the middle of nowhere.

His followers move with purpose, tending gardens, building structures, their faces lit with something you can’t quite name…devotion… or maybe even fulfillment.

You plan to stay here, hidden from the chaos of the outside world for as long as you can, even though you don’t know how long that will be.

As the days weave into weeks , Peak ranch finds you.

You savor the simple structure, rising with the sun, sharing meals, tending the earth.

You lie in the grass midday, the blades tickling your skin, the sky above endless and free, a stark contrast to the cage of the city.

You swim in the hot springs and lake, the pure water washing away the weight of fear, each ripple a retreat from the world’s clamor.

Here, time slows, and you breathe easier, as if the ranch itself is a safe haven carved out from the madness you no longer hear beyond.

Vernon is everywhere, a vision in white shirts or casual suits, the fabrics tailored but relaxed, his tattoos teasing at the edges of his collar. Those wings, always half-seen, remain a mystery you can’t quite unravel, their curves a silent promise that pulls at your curiosity.

He holds small sermons daily, often at dawn or dusk, gathering followers under the open sky or beneath a large wooden pavilion.

One evening, as the sun dips low, painting the wildflowers gold, he stands before the group, his blue eyes scanning the crowd as he speaks, and every time they land on you the weight of his gaze feels like a hand resting on your soul.

“You’ve all been taught to shrink,” he says, his voice a low, velvet tide that washes over you, warm and commanding. “To fold yourselves into shapes that fit the world, to be small, obedient, afraid.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours, “But you’re not small. You’re vast and boundless, waiting to break free to let go of the lies and discover the truth.”

His words hit deep, stirring the restlessness you’ve carried since the ache you felt scrolling his videos.

He makes you feel exposed, yet alive, like he’s speaking only to you, pulling back layers you didn’t know you had.

Your fingers curl into the grass where you sit, a flush creeping up your cheeks. You want to believe him, to step into that vastness he sees, and the way he watches you it makes you think he believes it too.

He observes you with quiet patience over the next few days, like a sculptor studying stone, his blue eyes tracing your movements with a veiled intensity.

One afternoon, as you kneel in the garden, tending rows of blooming herbs, your fingers brushing the soft leaves and rich soil, he approaches.

His white shirt is loose, the tattooed wings peeking from his chest and his messy blonde hair catches the light like a tarnished halo as he stands over you.

“You nurture life so effortlessly,” he says, his voice low, watching you tend to the plants with care. You stand to face him, brushing dirt from your hands, your pulse quickening under his gaze.

“You’re finding your purpose here,” he says, his voice a velvet current, his blue eyes locking onto yours, like he sees every nervous spark within you.

“Yes,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere… until now.” You admit. His eyes darken, taking in your vulnerability, his lips curving just shy of a smile, like he’s savoring a secret only he knows.

“It’s because you have a higher calling,” he conveys, his voice softer like a sacred vow. “Ive always known and I can see it inside of you just waiting to be awakened.” He confirms, his voice low and reverent.

Your cheeks flush at his words, a warmth spreading through you. His praise makes you feel special, chosen, like your right where you belong.

You gaze up at him and a soft smile breaks through your usual guardedness. For the first time you feel a flicker of hope that he’s the one who will finally be able to fix what has been broken all along.

At dusk, as you make your way to your cabin, you spot him sitting barefoot on the edge of his sprawling porch. His sandy blonde hair catching the last rays of the sun’s glow, as his blue eyes track your every step across his ranch.

You wonder what goes on in the mind of a man who seems so untouchable by anyone, but the weight of his stare makes your heart race with questions you’re not ready to voice.

The next morning, when he summons you to his study, you can already feel the shift, like a current pulling you under, drawing you somewhere deeper where you won’t return from the same.

His study is austere, steeped in the faint scent of jasmine and sage. His shelves are lined and filled with leather-bound books of philosophy, and ancient texts.

Handwritten journals lie in uneven stacks on a side table next to novels marked with his name.

The high steepled windows let in slanted light, casting shadows across his large oak desk piled high with books.

The room feels instilled with his presence, every object a piece of his carefully crafted enigma.

He gestures you to sit in a velvet chair, the deep fabric soft under your thighs, and he rests a hip against his large oak desk, staring at you.

His blue eyes are soft but unyielding, his messy blonde hair falling slightly over his face as he tilts his head to study you.

His voice is smooth and steady as he speaks, each word intentional. “You’re carrying something that’s holding you back,” he finally says, leaning forward, his fingers steepled like a prayer. “What is it?”

Your throat tightens, your hands knotting in your lap, finally forced to face it.“I—I don’t really know how to say it,” you confess.

He tilts his head, the happy face tattoo on his throat shifting with the movement.

“You don’t have to say it perfectly. Just say it from here.” He reaches out, his fingers pressing your chest, just over your heart. “It’s here, isn’t it? Heavy. Like a stone.”

You swallow, his touch anchoring you as much as it unravels you and his eyes search yours, his fingers pulling back, leaving a warmth that lingers.

Then he waits, expectant, unmoving until finally the silence breaks you.

“I-I’ve always felt… wrong,” you admit, the words forcing their way out. “Like I’m not good enough. Like I’m failing..at my life at whatever I’m supposed to be doing… at even just being me….”

He nods slow and deliberate. “That’s not yours,” he says, his voice a quiet blade. “That’s what was forced upon you. Your shame, your memories, your fears … your pain ……they’re chains.” He says as his finger moves to your temple, faintly making contact. “You were never meant to be who they told you to be. Let me show you who you are beneath this skin.”

Your breath trembles. His words aren’t just words they’re a current, pulling you under.“How do you do that?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, a flicker of something warm, almost tender. “By letting me take what was once yours.”

You want to ask what he means, but his gaze holds yours, those blue eyes a tide you can’t resist, and the question dissolves. All you can do is nod, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and longing.

The next day when you are moved from your cabin into Vernons main ranch it feels like crossing a threshold, a shift from self discovery into something deeper, more binding.

The ranch is vast, a haven of blooming meadows, and boundless skies, but in the main compound, in Vernon’s inner sanctuary it’s different.

You’re given a room on the second floor near his, simple but intimate with a single window overlooking the valley and a canopy bed draped in white linens.

Living with him brings structure and discipline something that makes you begin to feel both favored and ensnared.

He begins teaching you one-on-one, his philosophies unfolding in private sessions that blur the line between guidance and submission.

He isolates you slowly, praising your unique potential and pulling you from the group, assigning you tasks only to him, organizing his journals, tending to his personal gardens.

“You’re different,” he says, his fingers lingering on your arm as he hands you a book of his notes. “You see in me what others miss.” His praise fills you and makes you crave his approval, and you start to measure your worth by his words.

He controls your environment, limiting outside news, framing the world beyond the ranch as a place of “falsehoods” and “distractions.” “The world wants to keep you in fear,” he says, his voice sharp as he paces the study. “Here, you’re boundless. What do you need from out them that you don’t already have?”

You nod, your mind softening, the ranch feels much safer than the chaos you left.

As the weeks wear on, you become devoted, hanging on his every word, his philosophies reshaping your thoughts.

You don’t notice how he’s rewiring you, how your old self, sharp, and skeptical, fades under his gaze.

He starts hinting at a deeper union, his words laced with promise. “To be one with me, is to be initiated, to be broken and remade.” he says on a night where you sit beneath a giant oak, its branches casting shadows in the moonlight, “It is the final step to freedom.” He says as he looks over at you.

Your throat tightens, a mix of awe and fear. “What does it mean… to be broken and remade?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He smiles, slow and knowing, his fingers tracing your jaw. “It means you give me everything, your body, your mind, and your soul.”

You shiver, his words stripping you bare, realizing he doesn’t just want to have you —he wants your very existence. As your eyes meet, his hand slides to your neck, resting there, a gentle claim. “We’ll be together soon,” he says, his voice a hushed vow. “You’ll see what it means to be truly free.”

He chooses your union ceremony to fall on a moonless night. You walk down a long hall toward a black door, the air heavy with wax and rosemary, candles flickering along the floor like fallen stars.

At the end of the hall, you push open the door to reveal a room glowing by candlelight, its walls draped in soft curtains.

In the dimness, you make out a full-length mirror standing in the center, and in the reflection, your thin white robe hides the pulse thrumming wildly in your chest.

Vernon enters, barefoot, his white shirt open at the collar, his hair loose and wild, the winged tips on his chest spreading like a promise, the happy face at his throat a quiet taunt.

He steps behind you, his reflection merging with your own, his presence a weight you feel in your soul.

“Tell me who you see,” he says, his voice soft, encouraging.

You stare at the mirror at your own reflection now with his. “I… I don’t know.”

“Name it,” he says, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders, grounding you. “What do you feel?”

“I feel changed,” you admit , your voice cracking slightly. “From my former self.”

“Again but claim it,” he whispers, his lips close to your ear, his breath warm.

“I am changed,” you say, the words softer but certain. He nods, his fingers tightening briefly on your shoulders with approval. “Free yourself from your pain,” he says, his voice soft but commanding. “Shame your former self and watch it vanish.”

He steps back to watch, and you pour out every thing into your reflection, all your failures, your rejections, the weight of every expectation you never met. Each word feels raw and painful, but it’s unapologetically true, and as the pain shifts from guilt into release you feel like you can finally breath again.

Vernon watches you fall silent your chest heaving, laid bare, and takes the mirror, his movements graceful and methodical as he pushes it to the floor, shattering it to pieces behind its frame. The sound is jarring in the quiet, and you gasp, your body tensing.

The air becomes heavier with the scent of molten wax, rosemary, and the unfiltered silence of surrender.

The shards of the mirror glint on the floor, a chaotic mosaic reflecting your former self, broken apart to make way for the new.

“Now we can begin,” Vernon says, his voice a low vow.

He approaches you with reverence, his blue eyes locked on yours, unwavering and knowing, as if he’s peering into your very soul.

His fingers find the tie of your robe, undoing it with care, and as he slips it off your shoulders he unveils you as if you are something sacred to him.

When the fabric falls at your feet you shiver standing naked before him, not just from your body but from feeling your very essence laid bare.

He doesn’t touch you, he circles you, his blue eyes tracing your every curve with unrepressed desire.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, the words landing like a truth you’ve never felt before. “Come with me,” he says, extending his hand. “Let me take you where our union will set you free.”

He guides you to the back of the room, parting the curtains to reveal a smaller chamber within.

A woven mat lies encircled by candles, their flames flickering in the intimate setting, and he turns to you as he stands at the edge.

You watch as he reaches for his shirt, unbuttoning the fabric to reveal the full expanse of his tattoos, the wings spreading across his chest, stretching toward his shoulders.

His torso is lean and chiseled, every ridge taut with restrained power, and as his hands move to his waist, his fingers deftly untie the fabric, sliding it down his thighs as your eyes follow the motion.

His body is a revelation, long limbs, golden skin kissed by candlelight, and between his legs, his cock sways with each step, unapologetic, commanding.

Your eyes are drawn to it, the movement hypnotic, a primal pull that makes your thighs press together instinctively.

He is beautiful, not just in form but in the way he inhabits it, every inch radiating a quiet, terrifying power.

He crosses the small distance to you, his gaze never wavering, and he takes your hand. His touch is warm and laced with affectionate. “Come,” he says, his voice a low, a hymn.

He guides you to the mat, easing you down with a gentleness that defies the intensity in his eyes. “This is sacred,” he says, kneeling before you, his hair falling slightly over his face. “This is where we form our union.”

You lie back, your skin prickling against the woven fibers, your heart pounding as he settles above you.

His hands begin their work, trailing down your skin, slow and methodical.

“Your body is a map,” he says, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. “Every part holds a truth.”

His hands slide lower, palms warm against your chest. “Here,” he says, his fingers pressing gently, “is where you’ve hidden your love.” His hands brush the peaks of your breasts with a reverence that makes you shiver. “You’ve been taught to guard it, but I want it open.” He says.

Your nipples harden under his touch as he circles them, slow and knowing, making a sigh escape your throat. His eyes flick to yours, reading every reaction, every sound, and you feel seen, not just your body, but the raw, aching need deep inside.

He moves lower, his fingers gliding across your stomach, pausing at your navel pressing firmly into a grounding point that makes your core clench

“And here,” he says,” is where you hold your trust.” Your breaths are shallow, your hips shifting instinctively, seeking more, but he holds you in place with a look in his eyes.

His hands slide lower, his fingers pressing into your inner thighs and parting them with a care that feels ceremonial.

Your slickness is evident, your body filled with need for him, and his eyes glint with approval. “You’re already offering yourself to me,” he says, his voice laced with veneration.

His fingers trace your outer folds with featherlight strokes, teasing you in ways that make you sigh with pleasur . “This is your sacred gate,” he says, his voice hushed as he presses a single finger against your clit, holding it still.

The pressure without movement is maddening, and your hips buck, seeking friction as a whimper escapes, but he pins your thigh to the mat, his free hand forcing your surrender.

He holds you in place pressing your clit until your body twitches as you whine for relief, then he slides his finger inside of you, slow and methodical, curling it to stroke against a ridge that makes your hips writhe uncontrollably.

His thrusts are rhythmic, hypnotic, syncing with your breaths. “Feel it more,” he says, adding a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb brushing your clit in slow, alternating circles, the varied stimulation driving you to the brink.

You can’t hold on in your current state, the sensations too powerful, too overwhelming, like a current surging through you, and your body trembles as your thighs shake, your sounds of soft gasps and desperate moans rising like a chant.

You feel yourself slipping away as your consciousness becomes tethered to his touch, his voice, his will.

Your hips surge up against his hand as you whine and just as you reach the edge, your muscles clenching, your breaths hitching, he stops, his fingers stilling inside you pausing the intensity flowing through.

A cry tears from your throat, your body twitching, slick and aching, your core screaming for release. “Not yet,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring reveling in your desperation.

“I want you to offer more for me.” He says. The denial is exquisite torture, filling you with such an a intense need your hips rock by force, seeking relief, but he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you firmly in place, his control absolute.

You look into his blue eyes, your gaze pleading, begging, and he watches you, unyielding, until your breathing slows, your body calming despite the throbbing ache deep inside.

Then he begins again, slower, pulling his fingers all the way out to circle your clit before dipping them back inside. He does it repeatedly, alternating the depths and speed, until your hips rock against his hand and you plead to him with soft whimpers.

When he pushes in a third finger, it shocks you to your core, the fullness pinning you in place, making you unable to move.

His fingers stretch you wide, shoving in over and over again, his movements precise, scissoring, curling, and driving you to a deeper level of sensation beyond anything you’ve ever known. You choke back sobs as his thumb flicks your clit at unpredictable moments, your moans rising higher and more depraved as your body tries to lift from the mat uncontrollably

Your moans turn into high, broken whimpers and pleas, that merge together like a desperate prayer. Your need is shameless as he reshapes you, forging you into something raw and divine.

“You’re transcending,” he whispers, his breaths syncing with your own as he pulls his fingers from you again. The withdrawal causes a raw sob from your throat so helpless it sounds like it was torn from your soul.

You softly whimper feeling your core throb so painfully, and as a warm slick pools beneath you, your hands clutch the mat as if it could save you.

“Not yet“ he says his blue eyes glinting with approval . “Not until you’ve given yourself completely.”

His denial amplifies your need to a fever pitch, pushing you into a state of heightened awareness and everything feels intensified.

When he positions himself to take you, it is like reverence laced with divinity, a union of body and spirit as he settles above you, his cock heavy and hard, leaking with his desire.

“This is holy,” he says, his voice a low chant, his blue eyes locked on yours. “This is where we become one,”

He pushes into you slowly with shallow thrusts, letting you feel every inch, every pulse and your consciousness struggles to maintain, every push into you deeper for his devine claim.

Your breaths are short gasps, each one laced with a soft moan that breaks into a whimper. Every part of you is overstimulated and aware, your pulse thundering as your hips shiver trying to take his thrusts.

“Breathe with me,” he says, his voice steady and calm, guiding you back to him, syncing your rhythms together. His cock nudges your cervix with every stroke, and as your body trembles your core clenches around him, teetering on the brink of release again.

He shifts angles, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, his thrusts precise hitting a spot that makes you see stars on every stroke and as your walls clench around him on the verge of an orgasm he stops.

“Stay with me,” he demands, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place and your core throbs around him, as your moans fracture into soft needy whimpers.

He thrusts in again alternating rhythms from shallow and quick, to long and deep, his hips slamming against you prolonging your pleasure for as long as he can.

Your sounds spiral, losing coherence, a cascade of breathless cries and choked sobs as you lose yourself entirely, your voice no longer yours but a primal echo of surrender.

Each thrust is a promise and a punishment, building a pressure so intense it feels like you’re consumed by the intensity.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, your slick coating your thighs as your sounds merge with his in a symphony of moans and desperate gasps.

Your consciousness fragments into a state of pure sensation, pushed beyond the limits of flesh, your mind lost in a haze of euphoria, of exhaustion, transcending the physical into a realm where pleasure blurs into divinity.

His rhythm shifts, his thumb returning to your clit, and this time he doesn’t stop. “You’re there. Let me take you,” he says, his thumb spiraling on your clit with relentless precision as his thrusts deepen, each one striking your core with devastating accuracy until suddenly you break.

You orgasm is cataclysmic, an inner-body experience that tears through you, your vision whiting out as your body pulsates, a raw, primal scream ripping from your throat.

It’s more than physical, it’s spiritually binding, you see the light, you see him, his face above you like a deity forged from pleasures you can’t name. He holds you through it, his movements steady, his blue eyes locked on yours, and in that moment, he’s more than a man—he’s a god, and you’re his creation.

Your slickness drenches you both, making every thrust wet and obscene as his cock glides through your soaked folds with a rhythm that’s profane.

His abs pull tight, muscles flexing as he holds your leg over his shoulder, his hips thrusting into you hard, each plunge driving deeper, claiming you fully and the sounds escaping his throat are so pleasurable they cause you to moan too.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips, bruising with need as he nears release, his cock pumping faster, his muscles flexing with strain. Then he slows, pulling his cock back, only to plunge in again at his deepest, his eyes never leaving yours.

Watching him climax is like the universe aligning, his face softening in divine ecstasy, his blonde hair falling in his face, the wing tattoos stark against his flushed skin. You pant beneath him, your body a trembling wreck, bound to him in this sacred act.

As he comes, he spills into you hit and thick his release filling up your core as your walls throb faintly unable to take anymore. His fingers splay across your stomach, grounding himself as he ruts the last few ounces into you, and his hips stutter with the force of his release.

He lowers your leg and stays close his chest heaving as his body hovers over yours one hand resting on your stomach, as if sealing what he’s given you.

Your breaths are shallow, your mind still half-lost in the haze, every touch sending aftershocks through your oversensitive nerves.

He slowly eases out of you, his cock slick and softening, leaving a warm trickle that makes you shiver.

He doesn’t pull away, instead he lays beside you drawing you closer, his arm curling around you, his lips brushing your temple in a gesture that feels both possessive and tender.

His voice is low, sated his blue eyes searching yours in the dim light. “You’re mine now,” He breathes his as fingers tighten slightly on your hip, grounding you in his words, his presence.

You nod, your throat tight, still reeling from the intensity. “ I’m yours,” you whisper, your voice raw, your body humming with the weight of what you’ve become under his touch.

The candles have nearly burned out, their wax spilling like tears, and as you lie beside him and his fingers trace your shoulder, you look into his blue eyes, and you truly want to believe in his divinity.

“You are my chosen one,” he says, his voice serene almost worshipful “Never forget who you are becoming.” He says placing a soft kiss to-your forehead.

The truth settles down like ash. Vernon hadn’t freed you. He bound you to him, to his touch, his words, his teachings. And the terrifying part is how much you want him, how much you see him as your salvation, even though deep down you know he will be your ruin.

END 🌻

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