#i just just kind of love everything about this image

[mssishipi]

the fall of a man — sjy

SYNOPSIS: You were taught that virtue was a woman’s greatest strength, that temptation was a test of will, that desire was the serpent’s whisper leading you astray. But when temptation comes in the form of Sim Jaeyun—holy, untouchable, the very image of devotion—your faith begins to waver.

content tags: slow burn, plot with little bit of porn, mutual pining, both of them are religious and virgins, set in catholic university that is lead by nuns, they don't have sex ed!! adam and eve references, religious guilt, reader crushing and thirsting over jake in religious way that's been written for almost 5k words, some of the scenes are heavily inspired by 'guilty as sin' by ts.

warning: heavy sacrilegious content, karina kind of represent the serpent in reader's pov, blasphemy, explicit content (smut): reader masturbate in the chapel, virgins trying to fuck, virginity loss (obv), blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex (condom don't exist), jake call out god's name a lot of times. wc: 16.7k

note: my darling, @fangel really inspired me and make me overcome my fear in writing the most unholiest thing in the world, i'm inlove with you, bae and you really changed my world with your fics <3 i wrote this fic for armin arlert way back 2023 but never had the guts to publish it, but hey u give me a reason to continue this fic. and to my readers out there, i hope you enjoy reading this fic, i love writing jake's pov here :)

Ever since you were a child, you followed everything your parents told you. Raised in a devoutly religious household, your days revolved around faith—joining church activities, attending every Sunday mass without fail, even flying to Puerto Rico with your family to take part in Misa de Aguinaldo.

Religion wasn't just a part of your life; it was your life.

You loved God. You loved listening to preachers, absorbing their words like scripture carved into your soul. You loved spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the warmth of faith filling you every time you shared His name.

You prayed constantly—palms pressed together, head bowed, whispering words of gratitude for every blessing, of repentance for every misstep. You prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to resist temptation.

And yet—temptation had a name.

And his name is Sim Jaeyun.

You remember the first time you saw him walking through the gates of the Catholic university you both attended.

Jake Sim was the very embodiment of devotion, of unwavering faith. He carried himself with an air of holiness, always with a rosary wrapped around his fingers or a Bible tucked beneath his arm. He spoke with conviction, every word laced with the kind of certainty only true believers possessed. And yet, to you, he was something else entirely.

The way he moved, the way his voice echoed through the chapel—it was hypnotic. Your prayers would falter on your tongue whenever he stood at the altar, leading hymns with a voice so steady, so sure.

You had watched him, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. You had memorized the way candlelight danced across his skin, the way the veins in his hands shifted when he clasped them in prayer.

The boy who knelt before the cross with his eyes closed in deep, persistent faithfulness.

The boy who touched the rosary beads with such reverence, his fingers gliding over each one as if they held the weight of his salvation.

But all you could think about was how those same fingers would feel tracing the lines of your body, how they would press into your skin—not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

How his lips would taste if they weren't murmuring scripture, if instead, they whispered your name in the dark.

How his faith would crumble if he ever looked at you the way you wanted him to.

And as you sat in the pews, hands clasped, head bowed, you prayed—not for strength, not for purity, but for him.

You shouldn't think about him that way. You shouldn't let your mind wander, not here, not in the house of God.

You knew the weight of sin, the warnings etched into you since childhood. Your family had made it clear—masturbation, desire, sex before marriage—each was a path to damnation. To act on them was to betray God.

Do not lay a hand on any boy. Do not think of flesh, of pleasure, of sin. Do not touch your body with thoughts of another.

But if you had never touched him, never let your hands stray to your own skin —if all you had were thoughts, then how could you already feel guilty as sin?

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of the university chapel, casting soft hues of red, blue, and gold onto the polished wooden pews. The air was still, filled only with the faint scent of old parchment and melting candle wax.

You sat near the front, fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of your prayer book. The chapel was mostly empty, save for a few students lingering in quiet reflection. And him.

Sim Jaeyun stood near the altar, carefully arranging hymnals. Even in the simplicity of his tasks, there was a quiet devotion to him—an unshaken faith that made it impossible to look away.

You tried to focus on the words of the scripture open in front of you, but your thoughts were restless. It wasn't the first time you had stayed after midday prayers, and it wasn't the first time you had found yourself stealing glances at him.

A quiet sound of footsteps against the marble floor.

"You're here again."

You glanced up to find Jake standing at the edge. You nodded, offering a small smile. "I like the chapel in the afternoon. It's peaceful."

Jake hummed in agreement, sliding into the pew beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. "It's my favorite time, too," he admitted, clasping his hands together. "When the day is slowing down, but the world isn't quite asleep yet."

You studied him for a moment, watching as the sunlight touched his face, illuminating the softness in his features. "What do you pray for?" you asked.

Jake exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead. "For strength," he said. "To always follow the right path."

You nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.

"And you?" he asked.

You hesitated. You knew what you should say. Strength. Wisdom. Purity.

But instead, you murmured, "For understanding."

Jake turned to you, brow slightly furrowed. "Understanding?"

You swallowed. "There are... thoughts I don't always understand." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of your prayer book. "And I ask for guidance. To know what is right."

For a moment, Jake was silent, then he offered a small, knowing smile. "God sees our hearts even when we struggle to see them ourselves." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, we don't need to have all the answers. We just need to trust Him to show us the way."

His words should have comforted you. But as you looked at him—at the boy who made your heart race in ways you couldn't explain—you weren't sure if the path you longed for was the one God had intended for you.

Sim Jaeyun barely even knew you. The two of you only shared a religion class, occasionally finding yourselves in the same prayer group. Your interactions were brief—just passing glances, a quiet exchange of smiles. Sometimes, after kneeling in prayer, he would hand you a sandwich and a bottle of water and you always accepted with a small nod of thanks, though the warmth in your chest lingered long after.

During every community outreach, you would catch glimpses of him—kneeling to pet stray dogs and cats, laughter spilling from his lips as children clung to his arms, their tiny hands gripping at his sleeves. He spoke to the elderly with a patience and gentleness that felt almost sacred, offering up his seat without hesitation, carrying their bags.

He was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made faith feel tangible—something living and breathing, rather than just words in a book.

You wondered if someone like him, someone pure as gold, ever sinned.

Sim Jaeyun was a name whispered often in the girls' residence hall. Every night, as curfew neared, you would hear them murmuring from their bunks.

"He'd make such a good husband." "Imagine him as a father—he'd be perfect." "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

A quiet admiration, soft and innocent. So why was yours so much heavier? So much more?

Why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned?

"Your body is sacred."

The nun's voice rang through the classroom. She moved slowly between the rows of desks, the wooden stick in her hand tapping lightly against her palm with every step.

It was an all-girls class since she was teaching anatomy. But this wasn't just about the body. It was about purity.

She stopped near the front of the room, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept over each of you, as if she could see straight into your thoughts. "God has given you this body," she continued. "A temple. A gift. A vessel meant for holiness, not for sin."

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat.

"Temptation is everywhere," she said. "It creeps into your thoughts, into your hands, into the desires you do not speak of. But hear me, girls—"God is watching.""

The stick tapped against her palm again.

"Masturbation," she said, the word itself feeling heavy as it filled the silence, "is a sin against your own flesh. To lay a hand upon yourself in lust is to defile what was meant to be pure."

A hush settled over the room. Some girls looked down at their desks, others sat rigid, eyes wide, hands folded neatly in their laps as if to prove they had never done such a thing—never even thought about it.

You felt a heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"When you indulge in these acts," she continued, voice sharp with a warning, "your body burns—not with passion, not with pleasure, but with sin. A fire that does not cleanse, but corrupts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room again,

"And when you engage in sex outside of marriage, when you surrender yourself to the desires of the flesh, that fire does not leave you. It stays. It marks you. And on the day of judgment, when you stand before God, He will see it. He will know."

A shudder ran through you. You clenched your hands together, nails pressing into your palms.

Then, the nun's eyes landed on you.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

And just for a moment, you thought of him.

Sim Jaeyun.

Of the way his fingers brushed over rosary beads in prayer. Of the way his voice sounded when he spoke of faith, of devotion. Of how those hands, that voice, could ruin you.

And as the nun continued, warning of damnation, of the watchful eyes of God, you couldn't help but wonder.

If God was watching, did He already know what was in your heart? And worse—had He already condemned you for it?

"Yes, I understand," you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Guilt settled deep in your chest. Your palms were damp, fingers twitching slightly as you clasped them together.

You needed to repent.

You needed to pray until the thoughts left you, until the weight of sin lifted from your heart. Until the fire the nun spoke of no longer burned beneath your skin.

"Here, an apple for you."

A small hand reached toward yours, fingers curled around a tiny, imperfect apple. The child's eyes were bright with innocence, his smile wide as he offered it to you.

It was community outreach day in the mountains, where children ran barefoot over the uneven ground, laughter ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of earth and firewood lingered, mingling with the distant voices of volunteers.

You knelt slightly, accepting the apple with a gentle smile. "Thank you," you said, your voice soft.

The boy beamed, pleased by your gratitude before running off to join the others.

You were about to take a bite of the apple when a sudden tap on your shoulder made you pause. Turning, you found your classmate standing behind you, her expression impatient.

"I need you to find Karina," she said, arms crossed. "She's missing again. And we need to leave by three."

You sighed, tucking the apple into your pocket. "Alright, I'll look for her."

With that, you made your way up the stone steps leading further into the hills, where the trees grew denser and the voices of the other volunteers faded into the rustling of leaves. The fresh mountain air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

As you climbed higher, a small tug on your sleeve made you stop.

"Lady, where are you going?"

You looked down to see a little girl standing beside you, her dark eyes round with curiosity. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Crouching down to her level, you offered a reassuring smile. "I need to find my friend."

The girl tilted her head, studying you with the kind of seriousness only children could manage. Then, after a moment, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Be careful out there."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pulled her thumb from her mouth and grinned, baring her tiny teeth. "There's a snake," she hissed, making a slithering motion with her hands. "They bite!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'll be careful."

With a gentle pat on the girl's head, you urged her to go play with the others before continuing your search.

"Karina!" you called, your voice echoing through the trees. The afternoon air was with the scent of damp earth and pine, the only sounds around you the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of children below.

After what felt like ages of wandering, you sighed, pulling the apple from your pocket. Your thumb brushed against its smooth surface as you took slow steps forward, letting yourself take a small break.

Then, just as you were about to take a bite, something caught your eye.

It was small cabin, worn by time, tucked between the trees. You hadn't noticed it before, hadn't even realized anyone lived this far up the mountain.

Lifting your head, you parted your lips to call for Karina again but you heard a low, quiet, barely audible voice over the wind.

Your breath hitched slightly, and instinctively, you stayed silent.

Tilting your head, you slowly took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the stillness. Step by step, you moved around the cabin, careful not to make a sound.

You crept closer, your breath shallow, your fingers curled tightly around the apple. The rough wooden cabin stood against the trees, its single window slightly ajar. Through the gap, the muffled voices inside grew clearer—soft murmurs, hushed laughter.

A breathless moan.

Your body tensed, You hesitated for only a moment before tilting your head, peering through the dust-coated glass.

And that's when you saw the most sinful acts you've ever witness.

Karina was sprawled against the wooden table, her back arching beneath the weight of the farmer pressing into her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs caging his hips. His hands gripped her skin, fingers digging into the softness of her legs, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn't look away.

Karina wasn't resisting. She wasn't recoiling in shame or horror. There was no fear in her expression, no sign of guilt or repentance.

She was pulling him closer.

Her fingers wove into his hair, tugging slightly as her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his lips. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her mouth parting with quiet, trembling gasps.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

The nun's words echoed in your head, warnings of fire, of suffering, of bodies burning for their sins.

But Karina wasn't burning.

Your breath trembled as you stared, as the world you had known—the one built on prayer, on restraint, on the fear of temptation—began to splinter.

How is she not burning?

The apple slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.

A hiss was heard. The sound was sharp, unnatural, cutting through the silence of the forest. Your body stiffened, a cold shiver crawling up your spine. Slowly, your gaze flickered to the tree beside you.

A snake. Its body coiled around the rough bark, scales glistening in the fading sunlight. It was watching you, its tongue flickering out.

Eve was tempted. Eve took the fruit.

Your stomach twisted violently as you staggered back, tearing your eyes away from both the serpent and the scene inside the cabin.

You ran. Branches scraped against your skin as you pushed through the trees, your feet barely touching the ground. The echoes of Karina's breathless moans clung to you, no matter how fast you tried to outrun them.

You needed to forget. To erase the moment of sin that had burned itself into your mind. To cleanse yourself before the weight of temptation swallowed you whole.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

Your eyes clenched shut as you muttered the prayer, over and over, you repeated the words, as if their rhythm alone could cleanse your mind, could undo what you had seen.

The rosary felt heavy in your hands, the beads pressing into your palm. But no matter how tightly you held it, no matter how desperately you clung to prayer, the memory would not leave you.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

Your voice broke. This was your fall.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another, until you were gripping the rosary so tightly your knuckles turned white. A quiet sniffle escaped you, but the tears kept coming, blurring the dim candlelight of the chapel.

You could not stop trembling, your stomach tightening, a dull ache spreading between your legs, heat pooling where it should not.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it did nothing to stop the throbbing. You clenched your fists, willing the sensation away, but the images had already taken root.

Karina. The farmer. The way her body had arched into him, how she had clung to him. It should have horrified you. It should have disgusted you.

Instead, a shudder ran through you as your mind betrayed you, as the image shifted, reshaped itself into something far more forbidden.

Not Karina.

You.

And not the farmer.

Jake.

Your breath hitched. The thought was wrong—blasphemous. But it came unbidden, vivid and consuming, slipping into the cracks of your mind like sin itself. You saw him above you, his hands gripping your waist, his lips murmuring something against your skin.

Your rosary slipped from your fingers, the beads scattering against the marble floor.

You gasped softly, snapping your eyes open as if waking from a dream—no, a nightmare.

Your hands flew to your chest, pressing against your heart as if you could smother the racing beat beneath your skin.

No. No, no, no.

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not just from guilt but from fear—of yourself.

This was your fall.

The serpent had coiled itself around you, whispering its venom into your ears, seeping into your thoughts, your body.

Karina was expelled after the nuns discovered what she had done during the community outreach.

You helped her pack in silence, folding the last of her skirts into a worn-out suitcase.

Your nose was red, your eyes swollen—for many reasons. Of course, you hadn't told anyone what you saw. That was yet another reason you were a sinner. You had kept her secret, watched in silence as she was cast out.

But worse—you couldn't stop thinking about it.

And worst of all, you had lost another prayer partner.

Your voice was quiet when you finally asked, "Do you regret it?"

Karina's hands stilled over the fabric of her blouse. She stared at the ground for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "No."

"They're sending me away," she continued. "Some isolated place, far from men. Away from temptation. They'll make me enter seminary, force me to repent, try to fix me."

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Fix me. As if I'm broken."

You said nothing, letting her words settle between you.

Karina turned then, her gaze finding yours. "But I don't regret it. No matter what they try to tell me." A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. "But you wouldn't understand, would you?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as you folded it, staring at the delicate lace trim. "There are a lot of things I don't understand," you admitted. Then, meeting her eyes, you added, "But I do not judge. I am here to listen."

Karina studied you, her expression is pained. Then she let out a slow breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know the story of Adam and Eve," she said.

You nodded. "Of course."

"They call it the fall," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "But have you ever thought that maybe it wasn't a fall at all?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers intertwined. "Eve took the apple. She chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. And for that, she was cast out." Karina exhaled through her nose, a bitter smile on her lips. "But maybe that was never a punishment. Maybe it was freedom."

She glanced at you then, "Christianity tells us that craving is sinful. That wanting—whether it's knowledge, pleasure, or love—will ruin us." Her voice lowered, "but tell me—why would God give us bodies that feel if He didn't want us to use them?"

Your throat felt dry.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Karina questioned. "You've felt it."

Heat crept up your neck, shame curling tight in your stomach.

Karina smiled, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing. "It's normal to crave, you know," she said. "To want."

"In the city," Karina continued, "I heard students openly talk about sex. About how it's natural. They even discuss things like hormones, the way the body reacts to desire. When your clitoris—"

"Shhh!" Your eyes widened as you shot a panicked glance toward the door. Your hand moved on instinct, pressing against her lips to silence her.

"Do not use such vulgar words!" you hissed, even hearing such a thing felt wrong, like an invitation for sin to take root inside you.

Karina only laughed, she gently pulled your hand away, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Why? Because the nuns don't want you to know your own body?"

Your cheeks burned, your fingers curling into your lap as you looked away. "Because it's wrong," you muttered. "You speak of things that lead to damnation."

Karina sighed, tilting her head. "Says who? The nuns? The ones who tell us that touching ourselves will set our bodies on fire?" She leaned in slightly, "Tell me, have you ever actually tried it?"

Your breath hitched as you swallowed, your pulse hammering against your skin. "I—I would never—"

Karina smiled knowingly. "Of course you wouldn't. Because you're afraid, aren't you?"

You stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

"That they were lying to you," she said simply.

You stared at her, Karina reached for your hand, her touch gentle as she placed it over your own lap. "If it's really so sinful," she murmured, "if it really makes you burn... then why don't you test it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. Her fingers pressed lightly against yours. "Go on. Just once. Just to see if their words hold any truth."

"If you want to touch yourself," she continued, undeterred by your silence, "put your fingers inside—but don't just push in and out. Curl them inside, find the spot that makes your legs shake."

Your entire body went rigid as Karina leaned closer, her lips curling, almost amused at your reaction. "And your clitoris—"

"Stop," you gasped, eyes widening as you instinctively clamped a hand over her mouth. Your other hand flew to the door, your head snapping toward it, terrified that someone might hear.

She giggled against your palm, her laughter muffled before she gently pulled your hand away. "Why are you so scared?" she teased. "It's just your body. It's natural."

Your cheeks were burning now, hot with embarrassment.

Karina sighed, tilting her head as if she pitied you. "If you ever do find someone," she continued, undeterred, "a boy—"

You swallowed hard.

"Let him play with your nipples." Her voice dipped lower, as if she were sharing a secret meant only for you. "Let him suck them, bite them just a little. It feels so good."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

"And a boy," she went on, eyes glinting with mischievous, "his penis—"

"Karina!"

She laughed, completely unashamed of her own words. "What? It's true! If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it, suck on it—especially the tip."

A choked sound escaped you.

"Giving someone pleasure," she said, watching your reaction, "is just as enjoyable as receiving it. Maybe even more."

Your hands trembled in your lap. You couldn't even look at her now. Your mind felt clouded, a war raging between every lesson the nuns had taught you and the curiosity her words planted deep inside you.

Karina exhaled, shaking her head. "You poor thing," she murmured, you bit your lip hard, trying to drown out the heat rising in your body with pain.

"You should try it, you know," she said after a beat, her voice almost gentle now. "Just once. Just so you know if they were lying to you all along."

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering so loudly you feared it might betray you.

Because the worst part wasn't her words.

It was that you wanted to know if she was right.

So you repented again.

You prayed and prayed for forgiveness, whispering desperate pleas beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against the cold chapel floor. You gripped your rosary so tightly that the beads left indentations in your palm, as if pain itself could cleanse you.

But it was getting harder. Especially now, with Holy Week approaching. Longer prayers, deeper fasting, more time spent in solemn reflection. And yet, the more you immersed yourself in worship, the more temptation gnawed at you.

Especially since Sim Jaeyun was the one leading Passion Week.

You sat among the others, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the cross, trying not to think about him. Trying not to remember Karina's words.

"If you ever find someone, let him touch you, let him play with you—"

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists against your thighs.

Women and men were not allowed to be seen too close together. A proper distance must always be kept, a respectable space left between bodies. A simple conversation was permitted—but only from afar.

"You do pray very often."

The voice came from behind you. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you turned slightly—only to find him.

Jake stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. "Is something bothering you?"

You turned back toward the cross, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers curled against your knees, sweat forming at your temples.

"No," you whispered, though the lie burned on your tongue.

Jake was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "You can talk to me, you know. If something is troubling you."

You closed your eyes. How could you tell him?

How could you tell him that the prayers weren't working? That no matter how hard you tried, the thoughts would not leave you? That he was becoming the temptation you could no longer escape?

Your eyes started to water again, he knelt beside you, as his presence settled so dangerously close—closer than what was proper.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your fingers tightening around the rosary.

Jake watched you. From this close, he could see the way the candlelight illuminated your face, casting soft shadows along the delicate curve of your cheekbones. Your skin glowed, almost ethereal, as if touched by something divine.

You looked like a painting—one of the old Renaissance depictions of saints and martyrs.

Beautiful.

His gaze drifted lower, to the way your lips barely moved as you whispered prayers, the words shaky, your hands trembled over the rosary, clutched so tightly.

His eyes fell to your knees. The fabric of your skirt had shifted slightly, revealing the barest hint of bruised skin—evidence of hours spent kneeling.

He had seen piety before. He had witnessed countless prayers, watched the most devout of worshippers bow their heads in absolute faith.

But this—the way you prayed, the way you looked before the altar—felt different. He couldn't imagine what sin someone like you could have possibly committed.

His voice came quietly, "You should rest."

You flinched slightly at the sound of his voice,

"I can't," you murmured.

And then softly, without thinking—he reached out.

His hand hovered over yours for just a breath before settling atop your trembling fingers. Palm to palm, warm and steady, stopping you mid-prayer.

He didn't know what possessed him to touch you. Perhaps it was the way you looked so lost, so utterly consumed by something unseen. Or perhaps it was the fact that no nun was watching, no one to scold him for standing too close, for placing his hand over yours.

His touch was meant to be assuring. Nothing more. Nothing sinful.

But then you stiffened beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your shoulders going rigid, your fingers twitching beneath his. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

You turned your face toward him.

Jake sucked in a quiet breath as his eyes met yours—wide, desperate, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He had never seen a gaze like that before. Not in church, not in prayer, not in the face of someone seeking salvation.

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, the warmth of your skin radiating beneath his palm. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a slow, instinctive movement, like a silent reassurance.

Before he could stop himself, his other hand lifted. Gently, hesitantly, he swiped away the tear that had slipped down your cheek, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You gasped softly. It was the smallest sound, but it sent something through him, something that made his fingers linger just a second too long against your face.

Your skin was warm beneath his touch. Soft. Alive.

It took everything in him to pull away.

The moment his fingers left your cheek, a strange kind of loss settled in his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the fabric of his handkerchief before carefully pulling it out. Silently, he placed it in your trembling hands.

"Whatever you were praying for," he murmured, "I'm sure God will understand."

As if to anchor you back into the faith you were grasping so desperately onto, he smiled.

The kind of smile meant to bring comfort. But to you, it only made it worse.

"I should go," Jake said, you nodded, unable to meet his gaze. He shift beside you, the soft rustling of fabric as he stood. His presence lingered for just a moment longer before the sound of his footsteps echoed against the chapel floor, growing fainter.

And yet, his warmth remained.

Your hands trembled as you lifted the handkerchief to your face, pressing it against your damp cheeks. His scent clung to the fabric—a faint trace of sandalwood and incense, something undeniably him.

You exhaled shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

God will understand.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched the fabric tighter, your body trembling with something you no longer had the strength to fight. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, soaking into the handkerchief as you sniffled against it.

Your fingertips skimmed over the waistband of your skirt, then lower, brushing against the thin fabric beneath.

A sharp breath left you when you felt the wetness, sticky and warm, pooling between your thighs, evidence of the thoughts you had failed to purge.

You should stop. You should repent.

And yet, your other hand only tightened around the handkerchief, pressing it closer to your face, inhaling the faint traces of him.

Still kneeling, you stared at the cross before you. Your body trembled, shame curling in your stomach.

You sobbed, your weight tipping forward, forehead pressing against the marble floor. Your free hand clenched at your skirt, your knuckles white with restraint.

Your finger dipped inside, a choked gasp slipping past your lips at the sudden intrusion.

The feeling was new, startling and unfamiliar. You hesitated only for a moment before pressing deeper, your body clenching around the touch, breath hitching as pleasure licked up your spine.

The nuns had warned you—the body will burn.

But as your fingers curled, as something electric shot through your legs, making them tremble, you realized this was not pain nor suffering.

Your mouth parted, a quiet, breathless sound escaping as you rocked into your own touch, your other hand bracing against the marble floor to steady yourself, the overwhelming scent of him filling your senses.

Sim Jaeyun—his hands hovering over yours, the warmth of his palm against your trembling fingers, the way he had wiped away your tear.

Your fingers pressed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You imagined it was his touch, his fingers exploring you with hesitant curiosity.

"You do pray very often," his voice echoed in your mind, "Is something bothering you?"

Yes, he was bothering you.

You pictured him above you, his fingers tracing over the same places your own were now.

"Does it burn?" he would ask, voice laced with something both sinful and sacred.

And you would shake your head—because it didn't.

It felt holy.

Your body arched into your own touch, your legs trembling as heat coiled deep inside you, tighter and tighter, threatening to consume you whole. The pressure, the ache, the need—it was overwhelming. It was blasphemous.

Yet, it was the closest you had ever felt to salvation.

A gasp tore from your lips, soft yet sinful in the silence of the chapel. Your fingers pushed deeper, your body rocking to meet them, each movement sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead, falling onto the floor. You added another finger, stretching yourself further, testing the limits of your own body. A choked whimper escaped as your walls clenched around the intrusion, your breathing ragged. Your other hand fumbled against the floor, grasping for stability, but there was none—no safety, no sanctuary, no way to stop now.

You think about his hands on your waist, his lips trailing down your neck. Your body tensed, your fingers working faster, chasing the edge of an unknown pleasure that built higher and higher—until it was too much, too much.

With one final, shuddering breath, the world shattered around you. Your body trembled, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves, a silent cry caught in your throat as your mind went blank.

Your body slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool marble floor, your fingers slipping out as the aftershocks of pleasure left you breathless.

There was only silence. Only your heaving breaths, the scent of candle wax and incense thick in the air, the fading echoes of his name somewhere in the depths of your mind.

Then, guilt settled in, so heavy. You had really fallen.

And yet, as you lay there, pulse still racing, you couldn't bring yourself to repent.

The days blurred into nights, and with each passing moment, you felt yourself slipping further into something you could no longer control.

You couldn't meet your own reflection anymore. The girl in the mirror was not the same—her eyes hollow with guilt, her lips parted in silent prayer that never reached the heavens. You had abandoned the comfort of your rosary, leaving it untouched on your bedside table. Even the scent of candle wax and incense, once a balm to your soul, now felt suffocating.

It was as if a devil had settled inside you, whispering in your ear, feeding your thoughts with things no holy woman should crave. And yet, no matter how fiercely you fought it, you kept returning to your sin.

Each night, beneath the shroud of darkness, your body became a traitor. Your hands moved without permission, exploring places you had been taught were forbidden. Your bedsheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, evidence of your transgressions.

And always, always, his name spilled from your lips.

Each time, you found yourself back in the same position—fingers trembling, thighs clenched, gasping into the silence of your room, drowning in him. And it felt too good to stop.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love..."

You whispered it every day in the chapel, hands clutching the rosary so tightly. "According to Your great compassion, blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin..."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric of your sleeves as you knelt before the altar. You sobbed, your body wracked with guilt, your lips forming words of repentance.

And yet—when you returned to your bed that night, your body trembling with guilt, your prayers still lingering in the air—

You touched yourself anyway.

"It's impressive how you always pray," Jake said, his voice gentle, filled with quiet admiration. A small smile graced his lips. Another interaction. Another moment that would be burned into your mind, another weight added to the burden of your sin.

"How you always find time to speak with Him," he continued. "I'm sure whatever you're praying for, you'd be heard."

You swallowed hard. Would God listen when your prayers were no longer pure? When you begged not for salvation, but for relief from the temptation standing before you?

You forced a polite nod, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice how red your eyes were. How broken you looked. Your knees ached from kneeling for so long, your fingers sore from gripping the rosary too tightly. If only he knew what your prayers had become—not words of devotion, but desperate pleas for deliverance.

You were about to stand, to create distance, to escape before your body could betray you again. But before you could move, Jake lowered himself to kneel beside you.

The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. His presence was grounding, yet it set something uneasy alight inside you.

"You know," he said, voice soft, "I quite admire you."

Jake smiled, warm and sincere, his eyes searching yours as if he was seeing something sacred in you. "You share a special relationship with God," he continued. "The way you pray, the way you devote yourself—it's beautiful."

"I've seen the way you never miss a prayer," he went on. "The way you kneel here for hours, speaking to Him when no one else is watching. I've seen the tears, the way you hold your rosary."

His gaze flickered down to your hands, still red from gripping the beads too tightly.

"And I think... that kind of devotion is rare."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away, because his words—his praise—felt heavier than anything the nuns had ever told you.

Because it was him saying it.

He didn't know that your devotion wasn't pure. That your prayers were not for holiness, but for control. That when you closed your eyes at night, it wasn't scripture that filled your mind, but the memory of his touch.

"God must love you very much," Jake murmured, tilting his head slightly. "To have someone as loyal as you."

You inhaled shakily, without thinking, you shifted back, settling onto the wooden pew. Jake stayed where he was, still kneeling, his gaze fixed on the cross. You swallowed. Your fingers curled around the rosary in your palm

"Can I confess, Jake?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Jake turned his head, he hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you, his posture still composed. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice is with quiet curiosity. "I am not a priest—I can't take such confessions."

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the rosary.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned."

Jake stilled beside you his confusion was evident in the way his brows knitted together, in the way his head tilted slightly as if trying to piece together what you meant. "Why?" he asked slowly.

You couldn't look at him. If you did, you feared he would see it. The truth. The war inside you. The way he was the very thing you needed to confess.

Your throat tightened as you muttered the next following words. "Because," you whispered, forcing the words out before you lost the courage to speak them, "I don't think I want to repent."

Jake stiffened beside you. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid. His fingers curled against his lap, gripping the fabric of his trousers. "H-How can you say that?" His voice was unsteady, a stark contrast to the usual calmness he carried. His soft features, always composed, always gentle, were now pulled into shock and disbelief.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs as you forced yourself to continue. If you stopped now, if you let fear take hold, you would never be free of this.

"I think of things I shouldn't."Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn't waver this time. "I touched myself."

Jake's body jerked slightly, his lips parted again, but no words came, as if he had been struck speechless, as if the confession had ripped the breath from his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed with a harsh swallow, the tendons in his neck tightening. His gaze flickered away, darting briefly to the cross above the altar, as if seeking guidance, as if seeking a way out. But there was none. He could not look at you, not when the weight of your confession was still lingering in the air

"You..." he started, but the words failed him. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. His brows furrowed, "Why are you telling me this?"

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to speak—forced yourself to ruin yourself completely. "Because it was you, Jake."

Jake inhale, his eyes widening, but only for a second. Something changed—something deep inside him, something that flickered behind his dark gaze like a dying flame suddenly reignited.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. But you didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

Jake's fingers dug into his thighs, gripping so tightly. His breathing turned shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling at a pace that betrayed his struggle. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips, before snapping back up, but the damage was already done.

He was flustered.

"D-Do not say v-vulgar things," Jake whispered, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against his lap. But it was his eyes that held you captive—wide, burning, conflicted.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, tears welled in your eyes again. "I don't think I'm free of guilt if I confess to God."

Jake flinched at your words. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to comfort you—but he didn't. Because he shouldn't.

"I keep praying for forgiveness," you continued, your voice trembling, "but I do not regret what I have done."

Jake inhaled sharply. His gaze flickered to the cross for only a moment—as if searching for guidance—before returning to you. Your lips trembled as you forced out the truth, the final confession that sealed your fall.

"I only feel guilty because thinking of you is a sinful act against my own people."

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your skirt. You weren't sure what you were asking from him—absolution, understanding, or something far more dangerous.

"God is willing to forgive again and again, right?" you choked out. Jake's breath hitched, and then you asked the only question that truly mattered. "But are you willing to forgive me?"

His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, but he couldn't speak. Because there was no answer to give. Not one that would be right. Not one that would be true. He stood abruptly. The movement was sudden, almost jerky, as if he was running—fleeing.

You watched him, lips quivering, hands still clenched together in your lap.

His palm was sweaty as he brushed it against his robe, his pulse erratic as he stepped out of the chapel, the heavy door closing behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.

You didn't call after him. You didn't move. Because what could you say? He was already gone.

Jake arrived early at the residence hall, his movements stiff, controlled, as if forcing himself into habit, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his composure cracked. His chest rose and fell with deep, unsteady breaths, his hands running through his hair in frustration. The ghost of your voice lingered in his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

"I do not regret what I have done."

His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He sank onto the bed, head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

"But are you willing to forgive me?"

His breath came out shaky, ragged, as he muttered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." His voice was strained and the prayer did nothing.

Nothing to rid him of the images flooding his mind, of your tear-streaked face, of the way your voice trembled, of the way you looked at him as if he held the answer to your salvation. He sucked in a sharp breath as his hands gripped the sheets beside him, as the tension in his body coiled so tight it hurt.

And then—he felt the unbearable heat pooling low in his stomach. The painful ache of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He let out a quiet, desperate whine, the sound muffled against his palm as he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the shame, the want, the overwhelming weight of you. Still, the words of his prayer tumbled from his lips, over and over, between broken breaths.

Just like Adam, he had been steadfast. Pure. Untouched by temptation. He had walked the path of righteousness without faltering, without question, his faith as unwavering as the ground beneath his feet. He had known his purpose—to obey, to serve, to resist.

And yet, you— the Eve.

A whisper of temptation. Just as Eve had reached for the fruit, her fingers brushing against the knowledge of sin, you had reached for him—not with hands, but with words.

And now, like Adam, he was failing. He had seen the fruit before him. He had heard the serpent's voice, had felt the first stirrings of doubt deep in his chest, where conviction once lived.

He wanted to reach back.

To taste. To know. To fall.

Because wasn't that what Adam had done? He hadn't been deceived—he had chosen to fall with Eve. He had taken the fruit from her hand, knowing what it would cost.

"Take a bite."

The voice echoed in his mind, low and insistent, curling around his thoughts like a serpent coiled around a branch. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but he did not see it.

Instead, he saw you.

He imagined you whispering to him, your lips forming the very words that now tormented him. He imagined your fingers brushing against his wrist, leading him closer to ruin. Just as Eve had turned to Adam with the fruit cradled in her palm, you had turned to him with your confession, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath the confines of his pants, damp with his own arousal.

"Take a bite," the voice urged again, slithering through the cracks of his crumbling resistance. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He should continue praying, to fight whatever temptation the devil was filling him.

But instead, he lay there, panting, burning not with the way the nun teaches, his body betraying him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let himself imagine.

"Heaven and earth are full," the voices soared inside the chapel, the morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

"Are full of your glory."

Jake's lips parted, but he did not sing. His gaze was fixed on you. You stood in the choir, your voice blending seamlessly with the others, yet somehow, to him, it was the only one that mattered.

Your long white dress fell in soft folds to your feet, the fabric catching in the gentle morning breeze drifting through the open doors. The wind moved through your hair, shifting it slightly, making it look almost weightless.

You were a vision of purity wrapped in divinity.

"Hosanna, hosanna."

Your eyes are dull and distant, told a different story. You sang the words, but you were not present. There was no joy, no reverence, only an emptiness that should not belong to someone standing before God.

"Hosanna in the highest."

But to him, you were the highest. More than the chapel's towering walls, more than the altar bathed in candlelight, more than the cross above them all. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to reach, to worship. But not as a believer should.

"Show me."

The words slipped from Jake's. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

The small room at the back of the chapel felt unbearably tight, with the scent of old books and dust, the faint aroma of candle wax lingering in the corners. A candlelight was at the center of the table.

This was a place of study, of quiet contemplation, and A man and a woman should not be alone together. Not when the door was shut.

"Show me." Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show me how you touch yourself."

"H-Huh?" You stuttered, barely able to form words, your mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. "Jake, you're so pure... I don't want you to be tainted like me. I already disappoint God—"

"Please, just show me."

His voice was desperate, his restraint fraying at the edges. Jake stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitched as he leaned over the table between you, hands bracing against the worn wood, trapping you between his body and the cold stone wall.

"I have thoughts about you too."

Your eyes snapped up to his, his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if the weight of his own confession was too much to bear, unshed tears brimming in his lashes.

"I thought of you that night," he murmured. You sucked in a breath, pressing yourself further into the table.

"I disappointed God too."

"Jake. . . " Your breath hitched at his confession as your eyes is searching on him. "Are you not afraid? Of the fire that will burn you?" you asked.

Jake's breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he leaned closer, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. "Does it burn you when you touch yourself?"

"Because when I thought of you," Jake continued, "my body just ached for your embrace."

Your heart pounded so loudly; you almost want to lower your head due to the proximity.

"It's not the fire that burns me."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as his gaze bore into yours, "It's the ache of longing for you."

You had feared he would resist, that he would turn away, condemn you, beg for salvation. But he wasn't begging for salvation. He was begging for you.

"Take a bite," a voice in the back of your mind hissed—low and insidious.

And without another word, without hesitation, you reached for him. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, you pulled him in, lips met his.

A low, desperate moan escaped Jake's throat as he crushed you against him, his hands finding your waist, gripping you so tightly. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating through the layers of fabric that still separated you.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that startled you. The tears that had brimmed in his eyes slipped down his cheeks.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing. The kiss was desperate, both of your teeth are clashing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The pressure of his mouth against yours softened after a moment, his lips parting slightly, then his tongue brushed against yours.

A soft gasp left your lips, and Jake seized the moment, his tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth, exploring, tasting. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your chest, making something hot coil in your stomach.

Your grip tightening in his hair as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing you into submission.

"If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it."

Still kissing him, your free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until your fingers pressed over the hardness beneath his pants.

Jake cried out. His entire body jerked, his hips stuttering beneath your touch as he broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.

"Oh my Lord—"

His head fell forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants. His hands clenched at your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress.

You swallowed, watching in fascination as his body trembled beneath your touch.

Carefully, experimentally, you pressed your palm more firmly against him, stroking him slow through the fabric.

Jake whimpered. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing the pleasure, more relief, yet it was never enough. Your name slipped from his lips in a strangled moan, muffled against your shoulder.

"I want to see you. Please." You whisper, more like a whine as your fingers continued to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

Jake lifted his head slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide with something that had nothing to do with faith. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his lips parted as they trembled.

His gaze locked onto yours, vulnerable yet so needy.

"W-Will you touch me more?"

His voice cracked at the end, his body shuddering as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, his fingers shaking too much to work quickly. You watched as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before finally tugging the fabric down past his hips.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A penis. His cock was thick, long, flushed a deep shade of red. Fluid leaked from the swollen tip, dripping down the shaft in slow, glistening trails.

You remembered feeling disgusted way in anatomy class, staring at the stiff, clinical images in textbooks, thinking the male body was strange, almost grotesque.

Now, your mouth watered.

Heat pooled deep in your belly, your pussy clenching together involuntarily. You didn't even realize what you were doing until you were already on your knees.

Jake's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His wide, teary eyes stared down at you.

"W-What a-are you doing?" He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking. You glanced up at him, your hands settling on his thighs.

A whisper from your past came back to you, "Suck on it—especially the tip."

Your lips parted, and you murmured, "I'm going to pray for forgiveness." then you took him into your mouth.

"Ahhh—!"

A choked gasp tore from his lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, but he didn't push. He held on for dear life.

His knees buckled slightly, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as your warm mouth engulfed him.

You tasted the saltiness of his arousal, the unfamiliar flavor spreading across your tongue, but instead of pulling away, you took more.

"Jesus Christ, this is disgusting," Jake cried, his voice shaking—yet his hands remained buried in your hair, his hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

His breath came out in broken gasps as he watched you, watched the way your cheeks hollowed around his cock, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. His fingers trembled where they tangled in your hair, torn between holding back and pushing in further.

"It feels too good—too good, too good—" he whined, his mouth falling open, eyes glassy.

Your stomach tightened at the sound, heat curling between your thighs at the way he was breaking apart. You wanted more, you needed more.

Your tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, your head bobbing steadily, each movement coaxing more whimpers from his lips. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his entire body shaking with pleasure so foreign to him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain." The words echoed in the back of your mind, a commandment you had already shattered beyond repair.

But you like hearing him, hearing the way he gasped for God, the way his voice cracked when he moaned between whispered prayers.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze. Jake whimpered, his breath stuttering as you took him further, pushing yourself until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tightened, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, letting him feel everything.

"A-Ahhh—!"

A loud, uncontrollable moan ripped from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the column of his neck, veins prominent, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gasping breath.

His body tensed, his fingers gripping you too tightly, as if he was seeing God Himself in the pleasure washing over him.

His moans grew louder, needier—his entire existence reduced to you and the sin you were leading him into.

His grip in your hair tightened, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep himself from thrusting into your mouth, from losing himself entirely.

"S-Something's coming—something's coming."

His voice broke, whimpering and breathless. Still bobbing your head, you reached down with one hand, lifting your skirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your underwear. The moment your fingers brushed against your slick folds; a moan vibrated against his shaft.

Jake gasped, his thighs tensing, his entire body shuddering at the sensation.

Your wetness coated your fingers, and with no hesitation, you pushed one inside, curling it the way you always had when you were alone—except now, you weren't alone.

Now, it felt too good to be true. Because Jake was in front of you.

Because Jake was falling with you.

Your own pleasure built with every movement of your fingers, every muffled moan that sent vibrations through him.

His hand slid down, trembling, until it brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes, tears from how deep you had taken him, from how overwhelming it all was.

His touch was tender, contradicting the broken, filthy sounds spilling from his lips.

"You're—" he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You're touching yourself?"

You hummed around him, confirming, not slowing down, your fingers working deeper inside yourself as his body tensed above you.

Jake whimpered, his head falling forward, his lips barely parted as he stared. His stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his body trembling as his hips stuttered, chasing the feeling, unable to hold back.

"You look so beautiful," he sobbed, his voice raw and shaking. "So divine."

His gaze never left you, drinking in the sight of you—on your knees before him, lips wrapped around his length, taking him so deep without breaking eye contact.

A choked moan tore from his throat at the way you looked up at him, at the sheer devotion in your eyes. It was as if you had been sculpted by God Himself, crafted not from dust but from light, from holiness.

Jake had always admired you.

The way you prayed every afternoon in the chapel, hands clasped. How your lips moved so softly in whispered hymns, the way your voice blended into the choir like something celestial.

How you knelt before the altar, head bowed, untouched by the world around you, your beauty standing apart from anything he had ever known.

Now, you were kneeling for him, your mouth worshipped something else entirely.

His hips jerked forward, unrestrained, a sob catching in his throat.

"Oh—oh, my God—"

His entire body shook, the pleasure nearly blinding. A choked sob left his lips as his release spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, coating your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing deeper until your nose met his abdomen, forcing you to take every last drop.

You moaned at the sensation, fingers working faster inside yourself, chasing the same pleasure that had just undone him. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty, forbidden—yet you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste.

Above you, Jake shuddered violently, his hands tangling in your hair as if clinging to you for stability.

His head tipped back; his lips parted in a silent cry as he came down from his high. His fingers trembled against your scalp, stroking gently.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered, his eyes clenched shut, his chest rising. He held you there, cradling your head against his abdomen, his body still twitching from the aftershocks.

You tapped his thigh twice, a silent signal. Jake inhaled sharply, His grip loosened instantly, and with shaky hands, he let go of you, his cock slipping from your mouth.

A thin string of saliva connected you, stretching between your lips and the flushed tip of him before breaking. Your tongue remained out, your breath ragged, your lips swollen and slick with the remnants of his release.

"You... you swallowed my seed," Jake whispered, you stared up at him through lidded eyes, your breath shaky, your body still moving, fingers still working inside yourself.

His gaze flickered downward, following the slow, desperate motion of your hand beneath your lifted skirt. His cock twitched, still sensitive, yet already stirring again at the sight of you.

"It... it should be in your uterus," he muttered, his brows drawing together. "Not your mouth."

A slow smile curled at your lips, heat simmering beneath your skin as you reached for his hand, guiding it to your cheek.

"Then pump me with your seed, Jake," you whispered.

A sharp inhale left his lips, his fingers tightening at your sides before he pulled you to your feet.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands trailing down your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He tugged it down slowly, the fabric loosened, slipping over your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

Jake pulled away, his lips parting as he took you in—your bare form. His throat bobbed, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over your waist.

He bent down, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

Your gaze lifted past him, to the walls of the room—where portraits of nuns, saints, and martyrs hung in quiet judgement. Their solemn eyes bore into you, unblinking, unwavering. Your chest tightened, guilt creeping in but you didn't want to stop.

Instead, you let your eyes fall shut, choosing to surrender—to savor the moment.

"Teach me how to please you," Jake murmured against your skin, his hands encircling your waist, holding you close.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading through his hair before drifting down to cup his face. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Jake's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed against your palm, his lips brushing against the center of it before pressing a tender kiss there. His own hands lifted, fingers tracing the shape of yours.

You pulled away slowly, you reached behind you, unclasping your bralette. The straps slipped from your shoulders, the fabric falling away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the afternoon light. Your underwear followed, sliding down your legs until you stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but temptation itself.

Jake's breath caught, his entire body rigid as he took in the sight of you—completely bare, completely his to look upon, to touch.

His lips parted, his gaze roamed over you, over the soft curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the smooth expanse of your thighs. He had seen statues of angels, paintings of the Virgin Mary draped in flowing white, but no work of art, no scripture, no vision of heaven itself had ever looked as divine as you did now.

You turned, settling yourself onto the wooden table behind you, your legs parting slowly, revealing yourself to him without hesitation.

A shaky exhale left your lips as your fingers trailed down your own skin, tracing along your inner thigh before sliding to your labia. You arched your back slightly, sighing as you spread yourself wider, holding his gaze.

"Come here, J-Jake," you moaned, your breath hitching as you pushed a single finger inside yourself. Jake swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undid them. He let the fabric slide from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor before taking slow steps toward you.

As he neared, his breath hitched, his gaze lowering to where your fingers disappeared inside your slick folds. His pupils dilated, "It's so wet," he whispered.

Before you could respond, his hand moved. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, still slick from your arousal, and gently pulled your hand away.

Jake's gaze flickered to your glistening fingers, then he brought your hand to his lips.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily as his tongue flicked out, tasting you for the first time. His lashes fluttered shut, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he took more of you onto his tongue, savoring the taste.

When Jake opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I want more." A sudden moan tore from your throat at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You reached for his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs, breath hitching the moment his fingers brushed against your slick folds.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers trembling as they hesitated at your entrance, slowly he pushed a single finger inside you.

A gasp escaped you as he entered. His jaw clenched at the sensation, his breath uneven as he felt you—felt the way your walls clenched around him, soft and wet and so impossibly tight.

His free hand gripped your thigh for support, his own body shuddering. Then he curled his finger.

"Oh God!" A sharp cry left your lips, your back arching at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Jake choked on a moan, watching you intently, his eyes locked onto every flicker of expression on your face.

He did it again, this time slower, pressing deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders.  His breathing grew heavier, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as he whispered, "Can I touch your breasts?"

Your head fell back, your lips parting on a silent gasp. You nodded frantically, eyes shut, too overwhelmed to speak properly. But a pleading "please" slipped from your lips.

That was all the permission he needed. Jake's other hand rose cautiously, fingers ghosting over the curve of your breast before cupping it fully, squeezing experimentally. His breath hitched at the feeling—warm, soft, the peak pebbling under his touch.

You moaned at the contact, pressing into his palm, "You like that?" he asked.

You nodded quickly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again, swallowing his breath. Your body was burning in a way that the nuns never depicted, your core aching with want, and you didn't care how shameless you sounded when you pleaded, "Please, touch me more."

Jake swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his fingers kneaded your breast, his other hand still buried deep inside you, working slow, torturous circles that made you gasp.

"Lean down and suck my breast," you whispered against his lips. "I heard it feels good."

Jake pulled back slightly, blinking down at you, his cheeks flushed. "Like a baby?" he asked, almost innocently, though the way his hips pressed forward, grinding his aching cock against your thigh, told another story entirely.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it was cut short when he twisted his fingers inside you, making your back arch.

"No," you whimpered. "Like a man who wants me."

Jake groaned, before lowering his head, his lips parting as he took your nipple into his mouth. The moment his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud; a cry left you.

He started gently at first, his lips soft and warm against your breast, still testing, still learning how to touch you. But as your back arched, as your fingers tangled into his hair and held him there, he grew bolder.

His lips sealing around your nipple, his tongue swirling. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just enough to send a delicious shudder down your spine.

"Jake—" you gasped, thighs clenching around his waist, trapping him against you.

He moaned against your skin, his free hand massaged your other breast, fingers rolling the hardened peak between them, mimicking the movements of his tongue.

"Add another finger inside me—please, please," you begged, voice breaking, hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him deeper.

Jake's forehead pressing against your chest bracing himself as he obeyed. His second finger slipped inside, stretching you further, filling you in a way that made your toes curl. Your walls clenched around him, tight, warm, so wet, and Jake whimpered, his hips bucking against your thigh at the feeling of you around his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered into his ear, tears slipped down your cheeks. Jake let out a shuddering breath, his body stiffening at your words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "They said it will hurt," Jake whispered, his fingers, still buried deep inside you, twitched. His free hand came up to your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

He swallowed hard. "I don't want to hurt you."

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his wrist as you whispered, "I want to feel all of you, Jake. Even if it hurts, I want you."

Jake's breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. With trembling hands, he withdrew his fingers from your heat, watching the way your body shuddered, the way your thighs quivered as he left you empty. He brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting you again, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a quiet, needy moan.

Jake let out a shaky exhale, gripping himself at the base. His other hand rested on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Are you sure?" he asked.

You nodded, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to him completely. "Please, Jake."

With a shaky breath, Jake lined himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against your heat. His hands trembled as he gripped your thighs, steadying himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly, carefully, began to push inside.

A gasp tore from your lips the moment he breached you. Your arms wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, molding yourself against him as your body adjusted to the slow intrusion of his thick cock.

The stretch was overwhelming. Tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as your walls struggled to accommodate him. Looking down, you saw—he had barely entered you. Only the tip, and yet, it already felt so much.

Jake let out a strangled moan, his breath stuttering as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"S-Slow," you whimpered, your body trembling beneath him. Jake nodded rapidly, biting his lip so hard. His entire body was tense, his self-control hanging by a thread as he forced himself to move at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"You’re so—" He choked on his words, a desperate whimper escaping him. "So tight—God—"

His hips twitched involuntarily, and you gasped, your nails raking down his back at the sudden jolt of sensation. Jake's breath hitched at the sharp sting of your nails, his cock throbbing as he pushed in another inch.

A broken sob escaped you.

"I-It’s too much—" you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him.

"Shh, I know, I know—" he whispered, kissing your tear-streaked cheek, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, trying to ease the overwhelming stretch. His hands slid down to your thighs, holding you open, rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he murmured against your lips, "do you want me to pull out?"

You shake your head, Jake exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steadying you before he pressed forward again, stretching you further. Until you felt his abdomen on your navel. Every movement forcing your walls to open for him, to take him in ways you hadn’t known were possible.

A hiss escaped you, your back arching off the wooden table at the overwhelming sensation of being completely full. "Y-You're inside me," you gasped, as your gaze dropped between your bodies.

Jake groaned softly, his hands gripping your waist, his cock throbbing inside you as he fought to remain still, to give you time to adjust. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm inside you."

Your breath was ragged, your fingers shaking as they slid up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. "I'm not burning," you whispered, half in disbelief. "I'm not burning."

The nuns had lied. The warnings, the fear, the fire they swore would consume you if you ever gave in to desire—it was nowhere to be found. There was only warmth. Only Jake.

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours. He reached for your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You're not burning," you whispered. Jake brows furrowing, a gasp tore from your lips as he pulled out slightly before thrusting forward again, sinking into you. His mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he felt you, felt the way your walls clung to him, squeezing him.

His lips parted, but the only sounds that came were broken, incoherent prayers.

"Oh, God—" he choked out. His hands shook as they traced over your body, touching you, his fingers skimming your sides, your stomach, your breasts. You cried out as the pain shifted, morphing into pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," Jake sobbed, he thrust back inside you, deeper than before, his arms tightening around you. His chin rested atop your head, his lips brushing against your hair as he inhaled, breathing you in, letting your scent consume him as much as your body did.

"You're—you're everything," he whispered shakily, his hips rolling into you. "Made perfect, sculpted by God’s own hands," he moaned against your skin. "How could something so sinful feel so good?"

You whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders. 

"I could do this every day," he moaned. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open, finding his face above you. He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I would do this every day," he corrected himself, groaned as he thrust deeper, his hips stuttering slightly at the way your walls clenched around him. "Worship you like this. Love you like this."

Your moans grew louder, your nails pressing deeper into his skin, leaving marks along his back as if claiming him in return.

Jake groaned, his lips parting, his body trembling from the way you felt. "Would you let me?" His eyes searched yours. "Would you let me taint you? Every day?"

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist, then sliding lower to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you closer. His movements slowed, dragging out every sensation, every inch of him inside you.

Your back arched, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him in place, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps as the pleasure built inside you. 

"Yes, yes!" you cried out. "Taint me, fill me with your seed—I don’t care anymore!"

A ragged moan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. "You're all I've ever wanted." His pace turned desperate, frantic. His hands shook as he rocked into you. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he drove deeper, his body pressing you down into the wooden table. The room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless gasps and muffled cries.

"I’ll give you everything," Jake panted, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat dripping from his temple. "I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you mine—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward, chasing release, chasing you.

Your walls clenched tighter, pulsing around him, and he whimpered, his body tensing, his breath stuttering as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight inside him.

"Jake, Jake," you whimpered, your hands drifted lower, fingers grazing over the stretch where your bodies met. You could feel him inside you, thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls with each deep, sliding thrust. 

Your fingers dipped lower, pressing against your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you. The moment your fingers touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, a bolt of another intense pleasure shot through you. 

Jake groaned at the movement, his grip tightening, his lips parting as he watched you touch yourself.

"It feels too good—too good," you sobbed, rolling slow, shaky circles against your clit, heightening the pleasure building inside you. Your walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter, making his hips stutter.

"Oh my Lord," Jake moaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself together. "This—this feels too good. I am willing to sin every day to get a taste of you."

"I would trade heaven just to stay inside you forever—"

His teeth grazed your jaw, his fingers locking around your wrists, guiding your movements against your clit, urging you faster, desperate to bring you with him.

"Please—please, come for me," he begged, and with one last deep thrust, as your fingers circled your clit faster, as his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

The pleasure snapped through you, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him as your climax washed through every inch of your being.

Jake choked on a moan, his body jerking as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, his breath breaking into ragged gasps. His hands trembled as they gripped your hips, holding you still as his release spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

His lips found yours again as he emptied himself into you, his body still shaking from the intensity of it all.

You gasped into his mouth, still riding the aftershocks, feeling the warmth of him inside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to do anything but exist in the sinful haze of what had just happened.

Jake’s hands slowly slid up your back, his fingers tracing over your spine made your chest tighten. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had done—what you had done together.

 "Are you okay?"

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the way he searched your face for any sign of regret. But there was none. You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his cheek.

"I'm full of you," you murmured, "I can feel you inside me."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his entire body tensing as he let out a shaky breath. Yet, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his cock twitched inside you—still buried to the hilt, still too sensitive, yet already stirring again at your words

"Don't say that," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him.

They slid upward, over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding your breasts again, cupping them, thumbs circling your pebbled peaks. His fingers kneaded softly, rolling the sensitive flesh between his palms. 

Your back arched, your head tipping back, letting your hair cascade over the edge of the table. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling in your veins, yet now, a new wave of desire was coiling inside you again. 

You were undone beneath him, your body glistening with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes still dazed, darkened with lust. And yet, you looked untouched. 

His grip on your breasts tightened slightly, his hips pressing forward just enough to remind you that he was still inside you.

"You make me forget who I am," he murmured, his breath shaky against your throat. "What I'm supposed to be."

His lips found the pulse at your neck, trailing down again at every inch of your skin. 

Neither of you noticed the way the candlelight flickered. Because you had both awakened the Tree of Knowledge.

And neither of you would ever return to Eden.

Jake had always been a man of God.

From the moment he could speak, he was taught that he was formed from the dust of the earth, molded by divine hands, a creation of purpose. His parents instilled in him the belief that he was meant to walk the righteous path, to live a life devoted to prayer, to obedience, to purity.

He appreciated every intricate work of the Creator—the way the sun spilled golden light over the stained-glass windows of the churches, the way the choir’s voices soared in perfect harmony, the way scripture spoke of faith and the reward of salvation. He saw God in everything, and in return, he gave himself to Him, dedicating his days to scripture, to service, to resisting the sins that so easily ensnared others.

Where others strayed, he remained steadfast. Where others indulged in temptation, he turned away.

He had watched boys his age succumbs to their own desires— lusting over naked bodies, wandering hands beneath heavy blankets. He had seen the way girls blushed at their names being called by the wrong kind of voice, the way they giggled behind cupped hands, oblivious to how close they danced to damnation.

But not him.

Jake had spent his youth guarding his body, his mind, his soul. He never allowed himself to waver, never let his thoughts wander to things he had been told were unholy. And if—if—his body ever betrayed him in the quiet of night, if his skin burned with an unfamiliar ache, if his mind was tempted by images that had no place in his heart, he would fall to his knees in prayer.

He would beg for forgiveness, whispering fervent apologies, asking for the strength to resist, the grace to overcome.

And for years, he believed he was strong enough.

He believed his faith was unshakable, that no force on earth could tempt him away from his devotion. He had spent his life resisting, rejecting, turning away from desire as though it were a serpent poised to strike.

During one of his evening services at the university chapel, he saw you. At first, it was nothing. A passing glance. A new face among many, just another student filling the pews, singing hymns.

But then, he saw you again.

And again.

You stood among the choir, always placed near the back, always just slightly out of reach—like something meant to be admired from afar, never touched. Your voice wove seamlessly into the others, rising with the organ, filling the chapel, but it wasn't just your voice.

It was the way you bowed your head in prayer, hands folded so delicately. It was the way you knelt before the altar, the way your fingers curled around your rosary.

And every time he saw you, every time your lashes fluttered closed, every time your lips parted to whisper scripture. He would whisper to himself, Song of Solomon 4:7.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you."

Because when he looked at you, he saw something more than human.

He saw a reflection of God’s love, a testament to His creativity—flawless, untouched, pure in ways he never realized he could ache for.

He told himself it was admiration. That his heart only quickened because he saw God in you. That the warmth spreading through his chest whenever you smiled at the nuns, whenever your fingers brushed against the pages of your worn bible, was nothing but spiritual devotion.

But the more he saw you, the harder it became to believe the lie. Because you were forbidden. So untouchable it hurt.

And by the time he had a taste of your poison, by the time your lips had met his, by the time he had felt the warmth of your body pressed against him, wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop craving.

"Jake—" you whined, your voice hushed, breathless, your hands pressed against the cool tiles of the wall for balance. Your body rocked with each deep thrust, your skirt bunched up around your waist, your panties pulled aside in rushed desperation.

Here he was, buried deep inside you in the thin, suffocating space of the girls’ restroom, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you bounced against him. He had barely gotten them down before he was inside you. 

Jake let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against the back of your shoulder, his hips snapping forward, a choked moan escaping his lips as your walls squeezed around him.

"D-Do you love my c-cock inside you?"  He stammered. His hands slid from your hips, traveling up, slipping beneath your uniform blouse to cup your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he thrust deeper.

"Answer me," he pleaded, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

A sharp gasp left your lips, your head tilting back against his shoulder as your walls clenched even tighter. "Y-Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against the cold tile, your knees going weak.

"Say it."

"I love it, Jake," you sobbed, barely holding yourself up as he drove into you faster. "I love your cock inside me—I love it so much—"

Jake whimpered, his grip on you tightening, his entire body shuddering against yours as he lost himself again.

Nothing in this world felt holier than you. Every secret rendezvous was another prayer whispered in the dark, another moment stolen between fleeting glances and hurried footsteps, another sin sealed between trembling lips.

It was your skin against his, pressed against the cold walls of empty classrooms, hidden beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight in the chapel, tangled in sheets that smelled of guilt and devotion.

It was your kiss—sweet and sinful, your lips brushing against his top lip before capturing him fully, pulling him under, making him forget the weight of his conscience.

It was the way your fingers found his face, tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down to the sharp line of his jaw.

"Jake," you would whisper, your touch like a baptism, washing away the person he once was and leaving behind someone entirely yours.

Your hands never hesitated when they roamed his body, memorizing the contours of his muscles, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of his spine. Your body molded to his, fitting perfectly, as if you had been crafted just for him.

And God, how could something that felt this right be wrong? How could he look at you and believe this was damnation?

You were not a temptation.

You were his salvation, And if this was sin—if loving you, wanting you, needing you—meant turning away from heaven, then so be it.

Because Jake had already made his choice and he would choose you every time.

"They say if you have sexual preferences, it's called a kink," Jake mused, his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders as he stared out at the lake, watching the water ripple under the soft afternoon light.

It was a rare that the both of you escape—just the two of you, away from the suffocating walls of the university.  Here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

You hummed in amusement, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Hmm, I think I have a nose kink."

Jake chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "A nose kink?"

You grinned, turning to look up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. "I love your nose," you said simply, reaching up to tap the tip of it gently with your finger. "I love how it bumps against my clit."

A giggle slipped from your lips as Jake let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, his ears tinged slightly pink.

"You're unbelievable," he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your shoulder, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

You shifted, wrapping your arms around his, your fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeves. "What about you? Do you have a kink?"

Jake pretended to think, his lips pursing before he finally admitted, "I love your tongue."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

His smile widened, his fingers trailing lazily along your arms. "I love how soft it is when you kiss me," he said, voice dropping slightly. "I love the way it feels against my skin, how warm it is when you—"

He stopped himself, biting his lip, his cheeks darkening as he let out a flustered chuckle. "You know."

You turned fully in his embrace, resting your chin against his chest as you beamed up at him. "Say it."

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was nothing but adoration in them as he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love how your tongue feels when you're tasting me."

Your giggles turned into full laughter, your arms tightening around him, and he let out a breathy laugh of his own, shaking his head in defeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, the lake shimmering under the sunlight.

"Do you think God still loves us?" you asked, Jake's fingers threaded through your hair, slow and gentle, playing with your scalp as he stared out at the lake, watching the way the sunlight danced over the rippling water.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Jake exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile. "Because love doesn’t disappear just because we fall." His gaze met yours. "God loved David even after his sins. He loved Peter even after he denied Him three times. Love isn’t something that fades because of our mistakes. It’s unconditional."

Your chest tightened at his words, at the quiet conviction in his voice.

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" you whispered, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Jake sighed, his chin resting lightly atop your head. "Because we've been taught to fear Him more than we've been taught to trust His love."

Silence stretched, only the soft rustling of trees and the distant laughter from the festival carrying through the breeze. After a moment, Jake spoke again, "but when I’m with you…" he paused, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm, "I feel closer to God than I ever have before."

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. "How?"

He smiled, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead again before whispering,

"Because you are the most beautiful thing He’s ever created."

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening around his shirt as warmth bloomed in your chest.

Jake tilted his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "And if loving you is a sin…" he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "then I guess I’ll just have to keep repenting."

His hands wandered lower, tracing slow, idle patterns along your upper thigh. You shivered slightly at his touch, but it wasn’t just the sensation that made your breath hitch—it was the way his finger moved deliberately, forming letters, one by one, spelling out a single word:

"Mine."

Your lips parted, your heart stuttering in your chest as your gaze flickered up to meet his.

Jake only smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I will leave the university," he said suddenly. 

Jake exhaled slowly, "I’ve realized a lot of things, and one of them is…" He hesitated, searching your face, then sighed. "I don’t think I was ever meant to be the man they wanted me to be."

Your throat tightened. "Jake—"

"Everything is okay," he reassured you, his voice firm, calming. "I don’t regret any of it. Not the prayers, not the faith—but I also don’t regret you. And if the only way to keep you is to walk away from what was never truly mine, then I’ll do it."

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your fingers curling around his wrists. "You would do that?"

"I would do anything for you," he muttered, "I was never meant to be a saint, and I don’t think I want to be anymore." His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch, in the certainty of this moment. "I just want to be yours." 

A breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding.  You swallowed, your lips parting before you whispered, "Ruth 1:16-17."

Jake tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in curiosity. You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

His gaze softened, warm and full of love, as if in that moment, there was nothing else in the world but you and him. Jake swallowed, his fingers tightening around yours as he whispered back, "Song of Solomon 3:4."

Your breath hitched. A sharp sting burned behind your eyes as you realized what he was saying, as the words sank into your skin, into your soul. Tears welled up, spilling onto your cheeks as he brought a trembling hand to cup your face, his thumb wiping them away.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

A quiet sob escaped you as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into the deepest parts of you.

That was the day you faced the judgment of others.

Whispers followed you down the chapel halls, sharp as knives, spoken behind cupped hands and lowered eyes. You were no longer the devout girl they had known, no longer the image of purity they had placed on a pedestal.

You were cast out, stripped of the life you had once known, condemned for surrendering to the desires they warned you against. For falling, like Eve, for stepping into temptation and taking the bite that could never be undone.

But none of it mattered. Because just as Adam had followed Eve into exile, Jake followed you. It had always been him and you. It would always be him and you.

You would always choose him—religiously, faithfully.

You clutched Jake’s hand, sweat beading on your forehead, your body trembling as pain surged through you. Your body trembling with exhaustion. The midwife kneeled before you, her voice firm yet reassuring, guiding you through labored breaths as she prepared to deliver your third child.

Jake pressed a kiss to your damp temple, whispering words of encouragement, of love, his grip unwavering as he held onto you, just as he always had.

He wiped away the tears spilling from your eyes, just as he had that day by the lake, when he promised you that everything would be okay.

And as you cried out, as life pushed forward, as your body bore the proof of your love.

"You’re so strong," he murmured. "Just a little more, my love. I’m right here."

Another sharp cry left your lips, your back arching as the final push sent waves of relief crashing over you.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

A sharp, piercing sound, followed by the relieved murmurs of the midwife as she carefully wrapped the tiny, wriggling form in soft cloth. Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Jake’s hand trembled as he reached for you, his lips pressing against your knuckles, his gratitude unspoken but infinite.

Tiny footsteps thundered against the wooden floor.

"Mama!"

The door burst open, and two small figures ran inside, their eager little hands gripping the edges of your bedsheet.

Cain and Abel—your firstborns.

Their wide eyes shimmered with excitement; their faces flushed from running. Cain, the elder, clung to Jake’s arm, while Abel climbed onto the edge of the bed, trying to peer over your shoulder.

"Did it hurt, Mama? Are you okay?" Cain asked, his brows furrowed in concern, his little hands gripping onto Jake’s sleeve.

"It’s okay, my love," you soothed, your voice weak but filled with warmth as you reached for them. "I am okay."

Jake’s breath hitched as the midwife gently placed the newborn into his waiting arms. A soft gasp left his lips as he cradled the tiny child against his chest, his eyes glistening with tears. His fingers traced the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Seth."

At the sound of his father’s voice, the newborn let out a small, sleepy whimper, tiny fists curling against Jake’s chest. Cain and Abel watched in awe; their excitement momentarily silenced as they stared at their new baby brother.

"Seth," Abel repeated softly, as if testing the name on his tongue.

"He’s so small," Cain murmured, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jake let out a choked laugh, pressing a kiss to Seth’s forehead before carefully settling beside you on the bed. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you close, his free hand still cradling your newest son. And as your children gathered around you, their voices filled with wonder.

As Jake’s lips found your forehead once more, you exhaled, a breathless, relieved sigh. You thought of Eden. Of Adam, formed from dust. Of Eve, crafted from his rib, made for him, meant to be his. The two of them had once lived untouched, unburdened, perfect in their innocence.

But love—true love—was never meant to exist without choice.

And so, they had fallen. Not out of defiance. Not out of sin. But out of love—a love so deep, so human, it had rewritten the course of existence itself.

Your body spent, your children nestled close, your husband’s arms wrapped around you as he held his world in his hands. Your tired eyes fluttered shut, as Jake pressed another soft kiss against your skin, your newborn stirred gently in his father’s arms.

Falling had never been a punishment. Because It is a gift.

perm taglist: @won4me @ikaw-at-ikaw, @kristynaaah, @fancypeacepersona @tunafishyfishylike @vvenusoncasual, @cutehoons02,

[asterafroditis]

hai !! :3 I saw the sua/robin reader and I loved it so much! and it made me wonder if u could make (platonic) housewardens x sua!reader? (preferably fem!reader but idm gn!) the fact that reader misses mizi and wonders what happend to her and ultimately has trauma from alien stage :3

I love all of ur fanfics a lot!! don’t forget to drink nor eat ^-^

𐔌 . ⋮ lingering songs .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Platonic Housewardens x Sua fem! reader

𓏵 1245 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used but there are fem! reader descriptors, light angst

Aqqq took me a while to finally get this out of my drafts bc smth abt it just bugged me but I do hope you enjoy my train wreck writing TT feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

At first glance, Riddle sees you as a poised and refined young lady—an image of grace under pressure. He respects that. But as time passes, he realizes it’s not natural elegance; it’s control. The way you hold yourself, the way you speak—it’s deliberate, as if you’re performing for someone who isn’t there.

You remind him of a caged bird. Beautiful, but trapped in something invisible. It unsettles him.

When you mention Mizi’s name—softly, wistfully—he recognizes the way your voice catches on it. He’s studied grief in textbooks, read about different ways people mourn. But he’s never heard someone carry loss the way you do, as if it’s stitched into your very being.

You don’t cry often, but the weight of your sorrow lingers in everything you do. When you stand by the window, eyes searching the sky, he knows you’re looking for something beyond it. He wonders if you even realize it yourself.

You’re prone to sleepless nights, and he notices. He starts leaving herbal tea by your door, citing Heartslabyul’s rules on proper health. It’s a quiet way of saying I see you. I won’t push, but I care.

If you ever have a panic attack, he’s caught between his instinct to enforce structure and his awareness that grief doesn’t obey rules. He opts for quiet presence, sitting nearby, offering something tangible—warm tea, gentle words, a familiar voice grounding you back to reality.

─────────────────────────

Leona immediately senses something different about you. Unlike others who fear his presence, you meet his gaze with quiet detachment. No apprehension, no admiration. Just... acceptance. It annoys him at first. Then it intrigues him.

He’s not stupid. He’s seen loss before, but the way you carry yours—it’s not just sadness. It’s survival. Like someone who had no choice but to keep going.

“Tch. What’s with that look?” he mutters one evening when he catches you gazing at the stars, eyes unfocused. When you answer with a soft, “I’m looking for someone who isn’t looking back,” he doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t leave, either.

Sometimes he hears you humming when you think you’re alone. The melody is gentle, sorrowful—like a song meant for ghosts. He never asks about it, but it lingers in his mind long after.

He’s not the type to console with words, so instead, he gives you space to exist. If you need silence, he won’t talk. If you need company, he won’t push. And if you need rest, he’ll grumble about it before shoving a pillow at you and muttering, “Take a nap, herbivore.”

─────────────────────────

Azul is drawn to your presence. You exude a kind of mystique, a quiet allure that reminds him of deep, uncharted waters. But when he looks closer, he sees something else—fatigue. A weariness that no amount of rest could fix.

He’s fascinated by your voice. It’s hauntingly beautiful, a siren’s call that lingers even after the music fades. He briefly considers asking if you’d like to perform at Mostro Lounge, but the way your expression shifts—like the mere thought exhausts you—makes him reconsider.

One night, he catches you singing alone. There’s no audience, no stage—just you and your memories. He doesn’t interrupt. For once, Azul allows himself to simply listen.

He recognizes the way your fingers sometimes twitch when holding a microphone, the way you hesitate before stepping into a room full of people. It reminds him of his own fears, his own battles with past humiliation.

When he finally hears you say Mizi’s name or mention your longing, he doesn’t pry. But he does something rare—he offers you silence, a place where you don’t have to perform.

─────────────────────────

Kalim is immediately drawn to you. You’re elegant, composed—but there’s something about you that feels distant. Like you’re here, but not really here.

He loves music, and your voice is unlike anything he’s ever heard. But when he excitedly asks you to sing at a Scarabia event, your smile falters for just a second before you politely decline. The moment stays with him.

He doesn’t push, but he watches. He notices how you linger by the windows during late nights, how your gaze drifts skyward, searching for something only you can see.

When you finally whisper, “I miss someone,” he doesn’t respond with the usual cheerful reassurances. Instead, he simply sits beside you, letting you talk if you want to.

Kalim doesn’t always understand grief, but he understands loneliness. So he makes sure you never feel alone, whether through spontaneous invitations or simply keeping you company in comfortable silence.

─────────────────────────

Vil sees you as a performer, but not in the way others do. He recognizes the way you carry yourself—not as someone who wants attention, but as someone who was forced into it.

You don’t take up space like he does. Instead, you exist in a way that demands attention without seeking it. That, in itself, is an art form.

He doesn’t offer empty comforts when he realizes how deeply you grieve. Instead, he tells you something cryptic: “The world is cruel to those who shine too brightly. But you’re still here. Make sure you stay that way.”

He’s a firm believer in self-care, but when he catches you neglecting yourself—skipping meals, overworking—his tone sharpens. “A broken star is of no use to anyone. You won’t find what you’re looking for by destroying yourself.”

He never asks about Mizi directly, but one evening, as he watches you stare at the sky, he murmurs, “Whoever she was, I hope she knew how much she mattered to you.”

─────────────────────────

Idia doesn’t do well with emotions—especially not ones as heavy as yours. But he sees the signs. The way your fingers sometimes shake when you hold a microphone. The way your gaze flickers elsewhere when he speaks, like you’re remembering someone else.

He recognizes that grief isn’t just sadness—it’s obsession. He understands shutting yourself away from the world because reality is too painful.

He won’t ask about Mizi, but if you ever mention her, he listens. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to comfort you. He just listens.

One day, he programs a small game. In it, there’s a tiny, pixelated version of you and another girl—a girl who looks like Mizi. He never mentions it, but when you find it on your screen, you understand.

This is his way of remembering, too.

─────────────────────────

Malleus is drawn to you immediately. Not because of your voice, but because of your presence—like an echo of something long forgotten.

He understands longing. The way you search the sky for something beyond reach—it’s the same way he waits for letters that never come.

When he first hears Mizi’s name, he doesn’t ask. But later, he quietly wonders, “Do you think she would be proud of you?” The question lingers.

If you ever tell him about Alien Stage, he listens with deep fascination. A world where people had to sing to survive, where every note was a battle. He wonders if, in another life, you and Mizi might have been free.

[andersonsgf]

i LOVE modern roommate!abby 🥹

could we get more about them spending time together? like going to the gym, or abby becoming more interested in reader’s nerdy hobbies?

TYSM I LOVE YOUR WORKS 🫶🏾

modern roommate!abby

aa thank you im so glad youre enjoying it! very much enjoyed writing this series link

requests are still open for this series, and if anyone wants to be part of a taglist for it lmk :)

modern roommate!abby was a sucker for doing anything and everything with you. she needed to pick up some ingredients for tomorrow? she would definitely ask you to be a passenger princess for that five minute car ride, even if you were in your pyjamas already. sure, the fact that you two live together and date meant there was a tricky little line that hovered on codependency but it was managed well even with abby dragging you around everywhere. she'd go to mannys for the evening a couple of times a week, and you'd take yourself on little shopping walks around the city. it worked.

there were plenty of activities that you and modern roommate!abby had in common: going to the gym, hiking, late night drives, reading. fuck, you and abby had a lot of books. the equivalent of 'moving in together' was when you and abby combined your solo book collections into one big communal bookshelf. now that was commitment. working out together was abbys favourite thing though, the gym was definitely her happy place, where she felt most confident, felt the most at home in her skin. and you there too, practically drooling at watching her bench? that made her feel ten times more happy.

abbys pr for the bench press was 92.5 kilos, which you thought was simply fucking insane. what you thought was even more insane was that abby always asked you to spot her. of course you said yes, but you would always stare down at her whilst she did it with your nose scrunched knowing that you being the spotter meant a trip to the hospital for abby if she did fail her set. "you do realise that you're asking me to like... bicep curl or upright row 90 kilos if you fail, right?", you said to her one time as she sat up on the bench.

"i'm not gonna fail".

her attitude made you laugh a little, if she was going for new pr's then there could very well be a time where she can't finish the set. and you were supposed to be the thing between her and the barbell crushing her neck? "no but genuinely what happens if you can't get it up?".

abby snorted and stood up to take some of the weights off ready for your turn. "that's what she said".

"oh you are foul", you grumbled a little and lay on the bench, ready to do your lighter, yet respectable 30 kilo push. abby simply did that adorable shit eating grin in response before locking in when you started your sets. that 30 could still do a lot of damage if it dropped on your head.

modern roommate!abby earned more than you. it was a known fact. she had a full time job plus a second income from her rugby sponsors. you worked more than part time but not quite full time, enough to pay your half of the high seattle apartment rent prices, but still not enough to buy everything on your wishlists. which is where abby came in with her giant heart, and hungry eyes. gym clothes were expensive. and they were kind of non-negotiable, the cheaper gear never quite fit properly, always having weird baggy areas that you hated.

it didn't take long when you started dating for new gym sets to appear in your room, nicely folded with a piece of candy on top. she got them for you to see you smile, see how happy and confident you were in the gym when wearing clothes that felt comfortable and, in both of your opinions, made you look good. she also straight up just liked gawking at you in them though. you're her girlfriend, she finds you attractive, sue her.

she still vividly remembers the image of you in a new workout tank top she got you, watching you wear it on the assisted pull up machine, the muscles you'd been toning up on your back were a sight for sore eyes with that shirt. her cheeks had puffed out as she blew air out. man did she love working out with you.

that truly was secondary when it came to just being at the gym with you in general though. it really was just nice sharing that space with you, celebrating each others wins, pushing each other to do more even if your heart wasn't in it that day. she felt like she had her own little team. she really loved that team.

that being said, modern roommate!abby didn't really understand a lot of your other interests. she wasn't keen on video games at all. one of her mates back in college was obsessed with them. whitney always had her old psvita to hand and the incessant little noises that played from them grated her to no end. she could hear similar noises coming from your room a lot, you were an absolute fiend for playing games when you should be sleeping, or straight up playing them for 8 hours straight on a day off.

she didn't know what to expect with the genre of games you played. in all honesty they were kind of all the same to her. it took weeks to bring her around and get her to at least acknowledge that many games were vastly different. it then took another few weeks to get her to sit down and watch you play some games.

it was surprisingly successful. she still was adamant that she would never play any herself, but she enjoyed watching you. enjoyed watching you get excited at completing different things, levelling up, explaining story lore. she really got into some of the story games you played, looking genuinely shocked at the uncharted 4 twist, and she liked watching you swing around the open world new york in the spiderman games.

the first cozy game you showed her was spiritfarer. at first she was bored without the same action that story games had, but once again she was soon won over when she realised how great they were to play late at night. how it soon became satisfying to see the mini stories in the game progress, the little tasks you had to do, gathering resources. stanley ended up being her favourite spirit, claiming that she didn't "normally like mushroom themed things but he was an exception". you laughed at that one. abby was tough as nails but she was full of random bullshit like that.

then you whipped out the second "cozy" game. stardew valley. she looked more confused than ever when you pulled out your laptop too, pulling up a series of spreadsheets. "what the fuck is that for?".

she full belly laughed when you showed her your little pixel farm and explained that all the spreadsheets were for your farm efficiency and keeping track of pelican town relationships. "that's so much effort for what? virtual farming?". she was soon eating her words though when her eyes had practically gone square from intently watching you play for five hours straight into the early hours of the morning, half a litre of cola missing from the giant bottle in her hand.

you giggled slightly when finally finishing for the night as you had to basically drag her away from the sofa, reminding her about the morning training session she planned that she was now already tempted to skip to try and start her own farm.

you promised to buy a second controller for a co-op farm tomorrow.

[hooked-on-elvis]

Celebs are really not made of what they used to anymore.

I just watched a celeb gossip content on Youtube in which this huge Hollywood star harassed a poor girl because she filmed her in the same hotel lobby that she was. I was like, "seriously?" Celebs want to walk and not be noticed anymore? I think there's limits we have to have in order not to invade other people's privacy, even if they are famous, because that's the right way to go, but sometimes celebs behave so weird. The girl was filming this one actress from afar, not right on her face with a phone, screaming or something. The girl told on Tik Tok that when she was leaving the hotel this celeb follows her, says 'hi' in a way to call her attention when all of her security guards start to circle her and her mom's car, filming and taking pictures of them and the plaque's licence of their car. This is too much. I would cry, I would get desperate, seriously... Was she going to call the cops now? Did this poor girl committed a crime by recording her walking in a hotel lobby with her husband?

Of course I thought about Elvis. I know, maybe he should've preserved his privacy some more, the guy was filmed everywhere, doing anything (horseback riding in his own home, sunbathing, riding carts, with friends having fun in amusement parks... it was insane!), but he was always so understanding about where this all came from, why the people wanted to film or take pictures of him... he knew it came from a place of love and amazement too, not from wanting to be invasive or hurt him and his image in any way.

I mean, I'm a huge fan of Elvis Presley but some people don't have the slightest idea of how much of himself as a human being - his privacy - he gave up. And although I feel protective of him, I am also so grateful he only poured love on the fans following him around, never being nasty and rude and telling them to fuck off or having bodyguards throwing them out of his sight, instead he was really what you expect a celebrity should be. Humble, kind, understanding, cute, generous with his time and image. Most of all, he did all of this because he was grateful for the people who put him in that position, who gave him everything he had. He said that in many different ways, like, "If they want the shirt I'm wearing, they can have it."

It's complicated. I believe celebs have to have their privacy respected. Like what happened to Amy Winehouse and before her, Britney Spears. Paparazzi harassment is never good, specially when they're after someone to mock them in gossip columns, but this case I mentioned has nothing to do with this kind of disrespect, it was a fan filming a celebrity in the same lobby as her in a hotel... It is understanding it's not something that happens to you everyday, so why bother so much with the fan?

This is just something random I felt like sharing my thoughts.

[tinylilacbun]

i n s e c u r i t i e s ˖˚⊹ ꣑ৎ‎

Warnings: insecurities about body image/weight, rafe being incredibly soft :'), this drabble is written from my own perspective and experience (except for the fact I don't have a Rafe to comfort me...)

Some time in your life you have come to accept the fact that you're chubby, ever since highschool you've been a bit chubbier than other girls and you were fine with it, you had your friends who accepted you and didn't treat you any different.

Then you started dating Rafe, thinking this was just some kind of bet for him but it turned out that he actually loved you, really loved you, for your personality and your looks.

To him you were perfect, not feeling like you have to prove yourself with skimpy outfits or tons of makeup is what really has him whipped for you.

Later in your relationship you even found the courage to tell him about your littlespace, thinking this was it now, he will see what kind of a weirdo you are and leave you, that's what you thought.

But Rafe surprised you by still being the supportive boyfriend he is, assuring you that there's nothing you could do or say that would make him love you any less.

You changed him for the better, giving him the opportunity to find out how it actually feels to be dependent on and responsible for someone.

Even though you have a healthy relationship and amazing friends there are still some moments where your insecurities get the best of you, especially when you look into a mirror or get changed.

Just like now you wanted to try on a new dress that you bought online a few days ago, with Rafe's money of course because you're his girl who deserves everything.

You stand in the middle of your shared bedroom, staring into the full body mirror in front of you as if that can make you feel better about yourself.

The dress itself is pretty, just not on you in your opinion...

You sigh sadly, smoothing your hands down your sides and turning your body a little to see it from a different angle but it just makes you frown even more.

Not being able to look at yourself a second longer you reach to the side of your dress trying to pull down the zipper to get it off you, whining when it gets stuck in the fabric from you hastily tugging on it.

You regressed the second you looked into the mirror and even the minor inconvenience has you on the verge of a meltdown, stomping your foot.

"Need some help?" Rafe's sudden voice startles you, jerking your head to the side to see him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, an amused smile on his face which he quickly wipes off when he sees your bottom lip start to quiver. "Hey, what's wrong, huh? Is the dress too tight?"

He approaches you as you shake your head looking back towards the mirror while he positions himself behind you, placing his hands on your waist.

"No pwetty..." You sniffle, closing your eyes and turning your head away again only for Rafe to grab your chin and make you look back at yourself.

"So, let's get this straight. You, baby, are the prettiest girl I've ever seen. I keep pinching myself to make sure you're not just a dream." He starts, gently wiping some tears from your cheeks with the back of his hand. "The fact that I get to call you my girl makes me the happiest man on earth."

Your crying slowly stops at his words, feeling the butterflies erupt in your stomach when he wraps his arms around you from behind, placing his chin on your shoulder.

"Just look at you." He murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "That's my pretty girl right there." He points at you in the mirror. "And I wouldn't trade that sight for anything in this universe."

"P-Pwomise?" You mumble, your fingers picking at the end of your dress anxiously, still a bit unsure of yourself.

"I promise, baby." He assures you without hesitation. "Now, you wanna get into something more comfy and watch a movie, hm?"

A tiny smile forms on your face, nodding your head and leaning against him for comfort. Rafe never fails to make you feel beautiful, even in your lowest moods.

[coeurdelain]

Here’s Elain wearing blue (so it’s not something we made up, unlike them who keep making her wear yellow and green and putting a Day Court necklace on her).

Here’s Elain with Truth-Teller and the shadows (she actually wielded it, unlike them who claim Gwyn will).

Here’s Elain being hinted at becoming a spy—and there are plenty of other proofs of that. I have a limit of 10 images but there’s also the fact that she knows how to keep secrets (unlike them who just copied this theory and gave it to Gwyn, or who declared that Elain would be High Lady of the Day Court when I haven’t seen her express any desire to be High Lady or even tell Feyre, for example, that she’s interested in her work. That would at least show some willingness, but no—nothing. There is nothing that indicates that).

But somehow, we’re the ones reducing Elain to her love interest, while they have completely rewritten her identity/ her personality around Lucien (ex : Elain with Jurian and Vassa, Lucien’s friends and not Nuala and Cerridwen). Because everything they do is about making Elain perfectly compatible with him.

The level of hypocrisy is insane.

Personally, we just stick to the canon. We don’t have to make things up to reshape her for a man. We just read the books.

And I’m starting to think we’re talking to people who hate Elain so much that they skipped every moment in the books where she was mentioned.

Because it’s insane to accuse us of making her wear blue, wielding Truth-Teller, or imagining her as a spy. These are literally things that happen in the books.

Every time, I tell myself there’s no point of making these kind of posts and that I should focus on Elriel rather than the anti-elriels but I came across things so crazy that I just can’t stay silent.

[loumandaniel]

Yeah. Armand looks sooooo annoyed 😭😭😭 every time Daniel opens his mouth. I have to confess something. Even if I do kind of like the concept of dm and the eternal sunshine theory- I do love the question of what happens if you don't have time and your loved ones will never run out of time and also won't ever grow into anything else either- I don't think past dm happened. And uh. Idk how can dm happen then if there has been no past dm and a considerable part of dm was Armand terrorizing Daniel and Daniel trying to push through it before they eventually take a liking to each other.

i agree that past devil’s minion is essential, so without it, present dm going forward could feel odd. it’s easy to forget in fandom that devil’s minion is a blank slate right now. everything about them is essentially just theory. if you avoid outside interviews and books, the only thing you really know is that armand turned daniel out of spite. that’s it. if you don’t actively search for them, you won’t know they’re drifting toward something romantic until it actually happens.

i just can't come up with a reason to remove the chapter at all though. it plays a major role in armand grappling with his trauma surrounding marius, so i see no reason for it to be cut (hello anne rice's opinion on the cycle of abuse). it also ties into daniel’s character - his pursuit of truth, even to disastrous and unethical ends. the core elements of their relationship can exist in any form, but if there were to be something more between armand and daniel, it fits perfectly within themes of the show and who they are, even with your mention of "time running out." if dm broke up as poorly as they did in the book and there is no queen of the damned event to bring them back together, then of course armand being annoyed fits very well. imagine your annoying ex who left you because you two got too codependent is in your home untying your web you built for your current companion lol. i wouldn't want the king of destroying relationships in MY house.

the issue i've found with fandom and devil's minion (and honestly, a lot of other characters & ships get this treatment too) is that they're quite sanitized. when held up against their antagonism in the show, this tends to lead towards conflicting opinions. i hate to say it, but reading the books does a lot more heavy-lifting than one would expect. armand and daniel don't speak any differently in the show than they do in the books lol. they clash in both materials. they both want what the other has and they bleed together, which results in love.

i know this is mean to say, but the iwtv fandom as a whole really sands down the idea of love, or sticks to one singular interpretation. love doesn't immediately equate to a positive. the entire show revolves around how vampirism, whether as a curse or as a gift, confronts your emotions, your memory, against an unending corridor of time. if time heals all wounds, how many times can you rip the scar open again? like, yes, sure, louis and lestat love each other, but should louis love the man who dropped him thousands of feet to punish him for his denial of love? no lol. except, love here is measured against a passage of time beyond human comprehension. much of the love in this show can be horrific and dark, and yet there it is.

anyway, an unnecessarily long post to essentially say that, yea, devil's minion fits the show's theme too well for it to be abandoned in any form. armand enjoys living in lies at his own comfort, while daniel will pursue truth at the cost of his own. throw in the theory that a part of daniel's life is gone, potentially because of something armand has done? now, they’re clashing, but each with a long stretch of time to deal with that. they can be the warped mirror image of loustat, which is delicious to think about.

[tsuma-senju]

Open the door - Suguru Geto

Pairing Suguru Geto x Reader.fem - Ex-boyfriends. a little horror

Summary You and Geto broke up when your ideology changed, he disappeared and now he's at your door

The fine rain beat against the window of your apartment, creating a muffled sound that filled the uncomfortable silence of the living room. You were sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, holding a mug of lukewarm tea that had long since lost its warmth. Your eyes wandered around the room, but your mind was elsewhere. In another time.

The ghosts of the past always seemed louder on nights like this. And, inevitably, his image returned.

Suguru Geto.

His name still weighed heavily on her chest. Enough time had passed for the wounds to heal, but some things just don't go away. His smile, the words he whispered in your ear on cold nights, the way he held your hand as if he would never let go.

But he did.

And you let go.

Or at least you tried.

The first knock on the door was discreet. You thought you'd imagined it. It was late, and no one came unannounced. Maybe a neighbor, maybe the wind.

Then came the second knock. More firm. More insistent.

His heart squeezed in his chest. A strange sensation crept up your spine, the kind of cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. You stood up slowly, your steps almost hesitant as you approached the door. You looked through the peephole.

Your body froze.

Geto.

He was standing there, his damp hair falling loosely around his face. His gaze was dark, locked on the door, as if he knew you were on the other side. As if he was waiting for you to open it.

Your first impulse was to walk away. To leave him there, outside. He'd already been out of your life for so long. What was the point of opening that door now?

The third knock came, louder. More impatient.

"I know you're in there." His voice came through the wood, hoarse, low, but clear enough to make your heart waver.

You held your breath. He had no right to come back like that. Not after everything he'd put you through.

"Are you really going to ignore me?" His tone softened a little, but the tension was still there. "Please… I just want to talk to you."

His whole body was screaming at him not to open up. Something was wrong. There was something about the way he spoke, the way his words sounded… empty.

You moved away from the door, trying to control your racing pulse. But he didn't stop.

A fourth knock.

"I'm not leaving." The firmness in his voice sent a shiver up the back of your neck. "Not until you let me in."

His chest tightened. You knew that Geto always had a frightening persistence, but this… this was different. The silence in the apartment became denser, as if the very air was against you.

Why was he there? Why now?

"Are you going to open the door for me?" His voice was closer, as if he were leaning against the wood. "Or am I going to have to keep knocking?"

The most terrifying part was that he seemed calm. Very calm. And you knew that when Suguru Geto got too calm, something was always about to fall apart.

You looked at the cell phone on the table. One step. It was just one step to pick it up and call someone. To ask for help. But your legs seemed stuck.

The fifth knock echoed through the room.

"I can feel your energy, you know?" he murmured, his throat dry. "I can feel that you're scared. You don't have to be afraid of me. I would never hurt you."

Was it true? Was he still the Geto you knew?

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to convince yourself to stay silent, but the sixth beat was louder. Almost violent.

"Open the door." His tone changed to something darker. More dense. "I just want to talk."

The shadows of the night seemed to stretch across the room, and you realized you were holding your breath without even realizing it. A part of you wanted to believe that it was just the same Suguru-the one you loved, the one you lost.

But something in the way he kept insisting… it wasn't him anymore. Not as you remembered.

So you asked yourself: if I open the door, what will really come in?

[wings-of-ink]

Mmmm so this is the first time that I do this (sorry for my bad English) but I have playing your game for a whole day and I need to tell you how much I love it!

I love the world that you have created, I love the description of the place the mc goes to and I love the images that you put so everything is clearer.

I love the characters and the relationship between them. I love the parents of the MC and his best friend. I love the pets! (My MC picked the mule and she is a the nest girl ever) and obviously my baby wolf love them!

Aaaand of course I Love the ROs. Each one of the have something sweet an special. I usually don't like mean characters (you know the one that are kind of jerks toward the mc) and I love that all of the boy are sweet in their own way.

Oswind is amazing I love this guy( please just go to therapy) I was thinking to go for his route but I just love him so much that I was just like, no, I'm gonna help you through the power of friendship.

Zahn is basically the new adopted brother to my MC and he will basically kill everyone and the himself if something happens to him

Duri... my baby girl, I love him ( I mean he is a puppy!!!) I just one to help him and like cuddle him, I can't even put it into words

And of course Rune, purple mysterious and magical. I'm still really curious about him!

I really love your work, thank you so much for putting it our there ❤️

I hope you are ok and that you have a great week!

Hello dear! I'm so glad you dropped by and that you enjoyed your play-throughs!

It means so much to you that resonated with the world and characters so deeply. They all have lots of love to give and I hope you will enjoy how their relationships deepen as the story goes.

I'm doing well, my dear and you've brightened my week a great deal! Take care as well! ^_^

[strangerthingsfanworkrecs]

Can I recommend somnambulic-thing? They write fics, do art and edits, and even work on creating events for the fandom. They run the Stranger Things x OC blog and community to try and help OC writers find a home, and it's really helped me feel more confident in my storytelling knowing that I'm not alone in writing an OC.

Artist Highlight: Somnambulic-thing

This week, we're highlighting @somnambulic-thing! All recs tagged #somnambulic-thing will be for their work, both fic and arts.

They answered some questions about their running their OC blog and works under the cut!

Why stranger things?

I have been obsessed with Stephen King’s work since I was around 18 and when in 2016 a good friend told me there was currently a show that was like a smoothie of different King novels, and a tasty one at that, I had to check it out and I was hooked immediately. (I have this little headcanon that the ST world is part of the Stephen King multiverse, which every King book is part of, but I digress.) But it wasn’t until after season four that I started seeking out ST fandom spaces, eventually letting the ideas out of my head by creating my own fanworks, too.

Is there a character or aspect of the show that you like to create for?

My puppet of choice is that Munson boy. The moment he got onto that table, I knew that this little shit head would be very special to me and it turned out that everything about his story and how it weaves into the overall story was deeply personal to me on many, many levels.

What made you decide to mod for the stranger things x oc blog / community?

I love OC’s. My first project was an Eddie x OC story but when I first joined the fandom, it was hard to find people who were really interested in that and so I tried out the x reader thing and stuck with it exclusively for quite some time and while it brought me a lot of joy (still does) something was missing for me. Eventually I always come back to story ideas that demand OC’s, or the other way around. Over time, I met more and more people who’d made the same or similar experiences and got the feeling that there is a small but considerable community of OC people out there that just had a hard time finding each other. So I made a poll and the turnout was so positive that I got the idea to set up a community to change that.

Do you have any tips for people who might want to mod their own blogs and events?

- brainstorm your idea with friends and/or mutuals for a while, really talk through all kinds of possibilities and aspects of it before you set up anything (like: workload, set up, resources, rules and guidelines, and if you are willing and able to enforce them, and potentially alienate people in the process and so on) - be ready to learn and adjust your project while you go  - feedback is your friend - find a support system and/or team - be open minded: there will always be fanworks that don’t vibe with your personal taste  - prepare to be disappointed (this might sound a little demotivating first but bare with me) Projects like that tend to be very personal to us who come up with them and often are fueled by enthusiasm, excitement and a specific vision, but there will always be aspects of creating a group-focused project that will frustrate you to some degree. Maybe the participation is low, or the way people interact with your project is not what you had expected, and so on. Don’t take those things personally (rant to your friends in private to get it out of your system if you have to) and focus on the aspects of your project that make it worth it.

 What's your typical writing process?

That depends fully on how the idea presents itself to me. If it’s dialogue, I just write that down with some basic action tags and then try to find the rest of the story by doing a rough outline. If it’s a vibe or an image then I just start typing what I see in my head. If it’s a more complex concept, it’s a bit of everything. I like to show parts to friends while I write, mostly because it’s fun and fuels the process but also to make sure it works outside of my head. Also, when I am stuck I like to go through my vault of unfinished or abandoned drafts to see if something sparks an idea or even fits with what I am currently writing. That works incredibly well for me.

What's a typical photo editing process?

I only work with free to use stock photos and faces from the show or ST promo material. When I’ve found a base for an edit, I try to find a head/expression that is a good fit for the body. By now I have a pretty big library of screenshots, but I still go back to take new ones to fit my vision every now and then. That can take some time and also some trial and error. It happens frequently that I change out the head mid editing process. There is a certain amount that you can morph the body of the model to make the head fit and I often draw in or patchwork together parts that are missing or have the wrong angle. (It’s mostly necks, hair and parts of clothing.) Once the head roughly fits the body, it’s a back and forth between things, depending on the image: adjusting the background: (erasing things or adding them by drawing things in or using cut outs from other images), adjusting and correcting colors (like changing the colors of clothes and objects, matching the skin tones of head and body) and adding little details like patches, or a cat or posters. And then it’s a lot of blending before I match the overall quality (adding all the shadows and light, matching focus and grain). I also show the wip to friends in between to catch any too big heads or broken neck situations.

 Is there a fandom interaction like a comment or rec of your work, that really stood out to you?

Many. From fanart to really long comments picking out their favourite parts and dissecting them, there are a lot I remember specifically and come back to again and again. There is one particular reblog of my story smoke and cherry pop rocks that had such an impact on me at the time. I was going through a difficult time in the offline world and that comment fed and motivated me for weeks. I was still very new to the fandom and I hadn’t expected anybody to be that moved by my writing and pour their soul out to me like that; it felt like I had made a real impact.

What was your favorite project so far?

In early 2024 @bettyfrommars @allthingsjoeq and I curated a Twilight Zone themed prompt list that inspired lots of great stories and introduced me to one of my closest fandom friends. The list is open-ended, in case anybody feels inspired. My favourite project of mine… I have a hard time choosing between my stories. I never shared any of that online but I did fanbinding projects of some of my friends’ works that are very close to my heart. I love tactile things.

What was your hardest project so far?

Probably every multichapter fic I attempted so far. Sticking consistently with one story is incredibly difficult for me. If I had to choose one, it would be Watershed Moments because it’s not only a multichapter fic that deals with very personal topics and themes, but also the structure I choose to tell this story in makes it pretty difficult to construct. That’s why there’s only one chapter out so far. haha.

Is there anything we didn't ask that you'd like to add?

This is an amazing project and I want to give my kudos and love to you for bringing it to life. <3 And also say thank you to all the weird and lovely people who keep coming back to my corner of tumblr.

[liesreblogstheworld]

I love how this is essentially an old timey 'character working companionably in a creative workspace' picture AND how the perspective makes you feel like you are a spider up in the corner who is there to share in the productive energy so you can finally just get your homework done.

“Please excuse the sorry state of my cabin.”

[viric-dreams]

Tamaas (eventually Tamara)

Addressed as: Madam* (she/her)

Age: 23

Height: 5’0”

Occupation:

Main Skills: Shadowy, Watchful

Prominent Quirks: Melancholy

Closest to: The Urchins

*it's a form of address that feels strange compared to its Varchaasi equivalent, but she no longer has any claim to that title.

Backstory below the cut:

She never questioned her life, much like she never questioned her love for Mihir and her native Varchas. One rarely has to when all is well and life is easy.

She doesn’t understand why her brother did not share this contentedness. Fraternal twins, they were ever-close, sharing everything, but his interest in the Jewel-Turbaned Youth and his fanciful club was something that she simply could not get her mind around. The rest of the family paid it no mind—they’re harmless anyway. Let him have his fun.

She doesn’t know what it was that stopped her from retiring to bed that one fateful evening, a nagging in the back of her head that something was off. When she stepped back out into the yellow evening lamplight, a familiar shape slipping down the streets confirmed her intuition. Her brother made it as far as the Mirrored Gate before she clamped her hand around his wrist. Was he mirror-mad? What could he possibly be thinking? Who would want to leave the light, and to set sail on a steamer with a Tamaas captain he’d only met that morning? She’d argued with him, begging him to see sense, until they were both shouting. Deep in their quarrel, she’d barely noticed the shape in the mirror pressed up against his back until it was too late. It struck and he screamed, jerking to the side. Hand still latched around his arm, she slipped in turn, down the slope beyond the gate and both of their lives ended in an instant.

She’d later piece together what had happened from The Sympathetic Captain, most of her memories a blur, and Mihir knows, she’d had enough time on that ship to play her retelling back in her head in endless combinations. Before her brother had even met the ground, before his head had hit stone and his heart had stopped beating, he was Tamaas. As was she, not a fraction of a second later. The Captain had heard the commotion and was not far from the bottom of the cliff. She had insisted that the Captain take them both, that no one in the city would help them anymore. She had to get him to the next port where he could recover.

How his body had disappeared a day later, on a ship miles from the coast, was not one the Captain could answer, no matter how much she raged, how many objects in the cabin she smashed in her fugue. The Captain could only offer a sympathetic ear and a cup of tea.

When the ship finally docked in London she disappeared into the darkness, too ashamed of her grief to say goodbye. Her life was over, but somehow she would have to keep living, Tamaas or otherwise.

[effervescent-fool]

i think one of my biggest (and only) gripes with procreate is that they dont have like. a masterlist of features their app has to offer. a full thorough ui navigation. because ive been using procreate for a couple years now and im still discovering preexisting features because they just. dont mention it anywhere

[ramblingsofafanatic]

[kyouka-supremacy]

Mmmhh...

[xstarlightxstarbrightx]

thoughts on how the Liyue Archon quest went [5]

Bolai: so what kinda silk flowers u guys want Paimon: uh. the good kind? Bolai: Zhongli: lists the flowers Bolai: oh i see, u three must be this fine gentlemen's servants then! please refrain from contributing further! Kaeya: Lumi: ???? bro. Bolai: anyway!

i love how, immediately after, Zhongli just,,, yaps about flowers. he's so silly, and he yaps so much. and also Kaeya and Lumine are just like "oh,,, he's so knowledgeable,,,, and also his voice pretty,,,,,,,,"

and then immediately it's followed up with "oh do you have any mora to pay for these flowers?"

anyway, the Traveler Trio go off to get the flowers turned into perfume after the whole thing, while Zhongli goes and waits by the Statue of the Seven. while i am focusing mainly on Lumine and Kaeya rn, i do think that currently, Zhongli's just,,, burdened by such a heavy weight? he's probably still thinking about this decision he's made, and is probably consistently thinking of the outcome it'll have. he's a God of Contracts currently thinking heavily about this Big Ass Contract(tm) that he's got rn. so it makes sense that he kinda just,,, stops to stare at this Statue of his Divinity.

meanwhile, with the Traveler Trio goes off to like,,, talk to women abt perfume.

Paimon: [in reference to some NPC i forgot] Paimon remembers she smells pretty good! Lumi: Lumi: we barely spoke to her when we first arrived here, why are you SNIFFING PEOPLE, PAIMON Kaeya: even by Lumi's standards, that's weird.

anyway, Lumine gets a Weird Vibe(tm) from Ying'er and Kaeya, meanwhile, is personally very concerned and disturbed by the,,, innuendos that Ying'er uses when chatting with them.

on the way back to Zhongli, I like to imagine that Lumi tells Kaeya about her theory while Paimon is charging ahead. she's incredibly adamant about him being the Geo Archon, but Kaeya's not convinced. the current belief he holds is that Zhongli is more likely an adeptus of some kind—because Zhongli's DEFINITELY not human. but the God of Commerce not knowing about Mora??? pleaaaase.

and while Lumi's like 100% sure, Kaeya makes the joke that 'maybe Zhongli was just a simp for Rex Lapis before he died or something, lmao'.

and then they walk in on Zhongli staring at the Statue and kind of being Zoned Out(tm) and Kaeya's just like "hmmmmmmmmmmm"