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winxanity-ii · 6 months ago

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FATHER, FORGIVE ME

ship: father charlie x fem!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 4.1k a/n: ahhh….I just want to say I'm so thrilled with all the love and support for the mini Devotion series! It means the world to me to see you guys enjoying it as much as I do. And a huge thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday! I got drunk asf, and here's the rough draft I made while tipsy, lolol. Hope you all enjoy~ 😈✨..

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You wouldn't say you were a bad person.

Selfish? Maybe. Impulsive? Absolutely. But "bad" seemed a bit of a stretch.

It's just that, when you saw something you wanted, you didn't hesitate to take it—and, honestly, you had no regrets. Not until now, at least.

Sitting here, surrounded by the smell of old hymn books and dusty incense, listening to some wrinkly old man in a white robe drone on about salvation.

The whole thing was your mother's doing. She had this recurring phase, like clockwork, where she'd get bitten by the "Bible bug."

For a few weeks every year, she was the most devoted Catholic you'd ever seen. She'd call, text, guilt-trip—anything to get her kids back on the straight and narrow, even if just for a Sunday morning.

For the last seven years, you'd managed to dodge it. Moved out at eighteen and never looked back, leaving the duty of church attendance to your three other siblings.

Usually, someone would take one for the team and tag along with Mom until her enthusiasm fizzled out again. But this time, it seemed your luck had run dry—your sister had finally roped you in, and here you were, seven-year streak shattered.

You sighed deeply, eyes half-lidded as they flicked across the stained glass windows—all those saints staring down at you in judgment.

You couldn't help but think of all the things you could be doing right now. Sleeping, for one. Your bed sounded like heaven compared to the hard pew beneath you.

Or brunch with your friends—mimosas and laughter, not these monotone chants and the faint smell of mothballs.

Hell, you could've called Kevin over and gotten dicked down instead of dealing with this—

Your thoughts screeched to a halt, slamming against an unexpected sight.

The old priest, the one whose croaky voice was practically white noise at this point, stepped away from the pulpit. In his place was someone else—someone younger, someone whose presence commanded attention.

A man, tall, dark hair neatly combed back, with a crisp black cassock that hugged his broad shoulders just right. He moved with a sense of ease, like he belonged up there.

And damn, was he handsome. Handsome enough to pull your focus completely, which was a feat in itself given the circumstances.

Your eyes tracked him as he approached the podium, his voice replacing the rasping chant of the old priest. It was smooth, warm, resonant. Nothing like the man you remembered from years ago.

He spoke about community, faith, redemption—but all you could think was how someone like him ended up in a place like this.

You found yourself leaning forward, just slightly, as if drawn in by some invisible force. Your irritation melted away, replaced by a strange curiosity.

Maybe… maybe this wouldn't be the worst way to spend a Sunday after all.

The priest stood quietly at the altar, his figure framed by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows. A faint scar traced its way down the right side of his forehead, a mark that spoke of some unknown hardship or past misadventure.

He was youthful but with the stillness of someone who’d seen enough to understand patience and humility.

With each breath, the man seemed grounded in his presence, shoulders relaxed but broad, the fabric of his robe resting comfortably against his chest.

His appearance was almost angelic, yet the subtle scar and the weight in his eyes hinted at something more complex beneath the surface—a man of God, perhaps, but one who had walked through fire to find his faith.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow in appreciation as you stared at the handsome man up there. You leaned over a bit to your mother, eyes never straying from his figure. "Ma, who's that? Is he new?" you whispered to your mother.

She looked up from her phone, Candy Crush flashing on her screen. You silenced the snort that wanted to come out. Looked like she might retire from church early this year, you thought to yourself, seeing her early signs of disengaging.

She glanced up at the front, giving a quick look before going back to her game. "That's Father Charlie Mayhew. He was brought in about two or three years ago, I think," she murmured absently, barely paying attention.

Father Charlie.

You watched as he spoke, his voice strong yet gentle, his eyes sweeping over the congregation with a genuine warmth. He wasn't like the old priest—this one seemed to genuinely care, as if each word held weight.

You wondered if that scar came from something dramatic, some story worth knowing. Your gaze lingered, taking in the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips moved with each word. Something about him felt... magnetic.

You found yourself sitting up straighter when the two of you made eye contact—he blinked, his words stumbling just slightly, a brief hitch in his otherwise smooth delivery. "I, uh... I apologize," he stuttered, looking off to the side, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You caught the way his eyes shifted nervously, almost as if he was trying to regain his footing. It was subtle, but you could see it—the way he tried to pull himself back together, to get through the rest of the sermon without any more disruptions.

He cleared his throat to continue, "As I was saying... uh, the importance of faith in our lives cannot be overstated. We must always strive to, um, to do what is right, even when it's difficult..." His voice trailed off slightly, but he managed to steady himself, his eyes avoiding yours as he focused on the rest of the congregation.

It made something stir in you, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

You bit down gently on your lower glossed lip, eyes trailing over his form, taking in every subtle detail. The way his hands gripped the edge of the podium, the faint flush creeping up his neck—it was all so telling.

He seemed innocent, reactive.

You smiled to yourself, letting your gaze linger as he continued, noting the way he seemed to avoid looking in your direction now, as if afraid that another glance might trip him up again.

Maybe you should pay a visit to Father Charlie—see if you could break that serene composure of his.

You could already imagine it—the way he might tense up under your touch, the way his voice might crack if you whispered something just a bit too forward.

The thought alone made your heart race, anticipation bubbling up inside you, like something in you just knew—he'd be fun to unravel.

You leaned back in your seat, a slow, satisfied smile playing on your lips. Oh, this was going to be fun.

The sermon ended with a quiet murmur of 'Amen' from the congregation, followed by the gentle shuffle of people rising from the pews.

You glanced around, watching as people slowly made their way to the exits, some stopping to chat while others lingered near the back of the church.

The old priest was nowhere to be seen, but Father Charlie remained, standing at the front as he spoke softly to a small group of parishioners.

Your mother, of course, made a beeline for him. You heard her voice carrying over the hushed conversations, gushing about how moving today’s sermon was.

You rolled your eyes, unable to help yourself, and slowly rose to your feet, making your way over with an almost lazy stride.

As you approached, you could see your mother perk up, her eyes lighting up as she turned to you. "Oh, there she is! Father Charlie, this is my youngest, ____." She gestured towards you, her hand lightly resting on your arm to pull you closer. "You've met my other children over the years."

You could see the change in Father Charlie almost instantly. His posture shifted, his back straightening just a little more, his eyes rounding as they landed on you. He seemed almost like an eager puppy, his gaze bright and attentive.

He quickly pulled his eyes away, turning back to your mother with a polite smile as he nodded. "Yes, I remember," he said, his voice a touch softer. Then he turned to you, his eyes meeting yours as he gave you a gentle smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. I don't think I've seen you here before... ?"

Your mother gave a sort of laughing scoff, waving him off as she caught his attention again. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, Father, the day she willingly comes to church without an incentive is the day the devil is welcomed back into Heaven's gates."

You kept your eyes on Father Charlie, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head slightly. "Maybe I just hadn't found a good enough reason to come before," you said, your gaze locked on his, your voice light but carrying a hint of something more.

His eyes widened just a little, and you watched as a faint blush spread across his cheeks, his lips parting slightly as he blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Before he could say anything, your mother’s name was called from behind. It was one of her church friends, and in an instant, she was off, waving a quick goodbye and leaving you standing there in front of Father Charlie.

You didn't waste a second, taking a daring step forward, your eyes fixed on him. "So..." you said, letting your gaze roam over him before meeting his eyes again. "You seem awfully young to be running a church like this. I have to say, I'm impressed."

He looked bashful, glancing down for a moment before looking back up at you. "Oh, well, thank you. I just... I do my best," he said, his voice soft, the pink on his cheeks deepening.

You smiled, tilting your head just slightly. "Do you do one-on-one sessions, like other churches do?" you asked, your voice carrying a hint of mischief.

He blinked, clearly confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, you mean confessionals?" He nodded quickly, his expression shifting back to something more serious. "Yes, I do. In fact, I was planning on doing confessionals later today, after the services. Not many people take me up on it, but I think it's important to always offer the option."

"Oh, really?" you said, letting your voice drop just a bit, your head tilting to the side as you watched him. You let a small smile curve your lips, your gaze never leaving his. "Well, you wouldn't mind if I came to see you and... confessed, would you, Father?"

He stuttered, his blush deepening as he quickly nodded. "N-No, of course not. You're more than welcome to come by, anytime," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

You smirked, giving him a nod. "Perfect," you said, your voice smooth, before turning on your heel and walking away, back towards where your mother was waiting.

You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, the weight of his eyes almost burning into your back. And you loved it.

This really was going to be fun.

The church grew quieter as the service officially ended, people slowly trickling out while you lingered, waiting for your moment.

Eventually, you made your way to the confessional booth, the small wooden space feeling cramped as you settled in. The air was close, the scent of polished wood and incense hanging heavy.

You could hear Father Charlie shuffling on the other side, the sound of the door closing behind him, the rustle of fabric as he got seated.

You took a breath, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you began. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." you said, your voice soft, but there was an edge to it that you couldn't quite hide.

There was a pause before you heard him clear his throat, his voice coming through the small screen that separated you. "The Lord is always ready to forgive. Please, tell me your sins, my child."

You sighed, leaning back slightly, your fingers brushing against the hem of your dress. "I fear I desire a man that is just out of my reach," you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. "It's wrong for me to want him... but I can't seem to help myself."

There was a moment of silence, and you could almost picture the look on his face—concerned, earnest, wanting to help. His voice was gentle as he responded. "Desire can be difficult to control, but it is not inherently sinful. It is what we choose to do with that desire that matters. You must pray for guidance, ask for strength... and remember that God understands our struggles."

You hummed softly, your eyes half-lidded as you listened to him, but your mind was drifting. His voice was soothing, and you found yourself imagining what it would be like if things were different.

If there wasn't a screen between you.

If you could reach out, touch him, feel that innocence melt away under your fingers.

Your hand trailed down your side, your fingers brushing over your thigh as you let out a soft sigh.

His voice cut through your thoughts, sounding a bit uncertain. "Sister ____... are you alright? Do you hear me?"

You smiled to yourself, your mind made up. You leaned closer to the screen, your voice dropping to a near whisper. "Father," you began, your tone coy, "I must confess... I find it difficult to focus when you're speaking. You have such a... soothing voice."

His breath caught audibly, and you could almost hear the way he was struggling to gather himself. "W-What do you mean, sister?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, laced with confusion.

"It makes me think... sinful thoughts."

You could hear the slight hitch in his breath, the rustle of fabric as he shifted. "S-sister," he stammered, clearly taken aback. "This... this is not appropriate."

You ignored his protest, your voice growing softer, more intimate. "You know, Father, I've always heard that confession is good for the soul. And right now... I think there's only one thing that could truly absolve me of these desires." You let the words hang in the air, knowing exactly what you were implying.

"Sister, this... this isn't..." His voice was shaky now, the uncertainty clear. "I don't think—"

"Come get me, Father," you whispered, your tone daring, challenging him. "You wouldn't leave me like this, would you?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then you heard it—the slow shuffling as he moved. The sound of his door opening, the soft creak of the confessional booth as he stepped out.

You pushed your own door open, stepping out into the dimly lit church. Father Charlie was standing there, his head downcast, his face flushed a deep red. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out, his eyes flickering up to meet yours before darting away again.

You took a step towards him, your movements slow, deliberate—like a predator closing in on its prey. His breath hitched as you approached, his shoulders tensing. He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, I... this isn't right. We shouldn't—"

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the front of his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You let your hand slide down, your voice a low purr. "Father," you purred, your eyes locking onto his, "I want you to take me somewhere... push me to a higher calling, yeah?"

His eyes widened, the pupils dilating as he stared at you, his lips parting in shock. For a moment, he seemed frozen, and then, almost as if the word was pulled from him, he whispered, "Okay..."

His hand was trembling slightly as he reached for yours, and you let him lead you out of the main church area, his eyes flicking nervously around to make sure no one was watching. He led you down a dim hallway, stopping at a small door that opened into a cramped janitor's closet.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him.

You pushed him back against the wall, your lips crashing against his. He gasped, and you took advantage, licking into his mouth, tasting the hint of mint on his tongue as a low groan rumbled from your throat. His hands hesitated for a moment before resting on your waist, his touch light, unsure.

You deepened the kiss, feeling the way he shivered beneath your touch, your hands pushing up under his cassock, fingers skimming over the hard lines of his abdomen. His muscles tensed under your fingertips, a shudder running through him as he let out a shaky breath.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face in the low light, and he chased your lips, leaning forward as if he couldn't stand the sudden loss of contact.

You let out a dark chuckle, your hands coming up to cup his flushed cheeks, squeezing gently. His face was a deep shade of red, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in short, uneven pants. He looked almost dazed, completely overwhelmed, and it only made your smile widen.

Your thumb grazed over his plump bottom lip, pressing gently before dipping just inside his mouth. His eyes fluttered, his tongue flicking out hesitantly to brush against your thumb before retreating. You let out a soft sigh, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Oh?" you murmured, raising an eyebrow, your gaze fixed on him.

Charlie swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto yours, his breathing ragged. You stepped closer, rising onto your tiptoes, your lips just barely grazing his as you spoke. "You did so well during the sermon, Father," you whispered, your voice low and dripping with suggestion. "It makes me wonder... what could such a blessed mouth do somewhere else?"

His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn’t pull away. You gripped his shoulder, your fingers digging in just enough to make him shiver, and tugged him downwards. "On your knees," you said, your tone commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Charlie sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was filled with a mix of confusion, desire, and something almost like reverence, and it sent a thrill through you.

You watched as he knelt before you, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the part of him that knew this was wrong, that wanted to resist—but the desire was stronger, and he couldn't bring himself to stop.

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair, your touch surprisingly gentle. "That's it," you murmured, your voice softening just a fraction. "Such a good Father... doing exactly what you're told."

You took a step back, your eyes never leaving his as you moved to the nearest wall, leaning against it comfortably.

With slow, deliberate movements, your hands reached down, unzipping your mini skirt and letting it slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You made a show of it, your fingers tracing along your thighs, sliding over your hips, and letting out a soft sigh as you watched him.

Charlie's eyes widened, his gaze following every movement, his lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. The flush on his face deepened, his eyes locked onto you with something like awe, mingled with pure, unfiltered desire.

You smirked, lifting one hand and curling your fingers in a come-hither motion. He hesitated only for a moment before slowly beginning to crawl towards you, his eyes never breaking away from yours.

The sight sent a thrill through you, a shiver of excitement running up your spine. He reached you, his hands carefully coming up to rest on your legs, his touch light, almost reverent.

His fingers traced along your calves, moving upwards with a hesitant slowness that made you release a shaky sigh, your back arching slightly as his touch grew bolder.

His hands were trembling as they reached your hips, his fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he let out a shaky breath, his fingers hooking into the waistband and slowly slipping your underwear down, his eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Once they were off, he shifted closer, his breath ghosting over your bare skin. He surprised you by gently lifting one of your legs, settling it over his shoulder as he pulled you closer, his face inches away from your most intimate parts.

He let out a deep, almost pornographic groan as he leaned in, taking a slow, deep breath, as if breathing you in. The sound sent a jolt through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Charlie looked up at you one more time, his eyes searching, as if asking for final permission.

You smiled, your fingers sliding through his hair before giving a gentle but firm scratch along his scalp, your silent approval. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh before leaning in.

At first, his movements were hesitant, his tongue slipping out to give an experimental swipe. He was sloppy, uncoordinated, his lack of experience clear, but there was a determination in the way he moved, as if desperate to please.

You let out a soft hum, the sound encouraging him, and he grew a little more confident, his tongue pressing more firmly. He licked a long stripe up, his tongue swirling at the top, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

"That's it, Father," you murmured, your voice a soft purr. "You're doing such a good job."

The praise seemed to light something in him, a low groan vibrating against you as he pushed in closer. The sound made you gasp, your back arching slightly as the vibrations sent a rush of pleasure through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He grew bolder, his tongue delving deeper, slipping inside you as he began to eat you out like a man starved. He was messy, the wet sounds filling the small space, his lips and tongue moving with increasing fervor, as if the more he tasted, the more he craved.

He bullied his tongue into you, his nose brushing against you as he lost himself in the act, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you against him as he worked.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet, but the soft, wet sounds filled the small space, making it impossible to ignore.

Your hand moved up, your teeth sinking into the back of it as you stifled a moan, your thighs trembling as he continued. His tongue moved with determination, pressing deeper, swirling before retreating, then focusing on your most sensitive spot.

When his lips closed around your clit, giving a particularly hard suck, your vision blurred, and stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arched, your body pressing against his face as the waves of pleasure rolled over you, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your thighs shook as you slowly came down, your body relaxing slightly against the wall. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. You gave Charlie a small shove, pushing him back just enough.

He hesitated, his tongue giving one last languid lick, followed by a reluctant suck before he finally pulled away, his lips glistening, his breath coming in low, heavy pants. His bottom face was a mess, his eyes half-lidded, dazed as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, your fingers cupping the bottom of his face, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek as you gave him a swift peck on the corner of his lips. He blinked, his eyes widening slightly, a blush deepening across his face.

Straightening up, you reached down, picking up your discarded thong, folding it neatly before slipping it into the pocket of his cassock. He stared at you, his lips parted, his breathing still uneven.

"Thank you, Father~" you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction. You watched as his blush deepened even more, his eyes darting away from yours. "You know," you continued, your tone teasing, "I might just have to come back for confession more often."

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, a mix of confusion and something darker swirling in them. You smiled, giving him a wink before turning on your heel, striding out of the closet, leaving him kneeling there, his breath still shaky, his face still flushed.

As you walked away, a satisfied smile playing on your lips, you couldn't help but think that maybe church wasn't going to be so bad after all.

A/N: hehehe, dont mind me, just wanted to see charlie's and y/n relationship in reversal...

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eraserbread · 1 month ago

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satoru finally comes home, and he's pissed. its a good thing his husband, suguru, has a plan. catch up on parts 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. <3

satoru bursts through the door like law enforcement, dropping his work tote and reaching for the button on his dark pants. he’s home twenty minutes after he’s supposed to, deciding grading essays in his empty lecture hall was better than risking humiliation by running to his car with a hard-on. the dullness of reading the same shit over and over really has a tendency to turn him off, he’s just glad it worked in his favor this time.

“suguru geto!” he calls into the home, face beet red and shoes still on as he marches to their office. in the hallway, he can hear you loud and clear — crying and sniffling backed by the glorious noise of geto’s shaking, dominant voice.

“take it, baby — yeah. oh, don’t run away from me.”

suguru’s hand find the bulk of your hair, pulling it back to pierce you further on his cock. just like you wanted — he’s not showing any mercy.

it’s what satoru sees when he pushes open the door, flushed and breathing heavy when his pretty blue eyes scan the scene in front of him. it’s damning, god — he’s so hard.

you’re too fucked to notice his presence, but suguru does. he locks in on it immediately, but you didn’t have to know that. he wonders how long he can milk it.

so, he presses his pointer finger to his lips as he and his husband lock eyes.

“do-don’t stop, god, mm.” you cry, forearms wet with tears and body overspent and shaking. you still want him — you need him to keep fucking you like this, driving you into the hard edge of his desk as he coaxes your fourth orgasm out of your body. “sugu, baby, please—”

“i hear you, my dear.” suguru leans down, kissing over your ear and the sensitive skin behind it. he’s never seen you in such a state during sex, he assumes it’s the harshness of his hips slapping over your reddened, bruising ass that's making you so emotional. he should feel guilty, yet all he feels when he looks at you is insurmountable, devouring lust. he'd definitely dream about you tonight.

satoru watches for a second, trying to find his head as he scans from your wrecked body, to his husbands sweaty one. suguru wanted him quiet, but he wants to say something — anything.

he wants to see your perfect face screw up in shame at the thought of him seeing you like this.

when suguru sits back up, it’s with a clouded look in his eyes. he nods satoru over, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to gain his composure. he has an idea, but satoru could so easily fuck it up that he debates throwing it away.

he stops fucking you for a second, keeping his palm on the back of your head, so he can press your face into the desk.

then, staring right at his husband, motionless in the doorway, he says: "i know baby, my dear. but, i have to grab my phone so i can send satoru a video of you cumming for the fourth time, today." he whispers silky sweet in your ear. you can see him leaning next to you when you blink open your weary eyes, and the sight makes a stupid, little smile tug at the corners.

geto - his sweet familiarity, his long hair cascading in sweaty waves over his shoulder, and his sincere, gentle, dark stare.

it's like you've died and gone to heaven.

"are you God?"

gojo fucking cracks a laugh in the doorway, ducking out so he can control himself in time. glancing up at him shortly, suguru glares, then looks back at you so softly with that close-eyes, close-lipped little smile that fucking melts you every single time. in your fucked state, it's like church bells are ringing against his sensitive, astute demeanor. then, he responds like an angel - "nope, just your suguru."

all you can say is, "please... why'd you stop?"

he chuckles sweetly, rubbing your lids when your eyes drift shut. you miss his warmth behind you - you were so close.

you can't see it, but once satoru's composed, suguru nods him into the room. then, he stands up straight, reaching for his phone next to you so the act is believable.

they watch each other, eye contact never once faltering until gojo's behind you. so much is said within those few seconds and the room is too quiet, you feel like a dumbass still whining loosely and muttering suguru's name.

then, he steps away, and you're cold again. you can still feel suguru's hand trailing over your body as he steps behind you again, probably opening his camera and getting ready to fuck you senseless again. that's what you want -- but he had other plans.

behind you, gojo takes the spot suguru once held, pants already loose and barely hanging on his thigh as he jerks himself off hungrily. he knows exactly what his husband is pulling, so he does try to make it believable. he has to work and warm himself up, even spitting in his palm to make the flushed tip of his pretty, long cock glisten against your whiny cunt.

"gonna fuck you so good, my baby. wanna make you scream my name so gojo can see just how greedy you are for my cock." he fucking purrs in satoru's ear, just loud enough to make you think he's talking to you. he's trailing hands across gojo's covered chest, kissing across and over his ear.

"you make me crazy..." its the first thing satoru is whispering to him, already fucked off of residuals.

"what are you waiting for? you see how her cunt is fluttering for you? begging you so hard, baby. i wanna see you fuck her sooo bad."

then, you're whining against wet wood as what you think is suguru's warm cock slips inside of you like it just belongs. for some reason, it's harder to take this time - your breath catches in your throat, tearing out little whines and pleas for help, or more. just jibberish -- you fucking love him.

satoru fucks you like only he can, agile, quick thrusts knocking you deeper into the desk and driving you crazy. geto's holding onto him from behind like a stuffed animal, digging his fingers in the lanky muscle so he can catch some friction on his spent cock everytime satoru pulls out of you.

if suguru was merciless, satoru was evil. he's fucking you like a toy, digging his fingers so deep into the flesh in your hips that you'd be bruised there, too. it's so mean, but so hot, you can't help that you cum as soon as he kisses over your g-spot.

this time is the last, you can tell when your vision completely wipes out with tremors and baseless begs and more tears. they've never, ever fucked you like this, and if you had the strength to look over your shoulder, you would see gojo's eyes twitching and rolling back in his head as you tighten and push around him.

it's so fucking hot, he wants to praise you. he needs you to know that you're so perfect and sexy and so naughty, but he loves it. he loves when you fuck with suguru and loves when you fuck with him, too. he never wants you to stop.

then, he takes your limp body, closing his hand around the base of your shoulder and flipping you over so you can really see who’s fucking you. it doesn't even register that it's not suguru anymore until you're blinking open your eyes to stare into his harsh, blue stare.

you still don't understand. "s-sa...toru..?"

over his shoulder and big arms crossed over his chest, suguru smirks, licking over his husband's jawline as he still works you into oblivion.

their stares are so real and mean and fucking starved for you. you love it when they're showing affection to each other and you simultaneously, but you're too fucked to appreciate it, right now.

all you can do is draw a lazy, limp smile when you feel satoru press you down and fill you to the brim with his seed he's been keeping for you all day. there's barely any more room in your womb, so it spills out, making a filthy, intertwined mess of the three of you as it drips out on your legs and geto's desk.

"so..." you try to speak, but you just can't.

"...two 're so pretty."

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pineconepie · 2 months ago

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Parental yandere vampire!!

TW: Implied neglect, implied abuse, yandere, parental yandere, forced age regression, death of family (not main characters), light violence, kidnapping

If there's any more trigger warnings I should add, let me know!

...

The cold gnawed at your bones, breath visible in front of you as you made your way through the thick snowfall. The chill bit into your skin, but you pressed on.

"Monster!" "Witch!" "Cursed!"

Their words echoed in your mind. The entire village thought you were some kind of monster, all because you were different from your peers. You were used to the kind of horrible treatment you received at their hands, and had long since learned not to fight it; no matter what you said, they never listened.

It got lonely never having friends, though. Even the people who weren't scared of you were ridiculed for being seen with you, sometimes even being called a witch just because they associated with you.

Your own family became embarrassed and ashamed by your reputation, to the point where they would go days ignoring your existence.

Sure, you had thought of running away before, but given you had nowhere to go, that'd just be a dumb idea.

Only when you overheard the church speaking of burning you at the stake did you realize just how little you actually had to live for there.

Either way, it seemed like your chances of death were high, so either way, fuck it, right?

You could barely feel your feet beneath you, wading through the snow.

How long have you been walking now? Hours? Days?

It feels like years. You felt tears burn at the edges of your eyes as you tripped over a root, collapsing into the soft cushioning of the snow.

A snarling noise behind you causes you to get back up and run, stumbling blindly and weakly through the snow.

You could barely tell what was going on behind you, but all you knew was that a vicious growl from some sort of animal was definitely not something you should just stand around for.

In the distance, you see a structure, probably the first one you've seen in days.

With some sudden rush of adrenaline, you sprint towards it, almost rolling down the hill leading up to the old building.

The steel gate in front of it makes you curse in frustration, looking up to assess how likely it is you can climb it. Your hands curl into fists around the bars, shaking violently as you pull. Not a chance.

"Help!" you scream, hoping whoever is inside can hear you. "Please!"

When there's no response, you turn back, seeing glowing yellow eyes approaching you. Fear courses through your veins, paralyzing you as you look on in horror. The shadowy beast prowls closer, standing tall on its four paws and staring you down hungrily.

Just as it stalks forward, ready to jump, it pauses. You squeeze your eyes shut and prepare for the inevitable. When the sharp fangs never come sinking into your flesh, you hesitantly crack an eye open. The beast whines and scampers off.

Only when the sound of its footsteps disappear completely does a breathy laugh escape your lips. What a weird twist of fate.

"My goodness! Are you okay?!"

You whip around to see a tall figure with piercing green eyes and long dark brown hair. He's wearing some kind of old-fashioned clothing that looks like it hasn't been touched in centuries.

Before you can say anything, you promptly pass out from exhaustion.

...

"You poor thing. I wonder where you came from..." A hand reaches down to caress your face, the gloved fingers ice cold against your flushed skin. "Seems as if you were meant to find me."

When you finally stir awake, your brain feels like it's rattling in your skull. Blinking slowly, you bring your hand up to rub at your temple, sighing and looking around. You're lying in a large canopy bed, soft red velvet sheets encompassing you.

Sitting up, you take note of the grandiose bedroom, decorated in similar deep shades of red, gold, and black.

There's antique furniture lining the room, with a large painting above the mantlepiece directly across from the foot of the bed. An embroidered carpet is spread on the floor, its design weaving into the same complex, golden filigree that is the headboard of the mattress.

Your gaze drops, noting that you aren't wearing the same clothes you were before.

Now you're wearing some kind of tunic, reminiscent of pajamas but far too fancy and extravagant to be called something so simple. The silk hugs your frame, falling delicately across your lap as you cross your legs and take a look around.

Then you meet his gaze.

He looks surprised that you woke up already, pulling his hand back quickly from where it was about to rest on your shoulder.

He had been watching you sleep, it seems.

The man clears his throat and smiles down at you. "Oh good. I thought for sure you'd sleep through dinner." His voice is deeper than you'd expected, but still gentle. He gestures to himself. "I am Octavian. What's your name, precious?"

"Uh–" You hesitate, caught off guard by the nickname. "I'm (Y/n)."

"A sweet name," he says simply, the corner of his mouth quirking up even more. Octavian reaches down to brush a strand of hair out of your face before straightening back up again.

You watch him cautiously, unsure why he's so comfortable touching a complete stranger.

Then again, you suppose most strangers don't magically appear outside of someone's home, either. Besides, he did just save your life; he deserves at least this much courtesy after helping you.

"It's been a very long time since I've seen anyone out here, let alone gotten any visitors. What on earth were you doing out here all alone? You certainly aren't a traveler, you barely were carrying anything with you." He looks almost ready to scold you.

"Well, uh..." You awkwardly tug at the sleeve of your nightgown, thinking how best to answer his question without opening the door for him to judge you or ask more questions. But he did save your life... "My village doesn't like me. Thinks I'm weird. And when they started talking about killing me, I figured it'd be better to get out sooner rather than later."

Octavian sucks in a sharp breath, concern written all over his features. "Killing you?" He puts a hand over his heart. "You poor thing. You must've been so scared," he coos.

"Yeah... I was," you admit. "I'm glad I ran into your place, at least."

The tall man gives you a soft smile, sitting down at the edge of the bed. It dips beneath him under his weight. "I am too. Stay right there, I'll go get you some dinner."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian slips out of the room.

You think back to when he found you. That animal chasing you acted scared when it saw him. Why? Sure, he's pretty tall, but the guy clearly wouldn't stand a chance against the teeth and claws of that thing. So why was it so spooked by him?

He reenters with a golden tray in hand. On top of it sits a bowl of soup and some bread.

"I'm afraid that's the only thing I have available at the moment," Octavian sighs, setting it down next to you and handing you a spoon. "It should warm you up though." He watches you eat with an adoring smile, one you miss, too busy ravaging into the food. "My Gods, you must've been starving. When was the last time you ate, sweetheart?"

You scarf down a piece of bread. "I haven't been keeping track of time. Maybe three days ago?"

Octavian almost appears on the verge of tears. "You poor little angel..." He hesitantly reaches his gloved hand over to wipe away a stray droplet of broth dribbling down your chin. "You won't ever go hungry again, I swear it."

"What do you mean?" you mumble while chewing on another piece of bread.

He gently wipes at your cheek. "You got some on your face. Messy thing," he tuts. His green eyes glow brighter. Unnaturally so. "I'll go refill your bowl. More bread?" He watches you nod, then takes the tray from you.

It was weird how he avoided your question, but you shrug it off. Seems like he's a little weird too.

...

After having four bowls of soup and God-knows-how-much bread, you finally start to feel full for the first time in ages. Octavian watches with pride as you polish off each meal, praising you for cleaning your plate every single time.

In the middle of him gushing over you, you interrupt him.

"So... Do you think I could use your horse tomorrow morning to head back into town?" you ask shyly. "Assuming you have one."

Octavian freezes, brows furrowing as if in confusion. "(Y/n)... surely you don't think I'm just going to send you back to the people that are trying to kill you?"

"Well, not mine... just a town nearby," you shrug. "Anywhere with people, really."

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "There is no other civilization for miles. No. That'd just be a death wish."

You try not to raise your voice, reminding yourself it's thanks to him you're even alive. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

He opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut before taking a deep breath. "You need some rest. Let's discuss this later." You frown in frustration, knowing he's avoiding talking about it. Though he has a point. Sleepiness settles within you, a yawn bubbling past your lips. He bends down to kiss your forehead. "Sweet dreams, little love."

He's so weird.

...

The next day, you venture from the room he put you in, looking around. As to be expected, everything is beautifully furnished, from the wallpaper to the ceilings to the marble columns holding it all up.

In your searching, you stumble upon a portrait.

There's a tall man holding two children, with a woman standing next to him. It takes you a minute before you realize the man is Octavian.

He looks exactly the same in the portrait, except now his hair is slightly longer and he's wearing different clothes. Something in his appearance also seems happier.

You squint at the picture, wondering what's up with it.

"That's my family."

You jump, turning to see Octavian standing beside you, eyes glazed over as he gazes at the painting.

"Oh. They're beautiful," you whisper. You can hear him suck in a shaky breath. "Are they here?"

A melancholy smile pulls at his lips, though it doesn't meet his eyes. "No. My wife and my son and daughter... they're no longer here." His voice is far quieter than before.

Your chest grows heavy when you realize what he means. "I-I'm so sorry..."

The last thing you were expecting was for this to be so sad. Here you thought the picture was taken recently. Guilt pools in your belly for thinking that, especially now that you know the truth. Poor guy.

Octavian places a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Don't apologize. I think my loneliness streak is nearing its end." He guides you away from the painting and to the stairs. "Let's go eat. Breakfast should be ready by now." You're silent, not sure how to respond.

Walking down the ornate staircase, Octavian keeps his hand placed firmly on the small of your back.

Once you both reach the ground level, he removes it, walking ahead into the kitchen area. Following, you sit down across from him, watching as he places food in front of you both.

"It feels nice to cook for someone else again," he hums, beginning to dig into his own plate of food.

It smells really good, which you suppose you shouldn't be surprised by given the fact that everything else in this house seems to be perfect in its presentation.

"Thank you," you mutter, picking up the silverware and eating.

The two of you talk idly throughout the meal, Octavian being mindful of what you like and don't like to eat for future reference.

He asks you about yourself, appearing invested in every little tidbit you drop. Eventually, you're finally satiated, leaning back against your chair with a pleased sigh.

You watch him do the dishes and leave into what you presume is the living room. Curiously, you follow after him.

He's holding an open book, reading glasses perched on his nose.

The fire flickers and crackles, providing heat to the otherwise chilly space.

Sitting down next to him, you catch his eye. Octavian smiles at you and scoots closer, putting one arm around you and shifting his eyes back to his book.

Unsure of how else to react, you lean into the embrace. He's very cold compared to most people, you find.

The gesture is welcome though, regardless of the cool chill of his skin. Even through his gloves, you can tell his body temperature isn't normal.

If he came from your village, the villagers would definitely think he's some paranormal beast too.

Maybe that's why he lives so secluded from society.

...

A few more days pass. He gets a little more odd, but it just makes you more comfortable to show your own quirks too.

One morning, you wake up next to a teddy bear placed between your arms. He must've put it there last night.

It's almost like he senses you're awake, because he strides into the room not even a minute later.

"There's my sweet little angel," Octavian coos. "Did you sleep well?" You yawn and rub at your eye with a closed fist. He gives you a bright smile at that and sits on the edge of the bed. "Do you like your toy? I figured it might keep you company while I'm gone. Does it help?"

"Yeah, but..." You frown. "How'd you get it? There's no nearby shops, right?"

Octavian nods. "It belonged to my son." At that, you stare wide eyed down at the stuffed animal, moving to give it back to him.

"I-I can't take this from you–"

He grabs your hands and holds them in place around the toy, shaking his head. "Nonsense, I want you to have it." His eyes burn with such intense emotion, so much so that you're unable to resist the pull to listen to his request. "Keep it, please. When this winter is over, I'll go get you some of your own stuffies and clothing. Do you have any clothing preferences? Any favorite animals?"

"When winter is over, I'll be leaving," you correct him.

He stiffens. "Right. Of course. Silly me." His emerald irises flash with something unreadable.

The rest of the day, he becomes even more overbearing.

He pulls you into his lap whenever he has the chance, insisting you rest your head against his chest while he reads to you (all of which are children's books). He constantly is giving you random little hugs, or complimenting you for whatever little mundane things you do.

You only allow it because you feel pity for him.

Each time you even try to pull away slightly, he looks so heartbroken and hurt, as if you stabbed him in the chest.

And it's not like you dislike it. You're so starved for attention and touch that it actually feels kind of good, having someone hug you and hold your hand and read to you.

It makes up for all the times you've been neglected.

Each day, he gets even more coddling and babying with you. You wonder why he's like this.

Then it hits you.

His kids are gone. He's never going to have another chance to hold his babies again.

This behavior... is this just him projecting his loss onto you? Trying to relive the feeling of caring for a child?

It breaks your heart for him, making you feel more guilty for wanting to leave.

...

As the snow begins to melt, Octavian gets more antsy. He constantly holds you in his arms now, rambling about anything and everything, bouncing and swaying side to side.

It reminds you of how mothers soothe their babies.

One day, he stops to give you a serious look, gripping your face in his hands and kissing your cheekbone.

"Please," Octavian whispers, desperation seeping into his tone, "please please please stay." Tears drip down his pale skin. "You have no idea what these past few weeks have meant to me." The grip on your jaw tightens and he shakes his head with a dry laugh. "God, I can't imagine living without you anymore! Don't make me go through that agony again! Don't abandon me! You're happy here!"

Your hands hesitantly grab his wrists, not pulling him away but letting him know your boundaries. "These past few weeks meant a lot to me too. But I don't want to live alone out here, forever."

He sniffles and glares down at you. "What do you mean? You wouldn't be alone. I'm here. You'd have me!"

"But I want more people than that!" you cry out. "And in the end, you're still basically a stranger..."

That last sentence was the wrong thing to say.

All color drains from his face, shock freezing him in place.

"A-A stranger...?" Octavian scoffs, betrayal seeping into his broken voice. "After all this time together?! After all the things I've done for you, all the things we've talked about?!" You tremble and try to move away. "Why can't you love me back?! Your parents don't want you, but I do!"

You shake your head. "You're freaking me out..." Never before had you been so scared of this man. Never did you think he'd act this way, even with how affectionate and caring he could be. This is on a whole new level. "I'm not a kid. Just because you lost yours doesn't mean you can make me yours instead!"

Octavian doesn't say anything.

The silence that hangs thick in the air between you is deafening. It makes you want to scream, break it somehow, just so you don't have to endure how tense this is.

Tears pool in his eyes. He hesitates, then yanks off both of his gloves and drops them to the ground.

You notice his fingernails are long and sharp. Like claws. Not human.

"What...?"

"I've never been normal either." Octavian lets out a choked sob. "My wife died trying to protect our children from vampire hunters." He bares his teeth, revealing pointed fangs. "She couldn't. They all died before I could save them."

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight.

A mix of fear and sympathy swirls in your gut, making you feel nauseous and disoriented all at once. You step backwards, putting distance between you and him.

His eyes grow dull. "I couldn't save them. But I could save you." Octavian reaches out with those strange hands and cups the sides of your neck with a featherlight touch, holding your gaze despite your attempts at averting it. "You may think of yourself as big, but to me? You're just a baby."

A pitiful whine leaves your lips as your eyes begin to water.

"They said the same things about me. Aberration. Monster. I know how you feel; how lonely and awful it is. That's why you need to stay with me," he insists. "We understand each other. We're the same."

"No! You're crazy!" you exclaim, backing up further until your back hits a wall behind you. His form looms over yours ominously, casting a shadow across the floor beneath him. "Stop fucking touching me!"

"Maybe I am crazy," Octavian humorlessly chuckles. "But anyone would become unhinged from losing everything dear to them." Without warning, he moves quicker than lightning, picking you up and holding you close to his chest. He curls himself over you, shielding you from nothing as if to protect you. His body completely engulfs yours, swallowing you in his presence. It's unnerving. "Everything will be okay now. Papa will keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again," he promises softly. "You won't be like them."

"No, no, stop," you beg pathetically. "Let me go."

"Shhh... this will hurt a tiny bit, but only for a moment. It's necessary for us to always be together," he hushes you. "I was going to save this for when you've settled in more, but I can't have you run away."

Octavian kisses the top of your head before pulling the collar of your shirt down just enough for his mouth to hover above your bare shoulder.

"Nonono, please, don't!" you cry. "I don't wanna be a vampire!"

"I know, sweetheart," he laments. "I hate seeing you in pain, too."

Before you can say anything else, Octavian sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of your exposed shoulder blade.

You shriek in pain as you feel fangs digging into muscle tissue and sinew alike. Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, uncontrollable sobs wracking your frame as blood runs freely down your back and stains your clothes crimson red.

"Shhhh..." he hushes again, caressing your hair even while he drinks away your humanity. "I love you, I love you, I love you..."

By the time he's finished drinking, you feel woozy from blood loss and adrenaline. Octavian lifts you up, grip looser now that you're too tired to struggle, and dampens a cloth under the faucet, using it to clean up the excess blood.

Then he takes you back to the bedroom, tucking you underneath layers upon layers of warm bedding.

You try to speak, but your throat hurts so badly and you can barely move. Everything feels heavy, including your eyelids which threaten to shut due to exhaustion.

"Get some sleep. It's bedtime for little ones," he murmurs giddily. He adjusts the blankets covering you. "Oh, I knew I was missing something." You hear him shuffle around the room before returning. Suddenly the familiar feeling of the teddy bear is pressed against your torso, its fur tickling your nose.

"Papa..." you croak deliriously, thinking of your own father.

"Yes," he says. His face splits into a manic smile. "That's right." Octavian crawls under the covers next to you, dragging you towards his cold figure. He combs through your hair and cuddles you tightly, as though if he lets go, he might lose you. "Say it again. Say 'Papa.'"

You don't reply, far too exhausted to even care anymore. All you do is slump against him and close your eyes.

Octavian squeezes you tighter.

He buries his nose into the top of your head and breathes deeply.

"My baby..." His words sound distant as slumber overtakes your mind and drags you into darkness. "You're back home where you belong."

#yandere #parental yandere #platonic yandere #familial yandere #yandere vampire #yandere oc #forced agere #forced age regression #yandere age regression #yandere agere #tw death #tw vampire #tw blood #tw parental abuse #tw neglect

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larcenywrites · 11 months ago

Text

For Love, We Sin the Most

Nightcrawler x Reader

Technically spoilers if you read any x-men anthology and haven't made it through second coming/ haven't read quest for nightcrawler. I don't get into many details or stay very canon anyway lol

Word count: 2,650

Summary: The resident catholic is having a hard time settling with the terms of his resurrection and just trying to feel again.

When Rachel frantically called on you to find Nightcrawler, you probably preferred to find him in battle, fighting demons. Luckily, on a Sunday morning, you knew exactly where to look first, creaking open the large wooden door just enough to pass through into the small lobby. The lights were off, but there was low singing from further inside. You would have proceeded to peek past that second set of doors, but the quick flick of blue that curled out from the sunlight and into the shadows nearby finished your investigation for you.

Well, you did, in fact, find him fighting demons.

This would normally be the part where you'd tease him about being terrible at hiding, but you didn't need to see his face to hold your tongue. Instead, you found a nearby panel of switches, flooding his side of the room in low light. Without the darkness, he could no longer blend and hide, but he didn't recoil. Hunched over, his hands were clasped together on his knees, and his tail tightly curled over his feet. You approached him wordlessly. You could tell he was focused but not on you, proven when he crossed himself right on cue. A cue you hardly heard yourself.

He continued to sit still for a few minutes. Obviously, he knew who stood before him. Otherwise he would have hid. Taking a deep breath, you placed a hand on his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be attending the service?" You asked softly.

"I," he finally choked out after several moments. "I'm not sure I am allowed to anymore." His words, although quiet, dripped with despair. For him, this welcoming foyer was his ancient narthex, created for those who weren't allowed into the sanctuary but still wished to listen to its sermon.

"Have you spoken to a Father about it?" Without further knowledge, you can only suggest a priest.

"And what would I say?" Kurt raised his voice in his anguish and grimaced at his own volume. "What would he say?" He tagged on, much quieter this time. He practically curled into himself as if he were cold. You sighed sadly at the sight, looking away. A small staircase in the corner caught your interest and gave you another idea. Reaching your hands down to his, you unfurled his hands from one another and took them into yours. At the gesture, he finally lifted his head to look at you. It took all you could not to take his sad face in your hands instead.

"I think he would tell you to come in," you reply in a gentle whisper. You smile down at him as you barely tug him towards you, convincing him to stand. When he finally does, you study him. His black blazer and black slacks, his white button-up shirt. A few top buttons were messily undone, but it only made him more handsome. Silently, with a hand in his, you led him up those wooden steps. Your intuition was right when they opened into a high balcony overlooking the inner room. That narrow gallery stretched against the wall was mostly dark, with only the tops of stained glass windows bleeding in light over the single row of benches. There was a reason someone like him chose such a dark, unpopulated church.

As you began to leave the doorway, deadweight stopped you in your tracks. Looking back, a pair of downcast yellow eyes glowed under the wooden arch. Naturally, he blended into the shadow. You came back to him, taking his other hand and settling between him and the wall. At the very least, maybe it would help for him to see this place again, you figured. You let him listen, watching him closely as he watched the floor.

And what a horrible day for a sermon about heaven.

"I saw it, you know," he barely spoke up, accent whispering like a snake. "Paradise." He said the word hauntingly, not with any grandeur nor remorse. He turned his head as he spoke, looking down at the alter, but he seemed distant. Perhaps in memory. The light of the window caught his eye and reflected brilliant pale yellow. In the darkness, the other was like fire.

"And yet you came back," you whispered back. Even you weren't quite sure what you meant by it, but he knew it wasn't merely an observation. Contemplating, he stared down into the room. The priest below continued, but you only wanted to hear whatever else Kurt had to say.

"There were many reasons I did what I did," he soon continued, still not looking at you. "Did it the way I did." He never told you the full story, not even Logan knew. You waited for more, but he didn't respond. He probably didn't want to talk about it—at least, not for another few minutes.

"I never thought that love would be my greatest sin," he finally said. "I wanted so badly to come back," he nearly sobbed, quickly putting his hand over his mouth to keep from interrupting the service below. He gathered himself for a few moments.

"To this place," he continued, "to my friends," he sighs before turning towards you, his fiery orbs still refusing to meet your gaze, "to you." Even when you cupped his cheek in your hand, his hand you left behind followed, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "That it would be greater than my love for God," he started but didn't finish when his voice began to rise again. By now he was rambling about things you hardly understood, but you hung on to every word.

"You said it yourself," you gently tease, more loving than lighthearted. "There is no love without sin." With a soft smile, your touch on his cheek stroked over the fur on his neck and drifted over what bare upper chest those undone buttons revealed. You knew you shouldn't, not here, but as his expression only grew more somber, you found yourself sliding your hand further, reaching the space above his heart for only a second before frantic yet gentle fingers pulled you away, afraid of what you'd find.

Or the lack thereof.

You couldn't stand to see him so sad, not even willing to look at you. As the preaching continued somewhere down below, something about fulfillment, there was really only one thing on your mind as you continued to watch his pained eyes. "Do you miss it?" You didn't mean to let your emotion ring in your tone as you whispered— doubt, disappointment, sadness. He picked up on it, raising his face once more to meet your gaze. Solemn eyes panicked, realizing his mistake. With a change of posture, he stepped closer, grasping your arm and placing your palm over his chest again. "Not in the same way I missed here," he reassured you. His eyes were still sad, but so earnest. You could feel the metal cross hanging from his pendant with how hard he pressed your palm into his chest. You both stared at one another in silence, but understanding.

Something about the word doom was quietly uttered through the archway.

"I realize now that I had already found Paradise," he proclaimed longingly, leaning in slightly. Though flattered, you only half-smiled.

"You shouldn't talk like that here," you whispered, cupping his jaw. "Surely it's a sin."

And he'd already cut his path of redemption short enough.

"And yet it would be a sin not to." His tone was almost desperate. He leaned in closer, head tilted dangerously close to a kiss. You began to protest, but his grip on your arm tightened in defiance. "My soul is already adrift elsewhere," he hissed in a hurried whisper, "and He has no use for my body." He shook his head in defeat, tilting his chin to kiss the hand that held him before looking back up. "So if it's all I have left, I will use it to worship who does." His voice cracked against your lips, and he practically fell into you.

Your back hit the wall with a thud that made you panic, but any protest of his name was muffled and lost between his lips. He could only follow what made him feel at the moment, and he'd come to his senses later, but right now, he was desperate to atone for his sins in a different way. It was a long, suffocating kiss that was touch-starved, hardly focused on any particular pleasure other than the need for your warmth. Despite knowing your current circumstances, you relaxed into him, taking your hand from his face and gripping the soft, indigo curls on the back of his head. He took that as his cue to press into you impossibly more, knees knocking with yours as you both nearly buckled from his weight.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, warm breath fanning against your cheek a few times before eagerly diving back in. This time, he moved with you. Your noses knocked each time he rolled his head to find his favorite angle, and, in annoyance, you tried to hold him still with your hand on his neck and your grip on his hair. In response, his lips parted, tongue lapping at your top lip and tentatively touching yours when you let him in.

His grip on your waist was harsh, almost as if he was scared that if he let go even a little, he might lose this moment forever. As if he couldn't hold you enough, his tail joined in, wrapping itself beneath your ass and tightly snaking around your waist. You felt him smile into the kiss when you pet over the peach fuzz of his tail before he abruptly pulled away from your lips, tongue sliding over your bottom lip as he withdrew into your neck. Sweetly, he kisses your pulse. And you know where he's going.

"We should 'port somewhere else," you suggest softly. The light kisses on your neck become open-mouthed and wet, showing you just what he thinks about your suggestion. You catch the words reunion with God bouncing off the wall, and you weren't sure if the devil himself said it or the clergyman was sermonizing below. You tilted your head back for him at the prickling feeling of his fangs.

With a mind of their own, your hands worked down the rest of the button on his shirt, splaying your fingers through the velvety fluff of his chest, barely able to feel the warm beating of his heart. At least you knew that he was alive, in some way or another.

Making sure you could feel all of him, you pushed his blazer and shirt off his shoulders, feeling him down and scratching over his abs just the way he used to like it, and he tensed them just the way you remember.

When his hands left your hips to slide off his clothes, they came back to do the same to you, sliding under your top and over your bare skin. You let him undress you, and eventually, you both stood nude.

Even after being�� gone for so long, he remembered just where to touch you. He held your hips flush with his while licked over your nipple, pawed between your legs, and tickled your inner thigh with the curling of his fuzzy tail. Feeling boneless, the wall helped him to hold you up while you focused on covering your mouth to muffle your pleasured moans and sighs.

You were suddenly spun around, strong arms wrapped tightly around you as they swiftly lowered you to the wooden floor. Kurt's lithe form settled between your legs, back bowed as he bent down to mouth over your stomach. On his knees, he worshiped you carnally, hands gripping over-excitedly at your thighs and waist.

Fingers around your wrist pulled your hand from your mouth, quickly replaced with that crushing pair of full lips again. Some would say he was desecrating holy ground, but Kurt would say quite the opposite. In a nest of clothes, right there in the dark loft of his place of faith, he took you. Whether it was because he was most comforted here or because he was angry at the circumstances, his hips pumped into you with a fervor that had you clawing into his back and biting his shoulder to muffle your whines.

The floor was cold and hard and uncomfortable as he rocked you back and forth, but he was the opposite— warm and soft and lovingly fucking you into the ground. Luckily, the pious music drifting through the doorway covered up the sound of his cock slapping into you and his hissing moans as you bit and carved the punishment of love into his skin.

You were ripped from his shoulder when he sat up, not even bothering to cover your gasping moan at the change in angle. Blunt nails dug into your skin as he held your hips, making your legs squirm and draw up behind him with the overstimulated pleasure.

It was like a perverse religious painting, with his cross pendant wildly swinging above you and fangs gleaming along with his eyes; his tail, pointed like a devil's, bound your legs around his waist. This was heaven to him right now, watching you arch your back off the ground and eyes fluttering heavily as you both found that perfect sweet spot.

It was when you came on him that his glowing eyes beheld the glorious sight he was searching for. He kept going, desperate to keep the image of your moaning, parted lips in his mind, and keep the feeling of your warm cream that dripped over his cock. "Oh~ mein gott," he growled at the way you tightened around him. You could almost laugh at the way he said it if you weren't busy trying to recover. "(Y/N)," he panted and spoke your name like gospel. "My dearest."

Your only response could be a meek whimper of his name, but it was enough when you weakly rolled your head to look up at him. If you couldn't tell by the way his brows raised and furrowed, you knew that he was right on the edge by the constriction of his tail around your ankles, keeping you bound around him while he came, throbbing, deep inside you.

It was quiet now, aside from panting and the sounds of the congregation conversing and slowly departing that same creaking door that got you here in the first place. You felt you could finally relax and close your eyes when the last of the noise was shut out with the door, and you could finally stretch out your legs again as you felt his tail unravel. He had the same idea, stretching out his legs when he fell into your side. He let you have your space, but that sneaky tail laid loosely over your thigh.

You felt a sort of regret for him as you turned to take in the proper view of his nude form lying elegantly in your bed of disheveled clothes, wishing to know what this meant for him… but you weren't going to ask, letting him bask in release— whatever kind it was. You reached for his pendant, twirling the chain between your fingers and observing the discoloration of the metal cross. Without even opening an eye, he took your attention away from it with a touch, making you hold his hand against his chest instead.

"I-" You eventually break the silence but pause, unsure what excerpt you should say. It gets his attention, eyes lifting to look into yours. You muster a smile. "I'm glad you're back," you say softly, simply. Despite the circumstances, despite what it meant, despite what it's already done to you, you wanted to add, but his own bittersweet smile already knew what you meant.

"Me too," he whispered and brought your hand up from his chest to kiss your knuckles. "Me too, my dear."

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pseudowho · 1 year ago

Text

Deliverance

Hunting down a monster, you are led to an isolated little town...and into the arms of its enigmatic priest, who harbours a dark secret.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, Vampire!Priest!Nanami, monsterfucking, winged vampire, soft!Dom/pleasure!Dom Nanami, loss of faith/disillusionment, enemies to lovers/forbidden lovers, haematophilia, corruption kink

Very much inspired by Mike Flanagan's exceptional "Midnight Mass" which I highly recommend.

Soundtrack: "Take Me To Church" by Hozier, and "All Around Me" by Flyleaf

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The bridge to the mainland lived most of its saltcured life underwater. It rose, skeletal against the fog, as if the wreck of a ship from some bygone era, only twice a day, at low tide.

You were, by now, well-established into this friendly little town; a much-needed teacher to its handful of muddy-toed children. They did now know of your armory, your deadly weaponry. They did not know of your vow to hunt down the monsters that stalked the night.

And, they did not know how you suspected that the beast responsible for the deaths of at least 20 men on the mainland, may be one of their very own. 20 murders all occurring at low-tide, and only low-tide, could not be a coincidence.

They were all scum, you mused to yourself, all rapists, paedophiles and murderers...so perhaps it does have some sort of moral code. It must be here, you reasoned, fingers tapping the woody shelves of your little school cupboard in thought.

Your hunt was hampered by the timekeeping of this sleepy fishing town; often up before sunrise to take to the sea, and back before the sun broke above the horizon, it was not unusual for its residents to sleep during the day, and rise in time for the sunset. Its little church even held an evening mass, attended by plentiful nocturnal residents, after dinner.

"Hello?" A rich baritone, which was beginning to feel so intimately familiar to you, stirred an illicit want in your belly. He called your name. You could not help but run to him.

"--sorry, I'm-- I'm here! In the cupboard!" You called out, breathless in...what? Your rush to get to him? Anticipation? Something...more?

You flurried round the corner, all eager smiles, flyaway hairs and dimples. Your eyes melted so softly upon each others' forms, both sighing with relief. Neither of you knew how the other stirred within.

"Ke--...Father Nanami. What a lovely surprise. You're not usually up so early."

Nanami Kento cut an imposing figure in his cassock and white collar. He was a big man, with mountainous shoulders, and long, broad hands. You remembered the heat that pooled in your belly, the first time he had rolled up his sleeves to help you to move supplies into the schoolhouse, his forearms so alluringly thick and corded. His size belied an easy grace, and the elegant quick-step of a busy, intelligent man.

"I found myself unable to sleep," Kento admitted, his head bowed and hands clasped as he stepped to you. He seemed paler than usual, as he continued, "I was thinking abo--...just, thinking." He finished weakly. His eyes drew so fleetingly to your fast little pulse, thrumming from your throat, down your cleavage. His mouth dried, a double-edged hunger climbing down his abdomen.

"...thinking?" You offered, slowly closing the distance between you. You ached to remove it completely, your respect for his holy vows the only thing that contained you. Kento cleared his throat, running one strong finger between his neck, and corseting black and white collar.

"...wondering. If you would be attending mass. Tonight. I have miss--...you have missed the past week, I believe."

Ah. Yes. There was rarely another time when the homes of the local residents were empty enough to allow for investigation. You had only a few more to ransack, to find your monster, and you could feel yourself closing in on it. You felt a heavy rock of regret in your belly, and you clasped one of Kento's cool, pale hands in your own. His cock twitched, to feel the burn of your flesh against his, in ways so much less intimate than what he had imagined, alone at night.

"I'm so sorry...not tonight," you frowned, and you hurried to reassure Kento as he visibly deflated, "But tomorrow, I promise you. I'll come. Truly." Kento's face, so angular and strong, softened down at you with the hint of a smile.

His hand raised up for a moment, hesitating, before cupping your cheek. You felt your heart skip a beat, the tips of his little and ring fingers ghosting over your pulse point, while his thumb swiped beneath your eye.

"...chalk," Kento whispered, seeing your pupils dilate under his inherent, dangerous magnetism. He wished nothing more than to lean down and taste you, clutched against him and whimpering in the schoolhouse. You heard thunder rumble in the distance, and smelled the petrichor of an oncoming storm.

"...I can't wait," Kento whispered, stepping back from you, with just one backwards glance before sweeping out under the wind and blotting clouds.

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Your hunt had amounted to nothing. Either, your monster was meticulously careful, or your suspicions were incorrect, and it did not reside on this island. There was just one more place you had not explored, and you resigned yourself that you may be heading home sooner than you thought.

And yet, you felt a rope behind your navel, a red string around your finger, holding you here. You decided to complete your final investigation at the home of the priest, who had become the lifeblood that ran inside you, at midnight. He generally stayed late at the church, completing administration. You would be undisturbed.

Armed, rogue-like, you blended with moonlit shadows until you reached the windows outside his bedroom. You peeked through the gaps in the wooden blinds, and were met with an image of Kento, erotic and resplendent, that seared itself into your brain for the rest of your days.

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Kento didn't need sleep, ever since his God had forsaken him. Yet still, he craved that sweet embrace, to take him away from the twisted torture of what he had become. His resolve to die this way, as some fallen angel, had been unexpectedly fractured by the will to live-- fractured by you.

Kento switched the shower off, the last droplets of water running down his back. His cassock and collar were discarded, all woven lies against the skin of a faithless hypocrite. Kento wrapped a towel loosely around his waist, stepped past the empty mirror, and out into his bedroom.

His gut churned to see his empty bed. It had been weeks since he had fed. Years since he had taken a woman for the last time, before taking his vows. Weeks, since you had begun to consume him, mind, body and soul.

Kento had been losing his faith before the change. He had grown further from God, as countless monsters died beneath his teeth. But it was thoughts of you, spread, penetrated and whimpering beneath him, that took Kento beyond redemption.

Kento shuddered at the aching greed within. He lay back on his bed, hair still damp and floppy, but desperate for sleep to grip him and pull him under. His cock, rapidly thickening and tenting beneath the towel, made him curse, one broad arm flung over his eyes, while the other tried to squeeze himself into submission.

Kento squirmed with guilt, his semi-erect cock gripped in his palm. He thought of you, your fingers dipping into your needy wet cunt, the vibrator on your clit doing nothing to relieve the ache in your soul. He thought of the way you had squirmed and begged, to your god, and to him, to be granted your release. He thought of the way you had sobbed as you came, curled round yourself, your fingers desperately trying to reach the sweet spot that would make your orgasm climb all the way into your belly.

He didn't need to imagine it, Kento thought blithely, his thumb now stroking slick pre-cum under his foreskin, and over the sweet swollen head of his cock. He didn't need to imagine it, because he had seen you, through the gap in your curtains in the dead of night. Watching you, a pale angel in the rain, hunting for the forgiveness of a body he couldn't allow himself to sully.

Kento's hand had begun to masturbate himself instinctually, to the thought of you crying out for him. For him, and he could do nothing but pretend he hadn't seen you fall apart, to the dream of him inside you.

Kento groaned, low and rumbling, his hand gripping tightly around his throbbing, heavy length, longer than his thick fist could cover. Dripping with pre-cum, Kento began to fuck into his own fist to lubricate himself. He moaned in time to the memory of you, writhing and mewling against your pillow.

Kento's other arm reached round above his head, and he sunk his sharp teeth into his pillow, licking at it, imitating how he would flick his tongue against your pert little clit with a ragged moan. He pictured you above him, riding his mouth and nose as the length of his cock fucked down your throat to the tune of sweet wet gags. Kento whispered filth into the dead of night, trying to rut himself to orgasm.

"--take it-- good girl...cum down your throat-- cum in my mouth...shit...fuck you through it soon, angel-- promise, I promise--...ahhhh, shit, SHIT--"

Kento cursed, spitting venom, his balls heavy and sore, his own hand so woefully inadequate. His canines had lengthened, his mouth twisted into a teeth-baring snarl, and he gripped his cock harder. Trailing his other fingers to his mouth, sucking on his fingertips with a shiver, Kento pierced them until he could taste the hot rush of blood, imagining it was you quenching his thirst--

At the window, completely unnoticed, you gripped the windowpane, weak-kneed. Your other hand clapped over your mouth. Kento lay naked on his bed, sprawled and ethereal under strips of moonlight, masturbating with gasps and groans that you only wished you could hear.

Those hands, that you had spent night after night, wishing were inside you. That cock, thicker and longer than you had pictured...and oh. The way he rutted into his fist with such devastating ferocity, left you jealous of his hand. Your mouth watered.

What would he do, if you knocked right now? If you offered yourself to him, spread bare and pleading? Would he forsake his vows for you? Would he turn his back to God, as he stroked his cockhead to orgasm between your wet folds, singing your praises, and spattering hot, thick cum over your clit--

You were drawn back out of your head as Kento convulsed, his anguished, sloppy moan breaking through the windows, shooting through you like a knife. You gasped, delighted by Kento's twitching pleasure.

Kento hit his orgasm with the turmoiled strength of a stormfront, breaking. His final image was of you, cradling his sore cock between your legs, humping him inside you while you whispered to him and he whined into your hair and got lost in the smell of you, god, the smell of you, he could smell you now--

Kento spasmed, crying out as cum spurted in heavy stripes up his abdomen, his orgasm threaded with a tinge of horror-- fuck, he could smell you, you were here nearby, he knew the smell of that skin and that blood and that cunt--

Kento sat up with a jolt and a snarl, still gasping, the power of the hunt crashing through him. His teeth bared, animalistic, he wrenched his window up, sticking his head out into the night.

The smell of you, quickly fading, was being carried away by the wind. And Nanami Kento was losing his mind.

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You could barely compose yourself, walking into Church the next evening. The night had crept in fast; another storm churning over the water, was pulling the moon in with it. You felt overburdened with...guilt? Desire? You could not hide it, you were sure.

You could not hide it, as Kento's rich voice embraced the pews. You could not hide it, as your voice trembled its way through hymns. Kento's stern, impassive face remained unreadable, as you took communion from him. You met each others' eyes, both thinking about the same thing; his finger grazed your tongue, and gazed upon your sweet face, open-mouthed and doe-eyed, kneeling before him.

And despite all this, it was each others' company you craved more than anything more carnal. You found excuses to stay, in the church, loitering as Kento bid the crowds a warm goodbye. As the last person left, finally alone, you turned to each other. You both held your breath.

After a few moments, yours released in a twinkling laugh, and a blush, that had Kento's chest clenching in possessive adoration.

"I...have neglected you, father," you offered, brushing your hair behind your ear. Kento huffed, at first, pinching the bridge of his nose, before laughing. A genuine laugh. Deep, velvety, and rich. You were putty in his hands, and he didn't even know.

"Alas...it is the life of the clergy. Our own needs, go...unmet." Kento grimaced, a forced half-smile. His hands clasped over his lap.

You felt the tinge of bitterness at the edge of his words. You swallowed, thickly. Your fate balanced on the edge of a knife.

"Not...not all of them, surely? You could...you could join me for dinner?" You couldn't miss how Kento's eyebrows raised fractionally, his pupils dilating. Kento felt a dangerous hunger.

"I...I'm not sure-- I shouldn't--"

"Of course, you're completely right--" you flapped, taking a step back, and Kento's hunger gripped you back with jealous need.

"...I shouldn't be long here. An hour, maybe? If...if you'll allow it." Kento could feel himself twist under the need to possess you, one way or another. Judging by the smell of you, you would be wet, supple under his lips.

"Perfect," you blurted, standing up on your tiptoes for one happy moment, "perfect. I'll cook. We can...we can talk. I can't wait."

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A brisk knock. You hurried to the door, biting your lip, briefly abandoning dinner on the stove.

"Father," you cried, damning yourself for sounding so excited, "you're here...I'm glad. I was afraid you wouldn't...anyway..."

You hurried back to the stove, leaving the door open. After a moment, you looked up, seeing Kento leaning against the doorframe, looking at with with something...unreadable, in his eyes. He simply stood, drinking you in as you cooked.

"...Father? What are you waiting out there for? Come in." Blinking, chuckling to himself, Kento stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him and gently placing a bottle of wine on the table.

"Please. Call me Kento. It seems...silly, if we're having dinner, and a night together." You felt heat blossom through you, at the accidental double-meaning behind Kento's words.

Dinner together was soft, intimate, the food and wine smoothing over an already glossy conversation. You were made malleable by the wine. You were intoxicated by him. Kento looked into you with such knowledge of you, that you were laid bare beneath his gaze.

Sat facing each other on the sofa, Kento had abandoned his white collar, the buttons of his cassock and white shirt undone to his chest. He rolled wine around his glass, his head leaning on one hand, smiling as you talked. The wine made you stupid, and you blurted out;

"Why? Why...did you join the church, Kento?" It was, in part, rhetorical. A cry of despair against the crime of Kento being made untouchable. His answer surprised you, and you found yourself shuffling closer as he talked.

"I ask myself that same question every day. Ever since..." Kento bit his tongue, thinking of the night he was turned, on a missionary trip abroad. Thinking about the day you walked into his parish, setting him aflame with unquenchable burning thirst. Kento cleared his throat, swirling his wine. He felt his primal magnetism drawing you to him like a moth to the flame, and he could not stop himself.

"...I have become...disillusioned, with the church. I am...torn," Kento admitted. Your knees were touching his now, and you leaned towards him with lovesick eyes. Kento felt the thrill of the hunt, feeling the sting of his teeth lengthening. His cock twitched as your breath passed over his cheek.

"...torn?" You felt a quiver of fear now, in the way Kento's eyes darkened, his hand slipping over to grip behind your knee, pulling you into his lap. He set aside his glass. It should have rung alarm bells. You were so drunk, but you had only had one glass of wine. Kento smelled so intoxicating. You were warm, floppy as he pulled you to straddle his lap, cupping your face with both hands.

"...torn," he whispered, his nose brushing yours. Kento's hunger overtook his panic for you, a victim to himself. Kento whispered against your lips, watching your eyes flutter closed, your head heavy and lilting to the side, exposing the pretty thrum of your throat to him.

"...torn," he continued, gliding his tongue up the pulse in your neck, feeling his cock jump against your clothed pussy, "...all because of you...if God has forsaken me, I hope he never wants me back. If only you would let me worship you, instead."

Kento's lips hovered over yours, barely quelling his urgent need to feed on you, until you whimpered his name. Kento snapped, and pulled you in by the back of the neck, crashing his lips to yours with the ragged groan of a starving man.

Your head swam with Kento, clutching his open collar and falling against him, allowing him to devour your mouth with bliss. You murmured against his lips, sloppy and licking, tasting the sweet allure of him, and his grip on the back of your neck grew crushing, his weight now bearing over you to press you back into the sofa, a sharp sting on your lip--

"Ow! I...ugh, sorry...I'm bleeding--"

As you moved to sit up, shocked back out of your reverie, Kento had pushed himself back to the other side of your sofa. One hand had clasped over his mouth. He trembled, and shook, white-knuckles clasping the sofa. You heard a sharp gasp, as if Kento was in pain.

With blood on your lip, you reached for him-- and stopped. Your eyes fixed on the switched-off television opposite you both. You stood, slowly, moving towards the hallway, and your bag, trying to control your terrified little heart.

"I'll just...get a cloth, for my li--"

As you pulled a blade from your bag, standing up to spin around, you were thrown back to the wall, your head cushioned by Kento's hand. You cried out, feeling him bracket you against the wall, his cassock now abandoned, his form seeming to grow and swell before you. Kento's face pressed to your neck, and you felt the hot throb of his growing cock against your belly.

You stood this way, both panting into each other, your knife pressed over Kento's heart, and his teeth pressed to your throat. Your heart broke, fragile beneath Kento's twisting form, and hungry mouth. You hiccuped, your hand and resolve faltering.

"...I never wanted...I wish it wasn't...why did it have to be you?" You sobbed, your arm starting to lower. Kento growled against you, already two feet taller, his enormous chest trapping you in against the wall. You felt the lights blotting out around you, as vast, black, velvety wings unfurled from Kento's back.

"...always...you always knew...just couldn't accept--" Kento gasped, his tongue darting out against your neck, ridged and trembling. His chest burst with pain to feel you sob beneath him.

"I can't do it," you cried, your knife hand lowering again, "just take what you want, because I can't-- I love you-- I'm not strong enough." Kento's teeth gritted, his face crumpling against the soft copper scent of your skin. His enormous hand gripped yours, raising the knife to press to his chest. You gasped and cried out, resisting his pull; a bead of blood sprung up around the tip, pressed to Kento's chest.

"From the moment you arrived," Kento growled, his teeth pressing gently over your pulse point, starving and needy, "...my life...everything I am, has been yours to take. I would know you, blind and deaf...and I would be honoured, for you to take my life as penance for my sins."

You gritted your teeth, completely releasing your grip on the blade. It clattered to the floor. You reached up to trail hands up Kento's enormous, powerful shoulders. Your fingertips grazed the soft base of his wings, and Kento shivered, shuddering into you. He felt a dribble of pre-cum soak his stretched, ripping boxers.

"Then I condemn you to live, Kento," you whispered, pulling his face up to yours. His pupils were dilated, bursting with lust, inky black in pools of crimson, "...and take me. However you want me."

Kento snarled at you again, pressing himself to you, pinning your arms above your head with one thick hand; "You have no idea what you're asking for," he hissed, "I will eat you alive." He felt you tremble, seeing the golden resolve in your eyes. You leaned forwards to his mouth, begging.

"Then eat me...or fuck me, like you fucked your hand to me."

Kento cursed, snapping, lifting you against him. You wrapped your legs around his hips, feeling Kento reach down to shred the clothes off himself, completely absorbed by the need to possess you, to love you.

Flung backwards onto the bed, you gasped at Kento's monstrous form. Eight feet tall, broad and exquisite, his great black wings folded and unfolded against his back. His aching cock dripped with pre-cum, so much bigger than when you had seen him cum into his own hand. His face, still undeniably Kento, stared into you, owning you. Heat pooled between your legs, as he grasped his cock in one great hand, groaning and shuddering.

You crept forwards, still drunk on him, and his nephilim glory. Kento's hand stuttered around his cock as you licked the tip.

"--fuck-- too big for you-- you can't--" Kento uttered a strangled moan, to feel your hot little mouth engulf his cockhead, your lips stretched wide, gulping him to the back of your throat, all hot little licks and sucks. Every fibre of his being needed to buck forwards into your mouth, and you felt two great hands tangle in your hair.

When your hands joined your mouth, stroking down his aching length, masturbating the parts of his cock your mouth could not reach, Kento rutted involuntarily. Moaning, begging and whining your name, his voice ran deep and ragged around his sharp canines.

"--darling, I-- shit I-- so good...so good for me...taking me s--so well, haaaaah...not-- can't last-- like this--"

You hummed around his cock, swallowing down a trickle of salty pre-cum, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your head. So aware of his size and strength, Kento handled you like a china doll, with the utmost love and affection. Kento moaned with abandon, his head thrown back, his great wings furling and unfurling with divine pleasure.

Swallowing around Kento's thick tip at the back of your throat, you felt his cock leaping in warning. Kento tried half-heartedly to pull you off him, whimpering and moaning with fractured cries of your name;

"--can't swallow-- s'too much-- ohhh fuck, my love-- c-cumming, I'm cumming-- fffuuuck yes, swallow-- all of it--"

You squeaked as his cock jolted and twitched in your mouth, Kento's balls clenched tight as he hunched around your mouth, pressing your head to him. Your mouth and throat flooded with Kento's bitter seed, cooler than that of a normal man, and you swallowed him down with pride. Kento's groans and breaths ran ragged, as you licked him clean.

Kento panted, glossy-eyed as he came down from his high, his cock still half-hard against his thigh. Crowding your body against the bed with his, his fingertips grazed the dress you wore, before ripping it from you with a bared-teeth growl. You felt your bra snapped in the middle, as if it were paper. Your breasts heaved, nipples peaked under Kento's ravenous attention.

Poking his tongue out to tease it over one hard nipple, you felt your clit throb to feel the otherworldly ridges and grooves running along his tongue's sides and tip. Whining as he sucked your pebbled nipple into his mouth, you shuddered to feel Kento's sharp teeth graze your sensitive peak. He savoured you, lathering your nipple against his tongue, until you felt you could cum from that alone.

His other hand rose to engulf your second breast, your nipple rolled so tenderly between two great fingers. You felt a trickle of arousal soak your underwear. Kento could smell it, and pressed his hand to your lower belly, feeling vaguely for the telltale swell of ovulation.

"...made a mistake, angel...letting me take you like this-- nothing of you left, by the time I'm done with you--mine-- all mine-- fuck--"

Trailing kisses down your belly, sniffing you and eager to fill you with his smell, his body thrummed for you. Kento threw your legs over his shoulders, ripping the sides of your underwear and tossing the scraps aside.

His eyes fixed on your pussy, slick and clenching. Kento shuddered, feeling his cock beginning to bound to life again. It flopped, heavy and twitching against his thigh, filling again in preparation to fill you. Kento felt a vague desire to ensnare you, trapping you inside his drunken intoxication, to fill you, and fill you, and fill you, until your belly swelled, oozing his thick, white seed.

"...Kento...please..." Your sweet begging pulled Kento out of himself. Despite his monstrous form, his face softened, his eyes fixed to yours as his tongue, long and ridged, stretched out of his mouth. You saw stars as it lathed insistently from side to side, spreading your folds, stroking back and forth over your aching, pearly clit.

Kento mumbled into your pussy, tasting you, his long tongue fucking into your cunt while his nose nuzzled your clit. Mewling, your hands flew down to sink into Kento's hair, and you felt your hands grasped and pinned against your belly. Kento knew, with a faint pang, that if your fingernails scratched against his sensitive scalp, he would surely spill his seed all over your floor.

Kento draped his other forearm over your belly and hips, pinning you down as you twisted beneath his attention. He lapped, sucked, and nipped at you with the softest bites to your clit, his tongue fucking in and out of you with inhuman dexterity.

You bucked your hips down the bed, eager to feel his tongue sink into your deepest parts, and Kento obliged with a wet moan. You felt his tongue lathe against your spongy spot, pinned down as he devoured you.

"--just there...harder please, please-- god I need your cock in me, please-- fuck me please-- please--"

You begged and pleaded your way to orgasm, your arousal seeping out around Kento's tongue as you came with a jolt and a cry, your thighs clamping around Kento's head, feet tickling against his sensitive wings. Kento continued to fuck his tongue in and out of you, lathering you with his spit, tasting your arousal, desperate to taste more of you.

You reached down, trying to pull Kento up your body. He almost laughed at your casual management of a true to life vampire, about to fuck you into the mattress. Kento allowed it, settling above you, his pupils narrowing at the insistent beat of your throat. Suddenly, and with a strangled growl, Kento knocked your head aside, his teeth grazing at your throat, and his monstrous cock throbbing at your entrance.

You trembled beneath him, heaving and gasping from your high. All of your resolve left you, beneath his tongue, and you uttered words you knew to be true;

"...I trust you, Kento."

Kento pressed into you, with teeth and cock and a husky moan. You felt a sharp pierce at your neck, his teeth just deep enough to feel the hot splash of your blood against his tongue. Kento almost finished then and there, his seed threatening to spatter into your folds and entrance, instead of in your belly, as he had promised himself. Kento drank you, his mouth clamped around your neck, one great hand cupping your head to the side while the other gripped your hip.

With a squeak and a protracted, broken moan of his name, you felt Kento's cock stretch through your wet velvety walls. You squirmed, trying to climb up the bed, feeling Kento growl around your throat and yank you back down.

Kento was enormous, by far the biggest cock you had ever taken, splitting you with a dull sting. Your fluttering hole soothed as Kento began to rut his length into you. His red, leaking tip bullied your cervix, bumping it up against your womb, with inches of him still outside of you.

You uttered strangled little moans, completely pinned beneath his hulking form, feeling him rut as much of his cock inside you as he could fit. With a shiver, Kento denied himself of any more blood at your throat. His tongue stroked your wounds, clotting the blood there, as he fucked gently into you.

Kento's wings caged you both in, and he stared down at where his cock tried to stretch your pussy out with dopey, lovesick eyes. A trickle of your blood ran down from the corner of his mouth, and he was struck with a sudden burst of pride for you. Kneeling back, Kento pushed your knees up to your chest, crushing over you in a mating press.

You writhed, as Kento managed to sink more of his cock into you, groaning which each stroke he watched enter and pull out of you. Your slick formed a translucent white ring most of the way down his cock length. Kento was eager to see it drip down his balls. He gasped down at your prone, fucked-out form, and gently began to press and roll the fatty flesh around your clit, making you buck up into him with pathetic little mewls.

"--fit it in--fit all of me in...if you cum again-- fuck you through it, baby...fuck you through it...fuck you through it..."

Kento repeated this like a mantra, every gradually strengthening thrust into you taking him deeper, your pussy stretched to its limits around his terrifying girth and length. Leaning over where you joined, Kento spat a smooth mouthful of spit, stroking it around his base, lubricating you both, before upping his pace and intensity again.

You cried out, head thrown back as you arched, feeling Kento so deeply that you clasped your belly. Kento planted one hand over yours, his fucks growing gradually more feral as he bared his teeth, determined to finally take what was his, after so many years of miserable self-denial.

"--mine make you mine make you mine--leave it behind...leave it all...for you...shit-- so tight, just--milk it out-- all my cum-- all yours, I swear..."

As you came, your pussy clenching and spasming, Kento finally bottomed out. His head flung back with a cry of success, slamming into you with abandon as he chased his high, desperate to see you filled with his cum. Cursing, and spitting, teeth bared and blacking out the room around you with his wings, Kento came with a roar, and you felt your pussy and belly flooded by him.

His cock jerked long, protracted twitches inside you, spurting thick bursts of cum, with nowhere to go but up, plugged by his enormous girth. You were pliable and dazed, taking it with the sweet relief of his love for you, his seed soothing your swollen inner walls like a balm.

Kento faltered above you, staggered and dazed. Keeping his cock stuffed inside you, manoeuvring himself onto his side, he swept one great wing beneath you, and one above you. You felt yourself cocooned, sleepy and full, reaching into hand up to tangle into Kento's hair. He pressed a lazy kiss to your palm.

"...you're a...terrible vampire hunter..." Kento slurred, fading out into soft snores, just seconds later.

He's not wrong, you reasoned to yourself, wondering and drifting to sleep in his arms and wings, maybe he'll help me.

2K notes · View notes

sv3t1ana · 1 month ago

Text

SYNOPSIS ᯓ The church was never meant to save you. Not when its priest speaks in honeyed damnation, not when his hands bless and defile in the same breath. Father Geto does not offer salvation, he takes, ruins, and owns. And when he forces you to your knees, shaming you as he makes you beg, you understand: this was never about redemption. This was a sacrament of sin, and you were always meant to be his offering.

PAIRING ᯓ Priest! Geto x Sinner! Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ VERY SACRILEGIOUS AND UNHOLY do not read if that is offensive or triggering for you. FEM READER, heavy use of Catholic imagery, religious corruption, verbal humiliation, religious guilt, forced confessions, power play, obedience training, defilement of holy spaces, he calls you "little lamb," throat fucking, oral (m and f rec.), choking, cervix kissing, spanking, multiple orgasms, he's ROUGH with you, leaving bruises, unprotected piv sex.

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.1k

Stood before you was a long concrete stairway, a looming church whose spire split the sky like a dagger, plunging into the heavens. Heavy wooden doors stood solemn and unmoving, flanked by stone saints who watch with sightless eyes, hands locked in prayer, a type of devotion you have never been able to imitate.

You should not be here.

The thought pressed against your ribs, tightening like a vice, and yet, your feet do not stop. The night air thick, humid, laced with the scent of old myrrh and rain-soaked earth. It clung to your skin, beads along your collarbone, seeps into the modest fabric of your dress, simply plain, like covering yourself properly could undo the nights spent writhing beneath hands you didn’t know, moaning names you never cared to learn.

But this was different.

This name, one that had begun to carve itself into the marrow of your bones, was one you knew. One you whispered in the dark.

Father Geto.

Your first time seeing him you only meant to pass through. No interest in sermons, parables, redemption. But something about the way he spoke, the weight of his voice holding you in place, pinning you to the back pew like an insect trapped in amber.

It was sacred.

A voice that did not simply carry through hollow halls but commanded the very air itself to obey. Velvety, smokey, threaded with something unspoken. Something that sent a shiver skimming down your ponderous spine.

You had stayed longer than you should have.

His hands moved as he spoke, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the leather binding of the Bible, rolling the beads of his rosary between them. And you had wondered, shamefully, how those same hands would feel against your skin.

You had left before the service was over.

But you returned.

Again and again.

You told yourself it was curiosity, a passing interest in something unfamiliar.

But the truth lay in the way your legs trembled as his eyes flickered over the congregation, slow, knowing.

It lay in the way you began hearing his voice in the quiet moments between sleep and wake, low murmurs of orison that ringed in your ears, worming its way up the axons in your brain stem.

And now, here you were.

At midnight.

The doors creak as you push them open, coarse grains mulling the pad of your palm like the hatches themselves told you to turn around and never look back.

Inside, the church is vast and yawning, swallowing you the moment you step beyond the threshold. The heavy scent of incense lingers in the air, thick, cloying, a ghost of burnt offerings and whispered prayers. The candles flicker in their sconces, pools of molten gold bleeding over the marble floor, light guttering with each draft that slithered through the open doors.

Rows of pews stretch before you, silent sentinels whose dark wood polished by years of kneeling, pressing, pleading. They stand in perfect formation, disciplined and obedient. The altar looms ahead, bathed in a single column of light, a beacon amidst the shadows, offering no warmth but instead the illusion of salvation. The cross above it casts a long silhouette against the vaulted ceiling, and for a moment, it seemed to reach its hand toward you, beckoning.

Your breath was shallow, caught in the space between reverence and regret.

Your hands hover uncertainly, fingers twitching, unsure whether to clasp together in feigned piety or let them dangle uselessly at your sides. The thick linen of your dress shifts with every movement, sleeves billowing like phantom limbs as you continue stepping forward. The modest cut of it, once meant to conceal, now feels oppressive. The fabric weighs heavy on your skin, sticking to the curve of your back and pressing against your ribs like a second skin incapable of shedding.

The bowed ceiling stole the echo of your steps and hurled it back as you formidably moseyed ahead.

You do not belong here.

And yet your feet still carried you forward, past rows of empty pews, past the golden glow of flickering candlelight. The shadows swift to follow your movement, stretching long and lean. The saints carved into the walls stare at you, hollow eyes filled with repine meant only for you.

The confessional stands before you. A dark, wooden structure carved with solemn figures, martyrs frozen in suffering, expression turned downward as they, too, would bear witness.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails pressing crescents into the thick linen draping your hands. You shift when the air around you turns thick with candle wax, a potent gale entering your blood stream.

Staring at the confessional door, the handle was worn smooth, touched by countless hands before yours. Fingers curled in desperation, in shame, in hope that just maybe, there was something holy waiting on the other side.

But you know better.

Your breath is shallow as your eyes follow the rosary draped over the carved wood, its beads catching faint glimmers of candlelight. The memory of his hands ghosts over your skin, long fingers rolling those very beads between them during a sermon, deep and melodic voice sinking into your soul like a hymn you were never meant to learn.

You had watched them.

Watched how his hands moved as he spoke, controlled like it was all planned out from the start.

Watched and wondered, what else had those hands touched?

A shameful and unbidden heat curls in your lower stomach, throat tightening as you shift, pressing your thighs together, but the ache does not subside.

This is wrong.

But wrong had never felt so much like longing before.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, your fingers curl around the handle, pushing the door open.

The space inside is small, suffocating, lined with dark wood that swallows what little light dares to enter. The air is heavier in here, laced with something richer than just incense. The seat creaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Your hands tremble as you fold them in your lap.

And then, a presence. You feel him, before he speaks, before anything.

The weight of him is there, just beyond the partition like he was just barely tangible. The thin screen separating you from him does nothing to soften it, nothing to keep him from sinking into you like smoke through cloth.

And then, his voice.

“What would you like to confess, my child?”

The words are gentle, patient, yet they settle over you like a suffocating weight, locking your throat and pulling you under.

Your lips part, but no sound comes.

It is not just concern in his voice, it is not just priestly obligation, it is something knowing. Something akin to an invitation.

Something like a hand, reaching into the depths of your psyche and prying open what you had tried so desperately to keep buried.

You should leave, run, say anything but the truth.

But instead, you inhale.

And you begin.

“I… I’ve had impure thoughts.”

It’s barely above a whisper. As if saying it any louder might summon something even more unholy than what already lingers in this space.

There’s no shock or admonishment, just a quiet, thoughtful hum from the other side of the partition.

“Impure thoughts,” he repeats, slow. He’s tasting the words himself, rolling them between his teeth before offering them back to you. “And do these thoughts trouble you, my child?”

The word trouble feels misplaced, like what he’s really asking is something else entirely.

“Yes.”

Another hum, deeper this time. You think you hear the faint creak of movement.

“And yet, you are here,” he murmurs. “Seeking something.”

It isn’t a question.

A shiver crawls down your spine. You don’t answer, at least not immediately. Because you don’t know why you’re here, not really.

Not when you’ve spent too many nights indulging every desire.

Not when you’ve let hands you don’t remember trace the shape of you, lips press where they never should have.

Not when you should feel shame, but only feel heat.

“I let people touch me.”

The confession feels ugly leaving your lips, but you don’t stop. The dam is cracking, words slipping through the widening fractures.

“I let them touch me without love. Without care. And I liked it.”

The last part came out hushed, barely there.

And still, it feels deafening.

The church has never felt so cavernous, so consuming as you hear a slow inhale beyond the partition. It sets your nerves alight, something crawling up your throat.

“I liked the idea of confessing it.”

Your voice hoarse. Something inside you being stripped away layer by layer, exposed beneath his eyes even when you can’t see him.

“That’s why I came.”

Moments of silence pass, just listening to beads clacking together. You bite your lower lip and close your eyes honing in on the sound. The faint whisper of his breath, beads shifting between his fingers.

“You do not seek forgiveness,” he says, voice softer but no less firm. “You seek something else.”

You don’t answer because you can’t, because he’s right. Because you know deep inside, he knew before you ever stepped foot in this place.

Another shift, partition between you grinding faintly, as if he’s leaning closer.

“Go on,” he urges. “Do not leave anything out.”

Your stomach twists.

Because there’s still one confession left.

The worst of them all.

Your lips part, his presence pressing down on you as you mutter his name.

Breathless. Sinful.

The confessional door opens.

The hinges don’t shriek, they sigh, long suffering, they too bearing witness to something unrighteous. Light spills into the tight space, illuminating the heavy folds of your dress and trembling clutch of your hands. You should not look up. You should lower your head like a penitent sinner, kneel as the devout should.

But when you see him standing in the dim glow of flickering votives, something within you defies instinct.

Father Geto is framed in the archway like a saint in a stain-glass window, but he does not look like salvation.

No.

He is temptation draped in reverence, black cassock flowing like a holy shroud over broad shoulders, his long dark hair spilling down his back like the dark strokes of calligraphy on sacred parchment. The rosary beads you hear earlier hang from his fingers, slipping over his knuckles.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

There is no mercy, no pity.

Only the quiet, unshaken authority of a man who has always known how this would end.

You are seated before him, hands limp in your lap, thick linen of your sleeves brushing against your sensitive skin like a funeral veil. You do not yet know if you are the deceased or the one delivering the last rites.

His gaze lowers, and he sees a woman wrapped in modesty but reeking of sin. A lamb that has strayed too far from the flock, too naive to recognize she is standing before the wolf. A body, breathless, trembling, clutching the fabric of her dress as if it could protect her.

And you see it, the slight tilt of his head and the barest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Come here.”

Two words. A command wrapped in velvet.

Your body betrays your mind. You rise, knees weak and heart stuttering like an unseen force is guiding you. The hem of your dress whispering against the church floor like a prayer spoken through gritted teeth.

When you stand before Father Geto, close enough to see the slow shift of his throat as he breathes, he lifts a hand. Thumb grazing your chin.

“On your knees, little lamb.”

He just watched, studying you like an artist examining his canvas, like a priest watching a lamb kneel before the altar, waiting for the moment of surrender.

His finger hovers over your cheek before finally making contact, so soft, too soft, a touch at odds with the weight of his gaze. His thumb caresses your lower lip, the movement unbearably slow.

“Look at you.”

A quiet mumble, speaking to you like he’s addressing something delicate, something sacred.

“Tell me, little lamb, when you touch yourself in the dark, do you call His name? Or do you whisper mine?”

The heat of his palm cradles your jaw, tilting your face up and forcing your eyes to meet his. There’s no warmth in them, only certainty.

“Go on,” he coaxes, his tone an invitation to confess. “Tell me the truth.”

And you cannot speak, your throat is tight, restricting you from taking full breaths.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, shaking his head like he was in mourning.

“What a shame,” he says, fingers dragging lower, tracing the line of your throat. “So weak to temptation. So eager to fall.”

He sighs, but it wasn’t a sigh of disappointment, rather, satisfaction.

“Do you know what happens to lost souls who refuse to repent?”

His hand leaves your skin, and you feel the loss of it like an open wound.

“They beg.”

The shadows move, but not from a breeze. The flames tilt toward him, as if even the light itself is tempted.

“It’s such a tragedy, isn’t it?”

He closes his eyes, his large palm resting on the crown of your head, fingers sliding through your hair with the patience of a man offering benediction. His touch is reverent, deceptive, like he is anointing you instead of undoing you.

“That you never truly wanted salvation.”

His voice was almost tender, laced with finality, judgment, his verdict already sealed.

“Kýrie, eléison." Lord, have mercy.

The words fall from his lips like an incantation, a blessing. His fingers thread through your locks, holding you steady, watching as your breath hitches.

"Christe, eléison." Christ, have mercy.

His respire is almost mournful. Almost.

“But mercy was never what you came for, was it?”

His fingers tighten. Not enough to hurt, not yet, but enough to demand. Enough to remind you of your place.

“Stand.”

The word is quiet but it crashes over you like a tolling bell. You hesitate, legs unsteady, but his hand is already moving. Trailing down, pressing just below your chin. A silent order to obey.

Then his hand lands on the back of your neck, tilting your head down, bowing you before him.

“Confess.”

His thumb strokes over your nape, a mockery of comfort.

“Say it.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes.

You feel the shift just as you hear it, the click of his tongue. Disappointment.

“Do not waste my patience.”

You still, eyes wide as you stare at his feet pointing to yours.

“I- I didn’t come here for salvation.”

His grip soothes, then tightens. Approval, punishment, both at once.

“No.” His breath skims over your scalp. “You came here for me.”

He steps in close to you, hand resting on the outer part of your neck as his thumb skims your trachea.

“How disgraceful,” his hand moves, encompassing you entirely in his hold, squeezing just enough to remind you that obedience is not merely an option. “You come into His house, knelt at my feet, and admitted such a thing?”

He smiles at you, tilting his head, making himself look so loving as his hand moves back to the nape of your neck, tightening.

A sharp tug that makes your scalp sting, and your head is wrenched back, throat exposed, bare and vulnerable.

“There is no salvation for you.”

The words are a whisper against your skin, spoken between the slow stripe of his tongue dragging up the column of your throat.

Heat pools at your core, and his grip doesn’t relent. If anything, it tightens, a silent warning that you are his to position, hold, and keep.

Then his other hand moves, a slow descent dragging down the curve of your spine, fingers deliberate as they press into the linen of your dress.

“But perhaps-”

His fingers hook beneath the fabric.

“-you might earn absolution.”

A swift motion, and suddenly the weight of the dress is gone.

The air bites at your skin, and you’re left standing in nothing but lace. It was pale, delicate, laughable in its pretense of modestly.

Father Geto exhales, slow and measured, yet you see the way his eyes darken.

“How sinful you look,” his voice was mocking, but appreciative. His fingers drift, trailing over the lace of your hip, hooking his thumb under and snapping it against your skin. “Did you wear this for me?”

A pause, then a firm grip to your jaw.

“Tell me, little lamb.” His thumb strokes over your hipbone, your arousal pooling in your panties from his lewd touch. “Did you dress yourself like a whore to tempt me?”

The hand at your throat shifts, guiding your bare knees to the cold once more. The stone is unforgiving, digging into your skin as he runs a finger over your cheek with a smile on his face.

“Let me hear your prayers in another way.”

He deftly unbuttons his black cassock, fingers moving down, one button at a time, each pop of fabric exposing. The tension, the restraint, he could tear it open in one smooth motion, but no. That would be too easy, too merciful. Instead he makes you watch, makes you wait, makes you understand what it means to unravel.

He reveals a black clergy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the stiff Roman collar still locked around his throat like a vow he intends to break. Below, a pair of black slacks drop, the outline of something far from godly at your eye level.

“In your mouth,” he commands.

You’re almost shaking at this point, arms hesitant as you reach out, letting his obscene, thick erection pop out. It was so impure, concealed by the illusion of propriety as you eye pulsing veins running up and down his length, reddened tip waiting for you.

And you did as told, using your thumb to spread glistening pre around, coating him in his own arousal as you used one hand, a hand that couldn’t wrap around his entire length, grip his base tightly, using the other to cup his balls as you took him in your mouth.

Slowly bobbing your head, letting your drooling mouth varnish his cock as you took communion. The gentle hands that worked him, delicate skin a stark contrast to a heretic like you, so depraved in the way you let him enter your throat.

You choked, gagged on him, letting your cries muffle in the way he completely filled your mouth, tip hitting your uvula, body heaving as he throat-fucked you.

He relished in the way your tiny throat constricted around him, so sacrilegious in the way you knelt before him, both the confessor and executioner that made you beg with lips and tongue instead of words.

He grits his teeth, furrowing his brows as you so desperately tried to cling onto reality, your tongue immobile under the beefy shaft stuffed in your mouth.

“Do you think He watches you like I do?”

And the way he looks at you is crazed, devious as he breaks every promise to his bishop, the grip at the back of your skull a sermon in ruin.

You cry out, pleading for him to let up as he smashes your face to his hips, your eyes welling up with tears at the constant barrage, throat fucked raw.

He lets up only right before cumming, opting to depart your maw with a wet pop! before painting your elegant chest rope after rope, leaving your mouth agape and letting your fallen tears mix with his seed.

This was a place where holiness did not bloom, instead leaving wayward lambs like you to plead for vindication with the altar of his desire bruising your throat.

You stood as he summoned you, bringing you in close as you felt his still throbbing erection at your abdomen.

His lips tasted like purgatory, a promise of suffering and salvation entwined as he devoured you. His teeth grazing your lip, hands exploratory as they gripped and clutched at every curve of your body.

Oh how blasphemous he was, disregarding the sacred and defiling the divine, turning a place of worship into a stage for sin. The alter, meant for holy sacrifice, now served a different kind of offering.

His touch was reverent, but not in prayer.

His hands did not bless, they claimed.

His lips did not preach salvation, but dripped with sin sweeter than scripture.

Your back lay flat on the cold stone, a stark contrast to the heat of his body looming over yours like a sermon given form, his touch a sanctification of something far more profane than holy oil.

He trailed kisses down your body, salaciously flitting his tongue out to leave wet stripes below your navel. You arched beneath him as though in divine rapture, spine curving against the table like the vaulted ceilings of the church itself. And when he leisurely peeled your panties off, letting them drop to the floor and parting your legs like the Red Sea, you understood what Eve felt before the first bite.

He settled between your legs, eyes glossed over separating your lower lips, taking in the state of your weepy pussy under his gaze.

He smiled, lowly chuckling to himself as he inhaled deeply before diving into your folds. He took your clit in his mouth, sucking, letting the edge of teeth graze your sensitive nub as you cried out, pulling gasps from you like a tithe, an offering laid at the feet of his mercy.

He inserted two fingers, probing your g-spot as he ravished you. The sounds of your sloppy pussy filling the once holy air, every thrust of his fingers a lesson in repentance with every moan from you an act of defiance.

“Is this what you wanted? To be devoured at the alter like a sacrificial lamb?”

You tasted like sweet, unrepentant sin. And he consumed you like sacramental bread upon his tongue, so devout, reverent, and insatiable. To say he’s obsessive is an understatement, drinking you like wine as he worshipped you with his mouth, his tongue tracing blasphemies on your clit as he let out soft grumbles against your pussy, each time making you squirm below his hold.

“Mmm. Even your cunt worships me. Clenching so tight, desperate to keep me. How pathetic.”

Oh how pathetic you were, coming undone when his teeth grazed your sensitive nub once more, gushing into the palm of his hand and dripping to the floor.

It was filthy how he made out with you post-orgasm, your thighs suffocating his head as you cried out like in prayer, each stuttering breath an act of worship.

He eased off, bringing his casual expression close to your face as he aligned with your entrance.

Inserting just the tip, he lifted one of your legs to swing it over his shoulder, his other hand busy burying itself in your lacy bra, bringing your breasts out to wantonly tease your nipple, taking the tender bump between his pointer finger and thumb just to pinch, squeezing tightly, and absorbing your moans in his mouth.

“You came here seeking absolution, didn’t you? Then ask for it.” His voice was measured, almost pitying.

Your breath is ragged as he grips your nipple, your weepy walls hopelessly quivered around his tip. “P-Please… please forgive me.”

Your hips miserably ask for more, twitching to feel more of him before he uses both hands to grip you still, smiling against your lips devilishly.

“Forgive you?” His thumbs press tighter into you. “For what, little lamb? Be specific.”

Shame burns hot in your chest contradictory. It was the way he coerced the sins from your lips, bullying you into humiliation as his hips denied you the pleasure you came here seeking.

“For desiring you,” you look at him pleading. “For touching myself at the thought of you. For wanting-”

His grip tightens more, cutting you off. He lets one hand off to grip your neck. “You soil yourself with sin and expect me to cleanse you?” He tsks, shaking his head. “No, you don’t want forgiveness. You want permission.”

His fingers tighten around your pulse, withdrawing the inch he volunteered your pussy.

“Say it properly.”

You wince, voice a strained whisper. “Father, please- cleanse me, punish me, make me pure.”

“Ah… now that is a prayer worth answering.” His lips curl, and he releases your neck while thrusting himself entirely into you, earning from you a choke as you tried so hard to adjust to his size. He abused your hips with his, immediately setting a frantic pace.

You were nearly toppling over, cries echoing against the cathedral walls, not in hymns, but something far more primal and honest as he offered no mercy, a gratifying ache as his engorged tip punishes your cervix.

He was so big, slamming into you continually it was almost cruel. Your walls trembled in pain, throbbing in irritation as he fucked you senseless, his body caging you like a confessional, his grunts a benediction, every sinful sound spilling from his lips a prayer offered.

You instinctively cover your mouth to muffle your wails, until he slaps your hand away.

“Scream for me. Let the heavens hear how far you’ve fallen.”

Even in ecstasy was he degrading you, stripping you layer by layer of dignity, of virtue, of any illusion that you belonged anywhere but here, where above the sorrowful faces of saints and martyrs bore silent witness to your desecration. Their painted eyes gazed down in judgment, candlelight flickering over their sculpted mouths frozen in eternal prayer, yet offering no salvation.

His hands bruisingly tight on your hips in a way that hurt so good, you tried swatting them away. He only escalated his grip, smiling at the way you grimaced.

“A sinner like you doesn’t deserve gentle hands.”

With that he dove his head in, immediately biting at the sensitive skin at your neck, making your back arch so beautifully, which only made him roll his hips deeper.

He wrings hallelujahs from your skin, not sung in choir stalls, but gasped in the way you clung to him tightly, scratching at the broad muscles under his shirt.

You came undone quick when one of his snaked down your body, coming to climax after pressing tap tap taps! on your clit, body writhing beneath him again, grunting into the shoulder you buried your head in, and trying so desolately to push on his abdomen, to stop the barrage of his hips.

But he never did, instead flipping you over so he could split you open from the back.

You truly were sobbing out, body boneless at this point as his cock split you in two, leaving large red handprints at your ass with every smack! he graced you with.

Whimpering, whining underneath him, yet you only got more aroused, thighs trembling each time he smacked you, using his nails to trail light scratches down your back. You should be ashamed. You should be begging for forgiveness. Instead you soaked in sin, clinging to the salvation only found in the way he tainted you.

“Pathetic,” he murmured. His hand smoothed over the curve of your back before scratching you more. “You sound like a bitch in heat. Do you even know how shameful you look right now?”

His fingers traced your spine, landing at your cheeks to spread you for him. “Dripping all over the floor of His house, have you no reverence at all?” His grip tightened, your body just something for him to mold. “Or is this your offering? Your ruin?”

he took another fistful of your hair, forcing your body up as he rutted his hips in a way that hit your g-spot so effortlessly, leaving marks and bruises in places no baptism could cleanse, his tongue licking the back of your ear to brand you deeper than holy water ever could.

Father Geto should have resisted, he should have walked away. Instead your scent clung to his skin, seeping into his lungs, and he couldn’t find it within him to care.

Not when you’re spread out before him like an offering, not when your breathless cries turn his stomach into a pit of fire. Not when you tasted like sin itself.

His vows were never stronger than this, never stronger than the heat of you, of the way you shudder like you were made for this. For him.

He likes watching you break. Loves it, even. The way your eyes disappear into your skull and abs clench, how your nails dig into his muscles like you’re begging for something neither of you can name.

And God forgive him, but the more you tremble and plead, the more he wants to ruin you completely.

His grip on your hair tightens, punishment, possession, and devotion all in one.

“Your body sings hymns for me alone.”

His thumb presses into your spit-slicked lips, dragging along your tongue before shoving it deep.

Right now, he is not a priest.

He is not a holy man.

He is nothing but a sinner, worshipping at the altar of your body, forgetting the taste of the Eucharist and relishing the taste of you.

He was panting, a sweaty fist-full of hair as you came undone again by his cock alone, walls constricting around him in the nastiest way that had him weak, teeth biting down hard on his digit while you rode out your high.

There was nothing he loved more than corrupting- himself most of all.

Sin never happens all at once.

It should have ended each time he caught you watching him from the back pews, lips parted, eyes wide with something that did not belong in a house of God.

Then came the way you lingered after sermons, how your breath hitched under his touch and knelt as his feet.

His vows are nothing but ghosts.

He should have exorcised you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he welcomed you into the dark.

And now, here he was, spilling into you like a sacrament poured from an upturned chalice, flooding your body with the weight of his unholiness as his seed sprayed you, leaving your sore cervix aching. It pours into you like an unanswered prayer, thick and endless after spilling every last drop inside like he’s engraving his final confession into your flesh.

He lets you down with a hard plop! letting your body hit the cold stone table, bending down to smear his dripping release and your arousal between your thighs, dragging proof of your downfall against your skin.

You listened to the silence of the church, the suffocating stillness that offered no divine wrath, no fire from the heavens or thunderous condemnation, just laying slick and sore, the heat of his touch still branding your skin.

You should pray.

But you don’t.

You should feel shameful.

But you revel in it.

He looks up at the crucifix above you both, smirking. “Forgive me, Father, for I will sin again.”

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haunt3dh3art · 4 months ago

Text

Born In Blood | Yandere Dexter Morgan x reader

i’ve been watching almost a season of Dexter a day now i’m on winter break!! i know you guys lurking in the Dexter community have been waiting for some more work, so this is for you <33 i'm also posting this on my ao3 page if you prefer that formatting - type in "haunt3dh3art" and you'll find me.

TW: Blood, slight gore, slight torture, mention of blades and rope, canon-typical violence, slight obsession hinting

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Chapter 1 - Silence

Miami is full of gorgeous, witty women, and plenty of them would love a piece of Dexter.

But, none of them have ever held his attention for more than a few months. He tries not to let his lack of emotions get in the way of relationships, but its like everybody he meets eventually gets the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

A sixth sense, like when a dog growls at the darkness. You can't see what they can, but go back the way you came anyway.

So, eventually, everyone leaves, as is the next logical step for their survival.

When Dexter first sees you, whether you are an "almost victim" of the Miami Metro's latest killer or someone he sees on the street, it’s like he forgets to breathe. His eyes squint, a darkness glazing them over and something changes. His Dark Passenger appears behind him, but Dexter pays no attention to the ramblings of his damaged subconscious.

For argument's sake, here, you present to him as a victim. Or you would have been, had Dexter not figured out the location of the killer's lair in time.

He's led to a decrepit church, stone bricks falling off the walls, thick ivy covering almost every surface he can see. He makes no sound as he creeps towards the entrance. Slowly, he pushes the door open - it makes a lowly creak and Dexter slips into the darkness.

There is no light here, no ceremonious candles for the next killing, no flashy weapons to be seen on many of the stone slabs Dexter passes. Then, he sees a soft glow in the back corner of the vast church.

A cellar. The trapdoor won't quite close, and a whisper of light is allowed to seep through the thin crack against the floor. Dexter lifts it with deft fingers, careful to not make a sound. His steps make no sound as he glides down the stone stairs down, down into the basement. It's cold down here, and the air is thick with moisture. His silence, although usually an upper hand on an opponent, was not necessary here.

Your guttering screams rang out through the entire lower level; as loud as they were, Dexter was left wondering how they couldn't be heard until down here. You sounded animalistic, clearly fighting for your life and barely hanging on. As he got closer to the awful sounds of clanging metal and splitting screams, a chill rose up on Dexter's skin.

Then, he heard the killer's voice for the first time.

"How stupid can you be? You're nothing but a sacrifice to me." A low voice cut your screams into nothing but whimpers.

The slow dragging of a metal blade rang out into Dexter's ears and he was glad he came more than adequately prepared for a fight.

The killer was one Joseph Butler, serial womaniser and priest. Clearly, God had abandoned this disciple. The victims were most often strippers caught in his charming web, or occasionally single women looking for human connection. They must have thought they had struck gold.

His call card had been arranging his victims' hands into a prayer stance, nailing nails through the palms to keep the pose in place, and deftly placing a barbed wire "crown" on the person's head. They were always sat upright, bound with rope to a chair and lathered in blood.

The blade was new - Joseph was on the cusp to evolve his method, but he would never get the chance.

Candles lit the basement with a warm light, contrasting the suffocating atmosphere. Dexter suspected Butler had been torturing you with hot wax, or something similar, perhaps flames and the heated blade?

There was only a cloth curtain separating you, the killer and Dexter now.

"These are your final moments on this demented Earth. I suggest you use them to say a prayer." The killer spoke.

Dexter pulled back the curtain with one finger and saw he had his back to him.

This was the moment.

Moving as a snake slithers, Dexter stepped towards your torturer, and injected him with a tranquilizer. He instantly collapsed to the floor, making a satisfying thud.

Dexter stepped over him, and reached for his pocketknife to cut you free of your binds. You began to scream again and writhed in petrifying fear in your seat.

It was now that Dexter, crouched to your level, could finally see your face. Butler had obscured his view of you before, but with him out cold on the floor, Dexter could take the time to look.

You, caked in dirt and filth.

You, a look of horror beyond comprehension etched on to your face.

You, born in blood, just as he had been.

The moment Dexter was to undertake his duty once again as the necessary evil of Miami, he paused. Each time he had a killer strapped to a table, he paused for a moment to collect himself and appreciate the serenity of the moment. Perpetually holding the blade above his subject's heart, the point positioned perfectly, quivering in the air for a second of peace.

It was this moment, as he looked at you, that the constant roaring and wailing inside his head fell silent.

His eyes were fixed on yours, searching for an avenue of the same peace. He saw oceans reflected in your eyes, deep and dangerous.

"Shh, shh, shh. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm getting you out." He pleads, leaning forward on his knees.

He places the cool blade of his pocketknife on the rope next to your skin, making a quick, efficient cut of each loop around your wrists. It's a welcome sensation, despite the distant threat of pain.

Your screaming subsides, replaced by hyperventilating. Dexter's eyebrows pull together as he quickens his pace cutting the ropes around your feet.

Butler was only beginning his spree, killing 3 women in only 6 weeks. You would have been his fourth, had Dexter not been 10 steps ahead of his own department.

'Clearly an amateur,' Dexter thinks. The rope was too weak to hold a victim who had fight left to give, but that's easier said than done.

Finally, you were free, and instantly pushed the chair back. It crashed on the floor with a loud bang, but Dexter paid no attention to it. His eyes were stuck to you, mesmerised by you, even in your condition.

"What are you going to do to me?" You whispered, rubbing your fingers over your aching wounds.

Some of the blood on your skin was still fresh, glowing a crimson red against the candlelight. Dexter shook his head.

"Nothing," He said. "But, you need to stay with me, here. I can protect you, keep you safe, but you have to stay."

Dexter never imagined this happening to him. He knew the chances of you trusting him were beyond slim, but he hoped that by seeing your torturer on the floor, knocked out by his hand, that you wouldn't see him as a threat.

Dexter watched you with bated breath, his hands tightly clenched into fists.

You didn't move, weighing your choices. Would you really survive if you ran? How would you know there weren't more of these psychopaths waiting outside, ready to pounce the second you walked out into the night?

You shook your head, pacing around the room.

The curtain was pulled in a circle around the chair and it waved in the air as you walked past it.

"What's your name?" You asked.

"Dexter."

Saying his real name out loud felt like a violation, a curse. Only people in his life knew his name. Were you going to be a part of that now?

You nodded and stopped pacing. Pointing at the killer, you asked another question. "What are you going to do with him?"

Dexter let his gaze break from you to the man on the floor.

He would be out cold for the next 7 hours at least, unless Dexter chose to wake him up sooner. However, on this occasion, he didn't have a plan. He had all the supplies needed for a killing in the boot of his car outside, but he hadn't anticipated for you to be here tonight. The timing of the killing wasn't quite right, and a sign that Butler was becoming a bigger problem than the Miami Metro could handle. The FBI would soon step in, and Butler would be out of Dexter's grasp.

"I'm going to make it look like you were never here, which is why you have to stay with me. I have to.. dispose of him, but it won't take more than a few hours." Dexter said, choosing his words carefully to not scare you even more.

He checked his watch. 10:47pm. If he was to kill Butler and get to the marina in time, the process would have to be quick.

The sun was beginning to rise earlier in Miami.

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#yandere #male yandere #yandere dexter morgan #dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter #yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x you #tw blood #tw body horror #cw gore #tw horror

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moonlight-prose · 6 months ago

Note

I either want to tend to Gabriel’s wounds or make some with my nails 😏

bound in the strands of permanence

a/n: knowing how intense his battles get when monster hunting, he must be so numb to the pain. because of course he is. it's been centuries of life, countless wounds, and he's unable to stop from wanting that infliction back. but in a different way. i really just word vommitted cause this was meant to be a drabble. my bad.

summary: he walked with monsters in the night, claiming their lives for a vendetta placed upon him by the church. but he found peace in daylight with the touch of your healing hands.

word count: 1.9k+

pairing: gabriel van helsing x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, love, tending to wounds, pain kink, masochism, tw: blood, breeding kink, p in v sex, rough sex, they're unhinged and in love, dirty talk, forever.

Pain was inconsequential in the grand scheme of being God's right hand. Immortality ran through his veins like a poison without an antidote. He couldn't necessarily die. People have tried, monsters have nearly succeeded, but death never asked for him to deign its doorstep.

He was bound to life on a planet riddled with evil—destined to drag each horrid creature to the pits of hell with him.

But pain was a different matter altogether.

After so many wounds, knives, bullets, arrows, he could no longer register the nerves that stretched to and fro beneath his body. They were there. Unmistakable with the phantom aches and near deaths that still plagued his eternal soul. But remembering why they came to be eventually rescinded to the back of his mind—an afterthought to all the detriments of his waking life.

Years went by before he dared to ask someone for help. But a particularly nasty wound to his shoulder was out of reach even for him. Which is how he came to stumble onto your small quarters in the furthest reaches of the Vatican.

There were other healers, other doctors who could have easily stitched up his wound. But you weren't a member of the church.

He found that ironic.

Neither of you mentioned how long it'd been since he stumbled through your doors, shoving a bag of coins into your hand, before falling onto the cleared wooden table meant for patients in the city. Not that either of you couldn't remember it. Two years, three months, and two brand new flesh wounds that barely needed wrapping.

Yet he still came anyway.

"Turn into a beast again?" you questioned, wrapped the cloth tight along his scarred abdomen.

He smiled, shuddering at the icy touch of your hands. "That was one time."

"One time too many."

"And if it hadn't of happened I wouldn't have a reason to come here."

You scoffed, tying the knot painfully, relishing a bit in the harsh grunt he let out. "You don't need a reason to come see me Gabriel."

"It's impolite to knock on a lady's door this late without a reason." He shook his head, unconsciously sliding his hand over yours that remained on his wound. "I'm not one to mistreat a lady."

"I'm hardly that. They won't even let me in the fucking church–"

Sharp eyes dragged up to your face, glaring at the pout in your lips that formed a curse. He may have been a man who found your way of life refreshing, but he was still devoted to the God above. Your mouth curled into a wry smile—hand moving to tip his chin up. To remove his gaze and place it where you wanted him to truly look.

"It's not right how they treat you," he rasped.

The familiar dark cloud of grief began to drip into his iris, shrouding his once sharp gaze that pierced each part of your soul. They called him God's right hand. The man who was sent from the heavens above. You merely thought of him as the man who gripped your heart in an iron fist—reluctant to let you go.

"I'm not one of you."

He sighed. "You could be."

"Only through the binds of marriage would I enter that place and even then, I don't entirely wish to follow rules not made of my own volition."

"Marriage," he mumbled, eyes dropping to the lip you worried between your teeth. "To whom, if I may ask?"

"To no one."

"Why?"

The way he looked at you is what threw you off guard. Intense, without boundaries that may have been set in place for other patients. He weeded out your deepest fears and silently vowed to rip each one apart with his bare hands. Monsters walked beside him in the night, but Gabriel Van Helsing was doomed to wander the daylight alone. Yet he found...he didn't want to anymore.

"If I were to ask..."

Your knees almost buckled - the weight of his inquiry slamming directly into your chest. "Ask me what?"

Gabriel looked at you as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. As if nothing felt more right than the words about to spill from his lips. To be bound to a soul meant permanence in the eyes of his God, and how lovely it might be.

To have someone he could be permanent with.

"To marry me darling."

There remained an answer to this madness. A final solemn vow you might have otherwise been able to say. But his confession hung in the air like a cloud that refused to dissipate with the change in weather. When had he fallen in love? When had he finally relented to the ache that built in his chest?

When did he realize that he came here at night for you and not for his wounds?

You wanted to give him something in return—a promise that could outlast all that threatened to rip him from you.

So you kissed him. You dragged him close—your hand tangling in his hair—and caught his lips in a kiss that damn near threw him off the table. He didn't expect to finally taste you, his heart hammering an unsteady beat in his chest. But he certainly wasn't about to complain. He met your actions in kind, gripping onto the flesh of your hips with a soft groan.

His tongue met yours—hesitance bleeding through each action—and when he found no resistance he finally devoured what he hungered for. Standing to his full height, he licked into your mouth, his hand gripping the back of your neck painfully to keep you close. Neither of you even registered what happened when he crowded you against the heavy wooden door sealed shut with a lock.

"Gabriel," you sighed, bending to let him drag his tongue down your throat.

"Say yes," he growled, rucking up your skirts as you worked the belt of his pants still coated in grime and dust. "Marry me. Be mine forever."

"God above." A gasp tore from your chest when he notched his dripping cock at your entrance.

He held you there, fixing his gaze on your face, even as you tried to drag your hips forward. "Darling."

"I want..."

"What?"

A moan rumbled in his chest when you finally looked at him—the love you kept locked away pouring out into the furrow of your brows. The tears that fell down your cheeks. Hiding it felt pointless at this time. Because you knew your answer, you knew the second he stumbled through your door demanding you help him. You knew it the moment his gaze locked on yours.

Forever would be spent here. In the safety of his hold.

"I'll marry you," you breathed.

There were few times you managed to see this man smile. Once or twice when you told a joke. More often due to the biting pain on his body as you stitched him up—a defense mechanism rather than agonizing grunts he used to give you. And now when your words settled in his mind - solidifying something he wondered about for years.

His lips bloomed into a smile that met his eyes for the very first time. Light practically shone directly from the hazel iris.

You expected him to give you an answer, a shower of words full of love. Instead he sunk into you with a harsh groan, his forehead falling to yours, mouth swallowing the cry that erupted from your chest.

Lovers existed in your life before him—a sprinkle of men who once or twice believed you'd be their wife one day. But none of them compared to the one before you. Gabriel stretched you wide enough to hurt, but he quickly sought out the small bud pulsing for attention—circling it slowly with each shallow thrust.

Your legs shook under the sensations, nails digging into his bare shoulders, and for the first time...he felt pain.

A fractured cry escaped his mouth, finding its way into yours as you sharply cut him to ground yourself. Panic flooded your veins at the thought of hurting him. Only to feel his hips slam into yours, impaling you on his twitching cock spurting precum like a broken faucet.

"Again," he rumbled, pulling out at an achingly slow pace. Only to punch back in and drag out a shout from the depths of your stomach. "Hurt me again."

"But–"

"Do it."

Cutting your nails down his back—blood welling to the surface immediately—you felt his entire body shudder. His head tipping back as he fucked into you fast enough to hurt. There was no rhythm to how he moved. Rutting into you wildly like the beast he once became—his body overwhelmed with a mix of pain and pleasure. Agony merging together with the love he felt for you.

The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him in with each thrust echoed in the small confines of your room. Each one followed by the loud resounding echo of your moans and his ragged grunts. You felt unhinged. Probably looked like it too.

But pleasure was creeping up on you faster than you could anticipate. Your nails marred his skin with each blinding strike of his cock against your walls. It drowned you. Swallowed you up with the promise to spit you back out later.

You'd never felt so whole before.

"I can feel her begging," he gasped against your lips, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his. "Will you let me?"

"Uh-huh."

He smiled, harsh and unforgiving. "We'll have a little one running around by the time our vows are exchanged mea amor."

His words struck something in your chest—dragging out the darkest secret you kept hidden each time he looked at you. Binding yourself with him through the bonds of marriage was one thing. Having his child remained something else entirely. You almost loathed how much you loved the idea.

"Oh–"

"You'll make me a sinner," he babbled, stimulating your clit until pain began to spark up your spine. "A child before marriage. What will God think?"

"G-Gabriel!" A violent tremble began in your legs, working up your body until he was forced to hold you up with his body weight. "I-I can feel it."

He chuckled, speeding up just enough to push you over the edge. A scream echoing off the stone walls—ringing in his ears as your walls clamped down, a gush of cum coating down to his balls. What he wouldn't give to see that again. Your face screwed up in pleasure, pain bleeding into his body with each scratch of your nails.

"It will simply have to take," he gasped, spilling into you with a cry of his own.

Seconds bled into a minute and yet he couldn't stop cumming. The sticky warmth of it trailed down your legs and dripped onto the floor. And he merely shoved back into your—keeping it from spilling out entirely. Intent on keeping each promise he made.

Kissing your cheeks, he found your lips with a sigh. "Take this."

"What?" you mumbled, vision blurry with tears.

The cold kiss of metal on your finger stirred you back to life. "Until I find a jewel meant to sit on your hand."

His insignia burned through your chest, claiming you under the very name he sought to learn more about. You were to be his. A Van Helsing of your own volition. It should have terrified you.

Yet the fear was nowhere to be found.

"I love you Gabriel. I should have told you years ago..."

With a soft kiss to your forehead, he curled his arms around your back. "Then tell me again tomorrow."

And each day after that.

#van helsing x reader #gabriel van helsing x reader #van helsing x you #van helsing x y/n #van helsing smut #gabriel van helsing smut #van helsing #gabriel van helsing #my writing

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austerity-audacity-asceticism · 7 months ago

Text

The atomic habits of St. Therese of Lisieux

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

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

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

Because guys

Wow

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

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

Because St. Therese? She was in the details

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

St. Therese of Lisieux, pray for us.

#catholic #catholicism #theology #spirituality #catholic saints #saints #christianity #therese of lisieux #st therese of lisieux #story of a soul #the story of a soul #doctors of the church

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kedsandtubesocks · 3 days ago

Text

Born Again

Priest!Joel Miller x F!Demon Reader

summary: you want the handsome priest more than anything, he wants you gone…but what transpires between you & him is either a curse sent straight from hell (or a twisted blessing in disguise)

word count: 5.9k

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. dark themes. no outbreak/modern AU, enemies to lovers, Catholicism themes & imagery, multiple character deaths & discussion of death, heavy priest kink, blasphemy & corruption kink, morally gray!Joel, morally gray!reader, unspecific age gap (Joel is in his 50’s & older than reader), biting & blood drinking, moments of violence, manhandling, blood imagery, unprotected p in v, oral (f & m), finger sucking, major yearning & angst, protective!Joel, use of gendered language, hint of bi!reader, one use of “good girl,” reader addresses Joel as “old man”

a/n: This is my entry for @pedgito SpringFever25 [cemetery + supernatural] please be aware of the warnings - this fic I know won’t be everyone’s cup of tea & I kindly ask if it isn’t please scroll away! Divider credit & thanks goes to the wonderful @saradika-graphics

St. Jude’s church is quaint, rather simple. A coziness inside reflects its small Texas community that sits on the outskirts of Travis County. Beautiful stained glass windows line the walls illuminating the space.

The opening hymnal starts, and you sing the songs like you care. Then your eyes are drawn forward as your prey arrives.

The priest moves around the altar, readying himself for the mass. The cream and purple ecclesiastical robes paint him a holy shepherd of his flock.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…” He makes the sign of the cross deep with an accented twang, and your lips twitch.

You never would’ve expected such a rich southern voice to leave a pastor. Then again, this man doesn’t seem like an ordinary priest.

Father Joel Miller is rugged, reminding you more of an outlaw wearing a costume. The stern look on his handsome face seals a gruff nature to him. Yet you’ve seen his soft heart when the congregation flocks to him after mass finishes.

Many in the church lust after him. You can sense it. Even if it wasn’t in your nature, it’s hard to miss the multiple women during the service batting their eyes and wearing rather revealing tops that would make a nun faint.

You aren’t the only one who wants this man. But, maybe you might be the only one who wants to devour this man’s soul.

As a demon of lust, you’ve always wondered what it would taste like to indulge with a man of the cloth.

And Joel is your perfect target.

This priest has been challenging. Unlike other humans, you haven’t been able to read his desires.

You wandered into this town a few months ago and settled in effortlessly. This church called to you like a siren’s song. The amount of carnal desire seeping out begged for you to feast, made your mouth water. Then you saw the reason why.

Currently Father Joel focuses on preparing the eucharist, his brow heavily furrowed and meditative in prayer.

Distinguished in his age, scruffy beard, strong nose, gorgeous eyes - it’s unbearable witnessing a man like him waste under the holy robes. A bitter taste fills your mouth just thinking about it.

After the service, the church opens their food drive pantry for the weekly breakfast to serve those in the community who need a meal.

It’s your first time joining.

Originally, you had planned to lurk, slowly get accustomed to being around holy ground until finally working up the strength to pounce.

But of course, being a new face in a small church, you were singled out immediately.

You shared a fake sob story about how you were searching for God. Multiple parishioners immediately took you under their wing, even dragged you to bible study. Unfortunately they’ve now roped you into helping out with the event today. But, you view it as a step closer to your handsome goal.

Except the hot priest doesn’t give you a second glance.

You try everything to be in his eyesight, purposefully being extra disgustingly holy and helping out.

Even one of the deacons compliments you.

“A young woman such as yourself taking the time on a Sunday to do this? You’re a fine example.” Deacon Matthews beams at you proudly.

Yet Father Joel ignores you, not once acknowledging your presence.

It pisses you off. Annoyed, you’re sent back to the pantry at the rectory building to put away the plates. In the quiet storage room, heavy footsteps approach behind.

You turn around -

Whatever words you want to say die in your throat.

Father Joel stands in the doorway, staring furious. This is it, your chance. An unbearable excitement bubbles in you.

“Oh, Father! I’ve been meaning to-”

Your words get cut off immediately when the priest raises up a small crucifix, clutching it painfully tight in his grasp. He remains silent.

“Wait, what’s wrong?” You’re slightly confused and glad it leaks into your voice.

“I know what ya are…” his voice rumbles low and deadly.

“God damned creature of sin, I cast you out.” He spits the words seeping with venom.

A sharp pain strikes straight into your chest as if a lightning bolt just struck you. Your eyes sting. A distorted screeching noise, an internal alarm, roars in your ears while an animalistic panic claws across your skin.

You recognize this feeling.

Once after you had slept with a nun and devoured her soul, her hellbent convent quickly found you. The head mother superior, instead of a cross, raised a rosary at you. She spoke similar words to what this priest just said, invoking the same reaction you feel now.

Everything clicks.

You bark a laugh, shaking the sensation away, and look the priest dead in the eye.

“So…You’re an exorcist, huh?” You grin surprised, borderline gleeful.

This is going to be fun.

—

You show up to mass next Sunday, walking prouder than ever entering St. Jude’s church.

Joel murderously glares at you any chance he can. You get tempted to blow a mocking kiss at him during communion.

After mass, you even stay to wish him well. The priest keeps silent, doesn’t even shake your hand. Just nods politely knowing others are around watching.

“Oh what did you do to make Father Joel look at you like that?” One of the sweet grandmothers from bible study jests with you.

“Wait, I thought he always looked like that?” You joke back. The older woman laughs, swatting your arm.

“He’s quite grumpy at first.” She nods. “But after what he went through, I don’t blame him.”

That peaks your interest instantly.

You want to ask more, see what gossip she could spill. But the woman leaves too soon with her husband, and you’re left more curious than ever.

You’re about to leave and slink back into the shadows. Until a hard hand yanks at your arm, stopping you.

Stunned, you find Joel frowning with pure malice.

His touch sparks an immediate reaction. An electric chill runs up your spin. As strong as you are, you can admit, this man must be incredibly formidable to hold such blessed power. He could burn you alive.

“If you’re going to grab me this hard, at least take me to dinner first.” You scoff.

He doesn’t say anything but drags you to a secluded area alongside the shadow of the church. He’s alarmingly strong.

“How the fuck are ya even here?” The priest snarls.

The guy knows his stuff. Normally your kind doesn't last long around churches, especially when a mass is happening.

But you’re strong too. And the sins festering in this house of worship keep you strong, tarnishing the holy ground’s sanctity.

“Maybe you need to recommend more confessions, father. Your flock isn’t as holy as you think they are.” You sneer amused, yanking your arm away from his grip.

He’s closer than ever, and a caged desire rattles to pounce. It begs, aches, for you to consume him and feast.

Soon voices approach, and you slide out from his grasp.

“See you next week.” You wave, happily slipping into the shadows.

Keeping your promise, you arrive at the church the following week. Except this time you’re here for bible study. Of course you play along, the perfect curious believer wanting to learn. But you’re honestly here for the gossip.

“So what’s the deal with Father Joel?” You ask when the pastries are brought out.

Two of the women glance at each other sharing knowing looks.

“We forgot… you’re still new here and don’t know.” One of them mutters quietly.

Apparently, the priest was married before. Not only that, he had a young daughter.

Honestly you’re not entirely shocked. He’s gorgeous. Good for him for enjoying the fun before he decided to become boring and holy.

“But the three of them were in a horrible car accident, and both his wife and daughter perished.”

You don’t have a heart as a demon. But the echoes of sorrow, emotions you understood when you were human, flutter awakened.

“That’s… awful.” You mumble.

“Isn’t it?” The other woman nods sorrowful.

He apparently begged God for mercy the day his family died.

“And after that, he took on the path of a priest.” The other woman finishes bright like this is a happy ending of the story.

You feel upset for Joel now, for his family, getting diminished as a way to remind people of God’s grace.

“Thanks to God.” You say robotically. The words taste awful, and you hate them.

When bible study ends, the sun slowly starts to sink over the horizon. Saint Jude’s is not just a simple church, but an older one. There’s even a cemetery right beside it.

You walk along the graveyard’s edge cautious not to fully step inside.

Further inside among the headstones, the priest sits on a bench beside a tree, looking down at the ground with rosary beads in hand.

Now more than ever Joel looks like a man, beautiful and human, not a holy warrior of God.

He must sense you. Immediately his eyes snap up, and pure rage twists his face.

“What are y’still doin’ here?” Joel snaps low.

“Had bible study.” You shrug.

Daring to be bold, you take one step into the cemetery.

Being in here among the dead is more dangerous even compared to the church. So you remain close to the entrance.

“Y’know I can exorcise your ass right here and now.” He growls, and it sounds beautiful.

“You’re forgetting where we are, old man.” That nickname slips from you effortlessly.

His mouth falls. Eyes, dark as the graveyard dirt, fill with trepidation. It’s a strange reaction that paints him small, almost lost and begging for something.

But you simply shrug it off, kicking a bit of dirt towards him.

A cemetery is the one true neutral place where both demon and saint can walk alongside each other. Neither you or the priest have any power here. In theory, you’re as weak as a mortal. But so is he.

“What the fuck do ya want?” Joel says exhausted with an anger brewing below his voice.

“Demons want everything, that’s a silly question.” You reply.

His earthen eyes narrow, pinning you right where you stand among the dead.

“But what do you want?” He emphasizes his words sounding delicious this calm and deadly.

“Maybe I just want you.” Your answer, earnest and casual, rings borderline soft.

Exiting the cemetery, you wave goodbye to him.

“Until next time, Father.”

A new plan of action hatches.

Being a lust demon you indeed hold the ability to sense the carnal wishes of others. But it also means you can draw out and read what a person’s desires are, erotic or not.

And you want to know why Joel desired to become a priest.

Sometimes you can catch hints of a person’s desires from those they’re close with. So since your abilities, for whatever reason, don’t work on the handsome priest, your next option is Deacon Matthews.

He’s a boring man. Has two kids about to head off to college and a wife he doesn’t know is secretly having an affair. He’s been earnestly trying to talk with you more, and you swear you catch a whiff of lust floating off him.

So you sign up for another church event. This time it’s a rummage sale. You gladly offer to help at the stall Deacon Matthews works.

You catch the look on Joel’s face when he spots you. How disgusted he scowls almost makes you laugh.

“He seems extra grumpy today doesn’t he?” Deacon Matthews notices it too, and you playfully snicker alongside him.

“What happened to Father Joel embracing the heavenly gift of joy?” You joke.

The deacon sighs. “Well, after the trials he’s been through, I understand how hard it can be for him to find grace sometimes.”

Shifting in your plastic seat, you give your full attention to the deacon. Now you sense it, the heated sensation of a man feeling eager being the center of attention.

Deacon Matthew leans closer and of course tells you the same story you already know.

So you decide to act now. You touch Deacon Matthew’s arm expressing your sympathy, but it allows your power to slowly trickle in and search.

You find a glimmer of Joel in the deacon’s memory, but a terrible sensation crashes in.

Anguish and hurt, a frozen grief ripping fierce…

The holy mantle weighs a burden for Joel.

This man swore the vows, took on the blessed robes, as atonement for letting his family die. He wants to punish himself for not saving them, believing he doesn’t deserve to indulge in this world.

Pious, prudence, all punishment.

And by exorcising demons as God’s warrior, he gets to ignore his own.

You didn’t expect this much guilt, and heaven splitting heartbreak.

It makes your lips quiver, and you can’t explain why.

Immediately your hand draws back from Deacon Matthew. His eyes have hazed over, borderline lewd, and you subtly shift away.

“I’m sorry Deacon, can you maybe get me some water?” You ask politely, faking exhaustion.

“Of course, you’ve done so much today. Sit and rest.” He agrees, eagerly scrambling out of his seat.

You exhale, closing your eyes and trying to relax in the uncomfortable plastic seat.

“What? Can’t have me so you’re going after him?” Joel’s voice cuts through sharp, and your eyes snap open.

Standing hands crossed over his chest, he wears his typical glare.

He’s in a simple black button up with the white priestly collar gleaming through. This attire shows off his built arms, his strong physical form. The afternoon light also highlights the glorious grays in his beard and hair.

He’s older, beautifully older - you know this. But it feels as if you’re finally letting it sink, like fully understanding why an art piece is stunning.

You don’t say anything, simply stare at this man who’s slowly been eating away at you.

Deacon Matthews thankfully arrives just in time. Batting your eyes, you exaggerate your thanks. The deacon blushes, and before he can even greet Joel the priest storms off.

You don’t even have the heart to go after him or even make a joke.

—

In the bible, the book of Joel tells a somber tale. Scripture depicts the prophet Joel, in the midst of a dooming plague of locusts, urges the people to repent.

You think it’s almost ironic, a sick goddamn joke, that this man is named after such a biblical figure.

Because Joel Miller has become a plague upon you.

Your thoughts are only of him. You stay at the church more just to see him.

You haven’t feasted or eaten in weeks. Your body feels exhaustedly sluggish, more human, but you don’t even mind.

A new hunger ripens in you now anyways.

At night, your fingers constantly dig deep into your pussy thinking of Joel’s firm hands all over you, strong and dangerous, burning your skin. Demon of desire or not, this craving is unbearable. Your mouth dries parched at the thought of tasting him.

More, something dark in your whispers. You want him more…

After mass, a choir member tells you Father Joel wants you to meet him in his office. This could be the most twisted trap, but you realize you won’t be mad if it is.

“Come in.” Joel’s gruff voice comes muffled through the office door.

A strange nervous energy bubbles in you. Entering the office, you feel younger than ever, faintly human.

The beige room stands desolate, spartan and bare, except for a picture of the Divine Mercy on the wall. At his desk, Joel scribbles away at paperwork.

Closing the door behind you, his eyes flicker up.

“Didn’t expect you to exorcise me in the middle of the day and with your poor cute secretary right outside. You’re getting bold, old man.” You snicker.

The priest dully glares.

“So, care to tell me why I’m here?” You ask, sliding into the seat across the desk from him.

He remains silent.

A prolonged pause follows.

“You know… this office feels very naughty professor and student vibes more than hot priest and demon-”

“Enough.” His snarl cuts you off.

He seems more on edge like he’s teetering.

An apocalyptic tension suffocates the room fast, a choking incense that stings your lungs.

Joel suddenly leans back in his chair rubbing a large calloused hand over his face.

“Do you remember… anything from when you were human?” His voice has never been so quiet.

It’s strange hearing this powerful force of a man sound this meek.

“Uh…Sorry I don’t have memories of my old life.” You tell him truthfully.

The only memory you hold of your human days is when you sold your soul. There was pain, absolute wrecking grief that was swallowing you whole. You remember wanting to save the people you love, wishing you could trade your life to keep them alive.

That’s when the quietest voice had asked among the despair - what would you trade, to save those you love?

Anything, you had sobbed out.

Then, the pain drifted away. You woke up brand new and hungry, a clean slate. Now the heartbreak that crystalized you to this new life collects cobwebs in your lost soul.

“You remember nothin’ at all?” Joel presses again, and you shake your head no.

An ancient sigh escapes him, weary and anchored by the test of time. Something in you begs to comfort him.

“You seem tired.” You comment soft.

His endless eyes find yours.

Silence settles thick in the quaint and hauntingly barren office.

There’s so much you want to say. A demonic being of craving, of want, cursed to be silent, how cruel.

You want to ask what plague has he placed upon you. Is this a new form of exorcism? What evil has he unleashed? Because you’ve never wanted someone as badly as you want him.

A knock on the door shatters the stillness.

Joel’s secretary pops her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt Father, but the archdiocese is on the phone.” She’s smug. You sensed her desire before, a powerful drunken feeling knowing she gets to order Joel around.

“Alright,” he nods, and the secretary closes the door. You don’t miss the side eye she gives you.

You take your cue and stand up to leave.

“Hey…” his voice stops you.

“Demons… they have true names. What’s yours?”

That question surprises you.

Of course you’ve been using a fake name this entire time. He must have figured that out. Smart man.

But if he knows your true name, your human name…it’s over. A demon’s true name gives an exorcist the power to permanently destroy them.

A wide knowing grin pulls at your lips.

“You still haven’t even taken me to dinner, Father.”

The smallest wave of emotion flashes across his face. A tug pulls his lips, a hint of a smile he’s fighting against.

You’re about to leave when you stop.

“Oh…Also that secretary of yours definitely wants to dom you. Don't ask me how I know.” You mention casually.

You smirk walking out of Joel’s office, especially hearing his indignant squawks as you close the door.

—

The wind blows gently, barely rustling the leaves to let the dead rest peacefully for now.

A storm approaches. Serious enough that the annual Easter festival is now in question of being canceled today.

In his simple black button up and white collar, Joel stands like an ink blot against the graveyard. You’ve noticed he always stays by this particular tree with the bench.

“I know you’re here.” Joel’s gruff sharp twanged voice pierces through the silence. His face stays focused on the gravestones, holding a rosary tight in his large hands.

You smirk and step out from the shadow of the angel statue you've been hiding behind.

This is the deepest you’ve gone into the cemetery.

“Your senses are getting better, old man.” You greet him.

He scoffs insulted.

“You know… you really are too hot to be a priest.” You’ve made the joke to him before, and you make it again.

“Pressin’ your damn luck…Remind me why I haven’t fuckin’ exorcised your ass yet?” Joel mutters rubbing his temples.

“Because I’m just too fun to get rid of?” You offer with a weak grin.

An unsettling silence grows in the cemetery.

“Or maybe…you really are here just to torment me.” The words come out mumbled, like Joel doesn’t realize he spoke them.

“I could say the same for you, priest.” You openly tell him.

Finally he turns to you.

A strange corroded weight fills your chest. You realize it’s the desire now calcified into your very being keeping you anchored to this man. You wonder if this is your eternal punishment, to crave a man you can never have.

“Tell me… What’s your real name?” Joel asks simply, no hidden motive.

Here in the graveyard, he’s just a human man. Just like you’re the whisper of a human standing before him.

A painful smile tugs at your lips.

You give him your true name, the only thing left of your humanity.

Pure dread falls over Joel’s face.

Then he snaps.

“Ya damned fuckin’ demon from hell… Get the fuck outta here!” He yells, angry and violent, like a vengeful God ripping open the sky.

Demon.

He’s never called you that. It stings more than you thought it would.

But he’s right. It’s what you are, a creature warped from a human soul now relying only on sin. Demons don’t dream. Nor do they cry. But the way your chest twists, you wonder if this is the closest it feels to crying again.

Not saying another word to Joel, you leave the cemetery.

You don’t even know why you stayed to help with the festival. You adamantly refuse to look at Joel. Everyone notices the change in your demeanor. You lie saying it’s the weather.

“Ugh, it really is quite dreary for such a holy day, huh?” The sweet elderly woman from your bible study group coo’s sympathetically. She urges you to rest in the rectory.

“No one will bother you there honey, take some time to just catch a breather.”

You take her advice, especially as the thunder rolls ominous like the heavens stand ready to strike you at any moment.

The rectory is eerily quiet. You wander around until of course find yourself at Joel’s office. You can’t take this ache raging in you anymore. Once the festival fully starts, you decide to leave in the shadows and never return.

The front door out in the main hallway opens. Spurred by a strange sense of hope, you rush out.

You’re not one for prayer, but you pray it’s Joel.

Deacon Matthews, in his boring salmon colored shirt, instead stares at you. Danger gleams in his eyes.

“Finally…I was hoping to get you alone.” His voice boils with desire, radiating from him a rancid stench.

“You’ve felt it too haven’t you? What we have between us?” He grins, a serpent slithering closer to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” You play dumb and confused.

“You've been flirting with me this entire time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” His voice jumps more erratic.

His desire is brewing to a poisonous level that threatens to clog your throat. So you try walking towards the door, but he stands firmly blocking it.

You haven’t eaten in months. Any time you consider feasting, your stomach now turns sour as you only think of Joel. He really has ruined you in so many ways.

With your senses dimmed, you’re too late to react when a greedy hand grabs your shoulders and pulls you closer.

Panic erupts. Feeling like a cornered animal, your teeth sharpen. Your hands twitch, itching for the attack. But your mouth acts first.

You bite down hard on the deacon’s hand, and a violent scream rips from him.

You haven’t tasted blood in months. This bite, you thought, should have sent you into a frenzy. Instead you gag tasting this pathetic man’s blood.

“What the fuck are you?!” The deacon yells in terror.

You realize you must look quite the monster now.

So you decide to show him.

Hellish claws, your claws, yank this man’s face closer. Then you whisper into his ear the tongue of the damned -

“…ⱤØ₮ ł₦ ⱧɆⱠⱠ…”

The deacon screams horrified.

Someone yanks you away.

Then Joel’s fist collides with the man’s face.

At the impact, Deacon Matthew’s cries in agony while Joel holds you close to his side. The smell of his shampoo, his cologne and something so familiar, surrounds you in a heavenly cloud.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch her.” Joel snarls deadly.

Blood spills across the deacon’s face and his hand while he sobs.

Joel holds you protective, hand cradling and covering your face. Slowly you revert to normal, the demonic retreating to hide.

No surprise, the commotion is heard.

People swarm in. Joel effortlessly explains what transpired and how you even used self defense against the deacon.

The bleeding terrified man however screams that you’re the monster here.

You stay quiet against Joel's side, keeping your face hidden, clinging to his black button up shirt. The church reacts ready to reprimand Matthews.

Everything goes hazy. Your head even aches painful, like something is trying to break through your skull.

“If y’all don’t mind, I’m gonna stay with her.” You hear Joel say.

Of course everyone strongly agrees. A few even offer to stay with you instead. But Joel keeps you in his hold.

In a blink, a door closes and you realize you’re in his office.

Then Joel’s hand slides up to your cheek. The simmering heat from his skin touching yours burns beautifully.

Even without the claws, or monstrous eyes, you still must look every bit a terrifying creature.

Then, with a white small handkerchief, he wipes away the blood on your face tenderly, cleaning you with the delicate care of someone who is precious.

“Y’got a good bite. Scared the shit outta him too.” Joel mutters, faintly joking, but you catch a hint of pride.

You stay quiet now.

“Hey, look at me.” Joel orders low, but concerned.

And you do. His eyes search yours.

He’s never been this close. You soak in the sight of him, a sharp gorgeous hawkish nose, aged wrinkles, soft touches of storm cloud greys floating among his chocolate curls. Heaven never looked more beautiful.

No words reach you. You can’t think of anything to say.

You don’t know who moves first, but a revelation comes when your lips surge to meet his.

It’s raw, consuming, rattling your bones.

You barely get to chase this greed, the taste of this man, before a searing pain cracks open your skull.

Your vision goes white. You don’t even know where you are.

Glimpses of home warm and welcoming, with a loving man and a wonderful daughter you’ve raised like your own, fill your mind.

Soon, the picture crystalizes clearer. The man driving, holding your hand. The young girl in the backseat laughing at something you said.

Then your world ends in fire.

The truth resurfaces you frantic and panicked, like emerging from the flood of ancient times. Blinking back into reality, everything is clear, pure as crystal.

Someone calls your name, and it sounds like home.

“Y’alright? Talk to me darlin’ please.” Joel begs frantically, still holding your face.

Darling, the word rips through you wild.

“Joel.” His name leaves you blessed and sanctified. You see him with eyes brand new.

The closest thing to a sob escapes you.

Confusion colors Joel’s face while you clutch onto him like a life raft.

You swallow hard.

“My old man… my husband.” You whisper.

You jokingly, affectionately, had started calling him ‘old man’ when he pulled his back after a job. Tommy and Sarah had laughed so hard at the nickname. Back then he was a few years older than you, but now…

Joel cracks. His face falls. Tears simmer in his eyes threatening to spill.

He kisses you again. This time it’s filled with an ache that draws you back from the grave.

The kiss grows heated fast. Desire explodes off Joel now and you want to drown in it. He licks into your mouth, pushing you against the door. You moan, sliding your hands into his hair.

Commotion returns outside interrupting the moment.

You growl annoyed.

Joel shushes you against your lips, yet his hands continue holding you tight.

Eventually you untangle out of his arms. Yet you feel like a newborn foal on shaky legs. Joel keeps you close the rest of the day. No one from the church thinks anything of it especially after what happened.

If only they saw you now.

Sprawled out in his bed, Joel devours your pussy and grinds into the sheets. You moan loud enough for all the angels to hear. He eats you starved, as if he’s found divine communion between your thighs.

“Need you inside, Joel please,” you beg, yanking at his grey curls.

Who is he to deny you, not just a demon of sin, but his wife?

Sliding into you, Joel feels like the beginning of the world, a Genesis life changing. It’s a lust that makes you melt, pure and dangerously addictive.

Joel’s lips stay attached to your skin, biting and licking every inch of you.

“Fallen Angel, light of God, you are crafted in beauty and loved.”

You remember that’s the prayer the nuns said. Now Joel whispers it reverently against your skin.

“Lost creature of heaven, you are found.”

You cum hard clutching at his shoulders. You worry about hurting him. Yet Joel bites at your skin like he’s the one now longing for your blood. You wonder if you and him could both dig into each other’s bones.

But once the passion finally simmers, and your poor husband needs to rest, the heavy reality sets in.

Naked in his arms, you know understand the strange passion and awareness Eve must have felt being in her husband’s arms after biting the forbidden fruit.

“You really sold your soul…” Joel mutters.

You sigh, rubbing your face into his warm strong chest.

“I didn’t care… I begged for anyone to save you or Sarah.” You whisper.

Your sweet sunshine girl.

Even without a heart, thinking of Sarah brings immeasurable pain. You mourn her with Joel, his arms becoming your sacred church.

—

“Sweetheart, ya need to eat,” Of course Joel notices how weary you’ve become.

“It’s okay… I’m fine.” And you’re half right. The desire unleashed between you and Joel helps maintain you enough. You wouldn’t dare devour his soul now. After all, there are other things you gladly want to consume from him.

You kiss the palm of his hand holding your face.

But ever the provider, ever the caretaker, your husband moves his hand down to your lips. His fingers trace your mouth. His eyes darken, and your body hums wanting him again.

“Bite me.” He mutters.

You bluntly tell him no.

“Do it or I’ll exorcise your ass.” His words hold no threat.

“Come on baby,” he adds, a soft purr, your personal temptation.

You’re worried. Worried if you bite you won’t be able to stop. You don’t want to hurt him.

Joel’s hand returns to cradle your face, stroking your cheek tenderly. He whispers your name.

“You won’t hurt me.” He’s always been able to read your mind.

It’s why he draws your face to his neck, the perfect spot to hide beneath his robes. Reverently you kiss his skin thanking him, then your teeth sink in as gently as you can.

His blood rushes into your mouth tasting of salvation. Your mind shuts off, instantly consumed by him. You lick and suck, pouring your devotion into this man. You moan or maybe it’s Joel. Because the way his hips grind seeking release, he’s drunk on this too.

This is the ecstasy saints dream of, a holy feast of unbelievable bliss that has you coming untouched.

This is your sacred sacrament you would die for.

—

“My husband, the priest.” You snicker watching him get ready.

You hate how incredibly sexy it is watching him slide the white collar on.

“Well, my wife’s a demon.” He smirks.

“I think there’s an actual shirt that says that.” You wonder.

Joel rolls his eyes and you laugh.

Kissing him before he heads to mass is pure sinful bliss. It only gets worse when you visit his office. Closing the door, Joel sits at his desk raising an eyebrow seeing you.

You make it known why you’re here when you sink onto your knees between his legs.

Nuzzling against his thigh, a possession overtakes. Joel’s hand runs to your face.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” You mutter peering up at him.

His thumb swipes across your lips, and his eyes melt into dark pools. Especially when you slide his thumb into your mouth and suck, moaning at the taste of his skin. Your teeth ache to bite him, taste him like you did again this morning.

“Y’look like fuckin’ sin.” He mumbles, but rapidly draws your face up closer to him.

“Gonna be my good girl and keep quiet?” He asks leaning down to kiss you, meeting you halfway. Nodding, your hands fly to his belt.

A knock on the door comes. Joel cusses sharp under his breath.

“Should let your secretary walk in and see us like this.” You grin.

He shushes you.

“Next time let’s try to fuck in a confessional.” You mutter against his lips.

“Little fuckin’ trouble maker.” He growls, a beast that you welcome with open arms.

Later, in the witching hours, you wander around Joel’s living room. You spot a photo of you, him, and Sarah at Halloween the one year she dressed up as a power ranger princess.

Warm strong arms suddenly wrap around you from behind.

Joel’s gorgeous nose nuzzles against your face.

“You don’t mind… that I’m like this and not like how I used to be.” A shadow frozen forever, a creature condemned to hell.

He places the softest kiss on your cheek.

“Ain’t who I used to be either. M’old now.” He mutters.

“You’re hotter than ever.” You tell him firmly, and Joel snorts amused.

Shifting in his arms you embrace Joel tight.

“I’m a selfish demon now. You’re the only one who can get rid of me.” Both figuratively and literally.

“Like hell I ain’t.” Joel replies firmly, inhaling your scent.

“Besides, ‘m not so holy anymore.” He adds.

“Are you okay with that?” The question escapes you quiet, small and worried.

“Wouldn’t fuckin’ change it.” It’s the last thing he says before he dives in to kiss you.

Maybe in another life you would’ve been blessed to be Joel’s wife, pure and human, would’ve grown old with him…maybe even adopted a cat like Sarah had been begging.

Heaven will never greet you. So you hold this version of it tight in your hands.

You used to wonder why you had wandered to this specific town. Now everything aligns. A piece of you was trying to return to your other half, the love of your life.

Walking into the cemetery, you find your husband again praying at his favorite spot.

That’s when you finally notice a small memorial plague against the tree. Walking towards it, you read what’s on it.

There’s a scripture verse…then Sarah’s name and yours below it.

An emotion too powerful to describe swells in you.

Done with his prayer and alone in the cemetery, Joel soothingly now rubs his hand against your back.

“Let’s head home, sweetheart.” He mutters, your home and salvation.

A particular line from the exorcism rites suddenly comes to mind -

Lost creature of heaven, you are found

As you head out of the graveyard by Joel’s side, you truly believe you are.

#yes I am posting this during h*ly week my ex c*tholic ass has to do it for the sacrament of it all #anyway if you read this you are the true blessing & I can’t thank you enough!!#joel miller x reader #priest!joel miller #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel 🤎#SpringFever25

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