#and aside from the blasphemy of it all

[yanderedrabbles]

Can you do a noncon of yandere!Incubus x reader?

Yandere Incubus x Nun Reader

Incubus - derived from Latin incubō "nightmare, what lies down on one whilst one sleeps" and further from incubāre "to lie upon."

You woke up with your entire body paralysed. You wanted to scream - for the abbot, the mother superior, anyone.

But you couldn't. You couldn't even move your tongue enough to swallow.

Your rapid breathing was the only sign you were awake at all. Your body lay limp as in sleep. Was this some curse? Had you sinned so horribly that this was your punishment?

It must certainly be the new priest's fault.

He was so handsome, so tall and soft spoken. Your mind had wandered into sin without meaning to. You had knelt at the altar all afternoon, begging for forgiveness from the Virgin Mother.

And yet you had indulged in lustful thoughts all the same. This nightmare was surely your punishment.

"Hush now, dear one."

A voice right next to your ear.

You wanted to scream, to run, to do anything. Who was in your bed? What manner of demon had come to punish you in your worst hour?

You could smell the faintest hint of incense and rosewood. It was the smell of the chapel, of rosaries and prayer. Why did this stranger smell like he belonged here?

A hand came to rest on your thigh.

"Be not afraid."

The man's hand slowly drifted upward, pushing your negligee aside and bearing your skin to the cold convent air.

"All sins must have their penance, sister. I have come to give you yours."

The voice had grown closer and now his lips brushed your cheek. His hand reached the top of your thigh and slowly began to move toward your sex.

Your legs were closed tight and curled towards you slightly, so all his probing fingers found was the barest hint of your slit. Still, it sent tingles all across your cunt when his fingers brushed your panties.

"Such devotion you have, sister. But your lust creeps through."

The stranger's voice was deep but quiet, and somehow familiar.

You thought he would stop at your panties but you were wrong. His hand continued upwards, pulling your negligee with it. He hummed softly to himself and scraped his nails across the skin of your belly.

"When you kneel at the the altar and think still of sin, is that not blasphemy?"

His nails felt far sharper and far thicker than any human's. Claw like almost.

He cupped your naked breast in his hand for a long moment before squeezing it gently. His fingers found your nipple and teased at it, pinching and rolling. How could a stranger's touch feel so good? How could it make you burn inside?

Surely this was no man, but a demon sent to torment you with lust.

His breath was growing ragged and he pressed himself closer against you. Something firm and long ground itself against your ass cheeks, demanding entrance.

His hand abandoned your aching nipple and came to rest against your throat. It was a terrible reminder - this man could cut off your breath with a single squeeze.

"It is God’s will that you should be sanctified."

His cock pushed at the apex of your thighs and slowly slid between them, your cunt lips rubbing along the length of him.

He groaned softly, his hand tightening around your throat. He slowly thrust himself between your thighs and the slick wetness of your pussy dripped onto him.

You felt your body growing warmer and warmer. The pit of your stomach ached in a way that could only be satisfied by his cock. And yet he continued to deny you - rubbing himself between your thighs and teasing your cunt with the friction.

No, you mustn't give in to your desire. This was undoubtedly some incubus, some demon.

And even knowing that, you want to be fucked by it. By him.

He was going faster now and the friction against your clit was unbearable. If you had a voice, you would have been whimpering.

He moaned, deep in his throat. His stubble grated against your cheek as he dipped his mouth toward your neck. He brushed his lips across your skin, tracing lower and lower, until his lips rested at the sensitive juncture between shoulder and neck.

"Shall I leave a mark, sister? So that you may look upon it and be reminded of your sin?"

He nipped at your skin and his teeth felt dangerously sharp.

"Shall I leave a mark? So that you may look upon it and know you have been cleansed?"

His hand still rested on your neck and he used it to pull you closer against him. You felt yourself choke and panic ripped through your body.

He chuckled, and it sounded strangely lecherous combined with his ragged breathing and the slick sound of his cock fucking your thighs. Thankfully he loosened his grip once he was satisfied with your closeness and you could breathe again.

"The dawn comes." He dropped his hand from your throat to your waist and held you flush against him. You could feel hard muscles that flexed with every thrust.

"I long to stay, sister. But doesn't th-the bible say to ask penance in the d-darkest hour?" He was struggling to keep his composure as his cock rammed itself between your legs.

He held you in place with his arm curled around you. Your thighs were warm and slick and almost as sweet as pussy. Oh, how he ached for you.

His breath was coming faster and he growled a little with every thrust. Your poor clit was aching from overstimulation but if he knew about it, he didn't care. His fingers dug painfully into your flesh and he pressed his face against your shoulder to stifle his moans.

You felt close to the edge yourself. Your nipples were burning to be touched and you felt your insides knotting up.

"You filthy fucking sinner," he growled and that was all it took.

You were still riding the waves of your orgasm when he bit your neck and snarled. His cock throbbed against your thighs and hot cum spilled across your slit and down your legs.

He breathed in slowly. When he spoke, he sounded almost mocking.

"Worry not for your sins, sister."

He pulled his cock out from between your thighs. His hands drifted over you, pulling your negligee and panties back into place. His finger scraped up some of the cum on your legs and touched it to your lips, smearing it across them like some perverse kiss.

"Afterall, purificati sumus per caritatem."

You felt the bed dip as he climbed off. Strangely, without his touch you felt yourself slowly falling back asleep. A single thought haunted you as his footsteps faded away.

'Purificati...' wasn't that the exact same phrase the young priest kept using in his sermon?

[himasgod]

Hello! ^^ I've read your fanfic about Malleus being jealous and I really loved it! If I could, could I make a request?

It's a reader x anyone from the TWST cast, but preferably Azul, in a stablished relationship, where the reader is telling Malleus about her latest date with Azul and Malleus is acting like a puritain nun because HAND-HOLDING....? BEFORE MARRIAGE...????????

In the ghost bride event he says he cannot do fake engagements bc he's a prince and yada yada, so I think he takes VERY srsly a relationship and would be flabbergasted by the smallest things lmao

Maybe a bit of overprotective Malleus again pls? 👉👈

Ty if u take this in consideration 💕

Where Malleus is too overprotective with you

Where you tell Malleus about the date you had that night with Azul, but he can't put aside his overprotective and somewhat rigid mind.

Dusk tinged the sky with warm hues when you ran into Malleus on one of his evening strolls around campus. It wasn't unusual for him to accompany you during these quiet hours, where you chat freely with him without interruption from the daytime hustle and bustle of NRC. This time, however, his expression was a mix of disbelief and sternness as he listened to you tell him about your last date with Azul.

"And you're saying… he held your hand?" Malleus asked, his voice resonating with gravity.

You looked at him, blinking in confusion.

"Yes. We were walking down Octavinelle, and Azul took my hand. It was cute, he was nervous at first, but then he relaxed and—"

"That's outrageous," he interrupted, frowning with an almost comical intensity. "Don't you know that such direct contact between a lady and her fiancé should only occur after a formal engagement?"

Your jaw nearly dropped in astonishment. "What-"

"Marriage is a sacred bond, a bond not to be taken lightly." Malleus crossed his arms, assuming a posture of princely dignity. "If Ashengrotto has already dared to touch your hand without a formal promise, then he must take responsibility and honor you properly."

You didn't know whether to laugh or be a little scared.

"Malleus, we're in a relationship, not in a royal court from the last century. It's just holding hands!"

Malleus didn't seem convinced.

"First holding hands… then what's next? Walks alone at night? Letters written with sweet nothings?" he exclaimed with genuine concern, while you nodded along, not understanding what was wrong with it all.

"Boldness."

You brought a hand to your face, trying to hold back your laughter. This was ridiculous.

"Malleus, we've gone on dates before. We've also held hands before."

He took a deep breath, as if he'd just heard blasphemy.

"I can't believe Ashengrotto dared to touch you like that without making a formal offer of marriage. Does he have no honor?" His gaze darkened, almost offended by your name.

"Malleus, stop!" You finally laughed. "Really, it's not that serious."

"Of course it is," he insisted, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Come to think about it… what are his intentions toward you? I won't allow him to play with your heart."

There it was. Malleus's overprotective way. You knew he cared you, but sometimes you forgot that his sense of protection was too… archaic.

"Azul is a gentleman, Malleus," you assured him, trying to calm his indignation. "He's very attentive to me. You don't have to worry."

But Malleus didn't seem convinced at all.

"I'll watch him closely," he declared. “I won’t allow someone to lead you down the path of perdition with empty promises and immodest gestures.”

“Malleus… it’s just holding hands!”

He didn’t reply, but you could see the storm of thoughts running through his mind. Clearly, he was reconsidering his position regarding Azul.

“Tell me,” he continued after a tense silence, “what else has happened between you?” His emerald eyes glittered with suspicion.

“Uh… well, we ate together. Azul cooked for me, and—”

“He fed you too?!” he exclaimed, putting a hand to his chest, as if you had committed an unforgivable heresy.

“Sharing food is an act of deep intimacy. In Briar Valley, a meal prepared with care and shared in such a manner is a symbol of absolute devotion."

Now you were certain that Malleus was exaggerating everything in the most hilarious way possible.

“Malleus, it was just lunch. Azul just wanted to surprise me.”

“First the hands, then the food…” he muttered to himself, clearly uneasy. “This is worse than I imagined. I must speak to Azul as soon as possible.”

“Don’t even think about it!” You rushed to stop him, desperately grabbing his arm.

“As your friend and protector, it is my duty to ensure that he treats you with the respect you deserve.” His tone was completely solemn, which made it even funnier.

You covered your face with your hands, knowing that no matter how many times you explained the normality of your relationship, Malleus would still see every small act of affection as an affront to decorum. Azul had no idea what was coming his way.

That night, you learned that your boyfriend would be receiving menacing glares from a very overprotective dragon in the coming days.

[daydreamkissesxo]

Father Charlie x reader| Sinner part 2; The only piece of Heaven I have ever had

Warnings; heavy smut, breeding kink, mentions of body image, blasphemy, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, manipulative priest? (I think that’s all🙈) 18+

My link won’t work to add part 1 but I am trying!😭

Father Charlie paid you little to no attention during mass, he cruelly ignored you for the sake of his own sanity. The thought of you now sat amongst your family completely bare beneath your dress as your arousal seeps through the fabric and onto the church pew made his head spin.

You'd become increasingly agitated by his ignorance, perhaps his idea of repentance was your humiliation.

You'd began to fidget with your fingers nervously as you pray for time to pass faster, desperate for even a glimpse of his attention when he wasn’t occupied by the scriptures of the bible.

Your heart briefly stopped as you watched father Charlie acknowledge a young woman in the front row with a warm smile, a smile he'd always saved for you.

You grew both jealous and hurt, anxious that your confession had pushed him further away.

Mass had ended just as predicted, you'd barely left your seat before a swarm of persistent mothers surround you and your family, their sons left lingering behind.

"Y/N, have you given any more thought to our proposal?" One asked, pushing her way through the small crowd built around the church pew where your family sat.

You were barely present, your eyes fixated on father Charlie who carelessly fiddled with his papers at the alter as he continued to avoid your gaze.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t.” You abruptly reply, rising from your seat only to be met with the hands of another mother as she places them on your hips.

“My love, you have the most precious birthing hips I have ever seen.” She says, gesturing others to look as she nods down at them.

“No doubt a gift from god. You would bear beautiful children.” Another says, her smile warm as she looks up at you with hopeful eyes.

Father Charlie scoffed quietly in disgust as he overheard, his arrangement of the papers in front of him carelessly thrown down as he loses his care for them.

Usually he wouldn’t intervene, but your desperate confession and the unfinished business between the two of you left him with no choice.

He painted on a warm smile and walked over, the crowd immediately dispersing at his voice.

“You seem to be very popular with the precious mothers here, Y/N.” He attempted to sound sincere, though it came off slightly differently.

He saw the lingering look of upset in your eyes as your gaze met his, it was pleasant to know how desperately you longed for his attention.

“Oh Father, Y/N would be just perfect for my son. Wouldn’t you agree?” A woman asks, her eyes lit up with hope as she so greatly valued his opinion.

Of course he disagreed, nobody’s son was worthy of you but he couldn’t entirely crush her spirits due to his own jealousy.

“I’m sure he’d make a wonderful husband to any woman, but I’m not qualified to matchmake anyone here.” He kindly replied, flashing her a warm smile he knew she loved to see.

He turned his attention towards your mother who stood behind you, a kind but stern woman who undoubtedly kept you close.

“Mrs Y/L/N. Would I be able to keep Y/N behind once you leave? I have something I’d like to ask her opinion of.”

She was very trusting of father Charlie, believing that whatever it was he needed you for would only add to your worth as a self respecting Catholic.

“Of course, father Charlie. Y/N would be honoured to help.” she replied, placing her hand on your shoulder to caress it with her thumb.

“Wonderful. It may take a while, but I’ll see to it that she gets home safely.”

No words were spoken as you followed father Charlie back to his office, the silence was unnerving, and now you were left to wonder whether you'd gotten the entire thing so very wrong.

Father Charlie stood aside and held the door open, extending an arm to gesture you in.

Your heart pounded as you prepared yourself for the stern lecture you were expecting, barely able to look at him as you step in.

You jumped slightly at the slam of the door, desperately avoiding his gaze as he turned to face you.

He sensed your nerves, but chose to ignore them as he walked around you and over to his desk.

He cleared his throat, ridding the room of silence as he finally spoke.

"Take your dress off and give it to me." He simply said, removing his stole and neatly folding it before placing it onto his desk.

Such simple instructions and yet you were frozen, barely able to process what you'd just been commanded.

"Do I need to repeat myself, Y/N?" He asked in an oddly calm tone, looking up from his semi unbuttoned cassock.

You dared to glance down at the skin that was now exposed before quickly coming back to your senses out of fear he may grow frustrated with your ignorance, frantically shaking your head.

"No, father."

Your hands fell to the hem of your dress, bunching it up before pulling it upwards and over your head to free your body of it.

Your lower half was left bare while your breasts were held by a simple white lace bra.

In the time it had taken you to remove your dress, father Charlie had discarded the garments from his upper body, leaving him only in black tight fitting trousers with a protruding bulge.

You slowly lifted your head in shame, your eyes widening a little at the sight of his beautifully toned upper body that was always so well hidden.

Your hand trembled as you held out your dress for father Charlie, he smiled so casually as he took the dress from your hands.

He was cautious not to show any dramatic physical reaction to your barely clothed body, but his cock throbbed at the ethereal beauty that stood before him.

You watched as he folded your dress as neatly as his own garments, placing it on the desk beside his vestments.

His patience and self restraint was oddly terrifying, how could anyone have such great control?

He reached for your hand, linking your index finger with his as he gently guided you to stand before him.

He took a moment to admire the beautifully soft skin that you'd always so modestly hidden, his gaze slowly falling to your waist before he very gently took hold of it.

Your hips had gained so much attention amongst the overbearing mothers of the church, and he finally understood why.

They were perfect for bearing a child, one he could only wish would be his.

"It sickens me to think your family would be willing to let such unworthy men defile their beautiful daughter.." he whispers, grazing his fingertips along your skin in search of your hip bone.

Your breath grew audibly heavier, your lips parting in awe as you gaze up at him in wonder.

"Men who would selfishly prioritise their own pleasure and leave you completely dissatisfied. You don't want that, do you?" He asks, his darkened gaze finally meeting yours.

Your heart fluttered at the intensity of his gaze, shaking your head in agreement with his words.

"Not me, Y/N. I'd worship you like I worship the Lord, you'd never live a day dissatisfied."

His hand slipped between your physically wet thighs which you slightly parted to accommodate his touch, his extended middle finger tracing over your folds.

He watched as your eyes widened, your soft gasp being all the encouragement he needed to take it even further.

He slid his finger through your slippery folds, coating it in your dripping arousal before circling your clit with the pad of his fingertip.

Your explosive moan was truly devilish, who knew something so obscene could slip past your innocently soft lips.

He brought his free hand up to your mouth, firmly holding it over your lips to silence you.

"Sh, sweet girl. People will wonder what I'm doing to you.." he chuckled sadistically, amused by the apologetic look in your eyes. 

"Is this what you fantasised about when you touched yourself like this?" He whispered, increasing the speed of his circling touch.

You whimpered against his hand, your knees threatening to buckle as you'd never felt such pleasure.

He glanced over at the small single bed he'd placed beneath a very low window, so low that if he were to continue his carefully planned sexual activity with you beneath it, someone would undoubtedly see.

He slowly withdrew his hand from between your thighs, smirking as you grew visibly upset by the sudden lack of touch.

"I want you to lay on the bed, on your back with your knees bent."

He watched as you complied despite your confusion, bringing his hand up to lips to suck at his drenched fingertip as he followed you over.

He groaned under his breath with pleasure at the taste of your sweet nectar, running his tongue along the tip of his finger to truly savour the taste.

His hands fell to the buttons of his trousers and you watched in anticipation as he unbuttoned them, the sound of the zip coming undone caused a shiver to rush down your spine.

He knew by prolonging your suffering you'd be desperate and willing to comply with anything he asked.

He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear before slipping both them and his trousers down past his hips and thighs, freeing his painfully hard cock.

Once past his calves, he stepped out of his trousers and stood at the foot of the bed before placing his hands on your knees to spread your legs.

The sheets beneath you were visibly stained as your arousal drip from your aching folds, the cold air that brush past your now exposed core causing goosebumps to spread down your thighs.

"Missionary, because we're in the lords house." He whispered as he lowered his head to press a sloppy kiss to your knee, smirking against it as he felt your knee tremble slightly.

Father Charlie knelt between your thighs, forcing them to part further to accommodate him before he places a hand beside your head to support him as he hovers over you, your folds brushing against his length.

Your body tenses beneath him as you place a trembling hand on his shoulder, staring up at him completely doe eyed with a slightly panicked expression.

"Father..we can't-"

He knew what you were going to say, yet he did not want to hear it, so instead he slid his free hand between your thighs and roughly inserted his middle and index finger into your core knowing the reaction it would gain from you.

Your breathy moan was even more explosive than before, your back began to arch and your head started to tilt back and this time, he didn't silence you.

"I'm saving you, my sweet girl. Do you want another man's dirty hands all over your precious body?" He whispers soothingly, his fingers gliding in and out of you.

"I want you, father. Only you." You moan out desperately, your walls fluttering around his fingers which forces a bead of precum to leak from his tip.

He could no longer prolong his own pleasure after hearing your desperation, withdrawing his fingers to take hold of his length to stroke it in preparation.

He bowed his head to look down at himself, aligning his tip with your hole before very slowly inserting himself.

He groaned as he felt your virginal walls stretch around him, barely able to lift his head as he was so overwhelmed with pleasure but your pained moan forced him to do so.

"You're okay, it'll pass..it's okay." he whispered reassuringly, cupping your cheek softly as he continued to push himself into you until fully inserted.

You winced in discomfort, but the pain was tolerable due to father Charlie's attentive nature.

He waited until the pain had subsided a little before thrusting into you, the moan that escaped your lips with each thrust forced out small moans of his own.

Just knowing he was taking away the privilege from whatever man your family chose to marry you made him crave more of you, he was determined to ruin you for anyone else.

His thrusts increased rapidly, eliciting almost pornographic style moans from your lips.

He watched as your clothed breasts bounced with each movement, cupping one of them before lowering his head to kiss at your collarbone.

"You've always been so special to me, Y/N." He whispered against your skin, releasing his grip from your breast to drag his fingertips down towards your core as it slips between your thighs.

Your hips naturally lifted from the bed in anticipation for his touch, whimpering loudly as his index and middle finger circle your clit at a rapid pace.

It took seconds for your legs to start jerking, your hips bucking upwards while tears flood your waterline.

"Father.." you whisper with uncertainty as your breath trembles, involuntarily throwing your head back as the unknown sensation that builds in your lower stomach grows larger.

You gasp loudly as an unfamiliar wave of pleasure washes over you, tears rolling down your cheeks as your eyes squeeze shut while your body writhes beneath him as you ride it out.

The unholy display of pleasure beneath him was a sight he’d never forget, now he understood why it was so forbidden, addiction to it would be inevitable.

The sensation of your walls tightening around him along with your desperate whimpering brought him to his own climax, yet he had no intention of withdrawing from you to release his seed.

His thrusts faltered as he began to coat your walls with his semen, bowing his head as he could barely find the strength to hold it.

His grunting drowned out the sound of your whimpers, his body slowly collapsing on top of yours while he remained inside of you.

Your body lay paralysed beneath him, panting heavily as you attempt to catch your breath while processing the fact you had unprotected sex with your local priest who didn’t seem to care.

“I..I can get a plan B..” you say timidly as you stare at the ceiling above you, wondering whether the mention of it will force him to realise what he’d done.

He somehow found the energy to lift his head up enough to look down at you, a disapproving expression replacing the pleasure filled one he had a moment ago.

“You will do no such thing, contraception is forbidden. You should know this, sweet girl.”

He had to desperately fight back the smile threatening to appear as he found it all too amusing, unprotected premarital sex with a man of the church was also forbidden though he was willing to bend those rules.

Tagging @2yeshes bc they asked me to, I hope part two meets everyone’s needs🫶🏼

[ozzgin]

Due to a rather embarrassing bureaucratic mistake, you - a mere human - have been appointed as the new Death of the Monster Realm. The monster souls are confused (and unexpectedly aroused) to find a small, frail creature as their guide through the Underworld. Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, collab with Kafka

“Who the hell are you?”

Before you stands a Beast. Your body is frozen in sheer terror, crumbling under his all-knowing stare. You feel like you’re facing God Himself. Could it be? Have you died? God certainly looked a little more merciful in those Christian depictions.

You swallow dryly and open your mouth, words rolling out clumsily.

“I-…it’s (Y/N). I’ve been told to come in.”

The creature continues to glare at you incredulously before abruptly turning and speeding towards an enormous desk, a sudden realization occurring to him. He throws papers around, as if searching for something, occasionally releasing a thundering curse. Aha! There it is.

He collapses into a chair, head resting in his clawed hands.

“There has been a mistake. You're not supposed to be here", he growls, defeated. "And yet, it can't be fixed."

He scans your features briefly, taking his time and searching for the words.

"Listen, kid. I don't know how to tell you this any better: you're going to be guiding souls into their Afterlife. Monster souls."

You blink.

"Alright. Is there some training for it?"

The Beast is a little taken aback by your nonchalance. Given the extraordinary circumstances, he expected you to cry, beg and scream. Perhaps you won't be such a terrible fit, after all.

"You will learn from me. I am the previously appointed Death, and have been here for the past millennium."

Formalities finally aside, he takes you through the colossal, arched halls, explaining your job through words shrouded in mystery and cosmic terror. You nod and scribble obediently in your little notebook.

Thus begins your task as the new Death of the Monster Realm. A never-before-seen peculiarity: the ferocious, departed creatures are greeted by the small frame of a...human. Their eyes widen in disbelief.

In Monster culture, Death has always been described as the creature above all creatures. A blasphemy of gargantuan dimensions, with many eyes and horns, a pitch-black blight of dread. Even the highest-ranked Monsters shudder upon his arrival.

You wave your hand dismissively. It's the hundredth time today you've received this reaction of utter shock. Let's move on, shall we, you think to yourself sarcastically.

The path to the Gate feels like an eternity. Without exception, the monsters will ask you too many questions. Not about their situation, mind you, about yourself. Are you truly a human? How did you come to be the legendary guidance of souls? What was your life like before this? Surely you must have some interesting stories from your life as a mere mortal.

The former Death stands up from his seat.

"What do you mean, there's an increase in lost souls? Is that damn human not doing their job?" he demands, turning to the servant who'd come to announce the latest statistics.

"They are, Sir. It's just...Well..." the beast is visibly tense. "It's the monsters who don't want to leave."

"And? We've had plenty of those before. Why're they refusing to pass this time?"

The answer is clearly of a sensitive nature. The short, stocky butler fidgets and stumbles, then finally confesses meekly:

"They claim to have fallen in love with the human."

In all his eternity working as the Soul Collector, he'd never imagined such ridiculousness. He'd always been feared and well-respected, performing his task swiftly and without issue. It never occurred to him that he'd have to include as a guidance step "how to handle the monster souls flirting with you." He grabs his scythe and marches outside with an exasperated sigh.

Somehow, he doubts his retirement will come anytime soon.

[More Monsters]

[erajunex]

The House of Sin. (part 1)

Rating: 18+ MDNI. You read at your own risk.

Pairing: Father Charlie Mayhew x housekeeper!fem!reader

Summary: Your very religious family decides to preserve you from the evil of the world by entrusting you to Father Charlie as his housekeeper. You’re welcome in the House of Sin.

TW (for this part): NSFW. SMUT. blasphemy; mentions and references to catholic themes (some of them are prob inaccurate sorry); reader is very religious (but not innocent); mentions of blood; graphic description of self-inflicted flagellation; masturbation; voyeurism; swearing.

a/n: English is not my first language, so please be kind bc this took me so long to translate (lol), if you wanna be added to the tag-list for the next part lemme know with a comment pls

Enjoy xx

Father Charlie Mayhew had always been faithful and devoted to the promises he made before God when he decided to please Him for the rest of his earthly life, and with the same devotion he always made an effort to spread love for God within his parish.

In his whole life, he never felt the slightest desire to act in opposition to the Lord's word, he never succumbed to temptation, and his spirit never entertained the idea of sinning.

He was the perfect servant, the best guide for his parish, and for the faithful whom the Lord entrusted to him.

Or at least that was what everyone believed about him, including your parents, who thought that offering you the position of Father Charlie’s housekeeper would be the best way to protect you from the vices and dangers of the outside world.

Your father was a strict and religious man who raised you with rules and discipline, so you accepted his decisions without question.

Father Charlie knew your family well and recognized your parents' honesty and devotion, so he had high expectations for you, and you would’ve met all of them.

The initial period of living together at his house was quite peaceful, and being with him felt comfortable from the very first day. You spent your days peacefully working for him, cleaning his house and the church, doing laundry, and preparing lunch and dinner. Nevertheless, you always found a moment for prayer. You shared everything with him and you were grateful and respectful at the point you considered him a master despite his young age.

You recognized your parents' admiration for him, and you shared it too because he was a decent man who cared for all his faithful and his mission as God's servant. He was charismatic, persuasive, and seemingly flawless. To be honest, his personality intrigued you. You had to admit that sometimes you found him charming, but those were just fleeting thoughts that you quickly pushed aside— till tonight.

It’s late at night; all the lights are off, and Father Charlie has retired to his room about an hour ago.

You’ve just finished washing the dishes and are getting ready for the night. As you prepare to head to the room he had assigned to you when you first arrived, a flicker of light and subtle noise from his door catch your attention as you walk through the hallway.

At first, you think it’s just a perception, but as your feet slow down until they stop in the hallway, you realize your ears are not wrong.

Driven by curiosity you approach the door slowly, trying not to make a sound as you peek through the half-closed door to see out what is happening inside his room. But, you know, sometimes curiosity can kill.

You freeze. Your jaw drops, and your eyes widen as they look straight at the scene being etched in your memory.

Father Charlie sits at the edge of the bed, fully exposed to your gaze, the soft light casting shadows on his bare skin. His back is turned to the painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the wall, a watchful presence above him from which he is trying to hide himself.

He’s panting. He’s completely naked. With one hand around his cock.

His eyes are closed and his slightly parted lips release soft moans of pleasure, the rhythm of his breath filling the quiet room. A sheen of sweat glistens on his naked body as he keeps moving his left hand at a rapid pace, trying to set himself free from the lustful thoughts that had taken over his body as soon as possible.

Your breath breaks.

You can’t believe it. Father Charlie has succumbed to the desire of the flesh, his soul becoming stained by a sin he should never have committed. Not him. Not a priest like him.

And without knowing, he‘s pulling you into the Devil’s claws with him.

Because no matter how shocked you are, and no matter how hard you’re mentally cursing yourself for being overcome by curiosity, your eyes are glued to his magnificent body and cannot tear themselves away from it.

You are expected to go, but you can't. You don't want to.

For the first time in your whole yet short life, you hear it. That voice. The voice of temptation.

You continue to stare at him with bated breath, wishing that show will never end.

"Ah, fuck..." he groans and you shudder.

A shiver goes straight to your core, and you immediately feel an urge to clench your thighs together to hold back an unusual tickle that you had never experienced so strongly before.

However, it is not sufficient.

Forgive me, Father… you think. Your cheeks redden with shame as the last bit of reason fades away from you at that precise moment your right hand goes straight under the cloth of your sundress, and just as if it has been guided by a dark and sinister force it sneaks between your legs, right in your cotton panties.

For I have sinned.

You aren’t used to touching yourself, and even if you had done it on rare occasions you'd never imagined doing it like this— secretly watching your priest as he does the same thing.

Soon you realize that something inside you is changing rapidly. It‘s just a tiny spark, but it can set your whole body on fire in no time.

And it’s all his fault.

Your fingertips slide between your already-soaked folds, coating in juices that flow out of you like a river, and then you start teasing yourself shamefully, trying to focus on the scene in front of you to avoid those pitiful and lonely voices that keep whispering to you to stop.

“Yes…” he licks his lower lip and for a brief moment you imagine how good, how pleasant it could be the feeling of his wet tongue on your skin, exactly where your hand is. It’s so, so wrong and you know it, but you can’t control yourself. It’s overwhelming.

His nudity contrasts sharply with the solemnity of the image behind him. He looks so vulnerable, so…

“So good…” he says between moans. You want to know what he’s thinking, what kind of images are guiding his imagination— if you’re part of them too.

His forearm anchors on the mattress to balance himself, and his hips buck against his hand to gain more friction.

“Oh, God…” his broad chest is heaving with every breath that escapes his lungs as you try your best to swallow every squeak, careful not to get caught right there.

Sweat covers his forehead, small drops sliding down his ecstatic face and neck, igniting your deepest fantasies while your fingertips rub at your clit in circular motions, mimicking the pace at which he’s stroking his length.

You can’t help but look at it. Thick and veiny, the tip red and leaking with precum, your pussy throbs around nothing at the mere idea of putting his whole girth in your virgin mouth and knowing how good it could taste.

The man bites his lips and you do it too in reflection.

You are a mess. Your trembling thighs are soaked by the juices dripping from your aching pussy as you frantically touch yourself. Your entire being lies completely under the tight grip of the Devil, ensnared in a web of darkness that seeks to control every thought, feeling, and action.

His strokes become erratic, and his eyebrows knit together in a mixture of pain and bliss. He is close… and in such a short time you are too. Your teeth bite your lower lip until it bleeds, in a desperate attempt to hold back a whine. But you don't stop. You will not do it until he will too.

All of a sudden, his hand stops. A guttural sound of satisfaction slips past his throat reaching your ears as he throws his head back and the orgasm washes over him.

The tight knot in your belly snaps and thousands of shocks invade your body from head to toe. Your vision goes blurry, your mind goes fuzzy and your knees get weak like jelly.

You’ve just reached the peak without even knowing it.

Thick ropes of his white seed spill from his throbbing cock, falling right on his palm and stomach.

Your mouth waters at the sight, you can swear that if only it had been possible you’d walk into that damn room and kneel in between his huge thighs just to lick him clean and suck the soul out of him, making him cum again and again and again.

For God’s sake, those thoughts will send you straight to hell!

Silence takes his moans’ place, and his eyes open slightly as his breathing searches for a more regular pace, just like yours.

You pull out your hand from your soaked panties. A wave of post-orgasmic sense of guilt crashes over you. You have just sinned. Right now is time to go to your room and get some rest, forgetting what have just happened and never thinking again about it, and yet your eyes and your feet are stuck right here, quivering for his next moves.

Everything has been so tempting and your body wants more.

He suddenly gets up from the mattress and makes his way towards the antique dresser next to the bed. A bowl full of water is on top of it, and he quickly dips both his hands inside of it to his wrists, washing away every sign of the sinful act he had just committed—unaware it’s happened in front of you.

From that spot, his body is perfectly exposed to your gaze, and your mind takes advantage of this to explore new, undiscovered places.

He‘s tall, radiant, and huge. He looks like a classical statue. His broad chest and chiseled abs seem to be sculpted in marble, just like his thick thighs and the strong and muscular arms he usually hides under the vestments.

He’s handsome.

Only the Lord knows what those arms are capable of, how those big and veiny hands would be able to touch and grab a woman’s body- your body. How good his mouth would be able to kiss you, bite you, lick you, satisfying the most private parts of you like no one ever did. If only he didn’t have to respect the vows of celibacy and obedience... if only he didn't choose to refuse lust and resist temptation for the rest of his life…

He wipes his hands with a clean towel near the basin, heavy breathing releasing from his lungs as if he wants to get rid of that slamming weight on his shoulders. The weight of the mortal sin he has just given into, the reason why he deserves to be punished— and maybe you deserve it too.

You see him going through the drawer and picking something before he lifts the wooden kneeler to the side. And when he approaches the bed again, you recognize the scourge in his hand.

Your heartbeat down faster as soon as you realize what’s going to happen. Father Charlie places the kneeler in front of the bed, exactly where he was before, and turnes his back to you, revealing his broad shoulders and his back previously tortured by the hits he self-inflicted with the tool he’s now placing on the sheets.

A bunch of shivers flood your body from head to toe, trepassing your spine. You see the still-opened wounds and cuts on his pale skin, the clear signs of every time he sinned and begged for forgiveness.

He kneels and firmly takes the scourge in his right hand. Seven cords, seven barbs for the seven deadly sins, and seven virtues.

The mortification of the flesh.

It‘s the only way to deaden his sinful nature and bring back his focus to the only thing he pledged to honour even after his bodily death.

He rests his elbows on the board, with his back straight as he looks at the white wall in front of him, his eyes filled with certainty and confidence.

He stands right there unshaken, keeping you on edge for his next move before his lips parts and he speaks.

"Merciful Lord, I come before You seeking forgiveness and healing" with a rapid flick of his hand he whips himself violently, making you gasp in shock. You hear him holding his breath, trying his best not to cry and scream from pain, and then he spakes again.

"f-for the sin of lust that… dwells within me." another lash, another flinch from you. Cords are already leaving marks and bruises, you can feel how much they sting on his skin and on his previous wounds as the sharp edges sink on his back mercilessly.

"I confess m-my weakness in giving in to… impure desires" his stomach jolts in pain, and his dilated pupils stare blankly at the painting on the wall as his lips tremble with each syllable "and… indulging in lustful t-thoughts and actions t-that offend… You."

A lot of blood starts gushing out from his wounds, staining the cords with a bright red color.

You cover your mouth in shock. You can see the pained look on his face, pleasure has completely abandoned his now-suffering body that‘s writhing at the feeling of those rusty barbs tearing his flesh apart at every whipping, painting the cold floor with the spatters of his own blood.

Father Charlie is asking for forgiveness, pleading the Lord to save him and have mercy on his damned soul, because he is aware of the burden on his shoulders and he wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.

And the only way to regain his purity is through suffering, through that physical pain that can purify both his body and soul, leaving him weak and miserable like a dazed sailor who lost his compass and cannot find the horizon.

"Purify my heart" he barely mutters, too exhausted "renew my mind" his forearms lost their grip on the rubbed wood of the kneeler forcing him to cling to it as strength slowly leaves his body. You watch him with an alarmed look on your face, worried about his state "and sanctify my body as Your temple."

A final statement spoken with a broken voice before Father Charlie immediately collapses on the wooden structure, visibly in a worn out state. Spurting blood stains his bare back, his eyelids squeeze trying to kill the pain of that one last whip that completely slashed his flesh.

You accidentally step back with your left foot, producing a nearly undetectable noise that forces you to lean your hand against the wall to keep balance in an attempt not to get caught. Too late.

Father Charlie turns around quickly, towards the door he previously left slightly ajar. His gloomy eyes meet yours even if shrouded in darkness. Your heart stops in your chest, becoming like a stone falling into a bottomless pit.

Shit.

a/n: part 2?

[strangersatellites]

frat steve has taken steddie twitter by storm so have this

eddie’s dragging his feet in his boots, humming under his breath while he unsuccessfully flicks the lighter under his cigarette.

every time he finds himself walking down fraternity row he also finds himself wondering how he got here.

not physically- he took a left on 4th and a right on morningside, he knows that.

but in a larger sense.

he’s a junior well on his way to a media and entertainment arts degree who, as a freshman and sophomore spent most of his friday nights at local dives either playing with his band or drinking and shooting the shit with the divorced dads at the pool table.

so when he wonders how he got here, he means how he’s found himself on the way to his third house party this month.

he finally gets his cigarette lit and he stops on the sidewalk to get in a few drags before he heads in. mentally prepares himself for the insufferable music he’ll have to endure for thirty minutes or so before he tunes it out.

he mock-bows at the group of girls that wanders past, giggles and waves sent his way making him laugh to himself.

he drops the butt and stubs it beneath the toe of his boot and takes a breath.

heads toward the house door.

when he gets there he’s met with two guys, freshman surely. letters emblazoned across their cutoff muscle tees and hats turned backwards and perched, very stupidly if eddie shares his piece, atop their heads.

they stop him with a hand up and friendly smiles and mock bravado “three actives,” bro number one states.

eddie barely holds back an incredulous laugh.

“you cannot be serious.”

the boys eye each other, confused and getting frustrated, eddie can tell.

the first bows up a bit.

“dead serious, bro. name three actives.”

and look, eddie may be a showman at the best of times but he really doesn’t want to pull his trump card here. not now.

that would just add insult to injury.

he’s wracking his brain for a way to let them down gently, to get them to step aside and let him through when there’s a loud commotion behind them and then steve is shouldering his way past and onto the front steps.

“eddie!!” he cheers and swings his strong arms up and around his neck. he, unlike tweedle dee and tweedle dum, is just wearing a white t-shirt and his hair, his beautiful, beautiful hair is left untarnished by the blasphemy that is the frat boy snapback.

he wraps an arm low around his waist and presses a kiss to his temple.

“hey, baby,” he smiles, watching the dropped jaws and disbelieving eyes over steve’s shoulder.

steve pulls back and shoves his chest back and he stumbles, laughing.

“dude you were supposed to be here ages ago!”

eddie tugs him back close by his wrists and puts on his best puppy eyes.

“sorry, sweetheart, got caught up at rehearsals. but i’m all yours now.”

steve grabs his hand and tangles their fingers together. spins around and point between eddie and the pledge-bouncers.

“guys, this is eddie! eddie this is jeremy and josh.”

eddie waves, small and a bit sarcastic but steve doesn’t pick up on that. just tugs him past and takes off to find eddie a drink.

eddie gets clapped on the shoulder and high-fived by a couple of steve’s friends as they pass and he yells across the room to eric to save him a seat.

he turns back to the door and still sees bewildered looks, slightly afraid.

he gets it, he does.

in a larger sense at least.

if he were these boys and had just tried to deny entry to the president’s boyfriend he might be a little afraid too.

he swings an arm around each of their shoulders and pulls them close.

“relax, gentlemen. your secret is safe with me.”

they stutter and go to argue but steve is back with two red plastic cups and a bright smile.

“c’mon ed, luke wants to hear about your show since he missed it last week.”

eddie pats both boys on their backs before he takes the drink from steve’s hand and tucks the other in steve’s back pocket.

“later guys. catch up next time, yeah?”

their stunned nods and quiet agreements follow as eddie and steve walk away.

they’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.

[pittsick]

SANCTIFIED SINS.

summary: riff Lorton is a corrupted priest who drinks, curses, and harbors a dangerous lust for innocence. when a devout young nun brings him food, he seizes the opportunity to tempt and defile her, dragging her into sin with filthy words and skilled hands. what begins with guilt and resistance unravels into complete submission as the reader begs to be ruined in God’s sight.

pairing: corrupted priest!riff lorton x saintly nun!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. dirty-talking, mention of God and religion (corruption of a nun, sacrilegious dirty talk), oral sex (riff receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dacryphilia, degradation, themes of manipulation, power imbalance, drooling, gagging.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @magicalmiserybore @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @idyllicdaydreams @sohighitscool @shahabaqsa0310

You told yourself it was just an errand.

One small task for Mother Agnes. Just bring the tray of tea and bread to Father Lorton’s quarters in the east wing. Simple, harmless. But your hands were already shaking, clutching the edge of the wooden tray, and your steps slowed the closer you came to his door.

Everyone knew what he was now.

You’d overheard the whispers. They said the priest was a drunk. A heretic. That he spoke blasphemy in the confessional and smoked cigarettes inside the confessional box. Sister Beatrice even swore she saw him pour whiskey into his chalice during Mass. You weren’t supposed to believe the rumors.

But deep down, shamefully, you did. Because the last time you heard his voice—a low, sinful rasp echoing in the nave—you felt something curl hot in your stomach.

So when you knocked quietly on the door, already praying under your breath, you flinched at the immediate reply.

“If that’s another fucking nun come to whine about my sermons,” the voice snarled, “turn your self-righteous ass around.”

Your fingers tightened on the tray. “I—I brought food, Father.” There was a pause. Then a quiet scoff, and the click of the lock sliding back. The door creaked open slowly.

Riff Lorton leaned in the frame like temptation personified. His clerical collar was slightly askew, two buttons undone to reveal the strong line of his chest. A cigarette burned between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, and the scent of tobacco, incense, and something darker clung to his skin.

Like a sin.

And yet—his mouth curled into a smirk the moment he saw you.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled. “A little lamb sent right to my fucking door.” You stepped in with hesitant reverence, lowering your gaze. He didn’t move aside much. You brushed against his arm, and his chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

“I didn’t think they still made ‘em this sweet,” he added as you set the tray down. “Look at you. Eyes big as heaven. Knees probably sore from all that praying.”

You straightened. “Mother Agnes asked me to—”

“Oh, I know what she asked. Doesn’t mean I believe that’s why you came.” Your breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at me since last Sunday mass. Thought I didn’t notice?”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. “Bet you sit in your little cell at night thinking about me. Trying to scrub the sin off your skin, but it never quite comes clean, does it?”

Your lips parted in silent protest, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me, Sister,” he whispered, leaning close. “You ever get wet during evening prayers?”

Your heart thundered. “Father, I—”

“Ever thought about being on your knees for something other than confession?”

You gasped, scandalized, but the heat in your stomach told another story. His words hit you low, vibrating between your legs. And worse still, your eyes dropped—just for a second—to the shadow between his hips.

He laughed, quiet and cruel. “There it is.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat back in the old wooden chair by the fireplace and spread his legs wide, one hand already palming himself through his slacks.

“Get over here,” he said, voice like a commandment. “Kneel. Put that holy mouth to better use.”

You hesitated, a storm of fear and arousal whirling inside you. But something stronger than shame pulled you forward—something sick and sacred and starved. Your knees met the stone floor with a soft thud.

You looked up at him. His cock was already half-hard, straining under the fabric. When he unzipped himself and pulled it free, your breath caught in your throat. It was thick. Veined. The head glistened, flushed and eager.

“You ever seen a cock before, Sister?” he mocked, stroking himself lazily. “Bet all those years you spent clutching your rosary, not once did you think you’d end up on your knees for this.”

Your voice trembled. “I… I haven’t…”

He smirked. “That’s alright. I’ll teach you. Open that pretty mouth.”

You obeyed.

He guided himself to your lips and dragged the tip across them, smearing precum across your lower lip like an anointing. “Look how good you look with my cock on your tongue,” he groaned. “God, you were made for this.”

Your lips parted wider, letting him in.

The stretch was immediate, overwhelming. You choked as he pushed deeper, tears springing to your eyes.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fisting your veil in one hand, his other gripping the armrest. “Let those holy tears fall. Cry for your fucking priest.” Your throat spasmed as he rocked his hips, shallow thrusts, feeding you more each time. Your hands clung to his thighs, desperate and shaking.

“You ever sucked on a crucifix, sweetheart?” he taunted, breath hitching. “Bet it wouldn’t make you this wet.”

Drool spilled from your lips as he fucked your mouth. The taste of him—salty, raw, blasphemous—coated your tongue. You felt like you were drowning in sin. Your tears mixed with spit, soaking your chin. He growled low in his chest. “You think God’s watching right now?”

You moaned.

“Think He’s up there weeping ‘cause His perfect little nun’s choking on a filthy, cursing priest’s cock?”

You moaned louder, eyes fluttering. He was right. Some deep, twisted part of you wanted Him to watch. To see you broken like this. Riff hissed through his teeth, pulling back until only the tip rested on your tongue. “Say it.”

You blinked up at him, lips swollen and glossy.

“Say you want me to ruin you.”

Your voice was wrecked. “I want you to ruin me, Father.”

That was his undoing.

He tugged his cock from your mouth and gripped the base tightly, panting hard. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat dotting his collarbone. “Get up,” he ordered, eyes dark.

You stood on shaky legs, mouth still slick with spit. He turned you, gently, until your back met the wall. Then he lifted your shift slowly, reverently, until your thighs were bare and your soaked panties exposed.

“Holy fucking hell,” he murmured. “You’re dripping. You’re soaked.”

You whimpered, thighs pressing together with the embarrassment and humiliation you felt at that moment. But nothing lowered this flame inside your stomach.

“You praying while you soak through your panties like this?” he sneered, fingers trailing over the fabric. “Asking God for forgiveness while your cunt begs to be touched?”

You sobbed.

“Say it.”

“I—yes. I think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

That was all he needed.

His fingers pushed aside your underwear and slid through the mess of your arousal, slow and deliberate. You gasped, grabbing his shoulders. He slipped one thick finger inside, then two. You nearly buckled.

“Oh, you’re tight,” he groaned. “Tighter than a fucking confession booth.” He fucked you with his fingers, curling them expertly, thumb rubbing over your clit in sinful little circles. The heat coiled fast in your belly.

“Say you want to be corrupted,” he growled.

“I do. Please, Father—”

“Say you want to be defiled.”

Your head fell back against the wall. “Defile me.”

“Louder.”

“Defile me, Father!”

Your orgasm hit like revelation.

You shook with it, sobbing into his shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers. He held you through it, fingers never stopping until you collapsed against him, panting, limp. When he withdrew his hand, he licked his fingers clean.

“Tastes like a fucking miracle. A true child of God, aren’t you?”

You could barely speak. Your legs trembled. Then Riff took your chin in one hand and kissed you—deep, brutal, unholy. You could taste yourself on his tongue. And still, your heart raced for more.

“You gonna confess all this later?” he whispered against your lips.

Your voice was hoarse. “Only if you hear it.” He laughed—soft, breathless, wild. His hands curled around your waist.

“Sweetheart, I am your confession now.”

[revelboo]

Since we’re sharing pets now I have 2 and they’re both horrible and evil (I love them to death)

The fat cat is Hera and the pathetic dog is Millie and they’re my babies (they hate everyone) ❤️

Yk who also hates everyone? Es soundwave

*smoothly requests more of him*

🤣 sure! I still have so many of these to go through and it’s helping distract me from my attempt to lighten my brown hair a tiny bit (I got distracted and left the dye in way too long and greatly underestimated how much red was naturally in my hair and it’s either laugh or cry now)

Son Of A Gun Pt 11

ES Soundwave x Reader

• “What’s he like? Rumble?” You don’t really want to talk to him, but working in silence aside from him snapping orders at you is wearing at you. You thought about asking Frenzy and Lazerbeak, but since they don’t seem to know Soundwave is trying to fix the other cassette, it might be too cruel to ask them. The pain might still be too fresh. Know they feel it, they’ve been talking to you before and in the middle of a story, would hesitate, misstepping. About to mention their brother.

• “Don’t pretend you care,” he growls, servos curling into a fist and you ignore him. Doesn’t know what you’re playing at, but you don’t actually care. Probably looking for a way to hurt him. To get him to let down his defenses. Conniving little creature just like all of your kind, like the one who lured Megatron into betraying them all.

• Jaw working, you take a deep breath. Know he’s trying to pick a fight and you’re not going to give him the satisfaction. Or maybe he’s still hurting, too. “We don’t have to be enemies.” If the cassettes are like big, anger issues daddy’s kids, then he has to be grieving still, desperate to do everything he can for his kid. He’s a jerk, but you’re positive he loves them.

• “We’re not friends or allies,” he counters, smacking a hand on the workbench to make you drop a tool. Taking a vicious delight when your fingers tremble slightly when you bend to pick it up. Doesn’t want or need your pity. You’re nothing. An insignificant little stray Lazerbeak harassed him into keeping. “You’re expendable.”

• “He looks kind of like Frenzy,” you say, hearing him growl a warning and ignoring it. “I bet he was a musician, too.” Why can’t you stop talking? Have a tendency to babble when you’re scared and he’s terrifying all the time, but common sense is screaming at you to shut up. “Why instruments? Did you guys have a little family band?” And he lunges to send you backpedaling to avoid his servos when he grabs for you.

• Why won’t you just shut up? Furious, he tries to catch you and you go stumbling back. Sees your eyes widen as your foot finds nothing but air, the shock on your face as your pitch backwards. Will you die from this height? Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. Of you die, he doesn’t have to put up with the cruel blasphemy of taking care of an enemy. So why is he moving, throwing himself against the work bench, reaching and servos catching you before you hit?

Previous

[koqabear]

Divinity for the Damned

“There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.”

“What sweet bliss it is to follow the teachings of God. To put in your faith and trust wholeheartedly, even if it means getting nothing in return.”

fallen angel! Beomgyu x fem!reader 

Genre: horror, religious au, smut, angst

Word count 18.3K

warnings: i was delirious when i proof read this sorry in advance, very detailed descriptions/elements of the catholic church, mc is super duper religious, and innocent, lots of religious guilt, corrupt church members, assault in one scene, sacrilege and blasphemy i suppose, abuse of power, manipulation, guilt tripping, MCD, slight gore, violence, cannibalism…? aha…

smut warnings: dubcon/coercion, manhandling, mind breaking, corruption, virgin!mc, sub!mc, condescending soft dom!beomgyu, blindfolding/sensory deprivation? dacryphilia, fingering, oral (f. rec) edging, overstimulation, teasing, unprotected sex, creampie. lmk if i should add anything!

notes: hi guys! i have no idea how i got here.

[This story contains dark content. Please read the warnings carefully; I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume.]

The day is wintry and cast with a heavy snow; it is advised for citizens to remain inside due to the extreme weathers, flurries falling outside your bedroom window that is tinted with a frost that creeps from the corners. But it is Sunday morning, and a simple snowfall will do nothing to deter your humble duties. 

Today, you rush to get ready; the layers of clothes on your form make it difficult for you to pull on your snow boots, thick and warm as your fingers fumble to lace and tie the shoes— you’ve begun to feel overheated, but you’re sure all the layers you have on will not go to waste the moment you exit your home. Standing with a huff of exertion, you pull the coat on you just a little bit tighter; with a gloved hand and one final glance at the clock, you finally open your door and make your way out. 

The little village is quiet today. The snow is up to your ankles— it makes the trek to the church a little more difficult than usual, and it’s not as though the gravelly paths were any more helpful. A wind carries flurries into the air, sticking to your clothes and onto your hair— it makes your skin sting and your arms come up to hug yourself instinctually, a hand coming up to rest on your chest, almost able to feel the cross necklace that’s tucked beneath all your clothes— your fingers press against the layers, able to feel the pressure of the delicate charm on your skin. 

Shops are open, but they aren’t very busy; it seems as though the snow has turned the place into a ghost town, and you wonder with a frown if a simple change in weather was enough to make people set aside their duties— in the distance, the tall pinnacles of the church begin to fade into view, a sight of a cross at the very top of each one bringing a sense of relief into your system, like a warmth that floods into your veins. 

There are twenty minutes left before the mass begins. But even so, you note that there are not many others making their way inside— your frown tugs at your lips a little deeper, and you’re too lost in thought to take note of cracked path before you; your foot is catching and you fall to the ground unceremoniously, yelping at the impact and the snow that drenches your tights and dress within seconds. 

Your knees sting; with the multitudes of layers you have on, it’s a lot more difficult to stand— you’re wincing in pain from both the cold and the fall, your gloved hands now soaked as you try to steady them on the ground to help you up; you stumble slightly, the weight of your clothes now doubled as you fall back onto your knees— you huff with frustration, your head hung down in defeat. 

“Excuse me, are you alright?” 

The voice is gentle and melodic; like a song in your ears, breathy, deep and smooth as you look up with surprise, not expecting anyone else to witness your fall— your face is heating up pitifully and your eyes are widening the moment they meet with those of a stranger, a man whose beauty is almost otherworldly; his hair is long and covered with flurries of snowflakes, decorated along his head and in his bangs like a crown— his face is blushing a soft red from the cold and his eyes are filled with concern; briefly, your eyes flicker up to his furrowed brows, taking notice of the scar that decorates his face, reddened and stopping just above his eye, a small deformity on his otherwise perfect face. 

He looks like a prince. 

“I–I’m… I’m fine,” you stutter out, still a bit dumbfounded by this captivating stranger, trying your best to remain composed as you take his outstretched hand for help; his hand is warm— no, it’s hot, even through your gloves— the contrast of temperature startling you for a moment; you try not to show it, much more distracted by the way his grip tightens instantly and he’s pulling you up with a surprising strength, the motion so sudden and unexpected that you’re stumbling out of balance; with a swift hand on the small of your back, the man steadies you. 

“I’ve… never seen you around before,” you say softly, continuing your attempt to remain casual as you shrug his hands off you, taking a step back and trying to ignore the lingering heat his touch left— and you smile politely, hands folded in front of you as you tilt your head. 

“Ah, I moved here recently,” the man explains, sending you a smile that’s just as charming as the rest of him; his eyes scan your sullied outfit, wet with snow and dirty at the knees, and he frowns. “You must be terribly cold. I suggest you go home and change.” 

Your hands are patting your clothes off immediately in response; small clusters of snow that stuck to you fall off with every swat of your hands, attempting to rub at the dirt with your soaked gloves as you merely laugh him off and shake your head— you’re glancing back at the church in the distance, and are suddenly reminded of your responsibility. 

“I’ll be alright, I assure you,” you say softly, doe eyes bright and optimistic, even if he seems doubtful of your words, “I have somewhere I need to be— it’s much warmer in there anyway.”

“Oh?” he says, raising a brow and scanning over your appearance once more, wondering what could possibly require such dedication from you, “may I ask where you’re headed?” 

“Sunday mass,” you say eagerly, your voice sweet and lovely— and though his expression is suddenly unreadable, you remain enthusiastic as you continue, “If you’re not busy, I’d love for you to come— our church is beautiful, you’d get to meet so many amazing people.”

Mass is starting soon— you’re visibly antsy to go inside, yet you remain patient as you wait for the man’s answer— and though you’ve always been used to the polite turn downs from others you’ve offered to in the past, you can’t help but get your hopes up the longer you wait for a response. 

He sighs; it’s soft and would have remained unnoticed under your gaze, except it comes out as a smoky puff of air due to the cold weather— his gaze skirts away from yours, lost in thought for a second, and you can feel yourself deflate as you begin to brace yourself for yet another rejection. But then he glances back at you, lips pursing and gaze taking you in slowly as he begins to speak. “I suppose I can,” he says gently, smiling at the way you’re immediately lighting up again, “I don’t have much else going on today anyway.” 

A smile spreads through your face; you’re trying to control yourself and remain unfazed, but it’s a lot more difficult than you anticipated as you merely nod happily like a puppy— with his soft lead the way, you’re nodding again and taking him to your safe space. 

“You never told me your name,” the man says suddenly, the two of you making your way up the steps to the church— you’re turning to him in surprise, mouth parting in slight shock as you realize that you really didn’t introduce yourselves— and you’re telling him your name softly, your tone a lot shyer than you expected, feeling small under the intense gaze of this handsome stranger. He laughs softly, eyes filled with amusement as he repeats your name back to you— it sounds so captivating and fragile on his lips, and you try to ignore the way the sound sends shivers down your spine. 

“Beomgyu,” he says before you can direct the question back at him— and just like he did for you, you’re testing his name with your own voice, taking his nod of approval with a smile.

Conversation dwindles down the moment the two of you enter the building; it is low in light due to the cloudy day and the candle-lit lanterns that don’t fully light up the large establishment, and a warmth engulfs the two of you the moment the heavy wooden doors shut behind you; sending Beomgyu another encouraging smile, you take him softly by the arm and lead him further inside— you promptly stop at a small basin filled with holy water, dipping three of your fingers in and crossing yourself slowly, eyes fluttering shut and lips parting to mouth an unintelligible words— and while Beomgyu is presumably doing the same, you take this time to say a brief prayer. 

Beomgyu simply watches you with blank eyes. He makes no movements to follow after you, watching apathetically as your brows twitch and your eyes remain shut for a few seconds more, sweeping his gaze over the area as he will his lips to not upturn in distaste— his expression morphs to one of content the moment you’re opening your eyes to look at him again, the only thing to fuel his feet to move being the way your delicate hand squeezes his bicep gently, as though you were leading a scared animal into the unknown— he can’t help but find your mannerisms amusing, filled with an overwhelming innocence he hasn’t seen in a long time. 

As a child, your family moved a lot— going from town to town, your father offered newer and better opportunities due to his trade— and, just like you, your family remained dedicated during it all, never failing to find a church to become a part of, a place to spend their Sundays and worship their God. Because of this, you’ve seen and been in more churches than you can keep track of; able to take in different interiors and atmospheres, different communities and sermons— yet, despite attending more churches than this whole town combined, you’ve found that the one you currently stand in cannot even bear to rival the others— it is wholeheartedly your favorite. 

Nothing quite compares to the feeling of warmth and comfort this quaint building brings you, from the friendly smiles others in the community send you the moment they see you, to the smell of incense and flowers that fills your nose the further you walk down the nave, automatically going to your usual pew closest to the altar; the spot is basically reserved for you at this point, anyone who has come to this church at least once knowing that the third pew away from the altar is your favorite spot. 

Beomgyu trails a little behind you. A little hesitant, you think— it must be difficult being thrust into such a new environment so suddenly, and you’re stopping in your tracks to turn around and reach for him with a kind smile. 

He seems startled by your sudden gesture. His expression is completely lightening up within seconds, and if you hadn’t been dreadfully nervous to offer him your hand so you could walk together, you would have been able to pinpoint the clear scorn in his gaze— instead, all you’re able to see is the way his brows raise in surprise and his gaze turns warm, smiling fondly as he takes your hand; he tucks it snuggly in the crook of his arm before he’s nodding at you to continue walking. 

You’re suddenly much more aware of the eyes pinned on you— you’re sure many must be surprised to see you with someone new, always used to you coming in early and quietly, head bowed down and mind already lost in prayer— and in this condition nonetheless, your body heating up slightly as you stare down at the ghastly state of your clothes. 

“Relax,” Beomgyu suspires, leaning close to your ear so only the two of you can hear his words; his other hand reaches to place itself over your gloved hand, and again, you can feel the heat of his touch permeating through the wool. “You look lovely. A bit of snow or dirt could never take away from your beauty.”

His sudden compliment has your face heating up and reacting drastically; you can only squeak out a flustered oh, in response, unable to do much more than look in the opposite direction and stare at the scarlet rug that rolls down the nave— and you’re arriving at your usual spot, close enough to the altar that you’re bowing in respect— stiffly, Beomgyu is pulled down with you; his jaw clenches at the action. 

The sermon begins as usual and proceeds as it always does— though, with Beomgyu at your side, you seem to have garnered quite a lot of attention to you; from others around you eagerly wanting to wish you and Beomgyu peace, shaking his hand firmly and with looking up at him with awe-stricken eyes, to the priest’s gaze that inevitably falls back onto the two of you again and again, not used to the scrutiny in his eyes as you flush with heat at the sudden realization of what others might be assuming the two of you are— as subtly as possible, you try to make space between the two of you, using the armrest of the pew as your excuse to scoot away as you try your best to remain inconspicuous, pretending to get comfortable and resting your arm against it. 

Beomgyu doesn’t seem to pick up on your particular train of thought— he’s sending you a curious glance before he’s closing the space between the two of you again, feeling the way your body stiffens and your back straightens the moment you feel him against you, thigh against thigh; the small pressure of his body against yours enough to have you flustering pathetically, lips pressing together as you try to keep your expression neutral. 

But if there’s one thing Beomgyu has learned about you from the short time he’s gotten to know you, it’s that you’re undeniably terrible at keeping a poker face; all your thoughts are written across your expression clear as day and seep into your body language— anyone who has you in their line of sight would be able to immediately pick up on your flustered and shy state. 

You’re such an innocent little thing; like a lamb, Beomgyu thinks, gaze visibly boring into your side profile as you attempt to pretend as though you’re unaware of it, even if the nervous fiddling of your fingers gives you away. There’s an air of purity around you that is simply enticing, unable to pretend as though he isn’t endeared to you the moment you finally break and turn to look at him once it is time to receive the eucharist, bright, wide eyes silently asking if he’ll join you— he shakes his head no gently, and you’re nodding in understanding before you finally scurry away to get in line. 

Your heart is pounding; you’ve never thought a man could have such an effect on you, your poor brain confused and running laps to try to reason why you can’t even keep eye contact with him for more than a second— you’ve just met him, just a little bit ago, yet even so you can’t help but feel a strange pull toward him, undeniably charmed by both his looks and soothing aura— your hand goes to place itself onto your heart, a weak attempt to steady it’s erratic beating. The charm of your necklace presses against your skin, and as it nears to be your turn, you pray for your heart to have more resilience. 

“The Body of Christ.” 

Beomgyu watches as you stand dutifully before the priest. He watches as the older man stares down at you with an intense gaze, one that seems to hold silent disappointment; he watches as the priest looks back at him, their eyes meeting and his gaze hardening before it falls back onto you— with a twisted realization, Beomgyu realizes where this emotion stems from. 

The priest is careful with you, hand reaching out to slowly place the Eucharist on your awaiting tongue; he’s gentle, as though you were made of nothing but glass, gaze following you even after you’re long gone. 

You’re walking back with your hands clasped together and your eyes downcast, undoubtedly lost in prayer again. But even so, you can’t help but sneak a glance at Beomgyu once more, relieved to see his eyes weren’t on you already this time— instead, he’s watching the priest acutely, observing and analyzing his every move— and you feel star-struck by his beauty yet again. 

The day outside must have cleared more; at least, that must be the case if there is light shining through the stained glass windows, myriads of colors casting themselves on the floors and the people around you— Beomgyu is not an exception to this, entranced with the sharp reds, purples and blues that cast onto his delicate skin, making his appearance seem more otherworldly than it already was. 

His brows furrow. Part of his face is lit up with a faint red from the window, hitting his right eye and the scar above it— suddenly, his eyes are flickering back to meet yours, and you’re jumping slightly in surprise; his eye is practically glowing. 

Your gaze becomes downcast again. You try to ignore the feeling of him watching as you kneel down and begin your prayer once more, staring at the altar and at the captivating marble statues, eyes falling onto the candles that hypnotize you by its flickering flame, lost in thought as the taste of wine that lingers on your tongue becomes the only thing you’re still aware of. 

Beomgyu makes no attempts to conceal his desperation to leave the moment mass is over. His goodbyes are brief and he manages to pull you along, simply because you’d feel bad if you didn’t accompany him out. You’re almost out the front doors, so close to leaving, only to be stopped the moment you’re stepping outside, not expecting the priest to slip out of the doors behind you, calling out your name and asking you to wait; obedient as always, you’re practically frozen on the steps of the church— Beomgyu doesn’t bother to hide the clear distaste on his face as he hears the priest ask for a word with you; in private. 

Without hesitation, you’re scurrying up the steps and meekly asking Beomgyu if he was going to stay— you can’t help but be surprised at the immediate nod of his head in response. 

“Lovely seeing you today. Like always,” the priest says, sending you a fond smile that you eagerly return; he’s taking a step close to you, voice lowering slightly as he continues. “This is the first time I’ve seen you attend with someone else.”

“Ah,” you say quietly, evidently flustered by the breach of this subject; you’re turning away from him to glance back at Beomgyu, who sends you a small smile the moment your eyes meet. “I met him this morning— he aided me when I fell, and agreed to join me when I invited him to today’s mass.”

The priest frowns. You’re taken aback by the clear disapproval in his eyes, blinking owlishly as you silently question what’s wrong— the priest is taking another step closer to you, his brows pinched together and his voice cautious as he speaks. 

“My child,” he begins carefully, taking in your wide and curious eyes as he warns you, “It is admirable of you to spread God’s word so dutifully. I admire your devotion to both our Lord and this community.” 

“However,” he says solemnly, “I advise you to be very careful. You have only just met him after all.”

The two of you glance back at Beomgyu, who leans against the stairway with a blank expression, staring out at the snowy scenery before him as he waits for the two of you to finish; he can feel your stares on him, but he doesn’t bother to look back, already knowing where this conversation must be headed. 

“Oh Father,” you say softly, giving him a reassuring smile, “you shouldn’t worry, I know how to handle myself.”

And, Beomgyu has been nothing but kind to you, you think to yourself, though you know better than to rely solely on the limited hours you’ve spent together. 

“Of course. Though you can’t blame me for being concerned,” he says, taking yet another step closer to you— the space between you is limited now, and you’re unable to stop the way you retreat subconsciously in response.

“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to,” he reaches up to place a hand on your shoulder, heavy and making you stiffen at the sudden contact; it remains there, thumb rubbing soft circles on your coat, “such a dedicated servant of God. It is my duty to protect you, child.” 

He is reluctant to let you go. You breathe out a soft laugh and smile, taking another step back and watching as his hand slides down your arm, his touch lingering and grabbing at your hand momentarily; he squeezes it in an attempt to give you reassurance, and you nod. 

“I understand,” you say quietly, pulling your hands in close to your chest, clasping them together as you take another step back, “I must leave now, Father.”

His lips press, as though disappointed to see you leave to soon— but then he nods in understanding, wishing you a blessed day and encouraging you to stop by anytime; you nod, bidding him one last goodbye before you’re turning around and descending the stairs— you miss the way his eyes harden and his brows knit together the second they meet Beomgyu’s, lips pressed to a thin line as he watches the two of you for a moment more. 

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” you say meekly, feeling a smile grow on your face the moment Beomgyu simply shakes his head in reassurance, boldly taking your hand and placing it in the crook of his arm once again; a gesture that has your body warming up as much as his touch warms you, allowing him to pull you close to him as you walk away— he allows you to speak about whatever is on your mind, listening intently as he glances back at the church one final time. 

At the top of the stairway, the priest remains, watching. Beomgyu is unfazed at the sight, and instead of returning the harsh glare the older man sends him, his lips curl into a smile— wide and wicked, showing off his perfect teeth and sharp canines that adorn his mouth, confusing the man before him— and his expression switches in the blink of an eye the moment you squeeze at his bicep subconsciously to get his attention as you speak, leaning in to ask what he thought of today’s mass. 

“It was lovely,” Beomgyu says smoothly, eyes crinkling into a fond and kind smile. You’re returning the smile without hesitation, feeling as though it’s become second nature to your being now. 

“I think I’ll be seeing you around more.”

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

The two of you part ways once you’ve reached the center of town. Beomgyu tells you he has somewhere he needs to be, and you explain that you still have a few errands to do; with the promise to see each other again soon, you’re reluctantly bidding him goodbye. 

He asked if you’d be willing to show him around the town a bit more; if you’d like to show him your favorite places to eat and visit— you told him yes in a heartbeat. 

With new promising plans with this handsome stranger, you felt lighter on your feet— a giddiness that undoubtedly was written all over your face, laughing shyly at the remarks others would give in regards to your good mood; and though the trek back to your little cottage on the outskirts of town was a long one, you didn’t seem to particularly mind it today. 

The rest of your day is quiet; peaceful like always, not a soul stopping by to interrupt your day. You’ve fallen back into routine, and with your sudden encounter with Beomgyu earlier, you’ve begun to realize how mundane your everyday life is— you’re suddenly antsy, waiting anxiously for the day to bleed into the next so you’re able to see him again. 

Night falls and you have yet to forget about him. Beomgyu’s soft gaze and kind smile, the way he hovered over you and humored your spontaneous offer to join you— his touch that warmed you through your layers of clothing and left your body hot and flustered. 

This sudden change in your train of thought has you snapping back to reality; your eyes are blinking into focus and you’re now hyper-aware of the hot water that runs over your skin, the dishes in your hands that you had absentmindedly been washing— and you’re straightening up to stare out your window, feeling a breeze slip through the small opening and hit your warm face; you definitely need it, you think to yourself, scolding yourself for thinking of such scandalous things about a man you just met. 

You think you’ll go to bed early; with the final dish placed on your drying rack, you’re off to your bathroom, washing up before you make your way into the bedroom, slipping into nothing more but a thin nightgown; the moonlight casts a glow on your figure as you change, already feeling sleep weigh your eyes as the soft silk of your gown brushes against your skin. 

Your bed feels a lot more comfortable than usual; your body is more tired than you realized. The blankets weigh down on you securely, and any restless thought seems to dissolve in your mind the moment your head is resting against your soft pillows— for the first time in a long, long time, you’re able to achieve a peaceful, immediate slumber. 

Poor thing; today’s events must have truly exhausted you. After all, being around a demon for such a long time takes a lot of energy. 

Beomgyu watches the soft rise and fall of your chest with fond eyes and a small smile. He thinks that the moonlight casts a truly angelic glow on your face, unaware and peaceful to the dangers around you— not much of a difference from your awake self, the man muses.

The energy you emit is as pure as the light in your eyes; innocent, untainted by the horrors of the world. Unlike the rest of this town and their putrid thoughts, their intentions to rip you apart and force you to stoop as low as them, you’ve remained the same: devoted to your God, devoted to live an honest and peaceful life— your being is nothing short of angelic, and Beomgyu has found himself addicted to it. 

He’s weakened— you remind him of the life he used to live, the person he once was before he gave in to the beauty of temptation, ensnared for eternity to the carnal sin that allowed him to reject the teachings of his god. He’s lived this life longer than he can remember, memories of pure beings and a light heart long gone; it’s instead been replaced by an insatiable hunger and instincts that led him to you. 

Beomgyu wasn’t supposed to find himself here, he supposed. Damned to nothing but a void of flames that seared and marred his skin, to be given bodies of those who shared the same sin as him— indulging in his cravings, but never truly satiating them, just enough to keep his soul hooked and coming back for more, a constant cycle of addiction and hunger and desire. 

But this is — you are — different. Just being near you is enough to get Beomgyu’s heart racing, his body buzzing with a slight nervous energy that begs to just touch you, to take you, to use you. His body is weak, drained from its descent from the heavens and its unexpected escape from his perpetual state of limbo, from his punishment. His bones ache and his skin begs to be with you, his soul guiding the rest of him to find you; just one night with you could keep him strong for eons. 

Such a cruel hand life has given you. Because now that Beomgyu has found you, he’s made a silent vow to not let you escape from his hands; you’re the perfect prey, innocent and trusting and charmed by the closest thing to ever be graced by God's presence. 

He closes his eyes, and hones in on your energy— to properly entangle you in clutches, Beomgyu must begin to plant the seeds in your mind; seeds of doubt and want, seeds that will allow you to see the world as is and bring you into his awaiting, protecting arms. 

After a moment, he finally feels it; the soft beating of your heart, the aura that hums like an enticing melody. Deep breaths bring a slow rise and fall to his chest, allowing it to match the rhythm of your own. A harmony is created between the two, and only then does Beomgyu finally feel it— your mind is inviting him in. He suppresses the triumphant smile that makes his lips twitch. 

Declining such an offer would be quite rude, wouldn’t it?

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

You wake with a start. 

Your chest feels as though it might cave in and your gown sticks to your skin in an unbearable way, your body exuding so much heat that you’ve found yourself covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Your mind is racing, you feel as though your heart is ready to burst out of your chest— what happened, why do you feel like this? 

It takes a minute before everything else floods back in. A wave of shame and horror washes over you, searingly hot against your skin as you find yourself throwing the covers of your bed off your body, reaching over at your nightstand instinctively and kneeling at your bedside; your hands shake slightly as you try to ground yourself with the feeling of the rosary beads against your palms.

Prayers leave your lips like a waterfall; attempting to forget the dream— the nightmare— that your mind conjured, surely nothing but a test of faith and temptation to make you stray from the path you painstakingly set up for yourself. 

The beads of the rosary dig deeper into your palms. Your hands press tighter together, your face screwed into a frown of concentration, attempting to rid yourself of the way your mind seems to want to do nothing but wander. Wander to the foreign feeling of a hand gliding against your skin, a smooth path along your bare back and chest, lips that caressed your neck and whispered nothing but praises and promises of divinity and eternal life.

A shudder rips through your body like an earthquake. You must rid yourself of these thoughts. 

Your will is strong, but the temptation is stronger; it sings memories and images from your nightmare, appearing at the most inconvenient moments and making your every movement falter— when you change, vibrant images and raw skin replacing the sight of your body in the mirror with one of pure lust and sin, when you prepare to go out, tucking the rosary safely underneath your layers of clothes, and as you spot Beomgyu in the distance, waving at you with a kind smile on his face; shame bubbles hotly beneath your skin, and you hope that the man who asks you to lead the way with bright eyes simply blames the flustered look of your face on the cold, the pure snow around you. 

“You must be cold,” Beomgyu muses softly, turning to you and suddenly cupping your face; wide eyes meet his as you merely remain still, unsure of what to do as the feeling of his hot hands cupping your flushed skin only make it burn hotter, embarrassment eating you up as his brows twitch at the feeling; he raises a brow, tilting his head in confusion as he inspects you slowly. “Or… perhaps not? Your face is burning.”

“I’m so sorry,” you manage to spit out, taking a step away from him and averting his gaze entirely, hands pressed firmly against your pounding heart, “I’m sorry if I seem to be acting strange, I’m not sure what has gotten into me.” 

Beomgyu shakes his head softly, brows knitted together with worry— oh, you must seem to have lost it, you think to yourself, biting your lip and attempting to brush off your skittish behavior with a soft laugh, Beomgyu must find you strange now.

And whilst Beomgyu continues to feign concern for you, brushing off all your apologies and maintaining a curious facade, his body practically buzzes with excitement; poor, innocent thing, one simple dream was enough to bring you right to where he wanted you— one dream was enough to fluster and break down the solid fortitude you once set up for yourself, the man before you catching you so off guard that you never had a moment to question the sudden turn of events; he had you right where he wanted you, smiling to himself at the way you could barely maintain eye-contact before you were flustering and looking away. 

You told yourself it would pass with time. But hours fly by with Beomgyu and nothing changes— if anything, everything simply got much, much worse— the man seemed to have found solace within you, getting comfortable and finding confidence in being subtly affectionate with you; holding your hand and pulling you along to show you something, brushing the corner of your mouth and teasing you for being such a messy eater, and holding a firm hand at the small of your back while you walked— you couldn’t pretend to be unaware of everyone’s stares even if you tried. 

“Such a small town, isn’t it?” Beomgyu muses to you, taking in the scenery, the people that wander the streets; he finds his eyes meeting with every person they land on, holding back a sneer at the way their stares linger with fascination, landing on you with a myriad of emotions: envy, lust, disdain, he sees it all. “I feel like there’s someone watching us at all times.”

“Oh, I suppose,” you say sheepishly, as though you were the one to blame for his discomfort, “I apologize, I had no idea it would be this busy today— but it’s natural to be curious, I know they mean well.”

Beomgyu nods thoughtfully at your claim; surely, there’s only so much innocence you can harbor before it begins to become naivety— do you really believe such lies? But of course, you’re filled with nothing but surprises, the clear look in your eyes telling him that your words are more for you to believe than him. 

When the sun is beginning to set and the street lamps are beginning to get lit up, Beomgyu sees your mood flip like a switch; you’re getting antsy, you must want to leave soon. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what might be going on in your mind at the moment. 

“You must be tired,” Beomgyu says, slowing to a stop before turning to face you; you led him to one of your favorite parks, taking him into the maze of a garden and along your favorite trail, the light and excitement in your face enough to make the scenery around him seem dull.

You look like a deer caught in headlights at his words; was it so obvious? You stammer and try to sugarcoat how you feel unsure of how to tell him that you want to leave now, not because you’re tired of his presence, but because you feel as though you’re not in your right mind at the moment. 

Oh, how could you possibly tell him that the reason you must leave soon is because you feel a nauseating urge to repent? That, as soon as you say your final goodbyes, smiling shyly and turning around to walk away from him with a haste, you’re going to make your way straight to the church? The night is cold but your body is far from it, face burning with shame as you walk into your sanctuary with a haste, unsure of how to deal with the fact that you’re thinking very impure thoughts over a man you’ve just met; the very reminder is enough to make your stomach lurch once more. 

The warmth of the building doesn’t feel as welcoming anymore; it only makes your body hotter, breaking out with a light sweat as you slowly approach the basin of holy water, dipping your fingers in and slowly crossing yourself— you take a deep breath, ignoring the flames of shame that eat at you as you walk inside. 

The confessional is just by the entrance, at the very end of the left wall and tucked in safely from any private eyes. The velvet curtain beckons you, and as you rush over in a haste, you can’t bring yourself to catch eyes with the priest that stands by the altar, having caught sight of you immediately— there was no one else that would come here so late at night but you. 

You sit at the very edge of your seat, hunched over and staring at your lap as you wait. You can feel the heat of the single lightbulb above you on your back, searing into your nape as you pick at your nails anxiously. It feels like time has frozen within this small booth you’ve cooped yourself in, the heat of it all only making you more restless as you wait, head ducked down in shame, much too afraid to look into the screen that separates you from the only other person that will ever know about the dark thoughts that plague you.

After what feels like an eternity, you hear footsteps approaching; you peek up instinctively, just in time to watch the velvet curtain on the other side get pushed open— your head goes back down hurriedly.

It’s not too often you come into the confessional, but you still find yourself doing the routine like you were born to do so. Your hand crosses yourself dutifully, licking nervously at your dry lips that part to speak— your voice feels timid and broken, the words you speak heavy on your tongue. 

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

It’s been about four weeks since you last confessed, you tell him, wringing your hands together as you attempt to find the words to say, feeling as though a heavy lump in your throat prevents you from expressing the truth; it’s too much, you find yourself thinking, the burden and shame of it all bringing a heat to your cheeks, reluctant to voice your sins aloud. Moments pass and you have said nothing, but the priest on the other side remains patient— the silence and the heat of his stare through the screen only makes you more aware of the guilt that sits in your stomach. 

“Father, I don’t know what to do,” you sob softly, the dam finally breaking in one, swift motion; words spill from your lips with abandon, unable to keep track of what to say as you scoot close to the screen, barely on your seat as you lean your forehead against the cool wood.

“I have restrained myself all my life, I’ve avoided the temptation that is thrown my way, the dangers presented to me— I’ve remained strong— yet…” you swallow thickly, a shuddered sigh leaving your lips as your hands brace themselves against the screen; your palms press against the sturdy structure, a false sense of security as you hesitate to say the words you’re about to admit, “yet— these past few days I’ve been plagued with nothing but thoughts of lust. Of blasphemy.” 

For a moment, there’s only silence. Memories seem to bubble up from the confession, detailed and vivid, playing against your eyes that screw shut as though in pain. 

It’s all wrong. So, so so wrong, the warm feelings that stir within unfamiliar as you remember all the thoughts that fill your mind throughout the day. 

“It’s unlike me— I’ve never found myself to think anything so crude, so immoral,” you say, hanging your head with shame, “Yet I find that I cannot stop. Father, I’ve prayed and I’ve remained abstinent, but the thought that I fear the most is the one… that makes me doubt whether I’m on the right path.”

On the other side of the screen, you’re faintly able to make out his figure shifting. Your hesitation is evident as you finally admit something you hadn’t been able to accept yourself. 

“Father, I’m afraid that I’ll give in.”

More silence follows. You’re sure that the priest must be in deep thought on the other side, but the silence only seems to make you more anxious; how low you’ve come, a voice within you chides, wanting to throw away your purity for a man you’ve just only just met. How vile.

The voice is cold and blunt and unlike your own— the sudden thought startles you, your spine straightening as you look around you, a shiver going throughout your body. Inevitably, you look through the screen once more. On the other side, you’re able to see the faint image of the priest, his head hanging and lost in thought. 

You feel as though you’re in a daze for the rest of your time there; you can only nod softly with every piece of advice he offers you, telling you to remain strong and trust that your faith in God will guide you to the right path— he tells you to pray, to devote yourself to the church in any way you can, your penance weighing your heart as you agree to it all. 

“My child, be aware that this is another test of your faith. You mustn’t give in,” he finally says, stopping you in your motion to leave, “You are a pure flower, bound to attract others who do not have your best interest in mind.”

Hesitantly, you nod, unsure if you’re deserving of this praise he sings to you.

“If you ever find yourself in doubt, know that you can always come to me.”

There’s an odd feeling that blooms within you at his words; you know you should feel comforted, honored to have someone to support you in your time of need, but instead you can only muster a wry smile, whispering a soft of course before you’re exiting the booth in a haste. 

Glancing behind you, you’re reassured to see that the priest has yet to come out; you don’t think you could face him any time soon, knowing that despite the anonymity of the booth, your identity is quite obvious. 

No one else resides in the church as you make your way down the nave and down to your usual spot. Your footsteps feel heavy on the rug as you stand before the altar, head tilted up to be able to take it all in properly; the marble statues that look as though they might come to life, the angels that bow down and the intricate details that go to frame the cross in the middle— you stare up at the altar for what feels like hours, the guilt in your heart weighing you as you take a deep bow and go to sit. 

Your mind is calm, but your heart is restless; you pray for forgiveness and plead to not be led astray, yet something within you itches to do just that— a tug at your heart, wondering what it would be like to indulge yourself for once— you’ve seen the other members of your church, the way they comply and worship yet change in the blink of an eye once they’re out of this sanctuary— so, would it really be that bad? You’ve seen their actions, know their hearts; they treat you so kindly, worship your lord so devoutly— so, is it really unjust for you to do the same?

Your nails dig deep into your skin, a way to snap yourself out of that train of thought, scolding yourself for thinking this way of others around you— for attempting to reason with the whispers of temptation that attempt to lure you. 

How long you spend lost in thought is unknown to you— minutes, maybe hours, your knees sore and your clasped hands clammy as you rest your forehead against them, eyes screwed shut and lost in prayer; it was a meditation of sorts, finally able to cast out straying tangents and focus on one thing. Your breathing is slow, tired, your body slowly giving in to the exhaustion, muscles weighing you down as you continue to pray— it isn’t until you’ve found yourself about to doze off that you realize you must leave. 

When you stand, you’re shaken awake instantly. You could’ve sworn you’d be the only one left in the building by now, yet the priest still lingers by the altar, tending to the candles and shifting about— the smile you send when he glances behind curiously and meets your eyes must seem as ingenuine as it feels, because you see his expression fall instantly. 

It’s important to rest. You must be seeing things, you think, tightening your coat around you before you’re stepping out of your pew and turning to leave— your steps are unconsciously haste, your arms that wrap around yourself unnaturally tight, yet you still flinch the moment your name is being called— softly, but still echoing throughout the building. 

You find yourself feeling reluctant as you turn. Your words are timid as you address him.

“Yes Father?”

Upon your surprise, he is not too far from you— as though he had been mere steps behind, wanting to close the gap between you two as he continues to move forward; he sends you a soft smile, head tilting in curiosity and brows furrowing in worry as he speaks. 

“My dear, are you leaving? At this hour?” he asks, watching you nod meekly, “But it is so dangerous; it is far too cold and dark for someone like you to be out alone.”

Sheepishly, you smile, hands wringing themselves without you realizing.

“It’s quite alright, Father. I’m stronger than you think.”

The soft laugh he lets out is meant to be lighthearted, though you can’t help but think it’s one of disbelief instead. 

“I’m sure, but you must understand my concern; to let you leave alone like this would be wrong of me.” His smile is fond as he steps closer to you, gesturing behind him as he proposes, “Why don’t you stay here for the night? It’d be much safer.”

“Oh, thank you Father, but I think it’d be better for me to go to my home instead,” you say softly, pressing your hands firmly against your beating heart, “I have a busy day tomorrow, and I don’t think it’d be wise to rest on the pews.” 

He laughs again, shaking his head in amusement; your brows knit together in slight confusion, laughing along hesitantly nonetheless.

“Of course my dear,” he starts, your smile widening in hopes that he’s giving up this small fight, “but that’s not what I was referring to.”

“I meant that you should rest here tonight,” he repeats again, voice softening as he continues, “with me.”

Your eyes widen in shock— it’s painted all over your face as well, unsure of what to make of his sudden offer as you resort to letting out an incredulous laugh instead. 

“Oh Father, I couldn’t possibly—” you gulp, softening your tone at the sight of his confused face, “It– it wouldn’t be right. I mustn’t disturb you.” 

“But you wouldn’t be disturbing at all,” he insists, taking a step toward you, talking animatedly with his hands as he does, “I’m inviting you, afterall, I’d love the company— it does get lonely sometimes, I must admit.”

You attempt to maintain a look of understanding, nodding along to his every word— but you remain firm in your stance regardless as you respond. 

“I understand, and I truly do appreciate the offer,” you try again, beginning to walk back despite the slow souring of his face, “but, even so, I really must leave—”

“Why?” he suddenly interrupts, his voice sharp and his expression cold, “why are you so insistent on leaving?”

“I’m tired, is all—”

“Lies.” he shuts you down again. “All of it. For if you were true to your word, you’d have no issue accepting my offer to accommodate you.”

Shaking your head, you shrink within yourself, shoulders caving in as he begins following your steps— you attempt to give him reason, to be polite and kind, yet he hears none of it. 

“You come to plead for forgiveness yet are so quick to run back to your old ways,” he says, his every step like a resounding boom in your mind— you deny him adamantly again, but all you get in response is a cold look. 

It seems as though you’ve nowhere to go— the doors had been shut due to the cold and your back presses against it, but before you can reach for the handle and open your only exit, you find yourself trapped— the priest’s hand is heavy as it slams on the handle, the loud sound causing you to jump and yelp in surprise. 

“Can’t you see? I only want what’s best for you,” you feel as though you might merge with the wood of the door as you press yourself to it, eyes glued to the floor in an attempt to escape the cruel wrath of the priest that towers above you, spitting words of discipline, “It’s dangerous for you out there. You haven’t the slightest idea what would happen to you if you were found like this— alone, helpless, defenseless.”

“I have gone out of my way to provide you shelter, yet you refuse; I know what it is you’re truly adamant to get back to,” he grits, as though it pained him to say— his eyes narrow, watching as you merely tremble and refuse to look at him, finding himself tired of you not meeting his eye— the cry you let out is insignificant as he takes hold of your shoulders, shaking you and crouching down to meet your face. 

“And I will not have you whoring yourself out to another man! ” Your eyes are screwed shut now, tears threatening to flow down as you reach for the hands on your shoulders, attempting to pry them off— he pays no mind to your attempts, continuing to scream in your face until you find that you can withstand no more. 

“Please! Let me go!” 

Your chest heaves. Your wide eyes are brimming with tears and your legs are shaking terribly, just like your hands that have just shoved the priest off you; he seems just as shocked as you are, mouth parted in surprise before he finally goes to regain his composure.

“I-I’m so sorry Father, I–” your voice breaks and you feel the hot streams of tears on your cheeks, a trembling hand reaching behind you in search of the handle— when you find it, you immediately pull it open. 

“I–I— I must go, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, I didn’t mean it, I’m so—”

“You do not deserve to be deflowered and tainted by the evils of this world,” the priest says, his voice hoarse and stopping you effortlessly in your tracks; he doesn’t bother looking at you anymore, staring at your feet with a pinched expression of frustration instead. “But if that is what your blasphemous heart truly desires, then so be it.”

When his head raises and his eyes meet yours, you’re stunned— his eyes shine, a forlorn look settled within them. 

“You were so perfect, my child,” he says softly, frowning at the fear in your eyes, the heavy heaving of your chest, “you were divine.”

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

Brows furrowing together, you deny him one last time— this time, he simply watches as you slip out the door, fleeing with sharp steps and sobbing quietly into your hands, cheeks stinging from the cold. 

The path before you is dim— the trek to your home is long. Without realizing, you think of the priest’s warnings, tears an endless stream as you part your lips in a soft whisper. 

“Oh Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection…”

Through the long journey back to your way home, you sob and you pray. By the top steps of the church, hidden by the columns and tucked safely into the darkness, Beomgyu watches. He watches until your figure is nothing but a small speck against the vast landscape of the town, your trembling body and the echoes of your soft sobs ingrained into his mind. 

Slowly, he turns back to look at the doors, into the small sliver of warm light provided by your failure to close the door properly. 

His eyes catch movement; a grin grows on his face.

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

Tonight, it seems as though your heart and your mind have finally conceded. Tonight, you dream deeply. 

In your dreams, it is all a haze; you’ve found yourself within the holy sanctuary once more, slowly making your way down the nave, past the crowded pews of hooded figures with their heads ducked down, hands folded dutifully in front of you and your eyes pinned straight ahead. The altar beckons you, the thickened, incensed air bringing a calm through your system as you walk. You walk and you walk, eyes pinned on the cross that looms over you. 

The path seems to warp— the nave seems never-ending, the carpet slowly becoming worn and darkened with every step you take— your heart beats a little faster now, nails digging into your skin with a subconscious tension; yet you continue to walk, whether you want to or not. 

Everything feels so heavy. You feel lethargic and dizzy, feeling as though submerged underwater, limbs moving oh so slowly; the room around you has begun to darken, unable to halt your trek down to the altar no matter how much you try— everything has begun to fade to black, the pews of people turning to dust, the carpet beneath you disappearing beneath your feet— the only thing that remains steady is the altar in front of you and the steps you take. 

You can’t breathe— have you been breathing at all? It’s a fleeting thought that crosses your mind, the burning of your lungs and the pressure on your chest sudden and alarming— the smell of incense no longer enters your system, but you can still feel the air thicken around you; somehow, your eyes remain wide open through it all, stuck onto the mesmerizing, pure altar that remains on its fixed point in the distance. 

It feels as though hours have passed, and you’ve yet to make any progress. Your body remains still as the darkness around you. Just when you’ve begun to wonder if there will ever be any end in sight, something changes. 

It’s subtle, at first— you think it might just be a trick of the mind. The very edges of the altar have started to fade into the darkness, the sharp edges of the pure, white marble statues turning fuzzy— the wings of the angels, the top of the cross, the podium that holds it all up— it’s fading into the abyss, becoming one with the eternal nothingness around you— and as much as you feel yourself panic, wanting to speed your pace, break into a run in a weak attempt to stop it— you can’t. The sound of your steps is like a metronome in your ears, falling against the void and keeping you still. All you can do is watch. 

Your eyes remain wide open throughout it all. Your dress sways with every step you take, your body not realizing that soon enough, you’ll be walking towards nothing. The faces of the angel’s are now fading into obscurity, the darkness prickling at Jesus’ nailed hands and thorned crown; your heart hammers against your chest, forced to watch as it pools around Mary’s feet. 

The few remnants of the holy altar are slowly being swallowed by this strange darkness; sorrow fills your weak being, wondering why it is that your body continues to walk forward— there is nothing left to go to, the last of Mary’s bowed body getting lost into the abyss— and as your eyes scan her smooth, marble complexion, you catch on a single crimson tear, welling up at the inner corner of her eye, able to watch it grow as though you were standing inches before it— it grows and grows, until it can no longer stay still. The path it runs down the smoothness of her cheeks is striking, a sharp trail left behind as it drips off into nothing. 

The last of her fades away. 

There is nothing but darkness ahead of you; even so, you continue forward. Your mind has emptied, body becoming lax as the steps you take become effortless, light, like walking on air. Your eyelids feel heavy with sleep, the haze in your brain returning twice as strong. 

You can feel yourself walking, but you cannot see anything; not even yourself. A voice within wonders if you might be left to walk forever, towards an end goal that will never show itself to you. 

Come to me. 

Despite your shock, you do not halt. The voice is soft and sweet, like dripping honey— it’s only three words, but even so, you find yourself entranced, following the command even if you’re unsure whether you’re going the right direction. 

Closer, come. 

The voice beckons you so effortlessly, like a leash that wraps around your figure, pulling you forward, following your instinct to continue to walk, to explore what it is that calls to you so sweetly. 

Unlike the altar that has now been lost on your once worried mind, something has begun to fade into view. It is soft and hazy, with a slight glow that hurts your eyes��� unable to make out what it is you’re now making your way towards, eyes dilating and adjusting slowly. 

A bright, ruffled shirt, a corset that’s tied tightly, long flowing sleeves covering the hands that rest leisurely at their sides; your gaze is quick to sweep up their appearance, a quick observation before you move onto what tugs at your curiosity the most— only to find that their face remains obscured by the darkness, a slight blur of what could be registering in your mind— you think you see soft, plump lips that curl into a reassuring smile, but it might be wishful thinking, if anything at all. 

Slowly, they raise a hand— calling you closer, the path beneath you finally beginning to shrink with each step you take— their fingertips outstretched toward you, as though expecting you to do the same. And even when you fail to mirror their actions, they refuse to falter, accepting you as you are. 

It is only when you stand before them that your body finally stops. Your face expressionless as you observe the person in front of you carefully, oddly hesitant to accept their offer. You stand for a moment, left in a standstill as the figure lets out a soft, echoing laugh. 

Do not be afraid, they tell you, their words wrapping around you warmly, take my hand. 

You blink. Your body suddenly feels like your own, the grounding heaviness of your limbs making you realize that it is now you who controls what you do next; glancing down at yourself curiously, you look back up at the figure, where they remain waiting expectantly.

You take a step closer. Their smile widens slightly. 

Good, they say, soft and deep like a purr, closer. 

Slowly, you bring a hand up, finding a slight hesitation to make contact with this outstretched hand— and, as though hearing your doubts, the figure chuckles, teasing and lighthearted, as though already aware of what you will choose in the end. 

When your skin touches theirs, you feel nothing. It is like air under your palm. 

Your grip tightens, unsure if you’ve taken their hand at all; before you can so much as take a breath, their hold shifts, hand sliding forward and deft fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist, fingertips digging into the skin— you’re pulled in without warning, stumbling forward and crashing into their strong chest. 

Looking up, you find that you cannot bring yourself to feel afraid— their smile is radiant as they look down at you, the faint outline of their head much too fuzzy for you to understand— the air cracks as two pure wings stretch out, curling around the two of you and moving to cage you in shortly after— feathers fly around the air from the aggressive movement, fluttering around before they rot black, lighting at the quill and turning to ashes, the crackling sounds filling your ears as you look around you in confusion, only to get the sight obscured by the darkening wings that trap you. 

Eyes on me, the voice says, echoing in your mind, following their command immediately. The soft smile that remained on their lips can no longer be contained, growing into a grin that shows off brilliant canines that shine down at you. I will give you everything you seek. 

Feeling the twinge of hope in your heart, the figure pulls you closer still, allowing your body to press against theirs. 

Seek me, they whisper lowly, a hand beginning to snake around your waist, dancing fingertips pressing into the small of your back— leaning down, they whisper softly into your ear. 

Find me in our sanctuary, you can hear their grin through their words, and I will give you all you yearn for. 

Their lips ghost over the shell of your ear. 

Quickly. 

Before you can react, they dissolve to nothing. 

You’re left alone in the abyss once more. 

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

When you startle awake, you find that it is still nighttime; sitting straight up in your bed, you look out the window— snow falls peacefully, the quietness of the scenery doing nothing to calm your beating heart. 

The dream. 

Words and messages echo throughout your mind, unsure of what to make of it all. Your chest heaves slightly with confusion, eyes adjusting to the darkness as you glance over at your bedside table— the statue of the cross greets you like always, the soft voice from your dream resurfacing in your tired brain. 

Your body is moving on its own accord; your coat, your shoes, all of it is being thrown on before your dazed mind can even process it, still weighed with sleep as you stumble around in the darkness. Only one thought seems to keep you moving, like a restless pull that leads you out your front door. 

Swinging it open, you’re met with the freezing winter breeze; the trees sway and creak, snowflakes falling in your direction and landing against the apples of your cheeks— shaking you awake slightly, a quiet voice within you wondering what it is you’re doing, telling you that you should go back inside and rest— but even through this small window of reason you receive, the warmth that leaks from behind your home attempting to wrap around you and pull you back in, the need to seek closure haunts you; your boots crunch beneath the freshly fallen snow, sealing your fate as you haphazardly close the door behind you.

It all feels like a dream still— and you wonder if it is, blinking away the snow that gets in your eyes, your walk through the emptied path that leads back to the center of town turning haste; you feel as though it is something else that is pushing you forward, allowing you to head through this dark and barren path without so much as a light to guide the way, the sound of the wind whistling through your ears and the snow crunching beneath your feet following along.

There must be a reason, your weary mind thinks, a passing thought through the blankness of your mind, passing through the desolate, closed shops, not a single street lantern lit to give you a sense of security, there is something calling you back. 

In your right state of mind, you never would have found yourself doing this; after what happened mere hours ago, you wouldn’t have been able to walk in this general direction without feeling guilt and fear weighing you down— in your fully conscious state of mind, you would have stopped to contemplate your actions the moment you began to lace up your shoes— but in this moment, as you slow to a stop and turn to face the stone steps that lead to the first faint, flickering light you’ve seen tonight, you’re none of that— instead, you allow yourself to give in to this strange, delirious state of being you’ve found yourself in. 

The tall steps of the church have blurred together. Your head remains bowed, eyes glued to your feet as you ascend, hands folded neatly in front of you as snow falls around you, on your clothes and in your hair. 

When you arrive at the top, a hand reaching out for the entrance, you hesitate— your eyes widen, and as though a bucket of ice water has been poured over you, you take in the door that has been left ajar, the lights that are no longer on inside; your hand remains outstretched for a moment, and for the first time tonight, a single question runs through your head.

Why are you here?

Standing straight, you turn to look over your shoulder, out at the town behind you— all is still, eerily so, like you’re the only person there. Even in the distance, in the neighborhoods, you do not find a single light on. A chill runs through your body, suddenly aware that you’re standing outside in the snowfall with nothing but your nightgown and a winter coat on; with blazing cheeks, you rush to slip inside the sanctuary in hopes of getting your confused mind back in order. 

The door falls shut behind you, the soft click rendering you in complete darkness; not even the magnificent, stained glass windows are able to provide you with a proper source of light, nervously looking around and taking in the church in this desolate, foreign state.

You’ve heard that old habits die hard— without realizing, you’ve made your way to the basin of holy water, shaking fingers reaching in to be dipped so you can cross yourself— only, you continue to reach in, going in further until your fingertips are touching the cool porcelain of the bowl; head snapping over the sensation, you frown in confusion at the sight of the empty basin— walking over to the one placed adjacently, you squint, reaching in unsurely, only to be met with the same cold feeling. 

Strange.

Retracting your hand, you cradle it close to your chest, a frown tugging at your features as you try to brush off the confusion; looking forward once more, you’re left face to face with the marble altar that sits at the end of the nave, beckoning you to come closer. 

It must’ve been a sign of God. That is the only explanation that would justify the strange circumstances of it all, making you way down the familiar carpet, the soft sound of your steps enough to rival the beating of your heart in your ears. 

Stepping off the carpet, you go to bow in respect— only to hear a strange sound beneath your feet, like a splashing of sorts— glancing down in confusion, your eyes narrow, attempting to decipher what it is you’ve stepped in; a pool of water maybe, looking above you to see if there might be a leak in the ceiling— a few seconds go by, and when you neither feel nor see anything fall, your frown deepens. 

“You came.” 

Your heart spikes and your gaze drops to the source of the sound, unable to do anything but gasp from the startle— through the darkness, standing behind the altar, a figure speaks to you. The sight is reminiscent and makes your legs shake, a mixture of fear and awe filling your body as you find yourself unable to speak. 

“I wondered what it would take for you to finally give in,” the voice, soft and melodic, murmurs; even through the darkness, you can feel their gaze pinned onto you intently. “Such a shame it had to go this far.”

Before you can react, a thunder-like sound fills the empty walls of the church, cracking loudly and causing you to flinch, ducking down and covering yourself instinctively— through your eyelids that remain screwed shut, you see light filling the room around you, the flickering warmth of the candles glowing against your lids, beckoning you to look— after a moment, you give in. 

Your hands tremble as you put them down, straightening up and taking a look around you: the candles have been lit up, from the chandeliers and lanterns above you to the small, worn candles at the sides of the altar— your eyes squint, trying to adjust, rubbing the sleep out of them and blinking slowly as you finally take in the figure that awaited your arrival. 

A familiar face smiles down at you sweetly. 

A loose, white shirt, a corset that ties tightly around the waist, flowing sleeves that pool around his delicate hands— your shaking pupils take it all in, lips parting to speak, only to close once more when you’ve found that nothing can come out. His hair is mused and curls at the nape of his neck, long strands falling into his kind eyes that watch you carefully. 

Behind him, two vast white wings stretch out, the grand sight making your eyes widen in wonder. 

Before you can control yourself, your knees buckle in shock. 

Beomgyu laughs at you, the sound tender to your ears; placing his hands on the table of the altar, he leans forward, looking down at you and tilting his head in curiosity. 

“What’s wrong, my lamb?”

All you can do is stare, left speechless and shaken as you remain silent— he laughs again, eyes crinkling in amusement, bright smile on display and adding to his otherworldly appearance. 

“Do not be afraid,” he says, cradling his face with his palm, cooing softly at the way you still remain paralyzed with shock, “I only want what’s best for you, little lamb.” 

You blink; shifting, you’ve found your clothes have become soaked at the knees, realizing belatedly that you must’ve fallen into the puddle from earlier— glancing down, you wince, only to freeze at what you see. 

A striking crimson soils your clothes. It drags into a path that leads off into one of the rooms on the side, your heart sinking and a cold fear striking down your spine. 

The scream that rips though you echoes and burns your throat. 

Beomgyu frowns. He’s not surprised, nor is he confused; he simply continues to watch you, beginning to round the altar table the moment you begin to crawl back from where you kneel, your legs refusing to cooperate as hot tears brim your eyes. 

“Oh no,” he tsks softly, wings folding inward so he can make his way down the nave, brows knitting together as he watches you, the intensity of his gaze keeping your eyes pinned on his as you cry in confusion, attempting to stand shakily, only to fail— he pouts, stepping in the puddle that startled you, watching as you flinch at the sight of the brilliant droplets that splash out and cling to his once pristine, white boots. “Why do you run?” 

“That— the-the blood—” you sob, hysterical, unable to get your words out through stuttered breaths, “What—”

“Shh,” he hushes you hastily, closing the distance between the two of you and stepping on your delicate nightgown, forcing you to be still as he towers over you— he leans down, hair framing his face beautifully, mischievous eyes twinkling as his face hovers inches before yours— his wings cage around the two of you, a sight to see as you merely stare up at him in utter consternation, “don’t bother with him.”

A chill runs down your spine, electrifying and forcing you to sit ram-rod straight— through the small cracks beneath his wings, you take in the streaks that have dried against the tiles, the implication of his words causing a feeling of dread to pool within you, feeling as though you might vomit with the next words you speak. 

“Who…” you breathe out, shaky and helpless as you stare up at Beomgyu; he had already been watching you, apathetic expression bringing sheer horror to your system, finally noticing small details you had been so eager to gloss over in your earlier haste— the tainted sleeves of his shirt, the messiness of his clothes, his empty, dark eyes— and your face screws into an expression of sorrow, your nails digging into the soiled carpet beneath you. 

“What have you done?”

Beomgyu doesn’t react to your question. He remains still, eerily so, before he finally stands up straight, wings spreading proudly behind him; he stares down at you, hands held behind his back and voice flat as he speaks. 

“Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Beomgyu thinks this might be his favorite part; he allows himself to watch as you force yourself to your feet, eyes blown out with horror as you stumble back, afraid he might come after you— when you see he has yet to move, you turn and run, the sight familiar as a grin grows on his face; he allows you to slam against the doors, watches confusion flood your actions as you attempt to force the door open, only beginning to take steps to go after you once you’ve begun to pound on the door hastily, hoarse voice screaming and crying for help, hoping for someone to hear your pleas and rescue you. 

“You know, there’s no one that would be out on a night like this,” Beomgyu calls out, his voice booming effortlessly over your painful attempts to seek rescue; his steps are slow and cruel, and you look over your shoulder, tensing at the sight of him nearing you, refusing to give up as you try slamming your body against the wood, only to no avail. “No one stupid enough, that is.”

Your body is well beyond bruised by now, pausing your attempts to break down the door in a desperate hope to check the handle once more; you’re rattling it roughly, crying out when you’re met with resistance. Defeated, your forehead slams against the wood, allowing your sobs to wrack through your body, fingers tightening around the handle hopelessly. 

“Now now, don’t be like this,” Beomgyu’s soft voice coos into your ear, much closer than you anticipated him to be; you flinch, feeling his lips ghost over the shell of your ear, his chest pressing firmly against your back— his arms wrap around your waist slowly, bringing you in and forcing you to remain pressed against him, “is this not what you have been seeking all along?”

Effortlessly, he pulls you away from the door. Maybe it’s the will to fight that ebbs out of your being, or maybe it’s his superhuman strength, pulling you off and forcing the two of you to walk backwards, your hands falling limply at your sides and your head falling back to stare at the ceiling, glossy eyes barely processing the words he speaks next. 

“Come with me,” he murmurs, the searing touch of his hands searing through your clothes, burning your skin, “your heart has been searching for me, you know.”

Allowing him to walk you backwards, you whimper at his words— a sharp reminder of what it was that kept bringing you back here, unwavering guilt sinking your stomach at the faint fire that flickers within. 

“No. Please,” you breath out, hushed and hurried as you shake your head, “Please, I beg of you, have mercy—”

Beneath you, you hear the familiar splash of liquid; you yelp in panic, jumping against Beomgyu’s body and trying to look down on instinct— you’re stopped before you can successfully do so, his heated palm pressing against your eyes, forcing you to be left in the dark. 

“Don’t.” he says softly, his arm tightening around you, feeling tears pool beneath his skin, “you’re alright, I’m here with you.” 

“Such a poor thing. Life has treated you quite unfairly, hasn’t it?” Beomgyu speaks aloud, feeling you hesitate and stumble as he leads you up towards the elevated altar, listening to your jagged breaths with a slightly pitied look. “Perfect and pure all your life, a devoted follower of god.” 

“Don’t worry,” Beomgyu says, hand coming off your eyes for just a moment— not that you even noticed, your eyes had been screwed shut all along— only to wrap a cloth around your head instead, deft hands making a careful knot at the back of your head; sliding your clothing to the side, Beomgyu ignores the way you jolt when his soft lips press a kiss to your shoulder. His breath tickles as it fans on your skin. 

“You’ve done well, my lamb.”

Beomgyu knows that you will never be able to grasp what is happening; especially not in this stunned state you’re in, the cloth around your eyes already soaked through with silent tears, hands limp at your sides as he takes in your face curiously, noticing your lips that move with silent words. 

Even now, you pray. 

My Lord and my God, your lips read, whispers of the faint words slipping from you, in my acceptance of the type of death you plan for me, I join your sufferings on the Cross. 

Beomgyu watches you hesitate. Your bottom lip wobbles and your throat swallows thickly. 

All I ask is that you stand beside me and never leave me.

Even through the veil that has been put over your eyes, a stray tear manages to slip through. 

Beomgyu should feel bad for laughing, he supposes— but he can’t help it, taking in the melodramatic sight with thorough amusement, watching you flinch and press your lips together tightly. He shakes his head softly, finding himself becoming fond of your antics as he takes a hold of your hand, ignoring the way you startle so easily as he guides you to where he wants you instead. 

“Oh dear,” he sighs, leading you to press back against the altar table, stiffening at the unexpected feeling, “I fear you may have misunderstood me entirely. See, I don’t want to kill you, my lamb.”

Your brows furrow; he’s confused you, he can tell. 

“There’s something your pretty little heart has been curious about, isn’t there?” he asks, a grin stretching across his face as you shiver, already aware of what he may be hinting at— but even so, you try to remain clueless, even if you’re quite terrible at it. “Something… you want.”

“There is nothing,” you reply, quickly, albeit shakily, “please, I just— just spare me—”

“Now, there’s no need to lie.” Beomgyu coos, placing his hands on your waist, hoisting you up on the altar table in one swift motion; you gasp, hands reaching blindly for something to stable yourself on, one landing on Beomgyu’s shoulder and the other on the marble beneath you— the hand on his body quickly slips off, and Beomgyu finds himself craving for more. 

“You’ve been denying yourself for so long,” Beomgyu murmurs, his voice a hypnotizing lull that causes you to gulp. His fingertips dance across your waist, trailblazing a fire that refuses to die down, mixing with the fear that pounds your heart against your chest. “You must feel so, so trapped.”

“There’s no need to pretend here,” he smiles, reaching up to caress your cheek, watching you gulp, fists clenched tightly in your lap, “I’m aware of everything. It’s only human nature, after all.”

Fervently, you shake your head. Your consistent denial is almost impressive to Beomgyu, the facade of confidence you try to exude with your voice both evident and pity-inducing. 

“I refuse to give in to the temptations of sin,” you say, the words like a recited script at this point; Beomgyu’s lip curls in distaste. 

“It is not sin,” he whispers softly, hands beginning to wander down from your sides to your hips, grasping softly at the skin before moving down, to the tops of your thighs and over your hands that remain clenched tightly, “it is merely the human experience.”

His hands feel hot over your own; you can feel him press against your body from where you sit, undoubtedly looming over you and caging you in as he speaks. His actions are absentminded as he caresses your hand, stroking the skin soothingly as he continues to invade your senses, whispering things that only the deepest, darkest parts of your heart have considered. 

“You’ve worked so hard to live a pious, pure life,” Beomgyu says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he watches you frown, finally beginning to listen to the words he feeds you, “even at the face of danger, you remained loyal— even now, you continue to refuse me.”

“But, don’t you see? The lord has brought you here for a reason.” His eyes shine the moment you shift restlessly under his grip, pressing himself tighter against you, “your dreams, your thoughts, they have led you here for a purpose only you can serve.”

You try to refute him yet again; your lips open, but you hesitate, unsure of what to say. You remain quiet instead. 

“Will you deny the fate god has bestowed you?”

A soft pout forms on your face; your heart is racing, and your mind must be too, because you don’t bother to react when Beomgyu’s hand leaves your own, trailing down your thighs and prodding your legs open so he can stand between them— too deep in thought to realize that he’s lifting your nightgown up, bunching it at your knees tentatively. 

Beomgyu watches you carefully, taking in your silence and smiling triumphantly as he speaks, “Here,” his other hand slides to place itself on the bare skin of your inner thigh, watching with sadistic pleasure as you jolt and yelp in surprise, “I’ll show you what it is you’ve been searching for.”

Your skin is tender as he begins to trail forward, eager to touch you and familiarize himself with you— only to get stopped by your trembling hand, his eyes darting to your troubled face, brows furrowing with confusion as he watches you muster the courage to say something. 

“N…Not…” it feels as though nerves and fear have swallowed you whole, having to take a deep breath in order to continue your sentence, “Not here. Not like this.”

“Hmm? But where else could this possibly happen?” he asks teasingly, much too desperate to heed your half-hearted request, “my lamb, it is perfect here.”

“Beomgyu, this place, it’s sacred,” your lips pressed together, using all the courage within you to speak up, “It is a home to me, I couldn’t bear to desecrate it—”

Beomgyu’s fingers dig into the plush of your thigh, able to feel his face hover over yours as he speaks through gritted teeth, eyes burning holes into your skin. 

“This was my home too.”

It all happens so suddenly; you’re pushed to lay back against the table, legs forced open as Beomgyu gets closer still, your lips parting in a soft gasp as he successfully bunches your nightgown at your hips, looming over you so he can undo your coat. 

“And our lord has decreed that it is here where I finally take you.” he hisses, watches as you can only let our a broken whimper and shift restlessly beneath him; the fire has consumed you wholly by now, he knows, the seeds of lust planted within you far too much for a person like you to bare— even the graze of his fingertips against your bare skin is enough to have you gasping. 

“I’ve waited long enough to taste you.”

Your body is alight with nerves, buzzing at the sensations around you— though you see nothing, it heightens your other senses, forced to take note of every motion and touch Beomgyu leaves on you, from his deft hands that undo your coat to the warmth of his body between your thighs, lips pressed together in a mix of anticipation and dread— all you can do is lie and wait. 

When Beomgyu’s hands slither back down to your core, you’re a squirming mess; he’s done nothing to you, yet you already seem so broken down and pliant— you’re a sweet sight, bitten lips parting eagerly in surprise once he suddenly plants his hand firmly against your core; your panties are pathetically soaked through, a soft cry escaping you at the heat of his touch against you, hands flying to grab at his wrist— unsure of whether to press him closer of pry him off. 

In the end, you do neither of the two. Beomgyu grins at your hesitation, a clear battle still ongoing inside your mind as you allow him to slowly rock his palm against your cunt, rubbing at your clit and causing you to sob softly at the unfamiliar sensation; your back arches and jolts of pleasure strike through you, the underlying guilt of it all causing tears to quickly well up at the corners of your eyes— though, from pleasure or shame, you’re no longer sure of. 

“Poor thing,” he coos softly, applying a sudden pressure against your cunt, all to watch the way your back arches in surprise, “it’s quite easy to make you cry, isn’t it?”

“This must all be so new to you,” he hums, rubbing at your cunt until your panties have begun to stick uncomfortably to you, your arousal soaking through and coating the heel of his hand thickly, “so pretty. Like an angel.”

His words cause a wave of heat to wash over your body; you feel restless, desperate for more, yet unsure of how to communicate as you find yourself hesitating each time, the undying guilt within you forcing your fingertips to dig into Beomgyu’s forearm a bit deeper.

“Hmm? What is it you need, my lamb?” he asks, even if he can practically see the thoughts running through your head, reading your body and the way your hips fight to cant against his hand, “Tell me, what do you want?” 

The way you shake your head petulantly brings a huff from Beomgyu; he watches as you heat up at his question, lips trembling with embarrassment, chin tucked down into your chest as though it would be enough to hide from his gaze— chuckling, Beomgyu allows a few more seconds to pass, letting you sit with your own confliction, before he finally decides to take pity on you; a shaky gasp escapes your lips as Beomgyu’s hand shifts, middle and ring fingers trailing up until they press against the fabric of your panties, pushing in and teasing your leaking hole. 

“Why do you hold back still?” he asks softly, his hand that isn’t teasing you incessantly smoothing down your thigh, stopping at your knee so he can wrap it around his slim waist, “there’s no need to continue this act of yours; do not lie under the eyes of god.”

You cry softly, a cacophony of emotions raging within you as your nails dig deeper into your palms, cunt throbbing and sending sparks of electricity as Beomgyu presses his fingers further into you, stretching the fabric and soaking it with your own arousal— through hushed, trembled words, you finally gather the courage to speak. 

“I want…” you hesitate, shifting on the cold marble of the altar table, turning your head to the side in a faux attempt to avoid Beomgyu’s scrutiny, “I want more.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Beomgyu immediately chides, his fingers moving to ghost over your clit, a satisfied smile growing on his face as you feel the shocks of pleasure from his movements, already too much for your innocent body, “you expect me to take such a weak request seriously?”

You gasp in surprise as Beomgyu suddenly takes a hold of your chin, forcing you to face him once more as you feel him hovering over you; his breath fans across your face, eyelids fluttering behind your blindfold at the sensation. 

“Tell me again,” he says, his fingers applying just the slightest more pressure on your clit, watching as the pleasure breaks you effortlessly; his lips brush against the corner of your mouth, able to feel his coy smile as he speaks. “Tell me like you mean it.”

Beomgyu waits for you eagerly; his touch on your cunt is almost nonexistent, applying just enough pressure here and there as a reminder of what it is you so desperately wish for— it’s so easy to get you to where he wants, he thinks, watching you become overwhelmed by his presence, by the pleasure he continues to give and take away. After a mere few seconds, you finally cave. 

“Beomgyu…” you trail off, the sudden use of his name bringing a shiver through his body, the sound sweet and pure like he dreamed it to be, “Beomgyu, I can’t— I feel so strange, please help me— I need more.”

He chuckles lowly at your words; placing a gentle kiss at the corner of your mouth, Beomgyu straightens up, leaving you for a moment in order to hook his fingers under your panties, ready to drag them slowly down your hips. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he sighs aloud, watching with fond eyes as you startle at the sensation, legs jumping to close back together— but he won’t allow it, standing firmly between them and forcing your hips to lift, all so he can pull off the only article of clothing standing between him and what he’s desired for so long; his eyes darken at the string of arousal that follows the seat of your panties, eagerly taking in your puffy, needy cunt, body becoming alight with a carnal need to consume you whole. “You’re perfect. Truly a gift from god.” 

He can’t help but grin at his own comment, eyes flickering back up at the altar above him, the candles that flicker wildly— then he looks back down at you, your puffy, tear stained face and your hands that remain tense at your sides, lips pressed together in fear of letting a sound escape— but Beomgyu is much too eager to let you have what you want. 

This ashamed and reserved attitude of yours will be no more— he’s determined to have you melt under his touch, fingertips curious as they finally begin to caress your bare cunt, teeth sinking into his lip as he takes in every gasp, arch, and tense your body gives him. 

It’s slow and oh so cruel, the way he swipes the pads of his fingertips along your slit, bringing the arousal to your clit and circling it softly, all so he can watch you pant and shiver at the sensations— your hands have moved to grasp at your clothes, jaw clenched as your mind tries to keep up with all these new sensations: you feel so hot and restless, a fiery itch settling deep in your core, only alleviated with the stray sparks of pleasure Beomgyu gives you— it’s too much, yet not enough at all. 

“Won’t you let me hear you?” Beomgyu asks, fingers beginning to prod at your entrance, circling it leisurely as he observes you, “it’s no fun like this.”

You can hear the pout in his words, petulant and teasing as he coos out your name, “C’mon, I know you sound as sweet as you look.”

You’re given no warning when his fingers breach your entrance; a yelp escapes you before you can process it, the sudden stretch bringing chills down your spine— it’s just his middle finger first, lithe and calculated as it curls and prods at your walls, feeling you flutter and clench around him as he adds his ring finger in next— you’re letting out a cry at how fast it all happens, a hand reaching down to grasp at his wrist, a mixture of shock and pleasure filling your being. 

“Beomgyu…!”

“Again,” he murmurs, fingers beginning to stretch your walls, pumping steadily and curling, listening to the quiet mewls and moans you let out, “louder. Show me how much you like it.”

“Beomgyu… oh–! N-not there, ah–!” You’re a squirming mess, shifting beneath his hold and shaking your head, the feelings far too much for you— Beomgyu doesn’t bother to heed your requests, abusing the soft, spongy parts of your walls that seem to make you react the most; you choke and hiccup pathetic moans, thighs tensing and spasming around him, hands shaking from the tight hold you have on your nightgown; it gets difficult having to chase your hips after a while, Beomgyu’s eyes narrowing as he places a harsh hand down on you, pinning you down against the table, fingers digging into the soft skin as you gasp. 

“Stay still.” is all he says to you, palm pressing against your clit as he slowly fingers you, drinking in the miniscule changes of your expression eagerly, “Don’t fight it.” 

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He asks, punctuating his words with a cruel curl into you; you gasp, chest heaving as a tight coil builds up within you, “doesn’t it feel so nice?” 

“So sad, you’ve been denying yourself such bliss for so long,” Beomgyu utters softly, cooing at the way you cry and struggle to remain sane, overwhelmed by everything Beomgyu does to you, “won’t you let me take care of you?” 

Carefully, he hovers over you, strands of his hair brushing against your cheeks as he presses a soft kiss to your jaw, lips caressing the column of your neck as he smiles softly. 

“Wouldn’t you like for me to taste you?”

He’s sure you don’t fully grasp what it is he might mean— but you’re eager nonetheless, a gasp escaping your lips, so soft he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been so close— the tight clench of your cunt around him is enough of a sign anyway. 

You can only hear shifting; your ears perk up as you try to decipher what could be happening, feeling Beomgyu’s hand wander down your thighs, the loss of his heat above you, the flickering warmth of the candles around you— you lay still, with bated breath and buzzing nerves. 

Your mouth falls open, a loud moan falling from your mouth and bouncing off the walls. 

It’s all too much for your poor, inexperienced body; it’s overwhelming, the pleasure wrapping you up and burning you alive as your thighs attempt to shut, only to close in on Beomgyu’s head that remains steady, large hands splayed on your hips as he holds you down, his mouth continuing his assault against your cunt. 

The chants of his name and your broken moans are enough to keep him motivated— he’s lapping at your clit hungrily, moving down to suck at the arousal that leaks from your entrance, perfect nose bumping into you as he sighs and groans against you. 

You think you might’ve gone mad; sounds you didn’t think were possible are escaping you, each more pitiful and helpless than the last. Your hands wander absentmindedly, not realizing what it is you’re searching for until they’ve finally curled into his thick hair, tangling strands around your fingers and tugging rashly— you can feel him moan against you at the actions, the feeling bringing a shiver down your spine. 

“B-Beom…gyu!” you whine out, hips attempting to wiggle out of his hold, hands tugging his head closer— your eyes remain screwed tight behind your blindfold, tears pricking at them as your mind races to process what is happening to you— between your legs, Beomgyu grins triumphantly, nails digging into your delicate thighs as he licks a long stripe along your slit.

In times like these, Beomgyu can’t help but be reminded of who he is, what his existence is for— his tongue is long, abnormally so, as it enters you, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he laps up your essence and fucks you with it, listening to your startled cries morph into nothing but wanton lust, choking on the syllables of his name and brokenly pleading for him to not stop— as if he could ever be capable of doing so.

You’re delicious, like a ripe fruit that has been eyed for too long, too high on a tree for anyone to take— victory feels sweet on Beomgyu’s tongue as you clench and leak around him, allowing you to grind against him and take the reins of what you want, giving you the pleasure you seek— and he can feel you getting wound up quite quickly, your keens and cries loud enough to rival the screams of fear you were letting out only moments ago— but then again, none of that matters as long as Beomgyu has his hands on you. 

You’re almost there, a climax strong enough to wreck you approaching quickly— and as much as Beomgyu would love to feel it, to swallow your cum as it drips out your fluttering cunt— he can’t. Not yet, and certainly not like this. Though it pains him, he pulls away from your cunt that attempts to suck him back in. 

The sob you let out almost makes Beomgyu regret his decision; you’re a broken, confused mess, panting like a dog as you cry and wonder why it is that Beomgyu stopped so suddenly— gently, Beomgyu pries your hands off from where they tug at his hair, listening to your disoriented mumbles of his name, reaching blindly for him as he rises to his feet. And you’re left in the darkness once more. 

Before you can react, Beomgyu’s hands lift your head, quickly undoing your blindfold, letting it fall against the altar next to your face; your eyes flutter open from the action, brows furrowed as everything slowly comes into focus. 

Beomgyu hovers above you, the flickering candlelight around the two of you casting an ethereal glow around his face; it is warm and fond as he looks down at you, plump lips pulled into a gentle smile as he caresses your cheek, letting out a breathy chuckle at the way you fluster immediately, unable to hold his gaze. 

“Look at me.” he says, his voice compelling enough to have you following his command, the feeling so natural you haven’t realized you’ve obeyed until you’re meeting his dark eyes— there is no light in his pupils, despite the many sources that continue to fall onto the two of you. He smiles, a hand continuing its reassuring strokes against your skin, the other moving down to grab your thigh, wrapping it around his waist once more. “Don’t be afraid— keep your eyes on me.”

You feel something prodding at your entrance; you stiffen, breath hitching and hands instinctively reaching up to place themselves flat against Beomgyu’s chest— with wide eyes, you stare back at him, unable to break this entrancing spell you’ve caught yourself in, lips parting in a silent gasp as Beomgyu’s eyes soften. Slowly, he pushes in.

The feeling of his cockhead breaching your walls has you gasping sharply, shock painting your face and nails digging into your chest as your back arches slightly— the stretch is new and unexpected, the feeling of him inside you causing your stomach to twist in pain and pleasure— it’s so sudden, you feel as though you’re not ready, yet your body cries for him to continue, feeling him pause and still inside you. 

The smile on Beomgyu’s face is practically permanent; words could not explain the satisfaction he feels, the twisted victory he gains from every inch he pushes inside you, virgin walls fluttering and squeezing him like a vice, your wide, doe eyes glazing over with pleasure the longer he takes, the more he allows you to adjust. 

Your chest heaves by the time he’s fully inside you, face screwing up as you feel him bottom out, his tip pressing firmly into you— your voice breaks as you call out his name, searching for comfort he will not be able to provide. Instead, he coos softly at you, empty, sugary words and reassurances that are merely practiced in his mind, feathery caresses against your temple as he shushes you, telling you that everything’s okay, that you’ll feel good soon enough.

“I’ve got you,” he purrs, even if you continue to tense every time he shifts, legs twitching at the sheer stretch you’ve suddenly been forced to take. “It’s okay, don’t be nervous.”

When he begins to pull out, criminally slow and teasing, you gasp— and he grins, fully expecting it as he hovers over your lips, only to press a chaste kiss to your nose as he moves to stand straight, only the tip of his cock left inside you. 

The sight of you is nothing short of divine; just seeing you like this is enough to bring him energy, greedy gaze taking in your broken expression, eyes flickering to your parted lips that tremble and gasp out his name. He groans softly, the eyes fluttering shut as he takes a moment to appreciate the way your cunt clenches around him, warm and wet, nothing like the scraps he was forced to feed on as punishment. You’re perfect, pure, full of life. 

Before he can second guess himself, his hips slam back in. 

The pace he’s set is nothing short of cruel; his feather-light touches and chaste kisses had been nothing but a show, all an attempt to lower your guard and allow him to seize you at your weakest; you yelp in surprise and attempt to cling onto him, overwhelmed by the harshness of his cock as it pounds into you, aiming for the most sensitive spots within you that leave you begging and crying out— but whether it’s for him to stop or continue, you’re not entirely sure— your reasoning blurred into one big mess long ago. 

It doesn’t take long for Beomgyu to lose himself in the feeling of you; greedy, rough hands grasping at your skin, groping the soft skin of your thighs, your hips, wandering up to squeeze and toy with your breasts— and you can only lay there and take it all, watching him use you to satisfy himself, unable to help the way your cunt clenches and drools at the sight. His hips angle and his cock slams deep against you, hitting a spot he’s never hit before— and you stiffen, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you cry out. 

“Oh!” you yelp, tears pooling at your eyes, a hand slamming over your mouth at the sudden noise— but even so, your muffled cries still slip out from the cracks of your fingers. “O-Oh my—! ah—!”

“Why silence yourself?” Beomgyu laughs softly, slightly out of breath as he continues to cling to you, hips rutting wildly into you, chasing that familiar bliss he grew addicted to; he proceeds to aim for that particular spot over and over, watching tears ebb from the corners of your eyes, flowing down the sides of your face and dripping onto the pristine white marble of the altar table. “Go on, say it.”

“Say it, call out their name, let this whole sanctuary know how good it feels,” he hisses, face hovering over yours once more, eager to watch you crumble. 

“Call to your god,” he whispers, a soft moan falling between heavy breaths, feeling the way you squeeze and suck him in, your peak approaching much too fast for you to handle, “go on, pray that they forgive your sins and look past the way your tight cunt begs to keep this demon inside you.”

His cock feels like heaven inside you; it’s relentless, slamming into you as his hand falls from its tight hold on your thigh to your clit, rubbing tight circles that cause your body to tighten until it can no longer hold back. 

“Oh my God— Beomgyu!” you’re a drooling, tearful, pitiful sight as you finally crash down, sobbing and babbling words that blend together, your hands pulling at Beomgyu’s shirt until you’re bringing him down to you.

Beomgyu’s kiss is celestial. His lips slot perfectly against yours, a soft grunt escaping him as he finally cums inside you; thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your cunt, filling you until you can no longer hold it in— you tremble and you hold Beomgyu close to you throughout it all, your mind emptied out and craving nothing but him. 

Your eyes flutter shut; your body tingles, your hold on him weakening as you begin to slump back against the altar. It’s getting harder to move, sluggishly trying your best to keep up with Beomgyu’s sloppy kisses, your chest beginning to cave in as your lungs burn and beg for air. 

You want to pull away. You want to stop— yet, you find with a delayed horror that you can’t. 

Beomgyu won’t pull away; Beomgyu can’t pull away, feeling his arms snake beneath your figure, one wrapping around your waist tightly, the other slithering up your back and cradling the back of your head, holding it up so he can keep you as close to him as possible. 

Your vision has begun to blur; your hands have fallen limp at your sides. You feel weakened, only your lips able to move as they mindlessly follow after Beomgyu, sluggish and messy movements that go on whether you want to or not. 

Behind him, a crackling sound emits; the candles around you flicker wildly, divine feathers that were once proudly on display above you beginning to darken and fall, burning off and becoming a charred black— blood seeps from the crevices where feathers slip away, landing on top of you and on the altar you lay on. 

His wings are a shriveled, grisly sight. He’s transformed entirely before your very eyes, pulling away slowly and sighing softly into your parted lips. Slowly, his hands slither off you, laying you gently and standing straight to take in the mess he’s made. All you can do is stare back through bleary eyes. 

“My lamb,” he says affectionately, bringing a hand up to cup your face; it is only then that you’re able to notice the state of his hands, charred and injured, just like his wings, animal-like claws replacing his nails. They dig slightly into your skin as he smiles down at you, utterly enamored.

“I will cherish this ‘till kingdom come.”

His enchanting expression is the last thing you see. His claw moves faster than the human eye can process as it slices cleanly across the canvas of your neck. 

Your body jolts at the action, not a single shift in your expression as your body relaxes against the altar table. Your eyes remain open and dazed with pleasure.

Blood flows from the deep crack of his cut; it flows from your mouth as well, and all Beomgyu can do is watch as the color slowly fades from your skin, the light in your eyes no more. He looms over you in silence, lingering on even when he knows there’s nothing left for him there. A pool of your blood has formed around your head, a twisted halo that stains the marble. 

Beomgyu’s eyes remain transfixed on your wound, emotionless eyes watching the blood drip out steadily. Then, they begin to wander, trailing down until they stop at a certain point, hypnotized by the thought that suddenly enters his mind. 

Before he can second guess himself, Beomgyu’s hand hovers above your chest. 

It is not easy to reach your heart. It is an obscene and difficult process, though Beomgyu doesn’t bat an eye throughout it all; blood coats his forearm once he finally succeeds, a happy hum escaping him as he examines the item in his hands with fascination. 

It’s just as transcendent as the rest of you. Taking your life force was enough to make Beomgyu feel normal again, but with this, he’s sure that you would fuel his energy for the rest of his miserable eternity. 

His eyes soften; it’s so fragile, it drips onto his skin and sings to him, the last of your innocence begging to be released, to be given peace; instead, Beomgyu brings it closer to him, sighing slowly as he gets one last look at it.

And he bites. 

He can almost hear your voice, the memories trapped within as he closes his eyes, chewing and swallowing and biting again. Tilting his head back, he all but groans in satisfaction. 

His eyes slowly flutter open. He’s met with the chandeliers above him, the looming altar to his left calling his attention. Apathetically, his head lolls to the side, getting a better look at the statues that stand over him. Taking another bite, he feels blood leak onto his lips that curl into a sickly sweet smile.

He’s never tasted anything purer.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy, seizures and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

By the time Lizzie heard the knock on her door, she was almost regretting inviting Lando over.

Not because she didn’t want to see him—she did. But because she was still exhausted, her limbs felt like lead, and she hadn’t had the energy to change into anything more presentable than this.

Which was how she found herself standing in front of her door, dressed in sweatpants and a vintage Ferrari hoodie that was older than both of them, trying to summon the will to care.

She pulled the door open, and there he was—Lando Norris, grinning at her like she hadn’t texted him less than 6 hours ago to say, Hey, I had a seizure, so can we not do the fancy restaurant thing?

“Hey,” he said, then his eyes dropped to her hoodie. His expression morphed into pure betrayal. “You—Lizzie.” He pointed. “Is that—is that a Ferrari hoodie?”

She crossed her arms, ignoring the amusement bubbling in her chest. “It was my dad’s.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Lando said, still staring at it like it personally offended him. “It makes it worse. It’s, like, vintage blasphemy.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and stepped aside to let him in. “You’re in my apartment. You don’t get to insult my clothes.”

“I absolutely do.”

“You really don’t.”

"You literally live in Woking," Lando said darkly as he stepped into her apartment. "A stone throw away from the MTC!"

Lizzie rolled her eyes once more, closing the door behind him. "And I'm still a Ferrari girl at heart."

Lando groaned, shaking his head. "You're breaking my heart here, you know that?"

"Is now the time to mention that Mara is also named after Ferrari?" she asked with a grin, as he followed her into the kitchen and sat down a grocery bag on the counter.

Lando blinked. "How is Mara named after Ferrari?" he asked her.

"Well, Mara is short for Maranello," Lizzie said brightly.

Lando's mouth fell open. "You have got to be kidding me," he said, staring at her. "Your dog is named after Ferrari headquarters?"

Lizzie just smiled, not even trying to hold back her amusement. "Yep," she said, popping the p on the word.

"First the hoodie, then the dog... what's next, a Vettel tattoo?" Lando asked her with a sigh.

"I mean, I was considering it," Lizzie said, completely deadpan.

For a moment, Lando actually looked worried. "You're joking, right? Please tell me you're joking."

Lizzie cackled, a deep, full-belly laugh. "Relax, Lando. I'm kidding."

His shoulders sagged. "You're an evil woman. An actual evil woman."

"What is even in there?" she asked with a nod to the grocery bags.

Lando smirked. “Backup nuggets.”

Lizzie frowned. “Backup nuggets?”

“In case yours suck.”

Lizzie snorted. “Wow. True trust issues.”

Lando grinned, but there was something softer behind it. She felt it when he looked at her for just a second too long.

She shoved the nuggets into the oven before he could say anything annoying about it.

"I also brought ice cream. I didn't know what you like..."

"Vanilla," she said immediately.

"Vanilla it is," he agreed. "Where's Mara by the way?"

Lizzie's eyes darted down the hallway. "She's probably passed out in the living room, honestly," she said. "Dad said she barely left my side last night, poor thing. Probably wore herself out."

Lando winced. "I can imagine. Must've been pretty freaked out, huh?"

Lizzie nodded. "She kept licking my face. Apparently they do that to wake you up when you have a seizure."

For a moment, his gaze softened, and he looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't get hurt, right? When you have a seizure, I mean."

"Generally, no," Lizzie said, "I might accidentally bite my tongue, and I'm usually sore and tired after, but I don't get hurt."

Lando nodded, but she could see the concern still lingering on his face. "But you're okay now?" he asked quietly.

Lizzie managed to bite back her smile. "I'm fine, Lando. I promise. This really is normal for me."

His head dipped. "You're sure?"

She softened, touched by the worry in his voice. "I'm sure," she said gently. "No need to look so serious, pretty boy."

“Excuse me, I’m not pretty.” He objected with a disgusted expression.

Lizzie snorted. “Yeah, you aren’t if you pull a face like that.” She shot back immediately.

“Excuse me, that’s not very nice!”

“Mate, make up your mind,” Lizzie said with a snort. “I say you are pretty, you disagree. I say you aren’t, you also disagree. What are you then?”

“I am ruggedly handsome,” he told her seriously.

She could only stare at him.

“If you somehow manage to grow a beard, then, maybe. But with that clean-shaven look you have going on right now? Not in a million years. You’re pretty, and that’s that.”

Lando's eyes widened, taken aback. "Did you just—" he spluttered. "Did you just insult my ability to grow facial hair and then go and call me pretty in the same breath?"

"I absolutely did," Lizzie said, barely able to hold back her grin. "What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?"

What she hadn't expected was for him to advance and corner her against her kitchen counter.

She froze, eyes wide, her heart suddenly thumping in her chest. Lando planted one hand on either side of the counter, caging her in.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, expression still tinged with faux offense.

And his eyes...she could spent a whole book describing their colour and Lizzie was quite sure that it was going to fall short. Even in the dim light of her kitchen, they shifted from blue to green and back.

The intensity of his gaze was almost unbearable. Lizzie's mind went completely blank, and she found herself staring at him, a flutter of nervous energy coursing through her like electricity.

Lando was so close now that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. She was suddenly hyper-aware of every nerve in her body, like this new, intimate proximity had set her senses on fire.

Lizzie wasn't even sure who moved first.

All she knew was that suddenly, his lips were on hers. The kiss started gently, almost tentatively. But something shifted in an instant.

It became hungrier, more desperate, like a dam had burst. Lizzie couldn't help herself; her arms wrapped around Lando's shoulders and pulled him closer, every part of her body pressed against his.

One of his hands threaded into her hair, angling her head to get better access, and she made a small, needy sound in the back of her throat. Her fingers curled into the soft cotton of his shirt, clutching at it as she kissed him back, dizzy with the feel of him.

Oh. 

Oh. 

Lando groaned, the sound reverberating through her. His free hand slid beneath her hoodie, seeking out the bare skin of her waist.

Her own hands moved over his back, desperate and urgent. The kiss turned hotter, less controlled as her world narrowed to this, to him, to the intoxicating feeling of his body against hers.

And then the sound of the oven timer beeped. Loudly. She jerked in his grasp, managing to make one of her cookbooks clatter down onto the floor.

A second later, Mara was barelling into the room, clearly thinking that she had had a seizure and destroyed her house.

Lizzie and Lando sprung apart, both of them flushed and more than a little breathless.

Lizzie couldn’t help it; she burst into a fit of giggles, watching Mara skid across the linoleum.

"I'm fine, Mara," she said through her laughter. Her dog whined, clearly not convinced.

Lando was looking like a deer in headlights, his cheeks flushed and his hair messed up from her fingers. He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, and she bit her lip to keep herself from grinning like an idiot.

"We should rescue the dino nuggets," Lizzie suggested.

Lando still looked stunned. "Right - yeah - nuggets-" he said, blinking.

Lizzie chuckled and knelt down to pat Mara to reassure her. The dog was practically whining with worry, licking her face and nudging her. Lizzie gently pushed her back in an attempt to give herself some space.

"I think you traumatized my dog," she said, looking up at him with a smirk.

He scratched the back of his head, still endearingly awkward. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I wasn't exactly...thinking when..."

She just shook her head, grinning. "Maybe we should focus on rescuing those dino nuggets, don't you think, pretty boy?"

He swallowed, glancing at her briefly before nodding. "Yeah. Nuggets."

Lizzie pushed herself off the floor, giving Mara's head a final pat before she headed over to the oven. Lando joined her in the kitchen, his gaze flickering to her every other second. Lizzie took the plate from the oven, setting it down on the stove top.

"They look fine," she said, inspecting the slightly-singed edges of the nuggets. "All things considered."

Lando leaned against the counter beside her. "Great," he said, but his voice was still a little unsteady.

She shot him a sideways glance, amused by the way his gaze kept dropping to her mouth.

"Was that..." he trailed off and she watched to see a slight blush cover his cheeks.

"What?" she asked, hiding a smile. He was even more adorable when he was embarrassed.

He cleared his throat, looking vaguely flustered. "That was okay, right?"

And just like that, her own cheeks grew warm. They'd just made out in her kitchen, and now he was asking her if... if it was okay?

She studied him, taking in the pink hue on his face. There was something so vulnerable about the way he was looking at her. It was like he couldn't believe it had happened, and now he was scared he had overstepped.

"It was..." she began, only stopping to consider her words."...pretty incredible."

Relief flickered across Lando's face. "Yeah?" he said, a hint of the cocky demeanor returning. "You liked it, then?"

In response, Lizzie just rolled her eyes, pushing the plate of dino nuggets towards him to end the conversation before he could say anything else.

"Try a damn nugget."

Lando raised an eyebrow, but his smile grew even wider as he picked up a nugget from the plate. "Bossy."

She just rolled her eyes again, biting back a laugh. "Eat your nugget before I regret telling you that I liked it."

He chuckled and popped the nugget into his mouth. "Not bad," he said, still grinning.

Lizzie found herself returning the smile. He was impossible.

But then again, she thought as she looked at him, she supposed she wouldn't want him any other way.

"Let's take this to the living room," she suggested.

"So is there even more Ferrari merch there?" Lando asked her. She just rolled her eyes.

"Not Ferrari merch, no," she said drily. “I keep that in the bedroom.” Lando gave a squawk in response. She just laughed. 

Did her living room kinda look like the set of a fantasy movie had thrown up all over it? Yes. 

She had a near life size portrait of Astrid and Ciaran, the main characters of her book series hung over her fireplace, which an amazingly talented fan artist had painted and she had purchased.

Lando was staring at the portrait with something close to amusement. He turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Okay, so who is that guy, and why does he have bat wings?"

Lizzie sighed, taking a seat on the large couch that dominated the room. "That would be Ciaran. Bat wings and all."

Lando took a seat beside her, still eyeing the portrait suspiciously. "And who exactly is Ciaran supposed to be?"

"He is the Dark Prince...The Heir to the throne of the land of Kasharia," she said with a wave of her hand. "He's the love interest in the Seasons of Fate Series."

Lando's eyebrows shot up, turning back to the portrait, studying it with more interest this time. "And the Wings are his thing, I'm guessing? Makes him the 'Dark Prince'?"

Lizzie bit her lip to keep a laugh from escaping. "Basically."

"Right, right." He was nodding now. "What about the woman, then? Blondie with the dagger?"

Lizzie found herself smiling, remembering the story behind that particular piece of art. "That would be Astrid," she said.

Lando looked like he was starting to put pieces together. He leaned back on the couch, eyes on the portrait once more. "And Astrid is, what? The princess or something?"

"She's a handmaiden of the Princess of another kingdom he's supposed to marry," she explained with a wave of her hand. "She ends up married to Ciaran instead."

Lando was nodding along as Lizzie described it, a look of fascination on his face. "Oh, so it's like one of those forbidden romance deals, huh?" he asked, sounding surprisingly invested.

"In a sense, yeah," she agreed, finding herself amused by his interest. "You seem surprisingly interested in this, considering you thought the wings were over the top a minute ago."

Lando shot her a look, his eyes twinkling. "Hey, I can appreciate a good love story, can't I? Besides, million of people adore your books. There must be something pretty special about them."

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

Lizzie felt a surge of warmth in her chest at his words. It still surprised her, at times, how much her books meant to people.

"I don't know about that, but people seem to enjoy them," she said lightly. "Still thinking you are going to pick one up?" she teased him with a grin.

"It’s probably gonna take me two months to get through the first book, between my schedule and my dyslexia, but the bat wings have totally sold it," Lando told her seriously.

She couldn't help but laugh at that, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. The idea of Lando, who was about as far from a fantasy fan as you could get, actually trying to read one of her books was too absurd. "You are absolutely not going to read one of my books," she said, grinning.

"Hey, I could!" he objected with mock offense. "Don't underestimate me."

Lizzie shook her head, still laughing. "I'm not underestimating you. But let's be honest, you've got better things to do with your time than read about bat winged princes and handmaiden."

"Don't you have better things to do than too watch 20 men in their cars drive around in wobbly circles?" he shot right back. "You created these books. You poured your time and energy into them. I don't think there are many things that are more important than that." 

Lizzie fell silent, taken off guard by his words. He had a point, she thought.

"I suppose you have a point there," she admitted quietly.

Lando seemed pleased with himself, his cocky demeanor falling back into place. "See? I do have some smarts in there."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "You are insufferable, you know that? Besides, what's with your job," she teased him. "Isn't Miami coming up?"

Lando just snorted. "Yeah, we are all looking forward to hear the Dutch national anthem. Again."

Lizzie chuckled, picturing the familiar sight of the podium at a Grand Prix - the winning driver and the Dutch and Austrian anthems playing. "You are so dramatic. Maybe you'll win in Miami."

He gave her a look, his expression clearly communicating that he thought her words were ridiculous. "Uh-huh. You obviously don't know my luck. Second place is basically my second name."

Lizzie laughed, finding his complaining endearing despite herself. "You sound like Mara when I have a treat, but don't give it to her. Stop whining. Second place is still impressive as all hell, you know that right?"

Mara perked up at the mention of her name and took that moment to jump up on the couch, and once again, not caring at all about personal space, just drape herself all over Lando.

Lando looked startled, his gaze flying down to where Mara was settling onto his lap. "Uh..." he said, his voice full of confusion.

Lizzie tried not to crack a smile at the way he looked like he'd never encountered a dog before. Mara, meanwhile, looked incredibly pleased with herself.

Lando looked up at Lizzie, his expression a comical mix of disbelief and alarm. "What...what is she doing?" he asked, clearly bewildered.

Lizzie couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing. "She likes you," she managed to say through her mirth. "Clearly a woman of excellent taste."

Lando gave her a dubious look, clearly not sure if he was being insulted or not. Then Mara shifted in his lap and let out a happy sigh, and he looked back down at her. Lizzie could see the exact moment he melted. No man was immune to dogs.

"I'll go against my core beliefs and root for the ugly orange car with your number on it if you promise me that you'll believe that you have a chance of winning."

Lando shot her a look, a little surprised at her request. Then his familiar cocky smirk spread across his face.

"You'll root for papaya? Over Ferrari?"

Lizzie just nodded. "As long as that big ego of yours lets you believe you can win," she said dryly.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

TOMATO LINGUINE.

carmen “carmy” berzatto x fem!reader — fluff

summary. you surprise carmy with a homemade meal to welcome him home after a long, tiring day at he restaurant. you’re nervous. he’s pleased. you’re tired, and so is he. luckily the couch is calling your names

word count. 834

never wrote him before so im shitting my pants. but he’s been on my mind and needed an outlet. also no s3 spoilers

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Being Carmy's girlfriend isn't always so straightforward. It's great, but it isn't easy. He dislikes the help and aid of others, not because he doesn't like the care or the way it feels, rather, he believes he doesn't deserve it.

So over the past couple of months, you had been subtly increasing the ways you look after him - doing little things to show your love. First, you started small, preparing a water bottle in the fridge overnight, attaching a cute post-it note for him to read as a pick-me-up during service the next day. Then, you moved onto organising his stuff by the front door - lining his clogs and his commuting shoes beside his backpack, placing his coat next to it as an attempt to make his morning easier. You just wanted to help lighten his load, even if that means organising things for him that he’s bound to never forget.

You had been working up to making him dinner. It was an awfully scary thing, not because you were uncertain with your way around the kitchen, but worried in the chance Carmy were to hate it - or make a critique you couldn’t stomach.

You knew he would be tired coming home tonight, a critic in the restaurant will do that to him. You wanted to make him something to eat for when he returns, something homely and welcoming, just something comforting to make up for all of the stresses from today.

You decided on pasta, an all round dish with very little room for error. A jar of sauce would be blasphemy in his apartment, an insult almost, so you made your own simple sauce - placing tomatoes and garlic in a dish, coating it with one of Carmy’s fancy olive oils before throwing it in the oven to roast. It was one you had made a bunch of times for yourself before, so you were fairly confident with it. Sort of.

Remembering little tips he had taught you, you implemented them with everything you cooked - like right now, saving the water from the linguine to incorporate later. And to season throughout, not just at the start or end. You wanted to impress him. You always wanted to impress him.

The key in the door jingles and you rush to add the finishing touches - sprinkling on some chopped herbs, and placing a piece of homemade garlic bread on the side. 

“Hi,” you softly call out, hearing his shoes hit the skirting board - no doubt after he had just kicked them off.

He paces over to you, moving sluggishly as he wraps his arms loosely around your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder. “Hi,” he says back, voice tired against your ear. “Smells great in here.”

“Good. I’m glad you think so,” you smile, pressing a kiss into his temple. “I made you dinner.”

“You uh, you did?” he pulls back, a sheepish smile on his face.

You hum, moving aside to pick up the bowl. “But I can put it in the fridge if you’ve already eaten…”

“No no no,” he shakes his head, reaching to take the bowl from your grasp. “I– I haven’t all day, so uh, so this is perfect,” he nods faintly, reaffirming his words.

Your gaze flickers from the bowl to his eyes, growing antsy. “Please just try it, this is killing me,” you say, scrunching your face from the anticipation. 

He twirls the pasta on his fork and takes a bite, humming in a pleasant tune as he chews.

“Is it good? Is it bad? Too much garlic?” you ramble, nervous from his lack of verbal response. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “It’s uh, it’s tremendous,” he smiles, 

“You’re not just saying that?” you joke. “Not trying to spare my feelings, are you?”

“No,” he chuckles earnestly, shaking his head. “I mean it… it’s almost perfect,” his smile softens as he twirls his fork for another bite. “Did uhm, you use my olive oil?”

“Only a little bit– hope that’s okay.”

“Of course,” he nods once more, chewing his mouthful. “It’s great, I love it,” he grins faintly, leaning in to kiss you. “Thank you.”

–

With full, happy bellies, each of you lay on your sides on the sofa - snug to one another to share the small space. Carmen props the side of his head in his fist, elbow bent beside your head. 

“How are you feeling?” you ask, referring to the  moment of comfortable almost silence.

You notice him hesitate, and to assure him, you copy his movement - propping your head in your hand, your other reaching to the side of his face. You stroke over his sideburn, fingers grazing back into his messy, unkempt curls.

“Tired,” he exhales, eyes closing from your touch. 

“Me too,” you murmur. You adjust, eyes silently asking him to do the same. Moving forward and twisting, you lay your head on his chest - your arm wrapping around his waist tightly. “Get some sleep, Bear. Busy day tomorrow, you need the rest.”

this is probs a one time thing btw x

[bettys-redwinesupernova]

MY MASTERPIECE

drew starkey x plus sized!fem!reader

(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)

SUMMARY: after drew catches his girlfriend crying about the hate she’s receiving, he decides to show her exactly how much he loves her.

based on this ask !! i really hope you like it anon, and i had such a lovely time writing this :’) i just KNOW drew would worship a plus!sized baddie, so imo this is canon🤫

WARNINGS: slight angst to fluff then to smut (18+ mdni pls!!), body worshipping, oral (fem rec), fingering, orgasm denial, blasphemy (“oh god”), insecurities, social media hate, crying, cursing, fat-shaming (fuck you if you do this, and you’re not welcome on my page !!) i think this is all? (lmk if i missed anything !!)

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

THIRD PERSON +

The dim light of the bedside lamp bathed the room in a soft glow. Y/N sat cross-legged on the bed, her laptop resting in front of her, illuminating her face in harsh contrast. Her throat felt tight as her eyes scanned the comments section on yet another gossip website.

"Why is he with her?"

"She's way out of his league."

"Drew could do so much better. She's not even that pretty."

"She doesn’t look right next to Drew AT ALL."

The words blurred as tears pooled in her eyes, one spilling over and sliding down her cheek. She sniffled, trying to hold it together, but it was a losing battle. Her hands trembled as she closed the laptop and set it aside, curling up into herself. The voices in her head, fueled by the hateful comments, were deafening.

She knew Drew loved her. He told her all the time, in the little ways and the big ones. But sometimes, the weight of the world's opinions was too much to bear. Tonight was one of those nights.

She was so caught up in her spiraling thoughts that she didn't hear the front door open or the sound of Drew's voice calling out.

"Babe? I'm home!" he said, his voice warm and familiar as it carried through the apartment.

Her stomach dropped. She quickly wiped at her cheeks, trying to compose herself. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her like this.

Drew stepped into the bedroom, his tall frame filling the doorway. He smiled softly, holding up a bag. "I brought takeout from your favorite place. I figured—" He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed her blotchy, tear-stained face and glossy eyes. His brow furrowed with concern as he dropped the bag on the dresser and closed the distance between them in two long strides.

"Angel, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and cupping her face in his hands. His thumbs gently wiped away the tears that continued to fall despite her efforts to stop them. "Talk to me, baby."

She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's nothing, Drew. I'm fine."

He frowned, not buying it for a second. "That's not nothing. Come on, tell me what's going on."

Her chest tightened as she met his worried gaze. She debated brushing it off, but the dam broke, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them. "It's just... all the comments, Drew. All the things people say about me. About us. They hate me because I'm not what they think you deserve."

Drew's eyes softened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly. She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt.

"They're so cruel," she continued, her voice muffled against him. "And the worst part is... I start to believe them. Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm not good enough for you."

Drew pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt her chin up so she was looking at him. His cobalt eyes were intense, his expression a mix of heartbreak and determination.

"Stop," he said firmly, his voice low and steady. "Don't you dare let those people make you feel like you're not good enough. They don't know you. They don't know us."

She shook her head, the tears still falling. "But Drew, look at me. I'm not some slim, perfect model. I don't fit the image of the kind of woman people expect you to be with."

Drew let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair before turning back to her. "Y/N, do you know what I see when I look at you?"

She stayed silent, unsure how to respond.

"I see the woman who makes me laugh harder than anyone else ever has," he said, his voice soft but unwavering. "I see the woman who listens to me when I'm struggling, who supports me no matter what. I see the woman whose smile lights up my entire day."

His hands moved to her shoulders, his thumbs brushing against her skin in soothing circles. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. I love you for you. For your kindness, your intelligence, your strength. For the way you hum when you're cooking, even though you always say you can't sing. For the way you light up when you talk about the things you're passionate about. You're the most beautiful person I've ever known, inside and out."

Her breath hitched as she listened to his words, the sincerity in his voice breaking through the walls she'd built around herself.

"You're more than enough for me, Y/N," Drew continued, his voice thick with emotion. "You're everything I've ever wanted. And if people can't see that, then screw them. They don't matter."

She let out a shaky laugh, her tears finally starting to slow. "You really mean that?"

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "With all my heart."

She looked up at him, her own heart swelling with love and gratitude. "I don't deserve you, you know that?"

He smirked, his hands sliding down to her waist. "I think it's the other way around."

The tension in the room shifted as his fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on her sides. His gaze darkened slightly, a spark of something more than affection flickering in his eyes.

"I need you to understand how much you mean to me," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone. "Let me show you."

Her breath caught as he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of love and devotion, of promises made and kept.

He deepened the kiss, his hands moving to cradle her face as if she were the most precious thing in the world. She melted into him, her own hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

When they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Drew rested his forehead against hers.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked, a small smile playing on his lips. "Or maybe I really need to show you."

Drew's hand lingered on Y/N's cheek, his thumb gently brushing away the last of her tears. His eyes never left hers—dark, intense, full of something unspoken but heavy, like the weight of a confession he couldn't hold back any longer.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that made her stomach tighten and her breath hitch. She blinked up at him, her lips parting slightly as if to argue, but he didn't let her. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her skin. "Don't say it. Don't say you don't see it. I'll show you."

His fingers trailed down her neck, feather-light, sending shivers rippling through her body. He shifted closer, his other hand finding her waist, pulling her into him until there was no space left between them. Her heart pounded as his gaze dropped to her lips, then lower, tracing the curve of her jaw, the dip of her collarbone, the swell of her chest. Everywhere he looked, she felt it—like fire licking at her skin.

"Drew..." Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, but he silenced her with a kiss. Soft at first, almost questioning, as if he was giving her the chance to pull away. But when she didn't, when she kissed him back, something in him snapped. His hands moved with purpose, one cupping the back of her neck while the other slid down to grip her hip, holding her firmly against him.

He deepened the kiss, slow and deliberate, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her knees weak. She could feel the heat building between them, the way his body pressed into hers, hard and impatient. When he finally pulled away, she was breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to steady herself.

But Drew wasn't done.

His lips found her jaw next, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of her throat. She tilted her head back instinctively, giving him more access, a soft moan escaping her when his teeth grazed her skin.

"You taste so good," he groaned against her neck, his voice thick with desire. His hands moved to the hem of her shirt, fingers curling underneath the fabric as he paused, looking up at her with those piercing eyes. "Can I? Let me see you, baby. All of you."

She nodded, her cheeks heated up but her eyes locked on his, unwavering. In one swift motion, he tugged her shirt over her head, tossing it aside before his hands came to rest on her hips again. His gaze raked over her exposed skin, taking in every curve, every inch of her with a reverence that made her feel like she was something sacred.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice trembling. "Look at you... You're perfect." His hands slid up her sides, his touch firm yet gentle, like he was memorising her. "Every part of you... I want to worship it."

Her breath caught as he sank to his knees in front of her, his hands gripping her thighs as he pressed a kiss to her stomach. It was tender, almost reverent, but the look he gave her when he glanced up was anything but innocent. Heat burned in his eyes, dark and hungry, and it sent a thrill shooting through her.

"Drew..." His name fell from her lips like a prayer, her hands clawing at the sides of his face for anything to grip onto as he began to trail kisses lower, his lips brushing against the band of her pants. He hooked his fingers in the waistband, tugging them down slowly, his lips following the path they took until she was standing there in nothing but her bra and underwear.

His hands slid around to her ass, squeezing gently as he nuzzled against her stomach, pressing another kiss there. "So fucking gorgeous," he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. "I don't know how anyone could ever talk shit about you. You're a goddamn masterpiece."

She whimpered, her chest tightening as he continued his descent, kissing and nipping at her thighs, her hips, anywhere he could reach. His hands slid up her legs, pushing them apart as he settled between them, his face level with the apex of her thighs.

"Drew, please..." Her voice broke, her body trembling with anticipation as he looked up at her, his eyes locking onto hers. There was something raw and primal in his expression, something that made her stomach flip and her core ache with need.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice rough, husky, sending a jolt of electricity through her. "I'll give you anything. Everything."

She swallowed hard, her chest heaving as she struggled to form words. "I... I want you. All of you."

A slow smirk spread across his face, wicked and knowing, as he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. "Then you've got me."

His mouth found her center, hot and insistent, and her knees nearly buckled as a loud moan tore from her throat. His tongue dragged along her slit, teasing, tasting, before delving deeper, burying itself in her folds with a groan that vibrated against her sensitive flesh.

"Oh my god..." Her head tipped back, her nails scraping against his scalp as he worked her over, his tongue flicking and circling her clit with expert precision. He alternated between long, languid strokes and quick, erratic flicks, driving her closer and closer to the edge with every movement.

"Drew, I—fuck, I'm—" Her words dissolved into incoherent gasps and whimpers as the pressure built, her hips rocking against his face as he devoured her. His hands gripped her thighs, keeping her steady as his tongue worked her relentlessly, each lick and suck bringing her closer to oblivion.

And then, just as she was about to tip over, he pulled away, leaving her teetering on the edge, desperate and aching. She cried out in frustration, her hands clutching at him as he stood, towering over her with a predatory grin.

"Not yet, baby," he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. He reached behind her, unhooking her bra and letting it fall to the floor. His hands immediately cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, eliciting a sharp gasp from her. "I'm not done worshiping you."

He bent his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting gently as his free hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear. She moaned loudly, her hips jerking forward as his fingers teased her entrance, circling but not quite entering.

"Drew, please..." Her voice was pleading, broken, her body writhing under his touch. He chuckled darkly, releasing her breast to kiss her deeply, his tongue plunging into her mouth as his fingers finally pushed inside her, stretching her deliciously.

"You're so wet for me," he growled against her lips, his fingers pumping in and out of her at a torturously slow pace. "Is this what you want? Hmm?" He added a third finger, curling them just right, and her entire body went taut, a strangled cry escaping her.

"Yes! Oh god, yes..." Her hands clawed at his shoulders, her hips rolling against his hand as he fucked her with his fingers, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through her. His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight circles that had her vision blurring, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

"Come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice deep and gravelly, sending a shiver down her spine. "Let me feel you."

And just like that, she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her in waves so intense she thought she might drown. Her cries echoed through the room as he held her through it, his fingers continuing to move inside her, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until she was boneless, trembling in his arms.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, she sagged against him, her legs barely able to support her weight. He caught her easily, his strong arms wrapping around her as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

"See?" he murmured, his voice soft now, filled with affection. "Perfect."

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

this was such a sweet request, and i really hope it was exactly what you wanted anon !! i’m so sorry this is so late, but i’m trying to work through all my requests and i’m almost half way there :)

as a curvy gal myself, this was just so cathartic to write and i really hope others feel the same when reading this !! you’re all so so so gorgeous in your own ways and ily all sm <333

[la2yn0va]

General Self-Aware HSR Headcanons/Guidelines(? Is that the word I’m looking for?)

~~~

Notes — I’m not coming back, YET. I still need to see a few things before I came back.

~~~

Reader is referred as ‘The Omni Aeon’ or ‘The Voidborne Sovereign/Arbiter” ORRR “creator/lord/Their, Your Grace”

I believe if hsr WERRE self aware, it’s highly likely that the ‘normal’ au for this au is that it’d be a cult au.

There’s already different factions that worship/follow in the paths of already existing aeons. So if reader was… well GOD, then I believe everyone would be in this unspoken cult organization.

Along with this unspoken cult, there’s unspoken guidelines. Just to list a few;

Any blasphemy of any degree is punishable by fates worse than death. (Newly added, their grace is okay with jokes)

You will be disowned by everyone, weather they be family, friends, jobs, factions, or aeons. You’re now an utter nobody and a blight that must be punished.

The Voidborne Sovereign must have statues on every conceivable planet, and be worshiped three times a day, no matter your business, condition, or whereabouts.

No violence or outburst will be allowed within 30 feet of The Voidborne’s Statue.

Unless the creator themselves give you permission, NO. ONE. Is allowed to call their grace by their real name.

Every faction have different ideas about you, but at the same time they all have the same belief of you.

The only mortals who’re able to follow your path are the emulators of aeons. (Acheron, Herta/Stephen, Feixiao) and the aeons themselves, but only with your permission.

Every planet has a building for you along with servants trained from birth. In belabog, they just give you the Qlipoth Fort. The Xianzhou managed to build a whole ship for you. And Penacony… well I honestly don’t know.

The reader has the following powers;

Omni-Manipulation

Absolute Creation and Destruction

Future-Past-Present Seeing,

Knowledge and Power Gifting/Revoking

Omniscience/Omnipotence

Complete Arsenal

In short. Everything.

Story wise, reader SHOULD NOT, gain these powers immediately. He should have a peak superhuman physicality, along with the same amount of martial arts training/experience of a 1,000 year old. Along with manipulating Either the imaginary or Quantum element at first.

The aeons would put aside all their differences if you so order them to. Nanook should be slightly rebellious and, if someone wants, he should be the main villain in a Self aware HSR x Reader story.

Reader should have a backstory. I’m talking about what happened BEFORE they made the HSR universe. I’m a fan of the reader being in a universe where there was ONE planet with a corrupt ‘god’.

I’m pretty sure I already posted a story of this back story. If you want to read it click here. RIIGHT HEEEEEERRE

Everyone in the galaxy has multiple books/fanfics about you written by some mysterious author. despite this, NO ONE is shameful enough to admit they have fanfics of you.

They’re are absolutely debates about how good you are in bed, along this other stuff.

-That’s all I got right now, sorry. SEE YAA-

[captainjonnitkessler]

I understand if you want to stay out of it but I’m curious as to you’re thoughts on this discourse

https://www.tumblr.com/dappercat123/737173649266737152/your-arguments-sum-to-in-my-perfect-world-there

Anon, I'm going to be entirely honest with you. I have been waiting for an excuse to put my thoughts about this down. Forewarning that this is going to be long and take a dim view of organized religion.

TL;DR: I think everyone in that thread is maliciously misinterpreting evilsoup's point, which is basically that they think Gene Roddenberry was right about what a post-utopian society would look like re: religion. And you can agree or disagree about whether a post-religious utopia is likely or desirable, but to say that anyone who thinks it is is actively calling for and encouraging genocide is a gross misuse of the term (especially coming from at least one person that I'm pretty sure is currently denying an actively ongoing actual fucking genocide).

@evilsoup can correct me if I'm misinterpreting their points, but as far as I see it there are two main points being made:

A) In a perfect utopia with absolutely no source of oppression, marginalization, or disparity, religion would naturally whither away with no outside pressure being applied.

B) This would be a good or at least a neutral thing.

As far as A) goes - a lot of the responses evilsoup got were basically "well *I* would never choose to be nonreligious, so therefore the only way to create that world would be by force, and therefore you are calling for literal genocide". But aside from the fact that evilsoup was very, very clear that they thought this would be a *natural* event and that trying to force people to be nonreligious would be evil - we're not talking about (general) you. You can be as religious as you want but you don't get to make that choice for your grandkids, or your great-great-great grandkids, or your great-great-great-great-great-etc. grandkids. Just because religion is an integral part of your identity doesn't mean it's something you can pass down, and if you're not comfortable with the idea that your kids might choose to leave your religion, you shouldn't have kids.

I personally don't foresee religion disappearing entirely, but it is pretty consistent that as a country becomes happier, healthier, and wealthier, it also becomes less religious. Religiosity is inversely correlated with progressive values. And the more democratic and secular a nation is, the less powerful religious authorities become - In the 1600s blasphemy and atheism were punishable by death* in Massachusetts and today I can call the Pope a cunt to his face** on Twitter with no repercussions whatsoever. Political secularism is an absolute necessity for true democracy and it necessitates removing power from religious authorities, which has and will likely continue to lead to a decline in religiosity - not just a decline in how many people identify as religious, but also a decline in how religious the remaining people are.

*Blasphemy laws and death penalties for blasphemers/apostates are still VERY much a thing in many places. It's hard to see a path where those places become more democratic but don't become more secular and repeal those laws.

**Well, to the face of whoever runs his Twitter account, but the point remains.

I also believe that many religious communities have been held together for so long via coercion - either internal coercion like blasphemy and apostasy laws, shunning, and threats of hell or other supernatural punishment, or external coercion like oppression from the majority religious group or ethnic cleansings. In a perfect utopia, neither form of coercion would exist and I don't think it's crazy to think that religiosity would drop severely and become a much less important part of people's identities, in the way I think the queer community would not exist in a world where queerphobia didn't exist.

ANYWAY, all this is actually kind of moot. It could happen, it could not, nobody is calling for it to be forced so we'll just have to wait and see. The real point of disagreement is on B).

I'm gonna be honest - I think a lot of the responders are rank hypocrites and are really hung up on the idea of cultural purity, which is something I'm wildly uncomfortable with.

First of all, the idea that a deeply-held religious belief could be diluted until it's just a cultural thing that nobody really remembers the origins of isn't some evil mastermind plot evilsoup is trying to concoct, it's just how cultures work. There's tons of stuff about American culture that are vaguely rooted in what were once deeply-held beliefs and are now entertainment. Halloween is rooted in sacred tradition and now it's a day to dress up and get candy. Christmas is one of the most sacred holidays in Christianity but nobody bats an eye if a non-Christian puts up some lights or decorates a tree just because it's fun. I have no doubt that every culture on Earth has traditions that used to be deeply sacred but are now just fun family traditions. People in Japan use Christian symbology as an "exotic, mythical" aesthetic the exact same way people in the West use Eastern symbology. And if you're okay with it happening to Christianity, why wouldn't you be okay with it happening to any other religion in the absence of oppression?

And there's the idea that if a culture fails to get passed down *exactly* as it is now, it's a terrible loss and the result of malicious outside influence. But . . . cultures change over time. No culture is the same now as it was two or five or eight hundred years ago and I don't believe that change is inherently loss. The things that are sacred to you may or may not be sacred to the people of your culture in the future. That's just the way things work, and I don't think it's inherently good or bad.

And finally, people keep accusing evilsoup of "just wanting everyone to assimilate to your culture", but it absolutely does not follow that a lack of religion means a lack of diversity. Different nonreligious cultures are every bit as capable of being diverse as different religious cultures, so it's weird to insist that evilsoup wants there to only be one culture when they never said anything to indicate that.

[profundcherrylady]

EMPRESS!READER X NESS

A/N: Y'all did I cook? Ngl I never thought I would write something like this but I guess I just love Ness THAT much. Tagging @aleixis because this idea was theirs 🙏 Hope y'all like it.

Warnings: Cursing a little, mentions of violence.

Contents: I think there's a bit of a weird power dynamic... also there's like a small harem (4 others aside from Ness) (I died of embarrassment writing 😭). Empress reader is a bit of a bitch to the boys I'm so sorry. I'm starting to think all of this should be in the warnings.

Description: After recently conquering an empire, the empress recieves Ness as a gift.

Ruthless was the word to describe it.

The soldiers had charged into battle and invaded the München Empire as if it was just a regular tuesday, because it kind of was. Invading and making the empire bigger was like a routine followed by the army every day of the week, so really they stood no chance. You, as the empress, standing tall and strong, had even made the Micheal Kaiser shiver in his boots, because if her army was that strong then he couldn't imagine how their ruler was like. And so, to pay his respects and hope to recieve at least some mercy, he decided to make a gift.

"Alright Ness, you're up." he instructed, and Ness weirdly couldn't have been happier.

"Me? I'm the gift?" he was THRILLED to know Kaiser considered him worthy enough to be a gift, so he gave no complaints when he found out he was going to be ripped out of his country and family to be given to a merciless empress. "I don't know what to say... do you really see me as something good enough to be a gift?"

"Sure, let's go with that..."

His first day at your palace? Absolute bliss. You glanced at him once and dismissed him but he felt so lucky!

Ness was so head over heels already, you were sure this boy would do anything for you. It was strange, but somehow you' rather it like this. For starters you didn't even want to accept Kaiser's gift, but Isagi — your royal advisor — recommend you did as, in his words, it would show you have some humanity that citizens would need to keep on trusting you, and you for sure didn't need anybody planning on taking you down. You'd rather it be out of fear but this works too.

Besides, you didn't need to entertain him. You had four more men by your side that could do the job for you, so then you took him to meet them. Hopefully he'd be too busy talking or arguing with them to bother you.

"Alright boys, listen up. Ness was gifted to me recently; he'll be staying with you from now on. Be nice, I have to go." and with that, you left, leaving Ness infront of these four strangers and no real interest on interacting with them.

"Um... hi, I'm Alexis Ness, I hope we can all get along-"

"Shut your goddamn mouth." he was interrupted by a sharp voice, footsteps getting closer, left with no room to speak as he kept getting interrupted. "Don't think we're going to become friends or that we'll be nice just because you're new here. You want the attention of our Empress? You want her to look at you? You want to care for you? You'll have to earn that right just like everybody else here."

"What did I say...?"

"Don't mind Rin." a second voice continued, stepping forward as well and standing next to them. "He's just a little grumpy because our Empress hasn't even looked at him in the past month." he teased, earning a side glare and a scowl from Rin.

"She hasn't talked to you, either."

"Lies. She laghed at one of my jokes the other day."

"You wish." he countered, turning around to face him completely. "Absolute blasphemy. As if something you said could ever be that funny."

"All I'm saying is don't take it out on poor Ness; he just got here."

"Yeah, I just got here."

"Didn't I tell you to shut your mouth?"

"Come on Rin, our Empress has been difficult lately. You can't blame her; she's been busy. But she's not going to spend time with you if you treat Ness this badly. Remember? She said: 'Be nice'. Are you being nice?"

"Smartass. You think you're so intelligent, don't you Chigiri? I know what she said."

"So stop going against her orders then?" a third, sleepy voiced joined in the conversation as the third person in the room rose from his sleep and yawned, not even bothering in getting up. "She's going to get mad at you if you keep this up."

"I'm so over all of you..."

"Nagi's telling the truth. You're being so salty, and for what?" the last voice continued. "I'm pretty sure our Empress will be angry when she finds out you've been disobeying her~"

"Shut the fuck up, Reo."

Needless to say, Ness' first days at the palace we something. So maybe he didn't exactly get along with Rin, but the rest of them were nice! They all shared the same desire to win your affection, at the end of the day, even though there was some obvious rivalry going on between all of them to achieve that goal.

But he certainly didn't expect them to laugh when he told them his plan to win your affection.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Sweet, naive, stupid Ness." Reo chuckled. "If there's something about our Empress that you need to know, is that we're already tried everything, and THAT certainly won't work. She's an Empress! She has everything. What kind of gift would you expect would satisfy her high standards? Believe me, I've tried, there's no use."

"No shit. Reo once gifted her a thousand flowers, but she merely looked at them for a second."

"If you're looking for her to notice you, that's not the way to do it."

"Still... I want to! I just want to show our Empress my appreciation!"

"You do you, I guess..."

"But we've already tried everything." Chigiri continued. "I've dressed in the fanciest clothing to apeal her, but gotten nothing more than a glance..."

"I try being lazily cute around her." Nagi followed. "It only worked the frist few times... I suppose she's grown tired of it."

"I give her gifts, and Rin tries complimenting her, yet nothing seems to work."

Ness was dumbfounded, but his determination didn't flatter. He would get to your heart, one way or another! And when he did, they would all see... he just needed to try harder, so he could become your favorite! Just the thought of it made a surge of warmth spread through his chest. Him, your FAVORITE... you could have any man you wanted but you chose him... he relished in his owm fantasy, not realizing how much there was until that actually became true.

Little did he know, his innocent attitude and genuine adoration were already starting to warm you up.

[strangererotica]

LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION ✞​ ⛪︎

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

Monsignor John Pruitt / Father Paul Hill x Reader | Blasphemy! Heresy! Anal! | Reader has a kink for pain & blood (kinda) | oral sex (f receiving) | pussy worship | a sprinkle of dacryphilia | religious guilt ofc | a smidge of angst |

“Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…”

“Father,” the priest prays, hands clasped at his chin. “If it be Thy will…take this cup from me.”

His voice is a whisper in the dim light of the sanctuary, candles flickering around him like accusatory tongues. The weight of his sin is heavy, the scent of your body still on his breath. He struggles to wrench the image of you from his mind, to focus entirely on the things of God. But what sight could be more holy than that of your body spread before him, your soft cunt weeping gently against his tongue?

He casts his voice to Heaven like the prayer of a wounded soldier on the battlefield of sin, yearning for mercy, expecting none. “Forgive me, Father,” Monsignor John Pruitt prays. “For I fear I am losing control…Make my will like Yours, oh God…Lead me not into temptation, but guide my steps that they may lead to You…”

His stomach twists with guilt, his prayers stunted by an uncharacteristic lapse of faith. For what kind of loving God would demand abstinence of his servant, while simultaneously thrusting a woman like you, temptation incarnate, into his life?

“I fear-.” The priest pauses, searching his heart for the words God already knows. “-I fear I am lost, Lord. Lost not to the pleasures of my flesh….but of hers…”

Rain pelts the outside of the old church. A storm is blowing over Crockett Island, raging no less than the storm inside Monsignor Pruitt’s heart. He sits quietly in the Lord’s presence, patiently waiting for wisdom, for a sign. But the only divinity he can focus on is the one he tasted between your thighs…

Worst of all, Monsignor Pruitt worries that for another taste of your body, he’d be tempted to abandon his priesthood and the God whom he speaks for altogether. It’s fantasy, however. A world where St. Patrick’s pastor can fuck you free of public scorn is impossible, and he knows it. He’s been the voice of God for the island’s faithful so many years now, they’ve become family to him. He can’t abandon them now for the sake of his own carnal needs…but God, how he longs to…

It began innocently enough, as every sin does. You’d come to him seeking help, and rather than guide you through the healing of your own sexual sin, your priest had made himself a part of it. You were too soft for him to deny, too pure even as you recited to him the details of your impurity. The sorrow in your voice had spoken to his core, to his heart as a priest. He’d originally sought only to help you, but over the course of your meetings together, he’d only helped himself to fantasies of your body.

Bringing you back to the rectory was Monsignor Pruitt’s first mistake. Meeting you in the church had been perfectly suitable, perfectly safe. No one had bothered the two of you, not even the ever-present Bev Keane. When the impulse to invite you back to the rectory at the end of your last meeting had struck the priest, he should have repented right then. He should have quelled his urges with prayer, rather than guide you through the back of the church and down the path to the rectory.

All of that was past, now. There was only the cleanup of his sin left to manage, both figurative and literal. He was still wearing your cum on his face, his nose and chin bearing evidence of his sin. Monsignor Pruitt had steadfastly denied himself the pleasures of sex for so long-too long, considering how easily he’d indulged in the sin of you…

…And yet, nothing about your encounter with the priest had felt wrong, not truly. You’d come to Monsignor Pruitt for guidance on how to resist sexual temptation, and he had absolutely failed you in that respect. But the sex itself, the union of your souls in such an intimate act, had felt far from wrong. The priest had tried to convince himself (and perhaps God as well) that because he didn’t penetrate you, the weight of his sin might be less. He wanted to believe he could still minister to the people of Crockett Island while maintaining a double life, one where his duties as priest and his needs as a man could simultaneously be fulfilled.

He hadn’t meant to kiss you…not your pretty, cherry-stained lips, and certainly not the other places his mouth had wandered. As the storm rages on outside the church, Monsignor Pruitt sits silently in the confessional booth, willing impure thoughts of you from his mind. But before he was a priest, he was a man. And the man inside him finds it difficult to keep his hand from wrapping around the bulge throbbing below his belt, as memories of your time together flood his thoughts…

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The first meeting between you and Monsignor Pruitt had been innocent, as far as you could tell. There’s no way you could have known that while describing the sexual cravings that plagued you, your priest was becoming aroused. With his legs crossed and a Bible positioned on his lap just so, he was able to conceal the physical effect your words were having on him. The Bible never left his lap, and when he rose from his chair to see you out, he’d kept it held in front of his groin, making it seem so natural you hadn’t questioned it. By your third meeting, you’d confessed that some of your fantasies that caused you the most guilt involved one man in particular who lived on the island.

“I feel especially dirty for these fantasies,” you’d confessed. “Because of the man they involve.” Jealousy had taken up residence in the priest’s heart, knowing there was one man on the island in particular that you lusted for. And there was no way it could be him, certainly not. He was your priest, your mentor, a literal Father figure. Whoever this man was, the one you longed for, Monsignor Pruitt despised him.

“Who-,” he’d asked, then stopped himself. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive of me. I don’t mean to pry.” Monsignor Pruitt had cleared his throat as if clearing away words he was afraid to speak. “There’s a man on the island you want, very much. That’s all I need to know. Please. Continue.”

“I can’t tell you who he is,” you’d said. “Because I…well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass him, Father.”

Monsignor Pruitt smiled warmly, a gesture to hopefully ease your nerves and distract you from how flustered he was becoming. “This is our third meeting,” he’d said. “Please, call me John.”

It was wrong. Wrong for him to make that allowance, wrong to blur the line between priest and parishioner, between shepherd and lamb. But you accepted, a sweet smile on your face that the priest had taken to mean his ruse of ‘normalcy,’ was working.

“Alright John.” Calling Monsignor Pruitt by his name had felt exciting, forbidden in a way. It filled you with a sense of hope, whether false or otherwise, that something more could develop between you and your priest. But that was a conversation you weren’t ready for, though you hoped to reach the topic of your crush on Monsignor Pruitt eventually.

“So, this man on the island,” John had said. “Is he someone you know? Or is this more of a ‘watch and yearn,’ kind of situation?”

Your cheeks flushed, a nervous warmth building inside you. “It’s…there’s definitely yearning,” you’d told him. “He’s someone I can never have, Father.”

“I see,” your priest had nodded, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing. “So, this man is married, I take it?”

“In a way,” you’d replied. “He’s very dedicated to the people who depend on him.” You’d smiled faintly to yourself, wishing there could be true transparency between you and your priest. “It’s one of the reasons I admire him so much, Father. He is a good man, a genuinely good man. So, having these disgusting, dirty thoughts about him causes me a lot of guilt.”

John Pruitt didn’t know who the man was, but God he hated him. To be wanted, lusted after, longed for, by YOU, was a prize few men deserved. You were precious, a delicate flower begging to have its petals torn. And in spite of his calling, Monsignor Pruitt wanted to be the man who tore your petals to shreds…

“Remember,” he’d told you, wishing to remove the pain of your guilt. “Sinful thoughts remain only thoughts until we entertain them with action. Action is where sin lies, (Y/N).

“…And, by confessing my sin, I can be forgiven?” you’d asked. “That’s how this all works, right?”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

That’s how it’s supposed to work, the priest thinks, his hand working over his stiff, leaking cock. He aches, in his heart and spirit but nowhere more so than his groin. Tasting you on his breath, Monsignor Pruitt imagines all the other filthy things he wants to do to your body. Licking between your thighs would be enough for him forever; but if he had the chance, if his path in life allowed it, he imagines how it would feel to have that little cunt swallow more than just his tongue and fingers. He’d drag the head of his cock between your slippery folds so slowly, the pace would drive you both insane with waiting. He might even make you cry a little, just so he could lick away your tears after forcing himself inside you…

The old wooden seat of the confessional booth creaks softly under Monsignor Pruitt’s weight as he fucks himself harder, tightening his grip, imagining it’s you. He hasn’t even worn your throat, or your ass, or your pussy around his cock yet… YET. That’s a dangerous word, isn’t it? It’s a promise unfulfilled, a land where anything is possible. YET can get you into more trouble than it’s worth sometimes, but Monsignor Pruitt knows he’d risk any consequence, even a taste of Hell, for one more taste of YOU…

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Your fourth meeting together had picked up right where the third left off: discussing your shame over desiring the man you couldn’t have. John Pruitt had sat across from you in a simple folding chair, just like the one you’d occupied. In one hand he held his coffee, the other resting on the Bible balanced on his lap. You noticed a darker countenance about him, his eyes oddly cold. Also unusual was his voice, the way he seemed short with his responses and hardly asked any questions.

“Is something wrong, John?” you’d asked after awhile of observing him. “Are you alright?”

He blinked back at you a couple of times in silence, trying to arrange the mess of thoughts in his mind into a palatable response.

“I’m well,” he replied softly, his eyes crinkling in that familiar, warm grin that made your heart burst. “But I have some…concerns.” His jaw tensed slightly. “About transparency…honesty, (Y/N).” You felt your heart sink a little, fearing the worst: that you’d gone too far, revealed too much, said something that offended Monsignor Pruitt.

“…If I’ve said something, I apologize-.”

“-Well no,” he interrupted, his tone becoming sharper. “It’s what you haven’t said, (Y/N). Weeks now, we’ve been meeting here. And just when I think you might be reaching a point of growth, of-of honesty, you shrink back into the comfort of denial. You’re denying me, (Y/N)!”

Monsignor Pruitt’s words came to an abrupt pause, and you were grateful for it. He was leaning forward in his chair now, a few strands of hair hanging loose over his forehead. His energy was intense, almost frightening. His speech was impassioned in the way he sometimes sounded behind the pulpit, caught in religious fervor…dark eyes wide, lips parted in rapid breath that had you distracted for more reasons than fear.

“Father-,”

“John,” he corrected.

“…John,” you began tentatively, your voice breaking. “If you want to stop seeing me-if you want to stop our sessions, just tell me-.”

“-I want them to last forever,” Monsignor Pruitt confessed, the air leaving his lungs in a breath of defeat. It was a confession, as real as any other that occurred in God’s house. Now it was your turn to be silent, as once the priest found his words, he was unable to stop them: “I want you, (Y/N)…God forgive me but I…crave…you…” You watched him crumbling, this man of God baring his soul to yours. “All of the things you speak of in your fantasies, I want to make them real for you. Every orgasm you deny yourself in pursuit of righteousness, I want to give you a hundred more…And whoever this man is, that leads you to touch yourself, I hate him. I hate him because I want to be him. You want him, you crave him as I crave you-.” He chuckled humorlessly. “-And I don’t even know his name. I loathe him, and I couldn’t identify him if I saw him on the street.”

You felt fulfilled, as if something had been taken from you but replaced immediately with something better. Was this even real?

“…I suppose,” he continued after a moment of silence. “My concern is not so much with your lack of transparency, but with mine.”

Monsignor Pruitt sat back in his chair, the metal creaking under his weight. “I have sinned, (Y/N),” he said. “I’ve lied to you, lied by omission. By not revealing how your words-how you-affect me. Knowing full well that in doing so, I’m jeopardizing everything I’ve built my life around. I shouldn’t be confessing this to you at all but God help me, it’s the truth, and I want you...” The tears lining your lashes finally fell, a drop spilling down each cheek and landing where your hands were folded on your lap. “John,” you began. “The man I want…he’s you...”

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Wind and rain pummel the outer shell of St. Patrick’s. The priest’s eyes are closed tightly, his head leaned back against the confessional booth and he’s so. fucking. hard.

He squeezes his erection tightly in his fist, imagining instead that it’s your pussy, your throat-any and all of your holes he longs to defile, to feel you stretch open at his entry, to watch you gape when he pulls out just to stuff you full again. Precum blooms at his slit and he wants to spread it on your lips, to place it on your tongue like a sacrament. He wants to see your eyes go red and watery as he holds your nose to his stomach, his cock buried so far down your throat that air becomes a luxury.

He wants to drown between your thighs, to never stop licking the abundant, delicious nectar that spills from inside you and melts on his tongue…to suck your pretty little clit till you’re screaming, begging him to stop, feet pounding against his shoulders in protest and pleasure, your body contorted like something possessed. He wants to flip you onto your stomach and breach the tight barrier of your ass, to fuck you till you bleed just like you confessed wanting to bleed in your fantasies…to use you, as you’ve confessed wanting to be used…to make you come so hard you forget your name and his…

Heavy wind rattles the bones of St. Patrick’s around Monsignor Pruitt, God’s power raging in full display outside but inside, he is overcome with unholy need. His tongue dips out to taste you, tasting a memory and nothing more. He grinds himself up into his fist, as if you’re straddling his lap and taking every inch of him like the good, good girl you are. His forehead is sheened with sweat, the heat of the confessional booth no match for the heat of his sin. Lightening cracks outside, as if God Himself is issuing a warning. But the priest cannot stop his hand, or the lust that guides it up and down his shaft…

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Inviting you to the rectory had been a sin, yes…but inviting you into his bed had been a bigger one. Laying you back against the mattress, the bottom of your skirt naturally drifting aside, revealed the outline of your pussy through soaking wet panties and John, all man, no longer priest, had never been so hungry…“Oh my God,” he’d murmured dreamily, gazing at your pussy as if in a state of worship. “You’re absolutely perfect.” His warm breath ghosted over your lips and your hips keened instinctively towards his mouth. He watched your pussy tremble beneath him, your perfect little clit peeking out above two plump lips. With a delicate stroke of his fingers, John teased your labia apart. There was a devotion in his touch, a reverence in the way he awed at the sight of your lips parting around his fingers, as if he were parting the gates of Heaven instead. Keeping your labia spread, he sank his mouth over your mound, suckling your clit between his lips in deep, languid tugs. You wriggled against the bed, hips twisting under the priest’s ministrations. He’d denied himself the taste of a woman too long, and your taste…John Pruitt didn’t think he’d ever tasted a woman that could compare. You were like caramel and cream, the sweet musk of brandy lingering at the bottom of a glass. You were heaven in his mouth, warm and comforting…a taste of the divine, melting on John’s tongue like milk and honey…

His cock stood erect against his stomach, restrained by his clothing. Denying himself the relief of touching himself felt like an appropriate admonishment, considering the grave sin he was committing. Although deep in an act of blasphemy, the position of his body could be mistaken for a man in prayer. Knelt by the beside, your legs draped over his shoulders, John looked up from between your thighs framing his face. Your eyes were as hungry as his, an intensity burning behind them that stirred something primal and repressed in John. He wanted to claim you, to make you his…to feel you come so hard around him that no other man could ever replicate what he’d given you. He could have plunged his cock inside you right then. The look in your eyes, staring him down like willing prey, told him you wouldn’t object. But there were some things John couldn’t do…that he mustn’t do…and putting his sin inside you, making it yours, was a path he wouldn’t allow himself to cross.

The priest’s tongue and fingers explored what he forbade his cock explore, licking and stroking you to your peak time and time again. You gripped handfuls of his hair, his sheets, the fabric of this sweater, anything you could get your hands on to brace yourself as your body ascended on John’s tongue. He lapped and sucked at the glory within you, worshiping your cunt like the idol it was to him. Slippery fluid gushed out around John’s face and ran down your thighs, soaking the disheveled sheets under your ass. He knew he was sinning but sin had never felt this good before, this fulfilling. In consuming you, he fed himself…and he had no intention of ever going hungry again.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱ ✞​ ⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

He watches in a trance as semen jets from his tip and lands on the inside of the confessional booth, spattering the panel facing him. The storm outside roils as the storm inside John Pruitt calms. He feels a sense of ease, a peace that surpasses all understanding, settle over his shoulders. The weight of his sin feels oddly absent, nothing like he’d anticipated. Hope springs anew in him, as if perhaps this absence of remorse is the sign he was waiting for? If God doesn’t judge him, Monsignor Pruitt wonders, then who can?

He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and cleans his semen from the confessional booth. Upon exiting, Monsignor Pruitt enters into the soft light of the church. And in spite of the storm’s chaos outside, there is peace here, serenity…stillness…

…Until suddenly, you’re there, standing in the church’s doorway, your head framed like a halo in a burst of lightning from the storm. John Pruitt takes in the sight of you, your hair and sundress saturated with rain and clinging to your body, your pupils blown, cheeks and chest flushed with arousal…You’re breathless in the exertion of walking through the storm, pert nipples straining against the thin fabric concealing them. Your priest gazes at you from across the sanctuary, candlelight flickering against his dark hair, in the pools of his dark eyes, like starlight. You both rush to each other at the same time, his steps longer and quicker than yours, catching up to you first and caging you up in a fervent embrace. His lips crash over yours, lips and tongue and teeth all challenging yours for dominance. Your hands climb his back and cling to the sleeves of his shirt, your own wet clothing seeping rainwater into his, like a baptism you share together.

John presses his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against him. Desperate moans spill from your lips into his, soft sobs of need as you release all guilt and shame inside his kiss. Your priest is holding you so tightly, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. He only breaks away long enough to tug you toward the altar, and lay you flat against it. The curves of your ass are visible in the wet transparency of your dress and he takes full advantage of their bounty, gripping the rounded mounds of your hips and tugging you against his erection. You grunt at the impact, of feeling the size of him pressed to your body for the first time, your back arching, ass extended into your priest for more. He gathers up the loose fabric of your dress around your waist, revealing the perfect mounds of your ass to him. Your panties are absent, he observes, still on the floor of the rectory where he helped you out of them. Rain from the storm beats at the window beside you, thunder rolling in the distance as John rolls his hips against your ass.

His cock is poised between your cheeks, pointed upward at your back as he slowly humps into you. His hands are wrapped around you from behind, your breasts clutched firmly in his strong yet delicate grip. His eyes are closed, forehead resting against your shoulder as he strokes, himself and you, edging his desire and yours till you both feel as if you’ll combust. He pulls back just enough to grab his cock at the base and guide it between your legs, massaging your lips with his tip. You whimper and tremble beneath him, his stomach pressed to your back, and all John Pruitt can think about right now is how badly he wants to sodomize you on this altar, in God’s house.

He drags himself between your lips, allowing your slick to cover him before guiding his tip up between your asscheeks, restraining himself at the tight barrier of your hole. He wants to ask if you’re alright with this, if you’re ready for this-but he doesn’t have to. You arch your back and your asshole puckers around his tip, inviting the priest in. He curses over your back because Christ how was he blessed enough to deserve this, to deserve you? This dirty fucking goddess beneath him, as filthy as she is pure, heart and body willing to let him have his way with her as he desires?

You lay your cheek against the pulpit, hair spilling over it like an altar cloth, or an angel, John thinks. He braces your hips, easing his own forward. Your body stiffens at the sting of being stretched as he enters you. His stomach is pressed to your back, the warm weight of his body cradling yours like a cocoon. The priest senses your struggle, can feel it in the way you’ve gone rigid against him. “Shh, shh,” he consoles you, his voice a low, seductive growl. “You’re doing so well for me, angel. Doing so well for me…”

Part of your confession to the Monsignor had involved your desire for pain, to be hurt during sex. He’d remembered and used this information later, stroking his cock to some of the most depraved thoughts he’d ever had about a woman, starring you. Now, he had the opportunity to hurt you, to make you cry just like he’d wanted. His hand glides down your back and across your cheek, his eyes gazing over your hair as it drapes the altar. You’re so divine, an angel against his body and he can’t find the will in himself to hurt you. Easing back his hips till he’s no longer inside you, John spats a wad of saliva onto your hole. He watches your rim gape at his exit, then pucker as his spit lands against it. He positions his tip against your asshole, rubbing in a small circle to help ease you open. The stiff, spongy head of his cock massaging your hole sends a jolt straight to your clit. “Keep doing that, Father,” you breathe, and something about hearing you refer to him that way when he’s inside you bent over the altar, awakens something feral inside of him.

He’s using every bit of restraint he has to keep from impaling you right now (although he knows a dirty little thing like you probably wouldn’t protest if he did). But John does restrain himself, massaging his tip just inside your asshole, gradually sinking deeper. Soft sucking noises emit from the space he rubs you, joined with your breathy grunts and the rain pelting down outside. With his free hand, John grips your hip in a vice, small crescents dug into the skin by his fingernails. When you push back on his cock, he takes this as his cue to go deeper. Still using as much restraint as he can manage, John sinks his cock carefully, slowly, stopping when he feels you flinch and buck.

“Good girl-good girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “That’s my good girl. Taking me so deep, aren’t you?” He drags his hips back slowly and you feel every inch, every vein and ridge of his cock as he eases back in, and out, and in again, building pace till his hips are crashing against yours, pummeling your ass across the altar. The burn is exquisite; you feel him in your stomach. Drool dangles from your wide-open mouth and puddles on the altar, your cheek rutted against it with every thrust of John’s hips. The wet sound of his skin smacking yours echoes off the sanctuary walls, his rapid pace matching the candle flames flickering around you. His head falls forward and rests against your shoulder, halted exhales washing your skin in heat, in the moisture of his breath. The front of John’s clothes are soaked with rain from being ground up against you, his body joined so completely with yours they’re inseparable. He feels a deep, familiar ache in his core, but it’s never been this strong, never as powerful as he feels it now. He knows he’s going to come soon, and it’s likely going to be the hardest he’s ever come in his life. He reaches around in front of you and presses his fingertips to your clit, rubbing you aggressively. Cum splashes to the ground around John’s hand as he brings you to orgasm, your juices spraying his feet and the altar equally.

Your cries of ecstasy are the holiest psalm he’s ever heard, the purest prayer he’s ever born witness to. With a shout he comes, a desperate cry of relief and absolution as he empties his guilt into the warm cove of your body. You shudder against him, and it may as well be the flutter of an angel’s wings on his skin. He cradles you across the altar, his stomach to your back, holding the answer to his prayers in his arms. When his cock has softened inside you, John draws back slowly and carefully slides out of you. He glances around for something to clean you both up with and his eyes land on the purificator beside the communion chalice. Disregarding the sacrilege of it all, he takes the cloth and kneels behind you, gently wiping between your legs and between the cheeks of your ass. He cleans himself lastly, removing the combination of fluids your sex created.

He notices a streak of red on the cloth, and brings your attention to it. A contended smile spreads over your face as you realize, and the words leave your lips in a breathy sigh: “You made me bleed.” He leans forward and gently takes your chin in his hand, drawing you closer. His dark eyes are filled with the words he doesn’t need to say, of promises for more moments like this to come. His voice is barely above a whisper as he presses his lips to yours, and says: “Forgive me.”