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flowerandblood · 10 months ago

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The Gate of Salvation [2/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Song of Songs (Oneshot) Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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After her meeting with the Pope, she had been writhing around all night, terrified and humiliated, unable to sleep. She couldn't forgive herself for her stupidity, for not seeing in time that it was obvious her uncle was trying to slip her over to the head of the Catholic Church like a snack he might be tempted to focus on.

The worst part was that he had hired her and she didn't know how she could take it back, defy the Pope himself, communicate that she was rejecting his proposal.

She got up before dawn, recognising that she would not get any rest anyway, and decided to take a warm shower. She thought while standing under the stream of hot water that she would try to distance herself, be professional and not give satisfaction to either her uncle or the Pope himself.

She hoped that when he finally decided to give any sort of interview the commotion around him would quiet down and she could quickly offer her resignation.

She sighed heavily, running her hand over her wet face, wondering how she was supposed to reconcile this madness with her classes at the University.

A car with the same driver as the day before arrived outside her townhouse again and took her straight to the Vatican; driving through its streets, she noticed that many people had pitched tents in and around St Peter's Square, waiting for any new information about their Pope.

She sighed quietly, resignedly thinking about how unnecessary his stubbornness actually was.

This time it was not her uncle waiting for her in the square, but a middle-aged priest who could have been her father, dressed in a plain black cassock. He smiled at her in a way that seemed genuine to her and she reciprocated the gesture when he indicated with a movement of his hand that she should move to follow him.

"The Pope is just having breakfast in the garden and he will receive you there." He said as they walked along the marble corridors filled with works of art; she looked at him surprised and sighed quietly, glancing out of the window, finding that it was indeed pleasant warm weather, the sky was cloudless.

They walked out one of the back exits to the cloisters into a small garden consisting of a maze formed of walls of shrubbery, which, however, easily led them to its centre, on which stood a large arbour styled in antique manner, with a dome and Corinthian-style columns.

She grinned with some kind of disbelief when she spotted his figure seated at an ornate small white table, his cassock also white, he held in his hands a newspaper he had just been looking through.

She thought with amusement that he was reading about himself.

Only when they got closer did she notice that other gazettes from different countries lay folded on the table top; the front pages of each asking who the new pope was, why he wasn't showing himself, why he was silent.

"Your Holiness." Said the priest standing next to her and nodded; the young pope, however, did not even bestow a single glance on them.

She pressed her lips together as she saw his thumb go to his mouth, he licked it and then used it to flip the page of the newspaper.

The priest who had brought her left them alone, as if he had already become accustomed to the lack of reaction and any culture on his part. She stared at him in silence for a moment, standing in front of him in the same dress as the day before, not having time to buy anything else.

"Holy Father." She said softly, wanting to get it over with, standing a few steps beside him.

He did not look at her, instead lifting his hand and extending it towards her, a signet ring of pure gold on his heart finger.

She looked at him for a moment in disbelief, then swallowed hard and walked towards him, grasping his warm hand in hers.

She leaned in, placing a quick, brief kiss on his ring and let him go immediately; he took his hand without even giving her a glance and went back to reading the newspaper.

She pressed her lips together feeling his intense, pleasant-smelling male perfume again.

"What do you think of what they write about me?" He asked, carelessly tossing the newspaper he had just read onto a pile of others, the discouragement on his face bordering on disgust, as if what he had read made him sick. "They are already reaching my family. Day and night they chat outside my mother's house."

She felt a tightness in her throat at his words and some kind of sympathy, because although he must have known what his decision entailed and what the consequences would be, some journalists crossed all possible boundaries, recognising no sanctity.

She shifted from foot to foot, looking at the French croissants that lay on one of the porcelain plates and a jar of strawberry jam, and reminded herself that she hadn't eaten breakfast. She grunted quietly, looking away, staring at the field flowers that grew around them – she spotted a gardener in the distance who was cutting the shrubs with his big steel shears.

"They won't stop until you give them something, Holy Father." She replied truthfully, hearing him snort under his breath.

"They will always want more." He replied dryly and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye – he was staring at her sitting with his legs crossed.

She shuddered and looked at him in disbelief as he pushed the other chair in front of her with his foot clad in white elegant shoes, moving it away.

"Sit down, child. You are pale. Did you eat breakfast today?" He asked disapprovingly, like a parent expressing their discontent. She shook her head and he sighed heavily, indicating with his hand gesture to the seat next to him.

She thought that this certainly had nothing to do with behaving according to protocol, but decided that it probably didn't matter much to him. She sat down next to him, smelling the intense scent of his perfume again, adjusting her dress, remembering not to sit with her legs crossed.

"Eat." He said dispassionately; she wasn't going to argue, figuring that since she was being forced to be at his every beck and call now, she could get something in return.

Therefore, she reached for the croissant and jam, which immediately drew the attention of her stomach – she casted him a wordless surprised glance as she heard the sound of the lighter being lit and the hiss of the cigarette he held in his mouth.

He took a deep drag and spread out comfortably in his chair, looking at her thoughtfully, letting the smoke out through his nose. He smirked, as if something in her gaze amused him.

"My chancellery contacted your University. They were happy to hear that you will be doing a sort of…internship here. You don't have to worry about your exams or classes." He hummed as if he was talking about something trivial and uninteresting, an irrelevant piece of information he had to convey to her, and took another drag, the tip of his cigarette igniting red.

"− what − but −" She started, but decided it made no sense; whoever he was, this man had clearly already planned everything for himself and had no intention of changing anything, much less asking her opinion.

"I thought you'd be pleased. Your uncle arranges for you accommodation and studies, the Pope makes sure you pass your exams without your personal involvement. Isn't that beautiful?" He asked with a sneer, and she felt a tightening in her throat, a cold sweat on her back; she stared wide-eyed at the half-cut croissant on which she had just spread jam, but lost the urge to eat.

He knew everything about her and thought she and her uncle were the same.

She pressed her lips together and leaned back against the backrest, placing her hands on the armrests even though she shouldn't be doing so and crossed her legs. She saw his gaze drop involuntarily to her bare knees, his cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.

"My uncle wants you to take me to your bed, Holy Father." She said quietly, recognising that she didn't have the strength for this, for their games, their hookups, the secrets they obviously adored, of which the entire Vatican was made.

She blinked when he chuckled, his pointing finger hitting his cigarette so that the ash from it fell to the stone floor beneath him.

"Tell me something I don't know. Eat. We have a lot of work ahead of us." He muttered, taking one last drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out through his nose, extinguishing the remnants of it on his plate.

She stared at him with her heart pounding fast, thinking in disbelief that he really was a few steps ahead of everyone else.

He was perfectly informed, and although his words and actions seemed chaotic, there was purpose in them.

"What do you want, Holy Father?" She asked lightly, taking a piece of croissant into her mouth. He threw her an amused look and raised an eyebrow.

She had the impression that he took satisfaction in teasing her, his gaze fixed on her lips, which she involuntarily licked.

"Many things. Above all, holy peace and quiet, but I am not afforded it. Get up, let's take a walk." He said matter-of-factly and rose abruptly, putting his hands behind him, moving ahead without looking at her towards the corridors made of tall, evenly trimmed bushes.

She quickly swallowed the piece she just had in her mouth and stood up, following him, levelling her step with his, sunshine and birdsong all around them.

"We're being watched. It's harder for them to eavesdrop on me as I walk." He said coolly; she turned behind her and saw the gardener she noticed before, who was apparently just pretending to water the flowers around the arbour.

She looked at him in horror, realising that he must have been spied on all the time.

That they all wanted to know what he was going to do, surely he must have kept them in an iron grip since no picture of him had leaked to the press yet.

"What's going to make the atmosphere calm down and the journalists back off?" He asked discouraged, and she sighed quietly, looking up at the cloudless sky.

"Your private invitation."

She was surprised that her idea that he would hold a press conference where he would be invisible and only his voice could be heard appealed to him. He felt that, in fact, his faithful should hear his words and what he has to share with them, and this did not require his image to be revealed at all.

He decided to receive the TV and newspaper envoys in the Sistine Chapel, recognising that this was some kind of milestone moment that required a special place, a black veil was placed in front of his papal throne.

Although on the one hand it looked comical, on the other it added a sort of solemnity and impression of holiness, something tangible and yet inaccessible.

The cardinals and his office workers had prepared a script for him, which he tore in front of her eyes before the speech itself, handing her the shreds that remained of the pages, staring blankly at the black fabric in front of him. She took it from him, not knowing what else she could do; he demanded she be by his side in case someone asked an uncomfortable question.

Her heart was pounding like mad, she could feel the cold sweat on her back and wondered if he felt a similar anxiety.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and although his face was stony, he seemed even paler to her than usual, his large hands on which she could clearly see the outline of his veins clenched on his armrests – he sat comfortably on his throne with his legs crossed.

"Holy Father, why don't you want to show your face to your faithful? Is this some new kind of Vatican policy, a way of getting the whole world's attention?" They heard the question echoed by the first journalist on the other side of the curtain; she saw him press his lips together and swallow loudly before his cold, matter-of-fact, dispassionate voice began to spread around them.

"My face is not useful to my faithful for anything. They need my action. My causality. They need my intervention in matters of urgency, in the problems of paedophilia in the church, in the embezzlement and misuse of church assets, in the restoration of law and order, in the opening up of the church to young people who feel forgotten and unwanted. My face, my history, my personal views will distract them from all these things."

He said without stammering. She looked at him in disbelief, realising that he couldn't have prepared this answer beforehand.

He was saying straight from his heart what he was thinking and there was something touching about it.

Somehow she understood what he meant.

"What about the pilgrimages, what about the Sunday masses celebrated by the Pope?" Asked another journalist. She heard him sigh heavily, noticed that his hand trembled as he raised it to his face, tightening his fingers on the base of his nose.

"The Pope is not alone, he has his cardinals who can assist him in his missions around the world. As for the masses, I will attend them as a guest, but I will not be visible. The Pope is not unique. The Pope is chosen as first among equals. As Pope, I still remain a cardinal, one of the apostles. I am not Christ. I am not God."

She looked at him in pain, breathing unevenly through slightly parted lips, remembering what she had told him a few days earlier.

They need a guide, not another invisible God.

She couldn't believe that after what she had heard she had begun to feel sympathy for him – his answers seemed thoughtful and sensible, and she wondered if she had just seen his true nature, or if he was as perfect a manipulator as any of the cardinals.

She wondered how he had convinced them.

How he became Pope.

When it was all over he left without a word; the journalists were led away, and she prayed that it would help, that public opinion would calm down a little.

She watched all the news editions that evening with bated breath – the whole world quoted his statements and his decision, to her relief, most of the experts spoke warmly of him. The newspaper headlines also left her under no illusions.

The Pope has spoken. He doesn't want to show his face, only his actions.

The Pope who chooses the fight against paedophilia over the glamour of glory.

The Pope without a face − a new beginning.

The end of splendour − the Pope retreats to work like any of us.

The end of the church as we know it. The Pope at last again the voice of the weakest.

The next day she arrived in the Vatican with a stack of newspapers, eager to show him the result of their work, hoping it would satisfy him and allow her to return to normality.

"The Pope is exercising, but he said he would receive you." Said the priest, who was called Father Lenz, and who was apparently his private secretary, always waiting for her to lead her wherever he just happened to be.

"He's exercising?" She asked with amusement, and he just raised his eyebrows, himself clearly not knowing what he thought about it.

He opened the door for her and she stepped into a large room, with a beautiful baroque vaulted ceiling and hundreds of paintings on one side, rows of tall windows on the other, illuminating an exercise machine consisting of a small bench with a mattress on which he placed his back as he pulled on the railing at the end of which the weights hung, his legs braced on either side of the machine for balance.

He was dressed in white tracksuits.

She stared at the sight in disbelief, waiting for him to notice her; it only happened after a while when he took a break and sat down, reaching for a bottle of water standing on the old wooden floor. She lifted up a bundle of newspapers and he nodded, running his fingers through his hair, trying to calm his breathing after his exertion.

She walked over to him and handed him the magazines she held in her hand; she felt a pleasant throbbing between her thighs feeling the smell of his sweat mixed with the scent of his perfume, his lips slightly swollen and pink from the blood that pulsed faster through his body.

He flipped through the front pages of the papers one by one and sighed quietly; she thought with surprise that there was a sort of expression of relief painted on his face, as if what was happening frightened him somewhere deep inside and filled him with anxiety.

He put them down at last, looking ahead, grabbing the white towel that hung over the railing at the other end of the machine.

"I prayed to God after I was elected. I prayed that he would show me the way, and although he usually answered me in some way, that evening he was silent. It was a silence full of rejection, as if the heavens did not agree with the decision of the conclave. How was I to go out to the crowds in such a situation, to convince them that Our Father in the heavens was sending me to them?"

He asked, rising with a quiet creak from the metal bench, surprising her completely with his words; because of his clothes and the way he spoke she had cognitive dissonance and had to remind herself that he was the Pope and not just a young man close to her age.

His confession touched her in some way – she was able to imagine his despair on the evening he was elected as people chanted his name, but it was the voice of God that he wanted to hear.

He stood a few steps away from her, drinking the contents of his small water bottle to the end, and stared ahead, as if he had returned with his mind to that time, as if he needed to get it out of himself.

"That's why I asked my faithful to pray from me. And what did they do? They despaired. They despaired that they could not see my face, that they could not touch me, tear me apart, dissect my private life and my past. I have never felt so lonely." He said with a regret from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and lowered her gaze, not knowing what to say, reminding herself with shame that she had thought the same thing about him as all those people.

"Perhaps it was also the will of the heavens. In the end, when the time comes everyone will face God alone. Maybe it was his words: don't follow the crowd, don't conform, that's not why I sent you." She said softly, but immediately regretted her words, recognising that she had no right to interpret anyone's spiritual experiences, much less those of the Head of the Church.

She heard him snort with amusement; he pulled a lighter and cigarettes from his pocket and for a moment she thought he would want to smoke in this beautiful baroque chamber, however, he moved ahead towards a small door other than the one she had entered through.

"Come." He hummed, so she moved after him, knowing that it was pointless to resist.

For the rest, the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

They passed through a narrow corridor and began to climb up a stone staircase that spiraled around a large pillar – it seemed to her that they were in some older part of this great complex. They reached a small wooden door, and when he opened it they emerged onto the roof of one of the buildings located to the right of St Peter's Square.

The view in front of her struck her –the sun was rising over the Vatican, lazily leaning out from above the church standing in the centre of the square like a nimbus, the air around them pleasantly cool and crisp.

She watched as he moved ahead and walked closer to the stone wall, firing up his lighter and leaning forward with a cigarette in his mouth – there was something so obscene about the sight that she smiled involuntarily.

He looked at her over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow, taking a drag, then slid his cigarette out of his mouth with a motion of his hand and let the smoke out silently through his nose, shaking the ash to the ground with a flick of his finger.

"It has been reported to me that journalists are slowly making their way into my past. Don't worry, I don't think it's your fault. I knew it would happen, but I thought I had more time." He murmured lowly seeing her surprised, horrified face, suddenly as if tired and discouraged, taking another drag with a quiet hiss of fire.

She thought looking at his silhouette illuminated by the first rays of the sun, that he looked like a saint.

"I want you to hear it from me. Will you listen to what I have to say?" He asked calmly and she nodded, feeling her heart pounding fast, looking at him with her lips slightly parted, terrified of what he wanted to tell her.

"My mother I told you about is a nun. She adopted me a few years after I was placed in a convent orphanage." He said calmly, looking away, staring at the crowds of people walking around St Peter's Square.

"They took me from the woman who gave birth to me because she liked to inject various stimulants into her veins. She was asleep when one of her men decided he didn't like the way I looked at him, that I was complaining about being hungry. He decided that he would gouge my eyes out, but he only succeeded with one, my screaming would wake even the dead."

He muttered, not looking at her but somewhere in the distance, letting out a puff of smoke with a deep breath; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain feeling the squeeze in her throat, her cheeks red with emotion.

She wanted to say something but was afraid to interrupt him, she knew that what he was telling her was of the utmost importance and she wondered if anyone else knew about all this, if he had confided in anyone.

"Sister Alicent after I was brought in wouldn't let me call her my mother. So I called every woman I saw that, cooks, cleaners, teachers. She adopted me in the end, unable to look at it anymore. She got a dispensation from the Pope." He said lowly, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground, crushing it with his completely white Adidas.

"Some trashy, cheap magazines are already writing about the fact that I am the son of a nun and the Pope, others with mockery recognise that I am certainly her immaculate conception. That they mock me doesn't bother me, but it fills me with sadness that journalists stand outside her house all day. She can't even go out shopping or gardening. I guess you think the only way out of this situation would be an interview where I would tell my story?"

He asked disapprovingly, looking at her finally; she was shocked and horrified that he was asking her opinion on such an important matter. She shook her head helplessly, shrugging her shoulders.

"You cannot allow them to make your mother a hostage, Holy Father. You must show strength. Call press conferences where you talk about what decisions you make, but don't answer questions about your family. In the Vatican, you are Pius XIII, not Aemond Targaryen. When they see that they cannot blackmail you, they will let go. In my opinion, you both have to bear it." She said what she thought, thinking in the back of her mind that journalists would always want more and the matter would only get worse.

He looked at her silently as if analysing her words and sighed finally, kicking a stone that lay under his feet with his shoe.

"Have you ever kissed?" He asked lightly and she looked at him with shock written all over her face, feeling her heart pounding like crazy, her cheeks burning with heat.

She couldn't believe such a question had come out of his mouth.

"You don't have to answer. I'm just curious. I've never kissed anyone." He replied after a moment, seeing her embarrassed reaction, as if he wanted to clarify and elaborate that his interest was purely scientific and theoretical.

She swallowed loudly, pressing her lips together, thinking that he had told her about himself, about the most private aspects of his life, and decided that nothing bad would happen if she answered him.

"Once, in high school." She muttered, stroking her arm in a gesture of uncertainty and embarrassment, looking away. She heard him hum under his breath, intrigued.

"Did it feel good?" He asked softly, standing a few steps away from her with his hands tucked into his snow-white tracksuit bottoms, cocking his head.

She looked up at him in disbelief, breathing erratically, clasping her hands tighter, involuntarily her gaze escaped to his full, glistening lips.

"It was a very moist, soft and warm sensation." She muttered feeling a tightness in her throat, her gaze fleeing from his eyes to his lips, unable to stop herself from imagining how wonderful it would be to feel how they tasted.

"Hm." He murmured, looking away thoughtfully.

They stood like that for a moment in silence – she could feel the wordless tension around them, as if electricity flowed through the air with their every word and movement.

"Did you confess this deed?"

She blinked and felt her heart stop. She shook her head, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

"Pardon?" She asked in disbelief, feeling discomfort in her lower abdomen and a cold sweat on her back, not believing that he was suggesting such a thing.

"Failure to maintain chastity before marriage is a sin." He replied indifferently; she pressed her lips together, feeling tears of shame and humiliation under her eyelids, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"So I am a sinner, Holy Father." She said coldly, and turned away, leaving without any pleasantries or even a simple goodbye.

She burst out sobbing as she ran down the narrow stairs.

It was only a kiss.

She just wanted to see what it was like.

In fact, she felt bad afterwards, but not because she thought it was a sin, but because she was not in love with this boy.

She asked Father Lenz for any of the drivers to take her home; seeing her face red from tears he asked what had happened, but she did not answer him.

She opened up to him, spoke about an intimate part of her life, and he could only judge her, make her another Eve, a fallen woman.

It was only a kiss.

She returned to her flat filled with regret and disappointment – she angrily pulled off her long dress she had bought and chosen specially to be able to present herself as expected, to keep herself humble, but for what?

She decided that she would never appear there again.

There was no kind of real contract between the two of them, she had only signed documents regarding her collaboration with the Pope's secretaries and a confidentiality clause.

She changed into her pyjamas, undid her hair, took the box of leftover cakes from the cupboard and lay in bed, browsing social media platforms on her phone, trying not to think about what had happened.

She tilted her head back and groaned in frustration when she saw that her uncle had started to call her. She muted her phone and flipped the screen down, sighing.

She lay back on her bedding, staring blankly at the window, and thought with pain that the man who should be giving her the strength to be a better person had made her doubt herself, made her feel sinful and dirty.

She started to think that maybe she should go to confession after all, that maybe he was right, that she was only making excuses for herself without wanting to admit that she was wrong, but she felt even worse at that thought and just burst out crying.

Exhausted by sobbing and remorse, she finally fell asleep, seeing only through her closed eyelids that the phone display lying next to her glowed again and again.

She shuddered, rising quickly to sit up in complete darkness when she heard someone's loud knock on her door; she looked around with a pounding heart, not knowing where she was, whether it was evening or morning.

She glanced at her phone and saw that she had slept for several long hours and the sun had set, on her screen 20 missed calls from her uncle and a plethora of text messages that she didn't have the energy to read.

She sighed heavily and got up, walking reluctantly to the door, knowing her uncle would now make a litany for her; she turned on the night light on the way so she wouldn't trip over anything and she turned the lock, opening it.

"Oh God."

She muttered, seeing the figure of the young Pope in front of her, still in the same white tracksuit and sneakers.

He had his hood up over his head.

He pulled the white earphones out of his ears with a soft flick of his hand – she could hear the heavy metal music playing from them.

"Will you let me in?" He asked indifferently; she looked at him in disbelief, thinking he was risking a lot by going outside just to see her.

She sighed quietly and stepped back, allowing him to go inside. She leaned out wanting to check if anyone had seen him and closed the door quickly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw that he had turned off the music on his player and put it back in his pocket.

They stood for a moment in silence, his gaze focused on her naked thighs; she swallowed loudly with shame at the thought that she was standing before the Head of the Catholic Church in nothing but pyjamas consisting of cream shorts and a shirt buttoned up the front, under which she didn't even have a bra.

She turned her head, running her trembling hand over her face, her heart pounding like mad.

"I made a mistake." She heard his voice full of regret. "I wanted your uncle to pass it on to you, but you didn't answer."

"I didn't and don't feel like talking to anyone, Holy Father." She muttered, feeling a tightening in her chest, fiddling restlessly with the cross hanging on her neck.

She heard him swallow loudly and look to the side, pulling the hood off his head.

"I made you doubt in yourself. In your purity and your value in the eyes of God." He said lowly, and she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. She closed her eyelids and tilted her head back, trying to control herself, not letting them flow out.

She did not reply.

"My words arise from my depravity, which I fight unsuccessfully. From my vanity and jealousy. I would rather have you locked up in a convent. You could then be by my side and no one would ever touch you again. You could be mine." He said softly, thoughtfully, looking at some point on the floor, as if he had drifted off completely in his musings – she felt her lips part in disbelief, her brow arching in pain.

I would rather have you locked up in a convent.

You could be mine.

What was she to reply to such a shocking confession?

She shuddered when he finally turned his attention to her, the gaze of his healthy eye sharp and piercing, while his artificial one was empty, white, lifeless.

"Though never before have my members reacted to the sight and thought of a woman, when I see you, I long to touch you, to taste you, to smell you. I have become addicted to your scent and try to recall it after evening prayer before I fall asleep." He spoke calmly, as if it was not an emotionally driven statement but something thought out, something that had been going on in his head for a very long time.

She felt with fear how her body reacted to his words with a greedy throbbing between her thighs and a moisture from which the material of her underwear was getting wet, her nipples hardened, more clearly visible from under her shirt.

She froze when she saw his gaze flee to her breasts, seeing exactly what she feared, his full lips parted slightly; she could hear his breathing clearly, fingers of his hands rubbing against each other in an anxious, nervous gesture.

"What do you feel now?" He whispered and she drew in the air loudly, feeling a tightness in her throat. She licked her lips dry from stress, taking a step backwards, hitting her back against the wall, feeling that she had nowhere to run. She helplessly clenched her thighs together, wanting to stop what was happening, seeing that his pupil widened at the sight.

"I'm wet." She confessed in shame, recognising that there was no point in pretending that there was something innocent in what was happening – her body was twitching with desire, begging for his touch and relief, her heart pounding like mad.

She heard him draw in a loud breath at her words while looking straight into her eyes, she saw fire in them, heavenly or hellish.

"Does it feel good?" He asked softly, gazing shamelessly at the spot between her thighs – she felt a wonderful heat in her lower abdomen and a tickling inside her, her walls were clenching around nothing at his question.

She thought helplessly that she had never felt anything like this before in her life.

"Yes." She whispered in a trembling voice, feeling her whole body quiver and pulsate, feeling desire in her fingertips, in her lips and down there, deep, deep inside her.

She shuddered as he approached her with a slow step and lifted her terrified gaze to him. His lips were parted in an anxious, hitched breath, in his eyes heat and darkness from which she felt a squeeze in her throat and between her thighs.

He stood over her, for a moment just looking at her – his trembling hands finally raised, reaching for the buttons of her shirt. They looked at each other with some kind of pain and suffering from which she felt a sting in her heart as a coldness enveloped her naked skin.

It seemed to her that it lasted an eternity – he took his time, his gaze fixed on the line of her bare body as he unbuttoned her shirt fully; he didn't expose her breasts, he just looked at her.

She gasped when he lifted his hand and ran his fingertips slowly over her sternum down to her stomach – she closed her eyes and sighed quietly, feeling her lips pulsate with desire, swollen and thirsty.

"− so soft − so warm −" He whispered; her quivering palm rose and touched his fingers, his hand larger and more massive than hers, she could feel the outline of his veins clearly under her skin.

She pressed his hand to her heart, heard him draw in the air hard as he felt it beat beneath his fingertips.

He looked at her, remaining still, as if frozen, knowing that one word from him, one expression of hesitation and they would be left with only shame, only regret, only disappointment.

She felt the tears under her eyelids, which involuntarily one by one ran down her face; he noticed it and shook his head, his breathing shaky, uneven, despairing.

"− you're so pure −" He whispered, nuzzling the tip of his nose into her cheek as if seeking refuge. She clenched her eyelids in shock at how intimate and desired this closeness was, his scent filled her entire lungs, his warm breath enveloped her cheek.

"− looking at you I feel terror because I regret − I regret that I will never feel you − that I will never give you what I want −" He muttered in a trembling voice; she felt his warm tears running down her skin.

They both gasped when his shaking hand tentatively began to slide lower and sobbed in pleasure as his fingers slipped hesitantly under the material of her shorts, deep between her thighs.

They were panting and quivering with desire, her trembling hands clenched on his arms as his fingertips pushed the material of her underwear aside with a shy gesture full of shame, she heard his low, helpless groan as he felt how wet she was.

"− God, help me −" He mumbled in a broken voice full of guilt – she tried but was unable to stop the moans of pleasure that left her mouth with each tentative movement of his fingers that brushed her swollen, throbbing womanhood, her body was so tense she felt she was on the edge.

"− please −" She whimpered pleadingly, placing her hand on his with a gesture full of desperation, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

She tilted her head back as she finally felt him the way she wanted to, his fingertips digging into her fleshy, hot, moist folds with intense, circular strokes – she could feel his hot, ragged breath on her skin, his face pressed against her cheek, her hands clenched in a helpless gesture on the material of his sweatshirt.

Tears of despair and delight streamed down their faces, tired of pretending and fleeing, shivers ran down her spine every time the tips of his fingers teased again that tender bud from which her sobriety of mind was taken away; it seemed to her that their bodies were moving on their own, something hard and throbbing under his trousers rubbing against her thigh with desperate strokes.

"− forgive me − say you forgive me −" He mumbled pleadingly in a breaking voice.

She felt him trembling all over just like her, unable to stop now, knowing there was no way back, her face wet with her and his tears.

She reached her palm into his hair and combed through it with her fingers, letting out her breath with a loud sob, moving involuntarily to the rhythm of his hand as it pressed harder and harder against her fleshy skin with the lewd click of her moisture.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for forgiveness −" She gasped as she felt something approaching, moaning louder and louder.

She thought that despite the fact that he was touching her in this forbidden, sinful place, some incomprehensible kind of intimacy and innocence was added to what was happening by the fact that he hadn't exposed her naked body, that he hadn't wanted to possess her, only to experience something with her and in her presence.

"− good God, you're leaking − so sticky − I'll lick it off my fingers −" He whispered with a kind of awe, as if he were talking about something sacred and mysterious.

She felt that his words had done something to her – she cried out loudly, parting her lips in disbelief when suddenly a wave of warm pleasure surged through her body like a lightning bolt.

She felt wonderful tickling in her lips, in the tips of her fingers, in her breasts, in her chest, her inside's clenching greedily around nothing, her moisture trickled down onto his hand, she heard his low, surprised groan.

Her body suddenly became numb; she would have fallen if he hadn't put his arm around her in time, his hand ran over her cheek heated from the exertion.

"− you look like Bernini's Saint Teresa − so beautiful −" He mumbled in a trembling voice, panting hard along with her, looking at her dreamily. She sighed sweetly, laying her head on his chest, letting him embrace her tightly.

She could feel his manhood throbbing under the damp material of his sweatpants.

He came.

She stayed in his embrace not daring to look at him, not daring to think about what they had done, wanting to push back the moment when they would feel remorse, pain and regret, sinking only into this wonderful relief.

You look like Bernini's Saint Teresa.

A sculpture in which a holy woman curves in ecstasy after an angel pierces her with an arrow of Divine Love.

God's Delight.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes @darylandbethfanforever9 @fudge13 @snh96 @rwdkarla @echos-muses

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delusionalmultifandomwriter · 10 months ago

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Please do a fic where adult jason todd gets comforted under/hidden in Batman’s cape!! the softer the better

your wish is my command (i missed the topic a little but it is super soft so i hope you like it anyways)

requested?: yes (i am so excited about this, ahh!)

words: 1848

Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Joker, Orphan

Oneshot, angst, hurt/comfort

TW: throwing up, violence, implicite self-harm urges (this got a lot darker than i planned it to be)

credits: the dialogue parts of the italic are from Batman: A Death in the Family

Have fun, thank you so much for requesting!

Ressurection is not exactly healthy. Which is not too surprising but still. The Lazarus Pit healed Jason's body, the scars were still there but very pale and barely visible anymore.

But the inner scars stayed, even after Jason and Bruce figured themselves out and came to terms with eachother again. Jason suffered from PTSD, who wouldn't after getting beaten up with a crowbar? The nightterrors and the coldness that randomly appeared every now and then were the worst.

This week started off with a night terror. Nothing uncommon, it happened all the time to almost all off them. Jason was at his own place where he was alone. Maybe he woke up his neighbours but at least not his family. He didn't like them worrying about him.

"What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand? The crazy laugh echoed through the hall. Robin helplessly tried to craw away, his hands restrained behind his back. His breath whistled as he spit out some blood and mumbled a curse. The Joker chuckled evil and leaned down. A little louder, lamb chop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory. Robin leaned up and spit the Joker into his face. The clown smashed Robin's head into the floor, his senses got flooded with the distant metallic feeling of a concussion. Nausea instantly hit him.

Jason shrieked awake. Nausea instantly hit him. He jumped up and nearly got tangled into his blanket. He stumbled into his bathroom and fell to his knees in front of the toilet.

Jason hated throwing up. Especially after a night terror when his mind was already full of thoughts. He leaned against the shower glass still sitting next to the toilet and waiting for the nausea to pass. After a few minutes he slowly got up and scooped some water from the washbasin into his mouth. Jason winced, his throat was raw and still shut tight.

He shivered, the bathroom floor was cold. Jason stumbled back into his bedroom. He grabbed the blanket from the floor and slowly made his way into the living room. He sat down against the heater with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He fell asleep exhausted on his carpet floor.

He was drowning. Breath. He needed air. Needed his lungs fill with oxygen. Cloth. There was cloth over his face. His mouth was dry. The sweet smell of death. He ripped the cloth from his face and threw up green, stale water. Flight! Where was he? He turned around and ran off. People. He took them out. The moves where in his muscles. He pressed his thumbs into the eyes of one of them. A tunnel. A cave. Darkness. Away.

The Joker escaping Arkham was nothing new to Gotham. Nothing new to the Batfam and nothing new to Jason. It happened a million times before but it still put Jason on edge ever since that night in Sarajevo.

He thought he was better. He thought he could conquer the Joker and arrest him again. It was a simple mission. A simple task. Then he met him in a warehouse in the Bowery. The green hair was brushed back, the purple suit dirty with some blood stains on it. The clown turned around and laughed at Red Hood hysterically.

And, hey, please tell the big man I said… "hello".

Jason saw red. He lunged at him and slammed the Joker into the wall, punched him in the face, once, twice. He could break him. He was not Robin anymore. He was taller than the clown now. Stronger. He could give back all the pain. He would give back all the pain. He slammed his knee into the Joker's ribs, a sharp crack echoed through the warehouse.

"Wow, that looked like it really hurt." Jason growled deeply as he lifted the Joker up a little and pinned him against the wall. He pulled him away and smashed him against the wall, the Joker's head lulled foreward a little as he coughed.

"Whoa, now, hang on. That looked like it hurt a lot more." Jason shouted angrily as he threw the Joker on the floor. "Now let's try and find out what hurts more?"

"A?" He kicked the Joker into the stomach. "Or B?" He striked out again.

"Red Hood!" Batman. Jason's head snapped around. "Orphan, stay here until the GCPD arrives." Batman ordered, Orphan appeared from the shadows behind the older man.

Jason finally snapped out of his murderous frenzy. His eyes went wide as he saw what he did. The Joker layed in a puddle of blood, his nose was broken pretty obviously and he was coughing and whincing weakly. Jason backed down when the clown started to laugh madly. Red Hood turned around, pushed past Batman and flea from the area.

The thoughts were flooding over Jason as he ran over the roofs. He was out of breath but he kept running and running until he fell to his knees. He leaned against a brick wall and ripped his mask off of his head. His face was wet with hot tears, smeared over his cheeks and neck. He wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to calm his breath.

He needed to get air into his lungs but his whole body blocked against taking a deep breath. Jason panicked. What had he done?! He disappointed Batman, he promised to be better than the Joker. He wanted to be better. His family would abandom him, what else should they do? He was supposed to be a hero. He sobbed violently, black spots started to dance over his vision. He couldn't breath. Jason felt like he would die here, alone on some roof, alone in this world.

Jason felt someone shake his body. "Jason." A deep but very calm voice called out to him. Jason panted desperatly as his lungs filled with air. Not enough to live but enough to survive.

He was lifted up a little and after that leaned against a soft wall. Soft wall. There are no soft walls, at least none that Jason was aware off but he was too close to fainting to truly bother about the existence of soft walls. Jason started sobbing again.

"Jay, come on. Breath." The voice said desperate. A strong hand was harshly rubbing his back. Jason inhaled the air shaky, his body was trembling.

"There you go chum, okay." Bruce. It was Bruce. Noone ever called Jason chum before. Jason was suddenly embarassed and violently tried to dry his tears up, rubbing on his skin roughly with his gloved hands. Bruce gently took his hands in his and Jason's head slupped against Bruce's chest.

Then Jason started babbling. "I'm sorry, i didn't mean to... he... i, i couldn't." He sobbed again. "The memories, they come back... the Joker... i can't stop it." Jason needed to hurt, he needed to feel something. He tried to pull his hands from Bruce' grip but he held them tightly.

"Jason, look at me." Bruce growled deeply. Jason looked up and as their eyes met, he couldn't find any angryness, not even disappointment. He looked back into his lap and sobbed quietly but his breath, although shaky, evened out a little.

"There you go. You are fine, Jay." Bruce said. "You can breath, you are okay." Bruce always was repetitive with his comforting but it didn't really matter to Jason because he was there, he held Jason in his arms and he was not angry. Jason could stay with his family, he could come back.

"You called me chum." Jason mumbled weakly, his voice was still filled with silent crying. Bruce chuckled deeply. "I guess that is true." Jason felt the hand on his back, he shivered a little as the cold hit his body. "Cold?" Bruce asked. Jason nodded softly.

Bruce leaned up a little and deattached his cape from his shoulders. He wrapped the thick, black fabric around Jason and bundeled him up tightly. Jason exhaled shaky. The bone aching cold disappeared from his body and the shivering slowly but surely passed. His muscles were burning, feeling weak like he could not move anything. Jason blinked drowsily. His sobs died down and just like that, his eyes closed.

Gotham City was no place for a kid. Not even a well-trained and resilient kid like Jason Todd. It was raining tonight, the wind whistled through the city. Robin sat under Batman's cape like an owl baby, as they observed the Iceberg Lounge. They had been sitting there for hours but Robin wasn't cold. He was warm. Wet from the rain but warm. He would totally catch a cold but not tonight. Not right now. Right now he was warm, close to Batman and sucking up his body heat. Nothing bad has happened to him yet.

When Jason jolted awake, he was no longer on the roof. He inhaled sharply, as he felt a hand on his back. "Hey, you are safe. It was just a nightmare." Jason turned around to see Bruce, leaning against the head of the bed with his laptop on the nightstand. The older man gave him a worried look. Jason looked around confused. This wasn't his bedroom. It was Bruce'. The kingsize bed spoke for itself.

Jason looked down at himself, he was wearing a black t-shirt and red and black sweatpants not in his Red Hood suit. "I'm fine?" He mumbled. Bruce smiled at him, it was weird to see him so relaxed. "Yes, you are." Jason nodded slowly. Bruce leaned down to the floor and put something heavy on his lap.

"Here, Tim got you this. You looked like you liked the cape a lot." Jason lifted the heavy thing up, it was a weighted blanket. He wrapped it around his shoulders. "Did i fall asleep?" He asked confused. "Right after i wrapped the cape around you. Dr. Thompkins said you where hypothermic and severly sleep deprived. What the hell happened?" Bruce asked concerned

Jason shrugged and layed back down on his stomach with the heavy blanket around him. He was still tired, his body was grounded now and he wanted to sleep. Bruce sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Sleep, we can later talk about you not reaching out for help" He finally said. Jason rolled his eyes. "As if you are better." He grumbled.

Bruce nudged Jason playfully. He gently rubbed the younger boys back. Jason sighed as he moved a little closer. Bruce pulled the other blanket over him a little and Jason was finally warm. "You scared the living hell out of me." Bruce said while he layed down next to Jason. The younger boy moved a little closer and Bruce continued to gently rub his back.

"M sorry." Jason mumbled sleepily. "Didn't mean to." He looked at Bruce with half open eyes. He buried his head into one of the pillows and Bruce smiled as he watched how relaxed and content Jason looked. He leaned over to kiss Jason's hair.

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. Sleep tight, chum."

-----

Same shit on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55397161

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laylaisthename · 2 years ago

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ILW // Here they are! All 7 different end cards you can get in the many many more variations of the niche endings available in the game.

Google Drive Link to the cgs here

I am beyond honored to have been allowed to leave my own mark in the game like this, and honestly never in a million years expected to actually become involved with the game.

Everyone is fine to use these as phone backgrounds but if you do youre legally required to tell me which one is your favorite.

Putting it under the cut for length, but here's a breakdown of each card;

Starting with the Evil!MC end cards, that are lovingly dubbed Judas' Kiss if you stayed with Matty, or Scorched Earth for MC's solo end.

The images really mostly speaks for themselves; the flaming heart, hand in atrocious hand if you chose to share the power with Matthias, but then when you put it next to the solo end is where it got fun for me. The heart is broken, its just you now, but the glowing eyes are smiling. My first time testing the judas kiss route I did not hestiate for a second to hit "kill him"

Next is the death card

I really liked the idea of (if your mc wasnt a huge dick anyway) that they give you a grave outside the cave, something for people to leave Rowan flowers and gifts. A classic grave didnt quite feel like it fit so I settled on a cairn. It felt very fitting with the Power being a respect for nature and such. I set it to be at night, with moonlight streaming down on the grave to give it a melancholic sort of feeling, with the sun charm sunny gives you strung off it, and then placed flowers at the grave to kinda show that people have come by because they care about Rowan. Meanings for the flowers are below and while not canon, I like to think each of the LI's left behind one of them; red roses from Abel, blue violets from Amalia, sunflowers from Lincoln and the marigolds from Joss, though really they were all chosen more generally.

Onto the blood end card! Which I named New Horizons, and not because of animal crossing. A winding road in the mountains at sunset; the road has been long, it has been hard and now youre choosing to move on. Symbolically what i wanted this card to be is that feeling of leaving everything behind. The sun is setting on your old life as you go to embrace the normal life that Blood MC wants so much. Youre on the top road moving around the bend, not sure where life will take you but that's alright, you have the rest of your life to look forward to figure out where you'll go.

Onto my own canon end; the Mixed end!

Lovingly called "Best of Both Worlds" because mixed rowan is playing that hannah montanna life. More seriously; this card in contrast to the blood end is not about leaving everything behind, but embracing what you are. The card itself is set at dawn to contrast this; soft yellows and pinks, morning dew and fog clinging to the forest floor with a streak of Power playfully dancing among the trees. Its the dawn of a new day, seeing everything in new light after the darkness of the past weeks/years rowan spent trying to understand themselves. It's my personal favorite end even if my mc and Linc gotta do long distance for a while. But to me its about accepting yourself; moving on from the grief of losing your family without alienating yourself from your memories of them and embracing that Power side of yourself without being changed by it. The life you built after being ressurected is your own and no one can take that from you.

Next up my almost canon end, that does live rent free in my mind because I love angst.

Closed gate shadow end, Far, Far away (yes this is a shrek/starwars/nerd refrence); its a fairly straight forward card, thought it does have one of my personal favorite little details. This is the second draft I made of it after this scene from Lincoln's shadow goodbye stuck with me; looking up through the trees at the night sky.

I really wanted to hide an eye shaped constellation in the stars but couldnt make it look good sadly :sob: But my favorite little detail are the fireflies and how some of them are cyan; touched by the power Rowan is now again a part of. Not canon, but I like to think these little cyan fireflies come to sit on the LI's heads next they wander too close to the woods (Fireflies by Owl City starts playing).

Shadow end is just. Its so beautiful really. From sharing your experiences with the wisps, how Rowan's wisp has been changed by their time as a person, how despite their grief they are not sad or unhappy, melancholic yes but this is where you want to be. Its a cosmic love, the joy of having lived, coming inside on a cold winter day to find your home warm and inviting, your family waiting for you to tell them about your day. The card itself is a little whimsical, hopeful despite the closed gate that the power will forever be part of the world, even if its been cut off. And this brings us to the other shadow ending card; the flower

Eternal Bloom, a ghostly hand reaching out to hand this flower over to the world, a final gift, a final goodbye. Maybe a promise of "I'll see you soon" but first and foremost, it is a promise of love.

Thats right babes. Its all about Love. Unfading Love.

symbolically there isnt anything hidden in the card, but thats also in part of it at face value telling you all you need to know; its about love! its a gift, for you, to remember me by. You have not forgotten me, and even changed as I am, I have not forgotten you. Rowan's change in personality after merging shadow was sooooo heart breaking tbh but ITS SO GOOD. You found joy in what you were, but its time to come home, take off your coat, hang it up, take off your shoes.

And it is all about love! All these cards (well, not all of them) were for me made from the heart, trying to keep in line for the different themes each end resolves to give the players something to remember each route by.

To anyone that made it this far, let me know which one is your canon card/which card you like best! And im kissing you on the lips I love rambling about my thoughts and if you got to here then you deserve a reward. So.

#ilw #it lives within #it lives within spoilers #art #but seriously i will forever remember these last 4 months #it was soooo much fun seeing my name in the credits #also fun fact! I made male harper's outfit!!!#and reb picked it but i also did the colors for female harpers #we wanted them to match #and i liked the red bc it reminds me of their power fit

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moorishflower · 2 years ago

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Oh my brain is running away with me, think about Pirate Hob first meeting siren Dream - think about how Dream wakes up and attacks and drags Hob into the sea, and Hob is already immortal, AND a pirate, so he has taken his time to learn how to dive, you know, he can hold his breath for a long time, and they grapple and fight and Dream rips his throat out and drags him into his cave to eat slowly, but Hob wakes up again and Dream is just. Confused? Delighted at a ressurecting meal? Something to keep? Or will he let Hob escape but visit every night at his ship, until Hob gets to finally catch him in his net?

Idk I just want to know how these two hook up

asdhgds okay so my rough timeline is:

1389: Hob Gadling challenges Death to a game of cards. He cheats OUTRAGEOUSLY, and Death is so charmed by this dumb bandit that she grants him immortality, though she calls it a curse, and not a blessing

1390: the Age of Discovery is in full swing, and instead of selling his sword arm to this Richard or that Henry, Hob takes to the sea instead, and for a time gets a reputation as being extremely lucky. Mortal wounds fail to kill him, no infection ever takes hold in him, and he's hale and hearty no matter how long he spends at sea

1399: Hob makes the mistake of staying on with one crew for too long, and he's marooned on a tiny island some 300 miles from Plymouth because the crew figure if he can't be stabbed and he can't be strangled then maybe just. leave him out to sea and maybe that'll do it?

1400 - 1650ish: Hob spends the next several centuries slowly courting the attentions of a weird sea creature that he falls outrageously and instantly in love with

It's been ten years since Hob Gadling challenged the pretty, dark-haired stranger in the tavern to a friendly game of cards. Ten years to the day, he thinks, though of a necessity, of recent, he hasn't been tracking the hours with quite as much accuracy as he has in the past. Ten years since he'd laid down a nine of Hounds that he'd secreted up his sleeve and confidently declared himself a winner. Ten years since the audacity of his cheating had made Death herself laugh until she grew hoarse from it.

This won't be a blessing to you, she'd said. Humans aren't meant for eternity. Their minds aren't wired for it. It does queer things to their souls.

He'd wanted it anyways. You say that someday, if I wait for it long enough, we'll sail the stars the same way we sail the sea, he'd said in response. I want to see that. I want to dip my hand into the heavens.

He'd accepted immortality with open arms, and damn the consequences, and Death had smiled at him, an odd little twist to her lips that Hob only now recognizes, with the gift of hindsight, as pity, and she'd patted him gently on the hand.

And now the consequences come to damn him right back.

It has been ten years since Hob cheated Death, and it has been three days since his crew marooned him on this sun-blasted ocean strand, and Hob feels quite strongly that, somewhere along the way, he has perhaps made a mistake. Lingered too long, perhaps. Grew too complacent. The immortality was never the problem, by his reckoning, only that he stayed in one place overlong, and assumed that old friendships would survive the revelation that Robert Gadling had ceased to age, the knowledge that the few lines of silver threaded at his temples were the only wealth that Time, the old bastard, would ever bestow upon him.

So now he lies upon the sand beneath the baking noonday sun, so close to England that he might spit upon it if he only had any liquid left in him, and yet so far away that it might as well be hung in the sky alongside the moon. He knows precisely where he is. He knows the shipping lanes exactly, and how none of them intersect with where he's been left. When night comes, he stares up into the sky and marks the position of Polaris with a breathless ache in his breast.

Only a hundred leagues from London, give or take, and he's finally going to learn if he dies of thirst like any other poor sinner.

The weaker he feels, the more tempting the ocean becomes. The glass blue expanse of it a drink that cannot pass his lips, the sultry, cool depths a balm to sunburned skin. If he crawled into the sea, he thinks it'd be a kinder end than baking himself to death on the sand like a beached whale.

The thought hooks into him, and does not let go. The sun crawls below the horizon, inch by inch, and when the last of its light bleeds away, and the stars peek their winking eyes beyond the shadowy skirts of night, the chill of the night air fills him with a new invigoration, and Hob pushes himself to standing.

He has been stabbed, and clubbed, and strangled in the past ten years, and it has all hurt, but none of it has stuck. Mortal wounds have miraculously healed. He never seems to run out of blood.

Drowning, he thinks, will be a new experience, and there is some part of that that cheers him. After all it, was new experiences that drove him to cheat Death.

Humming tunelessly to himself, Hob wobbles down to the edge of the water, and looks at it for a time, and shrugs.

He keeps walking.

He walks into the sea and lets it take him.

Surprisingly, he wakes up.

He wakes up to pain.

There is a deep and uncomfortable throbbing radiating from his inner thigh; all of him is cold and wet, so numb he can't even shiver, and his eyes are having trouble focusing. Or perhaps it's only that it's dark, a tenebrous pitch so thick it seems a texture, and spotted all throughout with hundreds of glittering stars.

Stars.

"Fuck," he says, and hears, somewhere in that darkness, somewhere close, a chittering, clicking noise like a startled animal, and the pain at his thigh eases, but does not cease. The spotted field of starlight vanishes, and Hob's eyes begin to adjust to the velvet darkness, and right as he thinks he's got a handle on things, his eyes picking out a vague and huddled shape, the entire area floods with multicolored light. It's blinding. It's beautiful.

The thing in the light is beautiful. A vibrant, oceanic shape, roiling and tempestuous as the sea; he catches a glimpse of skin as pale as fresh milk, the outline of a face as sharply-cut as though it were hewn from marble, and the busy movement of uncountable limbs, twitching and grasping, indigo-blue and purple and dawning pink. The light comes from the creature's body, he thinks. Like it carries the whole of the night sky under its skin.

It's gorgeous. It's otherworldly. It is, very clearly, not human.

There's blood smeared all around its mouth. Dripping claret red to compliment the blue-black of its hair, hanging lank and salt-stained around eyes that were never intended to see the sun. Its eyes are wide, and unblinking, and black as the deepest reaches of the ocean, with flecks of diamond light bursting in the depths of them, like bubbles, like stars.

"Did you bite me?" he says, the cold and the blood loss making him bold, or insane, or both. The creature hisses at him, and, between one moment and the next, it has darted past him, quicker than the eye can follow, and Hob finds himself alone, and once again in darkness.

Though there is a faint light in the direction the creature went, and one that is recognizable. The sun. The sun. Hob gets his good leg underneath himself, and feels the ooze of blood run hot and staticky down his injured thigh, and, one bleeding foot at a time, he crawls towards the light.

Later, convalescing in St. Peter's Church, bandages wound tight around the meat of his thigh, Hob muses that Brighton seems to be a lovely town at this time of the year. Airy, quaint, a little dock just large enough for a decent-sized ship, if one was so inclined to visit. Quite a lot of sandy beaches, and a handful of chalky white cliffs that hide secret grottoes within their water-carved depths.

His fingers find his thigh, almost by instinct now, and though he cannot see them, he imagines he can still feel them. The needle-point of the creature's teeth buried in his flesh. The hot gush of blood. He'd seen the marks left behind, while the sisters of the Church had generously cleaned his wounds: two perfect rows of garish red, precisely the width and height of a human mouth, if a human mouth were equipped with daggers instead of teeth.

Their minds aren't wired for it, Death had said of humans, and immortality. It does queer things to their souls.

Hob traces his fingers over the hidden marks, sure to leave a scar, and feels a pulsing satisfaction at the idea. He hopes it scars. He rather hopes he feels it ache, when storms pass overhead.

He thinks he's going to find another ship. Another crew. Be more careful this time. And, when he's back on his feet, when he's got a good blade and a bit of coin to his name, he's going to come back. He's going to find that creature that took a chunk from his thigh.

He thinks he might ask it to do it again.

#siren au #dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman #fanfic #my fic

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rubydubydoo122 · 7 months ago

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Hi, anom from recently who binge-read most of IEU:SIR. I finally read the No Capes AU. Thank you for putting so much fluff before the death and making the death relatively short in comparison.

I love how Dick still had no clue about the vitiligo. It's so funny.

Bruce's speech even made me teary-eyes. But more than that, the hug. That simple line "Whole. Jason felt whole"

And how AU!Dick sees Robin has something to share with them, when Jason just found out the origin of the name Robin.

I took a look at the next chapter and O.O WOW how many words are those? I don't think I can read all that in a single day. Heck, not even in two day.

But yes, I love No Capes AU and really wholesome chapter

Thank you so muchh for reading!!! I know it's a heavy story, and honestly, it's getting hard writing death after death after death, so I can't even imagine reading it. (I will a couple months after finishing writing the fic and I come back to read my own work with fresh eyes.)

It's just a funny little gag. Like Dick is super smart and competent, but "Jason? White streak? Must be from Magic."

I knew this chapter was going to HIT when I started crying while writing the speech. Cus I literally haven't cried over my own writing since.... I think the Toddler Jason chapter, because writing that completely desensitized me.

And Jason feeling like he finally has a support system is where I was getting to this entire fic. It's a subplot lmao.

I'd like to think that since No Capes AU Dick (and Bruce) probably went to therapy, instead of punching bad guys at night, and he's basically been Cass's older brother since he was 10, he would be more open to the whole family and siblings idea. And I don't think Normal Dick ever had a problem with sharing Robin, it wasn't Bruce's to give away, and that's why he was somewhat upset. But it was never with Jason.

The four AUs I had vividly in mind since the beginning were the Toddler AU, the No Capes AU, the AU you're currently reading, and the Last AU which I'm not gonna say anything about just yet because I still haven't started writing it

The chapter "A Better Ressurection: Part one" Is basically a third of the word count. It's 23,000 (give or take) out of 60,000 and that's not even the entire AU 😭😭😭😭. It's super long, because they're in that universe for much longer than they are for most of the other ones, and there's just a lot of info I need to stuff in there and space out just so that it isn't rushed and the foreshadowing doesn't feel glaringly obvious (it still is kinda obvious tho lmao) Lowkey, I've been hinting at this AU since the first chapter, but I barely remembered that I did that, so...

I loved the no Capes AU too. It was like the other married Talia and Bruce AU but even more family vibes.

#jason todd #batman #batfam #dc comics #red hood #dick grayson #bruce wayne #damian wayne #ask me questions #ask me anything #asks #ask

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insufferableprotagonistpoll · 3 months ago

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Round 2

Unhinged Take on why Luo Binghe (Scum Villains Self Saving System) is insufferable:

"That he sexually abused Shen Qingqius corpse during the 5 years between his death and ressurection."

"Luo Binghe raped Shen Qingqiu at Maigu Ridge"

"Shen Jiu didnt actually abuse Binghe by the standards of his time, and arguing that is imposing your own standards upon a different culture/time"

Reason why that's unhinged:

1. Binghe at this time is under the influence of an evil sword, was just mentioned to be activly hallucinating, and generally unable to consent in my opinion. 2. Binghe is in danger of dying and the world is going to end if shen qingqiu doesnt do anything. 3.Another party, System, caused them to be cut off from help via strategic cave-in. It also prevented another way of solving the problem. It has the explicit goal of making a better, more entertaining story occur. 4. Shen qingqiu first tries to take up the systems offer of help, which causes a cave-in, cutting them off from help. Shen Qingqiu tries to use another irem to help but it is stuck loading (conviently, when the system controls it). Shen qingqiu then realizes that the only way to save binghe and the world is to have sex with him. Noone is happy. Shen Qingqiu is in pain, and Luo Binghe says that he should have killed him instead.

1. In the deep dream extra, we see what he did. In order to keep away decomposition, he would have to circulate his qi in the body. He used the same motions as what shen qingqiu would do when giving him medical care. Shen qingqiu himself says that while it looks bad at first, you see that he is mimicing the care he got from shen qingqiu. 2. When they read rpf of them with this assumption, luo binghe says that he would never dare and that he venerated the body like a holy object. 3. Shen Qingqiu at this time was afflicted with without a cure, which has one stated cure, sex with a heavenly demon, which binghe is half. However, binghe is stated to have rebuilt his meridians completly, which cured him that way. He also slept next to the corpse, but he needed to be in skin contact to preserve it.

In chapter one, Yue Qingyuan said that it was excessive. The other protagonist considers it cruel and a main reason why Binghe will try to kill him (he bodysnatched Shen Jiu after it started).. Shen Jiu attempted to kill him atleast twice. Shen Jiu also sabotaged his learning. It was supposed to be part of the overly angstly background of a male power fantasy protagonist. The entire plot hinges on this.

Unhinged Take on why Michael Afton (Five Nights at Freddy's ) is insufferable:

"Michael was the one responsible for making his father kill children"

Reason why that's unhinged:

No? Michael accidentally killed his brother due to a 'funny joke' that is true and you can hate him for that, but that does not make him responsibile for his father's actions!

Why are you pushing all that responsibility onto Michael?? William is the one who did the killing. He killed Henry's daughter and 5 random children, how is that Michael's fault?? William is responsible for his own actions, not Michael's. Michael's actions are his responsibility.

#luo binghe #scum villains self saving system #michael afton #five nights at freddy's #most unhinged protag takes #tournament poll

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scalierpepper · 6 months ago

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Hi, have you ever heard the song

"Lady jesus" by Upsahl

At the peak of my locked tomb brain rot I always saw Gidoen/Kiriona for some of the lyrics

I'd love to hear your feedback or possible vision of it

oh, this is fun. hadn't heard this song before but I agree, it has some good Gideon/Kiriona lyrics. I am assuming you're approaching this with an animatic in mind? If you're not then I do apologize, but that's what I'm imagining so I'm gonna ramble about that and I hope it's still helpful lol.

I think the first step for turning something like this into an animatic (or lyric comic or whatever else you want to do) is to think about what message you want in the art. How complex is the story you are presenting? Are you diving into Muir's themes and messages? Or is your intent to make something that looks cool to show off a character and their personality? etc.

For example, one way I could imagine a "Lady Jesus" animatic as a semi-chronological Gideon >> Kiriona transition narrative, maybe told in a bit of a "you're probably wondering how I got here" sort of way. But there's plenty of possibilities besides that. You could focus on the triumph OR the tragedy. Like if you want Gideon to look really cheeky and badass then the vibe of the music supports that, and you can make it all glasses and swords and biceps and chussy out etc. Or if you want some angst, then it still totally works as a representation of the facade Gideon/Kiriona puts on at different moments of the books. You could even pull from BOE stuff...or you can focus way more on the Lady Jesus part of Gideon sacrificing herself for Harrow and even bring in GideonHarrowBod from htn. You can take the lyrics and compose your imagery to make it like the story is from Kiriona's pov and she's relating it directly to an audience, or you can use the music as a sort of parallel/relevant backdrop to whatever the visuals are, and so on. It really depends what you are interested/inspired to do.

I see a strong case for a sort of satirical narrative of how much Jod sucks told through the pov of Kiriona so if I were adapting the song that's probably what I would go for.

I think one of the first "look at me now" lines could be like Kiriona all tower-princed up, but then a later one is one of the scenes from ntn where she's absolutely miserable (killing Crux, in the truck watching Paul's birth, etc.) Same with "she's back, she's bad". Take advantage of the double meaning of words and use it for devastation :)

First verse works great for establishing Gideon's death. You can use "crying every night/sacrificed her to sleep" for sooo many scenes tbh. Add Harrow into the scene and do something angsty, or maybe it's just focused on Gideon's frustration in Drearburh compared to how Kiriona has achieved what she wanted (joining the cohort, knows who her parents are, etc.) but it sucks. Or maybe it's just saddest girl in the whole entire world getting her own moment.

"It's the second coming...middle finger to the sky" following can be a Kiriona intro also, either scenes directly from the text or a bit of headcannon supported by what Kiriona tells the other characters she's been up to. Just like a "oh hey i'm gideon 2.0" sort of thing.

"She's speeding down the 5 cause she already died" is another place that any sort of death or ressurection imagery (literal or metaphorical) pairs with nicely

"She got em kneeling like" - depending on what angle of story you're going for this could be like Harrow kneeling next to Gideon's body or it could be Kiriona Gaia and Ianthe Naberius doing tower prince shit (maybe next to Jod, perhaps in a room with "worshipful subjects". Or more brutally: on a battlefield surrounded by dead...herald beasts or otherwise. Gotta double check the text on that. Or just like. on the New Rho broadcast or sthng)

The bridge bit with "we all know God was a baddie but so was Jesus" would be perfect for some sort of 'Gideon's parentage' scene imo. Add Wake in there somewhere for me <3.

If you want to add some complexity to Kiriona's tragedy you could insert a Jod backstory moment at "Rose from the coffin, now I'm a prophet...blessed if I broke your heart."

Idk I have lots of little ideas coming to mind but it really really depends on what your end goal is! I also would like. Read through excerpts of the books and stuff because I'm operating completely by memory for this rn lol. Usually when I start art projects I do a massive brainstorm and make a ton of notes and thumbnails of all my ideas and then pick from the best and most cohesive ones. I also like to try and pull from my experience (of reading the books or whatnot) to inspire compositions and mood. For example I know when Kiriona showed up in ntn there was this huge shock of "woah, Gideon got so mean." And ofc as you read you understand WHY, and maybe that she's always been a little bit like that, but point is I think that attitude that Kiriona displays would be something I would personally pull from as inspo.

In conclusion: sans spending the time to storyboard something this is what comes to mind and how I would approach refining any ideas. Hope it helps a bit!

#sorry this got a bit long and vague but i was hesitant to just like. lay out an exact story or anything #figured my thought processes would be more helpful overall #but also...what do i know tbh lol #whatever calls to your heart is what i think you should use as inspo!#asks #rambles

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es05l2k5sl · 2 months ago

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Idk why I either keep forgetting to, or I just don't keep my slashers up here. But I'm desperately trying to change that. Gonna share em one day at a time. Starting with Sally Wylin.

DOB: 1956

DOD: 1973

Weapon of choice: Slavic Razor

Age: 19/20

Powers/Abilities: Enhanced stamina & durability.

Species: re-animated cyborg-like corpse.

Status: Active

Bio:

Sally was once a regular human being like the rest of us. But was given a quite literally rough start in life. When she was born, Sally was very weak and small & even showing signs of being very different from other children & eventually diagnosed as having severe mental problems that barely got better as she grew older. This resulted in her being outcast by others, kids & adults alike, but her only form of protection & reciprocated love was by her Prosthetics Doctor father, Phillip Wylin. Despite her imperfections, Phillip loved her more than life itself & made it his personal mission to protect her from anybody or thing that would possibly hurt her, including his wife & Sally's mother Alexandra who confronted & confessed to Phillip that she was leaving him because she didn't want to be around Sally anymore because she wasn't normal & even a freak. This resulted in Phillip heartbreakingly accepting her decision but as soon as her back was turned he strangled her to death with a pair of cable ties. A then 7 year old Sally witnessed this however but wasn't entirely or even phased, especially when Phillip immediately reassured her that she's a wonderful girl surrounded by ignorant people, promising not to let anything happen to her. He stayed true to that word as he sheltered & homeschooled her for the next 10 years, making physically safe but more of a taunting target by her community, especially other teenagers that considered her "the freak that can't talk & leave her house". The bullying at most being through false rumors about what she eats or does with her dad, others being usually throwing fruit at her window or Sally herself if she was outside (via yard or backyard). It all came to ahead one night when Sally was inside the shed in her backyard looking for something, the same teens that have been messing with her decided to pull a "harmless" joke on her by sneaking in & closing the shed door behind her & locking her in. Sending her into a panicked frenzy inside. Snickering & laughter was slowly turned into silence & fear when Sally knocked over gasoline in the mist of her panic causing a fire to form, accidentally killing her in the process. Phillip was arriving home when he saw the flames along with the fleeing teens that caused it. This absolutely shattered Phillip along with the little sanity he had left. Not long after Sally's death, Phil would later on fake his death by crashing his car a lake to look like suicide & make a new mission to both avenge & ressurect his little girl. Tracking down All of the teenagers responsible for what happened to Sally he would brutally experiment on & later kill them. Getting both revenge & testing for results in his plan that was to re-animate Sally in a brand new mostly prosthetic robot body with a retouched brain & heart to which he was eventually successful in doing. Despite being a much different person than she was before, Phil still accepted & reunited with his once little girl. Vowing to keep protecting one another forever. Keeping to that promise, the next 2 years they would live in solitude via their "abandoned" home in the woods. Killing ANYBODY that trespasses or wonders too close to their home.

#my art #oc #original character #revitalized #sally wylin #slasher oc #slashers #horror art #70s horror

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punkeropercyjackson · 11 months ago

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Mathew Wayne headcanons

@theautisticcentre

His full name is Mathew Jacob Wayne(So him and Tim can have matching middle names since they debuted close to eachother)

Sunshine boy but goth flavored

Not shockingly tall but definitely passess as older than he is due to his height

Jacked for a teenager too due to his training

Him and Tim became instant besties and it didn't take long for them to start seeing eachother as brothers.Stephanie was more difficult but purely because Mathew was worried she was only trying to date Tim to hurt him and/or get at Batman

When Stephanie was Robin,that was when they became friends and he mourned her death almost as much as Tim did.He was VERY shocked when Gotham ressurected her and she showed up at Wayne Manor to greet him with a huge grin and a bear hug and he asked lots of questions through his tears of happiness

He came in when Summer was still (begrudingly) Sparks and was an influence on his current personality with his positivity.He made semi-regular apperances on Ember's Ashes and is considered an honorary Superfam member by Supergirls

Was the one who made Cass discover goth subculture and he thinks she's literally the coolest person ever(and i mean,yeah,he right).She thinks pretty positively of him in turn

Babs was the one to come up with the 'Batboy' name,as a joke but Mathew loved it so much that it stuck

Was lowkey intimidated by Jason pre-Rhato but went to join him after a fight with Bruce that really shook him and now they're eachother's favorite brothers along with Duke

Speaking of which,the reason him and Duke are so close is that they're exactly the same personality wise!!20/20 VISION BITCH THEY TWINNINNNNNN' /ref

Before becoming an Outlaw,he was an unofficial team with Stephanie,Damian,Kara,Summer,Lian,Cass,Babs,Dick and Bobby in Batgirl 2009!!They were simply known as 'Batgirl's gang' since they weren't official

Almost Cass level fighting skills once he gets older and even beat Slade at one point

His love interest is Jennifer Williams,the first Batgal and third Nightwing.She's black,the same age as him,a bi demigirl and autistic!!Their ship name is Jennibat and Jennifer's a very bubbly and kind but headstrong and snarky person who's interest are anything pastel,video games,literature and legos!She's adoptive daughter of a black lesbian couple who run a library and met Mathew as Batboy when she saved his life and the next day as Mathew Wayne when he went pick up a book for a school project.Since Jennifer is middle class,they go to different schools

Eventually,she gets so entangled in the Batfam that Dick takes her under his (Night)wing and gave her her title as a reference to how much she reminded him of Mathew.No official teams for her until Rhato but she has semi-official partners in Summer and Mathew and has had several teamups with the Wonderfam

His verse's Rhato is not that shitshow in canon but my own version of it-It still started in 2011 but the lineup is instead Jason,Eddie and Rose as the original trinity and Summer and them as the Dark Core Four and Pepper(@moonage-gaydream)as their Greta with the other members being(in order of when they join),Thad,Imani(@honeypotsworld),Kyle,Mathew,Lilith and Daisy(@insomniac-jay),Artemis and Venus(@insomniac-jay)!!

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officersnickers · 7 months ago

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Do you think that a lot of things could have changed if Chris didn't survive this night (for exemple, if no farms was near of them or if they have taken too much time into it)? Or worse, if the demons had just eat him after the attack of Norman's paradise rather that bring him to Grace Field. After all they could have think that take care of this comatose child was useless.

Actully Chris is lucky to have survived to this moment too and not only to his wound.

I wonder if Emma would have been as much pacifist after this loss. Of course it depents if Chris would die before or after the new promise, because Emma could also ask to ressurect her little brother but then she would have pay more.

Why the „hate“ on the poor lil blue berry 🫐? Didn‘t he suffer enough? 😥

The story‘s course maybe have somewhat changed if Chris died in different ways:

being immediatly killed by Andrew‘s attack

succumbing to his injuries due to no medication for the fever/ the medication being too late

him being killed and eaten by the demons during the attack on the Paradise Hideout

him never being able to wake up from his coma aka being declared „brain dead“ by the doctors in the human world

I guess Emma still would have tried to find a peaceful solution for humans and demons as well, with her debatting herself even more due to Chris‘ fate like she did in the manga. But, in the end, what would change Chris dying more than Conny‘s death? Or the loss of her other siblings, her friends from Goldy Pond, or even Yuugo and Lucas?

We did see in the source material several times how tired she was of further war and pain and suffering. She did state how much she loathes the demons and Ratris alike, but still, doing the same to them like they did to her would not end this pain, but only place it on the next generations – something Emma‘s currently suffering due to Julius‘ decisions, and which she wants to ambolish for good.

Of course, I could see Norman trying to talk her into his plans even more. He has reached a point of no return (or so he thinks), with loosing his brother being another nail in the coffin. Would erasing the demons make Chris happy, if he would have gotten to witness it? Maybe, maybe not. They will never know, because he‘s dead, because of the demons and the Ratris. There‘s no way for Norman sparing any of them anymore, and much like he already did in the manga, I can‘t see him loosing too much time with mourning, but instead taking revenge.

Though I guess Emma can‘t revive Chris, even with involving the Demon God. After all, you can only ask for one new promise (I guess?) and if this was possible, why wouldn‘t she had tried to ask for getting back her dead siblings and fathers? I don‘t know how much HE can control, but life and eath like this seems to be a bit out of his control.

#Snickers babbles #the promised neverland #tpn

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into-september · 2 years ago

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⭐

GATHER ROUND FOR I SHALL TELL YOU ALL ABOUT THE PLOT-SIGNIFICANT CHRISTIAN ALLUSIONS IN "I SHALL NEVER KNOW THAT SECOND DEATH" BECAUSE THE PEOPLE WHO COMMENTED TO TELL ME THE STORY LEFT THEM SOBBING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT OBVIOUSLY NEVER WENT TO SUNDAY SCHOOL

Three things to note before going into this:

I Am Not Religious, but grew up with a neat children's Bible with a lot of historical factoids that were intriguing indeed for the girl who wanted to be an archeologist. I'm also inordinately fond of Easter.

Ladybirds are strongly associated with The Virgin Mary. I don't care what behindthename tells you, "Marinette" is in practice a dimminutive of "Marie" and I refuse to believe that the Notre Dame's presence in the OP is incidental

The story's title is from "The Heart of Thomas" which is essentially just a huge Christ allegory

In the first chapter, each meeting Marinette has with a friend showing up at her door includes some more or less blatant Christian reference.

On the third morning, the doorbell rings and Chloé Bourgeois stands on the other side.

= Christ's ressurection was discovered on the third meaning. For people Swedish, Norwegian or Italian who listen to Easter songs and also look up name etymology like I do there might also be something in it being Chloé (="blooming" or "green shot") who gets this one; the Bible talks about spices, not flowers, but this song sure is all about the latter

youtube

(that is the most horrid version I've heard but I think it's the original so)

Myléne and Alix visited with a potted rose for her balcony. She pulls it out of its shaded spot as evening lets up the heat of the day, and she gazes out over the city.

reachy but the rose of one of the many symbols of Mary and this is of course why she discovers The Other Ladybug (Kagami btw)

Somewhere out there, there’s a superhero who might well be able to walk on water, but Marinette can’t perform miracles. For her, keeping her balance on ice is more than enough.

Christ walked on water and so does Marinette at the skating rink, even if she doesn't realise that that's what ice is

Outside her window, the Notre Dame sounds the call to Vespers. When song ends, she stretches her feet towards the ceiling and plays it again.

Nothing special except pay attention to the next chapter

If Paris had still followed the revolutionary calendar, the twenty-third of September would be New Year’s Day.

New Year's Day = feast day of Mary

It’s been fourty-nine days since Hawkmoth was defeated. Ten days ago, Ladybug announced her retirement, leaving the city in Cat Noir’s care until she’s needed again.

The Ascencion of Christ was thirty-nine days after the resurrection (Ladybug retired), marking this scene as happening on Pentecost (the day The Holy Spirit descended on the Apostles, initiating the Christian Church).

“Your parents were so nice. I’d never seen my father be happy about visitors. I think I still feel that way - like it’ll be a bother to Aunt Élizabeth if I bring someone home. But that was my father who was the weird one, and I hate when she’s upset for my sake.” “Is she getting easier around you?” Adrien shrugs. “I’m not sure what ‘easy’ is, for her. I think some of it might be because she’s happy that I’m there. She told me she always wanted children, but it never happened. And then suddenly I was there, and even if she’s sad about mum and upset about my father, she’s happy to have me there. ‘The Lord has done this for me’, she said.”

As We All Know, John the Baptist was the son of Mary's aging cousin Elizabeth, miraculously conceived by the blessing of Gabriel (the archangel not the deranged fashion designer) even though his parents were well into middle age. Adrien's Aunt Elizabeth quoted the Scripture verbatim

“Chrysanthemums,” Marinette feels her frown forming. “Even if they’re the only things flowering this late, it’s pretty morbid.” “I don’t know,” says Adrien, and stands on the tip of his toes to straighten the crown of flowers on Ladybug’s head, “you know, they aren’t about death. They’re used in funerals because they’re a symbol of eternal life. Maybe whoever left these flowers meant for them to mean that Ladybug will be back one day.”

Surely The Second Coming is at hand

“That was a goodnight kiss from Ladybug,” he says with a cheeky grin. It wasn’t, of course, but whatever little magic he just bestowed upon her hummed with an energy of the same frequency as the jet black jewel in her hand, with the same frequency as Cat Noir himself. That subsonic current that set her nerves tingling now radiates from her hand, paradoxically easing her mind into the peace she’s been missing for at least seven weeks.

If Ladybug is Jesus maybe and Cat Noir is John the Baptist then Tikki is The Holy Spirit trying to waken Marinette to the faith

The second chapter has a lot less of it but Cat Noir is still the lesser messianic trying his best to the appearance of the true Saviour, and Ladybug's ressurection is interrupted by the bells of the Notre Dame (maybe)

“Please, come find me,” she begs, and the air is filled with motion as the Notre Dame sounds her bells when All Saints Day topples into All Soul’s Day.

The Significance of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day (= Day of the Dead) should be self-explanatory, but I'll leave it there to point out the implications of all this Biblical and Catholic nonsense.

Which is: All the nonsense casts Marinette as either Mary (a saint) or Christ himself. Now, sainthood is per definition a status achieved upon death, but Christ came back to life, left this Earthly plane and has been expected to come back any day now ever since.

If Ladybug = Mary, then she's dead, the end, Marinette never remembers

If Ladybug = Jesus, then she'll be back someday and Marinette will eventually regain her memories

and if that's not the most pretentious way to leave a story open-ended then I don't know what is

(thanks for asking I've been wanting to do this for ages)

#mira #blah #fanfic #literature #the bible

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flowerandblood · 9 months ago

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The Song of Songs

The Gate of Salvation Universe Oneshot

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: soft sex content, fingering, masturbation, smut, sexual tension, anxiety, doubts related to faith, religious guilt ]

[ description: Her relationship with the Pope becomes more than complicated, especially since it looks like he has no intention of giving up on her or their relationship. His efforts lead to her being assigned a special room in the Vatican, where he visits her at night. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

This oneshot is the events that take place a few months after The Gate of Salvation. This is a special chapter written to celebrate my one year on this platform, which falls on March 22. I used fragments from the biblical Song of Songs, hence the title oneshot. I recommend everyone to read it, it is the most erotic and at the same time one of the most poetic and beautiful parts of the Bible.

Next: Death and Ressurection (Oneshot)

Aemond as a Pope Edit Series Characters Moodboard Aemond NSFW Alphabet

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

She was not sure how her presence in the Vatican had become her daily routine, spending more time in the quarters surrounding St Peter's Basilica than in her flat.

Although she tried to protest, the Pope personally made sure that a room was prepared for her to sleep in the private part of the complex reserved for guests. She knew he was still adding to her workload just to make sure she stayed there overnight.

At first, he visited her sporadically, saying he couldn't sleep – he came to her room and spoke about his thoughts, doubts, premonitions, seeking her advice on spiritual and everyday matters.

She listened to him sitting on her bed, not knowing what she should do, how to respond – his worries as Pope were something incomprehensible to her, something she had never thought about before.

Only later did she realise that he did not expect her to solve his complicated problems.

She was his solution.

He only showed her what he really needed later, when he sat down next to her, when he touched her cheek, brushing it with his fingers – his gaze was dreamy, warm, full of tenderness, making her feel hot in her lower abdomen, a shiver running down her back.

"– my sweet flower –" He whispered softly and she drifted off completely, closing her eyes, focusing on the wonderful touch of his hand, her heart pounding hard as his forehead pressed against hers, his shaky breath enveloping her face.

Her fingers found his cheek, his jaw, his hair and his neck, she heard him sigh softly as he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"I need you." He whispered.

She could hear how hard it was for him to get those words out – a shy moan escaped her lips as his mouth found hers in a tentative, soft, sticky kiss, her body responding to his closeness with an embarrassing wetness between her thighs.

His kisses became bolder, louder, stickier with his saliva, his warm breath mingling with hers in her throat, his scent filling her entire lungs as he lay on his side, pulling her onto the bed with him.

After what was happening between them at night, he usually needed a day or two to calm down, overwhelmed by how intense their closeness was.

He risked a lot when he started sneaking into her room more often, strolling through the dark marble-lined corridors dressed in his snow-white tracksuit with his hood over his head – he ended up at her door, and fearing that someone would see him, she always let him in, helpless.

"You shouldn't sleep here, Holy Father. What if someone catches us?" She muttered, looking at him pleadingly, already wearing her pyjamas, the same ones she had worn when he had visited her in her flat for the first time.

He looked at her, surprised, pulling the hood off his head, combing his short hair with a careless flick of his hand.

"Do not fret, child. Have faith. God is watching over us." He replied calmly, putting his phone down on her nightstand, pulling his white sneakers off his feet, slipping under her duvet as he did every time he visited her, intending to fall asleep in her bed.

She felt both heat and fear at the sight, swallowing hard as he reached over to the bedside lamp and turned off the light, acting as if this was his room and what he was doing was perfectly normal and ordinary.

She moved uncertainly towards him, knowing there was no point in resisting him and lay down next to him on the bed, sighing quietly as his arm immediately embraced her, snuggling her into his chest.

"− did you say your evening prayer? −" He asked in a whisper, a wonderful, hot shiver ran through her entire body as the tips of his fingers began to comb through her soft hair.

"− yes, Holy Father −" She muttered, feeling that she was losing the battle with herself as she did every time – his closeness, his scent, his voice were addictive to her. Involuntarily her fingers tightened on the material of his sweatshirt at his back, her face snuggled into him, seeking refuge.

"− good − sleep −" He murmured, his lips placing a warm, soft kiss on her hair.

She sighed quietly, twisting in her place, feeling how at the sound of his voice and his tender touch her walls clenched tightly, already sticky with her wetness.

It had been two days since he last visited her.

He forbade her to touch herself, saying it was a sin.

She closed her eyes and tried to comply with his request, but she couldn't calm down, feeling his heart pounding fast, his manhood in his sweatpants twitching once in a while, pushing softly against her stomach, making her involuntarily start to rub against him.

"− I'm sorry −" She whispered helplessly in a voice full of shame and he kissed her forehead. His hand immediately slipped under the material of her shorts, running tentatively over her soft buttock before his fingertips found her hot, puffy womanhood, sticky with her moisture.

"− I have obeyed you, Holy Father − I swear −" She mumbled regretfully, panting quietly into his sweatshirt, rolling her hips in rhythm with the strokes of his fingers, already experienced in how and where he should squeeze her to give her the greatest pleasure. She heard him gasp as she spread her thighs wider, the tips of his fingers beginning to dig into the fleshy structure around her clit with her sweet cry of pleasure.

"− I know, sweet child − I am with you − I will reward your suffering −" He whispered in a low, deep, trembling voice from which a shiver ran along her spine. She clenched her eyes shut, holding back a sob as two of his fingers finally made their way inside her, stretching her throbbing, wet muscles painfully slowly − she clasped her fingers against his back, rising and falling against it with a loud click, feeling that his manhood was already fully hard, throbbing impatiently in his sweatpants.

"− let me, please −" She mumbled pleadingly, lifting her face towards him, his tongue slipping between her lips as she heard his quiet, tender shhh, joining her in a hot, thirsty, sticky kiss.

Even though she begged him to let her relieve himself, to touch his manhood with her hand or lips, he never let her.

He felt that he could not bear the remorse caused by the thought that she had contributed to his sin, that as long as he was the only one touching her, she was not as guilty as he was, and though she disagreed, knowing that she wanted it as much as he did, she tried to respect his decision, to poor effect.

She squirmed loudly as he swapped two of his fingers for his thumb, with which he pressed a little spot inside her, his middle and index finger brushing her bud again, teasing her encouragingly.

She felt like her heart was going to jump out of her chest, a helpless whine escaped her lips, his free hand sinking into her hair.

"− please, let me, please, please, please −" She begged, feeling her tears begin to run down her cheeks − she heard him draw in the air loudly, involuntarily pressing his length against her stomach, rubbing against her, searching for any source of relief – his thumb thrusted deeper into her wonderful spot, making her cry loudly into his mouth, his slick tongue deep inside her throat.

"− I can't − God, I can't, my sweetest −" He gasped, heartbroken, his kisses greedy, full of pleasure, of suffering, of desire, of affection, of tenderness, full of their teeth, their tongues, their lips and their saliva.

She had the feeling he wanted to devour her, her wetness dripping down his hand, her walls beginning to tighten around his thumb, sucking it inside.

"− Holy Father −" She mumbled out with difficulty, hearing that he was panting and moaning along with her, holding her close, his hand pressed against her womanhood as she tilted her head back, moaning in fulfillment, his lips kissing again and again her red, tear-drenched cheeks.

"− I love you − I love you, I love you, I love you −" He whispered in a trembling voice, his hand slid down to her buttock and clamped down on it, pushing her closer, his hips rubbing hungrily against her, trying to chase his own fulfilment. She threw her arms around his neck, joining him in a kiss − he murmured into her mouth in delight, pulling away from her after a moment, looking at her with dreamy eyes.

"− please −" He whispered, stroking her cheek with his shaking hand, her fingers immediately beginning to undo the buttons of her shirt, revealing merely part of her naked body, not uncovering her breasts.

He groaned helplessly at this sight, pressing his forehead against hers, looking down at her exposed skin – she threw her thigh against his waist, responding to the rocking of his hips, and he gasped loudly, turning onto his back with her, his fingers trailing over her sternum down her bare stomach.

"− please − please, please, please −" He breathed out again and tilted his head back with a loud sigh as she began to rub against him, rolling her hips back and forth, his throbbing, swollen cock hidden under the thin material of his sweatpants, leaking already with his precum between her thighs, his fingers tightened on her buttocks forcing her to speed up.

"− say it −" He muttered, and she moaned softly, feeling how her hard, popping nipples begin to peek through from under the material of her shirt, betraying her arousal, her insides clenched at his request in pleasure, all moist from her fulfilment.

"− I am yours, Holy Father − both now on earth and after death in heaven −" She whispered sweetly – she saw his lips part in a low groan as she grasped his wrist, guiding it to her plump breast, exposing it with a movement of her shoulder and immediately covering it with his hand – his fingers clenched greedily on her delicate skin, making her merely moan as she felt his cock begin to twitch and throb beneath her in pleasure.

"− so soft − so beautiful −" He mumbled, lifting himself into a sitting position, his free hand sinking into her hair, the other squeezing her breast, not even for a moment exposing her, his lips swollen with desire sunk into hers, his hips rubbing against her more and more intensely with his throaty groan of desire.

He wanted to come so badly.

He never asked her for it out loud, but she could see it in his gaze as he pressed his forehead against hers, panting loudly, that pleading, ashamed, misty look asking for relief.

She lifted herself slightly then, slipping the material of her shorts off her legs with difficulty, his eyes fixed on her face the whole time as he lowered the material of his sweatpants with his lips spread open at the same time.

"− don't look − come here −" He gasped, pulling her back, groaning loudly as her leaking womanhood pressed against his naked body, his swollen, hard cock throbbing all over and twitching between her thighs, dripping with his precum. The tip of his nose sunk into her cheek as he placed his hands on her naked waist, rocking his hips back and forth, his manhood rubbing against her slick folds.

"− good God − you are so devoted to our Lord, are you not? − always so wet for me −" He exhaled delightedly, speeding up, his lips pressed to her chest, kissing her bare, smooth skin between her breasts, between which hung a small gold cross, a gift from him, which she now wore instead of the one from her grandfather, so that he could have the feeling that a part of him was always with her, touching her naked body.

He never looked down, focusing only on the sense of touch, not wanting to deprive her or himself of their intimacy, to sin by thinking of physicality instead of the spirituality he found in this act of union with her.

"− yes −" She mumbled out with difficulty, responding by bucking her hips to his movements, teasing and squeezing him so that she could hear the loud, sticky click of her own moisture from which they both quickened their pace. Her fingers clamped in his hair, hugging him tighter into her, his fingertips digging into her buttocks, each of his strokes rubbing her clit, making her walls begin to throb wonderfully inside her again.

"− if only I were your husband − if only I could − I'd fuck you every day, morning and evening − after prayer −" He added, as if this was an essential part of that fantasy – she tilted her head back, whimpering with pleasure, his hands sliding lower, between his and her thighs. The thumb of one of them began to brush her clit in circular, sure strokes, and the other grasped his manhood, using her moisture as lube − she heard him squeeze himself with a sticky splats, panting loudly, his face pressed against her chest.

"− Holy Father − so good − ah −" She babbled with difficulty, completely absorbed in her own pleasure and his closeness, rising slightly on her knees. She saw him look at her with horror and desire as she positioned herself over the leaking tip of his manhood, but not looking down, resting her hand on his shoulder for balance, letting its fat, pink head push against her fleshy, hot slit.

"− ah − n-no − please − oh fuck − don't stop −" He breathed out, simultaneously trying to escape and thrusting his length deeper between her moist, slick folds, as always trying to fight with himself, to no avail, his swollen manhood was already halfway in, throbbing like mad.

She pressed her forehead against his with soft moan of delight, closing her eyes, focusing only on the fact that she felt him, that he desired her, that he was loosing his mind because of her.

Once he was deep inside her, his fingers involuntarily dug into the plump skin of her buttocks, shudders of pleasure and disbelief ran through her every time he slammed into her quickly and confidently with greedy, desperate smacks of his hips, unable to contain himself, surrendering to the euphoria that was overtaking them both.

"− God − so tight − so warm − fuckk −" He babbled, opening her wide on his fat cock with each thrust of his hips – she felt every vein on his thick manhood perfectly, every twitch of it, ashamed of how lewd her moans were, how greedily her walls squeezed him and sucked him in, wanting to keep him inside her.

"− please, please, please, save me −" She mewled sinking up and down on his throbbing length, at the mere feeling of him inside her stretching her fleshy muscles so wonderfully, uniting with her in that final way she came again, tilting her head back with a sweet, surprised cry of pleasure.

She heard his loud, throaty groan when he heard her words and felt her fulfilment on his erection, her moisture running down her thighs – as usual when he felt his was close he slid out of her quickly, cumming into his own hand with a loud sigh of relief that shook his body.

As always his orgasm made tears of pleasure, regret, delight and shame run down his cheeks, which she wiped away quickly leaning over him, snuggling into him, panting loudly, his clean hand immediately embracing her, stroking her back.

She grasped his other wrist, feeling him resist her, wanting to raise his hand higher, to her lips.

"− n-no − stop − it's dirty −" He mumbled through tears, sniffing loudly and sighed, simultaneously heartbroken, helpless and enchanted when she slid his fingers, sticky with his semen deep into her mouth.

"− we have already discussed this − wasting it is a sin, Holy Father − is it not? −" She gasped between flicks of her moist tongue − she heard him swallow hard, looking at her as if charmed, letting her lick his pearly, sticky liquid off his naked skin.

"− I shouldn't − you don't have to −" He began in a trembling voice, watching closely her treatments, unable to look away from this perverted sight.

"− I want to −" She hummed softly, kissing his already clean hand tenderly, smelling of his fulfilment and her saliva; she leaned towards him, hugging her face to his, their hands stroking each other reassuringly.

"− you are the love of my life −" She whispered in his ear, and he sighed quietly – despite the fact that she had repeated it to him so often, he still clearly did not believe that it was true, that she reciprocated his feelings, that she was not disgusted by him, that she had no intention of deceiving or abandoning him.

"− will you forgive me? −" He muttered, and she smiled softly, pressing her face against his hot cheek.

"− I'll forgive you if you forgive me −" She hummed tenderly, hearing him swallow hard.

"− I forgive you, sweet flower −"

"− and I forgive you, Your Holiness −"

She felt him slowly begin to calm down − he wiped his cheeks and she slid off his thighs, quickly putting on her shorts as he headed for her bathroom, locking himself inside to get himself cleaned up.

When he came out he was still quivering.

It seemed to her that the experience of fulfilment was something almost frightening for him, even more so with her when he obviously loved her so dearly.

She reached out her arms to him and he snuggled into her like a small child, pressing his face against her bare skin between her breasts – he took a heavy breath, focusing on her hand that covered them tightly with the duvet, then began to stroke his hair with the calm, tender brushes of her fingers.

"Until I met you, I did not understand the Songs of Songs written down by King Solomon. I couldn't get through them, considering them to be sinful texts. I didn't know how they could be part of the Bible. But now I understand. You are my beloved. My bride." He whispered, and she felt a squeeze in her throat at his words, recalling the lyrics of these poems, so filled with metaphors of physical affection that it seemed like a book made for lovers.

How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your breasts are like two fawns, like twin fawns of a gazelle that browse among the lilies. You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you.

You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride; you have stolen my heart with one glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace. How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride! How much more pleasing is your love than wine, and the fragrance of your perfume more than any spice!

Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride; milk and honey are under your tongue. The fragrance of your garments is like the fragrance of Lebanon. You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride; you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.

"That would make you my beloved, Holy Father." She whispered quietly, gently brushing his hair with her fingers, feeling how quickly her heart began to pound at this shameless confession.

She heard him hum under his breath, delighted, moving his lips over her bare skin, kissing tentatively a small part of her soft, plump, exposed breast.

"Indeed. I have never felt the presence of God so much as when I am with you. Inside you. When I kiss your naked body. I think then: God must exist, since He has placed such a perfect being before me to be my joy and comfort." He muttered, his lips leaving again and again the sticky, warm trail of his mouth on the bare skin of her breast.

"This is my heaven on earth." He whispered into her warm skin, running his large hand down her back under the material of her shirt, and she smiled at his words, for some reason fulfilled and happy.

"As is mine."

310 notes · View notes