Chapter Twenty-Four
Glitter Dome-Praise Demon - Ruin Edition?
I wake slowly, wrapped in warmth, vaguely sticky, and surrounded by the distinct scent of sandalwood, spiritual regret, and possibly… syrup. Again.
My robe is askew. My thighs are sore in the good way. And on my lap, crumpled and clinging to my skin like a prophecy, is my journal, flipped open to a page I must’ve filled during some half-conscious, fully-doomed haze.
It is not, strictly speaking, a mandala.
It’s a collection of doodles.
Spirals. Hearts. Stars.
Cocks.
Cocks with wings.
Cocks with rays of divine light beaming from them like sacred suns.
Cocks with hearts for balls and one extremely detailed diagram of something that may or may not be titled “The Root Chakra Reawakens.”
I am not well.
But gods help me, I am relaxed.
For the first time in what feels like weeks, I’m not orchestrating a ritual, rewriting a pillar, or mediating a fight between someone’s inner child and their need to howl in the forest.
I’m just… me.
Half-naked, covered in bathhouse holiness, drawing divine dick art with a pink glitter pen.
And when Asher walks in, quiet, smiling, eyes soft like summer and bright like revelations, I feel myself start to unravel again, but this time in an entirely different way.
He closes the flap behind him, one hand tucked behind his back like he’s hiding a secret.
“Hi,” he says, voice low and warm, and then, with a sheepish little grin, “You, um… left this.”
He pulls his hand forward, revealing what he’s holding.
It’s my glitter pen.
The pink one.
“Thanks,” I say, cheeks already warm. “I was channeling divine inspiration.”
He glances at the journal page, pauses, tilts his head like he’s studying a sacred text. “I see that. That one looks like it’s mid-enlightenment.”
“It’s got wings,” I say, trying for casual, failing spectacularly. “Obviously.”
He smiles again, closer now, walking toward me like he belongs here, and sits beside me with the kind of easy, unbothered grace that makes my heart thump against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
And then, his tone shifts. Not much. Just a little. Just enough to tilt the air between us into something thicker, something sweeter, something terrifyingly electric.
He picks up the journal, still looking at the page, still smiling that soft, reverent smile, and says, casual, sweet, lethal, “Do you ever draw what you want?”
I blink at him, slow, stunned, already a little ruined without him even touching me.
“What do you mean?” I ask, voice thinner than it should be. He turns the journal toward me, one hand steady, one finger tapping against one of the cocks, gilded, sparkly, majestic as a sacred monument to my spiritual collapse.
“This one,” he says, voice deceptively light. “Is this… aspirational? Or a memory?”
I just stare at him, mouth open, air stuck somewhere between a laugh and a prayer.
And he meets my gaze, steady, soft, and somehow burning from underneath, like a match held too long but refusing to let go. “Because I’ve been trying to be respectful,” he says, low and even, like he’s reading a confession written directly into my skin, “But I think about you. All the time. In that dome. On that floor. On your knees.”
My breath catches. Loud. Embarrassing.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch, just watches me fall apart like it’s his sacred calling. “And I want you to know,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “If you let me touch you, if you let me have you, I’m not going to be soft.”
My thighs press together instinctively, helplessly, spiritually.
His voice drops lower, darker, deliciously dangerous. “I’ll worship you. I’ll praise you. I’ll hold you when it’s over. But when I fuck you, Bliss...” He leans in, so close my whole body is vibrating on a subatomic level, and finishes, almost gently, “You won’t be able to draw straight lines for days.”
And just like that, the sweet one becomes the storm.
I don’t know when he took the journal out of my hands.
I don’t know when he set it aside, or when my robe slipped lower, or when the air inside the dome became so thick with wanting that I felt like I was floating through it, like every breath was syrupy and sacred and dangerously combustible.
I only know this, Asher is no longer just the sweet one.
He’s the patient one, the planning one, the one who’s been watching, waiting, while the others moved faster, rougher, louder.
And now he’s here, beside me, still not touching, not yet, but his gaze alone is doing things to my body I didn’t even know eyes could do.
“You think you know what I am,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate against my ribs, eyes flicking to my lips like he’s already claimed them, “But Bliss… I’ve been soft because you needed softness.”
He leans in, kisses the edge of my jaw, just once, just enough to leave an imprint I’ll feel for days, and when he pulls back, his smile is gone, replaced by something deeper. Older. Infinitely more dangerous. “But that’s not all I am.”
He stands, smooth and sure, and reaches for my hand, pulling me up with terrifying gentleness, like I might shatter if he touched me wrong.
And then he says it. Low. Calm. “Take off the robe.”
I freeze. I can’t move. Can’t think.
The air between us crackles, hot and sharp as a ritual blade.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. He just drops it, lower, deeper, softer, and that drop hits me harder than a shout ever could. “Take. It. Off.”
My hands are moving before my mind catches up, trembling slightly as I push the robe off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor like it was never really mine to begin with.
He steps behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him even before he touches me. And then he presses his chest to my back, like he’s claiming space I didn’t even know I had left to surrender.
His hands slide around my waist, palms hot and sure, fingers dragging along my skin with a reverence that feels nothing like patience and everything like possession.
“You’re going to let me touch you,” he whispers against my ear, his voice thick with the kind of promise that makes my knees wobble, “Slow... deep... until you forget how to speak in full sentences.”
I laugh, nervous, breathy, already soaked, and it stutters out of me like a confession. “I already only speak in mantras and metaphors,” I manage to say, my voice shaking, my brain spinning out somewhere between panic and worship.
He chuckles low, the sound vibrating against my spine as he leans in closer, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. “Then let’s make you a new one,” he breathes, the words skating over my neck like a spell. “How about this, I belong to Asher’s mouth.”
His hands move lower, slow and devastating, palms flattening against my stomach, dragging down, down, until his fingers slip between my thighs, finding me slick, aching, desperate, and he groans, raw and wrecked against my skin.
“Fuck, Bliss,” he mutters, voice breaking, “You’re dripping. You do want this.”
“Yes,” I gasp, already trembling under his hands, every nerve ending sparking to life.
His fingers tease me, slow and maddening, circling where I need him most, but never giving enough, never giving in. “You want my fingers?” he asks, so soft it almost sounds like prayer.
“Yes.”
“You want my cock?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to make you come while I tell you what a good girl you are?”
I make a sound, half sob, half moan, that doesn’t even have a name, some desperate, broken noise scraped out from the deepest part of me, the part that’s been waiting for him without even knowing it.
He slides two fingers into me, slow, unrelenting, curling in exactly the right way, and I arch, moan, grasp at his wrist like it’s a lifeline.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect for me. So soft. So wet. So ready. I want to ruin you slow,” he whispers, his voice curling into my ear like smoke, like prophecy, like the thing my body has been waiting to hear since the first moment I saw him smile. “I want to take my time,” he murmurs, his hands dragging down my hips, reverent and possessive all at once, “I want to make you come again and again until your legs don’t work and you forget every other name but mine.”
And then he turns me, guiding me back until the bed catches me. He lowers me onto the mattress like I’m something precious, something breakable, and then he kneels between my thighs, palms pressing my legs open wider like he’s parting the gates to something sacred.
And he devours me.
With his mouth.
With his tongue.
With his goddamn soul.
He licks me like every slow drag of his tongue is an invocation, a worship, a vow. Like my body is scripture and he’s just found the lost verse that unlocks the divine.
And the whole time, the whole fucking time, he talks to me.
Softly. Filthy. Worshipful.
“So good for me.”
“So fucking sweet.”
“You taste like surrender.”
“Let me hear it, Bliss. Let me hear what you sound like when you break for me.”
And gods, I do.
I shatter.
Hard and wet and loud, my whole body pulsing around his mouth, my hands buried in his hair like I’m trying to anchor myself to this plane, like if I let go I’ll just ascend straight into the next life with him still on his knees, still tasting me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going.
Praise spilling from his lips like a sermon between kisses.
“One more.”
“That’s it, baby.”
“Let go again. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
“Be good for me. Come for me.”
And I do.
Again.
Wrecked. Ruined. Whispering his name like it’s sacred.
As he moves up my body, kissing a slow, wet trail up my stomach, over my breasts, along the frantic beat of my heart, I think I might already be half-feral with need.
And when he finally, finally, thrusts into me, slow and deep and devastatingly full, he groans against my mouth like it’s too much, like I’ve just unraveled something inside him too.
“You feel like fucking heaven,” he grits out, voice shaking, forehead pressed to mine. “And I’ve been so good for so long. I’ve earned this.”
He pulls back, just enough to make me whimper, and then sinks in again, long, slow, deliciously deep strokes that make me feel stretched, wrecked, filled in a way that feels less like fucking and more like being rewritten from the inside out.
Every thrust is matched to a word.
Every word carves itself into my skin like a velvet knife, sharp and soft all at once.
“Mine.” Another thrust, deeper, harder, slow enough to feel every inch.
“Perfect.” A roll of his hips that drags a broken sound out of me I can’t control.
“So good.” His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring me to the moment, and I swear I could come from that alone.
“Taking it all.”
My nails rake down his back without permission.
He groans like it’s a prayer he can’t swallow. “God, you’re everything.”
I am nothing and everything at once. A storm. A sacrament. A body made of glitter and ache and a desperate, holy kind of wanting.
And when he tells me, his voice so low and sweet and devastating, “Come for me, Bliss, let go, baby, that’s it,” I break.
I shatter so hard I sob, full-bodied, helpless, my whole body clutching around him like I’m trying to pull him deeper, trying to keep him stitched to me forever.
He holds me through it, rocks me through it, kisses my face, my mouth, my heart like he’s memorizing me.
“Good girl,” he whispers against my skin, against my soul. “So good. So fucking good.”
And all I can think, through the wreckage of my own body, through the glittering static in my head, is, this is what it feels like to be loved with intention, and absolutely, unapologetically ruined.
He doesn’t pull away.
Not when I’m still trembling, not when I’m gasping little broken sounds against his neck, not even when I’m so far gone I’m half-sobbing into his skin like he’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
He just holds me. Strong arms wrapped around me, a hand cradling the back of my head.
And then, when I finally start to come back to myself, still raw, still slick, still split wide open, he presses his mouth to my ear and whispers filth like it’s a promise he plans to keep for the rest of my life.
“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, low and rough, his hands stroking slowly down my spine. “Wrecked and soft and fucked so full of me you can’t even think straight.”
He nuzzles against my temple, kisses the corner of my mouth, catches the whimper I can’t hold back.
“Gonna make you forget your own name,” he breathes, each word sinking into my skin like holy oil, “Until you’re nothing but moans and mantras.”
And gods, I want it. I want all of it.
I want every filthy word he’s promising written across my bones.
But then he shifts, gentler, sweeter, and tilts my chin up until he can see my face, until he can brush his thumb across my cheek like he’s memorizing the way I look when I’m loved like this.
He kisses me once, slow and deep and devastating, and when he pulls back, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You were made for this,” he says, like it’s a sacred truth, like it’s a vow. “You were made for worship.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
Because I’m already curling into him, heart-first, letting him gather me up like I’m precious, letting him carry me down into the sweetest, safest oblivion I’ve ever known.
He doesn’t let go, even when my body goes boneless against him, even when my breathing slows into something soft and shallow and half-dreamed.
He just shifts us, tugging the covers up with one hand, wrapping me tighter to his chest with the other, his fingers lazily stroking through my hair like he’s tracing sacred symbols into my scalp.
I feel him kiss the top of my head, feel the rumble of his voice when he speaks, not filthy this time, not a command, just a truth, easy and undeniable. “You’re not getting rid of me, you know,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with the kind of promise that doesn’t need to be shouted to be believed.
And maybe I should say something clever. Maybe I should laugh or tease or deflect like I usually do when someone sees too much.
But I don’t. I just press my face closer to his chest, let myself breathe him in, let myself believe, just for now, that maybe some things are meant to be this easy.
This sacred. This ruinously, ridiculously good.
“You rest,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re worshipped. You’re… Blissed . ”
And that’s the moment I fall in love with him a little.
Or a lot. I don’t know.
My brain is glitter.