#I dare you to look up crucifixes

[ceo-of-stealing-ur-fucking-teeth]

Something that’s always been wild to me is how my mother didn’t understand my obsession with death and gore. But dragged me to a church every week, sometimes multiple times, to a place with giant statue of a man in agonizing pain, covered in blood, right in the center.

And read me stories about people dying horrible, awful, brutal deaths with a tone of reverence.

But had the audacity to be uncomfortable when I started drawing creepy ass half dead things. Like, okay, make up your mind. I thought this was a good thing?’

[angelsforthenight]

BEYOND SALVAGE — ellie williams x fem!reader (pt. 2)

a catholic boarding school AU… read pt. 1 here! ೀ⋆｡˚

after the humiliating sports day accident, ellie seems to take direct notice of you. your uncontrollable desires and bodily reactions cause you to feel horrible, until one night in the chapel.

cw: mdni!!!, long (but worth it 😛) heavy religious (catholic) talk, hinted religious trauma, ellie has piercings, inexperienced!reader, dom!ellie, sub!reader, player!ellie, v brief masturbation, brief drugs, fucking in an inconvenient place, intense foreplay, teasing, cursing, finger-sucking, nipple-sucking, cunnilingus, fingering, sorta mean!ellie, kiiiinda brat!reader

taglist: @shewantstoknow @iluvgrlsblog @kitaanah @yumimak @babesmwah @lawofblla @elliesfavgf @4ftergloww @circe-is-struggling @seraphicsentences @we-loveebony @marrycv @lavenderhazelsworld

“…God forgives all, does He not?”

days go by and within each one, ellie plays a more prominent role in your routine. everywhere you go she’s just there. you also catch her looking at you: whether it’s in class or in church service. this begins to be a massive bother since she’s making things incredibly difficult.

your body is also starting to experience changes. every single time without fail, whenever your gaze would meet hers, you would feel your heart start to pick up the pace, and a strange yet eerily familiar throbbing sensation between your legs occur. whenever your cunt would flex, you would try to squeeze your thighs together, hoping to ease it, but it’d only make things worse.

as much as you’d hate to admit, you subconsciously know exactly what’s wrong with you. these nights, whilst trying to fall asleep, you’ve been letting your mind wander. thinking all these sinful thoughts surrounding ellie that you in the past would’ve never even dared to. you don’t even know where this is all coming from — all because of the sports day incident, really?

you feel disgusting, but you can’t seem to stop. it’s as if a little creature inside you has been roused awake and is starving.

it’s currently 12 in the morning. every girl in your dorm is overcome with drowse — gently snoozing away and filling the room with the sound of soft breathes. every girl but you, who’s wide awake. you, who can feel the creature within you snarl and whine with hunger, you who can’t stop imagining what it’d feel like if ellie were to fuck you and you who’s fingers are starting to creep down your white cotton night-gown. your head begins to be overclouded by yearn and arousal as your fingers prudently brush up against your clothed cunt. your breath hitches and you slightly squirm; ellie’s face and her demeanour embellished in your mind. you’re about to continue trailing down this path of wickedness until you hear somebody stir in their sleep, making you jolt and immediately pull your hand away; snapping you out of the indecent daze.

your eyes glance up at the huge crucifix held above the door. you can feel Jesus’ hard, judgemental gaze cast upon you and you feel morbid. this influences you to get up and skulk to the school’s chapel. you need to thoroughly apologise for your godless actions after all.

as you kneel, you feel your knees sink against the cold cushion of one of the pillars. you take a deep breath, doing the sign of the cross and clenching your eyes shut.

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

but then your mind goes blank. you have no idea what to say, too afraid to mutter what you’ve been doing aloud. your mouth slightly opens, expecting words to spill out, but there’s nothing.

as you’re still figuring something to say, you suddenly smell a strong poignant scent of earth and musk. your eyes immediately shoot open. it’s way too smelly to be incense. you scan the area only to see that there’s nobody there, but the smell is just way too distracting for you to continue your prayer. you feel compelled to figure out where the scent is coming from — leading you to an abandoned curtain in the far corner of the room. you immediately draw the curtain open.

ellie stares up at you like a deer caught in headlights, a lit blunt hanging out of her lips. she’s sat on a plastic stool, wearing a fitted black tank top and flannel pyjama bottoms. your jaw slightly drops at the sight of her. her eyebrows raise as she stares you down, seemingly relieved it wasn’t one of the sisters that had caught her.

“nice nightgown.” you frown. you couldn’t believe what she was doing. in the holiest place in the building, to add!

“you want?” she continues, holding it up to you. you gasp softly and vigorously shake your head.

“what are you doing?” you ask dumbly. ellie chuckles amusedly.

“if you’re gonna tell on me, just tell.” cockiness oozes from her tone. it pisses you off.

“why are you smoking?” you hiss, “i mean, do you have at least an ounce of respect?”

ellie stares at you with half-lidded eyes, carelessly taking another drag. she exhales a little plume of smoke.

“sorry princess…” she drawls, her gaze trained on you as the corner of her lips arch up into a small smirk. lo and behold, the same old throbbing makes itself known again — only this time with such intensity that it surprises you. you’re speechless.

the cocky little smirk never leaves ellie’s face. she gets up, flicking the joint away. besides, it’s clear she’s now interested in something someone else. she walks over to you whilst you feel your brain slowly turn into mush.

“joint’s gone… you happy?” she mutters, her tone low and sultry. the air suddenly feels too thick. ellie slightly cocks her head to the side when you don’t respond. you can sense the starving creature inside you salivate for the taste of ellie’s lips. you helplessly wonder if they taste sweet, or maybe bitter from the weed.

you sigh, your eyes briefly fluttering closed.

“it’s all your fault…” you find yourself muttering.

ellie’s eyebrows raise. “oh?”

“do you know what you’ve been doing to me?” you continue, your rage beginning to re-surface. you’ve spent years trying to resist the constraints of sin yet ellie’s brought that all down in a week.

“enlighten me.”

“you’re—“ you purse your lips, feeling butterflies furiously swarm in your stomach. “you’re driving me insane.”

ellie’s smile slightly falters, shifting into a more serious look. she steps even closer to you, now only mere inches away.

“well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“that’s not supposed to be a good thing.” you retort, despite the inner storm brewing inside of you. you’re great at playing it cool, though you subtly sink your nails into your palm to check if you’re not dreaming.

“mmh… you wanna know what was a good thing though? when you sat your pretty ass on my lap the other day.” she gauges your reaction, biting her lip in amused anticipation.

your jaw drops before you look around as if anyone else is in here but you two. “don’t say stuff like that!”

ellie giggles, the sound of it echoing through the chapel. it sounds like vanilla. she enjoys how flustered you look. her eyes drift down to the way you’re not-so-subtly squeezing your thighs together: one leg in front of the other.

“you good?” her gaze hinting to your legs. you glance down, not even realising you were doing that.

“i‘m fine.” you spit, lying through your teeth. you ask yourself if you should leave, staring at the floor so not even realising how close ellie has just stepped right now.

she stares at you before her thumb and index cup your chin, making you look back up at her. your eyes slightly widen, clearly not expecting that. ellie’s eyes drift to your lips.

“it’s okay, you know? God forgives all, does He not?” she whispers, her thumb tracing along your bottom lip. you don’t pull away. the devil was chipping away at your chastity and you were letting it. you were letting it.

“not much of a talker…” she mutters, her thumb slightly dragging your lip down. you feel something unleash inside of you.

and then you do the unthinkable.

way too stimulated and awoken, you abruptly lean in and press your lips against ellie’s. turns out they do taste sweet after all. ellie’s eyes widen in surprise before happily kissing you back; latching her hands against your back and pulling you closer. your creature hums in satisfaction as what was once a light kiss quickly shifts into a sloppy make-out sesh. tongues gliding together, the sound of smooches filling the room. you can feel her spider-bites plink against the right side of your face. its coldness feels both refreshing and ticklish. you have no idea what’s come over you, but you’re enjoying this. a muffled whimper escapes your lips as you cup ellie’s cheek, feeling dizzy. ellie pulls away; a line of drool briefly connecting your lips. she grabs your hand and sniffs it. you stare at her in bewilderment — is this what people normally do before fornicating?

“you been playing with yourself or something?” ellie snorts. and here you were thinking that there’s no possible way you could embarrass yourself more…

“keep talking and i’ll change my mind about this.” you return, so obviously avoiding the question. ellie giggles, before leaving a small wet kiss on the back of your unclean hand. your blush deepens. grinning, she decides to take things a step further by putting your middle finger in her mouth, sucking it as she makes sure to maintain eye contact. your lips part, staring at her in disbelief. she‘s clearly teasing: her flattened tongue curling against the tip of your finger. you’re so turned on that it’s hard to think.

“you were playing with yourself. it tastes good.” she murmurs in a smug manner before pulling you into another kiss — this one, a lot more intense. everything seems to be going so fast, but you don’t care. you thread your fingers through ellie’s hair, chest pressed against chest.

whilst you two practically eat each other’s faces off, ellie’s hands slowly snake down your back; grabbing your ass. you gasp but before you’ve got the time to properly react, ellie’s already gently pushing you down onto the discarded altar behind you two.

the small cross on your necklace is merely an accessory by now; you’re far too gone, way beyond salvage.

“close the curtains.” you mutter breathlessly, your eyes glazed over, pupils dilated. you prop yourself up on your elbows.

“yes ma’am.” she then comes back, shifting attention to your neck. you let out a shuddered sigh as she peppers your neck with sloppy little kisses. when she finds your sweet spot, your breath hitches. she smirks against your flesh before abusing that spot some more; nibbling and sucking on it. you bite your lip as to suppress a loud whimper.

at the same time, her hand finds your breast; lightly cupping it between her palm. her thumb brushes against your dressed nipple and you shiver. next thing you know, she has her mouth on it — which, at this point, is as hard as a pebble. your body jolts when you feel her tongue slowly circling around the bud; the fabric covering it turning transparent. she does the same with the other nipple. you feel your warmth mingle in with hers; her scent invading your nostrils. she smells like a forest, and you’re willing to burn in it. with a “pop” she pulls away, staring at you.

“you sure you want it?” she asks, her gaze never leaving yours. she needed to make sure. losing your virginity in a chapel is a pretty huge thing after all…

yet you don’t just want it, you need it. hence why you nod in an almost frantic manner. ellie beams, planting a tender kiss on the top of your knee before slowly spreading your legs apart. you’re glad you’re in a secluded space in the chapel. you weren’t up for seeing emblems and statues of Jesus leering at you. nor Mary, nor Moses, nor Gabriel.

ellie raises your dress up so it’s laying on your stomach. her thumb traces circles on your outer thighs whilst her lips are set on the inner part; implementing kind kisses. you can already feel tingles coarse through your body, and you appreciate how ellie’s taking her sweet time, but you do also want her to get on with it already.

“hurry.” you whine. ellie chuckles.

“am i not allowed to make this the best experience for you?” she quips. her lips are starting to enter dangerous territory; pecking the edge of your panties. your body involuntarily jerks, evoking yet another amused reaction from ellie.

“so sassy for someone who’s so sensitive.” she taunts. you pout and clamp your legs shut in response — too embarrassed at the way ellie’s staring at your crotch and poking fun. ellie giggles.

“oh no, no, no.” she says, forcing them back open again. “act like a brat and maybe i’ll be the one changing my mind about this.”

she then places a heavy kiss right in the middle of your crotch. despite your underwear still being on, you felt that strongly. an uncontrollable moan escapes your lips; a noise accidentally too loud.

“shhhh… you know what? open your mouth.” you do as she says, and she leans up and stuffs the raised up section of your gown in your mouth; like a gag. you stare at her with big eyes.

to tease even more, ellie leans down and slowly trails her flattened tongue up your dressed pussy. you let out a muffled moan, your back slightly arching.

“yeah… that’ll shut you up.” she says smugly before her finger twirls itself around the side of your panties, pulling it down. you feel the fresh breeze hit your cunt and your eyes momentarily clench shut. this is it. finally.

ellie never stops with the kissing. it’s pretty damn obvious you’ve never done this before so she wants to be initially polite; saving the roughness for later. she kisses your clit, the tip of her tongue swirling around the nub. you groan in pleasure, your teeth sinking hard against your dress. despite her obnoxious behaviour, ellie’s pleasing you like you’re a goddamn queen: head slowly bobbing up and down, lips tugging at your folds.

she’s savouring you as if you’re a precious meal. your hand quickly finds itself in ellie’s hair; gripping it tightly the more ellie goes down on you.

“fuck.” ellie groans. your hand on her hair increases her arousal and it drives her to slightly pick up the pace. you don’t notice, but she’s lightly grinding against the table; letting out a few muffled moans of her own.

she increases the pressure on her tongue — to which you respond to delightfully: arching your back and your moans beginning to crescendo. you twitch and quiver as ellie devours you; going to town on your sensitive cunt. you start to feel overwhelmingly good, causing you to unintentionally squirm away from ellie’s mouth.

“don’t run away…” she coos. as she pulls your thighs back to her, she plunges her middle finger in your cunt. caught off guard, you let out a suppressed cry. ellie smirks as she resumes the movements with her mouth. you feel so good that your hips buckle up: desperate for more. her finger curls up against your g-spot and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

eventually, ellie adds her ring finger too. the erotic noises of ellie finger-fucking you fills the room. ellie grips your thigh with her free hand so that you don’t escape again; pleasuring you relentlessly.

your head is completely blank and you’re pulsating with pleasure. you can’t stop shuddering. ellie can tell by the way your walls are eagerly squeezing around her fingers that you’re getting close, so she leans up and takes the dress out of your mouth; a thick tendril of saliva clinging from your mouth. the sight of it turns her on in unimaginable ways.

“feels good, huh?” she mutters, her fingers banging up against your g-spot repeatedly. you bite your lip, trying not to be too loud but it’s hard. you’re a hot mess; eyes half-lidded, needy whines escaping your lips, jaw slack.

“can’t even speak…? come on, i wanna hear you.” ellie taunts, fucking you harder. you squeal; feeling a knot starting to untie in your stomach.

“feels so good… i love it. sweet jesus…” you babble, almost incoherently.

“jesus? jesus isn’t making you feel this good, i am. say my name.” she demands.

“e-ellie… something’s happening…” you mewl. ellie smirks before planting wet, sloppy kisses on your chest. “good girl… such a pretty fucking girl…” she mumbles, leaning down and sucking on your pussy yet again. she can’t seem to get enough of how you taste. your hand grips the back of her head and you push it closer, her nose rubbing against your vulva.

you swear you’re starting to see stars, your muscles beginning to unclench. you scream ellie’s name; forgetting how loud you’re being.

“let it out. make a mess all over my mouth, my fingers.” ellie sounds like she’s almost pleading, her voice hot and husky, fanning your aching cunt.

and that was your cue. you feel your wind get knocked out as you attempt to cry out, feeling as if you’ve lost your breath. your eyes once again roll to the back of your head as you endure an insanely pleasurable orgasm; trembling as if your life depends on it. ellie keeps going just for a little moment in order to extend your high. tears stream down your face. ellie takes her fingers out, and even that feels good.

“haa… you okay?” she whispers, wiping the tears from your face with her thumb. you don’t even feel real. too weak to speak, you simply nod.

ellie smiles: a warm, tender smile compared to her usual conceited attitude. like a gentleman, she pulls your panties back up and your dress back down. she glances at you — enjoying the spent, hazy look on your face. she’d like to see that more often.

“that’s weird… i thought the guilt would kick in by now.” you mutter, feeling exhausted instead. ellie giggles.

“shit, maybe tomorrow.”

“maybe.”

a/n: omfg i swr i got possessed whilst writing this JFC!!!!! also such a coincidence i’m posting this on sunday… the day of the lord… hhahahaha….

— free gaza from the river to the sea 🇵🇸 please remember to keep talking about it and spreading awareness!!

[minotaurs-my-beloved]

Not the mermaid anon but I was thinking of a nun encountering an angel, who is not as virtuous as the scriptues say, and the angel convincing the nun that she is going to hell unless she has sex with him.

Jesus Wept.

(or the terrible pun of a title i originally used, The Second Cumming)

What a fun idea anon, it also gives me a reason to be dramatic, sacrilegious, make a terrible pun, and dump a little bit of bible lore thats been ingrained in me

TW: Sacrilege and noncon or dubcon (the demon is pretty coercive and lies about being an angel)

He'll whisper sweet lies into your ear to try and get you on board, "You are chosen to be Mary. Through you will the second coming of Christ occur as the scriptures foretold all the way back in Genesis. To crush the head of the serpent, don't you remember?"

You call him out on the fact that Jesus already did that in his first coming and he laughs it off, saying, "Oh Ye of little faith, you all have interpreted this wrong. He has yet to fully crush the head, that is why demons and sin still exist. Hence him needing to return a second time, to fully end it."

When you ask why God would make you commit an egregious sin such as sex and not perform a miracle like he did with the virgin Mary, he angrily strikes you down. "God would not want that? You would dare question God's plan? As a mere mortal who cannot even wrap your head around his sheer existence, you defy him? Such hubris, do you want to suffer eternal damnation?"

You quickly try to redeem yourself, the threat of hell absolutely terrifying you and simply say that you do not understand. He just tells you that you do not need to, it is not your place. You try to rationalize all of this, knowing your God would never wish to harm you, this must be the way. I mean, he's an angel, is it really even considered fornication?

So, you agree.

He quickly strips you, his eyes don't look like they used to, now predatory, losing some of the light they used to hold. You just stand there, unsure of what you're meant to do. You're a virgin of course, you had never even kissed someone, and never thought about sex lest you fall into lust. He realizes this and starts telling you what he wants. Ordering for you to get on your hands and knees before him.

He goes behind you and you feel something sliding up and down your pussy, you whimper in fear, not knowing how this will feel, but you push all that to the side because you want to serve your God. He is surprisingly gentle in the beginning, slowly pushing his cock into your cunt, asking if you're okay. But the second he's fully inside, all of that disappears as he drives his cock in deep over and over. He grabs you by the hair, making you look up, "Look at the crucifix, you're worshiping your savior as I speak. Recite the holy prayer for me, c'mon."

He sounds completely different, from a booming, holy voice he now sounds raspy and strange. You try to look back at him, but his grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to look ahead. You begin saying the prayer as he commanded you, but it's so hard to think when he's fucking you like this. With each stutter he slaps your ass and you whine, trying your best to remember the entire thing. It gets exponentially harder to do so when something starts pushing against the rim of your asshole.

Before you have time to ask what he's doing, he rams his cock fully inside your tight hole, making you scream. He's now fucking you with two cocks. Why does he have two cocks? (for the second cumming, ikik im so funny) You have completely given up the prayer at this point, and he seems to have too, instead focusing on fucking you.

"I'm going to cum. I'm going to fill and ruin your holes and you're going to fucking take it. Thank your God. Thank him for my cum."

[see-arcane]

I am almost fine with people saying he has one brain cell, because I have seen dozens of people make the worse claim that he is "an arrogant, smug, proud of his rationality Victorian who laughs at the locals for their superstitions."

It is such a prevalent assesment that it's now considered a core character trait of his. When today's entry indicates nothing of the sort.

UH OH, YOU’VE ACTIVATED MY TANGENT CARD

(Text Brick Incoming)

Jonathan’s fundamental flaw at this stage does involve looking down on or viewing the locals and their traditions as quaint/idolatrous/ridiculous et al. He uses poor terminology too, owing to the Doylist reason of his author’s knowledge and biases, while the Watsonian reason is easy enough to read as Jonathan 1) Having to rely solely on biased/incomplete knowledge from his homeland’s writings on the place and 2) What I think is him trying to overcompensate as a trained reflex

I’ve always pictured Jonathan and Mina as having not only a lower social and monetary standing, but possibly a hindrance of race. (Case in point, I suspect a certain unique prop Jonathan brandishes later on is something he inherited, not something picked up by happenstance.)

That said—they are poor, they are not the idealized picture of the fair English Citizen…but they are both polite, charming, hardworking, and masters of ~making friends~ as a defense mechanism. And I’d bet money that included relying on what few positive nods their peers allowed.

“You’re so nice! So industrious! Your physiognomy really counters your origins! And you are wise enough to look down on those silly foreigners, aren’t you? Of course you are! You’re one of the good ones.”

Now, regardless of what headcanon is landed on as far as race/ethnicity/other backgrounds go, those last points are key. Because they go towards Being a Good Englishman/woman. Being wiser than to buy into fretting non-English superstitions. Knowing to ogle the people of other lands like curiosities in a zoo. Judging people by their face or the shape of their skull. This is the Norm. This is Good of the Victorian Englishman Abroad.

And we see Jonathan hold to all these stereotypes…to a degree. But we see within these same early entries that his instincts and general good nature chafe against that social training. He’s too much himself to do entirely as a Proper Englishman should.

He went out of his way to study all the limited info he had access to, incomplete or half-informed as it was. He delighted in learning everything he could of the places and people as he traveled, wanting to embrace and be educated on the land. And even when a lifetime of advising against it, of insistence upon derision, tried to take over when the crucifix was offered? He still accepted it. He still wears it even when the old woman departs, whether or not he believes in its importance.

And, vitally, his instincts are very Very awake to the fact that Something is Off. A Proper Englishman (and many an oblivious or stubborn dad in a ghostly horror movie) would shrug this unease off at once. But Jonathan doesn’t. He remains on Dracula’s route only because he has no other choice. All he does is mention quietly that he hopes Mina gets his diary if he happens to die on this journey.

Imagine that. Bracing for and acknowledging the sense that You Might Die on This Little Business Trip and just…having to go along with it. Because what will you tell your boss otherwise? What will you tell your fiancée?

These aren’t the concerns of a well-off stuffy snob of a man. It’s the resignation of someone who understands they live on the lowest rung of the ladder and that they will risk losing what little progress they’ve made if they dare to turn back.

As for sneering at the locals’ superstitions, period, consider: How likely would anyone really be to suddenly believe in monsters after coming out of the background Jonathan has? What could possibly have convinced him of the reality of the situation OTHER THAN SEEING IT IN PERSON? (Note, a key plot point for certain other characters later!)

The point of his being unable to take the supernatural aspect at face value is that, well, Why Would Anyone Immediately Jump to a Supernatural Conclusion in His Place?

What possible context does he have here!? Maybe he should have read Dracula first, ha ha—

Oh wait. He can’t do that. Why?

Because this man has never read Dracula BECAUSE HE IS LIVING AND WRITING THE BOOK DRACULA!!

Anyway.

tl;dr: I am very tired of both the Stuffy Victorian Snobprick and Oblivious Idiotbaby takes on my good friend Jonathan Harker

[blankwashed]

This is Part 2. Part 1 here 😘

(on my page, we do not throw hatred towards Mahito. He’s a character, he did his job, if you wanna throw hatred at him, hate on Gege, not him.) (or me)

Sukuna Ryomen (sadomasochism, power play, vocal commands/dirty talk)

oh my me, Sukuna. i honestly feel he has more than 3 😩so firstly, he definitely would receive pleasure from inflicting pain on his partner. when you're holding back your cries and scream, he'll be jacking off with a smug look on his face WHILE trying to cause you more pain. There's never enough. He wants his partner to be at his mercy and to worship him.

He IS the king of curses and he thrives on dominance and control. Sukuna loves to enjoy scenarios where he can exert his authority and command over you. And in return, you receive a spank on your ass 😉

Another dirty talker. Sukuna can make you orgasm with his words. Have you heard his voice? *shivers* He would use explicit dirty talk to remind his partner who is in charge. He's the type of person who would edge you.........hours on end. You would never even dare to do it to him, valuing your life. “what a little slut of mine…already so wet. you don’t get to cum yet.”

Shiu Kong (sensory deprivation, mind games, public degradation and humiliation)

Shiu loooooves using blindfolds, gags, masks/hoods to minimise your visual and hearing input. The Korean man loves how as he deprives each of your senses, it would amplify the remaining ones.

As a man with a strategic mind and his desire for control, Shiu loves it when he could fuck your mind. His favourite would be teasing and denial where he builds up your anticipation and expectation without allowing immediate or no gratification. Your pleasure derives from his mood.

A thrilling and risky kink would be him carefully selecting the place/places for your degradation and humiliation. Shiu loves it when your cheeks flush in embarrassment in public. Heard about the power bullet vibrator? It can be controlled by a single person, the person being Shiu. He wants you to beg for him to touch you to cum and also permission to cum. All in public, baby,.

Naoya Zenin (verbal belittlment and humiliation, orgasm control, bondage and restraint)

Now, this is tricky, because to the naked eye it can be seen as him trying to oppress you. But Naoya lives on power dynamics. He gets turned on the most when he sees you being derived from his touch and humiliation. If Naoya could, he would have you on a leash in public, reminding you who’s in charge. He would be smirking and enjoying the whispers and shocked looks from onlookers. He owns you, doesn’t he?

There are lots of perverse thrills that this man longs to do to you but the one suited for Naoya would be the delicate art of orgasm control. His thick broad palms and fingers that are long and muscular would bring you to the brink of ecstasy only to deny you the release you longed for. For a couple times. Scratch that, umpteenth times. You get so tired after spending the night with him you usually call in sick to work/university the next day.

Last but not least for Naoya, he found satisfaction in the sight of you bound and restrained. He would get you to bind yourself, starting with your tummy, ankles and he would assist you with your hands. All tied to a wooden crucifix. Naoya loooves seeing you vulnerable and your helplessness which only heightens his arousal. Circling around you with a paddle in hand, ready to strike at any minute, you only knew that you belonged to him.

Aoi Todo (care giver/little dynamics. edging, oral fixation)

Todo's character is typically portrayed as a confident, loving brother (besto friendo) so he loooves showing you his protectiveness despite his dominant stature. Todo would create a different relationship dynamic with you where he asserts dominance but still nurtures you with care and support.

We can't forget about his strong and athletic build. He would use his physical strength to enhance the intensity of his edging session with you. Along with that, he would use his strong commanding voice to heighten the anticipation and intensity.

He LOVES your mouth, sometimes too much. Starring at you when you lick your lips, when you're plucking the dead skin from your lips. He knows you yearn to cram his cock in your mouth everyday, filling it up with his cum in the end 😉.

Mahito (control of other's body, masochism, degradation)

He's lucky to be able to control and manipulate bodies of others. Mahito would use his cursed technique to immobilize his partner in sexual positions. Because of his ability to manipulate their movements, he would be able to enhance his or his partner's pleasure. I also don't feel he is loyal to one partner so sometimes maybe orgies?

Mahito is sadistic. Periodt. He would manipulate and control his partner. If you're his ideal partner, you would be alright with him bringing you to the edge of your orgasm repeatedly, only for him to deny your release at the last moment. He also won't bother if you cry, he's a cursed spirit. He likes causing you pain.

Similar to Naoya, he has a sadistic nature that never goes away. It turns him the fuck on when he humiliates you as he knows all your insecurities and vulnerabilities. He would say sentences like, "Shut your dirty whore mouth," when you try to say anything or "Did you forget? It's because your hole is tight, I have no emotions towards you"

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

Preacher

Note:  requested by @neonhairspray! Was I inspired by Jesse Custer? Well, duh ;)

Warnings: 18+!!! smut.

pairing: modern!Sihtric x you (f)

summary: When a new priest showed up at your grandma's local church, even you thanked God.

wordcount: 3,3k

Masterlist

'Ain't that skirt a little short for church?'

Church. You hated it. Well, maybe not really hated, but it bored you. Your grandma, however; a big fan. And being the good granddaughter that you are, you always joined her on Sundays.

The problem was just that you didn't share her beliefs, you weren't quite sure about what you believed actually, but it surely wasn't the nailed God your grandma believed in. And those sermons seemed to last for years too, as you sat there trying to suppress yawn after yawn. More than once you were given glares, by Father Beocca, the only priest you had ever seen in that church, during his endless preaching. But as you were never a bother or disturbed anything, he never fully told you off, he just thought it was a shame you didn't know any of the religious songs that everyone would belt out throughout the service. Your grandma thought that Father Beocca was a 'fine young man, one you should marry,' but then your grandma was old, half blind and half deaf too.

And when you arrived at the church, on another fine Sunday morning, you noticed immediately that something was different. You parked as close as you could to the church entrance, and when you got out of the car you noticed how the faithful church goers murmured and looked confused, almost even panicked. And then you saw Sister Hild at the doors, and you heard her explain how Father Beocca was needed elsewhere, and that there was a new priest in town now. As your grandma was not the fastest around these days, almost everyone was inside the church already when you finally managed to get her out of your car.

'There's a new priest, grandma,' you said as you walked to the entrance.

'What?' she asked.

'There's a new priest!' you shouted, and you were startled by a sudden chuckle.

And when you snapped your head in its direction, your eyes landed on the new priest. He was tall, lean and dressed in all black, the regular priest outfit. Unlike Father Beocca, he didn't wear a large crucifix around his neck and, unlike Father Beocca, he was young and incredibly handsome, dare you say even dangerously arousing, and he actually had hair on his head. Not just a sexy goatee, no, he also had a rather wild looking haircut; dark, long and loose hair reached his shoulders. He reminded you a little of that singer, Hozier, and you couldn't help but think how this priest could absolutely take you to church, or in the church.

Your mouth had fallen slightly open as you stared at him, while he was leaning back against the church wall, smoking a cigarette, which he flicked away before he flashed you a sly smile.

'That new priest would be me,' he said with a warm, low voice, as he exhaled the last smoke before he walked inside the church, leaving you speechless.

'He looks a bit old, doesn't he?' your grandma then said, 'probably because he smokes,' she muttered.

And suddenly you were actually looking forward to the sermon, and you found yourself sitting close to the front, whereas you usually tried to sit as far back as possible. The church was still filled with shocked murmurs and faces, but everyone became silent when the new priest appeared at the altar.

'Good morning,' his smooth voice echoed, 'I see a lot of shocked and confused faces here today, so I want to start today's service by introducing myself. I will be taking over from Father Beocca, as he has been called to serve elsewhere,' he said and looked around the church, 'my name is Sihtric, which you may address me by. But if you're more comfortable calling me Father,' his eyes landed on you, 'you may call me Father Sihtric.'

You swallowed hard as your eyes remained locked for a few seconds. Your mouth had gone dry, your breath hitched in your throat and without realising it, you squeezed your thighs together as you looked up into the priest's duo coloured eyes. He must be of the Devil as well as partly on the side of the Angels too, you thought.

'So,' Sihtric then said with a half smile, and looked back at the crowd, 'shall we begin?'

He gave a curt nod to Sister Hild, who quickly pressed the button on an old cd player, and some religious song blasted through the church while everyone stood up. As per usual, you helped your grandma up, and looked down at your feet while everyone belted out the, to you still unfamiliar, religious lyrics and you suppressed a few yawns as the song seemed to last forever.

The rest of the sermon you were just eyeing up the new priest, who had his eyes on you each time you had averted your gaze for a second, before you redirected it back to him again, which caused you to feel your cheeks heat up each time. You had a lot of time to study him as he preached, and you came to the conclusion that you'd actually fuck this priest, if possible. And with that thought, you probably just reserved a cosy spot in Hell for your soul.

And as you did every Sunday, when the service was more or less over and your grandma needed another half hour to pray, you went outside to sit on the church stairs, catching some sun. And that's where the priest caught your eye again, as he was leaning back in the same spot as where you first saw him, smoking another cigarette.

'I thought priests weren't allowed to smoke,' you commented.

Sihtric turned his face towards you and grinned, before he took another drag.

'It's not forbidden,' he said, 'but it's not encouraged either.'

'Aha,' you smiled, 'I see. I also thought priests aren't allowed to have tattoos,' you said, after you had noticed the tattoo in his neck, and those on his fingers.

Sihtric chuckled and took another drag of his cigarette, then dropped it and stomped it out with his leather booth. He adjusted his black cassock and made way back inside the church, but stopped as he passed you and leaned in.

'And I thought,' Sihtric spoke softly and wetted his lips with his tongue, 'that good Christian ladies didn't press their thighs together as they eyed up their priest,' he winked, and then disappeared behind the large, wooden church doors.

The following Sunday you accompanied your grandmother to church again, and this time you wore your nicest dress and had made a little effort to look nice. All because of the new, hot priest.

And hot he looked once again when he greeted everyone who entered the church, as he stood at the entrance.

'Father Sihtric,' you said with a cheeky smile as you passed him, slowly, as you walked your grandma inside the church.

'Lady,' Sihtric gave a curt nod, 'ain't that skirt a little short for church?' he playfully raised an eyebrow as he looked at your exposed knees.

'You sound like my grandmother,' you scowled.

'Do I look like her too?' he jested.

You chuckled and shook your head, feeling your cheeks heat up as the priest's taunting.

'Sounds like your grandmother is a wise woman,' he said, then leaned in, 'not that I'm complaining about the length of your skirt though.'

You looked back over your shoulder as your grandma shuffled through the doors, and you saw Sihtric's cheeky smile as his eyes trailed up from your behind to your own eyes. 

'Aren't priests supposed to be good holy men?' you teased, 'who abstain from any form of pleasure?'

Sihtric chuckled, 'Sure, I abstain. But don't think I'm a good holy man.'

And not much later after you had found a seat, the Sunday service started. Whatever Sihtric preached was still boring to you, but at least it gave you enough time to fantasise about him. However, as Easter was approaching, it seemed like each week the sermon became longer and longer. 

Several yawns and religious songs later, the service was finally over and you went outside again as your grandmother prayed. You sat on the stairs, leaving enough space for other church goers to leave, whom Sihtric was wishing a good day a few paces away from you. 

Once everybody had left, except for a few devotees who were still praying, like your grandma, Sihtric sat down near you on the stairs, and he lit a cigarette. He offered you one too, but you declined.

'I don't smoke, thanks,' you smiled politely.

'Who would've thought,' Sihtric grinned, 'what a good girl.'

'Aren't you a little too cheeky to be a priest, Father?'

'Perhaps,' he shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette, 'but then I'm not really a believer, you know?'

'What?' you scoffed, amused, 'you're a priest with no faith?'

'I personally practise a different religion,' he looked at you, 'and I hope you will keep this to yourself, to not stir anything up here.'

'Of course,' you said, seriously this time, 'so… why are you a priest then?'

'When I was young I was taken in by a family after I had serious issues with my father, and the people who raised me during my teens were very Christian,' Sihtric said, 'to please them, and to thank them I suppose, I became a priest. That was really what they hoped I'd become, so I did.'

'Damn,' you said, 'that's… quite the dedication.'

'It's not always fun, but you get used to this life and what comes with it. But,' Sihtric grinned again, 'that doesn't mean I follow all the rules.'

'Oh?' you pretended to be shocked, 'so you're not celibate?'

'That I am,' he said, and his eyes trailed down to your exposed legs again, 'although lately I'm questioning that choice,' he smiled, then looked away and continued his cigarette, 'but I do drink and smoke, and I don't pray.'

You laughed at his last words, and Sihtric gave you an amused look.

'Now you know my reason, but why are you not praying right now, lady?'

'I'm only here to accompany my grandmother. She needs someone to drive her, and it's just me and her, so you know…'

'That's kind of you,' Sihtric said and finished his cigarette, then got up, 'I'd almost say you're a saint,' he smiled, 'I guess I'll see you next week then?'

'You will,' you said, and you saw your grandma shuffling towards you.

'Oh, and,' Sihtric leaned in as he stood on a step above you, 'I better not see you yawn as I preach next time.'

The next week Sihtric found you outside again, after the service. And as you hadn't seen him before you got inside the church, like the previous weeks, you were delighted to see he smiled at you and seemed to enjoy your brief company.

'Again not praying?' Sihtric joked as he sat down next to you on the stairs, 'you should try it sometime.'

'Neither are you,' you shrugged, 'maybe you should try it.'

'Maybe I should.'

'Oh, really?' you grinned, 'and why is that?'

You both leaned in a little closer as you looked at each other.

'Because,' Sihtric sighed, 'when everyone is busy singing those little church tunes as I sit back, I can't help but fantasise about the way I'd like to bend you over that altar, and fuck you in front of every single soul present,' he smiled and brought his face closer to yours, 'and that's not very good of me, is it?' he asked and brushed his lips lightly against yours, then flicked his tongue against your lips with a soft chuckle, and got up on his feet.

Without saying another word, he opened the church doors and disappeared inside, leaving you breathless on the stairs, aroused, waiting for your grandmother to finish her prayers. 

Naturally, you hadn't mentioned your interest in the hot priest to your grandmother, and you still behaved the same as always on your way to church, but secretly you were more than happy to join her now each Sunday. And this Sunday, it was Easter.

'Lady,' Sihtric greeted you at the entrance with his cheeky smile.

'Father,' you feigned ignorance as you passed him.

But Sihtric knew you loved the tension, just like he did. And he'd get back at you for playing around like that. To taunt him more, you'd yawn every time Sihtric would look at you, his eyes becoming more intense with each glare he gave you. And when you playfully held your rosary between your fingers, and slowly licked the cross pendant as he looked at yo, Sihtric swallowed hard and had to start over his verse, as he lost his focus for a brief moment.

And not much later, Sihtric stepped down towards the church benches, and Sister Hild approached with a basket and a chalice. You soon found out the basket held sacramental bread and the chalice was filled with wine.

Sihtric then looked at the crowd and said, 'Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation, for through your goodness we have received the bread we offer you, the fruit of the earth and work of human hands, it will become for us the bread of life.'

You tried to keep a serious face as Sihtric approached, followed by Hild, who was a few steps behind as people took their time with the wine after the Father had given them a piece of bread. And then Sihtric held the sacramental bread out to you as he looked down into your eyes, repeating the verse he had said to everyone else.

'Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood,' he spoke with a low voice, 'remains in me and I in them.'

A sly smile appeared on his face as he made a cross sign on your forehead, and then trailed his fingers down your cheek, to your chin.

'Open,' Sihtric whispered.

Luckily your grandma was deaf, and mainly blind, and Sister Hild was still busy with the people in front of you, because this wasn't part of his sermon, but you gladly obeyed as your cheeks burned up.

Sihtric placed the piece of bread on your tongue as he lightly held your chin, 'Swallow,' he whispered the command.

And after you swallowed the bread and looked up at him, batting your eyelashes, he let go of your chin.

'Good girl,' Sihtric winked, and went on to the next person, just before Hild came over to you with the wine.

And where you usually would go outside as your grandmother prayed, you now found yourself stuck in the church. The Easter service would last longer than a usual service, and your grandma wanted to celebrate the day with the others after Sihtric was done handing out the bread. And while everyone gathered in little groups, scattered throughout the church, you decided to get back at Sihtric after what he just did.

'Father?' you played innocent as he turned to you, 'I think I need to confess.'

'I see,' Sihtric said and crossed his arms, looking around the church, 'I'm sure no one would miss me here for a moment.'

He beckoned you to follow him, to the private room that was only for priests to enter, where they'd get ready before the service. It was dimly lit, as there was no lightswitch and only a small window allowed in some daylight. 

'So,' Sihtric said, as he leaned back on a small altar table, 'what would you like to confess?'

'Well, you see,' you smiled sweetly, 'Father, I have to confess that I met a handsome man, who is in a committed relationship with his God.'

'Is he?' Sihtric frowned, with a smile. 

'Yes. But I can't stop myself from fantasising about him...'

'Mhm,' the priest hummed, amused, 'and what happens in those fantasies?' he asked and puckered his lips.

'Well, I find myself fantasising about riding him, or having his head between my thighs, doing the most unholy things,' you confessed.

'Those are some serious sins, young lady,' Sihtric teased.

'I know, Father,' you said, 'what do you think I should do?'

'Well,' Sihtric said, and rolled up his black sleeves, 'I think you should get on your knees and ask for forgiveness.'

'Yes, Father,' you agreed, and kneeled in front of him.

You watched his tattooed fingers unbuckle his black leather belt, slowly, and then he took your hands to guide them, making you take off his belt.

'Good girl,' Sihtric breathed, and grabbed your chin, 'will you continue to be a good girl?'

'Yes, Father.'

Sihtric hummed and smiled, then unbuttoned his black trousers and pulled them slightly down.

'Then be a good girl for me,' he said.

And as you lowered his boxers, freeing his hard cock, he took your face in his hands.

'Open,' he whispered, just like earlier, and guided his length inside your mouth.

The priest started slowly, easing you into the way of forgiveness, and with each slow thrust into your mouth, you felt his cock twitch pleasantly on your tongue. But soon, his big hands moved up into your hair, grabbing a fistful of your locks, and he started thrusting into you faster and deeper, until he was fucking your mouth as if you were his toy. You moaned as you sucked him off, and your eyes watered while you tried not to gag occasionally, and you loved it all.

'That's a good girl,' Sihtric groaned, and stilled inside you for a moment, 'fuck,' he hissed, then chuckled as you gagged slightly and he slapped your cheek.

'No,' he said sternly, 'you will be a good girl and take me, will you not?'

'Mhm,' was all you could hum as your mouth was stuffed with his leaking cock.

Sihtric slapped your cheek again and pulled out, causing a mixture of your saliva and his pre-cum to run down your chin and stain your fancy dress.

'I asked you a question,' he said and grabbed your chin, 'will you be a good girl and take me?'

'Yes, Father,' you breathed, and opened your mouth to him again.

Your hands moved up to his thighs, holding onto him as he fucked your mouth. Each moan and grunt was silent to everyone celebrating Easter right outside that room, as they still sang their songs and chatted loudly with one another. All while you nearly choked on the hot priest's cock, on that holy Sunday.

'Gods, you feel so fucking good,' Sihtric moaned and threw his head back, 'ah, fuck, it's been so long,' he laughed mischievously, 'you should confess your sins to me every week, lady,' he husked and looked down in your eyes, 'and I promise you'll be forgiven each time.'

You moaned and bobbed your head, while his hands still had a firm grip on you, and you enjoyed the way he twitched in your mouth and how his hands tightened in your hair. Sihtric's breathing became heavier and his thrust sloppier while he moaned hard. 

'Swallow,' he then said, moments before he came on your tongue, and you didn't waste a single drop.

'Good girl,' Sihtric breathed, as he pulled out, messing up your dress even worse than before, and he wiped your tears with his thumbs as he held your face, 'such a good girl,' he purred, and leaned in to peck your lips.

He used an altar cloth to clean you up as best as he could, and cupped your cheeks when you got up from your knees.

'I'd like to see you on other days too,' Sihtric whispered, smiling, 'not just on Sundays, and not just in church,' he pulled you closer and kissed your lips gently.

'I'd like that too,' you smiled, tiredly but satisfied, 'Father.'

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[helenanell]

✟ GNASHING OF TEETH ✟

Matt Murdock x FemOC

Warnings: ANGST - Mention of suicide and murder - Religious trauma.

Notes: Childhood friends / sweethearts to strangers

This started as a oneshot idea because I wanted to explore the darker, religious themes of season 3 and it’s grown into a story that spans the entirety of the season…oops.

(My Faceclaim is Melissa Barrera - specifically as Sam Carpenter)

WC: 6.5K

⋆✟⋆

Part I – Self-Flagellation

(Season 3 – Ep 1)

⋆✟⋆

In all the memories Adriana had of her mother, Gloria Crane was always wearing her crucifix.

The outline of it, visible beneath the white nightgown she’d wear when tucking her into bed. The way it would glint in the light of the sun when they walked through the park. It was always present even if it wasn’t visible.

Omnipresent.

All those remembrances were faded to her now; washed out by the harsh years after her mother’s death that had stripped anything good away.

And yet, despite time’s unrelenting forward march, there was one memory of the golden crucifix that remained brutally vivid: it’s usually immaculate surface splattered with blood.

The symbol of the cross that had always represented Jesus’ sacrifice, became instead the reminder that her mother was the sacrifice her father had made to live selfishly.

Adriana had come to be as grateful of the necklace as she was resentful of it. If she had not had it to look upon after the shooting, she might have been forever haunted by the sight of her mother’s open, unseeing eyes instead.

Once they had no longer needed it as evidence, the police had returned the necklace to Adriana’s father and he in turn had given it to her. She could still feel the way his hands had trembled as he’d placed it around her neck, insisting through sobs that she had to wear it for her mother. One of his nails had nicked the back of her neck.

You have to wear it, Ana. Wear it and never take it off. For her.

As the cross had come to rest upon her neck, Adriana had barely swallowed down her scream. Even though it had been cleaned and polished until it gleamed, she had still been able to see the blood. Twenty years later, she saw it still.

Once Adriana had grown up, she had come to the understand why: Christ had been nailed to his cross, nails driven into his flesh, red running in rivulets down his palms; God didn’t mind if things got bloody. In fact, it seemed to Adriana that he preferred it.

The sort of devotion God demanded was an exsanguination. His salvation only came if you bled yourself dry. And even then, he could choose to withhold it.

The nuns had never liked it when Adriana would talk like that. The admonishment of ‘wicked child!’ would still ring in her head when her thoughts became blasphemous.

Not that Adriana had ever cared what the sisters had thought of her, those faithful women who she knew believed that her father had condemned himself to hell when he’d killed himself. They’d never said it to her face, of course, but they’d also never comforted or reassured over it either. Except Sister Maggie. She’d been different.

But even back then, Adriana had known a truth she had no desire to share with the nuns: it would have made no difference if her father had taken his own life or not, because his soul had been damned long before he’d put that gun to his head.

Elliot ‘Eli’ Crane had sold his soul, not to the devil, but a man worse than any biblical evil the children of St Agnes had been taught about.

It had never been the devil Adriana had feared. The devil punished the people that deserved it; he was a necessary evil. She had never been sure he could be considered evil at all.

Humans had made the world hell, and perhaps inadvertently they had made the devil too. He was their consequence.

Those were thoughts that she had never dared voice to the nuns, not even to Sister Maggie.

It wasn’t that Adriana had ever stopped believing in God, she had just found increasingly less deserving of worship.

And yet, even though it had been over a decade since she had left St Agnes, she repeatedly wound up back in the church that she had refused to pray in as a child.

Adriana did not return to seek comfort. As it always was, it had instead been spite that had her dragging herself bruised and beaten into Clinton Church that morning. She had wanted to bloody up God’s house that little bit more. And, as it always did, her mother’s crucifix burned into her flesh where it sat tucked beneath her shirt.

Ignore the sting. Adriana told herself.

Let it all be bloody.

As the weeping of a woman a few rows behind Adriana intensified, she leant forward and rested her head on the back of the pew in front. The carved wood dug into her skin, but instead of wincing at the discomfort, Adriana found herself pressing down a little bit harder.

Perhaps inflicting pain on herself would give her the power over the agony brought about by her fractured ribs.

Her attacker hadn’t kicked her all that hard, but the bastard had been wearing steel-capped boots. Too bad for him his shirt hadn’t been similarly well armoured. Adriana’s knife had sunk into his gut as easily as cutting into air. In her dazed state she had only become certain she had succeeded in stabbing him when she had pulled the blade back and found blood upon it.

Let it all be bloody.

Adriana had known the job was a risky one, but they seemed to be the only kind she took anymore. And she was good at it. Despite the beating, she had retrieved her client’s money in half the time that he had given her.

Her skin had just begun to sting where the wood was digging in when Adriana noted the scuffing of approaching footsteps. With exhaustion a leaden weight inside her skull, it took great effort for her to lift her head, but she forced herself.

“Took you long enough.” Adriana grumbled as she sat up with a wince. “I’ve been sitting here for ages.”

“You’ve been sitting there for five minutes.” Father Lantom corrected wryly. The priest sat himself down next to Adriana and she laughed weakly at the small grunt he let out.

“You’re getting old.” She’d practically heard his limbs protesting at the movement, as if he had hinges that had gone to rust.

“I’ve been getting old for a while now; you just haven’t been around enough to notice.”

There was no judgement in the priest’s voice and yet the words cut her all the same. Adriana told herself to turn her head and look at him, to apologise for disappearing yet again. For letting him worry. But she didn’t do that.

At that moment she was beholden to the sight before her: the sun had shifted in the sky and the new angle had sunbeams travelling through crimson panes of stained-glass. The Pulpit, the first rows of pews and the people praying upon them, were all bathed in the red light.

Adriana would have remained transfixed until the red was washed away by a purer light, but Father Lantom had other ideas. The priest cleared his throat and began to speak.

“You know, to this day we’ve never had a child run away as much as you did. But now that you’re all grown up, we can’t seem to keep you out.” A sadness had snuck out upon his words and Adriana rushed to dispel it.

“Yeah, well that’s not exactly a compliment, Father. The wind could pick the locks you have on these doors.”

As she suspected, Father Lantom was not willing to abide her evasiveness. He never was. “It’s been over a year, Adriana.” He pointed out, sterner now.

Adriana forced herself turn her head and properly look at him. The sight of the priest struck a blow she was neither prepared for, nor had the strength to deflect in her injured state. He really did look older. Not just older- old.

Only when Adriana made eye contact with him, did he finish his thought:

“I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.”

You and me both. Her insipid inner voice hissed.

“Well, as you can see-“Adriana gestured at her bedraggled form. “I’m still alive and kicking.”

“That’s debatable.” Father Lantom said, poking the ribs she had just been cradling. Ana hissed in pain, swatting his hand away with a scowl. “From the looks of you, kicking is off the table.”

“I didn’t come here for you to scold me.” Adriana said, her pain compounded by his worry.

Why was he concerned? She’d never asked him to be. Never expected it. She’d certainly caused him enough problems growing up that she’d been certain he’d be happy to see the back of her. The woman she had become was far from godly.

Father Lantom’s frown vanished, and he laid a hand atop hers. “You come here because for you, it’s a form of self-flagellation. So, what did you do this time, Adriana?”

The white of the priest’s collar seemed all at once blinding and Adriana had to turn her eyes away, blinking rapidly.

“I’ve never let you take my confession, Father. I’m not about to start now.”

“Oh, I’ve never expected that day to come. Even at ten I knew you were too stubborn to ever ask God for his forgiveness.”

“Maybe it’s not his to give.” Instead of sounding angry, Adriana’s voice came out weak and pitiful. She never should have come. She’d been doing so well at staying away.

Cut all ties. That had been the only thought she’d run from St Agnes with, and yet those ties seemed to be made of something she did not have the strength to cut. Adriana had remained bound to this place no matter how hard she’d tried.

“Maybe you feel that way because you still haven’t forgiven God, for taking your mother from you. A woman who was so devoted to him.”

A golden cross covered in blood.

Ana shut her eyes and ran her hands over her face, hoping the priest had depleted his hard truths. He hadn’t.

“There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.” Father Lantom said as he stood, beckoned by an elderly woman two rows ahead. “Some might call it divine intervention, that you’ve both found your way home.”

The priest did not stop, and Adriana was left to gape at his back as he wandered down the aisle. Her heart beat angry against her ruined ribs.

‘There was only ever one person whose absolution you desired.’

Adriana frantically turned the words over in her mind, as if there was some great mystery to them, some trick or hidden meaning. But she knew there wasn’t.

There was—and had only ever been—one person she’d ever think to seek forgiveness from, but Adriana had promised herself a long time ago that she would never seek him out. It would be selfish, and she was utterly undeserving of him.

Let it all be bloody.

But that had never applied to him. She had wanted him far away from her; the only way she knew she couldn’t inflict harm.

It’s why, at the age of eighteen, she had run from Matthew Murdock and never looked back.

⋆✟⋆

There was still a dent in the wall. A witness mark of the first fight she’d ever had, aged thirteen. Adriana had been aiming for Billy Murphy’s head when she’d thrown the baseball, but he’d ducked at the last second and the wall had taken the brunt of her anger. She had always known people would find out who her father had been eventually, but she hadn’t prepared herself for a rat-faced idiot to scrawl that truth all over her schoolbooks:

Adriana Crane Killer!

He had done it to every single one. She imagined he thought that was a nice touch: making the word blood-red. But it was the exclamation mark that had felt especially spiteful to her. She could have sworn the groove was deeper, as if he was so pleased with himself, he’d pressed down harder with the pen.

When Adriana had confronted him about it, his tiny eyes had shone with glee, his thin lips pulling back in a mocking smile.

‘I fixed them.’ He’d declared, looking around the room, his eyes taking on an anticipatory gleam as he’d met the eyes of the other watching on. It was as if he was about to let them in on some brilliant joke. ‘Your dad did kill people, right? He was hitma-‘

Billy didn’t get to finish his sentence before Adriana had hit him square in the face. His shock had quickly turned to embarrassment and then fury, leading to a lot of shoving and scratching surrounded by cheers and shouts for Sister Maggie.

Adriana couldn’t remember how she’d gotten her hands on the baseball—although there was a likely culprit for who would have handed it to her—all she knew was that she’d been aiming for a face, and it had imbedded in drywall instead.

Adriana stepped closer to the wall and ran her fingers over the dent. After the initial patch-up job by Father Lantom, the wall’s wound had been forgotten and had remained even when Adriana had left. In the intervening years, some attempt had been made to properly fill the hole, but it had been a poor one. The damage she had caused remained.

Adriana had spent the last decade scratching and clawing at the world around her, doing anything she could in attempt to feel real and yet there had been evidence of her anger right here all that time.

Something about that made her smile.

The door creaked open. Assuming that the very chatty nun she’d let slip had tracked her down, Adriana didn’t turn around. Instead, she opted to try and memorise the sight of the dent for a little longer. She managed it for only a few seconds before she heard the tell-tale shuffling of tiny feet. Then there were poorly whispered words, urging each other to enter the room first.

Adriana turned and laid her eyes upon the source of the noise. Two girls were peaking their heads through the open door of the classroom, their eyes curious and unblinking. Neither could be older than six.

“Hello.” Adriana said gently, offering them a wave. Her smile widened when the smallest of the two waved back before quickly ducking away with her chubby cheeks flushing pink.

The second girl stepped into the classroom with a defiant expression. She was strikingly wiry for her age, with golden hair in braids so messy that they may as well not have been braids anymore.

“Who are you?” She asked suspiciously.

Adriana immediately warmed to her. All girls should be encouraged to be suspicious, Adriana felt. Distrust kept you safe.

“I’m Adriana.” She offered as she moved to stand before her. “I grew up here.”

“Why were you staring at the wall?”

Adriana glanced back at the dent and shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

This answer induced a perplexed expression so cartoonish that Adriana struggled not to laugh. The girl looked at the wall and then back up at her. Her bright blue eyes narrowed.

“You came back to stare at the wall?”

“No.” Adriana laughed good-naturedly. “But I think maybe you could help me?”

“Help with what?” The smaller girl reappeared in the doorway, looking a little braver.

Adriana knelt in front of the pair. Only a few hours had passed since her conversation with Father Lantom and her body protested the movement, a sharp pain digging into her side.

“What are your names?” She asked, pushing the pain out of her voice.

To her surprise, the shy girl answered first, all but blurting it out: “I’m Mia!”

Adriana nodded, her smile returning. She turned her eye to the second half of the pair, who seemed a little less hostile. “And you?”

“Sarah.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Could you tell me if there’s been any other strangers here recently? Maybe a man with-“

Adriana was cut off by Mia’s dramatic gasp. But it was Sarah, who divested her caution in an instant to speak first.

“He was really hurt. Sister Maggie wouldn’t let us see him.”

A searing sort of concern Adriana hadn’t felt in a long time rose within her and she had to force herself to take a breath.

But none of it made any sense.

Why would Matt come back here? Why is he hurt?

Matt had been on the path to better things. His life was going to be good. Better than all the pain that had come before; better than her. And Adriana knew that it had been- that it was. She had checked in on him as much as she dared in the initial years after she’d left. He had got into Columbia. He had gone to Harvard Law.

Take a breath. Adriana admonished herself. Don’t freak out little kids.

Adriana adjusted her tone to gentle curiosity. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“No.” Sarah said as Mia shook her head. “But it was bad. Sister Maggie’s been helping him.” The searing intensified and then Adriana’s insides were burning. Helping. Not helped. Adriana latched onto the present-tense with a desperation that would have sickened her had had it been for anyone other than Matt.

“Is he still here?”

At that question, the girl’s eyes shot to each other, both equally unsure now. Mia turned around, looking out of the open door. When she looked back, she was chewing on her lip.

Knowing she had to tread carefully, but with confusion and fear now warring within her, Adriana leant closer.

“How about you whisper it?”

“God can hear us even when we whisper.” Sarah said with all the confidence a six-year-old could muster.

“Nope.” Adriana shook her head. “He can’t.”

“He can!”

“Maybe he used to be able to, but God is really old and old people have terrible hearing. Like Father Lantom.” Adriana winked at Mia and the giggle it triggered soothed some of Adriana’s stress, if only for the moment.

Then, Mia leaned in, cupped her hand around Adriana’s ear and whispered: “They told us he left, but he’s in the church basement.”

The basement. Matt had been right below her feet when she’d been talking to Father Lantom. Which meant…he could have heard every word. Adriana’s gut twisted violently.

Leave. He doesn’t need you. He never did.

Adriana shook the thoughts away. She stood up so quickly that it caused both girls to stumble backwards. But she was blind to it. Blind to them and their faces that were pinched with worry over talking to her, fearful of getting in trouble.

Adriana at least had enough wherewithal to smile as she stepped around them, but her ‘thank you’ was so rushed it was rendered unintelligible.

The basement had always been off-limits to the children of the orphanage, the hallway that led to the steps that descended into the earth barred by a metal door that was always kept locked. It was a tradition passed down in St Agnes for the older children to convince the youngest that there was a Hellhound down there.

And yet, as Adriana made her way out of the orphanage and back to the church in a daze, part of her felt as if she was about to enter the belly of some great beast.

When she pulled on the metal door and it opened, scraping against the stone tiles that lined the ground, dread took hold of her throat and squeezed. A large part of her had hoped it would be locked; that the girls had sent her on harmless wild-goose chase and Matt was long gone. If he’d ever been here at all.

But they hadn’t. And the door opened.

Adriana’s footsteps echoed down the cavernous hallway, an unwelcome accompaniment to her rapid heartbeat. The top of the staircase came into view, illuminated by the light streaming down from the window opposite. The top step was limned with a light that almost seemed to pulsate. It felt like an invitation. Descend deeper. It urged. Down in the earth something good awaits you. Someone good.

Adriana took another step. Her shadow encroached upon the light. She waited. Held her breath. But her darkness did not spread.

Then, she heard it. The scuffing of quick feet on stone. Grunts of exertion and the thumps of cushioned blows. Adriana’s brow drew in confusion as she made her way down the steps.

Halfway down, Father Lantom came into view, watching two men box. Although his back was to her, Adriana identified Matt in ana instant. When he jumped back to avoid a punch, she got a glimpse of the side of his face. He’d changed so much in twelve years, but she wasn’t convinced she’d need sight to recognise him. He’d certainly know her from much less.

And yet, the image of Adriana had cultivated of him in her mind, of the successful, happy and—most important of all—the safe lawyer, was torn through like tissue paper by what she saw.

Matt’s torso covered in scars that could only have come from the sharpest of blades, wielded with the intent to inflict devastating damage. There were recent injuries too: muscled flesh mottled by bruises, a slash just above his hipbone held together by butterfly stiches.

Adriana’s synapses fired to draw a conclusion that she had long resisted, despite her suspicions. Even though there had always been something so startlingly familiar about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen- a recognition of the figure who’d garbed himself in shadow, his eyes covered by that black mask; something that would have hindered any normal man. But not him. He was unseeing and yet moved through the world as if he’d made it.

Adriana had known, but long-lied to herself. It was why she had taken increasingly less jobs within Hell’s Kitchen, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge why. Not even to herself.

The men danced around each other, landing blow after blow.

Adriana took another step down. And then another. Only then did she realise sister Maggie was there too, watching on in concern.

Then, right as her foot hit the bottom step, Matt’s opponent landed a blow that sent him to the ground. Adriana felt the impact her chest. It rattled her ruined ribs.

As Matt tried and failed to lift his head, Father Lantom rushed forward and leant over him, the lines of his face deepening with concern.

“Matthew.” The priest called out. “Matthew!”

Adriana’s breath faltered, her mind stuttering like a failing engine. She looked down at the man on the floor, his face covered in blood and his torso a tapestry of pain, each scar a thread. Light rushed in through the stained-glass windows that bore saints with open hands. The coloured beams danced upon the concrete around Matt’s fallen form. Also staring down at him, were multiple angel statues.

Adriana shook her head, refusing to believe what her eyes were seeing. They couldn’t have ended up in the same place; broken and bruised in the basement of the Church that had raised them. Matt was meant to go on and do great things. He was meant to better than her. It’s why she’d left him and never looked back, lest she be the weight chained to him the dragged him into the darkness her father had lived in and from which she’d been born. She had always known that she was destined to return to it; you couldn’t run from what you were.

And yet, as Matt remained unmoving Adriana took the final step down and found herself adding her voice to Father Lantom’s. Adriana whispered his name, but unlike God, she knew that he’d hear her. Matt had always heard her.

“Matt.”

His head rolled to the side right in the direction of where she stood at the bottom of the steps. His bloodied lips uttered her name in answer.

“Ana?”

Matt’s eyes were already drooping closed, but even as he lost consciousness, he lifted a shaking hand off the floor and reached out for her.

⋆✟⋆

20 Years Ago…

Adriana had been told that it would get easier, but she had been at St Agnes for two weeks and she felt worse with each passing day. She’d wake, and the first thought would be of home and then her eyes would open to the reality that she didn’t have one anymore. Her father had left her alone.

‘I leave you in the hands of God.’

That’s what the letter he’d left her said.

Well, if that was true then God’s grip on her was far from kind; it was crushing.

Adriana hated St Agnes. She hated all of the nuns, and their pitying looks and pious words. The other kids had tried to speak to her, but she’d turned away from all of them. She was alone, and that wasn’t going to change, no matter how many fellow orphans swarmed around her.

More shouts of excitement wriggled into the room through the gap in the window. Recess had just begun, but Adriana had remained in the classroom, staring up at the chalk scrawl left behind from Sister Dora’s math lesson.

One of the nun’s would come and find her soon, but to slow down the process she had moved to the back of the room and was sitting against the back wall, the floorboards beneath her creaking when she made the smallest of movements.

Adriana drew her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She wanted to curl into herself so tightly that no one would be able to pry her apart. Not even God.

At the sound of the door clicking open, Adriana pressed her face further into her knees and screwed her eyes shut as tight as she could. She willed whoever it was to go away and could not find it in herself to lift her head and say the words.

But it wasn’t a nun’s voice she heard. It wasn’t a voice at all. There was a sort of tapping against the floorboards that grew closer and closer. Still, Adriana did not look up.

“Are you alright?”

That was certainly not a nun. Despite her determination to stay in the dark, Adriana opened her eyes and raised them to see the boy standing in front of her. The tapping sound made sense once her eyes alighted on the cane he held. She knew who he was. Matthew. He seemed to prefer to be left alone as much as she did and in the week since she’d been at St Agnes, he was the only kid who hadn’t tried to speak to her. Perhaps that’s why she found herself answering his question.

“No.” Her throat was dry and voice weak from lack of use and the word came out as a whisper. Adriana worried for a second that he might not have heard her, but he soon offered up a reply.

“Can I sit with you?”

Adriana waited for the monster had taken up residence inside her to lash out and shout at him to leave her alone, but it didn’t. There was only silence. She took a moment to watch Matthew. He was standing patiently, a kind almost-smile on his face. His eyes were hidden but rectangular tinted glasses and his brown hair fell over his forehead.

Adriana shrugged and then felt immediately embarrassed for doing so. He couldn’t see. With her cheeks flaming, Adriana finally answered him.

“If you want to.” She said.

Slowly by assuredly, Matthew closed the distance between them. He stopped and folded up his cane before using his hand to find the wall and guide himself down to sit beside her.

“I’m Matt.”

Matt. Not Matthew. She told herself not to forget that and then was immediately confused as to why she cared. He wasn’t her friend. And if she had anything to do with it, he was never going to be.

And yet, she offered her name up in return. “Adriana.” Then, almost against her own will she added. “My mom called me Ana.”

She felt Matt angle his face in her direction, so she snapped her eyes forward and went back to staring at the equations on the chalkboard.

“Do you want me to call you Ana?” He asked.

Something about the softness with which she’d asked made her want to cry. To her horror, she found her eyes prickling with tears.

Somehow, Matt seemed to know and rushed to apologise. “I-I’m sorry. I won’t if it upsets you.”

Adriana blinked the tears away. “No.” She blurted out, surprising even herself. “You can.”

“Okay.”

A few seconds passed and the silence that descended didn’t feel suffocating. In fact, Adriana found that the crushing grip that had held her since her father died, had eased up just a bit. Breathing became a little easier.

“Does everyone know why I’m here?” Adriana didn’t know why she’d asked; she knew that they did. Not because the nuns had loose-lips, but because it had been all over the news:

Mob Hitman Shoots himself on Anniversary of Wife’s Murder

“Yeah, they all know.” Matt said, not unkindly.

Adriana waited for the unconvincing ‘sorry for your loss’ that people usually offered up by that point, but it didn’t come. Matt just sat beside her, unspeaking and somehow his silence felt kinder than any of the words she’d been offered since her arrival.

Adriana had swallowed down so much condolence laced with contempt at her father’s funeral that she’d felt ill. And all of them had given by people who she knew had held no love for her father. No doubt they thought that Elliot Crane’s suicide was the first good thing he’d ever done in his life. Adriana had actually heard a woman mutter something to that effect, not realising that she had been passing right behind her.

He had been there too. And while his condolences had been the most convincing, something about them had made Adriana’s skin crawl.

The hardest part of all, was that Adriana felt like grieving her father was a betrayal of her mother. She was only nine when she’d been shot in front of her, and even then, she’d known it was because of what her father did-Who he worked—and had spent the past year hating him for it. And then he’d died too and she’d she could feel both love and hate at the same time. Or maybe she’d never hated him. She still wasn’t sure.

All Adriana could truly recall happening in the year since her mother had been murdered, was her father getting sadder. When he got drunk—which near the end had been a daily occurrence—he would cry and tell Adriana that her mother had left her behind to haunt him.

‘You’re haunting me. Haunting me for her.’

Adriana had no longer been his daughter, but an apparition. She could still feel the way his nails would dig into her cheeks when he grabbed her face. His alcoholic breath would burn her skin and cause her already tear-filled eyed to sting. She had always wanted to scream, tell him that he was hurting her and that you couldn’t hurt ghosts. But she never did. She had just stayed quiet and led his grief rip into her.

Adriana knew that he had loved her. At least, he had loved her in the way he was capable of, but he had seen her as his punishment and that was something he’d always been good at running from.

And yet, she missed him.

As upsetting as it had been, the pain that had come when he had gripped her face, had been the only way she had known for sure that she was real. It was a cruelty that made her corporeal. So, now that her father was dead and his grip had disappeared, Adriana was terrified that she would disappear too.

She wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t already.

Adriana was snapped out of her thoughts by the feel of Matt’s hand brushing hers. Only then, did she realise that she had tears rolling down her cheeks. Adriana’s sight turned watery, and the chalk equations blurred into an indiscernible smear of white.

Without a word, Matt closed the rest of the distance and took Adriana’s hand in his. When he squeezed tighter, Adriana knew she had not disappeared.

⋆✟⋆

An angel loomed over Adriana’s shoulder. It was set beside the pillar she was leaning against, completely silent in its stone casting and yet loud in her ear.

Father Lantom had gone to show the consternated boxer out, leaving only Sister Maggie, Adriana and an unconscious Matt in the basement.

He was laid out on a small bed pushed up against the far wall. Adriana had placed herself as far away as she could, whilst still being able to talk to the nun who was perched on the edge of the bed.

Half the room separated them and yet Adriana had attuned herself to the sound of his breathing as she watched his chest rise and fall.

“Why is he here?” Adriana asked quietly. “What happened?”

Sister Maggie’s eyes did not move from Matt’s face. They held a tenderness Adriana hadn’t thought the woman possessed. “Those answers are not mine to give.”

Adriana swallowed down the worst of her frustration, her hands scrunched into fists. Her nails dug into her palms. Not deep enough.

When Adriana spoke again, she did so to the ground. “He’s Daredevil.”

Sister Maggie remained silent and when Adriana looked up, she’d gone utterly still. Still, but not with fear. There’s was fierce protectiveness in the gaze that was now directed squarely on her. Adriana struggled not to squirm.

“Do you plan on sharing that with anyone?” The nun asked, eerily calm.

“Why would I?” A burning indignance moved through Adriana and yet she understood the sister’s caution.

“You’re fortunate that you haven’t encountered him out there, given the line of work you’ve chosen.”

Given that you’re a criminal. Was what the nun didn’t say.

Given that Adriana had become the kind of person that Daredevil caught. The kind of person that he despised.

“You mean that I’m fortunate that he hasn’t stopped me?” Adriana said heatedly.

The nun shook her head. “No. Stopping you would mean confronting what you’ve become, and his heart has been broken one too many times for him to bear that. I rather suspect that he’s done everything in his power to avoid you.”

“Then why ask me to stay until he wakes up?” Adriana said, exasperated.

“Will you?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, standing all the way over there won’t do you any good.” Sister Maggie said. “He’ll know you were here. He already knows.”

“He was knocked out.”

Sister Maggie cast Adriana an unimpressed look. “He won’t wake up having forgotten that you were here. That would truly be a miracle.”

Adriana pushed of the column and ran a hand through her knotted hair. “Then tell him that he imagined it. Imagined me.”

“No.”

Adriana had to fight to keep her voice down. “Why not? It’ll make everything so much easier.”

“For him or for you?” Sister Maggie accused.

“Both.” Adriana replied, not even convincing herself.

“You disappeared from his life once already, Adriana. If you’re going to do it again, I will have no part in it. You came down here to find him, now follow through.”

There was no scorn in sister Maggie’s voice now, only brittle sort of sadness. A sadness that could easily shatter into something sharper. Adriana would have preferred her scorn. That at least was an emotion she was familiar with the woman expressing.

The nun looked back at Adriana and whatever she saw made her sigh. She stood slowly, so as not to disturb Matt, and made her way over to her. She surprised Adriana further by placing her hands gently on her arm’s, holding her in place. The sister’s demeanour didn’t soften, but a hard-edged concern appeared on her severe face.

“If you want to go, then go, but you will only be causing more pain. For Matthew and for you. And I quite think you’ve both had more than your fair share of that.”

Adriana scoffed. “Because pain is only fair if it’s inflicted by God, right?”

Sister Maggie tutted, but she didn’t let go of her. “You’re still as angry as ever, I see. Angry and afraid.”

“I’m not afraid—“

“I’m a nun, Adriana. I’ve seen fear made manifest in hundreds of ways in just as many people. You’re scared.” She looked back over at Matt. “Of him, and of what he’ll say to you. And you’re even more afraid of what he feels for you. Or rather, what he may no longer feel.”

Adriana wanted to grow angrier, to fill with a rage that would bolster her in the face of the indominable nun. But she didn’t. Instead, she deflated; she shrank down to the girl she had once been.

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Then why did he reach for you when he heard your voice?”

An unwelcome tightness formed in Adriana’s chest. She shook her head, as much to avoid the nun’s intense, knowing stare as it was to disagree with her.

“He shouldn’t have.” Adriana cast a look over at Matt and the tightness only worsened when she found his expression distressed, even in sleep.

Maggie gave Adriana a gentle shake. “You know, when you were children, we rejoiced and despaired at how tightly the two of you clung to each other. It made you both even more restless. You were always seeking each other out, never settled if the other was not in sight.”

“I don’t want him to seek me out, sister. Not now.”

A melancholy smile formed on the nun’s face. “And yet, you came down here in search of him.”

“I thought he was hurt.”

“He is.” Sister Maggie said, firm once more. “And if you go now, you’ll only compound it.”

“I’ll compound it by staying!” Adriana snapped. “You know what I am. I’m not…good for people. And Matt has always been good.”

“And yet here you both are, battered, bruised and hiding in a basement.” Adriana opened her mouth to argue but Maggie wasn’t finished with her. “Adriana, you have been telling yourself that you’re rotten to the core since you were ten. No one else thought it of you, least of all Matthew.”

Had Adriana believed God would ever deign to help her, she would have believed that her phone ringing was divine intervention.

As if she could read her thoughts, Sister Maggie raised her brow. “Saved by the bell.”

“I have to get this.” Adriana pulled away from the nun and turned, retrieving her phone from her pocket. But just before she began to ascend the steps, she found herself looking over her shoulder.

Sister Maggie had already returned to Matt’s bedside, her hand resting atop his.

“I’ll be back.” Adriana called out.

“You better.” Sister Maggie answered without looking up.

The buzzing of her phone forgotten, Adriana lingered just long enough to see Matt turn his head and his lips open to mutter something. Terrified that he’d begun to stir, Adriana all but sprinted up the steps and out of the church.

⋆✟⋆

‘And the angels will throw them into the fiery furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.’

Matthew 13:42

PART II

[bluecatwriter]

Blood of My Blood: Permission

@animate-mush and @ibrithir-was-here, I finally finished drafting the scene! XD

As Quincey Harker first begins to fall in love with Lu Holmwood, he realizes that he should ask for her father's permission to court her. That should be an easy conversation, right?

CW: Descriptions of emotional abuse, mention of smoking

---

Arthur stood at a window in the second story, looking down at his only daughter, his most precious child, strolling and laughing on the lawn below with a vampire. 

Evening light bathed them both, making Lu's curls look like they were pure gold, and giving the boy's pallid skin enough color that he would have almost looked human— were it not for the glowing red of his eyes, so bright that Arthur could see it even from up here. Lu said something and the vampire laughed.

Arthur's hands clenched the windowsill as he leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling the roiling in his stomach that hadn't quite subsided since the creature had shown up in his office several days ago. Why he had even let Lu meet the boy in the first place was beyond him. He should have made some excuse— oh no, Lu, there's an undead creature running loose in Scotland, you and Uncle Jack had better go take care of it!— and sent her away. He should have kept her safe. That was his duty as her father.

Of course, it wouldn't have worked. Lu was smart, and Arthur was not a good liar.

But Arthur had failed to prevent their meeting, and now Lu was completely smitten. What's worse, it was easy to see why. The boy was sweet and engaging, an attentive listener, fascinated by the beauty of the world. He quoted romantic poetry with the same enthusiasm that other boys might discuss sports teams. And whatever he was, he was not a vampire like they had fought before. Arthur had tried five different crucifixes on him, as if one could be defective somehow, and forced him to chew garlic while Arthur stared at him as if daring him to collapse into dust on the spot. One of their sources had brought Arthur some holy water, and when he dabbed it in the shape of a cross on the boy's forehead, the vampire had stood there obediently and then asked if something was supposed to happen.

Lu suddenly looked up, and saw Arthur spying on them (no, not spying, he just happened to catch a glimpse and had to check on what they were doing, just in case the vampire was, for instance, trying to rip her throat out). Her eyes twinkled as she smiled up at him, the rebellious little grin on her face quite familiar to him now. He remembered how timid she was when he first met her, how she shrank into herself as if wishing she could disappear. Now she laughed loudly and grinned fiercely and made it clear that she was going to do whatever she willed, regardless of what "the dad" had to say about it. And that was what Arthur wanted, really— for her to be bold and confident and sure of herself— but why oh why did it have to manifest this way?

She waved and blew him a kiss. Arthur blew her a kiss in return, and managed to even smile, but his smile only held until the vampire turned his head and looked up at him too.

Their eyes locked, red to blue, and Arthur felt protectiveness rising in him like a flood. If he was a good father, he would march that boy into his office and tell him in no uncertain terms to stay away from his daughter. If you so much as think about touching her, I will stake you right through your unbeating heart, do you understand?!

The boy tipped his hat, bowing his head with that eerie courteousness that he had shown ever since he'd arrived. He looked a lot like his father— or, as he often clarified, his papa— just then.

What was worse, Quincey being a vampire, or him being raised by the man who had tried to murder everyone Arthur loved?

Arthur stepped away from the window, found that standing was suddenly too much work, and leaned back against the wall instead, slowly sliding down it until he hit the ground. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.

He didn't cry long before he heard a soft rap on the doorframe, and he struggled to lift his head to see Jack standing there. Jack gave him a sympathetic smile, then crossed the room and held out his hand, helping Arthur up into a chair. Arthur wanted to bury his face in his hands and keep sobbing, but he could tell that Jack wanted to talk, so he just looked at Jack through tears. 

Jack stroked his hand soothingly through Arthur's hair a few times before withdrawing it to sign, "Lu?"

Arthur choked out a small sound, and jerked his head toward the window. The sounds of Lu and the boy laughing came through the glass. "Jack, am I doing the right thing?"

Jack sighed, his smile turning wry. "You know Lu. She will do what she wants regardless, so we might as well go along with it."

Arthur groaned, leaning into Jack's touch as he petted his hair again. They'd had a similar conversation three years earlier, when Lu had started hanging about with a disgusting boy who treated her like a supporting character for his own ego. Arthur had wanted to throw him out onto the street on his head, but Jack had counseled that Arthur keep his disgust to himself. Forbidden love is very romantic, Jack had said, and Lu is a romantic at heart. She gets that from me, he'd added with a little smile. Arthur had gritted his teeth for four months, until one day Lu showed up unexpectedly in his room, her mascara running, and told him that she'd dumped her boyfriend. Arthur had never been so relieved in his life.

"I'm supposed to keep our daughter safe," Arthur said, his voice choking a little. "How do I know… how can I be sure…"

"You can't," Jack signed, his movements short and sharp. "We must trust what we know: that the holy objects don't burn him, that he has never drunk blood from an unwilling subject, and that his goodness seems entirely unfeigned."

Arthur gulped. "I don't know how I can handle this."

Jack kissed his forehead. "One step at a time," he said when he pulled away. Then he straightened, and Arthur could see him switching into Doctor Mode. "Now, young man, I am going to take your blood pressure."

He strode out of the room and returned with his sphygmomanometer, which he set up on the table. Arthur tried to calm his breathing as Jack placed the cuff around his arm and puffed it up, then frowned at the rising mercury on the device.

After a moment, Jack sighed, setting down the pump in his hand to sign, "It's a wonder your blood vessels haven't exploded."

Arthur groaned and leaned back in his chair as Jack deflated the cuff. 

"Maybe you should smoke more, to calm your nerves."

"I would turn into a chimney."

Jack huffed a laugh, and when Arthur tried to follow suit, he ended up crying again. Jack wrapped both arms around him and held him as Arthur shook silently, while the sounds of his daughter and the vampire laughing still drifting through the window.

*  *  *

Lu had complained about having to attend a boring party tonight with a friend, but Quincey was actually glad for it, because it gave him an opportunity to do what he'd suddenly realized he must do as soon as possible. 

He'd gotten careless, and lovestruck. (Lovestruck, what a beautiful word! He had imagined so many times what it must be like to be struck by love, but the reality was even better than he expected.) He'd gotten carried away, lost in the glow of Lu's presence— the sparkle of her eyes, the sharp wit of her words, the unabashed confidence in the way she moved through the world. He had been pining like a lover in one of those ballads he loved to read. And he had forgotten the most important step of all, the one that all other steps depended on. 

Lord Godalming's scowl from the window this evening had thrown the necessity of this step into sharp focus. He must approach Godalming tonight and hope to set all in order.

After Lu had left for her party, the servants directed him to Godalming's office, and Quincey stood at the door for a long time, rehearsing his speech in his head, before knocking. He heard Godalming's "Come," and opened the door, stepping inside with his most respectful yet friendly face on, to see Godalming at his desk.

Godalming's face always changed when Quincey entered the room: a tightening of his whole expression, as if it had suddenly become an effort to hold his skin in place. In the corner, Dr. Seward looked up from reading something. It was easier to decipher his expressions: he stared with singleminded focus and curiosity, much like Mum did, rather than Godalming's fidgeting and pacing and avoiding eye contact. But Godalming was the one Quincey must address, and so he only spoke to him.

"Lord Godalming," he said, proud of the even measure of his voice. "I ask your permission to come in and speak."

Godalming cleared his throat, shuffled the papers in his hands. "Yes, of course," he said, though his tone was unconvincing. Still, Quincey must take a chance.

"Thank you, lord." He crossed the room quickly and stood before Godalming's desk, his head bowed as if under the weight of an invisible hand. Before he could lose his nerve, he launched into the speech he had prepared. "Lord Arthur Godalming, I thank you a thousand times for your kindness in taking me under your roof, and for the hospitality that you have shown to me in my time here. I know that all in this household are under your authority, and all here belong first and foremost to you."

Quincey couldn't quite tell what kind of expression Godalming was making— he shifted in his seat, that tightness in his face grew more pronounced, and he glanced over at Dr. Seward. But he didn't tell Quincey to stop, so Quincey plowed on.

"I know you are a benevolent lord, for you allow all those of your household to pursue their lives in bliss and harmony. With this in mind, I humbly beg you to hear my request."

Here he paused, looking for any sign of what Godalming might be thinking. He seemed uncomfortable, perhaps— it was hard to tell— but he was not scowling, snarling, or getting that cold look that Father got right before breaking something. So far, so good. After a moment Godalming said, with bluster in his voice, "Out with it, then."

Quincey breathed a little sigh of relief to have explicit permission to continue, but worked to keep his voice formal. "Thank you for the opportunity to make my request. Lord Arthur Godalming, I ask that I may pursue and court your most treasured and beloved property, Lucille Holmwood."

"What?!" Godalming sputtered, and leaped to his feet. Suddenly, his expression was as easy to read as a book: outrage, and surprise.

Quincey resisted the urge to take a step back. He was surprised, too— he thought it was obvious that they were interested in each other. What part of this wasn't Godalming understanding?

"Don't ever call my daughter 'property' again!" Godalming roared, slamming his hands on the desk.

Now he did startle backward, blinking in confusion. Out of everything in his statement, how could Godalming possibly be angry at that? His mind scrambled to interpret the situation, wondering what unspoken rule he had trespassed.

"She is a person," Godalming continued, "not some trinket that I own— and certainly not a thing for you to own, either!"

"I would never dare!" Quincey burst out, affronted at the very thought, before remembering himself and dropping his head in deference. He had to show that he was obedient, that he would listen to the lecture and the learn the Lesson embedded in it.

Quincey had learned long ago that he had no desire to be like Father— he had no desire to rule, to overpower, to possess. But he had often, so often, dreamed of being like Papa. He had hoped to find a man or woman that he could adore and care for, someone he could protect. Owning another person was never something he had considered, even though he knew that Father would be disappointed in his lack of ambition.

He realized that he'd just been staring blankly at Godalming, who was clearly waiting for him to respond, and he scrambled to find the words that would avoid the worst kind of punishment. Bowing his head further, he clasped his hands in front of him. "I did not mean to cause offense, lord, but of course that is no excuse," he said, all in a rush. "I will welcome any punishment you see fit."

He didn't know what kinds of punishments Godalming was likely to give. The dread of not knowing made his stomach twist, but if he could endure it, perhaps Godalming would consider him worthy.

"I'm not going to punish you," Godalming said, speaking with disbelief, as if it was a ridiculous idea. (He must be trying to put Quincey off his guard so that he wouldn't expect the punishment when it came; Quincey made a mental note to stay alert so that it wouldn't catch him by surprise.)

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said simply. He kept his head down, watching furtively as Godalming and Dr. Seward signed quickly back and forth to each other, Godalming frowning and Seward looking concerned. Lu had taught Quincey a few signs, but not nearly enough to have any idea what they were saying. 

Godalming suddenly turned to face him, and Quincey straightened instinctively, though he still kept his head bowed. When Godalming spoke, his teeth were gritted, but he appeared to be trying to control himself. He seemed to value self-control, just like Mum did. "Jack has suggested that perhaps I've misunderstood you. Explain, then—" The sharp edge on his voice flared, then subsided. "—why you referred to my daughter as 'property.'"

Quincey spoke carefully, knowing that speaking the wrong word could be the difference between getting his request and getting severely punished. "Lucille belongs to you, is it not so?"

"Not in the way an object belongs to me," Godalming said, starting to pace. He turned on his heel, pointing an accusing finger at him. "And if you think to treat her like your property—"

Quincey flinched as if he'd been slapped. To be accused not once, but twice, of trying to commit treason in this way made him feel horribly hurt, but he couldn't just blurt that out. He struggled to say, "My lord, please let me speak."

"Speak!" Godalming burst out, waving a hand at him. "You don't need my permission, just speak!"

Quincey fought down the tears that threatened to spill over his eyes, stumbling over his words. "Thank you, lord. I… I had no thought of making her my property. I meant that… I was asking if I could become your property, sir."

Godalming stopped pacing stared at him as if he'd said the most unintelligible string of words ever spoken. Quincey stood there, unsure whether to keep talking, and then Godalming sharply turned to Dr. Seward, and they signed back and forth with puzzled scowls on their faces. Quincey waited anxiously, wondering if they were discussing his punishment. He hoped that he wouldn't cry when they put him through it. He hadn't cried during a punishment in a long time.

"Yes, I know, Jack!" Godalming said unexpected, then grabbed a paperweight that sat on his desk, fidgeting with it as he spoke. It looked fairly heavy; it would hurt if he chose to hit Quincey with it. Father considered corporal punishment to be uncivilized, but a different lord might have a different rule. "Just tell me," Godalming said to him, and again it was clear he was putting a lot of effort into sounding calm, "do you consider yourself to be anyone's property now?"

Quincey could have wept with relief to get a question that made sense— but now that it was posed to him, he had to pause. He had been ready to blurt out that yes, of course, he belonged to Father, and only to Father, as everyone in the household did, but…

Papa's last words to him were imprinted on his mind. He hadn't really understood them, standing at the castle doors that day that seemed so long ago now, but the reality of it was beginning to sink in. Remember, you don’t belong to him. Or, or to us. Just to yourself.

"I don't," he said, and he felt a terrifying emptiness at the declaration. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. "When I lived in Castle Dracula, I was Father's property, along with Papa, and Mum, and everything in the house. But Papa has sent me out now and says that I belong only to myself." Now that he said it out loud, it seemed stranger and stranger. But of course Papa would never go against what Father wanted. Papa had always taught him to do what was right, and obeying Father was right. Father must have changed his mind, and wanted him to own himself.

Godalming's expression remained steady, so Quincey decided to go on. "My heart's desire is to find another household where I may be owned and show my love and loyalty, just like Papa did. This is my deepest wish, that I have held since before I even knew that such a thing were possible." He shut his mouth, squeezing his hands together. 

The past few days, he had been thinking about the possibility of asking Lu to kiss him. He had never been kissed by anyone before, except the bloodless kisses that Mum and Papa gave him. Perhaps she would not like the taste of of his blood, but he could offer, anyway, and maybe she would like to try. He imagined her lips open against his arm— or even perhaps his throat!— and wondered what it would like to feel his skin give way under her teeth, to feel his blood leaving his body to nourish that one he loved. The thought of it was so exciting that it made him feel a weakness in his legs, a fluttering in his stomach. 

"Quincey!"

Quincey didn't realize he'd been daydreaming, and he snapped back to attention, again speaking in a rush. "I apologize for letting my mind wander, lord, I will accept any punishment you see fit."

"I'm not going to— for Christ's sake—" Godalming looked helplessly at Dr. Seward, as if he could explain this, while Quincey stood there still feeling confused. "Good grief, child, what kind of a life have you had?"

This was probably a test, but Quincey didn't know how to pass it. "A happy one," he said simply. "I come from a loving family."

"Why are you so afraid of punishment, if your family was so loving?" He spat the word like it was poison.

"Punishment is love," Quincey said, a note of frustration entering his voice. He felt a wave of anger at Godalming for insulting Father, for disrespecting the name of the family. "Father punished me to teach me how to be strong and right."

Godalming's eyes blazed again; Quincey wondered why it seemed to make him so angry. "So he never hurt you?" Godalming asked.

"Never," Quincey said, putting emphasis on the word, "except when it was for my good."

Godalming raised an eyebrow. "And when it was 'for your good'? What did he do then?"

"Whatever best suited the disobedience." Quincey spoke without emotion, trying to tamp down the annoyance he felt at this clearly bad-faith questioning of his Father's parenting skills. What did Godalming care?

"For instance?" Godalming pressed, his eyes narrowing.

Again, Quincey decided this must be a test. He focused on speaking as plainly and completely as possible. "If I paid too much attention to my books and not enough to him, he would make me tear up the books and feed the pages into the fire. Or if I forgot my place, he would come into my room and destroy my things." 

Godalming's expression was changing from demanding to horrified. "What kinds of things?"

He had a sudden, sharp memory of a stuffed toy rabbit that Papa had brought him when he was a small child. He could still feel the soft cotton against his cheek, see the button eyes and the embroidered smile. He'd named it Hoppy. 

"Things I liked. Especially things that Papa bought me in town. For instance, once I owned a toy rabbit. But then I questioned a decision that Father made, and so he took my rabbit and—" His voice caught; there was something about saying this out loud, when he had never spoken of it before, that made him suddenly feel like he was going to cry. "—and tore it to pieces." 

He still remembered the sound of the fabric ripping, the way that Father had held Hoppy just out of Quincey's reach and methodically shredded the toy until only fibers and buttons were left, Quincey screaming and begging him to stop all the while. Afterward, Quincey had wept and gathered up the shreds and brought them to Papa. Sometimes Papa could fix the things Father broke, but this was not one of those times. 

Papa had held him tightly and let him cry, and afterward they had had a burial service for Hoppy, at sunrise after Quincey should have been in bed.

He felt tears in his eyes and a knot in his throat, and in his attempt to hide both, he lashed out. "But the punishments worked! I learned to never question the wisdom of those better than me, and to obey instructions, and to be respectful in all circumstances. Besides, none of the things he destroyed were mine. They were all his. Everything in the whole land was his. Sometimes I just forgot. But I do not forget anymore. I would never ask to possess anything for myself. If you allow me to be part of your household, I will never forget that all belongs to you."

There was a long silence. 

"Jesus Christ," Godalming said, and slumped into his chair.

Quincey wasn't sure why Godalming was invoking the name of the man on the crucifix he now wore, but it was not the time to be asking questions. He stood there, waiting for him to speak again.

Godalming groaned, dragging a hand across his face. "Quincey, I— I don't know what to say."

Once again, a feeling of relief came over Quincey. He knew this kind of roundabout speaking, and knew what the proper response was. Without hesitation, he dropped to his hands and knees, pressing his face against the carpet. 

"Lord Godalming, I throw myself upon your mercy, as a wretch, a worm, begging to be your property and yours alone, to sit at your table and eat your scraps—"

"What the hell are you doing?" Godalming yelled. "Get up!"

Quincey sat up quickly, still on his knees, staring at Godalming's horrified expression over the desk. "I… I thought you wanted me… to beg?" Father had always liked begging.

"God, no! Quincey, please, please just pull up a chair and sit down and listen."

That he could do. Quincey quickly pulled up a chair and sat, hands in his lap. Godalming stood up and began to pace again, still fidgeting with the paperweight. He seemed to be grasping for words to say, and it was only after signing back and forth with Dr. Seward for a few moments that he spoke.

"Quincey, you say that you belong to yourself. Well, Lu belongs to herself, too. No one in this household is my property. Do you understand? Everyone here belongs to himself."

Quincey didn't see how that could possibly work, but there was nothing to do but take Godalming at his word and hope this was not a test. "I understand, lord."

Godalming paused, and looked at Quincey with a cross between pain and exasperation. "Quincey, you're a vampire. Lu is a human. You are a danger to her, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want you to court her."

Quincey felt the words sink into him like ice, and the urge to throw himself facedown on the carpet again made his fingers twitch.

"But," Godalming said, and paused. In that pause, it seemed that he aged ten years before Quincey's eyes. "But," he said again, and now his voice was husky, "I do not have the say in this. As I said, Lu belongs to herself, not to me. If you want to court Lu, and she wants to court you, then I… I won't stop you."

Quincey stared at him. This was impossible; he must have heard wrong. "You do not wish to exercise your right of ownership?" he asked hesitantly.

Godalming looked unspeakably weary. "Lu can make her own decisions— and you'd damn well better abide by whatever she decides."

"Yes, lord, of course," Quincey said quickly, still wondering if this was some sort of illusion that he would wake up from.

"But make no mistake: if it comes to it, I will protect my daughter above all else. Do you understand?"

Quincey resisted the urge to smile in relief. Here it was, a straightforward threat, something that he was used to working with. He tempered his wave of excitement, and stood solemnly, bowing. "I understand, lord. I swear to you, I will give you no reason for displeasure."

Godalming looked somehow even greyer than before as he leaned wearily on one hand. "I sincerely doubt that," he said, but it was a halfhearted mutter.

There was a long pause.

"All right, now go." Godalming waved his hand in dismissal. 

Whatever he might say, Quincey knew that permission to approach Lu as equals was still a privilege that Godalming had bestowed on him, and Quincey must acknowledge the gift. He reached across the desk and took Godalming's hand with both of his. Godalming startled, but Quincey was committed to the gesture now: he bowed his head over his hand and pressed a bloodless kiss to it, the way that Papa would do with Father when thanking him or placating him. He felt Godalming shudder under his touch.

He still suspected that this whole scenario was some sort of test, and that Godalming would punish him for it, but at least he could be on his guard now— and at least he could invoke Godalming's words against him if he tried to change his mind. Papa had taught him that it was important to remember exactly a person's words, so that you could use them in the future if you needed.

"Thank you, lord," Quincey said, looking earnestly into Godalming's face. One of his eyes was twitching, and Quincey could hear his heartbeat loudly. "I will treasure this kindness." Then he raced out of the room before Godalming could change his mind.

*

Arthur groaned and sank back in his chair, feeling a shiver go through his whole body. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, see the soft, bittersweet smile out of the corner of his eye. Jack raised his hand to speak.

"Don't," Arthur snapped. "Don't say a single word, Jack Seward."

Jack stood instead and walked to his side, planting a kiss on his head. "I'm proud of you, just the same," he signed, before using his hand to feel along Arthur's neck for his pulse. He pulled back and shook his head disapprovingly. "Blood pressure, young man, blood pressure."

"I said not a single word."

"I'll get you a cigarette."

"Jack!" Arthur grabbed his arm, and felt suddenly that Jack was the only real thing in this upside-down world where he had just allowed a vampire to start courting his daughter.

Jack paused, then settled himself onto Arthur's lap, linking his arms around him. In this position he couldn't speak, but he breathed long, slow breaths, his way of reminding Arthur to breathe, too. Arthur shuddered through several shaky breaths before he was able to slow enough to match Jack's pace. 

The unknown loomed before them, like a great blackness in his mind. He couldn't protect their daughter forever. Lu would make her own decision, and then… well, then there was nothing to do but wait and see.

~~~

[reasonablerodents]

So for your drabble requests collection. I would love it if you could write a ficlet about vampire Hotch having a thirst for Spencer, who's so beautifully willing (read horny) when he at last dares to drink from him.

I am nothing if not an absolute simp for absolutely anything to do with vampires and this is just suuuuuuch a good prompt!!!!! I had so much fun writing this and listening to Bauhaus and The Damned, really getting into those spooky (and hopefully) sexy vibes.

There’s no real description of the environment in this but feel free to imagine the most ott Anne Rice sort of deal because that’s totally what I was thinking.

Sanctum Sanctorum (M)

Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Vampire AU, Blood Drinking

* * * * * * * * * *

“Please,” Spencer breathes, tilting his head to the side to expose the delicate blue veins in his neck. “I know that you want this, Aaron.”

Of course he does. How, in any possible universe, could he not? Resisting the urge for this long has been torture, just as painful as a silver crucifix being pressed into his skin- and he knew how much that hurt, still had the scar to prove it.

“You need to be sure, Spencer.” Hotch tells him seriously, although if he had a heartbeat he’s sure it would be faster than it’s ever been. He cups Spencer's jaw with one cold hand, making him look directly into his eyes. “If I do this, we’ll be linked forever. Drinking directly from someone isn’t the same as blood that’s been stored, you know this. There’s nothing I’ll be able to do to sever our bond.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, his sincerity visible even in the dim moonlight. “And that’s why I want it. I want you.”

Hotch knows that there’s no point in arguing further. Spencer had been trying for months, almost immediately after they’d started these midnight trysts. Every time, he’d got closer to giving in, a little more of his resolve weakened. By this point, the wall surrounding his urges was little more than a pile of rubble.

He uses his grip on Spencer's face to tilt his head further to the side, getting him exactly where he wants him. One hand goes to Spencer’s thigh, just close enough to his crotch to be tempting but too far for any actual contact- after all, Spencer had been teasing him for this long, it was his turn now.

Hotch gently lowers his head, licking over Spencer's neck in preparation, feeling the warmth of the blood as it rushes under the thin skin. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he does so anyway before he opens his mouth properly, indulging in one final nod to humanity before it leaves him completely.

The second Hotch’s fangs pierce him, Spencer moans, eyes fluttering closed as his lips open, his breath coming out in short pleasured gasps. Hotch can quite literally taste his arousal; it flows through his blood like a perfume, sweet yet dirty, a filthy and hedonistic undercurrent to it all.

He grips harder onto Spencer’s thigh when the younger man tenses up with another low moan, automatically jerking up into the air in a desperate search for friction.

“Please, Aaron,” he whispers reverently. “Touch me.”

[nihilistic-rick]

It has been two days since their disappearance, and in those two days, Nihilistic had held himself locked up in his lab. The only thought was finding them, bringing them home safe. It was the only thought that consumed them, day and night. Part of him felt guilty for not being there, for not protecting them. If anything happened to them, he would never forgive himself.

Nihilistic knew that there was attention drawn to them, since they started hanging out. He was fully aware that others were curious and some even judgmental. Others were supportive and then there were others that were just not having it.

It was like seeing oil and water mixing together, the two changing physical substances, and separating. They were not to belong together. They simply didn't mix.

"Again..." His exasperated voice was heard inside the empty lab as he stared at the screen before him, watching the red dots scramble about. "Re-routing, coordinates. Tracking... Tracking... Tracking... "

Taking a seat in one of the empty chairs, he ran a hand through his hair, and let out a sigh. He hadn't been sleeping well either. When was the last time he ate something or even drank something other than liquor and coffee. Shoving their hands in his lab coat, he felt something inside of it, and pulled out the rosary.

Richard's rosary.

In his hand he turned it over, looking at the crucifix. Nihilistic was no praying man, he didn't believe in a lot of things especially in God, and let alone the religion that is Catholic. Yet here was he hunting down a man who did believe in these things.

"I'm sorry Richie..." He murmured as he still held onto the rosary in hand, and let his head fall into the other hand, leaning back in his chair. The computers beeping the only sound for the time being. "Tracking.... Tracking.... Tracking...."

The silence was interrupted by the labs doors opening, the familiar whooshing sound, making him sit up and pocketing the rosary, he heard footsteps, accompanied by the most annoying voice ever.

"Hey good looking, need some company?"

"Incubus... I see you're ready to cause more trouble..." Nihilistic looked over at them and gave them an annoyed look.

"Trouble? I'm offended. How dare you asshole."

Making a disgruntled noise, Nihilistic turned to look at Incubus, who was standing there with a smug smirk. "So have you found them yet genius ?"

"Does it look like we've found them ?" Nihilistic practically snarled at them, his exhaustion getting to him at this point. "No fuckface that's why I'm asking you !"

"Not this again ! Look did you just come down here to bother me or what ?" Nihilistic held Incubus's gaze as he waited for their answer. "Sorry.. sorry it's just .. we need him back .. " Incubus sat in a chair, his face just as tired looking as Nihilistic's own. "I know we do..." He replied as he turned in his chair to face Incubus.

"You look like shit... That Chef guy did a number on you..."

"Yeah well it was to do something about it and or get Richard killed on the spot."

"Fuckin' Hivemind bitch taking him..." Incubus paused as he looked over at Nihilistic. "You want to know what they're calling you around these parts because of her .." A shit eating grin was on their face as he watched Nihilistic.

Raising an eyebrow at the other, Nihilistic looked at them."Do I really want to know..."

"Yes."

"..... What."

"Guard dog pfft hahah."

"Ugh... Great...more names..."

Nihilistic would show them just how much of a guard dog he would be for them, once he got his hand on those that took him.

[ice-cap-k]

Get Some Rest

Cross-posted on AO3 here: Get Some Rest

______________________________________

“Skizz! Psst! Skizzleman…”

“I think we have to be louder, Grian. Try getting closer.”

“If I got any closer I’d be on top of him. Skizz! Come on, wake up old man.” 

Skizz didn’t want to wake up. He was just so nice and cozy and warm in his bed. Even Kevin Bubbles Malone Refrigerator Jimmy Mad-Eye Dugon complained from his spot on top of the covers. The poor pup whimpered in annoyance as he covered his ears with his paws. Skizz wished he could do the same. Instead, he settled for pulling the pillow over his head as he rolled over. “I don’t want ta-” he managed to mumble. 

“Well, you gotta,” Grian said with a huff. “If me and Scar can’t sleep, then neither can you.”

“Meh.” 

“Well if that ain’t the comeback of the century.” 

“Don’t just stand there doing nothing, Scar. Help me.”

The wonderful warmth of his blanket vanished as someone pulled it away. The cool air came as a shock to his half-asleep system, but he kept his eyes screwed shut even as he reached after it. The two tricksters were too fast, though. The blanket was flung off his bed before he had a chance to snatch it back. Defeated, he could only grumble into his pillow and wish for them to disappear. “Let me sleep. Go bother Impulse instead.”

“We tried-” Scar started, only to have Grian cut him off. 

“Impulse said he’d throw a crucifix at us if we didn’t leave him alone.”

“And you’re the only other one of the Dads left,” Scar added. “I still can’t believe Impulse, though. He’s always so nice and polite, and here he went and threatened us. It’s so unlike him.” 

It was unlike his buddy to go and do that, but then again sleep deprivation made people act out in some wild ways. He might be tempted to do the same if he had a crucifix in arm’s reach. Not that he’d ever actually go through with it. Well, maybe… No, he’s just joshing with himself. Alas, all he had was an alarm clock, and that was plugged into the wall. Not a good choice for a projectile. Speaking of which…

Skizz dared to crack one eye open to get a look at the clock. The number 3:16 glowed bright green back at him in the dark. There were two things very wrong with this picture, and he was stashing away the fact that Scar and Grian had slipped into his house uninvited without so much as turning on a light as the one to address later. 

“Dudes, do you realize how late it is?”

“It’s dark,” Scar provided unhelpfully. 

“And it’s late,” Grian said with a smile. He threw open the blinds to Skizz’s bedroom, leaving a clear view of the stars twinkling outside. “As far as I’m concerned, that makes this the perfect time to go looking for ghosts. Let’s go back to Tanglewood and do a hunt!”

At this point, Skizz had given up on the possibility of them just going away and leaving him be. With a massive amount of effort, he managed to push himself up to a seat and out of the warm embrace of his bed. Kevin looked just as put out as he felt. He doesn’t blame the poor pup for crawling off the mattress and padding out of the room to look for someplace quieter to sleep. 

“No guys. We are not doing a hunt right now. It’s way too late for that. I need my beauty sleep and so do you.”

“We already told you we can’t sleep,” Scar said with a shake of his head. 

“Then you should go be at rest, or whatever else it is you guys can do,” Skizz shot back, throwing his hands up.

“We can go on a hunt,” Grian said again, a mischievous smile on his face. “That’s what we can do.”

“Come on Skizz.” Scar’s eyes become glossy as soon as he sees the look on his friend’s face. “Just one more. We can go back to the house. I can set up the motion sensors in the garage and Grian can do his spirit box thing… And you! Oh! You could run the camera this time instead of Impulse. And then if we get lucky we could find ourselves a monkey paw-”

“Or,” Skizz butt in. “And here me out with this one. Honestly, it sounds fantastic. Sounds like we’ll have ourselves a lot of fun and all, but how about we wait for tomorrow?” 

‘Never mind that they probably wouldn’t be able to do any of those things,’ he thinks to himself. Almost 90 percent of everything Scar just said was literally impossible right now. But he doesn’t dare say that out loud. He can already see the smile drop off his two friends’ faces and it makes Skizz feel bad. Really bad. Gosh they look so disappointed. He was always such a softy. “Aww, no long faces. Just think about it for a moment, really. We already had a pretty bad run yesterday. If the three of us go at it right now on our own, we’re never going to get the job done. That ghost is going to flatten us like pancakes and eat our faces for breakfast.” 

Grian didn’t look too pleased. “You mean ‘flatten us and eat our faces for breakfast again,’ right?” 

Skizz could only shrug. “Yeah. I mean again.”

“Then what do we do?” 

“We go tomorrow. Us three, and a well-rested Impulse with an actual set of equipment and the van… Hey, we could even ask Gem to help us out this time. She can watch our backs while we scope the place out.”

“Then what are me and Grian supposed to do until then,” Scar asked, sounding pretty sheepish. “We thought maybe a big strong Skizz would be able to handle it. Work some of his crazy Skizzleman magic.”

Stay strong Skizz. You have to stay strong for the sake of sleeping, and for the sake of tackling tomorrow well rested. He needed to be in tip top condition to catch some ghosts. But then he saw that Scar brought out the puppy dog eyes. Big wide glistening brown eyes of sadness and sweetness and he can feel himself melting the longer he looks at them. 

“If you think that flattery will get you anywhere…”

“Then you’re right,” both he and Grian say at exactly the same time.

“And you know me too well,” Skizz finished with a sigh. These two really did know him too well. He takes one last longing look at his cozy bed, because he knows what he has to do. And he doesn’t like it. “Fine. How about this, dudes? How about I go back to hang out with you guys until the morning? Then I’ll go get Impulse and Gem and we can go ghost hunting then. How does that sound?”

Grian looked a little skeptical, but he knew by the smile plastered across Scar’s face that this was happening. “Absolutely!” 

“Alright. Let me grab my coat and some shoes. Gentleman, let’s get ready to go.”

_______________________________

“I thought the weird hissing noise meant that it was an Oni?”

“No, apparently. Like, I don’t get it either. I don’t know why it means it’s not an Oni, but Impulse keeps saying that’s how that works. Right Skizz? Skizz…? Helloooo… Earth to Skizz!”

Grian’s loud voice jolts Skizz back awake before the tires can hit the bumps on the side of the road. He really shouldn’t be driving while drowsy like this. 

“You alright, Skizz,” Scar asked from the back seat. “Do we need to talk louder to help you stay awake?”

Grian tapped his fingers against the dashboard. He looks a little nervous, but then again he didn’t have much reason to be nervous about the situation right now. Skizz caught the young man shooting him a few sidelong glances out the corner of his eye and figured Grian must be more worried for his sake than his own or Scar’s. “You probably shouldn’t be driving drowsy like that. Want me to drive?”

“Oh please. You can’t drive,” Skizz huffed. 

“Very true, and for more reasons than one.” 

“We’ll talk louder,” Scar piped in, practically shouting into Skizz’s ear. Somehow, the man in the back seat managed to project his voice loud enough to leave Skizz’s ears ringing.

He wasn’t about to start dealing with that for an extended period of time. “Nope! No. No need for that. I’m good. We’re all good. We’re almost there anyway. I can stay awake for the next mile and a half.”

The other two didn’t respond right away, and the silence quickly became awkward. He could only endure so much time without background noise to focus on. There was always the radio. He was just starting to debate whether or not he should turn on some tunes when Grian spoke up once more. “Are you seriously going to stay with us all night?”

“Sure dude.” He flicks on the blinker as he pulls up to a stop sign. “It’s kinda my fault things went wrong earlier today. I’m the one who opened my big mouth when she came out to play. I sort of owe you guys.”

“Not true,” Scar jumped in. “That ghost was just an angry jerkface.”

Skizz could see Grian nodding in agreement in the rearview mirror. “We all were triggering hunts left and right. We’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Yeah, but I still feel bad.” 

“Don’t,” Scar insisted. He added a little more quietly, “but we’d really appreciate the company if we’re not going back to check the house.”

,

“We’re not,” Skizz confirmed. “There’s no way I’d be able to pull it off.”

“We,” Scar corrected him. “You mean ‘we.’”

Skizz nodded. “Sorry. I mean ‘we.’ But we can chill out until everything gets sorted. And if this will help you guys, then maybe I can even get some sleep myself.”

Grian scoffed. “Outside?”

“Sure. Stranger things happen all the time.”

“Thank’s Skizz. You’re the best dad ever.”

Gosh, that nickname was still so weird. But the weirdness wasn’t enough to keep the sentiment from making him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Awww, stop it.” 

The car came rolling to a stop alongside the open field. They were just outside the edge of the suburb where they frequently checked Tanglewood for ghosts. Nobody was around. They were all probably asleep in their beds like normal people who didn’t get pestered by their friends in the middle of the night. You know, the boring kind of normal people. Skizz threw open the driver-side door and stepped out into the cool night air. He rubbed at his shoulders, glad he had thought to bring his coat along. He didn’t hear the back door of the car open or close, but wasn’t surprised when Grian and Scar caught up to him.

“Which way was it again?”

“Over there,” Scar says, pointing towards a familiar row of trees. “It’s honestly a lovely spot. We could probably find you a nice mossy place between the roots to get comfy in.” That got a few giggles from Grian. 

It’s a bit of a hike, but the promise of sleep is plenty of motivation for Skizz. Even if that meant sleeping on the ground. The dew had just started soaking into the hem of his pants when they reached the first tree in the line. 

“It really is a nice place you two have here,” Skizz said as he leaned against the trunk. “Remind me to visit more often.”

“Hardy har-har,” Grian snapped back, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Keep that up and it will be you staying here next time things go south. We’ll see how you like it then.” 

“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll pass.” 

Scar looked much more comfortable to be back here at least. He was already settling down in the grass, taking a seat with criss-crossed legs. Skizz found himself marveling at how unfazed the man was by the dampness. The dew-laden grass brushed past his pants without leaving so much as a wet spot. “You and Impulse will find that monkey’s paw or the tarot cards, right?”

“Better believe it, dude.”

“And if everything goes wrong again, you both can hang out with us here until Gem figures out-” Grian started, but Skizz cut him off.

“Hey, don’t think like that. We’ve got this. Remember, we’re professionals. The best ghost hunters the world has ever seen.”

He can still make out a glint of skepticism in Grian’s eyes, but his friend doesn’t try to protest further. Instead, he settled down next to Scar in the grass. Skizz decided to join them, letting his back slide down the side of the tree trunk until he was seated in the damp moss lining its base. He frowned as the dew seeped into his clothes, but it wasn’t as bad as the grass. Things could be worse.

Scar yawned. He stretched his arms over his head in a nice big stretch. “Good,” he managed after the yawn faded. “I can’t wait to go back home and see Jellie.”

“Now how about you get some rest,” Skizz offered. “I’m here now. Just… I don’t know. Don’t move on or whatever it is that might keep you from coming back.”

“No worries,” Grian said, suppressing a yawn of his own. “We’ll be around. And if not, we'll see you on the other side tomorrow.”

“Grian! Don’t say things like that!” 

The young man made no attempt to correct himself. He broke into a fit of giggles before letting himself flop backward. His back hit the mound of dirt behind him and the laughter abruptly cut off as he vanished from sight. 

“Hey! Don’t go incorporeal on me now, mister! Someone’s got to teach you about the wonders of positive thinking.”

Scar started laughing too, though with less gusto than Grian. “Night Dad,” he said before falling backwards as well. Skizz watched as his remaining friend disappeared into the dirt mound behind him. 

It was quiet with the two of them gone. Only the sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves over his head was left to keep him company. He was alone now. Probably. Maybe. It was hard to tell with ghosts. 

Not that Skizz would have minded the company. Clearly, they were glad to have him nearby. So he settled down in his own bed of moss alongside the two graves and tried to get comfortable. He even made sure to face the mounds in case Scar and Grian needed him for any reason. Hopefully, they would let him get some sleep tonight… Then he felt the jab of a branch in his back and realized, yeah, he's not getting much sleep tonight.

Tomorrow he and Impulse would hunt down a cursed object and wish them back to life. They wouldn’t have to stay in those temporary graves for very long. But until then, he had to get whatever sleep he could get during this impromptu little sleepover. Going into a haunted building half awake was a surefire way to get himself a hole of his own right next to Grian and Scar’s. 

[lunellum]

Have I ever shared the story of gun Elmo house?

A few years ago we were looking at a lot of houses and I don't know about anyone else but I love looking at other people's interior photos, especially when they're fucking bonkers. Sometimes that means looking at something way out of your price class because you're curious and discovering a porn house (that's a different story) and sometimes that means looking at a house that's perfectly normal on the outside, until you click through to the interior shots.

Like a tiki bar that takes up most of the living room. An impressive collection of hanging balls with little castles and dragons and other fantasy accoutrements on them. A bathroom done up entirely in fake Egyptian glory, with plaster columns and fake gold and a huge statue of a pharaoh.

And, the house's crowning glory, because yes all of this is THE SAME HOUSE, gun Elmo.

I only witnessed gun Elmo on a photo as we never dared to view this house in person. As far as I could tell, he was a regular Elmo plushie mounted on the living room wall (next to the tiki bar). His arms were folded around some sort of firearm (probably fake but who knows). He was hanging slightly above eye height, like a weird fluffy crucifix.

All I can say is, good on these people for not caring about resale value. They must've had a lot of fun in gun Elmo house.

[jo-harrington]

🩶🩶🩶

Request for Heaven-era AASB Eddie x Reader: discussing their favorite cryptids. (and why is Eddie's Mothman)

Mothman you say? Oh. Oh baby I’ve got you.

Haven't ready Heaven yet? Find it here.

I’m finishing this at 4am. This is most definitely not edited.

April 1984

“Would you rather…” you hummed thoughtfully. “Oh! Ok I have a good one. Would you rather drink the juice that collects at the bottom of a dumpster or eat a half-eaten moldy pizza you found on the side of the road?”

“Easy,” Eddie scoffed. “Trash juice. Next.”

“Are you kidding me?!?!” You practically jumped across the the booth to grab him by his vest. “The trash juice?!”

“You’re the one who thought of them!” He laughed heartily as you shook him.

It was your first date. Sort of. The first real one, just the two of you.

Thanks to your work schedule and his…well, more your work because he would happily skip class if it meant seeing you…it was hard to find time where the two of you could be alone. You were happy to meet at the Hideout on Tuesdays and listen to the band play, or spend a Saturday morning before your shift in the Caldwell’s garage while they practiced.

Or, at the very least, you insisted you were.

Having the guys around, however, meant that everything you shared with Eddie, you shared with them too. As addicted to you as he had become, there was very little he got to cherish for himself. And he coveted those little intimate moments.

He hadn’t even kissed you yet…

So, after some careful scheduling, here you were. Tucked into a booth in the Pizza Hut off highway 70 as you shared jokes and secrets and dreams.

He learned that you had a rebellious streak. You had dropped out of some stuffy all-girls Catholic high school as soon as you turned 18, despite your father’s threats to send you away to a convent if you even dared. You’d been driving around in your best-up, hand-me-down Marquis for a year before you simply had to stop running.

“Which led me to Hawkins. And you.”

“Almost like fate.”

“If you believe in that kind of thing.”

He also learned that you enjoyed silly party games, like “would you rather,” but no one ever wanted to indulge you.

Eddie greedily jumped at the chance to make you smile.

As soon as the first question left your mouth…

“Would you rather have your dick chopped off and thrown into a meat grinder or have sex with Ronald Reagan?”

…Eddie knew he was in love.

Beneath the innocent facade—the sweet smile and silver crucifix on your necklace that you fiddled with constantly—you were feral. And he could see why no one would play with you.

He, however, never wanted to stop.

For hours the two of you went back and forth, coming up with increasingly mind-bending challenges for one another and losing your minds at the other’s response.

While you went on and on about the merits of questionable road pizza over dumpster juice, though, Eddie formulated the ultimate question that would surely stump you.

And he could kiss the dumbfounded look off your face once it did.

"…and the point isn’t that you’re just sticking anything dirty in your mouth. It is the point of consumption!!! You might get sick if you eat something moldy. Trash juice would kill you! Instantly! Your…I don’t know, immortal soul forever disintegrated by the germs.”

You shook him once more for good measure, then fell back into your seat and gestured for him to go as you took a sip of your Mountain Dew.

Eddie took his chance and scooted out of the booth to quickly slid beside you on your side, preening as your giggles washed over him. As his arm found its way over your shoulder to tuck you into his side and make the moment more intimate, he suddenly understood the appeal of couples sitting on the same side of the booth.

“Would you rather,” he whispered into your ear, his voice taking on a deeper, richer quality the way it did when he DM’d. “Fuck the Jersey Devil or Mothman?”

You made your cute honking laugh and slapped his chest. Then, with all of the composure in the world, you looked him dead in the eye and answered.

“Mothman, duh…”

Something in Eddie short-circuited as you rested your head against his shoulder and elaborated, words fading into the background as he spiraled.

“He’s massive…the cuddles…protect you with his wings…nuzzle you…”

Because…of course to him, the correct answer was Mothman. Not necessarily to fuck, although that would be pretty metal.

Eddie had sketched Mothman many times in the journal he kept for DND. Had been obsessed with the story the first time his uncle had told it to him. The height, the wings, the general…it was not even benevolence…Mothman simply was. Flying around, living his life, sometimes scaring people, but generally a good guy.

Just like Eddie.

To be honest, he was a little surprised you even knew who Mothman was. But you seemed to know a lot of creepy, crazy shit so he just went with his gut.

But for you to…answer so confidently. You must have considered it before. Or maybe…

There was a soft pressure on his lips and Eddie came back to reality.

Lips? You were kissing him. Right. Right. Be cool.

His hand immediately found your cheek and held it reverently as he savored the sweetness of you. And in that moment, something inside of him—inside his soul—sighed in relief.

When you eventually pulled away, you giggled.

“Had to get you back to the real world somehow.”

You both savored the tenderness throughout the rest of the date. There were a few more rounds of “would you rather” with tamer topics. More kisses were exchanged, ones that took Eddie’s breath away and made his heart flutter.

And at the end of the night when he dropped you back off at home, right before you hopped out of his van, he asked the question that had plagued his mind since the moment before you kissed him.

“Did you fuck Mothman?”

[see-arcane]

Last Night

It isn’t a dream. It isn’t moonlight or mist. It’s him.

The pretense shed, the door at his towering back, the teeth bared with a glee that borders on the giddiness of a child finally unwrapping a gift dangled out of reach until the appropriate holiday. All the world is shrunk down to the pieces of him Jonathan has had to endure by increasing increments. Mouth, hands, eyes. The latter are trying to hook him. He feels the push of them just as the Weird Sisters’ influence had fogged his sense when he was too near to sleep to fight.

But he is awake now. So horribly, implacably awake with that fearful energy which visits all prey spotting the pursuer’s jaws. Run! that energy demands. Run! Hide! Fight! Something, anything!

With no mode in which to answer any of these instincts, the energy is left to pace through his veins in frantic circles. It feels as if his own blood is leaping to answer the Count’s wishes, churning itself into a froth. Sickly, he thinks he sees exactly that answering delight in the horror’s pallid face; a twitch of the nostrils, a salivating shine on the saber teeth, a darkening of the eyes. A wolf before a lame calf.

“I do wish to thank you before we part. Most sincerely.”

Jonathan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t dare meet the trap of the eyes. Watch the red mouth. The white hands.

“You have given me so much more than I dared hope for after all this time.”

“I only,” his voice is thinned down to a rasp. A raw quavering. “I only came to sell you a house. That was all.” The flatness of the fact seems almost comical when said aloud. A noise that can’t decide between a laugh, a sob, or a scream lodges in his throat.

“And so you did. So anyone might have. Anyone else,” the Count takes a step closer, as Jonathan moves back a pace, “would have come and gone within a day. Less than. A mere workman, a living appliance good only for one thing before being discarded. Not so for you, my friend. You have gifted me such aid and pleasure in your company that it merits mention. That and more.” Step forward, step back. The door is visible over the high cloaked shoulder. Locked? Unlocked? Does it matter?

Jonathan digs for a response that isn’t bile, begging, or more incessant playacting to suit the damned game. All he can dredge up is more hot coal in his throat, more wet burning behind his eyes. He wants to wake up. Please, God, now if no other time, let the nightmare end, let him out, let him wake—

But you are. You are awake.

A single word makes it past his tongue. Empty and pleading, but there.

“Why?”

“Because.” Step. “Since your coming, since your staying, I have been met again and again with a joy I thought dead in me.” Step. “Dust piled on the clockwork of my mind has been swept away.” Step. “You have brought lifeblood into my nights and made me feel things I feared were buried in long-gone ages.” Step. “A lifetime of paling distractions, suddenly alight with something worth attention.” Step. “Such a perfect prelude to dear England. But more than that…”

Jonathan’s heel strikes a leg of the bed.

Door, door, get to the door—

He gets scarcely an inch before the white hands are on him. One is the manacle grip on his arm that first stole him up into the caleche and drove him away to this benighted hell. The other locks around his jaw like a cold vise, seizing him where the crucifix had once barred that touch on the night of his last shave. With bleary inanity, Jonathan wonders if there would be any difference if he wore it now rather than leaving it pinned as scant protection on the wall. The Son hangs his tiny head and cannot guard him from his spot above the bed.

Not that Jonathan could look him in his carved eyes now. The hand at his jaw has wrenched his face up and the red eyes are worming their way into him like maggots coiling through loam. A braided sensation of dread and calm, terror and welcome stitches itself through him. When he tries to open his mouth for a last word—he can’t guess whether it would be a prayer or an animal-cry of protest—there’s only the slackness of a doll.

“…you have made me feel young, my friend. In so many ways.” Cool digits stroke and cradle. “For that, you deserve all I mean to give.”

The red stare does not blink. Does not move. Does not end as the pressure of it softens the world’s edges into a dreaming haze. Jonathan feels himself going away. Away…

Dracula says things he can no longer hear. The room tilts as he is tilted, neck taut, back folded over the strut of a dead man’s arm, and it is bliss not to know the words whispering their endless litany in his ear. Murmurs of youth, of forgotten pleasures, of life, of love, of a dozen other endearments made profane through the sieve of those lowering teeth are all lost to him. Even the farewell, padded as it is in stroking hands and cold lips, hushing him away to an oblivion without sight or tears, melts into ether.

When the blood begins to flow, he does not have to see the turning of the wild white mane into a fall of iron.

[muzansslxt]

On Your Knee’s

Priest Douma x Fem Reader

Warnings: dubcon, blood play, gore, religious trauma.

An:Thank you to everyone who voted! Get ready for spiceee😘

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There it was.

A rather large wooden church with beautiful stained glass windows sat in silence at the end of the dirt road you had been travelling on.

Night was almost upon you, the sun slowly dissipating behind the trees bringing out shadows and strange noises that you were not accustomed to.

You clutched the small silver crucifix that hung around your neck and closed your eyes, praying.

“There is no god.”

The sudden voice startled you, your eyes flying wide open, preparing to see who it was that dared to mock your faith.

Nothing.

You turned in all directions, to try and catch a glimpse of something but you were met with silence and the ever darkening sky.

Hurrying along the path, you felt as if there was someone behind you.

The hairs on your neck began to stand up with unease as you began to run to the church, believing there was sanctuary inside.

Panting you open the doors and shut them heavily behind you, your chest rising and falling as you surveyed the room.

There were tall black candles aglow throughout the hall, and a large painting sat on your right side.

Just the sight of it made your gut clench, it was a depiction of what hell would look like for sinners.

Shakily removing your shoes, your unease never went away.

Why was the house of god so eerie and gloomy?

“The ceremony ended hours ago miss, have you travelled far?”

The voice you heard this time was soft spoken, a friendly tone ran through it, relaxing you for the first time since you got there.

Looking up, your lips parted in surprise as well as awe.

The man before you was tall, much taller than you. He was clad in priest attire that seemed to cling to his fit figure. A large wooden crucifix rested on his chest, his hands clutched a rosary. But it was his eyes, the strange mix of bright colours didn’t sit right with you.

Maybe it was the stain glass colours reflecting off the window.

“I’m sorry father, I’m not used to travelling long distances for prayer.” You say while bowing your head respectfully.

Douma feels himself salivating at the sweet scent you give off, pure and untainted.

And he was starving.

“There’s no need to be sorry my dear, why don’t we pray together? You have come all this way after all.” He said while opening the door to the main congregation.

Douma watched you grip your crucifix tightly as your eyes seemed to be searching for something, he could taste your fear on the tip of his tongue.

Once you were sat at a pew, with your head bowed and hands clasped together, Douma took the time to take in your scent.

You could feel his gaze burning into your skin, making you feel as if you were naked.

“Amen.” You murmured softly before lifting your head, and smiled slightly at Douma in a more timid manner.

If only you knew what the demon had in store for you.

A desperate whine of pleasure echoed off the church walls, the sweet melody making Doumas cock throb underneath his robe.

He had you bent over the alter, one hand firmly gripped the back of your hair, keeping you from putting your face down.

The other hand knuckles deep in your weeping pussy.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as overwhelming pleasure filled your entire body, your legs shook as Douma curled his index against your sweet spot.

“Such a pretty sinner~” he cooed to you, leaning down and kissing along the nape of your neck, grazing your flesh with needle sharp teeth.

You chocked on a moan in response as your legs buckled suddenly, it was amusing to Douma, to see you in such a hysterical state.

Wrapping one strong arm around your waist and the other holding your torso, a hand fondling your soft breast, he kept you pressed tight to him so you couldn’t fall or squirm away.

“You have such a cute little pussy. I love how honest she is, your panties were wet as soon as you walked through the chapel doors you know~” He said calmly as he continued to assault your insides with his skilled fingers.

“Humans are so easy to manipulate, you all believe in some higher power. Do you think god will save you right now?” He sneered, using his thumb to rub agonizingly slow circles against your swollen clit.

You attempted to turn your head, but Douma was quick to push it back down with a little more force than necessary, smashing your nose into the wood.

“I-I don’t understand f-father-“ you cried as blood slowly trickled out of your nose.

Douma grinned before gripping your hair and pulled your head back so you were eye to eye.

“Of course you don’t my sweet little pet~” he cooed before leaning closer and swiped his tongue over your lips, collecting your blood.

You whimpered in confusion as you stared up at him with glossy eyes, your cheeks stained with tears and lips shiny with drool and blood from your nose.

“I’m not a priest. In fact, I’m the most unholy thing to walk the earth. Something you should be very afraid of, but instead your letting a demon defile you~”

You feel your heart skip a beat at his words, that couldn’t be true.

Could it?

“Get off-“ you manage to choke out, your legs feeling weak beneath your body as you tried to push at Doumas muscled chest.

The demon laughed in amusement while pinning your wrists behind your back, his nails digging into the soft flesh of your wrists.

“Ah Ah~ Leaving so soon?~ He crooned while aligning his tip with your aching hole.

“Please- Hah!~ Please don’t kill me- I taste h-horrible I’m sure-“

Douma stuffed two fingers into your mouth to shut you up before pushing the rest of his thick cock inside of your cunt, groaning softly at the tightness and pleasant warmth.

“Oh I know you taste heavenly~ Don’t try to lie about that my pet~ But if you take my cock nice and sweetly, I’ll let you live another sunrise.” He hummed while gripping the round globes of your ass, making you whimper softly.

The hot stretch of his dick seemed to make your head dizzy, you almost felt sick for a moment. But once he began a slow pace, you were able to take him better.

Sucking on the demons fingers, your eyes rolled back while whimpers and muffled moans escaped your lips, it was to much. So much more than the average human male.

“Tell me how good you’re feeling~” he whispered in your ear, his hips meeting your soft ass with each thrust. He removed his fingers from your mouth and gently tucked hair from your face but held your jaw tightly so you were forced to look at him.

“S-so good…” you reply in a small needy voice, your eyes glazed over with lust and lips heavy with drool.

“Mm! Humans are so fun to play with.” He said in a more excited tone, and held your hips tightly while his cock bullied itself against your sweet spot.

“Hah!~ Wait!~ I-I’ll cum!~” you squeal out, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the familiar euphoric wave pooled in your tummy.

Douma continued to rut himself faster inside of you, his free hand gripping the soft tissue of your breast, thumbing your perky nipple.

“Go ahead~” he purred to you with a smirk as he towered over you.

Your body arched as you covered Doumas cock with your own juices, your face flushed and body sore.

Of course Douma hadn’t finished just yet and pulled himself out of you calmly with the same smirk on his face.

“How about your other cute hole?~”

[beevean]

WIP Saturday

(supposed to be Wednesday but you know)

I was tagged by @monochromatictoad! I do have a WIP, several in fact :D and I tag @the-crow-binary and @viralvava, if you guys are willing to share!

Since I'm stuck here, I'll get the chance to post the most complete part :P

~

On Walter’s throne, Joachim was bored.

And he was so sick of being bored.

Oh sure, at first he was delighted to see the throne room from that new perspective – no longer on his knees kissing Walter’s ridiculously ornamented boots, but sitting where the wretched despot used to sit, looking down at the pathetic creatures crawling in and out the hall.

(he could still smell his stench on his throne, fresh blood and meat and polished metal Joachim couldn’t stand it he hated it hated it hated him him him)

He had been weak and helpless for so long, that he didn’t know what to do with his newfound power: it was a liberation and a burden at the same time.

At first, he passed the time killing some of the monsters that bowed down to him, shaking like rippling water. Some of the uglier ones, the slimy ones, the mermen who still dared to show their faces around him as if he didn’t have enough of them and their blood that stank of rotten fish; it was easy, to decapitate them with his swords, or cut off their limbs to leave them to bleed out, or exert more of his power to crush their windpipes and lungs. They made funny noises when dying: they made for lovely music. And it felt so, so good to do so not because his body cried out for nourishment, seized by despair and the primal need for survival: but because he could, and there was nothing who could stop him, not anymore.

But even that grew stale. Death had no gravitas, for someone who had transcended it.

So Joachim spent some more years exploring what he used to call his home, to refresh his memory.

(Not all of it: he gave the watery caves a wide berth. He’d rather descend into Hell and break his legs there: it was bound to be a more pleasant stay. The sound of falling rain still made him jolt on the throne. He could kill any eventual witness to that sorry spectacle, but not the shame burning in his dead guts.)

(One day, he finally sealed the entrance for good measure, and his cackling resonated up to the surface.)

The new enormous chapel, polished to a shine and bathed in the silver moonlight, only made him scoff. He could stare at the giant crucifixes and the statues of holy women without his eyes melting: they were mere counterfeits, bait for the knights’ hope and faith. How like Walter, to meticulously create something so ostentatious as a form of mockery. Joachim had no affection for the Christian God he was forced to worship in his life, so no emotions ever stirred him – he counted it as a victory against his dead master, who used to drink Joachim’s anger like distilled blood.

He’d visit the abandoned theatre quite often, force the vain succubi to give him a show, to transform into Joachim and Walter and reenact the moment he had slayed the former Lord, perhaps with a little embellishment for his amusement. And Joachim clapped, clapped hard enough that the sound of his joy echoed into the empty hallways! If they were creative enough, he’d even spare them.

He didn’t understand why the inhabitants of the castle were so terrified of him. So maybe he had a little too much fun cleaning up the place, but he had no intention of imprisoning anyone, so they should be grateful that their new Lord was much more merciful. Not that he cared about the opinion of lurid creatures who enjoyed their useless freedom when he rotted in the bowels of the castle, forgotten by everything, lower than the maggots that squirmed in decayed corpses.

The alchemy laboratory brought back memories that Joachim could have done without. Walter had taught him the basics of alchemy, in that place, he had told him about the Ebony and the Crimson Stone, the greatest treasures for a vampire to hold. And Joachim looked up to him, to his knowledge, and he had allowed him to fill his head with his obnoxious voice, and allowed him to touch him with those filthy paws of his, and…

Well, Walter was dead, and Joachim still remembered how to read, albeit slowly. He could soak in the rest of Walter’s knowledge by himself. And curse him for even thinking of appreciating one thing about that bastard, but his wealth of knowledge was immense, and a more than fulfilling pastime.

But the gardens were by far his favorite wing of the castle. Air, fresh air, for him and only him to feel on his skin! He even breathed it, as if to replace the stagnant humidity that had become part of his body. And oh, how he had missed the night sky, the stars spreading over his head rather than those stalactites he had watched grow, waiting for them to impale him. He enjoyed laying on the damp grass, drawing in the air with his swords, and stare at the immense, red moon shining upon him, a benefactor he had forgotten about.

Soon, the castle became tight on him. Another cell, just bigger than the one he had called his home for… he was afraid of knowing how much time had passed ever since that fateful day, when he tried to show Walter that he was no mere toy, that he deserved the throne more than he did.

Never. Never again. Never again will he be stuck!

He hadn’t realized that Walter was his reason of living. Not just because he had gifted him with eternal life; the reason he never melted himself away under a waterfall was because for countless time, he had anticipated the sweet taste of revenge.

He feasted on that revenge. And then what?

Joachim had wasted enough of his immortality.