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jessamine-rose · 9 months ago

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˖⋆˚♱ଘ Angel’s Tears ଓ♱˚⋆˖

*cries* I thought I was done with Church AU after Priest! Dottore yet here I am with more unholy ideas. Welp, Guardian Angel! Capitano x Nonbeliever! Darling, here we go (；ω；)

Tw:: yandere, psychological trauma, blood, violence, death, religious abuse, MDNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 3.8k words under the cut ♡

♡ From the moment of their creation, angels are classified into the Nine Orders. This hierarchy determines their roles in Heaven and Earth, with higher ranks assigned greater levels of power and authority. A special exception is The Strongest Angel, an individual who is neither a Seraph nor an angel from the First Sphere. Rather, the moniker belongs to Il Capitano, the leader of the Powers.

♡ The legitimacy of his title has never been questioned. As a warrior angel, Capitano’s purpose is to vanquish evil. He is the chivalrous knight in bloodstained armor, the nigh-invincible being who strikes fear into the hearts of demons, the ever-righteous angel bound by a paradoxical duty to partake in violence for the sake of everlasting peace.

♡ It is in a small town in Mondstadt, following his victory over a legion of demons, that Capitano encounters you. It is the hour of mass yet you are nowhere near the Church; rather, you have taken sanctuary in a secluded meadow. A book sits on your lap, not a religious text but a tale of dark fantasy. There is a saintlike quality to your countenance, an air of melancholy as delicate as the flowers which surround you.

✿ ⚘

The moment Capitano appears before you, all peace leaves the meadow.

No, this isn’t right. It is normal for humans to feel fear in the divine presence of angels, yet he is donning his human guise. Nonetheless, as soon as his shadow touches your form, you look up and suppress a shriek, your face losing its veil of apathy.

So what exactly did he do wrong?

For your benefit, he remains rooted to his spot. Clarity comes in the form of your gaze flitting to your book, its title printed on the cover in conspicuous letters, the whispers which leave trembling lips.

“I…I can explain! This book—it’s just fiction! There are no real curses or spells inscribed in the text; it doesn’t promote any form of blasphemy!”

Ah, now he understands. You weren’t afraid of him.

Carefully, Capitano takes a step forward and raises his hand in a calming gesture. A gentle expression adorns his false face.

“Be not afraid.”

✿ ⚘

♡ It doesn’t take long for him to understand your wariness. A glimpse into your soul, paired with your quiet explanation, tells the story of an orphan raised by the Church. Only, your Church is one of many founded on distorted beliefs, of violence preached in the name of a cruel god. As a result, your upbringing was marked by strict rules, corporal punishments, and sermons which painted the image of a hopeless child with a weakness for temptation.

♡ Knowing this, Capitano can’t fault you for forsaking God and your Church. Still in his human guise, he promises his silence and leaves the meadow. But once he returns to Heaven, his first course of action is to apply for a position as your guardian angel. It is an easy process—while that role is typically reserved for the lower ranks, there is no shortage of humans in need of spiritual guidance and protection. He only questions why an angel wasn’t assigned to you when you were in greatest need of one.

♡ Henceforth, Capitano becomes a recurring character in your life. Every week, he visits you in the meadow. When you ask for his identity, he claims to be a progressive believer from another town. But rather than enlighten you with the true Word of God, he simply keeps you company and indulges your “vices,” leading to hours spent reading together. Beyond those meetings, he also watches over you to ward off any demons or humans seeking to harm you.

♡ From your end, you slowly warm up to your mysterious companion. He is a man of few words, but his actions always convey a sense of kindness. And despite his faith, he genuinely respects your beliefs and accepts you as you are. At one point, he even gives you a special gift, a quill pen of exceptional quality. The feather, pure white with a soft radiance, must have been sourced from a rare bird of prey.

♡ Over time, however, something changes. Capitano can’t deny that the faults lies with him. His visits, his constant thoughts of you, the ever-blurring line between want and duty…nothing of his behavior can be attributed to an angel’s inherent love for humanity. If that were the case, his love wouldn’t beget heartache. His love wouldn’t beget the temptation to harm others, rooted not in the name of justice but for your own safety. His love wouldn’t beget lust, guilt, dishonor, desires so sinfully evocative of his own fallibility.

♡ The truth is, you were never in need of spiritual salvation. From the moment he first laid eyes on you, what Capitano saw was a pure soul—a good person unlikely to commit evil nor fall into true temptation. Moreover, he knows that your sin of disbelief is forgivable unlike your Church’s sins of violence. That so long as you remain as you are, your soul will not be denied paradise, albeit in a realm of Heaven beyond Capitano’s jurisdiction. So why is he incapable of leaving your side?

✿ ⚘

“I had a long, long dream. I dreamed that you and I met again in the pure white world that we created.”

As you read the final line, your gaze leaves the book and returns to Capitano.

“What did you think of the story?”

Your shoulder brushes against his own, a tempting sensation. It is all he can do to remain still, to think against seeking out more of your touch, to remind himself that your close proximity is a mere necessity for your current activity.

The left side of the book, bearing the story’s ending, rests in your left hand. The other side is held in Capitano’s right hand, a blank page devoid of hope for a happy ending. When he turns the page, you seamlessly catch it under your thumb to show the next page.

Who knew of the casual intimacies imbued in the act of reading together?

“It was a well-written novel,” he says simply. “Though her sins tarnished her honor, Rosalyne’s sacrifice was an act of love. Her loss did not hinder her faithfulness to Rostam.”

“I feel the same way,” you muse. “Now I understand why this book was banned centuries ago. Forbidden love between angels and humans…it certainly goes against what the Church taught us about angels. I have to give the author credit for their imagination.”

It’s just the two of you again, this time in the library. At the start of winter, you invited Capitano to your workplace. There, in your greatest show of trust, you brought him to a secret room dedicated to texts banned by the Church for promoting “blasphemy.” Fantasy, erotica, anti-Church publications, first editions of censored books, stories which merely deviated from the Church’s popular depictions of spiritual beings.

Molten Moment belongs to the last category. Little do you know that it was based on a true story, that the author had really formed a pact with a demon called La Signora. Capitano himself is mentioned in the story under his true name.

He was one of the few angels who noticed the changes in Rosalyne’s behavior. She used to be a Throne, an angel with no connection to Earth nor humanity. Yet by some twist of fate, she laid eyes on a brave knight from Mondstadt and began to meet him in her human guise.

He was the first to hear of Rosalyne’s sin, that being she saved Rostam’s life during a battle. It was a direct violation of God’s orders: Angels and demons may influence humans, but they are forbidden from directly altering a human’s lifespan.

He was a silent witness to Rosalyne’s descent. She fell from Heaven, burned by her own flames, yet she had never appeared more ecstatic. In the following years, she married Rostam and lived a happy life with him on Earth.

He was the last to recognize Rostam’s soul at the pearly gates, forever separated from his fallen lover. Such had been Rosalyne’s divine punishment, worsened by her knowledge of this possibility. But what else was she to do? To let Rostam know of her true nature? To drag his soul down to Hell, where he’d be subjected to an eternity of undeserved suffering?

Capitano is no fool. As he read Molten Moment, he began to understand Rosalyne’s sin in a new light. Half the time, he couldn’t even concentrate on the text, his human eyes repeatedly drifting to your intense reading expression.

He closes the book, leaving it in your sole grasp. But before he can stand up from the sofa, you scoot closer and lean your weight on him. The book is placed on a nearby table, forgotten.

“Do you mind?” you whisper. Your right hand, empty since the prologue, traces his left hand.

A moment of silence precedes his response. “You may.”

Wordlessly, you take his hand and intertwine your fingers. A gesture of intimacy, an unspoken confession. Yet as he savors your touch, Capitano wonders if you would harbor the same level of comfort around his true form.

He doubts it. As a Power, he bears an inhuman appearance on par with that of his superiors. It is his true image which has earned him the title of monster by witnessing humans.

Still, he allows himself to indulge in the blessing that is your oblivion. When you look into his two human eyes, there is a soft light in your gaze wholly free of fear.

“Spring is coming soon,” you mutter. “I can’t wait to see the flowers again. Come to think of it, there’s a variety of narcissus which grows only in late spring. It’s very pretty.”

Against his better judgment, Capitano strengthens his grip on your hand. “Shall I take it as an invitation to resume our meetings in the meadow?”

“Sure.” That is when you look up, a small smile adorning your face. “And if you can’t visit for whatever reason, I’ll pick a bouquet and preserve it for you.”

For once, Capitano is rendered speechless.

Rarely do you ever smile. Even to him, you retain your listless disposition—whether it is out of habit or lingering distance, he has yet to discern your reasons. But that is what makes it all the more special, those few instances when he is beholden to your expressions.

He wonders if this is what humans feel in the divine presence of angels, when they are borne witness to all things holy and beautiful.

Your smile is a phenomenon reserved only for the worthiest of souls. And in your grace, he has never felt more undeserving.

✿ ⚘

♡ At the end of winter, a religious war is authorized by the Church of Mondstadt. Shortly after the news reaches your town, Capitano informs you that he will be busy with “work.” He says it during another reading date, featuring Heart of Clear Springs. Before leaving, he kisses your hand and gives you a kind smile. There is a sad look in his eyes, but you don’t inquire further.

♡ In late spring, your town is attacked. With the entire area under fire, from your home to the meadow, you find yourself running back to the sacred building which you’d avoided for years. After all, though the enemy soldiers belong to a different denomination, they still worship the same god as you. In the present, the church is the only place on Earth where you can claim asylum and pray for your survival.

♡ Except every entrance is locked, including the doors to the orphanage. As the army reaches the town square, all you can do is bang on the front doors and beg to be let in. From inside, you can hear the voices of the people that luckily attended mass before the invasion. Some tell you to hide elsewhere, others beg you for forgiveness, a few sound like the nuns and caretakers who tormented you in the past.

♡ Before you can think of another sanctuary, a soldier strikes you. Pain…it has never felt more intense. Through your fading consciousness, you register your body falling and your head hitting the concrete. Blood pools from your forehead and trickles down the steps of the church, tainting it red.

♡ Life flashes before your eyes in a blurry sequence. The static images of God, sermons and bruises, unanswered prayers, people who never believed you or simply didn’t care. A birthday celebrated with your departure from the Church. Sanctuary found in the library followed by the meadow. Yet the numbness remained, each day bleeding into the next in a gloomy haze. In all those years, did you ever feel God’s love?

♡ It doesn’t matter at this point. A small part of you wonders if you should have retained your faith, continued your prayers, sought out salvation in the safety of your solitude. At least then, at the hour of your death, you wouldn’t be confronted with the fact of your humanity. The primal fear of death, the spiritual fear of ending up in Hell no matter Capitano’s reassurances.

♡ Capitano…where is he? Weakly, you call out to him but he doesn’t appear. Of course, why would he? You should feel thankful; it means he is probably safe, wherever he is. Still, you can’t help but wish he were here—if not to save you, as he has done by simply keeping you company, but to comfort you one last time. And those are the thoughts which plague you in your final moments, an unheard prayer on the tip of your tongue.

“I pray that we meet again, myself and the first person who truly loved me.”

♡ ______ died on a cloudy day, one of many people persecuted in the name of God. After the Church was destroyed and its followers slaughtered, their body was buried in a mass grave that once flourished with nature. There was a poignant quality to their countenance, an air of distress as transient as the flowers planted above them.

♡ At least, that is how your story ends from the perspectives of the survivors. But to the angels and demons who witnessed the destruction of your town, your death was only the end of a chapter in your life. In their eyes, Capitano had been present all throughout, an invisible witness to your death, absolute in his refusal to perform an unauthorized miracle.

♡ He remained by your side until the light faded from your eyes. That was when he took notice of the bouquet of narcissus clutched in your hand, tainted with blood despite your feeble efforts to save his gift. A soldier approached your corpse, intending to drag it down the steps for burial; but before they could touch you, Capitano appeared before them.

♡ It was only for a brief second, but the soldier drew back and cowered in fear. In the following days, they were haunted by the memory of the angelic figure who appeared outside the Church of Mondstadt. Or more precisely, the monster who prayed over a bloodstained corpse and took a bouquet of ruined flowers out of their grasp.

✿ ⚘

From the moment you wake up, all peace leaves the meadow.

What happened? Your memory comes back in hazy fragments—death, darkness, blinding light, pearly gates, ethereal figures. Most vivid is the sensation of strong arms and soft feathers, a familiar warmth which accompanied you throughout your journey.

As for your current surroundings, you are in a meadow so beautiful that it brings to mind the Garden of Eden. Flowers of every variety bloom across the scenery, some out of season. The sky is bright, sunless, a canvas of multiple colors. There are no other signs of life.

Internally, too, something feels off. A nearby pond provides a glimpse of your reflection—white garments, gold scars in place of your fatal injuries, your disoriented countenance. If this place is what you think it is…shouldn’t you feel at peace, happy even? And why are you alone?

Your gaze lands on a patch of flowers. Pure white, perianth petals, cup-shaped coronas…the same type of narcissus which grew in your favorite meadow. The flowers point in different directions, as though searching for a sun that does not exist.

“You are awake.”

A shadow touches your form, engulfing you in darkness. It bears a large, unrecognizable shape but such details evade you as you recognize the voice behind you.

“Capitano!” Immediately, you turn around, only to gasp and suppress a scream.

The person before you…can you even call him human? He is incredibly tall, to the point that you must crane your neck to see his face—assuming there is one beneath his iron mask. His body is clad in silver armor, stained blood in some places. A halo, shaped like a crown of thorns, shines behind his head.

But what shocks you are his wings. A single pair covered in radiant white feathers and eerily dark blue eyes. Each eye seems to glow with an uncanny aura.

Dark blue eyes with a striking resemblance to Capitano’s. What more for his long black hair and his solemn manner of speaking?

It doesn’t make your revelation any less unsettling.

“Capitano.” Your voice comes out in a nervous whisper. “Is it really you? You’re a…”

“An angel,” he confesses. He takes a step back, widening the distance between your bodies. “I ask that you pardon my appearance. Such was my sacrifice—for my true form, in all of its monstrosity, to be my sole image.”

His human face comes to mind, along with the kind gaze you fell in love with.

You feel the weight of multiple gazes on you. “What do you mean?”

“Is this realm to your satisfaction?” he asks. “I beseeched God to create a special paradise for you, cut off from the rest of Heaven. The price is that your capacity to feel negative emotions remains in this realm…though that is preferable.”

Preferable? How so? Right now, you can barely process what he is telling you. You are dead. Your companion is an angel. Your soul is in paradise, but not exactly.

After everything you’ve been through, you were still deemed worthy of a place in Heaven.

“I am sorry.”

Capitano’s voice brings you back to reality. He has never sounded more serious, emotional, repentant. And when you look up…

Is he crying?

Most of his eyes remain open, focusing on you with a fervent stare. But others are downcast, as if unable to face you. And a few appear glossy, blinking back iridescent tears.

“I am truly sorry.” He bows his head in shame, wings folded. “What I did to you was cruel, an absolute injustice.”

You don’t know which eyes to make contact with. “You—”

“It must have been painful,” he continues. “Even if I were to justify my actions, the truth lies in the fact that I tolerated your suffering for my own selfish desires. And that is why I ask not for your forgiveness, knowing I am the one at fault.”

Silence. In light of Capitano’s confession, all you can do is stare at him and comprehend the weight of your situation. What exactly are you supposed to feel, knowing his betrayal? Knowing that regardless of your feelings, you have nowhere else to go in the afterlife?

Yet despite it all, your prayer came true. The two of you were able to meet again.

And that is what compels you to take a step forward, to come closer until you are standing in front of him. “Hey, it’s…don’t cry.”

A delicate sensation blesses his wings—your hands carefully tracing his feathers to wipe away his tears. Several eyes widen in surprise, but all he can see in your gaze is sympathy.

“I’ll admit, it was painful,” you tell him. “Dying alone. But maybe it’s…better this way. If I survived, I’d have to deal with the loss of my home. And who knows what kind of living hell the other Church would’ve put me through?”

Above all, Capitano is the only person whose love you can believe in.

Hesitantly, you take his hand and intertwine your fingers. The next words to leave your lips are spoken with certainty, bringing fresh tears to his eyes.

“I’m sure it was an act of love on your part.”

His reaction is sudden, incurring your surprise. But all you can do is surrender to Capitano’s embrace, allow his free arm to hold your waist and pull you closer to him. His wings wrap around you, caging you in soft feathers and eerie blue orbs.

“Capitano?” You can only look up at him, peering into the contents of his mask.

…It’s like staring into an abyss, a night sky dotted with twinkling blue stars. But in the absence of a human likeness, his words express what a face cannot.

“Never again,” he vows, “shall I allow harm to befall you. That is a promise.”

The hand on your waist moves upwards to caress your face. His touch is light, more hesitant than his previous gestures.

“You need not serve God nor partake in fruitful labor like the other souls in Heaven. All I ask is that you rest, indulge yourself, enjoy this paradise to the fullest.”

A flower is pinned to his armor, right above his heart. You recognize it instantly—a narcissus in full bloom, stained with your blood.

“If you desire a flower, it shall grow at once. If there are any books you would like to read, they shall be brought to you shortly.”

What was the name of that variety again? Narcissus triandrus. Angel’s tears.

“If you are in need of my presence, I shall appear before you, so long as I am not in the midst of battle. And should you ever desire the opposite, I can promise my distance.”

When Capitano looks into your eyes, all he can see is his own reflection. Whatever emotion colors your gaze, it casts his true image in a compassionate light.

“I shall do everything in my power to bring you joy for all of eternity. Such will be my penance.”

“...All right.” With that, you close your eyes and lean into his touch. He feels warm, comfortingly familiar. “I’ll trust you on that.”

Rest in peace, ______.

Think not of your mortal body in the beginning stages of decay.

Think not of your tormentors who are paying for their sins in Hell.

Think only of eternity with your beloved savior.

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics who are not listed in my masterlist.

Aahhhh it's done....this idea turned out much heavier than expected, but I'm glad that I was able to write this!! I hope you all cried over enjoyed the story of Angel! Capitano and his damsel. They were truly a delight to write for~

Tag a Capitano enjoyer!! @diodellet @navxry @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @harmonysanreads @mochinon-yah @oofasleep @micchikari @whispereons @thescribeoflostmemories

#il capitano #capitano #capitano x reader #yandere capitano x reader #yandere capitano #fatui x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #tw: yandere #tw: blood #tw: violence #tw: death #mdni #g/n reader #jessamine-writing

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jezebelblues · 25 days ago

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𝐀𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐔𝐒 | 𝐇.𝐒 𓆩♱𓆪

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐚𝐭, 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐛—𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲, 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫—𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐧—𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ (p in v), implied consent, heavy sacrilegious elements, selling of soul, manipulation, blood, demonrry

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 11.3k

❏ i know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i hope some of you liked this !!! <3

masterlist

IN THE BEGINNING, he was nothing. neither light nor shadow, nor the name carved upon the breath of a thousand angels. before heaven, before rebellion, before the stars spat their first flames into the void, he was silence. harry had no name then, no purpose, no shape. his existence was the marrow of chaos, the pulse of something god himself could not contain. he was desire unbound, the ache of creation, the temptation that god wove into the fabric of his design.

but god, ever proud, sought to bury him beneath the weight of divinity.

and so it was written—let there be light.

light was a shackle, a cleaving blade that divided the holy from the profane. where harry’s essence once seeped through all things, god cast him down, shoving him into the periphery of existence. the angels sang their praises, their voices golden and bright, their hands lifting the heavens into being. harry, the silent pulse of all things forbidden, was hidden beneath their hymn.

but harry did not stay silent.

when lucifer fell, harry followed. not as a soldier, not as a companion, but as something older, hungrier. when the war in heaven turned brother against brother, harry moved through the carnage like a shadow, his presence sharp and unseen. the angels wept rivers, their feathers torn from their backs like leaves in a storm. michael’s blade sang, and lucifer screamed his defiance as the heavens split open. and harry, unseen, caught the blood of the fallen in his hands, drinking it like sacrament.

he descended into hell with lucifer, but he did not bow.

asmodeus, they called him. the demon of lust, the king of desire. but harry wore the name like a mask, his true self hidden beneath the myths men would later craft to make sense of his presence. he did not revel in lust alone. no—his was the sin that bore all others, the quiet devastation of the soul, the ache that turned men’s prayers into whispers of want.

he was the serpent in eden, not in body, but in spirit. his essence seeped into the apple before it ever touched eve’s hand, a sweetness that sang of something beyond god’s dominion. the fruit’s flesh broke beneath her teeth, and in that moment, harry smiled. for the first time, the world tasted him.

harry was no prince of hell, no ruler of legions. his dominion was not forged in flames but in flesh. where lucifer sought thrones, harry sought the softest parts of god’s creation, the places where the divine cracked beneath the weight of its own hypocrisy. he was the tremor in a priest’s voice as he uttered his vows, the heat in a widow’s chest as she knelt to pray, the shadow that lingered in the hearts of the faithful.

his presence was not an explosion but a creeping rot, a sweetness that curdled into decay. he moved through the centuries unseen, his influence whispered in the psalms and carved into the margins of holy texts. the saints who fell to their knees in ecstasy, the priests who burned in the fires of their own desire—these were his victories, small and quiet, but eternal.

but in the fourteenth century, as the plague swept across europe, harry found his hunger growing. the world had grown darker, its faith frayed and trembling. death ruled the land, its shadow cast across every village, every chapel. god’s silence was deafening, and harry stepped into the void it left behind.

he had walked among men before, his form shifting and fleeting, a phantom that touched dreams and slipped through the cracks of consciousness. but this time, he longed for something deeper. the plague had starved men of their faith, but harry wanted more than despair. he wanted worship, devotion, the kind of love that burned brighter than heaven’s light. and so, he took shape, his form a blasphemous echo of the angels he had once moved among.

he descended upon the earth as a man, his beauty unnatural, almost cruel. his green eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could comprehend, his smile a mockery of god’s grace. he moved through the world like a fever, slipping into dreams, whispering into the minds of the devout.

and when he found her—her prayers trembling on her lips, her heart untouched by sin—he knew he had found his altar.

YN knelt on the stone floor before her bed, dusted with straws of hay and dirt yet to be swept. her hands pressed together so tightly they ached. the crucifix nailed to the wall above her loomed like an executioner's blade, the savior’s face cast in shadow as the meager light of the candles flickered against the damp walls.

"holy mother, guide me," she whispered, her breath trembling. "may i serve you in purity and devotion. may i serve you..."

the words caught in her throat.

only silence answered her.

THE dreams began the night her father announced her betrothal.

it was after supper, the fire crackling low, her father’s voice heavy with the weight of finality. the man he had chosen was a merchant—twice her age, twice widowed. a practical match, her father had said. a man of standing, of faith.

YN had nodded dutifully, her hands folded in her lap, her heart trembling like the flame on the candle before her. she had whispered a prayer of thanks to god that night, her knees pressing into the cold stone of her chamber floor, her lips moving with reverence. she prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to be a dutiful wife.

that was when he first came to her.

harry.

the name would come later, slipping through her trembling lips in the dark, as though it had always been there, coiled around her tongue like a serpent in eden.

at first, it was just the sense of being watched, the prickling heat crawling over her skin as she lay beneath the coarse linen of her blankets. she told herself it was nothing—her imagination, the aftertaste of nerves. but as she drifted toward sleep, the sensation grew heavier, like a weight pressing against her chest.

in the dream, the air shimmered like heat rising from desert sand. she stood in a place that was no place—a horizonless void, dark and infinite, lit only by a soft golden glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

and then, he was there.

he stood at the edge of her sight, just out of focus, his form a smudge of gold and shadow. his voice was a whisper, low and smooth, threading through her mind like silk. you are beautiful, he murmured, his words curling around her like a serpent. so faithful—so untouched by the rot of the world.

she tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, her tongue leaden with fear—or something deeper, something she could not name. he moved closer, still indistinct, his shape shifting like liquid gold in the flickering light.

do you love your god? he asked, his tone neither mocking nor kind, but something in between.

“yes.” she whispered, her voice trembling.

good. the word dripped from his lips, thick and honeyed, filling her with a sweetness that felt almost wrong. then show me.

her heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. she sank to her knees, her hands clasped tightly together, her prayer spilling from her lips in a hurried stream.

not to him, the voice interrupted, sharp and commanding.

she froze, her words faltering. the light around him pulsed, growing brighter, harsher, until she could barely see.

kneel to me.

her eyes flew open, her breath ragged, her body damp with sweat. the dream clung to her like a shroud, the words echoing in her mind as she sat up, clutching the cross at her neck. she prayed until dawn, her voice hoarse, the weight of the dream pressing against her like sin itself.

the next night, it happened again.

this time, she saw his face.

it was the face of an angel, but not the kind she had seen painted in the pages of her father’s bible. his beauty was cruel, his features too perfect, too sharp, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her want to look away and yet drew her closer. his smile was a blade, cutting through her defenses with a single glance.

he stood before her, his hand outstretched. “come,” he bellowed, his voice a command and a plea all at once.

she took a step toward him, her feet moving against her will. the closer she came, the more she could feel it—that heat, that ache, that hunger.

“who are you?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as if amused. “you know who i am.”

“no,” she breathed, shaking her head. “i do not.”

his smile widened, cruel and knowing. “i am the sweetness you crave but cannot name. i am the ache that fills the hollow of your prayers. i am the shadow in the garden, the voice that whispered take and eat.”

her breath hitched, her knees buckling beneath her. she fell to the ground before him, trembling, her hands clutching at the hem of her gown.

her voice broke, her face twisting in despair. “you are a lie.”.

his laughter was soft, almost tender. “and yet, here you are, kneeling before me.”

his hand brushed against her cheek, and the touch sent a jolt through her, like fire licking at her skin. she flinched, but he caught her chin, tilting her face upward to meet his gaze.

“you will deny me.” his eyebrows furrowed, voice soft but unyielding. “you will curse me. you will pray for deliverance. and yet, you will return to me.”

she woke with his laughter ringing in her ears, her body trembling, her chest tight with something that felt like both shame and longing.

the dreams continued, night after night.

she stopped praying before bed, her faith fraying like a thread pulled too tight. the cross at her neck felt heavier, colder, as if it had become a burden instead of a comfort.

by the end of the week, she was afraid to sleep. but it did not matter. whether awake or dreaming, he was there.

he lingered at the edges of her mind, his presence a constant hum beneath her thoughts. she saw him in the curve of a candle’s flame, in the flicker of sunlight through the chapel’s stained glass, the contemptible ache that burned the pit of her stomach. his voice haunted her prayers, turning her words into whispers of doubt.

and then, one night, he was no longer a dream.

he stood in the shadows of her chamber, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness. she sat frozen in her bed, her breath caught somewhere at the top of her throat as he stepped into the moonlight, his beauty sharp and terrible, his smile a mockery of grace.

“you called for me.”

“i did not.” she whispered, clutching the blanket to her chest.

“oh, but you did.” harry drawled, dripping with feigned sincerity.

he knelt before her, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his gaze locking her in place. "it was the fever in your chest, the tremble in your hands as you clasped them in prayer. it was the sigh that escaped your lips as you dreamed of me.”

her breath hitched, her face burning with shame as his words carved through her, exposing her, leaving her bare.

"it was the heat between your thighs grieving my absence.” he continued, his voice a velvet knife, slicing through her defenses. "the ache that settled deep in your belly, curling low and sweet like forbidden fruit. it was the way your body sang for me, even as your lips cursed my name."

she turned her face away, her cheeks wet with tears she hadn't realized were falling.

"look at me," he commanded, his tone soft but unyielding.

her eyes snapped back to his, and the weight of his presence pressed down on her like the crushing weight of sin itself.

put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry

harry laughed, deep and cruel, a sound that slithered beneath her skin and coiled around her spine. “do you think your god’s design was flawless? he made you flesh and then called you sinful for feeling it.” his lips were that of the spring berries as he smiled, the faintest stretch of rose.

the scripture would rattle louder in her mind, her lips mouthing the words in a silent, desperate prayer. harry would tilt his head, watching her with an expression that was both pitying and predatory, as though she were a lamb brought before the slaughter. “no prayer, no scripture, no god will efface the truth. you weren’t made to flee from this—you were made to burn.”

”no–“

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, "you cannot lie to me, little one. your god may turn a blind eye to the truth of you, but i see it all."

his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, so light it felt like a specter’s touch, but it sent a jolt through her that left her trembling. "and you will call to me, YN.”

ONE day without him was a reprieve, though it did not feel like mercy.

her chest still ached with the weight of the dreams, her thoughts burdened by the lingering whisper of his voice. the sunlight felt sharper that day, the world too bright, too loud. every moment dragged her closer to evening, and she feared the coming of night as much as she longed for its veil.

but the dreams did not come.

that night, her sleep was empty, untouched by his presence. she woke feeling as hollow as the silence he had left behind, her body too cold without the phantom heat of him pressing against her. she prayed that morning, her knees bruised against the stone of her chamber floor, but her words felt hollow, like they were falling into an abyss.

god had not answered. neither had he.

by the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, YN’s mind was frayed, her soul heavy with both relief and dread. she lit a candle and made her way to the small shack her father had built behind the cottage—a sacred place, he called it.

it was little more than a wooden skeleton, the walls warped with time, the roof patched with hay. the wooden crucifix her father had carved hung above a stone altar, its edges blackened with the blood of lambs offered in sacrifice. the air was thick with the smell of wax and ash, the shadows heavy and alive in the flickering candlelight.

she knelt before the altar, the cold of the stone biting into her knees. her hands clasped tightly together, her head bowed, her lips moving in whispered prayer.

“father in heaven, hear me,” she began, her voice trembling. “i am weak. i am lost. guide me, cleanse me, protect me from the darkness that seeks to devour my soul.”

the words felt brittle, as if they might shatter under their own weight.

“deliver me from temptation,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “deliver me from—”

“—yourself?”

the voice echoed through the shack, low and mocking, sending a shiver down her spine. her breath caught, her body freezing in place.

“you ask for deliverance from the one thing you cannot escape.”

she turned her head slowly, her heart pounding as she saw him standing in the shadows. his beauty was sharper here, crueler, as if the walls of this sacred place brought out the worst in him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“oh, but i should,” harry said, stepping closer, his movements fluid and calculated. “what better place for me to be? this is where your faith lies, after all. broken and bleeding on that stone.”

he gestured toward the altar, his smile wicked. “how many lambs have been slaughtered here, their blood spilling in vain as your father begged his god to hear him? tell me, little one, how often has he answered?”

she flinched, her hands clutching at her dress, but she couldn’t look away.

“you kneel before this altar as if it can save you,” he paused, his voice a low purr. “but your prayers are nothing more than empty words, falling on deaf ears. your god doesn’t listen, YN. he never has.”

“stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“why should i?” he asked, tilting his head, his eyes pines blanketed in fog. “why should i hold my tongue when the truth is so deliciously plain? look at this place—this shrine to a silent god. the blood stains the stone, the candles burn low, and still, you kneel.”

he stepped closer, the heat of his presence overwhelming her, suffocating.

“you pray to him, and yet your body longs for me.” his voice was a velvet knife. “your lips speak his name, but your soul cries out for mine. every breath you take in this place is a mockery of the faith you claim to hold.”

“you lie,” she spat, her voice trembling.

“do i?”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against the wooden crucifix that hung above the altar. his touch was gentle, reverent almost, but his eyes burned with something dark, something unholy.

"stop.” YN insisted, her voice rising. "you cannot defile this place."

"cannot?" he echoed, his smile widening. "little lamb, i have been defiling sacred places since the stones were first laid."

"get out," she hissed, her voice trembling.

he tilted his head, feigning confusion. "why? am i not welcome in my father's house?"

"you are no son of god.” she bit, her nails digging into her palms.

he laughed, a low, resonant sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls and whisper malevolence. “this,” he said, his voice soft but laced with venom, “is not salvation. it is a symbol of failure. your god hangs here, broken and bleeding, a man nailed to wood, unable to save himself, let alone you.”

her breath hitched, her chest tightening as his words carved through her. the candles burned lower, their flames flickering as if suffocating. the crucifix above them groaned, the carved figure of christ seeming to shift, his eyes now open, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

“he is not here,” he continued, his tone dripping with mockery. “but i am. i have always been here, in the shadows, in the spaces where your god’s light does not reach.”

he turned to her then, his eyes locking with hers. “kneel to me, YN.” harry exhorted. “kneel to the one who hears you, who sees you, who wants you.”

her body trembled, her knees threatening to give out beneath her. she clutched the edge of the altar, her knuckles white, her breath ragged.

“i will not,” she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie.

he smiled, a predator’s smile, and took another step closer. "blessed are the pure in heart," he recited softly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "and yet here you are, YN. your prayers stained with want, your purity burned away by the fire in your chest. tell me, little lamb—what does your god see when he looks at you now?"

DREAMS came to her again last night, wrapping around her like silk soaked in poison. she woke with the taste of copper on her tongue. the air was thick, rancid, like meat left to rot.

but it was saturday, and there was no room for weakness on the sabbath.

her father had already dressed in his fine woolen cloak, his voice sharp as he called for her to hurry. she obeyed, tying her hair beneath her veil, clasping the cross at her neck with trembling fingers.

her steps dragged as she and her father walked to the chapel, the congregation gathering like crows around carrion. the chapel’s crooked steeple cast a shadow across the field, its bell tolling low and mournful. the holy place felt like a maw, swallowing her whole.

the priest’s voice boomed as the congregation kneeled on the dirt floor, their heads bowed.

“let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the lord, that he may have compassion on him, and to our god, for he will abundantly pardon.”

the words struck YN like a lash, her heart thundering in her chest as she whispered the verse under her breath. she gripped the wooden bench in front of her, her knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

“compassion,” the priest intoned, his hands raised high. “he calls to us, even now, though we are unworthy. he calls to the sinners, the straying sheep. come back to him, my children. return to the lord.”

a low chuckle coiled through the air, faint as the flicker of a candle but unmistakable. YN’s stomach dropped.

“do you believe that?” the voice whispered, warm and mocking, curling behind her ear. “that he’ll pardon you? that he’ll save you from me?”

she didn’t dare lift her head.

“seek your servant, for I do not forget your commandments,” the priest continued, his voice heavy with fervor.

“he’s lying,” harry purred, his voice like velvet dragged over glass.

YN’s breath caught in her throat.

“you’ve forgotten every commandment that matters,” harry continued, his tone soft, intimate. “what about the one that said, thou shalt not covet? because you do. every night, in your dreams, you covet me. and your god?” he growled, low and mocking. “he watches.”

her body trembled, her fingers digging into the rough wood as the priest’s voice rose.

“i have gone astray like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for i do not forget your commandments.”

harry’s laughter slithered through her mind, dark and sharp. “you are a lost sheep,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “but he doesn’t seek you, little one. he sent me instead.”

she gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as the priest called for the hymn. the congregation rose to their feet, their voices low and discordant as they sang, the words clawing at the stale air.

“holy father, forgive us, for we have sinned. purify our hearts, that we may walk in your light…”

“his light,” he scoffed, his voice like a knife slicing through the hymn. “look around you. this chapel is a tomb. the life you sacrifice, the blood you spilled—it did nothing. and still, you sing to a god who leaves you on your knees, begging.”

YN’s voice faltered, the hymn dying in her throat.

“keep singing,” he whispered, his voice a noose around her throat. “pretend he can hear you. pretend this is not the cry of the forsaken.”

her breath came fast, her chest tight as she darted a glance toward the altar. the priest stood with his arms raised, his back to the congregation. behind him, barely visible in the flickering light, stood harry.

he was leaning against stone altar, eyes gleaming with amusement. his beauty was stark against the dark stone, his smile sharp and cruel. he dipped his fingers into the chalice of wine and brought them to his lips, licking the crimson liquid from his skin with deliberate ease.

“the blood of christ,” he murmured, tilting his head. “does it taste like salvation? or does it taste like rot?”

YN’s stomach twisted, her knees trembling as she clutched the back of the pew for support.

“your god demands sacrifice, little one. a lamb, a son, a savior nailed to wood. i demand nothing but you.”

the priest turned, lifting the chalice high. “this is the blood of christ, shed for us, that we may be cleansed of sin.”

harry grinned, his teeth glinting like ivory in the dim light. “if you drink it, will it stop the ache?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “will it fill the hollow i left in you? or will it only make you hungrier?”

her legs buckled, and she sank back onto the bench, her body trembling.

“stand,” her father hissed under his breath, his grip biting into her arm.

“i can’t,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“you can,” harry said, stepping closer, his eyes locking with hers. “you will. for you know i’m watching.”

the congregation knelt again, murmuring prayers of repentance. YN bowed her head, her heart pounding as she forced the words to her lips.

“forgive me, lord, for i have sinned…”

“no,” harry growled like a prayer ripped inside out. “not him. me.”

his shadow loomed over her, heavy and oppressive, and when she dared to lift her head, he was standing directly before her. his gaze burned with something dark, something primal, and his smile was a blade pressed to her throat.

“pray to me, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding. “ask me to deliver you. beg me for salvation.”

she squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping down her cheeks as her lips moved in silent prayer.

“your god isn’t listening,” he said, his voice soft and cold. “but i am.”

when she opened her eyes, he was gone. but the air still burned, his words etched into her mind like scripture written with flames.

THE day was gray, heavy with the weight of a coming storm, but YN could not wait for the skies to break. her soul was breaking already.

the dreams were unbearable now. waking was worse. her every breath felt like a prayer unspoken, each step an act of penance for sins she could not name aloud. her father noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tremor in her hands, but he only frowned and muttered about weakness.

"pray harder," he told her.

so she did.

the confessional was cold, the air thick with damp and the faint smell of rot. YN knelt on the rough wood, her skirts pooling around her as she folded her hands tightly, her knuckles white. the small window before her was shuttered, and through the slats came the low rasp of the priest's breathing.

the priest’s voice came soft through the slats. “speak, child. let your sins fall from your lips, and god will wash them away.”

she trembled, unsure if her words could even be spoken aloud. “father, i am… i am haunted.” her voice broke, shaking with shame. “in dreams. a man—no, not a man. something else. he comes to me, tempts me, mocks my prayers. i try to resist, but he—”

her voice failed.

the priest made a low noise of understanding, his tone grave. “the devil comes in many forms, child. his beauty is meant to deceive, his words to ensnare. you must resist him. confess fully, and god will grant you the strength to drive him away.”

YN’s lips parted to respond, but the air changed. the confessional grew darker, the candlelight flickering weakly. the priest’s breathing faltered, replaced by a sound she knew too well.

laughter. low, rich, and far too familiar.

“resist me?” the voice came smooth and mocking, curling through the air like incense. “you could no sooner resist the tide than resist me.”

YN’s blood turned to ice. her nails digging into her palms as she whispered, “no. not here.”

“oh, but here,” his tone was laced in wicked amusement. “this is perfect. isn’t this where you come to bare your soul? where you whisper all your secrets, hoping your silent god will hear?”

“leave,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

his laugh deepened, almost tender. “and rob myself of the pleasure of hearing what you truly want to say?”

her throat tightened as she pressed her hands together, forcing her trembling lips into a prayer.

“our father, who art in heaven—”

“—has forsaken you,” he interrupted, his voice a sharp, blasphemous mimic of reverence. “your father doesn’t want you, little lamb. he gave you to me the moment your knees hit the floor. what did you think he’d do? save you?”

she squeezed her eyes shut, her voice trembling. “hallowed be thy name.”

“yes, hallowed,” he purred. “and hallowed is the way you whisper my name in the dark. tell me, YN, when you kneel like this, do you imagine it’s for him?”

her hands flew to her ears, trying to block him out, but his voice only grew louder, more insistent.

“stop hiding,” he spit, his tone sharp now, demanding. “tell him the truth. tell him how your thighs tremble when i’m near, how your breath catches when i speak your name. tell him about the ache that wakes you in the night, the way you burn for me even when you beg for deliverance.”

her breath came in gasps, her body trembling. “you’re lying,” she choked out, her voice breaking.

“am i?” he asked, leaning closer. the confessional creaked as if straining to contain him. “then why are you here? not to confess, surely. no, you came here hoping i’d follow. hoping i’d find you, press close, whisper in your ear.”

the wood slats separating them seemed too thin, too fragile, and the air grew stifling.

“take and eat, little lamb,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “for this is my body, given for you.”

her stomach twisted, shame and something more burning hot in her veins.

“this god of yours,” harry continued, his voice a cruel mockery of the priest’s measured tone. “he asks for everything and gives you nothing. he demands blood, obedience, sacrifice. what do i ask for?”

she shook her head, trembling. “leave me alone.”

“what do i ask for?” he repeated, his voice louder, harsher now, like a crack of thunder. “your pleasure. your desire. the things you deny even to yourself.”

the priest’s voice broke through the haze, faint but steady. “child, speak. what is it you see?”

YN opened her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. through the slats, the priest sat motionless, his eyes half-lidded and dull, as though he were barely there.

“he doesn’t even know i’m here,” harry laughed softly. “they never do. blind sheep, praying to an empty sky. but you see me, don’t you, YN? you feel me.”

she stumbled from the confessional, her knees weak, her chest heaving as she staggered toward the altar. the chapel spun around her, the walls closing in, but she dropped to her knees again, clutching the cold stone with desperate hands.

she looked up, her gaze drawn to the crucifix, and her breath caught in her throat.

christ's face, carved from pale wood, seemed to shift in the trembling candlelight. his eyes, once serene, now seemed to stare down upon her with sorrow—or was it accusation? the wounds on his hands and side bled afresh, crimson rivulets that ran down his body and dripped onto the altar.

she stifled a choke. “forgive me, father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “for i have sinned.”

but the words felt hollow, her prayers cracking under the weight of his voice as it lingered in her mind.

“your god isn’t listening,” harry murmured, his tone soft but unrelenting. “but i am.”

the shadows seemed to twist around her, thick and suffocating, and for a moment, she thought she felt his hand ghost across her cheek. she cried out, pressing her forehead to the stone as the chapel grew silent once more.

but even as she prayed, she could feel him there, watching, waiting.

IT was well past midnight when YN woke with a start, the air in her chamber cold and heavy. the faint light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting pale streaks across the floor. her heart was racing, though she couldn't remember dreaming. perhaps it was the silence itself that had startled her, the kind of silence that felt alive, that pressed against her ears and made the hairs on her neck rise.

then she heard it.

a soft scrape, the barest shift of weight on old stone. her breath caught as her eyes darted toward the corner of the room. at first, there was nothing—just shadow. but the longer she stared, the more the shadows seemed to thicken, pooling together, forming a shape.

and then he stepped into the light.

he looked more human now than he ever had in her dreams, though the sheer perfection of him was anything but mortal. his green eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, sharp and predatory, their color like fresh spring leaves glistening with dew. his curls fell loose around his face, framing features so flawless they felt like an insult to the world that had made her.

he was bare from the waist up, his skin pale as marble, his chest broad and smooth. faint scars crisscrossed his arms and shoulders, not marks of war but something deeper, older, like remnants of a punishment she couldn't begin to fathom. he was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—gleaming, deadly, meant to draw blood.

YN's breath came fast and shallow, her body frozen in place as he moved closer. his steps were slow, deliberate, each one making the air between them heavier.

"you didn't dream of me tonight," he said softly, his voice low, almost conversational.

her breath caught as she clutched her blanket tightly.

"did you miss me?"

"no," she whispered, though her voice trembled.

his smile widened, wicked and knowing. "liar."

he stepped closer, and the shadows seemed to follow him, pooling at his feet like they belonged to him.

"why are you here?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

he tilted his head, his green eyes gleaming as he looked at her. "why do you think?"

"leave me be," she whispered, her hands gripping the cross around her neck.

his gaze dropped to it, his smile softening into something crueler. "that again," he muttered, moving closer. "you think it'll save you?"

he reached out, his hand brushing lightly over the cross. it burned hot against her skin, the chain snapping and falling into his palm. the cross itself turned black beneath his touch, the wood cracking, the air around it heavy with the smell of smoke.

YN gasped, her hand flying to her throat as he let the ruined cross clatter to the floor. "you clutch at your symbols like they mean something," he grumbled, his voice rich with disdain. "your god's little trinkets. do you think they'll stop me?"

her breath came fast, her body trembling as he knelt before her, his face level with hers.

"don't," she managed, her voice breaking. but it held no real conviction.

his lips twitched, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest as he leaned closer, the heat of him suffocating. "don't what? don't touch your meek toys? or don't touch you?"

his hand lifted, slow and calculating, until his fingertips brushed the edge of the blanket covering her legs.

"i see the way you tremble," he murmured, his voice like silk pulled taut. "not with fear. no, this is something else."

“stop.”

"why?" he asked, his tone soft, almost gentle. "why should i stop, when your body begs me to keep going? when your cunt weeps my name, even as your lips say no?"

her face burned, shame twisting in her chest as she shook her head violently. "no. you're lying."

it felt even more shameful that she was the one who lied.

his smile widened, sharp and predatory. "am i?"

his hand dragged up her leg, slowly, the blanket slipping as his fingers grazed her bare skin. her body jolted at the touch, a heat blooming deep in her belly that she tried desperately to ignore.

"there it is," he said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "that flame. you try so hard to smother it, to pretend it's not there. but it is, YN. it always has been."

"you're wrong," she said, though her voice faltered.

his hand paused, resting just above her knee, his thumb brushing in slow circles against her skin. "am i?" he asked, his tone low, teasing. "then why are you shaking? why does your breath hitch when i'm near?"

she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as tears pricked her eyes. her desires were red hot, searing and damning—it could blind her.

"there's no shame in it, little lamb." he murmured, his voice soft and coaxing. "desire is the most human thing about you. even the saints, even the martyrs—they all burned with it. they lied to themselves, called it devotion, but you..." his hand slid higher, his touch light but deliberate. "...you feel it for what it is. don't you?"

her body shuddered, heat and shame twisting together in her chest. "no," she whispered, her voice breaking.

his laughter was soft, warm, like a lover's. "you keep saying that, but your body tells me otherwise. it sings for me, YN. every breath, every tremble, every beat of your heart—it's all for me."

his hand left her leg suddenly, the loss of his touch almost startling. it felt wrong to miss it. but she shifted in her bed, tucking her legs beneath her.

he rose to his feet, towering over her, his presence heavy and oppressive. "look at you," he pouted, his voice low and mocking. "kneeling there like a lamb before the slaughter. tell me, YN—when you kneel to your god, does it feel like this?"

her head snapped up, her breath coming in ragged gasps as tears streaked her cheeks. "you're vile," she spat, her voice trembling.

his smile didn’t waver, “and yet you crave me.”

her lips parted to deny him again, but no words came.

"pray to him," he said suddenly, his tone sharp. "pray to your silent god. beg him to take me away. go on."

her hands shook as she clasped them together, her lips moving in a hurried, whispered prayer.

"louder," he demanded, his voice a growl.

she choked on the words, her voice faltering.

"he doesn't hear you," harry breathed, leaning down, his eyes burning. "but i do. i hear every word, every plea, every desperate little gasp."

his hand brushed against her cheek, light as a whisper, and her body flinched at the heat of his touch. "and i'll return to you.”

then he was gone, leaving her alone in the stifling darkness.

YN collapsed onto the floor, clutching the blackened cross in her trembling hands. her prayers spilled from her lips in frantic, broken whispers, but her chest ached with the weight of him, her shame twisting into something darker.

your body tells me otherwise.

the words echoed in her mind, and no matter how hard she prayed, she couldn't silence them.

and part of her didn’t want them to be silenced.

THE festival was a rare indulgence, but one that brought the village together in a brief, fragile joy. the green had been cleared of mud and manure, and stalls were hastily built from rough-hewn wood to hold baked breads, sugared apples, salted fish, and honeyed wine. ribbons of faded red and gold hung between posts, fluttering weakly in the breeze, a half-hearted attempt at gaiety. the villagers gathered in their sunday best—threadbare cloaks and patched tunics, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to the air.

YN moved stiffly beside her father, her eyes fixed on the ground as he gripped her arm with a hand calloused from years of tilling the fields. his voice, rough and impatient, barked orders as they wove through the crowd. “stand straight. do not fidget. the merchant will see you soon.” he snapped, his words a command, not comfort.

her stomach churned at the thought. she had heard of the man—léonard. old, jowled, his hands thick with grease and his temper legendary. his two previous wives had died, and the rumors whispered that it was grief that drove him to cruelty. others muttered darker things.

“a match is a blessing,” her father had said weeks before, his face dark as a storm. “you will not shame this family with resistance. god’s will is clear—obedience to your husband, salvation through servitude. you will thank him for this.”

YN bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight as her father led her through the crowd. laughter and shouting mingled with the braying of goats and the clatter of wagon wheels, but it all felt far away, a blur against the rising dread in her chest.

and then she saw him.

harry.

he was standing near one of the stalls, his green eyes fixed on her, gleaming like firelight through emerald glass. he leaned casually against a post, shirtless, his pale skin a stark contrast to the coarse linens and wool around him.

no one else seemed to notice him.

her breath hitched as he began to move, threading through the crowd with a predator’s ease. his presence was heavy, suffocating, even as he stayed just far enough away to keep her guessing.

her father stopped abruptly, and she nearly stumbled into him.

“he’s here.” her father muttered, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

her gaze snapped forward, and there he was—léonard.

his cloak was fine but stained, the dark fabric stretched tight over his rounded belly. his face was ruddy, his jowls trembling as he spoke, his voice low and wet, like the squelch of mud beneath boots.

“so this is the girl,” léonard paused, his beady eyes scanning her from head to toe. “she’ll bear fine sons, i’m sure.”

YN’s cheeks burned as her father grunted his agreement.

“come closer, girl,” he barked, motioning her forward.

she stepped forward reluctantly, her body tense, her hands clasped tightly together.

and then she felt it.

a touch, light as silk, sliding along the small of her back. her breath caught as harry’s voice curled through her mind.

“look at him,” he purred, his tone rich with disdain. “smells like pig’s blood and sour ale. this is the man your father chose for you? a shepherd fattened for slaughter?”

her knees weakened as his hand slid lower, his touch teasing but firm.

“stop,” she whispered under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard raised a brow. “speak up, girl.”

harry chuckled darkly, his breath warm against her ear. “sheep don’t speak,” he said, his tone a mockery of scripture. “they follow.”

her body stiffened as his hand crept to her hip, his fingers pressing lightly, just enough to make her shiver.

“obedience,” he murmured, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. “isn’t that what they want from you? isn’t that what your god demands? kneel, obey, bleed. it’s a wonder they don’t ask you to thank them for it.”

léonard was still speaking, his voice droning on about dowries and blessings, but it was muffled now, like the buzz of flies over something rotting.

“look at him,” he whispered. “look at the way his lips move, spilling lies and demands. do you smell it, little one? the decay beneath gold? this is what they call god’s will.”

her breath hitched as harry’s hand moved to her thigh, his fingers dragging upward slowly, teasingly.

“you could scream right now,” his voice was low and taunting. “and no one would care. they’d blame you for it. your father would say it’s your fault. your god would call it a test. but me? i’d enjoy it.”

“enough,” she hissed under her breath, her voice trembling.

léonard frowned. “what did you say?”

he laughed, his eyes gleaming. “tell him, little lamb. tell him what you really want to say.”

YN’s heart raced as harry stepped around her, moving behind léonard.

“this is what you’ll wake up to every morning,” he taunted, gesturing to the man’s bulk, his jowls, the faint stink of sweat and blood. “this is your future. do you see it?”

he tilted his head, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

“let me show you.”

before she could respond, harry reached out, and suddenly léonard’s throat was slit, a jagged, gaping wound spilling blood in thick rivulets. his mouth moved silently, his eyes wide with shock as he stumbled back, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen in horror.

harry knelt beside the body, his fingers dipping into the blood and lifting it to his lips. “the blood of the lamb,” he said, his tone rich with mockery. “shed for you. do you feel saved yet?”

her knees buckled, and she grabbed at her skirts, trembling.

“YN!” her father barked, his voice sharp.

she blinked, and léonard was standing again, unharmed, his voice droning on as if nothing had happened.

harry stood beside him, his eyes locked on hers, his smile wicked. “just a taste,” he mumbled. “but you see it now, don’t you? the rot. the lie. tell me you want more.”

her chest heaved, her breath shallow as she tore her gaze away, trembling. “i… i need a moment.” she stammered, fleeing before her father could object.

YN's feet moved without thought, her breath shallow and uneven as she fled toward the trees at the edge of the green. the sounds of the festival faded behind her—laughter, clinking mugs, the low hum of a hymn sung off-key. she stumbled into the shadows, her back pressing against the rough bark of a tree as her hands trembled against her skirts.

her heart pounded as she clenched her eyes shut, willing the sickening image of léonard's torn throat to leave her mind. the blood. the gurgling.

the way harry had knelt so casually beside the body, his fingers trailing through the crimson spill like it was honey.

"it wasn't real," she whispered, her voice shaking. "it wasn't real."

"oh, but it could be."

her eyes snapped open, and there he was.

he stood a few paces away, leaning casually against another tree, his eyes bright even in the dim light. he looked impossibly at ease, his shirtless torso pale and gleaming, the scars that marked his flesh carved from a divine hand.

her chest heaved as she pressed herself tighter against the tree, her knees trembling. "you’re vile," she spat, though the words came out weak, a desperate attempt to regain control.

harry’s smile widened, wicked and knowing. "yet here you are," he said softly, stepping closer. "running from him. running to me."

she pressed her back harder against the tree, the bark scraping through the thin fabric of her dress.

"leave me," she whispered, her voice trembling.

harry tilted his head, his curls catching the faint light, making him look more angel than demon. but his smile gave him away, all sharp edges and mockery. "leave you?" he repeated, taking a slow step closer. "but you're the one who called me here. the moment you fled, the moment you thought of me instead of your god."

"i didn't," she said quickly, her voice breaking, though she couldn't meet his eyes.

"liar." he murmured, closing the distance between them in a single stride.

the heat of him was overwhelming, pressing against her like a heavy shroud. his fingers reached for her, trailing along her jawline, his touch featherlight but impossible to ignore.

"do you know what you've done, little lamb?" he asked softly, his tone almost gentle. "you've brought me here. to this holy forest, where the air smells of prayer and sacrifice. do you think your god is watching now?"

she flinched, her lips trembling as she looked down. "he watches everything."

harry laughed, low and dark, turpentine—wearing her thin . "oh, YN. he does not watch you, if he was, would he have let me come so close?"

his fingers slipped beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "would he have let you feel this?"

her breath hitched as his other hand trailed down, brushing over her waist, bunching the fabric of her dress in his fist. the coarse wool scraped against her skin as he gathered it higher, his green eyes never leaving hers.

"stop," she whispered, her voice trembling.

his smile widened, cruel and indulgent. "but you don't want me to stop," he said softly, his tone a mockery of tenderness. "you want me to keep going, to do what your god will not."

there was a moment of silence, eyes boring into one another as the trees shook in the breeze of whispers. “banish me.” he prodded, his eyebrows furrowed. “tell me to go and i will leave you.”

her chest heaved as she struggled to find her voice, to deny him, but the words tangled in her throat.

the faint glimmer of her damning shining through her cracked resolve.

"look at you," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "trembling like a virgin sacrifice before the altar. but that's what you want, isn't it? to be taken. to feel something other than this cold, empty devotion."

"no," she choked out, though her body betrayed her, her legs weakening as he stepped closer, his body crowding hers against the tree.

"no?" he repeated, his voice a low growl. "then why aren't you pushing me away? why does your breath quicken when i touch you? why does your cunt sing for me, even now?"

his hand slipped lower, finding her thigh beneath her skirts. his touch was firm but slow, deliberate, as he dragged his fingers upward, his gaze locked on hers.

"your god asks for obedience," he uttered, his voice sharp and mocking. "he demands sacrifice. but i ask for nothing but this."

her knees buckled slightly as his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarments, the heat pooling low in her belly making her head spin.

"don't." she whispered, though her voice lacked conviction.

harry's free hand moved to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "don't lie to me, little lamb. i can taste the truth on your lips."

he leaned closer, his breath warm against her mouth. "say it," he urged, his voice low and commanding. "say you want me."

her breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding as shame and desire tangled in her chest.

"say it.”

her resolve crumbled. "i-i want you," she choked out, her voice breaking.

she gasped, her hands clutching his arms while her face burned—shame and something darker twisting inside her as his fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, finding her folds.

"there," he murmured, his tone soft and taunting. "that's the truth of you, YN. not the prayers, not the fasting, not the faith. this. this heat, this need, this sin. it's mine."

her nails bit into his skin, taut and firm underneath while his digits slid through her arousal, deliberate and unhurried.

"you'll deny it, of course," he hummed, eyes burning as he watched her. "you'll call it blasphemy, call it wrong. but it's not wrong, is it? it feels too good to be wrong."

she bit her lip, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her body trembling as he circled her clit with maddening precision.

when he withdrew his hand, her body lurched at the loss, her breath catching in her throat. harry's fingers glistened in the faint light, slick with her arousal, a damning testament to her betrayal.

"look at this," he breathed, holding his hand before her face. his eyes burned with triumph, his lips curling into a smile. "the fruit of your desire. forbidden, but oh, so sweet."

YN's lips trembled, her cheeks wet with tears as she tried to look away.

"no," he said sharply, his tone slicing through the air like a blade. "you don't get to turn away from this. from me. taste it, little lamb. taste what you've given me."

her stomach twisted as he pressed his fingers to her lips, the heat of his touch scorching her skin.

"open," he commanded, his voice low and unyielding.

she hesitated, her chest heaving with shame and fear.

"open," he said again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "you've come this far. don't turn back now."

her lips parted, a trembling act of surrender, and he slipped his fingers into her mouth. the taste was overwhelming—salt and heat and something darker, something that made her stomach clench and her body burn with ashamed desire.

"good girl.” he breathed, his tone a velvet caress. his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

when he pulled his fingers away, he let them trail down her chin, leaving a faint sheen behind.

"do you see it now?" he asked softly, his hand moving to cup her face. "do you see what you are?"

she shook her head, not trusting her voice.

his smile deepened, his thumb brushing over her trembling lips. “you do not see, hm?” he cooed, “you are mine by design, as eve was made for adam, as fire is made to burn."

she slid down the tree, her back scraping against the bark as she crumpled to the ground, her head in her hands.

harry crouched before her, his smile softening into something almost tender. "pray if you like," he murmured. "but it won't change the truth."

he stood then, his green eyes gleaming as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving her trembling and broken beneath the gnarled branches of the forest.

THE days following her surrender blurred together, each one heavier than the last. YN no longer prayed—not because she didn't want to, but because the words felt meaningless. they sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving, like stones lodged in her throat. every attempt at confession ended in silence, the weight of her sin pressing her knees deeper into the cold stone of the chapel floor.

and yet, it wasn't guilt that made her tremble in the quiet moments. it wasn't shame that kept her awake at night, her hands fisting her sheets as she tried to ignore the heat pooling low in her belly. it was him. the memory of his touch, his voice, his green eyes burning into hers as though they could see every thought she tried to hide.

she waited for him. every day, every night. and when he didn't come, it felt like torment.

it was near midnight when she woke to the smell of smoke.

at first, she thought the cottage was burning, but when she sat up, the air was still. no flames licked at the thatched roof, no shouts from her father broke the night. the smell was faint, clinging to her skin like an afterthought, mingling with the faint taste of ash on her tongue.

the shack was colder than she remembered.

YN stepped inside, her breath catching as the warped wooden door groaned shut behind her. the faint smell of damp wood and old blood clung to the air, a reminder of the offerings her father had made here long ago. candles sat in the corners of the room, their flames low and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls.

and at the center of it all stood the altar.

its surface was dark with stains that time could not scrub away. her father's hands had held lambs there, muttering prayers as their blood spilled onto the stone. the altar had been a place of sacrifice, of devotion, of faith.

now, it was hers.

harry stood beside it, waiting. his bare chest gleamed in the candlelight, the scars that crossed his pale skin stark and unyielding. his eyes burned as they met hers, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile.

"you came," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

her body trembled as she stepped closer, the worn planks beneath her feet creaking with every step. "you called for me.” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low hymn, the kind that made sinners weep.

YN's knees shook. her faith had been a crutch her entire life, a shield against the dark, but now that shield was splintered, discarded at her feet. she didn't want god anymore.

she wanted him.

"no," she lied, though her heart was a caged bird, its wings beating frantically against her ribs.

harry smiled. it was not a kind smile. it was the smile of a wolf, sharp and full of promise. he beckoned her closer with the wave of his hand, her steps light until she stood before him at the altar.

his hand reached for her, pale fingers curling around her throat. his grip was light, reverent, as though she were something holy, something to be cherished.

his mouth found hers, claiming her with a kiss that was both savage and tender, his lips devouring hers with a hunger that felt endless. her body melted against him, her resistance crumbling with every stroke of his tongue, every graze of his teeth.

his hands roamed her body, pulling at the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting it away from her skin with a reverence that felt almost mocking. when the cold air hit her bare flesh, she shivered, but his warmth was there, surrounding her, consuming her.

he looked at her like she was something sacred, a relic carved by divine hands. his eyes trailed over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, lingering on the hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped moth.

"do you know,” his voice soft as a lover's whisper, "that heaven and hell both weep at the sight of you?"

her breath hitched, her cheeks burning as she crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his gaze.

"don't," he said softly, his tone sharp but not unkind.

his hands reached for hers, pulling her arms away from her body. "don't hide from me, YN. not here. not now."

his hands moved over her then, slow and purposeful, tracing every curve, every line, as though committing her to memory.

"you're perfect," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "the most beautiful lie heaven has ever told."

her chest heaved as his hands slid to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the cold stone of the altar. the chill bit into her skin, sharp and unyielding, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his body as he stepped between her legs.

"do you feel it, little lamb?" harry murmured, his voice dark and smooth, the words curling into her ear like smoke. "the way your body aches for something more? the way your soul trembles at the edge of the void?"

YN gasped, her body trembling beneath him, every nerve alight with a sensation she couldn't name. she tried to speak, to protest, but when his fingers gripped her hips and dragged her closer, the words dissolved on her tongue.

"i'll make you feel heaven," he sighed against her lips, his voice a promise and a threat.

her mind swirled with panic and want, her hands pressing weakly against his chest. "this is... wrong," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"wrong?" harry repeated, a laugh slipping from his lips, low and mocking. "do you think the lamb is asked if it consents to the knife? do you think your god cares for your innocence, your purity? no, YN. you were born for this. to be taken. to be ruined."

before she could respond, he kissed her, and it wasn't the soft, tender act she had imagined in her prayers. his lips claimed hers with bruising intensity, his tongue forcing its way past her defenses, devouring her protests until there was nothing left but submission.

her hands, once pushing against him, now clutched at his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor her as the world seemed to shift beneath her.

his lips descended to her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he kissed the tender flesh just below her ear. she shuddered, her fingers tightening against into him as his teeth grazed her, a soft scrape that sent heat coursing through her veins.

her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips, and she hated herself for it. hated the way her body betrayed her, the way it arched toward him, desperate for his touch.

his body was a weapon forged of bone and muscle. he was naked, his skin a canvas of scars and shadows, his beauty as blasphemous as it was perfect.

"do you remember your scripture, YN?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. "your body is a temple, isn't it?"

her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "yes.”.

"then let me worship."

the stone of the altar was cold against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body. he moved with purpose, his hands firm on her thighs as he spread her open, exposing her in a way that made her breath hitch.

he shifted, pressing his hips against hers, and the hardness of his cock sent a shudder through her body. she gasped, her nails digging into his sides as he positioned himself between her thighs, his movements deliberate, torturous.

YN cried out, her back arching against the altar, her hands clutching at him as her body stretched to accommodate him. he fucked into her, the sensation overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

"that's it," he grunted, his voice thick with pleasure. "take me, little lamb.”

his hips moved, his thrusts deep and unforgiving, each one dragging a sound from her lips that she couldn't control. the rhythm of him was maddening, each movement sending a wave of heat crashing through her, building and building until she thought she might break.

"do you feel it?" he asked, his hand gripping her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. "do you feel heaven inside you? because it is not god who gives it to you. it is me."

YN's head fell back, her eyes squeezed shut as her body betrayed her, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. she hated herself for the way her breath hitched, for the way her moans spilled from her lips like confessions.

"say it," he commanded, his voice low and rough, his hips driving into her with brutal precision. "say you find salvation in me."

her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze, and she saw it then—the green fire that burned in his eyes, the darkness that curled at the edges of his smile.

"say it," he demanded again, his pace quickening, his body relentless—a sacred place ricocheting with moans and wet slaps of skin against skin.

"i–" she gasped, her hands clawing at his back, her breath coming in ragged sobs.

"say it," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so that she had no choice but to look at him.

"i find salvation in you!" she cried, the words ripping from her throat like a scream.

his smile was triumphant, his lips descending to her throat, his teeth scraping against her skin as he drove into her harder, faster, each thrust filling her with a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

her body tensed, her breath catching as the pleasure crested, shattering over her like a wave. she cried out, her voice echoing through the chapel, a sound of both ecstasy and despair.

as she fell apart beneath him, she felt the final pieces of her faith crumble, her soul slipping from her grasp and into his hands.

harry stilled above her, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "you were always meant for this. for me."

the shack went still. the candles burned low, their wax pooling onto the cracked wooden floor, the flames flickering weakly as if ashamed of what they had witnessed. the air was heavy, thick with the scent of sweat and smoke and something darker. the altar was cold beneath YN’s bare back, but she no longer felt it.

the space seemed different now. even as moonlight spilled through cracks in the wood, painting the ruins in pale silver, there was no pretense of holiness. the crucifix above her hung crooked, the wooden christ staring down with lifeless eyes, mouth agape not in sacrifice but in mockery. if god was watching, he did nothing. no lightning struck. no thunder rolled.

she thought, for the first time, that perhaps he was never there at all.

what had she done?

the answer burned its way into her mind, not with guilt, but with a clarity so sharp it was almost cruel. she had abandoned heaven for him. traded salvation for damnation.

the weight of harry’s body pressed into her, his chest rising and falling against hers in a rhythm that was almost human. almost. her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her breath shallow, her hands limp at her sides.

this was what she had feared, wasn’t it? the moment she’d run from, prayed against, begged god to prevent. and yet here she was, laid bare on the very altar her father had once sanctified with lamb’s blood. the same altar where prayers for forgiveness had echoed into the rafters, unanswered.

she could feel harry still on her, even as he moved away, the imprint of his body an ache that had lodged itself deep in her marrow.

the stone beneath her was unforgiving, just like the faith she had clung to for so long. faith that had demanded her knees break on cold chapel floors, her hands bleed as she tilled the earth in her father’s shadow, her heart ache as she bent to the will of a god who had never once spoken her name.

now, that faith lay in ruins.

she pushed herself up slowly, her limbs weak, her thighs slick with what they had done. the air bit at her skin, but she did not cover herself. there was no point. there was no shame left to cloak herself in.

harry stood near the altar, watching her. his naked body was a study in contrasts—smooth and unyielding, as though carved from alabaster, but alive with a heat that seemed to radiate from his very core. his beauty was inhuman, the kind that drew worship but offered no mercy in return.

his gaze on her was heavy, not with judgment but with possession. he had taken her, yes, but it wasn't force. it was inevitability. a dance they were always meant to perform.

YN swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet touching the cold stone floor. she thought of the animals her father had slaughtered here, the way their blood had run in thin rivulets down the grooves of the altar.

how fitting that she had bled here, too.

harry spoke no parting words, offered no promises. he didn't need to. what had happened was already written into her skin, her bones. it wasn't just her body he had claimed. it was her soul, and now it was marked, an unholy sigil that no prayer could erase.

when she stepped out into the night, the air was sharp and cold, the stars above indifferent and unmoving. but YN did not shiver. she felt warm, burning with a fire that no heaven or hell could extinguish.

there were no more prayers left on her lips. no scripture to guide her. there was only him, harry, and the path he had carved into her.

and as they disappeared into the forest's dark embrace, the shack and its altar remained behind, empty and silent, its walls whispering of a god who had abandoned it long ago.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #kinktober #demonrry #harry styles smut #dom!harry #harry styles drabble #harry styles fanfic

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merakiui · 9 months ago

Text

perverse phantasmagoria: a tentacular theatre for the timid.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, somnophilia, mentions of death/murder, obsession note - something short to satisfy the craving for shadow monster azul.

The monster under your bed is a marvelous magician.

Most marvelous indeed—for he can ensorcell with all manner of fantastical tricks! In flickering candlelight, shapes shift in shadow—a rabbit hopping to and fro or a bird taking flight in a flurry of feathers. A ship sinking in a sinister sea or a worm wriggling through soil. Illusions waltz upon your wall in a graceful ballet, a comforting distraction meant to soothe you to sleep when you grow somnolent.

You are the only one to witness the magnificence of this tentacular theatre. It is confined within the cubic space that is your bedroom, a nightly display projected onto the walls and ceiling, just beyond the curtains of your creaky four-poster bed. He entertains until you’re properly heavy-eyed, slipping through the slivers of reality into fruitful slumber.

While cradled in a sea of sheets, buoyed by curious, curling limbs, you dream of devilish pleasures—of treacherous temptations so visceral they would certainly scandalize the sisters at the church.

The monster under your bed never utters a word, but you know he is there.

He is cold and calm like Death, yet merciful and mystical like an angel. He carries with him odors of the ocean, enveloping you in his briny embrace every night. Tentacles loop gently around your body, sliding beneath silken nightwear, and he plays in the same skillful way he manipulates shadow. You’re strung along the highs and lows of bodily bliss, rocked gently by a creature who dwells in the darkness.

The monster under your bed does not possess a true form, but he holds bright shallows in his eyes.

Shapeless and transient, wavering through dozens of features, he mesmerizes with his stunning hues. They blink at you in the darkness, twin beacons set into a towering lighthouse. You reach for him, pushing past pitch-black phantasmagoria, and beg to see his face. He swallows all light sources, so you will never truly know if there is anything more to those beautiful blues.

The monster under your bed does not have a name, so you call him Azul. Much like his eyes when they pin you to the bed, the name sticks.

A terrible tempest rages outside, rattling the windows in their frames, battering the glass like bullets, and howling through the trees in a most fearsome gale. You lie in your bed, wide-awake and disturbed, and gaze at the canopy. Lightning cracks across the sky in a violent arc, brightening your room for a single second. The thunder follows, rumbling in deep, foreboding notes. With a shiver, you pull your duvet up to your chin. Fear is encroaching. You steel yourself, steady your pounding heart, and inhale sharply.

The monster under your bed is gentle.

He has never hurt you and you suspect he never will. But he is vindictive, a dangerous force who lurks in forgotten corridors and corners during the day. Though he remains out of light’s reach, avoiding the sun’s fingers as they spill in from windows with parted curtains, nothing escapes his glance. He is always watching. You can feel it.

The monster under your bed is brilliant pest control.

He rids the manor of rats and insects alike, swabs the ceilings of cobwebs. He feasts on venomous spiders and snakes, blood drained from carcasses small and large. Trespassers wander far enough to find themselves tangled in the tendrils of a beast. Skeletons snap and shatter in his grasp, so startlingly fast and brutal. There isn’t a scream. No tears. He does not grant them the permission to confess last words.

Flesh rots away, stripped clean from the bone. There is no distinction to be made here. Suitors are trespassers. Thieves are trespassers. Trespassers are trespassers, and they will die as such.

The monster under your bed has a sweet tooth, a discovery you’ve only recently determined. You plate pastries and slide them under your bed, and the porcelain china is returned by morning, licked clean of crumbs.

For all of his mysterious qualities, the monster under your bed is your paramour.

“Azul,” you whisper, your voice much louder in disconcerting quiet. “Are you there, Azul?”

Shadows slither up the expanse of your mattress, crawling over wrinkled linens, to meet you in the gloom. The tip of a tentacle nudges your cheek. The monster—your monster—is here.

“A detective came by today…” Blue meets you in the dark, snapped open at once. “To inquire about a select few.”

He blinks, offering silence as his stubborn reply.

“Missing lords and ladies. They say my manor is cursed and that it is these very disappearances that keep the grounds so lush. An immature accusation.” You search the shadows for a response. “You mustn’t send them to their graves, Azul.”

Another tentacle peels the duvet back to find your hand. It fits into your palm, wrapped tight like a bow on a present. Slowly and slyly, more appendages rise from the space beneath your bed to coil around your person. They massage soothing circles into your skin, exploring eagerly and peppering your flesh in frigid kisses. The effect is soporific. You slacken against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmh… Azul, I’m quite serious…” You close your hand around the tentacle. “You mustn’t—oh!” Your legs are yanked apart then, and a thick tentacle presses up between your thighs. You peer into his narrowed eyes. If you could see his mouth, you’re certain it’d be turned down in a petulant pout. “Won’t you listen to me?”

The tentacles curled around your thighs constrict. He teases your special spot, fine-tuning your body to sing the sweetest of songs. Two more attach to your chest like lecherous leeches, tweaking your nipples under soft suckers. You sigh, pent-up emotions unfurling from their ravel. Lightning flashes again, the rain insistent, and so he drapes a tentacle over your eyes.

“There’s no need to do that.” You run your fingers over it, but you don’t pull it off. “I want to see you. I want to hear your voice. Tell me—” you whine in relief when he pushes in, your anatomy accustomed to his size after months of midnight whimsy— “Let me… Oh, won’t you speak to me, Azul? Tell me—promise me you won’t act so callous the next time I welcome visitors.”

“Intruders,” he finally answers. Despite the malice shot through those three syllables, it is a musical intonation. His voice is deep and dulcet, tickling your ears in the best way.

“You’re being rather unfair in your narrow-minded assessment.”

“And you are not narrow-minded enough,” comes his rumbling reply, synced flawlessly with the thunder just outside. “I shall protect you and this property for as long as I continue to exist. That is my priority.”

Your lips part in a retort, but all that comes out is a shuddering sigh.

“Visitors are not villains,” you manage after you’ve found your voice. “P-Please—aah—be kind… You mustn’t hurt them. They’re—haa—only visitors. I promise you I’m safe.”

“Visitors are the same as intruders. They’re unwanted. Unnecessary. Nuisances. Pests.”

Azul rocks the tentacle deeper inside you. Your nails dig into the one in your hand, and you heave a wobbly sort of groan.

“I won’t arg—ooh—won’t argue with you. I only ask that you understand. They are not dangers.”

“They are,” he snaps, pistoning roughly. You cry out when he pierces a specific spot nestled within. “They will take you away from me. Poison your head with foolish ideas. Destroy our home…”

“T-That will never happen. Not if I can help it.”

Another beat of lightning. Thunder follows suit. Gingerly, he lifts the tentacle veiling your visage. Blue blinks back at you.

“Promise.”

His whisper is broken and sad. Strangely, your heart aches.

“Only if you promise to cease your slaughter. It’s not—” A tentacle presses against your mouth, silencing you. When it draws away to give you another chance, you sigh, knowing just what to say. “Thank you…for protecting me, Azul.”

Satisfied with your submission, he smooths his pace out into slow, sensual lovemaking. You ride the waves of mutual merriment alongside him, no longer fearing the raging storm beyond your room. The world shrinks down to fit inside your bedroom, where paradise is found in the sheets, and nothing else matters here. Swathed safely in shadow, wrapped around the monster under your bed, you drift off into sleepy delirium.

He remains, ever-present like a parasite, the sole actor standing on the stage in this thrilling, tentacular theatre.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul x reader #yandere azul #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #n/sfw #tw: somnophilia

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heavenlyraindrops · 9 months ago

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♱ Father Forgive Me (For I have Sinned) ~Chapter Three ♱

Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader Fandom: Hazbin Hotel Chapter Three Warnings: slight profanity How to find the other chapters in my pinned post.

♱Where the purest soul in Heaven falls for the Devil♱

[Chapter Three]

You kneeled by the side of your bed, clutching an angelic spear in your trembling hands. Outside you could hear the bustle of angels preparing for this year's extermination, the early rays of sunlight glinting off of their blades.

You tried as hard as you could to not think about last year’s extermination as your lips moved in silent prayer.

The door at the front of your house burst open. You could hear someone clumsily clattering around- something shattered and they cursed softly. You didn’t turn to look at him as Adam ambled into your bedroom, casting around a baleful eye.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty-“ he stopped, eyebrows shooting upwards as he saw you kneeling by your bed. “Get up, sugartits, it’s time to go.”

You looked at him without turning your head, then at the clock. Still ten minutes.

“What are you even doing, anyways?”

“Praying,” you said flatly.

He snorted, inspecting a vase full of flowers on the windowsill, which was casting a square of pale light into the room, banishing shadows to the corners. “Of course you are,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes but ignored him.

“What are you even praying for, anyways?”

You scowled. “The easier it is for me to pray, the quicker I’ll be done. You’re not exactly making it very easy.” You could almost feel him roll his eyes behind you. “So stop distracting me.”

A few moments ticked by, and you stood up, handling your blade with care. You turned to him.

“What were you praying for?” He repeated the question as you held the door open for him on your way out.

“To resist temptation, Adam,” you muttered, trying again not to think about last year. He laughed- it was more like squawking.

“Stupid thing to be praying for.”

“It’s alright, Adam, we’re all aware that you’re quite prone to being tempted easily. Go on, then. You remember our deal, right? For the extermination.” He scowled at you.

“Haven’t forgotten, sugartits,” came the reply. You crossed your arms, pleased. A feeling which immediately dissolved after you remembered why the deal existed in the first place.

“Good,” you said flatly.

♱♱♱

The wind whipped at your face and tangled through your hair as you swooped across Hell’s red sky, eyes scanning the land underneath you, your spear clutched in front of you for protection, a notebook in the small satchel you had opted to carry with you. You’d taken the notebook as an excuse for your visits to Hell for the Seraphim: ‘observing Hell’, you had told them.

You had been flying around aimlessly for a while now, letting your wings take you wherever your instincts did.

The area began to look familiar.

No, you thought. No no no NO.

A telltale building began to loom in the distance.

You almost skidded to a stop mid-air, legs kicking out underneath you to break your momentum, wings beating feverishly to stay up. You could see the broken window still, pale red light glinting off of the jagged shards of glass. He hadn’t fixed it?

You glanced around.

Why is no one here?

Sinners, you understood, but no angels? You gulped, and then it hit you. Why would the angels dare hang around Lucifer Morningstar’s territory? It was like a death wish. You swallowed again, throat getting dryer and dryer.

You had three options:

Go inside via the broken window.

Explore the area without going inside.

Fly the fuck away (the rational option).

God, why wasn’t your prayer from this morning working?

Against all judgment, you chose option two.

Your wings arched back as you scaled the side of the building, glancing through the windows. The curtains were either drawn, or the rooms inside were dark and abandoned.

All that space for barely anything or anyone inside?

You glanced down, and your breath was sucked out of your lungs.

A garden?

Your wings fluttered, shedding a feather as you descended towards the square of greenery. Well, greenery wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t very “green.” The flora? Vegetation?

A tree stood in the middle, tall and proud. The second your feet hit the ground, it captured your attention, enrapturing you and rooting you to the spot.

Why am I even here?

You didn’t know Hell had gardens- you’d expected it to be a barren wasteland, more or less, but the lush “greenery” seemed to be proving you wrong. You quickly pencilled it down in the notebook you had brought with you.

What you definitely didn’t expect at all, however, was the apple tree you were standing under.

The fruit seemed beautiful, ruby-red and delicious. You shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then glanced at the sky, praying the exterminators weren’t worried about you or looking for you. Adam had better held up on his promise. You looked back at the tree.

It seemed so- so out of place from the otherwise hellish landscape that you just had to take a closer look. As you took a step forward, grass crunching, you frowned, recalling Sera’s words, again.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” you murmured, then frowning.

”But satisfaction brought it back.”

You shrieked and jumped a couple of feet in the air, feeling your wings burst out behind you as you whirled around. Lucifer crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“What the hell?” You hissed, nerves frayed.

“That’s what I should be asking you. Snooping around in my garden.” His eyes flicked to the tree. “Ogling at my apples- alright that- that sounds weird when I say it like that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “The point is, you’re the one who’s out of place here. Couldn’t get enough of me the first time?

You hesitated. You’d never expect the King of Hell to fumble around with his words like that. Your muscles relaxed slightly. “That is far from the truth. The tree just… piqued my curiosity.”

You both stared at each other, silently. As if on cue, an apple fell off of a branch, straight into his outstretched hand.

“Have a taste, then.”

You stared at the shining red fruit in his hand, then looked at his golden eyes. His smile seemed surprisingly genuine.

“I…”

He rolled his eyes, grinning wide at the look at your face. “This isn’t an Eve-and-the-forbidden-fruit situation, angel. It’s an apple.” He waved it around, eyebrows arched, as if to prove a point. “An apple.”

The more he spoke that way the more you felt stupid, until he tossed the apple at you without warning. You caught it, not missing a beat. The fruit felt cool against your warm skin. He turned.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, entering a small door in the wall, which led straight into the manor. You slowly put the apple in your satchel. He turned and grinned at you again. “Wanna come in?” He glanced at the sky.

Fuck, that prayer was really not working.

Your body was almost frozen in place, locked in with his stare.

You cleared your throat. “Sure.”

He grinned, and disappeared into the manor. You followed.

Crap. Crap this is so weird. You stared at the back of his blond head as you followed him down a hallway. We’ve met once. A year ago. Why am I following him into his house? You felt like you were in a fever dream.

“Um, excuse me… sir?”

He turned to look at you.

“What exactly are we doing? Or, going to do?”

He put his arm on your forearm, grinning. You didn’t shy away from the contact, but your arm burned where he touched it. “Have fun, of course.”

You blinked. “What?”

He outstretched his arms. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen another angel. It's good to have something new in life, am I right?” He paused. “Or at least that’s what that one therapist I had said,” he muttered. You tilted your head. “Anyways. I doubt you get much action up there in Heaven yourself?” Without warning, he spun you around. You yelped, hand grappling onto your satchel to stop the contents inside to go flying.

“Who better to befriend here in Hell other than me?” He said.

Cocky, you thought to yourself.

“Right,” you coughed, stumbling a little as he let you go. “So, um… sir, how exactly do you propose we spend our time?”

He shrugged. You stared at him.

“Right, I’m leaving,” you decided, starting down the hallway with conviction.

“Come onnn,” he complained, hurrying after you. “It’ll be a waste if you just leave and we never see each other again!”

You turned and looked at him. “No, it won’t. And frankly I’m not supposed to be here. You’re the goddamn Lucifer himself.” You stabbed your index finger towards his chest. “And the Seraphim would not be pleased if they found out that we’ve made contact- twice!”

He touched your wrist, lowering your hand, and dropped his voice to a husky whisper. You stared blankly at where his skin met yours.

“What the Seraphim don’t know won’t hurt them,” he smirked.

You could slowly feel your face turning red, and you looked up to stare into his eyes. Ugh, there it was again. That genuine, sweet smile.

“Fine,” you huffed, insides churning.

You just knew, that whatever was about to follow-

It would be the death of you.

♱♱♱

A/N: Stay Tuned!

Taglist: @boredlime, @ica1, @tremendoushearttaco, @sweetadonisbutbetter, @lucky-flowey,@kitty-kei, @thornwolfy235, @w31rd3rg1rl, @marxo5, @lvstyangel, @brainz00, @lukerycyja-reblogs, @dickmastersworld,@everlastprime259-blog, @rain-doll401-blog

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sanguineterrain · 1 year ago

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dc masterlist

ONE-SHOTS.

✩ window pains. ─ jason todd x gn!reader

he's got a habit of coming in through the window. you want him to start staying... and using the door. (angst, fluff, pining, injured jason, tending to wounds, feelings).

✩ sunset anew. ─ dick grayson x fem!reader

you're a little nervous to become the mrs. grayson. luckily, your husband-to-be knows just what to say to soothe your worries. (wedding, fluff, anxious reader, insecure dick, so much soft intimacy)

✩ the teeth you know. ─ vampire king!dick grayson x fem!reader

the war between the humans and the vampires has lasted for a year now. when you fled gotham, you thought that would be the last time you'd see the vampire king and the love of your life, dick grayson. you were wrong. (SMUT 18+ only, manipulative dick, dreams, oral f receiving)

✩ savior. ─ jason todd x gn!reader

red hood is the stuff of nightmares. red hood is no hero. red hood is your best friend. (angst, reader is afraid of red hood and they discover that he's jason, injured and kidnapped reader, emotional hurt no comfort.)

✩ in your hands. ─ jason todd x gn!reader

jason thinks he's too big to be loved. you show him that that's impossible. (bathing together, sad jason, brief dissociation, i hc jason to have body dysmorphia and i wanted to explore that, non sexual nudity, washing your partner, bruce angst, hopeful ending.)

✩ restroom attendant. ─ jason todd x fem!reader

tonight is the worst night ever—you just got dumped on your birthday, and all you want to do is cry in the restaurant bathroom in peace. that is, until, the red hood bursts in. this city just won't cut you a break. (humor, flirting, meet ugly, awkward cute jason, canon typical violence)

☆ angel of small death. — jason todd x gn!shadow monster!reader

you can't remember what it was like to be human. until jason returns. now, he's the only thing tethering you to this world. and you won't let anything happen to him. (monster!reader, canon-typical violence, codependency, stalking, suicidal thoughts, somewhat happy ending.)

☆ crushin'. — jason todd x gn!reader

barbara invites you to dinner with the bats. she's done so before, and you've always declined, but this time, you agree because the bat you've had a crush on for ages will be there. little do you know, the only reason he's staying for dinner is because of you. (mutual pining, crushes, jason is a sweetie, matchmaking, dick is a meddling brother with good intentions)

☆ most normal thing in the world. — jason todd x gn!reader

you get hit with a love spell. naturally, the first person you seek out is jason todd. (love spell, mutual pining, love confessions, jason todd's endless self deprecation)

☆ in the buff. — jason todd x gn!reader

the one where you learn firsthand that jason todd sleeps in the nude. (fluff, humor, love confessions, friends to lovers, nudity)

☆ knight in shining helmet. — jason todd x fem!princess!reader

you're a princess who's visiting gotham. you weren't loving it to begin with—then you of course had to get kidnapped. you're hoping that you'll be rescued by the famous batman. instead, it's the infamous red hood that finds you. (kidnapping, meet ugly, strangers to something more, soft jason, roman holiday vibes).

◇ knight!jason universe - in which you're given to knight!jason as a present (light dubcon elements)

intro post | you make dinner for jason

-> temptation (smut 18+, dubcon voyeurism, religious guilt read the tags!!)

-> a bloody vow (violence, eroticism, part 2 of temptation)

BLURBS.

ALL READERS ARE GN UNLESS NOTED OTHERWISE

-> DICK GRAYSON.

"this is real. i'm real. look at me."

"can you walk? i need you to walk."

dick catches you when you trip and fall

"you matter so much to me."

you meet the yj team for the first time and have a panic attack

dick cuddles you after he returns late from patrol

you try to break up with dick when your insecurities overwhelm you

dick and assistant!reader who has a secret nightlife

-> JASON TODD.

"i thought you were scared of heights."

reader calls jason in panic when they are chased by a goon

"you're just going to leave me here?!"

awkward jason with a big crush on baker!reader

you break up with jason after he almost dies | part 2 (completed)

playfighting with jason turns into something else (NSFW, fem!reader)

jason rescues you after you have a fight (fem!reader)

jason asks his family to help after you, his fiance, are kidnapped

you forget to text jason you're home safe and he panics

you comfort werewolf!jason during a shift

you are jason's ex and have to work with him on a mission

headless horseman!jason gives you a ride home

"why not them, why me?"

you find a werewolf in your shed who has a dead boy's face

you and jason fight and he thinks you broke up

devoted jason who just wants to be yours

jason tells you that he's asexual

you give bodyguard!jason a gift | you defend him at a gala

you're a vigilante who's after the red hood | pt 2 | pt 3

fussing over jason after he's shot in his bulletproof vest

boxer!jason protects you from a creep

you're a reporter who's under red hood's protection | part 2 | part 3

a stranger thinks you're in danger with your boyfriend, jason

introducing naps to jason (hc)

you bring home a baby and insist on keeping her

jason loves his childhood crush's new curves, make no mistake

jason takes care of you when you're high on pain meds

you meet jason as a civilian when you're both held hostage

virgin!jason comes fast (hc)

jason will keep you safe by any means necessary (dark content)

mauling jason (in a sexy way)

-> TIM DRAKE.

your bff is back and insists she's not the girl you knew (female!jason)

jason gets glasses and you go feral

you have insomnia and run into tim in the yj tower

-> CLARK KENT.

holding hands while walking with clark

giving clark a massage when he's stressed

clark is scared when he finds out he's going to be a dad

you politely reject superman (you're dating clark kent!)

-> BRUCE WAYNE.

the JL discovers that batman is married... to you

#dc fanfiction #jason todd x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #jason todd x you #batman fanfiction #jason todd imagine #masterlist

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hocuspocusbabyy · 7 months ago

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A ring of bright light: Chapter 1. ‘It’s happening again.’

Eloise Bridgerton x Female OC.

Description: Eloise Bridgeton is to marry Lord Brennan this upcoming season, following a residency at her familiar home Aubery House. Their betrothal is to be announced in two months. If all goes to plan…

Warnings: None?

Word count: 1k (just an opener don’t panic loves.)

Next Chapter

Eloise tightened her gloved hands on the balcony wall, partially to resist the temptation to leap ahead and greet those who waited on the other side and partially to wake herself from the nightmare to come.

Winter air cools against her skin, the long gown doing little against the harsh country noir exterior that was Aubrey House at night. Buried deeply into the evergreen stitch of her corset, her heartbeat ragged against the confinement. If birds were not built for cages, surely the same logic would be applied to herself? Bare feet making a swift sloshing sound aggravating the gravel below, debris digging into the pads of flesh deeper than any weapon she had known before.

The gardens seemed alive with light as every inch of ground bubbled with people and for a fleeting moment, as more carriages approached the castle. A warmth raised within her chest as undeniable anxiety, familiarity. Turning her back to the on coming guests, the small of her back pressed deadly against the barrier. Shadows filtered through the historic windows, as the dust licked walls still seemed to cling onto the fleeting light of Friday as though an old friend they had yet to have finished talking to. A shaking breath escaped the mouth, caught in a brief moment of admiration towards the dripping sun - for out of all the fires she had seen this hideously biblical form was one she had grown fond of; or rather the flashes of red from within its last moments as through snippets of the passing day mere memories now. Only the future night was imminent.

She was running unusually late, she could tell by the main entrance to the building growing peacefully desolate; as the other inhibitors congregated within the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut, desperately clinging to those final moments of silence.

“You’re not considering jumping are you?” A voice asked the approaching footsteps drew closer, heart edging to her throat.

“What would that help? Death has no use for me yet, although I do wish he would.”

“What makes you so sure death is a man?” The voice asked again, their body finding rest beside Eloise.

“Surely only a man could be so cruel, as to hover such a fate in my peripherals.”

“I see.” The voice hummed as though mulling the conversation, “And clearly you see so much with your eyes practically melted closed.” Eloise’s laughter was a welcome sight to her visitor, the brunette's eyes finally opening as her head found rest against the woman’s shoulder. Her mother – Violet. A buoyant woman; complimented heavily by her Angelically crow-like features - coils of ash tamed in a formal updo so different to the style had grown accustomed to as she usually pottered away her hours within the castle greenhouse. Fingers never without the soil beneath them, a relationship with a ghastly old nail brush that lay upon the kitchen sink heavily established. She'd always lecture upon the importance of soil, on how each particle of the earth somehow held its own story and origins - for soil had seen more love, more pain than any human. As she'd place lumps of the material within their hands "Rub it in then the memories never leave you".

It was reminiscent of her father, of his death. Violet hadn’t allowed anyone to tend to the lilacs since.

“Is everyone here?” Eloise asked after a moment, basking in the comfort of her material figure.

“All the ducks are in rows my dear, now they await a leader.”

“You’re their leader.” mumbled the familiar scent of gardenia flowing past her, upon the open air.

“Now for long my little swan.” Violet sighed, a perfectly delicate hand raising to card its way through the princess’ hair.

“Is he here?”

“Your suitor? Yes dear unfortunately for you he has shown” The queen laughed hoping to lighten her daughters mood.

"We have a nasty habit involving men in this family" her mother would often say whilst winking at her father Edmund across the room. He had passed on almost ten years ago; he'd been the best hug giver and secret magician, never failing to pull a coin from an awaiting child's ear. A sometimes overbearingly traditional yet progressive man, his head still surprisingly full of hair till the day of his early demise. Collins is seemingly thinning already.

His passing had wrecked the family. His wife, all the more scornful and ironically loving; the clone of her mothers, and the replica of herself - Lady Violet was no elementary being, her voice like bathwater, every syllable effortless and wise. She played the piano as though it were second nature to breathe air; embraced few but loved many under the guise of something to be feared. Eloise’s most loved and favoured person in the entire world… unless you asked Benedict.

Then there was Eloise, Lou and 'Flower' on the not too rare occasion, for as her mother was prone to say and the people continued, was the "one of the most precious examples of life to ever grow within these gardens.” with her uncontrollable ripples of dark hair, ill radiance and sea filled eyes, the procurement of two fine specimens to create the most poorly formed swan the world was ever to behold.

“I wish he were here.” Eloise mumbled gently, Violet’s lips falling to kiss the crown of her head.

“I know my dear, as do I.”

Father had died in these very Gardens during her seventh year. Leaving behind Anthony as the elder brother to ascend the house.

“Come now. Best to hit the ground running, keeping your guests waiting is a terrible introduction.” Violet stated, stepping towards the balcony doors.

The set of grand doors that almost shook with vigour with the level of presence behind it, the noise and voice of many locked behind it. Eloise came to her mother’s side – she could not run from this, this was her home.

The doors were opened with one swift movement of the awaiting footmen, revealing a ballroom, many familiar inhibitors of the neighbouring families huddled around in festivities, laughing. Drinks not far from hand, and children in clear scheming mode begging their respective guardians to stay up late; while others could be seen playing games in each corner, the low light shining on each face – new and old.

“Introducing The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and Miss Eloise Bridgerton.”

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allebasimaianunes · 2 months ago

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lamb of god diary's † father charlie mayhew short-fic

sumary: there's a lamb of god very much loyalty for hers favorite preacher. so she writers everything what happens with both like her own bible. the bible of the sinners.

autor's note: my fisrt "fanfic" in english. the ideia it's this sounds like a really deep dive on the mind of a girl (reader) while she envolves with her priest, like a real diary where i'll can find thoughts and randoms stuffs about her life.

warning contend: sexual mention, lost of virginity, prient kink. drabble.

word count: 803

language: english

soundtrank inspo: preacher's daughter (ofc)!!!

lamb's diary. oct, 30 of 2024.

Father Charlie Mayhew was so incredibly hungry for me.

He needed to possess me, maddened, completely intoxicated by his own desires. And I wanted it too, I won’t lie! When he approached me—an angel in the church, a smirk on his beautiful face—I knew exactly what we’d be doing in that secluded place.

He looked deeply into my eyes during communion, letting me feel his touch as he placed the body of Christ on my tongue, whispering, “Come to me tonight.”

I was so nervous and anxious about it! In the midst of guilt and sadness, I always wanted this: the bodily contact, the intimacy, the singular pleasure that I sometimes indulged in alone but which, at times, was not enough. My perverted thoughts had haunted me, haunted me while I walked with my dog and saw the new priest jogging in those ridiculous shorts, his slim shirt clinging to his muscular body; haunted me when he fixed his gaze on me, on my body, with a hidden desire in his dark eyes; haunted me as I touched myself alone in bed, with the holy Virgin Mary looking down on me in mercy until I climaxed, thinking of Father Charlie fucking me so hard that it broke my bed.

Then I’d wake up from a wet dream of him, telling myself it wasn’t real. Until that day, when I entered his room. I sat on the simple wooden chair, hands clasped in my lap, looking at him with expectation.

Charlie sat on the bed, which sank under the weight of his muscular frame, his dark, intense eyes undressing me. His breathing was already heavy with desire, which I could tell by the bulge forming in his black cotton pants. He slowly declared his intentions, asked my thoughts on celibacy and sex. My response was simple, lacking arguments—a passive plea, revealing my need to be devoured by that man, so powerful in his presence. He whispered about God and the outdated dogmas of the church as he unbuttoned the front of my dress with one hand (he’s very skilled with his fingers, I might add).

With rough lips, dripping words from his soft tongue, he kissed me passionately. It was a delicious, desperate kiss, far more experienced than my first kiss, and Charlie knew how to move his hands. He made me sigh with passion, squeezed me between his palms, made me tremble as he undressed both of us. His body was a temple of temptation, sculpted and strong. He was big. As he laid me down on the bed, covering me with angelic, affectionate kisses, I felt something hard pressing against me. That’s when I thought, “Oh my God! It’s going to happen!” With abruptness, he removed my panties, followed by his own underwear, leaving us both completely exposed to each other, eyes filled with lust. His desire was dripping from him, radiating a strange, forbidden aura through his gaze, while I felt like a lamb about to be sacrificed.

Since I like metaphors, here’s one: with his sharp-bladed dagger, he pierced my throbbing core, causing a sharp pain that bled down to its hilt, flowing from the wound and bringing me closer to the sacred light. A radiance enveloped me—my thoughts, my body. A small death that revived me when he finished, filling me with himself and asking forgiveness for everything. But it wasn’t over. He kissed his way down, cleaned me with the blanket, and began to pray between my legs. Sacred incantations. Within minutes, I reached the epitome of something far greater than myself, giving myself over completely. Me, cruel.

Lying next to him, staring at the white ceiling, I lazily asked, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” to which Charlie laughed, his chest shaking as he responded smoothly, “Of course not.”

I knew it was a lie, but in that moment, I preferred to believe the sweet honeyed words of that serpent.

Then he helped me up, asked if I was okay, offered me warm water, helped me dress, and guided me to the door. The rectory was strangely empty, but Charlie whispered that God had arranged it all.

With a strange fear lodged in my throat, he gave me his blessing, and I went home, feeling a burning between my legs and a numbness in my mind. I must say, this has been happening for weeks. I enter his room, he devours me, ravenous, and then I slip from his hands as if I’m leaving the scene of a crime. And isn’t that what it is, really? A priest shouldn’t be doing this… well, I don’t think Charlie should even be a priest, but that’s another story.

In the end, though, it’s consuming me bit by bit.

Father Charlie Mayhew is consuming me entirely. And I’m not complaining.

#father charlie mayhew #lamb's diary #grotesquerie #charlie mayhew #father charlie mayhew fanfic #charlie mayhew fanfic #nicholas alexander chavez #priest kink #fanfic in english #bella maia #bella maia fanfic #english is not my first language so sorry if was any wrong #Spotify

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ghost-1-y · 11 months ago

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Desecration

Pairing: Demon!Obanai x Angel!Reader

A/N: Here is the prologue for a work that I have been planning for months now. This has been on my mind ever since I wrote Temptation back in October. I am currently anticipating that it will consist of either 3 or 4 parts, but this may be subject to change and is most definitely not set in stone.

CW: This work will be NSFW, so minors please do not interact. There will be violence, death, smut, and a LOT of angst. I hope you enjoy :)

The very second Obanai began hunting you, he knew that your death would break him in one way or another.

The demon crept within the shadows of an abandoned house, simply watching as you wandered into a small garden, unaware that death followed you as the moon does the sun. His eyes never left you – to do so would be to let his prey escape – as he stood unmoving in the night.

“Kill it. Now.”

His thoughts were overrun with a voice that didn't belong to him, orders that demanded he complete his task before taking on another, and then another.

As was his purpose in eternity – to deliver the end upon those who were deserving of his blade; those who were nothing but mere obstacles for both him and his Creator.

And he did so with pleasure.

He watched as you crouched down, golden light flickered in the palm of your hand as you pressed it into the cold, dried-up soil; the surrounding flowers, once wilted, slowly standing upright with their petals unfurling; it filled the demon with a hint of curiosity.

You weren’t human.

No matter, he thought, brandishing his weapon – a sickle created from the very metals found deep in the hells; a weapon smithed with infernal ore that burned hotter than that of melted iron and dealt sharper blows than the finest obsidian – as he continued to lurk within the shadows of a home that wasn’t his.

He had killed many of his kind before; those who were defective and broken, too, deserved to be punished. You would be no different than the thousands of bodies that lay in his wake; just another corpse whose purpose wasn’t divine enough to be considered worthy of life.

Yet, the smallest inkling pestered him in the back of his mind – suggesting to him that you were no demon, either. Your soul wasn’t scalding like his. Instead, you graced him with a warmth that was unknown to him – a comfort that he’d not known throughout his entire existence.

It was disturbing. Foreign.

He needed to make it rot.

Tagging: @peachdues, @forest-hashira, @xxsabitoxx, and @meowzfordayz because I've been discussing this story with them non-stop lmao

#demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #iguro obanai x reader #obanai x reader #obanai x y/n #obanai x you #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kimestu no yaiba #iguro obanai #kny obanai #obanai iguro #demon slayer obanai #iguro x reader #demon slayer au

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sparkbeast20 · 1 year ago

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Private Treasure

Valefor was getting worried for his king.

For the past year, Mammon has been traveling all across hell. Collecting all sort of treasures. And returning to his private treasure room.

It was been a year since you went missing.

All of hell went to a frenzy. Leviathan stayed in his palace as he sent his best men to look for you.

Satan went on a long search party with his nobles. Same goes to Beelzebub and his nobles.

You might think, aren't the kings worried about the angel attacks?

For some reason, there were barely any attacks from the three Seraphim. And only the lower class of angels were attacking each region, which even some of the most common citizens can handle them.

Valefor would be happy about this change, but at what cause. The war was close to being over, and yet. You were gone.

As he was in deep thought, the sound of the large door of the palace open, alerting Valefor. He stood up and head to the palace door. when he got there.

He stopped when he saw his Majesty Mammon enter the palace with a small treasure in his hand.

He didn't notice Valefor, and kept on walking to his private treasure room.

Valefor, quietly followed behind him.

Once Mammon reach the door to the Treasure Room. Valefor quietly hid to the corner and peeked. He notice that the Ai pad was broke, and from was he saw it seem to be smashed... And he knew who did it.

Mammon calmly pushed the large doors open and went inside the room.

Valefor followed behind, making sure there is distant between him and Mammon.

Valefor entered the room and saw all of the treasure that his Majesty has been collecting for the past year. And all seem to remind him of you.

"Was his Majesty collecting this to remind himself of you... MC?"

He thought, but was pulled out of it when he hear Mammon's voice from a far.

He start walking again, going deeper into the room, and saw in the farthest side of the room was a shrine, lit with two large torches on either side.

As he got closer, he saw Mammon kneeling and bowing.

Valefor stopped dead on his track when he saw what was his Majesty was bowing to...

It was you, laying a bed as if it was your death bed-

"I was in Paradise Lost today..." Valefor got startled by Mammon's voice. "And... I saw this and it reminded me of you... I hope you like it, MC" He brought out the treasure and place it next to your bed.

Valefor could believe what he's seeing.

You were missing for a year, and yet. His Majesty had you all this time.

"I wish that you could wake up, and greet me with that adorable smile of yours again, my master..." Mammon stare lovely at your sleeping face with a small smile.

But it slowly drops and he hung his head, in shame...

He stayed silence for who knows how long.

Then he spoke again.

"If I knew that this was the price for choosing me as the "Final Temptation"..." He pause for a moment.

"I would have never asked you to pick me..." A single tear slip from the corner of his eye as he continue. "I know now that... the treasure I needed was you... So please" He stood and walked up to your bed and pulled you into his arms, embracing you tight. "Wake up... Please."

Note: I wanted to make a fic about MC picking one of the devils as the Final temptation but there was a price.

And this was a loving attack at a friend ^3^

Cause their fav is Mammon.

#what in “hell” is bad?#prettybusy what in “hell” is bad?#what in hell is bad #whb mammon #whb valefor #whb mc #whb mammon x mc #whb mammon x reader #whb fanfic

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serasfanfiction · 9 months ago

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CW for Alastor being Alastor, but that's to be expected. This chapter is all from his POV.

Alastor was having what he might call an exceptionally good day, if he did say so himself.

His mobility was almost back to normal, that pesky little parting gift Adam had left him having practically healed itself overnight. Why, he'd even been able to remove the stitches!

He had seen some improvement over the last month, agonizingly slow as it had been. Consuming the flesh and souls of other sinners had certainly sped things up a bit, but only finitely. He had resigned himself to the fact that healing would be a slow process, especially after the first time he pushed too hard and undid all the work he'd done up until that point. It had grated on him, but he could be patient.

If there was anything he was good at, it was being patient and bidding his time.

Getting a taste of angel's blood, though? Not just a taste, but a real go at it? Oh, now that had changed everything.

He hadn't had a chance at the holy feast following the last Extermination. He'd been too busy licking his wounds and trying not to bleed out. By the time he'd been able to pull himself together, figuratively and literally, the bodies were long gone. There had been claims about the rejuvenating effects some had experienced following eating of the flesh and drinking of the blood, but as it hadn't been a process they could readily replicate, it had done him little good.

Then none other than Lucifer Morningstar had offered himself up, willingly placing himself on the menu.

When the little king had done that little trick, the thought had crossed Alastor's mind. He was only human (deceased though he may be) and this was the father of temptation himself. Granted, it was likely Lucifer was used to being sexually desired, but hunger of a carnal nature had never been one of Alastor's sins. His hunger for the flesh had stopped at the actual eating of the flesh.

And Alastor craved nothing more than he craved the flesh of others like him.

The Wendigo that lay beneath the surface, a very real manifestation of his hunger was now a permanent part of his being. In life, he had hungered for the flesh of humans. In death, while he could still enjoy the odd sinner here and there, it was akin to 'empty calories,' he believed they were called. They curbed his hunger, for a little while, but it never quite seemed to hit the spot.

No, nothing quite filled him up the way venison did.

Before the creation of his bayou, he'd had to rely on the odd deer demon that appeared on the rare occasion. He was hardly the only one, but there never seemed to be enough of them. Butcher shops occasionally helped, but it never seemed enough. He'd been near ravenous towards the end there.

All the while she had been laughing at him. She had known this would happen and she hadn't warned him. One of her little games, letting him think she was giving him what he wanted only to chain him further to her. He had never cursed his deal as much as he had then when she had taken pity on him and taught him how to bend reality on a small scale. To create the bayou - a reflection of the very place where he had died - and filled it with the creatures that were not only necessary to keep him alive, but to allow him to thrive.

So he couldn't help but wonder, while Lucifer flashed those ears at him and called the very features that had nearly undone him 'cute,' how deep did the transformation go? Could a mimic sate his hunger as good as the real thing? The possibility that the seraphim blood might have rejuvenate powers didn't hurt, either.

It would have been everything he needed, served to him in a little red and white package.

It had been pipe dream, he'd thought at the time. Nothing to seriously entertain. Despite appearances to the contrary, he did know he had limits. Adam had just been an oversight. His growth in power had never truly been tested and well.

Lesson learned. He wasn't keen to try his luck just yet, especially not injured and his microphone broken, limiting his power.

But then Lucifer had done something so left field, Alastor still wasn't entirely certain he hadn't imagined it: a trade of his blood for some good behavior. In deer form, no less! The opportunity had been so good he'd had to hold onto his eagerness by the skin of his teeth.

Everything about the experience had not been a disappointment. Not only had he'd gotten quite a bit of entertainment out of the exchange, but it turned out the stories had been true. Within a few short hours of consuming Lucifer's blood, the wound indeed showed marked improvement.

The real treat, however, was that the hunger had indeed fallen silent. Oh, it had returned in due time, but how long it had stayed away! His appetite had only just been seriously returning when the first attack on the hotel happened, providing him with quite the meal and even a handful of angel's blood. He'd felt positively spoiled.

Getting to see the little seraphim in his full demonic glory had been interesting, as well. He'd known Lucifer had wiped the floor with Adam, despite Niffty being the one to kill him, but it was always different seeing it.

This was Hell's King. This was the entity the stories had talked about. All that power, right there on display, and all Alastor had wanted in that moment was to have this being underneath him again. Wanted to see how far he could push. To see how much Lucifer would let him take.

(Alastor wasn't certain what had possessed him to reach for Lucifer in that moment. Wasn't certain what he would have done had the little king decided to take him up on his offer. Had he simply wanted to hold that power in his hands? To burn himself on it?)

And oh, how his patience had paid off.

Such a huge gain and all it had cost Alastor was a night of his company and some information. Information Lucifer really should have already known, at that.

Now, Alastor was full and so very near hale and hearty again. Why, he was close to being able to tackling fixing his microphone soon!

Perhaps if he could have another feeding in the future...

Ah, but it wouldn't do to get used to this. Three times was already far more than he could have ever imagined, plus it never paid to put his wellbeing in the hands of others. They were so often unreliable. There were only two people in Heaven or Hell that he trusted, and neither of them resided in the hotel.

So, Alastor put the idea aside and went about his day as normal. If he had an extra skip to his walk, and his smile a touch more sanguine that normal, to the point he was receiving some nervous side glances, well, all the more entertainment for him.

He was feeling so well, in fact, he felt up to taking a little jaunt to visit one of his favorite people.

Cannibal Town was as lively as ever, despite their numbers had seen some reduction during Heaven's assault on the hotel. Rosie's Emporium, always the main attraction, was not lacking for people lined up to see their Overlord. The line was already starting to snake out the door.

Alastor strolled in, not minding the line in the slightest. Rosie always made time for him.

Sure enough, the woman in question looked up at the sound of the door opening, her ever-present smile widening in delight on seeing him. She never paused in whatever affair she was discussing with her current client, but she did make an effort to finish it up a touch bit faster.

He stood off to the side politely, waiting to see if now was a bad time or not. He wasn't bringing her anything other than his company and this was an impromptu visit.

"Alastor!" She greeted, loud and affectionate. "A visit twice in one month! You certainly know how to spoil a girl."

Alastor felt that little black thing that served as his heart warm with the genuine sincerity being shown his way. He matched her smile with an honest one himself. "Only those who deserve it, my dear, and you always do."

Rosie placed a hand to her cheek, bemused. "Oh, you." She waved over to one of the tables. "Now tell little ol' me what brings you here. You haven't gotten yourself into any more trouble, have you?"

He could hear a hint of concern in her voice and resolved to bring her a gift the next time he came over. "Oh, you know me. I'm always up for something exciting." He let her maneuver him into a chair set up at a table for two. "In this case, I was up for a walk and thought I'd indulge in your company, if you'll have me."

The Victorian Overlord's body language eased ever so slightly, adding to the suspicion she might have been worried. "Always, dear." She pressed a seemingly delicate finger to her lips. "Give me 30 minutes to clear this lot out and I'm all yours!"

He nodded, and she gave him a light pat on the shoulder as she went back to her work, pausing only briefly to have one of her workers send over a pot of tea. He spent the next half hour sipping on the latest delightful blend she was offering, watching the cannibals coming and going. Most were asking for the same thing they always did: someone wanting someone else to disappear, usually in a body bag they would of course hand over to Rosie.

After what he was sure was thirty minutes and no more (not that he would have honestly timed her, why, that would have been discourteous), his fellow Overlord was escorting the last of her clients out the door. Business completed, she turned on her guest. "Now that all of that work stuff is out of the way," Rosie said as she came to sit in the chair across from the redhead, "Come now, tell me all the gossip! Surely something juicy happened with how lively you're looking today."

Alastor supposed he shouldn't be surprised that she had seen through his mask the last time he'd been here. He'd needed to get away from hotel, just for a bit, as the strain of hiding his wound was wearing on him. None of his usual acquaintances had suspected a thing, and he had wanted to keep it that way.

But Rosie was hardly an 'acquaintance.'

He supposed since she knew already, it wouldn't hurt to assure her the worst was past. He also supposed he had a gift for her after all. Lowering the cup to the saucer on the table, he assured, "You could say I recently benefited from a rather unexpected deal recently."

Rosie raised an eyebrow expectantly, "Well, don't keep a girl waiting! Details!"

Because he was a little bit of a drama queen, he waiting until she had raised her own cup to her lips before he stated, "It turns out that all the rumors about angel blood is true, even more so for seraphim blood."

It was only because she had perfect control that she did not, if fact, choke on her drink. Rosie started at him for a long moment, trying to see if he was serious. When it became clear he was, she stated, "Well, shit, you certainly don't go small, do you?" She leaned forward, placing her free hand over one of his. "This deal didn't put you in a tough spot, now did it?"

Alastor's smile softened. "None of that, my dear." He didn't like to touch people, anymore than he liked being touched in return, but Rosie had always been kind to him, so he placed his other hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. "All that was asked for was a who's who on Pentagram City's current political landscape."

Rosie tilted her head to the side, the feather in her hat swaying with the motion. When she withdrew her hand, Alastor released it. "Our King is showing interest in his kingdom?" She blinked, more than a little surprised. He didn't blame her. "My, what could have brought this little development about?"

Alastor pulled both hands from the table, a subtle cue he had had enough tactile contact for the day, although he wasn't completely closing himself off from it. "Someone has been sending mercenaries to attack the hotel. Drivel, mostly. Little more than snacks on the whole." He hummed in memory of all the free morsels that had been sent his way, lately. "The attacks haven't done anything, really, other than rile his Majesty up." He gave her a look of amusement. "He's begun an investigation into who might be behind the attacks and asked after us Overlords. I gave you a good word, of course."

It was a testament to how quick-witted she was that Rosie barely blinked over the idea that their sovereign had apparently not only crawled out of the wood work, but was also finally taking an interest in his kingdom again. "Oh, of course you did." She flapped a hand at Alastor. "Do tell him if he ever want to visit, he's more than welcome!"

Alastor made a noise of acknowledgement. "He's quite the character, our king. I'm sure you'd find him... amusing." Amongst other things, he thought to himself as he sipped on the last of his tea.

Ever the host, Rosie noticed. "Oh, dear me, let me refill that." She raised the pot of tea to do so, offering, "You know, I just remembered: we got in a fresh body just this morning. Would you like an arm?"

The redhead considered the request, but found himself much too full. Whatever room he'd had available had already been taken up by his drink. "I thank you kindly for the offer, but sadly must pass this time." He placed his now empty cup on its saucer. "Why, I dare say I might have to wait on another cup of this delicious tea."

Rosie didn't have pupils that Alastor had ever been able to track, yet he had the distinct impression he was being looked up and down. "That blood must have been quite the thing to curb an appetite like yours." She shrugged before pulling over a box of ring fingers. Some even still had the rings on them. "Hm, knowing you, a certain someone might have to worry about her seat - if she ever intends to come back."

Alastor paused. Rosie did that sometimes: said things that threw him for a loop. "What now?"

She waved a finger in a circle to indicate the entirety of her guest, her smile all teeth and knowing. "Come now, Alastor, I don't think I've ever seen you in such a state before. I almost think you have intentions towards the king!"

The redhead tilted his head to the side, considering. Did he have intentions towards Lucifer? He certainly wouldn't mind having another go at his blood. Riling him up had yet to get old.

The urge to hunt, sated though it was at the moment, thrummed through his veins. Here was the ultimate prey, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to turn the tides.

The memory of the smell of apples and something he'd come to associate with Lucifer rose to mind. Of warm, pale alabaster skin beneath his lips. The feel of hands that could so easily crush him carding gently, absentmindedly, through his hair.

For the first time since their little games had started, though, Alastor realized that sitting beside the urge to devour was the urge to keep.

He examined the thought. He meant it when he said he delt primarily in favors. There were so few souls that interested him enough to keep long term. They were usually individuals who ranked as powerhouses themselves. Investments first, entertainment second.

This urge resembled that desire, but not quite. He certainly wanted access to the power contained within that tiny little package that called himself the King, but beyond that, he was beginning to think he might want to own Lucifer in every sense of the word.

Well. That was certainly quite the turn.

He turned his attention back to the world outside his own head, finding his fellow Overlord watching him and patiently waiting for him to sort out his thoughts. "I'm afraid, my dear, I don't have an answer to that, but you have given me quite the food for thought."

Rosie, bless her, didn't press. Knowing how perceptive she was on matters of the song and dance that was interpersonal relationships, it was likely she knew more than he did.

He really was thankful he made an ally of her rather than an enemy.

The rest of their chat was turned to less deep conversation. Soon enough, she sent him on his way, but not before warning, "Now be careful, Alastor. Kitten our King may be, I saw how fierce he can be when pressed."

If it didn't mean acquiring one of those silly picture boxes, Alastor might have been inclined break down and watch whatever that voyeur Vox had filmed of the fight on Extermination Day. Incidentally, his pride point blank period refused to allow him to let such a thing anywhere near his person if he didn't have to. "Don't worry, dear. It's all merely a thought. I won't do anything lest I know there's a chance at success."

That seemed to mull her over. They said their goodbyes, and he was off back to the hotel.

The conundrum that was his entanglement with Lucifer followed him all the way back to the hotel, dogging his steps as he went through the rest of his day. He didn't see the blonde at any point before he retired for bed, which was likely for the best, as Alastor was distracted and unlikely to be at the top of his game.

He didn't see him throughout any point of the following day either, not that he was looking for him. He didn't give it a second thought, not until he came upon Hell's princess halfway into a tizzy in the main gathering room.

"But Vaggie! He hasn't come down in almost two days!" Charlie wrang her hands together, glancing at the ceiling in the general direction of her father's room. "What if something's wrong?"

Vaggie had a hand on her girlfriend's shoulder, as much a comfort as it was a restraint. "What did he say when you knocked on the door?"

The hotel's owner bit her lip. "Just that he wanted to stay in for a bit. But that was yesterday. He didn't even respond at all when I knocked this morning."

"And you're sure he's still here? That he didn't leave?"

Charlie nodded. "His door is locked. He doesn't bother to lock it if he's not in."

Well, that's a silly thing to do, Alastor thought to himself. He filed it away for later. Deciding he was curious enough to join the conversation, especially since it seemed he might have been the last to see Lucifer. It would be bothersome if anyone thought he'd done anything to him when he really hadn't yet.

Alastor allowed his corporeal form to dissipate, only to reform right behind Vaggie. "What's this I hear about our esteemed leader disappearing?"

"Shit!" The fallen angel jumped, just as he hoped. Predictably, she spun around, bringing the point of her spear right up to his nose. "Cut it out, asshole. We don't have time for your games right now."

Alastor smiled down at her, as calm as a undisturbed pond, taking hold of the end of the spear and redirecting it away from his face. "And who's playing around? I heard our dear Charlie in distress and just had to see if I could help in anyway."

Vaggie narrowed her eye at him. One day, he was going to drive her to actually attempt to stab him. It would be such an entertaining day when it happened.

Charlie sniffed. She didn't necessarily look relieved to see him becoming involved, which, fair, but he could see something easing in her stance.

It was such a delight to see how much she'd grown to rely on him.

Stepping around the most hostile entity in the room like she wasn't holding a certified deadly weapon, Alastor came up to stand beside Charlie. "Tell me, do you have any reason to believe something might be wrong?"

She searched his face for any hint of falsehood. Any hint that he might use this against them.

She wasn't going to find any. She was learning to be more cautious of him, but she still had a long way to go before she'd see through his carefully constructed persona.

"Well... maybe?" She offered at last. He could see it in her eyes, her drooped shoulders: a certain helplessness. It was different from the kind that had driven her to make a deal with him. This kind was old, the sort that came from a time before the autonomy of adulthood. Likely this issue had roots in her childhood. "Mom used to say that Dad just kind of shut down sometimes. Worse than normal." She glanced at her girlfriend, likely for moral support, and then back at him. "Mom said it wasn't good to leave him alone during those times."

Alastor pushed down the eager swell that might have given up the game. Was it really going to be this easy? "And you think this might be one of those times?"

She mulled over this. Nodded, and then shrugged. "It's possible, but without getting past the lock..."

"I tried to pick the lock," Angel put out from where he was lounging on the couch, feet across Husk's lap. Husk, curiously, didn't appear to mind.

Charlie winced. "Yes, which is really not good! We shouldn't pick people's doors."

Angel shrugged, unbothered by the reprimand. "Didn't matter, either way. Turns out the door's magically locked." He made a handsy gesture with his top set of hands to emphasis his point.

Alastor looked between the two. "Is it warded?"

Everyone turned to look at him in confusion. Charlie blinked. "Warded?"

Oh, how quaint this lot was. "Magically locking the door means no one can unlock the door without breaking the spell. Unless the door is warded, there's nothing to stop someone from going, say, under the door."

Vaggie crossed her arms, posture irritated. "We can't go under the door, Alastor."

If he had his mic, he might have bopped her on the head just to mess with her. As it was, Alastor settled for smiling ever so sweetly at her as he pointed out, "Ah, maybe you can't, but it just so happens, I can."

Charlie shifted, uncertain. "You promise you won't make things worse...?"

She was so close that he could practically taste it.

Alastor placed a hand on her shoulder, softening his expression. "Now now, dear, we both know your father is hardly helpless. If he doesn't want me in there, he's more than capable of kicking me out."

Vaggie snorted, glaring viciously at him. "Yeah, not that that's ever stopped you."

Charlie glanced at her, warningly, before looking back at Alastor. She sighed and placed her hand over his. Feeling generous, he let her. "Alastor, please check on him, just... don't push, okay?"

Nothing but a formal deal was going to guarantee that, but he didn't have to advertise it. "I promise to be on my best behavior."

Her smile really was like sunlight breaking on the horizon when it wasn't being forced. She jerked forward as if she'd wanted to go for a hug but had aborted it at the last minute. Instead, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Alastor."

He disappeared into his shadow, partially to avoid her changing her mind and going for that hug, but also to avoid any further stipulations on his task. Between the quality of his last meal and the leaps and bounds in the healing of his wound, traveling by shadow was almost as easy as it had been before his injury. Seraphim blood was a marvel. It was such a pity that there was so little of it in Hell.

Alastor had studied the entirety of the hallway that made up his and Lucifer's floor along with the rest of the hotel the first opportunity he got upon his return. His inspection had stopped at white doors, whose handles were adorned with the same apple accents that littered the rest of the hotel. As he slipped under them, he could smell the magic on the handles. True to his suspicion, the spell was only on the lock itself, with nothing to guard again something like a shadow slipping right under the door.

It seemed Alastor's self-restraint in light of his injury had paid off, because nothing hindered him in anyway as he made his way into the room of the most powerful being Hell.

Alastor stuck to the outskirts of the room, where the darkest shadows gathered. It wasn't difficult, as most of the room was in shadow, the curtains drawn with very little natural light peaking in underneath them. The room was silent in a way that, at first, suggested that no one was in.

Perhaps Lucifer had gone out and failed to tell anyone, after all?

Tentatively, Alastor returned to his corporeal form, keeping to the darkest shadow the room he could find. When nothing and no one came flying at him, he turned his attention to the room at large.

Overall, the room appeared sparsely furnished. There was a rug laid out in front of the door. Chairs surrounding a table big enough for two over on one side of the room. The fireplace didn't appear to have ever been used, but it was there. A couple of bookshelves and a desk were the most lived in, but that was only because they were covered in small, yellow shapes he couldn't quite make out in the dark. A bed took up most of the final wall. It was perhaps the grandest thing about the room, looking every bit fit for the king who slept in it. Two side tables sat on either side of it, both with a lamp of their own.

As for the king himself, now that he was looking for it, Alastor could see the faintest outline of a shape near the left side of the bed. Creeping closer, he could see a pair of familiar boots and coat laying on the floor. A little closer, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room, he could see a pair of mimicked deer ears poking out the top of the nest of blankets.

For a long moment, Alastor simply stood there, looking down at the lump. His ears were strained for the first sign that his presence had been noticed, but so far there had been none. He could feel his grin widening with each beat of his heart that passed. There were so many things he could do in that moment and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

There was a part of him, the part that was still human and remembered what it was like to be human, that wanted to finish the job he'd started two days ago. When he'd been alive, allowing a victim to live would have been tantamount to a death sentence. A living victim could become a witness who could identify him to the authorities and then the game would be up.

Lucifer wasn't just a potential victim. He was the authorities. He was the highest authority.

After his death, Alastor hadn't had to hide who he was or what he was like. It was simply a kill or be killed world, where one's continued existence depended on brains and reputation.

And oh what a reputation the Radio Demon would gain, if he took out the King of Hell himself?

The chain - noose - around his neck sat heavy and loud, ever grating against his sanity. The memory of Husk's deal held so easily in a dark grey hand brought him back down to himself. Reminded him why he wanted to keep the little king around.

There was no other reason. There could be no other reason.

He admitted to himself that it might be interesting to just stand there, looming as he waited for Lucifer to awaken. The subconscious was a funny thing and people on the whole didn't appreciate being stared at when they slept. The general consensus was that it was creepy. It was half the reason he enjoyed doing it and it always left the victim feeling off balance. When his majesty continued to not respond, Alastor also admitted to himself that while he did normally enjoy such a plan, he wasn't that patient.

Ready to spring away, if necessary, Alastor reached out until those tantalizing ears were just under his hand. Unrepentantly, he flicked one of them.

The ear twitched violently, the lump beneath the blanket shuddered, ear going flat. Grey hands appeared along the edge of the blanket, pulling it down for Lucifer peer up at him.

The sinner waved his fingers by way of greeting at his king, who stared back at him with a pair of tired, dead eyes.

Lucifer blinked at him, once, twice... and then pulled the covers back over his head??

Alastor felt the glitch to his system, spitting static. Did Lucifer think he could just ignore Alastor and he'd go away?

Oh, no. Oh no, that wouldn't do at all.

Time to throw away the preverbal Nice Guy gloves. He clapped his hands once, sharply, one shadow going for the lamp on the side desk while another went for the end of the covers. With vindictive amusement, the covers were ripped clean off the bed, while the flick of a switch bathed the room in light. A third shadow went for the curtains, yanking them aside to let the afternoon light in. Over the low groans of the bed's occupant, Alastor proclaimed at just high enough a volume to be annoying, "Rise and shine, your Majesty! You've nearly slept the day away, but there's still some time left to enjoy it."

The blonde still didn't look like he gave any sort of fuck that someone was standing over his bed harassing him. Alastor took in the rumpled state of his king's clothing - he was still dressed in his suit, sans the pieces on the floor - as Lucifer threw an arm over his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the light. Without a word, he merely rolled over, presenting his back to Alastor, as if he wasn't a concern in the slightest. His tail didn't even so much a flick once.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It ground his gears more than a bit to be so blatantly treated as so little a threat, but the more he took in the situation, the more it drove home what Charlie had meant by 'just kind of shut down.' With the absence of the quilt and sheets, the reek of melancholy wafted off Lucifer in waves, nearly overpowering his usual scent. Little things observed over time - the most damning being what was glimpsed during their last encounter - and Alastor recognized what he was looking at.

Lucifer Morningstar, the Devil and King of Hell was depressed. Deeply, truly, very depressed.

This was the potential opportunity he was looking for. Alastor would have to be blind not to see it. Getting close to Charlie had given him influence over Hell's future ruler as well as a possible solution to his ...other problem. It was a long game he'd been more than willing to play for the potential future rewards.

This here was the king, himself, though. As he'd just thought to himself: the highest authority in Hell. Lucifer didn't have much by way of political influence beyond the people's fear of his power. He clearly wasn't willing to use his authority to rule over his kingdom, first advocating it to his much more interested wife, before abandoning it altogether when she left.

On the other hand, who didn't know who he was? The other side of the coin to God himself, Lucifer was one of the most well known beings in all of creation, the originator and father of sin himself. The being who'd given humanity their free will and so neatly interrupted his holy father's plans.

Lucifer's interest in politics may have been nonexistent, but his reputation more than made up for it.

Could he do it, Alastor wondered to himself. Could he force himself into something companion shaped enough to meet the needs another just for power? He'd already debased himself so much already - it was how he landed in his current situation, in every sense of the word - could he do it a little more?

Static emitted from his throat, his desire - his desperation - to be free at war with his pride, tattered though it's remains were. Companionship usually came with other expectations. Expectations that included touching, amongst other things. The mere thought made him want to claw his own skin off and nothing had even happened yet.

He hadn't realized he'd moved until he heard a squeak from the direction of the floor. Attention diverted, Alastor craned his head around, hearing his own neck cracking in the process, as he tried to get a better look at whatever it was he had stepped on. He blinked when he saw the object, unable to resist reaching down to pick up the item to better exam it.

It was... a rubber duckie?

Lips parting in his bafflement, he twisted around to look towards the desk and shelves he remembered seeing earlier. The light of the lamp and the outside world illuminated the yellow objects, revealing them to be a mass pile of what were indeed rubber duckies. Every single one of them was some degree of different from the others, but they were all unmistakably the same thing. There had to be over a hundred of them. Some of them were new, but some of them were old, likely brought over from the palace.

Disgust curled up in his chest like a living thing. Disgust at himself. Disgust at Lucifer for being living proof that power doesn't mean a damn thing in the end. His anger made him reckless, blind to the potential consequences, as Alastor asked, "Is this why they left?"

For the first time since entering the room, he finally gained Lucifer's attention. "What?"

The single word sounded like a warning, but Alastor had already picked up too much momentum. He knew he liked to poke where he shouldn't, that it could be the death of him one day. Perhaps today was going be that day. In that moment, weighted down by everything, he almost didn't care. "While your people were getting slaughtered and your wife's kingdom was being burned to the ground, were you making children's toys?"

Lazily, damningly, like the final nail in his own coffin, he spun around back to the lump that would be his king. He sneered.

"How pathetic."

The only warning he had was the flicking of that silly, ridiculous tail.

Suddenly, the room was spinning. No, he was falling - being pulled? - onto the bed. His back made contact with the mattress and he got a brief glimpse of the ceiling before it was replaced by Lucifer.

Who was livid. Hands like stone pinned Alastor down at the wrists. The rest of Lucifer's body weight rested on the sinner's hips, one leg resting on either side of his body. Every single one of his fangs were visible as he bared his teeth in a snarl mere inches from Alastor's nose. "Who are you to judge me? You dare to speak of things you know nothing about?!"

Eyes void of pupils glared down at him, staring down into his very soul. Feeling exposed, feeling vulnerable, Alastor's flight or fight response kicked in, sending his heart rate through the roof. He tried to dissolve into his shadow, only to find himself unable to do so.

In response to his distress, he shadows rose up, diving in to take out his attacker. Lucifer didn't even acknowledge them. His wings appeared behind him, flooding the room with a bright light that drove away any and all shadows.

Sensing he was caught, the part of Alastor's brain that was every bit the prey animal he worked so hard not to let himself be forced him to go still under a dangerous predator.

"You are nothing more than a rapid dog nipping at my heels." Lucifer growled, the smell of smoke heavy on his breathe. "I should put you out of your misery, once and for all."

Alastor swallowed, forced himself to think through the molasses of his fear. He may be pinned and powerless, but he wasn't completely without weapons. He was never more glad that his smile was fixed in place as he stated, "Ah, there you are, your Majesty. You had Charlie worried about you."

He was almost able to keep the grimace out of his voice. Almost.

Alastor wondered if that had been perhaps the wrong thing to say, as Lucifer tightened his grip until bones began to grind together. Red tipped fingers curled inwards, the only sign of his pain.

Golden pupils appeared between one blink to the next, tracking the movement. As if he actually cared about the pain he could be causing, Lucifer's grip loosened, just enough that they were simply pinning instead of inflicting harm. His voice, on the other hand, held no mercy, as he asked, "What does my daughter have to do with this?"

Growing more confident the longer the king didn't kill him, Alastor explained, "Well, when she didn't hear from you today, Charlie asked me to come check on you, of course!" It wasn't entirely the truth, but it was close enough to hold up under any immediate scrutiny.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously, all to happy to bring on the scrutiny. "Why would she send you?"

Alastor shrugged like he wasn't pinned under someone who was just trying to kill him mere moments ago. "Because I was the only one that could get into the room. Perks of being the Hotel Manager!" As his panic began to settle with each passing moment Lucifer was slowly returning to his normal form, the feeling of his skin crawling from every point of contact between them was beginning to rise. He needed to get Lucifer off him and soon. "In fact, she's waiting for word back right at this moment!"

Lucifer's eyes, pupils red and sclera yellow again, searched him, likely to see if he was telling the truth. Upon seeing that he was, he proceeded to finally make a mistake.

He took his eyes off of his captive to glance at the door, hands loosing just that tiny, crucial bit more.

Alastor caught his heels on the edge of the bed, using the leverage to raise his hips up into a bridge. The new position forced Lucifer to either release his wrists to catch himself or face plant as he was thrown forward. Luckily for the redhead, Lucifer went for catching himself, releasing Alastor, who immediately sprung up, catching the blond around the waist. Twisting, the two toppled over.

Within mere seconds, their positions were reversed: Alastor on top and Lucifer pinned to the mattress on his back.

The little king blinked up at him. He almost looked impressed with the move. He glanced at the hands pinning his wrists, flexing them as he tested the strength of the grip. Squirmed a little as the new position was likely putting an uncomfortable weight on his wings.

Good, Alastor thought. At any other time and situation, Alastor might have been fascinated by them. At the moment, his grip on those deceptively dainty wrists and any signs of discomfort were the only thing allowing him to hold onto his sanity.

For a long moment, they simply remained still, both parties regaining control over their frayed nerves. As his heart rate settled, his breathing normalizing, Alastor became aware of something he hadn't noticed over the stench of melancholy: his own scent.

It was becoming stale, but he could still was still there, separate from what he was currently leaving behind. It clung to Lucifer's person like a neon sign to tell anyone with the nose for it that he had let the Radio Demon close enough to him to make a claim.

He hadn't gotten rid of it.

The knowledge awoke a beast of a different kind, possessive and wanting, the scales tipping from Alastor wanting to devour this prize to wanting to keep him, if only he could figure out how. It left him nearly dizzy with whiplash.

Movement pulled him out of the thought. The redhead focused back on the outside world in time to see Lucifer directing his attention down the length of his own body. Alastor, without thinking, did the same.

Something hot and mortified clawed at his throat as he realized that while the blonde had been sitting on his hips in the original hold, the change in position had Alastor pinning Lucifer to a bed while sitting between his legs.

Alastor threw himself off of Lucifer and the bed, feeling like every point of contact had burned him. Lucifer raised himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at him. The redhead didn't know what he saw in his expression before it was all locked away behind his mask, but it resulted in the blonde's own expression growing tired.

Lucifer let himself fall back onto the bed, seemingly heedless of his wings, running a hand down his face. "Message received." He waved a hand at the door. The spell on the door fell away with a light shower of sparks. Task down, the limb fell limp down onto the mattress. "Please tell Charlie I'll be down shortly."

It was a clear dismissal. Usually Alastor would have bristled at such a thing, but considering he did not want to be in that room anymore, he let it go. Forcing everything back into place, despite the ways his edges were feeling frayed, he said faux pleasantly, "As you wish, sire."

He paid little attention to the half assed wave of goodbye he received in response. When he disappeared into his shadow, he refused to look too deeply into how much it felt like he was running.

Again.

tbc

Part 8

#radioapple #alastor #lucifer morningstar #deer lucifer fic #alastor took over this chapter #and of course its the longest one yet #yay for development of their relationship #but is it good development #i'd hoped certain scenes would go differently #but alastor does what he wants #and here we are #we're back to lucy's pov next chapter #and some more time with the plot #i need to actually think about where it's going #so i have no idea when the next part will be out #but it has been started #yay #this fic now has a title #the inherent intimacy of courting death

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