#mc flurry

[raurackl]

I think people should know this.

[photo-roulette-wheel]

International Mc Flurry Flavors

[conceptofjoy]

ok so she wasnt lying. infact she was even under representing it

[rnm-magic-space-xsd]

[ithacanradio]

stop ordering mcflurries that shit is hard to pour

[sotiriabellou]

was listening to a folk song that was literally some ladys order to the local seamstress and nothing else.it was like [verse about what colour she wanted the dress to be] bomb instrumental [oh and make it from velvet obv] and repeat.i think we should do this with modern music i want the next big hit to be someones mc donalds order over the craziest beat youve ever heard

[ittybittyfanblog]

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man.  Anyway, enjoy!  This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega a little over a mile away from your apartment for about, three? five minutes– no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets were any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even was this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they were in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what were they here for? The dangers you were more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now– the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All held significant power, all held ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp–then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I guess that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response–but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man–no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors were aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck–this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic–

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly– 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You–”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool – lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him – as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for – and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you– half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

[inactiveobeymeblog]

Hcs of all the brothers with an MC who has too much stamina to tire them out and beg the MC to stop?

A/N: Sorry that it’s a “bit” late, but I did manage to get it done! Also, OMFG YES PLEASE. Hopefully I kept within range of your request with the bros. I tried to stay on task! I also depicted the MC to go rough and hard on the brothers so hopefully that's to your taste.

Rating: NSFW

Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Belphegor

Warning(s): Gender Neutral MC, no genitalia descriptions for MC but there is mentions of creampies, no pronouns for MC, no description of MC’s body or personality, bottom/sub brothers, top/dom MC

Other Tags: Overstimulation, begging, teasing, rough sex, fucked dumb, GN!MC, creampie, hair pulling, prostate milking, (etc, etc,) may be short or long depending on the character

Lucifer (Hair pulling, Overstimulation, Prostate milking, Creampie)

The first time you went down on him, he was winded

The way you pull his hair as you fuck him brutally has him whining

He thought he wouldn’t make noise, but you proved him wrong immediately

He can’t even form a simple sentence with how much you’re milking his prostate

The only words that come out of his mouth is flurries of “please”, “fuck”, and “I can’t”

He’s climaxing at least eight times before you’re spent

He’d be filled up so much it practically pouring out of him

He would also be really sore the next morning

You’d be on cleaning duty for a week

Mammon (Teasing, Fucked dumb, Begging, Overstimulation)

He’s all in (this man goes wild for it)

Doesn’t matter the place or time. If you’re in the middle of class and you get horny, he’s at your beck and call

But when you finally go down on him, you start off slow

He hates it and it’s fun teasing him

But when it comes to fucking him dumb, you make sure to go hard

He’s moaning screaming your name while begging for you to go harder

But after his first orgasm and you’re still going, he tends to get more whiny

He’d beg for you to slow down only for you to get faster

And after you’re both finished, he counts the days until the next time it happens again

Leviathan (Overstimulation, Lingerie, Begging, Fucked dumb)

He’s also definitely getting overstimulated

He’s in his demon form when you rail him so he can wrap his tail around your waist to pull you closer to him

He would place your hands on his hips no matter what position you’re in because he loves the feel of the bruising the next morning (he loves that shit)

After his second orgasm he has his tongue out and his eyes are rolled into the back of his head

He’s begging for you to go harder, to go faster, to do more

But when you both finish at the same time, he climaxes with a cry while you bury yourself the deepest you can go inside him

He’s whining and gasping as you clean him up

You’re also the one to put him to bed because you already know he’s going to be passed out

Satan (Cowgirl position, Overstimulation, Begging)

He likes to compete with you

“Who has more stamina” he says, but he knows he’s clocking out first

When this happens, he’s riding you at a brutal pace

You meet his bounces halfway and you always rub his prostate spot on and it makes him drool

Somewhere along the way, he gives up and just lets you ram into him as he sits on you

He makes a mess on your chest the first couple of orgasms

After a while, he gets too overwhelmed and he begs the best he can to get you to slow down and that he “can’t” and he’s going to cum

It takes a while for you to finish, and he feels relieved

But only you expected it when you flipped him over and continued to slam into him faster than before

Asmodeus (Overstimulation, Spanking, Rope bondage, Begging)

This man is a freak when it comes to your high stamina

He’s using it to the best of his ability because he too has a lot of stamina

He likes to test who can last longer

Sometimes it’s him and sometimes it’s you; it all depends if he plays with your kinks and fetishes

If he’s to finish first, you’ll have to tie him up and make him “beg for mercy” as he puts it

You must give him what he wants or else he’ll complain (and most likely ruin the mood)

But once you both finally get into the mood, he DOES beg and he does it so good

His whines and whimpers play like a broken record and it only makes you go faster

You don’t stop until you’re satisfied

Beelzebub (Overstimulation, Gags, Begging (whining))

Beelzebub will need a gag or something for him to bite or he’ll bite through whatever he gets in between his teeth (that could also be you)

He might also make claw marks on whatever surface he’s on

He’s whining through the gag and tears will start to form in his eyes because he’s easily overstimulated. Especially when you’re going so rough

It takes a little extra to make him climax but with the sheer amount of stamina you have, it’s an easy feat

You stroke him in time with your thrusts and he finishes with muffled screams and moans

When you’re done, he’s tuckered out and he needs some cuddling

Pull him into your lap and you’re stuck with him for the rest of the day

Belphegor (Overstimulation, Begging, Dirty talk)

He’s not really active during most days so when it seems like you aren’t going to stop any time soon, he’s hypersensitive

He’s not used to it so he’s struggling to breathe from the overwhelming sensation of you

He’d say “wait” a thousand times and he’d plead to get you to slow down

At one point, you do, but only where he looks like a complete wreck

He’d whine and ask you why you slowed down, but you just wanted to wait a little longer before finishing

When you do finish, you’re whispering dirty promises into his ear as you stroke him to his final dry orgasm

Almost immediately when you start the aftercare process, he almost falls asleep after being physically drained of all his strength

He wouldn’t say he was opposed to it either…

[d3stinyist1red]

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴄ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅs ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

yandere mc donalds worker who first sees you when you ordered some food as he cooking some patties

yandere mc donalds worker who got called and caught out of his gaze, shaking his head and finally focusing on the patties that were now burnt bc he was paying more attention to you than them

yandere mc donalds worker who the next day, he got the cashier shift

yandere mc donalds worker who hopes you come back

yandere mc donalds worker who perks up when he notices your pretty face walk through the door, opening it

yandere mc donalds worker who immediately fixed his appearance, fixing his messy hair somehow and dusting off his clothes

yandere mc donalds worker who acts as if he's the main character suddenly, flipping his hair and everything while taking your order, making sure the light is hitting the right places in his face

yandere mc donalds worker who literally is fighting his urges to put a fucking love potion in your food

yandere mc donalds worker who suddenly puts his working shirt into a tiny shirt, rolling it up to his waist like damn hoe we get it ur a skinny legend🙄

yandere mc donalds worker who literally tries seducing you in front of his boss, not giving af

yandere mc donalds worker who acts as if his job was his dream job now, waiting for you patiently so you could come back to MC donalds

yandere mc donalds worker who literally cums in ur MC flurry, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he yanks on his dick, biting his lip to hold in his quiet whimpers

yandere mc donalds worker who adds a lil extra flavour in ur MC flurry

yandere mc donalds worker who literally pays for it food despite he is literally a broke ass mf

yandere mc donalds worker who wants to give you head in the Mc donalds bathroom so bad

yandere mc donalds worker who gives you origami made flowers and hearts because he's too broke to buy real gifts

yandere mc donalds worker who luvs being ur cook and cashier<333

[doctor-tenderlover]

omfg

Wishbone in a McDonalds advert!!

[comatosebunny09]

preface [ deux ] | sylus

summary: in his haste to find you before the auction begins, sylus uncovers something much more harrowing. and he curses himself for agreeing to let you be bait in the first place.

warnings: violence, minor character deaths, human/sex trafficking, mentions of underaged girls, profanity, allusions to reader’s past as a kidnappee, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, sylus is mad murderous & an emotional wreck

tagging: @world-of-hearts, @athanasia-day, @falon-fen, @queen-serena88, @karespocketboyfriends, @mrswanel, @readerxyourfave, @sunsets-and-crows, @antonneva

notes: a continuation of this. thank you so much for reading! part 3 can be found here.

now playing: mozart - requiem - lacrimosa

The docks are deceptively quiet tonight.

Nothing seems amiss between the creeks of old wood and the slosh of waves breaking on the pier.

Sylus isn’t convinced of its purity.

Not when the tracker dwarfed in his palm blinks a steady red, signaling to your whereabouts.

He’d followed the signal here after it grew stagnant following an hour of movement away from the city. He waited another 45 agonizing minutes to make his move. Had to be sure he wasn’t being led into a trap and that wherever Fate’s men whisked you off to was where he’d find the others.

He stands on the edge of a weathered connex, the wind ominously ruffling his coat.

He studies the device in his hand. Paints a shadowy figure amid the bokeh of distant city lights glittering behind him. With one hand in his pocket, the composure adorning his features contrasts with the hushed maelstrom brewing beneath his skin.

He holds out his unoccupied hand for Mephisto to perch on, the crow materializing on his wrist as if summoned from thought. Mephisto preens himself, iridescent feathers gleaming in the moonlight. When he’s done, he fixes Sylus with a lifeless, scarlet stare before a holographic image emerges from his eyesight.

It’s a detailed layout of the docks. Metal containers, small, worn ships. For a second, nothing looks abnormal. Yet something stark white and rectangular piques Sylus’ intrigue.

Sylus scrutinizes the shape further before he makes out what it is. A semi-truck inconspicuously parked between stacked connexes. Three dark figures circle around it like wolves. Guards, more than likely armed. Whatever they’re protecting, it must be big.

“Well, that doesn’t look very suspicious at all,” Sylus drawls, scratching Mephisto’s head with appreciative fingers. The crow bows out of existence in a flurry of inky shadows and feathers, having served Sylus well.

He spares another glance at the tracker. The blip of your signal aligns with where the truck resides.

It is then that he decides to make his move.

A smirk tugs on the corner of his lips. It’s been a while since he’s gotten his hands dirty. Had you and the twins for that. The prospect of a good fight makes his fingers twitch, the tips of them sparking with dark red electricity.

In superhero fashion, he pitches himself forward, swallowed by the misty vines of his Evol, as he ascends from the connex at breakneck speed.

You’d make fun of him for being so dramatic; he’s sure of it. He’ll tell you all about his heroic feats when you’re safely tucked back in his penthouse with this night shoved into the furthest reaches of your minds.

He lands on sturdy feet. Insufferably cool as he maneuvers through the maze of cargo containers. The click of his shoes reverberates off damaged metal until he spots what he’s looking for.

The guards have yet to see him. Two of them pace back and forth at the truck’s rear. Another circles its perimeter, two hands on a rifle.

Such meager security for whatever’s housed in that trailer.

He breathes deeply. Fades into obscurity, drawn into the shadows of his Evol, preparing for a sneak attack. He doesn’t need to. Could effortlessly eviscerate the guards with a snap of his fingers. But where’s the fun in that?

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” sighs a disgruntled guard all by his lonesome in the driver seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. “What am I, a fuckin’ babysitter?” So caught up in his head, he’s none the wiser to Sylus’ appearance on the passenger side, amused, crimson eyes boring into his skull.

“You’re right,” Sylus replies, his voice abrasive yet cocky. “You don’t get paid enough.”

The driver doesn’t get the luxury of a scream before wispy, handlike tendrils snake around his neck. Bone snaps, followed by a sigh of life drained from cold lips. He dies with terror twisting his features, shepherded into the afterlife by The Boogeyman himself. His head slumps onto his shoulder as his energy flows into Sylus’ body.

“Now, what exactly are you babysitting,” Sylus ponders. The kingpin blinks out of existence again, readying himself to dispatch the other three henchmen.

Sylus doesn’t make a sound as he takes out the guard who’d wandered to the nose of the semi to ensure his cohort was still on the job. The other two, he snuffs out similarly, their blood gurgling in their throats and their bones crackling, music to his ears.

He rolls out the kinks in his neck and shoulders to ward off the stiffness as their life force seeps into his body. It’s been too long since he’s had some fun. Hopefully, this is the most action he’ll see for the night.

His eyes grow intense with concentration when he stares at the worn handles of the truck’s trailer. He burns with anticipation. With something of wariness nestled between. Your signal stops here, steadily buzzing on the tracker in his pocket. He clings to the notion that you’re inside, unscathed and none the worse for wear.

He shuts his eyes, focusing a stretch of energy on the handles. The doors fly off with a deafening screech of metal, sure to draw some unwarranted attention.

Nevertheless, with his hands in his pockets, he waits for the dust to settle. Leaps into the truck trailer with practiced ease, eliciting screams and gasps of varying pitches from within.

None of which sound like yours.

Red emergency lights flicker in the space inside. It reeks of mildew and sweat. Fear. Revulsion.

When the grime completely clears, Sylus makes out dozens of sets of eyes fixed on him. He stiffens. His blood turns ice cold.

Girls of diverse creeds, colors, sizes, and ages cower against the back of the trailer. All from him. He makes out at least 30 of them, crammed in the trailer like cattle awaiting slaughter.

Something in his chest pulls. His lips twitch with the threat of a grimace.

Those sick fucks.

Sylus is no saint. He’s done horrible things to equally deplorable people to increase his reign. To strike fear into those who would oppose him. Challenge his title as Onychinus’ ruler. But he’s never dreamt of doing something as vile as this.

There’s no telling how long Fate had them—these young women, these girls. How long they’ve been emaciated, deprived of food, water, and sunlight.

Sylus bristles as an image of you forms in his mind. A flash of a girl, young like these ones. Terrified yet burning with fury. Revenge rotting your mind, anger warping your tear-stricken features.

Speaking of you, he scans through the girls’ faces in search of yours. He doesn’t find you through their varying degrees of fright. Sucks in a breath through parted lips, his blood running cold.

He cautiously steps further into the trailer, and the girls inside shy away. He holds out a placating hand. Sure, he’s despicable. Terrifying, and the red light highlighting his imposing figure as he nears them doesn’t help matters. But he has to be sure you’re not nestled between them. Playing a cruel joke on him after he spent all this time hunting you down.

The tracker in his pocket vibrates violently. The group of women parts, cowering away from him like he’s something of a sickness. He stops in front of a girl who looks no older than sixteen. Peers down at her, and she shivers, swallowed by your coat. She ducks into the fur, shrouding herself from Sylus’ penetrating gaze.

There’s no mistaking this jacket. Pristine lynx fur.

One of the first he’d bought you when you joined his entourage. A peace offering, a sign of his unyielding protection.

You wore it faithfully like it was your most prized possession. No matter how many more Sylus stocked you with, you never let this particular coat go.

He smooths shaky fingers down the collar. Suddenly sees red when he tugs on the lapel, snatching the girl up, and she shrieks, her feet dangling above the floor. The other women yelp in terror, shrinking away from Sylus’ ire. He must look like a monster to them. As beastly as the men who ripped them from their homes. From freedom. But he doesn’t care as anguish drives him into rage.

It’s rare he loses his cool. But when it comes to you, things just hit differently.

“Where did you get this?” Sylus demands. He’s breathy. There's a manic look in his eyes. He’s desperate. Running out of time. For all he knows, they could’ve already sold you off to the highest bidder.

Or worse.

The girl donning your coat says nothing. Too shell-shocked, her voice corked in her throat. He recognizes the look in her eyes all too quickly. Well acquainted with it, having seen it too often in his enemies before he extinguished them like a candle’s flame.

Gravity comes sinking back in. Sylus scans the space around, the fear in the dank space palpable.

He peers at the girl, at his hand fisted in the coat, disgusted with himself. They’ve already endured so much, and he’s only exacerbating their torment. Gently, he sets the girl down. After her feet return to the floor, something clanks on the wooden boards, and she scurries away. Sylus kneels to retrieve it, the telltale gleam of a crimson gem causing his muscles to tense.

The brooch.

Your brooch.

The tracker.

The fucking—

Fuck!

A tidal wave of grief crashes into him. He squeezes the pendant in his hand, its intricate carvings biting into his fingers. Anguish mars his features. He pinches his eyes shut, curling into himself. The girls cling to the lining of the truck, scared witless.

He tamps down an impulse to scream. Instead punches the wooden floor. Punches and punches until the skin of his knuckles split, and his fist is raw, bleeding red.

You wanted him to find them first. These girls who’d been snatched away from their families, their livelihoods. Sold to deplorable men to do revolting things. To suffer. To die.

To you, this was personal. Sylus fought against using you as bait to draw out the ringleader of this trafficking act. But you wore him down, citing that he owed you this moment of redemption. Why you sought him out all those years ago.

You fucking martyr.

The trailer grows silent. Sylus feels numb as he stands, chest heaving. His fist has already mended itself when he dismounts the truck in a daze, leaving the girls cowering in his wake.

Luke and Kieran, as if sensing their boss’s shock, call him back to the present in his earpiece.

“Boss?” cautions Luke, the radio silence alarming.

“I’ve found them,” Sylus states, his tone grim. Detached. Dejected.

“And the little boss?” Kieran queries, optimism breaking through the static.

Sylus�� silence serves as their answer.

There’s a pause before Luke cryptically disrupts it. “On the way, boss,” he promises before the line cuts dead.

Sylus stares at the ground. Dissociates, starting away from the truck before the sound of merriment catches his ears.

His attention’s drawn to a sizable ship on the opposite side of the pier. It cuts a sleek outline against the horizon, bordered by smaller passenger boats.

He narrows his eyes. Homes in on the ship, exhaling slowly. If he were an auctioneer, he would hold it somewhere in plain sight. Somewhere seemingly innocent that wouldn’t raise any suspicions. What better guise than a party?

Hope spumes through him. Adrenaline. You’re so crafty sometimes, it hurts. The brooch was merely a marker. You knew he’d assemble the pieces the moment you found the others and left your brooch where he could track it.

You could very well be aboard that ship, waiting to be sold off. Waiting to be returned to a life you fled from years ago. He could only hope he was right in his deduction.

Sylus sinks into the vantablack abyss of his Evol, setting course for the cruise ship at the pier's edge. He clings to the idea that you’re onboard, safe and sound, waiting to cuss him out for taking so long to find you.

—

He needed a distraction.

There were too many innocents onboard. Or, so they seemed. He couldn’t glean the difference when he landed on the deck. He had a one-track mind.

A few partygoers eyed him suspiciously. Perhaps he didn’t blend in with his wind-swept hair, harrowed features, and suit stained dark with blood.

Regardless of their intrigued looks, he wended through the crowd. Scanned the scenery, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Anything to signal nefarious dealings taking place aboard the cruise ship. Anything that could lead him to you.

He’d heard whisperings as he descended to the mid-levels of the ship. Hushed tones speaking of meetings for the elite taking place on the lower decks.

He clung to the bits of information he extracted. Pieced them together. Found his way to the kitchen. The staff was clueless to his presence—or they ignored him, too busy whipping up meals for the ship’s guests.

Sylus grabbed who he assumed was the sous chef by the collar. Pinned him with a stare that promised pain if he wasn’t compliant.

The man cowered in his hold. The remaining cooks caught wind of it, shrinking away from Sylus’ imposing, blood-speckled figure. From the malevolence pouring in waves off his skin.

“There’s a fire in the galley,” Sylus stated between the man’s eyes. The sous chef looked at him with pinched brows. Confusion showed through his fear, as nothing was amiss.

Sylus would soon change that.

“I would advise you to start clearing out your staff. Now.” He punctuated his sentence with a growl, tossing the chef back a few paces until he stumbled into his coworkers.

They weren’t moving quick enough for Sylus, so he set his plan in motion. Turned a few knobs with a flicker of his Evol, a fire sparking on the stove. It erupted into something more menacing, the flames licking the ceiling, triggering the sprinkler system.

The kitchen staff finally sprung into action. Hurriedly poured out of the room as the shrill cry of the fire alarm pervaded the air.

With his hair matted to his face and his mouth drawn into a rigid line, Sylus moved further through the kitchen. Descended to the lower floors as people rushed past him, all seeking refuge from the fire.

At least this way, he could wheedle out the scum who’d taken you while sparing the innocent a horrible fate.

[myokk]

clumsy

pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

word count: 9,1k

summary: sebastian is clumsy

cw: fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, two really stubborn idiots in love to be exact, sir cadogan guest appearance, anne and imelda are the gremlin best friends every girl needs, smut (18+ ONLY), oral (f. recieving)

a/n: or: two stubborn brats make things more difficult than they have to be. I've been working on this for a MONTH more or less, ever since I drew the sketch that inspired it🫶 (I'm the world's slowest writer)

The first time Sebastian Sallow interacted with her after the fateful events of their fifth year, he fell for her.

Quite literally.

Maybe fell on her is more aptly put - Sebastian Sallow is not one to mince his words or say what he doesn't mean, after all. But, in the years to come, he always insists that he fell in love in that moment.

It was inexplicable. One moment, he was walking around, perfectly content with his loveless, boring life, and the next, his every waking moment was painful. Nobody had ever told Sebastian that being in love would physically pain or consume him so.

It all started like this: one moment, he's walking (well, striding) to Crossed Wands. Fine, he's running. Running late already, for the first meet-up of his last year. But - he isn't to blame for being late. He needed to check on something in the library - during his Transfiguration lesson, he had a hunch about something Professor Weasley had said in passing, and of course he had to go and check to see if he was right before he could even think about besting Leander in the inaugural duel of the Crossed Wands season but now, with how late he is - how many minutes ago had it started? - oh, Merlin, it's already been ten whole minutes and what if they've started without him (not that he can blame them) and -

Sebastian is abruptly pulled out of his thoughts when he collides with a strange obstruction in his way. He was just checking his father's old pocket watch, had only looked away for a split second and he could have sworn that, unless he was mistaken (which he never is), there wasn't a statue in the middle of the suspension bridge. And yet, he has run headfirst into something or someone, and now they are both flying through the air, books whirling around them in a flurry of pages and Sebastian unconsciously puts his arms out to grab her before they hit the ground and now he's holding her tight against him and they land with a loud, ungraceful thud, but at least she's not hurt.

Sebastian shakes his head to clear it after the impact that - miraculously - doesn't seem to have been as bad as it could have been, all things considered, and -

He freezes.

What has he done?

He's pressed up against the most impossibly lovely person he has ever seen quite possibly in his life, holding her tightly in his arms as she glares up at him in indignation, a faint flush spreading across her cheeks, making her face glow. Is this what the muggles mean when they say that they were struck by Cupid's arrow? Her hands scrabble uselessly at his chest as she tries to extricate herself from his grip. It's useless. Sebastian is completely frozen in place as he stares down at her, and he can feel his own face heating up at his inability to get off her. What's wrong with him?

"Sebastian," she repeats, and this time her voice registers in his brain. He realizes she has been talking to him this whole time, and as he stares at her face without comprehending - he couldn't have a coherent thought right now even if he wanted to - he sees her eyes dart quickly down, looking at where their bodies meet before she brings them back to his face, a deeper blush coming over her. "You -"

Oh, Merlin. It's her. He blinks and it's like the fog has cleared from his mind - almost, but-not-quite - and he realizes who he has unceremoniously crashed to the ground with him. The spines of the textbooks they are lying on top of dig into the arm that's pinned under her body and his other hand...he realizes (to his almost-horror) that to any students or professors walking by, it would seem as if they were caught up in quite the scandalous extra-curricular activity because his other hand is actively caressing her breast. Well, that's how it would look to any passerby, anyways.

Because there is no way he would be caught dead in such a compromising position with her.

The two of them haven't spoken since the events of their fifth year - the Year-That-Shall-Not-Be-Remembered-or-Acknowledged - and he had been perfectly content with his plan to continue this strange sort of ignoring that they had played all last year. Both of them pretending that they hadn't become impossibly close after only knowing each other for a few months - a closeness that he had gone and ruined by not knowing when to quit. All he had known to do back then was push push push because why couldn't she see things the way he had? The betrayal he had felt when she had gone behind his back to find her own way to cure his sister, and that one stupid word uttered in the heat of the moment, had caused an irreparable rift in their relationship and he would not allow himself to think about how much he missed her. Still misses her.

Just like he will not think about the fact that she is pressed beneath him in a compromising position, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she glares up at him in indignation. He continues to stare at her. Maybe his mouth is agape. She's stopped trying to get out of his grip and is resting her hands on his chest, seemingly waiting for an opportunity to push him off of her.

"Sebastian. Your hand," she repeats. "You're -"

Finally his idiot brain decides to wake up and Sebastian realizes with horror just how aroused he is at the moment and how did he never see her like this before? He gets up in a flash, pushing her back against the pile of books they're lying on top of, wondering if he can subtly adjust his robes without her realizing and then he makes the very grave mistake of looking down at her and she's still very much red-faced, propping herself up by her elbows and she looks so disheveled and lovely lying on top of the pile of books.

His idiot brain has now woken up completely, and how is it possible for one hormonal, eighteen-year-old wizard to be so embarrassed? He knocked her to the ground, pushed her further back in the books in his desperate attempt to get away from her, and now all he can think about is how to hide his arousal. Shameful, really. Sebastian quickly crouches down to help her pick up all of the books but she shoves him away and glares at him with an annoyance that he's never seen before.

"I can do it myself, thank you very much," she says with a huff, gathering everything they spilled up into her arms. She grabs the book Sebastian is holding out of his hands and he inhales sharply at the touch of her fingers grazing his.

Did someone - Garreth, maybe - spike his pumpkin juice with Amortentia during lunch? It's the only explanation he can think of as he stares blankly down at her. How else would he find her so beautiful, so breathtaking, when the last time they had interacted, Ominis and Anne had had to act as intermediaries for the two of them?

"Well," she says finally, slinging her school bag over her shoulder once all of her books have been unceremoniously shoved inside of it, "it's been...nice seeing you again, Sallow. I hope you had a good summer holiday."

And with that, she quickly turns and walks away in the direction she had been coming from, leaving a very confused Sebastian behind. He watches her as she walks away and her long, swishing braid is the last thing he sees before the door closes behind her at the far end of the bridge.

Eventually, he gathers his wits and wanders away.

He does not go to the first Crossed Wands meeting that afternoon after all.

She has not had a full-night's sleep since he somehow cursed her mind and her thoughts a week ago, and she can feel herself slowly slipping into insanity. A curse is the only answer that makes sense, the only thing that gives a conceivable answer to all the wicked dreams she has been having since that moment, dreams that cause her to wake up sweaty and breathless and needing him in the middle of the night in a way she has never felt before. She has been an absolute mess, a disastrous version of her normally quite put-together self, and she is not happy about it.

He's sitting next to her now - they were partnered up by the evil Professor Onai in their first NEWT Divination class of the year - and she's holding herself rigidly, arms tight across her chest, in an attempt to not accidentally touch him. Lately, every single time they make fleeting eye contact across the table during breakfast, or when they pass each other in the hallways, a shiver runs down her spine at the unfamiliar look in his eyes and she has to avert her eyes before it's too much.

Divination has never been a favorite subject of hers - too impermeable for her tastes. She is only taking it at the NEWT level because, during her career counseling with Professor Ronen at the end of her fifth year, he had said that if she wanted to be an Unspeakable she couldn't just work with logic (a preposterous thought, but as a sixteen-year-old she hadn't seen any recourse in arguing with the Ministry's requirements). She supposedly needs to get comfortable with the intangible as well. It doesn't mean she has to enjoy it, though: she doesn't, and never will. The Divination classroom is dark and stuffy, tucked away in one of the highest towers of the castle, and the nauseating smell of incense always coats her nasal cavities long after the class has finished. She finds her thoughts getting muddled in the haze of candle smoke and swirling orbs on the shelves around her - magic somehow always feels thicker up here - and the presence of a certain someone whose knees keep brushing hers under the tiny table they're sharing, a certain someone who has - improbably, inconceivably, impossibly - hit a growth spurt that summer and now towers over her and had encompassed her completely when he knocked her to the ground, isn't helping her concentration at -

"This week, we are going to review everything we learned together last year," Professor Onai says, after the class had rearranged itself based on her instructions. Sebastian shoots a look at her as she shakes her head in an attempt to clear it and sits up straighter. She hopes that Onai's lecture will help her concentrate and clear her mind a bit. If she has something to focus on, to try and think of and remember, it will be better than him. Anything would be better than Sebastian. Onai gives an appraising look to each table before continuing her speech. "As your NEWTs are at the end of the year, we need to make sure you are as prepared as possible. Open your books to page two-hundred and thirty. Today we're going to review the art of palmistry. I should hope that you do not need the aid of your textbook to help interpret the lines in your partner's palm but in the case that you do -"

She chances a glance at Sebastian before getting out her copy of Divining the Undivinable from her bag and wishes she hadn't. He looks uncomfortably big sitting on the tiny tea chair across from her, barely any hints of the boy who had completely swept her away two years ago visible on the sharper planes of his face. When had he - had they - grown up?

Sebastian Sallow was - is - charming, and that had been her downfall. She had successfully avoided his charms the year before, and she wasn't going to let that happen this year, no matter how much her body rebelled against her mind and resolve. Because, as she reminds herself, Sebastian Sallow is also manipulative, and cold-hearted, and selfish.

"Well," she says archly, opening her book. She will not look at him. "I suppose I am still quite ignorant of the practice of Divination, so do forgive me if I have to double-check my readings in the textbook."

He says her name as she opens the book, and she ignores him. He says her name again. She continues to ignore him. He grabs the book from her hands and puts it the correct way for her. She was looking at it upside-down. Her cheeks heat up and she continues flipping through the pages, as if nothing has happened. She finds page two-hundred and thirty. She pretends to be interested in what she sees.

(Divination is unfortunately not interesting.)

Oh, fine.

"Do you want to start, or should I?"

These are the first words she has voluntarily spoken to him - not including the events of last week, which do not count as they were most decidedly not voluntary - since he called her ignorant a year and a half ago. He somehow looks surprised to see that she has addressed him, and for some reason this fills her with rage and a strange sort of confidence. Why shouldn't she be able to talk to him?

"Here," she says, putting her hand out towards him, palm up, ignoring the strange fluttering feeling in her chest when he gently grabs it with one of his. Sebastian looks up at her, waiting for her to continue speaking, and were she not looking at him so intently she would have easily missed the bob of his throat as he swallows nervously. "Show me how it's done."

Her breath catches in her throat at the small, mischievous smirk he shoots to her before he bends over her hand and gently starts tracing the lines on her palm with the fingers of the hand that's not holding hers in place. His touch is feather-light and somehow soft, despite the roughness of his fingers as they drag over her palm. Every nerve in her body seems to have moved to wherever he touches and all of the bravado and anger she had just felt is quickly melting away. When she finally finds her voice, she hates how soft and breathy it sounds. She can't look away from the sight of his larger hands caressing hers.

"Well? What do you see? Do you remember the different lines? Because I -"

She falters. The murmurs of their classmates blend together in the background and the dim lights of the candles...the hazy, thick atmosphere and his proximity and the barely there touches of his rough fingertips on her sensitive palm are altogether too overwhelming and she needs to get out of there. She's supposed to be angry with him. Furious, even. Holding this grudge has been the only way she has been able to have any sort of power over him this past year, and yet...all she can think about at the moment are the sinful dreams she's been having lately where he presses her against a wall, desperately kissing her lips, her neck - even she knows that there has to be more to it - but what?

Sebastian blinks as she snatches her hand away like it's been burned and - oh, Merlin - she shoves the textbook back into her schoolbag and almost knocks the candle on the table over and wouldn't it be awful if she had started a fire? But she can't think about any of that now in her haste to just get out of the claustrophobic Divination tower.

Vaguely, she can hear Professor Onai asking her if everything is fine and she's not sure but she thinks she mumbles something about needing to go to the Hospital Wing - that's a good enough excuse to leave, isn't it? - but then she hears his voice, deep and cutting through the fog in her mind -

"Don't worry, I'll take her and make sure she gets there fine." A muffled response from their professor and then his voice, just as clear as before. "No, I don't know what happened..."

She hears him calling her name as she flees down the spiral staircase, almost tripping over her feet in her rush to get away from him, but he catches up quickly, reaching out to grab her arm in an attempt to slow her down. She stops running immediately - she supposes her traitorous body wants to see what he has to say, or maybe it just wants to bask in his intoxicating proximity. He crowds her space, and she sees that unfamiliar look in his eyes again. So very different from the cold disdain she had seen the last time she had been this close to him, during the argument that had ended their friendship.

"Let go of me," she whispers, but there's no conviction in her voice as she gazes into his deep, brown eyes. He can tell she doesn't mean it and doesn't make any move to listen to her. Why can't she hold on to the rage? A muggle quote about anger floats through her mind: Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. What a sweet poison her anger at Sebastian had been, while it lasted. She tries telling herself that he must still feel the same as the evening he had called her ignorant (ignoring the small voice in her head that reminded her of the letters of apology he had sent (that she had burned without reading), the times he had tried to get Anne or Ominis involved and apologize for him) - because why couldn't he just tell her himself? Maybe she had shut down any and all attempts he had made to repair the rift that he had caused in the first place, but she had been right to be so angry with him.

But oh, Merlin, he's getting closer to her, and she can now clearly see the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose and forehead and then before she knows it, his hand is sliding up her arm, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches and then he's caressing her jaw with his rough thumb and he pauses. Her eyelids flutter closed as her head tilts towards him - she couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to (what does she want?). She can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips and she has the improbable, ridiculous thought - how is he remembering to breathe? - before he speaks. His lips brush against hers with every soft word and a deep shiver runs through her body.

"I," she hears him say, his voice so, so low, "haven't been able to think since last week."

That's all she needs to hear, the brush of his bottom lip against hers all she needs to feel, to push her into closing what minuscule distance there is between them and then his lips are on hers and it's better than anything she's been imagining. His mouth is soft against hers, insistent, and her hands go up to grip the collar of his plaid jacket to make sure he doesn't go away or disappear on her.

She knows she's behaving wantonly, snogging Sebastian Sallow in the middle of the hallway where anyone could come across them, but third period has only just started and besides, she has had a week of restless nights being tortured by thoughts of him. A week of a few hours of sleep found here and there. Just one kiss should be enough to help her get over these strange feelings, right? She only feels like this because having him lie on top of her after he crashed into her - that satisfying weight of him - the friction of his thumb brushing against her nipple - had made her realize just how stupid she had been, holding this grudge against him for -

She whimpers in protest but it quickly turns into a moan as his mouth moves away from hers and down to her neck. He pulls at her tight collar desperately - she hears some seams ripping - to give him better access to it, and she finds herself arching her back and pushing her body closer to his as he nuzzles her neck with his nose before giving it open, sloppy kisses. When he hears her, he moves back to kissing her, greedily capturing every breathy moan that comes out of her mouth, but the noises coming from him are matching hers, and at the sound she feels an unfamiliar clenching deep in her stomach. Her fingers come up to his hair, going through the silky curls over and over - how are they as soft as his lips? - and he slowly pushes her back until she's sandwiched between his warm body and the cold stone of the wall behind her.

He lets out a low, frantic growl as a hand goes to grip the back of her head, holding her in place as he slants his mouth over hers. He tastes like cinnamon and...like something forbidden. What has gotten into her? She hates him, and yet...

They have abandoned any pretense of propriety - had they ever even been trying? - by this point. His tongue swipes across her lips and then she is completely lost to him, to every sensation of his mouth, and tongue, on hers. His large hands - the wicked hands that had been caressing her palm and had caused this whole mess in the first place - have moved to her waist and are pulling her even closer to him. When he pulls away briefly, she whines in protest, opening her eyes to glare at him. The sight of him, flushed and breathless, his eyes wide and pupils dilated - must match her own appearance because she sees the same hunger she feels in his eyes. She has never seen Sebastian Sallow so disheveled, but she finds she quite likes it and tugs on his curls with a whine. He obliges eagerly, bringing his mouth back to hers.

She's pressed as tightly against him as she can possibly be, and yet it still isn't enough. Her back arches once again, trying to find something, and then he slots one of his knees between her legs. She moans at the friction caused by his movements, can feel an unfamiliar slickness forming at the juncture between her legs, and this seems to spur him on further as his kisses get more desperate and sloppy. She moves against his leg, trying to relieve some of her discomfort, gasping into his mouth, when -

They freeze. Even if they are fully, completely, absorbed by...whatever this is, they can't ignore the strange, metallic clanking sound coming from their left. Sebastian pulls his head back from her slowly, reluctantly, breathing heavily, and looks over to see what the noise is. She wants to, but all of a sudden the horrifying reality of what they've been doing sinks in and oh god what if the noise is a person? Someone who has now seen her in what might possibly be the most mortifying moment of her life - desperately snogging Sebastian Sallow - and she finds she can't look over. She tucks her head into his neck to hide her face as she listens.

"I demand that you get away from her at once, you knave! Cease your attack!"

The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but she's certain that it doesn't belong to any of her classmates. He almost sounds...medieval, but -

"I made haste when I heard sounds of distress coming from down the hallway," the voice continues, "and it appears I have arrived not a moment too soon!"

She brings her head away from Sebastian's shoulder but still refuses to look over at whoever is speaking, instead choosing to stare at Sebastian's face. He's still deliciously flushed from their snogging, still breathing heavily, but now he looks terribly confused. His brows are furrowed, mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with a response to the outrage currently being directed at him.

The unknown man is continuing his diatribe, almost not even stopping to breathe as he gets more and more worked up, and she hears some more clanking as he reaches a particularly exciting moment in his rant. Sebastian looks increasingly confused, but still shields her with his body, not moving away from her at all despite the accusations.

Her curiosity gets the better of her and she peeks over to see who it is.

The man who has been reprimanding Sebastian so boldly is none other than Sir Cadogan. Although she's never interacted with him directly, she often hears him yelling at his pony as she passes his portrait on her way to Divination. The knight is standing between two witches having tea, who are glaring at him quite angrily as he gesticulates wildly - every movement of his sword comes dangerously close to their display of cakes and sandwiches and it looks like he has already broken some plates. His armor is ill-fitting and loose on him, which explains the terrible noise.

"You rascally knave! I assure you that you do not want to find out what will happen to you if you do not unhand the fair maiden."

He brandishes his sword again, and the woman closest to him quickly snatches her tea cup away to save it from being broken as well. "Come now, Sir Cadogan," she says, exasperated. "Can't you see that these two are in love?"

The other woman joins her protests, nodding vigorously. "Yes, exactly that. Leave them be!"

"Nonsense," he exclaims. "I too have succumbed to my baser instincts on occasion and I can assure you that this is decidedly not what is occurring."

As Sir Cadogan continues to alternate between lecturing her and Sebastian, and directing his two attention to the ladies who are defending them, she looks back to the boy in question. Sebastian is looking down at her, a bemused smile on his lips and she feels a twinge in her chest. His face is still so close to hers that if she wants to, they could be snogging again with barely any effort and her eyes briefly flicker down to his tempting mouth before going back to his eyes, but...

What had gotten into her? What is she doing?

He had somehow managed to manipulate her again, because there is no way that this situation could have happened otherwise. All of a sudden, the anger she's been feeling for the past year and a half - that had left for a brief, blissful moment - surges again, and she pushes Sebastian away from her with as much force as she can muster. She almost feels bad as the happiness in his face turns to confusion, then frustration as he realizes she's getting away from him.

"Stay away from me," she hisses, picking up her discarded schoolbag from its spot on the ground. As she stalks down the hall, she can hear Sir Cadogan cheering on her bravery over the ringing in her ears.

She has a lot of thinking to do.

Sebastian Sallow's List of Priorities (in no particular order):

Figure out what the hell I'm going to do when I graduate;

Figure out how the hell I'm going to finish this bloody Charms essay before tomorrow; and

Figure out what the hell is going on between us

Sebastian sits in an undisturbed corner of the library - nobody ever comes to this table because it's tucked away between shelves of incredibly dense magical theory books - and is twirling his quill in his fingers, watching the ink splatter on the list he spent his precious time writing instead of the Charms essay he should be working on. He's far away from the first-years who like to congregate by the windows and watch the leaves fall softly to the ground rather than study for their classes. He's made especially sure that he is far, far away from her.

It's not his choice, mind you, but he needs to be a gentleman about these things. If she needs some time and space to figure out that she's as crazy for him as he is her, fine. But even Sebastian Sallow's patience runs thin, and he's not sure how much longer he can give her to come to her senses before he snaps and takes matters into his own hands. If things were up to him, the two of them would be sitting far too close together now in this secluded corner, and maybe he would need to put a hand over her mouth to ensure her complete silence as he runs a hand up her thigh.

Now that he knows what delicious sounds can come out of her mouth - sounds that he caused - he's been having a hard time concentrating on, well, anything. Sebastian surreptitiously glances across the library to where she's sitting and studying with his sister and Imelda. Ever since the events after their Divination class, Sir Cadogan has taken it upon himself to follow Sebastian around the halls of the castle, tripping through frames and disrupting their inhabitants as he lectures Sebastian on love. The tea party women had managed to convince the knight that he had disrupted an amorous exchange, and Sebastian fervently wishes they hadn't.

The whole school is abuzz with rumors about who it could be. Nobody has even come close so far with their guesses, but Anne and Imelda are having too much fun teasing him about it. Somehow, she has managed to avoid suspicion - he wonders how this is even possible, since she's never been able to hide what she's thinking. He makes eye contact with her - has she been staring at him this whole time? - and she flushes before looking over to Imelda, who's laughing too loudly at something Anne's just said. Sebastian can't tear his eyes away from her profile, his eyes following the curve of her eyebrow, the slight upturn of her lips as she smiles at her friends, her eyes as they dart back to him, her cheeks as she turns an even darker shade of red as she realizes he's still watching her. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and rests her chin on her hand as she tries to look absorbed in what Anne is saying to her.

Sebastian wonders if she's thought about him as much as he's thought about her. Judging by how she had snogged him back, he's positive that she feels the same way, but then he remembers how she had looked at him before she fled, and he's not so sure. He sighs as he looks back to his list, bringing his quill back to the third item and ripping the paper as he crosses it out again. His mind has been going in circles since that moment and he doesn't know what to think. He slowly puts everything into his schoolbag before heading out of the library for yet another freezing cold shower that hopefully tempers his now-permanent state of arousal whenever she's around.

He doesn't notice her eyes following him as he walks out of the library.

He doesn't hear her hurried excuse to Anne and Imelda as she shoves her things into her bag and rushes to follow him.

He doesn't hear her light footsteps as she gets closer to him.

When she puts a hand out to touch his arm as he waits for the moving staircase to stop, with a soft, "Sebastian" accompanying it, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He was so absorbed with thoughts of her, that to see her standing at his side, closer than she had been since they kissed was almost his snapping point.

"Can we talk?" she asks, looking almost embarrassed as she avoids his eyes. She instead looks determinedly at his collar. He thinks she probably notices that he swallows nervously before acquiescing, but she says nothing as she turns and starts hurrying away from him without waiting to see if he follows her.

She must know that he would follow her anywhere at this point.

They weave through hallways - Sebastian vaguely wonders where exactly they're going - before reaching a little alcove, hidden by a suit of armor. She looks around before pulling him into it. It's almost curfew and the halls are never that busy when the weather is as beautiful as it has been these days - the end of September seems to be clinging on to the summer for as long as possible.

Her lips are on his before he can even ask her what she needed to talk with him about, hungry and desperate. Sebastian is too stunned to pull away - not that he would actually want to. Her arms wrap around his neck, keeping Sebastian close, slender fingers sliding through his hair.

"What," she says breathlessly between kisses - almost not even moving her mouth away from his enough to be able to enunciate properly, "are you doing to me? I haven't been able to think for the last month."

Sebastian smiles into her mouth, wondering if she knows that she's repeating the very thing he told her two weeks ago. Maybe she has been thinking of him all this time - he almost hopes that she's been suffering as much as he has. Instead of responding, he moves a hand to cup her jaw, deepening the kiss. His other hand moves to her waist, gripping it tightly, pulling her flush against his body and she gasps into his mouth. He slowly moves her closer to the window alcove behind them, snogging her senseless the whole time. She moans into his mouth which just spurs him on further - her skirt rides up to her hips as Sebastian trails a hand up her stockinged thigh and they both gasp when his hand reaches skin. Her skin is so, so soft and her breathing gets faster as he continues to caress her inner thigh, closer to the bend between her thigh and her center. Sebastian wonders if she's ever been touched there before by someone else and jealousy flares up inside of him at the thought.

In one swift move, he scoops her up and places her so that she's sitting on the window-ledge, the dusky light of the sunset illuminating her from behind and making her wispy flyaway hairs a golden halo around her. Sebastian's breath catches in his throat - has he ever seen anything so beautiful as her in that moment? - she's staring up at him, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, her breathing shallow and anticipation in her eyes. "You're," he starts saying and his throat goes dry. He brings a hand up to tuck the errant lock of hair - the one she had tucked earlier in the library - behind her ear and she leans her head into his touch, closing her eyes briefly before looking up at him again with wide eyes. "You're perfect."

She smiles faintly and pulls his head back down towards hers and now she's brushing her lips against his, teasing him, before it's too much and he grips the back of her head, holding her in place as he crushes his mouth against hers in a bruising kiss. Her knees are on either side of his waist, and she desperately grinds her core against his throbbing erection and they both groan at the friction. Sebastian moves his hands down to her thighs again as he kisses her, slowly caressing his way up and pushing her skirt up further until it's completely bunched around her waist. She gasps into his mouth at his first tentative touch after he pushes aside her undergarments. Sebastian swipes a finger up her slit, through the slick that coats it, and then he starts circling her clit with slow, even strokes. She shivers against him - at his touch - clinging tightly to his shoulders and gasping into his mouth as he continues.

Every little noise coming out of her mouth, feeling how wet she is, how the slickness keeps growing growing growing makes Sebastian hungry for more - it isn't enough -

Slowly - so slowly - he wants to savor this moment - he lowers himself until he's kneeling between her legs and he looks up at her. Her face is deliciously flushed, all swollen lips and hair in a wild cloud around her face and all she can do is stare down at him. Her chest is heaving and she tries to close her legs - hide what is exposed to him - but he holds her thighs firmly in place on either side of his head. He turns his head and kisses her inner thigh, maintaining eye contact as he swipes his tongue across where he's just kissed, moving closer towards her slick center.

"Oh," she breathes, not-quite-a-word, not-quite-a-gasp, when his mouth reaches her center and hovers over it, lips slowly teasing her the way she had just teased him. Sebastian tentatively runs his tongue up her slit; the loud moan she lets out when he reaches her clit makes him stay there, applying light and not-so-light pressure in equal measure.

Her hands are scrabbling at his hair, digging into his scalp, ruining his earlier attempts to make it look presentable, hopefully attractive, for her these days. She's pushing his head deeper into the space between her legs, starting to rock herself slightly on his mouth, and Sebastian is happy to oblige. He eagerly laps up her slit, and the obscene wet noises as he continues combined with her whimpers and barely-spoken profanities "oh-yes-fuck-yes-there-please-" are making him hard beyond belief. He's straining against his trousers, begging to be let free. Without moving his face from her, he unbuttons his trousers and starts palming himself, using the slickness weeping out of the tip as lubrication.

She's abandoned all control at this point, grinding herself into his face as he laps her up, and it's driving him wild - knowing that he's doing this to her - causing her to be so undone. Normally she's so poised and aloof, never letting any real emotion flicker across her face, so to see her so desperate and needy and wanting him so -

Sebastian's gasping into her, tongue deep inside of her, "ohmygod" he hears her whisper, her hips driving into his face when she shudders and goes still, pulsing around the tongue that's deep inside of it. He slows down, smiling as he continues to run his tongue up her slit until she's responsive again. He kisses her inner thigh and hears her moan before getting up, caressing a finger down her love-struck face and leaning his head down to kiss her deeply. With his other hand he's still touching himself - the thought that she can taste herself on his tongue driving him crazy - and he starts rubbing its blunt head against her swollen clit. She takes it out of his hand- he groans at the feeling of her soft hands (the hands he had held a week ago in Divination and pictured doing this exact thing) tentatively caressing his length before she begins to slide it up and down her slit, coating it in her wetness.

Sebastian has surrendered all control to her - resting his hands on either side of her hips on the windowsill, tucking his head into the crook of her neck and thrusting with her movements as he loses himself in the sensation of sliding through her slick folds. He can feel his release building building building, and when he finally comes, all over her perfect, pink center, it feels like a finally.

Sebastian feels so, so heavy as he pulls his head away from her shoulder, as if he could fall into a blissful sleep right there, in the little window alcove where they've hidden themselves away. The sun has now set completely and they're in shadow as they stare at each other, the sound of their ragged breathing filling the tiny space.

"Sebastian, I..."

She's staring at him with an unfathomable expression on her face, still holding him in her hand, her other hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. They look down and he feels his face heat up even more at the mess he's made - he quickly pulls out his wand and cleans her up, before looking back at her, giving her a wry smile as he buttons up his pants and helps her off the ledge. "What did you want to talk to me about, again?"

She gives a slight shake of her head and looks away, but she can't hide the small smile that's growing on her face just like she can't help her eyes that keep wandering over to his. He knows the growing smile on his face matches hers - did that really just happen? She reaches over to lace her fingers through his as they walk around the suit of armor. "I - it's not important."

"Come on," he says, not being able to resist the opportunity to tease her - he's somehow managed to break through the barriers she's set up around her, and he's not about to let the opportunity slide. "Surely that's not what you had in mind when you..."

Sebastian trails off as he sees the expression in her face turn to one of horror - he didn't think his teasing was that bad, was it? - but she's also pulling her hand out of his like she's been burned and -

He follows her gaze, to where it's fixed at the end of the hallway and he knows that once again his face mimics hers. He will never live this down.

Standing at the end of the hallway and looking like two cats who've just found a huge dish of milk, are his sister and Imelda.

Misery.

Complete and utter misery are what she's feeling, if she has to put it into words, which she does. Writing things down always helps her out, helps her organize her thoughts into some sort of order. Except...this time around, it's not really helping. She can't seem to make any sense of her feelings for Sebastian.

She looks over the muddled mess of words she's written down - stream of consciousness, incomprehensible babble - and sighs. She's been dreaming of falling in love since she was a young girl - Jane Austen will do that to you - and can't believe that now that she's had her opportunity, it has to go and be with Sebastian Sallow. Because it has to be love, hasn't it?

There can be no other explanation for the painful way her stomach twists itself up whenever she catches a glimpse of him these days, the way he's consuming her every thought - even when she's dreaming she can't escape him. She can't get the sight of his tousled curls between her legs, his mischievous, warm brown eyes looking up at her as she had the most mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasm of her life - none of the times she's touched herself have ever come close to the sensations he managed to evoke.

Every time she's walking through the hallways between classes and hears his loud voice as he jokes with Garreth, or Ominis, about quidditch or Merlin-knows-what her eyes snap to his face as if he were the sun, and she a sunflower searching for its warmth. And he is most decidedly not the sun. He has the tendency to snort when he laughs, and he laughs too much, especially at his own jokes. Sometimes he talks while he eats. He always twirls his quill between his long fingers in the most annoying way, splattering ink onto any parchment unfortunate to be caught underneath. But he also...

He also always goes out of his way to prepare Ominis's Potions ingredients (why Ominis decided to take and was accepted into NEWT level is a mystery to everyone), occasionally stops to play a round of gobstones with Zenobia when he has the time. Sebastian can often be found in his favorite armchair in the Slytherin common room, resting his face on his hand as he idly flips through the pages of some book, looking altogether too handsome as he does so. And when he stretches and yawns at the end of every Arithmancy lesson - like he is now - his shirt lifts up a bit and she can see a tan sliver of his stomach and -

Snapping in front of her: she blinks and looks over: when she sees it's Imelda her face immediately turns beet red and she grabs the paper she's been doodling on and rips it to shreds as fast as she can.

"Are you fantasizing about a certain annoying someone?" Imelda asks with a wicked grin, dramatically looking over her shoulder at the certain someone in question. He's still stretching, blinking sleepily; when he notices the two girls watching him he flushes deeply. Her stomach twinges again at the sight of him noticing her - has he thought about her since that moment as much as she has? What would she do if he had? Or...if he hadn't? - and she focuses instead on the paper she is currently destroying.

"Imelda," she hisses, glaring at her best friend, "stop."

Imelda does not stop.

Imelda doesn't stop during their walk to Herbology, and she does not stop as they set up their planting stations, and she most certainly does not stop as they mutter charms over their plants.

Ever since she experienced the most wonderful moment in her whole life, followed by the most mortifying, Anne and Imelda have not stopped pestering her about it. They've finally solved the 'Sir Cadogan Puzzle' - I knew it was you all along, claims Anne - but if they truly knew what had happened between her and Sebastian, she's afraid the two of them would simply combust. She loves them dearly, but they never know when to stop, and they've been pushing and poking and prodding her for more information the whole week. She has managed to remain tight-lipped and, she hopes, mysterious about the whole thing, but she's getting tired of the teasing.

"Really," Anne says, wiping her forehead and leaving a trail of dirt behind, "if you would only talk to him, I would stop bothering you. Promise."

"Yes," chimes in Imelda, on her other side, wrestling the leaves of her own plant into submission. "You know, after we saw the two of you holding hands and looking at each other with stars in your eyes, I'm really starting to doubt that you hate him as much as you claim."

"Were the two of you snogging in secret all of last year too? Because, I'm starting to get annoyed thinking of all the times I had to talk to my brother for you because of your stubborn pride."

Does she still hate him? She certainly thinks she should, but then her thoughts get terribly confusing as she continues to think about him, and she realizes all of her old hatred has long since faded. Anne has forgiven her brother, Ominis has forgiven him, and all that remains is her.

They should talk, but she doesn't know what to say.

She's afraid that maybe the man she's been inventing in her mind this past month is simply a figment of her imagination - a fictitious being created by an accumulation of stolen glances when he doesn't know she's watching, someone who all of their classmates seem to like, someone who is very different from the fifteen-year-old boy she had that terrible argument with all that time ago. Maybe he doesn't actually exist.

She would be crushed if he's hiding the fact that he still holds on to that desperate darkness that had driven him to save Anne by any means necessary.

And so she keeps her space. She watches him from afar, feeling the hatred slowly melt off of her, falling more in love every day, but too cowardly to make the next move.

Anne and Imelda continue bantering on either side of her, not noticing - or, more likely, not caring - that she isn't participating.

Sebastian's hands are sweating. He wipes them on the inside of his robes as he glances at the girl next to him. She's holding herself rigidly, but she did this to herself, sitting next to him at dinner as she had.

Well, sitting next to him hadn't been completely her idea if he's being honest. He'd been having dinner with Anne, and the two of them were dying of laughter as she recounted seeing Duncan Hobhouse get tormented by Peeves earlier that day. One moment, Anne had been demonstrating what she had seen using her potatoes and green beans as props, and the next, a particularly evil grin had lit up her face as she pushed her plate away with gusto and jumped to her feet, calling her over.

"It would be such a shame for these potatoes to go to waste, seeing as I have a very important meeting to attend," Anne had said, after pushing her friend into the very tight space at Sebastian's side. "Never mind the mess, I can assure you I didn't actually eat the food..."

And with that, Anne had flounced away, Imelda on her arm, the two girls cackling to each other as they snuck wicked glances over their shoulders at the couple.

A couple who is now steadfastly avoiding each other and trying their hardest not to even brush elbows. Sebastian is altogether too aware of her presence, has been for the better part of a month, and his patience is dangerously close to snapping. He keeps getting maddeningly close to finally getting her to open up to him - had actually achieved it for a few blissful moments - just to have it be taken away again. It's almost embarrassing how many times he's thought about their encounter. She had been everything he'd been dreaming about and more - soft, responsive, just as desperate as him - so why has she been avoiding him so thoroughly?

Yes, he's caught her staring at him more times than he can count, with that same unfathomable expression she had before, almost dreamy - wistful - could it be love? But he knows that it's preposterous, wishful thinking on his part. If it were love - if she felt the same crazy, tumultuous emotions that he was feeling constantly - she wouldn't be so cold towards him. Even if she was staring at him more than ever before.

He doesn't notice as she slips a folded paper into the book sitting next to his plate, but he does notice that she sits next to him for barely five minutes, not even touching the food that Anne has so graciously left her, before she gets up and slips away without so much as speaking a single word to him, or even looking in his direction at all.

Sebastian's sitting in a nearly empty common room after curfew, flipping through his book as he normally does this time of day, when she sees him pause.

Although she's been waiting for this moment, watching him from the corner she's tucked herself away in, she feels ready to pass out from nerves. Her heart's ready to burst out of her chest as she watches him curiously pick up the letter she slipped in his book earlier, brow furrowed. She wrings her hands nervously as she watches him read the letter and flip over the page to see if there's more, and then he goes back to read it again from the beginning.

She wasn't expecting him to read it a second time, let alone a third time, still with an inscrutable expression on his face. Maybe she should have positioned herself closer so she could see every emotion flickering through his face as he reads - she's too far away to see anything and she curses her lack of foresight. If she moves now, he'll see her, and she doesn't even know what she was thinking when she wrote the letter, when she managed to convince Anne to help her get close to Sebastian earlier that night during supper, when she moved herself to sit in this corner just so she could watch him find and read the -

"Hello."

She nearly jumps out of her skin with a muffled shriek at the sound of his voice so close to her. Why does she feel almost guilty when she looks up at him? She's so, so afraid.

Emotions have never come easily to her. Showing them is something she's not sure will ever come naturally - Anne and Imelda can laugh and shout without a care in the world, but she always holds herself back. Hides a small part of herself away, that only she knows about. Baring herself completely to Sebastian in the letter she feverishly wrote the day before was like ripping out a part of her soul and giving it to him to keep. Once the words were written down, there was no way to take them back, not that she wants to.

But what if he rejects her?

Her eyes get hot and tears cloud her vision as she stares up at him, still wringing her hands together over and over, feeling like she's positively going to burst with the force of the emotions roiling around inside of her. Why did she think this would be a good idea?

Now he's kneeling in front of her, holding her hands in his bigger, rougher ones - reminiscent of that fateful day so long ago in Divination when he had flustered her so - and a thumb is gently wiping away the big, fat tears she didn't even realize were rolling down her cheeks and she lifts her face from watching their intertwined hands and gazes tremulously into his eyes.

They are so, so gentle and warm and full of love, but the emotions are still too much for her and she can't stop crying for some unfathomable reason, so the kiss they share is wet and lovely and full of incredulous laughter.

"I love you too," he whispers between kisses, over and over again, until the words almost lose meaning - but these words could never lose their meaning when they come from him.

  In the years to come, they always bicker about who was the first to say it. Sebastian says that writing doesn't count - that his words are the ones that decide who is the victor in this small argument - but she always just smiles at his insistence, knowing that he's kept her letter tucked inside whatever book he's reading since it first fell onto his lap.

[obeythebutler]

Hi! I'm new to your blog so I apologize if I mess anything up.

Could I request MC surprising the brothers with a feast they accidentally cooked up because they were worried that there worried that their wouldn't be enough food for the brothers?

It's 7:30am and his brother still aren't ready for RAD.

Hell, they haven't even stepped down for breakfast. Even Beel, never the one to miss it is missing.

Did all his brothers decide to skip today's classes? Were they orchestrating some other useless prank?

Lucifer stares at his watch, waiting. If they don't come down in the next five minutes he's going to leave them at home and give them detention. Maybe he'll have to pull Mammon out of his bed again, or carry Belphegor down the stairs.

The thought of dragging his brothers like sacks of potatoes down the stairs makes his head ache. It’s always been like this, him caving in so easily to his brothers demands, being so lax on them.

The saving grace is the human exchange student.

MC.

They're on breakfast duty today, and Lucifer can smell the pleasant hint of roasted hellfire mushrooms. Cinnamon too. They've always been a diligent person when it comes to their work.

Unlike his brothers.

Sigh.

"If you all don't hurry up, the food is going to get cold!" Their voice rings from the kitchen, and Lucifer opens his mouth to give one last reprimand to his brothers, to hurry up and come down before he drags them.

There's a blur besides him then, a flurry of moment that messes up his perfectly styled hair.

"Food cooked by the human! I call dibs on it, I'm the great Mammon after all!"

The eldest gawks at his brother, perhaps in disbelief or surprise, and then fixes his hair in resignation. Whatever makes him be on time, his scoldings or MC's voice.

Lucifer rolls his shoulders, steps forward to get into the dining hall instead of the hallway, but then he senses footsteps on the stairs. Five pairs of shoes, each distinguishable from the other.

His brothers are a blur as they surpass him to get to the dining hall.

What the—

At this point, all the man can do is to slap his palm on his forehead.

They won't listen to him, but they'll willingly rush to the dining hall when MC calls, huh? For the sake of hell and everything that is corrupted, they're such simps that its intolerable to watch.

As soon as he steps in though, Lucifer is rendered speechless by the sight in front of him. So are the brothers.

There's just.....so many plates of food. Creamed Bonnacon, Devil Zebra Bacon Sandwich, Hell Pancakes, and that doesn't even cover it. Blood Strawberries, Caramel Shadow Tart, Ghost Watermelon....It's a feast fit for a banquet, and it must have taken so much time to cook all that...

"T-That's......that's just like that anime! Where the main character cooks up a feast for their roommates because they didn't want them to go hungry so they woke up at the crack of—"

"Shut yer mouth Levi." Mammon says, although there is no irritation in his tone as he gapes at the dining table. He can spot some of his favorite foods, given that there are plates and plates of them. He mentioned some of his favorite things to eat to MC long time back, but he didn't think that they would remember.

The fourth-born has a smile on his face now, as he stares at the cat drawn on his pancake with blueberry syrup. It's so cute.

He remembers MC placing some pots and utensils on the table the night before, stating that it would be less time-consuming in mornings given the rush.

His cheeks feel hot.

"Now, darling, that is quite a feast you have cooked up for us!" Asmodeus hangs behind MC's shoulder as he compliments them. There is still flour on their cheeks, and so he wipes it away from them using his thumb, earning squawks of protest from both Levi and Mammon. "Thank you so much! This is soo going on Devilgram!"

"I thought the usual wouldn't be enough," They mumble, nervously shifting their gaze from the brothers to the table. Asmo's weight on their shoulders is a comfortable one, yet the intense scrutiny they are subjected to makes them want to hide away. "Next thing I knew was that I kept adding and adding ingredients until I realised what I did. So you better finish it all."

Belphegor giggles. "That won't be a problem." He can sense his twin's growing hunger at the sight of the feast before him, and food does taste better when cooked by your loved ones. The demon is glad that he chose to be on time today.

Wait, Beel was right besides him, he isn't here....

"Woah—" MC can only stumble out the words as they are caught off guard when pulled into a hug by the sixth born. He's tall, and so warm. "Easy there!"

"Thank you MC!" Beel's voice is full of happiness, and he can't help but hug them for it. He knows his gluttony is a lot to handle, and it causes a lot of trouble for others, but them going out of their way to make extra efforts and ensuring that he and his brothers won't go hungry makes him feel loved.

He'll wait this time, to eat with MC.

"At what time did you wake up to cook all of this?"

You turn your head towards Satan, who is now besides you. Gazing at you ever so softly. "I woke up around three, couldn't sleep since I had drunk a lot of coffee the night before."

"Your sleep schedule will be messed up if you continue," He reprimands you, but his tone is light.

"Thank you for ensuring that we all don't go hungry though." Lucifer smiles as he says that.

Maybe this is what home is.

You and the brothers, cooking too much and enjoying it nevertheless. Casual conversation drifting across the table, with Hell coffee as bitter as ever, packing some for Purgatory Hall residents and leaving together for RAD as the gates to the house close behind you all in remembrance.

[nocreativityfornames]

Everything we know about Barbatos so far, lore wise.

WARNING: SPOILERS FOR ALL SEASONS

➤ He lives in the Demon Lord's Castle with Diavolo and works as his loyal butler. (swd: 2-13)

➤ He's one of the demons who share a pact with Solomon. (swd: 2-A)

➤ According to Mammon, he has a secret torture room beneath the castle from where you can hear the screaming of his victims at night. The other brothers and Diavolo were in the room when he told this to MC but none of them batted an eye or tried to deny it. (swd: 6-19)

➤ Before, citizens of the Devildom were allowed to easily travel to the Human World whenever they wished through passages placed in certain locations in the kingdom, but now those passages are blocked and the only way demons can use them is by getting permission from the few other demons who are still allowed to use them freely first. Barbatos is one of said demons. (swd: 11-4)

➤ He has the ability to time travel thanks to his powers that allow him to create a portal to any place, time and reality he wants. (swd: 15-17 and 53-11)

➤ He was the one to take MC back to the past when they made a deal with Diavolo to figure out who had opened the attic door and released Past!Belphegor in exchange for Present!Belphegor's freedom from being imprisoned for conspiring against the exchange program. (swd: 15-17)

➤ He looked into MC's bloodline under Diavolo's request once the prince realized there was something special about them, and it was then that he found out that they were Lilith's distant descendant. (swd: 16-15)

➤ In response to MC asking him if he knew everything that would happen with Belphegor getting out of the attic before it occurred Barbatos said that no, he didn't know, and even further said: "Imagine for a moment what it would be like to know everything that will happen from now until the end of time. Why nothing could possibly be more boring, wouldn't you agree?" (swd: 15-17)

➤ His main way to use his powers to "space travel" is through the many doors in his room in the Demon Lord's Castle. (swd: 15-17)

➤ He was never a child. (swd chat: The Royals, “That's What I Mean”)

➤ He met Solomon a long time ago when the sorcerer risked death to summon him (swd: 53-16), desperately needing his powers to control time for reasons that are still unknown. (swd: 49-A)

➤ He gave Solomon his grimoire out of trust and respect for him. (swd: 53-16)

➤ It's a big rumor around the kingdom that he's powerful enough to rival even the Demon King himself. (swd: 54-1)

➤ He met Diavolo when the prince was still a child and Diavolo got Barbatos to work for him by luring him into the castle with the promise of very rare tea and then telling him that he wouldn't let him leave unless he agreed to be his butler, getting to the point of even threatening to not assume his position of king in the future if the older demon refused to. And telling this story to Thirteen, Barbatos confessed to having found the whole thing very cute. (swd: 58-A and nb: 15-A)

➤ When it hit the news that he had sworn allegiance to Diavolo the whole kingdom was in shock and it was THE THING everyone was talking about. (swd: 54-1 and nb: 15-1)

➤ He has been around for a long time and shows up in historical records under multiple different names. Rumor has it he was alive even before the Devildom took shape. (nb: 15-1)

➤ When asked about Diavolo in a conversation with MC, he told them that the prince is the very reason for his current existence. (swd: 54-5)

➤ Narrated by Solomon in the Nightbringer Prologue Movie we hear the story of a certain demon, it goes: “Once upon a time, there was a demon who could see both past and future. With a flurry of trumpets from his king, the demon appeared. Finding a lost human the demon whispered: 'I can take you to where you'll be happy.' Through their tears, the human spoke: 'Thank you, o kind one. If you save me from this dark path, I will pray to you every night. Please, tell me what they call you!'" But before any reply can be said Barbatos is shown making a shushing sound, which was largely perceived as him not wanting the viewers to know that he was the demon from the story. Later, the human was revealed to be Adam, a man who came to the Devildom looking for his lover and met a demon named Nightbringer, who he immediately went to begging for help. (nb: 8-16)

➤ He was the one to give Solomon the title of “the Witty Sorcerer” when he brought him to the Fountain of Knowledge for the first time while Solomon was on the verge of death. Barbatos attended the sorcerer's wounds there and declared him the new protector of the spring. (nb: 11-10)

➤ He's to blame for how much Solomon has changed, according to Thirteen. The reaper told MC that Solomon used to be very loveably innocent when he was younger, but that Barbatos let him experience whatever he wanted and now nothing scares or fazes him anymore. (nb: 11-10)

➤ The reason he had been so irritable towards Solomon in the past was because when visiting the sorcerers' home he found a list of demons he wanted to make pacts with and noticed his name was placed 8th. (nb: 25-1)

➤ Before meeting Diavolo he used to use his powers freely to travel through time and space whenever he wanted without a care for how his actions could affect others, and they ended up terribly affecting Diavolo and Solomon, and Barbatos sees his devout servitude to the prince as a way to atone for those past actions, but Diavolo doesn't know that. (nb card: Barbatos, "Tea With You")

➤ Although he accepted to work for the prince for the sake of atonement, he ended up enjoying his time with him and found that he felt a sense of belonging working for him. (nb card: Barbatos, "Tea With You")

[koqabear]

Divinity for the Damned

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

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

fallen angel! Beomgyu x fem!reader 

Genre: horror, religious au, smut, angst

Word count 18.3K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me, are you alright?” 

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

He looks like a prince. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Body of Christ.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

You wake with a start. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes Father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m tired, is all—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please! Let me go!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“May God have mercy on your soul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The last of her fades away. 

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

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

Come to me. 

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

Closer, come. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take a step closer. Their smile widens slightly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Their lips ghost over the shell of your ear. 

Quickly. 

Before you can react, they dissolve to nothing. 

You’re left alone in the abyss once more. 

  ≪⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

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

The dream. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why are you here?

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

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

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

Strange.

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

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

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

“You came.” 

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

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

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

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

A familiar face smiles down at you sweetly. 

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong, my lamb?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What have you done?”

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

“Nothing I haven’t done before.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve done well, my lamb.”

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

Even now, you pray. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This was my home too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Beomgyu…!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will cherish this ‘till kingdom come.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he bites. 

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

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

He’s never tasted anything purer.

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- return.

summary: the obey me brothers react to mc coming back to life!

tags: obey me brothers x gn!reader, hurt/comfort, implied character death

i. lucifer

lucifer quietly steps into diavolo’s office, his usual professional mask quickly slipping onto his face, mouth set in a firm line as his eyes wander about the room. he freezes where he is when he sees who diavolo is talking to.

a familiar side profile, those kind eyes and soft lips he remembers so well, and he feels his breath hitch in his throat. this wasn’t real, he saw you die in front of his eyes. just how could you be here right now?

“lucifer!” you call, his presence being made known by diavolo, who grins wide upon seeing lucifer’s mesmerized expression. “oh, i missed you so, i–” you grip onto him tight, lucifer hesitating to return your affection out of both fear and regret. surely, he’d wake up any moment now in his own room and see that this was all a dream, remembering he had similar dreams after lilith’s fall. oh how his heavenly father liked to torment him so, even now.

“how did you…?” he clenches his jaw to keep himself from breaking. not in front of diavolo, not in front of you could he cry. lucifer hadn’t cried in eons, not since he was cast out of the celestial realm, but now, more than ever, he feels the weight of centuries of living creeping up on him, bubbling to the surface like a pressure he had let simmer for an eternity. “it’s really…?”

“it’s really me…” you whisper, putting your hand on his cheek. his hand comes up to cover your own, wishing he could shred the glove so he could feel the warmth of your hand on his. “it’s hard to believe, right? i was in the celestial realm for a while but… then i got sent back down here.” lucifer’s eyes flick to diavolo, who sits back in his chair with a smug grin on his face. he’s sure he now owes him two lifetimes worth of debts, one that he’d gladly work to pay off. you being here was worth more to him than anything the three realms had to offer.

“you’re never leaving again, understand?” his tone is more desperate than commanding, linking his fingers with yours. his other hand touches the spot where your mark is from making a pact with him, an eternal reminder that you both were connected. “from now until forever, you’re staying at my side.” 

you laugh breathily: “yes, i’m yours, lucifer.”

ii. mammon

an unexpected knock at the door resounds through the hall. he doesn’t have the energy to get up and open it, knowing it was probably asmodeus out from a wild night out. hearing the knocks once again, he sighs, slinking over and throwing the door open, ready to snap at whoever is there.

when he’s greeted by your smiling face, eyes bright and glittering as you choke out words that he’s been dreaming of hearing ever since that night you died, he grips the door so tight that it threatens to shatter under his grip. lucifer stands behind you, his arm linked with yours and the brightest smile he’s seen on his older brother since the days spent in heaven. 

he doesn’t care if he’s imagining things, he doesn’t care if it’s just a cruel illusion – mammon is greedy. he reaches out and pulls you out of lucifer’s grasp, holding you tight against his chest like you'd slip out of his arms if he let go. his breath hitches in his throat, hands running up and down your body, trying to commit this feeling to memory in case it turns out his hunch is right.

a flurry of emotions runs through his head, he has the urge to be angry that you left him, if only you could see the lengths he went to to get you back, all the restless nights spent bargaining with witches in back alleys and dark places. but he’s always cared for you more than he’s cared for his own pride, maybe even more than he’s cared for his own self. if this were an illusion he’s damn sure he’d sign over his own life to make it real, if even for a moment.

“hey,” your voice is more gentle than he remembers, “i’m here, i’m back, mammon.” when you push him back gently to cradle his face, he shatters, bursting into a fit of loud and childish sobs. he doesn’t care, he doesn’t worry about how pathetic he might’ve looked to you, you were back in his arms. 

iii. leviathan

levi hardly ever left his room, not since the night you had died. he only came out when he needed to eat, or when lucifer would forcefully drag him to class. the days were long and dull, not even TSL seemed to make him light up anymore – it was much too painful to face the world without his henry at his side.

he gets curious one night when he hears the sobs of his older brother downstairs; had something else happened? stepping out of his room, he could’ve never imagined seeing the sight in front of him: mammon sobbing in your arms, lucifer stroking your hair from behind, the two brothers sandwiching you in like a vice.

it’s you, his breaths grow shaky as he nearly jumps over the banister trying to get to you, it’s his henry, his best friend, his–

“you left me, but you’re–!” he quickly pulls mammon aside, tears of his own pricking at the corner of his eyes. “you’re back… why did you leave me? why did you–?” his tone is harsh, but the way he’s gripping onto your shirt, fists balled up and tugging you out of lucifer’s grip and into his chest, you know he’s more upset with himself than anything.

“…promise me you won’t leave me again,” his voice is small, and it has fresh tears running down your cheeks.

“i promise.”

iv. asmodeus

he comes home late, in the hours where the devildom was at it’s darkest, smelling of alcohol and the perfume of other demons. fully expecting another lecture from lucifer, he tries to open the door as quietly as possible, slinking through the doorway, making his silent entrance. as he sneaks up the stairs and towards his room, he sees that the door to your room was open.

that’s odd, he thinks, but not entirely strange – mammon would often tuck himself away under your covers, sleeping in your room as it was like a second home to him, even when you were gone. 

but then he hears it, the sound he so often dreamed of, so often tried to pull out of others as his fingers danced down their sides, but it was never the same. your laughter. 

he hurries in, a sight in front of him he never thought he would see again: you with your head in lucifer’s lap, levi cuddled up beside you, mammon hugging tight to your other side. as your eyes snap up to meet asmodeus’s, he feels his cheeks heat up, the shame of what he’s done since you’ve been gone creeping up on him slowly. 

but then you’re up and running to him, latching onto him like a vice and he finds himself smiling, the warmness of your body against his melting away his guilty thoughts like snow in the spring. 

“it’s about time you came back,” he kisses you over and over, not missing an inch of your face. you taste salty, and he doesn’t know who’s tears he’s tasting at that point – yours or his. “you’re mine. don’t you ever think about leaving again, ‘kay?”

v. satan

a quiet knock at his door in the early hours of the morning alerts him, and he stiffens, knowing it was probably lucifer here to check up on him. the thought of seeing his brother made him sick, so he continues reading his book as if he heard nothing.

“can i come in?” a soft voice that sounds like yours asks. has he lost it? has he been awake for so long now that he had finally slipped out of sanity? if he tells you to come in, it doesn’t register until the light from the outside hallway makes its way into his room, satan hissing at the way it blinds him.

the way the light wraps around you makes you look not much different than an angel, ethereal and as radiant as the sun. you reach down and touch his cheek, noticing how hollow his cheekbones and how dark the circles under his eyes are. he hadn’t been taking care of himself, had he?

“satan, i’m here,” you smile down at him gently, “i missed you. i missed you so much.”

“you… you’re actually alive?” he heart beats wildly in his chest, “but… but i researched this and… and it said there was no hope! how can you be here now?”

“i’ll explain later.” you kneel in front of him, hand still on his cheek. “now, i just want to see you.”

he wants to be angry at you. he wants to scream at you until his throat is burning, wants to make you feel every second of agony he had felt since the moment you died. but he can’t, no matter how angry he was at himself for his failures, he could never take that out on you. “this is real, right?” he grits his teeth, sure you could hear how fast his heart was beating. “i’m not going to wake up and you be gone, right?”

“i’m not leaving you, satan.” you shake your head, “not now, not ever.”

he finally cracks, pulling you into his lap and burying his face into your neck. you smell just how he remembers, and he pulls you close, close, closer until you’re flush against him. even then it’s not close enough.

satan doesn’t trust himself to speak, no words seeming accurate to say how he felt in the moment. he lets the tender moment pass by in silence, until his brothers come in after deciding the both of you had enough alone time.

vi. beelzebub

the darkness of the devildom starts to wash away as the morning hours come. of course, it was never truly bright as it was on earth. beel finds himself waking up after another nightmare, hand clutching at his pillow like he would often clutch onto your hand when he had dreams of lilith. 

in his dreams he sees you, shining like you always did, snuggled up against his chest. in the next moment, he sees blood staining your clothes, eyes wide in horror as you beg him to save you. beel is never quick enough, dying before he even had the chance to touch you, the last words of yours as cruel as a knife to the gut: why didn’t you save me?

beel makes his way to the kitchen, having left quietly as to not wake up belphie. he’s sure that it was levi’s turn to cook breakfast – not that levi would actually do it. levi didn’t leave his room unless forced to, after all. beelzebub could at least take over that job for him.

he passes by the common room, hunger pains keeping him from checking to see what his brothers were doing convened in there.

“oh, beel!” beelzebub whips around at the sound of your voice. he could never forget, not in a million years, just how sweet you sounded. like the brightest symphony or the softest lullaby. after you died, he found himself replaying your recorded phone calls with him over and over, to soothe him before he fell asleep.

“you’re… alive?” his eyes widen, and you pull yourself out of asmodeus’s lap to sprint to beel, who easily catches you in his arms, hoisting you in the air and spinning you around. tears prick at the corner of his eyes, and he crushes you into his chest. 

“yes, i’m here beel!” your voice is a bit strained due to how hard he’s squeezing you. 

“i’m sorry for not protecting you,” he whispers, “it’s my fault you were–”

“it’s not your fault.” beel leans down, letting you run your fingers through his hair, “not for lilith… not for me. none of it’s your fault. you did all you could.”

he smiles a watery smile, hands still strong around your waist: “thank you.”

vii. belphegor

as most nights go, belphie dreams about you. his head resting in your lap, your soft hands threading through his hair– it’s pure bliss, and he wants to cling to the dream as long as he can.

in fact, if he concentrates hard enough, he can feel something stroking his head in real life, his head resting on a surface both familiar and alien– did his favorite pillow always feel like this? but soon, beel’s voice pierces through the gauze, tearing his dream apart, and belphie opens his eyes.

blinking irritably, it takes him a second to process what’s going on– beel is smiling in a way he hasn’t seen in years. and his head is resting in your lap. you’re gazing down at him, something tender in your eyes, beel by your side.

it’s a dream. it has to be. there is no way you can be here, that you can be real– you were gone, and he was stuck, going around and around in his own head uselessly– but then you breathe, “belphie, i’m home,” and he turns and hugs you so hard you fall back on the bed, startled.

there is a flurry of limbs, of movement– beel has wrapped his arms around you from behind, and belphie is clinging to your front, head pressed in the crook of your neck, hands running all over to make sure you’re real.

hasn’t he wanted this moment forever? his two favorite people in the world, by his side? he doesn’t need an explanation, a reason. in fact, he’s sure mammon or lucifer will storm in in a couple more minutes, and he will have to tear himself from your side. belphie will have to share you with his five less lovable brothers.

but for now, you are his again. and it is enough.