#as you can see this has taken over my brain

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐒 — 𝐂.𝐒.

Synopsis: Nick has been your best friend for so long, but you can’t seem to get a long with his brother—Chris. You try to mess with Chris and it backfires….badly….

Warnings: illegal street racing, stupid driving, tension, smut with so much plot it hurts, street racer Chris, BIG MASSIVE SHLONG CHRIS, size kink, bulge kink, dick-wad Chris, p n v, raw sex, riding (wink), and more....

A/N: THIS IS OVER 5.2K WORDS. THIS IS NAWT A QUICK READ. Now, get in the car bitches, we're getting HORNYYYYYY!!!!

With love and bigs tits, Rose

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“Hey, cute jeans!” I wave, my lips curling into a grin as I squint my eyes at him—Chris. He rolls his tongue, shaking his head as he stalks off further down the street. Ha. 

It’s one of those rare occurrences—I’m here—at his street race, for god knows what reason. 

All I ever do is mock him. In fact, that’s why I call him cute jeans. The first time Nick and I had shown up at one of these dumb things, Chris thought I was a stranger from behind—and my jeans? Damn. 

He had to be a real asshole and hit on me. 

That night was fun for more than one reason. It sparked something—something I didn’t know existed. 

After that, my teasing only got worse. Chris’s ego couldn’t handle staying silent, he always had something smart to say. 

“Come to watch me again, huh? Gonna record it for later, I bet,” Chris winks. My mouth snaps shut as I go to say something back. He’s already gone—not giving me a second to respond before shutting the door to his car and speeding down the road. 

Typical. 

It’s still bright out. The sun sinks lower into the horizon as more people crowd the deserted street by the minute. 

“Okay, let’s just take a couple more pics and then we’ll go. I know you hate this,” Nick huffs, adjusting the leather jacket he’s wearing—the same coat that inspired this whole photoshoot. But you couldn’t blame him, he did look hot as fuck. 

Even if his looks resemble a certain idiot lurking nearby. 

Part of me is burning with spite. I hate letting Chris have the last word. But my brain sparks with an idea, a brilliant idea. 

How much would it cost him if I stayed around? 

Those stupid bets were always placed in his favor. No one could deny he was good—really good. He drove on the street like he owned it and he never even seemed nervous. 

“I kinda wanna stay—” My words are interrupted as I feel an arm rest down on my shoulders. I look over to see Beck, a girl I love seeing. 

She’s vibrant—especially with her signature red lip that seemed to draw all eyes to her. I always blossom off her confidence, loving to sit next to her when she showed true female power all with one swing of that stupid flag in the air. 

“How are ya, girlie? Haven’t seen you in months,” she puffs, hugging me a little bit closer before dropping her arm back to her side. 

I smile over at her. “Pretty good, you still stomping on egos?” I question, the glint of mischief in her eyes reflecting back as she gives me a slow nod. 

“Oh, always. Especially Chris—and it’s just for you.” She boops my nose as her words drag through the wind, the sound of tires screeching starting to muffle the chaotic hum of the crowd forming. 

Nick stares down at the camera lens, scrolling through the pictures I had taken of him—the reason why we were here, pretty much. “Actually, I think we got enough. But are you sure you wanna stay? I can come back and get you later—”

Beck brushes on Nick’s shoulder. She scrunches her nose at me while licking over her teeth. “I got her, Nick. Go home and post those pics, I’ll return her to you safely after tonight, don’t worry.” 

“Alright…” Nick sighs, reluctantly hugging me and wandering back towards his car to head home. 

“So why’d you wanna stay? Finally like cars?” Beck interrogates. 

I shake my head vigorously, laughing as she smiles at me. “Fuck no, I just—”

“You’re gonna mess with him, aren’t you?”

Her question rings through the air as a speeding car flies by—racers already warming up.

My eyes trace towards the track, seeing a sleek red sports car in the distance doing donuts. Of fucking course. Chris was always doing some dumb shit—illegal street racing or doing fucking donuts while the other racers were repeatedly drifting around the corners or fixing up their cars. 

He’s so cocky. 

I whisper back to her as I watch his car tires mark the pavement. “Damn right.”

___

Chris is already fed up—I can tell by the way his jaw clicks and his nostrils flare when I catch him in the corner of my eye. 

And I’m looking directly at him, a stupid smile covering my face as I put my money on the bet table. It’s twenty bucks, but it was twenty bucks I was willing to spend, or rather waste. Chris hasn’t lost in a while—honestly I’m not sure if he ever has. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Chris huffs, pulling me by the arm as he drags me to the side of the road by his car. 

He roughly shoves me. The feeling of his car pressed up against my backside leaves my eyes twinkling with pride—I’m really getting to him. Just like I planned.

I shrug. “Just placing my bets. Isn’t that what everyone does at these—”

“Why are you here? Why’re you–,” as his eyes stare into mine, his rough tone falls silent, his scowl curling into a smirk as he analyzes the subtle twitch of my nose. “Huh—just comin’ to watch, right?” 

I nod to his question, my pride sinking to my feet as I try to stand up tall. Chris presses his body against mine, making my weight lean against the car once more. I swallow thickly as his hand drops from my arm. 

What is he doing?

“You know, I meant it, right?” he tuts, his eyes tracing your figure with no shame. “These jeans… baby, they look so good on you.” His voice gets deeper, his head falling forward as his lips graze my ear. “-bet they’d look better off though, hm?”  

Fuck. 

I wish it didn’t make something inside the pit of my gut burn—but it did. God, it really fucking did. My heart is hammering against my chest, the pulse in my neck pounding in my ears as slight butterflies in my stomach make it harder to breathe. 

Shoving my body quickly, I manage to escape his hold. “Shut up. You’re such a cocky prick,” I spit, my arms folding across my chest as I try to keep a stern expression. 

Chris lets out a dry laugh, grinning like he’s already won. He takes a couple steps forward, letting his hand travel into the ends of my hair, “And yet, you love it. I can practically hear how nervous I’m makin’ you, it’s a real ego boost,” he husks. 

“You don’t make me—” My lips fall open further, motionless as his hand moves to my neck, his cold fingers brushing against my pulse as my eyes go wide. 

“Not nervous, huh…” His head leans towards the side as he stares all over my face. His eyes linger on my lips as I try to look away. 

But it’s impossible. Chris swerves his head, not letting my eyes leave his as he just stares at me. 

“Chris, stop—”

“Why? Do I make you too nervous?” he urges, licking over his teeth and letting his hands drop down to his sides. 

I feel a wave of heat caress up my spine and over my shoulders. “Don’t you have some stupid race to lose?” 

The taunt seems humorous to him, the last resolve of my dignity peeking through mumbled words as he wipes over his mouth. 

“Alright, alright. Guess I’ll go try to lose, but—I might need your help.” He shrugs, walking off with a wink. 

Uh oh. 

Help?

___

I can’t tell what the fuck is going through his brain. Part of me regrets staying—but another part of me is sickly invested in whatever this twisted game is. 

Nearly all bets had been placed. Stacks of money rested on the plastic table with a heavy bais—most were betting on Chris. 

It had to be at least two grand. 

He wouldn’t give up two grand for some petty argument with me, right? No—that would be insane. Absolutely bonkers. 

…right?

I watch as Beck stands in the middle of the dark street, the only glow coming from the blue streetlights above. The sun had set quickly, the stars and moon doing nothing compared to the headlights from all the cars.

My legs hurt. I didn’t realize I had been clenching every muscle for the entirety of the countdown to the actual race. The cold bleachers sting against my skin in the night air—maybe I would’ve dressed warmer if I thought I was gonna stay. But no—I was stuck shivering in jeans, a purple lace bra peeking from under my black top, and a letterman jacket. 

The front row gave the best view, but I had no one to shield the bitter breeze. But it was worth it. This way I got to sit by Beck the entire time. 

“Racers ready?” she shouts, her voice prominent over the reviving engines as she holds the flag in the air. 

Chris is on the side closer to me, his boyish smile apparent as I stare at the side of his face. The other guy was one of the better ones—the bets had some sort of hope in him, a large stack of bills showing that he had a decent amount of skill. 

My mouth waters as I see Chris run a hand through his hair, his head turning and his eyes catching mine. Holy fuck. He looks absolutely dreamy—there’s not an ounce of anxiety, pure confidence radiating from him. 

And it makes it so hard to look away. 

“Wait, I got one more bet I gotta place,” Chris announces. 

What?

My brows furrow, my face scrunching as I watch Beck relax the flag back down to her side. “Make it quick.” 

Chris nods at her words, my stomach flutters as he stares directly back at me, leaning his head out his window while licking over his lips. “Wanna make a bet, sweetheart?” he asks. 

I look around me, my shoulder sinking slightly as I take in the amount of people staring at me. 

He’s holding up the race to embarass me. Fuck. 

As I stare back at him with squinted eyes, he clicks his tongue on the side of his mouth. “If I win, I get to take you for a drive. Deal?”

“What?” I exclaim, throwing my hand in the air as I motion to the bet table, “Why the hell would I agree to that—”

“You bet against me, remember?” he points. 

My lips smack shut, the lump in my throat gathering thicker as I try to swallow. “I’ll even give you the chance to make sure I lose a round. We gotta bet or not?” he questions, his eyes twinkling as the blue lights illuminate his sharp features.  

If he had to lose one of the three rounds, that put more hope into the other racer. And if the other race won, I’d be more than content. Getting to call him a loser would definitely irk him more than anything—especially if it was true.

I hear boos chant around me. “Hurry up and race!” someone says from behind me. 

My body stiffens as I hear the chorus of disapproval. “Deal!” I shout, biting on my inner cheek. 

Chris looks at me with a daunting grin, his hand squeezing on the wheel as he nods. “A’right—ready. Sorry for the hold up.” 

Beck rolls her eyes, holding up the flag once more. 

“Racers ready?” she glares at Chris, continuing on as he revs his engine in response, “3—2—-1, GO—”

My heart drops as I watch the smoke from the tires scratching the street float around Beck. She saunters over, settling beside me as I lean forward, my pulse pounding in my ears as I watch them race side-by-side. 

As the car rounds the corner and starts nearing the finish line, Chris’s car zooms just slightly in front of the other vehicle, only seconds of a difference. 

I can’t wait to call him a fuckin loser. 

Beck walks back out, the flag raising in the air as both cars position once again. “Alright, race two. Ready, set—” 

“Hey!” 

Stomping her heels on the pavement, Beck scowls at Chris as he shouts towards my direction. I look over, my face burning as I feel the crowd stare down at me. 

I didn’t know much about racing, but I knew enough. This wasn’t normal—this was the prime way to piss people off. 

As I go to ask what he wants, Chris curls his finger, motioning for me to come closer. 

The fuck? 

I hesitantly stand up, my arms wrapped tightly around my torso as I walk up to his car window. Chris stares up at me with devious eyes. He obnoxiously chews a piece of gum, his jaw bone protruding with each movement. 

“What the fuck do you want?!” I whisper-yell, catching angry eyes boring onto me as I take a quick glance over my shoulder. 

Oh, these people are mad—fucking furious, even. 

“Kiss me.” 

I do a double take, my eyes blinky slowly as I watch him lick over the bottom ridges of his teeth, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel. 

“What?” I breathe out, a dry laugh heaving from my lips. 

He can’t be serious…

“However long you kiss me is however long I’ll wait to start drivin’. Didn’t you want me to lose? C’mon pretty girl, you saw the bet table—use your head, alright? It’s just a kiss,” he taunts.

This is how he was gonna give me the chance to make him lose a round—I should’ve known. 

I shake my head, cringing as I hear the boo’s from the crowd get louder. 

“I’m startin’,” Beck says, holding up the flag. “3—”

“Yes or no? It’s up to you,” he shrugs, his eyes drawing over my face as my lips smack open and shut. 

“2—”

The noise of his engine revving makes my anxiety settle. This is my chance—my only chance at that. 

“Fuck it,” I murmur, taking a long stride towards him. 

“1—GO!” 

I crash my lips onto his, my hands on either side of his jaw. His lips meet mine with a hard urgency, the rhythm of my movement panicked and rushed. 

My breath hitches in my chest—I don’t know if it’s because I forgot to breathe or if it’s from the feeling of his hand traveling up and tangling around the back of my neck, pulling me impossibly closer as he slips his warm tongue into my mouth. 

I nearly forget everything, gasping for air as I pull back quickly, moaning as I feel his mouth hungrily chase mine. 

Never in my life had I been kissed like this—so passionately and rough. 

“Hey! This gotta be breakin’ some rules–”

Fuck. 

The person yelling from the crow makes me pull back into reality. I stand up, watching as Chris slowly flutters his eyes open at me with a grin so cocky my hand twitches with the urge to slap him. 

Why did that feel so… good? 

Before anyone can say a thing, the other car slowly halts back to the starting line. 

Had we really been kissing that long? 

My fingers mindlessly float up to my tingling lips, my head feeling lighter as the surroundings start to spin a bit. It’s like he put some drug in his mouth that immediately became addicting. I want more. 

“See? I kept my word,” Chris points out, “Now—you gonna keep your word if I win? Lemme take you for a drive?” I swallow thickly, nodding slowly. “Good. Now go sit down and cheer for me real loud, alright?” 

I don’t have time to respond before Beck interrupts with the same question, starting to count down. I quickly stumble back towards the bleachers, a sigh of relief pushing through my lips as my head bobbles between my shoulders while I sit down. 

The loud cars barely register in my brain. All I can focus on is how light everything feels, how my lips are swollen and pulsing. 

“C’MON!!!” 

Chants behind me draw my attention back to the road. What the fuck? It’s not even close—Chris is speeding around the corners way smoother than the first round, almost as if he had been—

Oh fuck.

He was holding back. 

I tried to mess with him and he played me with ease. 

Part of me should be mad as he races near the finish line—but all I feel is excitement—anticipation. 

My teeth clench into my lower lip as I watch him storm past the line, not even waiting for the other racer to finish before stepping out of his car and walking over. 

Is he…?

My eyes bulge as he walks in front of me, holding his hand out as an offer. “C’mon, you promised, yeah?” he urges. 

I nod slowly, sliding my hand in his. He drags me to his car, opening the passenger door and shutting it after I climb in. 

“Chris! The money—”

Beck’s words fall on deaf ears as Chris slides into the driver seat, pressing his foot on the gas hard. 

“You didn’t even get the money—what’re we doing?” I ask, looking behind my shoulder to see a crowd of people turned to our direction as we speed off further down the road. 

“You know, it’s not nice to try and tick me off,” he huffs, quickly glancing at me with a harsh stare. 

Oh.

Oh.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ abou–”

Chris lets out a vocal sound of disbelief, cutting me off, “Yeah, you do. Fuckin—bettin’ against me, tryna get me to lose and shit. For what? Don’t have a boyfriend to give you any attention, huh?” he asks, his hand reaching over and grasping onto my thigh. 

He knows I don’t have a boyfriend—I know he’s aware of that fact. 

I stare down at his large hand squeezing my jean-clad leg. Something about his rough grip makes me shift in my seat, my thighs clutching together as I feel a wave of warmth settle into the pit of my stomach. 

“You like my hand on your thigh, don’t you?” he says, smirking wider as I watch the blue streetlights cast a subtle glow on his cheekbones. 

“I—”

“You like it. Admit it.” 

There’s no room to argue as he trails his hand up further, his fingers tracing dangerously high as he gives me a rough squeeze. Fuck his hands feel good on me. 

“Chris what’re you—”

“Do you know how it feels to constantly see you and know I can’t touch you?” he starts, the car rolling to a stop by the side of the road as he rushedly shifts gears to park, “-you’re always fuckin’ teasin’ me—bein’ a damn brat and I have to keep my hands to myself,” he grits, shaking his head as he stares down at me. 

I swallow thickly as I shift in the seat. “Chris, I–”

“No. None of that bullshit. You’re always tauntin’ me. Why’d you stay, hm? Why?” he questions, his tongue clicking on the roof of his mouth as his eyes deepen with intensity and dominance. 

Silence. I can’t fathom any words to say, my pulse drumming quicker as Chris pats his lap, adjusting his chair back. 

“Over here. Now.” 

“Chris, what are we doing?” I ask, hesitantly starting to climb over the center console. 

His hands wrap around the underside of my thighs, pulling me quickly while I let out a slight yelp as he sits me down in his lap. His hands are firm on either side of my hips. “I’m done playin’ these stupid fuckin’ games. I just—” 

The air is quiet. His eyes fall to my lips, his hands grasping just a little bit tighter around me. I can still feel the lingering sensation from his lips on mine earlier, the slight tingle still buzzing on the soft muscle as I let myself lean in closer. 

“We should stop,” Chris breathes, his tongue sliding between his lips as his eyes flicker up towards mine. 

“Why?” 

The question rolls off my lips with ease, my palms flattening against his chest as I lower my mouth to his neck, breathing over his pulse. 

“Because–” He lets out a hiss. I place my lips on his neck, sucking gently as I massage my hand over his shoulder. “Shit—we gotta stop, baby—this, this–” His jaw goes slack as I find his sweet spot. His hands dig into my hips, the slight bulge growing beneath me making my lips curl into a smile as I gently grind myself on top of him. 

“Why do you wanna stop, Chris?” I ask, nibbling the bottom of his ear, “What’s got you so tongue-tied, hm?” 

“You’re killin’ me,” he points, his gaze trained on me as he tangles his hand through my hair, pulling me back just enough to look at him, “-fuckin’ so annoying, so pretty and horrible, I just—I don’t know how much I can hold back–”

“Don’t,” I whisper, my hand gathering the material of his shirt in a fist as I watch him bite on his lower lip. His eyes trace over my face, one of his hands slowly tracing underneath my shirt, callusing beneath my bra. 

“Yeah? Don’t want me to hold back, hm?” he remarks, his hips adjusting in the slightest, my mouth falling open as I feel him rut against me through the fabric of our clothes. 

Fuck. I can’t take this. 

I lean forward, crashing my lips against his once more. Chris hums into my mouth. He furiously helps me peel off the bulky letterman jacket, the cold air feeling like relief compared to my burning skin. 

“Holy fuck, slow down, baby,” he husks, his hands falling to my hips as I shameless grind myself against his hard bulge. But I can’t get enough. “-’m not going anywhere—gonna stay and make you feel so good. Promise.” 

My heart drops as I feel his hand delicately caress over the purple lace covering my breasts. His nimble fingers trace around my hardened nub, a slight moan falling through my lips as I feel him smirk against me. 

“Take those cute jeans off, c’mon. Be a good girl for me—just this once, alright?” he grins. 

I nod slowly, awkwardly shifting as I pull down the denim while kicking off my shoes. Chris gets impatient, yanking the clothing to his own accord before planting me back on his lap, his jacket now discarded. 

“Holy fuck, look at these legs—would look so good wrapped around me,” he whispers, brushing my hair to the side as his lips graze my neck, “-while I fuck you deep and hard.” 

Oh my god. 

My mind is numb, every inch of my skin pulsing with a hot sensation of greed. Chris stares at me with lust, his hand moving in the corner of my eye. “Want me to touch you? Right….here,” he breathes, the pad of his finger resting directly over my bundle of nerves. 

I nod slowly, looking at him with hooded eyes as he starts to slowly circle the digit with a light, feathery touch. 

“More,” I moan, pulling his shirt into my fists as I watch him smile at me. 

“Yeah? What do you want, hm? Want my big dick in you? Want me to stretch you out and make you cum over and ov—

“Please,” I whisper, my hips moving for me as I struggle to stay still. 

Chris looks down, gesturing for me to take control. I hesitantly fumble with his jeans, pulling out his hard length as my mouth starts to water. 

Fuck. He’s big. No—he’s huge. 

As I go to pull my underwear to the side, Chris stops me, placing his hand around my wrist. 

“Uh-uh,” he tuts, “-take ‘em all the way off—wanna see all of you when I fuck your guts.” 

My thighs tense from his words, my hands quickly sliding the fabric down my thighs and discarding them without a single care. Chris pets over the top of my thighs, his eyes hungrily staring down between my legs. “Fuck—are you sure you want this? I…god, I can’t believe this is happening…”

I grab his hardness in my hand, spitting and dragging the lubricant up and down his shaft. Chris grits his teeth. His hands pinching into my sides as he lets out a deep groan. “You’re so big,” I whisper, mostly talking to myself. 

My eyes bulge as I feel Chris lift me with his hands on either side of my waist, placing me so my dripping entrance is directly aligned with his tip. His eyes bore into mine with dark passion. His jaw tense as he leans forward, kissing along my neck. 

“You gonna take it all f’me?” he dares, massaging my sides but keeping me from sinking down onto him. 

“Chris, please–”

“Gotta promise to take it all, sweetheart. Been teasin’ me all day already, I don’t need anymore of that, alright? Just—just gotta promise to let me stuff you full,” he purrs, sucking on the sensitive part of my neck just below my ear. 

“I promise, just—mmphf—” He slowly loosens his grip, letting me lower myself. I feel his tip nudge past my entrance, the stretch of his size making my body tense as my legs tighten to a halt. 

“Thaatt’s it, doin’ so good, just—just relax,” he praises, brushing my hair behind my ear, “-gotta be a good girl and keep your word again, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” I stutter, slowly starting to take more of him. A broken cry falling through my lips as I feel my body stiffen again. 

Chris is patient. His eyes are trained on my face as his hands massage over my body. “You got it, c’mon—just—holy fuck,” his hand lingers down to my stomach, my top so messed up that it’s bunched over my breasts. He’s not just admiring the skin, he’s worshipping the bulge—the distinct imprint of him inside of me as I hover over the last bit of his length. 

“Look at that, sweetheart, I mean—fuck—” 

I shriek as I feel him lift his hips upward, burying himself inside of me completely. My hands grasp onto his shoulders, my eyes teary as I watch him bite on his lower lip. “God—such a good girl, takin’ me so good,” he compliments, slowly helping me as I start to ride him. 

I feel him reach deep inside of me, my eyes staring up at the ceiling of the car while my body tenses with a wave of pleasure collapsing over every beating pulse of my skin. This is even better than that damn kiss. I’ve never felt like this before. Not ever. It’s like an adrenaline rush, so overbearingly good that it feels addicting.  

“How’s that, baby, hm?” he hums, smiling down at the sight of his length plunging into my guts with each thrust as my movements quicken. 

“I–it’s, I—” 

What the fuck was I saying? 

Everything feels so light, so impossible. 

“That’s it, fuckkkkk—look so good ridin’ me like this, keep—-shit!” he seethes. My walls tighten around him, my nails digging into his shoulder through his shirt as he lifts his hips to meet my movements.

His lips parted with pure ecstasy. 

“Fuck, fuck, I,” My words are cut off my a moan. 

Chris laughs dryly, his grip becoming tighten as he really puts in the work—using me like a ragdoll as he furiously fucks himself into me. “Mmmm, th-ere,” he rasps, smiling as I let out small shrieks and moans between each snap of his hips. 

He’s so deep. I’d never felt this good in my life. There’s a buzzing in my ears, spots in my vision as I feel my body ruthlessly convulse with the overwhelming sensations. 

How the fuck is he so deep?

How the hell is he hitting against the perfect spot over and over and over—

“You cumming already?” 

His question pulls me back to reality. I nod dumbly, my mouth drawing open as I let out a long moan, my thighs quivering as I rock myself against his movement. 

“Oh—I—”

“My name, sweetheart, wanna hear my–my name, c’mon,” he urges, the squelches getting louder as I feel my body burn with euphoria. 

“Chris, Chris, I–I—my god,” I cry out, my hips slowly rolling to a stop as I feel him pause his motions. 

I don’t have time to react—nor to recover. I feel Chris hold me tightly, flipping me over so my back hits the seat—his cock brutal as he drills himself inside of me. 

“Take it, fuckin—fuckin’ take it,” he chants. 

My hands scramble into his hair. I pull his face into my neck, letting my teeth sink into his shoulder. Every rut of his hips leaves me breathless, my body seizing as I feel his hardness drive into me over and over again while his pelvis slaps against my clit. 

“I’m gonn—”

“Wait. Wait for me, I��m—’m so close, baby, so fuckin’ close—”

I clench around him, the buildup becoming too much as he continues to drown every inch of my body with pleasure. His desperate tone lingers in the air, his breaths shaking as his hips lose slight momentum. 

“Wher–-where do you—”

“In-inside, please, just—just let me cum,” I plea. 

Chris huffs, his thrusts becoming erratic and somehow deeper. “Cu-cum with me, I—shittttttttt, so fuckin’ good, so… so fuckin’ good,” he seethes, a warm sensation flooding inside of me as I feel my body convulse once more. 

My limbs fall lifelessly. Our motions fall lazier, eventually pausing to a halt. Chris gently removes himself, pulling me into his arms tightly and positioning back into the seat with me on his lap. 

His hand finds the back of my head as I lean onto his shoulder, petting through my hair as we both try to catch our breath. 

“Holy shit,” he whispers. I let out a light laugh, flinching as I feel my stomach burn from soreness. “You good there?” he asks. 

Nodding into the crook of his neck, I lift myself to stare at him once more. My eyes trace from his sweat ridden face, seeing a clear imprint of his hand on the fogged-up car window. My nose crinkles as I inhale deeply. “It smells like sex, I’m sorry,” I let out. 

Chris stares at me incredulously. “Sorry? That was fuckin’ perfect—better than the money if you ask me. I mean… I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself anymore,” he teases, flashing me a grin as he combs my hair behind my ear. 

My lips curl with excitement. “Oh really? You like takin’ me for rides?” 

He nods firmly, biting on his lower lip. “Mhm. And you seemed to really like ridin’.” 

I let out a light laugh, shrugging my shoulders before ruffling his hair playfully. “Only with you.”

Chris cocks an eyebrow at me, “Only me, huh?” I nod shyly, letting out a brief hum. His eyes linger on mine before falling back to my lips. “You do ride good. Maybe you should be the racer,” he taunts. 

“Maybe,” I whisper, “-maybe…” 

“Let’s get you back in those cute jeans though, yeah?” 

[thaleleah]

𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓝𝓾𝓷, 𝓡𝓾𝓷!

Pairing: Dark!Vampire!Coriolanus x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Coriolanus, Vampire!Coriolanus, Evil!Coriolanus, Nun!Reader, Virgin!Reader, P in V, Oral (male receiving), Throat Fucking, Creampie, Slight Breath Play, Slight Bondage, Predator/Prey Kink, Fear Kink (?), Blood, Biting, Branding (he carves his initials into her skin), Burning (she burns him with a cross), Dirty Talk, Humiliation/Name Calling (ex: whore, slut, cocksleeve), Corruption Kink, Murder, Death/Dead bodies on screen, Talk about bodily injuries/gore (ex: throat ripped out, breaking bones, scratching hard enough to bleed, burning skin, carving initials into skin), A lot of praying, Author probs going to hell cause this is her second fic about a nun being fucked/noncon-ed

Word Count: 10.9K

A/N: Inspired by this ask because it asked me my thoughts on Vampire!Coryo and clearly i have many.

A/N 2: Coryo might be a little OOC cause I'm not used to writing him yet and this is a different setting than TBOSAS soooo you've been warned lol. I tried tho!

Summary: Something evil has taken over the halls of the convent. Your Sisters are dying, their screams ringing in your ears as they cry and plead, begging God for mercy that He can't provide. One by one they're killed by the devil with sharp teeth and an even sharper tongue. He's coming for you next and you have nowhere to hide when he comes for your soul.

At first you think you’re dreaming it - the screaming, the cries, the pleas for mercy.

They cut through the fog of sleep, a sharp knife piercing through the veil of dreams that were too mundane to be of importance for your brain to remember. Or maybe you weren’t dreaming at all, enjoying the stillness that comes with the night and the only other moment of true peace that can be found to just be one with God and His glory outside of active prayer. 

Panic rips through you, your body tensing and jerking awake in the same way that you jerk awake from a dream where you fall from a great height. Tossing the blanket off, you scramble off the bed, the old wood creaking under the abrupt shift in weight as your bare feet find the floor. The screaming is relentless, the sound laced with unfounded terror and you stare at the door of your room in horror, looking at it but not really seeing it as much as trying to see through it as if you could see what was causing such a reaction from here. 

The screams sound like they’re far, loud enough to carry through the convent but far enough that you can guess they’re coming from the other set of dormitories all the way across the building. You’re frozen in your spot, eyes wide as you hear the screams rip through the usual quiet of the convent. It's well into the night and the Grand Silence had begun to be observed since its marker of evening prayer. It’s a time for quiet - personal reflection, rest, and prayer until its conclusion at sunrise beginning with morning prayer. Sound hasn’t been uttered in these halls during this time in all the years you have been positioned here, and certainly not this kind of sound - the terrified screams, the desperate cries.

Something horrible is happening here. Your Sisters are in trouble.

A scream almost rips from your own throat when your door swings open, but the familiar sight of Sister Agnes keeps the sound at bay. Her face is ashen, fear striking her normally good-spirited features as she quickly closes the door shut behind her. 

“Sister,” You speak, voice low and shaky. “What’s happening?”

“A devil is here,” She says, frantically. “A demon. Here to kill and torture and corrupt us all to Hell.”

“What?!”

“Sister, please!” She rushes to the chair housing your habit and yanks it off the backrest, pressing it into your chest. “Please, hurry! We must leave!”

You fumble with your habit, jerking it over your undertunic and doing your best to fit your veil on your head as you slip your bare feet into your shoes. A devil here in the house of the Lord? How is this possible? The land here is holy, consecrated under God’s divine power and kept active by His devote servants that serve here. No evil power should be able to enter. And yet, the screams you are hearing are proof that it is possible - that evil has indeed entered this sacred place and is tainting the very place you’ve felt God’s presence the most. 

The only place you’ve ever felt truly safe. 

Sister Agnes opens the door when you scramble to her side. It’s dark in the hallway, only the dim emergency lights along the walls allow you any sort of visibility in the otherwise black of the hall. Whatever it is must have cut the power before beginning its attack. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you allow it gratefully, squeezing her fingers with yours to keep her close as if she could be ripped away from you at any second. 

“Where is it?” You whisper. It’s in the opposite wing, you know that. Sister Anges’s room is on the other side of the convent as yours. She would have had to run across the building to come warn you of the breach. 

“Sister Agatha has fallen,” She whispers back and you suck in a deep breath of sorrow. “He came so quietly, made no sound. The front door is still locked shut, all the windows intact, I don’t know how–” She cuts herself off and continues to drag you down the hallway. Her voice is thick with tears. “He came for me next, lunged at me. Sister Theresa saved my life. She’s gone too, God bless her soul.”

You heard the screams and still, the news of your Sister’s gruesome deaths shocks you to your core. Sister Theresa was your mentor here during your first year at the convent, and Sister Agatha had only freshly said her vows. They’re gone - lives ripped away from them in a matter of minutes by a devil with no soul.  

Sister Agnes leads you through the halls towards the main entryway. You peek into rooms as you pass them, eyes frantic and head on a swivel for any movement that’s not friendly. Sister Ruth and Sister Sophia’s doors are already open as you and Sister Agnes scramble down the hall. You hope that means that they’ve already gotten out and gotten to safety. There are periods of silence where the screams are cut to a halt, a result of their owner being mercilessly ripped from this world before their time. You feel hopeless as you run through the convent towards the exit. It feels like abandoning God and the beautiful place that He’s guided His followers to build. It feels wrong that there’s nothing you can do to stop it. It feels like failure. 

The entry area has a little more light, emergency lights flickering slightly but still on as you take in the scene in front of you. There’s blood on the floor, the stream of it flowing and making its way into the grout between the tiles, following the line of it as it copies the pattern. There’s blood, but no body - although the smearing line leading to the kitchen just off the entryway is story enough to know what happened. One of your Sisters was dragged away just feet from the door.

The door itself is still closed. Locked. You wonder if anyone has actually made it out yet. 

Sister Agnes freezes at the sight of the blood like you do, her hand tightening even more around yours as she lets out a sobbing gasp. 

“Lord, have mercy,” She whimpers. 

“Come on,” You say, pulling her. “Hurry,”

You take a step, urging you both towards the door, and then you’re being shoved forward instead. Sister Agnes’s body flies forward, her hand still locked onto yours dragging your body with her as she’s tackled to the floor. You fall to your knees next to her, directly next to the Vampire straddling her hips, his hand spanning the entire length of her face as he pushes her head back against the bloody tile. Your scream matches Sister Agnes’s as he tears into her throat. Her screams of terror pierce your heart just as deeply as his teeth pierce her flesh. You can’t see his face as he digs it into the crook of her neck, but you can see hers - can see the panic in her eyes as they flick around but never actually catching on anything, can see how her mouth opens and closes with a mixture of terrible screams until those screams turn raspy and then silent altogether as he drains her. 

Her hand is still on yours like a vice grip and you’re sorry, so so sorry, but it's too late for her. Sister Agnes is still here, still in the world of the living, still moving and silently screaming but you know she’s as good as dead. You’re going to die too if you don’t do something. Tears race down your cheeks as you try to pull your hand from hers, your vision blurring the more you panic when you can’t free yourself. 

The monster reaches out, not bothering to stop drinking as his hand wraps around Sister Agnes’s wrist. Bile rises in your throat when you hear the sickening crunch of her bones splintering under the increasing pressure of his hold. They shatter like glass, the cracking sounds embedding themselves in your memory, but her shattered wrist forces her hand to loosen around your own and with another desperate tug you’re able to free yourself from her dying grasp. 

You scramble up onto your feet and watch as the last remains of consciousness drain from Sister Agnes’s eyes. She was your best friend. 

The Vampire is directly between you and the door. You can’t do it. If you try to make a break for the exit, he would catch you for sure before you even made it past the door frame. And even if you were to make it outside, it’s still dark out, the sun still hours from being overhead in any way that could possibly keep you safe from an undead demon of darkness. You make a split decision and turn to run the opposite way instead, deeper into the convent. 

This time you do scream when you run into another body. Sister Sophia, pale face made even more pale by the lack of blood in her body, lays discarded on the ground at the beginning of the hallway. Her veil is pulled halfway off her head and her blonde hair is stained with blood. She hasn’t just been drained - her entire throat has been ripped out. 

“Sister y/n!” A voice hisses and your attention is called to just further down the hall where Sister Ruth crouches beside another body, her hand resting gently on their forehead. You run towards her, chancing a glance behind you to make sure the Vampire isn’t stalking his way down the hall yet and you see that the second body is Sister Runa. Perhaps he was more gentle with her, she looks like she’s just sleeping except for the red stained white collar at her throat.

“We have to go,” She says, pulling her hand from Sister Runa’s forehead. She grabs your arm, pulling you down the hallway. She doesn’t need to pull you, you’re already running as fast as your legs can carry you, and yet somehow she’s still pulling you - urging you to run faster, hustle harder. Your life is at stake, y/n. Run! “We can lock ourselves in the Chapel! Pray to God and beg Him for–”

Sister Ruth doesn’t catch the flash of movement on her right, the dark silhouette of the man crouched on the shoulders of the statue of the Virgin Mary. He leans out into the fluorescent lights of the hall, blond curly hair and equally as curled grin already matted in red to show the evil he’s already done. You don’t have time to think about how he got there, how impossible it is that he’s in front of you right now when he should be coming from behind you. He’s quick as lightning as he jumps from his perch on the statue and grabs Sister Ruth, pulling her towards him so her back is pressed against his front and he’s trapped her arms against her own chest. The flash of fangs is all you see before he buries them in her neck. She screams when he bites her. Her eyes squeeze shut as she wails, but your eyes never leave her. You can’t look away, can’t think, can’t move.

He’s drinking from her but he’s looking at you, inhuman blue eyes swirling into black like ink as they bore into you like a predator watching his next prey. He growls against her neck, a possessive and cruel sound that almost sounds more like a laugh than anything else, and the sound of it makes a fresh sob bubble in your throat. 

“Sister y/n,” Sister Ruth rasps, and your eyes snap away from his and back to hers. Her eyes are hooded now, body quickly losing color from blood loss and her voice, once beautiful and rich, by far the best singer at the convent, sounds like sandpaper. “Run,”

You don’t hesitate. For her sake, and for yours, you do.

Your Sisters are all dead. 

Sister Theresa.

Sister Agnes.

Your shoes smack against the white and gold tile of the floor, the colors interwoven together beautifully to look like marble. Most days you like to admire it on your walk to the Chapel for morning prayer, a beautiful detail created with the utmost love in honor of God and the place He can call His house. 

It’s not morning yet, and the beautiful marble of the tile is splattered in bright red.

Sister Agatha.

Sister Runa. 

The smack of your shoes against the tile is louder still as you run faster, the echo of your sob drowning out the thick clacks of your heel as the sound bounces off the arched walls of the hallway. 

Sister Sophia.

Sister Ruth. 

You want to help her, find some way to save her. 

You can’t even save yourself. 

A devil has taken over a House of the Lord, an evil spirit in his undead body roaming the world in the cover night with sharp teeth and wicked eyes that gleam in the darkness right before he pounces and sinks his teeth into his prey. You’ve heard of Vampires before - Mother Superior had drilled their existence into your head no matter how impossible it seemed that they could be real. 

“If God is real, child, what makes you think demons are not as well,” 

Children of God reduced to prey by ones who were also once held in His holy cradle, now desecrating His love by trading their souls to the Devil in exchange for immortality. Forced to take another’s life just to sustain their own and relishing in that need anyway, finding joy and satisfaction in the hunt and the torment they cause once they’ve caught you. 

You need to move, need to get to the Chapel. It’s the only place you have a chance at being safe.

You keep running, sprinting for the Chapel. Seeing the tall ornate door frame to the Chapel feels like the first moment you saw it all over again. Four years ago when you first took your vows, seeing the intricate carvings in the wood of the frame felt like a blessing being bestowed on you. It was the entrance to a place that was holy, filled and overwhelmed with God’s presence, a sanctuary and place of eternal safety for you for the rest of your days. 

Now it's the only hope of sanctuary you have. You try not to think of the irony that the rest of your days have come this soon. 

An agonized sob wretches from your chest when you see her. Mother Superior - your mentor, your confidant, the woman who took you under her wing when you were lost in this world and had nothing, the woman who taught you how to be someone worthy of the title Sister. You love your Sisters, the people who you consider family in both the spiritual and the physical. Sister Agnes - your best friend. But seeing Mother Superior’s mangled body feels like the stab of a knife directly to your heart. 

She’s slumped against the thick wood of the doorway, white coif ripped and stained a brutal red. Her head is tilted to the side, exposed neck muddled with the matching red on her coif and adorned with twin puncture wounds. The punctures are still bleeding, but Mother Superior is no longer alive to notice. 

“I’m so sorry,” You cry. You kneel down beside her and bless yourself with the sign of the cross on her behalf. “May God be with you and keep you safe in your journey to Him,”

You can’t delay anymore. Sister Ruth has told you what to do and Mother Superior would have told you the same. You cross the threshold into the Chapel and close the doors behind you. They’re large and heavy and hard to push shut, but the adrenaline coursing through your body is very helpful in making a usually two person task doable for just one. 

“So do not fear, for I am with you,” You recite as you push the doors. “Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you,” You grunt as you pull the thick board down from the side, it thuds into place, hefty and sturdy as it locks the two doors together. You wonder if it was built to protect in a time like this. “And help you; I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”

Deep breath. Just breathe. 

Breathe and pray and hope for mercy.

You turn around intent on going to kneel in front of the altar but a flash of green tossed along the edge of a pew catches your attention. Horror floods your body once again as you recognize it for what it is - Father Gregory’s stole. And you can see it from here, the smattering of blood along the edge and you know that Father Gregory, the poor devout priest who was only meant to be here for one single day, acting as the active voice of God to hear the burdens of you and your fellow Sisters and free you from your sins, has also succumbed to the devil stalking these hallowed halls. 

You rush down the aisle and throw yourself in front of the altar, knees pressing into the hard tile as you clasp your hands together. 

Prayer is all that can help you now.

Your words of praise are muddled with desperate pleas for mercy. The stained glass along the walls of the Chapel are usually beaming bright and beautiful with light, but the dark of night doesn’t reflect the color and only the dim emergency lights of the dying Chapel overheads is all you have to keep you from seeing demon shadows of movement where there is none. 

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,

On earth as it is in Heaven,”

You jump, a sobbing gasp mingling with the rushed words of your praying as a loud bang of a body being thrown into the thick doors echoes loudly through the Chapel. 

“Little nun, little nun, let me in,” 

“Give us this day our daily bread,” Another bang tears through the Chapel and your body jumps again with the sound, but your praying doesn’t stop. 

“Forgive us our tresspasses,” BANG. 

“As we forgive those who trespass against us,” BANG.

“And lead us not,” BANG. “Into temptation,” BANG.

You can hear the wood splintering as he throws his body against the doors, and you can’t keep from shaking, tears pricking at your eyes and racing down your cheeks as they slide over the curve of your jaw.

“But deliver us from evil,”

BANG. 

“Deliver us from evil,”

“I smell you, little nun!”

BANG. 

“Lord, please deliver me from this evil!” You sob. 

And it’s at that moment that the doors break open. 

The sound of the doors giving way under his force feels like a gunshot straight to your heart. He’s inside - demonic monster, killer - breaking down the final form of defense you have as if it was nothing under the inhuman power of his undead body. You can’t turn around, forcing yourself to stay facing forward as you sob out line after line of prayer, your panicked praise and pleas for mercy echoing through the high arches of the Chapel. 

A loud whistle rips through the Chapel as if someone is pretending to be impressed and even though you can’t hear his footsteps, his shoes making no sound on the floor as he walks with the ease and stealth of a predator, you know he’s getting closer - can feel the way the air shifts around you as he nears. Your brain is screaming at you to turn around, to try to run and protect yourself at any cost, but you can’t bring yourself to turn and watch as your ruin approaches you. 

“Well, well, look at what we have here,” He coos. “The lone survivor.”

He sounds like he’s all the way across the Chapel and somehow speaking directly in your ear all at once, his voice carrying through the holy place like his is the only voice it should ever amplify instead of the Lord’s words, and for a horrifying moment you wonder if that means this place is no longer holy. 

“Our final tribute,” Closer and closer, steps silent as he stalks nearer but you can hear how his nails, sharp pointed and lethal, designed for cruelty, tear against the wood of the sides of the pews as he passes by, dealing destruction in his wake. You jump when he’s suddenly upon you, crouching behind you and his hand slaps against your forehead, forcing your head back as he growls in your ear. “God’s last whore.”

“Our Father,” You whimper, tears blurring your vision as you crane your neck back against his hand, and all you can do from this position is look at the large statue of Jesus pinned on the cross displayed high on the wall across from you. “Who art in Heaven.”

“Do you really think there’s a Heaven?” His voice is low in your ear, soft and smooth, deceptively charming despite the chilling undercurrent and the way it sends shivers down your spine. “Is that where you think all your fellow nuns went? Do you think they’re happy up there? With your God, safe and sound and free of fear, pain? Do you think they’re waiting for you now? With open arms and waiting for you to join them in - what is it? Everlasting peace? A paradise, right?”

He nuzzles his face against the side of your head and you can feel the sharp grin against your temple. Your heart is pounding in your chest, the erratic thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump so intense that you can feel it in your throat, and you accidentally skip a few lines in your prayer. You stutter to correct, your words twisting over themselves as you struggle to find your place, and although his laugh is just a quiet chuckle pressed against the panicked sweat of your temple, it rings through your ears like the cruel, evil sound it is. 

“Guess what,” He whispers, cold lips brushing against your cheek. “They’re not. They’re in Hell getting fucked by demons for the rest of eternity. And they love it.”

A sob rips from your throat, terrible terrible images of your Sisters being forced on their backs or on their knees by soulless demons invading your mind, their screams of terror from earlier tonight echoing in your brain like a relentless loop. That can’t be true - it can’t be. God protects the souls of His children. He wouldn’t allow His faithful daughters to be subjected to such a fate. Sister Agnes, Sister Ruth - they have to be okay. They’re safe with Him. They have to be. 

But still, you pray anyway, finding the will despite your distress to change your prayer just for a moment to one specifically asking for His guidance for the recently departed. It’s short, just a few lines - eternal rest for the wandering souls, perpetual light shining upon them so that they don’t get lost or fall in darkness. Mercy and peace, a relief from pain and fear. 

Amen. 

He lets go of your forehead, shoving the back of your head roughly so you jerk forward. You catch yourself with one hand, breathing heavily as your ears strain to listen for him shifting behind you. You know he’s still there, can feel his looming presence even though he’s not touching you anymore, but he’s as silent as a ghost. You kneel up again, back straight as you look forward towards the cross on the altar. For a moment, nothing happens - the stillness is almost more nerve wracking than the actual monster somewhere around you. 

You gasp when your veil is flicked over your shoulder and the back of your habit and undertunic is ripped open from the nape of your neck all the way to the small of your back. The sound of tearing cloth echoes through the Chapel, reverberating off the walls and amplifying in your ears the same way the singing voices of your Sisters once did. Your back and the curve of your left shoulder are left vulnerably exposed as he pulls the material a little to the side. His sharp nails drag down the length of your back, goosebumps raising on your skin. They’re as light as they can be as they scratch down, the sharp pointed tips like daggers grazing over your flesh as you whimper out the beginnings of another Our Father. Your hands lace together in front of you, the long chain of the cross necklace looped around your neck twisting through your fingers as you cling to the cross in your hands. Then they’re back at your shoulder, digging in harder now as the tips of his nails cut into your skin. You scream as he rakes his nails down your back, pain stinging from the open wounds in the shape of claw marks and you pitch forward, only just barely staying upright on your knees as you squeeze your hands together tighter in front of you. 

You know you’re bleeding, can feel the tickling as the blood trails from the burning scratch lines on your back and you squeeze your eyes shut when you feel his tongue against your shoulder blade, licking up the dripping red. 

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” You recite through gritted teeth. “On earth as it is in Heaven,”

He hums, sharp teeth nipping your skin as he licks over the stinging cuts. 

“You know,” He says, voice gravelly. “Out of everyone I’ve drank from tonight, your blood is the sweetest.” His hands curl around the tops of your arms, pressing in and holding you still as he nudges his face into the exposed crook of your neck. 

You try to keep praying, the familiar words should be burned in your memory, able to be recited without a single thought, but you’re not even sure if you’re saying actual words now. Everything just sounds like gibberish, words garbled and twisted with panic and you know that your time here on earth has come to an end. The tips of his canines scrape against the delicate skin of your neck, teasing your death as you hold your breath waiting for him to bite down and end your night of torment. 

“Let’s see if it’s better straight from the source,” 

His teeth slice into you, piercing where your neck meets your shoulder. Your scream cuts off your maybe prayer, your eyes widening but unseeing as your hands abandon their humble position to claw at his own as he pins you still by your arms. It’s painful, so painful you feel like you're burning up from the inside, your blood turning into fire in your own veins as he drinks it from your body like his own personal wine. And then something changes, a blanket of coldness wrapping around your body as you wheeze out a worthless plea that you know he hears but chooses to ignore. The fire in your veins calms into a warming hearth, contrasting with the cold of the rest of your body in a way that feels almost trance-like. There’s a pressure building in your belly, a heat that has nothing to do with the blood being drained from your veins and everything to do with something you hadn’t felt even years before you took your vows. 

No, no, no, you silently plead, but you can’t ignore the realization of what he’s forcing you to feel when the dull throbbing starts up between your thighs. 

His hands leave your arms, wrapping around your body as he pulls you closer to him. One of them gropes the curve of your breast, squeezing it in his palm, and he growls against your throat when your hands automatically shoot up to try to yank his away. His fingers curl around the neckline of your habit and he yanks it down roughly until the ripped top of your uniform sits around your waist. The Chapel had always felt warm before, filled with God’s presence and the certainty of safety, but now its cold, chilling air warring with the already contrasting temperatures of your body as it brushes over your bare chest. Your nipples harden, chest heaving as your vision blurs, dark spots stealing any clearness of sight as the devil behind you continues to drink from your reluctant body. The cross of your necklace hangs low against your sternum, the silver chain traveling between your breasts. The sleeves of your habit are still halfway up your arms, the neckline wrapping around your elbows and partially pinning your arms to your sides. 

He doesn’t even have to hold you still anymore. You can’t muster up enough strength to try to push him away. 

The throbbing between your legs only intensifies the longer he drinks and you can feel the wetness pooling in your underwear, damning and horrible even though it's making your body feel so so good. Your head spins, dizzy and euphoric, and you’re trying to pray - trying so hard to remember the words you’re supposed to say - but all that leaves your mouth is a weak moan when he finally decides to pull his teeth from your neck. 

You collapse on your hands, your arms barely strong enough to hold you up as you gasp for air. The bite mark on your neck is sore, the throbbing focal point of what he’s done to you matching the pulsing between your legs. His feet do make sound this time as he walks around your crumpled body, the heel of his dark leather dress shoes purposefully clanking against the floor as he steps in front of you. You peek up, eyes still a little blurred and unfocused as they travel up his nicely pressed pant legs, somehow only slightly wrinkled despite all the chaos he’s caused tonight. You freeze when you get to the bulge, bumping the material out as it starts to swell under the fabric. The sight of it makes the panic once again come to the forefront of your mind and you frantically try to scramble back, away from the man, devil, creature in front of you but he grips your jaw in a tight grasp, keeping you still and on your knees at his feet. 

His hold on your face is painful, strong fingers digging into the hinges of your jaw and forcing your lips to pucker slightly under the pressure. His sharp nails cut into your cheeks as he pries your face upwards, and then finally - you see him. 

You had seen him briefly before he attacked Sister Ruth, but how he actually looked hadn’t registered into your terrified brain. He’s a monster, a killer - spawn of the Devil - you expect him to be grotesque, as horrible on the outside as his soul is on the inside. The things he’s done, the lives he’s stolen, how he tortured and murdered your Sisters in their own safe haven - a House of the Lord no less - he should be as demonic looking as his actions. You expect a mouthful of sinister teeth, pointed with multiple rows meant to pierce and rip and drain their victims. You expect red eyes the exact same color as the blood he’s stolen from unwilling veins. He should look evil, skin grey and dead to match the lack of life in his own body, but the man in front of you is none of those things. 

He’s beautiful, devastatingly handsome like you believe Lucifer was when he was cast from Heaven. His blond hair is unruly, part of it still slicked back in what looked like a professional and put together style meant to tame the wild curls that are pushing through the gelled barrier. Some of those curls spring up on his head, falling along his forehead and reaching towards his eyes - eyes that are inhumanly blue, the iris swirling like living color as the black of his pupils bleed into the cerulean ring. His mouth is red, painted fresh with your blood, and his chin down to his neck is stained with that of your Sister’s, some of the remnants of splattered carnage soaked into the collar of his button down shirt. 

Your voice fails you, trapped in your throat as he grins. His prominent fangs bite into his lower lip mimicking the way his nails dig into your cheeks. Your lips form the words despite the lack of sound, starting the prayer again in the only way you can. He watches as your mouth struggles to form the shapes despite the pressure on your jaw, the thick lashes framing his inhuman eyes lowering as his features shift into a look of feigned pity. 

“I don’t think He’s listening to you. Your God,” He pouts. “Seems He’s abandoned you.”

It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true. The words echo like a mantra in your mind. God wouldn’t abandon you. He’s here, His presence is all around you. He’s protecting you, protecting your soul in a way He can’t protect your physical body. He’s with you now, ready to help shoulder the burden and trauma that the Devil is forcing in your path. The words of your prayer push forth, desperation giving a voice to your paralyzed vocal cords, and you know He’s here - He is, He is, He is…

…but you can’t feel Him. All you can feel around you is the unsettling, overwhelming, panic stricken presence of him. 

“But I’m here,” He purrs. His fingers slide across your cheeks as he moves to grip your chin instead, his thumb caressing your moving lips. “You should pray to me instead. Go on, little nun. Pray to the great Coriolanus Snow. Beg me to show you mercy.”

Fresh tears race down your cheeks when he shoves his thumb inside your mouth, the pad of it pressing down on your tongue and muffling your prayer. You fight back a sob and keep it going anyway despite the intrusion in your mouth. But when you look back into his eyes, your own eyes wet and glossy and red rimmed with eyelashes clumping together, all you see in those orbs of swirling blue and black is evil unbridled lust. 

Your heart stops when his free hand goes to the waistband of his pants. He undoes the button, shimmying his hips as he pushes them down his thighs just enough to free the thick bulge inside them. Your eyes drop down, locking onto the sight in front of you as he pulls himself free. He’s hard in his palm, thick girth filling his hand as it juts out at you, the pink tip of it already starting to glisten with wetness at the top in the dim lighting of the Chapel. He has no blood in his undead body, none other than what he’s stolen from you and your Sisters tonight. You wonder if that’s what’s helping to fill his cock right now. 

He pulls his thumb from your mouth and his hand leaves your face for one brief moment of relief before it latches itself to the top of your head. With a sharp tug, he yanks your veil from your head, a few strands of hair falling victim to the pull as they tear from your scalp. You screech, veil fluttering uselessly to the Chapel floor, but the screech and any hope you have at determinately continuing your prayer is cut off when he fists your unbound hair around his fingers and shoves his stolen blood filled cock in your mouth. 

Your hands automatically fly up to push against his thighs, desperately trying to push him away, but his hold is unrelenting as he pushes his hips further against your face. Frantic cries burst from your vocal cords, the hefty weight of his cock on your tongue is hot and overwhelming as it presses against the back of your throat, the threat of what he could do if he just pushed a little further is clear without him even having to say a word. 

“Don’t bite,” He teases, cruel laugh bouncing off the Chapel walls. “That’s my job.”

He drags your mouth along his length, pulling you almost all the way off until just the tip remains nestled against the flat of your tongue before sliding you back down, inch by inch invading your mouth and filling it up until you feel like you can’t breathe. Your nails dig into his legs, your own thighs spreading apart subconsciously in an effort to steady yourself as he drags you back and forth along this cock. The pulsing in your most intimate areas doesn’t stop as he degrades your mouth, embarrassment and shame flooding your body as he uses you to further desecrate this holy place in even worse ways than he already has. 

The taste of him clouds your brain, the wetness of your own saliva mixing with the salty taste spilling from his swollen tip and your body tenses as you gag around him, core spasming as more shame soaks into your already drenched underwear. Your heart pounds, blood rushing in your ears so much it starts to sound like you’re underwater, and you know he can hear the adrenaline rushed track of your heart the same way you can hear its song in your ears. You wonder what he’s more focused on right now as he takes your mouth, eyes closed and head tipping back towards the ceiling: how your mouth feels wrapped around him, or how the blood he has yet to steal from you sounds still rushing through your veins. 

The cool metal of your necklace draws your attention to the cross resting against your sternum. It suddenly feels heavy and cold against your flushed chest and you know that this is it - this is God reminding you of His presence with you. This is Him showing you that He has not left you all alone with a monster. Blindly, you reach for the pendant, feeling the reassuring press of the protruding arms of the cross bite into your palm as you squeeze your fist around it. Without another thought, you press it to his thigh. 

The reaction is immediate - heat swells under your hand, the metal of the cross burning like an iron as it fries through the neatly pressed material of his pants. It doesn’t burn you, the heat radiating against your palm is nothing more than a pleasant warmth against your hand. But it burns into Coriolanus’s skin, the holy figurine scorching his thigh and branding his pale skin with the bright red righteous mark of your Lord. He grunts out in pain, teeth grinding together as his head falls forward again, those inhuman eyes locked on you as you still choke around him. 

You expect him to be angry, to push you away and end your torment, even if it comes at the cost of your life. But your heart sinks when you see the twisted grin pull at his red mouth. 

“Trying to leave your mark on me, Sister?” He asks. To your absolute horror, he makes no move to smack the cross away, letting it scorch and smoke against his burning skin. “You can mark me up however you want. I’ll mark you right back. Try harder.”

You whimper as he fists both his hands in your hair, one on either side to keep you completely still. He rocks into your mouth, using you as his own personal toy instead of forcing you to move on him, and any regard he might have had for you before is gone - burnt away and up in smoke like the skin on his upper thigh. He shows no mercy as he pounds his hips against your face, making you take him deeper and deeper into your mouth until you’re gagging in earnest, choking and sputtering wet horrible sounds as thick strands of saliva drip from your mouth and his cock as he urges himself past the point that he had previously decided was good enough until he’s sheathed in your throat as far as he can get himself. 

“Look at you,” He laughs. “This isn’t your first time taking a cock down your throat, is it? You’ve done this before, I can tell. What a little professional you are.”

You want to shout no! No it's not true! Humiliation tearing your heart apart as he laughs in your face. It’s not true, it's not true. You’ve never taken a man in your mouth before. You’ve never had anyone before in any capacity. You’ve stayed pure your entire life, untouched by man and the temptations of the Devil. But the devil in front of you mocks you, violating you in the most intimate way he can, turning your own body against you as the part between your legs begs for attention that it's never truly wanted before he forced you to feel it, even as your brain screams at you to fight back all you can. 

The cross falls back in its place between your breasts as your hands fly up to claw at his own, your fingers trying to pry his grip from your hair as he thrusts faster, harder, deeper into your mouth and throat. He laughs as you struggle, crying and whimpering and gagging around his cock as he calls you every name that you know you’re not, but can’t defend yourself against. 

Whore. Slut. God’s prostitute. Jezebel. 

The air hurts as it reaches your lungs when he finally lets go of you. You cough and sputter, greedily gulping in heaving breaths of oxygen as tears and drool slide down your heated face. Your hands press against the floor as you gasp, desperately grasping at the tile as you fight to breathe. Coriolanus lets you, leisurely walking around you as though he has all the time in the world. It feels as though hours have passed since you’ve been trapped in this living nightmare, but outside beyond the beautiful stained glass windows, there’s still only darkness.

Brutal fingers grip the back of your neck, the tips digging into the sore puncture marks on the side of your throat. The ruthless press of his fingers at your bite mark sends a horrible pang of unwanted pleasure straight into the pit of your stomach, and you know it should hurt, should burn and make you scream from the pain of it all - and it does hurt, but it shouldn’t hurt like this. 

His mouth is at your ear again as he growls, “You want to pray to your God? Go on then. Bend down and pray,”

He shoves you down, his grip on the back of your neck keeping your upper body pinned as your cheek digs into the cold flooring. Any air that you were able to take in suddenly feels like it's stuck in your lungs when his free hand slides up the curve of your backside. He drags the bottom of your tunic with it, trailing it up and up and up until it sits bunched around your waist alongside the ripped neckline of your habit. You feel as vulnerable as you’ve ever felt - exposed and on display for eyes that should never be able to see these parts of you. Your hands grip against the tile on either side of your head, but even as he removes his hand from the back of your neck, you don’t dare try to push yourself up again. 

“Pray for forgiveness, Sister,” He says. His fingers find the modest coverage of your underwear and rips them clean in half with a quick flick of his wrist, tearing a hole for himself directly in the center of them and leaving the shredded remains of your modesty to hang uselessly on either side of your exposed center. “Pray for forgiveness because you’re sinning right now. It’s here, evidence of your fall from grace coating the pretty petals of your dirty, dirty cunt. You’re sinning, little nun. Sinning,”

A gasp rips from your throat as his hand lands on your backside, the sharp sting emphasizing his words that act like a dagger to your heart. 

You’re sinning. You’re a sinner. 

“Sinning,” He says again, landing another smack to your unprotected buttcheek. Fat tears flow from your blurry eyes.

Instead of being close to God, you’re drifting from Him. Being dragged, kicking and screaming further and further from your place at His side and instead of hating every second of it, recoiling in horror and finding nothing but pain and disgust from the touch of the monster behind you, your stomach clenches in twisted anticipation. 

“Sinner,” He grunts and this time you scream, loud and tearful as his hand lands cruelly on your bare pussy. 

You instinctively clench around nothing, traitorous clit pulsing against the rough treatment. Your head lifts from the ground just enough for you to shake it in denial, voice raspy and thick with tears as you struggle to begin your prayer anew. From behind you, Coriolanus laughs as he listens to your stuttered prayer, landing another sharp smack against your pussy just to make you cry out and lose your place. You can’t focus, nerves fried and body wound up so tight you feel like you’re about to explode out of your skin. The beginning of the prayer is the only thing you can remember, repeating the first phrase over and over and over again and hoping against hope that it's enough for God to hear you because you can’t for the life of you remember what the rest is. 

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,”

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,”

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be Thy name,”

Your body stays frozen as Coriolanus lifts your hips higher into the air, and you don’t fight back when he kicks your legs farther apart so he can fit himself between them. Your praying gets louder, the only lines that you can remember coming out as a hurried sob when you feel the head of his cock slide against your slit. 

“What’s wrong, Sister? Have you forgotten the words?” He asks and a part of you wonders if instead of him being a devil, if maybe he’s actually the Devil. He drags the tip of his cock through your slick folds, sliding it from your hole all the way to your clit, rubbing it roughly against the swollen nub and back again. Your entire body trembles when he lines himself up, blunt tip teasing your entrance and you’re shaking so much you worry you might fly apart. “I said pray.”

Your mouth falls open when he pushes forward, no sound making its way from your vocal cords even though every other part of you is screaming. The head of his cock splits you open, your wet pussy taking him in and stretching around his thick length and it hurts, it hurts so much, but it's what’s under the pain that hurts more. The striking fullness of him as he fills you up, pushing his cock deeper and deeper inside you as he presses bruises in the shapes of his fingers into your hips. The way his cock completely fills you, leaving no space inside you for anything else and bullying its way even further still, making room for itself where you can’t imagine there could possibly be anymore. It’s horrible, the way your body yields to what he’s doing, taking him in and craving more even as the pleasure blossomed pain burns in your core. It must be something demonic, some sort of paranormal and evil power that’s blanketing you in this unwanted feeling. The monster behind you is forcing himself on you, dragging you into darkness with him with each drag of his cock against your slick walls, and is making you like it. 

You feel him in your stomach as he starts to thrust into you, deep and slow presses in and out as his hands squeeze your hips. 

“So tight around me,” He grunts, cock throbbing inside you as your hands try to find purchase against the ground. “Who knew that God’s precious angel would make the perfect little cocksleeve.”

You cry out when he arches over you, pushing your cheek back into the floor as he holds your head down with a splayed palm against the side of your face. His other hand grips possessively at your waist as he growls and grunts on top of you, moans of sordid pleasure filling the Chapel as you gasp and whimper underneath him. You’re not praying anymore, can’t get anything out more than a punched out, breathless, ‘Lord, have mercy, please have mercy, please have mercy’ with every rough thrust of his hips.

“You think someone like you deserves mercy?” Coriolanus sneers. “You’re no one. Left behind. Forgotten. And where is He now that you’re calling for Him? The one you devoted your entire life to.” His cruel words are punctuated with each snap of his hips and you whine in agony, eyes squeezing shut as the knot in your belly tightens. “Go ahead. Call to Him. Beg for Him to show you mercy.”

“Please!” You cry. 

You can feel your orgasm barreling towards you and you try to hold back, wanting to tell your body that no, you can’t. You can’t! You can't! You can’t let yourself feel like this no matter what this monster does to you. But your body doesn’t listen, Coriolanus doesn’t give it a chance. Your clit is needy between your thighs, begging to be touched as your pussy weeps around him, fluttering around his thick shaft as he drives into you without mercy. Shame floods your cheeks as wet squelching sounds become prominent in the dark symphony of sinful noises bouncing around the Chapel walls. 

“He’s not here. He left you,”

“No,” You beg. Not true, not true, not true. 

“But don’t worry, I’ll take you. Maybe He left you for me as a present, hm? You’re the fucking whore that your God left for me to ruin,”

You can’t say anything when he drags you up by your hair, pulling you back against his chest. His thrusting doesn’t stop even as the hand in your hair moves to wrap tightly around your neck, fingers pressing firmly into the sides of your throat just enough to make you fight to breathe under the pressure. His other hand wraps around your chest to palm at your breast, your nipple trapped between the cage of his fingers as he squeezes at your chest. 

“No no no no no no,” Your voice is desperate, breathless against the restrictive hold around your throat, and your eyes roll back into your head as the coil in your stomach tightens beyond control, your orgasm washing over you in waves of relentless, dark, and unfairly wonderful bliss. 

Coriolanus laughs as you shake in his arms, his sharp teeth poking into the lobe of your ear as he presses his grin into the side of your head. 

“Wow, look at you, cumming all over my cock without me even having to touch your pretty little doorbell. You really must be God’s favorite whore,”

He’s still hard when he pulls out of you, leaving you to crumple on the Chapel floor to deal with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Through your exhausted and used state, you still find the will to send a quick prayer of thanks up to God for allowing this devil to be done with you before he could release inside you. You know he’s going to kill you now that he’s gotten his fill, will grab you and drain you dry until there’s no life left inside you. But at least you hope that you’ll get to go to Heaven, be with God and the rest of your Sisters because he had to be lying about them being dragged to Hell. God wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t. 

If this is truly the end of your time here on Earth, then at least you were spared the humiliation of Coriolanus finishing inside you. 

He doesn’t immediately grab at you again though, doesn’t drag your head to the side so he can sink his teeth into your vulnerable neck and finish what he started earlier tonight. Instead he leaves your side, walking down the center aisle towards the door. Your eyes follow him, your vision only partially blocked from the way your hands cover your face in an attempt to try to hold yourself together. He stops halfway down the aisle, plucking something off from one of the pews, and the flash of green fabric reminds you that its Father Gregory’s stole discarded over the edge of the seat. You watch as he tucks the stole into his pants pocket before he turns back towards you, and you hide your face completely when you realize he hasn’t even bothered to tuck himself back into his pants yet. 

The hands covering your eyes allow him to sneak up on you and you don’t hear him as he takes a place in front of you again. His hand flicks out, quick as lightning, and grabs onto your necklace. Immediately, the pendant burns his skin, the smoke and smell of scorching flesh emanating from his hand, but he doesn’t care - just clutches it in his fist as he uses it to pull you forward.

“Crawl,” He demands. “Crawl or I’ll rip it off.”

You don’t hesitate, feeling the pull of the delicate chain around your neck threatening to snap against his tug. This is the last thing you have, the last form of protection God can offer you as your last moments on Earth come to an end. You can’t lose it. Your limbs are still wobbly as you scramble up the few steps towards the altar, your knee slipping on the fabric of your habit and almost making you fall enough to break the chain all on your own as you frantically try to follow his pulling. 

Standing in front of the altar of the Lord is the last place a monster like Coriolanus Snow deserves to be, but he towers over you like he belongs there, angelic blond curls falling into eyes of swirling blue and black as they glare down at you.

You sob when he rips the cross from your neck anyway, the sharp break of the chain snapping against the back of your neck as he tosses the holy pendant far away from you. 

“Now look at what you’ve done to me,” He says, showing you his burnt hand. His thigh is still damaged too, the matching marks of the cross torched into his skin. “You hurt me. Maimed me. Even after I was so merciful to you.”

He buries his uninjured hand in your hair, dragging your head close to his injured one so your mouth is a breath away from the red, scarred skin. 

“Kiss it better,”

Your breathing is shaky, evidence of your orgasm coating your inner thighs as you kneel in front of him. He allows you to hesitate for just a moment, but doesn’t release your hair from his grasp until your lips touch the marred skin of his palm. When he releases your hair, you feel untethered - accidentally swaying away from his hand without his firm hold to keep you there. Without thinking, you grab his wrist with both of your hands to help hold you steady, replacing your lips at his palm without him having to tell you to. 

“Good girl,” He coos. He tugs your right hand away from where it's clutching his arm and pulls it through the remains of your sleeve from where it's still partially pinned at your side so that he can raise it up high in the air, the paper thin skin of your wrist held near his own mouth. “Use that holy power of yours to make me all better.”

You whine when his teeth slide into your wrist, eyes sliding shut as the cloud of euphoric dizziness once again invades your brain. You feel outside your body as he drinks from you, kneeling before him and pressing soft kisses against the damaged skin of his hand, face just inches away from the still erect cock that's glistening with the evidence of your downfall. He suckles at your wrist and it takes you much longer than it should to realize that the skin under your lips doesn’t feel as disfigured as it did just moments before. 

And then, through hazy eyes, you see that it's no longer burned. Under your lips is just smooth pale skin of an uninjured palm, perfectly unharmed as if nothing had ever happened. Your eyes dart to his thigh and watch, shocked, as the damaged flesh repairs itself, torn and scorched remains webbing together and forming new skin until there's no trace of red left behind.

As soon as he’s healed, he pulls his mouth from your wrist and drags his tongue across his lips to catch any stray drops of blood. “Thanks for healing me up, little nun,” 

He hauls you up by your arm and grabs your jaw, ignoring your gasp as he presses his bloody mouth against yours, pushing his tongue between your lips just to make you taste yourself. A pleasurable heat swirls in your belly at the kiss even as cold goosebumps explode out on your skin, the horrible contrast between disgust and want twisting your thoughts into a jumbled mess. You don’t kiss him back, brain screaming at you to be strong and remember who you are even though the taste of his tongue mixed with the metallic sweet of your blood on his lips make some part of you yearn to return his touch. 

You let out a disgruntled cry when he pulls his mouth from yours and flips you around, his arm sweeping out to send the half used candles and stands clattering off the surface of the altar and shoving your body over the edge so you’re bent over it and no no no no no, he can’t! You’re not supposed to be on it like this, desecrating a place so holy and sacred. Darkening a place of such light like the Chapel is horrible enough, but defiling God’s altar - the place where bread and wine are consecrated into the living body and blood of Christ Himself - it’s unthinkable.

You immediately try to push yourself back up, but Coriolanus crowds you against the altar, grabbing both of your wrists and quickly tying them together with Father Gregory’s stolen stole so they’re bound in front of you. He drags them up close to your chest and loops the middle of the stole around your neck, keeping the free end in his hand as he hums.

“Why did you stop praying, Sister?” He asks as he lifts the back of your habit. He keeps a tight hold on the stole, pulling it taut so it constricts around your throat enough to keep you still as his other hand runs long, cruel fingers through the wetness between your folds. “You wanted to pray so much earlier.”

You’re face to face with the cross statue that he’s allowed to be left standing and even though this one has no likeness of Jesus pinned on it like the one overseeing the Chapel, it still feels like it's passing its judgement on you… and it’s finding you lacking. The combined sensation of the stole around your throat and the way Coriolanus replaces his fingers with his hard cock, sliding it through your wet folds and nudging it back at your entrance, makes your eyes roll up to the ceiling. 

Taking him a second time isn’t any easier and even though you're so wet, slicker more than ever now that you’ve had an orgasm, you still feel like you’re being stretched to your limits as he pushes back inside you. Your pussy clenches around him as he grips your waist and your hands twitch in their bindings, wanting desperately to be able to reach out and clutch the altar, reach behind you and hold onto him, or push him away - whatever you need to do to give yourself some relief as he drills you into the side of God’s holy table. But you can’t free them, can’t do anything more than take it as he uses your body and keeps you down with your hands tied and the stole wrapped around your neck like a leash. 

“Tell Him how you feel, little nun,” He growls. “Tell Him how my cock feels stretching your tight warm pussy. How it fills you up so much you can feel it in your stomach. Tell Him how I hit those spots inside you that make you go blind with so much pleasure.”

“Ah ah ah,” You moan as he pounds into you, the sound of slapping skin ringing in your ears mixed in with his sinful grunts. 

“Pray to Him,” He demands. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he pulls the stole tighter around your throat. “Pray to Him and tell Him that this is the closest you’ve ever felt to Him, the closest you’ve ever felt to Heaven, but really it’s me who’s doing this to you. It’s me who’s making you feel so good. Fucking you. Corrupting you, Ruining you. Come on, Sister. Tell Him how good I’m making you feel.”

“Please,” You try to beg and your plea comes out raspy against the pressure on your throat. 

The knot in your belly is tightening again, clit pulsing and still untouched as you feel Coriolanus throb inside you. The new dizziness in your head comes not from the Vampire’s bite but from the lack of oxygen to your brain. Dark spots poke at the sides of your vision but it doesn’t matter because you can’t see anyway, your eyes unfocused and dazed under the pleasure swirling in your core. 

You don’t even register when he yanks the stole from around your throat, freeing the unprotected column to his deadly teeth as he drags your head to the side and pierces them into the side of your neck. His hand leaves your waist, dragging tingling fire in its wake as he slides his hand across your stomach and down further until it creeps into the ripped remaining shreds of your underwear. You scream when his fingers touch your clit, sliding through the wetness and using your own shame to glide mind breaking circles around the swollen neglected nub. 

“M-mercy,” You whimper. “P-please, mercy!”

He doesn’t speak, mouth too preoccupied with taking all that he can steal from you as he continues to feast on your neck, but you hear a voice anyway - one that seems to boom throughout the Chapel as much as it does in your head.

You don’t deserve mercy.

Your orgasm hits you ruthlessly, brutal waves of ecstasy racing through your body as you shake and cum around your Vampire’s cock, squeezing and clenching around his thrusting length, eyes rolling back into your head as you scream. His fingers don’t stop their movement on your clit, his mouth never stops drinking from you, and in the back of your mind you register that he’s cumming inside you - thick and hot pulses of release coating your insides and damning your soul to Hell. 

Sparkling black and white flecks coat your vision, the darkness overpowering the bright all too quickly, and before you’re even finished cumming the entire room fades into darkness. 

When you wake up, there’s light shining in through the multicolored stained glass windows and the beauty that is the Chapel looks like it's almost as it should be again. 

For a moment, you think you can convince yourself that it was all a dream. A horrible nightmare brewed from some unknown fear that you’ve pushed into the back of your mind that you need to come to terms with and unpack with hours of uninterrupted prayer. But the moment is gone all too soon and the state of your half naked body and ripped habit is too much evidence to naively ignore. 

A devil was inside God’s house last night. He killed the rest of your cloister, tormented you and did unspeakable things to your body, made you feel things, and yet… he left you alive?

Why?

You try to sit up, your entire body aching with overuse and exhaustion, the space between your thighs is still damningly wet, but the sharp pain in your abdomen makes you pause. 

Your lower belly hurts the most, a sharp sting raising through the area as you move, and you pull up the bottom of your tunic to try to get a better look at it. You freeze when you see it, horror like you’ve never felt sinking into your bones as your brain tries to catch up with what your eyes are seeing. 

There, on your lower belly, directly above the snapped elastic waistband of your underwear, are the carved and bloody initials C.S.

Taglist: @hidden-poet (please let me know if you would like to be added/removed from my taglist for all works)

[girlfailureboylosercom]

Ex-literature Student Hyperfixates on Haikyuu Characters and launches off their rocker

the title says everything.

i got too silly trying to plan a hrhs yuri au fic and ended up deciding to do an analysis on the Kamomedai team (its mostly hrhs. my bad guys)

I'll be analysing volumes 38-41 in this post!! If I miss out on certain panels or misinterpret moments, that's my bad. Most of the panels I'll be putting here are taken irl, so they might not be that easy to read 😞🙇

This is also an opportunity for me to dissect my brain and figure out why I took a liking to these characters. I LOVE ANALYSIS and genuinely wish there was more over Haikyuu, especially on themes and characters and their philosophies!

so, what will I be focusing on in this analysis?

Kamomedai's philosophy, importance + message

Hirugami Sāchiro and

Hoshiumi Kōrai's significance in the story of Haikyuu

Coach Murphy's connection to HRHS' philosophies

If there are any topics I've failed to list here but have explored in this analysis, please understand that I was simply too excited to write and may have forgotten to list them here!

Word Count (excluding titles): 4838

Hirugami Sachiro

His Backstory

of course, whenever Sachiro is brought up, his backstory is the first thing that automatically pops into mind. It's tragic but even worse, it's realistic. It stuck with me the first time I read the entire manga, but I couldn't figure out why. I knew it resonated with me, reminding me of the several burnouts I witnessed in multiple kids around me at school, but that reasoning wasn't enough. So I supposed that pushed me to write this analysis haha!

From these panels, it's safe to say that Sachiro did have love and passion for the sport. He practically grew up with it- his parents and siblings played it, and they eventually went down the path of going pro. It would be no surprise that he was bound to follow in their footsteps. It was natural. There's no confirmation and this is more like a theory/headcanon, yet I believe that his family did have these expectations for him or placed pressure on Sachiro to play volleyball, whether or not they intentionally meant to. When you grow up with a family of star athletes who all did the same sport, why would you do something different? In the manga, Hirugami states that if he just 'straight up quit' volleyball there and then, there would be a whole set of problems. We could assume that maybe their coach would be upset, but this could be another hint that his family would not take the news that well. Perhaps his parents would be the more judging ones. Since he has all of these expectations and the pressure to improve and earn respect and acknowledgement from his family, it wasn't a surprise that this mindset would eventually turn sour and cause Sachiro to crash. We even have some supporting evidence for this, and it (strangely) comes from Atsumu.

Atsumu states that he knew Hirugami was always this good, but the way he played was 'like a man possessed', and watching him gave Atsumu the impression that he was on edge at all times. In the panel that displays Atsumu's recollection of his original impression of (middle school) Hirugami, we can see that the Miya Twins are completely fine compared to Hirugami who is panting like a dog, tired out and not looking in top shape. I don't think it's a far-fetched assumption to say that Hirugami was just forcing himself to play the sport, to keep on going and giving his all despite his body protesting, trying to tell him that he's reached his limit. But the mind can be stubborn and Hirugami's mind was also dead set on goalless/vague improvement; He wants to build more muscle, not let anyone outdo him, and not get left behind- all these goals don't have a proper end and that's harmful. Of course he's going to force himself to continue whether or not his body gets the rest it deserves. To him, there's no such thing as a rest day. Hirugami doesn't believe he gets to rest until he finally achieves or stops chasing the improvement he desires. But there's no end to the goals he wants to achieve. If Hoshiumi didn't stop him, how long would've Hirugami been aimlessly chasing his own demise?

Hoshiumi & Hirugami's Middle School Relationship (sub-category of Hirugami's backstory)

I think that Hoshiumi and Hirugami have quite similar philosophies! Both are centered around hard work and the need to improve, to become better. However, here's the difference: Hoshiumi's more accepting, acknowledging the harsh reality that he's weak. There are stronger people out there, which is why he NEEDS to be competitive and strive for improvement in order to avoid lagging behind his competition. If Hoshiumi makes any mistakes, he most likely would take it as a learning opportunity and eventually shrug it off. He already knows he gives everything his all, so any mistakes he encounters are not an outcome of laziness or lack of effort. On the other hand, Hirugami's is more degrading. It's harsher, taking any mistake he makes and echoing it back at him in a harmful manner, telling him that he could've- should've done better, that there were ways Hirugami could've gotten that last point, that the smallest mistake he made would affect the way he and his team played. There's no room for error because if there is, then there's something wrong with him. And because of their difference in philosophies, I believe that led them to interact when Sachiro finally crumbles and hurts himself.

While re-reading Sachiro's backstory, I got the impression that he and Hoshiumi barely interacted during their middle school days, so I asked myself: why would Sachiro tell Hoshiumi, an all-time bench warmer, that he doesn't like volleyball? The few times we've seen middle school Hoshiumi and Hirugami interact besides the self-harm scene were they only getting brief glimpses of one another. The panel above shows Hirugami briefly noticing Hoshiumi, acknowledging that he's still practising this late at night, then shrugging it off and walking back to the canteen. Well, Hoshiumi just helped him out of a daze during a difficult moment. Hirugami's head is now above the deep, dark water called his thoughts, so he's most likely disorientated. He's shaken up by the pain in his knuckles that are finally alerting his senses and at the same time, he's settled on a simple conclusion: He doesn't like volleyball anymore. And in that moment of silent anguish, who else could he let out this confession to? Any walls Hirugami has put up during this time are now knocked down by raw vulnerability. He needs to speak and ground himself, to let his mind finally acknowledge that he doesn't want to continue playing volleyball like this. And it just so happens that Hoshiumi is also there to hear this statement. There is no hesitation in Hoshiumi, not when he offers a tissue for Sachiro to clean up his bloodied hands, not when he listens to Hirugami's sudden, sensitive confession and simply asks, "Okay. Why don't you quit?", a question that Hirugami didn't consider nor thought possible before. He doesn't coddle but offers Sachiro advice that he could take or leave behind. Korai doesn't forcefully press the tissue packet into Sachiro's hands, nor continues to show his discomfort at the sight of the other boy's wounds despite the response being natural. His steadiness and composure are reassuring, allowing Hirugami to take his time to calm down and process his thoughts and the advice that Hoshiumi has given him. Also, Hoshiumi's advice is structured more like a conversation, if that makes sense. Hoshiumi is straightforward and honest and his words hold no flattery when he points out Hirugami's strengths, something that he can't achieve as easily as the other could. He's not making a big deal out of the situation and is staying calm yet helpful, which is essential. Because of his approach and advice, Hoshiumi unknowingly helps to give Hirugami an entirely new perspective, when he probably intended to only stop him from harming himself even further. (I also believe that Hirugami revealed this thought to Hoshiumi because sometimes, people find it easier to talk to strangers than the family or friends that they are close to.)

Little note: I love how supportive HiruHoshi are of one another!! Throughout the manga, we can see how close they are; Hoshiumi has always been there for Hirugami, ever since they first properly interacted in middle school until the end of their high school days. And of course, during adulthood. Hirugami visibly reciprocates this by taking the time to understand Hoshiumi, learning his story and other things like his thought process and quirks in volleyball.

Sachiro's View on Volleyball

One of the special arts that included Hirugami called him 'dispassionate' and I found that very interesting. It highlights his whole stance on volleyball; He likes it, but after all that he's been through, Hirugami would rather leave it behind and watch from the sidelines. He likes it, but he's not going to get overwhelmed by it again, unlike the other Kamomedai members or characters in Haikyuu. This time, Hirugami has set the goal of playing volleyball only until the end of high school. Knowing that he will get to quit after all these years, that these long periods of burnout will finally come to an end, its a relief to him. Hirugami still has a love for volleyball, but he understands that his relationship with the sport will not go back to the original, passionate state that it was before. And he's accepted that. He wants to play the sport without getting drowned in those overwhelming thoughts, he wants to have fun and not let volleyball take over his life. It doesn't matter if his talent in volleyball gets wasted. So what if it does? Hirugami knows what he wants in life now and wants to pursue it.

Dispassion can come off as someone having no passion, but that's not true; it's simply another meaning for being calm and not letting emotion take over logic.

Parallels with Asahi

Also noted that he and Asahi have some parallels! Not as much or obvious as Hinata and Hoshiumi, but it's there! Even the summary for Volume 40 acknowledges this!

Both characters have had a past with or are currently experiencing overthinking, along with how it affects their attitude and behaviour during games and or in general. Their arcs are connected to their mental health/well-being and how volleyball, the sport they play, are closely intertwined. However, Asahi's character does seem to be more centred around anxiety and how it can affect his gameplay and social life. Meanwhile, Sachiro's character has a more intense focus on the depression that can come from burnout and the effects it can develop. Yet both of these characters share the pressure of needing to be better, the need to live up to certain expectations that have been placed on them consciously or not. For Asahi, it's being the ace. And for Sachiro, it used to be, well, being good at volleyball.

Throughout the entire story of Haikyuu, we can note that Asahi is still trying to get over the overthinking that his anxiety has given him- he's struggling with the thoughts, which have been shown to affect his plays and his relationships. Asahi is learning to have more faith in his abilities, to go easier on himself and stop wallowing in his negativity. Meanwhile, Sachiro is shown to have already gotten past that. Has he made a full recovery? I don't think so. But he's shown to have not been affected by expectations anymore; He's over that burden and he knows that even if things get tough, volleyball is just a game. If he makes a mistake, Sachiro knows he won't die. It's a sport he enjoys, but there are simply other things in life that he has more passion for. He's just currently focusing on having fun with volleyball and trying his best.

Hoshiumi Kōrai

The Little Giant Legacy

If you care about either Hinata or Hoshiumi, you would know that the cause of their rivalry is the pursuit of the 'Little Giant' title. It makes sense after all! Both players are considered astoundingly short for their sport, have great jumping lengths and are considered amazing players by their team, just like the original Little Giant, Udai (who changed his mind on the pursuit of volleyball and went on to do manga instead). Personally, I believe that the moment their rivalry was officially solidified was actually at the end of Chapter 361 and the beginning of Chapter 362!

This panel was when Hoshiumi started to develop some respect for Hinata, recognising him as a potential rival he wanted to go against. But before it, when Hinata jumps and manages to spike the ball against Kamomedai's defence, Hoshiumi recalls a statement he made earlier, one he gave to the interviewer: "Yes, being short is a disadvantage...but it isn't a sign of incompetence."

And this panel establishes just how similar they are. They haven't heard one another's philosophies, yet they share it already. Gao acknowledges it with an expression of unease, and even Sachiro thinks, "He's just like Korai-kun." For this part, I will focus on these four people due to their connection with one another: Hinata, Hoshiumi, Udai and Coach Washijo. These four characters have experienced how height can be an extreme hurdle to overcome in sports.

According to Udai, the original 'Little Giant', he talks about how he knew he was the ace back in the day and how he deserved to feel confident over it. However, as Udai grew up, it is implied that the pressuring competition experienced at nationals most likely got to him. Udai assumed that if he trained himself even more, and focused on improving his skills and technique, it would be enough to keep up. But there was one thing he forgot to factor in: mentality. In fact, I think Udai does acknowledge this as well! It's why he politely shoots down Akiteru's comparison compliment of his and Hoshiumi's playstyle. Udai points out during the match that if he was in one of the situations that Hoshiumi was in, he would've failed at scoring as he would've spiked the ball down instead of back, a sign that the block intimidated him and made him retreat. "Hoshiumi has far better skill and decision-making than I ever did." Referring to Volume 41, Udai gives this mental narration while watching Hoshiumi set the ball to Hirugami: 'Know your weaknesses. Accept them. Forget the weapons you can't wield. Find all the ones you can...and carefully, persistently hone them all to a wicked point. That is what it means...to be a Little Giant.' Between these two pages, we can note that Udai is also eagerly watching Hoshiumi's play, with a determination that we can conclude from that if Udai had to pass down the title personally to anyone, he would most definitely choose Hoshiumi. If Hinata has Coach Washijo rooting for him, then Udai is the one who is silently applauding for Hoshiumi from the sidelines. (Fun fact! In Volume 45, in a small panel that features Udai, we can see him drawing his second manga series and the main character looks reallyyyy similar to Hoshiumi,,,)

All four characters know that they are weak when it comes to volleyball. However, Udai and Washijo are the ones to have been shown to crumble under that knowledge, accompanied by other factors that have made them resign from the court and pursue another path. Yet, that other path is still connected to volleyball. For Udai, it was making a manga based on it; For Coach Washijo, it was becoming a coach and only cultivating those with strong potential.

Coach Washijo has been burdened by the knowledge that his height restricted his ability to play so severely that it's firmly become a staple of his philosophy, that he'll only take in the strongest and biggest, keeping that mindset for 40 years. He only starts to change his mind when Hinata enters the scene; Not when Udai started playing and became Karasuno's ace years ago. Yet, Coach Washijo remains resistant to the idea that a player like Hinata or Hoshiumi can make it. (We don't see what he thinks about Hoshiumi, but I think his view would be similar to how he views Hinata, but not as personal 🤷) Over the time of Haikyuu- and by the time we reach the Kamomedai vs Karasuno match, Washijo's mindset has already begun shifting into a more positive view. He's started becoming more open and eager to the idea of a 'Little Giant', finally accepting that the harsh reality he faced back then is now possible to overcome. I believe that the match and the development of the fun rivalry between Hoshiumi and Hinata contribute to it, even if it isn't hinted at that often.

Turning back the focus onto Hoshiumi and Hinata, their rivalry is simply a beautiful thing to witness, especially considering the legacy both these players are chasing and discovering the respect they have for one another despite being one another's biggest competition. (also something something about the monster generation players on the Adlers team being the people who are the top three rivals Hinata has experienced in the entirety of the story,,,,yeah)

Referring to a panel from Volume 41 (again), Hoshiumi confesses to Hirugami that compared to other competitor teams, where he states that he simply wants to go through them no matter how good they were, Karasuno is one that he truly wants to beat. This intimidating statement sends a shiver up Hirugami's spine, which is something considering the handful of panels we get of him making a sadistic expression throughout this match. From this interaction between the two, we can interpret that up until this point, Hoshiumi did give his all to help his team win against several other teams to get to Nationals, but most likely didn't experience much competitive thrill during those matches and had to hype himself up by beating opponents who would underestimate him due to his smaller stature. Yet now, he finally gets the competition he desires. In Nationals, every team has been proven to be good. No one's planning to overestimate or underestimate anyone, there's simply no time for that. The time on the court is precious, meant to be used to win against whichever team is on the other side of the net. And like a cherry on top, there is someone like him. Someone gunning for the same thing he desired- Hoshiumi and Hinata's relationship can be classified under 'mirror characters'. Or in a more literary viewpoint, parallels. Typically, this trope is used to give the protagonist a rival, which is one of the reasons why Hoshiumi was created. Hoshiumi's role in the story is necessary as considering the other two main 'rivals' Hinata faces in the story (Ushijima as the Privileged Rival and Kageyama as the Main Rival, referring to TV Tropes), both of them seem to have more of the upper hand due to their height and long experience with getting the chance to play on the court consistently. With the presence of Hoshiumi, his character further drives the message that whether or not you have been given blessings from the start or have access to certain opportunities, working hard & smart along with having passion are also essential elements that you require in order to achieve the success you want.

"They come to us with solid, undeniable strength, and make us choose them."

The Need For Competition

Disclaimer: I do NOT have any siblings. So if I do accidentally miss-analyse anything in this section, I sincerely apologize 🙇 But yeah. Akitomo. Although we BARELY see him for the rest of the manga, he still has an essential role- if not, why do we need him in the first place? Furudante gives every character a purpose, whether or not they're major or minor. From Kōrai's backstory, we can see that he and his brother have your usual competitive sibling rivalry and whatnot. Akitomo bullies him and Kōrai retorts. But I think that this manga panel solidified Kōrai's need to be competitive and the desire to drive himself to improve in every area of volleyball possible (besides his mother's helpful advice that also plays a huge role in his philosophy).

This was the utter devastating realisation that he was so much weaker than Akitomo, despite Akitomo not knowing how the fuck to play volleyball. Kōrai learned that sport, dedicated and invested himself into it, yet here comes his brother, easily taking away the spotlight and spiking the ball without breaking a sweat. Just a jump and a hit, and boom. He could be replaced like that. Akitomo has always teased Kōrai over his height, yet this moment was most likely one of several that Hoshiumi experienced and solidified his understanding of how weak he was, and there were some things that he simply couldn't change from just effort and hard work alone. But with Asa's advice, Kōrai also understood that just because some doors were shut to him didn't mean the rest were. Some doors required a bit of prying to open, while some were already waiting to be discovered, and all Kōrai needed was to find and sharpen the required tools. Throughout the manga, there is a theme of competitiveness and how it affects the lives of the high school players on the court. We see how it affects them for the better and also the worse. We see how regardless of its positive or negative effects, these teenagers strive for improvement, to learn how to work with others as a team, and the list goes on. Hoshiumi is an example of a character who has a good balance of competitiveness and passion, which keeps him going in his pursuit of being good at volleyball. But in a moment of vulnerability (not defeat), he suddenly turns to Gao during the match and admits that there were times when he'd given up a little, starting to feel there were limits to the height he could reach. I believe that this statement was essential for Hoshiumi to admit out loud, as it further shows us that even a character as confident and competitive as him can eventually start to feel the pressure of keeping up and even almost let it get to him. But it seems that by the end of the manga, all the effort Hoshiumi has put into his own improvement in both body and mind, along with letting his competitiveness drive his passion instead of control him, he manages to achieve not only a spot on one of the best V1 League teams in Japan but also becomes a player on the Japan National Team for the Olympics. The seeds he's sown have finally grown and now Hoshiumi can reap his rewards as he rightfully deserves.

Someone once told me that competition was simply part of human nature. It can come in forms we never thought possible, but it's still there. Sports, academics, collections, status, and so on. It doesn't matter what form this competitiveness comes in, but it does matter how we use it in our lives. Do we let it control us and our desires in turn? Or do we use it as fuel to strive for improvement, to make a positive change in our lives and for others as well?

Kamomedai's Message

The Importance Of A Coach

Aaron Murphy is the coach for Kamomedai and according to the manga, his background and qualifications make him stand out amongst the range of other coaches we've seen in the story. He's a coach for one of Italy's Pro Series A leagues for years, took a Japan V2 League team and made them V1, and many kids on the volleyball team purely attended Kamomedai High just to play for him. He's a pro through and through- you'd expect him to be harsh, to have multiple well-detailed training schedules for his team, to push the limits of his players- similar to Coach Washijo, who's also a coach for a powerhouse school that is amazing at volleyball and set up to be one of the biggest antagonists Karasuno will ever face. But he's not! He seems to be a far cry from that. According to an onlooker (and referencing the manga again), people view him as a coach who doesn't seem to stand out too much, despite knowing he has an incredible record of being one. Meanwhile, Coach Washijo only looks for players with raw strength and power, the ability to intimidate and rule the court with their impressive height and skill and he will cut them off from their position if they refuse to listen to him. He's painfully harsh and it's evident in the way we've seen how his players react when he merely calls their names. Coach Washjio is intimidating and fierce, something you'd expect from a coach who has cultivated a team that's produced some of the most impressive players in the history of Haikyuu. Yet this treatment stems from his background, where Washijo was not allowed to play volleyball because of his height. We don't know a lick of Coach Murphy's backstory, but that's okay! It's unrequired to dissect his importance and why someone like him fits perfectly with Kamomedai's message and significance in the story, along with implied effects on Hirugami and Hoshiumi's philosophies.

Earlier, I stated that Udai gave up on volleyball because the pressure of intense competition got to him. It was good that he knew that improving his skills and technique could help him make up for his height, but Udai forgot about improving one thing that Coach Murphy had emphasised when training the Kamomedai team: Mindset. (Or more accurately, mental toughness) Through short moments in Volume 41, we can see that Coach Murphy focuses on mental training. Furudante could've shown us how intensely he trains Kamomedai, as he does mention that serving and blocking are the other two skills that he wants to train the team in (and Kamomedai is well-known for those two aspects), but we only get a brief panel showing us how sweaty and exhausted the whole team is. Yet, during that moment, the focus is on Coach Murphy talking about mindset, before directing the team to scenario practice. In the same volume, Akaashi recognizes that not one, not two, but the whole Kamomedai team is capable of doing task focus throughout the game, something that he barely managed to do in Volume 38. Akaashi is a character that is typically perceived as someone who is very calm and collected due to his analytical nature, but in Fukurodani matches we get to see that he doesn't have a good view of himself and tends to have negative thoughts that are similar to Asahi. A character like Akaashi noticing and making this connection further emphasizes how the players on Kamomedai are exceptional at their way of thinking, besides their serves and blocking.

We can see that his teachings have effects on his players and that's great! Reflecting on my earlier comparison between him and Coach Washijo, his methods are tough and intensive, but they're not excessive and seem to value both physical and mental health equally. Although Coach Murphy and Coach Washijo have years of experience training volleyball players, only one of them has experience looking over a professional team of athletes. Coach Murphy focuses on taking the players he has and helping them to hone their skills, instead of filtering through them and only picking ones who have the most potential. He looks at the cards he's dealt with and figures out how to make the best use of them. There's an air of professionalism with the way he handles and talks to his players, in my opinion- he's playful at times, but Coach Murphy's words are also grounding and firm. In a way, his method is very similar to gentle parenting (if that makes sense haha). His healthy way of teaching has affected his players, assisting them on their journey of improving their thinking in both their games and outside of the court. In Volume 41 and on the same page that the players of Kamomedai are briefly shown to be undergoing training, Coach Murphy's advice clearly addresses potential physical or mental obstacles players can face during a match- 'What happened was either a failure of your skill...or a failure of your decision-making process and mental control'. Murphy also states that they should make success a larger habit, before following up that a thought along the lines of "Oh, I'm having an off day today" isn't an excuse, unless the player themselves are sick or hurt. From this, it's implied that Coach Murphy is advising his players to pursue success but not let a negative mindset prevent them from doing so. Coach Murphy's second statement also supports the point that his training is gentle but firm by implying that he guides his players on how to properly reflect on their mistakes and spot areas of improvement before making the next step (which is solving the issue). Kamomedai's slogan is 'Habit Becomes Second Nature', which further supports the purpose and message of the team in the story of Haikyuu. Combined with Coach Murphy's teachings, it's no surprise that Kamomedai will not only grow as a team, but their players will also become people who persist despite undergoing harsh conditions. It's why they're closely linked to seagulls (and also why Hoshiumi resembles and is heavily based on one); To quote Coach Murphy, Kamome means 'seagull'. Seagulls can handle sea or sky, fair weather or foul, no matter what.

So, what is Kamomedai's purpose and message in the manga? From all the evidence I've gathered, I believe that the team exists to show the viewers and other characters in the story the importance of mindset besides skill, to carefully train yourself to persist in doing or achieving something despite obstacles in your way and that if something bad happens, it's not good to beat yourself up. Instead, careful reflection is required if you wish to improve and avoid making the same mistake again. Take care of yourself, both physically and mentally.

But then again, this analysis might be a bit biased as Kamomedai is one of my favourite teams and I've typed a crap-ton of words for this, phewwwwww. My brain is dry now. So if you have any other views on them, feel free to reply to this! I'm all up for discussion :3

[midnightshindig]

I need to see Donald being a wingman for Cecil 🙏 Like maybe the reader is also a high-ranking member of the GDA and Donald knows they both have trouble opening up? Ty!

omg finally getting to my requests omg!! happy days, everyone

I love this request, I LOVE Donald as a character I'm so happy to write for him ^^

hcs under the cut

You were one of the GDA's lawyer, inspecting the place to make sure-- legally-- everything was as airtight as possible. Suing a superhero is much more difficult than suing the government, after all. And the people want an outlet.

Your job was to make the GDA as un-suable as fucking possible.

And Cecil admired you for it

You provided a valuable service, you were always courteous to him and his subordinates, and you looked pretty good in a suit

What wasn't to love?

So you saw him quite a bit, it was an easy enough job with your team doing most of the difficult paperwork for you

It wasn't unusual to see you chatting up Cecil or Donald or really any higher up about the ins and outs of the process-- PURELY for research, obviously, and not because you're just cool and friendly

You would talk to Cecil quite a bit, inquiring into the functions of his job and just generally picking his brain about anything and everything

It was nice to have someone be so interested in him, Cecil couldn't help but grow fond for you

Instead of his initial annoyance, he quickly become excited when you entered his wing of the Pentagon.

"Heyyy big man! What're your thoughts on that attack this morning? Crazy stuff, right?"

He subconsciously moved to straighten his tie and fix the cuffs of his suit jacket, looking back at you with a wobbly, unpracticed smile

"Yes, Y/n. It was interesting all right- I have Donald and the boys at the lab working on samples from the monsters dna right now."

A beat

"Care to see?"

And so Cecil slowly grew to trust you more, not enough to show you the White Rooms by any means, but that wasn't personal, that was national security.

This had gone on too long, it was messing Cecil up

he liked you, he was grown up and mature enough to accept that fact

but there was no way you-- some hot shot lawyer with an intelligent mind and knack for conversation-- would find him worth your time

Position as head of the GDA be damned, he didn't think he could pull you.

He's too much of a rock to say anything, but Donalds entire job is to observe Cecil and his needs, to keep the GDA running smooth

"You know... I hope this isnt' out of line, Sir. But Y/n has taken quite a liking to you."

Cecils eye twitches with stress "What...?"

Donalds eyes widen a little, trying to save the situation "I just mean that it is unusual for Y/n to spend so much time here. With you. Data shows elevated heart rate and dilated pupils when they see you. It would make sense, is all."

Cecil let out a frustrated sigh, leaning against a desk "And what do you propose I do about it, Donald? Fire them?"

"No!" Donald was frantic, fixing his glasses and recomposing himself "The opposite, actually. I think it would be beneficial for both parties as well as the greater good of the GDA if you asked Y/n out to coffee."

Cecil was skeptical, like he always is, like his job requires.

But Donald knew it would make the both of you happier

Maybe you just needed a little push?

The next few days are torture for everyone working at the GDA

everyone can see you enjoying Cecil's company, and even casually hitting on him, and Cecil losing his edge over it

He's frazzled by you, shaken a little by Donald's suggestion he ask you out

But he steels himself and presses on, content to ignore his silly crush

Donald ain't having none of that shit.

So he finally confronts Cecil

"Cecil, sir, with all due respect, you need to make a move."

"What."

"This whole pining thing is disrupting everybody else's work, nobody can focus with the will-they won't-they sitcom happening."

"Donald please, Y/n is a professiona-"

"They really aren't. Ask them out. I'm serious." and Donald leaves, leaving Cecil disincensed and frazzled

So, two days later and you're back for a visit

but things are different?

the GDA analysts and office workers are all quiet around you, not in a gossipy way, just.... quiet?

You go to find Cecil, wanting to pick his brain about something you saw on the news

When you get there, Cecil looks nervous, not anxious per se, just.... hesistent?

"Hey Cecil! What's going on today? Everyone's super quiet... did I miss something?"

"No, y/n... uhm-" he pulls at his tie a little "Everything is fine, have a seat? I have something I want to talk to you about."

You raise an eyebrow at his formality, taking a seat in the leather chair across from his desk

"Y/n...." He sucked in a deep breath, clearly nervous

"What? Is there some huge lawyer scandal I'm not aware of?" You try to lighten the mood, cracking a smile

Cecil sighs, combing his hand through his hair "Y/n, would you...." he looks past your head to see Donald giving him a thumbs up through the door window

jesus christ

Ugh- fuck it-

"Y/n, can I take you out?"

silence.

"Like...." you start cautiously, a concerned look on your face "Like on a date? Or like...." You drag your finger across your throat, poking your tongue out to mimick death

Cecil's eyes widen as he stands up, placing his hands on the desk "Like a date! Not- ugh.... I should've phrased that better..." he seems so defeated, deflating back into his chair.

Much to his surprise, you perk up and grin "Sure!"

"What? Really?"

"Yeah! I've been waiting for like weeks for you to ask me out. What do you say to coffee?"

He blinks in surprise, straightening his tie and sitting up straighter "I would like that."

BONUS:

As you leave, you notice Donald standing casually outside the door to Cecil's office, presumably needing to tell him something important

after you leave, Cecil comes out himself, giving Donald a side eye

"Donald."

"Sir."

"....Thank you."

Donald gives a small smile and adjusts his glasses "You're welcome, sir."

[seancekitsch]

Arcane requests you say 👀 hmm...how about a Viktor x Reader with reader as an empress/queen visiting Piltover to learn about Hextech and falls for a certain scientist?

sowwy this is a month late but i rewrote it like three times!!

“You love this, hmm?” Viktor rasps, his teeth grazing over your jaw, “Royalty being taken apart by some lowlife from the Undercity?”

His teeth bite down right below your jaw, hard enough that you know it will bruise. Your brow creases in frustration. 

“I find that talk deeply unattractive, Viktor,” you tell him, your posh accent never wavering, “You’re a son of Zaun, and you’re going to save my people after your own.”

Thats how it began, truly, as something much more noble and innocent. You had shown up to the council room draped in silver a newly crowned young queen from a far off land, shimmering as your quiet voice asked for representatives of Zaun. As it turns out, your father had let innovation move too quickly, and factory smoke now choked yourself and your people. Your downfall is your own, unlike the downfall Piltover had thrust upon Zaun. No one had spoken up at first, and some councillors had even averted their gaze. But all it took was one look, and Jayce had quickly volunteered his partner, whether he wanted to be brought forth or not. 

An hour later, he found himself in the lab, you folded up sitting on top of one of the tables with your legs under you and your dress bunched up on your knees as you picked his brain about how Hextech could be used in air purification, and the topic of Zaun and your kingdom’s survival would be intertwined as you’d throw any supplies or funds needed their way without a thought. You promised them the world, a flirty smile thrown Viktor’s way as you did so. 

Another hour later, he finds himself here. Snug between your thighs with the material of your dress now wrinkled against his waist, his hands in your hair and a ridiculous amount of silver jewelry discarded in a pile beside you on the table as his cane rests precariously on the back of his chair. 

“Ah yes, you wish to see things as you want to, not as they are,” he teases, “Of course, your Majesty.”

This only further infuriates you, as you dig your heel into his ass to pull him even closer to you, grinding down onto him as your lips reclaim his own. You bite, two can play at that game, and drag your hands across the back of his vest. 

“I see you as you are,” you say, exasperation and annoyance not hidden in your tone, but anything you were about to say gets cut off, a moan interrupting your thoughts. Viktor seizes the opportunity to thrust his tongue into your mouth, silencing anything besides the pretty moans that he licks from you. 

He cannot pinpoint what started this: your lingering looks as your honeyed words dripped silver onto him, or the hunger that sparked in his fingers with the way you spoke of Zaun in reverence and hope. Maybe it was him, actually, with the way you had practically pounced on him the moment there was quiet in your otherwise very spirited conversation. 

But he can’t think about that right now, not when you’re licking his pulse point and your deft fingers are working at the buttons of his shirt.

Until Jayce opens the door, and you pick yourself up off of his lap and back into your own chair. If his partner was surprised by this turn of events, he doesn’t show it.

Viktor doesn’t miss the mischief in your eyes when your eyes meet his again. 

Days pass in the lab, but the fire between the two of you never subsides. It’s everything, the way he runs his fingers through his hair, the way he gets so engrossed in a logistical issue, the way he and Jayce work so fluidly with one another. Everything about the Zaunite drives you wild. 

It makes you almost preen with pride, the way the two of them look at you every time you up their budget or tell them to try it. You know Piltover’s council has a budget for them, but with no limits? They are working harder and working faster than they have in years, as they’ve told you. It’s easily intoxicating, the enthusiasm and pure joy between the two of them, the way they share it with you, the way it wafts through the room. Mel Medarda floats in and out, and she too is drawn in by the excitement. Your reserved penthouse is neglected, as you spend most of your time here, your royal guards and servants given time off with a budget to explore the city as you become more and more enraptured into their work. 

“And different alloys, they affect how the hexgems output energy, yes?” you ask, and the men respond in turn, “I’ll figure out how cheap I can make a workable alloy so that Zaunites and my people alike can all afford it.”

You say it so easily, because it is easy for you. You’re glad your brother stepped aside. Raised as the Infanta, you expected your only aptitude to be valued in a marriage bed. Your crown prince brother a gambler and cruel hearted, but not stupid, realized quickly the crown was not for him. His crown for a lifetime salary was an easy choice. You had always excelled in lessons, had always been the messenger and wine pourer during your father’s meetings with his council. You had been raised a sharp politician despite the fact that it was never meant for you. To think, had he been selfish in another way, you would have never seen this. 

Now you’re excited, a real opportunity to change things within your grasp. Your partnership with Hextech is clearly advantageous for your kingdom, however thats not the part of it that excites you the most. 

Viktor’s hand falls upon your thigh, his calloused palm against the lace of your dress. The movement is absentminded, as if he’d done it a million times, as if the movement is natural. Oh! Your cheeks heat up in a way that feels immature, only worsened by the way that he only smirks and goes back to the conversation with Jayce, as if his action is commonplace. All thoughts are silenced besides this feeling. 

The more you get to know the men of progress, the more you struggle to understand why they are so underutilized. Piltover and Zaun could be at peace in literal hours with their ideas. But you know politics, and you know no one spoke for them before Jayce. He doesn’t belong on the council, you think, not because he isn’t worth the merit but because he is wasted there when he can do this here. Viktor is a mad genius, wild but subdued, fanatic but contained, chaos wrapped in a soft tone. 

The days run long, and you bring Viktor back to your penthouse with the promise of sleep.

Sleep does not come, at least not before you do. 

“I’m only a twelve hour ride away in an airship,” you tell him, his lips dragging across your bare back. He kisses along every inch of skin he can reach, the moonlight the only source to illuminate his path. 

“And when do I go on this royal journey?” he teases, his hand firm as he drags it up your hip to settle at your waist. 

“Whenever it suits you,” you whisper, now closer as you claim a kiss from him.

“When it suits me,” he repeats, his tone hard to decipher. 

“Viktor,” you start, sitting up. Viktor shifts instantly with you, hanging off of your shoulder now as his arms circle your waist and pull you in.

“I am not making you,” you mumble, confidence fading away with each passing second that Viktor doesn’t speak. His head falls to rest against yours, lets out a deep sigh you feel more than hear. 

“I want to come visit you, often if possible,” he admits, his lips close to your ear. Warmth blooms in your chest as you turn in his grasp, your noses bumping together as you meet his gaze.

“You do?”

“Come into my lap,” he tells you, and you crawl over his frame to straddle his thin thighs. The sheets pool around your hips, exposing you to the moonlight. It feels a lot like the first night, all unsure and needing hands, all limbs feeling numb and weird and wanting. 

Viktor’s lips find yours, warm and pressing and harsh and clumsy. He kisses into your mouth with fervor and ferocity. His teeth graze and bump your lips, bruising and biting and sure to leave scarring and you return it in kind. It is less a dance of mouths, more an awkward sparring, but it fills you with heat just the same. His hands move down your body, pulling and grasping and squeezing at your hips, your thighs, your ass. 

“Be careful,” you whisper, pressing your chest to his, “I may just try and keep you.”

Viktor chuckles, and lays back against the mattress. You follow him enthusiastically.

[hydr0phius]

If the Pantorans have Australian accents and Thrawn is often mistaken for a Pantoran, does this mean he attempts an Aussie accent if he ever decides to play into that assumption?

[rosswood]

not even a joke, just an orphaned punchline

[rayneishere]

thinking about ofmd s2 but in the context of curtwen? but specifically these quotes?

“i love you.”

“you can’t say that to me.”

“i love everything about you, and you don’t have to say it back.”

“i wasn’t going to.”

like… yk! post-fall type conversation i think. it’ll forever be curtwen to me

[justablah56]

Hey Aether, use this as your vessel to infodump about project hail Mary :]

HEHEHEHEHHEE YAY OK TY AZ .

obv spoilers for phm bcs . it is nearly impossible to talk about this book without spoiling things <3

ok this is a very complicated book to explain , bcs not only is it a *very* well thought out SCIENCE fiction book , but it also is an amnesia story , so it's telling both the present time story , as well as the story just before this one that is this guy slowly remembering things . so eem . it's hard .

if you have specific questions (🥺👁️👁️) abt things I gotchu but this is just going to be a very very long infodump about just like . the first HALF of the book . bcs otherwise it will be even longer <3

anyways , basically , in the vaguely near future , scientists find out that there are alien microorganisms (astrophage) that are sapping energy away from the sun . enough that like . half of humanity is going to be dead within the next 20 years . they find out a lot of stuff , they find these little things all over space that are just eating star energy p much . but then they discover that this other star like 12 light years away *should* be getting eaten by the astrophage , *isn't* . so they were like ok , the whole planet is working together now bcs otherwise we will die , let's make a ship and send some people over there to see whats up . and our main character (Ryland Grace) is one of the MAIN main scientists working on this whole problem , as well as one of the three people they sent up , AND the only one of the three who survived the coma trip there . all this is stuff we find out via Ryland's memory flashes within the first couple chapters lmao .

in current time , our guy wakes up from his 4-ish year long coma , remembering nothing about himself or why he's here . eventually he figures out he's on a space ship and he's supposed to figure out why this star isn't dying even tho there's astrophage supposedly there to eat it . AND THEN . he's looking at the science stuff . and he sees . a spaceship . an intelligent alien made spaceship . and that's where my most favoritest guy in the whole wide world is <3 anyways theres a whole stretch of time that is just ryland and this alien trying to communicate w each other , they make a tunnel and stuff between their ships but with a clear wall between their two sides bcs the alien , my bestest guy Rocky , lives in an atmosphere that is not only like 30x as heavy as earths , but is also . ammonia . Rocky is this little labrador sized spider thing , he's got 5 legs/arms all coming out of a rocky lookin "body" and he "talks" kinda similar to like , whales , and he just makes notes and chords in different ways that are his words . anyways there's a whole thing about them learning to communicate with each other , neither of them can physically speak in the others language but they p much memorize the other's language and then they can just speak to each other still in their languages , but they understand what the other person is saying , and they figure out that they're both here to figure out what's up with this sun not dying and how can we use that information to make OUR sun not die . and they are bestest friends in the whole wide world btw . they are a platonic love story to me ,, eventually Ryland finds out that the rest of Rocky's crew ALSO died , and so they're both just alone out here trying to save their entire species but now they can do it together !!!! and so they spend the majority of the book doing scientific shenanigans and other things to figure stuff out and I won't go super into all that but oh my god it's so cool ouqunfmmec anyways .

the main thing that I've been going insane about is the other of people Ryland was supposed to be on this mission with , Yáo and Ilyukhina . the plan was that the three of them would be put into comas for the trip up , and then they'd wake up once they got there and solve the problem and yay . but . when Ryland wakes up , both of them are dead in their coma bed things , and have been for a *long* time . the three of them had some special gene that made it so theyd be okay in a coma , but for the other two , smthin else went wrong , and there's no medical personnel to deal w that , and so they both died bcs the robot that was supposed to keep them alive wasn't programmed to deal with much else outside of just . keep them alive and healthy throughout the coma . anyways . keeping in mind , Ryland doesn't remember anything . he doesn't remember who these people are , or why they're there with him . but while he's by himself random things will make him remember little things about them and even though he doesn't *actually* remember them at all , every time he thinks about them he just starts *crying* . I have so many screenshots of these moments asriel . they kill me . those were his crew mates . he spent most of his last few years on earth with these people . they were like . his only friends . they were his family . even if he doesn't remember them . he misses them . it literally kills me .

look at this shit . literally devastating . what the fuck . they really just did that . and these are just the most recent ones that I screenshotted . screaming and crying and wailing about them . and he really does just suppress all actual memories about them until maybe the last third or fourth of the book . so for the majority of the book we the readers don't get to know much about them other their their names , their races , and very basic characteristics . like it's literally just oh that's Yáo . stoic Chinese military guy and that's Ilyukhina . adhd kinda crazy Russian girl . and that's it . for most of the book . bcs my bbg Ryland Grace is the king of denial and simply does not want to think about them because it will break him . and it does .

ok anyways . there's an infodump for you lmao cbnejcmemcn this book makes me sick <3

[askyofexplodingstars]

One moonlit night, you're in the middle of preparing a little bedtime snack, when you get a surprise visit from a certain friend of yours…

(Sebastian x reader)

[babisawyer]

I'm gonna be honest I think iron flame is cruel and unusual punishment.

[hawkeyefierce]

posting that primer was like baring my soul to the internet. those 1600 words were a tiny glimpse into the constant thoughts swirling around in my head and there will almost certainly be a part 2 and more if need be.

[leviiackrman]

Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between, I can wholeheartedly confirm that:

Margot Durand in fact, has a happy ending.

[heliotroping]

I love your fics btw, I think I've read most of them and theyre all very good.

Anyways, in you must be a lucky one, why biting? What inspired you?

aw thank you so much!! hmm the biting just kind of?? came up naturally? lol. i had the very beginnings of the first chapter written for a while and then returned to it and added the first bite on a whim and just sorta kept going with it! i like how it allows them both to take on a different role than they’re used to, lottie who’s very much a masochist in other areas of life and nat who imo wouldn’t typically gravitate towards something that’s so inherently vulnerable/exposing. It also uncomfortably intersects with the whole cannibalism thing in a way that helped a lot in the beginning as a segue into nat processing that part of being stranded. this makes it sound like its all very based in story structure and metaphor but also im just kind of a sucker for homoerotic biting soooo. that may or may not have been another one of my main inspirations lmao.

[radiashen]

Tag Game: Ten First Lines

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.

thank you @birdmenmanga for the tag <33 i will also be including wips in this (actual content under the cut because apparently i talk a lot)

The beach hasn't been that crowded since they last opened it up again after the so-called "Big Cleanup". (18/03/23): from wanderers, the trigun fic where i put post trimax vash and knives in the soup

"I don't like this," Nicholas repeats for the whatever-many-times since they walked into this godawful cave. (26/02/23): from a trigun wip where i. ehm. put vashwood in a situation (trimax tristamp crossover) (want to finish this but currently stuck in a scene)

He comes back. (14/02/23): from no one loves you as sincere as death, the trigun fic where vashmelly cry and have a group hug and wolfwood continues to haunt the. everything.

"There's this urban legend, y'hear," Nicholas starts, one time they couldn't reach the next town before nightfall and had to huddle around the bonfire, "'bout a mysterious undertaker." (09/02/23): from another trigun wip, my take on ghostwood (og concept from shelternmberone) (also want to finish this, stuck on the fact that tristamp is still ongoing)

It is right then, under the shower of papers as he stares at the blue blue sky and the ship that's swimming away from the orphanage's rubble, that Nicholas realizes: he wants to survive, after all. (08/02/23): from choiceless hope in grief, the trigun fic where i cope with the couch scene (not)

Minori thinks he notices her before she does him. (25/12/22): from a mp100 wip where i make post canon mob meet minori so they can deal with mogami arc (probably abandoned)

When Shigeo and the office's crew arrive at their client's house, what they find is that the supposed spirits are… just three weirdly dressed people. (12/11/22): from a mp100 and gintama crossover wip. because im insane apparently (this idea was fun but idk if i will pick it up again)

Raindrops fall from rusted canopies, cling to cracked concrete walls. (10/10/22): from a wip where i had some feelings over girl from nowhere (abandoned)

When Oboro finally finds Sensei again, it’s at the Shimura’s dojo. (02/08/22): from a gintama wip that's supposed to be a continuation for the other oboro fic (idk when/if i will pick this up again. writing oboro requires a certain Headspace)

Twilight wakes up with his head empty. (27/06/22): from for no need of an endroll, the sxf post canon twilight character study fic

tagging: whoever wants to do this!! (<- guy who doesnt want to agonize if its ok to tag cool writer mutuals)

[orcelito]

Honestly hate how hard it is to start writing again when you've gone too long without it. Like for fuck's sake man Why's shit gotta be like this