#Hallowed Be Thy Fall

[akayna]

October 2024.

The different lighting designs at this were so dope

[cosmosarcana]

from dust to dust. asses to asses.

[dreadbornesaint]

tag dump - gen

[foxgloveinspace]

I’ve been tired since three pm, I legit fell completely asleep on the way home from shopping, I’ve been so tired I’m cold and shaky since like four pm. Going to be only about 40 min before my normal bed time is a miracle at this point.

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 9)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,7k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

The soft scent of lavender and herbs lingers in the air as I close the door behind me. The quiet of the room greets me, the only sound the rustle of my wet nightgown as I step further inside. The bath had been a welcome escape, the heat of the water soothing the tension in my muscles, though my thoughts were never far from the weight of the day. The dinner, the absence of the emperors, and Claudia’s presence instead had all left a strange sense of peace, a calm I wasn’t sure I trusted.

I walk to the bed, the soft fabric of the gown brushing against my skin, my hair still damp, cascading down my back in loose waves. The cool night air that filters in from the balcony feels refreshing against the warmth of my body. Kneeling in front of the bed, I reach for my necklace, the small Ichtus pendant cool against my fingers. My hands are steady, but my mind races, even as I prepare myself for the comfort of the prayer. I bring the necklace close, a silent reassurance that I hold on to, my fingers curling around it as I begin.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…” I murmur, my voice quiet, steady, “…Hallowed be thy name.”

The words come easily, practiced, familiar. The weight of the world doesn’t feel so heavy at this moment. Each breath I take settles my soul a little more, the comfort of the words wrapping around me like a cloak.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.” I close my eyes for a moment, imagining a peace that has always seemed distant, as if the prayer itself could be the key to something more.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.”

The words slip from my lips with a gentle ease. They are a request for mercy, for strength, but also for grace, something I feel I need more with each passing day. When the final word hangs in the air, quiet but resolute, I make the sign of the cross. My fingers linger on the necklace for just a moment longer before I let it fall back against my chest. A deep breath escapes me as I stand, my body tired in ways that go beyond just the physical. Exhaustion pools in my limbs, in my mind, but it feels different tonight, probably less overwhelming, less fraught with the turmoil of the day. The prayer managed to calm my mind. Without a sound, I move toward the bed, the softness of the sheets inviting me to rest. The room is silent now, the dim light from the moon casting faint shadows against the stone walls, accompanied by the candles’ light. As I slide under the covers, a sense of relief, a respite I wasn’t expecting, engulfs me. The emperors had not tormented me today. For once, there had been a moment of calm.

I close my eyes, feeling the cool night air on my skin and the weight of the day’s quiet wash over me. The strange peace of the evening lingers, and for the first time in a long while, I drift into sleep without the sting of worry or the sharpness of fear trailing behind me.

The night whispers secrets through the thin curtains of my chamber, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and the distant echo of the city’s revelry. I lie on my bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, my mind adrift in the haze of an erotic dream. In the realm of slumber, I am wanton, unshackled by the daylight virtues that bind me.

Caracalla, with his golden wavy hair and eyes like the clearest summer sky, stands before me, an emperor in every sense, yet in my dream, he is mine alone. His pale skin glows with an otherworldly light, his features so angelic that it seems a sin to even gaze upon him. He reaches for me, his hands sure and strong, igniting a fire within my core that I have never known. I’m hot, wet, and aching for his touch. My body responds to his phantom caresses, my hips undulating in search of something to quench the burning desire that courses through my veins. The soft button on my womanhood throbs with anticipation, and I can feel the slickness between my thighs, a testament to the power of my dreams. I flutter my eyelashes and frown.

Gradually, the veil of sleep lifts, and I find myself lying on my side, my night dress up on my hips, the remnants of my dream still lingering. A man’s body is pressed against mine, his torso a warm, solid presence against my back. Panic flutters in my chest as I twitch with fear, but a familiar voice murmurs reassurances in my ear.

“Shh, my sweet [real name], it’s only me, your Emperor…” he whispers, his breath a gentle caress against my neck.

Caracalla.

My heart skips a beat.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

His hand splayed across my belly, stilling my tremors. I can feel his erection, hard and insistent against my behinds, and despite my initial fear, there is an undeniable thrill that races through me. Something warm spread in my veins, in my whole body, and is poisoning my mind. Heat spreads on my cheeks.

“Please…” I beg, my voice barely above a whisper. “I am a virgin. I can’t give you what you seek.”

His giggles are soft, a sound that sends shivers down my spine and make me bite my lower lip.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I would never take from you what is not freely given. The others can't say the same.”

Somehow, his words apply a balm to my racing heart, and I relax into his embrace, allowing myself to feel the warmth of his skin against mine. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my inner thighs, each touch sending strange jolts straight to my core. I’m embarrassed by how wet I am, but the sensation is too exquisite to resist. I find myself rocking my hips, seeking more of his touch, and he chuckles, clearly pleased with my response.

“You are a temptress!” he teases, his voice thick with desire.

The pleasure builds within me, a tide that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I am too hot, flushed with a need that is as primal as it’s unexpected. I feel as though I’m in heat, an animal driven by instinct and the promise of release. Caracalla’s manhood, slick with my arousal with each slow thrust, slides between my thighs, the head grazing that perfect spot on my womanhood, that strange button. I can’t help but moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of my chamber. We’re both lost in the moment, our bodies moving in sync, driven by a hunger that cannot be denied.

“Gods, you feel incredible…” he groans, his lips trailing kisses along my shoulder. “I want to bury myself inside you, to feel your tight pussy clenching around my dick.”

The thought of it sends a thrill through me, but fear holds me back. At the same time, my eyes widen, I’m horrified by his filthy words.

I have to make this stop… I’m not allowed to accept this…

“No, please, you mustn’t…” I plead, even as my body betrays my words, my hips chasing the friction of his cock against my entrance.

He battles with himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“By the gods, you test my resolve…” he whimpers like me, his forehead pressed against the nape of my neck.

The door to my chamber creaks open, and the sound of footsteps sends a jolt of fear through me. I try to pull away, but the movement only serves to increase the friction of Caracalla’s cock against my warmth, causing me to gasp.

“Brother, I told you not to try anything.” a familiar voice chides.

Caracalla’s twin, his golden hair a shade darker than his brother’s, his eyes the color of rich, fertile earth, looks at us. Caracalla grumbles in response, his grip on me tightening.

“I could not resist. Her beauty, her womanhood, was calling to me, begging for my touch.”

 Geta’s gaze rakes over me, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes in my flushed cheeks and the way my body trembles with need, with a full view on my naked lower half, my half opened thighs, coated with wetness.

It’s a nightmare… It has to be…

“I see that. Her pussy is glistening, swollen with desire. She is ready to give what her body craves.” He comments, his voice a low purr.

I shake my head, my protests weak against the onslaught of sensation.

“No, I can’t!" I insist, even as my hips involuntarily undulate, seeking the release that is just out of reach.

Geta steps closer, his eyes locked on mine, while mines catch the hardness under his golden tunic.

“Do not deny yourself. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is afraid to admit it.”

In the dimly lit room, the scent of desire hung heavy in the air, mingling with the musky aroma of our shared arousal. Geta’s eyes were locked onto mine, his breath hitching as he worked his hand up and down his hard length, his golden curls tumbling around his face.

Caracalla’s lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I can’t help but moan as his cock started to tease my entrance.

“Let go, my sweet [real name]. Surrender to the pleasure…” he whispers, his voice a seductive melody that resonates deep within my soul.

You’re sinning… You have to stop… I keep telling myself.

At this moment, I’m torn between fear and desire, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As Caracalla’s fingers find my sweet button once more, all thought is driven from my mind, replaced by a singular focus on the exquisite sensations that are building within me.

“Oh… I….”

I almost say the name of Jesus, the son of God, biting my lips before it’s too late.

I gasp, my body tensing as the first waves of something amazing crash over me. Powerful waves slash at me from my intimacy, blunting the rest of my body, like sea foam. My body arches, my toes curl and my fingers clutch Caracalla's arm, while my sex throbs around nothing. Caracalla’s cock throbs in response, his own need clearly etched on his face.

“By the gods, you are magnificent…” Geta murmurs, his eyes dark with lust as he watches his brother and me.

There is no jealousy in his gaze, only a shared appreciation for the beauty of the moment. Caracalla’s control finally snaps, and with a groan, he pulls away from me, his cock slipping from between my thighs. Hot, white ropes of spent spurt from his tip, painting my belly and thighs with the evidence of his desire. Geta approaches the bed, his gaze still fixed on me.

“You have bewitched us both… It feels like the Gods sent you as a gift for their Emperors.” he says, his voice filled with admiration.

“Fuck…” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. “I can’t… I can’t hold back any longer.”

His right hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he chased his release. I could see the tension building in his body, his muscles taut as he teetered on the edge. And then, with a guttural groan, he came, his seed spilling over his hand as his body shuddered with pleasure.

Quickly, I kneel the bed, the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me, the reality of what happened sinking deep into my bones. As my hands shake, I clasp them together and press them against the cool stone floor. My breath comes fast, uneven. I try to push away the images of their faces, the feel of Caracalla’s skin on mine, but they keep flooding back, overwhelming me.

My heart aches. I have sinned. I have betrayed myself, betrayed my beliefs, betrayed the Lord.

I lift my hands to my face, closing my eyes tight as I press my fingers against my temples. It’s as if I can push the shame away, shove it out of my body, but it only digs in deeper. The pleasure… The heat… It has clouded my mind.

I let them do this. I let them take my dignity.

I think of my prayers, my devotions. They feel so far away now. I’m not who I was before. Not pure. Not worthy. I’m not sure I can even look at myself again.

Lord, forgive me. Please, forgive me.

My voice cracks, the words breaking apart as I whisper the prayer, the only thing that has ever kept me grounded, now sounding like a desperate plea to a distant God. My chest aches as I speak the words I’ve said countless times before, but this time they feel hollow. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve mercy.

I feel dirty. I feel lost. How could I let myself fall into this?

Suddenly, the impulse takes hold of me, like a tidal wave crashing over my mind. I need them to leave. I need to push them away, to reclaim what little dignity I have left. I look up at them, standing too close, their eyes filled with something I can’t quite read, and I open my mouth, my voice breaking as I shout.

“Leave! Leave now!”

My voice is raw, desperate, like a wounded animal trying to claw its way out of a trap. I want them gone, I want this all to stop, but it doesn’t. The reality presses down even harder, and the tears start, hot and unchecked, running down my face. I can’t stop them. I can’t stop anything. I stand, staggering back until I’m pressed against the cold wooden head, my chest heaving with frantic breaths. It’s as if my body doesn’t belong to me anymore, as if I’ve lost control over every part of it. My eyes flicker toward Geta, then to Caracalla, who remains eerily still. Neither of them moves. I want to scream again, but my throat tightens.

“Y/N…” Geta’s voice is soft, but it only makes the sound of my Roman name seem even more painful. His hands are raised, like he’s trying to comfort me, but I can’t let him. I can’t let anyone near me.

“No!” I scream, stepping away from him, pressing myself harder into the stone. My body shakes uncontrollably, like the force of my emotions is pulling me apart. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The shame is too much. Geta doesn’t approach further, his hands falling to his sides. He looks at me with something like confusion, but I can’t read it through the fog of my own mind. I want him gone. All of them. A soft knock on the door interrupts the tension, and I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up. I feel as if I can’t breathe, as if the air has been sucked from the room.

“Y/N?” Claudia’s voice, filled with both concern and shock, cuts through the silence.

I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. The door opens, and I flinch instinctively. Claudia’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the room—Caracalla and I in our undress state, the intimacy of the moment clinging to the air like smoke. Her gaze flicks between the two of us, understanding too much, but she doesn’t say a word. Geta stands closer to my friend, a silent command in his posture.

“Help her. We will leave.”

Claudia’s gaze softens, but she moves quickly, not questioning, not hesitating. She goes to the table and grabs the cloths and water. The noise of the small pitcher fills the room, the gentle sound a stark contrast to the tension in the air.

“I’ll take care of her.” she promises, her voice firm, though there’s a softness beneath it. She shoots a glance at the emperors, her words clipped. Caracalla looks reluctant, his eyes flicking between me and my friend. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, but Geta is already taking him by the arm, pulling him away with his clothes. The door closes with a soft sound, and the room feels smaller, suffocating, but at least they are gone. Claudia hurries over to me, her hands gentle as she takes my face in them, forcing me to meet her gaze.

“What happened?” She whispers, her tone filled with concern, but there’s no judgment. Not yet.

I feel the tears come again, like a flood.

“I… I let them… I let them take something from me. They took a part of my purity.” I sob, my words coming out in broken gasps. “I’ve… betrayed everything. I’ve betrayed Him.”

“Shhh…”

Claudia hushes me softly, her voice a balm against the jagged edges of my pain.

“You haven’t betrayed anyone. You’ve been hurt. But you are not beyond saving.”

I shake my head violently, my hands clutching at her arms as I pull away slightly.

“I’m not pure anymore. I’ve… I’ve let them defile me. I can’t even face Him. How can I?”

She doesn’t pull away. She stays close, her hands never leaving me, her presence steady.

“Your faith is not in your body. It’s in your heart. Don’t let them steal that from you, too.”

She doesn’t really understand, but she tries…

I choke on a sob, the weight of my actions crushing me. The warmth of her hands, her calmness, only makes me feel worse.

“I… I’ve lost it.” I whisper. “I’ve lost everything.”

“No. You still have everything that matters. Your heart, your spirit, your will to be better. You can move forward.”

I feel her hands moving over me as I help her to clean my body, washing away the remnants of what I’ve lost, what they’ve taken. Even if I don’t want her to touch me, I let her.

“Let me help you. You don’t have to be ashamed. Not for this. Not for something that was beyond your control.” She insists again, her voice steady.

The tears won’t stop. They never do.

“I’m so sorry. I keep annoying with all of this…” I whisper over and over, but Claudia doesn’t say anything. She simply continues to clean me, wiping away the remnants of my shame, of my loss.

And I wonder if I can ever forgive myself.

*

I lie in bed, the sheets tangled around me, but I don’t care. The sun spills through the curtains, casting its warm glow across the room, but I hardly notice. My eyes are fixed on the balcony, the vast expanse of Rome unfolding below, the busy streets, the distant sounds of life. I know I should get up. I should play the part they expect of me. But today, I can’t. I won’t. Someone knocks on the door.

“The emperors request your presence for lunch, Y/N.”

Guards.

I turn my face into the pillow, feigning a cough, a groan.

“I am ill.” I whisper, voice rough and weak. “I cannot join them. My head aches terribly.”

After that, the silence comes back. I lie still, waiting for the sound of their retreating footsteps to fade into silence. My heart races, but not from the illness I pretend to have. It’s from something deeper, a gnawing emptiness that grows inside me every time I think about the twins. The men who have claimed pieces of me, pieces I never meant to give away.

I close my eyes, feeling the coolness of the pillow against my skin, and for a moment, I let the tears come. I should be grateful. I should be thrilled by the power I hold here. Many women would do anything to be in my position. They would pray for the attention of the emperors, for the riches, the comfort, the fame. But I don’t want any of it. Not like this. Not when it feels like my soul is being torn in two.

“Lord.” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please forgive me. I know I have no right to complain. I should be grateful for what I have. But my heart is heavy, and I feel lost. I have failed you. I have betrayed myself.”

I pause, waiting for an answer, though I know the silence will be all I hear. But still, I ask, my voice breaking. “Should I accept their plans, Lord? Should I go along with this? Or should I resist?”

I don’t expect an answer, but something stirs in the air, a shift I can’t quite place. I open my eyes, and that’s when I see it. A white butterfly flutters into the room, its delicate wings moving slowly, almost as though it’s drawn to me. It hovers for a moment, circling once, then gently lands on my chest, just above my heart. Its weight is light, almost imperceptible, but it feels like a message, a sign. I watch it in awe, my breath caught in my throat. It’s so fragile, so pure against the backdrop of the room. The butterfly doesn’t move, doesn’t flutter away. It simply rests there, its wings rising and falling with my breath.

A feeling washes over me then, one I can’t ignore. It’s not just the presence of the butterfly. It’s the sense of something greater, something divine. I feel the weight of it in the pit of my stomach, an understanding that settles deep within me.

This is a message from God.

The thought strikes me with a jolt. I don’t know how I know, but I do. The butterfly is His answer. I don’t have to hear His voice to understand. This is His will. His plan.

The butterfly stays for a moment longer, its wings beating gently against my skin, and then it lifts off, its delicate form disappearing through the open window. I watch it go, my heart racing, a sense of peace mingled with fear. I sit up in bed, the confusion lifting from my mind. I may not understand all of it, but I know now: nothing happens without reason. Even this. Even my place here, even the emperors. It’s all part of His plan. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I have no choice but to follow it. To trust that what has happened, and what will happen, is not by chance. It’s His will. And I must accept it, no matter how unsettling it feels.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and whisper a prayer of surrender.

*

I wander through the imperial quarters, the stone beneath my bare feet warmed by the midday sun. The air carries the faint scent of burning incense and distant roses, but I find no comfort in it. My body feels heavy, as if weighed down by an invisible burden. Each step is careful, deliberate, my hands clasped before me, my gaze lowered whenever I pass a servant or a guard.

I don’t know why I walk. Perhaps because lying in my chamber suffocates me. Perhaps because I am not yet ready to face them, and yet the walls of my room press in too tightly. I don’t belong here, and I never will. But for now, I am trapped.

The garden calls to me.

Stepping outside, I let the sun warm my skin, but the heat is stifling rather than soothing. The early breath of summer clings to my night-blue stola, the rich fabric a reminder that I am dressed as they expect me to be, as they have adorned me. I move toward the fountain, drawn by the gentle murmur of water cascading over marble.

The basin is pristine, the surface clear enough to reflect the sky above. I lower myself onto the fountain’s edge, the stone cool against my palms, and trail my fingers through the water. The cold soothes the warmth gathering at my throat, but it doesn’t reach the ache within my chest. I close my eyes.

Footsteps.

I know them before I see them. A heaviness settles over me, my body stiffening.

“Y/N.” Geta’s voice is quiet, but firm.

I keep my eyes on the water. My pulse beats in my throat. I say nothing. He steps closer, his shadow casting over me.

“We owe you an apology.”

The words hang between us, fragile yet weighted. My fingers tighten around the fountain’s edge, my knuckles pale against the marble.

Am I dreaming? The Emperors? Apologizing? It sounds like a joke.

Silence.

Geta shifts, exhaling through his nose, as if gathering patience.

“We overstepped. We hurt you. We know.” He sighs.

The admission makes something inside me twist.

Caracalla stands beside him, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He watches me closely, but his expression is guarded. I avoid to meet his beautiful gaze. Geta nudges his brother, forcing him to speak. Caracalla’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight.

“I thought you wanted it.”

The words strike like a blade, dull yet deep. My breath hitches.

He hesitates, clears his throat and his fingers flex at his sides.

“I thought you had changed your mind. That you enjoyed it.” His voice softens, as if the admission is difficult for him.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I swallow, forcing myself to look at them. The sight of Geta’s quiet remorse and Caracalla’s unreadable stare makes my stomach churn. I wet my lips and nod.

“Thank you, Caesars.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. “I accept your apologies.”

Something flickers in Geta’s gaze, relief mixed with something else. Caracalla exhales, as if he had been holding his breath. The weight in the air lingers, but the moment has passed. A presence shifts behind them and I listen to the whisper of silk. I rise before she speaks, lowering my head in deference.

“Julia Domna.” I say and lower my head as a greeting.

The former empress stands before me, her presence towering despite her graceful stature. Her dark eyes scan me, slow and deliberate, as if measuring my worth. A slight tilt of her head.

“How fortunate you are…” she murmurs, her voice smooth as oil over marble. “For a mere peasant.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. My spine straightens, though I keep my gaze lowered. I know my place. I know better than to respond. As I stay silent, I can feel how the twins stiffen.

“Mother, that was unnecessary.” he replies, his voice polite but firm.

She arches her thin eyebrow, a cold smile on her lips and she adjusts her palla.

“Is it?”

Her gaze lingers on me, something unreadable in her expression. Then, a soft chuckle, a whisper of amusement.

“I see. The past always catches up.”

My stomach turns to ice.

She’s not speaking of me. It’s all about Decima, the woman they loved when they were young boys. Her presence lingers in their hearts, except not for the same reasons. Her name still clings to the walls like an unspoken curse.

Caracalla takes a step forward, irritation tightening his features.

“She has done nothing to deserve your scorn.”

Julia Domna doesn’t reply. Instead, she turns away, her silk robes trailing behind her like shadows Geta follows, murmuring something to her, something I don’t hear. My pulse thrums in my ears. I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against the fountain’s edge to steady myself.

Caracalla watches me, his fingers twitching at his side. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he turns away from the path Julia Domna took, as if to shake off the weight of her words.

“Come.” he says. “Help me with Dondus.”

I blink at him. “Your monkey?”

He smirks, though the tension lingers in his shoulders.

“She is more pleasant company than most people I know.”

A distraction.

I nod. Anything to chase away the ghost of Julia Domna’s words.

-

Okay, that was the first smut scene! I wanted to go gradually because she would never have agreed to go all the way. She also has regrets, which makes sense, because she has sinned. Now, she has to face her desires and contradictions, brought on by these two perverts. Some people thought they would calm down, but… no. Even if they're endearing, they're assholes able to do anything to get what they want! Even if it means playing with the limits of consent (as stated in the warnings).

So, what do you think? What do you imagine will happen next? I've already started writing it.

Btw, I also wrote this about Fred Hechinger : Where Love Stands

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My AO3: BetrayedWriter

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Ask to be added in the list! :)

[capseycartwright]

oh what a terrible honor it's been (to learn that my blessings are things you call sins)

Hey God, it's me, Eddie. I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting in your house thinking gay thoughts.

Eddie couldn’t help but giggle to himself as he thought the words. If he couldn’t be a bit silly while having a sexuality crisis in a Catholic church – when could he? 

Christopher leaves for Texas, Eddie goes back to therapy, unearths an emotional lockbox he had been fourteen years old when he buried, and has a lot of thoughts about how Buck is sunshine incarnate. In hindsight, it probably should have been obvious he wasn't straight.

ao3 link

t’s been a long time since Eddie Diaz had set foot in a church – of his own accord, at least. He’d been to the christenings and communions and confirmations of all of his various nieces, nephews, and cousins, he’d sat stiff in the pew as he’d watched friends, and family get married, trying his best not to remember how own wedding day, the way Shannon’s hands had shaken in his grip as they promised to love each other until death do them part, both of them young, too young to understand the covenant they were signing up to. Eddie had been there, for all those occasions, but he hadn’t gone to mass, or even sat in a church, just because he wanted to in a very long time. 

He wasn’t even really sure if he wanted to be there today, but it was a Thursday, and Christopher was in Texas, and Eddie wasn’t working, and he’d been having an extended mental breakdown for the last few weeks, and before he knew it, he was sitting in the pew of St Brendan’s Catholic Church, listening to a softly spoken priest with an Irish lilt to his accent – faded, after years in America, Eddie presumed, but still there, noticeable in the inflection of certain words – recite the Our Father. 

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but it felt like every other church he’d been to in his life. They didn’t all look the same, necessarily, though they followed the same format, rows of uncomfortable wooden pews and an altar decorated in gold, as opulent as it was suffocating. Eddie had thought it beautiful, before, the way Catholic churches were decorated in gold and jewels, believing for so much of his life that the wealth honoured God – but living life had made him learn the grandeur and displays of wealth were nothing more than indicative of the wealth the Catholic church had hoarded while their devout followers starved, all in the name of faith and of God. True faith didn’t need to be gilded in gold to be sincere, he’d decided.

Eddie had never been to St Brendan’s before, but mass was the same. It didn’t change – though the wording of some of the prayers did. He’d sort of been checked out of being a regular churchgoer by time they had changed some of the prayers, only discovering the difference when he confidently started to recite it wrong at his youngest niece’s communion, his mother fixing him with a glare so icy hell might have frozen over under the power of Helena Diaz’s gaze alone. He’d never learned the new ones, not really, and so Eddie just recited the one’s he’d learned for his own confirmation, the words falling from his lips, muscle memory more than it was faith now. 

Our father, who art in heaven – hallowed be thy name . 

Eddie couldn’t help but laugh, a little, as he murmured the prayer. Hallowed be thy name. He knew the prayer talked about God, their holy father, but the prayer had always made him think of his own father, of the way Ramon Diaz was a hallowed man in his own right, how he parented with an iron fist and expected to be obeyed. 

Things were getting better now, with his dad. Maybe – maybe that was part of the fear. Eddie had always been afraid of letting people down, but more than anyone, he was afraid of letting his father down – of seeing that look of disappointment set into every crease of his father’s face, an expression he’d been on the receiving end of for more of his childhood than he’d like to admit. Eddie had tried so hard to make sure he was never on the receiving end of that look again, but nothing he had ever done was good enough – not marrying Shannon, not the way he had tried to take responsibility for his young family, not the army, not the man he had been when he’d come home from Afghanistan. 

Distance had lessened the number of disappointed looks, but Eddie knew that was because he was simply not seeing them anymore; he was sure his father sometimes frowned at the phone when they’d finally call, silted conversation about Christopher and life at the firehouse the best either of them could muster. 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was getting better. 

At least it had been, until his parents had taken Christopher with them to Texas. It hadn’t helped their relationship – but it hadn’t hindered it as much as Eddie had expected either. He was never going to thank them, for the way they had swooped in, ready to take Christopher at a moment’s notice, but he could thank them for giving his son the space that he needed to process. Eddie couldn’t give him that space, right now, but he was grateful someone could. Still – he would be ready to drive to Texas at the drop of a hat when Christopher decided he was ready to come home.

Things were getting better, that was the thing. His dad called, every night, to update Eddie on Christopher’s day. Eddie could hear the familiar sounds of the Diaz backyard as his dad softly spoke, telling Eddie about how Christopher had been to the lake, with his cousins, and how he’d finished another book, and how he was helping Helena to make dinner, right then. It had filled the gap until Christopher had started to call Eddie himself, his voice tinny as he mumbled over the phone, things not quite back to normal, Christopher not willing to talk to him about anything except Marvel and Minecraft and how abuela’s tamales were better than Eddie’s, but better than they were, at least. 

Every time they were on the phone, Eddie reassured his parents that he was working on himself. He was back seeing Frank, every week, and at Frank’s encouragement, he’d joined a veteran’s support group. Eddie wasn’t exactly the picture-perfect military veteran he assumed he needed to be, to join a veteran support group, but the rag-tag group that met at his community hall every month weren’t exactly the flag-wearing, gun-toting veterans he’d expected them to be. James was a 63-year-old man from Massachusetts who ran the group – he had moved out to LA to live with his daughter after he retired and referred to himself delightedly as a stay-at-home grandfather. Luisa was a vet around Eddie’s own age, and she’d gone back to university after she got out of the army and got a fine arts degree. She liked to paint, and talked about her wife with a reverence and openness that Eddie could only admire. 

He hadn’t said a word the first time he went, and Buck had sat in the Jeep in the carpark, a ready-made escape plan for Eddie in case he decided it was all too much. Eddie had sat quietly as the group had chatted, drinking tea and coffee out of flimsy paper cups, and eating homemade biscuits – made by James, who, as it turned out, was quite the prolific baker – and he’d watched. He’d watched as the group had talked about their bad days, and their good days, and how they were coping with life after the military, and not a single glorious war-story was exchanged. 

That was when Eddie knew it was safe to keep going. He was never going to be a man who was proud of his service, and he didn’t want to have to attend a support group of people who’d talk about their time in the military like it was the good old days. He had spoken a little more, the second time he went – Buck doing his groceries, two streets away, rather than sitting in the carpark – and he’d introduced himself, his voice gruff as he tried to figure out what version of Eddie he wanted to present to the world. 

Eddie was still figuring that part out – the version of himself he wanted to be, that is. 

He was figuring himself out. That was the point. He was trying, he was really trying – and people could see that, Eddie was sure. His parents said they could, at least.

Which was why he was here – in a church not dissimilar to the one he’d attended every Sunday in El Paso growing up – on his knees, praying to a God he wasn’t sure he actually believed in for guidance. 

read the rest on ao3

[latenightdaydreams]

Priest!König x Nun!Reader (Fem)

This is my first time writing and posting! i hope you enjoy!

Part2, Part3

MDNI🔞

For more: Master list

>CW: MDNI, fem/afab reader, religion, cnc, whipping, breath play, oral

.

.

.

.

“Our father,“

*Whip*

“Who art in heaven,”

*Whip*

“Hallowed be thy name.” Your voice trembling as you resight the Lord’s prayer naked and kneeling at the churches alter, your bare knees digging into the hard wood floor beneath you. This being the fifth time you’ve said this prayer, your body began to tremble from the cold.

The whip came down again this time across your breast, hitting your sensitive hardened nipples,

“Keep going, I didn’t tell you to stop.” Father König’s voice thick with an Austrian accent and stern.

“Thy kingdom come,”

*whip*

“Thy will be done” The whip comes down hard on your already sore and bleeding rear. You take a sharp inhale. When you’re about to continue your prayers, Father König comes up behind you and pulls on your hair through your habit.

“You’re taking too many breaks-“ he says in an angry and cold tone as he holds your head in place with one hand. With the other he reached under his robes to fish his hardened cock out. You see his fat cock with a leaky pink tip, your eyes go up to meet his behind a mask that hides his whole face. His icy blue eyes look down at you with disappointment.

“Open,” he says in a demanding voice, one that you know to listen to without hesitation. You open your mouth as wide as you can for him as he guides your mouth on to his arousal. You close your eyes as the warm skin presses against your lips.

Your soft lips wrapping around his desperate cock and lightly sucking on the head. Instantly you can taste the bitter tang of precum on your tongue.

“Look at me,” Father König says with a slight groan in his voice.

Your eyes go up to meet his as he slowly begins to push your head lower on to his cock. You begin to gag and instinctively place your hands on his thighs to push away.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls as you slowly move your hands away.

Tears beginning to build up in your eyes as he pushes your head lower. You gag again causing tears to begin to roll down your face. You look into his eyes begging him to be merciful on you and relax his hold but he doesn’t, he only pushes you down more until your nose is buried in a soft patch of blonde hair.  You gag and your hands go to his legs and being to push back, but it’s no use.

He holds your there, smacking the side of your face with his large calloused hands. Your delicate skin stings and more tears flow down. The feeling of his massive cock filling your mouth and lingering in your throat made it hard to breathe.

You began tap on his thighs hoping he would see that you can’t breathe only to be met with his fingers now pinching your nose shut. “You can fucking take it, just a little more…” His voice laced with pleasure.

You continue to struggle in a panic knowing you’re defenseless against the 6’10 retired military priest. Tears following from your eyes as spit begins to bubble out of the corner of your mouth.

“If I let you breathe, will you be a good girl?”

“Mmmm!” You mumble while nodding your head. Your eyebrows pinched together pleading with him.

Eventually he lets go of your nose and hair and you pull back from his length, coughing and spitting up thick globs of phlegm. You gasp for air, taking in deep rapid breaths as you fall forward on your hands.

“That’s your last warning, next time I won’t be so nice,” he bends down to your eye level and looks at your teary face, “Now continue.”

Part2, Part3

[angelyuji]

Our Father, Who art in heaven,

if he could focus, he could hear your voice. he could hear you mumbling along, focused on praying. he wonders what you pray for, your family? your work? or... for love?

Hallowed be Thy Name. 

matt feels his face heat up at the thought. no. you weren't like him. you're not a sinner like him. he tries to shake the thought from his head. he told himself he wouldn't do this anymore.

Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done,

he can't. with the devil gone, he told himself to not let himself fall back into those habits. his sinful, perverted, dirty habits. but as he sat outside the church, listening to your hushed prayers... matt couldn't help but dream.

on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. 

dream of you. dream of waking up next to you, making you breakfast, laughing with you. he couldn't help, but dream of your legs wrapping around him, pressing himself to your scorching skin, memorizing every inch of you.

And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

he's different now. he has to be. so why is he continuing to be the man he used to be. he smelled you, he didn't mean to follow you. but the scent of you captivated him and now he knows where you live. where you work. what places you go to with your friends. the self-loathing creeps up his spine; he could feel His disappointment as he listened outside of your home.

 And lead us not into temptation, 

you needed better locks. matt had chuckled as he easily picked your lock. all he could think as he broke into your home was that you needed better locks. he walked in and he was overwhelmed, everything smelled like you. he couldn't help but bask in it. if he couldn't be with you, this was the next best thing.

but deliver us from evil. Amen.

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part VII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, death, gore, religious themes (blink and you'll miss it)

A/N: woah look at that. We made it to D-Day. I thought I'd leave this on hiatus before reaching this point BUT I DIDN'T. This one's a little longer but I don't care and neither do you. If you'd like to be added to the taglist let me know and enjoy<3

GIF credit

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

READER'S P. O. V.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come; thy…

Thy…

"Fuck."

The cuss got lost in the deafening racket of the plane.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the sting of sweat caused by the stress and the ridiculous amount of gear we were supposed to drop with.

I'm gonna die.

The thought settled in like it had always been there— and maybe it had been. It wasn't a question, not even fear; just a cold, undeniable fact.

My fingers dug into my straps. I tried to picture what it would feel like —why?—, if I would know, if would have time to know. If it would hurt or just… end.

The plane rocked, metal clattering around us. My stomach lurched. A frustrated swear on my far left. A properly muttered prayer in front of me, unlike mine. My knuckles had gone bloodless around the straps, my mind running too fast.

I'm gonna die.

I exhaled slow. Forced my hands to unclench.

Should've taken that second pill.

I checked my gear again. Helmet, straps, chute. Leg bag, M1, grenades. My grandma's cross. Compass, knife, my helmet again. Was the strap too loose?

I'm gonna die.

Lieutenant Compton walked the row, his booming voice barely cutting through the engines' roar. I nodded when he looked at me, mechanical, automatic.

The crammed space smelled like metal, sweat and oil. My skin was too tight, my pulse hammering slow and deep in my throat, my stomach still twisting.

The light overhead burned red.

Almost time.

The plane rocked again. Someone screamed. I would have sworn the plane gained speed.

But the light turned green.

Time to go.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The plane rattled like it was about to fall apart.

My head rested against the vibrating metal wall, eyes half-lidded as I attempted to keep my stomach from doing another somersault. That little pill they gave us—meant to stop... airsickness? Had kicked in hard.

Everything felt just a little too slow; my limbs felt like they were moving through molasses, and the weight of the equipment wasn't helping the bizarre sensation.

My thoughts, out of step with my body, were running at full speed.

Not that they were worth much right now.

Please, God. If you're listening, make it quick.

That was about as much praying as I was willing to do.

The red interior light casted ominous shadows on everyone's faces, turning them into a row of ghosts strapped in with jump gear. The grumble of the engines swallowed almost everything, but ever so often, I caught a cough, the sound of someone sucking in a shaky breath, someone shouting for smokes.

I didn't look at anyone. I didn't want to see fear on their faces. I didn't want to see the absence of it, either.

I focused on my gloved hands, resting on my lap. I flexed my fingers. Loosened, clenched, loosened. Checked my weapon for the tenth time.

It's not going anywhere. Let it be.

Winters did his best to have his last-minute instructions reach us. I barely heard him, so I just nodded along, licking my lips.

Focus.

The taste of smoke and sweat.

The bite of adrenaline that hadn't hit full force yet.

The cold touch of the hook strapped in the line.

The thought of her.

"The fuck..."

Not on purpose.

It wasn't sentimental, nothing dramatic—just a flash of Y/n's face, half-shadowed, rain dripping off her collar, a cigarette hanging from her lips, curved into an open smile.

"This damn pill."

"WHATCHA SAY?!!" Someone behind me —who was supposed to be behind me?— yelled straight into my ear.

"THIS DAMN PILL!!"

A couple if pats on my shoulder blade.

"YOU BETTER WAKE UP, LIEB!!"

I shook my head, exhaled through my nose.

Focus.

I could see flashing lights through the clouds. Lightning, maybe. Something worse, probably. France beneath us.

Jesus.

My fingers curled tighter around the edge of my reserve chute. The air inside the plane shifted, like everyone had started breathing a little shallower. Lieutenant raised a fist. Equipment check.

I swallowed, rolling my shoulders.

"Shit. C'mon."

Please, God. Make it fucking quick.

The light turned green.

READER'S P. O. V.

The ground came up too fast, the impact rattling through my spine and knocking the air from my lungs. The canopy that had barely stopped my kneecaps from busting against the french soil dragged me half a foot before I managed to fight the buckle free.

A strained gasp left me when I rolled onto my stomach and sat back on my heels. Just a moment, just to check everything was in place.

The grass was damp, the earthiness of the air mixing with the gunpowder. My palms patted my body from top to bottom, acknowledging what was left of my gear by touch alone.

The knife strapped to my calf, the loose rounds digging into my pockets, my compass, my M1.

No helmet.

"Shit!"

A ragged burn where my chinstrap had dug into my skin before the force of the blast blew it off.

I wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

That was the only thing I knew for certain.

My surroundings were pure chaos, partly because of the mayhem of sounds, partly because my sight relied solely in whatever bit of the landscape the anti-aircraft tracers lit up intermittently.

I wasn't dead. I strained my ears, listening for voices, for movement, for anything I could catch nearby despite the drone of planes overhead.

Somewhere ahead of me, something moved. I heard it before I saw it and I prayed for the cover of darkness and my lack of helmet to work in my favor. But the movement was slow. Intentional. Close. A shuffle. Closer.

I squinted my eyes and, rifle raised, I caught a figure. Low in the grass, barely visible. My first instinct was to shoot. I had been trained to shoot, we all had. Shoot first, think second.

Shoot first.

Shoot.

But recognition had bloomed in me before thought, before instinct.

"Liebgott?"

The person slithered fast in my direction, triggering an uneven stammering in my heart. A hand clamped down on my arm, bringing me forward so fast I almost faceplanted into the dirt.

"Jesus Christ, Y/l/n." Joe's voice, rough and sharp. Too close. He was crouched in front of me, knife gripped so tight his knuckles were white, sweat slicking his forehead under his netted helmet. "Flash. Thunder." I could feel his breath against my cheek, his grip still firm on my arm, holding me low. "How 'bout you don't throw out my goddamn name in enemy territory?"

"Fucking flash, asshole." I yanked free but didn't bother on putting distance between us.

"Where's your damn helmet?" There was a certain frustration in his tone, not quite at me, nor at the helmet, but at the situation. They had fucked us over.

"Somewhere over Normandy."

"That's lovely."

"You don't have a gun?"

"What's it look like, smartass?"

His tone was biting, but his eyes, widened and on edge, were scanning our swamped vicinity.

"How long have you been down here?"

"Couple minutes." His response was low and sort of absent. He was focused on something else. "Saw your chute. Thought you'd be someone from my stick."

"Missed the drop zone."

He glanced me over. "You or me?"

"Don't know yet." I took a look around and, thanks to the deathly flashes shot at the C-47s, I got a glimpse of the chaotically scattered canopies still dropping from the planes, too fast, too low, too dispersed. "Maybe everyone."

Just when Joe looked like he was about to reply something, the air split.

We both spun to face the thud of a body hitting the ground beside us, my rifle up in no time, breaths frozen in our throats. The figure writhed, tangled in his chute, gasping something between a groan and a curse.

Joe was quicker than me to recognize him. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, Petty."

Petty twisted onto his back, still winded. "Hell of a way to wake up."

I let my rifle lower, pulse hammering, but still found the nerve to turn to Joe and spit, "What happened to flash, thunder, 'don't throw out names in enemy territory'?"

Joe wiped a hand down his face. "Give me a fucking break, sweetheart."

"You call me sweetheart again, I swear to God—"

"No, I swear to God," Petty interrupted, cutting himself loose from his chute to join us. "if you two don't shut up, the Krauts won't have time to get you before I do." He shot us an exasperated glare, checking his sidearm. "My friggin' luck."

"Don't sound so thrilled there, buddy." Joe bit back.

"Let's just move." Petty loaded the pistol and quirked a brow at me, expectant. "Y/l/n?"

"I'm on it." I pulled my compass from my breast pocket and took advantage of the German artillery barraging our planes. "Alright." Think. You don't need a map. Just think. "We're moving out to those hedgerows." I pointed behind us. "Look out for railroads. They'll make this much easier."

"Who needs a map when you got Y/n Y/l/n, am I right?" Petty slapped Joe's shoulder and eagerly followed my indications.

We needed a damn map.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

JOE'S P. O. V.

The first dead soldiers we came across weren't Germans. They weren't Nazis, shot down with an M1, laid on the french grass.

They were ours.

A couple of unlucky men.

No, not men. Kids.

The first one was hanging by his risers on the higher branches, swaying like a butchered pig.

The second one was a few feet lower, limbs tangled like a broken marionette. Their chutes had failed to cut loose. Or maybe they had been shot before they had the chance. Maybe they hit the trees wrong and snapped their necks before they could even fight for air.

It didn't matter. They were dead all the same.

We knew their faces. Not their names—just faces. We had all trained together at some point, ate in the same mess halls, stood in the same formation. I was sure one of them had played poker with us back in Aldbourne.

Y/n forced herself not to avert her eyes.

Petty turned away, finding solace on the dewed grass.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

So I stared, my stomach twisting at the unnaturally shaped silhouettes hanging above us.

"We need to grab their gear." Y/n noted, not quite contemplating the bodies as much as assessing the easiest way to reach them.

I forced myself to blink. "Yeah."

"Who's climbing?" Petty's inquiry was hushed, as if he didn't want to disturb the hanging men.

Y/n moved first, brushing past me to get to the base of the twisted trunk. She tested her footing, sizing up the climb, then glanced over her shoulder.

I didn't even let her ask. I just knelt, clasping my hands together. Her mud-covered boot setting into my grip served as a prompt for me to boost her up, which I did. She caught the lowest branch and pulled herself higher.

The tree groaned softly under her weight. She climbed fast, steady, the rope of her dog tags catching the faintest rays of dawn slipping through the dark clouds with every shift of her body.

I wasn't able to discern her expression while her knife forced the risers to give with a few purposeful slices.

One body dropped.

It hit the ground heavy, wrong, all limp limbs and dead weight. Something inside me flinched like I had been yanked backward by the spine.

She climbed higher, a poorly contained gasp pushing out her throat when her grip slipped.

"Shit—" Petty hissed, both of us taking an instinctive step closer to the base of the tree as if to catch her.

She dismissed us with a vague wave of her hand and, with a stretched arm, she slashed the second soldier's tangled straps.

And another body dropped, this time closer, harder. The sound wasn't as loud as a gunshot, but it might as well have been. A dull, sick thud.

God, they didn't train us for this.

Y/n didn't dwell on it; she just started climbing down like she hadn't just sent a couple of american paratroopers crashing lifelessly to the ground.

I stepped forward, bracing her by the waist to help her down.

She immediately bristled. "I don't need fucking help—"

My fingers clenched against her uniform, too tight —tighter than I meant— and hauled her down. "I'm not in the mood, so shut the fuck up."

"Joe, c'mon." Petty halfheartedly chastised me, like he knew this moment would inevitably come and he really didn't want to be caught in the middle of it.

"No, don't start with me" I snapped, throwing him a look over my shoulder. "when she's the one bitching and moaning."

My attention immediately returned to Y/n, who had gone uncharacteristically still, her eyes trained on my form.

Not because I hadn't let go of her yet.

Because my hands were shaking.

Just a tremor against her ribs, a flex of my fingers like I was willing them to stay steady. But she noticed.

I let go of her uniform like it had burned me. Petty, who had given up quickly on trying to keep peace, was now kneeling by the fallen soldiers, rummaging through their gear. My hands were still trembling. I rubbed them together once, twice, like it might shake the feeling out.

"Okay." Y/n's tone shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. Not soft. But not the usual edge either. A tilt of her head. "Okay..." A frown. "Alright."

Not worried, not exactly. Maybe careful, but not by much.

She reached out, gloved fingers brushing the fabric of my sleeve briefly before fisting it with a quiet, determined yank.

My first instinct was to jerk away, so I did; I pulled my arm free in one clean motion.

"We gotta move." Petty's voice broke the silence, attracting our glances to him. He wasn't looking at us. His eyes were scanning the trees, the low grass, the quiet farmhouse at his six.

Y/n didn't budge. "Give me a second."

Petty groaned, did a half turn and commented something I barely caught above the scattered gunfire about having to land with us out of everyone. But he indulged her nonetheless.

She yanked my sleeve again, more forceful this time. The sound of it scraping against my arm was unrealistically loud —at least to my ears.

Her pitch was calculated, nonchalant enough to almost pass as casual. "You good?"

It threw me off. If she had picked up on it, she didn't bring it up. Maybe later on, in the middle of a pointless argument, she would.

My reply was clipped and fast. "Fuck that."

"Joe."

It's wasn't the word that got me; it was the way she said it, and the faint glimpse of genuine care in her pupils, visible only when the occasional flak fire going up into the late night turned early morning illuminated her features.

Get a grip.

"I'm good. C'mon."

My voice didn't exactly sound convinced, but at the very least it sounded resolved and stubborn, and that would have to cut it.

Y/n stared at me for a beat. Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment I thought she might press again.

She didn't. Instead, she just tilted her chin up once as if to say 'fine'.

She moved past me and reached the corpses in a couple of strides, catching the helmet Petty threw her way.

Get a fucking grip.

[tingedautumn]

any charlastor fic recommendations? :)

HEEHEEEHEHEEE DO I EVER

i started writing a quick list, got carried away, and just went hogwild, so under readmore for length. the list is NOT comprehensive by the way, i grabbed the ones i had an immediate bookmark for but PLEASE know i have a solid twenty or thirty more in my favourites folder. feel free to send recommendations if you have any!

starting off strong with under my skin by queen whamgram. for those of you unlucky enough not to have read it, it's an ongoing canon compliant story following alastor and charlie falling in love and developing a relationship together, and it is literally always open in a tab both on my laptop and on my phone. just the best, best, best charlastor fic. i adore it so much. please read this story and then scream about it with me.

absolutely anything by @firebreathingrubberduck who is just an absolutely queen legend saint of charlastor smut, but a soft place in my heart is always reserved for i can explain, which is an au where charlie and alastor are roommates (alastor is a serial killer, and that's shockingly not the major obstacle in this story.)

i'm obsessed with split by midnightchemist, who has matched my freak on twitter too many times to count and whom i adore. it's a two parter, where through unforeseen events, human alastor is brought to hell to meet demon alastor and charlie. it goes exactly as you hope.

midnight fawn by justmondayagain is shockingly not smut! but it's a domestic au where alastor and charlie become parents and are handling a newborn. it's genuinely so soft and loving that i sometimes reread it whenever i'm feeling out of sorts, it just turns me into mush. the author has been adding chapters to it which is like every christmas present at once.

hallowed be thy name by yinyentwins was probably the first charlastor oneshot i ever read, and god what a perfect way to introduce me to the fandom. originally set as just the one chapter, it looks like the author is planning to expand, which has me SO excited. just a warning that it DOES mention consensual open relationship / infidelity, but it's not a major component of the story.

worship by shardetector is a two-shot of canon-compliant charlastor first time (and also second and third.) it's both soft and extremely sensual, and just a total delight to read. it focuses on alastor's point of view and just immediately starts in on the action, i'm a huge fan of this fic.

broadcast by carried_away is a SUPER CUTE human au. charlie and alastor become unplanned work partners to open charlie's rehabilitation center in new orleans, but face a growing opposition comprised of shady characters. the chemistry between the two is INSANELY good, but the author does a fantastic job of spacing out the scope of each character and their influence. absolutely loved this fic, and it's completed!

shadows in the bayou, by shirokitsune95, is an ongoing human(?) au that has got me absolutely enthralled. you know when you're reading a story, and the prose is just so gripping, and you don't realize you're finished the chapter until the last line? that's sitb. just absolutely stellar writing, and as it's only a few chapters in, the mystery and intrigue is really getting set up. there's immediate chemistry between charlie and alastor which i adore (nothing i love more than the two finding instant connection together and flirting without realizing it); i'm really excited to see where this one goes!

wrecking force by zirekile is my absolutely favourite professor / student au. erin won't see this so she can't stop me saying nice things here, but goddd i love the dynamic set up from the first few chapters. alastor is hot and cold but clearly drawn to charlie, and charlie is just such a cute goof trying to make sense of their insane compatibility. highly recommend.

i think you might be ruining me (i might like it) by gloriouscacaphony was, i believe, written in response to a tweet i made talking about how i wanted to see more fics have alastor just gobwild for charlie when she's touching him, and this fic delivered tenfold!!! canon compliant, simple one-shot where charlie blows alastor and he collapses about it, my FAVOURITE

you need to read both a stormy night in the hotel and the labyrinth by ventessa, because oh my goddd oh my god, oh my god. stormy night follows charlie and alastor's sexual awakening together and the development of their physical relationship - it's just supremely hot, well-developed, and surprisingly tender. there's insane character development even while they're fucking, which is the height of talent in my personal opinion. labyrinth is an au that hooked me immediately, where each year, contestants of hell navigate a mysterious and deadly maze; the winner achieves immunity from the annual purge. charlie enters to achieve immunity for all of hell, and meets the elusive and dangerous radio demon. currently, both fics are unfinished, but they're still worth the read i HIGHLY encourage it.

the devil in love, by shadow_logic. i actually recommend all the charlastor fics shadow_logic has written, but their fics are the kind you don't want to just shuffle through looking for distraction. shadow_logic is such a brilliant, clever, witty writer; you feel so accomplished when you get a reference they're putting down, and just so drawn in to every plot and twist. it's a rich and rewarding kind of story, each and every time.

impulse, by causa, explores one of my all-time favourite charlastor tropes - the mating rut. warning for infidelity within the fic, but alastor being just so down bad for charlie is my weakness, and he's this with the fic in spades.

i do, mrs malveaux by mochaangel HOOHOOOOO LEMME JUST SAY. MOCHA DOES THIS TIME PERIOD SO WELL. it's a human au where charlie and alastor agree to marry to mutual benefit, but not for love - or so they think!!! and there was only one bed!!!!!! as always, mocha knows what my heart craves and serves accordingly.

hush, hush, hush - here comes the boogeyman by thebonezone is a dark fic, but it is. so good. genuinely made me reevaluate myself after i finished. kat writes an au where human charlie accidentally (or not so accidentally) stumbles upon a demonic entity, who finds himself enticed with her. size difference comes out to play BIG time here, and there's definitely monster overtones (he's a demon harold) but my god, what a way to go.

behind the curtain, by devoted_stargazer, has a simple premise: charlie is shopping for a halloween costume. alastor is coming along to help her out of it. they fuck in a changing room (rosie i pray you have cleaners.)

talk to me, alastor by divinedevil has phone sex - in hell! another amazing fic with alastor down so bad for charlie; he goes from nervous to ravenous in about three lines. IDEAL setting.

preaching to the fire by mithril_owl. it's a priest au!!! mithril is one of my favourite charlastor authors - their other fics are just an absolute delight - and they very kindly allowed me to read over this one, which i failed to make any edits to because a) it was perfect, b) PRIEST AU PRIEST AU PRIEST AU!!! a oneshot with just phenomenal pacing and stellar chemistry, I'M A FAN.

to the radio demon on his birthday, by papercrane. this is one of my all time favourite one-shots, shockingly tame all things considered. it's a burlesque spin on the canon dynamic, and alastor is absolutely heart in his eyes head-over-heels obsessed with charlie. cherry-wine sweet and the smoothest pour, i adore this drabble.

puppetry by fluffyboots. krissie is one of those writers who just radiates talents. every update looks so effortless, and more importantly, every update delivers. puppetry is a canon-compliant au wherein charlie, before she begins her hotel, seeks to know her subjects better, and sets up temporary residence in cannibal town. she's drawn into the allure and intrigue, of course, but more specifically, she's drawn to alastor, the mysterious and charismatic master of the radio. this story is ongoing, and brilliantly, breathtakingly, written.

i would be absolutely remiss if i did not mention the charlastor classics, so without further ado!

the riddle of magic, by rubyfoxfire. i read up to chapter fifty in two days (sleep was not included) and was absolutely obsessed from there on out. ROM is canon-adjacent - it follows the general premise of the series, but deviates pretty far in terms of its own canon. ruby does a fantastic job exploring the evolution of alastor and charlie's relationship as alastor teaches her his form of magic. this fic is a long one, but i find it well worth the jaunt - it's got such a rich lore, strong development, and powerful structure. it might take you a few days, but you'll be the better off for it.

the taxidermist, by angelus19. this is probably the defining charlastor fic - even if you haven't read it, there's a good chance you've heard about it. the story is split between alastor and charlie's perspectives, and that can be jarring at first; that being said, there's a huge reward in keeping up. a scene told from one view gets new context in the next, and the chemistry is developed over several chapters. this is a human au, written long before the series aired, so the author really developed the lore as their own, and it's stunning. arguably my favourite part is that, once alastor admits he wants charlie, he is loathe to keep his hands off her. the fic has concluded in the spanish translation, and the english translation is just missing the ending!

smiling man by musevalentine. this is such a great fic; do not ever ask me to read it again LMAO. another human au, and a long one; the plot weaves a gripping narrative, and it's always that urge to find out what happens next that will keep you going. disclaimer, i do like this fic - i think it's well-written, well-plotted, and incredibly well-structured. that being said, i finished reading it at 5 am on a tuesday morning and literally just stared at my ceiling for three hours before i could get up after. this is a heavy hitter, and it's not a happy ending, but it's worth a mention in terms of older charlastor fics that are famous in the fandom. do not go into this expecting a good time, but don't miss the development by skipping it all together!

[ahhhwomen]

Wait, no, please share. I need to see the darkness 👀

a/n: you asked for it, also this is half shit written cus its just a blurb lol

WARNING TAGS: Violence, religious trauma, death, blood

Platonic Relationship: MotherFigure!Natasha x DaughterFigure!Reader

You’re a freak, a monster, a killer. The girl under you had told you as much.

The skin on your knuckles splits and tears as your hands continue to collide with the helpless prey beneath you. Small droplets of blood scatter and spray the mats covering the floor.

Please, for the love of god, stop me now.

The girl under you cries and begs, but it only spurs you on. It’s like you can see her life force, clutched in your greedy palms, you just need to use a bit more force. Then the voices will stop, your muscles will loosen, and the fear will dissipate. The bunny beneath you is suffering, you just want to help it.

She tries to kick you away, her legs slamming into your ribs, but as your hands take hold of her hair and smash her skull into the ground, you can’t feel it.

Please, God, embrace thy child and end her suffering.

The priest’s words echo; please God, forgive the sinner, and aid her prey.

You can feel Mira’s fingernails dig into the skin beside your eyes, her fingers slip and glide clumsily against your blank face.

 She’s trying to dig her thumbs into your eye socket but the blood covering both of you makes her falter and you use her momentum against her and violently twist your elbow outward, crashing it into her outstretched arm, and there is a sickening crack as Mira screams in agony.

The redhead´s other hand yanks your hair violently before you can deliver the last blow.

Oh, please God, save this sick child.

Your bloodshot eyes stare widely at her shivering frame, Mira stares back at you, her fear evident in the way her pupils are nothing but a pin needle in a sea of endless green.

 Please God, lay the monster dormant and return thy child to the great heavens above.

When you dig your knee into her stomach, the hand that had previously held you back loses its grip, and you can finally end it. It would only take eight ounces of force for your thumbs to penetrate the thin skin over the lower part of her jugular.

And yet-

You make the ultimate mistake.

As you straddle her and start digging your thumbs in, you look up at her young face. Tears roll down her chin, her face is pale and bloody. But her red hair falls like a hallow around her, and her eyes are the perfect resemblance to a familiar emerald, green.

Please God, save thy child. For thy child is alone.

Natasha was the only person to ever make you feel like you belonged. She was the only one to let you feel hope. Feel love.

Natasha was like the mother you never had.

Your small hands clasp the cross tightly and you kneel in front of the altar. The statues are intimidating as your little frame looks up at them in hope.

“Oh, please God, kill me before I can do more harm.” You spoke as clearly as you could into the cold crisp air inside the abandoned church.

You thought you were alone, but then a tall woman with angelic red hair had found you.

“What are you doing her kid?”

You're frozen above the scared girl as you come too.

“What have I done?” you whisper to yourself and quickly lift yourself to let the smaller girl free. However, just as you are about to stand. A white-hot agony shoots up your spine and you fall, the mat is cold and sticky, and you try to push yourself up with the use of your arms, but you can’t move.

There is something firm lodged in your back.

Natasha stands over your limp frame, she can feel the sweat on her palms glide against every nook and cranny as she stands there numbly, not being able to remove her eyes from the handle sticking out of your small back.

Natasha had done that.

She didn’t have a choice.

You had talked about this before…

That if the day ever came when you lost control.

That the redhead needed to do what was right.

She had to.

She had to.

Her knees creak in protest as they ram into the wet mat. Her fingers clutch and grasp at any part of you she can gather up. Your skin is already losing warmth and she curls around you in hopes of returning it. You wheeze when she pulls your body over hers.

You can’t feel anything, but the force against your lungs worsens as Natasha tries to apply pressure around the metal in your skin.

Thank you, God.

You can feel your mind slipping away from you, and the pressure starts consuming you. You can do nothing but use all of your last strength to muster up the words you never had the opportunity to say.

“I’m sorry mom.”

[pseudowho]

Our mother, who art in britain, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is on tumblr.

Give us today our daily fic, forgive us our bad grammar as we forgive those who flame against us and lead us straight to temptation, but deliver us from all untimely deaths.

Awomen

I'm being on theme. I am also going to hell. :)

Listen these are giving me shivers.

Like, these are motivating me. You are such a hype girl. I'm swooning at my own lines, STAWP STAWP.

I'm gonna have to put these on some reblogs.

Like...

Damn.

If you'd like to read Deliverance, where you hunt down Vampire!Priest!Nanami after falling in love, please access it here...it's very slutty. Like me.

-- Haitch xxx

[neverchecking]

Day 9: Glory Hole- The Chain

Smut so Minors Do Not Interact. If I find out a minor has interacted with my blog, I will block you.. Thank you!

Smut CW: Religious themes, like HEAVY religious themes. This is pretty much a dash of my religious trauma with sex. I don't name who's doing the do to Reader, but I think you guys should be able to guess lmao.

This is Day nine of My Kinktober so be sure to come back and check out the other days! Friendly Reminder that all of my smut is tagged 'Cindersins' including this, but this will also be tagged as 'Cinder's happy halloween' along with the run of the mill smut tags.

Kinktober Masterlist <<< Day 8>>>Day 10

Your legs were so sore. Every part of you ached something fierce but some primal part of you yearned for more. You had long since lost count on how many loads were dripping out of your abused core right now, cooling in a trail down the apple of your ass as you gasped for relief. Everything felt smoggy and heavy around you, like a sweltering cloud pushing upon you in punishment for the sins you committed. 

Looking up and arching your head to look behind you, eyes falling on the large wooden cross behind you, you can’t but feel it is. The wooden beads strung around your neck had long since lost the chill they once had, instead coated in a thin sheen of your sweat, the heavy ornate centerpiece-- matching the one behind you--  sticking to the skin underneath your collarbone. Whatever heavy robes you had been wearing earlier had been tossed up to rest on your stomach, leaving your bottom half bare to the world. 

Your one hand shakily reached up to grasp the cross charm, clasping it between both of your clammy palms with your fingers white knuckled around them. Your eyes were clamped shut, as you were not permitted to look upon the deities far beyond your comprehension. Just feel them. “Our Father, who art in heaven.” Your voice crackled as cotton mouth choked you. 

Rough hands roamed every inch of your skin, several palms molding your flesh to their own desire. 

“Hallowed be thy name.” 

There was no sense in foreplay as the next one to slip their cock against you felt no resistance. Lubed by your own fluids and whatever had been left over from past rounds. “Atta’ girl. Ya; take us all so well. Such a good lil’ follower ya’ are.”

You whined as something much thicker than the previous gods had you pinned, rutting into you in a steady rhythm. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven.”

Tears burned behind your closed eyes, pushing past your lash line before bulbing down your cheeks. A hand, colder than the ones holding your hips currently, gently swiped it away. “Now, now sunshine. You were doing so well. Give us our next line, doll face.”

“Give us this day our daily bread-” You hiccuped at the feeling of palms pawing at your chest, toying with your pebbled nipples through the robes you dawned. “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” 

There were mumbled arguments and a few dropped curses as the pace quickened, the god’s cock plunging in and out of your core at an impressive rate. 

“Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.” 

The pinches to your nipples became harsher, almost as if punishing you further for the sacrilegious acts you not only condoned but took an active part in. 

“For thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory are Yours,” 

Your breath once again hitched, as if you were swallowing a pebble rather than air, making your chest clamp as your thighs shook and twitched rapidly. 

“Forever and ever.”

Your back arched as you whined, clamping around the divinity’s cock as you came, feeling another rush of cum flood into your core. The god pulled out and another took his place, the chill of rings now running along your calves. 

“Amen.” 

[irishmammonagenda]

Catholic MC Gets Sent Into Hell?! Not Clickbait! (part one)

introduction, part one, part two, part three warnings: light swearing, religious theme(s), GN (though implied AFAB mc, they/them pronouns used.) It's implied that MC knows prayers in irish,idk how to word that but😭😭 (i'm new to writing so i dont think i'm too good at characterisation yet)

A strangled scream rips itself from their throat as they lurch downwards into what can only be described as an abyss, the plastic river rock bottle and their phone almost rip themselves from their blazer, MC grips onto them for dear life, the only familiar things in this vacuum of darkness.

The fear almost paralyzes them, and through their years of catholic conditioning, MC does the only thing they can think to do, they pray. Muttering out a prayer to the Patron Saint of Protection, Archangel Michael, MC finds theirself falling onto cold, tiled ground in some bastardisation of wonderland.

They almost sigh in relief, if not for the group of people they catch in their peripherals, on their knees MC looks around, pulling their school skirt further down, it unrolls slightly from where it was rolled at the waist. MC lends wide eyes to the 8 men around the....court room...? They're met with a range of reactions. A man with hair red as blood stands, his arms extended out at his sides in some sort of attempt to be welcoming, to his right is a stoic, though calmly smiling man with green ombre-esque hair. Arguably the most unsettling of the two.

Nevertheless, MC looks to the 6 others in the room, their instincts going haywire, a blond with eyes so green they could be neon, a beautiful man-not that the rest weren't-with hair that reminded MC of the rose coloured shloer they'd get to drink at Christmas.

A man with...indigo? hair...MC was never good with colours, but it didn't matter as he was more focused on his gameboy and glaring at the tan white haired man who looked like the epitome of chaos than them. MC could live with that. They could also live with not having seen the ginger inhale a cake whole, but that was by far the least strange thing that had happened. Then they set their eyes upon the last man of the group, standing to the left hand side of the red-haired brown skinned man, a brunet, or would it be more fitting to say noirette? MC didn't know, either way his hair was black as night, with the slightest hint of silver....or was it grey? Either way, he meets their gaze with his crimson eyes. MC's breath hitches. Falling, only to land in an emo pinterest board looking courtroom with a bunch of men, all of which with strange hair and eyes? They needed to leave.

The man with scarlet hair begins to talk, "Hello MC and welcome to the Devil-"

"Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy na-" MC begins to mutter, their eyes shut tight. The tension in the room grows thicker, they can no longer hear the game on the indigo haired man's gameboy, he must've shut it off.

"Lucifer....What's the human doing?" Scarlethead man asks hesitantly, the name spurs MC on, their prayer ups an octave, "By kingdom come, thy will be done-"

"-Praying. It looks like, Diavolo." A sadistic sounding voice responds, offence dripping in this 'Lucifer's' tone.

"-on earth as it is in heaven-"

"-Oh."

MC drowns out the squabble that begins between these...demons. They pray over and over again, the fighting only continues as they get started into the ten Hail Marys.

"Sé do bheatha a Mhuire, atá-"

A new voice joins in. "Ohh?~ What's with the strange words? That doesn't sound like latin."

A sigh can be heard afterwards, "Neither was the praying in English, Asmo. Besides, humans pray in all of their languages now."

"Really?"

"Feck."

Now that gets MC to stop praying and to look up in surprise at the sound of the voice, "Of course demons can be Irish. Of fucking course." They mutter before meeting several pairs of eyes and immediately lowering their head and muttering once more.

"Satan! You visited humans way more t-than us! D-do something!" MC doesn't hear the chain of responses, only picking up, 'worthless otaku like me!' and 'i'm not a human whisperer!'

The name Satan though....

"Saint Michael the Archangel! Defend us in battle!-"

"-Michael?" The strict tone says aloud. Tension was growing thicker.

"-Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil!-"

"-now thats just mean!"

"-Yeah! Human who do ye think yer messin' with?-"

"-May God rebuke him we humbly pray!-"

"My Lord, would you like me to fetch Simeon?"

"That would be a good idea!" The scarlet haired demon, the 'Lord' says, there's laughter? in his voice though.

"-And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host!-"

Silence takes over the room. Until it doesn't.

"Hmm?~ Wasn't that Lucifer's role?"

"W-whaa?! Don't bring that up! He l-looks like he's about to rage quit during a campaign!"

"Diavolo. How long will Barbatos be in fetching Simeon." That annoyed, stern voice asks, although it's less of a question and more of an order. That must be Lucifer.

"-bY the Power of GOd, cast into hell SataN! And all-"

Snickering can be heard.

"L plus Ratio plus ROFL!"

"Shut up Levi." A voice hisses.

"-other eVIL Spirits who pROwl around the wORLD seeking the ruin of souls!"

"Uhhh...*munch* why's the human glowing?"

...

"nevermind."

[sovaghoul]

I wrote this fic many years ago. It was originally a gift for a then-friend, then yada yada yada, I re-wrote it to be more of a self-insert to erase that person. It was for a specific fandom at the time, but now reads just more generally blasphemous and sacrilegious. In light of Satanized, it seemed the right time to post it. Also makes me think of "Stand By Him" in some ways. Anyway I've been told it's good. Enjoy.

WC: 1235

Pairing: M/F, Unnamed monk (his POV)/Unnamed woman (in his fantasy) - feel free to substitute yourself and/or any other character(s), though the action is written very cishet/involving perisex genitalia

TW/CW: Blasphemy! Heresy! Object insertion, masturbation, flagellation, religious abuse, improper use of the rosary and the Lord's prayer (Catholic version), all action is the narrator's fantasy

This woman has no shame, no humility. She chooses to reject Christ in favor of heathen ways. She recklessly exposes her body to men. She copulates for it's own sake, when God has declared we are to be fruitful. She is a sinner with no remorse.

And yet. She is kind, educated, and strangest of all, happy. Her life is so devoid of morals and righteousness, and yet she does not despair.

I do not understand. And I am intrigued.

As a monk, physical passion is denied to me. But I can smell her.

And so again come the impure thoughts and nocturnal emissions that I have struggled to put behind me. Lust has never completely ceased to afflict me. I have no one to confess to here, in her land, so to write is my only hope of salvation.

I imagine her kneeling before me, tears in her eyes, confessing her own sins and asking what penance she must pay. I am thankful for my robes that conceal the literal rise of my lust. I place my hand atop her head and say, "My child, God forgives all, for He loves you and welcomes you into His flock. But you see now the error of your ways, and this cannot go unpunished. Come, follow me to my chambers."

She looks up at me over the rims of her spectacles, a single tear falling, and she nods. As she stands I notice, not for the first time, the way her breasts bob with her every movement. My heart pounds as I turn my back to her and lead the way.

Once in my room, I direct her to kneel at my bedside. I give her a rosary so she may begin praying, but she says she doesn't know the words. I stand behind her and place a hand on her shoulder, and she shivers under my touch. I tell her to repeat the words, and begin the Lord's Prayer;

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name..."

Her voice wavers as I intone these holy words, the difference of our accents and inflections in sharp relief. She speaks barely above a breathy whisper, and I cannot help it any longer. My free hand slips behind my robes to grasp my manhood, and the fingers on her shoulder curl and tighten. She stumbles over the words, a low moan escaping her throat. Sweat breaks out across my forehead as my hand caresses that sinful, sensitive part of me.

"...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."

I ask if she can remember the prayer and continue to recite it as I deliver the next part of her penance. She shudders, nods, and moans again. I bite my lip to silence my own vocalization that threatens to escape. I manage only a whisper as I instruct her to remove the simple dress she wears. She complies, now fully nude before me. Her body nearly convulses as she rubs the prayer beads between twitching fingers.

I retrieve my scourge from its place in my bureau and walk back to stand behind her again. I dare to touch the bare skin of her back, trailing light fingertips down her spine.

"Fear not, my child," I whisper, and she shudders again. Stepping back I grasp a firm length in each hand, one formed of leather and wood and the other of hot engorged flesh, and instruct her to begin the prayer again. I attempt to keep a rhythm with my lashings, but my arm trembles too much.

"Our Father." Lash.

"Who art in Heaven." Lash

"Hallowed be thy..." Lash.

"N-name." Lash.

"Thy kingdom come..." Lash

We both pause. The way she said "come," low and deep, it left us both breathless. I squeeze myself as I tell her to continue.

"Thy will be" Lash.

"Done, on Earth as it is in" Lash.

"Heaven." Lash.

Her skin is red, but not welted. She barely flinches, instead seeming to lean into the strikes, as if she too derrives unholy pleasure from this. My strikes come even more erratic as she speaks the prayer swiftly.

"Give us this" Lash.

"Day our daily" Lash.

"Bread, and" Lash.

"Forgive us our" Lash.

"Trespasses, as we forgive" Lash.

"Those who" Lash.

"trespass ah-" Lash.

"-gainst us!" Lash.

The contact interrupting the word makes her collapse forward onto the bed, panting for breath and shaking with need for release. I drop the scourge to the floor and walk to her, releasing the grip on my near painful erection to grasp both her shoulders. Leaning against her, pressing that hardness into her back, I conclude the writ.

"...And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

"Amen," she says, her voice husky with need. I draw my breath in sharply, and tell her to turn around. She does. I take the rosary from her and place it around her neck, my knuckles brushing against her exposed breasts as I withdraw my hands, her nipples already hard. She gasps, moans, visibly clenches her thighs, and I am decided.

"Now child, for the final stage of your penance." My words are rough at the edges with desire. I remove my corded belt, and as it lowers to the floor she catches it, firmly grasping the large crucifix at one end. I flip the front of the robe over my shoulder, exposing my solid, dripping shaft. She looks up at me with questioning anticipation. I place a hand on myself once again.

"Lie on my bed and open your legs, like a filthy whore."

The words just spill out. I worry she'll take offense, but it has the opposite effect. She moans again as she does as commanded, spreading her legs wide, exposing her sex. I squeeze myself, stepping towards her.

"Touch yourself," I whisper raggedly. She slides her hand along the vertical slit of herself, her other hand still holding my crucifix as she glides the beads of her rosary against her nipples. She writhes before me, vocalizing, calling to the Father and the Son as she spreads her folds with her fingers, tight circles against the sensitive protrusion, dipping into her hole and spreading the wetness she finds there. I jump in my hand and stroke myself, seeing and hearing such a display.

And then. And then.

Just when I think the sacrilege has reached an apex. She's inserted my crucifix into her body, simulating the carnal act and coating the image of the Savior with her own wetness. The extreme blasphemy, the wicked abandon with which she pleasures herself, bring me quickly to the brink.

I grasp her thigh with one hand, the other a blur around me. She moans deep and long as her hand pumps faster, fucking herself deep and hard. Her back arches and I watch as more fluids than I ever imagined possible burst forth around the holy relic inside her, and the sight pushes me finally over. I release, spilling onto her thighs, her hands, her cunt. She shoves my crucifix in deeply, almost to the crossbeam, as one final release racks her body.

I step back and lower my robe. She lays panting on my bed, the crucifix slipping from her body to the floor. Both our fluids drip off her and soak into my bed linens. Her eyes are closed as she catches her breath, but her legs are still open. I realize I am still very hard.

And I can smell her.

God have mercy on my soul.

[jjkeremika]

you are the measure of all things

continuation of in sin, we delight; the light of love falls upon us

ao3

description: mikasa struggles to cope with physical euphoria and religious guilt

tag/disclaimer: religious imagery; catholicism and christianity references; goddess ymir references; just religious references in general; greek mythology references; worship and idolatry; fondling; fingering; hand job; blow job; penetrative sex; inspired by blood in the wine by aurora and some of her other songs

"Take me as I am or kill me. Peel my skin off like a blindfold. Love me despite the horror. Please, god, love me because of it."

Oh, Goddess Ymir. May your eternal light and love fall upon us.

Mikasa kneels before the altar, palms firmly pressed together with unnerving, unadulterated belief. She continually murmurs under her breath, lips parting in prayer faster than the rampant thoughts in her mind.

May your repentance and sacrifice absolve us from sin.

Mikasa grimaces lightly as the words slipped out, soft and light like air. Because it is too contradictory, isn’t it? Praying to a goddess who cared too deeply to solve her inner conflict. Because the goddess loved too—most ardently.

She was human once, bravely engulfed in an over-world more powerful than her. A heaven crafted around her, acceptance and adoration surrounded with decorum and wisdom. She learned, somehow—evolved beyond a lustrous love for a royal into a symbol greater than herself.

Pray tell, advise a lost soul and guide me with a heavenly body—

The illicit image flashes in her mind, unsolicited and undesired. Yet still a light moan breaks through the barricades. A light blush fans her cheeks and flares in her gut. A palm flushes to her mouth.

The dark feeling brews as her imagination mixes with a past reality—a past truth of rolling in sheets and disturbing altar candles. Memories mixing with further desires, emulsifying into an intangible and intimate dream.

A heavenly body—Eren, in all his wondrous glory. Magnetic and illustrious. Shirtless and bare and beautiful. Standing in magnificent poses, Herculean and heroic, muscles flexing with each movement and feather-like touches against her feverish skin.

Her hands grip into dark strands of hair, forcefully shaking her head to scramble and rid her brain of these unkempt thoughts.

Each move had always been passionate and intentional, each kiss felt like drinking from Dionysus’ chalice—addictive and sweet, delicious and heavy with salivating wine.

Oh, how she did enjoy the flesh of the fruit and the blood of the wine.

Oh, pray tell, Goddess Ymir, hallowed be thy name. May your eternal light and love fall upon us and absolve us from sin. Advise a lost soul and guide me with a heavenly body towards salvation.

She forces her eyes shut, through the leaking tears as the storm raged within her, upending her stomach and churning her insides with swirling guilt and a lack of repentance.

The thought is fleeting, yet its effects are lasting and detrimental. Did she need forgiveness? Did she crave it the same way she craved another bare soul—with a name so delightful and full of harmony?

Will the prayer resolve the fight? Will she earn an easier life in the presence of a man she deems more powerful than the deities above? To have this control over her, to feel so powerless even without his physical presence. To have her mind feel so convoluted and lost without his guiding light.

She speaks faster, announcing prayers she had almost forgotten in an uneventful life. Fruitless, like the garden of Eden before humans graced its presence.

Did the mortal’s presence delight the plants so? Was nature so overjoyed with the arrival of guests that the trees bore with fresh fruit and blossoms to be enjoyed by eyes beyond the gods? Were humans simply brought about to enjoy life’s magnificent intricacies and beauties, or did the humans encourage and foster far greater? Did the love and nurture supplied by different beings support and sustain improvement beyond mere survival?

Did we surpass all expectations? Did we become something to be admired and revered by kingdoms to come? By the gods above? Were they disappointed or surprised at the instincts we harbored? Love and joy and amusement. A desire to spread and to feel. To love and to be loved.

Even Lucifer was once an angel. Was he so full of life and love? Graceful and gratuitous—heavenly and kind and holy. Was he still beautiful? He was once God's favorite. Could he be still? Does even he have the capacity to be forgiven and absolved? Was he merely lost, but welcome and adorned at home? Missed, even?

Fighting against instinct. Innate forces hardwired into their genetics. Electrostatic touches between them, soft and magnificent and everything in between. Biological and chemical; mythical and physical—intoxication surpassing innumerous realms.

What if they were meant to sin? What if was never a sin at all?

————————————

“Mikasa, are you alright?” her father asks, concern laden in his voice and tight in his features. He has watched her grow distant—clipped responses and retreats to solitude. He has felt her presence shift.

His formerly jubilant daughter reduced to silence and hardship, harassed by demons and devils unbeknownst to him.

She hardly casts him a glance, no more than a solemn look of acknowledgement. Out of love or respect or mere duty, he could never know. Mikasa is lost, in mind and spirit, that much is evident.

“You’ve hardly touched your food tonight.” Or any night, he silently adds. But he has more of a mind than to prod her further. Does he ask what was plaguing her? What demons rest on her shoulders to ruin her appetite for food and life?

Instead her father rests a hand against hers, a light touch for comfort. A beacon of light, a semblance of salvation, to pull her from her torment. Even if for only a moment. “I’m here for you,” he reassures.

Mikasa humbly meets his gaze, far greater than a conviction beyond his eyes. I will bring you back from this, he pleads. Tell me, my darling daughter, and I will free your soul from the river Styx.

His eyes bear a similarity to Eren’s. A resolution. A promise burning beneath them. Eren’s blistering green irises, scathing for desire and piety. For something real. Untouched. True. I will move mountains and reshape valleys for you. I will end wars and kill kings for you. I will search the ends of the earth and farther for you. I will travel through the underworld for you, defeat Hades and Cerberus to free you. I will always look for you.

Does she truly need saving? Is the affliction she suffers truly so horrible, if she feels so safe? An impurity to others, but a security in truth. A justice in its own right. Does it really matter, in the end?

If her tale ended so tragically—like Eurydice and Orpheus. What was there to complain of, if she had only ever felt loved?

Mikasa turns back to the full plate, her mind wholly elsewhere as she crosses her legs beneath the table. Further thoughts of a certain male intrude her mind, contorting into twisted visions of the past and future alike. Memories scolding into form, futures yet to happen. Fate trembles before them; destiny fears them.

They are beyond destiny, yet still inevitable. Like two stars orbiting each other, like two galaxies hurdling towards one another—collapsing in on one another in an otherworldly, majestic collision. Beyond circumstance and fate, a mysterious third event entirely. Pure happenstance to have met, with choices building together in a snowball of events of pure intention. Pure devotion.

She wants this. She wills this. To be worshipped and to be loved.

“Okay,” she responds. Small, unconvinced, because she doesn’t yet want to be saved.

————————————

Mikasa understands the depth of the Reverend's sermons now. She understands a deeper truth with which she is not meant to coalesce. That greed and pride were traitorous deities, gleefully deceitful and all-consuming.

The guilt still swarms within her. To stand near an altar which had seen her at the most vulnerable. An altar which had seen a complexity of human emotion unmatched in the hallowed hall. The betrayal rooted and deep. To reaffirm her father's preaching in one breath; to bless her lover in another.

Taunted and tumultuous and taken. This is how it feels, standing near the altar, praying during her father’s sermon. Trapped in a predicated perfection of humankind. A failed embodiment of all that was holy.

Eren approaches her conflicted being. Offers to help clean up following the service. Offers to walk her to her quaint room. Offers to remove her robes, to hang them neatly before attaching their lips, before tasting her skin.

With each kiss she feels the love of a man. Re-awakened. Re-imagined.

Each touch is starved, like they'd been hungry since they'd last parted. Each smile is secretive, like they were always alone. Each craving is met by one equal or greater, divided deeply with infatuation and hearty arousal.

As she removes her dress, his eyes rake over her body, bare in mind, body, and soul. He indulges, his body reacting before his mind. His lips part, watering with a thirst only she could satiate. He falls to his knees each time, overcome and overwrought by pure desire.

The burning of her skin, the fiery turmoil unsettling and licking at her bones. The heat rises to her flesh, painting her paleness with myriads of pink and red hues. Is this the product of innate need or misplaced faith? Will this condition plague her routinely, upon every simple touch, as virtue or punishment? If she retracts from him, rejects his admiration, will she recover succinctly or feel the abomination in her gut? Feel a despair more constricting and punishing than that of stealing from the trees of Eden?

The undeniable pull to him is stronger every time. Instinct and memory outranking the guilt within as she outstretches a hand, draws him in closer every time. Anguish by being regarded impure by the Father, overcome in mere seconds by sheer joy and delight at being chosen by a lover.

Eren's worship starts low, gently caressing up her calves to her thighs. Soulless in heaven. Beside her in hell. At rest by her hips in purgatory. A nonbeliever in solitude; a faithful servant in love. He doesn't care. The truth stands before him, and tastes effortlessly sweet under his tongue.

Is this how Ymir had felt? Chosen and selected by royalty, a love reciprocated in pure luxury and adornment. She acted on her inhibitions, relied on her instincts in the moment, and she had still been immortalized by the gods. Now worshipped in these hallowed halls, did she love any less? Did she feel any more?

The light tickle shivers up into a small smile, reserved uniquely for him. Mikasa delicately places a finger below his chin, lifts his head to angle to hers. He stares—stares with dilated pupils in holy attention. Every unsaid word is intently heard. Every silent intention is impressively understood.

He litters kisses up her thighs, rises to a stand upon her command and desperately wraps his arms around her spine. Pulls her in so close, until the space between them transcends into a vacuum seal. Until he can love her, with no space between.

The tales and stories flood her mind. The stories that had withstood the tests of time. Kings and kingdoms had fallen for less. Deities had fallen before her. Those far more holy and revered, eternally lost to the very same simple complexity that haunted her now. The tales were plenty, the morals perpetual, the endings the same.

And yet, she collapses into the arms of a lover with free will. In the arms of freedom—is this how Icarus felt when he flew too close to the sun? How Eve felt when she bit the apple?

Human. Endlessly human. The desire to feel. To feel it all. The beauty in the beast. The flesh of the fruit and the blood in the wine.

Eren’s lips root at her collarbones, strong kisses spread in a deliberate cross amongst her chest. Highlighting across her collarbones, along her sternum, up the soft skin of her neck. One hand squeezes at her bum, inadvertently releasing a cautious moan at the weak resistance of the plush flesh.

He fondles her cheek with one hand, brings the other to her jaw and rejoins their lips. With his grip on her ass, he pulls her impossibly closer, until her exposed lower abdomen meets his clothed hardening erection and he can’t choke back a hearty moan.

Eren tucks his thigh between her legs, pressing inwards and upwards. She sits obediently, grinds her hips against his thigh. His tongue against hers, her apex on his sculpted physique—rocking her hips greedily in an asynchronous motion. Desperate to feel.

Mikasa is out of breath already, tilting her head sideways to rip her lips away and pant. Her eyes wide open, dilated, taking in the sight of Eren’s focus, like Apollo helping her see the light. The gods took their time creating him, each muscle chiseled into flesh with a fine craft and steady hand. A passion for art and human body; a strong urge to sculpt a heavenly form into a mortal being; a sense of serene pleasure in mind—Eren embodies it all.

Her hands tug at his clothes, nails digging into his arms and back as she hastily ripped his shirt to the floor. Even the playing field, bare and exposed. Her eyes scan over his pecs, the pronounced muscles in his shoulders and neck—she is curious, wanting. Is this how Pandora felt when she opened the box? Ripping at the hinges and locks like tainted fabric, desire curving on desperation?

Her lips connect to his neck, hands raking across his chest and feeling the muscular tension underneath her fingers. All the while she continues to grind onto his thigh, his hands tight on her iliac crest and indulging her as he thrives under her touch.

Her heart races, adrenaline and excitement and anxiety. She is overcoming, but her mind is still reeling. She is grieving, the death of a faith she was given before a name. She is rejoicing, redeemed by the inevitable love of man.

Eren removes his trousers, cast out of a blasphemous heaven to a withering ground. One of her hands trails down his center, a light smile plasters her bitten lips as she approaches the appendage she couldn’t name.

To give love to receive love. This is what she’d be taught.

The twist in her stomach is inexplicable, a sultry mixture of excitement and confidence with hesitation and confusion. She holds his shaft with little more than blatant curiosity, and now she kisses into his gasping mouth with eyes yearning for direction.

An obedient priestess. A fallen angel, with half a halo and clipped wings. Joining those who had indulged too far, loved too deeply, cared too much. Fallen from the sky with grace, and landed in a soft and warm embrace.

One of Eren’s hands encompasses hers, the other raises to her breast. With one squeeze and a soft moan from her precious pink lips, he guides her hand along his cock, biting his bottom lip to swallow his own unholy sermons.

Oh, the things he would say! Too cursed for these holy halls. Too private to risk ears beyond hers to listen. Lest they stick to the walls and echo for all to hear during ceremonies. Lest they intrude on the thoughts and the minds of the unworthy. Of the impatient. Of the unsound mind.

So he whispers them into her mouth, haughty gasps and broken moans between desperate kisses. Oh, how I love you. In heaven or in hell, I will always look for you. I will search endlessly for you. I will bring you home. You are my home.

They kiss as he flicks her wrist, silently directs her on the motion. Each breath expels with a labored intensity, an eagerness spreading with each pulse of hot blood through his core. It feels like he is running out of air. Like the gods in the room deem them unworthy of the substance, thinning the supply so they will suffocate on each other. A death of lovers—dying in an airless embrace.

With each kiss he finds what he's been searching for. Real. Holy.

With each kiss she feels the love of man. Real. Blessed.

Is this how Apollo felt when he commanded light itself? When he cast away evil for the sake of lovers and sinners alike? Were they really any different in the end?

Her thumb caresses the tip and he bites into her shoulder, cutting off a throaty gasp in the process as his eyelids shut tight. His sounds are surreal, otherworldly, and she’s hardly touched him for long yet.

The temptation is building, constructing from endless whimpers and gasps under her dainty feel, from an endless curiosity of what he will taste like on her tongue. Greed and gluttony sit on her shoulders, whispering countless suggestions in her ear. Feeding her mind with ideas that her heart jumps at, leaps into her throat with utmost glee.

Her grip slackens as she slowly—achingly slow—falls to her knees, until she knelt before him. A position so familiar, yet right now so foreign.

In none of their stories, their tales of sins and the like, did they say it would all feel so right. Like puzzle pieces slotting together into a perfect fit, like a match finally lit, like a performer identifying and protecting their muse. The mind soils with ideas from the devil, the body taints with Nyx, the henchmen come to collect, but what happens to the heart?

Eren’s gut leaps, his cock twitches at the pure sight. A purity, kneeling before him in promiscuous intent. To drink. To feast.

She glances up, stares at him with round pleading eyes. His breath caught in his throat, lodged and released in a high-pitched whine. The blood floods his veins, with it came a warmth like no other—following with an immense pleasure that fills his body and mind. Is this how deities felt? Is this how the gods lived? Worshipped and revered and all?

Trapped in time. Immortalized in space. The two of them—sole perpetrators of an unholy matrimony. Mikasa, who believes in a god greater than herself. Eren, who believes in no god other than himself.

The temptation spirals out, like an uncontrolled hurricane threatening to consume the church and themselves with nothing left in its wake. Unforgiving. Her desire disgusts her, the sheer enormity of it, ugly and disastrous and feeding.

She licks out, tentative and simple and wrong. So utterly wrong and impure she couldn't have possibly brought him pleasure.

But the moan he releases—it is raw. Primal. Vibrates out from immense depths within, like she grabs him by his throat and drags it out with her bare hands. Lay his own desire bare in front of her, exposed and writhing. Let his heart beat before her, vulnerable and aware. Beating. Always beating.

He is so responsive, petting her hair and revealing copious sounds of encouragement as she hollows her cheeks and encompasses him whole. Her cheeks redden, blushing as Eren's eyes snap closed and his hips gently rock in her motion. She is leading. He is peacefully following.

Like bringing a lamb to slaughter, a horse to the river. There's blood in the water, she knows—it's hers, from the heart she ripped out and laid free for the devil to keep. An offering, for relaxing her inhibition, for leading the charge. For following the organ instead of her brain. She knows better, or she at least she did, once. Even the devil was once an angel.

Her mind stills. The eye of the hurricane. Serene and tranquil while her tumultuous body boils and storms. Blood cast through ferocious winds, skin tingling like whirling leaves and sand, sparks flying as tears line her eyes—mouth stretched and full, burning at the corners like she’s been caught in a wood fire.

She didn't care. Not right now. The devil is human. He never repented. Maybe he is happier now.

She’s demanding. More and more and more. She’s wanting—wanting the circumferential spirit to swallow whole. She’s chasing. The feelings and his hips and her breath. She wants the world to disappear and collapse beneath her. She wants the world to quake beneath her, to bow on its knees for her. She wants to be worshipped and she wants to be loved. She wants, and she wants—she’s wanting it all from him.

Like Achilles. Always wanting more. Always chasing. Is this how he felt? Always catching up, never catching a breath. Air taken for granted, lungs burning with effort. Heroic in effort and valor.

Eren’s hips stumble; he is losing momentum. The climax is building. His grip on her hair tightens, pulls on the roots until the nerves fire endlessly into her system. He thrusts his hips forward, until the tip of his desire is pressing against her soft palate and she can barely breathe without gagging. His mouth is open, panting countless weak breaths and no more praises, no coherence in each expulsion as his body trembles with surmounting pleasure until there's a hot liquid streaming down her throat, burning itself into the back lining with no regard for her being.

Biology is cruel, but Eren is not. As quickly as the liquid had come, it vanished. He hastily retrieves himself and kneels in front of her. The hand tight in her hair now loose against her cheek, his dilated pupils drilling into her own. Her jaw aches now, but his thumb rubs along the edge so smoothly, like he were soothing the affected area until she is numb to all sensation. He's smiling, so greatly it must burn, dimples etching into his cheeks from the depth of this euphoria. He's panting, chest heaving to catch all the air he didn't even miss.

The gratuitous green bears a truth larger than life. She shivers beneath its intensity, amplifying the blood coursing through her vessels until she could hear the roaring message etching into her skin and bones. Glutinous in glory. Greedy in love. I will destroy this world for you. I will rebuild it all for you.

He inches closer, closer, until his nose brushes against hers and she feels the heat emanating off his lips. Feels the thin skin of his lips reaching out for connection.

She once searched for him in everyone. She still does, looks for him in the crowded pews, searches for bits of his soul in others. No one surmounts to him. He's looking for a semblance of truth. She gives him it. For me, you are the measure of all things.

Their lips touch once, twice, until they do not separate again. Meshing together with a blinding impurity, a heathenish quality that would make the weak-willed and weak-hearted tremble. A connection, morphing into more. One being. One soul.

Eren's hands dance across her body, caressing the bumps of her breasts and folds of her hips like they were everything holy. He does not restrain himself—he wants and he takes, he craves and he feels and he has. He doesn't heed the inhibition, the guilt. To him, there is no pride veiled as vanity, no pleasure dressed as greed. There is no restriction on the heart. There is no forbidden fruit.

He kisses with intent, a love and a lust powered by Eros and Aphrodite themselves. There is no line to be crossed, no threshold of allowance set by a higher order. There is no higher being to please other than the woman in front of him, who moans and preens under his touch, who continuously yearns for more. There is no greater heaven than the one between us on Earth.

He kisses along her jaw as his hand approaches between her thighs, soft and careful, slow and delicate. He watches Mikasa carefully, each gaze towards her features lingering a moment too long as his hand slides towards the apex and feels for the bud of her flower.

Her eyelids flutter, the lightest inhale to accompany a soft, firm touch to her sensitive skin. She remembers this feeling from the altar. The rising pleasure, the blood boiling, the explosive euphoria to ensue if he continues for long.

Eren's fingers lower even further, until they slip and disappear inside her and feel at her soft, velvet walls. Mikasa gapes at the feeling, barely any air left in her lungs to attempt a futile escape, because she's gasping shortly after, as his fingers poke around and she's desperate for air.

Mikasa's hands grab at Eren's biceps, digging her fingernails into the unyielding muscle with a forlorn determination. She feels every movement, each crook and angle of his bending and stretching fingers, each tongue lick and kiss against the skin of her chest as he explores her body, each wavering hold on her hip with his other hand as he relies on strength to hold him over her. She feels it all, each with a graduating intensity and an ever-faster beating heart and lungs that can't keep up.

Each movement lays a foundation, a heated layer upon layer slowly developing into an inescapable tension of her body, into a numbing sensation that silences her mind. And he doesn't stop, doesn't yield as he fusses with his position over her, until he's laying directly on top and she can feel the awkward way his wrist bends against her thighs.

The blood roars in her ears, silencing any wet noises that resonate from near her hips as he further shifts his fingers. Her eyes are closed, her lips are parted. She feels the pulsing in her arteries against the barring restraints of her skin, so harsh and heavy it feels like they might burst at any moment. She feels the want, steeping and steeping to an ever inclining point.

He removes his hand, whispers something she didn't quite catch in her ear before he shifting above her again. She doesn't open her eyes, doesn't move a muscle, doesn't even breathe. A restless purgatory, set in stone as she waits endlessly for his next action. And he leans over her, admiration and love and all, overbearing in his chest with no way to express it. He'd cut open his chest if he could, let it bleed over her until she could truly envision how deeply he cares, how deeply he burns. Most ardently.

Mikasa feels the press of his tip between her legs. She shivers, a smile breaking the reins and encompassing her cheeks. Is she free yet? Floating with the wind and running with the wolves.

He pushes deeper, deeper, and deeper until she can no longer feel where her skin ends and his begins. Until they've physically melded, warm and seductive.

What happens to the heart? It burns. It bleeds. It beats. It always beats.

It burns because it's warm. Fiery and volcanic, hot and turbulent and tempestuous. It bleeds because it loves. It's full and giving and desirable. It's loving and providing, always, always providing. It beats because it's free. It continues to beat through it all, the upset and the uplifting, the turmoil and the restful. It beats because it's alive.

With him she feels purer than heaven. With him, she feels seen. With him, she feels love.

The love swells within her, pushing further into her body with each careful thrust of his hips. The fullness of him, forcing her care and warmth to go elsewhere, spread throughout her body from her fingertips to toes to the ends of her hair. She feels it all. Each nerve ending resonating, communicating, firing.

Mikasa opens her eyes. Brings her hands from his arms to his cheeks. He looks to her, her movement catching his attention and finding himself incapable of looking away. He's sweating, he's pink. He's exhilarating.

She pulls him in, until their lips are attached and moving in rhythm with his hips. She follows his lead—she wants; she takes. She's starving, craving. Finally chasing the remedy. Because heaven is here, encompassing us on earth.

She wraps her legs around his hips, encouraging him to be closer. It's exalting the feeling, accelerating the intensity of blood through her body. Mikasa's elated here, bodies intertwined in a temporary union. She allows herself to feel whole, to squash the guilt arising from not truly feeling guilty at all.

And the world didn't end. The ground didn't collapse beneath her and swallow her whole. Her heart still beats. Her lungs still breathe. Her spirit still talks. Her soul still believes.

Mikasa clutches onto her lover, tighter and tighter as the pleasure reaches a climax free of guilty restraint and restriction. The explosion fills the chambers of her heart more greatly than ever before, as it pounds relentlessly against her chest. She feels Eren's heart, synchronous and harmonious, marching in line with her own beat. Until they are too merging as one, heavy beat, reaching out for the other through bones and skin.

He leans his forehead against hers as the same burning liquid from earlier coats her insides, the sheer force of the spill matching a fervent moan from the man himself. Her body tenses, toes curling in her own world, and she reciprocates his noise with her own, crawling out from the depths of her hard beating chest.

They pant together afterwards, bodies still joined and attached. Eren rubs his thumb along her cheekbone, smiles softly as the fire in his eyes continue to burn unkempt. Show me your thorns, and I will show you hands ready to bleed.