#praying for material things is not prayer

[sheilamurrey]

true prayer

Silver Birch was a spirit guide who spoke through Maurice Barbanelltrue prayer

[healerqueen]

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[daisies-on-a-cup]

i think god listens to children more often than adults, but also that god only really gives children what they pray for when what they're praying for is something like a second chance

[keow]

It’s funny how God will tell you not to do something that you know would be effective in solving your problem, yet He refuses to help you when you pray for the problem to be resolved. What do You want from me…

[amphitriteswife]

In love with a goddess

Pairing: Emperor Geta x daughter of Venus! Reader

Warnings: mild nsfw

Summary: Emperor Geta pays a visit to the goddess Venus after his many failed attempts at love. Only to meet someone he gad never seen or heard of before.

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Dragging his feet on the steps of the temple, Geta found himself wondering about his every move. He was here to visit the goddess Venus. But he felt ashamed, ashamed for being here. He had prayed to her before but his prayers were unanswered. Perhaps it is because he never bothered to do so before, only worshipping Mars, Jupiter and Fortuna. His prayers were often only meant for others. For the military or the city, for making sure that they conquered more land or resources. His final push for going to the temple were the many rumors about him. Rumors that made him enraged and even made him contemplating cutting out his citizens tongues. But he can’t do that, not when he’s already out of favor with the people of Rome. The rumors made it seem as if he was not worthy of love, spending his time in things as pleasure by having concubines. It wasn’t uncommon for an emperor to have concubines. But it was uncommon for him to still not be wed. He wants to marry someone who knows what they should do, what they want, someone with knowledge of his position, someone equal, someone who can take care of him, someone who can take care of Rome. He felt nervous…the pit in his stomach growing with every step. Although he wouldn’t show it.

In the mits of his thought, Emperor Geta had not realized that he already reached the top of the stairs. The stairs to the temple of the goddess of love, beauty, victory, war and fertility. He turned his head back a little, he had ordered the guards to set off the property to the temple. He can’t have anyone know that the emperor of Rome is seeking help…it’ll make him look weak. The heavy steps of his sandals against the floor filled the temple, his eyes immediately drawn to the big statue in front of him. Lady Venus. Her upper half was not covered. And she was looking down onto him. Emperor Geta felt a little perverted for being here…but he had to, to make a proper prayer. For the first time in his life did he get on his knees and closed his eyes. Right in front of the goddess. He said his prayers and wishes, offering her fresh flowers and honey as well as some pears. He took a few moments to steady his nervous breath before opening his eyes. His gaze once again falling onto the statue of the goddess. He can’t help it, he can’t help but look at her in awe. A soft plump figure with curves. A gentle gaze adoring her face. She looked so soft, as if the statue wasn’t made out of it’s hard material…she looked so motherly…

‘You seem to ogle her Lady Venus quite intensely…Emperor Geta’

Geta cleared his throat and searched the temple with his eyes, trying to find whose voice it belonged to. His eyes scanning over every piece of decoration, pole and tile. His eyes eventually fell onto you, he didn’t seem very impressed with you. A scowl on his face and slight narrowed eyes. No one should’ve been here except for him…did the guards slip up?

‘Do not speak to your emperor that way.’

His voice was rather stern yet you could feel the fact he was off gaurd by your presence. His eyes gliding across your form. He hadn’t seen you before. Were you a priestess of lady Venus? A citizen? A secret female guard? He doesn’t know. Your clothes were rather…revealing. Just like lady Venus your upper half was exposed…well almost. Your breasts were covered with gold jewelry. He raised an eyebrow at that, not many people wore gold unless you were rich or important, or both. Are you one of his concubines or something? Who in the name of Jupiter are you?

‘Who might you be?’

‘Take a guess little Emperor.’

‘Little emperor? You have some balls to call me that. I could have your head for those words’

‘My father wouldn’t let you.’

‘Is that so? There is no one in this empire who is above me.’

‘Mars wouldn’t be happy to know that the Emperor of Rome threatened me.’

Emperor Geta looked at you in disbelief…so you were claiming to be the daughter of Mars and Venus, considering both gods were each other’s partner. Yet it was never stated in the myths that Venus had a daughter. Venus was one of the ancestors of the roman people and only had sons: Cupid and Aeneas. He had never heard of Venus having a daughter. He seemed quite wary of you and your words. He didn’t trust them. Not yet at least. And your claims don’t make any sense.

‘Lady Venus doesn’t have a daughter.’

‘You’re thinking about the roman goddess. Expand your thinking process. I’ll give you a hint. It’s the goddess you stole.’

The realization hit him like a chariot. So you weren’t talking about the Roman gods, but rather the greeks. He should’ve known. You’re Aphrodite’s daughter, not Venus’. But even if he had that figured out. Why were you here? In Venus’ temple bothering him?

‘So you’re a goddess…a greek goddess. Why are you here?’

‘Im both. My name isn’t changed unlike my father’s of my mother’s. Your people just forgot to include me when you stole from the greeks.’

‘Well, we didn’t steal. We just borrowed it…permanently. They shouldn’t have lost against us then….you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?’

He could feel your hands on his shoulders. His eyes trying their best to restrain him from looking at your body any further. You looked similar to Venus, and he doesn’t want to be enchant by your form or your sweet voice…not by your rather godly, soft and perfect appearance…not at all. Were you seducing him? He doesn’t want to know…but he doesn’t want you to stop either, it feels nice for someone to run their hands on his tense shoulders. He could feel your finger tips gliding across his skin and up to his neck. Your hands were soft. So soft. It made him feel rather weirdly. He could feel the pit of nervousness be replaced by the feeling of fluttering. Swirling around and reaching places he hadn’t thought about. His blood started pumping quite quickly, he could feel the blood circulating to his nether region and grabbed your hand quite roughly.

‘Is it your intention to bed the emperor of Rome?’

‘I wouldn’t say that per se…but your offerings to lady Venus in contrast to your wish is not enough. You need more offerings and worship until she will hear you dear Emperor.’

‘I-fine. I can always give the goddess more if that’s what she desires.’

‘You truly have never been to her to her temple have you?…sex and masturbation is also a form of worship.’

Geta’s jaw dropped. No way. You’re telling him that sex is a sign if worship to the goddess? He can’t help feel exited and worried at the same time. He has only ever been with his concubines. Not a goddess. He can feel your hand softly stroking him through his pants, it made him hitch his breath. A goddess is stroking him. Help. He needs help. His breath started to become even more unevenly, that’s when you cupped him though his pants and he let out a loud startled noise. Geta found himself leaning into your touch, it was erotic yet gentle…a combination he hadn’t experienced before. He could feel your chin on his shoulder, your breath on his ear, slowly moving to kiss the side of his face which made him slightly agape. He didn’t want you to stop…yet you pulled your hand away which caused him to let out a groan out of frustration.

‘Enough worship for today, don’t you think so emperor?’

Your words seemed to stir something within him. He didn’t want to leave. He wants to continue. You can’t just make him interested and intrigued in you and then suddenly decide that you’ll stop because you want to! You can’t! He murmured something under his breath and grabbed your hand, placing it in between the fabrics on his bate chest. You could feel his heart thumping against the palm of your hand. As if it was ready to jump out of his chest at any moment. It was a clear sign of a crush, something that was pretty easy to guess.

‘This is what you do to me goddess….i can’t get enough of you.’

‘How flattering. But the real question is, what are you willing to do to keep me?’

‘Anything.’

‘Anything? Prove it. Give me everything i want.’

‘What do you desire? I am the emperor of Rome, i can give you anything you even glance or think of.’

‘Make me your empress.’

That sentence made him think. You were the child of love, meaning you could give him the love and loyalty he had yearned for so long…the child of war…meaning you have the knowledge he seeks in an empress. You know what it’s like to rule an empire and lead an army. You’re gentle yet firy. You can take him to heaven yet also keep him down to earth. You have a certain charisma to you which adds to your charm and further more…you’re a goddess. You can protect yourself. You can do things he hadn’t seen before. You can be anything. Anything at all. You’re perfect. So perfect. He needs you. He wants you. He desires you. He yearns for you. And you’re here…saying you want to be his empress. Perhaps Venus did answer his prayers. He wants to kiss you so badly.

‘Marry me, my empress.’

[girlsoutlate]

thinking about nikto that is more a glorified guard dog than human, let alone your lover.

fem reader, animalistic language, mentions of past sex between reader and nikto, unwanted sexual remarks made about reader (nikto sorts them out dw), nikto is a FREAK

you're too nice for him. not soft, you couldn't be with him. he would get over-excited and greedy. you were firm, but never too strict. you had to give your mutt some leniency, he'd never dreamed being spoilt by a beauty like you. with kindness and patience you coaxed him from being brash and hypervigilant to pathetically obedient.

some small part of nikto is confused at the change, how could a thing like him be doted on by someone like you? his mind just as warped and scarred as the stretched skin that covered his body. compared to your angelic self he almost felt ashamed of believing he was deserving of your love. almost. but he didn't question your compassion, for once the world had given him something good.

instead of returning to his bare kennel of a flat, he returned home to you. the glow of your presence had seeped in to your now shared home, an array of your trinkets as well as belongings scattered about. as he opened the front door his pale eyes latched onto your supple body, surrounded by halo of light from the bulb behind. gliding down the hallway your features changed to furrowed brows and slightly parted dewy lips as you took note of his bloody knuckles and ragged breathing. meeting his eyes through your lashes you brought a manicured hand up to pet the side of his masked face. he lent in to it, rubbing the harsh material of his mask against your smooth hand. "nikto, are you okay?" you asked, melodic voice soothing the never-ending raucous in his head. you didn't ask what happened, it was typically for a good cause, even if he got a little too enthusiastic. you just wanted to make sure your loyal dog wasn't too injured. besides, a little roughing up can be quite beneficial.

nikto could deal with comment and looks towards himself. he had always had to deal with them. from his hazy childhood memories, to his return from torture. but no one could whisper your name without a bark of threat from nikto. more often than not he followed through. you were closely guarded in niktos heart at all times. his devotion to you was not a secret, and neither was your existence to those close enough to him. instead, your name was the holiest prayer a sorry man could utter. your existence proof that there was sanctuary. so, if anyone acted maliciously towards you they better pray your forgiveness extends to them. because niktos bite was worse than his bark.

thats what happened earlier today. some dolts commented on your salacious body when you dropped off some documents nikto left at home. it made his blood run hot. their unrestrained remarks over your full curves and cherubic face pervaded his ears. he hated it. hated hearing them jest about the fat of your ass. that was for him to sink his fangs in to. or when they fantasised of using your plush tits for their own pleasure. they were for nikto to nuzzle at and suckle on. he almost gutted them right there when they innocently complimented your gossamer hair to your face. that was for nikto to snatch when he mounted you, desperate to show you he was good enough to have you like that. back arched while stray strands of hair fell across your shoulder blades, muscles quivering with pleasure. the plumpness of your ass bounced and rippled off his narrow hips, his mushroom tip kissing your cervix with more aggression each time. chanting your name with a growl he pawed the fat of your hips, stretchmarks littered with bites and bruises. nikto fucked you with fervour, he was all yours. it made it that much more unfortunate when you pulled him aside just before you left base, asking if he heard the comments too.

so when he came home half an hour later with bloody knuckles you didnt ask what he did. you could count on your dog to protect you, he was more than happy to serve you. it gave his life a further meaning from death and war. you gave him a meaning. he replied to your concerned question with a husky grunt. gesturing him to follow, you turned and walked down the hall with the soft pad of his footsteps just behind.

"sit." you said, nodding towards the kitchen table "i put our dinner in the oven to stay warm, we'll eat after i've patched up your hands". he gave a short nod. he thought you were so selfless, choosing to look after him first rather than yourself. as you picked up the first aid kit off the counter that was always in easy reach, nikto let out a soft growl that was only reserved for you.

"moya lyubov, missed you"

thanks for reading!! likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, i hope you enjoyed it :)) i am more than happy to give this apart 2 if your heart so desires

this is my first time writing anything resembling smut so i hope it isn't too cringe LOLL felt like i had a bloody brain aneurysm when i wrote it for like the fifth time

[hellenicrisis]

PSA to pagans and practitioners.

You don't have to speak your prayers or incantations out loud for a ritual or offering to be effective.

For the longest time, I tried praying out loud and speaking out loud during ritual offerings, and I was always uncomfortable. I tried everything, from using the ancient hymns, to writing my own prayers, even combining the two. Nothing worked for me, but I kept doing it because I thought that's just how things are done.

A ritual, prayer or offering is not less effective or special if you don't speak aloud. Not speaking is not an easy way out, it's not disrespectful to the gods, and it's not making the working less powerful. The thing that negatively impacts your practice is being uncomfortable.

If you work better silent, embrace it. It took me far too long to realise that working quietly is best for me. I'll put on some instrumental music in the background while doing my ritual offerings which helps me focus, and other than that, I enjoy listening to the sounds my materials make; the bay leaf crackling, the libation being poured, the sounds of setting things down on the altar. If I have to speak through that I feel distracted and nervous about forgetting what I'm supposed to say. I would much rather focus on my actions, my materials, my offerings, my energy, and my gods.

If you speak aloud and it works for you, fantastic! However, don't feel pressured to if you don't like it. We see so many people put on a show during rituals for social media. Don't think all rituals have to be like that.

[cillivnz]

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑪𝑹𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻

[𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪]

PAIRING — PRIEST!NANAMI KENTO x NUN!READER

SYNOPSIS — you shift across continents hoping to leave all behind that drifted you apart from the Lord, only to catch the sole reason of your departure waiting for you patiently, with a rosary in one hand and his cock in the other.

WORD COUNT — 2878

WARNINGS — NSFW. MODERN AU. OOC!KENTO (kinda). RELIGIOUS IMAGERY, THEMES & RELIGION IN GENERAL. BLASPHEMY, sacrilege, impure thoughts, cursing, sins & sinning, sex in a church, indecent use of the confessional, DUBCON. oral (m! receiving), fingering, clit-play, biting, nipple/breast-play, unprotected and penetrative sex (p! in v!), overstimulation, against a wall (?), voyeurism, degrading. NANAMI HAS A GOD COMPLEX. there is repetitive mentions of religious themes throughout the smut, from praying to other things.

A/N — GOOD GOD. i’m asking you all for forgiveness, but i needed to do this. i intended it for leon kennedy but something in me snapped and i changed it to a nanami kento fiction, WHICH IS WHY THERE IS MENTION OF A CHRIS REDFIELD, i was too lazy to change it and also i didn’t want to incorporate too much from the JJKverse, so we’ll just leave Redfield at that.

i am NOT anti-religion, this is a common fantasy and i just wished to try my hand at this sinister trope. please refer to the warnings and DO NOT PROCEED if anything mentioned makes you uncomfortable. apologies in advance for any inaccurate detail written. not proofread.

art credits — unknown [pinterest]

LISTENING TO: ‘THE SACRAMENT’ — HIM

[therefore the title].

𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘, but you knew the Lord only wanted what was best for you, and so a new chapter in your life had begun.

A woman above materialism, you leave with only your bible and habit, but of course, you carried the last memory of your past life— a photograph your Sisters took of you and Father Redfield from your hometown, the church you had sworn celibacy to, near the Arklay Mountains.

You loved Chris— Father Redfield, the way you’d love the angels of the almighty, but at times this love prevented you from preaching, causing you to often ponder on your style of living, and the fact that doubt settled in your god-driven mind became the primary reason why you decided to move away, all the way to Tokyo.

Your feelings for Father Redfield made you question your vows to chastity, and you knew at once you needed to get away. So, you left the mountainous foliage at once and settled for the noisy city.

Upon arriving, you were welcomed by a ‘Sister Nobara”, with a soft face and piercing gaze, but none that lingered.

She walked you through the large and lonely halls of the massive church. The infrastructure of your hometown’s place of worship couldn’t compare to Tokyo’s, perhaps the difference in population was the reason why.

Throughout the walk to the nave, you felt an ominous sense of being watched— no, preyed upon, but you and your naïveté blamed it on your nerves. It worsened while you said your prayers, seeking forgiveness for the note on which you left: that doubt and urgency to succumb to hellish pleasures with the priest that couldn’t even reciprocate a smile back to you.

“Ah, there comes Father Kento,” Sister Nobara interrupted the last of your calls to the Lord, the one where you beseeched to attain enough strength to never succumb to lust. You quickly muttered a, “Amen”, and turned to Nobara. You looked at her for a brief moment, before your gaze followed hers and landed on the most devilishly handsome man you had ever seen.

Hell, you had to leave your home over a man who, now, you realise, isn’t even half as attractive as the man towering over you.

You backed away when the sudden proximity hit you, your subconscious mind immediately associating that eerie feeling in your gut with the presence of this man.

“Hello,” his deep voice broke the silence. “Greetings, Father,” you quickly averted your lingering stare onto the wooden floor. There was a stroke of amusement tainted in his tone, “Sister Nobara tells me you come from the Arklay Mountains.”

“She’s right,” you confirmed, still not eyeing him.

He nodded along, eyes still etched on your face.

“Father, if you could excuse me.” Sister Nobara suddenly spoke, causing you to look up at the departing woman. A “But—” was all you could mutter, before Kento put two-and-two-together and figured you sought out your quarters. “I don’t mind showing you around.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, Father.” You laughed, nervously, obvious to the subtle but definite bite of the Priest’s lower lip at the sound.

“No problem, follow me.”

The walk wasn’t as bad as you’d thought it to be; it was worse.

You couldn’t help but glance repeatedly at the seemingly older, definitely taller and the most handsome man you had ever dreamt of, and the fact that he hadn’t turned to look at you, nonetheless utter a single word, aggravated you.

He gracefully halted, and you knew you’d reached your quarters.

“There we are,” he announced, opening the door to let you in before him.

“It’s not much but—”

“It’s perfect.” You interrupted him with a warm smile, genuinely pleased with where you were to be stationed. Father Kento seemed pleased with your response, the small smile that broke out gave it away.

You instantly got to settling in, not that you had many things to place. Just your clothes, holy books and—

“Who is that?” Asked Father Kento the minute your hand reached for the framed memory.

“Father Redfield from the Arklay Church.” You spoke in monotone.

“Is he why you left?”

You didn’t have to answer.

The way you clutched the photograph tighter gave Nanami Kento all the answers he needed.

“Confessional is always open.”

“𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒��𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍.” The words rang in your ears, floating in the whirlpool of your disturbed mind throughout supper, and the fact that Father Kento was nowhere in sight was no solace. You decided to say, “Fuck it,” in a god-abiding way, and made your way over to the said confessional.

You step inside the wooden booth, steadying your breath you heard movement on the other side.

“Good evening, Sister.”

“I’m glad you obeyed me.” He said, seemingly in nonchalance, but you could picture a cocky smirk on his handsome face.

“Yes, father,” was all you could muster up.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” He said so casually, yet compelling enough to get you to open up.

“You were right, Father Kento,” you sighed.

“It’s Chris—Father Redfield.”

“He’s, uh, the reason why I left.”

“Why would a man of the Lord drive you to that limit, Sister?” You heard that raspy voice of Father Kento’s inquire.

All you could muster up was a sigh. Talking about your feelings was something you’ve always struggled with, never there being a crucial need to do so, to redeem, like tonight.

“Because I would find myself thinking about him.”

“In what way?” Father Kento asked almost immediately, not wasting a breath.

“In impurity, lust, and love.”

The sigh on the other wooden end of the booth was almost unheard by you. “Describe them.” Father Kento broke the silence after a moment of halting. “W-what?”

“Describe your thoughts. What did you want to do with him?” You heard fiddling, but chose to ignore it.

“I would— would think about him and I, romantically. If and how things would’ve been different had we not chosen this life. Then, it was natural for excitement to settle in when he’d gently brush past me,” you oddly found yourself at ease, tranquil and nostalgic as you reminisce over the past.

“What about lust?” He interrupted in a tight voice.

“Uh,”

“I thought of his large, aged and veiny hands: grabbin—grabbing me, groping my… breasts…”

The ruffling on the other side silenced you, and when Father Kento noticed, he spoke in a stern tone, “Sister,”

“I need you to let it all out.”

So, you took a deep breath, and did exactly that.

You tell the priest how badly you’d grown accustomed to that ache between your thighs, how damp you would feel while merely observing the older man casually interact with the churchgoers; the tinge of bitterness that coursed through your veins, replacing the electricity that he’d often ignite, but now that you see him caressing the arm of another woman, much like the way he’d do to you, you’d find yourself unravelled in the sin of envy.

“I would find myself wanting to start a family with Father Redfield— by any means necessary. I would’ve wanted nothing more than to feel him inside me, carry his load inside me each night, sleeping in the warmth of his arms while his cum leaks out of me, still puffy and sore but in the need of more—”

You heard him groan.

He fucking groaned.

Your sinful ramblings would’ve persisted had the feeling in your gut not begged for you to shut the fuck up that very instance.

“Tell me, Sister,”

“Was it Father Redfield you felt such vulgarity for, or perhaps, just the thought of a superior— One with the Lord— indulging in you?”

You were speechless. Surely there was no insinuation in his sultry tone, right?

“I— I don’t know, Father.” You cleared your throat, thighs involuntarily rubbing together. You raised your palm to bite the back of it, softly, but enough to distract you. A habit you thought you had rid yourself of, but it still lingers.

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before you could deny the blatant accusation, your eyes land on Father Kento through the open wooden network.

You had now realised that this was the first time throughout your confession that you looked up— at him, and the sight awaiting you had caused you to clutch your rosary and gasp the first profanities you’ve dared to say in decades.

Father Kento sat on a ruby, velvet sofa, while his robe lifted up to his stomach. The first thing your eyes trail to is the smug, sinister look on his face, his slicked-back, disheveled hair, his glimmering eyes and pink lips. Then, his broad neck lacking the amice that is supposed to adorn it. Between his thick thighs, stood tall and angry the most vicious thing you’ve seen.

What made it worse was that he had a hand wrapped around the leaking tip, and in that very hand, was his rosary.

“Like what you see, Sister?” He called you out, and you immediately averted your gaze.

You looked to the ceiling, folding your hands and dropping to your knees.

“No, none of that.” Father Kento ‘tsk’ed at the sound of your prayers, making his way over to your side of the confessional.

“As pretty as you look while begging for mercy,”

“ 𝑰 ’𝑴 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑮𝑶𝑫 𝑵𝑶𝑾. ”

He grabbed ahold of your joined hands, opening them just enough to wrap them around the girth of his cock.

“Pray,” he said, squeezing your cheeks together. When your mouth forcefully opened, he shoved his tip past your plump lips, and you instinctively allowed more inside.

“Good girl.” He groaned, motioning your hands back in forth on his cum-slick cock.

Blasphemy coursed through your blood and all thoughts and prayers left your mind, and you twirled your tongue around his cruel tip.

He growled, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” pushing back your veil and bandeau to let your hair out and grip it.

“Oh, you have no idea what a punishment the past few hours had been,”

“I’d been doing so good. ‘So good,” his voice was weak yet hoarse; he damn near lost his mind when he hit the back of your throat, biting back a whimper.

“I was on the path to salvation, but you,”

“You just had to show up and send me spiralling to hell.”

He plunged into your tight throat one last time, savouring the sight of your hollowed cheeks and plump lips wrapped around his shaft. You bat your long, thick lashes at him and his heart skips a beat when he looks into those doe eyes of yours.

“Get up,” he yanks you up by the arm.

“Strip.”

You were hesitant while bidding farewell to your attire, but there was unknown fervency in your movements.

Once bare, you couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“This is so wrong—”

“—But do you want it?” He asked, his was was stern and soft, his recollected breath made his velvety voice return.

“More than anything I’ve ever known.” You answered in all honesty; only truth came out of you in the home of the Lord.

There was a soft smirk on Father Kento’s face that widened into a genuine smile upon hearing your words. “Come here, then.” He motioned for you close the eternal gap between the two of you, and you nearly leaped into his arms, the distance growing unbearable.

Kissing you, tasting himself on you, Father Kento spoke in between kisses, “I don’t want a fucking word out of you, okay? You’re going to take cock quietly.”

“We want this to stay between us and God, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him corner you against the wooden box.

His eyes darted up to yours and then trailed down to your body. His frustration aggravated at the sight of you, and the fact that you’re the Lord— his master’s forbidden fruit heightens his senses with carnal instincts, making the Goddess in front of him even more insatiable.

“You know I’d have taken my time with you, right?” He nods, enchanting your dumb and dazed state to follow him.

“But you understand how badly I need to be inside you?” You nod, you need it, too.

“And you’ve sworn in celibacy?” He quirks an eyebrow, but the minute you felt the slightest touch of his fingertips along your velvety folds, you forgot all your vows at once.

“Answer me.” His voice carried a trace of humour, but stoic nonetheless, finding your clit and pressing his thumb onto it.

“Y-yes. Yes.” You bit down on your lip and the priest nearly lost it then and there. His free hand meets your face and tucks the pillowy lip out of your teeth’s grasp, stroking it back and forth.

His hand left your cunt, earning pathetic whimpers from you. It went back to his cock, jerking it a few times, leaving you mesmerised, before he gathered the slick that leaked out of the tip and smeared it onto your pussy.

“Prepping you.” He simply grunted, easing one finger into your tight hole. Your walls show hospitality and gladly accept the digit curling inside them.

You were a virgin, but masturbation wasn’t foreign to you.

“More,” you ached, and he obliged.

By the end of your aching heat, you had (barely) accustomed two of his long, slender yet thick fingers. The fervent circles of his thumb on your clit were torturous.

On the brink of your orgasm, spiralling into ecstasy, Father Kento pulled you out. Like a sinister saviour, he pulled you out of enlightenment.

“No! Please— Why?” You blabbered bullshit, too fucked out to care about anything but release.

“I told you I need to be inside you.” His voice was hoarse, the lust evident in his tone.

Watching you right on the edge of unravelling had him throbbing and twitching.

“I need to feel that tight cunt.” He was damn near hyperventilating. “Baby, I’ll go crazy.” He chokes out a sob when you grab his cock by the angry tip and align it with your hole.

He smiled at you, causing you to clench.

How was this blonde bastard so handsome?

Lifting you up with sheer ease, he let your legs wrap around his waist, your arms crossing over his neck, and his dick plunging into you, inch by inch.

You thanked God the tiny booth was tall, so you had enough space to let your head fall back without it touching the ceiling, courtesy of the man balls deep inside you, standing at 6’0.

The snug fit knocked the air out of both of you. Tears ran down your flushed cheeks like a hot spring, the passion with which he embraced you, devouring your warmth against the cold wood set every cell in your body ablaze.

“You’re so fucking— tight. ‘Hot, tight pussy squeezing so nicely around my cock.” Father Kento began pounding into you. Your legs had began to tremble already, but your vicelike grip on his waist and broad shoulders didn’t falter.

His fat cock fucked into you with desperation, the carnality of being wanted so much, so sinisterly by a man who had sworn chastity makes your soul quiver.

You’ll need to make one hell of an apology to the Lord.

As if reading your mind, the blonde priest spoke in a hoarse voice, “Pray.”

“For your sake and mine, you better fucking pray.”

So, you join your hands and close your eyes, bring Father Kento’s face closer to your chest. He closed his eyes, relishing in the feel of your soft breasts embracing his face like the pillowy clouds of heaven he’d never see.

With every thrust, your would slide up the wall, cunt gushing along his length. You said your prayers silently but couldn’t help letting out wanton cries when the tip of his cock would hit a certain spot inside you, and hit it repeatedly.

You were too far gone to hear him say, “Put it in my mouth,” not knowing what he referred to, until he hit the flesh right above your breast. You struggled to let go of his neck, but grabbed the supple flesh and lead it to his ravenous mouth, like a lamb being led to slaughter.

His hot mouth on your nipple; tugging, licking, circling, and nibbling. His cock inside you, fucking you at godspeed. Two of his fingers on your clit, rubbing maniacally; all had you coming undone in seconds.

“Oh, Kento!” You moaned pornographically, driving him to the point of release and insanity when the rhythmic contractions of your cunt pulsated around his twitching cock, and in mere seconds, Father Kento buried his seed deep inside you.

“Good god.” He groaned, parting with your nipple with a ‘pop’ and overstimulating you with slow, deep thrusts; his fingers never once leaving your clit.

“That—”

“—Needs another confession altogether.”

And so every night you’d find yourself cornered up in the confessional, apologising for same mistake you’ve been making every night, with the man whose forgiveness you beg for, on your knees, and repentance he delivers with a rosary in one hand and his cock in the other.

[callsign-rogueone]

the last six years - b.s.

Brennan Sorrengail x reader Only one person has remained by Brennan’s side for the last six years, through the good and the bad. [requested] wc: 3.9k 🏷: SPOILERS FOR FOURTH WING AND IRON FLAME. fatal injury, blood, and multiple character deaths. basically every bad thing that has ever happened to Brennan will be in this series. I took some major creative liberties with this one and made a bunch of stuff up regarding Tyrrish culture, but we’re just gonna breeze right past that. more to come, because Brennan is just so husband material… mans had me giggling and kicking my feet every time he spoke.

“Tairn! We need Naolin!” You scream, praying that he is alive to hear you. “Bren, please, stay with me.”

His chest rises and falls slowly; he's still breathing. Breathing is good. “Y’need to get out of here.”

“No. I’m not leaving you. Eyes open, Bren, please,” you beg, pressing your hands deeper into the wound. “Tairn!”

“Thirty seconds out!” He yells back.

There’s not much you can do. To remove the arrow is a death sentence when you don’t have any medical supplies. It’s the only thing keeping the blood in his body, but even then it’s doing a shitty job; the warm crimson continues spilling out through your fingers, seemingly endless. 

“S’ gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Brennan soothes, feeling your panic.

“Bren, you need to stay awake. You can’t die. I can’t keep going without you.” Tears are pouring freely down your cheeks, dripping down onto the dark fabric of his flight jacket.

“You’re bleeding,” he mumbles, ignoring your pleas. He’s slipping away, fast, falling into the slow confusion that comes with a shortage of blood to the brain. “Let me mend you.”

“I’ll worry about myself later. Right now we need to keep you alive.” 

Heavy bootsteps enter the room. “Holy shit,” Naolin breathes, at your side in an instant. He digs in his bag, producing sutures and gauze.

If you act quickly, and if by some miracle the arrowhead hasn’t pierced Brennan’s heart, you can keep him stable long enough to find another mender. You break the shaft of the arrow, Brennan whimpering in pain as it shifts within his chest. 

“I know, my love, I’m so sorry,” you soothe, wiping your palms on your pant legs and moving to cradle his head in your lap as Naolin takes over. You keep whispering reassurances to him, terrified that if you stop, it’ll sever the last thread holding him in this world. “You’re doing so good, Bren. Almost done, I promise.”

Naolin gives you a look that tells you no, he’s not almost done. 

Brennan’s grip on your hand loosens, and you scramble to grab his wrist, bloodied fingers trying to find a pulse -- to no avail. “No,” you cry, tears pouring down your cheeks, “Bren, please wake up, please.”

The slow thump beneath your fingertips stops. Brennan’s heart is no longer beating.

You sob, a desperate sound that splits the air of the ballroom, and Naolin makes his decision, grasping Brennan’s hand and yours. “The two of you need each other.” 

“Nao, you can’t-” you gasp at the rush of energy that rips through you, the pain in your broken ribs diminishing instantly. You feel like you’ve been given a shot of pure adrenaline.

Naolin stops breathing just as Brennan starts again, collapsing to the marble floor, and your lips part in shock.

“He is gone,” Tairn confirms, fighting to keep his voice even. “May your gods honor his sacrifice and reward him in the next life.”

“I’m so sorry.”

His eyes are closed. That comforts you in some tiny way, that he looks whole, uninjured, like he could just be sleeping, but you know that isn’t the case.

Brennan’s breaths are even, pulse steady. The wound looks days old now, the fresh blood coating the skin the only evidence that he had nearly died today. He’ll pull through, as long as you can get out of here.

You say a prayer to Malek on your friend’s behalf, casting one last glance at his unmoving body, and gather Brennan into your arms -- he’s still breathing, but limp, exhausted. You can carry him out of here, but where will you go?

A man bearing a crossbolt steps into the ballroom.

You make no movement toward your weapon, still holding Brennan’s body to your chest. “We surrender,” you rasp, praying he will take pity on a pair of bloodsoaked young lovers and their fallen comrade. 

He steps closer, not responding. 

The words escape you before you can think. The old language feels foreign on your tongue, misshapen from years of disuse. “I am a daughter of the house Lindell, and a citizen of Tyrrendor. I have sworn an oath to-”

“I know who you are, Lady,” he says. “Come with me.”

He stops in front of an abandoned farmhouse, painted gold in the sunset. “Bathe, sleep. I’ll be back when I can.”

You remain by Brennan’s side. You stitch up his wounds, wash the dried blood from his skin, count his heartbeats as he continues to sleep. 

Night comes, bringing freezing wind through the cracked windows, and you climb into the bed beside him, pulling the few blankets you’d found over the pair of you. He curls into your side, seeking warmth — his skin is still cold, but not as icy as it had been when you limped him over here.

When you wake the next morning, the man has not yet returned.

“Ban?” You ask quietly. You haven’t heard from the dragon since you’d dismounted over a day ago, but she must still live, as you do.

“Nearby, with Marbh,” she reassures. “Tairn has returned to Basgiath to be with his mate. It will take years for him to recover from this loss, but he will live on.”

You continue to stroke Brennan’s hair, taking solace in the steadiness of his breathing.

“Your devotion to the mender is the strongest I have seen from any human,” she says quietly. 

“He has become the air I breathe. It was unbearable when he…” you don’t even want to think the words. “I don’t know what I would have done, had Naolin not intervened.”

Brennan stirs, stretching in the cute way you’ve seen him do so many times after waking up, scrunching his face at the bright morning light streaming into the room. He takes you in, thanking the gods that the only injury you bear is a yellowing bruise on your cheek. A gentle hand cradles your face, and it vanishes.

“Naolin?” He asks quietly, and something tells you he already knows deep down.

You shake your head, your eyes brimming with tears. “He gave his life to save you.” 

He looses a shuddering breath, and you gather him into your arms, crying together.

You attempt to mentally prepare yourself to enter the assembly room, adjusting your posture -- shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward. 

“Not a word,” you warn Brennan quietly. “Keep your shields up, like I taught you.”

“I didn’t know we were taking prisoners,” a lanky teenage boy calls, eyeing you from his perch on the edge of a table. In the years you’ve been away, he’s grown into his father’s dark features, and the lazy confidence that can only come with a noble title. “I was wondering when you’d be back from playing soldier. Have they brought you here to negotiate?”

“Lovely to see you again too, Xaden,” you say dryly, addressing the boy by name, and Brennan’s gaze whips toward you in shock. “No, I am not here to negotiate. We are here to surrender, and if you will have us, we will take your side in this fight to free Tyrrendor from those who have oppressed her for centuries.”

“They would be an asset to us, should this prove to not be a setup,” one of the elders says, keeping his hand on the hilt of his longsword.

“She has proved her allegiance to Tyrrendor time and time again,” Xaden defends coldly, dismissing the man who looks old enough to be his grandfather. “It is the general's son that I’m more concerned with.”

You look him directly in the eye as you speak, raising your chin. “Sorrengail is a strong rider and skilled mender, but above all, he is a good man. I could not have chosen anyone better to share the crown with when the day comes.”

Brennan looks at you like he has no idea who you are, trying to discern if this is a dream.

Xaden finds this amusing. “She really didn’t tell you? Always so secretive, that one. Your girlfriend is heir apparent to the Duchy of Lindell, as I am to Aretia, where you stand.”

He looks to the elders, who all nod in affirmation, deeming your appraisal of Brennan satisfactory. “It’s good to have you back, Lady. Things were getting boring without you.”

You lower your head to him in thanks, Brennan quickly copying you.

You tug Brennan into the hall after you’re dismissed.

“Did you really mean that?” He asks, head still spinning.

“Every word,” you reply. “From the moment you extended that hand to me in our first year at Basgiath, I knew you were good to your core, Brennan Sorrengail. It would be an honor to share my duty with you.” 

“Your mate needs you,” Marbh says, making a rare appearance.

Your heart drops. You sprint down the valley trail back to the house, attempting to ascertain what had happened, but you aren’t given a response. Marbh has always been vague.

You find Brennan tucked into a corner of your shared room, back pressed to the wall. He’s clutching a piece of parchment that you recognize to be a Basgiath death roll. He extends it to you wordlessly, and your eyes race down the list, searching for Mira, his mother, another of your friends…

The final name on the list, below the rider’s quadrant cadets, almost as an afterthought… Major William Sorrengail. His father.

“Oh, Bren,” you breathe, gathering him into your arms, “I’m so sorry.”

His entire body shakes with a sob, and it takes everything in you to not cry as well, but you remain strong, needing to be there for him. “I knew I’d never see him again,” he says in a cracked whisper, “but now…” But now it’s real.

You’d never met the man, and now you never will, but you know what a profound impact Brennan’s father had on his life, imparting so many of the qualities that you admire about Brennan; his dedication to his studies, his respect for the scribes that so many others dismiss or overlook, his unwavering compassion…

You offer a silent prayer to Malek on his behalf, asking that He show the scribe the same kindness that he had shown others in life.

“I don’t know why, or how,” Brennan rasps, “I don’t know who was there with him in the end, if Mira and Violet got to say goodbye, if my mother…” he can’t finish the sentence, words cut with shaking breaths. He loses the strength to hold himself up, collapsing into your embrace. “I should be there,” he sniffles, “I should have been there.”

“I know how much you love him. He knew too, I’m sure he did. They all do.” You hold him tighter, stroking his hair. “The girls are strong. They will mourn, but they will get through it together.”

He’s run out of tears, leaving him with a headache and a hollow feeling in his chest. He eventually relaxes, not saying a word as you smooth down the soft waves of his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. He’s fallen asleep. You just hope his dreams will be kind to him.

“Enough,” you command, and all heads turn toward you. “I will not have you disrespect Riorson nor his partner in his own home. Have you forgotten what he has done for our young?”

Ulices stiffens. “My apologies, Lady.” He says the title with an ounce of venom, but yields, returning to his seat.

Violet continues to study you. You’re dressed simply, head to toe rider’s black mixed with traditional Tyrrish leather armor and intricate braids that she has only seen drawn in history books, but it’s obvious in your posture that you’re nobility - you do not dip your head below the horizon even for a moment, and you speak with the confidence that others will listen.

“We have better things to do than argue about what should have happened. There is no turning back time,” you say calmly. “I agree that we have been given a legion of students rather than trained warriors, but it has become our job to train them.”

Brennan speaks next. He’s been silent since the meeting started. “What professors have joined us should resume modified versions of their courses, and we will fill in the gaps. Match up those with similar signets for mentorship. Emeterrio can continue to lead combat training, and Devera Battle Brief. Kaori has not joined us, but I think there is an obvious replacement.”

You’re saddened by the news, but you smile softly at his praise. 

Violet realizes that the scribbled amendments in the dragons section of Brennan’s book weren’t Mira’s, but yours. You’ve been close for years, then. You must have brought him here with you when you deserted. Part of her wonders if you’d attended Basgiath because you wanted to, or as a spy.

“Do not question the royal one’s integrity,” Tairn warns her, but does not elaborate further.

“The riot has decided that everyone here can be trusted,” you state. “And if anyone turns out not to be, we will do what we have to do, without hesitation, for the good of the movement.”

There’s sounds of agreement from the other six, and then the meeting is over.

“Hey,” he says softly, leaning against the doorframe, clutching a bloodied rag to his face.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Mira’s fist happened,” he explains, lifting it, and you wince at the sight of his nose, the bridge split and bruising. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

Your heart twists. Brennan hasn’t been able to see his sisters for nearly a decade, spending the last six years in hiding and the two before that stationed across the continent with hardly enough leave to travel back and forth to Basgiath. For Mira to have punched him straight in the face instead of the tearful hug he’d dreamed of… it must have crushed him.

You press a gentle kiss to his cheek, careful not to bump his nose. “I’ll talk to her,” you say softly. “Go see the healers.”

You’ve only met the middle Sorrengail in passing, nearly ten years ago now, but she’s exactly as Brennan had described her; a younger version of their mother, and just as strong-willed. Evidently, she remembers you, scowling and crossing her arms at the sight of you, but still standing at attention — there’s no missing the Major’s insignia on your chest. Violet stands as well, but doesn’t look as sour as her sister. 

You wave a hand. “At ease. I am not here to issue orders, rather to talk about your brother.”

Mira prickles, Violet looking concerned.

You choose your words carefully. “I do not expect either of you to forgive him overnight, nor for you to forgive me for my complacency in this matter. All I ask is that you show him some compassion. It has been hard for him too, being apart from his family. When your father-”

“That is not a sentence you should finish,” Mira interrupts.

“Mira,” Violet scolds softly, “be nice.”

“No,” she snaps, “I don’t think you understand. We mourned him. We called him a hero, thought he died honorably in battle when he really just deserted and changed his name.”

“He did die,” you say, and the eyes of both women flit back toward you. You look over your shoulder. “He bled out on the floor of that ballroom, and his heart stopped. Our friend siphoned away his life to save him.”

“Tairn’s previous rider,” Violet says in a whisper, as if the dragon will not hear her that way.

“Yes. Naolin.” You say his name with a heavy voice. No wonder Tairn won’t speak to her of the one who came before. That explains the gruff dragon’s defense of you, too.

Mira is silent, likely feeling guilt over her outburst as she realizes her brother still lives in the house he’d been killed in, with the son of the man who had ended his life.

“The elders gave him the name Aisereigh — meaning resurrected — as a layer of protection from those who hold vendettas against your mother. It hurt him to take it, and to not be able to give me the Sorrengail name, but it was necessary for his survival.”

Violet’s eyes land on the band circling your ring finger, a smooth strip of silver carved with Tyrrish runes. Brennan had worn a matching one when she’d seen him the day after War Games, but she hadn’t thought anything of it until now. “You’re married.”

You nod. “Three years ago, right on that bluff at the top of the valley, on a gorgeous summer day. Both of us wish those he loves most could have been there.” 

“Thank you,” Violet says quietly, “for staying with him through it all.”

“I have been by his side since our first year at Basgiath, and I will remain there as long as we shall live, as I have vowed to,” you reply with the same blunt conviction that she’s used to from Xaden — that must be a Tyrrish thing. “Now please excuse me. I have a class to teach in a few minutes.”

Mira lowers her head to you in a gesture of respect. “I’m sorry,” she says, but she does not say what for.

You give her a soft smile in return, heading back into the house.

“Major Aisereigh will be taking over your dragonkind course, as Professor Kaori did not elect to join us here,” Professor Devera announces.

It’s strange to be standing on the dais as an equal with the woman who’d had a hand in kidnapping you from Brennan’s bed to torture you eight years ago, but nearly everything about your life since that night has been strange.

“I don’t know precisely what Kaori did and did not cover thus far in the term, but given that every person in this room has managed to bond a dragon, you are clearly proficient, and I will treat you as such,” you begin. “Dragons are independent, often to a fault, but do not forget that your health depends on theirs. As riders, you must learn how to care for them properly. That’s what we will be focusing on for the remainder of the term, along with flight mechanics and keeping your seat under stress.”

You glance at Brennan, who is sitting incognito in the back row, broken nose now mended, and he nods, an easy smile on his face. You’re doing great.

The lesson passes easily, your students much more engaged than you remember your peers having been in Professor Kaori’s class. 

“I will be needing volunteers to help with the maintenance of the riot while they’re grounded.”

At least thirty hands shoot straight up — half the class.

The trek up the valley wall is never easy, but you make winded conversation with several of the volunteers, mainly nervous first-years who confide that they need the extra practice.

You stop at the top of the trail, cupping a hand to your mouth and calling out a few short notes, and Banrion is at your side in seconds, shaking the ground with her landing. At least a dozen others land nearby, sitting upright in waiting. 

“You’ve brought children,” she appraises, eyeing them with distaste.

“Cadets,” you correct, “that you will be helping me teach. So be nice.”

She chuffs softly. “Fine.”

“I have chosen some more agreeable members of the riot to aid me today, to ease you into their care, but let me make this clear,” you say to the class, who have retreated to give you and Ban a healthy distance. “the majority still find it deeply offensive to be addressed by a human that is not their rider. Unless your bonded has joined us today, please refrain from speaking to any directly.”

You wait for nods of affirmation. “Banrion and I will demonstrate pre-flight checks once, and then you will split into groups of two or three to do the same with the remainder here.”

Once you get everyone settled, you find Brennan — he’d tagged along quietly, not wanting to part ways after the morning’s chaos.

“Well done, Professor,” he says, smiling. “You just might make this a day job.”

You laugh. “Is this everything twenty-year-old Bren thought it would be?”

“It is,” he says quietly. “And more.”

You gaze out at the field of cadets. “Marked and unmarked, living in harmony.”

Brennan squeezes your hand in acknowledgment, remembering how scared you had been when the first marked ones left for Basgiath, and each year since. It had hurt you deeply when not all of them returned. 

Tairn stalks up to you, dipping his head in greeting. “Good to see you again, royal one.”

You smile. “Glad you’re still around, big guy. You have made an excellent choice in Violet. How is the golden one?”

“Still dreamless,” he answers, not deigning to reply to your compliment. 

You worry your lip between your teeth, concerned. 

He casts a glance around at the young cadets in the vale, who are taking their tasks very seriously. “You remain as revered a leader as you were at Basgiath.”

You’re actually touched, but you won’t dare mention that to Tairn.

“It is not an easy feat to raise young,” a green scorpiontail says in agreement, looking down fondly at the first-years that are inspecting her claws for cracks, “but the two of you are doing a fine job.”

You smile. “And how are your young?”

“Safe,” she answers. “You may come see them after dark.”

“It would be an honor.”

“Professor?” A cadet calls from across the field, sounding mildly concerned.

You pull apart from Brennan reluctantly. “Duty calls. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Kiss for your thoughts?” you ask playfully, seeing the weary look on his face. It’s been a long day for him, with multiple arguments among the assembly and all the emotions of reuniting with Mira.

“I have both of my sisters back,” he breathes, still in disbelief. “I thought I’d never see them again.”

You lay a hand on his back, resting your head on his shoulder. “I spoke with them before class. Mira was particularly upset, but she softened when I told her what really happened.”

He’s quiet. “She has every right to hate me for what I did. She should despise me for the rest of my life.”

“But she doesn’t,” you remind him gently. “She holds anger, but she doesn’t hate you. You’re her brother, and she knows you love her. You wrote her an entire textbook on how to survive the rider’s quadrant. If that isn’t testament enough, I don't know what is.”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”

You grin, moving to climb into his lap. “Because I know you, and I know exactly what goes on in that beautiful brain of yours.”

“Yeah?” he asks, nose brushing against yours, a ringed hand settling on your waist. “What am I thinking about right now?”

“Hmm. Probably about how long of a day it’s been, and how you’d like to unwind after all of it?”

“You’re absolutely right,” he says. “I’ll take that kiss now.”

You lean forward, connecting your lips to his, and the rest of the world falls silent, melting away until all that’s left is you, your husband, and the love you share, love that has endured death itself.

[chxrrysangel]

What Best Friends Do

Pairing | perv!eddie x best friend!reader

Warnings | MDNI 18+, porn with plot, Eddie is a such a perv(only for reader tho, he has some morals), he stares A LOT, meddling friends, guided masturbation (f), cumming together, dry humping, eddie cums in his pants, Eddie basically has an innocence kink

Words | 1,895

Summary | Forced to be gentlemanly with pussy on his mind, Eddie spends the night with his best friend for “the sake of safety”. A best friend with the shortest skirt and cutest pout he’s ever seen. Can he keep it together?

Technically Part Two

Eddie didn’t think this through. At all. 

When Steve suggested taking everyone home in one trip, a resounding yes erupted from the group. The only problem was that there weren’t enough seats. Neither of you thought it was a massive deal at the time, it was only a 30-minute car ride. That was roughly 5 Metallica songs, 3 random brought-up topics between the 6 of you, and maybe 10 stoplights throughout Hawkins. 

Everyone piled into the car as Robin called shotgun, while Nancy, Jonathan, and Eddie took the backseat. Hand in yours, your best friend helped you onto his lap for a less-than-comfortable ride home. But you would survive, it was just Eddie after all. The second your ass met his front, he regretted the entire thing. Every single pothole or speed bump pressed your body closer to his, and it was hell. 

Eddie prayed to every god he could think of, hoping that Ozzy and Kirk could hear his pleas somehow. He tried to think of anything to stop his dick from pressing farther into your ass, but not even the image of his nana naked could make the smell of your perfume turn him on less. You could feel him, he was sure of it. And you were too innocent to not realize that every time you rubbed up against him made it worse. A particular “break test”, as Steve liked to call them, had Eddie’s arm wrapping around your waist, pushing your bodies so close together he had to bite his tongue to swallow his moans. If he was any more pathetic, he might’ve cum in his jeans. 

So he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the heartbeat of your pussy against his crotch. Someone must’ve answered his prayers, because the next thing he knew Steve was triple honking to signal a house stop. Luckily enough, it was yours. Eddie braced your body as the car door opened, stopping you from falling. You thanked him, no matter how many times he said it was no trouble. Before anyone could say their goodbyes, Steve perked up to share an idea. 

“Are your parents home?”

You told him no, and that they wouldn’t be back until much later in the night. 

“Munson, haul ass and stay with 'em.”

The two boys made eye contact in Steve’s dashboard mirror, a silent war that you couldn’t decipher. Eddie turned towards the others to beg for help, all feigning innocence and ignoring his silent plea. Right now he was rock hard, and Steve was ruining his chance to go home and jerk off until he got friction burn. But then he turned to see your patient gaze as you waited for their decision, and just melted. 

Fuck. 

Sighing, Eddie climbed out of the car in defeat. He waited until you began walking to your front door to scold the rest of the car. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he angry-whispered. 

“I don't know what you’re talking about Munson. Have fun though.” With that, Steve winked at the metalhead and drove off into the night. 

 He’s gonna regret this and he knows it. 

“Eddie, you comin’ ?” 

“Um, yeah. Sorry.” 

~~~

Eddie’s eyes began to unfocus, his head pounding as he took in the sight before him. There was something so… enticing about how little you understood the effect you had on him; on people in general. You didn’t think it was a huge deal, walking around your room in just a robe. But to Eddie, it was a massive deal. The thoughts he had earlier were coming back in full force and he had no way to escape them. There was only a single layer of material separating your naked body from the outside world and it drove him insane. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how short it was, making it so that just the right bend of your knees would him the perfect view of your pussy. 

Eddie didn’t really believe in God, but now he was reconsidering it. He knew it was bad to think of you like this, especially someone like you, but he couldn’t help it. If anything, your lack of experience or knowledge made him hornier. The pillow covering his crotch didn’t help much either, the dense material providing friction with every movement of his hips. 

“Eddie?” Your voice pulled him back to attention, focusing on you but not staring. Or at least trying not to stare. 

“Yes baby?” You blushed at the nickname, never truly getting over his terms of endearment for you. 

“I have a question.” He can tell by your tone that you’re nervous, and god it’s so cute. You bite on your lips as you think of what to say next, and all he can think about is that pretty little mouth sucking on his tip. 

“Shoot.” You took a deep breath, trying to find the courage somewhere to say what you need to. 

“Earlier in the car, I uh– I felt something.” Eddie fought off the urge to grin, the possibilities of what you said next giving him a depraved kind of rush. 

“What did you feel sweetheart?” He pressed the pillow further into himself, grinding his hips ever so slightly for relief. 

“Something hard. And…it felt good. I um…liked you pressed up against me. I felt tingly.” Eddie sat up straighter at your confession.

He could cum right now off your words alone. 

“Yeah?” You nodded in response, averting your eyes as your cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

“Do you wanna feel that again?” Eddie wanted to tear the pathetic robe off and fuck you over the nearest surface, but he knew he had to be patient and gentle. 

“Yes.” 

“Come here, baby. Come to Eddie.”

The bed dipped as you climbed over to him, your robe loosening just a little bit which he took notice of. Eddie removed the pillow, giving you a full view of the rock-hard erection he’d been hiding. A gasp fell from your lips, a hesitant hand reaching out before you thought better of it.

“You can touch if you want. I don’t mind.” You debated over it for a few seconds before reaching for his crotch. Your fingers brushed lightly against the tip, the friction making Eddie hiss in pleasure. 

“Oh my god, Eddie I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, don’t apologize. Didn’t hurt at all. It was the exact opposite. ” His voice was so gentle, like nothing you’ve ever heard from him before. It encouraged you to put your hand back where it was, rubbing softly to see how he reacted. You had no idea what you were doing, which made Eddie even more eager to ruin you. In his peripheral vision, he caught his eye on your closet mirror, inciting a genius idea. 

“Okay baby, I’m gonna make you feel good now. Can you do something for me?” You would do anything for him; so of course, you said yes. 

Eddie grabbed your hand, guiding you to sit in front of him with your back to his chest. His warm calloused hands bore a feather light touch as they grazed along your thighs. Slowly they inched higher, stopping just before where you needed it and pushing your thighs wide apart. Your best friend stared at the slickness of your folds, licking his lips in anticipation. Everything he'd ever fantasized about was slowly becoming part of reality.

In the reflection of the mirror, you stared at yourself, not quite sure who was looking back at you. It felt foreign to have anyone, let alone Eddie’s hands on your body in this way. The cross necklace you’ve had your entire life glittered in the light, and you willed the guilt rising up your throat to be swallowed back down. You wanted this. The brush of your best friend’s fingers across your stomach pulled you out of your trance, eyes tracing his movements. 

“Baby, you see this little button at the top here? That’s called your clit. It’s your best friend. And its favorite thing is to get rubbed on.” 

Eddie licked his fingertips in the reflection, bringing them down to between your legs to demonstrate. The wet feeling of his spit on your clit as his calloused hands began to rub circles was so foreign yet welcomed. Your brain began to feel fuzzy as the pleasure took over and your best friend enjoyed watching you come apart for him. Breathy moans and whimpers escaped your lips as you rutted into his hand, chasing something you weren’t even sure what to call.

He cooed at you, whispering sweet nothings in your ears. The ghostly feeling of his lips brushing against your hot skin clouded your mind, making it almost impossible to enjoy his praises. It was almost too much and yet you craved more. But then he stopped. 

“Eddie! Why’d you do that?” Whatever was building up in your lower stomach, aching to be released, slowly began to dissipate along with your excitement.

“Because, I want you to do it yourself.” He paused to kiss your temple, softening the blow of your disappointment. 

“But I can’t—”

“Yes you can, and you will. Give me your hand.” You did as told, watching as Eddie put two of your digits in his mouth and sucked. It was so…sinful. Nothing like anything you’d ever seen; and you couldn’t get enough.  He pulled your spit coated fingers down btwn your legs, right down to the center of your pleasure. 

“Now rub. And don’t stop until I tell you.” You did as you were told, slowly at first to get used to the feeling. 

Soon you fell into a rhythm, high off the feeling and chasing your own pleasure. Your back relaxed into Eddie’s arms, pushing your bodies impossibly closer together. His hips matched the rhythm of yours, which only made you wetter. Your moans were matched by his as you stared at yourselves in the mirror. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. 

“Eddie, oh God. I feel…I feel..”

He grinned at his reflection. 

“I know baby, I know.” He pulled your hips into his, trying to maintain as much friction as he could. At this rate, he wouldn’t last much longer.

“Hurts a little, yeah? Keep going gorgeous, it’s gonna feel so good. Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.” His voice broke on the last few words like he was gonna burst into tears at any moment. Your lower belly tightened with a delicious kind of pain, one you chased eagerly. You rubbed your fingers at a faster pace, desperate for some kind of release as Eddie grinded against your ass. He whispered the dirtiest things in your ear, saying how good you feel and how close he is. And then, the tightness stopped as a wave of pleasure coursed through your entire body, enough to make your toes curl and ears ringing. Eddie’s name fell off the tip of your lips as you came, the final straw as wetness spread through his boxers and hips slowed to a halt. You stared in his eyes as you caught your breath, trying to find the words to describe what just happened.

You were putty in his hands, he knew that now. A post-orgasm smile spread across his lips, shamelessly staring at your fucked-out state. He had plans for you.

[the-artist-grimm]

What doctrines did the lamb choose and have they ever sacrifice someone?

Crimson Angel AU - Doctrines, Governing, Rites, and More

This is gonna be a long one! Gonna be going over Doctrines, the way the Cult is governed, and how the Sin Rites work within the lamb, Anthea's, cult!

(since world-building is fun and I got a lot of ideas-though I apologize in advance for how much this diverts a bit from in-game/how longgggg this is lol)

Also the pretty boarders are by @/lambouillet

Doctrines

Sustenance

Ritual Feast

Grass Eater (Only relied on in emergencies once farms are set up)

Ritual of Harvest

Belief in Prohibition

Afterlife

Belief in Afterlife

Ritual of Resurrection/Funeral (Anthea has both-followers can pick what they'd prefer prior)

Respect Your Elders (especially since the elder, Nona, rules the kitchen) 

Grieve the Fallen

Work and Worship

Faithful Trait

Inspire

The Glory of Construction

Holy Day

Law and Order

Ascend Follower Ritual

Wedding

Belief in Absolution

Loyalty Enforcer (Really just Anthea having someone trustworthy in charge when out crusading-if there's any issues, fights, ect. its that person's job to settle it or at least get it under control till the lamb returns. If gone for more than 3 days Anthea also has Ratau come by to assist the enforcer, though later on Narinder takes on that role) 

Possessions

Extort Tithes (Funds typically are used to obtain rare goods from the market in Pilgram's Passage, such as specialty herbs for the medical tent or kitchens, metals for the smith, specialty tools, weapons to give missionaries, that sort of thing)

Belief in Materialism (Anthea has a major focus early-on on setting up more permanent settlements) 

Ritual of Enrichment

Devotee Trait

Sacrifice

Sacrifice is something Anthea has only done once (technically twice as it was two people in one), but it was only as a last resort. When they and Narinder managed to figure out how to revive the twins, and realized that it was via properly breaking the spell which chained him as intended through the sacrifice of a devote heart, the lamb didn't want to go through with it as it went against their promise to protect those in their care.

Yet, unbeknownst to the two, the followers had been realizing something was amiss throughout the week the two were figuring it out. A pair of terroir twins, Poppy and Tristen, had been tasked by the others with spying on the two to find out what, then reported back to everyone what they overheard. From there they all debated on how to proceed, knowing the Lamb wouldn't pick a sacrifice on their own. Everything from finding heretics to trick into being devote to drawing straws was discussed, until two volunteers came forward.

The next day during sermon, an older couple stood and offered themselves as sacrifice, citing that as they never were able to bear children of their own, giving themselves so Aym and Baal could live would be the symbolic next best thing. And though Anthea repeatedly asked if they were certain, a week later the sacrifice went through. But ever since the lamb has had no interest in ever doing such a thing again.

Within the graveyard plot the Lamb set their own family's empty graves they placed two more for the couple, as their bodies were completely turned to ash and lost to the ritual.

Day to Day

Within the Cult it's run more-so akin to a village rather than a proper 'Cult'. Everyone has a job to help the community as a whole, from farming, to carpentry, mining, med-bay, kitchen, tailor, and so on. There is a statue for prayer in the town center, but it's typically just people stopping by to say a quick prayer before moving on with their day, rather than sitting before it for hours praying.

Anthea has little interest in actually running the cult as a proper cult, and instead prefers to have everyone work towards building a proper community and settlement instead (hence why they don't like the idea of making people sit around praying-there's far more productive uses of their skills/time). Everyone there has lost it all-their homes, their families, their old lives-they have nowhere to go, and the lamb remembers how they felt when their own village was destroyed. They want the cult to be a safe harbor for people who need a new home.

That leading to greater faith wasn't entirely Anthea's intention, but it proved to be an excellent means of naturally raising faith/loyalty to them. People are less likely to dissent if they actually feel cared for, and to live in a cult that felt like a breath of fresh air? Where a new life could be found, a new family, a new home? Followers follow the lamb because they know Anthea's someone who genuinely wants to help them, and they are a lot more understanding and cooperative during hardships because of that as well. Where the Bishops lead by fear which can break loyaltys the second someone stronger appears, Anthea leads with their heart, which creates a following willing to stand beside them.

Sermons are held in the morning just after breakfast and are rather peaceful, and while outside of Sunday none are mandatory, most still attend daily regardless. Anthea's sermon scripts draw inspiration from their collection of Death tomes that predated Narinder's imprisonment (which depicted him as a gentle god of death and sleep), their own faith in Narinder that'd been built over years of praying to him prior to becoming a vessel, and some of their own memories of loss without letting on just how much they still grieve. (like everyone knows the Lamb is the last of their kind. But they just don't really realize how much that fact still haunts them. It's just assumed 'oh they lost everything but they're ok now! Look, they're trying to make things right!' which...isn't great but the followers do realize Anthea's carrying more grief than they let on eventually).

Sermon is still attended daily by choice as it is this time where followers can sit and reflect on those they've lost, but then be comforted by the thought that someone kind was there to greet their loved ones in the end. Death is framed as less of something to fear, and more of a final rest-which when every day is uncertain with the Bishops still in control, is reassuring. Anthea's voice is also just nice to listen to, during sermons their voice softens into this gentle tone followers can find comfort in.

During Sunday post-sermon Townhall (which townhall is why it's mandatory), followers are invited to stand and report issues, request materials, give errands for the Lamb to run in the other areas of the Old Faith, and the Lamb in turn makes sure everyone's updated on the situation outside the cult. Very few are allowed to leave the grounds unless accompanied by the Lamb or deemed capable (such as former Bishop Disciples who can fight/Missionary Talisman Holders that are magically protected) due to the danger that lies beyond the holy grounds from heretics and monsters, and thus Anthea likes to try and keep everyone from wondering too much about what's going on. Ignorance doesn't equal bliss, and thus the lamb prefers keeping them in the know as opposed to letting what-ifs fester.

And so Anthea keeps track of things they come across while crusading, such as currently standing villages being reported back alongside destroyed ones, the status of the various areas (such as Darkwood's difficulty rising post-Leshy's fall) being given, new locations reported (such as the path to Smuggler's Sanctuary opening where a hidden night market offers rarer goods like books, various alcohols, and other less easily acquired goods) and letters are also passed out or given to the Lamb for delivery. Though couriers cannot easily travel due to the dangers out there, Pilgrim's Passage does hold a sort of mail house within its village, where people can drop off letters and pick up their own, allowing people keep in touch with or even invite relatives to join the cult.

(I like to image that there's more settlements than just the Lamb's Cult, the Bishops Cults, and the in-game map locations. At some point I wanna put together a post expanding each area's extra elements/new ones)

Sin Rites Alterations

After the crown informs the Lamb on the Sin Rites, Anthea is somewhat uncomfortable with much of their practices due to both its descriptions, and the various former Bishop Disciples reporting similar Rites as causing anything from violence, to havoc, to unrest, to just straight up chaos within their own cults when held. Sin Rites often cause followers to act in ways they typically would not by heightening, anger, lust, desire, or other things, and it doesn't really sit right with them to force that.

As such since Anthea prefers to maintain an order to their cult since that reinforces the follower's ease of mind/trust that they'll be safe, the rites are altered and broken down into their base sin elements so that the crown can still obtain sin, but without causing disorder/discomfort among the cultists.

(it also very much goes against Anthea's nature to do most of the rites, and would be out of character for them to even consider using them as-is, hence why I've modified them for Crimson Angel.)

🌸Spring Festival - Draws from Rite of Lust🌸

Sins: Pride, Lust

As a celebration of the coming of spring, the Spring Festival traditionally was seen as an event where people spent the day outside enjoying picnics in the nicer weather while watching the flowers blooming on trees.  Now, while it still is a day for that, drawing from the fertile elements of the Rite of Lust, garlands of flowers decorate the grounds and flower crowns are woven and worn by all cultists, with it becoming a bit of a trend to try and gift your crown to someone special by the end of the night as there now includes a festival dance after sunset. People dress in flowy embroidered robes to look their best as well. Throughout the night many who are of age try to confess to the person(s) they are interested in, and as the festival does line up with a lot of cultists mating seasons, it isn’t unheard of for followers to sneak off somewhere private. Anthea does however set a hard rule on that everyone is to remain decent while in public, and that anyone caught getting handsy where they shouldn't will be punished via assisting Nona in the kitchen for a week, which the threat of having to help the old lady in the kitchen scares most into behaving.

🌞Summer Solstice - Draws from Rite of Wrath🌞

Sins: Wrath, Envy, Pride

Originally only viewed as a celebration of the longest day of the year and marked via a bonfire celebration, the Summer Solstice now includes a series of games and competitions, ranging from foot-races, to archery matches, to knucklebones, to swordsmanship, and so on with other activities. Events are at first just single, but as time goes on are later divided into Kids, Teens, and Adults sections to ensure fairness. To those who win, ribbons are presented as prizes. (so think akin to school field day or the Olympics) The elements of Wrath are transformed into a more constructive competitiveness through the events, with hints of envy naturally occurring from those who lose a match. It is, however, all just for fun at the end of the day, with the ribbons simply being little pretty things to keep as opposed to anything too special. An unintentional side-effect also means that more cultists learn how to protect themselves in preparing for competing, permitting more the ability to take on errands outside the cult over time. (which, in-turn, eases Anthea's burden of being the primary person gathering supplies)

🍂Fall Festival - Draws from Gluttony of Cannibals🍂

Sins - Gluttony 

Traditionally marking the ending of the harvest season, it has few alterations. During the day everyone works to can, dry, prep, and store the harvest gathered, with the best of each crop prepared for a huge feast held in the evening to celebrate everyone’s hard work. The only addition is teams of hunters are also sent out to hunt critters (which are considered separate from the typical sentient animals) and to catch fish to bring back for the carnivores and omnivores' winter stores, which as the years go on turn from just going out on the day of, to heading out a week beforehand to return with a larger haul to dry, salt, smoke, and store. Cannibalism, is however, EXTREAMLY PROHIBITED considering how they have a perfectly good harvest.

❄️Winter Solstice - Sinners' Pride❄️

Sins - Gluttony, Greed, Sloth

Traditionally marking the shortest day of the year, it is the only festival without any alterations due to the nature of the existing traditions lining up right. All cultists are given the day off from work, allowing everyone to trade gifts and spend the day with their families, to go out into the snow, and to see the stars and northern lights as a bonfire burns in the cult’s center, which for three days after there is still no work to allow everyone rest, as it’s also one of the coldest times of year.  Trees are often decorated with candles, ornaments, and other pretty things, wreaths are hung, mistletoe hidden in the worst places just to catch others off guard, people make baked goods, ect-so think Christmas but leaning more into its Pagan origins.

🎃Bonus! Blood Moon Festival🎃

Works like in-game and occurs during a Blood Moon. Spirits appear around the cult-grounds that need to be taken care of by disciples and the Lamb, with costumes bring worn by all to help in scaring the ghosts off. As children start to be born into the Cult, they also begin a tradition of going door to door for candy to keep the kiddos busy and away from the darker areas ghosts tend to lurk in, and there's a festival with various games like pumpkin carving, apple bobbing, darts, a bonfire, and spooky story-time with Mx. Shamura in the town square. So basically Halloween.

Phew that was a lot of lore lol, but I wanted to also take the chance to explain how the Cult runs! A lot different from in-game, but again it just feels more in character for Anthea to run the cult as less than well, a cult, and more of a village.

Back when their own village was still around their family did play a huge role in it-their father Aries was the supply runner, with Anthea taking over his role once he died. That meant the lamb got used to speaking to the village leader and other elders in higher roles, so that's kinda what they're working off of. Had their village persisted, Anthea might've even joined the ranks of leadership in the village, at least in possibly training more supply runners and leading them on trips.

A thousand years plus of the Bishops rule which especially worsened post-Narinder's imprisonment also had a great deal of followers done with the traditional 'cult' life. The closest thing to typical 'cult' traditions is donning specific robes for rituals or everyone having something red on their person whether it be their main garment or an accessory, but even then the robes are because it's tradition (think wearing your Sunday best) and the red is more of a personal preference cultists have out of a desire to match their leader's cloak.

[casdeans-pie]

Did somebody say snippet from my current wip?? Misuse of prayer anyone????? I just wish I could get to the part where Cas says, "I really don't think you would want to be doing this with your brother in the room." because Dean is inadvertently doing the angel equivalent of whispering intimately straight into Cas's ear. Angels are so goddamn weird and I cannot wait to write this whole thing.

---------

Boredom itched under Dean's skin. He hadn't even registered most of what he'd read on the last few pages, just turned over onto a new one every minute or so. His head sat heavy in his hand, elbow planted onto the table next to his book, and he had to resist the urge to yawn as he turned another page.

Dean glanced up at Sam, sat further down the table, with his nose pressed down close to his own book. If Dean had any hopes that Sam might be struggling to concentrate as much as him, he didn't see any evidence of it.

Cas, of course, looked as interested as he always did. He sat directly opposite Dean reading a huge book with an intensity in his expression that would be the same whether he was reading apocalyptic scriptures or nursery rhymes. A fond warmth settled in his chest.

Dean tried to follow their example and return to his own research, but after only a few minutes his leg began to bounce.

Eventually his mind wondered to the book that he'd been writing himself. It had been difficult to think of how he could write a book on Angels and get the information that he needed out of Cas without telling him about it. But a silent room, with all of Cas's focused attention on something else, felt like a perfect opportunity to get some material on prayer...

Dean tried to clear his mind (easy enough, not like he'd been paying any attention to his book) and had to resist the urge to physically clear his throat before starting.

"Cas," Dean thought, trying to make it loud inside his own head.

Dean peeked up, but Cas had had no reaction. Dude didn't even blink.

Huh.

Either his poker face is just that good, or it hadn't worked.

Thinking it loudly wasn't the same as praying, Dean supposed.

He breathed out slowly and stared at Cas, drinking in every detail of him. Praying meant faith, right? He had that. He absolutely had that. More fucking faith in Cas than anyone in the whole world.

"Cas..." slipped out of Dean's mind in a whisper, a plea, a declaration of that unwavering faith.

Cas gasped and jumped so violently that his knees slammed against the underside of the table.

"Cas? You okay?" Sam called over, concern pinching his eyebrows together.

Cas stared intensely at Dean, eyes narrowed, and he didn't even look away as he replied, "Fine, thank you, Sam. I... read something shocking in this book."

Sam looked unconvinced and switched his attention to Dean.

Dean shrugged in a you-know-what-Cas-is-like way, and eventually Sam returned to his book with a long suffering sigh and a small shake of his head.

Cas looked like he was trying not to react, but Dean knew by the hard line of his mouth that he was deep in thought, probably unsure if he'd heard anything at all. Dean had to smother a satisfied grin.

The prayer worked!

"Cas!" Dean prayed again, digging even deeper into the well of faith he had in his best friend.

This time Cas's eyes snapped open and his whole body jolted, as if he'd been struck by an electric current.

"Cas, this feels really weird and I'm not even sure I'm doing it right - but uh, this is a prayer to you, blink twice if you can hear me..."

Cas bowed his head, took a deep breath, and gripped the edge of the table.

Maybe he hadn't heard that time? Dean settled himself into his chair and tried to really think about what Cas meant to him - and how despite everything they'd been through he wouldn't hesitate to trust him with his life.

Amongst the certainty of his belief there was something tangled up in it all that felt much warmer and softer and sweeter. He tried not to examine it too closely, but some of that delicate warmth leaked into his internal voice when he prayed, "Castiel, Angel of Thursday, best buddy - breaker breaker, come in, can you hear me? I feel kinda dumb doing this, but... just give me a sign you're even getting any of this? Over."

For a second nothing happened, and Dean wondered if he'd screwed it up by throwing in the two-way radio stuff.

Dean placed his palms together under the table, wondering if that would help too. "Oh, right. Uh- amen."

Suddenly the lights above them buzzed and flickered dramatically, while a lamp in the center of the table popped and went dark.

Cas bent over even further, touching his forehead to the table, and let out such a long, loud breath it was almost a groan. He stood up from his chair so quickly it clattered backwards and he rumbled a quiet, "Excuse me," as he swept out of the room, before either Winchester could react.

Sam looked at Dean sharply.

Dean threw his hands in the air. "What?"

"Whatever you've done, go fix it."

"I haven't done anything!" Dean said on impulse, but his heart raced in his chest and the back of his neck burned just remembering that low, tortured sound Cas had made before his swift exit. The lights had returned to normal, but the casualty of the lamp bulb lay in shiny shattered pieces on the table. "Okay. Maybe I did do something. I'll go check on him."

[cavegirlpoems]

So. Mechanics for this game I'm working on.

Start with a roughly OSR-shaped set of expectations. Classes, levels, XP-for-treasure, hit dice, etc. That gives you a good skeleton for what's here. There's some key differences.

HP is divided into Flesh and Grit. Flesh is your meat points, Grit your not-getting-hit points. Lose Grit first, then flesh. Then when there's no flesh left, take horrible wounds that might disable or kill you.

On death, you have the chance to come back as Undead. Take a level of Creeping Damnation, and switch your nature out to being undead. So long as body and soul are more or less intact, death is a choice to let go, not automatic. It has costs, though - that Damnation.

Speaking Of, Damnation. Creeping Damnation accumulates point-by-point as your soul is eroded. Each point reduces your Grit by 1. Extremely bad news when you've got no Grit left.

The Plague is a thing. It's extremely bad news. Reduce your healing each night (losing HP rather than gaining if its too bad), and your lost HP counts towards your encumbrance. Don't catch the plague, dumbass.

There's a system to track your reputation with various factions in the world. There's a system to track how much of a bounty the Beast's Empire have put on your head. These can fuck you over if you let them get too bad.

You get XP for rescuing people and for killing named, hated enemies. You get XP for treasure, and claiming bounties for capturing/rescuing people.

It's expected that you'll start hiring followers - mercenaries and servants - to accompany you and work for you. What else are you gonna do with all that cash? Long-term, you'll probably invest in building a stronghold somewhere. There's mechanics for pitched battles, for when those soldiers you've hired have to defend that stronghold.

True Names are a thing. Knowing somebody's True Name gives you power over them. In particular, a lot of magic requires the victim's True Name to work, or doesn't let them save to resist it if you use their True Name. You can also invoke it to make magically binding pacts with each other.

While only clerics can create observable miracles, anybody can try praying. A successful prayer does nothing in the game fiction, but can have useful results on the meta-game level, such as nudging random encounter results.

Magic comes in six schools of six spells - Necromancy (dead and undead things), Hypnotism (the mind), Goetia (true names and binding), Transmigration (the soul and the abyss), Alchemy (the elements and materials) and Hermeticism (raw magic and Wizard Shit). Other uncategorised spells are Hedge Magic.

A lot of mechanics - encumbrance, saving throws, shopping, memorising spells, encounters - are present but dramatically streamlined.

Technically it's race + class, but we're ditching the term 'race' and replacing it with 'nature'; it's about your spiritual nature (mortal, demon, undead, etc) rather than your ancestry. Twelve Natures (mortal human, petty demon, mimic, purified one, lycanthrope, ghoul, homunculus, wormwood grotesque, revenant, ghost, soulless waif, vampire). Eight classes (Cleric, Doctor, Knight, Libertine, Outlaw, Professional, Witch, Zealot). Mix and match and add equipment to create characters.

Anyway, I know visuals sell, so have some visuals.

[tokoyamisstuff]

Penance...

...in which Father Anderson makes you repent for the sin of making him fall for you.

18+ | 2,5k. words | f! Reader | not proofread | happy ending

Inspired by -> those <- old Headcanons from @thirstyforlulu that made me feel things.

Warnings: some angst, porn without plot, hatefuck, dom/sub undertones, slut shaming, choking, spanking, seriously this is just pure filth...he asks for consent several times tho.

Father Anderson's unmistakeable steps were echoing through the hallway long before he reached his destination. Just like with an approaching thunderstorm, if you hear it coming, it's already far too late to hide.

His knocks were loud and impatient, bearing a subtle threat that shall you keep him waiting any longer, he might as well tear down the goddamn door. He didn't mind the possibility of anyone hearing what's going on, and frankly he was too blinded by his wrath to even care.

Because now that he made up his mind, not even god himself would be able to stop him.

It feels like an eternity until you finally open, sleepily blinking up to the man that had so rudely disturbed your night's rest. He was wordlessly looming over you, face twisted in rage and something undecipherable. Yet there was no anger, no fear to be detected in your alluring gaze, just trusting confusion.

"Father?" You sound worried, tilting your head to the side as you rub your eyes and for the fraction of the moment, his features soften. "Is everything alright?"

Anderson balls his fists several times, jaw clenched tight as the last remnant of his volition still hesitated to give in to this overwhelming desire. He was torn apart on the inside, but his self-restraint fainted with every passing second in your proximity.

After endless nights of praying, begging god for guidance, he had grown weary to ward off these intense feelings. For decades he fullfilled his holy duty without fail, had never asked for anything before and yet it seemed that in this time of adversity his god had forsaken him.

If the Lord would not answer his prayers, then he would stop trying to renounce what he so greatly yearned for. But once that line is crossed, there would be no going back for either of you.

Well, then so be it.

A desperate groan cut through the silence and eventually his lips crash over yours as he enters, slamming the door shut behind him. The kiss takes your breath away, despite the obvious inexperience there was to it. You gasp when his tongue forcefully splits your mouth open, running across your bottom lips before exploring the inside.

Anderson's chest is heaving as he tore himself away from you, breath visible as feeble mist. You cannot make out his eyes behind the reflection of his glasses, but that wasn't necessary to notice his emotional turmoil.

You were overwhelmed but at the same time incredibly blissful that he had the courage to do what you never would've dared. That initial excitement wouldn't last long however, and before you could even register what happened, the priest had bent you over the next best surface. A bang halls through the room as your head hits onto the tabletop, your body pressed against the cold material at least partially soothing the pain.

"Do ye have no shame, woman?" His tone is unusual cold, sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks. "Dragging a righteous man of faith down to your level is a sin against god."

"Wha-" You still felt dizzy due to the impact, but slowly began to grasp the situation. "But Alexander, I didn't do anything wro-"

"That's still 'Father Anderson' for ye" he reminds, harshly janking back your hair.

How dare you acting all innocent now? You knew exactly what you were doing, all this time!

With the way you acted, presented yourself, spoke around him there's no way he could buy any cheap excuse of yours right now. Every subtle touch of yours made him feel like electric shocks surged through his system, every sweet affirmation only further worsening this tormenting need that could only be quenched by having you in every way possible.

It was sweet torture to be given fractions of what he could never have, and yet giving in would mean losing a central part of himself forever.

When he shall betray his oath, then he'll at least make you pay the price.

Anderson grids, almost snarls as he remembered your past transgressions, wants to make you feel just a fraction of the misery you made him go through.

"The devil has triumphed" he explained coldly, impassive even. "and you are his accomplice. You must be punished for your actions."

"N-No, please- ah!" You bite your tongue to suppress a moan, feeling Anderson grind against you from behind.

"Just look at you" he spat, tone laced with a venom he usually only adressed heathens and monsters with. You wore nothing but a thin, almost translucent nightgown and a string which he provocatingly tugged on, his tongue clicking in contempt. "Is that how a virtuous servant of god is supposed to dress? Pathetic."

Embarrassment washes over you but there was no time to dwell in your pity, since his hands already sneak beneath the fabric, the cold leather of his gloves making your nipples betray you and stiffen under his touch. "No better than a Babylonic whore..."

The implication of both his words and actions fills you with dread.

It is so unlike himself to act this way, as if the sweet, caring man you once knew had been replaced by a cruel lunatic, akin to a feral beast. He frightened you like this, and you anxiously wondered if you'd ever see the real Anderson again. The man that had sworn to protect you, who would never voluntarily hurt you in any way.

He seems far away now.

"I-I really don't know what you're talking abo-" Anderson cuts you off right there, fingers digging deep into the flesh of your hips as he rams them against his clothed cock. You feel him harden as you try to squirm out of his grasp, your writing only spurring him more.

"Don't play dumb. Ye wanted me to do this, didn't ye?" The assassin leans over your shaking body, his breath hot on your ear as he chuckles darkly. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stop at once."

You stare at him for a while, completely quiet, before averting your eyes in shame, not denying his accusations. "Knew it..." The man smirks diabolical, tearing your gown apart at the seam in one skilled movement. "This whole time you tried to entice me even though you knew the consequence, yes?"

You were at loss for words. While the priest was right about your indecent attachment, you never planned to take it any further - at least not consciously. Maybe you did act different around him, but that would mean you're at fault for tempting one of the churches most loyal. No wonder he's behaving so twisted, his faith means everything to him after all.

What does that make you?

Tears dwell in your eyes and countless apologies drop from your lips, but they all went on deaf ears.

"No need to ask me" he declares, pointing to the sky. "Tell it to god."

You might have succeeded to make him commit this sin, but at least he'll do it on his terms...

...and right now he wants you to ask for forgiveness until the sound of your pleas would quiet the screaming conscience in his mind.

The priest places a firm hand on your ass, groaning at the sensation. "Lets see if you caught up on your teachings. Recite 1 John, 1:9."

"If we confess our sins, he will for- ah!"

"Wrong" he emphasizes his word with a slap, ordering "Again."

“I-If we- ouch!" you hiss, and your screams are like music in his ears. "No stuttering when you talk about the Lord's gospel. Again."

This scenery repeats several times, with the priest always finding some minor detail to reject your version, all just to dwell into this reverted power dynamic a little longer.

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

"Amen. Good girl..." he purrs, rubbing the sore flesh of your behind, until his fingers find something else to busy themselves with, fingertips brushing against your folds. "So wet already...you really wanted this, huh? Ye happy now?"

You nod both eager and bashful, the endearing sight almost appeasing him enough to go easier on you...only almost, though. Without warning he pumps one finger inside, a muffled gasp escaping your throat at the action. It works with such ease that he enters another and then one more, the material of his gloves making lewd noices as he prepares you well.

"Don't tell me you've done this before..." You coat yourself in silence once again. He knew very well you were a woman long before turning your way towards religion way later in life. "Tz tz tz...such a dirty, filthy thing in my church..."

You whine and buckle your hips when he pulls out, much to his amusement. His gloves are coated with your juice and he leads them to his tongue, getting a sample of your nectar while he stares you down intensely.

Shit, you taste like heaven.

"Nah-ah-ah..." Anderson scolds as he roams your curves, his finally uncovered palm relishing the sensation of your tender skin against his calloused hands. "Sinners don't get to cum...yet."

The man keeps holding you firmly in place, his other hand unbuckling his belt. You feel his thick head at your entrance, a mixture of panic and fervor rising in your chest.

"Last chance to tell me to stop" he warns, a paradox fondness in the way he speaks opposite to how he's handling you. "N-No...please..."

"Please what?" Growing impatient, you feel his erection twitch as he rubs himself between your thighs. "Speak up."

"Shit- please...I want you, Anderson...ah!" The man lets out a gluttural sound when he buries himself inside of you, slowly stretching your insides.

Bloody fucking hell, you feel even better than he could ever have imagined.

"Such a pretty lil' thing..." he murmurs as he watches you so neatly wrapped around his cock, giving you some time to adjust to his size before he starts moving. "So pretty and mine."

You groan at the pleasant ache, feeling so damn full when he starts violently thrusting into you, showering you with both vile curses and enamored praise.

Anderson keeps you pinned down, wrists twisted behind your back and your head pressed against the furniture. Like in a trance he keeps up this brutal pace, puts all of his pent-up frustration into it as he mercilessly rams into you.

"D-Don't stop...mhh..." His movements become more erratic, but your sweet pleas make him chase this high for you. He keeps hitting a spot that makes you sing for him until he feels your body tense beneath his. You see stars, being reduced to a moaning and trembling mess as Anderson rides you through your high.

The way you moan his name like it's a sacred prayer sends him over the edge shortly after and he stops, ramming into you one more time and spilling deep inside of you.

Anderson remains still, stays like this for a while before he pulls out, watching his seed leaking out and dripping down your leg. Out of a whim he shoves it all back in, keeping his fingers steady against your sensitive hole. "Ye wanted it, now don't ye dare wasting any."

His orgasm had hit him with a force that made his mind go blank, but when the haze in his brain slowly fades, the realization of what he just did made the pleasant aftershock vanish in an instant. Anger boils up in his guts once again, at constant war with the conflicting flutters of his heart.

"...god, I hate you..."

Those words together with his disgusted look made your chest narrow, but you were far too exhausted to have a proper reaction. You want to move and quickly cover yourself, but he's far from done yet, swiftly spinning you around on your back and aligning himself with your entrance again. "I don't think so" he mocks, a sadistic glee present on his features as he presses his thumb on your clit, earning a cry. "We'll continue until you've learned your lesson."

Anderson holds you down by the throat as he shoves himself inside you again, the overstimulation almost too much to bear. You feel like you've been set on fire, clawing on his arm to make him have mercy. And yet he feels your walls clench around him each time he squeezes down on your windpipe.

Indeed, seeing you like this, all messed up and stained with tears, isn't nearly as satisfying as he hoped it to be. Quite the opposite even, he loathes himself for being so obviously unable to be the man you deserve.

Maybe that was what this is about...

All his life he scorned having been born a mere man, since the weight of awareness that came with it was simply crushing. He strived to become an unfeeling tool to implement god's will, and as such he shouldn't have to feel like this.

So why can't he shake off what makes him so undeniably human?

"Stop..." he grids in between frantic thrusts, voice cracking. "Stop...looking at me...like...that..."

Still, you stare at him in awe as if he just personally hung the moon, hand trailing across the arm holding you down until it settled on his cheek. Your lips mutely form his name before curving into a vibrant smile, and he is completely and utterly forlorn at the sight.

Anderson lets out a sob as closes the gap between the two of you again, his mouth covering yours in exasperation. "I hate you..." he repeats, his voice meek and more woeful this time. "I hate how much I love you...shit, I love you so, so much, I-"

"I know. I feel the same, Alexander..." You redeem him with another kiss, both passionate and soothing as you wrap your hands around his neck, hands entangled in his hair. He immediately reciprocates, lifting you up against a wall to be as close as humanly possible. More careful this time he settles for a slow pace, head buried in your neck and tenderly raising blood to the skin, placing a mark of possession.

This time you come undone together in a tight embrace, unwilling to let go even long after the waves of your release ebbed away. Your foreheads are touching and you erupt into relieved laughter, which Anderson cannot help but sheepishly join in.

He begins planting countless pecks to your face, neck, shoulder, wherever his lips could reach, a hint of remorse flashing in his eyes as he caresses the bruise forming on your neck.

"Come." He timidly lets you down on your still wobbly feet, stuffing himself back into his pants. "Get dressed. We need to get going."

"Wha-" you raise an eyebrow at him as he throws the next best piece of clothing your way, almost offended at the lack of aftercare. "Where to?!"

"The confessional." Oh, that man is fucking crazy. "Then let me at least take a shower befo- hey!"

There was no use in arguing, for he had already picked you up again, bridal style this time. "Later" he urges, pressing a wet kiss into your hair and another one to your cheek. "I'll carry you if I have to."

Seems like the old Anderson is back...too bad, since you had just started enjoying this other side of his.

[loveliestlovelygirl]

divine temptations | 111

say yes to heaven, say yes to me

fallenangel!anakin x nun!reader | lore 🪽 | playlist

synopsis: anakin, a seraph, has lost himself to his obsession of you. with every moment he can, he watches over you as you attend to your daily duties around the convent. and day by day his desire grows. when your guardian angels fail to protect you, anakin believes he has no choice but to intervene, breaking numerous heavenly laws in the process.

w.c: 2.2k+

highlights: {minors dni} dark content, heavy religious themes and imagery, inspiration taken from catholicism primarily, sexual themes, corruption kink, light sexualization of the reader as a nun, fem!reader & use of she/her pronouns, attempted sexual assault

table of contents | 222

The crux of his obsession began with your voice. Harmonious and pure. Passionate and sweet. The soft vibrato and splendid timbre of your voice could be heard above all the clatter from the realms of Earth. The melodies you sang haunted him from the rise of the sun to the white shadow of the moon. And while he needed not sleep, he found no rest as he smoldered in his selfish desires for you. After he had fulfilled his duties for that day, when he was alone, he remained perched in the Heavens watching over you, drowning in the beauty of your voice, and lusting for your human touch.

His name was Anakin. And day after day he watched you, wishing he could descend to the realm which held your precious life. But that was a boundary that he was forbidden to cross. He was confined to be a guardian of the Heavens, not of Earth. To him, it was a cruel, cruel fate. Watching you from above, lightyears of distance between your realities, was as close to you as he was permitted.

An angel of his status, chosen to protect the thrones of the deity, a seraph, should give no eye to the realms beneath him nor find solace in the voice of human girl. The way that you had captivated him was unnatural and unholy. If anyone found out he entertained himself with you, he might be marked with shame by the highest councils, until he repented publicly. Though he might never obtain such a position as his ever again. As it were, he found himself considering these things, as if shame might be a solution to making contact with you.

He'd prefer to be your guardian angel than a guardian of his own father. He wanted to serve creation rather than its Creator. And that was sin. He could not deny this secret was a source of guilt. And it would not be long before the all-knowing Maker noticed how far from perfection Anakin had fallen.

But he wasn’t afraid of the fall. He wanted to connect with you in a deeper way than this parasocial existence. He wished to be your guardian angel. But you had many. Someone so beloved by the Creator had five guardian angels. And he hated each of them with equal rage.

Hate was dangerous. It was said that hatred lit the path of the fallen. And if it were true, then he had already doomed himself the moment he began desiring you.

He watched you as you prayed in the chapel, kneeling on the bench and making the Sign of the Cross, touching your beautiful skin with your fingertips. Contentment marked your face, and he felt it in your soul. It was only a feeling he had when he listened to your voice pray and sing with such grace and beauty. In your dainty hands, you held the rosary beads and began to say your prayer. Holding the first bead between your fingers, you whispered Our Father to yourself. Day after day you’d repeat the same prayers with equal passion. Your love and faithfulness to the one who gave you life was unmatchable. You had sacrificed much to serve him, cutting off your family and material possessions entirely to live a humble life in the convent. Your prayers never revolved around your desires, only for others. You often prayed for your sisters. Never for yourself. Anakin often wondered if you had any dreams of your own at all. Despite all his abilities, he could not hear your thoughts. He only heard what you said aloud to yourself.

As you worked with your hands in the garden, you often sang psalms of praise when you thought no one was around to listen. You sang softly, the most beautiful melody which would stain his thoughts day and night forever. He would hear you even when you were silent; the barriers of all the heavenly realms echoed with your voice, to his ears never ceasing. But perhaps, it’s only because he desired you so.

His obsession was different than that of men. Though not immune to your divine beauty, his craving for your touch transcended that of sexual pleasure. Sex is something created for humans to enjoy with other humans. His being was never made for intercourse with mankind, and he viewed it as a simple animalistic action. A way to express desire, but to him it was lacking in true passion.

What he felt for you was true desire.

He wanted to consume you.

Corrupt you.

He wanted you to desire him, crave him, lust over him, with every atom of your body and with every piece of your soul. He wanted to see you overturn your religious convictions and worship him instead. He wanted your prayers, your psalms, your whole heart.

Was that too much to ask?

Forbidden was what it was. Sacrilegious even. And enough to get him cast out of the heavenly realms forever.

But the longer he wished for you, the more he thought that it might be worth it. There was nothing he wanted more than you. And only you. He wanted to live out the rest of eternity adored by you. That would be enough.

But you were unaware of his existence. Which awakened rage within him strong enough to tear galaxies apart.

He could see you, but as long as he remained in his dimension, you would never be able to see him or know that he existed. He was forbidden to show you his glory, to share his voice, and to touch your skin. It was never meant to be.

And yet he still found a way to make contact, against all heavenly odds.

You were plucking red apples from the orchard trees close to the road. It wasn’t a common route from the convent to the market, but some used it. Anakin had finally caught a break from the council meetings with the Thrones and Cherubim and sneaked away to see you. He hated that your sisters sent you out alone where you could be harmed.

Your five guardians flitted around you in a circle. He knew that they would do almost everything in their power to keep you safe. Everything except actually physically intervening. For you, there would be no limits in how far Anakin would go to protect you. He would break every earthly and heavenly law.

For you.

And only you.

When you had filled your basket with apples, you climbed down the ladder to rest. You leaned back against the tree and looked up at the sky. If you had eyes to see the other dimensions, you would have been looking right into his eyes. His heart swelled with pride, knowing that you shared a connection, even if you didn’t know it yet.

An older human male was steering a small buggy pulled by two horses. Anakin had been watching him for miles coming down the road. Your guardian angels seemed to be unconcerned about his approach. And they could hear the thoughts of humans, which meant that you were likely safe.

But there was something about that man Anakin didn’t like. Perhaps it was only his proximity to you. He was jealous of anything that was closer to you than he.

You sang to yourself softly, and Anakin drew as near as he were permitted just to listen to your voice.

“You have a lovely voice,” the man said to you. He had gotten off his buggy and walked over the road and a stretch of grass to meet you at the tree.

Anakin held himself back somehow, though if he saw fit, he could scorch the man from the inside out until he returned to dust.

You looked up at this stranger standing over you, and instantly, your eyes widened in fear. Anakin assumed it had been a long time since you’d spoken to a man. It was natural for you to be afraid. You thought you were all alone.

Anakin only watched the interaction transpire.

“Thank you,” you said back, your voice trembling.

“Would you sing a song for me?” the man asked.

“I think… that you should leave. This is private land, sir.”

A sane person would have backed away and said his goodbyes, but he didn’t. And Anakin knew instantly that he should have trusted himself to know this man’s intentions for you. This despicable creature kicked the basket from your lap and grabbed you, holding you by the throat against the tree trunk.

Your guardian angels had failed you. All five of them. Were they not paying attention to his evil thoughts? How had they missed them? They held the power to influence the thoughts of men. They could have convinced him to turn away and leave you alone.

But they didn’t.

They were going to let this man defile you.

Anakin watched them scrambling around, trying when it’s too late to change this man’s heart. But they could do nothing to interfere with free will once man had decided.

And Anakin thought that to be a stupid law. One meant to be broken.

With a singular motion of his index finger, Anakin sent lightning from the clouds, lightning that struck this man and stopped his heart. He was burned and scarred instantly and fell back, turning to ash.

You screeched and cried and sobbed, crumbling to your knees in a shaking mess. He wished he could comfort you, but he had already done enough to ruin himself entirely. But it was worth it to keep you safe. This was as close to you as he had ever gotten. The electricity from his lightning bolt just buzzed your skin. And he felt it. He wanted you to feel him in some way.

Your guardians looked up at him all at once with fire in their eyes. Anakin smiled and gave them a wave. They were angry and picked him up. He could not overpower them when they were together.

They carried him to the high council and dropped him in the center of the chamber. Anakin did not need to explain himself; they already knew what had transpired.

“Need we remind you of the law of free will? The law given to humans by our Creator?” the Throne of Reason, Mace, said. His eyes were full of judgment and understanding at the same time.

Anakin picked himself up and stood, stretching out his layers of feathered wings. “I could not stand by and watch her be harmed.”

Mace closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. “You are in dangerous territory, young one. You know that what you did is one of the greatest of sins. To interfere with man’s will—” Mace pressed his lips together, “in such a physical way. Using the Heavens’ power against mankind. Anakin, you killed a man today.”

This was all such a waste of time. He knew what they were going to say. How they would interpret his actions. But why was no one speaking of that human’s sin. Rape. Raping a young maiden. That wasn’t worthy of a discussion? It wasn’t worthy of being mentioned?

“What about him?” Anakin asked defiantly.

Obi-Wan shot him a warning glare from where he sat. Obi-Wan was a cherub, one that was usually too busy attending to the wishes of the Creator to attend the high council. But Anakin did not doubt that his friend’s presence was needed today.

“The human?” Mace did not appreciate the diversion from Anakin’s sin.

“Yes. He was going to hurt her! And they—” Anakin pointed at your guardian angels, his entire being catching fire from his rage, “they weren’t going to intervene in any real way. They failed to listen. If I could hear the thoughts of men, I would have done something before he laid a hand on her.”

“Your obsession with this human is… concerning. Don’t think we haven’t noticed. Why are your thoughts on the Earth realms? Need I remind you that your duties are the greatest in all of Heaven?” Mace said.

“But they could have done something!”

Disapprovingly, Mace shook his head. “You can’t know that. Only the Creator does. And it is not your place nor mine to judge men. That is for the Principalities to determine. They enact rightful punishment on humanity. You are not to interfere.”

Obi-Wan spoke up, coming to Anakin’s defense. “He is young. Neither you nor I can say that we haven’t made mistakes.”

“It wasn’t just a mistake. He broke the law. He overstepped his boundaries. He killed a man.”

“In his eyes, he was protecting her.”

Mace sighed. “She does not need him for that.”

Anakin stood there for a long time, drowning in their criticisms. His chest felt heavy, and he couldn’t hear himself think. He couldn’t hear you. All that he could do was worry for you. He knew the human mind could not erase trauma. It would remain with them for good. Tears streamed down his face at the thought of your pain which you did not deserve.

“I don’t need to listen to any of you! You have no authority over me!” Anakin announced without shame. Seraphim were of the highest order.

“I was not the one who called this meeting,” Mace said sympathetically. He looked above.

There was only one who held authority over him.

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[oddyseye]

I agree with your position on Calypso being childlike in Epic is detrimental to male victims of sexual assault, but it *is* within Homer's original work that the suitors had malicious thoughts about Penelope in a similar way. He didn't focus on it so explicitly like Jorge is going to do in Epic, but there are several times when Penelope mentions how much of a threat they are to 'us', and an additional moment where the suitors *do* deliberately express desire to have sex with her, and wait until she has left the room to speak in such a manner. From Wilson's translation:

She [Penelope] went back to her room, and took her son's uneasy words to heart. She went upstairs, along with both her slaves, and wept there for her dear Odysseus, until Athena gave her eyes sweet sleep.

Throughout the shadowy hall the suitors clamored, praying to lie beside her in her bed. Telemachus inhaled, then started speaking.

"You suitors, you are taking this too far. Let us enjoy the feast in peace. It is a lovely thing to listen to a bard, especially with one with such a godlike voice."

From Fagles' translation:

Astonished, she withdrew to her own room. She took to heart the clear good sense in what her son had said. Climbing up the loft chamber with her women, she fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.

But the suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls, all of them lifting prayers to lie beside her, share her bed, until discreet Telemachus took command: "You suitors who plague my mother, you, you insolent, overweening... for this evening let us dine and take our pleasure, no more shouting now. What a fine thing it is to listen to such a bard as we have here --- the man sings like a god."

I do wish that Jorge had left in that aspect of Odysseus' time trapped with Calypso intact, as well as his time with Circe. The musical suffers without it because this then does seem to be like a sensationalism thing. Anyway, I have enjoyed reading your breakdowns so far! I hope to see more with the next saga coming out in a few days. Wishing you all the best.

Okay, first off, thank you for being respectful, unlike half the brain-dead trolls who can’t read. I appreciate that you came with receipts, and you know what? That’s rare around these streets, so kudos for that. Seriously. You clearly care about the material, and that deserves respect. But now, let me roll up my sleeves because I do have some things to say.

Here’s Wilson’s translation again, from the same scene you mentioned:

“The suitors made a din throughout the shadowy halls, each man praying to lie beside her in her bed.”

Praying. Highlight it. Circle it in red. These losers were not planning anything; they were fantasizing. Not plotting, not scheming, not planning some coordinated assault. Praying. These morons are fantasizing about her like horny teenagers, not predators with an actual plan. Because that is what they are. Youth.

Even Fagles, who’s more dramatic in his language, sticks to the same tone:

“The suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls, all of them lifting prayers to lie beside her, share her bed…”

Lifting prayers. Again, they’re fantasizing, not attacking. These guys are scum, but they’re not warriors. They’re lazy, spineless leeches who drink Odysseus’ wine and stuff their faces with his food while posturing like kings.

The original line goes as follows:

"οἱ δ᾽ εὐχόμενοι πάντες ἐπ᾽ ἀλλήλοισι λέγοντο κοιμηθεῖν."

Translated literally, it says:

“And they, all praying, said among themselves to lie with her.”

Let’s focus on εὐχόμενοι (euchomenoi), the main verb here. It’s crucial because it doesn’t mean “plotting” or “planning.” It means praying, wishing, or hoping — a nonviolent, internal desire directed toward the gods. These guys weren’t conspiring to assault Penelope. They were sitting around fantasizing and asking divine forces to grant them her love (or, more likely, her submission).

Now, let’s look at κοιμηθεῖν (koimethein), which translates to “to sleep”. It is...not even sexual. It is literally a normal verb, “to sleep.” Homer had plenty of vocabulary to describe acts of physical aggression if that’s what he wanted to imply. Words like βιάζω (biazō, meaning “to force”) or ἁρπάζω (harpazō, meaning “to seize”) are all over the Iliad and Odyssey. If the suitors were intending rape, Homer would’ve used more explicit language. He didn’t. Let me contrast this with an actual moment in the Odyssey where sexual violence is implied, when he recalls his time on the island of Calypso:

“ἔνθα μὲν ἀμφ᾽ ἀνάγκῃ, τῇ δὲ θεὰ ἐρῶσά μιν ἔσχε.” (“There he stayed out of necessity, for the goddess, in her love, held him there.”)

Notice the two parts here. Odysseus stayed out of necessity, not because he wanted to. And why was he there? Because Calypso held him. That’s not love. That’s entrapment. Homer makes it clear that Odysseus had no agency in this situation — he was kept there against his will.

Homer uses the same word when Odysseus describes his time with Circe:

“ἀλλ᾽ ἔμεν᾽ ἐν σπέσσι λαῶν ἀνάγκῃ.” (“But I stayed in her halls by necessity.”)

The word ἀνάγκῃ is usually translated to “necessity,” but its meaning runs so much deeper. It implies force, constraint, distress, even violence. This isn’t a neutral word, and it sure as hell isn’t romantic.

When the gods finally intervene in the situation with Calypso, Hermes doesn’t mince words:

“ἀλλ᾽ ἤτοι δὴ νῦν οὔ τοι θέμις ἐστὶν ἄνακτα θνητὸν ἀνδρῶν ἐρύκειν.” (“It is not lawful for you to keep a mortal man here.”)

The gods themselves have to tell Calypso to let him go because she won’t do it willingly. That’s not the behavior of a tragic lover — it’s the behavior of someone who refuses to relinquish control.

Even when she finally agrees to release Odysseus, she doesn’t make it easy for him. She says:

“καὶ τὸν ἔασα πονεύμενον οἴκαδε νοστῆσαι.” (“I will allow him, suffering, to return home.”)

Notice that word — πονεύμενον (poneumenon), meaning “suffering” or “toiling.” She’s not helping him. She’s forcing him to work for his freedom, as if she’s making him earn the right to escape. And what does she give him to leave? Not a ship, not safe passage — she hands him an axe and tells him to build his own raft. But anyway, back to the topic at hand. They suitors, yes, they are lusting after Penelope, but there’s no plan of attack here. They’re scum, but they’re cowardly scum. They want Penelope to hand herself over to them, not because they’re forcing her physically, but because they think they can break her spirit. The whole point of the suitors is that they’re lecherous freeloaders who don’t actually have the guts to do anything.

And let’s talk about context. Penelope is a queen. She’s surrounded by her maids, she has her son in the house, and she’s got the weight of Odysseus’ legacy protecting her. The suitors know they can’t just drag her off to a bedroom without consequences. They’re playing a long game of manipulation and coercion, trying to wear her down until she chooses one of them. That’s why they’re so frustrated by her weaving trick — because she’s outsmarting them at their own game.

If Homer had wanted to imply a real physical threat, he would’ve. This is the same guy who wrote gory, brutal battle scenes and didn’t shy away from dark topics. He wasn’t subtle. If the suitors were planning to physically assault Penelope, we would know. Instead, what we get is a bunch of entitled men sitting around, praying to get lucky.

Now, does this mean the suitors aren’t a threat? Of course not. Their presence is invasive, degrading, and psychologically abusive. Penelope has to endure their constant disrespect and their lewd comments, and that’s horrifying in its own way. But we have to call it what it is: harassment and coercion, not rape.

And I know some people will argue that it’s “just a retelling” and that Jorge has the right to make changes. Sure, he does. But if you’re going to adapt one of the most iconic texts in Western literature, you have a responsibility to understand what you’re working with. You can’t just slap modern trauma narratives onto these characters without considering the implications.

So yeah, I disagree with you. The suitors weren’t planning to rape Penelope. That’s not what Homer wrote, and it’s not what the story is about. The fact that so many people jump to that conclusion says more about our culture than it does about the text.

That said, I do appreciate your thoughtfulness and your willingness to engage in this discussion. It’s rare to see someone actually care about the nuances of the Odyssey, even if we don’t agree. Thanks for that.