#all Scripture is God-breathed

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Evil in the Last Days

1 Know this also, that in the last days perilous times shall come; 2 For men will be lovers of self, lovers of money, braggarts, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, 3 Without natural affection, implacable, slanderers, without self-control, savage, despisers of those who are good, 4 Betrayers, reckless, egotistical, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God; 5 Having an outward appearance of godliness, but denying the power of true godliness. But as for you, turn away from all these. 6 For from men such as these come those who are worming their way into houses, and are gaining control over empty-headed gullible women given over to various sins, being driven by all kinds of lust. 7 They are always learning but are never able to come to the knowledge of the truth. 8 Now just as Jannes and Jambres stood against Moses, in the same manner also these are brazenly standing against the truth; they are men of depraved minds, reprobate in respect to the faith. 9 But they will proceed no further, because their folly will become clearly evident to everyone, just as theirs also was.

10 But you have closely followed my doctrine, conduct, purpose, faith, patience, love, endurance, 11 Persecutions and sufferings--such as happened to me in Antioch, in Iconium, and in Lystra. You know what sort of persecutions I endured; and the Lord delivered me out of them all. 12 And indeed, everyone who desires to live godly in Christ Jesus shall be persecuted. 13 But wicked men and imposters shall become worse and worse, deceiving others and being deceived themselves. 14 But as for you, continue in the things that you did learn and were assured of, knowing from whom you have learned them; 15 And that from a child you have known the Holy Writings, which are able to make you wise unto salvation through faith, which is in Christ Jesus. 16 All Scripture is God-breathed and is profitable for doctrine, for conviction, for correction, for instruction in righteousness; 17 So that the man of God may be complete, fully equipped for every good work. — 2 Timothy 3 | A Faithful Version (AFV) Holy Bible, A Faithful Version © 2020 A Faithful Version. All Rights Reserved. Cross References: Exodus 7:11-12; Exodus 8:18; Deuteronomy 4:6; Deuteronomy 29:29; Psalm 34:19; Isaiah 44:20; Matthew 4:24; Matthew 7:15; Luke 6:35; Luke 16:14; John 15:20; Acts 7:52; Acts 13:14; Acts 14:22; Acts 19:36; Romans 1:29; Romans 1:31; Philippians 2:20; Philippians 2:22; 1 Timothy 2:4; 1 Timothy 2:25; 1 Timothy 4:1; 1 Timothy 4:7-8; 1 Timothy 5:6; 1 Timothy 6:5; 1 Timothy 6:11; 2 Timothy 4:3; Titus 1:9; Titus 3:3

[a-godman]

The Bible is Profitable for Teaching, Conviction, Correction, Instruction in Righteousness

 On God’s side, the Bible is God’s breathing; on our side, the Bible is for us to receive the breath of God as our profit in teaching, conviction, correction, and instruction in righteousness; the Bible is profitable for teaching, conviction, correction, and instruction in righteousness, so that we may be men of God fully equipped for every good work. Amen! The majority of believers in Christ…

[queenlucythevaliant]

Usually, even a non-Christian knows something about the earth, the heavens, and the other elements of this world, about the motion and orbit of the stars and even their size and relative positions, about the predictable eclipses of the sun and moon, the cycles of the years and the seasons, about the kinds of animals, shrubs, stones, and so forth, and this knowledge he holds to as being certain from reason and experience. Now, it is a disgraceful and dangerous thing for an infidel to hear a Christian, presumably giving the meaning of Holy Scripture, talking non-sense on these topics; and we should take all means to prevent such an embarrassing situation, in which people show up vast ignorance in a Christian and laugh it to scorn. The shame is not so much that an ignorant individual is derided, but that people outside the household of the faith think our sacred writers held such opinions, and, to the great loss of those for whose salvation we toil, the writers of our Scripture are criticized and rejected as unlearned men. If they find a Christian mistaken in a field which they themselves know well and hear him maintaining his foolish opinions about our books, how are they going to believe those books in matters concerning the resurrection of the dead, the hope of eternal life, and the kingdom of heaven, when they think their pages are full of falsehoods on facts which they themselves have learnt from experience and the light of reason? Reckless and incompetent expounders of holy Scripture bring untold trouble and sorrow on their wiser brethren when they are caught in one of their mischievous false opinions and are taken to task by those who are not bound by the authority of our sacred books. For then, to defend their utterly foolish and obviously untrue statements, they will try to call upon Holy Scripture for proof and even recite from memory many passages which they think support their position, although "they understand neither what they say nor the things about which they make assertion."

St. Augustine, De Genesi ad Litteram, emphasis mine

[wiirocku]

2 Timothy 3:16-17 (NIV) - All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.

[ave-immaculata]

"You can follow Jesus without following Paul"

[semperreformanda]

pray. it doesn't have to be eloquent. you don't need a whole hour. sometimes all it takes is "help me please" under your breath as you try to navigate through your difficult day. sometimes words don't come when the pain is too heavy, but the Spirit understands. sometimes it looks like crying and all the words you can muster up to say is "You know... You know." and that is okay. He still says, "Come to Me."

come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, I will give you rest.

come to the throne of grace, where you can receive mercy and find grace in your time of need.

cast all your cares upon Him, because He cares for you.

do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. and the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.

over and over in Scripture, God beckons us: come! come to the throne! don't carry this on your own, come to Me! I will give you grace. I will give you wisdom. I will strengthen you.

what mercies we have in Christ! that we can come to the King of Kings any time of the day with our request, and He listens! truly He gives us all that we need and more. we are never in lack, but there is grace upon grace upon grace.

beloved, it's time to pray.

[jolapeno]

you're a prize

joel miller x f!reader

summary: it's date night, and joel takes you to the fair

wordcount: 1.9k warnings: allusion and minor mention of smut. no outbreak. established relationship. joel is cute and wants to win you something. an: written for @iamasaddie's zodiac sign edition writing challenge. i got the lovely joel, fair au and virgo. I ignored the word limit, I’m sorry!!! thank you to the @thetriumphantpanda for proofing this little baby for me.

The air smells sweet as you step out of his truck.

Popcorn, cotton candy, and fried treats waft through the air, mingling with the cooling evening breeze as you take in the colourful stalls and bright lights.

The sound of his door slamming brings your attention back to him. His face is tight, unreadable—chest slightly puffed out, his hands fidgeting with his belt before he runs a thumb along the tucked-in edges of his shirt. Fixing. Adjusting for perfection, as though this were your first date and not close to the hundredth. When his eyes finally meet yours, you grin a little wider, and his own smile begins to break through.

It had been Tommy’s idea—but you’d suspected it was actually Sarah’s. The masterplan being laid out when you’d made coffee, the promise of an empty home, a coincidentally timed advert in the newspaper about the fair being in town as you looked at Joel:

Wanna take me to the fair, Miller? Show me how teenage you would have wooed me.

Sometimes, you can’t quite believe he’s yours.

A thing you’d said when you’d begun getting ready, your outfit laid out, putting your necklace on when he’d walked into the bedroom, shirt open, jeans unfastened, belt hanging there—a sinful picture that somehow was real and yours.

It’s why you’d breathed it out, caught off guard, made the two of you leave far later than you’d told yourselves when he’d left this morning. Your eyes having dragged up and down his frame in the mirror before you pressed the very same words to his mouth. Hungry, all of a sudden desperate. Fabric dragged down his arms, jeans somewhere at his ankles—pulling and tugging, needing more until he was on his back and you found yourself sliding down his cock, finding all semblance of words unable to form.

Somehow, even now, an hour later, you have to pinch yourself.

Unable to wrap your head around the fact that your things are alongside his. That you wake up and sleep beside him. A chance encounter, a right-place-right-time, turned relationship.

A thing you know he thinks too—confirming as much when sleep threatens to take him, the veil of honesty at its thinnest as he murmurs about not deserving you, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you the first time you’d met.

He makes up for the handful of hours he can give you between working, parenting and sleeping, by writing poems between your thighs, scriptures against your skin, mouth and neck. Making promises he did his darndest to keep.

“You look good, Miller. Don’t worry.”

“Not worryin’.”

You make a soft noise to yourself, offering your hand as the strings of multicoloured bulbs draped between the parking lot and the stalls flicker on, casting a warm glow across his face as you smile at him.

Date nights happen so infrequently, that you’re not sure you remember how they go outside of takeout and movies on the sofa. Not that you complain, happily trade almost any evening for one of them.

“God, you’re handsome,” you whisper, tightening your fingers around his hand—looping them, feeling how much larger his is, than yours—as your other arm bends at the elbow, slinging around his neck. “Fuck I’m one lucky lady.”

He snorts, loudly. His eyes flick to the side before they land back on you, bashful, soft, as he clears his throat and you scrape your nails against his scalp. “Think I’m the lucky one.”

You smile, all uncontrollably as you inhale the scent of his aftershave. It’s all wooden-edged, peppery—just him. Reminded all of a sudden to the wisp of it the night prior, the fan having picked it up, blew it across the room as you turned a page in your book and heard him sigh, would do anythin’ for you.

“I could kiss you.”

Licking his lips, flicking his gaze from yours to your mouth and back. “Yeah?”

You wonder if he catches how it leaves his lips. How wrecked it sounds, how it’s more gravel than velvet, making heat bloom in your stomach as you draw a shape along his scalp.

“Could. But won’t. I think I need a corndog, maybe a ride on the Big Wheel. Real date night vibes first—not often we have some alone time. Don’t want to squander what Tommy has given us.”

Scoffing, he shakes his head, “Tommy.”

Grinning, you nudge into him when he tugs you to begin walking. Glancing up to notice how the sky is shifting in real-time from deep blue to velvet indigo—feeling him release your hand, to slide an arm around your waist. Guiding. Leading through shifting crowds.

You feel grateful, almost overwhelmed, as you take in the scene around you. On both sides, colourful stalls burst with energy, each humming excitedly. The ring toss calls to you with glistening glass bottles and the satisfying clink of rings, while the joyful pops of balloons from a nearby dart game fill the air.

It becomes apparent, quickly, you’re not sure where he’s leading you—not as you pass cheers that grab your attention, only jolting back to him when he comes to a stop at a stall. One less busy, the outer edge overflowing with giant stuffed animals and oddities—

“Hey look, it’s you.”

Your eyes narrow, flitting around, staring as he squeezes your hip.

“There,” he whispers.

All gruff, right into your ear. His breath dances along your cheek. Making your throat dry, making heat bloom between your legs when his chest becomes flush with your spine, and you follow where his finger is pointing, finding at the end of it—

“A sloth. Like you.”

“Fuck you, Miller.”

His laugh ripples out of him, loud, cracking in places as he wraps an arm around your chest, keeping you pinned—letting you feel how it rumbles through him, vibrating your bones with it as you find it hard not to join him. Shaking your head, but smirking, staring up at him before he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

The same kind he leaves in the morning when he gets up before you; the same one he leaves on your skin when he walks in and finds dinner cooked, and the evidence of a hard day on your face. The same one that means three words, a thing you’re happy to take, each and every time.

“Gonna win it for you.”

“Joel, c’mon, you don’t need to do that, can just go on the ride, grab a snack and go—”

“I’ll be quick. Promise,” he replies, tightening his hold across your chest, mouth dropping back to your ear as children scream as they run past, “Lemme win you a prize, baby.”

Rolling your eyes, tongue in cheek as you stare at him. “What if you’re the only prize I need?”

He contemplates, in the way he always does—mouth scrunching up, nose twitching. “Still gonna win you a sloth.”

Folding your arms, you see little point in arguing. Resting your hip against the side, watching him familiarise himself with the goal: aim the rifle at the row of little metal flaps and shoot them down one by one—each having painted in little ducks on in faded yellows, and in your opinion had seen better days.

It's odd to see a rifle in his hand—wooden, smooth, worn from countless hands over the years. You're so used to seeing him with a tool of some kind or a coffee mug when he's at home.

Joel's first go isn’t too bad. The second, third and fourth, range from worse to about the same.

Each time, he grumbles—a little grunt here, a fuck there. It hissed, whispered—right under his throat with the passing reminder of children still running around the place—as you shift from leaning to standing, and arms folded to hanging loose at your sides.

“Joel, c’mon, let’s go play something else—”

“Goddammit, I can do this.”

Placing your hand on his forearm, feeling it twitch under, spotting the way his bicep twitches under the fabric of his shirt, you busily focus on his face. “Hey, I know you can. But, I want to go on The Big Wheel—maybe, make out a little, you know? Little over the clothes. See what it was like to date teenage Joel Miller.”

His jaw ticks—teeth running over his bottom lip as his nostrils flare as he inhales. His grip remains tight on the toy, fingers flexing over the trigger as your palm rubs in a line up and down his arm.

“One more go, promise.”

Smiling, you close your eyes and shrug—dropping your hand. “One more go.”

Stepping back, watching him nod to the man to reset the metal flaps, you have a thought. “Hey.”

Brown eyes meet yours—the bulbs of the stall reflecting in them, making them shimmer, shine. His face smoothed out, soft, as though work hadn’t been stressing him for weeks, as though bills hadn’t been keeping him awake.

“You win me that sloth, Miller, maybe I’ll ask the guy at the Big Wheel if we can stop at the top and admire the view.”

His eyes narrow, staring, your tongue dragging along your upper lip before your teeth bite on your lower and you tilt your head. Then, his eyes flash.

Head turning, cracking it on either side as he adjusts his stance and squares his shoulders—his grip different, almost more expert as you press your thighs together at the sight of his arm flexing again, his neck tensing.

Then, he knocks one down and your pulse hammers in your ears. The second makes you jump a little, as your heart skips a beat in your chest.

And you know he still has three attempts for the third, plenty of time. But you pinch your thigh through the fabric skating over them. Trying to level your breathing; trying to not move in anticipation. Fingers almost wanting to cross as you stare at him, admiring, unable to tear your eyes away from him—

Then the third rings out.

Metal clanging—a win announced, practically bellowing and vibrating through the air as he cheers when the bell is rung and you find yourself with your arms around his neck. You don’t think as you press a kiss—all painted in joy, happiness and pride—against his cheek. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest when your hand slides over it, rubbing, trying to soothe it as he shakes his head in disbelief when the toys is held out to him.

He takes it, his hand large and strong, the same one that just skillfully shot down metal ducks to win you a prize. As he hands it to you, his other arm slips gently around your waist.

“Told you I’d win you it.”

“My hero,” you smirk, tapping his nose with the sloth’s hand.

Feeling him pinch your side, forcing a giggle out, he drops his voice again, “C’mon, want my prize now.”

“Am I not your prize?” you tease, smiling, faking innocence as he stares—blinking, unsure what to say.

“Some parts of you more than others.”

Grinning, mouth falling open in shock, you hear him chuckle. “Good job I’m interested in finding out what winning tastes like.”

His eyes darken, lips parting as you watch him swallow, before he groans all in the back of his throat. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your lip. “Wanna see how much it costs us to have five minutes at the top?”

Joel practically drags you towards the Big Wheel, the fair music blaring from it as you clutch the sloth toy tight to your waist, trying to keep up with him, grinning, from ear to ear.

[axelsagewrites]

Alicent Hightower*Dreams

Pairing: alicent x f!septa!reader

Kinktober Day eighteen: corruption kink with Alicent Hightower – a new septa arrive at court but none of the thoughts on Alicent’s minds are holy

Word count: 1635

Warnings: religious corruption, corruption kink, relgious guilt, making out, flashing, f! receiving oral, multiple orgasm, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

Alicent was a pure and pious woman. Anyone would agree the queen loved her gods but they didn’t notice the way her eyes chased after the new septa they’d sent to the court. Alicent however had noticed the lingering looks her sons would give her and how you’d squirm out of their grasps.

Often times you would run directly to her side, quoting scripture or asking her opinions on what you had read. She had taken you under her wing, at least that’s what all would think when she would stay up all hours praying with you. what they didn’t see was how she would stare at your covered breaths or dream about what you looked like under your habit.

She knew it was wrong. At first at least. But one night after an exceptionally good dream she’d had of you creeping into her chambers in the middle of the night another thought crossed her mind. Perhaps you were the maiden, sent to the queen to be a comfort. After all, if the men could find their comfort in another’s arms what was the harm of Alicent learning another way to pray.

Despite her attempts to justify her thoughts Alicent made no attempts to lure you in. you were pure and innocent and just and virtuous and fucking beautiful down on your knees. Well, that’s what Alicent had been thinking about, hand between her thighs one night when a knock on the door shocked her.

She quickly tied her robe around her naked frame, making her way to the door. she opened it a crack at first but when she saw your face shinning up at her she quickly ushered you in. “Is everything alright?” she asked, motioning you to join her on her sofa.

“I’m sorry did I wake you your grace?” you asked, nervousness suddenly washing over you.

Your eyes were trained on the sofa, but you looked up to meet hers as her hand took yours in hers, “You need not worry. You are welcome here at any hour. Now tell me why is it you cannot sleep?”

“I was wondering,” you started, your eyes darting away as you searched for the words, “if I may ask you a question? Just its not the type of question that I am proud to have to ask,” you said, your eyes finally meeting hers again.

Her eyes squinted, looking at you with concern as she squeezed your hand, “You may ask me anything you wish,” she assured you, brushing the hair out of your face without a thought.

You felt your cheeks heat up at the contact, your mouth growing dry. “How does one handle improper thoughts?” you eventually managed to spit out, “even when I know they are wrong they will not leave my mind and I wonder. Does it make me as bad as my thoughts?” you said, your tongue rambling as soon as your mouth had opened.

Alison shuffled forward, prompting you to finally hush and look into her eyes, “We cannot control my thoughts though,” she said, trying to hide the intrigue in her voice, “it may help if I were to know what thoughts you were having,”

Her words made your throat close up and your eyes grow wide, “Are they thoughts of another?” she asked and after a moment you finally nodded yes. Alison felt her stomach flip as she continued, “is it the princes?” she heard the words before she could think but the fact you shook your head no made her sigh in relief, “Another man?” another no. Alicent paused a moment, her head tilting, “Are your thoughts of another woman?” she tentatively asked.

You paused for longer this time before nodding, “I can’t control them your grace. They come to me at all hours and this night in my sleep,”

“What kind of thoughts?” she cut you off and you felt your skin tingle.

“Impure thoughts,” you whispered, your innocent eyes darting around despite being alone making Alicent want you even more, “I’ve heard stories of women who enjoy others company. Like how man and wife are supposed to,”

“Did your higher septas tell you about these things?” Alicent asked and you shook your head no again, “another septa perhaps? Or a certain book?”

“No my lady but my thoughts, they cannot be okay surely?” you asked, your hands tightening on hers.

Alicent knew it was wrong to indulge these thoughts, to bring you down with her, but your lips were so close and looked softer than any man, “Why would the gods punish us for things that do not hurt another?” she whispered.

“Is it not wrong my queen? To covet another?”

“Only if they do not wish your thoughts,” she whispered back, “Tell me my sweet, who do you dream of?”

Your eyes flickered to the floor, your skin hotter than a fireplace as Alicent shuffled closer, her fingers lifting your chin gently, “You, your grace. I’m sorry I do not mean to cause offence I shall send myself back to the- “

“That won’t be necessary,” her words cut you off, her hand moving to cup your jaw, “Tell me something sweet septa. Why would the gods make something that feels so good a sin?”

“I don’t know,” you stuttered out, “My queen we shouldn’t,”

“But why?”

“Because it’s wrong,”

“According to who?” she asked, her breath fanning your face, “if you can quote me a scripture I shall stop. But I for one see no reason why we should not make the most of the gifts the gods give us,”

Her words sent shivers down your spine as you looked deep into her eyes, “Tell me to stop,” she said, her lips moving closer till they brushed against yours with each word, “and I will,” before you could respond you felt her lips crash onto yours and your own lips kissed back surprising you both.

Her hands moved to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer making you gasp giving her the ability to slip her tongue in. a rush went through Alicent and before you knew it, she’d pulled you over to straddle her lap, your dress bunching up showing your bare thighs.

You gasped when you felt her pull your head covering off but groaned when you felt her fingers rake through your hair. It was softer than she had thought. When she felt you whine into the kiss another rush ran through her as she pushed you off her and stood.

You sat back on the sofa, beginning to stutter out an apology when Alicent undid the knot of her robe. Your jaw slackened as she pushed the fabric from her shoulders, leaving her bare for your eyes to marvel at.

This time she moved to straddle your lap, her fingers moving to unlace the back of your septa dress. She pushed it down enough to reveal the tops of your collarbones. You whimpered as she kissed down your neck, her teeth grazing your collarbones as her hands groped your breasts over the fabric that covered them.

“Would you like to see what I was dreaming of little one?” she asked between the kisses she placed along your skin. All you could do was nod then watch in amazement as she dropped to her knees, her hands slipping under her dress.

You tried to stutter out a question, but you were soon hushed, “Relax little one. Trust me,” she said, kissing your knee as she pushed your skirt up your legs till you were bare to her. Alicent loved the way your eyes refused to meet hers as your skin grew red.

You felt her warm breath fan over your wet cunt. all the dreams you had had were becoming real but as she pressed a kiss to your clit you realised it felt better than you could have imagined. Far better than your own hand.

You gasped as Alicent began to lick strips up your cunt, devouring every morsel of you as her tongue hit places you did not know existed. You felt your stomach tightening and an unfamiliar feeling begin to spread through your body.

Your hand moved to push her away but Alicent wrapped her arms tightly around your thighs. When your peak hit you, a loud whine left your lips, “oh god,” you cried as you came undone on her tongue but Alicent was not ready to stop.

“You taste so sweet,” she mumbled against your core making you shiver. When you felt her fingers tease your hole your hips bucked, “such an eager student,” she praised, kissing your inner thigh.

When she pushed her fingers in slowly, she relished in the whines you let out and how your hips bucked against her hand. You moaned as she began to curl her fingers, hitting the spots even you struggled to find in the darkness of your room.

However, your body jerked when her lips wrapped around your sensitive bundle of nerves. “Your grace,” you panted, your hands gripping her hair as your head fell back against the chair. “I can’t please,”

“But you can,” she said, sending shivers up your spine as she left an open mouth kiss to your clit. As you felt her teeth graze the sensitive bud you couldn’t stop your legs tightening around her head as you came undone by her tongue a second time so far. Alicent could die happy like this she thought but she had no time for that now.

Not as she pulled herself to her feet and grabbed your hands, “What are you doing?” you asked, complying none the less as you stood in front of her.

“I’m not done with you yet my sweet. It is time for your dreams to become true,”

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @starkleila @jacesvelaryons

[comfortless]

Priest!König and succubus!reader perhaps 👀? (Unless you're uncomfortable)

cracking my knuckles… sin??

18+. minors do not interact. this is a little shameless. corruption kink, religion, implied virgin!König, cunnilingus, come eating, a little angst.

It’s rare to find a parishioner in the confessional this late; the church’s doors were always open, their opening and shutting is not what had König stirring from a restless sleep, but the creaking of the old hinges in that little booth certainly had. The priest hurriedly dresses himself in his cassock and makes his way to the opposite end, closing the door behind him as he wearily drags himself to his seat.

“Father,” the voice greets on the other side, so soft and quiet he can hardly hear her at all. Shy, almost. The woman on the other side seems to shift, her movement rustling against the boards of wood that separate them.

“Bless me… I have never made a confession before.”

Not a parishioner, then. A stranger coming under the veil of night… König allows a silence to settle over the confessional for a moment before he produces the holy text and sets it in his lap in preparation to free this poor woman from the sin that binds her.

“Go on then, child,” he encourages, tone mirroring her own. The priest anticipates the usual: admissions of lust, falsehoods, or the common doubts. He has pages dog-eared in his book that list of scriptures for those common problems, the ones he would easily find the words to pray for, to cleanse her soul, to hopefully return to his bed to sleep before morning prayers.

There’s laughter from the other side of the booth, muffled as though an attempt to stifle it beneath her palm had been made. Then, “Father, what if I do not wish to be absolved?”

There had been no preparations made for that, but something in the tone of her voice holds his attention. His side of the booth regains its silence as his brow pinches, determined to piece together some reasoning as to why someone would choose to play some dull prank on him of all people…

“Let me see you.”

Her demand catches him off guard again, but of all things this is hardly strange. Her tone suggests nervousness, a feeling he knows all too well as he wrings his hands and rises with a heavy sigh. The door shuts quietly behind him as he waits for the woman to follow suit. A soft rustling follows his leaving from her side, and when she does step out…

No amount of internal Hail Marys could keep his stare from lingering upon the sight of a woman nude: it isn’t that he hasn’t fantasized before, he would take his lashes and fastings and sit in the quiet of his room to comfort himself with prayer after a weak defeat to his own sins. Still… imagination could not compare to the real thing; he takes note of each soft curve, each dip and line and groove of her. Her breasts are soft, her hips enticing, the length of her legs and what lies between her thighs…

He damns himself the moment his cock twitches to life below the cassock, there’s no slow tensing; only the immediate feeling of feeling horribly confined within his own clothes. He breathes out a drawn out sigh, feigning disinterest when his eyes squeeze shut and he turns his head from her.

“… You need to leave.”

The woman’s lips purse in a small pout when he does will himself to meet her eyes again- just her eyes. No part of him wishes to lose his place in heaven, let alone take advantage of some poor lady who clearly must have lost—

“But you are so lonely… I only want to help,” she whispers, her eyes are wet and pleading, expression only further softening as she gazes up at him with an adoration he hasn’t even seen on his flock.

And those words… something shatters in him, breaks into a thousand tiny pieces when he recounts all of those miserable nights lying in bed alone, imagining a woman as he pulled his cock free and gave himself so many weak, dull orgasms that the skin of it began to sting. If God could forgive him for his weakness then… surely, just once he could allow this.

König sighs again when her hands move to free him of the cassock, but he does not take her wrist to stop her. Even with each hesitant motion, he doesn’t take her wrists into his hands or push her away. He lets her strip him bare, lets her see the way his cock drools at the sight of her and his breath seems to stutter in his chest.

“See? It’s alright,” she coos as she takes his face into her gentle hands. There’s Hell in her eyes, the devil on a forked tongue, but he allows her to guide his face downward, to bring his mouth to her tit, and he feasts upon her. To have his last supper be forbidden fruit… all of the metaphors buzz in his head when his tongue begins to circle her nipple, then the other without her even needing to prompt him.

He could not even begin to describe the sounds she made, like the softest of voices amidst the roaring of a choir in his head, Hell’s wailing and Heaven’s chiming all at once as he licks his way down her sternum, her middle and finds his nose pressed to her mound. Nothing in Heaven could have tasted as sweet as her, no amount of lashing could pull the same shudder from him as he feels course through each knob of his spine when his tongue lathes over her slit, up to the hood of her clit and back.

The sounds of her pleasure only increase further when his grip on her thighs forces her to kneel. He maneuvers her onto her hands and knees to lick her properly, eat her out in ways he had only imagined himself doing before as he grips his weeping manhood in one hand and grips her ass with the other. His tongue sweeps over her in repetition— sloppy, clumsy even as he tries to keep himself from spilling into his palm from her taste and the sight alone.

He gets… curious, flicks his tongue over her other hole too and his fingers move to graze over her clit. She encourages him with soft squeals of pure delight, even draws her hand back to touch herself while he spears his tongue in her hole. If it’s only once, he would be sure to make the most of it.

Lust is not his only sin, because pride wells up deep inside of him the moment she orgasms. He smiles, grins, before he buries his tongue back into her leaking cunt, desperate to consume her, lapping inside, around, over her her until she shivers and whines, saying that it’s far too much.

He doesn’t know how to fuck her properly, admits it sheepishly when she lies back on the floor intent to have her take him in some gentle manner, sweet for her sweet priest. Missionary of all things seemed most blasphemous considering where they are, beneath a holy roof.

So, she opts to climb into his lap, seats herself on his cock in one go. He knows he’s well-endowed, thick and lengthy, and he babbles his concerns about breaking her in a weak string of words. Her cunt is too tight, he feels the way she stretches to accommodate him, each ridge of her walls when she squeezes him… The woman only tosses her head back and laughs, digs her nails into his shoulders as she bounces on his cock with such an easy grace he can’t watch— can’t because he already feels himself beginning to tense, feels the blinding heat spread from the pit of his stomach to pull his balls taut.

He swears he sees the angels right before she pulls off of him, leaves him a trembling, aching mess where the wetness of her own arousal has spilled down to his thighs.

“I want you to pray,” she suggests, sweetly peppering his face in the most chaste of kisses. “Pray you get to finish in me.”

She wants to ruin him, wants drag him down to Hell with her. There are no protests when she bends over to present herself to him; the priest does as she asks in a whisper, pleads for her and when it’s done, his reward in in the form of two words “good boy” and her tight, pulsing heat wrapped around him again.

He doesn’t last long, doesn’t even try to anymore for fear she may decide to leave him high and dry entirely. He ruts into her with a grip on the back of her neck and the plushness of her hip, leans his weight entirely over her as the sounds of impact fill the hollow church. God isn’t watching, but the little succubus below him is so appeased and her favor is all he can care for anymore.

When he comes, he fucks her through it, doesn’t even attempt to slow down as he whines into her ear about how good she feels, how they could get married, have this forever and he will show her the light. Fuck, he would leave the church behind entirely for her if she would just let him feel this every night. His thrusts only slow when he grows soft, when he can’t even keep himself inside of her cunt, slippery with his own seed.

She lies back, spreads her legs and lets him see what he’s done, fingers herself and presses his own come to his lips. She tells him he’s fed her better than anyone else, tells him to have a taste too and he does. He laps at her fingers as desperately as he had her pussy, until she pulls away, wipes his saliva onto her thigh and asks him if he’s ready to sleep.

The bed feels so much warmer with another person present, safer somehow even if he’s never felt himself in any danger… not here. He falls asleep in her embrace, the most blissful sleep he’s ever had. It’s only a shame that he had… because when he wakes in the morning the woman is gone. He misses his prayers searching for her, for even a trace of what occurred between them. There’s no stain on the floor or clothing in the confessional… not even a note to suggest she would return.

He goes back to his sad masturbation sessions, doesn’t even repent for the way he wanders into the confessional after service to fuck his fist and imagine her voice calling to him from the other side. He pictures her body beneath him, thinks of her praise and the way she damned him when he shoots spurts of wasted come against the boards. There’s no love, no woman at his side when he returns to his bed at night, but he has his imagination for that too.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

ATSV Fun Fact!! - Mumbattan Cultural Details

Gayatri & Inspector Singh follow the Sikh Religion

Have you ever heard of Punjabi Sikhs?

If you don't know - Sikhism is a religion that originates in northern India, specifically Punjab.

The turban Gayatri's father wears - along with his last name 'Singh' implies that her father is most likely a Punjabi Sikh.

I notice this the first time watching ATSV and was like 'wow that's so cool :)'

It only hit me today that 'Oh wait I don't think a lot of people know about this very-specific, rarely-mentioned religion maybe i should say something,'

And because I LOVE yelling about world culture, LET'S GO!!!

[a SHORT essay where I explain the basics of Sikhism, a religion built on equality and justice. And details in The Singhs design, and exactly why Sikh Representation matters]

So What's Sikhism about?

Often mistaken for Muslims - Sikhs are actually a non-Abrahamic religion, with 20 million followers worldwide.

But even with so many visible practicing members, most people know very very little about this beautiful religion!

Sikhs believe in equality and unity - and defending the oppressed. Their book of faith, The Guru Granth Sahib Ji, is called 'Guru' for a reason - Sikhs see the book as not just a code of conduct, but as a living, breathing teacher for every practicioner;

From Wikipedia on Guru Granth Sahib: Sikhs since then [1708] have accepted the Guru Granth Sahib, the sacred scripture, as their eternal-living guru, as the embodiment of the ten Sikh Gurus, the highest religious and spiritual guide for Sikhs. It plays a central role in guiding the Sikh's way of life.

The Guru Granth Sahib is the spiritual leader of Sikhism, and it's treated as such.

That's why in Gurdwaras - their place of worship - it's treated as such, being clothed and held in ornate structure, constantly fanned throughout it's readings (the fan you can see in the left picture).

They believe that by following the Guru Granth Sahib Ji, they can cultivate compassion, peace, and harmony in their communities, while diminishing 'Mara' - concepts like hatred or violence.

Sikhs believe that every Sikh should revere themselves as champions of unity. And because of this many Sikhs have the same last name -

Kaur for women (Meaning Princess) and Singh for men (Meaning Lion).

Having the same last name also does away with the Indian caste system, making it another point of equality.

In ATSV Gayatri last name is Singh. However from my understanding, her name would most likely be Gayatri Kaur in reality.

I think they kept her last name as Singh as a deliberate choice to keep her initials as GS, like Gwen Stacy.

So is Gayatri Sikh?

Maybe - most likely.

But we can't be sure. Mainly because of her hair.

Gayatri has a short bob haircut, and while that might not seem like it matters, it does!

In Sikhism there are the '5K's - different aspects Sikhs wear to show their faith.

Notice the first one?

'Kesh' is the practice of leaving ones hair completely uncut. That's why you may see a lot of Sikh men with long, long beards!

And hence, the large turbans.

It's done as respect for God's creation - leaving it unaltered.

[Fun Fact! - Rastafarians, a Jamaican religion, also don't cut their hair for this reason. Think Bob Marley. Rastas call God - Jah]

So, Gayatri having short hair means she doesn't keep Kesh.

However, Sikh is a super accepting and open religion, and it's main focus is on acceptance of difference, not conformity - so she could entirely follow the faith without doing all of any of the 5Ks.

Also, if you're curious about the steel sword K - Kirpan, yes that's a thing!

Sikhs of all genders are encouraged to carry a small ceremonial blade with them.

Instead it's a symbol of the commitment to fighting for what's right - and defending those who cannot defend themselves.

A Kirpan can ONLY be used to defend the life of yourself or others, which is incredibly rare.

Why is this all so rad, cool, and important?

If you haven't noticed by now, Sikhism is a religion driven by justice. Not just in theory, but in really life as well.

That's why you may see many Sikh police officers and politicians, even here in the West. Most of them wearing the emblem on their turbans.

In fact, Canada has SO MANY Sikh politicians, that in 2019 they elected 18 of them.

For centuries Sikhs have been dedicated to justice, and developing systems of support, whether that be political involvement or feeding those in need.

The biggest Gurdwara (a place of Sikh worship) The Golden Temple feeds over 100,000 people A DAY.

For FREE.

It's a practice called Langar. A communal meal anyone can enjoy. And of course, Langar food is vegetarian.

Making Inspector Singh a Sikh - and showing him saving people and being warm to his daughter on screen is great representation for a community so often overlooked! Despite the fact they are over 20 million practicing Sikhs.

It's a great detail for Indian and Punjabi representation in specific. It accurate shows their beliefs and commitment towards helping others, no matter the cost.

And from what we can tell, this choice came later in development. We know this because ALL of his concept art shows him with a turban, not keeping Kesh.

It seems like someone later on down the line said 'Wait if his name is Singh I think he's Sikh and if he's Sikh then we're gonna have to redesign him and make that obvious oops'.

That, dear audience, is why you always have an Anthropologist in the writing room. Or some amateur anthropologist like me :)

-------------

I hope you enjoyed reading this, I really enjoyed writing it!! Sikhism is one of my favorite religions and if you have never heard anything from the Guru Granth Sahib I HIGHLY recommend it, it's very optimistic and compassionate. Sikhnet(.)com is also a great resource!

I have no idea if this will pique anyone's interest, but I hardly ever see Sikhs reflected in media and I know many many people may confuse them with Muslim, especially since many women Sikhs keep kesh and cover their hair as well.

But if you ever wanted to know the difference, here it is! If you read this far, thank you SO MUCH. And if you're a Sikh and reading this, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

As usual, here's a photo of Hobie for your travels.

BYE.

[chococolte]

☼ — osculatus solem

my take on sagau/cult au zhongli, reactions to first meeting you/as a worshiper + reactions to being your lover

word count. 4.2k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationship, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au shit, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im sorry if tense is weird im kinda dumb lol

Zhongli has waited for you for six-thousand years.

It wasn’t until he was faced with you that he realized how cruel the wait was. Six-thousand years of patiently waiting had never felt like grueling punishment until he realized what he was deprived of. Like a man starved, he had grown used to the numbness of constant hunger— he found it almost comforting, as he had lived his entire life malnourished. He lived unaware of what it was like to have a full stomach.

Your presence is primeval. It emanates, and it overwhelms all else. When Zhongli looked into your eyes for the first time, he finally felt complete. He was finally where he was meant to be. Finally with who he was meant to be with.

The scripture had described you in detail, but there were only so many words, so many different ways to speak of you. None of them could compare to how you looked in person, standing in front of him.

Your eyes hold all the knowledge in the world. Constellations and stars shine within them, a myriad of stellar tapestries formed within the small reflective surface of your eyes. Past, present, and future dance inside, moving according to your design. You see all. You are all. Everything that is, and everything that will be, is you. Every burgeoning bud, blooming flower, roaring wave, and colossal beast; you are every death, there in every mournful cry and scornful glare; you are every mortal life and every god.

You are the sun that brings warmth to Teyvat, the moon that caresses its tides, and Zhongli wants nothing more than to worship you for it.

Zhongli was not always your devout worshiper. He was once, like all of his temperament, rebellious and spiteful. He refused to believe that all of his victories in battle had simply been part of your design. Just a single thread in your grand tapestry.

His triumphs were his, and his alone. He won by his own virtue, will, and vigor. He won by his own hand, spear, and stone. You did not aid him in his wars. You did not save anyone worth saving. Zhongli watched his allies die, slip through his fingers like grains of sand— and he would never thank you for what he endured. He promised himself that if ever faced with you and your faux benevolence, he would demand answers from you. You owed him that much. A recompense for all the hardship and injury he had sustained.

Zhongli, in his youthful hubris, did not care who heard his blasphemy, and whether they thought it distasteful or not. He was the god of war, and would allow no being to silence his voice. Zhongli bathed in his rage, wallowed in it; he would not allow himself to believe what others so easily indulged in. Ignorance led way to arrogance.

Guizhong had always been of the opinion that you were a kind, gentle god. She argued that your light could not be quantified, nor labeled; just because you did not act in ways he could see, did not mean you did not act at all. You breathed life into the abandoned, the lost— you embraced those without a home, without purpose. You forgave and you pardoned, and you rained down fury on those wicked and vile.

Zhongli had long grown used to her arguments. Every victory of theirs, despite the tight grip on his weapon and the ichor on his blade, was attributed to you— your grace, your blessings. By your grace you allowed them one more day, by your blessings you allowed them one more triumph. Zhongli thought her pitiful; you had done nothing to deserve her kindness. She worshiped you, and what had you given her in response to her devotion?

Guizhong died in his hands, and he had nothing to show for it. Helplessness ate it's way at him, through his flesh and bone. What was left was nothing more than a husk, a parody of a god. What was once anger at authority transformed into righteous anger at the one who made him. You allowed him his victories, to parade around with pride and vanity; you gave him your blessings, benediction and approval, and yet you let the one who meant the most to him die. The one who worshiped you above all else.

Why did he live over her? He did not appreciate you. He did not worship you. He made no offerings, nor did he pray. He did not believe in your salvation, neither did he ordain your will. But he was the one left behind with the sorrow and the guilt, and Guizhong was the one turned to dust. Why was he chosen?

Zhongli knew that asking questions was meaningless. You would not deign to answer. Maybe it was to be expected. Why would an Almighty God answer to a lower being demanding answers far beyond their comprehension? Why should you have to explain yourself, when you saw all? Zhongli was merely the god of Geo. You could take even that from him.

You were the God of All. The Primordial One. No being had authority over you; not even one of the Seven.

It was only in the light of Guizhong's death that Zhongli had finally begun to understand her perspective. He might’ve been alone, but that did not make you cruel. It did not mean you were unable to be kind, tender and loving. You loved as much as you breathed— the world was showered in your love for it, in the wind that caressed its people and the sea that fed them. Your love was in its bountiful harvests and its gentle rain.

You loved just as any other, but Zhongli had long refused to see it.

He started small. Gestures of devotion hidden underneath many layers of misty glass, only clear to those who looked hard enough. Zhongli had postured to those still with him that he no longer minded if they worshiped you in his presence. If he was feeling particularly daring, he would join in and mutter a small word or two of thanks. Perhaps he thought of it as a way to make up to Guizhong after so many years of his disapproval.

Though he may have found it unbearable at the beginning, he soon began to pray to you in times of need. He looked for you when he found himself in need of counsel, forgoing the people around him. He made offerings in your name when there was a drought or a shortage, praying for your guidance. Even if he did not initially believe that you would truly respond, the comfort it brought outweighed the logistics. If there was no one else he could turn to, he still had you— and you would never forsake him.

Zhongli started to find your answers in the strangest of places. An arrangement of flowers in some botanical garden of some odd scion, the conversation of two orphan boys that shed a new perspective; a tale that seemed almost catered to him told by a storyteller at a tea house. Perhaps he was imagining things— he surely would have thought so a millennium earlier. But were they truly coincidences, if they only happened after he had prayed and offered at his altar for you?

If it was the Zhongli of old, he would have said yes. But the Zhongli of new knew better now: it was you, speaking to him through indirect means. You answered his prayers and accepted his offerings. You forgave him for what he had done and the things he had said in the past.

Liyue was modeled after what Zhongli believed you favored the most. Its jagged cliffs, jeweled karsts, cuihua forests, and vibrant plant life; sculpted and molded to fit your tastes. He sometimes daydreams of showing you his life’s work— would you like it? Would you tell him he’s done a good job, that he had done enough to please you? If you found it distasteful, would you tell him why? Even if it meant tearing the land asunder and usurping the earth that tethers it to its place in the sea, Zhongli would change whatever it is you dislike immediately.

Even if the problem was himself. He would happily bow his head, whisper one last plead for forgiveness, and take his own life. If it was your will, there is nothing he wouldn't do.

When Zhongli meets the Traveler for the first time, he is frozen in place. His heart drops to his stomach as he sees the gleam of your existence in their eyes. It's you. You're here, in front of him— he wants to kneel and worship you the way he's always wanted, but…

Why is it them, and not him?

Zhongli knows he shouldn’t be jealous. It’s a blessing in the first place to meet you like this. It's a blessing to know that you're real. But he can’t stop himself from lying awake at night, thinking of what it would be like if he was the eyes through which you experienced this world.

It’s an ugly feeling. A twisted, nasty feeling. It leaves him feeling bitter in the morning and sick whenever he sees the Traveler walking through Liyue’s streets. He assists them on their quest, because you are there with them— watching him through their eyes. He hopes to leave a good impression, to assure you that there is no problem with him; perhaps, that is why you did not choose him? Because he was faulty in some form?

Hours upon hours of self-reflection spent in dark, locked rooms. Zhongli stays there, looking in mirrors, searching for reasons why. He looks at his mortal form and wonders: is this why? Did you want him to serve you as the Geo Archon for longer? Why not him?

Was he not enough? Was Liyue not enough? You are never wrong, never incorrect— the problem lies with him. But no matter how long he looks, he can't find the reason. He's better in every way. Better in his devotion for you, better in his worship— he would kneel until his knees turned raw and skin gave way to bone, he would pray and sing your praises until his throat bled. He built Liyue with earth and stone, and cracked the land until it was worthy enough of a formation, molding it with his hands to please you. He had changed himself until he was deserving of your forgiveness, until he was worthy enough to worship you.

The voice in the back of his head tells him it was because he once hated you. Once, when he was a fool and a heathen, he spat on your good name, derided it with disgust. Zhongli thought you forgave him for the sins of his past. He thought you still loved him despite it. He thought he had purified himself long ago, but perhaps he still had some rot left to root out. What part of him wasn’t perfect? What part of him wasn’t enough for you?

Zhongli knows he’s only being ungrateful. You’ve done enough for him. Who is he to demand more?

REVERENTIA ; first meeting/as a worshiper

Zhongli did not know what to do with himself when his eyes laid on your figure for the first time.

You were beautiful. Resplendent and illustrious. When you spoke, crying out so timorously, he shuddered involuntarily. He clasped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to steady his breathing, but your voice was infectious. His heart felt heavy in his chest as you looked at him with wide eyes.

Nothing could compare to your stare, to the life that swirled within your eyes.

Zhongli knelt, then, his head hitting the floor. His shoulders trembled with tension as he kept them taut and straight, keeping his posture as poised as possible.

His first words to you: "Welcome home."

Whether your reaction was volatile or not, Zhongli is at your beck and call. He waits on you hand and foot, staying by your side and keeping close. He acts as your shadow, following your orders, even simple commands, as if the result of his failure will be death. Zhongli is aware that your current form is weaker, mortal in nature; but when you ascend once more, he wants to be known as the one who never doubted you, never thought of you as lesser because of your current circumstances.

Zhongli, despite his worship of propriety, is still prone to decadence. His hands as he helps you dress linger for far longer than they should, brushing against the soft skin of your shoulders. The tips of his gloves burn from where they've touched you, and you notice him wearing them less and less often, now.

In Zhongli's eyes, you are never wrong. You stand at the pinnacle of righteousness, justice and light; anything you say is gospel. He commits all of your opinions, even of the littlest, pettiest things, to memory. His personal thoughts on the matter are meaningless, now— if you dislike it, then it's bad. Simple as that. If you find something enjoyable, then it's good. If your concept of morality is twisted and murky, then he will morph his own to match it; there is no internal struggle, no hesitation in his thoughts and behavior. Your will is all that matters.

When in your presence, Zhongli is perfect. He is courteous, gentle, and benign. He never does anything without your explicit permission. He brews you tea, and tells you anything you wish to know. He worships you with so much vigor it's hard to deny him.

Outside of it, he is barely hanging on by a thread.

Zhongli doesn't know how he lived without you before. He feels vaguely sick even thinking of going back to when you were not present. Just a moment without you is hellish. Every step away from you is like walking on scorching coal. It is an agonizing pain, one slow and tortuous.

He has never felt such pain before. The mere thought of leaving you by your lonesome sends him into a frenzy powered only by his desire to stay by you. He is willing to tear anyone apart should they stand in between him and his god. He can't leave, not when he isn't worthy of your forgiveness yet, not when you're so fragile in your current form.

Every night he rests only barely. Every morning he rises with relief, knowing that once more he is allowed to bask in your company.

Perhaps he's still driven by his insecurity, by the idea of you thinking him unworthy of you.

Zhongli speaks of your grace and elegance, of the light you inspire; he tells you how long he's worshiped you, how long he's loved you.

He tells you of his devotion, of the offerings he's left at your gilded altars, jewels and the finest riches. Zhongli brings them directly to you, now, with an uncharacteristic bashfulness.

He tells you of the wars he's fought in your name, of the blasphemers he's slaughtered— though, conveniently leaving out that he used to be one. Zhongli hopes you're proud of the things he's done in your name, that you will finally embrace him, utterly and wholly.

In the dark of the night, when doubt and searing loneliness so clearly bite at his mind, Zhongli walks to your room. He never dares to walk inside, always conscious of your privacy— but he kneels outside your doors with muted footsteps, only the soft echo of ruffling fabric to accompany him.

He mumbles into the gelid floor unintelligible prayers. He listens for your breathing, for assurance you're still within reach. His unrest is barely abated each time.

When he is particularly nervous, he stands by your doors until morning light, shoulders trembling with unease until you rise from your slumber.

Zhongli is fearful. His muscles are tense as he whispers pleadings that you stay, that you at least say goodbye, should you leave again. He fears one day he will awake and you will be gone.

He fears that he will be left alone again, once more without the tenderness of your guidance. Back to when he had thrown you away, when he only knew of bloodshed and the weight on his shoulders.

You freed him from his self-imposed shackles, whether knowingly or not.

Only when he's assured you're safe will he allow himself peace and serenity.

Only then, will he finally rest in the only paradise he wishes for: being by your side for eternity.

VENUSTUS ; as your lover

Zhongli has always loved you. By virtue of your holiness and sacred being, he has always loved you as his god. As his guiding hand and light, sculpting him into the Archon you want him to be; into a believer worthy of worshiping you.

Faced with your luminous presence, finally able to see what he has only imagined before, Zhongli's love for you only grows. It unfurls like a blossoming glaze lily, petals perfect and serene.

He would never dare presume that his feelings are returned. As his God, you are above him in every way— you are above him in every breath, every step you take. In every slight movement of your fingers, you establish the bridge between you. The line he should never cross.

You are above him. He is beneath you.

Whether it is intentional or not, Zhongli knows his place. He is grateful to be where he is, blessed enough to stand beside you in any capacity. To know that you exist would've been enough, but to care for you personally— to be the one with whom you spend the most of your treasured time with; that is an honor worth dying for.

Zhongli has played with the idea of being your consort before. Of being yours, utterly and entirely. He never lets the thought stay for long. Shame begins to eat at him all too quickly, twisting his stomach into knots of guilt and remorse. He's embarrassed more than anything; of having the gall to dare to imagine himself ever being so important to you.

The thought would've never crossed his mind before, the mere idea laughable. You were untouchable. Above even The Seven, above Celestia. You had not shown interest in any individual for a millennium, and it would be no different now.

But Zhongli knows you now. He's felt the brush of your touch, the zephyr of your breath when he leans in too close. He's felt the warmth running through your veins, the warmth that leaves him flustered, even when you've only touched him for a moment.

The thoughts come more often, now. More vivid. More apparent. You cradle him in your arms, whispering soft words of loyalty and love. You hold his hands in your own, intertwining your fingers, and tell him how you have come to love him. He is special. He alone is yours; no one else.

It terrifies him.

Zhongli is nothing more than your worshiper. He is your servant. He may have been a god, but now he is just your tool. He is content with that much. He should be content with that much. But his heart wants more from you, more than you've deigned to give him.

It wants your love. Your attention. His heart yearns to be special to you; to be the sole holder of your affection.

It's a selfish desire. A nasty one. One that he wishes he could remove, exorcise out of him like a spirit. But every attempt to carve it out of him only leaves him bleeding, and it hurts more to pretend like it doesn't exist. It burns him from the inside out, a fiery jealousy that roars whenever he sees you with another.

It should be me, his heart trembles. It should be me, his heart weeps.

Zhongli is terribly flustered when you begin to show signs of reciprocation. Small things like careful touches, honeyed tones, and words of favor. You compliment him more often, go out of your way to do things that please him; brushing and running your fingers through his hair, listening to him spin tales of old. He is aware that you must know everything already, but you look at him with such big eyes of wonder and interest he can’t help but go on.

He’s barely able to speak when you admit to him your feelings. His heart beats fast in his ears like war drums, his heartstrings tightening as if nocked by an arrow.

It's an uncharacteristic moment of timidity for the wise ex-archon. He's stammering over his words, barely able to keep up his façade of calm. Is that something you truly wish to do? With him?

You assure him— I want this, you say— and Zhongli allows himself to believe you. He follows you when you lead him by the hand into the palace of your heart. He cradles it softly in his hands, gentle and delicate. Zhongli swears to never hurt you, to never let another harm you in any way; but he still fears, still doubts you.

It should be expected for you to have multiple consorts. Multiple lovers, all equally vying for your attention. Zhongli should be happy that you have any interest in him at all— but the thought of being second to another in your heart makes him sick.

Venti, the verdant bard, does nothing but drink. He wastes away his woes in bottles of wine and bourbon; surely, you will not choose him over Zhongli? Ei lorded over her people and took their freedom away. Her reasons do not matter. All for an eternity unreachable by mortals and gods, she attempted to trespass upon your domain. Surely, you will not choose her over him?

The thoughts are foolish. Nearly sacrilegious in nature. He has no control over you; no place to demand that you only love him. But Zhongli has spent thousands of years worshiping you— is it wrong of him to believe himself better than the rest? Venti does not worship you in the way he does, with such fervor or zeal. Ei may pray or rest her eyes beneath your statue, but she has not spoken good of your name like he has, hasn’t hunted blasphemers like he has.

She’d rather her servants deal with them, whenever they so rarely come. Zhongli deals with them personally, knuckles clenched around his blade.

In every way that matters, he is better. As such, he shouldn’t fear, shouldn’t worry of when you will inevitably grow bored— he should enjoy the moments he has with you, the brief time when he is all that you have. When he is still all that you want.

Fear still grips his throat with its tiny, intangible hands. Even if he severs its wrists, it continues to thrive; to suffocate him with its pervasive thoughts.

He must prove himself, it echoes. Or else he'll be deserted. Discarded when another proves themselves his better.

Zhongli won't let himself be thrown away. Whatever he must do to please you, he will do.

Until his mortal form wears down to nothing but dust and bone, until his only coherent thought is how wonderful it is to worship you— until you have no need for anyone else.

Whatever your command is, he will follow. As long as he alone stands in your heart, as long as he alone can kiss the dirt off your feet, he will be content.

He only hopes that he can love you as you deserve.

Zhongli’s zealous behavior worsens to an obscene degree. He never falters in his fervent, almost fervorous veneration— it becomes excessive, almost actorly. Though his obsequiousness appears inflated, it is entirely genuine; he fawns a tad more obviously, smiling with dazed eyes when you kiss his cheeks or lips.

This has always been how he feels. He's only unrestrained, now. And even still, he hides the deeper parts of his worship, the servile and fanatic in him that wants to drool at your lap. It's hard to stop himself every time you sit on your throne to immediately drop to his knees.

Zhongli is happy to give and never receive. He is pleased with being yours, though it never clicks in his mind that the same is applicable to you.

You are not his, but he is yours. If you call yourself his, Zhongli melts. His face blossoms red and it permeates his cheeks for hours afterward. His hands slightly shake and he has trouble standing still in the immediate aftermath. All he wants to do is kneel, and say I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

If you'd like it, Zhongli would let you do whatever you want with him. Tear him apart with your bare hands, and shred him of any sense; it matters not as long as it's you.

You are everything, your love is everything. Even the softest of your kisses and touches have him breathless and numb, and anything else only serves to make him fall deeper into you.

Only with you is he easy to fluster. Anyone else, and he'd have punished them long ago, if not tore out their eyes for having seen him in such a state.

But it's you. You could crush his heart in your hands, leave him heartbroken and bitter, and Zhongli still would not find it in himself to hate you.

You are the lifeblood that runs underneath Teyvat’s cracked earth, the soft undercurrent that ties it together— and, if only you'd let him, Zhongli would worship you for it.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

All Scripture is Inspired by God

All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work. — 2 Timothy 3:16-17 | The Books of the Bible NT (BOOKS) The Books of the Bible NT Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved worldwide. Cross References: Deuteronomy 29:29; Zephaniah 3:2; Romans 4:23; Romans 15:4; 1 Timothy 6:11; 2 Timothy 2:21; Titus 1:16; Hebrews 13:21; 2 Peter 1:20-21

[a-godman]

Inhale God as we Read the Bible and Exhale Him as we Speak to others to Minister Life

 All Scripture is God-breathed and profitable for us so that we may be equipped and perfected for every good work; we need to inhale God as we read the Bible to receive life, and we need to exhale God as we speak to others to impart life to them. Amen! This is the only way that God’s purpose can be accomplished. What God is after is not a bunch of good men or even a group of good Christians; He…

[ouroborosorder]

Hi! As someone newer to ak, I would actually really love a “rawest Ak lines” list if u don’t mind sharing!

Okay so if I *did* run this, I would have to crowdsource some, because I haven't read everything, and I don't always remember to update my document when I do read shit. So my list is extremely biased, extremely incomplete, and very all over the fucking place. Do not take this as a comprehensive list, but rather just some of my favorites:

Patriot: "Rhodes Island. I will advance." A classic. A legend. A salsa that everyone at the table can enjoy.

Rosmontis: "You didn't want to die alone. You want to be remembered by me, and live on within me. But no. I came here just to watch you die. And now, I've forgotten you."

Eblana: "You'll remember me, shapeshifter. Your long and refractory memory will have chapters that belong to me." (not the official translation but I'm using this one because it goes SOOOO much harder)

Andoain: "I would rather be the torch that burns by the feet of those who are freezing to death. Even if its flame will soon be extinguished."

In game boss description text for Kristen Wright: Egotist. Betrayer. Seeker. Loner. Pioneer. Goodnight, Terra.

and of course, Woodrow: "May this bullet forgive what my heart cannot."

and then of course, Stultifera Navis, which has so many it was basically a contest to see who got the coolest line before the event ended. I have literally 8 lines in my notes document, my favorites being:

Irene: "You have not sinned in any way. The Holy Scriptures do not even mention your existence. Right now it is only I, as an Iberian, who is handing down this verdict. The scourge of the seas must be wiped out. You have no right to live. In the name of Iberia."

Carmen: “You, and your pathetic ideas, will be buried in Iberia. Before your last breath, be sure to pass on our thunderous roar to your kin. ‘The sea faces an ancient enemy called civilization, one you stand no chance of overcoming.'”

Captain Alfonso: “Remember this well, Irene! Return to land and sing the praises of Alfonso's feats! The last monster that Alfonso slew... was himself!”

Ulpianus: “If you care about the word of God, then so be it. The Seaborn are not gods, nor are their forefathers. I have seen how your gods die, their screams coursing through the currents, their flesh and blood smeared across abyssal ravines.”

I think for the sake of the hypothetical bracket, I'd probably want to limit it to one line per event before the entire thing is consumed entirely by just Stultifera Navis

[thatdeadaquarius]

imagine if reader is given an ancient scripture from around the time humanity founded out how to write and do the alphabet (somehow it was preserved so well that you can still see the words with no issue)

and it's the most heart wrenching, soul crushing, tear inducing, hyperventilating, sanity disappearing angst, misunderstandings, hurt/no comfort, it gets worse but never better, major character death, unrequited love story to have ever existed in teyvat.

and after reader goes through the whole thing, they can barely talk or breathe properly with how much they're crying.

(even better, it was smut not angst and reader is staring ar the scripture, jaw dropped to the floor with shaking hands.)

STOP- I avoid fanfics like that at all costs 😭 id stop reading it after the first angsty event LMAO

Im like... too emotionally affected by fanfics, esp angst ones 💀

Its just, ppl who write closer to my generation or just very psychologically honestly, are like fucking deadly writers. Got my day ruined and shit w/just fanfics 😭

LMAO THE GIF IS JUST YOU ON THE SPOT NOT EVEN HALFWAY THRU-

☆

Sun: Gender Neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: Short! Headcanons-ish

Stars: my first of the Fontians!! Fontainianes? Fontainains?? u get it

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: sobbing, discussion of vague smut/NSFW book at the end, okay for Teen/Mature audiences, & Trigger Warnings: none known.

no but it’d be hilarious if u got this crazy like hand-width deep tablet for each “page” of the book, like how every novel or info in genshin is like one page at a time 😭

Sumeru and other international academics are literally constantly harassing politely requesting your translation of these and sending them to you in whichever country you’re visiting at the moment

Fontaine was even more complex and pretty in real life than it could ever be in game and i can def see you at like Neuvillette’s office or a nice french fontaine cafe and just WHAM

huge ass tablet bc as much as the fic tortures you, you have to know what the fuck happens to these miserable idiots

Neuvillette, Clorinde, and Lynette are all the type to immediately try and dissuade you from reading it again, bc from their point of view you just pull out this huge old rock and start sobbing quietly about 10 mins into the read every time 😭😭

(unsurprisingly, Neuvillette would even go so far as to get the Marechaussee Phantom to sneakily steal ur most recent tablets of the story to hide them, which sucks for you LMAO)

Freminet, Wriothesley, Navia, Lyney, and Furina,all frantically try to distract you, and also theyre in order of who would be the most dramatic w/it lmao

NO BC I JUST HAD THE THOUGHT-

Ur tears absolutely are top priority to Neuvillette and Furina so when they inevitably find the memories in them (and the traveler too maybe)

of what the story is about, except its like all the feelings and stuff, so like its the best “translation” they get of the book so far, u best believe it rains for a week straight

it started out as a light drizzle, but as Neuvillette “read on” in ur tear’s memories if got worse HAHA

mans is out here trying to convince himself like, “this is a classic tragedy from eons ago, its about a human romance, im definitely unaffected, though im glad i could figure out what ails My Majesty so”

meanwhile the story gets worse and its just like that meme “ohHHhhhHH its got a little kiicckkk”

Neuvillette nearly floods the streets by chapter 5 when the miscommunication happens and then they cant get in contact with each other to fix it lmao

LMAO I JUST HAD A VISIONNN

ur in fontaine and while yes drinks were popular (like obv fonta)

business is rlly booming bc now everyone you know (like the Vision-users or archons Neuvill, etc) all have develop this habit of having a water bottle or drink on them to offer you when u start reading to rehydrate you 😭😭😭

Navia, Clorinde, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Lyney, Lynette all have a handkerchief on them at all times too 😭😭

Good God-

the moment you translate the now instant Shakespearean-level tragedy classic, it is a known tear-jerker thruout all of Teyvat,

like theres trigger warnings and age limits and shit 💀

◇

on another note,

if its smut,

ur desperately combing thru all the tablets and wall carvings and cave paintings to try and lowkey cover it up LMAO

and its not like a story with a smut scene either, its like what anon said,

just fully like the ao3 tag “Porn What Plot/Porn With Plot”

STOP

not u yanking the tablets out of Neuvillette’s hands when he curiously picks them up one time lmao

(he is now invested in getting these translated too bc of ur reaction lol)

☆

consider supporting me with an iced coffee? :0

Spooky Season! Spooky Season!! Spooky Season!!!

still not dead btw

just got hired at my new job so ive been training and busy!! :)

im a host at Olive Garden lol its weird and kinda hard, my feet hurt a lot and i havent had a full shift yet ;-; its a brand new one so it opens the 23rd

dw that eldritch one shot is still coming btw, just talking with betas and editing it now lol

hope if you read this you have a great upcoming weekend!!

Safe Travels Anon,

💀♒

☆

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

☆

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks / @devilangel657

[slutshamethesquirrels]

A First Time For Everything

choso x fem!reader

length: 10.7K

tw: religious guilt, drug use, nsfw, loss of virginity

You left your small hometown to pursue your dreams. Along the way, you've encountered new experiences and challenges that shake your beliefs to your core. In your new city, you meet Choso, who challenges your beliefs and introduces you to a different way of thinking. As you navigate this evolving new life, you find yourself drawn to him, leading to an exciting journey and a whole lot of firsts.

All you could think about was how disappointed your mother would be. You could see her there, in your tiny hometown, crying into a cup of coffee at the local diner, her friend rubbing her back affectionately. She'd tell her friend that she didn't know where she'd gone wrong, and her friend would sigh and quote scripture and tell her some old saying about how no lamb can stray too far from the herd for the shepherd to find again.

Would the preacher give a sermon on Sunday morning? About the devil and how he presents not as himself, but as pleasure? As sex and drugs and money? As freedom?

Six months ago, when you’d graduated college and took a job in a big city a thousand miles away, you'd never have pictured yourself in the predicament you found yourself in now. You wanted to experience, to learn, to breathe in the world around you and expand your mind. To you, that meant working, and trying new foods, maybe taking an art class.

It definitely never occurred to you that it might mean sitting on the cement of a skate park with three alternative men, watching the youngest of the three pack a - what did they call it again? - right, a ‘bowl’ full of weed to pass around the circle.

It makes you nervous, watching the setting sun dance off the pink top of his hair, handling an illegal substance so brazenly, out in the open like the cops couldn't roll up at any minute, like god wasn't watching-

A hand on your back between your shoulder blades, rubbing affectionately, reassuringly.

You look up to meet his eyes, flashing a small forced smile.

“I’m okay, Choso. I promise.”

Ah, if the devil presented as everything you wanted, then Choso Kamo may be Satan himself.

He’d frightened you the first time you'd met him. It was at a bar, sometime early in the night. You’d never drank before and wanted the experience of sipping a cocktail at the high tops, maybe shooting pool with a handsome stranger. You'd quickly learned that cocktails were vast and varied, and strangers came in so many different shapes and sizes out here. Unfamiliar ones, scary ones.

You’d simply asked the bartender for the special, and had been met with something that tasted like drinking straight cough syrup. It made you gag. Too heavy, too sweet, and to top it all off it burned.

He’d slid up to the bar a few seats away and you'd almost pissed yourself. He was huge, muscular, with a thick solid line tattooed across the bridge of his pierced nose. Tattoos decorated his arms, plastered the muscle that threatened to tear the fabric of his intentionally tattered t-shirt from the inside out. It was a deep maroon color, and it made the pale of his skin almost glow in the dark bar lighting. He was distressed jeans and combat boots and danger and fire. Alternatively styled hair, pigtails that somehow looked masculine on him. Tattoos and piercings and just the faintest hint of eyeliner. He was everything you had been taught to avoid. Everything that had ever been off limits.

And the way a match ignited in your stomach as you watched him order? That was definitely the cocktail.

And the way saliva started to pool in your throat when you watched him reach into his pocket to produce his wallet with special attention to the way his eyelashes fluttered? That was definitely the cocktail.

And the way you felt like vomiting when he'd caught you staring? Stupid fucking cocktail.

Or that's what you had told yourself.

When he’d approached, it wasn't what you expected, not at all what the movies taught you. He’d introduced himself, shook your hand, asked what you were sipping on.

“I actually-” you’d looked at your glass in disapproval “I don't know. I don't really drink but it's kind of gross.”

He’d giggled, boyish and in direct opposition to his appearance and you'd had to grip the bar for support despite already sitting.

“Yeah, I bet! Looks like it's 98 percent juice.” His brows had raised, a genuine smile plastered across his face. The whites of his canines made you feel like you were dying in the best way possible. It was overwhelming. You couldn't breathe.

“You can try mine, I haven't touched it yet. So, you know, no cooties or whatever-”

He slid his glass over to you. It was clear and bubbly, a lemon wedge floating in the top. Unable to even speak real human words back to him when he looked so good, you'd hesitantly pulled his straw between your lips, eyes gazing up at him as his gaze locked directly onto the way your mouth moved, unsure of why his expression faltered momentarily.

You took a sip and your face lit up. It was refreshing, almost like sparkling water. The liquor was there, but it didn't burn like yours. It was smooth and cooling.

“This is so good!”

He seems to be pleased by your excitement, his smile going soft “Yeah? It's a gin and tonic, I can buy you one, if you'd like.”.

Your expression must've told him you weren't sure. Isn't that what men did when they wanted to have sex with you?

“No expectations, I promise.”

He seemed so genuine that you'd gladly agreed.

And when he'd asked for your number, or if you wanted to hangout at his house with him and his younger brother, or if you would like to learn to skateboard- it was much the same.

Since that night, the two of you had melded into each other's lives effortlessly. Choso was sweet and kind, always respectful. His younger brother Yuji lived with him after the untimely passing of their mother. Yugi’s boyfriend, Megumi, was always around as well. Being around the three of them made you nostalgic for something you never had. Sometimes, the feeling you would get when watching the siblings fight over a game of Monopoly called back to the tightness of your chest during worship on Sundays. You used to think it was God speaking to you, but now you weren't so sure.

You weren't sure what the nature of your relationship was with Choso, either. Sometimes, he felt like a friend and nothing more. When he’d send you random goofy memes, or pretend to be upset when you couldn't come over. Other times, you thought that maybe he liked you. When you'd sit a little too close while watching a movie and catch him more concerned with watching you than the film. Or when he'd walk you to your car at night and linger just a bit too long at your window. Or when he’d insist upon you staying the night. But when you did agree to stay, he’d always tuck you into his bed and then head downstairs to sleep on the couch, often complaining the next morning about how Megumi and Yuji kept him up all night.

You didn't know the first thing about men, but surely if he liked you, he’d make the first move, right?

On the other hand, you'd come to learn just how shy Choso actually was. He preferred ordering delivery to avoid talking to strangers, wrote down scripts for himself before making phone calls, and tried his best to keep interactions with cashiers and bank tellers to a minimum. You’d wondered before what made him talk to you in the bar that night all those weeks ago.

“You sure? You look like your eyes are about to pop out of your head- ow!” Yuji’s voice brings you back to the present, giggling as he fails to dodge a playful blow to the back of his scalp from Megumi.

“I’m fine , you guys! I promise!” you insist as Yuji finishes packing the bowl with the corner of his lighter.

A few short minutes later and Choso’s on his knees in front of you, holding the bowl for you with a steady hand as you take a deep breath, preparing yourself mentally for your first time ever smoking. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, your father yells and throws a glass plate at the dining room wall, but even the glass shattering is hard to hear when Megumi and Yuji are peering around Choso on either side, their faces akin to children on Christmas. Like getting you high for the first time was the greatest thing they'd ever do.

“Ready? Last chance to chicken out.” Choso’s words are teasing but his tone is gentle, kind. He's offering you a lifeline in a way that will still make him seem cool in front of his brother, and you know it.

“I was born ready.” you bold-face lie.

With that, you attach your lips to the mouthpiece, your eyes following Choso’s hand as he brings the flame of the lighter to the bud, giving you a gentle command:

“Inhale. Slowly.”

And so you do. He’d warned you that you wouldn't get anything until he moved his thumb from the air hole on the side, but somehow you’re still shocked when the flavor hits you. It's foreign, earthy, a little sour but not entirely unpleasant. It tickles as it slides down your throat and Choso pulls the glass piece away from you, passing it to Yuji.

Coming up isn't half as pleasant. The ticklish feeling now burns, and your lungs feel tingly and odd. You cough, once lightly and then violently. By the fifth one you think you may throw up. Your mouth feels dry and you can't comprehend why the boy’s would willingly do this to themselves.

It doesn't take long to understand, though.

Within a few minutes and another turn in the rotation, the world is softer, your thoughts not so organized and pointed. Everything is pretty, and silly, and any sensory input feels like you're experiencing it for the first time.

Yuji asks you stupid questions, has you rattling off haphazardly strung together and entirely too far thought-out opinions. Megumi seems to find this greatly amusing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh, you think.

And Choso?

He keeps inching closer. You're not sure if he even intends for it to be that way, but eventually you end up sitting between his splayed open legs, your back against his chest and your fingers absentmindedly toying with the frayed holes in the thighs of his jeans. If the weight of the two of your bodies is too much he doesn't say so, his palms splayed out on the concrete behind him.

The two of you watch the younger couple skate from above, your eyes carefully trailing back and forth between them. You weren't sure how they ended up together. Megumi was a bit of a hard ass, he almost came off as pretentious if you didn't know him well enough. And then there was Yugi, who was loud and rambunctious and overly extroverted. You wondered who had bullied who into falling in love, and you giggle at the thought.

“What is it, pot head?” Choso asks from above you.

The boys had been teasing you about your “weed problem” all evening.

“Do you think Megumi bullied Yuji into dating him or was it the other way around?” You ask candidly, and this time Choso chuckles, vibrating your spine.

“I’d put money on it being the other way around. Yuji’s tougher than people give him credit for.”

A few silent, thoughtful moments pass and then he adds:

“Plus, Megumi’s super introverted. He's kind of like me in that way. I can't imagine he'd make the first move.”

For a moment, it's lost on you, but after it rolls around in the fuzziness of your brain for a while it dawns upon you that his words might've been a hint of sorts. You shift so that you can see his face, your legs swinging over his thigh and your elbows resting on the other for support, half laying on his lap.

“Yeah?” You prod, trying your best not to get lost in the deep chocolate of his eyes or the curve of his jaw.

He really was beautiful. Today, his hair is down, surrounding his face in a shaggy frame that makes him look a little softer. There's a red twinge coating the skin of his cheeks under his tattoo, but you couldn't decide if it was from the heat or not.

“Yeah” he breathes as his eyes scan your face, almost like he's in awe of you.

His eyes settle on your lips and you watch him swallow harshly.

It reminds you that your own mouth exists, and its dry as hell.

“Choso?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm thirsty.”

Your admission seems to jar him out of the haze as he cracks into a giggle, his nose scrunching up and eyes crinkling at the corners. You're pretty sure he's never looked better.

“We have some water bottles in the car, you wanna walk with me?”

Of course you do, you think you’d go everywhere with him if you had the time and money to do so.

A few minutes later the two of you are sitting in his car with the AC on full blast and the radio on low. Of course what was supposed to be a two minute venture out to the parking lot had lengthened when Choso had offered to show you a new band he had discovered.

Usually, his music was too heavy for you, but you actually didn't mind this one all that much. It had it's moments, but the incomprehensible screaming was spaced out, intermingled with melodic guitar and an only-slightly intolerably whiny vocalist.

“So, does this one get the y/n stamp of approval?” He asks.

You faux-ponder for a moment, tapping your finger against your chin thoughtfully before you give him the expected answer:

“No, but it's better than the last one.”

“Oh, come on! I thought for sure I’d have you this time!” He groans, jutting his bottom lip out like you’d really hurt his feelings.

“Sorry, big guy. The only whiney little man I like is you-”

It slipped out before you could even stop yourself, your face immediately flushing at the admission, horrified that you just said that. You were never smoking weed again.

What if he didn't feel that way? What if he was disgusted by the thought of you having feelings for him? What if he didn't want to be friends anymore? What if-

“I mean, I-”

“Do you mean it?” His tone is flat but his eyes are wide, observant, drinking in every minute detail of your expression. You're mortified.

“No!”

“Oh.” His face falls and his shoulders droop, and your heart cracks a little at the sight.

“I mean, not like that! I just-”

He chuckles a little, but it sounds strained. Slumping into his seat and tapping his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel awkwardly, he doesn't pull his eyes from his own fingers as he speaks “Y/n, it's fine. Really. You're not obligated to like me just because you're a woman and my friend. I'll live.”.

Fuck.

How were you supposed to fix this? How could you get out of this situation without admitting to your little crush? Either way, the dynamic of your relationship would change from here on out.

You tried to summon your bravery, but in the end it was futile.

You didn't like the way the change was playing out.

Choso’s texts to you slowed over the next few weeks, and then eventually stopped altogether. You had yet to be invited back over to his place or out to the skate park by him personally, instead getting invites from Yuji, all ending with the speculation that you could come “if you want”. Not a direct invitation, not a enthusiastic expression of a desire for your presence, and definitely not from the person you wanted it from.

You wondered if you had told him the truth, would it be like this?

You missed him. The smell of his cologne, dark and earthy and smokey. The way it felt to fall asleep on his shoulder watching TV. His penchant for take out, his awkward demeanor. You’d even forced yourself to listen to his playlists. It felt like a piece of you had died.

Out here in the big city, surrounded by a million strangers, yet feeling alone because the ones you chose had been taken from you as punishment for your lack of nuts.

You check your phone after work before heading home, unsurprised to find no new notifications, but disappointed nonetheless. You almost text him, tell him you miss him, but it felt wrong. So instead, you put his playlist on and start your drive.

Fittingly, it was pouring rain, effectively turning the concrete of the city into a pond. Traffic creeps forward, inch by miserable fucking inch, and you think how much better this would be if he was in your passenger seat. Shit, it would even be better if you could just call him. Your emotions swell and blur together. You're mournful over the loss, regretful over your choice of words, angry at him for not just telling you what he was thinking. Angry at your hometown for driving you out, angry at your mother for never calling, angry at god for keeping the rest of the big wide world from you for so long. Angry at god for keeping Choso from you for so long.

Someone blares on their horn a couple lanes away and you sober, come to a revelation of sorts. You’d thrown god the middle finger a long time ago. He couldn't stop you from living, from experiencing. And by that logic, he couldn't keep Choso from you either. Not if you had any say in the matter.

You don't drive home, taking a turn instead two exits early. You’d memorized the route to their house, didn't need a GPS to lead you into their suburb.

When you pull into the drive Choso’s car is the only one parked outside, but quite frankly you didn't care who was there. You march out of your car with the determination of a soldier, not bothering to worry about how the rain was absolutely pouring down. By the time you reach the door you’re absolutely soaked, with your hair plastered to your face and your business casual button up transparent, clinging to your frame.

You pound on the door with force and wait for a few moments, and then pound again. You know he doesn't like to answer the door to strangers. He's not impolite enough to tell religious canvassers to piss off, and everytime it's a salesman he buys whatever product they're pushing just to get them to leave.

Third time's the charm.

He opens the door in nothing but a charcoal pair of sweatpants, his hair messy and disheveled like he’d just woken up at 6pm. His tattoos are on full display, but his torso remains untouched by ink, giving you a full view of his pecs, his abs, and that v shape above his hips that has you breathing funny. You shamelessly trail your eyes down his body.

“You're soaked.” He meekly points out, and you realize he must've been sizing you up as well, because his lips are parted and his face is flushed when you jerk your eyes back up to meet his gaze.

Fuck it.

You take two steps forward and jerk him down to you by the nape of his neck, crashing your lips into his with a fervent heat. You would explain later. Right now all that mattered was the way he grunted against your lips, the way his tongue felt pushing past the plush barrier to swirl against yours, the way his hands gripped your sides like they were sculpted to do just that. He tastes like weed and mint and something sweet, and you think you maybe could get addicted to something like that.

He pulls back but you’re not finished yet, lapping hungrily at the sensitive skin of his neck. It was the best you could do with the height difference.

“Y/n. Inside, please.” He slurs, groaning and gripping you tighter as you transition from licking to sucking, ignoring his request entirely.

You hit a spot he must like, because he gasps and then his hands are scrambling to the wet backs of your thighs, hoisting you up to his waist and retreating into the familiar space.

Once the two of you are inside he sits you down, his hands scrambling to put some space between the two of you, grasping at your wrists and pushing on your chest just slightly. You both know he could easily shove you off if he wanted, but as always his manners are entirely too poised for that type of behavior.

But you’re hooked on the flavor of his skin, lapping at any place you can reach with desperation. You missed him so much, you needed him. Closer and harder and more-

He barks your name, unusually harsh, and it snaps you out of your lusty haze a little.

“Sorry,” He apologizes when he catches your disappointment, his hands reaching up to cup your face, lips pressing to the damp skin of your forehead gently to remedy his harshness “You're absolutely drenched, love. And it seems like we need to talk.”.

It's almost impossible to tuck away your need, but you manage, somehow.

Thirty minutes later and you're wrapped in one of his hoodies, the sheer size of it large enough to fall at mid-thigh.

With the daylight streaming through the window, Choso’s bedroom looks different. You’d never noticed before just how much of a collector he was. You knew he had shelves full of nick-nacks and oddities, but in the light they seemed far larger in number than you’d ever noticed before. He had an interest in the occult, a fact that had once scared you, but now you knew it to be harmless.

Every crystal, jar of herbs, and statuette had a meaning. You’d ask him about it sometimes, which rock was supposed to represent good fortune, or which little wax sealed spell jar was for protection.

Choso viewed spirituality not as a guide book for how to enter heaven, but an encyclopedia for exploring the unknown. You loved that about him. He didn't need one divine being to judge whether or not he was a good person, he just was .

The two of you sit at the top of his bed, your backs pressed against the headboard, your legs against the top of his plush comforter. It's such a deep shade of purple it's almost black.

The tension between the two of you is somewhat awkward. You were sitting close enough to feel each other's heat, but neither one dared to touch. You kept yourself busy by twisting your fingers together, trying not to think about how tense he was beside you. His arms were clenched tightly across his chest, as if defending himself from the thick air, and when you stole a glance at him you wondered how he hadn't bitten through his cheek yet with how hard he was chewing on it.

Several times, one of you opens your mouth to speak, but words evade you.

Eventually, you tap your bare toes against Choso's playfully. Once, twice, three times.

“Weirdo,” he teases “You come in my house, you kiss me, you steal my clothes and now you wanna hold toes?”

You gasp, full of faux offense “Excuse me?! I am not trying to hold your toes! If I wanted to hold your toes, I’d do this- ”.

You slide your body down a bit so you can reach and curl your toes over the top of his. Immediately, he recoils, sarcastically gagging, but its interrupted by giggles as he tries to no avail to squirm away from you.

“You freak!” He laughs, desperately shuffling away from you as you latch onto his body, attempting to reach his foot again with your own playfully. He squirms downward to use his height to his advantage, his giggles getting a little higher pitched as he evades your desperate attempt.

“Is this some kind of weird religious trauma? Jesus liked to wash feet, not touch them together-”

He's shit talking between giggles and now you're giggling too, sliding down the bed to try and reach him once again, your lip pulling between your teeth mischievously as you frantically wave your leg, toes pointed like a ballerina. You pay absolutely zero mind to his protests. So close, so close-

He practically shrieks your name when he feels your toes graze against his skin and the sheer girlieness of the noise has you erupting into genuine, chest rattling laughter, and before you can recover, he's reached over you to hook a large and under your knee, flipping you across his waist with ease so you’re straddling him, genuinely beaming as you try to catch your breath, your hands pressed against his bare chest to support yourself.

After a few moments, the realization sinks in that you’re here, in Choso Kamo’s bed, with no pants on. Straddling him with your knees struggling to even touch the bed underneath, the only thing separating your most private area from the skin of his abdomen being the thin cotton of your bikini cut panties.

His expression softens as he stares at you, lost in the way your lips part and your eyelids get heavy as he brings a hand up to fix pieces of your hair that were out of place, the both of you completely lost in the moment.

“I’m so sorry Choso-” you start, finally attempting to address the elephant in the room.

“Don't be, there's no need” he murmurs as his fingers move from your hair to your jawline, his thumb grazing the soft skin of your cheek tantalizingly slow “I told you, you're not obligated to feel-”.

You're glad he's not dodging the issue, but you can't let him continue that line of thinking for another fucking second. It was killing you, so you cut him off.

“But I do, Cho. I do feel…” You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing as a knot rises in your throat. Why the fuck was this so hard?

And he wasn't making it any easier, the way his hand was trailing from your face to your neck, across your shoulder and down your clavicle like it had a mind of its own. You have to fight not to shudder.

You close your eyes, avoiding his gaze and focus hard on spewing what needed to be said, wanting it out and over as quickly as possible.

“I like you. I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you. I just didn't know how to say it and when I did I didn't mean to. And you looked so pretty and I didn't want to fuck anything up and so I tried to shove it all back in but it was too late and I-”

Words are tumbling out of your mouth quicker than your brain could proofread them, your hands balling into fists as you metaphorically word vomit into the sticky air in front of you, and it's not until you feel Choso shift underneath you that you stop.

He's pushed himself up on his palm, his free hand moving to tangle in your hair and pull your lips to his, a silent way of telling you he understood. This kiss wasn't like earlier, this one was gentle and poised, every little motion of his mouth overly intentional. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and you gladly grant him access, sighing against him as he strokes the inside of your mouth with the grace of a painter intending upon a masterpiece.

Momentarily, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours and panting slightly, his eyes fluttered shut as he basks in your warmth. The air between you is thick and sweet, a mixture of clean oxygen and your breath swirling together.

You know what he's doing, trying to regain some control over himself. The two of you have talked extensively about your background, he knew you were a virgin. He didn't want to do anything you weren't comfortable with-

“You’ve been holding back this whole time” you let the words tumble out in a whisper, and you smile when he nods, the sweetness of the entire misunderstanding exploding through you.

“I never wanted to force you into anything,” He sighs “God knows you’ve had enough of other people guiding your decisions for you.”.

“Was that a play on words?” you try not to giggle, but he snorts and then you’re both laughing, with him shifting your bodies again so you're fully in his lap, his legs curling underneath you and his arms squeezing you in an almost boyish way, his giggles getting lost in your hair where he buries his face.

***

“I want to have sex with you”

You’re firm and unwavering in your disposition, face stern and hands pointed at your sides. You stand in front of the coffee table where Choso currently has one boot clad foot perched, his long fingers working on weaving the laces around the hooks in a far too intricate pattern.

He stills momentarily, staring at you with a slight blush creeping across an almost unreadable expression before he chuckles, returning to the task at hand.

His reaction causes you to cross your arms across your chest and reiterate “I’m serious. I want to have sex with you.”.

Since your initial miscommunication with him, you’d come to the conclusion that you would simply have to be direct with your wants and needs from him.

He doesn't pause this time, but does lift his head to shoot you a glance, flashing a much softer smile this time. It reminds you of when you first met him.

“I know, I’m sorry. You just said it so officially. I half expected you to be wearing a lapel collar blazer and holding a briefcase. It was cute.” He speaks as he finishes up with the first boot, and then quickly moves onto the next.

He was getting ready for work and looked absolutely scrumptious. His hair was pulled back in his signature buns, little pieces falling forward to frame his face, and his uniform clung to him in all the right ways. He swears he doesn't actually do much as a security guard, but everytime you see him in uniform you can't help but melt a little.

‘Remain strong’ you tell yourself.

“Well maybe if you could take a hint I wouldn't have to present myself like a legal case,” your tone was teasing, but it was true.

Earlier this week you'd crawled in his bed with nothing on but a thong and one of his t-shirts, pulling his arm around you and settling the flesh of your ass firmly against his boxers, innocently “adjusting” your position repeatedly. When his cock was hard enough for you to feel it spearing your thighs you thought you had him hooked, but he simply pressed chaste kisses onto your neck a few times and told you goodnight.

The day before that, you’d met him in his bedroom when he got home fresh out of the shower, nothing but a towel clinging to your frame and pulled him in for a steamy makeout session. It had ended with him offering for you to wear an outfit of his.

Just last night, you’d made sure to pick a movie with a raunchy sex scene, and even though you’d watched his face flush and his breathing falter, he didn't so much as attempt to make a move on you.

He says your name gently as he finishes up with his shoes and rises from the couch, making his way over to you and wrapping his fingers around your jaw, manually forcing you to look up at him.

“I can take a hint just fine, baby.” He coos, his voice dark and smokier than you’d ever heard it, seemingly out of nowhere “It's just that I'm a patient man. I was waiting for you to use your words.”.

You're already putty in his hands, beet red and gripping his uniform desperately as he captures your bottom lip between his, rolling his tongue along the tender flesh before sucking harshly, pulling your lip between his teeth and biting lightly.

It shouldn't be enough to have you dripping onto the soft cloth of your underwear, pushing muffled whimpers against his lips, but here you are anyway.

All too soon, he pulls away, leaving you breathless as he makes circles beneath your ribs with his thumbs.

“Unfortunately, though, my little legal council, I do have to work-”

“Call out.” It sounds like a plea.

He giggles, allowing his forehead to fall against yours just briefly as his shoulders shake with the sound.

“Cho!” You whine, desperate and slightly embarrassed.

“I can't call out horny, my love.” He’s still giggling as he says it “Plus, if it's what you want, that's fine but I’d like to have time to dedicate myself to making you feel good. It's your first time, you deserve that.”

His words soften as he speaks, and he plants another kiss on your lips, muffling your resigned response.

“You gonna be here tonight? When I get home?” He asks, his voice suggestive.

You hadn't been planning on it. It was usually a dice roll, whether you’d end up at your own apartment or his house by the end of the night, but you needed to go home. Your drawer full of clothes here was dwindling and you desperately missed not having to hear Yuuji and Megumi in the other room.

Plus, you worried sometimes that you needed to relax, to give Choso a chance to breathe. He was an introvert, and even though he never seemed to mind your presence you were always worried that you were overstepping boundaries.

“I was planning on it.” You lie, unsure if you were convincing.

“Shame,” he sighs, pecking your nose before heading towards the door, strong hands reaching for his keys hanging on the rack “The boys are gonna be here. I figure you don't want them hearing-”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, I-” you scramble for words and he turns to watch you fumble desperately to communicate, giggling through pearly white teeth.

“I can be at home. Tonight.” You take a deep breath, feeling like the air was all of a sudden too hot in the room.

The look on his face is one of pure adoration. His eyes drink you in like fresh water in a desert oasis. You’d been taught that God was the only one who could love you unconditionally, the only one who could marvel at the way your soul had been sewn into your body, but there in that moment, you had the thought that Choso Kamo just might be able to as well.

He crosses the room once more, and when you think he's going to kiss you again, push a little harder against the thin bubble of list pooling inside you, he shocks you by wrapping his arms around you instead, pulling you into him and squeezing you tight, like he didn't want to let go.

The hours pass all too quickly. They also drag on like snails on the sidewalk.

You do everything in your power to prepare yourself. By the time you've driven home and shaved every feasible inch of your body, showered like you could never be clean enough, and applied enough lotions and oils for the next seventeen years, you still have four hours until Choso gets off work. Two and a half of those get filled with cleaning, not that your apartment was dirty in the first place, but you vacuum and dust and wash your bedsheets. You consider scrubbing the grout in the kitchen, but decide against it, not wanting to ruin your immaculately washed form with sweat.

Picking out what to wear is another daunting task. You weren't one for expensive and skimpy lingerie sets. You’d never considered the possibility that anyone would be seeing that secondary layer of clothing. Would Choso be disappointed in your plain black cotton panties and a matching black bra? Realistically, no. You knew he thought you looked amazing in anything. But there's still a small part of you that thinks maybe he will be.

In those last few hours, the nerves really settle in with the reality of the situation. You stand in front of your bathroom mirror in your underwear for what feels like an insane amount of time, scrutinizing your body. Every stretch mark, patch of cellulite, scar and wrinkle screams at you. The way your underwear digs into the soft fat of your body makes you sick. You imagine Choso swallowing his disgust to power through it, and flip off the lights to go pull on some shorts and a t-shirt.

And when he texts you to let you know he's on the way, you feel like you may vomit, a mix of excitement and shame flooding your system.

Beneath his notification is one from your mother. She doesn't reach out much these days, and when she does, it's always an attempt to guilt you into returning home. In her mind, it's not too late.

She doesn't know how far you’ve strayed. You're no longer a girl in the middle rows of pews with your blossoming body swallowed in a light pink dress from your neck to your shins. You don't find excitement at the glances you would steal with the choir boy while he sung the good lord's praises.

These days, you drank and smoked and spent your nights in the bed of an unwed man who thought Jesus was no more than a person who once lived. No more or less than himself, or you, for that matter.

The bible verse she's sent you today seems fitting.

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

She used to tell you, when you were tiny, with dirt stained knees and sunburned cheeks, that when you found your husband, you should replace the word “love” with his name. And if you could not recite it and believe it to be true in it’s new form, he simply was not the boy for you.

Choso Kamo is patient, he is kind. He does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud.

You see him in flashes. How he patiently waited for you to make a move on him. How he was kind enough to bolster you through every step of your new journey. How he was quiet, gentle, humble in his words and his actions. The blush of his cheeks, the warmth of his embrace-

Choso Kamo is not rude, he is not self seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs.

He took your misplaced rejection in stride. Never once did he snap at you. In those weeks you’d been separated, he’d drawn into himself. And when you'd showed up on his doorstep with no justification, he'd welcomed you back with open arms, dressed you in his own clothes, held you like a precious gift-

Choso Kamo always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves.

Yuuji had told you one night over a midnight snack about how Choso had immediately cleared out the guest bedroom when their mom had passed. Yuuji, before that point, was old enough and had more than enough money to have lived on his own, but Choso had insisted on him moving in. He’d told you, with a saccharine half smile as he stared into his bowl of cheerios, that he thought that Choso wanted what was left of their family to persevere. It may have been small, torn from years of hardship, but they were gonna make it good. They were gonna be the kind men at the end of the street who neighbors called when they had a flat tire. Their home would be a safe haven, a place to rest when their friends were weary. After that conversation, you’d crawled back into bed with Choso, who was fast asleep, and cried into his shoulder. Your sweet boy, your angel-

Choso Kamo never fails.

That one doesn't count, you decide. It was too unrealistic. But then you rephrase it a little, and it sounds about right:

Choso Kamo’s love never fails.

Yeah, that was more like it.

But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part

You send your mother back a message, entirely too brief. You are no longer sure if you believe in god, but what you are certain of is that you are going to live each moment of your life like it's your last. You’re helplessly in love with a man who practices witchcraft and smokes weed more than he breathes air. But you followed her rule, and he fits the standard. You don't want to hear her opinion, and your father, god rest his soul, may be rolling in his grave, but he's probably not burning in hell, because it doesn't exist.

but when perfection comes,

A knock on your door, in an all-too-familiar corny little rhythmic jingle that warms your heart.

the imperfect disappears.

You block your mothers number and toss your phone on the plush surface of your sofa and practically run to the door, throwing it open and then leaping into Choso's arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck and drinking in the smell of his cologne.

He's unprepared, stumbling slightly as he catches you, a breathy “Woah, there!” escaping his lips as he steps with you in his arms over the threshold of your apartment.

“What happened to ‘Hello’?” He teases, pressing soft kisses into your hair “-Or ‘Hi, how are you?’.”

All the while he's struggling to kick his shoes off and get the door locked without setting you down, giggling at himself candidly in your ear. Every rattle of his chest only has you pulling him closer, latching onto him impossibly tight. It hurts in the best way possible. You never thought you’d find this, you could be barefoot and pregnant in that choir boy’s kitchen right now. But he was here, and real, and patient, and kind, and hopeful, and trustworthy, and all that stupid shit the pastor used to yap about on Sunday morning.

“What is up with you? You cosplayin’ a boa constrictor or what-? Oh- What's wrong? ”

His tone softened when he pulled back to look at you and saw large tears rolling down your cheeks.

Even now, with a downturned brow and a pout plaguing his features, he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. His hair was down, his face free of any of his typical makeup and his skin baby soft and butter smooth. Beautiful dark eyes traced worried patterns over your face, searching for the cause of your tears. His grip on your thighs tightens, protective.

“If you changed your mind-” He starts, voice low and hushed.

“No.” You cut him off, and plopped your forehead against his, probably a little too hard but he’d be okay. You’d tease him about his thick ass skull later.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

You swallowed your fear, your reservation, the silly, petulant notion that Choso held anything in his chest but genuine adoration for you.

“I’m crying because I’m happy. You make me happy.” You murmur, your eyelids slipping closed. You can't bear to look at him when you say it.

“I love you, Choso Kamo. I love you.”

The air freezes, tenses, and you can swear for a moment the world stops turning. You pry your eyes open against your will to look at him, and he's staring at you in awe, worrying his lip between his teeth, and- were there tears welling in his eyes?

“Say it again.” He whispers “Please.”

“I love you-”

He cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours feverishly. It's gentle, but you can tell he's fighting himself, his hands trembling against your thighs with the force he’s using to force himself into taking his time.

Lips and tongues melding as he carried you down the hall, soft whimpers escaping his lips as your fingers twist in his hair, willing him somehow closer than he already was, wanting him to take your body, and maybe your soul, make it his. He could have it, all of you if he wanted, you knew he'd keep it safe.

“Again” He commands as he lays you on your bed, his hands working your shirt off like he couldn't stand the fabric that hid you from him for a second longer.

“I love you, Cho.” You watch as he pushes himself up off the mattress, standing so that he can pull his own shirt off, revealing that tantalizingly hard frame that you’d fantasized about since the first night you met him. He doesn't give you much time to admire the view before his rough palm is sliding along your freshly bare skin from your hip to the side of your neck. His other hand plants on the mattress beside you, holding himself up as he presses his lips to yours again and then allows himself to leave a sloppy trail of wet kisses across your jaw and down your neck. His tongue is hot and desperate, flicking against your skin and leaving cracks of electricity in it's wake.

“Ah, fuck-” the words seem to bubble out of your lips from nowhere as he transitions from licking to sucking, the slightest bit of pain outlining the pleasure. The hand that's been resting against your neck slides down and around your body, and you arch your back so he can undo the clasp of your bra, running your hands along the defined ridges of his back and trying to remember every breath, every touch, every feeling he’s giving you.

How could this be wrong, when his tongue gliding along your collar feels like heaven? How is it that you were reveling in sin if him removing your bra from your chest felt like removing everything that's ever caged you? How was it blasphemy if the way his eyes held contact with yours as he drew stars along your nipple with his tongue felt like worship?

It also felt like hell fire, though, the way there was heat coating every inch of the room, every inch of your body, pooling inside you and sloshing against every flick of his tongue.

Your body knows what you want, even if you don't, and your hands tangle in his hair and push him downwards, urging him to pick up the pace.

He chuckles against your skin, muttering a hushed “So fucking cute-” before kissing your nipple once more and following your silent command, mapping out the skin of your abdomen with his tongue, humming in satisfaction against your skin, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the taste.

His hands trace your sides until his thick fingers are hooking under the rim of both your shorts and your underwear, pulling them off in one fell swoop.

And then there you are, naked in front of the most attractive man you’d ever seen. Naked in front of a man who looked like everything you’d ever been warned about, but acted like everything you'd ever been taught was good.

He looked otherworldly, with his hair fluffy and tousled by your fingers. His blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, all the way down his chest, and you notice for the first time the tent in the front of his sweats. His eyes scan you, gliding over different parts of your form, looking hazy and far away, almost lost-

One hand moves to part your knees, which had subconsciously moved together to cover yourself, but he doesn't push, instead lifts his eyes to you, smiling softly. Adoringly.

“Can't do anything for you if you don't let me see, babe.”

You nod, slowly, and begin to part your legs, but something about your face makes him falter, moving to grip your knee and stop you.

“What's wrong, y/n? Do we need to stop?” He's stone-serious all of a sudden “We can stop whenever you want. I promise I can wait.”.

Patient. You remind yourself. Choso Kamo is patient.

“N-no!” You find your words, and he relaxes a little, his grip on your knee loosening “I just- What if you don't-”. You feel embarrassment stinging hot on your cheeks.

His brow furrows as he questions you “...Don't what?”.

The words feel like shattered glass sliding out of your throat:

“What if you don't… like what you see?”

His face falls, and for a second he looks genuinely sad, and you think you’ve ruined it. Again. There's a few silent moments where you think he's gonna call it off, help you redress and leave you here to sleep alone. You recall how you felt in those few weeks of not talking to him the first time.

…But he doesn't. His hands reach out for you and you take them, allowing him to pull you into a sitting position while he stands at the edge of the bed, holding your face upwards so that you have to look at him.

“Y/n.” His tone is somewhere between a scold and a plea, a warning and a prayer “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I am lucky to have you.”.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you draw a shaky breath “I just-”

“Aht.” He stops you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a sickeningly sweet gesture “Let me show you.”.

He pushes on your shoulder until you lean back on one of your palms, and this time when he parts your legs to hike your knees up on his hips, you allow it.

He grabs your free hand and and turns it over in his own, speaking softly, slowly:

“I love your hands, and how small they feel in mine.” He kisses your knuckles, humming against your skin as he continues “I love it when you wrap your arms around me at night, how soft your skin feels against me.”.

He starts at your wrist, planting kiss after kiss, trailing upwards until he lands in the hollow of your throat.

“I love your voice, love to hear you say my name-”

“Choso-” you whine, the flick of his tongue causing your hips to instinctually rock. His clothed erection grinds against your bare clit and you gasp at the contact. It was unfamiliar, but so so fucking good.

“Mmm, yes, baby. Just like that.” He praises, his voice low and husky, and his hands move to your hips to guide you in grinding against him, the pace slow and rhythmic, tantalizingly slow.

“I love these little love handles,” He's speaking through breathy pants now, index fingers tapping against the skin beneath his hands to point them out “They're so hot, doll. You have no idea. I wanna bite them so bad. And just look how nicely they fit in my hands.”.

He's melting you, you're head tipping back and your mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut as you jolt with every brush of your clit.

“I said look-” he growls, and brings one hand up to the back of your hair, jerking your head forward. Your eyes fly open in surprise at his sudden forwardness, only to be met with the sight of him grinding against you, the front of his sweats absolutely soiled by your wetness- or maybe his precum from the other side. Both? Probably both.

But he was right, if you didn't know any better, you'd think your hips were hand carved to fit into his palms.

“Cho, please, please!” You have no idea what you're begging for, but you need more, the unfamiliar heat building in your stomach becoming damn near unbearable.

He chuckles, not his usual way but something a little lower, huskier, almost taunting, and takes a slight step back. You open your mouth to whine about the loss of contact, but then he's kneeling by the bed, throwing your legs up over his shoulders and you realize- oh fuck .

“I love these little tiger stripes” He's back to his monologue, tracing the stretch marks on your inner thigh with his lips.

“So. Goddamn. Pretty.” His words are punctuated with kisses in between “How many years did it take you to grow them? Hmm? How many good meals and growing pains and jeans sizes are painted here, baby?”.

He's babbling, lost in adoration, and all you can do is gasp and whine and keen as he draws closer and closer to your core. You're overwhelmed, by him, by his words, by his lips. Your insides have been blended up and set on a low simmer, sure to bubble and boil until you're completely caramelized, an entirely different form than when you first started.

He presses a chaste kiss to the hood of your clit, almost innocent, and you tense, your whole body coiled in anticipation as you prop yourself up on you elbows to look at him with blown pupils.

“Can I?” He asks, and before the words are even out you’re nodding eagerly, unable to even form words with the way he's got you wrapped around his metaphorical finger.

Tentatively, almost experimentally, he licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, smirking as your back arches into the feeling. It was unlike anything you'd ever experienced, it was indescribably good. Your hands find his hair faster than you can stop them, instinct taking over as you push him down into you by way of gripping his hair, your body aching, pleading for him to do it again.

And he happily obliges, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you down so he can work his magic, and holy hell did it feel like magic. If your brain wasn't absolutely melted, you’d thank him for suggesting your apartment instead of his house. The sounds that we're escaping you were loud and high pitched, broken syllables of his name intermingled with cursing as he draws figure eights on your clit with his tongue, gradually picking up pace until you're tossing your upper half back onto the mattress, feeling like he was pulling your very soul from your body in the best way.

“Want my fingers inside you, love?” He pulls away, just briefly, back to kissing your thigh languidly as he waits for you to sober a bit and give him proper consent.

“Yes, yes, yes-” You're helpless against him, trying to roll your hips back up to his face, only to be met with the pressure of his hand against your hip, holding you in place. You’d let him do whatever he wanted.

“Okay, okay!” He giggles, and this time it sounds genuine “Relax for me, pretty girl, it shouldn't hurt but if you're tense…”.

He trails off, pressing a kiss to your other thigh as you settle yourself, laying back with your eyes closed and taking deep, slow breaths while trying not to tremble.

You feel his tongue again first and immediately jolt, and he mumbles your name almost disappointedly, like he expected you to tense again the second he touched you. You mumble an apology, trying again to relax, focusing on the way his tongue felt working your body.

It doesn't take long for the heat to return, soft whine's escaping your lips as you let him take control, loving the way he groans against you, like getting you off was a pleasure. With each stroke an unknown feeling was building in your core, a live wire winding tighter and tighter and-

You gasp as you feel a sudden pressure, his finger pushing into you slowly, carefully, pumping in time with his tongue, working you from the inside and out.

You're back up on your palm now, your free hand reaching for his, tangling your fingers in his, squeezing as your face falls into an opened mouthed silent moan. He hesitates, just briefly, and the panic at the idea of losing the feeling helps you find your words:

“Nonononono, don't stop, Choso, baby, please- please don't stop it's so good, please- please!”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, smirking against you. You didn't give a fuck. Let his ego inflate until it bursts. Let him think he owns your body, because goddamn, you’d let him. You wanted him to. Anything, anything so long as he didn't stop.

Without warning, he slips another finger in and the stretch along with the swirl of his tongue is unreal. You cry out, squeezing his fingers impossibly tight and doubling over just slightly. He's hitting something inside you that you didn't know existed, some type of magical button that had that coil in you wound so tight you feared it might break. And then you feel it, a sharp and hot sensation, brought on so suddenly it had your eyes flying open and sent you scrambling backwards away from him.

“Stop!” You bark, and immediately he pulls out of and away from you, but keeps your fingers intertwined with his, his face crunched in concern.

“You okay?” He asks, genuine worry plaguing his very being “Something hurt?”.

“Yeah, no, it felt good, I just- I felt-” You struggle to describe it, searching for a similar sensation in your mind to compare it to.

While you think, he presses small kisses to your knee, his eyes not as concerned as they were a moment ago, but still cloudy.

“I think I have to pee?” You finally state, but it comes out as more of a question than a matter of fact.

His eyebrows jolt upwards as he breaks into a wide open mouthed grin, and then he laughs in that way that makes you melt, in the way that makes his nose crinkle up and his eyes look like crescent moons.

“Baby!” He cackles incredulously, rising to his feet and placing himself up on the bed, his shoulders resting against the pillows.

“What?” You whine, mildly embarrassed, but take his hands when he reaches for you, letting him guide you until your straddling his hips, shuddering as you feel his still-hard cock spearing your ass.

“You were gonna cum, that's what that was.” He chuckles, pulling you forward to kiss him. You can taste yourself all over him and it lights you on fire.

Choso, smiling, giggling, rock hard beneath you, swirling his tongue around yours when you find yourself smiling too.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

“Cho?” you murmur against him, and he hums inquisitively back against your lips.

“Make love to me. Please. Need you close.”

“Yes ma'am. At your service.”

In a few moments, you're on your back in front of him, your thighs spread around his own, watching him roll a latex condom over his length. An artist couldn't paint a view as beautiful as the one in front of you.

Fully protected, he leans down over you, and before he can move to do it himself you’re lapping hungrily at his bottom lip, willing him closer, wanting him to invade your every inch, stake his claim in you.

He hikes one of your legs up with his hand under your knee and you feel him nudge against your entrance, and you surprise yourself with your own feelings. There's no fear, no shame, just love and want.

“You sure?”

“Choso!” You fuss, and he giggles, planting a sweet kiss on your forehead and then resting his own head there, nuzzling you gently. Anyone else, it would be gross; both of you had a sheen of sweat glistening across your foreheads.

“Deep breath for me, sweet girl.” He murmurs, and you do, drawing a heavy lungful of his breath and the hot air surrounding the two of you. At the peak of your intake, he pushes into you, slow and careful, stretching you around him with the patience of a teacher and the intensity of a priest in the height of surmon.

It was all-consuming, the absolutely delectable way he fit inside you, his tip grazing your cervix just ever-so-slightly. Maybe it was the way he’d brought you to the brink of cumming (apparently) before, or just the way your body craved him like water, but he was right; it didn't hurt. Pressure, sure, but not pain.

“Gonna move-” He speaks, and you realize you’re affecting him too. His brow is knitted, bottom lip trembling between his teeth, voice cracked and whiney.

“Please, Cho?” You whimper out, sliding one hand around his back, the other intertwined in his dark hair, now damp from desperate sweat.

He presses his lips to yours and begins to rock his hips, slowly at first, until he hits that sweet spot inside you again, earning him a puppy whine from what felt like the deepest part of your guts. From there, he's zeroed in on that spot, rolling his hips in a way that has him grinding against it over and over.

Each stroke pushes you closer to the brink of enlightenment, you think, modulates your very being with the way that heat is rising inside you again. He moans and whines and whimpers against the crook of your neck as he works, giving away just how much you’re really doing to him, whether he wanted you to know or not.

It makes you smile through the pleasure, and if any sounds could escape you other than moans you may have giggled. He was so fucking cute.

The pressure inside you intensifies, builds until every stroke is crashing over your body in boiling waves, and you feel that hot sensation again as he picks up pace, your pussy twitching around him desperately and your thighs tightening around his back, warning him you were close.

“Say it again for me, baby. Please?” He pants, propping up to watch your face as you inevitably would come undone beneath him.

One of his hands reaches down to circle your clit as you cry out.

“I love you. I-I love you, Chos- nngh, fuck! ”

You cum, for the first time in your life, and it feels like you’ve stepped off the edge of a cliff, adrenaline and excitement exploding from your core. Against your own will, your head flies backwards into the pillow behind you and your body clenches from your scalp to your toes as you ride out your high.

A curse, followed by a keen from Choso as he’s quick to follow behind you, his thrusts becoming sloppy and slow as he pumps hot ropes of cum into the condom.

He presses into you, resting his body weight against you as the both of you take a moment to catch your breath. It's crushing, his weight, but you couldn't think of a better way to go, so you let him. As you regain some semblance of control over your body, your fingers find their way to his back, swirling along the defined muscle in languid motions.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

“Oh,” He says after a moment, casually, like he'd forgotten to tell you some half hearted plans “I love you too, by the way.”.

You giggle, and jerk his face up to look at you, your hands pressing into his cheeks and puckering up his kiss-bitten lips.

“You are an idiot, Choso Kamo.”

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