#and the Holy Place which is Heaven.

[lightgreypurpleteal]

Before the begining there was nothing. 

It stayed that way for a long, long time. But honestly, It was blissfully unaware. Simply being. Simply present. 

Until It tripped over itself and thought,

“wait. What was that?”

…

“Oh fuck, thats Me!”

It became aware that It was there.

“what freedom! To Be!,” It thought. “ I would much rather To Be, than Not To Be,”

Merrily it thought. It thought and thought and thought, until It thought every thought there was to think. Then it started to do something preposteros… It started to want.

It wanted… something else to think about. Nothing came to mind. Hmmm. maybe even,,, someone else to think With! What a great idea, It thought. 

It suddenly became aware that It was completely alone. 

It turns out, Alone is a very painful thing to be.

Of course, then came the frantic questions:

where am I? 

Where did I come from? 

Why am I here?

But there was no answer.

There was no reprieve, just more of the same. Every moment, the pain and despair grew greater, for eons, until It got so great, something broke.

A Bang Errupted. 

Let There Be Light, thought the universe. From that moment on, Creation was no longer One. 

[audisive]

♪ BROOKLYN BABY. (💌) – previous part

౨ৎ simon 'ghost' riley | reader

synopsis: the 141 believes the scot now.

tags: fluff, romance, soft!simon, you're basically their mom atp lol, bickering, there's a bet between gaz n soap, gaz secretly wants you shh, ooc characters, not proofread, price being the gentleman he is, he's seriously just watching everything unfold

       It's not always that Ghost is willing to let the 141 stay at his house for their traditions – which is just drinking beer and watching sports, really. In fact, he's always said something about his place being empty, so they always settled on someone else's. They stop asking after a year, and in turn, he stops having reasons.

It's not until Soap pops the question again when everyone else's houses are unavailable for a variety of reasons, his being that he left his faucet on and now his shitty apartment is flooded. You can only imagine the suspicion and shock when Ghost agrees (or, rather, simply grunts).

The drive is long, nothing short of 5 hours, and Soap spends the better half of it bickering with either Gaz or Ghost. He falls asleep by the next half, and when he awakes, he gawks at the lovely looking house before their car. There's two stories to it, a balcony, a front porch, and there's no doubt that there's a backyard.

Contrary to popular belief, no, it is not all black or plain at all. It's all equally surprising to them. The Brit isn't the type to care about the appearance and state of a house, usually. They do envision him in a mostly empty apartment with only a bed and a bathroom, though.

There's a delicate touch to where a rough man lives; the smell is almost heavenly when they enter the house. It's homely, the scent of newly washed sheets and lingering smell of food; there's a cat perched on the living room table that Ghost scratches the head of lovingly in a way that's so casual and natural. It's like they're at the gates of–

"Simon!" Heaven's bells ring in their ears, luring them into the doorway of the living room, and the sound of feet padding against the cold floor. There comes a soft-looking thing running into Ghost's arms, completely engulfing you.

You only notice the three familiar faces of your boyfriend's team members – though you know he considers them family if anything – when you pull away. An angel clad in only a cami top, shorts, and Simon's hand around your waist, you turn to look at the group with a surprised look on your pretty – Soap thinks that God, you're so pretty – face. "Oh, hi," you smile sweetly, obviously awkward at the silence and the staring.

"It's been a while," Ever the gentleman, the gruff voice is the first to speak up with your name uttered, the only who's actually met you – John Price. Soap is too enamored with the way you hold yourself and the fact that, holy fuck, even your name's pretty. Gaz raises a brow at the captain's greeting.

You smile once more – a genuine one now. "Nice to see you again, John."

"'S rude to stare, Johnny." Simon speaks out, a smirk under the mask. "Please excuse him, miss," Gaz adds, this beautiful man, and offers a charming smile.

"You must be Gaz," you hold your hand out, "it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine," Kyle forgets that a hand could be this soft and gentle, "and please, call me Kyle." He barely stops himself from turning your hand in his to kiss the back of it like one should to a lady so fair; his lieutenant has good taste in women, he'll give him that. And when you're out of the area, Soap is sure to rub it in Gaz's face. I told ye so! LT wis hidin' somethin' from us. A pretty something, that is. You don't miss the way he slips a twenty-dollar bill into the Scottish man's hand.

"Glad tae meet ye," Soap finally says, winking. "Understand why he wis hidin' a bonnie lass like ye from us." There's a mischievous glint in his eye, almost naturally so.

"A'm hurt, LT, but whit can I do? After all, we're just a couple o' brutes, arenae we?"

Simon watches in amusement, "you'll live." Soap is quick to move to your side as you lead the small group of hulking men through your shared home after that.

Simon is visibly more relaxed with you around. He's comfortable, that much is a given, with the way he's taking up most of the thankfully large couch with his manspreading. So is the 141. They're pampered like spoiled children (or pets, really) through the whole day.

Instead of just beer and faucet water, they're offered a variety of drinks in the kitchen that's enough to be considered a private bar. Instead of an empty belly unhealthily stuffed with beer and a mix of mediocre takeout, they're met with warm homecooked meals. They lose track of time quickly; the night falls by the time they've tired themselves out, and they've had not one, but two meals thanks to you.

(They're sure to commend your cooking skills and think of how lucky this tall brute of a man is blessed with a woman so soft and pliant and wonderful and– while Price is the one to be the most grateful, Soap compliments you the most. "A can practically taste the love." You laugh in turn.)

Gaz is the first to speak after a meal so lovely, they could simply just sleep on the floor comfortably and wake to the same smell of home. "It's a bit late, love, we should probably go."

"Thank you for having us," Price smiles down at you kindly.

"Ye've been lovely, bonnie." He wants to stay some more.

"Wait," you stop them, looking up at Simon for further approval. He's already looking at you with a reassuring brush of his thumb on the side of your hip and a nod. You turn your eyes back at them. "It's already late, you three should stay the night. We have enough room for everyone."

There comes, "we don't wanna intrude," then, "we can take care of ourselves, it's alright."

"Please, I insist." Your smile brightens, "I'll even cook breakfast before you leave."

The mohawk moves with a sigh, "now tha's just no' fair, lass. How are we gonna say no tae that?" You giggle. Only then do they find themselves tucked away in the guest room, and boy, you were right when you said it could fit them all if not more.

On the way to the bathroom in the late hours of the night, Soap catches a glimpse of light through the crack of your bedroom door to see his oh-so strong lieutenant, vulnerable in your arms. There's something natural about the way you cradle the large man and kiss his hair like it's part of your DNA, like you're programmed to do that 'cause Soap thinks you're simply unreal.

He's proud of his lieutenant, this lucky bastard. He turns another blind eye once more, but he's paid in full with another fulfilling meal by the morning.

[hvllevator]

MDNI, 18+

churchboy!mark always wanted to save his virginity until marriage. he was always keen on the idea of falling in love, graduating college, and then eventually getting married to the love of his life. it was all set in stone until he met you.

here you were, climbing on top of his body and setting your legs on either side of his thighs. his body pushed back to the soft mattress that engulfed his body. he propped himself up with his arms, breathing heavily as you placed soft kisses on his jaw, slowly trailing down his neck.

“fuckkk, y/n.” he breathed out as your hands slowly made their way to the waistband of his pants.

“tell me if you want to stop.” lifting your head up to face him, he quickly shook his head, no way in hell was he rejecting this hot girl sitting on top of him. pecking his lips, you reassured him with a sweet smile. “good boy, markie.”

mark let out a groan, lifting his body so that he could wrap his arms around your waist. pressing your lips together in a passionate needy kiss. you tasted like heaven. in swift movements, you were both stripped out of your clothes. his eyes taking in every inch of your body, his cock pressed against his stomach from the view in front of him. you pushed his body back down onto the bed, biting your lip at the sight of him practically drooling beneath you.

“you're so fucking hot.” feeling shy from his compliment, your hands reached up to cover your face, but his hands caught your wrist before you even got the chance to. “don't hide from me, pretty girl.” your eyes shifted to his, his cheeks flushed and beads of sweat gathering at his forehead. 

you leaned down to plant another kiss on his lips, your hand making its way to his cock which he moaned to when your thumb glided across his tip, precum spewing out. you looked at him for assurance, and once he gave you a nod, you lifted your body and lined his cock to your pussy, slowly sinking onto him. 

mark let out breathy shakes, his eyes watching as his cock buried into you. his mind was clouded with all different kinds of unreligious thoughts, cursing himself for waiting this long. you were so wet and tight all for him. his hands reached for your hips, holding you in place as he tried to take in the new sensation he was feeling. “are you okay, baby?” placing your hands atop his heaving chest. 

“shit, it feels so good, oh my gosh, you're so tight.” he moaned out as you slowly started bouncing on his cock. you found it cute how he can curse but refused to use the lord’s name in vain. “w-wait fuck, y/n, i might cum.” his hand gripped your hips.

“it's okay, baby, take your time.” his mouth agape as he guided your hips up and down his cock. you let out a whimper at the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the right places. he nearly choked when you started picking up the pace again. his hands left your hips and found their way towards your breasts, hands squeezing your perky tits as they bounced along while you rode his dick.

mark’s brows furrowed as he felt his stomach contracting, you can feel his cock throbbing inside you. you leaned down and latched your mouth on his neck, leaving soft kisses while you continued to ride out his high. he whimpered when you started grinding your hips against his cock instead of bouncing on it. “y/n, i-i’m gonna cum, please.” he cried out. his heart beating so fast from the intensity he was feeling. he felt you clench around him, signaling that you were close and this brought him over the edge. he gripped your hips, pulling you off of his cock as he felt his orgasm, his warm cum spilling all over his dick and stomach.

you placed your hands against his sweaty chest. sending him a smile before leaning down and pecking his cheek. “now i understand the hype because holy shit.” he breathed out which made you laugh.

[shizunitis]

Ghostfire Shen Yuan loyally following the lonely, undying, forgotten Luo Binghe from the original outline.

They never even met.

Shen Yuan had died long before Luo Binghe’s story was set to start. Abandoned by his System, he was left wandering the realms, searching for anything to latch onto, anything to stave off the darkness encroaching on his consciousness whenever he stopped. He keeps himself entertained with little jokes and references that will never reach anyone. At least back home, there were other people on the opposite side of his screen reacting, seeing. Paying attention.

He never would have thought he’d miss the times he was perceived by others. He’d give anything, though. Anything.

He stumbles upon the protagonist as he’s ascending the stairs of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect for the first time. Dressed in rags and heaving with the effort, Luo Binghe is exactly as Shen Yuan had pictured: a little bun, soft and kind and so very brave.

The excitement wears off soon enough. When the tea ceremony is held, Shen Yuan watches, hopelessly trying to stop the cup from hitting Binghe’s head. He lunges at Shen Jiu; let him be identified and exorcised, at least he would have done something with himself, however useless. It doesn’t work. Of course not—nothing can come between Luo Binghe and his fate.

Shen Yuan thinks about leaving. Many times. But every time he considers the possibility of going back to wandering the world, or just passing on… Well. There’s still a lot to see, isn’t there? It will get better. It will.

Only, it doesn’t. Not really.

There’s no harem; there’s no warm comfort offered to Luo Binghe by a sympathetic beauty, no wedding celebrations, no moments of gentle companionship, however brief, however superficial. There’s no camaraderie with the demons underlings, his generals, his allies; it’s all casual cruelty and dismissals, before it’s violence and subjugation.

There’s no joy. There’s no hope. There’s no ‘better’.

Something is wrong, that’s clear. Something is wrong, and Shen Yuan has no one to blame.

This is clearly not the Proud Immortal Demon Way he knows.

Centuries later, when Luo Binghe begs for the heavens to allow him to die, Shen Yuan hears. When Luo Binghe rages against the passage of time, alone in the wreckage of his palace, left behind by everyone he’d ever known, Shen Yuan accompanies him. When Luo Binghe lies down in the Holy Mausoleum and refuses to get up, Shen Yuan waits until he opens his eyes again and leaves the palace.

They end up in a hidden realm so filled with Yin Energy that Shen Yuan can channel it to manipulate his form into that of his former body. It’s not detectable by the living, but it’s there. He feels stronger, too. He can walk, float, fly, interact with what few other ghosts they encounter.

Still, Luo Binghe cannot see him.

Luo Binghe doesn’t talk much. Well, that makes sense, he was never in the habit of talking to himself, but still. It’s lonely.

They end up in a town where a diviner takes one look at Luo Binghe and offers him a free reading. Shen Yuan can’t enter her tent, so he waits outside.

She tells Luo Binghe of the little hanger-on he’s got. A powerful one, too, though he’s still getting used to his powers. He’s been here for a long time, she says. Since he was a child. He comes from far away—farther than even the most distant star.

Luo Binghe begins talking to him. Shen Yuan isn’t sure why, but he’s not complaining!

Luo Binghe also begins meditating again, trying to soothe the damage done by Xin Mo over the centuries. For every meal, he places a few fruits across from him on a plate he’d made himself, which he eats only after finishing his own dish. He makes space by his side whenever he walks on a narrow road. He stops at every landmark and tells stories about them, always starting the same way.

“Do you remember when…” becomes Shen Yuan’s favourite phrase.

One night, Luo Binghe sighs and looks across the table. Shen Yuan places himself so that he’s in Luo Binghe’s focus.

“What is it, Binghe?”

Luo Binghe doesn’t answer him, of course. Still, it feels like a conversation, when he says:

“I wish I knew your name.”

Shen Yuan frets. He’s been trying to manipulate the physical world, but he never got the hang of it. He’d tried drawing in sand, with water, just pushing things off shelves. And yet, nothing.

“I’m sorry, I wish—” he tries, but Luo Binghe is already talking again.

“I wonder if we ever crossed paths when you were alive.” He’s expressed this thought more than once. Shen Yuan never likes to think about how they’ve missed each other, how they’d been set up for failure from the start. “I wonder if we would have been friends.”

Shen Yuan scoffs. Of course not. Him and the protagonist? No way.

But—those cold star eyes, blindly searching for him, trying to land on him… They make him want to say, I would have liked that.

He reaches a hand out to touch Luo Binghe’s forhead. He’s taken to doing it whenever Luo Binghe broods, or makes a silly joke Shen Yuan wishes he didn’t find funny. It’s soothing.

He wishes Binghe could feel it.

When his finger touches the demon mark, it blazes. Luo Binghe gasps, that heavy gaze settling on Shen Yuan’s face.

Shen Yuan startles, and jumps away.

“No! Wait!”

Shen Yuan hesitates. Luo Binghe is looking around himself, eyes begging for even a wisp of Shen Yuan’s shadow.

He can’t deny Luo Binghe this.

He can’t deny himself this.

He reaches out again. This time, he cups Luo Binghe’s cheeks. When those eyes clear of panic and widen in awe, he whispers, softly, “Shen Yuan. My name is Shen Yuan.”

Luo Binghe looks like he’s been handed a treasure so precious he’s afraid to touch it. He hesitates, raising his hands in careful starts and stops, before taking Shen Yuan’s face in them, gently caressing the soft, cold skin of his face. His eyes dance with the haste he takes in memorising Shen Yuan’s features.

Then, he smiles. Helpless and weak and so, so precious. Shen Yuan has not seen hope so bright in Luo Binghe’s face since that fateful day on Cang Qiong Mountain.

“Hello, Shen Yuan.”

[monstersholygrail]

So about this Demon priest, I'm intrigued... go on. I can imagine as he's in the middle of a sermon, reader walks in, as reader just felt led to enter the church. As soon as Demon priest sees reader... he stumbles over the carefully and well prepare recitations. Sight focused on the back pew that reader silently sat on, not even noticing the uncharacteristic falter of the priest, nor realizing his eyes trained on them. He's been enraptured.

This is amazing, I am all for making this canon to Demon Priest. He’s so stinkin cute.

When you first walk into the church, Demon Priest swears he’s finally been graced with the presence of an angel once more. Your beauty ethereal, your presence divine in nature.

Hope blossoms within his chest that he has finally completed his repentance. That he will finally be welcomed back into those pearly gates. With heavens light shining back at him in your eyes how can he think otherwise?

He meets you after the service and realization dawns on him that you were not a messenger sent from above to take him to rejoin his fellow brethren. No, he realized instead that you were something far greater.

As part of his repentance, Demon Priest feels the pain of remaining inside a holy sanctuary. His feet burn with every step he takes, his hands while holding all blessed liturgical objects, and his face with the use of Holy water. With his demon healing they heal, only for them to come once more. Yet they each leave their own scars.

But as soon as your hand slips into his in greeting, Demon Priest feels as though a balm has been washed over his soul. The pain leaving him instantly with your touch. You certainly weren’t there to bring him home but perhaps you were something better than he could’ve ever imagined.

You were a gift.

Sent down from above and placed on his path. A testament to his strength and devotion. And he would be so utterly devoted. To you.

At every turn he seeked your approving gaze. At every chance he could risk he seeked your soothing touch. You had so utterly consumed him, turning his world upside down until it all came back to you.

It wasn’t long before he could no longer resist the idea of what it would be like to feel more of you. To grasp your supple flesh in his palms. Take your hardened nipples between his razor sharp teeth. Taste the sweet nectar of your essence on his tongue. He wanted all of you. To consume you as you had him.

Now as his hands run all over your body, leaving a lustful heat in his path, he finally has. The stain glass windows of his office shine down on you, illuminating your beauty as you ride his cock.

Your body bouncing so prettily along his hardened length, his eyes watch you with a feral hunger. Claws digging into your hips as he fucks up into you, not being able to help himself from taking you as roughly as he’s been wanting to. Your cries of pleasure being the most lovely sound he’s ever heard.

“Yes! It’s s-so good. Feels so good. I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you exclaim, baring your neck for him. His cock twitches within your wet heat, the curves of your body driving him closer to delirium.

He molds himself over your form, not being able to get close enough to the ecstasy of your skin. His lips latching on and sucking heartily at each of your breasts, leaving you panting as you try and match his every thrust.

“Tell me, my beloved, how can I be expected to deny you? That which I most crave. My greatest temptation…” he growls and you feel the vibration move through your body and shoot straight to your soaked core.

His claws sink into your plush hips, using his hold to slam you down on his needy cock. A hoarse cry is ripped from your lips. Hands finding purchase and bringing a soothing relief to his shoulders as he drives himself into you.

“Let me worship you,” he whispers with an intensity that sends chills up your spine. Yet you can’t focus on its meaning as your pleasure bursts through you, clenching down as you cum hard on his cock.

Demon priest grunts, his fierce eyes never leaving your expression so deeply filled with ecstasy. The sight of your pleasure enough to send him right over the edge with you, stuffing you full of his length as he shoots his cum deep into your womb.

And it’s in that moment he knows. He has found salvation in you.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Hellbound Angel

Male Yandere Demon x Male Angel Reader (CW: Noncon, drugged reader, drugged sex, drug-like cum, drug-like saliva, big ol' horse cock, literally equine dick, belly bulge, armpit kink, scent kink, musk, underwear sniffing, kidnapping, general yandere behavior, temporarily mind-broken reader, religious themes, dehydration, forced feminization, reader has minor injuries not inflicted by yandere) Word Count: 2.2k

In the never-ending war against the legions of Hell, the middle ground where most of the fighting was done was on Earth. However, the heavenly forces sometimes deemed an incursion into Hell necessary.

You had been sent on a mission to scout ahead and take note of the coming forces.

Angels were stronger than most demons. Even so, almost your entire squad had been wiped out in a bloody ambush. The other survivors had used the one holy recall scroll to teleport themselves back to heaven.

Each squad sent into Hell is given one and only one. They probably thought you were dead already when they left still with demons in pursuit. They had to act quickly. You didn't blame them. Without it, you were trapped here. Unless you could find a demon's gate that could take you to Earth. That's how the demons made it out. But there would certainly be legions of the enemy at such places.

You had managed to escape the slaughter of your scouting party, but you were injured. Your wings had been hurt as had your leg. Relatively minor injuries, but in a hostile land, they certainly made things more difficult.

To be honest, you weren't exactly the strongest angel on a good day. This was not a good day.

You limped along the rocky landscape, using your holy staff as a walking stick. You stayed low to remain unseen by any wandering beasts or demons as you made your way out of the fiery wastelands and into the white sand desert. Hell wasn't all fire and brimstone. It was the most popular depiction of Hell's most dramatic landscape, but there were other biomes, too. Now you were getting into one of the many deserts Hell had to offer.

It was cooler than the burning wastes, but by no means was it comfortable. Water and food were scarce, the white sands were nearly blinding, and the swirling black sky was a constant ominous reminder that you were not safe.

You could go a long time without food and water. You wouldn't die without them, but after a while, you would wither up and be unable to move. You'd go into a kind of stasis. And then you'd be defenseless.

For days, you wandered. At least... you thought it was days. Despite the perpetually black sky the sun never set. Your lips were chapped, your wounds aching, hope dying in your heart. You had to find an oasis to rest at. Build up your strength. From the limited maps you had seen of this region of Hell there should be one at the heart of this desert, but with your wings and legs messed up it would still take many days still to reach it.

There were several more days of endless marching, hobbling on your injured leg that was getting harder and harder to walk on before you finally saw the oasis in the distance. You tried your best to approach stealthily, going behind dunes and sand drifts whenever possible, and wrapping your white wings around you to provide some measure of camouflage with the white sands. As you got near, it disappeared in a puff of smoke. And out of the smoke stood a demon. It was a trap.

Dark brownish red skin, sharp horns, a tail flicking back and forth, and he stood at least a foot taller than you. He was very muscular, his sweat coated abs glistened in the sunlight. He wore nothing. His long horse-like cock and big nuts swinging freely below a thick patch of black pubic hair.

You caught yourself accidentally staring and looked away quickly before readying your divine staff for a fight. Which was really hard, since you could barely stand without it.

The demon winked and chuckled.

"Do you like it~ There's no harm in just looking, you know?"

He closed the distance between the two of you in a flash and knocked the staff away in one fluid motion.

"As a matter of fact, you can do a lot more than look, little bird. My cum would make you feel so much better~ That oasis you're looking for is still miles away."

"Uh, thanks for the kind offer, but I think I will pass. I'll just be on my way and out of your hair."

You stepped back slowly, hoping to make it to your staff so you could maybe limp away and give him a good smack if he followed. But he wasn't giving you the chance.

"Oh, but you're dehydrated!"

He took a few steps forward until there were mere inches between you. He put a hand on your cheek and thumbed at your chapped lips gently.

"Your lips are all dry. Let me help~"

Before you could decline, he held your head in place and leaned down. He traced and prodded your sore lips with his long slick tongue.

You tried to push him away but couldn't do much in your current condition. And the saliva was having some kind of effect on you.

He slipped his tongue past your lips and kissed you greedily.

Your head grew fuzzy and your legs weak. His spit was some type of drug. It felt... nice...

You resisted it as long as you could, even resorting to biting his tongue, but he ignored it and continued. Moments later, you slumped against him, your head on his muscular chest. The only thought in your head as you passed out was how nice this man in front of you smelled.

He picked you up gently and carried you bridal style. It was fitting since you were certainly his little bride now, as far as he was concerned. He placed a chaste kiss on the top of your head and then started walking towards the underground dwelling he called home.

When you woke up, your wounds had been healed, and you felt a lot better. Though you were still dizzy. There was an intoxicating smell all around you and you didn't recognize your surroundings.

Your first instinct was to jump up and flee, but you were immediately pulled back down and placed in the lap of your demonic captor. His monstrous cock poking out between your thighs.

You looked down and realized you were naked, your soft cock and balls laying on his unnaturally warm prick.

"Let me go!" You elbowed him as hard as you could but he must have made sure you stayed drugged because you couldn't muster up any strength to put into your struggle.

"Let you go? After all the trouble I have gone through to romance you?"

"Romance!? You kidnapped me and I don't even know who the fuck you are, creep!!"

You struggled with renewed anger, smacking your head backwards, elbowing, kicking, and scratching. All amounting to you gasping for breath, tired, while he chuckled at the attempt.

"You're in Hell! I could have raped you and left you in the sand to be killed by any passing monster and that still would have been considered romance."

He placed his large hands on your legs with his thumbs drawing lazy circles on your thighs.

"I saved you from the desert, treated your wounds, let you rest for days, fed you, gave you water, and bathed you. That is damn romantic!"

He started assaulting your neck with little licks and kisses, enjoying how you squirmed in protest while sitting on his equine cock.

"As for the name that you'll be moaning when I bury myself in you, it's Tevrik."

"My friends will come back for me. You should save yourself the trouble and let me go now!"

This was a bluff, of course. They almost certainly thought you were dead. You didn't know if your deception would work, but you didn't expect him to respond with a cackle.

"No, they won't! Rathiel won't let em!"

A shudder went through you at the mention of your boss who had ordered the mission into Hell.

"He's one of Hell's best agents. Gives us lots of intel."

You were dumbfounded and fell silent a moment before regaining your composure and replying angrily.

"Lies from a worthless demon!"

"I'd never lie to you, sweetie~"

He trailed his hands up and down your thighs as he continued.

"How else did we set up that ambush? Rathiel sent you to us. We needed more angel blood. But not yours."

Your blood ran cold as he began grinding into you.

"I picked you out from a bunch of employee profiles just to be my little princess. I'm half angel myself and wanted an angel bride~ We'll rule this region of Hell together!"

He repositioned you on his lap to face towards him as his flared cock grew fully erect.

"You weren't supposed to be hurt in the battle. I'm so sorry about that. I killed the demons who did it."

You didn't even struggle when he positioned you above his dick, hot precum smearing your hole as his cock pressed against it. The betrayal drained the fight from you.

"After the battle, I just followed you for a bit, so you'd be tired. And now here you are. With me."

The precum and smell of his arousal were making you dizzier. The words he spoke brought tears from your eyes.

"Awe, don't cry. After we have some alone time to adjust, I'll take you to the palace~ You'll be royalty!"

You winced as his cock entered you, expecting pain. Surprisingly, there was none. Instead it was like every cell in your body was filled with pleasure.

This couldn't be right. You had to escape. Sex with a demon was a very taboo thing.

You started struggling but Tevrik held you still.

"Shhh, I know you're upset. But just let it happen, okay? I'll make you feel so good."

As his precum continued to dribble out of his dick and into you and as the betrayal by your trusted higher up sank in you once more lost the will to fight.

Why were you fighting anyway? This cock felt so nice. And he was so kind and romantic to go through all this trouble to get you away from your evil boss right?

You relaxed and lay against his chest as he pumped into you slowly. You looked up at him and realized he had your underwear in his hand and was holding it up to his nose sniffing the crotch.

"You smell so good, girly. So good. You feel good too."

"You smell nice too!" Then your brain caught up with the rest of what he had said.

"A-and I'm not a g-girl." Too focused on your pleasure to really care.

"Nah, you're too pretty to be a man. Too weak too. Plus you have this tight little cunt hugging my dick. You're definitely a girly~"

"O-okay."

You blushed because he called you pretty. You supposed he made a lot of sense. You were clearly a girl. You wondered why you didn't know that sooner. It felt right.

He chuckled warmly as you drooled on his chest and made cute little gasps and moans. He couldn't wait until you were moaning his name.

Tevrik didn't pound you, he didn't want to hurt his sweet baby bird. Instead he just rocked his hips into you and enjoyed the effect it had on you.

After you started making those delicious noises his demonic precum began to make you super cuddly. He continued to breed your tight hole while you started nuzzling him and leaving gentle kisses on his chest. He began grinding into you a bit faster and more forcefully, his cock clearly outlined through your belly as it nestled into you as deeply as he could get it.

"Fuck babe, I'm about to bust."

But you came before he did it. Your cock spilling silvery angelic seed on his belly as you called his name and clung to him tightly. The combined sight of you cumming while impaled by his dick while at the same time calling his name just like you promised he would sent Tevrik over the edge. His large balls filled your tummy with hot demon cum. It made you feel warm and fluttery and loved. Like you could feel his emotions through his seed.

You were so tired from all the emotion and sex that you passed out on top of him, nuzzling your nose into the comforting scent of his armpit as you clung to him.

Tevrik smiled. You were just so precious. Sadly, he knew you'd regress back into struggling against him. But that was okay. He would keep reminding you how the angels threw you away and keep breeding you full of his drug-like semen. Soon you'd crave it. He'd bed you constantly until you needed it. And then breed you as much as you wanted him to after that.

Yeah, it would take a while. But he had all the time in the universe.

Tevrik sighed with content and closed his eyes, taking your underwear and putting it back up to his nose while he relaxed with his cock still deep inside you.

You may have been in Hell, but Tevrik was in Heaven.

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

TW: NSFW, noncon, virgin reader, corruption kink, Sukuna in general

fem reader

Thinking about Demon King Sukuna and how he receives a virgin for his harem every new moon. Most are unfortunate townspeople who’ve come of age���but you’re something he can savor even more, something truly special.

The silk kimono you’d been dressed in is easily ripped from your body, leaving you bare. You’d been warned not to fight or run, that he’d only sooner kill and eat you—but you keep your faith and try and escape anyway. 

All your life, the temple has taught you of Ryomen Sukuna—that he’s a harbinger of carnage and death. You’d feel better offering your life to the Gods than allowing it to remain captive by the likes of evil.

He only grabs and manhandles you with nothing more but a sadistic laugh, catching your hair in a fist as he pulls you up until only the tips of your toes are left grazing the floors—and even then, he has to bow nearly half his length before he’s leveling your eyes with his.

“My patience is a fickle thing, turtledove. Run again, and I’ll treat it like a real hunt. Which would be a real shame… I so hate spilling holy blood before I’ve made it filthy with sin.”

You're thrown onto a large round bed next. It catches you with a bounce while he crawls after you, taking hold of both your ankles and swiftly pulling you beneath him. 

His chest is marked with demonic seals, and so is his face, where he looms above you with a deranged smile. Raking his claws up your legs and thighs, he spreads and pushes them flat against the bed while his other two hold your crying face, cupping your cheeks with both thumbs hooking into the wet of your mouth, playing with your tongue as you sob. When he shows you his and its black markings, you scream, feeling as though he’s pouring poison down your throat as he feeds you its length and knots it with yours.

You choke and sob while you share each other’s spit, feeling tarnished and forsaken by all that you held sacred—wondering why the heavens would allow this to happen as the weight of his manhood finds rest between your thighs, upon your mound and tummy, where it grows fat and warm.

His hands leave your face and switch places with the other two, freeing them for what he plans on doing next. Wrapping one around himself, he gives it languid tugs while soaking in the sight of your poor little cunt trembling in fear of something it only barely knows what is. His other hand pets it soothingly in mockery, tickling the slit, making you shake.

His stomach then splits open like a cut, baring teeth and a tongue that only earns your horrified expression—crying as it drools over you, jutting out to lick the tender place you so wished had remained untouched. You whine in shudders as he squeezes your throat and bares down over you, staring at you with keen bromine eyes, amused with your fall from grace as you come undone.

“You taste sweet,” he moans against your lips while his other mouth slurps at your core, also groaning.

You’re naïve for thinking it’s over where you blink away tears, but he doesn’t blame you. They never teach you the truth in temples, only childish lies that leave you ever vulnerable to the outside world and ever sweeter for him to ruin.

“I apologize for clipping your wings, angel. But I must say… depravity suits you better.”

Nothing. Not a prayer or plea leaves your lips as he tears through and fills you up. Only a choked gasp that dies midway. You bite into your lip, squeezing your eyes shut—ready to accept a death that never comes. Instead, there’s a living hell, and you can only scream as it consumes you.

Your whimpering is delicious, caught beneath him, panting every time his hips snap forth and storm your clingy insides, gushing for him like he knew you would be—sweetly surrendering all your worship to him and honoring him as your new god.

Perhaps he won’t feast on your flesh once he’s done as cute as you are. He wouldn’t mind keeping you around for a bit. Teach you how to serve him properly. Paint you with his seals. Make you his favorite pet.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[bloodymarymorstan]

So yesterday I watched all the historical scenes of Crowley and Aziraphale in chronological order and then feverishly came up with a new interpretation of the "you go too fast for me Crowley scene" so here it is:

Ok so now we know from season 2 that the Dirty Donkey pub where Crowley holds his heist-planning meeting is right across the street from Aziraphale's bookshop. This means that when Aziraphale goes to meet Crowley in his car he literally just walks across the street, but it also means that when Crowley offers to drive Aziraphale somewhere he isn't offering to take him home. The previous implication of that interaction was that Crowley was going to drive Aziraphale back to his bookshop, but Crowley knows that the bookshop is only a 30 second walk away so that's obviously not the case. In fact, Crowley doesn't actually ask Aziraphale if he wants to be driven home, what he actually says is "can I drop you anywhere?" and then "I'll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go".

So now we know that Crowley isn't trying to drive Aziraphale home, the conclusion we have to draw is that he's asking him if he wants to go somewhere else with Crowley. This is kind of a covert way of wording things, but Crowley is still testing the waters at this point in their relationship. He pulled this same tactic in 1941 when he said he would give Aziraphale a "lift home" and then ended up taking him somewhere else which led to them spending the entire evening together. "I'll give you a lift" has essentially become code for "let's hang out". This also explains why Crowley looks genuinely disappointed and upset when Aziraphale turns down his offer (and why Aziraphale acts apologetic about it).

But, considering that we know Aziraphale has fallen for Crowley by now AND that they went out together in 1941, why the "you go too fast for me Crowley" line? My explanation is this: in 1941, Crowley nearly got in big trouble with Hell simply for having been seen with Aziraphale, and not only did he not seem that bothered by it but he is now asking Aziraphale if he wants to go out again even though they've both been directly confronted with the risk this poses for him. I think it scares Aziraphale that Crowley is willing to risk so much just to spend time with him - he's not ready to confront the truth of what that means yet, and he's also not yet at the point where he'd be willing to take the same risk with Heaven. As usual, Crowley is a step ahead of him in terms of his commitment to their relationship, hence "you go too fast for me". Keep in mind that Aziraphale was very caught up in the moment in 1941 and has had a lot of time to reflect since then about the potential consequences of a relationship with Crowley, and he's just not ready yet even if he definitely wants it.

As a side note, I think it makes a lot of sense that this is the point when Aziraphale agrees to give Crowley the holy water (and why Crowley is more determinedly seeking it in the first place), because now both he and Crowley more fully understand the the danger Crowley will be in if Hell finds out what the two of them have been up to.

[deadghosy]

HAZBIN HOTEL X CAELUS! READER

prompt: you were found digging in their trash and they took you in

(I got covid😭 so me posting xreader will be kinda slow)

You were digging for some food ever since you fell from heaven because you kept fighting people over trash…I mean damn reader…

You fell with a blank look as you had a rotten banana in your mouth as you looked down to see pentagram city…so what did you do? You pulled out your fire sword and slash the ground to soften your fall which worked. You changed it to a bat for protection as you found a dumpster!

CHA-CHING✨ MORE TRASHHHH

You dig in the dumpster not hearing a person whistling. The person dropped the garbage bag shocked to see a….? Whatever you are digging in the dumpster. Your face was completely dirty as you lift it up to show you found a cool old watch.

Charlie didn’t know what to do. Are you homeless? Is what she thought as she takes you out the garbage as you blankly stare at her “•_•” “uhm sweetie are you okay?” “……” “not much of a talker huh…” you just stayed quiet as Charlie introduced herself and shook your hand bringing you to the hotel so you can have a place to stay.

I feel like you were a new angel and only stayed for like 1 month…(free trial ass shit…) and so when you didn’t act holy and proper. That’s why you mostly got kicked out

Vaggie will know you are an angel because of your angelic look and golden eyes as you just stand there minding your business. You tell her you fell because you fought over your treasure….your trash practically. So Vaggie tells you what happened to her and you hugged her making her feel safe about herself a bit.

You two have matching bracelets you made from an exercise Charlie did.

Okay I headcannon that Lucifer is already in the hotel living with his daughter. And he felt your presence and he would be like. “Fuck are you doing here”🤨 “I fought for my life.”

Vox one time put you on air with him because of your golden shining eyes….i think he was flirting with you as you ate some gift cookies he made for you…

Velvette tried to make you a model, but you kept wandering off somehow. Literally she got tired of you but never of your face as she at least posted you wearing some nice 2000 makeup

Carmilla had a gut feeling about you being an angel. She wanted to kill you but then you gave her a ring you found in a dumpster because you said she reminded you of your earth mother/parent. Yeah she wanted to adopt you

You help sir Pentious, or who you call penny for his project builds. You dig in dumpster’s, trash bins, and garbage dumps

Angel dust and you sometimes just be on your phones all the time which is obnoxious. But hey, I don’t make the rules. Being on your phone makes it seem like you don’t want to be talked to which is true.

Lucifer made you a duck as he notciced how lonely you are….(you don’t give a fuck, you only need trash as your friends) so Lucifer made you 20 ducks that are based on your favorite things or like idk just ducks

The egg boiz follow you around as you literally calling you the, “TRASH BOSS!” Not in a bad way more like in admiration as you give them stuff from the garbage.

Your golden eyes shining in the night scaring husk as he didn’t even see you in his hind sight. Like he is a cat, but he didn’t even see you?!

You and alastor’s both eat weird things, like he is a cannibal….and for you..either trash or just normal weird food combos

Alastor would definitely try to get you to eat cannibal meat, but to be honest you can tell the difference between human and regular meat. You always know.

Niffty is the kind of person who would give you a trash flower crown, kinda like how she made a crown for Alastor ✨🦆

I headcannon your angelic/demon form to be a raccoon 💀

You send dumbass memes in the hazbin hotel gc…

You are quite the feral person tbh, but who didn’t know when you literally fought people for your damn trash.

You definitely had bit Valentino once as Angel dust brought you to a club and you were digging in trash to find something cool. But Valentino found you adorable in the face and wanted to make you a sex worker. And what did you do when he tried to hurt Angel?

YOU BIT HIS FUCKIN HAND ALMOST OFF AS ANGEL WAS TRYING TO PULL YOU OFF😭

Yeah..you definitely had blood dripping from your mouth when Angel dragged you out of the club

[justhereforthemeta]

Romantic expectations and the story we didn't see: A magic trick hiding in plain sight

Here's a hopeful meta for all my fellow celestial brainrot sufferers out there. Cheers! :)

This idea started as a dead end, trying to track the movements of Crowley’s sideburns/tattoo because I thought time travel shenanigans were afoot. I had to abandon that theory when it was pointed out that David was simultaneously filming as the sideburns-having Fourteenth Doctor, and in-universe Crowley can do whatever he wants with his facial hair whenever he feels like it. But hey - null findings are still findings!

On the bright side, pausing the show to make notations in a spreadsheet forced me to slow down and notice other changes I'd overlooked the first time around: acting choices, costuming choices, references to book lore. And possibly a few surreptitious flicks of the wrist, in places where we’re meant to be focused on the magician’s other hand.

@amuseoffyre and @ineffablefood had a great exchange recently about romance and “the significance of misdirection and three-in-one (magic) tricks” throughout the show. I suspect Neil has done something brilliant with the audience’s long-standing expectations (since the 1990s, really) for the love story between Crowley and Aziraphale to develop. And while it is a wonderful story indeed, playing to this expectation lets Neil distract his audience from the blink-and-you'll-miss-them seeds he's planting for the final chapter.

Continued below the cut...

Let’s start at the beginning of Episode 2. First, context: In the previous installment, Crowley stormed out of the bookshop, was whisked away to Hell by Beelzebub where he learns about the Book of Life threat to Aziraphale’s existence, then returned to the bookshop to dance a little apology dance and hide Gabriel with an unintentionally massive joint miracle. In S2E2, we and Shax catch up with Crowley as he's snoozing in the Bentley.

Shax: “You’re in trouble”

A. J. Crowley, cool as a cucumber: “Obviously. Former demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”

Interesting! Sarcastic? Yes, absolutely; but that’s also a good 4500 years and an averted apocalypse away from “I’m a demon. I lie,” wouldn’t you say? Someone is sounding a whole lot less depressed and aimless and navel-gazey (do snakes have navels?), and a whole lot more like he’s got a project to focus on, since his "what's the point?" ruminations on the park bench in E1.

And of course we all noticed the costume change right away. Hello, black turtleneck. Feeling cute today, thought I’d cover up my graceful long neck? That sounds unlikely. Let’s put a pin in this one.

There’s also an interesting acting choice going on here. Crowley speaks to Shax in a funny, drawling, too-cool-for-you voice that we haven’t heard in a while. Specifically, not since 1967. If you go back and give the S1E3 scene in the Dirty Donkey a listen, you’ll hear it (and if you know of another instance of it that I've missed, please let me know!). In S2E2, he keeps up this odd voice (if anybody knows what kind of affect this is supposed to be, please do tell!) throughout this dialogue with Shax, except for the brief moment when she first surprises him about the joint miracle having been detected.

1967 was a fun year. Crowley masterminded a heist! And seemed like he was having a ball doing it, right up until his little caper was called off after Aziraphale brought him the thermos of holy water. Crowley spoke to his co-conspirators in that same funny, very 60’s-caper-film voice. He wore a hip 60’s turtleneck. He bought petrol for the only time ever, so he could get those sweet James Bond bullet hole decals for his car (per the book, seen on the Bentley in the show).

Those James Bond bullet hole decals would of course have been part of a promotion for this 1967 release, which you just know our film-enjoying demon went to see in the theater:

Starring this suave, be-turtlenecked guy:

And now - begging your forgiveness - a brief rant.

There are a number of posts out there that refer to Crowley’s S2E2 turtleneck as a flirtatious sartorial choice - actually, ‘slutty’ seems to be the favored accusation. There are even a few posts floating around commenting on how sweet it is that Crowley swaps out his slutty, kinky, throw-me-over-your-desk-and-take-me turtleneck for a more dressy and appropriate collared shirt specifically to attend Aziraphale’s Jane Austen ball. 

Now this is all in good fun, and Crowley does indeed look fantastic here, and I do love a good fangirling sesh as much as the next person. However, fandom’s collective tendency to interpret what we are seeing on the screen through the lens of romantic expectation can, at times, give rise to a kind of blinkered enthusiasm that obscures the original text in a haze that is part Mandela Effect, part unrestrained horniness, and part in-group code talking and identity reinforcement.

Respectfully, Crowley’s black turtleneck does not appear at all in S2E5: The Ball. In fact, it never appears again after the end of S2E2.

For Someone’s sake, let’s collectively pull our heads out of the romantic fog/gutter for a moment and focus on what we are actually seeing in the book and on the screen. For Crowley, this is an uncharacteristic within-period costume change. There is a surreptitious flick of the wrist happening here, out in broad daylight, and we are all missing it.

So here’s a thing. Aziraphale appears to have settled comfortably into life on Earth, his neighborhood, his books, using Crowley as an outlet for sharing his good deeds that he would once have reported to Heaven. Meanwhile, at first glance, Crowley appears stuck in a rut. There he slouches on a park bench with Shax in S2E1: a guy who lives in his car, stagnantly clinging to old familiar habits, mulling over the pointlessness of it all.

Setting aside the bit about living in the Bentley (I’m going to attribute this to well-documented issues between him and Aziraphale, discussed in many other excellent metas, and move on), Crowley has at least two very good, proactive reasons for maintaining his contact with Hell through Shax. First and foremost, it’s a source of information he can use to keep ahead of potential threats to Aziraphale and himself.

But also, I would posit…he kinda likes it.

Recall that book GO was first conceived as a parody, with Aziraphale and Crowley as spy-against-spy (but not really) field operatives in an ages-old cold war between Heaven and Hell. Their entire book dynamic is rooted in the trope of two opposing agents who have been in the field for so long that they now have more in common with each other than with their respective head offices. Their St. James’s Park meetings among other spies and ministers trading secrets are a sendup of what was once a well-known Cold War-era cliché. 

Our contemporary Crowley still likes slick outfits and hellaciously expensive watches and high-performing vintage cars and pens that write underwater while looking like they could break the speed limit. He coaches Shax on how to blend in as a demon on Earth, and he helpfully redirects the wayward contact looking for the Azerbaijani sector chief. He loves improvising and getting away with shenanigans under the institutional radar. And boy golly was he impressed with Jane Austen: master spy, brandy smuggler, and mastermind of the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery. 

And if you look at it a certain way, for as long as Crowley has considered himself to be on “[his] own side” - going at least as far back as Job - he could almost think of himself as a sort of double agent. It’s actually a very romantic sort of notion, befitting our hopeless romantic of a (professedly former) demon; but it’s romantic in a very different way than we, the audience, have been primed to watch for.

In other words, in a very “on my own side” kind of way, Crowley really gets a kick out of being a spy. Or at least, dressing up and accessorizing as one, and moonlighting as a good-doing double agent when he can get away with it. And also being a plotting criminal mastermind. Two sides of a coin, really. Just look at Jane Austen.

My point is: No, Crowley did not wait around for Shax to come find him in a turtleneck so that he could go flirt with Aziraphale later. He’ll flirt with Aziraphale no matter what. No, this:

is actually this:

Much like the one he wears to the Dirty Donkey in 1967: 

whilst holy water heist-plotting. Here's a clearer shot with gratuitous Bentley, because I love them:

…and which he'll wear again, with appropriate camouflage, while infiltrating Heaven in S2E6:

That is the 1967 planning a HEIST turtleneck for committing ESPIONAGE and STEALING THINGS in. Because turtlenecks are what modern human master spies wear to get their hands dirty - after all, he saw it in a movie once. 

Crowley dons his tactical turtleneck sometime during the first major break in the action (which doesn't happen until after the joint miracle to hide Gabriel) after he learns about the threat the Book of Life poses to Aziraphale. Loverboy started mentally preparing himself to go after that book immediately upon learning that it was in play as a genuine threat. 

Now let’s pick up at the S2E2 Dirty Donkey scene, reading the story from this angle. Of course, Crowley enables Aziraphale’s delusions about Heaven by hiding information from him, and does not disclose the Book of Life threat when they meet again. They go into the pub, Aziraphale shamelessly paws Crowley’s chest like the seductive Bond Girl he is, and Crowley gets to act all smooth and suave and intimidating as he chases off the interloping Mr. Brown (or Mr. Collins for the Pride & Prejudice fans, take your pick).

Ergo, theory: beginning in S2E2, Crowley is already thinking of himself as a Jane Austen/James Bond action hero (“How will our hero cope?”), psyching himself up to rescue Aziraphale by getting his spy game on and stealing the Book of Life.

Now, watch closely...This is where Aziraphale and Crowley brainstorm their plans to solve the problem they both know about: getting Maggie and Nina to fall in love and thereby get Heaven off their backs. Crowley’s vavoom plan is drawn from yet another movie (“Get humans wet and staring into each other’s eyes - vavoom, sorted. I saw it in a Richard Curtis film.”). But Crowley also implicitly shares his solution to the problem he hasn’t told Aziraphale about. And true to form, Crowley’s Jane Austen solution isn’t the same as Aziraphale’s Jane Austen solution. 

Two solutions that fail by the end of Season 2, and a secret third one that might still work...and there's our magic trick of three.

‘“I’m lost. Am I doing a rainstorm?” Yes, babe. And a heist, too - just not until season three. Can I get a wahoo!? 

I won’t spend time on A Companion to Owls during this meta, except to note that in all three minisodes, we get to watch stories that involve Crowley acting as a double agent on “his/their own side” - successfully making Hell and Heaven think he’s fulfilling their will while saving Job’s goats and children; failing to fool Hell when he does a good deed in Edinburgh; and of course, collaborating with Aziraphale whilst evading detection as an infernal turncoat during the Blitz.

(Because this is getting long, I'll also skip over Crowley's interrogation of Jim in this episode - I'll probably come back to that in another meta. But interrogating is a rather spy-ish thing to do.)

When we catch up with Crowley again later, he’s already slipped out of the bookshop, having left Aziraphale to his biblical reverie about Job. He saunters snakily down Whickber Street as usual, but with a very pointed and swift glance over his shoulder (see pic above). This demon is up to something - possibly something we didn’t get to see, something that may have happened offscreen while he stepped out. In any case, knowing there’ve been unfriendly angels in the neighborhood that morning, he’s rightly concerned about being spied on.

From this point until the beginning of episode six, there isn’t a whole lot of opportunity for Crowley to make any next moves. He babysits the bookshop, during which time he manages to wring some crucial information out of Jim; he follows his Crowley’s Angel around like a puppy, and downs a bottle of red like a good old fashioned lovesick boy once that’s been pointed out to him. If any plotting or scheming is underway, this occult being is keeping stumm for now.

This has been a long one, so I’ll wrap up with Crowley’s infiltration of Heaven with Muriel. The turtleneck disguise works (Archer fans, be vindicated!) long enough to gather some information that will be crucial not just to the denouement of S2, but also to Crowley’s journey in S3 (previous post on Crowley's Fall, Saraqael, and memory wiping). And Aziraphale gets to enjoy that view exactly zero times. The point isn’t oh, a turtleneck! How flirty! So cunty! So cute! Y’all. Everything matters. The costume change was a deliberate choice. In-universe, Crowley’s decision to wear his special spy turtleneck for spying in is a signal that he is out doing spy things, even as we watch.

In sum: Beginning in S2E2 and continuing through the end of the season, Aziraphale and Crowley are actively living out the scripts of two parallel, concurrent, and completely different Jane Austen stories. But you and I, dear fellow audience member, we came here for a comedy with a hefty jigger of romance, and that’s what Neil gave us to focus on. And right up until the Final 15, that was the only story we saw.

Meanwhile, Special Agent A. J. Crowley doesn’t have time to mope around at the end of S2E6. He’s kicked down, but he’s not out. He's got a Book of Life to steal, a very serious bone to pick with a certain memory-wiping angel, and his Angel and the world to save. 

“‘Heigh ho,’ said [romantic, optimist, former demon, hero, master spy] Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway.”

[austerity-audacity-asceticism]

The atomic habits of St. Therese of Lisieux

I used to be one of those people that were like “oh I love St. Joan of Arc, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Paul, St. Teresa of Avila” because I thought they were Cool and Heroic and they did Big Things

And whenever someone would talk about “The Little Flower of Lisieux” I was like “mehhhhh… okay”

Not in a way that was totally disrespectful, but not totally aware of the enormity of her interior life

Because guys

Wow

You’d have to read The Story of the Soul to really appreciate just WHY she is a doctor of the Church

(She’s the Doctor of Divine Love, btw)

Because St. Therese? She was in the details

They like to say the devil is in the details, but let’s face it— God is in the details, and in his mercy and wisdom, he placed St. Therese there for us to learn from and imitate in our own ways

She had to reconcile her great desire to be a saint with the enormous legacies of the saints that came before her, especially Joan of Arc and St. Teresa of Avila

(She, along with St. Joan, are the patron saints of France. I’m sure that’s something St. Therese never dreamed of)

And she had the realization that God would not have given her a desire that she was incapable of, and that there must be a way for someone “as small as her” to become a great saint

Which lead her to meditate on Mathew 18:4 (Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven)

And she was like “oh, okay. This desire planted into my heart is an invitation to become a little child, because the Lord wants to be the one to carry me to Heaven” 

(I am heavily paraphrasing so that you guys won’t be spoiled for Story of a Soul. Go read it!!!)

All of this is to say that her writings and her life reflect a simple but profound theology 

The Little Way is one of total dependence on the providence of God, of total surrender and self-mortification— the emptying of the cup of one’s self little by little, so that the Lord can fill it with his graces and abundance, and ultimately, with His own divine self 

The Little Way is one of the smallest acts of radical love, because the only person who needs to see it is God 

The Little Way is St. Therese going out of her way to nurse the nuns that she didn’t get along well with 

The Little Way is St. Therese is doing her best to hold cheerful conversations with a particularly surly nun 

The Little Way is St. Therese relishing being splashed with dirty laundry water as a sign of the smallest of suffering that only God would see

I called this particular post her “atomic habits,” because she believed that small acts can lead to holiness when done with great love for our Lord 

Small acts of love and self mortification were the things that she sought for while in the Carmel 

St. Therese elucidated in her signature sincere and effervescent style the enduring idea that there is no suffering too small, no act of love too small, to offer the Lord— because what he wants is souls, what he wants is us

That’s not to say that her interior life was always rich 

She suffered so much from months of aridity that she grew an affection for atheists, even going so far to say, and I quote:

[God] allowed my soul to be overwhelmed with darkness, and the thought of Heaven, which had consoled me from my earliest childhood, now became a subject of conflict and torture. This trial did not last merely for days or weeks; I have been suffering for months, and I still await deliverance. I wish I could express what I feel, but it is beyond me. One must have passed through this dark tunnel to understand its blackness ... When I sing of the happiness of Heaven and the eternal possession of God, I do not feel any joy therein, for I sing only of what I wish to believe. Sometimes, I confess, a little ray of sunshine illumines my dark night, and I enjoy peace for an instant, but later, the remembrance of this ray of light, instead of consoling me, makes the blackness thicker still.

It’s thought that St. Therese experienced this interior anguish up until the end of her battle with tuberculosis, with her final words being: “My God, I love you!” 

To summarize everything, reading St. Therese is a study not only of radical love, but also radical humility 

From a spoiled child to a martyr of the Carmel, St. Therese lived an inner life that very few of her own sisters in the convent were aware of 

Her life is also a testimony to God's perfect timing; St. Therese wanted to be a missionary in Hanoi, but was prevented from doing so when she contracted tuberculosis. She was later named a patron saint to missionaries.

St. Therese's Little Way informed the spirituality of many of the saints and intellectuals that came after her: St. Josemaria, St. John Paul II, Mother Teresa, St. Teresa of the Andes, Blessed Cecilia Eusepi, Hans Urs von Balthasar, and Dorothy Day

On her feast day, let’s take the time to reflect on what small things we can do today for the Lord; what small sufferings we can offer him with great love and humility 

God would never inspire me with desires which cannot be realized; so in spite of my littleness, I can hope to be a saint. — St. Thérèse of Lisieux

St. Therese of Lisieux, pray for us.

[callmerainman]

THE SMITHS | Adam x fem!angel!Reader

SECOND PART

plot. in which Adam, after bumping into you listening to music in the elevator, gives you unsolicited music recommendations.

tags. first meetings, Adam being Adam, flirting, concerts, music, getting to know each other, rockstar Adam (still takes place in canon).

taglist. @call-me-nyxx

a/n. Adam is my muse at this point, he's directing all my creative energy lmao. This came up to me as an idea last night, kinda different from my usual Adam content! Might do a part 2, we'll see about that, enjoy!

«Take me out tonight, where there's music and there's people who are young and alive»

The elevator doors slide close, the few heavenly beings have exited, leaving you alone inside the cubic space. Absentmindedly, your foot starts tapping on the floor. A faint melody can be heard from outside your earbuds, the volume of the music set on max. You bumped music in your ears every chance you got, including when you were on bureaucratic duty for the Seraphim's.

«Driving in your car, I never ever want to go home».

As the elevator stops at the upper floor, the doors slide open and reveal who called it. Immediately, you adjust your pose, clutching your paperwork against your chest with arms crossed. Adam, the First Man, just entered the elevator.

He's loudly sipping what seems to be a sugary beverage from a large cup, positioning himself next to you. You've seen him many times, from a distance. At meetings, where you worked as an assistant, walking around Heaven, on posters advertising his band, in court. But you never interacted, there was no reason to. He was one of the big heads of Heaven, while you just hoped that nobody would yell at you for not adding enough milk to their coffee. Of course, this is what makes you nervous. But when the doors close again, you take a deep breath and let the music envelope you again.

«And if a double decker bus, crashes into us»

You relax, forgetting that Adam is next to you. You just stare at the elevator doors, unbothered. You just let yourself get lost in the sad, indie rock tunes that paradoxically raised your spirits. That's until, with the corner of your eye, you see Adam turning towards you. He's saying something, but music muffles your hearing.

«Ihatethasmiths»

You remove one of your earbuds, and you turn around with a gentle, sweet smile.

«Mh? Sorry?» you ask, the corner of your lips curling upwards.

«I said I fuckin' hate The Smiths!».

Your smile fades out immediately, your eyes go wide and your eyebrows shoot upwards. Adam goes back to look straight in front of him.

«tO dIe By YoUr SIdE iS SucH a HeaVenLy wAY to DiE! Ugh, fuckin' hate 'em » he mocks.

Dumbfounded, you just stare at the First Man in shock. Your mouth is slightly open, and your earbud is still pressed between your thumb and index as you can still hear There Is a Light That Never Goes Out playing. Then, the elevator doors slide open with a ding! and Adam just exits, slurping loudly his drink as if nothing happened. You follow him with your gaze, still in shock. The doors start closing again.

«Holy shit» that's all you can say, before disappearing behind them.

—

Next week, you're still in the elevator, a cup of hot coffee in your hand and your earbuds religiously plugged in your ears. Today you're in a good mood. The Heaven Headquarters offices weren't too packed with work and you were rising to the highest floor of the palace to spend time with your co-workers. That's until the elevator stops and the First Man Adam comes in. Again. You stiffen, your wings twitch and, hoping to not be noticed, you roll your eyes. Now that you think about it, it's the same day and hour you two met last week. When he, not-so-kindly, expressed his disappointment in your music taste. Suddenly, you realize something else. That you're...

«You still listenin' to that crap?» Adam says, pointing a finger towards your earbuds.

You sigh, resigned. You're still listening to The Smiths. This time around you heard Adam loud and clear, but you turn the volume down anyways. And, not caring about being all dignified and reverential in front of him, you roll your eyes in front of him.

«Yeah, I'm still listening to The Smiths. Heaven knows I'm Miserable Now».

Adam, scoffing, symbolically brings two fingers towards his mask and pretends to throw up.

«The Smiths are the bane of rock, I swear! Who wants to listen to a man being all whiny about love, vegetarianism and shit. Rock 'n roll is something else, I tell you»

«I disagree on that»

How did you even end up in this situation? Discussing music in an elevator with the First Man on Earth, one of the most important authorities of Heaven. It's just unreal, so much that going on doesn't bother you that much.

«You're into rock music?» Adam asks, shaking his usual drink in his hand, ice making a crisp sound inside the cup.

«Safe to say yes» you say, a collected but confident smile on your face.

«Okay, okay» Adam smirks, mischievous «and who are you rocking out to?»

«Oasis» you reply.

«Ugh»

«Radiohead»

«Nahh»

«Arctic Monkeys»

«Ew»

«Joy Division»

«For fucks sake woman, are you gonna give me a real rock band or keep naming your emo fest-»

«Guns 'n Roses»

Adam's breath stops for a second. You stare at him with a challenging look. His LED eyes digitally burned on his mask squint.

«Okayy miss...?»

«(Y/N)»

«(Y/N). Name 3 Guns 'n Roses songs»

You raise a finger in front of him, your eyes wide in a sort of prohibitive look.

«Nuh uh, don't you try to pull that move on me, I'm not gonna name anything».

«Tch, as I thought» Adam says, before sipping on his cup of icy soda.

You emit an annoyed groan, before sipping on your coffee yourself. As you're about to press start again on your phone to replay the music and metaphorically cancel Adam's presence from the elevator, he speaks again.

«Listen, girlie, if you wanna listen to some real rock music you should, first of all, give up on that sentimental bullshit that people call rock nowadays. Second, you can start by coming to one of my concerts. I'm-»

«Adam, The First Man. I know who you are» you interrupt.

You move your weight from one leg to the other, as Adam playfully smirks at you.

«Of course you know who I am, you probably heard of me from my band»

«Actually, I work as an assistant for the Seraphims meetings» you say.

«Oh, nah I never noticed you. You sure you don't know me from my band? We're pretty sick»

It's not like you expected him to know you from meetings. You mostly worked behind closed doors, preparing paperwork and only handling it to Seraphims last minute. And Adam wasn't really a necessary presence at meetings. He was important, an authority holding a great power for sure, but you don't really understand of what kind.

«I heard that you got a band but sorry, Christian rock is not my genre» you reply, nonchalantly.

Adam jumps a little in surprise, an appalled sound escaping his lips.

«Oh no sweetie, you got it all wrong. Didn't you listen to me when I said that we're a real rock band? We sing about all things rock» he says, theatrically.

«For example?»

«Sex, drugs and bitches of course».

You let out an ironic chuckle, not thoroughly convinced.

«I heard your venues are like, really crowded. I don't know if I feel like tip-toeing all night long to see anything»

«You can always tell security that you're with me»

His statement surprises you, so much that you turn around with a frowned forehead. The scrunch in your face says it all about your uncertainty. Adam looks chill, confidently leaning on the elevator's mirror and looking at you. How long have you been riding this thing?

«You think they'll believe me? Not even in a 100 years»

«Listen sweet cheeks, I'll meet you at the queue between sound check and the start of the show and I'll directly tell em that you're with me».

«You want me to play groupie?»

«Aren't you already?» Adam grins with a wiggle of his eyebrows. A very shit-eating grin.

You let out a playful and sarcastic chuckle «No, but I accept your offer, Mr. Real Rockstar»

«More of a real rockstar than Morissey»

The elevator doors open, it feels like you've been there for an eternity but not necessarily in a bad way. It's Adam's floor, the one just beneath yours, and he waves at you goodbye with a hand.

«See you Saturday, you'll be my number one fan».

«You wish»

How was that one of the most annoying, yet weirdly entertaining conversations you ever had?

—

You've never been to an Adam's concert, because you never had the chance to get into his music even if he was really known all around Heaven. But it was true that his gigs were packed. The line is infinite, and the venue probably won't even be enough for all these people. Suddenly you start to regret your decision. Damn, you even dressed up for this! You nervously start shifting your weight from one side to the other of your body. Security is already telling some people to just go home because it's likely that tickets just ran out. One titanic of a bodyguard goes up to you, arms crossed.

«I'm sorry miss, but we're out of tickets»

«Oh it's fi-»

You can't finish the phrase, distracted by the feeling of a stranger arm wrapping around your shoulders. You straighten yourself, and turn around alarmed. Adam had appeared from behind a portal, which immediately closed behind him. All the people left in the queue turn around, shocked to see the frontman appear right there.

«Don't worry dude, she's with me» he says, confidently.

How can someone be such a loser and so charismatic at the same time? This is what you ask yourself while wrapped around Adam's arm. The security guard nods, and Adam opens the portal back with a snap of fingers. Soon, you find yourself in the front row. Did he just transport you there? Adam has already let go of your shoulders, standing behind the barrier. Fans in the front row start going crazy at the unexpected sight of the frontman. As they scream incoherent, adoring gibberish to him, Adam stays focused on you.

«I'm happy you're here. Trust me, your ears will thank me for blessing them with some real rock» he says, his playful smirk permanently printed on his mask.

You roll your eyes, but you're betrayed by your own smile «We'll see»

«Trust me, you won't be disappointed» Adam replied.

Then, he winks at you before turning around and heading towards the backstage.

When the concert is over, you can confidently say that no, you aren't disappointed. As much as you hate to admit it, Adam can get it. He knows how to play guitar, he's vocally a beast in every good sense possible, and he's a stage animal. He's an idiot for sure, an arrogant one, but he quite literally fucking rocks. It's the way he plays guitar solos, his finger picking technique flawless and effortless. And how he knew how to talk to the crowd, how to move on stage. And you also saw him for the first time without a mask. You didn't know what to expect, but you have no complaints whatsoever. Brown, messy hair, dark but charming circles under his eyes, a fierce grin on his face. You felt your stomach fluttering when he obviously looked at you during Stick It To The Man. As people are leaving the venue, you're about to do the same. Maybe you and Adam will talk about it on your next random encounter on the elevator. But, before you can turn around, you see a security guard gesturing you to come close. He opens the barrier for you, and, confused, you shuffle your way through it.

«Yeah?» you ask.

«Adam wants to see you» the bodyguard says, moving his head to invite you to follow him.

Your heart skips a beat. This is some groupie shit. But you don't mind. You follow the security guard to the backstage, hugging yourself slightly out of nervousness. Adam, who was talking to the drummer, immediately stops the conversation when he sees you approaching behind the security guard. A wide smile extends on his face.

«So, (Y/N)! Did you change your mind about The Smiths?» he asks, opening his arms.

You place your hands on your hips «No, but...you weren't half-bad»

«Not half-bad?» he says, almost offended.

You decide to give up the tough girl act «Okay, I'll admit it, you know how to rock. You were really good».

«HA! Told you! Ladies love my band and you're no exception. And THIS is real rock»

«I'll still bump the shit out of The Smiths next time we meet on the elevator» you protest with a smirk, crossing your arms on your chest.

Adam drags a hand between his messy hair «Instead of meeting in the elevator, me and the rest of the band are going to the after party. It's in a club near the venue. Why don't you come? I still have to recommend you some real music»

Oh this is bad. Adam's teasing smile, the way he got closer to you and is now staring down at you without a shade of awkwardness. And the fact that one of his skilled hands is now placed on your waist, again, without any form of hesitation. Is he hitting on you? You feel your face burning, pressing your lips together. Would accepting make you a groupie? And soon, you realize that you don't care.

«Okay, First Man, I'll come with you. But only if you don't ask me to name 3 songs of a band»

«Deal»

[paigebueckersmommy]

vacation - p.b

paige bueckers x reader (uconn wbb player)

warnings: p eating , nipple sucking

a/n: this is super short im sorry

the team had gone on a vacation, to reward them for all their hard work. you and paige’s relationship had been on the dl for months, but kk, ice, and azzi knew. you and paige were especially close with ice and kk, so you four were sharing a hotel room.

you had just gone to dinner, it being a semi nice place paige was wearing baggy low rise cargo pants and a white tank top. you and paige were lying on your bed, ice and kk on theirs. a text got sent to the group chat by nika. ‘hey guys we have board games if u guys wanna come play with us.’

kk looks at you, and you glance at paige. “u guys coming?” ice says as her and kk start walking out. “uh no i think we’re gonna go to sleep we’re tired” you say knowing what you and paige were both thinking. “hmmm okay just no monkey business.” ice says smirking.

ice closes the door, paige smirking as she watches the door close. when it’s finally all the way shut, paige crawls on top of you, kissing you passionately. “i missed this,” paige said thru kisses. you guys have had no alone time in almost 3 days, which for you and paige was a lot.

she began to take off her tank top, then begging to take off your sweater. you slid out from under her, Paige laying where you just were and your now straddling her. you press a kiss to her colorboke earning a gasp from paige. you start to unbotton her pants, kissing down paige’s neck and reaching a her tits as paige lets out a deep moan as you latch your mouth onto her tit.

you place yourself in between her legs, placing kisses all over her thighs and lower stomach, the black fabric covering her pussy soaked. “p-please-“ paige manages to breath out. “i-i’ll be g- ohh” paige says mid sentence when you quickly pull her panties to the side licking a stripe up her. you flatten your tongue against her throbbing cunt, earning pornographic moans from paige. “sh-shitt baby,”

you swirly your tongue around paige’s walls, earning loud moans from paige. “baby our team is in the next room over, do you really want them to hear?” you say, bringing your face up for one second. “no-no baby i’ll be good i swear,” paige says out of breath. “good.” you say bringing your face back to her cunt. “fuck i’m close,” paige says just seconds after you go back down. paige’s moans heaven as you continue to eat her out with your nose hitting her clit the way that she liked. “holy fuck right there,” paige says as your feel her clenching around you.

as paige, releases, her eyes are clenched shut with pleasure. you try to lick up all of paige’s juices, and looking at the big wet spot on the white hotel conforter before smirking at her, and coming up to kiss her.

she’s still breathless, holding herself up on her elbows, as you admire her naked toned body. she moans into your mouth in a deep kiss.

[harleehazbinfics]

A tainted dove.

hazbin hotel x devout!reader devout series

Note: i could expand this more but lmao it's already long as it is. react down below if you wanna see more!

You lived as a sister for the church in your past life. You always followed the rules, devoted yourself to praying and doing charity work. You enjoyed that kind of life that just helped people and feel appreciated for your services.

However, most people in the convent didn't seem pleased with you being such a "goodie two shoes" and "outshining" the other sisters, by things holy, even the Father seemed to dislike how well liked you were in the community that he sent you off to a far and remote place.

There was no electricity, a scheduled running water system and there was very little livestock from the extreme climate that most animals die before they reach their first spring. There was only one other person there in the church as well, he was a Father that helped and did services for this small community. He was too old and frail to do tasks outside the community but he had to do it since be was the only one that the people here could depend on.

You could see how extremely happy he was when he found you at his doorstep lending a hand in his mission.

You lived peacefully there with the Father and the villagers, attending mass, helping cultivate the land by going to the next town that you had to travel on foot to get to with how remote the terrain was, and just generally trying to make everyone be happy despite the unfortunate circumstances.

However, men came and destroyed the village, setting it ablaze. You hurriedly evacuated the people to hide and take them to the nearest village for help.

Unfortunately, you were caught and imprisoned by these men, and were defiled as you died by your injuries to resist them, ending futile.

•°•°•°•°

When you sat and looked at the crimson sky your broken wing made it unable for you to fly feeling very detached from yourself.

You did everything they asked, you became a very good sister until your dying breath only to end up here. Were you fed lies? Or, was this the fate you were already dealt?

Collapsing from the stress, you failed to notice a figure flying towards you, scooping you up and leaving with you to his castle.

When you finally woke up, you felt your wings be in better shape. You gave them a stretch holding them in your hands as you inspected them. They were red on the top and white underneath with gray swirls as a touch.

You were startled when you saw a blond male in a white suit and hat come to you. He gave you some soup with a wry smile.

You accepted his kind help feeling indebted to him for being the only generous person that you ever crossed paths with while being here in hell for a good while.

He introduced himself as the ruler of hell, Lucifer himself. This fact obviously shocked you. Lucifer was this short, dorky, kind man? It was quite hard to believe from all the scriptures you've read while you were alive.

He explains his backstory which you found quite pitiful and explained how he was surprised to find your existence here in hell when you should've been in heaven.

He promises to make things right with you, so he takes it upon himself to call his daughter, Charlie to help you. While he tries to deal with it.

When you get to the hotel, you were enamoured by the passion that Charlie had for her cause and felt like you needed to help her.

So, you worked with them for a month getting accustomed to life here. It was actually quite delightful being genuine friends with them. They often talked to you when they felt lost or frustrated or lost touch of themselves and their emotions. You didn't mind it, it was your life's work after all.

After getting closer and closer to everyone, Lucifer comes back and tells you that Heaven doesn't acknowledge the mistake that they made and that you were to stay here for the rest of eternity.

This deeply saddened you but you touched Lucifer's shoulder and smiled.

"Thank you for trying, Lucifer. It's fine! I've actually made friends here. And since you're here, why not join us? We're celebrating Angie's birthday!"

He smiled comforted as you walked with him to the banquet table served with various dishes.

The night ends happily. Despite being unhappy and failing to connect with other people to create deeper relationships on Earth. You felt more at peace here with these sinners than you've ever felt before.

[comfortless]

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

[fiendishfables]

hii i just saw ur request page and thought i'd give it a try! soo, can i please have an nsfw oneshot w/dom! lucifer x reader ? i've just been thirsting after him sm...

anyways can it be about like him going down on reader, or just being talented with his fingers, cus we know what he can do with em 🫣

thanks so much!!

a/n: ahh, yes, thank you so much, my lovely, for sending in this request! This is my first attempt at responding to a request, so I hope its to your liking and doesn't disappoint. We love Luci!

warnings: nsfw, sex, cursing, use of pet names, first time as a couple, Luci being a complete dork

word count: 1.2k+

characters: 6646

notes: This is my first fic on here, as well as my first attempt at writing smut, so I apologize if its not any good. But nevertheless, enjoy!

Dom! Lucifer Morningstar x GN! Reader

Oneshot

Going down on you was something Lucifer had wanted to do the day he first laid eyes on you.

Don't get him wrong, he was a gentleman at heart and would continue to be until the day someone replaced him as King (which you both knew would never happen), but by the fiery skies of Hell- he wanted you. You. No other soul.

Lucifer had met you through Charlie, his own daughter and Princess of Hell. Your kindness had lead you to offer your services with helping his daughter with her whole idea of a rehabilitation hotel, meant for the sinners who wanted a second chance at life; wanting to fix their mistakes and be evolved into a better version of themselves. He had met you there when she had invited him to visit and see her progress. Its safe to say you two hit it off perfectly fine.

Now, exactly how you two hit it off doesn't really matter- all that mattered to you right now was the fact that his cock was buried so deep inside of you, that you could barley form a coherent sentence, let alone a singular word.

The room was dark, making the moonlight that filtered through the curtains the only source of light; the only thing that allowed for you to see the beautiful fallen angel hovering over you, both of your bodies sweaty and hearts pounding rapidly against your ribcages, as if trying to silently connect with one another through rapid pumps of blood. To express your emotions to one another through anything other than what he was doing now, which was stuffing you to the brim with his cock.

When you first saw it, staying quiet had become a big concern to you in your mind, what with the other residents of the hotel potentially being able to hear you both.

But that fear had quickly flown the coop as soon as he entered you for the first time.

Fuck, it was absolute heaven.

You were convinced that somehow, Lucifer had managed to descend the heavens down upon you in that exact moment; your most intimate moment. That any second, angels would be surrounding the pair of you and begin serenading you with a specific love song just for the two of you, or pointing angelic spears at your throats. Now, that thought did cause some momentary fear to shoot through your body, because the last thing you wanted was for some random angels (especially if they were exorcists, or Adam) to randomly appear in the room, just to be greeted with the sight of you, a moaning mess underneath Lucifer, drunk off of his length as it stretched you so wide you were afraid he might break you. But when you opened your eyes after the so slow, yet so delicious insertion of his cock...the room was still pitch black. No holy light. No angles. No song. Just you and him. You and Lucifer.

And that was the way it was supposed to be. No other soul, no matter angelic or demonic, could compete with what you two had. It was special; a connection that had to reach from the deepest pits of Hell, to the brightest place in all of Heaven.

For being one of the most powerful beings, Lucifer was being very careful with you; his fingers gripped your sides and hips, holding you in place securely as he rutted into you. Those fingers were sure to leave marks tomorrow. Neither of you minded.

"Oh...you're the best choice I've ever made, lovely- fuck..~"

Lucifers words only helped to fuel the fire that burned within your heart; the fire that represented your eternal, undying love for him. The tightening in your abdomen became much more noticeable too, coiling and constricting like a snake fighting to escape its confinements, or the talons of a predatory bird.

Except in this scenario, Lucifer was the bird, who held you oh so tightly in his sharp talons, and the last thing you wanted to do was escape. You'd allow him to devour you to his hearts content; until you passed out, fainted, or hell, till your heart stopped. He had you right where he wanted you and the smug little smirk on his lips whilst he turned you into this blabbering mess, was enough proof to show he knew it too. And he enjoyed it. Every. Single. Second.

His hands stayed perched seriously on your hips, as if you might just disappear if he so much as dared to loosen his hold. Not that you minded. You could hardly think straight.

"L-Luci..-"

Your attempt at saying his name fell flat, his next thrust replacing the messy words with a desperate moan from you, making your eyes roll back into your skull and a tremor of pleasure trailing its way through your body. He could reach places inside you that no one else had ever even dared to try. He was special in that way. Although he did lessen his movements after your butchered attempt at speaking. He looked genuinely worried and the sight did just enough to melt your heart.

"Are you alright, love? I didn't hurt you did I? Do you need anything? Do I need to stop? I can get you-"

He started to ramble, which he often did. His worst nightmare was hurting you; even just thinking about it made him shudder, as if he had just been doused with cold water.

But all it took was a weak smile from you and a kiss on his cheek to calm him and get him back in the movement again. You assured him that you were feeling the best you've ever felt in your entire life, both in living and in death, that all the pleasure you were feeling was making it hard for you to speak properly.

"I'm okay, Luci. You're just making me feel so many things-"

A finger then found its way onto your plush lips, slightly moisturized by your saliva having been produced by your fucked out state.

"Shhh, spare your breath, darling. I'm just glade you're holding up so well. Such a good beloved, you are."

Then: "You'll want it for when I make you scream."

Seeing you an absolute wreck because of him- because of his actions- his cock- it was almost better than the orgasm that ripped through him shortly after you came undone due to his words and continuation of his previous actions.

Ropes of his seed shot into you, stuffing you like you've never experienced before. His pale blonde hair stuck to his forehead, both your bodies damp with a light sheen of sweat. Your heavy breaths mixed together, as did the small chuckles that came from both of your lips. Thankfully, he kept his promise about making you scream.

Hell, meeting you had to have been the best thing to ever happen to him. To both of you.

No one would ever find themselves as to be so lucky, to know that the King of Hell found the taste of them the most enchanting out of all the souls both above and below.

Just try and doubt his love for you. He will be sure to give you a night that you won't ever forget, as many times as he needs to, until you're begging him to stop.

You are his, and he refuses to ever let you forget it.