#pastor wooden

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Black Preacher Calls Tyler Perry a Drag Queen🤭

Is the Preacher correct?

[herbalnature]

Delicate blueberry blossoms hang gently in the foreground, promising future sweetness. In the background, the rustic charm of a wooden fence adds a touch of tranquil countryside vibes.

[pearlcigs]

⋆ make a woman out of me

christian!virgin!reader x ellie williams

summary ⋆ you swore to yourself you only longed for ellie in a platonic way, but as you get older you seem to realize just how pretty she really is.

warnings ⋆ 2.95k ⋆ smut, i might get cancelled 🤷‍♀️, reader (non penetrative) virginity loss, religious themes, ellie is 19, reader is 18, pastor's daughter!reader, mentions of homophobia, alludes to reader's parents being homophobic, ellie smokes weed, pet names (pretty girl, babe, honey, baby, good girl), cursing, first kiss, corruption, corruption kink, oral (r recieving)

time moved slowly within the parameters of jackson. the same familiar faces, day in and day out. though, it was comforting living in such a community. the horrors of the world beyond the walls that stood tall was something you rarely wanted to think about. it made you sick to your stomach to think of your friends, loved ones, even people you weren't particularly close with, outside of the safe walls, being face to face with whatever monsters marred the unhabitual world.

your parents were strict with religion, your father being the only self acclaimed paster that jackson has ever had to offer. there was never a time you could remember, even before finding refuge in the cozy town, where your parents weren't devout. vivid memories of your mother's fingers gliding over the cross necklace she wore around her neck when you would get in trouble. disappointed sighs and signs of the cross, begging the lord above for forgiveness, explaining to the sky you were too young to know what you've done was a sin.

the bible was followed closely in your home, and you obliged without caution. you prayed, attended your father's mass sessions in the tiny chapel just down the road where he preached the bible, wore the holy cross around your neck to show your devotion, you've read the old torn and withered bible you were so lucky to find front to back. religion was all you've ever known and you had found no reason to ever question the man who hung on your wooden walls, hanging from a cross with his hands and feed nailed to it like an animal. that was, until ellie.

"come on, don't you wanna jus' see what it feels like?" ellie teased, waving the joint in front of your face like a taunt. "no thank you." you replied, sitting at the foot of her bed, legs crossed, eyes wandering around her room. when ellie first came to jackson you were infatuated with her, dwindling it down to pure want but only of friendship. "good girl, that's what you say when someone offers you this shit." ellie moves the weed away from your face, inhaling it and then turning away to exhale the smoke away from you.

it started with just friendly smiles, offering to show her around and help her get to know everyone. she was wary of you. honestly, afraid of your friendly demeanor. people on the outside of the jackson walls were cruel and vicious, she thought, with no doubt in her mind, you were being friendly to lure her into some kind of trap. she danced around you with caution, keeping her distance but also decidingly giving you a chance. she quickly became fond of you, your personality, your looks. everything about you appealed to ellie and something about that made you proud, even more eager to befriend her.

the words 'good girl' ring from her mouth and you're not sure how to respond. was there even a proper response to your best friend calling you that? a simple nod was all you could come up with. watching her lips intently as she blew the smoke out of her lungs. your fingers came up to your neck, fiddling with the cross necklace around your neck, a habit passed down from your mother. ellie never paid much attention to your shy outlook on life. you were reserved and a part of her liked that she had so much of you to herself.

it wasn't until you were 17 that you finally came to terms with the fact that your infatuation was more than just a yearning to be her friend. tears of guilt streaming down your face in the confessional at the shoddy chapel, divider between you and the young volunteer who was ready to beg jesus to abolish your sins. "i'm a girl... and i like another girl." you sniffled, lowering the pitch of your voice instinctively so he wouldn't see past your anonymity. ache in your heart when silence was returned, until soft mutterings of a prayer, asking jesus to forgive your tainted heart.

ellie extended her arms behind her head, a small stretch that gave you big feelings. her shirt rode up, exposing the small of her stomach. you swallowed harshly, wondering why god would tempt you with something like this. a soft sigh emits from ellie's lips, flicking the almost finished joint into a nearby makeshift ashtray. another soft sigh falling from her perfect lips. intent eyes trying to be secretive of the no less then unholy thoughts that you were being tempted with.

ellie was put off at first by your fervent religion. her experiences were tainted, never having a good visual of what a healthy relationship with god looked like. she was unsure if you were going to try and convert her into some pious worshipper. you weren't secretive of your religion and that much was enough to make ellie suspicious. with time she realized you were different from the other religious people she's met. only bringing up your religion or anything to do with it when you were directly asked or if it was really important to speak about.

"whatchu lookin' at, pretty girl?" she chuckled as she noticed the way your eyes locked onto her, like if you looked away she'd be gone. it wasn't unusual for ellie to be flirty or to make casual remarks about how pretty you were. still, every time she did your cheeks were adorned in a rosy color. "just you, i guess. i dunno..." you answered back quickly, hoping that answer was enough to satisfy her eager curiosity. "yeah? just me? got something you wanna say to me?" she was just joking around, trying to get you riled up and flustered but you did have things you wanted to say to her.

"no." you answered, though you were sure she wasn't expecting an actual response. "no? yikes, babe, i'm hurt, thought we had somethin' real here." she smiled and you felt the butterflies in your stomach become tongue tied. one thing you loved about ellie above all things was her smile, how the skin around her eyes scrunched up just the tiniest bit, the apples of her cheeks becoming more prominent. everything about her smile made your head spin.

"els, i like you." the words slip out of your mouth before you could even process what was going on. her smile that coerced you to confess to her in the first place falters. "i'm sorry?" she questions, unsure if you meant what she thought you did. you had never said anything that led ellie to believe you were homophobic or that you thought all gay people were sinners like most of the older people who were religious in jackson did. but still she was careful to keep her sexuality from you, strongly assured you would take after your parents' stance on homosexuality.

"i... i don't know why i said that." you say, truthfully. mouth slightly agape and eyes widened with shock that you'd just outed yourself after years of trying to force down your feelings. there was a silence between the two of you. silence wasn't uncommon around each other, sometimes the both of you preferring to spend your time together quietly as a way to unwind after a treacherous day. but this silence was different than those times. ellies breath was caught in her throat, words jumbled on her tongue.

she only began reacting when she saw the panic on your face, followed by your eyes becoming glassy. "hey, hey. don't cry. it's okay." she comforted, sitting up and placing a hand on your knee. she wasn't good at comforting people, you were well aware of that. "i didn't mean to.." you admitted, voice timid and quiet, still uncertain to how she would react. "hey, it's okay, honey." the term of endearment sliding off her tongue like she was meant to call you that for the rest of your lives.

"i'm not mad." ellie affirms, her tone soft, knowing how afraid of other people's anger you are. another flash of silence emerges, just you and ellie staring at each other. neither of you knowing what to say. she pitied you, seeing how much you resented yourself. your bottom lip slotted between your teeth, biting hard enough to potentially draw blood. "don't do that..." she mutters, gently running her thumb over your partially chapped lips, pulling your bottom lip out of your teeth's grasp.

your breath hitches, a small shudder traveling up your spine. your eyes locked on hers, your heart beating loud enough for the whole world to hear. ellie's eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to your eyes. "i've liked you for a while." you admit, knowing there was no going back at this point. "oh, yeah?" her voice was low, some would even describe as seductive. her thumb still lingering on your bottom lip. "yeah." you whisper back, your eyes now flickering down to her lips.

ellie's hand moves to your jaw. her eyes flicking down to your lips one last time before she leans down and presses her lips against yours. her lips are soft, just like you had imagined. she seems skilled, like she knew what she was doing and what the end goal was. a small smile forming on her face as she realizes you have no idea what you're doing. “like this.” she mumbles against your lips acutely aware how clueless you were when it came to romance.

you follow her lead, doing your best to follow her lead. her free hand finding your waist, squeezing gently. you pull away, panting faintly. "i don't know.." you mumble, trailing off as ellie puts her lips back to yours. the hand that was on your jaw roaming to the back of your head, fingers getting tangled in your hair. "i know." ellie responds moments later, her lips brushing against your with each syllable. you couldn't comprehend what was happening, your mind going blank with ellie's lips on yours. she adored the way you looked at her. looking at her like you needed her.

she gently lays you back, grabbing the first pillow she could find and settling it under your head so you were comfortable. her thighs either side of your body, her body weight on top of you, giving you a cozy feeling you'd never experienced before. "you don't even know how long i've been wantin' to kiss your pretty lips..." she whispers, her bangs hanging in front of her face. you bring your hand up to her face, nervously tucking the hair behind her ear. "god, you're so fuckin'..." she stops, just taking a second to admire how alluring you looked under her.

her lips dip down to your neck, slowly biting and sucking on the skin. your breath hitches, a small whine pushing past your swollen lips. ellie groans against the skin of your neck. "make more of those pretty noises f'r me." she mumbles, hips rolling over yours, another whine spilling from you at the pleasurable feeling. ellie's kisses move away from your neck, down your body. trailing down your collarbone to your clothed chest to your stomach. her lips stop, hovering right above your pussy.

your heart was beating out of your chest, you back arching a little in anticipation. "how bad do you wan' it? tell me, baby. tell me how much you wan' me." she was totally and utterly obsessed with you, her mind becoming drunk by the thought of you— the mere sight of you. "p-please, els..." you mumbled, voice timid from embarrassment. it was partially expected though, you'd never done anything like this. "i want you..." it was simple but effective, making ellie go feral for you. "fuck—"

she lowers her lips to your pussy, kissing over the fabric of your shorts. watching her through hooded eyes, your pussy throbbing from her touch. "gonna eat this pussy s'good. show you what you've been missin' out on." she groans, the fabric of your shorts dampening as she trails her tongue over the sensitive area. ellie surprised herself, shocked that she was able to dirty talk to you so easily like this. your hips were writhing against the bed, more eager than you've ever been in your entire life. you felt dirty for wanting this, knowing that god was watching you become a total slut for ellie.

ellie's fingers hooked on your shorts, pulling them down slow as slow could be, chuckling as you whined. "ellie. ellie, please." you muttered, begging for her to hurry up. ellie's eyes rolled back, the sound of you begging getting her more aroused than she's ever been. no one's ever made her feel like this before. she was done with the teasing, if not for your sake but for hers. she pulled your shorts and underwear off swiftly, discarding them somewhere to find later.

her eyes locked on your bare pussy, fighting back a moan at the sight. "you've got me so fucked up, babe." she muttered, kissing around your thighs first. you were nervous, breath shallow and quick paced, hungry for ellie but embarrassed nevertheless. your voice was caught in your throat, blinking quickly as you watched ellie kiss all over your thighs. ellie looked up at you and you were able to see that she was just as nervous as you. "is this okay? you can tell me to stop." she sounded sincere, pushing aside her pure need to get your consent.

you nodded, not trusting your voice. "use your words like the good girl you are, yeah?" she's longing to just taste your glistening cunt. "yes— yes, els. 't's okay..." she doesn't waste another second after hearing your shaky voice, tongue urgently dipping between your wet folds. you moan at the contact, feeling like you were on cloud 9. ellie's tongue presses flat against your clit, your hand clamping over your mouth. moans being muffled as ellie savors the sweet noises your dripping cunt was making.

ellie wasn't fond of you muffling your perfect little sounds, wanting to hear just how good she could make you feel. "let me hear you. don't make me punish you.." you don't move your hand away from your sinful mouth. your free hand finds ellie's, interlocking your fingers which she gladly accepts. "c'mon, baby. let me hear you." she encourages once more, lips moving against you with ease, mixture of your wetness and her spit. but to her dismay, you still ignored her commands. her free hand sliding your shirt up your body to expose your breasts, you were never one to wear a bra. her hand kneading the supple flesh, thumb running over your nipple.

she licks a strip from your entrance to your clit, making your thighs shake with immense pleasure. "wanna be a brat?" she mumbles into your pussy, looking up at you through her eyelashes, staring you down as her tongue circles your clit. "what is it they make you do in confession? hail mary's? 5 of 'em, now. or i stop." she smirks, watching the look in your eye become more flustered by her request. you slowly move your hand away from your mouth, not wanting this pleasure to ever stop.

"h-hail mary, full of grace—" you cut yourself off with a moan, eyes squeezing shut as you lift your hips, pushing your cunt further into ellie's face. "get to ruin this pretty pussy." ellie groans. "keep goin'. don't stop." she aids you to continue, feeling your cunt flutter around her tongue. "the lord is with— is with thee..." you continue, stuttering through the words. "good girl, keep goin' f'r me. let me hear you." she continues to egg you on, talking into your pussy. her own moans mixing in with the sound of yours.

"blessed art thou— ellie, please..." you whine, squeezing her hand and throwing your head back into the pillow, back arching off the bed. "c'mon, pretty girl. blessed art thou..." you toes curl at her words and the feeling of her tongue teasing your entrance. "—amongst... amongst women..." you trail off, mind becoming to hazy to even remember the words to the prayer you've prayed everyday since you could talk. ellie smirked into your cunt, relishing in the feeling of being able to turn your mind into mush, being the only one able to turn your mind into mush.

your moans and whines became breathier and higher pitched with each flick of her tongue. your stomach twisting in an unfamiliar knot. "ah, ah, ellie—" your thighs trying to clench together and push her head away, the feeling becoming too much. "you're gonna cum, baby?" she spreads your legs wider, her only greedy want is to make pleasure wash over you. "ellie! ellie! ellie!" you chant her name, eyes rolling back as the pleasurable wave of your orgasm finally hits you, moans loud and unfiltered.

"there we go... yeah, nice an' easy. fuck." she mutters, tongue fucking you through your high until your writhing and pushing her off of you. her lips relocating to your thighs and slowly working their way up to your pelvic bone, soft kisses against your skin. "tasted so good, baby. best pussy i've ever had." she praises, eager to show you just how much you pleasured her even though you technically didn't make her cum. "els..." you whined, face flushed a rosy red. "yeah, baby. 'm right here." she leaves a trail of kisses up your body as she reaches your lips, leaving a soft peck to let you know she was here. "does this mean you like me too...?" you asked innocently. "are you serious?"

another christian!reader x ellie williams fic!

[holybibly]

Unholy thoughts of the day, my divine bunnies: Dark priest San, fucks you in the confessional. Warnings: hierophilia, sex in church

The majestic, mournful sounds of the antique organ rose to the high Gothic vaults of the church, mingled with soft, silken moans and the barely audible, panting words of haphazardly recited prayers that settled on San's heated, moist, sun-kissed skin, like stained glass chips scattered on the faded velour spilt by the dark maroon sea between the rows of narrow, lacquered pews.

Unlike your airy sighs and whimpers, muffled by the rhythmic beating of San's pulse beneath your lips, Pastor Choi himself could rival the thunderous volume of church chants and the cacophonous sounds of bells echoing through the hallowed, frescoed walls of the church.

San didn't seem to have any remorse at all, as he fucked you deeply and sensually in the dark, wooden, cramped confessional while Pastor Jeong's angelic voice echoed the sacred lines of the Holy Scriptures.

San didn't want to hide how good it made him feel when he pounded his thick cock into the moist, tantalising warmth of your beautiful, tight pussy; on the contrary, he wanted his moans of pleasure to reach heavenly heights. Hell, he wouldn't mind the whole congregation hearing your cunt whip for him every time the massive girth of his dick slides between your lusciously open labia, which generously coating his velvety hot length with your sweet goo as the edges of your tiny hole stretch to accommodate him.

"Did I ask you to stop, divine? I want to hear all your sins, angel." San purrs sultrily in your ear. The hot ghost of his command sends shivers of excitement down your spine. His fingers dig roughly into your juicy, plush thigh flesh as he pushes you harder against the confessional's roughened wood back wall. "C'mon, tell me everything. Repent, divine one, and I will grant you salvation."

Spurred on by the passionate kisses of San's bitten, devilishly curved lips, which tasted of the sweet, sinful bitterness of wine and vintage white tea that had bloomed like a translucent ghostly flower at the bottom of a small porcelain cup, you tighten your grip on his broad, muscular shoulders and whimper softly.

"Forgive me, Holy Father, for I have been a sinner..." You begin, rolling your eyes in pleasure and sobbing softly as San's swollen, dripping with pre-cum cockhead kisses your cervix. "My thoughts weren't pure..." Your words are accompanied by the wet, squelching sound of skin slapping against skin. His heavy, tight balls slap against the soft skin of your thick buttocks with each of his powerful, deep thrusts.

The pink mother of pearl of your rosary beads slips from your sweaty palms and falls to the floor and splinters into hundreds of pieces as San's thick cock continues to slide insistently between the trembling walls of your tight cunt.

"Is that all, my angel? I think there's more." San's voice is nothing more than a solid darkness wrapped in velvet. "You know good girls shouldn't lie."

"I... I... I have done some bad things." You blurt out immediately, as if San will be disappointed in you and stop fucking you if you don't act like his good girl.

"Like what, angel? Fucked a priest in church? Seduced an older man just so you could ride your slutty little cunt on his cock until it was completely filled with hot, thick cum? Tell me, are these all bad things, Divine? Didn't you enjoy it all?" You'd never really thought about it, but hearing San say it out loud made you feel incredibly ashamed, but you still didn't do anything to stop it; instead, you arched your hips invitingly towards him, trying to get even deeper on his cock.

You wanted him so deep inside you that you could see his amazingly thick cock bulging against your belly.

"Yes, Father, I have done all these things... And I love it so much... I want more..." You practically squealed as you felt the head of his cock hit your sweet spot. The sudden jolt of pleasure almost made you faint.

"You're such a bad girl, Angel." San lustfully whispers into your neck. "But, you know, that's just the way I like it." You can't see his dirty grin, but you can feel it on your skin. "We'll come back to your sins later; we may even have to ask Yunho to help you atone for them, but that will be later; for now I want you to milk my cock dry. We need to make sure your cunt is full and warm from all my cum, divine".

You whine and nod your head stupidly in response to his words. Yes, yes, you want to atone for your sins under the gentle guidance of Father Jeong Yunho and, of course, San, but right now he is absolutely right: you have to milk his cock dry. You can't let him down.

You were so close to orgasm, the hot, tight knot of lust in your lower abdomen tightening with each thrust of Pastor Choi's juicy, thick thighs.

The velvety, thick length of his dick rubs insistently against the quivering walls of your cunt, causing more and more of your mucus to spill out of your hole, hinting at an impending stormy orgasm, and San cunningly presses the rough pads of his fingers against your sensitive, swollen clit as he begins to rub your sensitive bottom sharply and aggressively, pushing you faster to the edge of pleasure. Your toes are squeezed in your shoes by his actions, and your thighs begin to tremble weakly.

"S-san, I'm so... so close. Please, Holy Father..." You gasp.

Your orgasm rushes through you like a tsunami, coating your thighs and the velvet floor beneath your feet with copious amounts of goo. You cum so hard it's almost embarrassing, your goo spurting out of your hole like a fountain, completely soaking San's clothes and running down the inside of your thighs.

Your cunt clenches tighter around San's massive length, milking him until his cock begins to soften inside you. Hot cum floods the narrow channel of your pussy, painting your fluttering walls with viscous milky fluid.

What could be more righteous? What could be more holy? Than something so breathtaking and heavenly. You're almost on cloud nine as your belly continues to swell from the sperm pumping into you.

You whimper softly, the remnants of your orgasm tingling your skin like little bolts of electricity.

"You're such a good girl, Divine." San coos sweetly, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead. "Keep me inside, baby. Keep me inside. Yes, like that. My good girl, my sweet angel."

"Yes, Holy Father." That's all you can manage, burying your face deeper in San's neck, feeling his massive jewelled cross digging between your tits. "Whatever you say."

[leclerc-hs]

save a bull! - cl16

pairing: bull rider!charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: in which a city girl meets a cowboy OR charles finds himself infatuated with the visiting city girl warnings: language, NOT PROOFREAD, no smut (maybe in part 2 if y'all want smut), bad writing (sorry lol) word count: ~4.4k author's note: HI. did you miss me? i sure as FUCK missed y'all. so I started writing this MONTHS ago but then took a very long break from this website and writing. it might be very shitty so i apologize for that. it was originally going to be just 1 part but I found myself writing so much that I think 2 parts will be better in the end. PLEASE REACH OUT TO ME WITH ANY FEEDBACK. sorry if this sucks. love you all.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Will you please just consider it!” Abigail pleads beside you on the sidewalk, weaving through the bustling crowd with an effortless grace. The sun casts dappled shadows on the pavement, and the scent of street food mingles with the crisp urban air.

The city feels particularly relentless as you trudge along the crowded sidewalk, your third cup of coffee from the corner deli clutched in one hand, its steam mingling with the bustling street air. Your shoulders droop under the weight of fatigue, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of the city around you. Each step towards your office tower feels heavier, as though the concrete beneath your feet has turned to lead.

The tall buildings loom overhead, their steel and glass facades glinting under the midday sun, but their gleam only seems to amplify the oppressive weight of your exhaustion. The vibrant hum of the city—a symphony of honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, and distant sirens—becomes a monotonous drone.

Your dress, once crisp and sharp, now feels more like a burden, its fabric slightly rumpled from a day spent at your desk.

“I can’t take that much time off of work,” You say, your voice tinged with frustration but softened by a hint of regret. You’re caught in that all-too-familiar tug of war between professional obligations and personal desires. You finally get the chance to turn your head to look at Abigail as you reach a crosswalk, blinking not to cross. You see the disappointment flicker in your friend’s eyes.

“I get it,” Abigail says, her voice steady and tinged with understanding, “I know how demanding your job is. But that doesn’t mean you can’t work from home. Or take personal time. I know you have that option.”

You chuckle softly, admiring her persistence to some degree. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“When is the last time you even took a personal day.”

The answer was never. But she didn’t need to know that.

“Will you stop begging me every second of every day if I say yes?” You ask, half in jest but with a trace of genuine curiosity.

“Obviously,” she replies, her smile widening as she sees the shift in your stance.

The pedestrian light turns green, and as you start to cross the street, you take a deep breath, blinking to steady your thoughts. “Fine.”

Abigail’s face lights up with a victorious grin, her eyes sparkling with triumph. “Really?”

“Yes.”

-

Nestled amidst rolling green hills and expansive grasslands, Abigail’s small family farm is a picturesque retreat. The scene unfolds like a charming pastoral painting, with vibrant hues of green and wheat fields stretching out as far as the eye can see, interspersed with splashes of color from blooming wildflowers.

At the heart of the farm stands a quaint, cozy house, its charm amplified by a wraparound porch adorned with potted flowers. The house itself is a delightful mix of rustic and charming, with its whitewashed clapboard siding, and a steeply pitched roof. 

Adjacent to the house, a well-tended vegetable garden thrives, it’s neat rows of tomatoes, lettuce, and peppers bordered by a low wooden fence. A couple of well-worn garden tools lean against a small shed nearby, evidence of the daily care given.

Further out, a classic red barn structure where a white trimmed roof sits atop. The sounds of clucking hens and the occasional bray of donkey create a lively atmosphere. Near the barn, sits a small paddock with a couple of playful horses, their sleek coats gleaming in the sunlight. 

The fresh air of the farm is almost a sensory overload compared to the city’s fumes. Unlike the city’s dense cocktail of exhaust fumes, asphalt, and various street food vendors, the farm air is pure.

As you sit at the kitchen table, the warmth of the farmhouse envelops you. The rustic charm of the kitchen, with its large wooden table and mismatched chairs, is filled with the sounds of cheerful conversation and shared laughter.

Abigail stands at the center of the room, animatedly catches her family up on the latest happenings in her city life. Her eyes sparkle with excitement, her gestures lively and expressive. The tales of the city hustle almost seem foreign in this serene setting. 

Danny and Luke, her two older brothers, sit across from you at the table. Danny, with his sandy blond hair and easy-going demeanor, leans back in his chair, his face lit up with a relaxed smile. He listens attentively, occasionally interjecting with teasing remarks or playful banter. His presence is warm and reassuring. His wife, Gianna, sits beside him with a small baby boy on her lap.

Luke, on the other hand, exudes a quiet strength. His dark hair is neatly tousled, and his gaze is both thoughtful and amused. His demeanor calm yet engaged.

“It’s so nice to finally meet the girl who makes our Abigail so happy in the city,” Abigail’s mother continues, her voice carrying a note of heartfelt sincerity. “She’s always spoken so highly of you.”

You feel a flush of warmth at the compliment, a mix of gratitude and slight nervousness at the attention all on you. 

“Thank you so much for having me,” You smile softly. “I don’t know what I would do without Abigail in my life.”

With a playful glint in Danny’s eye, he chimes in, “I do.”

The room erupts in a chorus of laughter, the sound ringing out with genuine warmth and affection.

You decided right there you may just like it here a lot more than you thought.

-

The silk dress that adorned your body was utterly unsuitable for the rugged rodeo environment, but you didn’t really care. The delicate fabric, with its soft sheen and flowing lines, clashed vividly with the dusty, rough-and-tumble atmosphere of the rodeo.

As you moved through the arena, the contrast became more pronounced. The silk, while beautiful, struggled against the elements—dust from the arena settling onto the fabric, and the occasional splash of beer threatening to leave their mark. The sight of your delicate dress among the crowd of rugged cowboys and cowgirls in their jeans, boots, and plaid shirts drew curious glances.

But you didn’t care. You liked your clothes, the luxurious feel of the silk against your skin, the way it draped with effortless grace. The expensive fabric was a statement of your personal taste, and you embraced it fully, regardless of the setting.

“You could’ve borrowed some jeans, you know?” Abigail chirps beside you, her jeans mostly ripped and worn matched well with her cowboy boots. 

You shrug your shoulders in a noncommittal way. “I’m going to head to the bathroom before this starts. Grab me a drink?” 

“Duh. See you at the seats?” Abigail laughs before sauntering off towards a beer vendor. 

You stand still for a moment, observing Abigail and her brothers joking around as they stroll across the lively rodeo grounds. You can’t help but smile at their playful banter, you didn’t have growing up.

As you watch, lost in the charm of the moment, a rough shoulder unexpectedly collides with yours. The sudden contact jolts you out of your reverie, and you turn to see a burly cowboy in worn jeans and a dusty plaid shirt. 

You swore he was one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen in your life until he opened his big fat mouth.

“You lost?” He laughs, his green eyes bright and mischievous as he adjusts the hat on his head.

“Excuse me?” You reply, a mix of confusion and irritation threading through your voice.

“The city is a long way from here,” He drawls, the smirk on his lips widening with a hint of amusement.

The combination of his cheeky grin , the twinkle in his eye, and the dismissive tone ignites a flicker of anger within you. It feels like a mix of condescension and teasing that sends a sharp heat coursing through your veins. You roll your eyes, unable to hide your annoyance.

“Thanks for the information, jackass,” You snap, shoving past him with a forceful nudge. You march away with purpose, the silk of your dress swishing around your legs with each determined step.

Unbeknownst to you, as you walk away, he can’t help but turn his head to watch the sway of your hips in the thin, delicate fabric. His gaze lingers for a moment longer than necessary, a mixture of surprise and lingering admiration in his eyes as he takes in your retreating figure.

A hand lands firmly on his shoulder, and a voice calls out, “C’mon Charles, you need to get changed.” The words cut through his moment of distraction.

With a slight jolt, he snaps back to reality and glances over, meeting the eyes of his friend who is already gesturing towards the changing area. Reluctantly, he shifts his focus and starts to follow, his gaze now shifting into a more focused, practical demeanor.

-

Finally settled into your seat, far too close to the metal fence for your liking, and smothered between Abigail and Luke, you feel yourself relax as Luke places a tall boy can of beer in your hand, the wet condensation soaking your hand. 

“Hope you can handle a beer,” Luke states, a smile on his lips. “It’s all they had left.”

You bring the can of beer to your lips slowly, savoring the crisp, cool sensation as you take a smooth sip. With a playful glint in your eye, you send a wink in Luke’s direction. “I promise I can handle a beer,” you say with a teasing smile.

Luke’s eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement, and he lets out a hearty chuckle. He lifts his own beer in a casual salute, the gesture accompanied by a nod of approval. As he takes a sip, the cool amber liquid reflecting the warm light of the evening, he meets your gaze with a grin that mirrors your playful confidence.

“So how does this work?” You ask, turning your full attention to Luke while Abigail and Danny are engrossed in their own conversation on the other side of you.

Luke raises an eyebrow in curiosity. “How does what work?” 

You gesture broadly with your hands, waving them in animated circles as you take in the bustling rodeo arena before you. “This,” you say, trying to encompass the entire scene with your sweeping motions.

As if gaining a sense of clarity, the corners of Luke’s lips tug upward. “Why don’t you just watch and find out? It’s about to start.”

You turn your head back to the dirt ring, feeling the adrenaline of the moment as you witness a big brown bull in the chute. Its snorts are visible through the gaps in the metal fences, each exhalation a cloud of steam in the crisp air.

A handsome cowboy, his broad shoulders accentuated by a fitted vest, mounts the bull with practiced ease. He glances up with a confident, almost cocky grin that makes your heart race even faster. Your gaze follows every move he makes, captivated by the way he balances on the bull’s massive back as the gate swings open.

The bull bursts into action, hooves flying and muscles rippling as it twists and bucks in an attempt to throw the rider off. The scene is a whirlwind of motion and raw power—an exhilarating display of skill and bravery. It’s almost surreal, the sheer intensity of the bull’s movements and the cowboy’s unflinching composure.

As the bull spins in tight circle, you glance over to the timer mounted on the fence. The seconds tick away, each moment bringing the eight-second mark closer. When the buzzer finally sounds, signaling the end of the ride, the cowboy springs off the bull with an effortless grace. He tosses a hand in the air, his expression nonchalant as if the wild ride was nothing more than a casual stroll.

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause, their excitement palpable as they all stand up with shouts.

You turn your head back towards Luke, one of the biggest smiles on your face as you meet his eyes in pure astonishment. 

“How about it?” Luke chimes in, taking yet another chug of his beer.

“This is insane!” You take another sip as well.

-

Charles lived for bull riding. It was more than just a passion—it was his livelihood. The cowboy lifestyle, with its raw, untamed essence, had shaped almost every aspect of his existence. 

To him, the bull was not just an animal but a formidable partner in a high-stakes dance of power and control. Two things Charles always loved to have. Every successful ride was a testament to his skill and courage, a dance with danger that left him both exhilarated and humbled. Like this ride. Right now.

He throws his hand in the air, the rush of pure adrenaline coursing through his veins. The feel of the dirt beneath his boots, the deafening roar of the crowd, and an impressive score of 91, was enough to send him shouting in joy. He let his eyes wander the crowd around him, taking it all in like he always loves to do. He livesfor the attention.

So, when he notices a familiar woman seated right before the metal fence, paying little to no attention to the dirt ring, he can’t help but feel just a little annoyed.

He also can’t help but feel more annoyed when he takes notice of that silk fabric again, immediately remembering when he bumped into your frame mere moments ago. Your cherry lips and silky-smooth hair flash into his mind. For a second, he almost forgets the fact that he’s standing in the middle of a dirt ring.

He can’t quite shake the memory of your demeanor and the way you seemed detached from the rodeo’s thrilling chaos. The way you could care less about who he was. It’s a curious juxtaposition against the fervor of the crowd and the adrenaline that still courses through him.

One thing about Charles was that he wanted attention, yes. But right now, he only wanted yours. With that unshakable desire in mind, he strides confidently toward where you’re seated. The metal fences between you both form a barrier, but that doesn’t deter him.

As he approaches, the crowd senses a shift in the energy and falls into an anticipatory hush. Their collective gaze shifts to you and Charles, creating a palpable focus on the interaction.

Charles, his presence commanding and confident, slips his hat through the gap in the metal fence, offering it to you with a smirk. The hat, wide brimmed and well worn, represents a piece of his world.

“To help you fit in better.” His tone a mix of challenge and amusement.

Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and finally saunters off, his gait relaxed yet purposeful. 

-

“What just happened?” Abigail smacks your arm, the one not jolding the hat, as you walk side by side. Her brothers loom behind you, their presence adding to the charged atmosphere of the moment. “Why did Charles fucking Leclerc just give you, his hat?”

You glance at the hat, a bemused expression on your face. “That guy is a total dick is what just happened.”

Abigail’s eyes widen, her excitement barely contained. “What do you mean!” She practically shouts, her voice a mix of disbelief and thrill. “He’s like famous here. Every girl probably hates you right now.”

“Why?” You ask, genuinely puzzled.

“Are you blind?” Abigail’s voice now full sheer joy. “The dude is practically sex on fucking legs. And he’s one of the best bull riders around!”

You look back at the hat again, it suddenly feels heavier in the grasp of your fingertips. “Charles Leclerc is a big deal around here. And he just gave you, his hat. That’s a huge deal.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the slight flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Well, it doesn’t change the fact that he was a jackass earlier. But I guess it’s good to know he’s a big deal around here.”

Abigail bursts into laughter. “You really are something else.”

-

The narrow aisles of the tiny market, with their cramped and cluttered shelves, had you aimlessly strolling in circles. The items on your list—given to you by Abigail’s mom—seemed to elude your every turn. The overhead lights cast a harsh glare on the disorganized assortment of product, making it difficult to find what you needed. You stood there, your eyes narrowing in annoyance, at the crumpled list clutched in your hand.

“Need some help, sweetheart?”

The sound of the deep, velvety voice was enough to draw your attention away from the list. You turned to see Charles standing not even a few feet away, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned casually against a shelf. His eyes, green as ever, created a swirl of butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

Although you were known for your stubbornness, often digging your heels in even when it wasn’t your best interest, you had to admit you were out of your depth in the tiny market. There were no signs. No directory.

“Depends,” you reply, the hint of a playful challenge in your voice. Charles raises his eyebrows, a silent prompt for you to elaborate further.

“If you call me city girl even once,” you continue, your tone firm but light-hearted, “I’ll knock you right out.”

The challenge is met with a shit-eating grin, so wide on Charles’s face that it seems almost infectious. His cheeks stretch into an exuberant smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. And it takes him one step, and one stretch of his arm, to snag that grocery list right out of your dainty fingertips.

-

“You’re cute when you’re real mad, y’know?” He drawls, placing the groceries into the bed of the pick-up truck you borrowed from Abigail’s family.

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re right.” He says, placing the final bag into the truck and leaning against the frame of it with an arm propped up. “You’re just cute.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Charles doesn’t miss the subtle flush the tints the apples of your cheeks with a delicate shade of red. The reaction stirs a flutter in his chest, almost like an addiction that he never wants to stop. 

You’re undeniably cute, with an effortlessly enchanting beauty that makes it difficult to look away. A magnetic pull that Charles just can’t shake. It’s almost as if he’s addicted to getting a reaction out of you. 

-

It’s been days of settling into the rhythm of farm life—enjoying family dinners filmed with hearty laughter and home-cooked meals, gathering around late-night fires that crackle and warm against the cool night air, and rolling up your sleeves to help with daily chores.

Even had a few more run-in's with the famous bull riding man himself. He was sweet, but you couldn't help but feel at complete unease around him. Not in a bad way, but in a my heart won't stop pounding against my rib cage kind of way.

Like when he covered you in his flannel at the latest bonfire, taming the rising goosebumps along your body.

"I don't need this, y'know?"

"Sweetheart, you're cold. Just wear the damn thing."

Or when you bumped into him at one of the farmer's markets and it took no hesitation for him to grab all of your purchases out from under your arm.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doin?"

"Stealing my stuff"

His laugh shot butterflies right into your stomach. "You're something else, sweetheart."

You make a point to be as involved as possible, driven by the genuine desire to contribute and make a sense of responsibility. 

“Should we hit up Rusty Spur’s tonight?” Abigail asks from beside you, her voice light and relaxed as she stands wrapped in a fluffy robe, freshly showered. She’s casually brushing her long, damp hair, the strands falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

“What’s Rusty Spur’s” you ask, leaning over the bathroom sink for a closer look as you apply your last coat of mascara, adding the finishing touch to your makeup.

“The bar,” she replies nonchalantly, her tone suggesting it’s a place she frequents often. “I think we need a night out.”

You glance at her through the mirror, a smile spreading across your face at the prospect of a night out. 

“Yes.”

-

Rusty Spur’s was the kind of country bar that instantly feels like home, even if you’ve never been there before.

As you step inside, the scent of aged wood, spilled beer, and a hint of smoky warmth greets you. The place is packed. 

The flimsy spaghetti straps of your short white dress dig into the skin of your shoulders, their delicate fabric offering little support. Despite its ethereal look, the dress feels unexpectedly snug against your skin. The soft white fabric sways with each step you take as you slip your body in between the crowds of people.

Abigail leads you to a cozy corner of the bar. Almost instantly, a bartender approaches, his familiarity with Abigail evident in the easy smile and warm greeting he offers.

You can’t help but notice just how easy on the eyes he is. He’s dressed, like almost every guy in this bar, in snug jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His casual yet confident demeanor, coupled with the slight scruff on his beard and his easygoing smile, makes him stand out in the dimly lit bar. 

Within the span of five minutes, a chilled, neck-bottled beer is placed gently into your hand. Taking in the view of the crowd, which is large but not overwhelmingly so, you scan the faces around you. As your gaze moves across the room, no one stands out as particularly familiar—until your eyes land on a table not too far away.

There, seated with a group of friends, is Charles. His presence is unmistakable. Even from a distance, he exudes a charismatic confidence, the kind that draws attention without even trying. He’s relaxed in his posture, laughing and engaging with his companions, the flannel from earlier now swapped for a casual shirt. 

“Wanna dance?” Abigail chimes in your ear, her beer already half gone in the span of a minute.

-

It was almost as if Charles could feel your presence without even seeing you. The dim light of the bar cast flickering shadows. He leaned back against the worn leather of his chair, his senses heightened.

You found yourself completely immersed in the music, your body moving almost involuntary as your shoes glide smoothly across the weathered wooden floor. You’re not exactly sure when it happened, but your body eventually became pressed up against a random guy you’ve only just met on the dance floor. His presence both surprising and pleasant. He’s cute—definitely cute. His hands are gentle on your waist, guiding you through the steps with a natural rhythm. 

He twirls you effortlessly around, guiding your movement with a deft touch that brings a burst of joy. As you complete the spin, you find yourself facing him once more, his eyes twinkling down at you.

With a playful flourish, he slips his cowboy hat onto your head. You can feel the subtle press of the brim against your forehead, much too big for your head. You tilt your head back and laugh, the sound a melodic blend of joy and unrestrained happiness woven into the music. 

In this embrace, everything seems to align perfectly—the rhythm of the music, the warmth of the body, and the whimsical charm of the cowboy hat resting lightly atop your head.

“Do you want t-” The words began to leave the man’s lips, but they were abruptly cut off as a firm muscled arm shoved him away from your embrace. The unexpected force sent him stumbling back, surprise flashing across his face and yours.

The man recovered his footing, confusion turning into indignation as he glared at the one who interrupted. Charles. Meanwhile, you stood your ground, heart racing, caught between the thrill of the moment and unexpected clash.

If looks could kill.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Large fingers reach for the brim of the hat atop your head, snatching it right off before Charles shoves it back into the man’s chest. “Don’t ever put a hat on her head again.” 

His voice was rough and terse, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. “Let’s go,” He says, not giving the man or you a chance to react. In an instant, his fingers snake around your wrist, pulling you away from the dance floor and into the shadows of a secluded table ticked into the corner of the bar.

The abrupt shift caught you off guard, and your heart raced as he led you through the sea of bodies. The air between you was thick with unspoken words as he tucks you between him and the edge of the table. His grip on your wrist loosens, but his proximity is too close.

“What the hell was that?” Your senses heightened as your eyes locked onto his. The usual light green of his irises, often warm and inviting, was now obscured by a much darker hue, swirling with intensity and something primal. 

His gaze was pointed, sharp, and unyielding. You sensed a storm brewing behind those darkened eyes, and the air around you crackled with anticipation. 

“He put his hat on you, sweetheart.” You scoff almost instantly, bubbling anger simmers in your chest as you let out a soft laugh over the situation.

“Really?” You throw your head back for a mere second as the laugh pushes past your throat. “You shoved him over a hat?”

His eyes remain narrowed, the amusement that might have danced there moments ago, no longer present. “Do you even know what that means?” He presses, his voice low and intense as he leans into your ear, the weight of his words hanging between you.

“What a hat means?” Confusion flickers across your features. The question so out of place, and yet the gravity of his tone suggests otherwise.

Before you can grasp the implications, you felt his fingers sneak their way to you, warmth and firmness splayed along your waist. The contact sent a jolt of awareness through you, igniting the tension the crackled in the air. It was a possessive gesture. 

His gaze never wavers, and the connection between you deepens.

“You wear that hat; you ride that cowboy.”

For a moment, you freeze. 

“And in no fucking world, would I let you wear anyone’s but mine.”

[cvnntagious]

☆ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠... 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲!𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭

You followed your dad to the door with his lunch in your hands, Roosters singing from outside the little rundown farmhouse you lived in. It was barely light out, the dirt road at the end of the driveway quiet and unoccupied. There were few out and about at this time, only part of the South likely just stirring awake, but your father was a busy man. He had a few errands to run before he could get to work in the fields.

“You go ahead an’ make sure you see Pastor Rick today,” The farmer’s deep, gruff voice boomed through the small house, “He been expectin’ y’up the hill all week.”

You smiled, watching your dad throw his big black coat on. “I know, daddy. I will,” You replied, sounding more giddy than intended as you handed him his lunch.He only nodded his head, a grunt in response. His large boots banged against the wooden floor as he turned around, lunchbox in one hand. “I’ll be a while,” He then stated, opening the janky door with the other hand, “Don’t go doin’ anything I wouldn’t approve of.”

“I never do.”

“I know you don’t, Smart girl.” With that, he reached that same hand back to pat the top of your head — a simple, yet affectionate action.

The door closed in your face, and you, dressed in blue jean shorts and a modest white t-shirt, scurried back over to the kitchen. You opened the door to your fridge, grabbing out the extra lunchbox you’d tucked away the night before. It wasn’t long before you could no longer hear the sound of your father’s loud truck, making its way down the road and into town, conjuring up a dust trail along the way. For extra measure, you peeked at the driveway through the small window in the kitchen.

With the truck long gone and a smile on your face, you turned and bolted out of the back door with the neatly-made meal in your tight grip. Your braids flew in the wind, and despite having to run across the whole field, you’d quickly made it through the large doors of the old, red barn loudly. The animals stirred in their pens, catching the right person’s attention.

That’s when a familiar face popped up from behind a large horse in its stables. “Y’know your daddy don’t allow you in here, little miss,” He said, dropping the sponge he held in a bucket of buttermilk below him to watch the pretty girl in front of him take a few steps towards him.

You stopped in front of him, giggling as you shook your head. “Like you care,” You teased, handing the farmboy his lunch with a toothy grin. The pretty southern twang of your soft voice had him smiling eagerly with you, unable to help himself. Then, you took the large cowboy hat off of his curly brown hair, placing it atop your own head before you placed a tender kiss on his cheek from your tip-toes.

“--Missed you,” Matt mumbled in response.

w/c : 501 ! a/n : this's really short and has no smut, but it's just an introduction, so i'll be writing more later on. send in promts if you're liking this au so far to get more ab cowboy matt! I also wanted to give a quick warning that this au will have religious themes, but it's not meant to offend anyone, and will have no religious corruption fetishizing.

-love, your grandma cvnty ☆!

[ccwpidsblog]

SAINTS AND SINNERS — iwtv

SUMMARY : Edmée Heart, the dutiful daughter of a pastor, lives a sheltered life bound by rules and expectations. But her quiet world begins to unravel when she catches the attention of Louis de Pointe du Lac and Lestat de Lioncourt, two enigmatic men with dark secrets. Drawn to Edmée’s innocence, Louis and Lestat vie for her affection, each offering her a taste of freedom and danger.

RATING : 18+

CONTENT WARNING: season one spoilers, not entirely accurate to the show but we’re all grown here it shouldn’t matter much, eventual polyamory, heavy religious themes, daddy issues, more to be added

CWPID NOTES 🏹: this is a great way to come back and show how much my writing has improved. redeeming myself from the trash fiction i was writing before. ON A03 N WILL ONLY BE UPDATED ON AO3 (if im not being lazy)

Edmée remembered the Sundays before Louis de Pointe du Lac avoided the sun, somehow, he’d managed to arrive at church after a long night of sin. He was always late, slipping through the heavy wooden doors just as her father’s booming voice began the first prayer. From her family’s high pew, she could see him moving down the aisle, the faint scent of booze and perfume lingering on his clothes—a sinful whisper of the previous night’s indulgences.

He’d take his usual seat beside his brother, his strong frame settling heavily into the creaking wood. His head would bow, his eyes would close, and for the rest of the service, he remained still. Unmoving, like a statue carved from marble. At first, Edmée thought he might be sleeping, but there was something too deliberate about the way he held himself, his hands clasped loosely on his lap, his expression unreadable.

She couldn’t stop watching him. From her elevated view, she memorized the way the sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across his dark skin. He looked ethereal, caught between shadows and light, the kind of beauty that left her breathless and guilty all at once. She tried to focus on her father’s sermon, but her gaze always drifted back to Louis.

At the end of every service, as her father stood by the doors shaking hands and offering blessings, Louis would rise with a graceful ease. He’d move through the small crowd, a charming smile on his lips, and when he reached her father, he always made a point to praise the sermon. “Your words speak straight to the soul, Pastor Heart,” he’d say, his voice like velvet dipped in honey.

Then he’d turn to her mother, taking her hand and pressing a gentlemanly kiss to her knuckles. “A vision of grace, as always, Mrs. Heart,” he’d say, his words smooth and effortless.

But when his gaze finally reached Edmée, it changed. He wouldn’t kiss her hand, wouldn’t offer a compliment. Instead, he’d nod at her, a playful, knowing smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. That smile—the one that made her feel like the only girl in the world and completely invisible at the same time. If her skin had been any lighter, she knew she would’ve turned as red as the pew cushions beneath her.

In passing, he treated her the same. A quick nod, a flash of white teeth. But she noticed how he greeted the other women—the kisses, the murmured words that made them laugh and fan themselves, the lingering glances. With her, there was none of that.

Only a nod. A smile.

And it made her stomach twist with jealousy. The last time Edmée saw Louis was at Grace’s wedding. The church was packed, and the air was thick with the scent of lilies and the murmur of joyous chatter. Louis was everywhere that day—his laugh echoing above the music, his face alight with a rare kind of happiness that made him seem untouchable. He was glowing, his usual quiet intensity replaced by something brighter, freer. Edmée stood by the punch table, nervously clutching a glass, when he approached her. She didn’t see him coming; one moment she was alone, and the next he was there, his presence commanding and electric.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “Maybe even more beautiful than the bride.”

Her breath caught, her cheeks burning.

“Don’t tell Grace,” he added with a wink, leaning in just enough that she caught a whiff of his cologne—a mix of cedar and something darker, richer. Edmée could only nod, her voice stolen by his closeness, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

Months.

Many months without seeing him.

The pew Louis shared with Paul and his family remained empty every Sunday, a silent memorial to all that had unraveled. No one dared to sit there now, not after everything. Not after Paul’s tragic passing, not after the whispers.

The whispers.

They followed Louis like a shadow, stretching long and dark through the town. The women at her mother’s so-called “Bible studies” spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices dripping with scandal and sanctimony. “Dancing with the devil,” they’d say, the words lingering in the air like smoke. Edmée would sit in the corner, quietly stitching or polishing silver, her ears pricking at every mention of his name. Her brothers were no better. On Thursday nights, they’d gather in the attic for their card games, their voices low and conspiratorial. Edmée wasn’t allowed to join, of course, but she’d found her own way around that rule. If she sat at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, her father wouldn’t scold her.

There, she could catch snippets of their conversations, each word painting a more vivid picture of the man she hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

“...seen him with him again...” “...spends his nights where no decent man would...” “...more dead than alive, if you ask me.”

The words made her chest tighten, her heart ache. She couldn’t bring herself to believe them. Louis de Pointe du Lac, the man who nodded at her with that secret smile, who complimented her at Grace’s wedding, couldn’t be what they said he was. Could he?

But her father’s rules were ironclad. She couldn’t ask, couldn’t go looking for answers. The world outside their home was a forbidden one, especially now. Edmée’s days were measured in prayers and chores, her nights spent reading scripture or mending clothes by candlelight. Her father had made it clear: the streets were no place for a proper young lady, especially after dark. The world out there was dangerous, filled with temptation and sin. But tonight, as she stood by the forbidden window, the temptation was unbearable.

The house was quiet, her family long asleep. The window, a heavy thing with rusted hinges, had always been forbidden. “Nothing good comes from looking where you shouldn’t,” her father had said countless times. But tonight, Edmée couldn’t help herself. She pressed her fingers to the cool glass, peering into the moonlit street below. At first, there was nothing. Just the empty streetlamps and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees. But then, she saw him.

Louis

He was walking slowly down the cobblestone street, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his head slightly bowed. The gaslight caught his face, illuminating its sharp angles, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked different—thinner, wearier, as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She pressed closer to the glass, watching him with the kind of hunger she didn’t dare name.

“Not tonight,” Louis said, his voice low but sharp. Another figure emerged from the shadows. He appeared with a startling grace, stepping into the lamplight as if conjured from the darkness itself. His hair gleamed like spun gold, his sharp, angular features both striking and unnerving.

There was a wildness about him, a dangerous energy that made Edmée’s heart race in an entirely different way.

“Louis,” Lestat’s voice purred, low and teasing, the sound carrying up to her window. “Out for another pensive stroll, are we? Tell me, do you plan to sulk your way through eternity, or is this just for tonight’s entertainment?”

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Lestat,” he said, his voice soft but heavy with frustration. “Oh, but you never are,” Lestat replied, stepping closer. “And yet, here I am, devoted as ever. You should be flattered, mon cher.”

From her perch, Edmée couldn’t look away. The two men stood in stark contrast—Louis, somber and grounded, and Lestat, all sharp smiles and restless energy. Their connection was undeniable, charged with something she didn’t quite understand but found utterly captivating.

Lestat reached out, brushing an invisible speck from Louis’s shoulder with a flourish. “And speaking of devotions,” he said, his tone turning sly, “you’ve been spending an awful lot of time on this street. Seems that you miss the little church mouse lately? What’s her name again? Edmée?”

She could see the shift in Louis as he seemingly snapped, finally turning to face Lestat. “Leave her out of this,”

Lestat’s grin widened. “Oh, mon ami, you wound me. I only meant to say she’s... enchanting, in her own way. So innocent, so untouched by the world.” He tilted his head, his gaze flickering upward as though he might sense her watching.

Panicking, Edmée ducked away from the window, her heart pounding in her chest. She pressed her back against the wall, trying to steady her breath.

Had he seen her?

Had they seen her?

Who was he?

What was he to Louis?

As she sat there in the dark, the questions swirled in her mind, each one more troubling than the last. And though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as though she had glimpsed something forbidden, something that would change everything if she let it.

[moomuzan]

— 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖚𝖘

they leave you waiting at the alter ? chuuya , akutagawa , dazai , angst , requested

Within a grove of birch trees, the clearing nestled deep, the soft hush of leaves moving in the wind was a solemn hymn to the life you thought you’d begin today. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of gold and shadow onto the small wooden altar. It was simple, intimate—just you, the pastor, and the man who was supposed to meet you here.

But Dazai wasn’t coming.

Standing there, your breath came short as you glanced back toward the narrow path that led to the grove. It was empty. Too heavy on your shoulders, the lace of the dress clinged to your skin like a suffocating second layer. The bouquet trembled in your hands, but you didn’t feel its weight. All you could feel was the growing void in your chest, a silence louder than any words could ever be.

The marriage officiant, a kind man with an understanding gaze, shifted awkwardly, his hands folded before him. “Perhaps he’s just delayed,” he murmured, though his words lacked conviction. You nodded, a small, tight movement, as if any larger one might shatter the fragile mask of hope you were barely holding together.

But Dazai wasn’t delayed. He had never intended to come.

Far from the grove, he sat in a darkened room, his head bowed over his hands. His suit jacket lay discarded across the back of a chair, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He hadn’t even made it out the door.

As he thought of you, standing there alone in that quiet, sacred space, waiting for him with that soft, unwavering faith in your eyes—the faith that had always undone him, his heart felt like bursting. You had always seen him as something more than he was. A man, instead of a ghost. A lover, instead of a weapon.

And that was why he couldn’t come.

How could he stand before you, in the quiet holiness of that grove, and make promises he knew he could never keep? How could he say the words that would bind your life to his, knowing that everything he touched withered in his hands?

God, he blamed himself for ever asking you. For letting the idea of happiness bloom, even for a moment. It was cruel of him, selfish, to let you believe he could be anything more than the man he was. You were light, and he was a black hole, endlessly consuming, endlessly hollow. He would have pulled you in, dragged you down, stripped away every piece of you until there was nothing left but regret.

And so he stayed. He stayed in that room with its suffocating walls and stagnant air, drinking whiskey he couldn’t taste and staring at his own reflection in the darkened window. The man who stared back at him was a coward, but at least he wasn’t a liar. For once.

Hours passed as the sun set over the grove, casting long, eerie shadows through the trees. When the officiant eventually left, offering you a look of deep pity and a quiet reassurance that he would wait until you were ready to go, you nodded absently, but your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes fixed on the path as though sheer willpower could make him appear.

It didn’t.

When the cold crept in, and the shadows swallowed the last of the light, you finally turned away, your steps heavy, the rustle of your dress against the ground a mournful echo of what should have been.

Somewhere far away, Dazai let his head fall into his hands, his shoulders shaking as the weight of his choice crushed him. You deserved better, he told himself over and over. Someone who would stand at that altar without hesitation. Someone who wouldn’t falter under the weight of love.

Yet, no matter how many times he repeated it, no matter how deeply he tried to convince himself, the truth hung in the air like a noose around his neck: he loved you. He loved you more than anything.

And he had broken you anyway.

,

Akutagawa had never believed in love. Not really. It was a word, a weakness wrapped in sentimentality, something people clung to when they had nothing else. And yet, against all odds, against his better judgment, he had loved you. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping love, but something raw, unspoken—a quiet tether that grounded him in a way nothing else ever had.

But love, he knew, was dangerous. Love was the crack in the armor, the flaw that could be exploited. Love could kill a man faster than any blade, and in his line of work, weakness was not an option.

So, as he stood outside the quiet hall where your wedding was supposed to take place, the weight of his decision pressing down on him, Akutagawa felt the sharp, cold edge of resolve slicing through his chest. He would not go in.

As he walked to the venue, his usual coat replaced with a dark, tailored suit, the world had been silent around him. The streets felt foreign, as if they were holding their breath, knowing what he was about to do. Even now, standing in the shadow of the doorway, he could feel the pull of you inside—your hope, your belief in him, the warmth you so freely offered despite all the walls he had built to keep you out.

For a brief second, he almost let himself indulge in the thought of it. The vows, the quiet promise of forever. The possibility of something different, something better. Swiftly, he had allowed himself to imagine it once, in the fleeting moments of silence between missions, when you would sit beside him and rest your head on his shoulder. A life where he could hold onto you, where he didn’t have to fight tooth and nail for every shred of safety and peace.

Though, that was a lie.

No matter how strong you tried to be, you weren’t like him. You didn’t belong in the shadows, in the violence and you certainly deserved a life free of blood and death and enemies lurking around every corner. And Akutagawa, for all his love, could never give you that.

It wasn’t doubt that made him hesitate; it was the overwhelming certainty that this—you—were the greatest weakness he had ever known. And for that, he couldn’t forgive himself.

Turning away from the door, Akutagawa’s steps were deliberate, the weight of his decision heavy but unwavering. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry you. He wanted nothing more. Ironically, this was his way of protecting you, of ending the part of himself that dared to hope, to love.

As the streets stretched out before him, gray and empty, he walked further and further from the venue. The invitation you had sent, carefully placed in his coat pocket, felt like a brand against his chest. Even as his mind conjured the image of you waiting, your dress immaculate, your eyes searching for him with the kind of trust that had always cut him to the bone, he didn’t look back,

Thinking of the promises he would never make, the life he would never share with you, he told himself it was better this way, though the words rang hollow in his mind. You would hate him, yes, but you would live. And that was all that mattered.

By the time you realized he wasn’t coming, he hoped you would be angry, furious even. He hoped you would hate him enough to let him go, to move on, to forget the man who had left you standing there with nothing but silence and shadows.

The black haired didn’t deserve you. He never had.

As he disappeared into the fog of Yokohama, Akutagawa let himself feel it—just once. The ache of leaving you behind, the unbearable weight of the love he had tried so hard to deny. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as if pain could ground him, remind him why this was necessary.

This was his final act of love, twisted and cruel as it was. To walk away, to sever the bond that had made him weak, to save you from himself and the life that followed him like a curse.

Back at the venue, the clock struck the hour, the silence deafening as the officiant shifted awkwardly. The room was empty except for you, standing alone, your bouquet trembling in your hands. —And somewhere, miles away, Akutagawa kept walking, his heart a hollow shell of what it once was. This was the end. Not just of you and him, but of the part of himself that had dared to dream of something more.

He had loved you, yes. But love was weakness. And he couldn’t afford to be weak.

,

Being a a reflection of Chuuya himself the venue was loud, vibrant, and brimming with intensity. Fairy lights hung in tangled swirls across the ceiling, their soft glow flickering like fireflies against the polished walls. Bottles of the finest champagne chilled in ornate buckets, waiting to be uncorked in celebration. Tables overflowed with flowers, their deep red petals scattered like drops of blood across the white tablecloths. It was the kind of wedding Chuuya had always imagined—a celebration that burned bright, bold, and unforgettable.

And yet, the groom was nowhere to be found.

You waited in the dressing room, smoothing down the delicate folds of your gown with trembling hands, trying to steady your heartbeat as the minutes bled into hours. Guests whispered amongst themselves beyond the door, their voices a distant hum. But Chuuya—your Chuuya—had yet to come.

However, In a dimly lit corner of a bar, far, far from the celebration, Chuuya was drowning.

Having left the penthouse early, he was dressed sharp in his tailored suit, his fiery hair tied back with care. For weeks, he had been excited, eager, ready to make you his in every possible way. With fervor he had thrown himself into the plans—choosing the venue, the wine, the music. It had all been for you, to give you the world, to make you feel adored and cherished.

But now, sitting alone in a booth surrounded by the sharp sting of alcohol and the suffocating haze of his own doubt, he realized the truth he had been too afraid to face: he couldn’t go through with it. Not like this. Not in this life.

Chuuya wasn’t a man who second-guessed himself often. He was decisive, confident, a force of nature. But the thought of standing at that altar, of binding you to him with words he wasn’t sure he deserved to say, paralyzed him.

What kind of life could he give you? A life filled with shadows, with danger, with the blood he spilled just to survive? You deserved something clean, something bright—a life untouched by the darkness that followed him like a curse.

The red head slammed back another shot of whiskey, the burn in his throat a poor distraction from the guilt that gnawed at his insides. He thought the alcohol might dull the ache, might make it easier to forget the look in your eyes as you stood waiting for him. But it didn’t.

Instead, it sharpened everything. He could see you so clearly in his mind, your face lit with the hope he had spent months building. He thought about your laugh, the way it made him feel human in a world that so often turned him into a weapon. You were everything good, everything he had never thought he could have.

Which was exactly the problem.

Draining another glass, the liquid sloshed over the rim as his hands started shaking. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he should stop, knew he was teetering on the edge of losing himself entirely. But he didn’t care. He welcomed the numbness, the oblivion, anything to drown out the voice in his head screaming at him to get up, to go to you, to stop running from the one thing that made him feel alive.

Though, he didn’t move.

Back at the venue, the silence was deafening. The band had stopped playing, the champagne left untouched, the guests slowly filtering out one by one. Sitting alone at the head table, the flowers wilted under the weight of the night’s abandonment. Suffocating, you stared at the empty seat beside you.

By the time the last guest left, and the lights dimmed to a muted glow, you finally let the tears fall. The weight of it all—the love, the loss, the unanswered questions—pressed down on you like a tidal wave.

And somewhere, Chuuya sat slumped in the corner of that bar, his head in his hands, the world spinning around him as the reality of what he had done set in. He had broken the only good thing in his life, and he didn’t even have the courage to face it.

“Idiot,” he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

But the words meant nothing. They couldn’t bring him to you. They couldn’t undo the wreckage he had caused. And as the hours bled into dawn, and the whiskey ran dry, Chuuya realized he had made the biggest mistake of his life.

But by then, it was too late.

…. i couldn’t stop listening to this when i wrote this (i hide my love for taylor like a drug addiction.)

[rezwrites]

So maybe it is too HORNY of me but hear me out… Pastor! Agatha Harkness x non believer reader where Agatha knows Reader doesn’t believe in heaven and she is going to show you to heaven... smut, dark smut (?)

Never too horny for Pastor!Agatha!!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, legal age gap(reader is in her 20s) religious themes, sacrilegious language/situations, allusion to stalking, corporal punishment(spanking w/ a ruler), sadism/madochism, body worship, oral sex(r! receiving) overstimulation, orgasm denial

a/n: Here you go! I’m so sorry it took so long, I hope you enjoy!

Moving back with your parents after college wasn’t something you’d planned. Giving them the news hurt more than you admitted. It was a major blow to your pride, not to mention the anguish of leaving behind your freedom of living on your own.

Walking around your parents new home was strange; A whole new layout to memorize in a new area. They had moved out of the city and into a smaller community, a few months after you started college, it was hard to keep up with them. Grateful that they had packed up your things from the old house and set up your own room for you; that they had kept you mind. The small community town was nestled between rolling hills, its charming streets lined with quaint houses and colorful gardens.

Sitting down at dinner, you and your parents caught up on each others lives. Your father still has his job in the city, even though the commute is longer now. He recently had gotten promoted, which allowed your mother to leave her job and stay home.

“So, honey, what do you plan on wearing to church tomorrow?” Your mother questioned, her eyes brightened as she awaited an answer.

“Oh…” hesitating, you wrung your hands in your lap, “I actually wasn’t planning on going.”

“Of course you’re going. Don’t be silly. You can consider this another rule while you’re living here.” Your father hadn’t uttered a word, his way of telling you he agrees with your mother. Slumping in your chair you took another bite of your salad, knowing better than to argue with her about this. “Besides I already told the Pastor about you, that you’ve lost your way in life. She’ll help show you the path.”

You aren’t lost, so to speak. College drained you of your savings to where you couldn’t afford to live on your own after you graduated. You just needed a roof over your head until you saved enough, and found a job that put your degree to work.

Your parents were always devout but after moving they, your mother especially, became more religious. Every sparse phone call you’d have with them over the years your mother would find a way to squeeze God into the conversation. Each time you would tell her to stop but she’s stubborn believing she could convert you.

The small wooden church stood proudly amidst a lush green meadow, its weathered facade showing signs of age and history. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees. The sound of birds singing and chirping provided a melodic backdrop, while the warm rays of the sun cast a soft golden glow on the church's worn wooden exterior. As you approached, the rough texture of the splintered wooden doorframe greeted your fingertips, evoking a sense of reverence.

The pastor stood at the altar, a welcoming smile on her face greeting everyone. The heavy, opulent, white and gold adorned chasuble covering almost all of her save her hands; cleric collar peaking out underneath. Sunlight seeped through the ceiling-tall stained glass window, casting an ethereal glow over her.

Your mother ushered you to the fourth row on the left. The hair on the back of your neck stood up feeling eyes on you. Sitting down you look around, a few dozen people filled the sanctuary but no one was looking at you. Your mother hands you a hymnal, asking that you at least follow along.

Listening to the sermon it’s hard not to roll your eyes, but you definitely pay attention to the pastor’s alluring voice. The way her voice commanded all attention on her. All eyes and ears of the congregation clung to each word she spoke, as if she was a prophet herself.

Lithe fingers dancing through the air as she talks, your mind can’t help but wonder to images of her hands on you. When the congregation kneels to pray, your brain conjures the most unholy ways to have Pastor Agatha’s hands on you, taking you apart and putting you back together.

With everyone heads bowed Agatha scanned the room as she spoke. Her azure eyes landing on you next to your parents, the lost little lamb. Your parents had to come to her a week prior pleading her to help set you back on the path of God. She’s happy to help any lost soul find the light, but the moment she saw you trailing in behind your parents something in her shifted.

The pianist plays choral music while each row takes their turn walking up to the altar for communion. Standing up your mother beckons you in front her as the usher approaches your row. Stepping up to the Pastor you felt pressure on your shoulders. The expectation from your mother behind you and the rest of the congregation waiting behind her. “The body of Christ,” the Pastor smiled reassuringly handing you a wafer, her fingertips grazing the back of your hands. She raises the chalice to your lips allowing you to take a sip, announcing, “The blood of Christ.”

The wafer tastes like sweet paper as it dissolves on your tongue mixing with the bitter wine. You did your best to hide the grimace on your face as you walked back to your seat. Continuing with the service time seemed to stretch on to infinity. Beginning to doze off, Agatha raised her hands from the pulpit announcing, “Go with God.”

Confusion on your face as the congregation monotonously, almost robotically repeated back, “As He with you.” Everyone stood up as you shook the daze of tiredness from your mind. Shuffling out the door, the pastor was awaiting everybody outside already.

Your mother placed a hand on the back of your shoulder guiding you in front of her introducing you, “Pastor Agatha, this is our daughter.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. I’m glad to see you’ve joined us today.” Shaking her hand, she covered yours, her hands soft and warm. The close proximity to her again had you speechless, her light floral perfume filling your nose, “Well, the confession box is open every day after daily mass, which ends at twelve. I’m also available should you need anything. Feel free to drop by anytime, dear.”

—

You spent the rest of the day in your room, trying to keep your mind off of Pastor Agatha. Uneasiness settled over you as the day grew on. Tossing and turning all night restless, tiredly blinking as you watched the moon set and the sun rise from your window. Hands flew to your stomach as it growled, craving junk food but your parents didn’t keep that in the house.

Stopping at the door you slipped your shoes on. Your mother lifted her head from her book, questioning, “Where are you heading?”

“Just going to the general store for some snacks. Would you like anything?” You offered, checking your pockets to make sure you have everything you need. “Dad left?”

“Yes, not too long ago. I’m making breakfast soon if you’d like to wait.” With a shake from your head your mother wished you well, returning to her book.

Stepping outside the warmth of the morning sun washed over you. The quick ten-minute walk to the middle of town was tranquil. The pleasant scent of freshly cut timber mingled with the sweet aroma of freshly baked bread, wafting out from the nearby bakery. The streets slowly begin buzzing with life as everyone bustles off to work or daily routines.

The general stores moderately weathered wooden deck creaked, slightly gave way underneath you. The windows were adorned with faded advertisements, flowing in the gentle breeze. Inside, the cashier was paying attention to whatever local news channel was on. Quitely, you walked through the neatly arranged shelves.

Browsing the chip aisle you couldn’t believe the assortment of flavors this small town had. Some flavors you wouldn’t even be able to find in the biggest markets in the city. Wasabi, braised Pork flavored, bbq lamb just to name a few.

“Quite the appetite, hm?” Clutching three bags on chips in your hands you spun on your heel to find Pastor Agatha standing behind you. Her black clerical shirt tucked into her jean pants. “Allow me to pay for this?”

“Oh, no Pastor. You don’t have to.” Refusing, you clutching the chips close to you.

“Please just call me Agatha, besides It’s just a few things. It’s no problem at all.” Unease pitted your stomach as she took the bags placing them in her basket. You felt like a lost puppy walking behind her around the store as she finished her own shopping.

You didn’t dare look at the total of everything, guilt eating at you for letting her pay for your stuff. Stepping out in front of the store she handed you your bags of chips, “Are you heading back home? You look exhausted, sweetie, be sure get adequate rest.”

“Yes, thank you, pastor. Have a good day.” You didn’t know what it was, but the air around her was becoming suffocating.

Agatha stood watching you scurry away. As you turned the corner behind the bakery she started back towards the church. Placing the bags down by the first row, she kneeled at the altar, the floor creaking beneath her. She prayed for forgiveness for breaking the Tenth Commandment- Thou shalt not covet.

Oh heavens above did she covet, her hand between her slick thighs all night long. Aberrant thoughts of you ran rampant through her mind, your angelic voice tempting her will like a siren out at sea. Lust and Greed sunk their claws deep into her the second her eyes landed you from her spot at the altar. On her knees she begged God to deliver you to her; praying for your attention, affection, your entire being in that instant, she craved you- her lost little lamb.

-

“I think you should go to confession. It’s been a few days since church.” your mother stood at the doorway of your bedroom.

You lifted your head from your book, “But I haven’t done anything to warrant-”

“Just go.” You notice your mother’s hand grasp the door knob. Again, no room for discussion, “Maybe you can talk to the Pastor about the recent sleepless nights you’ve been having.” Huffing you got up, stomping out of the house. You’re a grown-up, you don’t have to do this. You could go sit at the park a few blocks away and say that you went, however your feet kept carrying you the opposite way towards the church.

Walking in the sanctuary, you noticed it was the end of daily mass. Moving off to the side letting people file out of the door, just leaving you and the pastor. Agatha smiled, motioning you over, “Confession, I presume?”

You nodded, subconsciously picking at your fingernails. “Come child. The confessional is in my office.”

“In your office? Why not out in the sanctuary?”eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Confessions are personal. It’s about what’s said between you and the lord.” She led you to the back of the church where her office is. The large grandfather clock along the back wall briefly caught your attention, ticking with each pendulum swing.

“But nobody is here.” You gestured back to the bare pews and the silent sanctuary.

Closing the door she smiles at you pointing to the confessional against the far left wall, “Like I said. Personal.”

Slowly striding to the confessional you took a deep breath. Closing the curtain behind you, you kneeled at the partition, steadying yourself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have never had a confession.”

“What is your sin, dear child.” Agatha spoke from the other side of the partition. You could see her sitting through the lattice opening.

“I’m not sure. My mother always says it’s because I’m a nonbeliever.” Wiping your hands on your thighs, attempting to quell the rising anxiousness.

“Your mother. But what about you?” Her tone sharp.

“…impure thoughts. For another woman.” A blatant lie. The way you love has never been sinful, your never see it as such.

“Thoughts like?” You can hear the curiosity in Agatha’s voice.

“Her hands on me, wrapping around me; fingers curling inside me. Her marking my neck.” Trying your best to stare at her through the small openings, gauging her reaction.

Lord above give me strength, Agatha thinks, her body tensing. Simultaneously, another part of her is praying you’re talking about her. Nothing but pure elation rushed through her when she saw you step in the door after mass. She can feel your eyes lingering on her, her restraint fading.

Agatha was silent for a moment before she spoke up again, “And you think that’s sinful?”

“No. If we are supposedly each made of Gods image, then why would it be wrong?” you began to challenge.

“Three Hail Marys and…”

You scoffed, “Is there a non prayer alternative?”

Another beat of silence before you heard her door open. She stepped out of the confessional, opening your door. Grabbing your elbow Agatha dragged you to the chalkboard across the room.

“You know, back in the old days Catholic nuns would use corporal punishment. Since you refuse a prayer penance, you will receive a physical one. After all, suffering is next to godliness.” She yanked the bottom half of your dress up, tying it up with a hair-tie, sliding your panties down your legs. “There is no modesty before our Lord.”

Although you wanted to be naked in front of her, you never expected it to be like this. Though you cannot deny the arousal beginning to pool in your core.

The noise of chalk on the board grates against your eardrums. Top of the board right in the center it read: Doleo pro peccatis meis

“What does that mean?” You asked looking back to find Agatha pulling a wooden ruler out from her desk.

“I repent my sins.” She cracked the ruler against her palm, walking back over to you, “One hundred lines written perfectly in cursive Latin, each mistake gets you a lash, little girl.” Her harsh, condescending tone sent another jolt to your core. You did your best to withstand the jarring noise of the chalk as it traveled across the board.

Collapsing to your knees after finishing the line, your ass on fire, legs unwilling to hold you up any longer. Fifty one lines, twenty three lashes- you purposely started making mistakes after the thirteenth line. The stickiness between your legs grew with each hit on your backside, soaking your underwear.

Heavy footsteps approached from behind, Agatha’s shadow looming over you. Casting your gaze up, Agatha had her hands on her hips, shaking her head, “How disappointing you couldn’t finish, but I must admit you lasted longer than I expected.”

Her hands snaked through your hair, craning your head back against her thighs, wiping your tears away with such carefulness. Wincing as your heels of your shoes pushed into your welting ass.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” you whispered. She let out a hum small, a smirk appearing on her face. “May I confess, pastor?”

“Of course, my child.” Her smirk twisted into a smile.

Boldness has never been your forte, but something about this woman makes you want to cast all caution to wind. She cradles your face, keeping your eyes locked with hers as she awaits your confession. Yours eyes burned with desire, “It feels good.”

“Didn’t know the little lamb was a pain slut.” The tips of her nails started to curl under your jaw, “Do I need to beat the sin out of that cunt of yours?”

Your voice dropped turning serious, eager to see how far you could push her, “I’d rather you fuck it out of me, Pastor.”

Agatha’s face dropped as she yanked you to your feet, pushing you against her desk. Caging you in, Agatha’s eyes darkened with lust, her voice low, “You are a snake in the desert.”

Hooking your finger under her clergy collar, you pulled her closer, “Does that mean you can’t resist the temptation?”

She leaned closer to your body, legs locking around her hips keeping her close. “When it’s a heavenly angel like you? Cast me to hottest fire.” She surged forward clashing her lips with yours, rough and uncalculated. Groping your tits through your dress, she pushed you down your back hitting her desk.

Excruciatingly slow and methodical Agatha dragged her lips away from yours, making thier way down to the tips of your shoulders. Appreciative moans left your lips as Agatha trailed along your clavicle, dipping to back your neck. Her deft fingers peeled your dress off your shoulders, her lips gracing the top of your boobs. She mumbled something inaudibly, pressing her face in your breasts. Pulling on her hair you lifted her head from your chest, teasingly asking her to repeat herself. Lust evident in her blown out pupils, “I said, ‘quite the angel.’”

Suddenly dropping to her knees Agatha untangled your panties from your ankles, slipping them into her pocket. Throwing your thighs over her shoulders she kissed your inner thighs, inching closer to your dripping core. Propping yourself on your elbows you watched as Agatha stared intensely at you before diving into your pussy. She lapped carefully through your folds, figuring out what spots make you squirm the most. Arching your back when her lips wrapped around your clit, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Hips canting into her mouth as she pulled you closer, giving a hard suck. She pulled away much to your displeasure, softly kissing your inner thighs, her hands reaching up to rub over stomach.

Agatha wanted nothing more to devour you until you were begging her for release but she reigned herself in, worshipping you like the angel God bestowed upon her. Languidly pressing kisses she traced back to your cunt, tonguing her way through your folds again. Your soft moans were like heaven’s chorus to her ears. Thighs tightened around her ears when she moaned, ego jumping with every praise that fell from your lips.

She stayed on your clit as you quivered beneath her. Sharp sucks melting to easy kisses as she worked you through your orgasm. She broke away allowing you a reprieve. A part of her wished you’d asked for permission but she didn’t dwell too much on it; she has plenty of time to correct your misbehavior.

Agatha attacked your sensitive nub again, using her fingers to tease your slit. It was too much but you couldn’t get enough. Jerking your hips, you pleaded for more. Wrapping your hands in her hair you pulled her closer, the edge approaching quickly. The white light of pleasure behind your eyelids came into view again, warmth flitting across your body. Heaven on earth must be this right here: having Pastor Agatha between your legs, devoting herself to bring you to ecstasy. Eyes screwing shut, you whined with tears brimming your eyes, “gods right there.”

Agatha hastily pulled away, all the sensations ceasing, leaving you high and dry. Chest heaving as you shot up, casting a glare at her.

“Did you think it’d be so easy?” Agatha laughed out, thumbing a tear off your cheek. “God doesn’t reward the undeserving.” You pulled away, hopping down off the desk.

“my underwear?” You tried to look around for them but Agatha kept a firm hand on your hip. She chuckled fixing your dress, smoothing it out.

You turned to her stoned-faced, “I’m not kidding.”

Her laughs died before she put on a stern face of her own. “Lose the attitude.” She lightly swatted you on the butt, hard enough to get her point across, “Maybe if you’re good enough you can have them back tomorrow, after you confess again.”

She walked you out to the church door, hand firmly on your hip the whole way. Seeing you off she considered letting you come again tomorrow, if you actually sleep tonight.

[erwinsvow]

the way that gif with the hair is giving kook!reader and rafe at one of her friend’s wedding or graduation. like omg

you're so right. for some reason the first thing that came to mind was church for a kook wedding or something like that. could be easter mass too. the gif in question

normally rafe always sits next to you at events like this. you make sure he's paying attention in between jokes with kelce and top, earnestly telling them to stop talking and be respectful. they usually listen.

but today he'd run late, and you'd come over to the church with your family anyways. he wasn't that late, but not early enough to convince you to get up from being squeezed between to your parents to sit a row back with him.

he recognizes you by the back of your head and the yellow sundress you'd shown him and the boys yesterday, wanting opinions and making a joke that they should match you. top and kelce had laughed. rafe had gone to ward's closet to find a yellow tie.

he excuses himself past the people in the beginning of the pew, getting behind you and tapping your shoulder. you look back surprised, thinking rafe would sit with his family.

"hey, you made it-" your eyes flick down to the yellow lying on his white dress shirt. "you know, i was just joking about the matching-"

"yeah, i know. coincidence." you smile at rafe, laughing gently. your parents turn to say hi, and the two of you stay like that for a moment before you turn, the ceremony starting.

he's bored quick without you next to him. watching your honest eyes take in the scene usually kept him going. even now, he can see you tear up at the pastor's words and wipe them away with your hands.

your hair falls over the back of the wooden pew, dangles there loosely. before he can think about it, he takes a piece in his hand, playing with it between his fingers.

you turn at the touch. the hair slips away.

"what're you doing?"

"nothin'." you two lock eyes for a minute until your mother taps your shoulder, until you look ahead.

the second you have, he goes back to spinning the hair around his hand softly. he can't tell, but you're smiling.

[sempersirens]

DAUGHTER LESSONS | a joel miller oneshot

masterlist

summary: would it kill joel to just touch you?

warnings: established relationship, infidelity, jackson-era, no mention of age, angst

author's note: so... i have been disgustingly obsessed with COWBOY CARTER (duh! i have taste) and have fixated on the duality of daddy lessons and DAUGHTER, which thereby produced this lovechild of the two. you guys know i love me some religious imagery and angst...

Nothing could’ve confined you to a pew in your youth.

Your knees had breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of a blood-red kneeler when you were granted Sunday morning autonomy. Only your grandmother’s morbid prophecies of watching mass from above this time next year herded you between the rows of wooden benches at Easter and Christmas.

Maybe it was her you were trying to reach; chin tipped to the ceiling as if you would be overcome with the smell of potpourri and Irish coffee, heart flooded with all the right answers.

Still, nothing good came. 

“Didn’t expect t’find you in here.” His familiar drawl pricks at the hairs on your neck. 

“I was trying out solitude.” 

Joel had always moved with surprising stealth for someone of his build, but nothing he did these days surprised you anymore.

You had given him everything since meeting shortly after his and Ellie’s arrival in Jackson. It hadn’t taken long for you to witness his undoing. 

But this time, Joel doesn’t move. 

Rather, he stands in the middle of the aisle taking in the sight of you on your knees four rows ahead and to his left. Your hands are clasped so tightly together he can see the whites of your knuckles from this far back. 

Joel knows the back of your head more intimately than he probably should.

You have a habit of turning away from him in bed at night the second you were overcome by the smallest amount of fatigue.

Too damn hot you would mumble from your tenure of the mattress. And he can’t say he minded too much.

Often, he would reach a hand to your hair spilling across the pillow onto his side before regaining sense and propping the hand underneath his head instead.

During your waking hours, languidly reciting the steps of your morning routine around his small kitchen, he feels the want to touch you.

He wants to smooth down the hair that always bobbled around the raised birthmark on your scalp. He wants to feel your cheek against the knuckle of his right index finger. He wants to take the coffee cup from your hands and engulf them in the warmth of his instead. 

“She’s not here.” You mumble, so quietly that he’s not sure if that’s what you’ve actually said.

“Who?” He braves, wiping his sweating palms on the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

You respond with a scoff, confirming his hypothesis. 

Of course she isn’t here. You both know very well that she isn’t here. 

When Tommy had first introduced the two of you, he’d cornered Joel at the bar while ordering their third, or maybe fourth, round of drinks.

“She’s a good woman, Joel.” 

“I’m figuring that out just fine.” He’d smirked, taking a preliminary sip of his beer before glancing back at you. Your elbows were perched on the wooden table, chin resting on your palms as you exchanged low-looks and snickers with Maria sat across from you. 

“No, you don’t get it. She’s good. She’s kind. Her daddy’s the pastor here.”

“Not settin’ me up with a Bible basher are you, little brother? She gon’ make me wait until I give her a ring?” 

He’d felt like an ass as soon as he’d opened his mouth, which was made worse by Tommy’s unchanging expression. He didn’t look irate or tired of Joel’s age-old shit – the face behind his warning was unwaveringly sincere.

“Just don’t hurt her.” 

And in that moment, Joel couldn’t fathom anything as desacrating as hurting you. He had returned Tommy’s solemnity with a nod and carried your drinks back to your table; the remainder of the night blurring into the rest of his life.

He hadn’t fallen in love with you that night. Joel is stubborn in love, and it took months of langorous warmth to thaw his roughness. 

You didn’t make him wait for a ring.

Nights spent in symphony with one another were the only moments Joel could bring himself to touch you. There, he knew how to work his hands, his tongue, his hips. Not once would he hesitate in reaching out to smooth a thumb across your forehead. He moved like a river, flowing into your body in desperation to meet the ocean. 

And you wondered if he did it on purpose, or if he knew that he was doing it at all. Passing him in the intimacy of his home or the vastness of the food hall, you were only ever hungry for his skin against yours. 

Slowly, you crept into his skin through his pores. You made his days sweeter and smoother wherever and however you could, hoping perhaps one evening his fingers would brush yours as you set a plate on the table before him.

But here you rise, swallowed in the rosy light of dawn with damp cheeks and all faith robbed from your chest.

“I can’t do this here, Joel.” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and attempt to put as much distance between the two of you as you pass him in the aisle.

“Then don’t. Come home.”

For a second he debates reaching out to you, wrapping you in his arms and letting you beat against his chest as your body racks with sobs. But the moment soon escapes him and he’s following you into the morning air.

“I buried my home a week ago.” You spoke flatly, bones void of any remnants of anger or fight. “You know what my daddy told me before he died?” 

He thinks he does. Moreso, he can hazard a guess. 

Nevertheless, he can’t quite seem to find his voice as you bring yourself to a halt. The morning sun peeks between the buildings behind you.

“Told me one day you’d play me for a fool. And look at me now.” You shook with breathy laughter. “He’s in the ground and there’s another woman keeping the man I love’s bed warm.”

Jackson would soon be rising with the sun. It had almost been a full day since you’d come home from patrol an hour earlier than Joel expected.

In truth, it hadn’t been the clothes strewn over kitchen chairs and draped over the bannisters. Not even the warm smell of salt and latex that hit you before you’d opened the bedroom door.

Joel’s fingers grazed the small of her back, tracing lazy shapes up and down her spine. Your stomach tightened into a small fist, losing all composure you had truly tried to maintain in your ascent up to the bedroom.

You had never even really been one to fight. Your father had taught you to handle yourself, and you’d learnt what was necessary to survive in the new world. 

Really, you wanted to pollute the skin beneath Joel’s touch. You wanted for him to never touch anything beautiful again; to never grasp at cold cotton sheets in the middle of the night; to never feel the slow threat of rain tapping against his skin.

Life began to creep in around the two of you. Ellie and Tommy would soon come looking for Joel to set off on morning patrol.

“One day, Joel, someone is going to give you exactly what you deserve. And I pray to God that I’m there to see it.”

You turn on your heel, leaving Joel to watch as your hair sways from side-to-side down your back. He swallows the lump formed in his throat and tilts his chin to the sky, blinking away the threat of tears moistening his lower lashes. 

He wipes his hands against his jeans and straightens his torso, forcing a low cough to clear his throat. 

Peaches, he thinks. Tonight he will bring you peaches, and he will watch as the juice spills from the side of your mouth. He will reach a thumb to wipe it away, and he will hold you. For as long as you let him; as long as he breathes.

[johnbrand]

Covenant of the Brotherhood

With @sjw-publishings

“Hello?” 

John’s voice reverberated back to him a few moments later after travelling across the empty space. The main hall was lit up, the soft combination of yellow and white lights filling the void with an almost artificial warmth. John called out again, but still there came no reply but his own. There was no one else in the large room, not even a single piece of greenery to signal any life. And yet, somehow, the space felt alive.

Cautiously treading down the middle aisle, John began his descent towards the front of the church. He scanned through the wooden pews as he passed them, each unsurprisingly empty as the previous one had been. John had lived in the neighborhood for almost eight years, having moved to his current apartment after graduating from college. He could have sworn that he knew every locale in the area, practically every character too. But John had never once before seen this church. 

It did not look new enough to have been built recently, but neither did it appear old enough to have been a historic landmark. The church was, as best as John could put it, generic. The exterior held nothing to hint at its denomination or intentions, its name “Covenant of the Brotherhood” only adding to its indistinct quality. The interior design further emphasized the blandness of it all. John inwardly analyzed how the beige-to-brown palette solidified the church as a place of tradition and conformity.

But it was not only the church’s seemingly sudden existence that bothered John. The neighborhood, an LGBTQ+ hotspot, was known for its absence of many religious entities in the first place. While some neighbors did participate in spiritual traditions, most were like John: living their loudest, happiest, gayest lives away from other-worldly caveats.

And as an athletic, muscular 30-year-old famous for his promiscuous abilities, John was particularly not in need of sexual guilt. After all, who else was supposed to top all the young twinks helplessly roaming around this side of town? And with six and a half feet, bouncy curls, and a brutishly masculine face, how would those young twinks be able deny him?

In fact, that was what John had been doing before he entered the church. The church was only a couple of blocks away from his meet up with Alexander Carmen, a man a few years younger, a few pounds lighter, and a few inches shorter than John himself. Alexander was one of John's favorite partners, their compatibility to the point that the no-relationship-nonsense John had even given away his phone number so that the two could track one another’s locations. But upon seeing the church, John had felt himself drawn in. And now, he found himself approaching the altar.

Stepping up to the glorified wooden table, John did a quick scan of the room once more. He could feel the gigantic, minimalistic cross looking down on him from behind, placing a certain weight over the typically confident male. John did not want to be caught standing behind the altar, particularly in an outfit as skimpy and tight as the one he was currently wearing. The tank and short shorts against his muscular frame was a callout to 70’s and 80’s B-horror movies. It was captivating to his admirers, and most likely insulting to the church.

With no true intentions in mind, John reoriented his focus to the altar. A gigantic book lay before him, presumably the Bible for the pastor of the church. Underneath its title was inscribed “RSAA Edition,” which frankly meant nothing to John. Carelessly, he snatched the heavy object before taking a seat against the back wall. He then swept open the cover and let the golden pages fly, their foreign wisdom fluttering before the gay man. The action was anticlimactic, but as the page was laid before him, John found his eyes drawn to handwriting beside the actual scripture.

Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant.

It was a simple message, and yet almost cryptic. It was like John understood the meaning of it, but the wrong one. He repeated the phrase out loud, cockily with an edge of snark. The Bible held no response, silent upon the cradle formed by his crossed left leg.

“Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant. Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant. Thou shall be faithful to the Covenant…” John rambled to himself, slightly disgusted. Each announcement took on a different character as he tested the statement.

Typically a strong, proud male, John found himself attempting to compensate for not understanding the phrase. The statement had him feeling emasculated, the church’s indifference to the world outside it only bolstering John's awkward state. He was dwarfed by the giant empty space before him, looked down upon by the wooden cross above his head in the place he called his home. 

“God, this stuff is so idiotic,” John proclaimed, giving up before flipping to a new page. With his eyes drifting across the verses, he did not consciously recognize that his large cock had awoken. Absent-mindedly, John freed his right hand to alleviate the tension, his rough palm moving back and forth through the mesh fabric in an all-too-familiar pattern.

“A reading from the First Epistle to John, chapter two, verse six,” John mocked. Its scripture was straight-forward: “Whoever says he abides in Him ought to walk in the same way in which He walked.” But it was the commentary scribbled beneath that was more intriguing. 

One shan’t stand out above your fellow brethren, just enough to lead when necessary and attract them for our cause.

The analysis was not unnecessarily correct, but John could sense a lingering irk behind the writing. It should have made him uneasy, but after saying it aloud, he felt slightly more relaxed. 

Within moments, John had shifted to a new section. “Another John,” he noticed. “‘Truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do’.”

Still unaware of his right hand’s fondling, John traced the arrow down to the accompanying notes.

You have to flee from temptation, brother. Submit and become one with the flock.

The words echoed within John’s mind, their callout dissonant against his own mentality and causing his forced smirk to falter slightly. In an attempt to regain his former confidence, he added a corny “Amen!” It did not lighten John's mood.

“‘Do you not know that you are God's temple and that God's Spirit dwells in you?’” John quoted, having again run away to a new book in the Bible. He adjusted himself in his seat while doing so, dropping his leg and giving his pouch some room to breathe. In turn, this action subconsciously evicted John's right hand from its position, forcing it to find something new to hold. To John’s chagrin, he found this new scripture came with a similar message to the previous passage’s.

Thou shall be a body worthy of God’s temple. And only a brother’s body is worthy of such divine glory.

In response to the reading, John’s dick pulsed, the shock of this alien form of ecstasy forcing a soft “...amen…” to moan through his lips. After an embarrassed flush, John began to subtly bounce his leg before continuing to read, the rubbing friction enough to do the trick. The texture of his shorts was soft, but it eventually changed into a stricter nature. Starchy, unrelenting, one John had to work against if he wanted to engage in certain behaviors. The new suit trousers were not meant for the unorthodox activities John was attempting to engage in.

“Perhaps something else?” John asked to the abyss, the tapping of his smaller feet shifting to the duller clunk of well-used dress shoes. Each bounce sent a microscopic wave up his legs, adjusting them accordingly. A hefty number of inches were erased away as the legs became leaner and more compact. They now reflected a cycle of exercise attuned to the average human amount, rather than a tailored schedule. Slimmer, yet toned thighs led down to decent calves, which by then were partially covered in thick wool socks. 

Having flipped around to the Book of Job, John learned that: “‘The Spirit of God has made man, and the breath of the Almighty gives man life’.” The following comment was similar to the rest:

The Covenant will make the brother, the Covenant will give the brother purpose.

John did not hear the “Amen” leave his lips, or notice that his steadying breath deflated his muscular chest into a flatter terrain. Straightening his back, he continued to absorb the material. His shoulders rolled back in response, slimming as they conformed to the tightness of the suit jacket materializing on top of his lengthening shirt. John was lost in his own thoughts, the handwritten messages almost whispering to him. It was as if whoever had written the notes was providing instruction. Shaping a conductor of sorts, a conductor of souls. 

With his grip on the Bible still firm, but not as desperate, John envisioned himself as the conductor. His arms had to hold just the right amount of strength, eradicating any superfluous musculature to only leave behind what was necessary for guidance, not appearance. His left hand would continue holding His holy book, each finger shrinking into a more appropriate, conservative size. And John envisioned in his right hand the baton that would lead his people. 

Suddenly drug out of his thoughts, John realized he was already holding his baton. He opened his fingers to reveal a small cross pendant in his palm. John did not know where the necklace came from, or why he was wearing it. But something about the pendant made him prideful, excited, and joyously flustered. In response, John properly shut his legs out of respect, squeezing his other, anxiously throbbing baton between his legs.

The next page John landed on, he did not bother to read the typed words. The handwritten letters were more intriguing to him now.

One must stick to the roots of tradition, whilst conforming to social norms like every other Asian-American.

“Amen,” John replied as a belt slunk through his trousers' loops. Once it had circumnavigated John’s waist, it harshly tightened itself, forcing John to belt out a stronger “A-men!”

The belt’s tightening sent a corresponding signal to John’s buttocks, which instantly closed their doors.  The closure sparked pleasurably. “So good…ugh…” John grunted as the baton between his legs shrunk from the pressure, resulting in a more average-sized, family-friendly instrument. His right hand began to soften its grip on the pendant, hoping to squeeze his precious jewels, but something was holding him back. 

“Must obey…scripture…” John muttered, his eyes reading along.

One must only produce for the sole reason of producing.

John had to bear his own cross, literally. The crimson flush that had taken over his skin rushed rampantly across his frame, the tanning heat delivering additional waves of melanin. An amber hue settled in quickly and adjusted his features as needed, restructuring his face with a smoother, masculine glow and softening his curls into a sleek, straightened substitute. 

Pent up and approaching euphoria yet no touching his manhood, John's eyes befell an unusual nuance in the scripture. Instead of an accompanying physical note, there was only a simple line emphasized. The words were highlighted, underlined, and circled, not a single comment made. John understood that this scripture was of the utmost importance, their meaning requiring no interpretation.

“Thou shall not…want mphhh…” The words could not leave John’s shaking lips.

“Thou shall not want mmm…mmmmmf…mehh…” John attempted again, a bit stronger this time. His confidence was building.

“Thou shall not want…men.” John announced, his voice clearer. But he knew he could do it better. He had his baton. Now he had to act like a conductor.

“Thou shall not want men,” his voice was ringing. His pouch was pulsing. He had to be a conductor of souls. He had to speak like a pastor. “Thou shall not want men!” 

John repeated the words over and over, each statement more powerful then the last, each statement solidifying its truth. His truth. The fifth time he chanted it, John remembered all the Sunday School teachings. The tenth time he chanted it, he remembered his undergraduate degree in Theology and Masters in Divinity. The twentieth time he chanted it, he remembered the engagement ring stowed away in his desk.

Eventually, the outside world had entirely faded from view. John could see the vision before him. The church, the Covenant of the Brotherhood, filled with people. The congregation from the front pew to the back, out onto the streets, out across the world. “A-Men,” these women and men, these Christian women and men would reply to him. “A-Men!” these Christian, Asian-American women and men would reply to him. “A-MEN!” these heterosexual women and men would reply to him. John wanted them, he wanted to be with them, he wanted to be them. 

John stood up and with a gasp proclaimed a defiant “A-MEN!” His eyes rolled back momentarily as the newly abstinent being experienced a spiritual ecstasy, his reality reoriented towards a new goal, a new purpose. Once the rush dissipated, he proceeded forward to the altar as if nothing had happened, replacing his Revised Standard Asian-American edition of the Bible back in its home. He then tucked his cross pendant back underneath his shirt and adjusted his suit. He had to appear presentable after all, for he represented the Covenant and the Brotherhood.

“Hello?” A voice called out from the back of the church. “John? John Brand? Are you here?”

A young, effeminate man scurried down the middle aisle, soon approaching the only other soul in the room. 

“John?” the young man questioned, noting a strange familiarity with the Korean-American pastor before him. “Is that…you?”

“Apologies, my brother,” the charismatic man calmly began. “It's Jo-Han. Pastor Bang Jo-Han, but you may address me as Pastor Bang.”

The young man was confused, unaware of how to describe his situation, or his relationship to whom he was searching for. “But my phone says my boyfrie…uhh…someone I like was last active here?”

“Ah but brother, you are in the right place! I like any son of God!” As if to reassure the young man, the pastor gave his shoulder a rough squeeze. Although they were of the same height and only a few years apart in age, the paternal gesture was received appropriately, as the young man relaxed under the grip.

The gesture was also received inappropriately, for the young man realized the pastor, while a bit average looking for an Asian-American, was quite attractive. “Of course I like you, you are a part of my youth ministry are you not?”

“Youth ministry?” the young man’s heart sped up again. “What do you mean p…pastor?”

Pastor Bang’s smile was warm, fatherly even. “Let’s go back to my office, I’m sure I will be able to clear some things up for you there.”

[pearlcigs]

⋆ maybe some faith would do me good

christian!virgin!reader x ellie williams

summary ⋆ ellie's forced to go to some church camp thing for the summer. maybe she'll actually enjoy it if she keeps seeing you around.

warnings ⋆ 2.78k ⋆ smut, non apocalyptic au, guys dont cancel me😅, mention of suicide (jokingly) , implied reader virginity loss, religious themes, alludes to what david did to ellie, friends to enemies to lovers kinda, dacryphilia, public sex, sex in church, public humiliation, cunnilingus and fingering (r!receiving), pet names (baby, pretty girl, good girl)

ellie tried to protest when joel proposed the idea of ellie spending her summer days at some camp for religious kids that one of the elders in jackson had volunteered to host, she really did. she didn't know what joel was trying to accomplish. maybe he thought in some twisted way this would help her get over that encounter. it didn't matter what the point was, it mattered that she was being woken up at 8 in the morning on the first day of summer to go to some stupid camp. joel told her she was being dramatic, it was only a 2 and half week program and then the rest of her summer was free.

she was still grumpy nevertheless, slumping her way to this church retreat. she'd only packed enough for a week, hoping that if she ran out of clothes they'd be forced to send her home. A friendly old woman greeted her, smiling and cheerful unlike ellie. The woman led ellie to a room, explaining that this was her room during the program. She fought every urge to roll her eyes, knowing the woman was just being nice but, god, who really had that much energy this early in the morning? The woman instructed her to leave her bag on one of the beds— great she had a roommate— and then make her way to the prayer room.

ellie groaned at the thought. prayer room? she might as well shoot herself now. she complied nevertheless. her feet dragging along the wooden floor, the planks creaking with every step she took. the halls were white, various pictures of religious symbolism decorating the otherwise plain walls. she couldn't deny that the hallway made her feel uneasy. she could only imagine what it looked like at night. ellie sighs as she comes across a door, half open and she can hear chatter from behind it. she worked up the courage to walk through the door, preparing herself for whatever bullshit she'll endure while she's here.

she takes a look around the room, eyes all the girls who seemed to all know each other. each girl with their own smile on their face. ellie rolled her eyes, closing the door behind her and before she could even process what was happening, she was approached by a girl. you. "i didn't think you'd be here." you smile at her, oblivious to the one sided feud you had with ellie. you were the pastor's daughter, probably the one responsible for this little get together. god, ellie hated you. the way you dressed, the way you talked, the stupid smile on your face, the even stupider bow in your hair and that little sundress that showed so much for someone like you.

truthfully, ellie didn't have a good reason to hate you. especially since you two grew up together, being raised to be built in friends. but hating you just to hate you seemed justified enough for her. "didn't have much of a choice." she barely keeps eye contact, keeping her response cold and dry. you frown at that. "oh. okay..." you look down to your shoes, it was obvious you picked up on the dismay in her tone. her mind wonders, just for a second, if she took it too far. but she shakes the thought. "yeah." she clears her throat, looking around the room once again. "well... um..." it was ridiculous how quickly your confidence was knocked down. all because of ellie.

ellie chuckles, finding some sick amusement in your reaction. you were going to speak again, probably to ask something like 'are you mad at me?' but you were dragged away by your friends. ellie sighed, watching you walk away. her eyes trailing from the back of your head all the way down to your— woah. why the hell did she look there?! god, but the damage was done. ellie wanted to look again, certain parts of her practically begging for just another glance. she refuses though, instead focusing on one of the stained glass windows. nothing fancy, just a red cross with a blue background. the funding for this particular chapel wasn't exactly the highest.

ellie could feel herself warm up, her mind jolting such crude thoughts about you. she groaned, running a hand through her hair. you had her mind so confused. she hated your guts. she really did. but all she could think about when she saw you was how much she wanted to bend you over and just yell at you. for what? she didn't know. for being too religious? too kind? too innocent? her mind wanders again, to a new thought she'd never had before. she wanted to ruin you, give it to you until you couldn't possibly take it any more. watching all the innocence leave your eyes while she filled you with sin. ellie snaps out of her thoughts, noticing that the woman from earlier had begun to speak about the quote unquote 'fun activities planned'.

through out the day, she tried to avoid you. even when you tried your very hardest to make amends for something you had no clue about. she participated in the church themed activities with little enthusiasm, being told more than once to at least act like she was having fun. the sun had begun to set, the chaperones calling out that dinner was ready. but ellie wasn't hungry. she managed to slip away from everyone else. wondering the semi creepy halls, just thinking to herself. she counted how many times the floor squeaked and creaked. she was content with just doing that until she counted a creak that she didn't make.

she turned around, her heart rate a little elevated only to find out it was just you. she sighed and rolled her eyes, returning to her initial path. "hey... they said dinner was ready." you were wary, nervous and shy even, and she couldn't blame you. "i know." her tone was less harsh this time. perhaps she was feeling guilty for her outburst earlier. "you're... um, you're going the wrong way." you were just trying to be helpful, but with every word you spoke, the more ellie got angry at you. "i know." she repeated. she heart your soft footsteps running up behind her to catch up. "so, why are you going this way?" your voice was so sweet, just like the honey ellie imagined licking off your body at least 30 times today.

she didn't answer, continuing to walk in the opposite direction of where she needed to be. and you just followed like a lost little puppy. "hey? i said—" she cuts you off. "i heard you." her cold tone was back. "oh." just like earlier, your gaze redirected to your shoes. "don't do that." she sighed, looking over at you. "huh? do what...?" you look up at her, frown evident on your face. "look like i just crushed your heart." ellie looked away from you again, examining the religious paraphilia on the walls. you didn't reply, looking away again but ellie didn't miss the hint of blush covering your face before you did. "oh? did i just crush your heart?" she jokes, weirdly seeming to warm up to you. once again, she's met to no reply. she rolls her eyes, turning the corner in the hall. she was met with a door and she wasn't sure if she should enter.

"it's the chapel." you explain, sensing her confusion and hesitation. ellie looks at you, a little annoyance on her face that you knew something she didn't. she pulls the handle on the door, gesturing for you to enter first. "ladies first." she remarks, not much amusement in her tone. you walk in and she follows after you. it was empty and though it shouldn't be creepy, ellie felt unnerved. "wait! don't let it close—" you try to warn, but the door had already been shut. you sigh, biting your lip in anxiousness. "what?" she utters, wondering why her closing the door was a bad thing. "it locks from the outside." you explain and ellie's face drops. "that's fucking great." ellie groans, running her hands over her face, walking down the isle and up the two steps to the alter. you follow.

"i tried to tell you..." you mutter. ellie wants to yell at you. say something along the lines of 'you should have tried harder' or whatever but before you can get the words out your head is in your hands and you're crying. ellie's shocked, not knowing what to do or say. she sighs. "don't cry, c'mon." she comforts, moving your hands away from your face and wiping your tears. it made you reminiscent to when you and ellie used to be friends. "i'm sorry." you sniffle as she dries your tears. "why're you crying, hm?" she tries to be gentle but just at the sight of your tears makes her want to fuck you over the alter. "'cause you're being mean and i got us locked in here." you vent your frustrations, revealing just what a hard day you had because of ellie.

she feels terrible now, hating that she made you feel so inadequate. god, why does she even care how you feel? ellie looks at you, watching as you wipe the tears that she missed. "i'm sorry for being so mean." she apologizes, deciding to cut the act. she didn't hate you. she could never hate you. "i just can't get you out of my mind." she admits. you look at her blankly for a moment, clearly not understanding. but ellie can see the exact moment when your eyes lighten up, realizing what she meant. "you mean it?" you ask, full of hope. "god." ellie rolls her eyes and your naivety. she leans closer to you, pressing her lips against yours, her hands cupping your face.

you pull back and ellie is now the one who frowns. did she misinterpret all your signs? "i'm not good at that." you admit while avoiding eye contact. ellie chuckles, pulling you closer by your waist. "i don't care." she mutters, kissing down your neck. you gasp, her warm tongue running over your cool skin. ellie's hands venture down, grabbing your ass over your dress. the ass that started this whole mess. "ellie!" you were startled. it felt like all the statues were suddenly watching you, judging you. but it just felt too good to care. but it weighed in the back of your mind as ellie kissed your jaw.

"i'm gonna fuck you so good." she mumbles, becoming drunk with lust. "i've never..." you trail off, your voice transitioning into a gasp when her hands begin to roam over your body. "i know. so pure, huh?" she teases with an eye roll, mocking how the church would call you pure. you don't reply. you couldn't. you words stuck in your throat, your eyes focused on her hands. watching them caress your waist slowly sliding up your body to cup your breasts. "el..." your whisper, you voice filled with breath. "i'm right here." she slides her right hand back down your body, reaching your thighs. she trails her fingers over the flesh before pressing her finger to your clothed cunt. you gasp, clutching onto her tighter.

"i know, baby. feels so good, doesn't it?" she mumbles in your ear, her fingers circling your clit so gently over your panties, which were becoming soaked. "el, el, ellie." you breathed out heavily, trying your best to keep as most decency as you could. after all, this was a chapel. "saying my name just like a prayer." ellie acknowledges, her fingers slowly working towards slipping into your underwear. your eyes rolled back when her cold fingers finally touch the place you needed her most. your legs were weak, wanting to give out on you. ellie notices, biting back a laugh at how blissed you already looked. she leaned you against the alter, her fingers working faster.

"so pretty." ellie mutter against your clammy skin. "so good. you're being such a good girl." her words made you feel so dirty but so... aroused at the same time. "keep... keep saying that." you barely managed to get out, you voice coming out in broken whimpers. "yeah? you like being my good girl?" she gently slides a finger into your dripping cunt. ellie can help but moan herself. "ellie." you whisper, feeling more pleasure than you've ever felt before. "i know. i know." she comforts, knowing exactly how you were feeling as she adds another finger. ellie was so aroused, drunk on the power of ruining you, being the one to help you commit the worst sin you've ever done.

your head lolled back, feeling something you've never felt before. "el." you choke out. "i know. you're almost there." ellie sinks to her knees, kneeling in front of you. "should i confess my sins to you." she whispers, kissing your thighs. you can't respond, finding the scene before you so arousing. ellie lifts up your dress to reveal your lacy underwear. "of course." she mutters under her breath. "hold this for me pretty girl." she looks up at you, and you shakily take hold of the dress that she flipped up. she gently slides your panties down your thighs, never breaking eye contact with you. she helps you step out of them, shoving them in her pocket so she didn't have to put them on the dirty ground.

her eyes flicker down to your pussy, biting her lip. "ellie." you can't even focus anymore, the loss of her fingers deep in your cunt making you want to cry. "i'm gonna make you feel so good. just be patient." she kisses your inner thighs, teasing you. you can't say anything, complain about how much you need her. but luckily, she doesn't torture too much, cause in a matter of seconds she's sucking on your clit, with her fingers returning to their job of fucking you. the sweat on your body makes you hot to touch, needing your release so badly. you push your hips forward instinctively, greedily wanting everything ellie could give you. before you could even process how good ellie was making feel, your orgasm approached.

ellie couldn't help but moan as your own moans got louder and your free hand tangled itself in her hair. "so close, baby." she mumbles into your pussy, feeling just as pleasured as you do. "el. oh my gosh, el! please!" you mutter, your words conjumbled and not making much sense. "good job, baby." she mumbles as she finally pushes you over the edge. your moans are loud and broken, filling the empty chapel with such sin. the cross necklace around your neck sticking to your skin. "ellie rubs your thighs, pressing small kisses on your pussy. "can't get enough of this pussy." she moaned, so drunk on you, on lust, on life. "ellie—" you whine and she moves away but not before she runs her tongue through your folds one last time.

"so good." she praises and lets your dress fall back into place. ellie kisses you, the taste of your arousal still in her lips. she pulls away, both of you out of breath. the sound of doors opening cause you both to pull apart. your hands going to fix your hair. "ms. heather wanted to know where you two went. you okay...?" a girl ellie recognized as one of your friends from earlier asked you. ellie began to make her way down the steps and down the isle, you quick to follow. "yes, yeah. we just got a little lost." you speak slowly, trying to maintain your thoughts.

your eyes scattered around to find your underwear. ellie smirked when she saw you looking around, knowing they were right in her pocket. she would give them back eventually but the thought of you walking around a few hours commando just made her feel things. catching glimpses of you around the night pulling down your dress, looking around to make sure no one can see anything. but of course in the morning she'll return them after using them all that night, after her roommate when home sick. but this is ellie we're talking about. she had to tease you just a little bit. so on day two when everyone wakes up to gather in the prayer room to see a pair of lace panties hanging from the cross, the kids and chaperones were most definitely shocked, and of course ellie earned some death glares from you in between your embarrassment. and ellie can't help but think maybe she'll hang out with you at church more often if that's the reward.

another christian!reader x ellie williams fic!

[dulcescorderitas]

𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓽𝓸 𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓬𝓱 D.Winchester

warnings: no smut, maybe fluff? religious themes

the impala's engine roared as you guided dean down a winding country road, the spire of the old church coming into view on the horizon. dean sat in the driver’s seat, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, green eyes squinting against the sun. his lips curled into that classic winchester smirk, part amusement, part skepticism.

"church, huh?" dean drawled, glancing at you. "never pegged you for the bible-thumping type, sweetheart."

you grinned, unfazed. "it's more about the experience, dean. and maybe, just maybe, you'll find something that surprises you."

dean huffed a laugh, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his leather jacket. "yeah, like what? jesus showing up to smite some demons? or is he gonna be handing out free beer?"

"something like that," you teased, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under your touch. he didn’t pull away. if anything, he seemed to lean into it, his smirk softening just a little.

the impala rumbled to a stop outside the modest, whitewashed building. the parking lot was nearly empty, save for a few scattered cars. dean killed the engine, the sudden silence almost jarring.

"well," he said, sliding out of the car, "let's go meet the big guy."

inside, the church was cool, the air filled with the faint scent of incense. sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the wooden pews. dean stood awkwardly near the entrance, his hands shoved into his pockets, eyes scanning the space with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

you took his hand, leading him towards a seat near the front. he followed, though you could feel the tension radiating off him. dean winchester wasn’t exactly the church-going type—more used to holy water as a weapon than a sacrament.

the service began, the pastor speaking of grace, redemption, and love. dean listened, his expression unreadable. but every so often, his hand tightened around yours, as if grounding himself in your presence.

when the service ended, you both lingered, the church now empty save for the two of you. dean stood before the altar, eyes fixed on the simple wooden cross hanging above it. his jaw clenched, the lines of his face hard, contemplative.

"dean," you said softly, stepping beside him. "what’s on your mind?"

he didn’t look at you at first, his gaze still locked on the cross. "i’ve seen a lot of things... done a lot of things. hard to believe there’s a place for someone like me in a place like this."

you reached out, brushing your fingers against his cheek, drawing his eyes to yours. "everyone has a place here. even you."

dean’s lips twitched, a sad, small smile. "yeah? you really think jesus would welcome a guy like me?"

you stepped closer, your body pressing against his, your breath warm against his ear. "i know he would. and i think he already has."

dean’s hands found your hips, pulling you against him, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, filled with a longing for solace and connection. the sacred and the sinful intertwined, a moment of raw humanity in a place of divinity.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis

[marvelobsessed134]

Take Me

Pairings: Dark!Vampire!Thor Odinson x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: smut,dub/non con, threats of death, reader blacks out in the end, breeding, master kink, sub!reader, dom!thor

Recommended song to listen to while you read: Take Me by Solya

It was pitch black outside, minus your flashlight as you tried to make your way through the swampy woods. Twigs cracked under your feet as you tried to navigate your way home. You shouldn’t have wandered out where you could get lost, you knew better than that. But you did it anyways, and now you have no idea where the fuck you are.

Owls could be heard in the distance, the swampy waters quiet unless a duck or some other animal jumped into them. You could hear crickets in the bushes. It smelled like salt for some reason, or maybe you were just smelling something else but it smelt like a salty swamp smell.

You could’ve sworn you heard someone or something behind you, but when you’d look back, no one was there. So you just kept walking. You instinctively pulled your sweater closer around yourself.

Footsteps were heard once again and before you could turn around, they were speeding up prompting you to run. You almost tripped on a log as you booked it through the woods, not knowing where the hell you were going. Your only objective to get away from whatever was chasing you. Suddenly, you came across an abandoned church and ran inside, locking the large wooden doors behind you. When you leaned against the door you spotted a figure standing at the pastors podium.

“I- I’m sorry I didn’t know anyone was in here. I just needed a place to hide something was chasing me and-“ suddenly the figure was no longer there and was right beside you. Your scream caught in your throat, you dropped your flashlight to the floor.

It was a tall, long haired, blonde man. He was quite handsome if you say so yourself. But he looked a little disheveled and had a dark primal look in his eyes. But what really set it home was the fangs.

“Please don’t kill me.” You pleaded weakly. His large hand caressed your cheek, “I won’t if you’re competent. Disobey me and I will take your life.” His voice was deep and somewhat sexy. You hated the fact you felt tingly.

“O-okay.” You replied in a shaky voice. He tilted your head up with his hand clenched on your jaw.

“W- wait! Can I ask a question?” You knew you were risking your life here, but you at least needed to know who he was.

“Go ahead, my pet.” Your eyes widened at the nickname but then cleared your throat, “W-were you the one following me just a few minutes ago?”

A smile spread across his lips, “Yes, it was. You’re so smart, little bunny.”

The vampire pressed his lips to yours and encaged you against the doors of the church, ravishing your lips like they were his last meal-if he were a human, that is-and the worst part was that you enjoyed it. You were scared, but you enjoyed it nonetheless. He let out a low growl at your competence, grabbing your waist with his right hand while his left hand stayed on your jaw.

Once he pulled away, he said, “You will address me as master. Understand?”

“Yes…master.” You replied weakly. The larger man let go of your jaw making you conveniently fall to your knees. You looked up at him as he unbuckled his pants. You noticed he dressed like the men in the Gothic novels you’ve read. The blonde also took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, tossing it haphazardly across the room. His cock sprung up hitting his abdomen. He was…huge to say the least.

“I’m going to assume my little bunny already knows what to do.” His voice was low and grim. You nodded and wrapped your hand around his shaft, jerking him off slowly, before putting his tip into your mouth and sinking your mouth down onto it, letting it hit the back of your throat.

“Oh fuck.” The man moaned.

You continued to suck him off, letting yourself be completely at his mercy, forgetting every traumatic thing that happened to you tonight.

“Get up.” He commanded and his dick popped out of your mouth with an embarrassingly loud pop. You stood up, staring up at the man who only just minutes ago you were terrified of. He kissed you once again, “Go bend over the bench, bunny.”

“Yes master.” You responded, taking off your sweater, your cotton floral dress, and underwear. You bent over one of the many benches in the church and not long after you felt his presence behind you again.

He gripped your hips, “Such amazing bone structure. Perfect for child bearing.” Your eyes almost popped out of your head when you heard his words and you tried to get up but he held you down.

“Try to disobey me again and you will face serious punishment. Understand, little bunny?”

“Yes, master.”

“Good girl.”

The blonde ran his finger up your dripping folds. “Excited, are we?” You cringed at the phrase but didn’t make any move to leave, afraid that would cost you your life.

The vampire lined his tip up against your entrance before pushing in, pounding into you without warning-not that you were expecting one from him anyways-hitting your g spot everytime making you scream and clench around him, tears falling down your cheeks.

“So fucking good, knew you were the one.” You didn’t pay much attention to his words, overwhelmed by the feeling.

“My new wife, won’t disappoint me like the others.” He smacked your ass as he continued to drill into your tight hole, you felt him twitch inside before spilling his release deep inside your womb.

The blonde leaned down whispered in your ear, “This will only hurt for a little, my dear.” Before something sharp broke the skin on your neck and you saw black.

[rustedhearts]

black swan: a severed lamb continuation

(pastor!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: pastor steve pays you a visit at college "on behalf of your mother."

♰ roller girl’s pie stand! 🍒 ♰ severed lamb ♰ 'tis autumn

tags: this is a blurb, not a “part” of the series!!; age gap (steve is 35, reader is 19); religious manipulation + regular manipulation; fear + intimidation; stalking i guess; a loooot of religious guilt; actual scripture quoted; forced prayer; like almost dollification; pls do not read this if any of this makes you even the slightest bit uncomfortable. (did not edit, don’t come for my mistakes.)

for @softagardenblooms ⭐️ giving us all what we really want: more pastor!steve <3 sorry it took so long!

rural pennsvylvania, autumn, 1981

Outside the iron lattice of your Lane Hall window, an early winter brewed. The leaves turned and died quickly, and those that clung to their boughs appeared rusted and limp. Walking through campus was now a noisy feat. The soil seemed eternally damp and dull, what grass remained more blonde than green. The thing you missed most about Georgia was the robin's egg sky. Here, everything was grey.

The glass of the window fogged terribly. The girls in Lane cranked the heat up high enough to have an excuse for minimal clothing, yet the outdoors remained bitterly cold.

In an effort to enjoy a moment of quiet solitude in your room, you stood from the creaky wooden bed and wiped your palm over the window. It squeaked over the condensation, creating a streak of clarity to the street of houses below.

A maroon two-door waited on the curb across the black road. It had an Indiana license plate.

"Delilah? You got a visitor!" one of the girls called from outside your room.

You stepped back from the window, lowering your hand and its cold fingertips to your side. Another cold swept through you, settling somewhere in your chest. As bitter as a Pennsylvanian autumn, and as a sour as a cherry from your tree back home. The cherry that once stained his fingers, dipping between his mouth and your mouth.

Bloody fingers that delivered evil through pleasure.

Bred to obey the calling command of male visitors, you turned away from your bed and started toward the door. But you stopped on the toe of your socked foot.

You could feign slumber. But he came in when you were sick and tired.

You could hide in the closet. Your eyes darted toward the lone door near your desk. But he always knows where to find you.

You swallowed as your hand touched the door. It yawned open on its hinges. Immediately, the murmuring of the girls scattered amongst their rooms and the lower floor emitted in a low hum. The floor released little snaps with each step toward the stairs. The Hall was old and worn, taped over with celebrity posters and glittered name stamps.

As you took the first step, another cold gathered. This one in your belly, behind your navel where that sweet, sickening, nauseating pleasure festered under his hands and his touch. You pressed your hand there, pausing on the second step to take a breath.

You could feel him.

The way you felt him from the moment he arrived back home. How he lingered in every room with the omnipotence of his Savior. How his stare sat like hot coals upon your shoulders from across the room. How the promise of his hands came with the fleeting breeze of his body in your vicinity.

His presence had a warmth and a wholeness to it that made your throat tighten. Like being locked in a tight, black room that grows tighter and yet seemingly vaster with every second inside. As though the limits of the darkness are endless, though its bounds are tangibly sworn.

"Delilah? Deli—oh, here she is!" one of the older girls, Rachel, cooed as she collected you with a hand around your arm on the steps.

She came bounding down, and you swore it was only because she pulled you that your feet remembered to go.

He stood tall in the center of the lounge, barely past the doorframe, feet still angled to go further. They flocked around him like pigeons, pecking at the affections of his slow, sideways smile, and roaming gaze. It turned to you as your hall mate pulled you into the room.

You could have sworn something pierced your lung, eliminating all possibilities of keeping in air.

“Hello, Delilah.”

His voice hit you like the gong of a church bell at noon. Familiar, expected, but with a resonance of something to come. An image of his eyes hovering over you while his hands swept through your nightgown flashed through your mind. You had to pinch away a shudder.

“H-hi,” you murmured, and cast your eyes down to your socks.

“She’s always so shy,” another girl piped up. “Lilah, aren’t you gonna introduce us?”

A warmth spread to every inch of your face. It singed the tips of your ears. You fiddled with the strings on your bed shorts, suddenly feeling bare. Though he had seen you in far less—had seen you as bare as the day you were born—you could not fathom to stand before him like this with the audience growing in the lounge.

“I’m Steve,” he said for you, and cast a smile upon the girls that had them elbowing each other. “But I’m afraid we can’t stay for pleasantries, girls. Delilah and I were just headin’ out.”

Your eyes flitted toward him, a panic setting like stone in your limbs. “R-really?”

He seemed to only look at you, though the girls tipped and cocked their heads to assess him and his garb, alternating between his corduroy jacket and your tattered sleep clothes.

“Yes,” he purred, and the smile the others swooned at made you take the smallest step backwards. “I’ll wait while you change.”

♰ ♰

It took you another ten minutes to change, fumbling through every drawer and hanger knowing everything he'd ever touched you in was packed away and left back home, and nothing in your collection seemed worthy enough to dispense so easily.

When you met him on the lawn, his eyes went directly to your chest, where he became accustomed to finding the gleaming gold of a delicate cross. Today, it came up bare.

He said nothing of it as he turned toward the car, and you followed with silent, tip-toed steps. You kept a distance as you passed through the door he opened for you and took your place on the leather passenger seat.

The cold condensation of a milk carton between your thighs against the sticky heat of a Georgian summer haunted the car. Even in the white-breathed cold settling in the car, you felt a scorching heat crawling up your spine. You pulled at your sweater sleeves to invite the cold in.

The car jostled when he slammed the driver door. You kept your eyes on the dash, fingers curling into your palms as he turned the keys in the ignition.

"Your mama's worried about you," is the first thing he says to you.

You wet your lips, turning to the window to watch the street go by. The town was built for the university's accommodation. The library marked the edge of town, and everything past that was farmland and desolation. You hoped he wasn't taking you there.

HIs statement settled like spoiled milk. You wanted to proclaim it a lie immediately. Mama hadn't answered a letter once this semester. Every weekend phone call went unanswered. You called one of the neighbors and asked them to check on her in case the liquor finally got the best of her. But they assured you she was doing well. Just busy.

Yet, he wouldn't lie...right? He wouldn't drive the half day it took for his own pleasure, would he? He once told you that God sent you here for him, that God placing the pair of you in the same vicinity was no mistake. God does not make mistakes, he said. And He always has a plan.

You were His plan for Steve.

At least, that's what he told you.

"I can see why," he continued.

Your head moved on its own, and you were looking at the frown etched between his brows before you could stop yourself. He took glances every few moments as he headed away from the residence halls into campus. Few times they fell to your empty neck.

Your fingers ached to fiddle with the missing token. You hadn’t worn it in months. When you left home, you left the necklace on your dresser. It grew more and more difficult as the weeks went on—free of the Georgia heat and all that grey hazy because of it—to believe you were worthy of wearing the cross. Worthy of speaking to Him knowing what you’d done.

“Oh, Delilah,” he sighed and he shook his head out at the road. “You poor thing.”

He took a turn down the main strip of campus buildings and fit the car into a spot against the curb of your most-frequented. The ballet studio, unlike your splintered and rotting barb back home, nestled on the second floor of a red brick building home to the arts. Steve took his keys from the ignition and opened the door with the sureness of someone like you, who spent most of their days there.

“Come on,” he said when the passenger door was open.

You stepped onto the sidewalk, avoiding his outstretched hand. He placed it on the small of your back as he guided you up the steps and through the door. Your shoes, having collected the dampness of the pavement, squeaked over the gleaming tile. This hall always had a chemically lemon scent to it, and today it made you particularly queasy.

"Up here, isn't it?" He pushed the heavy door open to the stairwell and the steel latch echoed hollowly against the concrete.

His hand seemed to be locating your spine. Reaching for it, through the material of your cardigan, through the thickness of your flesh. The bone ached dully with every step upward. Around the chipped iron railings, winding through the twists of the building. His loafers were black and recently shined. He'd taken to wearing a gold band around his pinkie. His fingers were as long and slender as you remembered, but his skin appeared paler.

It was no longer summer and the cold was an affliction to the body.

Another door thrown open to another linoleum-tiled hall. You traced the black streak marks from boots and sneakers like a set path to the arched doorway to the studio. At the end of the hall, a large latticed window overlooked the yellowed lawn. Often after rehearsals, bundles of ballerinas squished within the bow of the windowsill and blew cigarette smoke against the glass. Permanent fog marks gathered at mouth-height.

The studio was empty. Four mirrored walls, ever-polished hardwood floors the color of sand. Barres cleaned of blood from blistered heels, and a cushioned folding chair near the head of the room, pressed against the mirror. It was the seat of Madame Celeste, the slender, wrinkled woman who commanded the company.

Today, it was empty.

You jolted when the wooden doors clamped shut behind you. The pressure in your spine released and when you turned, it became evident why. He stood before the doors with his hands behind his back, long coat unbuttoned to reveal the white band of his Roman collar. The black shirt of his permanent uniform remained buttoned to the top, snug against his throat.

He fixed his eyes upon you with the intention of a wolf.

Oh, yes. You remembered how this felt. It was almost as though you'd never left.

The blackness of your confinement began to close in around you.

He inhaled deeply and it whistled through his nose. Your own breath shuddered into the room. Madame Celeste did not believe in heat and kept the radiator off. Even when bolts of snow gathered on the window in the hall, the dancers were made to spin until sweat managed to appear. It never took long.

And now, a cold sweat festered under your sweater.

"I am fearful of what I see here," he proclaimed. His gaze left you to trace the room, taking a large step away from the door. The clunk of his shoe resounded like a gunshot.

"'What are you doing, you devastated one? Why dress yourself in scarlet and put on jewels of gold? Why highlight your eyes with makeup?'"

You swallowed as he began to pace the room. Hands settled against his back, one hand closed over the other. Each step like a bullet inching closer to your place in the center of the room. Each word like a slice against your flesh. Stinging, piercing, bleeding you out. He would not look at you and you grew smaller by the second.

"'You adorn yourself in vain,'" he emphasized, shaking his head down at his feet.

His hands had released to press his fingers together as they often did at mass. While he preached and prophesied, and chewed off more of your soul with every syllable. The room felt as off kilter as the chapel back home.

He stopped suddenly before the rear wall of mirrors and fanned his arms wide.

"Vanity!"

You stumbled back with another gasp. A vein protruded between his brows, eyes filled with serpentile venom.

"All this..." He spun slowly, a performative flair that rivaled even yours. His voice dropped to a whisper nearly drowned out by your own pulse. "...mere vanity."

He took a moment, eyes still trained on the mirrors behind you. The proclamation hung in the thin air of the room. Your fingers felt numb pressed into tight fists against your back.

He tipped his chin down and blinked at you. Slowly. There were no charming grins or sideways smiles. There was no softness to the beauty of his features.

“You’ve abandoned God.”

Your hand touched your bare chest. He tracked your movement with his eyes. Stepped closer. One, two—you could feel the warmth of him again. It buzzed in your feet. His proximity stirred a nausea in your gut.

“But I will save you,” he whispered, touching his hand to his chest.

His foot thumped on the floor. Another step. Inching his way to you. The gap between your bodies: shorter, shorter. You jerked backward when you could feel his breath.

He moved one hand your way, palm cupped and fingers bent as though approaching a kitten in the road. He hunched his shoulders a little, lowered a little closer to your eye-line. Every breath taken felt like a load on your lungs. Like at any moment they’d explode from the pressure.

“You will be saved,” he breathed.

The serpent had abandoned him, and its place was something dangerously soft. With warm, round eyes and cinched brows, he appeared transformed in a near instant.

How one gazes upon an infant in the cold. A thing to save. A token of helplessness.

Both hands approached you now, outstretched at shoulder length. You tipped your head away from his incoming presence, eyes squeezing shut when he took hold of your shoulders and spun you around. Every muscle in your body came to a cold front. They cemented together, and maneuvering your body felt like turning a mannequin.

“Kneel,” he murmured. “He wants us to pray.”

He guided you there, and your black tight-clad knees collided into the floorboards with a dull, painful thump. You kept your eyes shut, but heard another pair of knocks behind you. A mirrored vision of your kneeling, he kept arm’s length between your feet and his hands, now letting you go to retrieve the leather bound bible in the pocket of his coat.

The spine tapped on the floor. You could hear a nose drip in the silence. Your own blinks registered with tiny clicks.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.”

It was as though someone had scrubbed the inside of your mouth with sandpaper. With the vigor of a rusted pan and a woolite sponge, leaving the soft pink tissue of your inner cheeks and writhing tongue raw, useless, and scarred.

Your mouth could not utter the pastor’s words.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

His own voice was that of an instrument, hollowed with an echo that reverberated through your spine and around the room like a boomerang. Like whistling into a cave and waiting for the pitch to make its way back.

Your fingers curled over your knees and grabbed on tight. Every tiny bone in those ten ligaments began to ache.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever.”

In the lull, his breaths were heavy. Shallow gasps rasped in the emptiness behind you.

He waited, and he watched. He watched your shoulders rise and fall, your toes curl against the thin suede of a pair of ballet flats. You left your new pointe shoes back in Georgia. Against your every attempt to banish him to the past, Steve wriggled through the gaps.

The pointe shoes came in the mail a month ago.

Steve inhaled sharply, and you squinted one eye open to find him in the wall of mirrors. His chest ballooned, head tipped back to the florescents. After all this time, this was the first you'd seen him worship.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name," he began again, and you hung your head toward your knees with a wince.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass us.”

Tears stung behind your eyes. His Sunday Morning Mass bravado distorted every syllable of his prayer. Your eardrums quaked with the birth of a buzzing.

“And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory- say it!"

The bible slammed into the ground with a thundering boom. Your entire body lurched forward with a shriek, setting forth the cry building in your throat.

Through wavering vision, you watched him crawl forward and hover near your shoulders. It took only a moment for to realize that the horrible whining sound was coming from you.

“F-for ever a-and ever,” you croaked, blinking hot tears into the reflection before you.

The pastor stood, towering behind you in the mirror. A menacing shadow, once more the serpent with fangs.

You sniffled, bubbling forth a pitiful hiccup when he placed his hand on your shoulder. His fingers danced over the bone for only a moment before they swept under your chin. He turned your face toward him, shoes thumping around your knees until he stood beside you.

You gave in to his wishes, allowing your gaze to meet those reptilian eyes.

It was only a matter of time before your weakness divulged. Only a matter of time before he sunk his teeth in again.

The slightest pressure pulled on your chin, just as he stepped back and held out his hand, palm upended.

Each blink came with warmth on your cheeks, every breath with fire in your lungs. You slipped your hand into his palm and pressed to your feet.

He lifted your hands, only gently cupped together. Gave his wrist the smallest curve, enough space between your bodies for you to twirl.

You pressed to the tops of your toes and spun just once. A complete rotation, heels pressed down once more. You were met with a vision of yourself before you: red-eyed and puffy, and holding the hand of the devil.

From behind you, he collected both your hands. Held them upwards, bent the elbows with another feathered pressure. You sank back to the floor with graceful repose. Every fiber of your being yawned for relief. The weight of his presence fatigued.

On the glossy floor, you knelt in your former position of prayer. He caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

From the inner lining of his pocket—where the bible conjured from only minutes ago—appeared a chain of gold.

Unclasping the adornment, he swept it over your head and toward your throat. The pendant clung to your chest like a magnet, kissing your flesh in relief to be home.

You knew what it was before you could even find it in the mirror.

He clasped the chain around your neck and laid your hair back in place. Gently fluffed around your face, meticulously drawn over your shoulders. He watched all the while in the mirror, intently observing his own craftsmanship.

He pinched two fingers under your chin and nudged it downward. He tipped your head a little to the left. He bent the elbows a little more, placed your clasped hands on your right knee.

He stepped back.

Patted you twice on the head, and in the mirror, smiled.

“My lovely Delilah.”

He smoothed his hand down the back of your hair just once.

And there you sat, soaking the cross on your chest in tears.

Foolish girl. You can never escape the mark of God.