#Cadence lamb

[beenbaanbuun]

it begins - opposites attract universe

a small snippet from back when darling was nothing more than a sugar baby :)

——————————————————————————-

“you look—”

“tired? miserable?” you cut hongjoong off as you toss yourself down on the rug that the man had noticed you’d taken quite a liking to. honestly before you came he was wondering whether he should move it to one of the unused guest rooms; it is quite an old thing, after all. upon seeing how much you adore it however, he can’t quite bring himself to shuffle it even an inch to the side. he knows his husband is inclined to agree…

“i was going to say overworked, but i suppose tired and miserable works too,” he chuckles lowly. something about you has him doing that so often, finding himself amused by you even when you’re not in the room. there have been so many late night recently, just him and seonghwa lay together sharing stories of how you’d brightened their day.

“well if i look overworked it’s my bosses fault,” you lift an arm to shield your face from hongjoong’s watchful gaze, but even with that extra layer of protection you can feel him staring at you with that an unfamiliar look in his eyes. he’s been looking at you like that an awful lot recently; seonghwa too.

you wonder if they know that the way they watch you has changed? eyes shifting from lust to something strange that, if you didn’t know any better, you might muddle up with adoration. each time you catch it you have to scold yourself a little, warning yourself to not let your heart swell too much. you’re here on nothing more than a business arrangement; your company for their rewards. at the end of the day, that’s all this is.

but as you shift your arm just enough for you to peek at the suited man, you find yourself realising that this moment is worth more than anything they could give you. the money, the clothes; none of adds up to more than the sight of hongjoong staring down at you with such a bright smile on his face. a smile that you know you caused.

maybe that’s why you still have your job, despite the fact that you haven’t needed it for a while, or why you still wear all your old tatty clothes from before you met them on that fateful night in the club. maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with the money at all.

maybe it never has.

“that’s a pretty dress, lamb,” you hear a second voice enter the room, a pretty pair of black stockings passing briefly through your periphery. knowing seonghwa, they’re thigh high with little lacy details in his thigh, far too high up to be revealed without pushing the hem of his skirt up. “although i must admit, i don’t recall ever buying you anything so long…”

it’s a pointed comment, letting you know that he’s well aware of the fact that you’re not adorning any of the clothes they’ve provided for you. he means nothing by it, and you’re well aware of that fact, but you still can’t help yourself from sighing at his words.

“i can’t wear any of the clothes you buy me to work,” you reply, “i don’t want a trip to HR just because mommy and daddy insist on me showing every inch of skin i have.”

and perhaps that was the wrong this to say because as seonghwa sits down gracefully next to hongjoong, he lets out a little dismissive scoff. as you let you gaze shift from hongjoong’s face to his? you notice that his expression matches the sentiment of the sound. fed up and dismissive, but not angry. never angry.

“and how is work, little lamb,” his words are sharp, “i heard you telling hongjoong you felt—what were the words you used? ah yes, tired and miserable. good day then?”

“seonghwa—”

“what?” he interrupts, “am i not allowed to speak your mind on issues that concern me? tell me, lamb,” he leans forward, elbows on knees and knuckles digging into his cheek, “should i not worry about what our darling does with her spare time?”

you freeze, not entirely sure of the meaning of the cadence of his voice or the words that it speaks. he’s always called you his, or theirs—after all, that’s what they pay you to be. never before has he said those words so possessively, though.

“cara mia,” hongjoong warns; something that you’ve never witnessed him do with seonghwa before. the taller man takes no notice of him, though, his eyes firmly rested on you.

“tell me, lamb,” he purrs dangerously, like a lion about to pounce upon its prey, “what are you here for if you’re not going to make use of our gifts? you are our sugar baby; why do you keep returning here if you don’t want to accept our part of the deal?”

your body sits up on its own; an automatic reaction to the uncomfortable tension that sits over the room like a heavy fog. you know the answer to seonghwa’s question, as you fear he does, but you daren’t say it. once it’s out in the open, there’s no taking it back. maybe that would be a good thing, to finally have your feelings out there, your soul lay bare for them. with seonghwa’s expression do unreadable, and hongjoong’s turning to worry, you’re not so sure.

“seonghwa—”

“tell me,” he cuts you off, “because if you don’t, then darling, i’m not sure i’ll be able to live with this uncertainty.”

oh.

is this it then? you either tell them that you feel more than you should or this whole thing is off? for all you know, they might call it off once they hear what you say. they might kick you out, scolding you for growing feelings where there clearly shouldn’t be any. they might roll their eyes and dismiss you as if you’re nothing but dirt on the bottom of your shoe before telling you that this arrangement won’t work anymore.

perhaps more than that, though, is the possibility of them ignoring it. acknowledging your feelings and moving on as though nothing has changed when in reality, everything has. before you thought you could make it through this with those feelings kept a secret, but if they’re going to be out in the open, then you’re not so sure. after all, a rejection is closure, ignorance is not.

“i enjoy your company,” you say, hoping it’s vague enough to satisfy his curiosity. he narrows his eyes and you can tell it’s not.

“you can enjoy our company and still take our gifts,” he says, voice short and impatient, “the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

you take in a shuddery breath and you can’t lie, part of you is tempted to crawl closer to them just to satisfy your nerves. everything seems okay when you’re bundled up in their arms.

“seong—”

“lamb,” he snaps, “please, just tell me whatever it is that you think you cannot. even if it’s not what we want to hear, i can assure you that nothing bad with happen,” a manicured hand with nails as red as blood reaches forward to catch your chin. you melt into feeling, even the slightest of touch being enough to make things seem just a little better. “you’re far too special for us to allow anything bad to happen to you.”

and just like that, your walls come crumbling to the floor. you shuffle closer to the pair, desperate for something more. you get that something in the form of hongjoong’s hand in your hair. he scrapes his nails against your scalp, humming appreciatively when you melt against the touch, eyes fluttering closed and lips parting. seonghwa, despite his desperation, can’t help but take the opportunity to trace your lower lip with his thumb, tugging it back just before you can resume your usual habit of taking it into your mouth and suckling upon it.

“nothing bad,” hongjoong repeats his husband’s words.

“your company,” you say, voice quiet and breathy as the touch of your two sugar-parents melt you down to nothing, “it means more to me than the gifts ever did. i can go without the clothes and the money, i—” you stop yourself, unsure whether you should let the next few words slip from your tongue. in the end, you know that you’ll have to, but perhaps you can relish in these few seconds in which your secret actually remains just that; a secret.

“you?” seonghwa urges, his hand flattening out against your cheek to stroke it. “what about you, lamb?”

you take a second, maybe two, to build yourself up for the plunge. it feels as though you’re stood on a pier, staring into the murky depths below. your don’t know what’s beneath the water, but what you do know is that seonghwa and hongjoong are already down there. they’re waiting for you to jump; to join them in the only abyss. you want to take that leap, even if you have no clue how deep the water really is. perhaps you will hit something and break your legs, but as you stare into seonghwa’s eyes you realise that they were telling the truth. nothing bad will happen when they’re there to catch you.

“i don’t think i can go without you,” you mutter, “and i think that’s been the case since the very beginning.”

“without us?” seonghwa asks as if the statement isn’t clear as day. what more could he want from you? “you mean to say that this isn’t what we thought it was?”

“well, it was still sugaring,” you try to appease him. he simply shakes his head with a smile.

“but if we’re in it for your company, and you’re in it for ours,” seonghwa breaks eye contact with you for just a moment or so. there’s an almost giddy look on his face as he glances towards the man he married and it remains once his eyes are back on you, “is this not just a relationship? are you not just ours?”

you suppose he has a point.

“is that what you want me to be?” you ask.

“more than anything, dove,” hongjoong replies, “is that what you want to be?”

“yes,” it’s a simple answer, but it says all you need to say, “more than anything.”

[sinner-as-saint]

no masters or kings - 2

Priest!Bucky x Reader 

Read part 1 here

Run-through: Father Barnes’ life had been rather peaceful for years. He never complained though, he chose this. Between mass on Sundays, bible study sessions during the week, and office hours, the amount of time he has left he dedicated to reading and keeping his body active. There wasn’t much to do in this small, almost forgotten town. Then a new face appeared. A woman, married to some businessman who leaves her all by herself while he grows his fortune in the city. Father Barnes seemed determined at first, to herd and care for the new, young, lonely little lamb. But that is until he found himself tempted to sin like never before. 

Themes: priest!bucky, smut, degrading kink, infidelity, explicit language, (sacrilege, blasphemy, and all the other bad stuff), mild c*m play

a/n: @cadence-on-beat Father Barnes and I love you <3

“Where were you?” 

There was already a chill in the air which had you shivering for the past few minutes that you’d been in here. In the darkness, in the cold. Standing all by yourself in front of the ancient looking pulpit, inside the empty church at near midnight. Then the tone of his voice added to the shivering. You were properly trembling as you turned to face him. 

He hadn’t been out running tonight. No work out clothes. He was still wearing the black slacks he always wore. With the black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that white collar. Hands shoved in his pockets, he stood there near the pews and watched you. 

The lights were off. The lamps outside and the moonlight coming in through the stained glass gave just enough light for you to see him. Not clearly, but you didn’t need to see his face to sense his displeasure. It echoed around the empty room. Not just his voice. His authority. His dark desires as well. 

Three little words and you were ready to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness. He always had that effect on you. His handsome face only made him seem more lethal. Unreachable. Like he was some forgotten god who was known to be greedy, but you kept throwing yourself at his altar despite the warnings just for a possible glimpse of his beauty. 

You were enamoured. And you could only tell him the truth. Lying to him felt wrong. 

“My parents hosted a dinner party over the weekend. Plus there were a few fundraisers to attend. So um, my husband and I had to–,” 

He cut you off with enough venom and bitterness in his steady voice that it felt like a thorny vine wrapping around you, squeezing and hurting. “So you were with him?” His accusatory tone didn’t go unnoticed. 

–

Bucky was well aware he had no right to be jealous. He had absolutely no right to question you regarding your whereabouts. But he so selfishly enjoyed the way you squirmed in front of him. After not having seen you or heard from you for days, he was beginning to get worried. 

Each time he walked by your house, he made sure to look for any signs that you might be home. But there were none. By the second day, he realised you must’ve gone away. He just didn’t know that it would affect him so much upon hearing that you’d been away, for days, spending time with your showy family and husband. It made him borderline murderous. 

Dinner party. Fundraisers. Those were so far from his world. Plus you looked like you’d just gotten back from one such pretentious event. Judging by the deliciously low cut silver evening gown with a slit at the front, the expensive shoes, the diamonds in your ears and around your neck, and that excuse of a shawl you had wrapped around your shoulders – it looked like you’d come straight here to see him. It made him stand a little taller. 

He watched as you took the smallest step towards him, as if unsure whether or not you could get close to him. 

“I came back as soon as I could.” You explained, looking down at the dark red carpet beneath your feet. 

Bucky took some steps closer to you. “But you were with him. Did he touch you?” 

This made you look up at him, as if betrayed. As if it was unthinkable that your husband would touch you. “No. I told you about him and I. We’ve never–” 

He cut you off again, stepping closer and closer as he spoke until he was right in front of you. “Did he hold you in front of everyone? Pulled you close?” He began listing. “Showed you off? Held your hand, kissed you, danced with you? Did he do all the things I have no right to?” He reached out and his fingers stroked your cheek just barely. 

He was crossing a line. He knew it. He couldn’t stop the jealousy from spreading, from coursing through his veins. He begged his god to make it stop. Begged. But here it was again. That same jealousy, stepping out of a dark cave like a beast that’s been chained underground for too long now finally seeing the light again. It was angry. Raw. Hungry. Demanding. 

–

His jealousy, his possessiveness felt like a drug you wanted more of. 

“He did none of that.” You explained. “We slept in separate bedrooms in his penthouse.” 

You gasped as Father Barnes’ hand moved, his gentle touch on your cheek turned into him grabbing the back of your neck and bringing your face closer to his. Your chest pressing against his. His body heat wrapped all around you as he sneered, “What if he wanted to? Hmm? What if, as it is his right, he walked into your bedroom at night and said he wanted to fuck his wife? Would you have denied him?” 

Your breaths were shaky. Your mind was already foggy just by being this close to him. He didn’t feel human. He always felt more. He was too put together. Too steady. Too pretty to look at. 

He scoffed, “You wouldn’t deny him.” He whispered, his lips just an inch away from yours. “Your pretty little brain doesn’t think about anything else, does it? Of course you’d say yes. All you think about is men fucking you, owning your body, making it theirs. It doesn’t matter whose cock it is at the end of the day, is it?” 

He gave you a sinful smirk. One that made your whole body pressed against him even more. 

Then he leaned closer, so that his soft mouth brushed against yours as he said, “You just need that pretty pussy to be filled at all times. Doesn’t matter who does it, your husband, a stranger, a priest. It’s all the same to you, huh? All you care about is having a man on top of you. You sick, twisted, immoral woman.” 

He spoke those words with a gentle caress. His tone hushed, still jealous and authoritative. But quiet. Like he wasn’t chastising you. 

“Please.” You murmured, mouth brushing against his. “Please.” 

He ignored your pleas. Tightening his grip at the back of your neck as his other hand came up to that risqué slit at the front of your dress, fingers sliding in to touch your inner thighs. “Is that why you showed up here, dressed like this? Because you need a cock to fill you up. Hmm? Look at you,” He said, his fingers now finding their way in between your legs, cupping you there, “You’re trembling already.” 

He chuckled in that boyish way of his when he noted the lack of underwear, sliding his finger inside you with ease. Followed by another finger, and said, “Is this what you want? To be nice and full?” 

You looked up at him and nodded, pleading with him with your eyes. 

–

Bucky loved the sight of you like this. Expensive gown, diamonds all over you, his hand in between your legs, that sorry excuse of a shawl as if anything about your behaviour was even remotely modest. 

The soft moans coming out of your mouth. Too perfect. Your appearance, the lipstick, the hair, the gown. He wanted to ruin all of it in the best ways. So he thoroughly enjoyed the gasp of surprise he earned when he pulled his fingers away abruptly. 

“Not so easily.” He whispered. “Get on your knees.” 

He watched as you dropped instantly, right there in front of him on the dark red carpet right in front of the pulpit. Your shawl fell behind you, your silver gown spilled around you, the slit widened and exposed more of your smooth skin and legs. You looked up at him and waited. 

Bucky undid his pants, his eyes daring you to move without him asking you to. He lowered his slacks just enough to free his throbbing, hard cock and let it out there in front of your face. He let you watch it bob once, twice. He smirked when he saw the way you almost begged for it. But he wasn’t that cruel, nor was he too patient. 

“Go on, use your mouth.” 

– 

It felt forbidden. Well, it was. But as you reached for him, as you brought your mouth closer to his tip, it felt like you were entering a territory that could change your life forever. Like you were entering a domain which would swallow you whole, and you would happily let it. There was no coming back, you knew that. 

You were too far gone. There was no forgiveness for this. No repenting. Nothing. So you went for it. You wrapped your hands around his cock and placed your mouth on his tip, your tongue slowly circling his tip before sliding him into your eager mouth. 

Bucky slid his hand down to your neck, pulling your head forward as he slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. “What would your rich, conservative family do if they saw you like this, hmm? On your knees for a man you shouldn’t want. What would your husband do?” He threw his head back and let out a strained moan, followed by an arrogant chuckle.

You kept your eyes on his handsome face as you sucked on his cock with all your might. He closed his eyes momentarily, lips parted and gasping as he tilted his head back. You wondered how long it had been since his cock was inside a warm, wet mouth. 

He moaned as he pushed himself deeper, fucking your mouth like he owned it. The carpet would surely leave marks behind on your knees but that was the least of your concerns as he bucked his hips forward into your mouth. 

“This hungry, slutty mouth of yours feels so good…” 

You repeated your actions again and again, hollowing your cheeks. The growls and moans which escaped his lips made you squirm and only added to the dampness which was forming in between your legs. 

“You’ve been craving this, haven’t you?” He quickened the pace at which he moved in and out of you, eager to chase his orgasm. “Needing a cock in your mouth, so fucking desperate you came begging all the way here for it.” His voice was raspy, heavy with lust. It made you squirm. 

You knew you couldn’t wait any longer for the sake of your sanity. You needed him. So you took him out of your mouth, licking his cock from bottom to top while your hands toyed with his balls. He looked down at you with a warning in his eyes. 

“Are you that eager? You can’t wait? Hmm?” That gentle voice of his was back again. “Just want to be done with me as quick as possible so I can fuck you, huh?” He looked down at you with his intense blue eyes. His longish hair a little out of place now. 

You nodded before taking him back into your mouth. You felt the veins of his firm cock against your tongue. You felt his muscles tightened under your touch, and you knew he wouldn’t last much longer. So you quickened your pace, and he groaned as he reached his high. 

With one final, rough push into your mouth, you felt him starting to come undone. His hand came to the front of your neck, a warning, as he growled, “Don’t swallow just yet.” Then his cum filled your mouth as he gradually pulled himself out of your mouth and bent down to look at you from up close. Your lips were swollen. Cum and spit ran down your chin, out the corners of your mouth. 

You were panting, waiting. He looked into your mouth, finding a small pool of his cum in there. He smirked in that devilish way as he slid two fingers past your lips, gathering the wetness on the tips of his fingers as he, almost naturally, brought his wet fingers to your forehead. 

“You’re mine.” He said to you while you trembled, and it wasn’t because of the cold night. 

There, as both of you were in that post-sex haze, he drew two overlapping lines on your forehead. Then dragged his wet fingers down your face, painting your skin. Down the bridge of your nose and back into your mouth. Pumping them in and out, causing more cum to fall down your chin. 

Causing it to fall down your neck, all over the diamonds that your husband possibly bought you. All over your chest, ruining your expensive gown, your makeup. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

Your lipstick was smeared, you had his cum all over your face and he had never felt so close to ecstasy before. He felt free. Tingly. Floaty. Like nothing mattered, but every little mattered. 

This must be the feeling people seek. He thought. Why they beg at altars, and worship old gods and new. 

You were so close to begging again. You needed him, terribly. 

And he knew. 

–

Bucky stared deep into your eyes as he said, “Get on your back. Pull your dress up and spread those legs for me.” 

He watched as you did just as he asked, while lowering himself on top of you right there on the carpet. He was ready to go, all hard again. So he wasted no time in pushing himself fully into you. He watched you grimace in pleasure as his cock stretched you out. 

You whined as he slowly slipped out of you completely, before slamming back into you with a slightly bigger force. He groaned at the feel of your walls wrapped around him, squeezing and clenching around him. 

“Fuck you feel good.” He groaned. “This warm pussy missed me, huh?” 

Your back arched off the carpet, your chest pressed to his as you moaned. You wanted to feel his naked body against yours, to feel his warm chest press against your bare skin. But if this was all he’d give you then you were willing to take it.  

“You’re gonna keep coming back here over and over again, no matter where you go. You’ll come right back to me, won’t you?” He asked, hips moving in a way that made it hard for you to think straight. 

But you nodded. “Yes…” 

“Yes what?” He barked.

“Yes, Father Barnes. I’ll always come back to you,” You whispered, a moaning mess under him in no time. 

He worshipped your body. He grabbed your thigh with one hand, hooking it up to his waist, allowing him to fuck deeper into you. He mumbled how good you felt in your ear, groaning as you bucked your hips to meet each one of his thrusts as well. He kissed you roughly as he pounded into you, his fingers wrapped around your throat. He fucked you raw and relentlessly, watching how your face morphed into frowns of pleasure. 

“Tell me you’re mine.” He looked down to where your bodies connected so intimately. So sinfully. So beautifully. 

“I’m yours,” You whined, looking up at him. Even in the darkness, he was ethereal. Looking down at you with that animalistic, primal and fiery look in his eyes. 

His lips parted as he panted while he fucked you like he owned you. He did. He did from the moment you laid eyes on him. 

You whimpered even louder when his hand slid in between your connected bodies and furiously rubbed your clit. It wasn’t going to take much to make you come anyway, you were already too turned on. 

“Please,” You whined in a higher pitch, “Please, please, please…” 

“What do you need?” He panted, still fucking you hard and fast. “Tell me what you need and I’ll give it to you.” There was that priestly tone again. 

You couldn’t talk as the pressure in between your legs became too much to handle, and you craved for release. Still you mumbled out, “I need to come, please. Can I come?” 

“Fuck!” He swore as he felt you clench around him perfectly. “Go on, come for me.” 

You did. 

You came hard around him, moaning and whimpering under him as he finished right after you yet again. 

—

He helped you up after a minute or two, helped you fix your dress and appearance as best you both could. 

He had seen your car outside earlier so he knew you’d be okay to drive yourself home. You didn’t live far from the church anyway. And right before you left he said, “Leave the door unlocked.” It was a safe town, so he felt free to ask that of you. “Who knows? I might want more later.” 

Might. He could come back for more, or maybe he simply wouldn’t. Maybe he wanted you to go to bed still thinking, guessing, anticipating, and waiting. 

And he knew you would. Think. Guess. Anticipate. And wait.

---

part 3

[ohproserpine]

lamb to the slaughter

alastor finds heaven kneeling before an exterminator tags. alastor x gn! exterminator! angel reader, religious imagery & symbolism, implied death, blood, dark romance

Alastor holds no reverence for heaven.

He himself was far from holy, his rotten soul resistant to the act of prayer and worship. The humility required to kneel and plead for mercy is an attribute that seems alien to him.

But never before had he beheld such beauty.

Alastor eyes were fixed on you. Before him, you loomed, a majestic creature with pearlescent wings outspread, a radiant halo encircling your horns, and draped in golden robes.

In the grip of your divine gaze, Alastor's thoughts wandered back to the verses he had half-heartedly listened to in the hallowed halls of the church. The utterances of the pastor, the haunting melodies of the choir, and the impassioned prayers fervently uttered by the congregation—all appeared to him as a futile worship. Amidst it all, he remained a solitary figure, impervious to the sanctity of the holy prayers.

Had he known that beauty could materialize into a being such as you, he would have uttered all those holy prayers in your name instead.

"Kneel," you commanded. Something within him seethed, growled, and clawed at his thumping chest.

Despite the tremors in his knees, he feigned composure, sinking to kneel before you. The fabric of his pants tore on the coarse gravel, leaving his knees scraped and bloodied. As he raised his gaze to meet yours, a chilling sensation coursed through him, your heavenly eyes seemingly scorching his skin.

Dimly aware of the pain induced by your blade piercing through muscle and meeting bone, a crazed euphoria enveloped him, numbing the stinging sensation.

Alastor found it somewhat hilarious. Creatures like you, born to worship and embody symbols of holiness, bore wings that were perpetually stained with the richness of cardinal red.

A soft, involuntary groan slipped past the demon's lips as you abruptly yanked the spear from his flesh, forcefully pulling him closer to you. Despite the searing pain, he bit down on his tongue, commanding himself to silence.

"How shameful," your voice cooed, a mellifluous cadence that felt like honey to his ears—soft and warm. Alastor felt the edge of your bloodied spear against his throat, yet he made no move to stop you.

There was nothing heavenly about this, and yet it was the closest he felt to heaven.

What's heaven compared to you anyway?

You moved closer towards him, the spear shifting from his throat, tracing a path toward his jaw before aiming it to strike his head. All the while, Alastor gazed up at you with an expression akin to that of a lamb.

"Beautiful," Alastor spat out, blood seeping from between his teeth. The gleam in his razor-sharp smile held a disturbing charm.

"This praise will not purify you."

His laughter echoed in the air, a breathless and bittersweet symphony that mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

Forgive him. Alastor pleaded one last time as you raised the spear high. For he has sinned.

And yet, kneeling before you now, hands bloodied with the golden blood of your kin, he knew he would do it again.

[vesperaink]

Friends, my necromancer!Tango/grimreaper!Jimmy, Team Rancher modern with magic apocalypse AU, Graveyard Shift, for @mcytblraufest's Reverse Big Bang is here!

But wait there's more--go read chasing crimson written by @aliferous-ly, beta'd by @dibs2win, my fantastic team for aufest. If you love enemies to lovers, unlikely partnerships, and the power of soul-bound magic weapon contracts, this hilarious + dramatic 22.9k fic kicks off from this comic!

chasing crimson

Jimmy Solidarity works for the esteemed god of Death, reaping lost souls and taking care of unsavory characters. He's recently finished his training, and is determined to do well on his first solo mission. Perhaps this "Tango" would be a good start. Only, the god of Death disappeared years ago, and Necromancer Tango Tek's long since discovered a way around dying. He can't say he enjoys Jimmy swinging through and killing him where he stands, though.

Thank you to my team for being as feral about this AU as I am, and kicking everything about it up to 110. I had so much developing this world with them!

Thanks to @onawhimsicot for helping me with the comic's dialogue, fixing my composition woes with "just add more smoke," and encouraging me to complete it in full color! Check out Cadence's aufest fic, I take it back (ill follow till I fly or till im dead), a Cult of the Lamb AU about follower!Tango and Lamb!Zedaph, the meaning of devotion, silly experiments, eldritch transformations, and...the most platonic slowburn ever?

Lastly, thank you to the aufest team for another wonderful event! I had a blast again, and was giggling kicking my feet at everyone's reactions during claims, I loved every single one of them. Graveyard Shift is definitely an AU I'm coming back to. As always, my askbox is open if you'd like to chat, and I'd love to be tagged if anyone makes anything <3

Timelapse / AU art chatter under the cut!

While Graveyard Shift is the amalgamation of many of my interests, the main premise for this AU is loosely inspired by the webcomic, I'm the Grim Reaper, in both its apocalypse themes and its aesthetics! Not a required read, but highly recommend if you enjoy this au, as well as the anime and manga, Soul Eater!

I came up with a lot of AUs for this event but necromancer!Tango and reaper!Jimmy have been rattling around in my brain in separate AUs since before I started brainstorming for aufest. So I smashed them together, naturally.

(Unfortunately I didn't record all of my process, but most of it is here! CW for flashing; song is Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene by Hozier)

I could go on forever about concept art and character design if anyone's curious but here's some fun bonus details about this comic:

Originally, Tango's outfit was going to be more like his Dungeon Master outfit but I wanted the setting to be more modern and Jimmy stole the fantasy cloak vibe from him already lol

Jimmy's entrance of lightning is my nod to the Life Series final death sound

The scarf Jimmy's wearing is designed to be a boneyard shawl

The panel of strange text reads "Protection Three" in Galactic :)

+ The name "Graveyard Shift" was thrown at me by Cadence in like 3 seconds flat after i spent 2 days agonizing over a name for this au LOL

[edenspoem]

okay vamp! ellie who maybe walks past reader in a public area and getting a whiff of the scent of reader’s blood and just gets fully riled up as her fangs drop, embarrassing the fuck out of herself lmaooo

took me a toot little while to get to this, but omg, it would be totes more embarrassing if she had a crush on reader too.. she'd be so conflicted cause like— strong blood scent equates to a wound. okay! so obviously that would concern her enough to scurry on over and offer help. ellie's a sweetheart, even in this vampire trope; a fucking heart swell for you— even if her heart drums significantly slower, or not at all. so let's say, hand wound? her deft hand would pat down the tender flesh circling said wound, cupping the opposing side of your wrist in her bunched palm, her other hand minding the nostrils so eager— so thirsty to suck up that metallic scent, she just has to stifle a growl about it. n you peek up and wonder,

"what's wrong?" with a cadence so alluring. alluringly distressing on her hungry ears, wanting to consummate that urge. fucking devil–bestowed urge to just.. bite. those concentrated brows pulling up at the center like an artist swoops their hand, gulping those ill–omened words that wanted to vomit up.

i say omen, cause fuck— would her twist of tongue wrench your gut in all the wrong ways? or would you be lulled in tender as a lamb and fall for her. both are bound to hurt. on that note, all she can utter past pursing, thin lips is:

"nothing, just— hate the sight of blood, hmmph." and reaching for a wind of gauze. ellie couldn't take this shit a teardrop longer. more skin will break if she remains, gleam of her forehead caused by a taunting kiss of sweat.

but there's some figment of her that's just.. giddy, excitement stretching from her heart to her core. who could blame her? damn that's embarrassing though.

(little rushed im like tired and going crazy rn so this is just raw thrown-at-the-wall ideas)

[tenderhooked]

To celebrate chapter 3 of the camcorder fic hitting 15k, could we please have a snippet 👀❤️

BUT OF COURSEEEEEEE i am always down to share snippets of this fic hehehe

here's a bit from chapter 3 :)

“Smile for the camera, River.” As vile as the words are, Lamb can’t quite grapple with them properly, because his brain is stuck on the cadence of that rough, abraded voice and how strangely, peculiarly familiar it is. He knows it. How the fuck does he know it? There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, perched there like a pill about to be swallowed, but then River bares his teeth in a crimson-slicked, soundless snarl that resembles nothing so much as a puppy trying to prove its fighting prowess to a wild dog, and Lamb is torn between relief that the kid’s still capable of something more than docile obedience and petrified anticipation at what will happen because of it, and then— And then a heavy, steel-tipped boot swings into frame and kicks the legs out from beneath the chair, sending River hurtling to the concrete floor with such speed that Lamb’s pulse stutters momentarily, unbidden, convinced he’s about to bear witness to River’s skull splitting wide open in front of him. But, no, by some miracle the kid manages to catch himself on an elbow. Good lad. “Fuck’d you do that for?” River says, sounding stunned from impact. Sounding concussed, Lamb corrects, reprimanding himself. He’s been concussed. Whatever these pricks did to him before turning the camera on, it was bad enough to give him a concussion so severe that it is without a doubt impacting his speech patterns. “I smiled and everything.”

[4theluvofsapphos]

Devil's Advocate 2/?

A/N: I LIED THERE MIGHT BE MORE LOL ,,,

part one

Warnings: R passes from an implied inebriated fall (DDDNE), Drinking, Smoking, Mentions of a high/drug related analogies/metaphors(?),  Heavy Sadism/Masochism, Blood + Blood Drinking, Slut-Shaming/Harsh Degrading, Dubious Consent (R is bound by contract, yet still consents + is sober, so I’m not sure if this is dubious consent or not, but I’m not taking any chances afhksdfj), Brief mentions of being apathetic towards death/life 

“Going somewhere, starlight?” 

Your gaze snapped up, and you were met with two black, heeled boots. Confused at first, your automatic instinct was to back peddle, to get a better look at whoever–or whatever– it was that stood before you. 

You didn’t know what to say. You were going to ask where you were, who–what this thing was…yet the back of your mind told you what you didn’t want to hear. You knew where you were, and who you stood before. 

“Satan…?” you ask meekly, your voice coming out a sad, squeaky whisper. You kept your eyes trained on those boots, your body completely still, too terrified to look any higher. Like a rabbit, you felt your heart pounding against your rib cage, your eyes wide with terror, yet they also ebbed with curiosity. 

A low hum affirmed your beliefs, the shoes in front of you shifting slightly, accommodating the movement of the being attached to them. Kneeling, the Lightbringer’s hands came into your view.

In retrospect, you kneeled before them…not the other way around.

Slender, strong, pale…large. One bore a beautiful Jade ring, encrusted with gold- lavishly contrasting the fairness of their skin. You realized then that they were likely much taller than you had anticipated. 

To be fair, you hadn't anticipated Satan at all. 

“You will call me ‘Your Majesty’...or you will call me ‘Lightbringer’.” Their voice lilted with a sort of melodious cadence, rumbling from deep within their chest. It sounded like a lullaby, a psalm. It flowed like honey and settled into a space between your heart and your mind effortlessly.

There was no arguing with The Lightbringer. “Ah- uhm…y-yes of course Your Majesty.” Moments passed before you spoke up again, uncomfortable with the prolonged silence. “Is this all Hell is-? A big corridor?” 

The blonde’s gaze softened at your confusion, lips pursing ever so slightly. “Hardly…you simply happened to land in my chambers— which on its own is rather odd, I must say.” 

The fallen angel then gently clasped your chin between their index finger and thumb, slowly guiding your eyes to behold their own piercing blues. You felt your throat knot, eyes swelling with tears, feeling like you were face to face with the very consequences of your actions. 

“And you died recently, didn’t you?” They hummed, as if they didn’t know exactly how and when you died. Under what circumstances, there was no question they knew that too. “Y-Yes–, Your Majesty.” The words sputtered pathetically from your lips as you looked up at them, drinking in their cherubic features for the first time. 

Magical, was the only word you could manage to place on the entire experience. Their eyes were bright, lashes as light as their platinum locks of curled hair, sitting upon their head like a halo. The small scar along the right side of their lip more prominently shown when the Lightbringer smiled ever so slightly, noticing your curious gaze.

“What’s the matter, lamb?” They asked, their prying gaze forcing the words from your mouth before you could stop them. 

“You’re beautiful…” You whispered, immediately clasping a hand over your mouth and nearly toppling from the abrupt change in your center of gravity. 

The Lightbringer’s hold on your face kept you still, though. Their laughter twinkled throughout the chapel-like halls of the underworld. With a gentle trace along your jaw, the fallen angel stood once more and looked about the halls. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, starlight.” They crooned, gesturing for you to stand soon after. You obeyed almost immediately, getting onto your knees, before wobbling onto your feet.

Looking to the left, Lucifer waved their hand, and a previously concealed corridor seemed to appear in the very marble of the walls. The doors silently opened, allowing the two of you to enter their personal chambers. 

“I will speak with the others as to why you’re here. While you are here, though, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to enjoy the niceties of my homestay. Come, bathe the soot and blood off of your body. If you are to be presentable for me, I want the best.” Others? Homestay? Soot and blood? Your head was swimming with questions, but the one of your current state was quickly answered when you turned to see your reflection. The person staring back at you pale as a ghost, covered in crusted over blood and soot. It looked like you had just gotten crushed by a truck and shoved through an unclean chimney. 

Your lips parted in shock, seeing blood drip from the cracked and crusty skin of your lips…and that's when you realized just how pain filled your entire body seemed to be. Moving hurt, breathing hurt, your eyes burned and your lips felt like they were run against sandpaper.

Lucifer paused, looking at you through their own reflection. “You’re in quite the dreadful state…your body is essentially reflecting a small portion of just how damaged your corpse is right now.” The fallen angel’s moved about lazily as they spoke. 

“In fact, your remains are getting scooped off the street as we speak, put into a little black bag for cremation. I take it you have no family or friends to give you a service, hm…? How sad.” They tutted, clicking their tongue before continuing down the hall. 

As you stood dumbfounded by the state of your ‘body’, if that was even what it was, the ruler’s wings flapped once more, causing the hair on your head that wasn’t matted down by your coagulated blood to flutter against your face. 

“The baths are by the balcony on your left, just call for me when you’re ready.” 

Bewildered and overwhelmed, you watched the towering figure of your new host slowly fade away into nothingness. 

Were you really going to stay in Satan’s house? It seemed so.

A/N: HEHEHEH errrr yea :3

tags: @justcallmelittleone

[shalomniscient]

bring me the sun || arlecchino x reader

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

cw: maybe ooc arle? was trying to hit that childhood friends to lovers angle but might have missed the mark. other than that, none !

wc: 1.6k

There are three things the inhabitants of the Hotel know about Father: her orders are absolute, her power is unquestionable, and that you are her utmost and only beloved.

Your visits to the Hotel were always highly anticipated—perhaps even more so than Father’s, at times. You traveled the world in your service of Arlecchino, and by extension the Tsaritsa, which also meant that every time you returned to the Hotel you brought new, exotic sweets along with you. The children clamored around you, tugging on your hands and the silks of your dress, all vying for your attention. You always smiled at the kids, rather than push them away like one would have expected a Fatuus to do—the cadence of your voice light as you entertained the excited children, warm and almost motherly. A bright morning sun in the gray winter. But an icy voice always smothered that warm moment like snow falling into a flame.

“That’s enough. Do you all not have other things to do?”

Father hardly ever left her office upon the arrival of guests—but you, always you, were the only exception. The other children scurried off immediately, unwilling to draw Father’s ire, but one child was a little too slow and hid behind your skirts, frozen in place as he watched Father descend the grand stairs. She moved slowly, a wolf to a lamb, her boots clicking like claws on the cold tile. That was the sort of presence Father commanded—frigid and loveless and distant like the moon. A light in the darkness, to be sure, but one would find no warmth in the Knave.

But then, you smile, a soft thing that bloomed across your equally soft features, the sun emerging from behind grey clouds. Achingly fond. The Knave’s coldness swept up and over you and right out the door as you beam, unbothered by the chill, and drop into a polite curtsey.

“My Lord,” you say, and the children watching from the wings swear they see Father’s lip twitch. But then her gaze passes over you to burn holes into the boy behind you, who quivers under the intensity of it.

“Have you forgotten your assigned duties for today, boy?” she asks, and the boy flinches ever so slightly. “Surely there are more pressing matters for you to attend to, rather than accost our guests?”

“Rest assured, I was not accosted, my Lord,” you interject quietly, placatingly, before the Harbinger could go any further. “I promised to bring sweets, last I was here. He was simply waiting for his share.”

Some would find your bravery admirable yet foolish. But the children know their Father better.

The rigid line of her shoulders relaxes ever so slightly, and she watches you with the calmness of first snow. No icy barb or frosty remark is hurtled your way—instead, the whirling blizzard that is the Knave quiets, as if subdued by you and you alone.

“Make haste, then,” is all she says, and you offer another sweet smile, pulling a few wrapped candies from your pocket and handing them to the boy. He kisses your hand in gratitude before scampering off, eager to escape from Father’s piercing gaze. Once he is gone, disappearing into the winding hallways of the Hotel, your expression falls into a frown, but the twinkle of mirth in your eyes is difficult to hide.

“Has anyone informed you how terribly mean you are, my Lord?” you tease, though your words and posture do not match the joviality of your tone. From afar, one would assume that this was simply another conversation between a superior and a servant. As if the words exchanged were for no one other than you and the Knave.

“No,” the Knave says, frigid as ever. “None have dared.”

“Then perhaps it is a blessing that I have returned,” you joke, and anyone could see the way Father’s entire body bleeds the tension it normally carries, as if you were drawing it out of her with each light word. As if your presence was a balm to her soul. As if to say, always. Father doesn’t deign your teasing with a response, but she may as well have.

“Let us talk more in my office,” she says. A blackened hand rises to rest on the small of your back, a gentle urge that you do not reject. It is such a far cry from the violence they could inflict, the devastation they could deal. “I have a pot of rose tea prepared.”

“Ah, my favourite! You remembered.”

“Of course,” the Knave says quietly, as if it were a universal fact, as if the idea of her forgetting was absurd and incomprehensible. Your gaze is kept forward, admiring the new paintings of sunrises and sunsets that line the walls as you both ascend the stairs, so you do not see it but the children do. They see the way Father’s eyes soften so imperceptibly in a way most didn’t think was possible for her. They see the way her features smoothen out, her typical sneer of cold condescenscion melting into not a smile, but something so close to fond.

When you both disappear behind the heavy doors of the Knave’s office, the children can’t help but wonder—do you know, that you held a Harbinger’s heart in your hands?

“You spoil them far too much,” Arlecchino says as the doors shut. The hand on your back has not left, but you do not want it to anyway. She guides you to sit on an opulent couch, the cushions the same blood red as Arlecchino’s cross-shaped pupils. On the coffee table is a familiar old teapot, the aroma of sugar and roses wafting from the spout.

“Perhaps you spoil them far too little,” you counter, watching as she poured you a cup of golden tea, those dark hands stark against the pale porcelain.

“They are children of the snow,” Arlecchino rebuts, placing your cup on a saucer. Her hands are steady. “They do not need to be spoiled.”

“And yet, they are still children,” you murmur, bringing the cup to your lips for a sip. The tea tastes sweet, with distinct floral notes—just the same as it tastes every other time you visit. She has your tastes down to a science. Over the rim of your cup you see Arlecchino’s expression twist before it mellows out, and she sighs quietly. She knows where your softness comes from. You, too, were both children once, even if it was difficult to remember ever being allowed to simply be a child. You both grew up far too quickly and far too cruelly—the only constant and comfort you could find was in each other. A truth that remains even now, years into the future.

“Your heart is too warm, mon soleil.”

You set your teacup down, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. “And perhaps yours is too cold, ma lune.”

Arlecchino simply hums. She indulges in your fun where she would have eviscerated anyone else. Instead, dark hands curl in the folds of your dress and with a light tug she has you straddling her lean thighs as her head lies on the couch’s cusions, neck craned upward to look lazily up at you. The pale column of her neck is exposed like this, and you stifle the urge to press your lips against it. Her hands find home on your hips, like they’ve done countless of times before.

“If that’s the case,” she whispers, low and temptous as one hand takes yours to press below her left breast, right above her heart, “won’t you help warm it up again, mon soleil?”

You lean down, cupping her face in your free hand. Dual toned hair falls into her dark eyes, a delightfully messy sight you so dearly missed. Your lips ghost over her own, and you laugh breathily as Arlecchino twitches forward ever so slightly, her eagerness rather cute—though you suspect she would sooner die rather than admit to being anything other than terrifying, least of all cute.

“As my Lord commands,” you croon, and you finally, finally kiss her. She all but melts beneath you, greedily chasing your kiss and the sweetness of roses. She normally loathes sweet things, but perhaps she could make an exception if she drank it directly from your lips. She kisses you as if she might lose you at any moment, slowly savouring all of you. Her blackened hands start to feel warm again, the heat of your body under her touch radiating through her own and making her feel the most alive since you left.

You are her sun. The source of her light, the centre of her universe. You remind her what it is like to be warm, when the chill of those faraway snowfields cut into her skin and bite deep into her bones. Sunshine lies just beneath your skin and Arlecchino craves it, needs it like a thorny rose to the light. It is only with you that she can be more than Arlecchino, more than the conniving Knave who lurks in the shadows. It is only with you, behind these closed doors in the comfort of her own space can she be just your lover, and be loved in turn, away from the prying eyes of the outside world.

You are her sun and she is your moon, and she holds only the stars as witness to the way she loves you to the edges of the heavens and back.

She wonders if you know this—if you can feel it in the way her lips move against yours. It is a silly thought, because when Arlecchino feels you smile into the kiss she knows you know.

[ahli-stuff]

Toska

Pairing: Fyodor Dostoevsky x Dazai Osamu

Content warnings: non-sexual choking, non-sexual nudity, non-consensual touching, references to suicide and sh, implied unrequited relationship, unhealthy relationships

Excerpt: “Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache.”

Fyodor is, upon close observation, a quite ugly man.

He is all misshapen joints, scabbed fingers, and sunken eyes. His eyelids strain to even blink, the skin stretched thin as paper.

Fyodor Dostoevsky is only pretty from certain angles, where light hits his jawline but shadows the rest of his body, and he is made briefly, into a painting. The picture of a corpse that hasn’t been told to decay. Dazai happily marks it with cigarette butts.

“I love you,” Fyodor says on one such afternoon.

Dazai says, “I know,” as he retches into his one-room, no-door bathroom. It’s ergonomic; Fyodor will immediately know whether or not he will have to drag Dazai out of the tub whenever he visits.

“I love you,” he presses, experimentally bold, the sharp edge of his mind heat-dulled. His tongue is heavy and stupid. “And if you knew how to…” Would you choose me?

Laughing through gagging, or gagging through laughing, Dazai says, “what?” but the lilt follows the Japanese “no.”

Fyodor lies back down, sweating in a pile of blankets, cold. “Then who else?” He grits through perfectly closed teeth.

“Nobody,” and even that word is in the cadence of another’s name as Dazai spits another lie into the sink. “If I could, it might be you.”

Fyodor back sticks to the sheets. He is downing in cold liquid as he says lightly, “don’t play this game with me, Osamu.”

“There’s no games! Now, now, don’t be so angry,” he’s right, Fyodor is so angry his corpse might rot awake, “you wouldn’t want my love anyways—“

Dazai leans into to kiss him, unrinsed mouth and all, “—because then, I wouldn’t be here.”

Fyodor pushes his face away, cringing. The unspoken question that succeeds that statement was already answered the moment they met. Fyodor knows this. Hurt pulses out of from his fingertips, spreads up his cigarette-marked elbows and urge him to move. His parietal lobe is numb. The weekend is at least five-eighths ruined; Fyodor will likely find a back alley junkie closet to mope within for the next week.

He shoves the blankets off, moves to get away until Dazai circles around him like a traitorous snake. “Fyo—Fed…Fedya,” he can’t even come up with his own nicknames, “stay, I have enough booze to last us two days.”

Dazai says it clumsily, medicated, with his arms loose and caging around Fyodor’s scrapyard body—Fyodor would pull them off now—useless crab arms. Peel the bandages off and eat them.

“Let go.” He pushes, and then when that doesn’t work, he pulls. Fyodor doesn’t have the mind to be dangerous at this moment, only the heart to be. He wants to find a safe place to rot.

(There are no safe places for him. Fyodor made sure of that, hundreds of nights and bodies ago.)

“No,” Dazai squeezes, and Fyodor’s body is even colder. “What did I say? What did I do?”

He does not want to be near Dazai right now, with all of his cat-like confusion and innuendos and riddles, despite it Fyodor habitually being able to return that sort of play. This afternoon, his brain is a fog and his heart has a traitorous homesickness—disaster looms.

“I want to go home.” He says flatly.

“What home?” Dazai asks. Fyodor should bite Dazai’s tongue out.

Fyodor’s hands roam up and down the highways of Dazai’s thighs. They are marked up—used—maybe a lamb or two has lost its way along his roads.

“I’ll bite your tongue out if you kiss me with vomit still in your mouth.” It’s a half truth, half lie. He would bite Dazai’s tongue out; truth. He wouldn’t kiss Dazai if he tasted like vomit; lie.

Dazai sticks his tongue out at him and digs his prettily manicured nails into Fyodor’s chest.

He wants Dazai in wholes disguised as halves, and Dazai wants Fyodor in halves that are halves. Throughout their time in each other’s sphere, Dazai had never lead him to believe anything else.

He didn’t have to.Traitorous inner voice. Fyodor’s hands ache; from his palms to his fingers, he bleeds hurt.

Where would Fyodor go from here? No really, where(what) does Fyodor even have? In his current rotation, he has an apartment complex in Bangladesh, a prison cot in Russia, his working office at [redacted], Dazai’s old shipping container here, in Japan—Fyodor wants to choke the leech of interest that immediately latches onto the thought of anything “Dazai’s”—What about staying at Nikolai’s? Sigma? …Bram? ……Fukuchi?

With each name that flits by his heat-addled mind Fyodor only further curdles with desperation-hate. Hate-desperation. He curls into his own body protectively, still in Dazai’s arms, and he can’t even pretend that he isn’t cold.

No where to go but through, then.

Fyodor finds where lines map Dazai’s wrist and squeezes. Dazai hisses, flinching backward as Fyodor twists. He puts both hands Dazai’s ribs, as if he can further cave them inwards, pushing him flat on the bed.

Fyodor is straddling on him, stark naked and flaccid, pallid and skintight, ugly the way a horror movie is under good lighting with his fingers around his victim’s throat. Dazai in beneath him, panting, thin and soft—godless curls spread out like dozens of cut brown wings. Skin gold lined enough to make a devil weep.

Dazai calls him “pretty,” in between his garbled choking and Fyodor almost wants to thumb his eyes for lying to him again. He doesn’t.

Fyodor enjoys choking Dazai less only because he knows Dazai will always enjoy it more. This time, he feels nothing at all.

Dazai’s arms frantically scrabble against grip, survival instinct kicking into overdrive as his nails rake against Fyodor’s wrists. Fyodor watches, as he has done dozens of times, the moment that light reappears within Dazai’s hole-dark voids seconds before he goes unconscious.

Dazai paws at him, whimpering quietly as his eyelids flicker dreamily. He is the picture of a perfect victim; an orphic martyr for himself. Petulantly, Fyodor releases him.

Sputtering, Dazai curls, staining the bed with spittle. He heaves as if to gag again, but swallows hard, turning to Fyodor unhappily, “what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You held on longer last time.”

Fyodor moves to snag a blanket off the bed, cover his own body, and grasp around the floor for his clothes.

“Why are you angry at me?” Dazai repeats from the bed, new bruise marks adorning his neck with an objective kind of beauty. Dazai, unable to ever live and let lie when the situation ever actually calls him to, says, “I like you, isn’t that enough?”

Fyodor cannot help the way he shivers, made stupid by the heat and the cold, the yesses and nos, and the man who may be the only one who will vaguely remember him if he fails. When he succeeds. He won’t fail.

Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache. He needs to trade out this body soon.

“I’m leaving. Do whatever you please with my phone.”

He wants to pray. To lick his wounds in dignity. Dazai can be tortured another day, when Fyodor does not feel like he might give up everything for the proximity of another body.

He tugs his shirt on, staggering to his feet but Dazai, Dazai will not let him go, Dazai yanks his arm with enough force to dislocate and they fall in a heap. Dazai will push him away when Fyodor wants him and pull him close when all Fyodor wants is absolution; he keeps—digging up Fyodor’s corpse to ogle, prodding at the cockroaches in his mouth and peeling his skin like dried dates—neither the man nor the though of the man will let Fyodor go, and now, ever since the day that Dazai’s criminal profile burrowed a home in his skull, Fyodor’s isolation has become unbearable.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He rasps.

“You wanted it,” Dazai says, in response to something else entirely. “You don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Not after everything you’ve done.”

“I never wanted you.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Laughing as if he isn’t a punishment, his fingers rake Fyodor’s hair taking clumps of strands with it. Dazai is the Yama to his Christ. The idea of finding divinity in the mundane is far too trite of a trope these days.

“Do you,” but Fyodor still licks his lips. Dazai’s gravity makes him a fool. “Do you really think that I’m—”

Dazai leans down and kisses the crown of his head as if he is a child. Or, maybe, one of his horrible high school flings.

He pities the corpse in Dazai’s grasp. It is shaking and whimpering, and it is surely not Fyodor.

[yellowflowrs]

Obligatory shitpost before I sleep, I present to you; yellowflowrs’ cult of the lamb voice claims !!!!

Narinder: As a god, that Swiblet person specifically in the Greedy song by OR3O.

As a follower, his voice transforms into something similar to Legoshi’s from Beastars (anime, English dub)

Lamb/Mori: able to manipulate their voice to anything they want, usually either sounds something similar to Ash Fox from Fantastic Mr. Fox (movie,) or Crona from Soul eater (anime)

Goat/Koa: their voice is usually similar to that as Purple yam cookie from cookie run kingdom, Has the same ability as Mori

BISHOPS

Leshy: Audrey II from little shop of horrors (musical/movie)

Heket: Grayson from Arcane (show)

Kallamar: Yorick from League of legends (game)

Shamura: Nocturne from League of Legends (game)

EXTRAS:

Aym: Angsty teen from the FNAF games

Baal: Sal fisher from Sally Face (feather fall studios dub)

Ratau: Pig patch from the FNAF games

Mystic seller: Gabriel from Ultrakill (game)

and also For Whom The Bell Tolls/My swap au voice claims for those who are familiar

The Carillonneur: Allied master computer from I Have no mouth but I must scream (game)

Narinder: Legoshi from Beastars (english dub, anime)

Shamura: The Horse from the boy, the mole, the fox and the horse (video)

Kallamar: The Fox from The boy, the mole, the Fox and the horse (video)

Heket (how she spoke before her tongue was ripped out): Calhoun from Wreck It Ralph (movie)

Leshy: Kingi from Boy (movie)

EXTRAS

Abel: Lewis Robinson from Meet the Robinsons (movie)

Cain: Ronno from Bambi (movie)

SHEPHERDS

Cadence’s main head: Sammy Lawrence from Bendy and The Ink Machine (game)

Cadence’s second head: The Lich from Adventure Time (show)

Nalin: Lady Dimitrescu from Resident Evil 8 Village (game)

Raza: Howl from Howl’s moving castle (movie)

Isagani: Sho from Arriety (movie)

Eden: Alice from Alice in Wonderland (movie, 1951 cartoon)

I’ll update this when I want to change the voice claims cause I am a very fickle person if I remember the meaning of that word correctly

[kyoukorpse]

ok hold on I have a question about the lamb's voice, would you say they have a high pitch voice, or directly a female voice? or more of a deep kind of voice?

MMMMM oh i have definitely thought about this yes...

Chirin has a fairly androgynous voice but it can get high pitched when they're stressed and get a bit lower when they're tired, angry, impatient, etc. They have a very kind, calm cadence to their voice that gets easily shattered when their anxiety peaks lmao.

Wish I had an example from a VA but no one's jumped out at me well enough... rubs chin... maybe some day though, i like giving voice claims to my characters

[emmieloumay]

I was trying to think what I would most want to ask Linnet in a hard hitting interview if I was a journalist in Docktown- from your ask prompt, of course. 🍂 What was it like the first time Rook killed someone? How did they react afterwards? You know journalists, they have no problem asking the invasive questions.

HI BELOVED, this took so LONG, I promise I was not ignoring it! Have a rose for the wait! 🌹 I tried to think about this, and I have for a hot minute! Something something, Magi Circles and timelines, and logistics, and and and… 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Linnet grew up in Redcliffe, fisherman’s daughter through and through to the point she was set on staying there until she died - at least that’s what her mother said her father was planning to do.

In 9:41 when the rebel Mages entered the city, it was an insult to injury. First the Conclave, then this?! Any good, practicing Andrastian was fuming. The rift between her parents grew larger than the one in the sky, which Linnet was determined to paint the correct color, danger be damned.

A quiet night on the lake’s pebble beach ends up with the fisherman's daughter standing over a bastard in ghastly Tevinter clothing. The end of her painting knife stuck deep in his eye, with a color red so vibrant she feels it in the back of her throat. Why is it so bright, yet copper isn't? The paints are never that thick, yet when she swallows it sluggishly drips.

Her father will justify it, her mother tends to the bleeding of her nose and the bruises. The body ends up in the lake, another meal for whatever lingers on the bottom. 

“There’s somethin’ down there that’ll eat ‘im, lamb.”

Neither dare to acknowledge the empty look in their child’s eyes as they tuck away blistering fingertips, or how the man's hair seemed to stand on end as if struck by lightning…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I hope this covered it? I'm trying to get back into how I'd write this and my cadence, and yadda yadda - ANYWAYS, this made me do research and I thank you for that! ❤️🥺

[sinner-as-saint]

no masters or kings - 3

Priest!Bucky x Reader 

Read Part 1 and Part 2 here 

Run-through: Father Barnes’ life had been rather peaceful for years. He never complained though, he chose this. Between mass on Sundays, bible study sessions during the week, and office hours, the amount of time he has left he dedicated to reading and keeping his body active. There wasn’t much to do in this small, almost forgotten town. Then a new face appeared. A woman, married to some businessman who leaves her all by herself while he grows his fortune in the city. Father Barnes seemed determined at first, to herd and care for the new, young, lonely little lamb. But that is until he found himself tempted to sin like never before. 

Requested: “i really wanna hear more about priest bucky. what would be his reaction to the readers partner coming back to town suddenly? or what about readers spouse saying they should start trying for a baby?” 

Themes: priest!bucky, smut, degrading kink, infidelity, explicit language, (sacrilege, blasphemy, and all the other bad stuff), breeding kink, jealous!bucky, slight angst

a/n: for @cadence-on-beat and @winters1917 (sorry this took so long ily) 

Bucky was leading a double life, and he had never been happier. 

By day he was the kind, gentle, compassionate priest he’d been for years in this small town. By day he was the man who had chosen this plain life rather than be the heir to his parents’ business empire. He still visited his family home over the holidays, and helped out with business stuff whenever he could. Like the good man he was. By day he prayed, and helped, and preached, and listened to all those who came to him, to confess, to lean on his shoulder, to cry, to repent. By day he was the priest the people in this small town knew and loved him as. 

But then in the dark, he’d find his way to you. Always. Each night ever since those first few times. It was almost instinctual. Natural. Like Persephone finding her way back to Hades’ kingdom of darkness come autumn. Like it was destiny. A primal pull. 

Bucky didn’t run at night that often anymore. If ever he did, he’d never come home. He would just run to you and stay the night, and leave right before the sun rose. 

It all started that one night he found himself running in the dark in one specific direction – towards your luxurious home. 

Your home was located in the rather quiet part of the town, which was a good thing. You didn’t have any neighbours, which was also good because no one saw him making his way to your front door. 

His heart raced as he reached for the door handle. He thought back to what you’d once confessed to him: “Sometimes I leave the doors and windows unlocked or opened, even at night. Shamelessly hoping someone might just walk in…” 

Surely not. Right? But what if– 

He stopped thinking and froze the moment he turned the handle and the door opened an inch. Unlocked, just as you had said. Were you secretly hoping he’d seek you out one night? 

He was here unannounced. This was not planned. He was sort of worried that he might scare you, given the boundaries he was crossing. But part of him – the long restrained, dark corner of him – was excited for this little game he was about to play. Hunter. Prey. Cat. Mouse. Something stirred inside him, and he quickly realised that his cock was harder than ever as he quietly stepped into your home. 

It was dark inside, no lights were on. Except one upstairs, it looked like the soft, dim light in the hallway which lit part of the staircase. The house smelt a lot like you. Sweet. Soft. Warm. For a moment he pictured you moving around this space. And he liked it a lot. 

He began making his way upstairs, he figured by the darkness and silence that you weren’t downstairs. He went to follow the dimmed light coming from somewhere, then two things happened at the same time. It began raining outside, the wind making the rain hit the windows harder than normal. And second, Bucky realised that the stairs were creaking with each step. 

He went still for a moment. Every other sound around him became louder. His heartbeats, the rain hitting the glass around the house, and the muffled shuffling coming from upstairs. 

You were awake. He figured. You were awake and aware that he was here. And you were trying to be as quiet as possible, not screaming bloody murder which meant that… you wanted to play as well. 

Bucky smirked as he took his sweet time in making his way upstairs, making sure and letting each step creak as loudly as possible. He soon found himself in that dimly lit hallway, at the end of which were dark, double doors. One of them was partially opened. Surely your bedroom. 

He could hear noises the more he approached the doors. And he was certain he even heard a soft giggle which warmed his heart, and made him smile despite the hard as rock erection in his running shorts which desperately needed attention. 

He didn’t even bother knocking on the already opened door, he just pushed it open wider so he could step inside. And there, even in the dark room only lit by the street lights outside, he could see the shape of you in the middle of your four-poster bed, sitting, waiting. 

“Father Barnes?” You called out softly. 

“You shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked. You don’t know who might just walk in,” He spoke as he walked further into your room, approaching the bed. “You wouldn’t know it, but some people walk around with the most dark thoughts in their heads. You don’t know when they might just…” He braced a hand against one of the posters on your bed and leaned down just a little, “... give in.” 

-

He didn’t see the slight smirk on your face. It was dark after all, the rain was getting heavier, trapping you two even more inside this perfect bubble. 

Father Barnes spoke to you with that priestly voice of his, like he only had good intentions. Like he wasn’t here to fuck you, but guide you gently like you were a lost little lamb. It was comforting, that voice. Except right now, it only made you clench your thighs tighter together under the covers. 

“I see.” You mumbled, faking the apologetic tone in your voice. All you wanted was to pull him down onto your bed and straddle him but if he wanted to play this little game, then fine. You could wait a little more. “But I’m safe with you, aren’t I? You’re here to make sure no one with ill intentions finds their way to me?” 

You watched as he walked around the bed to come to the side, sat down on the edge of your bed and reached out to touch your cheek with his cold hand. “Of course, little lamb. You’re always safe with me.” He said, stroking your cheek. His hand was cold so you shivered against his touch, but didn’t pull away. He noticed and said, “Are you cold? Poor you, come here.” He patted his lap, “I’ll keep you warm, and safe. I promise.” 

You wasted no time in getting out of the covers and finding your way onto his lap, straddling him and enjoying the way he groaned the moment your bare cunt brushed against his hard on. “Fuck,” You mumbled, unable to help yourself from grinding against him just once. Just to feel him between your thighs. It made your head all foggy. 

“What is this?” He questioned, faking displeasure. “Is this what you wear to sleep? With the door unlocked? You’re practically naked.” He chided, fingers rubbing against your exposed back the moment he noticed you were wearing nothing but an excuse of a silky night dress, with the back open, the neckline dangerously low, and the length barely below your butt. “Good women don’t dress like this, you know? You’re a walking temptation. Is this what you want? To lure strange men into your home while your husband is away? Is that what this is?” 

His hand found its way in between your legs, shamelessly toying with your wet folds and clit, making you whine and whimper as you ground your hips against his hand, seeking more. 

“No,” You mumbled, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t do anything.” You whined as his finger slowly slid inside you. His other hand still stroking your back. This was all you wanted. To be here in his embrace. 

Father Barnes chuckled, “Ah, see but you did. You lured me in. You tempted me.” He looked down and saw, with whatever minimal light was available, how his hand disappeared in between your thighs, and how your hips moved so perfectly, riding his finger. “Look,” He said, “Look at what you’re making me do.” 

You moaned out loud when he slid another finger inside you, fucking you so slowly and perfectly that it felt like you might die. “But I–,” 

“Shh,” He cut you off. “You should be thankful I’m not like other men. You see, they would just walk in and use you. But not me. You know me. You’re safe with me, remember?” 

You nodded, shoving your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. “Yes, Father Barnes.” You mumbled in between moans. 

“That’s it, lamb. Just trust me, okay?” 

-

Fuck. 

Bucky couldn’t take this any longer. He enjoyed this little game but he needed you. So it didn’t take much for him to twist around and place you down on the bed and hover above you. The little light coming in from outside allowed him to see parts of you. Your parted lips, the hunger in your eyes, the way your chest rose and fell rapidly, the way your thighs cradled his body. Fuck. He could live in this moment forever. 

“How many nights have you waited for me to just walk in here and play with you, hmm?” He lifted the hem of your night dress and sighed at the sight of your naked body. 

You easily removed the night dress and threw it aside, your hands finding their way into his hair as you pulled him closer. “Too many to count.” You whispered, lips brushing against his mouth. “I need you, please.” 

You were barely done talking when he lazily ran his fingers down your wet folds. You shivered under him, squirming on the bed. 

“Look at you, so shamelessly wet.” He growled, grabbing your face in his other hand as he slid two fingers inside you and making you gasp and moan. “Does this feel good? Hmm? This is why you leave your door open, and dress like that at night, huh? All because you want some man to show up and touch you however he wants? Does that make you feel wanted?” He stroked you in all the right places and had you coming all over his fingers in no time.You whined and squirmed as he kept finger-fucking you through your orgasm. 

He pulled away for a brief moment, taking his clothes off but leaving his boxers lowered just enough to free his erected cock. You watched as he stroked it once, twice before finding his way back in between your legs. 

One of his hands found its way to your throat and he wrapped his fingers around it carefully as he stared into your eyes. “You’re gonna let me fuck you just that easily, huh? You’re that hungry for it? I found my way into your house at night, unexpected, and you’re not even gonna put up a fight?” 

You were trembling with need. Unable to look away from his intense eyes as he guided the tip of his cock over to your clit and circled it, smearing his precum and your wetness around. You whimpered at the sensation. “Please…” You begged. 

He chuckled, teasing you a bit more by just pressing the tip of his cock against your tight hole. Not pushing it in, just pressing ever so gently until you whined and clawed at his shoulders. “See how bad you want it? Is this how good women behave?” He taunted before pushing his cock inside you. “No they don’t,” He whispered as he slid all the way in, “This is how good little sluts behave.” 

He remained still for a few moments, just relishing the feeling of your warmth around him. Your breath was shaky as you felt him fill you up and stretch you out so deliciously, snug deep inside you. 

He stared at your face, contorting in pleasure. Then he chuckled, and the slightest friction made you whine even louder. “I feel good inside you, don’t I?” He teased, rolling his hips just the slightest bit against you. When you cried out in pleasure, he tightened his grip around your throat and said, “I know, I know it feels good. Desperate woman like you, this is all you needed, huh?” He whispered. 

Fuck, he felt so good. You nodded, going along with whatever he said because it was so hot – his body, his words, his touch, the depravity of it all. “Yes,” You mumbled, so overcome with pleasure even though he hadn’t started fucking you yet that you felt like you could cry. 

“Then tell me.” He said, “Tell me I feel good inside you.” 

Another whine, and a gasp, then you mumbled, “You feel so good inside me, Father Barnes.” A pause then, “Please, please fuck me.” You begged, desperately.

-

Bucky didn’t want to wait another second, he couldn’t take it anymore either. His entire body felt like it was on fire as he started fucking into you hard and fast, not bothering to be nice to you. Not this time, not right now he couldn’t. 

He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, growling right in your ear and telling you how good you felt. You could only respond with moans and whimpers, which only made him fuck you harder. 

“That little head of yours is filled with filthy thoughts only, isn’t it? Seducing a priest,” He said in a tone of pretend discontent, “You should be punished for that.” He whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounded into you. Your body squirmed under him, your back arching off the bed, chest pressing into his. 

You must’ve wanted him closer still because Bucky let out a soft chuckle when he noticed you raised your trembling legs and wrapped them around his hips. Pulling him deeper into you, if that was possible. 

“You want me closer? Want me to fuck you deeper, harder? Hmm? Is that what this is?” He taunted. “You just want to be my dirty, filthy, little slut? Huh? You never want me to stop?” He held your stare, pressing the sides of your throat as he fucked deeper into you. 

He watched as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your moans getting louder, your body heating up beneath him, your walls clenching around his cock in that way he loved. 

“Well then, you don’t get to come that easily.” 

-

Those words brought you right back to reality, just when you were right on that edge. 

“What?” You questioned in disbelief, but not doing anything to stop him as he pulled out, grabbed you by the hips and flipped you around onto your stomach. 

“Bucky!” You cried out as he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to your lower back with one hand. That earned you a smack on the butt. Hard. Stinging. 

“That’s Father Barnes to you, you little slut.” 

You moaned when you felt him guiding his cock back to your hole again. 

He leaned over your back to whisper into your ear, sliding his cock inside you as he said, “You belong to me.” He said, like it was the most ardent prayer. He tugged on your pinned wrists, which made you whine in pain and pleasure. “So if you’re gonna leave the doors unlocked, and if you’re gonna wear these slutty things to bed, it’ll be only for me. You hear me?” 

“Yes!” You agreed immediately, then yelped in pleasure as he pulled out and pushed back into you from behind. 

Then he began fucking you again, hard and fast. Mercilessly. Like an ancient god taking what was offered to him at his altar. Like it was his right. Like you were there, open and willing only for his taking. Rough. Raw. The pleasure was overwhelming. 

“Come for me…” 

And you did. 

Not just that night, but every night which followed. 

Each time you heard those stairs creak in the middle of the night, your heart would begin racing in anticipation. Because nothing was as exciting as indulging in what was forbidden. 

But naturally, things couldn’t go on like this for long without some kind of hindrance. 

Then there was that phone call. 

Your husband called and a conversation was had which soured your mood for the rest of the day. To a point where not even Father Barnes could take your mind off things. 

The two of you laid in your bed that night, both sweaty and damp and in dire need of showers but neither of you wanted to move so there you remained. Limbs tangled. Your head on his chest, listening to his strong heartbeats. His hand rubbing your back, while the other traced random shapes all over your thigh. 

“What is it?” He asked after a good half an hour of just cuddling in silence. 

The room was dark, and it wasn’t raining so the silence was too loud to ignore. 

“Nothing.” You answered. 

-

Bucky sighed. Of course it wasn’t nothing. “Tell me,” He insisted. 

“It’s… complicated.” You answered. 

“Try. We’ll make sense of it together, I promise.” He used that priestly tone, one he knew worked with everyone. 

A moment of silence later you said, “My husband called.” And Bucky’s heart dropped. Suddenly he felt cold, empty, deserted. Like something, someone had abandoned him. And he didn’t even know what your husband had said yet, but he could tell he wouldn’t like it. 

“I see. Has he found out about us?” 

A humourless chuckle from you meant that that wasn’t the case. 

“Worse,” You spoke quietly, “He met up with our parents for lunch recently and… they mentioned wanting grandkids.” 

Bucky pulled away instantly like your touch burned his skin. It was childish, he knew, to be this jealous when he was clearly in the wrong. He sat up on the edge of your bed, and tried to get his emotions under control. 

He had no right to be angry. To feel betrayed. To feel sad. 

“Don’t pull away from me. Please.” You whispered, kneeling behind him on the bed and wrapping your arms around him from behind. 

Bucky closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the warmth of your skin. The feeling of your chest pressing against his back. The way you nuzzled his neck, leaving soft kisses all over his skin. 

“Everytime I think I have you, I’m reminded that you belong to someone else.” He confessed. “And I have no right to be angry. Or expected anything from you.” 

You sighed, letting your hands touch him all over his chest, caressing his shoulders, down his arms as you said, “I don’t belong to anyone but you. My husband and I… we talked about it earlier. We respect each other, but there’s no way we could get together like that. Maybe we can adopt. Or find a surrogate, but–,” 

He cut you off, annoyed at the mere mention of another man. “There’s no place for me in your life.” He announced, calmly. “There is still time. We could put an end to this. Then perhaps you two could try and do right by your marriage and–,” 

That calm tone pissed you off for some reason, “Oh stop trying to be all nice, calm, and priestly as if you weren’t fucking me like an animal just now!” You pulled away from him, glaring at the back of his neck even in the mostly dark room. “Do right by my marriage.” You scoffed. “Is that what you want?” You questioned, keeping your voice steady. “You want me to climb into my husband’s bed? Let him fuck me however he wants until–,” 

You barely processed what was happening because that’s how fast he moved. One moment you were talking and the next his hand was around your throat and he was standing up, looking down at you still kneeling on the bed. 

“Keep talking, come on.” He dared you, squeezing the sides of your neck. His voice was cold, and unlike anything you’d heard before. 

Despite the chokehold, you smirked. “You don’t like the sound of that, do you, Father Barnes?” You taunted. “I’m just telling you how it’ll go.” 

“I don’t want to fucking hear it.” He growled.

You found yourself flat on your back again, with him above you. The little light available allowed you to see his silhouette. Broad and muscular, all that running made him just the right amount of lean. 

He parted your legs and pushed his cock into you without wasting a second, stretching you out easily. Bucky’s thoughts were all over the place. How dare you talk about sleeping with another man? How dare he get jealous? How dare you even think about having someone else’s kids? 

There it was. The thing that bothered him the most. Someone else’s kids. Not his. And suddenly he was nothing but a man – not a priest, or a considerate human being, just a man. 

“How fucking dare you?” He questioned, his cock buried so deep inside of you that he was certain neither of you could even think straight. “I give you everything,” He spoke through gritted teeth as he began fucking you, “I take care of you, I fuck you whenever you ask for it, and this is what I get in return?” 

There was nothing gentle or passionate about him. He was wild, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, growling right in your ear while you were a moaning mess under him. Skin slapping, breaths mingling, it was so hot. So hot and you couldn’t think. 

“You belong to me.” He hissed in your ear; speeding up again. “I don’t care what the rules are, if you’re gonna carry a child it’ll be mine. Do you fucking hear me?”

Your heart raced at what he said. What about the consequences? What about his job? What will you tell your family? 

But none of that mattered right now, not with his body weight on top of you, not with how perfectly his cock moved in and out of you. You whimpered desperately as he fucked you, relentlessly. 

He sped up into you, whispering into your ear, “I can already see it… you with a bump, my child growing, and safe inside you.” He spoke in a haze, his voice deep and growly. “We’ll go far away from here, consequences be damned.” 

You nodded, agreeing. 

Bucky had never thought about laicization before. Never considered it as an option. Never wanted to. But now? Now things were different. Now he was determined to make you his. He wanted this now, he wanted to have this forever, have you forever. 

He released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he can feel himself inside you with each thrust. He slowed down just the slightest bit. He pulled away a little and stared down into your eyes. “You will be mine, forever. I promise you.” He whispered as he fucked deeper into you. “I’ll fix this, I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry about a thing, you hear me?”

He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans and mewls as he came inside of you. You felt his warm load shooting at your walls as he shoved his tongue past your lips. You cried out as that triggered your orgasm, and your walls clenched violently around him until you came undone as well. 

Your brain was a foggy mess at this point. 

He pulled his cock out of you and pulled away to reach for the bedside lamp, turned it on so he could admire you under him better. 

A triumphant smirk appeared on his face as he stared at his cum leaking out of you while you panted under him, squirming still as you came down from your high and tried to control your breathing. 

He slowly slipped his fingers back into you and watched how your face morphed into a frown as he fingered his cum back into you again, making you arch your back and whine in pleasure, “Please…” you whined, unsure if you wanted him to stop playing with your body or if you wanted him to make you cum again. 

He didn’t care about how sensitive you were, he just needed to remind you that you belonged to him. He had to make sure you knew. 

Bucky leaned in to kiss you again. “You will carry my child, won’t you, baby?” He whispered against your lips as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. “We’re gonna find a way to make this work. But you are not fucking leaving me, you hear that?” He growled against your lips as you came again. 

He kissed your lips gently, then your closed eyelids, then he left a final kiss on your forehead before he laid beside you, leaving the light on, as he pulled you into his arms. You were limp, and quiet, possibly closer to sleep than consciousness. 

Bucky on the other hand couldn’t stop thinking. He wanted this with you, he’d never been more sure about something in his life before. 

Money was not an issue, he was always going to inherit everything his parents have anyway, and they’ve always begged him to come home and take over the businesses. The only issue would be your family and husband, but he was certain that although some difficult conversations would need to be had, things would be sorted soon enough. 

Then you and him could start your new life. 

He couldn’t wait. 

—

A/n: I won’t be writing more parts for this series, I like to leave some things open-ended. Have fun imagining the rest, if you want, I’ll leave that to you <3 Thank you for loving Father Barnes as much as I did, see y’all in hell. I’ll wait by the gates ;) 

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

"So I turned to the Lord God and pleaded with him in prayer and petition, in fasting, and in sackcloth and ashes." Daniel 9:3-5

St. Mary of Mercy Preparatory School for Girls is a paradise. His Eden. A garden of kindred souls he tends by day. Vibrant and new, petals unfurled fragrant, these flowers stretch towards him like he's their sun; for his is the hand that waters and weeds, and he is the warmth that nurtures. A flock of little lambs whose deference borders fawning. He doesn't encourage, nor does he mind. His role in their lives is to keep them on the straight and narrow, and most importantly, keep them with God.

Father Brennan {The First Omen} x Fem Reader ✞ 25.5k ✞ Explicit

✞ Warnings: Dead dove - sacrilege - religious themes, practices, and imagery (Catholicism) - dubious consent - underage* - older man/younger woman - psychological warfare - unhealthy relationships - canon divergence - alternate universe - male masturbation - obsessive behavior and fantasies - hierophilia (Priest kink) - fetishization - dubious morality - praise kink - smoking - drinking - guilt and self-loathing - jealousy - love confessions

*reader is of unspecified high-school age. No younger than 17, if picturing 18 makes you more comfortable by all means plug it in. I kept it vague and not expressly stated for that reason. Cheers.

Acts of a Penitent (1/3)

Crossposted on AO3

[Banner Credit]

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

He can't help but feel the words on your tongue are loaded. A trap sprung apart should he dare lift his foot from the plate. Knuckles rapt hard for reaching towards the fruit dangled. Ripe and yielding. Dewdrop glistening early morning temptation.

"It's been... a while, since my last confession."

A formality scripted. He well knows when last your confession was.

The Sisters expect the girls to go once each week, if not every other. Your last confession with him was teetering on a month, another strike against you he didn't deem pertinent to inform the Sisters of. Coming at all and coming earnest is the bit that counts, is what he believes. Just as praying doesn't need to be done in a church to be heard. All it requires is heart, a desire sincere.

A soft smile you can't see, Father Brennan does his best to wear it on his voice for you instead. "No need to be shy, child. You're here now, and that's what matters."

This new generation of girls impresses more than their predecessors. A society streaked with rebellion, loud and out-spoken. But the broken-mold upheaval has claimed not a single of his lambs. They stick close by, and come when called. A feat to be proud of, it only demands his renewed obligation for his problem child. His personal interest in your case. Your faith is being tested. Belief you've stretched beyond recognition, you've come to him to bring it back to shape.

"I'm just... struggling, Father." The words need to be coaxed, a skittish babe hunkered under the brush. Sniffing at his hand, head tilted up towards the sound of his encouragement. Coarse in it's cadence, there's a comfort in the low tonality. He doesn't shun. He's an embrace. He's shelter.

His flock is prosperous, a responsibility he regards with the utmost probity. Curled white obedience, velvet soft fidelity. A gaggle of young ones whose eyes sparkle when he rounds the corner, or enters the class. Their kind shepherd come to herd.

And then there's you. You follow him, but straggle and catch in the fray. You stray to wolf dens and cliff-sides. You rear and butt at your sisters. You yip at the elder sheep who try to offer the grass, nose turned even in starvation. But to his out-stretched hand you gallop forth, wobbling coltish, your eagerness unfeigned.

He's taken with you. Your stubborn inclination. Your curiosity. Your black fleece.

He's always drawn to that. The contrarian. The outlier. The challenge. The one most in need of salvation. He tells himself it's commonality. Necessity. The mantle he takes up as one who guides, who cares.

The power of allure is an old friend to him now. Father Brennan is far better acquainted with the taint of temptation, and how easily the lost are lead astray, then he'll ever admit. A unique perspective to bolster a vigilance weaponized. Your behavior has made you undesirable for the Sister's to curtail, but he will not stand idle while you're ravaged by skepticism, and picked clean by doubt. He will not allow you to fall through the cracks. He will not fail you.

"What sort of struggle?" He must tread slow, deliberate. Earn back the trust he fears he's lost from negligence assumed, unintentional oversight. What else would see your devotion tested? "Is there something specific?"

"I'm just feeling... distracted, lately." A gentle throat clearing, a delicate sniff. "I'm not really sure how to explain, but... I feel...," you huff, and begin again. His lips twitch curved empathy, not that you can see. "The church, God - they don't seem as important as they once were." You then hurry to clarify. "It makes me feel guilty."

"Oh, child." He relaxes against the wall, looking off nowhere in particular as clasped hands dangle between his thighs. "That's perfectly natural at your age."

"So this is something I'll outgrow?" You make yourself sound just hopeful enough that his next heart-beat thumps a fissure to pull apart in the tissue. Something bleeds from him there; pooling within the chest cavity. An endless well. Bubbled up to spit and smother. Viscous, slippery. A beginning.

"Even those on in years can become estranged from their faith. No need to fret. So long as you open yourself to him, trust that his word is true, you'll never stray farther than his reach."

Precious hopefulness turns rabid on a dime. He throws a bone but you pounce him instead. Digging, pawing, sifting. A stomach hollowed and grumbling for exploitation. Starved for something you can't place, you can recognize the smell. Salivating and curled inward, you smell it on him. On good Father Brennan.

"Do you ever struggle, Father?"

Realization mounts steadily that this is less a confession, and more spiritual counsel. A test to see if broken pieces match. Still, he affords you his time, his shoulder. These crucial pauses to win your favor he can almost taste. Things unsaid, things ached to say, haunt your open-ended lilts. Candied praline and powdered sugar in every skipped beat. Faint, he parses it through the stuffy smog of the confessional. He thinks on it a moment, and decides to entrust with you his truth.

Priests are, of course, only men.

"Aye, that I do."

"You're teasing me."

A chuckle seeps from the width of his chest, vibrating around his collar. "Never." Amusement worn like pride.

He's approachable, he's flawed. He's human. There's a reason why the girls take to him the way they do. Why he's held his position for so long, and only becomes more beloved with time.

Complacency a sheet of ice above a lake, he can neither see nor feel it thinning beneath his soles, the haze of a dawning spring warming his shoulders and nape. Honey-bees orbiting chrysanthemum, lavender lemonade, gingham print and large, pretty bows. A sweet smell. A distraction.

"No temptation has overtaken you except something common to mankind; and God is faithful, so he will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it." He quotes to share with you his strength. "I give you my honest truth. Nothing in life worth having is easy. We already hold his faith, in who we are, in what we do. Trust in yourself, lass. Distractions are fleeting, you'll find your way back."

"What if I never do?" A moment of silence as he considers your plight. Whipped vanilla melting on the tongue. An indulgence that carries too long, it sheds you antsy from your side of the confessional. "I don't know if I can trust in myself, Father. Some days I don't even recognize who I see in the mirror. It only makes me wish I was someone else." You confess in struck chords. Plucks of youths tumults and woes he remembers from once upon a time.

"Conviction is always tested by greener pastures. Commitment to a love you cannot touch is a tall order." His fingers find his collar. Hard, shining white. A piece of his armor. A last defense against the distant tick-tock-tick-tock of utter catastrophe. The seconds before a disaster captured black and white and catalogued for future observation. A history that repeats. Cold sweat and crisis of faith in your lush decadence. A twinge sprouts in his stomach, a body chastised for skipping breakfast. "A servant to God is a servant to his children; I'll help you, child. You can trust in that."

It's a pledge made raw. An honesty as brutal as his own struggles. He's made a confession from the wrong side of the booth. Only one of you seeks repentance.

"Thank you, Father Brennan." He can hear your relief in the smile he can't see. Gooey and confectioner sweet.

There's a hole gaped and pulsing where reconciliation should be. Gnawing and troublesome. A dog he adores, house broken, whining next to her mess, tail between her legs. He dismisses how you devoured his truth. Became sated by the weakness, offered like scraps from the table.

A hunger identified by a hunger known. He forgets it just as quick.

November's chill burst bright and wondrous, nipping him blushed in the walk over from the rectory to the school. It's a pleasant jaunt that takes all of about five minutes with a brisk gait.

1971 is on the horizon, in the creep of sunlight that lifts like a veil over the Earth, flooding it pale and harsh. In the mild breeze that lingers a little longer, a little cooler, his black sport coat all he needs as protection. In the tree-lined perimeter dying slowly, beautifully. Decay romanticized.

The colds moisture will soon dry out, raw and bitter to January bleak. The start of a new year always held such promise, even in all its gray.

St. Mary of Mercy Preparatory School for Girls is a paradise. His Eden. A garden of kindred souls he tends by day. Vibrant and new, petals unfurled fragrant, these flowers stretch towards him like he's their sun; for his is the hand that waters and weeds, and he is the warmth that nurtures. A flock of little lambs whose deference borders fawning. He doesn't encourage, nor does he mind. His role in their lives is to keep them on the straight and narrow, and most importantly, keep them with God.

The former decade suggested challenge, as it's one seduced by hedonism. The newest senior class of girls, his elder flock, are a good lot. Fine Catholic girls who subscribe to the faith he's sworn to uphold.

The school day has yet to begun, and he surveys the domain in the hushed tranquility before the first bell tolls. The quiet halls and clean scent. Lemons and basil in the waxed floors and laundered upholstery.

The school, like it's staff, is pristine. Infallible. The picture of where both the affluent upper-class, and scrimping blue-collar Catholics alike come together. The place they want their darlings enrolled. The air of exclusivity no more than an illusion, for money is money, and the gold-plated tabernacle won't pay for itself.

Empty, sparkling classrooms. A vast auditorium, state of the art. A library, full and still, its glass doors opposite an open parlor bathed in sun from all the windows surrounding it. Father Brennan moves through the halls like it's the first time all over again.

When he'd arrived just a few months before the school year was set to begin, and the doors officially opened. He had been Father Brennan for a decade then, an Irishman abroad.

The Great Depression swept through all of Ireland without prejudice. A young lad such as himself with the duty of caring for his mother left him with few options. It was either employment at Dunlop Rubber, the factory that killed his father, IRA recruitment that combed through for young men in need of a cause for their zeal, or the cloth.

His household was one of devout Catholics, just like every other household in South Dublin. Not even the death of his father, nor the subsequent financial exacerbation to a family barely getting on kept them from church on Sundays. Going from not a care in his world to the role of patriarch left behind for him to fill. A life of devotion only made the most sense. Eight years in a seminary quelled his rampage, tempered his hunger. His ma had bragging rights, and an extra shine to her eye.

His priesthood, shining and new, sent him straight away on a mission to Africa. The war at it's height, a priest of neutral soil wouldn't be perceived as a threat. Two years later and his return home was celebrated, and the opportunity gifted.

A private school slotted to open for the end of 49', state-side. Lodging through the on site rectory. It's own church right on the premises for he and the students. And a flock to call his own.

All he had to leave behind were the memories of his youth. Minor celebrity in his hometown. A mother who couldn't have been prouder of her one and only son, the American-bound priest. Checks mailed every month like clockwork to keep her comfortable back in Terenure. The tie to his place of birth held knotted by letters and the odd phone call.

A sweeping stretch of land, the dormitories take the left, to the right the rectory where he resides full time, and situated smack in between is the crown jewel of it all. The church. Complete with an office specifically for him, where his his psychology degree hangs framed.

Set back behind the school, to forever cast it in it's shadow. A-frame, red brick. A large circle of stained glass the only south facing window. A sturdy cross of wrought-iron juts from the roofs peak like a weather-vane. A single statue of Mother Mary greets at the front steps. Just on the outskirts of the city proper, St. Mary's boasts accommodations for girls whose parents wish to board them, but not every girl does.

A small handful stays on with he and the Sisters. That number waxes and wanes negligible with every new year, every graduating class replaced by the latest freshman. Ages 14 to 18. Most are Italian-Americans, though there is a healthy mix. A handful of Irish-Americans slip into the fold, their immigrant parents tickled by the notion their second generation daughters would be led by one of their own. Another feather in the school's cap.

A roster of nuns that sing his praises, an administration of kind middle-ages that say his name with fondness, and smiles to match. Most of the faculty are women, save for no less than two male teachers. Mr. Bradner, the music teacher, and Mr. Amato who oversees second year chemistry. That just leaves him. Father Brennan. The priest of their comfortable, woman-dominated ecosystem. The one and only. The way it's been for the last twenty years and some change.

All the change to take place those decades were the new faces to replace the graduates, and the new principal ten years prior. Not only a woman, but a nun. Cutting edge progressiveness for the turn of the 60's.

Sister Annette was an interesting woman. Senior and unassuming, she wore high slacks and turtlenecks unlike the habit of her sisters. Ever unreadable in her malaise of authority, one could always tell from her lacking expression exactly how she felt when she addressed you.

In her office hangs two pictures, in the space between her desk, and the seats for those on trial before her. The insentient witnesses of her adjudication. A portrait of Jesus Christ, next to a landscape of the Philadelphia Eagles.

"Oh, Father Brennan, I didn't know you were a fan?" She once chirped, shadowing her own door as she caught him staring. The one and only time she regarded him with any sort of genuine fellowship.

"Oh no, not me. Not of the NFL in general, you see-I'm partial to college. You might call it boyhood loyalties, or some such."

Mates with the Notre Dame placekicker from way back in his heyday. A clarification she neither needed nor wanted, given the light of camaraderie promptly cut by blinked disappointment.

He stops in the parlor to gaze through the glass. Proper trees grown sturdy, and thickets of shrubberies wait for his appraisal in the glow of matured dawn. Amber-golden foliage swept to neat piles cleared of the paved walk, courtesy of the grounds keeper. He remembers when he arrived to the property, the day he moved in.

What's now a true and proper garden was then little more than saplings and fresh mulch. He likes to visit it each morning, to admire it's progress, how it fares each season. He's watched it sprout from nothing, after all. A sign of longevity. His accomplishments symbolized in flowered brush and leaves. He too sprouted from nothing much at all. Home grown and lived enough, his roots have taken hold, well nourished. Come the spring there will be even more blossoms than the last.

He carries his years in weary shoulders, broad but drawn. Creased by laughter even while stoic, and cracked by crows feet. An elder age that garners enough respect, but not decrepit enough to disconnect from the youth he is to shepherd. Both feet sunk firm in his fifties, he was a far cry from strapping. Features prominent and severe, the moths drew to his flame because of his nonchalance. A rigid academic structure whose spiritual head was prepossessing in his candor, his notorious blind eye. Blue that blinds. A crooked, gentle exasperation behind the Sisters shoulders. A push-over, he was often accused.

A swell of chatter muffled then rings loud and clear in time with the bell. Gaggles of laughter and the usual begins the day, pouring in from the double-doors of the main entrance. His lambs. Good catholic girls; kilts and cable-knit and crucifixes. Bare-faced, un-manicured, and sincere. A flock of pure white and pure hearts. Teens both finicky and unconcerned, just like their parents coming together to decide on St. Marys, the girls come together to decide on him. They prefer his guidance to the pinched face Sisters. Sour and serious at all times, such as their reputation hinges on dismal, closed off approaches. Disapproval down to the very ritual of eating their lunches in the lounge, a huddle of black and white that pick apart the girls' devotion over egg salad and iced tea.

Stood tall and dark before the windows to the garden is where they always find him. Good Father Brennan. Hands in the pockets of his slacks. He's a plain man. Acute stare softened by the rings in his trunk. His Irish once hot-blooded and quick was now lax, quiet as the halls in the early morning. Sharp edges honed blunt. Wolfishness subdued, old and tired. He greets the girls with sleep still heavy in his throat. It's surrender, but sweet surrender nonetheless.

The sparkling ewe eyes and deferential bleats sing in reply. A sonorous chorus that follows in his wake. Throughout the halls, they grin and giggle; "Good morning, Father Brennan." "Good afternoon, Father Brennan."

His smile is kind, his nod measured. "Good morning, girls." An accented baritone smokes the mundane just exotic enough to keep them interested.

To keep them listening. To keep them faithful.

Another successful service, the ceremony has long since ended. Pews empty and stiff. The setting sun floods the wood columns and stark white between pink and hazy. Blushed and content with his performance, as the afterglow of dusk soothes it reverent.

He had once heard a comedian liken the work of a priest to the crowd work of an entertainer. There is a certain finesse to engagement, and the act of worship is one for lovers. He loves his church, the voice she gives him. He's learned her architecture, familiarized himself with her needs. He's nothing if not astute. In the aftermath of a particular job well done, she purrs for him.

He busies himself at the altar, alone with his thoughts, in the bliss of a mass concluded. His sermon hummed in the stretch of his lungs, the blood pumped in his veins. The motes of dust suspended in the shafts of technicolor. Twinkling satiation provided by such finesse. His competence, his projection.

"Quod ore sumpsimus." Uttered grave and humble, low enough to keep the words between he and God. One such ray, yellow and gold with a splash of green, catches him as he purifies the Ciborium over the chalice. Wide palms and broad shoulders radiant in stained glass light, like he's every bit the redeemer he's hailed. A bell jar of relevance.

The Christmas season seems to start sooner each year. Orange clove and pine zing each inhale citrus clean and nostalgic. Poinsettias dot the dais red and white. Beautiful and lush, the curated bouquets consigned to a slow death on display. Wilted and frail like stale casket spray. Still lovely to look at, mind. To watch them perish. Stolen. Glorified selfishness, to impose upon them a purpose of temporary decoration. No more, no less.

Heels click the tile in brisk approach, luring his attentions to Mrs. Grady, an attendant of the main office, with you in toe.

The rubber soles of your mary janes fall silent in your step, though your head is held high behind her, assured with the saunter of your hips. You're but a girl, though your walk is a womans. You carry yourself with the oversized confidence of a fatale. One who looks into his tired eyes and wary posture and sees herself staring back, wicked and red. A devil. His devil.

You come upon him like you know it all. Wiser than your years, lethal in your innocence feigned. You fix yourself to Mrs. Grady's shadow as if the position offers you to him meek, but you hold yourself with a maturity that betrays you.

Father Brennan straightens with an amicable smile in greeting. Mrs. Grady returns it, though the quirk of her lips rises and falls so fast it's almost missed. Her skirts hem modestly swishes below the knee, three inches below to be exact. Three to four inches or so longer than yours had often been. Your waist band rolled twice to achieve the shortened length. An act of rebellion, a stab at the salacious you pretend yourself heedless of. Too pure to be deliberate.

The stunt with the skirt has landed you in the main office many times. Only until recently, when they turned to him for disciplinary action.

So began your routine.

Late to class? Go to Father Brennan

Lip gloss? Go to Father Brennan

Perfume? Go to Father Brennan

Gum in your mouth? Go to Father Brennan

He saw you so often he didn't even have to ask anymore, but he always did. A sighed; "What have you done this time, child?" Another sigh. "To the church then. Off with you, now."

The altar always needed dusting, a good vacuuming. The candlesticks polished, and missals organized. A place of calm, the labor kept idle hands busy, and the mind reflective. A watchful eye pinning you composed. His soft touch maintained even an arms length away, a strength bolstered by his sanctuary of rich mahogany and cobblestone. Warmth in the wood panels and glass that glowed with midday. Phthalo green veined marble so rich it shimmered velvet black in the light.

They came to him at their wits end, and suddenly, you behaved. So mild and pious, suspicious with how quick you bent the knee. Confirmation he loathed. Until the next pang of restlessness had you call down impudence, lightning fast and furious. Struck and scorching the ground at his feet. The Sister's called it a warning. He preferred to see it as a cry for help. The more agreeable scenario of the two.

Here you were, dragged before him once again. The same long walk to his domain, after school hours, when your studies wouldn't be interfered.

Not a walk of shame, but a strut.

"Good evening, Mrs. Grady." His eye shifts to you proper, the rhythm of his speech canting suspicion. "Lass. What seems to be the trouble?" Suspicion turned accusation, a bad habit worn in from the Sisters.

"She was caught sneaking out of the residence hall." Mrs. Grady answers for you, her foot tapping anxious to conclude a work day. Retreat to a home she's being kept from in order to deal with you. You remain quiet behind her. Quite adept at the foot taps and words put in your mouth.

Father Brennan nods, lips sucked inward. "I'll take it from here, Mrs. Grady. It's late, why don't you head on out." Sturdy arms cross his chest. A shirt tugged, he tosses the cut of his chin towards the altar not yet cleared. "I'll have plenty to keep her occupied."

A curt nod, relief released like a whistle. A spun heel, more clicks, and and the two of you are left alone.

Father Brennan clears his throat and shifts himself back before the altar. A corporal folded in thirds. The candles wicks are naked, the wax still warm and dripped. The purificator is picked back up in a wide palm, his damp skin leaches into the thread.

"What am I to do with you." A low rumble that's not looking for an answer, you sidle alongside of him and slip into banter so familiar it knocks him off guard.

"Paddle me like the Sisters do?" His head whips. A black shag grimace you recognize as a silent command to heel. So you heel. "I'm kidding, Father. Why beat the free labor?"

"Lass." Another shake of disbelief, it's slower, it's looser, it's lopsided. He hands you the cruets in a clink of metal and glass. "You're bound to become the exception." He grins crooked and waves you off.

This is meant to be unpleasant, but there's no reason why you can't be familiar.

Weakness.

No sooner does that thought blanket his mind cotton-candy fog does he notice the obscurity. Vision, and good-sense, skewed. Affronted propriety wailing alarm bell protest.

He watches your simper spread in full, teeth flash and cheeks crinkle. Eye-lashes too pretty for your own good. He knows he's a pushover, he knows he's soft.

His brow quirks to a step far too light and bouncing for a girl consigned to chores. To punishment.

As you disappear into the sacristy he wonders if you didn't get caught on purpose.

He remembers you as a little girl. The first time he met you.

He was asked, as he often was in those days, to visit Sacred Hearts Regional Catholic School. The co-ed grammar companion to St. Mary of Mercy, where the girls were expected to go, and St. Dominic's Prep for the boys.

"Are there any in God's kingdom whom he doesn't love?" A simple question, a soft open. A peek inside the minds the babes, some of which will join his flock when they come of age.

A hand sprouts upright. Thrust into the air, finger-tips wiggling to attention. Almost lifts you out of the seat by the sheer desire to deliver the answer you're so assured of. He looks to the body attached to the enthusiasm, and there you are. Fresh-faced anticipation. Lips licked in eagerness. Your hair pulled back and pleated in a french-braid.

Tipping his head to call on you, you then assert; "Bad people." Direct, the answer as obvious as the midday sun. A hint of attitude curls your statement, flames licking twigs in a bonfire, knobby and figure-less. You're missing a top incisor. He smiles.

"Oh child, he loves even them." He's smooth, rich warmth, a bourbon butterscotch melt for the ear. A chest-depth baritone that flips your stomach over as he amends with an honest smile. Crooked, but not a hint of placation. "Especially them."

The sourest pout challenges him, but Sister Martha cuts in on your behalf. Muzzling what was sure to be invigorating debate with her chirp of thanks for the good Father Brennan, and his time shared.

A tug at his pant leg pulls his attention down to that same, dissatisfied twist scowling up at him. The insistence in your tiny fist and the furrow of your brow tells him his answer has left you wholly unsatisfied. He'd heard of one such audacious, and though your introduction is hardly complete, he surmises he's just met her.

"Yes, little lass?" He tries then to be placative, affable even, in the way the wee-ones usually require. It bristles you, though your bark is clipped into pragmatism.

"Not little." Non-combative, your correction whistles his way like a bullet, unflinching, no holds barred. He can't help but blink in recoil at the warning shot fired from the pistol in a plaid jumper. "I'll be eight in two months, and my height's right on track."

Sister Martha's mouth pops open in audible mortification, but before she gets the chance to reign you in, Father Brennan laughs. A wheeze beneath his breath, his divided focus snaps back to a whole that he places on you. The weight feels good, important. Triumphant when he continues speaking to you, instead of over you, like adults love to do.

"Yes indeed. You'll pardon my mistake, I wasn't informed that there was an almost eight year old in this class."

You accept his reconciliation with a nod, a transaction complete. But there's still that bad people business that has you eye him with returned doubt.

"God can't love bad people." You begin, your inflection correcting, it perks a single of his brows and spreads his cheeks in a smile. He doesn't interject. He listens. "If he loves them, then what's supposed to stop them from being bad?"

"Ah." He understands, a tidal wave that wash away his ignorance. "His love is to be a reward then?"

"Isn't it?" You're incredulous.

He hunkers eye-level to you, the little girl who isn't buying it. Who doesn't understand. The gray world is seen through black and white, and he cherishes you for it. A luxury for only the innocent. He'll not let it blur and fade before its time.

He perches you on his knee, and little fingers ring around his collar. A face all too serious for being almost eight.

"We all sin, child. But that bad in us doesn't make it so." He tries to explain. "We're created in his image. We're created to sin."

"Even you?" Eyes slit, your challenge lilts more accusatory than questioning. Disbelieving that he - a priest - would admit to such faults. He's Gods right hand, of course, he couldn't possibly. So you must trick the truth out of him, if such a truth exists. Too smart for your own good, your aunt often says.

"Aye." Willful concession, not a hint of deceit or condescension. "Even me."

He has no idea then, but he's spoken the magic words. He's won you over. A little girl who thinks she's misplaced, and this black haired priest who reveals much the same about himself.

"So long as you're sorry for what you've done, and you promise to try harder, he'll forgive."

You ponder his words. Turn them over and over in your head as he waits in silent patience, balancing you on his leg, his other knee creaking at the floor. His forties have made a mockery of the spry man he played in his thirties. You think hard, careful, frowning at his black shirt.

"If you only apologize to get forgiveness, doesn't that mean you're not really sorry at all?"

He barks a laugh. A deep rumble of nicotine and booming projection. A reward for how precious, how honest. He smiles at you, one tender in sincerity. You grin back at him, the only one you've got, a hole where your top left incisor should be. He thinks you clever, and you feel the warmth of such adulation sugar rush high, spiraling crown to sole.

"Quick as a whip, you are. Very good." His praises an iron poker that prods something red hot and tingling, stoking an ember he can't yet see. Faint, flickering, smoke wisps from the smolder he feeds. His time and attention freely given dry, prosperous kindling. "We should all confess our sins, lass. But confession isn't the same as repentance. That's where the real work begins."

You don't keep him waiting long before your next cry for help sends you back to his office. Dumb as fox. The cat the got the canary more innocent then you appear at his door.

The Sisters warmed the classroom paddle on your backside, and when that no longer did the trick, to his office you were banished.

To Father Brennan's you go.

Father Brennan had a paddle in his office, same as all the classrooms. An archaic correction hung morbid and still on the wall, a dark stain in his peripheral for all the mind he paid it. Thin wood and dust, otherwise decrepit from disuse, and decrepit it would remain.

"Sister Barbara sent me to get paddled." You say, and his head shakes with a grumble.

Glasses perched on the tip of his nose, jacket hung from the chair back. All long, bare forearms and longer fingers, curled tight to his pen and papers, and a restraint turned to bite him. Nobility growling from the stench of his virtue, rotten and punctured. Laid in a field, still, infectious. A desiccated husk. He raises his head with an expectant look you will debrief him of your newest offense, as he tires of having to ask.

"I took the Lords name in vain." You're unbothered to even pinch the cloth of remorse, let alone drape yourself in it. You haven't for sometime. When you blink he swears he sees liner streaking your lash lines cat-like. An illusion that pits your stare coy, though contrived. A bit predatory. He grunts, dropping his look back to his splayed papers.

"No, there will be none of that today." His throat clearing discomfort. "I was told the paper towels in the women's restrooms were running low. You'll start there."

You pivot, curious hesitation. Fingers knotting. "Uhm, but... Sister Barbara said-,"

"Never you mind Sister Barbara." Eyes remain fixed to the paper before him. Scratching pen strokes, fast and deliberate, echo him. He doesn't even know what he's written. The oceans for his eyes swirl and swallow the words on the page. The stern tongue he's trying on for size. Cohesive thought. He's flying blind. "The restrooms, child. They'll not restock themselves."

You don't make a sound. He continues to distract himself with chicken scratch ink.

That same peculiar, stalled expectancy suspends you. Almost disappointment. You shift in place. The whiff of hunger lost to the wind and his dismissal. "Will that be all, Father?"

His face softens, brows quirked, breath held stuck in his chest. "Oh, only if you find it agreeable." Breath released slow, and with it, his octave drops. "I've plenty more for you to do, but that all depends on how long you plan to dally here."

You're a head bobbed and a twirl of skirt as you leave his office, the door catching with a soft click. He suspects it won't take you long at all to go about the first task he's given you.

Your disappointment lingers, a cloying haze he tastes as much as he feels. The reek of fluttering anticipation twisted up and left unfulfilled, empty and aching. A mess you leave for him to clean. Upon your return he means to get to the bottom of it.

"What's been troubling you, my child?

He doesn't recall when my began to precede child, but he notes the way you're alright with covetous pride, and it beams up at him through the white of your smile, and glint in your eye. He basks in it with rueful conflict, one whose favor tips the scale in disappointment, both in himself, and you. Or at least he tries to tell himself that, shift part of the blame.

He sits on the edge of his desk before you, a bold maneuver, a vulnerability, but one he subjects himself to willingly. A deliberate ploy to show he can. To assert you have no hold over him, a display of his strength, his determination. Lofty and unaffected by your wiles.

Wiles you somehow seem unaware of even as you wield them; in your blushed cheeks and gaped lips, sighing his name minty fresh and bubblegum sweet, from the chewing gum you sneak, and the tinted lip balm that has sent you to his office more times than he can count.

A little silver crucifix collars your neck, dainty and simple, it signals your virtue, brands you as one of his own. He finds himself captured by it, dangling from your throat.

"What has you acting out so?"

He observes with the same raw anguish settling in his gut like a brick with how you sit before him. Your leg crossed, one over the other. Foot bobbing from a small ankle, restless and blurring. Your kilt slides back over your leg, hinting bare thigh above the thin green cotton of your knee-high.

The girls of St. Marys are supposed to sit straight back, hands clasped and ankles crossed. Demure, innocent, juvenile. You've been told not to sit the way you do, as if the correction itself scolds you for the impurity of which he fears you implicit. The way you are now. Alone in his office. Looking up at him.

He wonders if he shouldn't correct it again himself, but thinks better of it.

Weakness. He thinks. He chants. He affirms.

Baseless, primal, profane. He shouldn't pay any mind to how you sit. Like a woman.

You sigh, long-suffering, and troubled. Pouty lips and pleading eyes. Your lashes flutter, jet black and spindly with mascara applied so light it might go unnoticed. It doesn't.

Weakness.

Red flares within him, pointed, sleek. Igniting with a spark that fizzles and fades to gooey pink, soft and tender. And then golden again. Reverential. The sun setting on a dismissed mass. The aftermath of grace and due deference to his person leaving him hazy and contented. A school of faculty and students alike who adore him. Without them he's left to the sobering of an empty church, one whose light then shuns him. Daring him to continue to fester with the new, hungry monstrosity that swells and stiffens, ugly and blunt.

Heavy on his shoulders, digging at his back. A cross to bear, he drags it along his pilgrimage to the hill, where he will stake it in the ground, climb to its center, and crucify himself on the broad tines. And you're both the hammer and the nail. Sharp and unforgiving. A pierce of his flesh that damns his rotten soul. A giggle through his left hand, a sigh through his right, and a kiss through both feet. He takes the pain and bleeds. He bleeds for you.

Weakness.

"I don't know, Father." You surrender, fingers picking the pleated hem of your skirt at your knee. A budding chest rising and falling beneath your buttoned blouse. His molars crack as he clenches his jaw firm. "I don't feel like I'm supposed to be here. I don't feel like I do any of this right."

His brows bow and his eye droops. Frosted brilliance chilled in pity. How wistful and lost his little lamb bleats.

"Do what right?" His voice is old and hoarse, and it catches in his throat. He hopes you think its breaks from disuse. From solidifying, stoic and cold in his lonely office, his clearing throat and crisp strokes of pen all that keeps him company there.

And not because of the way you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Belong." You reply, plain and real. So ahead of your years, and the vapid nuance that fill the heads of your classmates. Boys and lunches and status. He sighs, his smile so thin it disperses imperceptible in the deep lines that etch his face.

"We all belong, lass." He lilts around the pet names, feeling one weight lift in place of the new.

His vow of celibacy is a mutt gone rabid, and you're the child unawares, as you pull his ear and yank his tail, pushing at the warning ripple of jowl to get at his canines. Slick and yellowed by marrow, the memory of it's taste a perpetual haunt from the decades since it last soaked his tongue.

You're no Jezebel.

He almost sinks to his knees and sobs in relief. You're wayward. Wayward he knows. Wayward he can curve, he can herd, he can appease. And all without so much as a scuff to his shining piety. His stirred faith settles. Balls back up tidy, and tamed.

"You speak of nothing the Lord cannot quell." He eases himself into this routine, to the familiarity in advice he's since taken to using as a shield against your temptation. Or a muzzle to his own. "You need not but turn to him."

His suggestion is reasonable. One any good mentor, or spiritual counselor, should provide. You shake your head before his graveled words have the chance to settle.

"I try." Your insistence is earnest, as is your defeat. It strengthens his pity. "He doesn't listen to me. He never responds."

"My girl, of course he listens." You remain unconvinced. He sees it in your furrowed brow, and pout. "Come, I'll show you." He holds both of his palms out and open to you, thick and creased and stable. "We'll talk to him together."

It's a small school, and he knows his flock by name. All his little lambs he counts by day. They gather before him eager for his lead, anxious for his grace. Divinity in the form of a tender smile, deepened crinkles at his eye. Basking in the fond blue that warms and tingles despite how they impose. Rich pigment gleamed wicked in the right light. Revealed a little devilish by candle flame.

A line of youths in uniform files in at the dais. One by one, hands cupped, right over left, looking up at him. Looking up to him. The ghosts of smiles that solidify to his own. He holds up the wafer and hushes; "the body of Christ." Each girl to receive is special, sacred, something to look after. Each communion given is intimacy. A sacred intimacy. One conducted just between he and them, even in the middle of mass.

You're next in line. You step before him, palms cupped and lashes fluttering. Lashes that turn less pretty, as images of Venus fly-traps click into place over you like film squares in the children's toy. Click after click cycles you further away from the harmless, virtuous lamb he's promised to protect.

A neutrality to your expression that makes him do a double-take. His flow interrupted. Just a hint. A hitch easily smothered, but he's snagged, and there are witnesses in you and God. A tight smile and narrowed gaze returns him back to the priest he's expected to be. You stand before him still, a scheme evident in your show of placidity.

"The body of Christ." Clears with his throat, the depth of an oncoming head cold. He feels as feverish as you open your mouth, tongue drawn, both powerful and needy. Needy for him, and what he's promised. A quiver in his thumb and forefinger he corrals just in time. The wafer touches the wet muscle curled towards him, and disappears within your smile. Mild and tender as a garden snake. A promised returned serpentine that you'll be good for him. His black lamb behaved. Perhaps his sudden chill and foggy head is just the onset of an illness. It is that time of year.

"Amen." You cross your self and slip away, from him, from the line, back to your place in the pew. He watches you get down on your knees, hands clasped, head bowed. Your eyes remain open, they shift beneath your lashes and lock on him. Tight and twitching, the spindly tines of your trap snapped around him. Your smile, small and friendly, isn't returned, yet you appear sated. Fended back with more scraps, regardless of how meager and bland. You got something from him. A blunder in your trap, given to receive. Your eyes close, you retreat into silent prayer.

He swallows whatever raised in his throat, a bitter tinge within him unending and slippery. Faltering. Something that bore a suspicious resemblance to his nerve. He turns away from the site of you knelt down. Fate-hung-in-the-balance careful. Vehement discretion.

He returns to his next lamb, one blindingly white. A luster dull in comparison.

Acknowledgment is confirmation he can't stomach.

"The body of Christ." He says to her, wafer held and focus rigid. He looks into her eyes but dwells on yours. There was a glimmer in them. Tongue shifting beneath your cheeks, swiped over your teeth. A simper restrained. He knows it now, because the difference between hers and yours are day and night. White and black.

His oaths, his virtues, solidify links in a chain that connect at his collar. Chastity, obedience. They groan and clink, hardened and heavy. Chains aren't meant to be comfortable. Restraint is meant to be felt. He'd almost forgotten. His clothes feels too tight. The humidity too clinging.

His throat burns in a promise no antacid would soothe. He grants this lamb her communion. He tries to forget about the chains again, but you're looking right at them.

A homely shadow darkens his door way; bespectacled and sniffing. Tired eyes and tired sighs, Mrs. Grady hesitates at the threshold in respect to the invitation he's yet given. A raised head and soft smile, perhaps a bit forced. He gestures to the empty seat before his desk, crows-feet crinkled kind.

"Mrs. Grady." His friendly acknowledgement persists, but a dread grouses from it's slumber. The air with her carries a fragrance, whipped and candied. His hackles raise. The mask of affability hangs by a nail. "I suppose I know the trouble, given that look you're sporting."

"As if I come to you with any other trouble these days."

Trouble. They speak in code and that's your new marker. Trouble. What you brew and what he's in for, any time you're mentioned. The ring of his desk phone, suddenly much too loud and angry. The knock at his door. The squirm in his gut, even when he's already eaten.

She produces a bottle of perfume. A pink glass triangle she waves for his inspection like contraband. It is. He supposes as well. Perfumes are not permitted to be worn, not unlike makeup, or jewelry that isn't of the self-effacing religious variety. Eyes roll behind horn-rims, and the pink prohibition clinks against his desk, slid towards him expectant. A bulbous atomizer in shimmered netting dares him.

He sets his pen down with a sigh that reclines him backward in his chair, as if too close proximity to the bottle risks contagion. Artificial vanilla that boils blood and stings him blind. Cotton-candy smothered mustard gas. Chokes the air thick and perfumed, saccharine vapor forming manicured fingers that pull his jaw wide and slithers down the back of his tongue, into his lungs to suffocate him from the inside. He wants to leave the room. He wants to spread his thighs beneath his desk, as that opened posture will allow him to better breathe. His pen rolls directly into the beveled crystal.

"I see." A palm catches his jaw, and the arm of his chair catches the elbow. He exhales, long, weary. It's barely midday.

"If it's not perfume it's lip gloss, and if it's not lip gloss, it's undone hair." He didn't mean to invite this conversation, but it wags from her tongue. Horse-tail head shakes swatting off the irritant of invisible flies. "Next it'll be fishnets under her kilt."

The thought brings finger-tips to rub circles at his temple. He's snagged in a wince, but there's still the matter of the perfume sat guilty between them, and it makes for a good cover, as it does a spasm in his skull.

"She's a good girl." Coming to your defense is all the deflection he's left. A fight he'll never give up, what chance is there for you if he does? It's soft and hoarse all at once, it's pleading as much as it's self-assurance.

Though he's hiding behind eyes that are shut, he feels hers snap to him.

"She's trouble."

Whispered mother hen panicked, clinging to her darling boy with palms over his ears, to protect him from having to endure so much as an utterance of your existence. An urban legend, a succubus come to steal purity. Sucked from a kiss. Like that of babes cats were once accused of ingesting the souls of through their lips while they slept.

She's trouble.

Spat in superstition. A warding to keep the skeleton in the closet, the bastard in the attic. Your actions are wretched, and therefore so are you. A cautionary tale spun around the campfire, a yarn so vivacious you'd never be able to measure up to your doppelgängers lasciviousness. Is what he tells himself.

All he can do is chuckle.

She is right, of course. You're trouble. Trouble that rumbles his stomach. Trouble that's wafting from the center of his desk noxious and sweet. Stray dogs are put down for less. Hunger is unpredictable, disloyal. Dangerous.

"She's troubled." A correction that peels his eyes back open, cobalt cloudy, the murk indicative of implosion. On his horizon storm swell inevitable. He wonders if they can't see how sick his stare has grown, how glassy and abyssal. "She's... young. A tender age that makes everything unbearable. We were all there, at one time or another."

She considers his insight, chewed with a jaw click and a sniff. "You think that's all there is to it? That it's all that simple?"

It's a genuine inquiry, though he can't help but stiffen like it's an accusation. Blunt force trauma that saps his energy and leaves him sore all in one blow.

"Aye, though there's nothing simple about growing pains." He reminds her and himself. "I'll keep at her."

Your weekly sessions of prayer commence, and then weekly turns nightly. After dinner when the sky bruises purple to black, you come to him hands clasped and penitent.

Even tamed to but a murmur, the presence of his voice in your ear throbs penetrative, each pause an emptiness that aches for more. His voice unlocks something in you. Something old and ancient, laying in wait. Latin read to conjure an entity he can no longer stave. His voice is electric. Quelling and stirring. A tempest forever in motion, it whips you like a cat tail caught in wind. You never stood a chance. A gravel you'd rest on with bare knees just to distract from how it's unaware sentience enters you. Fills you. Possesses you. The church, hollowed as it is, quivers to the sound of him, bends and ripples like black-top baked in sun. The church, it seems, is as eager for more of his sounds, rumbling and growling and infesting, as you are.

Towards the middle back in an empty pew, rubbing arms and elbows, he leads you in prayer, then consultation. He hides from your slip of leg behind the advice, offered like fingers forming a cross outstretched to ward off any sudden moves, any advances. Your fidgeting latches to a bracelet, a link of delicate chain, in hypnotic motion as you work it round and round, flicking your grip with your wrist pinched between. A wriggle in his stomach, the louder it growls the louder he prays. The Sarum Primer a mantra at the fore of his mind; God be in my head and in my understanding; God be in my eyes and in my looking-

You tell him so much in these moments of quiet, of reflection. You spill yourself for his judgment, you bask in his rumination. Thighs crossed, your body leans towards him, but you're focused straight ahead. You speak to the altar, to the crucifix hung heavy above it, obscured in the dark that seeps through stained glass. Once pretty things in sun muddle nightmarish in shadow.

You confess at large. To the church. The God.

But your words are exclusive. You breathe and bleat for Father Brennan alone.

You speak of your father, a born protestant aged non-practicing, and skeptical. And oh, how you yearn to please him. Daddy's girl. His mini, his shadow. He questions everything, and so must you.

But then there's your mother, and her sister, and their father. Three more members you'd do anything and everything so they might yet be proud to claim you. The three the reason you're in St. Mary's now. Three more you wish to please, to gift them the pretty package of a good catholic girl, who attends mass each Sunday and says her prayers by night.

Two sides or your coin, one that spins forever on its side. It doesn't land, it stays in a whirl, and therefore, so do you.

His listening ear uncorks you in the silence. You can't help the flood, the out-pour of restlessness raw and unfiltered. He remains quiet, offering thoughtful susurration, encouraging the flow, the mess.

You tell him of a third factor in the equation. Someone whom you trust, you admire, you revere. This mystery man fills you with a longing you've never known. A thirst that damns both sides. He tries to bring you peace, this character, solace in the faith that hangs from you in shambles. A little girl playing dress up, you tell him. Until he came along.

"He makes me feel... special." You decide on the word with a nod, satisfied. "He's not a bad man, not at all, but... well, Father, sometimes this other feeling he gives me, it's... I don't know if it's good, because I feel this guilt again. But not because of what I'm feeling, but because of how badly I want more of it."

He swallows. Hard. His habitual self-crossing forced inward from the spot-light eyes that strip him in fevered anticipation. For a sign, a hint, another bone thrown. He gives you no such assurance.

"Satan and all his temptations can take many forms." He tells you, strained. Looking more ashen than sage. "Even the sweetest surrender is still surrender, lass. You must hold to your vigilance; and when it's pulled harder, you cling tighter."

It's then and only then he sees the tables turn. Is he your devil? Is he the serpent in the garden of your purity? Your virtue? The thought makes him sick, and he sees red behind his lids. Burning and itching and aglow with your shape. This un-tampered thing you are, his little lamb.

Is he who is to blame for your corrosion? The one has maimed and maligned?

Is he at fault for the lust that festers within you?

The nightmares begin.

You're in a nuns habit, but for some reason he knows the black and white robes are meant to be fig leaves. Coverings to shame you were only made aware of because of him. His putrescence, his urge, his impurity polished reflective.

A smile turned to a sneer, you're upon in a blink. A wraith that glides from beyond his desk to knelt on top of it, leaning towards him perched, an exacting gaze that bores into his chest and pushes him back in his chair. Away from you. Far away, as if afraid to touch you. As if there's still time to save you both.

The chair squeaks, there's no where else for him to back away. Nowhere for him to run. He remains cemented in place, frozen at the intersection of both your scrutiny, and the portrait of Christ. He can't speak, and he's unsure if it's night terror paralysis or shame.

"You did this to me, Father Brennan." You grasp one large hand in both of your own and place it to your middle. Long, thick fingers splayed over where your womb should be through the robes. Ripe in fertility. "You've spoiled me."

Your anger pouts. A mask slips from your face. Indignation turned desperate whiplash quick and biting. You climb into his lap, and he remains still. Compliant by way of unresponsiveness.

Legs sling along his hips to straddle his lap, the skirts of your robes hiked high on your thighs to reveal green knee socks and shiny mary-janes. Little fingers curl in the tufts of hair at his nape, knuckles dug above his collar, while the other disappears beneath the robes pooled black in his lap.

A tug, a zipper ripped, and his cock is bared. Soft-sheathed steel that throbs strong enough in your hand, that tears are pulled from his ducts with every pulse. Mist stinging his eye and breath choked from him in a sharp splutter. The only sound he's been able to make.

When you sink down on his rigidity and swallow it whole he croaks, a broken sound of unintelligible conflict. A plea, a curse, a cry for more - he couldn't say.

"You've spoiled me, Father." Repetition moaned, eyelids heavy and lips licked wet. Your fingers tighten in his hair in a pull of scalp that he welcomes, revels in the nip of pain. The waves in his eyes breach from the lash line and splash his gaunt cheek. Once charming cerulean leaks and stains himself bilious.

The hand that freed his ailing manhood snatches the dead weight of each of his hands, one at a time, to encircle your waist. Seeking his aid for no other reason than to taunt him, as he's useless beneath you. He can't move, he can't speak. He can feel, but only in fragments. Shrapnel punishment that splinters. Steals breath just as it's caught. It's too much, it's not enough.

He feels everything, and then he's left cold and lonely. It ebbs and flows. Peaks that push him to heights, only to force him back down to come under. And weep. Your hips cant forward with a pressure that grind his bones to dust. You press flush to his chest. The edges of his collar catching at his neck. He thinks you mean to kiss him, but you come up short. Just shy. Your words are all that brush his lips. "Don't forsake me."

He awakes in a clammy film, the heat in his room unbearable. Suffocation he wishes had actually smothered him, it's enough to force him from his bed. Those dreams but a taste of a purgatory he should be so lucky to be confined.

Slacks half stepped in with his heart still hammering, he stumbles out of the rectory and into the night. The cold needles at his exposed arms, his bare neck and feet. There's not a sound. An eeriness that accepts him so the stars may observe the onset of this infestation, one that rots from the inside out. Outside is not much better than inside. It's strangled breath and dead silence. Until his lighter clicks softly, and burnt paper and tobacco rush his nostrils.

He sucks it deep and holds it, until the ache in his chest matches the stifle of the night around him, the frigid disdain that regards his presence. The night holds, and so does his breath.

When he releases, its a steady thick plume of gray in the direction of the dormitories. He doesn't remember turning to face the building, but when his eyes open and he's exhaling, he's turned in your direction. A cursed north-star he follows entranced, his default trajectory.

Animi Cruciatus enters through the top of him and sinks like cinder blocks tied to his ankles, in an uncomfortable quiet that makes him stew. To wallow, and drown. Ice cracked beneath his heels. Affliction of the spirit. His spirit, trapped by a mind debauched, a prisoner of a body that aches in accordance. He thinks to shed his collar for sackcloth. Wear his remorse and his humility in a show of repentance he surely doesn't intend to commit to. But he should endure the discomfort. The least he deserves.

The smoke disperses visibly unhurried as he stares long and hard at the brick structure that houses you now. And he wonders, with a mist smearing his blue, and a sting at the back of an ashy throat, just how badly spoiled you are, and if it's from his hand.

"Are you feeling alright, Father Brennan?" He looks up to see Mrs. Grady, her bland features twisted concerned beneath her glasses. "There have been some cases of the flu making the rounds." A vague gesticulation reveals her implication, as well as her reason for coming to see him.

A small paperback the width of a novella. A lurid rendering of a man and woman embraced on the cover. The Final Temptation embossed in large flowering script. Red letters, two red A's. He wants to tell her to just bring these things to the front office, he doesn't know why they collect with him. Perhaps with his personal interest in you they feel it necessary he's intimate with your every transgression. His exhaustion has graduated transcendent.

"I'm alright, Mrs. Grady, I'm just not sleeping well these days." His sudden pallor does nothing to lend credibility, regardless of how it's a half-truth by way of technicality. He regards the book wearily, pushing away from his desk as far back into his chair as he can retreat. A preempt, knowing the book will soon plop square in the middle of his drafted sermon, backed once more in a corner. "I don't suppose that's school approved text."

"You suppose correct." She scoffs. Book thuds.

He sighs.

"I don't suppose I need to ask who it's been confiscated from." The man on the cover is clinging to the woman's body with a desperation that's too familiar. Seen in his nightmares, then burned behind his lids every time he seeks solace behind them. "This calls for suspension, if I'm not mistaken?"

She shakes her head to the contrary before his mouth shuts.

Her lips purse with a ripple of her brow, and her glance skews left. "Actually, you do. Sister Irene found it with Ms. Reid in the middle of class. It was opened on her lap, hidden under her desk."

Father Brennan's eyes widen as he slides off his glasses. The frames thick and black. Kate Reid was one of few second generation pups in the senior class, one who felt their common blood exempt her from the same standards of her peers. Platinum hair and stormy-eyed, she was striking as she was sharp. The angles of her bones, her smirk, her wit.

"Oh?" His fingers found his jaw, scratching to find mild stubble hooking nails in need of a clip. "And Sister Annette specifically asked for me to see to this, did she?"

"Just to have a quick word with her, if you could." Mrs. Grady has already turned on her heel. She never lingers. She would sooner choke on her own tongue than monopolize Father Brennan's time. Just as she would trip over her own heels before she overstayed her welcome in his office, as if his behavior had ever suggested she make such haste. "Sister Irene fears this could be symptomatic of a much larger, more disruptive presence in class."

"Ah." Then grateful for her retreating back, it's with a grim expression he catches her meaning, and angles it down at the paperback on his desk. His black lamb is rubbing off on the others. A vile contagion, they mean for him to staunch the spread. He's grown careless, obsessive, or both, and the garden is overcome with weeds.

A stray that's begun to bite. He can already hear the hissed verdict.

Put her down.

The latch of his door clicks shut and banishes him once more to his own devices. To the sermon left of scratched lines and unfinished thought then buried beneath what he can only assume is erotica.

Fingers reach, recede, then reach again in the finality of curiosity run rampant. A few dogeared pages catch his attention. Two thumbs dip inside and spread apart the first of the creases.

His hunger undulates like the sea, insatiability as vast and ruthless, it crashes over Cléo and drags her under. Under his body, chiseled and tanned, her yelps climb higher and reedier as his pace mounts to a gallop. A wild stallion betwixt her thighs, her nails scrape approval in red along his curved back, knotting reigns out of his chocolate mane.

Oliviero shudders and groans something obscene as he sinks deeper inside her. She smells of peaches and cream, and feels twice as soft. Tender and juicy like the meat of such fruit. Sin is considered impure, but with her it feels divine. If she is what lays between him and Heaven, he'll gladly sacrifice eternal salvation if only he gets to spend the rest of his finite mortality within the wet heat between her legs. She makes sin taste like peaches and cream-

He shuts his eyes, and then the book. The vision from his nightmares is there, waiting for his return. There isn't a doubt in his mind now it belongs to you, or that it was under your influence that Kate Reid's hand were caught red this time.

He knows you're behind this because of the way his stomach drops to his knees. Something so on the nose could only be your calling card.

He wonders what your sin tastes like.

Sister Irene and her English class halt in unison once he appears in the doorway. Formal acknowledgements are exchanged, the classroom erupts in wide eyes and wider smiles. His daily chorus of "Good morning, Father Brennan."

He nods, he smiles.

He pointedly does not look your way, though he found your exact position in the class before Sister Irene so much as he turned to see just who intruded upon her lesson.

"I apologize for the interruption." He says to Sister Irene, and the class, whom he still addresses without looking at you, but he feels you looking at him. A sharp gaze, one that slices accidental when it's startled from his next reveal. "I was hoping I could take Ms. Reid for a spell. Her and I need to have a chat."

"Not at all, Father." A tall and sinuous Sister in her middle-ages, Sister Irene singles Kate out and nods her forward. "Go on, child."

His looser verbiage. The general fluster that ripples from the class as Kate stands and approaches him in the doorway. He's surprised he has suit left to cover him from the cut of your stare across his back.

He doesn't bother to take her to his office. An offense that's serious only in theory, the hall just outside Sister Irene's door is as suitable a space as any to conduct his investigation. Wasted breath and wasted effort, Kate confirms what he already knew to be true. You're the one who lent her the book, you're the one who convinced her it was worth the risk. Your eyes pierced your culpability into his retreating shoulders. Your eyes pierce him with quite a bit these days.

And, well, Kate was a curious one. But please, Father Brennan, don't tell my parents.

He assured her with weariness rousing half a smile and hands raised to calm, that only repeat offenses required parental intervention.

A suspicion confirmed to the surprise of none. He releases Kate back to Sister Irene, but lingers in the hall. The question remains;

Just what is he to do with you?

Sister Annette stops him in the hallway between classes, just after the bell signals the changeover. In the flood he catches sight of you behind her shoulder.

You're so... pretty. A hard truth that erupts a fire in his belly. Of course you're pretty, you're young. Too young, much too young. A vernal treasure untouched by the hunger of the world at large, cruel and consuming.

Sister Annette prattles on about services and schedules, and sermons better suited to the particular passages of scripture the girls are being taught. For the school authority who commends his expertise on the surface, she does so love to tell him how to do his job.

It's never much bothered him, and it certainly doesn't now. For he's nodding at her, and humming in tune, but his eyes - trained, painstaking and exact to hers - are still cataloging you in the background at your locker. A glorious blur of tantalization, the suggestion of a dream. The whisper of fantasy teasing the fringes of lucidity. Surely all forms tailor made from the Devil to try his vigilance. A test of his obedience.

You look his way not once in a display that suggests you may not even know he's there, which he finds hard to believe. His height, his mass, his black. The giggles in the hall. He's a dark cloud that roams, a magnetism of the forbidden that lurks, suggestive, coaxing, even as he doesn't mean to be. Low breaths and rumbles of ignored hunger.

The father of a best girlfriend. A neighbor. A teacher, a mentor.

A priest.

A first whiff faint and inconsequential, he then catches it in full with nostrils flared. A tracker drawn to your scent. Too airy and strong to be perfume, certainly not as it sits leaking in his desk drawer. This is a different scent, a new scent.

Vanilla sugar cookies fresh out of the oven, clove and nutmeg spiced. Thick frosting, butter-cream stiff. You bathe yourself in the potent body-spray. Out in the hall tucked into your locker, he watches your show. Dousing yourself in temptation as though in secret, you revel in the oily mist, your shower made public. Flicking your head in a wave of your hair, bombshell full and free. Hair that is to be pulled up or back at all times. Corralled to a headband at the very least, one that often vanishes without a trace by midday.

A mist of sugar settling against your unblemished skin, you're satisfied with your fresh smell, a signature updated. Bending forward into your locker once more, a popped rear on tiptoes, you crane forward for height you don't really need to stick puckering lips at the little mirror on the door. Peachy and flecked with glimmer. Honey thick and sticky.

Heavy, hooded eyes sink into Sister Annette's face. Her gray brows, her bleach-blue eyes too small and beady for her face. The asinine deluge through an absent smile. He rests so much weight of his attention on her frail face he'd be surprised if the skin didn't tear. He stares at her like his very life depends on it, because it just might.

You tip forward to readjust your stocking, having slipped below your knee. Your hair falls over your shoulder, your crucifix dangles from the collar of your blouse, and you extend your leg outward. Perched as if on offer. Nimble fingers pinch the top of your sock and hike it back to it's proper place, hiding away those few inches of upper thigh in a gesture meant to incite the worst in him.

He refuses you that satisfaction, even if you don't seek it openly. He knows. It's with this insight he gives Sister Annette a little tighter of a smile, a nod, locked on her with such steely determination he can only assume she doesn't notice his agony because she doesn't notice anything much at all.

Phase two of your attack commences. It happens at the water fountain a little ways down the hall from where you just righted a uniform you never bother to heed the regulations of on a good day. You bend at the waist, and hold your hair back. Lashes flutter and lips purse as you bring your lips to the stream and wet them. Kitten laps and gentle suckling. A throat that bobs with your swallows. Your body poised to hold yourself still, a hip cocked, as you drink. Sister Annette's words dial to a low drone of obscurity. The whine of a television clicked on or off, the frequency only dogs could hear, he can longer decipher words. Hints, shells, but not whole pieces. He notices when her fingers are on his arm.

"I beg your pardon?" His only saving grace is that she assumes he's as disinterested in her drivel as he suspects she is in his. Not because he's caught with a hand in the cookie jar, drool at the corner of his mouth, crumbs dusting his fingers.

Her smile is patient, but only just. She hums in a belabored condescension, a state of being in which she reigns supreme. "I asked if you weren't chilly." The smile doesn't widen, nor does it fall. Plastered discomfort in having to repeat herself as much as it's having to linger on pleasantries for which her bandwidth is limited. "These halls are especially cold this time of year, and I'm not used to seeing you without your sport coat." She tries for a titter that sounds as stilted as he feels.

He then understands the false concern is a roundabout way to chastise him for his less than professional dress. His polish is tarnishing, and he's one of but a handful of St. Mary's most prestigious faces. Parents routinely tour the premises. Sisters from other schools come to marvel at the institution Sister Annette helms with strict sovereignty.

Every last detail, every rule, no matter how benign, is of full consequence.

And there he is. Good Father Brennan. His cuffs unbuttoned, and pushed to the elbow. A shirt tail in danger of becoming un-tucked. He knows his eyes are bloodshot because they burn as he blinks. Only once, and only after you've wiped your mouth on the back of your wrist and saunter away. Breaking the spell and leaving him hollow, throbbing. Cold.

"Yes, Sister Annette." His concession is a house of cards that an unguarded exhale will topple. He smiles at her, and she nods. His expression mimicked, though too clinched, too perturbed. "Forgive an old man his indiscretion, I forgot my coat in my office. If you'll excuse me?"

Her titter is little more sincere than her previous attempt, but at least this time she shows teeth. She's concluded her desire to exchange words, and brushes his arm once more as she dismisses him. Lest he forget his coat, the repeated touch to the offense should do the trick.

By the time he's safely back within his office, his silhouette has grown an unsavory bump where none should exist. Least of all over you, a child. And the hint of a little leg no less. Hands ball to fists at his sides, ignoring it as it swells to a more nagging chub. Flicking his inseam. The insistence of a dog nudging his leg with a leash in it's mouth.

Not now. Please not now.

Shaking fingers tug his sleeves back down the length of his forearms, ropy with lean muscle and sinew, as he implores his stirred cock to settle. He's not yet peeled himself from slumped against his door, eyes squeezed. He grasps at the vestiges of his rationale like straws, drawing reinforcement the only way experience has ever taught him.

Liturgy. Warm Guinness. Cold showers. Football players grunting mid collision - in the rain. Cold showers.

The phone chirps at his desk. I'm saved. He thinks.

His cock gives a kick in his slacks, as if to laugh at him.

He hobbles towards the blaring, doing his level best not to agitate the over-sensitivity with too quick and assured a gait. Snatching his sport-coat from his chair, he begins to shrug it on, the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder as he pushes an arm through the sleeve.

"Father Brennan." He announces, breathless. In a way he hopes is rushed-to-not-miss-the-call, and not from the swollen itch in his groin.

The words strike him from the other end, Mrs. Ritner, another main office nominal appointed by Sister Annette to liaison with the staff. She, unlike Mrs. Grady, finds the phone sufficient. The long paved walk from the front doors of the school to the front doors of the church, his office tucked to the far back, unfavorable.

Dead weight sinks into his chair by a grip on one of the arms. Hissing beneath his breath at the throb of his loins jostled by the motion, a jolt of live wire reignited by his friction.

You're on your way to his office as they speak. Perfumed and glossy. Hair free as a vixens.

Cold showers. Football. Famine.

You might as well enter his office in nothing but stilettos and a garter, for that's how his heart races as he wills his aggravated erection appropriately flaccid.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

He waits, stewing in the captivity of silence, fraught and imprisoning. Heavy paws tracking ruts along the perimeter. Thinking to hold his breath.

The confessional a flimsy barrier between you, worn thin, such as the skin of Good ol' Irishman committed to the cloth. There's a prickling beneath, an itch; dark and matted that strains him taut, these confines he's bound. Midnight rich pressed and tucked, neat and clean, ivory at his throat keeping it all down. Pushing at his collar, constricting with every shallow breath he fights. Because every one indulged is sacrilege.

Sins of the flesh tasting of gingerbread and vanilla, thick gumdrop sweet. Every inhale scrapes frosting against the back of his teeth. He swallows to pretend he doesn't need to, doesn't want to. He can't feel the ridge of gums tear around sharpness that aches to push through. He can't hear the rustle of his chains.

No, such atrocity no longer resides in Father Brennan. He's noble, he's risen. He clutches his chains and tightens his bindings.

It's how you smell now. Invading his side of the booth, too cramped and stuffy for his tall, looming frame. The walls are tight, his collars tight, and if he breaths in any more of your smell, his trousers will grow tight as well. So he holds his breath. Until his lungs burn, and his eyes glaze, and the heaviness squirming in his gut settles. He waits for you to continue.

The pause stretches for an eternity, long enough for the hunger to gurgle and writhe, for the devil to burrow into his hunched shoulder.

Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. He minds himself, over and over and over.

The pause continues, indefinite, frail, stifling. He shifts with a loud groan of the wood protesting his weight, and it shatters the moment. He hears your puff of breath, mousy and timid, just quiet enough it might yet go undetected. It doesn't.

"Go on, child." He musters warmth, but not too much. He instills authority, but hopes - prays - its yielding, approachable. His gruff portrayal steeped to encouragement.

There's another tense beat, sucked in breath beyond the other side of the grate, shaky and tender and oh, so close to him. Close enough it sounds like you're pressed against the wall. Worming closer to his cracks, leaching through the barriers between you. Barriers he doesn't reinforce, not anymore. As it stands, the very intimacy that pits you voice to voice all but encourages your infiltration. Your secrets, your sins. Your lips to Gods ears. Your conduit to the very salvation he's indebted to bestow.

"It's been a three days since my last confession."

A choke pulls his chest. A fault splinters his decency. "Only three?"

You splutter, taken aback. A soreness over the Kate debacle persisting, it's turned you prickly on him. Wound tight. "S-shouldn't I come to confession as often?"

He'd be a liar if he said he didn't appreciate the turned tides. For once he's not the one knocked off kilter and held there. Not standing tall, nor falling. Just a fool.

He chuckles, though not one of mock or derision. His amusement is tender, and true. "Your willingness is absolving in it's own right. What sins have darkened your slate since last we cleaned it?"

"I spoke back at Sister Irene when she began to reprimand me."

"What was Sister Irene reprimanding you for this time?"

A pause. Your confession mumbled, petulant, of little consequence. "I fought with Allison. In the hall before her English class. Right outside her door."

He's already abreast of the scuffle with Allison Brown.

He knows because he was the one called to break it up. Child's play for all the mind you seem to pay it in the aftermath. Long arms wound around your middle. The under-swell of fresh breasts brushing his forearm, a skirted bottom wriggling at a dangerous proximity.

He feels an old dog and his bark rasps accordingly, but when he must lay down authority, it's unbending. Two pampered house kittens arched and spitting at one another. He wrestled you away claws drawn, Allison's golden curls twisted in clenched knuckles like mouse-tails.

He's already been instructed to keep you in the church after dinner to see to it that you're tasked with the appropriate punishment. He already knows he's headed for another long night of hiding behind the door of his office.

Knowing you're within arms reach. Knowing the only witness to keep him leashed and indifferent is God.

Knowing all of this doesn't change the fact that you've come to him to confess, and that he's obligated to hear your side of the story.

"Fought how, child?"

"I lunged at her. Pulled her hair." You feel the need to emphasize. "Hard."

He shakes his head though you can't see. You can hear, however, the shake of his words in a chuckle he knows better than to indulge. He's not amused, he's out of his mind.

"Is that all?" He says it in slight jest, though it manages to pluck one more of your unsavory feats.

"And I... I thought about not coming to confess at all."

"Aye." He gifts to you in understanding, but that's all he gives. Onyx wool, fledgling, glinting like spun silk. He thinks to run his fingers through it, and feel you nuzzle into his courtesy. "What had you and Allison come to blows?"

Your attack startles. No wind up, no preempt. The consequences un-assumed with how candid your delivery.

"My period."

He runs so hot it's burns him frigid. A cough swallowed to a grunt, eyes sent upward his closed lids. Drawing the curtain. Shrouding what is surely to be a punishing conversation. He grasps at tact to navigate such foreign soil, steadies to keep fumbling to a minimum.

He governs the spirituality of young women at an all girls school. He has for years. They've all had the social graces to not deign his listening ear with such impropriety. Another mold you shirk, vehement, defiant. Confinement's a shackle, one to which you're ill-suited.

"Yes, well... seeking repentance grants the absolution you seek-,"

You trample his flimsy rouse. You're having none of his gentility, his subtle discomfort.

"-she started it, Father."

"Come now, you're beyond these childish excuses-,"

"-she accused me of being a whore, Father Brennan-,"

"-Tongue, lass." He warns, a deep rigidity that thunders in the confessional. Shaken to hear such talk from you. More shaken still how your girlish warble dresses the filth into something... sensual. Hot and bubbling. Sugar that scalds a dipped finger. Goading a different challenge that cracks him like a whip as he juggles flipping approachable, then diplomatic. A coin spun on it's side. "Mind your tongue, or it's a bar of soap next you waggle such crudeness from it."

"Yes, Father." You breath, a mewling kitten meek as your insolence scruffed. "Forgive me."

The Sisters are known for harsh punishment, not all, but most. A switch, a ruler, hair grabbed in fist. He's never been one for such cruelty, he could never think to strike the doe-eyed and adoring. A crux and a folly, his gentle disposition endears him even more to his girls. An accent that charms and eyes so blue they bewitch like crystal, oceanic-endless, a balm to the souls turbulence. They now bleach feverish, anemic and hollow, arctic-bright.

He thinks of you yelping to the strike of a switch. A paddle glancing your peach-plump rear. He doesn't dare think of who he pictures the wielder, just as he doesn't dare think to suggest such a punishment. Because he's a soft touch. Is what he tells himself. Merciful. Lenient. Kind. He rattles down the list, pulling the attributes from the muck to rebuild his morality. Wipe them clean and stick them on like armor. Good. A good man. A simple man. A man of God.

He stills himself. Tugging his shirt cuff and repositioning with another grating of old wood. "How did she assert such of you? Might there have been a misunderstanding, perhaps?"

Your frustration huffs. "She said because I use tampons, that means I've been had. Whispered it to Melissa Sue behind my back like some scandal."

He crosses himself. A pregnant stretch of silence creeps between you like an ink spill, black and viscous and promising an even worse mess if he moves to sop it up too quickly. Rushed and unprepared. Black and glittering and endless, like your fleece.

Left standing in the pasture with blood in your teeth, and sisters at his back, demanding and impatient. Put her down. They insist. A rabid animal, a bad seed. This one bites. They hiss. A lost cause, kicking and screaming. Don't trouble yourself, Father. This ones not worthy of your time and attention. Oh, what are we to do with her?

He offers his time and attention like communion, the special treatment fed to you the body and blood of Christ. Ever since you were a little girl. He slips the wafer between lips stretched open, dissolving against your soft pink tongue, drawn to receive. A quick lap of muscle dragging beneath the pads of his fingers, hot and wet through a sigh that aches. That longs.

A smile. A wide beam, you've learned to wear many the last ten years, but it's still the only one you need. Blood stains the incisor that used to gap through it, once upon a time. A face he still sometimes sees. A little girl who remembers those promises made to her even a decade on. Kept close to your chest, lurid Polaroids of his dedication and shine to you like blackmail. Black fleece. Waves them under his nose like pornography you threaten to divulge. A reputation damaged for turning his back on you.

He'd sooner lay down in the grass and let the sisters eat him alive before he ever turned you away. Ground through his flesh and bone, pop cartilage and floss with sinew string before he'd dare allow them to wreath your head with his failings. Crown you Antichrist, the child bride to blasphemy, secularism's prize. A truth that shakes his soul with how heavy sincerity rests upon it. A weight of devotion that crushes; his collar, his composure, his chains.

Blood in your teeth. Ripped thread twined around your knuckles. Allison's hair, and his resolve.

"Three of the Lords prayer." Intoning the penance in deep gravel, with a suspicious emphasis of its usual throaty register. A strength that cracks and folds when he needs it most. His final instruction seethes outwards the pit of his chest like his final nerve, pitched nasal of a pinched nose and rubbed temples, done behind the cover of alleged anonymity. "And an apology to Allison, if you've not already done so."

He knows not what mockery you made of her in retort; but he can only imagine. As if the fresh ruts of nails to her arms and ripped hair was not enough battery sustained.

He hears you exit the confessional, followed by too short a journey of your rubber soles squawking the tile.

You come out to Sister Annette waiting. Arms crossed, brow twitched, patience evaporating by the second. A line of girls crane their necks behind her, eyes wide and wandering. A row of owls that snicker upon your face.

Her smiles, rare as they were strained, never reached her eyes. Her voice never rose nor fell, a flat-line of nasal rule.

The girls adore him, nothing has changed. But when in your shadow he fears they can smell his guilt. A shining crimson A you've kissed onto his cheek. Hot breath teasing a sick pallor that only grows sicker as you ask for forgiveness he knows you don't truly seek. Not as earnestly as he seeks healing from your infectious gall. Knees bruised and voice hoarse, he prays and begs and begs some more. Though he's still on the wrong side of the confessional. Realizing he's begging the wrong divinity for salvation he doesn't deserve.

"Father Brennan has other confessions to hear to, young lady." Monotone scolding through the suggestion of a smile, so slight it's more a hint sarcastic than encouraging. But he knows better. She really thinks shes making an honest attempt at masking her displeasure with you.

The snickers in-line behind her hush to scandalized looks once he reveals himself. Hot on your heel out of the confessional, weariness from the wrong side occupied.

"I know, Sister." You say, beginning to skip away. "But I'm his favorite."

Father Brennan is quite certain he's stopped breathing.

The pistol popping warning shots grew into a sawn-off shot-gun. Four little words that erupt, ringing-ears and vision pinched. A blare that deafens and sprays explosive, uncontained. Everything in him seizes, an engine stalled and spluttering before oncoming traffic. From the sincerity that lacquers your words pink pearlesence to the looks the girls in line exchange. A shock wave to ripple the flock. Six syllables that chew through him like buckshot.

That night swells with fervent intercession. Its for you he pleads, of course. Surely not himself.

That night he dreams of you, like he does every night he's lulled unconscious by exhaustion and Irish Mist.

Prophetic visions of destruction come in your form. Meek, nubile, untouched - he assumes. A weary head resting at your middle, a sturdy breadth caught harsh at the ground, knelt before you. Wide palms to hold you, he's breathing you in and breathing you back out.

His indecency, his ugliness. The beast of his burden a bastard he's put in you. A belly swollen beneath your uniform. A vile conception. The urge that won out over his polish, his piety. All the good he's striven to attain. Cast aside like dirty rags, discarded sackcloth in favor of burying within your pristine. Your plushness. Your virginity a sacrifice to his unjust hunger.

His form all in black like fairy-tail malignancy. Just a spot of white at his neck, a canine flashed like the ones that sink into the crook of your neck.

It's fast and furious. It's sloppy. It's greed. And worst of all it's devotion. A name hallowed by his abandoned virtue. Absolute. A damning sincerity for the religion of you he now subscribes. He's curled around you and he pressing hard, pointed. A thumb dug into a wound that makes you scream. He's splitting you open, huffing in your hair in sounds that turn more animal than man.

Footprints in fresh, untrod snow. A trail of his infidelity. His disobedience blunt and erect, it carves you hollow for him to fill back up. Red slick against the inside of your thighs, red his white will turn pink. Wide palms that cradle you, fingers that tear you open, white knuckled and shaking. Father, Father, Father! Whined in his ear, kissed at his throat, panted into his collar. Red searing as pink and glossy as the depths of you he splits down the middle. Abandoning his life's work, his vows, his oaths, his sanctity, all for your sex.

The good Father Brennan, his neat, pressed clothes and collar, dampen with sweat as he works himself inside you. Stroking your cheeks and petting your hair. You're bleeding for him, a virgin at the altar. The sacrificial lamb. Salty and sweet, iron pierces the heavenly aroma of your slick. A wetness he coaxes out of you. A wetness that stains him with your misdeeds. He was always better at making a bigger mess than he was at keeping clean. All he can do is groan at your neck and maintain his rhythm, kneading himself against the throbbing, the clenching, the pinching. A bloated ache he ruts away within you.

"Well done, my girl." He huffs, eyes squeezed shut as his praise makes you tighter. Makes you wetter. "Oh, well done."

Sometimes you're in fine lace and silk, and veiled. Other times your naked as the day you were born, wearing his descent like a cloak, your fevered ecstasy a pretty rogue that blushes every inch of you his mouth laves.

He jolts awake, stifling heat that smears his skin in an oppressive film. A hardness between his legs he deigns with touch not once. No matter how stiff it twitches, how it throbs for friction, for heat, for you. Meek and mild beneath his weight. Pretty petals in fresh blossom he crushes with eagerness reawakened.

He lays there on his back in a dark bedroom with a painful length of temptation he prays for strength to ignore, even as visions of you tease the tenuous edge of fantasy, calling him back to bed. Even as fresh pulsation floods from tense loins trembling. Aching. A need ignored, a need left to fester.

Denied for decades.

Your sessions of consultation is what he takes to calling them, how he refers to them for the Sisters benefit. You've moved from the church, cold and exposing, to the sacristy. A room unfrequented by most, it's one of few places he truly feels at peace these days. Perhaps it'll settle the both of you. Surely that's why he brings you in there.

He sits across from you and feels so bold as to grasp your hands and keep them. Soft palms and warm fingers swallowed by his mitts, wide and meaty with knuckles sharp and veins dark. He holds you without force in his grip, lame and lax as you clutch at him for guidance, for understanding.

Crazed by righteousness he thinks of anointing you. Callouses and greed slick with oil he paints over your flushed face, your nakedness. A false modesty that blushes and burns under his trail, candle light caught in the glisten. Lubrication for his annexing, forbearance that dismantles you piece by piece.

Each limb, each plane, each pore singled and sanctified for consecration, catalogued for future adoration. Scrupulous passes down the bridge of your nose, along the ridge of cheekbone. Tracing your lips curve, dragging a stripe down your chin. He'd lay you down on the dais, in the stained-glass rays then painted over you. A cornucopia of color and light then made holier for your body caught between.

Splayed on his altar, butter melted liquid in cupped palms, he pours over your scalp. A drizzled crown of decadence, divine nourishment dripping down your hair and throat in rivulets. He refused his mouth your savory in his fasting. Denied himself your sweetness. Abstained from your pleasure he's ready to ingest, a starved tongue flat up your neck, velvet and butter. Hair woven in his fingers like rings. Reins. New shackles.

Milk, warmed and creamy, spilled against your bosom, blooming across your ribs a sheath of silken purity. Ivory cream whiting out the black. The black he so adores, the black that taunts him, wicked and forbidden.

Sinking down to his knees before you, a blessing crafted by his tongue in reverence to you. "Sprinkle me with a wand of hyssop, and I shall be clean; washed, I shall be whiter than snow." as he places green sprigs and violet buds to your thighs, gentle and deliberate like his kisses might be. Clean and refined. His fealty pledged. The patron saint of attrition. You already have your own prayer, one he repeats from dusk till dawn. Hushed and fervent, proclaimed veneration in between whimpers for mercy.

The Sisters laud him for his service, for the burden he assumes in such personal interest with their problem child, their black sheep. Poor Father Brennan, God bless his soul, for having to beat the devil out of the girl. They pray for him as much as they pray for you, maybe more. A kindness. A warranted precaution. But not for the reason they expect.

"How do you remain so vigilant, Father?"

Your smile attests you don't know what you ask, what slinks at the end of your words. He returns one much weaker, rueful in a worldly way. The experiences that followed his vows of devotion, tar black that stained, no matter how hard he scrubbed. How earnest. So he threw himself into abstinence instead. He couldn't become cleaner, so he'd just refrain from more mess.

"I pray, my girl." A frayed cadence to match his unraveling. His sigh of one who carries the burden of your soul and his, heaviest of all. "I pray until I cannot bear the words on my tongue, and then I pray some more."

Your nod is thoughtful, an understanding indicative of something too atrocious to face. So like a coward he retreats, he lets it lay.

Until the lonesomeness creeps back. A spirit trapped in unrest come back to him, alone with his thoughts. Called back to him. Left vulnerable to the temptation he scorns.

Weakness.

The linger of your heat buzzes in his fingers long after you leave. Vanilla hand cream softens his cracks and callouses with meticulous femininity. A throb at his temple, the whites of his eye veined like shattered glass. The pink bottle of perfume in his desk drawer.

It's enough to pull the flask of Jäegermeister from the top shelf of his bookcase. The first swig flooding his throat in a syrup he pretends is yours, 70 proof and licorice bitter. A burn to match the trail of your touch to his hand.

A hand that still smells and tingles with your memory, one he rubs over his face and then under his nose. Down his body to his groin, where it stops. Twitching and hot in his slacks. It's enough to bring him to the edge but not enough to push him over.

He's anger and devastation in every rigid inch he denies. He abstains from a lover's touch, he swore to it when he made his oaths. Oaths that shackle him, shadow his trail with a rustle and wail. Unmistakable chastity in his collar, and solemnity to uphold the burden. And burden it is.

It's meant to throb and ache, its meant to be agony.

He's handled it with exemplary prowess and grace. Until you came along.

You touched his chains, held them up to light, ran the links between your pretty fingers. Hard, cold, unbending in ways that make you pout and pull. Each loop a vice hardened and soldered repentant. Virility, pride, ego, lust. He wares them in a heed of what he promises to shed, risen above the lure of mortal men a devout phoenix from the flame and ash. As priesthood ordains, rebirth that strips pure and noble from weak and debauched.

He's not holy. He's repression, the victim and the assault. He's the worst of what mankind has to offer. Selfishness and misery. Appetite disguised in black suits and crosses. A title that only worsens the insatiability after decades of believing he'd tricked it sated.

You see them as a challenge revealed. Attributes of a compatible mate. Hungers aligned, agitation matched. Of the spirit. Of flesh burned red. Locks that promise the existence of keys. Of indentured servitude of which he can be freed. Should be freed.

You're before him in his office. Hands clasped behind your back. A wad of chewing gum tucked behind a wry grin. Thick digits card through his black shag before it drags down his face in a show of exasperation. His shirt strains around heavy shoulders as he rubs his eyes beneath glasses, and then the bridge of his nose.

The moment the frames hit the desk he's spun sideways and pushing out of his seat with a click in his knee. A trick joint worn thin, inflamed by all the prayer he's thrown himself into as late.

He's never been on his knees so much until you.

The thought still nags in the back of his mind, a monster breathing heavy and snorting from the foot of the bed, that whenever he finds himself on his knees these days, he's vulnerability, and you're inevitability. He thinks of his maw buried in your girlhood, his prayers muffled in your folds. If the sin of you doesn't taste like peaches and cream, or Oliviero was just more far gone than him.

He scoops down and straightens with the waste basket in his clutch. He extends it to you, over his desk kept between, a buffer, a safe distance away. Stares slot and lock like ram horns, but his gentle weariness holds. He's not angry, just doomed.

At last you acquiesce. Leaning forward, the gum drops from your lips into the bin, and he thanks God, if he's even still listening to good Father Brennan, that you refrain from holding his gaze while you spit.

Dropping the basket back to it's place, one hand falls to his hip while the other outstretches to you. Sighing expectancy once more.

A playful eye roll sends you into the pocket of your kilt to fish out the packet with the rest. He stands in wait, palm opened, until you deposit it with him and he utters his thanks for your cooperation.

"Will that be all for now, Father?"

"For now." He leans over his desk, a weight held by palms splayed under him against the surface, shoulder width apart. He's without his coat again, and his sleeves are forced up his forearms, sloppy cuffs that are beginning to unroll. He looks every bit as tired as he feels. "I was hoping we could keep today's office visits to an even, agreeable two. And this is already strike one."

You grin as a single of his eye-brows lift in an agreement he hopes you've reached. A suggestion he believes you may yet follow. Just to shake things up. You don't answer. You're all grins headed for your door. He stops you with a tut just as your hand hits the knob.

"Lass?"

The pet name sees you halt, then turn back to face him. His expression is tweaked to merciful assertion, a brow arched in the understanding he believes is mutual. You arch one back at him.

"Yes, Father?"

His chest rises and falls with a silent sigh as he draws back to full height. Worn haggard in posture, but one that still imposes. Stifles. He opens a drawer at his right and produces a ruler. You swallow, smoothing your hands on the front of your skirt as he approaches.

Hooded eyes, impossibly blue and barely concealed longing, holds yours captive as he strides the distance. He doesn't release them when he reaches you, nor when he lowers to a knee before you. Another pop of the cartilage as broadloom carpet cushions his descent.

He brings the ruler to the side of your leg at the knee, and sighs once more as he examines the length between the hem of your kilt and the top of your knee. And the two inches higher than it should be.

His look alleging a deliberation your smooth innocence protests before any accusations are spoken, much less pointed. He's not touching you but the proximity stalls both your breath and his. Even knelt before you he swallows you whole. His angled gaze an ocean surge, sweeping you in and pulling you under. Brisk and dark, but once it surrounds you its a calm, still comfort. An overwhelming mass even in how soft and lean age has dulled him.

"You know the rules." He rumbles, a long-suffering exasperation that's softened immeasurably by the threat of a kind smile, even as he denies it. He stands with a creak in his joints that deafen when compared to the click on his way down. The ruler still curled in his fist, he crosses his arms across the broad expanse of his chest, matte black and buttoned, and cocks his head to the side. "So would you kindly fix your skirt, then?"

A little smirk and down-cast eyes is all the fight you put up. "Yes, Father."

His gaze flickers on your face, a dying ember tantalized by the whip of rogue wind. Eyes fall from your face where it's safe to your midriff. Nimble fingers dart to your waistband as you begin to unroll the band in an outward perimeter, from hips around to your back. He realizes his watching turns lecherous when he can hear the hoarseness of his breath.

"You know the Sisters are strict with the dress code. Don't you tire of making the trip to my office?"

He tries for levity, but the little smirk you let slip with your head still down expresses to him just how severe his miscalculation was made.

"Not at all, Father. In fact all the girls would rather be with you then the Sisters." Your boldness lifts you back up to his stare, and something akin to victory blushes you about the bridge of your nose as you catch the ripple in his jaw. "But you already knew that."

His silence betrays how careful he begins to craft his navigation. "It's a blessing to have the respect of you girls, truly." He means every word of that. "But the Sisters care, my girl. They want to see you all staunch in your faith."

"Which is why they beat me?" Smiled small, innocent eyes then peek devilish through the curtain of lashes. He's not the only one who knows that party trick.

He bites. "Aye, they're strict. But that's only because you've left them no other choice, I reckon."

A cutesy shrug to pick your shoulders, hands clasp behind your back. Your head tips ingratiating and tilts up at him cat-like. He's not felt the canary a day in his life until he found himself on the receiving end of that look. Your head tilt just so.

"Mm, I guess you're right. If they weren't so fed up with me I wouldn't get to see you nearly so much."

He deflects, fancying himself seasoned when it comes to evading traps you set. "If it's my council you seek, you need only request it. The other girls seem to have no trouble reaching me that way."

"Yes, Father. I know."

"You don't see the others doing themselves up like brassers, and torturing the Sisters."

You smile. One slow and sly. "No, you're right. I guess not. But I still see you more than they do, even with all their scheduled time." You shrug. "I'm just the most committed to finding my way back to you."

Another day. Long and more eventful than he'd like. Another day that concludes with a migraine. A twinge pinching the vein until the skin there pulls and prickles. Glasses yanked away, finger-tips burning to replace the wire frames with the thin flask tucked neat in the top row. The schools empty save for the janitor. Mrs. Grady had already poked her head in on her way out, shrugged in her jacket a jingle of her keys.

No one would be there to happen upon him seeking solace from another healthy gulp or two of Jäger to the drone of the floor being waxed just beyond the chapel entrance. At least the anise settles his stomach.

His desk drawer slides open to discard his folded readers and that's when he sees it again. The little pink perfume bottle. Carved glass and oil, insentient and coy. Flirtation. Your wrist turned open and extended under his nose with a purr. Do you like it, Father?

His glasses fall against it and the draw shuts with a hasty slam. He should bring it to the main office instead, really. There's no good, sound reason why he should have your possessions. Forbidden as they are at St. Mary's, he's amassing a small trove that now feels more like a shrine. Chewing gum, bubble gum, lip gloss. And now the perfume. It somehow is too much like you. So much so that it feels like your spirit split, and one half resides in his office just to haunt him when you're off duty. Merciless and impish and cruel, a djinn locked away in pink crystal. One that lurches free to wreak havoc on his poor susceptibility whenever he faces it the beginning and end of each day. Its your smell and its overpowering. Right at his hip as he works, the proverbial palm of his hand. A suggestion to what lurks within him.

The prowling mange that looks at you and licks its chops. That remembers the time when he was more man. Just a man. Just Brennan. Simpler times, unburdened by duty and obligation. Chastity and obedience.

Dark hair and darker eyes, lean and mean. A tomcat fixed by one mates sister, and another's cousin. A scoundrel, their mothers branded him. He wasn't the most handsome or the most charming, but he was the most cunning. Gone without a trace. The only way to know he had even been there the odd bruise sucked to a neck. Whiskey-stickey tongue tracks dried between a set of breasts. Sets of glistening eyes heart-shaped and gooey stuck to him during mass on Sunday mornings. Maybe that's why he decided to pursue the priesthood.

He still gets that same look, those same gazes drizzled over him like honey, thick and golden sweet. No sucked tit or hand up a skirt necessary. He fears he misses the latter more than he enjoys the former.

He pushes up and away from his desk, and the taint of you emanating from the top left corner. Stalking hunched and hallucinative he rifles through thick leather binders until his fingers slip thin cool metal hidden away. He pries it loose, flicks the stopper unscrewed in one fluid stroke before he's tipping it back. Desperation in an Adams apple bobbing a dipping so erratic it catches the edge of his damned collar.

He gulps the thickness, the syrup like it's medicinal. He's not looking at the place in his desk where you are, pointedly. He has to think about it to not catch himself wandering. He's thinking about you in the form of pink crystal to make sure he's still not looking. Thinking about you just to make sure he's not thinking about you too long, too hard. His eyes ping around his office over the rim of his flask. He finds a spot on the ceiling, one where the wood paneling on the wall meets the crown molding. Where shoddy workmanship sees it cracked. He stares long and hard as he sucks every last drop, and all the while he thinks about pocketing the perfume and taking it home.

The Jäger is self-medicating, but he's steadily building immunity.

"Your sweater, girl." Sister Barbara snips, thin skin wrinkled vexed. A scowl you could depend on like you could the sunset. "I don't want to hear any excuses now."

He doesn't need to see to know who Sister Barbara's scolding. He pauses mid step for a minute and sighs, crosses himself a quick ward of protection, and continues around the bend, en route to Sister Jean's classroom.

You're not wearing the cardigan. Your back to him, he watches with eyes burning and shoulders tensed as the silhouette of yours teases him. Shoulders through the thin cotton of a crisp blouse that turns translucent in the light you're standing in.

"It was due to be laundered." You explain, and cross your arms over your chest. Your back is still to him, and Sister Barbara mimics the stance. She hasn't noticed him, neither of you have, perhaps he can weave through this minefield unscathed.

"So you didn't think to put on your spare?"

"I couldn't find it."

She tsks her disapproval, but has no counter, other than to gesture at your down hair, her eyes rolled. A huff and puff to another audacious display of insolence.

"Comb that nest back. You know the rules." Her tone is ice cold and twice as dry. "Otherwise you'll be spending another class period in Father Brennan's office, not that I don't already have half a mind to send you there now."

He thinks then to retreat. Please God don't send her back to me. He can see Sister Jean later in the day with a decent excuse and a wonderful apology. But you bend, you comply.

"Yes, Sister."

And then you're sweeping your hair off the back of your neck, and it's bared to him. A length of flesh, a column of muscle. Wisps of hair at your nape.

Your head tilts demure, only as far as your shoulder, and the line of jaw twitches something inside.

Low, below the belt. The rush of heat blossoming like an open wound. His collar pulls taut around his swallows, each one turning his throat parched. Your fingers rake your hair and tie it up. A naked neck, a bare jaw, and the hint of shoulders. He sees his hand coming to grip your shoulder, the other slipping under your jaw. Snatching your jaw. Sliding over to slip between your lips and down your throat, your whimpers vibrating his thick knuckles. Gagged on his intrusion.

Twitching. A squirm low in his stomach that breaches the division between gut and groin. A heat that slithers, coiled upwards a scrotum that squeezes it sprung loose.

Teeth-marks jagged and wet break the skin at your nape, the junction where neck meets shoulder from a blouse collar yanked away.

He's spun on his heel, and retracing his path back around the corner from where he's just come. The mens restrooms a safe haven, as there are hardly any men at all in the building at any given time. A tall body hunched and sagged against the door, slammed shut not a moment too soon. Wetness erupts at his groin, a slick sensitivity milked painful from the friction of tight black slacks. A zipper raking engorgement.

He shoves knuckles into his mouth to stifle his cries, and it backfires to thoughts of doing similar to you. Sat in a pew at the back of the church, speared in his lap, your crude joining hidden beneath the cream and hunter green of your kilt.

Animals, like dogs, bite the nape of their mates. They mount, jaws latch the scruff, and they rut. Until exhaustion drags them limp and boneless, until the knot pops. That's what he's thinking when he comes, a release reached by colorfully lewd imagination, your bare neck, and shoulders teased beneath thin cotton.

His sounds are labored and whimpering as he spends himself down his left pant leg. A length throbbing and tender, busted skin at his knuckle. There's a portrait of Jesus Christ on the opposite wall that watches this wretched display, one he averts the oil-painted judgement of. There's a picture of Christ in every room of the school, he realizes.

He's running out of places to hide.

There's no longer refuge in abstinence. Refusing himself touch does not save him.

He holds his office door open for Kate to exit out of. Splayed fingers, a shirt cuff buttoned around the thick of his wrist.

"God keep you, child." His eyes skim the top of her head, a blonde ponytail swishing back and forth as she skips, drawing his eye to you. Prowling outside his door, waiting. Watching. The threat of a pout quivering and eyes blinked hot with the fury of catching a man claimed with another pretty youth. Long legged, grinning around his name. Marked territory invaded.

"Lass?" His acknowledgment is of one of genuine perplexity. You march inward and he stumbles aside to clear your path. Allowing you in, gesturing an invitation he doesn't wholly want to give. He hadn't received a call you were coming.

"What was she doing here?"

Your tongue strikes like a clap to the cheek. An accusation that strangles she spitting and serpent-like. The green-eyed monster has come to collect, and you drag it to his feet. A tangle he must sort. A mess you bring for him to clean.

He blinks. Slow, startled, digesting the situation with labored understanding he must piece together with context clues that oppose. Jagged lines that refuse to slot together.

"She sought spiritual council." He divulges the explanation in calm that's had its edges singed, hands raised in defense of both himself and Ms. Reid. Whatever you believe took place behind his closed door must be a misunderstanding, but that implication roils in his stomach all the same. "It's a service I'm certified to provide, if you'll recall. One you're always welcome to receive."

For a moment he watches you look around his office. Arms crossed. Irritation coiled in a posture looking to lash forth at something. He stays quiet, a raised brow trained on you.

As always, you come out swinging.

"Am I special, Father?"

He blinks, throat closed cold. Careful steps and a steady hand. Easy, old boy.

"All you girls are special." It's still his honest truth. Another shield, the breastplate of his armor he clings tight.

Your eyes glance down at the floor between you. Your voice is so quiet he has to strain to hear you, not something he's used to with your boldness, your unapologetic candor. "That's not what I asked you."

There's more quiet between you. It goes on for longer than before. A sensation eases him, one he recognizes as calm, of all things. Turns out it has the opportunity to reveal itself in your shared company if you're both quiet for long enough. Before he decides if it should thrill him or frighten him, you're tear the calm and silence away. You try again.

"Am I worthy, Father Brennan? Of your attention?" Eyes widening doll like in desperation. There's a right and a wrong answer. You need him to know the difference, and face it. Brave it. "Am I special to you?"

He doesn't give you either answer. Just a look. It's longing. It's pain. It's hunger. Ocean eyes spilling, not of tears - but secrets. Confessions not made, not voiced. So much held at bey. The white at his throat keeping it all down. The moment he dares to utter even a hint, one word that slips passed, it all falls down. It's begging you as much as it's telling you everything you need to hear in words that stay buried. Stay under the collar.

It's not enough for you. You need the words. The confirmation. Something for your teeth to sink into.

"Do you love me, Father Brennan?" His stunned silence makes you smile. A smile that instills more dread. Not because it's malicious, but that it's hopeful. "Don't you want to?"

"Lass-,"

"You said yourself that committing to a love you can't touch is a tall order." A tangle of words turned against him, he breaks through the web. Wet-tissue paper pried apart by the dead weight of a dropped hand. He's stronger than that, at the very least.

"Aye, a test of our faith. A sacrifice. But one made because we must."

"But why must we? Where is loyalty in suffering? Our honest faith in pain? How could that make it more real? How could that make it worth all of this?" A wild, vague gesture that he assumes means to be between you and him. The emphasis on agony a peek behind your curtain. You poor child. He almost thinks to offer that it wasn't so dishonest.

Like the pain recognized isn't one shared.

You're demanding answers he not only doesn't know how to give, he's incapable even if he had them. His tongue is cotton un-spooled against his teeth, down his throat. A chewed up useless thing that rends him mute. He only realizes you've begun to stalk towards him in scuffed mary-janes until his low back knocks the ledge of his desk.

"I don't understand, why is touch wrong when I need it, Father?"

He's run out of ground to stick between you. He has no where else to hide. He'll give you whatever you want so long as you don't come any closer, don't ask him for the one thing he absolutely cannot give you. Will not give you.

Ribs crunching as he rips them from his side with a bloody grasp and skin peeled open. His sternum, long and flat, clattered to the ground at your feet like a ceremonial dagger. His heart. Still beating in shaking palms. Still slick and red, even with all the fissures you've since opened along it's glisten. Yours, all yours. He'll take himself apart piece by piece on his knees for your hurt, for how he's failed you. He'll give it all if only you'd give him even a scrap of mercy in return. A kindness for all he's fed you. All he's given to your satiation.

Your anger pouts.

You cock your head, cat-like. "Don't you want to?"

"No." It's not even a lie. God help him, you're pushing him over a line, and he'd sooner dive across it, head over heels, before he'd lay a hand on you to catch himself from falling. "No, child. This is wrong."

Self-cannibalized malignancy. He'd feed himself to you if it fixed you. A sacrifice made to turn you docile, trick your appetite sated like he had done his own. It could work. He reasons. It's sterilization. It's lobotomy. But it works.

His look is begging you to yield, to show him mercy, but you step closer. A hard swallow and a sturdy body brought to trembles once your hand comes up to flatten against his chest. Over his heart as it hammers the breast bone. You feel along the heavy cross that hangs heavy from his neck on heavy chain. You're wading through his ocean eyes as you do. As you touch him.

Instinct makes him want to growl. Reason, the shreds that remain, think to pry your hands from his person and distance you as gently as he can.

The heart that hammers is slippery and viscous. It's rotting. It's sick. It somehow strong arms both instinct and reason.

In a move that stuns you, he touches you back. Palm cupping your lower back, he pulls you closer. Not into his body, but close enough your toes touch.

He presses a kiss to your hairline.

Gentle, fleeting. A father's quick-pecked affection to a child shirked and throwing a tantrum.

Startled, but only for a beat. You look up at him in a beam. His payment satisfactory.

And it is payment, a toll exacted. It was on the forehead, he barely touched you for longer than it would have taken to push you away, but he pulled you instead.

He pulled you in, and he kissed you.

"Thank you, Father."

You're barely a whisper through his door before he slumps to his knees to the ground. Tipped back to catching himself on the heel of his palm. His fingers rake through his hair, rough and erratic, trying to shake himself from a nightmare. Pinch himself awake, only to the horror that he already is.

He's shaking. Anguish, hot and wet, streaks down his cheeks from raw eyes. Eyes like ocean waves, flash frozen so still they'd shatter with a touch. He'll shatter with a touch. His lids fall heavy and he retreats to his arms, his knees. Long, creaking limbs he tangles himself within, and hides there. He mourns himself, he mourns you.

He licks his dry lips and tastes peaches and cream. His sobbing wrenches to a hard torrent.

He abstains from a lover's touch, but he can take his own.

An old act he hasn't felt beneath himself to oblige since before he joined the priesthood. Its big and thick and worsens the ache for yours, as its meant. Self pleasure always has and always will be disdainful, as by design. The weight and scratching of the chain. The weight and scratching of his palm up and down himself under the shower spray.

Forehead pressed to the tile, eyes held shut to the water and the filth. Debauched grunts and snarls turn rasping pathetic as he sprints to the finish, a name clogging his throat that he refuses to profane by saying it aloud, even though you're the one he prays to have and hold.

Angry flesh bloated from neglect, a bruised complexion contusing to his battery. That's what this is after all. Yanking and tugging to furious abuse. He means to beat away the urge, strip it from the tingling skin and salivating glans. An ailment of a fevered mind, strayed focus. The infection of sin.

Thick and slimy ropes coat his fist and swirl along the drain at his feet. He loathes the smell, the sensation. The clarity that settles around his shivering body cold and needling. The showers turned cold, the water pelting him in a sting. Insult to injury. He'll not be able to conjure the sensation of shower droplets, icy and thick, to calm his swollen girth from thereon, a realization made grim.

Good. He thinks. He's meant to suffer. It's meant to be unpalatable. Good. He thinks again.

The taint hasn't spread. It's but an illness, and illness can be cured. He'll mend. He'll overcome. His soul is sick, not damned. His mind races fire and brimstone and the fetid depths of Hell. Depths he'll leap to before he thinks of yours again. Tight velvet. Delicate virginal tears. Young flesh and hot blood that turns him haggard ancient. Comparison isn't meant to be kind. Touching himself isn't meant to bring him pleasure. Despite the rumble in his gut, the itch in his fingers. Black curls and black eyes and red, every blink, every breath, every squeeze, every stutter. Semen drools between his trembling fingers.

Chastity and obedience. Chastity and obedience.

The once sacred turned laughable. Is it still chastity if he rubs himself raw to the taste of your name? Is it still obedience when he fingers his cross with one hand and jerks himself with the other?

You've taken those precious oaths of his and eaten them. Sucked your fingers clean for him to see, hypnotic motions of swirled tongues and moans seethed shrill and breathy.

He has to will himself to remember that he's the one who fed them to you.

The chains creak and groan. A once harsh, sterile dissonance now a beautiful sound. Restraints remembered, restraints that protect. That keep him held back. A stray dog permitted to live so long as he can't reach the meat.

He rattles them on purpose. Rattles them to remind, to feel the confines. He means to hide. His cock limp, pathetic. It hangs deflated between his thighs another bleak reminder.

You're back alone with him in the church. At night. One echoing and confined. The stiff cushions lining the pews could use a vacuuming. The sort of labor that seems fitting for the offense of indulging strawberry bubble-gum out in the open hall between classes.

Father Brennan rakes you over the coals of a cobalt smolder, eyeing you for the stench of sin. A hound snarling in preempt for a hand to strike as you set to work, bent over in a ruffle of plaid kilt. The hem dragging higher up along the back of your stretched, spread thighs as you lean further along the seat cushion. Hose attachment in hand and the drone of suction, caught in the hollow shell and spit back out in piercing reverberation. A church that screams at him to take himself and his hunger far away.

At least it's loud enough to muffle the low groan as your knee lifts to the pew and you climb forward. Balanced on one hand and knee each, his vision hazy and ensnared by bands of thigh peeking between the top of your stockings and bottom of your skirt.

A common lecher, an old sick dog made to starve. The cross around his neck, between his shirts, hangs heavier by comparison. His collar a flimsy restraint that only paints him more lascivious, regardless of how earnest he tries to look away. And oh, how badly he wants to touch you.

Stroke. Tickle.

Force wider apart to fit his stance between.

Kiss you again.

He's traded his sport coat for a green sweater. School colors, of course, and a stereotype he's unable to escape. An Irishman in black and green. You match. The church is large and drafty, and with the absence of body heat and candle flame, it's desolation has a particular chill. A place of supposed worship honed razor-edged repellent. A former love whose resplendence turned frigid at the presence of his new mistress. Once a shelter it then shuns him. The vacuum whines louder and shrill, it bounces off the rafters; get out get out get out! And take the whore with you!

A similar thick knit of hunter green cotton hides your upper body, but only from the back.

He must look guilty. His loitering irrefutable. He had dismissed you already, set to retreat back to his office to hide. But there he stands. Looming behind you in a position most compromising should anyone happen upon you, and good Father Brennan.

A genuine Lolita, humming in blissful ignorance. In doe-eyes and a back turned. A body presenting a gourmet delicacy to the slobbering hound aching and stiff behind you. He's lived on meat and potatoes. Hallion's Irish Red whenever the gum line around his sweet tooth got that itch for fake caramel malt. God's love and acceptance, blind and unflinching. He must be flinching now, a blind eye turned away from Father Brennan's indulgence. Soft, tender veal. Crushed velvet. Fine wine. A virginal sex blossomed to womanhood in his lap. In his mouth. In his nightmares.

All he can think of when he gazes upon your position is Quod ore sumpsimus.

Lord, may I receive?

He's begging for you where he should be begging for salvation. Deliverance from your evil. Jittery, in pain from how badly he wants to mount. Leering at the precipitous lift of skirt, and young, supple thighs. Would the vacuum be loud enough to cover your cries? His forgiveness huffed and begged as he sinks inside you, deeper and bloodier and selfish. A wilting poinsettia crumbled on the dais.

You turn to face him in a sudden swirl of skirts and open cardigan flaps. An unfortunate effect of the chill has sunk it's tendrils into your body. Your young, fertile body, in the two pinched peaks of nipple through your blouse.

Bras are certainly a strict staple of the dress code. The obvious. Standard. A conclusion. One so forgone it remains unspoken. And surely, Father Brennan's tongue is unwilling to make mention. His eye falls to the poked fabric with a mouth set to water before he rips them away, a blink that sends them - forces them - back to your eyes. You have the audacity to look innocent. His lamb, his little black lamb, meek and mild, even as she offers her purity. Her nubility granted with such nonchalance he has to look away. A display too obscene in its innocuity.

"Is something the matter, Father?" Strawberry bubblegum breath. Your crucifix caught and glinting from overhead florescence. Innocence a five-course meal.

An Hors d'oeuvres of silhouette, one-bite to whet the appetite. His title, his name, hushed yearning, pornographic. The appetizer. A snarl and gnashing teeth to taste it from your glossy, plush pout. A palate cleansed. He dives to gorge himself on the entrée. Gasped bleats, scratching nails, an arched back. Oh God cried in response to the ravenous set loose. A collar that shocks and stings as punishment for his straying, his brazen disobedience. But he doesn't stop, he can't stop. Licking, slurping, chewing, swallowing.

For dessert he finds room to lap up the cherry, popped and smeared. Sticky on your thighs. Syrupy sweet on his tongue.

He coughs, or chokes. Either way it's painful, and disgraced. Tired eyes and pale cheeks. "No, lass. Carry on." He takes his leave you, forcefully, heavy heels strikes that drive his needs to run with every clap against tile that separates. "If you need me, you know where to find me." Called cordially over the resumed drone of the vacuum. Intoned in a way that grumbles don't need me, don't find me, don't come looking.

1971 is chomping at the bit in the bitter gusts of a December on its way out. Classes proceed in the standard flow; coursework persists steadily and the Sister's remain pedant, however the attitude in the classrooms have slackened, and the halls buzz anticipatory and restless. Halls that would soon empty. Arterial structures attached to the heart of the school, the organ stalled, the veins deflated. A hibernation until next year.

Christmas a week to the day and the holiday vacation slotted to begin after mass, the girls of St. Mary's have shelved their retention, their focus closeted. The same sort of languor that overtakes them on Friday afternoons.

Father Brennan has never appreciated the sound of his own voice like the Sisters seem to, but the concluding rite is cut and rolled with a particular brevity that suspends the mass in hesitation, even once it's ended. He then remembers a smile, reassuring and warm, it only heightens the lines of his face drawn deeper, the dark around his eyes heavier. The church doesn't hum or blush for him.

It echoes instead of hushed conversation, wishes of Merry Christmas. The Sisters bidding the girls farewell until school resumes in the new year.

Sisters Jean and Barbara, along with himself, suggested to your parent's a holiday home might be good for you. His relief upon their agreement was born of a much needed break from you. For the sake of his sanity. He wears it lamely, tatters limp and stretched gossamer thin.

You sneak into his periphery, whisper quiet and all the dread of an unidentified shadow. Unfortunately for him, familiarity isn't the issue. Your silhouette is in his dreams, his shut eyes, and now - his prayers. Every curve, and dip. Every peak and valley. Unexplored territory he's now consumed with the thought of charting.

He's defenseless. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, a collar that blisters his neck as it begs to be removed. He clutches the bible in a wide palm like he means to make a shield of the leather bound word.

"Father Brennan," your cadence brokers no negotiation. You will not be shirked, despite your parents awaiting you in the front office to take you home. To take you away from him. "I have something I need to confess."

He closes his eyes and counts to ten. His posture stiffens defensive, his back put up at you. "The mass has ended." It's weak, but if weakness isn't all he has left. He turns to face you, miraculous in finding he's still able to even look you in the eye. "Go on home, lass." He doesn't know if he hopes you can or can't hear that it's a plea. "I'm sure it can wait until you come back."

"It can't." Your insistence fails as nothing in him gives, or softens. So naturally you change tactics. "Please, Father. Am I not still worth your time or attention?"

A dirty trick that turns his look of hesitation sidelong and begging. You lock into him, unflinching. You never back down, and you're not about to start. You're carrying the weight of the world in your heart; your limp trembling, your eyes glassy. He sees you. He knows this particular brand of desperation.

Shoulders sagged and head hung he ushers you into the confessional beside him. Crossing himself on his way in.

"Bless me, Father. For I have sinned." It's a whisper, it's weak and wet and shaking. His heart blips arrhythmic in alarm. You've never sounded this way before. Breath labored in a guilt that saps you of your pluck, a candor sagging under a burden. He can't see you but he imagines you on the other side of the screen, brittle. A sheet of ice suspended seconds before a shatter, splintered outward from one press held too long, pushed too hard. Your silence all that holds you from going to pieces, but the cracks are formed. They wait.

He waits.

"It's alright, my child. You're alright."

Bowed brows, a hand held to a skittish animal quivering in the corner. The toes of his loafer catches his eye, and he bores into the sight. Polished shining black, the hard gleam of blue soon to burn a hole clean through, he'll not look away until he does. He listens to your breath, and stares at his shoe. Hard.

He waits.

"Father, I tried not to do it. Really, I did, I..."a pause to collect yourself, moving slow. Slow so that you do not burst cold crystal, slick and weeping. Melting at his feet. "Well it's just... I can't help myself, you see?"

"Did what, lass?" He shakes at his shoes, slumped forward. Elbows catching his thighs heavy, fingers laced between his knees. Hung like his head. "Can't help yourself from what?"

You swallow. He hears the slurry of muddled admission and secrecy. It's burning a hole in your pocket, much like his shoe. You want to spill yourself, but for once, there's hesitation. Something great hangs in the balance. If you shatter there will be fragments, sharp and biting from which he'll need to shield himself. A retreat deepened. If you wait too long you'll simply wither. The heat, the unbearable, forbidden heat will melt you down, a sopping mess before him he can't make heads or tails of it.

You take a breath. You decide, not to shatter, not to melt, but to explode. A hail of buck-shot.

"This ache inside me, Father. I'm out of my mind, I don't know what to do." You're whimpering, voice hushed but strong, and clear. Oh so clear. Bright and gleaming, a reflection of himself he's forced to gaze upon. "It's only... it's only getting worse."

His shoes won't save him now. He shuts his eyes to the spinning, but somehow the black behind his lids only make it worse. His stomach sour, he sees red, swirling and lurching and burning. There's no where for him to step now. His tact, like his armor, is lost back in the muck. There's nothing to say that won't damn him. There's nowhere to step that won't give. A patch of garden, virtuous and pure, trampled underfoot of his own weakness.

"I touch myself, Father. It just... it hurts so much."

His ears ring. A spot of black in the corner of the cramped booth. A blotchy, uncontained spread, fuzzy and dank on the tile in the corner. Allowed to foster in the shadow. Black mold, he assumes. More black.

Acknowledgement is confirmation he can't stomach.

"I touch myself to you, Father." Your agony almost suggests this confession perhaps doesn't gratify you like you might have fantasied it would. You've shattered, but the mess is only announced, not seen. Not witnessed. Nuance and a heart bloodied lost in the grate of pretend anonymity.

"Child." A warning that begins and end in one word. It's all he can get out before he's choked silent. He hopes it's enough, he prays. You can't name him. Identification is the beginning of the end. He's begging you. On the wrong side of the confessional, but a desire sincere.

"I know your job is to lead me closer to God, but I only want to be closer to you." A hushed whisper that knots whimpered and soft. "I can't stop thinking about you."

He stalls out. He mouths at the dead space separating you, gaping. Tongue a mangle of cotton. The passage of Final Temptation floods his loss for words, and adds pressure to the crush of a confession he's still not sure he's heard correctly. Of Olivero's vast, ruthless hunger that means to drown Cléo. An unceasing tidal wave that floods your lungs and sinks you, waterlogged. Spoiled.

His spluttered silence goads you to continue when that's the last thing he means for you to do.

"Won't you help me, Father Brennan?"

"You," his cadences wobbles and stubs, forcing him to catch a breath his lungs aren't able to hold and barrel onward, "my child, you don't know what you're asking for."

"I want you, Father."

His collar catches. The pattern of tile between his toes slowly come to life and twist. Writhe. Bleed indiscernible. Bleeds as he bleeds for you. Bleeds as he wants you to bleed for him.

"I need you."

Weakness.

You jump on his shoulders. You bite the back of his neck. "I love you."

His face is in his hands.

He is damned, he knows it now.

He loves you. He loves you.

Temptation, slithering and snake-skinned. Around his ankle. Up his leg between his thighs. Heavy, hot, aching. Coiled to knots that burn his gut and lump cold in the throat. Right at the ivory, still keeping it all down. His armor peels free and falls at his feet one piece at a time. Clanging metal, loops in the chain sprung open. Slack, weak-points, faults. You've sniffed it out and destroyed it all.

A final sniffle and a creak of wood and he's then aware you're fleeing. Rubber mary-jane soles striking the tile like heel clicks. More languid than a heart bared and broken would stand for. You want him to catch you.

With eyes shut and fingers trembling, the tips brush himself protected in the sign of the cross. Rapid-fire warding. Furrowed brow. A heart swollen and sick. Left shoulder to right, both sagging heavier with each second that passes.

Weakness. Shameful. Reprehensible. Worthy of naught but eternal damnation.

Father Brennan all but falls out of the confessional. The floor shifts and the walls sway with the fit of the sea has engulfed the church. The sea from his eyes, spilled and flooding. His church. Shining and new like his priesthood once upon a time. Dust gathers in the corners, hairline cracks splinter from the crown molding. His shelter, his purpose, his empire falling to disrepair. A slow rotting. Negligence regarded with a blind-eye and denial. He sees it now. He sees you. He sees too much.

His Eden is poisoned, by it from he or he from it, he doesn't know. It casts him out all the same, this impurity. A humbly devout servant turned traitorous and vile. Slithering. Hissing. Venom in his lure. Condemnation in his touch.

He keeps his distance but he calls after you.

"Lass-," He must sound as sick as he feels, for you stop. He can't say more. He can say nothing else.

Then you turn.

The smile you give him almost pulls him to his knees.

Everything in him feels like it's dropping, every organ every bone every sluggish vein tries to force him to the ground. every part of him aches to submit to you. Old knees crashed to hard tile. He wants to bury his face in your middle and sob. A confession made to you in exchange, in his brows bowed pleading, his clenched jaw, his bleached eyes. All color in him has paled, flushed down the drain with his sin. He's stark. Black hair and black cloth and the ghastly pallor in between. He thinks he needs you if he wants his color back ever again.

You see it all. And then you're gone.

You've broken him down piece by piece. His yellow ribs and brittle sternum and oozing, gaped heart. And then you skip away into the holiday break. Skipping and smiling. Face stinging from watery eyes.

That night swells with fervent invocation. This time it's himself who he prays for.

He wants you. God help him, he wants you.

To say his prayers in the dampness between your legs. To feast from your body like the alternative is famine. A life abstained from your lush decadence is a life sentence, one deprived. Starved.

He's knelt at his bedside with knees that creak and shoulders heavy as his hoarseness is stripped and frayed. He reeks of Irish Mist and disdain. Whiskey makes him see you writhing and arching and still straining Father on your stilted breath. Tongue-numbed and slack-jawed he fumbles into the shower, blinking back sopping black shag from eyes so tired they glow red. Burn against the back of his lids red. Red that bursts with a pop and a hiss. Red that dribbles down your legs. Red that coats him, the spoils of war, an ill-gotten conquest. A concubine for the beast.

Black shrouds him in thin cotton that weighs heavy against his cracked soul. Clings to his huddled drunkenness wet with shame. He only realizes he's stumbled into the shower with clothes still on when he has to wrangle the soggy layers to bare himself to the spray. An old weight slotted in his palm. He can't breath beneath the pelting heat and the throbbing swell that screams under his touch, but he doesn't stop.

He sees more red. So much of it all the time. Blood in your teeth, blood between your thighs.

Would you be virginal? Would you bleed for him as he bleeds for you?

Ripping you apart. A lamb he's sworn to protect then a feast, a sacrifice to the altar, a purity he's sullied. Broken and mended back together in his image. Someone as sick and hungry as he is.

Failing joints cracking the shower's roar makes for an unpleasant melody, but it's not enough to drown his obscenities. His curses. Forgiveness he begs you for even though you're only there in a shaking hand cupped tight. An approximation of slick flesh and giggles from recall. Moans from nightmares. A body from fantasy.

He's a black spot in the corner. Smudged, uncontained, amorphous. Leached poison spread, the blue drained from his eyes. He can't tell if they prick from the water or from tears. He didn't even cry half as hard or twice as much when his father dropped dead. He's begging you to forgive him again. Humping his hand, too wide and calloused to trick him. Slick tile cradling his forehead instead of your breasts. Hot water rivulets down his clothed back, tendrils of steady pressure, pretending they're your fingers.

The cramped tile an echo chamber that forces him to bear witness to his unearthed depravity, the soil loosely churned, the fetid stench invasive. He works himself from wiry root to bloated tip, and every inch between. Rutting, jerking his hips sore. The shower is scalding. This drunken stupor saw fit to burn the fever from him instead of ice it out.

His feet slip and squeal under him. His head lolls and shiny black glints from the shower pan. Laces limp and shiny, black pleather so wet it looks like he's standing in ink. He went in with his shoes on as well.

He squeezes his tip hard, puckered raspberry pinched white, and the grunt he makes is unlike any sound he's heard from his own mouth. The water floods down upon him without mercy. Heat blistering raw, it's sinks marrow deep. In from the top of him, all the way down through. Black hair, black clothes plastered to his body. A stain of weakness, he is. A mold. The thatch at his base draws his focus. Curled and thick, salt and pepper black. Black fleece. He tries not to think how it reminds him of yours. A correlation that builds behind his eyes until they twitch. A rotten core pulsing towards expulsion. Trembling fingers snatch the collar from his throat to rip it off just in time.

A half-sob half-roar announces what he has just done, the evidence riding itself post-haste down the drain. Every inch of him quivers to an imperceptible weight, an exposed nerve twitching and glistening vulnerable. He shakes like a wet dog, his hand still grabbing a hold of himself.

He's a wet mess in the shower, thrown in the corner. Crumbled and shamed. Wet clothes weighing heavier as he stands under the spray. Honey whiskey and spiced bile raise in warning up his throat, but he chokes it back.

He only wishes it would have choked him instead.

This work is 25.6k words. More than half of that I wrote in a writing bender where I, for some ungodly reason, stayed up for 48 hours straight. I'm on hour 48 as I type this. I can't look at this fic anymore. Come scream in my inbox please and thank you

[swordluck]

Sunlight breaks against her skin. It runs down her cheek and drips upon her white-cloaked lap. Fabric flows and ripples as she steadily, with marble-tipped fingers, mends the scorch mark on her sleeve. A silent presence, quiet and contained, the maiden from Carim keeps her eyes low and her gaze averted. There is none she speaks to who should not speak to her first, save two. From beneath a lattice of ink-dark lashes, Miriam has watched the pair. She mends and folds her hands in prayer and at night she combs her hair, all while she feels a love blossoming nearby. 

She is so much the wraith at the door. As the restless spirits flock to the open throat of a sacrificial lamb, so the lonesome hearts strain towards second-hand warmth. Miriam tenderly worries at the hem of her robes, folds it this way or that to ascertain her approach. Her world is so narrowly constrained to her lap, where her too-clean hands work steadily, where she mocks piety with each passive stroke of her finger. It is best, to keep busy. Everyone had always kept busy around her, when she was younger. 

“Forgive me, it may not be my place.” Miriam’s voice drifts toward Anri, soft as fleece, when the knight settles by the fire with that afterglow of blush upon her wan cheeks. At long last, blue eyes open fully, stark and sudden, a candle lighting in the dark, and they peer at her dear friend with undue interest. “I’ve noticed that our resident pyromancer has taken quite a liking to you.” Her lips curl sweetly around this understatement. There is no trace of reproach or irony upon Miriam’s face, shining innocently by the flame. No, indeed, at the center of her stare, there seems glinting a quiet adoration, a joy. How long has it been, she wonders, since she has seen kind, harmless love? She all but forgot that it could exist in this world. She tried to forget. The ceremonial silver dagger strapped to her thigh keeps kissing her where she sits. 

“You would not keep me in the dark, would you, my dearest Anri?”

It was an uneasy peace.  A sanctuary in name more than deed, Firelink Shrine was a place where ruin met resilience, where crags stretched into the mist like fingers clawing at the heavens.  Here, the weary and the wayward gathered – a siren call to the lost, the desperate, the enduring.  Among the ruins, small camps had sprouted like deep-rooted weeds, home to the stubborn silhouettes of solitary wanderers and fractured groups, each clutching at purpose or design.

Caught in the amber of Miriam’s voice, Anri hesitated for a moment that felt suspended, timeless.  She sat by the fire, much of her armour shed like a serpent’s papery, cast skin.  Lips parted in the prelude to words that refused to come quickly, the weight of the silence between them pressing gently, insistently.

Between them, the bonfire sent sparks soaring into the night like fireflies in fleeting ascension, its magical resonance chiming endlessly.  Miriam, ever demure, ever measured, folded her hands in her lap, fingers busying themselves.  There was something about her question – delicate, girlish, almost pleased – that disarmed and intrigued Anri.

“I would never conspire to keep you in the dark, Miriam,” Anri replied at last, her voice shaped by the lilac-sweet cadence of sincerity.  Her gaze lowered to the pale crescent scar on her forearm, where the firelight danced and made it shimmer faintly, as though to remind her of its presence.  “But I do not know what light I can offer you.”

There was a gentleness in her words, a trembling honesty underscored by the faintest ghost of a smile at the corners of her mouth.  Anri’s mind turned over the thought of Laurentius like a precious stone, admiring their handsome and many-mirrored facets – his coarse laughter, his boundless curiosity, the way his hazel eyes seemed to hold their own fire when he spoke of discovery and flame.  He had been so kind, so affable, so unguarded.  A liking, yes.  A liking, and more besides. A loving, a tenderness that she had long suspected existed only on the far side of dreams.  Should she lick her lips now, she might still taste him there – smoke and salt and all things good, what little of it remained at the end of the world gathered into his swamp-born soul.

“Laurentius is very kind – tremendously kind to me,” Anri continued shyly, tentatively, as though unzipping her heart and spilling its contents might invite disaster, might tempt fate to take what she treasured, might doom their fledgling love to be delivered stillborn.  Unaccustomed to the art of girlish chatter, to the fragile intimacy of sharing so openly, she struggled to find words beyond: 

“He is warmth itself.” 

Like sunlight, almost too dazzling to look at, his goodness alive in the brilliance of his hazel eyes, his steady, capable hands, and the courageous heart that beat so righteously within him – its chambers raw, open, so ready and willing to house her.

Anri’s periwinkle gaze returned to Miriam, finding her friend’s expression steady and bright, like a candle sheltered behind a dome of glass.  Near, yet untouchable.  For all the quietude that cloaked her, there was something indomitable in Miriam’s composure, in the tireless precision of her hands as they worked the spoiled hem of her robe, their movements a study in purpose.

“You speak as though you know something I do not, Miriam,” Anri said at last, her tone lilting gently, playfully, brushing aside the solemnity like a veil drawn back.  “Tell me – what do you see that I am blind to?”

[sanguis-lunae-tm]

Who's ready for a brand new Grimdark Hogwarts server just in time for Halloween?

A choice awaits.

In the cusp of twilight lurks a society shrouded in secrecy. They observe you from afar, gleaning insights into the cadence of your daily existence. They appraise you with a discerning eye, weaving intricate schemes that revolve around the very essence of your identity. What will you be compelled to offer when they finally draw near?

In this roleplay, you will navigate life as a Hogwarts student in the year 1912. Will you remain blissfully oblivious of the influences working in the shadows, or will you choose to entangle your fate with one of these secretive factions? The future of the Wizarding World rests precariously within your grasp.

You may decide whether to forge an alliance with the Syndicatus Tenebris in their unrelenting pursuit of immortality, willingly participating in their sacrificial rites intended to unseal the portal that intertwines one realm with another. Alternatively, you may choose to stand against their malevolent ambitions by joining the Aetherial Guardians, a faction dedicated to upholding the sanctity of life and the preservation of nature.

Will you become a beacon of hope for your fellow classmates, striving to restore order amidst chaos? Or lead all to damnation? Whichever path you choose, you must navigate through shadows and uncertainty. Tread carefully, for you risk becoming the next sacrificial lamb. Dare you enter Hogwarts the year of the Sanguis Lunae?

Message me if interested in joining our Discord server! Must be 18+ (Preferably 21+) This is a literate RP. All characters are aged up with an added school year.