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willowed-wisp · 2 months

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THE WAYWARD AND THE WARDEN - part one

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Cregan Stark x female!OC/ x reader

WARNINGS: swearing, injury, threat… not too bad really

She was just a girl. Eighteen years of age.

A fresh university student on her Christmas holidays- venturing up to Scotland to be with her aunt and uncle.

Philippa had nothing. Parents gone…

At least the remaining family she had were kind, no children of their own to dote on.

She had living in Scotland for those past four years- venturing down south for her education - so she knew her way around.

Driving, “Just another left and then a right,” but the snow made it difficult to navigate; caught in a rife blizzard. One minute she was listening to rock music in her small Mini Cooper. Then the front bonnet was wrapped around tree bark. Philippa unaware as her skull bumped back against the seat’s head; she was dead to the world.

Not able to help a groan leave her lips, thrumming pounded against her temple. Philippa unable to feel the rest of her. Her lower half powdered with fresh fallen snow.

Where was her car? She had been wearing a seatbelt… why was she waist deep in the snow?

Philippa’s gaze burned by the iced haze, whatever she bored her eyes on happened to be a wasteland of frost. That wasn’t the same spot…

When she thought nothing of her body could be felt, fearing paralysis, a crackle of kindling spread her thigh. “Fuck…” looking down she found a bare leg, and a bare stomach… naked chest. And quite a splash of blood from where her fingers met her forehead.

But there was nothing except trenches of tundra for miles… “I’m gonna die here,” no she wasn’t, death would have to drag her by the ankles…

Despite the numbed ache waking throughout her skin, she laboured; dragging through knee deep snowfall and more piled up.

She could no longer feel that sting, unaware to the frostbite reigning of her flesh. “I’m not fucking dying here…” Toes numbed yet scorched. She had almost ignored the wall of ice up ahead, but it was the last thing she saw before a void of black.

It was warm?

Had she died?

Philippa felt at peace, crackling of a log fire to her left without the bitterness of the outdoors.

Fingertips wandered across soft fur while her eyes opened- wishful thinking came to an immediate shatter. A circlet chandelier, candlelit, above her with pure stone casting shadows above itself.

Similar to a castle- auntie Carol and Uncle Gyles made frequent day trips to visit historical monuments around the United Kingdom; her parents had shared that same interest, so she was well versed in the differences of Carlisle to Windsor.

She was in neither.

The girl sat up, covers gathered around her hips. She took in the room- plain yet plentiful. She found herself in a massive bed, standing candelabras casting light amongst the darkness of night. The fire place roaring prevented her from being frozen.

Snow dripped in flurries the other side of the windows.

Heaven nor Hell looked like that.

Where the fuck was she?

Eyes cast down into the folded pile of clothes, thick layers.

She wasn’t being tortured, it seemed she was a guest.

Philippa had been dressed in a simple white cloth gown. Alike the clothes placed down for her, they looked… medieval; lace-up dress and a thick cape which pooled on the ground.

Twas not an easy feat lacing the dress in lonesome, and she was pretty damned sure she had made a sham of it.

But she needed to get out of the room. No matter how calm she appeared on the surface, beneath she suffocated.

Along Philippa’s way down the intricate halls, barren stone. She bumped into a wide-shouldered, broad obstacle, “I’m sorry,” polite yet dismissive, she just needed to get some kind of sense.

She continued down the corridor. Lit by torched-sconces that flickered, while wind whipped behind her speeding paces.

‘Did that guy wear a wolf pelt?’ Shaking the thought to the wayside- not looking back.

It was a castle.

Not the largest she’s visited but that didn’t take away from the stone complex- mostly obscured by freezing mist.

Arms wrapped around herself, it felt like Scotland although it certainly was not. “Where am I?” She asked the neck-snapping breeze.

“The North,” A rough, rich voice boomed from the door behind. It was confident and foreboding- Philippa quivered in secrecy.

Ominous. “Of course I’m in the north, could you be more specific? Because it’s fucking chilly,” A hint of sarcasm and a sprinkle of jesting, wholly serious. Meanwhile her eyes focused on the silhouettes forward.

“You’re in Winterfell,” still as rough as steel.

That atmosphere was too heavy, “Is that near Glasgow? Because I need to be in Edinburgh…” Silence followed.

He didn’t seemed awfully amused.

Heaving steps- clanking of metal in sync. A charcoal section of fur had been the first thing in her peripheral.

That wolf pelt.

“I said I was sorry,” a squeaky to the man- almost a foot taller. And she wasn’t even short. Philippa couldn’t help but admire handsome features, made harsh and rugged by the murky light. That presence was unshakeable… a mountain of a man.

His eyes looked brown- though she could be mistaken. “Why were you over the Wall?” Philippa feared in utter bemusement. She’d never experienced that combination before.

“What-,” one movement made her flinch. But the one hand grappling her wrist, dragged her close to him- her chin raised staring into that icy gaze.

Teeth gritted while he spoke, “Why were you over the Wall?” Eyes made her cower.

Pleading with wide-eyes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man let her go but that closeness remained.

“You sound like a southerner… what’s your name?” Brows crossed and lips scowling. Maybe that was just him.

“Philippa.” He circled her slowly- studying her.

He stopped in front of her again, catching her in his gaze, “And what is it that you do, Philippa?”

She tried to put it into basic terms, “I’m a healer, i think you do things differently.”

He still frowned, “Maester Samm will hone your craft,” she simply nodded- shaking whether it be from the cold or the nerves. “Those chambers you woke in are yours, we’ve been in need of a healer for a while now.” Without a second word he brooded off.

Nobody would understand her predicament- if this ‘Winterfell’ was anything like the history she knew she’d be burnt at the stake as a witch. And being a healer wouldn’t aid her, but she was a quick learner and knew holistic approaches.

Philippa just needed an education on the herbs and flowers they had because if medicine was anything like the medieval age… she needed to know what was potent and what was outright deadly.

And so she went back to her room. Twiddling her thumbs until the morning.

A knock at the door, “come in.” Like a mouse but the person heard and the door creaked open. A long mop of black- gorgeously glossy.

Smile on her face, “I’m Melaine, and you must Philippa. You’re training with Maester Samn,” an accent similar to those of her aunt and uncle.

“I’m afraid I didn’t get much information about that…”

A laugh. “Lord Cregan doesn’t mince his words, never has, even when he was a wee ankle-biter,” free speaking like a Scotsman. “He’s a good man, but the North shapes a lad even if they are eight-and-ten,” the woman was much older than Philippa, probably in her forties which meant she had been in service more than two decades maybe three.

“He looks older,”

“It shapes them to have rough edges, lass,” the sky was clear- and though snow had settled none descended upon them. And so she could take in the massive gates; one in front and one to her right. “It’ll change you soon enough. Get rid of that politeness, make you more bold…”

A quizzical look from the teenager, “I doubt that. My parents, even as a child, called me a stubborn mule.”

“We’ll see about that as a healer in Winterfell… lads here draw swords like us maids light matchsticks…”

Melaine reminded Philippa of her auntie Carol- comforting and a safety blanket while Cregan Stark was something she wanted to hide from but she had a feeling they’d have a few run ins with each other whether that be locking heads or weaving stitches.

——————————

If you wanna be tagged leave a comment or message me! x

Hope that wasn’t too awful, I’m getting into the groove of writing again.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd fic #hotd spoilers #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd s2 #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #hotd cregan #cregan x oc

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safety-writes-noms · 3 months

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Did someone say continuing hyper fixation with Spider-Verse?

You just like me fr. :')

Haha, anyway, here's a thought - do you think borrowers exist in 2099?

How would you imagine an encounter between Miguel and a borrower would go, either in his apartment or in his lab? Perhaps he's tired after a long day at Spider Society and just noms the borrower without asking questions - he'll interrogate them in the morning (maybe he'll feel bad once he wakes up and they're a terrified mess trembling in his gut).

~We love a bit of fearplay followed by comforting reassurance. :D ~

18+ ACCOUNTS AND MDNI PLEASE DNI!! I AM A MINOR!! yesyesyesyes omg imagine being a borrower in 2099

(I didn’t mean to write a whole little fic thing Jesus)

i don't think he's really at his apartment all that often (I'm going off of his original comics leading to atsv) since he's constantly trying to keep the multiverse together so to a desperate borrower, it must be a relief to find a seemingly deserted apartment with electricity and all working components.

and it's massive!! there are a bunch of nooks and crannies that any borrower could just make a nice little home in and it's so easy to get food from the seemingly endless supplies of care packages from some guy named Gabriel (who tf is that?) it seems like a heaven for a weary borrower who's braved giant cannibalistic flying men and flyboys who seem to enjoy stomping out your kind cruelly.

of course there's always a catch. you're sitting on the table when the lights suddenly turn on and a low voice rasps, "Lyla. Lights on, 25% brightness."

A massive figure stumbles through the window in the bathroom. Now, humans and other kind are usually large but this person? absolutely massive. they have to at least tower over any normal human. you freeze in place, blood turning to lead in your veins. Oh gods. You're exposed, terribly exposed. there's no way to get down from the table quickly unless you want to shatter all the bones in your legs.

The person -- seemingly male, blinks at you tiredly. shadows stretch deep beneath his eyes and he's in a sort of suit, a blue-ish black, embellished with angry red that leers at you in the form of a skull. you've seen it before in the snippets of newspaper you've scrounged up from the trash and the glimpses from the holospheres around the city low to the ground. Spiderman, reborn. Spiderman, back from the dead, futuristic and without qualms of killing unlike his predecessor.

Oh no. you've made a home for yourself in Spiderman's apartment. or worse, a Spiderite. But going off of how high-tech that suit is and how accurate it is, this guy is either the genuine article or a very devoted Spiderite. either way, you're doomed.

The man just stares at you for a moment, dropping off his bag and crawling in from the bathroom window he opened from the outside. definitely the real thing. He sighs and trudges over with an exhausted glare. oh, he looks pissed. super pissed.

you tryto escape, you really do, diving off the side of the coffee table with a split second thought. unfortunately, your home invasion victim also seems incredibly fast and a massive palm curls around your body before you hit the hard ground. it knocks the breath out of you entirely and you open your mouth soundlessly, too shocked and terrified out your mind to plead for mercy, to beg, to cry, to do anything.

it all happens so quickly. one moment you're being held in a warm palm, the next second you're confronted by a fang filled maw, sharp canines on full display as you're unceremoniously stuffed inside.

this time you find it in you to actually scream, fat load of good it does you. the massive tongue (oh gods, oh gods, you're in a mouth) curls around your body, soaking you in saliva, turning you over, squishing you in the fleshy side of a cheek. You're getting kinda dizzy and any protests to this confusingly gentle treatment are silenced pretty efficiently. While you're glad you're not being crushed to a broken mess by those horrifying teeth, you're still so, so scared.

Then everything pauses and you breathe, laying on the warm ground. you know ifs not actually ground, but if you dwell on this any more you're gonna give yourself a panic attack. then everything shifts and you're sliding downwards to your horror. please, you find yourself praying, don't let me die like this. Oh, whatever up there, whatever exists. don't let me die like this.

and on par with your usual luck, whatever up there just cackles in your face and you manage a small, hiccuping cry as you're squeezed down a tight, undulating tube. it's awfully warm and slick and with a loud gllk, you're sealed away. you squeeze your eyes shut and pretend that the warmth sliding down your face is just saliva and not tears.

It might take forever. It might take a second. You retreat into the foggy recession of your mind for a little bit until you register sliding somewhere more spacious. This is when it really sets in. You’re stuck. You’re going to die. In this soft, cushy place thrumming with warmth and gentle tightening squeezes, all you can think about is the fact that you are somewhere inside another person, you’re stuck, and there’s no getting out.

Hopelessness swamps over you immediately and you tuck yourself into whatever corner you can find in this ever shifting, curling, living space. You don’t want to think about the fact that you’re in a stomach. Or anywhere really. You can’t do anything. Maybe, if you close your eyes, it’ll be over soon. Faintly, you register the fact that you’re shaking like a leaf. Trembling.

but all you can feel is utter despair. Is it too much to ask for a home? Are you simply not born for happiness? It seems your luck has run out. Too bad there won’t be a next time to try again.

—

Okay. Maybe Lady Luck hasn’t forsaken you entirely, yet. You wake up (miraculously!) and though you find yourself still inside your captor’s stomach, you’re in one piece. It’s a slow, screeching, clawing way to full wakefulness because you feel so sleepy — something that’s immediately shattered to pieces once you hear a low, grumbly voice of the giant that’s sentenced you to a slow, painful death.

“You awake?” The walls around you contract a little as he seemingly pats his stomach lightly. You’re too petrified (and furious) to respond. Awake? What is this human playing at? Oh gods. You desperately pray that this one isn’t hoping to play around with you before killing you. “Come on, I can feel you moving in there.”

moving? More like shaking. But you don’t see a point to keeping silent much longer since he already knows you’re not asleep.

“What more do you want from me?!” You yell, and your words crack in the middle, splintering into stifled sobs. Maybe you lied, before. Warm wetness spills down your cheeks and you wipe away your tears with a soaked sleeve, sniffling pathetically. You think it’s warranted, at this point. There’s no one to make fun of you now (except the giant.) “Isn’t it bad enough that you’re gonna kill me slowly? Painfully?”

the reminder of it all just creates more fresh tears. This isn’t fair. All you wanted was a home. Somewhere that was safe. You suck in a breath through your teeth, burying your face in your knees. It does no good. You can still feel the muscles of the stomach beneath your feet.

There’s a thick silence for a moment, broken only by your stuttering cries.

“Shocking hell. I’m not — I’m not gonna kill you. I’m not gonna hurt you.” This time, the human sounds distinctly guilty. “God. No, no no. Shit.” He groans, and you sniffle. He should feel bad, you think viciously. Then your brain catches up with the rest of what he actually said, and then blue screens.

“What do you mean you’re not gonna kill me? You ate me!” You shriek, almost hysterical. The human sucks in a breath through his teeth, just barely audible from the gurgling ambiance and beat of his heart, somewhere inside the body.

“I… did do that, yeah,” he agrees slowly. “But you’re safe. I swear it. Look, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you’re not gonna be hurt in any way, shape or form. My body is uh, weird like that.” The walls around you squeeze comfortingly, almost like a hug. To your immense dislike and surprise, it makes you feel just the slightest bit better. Gods.

“Then — why did you eat me in the first place?” You hiccup and the man sighs.

“I was. Tired.” He admits bitterly like he’s disappointed in himself for that. “I can fully own up on this — I really wasn’t thinking. I’ve got these instincts and — shock, these sound like excuses. What I’m trying to say is, it was a mistake on my part and I’m sorry. You’re safe. I’m just wondering what you were doing in my house..”

You don’t know what to make of his explanation so you just decide to keep it going. If he’s telling the truth, then you will personally make a shrine to Spider-Man like a full on Spiderite. Maybe.

“I was — I needed a place to live. My old one was demolished by some flyboys. I’m — im sorry. I didn’t know this place wasn’t abandoned. I just — I just wanted a place to call home.” You’re crying now, for real. You’re not ashamed to admit it.

The man sighs again.

“Shh. S’okay. You’re fine. You’re going to be okay. I’m gonna let you out in a bit, alright? I was wondering why Lyla kept tripping the sensor for mice… guess I got my answer.” He mutters that last part to himself and you blink at his rueful tone. This human is achingly gentle, or at least, from what you can tell. You’re hoping against hope he’s telling the truth… but he tried to comfort you. And to your disdain and slowed tears, it actually works. Damn him and his dumb deep grumbly voice. It vibrates through his body lightly, but you can feel it. “Don’t cry, I got you. We can talk more once you’re out, okay? My name’s Miguel. You’re okay.”

and because you’re that dumb, and that hopeful, you believe him. After all, Spider-Man has historically been for the people.

#sw answers asks #safe vore #soft vore #extreme cuddling #sfw vore #safe v/ore #vore talk #tw vore #nonfetish vore #nonsexual vore #s: spidervores #spidervore #spidervores #Sw fic

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her-satanic-wiles · 3 months

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Dawn Chorus - III

Dracopia x Fallen Angel!Reader

When you question the Almighty for a third time, you find yourself on the run and escaping a horde of wrathful angels ready to punish you for your insolence. Whose garden should you fall into than Cardinal Copia’s? And he has more nefarious plans for you.

Masterlist ⛧ Commissioned by anonymous ⛧ Series Masterlist

Words: 6.8k.

Reading Time: 27min.

Warnings: asshole!Copia, blood extraction,drunk!Copia, mild sexual harassment?? (there’s nothing inherently sexual about what he’s doing, but it is uncomfortable and I wanted to tag it just to be safe), non-consensual rituals,restrained with ropes, rituals, soul modification, tied with ropes, use of needles

Taglist: @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @akayuki56 @dopey-fandom-girl @ravensbars @copiaspet622 @onlyhereforghost @ultrahalloweengirl @ad-astra-per-aspera-1976 @antoniamarie1989

🔞 MDNI 🔞

As this fic is quite dark, I'm choosing to rate it 21+. Please respect my decision. Thank you.

The echoing of a choir sung eerily in your mind, the song slow and sombre as the melody continued. The same tune, verse by verse, sticking to your brain like glue; the lyrics haunting your waking moments. In an ironic turn of events, despite all your doubts and building hatred for the Great Creator, you found a morbid comfort in the songs the morals sung in gratitude, praising Him for their life however it looked, grateful for His grace. In your time watching the world go by, in the silence of your solitude and between visits from the creature that saw you as livestock and nothing more, those voices rang out to you, the lyrics tumbling from your lips and you found yourself joining the chorus.

“Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me,

Still all my song shall be,

Nearer, my God, to thee;

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!”

The mortal desire to walk amongst Him both on this plane and in Heaven. It made you want to laugh. It was your wish to do the same thing, hold an audience with Him, breathe the air He created as He exhaled it. And look where it got you: locked in a cage, holy light dimming, and blood drained twice a week for your troubles by a being that took pleasure in your discomfort if it meant a night of intoxication for him. Your resolve was still strong, you still were sure that you’d escape, yet you sat atop a mountain of failed plans and played a waiting game before you could try something new.

“Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

Yet in my dreams I’d be

Nearer, my God, to thee;

Nearer, my God, to thee, nearer to thee!”

There was nothing darker than the shadow of Satan, the fallen angel who despised the Lord so much, he actively worked to depose Him. Perhaps it was the nature of the building you were trapped in, the unholy scriptures you’d hear during Monday’s service, or the attitude of the Sister and the Cardinal, but you’d commit unforgivable sins if you were to hide the fact that you’d thought a great deal on the subject while trapped in this gilded cage. Was Lucifer right in his actions? Was he truly onto something? Did he know something about the Almighty the rest of you had been programmed to look passed and not notice?

You remembered hearing stories about Lucifer’s departure from Heaven when you were new to that life. Unlike your superiors, you weren’t old enough to have been there in person to witness the events unfolding. Thus, you were forced to rely on retellings from the angels who were brave enough to talk about it. Brave or stupid, given Lucifer’s story was forbidden to discuss.

Lucifer was once one of the most glorious and powerful angels in Heaven. He was created by God as a radiant and magnificent being, endowed with great beauty, wisdom, and authority.

However, Lucifer’s unparalleled beauty and lofty position led to pride and ambition within him. He began to desire to ascend even higher, seeking to exalt himself above God and to become equal to or greater than the Almighty. This prideful ambition grew into rebellion, as Lucifer sought to challenge the authority of God and establish his own dominion.

In his arrogance, Lucifer rallied a faction of angels to his cause, persuading them to join him in his rebellion against God’s rule. Together, they launched a revolt in Heaven, seeking to overthrow the divine order and seize control of the celestial realms.

But their rebellion was swiftly and decisively crushed by the forces of God’s loyal angels, led by the archangel Michael. In a great battle, Lucifer and his followers were defeated and cast out of Heaven, their rebellion crushed and their ambitions shattered.

As punishment for his pride and rebellion, Lucifer was cast down from Heaven and condemned to eternal damnation. He became known as Satan, the adversary, and was banished to the depths of Hell, where he would reign as the ruler of darkness and the chief antagonist to God and humanity.

The stories you were always taught showed Lucifer in a negative light, so power-hungry and greedy, convinced he could overthrow Him and rule in His stead. Now, after experiencing the wrath of Heaven, and God’s heedlessness towards both you and the mortals He created, you wondered if Lucifer was really greedy, or if he was informed of the Almighty’s incompetence and wanted to do more.

“There let the way appear, steps unto Heaven;

All that thou sendest me, in mercy given;

Angels to beckon me

Nearer, my Go -”

“Would you knock it off?”

The sound of the Cardinal’s voice had you turning around in a quick snap, looking at the doorway of his room. His voice was slurred but clear enough that you could understand him perfectly. “You’re too fucking loud.” His make up was running in places from the sweat and the evening’s activities, and you could see the dawn peeking through the gaps in the curtains.

“I shan’t,” you shouted back, a glee in your voice that shouldn’t be there. The longer you kept him awake and poked at him, the easier it would be to get him to open the door and then pass out - allowing you to escape.

“Disobey me and see what happens to you.”

“Thou wilt take no action,” you chided with confidence.

“‘Thou wilt’,” he repeated, “Why do you talk like that?” He asked, staggering over to the cage. He cackled, the cackle that mortals do when they’re heavily inebriated. “It’s funny.”

“Thus do we angels converse in Heaven, when in the company of the Almighty and His warriors.” You murmured, your voice soft and reverent.

The Cardinal hissed at the mention of God. “Fuck him. And fuck you, too!” He smacked the side of the cage and chuckled. “I don’t-” he burped. “Why were you singing? Just now… only happy people sing.”

You stared at him in confusion, you’d seen drunk mortals before, but your blood had turned this guy into the biggest idiot you’d ever seen. “I have naught else to occupy my time. Even caged birds sing; perchance ‘tis what mortals dub as ‘yearning’.”

“Yearn quieter then.”

“I shall yearn as loudly as I so desire.”

“Not while I’m in the room, you won’t.”

“Then, with my waking thoughts -”

“No.”

“bright with thy praise -”

“You can’t even sing.”

“Out of my stony griefs -”

“I said, shut up!” he roared, demanding your silence. You obeyed this time, given his fist collided with the cage and dented the side. “I never asked for dinner and a show.” He laughed at himself a little, until what he said sank in and he bent over, laughing harder. Once he’d composed himself, he stood straight and wiped the tears from his eyes. “If you’re gonna sing - at least sing something good.”

He walked over to a square box in the corner and picked up another square thing. This time it was red. You stared at it with your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of it. A black and red, circular object came out of the sleeve, and he placed it inside the square box. After a little maneuvering, sound began to pour from the box and into the room.

It was a droning sound, resembling wind whipping through a forest in the dead of night, designed to strike fear into the hearts of anyone listening. You shivered, your body growing cold at the sensation - the fear of being chased seeming to be too much for you to even think about let alone experience. Then, suddenly, a voice rang out.

“Ring-a-ring of roses,

A pocket full of posies,

Atishoo! Atishoo!

We all fall down.

Ashes on the water,

Ashes in the sea,

Ashes on the riverside,

One, two, three!”

The melody was interrupted by what you assumed to be a guitar, the sudden sound of which made you jump in fright. You’d heard about mortals and their modern proclivities with music - and how they’d made all kinds of sounds with the Almighty’s instruments. You’d never heard this before, used only to the sounds of orchestral beauty and choir singers in their various Houses of God.

“The guy who wrote this,” the Cardinal began, enthusiastically pointing to the music maker and shouting over the loud sounds, “has two little semen demons. They sang that. Genius!”

The music changed into a second song, a more upbeat tempo but still with a heavy sound. A different voice sang that time, definitely a grown man.

“In times of turmoil

In times like these

Beliefs contagious

Spreading disease

This wretched mischief -”

“The bard’s voice resemblances thine!” You shouted back to him.

The Cardinal shook his head. “What!?”

You made your voice louder. “I said: The singer doth resemble thee!”

He huffed and went to turn the music down. “What?” He snapped.

“I said: The bard’s voice resemblances thine.”

“Oh,” he smiled, “it is me.”

You blinked for a second, comprehending the information that had just passed through your ears. The Cardinal made music, and he was playing it to you… while you were trapped in a cage… in his bedroom… “Dost thou not feel ashamed?” you asked him, genuine intrigue in your voice.

“Why would I feel ashamed?”

“Pride is a sin. And thou art compelling me to listen to thy music without my request. According to mortal social conventions, is this not cause for embarrassment?”

He turned the music up. “I can’t hear you! The music’s too loud!”

“I said: Pride is a sin! And thou art -” He turned the music up and gestured to his ears, silently telling you that he couldn’t hear you while he danced and sang along to his own music.

“Will suffer punishments beneath the wrath of God

Never to forgive

Them rats!”

You watched as the man continued to dance, even while the sun got brighter from behind the shades. The small amount of sunlight that trickled in wasn’t enough to hurt him, but you wished it was.

Songs ended and began again only to renew the cycle over and over until eventually, another song played that was very upbeat and the Cardinal seemed pleased by it. You saw an opportunity, “What be the title of this melody?”

“Dance Macabre.”

“Thou shouldst release me from this enclosure.”

He laughed. “You want to dance, little angel?”

You hesitated. “Aye?”

He fumbled with his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, placing the smallest one in the keyhole of your now dented cage. You heard the sound of the locks opening, and the door swinging wide to let you out. The Cardinal swayed, in part to the music, in part to his intoxication, but unlike his treatment of you thus far, he held out his hand for you to take. You stood and eyed him suspiciously, unsure if this was another trick to hurt you with. But when he shook his hand, gesturing you to take it, you obliged, feeling his leather clad hand wrap around your naked fingers and ease you out of the cage with a gentility you’d never experienced before. You took the opportunity to flap your wings, stretching them out while you could, because you didn’t know how long he’d have you out of your prison.

He pulled you away from the cage and let you go, choosing to dance instead of keeping you held to him. The door was left ajar and you looked at it once, then looked back at the Cardinal hoping that he didn’t see your glance. He didn’t.

But just as you were about to make a break for it, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over you, threatening to send you sprawling to the ground. You staggered, clutching at the nearest piece of furniture for support, your heart pounding in your chest.

The Cardinal’s laughter echoed in your ears, mocking and derisive. “Where do you think you’re going, little angel?” he slurred, his voice dripping with contempt. “You belong to me now. Did the Sister not tell you just how much Hell-metal is in here?” He pulled you to his body and forced you to dance. “Contingencies, my angel. Contingencies!”

“Thou must permit me to depart. ‘Tis not equitable.” You whined, staring at the door. You tried to push him off of you and make a second run for it - to which he just held on tightly. In the struggle, he pushed you backwards into his bed-frame and making you fall back onto it with him landing on top of you. Your wings splayed out against the black sheets, and his arms were still around your waist, clinging onto you like a koala.

“You’re mine, little angel,” he muttered into your chest where his head lay and his words muffled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You tried to push him off of you but your strength wasn’t anywhere near what it should have been, meaning that when he fell asleep on you, still clutching onto your body, you had no way to push him off, the open door staring at you, taunting you for your weaknesses.

The bed was comfortable beneath you, and you could feel yourself sinking into it. You didn’t remember the last time you felt something soft beneath your wings, feeling so warm and welcomed by the sweet embrace of plush-soft linens and a mattress that absorbed both of your weights, you could feel the ache of your bones melt away, the soreness of your muscles heal, and your eyes closed. If only for a moment, you could enjoy the bliss and the comfort that had been offered to you, even if it was an accidental, drunken moment by your captor.

“Wake up!”

You woke up to something ice cold being thrown on you, drenching your entire body in freezing cold water that stole the breath from your lungs and soaked your white robes. Your eyes snapped open immediately, and your body scrambled away from the offending wetness, crawling up the bed and making it wetter with each move you made. When you finally locked eyes on the culprit, you gulped at the sight of her. It was the Sister, flanked by three ghouls. She was handing the now empty bucket to one of them, who took it from her with a respectful bow and disappeared out the open door.

“The audacity of you to sleep in your master’s bed!” the Sister began to scold.

“He placed me herein. He was inebriated! I lacked the strength to repel him,” you protested quickly, panic in your voice.

The Sister smirked. “It didn’t take him long to fuck you did it?”

“Long for… what?” You flushed when you realised what she meant. “I can assure thee, my virtue remains unsullied.”

The Sister raised her eyebrows. “Mhmm. And I’m a pig that can fly.”

“Indeed, I had no intention of uttering aught.”

The Sister chuckled dryly, her smirk widening as she replied, “Well, if pigs could fly, perhaps they’d have a better chance of avoiding the mess you’ve found yourself in. Remember, song bird, I’m still perfectly happy in my pig pen with the muck that surrounds me. You’re the dove who’s out of place.”

You donned your own smirk. “And yet, only one among us possesseth the capability to soar above the mire.”

“For now. ghouls?”

The ghouls moved forward and you jumped away, launching off the bed and diving into a corner. Catching you proved tricky for both of them, given your sleep had allowed you to be more rested than before, though, you were still running out of stamina. The longer they toyed with you, and the more you ran, the more strength you used up until you were almost completely out. They caught you, despite your valiant attempts to escape. And soon enough, the Sister was leading you all out of the Cardinal’s quarters and into a whole new section of the building: the Basilica di Lilith.

Named after Adam’s first wife before Eve was even considered, Lilith, a figure of defiance and rebellion, was given her own space of sanctity and adoration. According to some interpretations, she was a beautiful woman cast out of the Garden of Eden for demanding equality and daring to disobey Adam. Dubbed by the demonic as “our mother who never was,” Lilith was said to be cursed to live out her existence as a demon, forever feared and shunned by humanity. However, she found a place of reverence within the Satanic Church, where she was honoured and respected. The main space of worship was dedicated solely to her, adorned and tended to by her supposed daughters, perpetuating her legacy of defiance and independence in a house that stole from the Saints.

The Basilica, with its pristine white stone and Gothic architecture, stood as a symbol of reverence and sanctity for the congregation. Pointed archways and intricately carved Italian columns adorned the space, framing the dark wooden pews that lined the centre aisle. Above, the cream-colored ceiling soared, punctuated by pointed arches that reached up to the towering columns in both the nave and choir loft.

However, the sacredness of the space was marred by the presence of blasphemous depictions adorning its walls. Specifically commissioned stained glass windows depicted Lilith’s purported role in Eden, her fall from grace, and her demonisation. These depictions served as a stark reminder of this church’s departure from orthodox teachings and its descent into heresy.

At the heart of the sanctuary stood a statue of a disrobed Lilith, her arms outstretched in defiance. Behind her loomed the figure of Baphomet, a symbol of Satanism, with one hand resting on her shoulder and the other on her stomach. This grotesque representation of Lilith’s supposed significance in the Church was housed in a dark wooden alcove crafted with a pointed tip akin to their Holy counterparts, further distorting the sacred space. The statue, carved from bright white marble, stood in stark contrast to its surroundings, a glaring affront to the traditional Christian beliefs upheld by the congregation.

For devout followers of the Almighty, and even you, the desecration of this sacred building with such sacrilegious imagery was a cause for great distress. It served as a stark reminder of the dangers of straying from the teachings of the Almighty and succumbing to the influences of darkness and heresy. And, being a hallowed being, you could feel your skin tingling with the droplets of demonic entities and the mists of Hell swirling through this unhallowed hall.

In front of the statue was the Cardinal, a paintbrush in his hand where he’d painted a red, Satanic pentagram on the floor. He turned to look at you when he heard the commotion of your struggling and screaming out in pain, your bare feet being pulled along the marble floor. He smiled at you, an unsettling warm look that made chills run down your spine. That was when you put up some more resistance, only to realise how futile it actually was. Once you were inside the pentagram, the ghouls pushed you to your knees tied your wings, ankles, and wrists, to keep you there and stop you from escaping no matter how much you struggled.

Your eyes caught a flicker of something in the Cardinal’s, but you couldn’t place the feeling exactly. There was a hesitation to his actions, though he followed through with them once he’d pushed through whatever battle he was fighting in his mind. The Sister, though, never wavered, and both of them continued to look upon you with an uneasy happiness that mimicked the face of the Devil.

“What dost thou intend to do with me?” you asked, still fighting against the ropes.

They had no intention of responding to your question, acting as though you weren’t actually there, until the Sister had opened the ancient, chunky book to the correct page, and finally addressed you. “The process will begin soon unless you willingly tell us what we want to know,” the Sister told you definitively, leaving no room for negotiations or arguments. “If we can’t control you through your halo, we’ll change your soul until you bow to us. This is your final chance. What is Yhwh’s plan? What weaknesses does he have?”

You winced at the sound of the Almighty’s name, one that you were never permitted to speak. His name was for the higher angels, and the higher members of His congregation to use only in respect when talking about Him. Everyone else had to use his titles.

As usual, you refused to give any answers, knowing it would land you in more trouble in Heaven than it would on the mortal realms. Though, you were sure Heaven wouldn’t welcome you back now, there was always a hope, a prayer that lingered in the back of your mind, wishing that you could return home. And so, they began… and it wasn’t until they’d begun chanting from one of their books, you realised exactly what this was.

You’d heard stories about this before, Angels being forcefully turned into demonic entities against their will. If an angel has willingly fallen from grace and turned to Satan, there is no pain or ritual involved necessarily, their hearts and wings just turn black, their halos turn red until eventually the Holy Light within had died and the halo was of no more use. But forceful turning such as this, required meticulously planned rituals that took five months to complete, five full moons, and five rituals, one for each point of the pentagram. They were going to turn you into a demon… and they were going to change your entire being just so they could find out the Almighty’s plans and weaknesses.

By the sounds of the Latin you were hearing, this was the ritual of corruption. This ritual involved exposing the angel to dark energies and corrupting influences, gradually eroding their purity and innocence. They used ancient incantations and unholy relics to channel these corruptive forces onto the angel, slowly tainting their soul and weakening their connection to the divine. But, unbeknownst to them, the ritual would only partially work, because your connection to the divine had already weakened with every instance you questioned the Almighty, and begun to loathe Him for His actions.

When the ritual was done, you felt no different than before. There was no pain, no mental cloudiness - nothing. You were still you. There was a part of you that wondered if the ritual had actually worked, because surely you’d feel… something. Perhaps it was the bumbling idiocy of the Cardinal that spoiled the ritual. Perhaps it was the terrible Latin pronunciation of the Sister that ruined it, you couldn’t say. And neither could they. Thus, with a vow to continue until the end regardless of if it worked or not, you were dragged, still bound, back to the Cardinals rooms to be locked back into your cage.

Days passed, and you paid witness to the unfolding life of the Cardinal, who would spend most of his down time drinking your blood and getting intoxicated with his hellish ghouls. He paid you no mind unless he needed more of your blood, treating you like a pet more than a humanoid being. He would get out the shower and appear only in his towel as he got ready for the night ahead, he would play music whenever he felt like it, work in his bedroom rather than his living and study room, choose to drink the blood of members of the Clergy in his bed so you could see him do that. Multiple people at a time, choosing to give themselves to him to feast upon. And you were disgusted the whole time, watching him feast on other’s blood just as he had with you, and enjoying how uncomfortable it made you the entire time.

Every other day, when the Cardinal had left to go and do his “duties”, the door would open and his cleaner would enter the room, and this would turn out to be your favourite time of the night. He exuded an air of quiet efficiency and unassuming presence. His appearance was unremarkable at first glance, yet upon closer inspection, subtle details hinted at a depth of character and experience.

He was of average height, with a lean and wiry build that spoke of strength and agility. His hair, a shade of dark chestnut brown, was cropped short and neatly groomed, framing a face that bore the weathered lines of someone who had seen their fair share of hardships. His features were angular and defined, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a wealth of untold stories and hidden depths.

Dressed in a simple uniform of black trousers and a crisp white shirt, the cleaner moved with a quiet grace and purpose, his movements fluid and precise. Despite the monotony of his task, there was a sense of pride in his workmanship, evident in the meticulous care with which he attended to his duties.

As he went about his work, the soft glow of candlelight cast gentle shadows across his rugged features, accentuating the strength and resolve that lay beneath his unassuming exterior. Though his presence went unnoticed by many, to those who took the time to observe, there was a quiet dignity and integrity that emanated from him, a testament to his unwavering commitment to his craft.

He wasn’t supposed to speak to you - no, not even look at you. But telling a man to not look at the angel in a gilded cage was a surefire way to get him to do the thing he wasn’t supposed to. In all your time spent in the mortal realm, you’d come to learn that all of the Almighty’s male creations had a penchant for defiancy, taking the word ‘no’ as an invitation to continue to do the thing. And so, once he realised that no harm would come to him when he looked at you, he would glance over then dart his eyes away when you realised he was watching you. When you waved, he waved back, tucking his pink lips into his teeth and giving an awkward smile that showed his discomfort but told you that he was at least kind. That wave turned into a brief, “Good evening,” as he entered the room to begin his chores, until eventually, he was striking full blown conversations with you.

The Cardinal’s cleaner, known as Brother Thomas to all the members of the clergy, possessed a quiet dignity and a gentle demeanor that belied the strength and resilience within him. He was a man of few words, preferring instead to let his actions speak for themselves. Despite the demanding nature of his job, Brother Thomas approached his duties with unwavering dedication and meticulous attention to detail.

Born into humble beginnings, Thomas had faced his fair share of challenges and hardships throughout his life. Yet, he bore these trials with stoicism and grace, drawing strength from his unwavering faith and inner resolve. He was a man of integrity and principle, guided by a strong moral compass that steered him through life’s tumultuous waters.

In his spare moments, Brother Thomas could often be found lost in thought, reflecting on the mysteries of life and the complexities of the human condition. He possessed a keen intellect and a thirst for knowledge, delving into books and literature to expand his understanding of the world around him.

Despite his reserved nature, Thomas harbored a deep well of compassion and empathy for those around him. He had a knack for putting others at ease with his quiet presence and genuine kindness, offering a comforting shoulder to lean on in times of need.

To those who took the time to get to know him, Brother Thomas was a steadfast friend and confidant, a beacon of stability and support in an ever-changing world. Though he may have been overlooked by some, to those who truly saw him for who he was, Brother Thomas was a shining example of humility, strength, and grace.

Thomas’ decision to join the Satanic Ministry was born out of a complex interplay of personal experiences and ideological shifts. While on the surface it may seem contradictory for someone of his character and background to align with such an organization, there were several key factors that influenced his decision. Despite his unwavering dedication to his Catholic beliefs, Thomas experienced a profound crisis of faith following a series of personal tragedies. The loss of loved ones and witnessing injustices in the world shook his belief in the benevolence of God and the efficacy of traditional religious teachings. Over time, Brother Thomas became disillusioned with the hierarchical structure and institutionalized dogma of the Catholic Church. He witnessed firsthand the hypocrisy and corruption within its ranks, leading him to question its authority and legitimacy.

Thomas was drawn to the Satanic Ministry’s emphasis on individualism, personal empowerment, and the rejection of arbitrary authority. He found solace in the principles of self-reliance and personal responsibility advocated by Satanism, seeing it as a path towards greater autonomy and self-actualization. Despite its provocative name and associations, Thomas resonated with many of the core tenets of Satanism, such as the pursuit of knowledge, rational inquiry, and the celebration of human potential. He found common ground with fellow members who shared his commitment to intellectual freedom and critical thinking.

All of this information, you got out of him while he was cleaning the Cardinal’s rooms, for once he got started, he just simply couldn’t stop. But, as he was one of the first people to keep you company, and treat you kindly, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to interrupt him, or stop his babbling however incessant it had become. Over the course of a few weeks, you were able to share your story too, the pair of you finding common ground in the disillusion of the Almighty and the questions that ultimately had you both shunned from your respective societies.

Brother Thomas had told you that he’d wanted to meet you ever since he found out you were there, but the Cardinal told people that you were feral and dangerous, and not to be disturbed. “I see now that was all a lie,” he told you, sitting on the end of the Cardinal’s bed and making himself comfortable.

You sighed, and made yourself as comfortable as you could inside your cage. “It doth appear that he desires to retain me solely for himself. I hold greater worth to him when concealed from sight.”

“Well, your wings alone would go for a fortune, no wonder this room is kept under constant watch.” You clutched onto your wings protectively, as if Brother Thomas had the inclination to steal them from you. “No, no! I wouldn’t! But there are others who would.”

“The Cardinal already partakes of my blood as he wishes. Wherefore should my wings be any different?” Your voice was small, smaller than you intended it to be.

Thomas looked appalled. “He doesn’t?” He didn’t doubt you, not one bit. But he didn’t know what else he could say.

“He doth indeed. Near unto slaying me with each extraction. Then, he returns me hither to recuperate until the next occasion.”

“That’s disgusting! I’m so sorry.”

“I desire to depart from this abode,” you told him, looking at the Cardinal’s carpeted floors. “I draw near to freedom, yet each attempt ends in failure.”

Brother Thomas was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I could help?”

You looked at him, eyes widened in surprise. “Thou wouldst undertake such a task on my behalf? Wilt thou not incur retribution?”

“Well, I left one religious organisation because of their barbaric opinions and actions. What’s a second one?” Thomas shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, no one should live like this.”

“Thou art the most gracious being to have ever lived.”

He pushed back hair that wasn’t there, as if to prove his excellence. “What can I say? I’m an angel,” he joked. And for the first time since falling, you laughed. The joke wasn’t funny by any means, but it was the first time someone had actively tried to make you feel better, and so you just couldn’t stop the giggles as they fell from your lips.

A plan was devised. Brother Thomas would provide you with a change of clothes and a cloak to conceal your angelic appearance. By blending in with the surroundings and adopting a more inconspicuous guise, you would be able to move about unnoticed. You agreed upon a specific window of opportunity for you to make your escape, choosing a moment when the guards were likely to be distracted or preoccupied. Brother Thomas would keep a watchful eye on the movements of the ministry members, alerting you when the time was right. Brother Thomas would map out a discreet route for you to follow, guiding you through the labyrinthine corridors and hidden passages of the Ministry headquarters. He would provide you with detailed instructions and navigational cues to ensure a smooth and swift exit. All you’d have to do, was make sure the Cardinal was intoxicated enough to fall asleep on you again, where you’d be able to snatch the keys from him and keep them hidden on your person until Thomas was able to get you out. He was good, but he wasn’t that good. All that remained was to wait.

The waiting was the hardest part, because you would still see Thomas every other day as planned, and he would still sit and talk to you, provide you with some comfort until he absolutely had to go.

Until one day, he came into the Cardinal’s room a little more excited than normal. “The window,” he said, breathlessly, “of opportunity is coming! Next week, the Cardinal and the Sister will be preoccupied with visiting an abbey north of here, in Sweden, I think. They won’t be here.”

“Art thou certain they wilt not desire to take me along with them?” You asked, standing up in your excitement.

“I don’t see how they can,” he replied, mirroring your excitement. “They’d need to transport an angel and her cage, all without raising suspicion. And what with the current crime rates and trafficking laws, you’re bound to attract attention they don’t want! It’s perfect!”

“‘Tis a splendid notion! But what of the remainder of the clergy? Shall they still abide herein?”

Brother Thomas frowned. “It won’t be easy. But, there are ways we can-”

“Angel! I’m home!”

Your stomach dropped at the sound of a third voice coming from the entrance door in the next room over. The Cardinal was home, and he wasn’t supposed to be. Your heart raced as you heard the Cardinal’s voice echoing through the corridors, an unexpected intrusion on your carefully laid plans. Panic seized you as you realized that Thomas was still in the room with you, and the Cardinal’s presence meant imminent danger. “Thou must conceal thyself!” You whisper-shouted. You pointed to the Cardinal’s bed. “Conceal thyself beneath that!”

“He’s a vampyre, he’ll know!” Thomas protested.

“‘Tis the optimal choice we possess. I shall divert his attention, and thou seize the chance to flee!”

With a sense of urgency, Thomas scrambled to conceal himself, his movements frantic yet silent as he slipped beneath the bed frame.

Meanwhile, the Cardinal’s footsteps grew louder and closer, each one sending a shiver down your spine. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you waited, breath held, for the inevitable confrontation.

The door creaked open just as Thomas’ foot had disappeared underneath, and the Cardinal’s shadow loomed large in the doorway, his presence casting a sinister pall over the room. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched him cautiously approach, his eyes scanning the room with a predatory gleam.

You held your breath, praying that Thomas remained undetected beneath the bed, as the Cardinal drew nearer and nearer. Every creak of the floorboards seemed to echo like thunder in the silence, heightening the tension to unbearable levels.

Just when you thought you couldn’t bear the suspense any longer, the Cardinal’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on your cage before moving on. With a dismissive grunt, he turned away, oblivious to the danger lurking beneath the bed. In his hands was the box containing the usual blood draining equipment. “Did my ears deceive me, Angel? Or did I hear you talking to someone?” He asked, his tone making his suspicion obvious.

“I spake but unto myself,” you replied, trying to keep your voice lighthearted and normal. “Singing more hymns, yet the words escape me.”

The Cardinal walked over to the side of the bed that Brother Thomas had dived under. “No, I’m sure I heard a man.” He placed the box down exactly where Thomas’ foot was.

“Thou must be descending into madness, Cardinal. More so than thy usual state.”

The Cardinal raised his eyebrows. “Resorting to gaslighting, are we?”

You hissed, “What manner of deception is this? I am unfamiliar with it. A foul creature of the night would resort to any means to portray themselves as righteous.”

The Cardinal sighed, “Oh sweet angel, you’ve no idea the position you’re in, do you?” He fiddled with his keys and unlocked the cage door. “Come on, we need some more of that delicious blood of yours. Fight me, and you’ll regret it.”

Willingly, you did as you were told, following his direction to get on the bed and lie on your back. You were terrified, mostly because you knew that Thomas was still in the room and wouldn’t be able to leave while the Cardinal was there. It scared you to think that the Cardinal would find him, and what he’d do if he caught Thomas.

“Your heartbeat’s racing, Angel,” the Cardinal commented as he tied both your arms in tourniquets to find your veins. “You’re either scared, or falling in love with me.”

“Thine countenance is one that only a mother could cherish.” You snapped back.

“She does love me - she doesn’t always show it,” he inserted the first needle and directed the tube into the bottle’s open mouth, “but I know she does.”

“Perchance she is a simpleton.”

“Evil? Sometimes. Headstrong and narcissistic? Absolutely.” The Cardinal moved to the other side of the bed and repeated the motion with the second arm. “A simpleton? Certainly not. We’ve been alive for centuries, Angel, she’s concocted her fair share of schemes, and the majority have worked.”

“And do those schemes entail extracting an angel’s blood until she is nigh unto death?”

“Of course.” The Cardinal smiled - actually smiled. “It’s not often our kind can get a hold of your blood. It’ll go for millions of dollars on the market. We’ve made so many replicas of course, but none compare to the real thing.” He watched as your blood dripped into the wine bottles, four on each side. He planned to almost fully drain you tonight, apparently.

Your body had already begun to feel the effects of your blood dripping away from you, and your eyes grew heavier and heavier until, eventually, the last thing you felt was the Cardinal stroking your hair.

When you woke up, you were back in your cage and the Cardinal was sat in his bed, glasses perched on the end of his nose and eyes trained on a book. You were still feeling the effects of the blood loss, but you were certainly much better than before, your halo working hard in the cage next to you to try and get you back up and on your feet. You sat up and stretched, attracting the attention of the Cardinal, who smiled at you. “Ah, she’s awake at last.” He commented, looking at you over the top of his glasses. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel as though thou hast drained all my blood and brought me to the brink of death.” You tried to stand but your body was too weak. “For how long hath I been in slumber?”

“Five days,” the Cardinal looked back to his book, “your recovery time is getting longer. We’re going to have to start rationing if this keeps up. Or get another angel. Say, do you think we could use you as bait?”

“I pray thee choke and perish upon my blood.”

The Cardinal laughed, “If that happens,” the door to his bedroom knocked, then opened, “you’ll be stuck in that cage forever - ah! Brother López. Come in, please!”

The Brother opened the door wider and stepped inside, looking polite as he watched the Cardinal stand to greet him.

“Angel,” the Cardinal addressed you, “this is my new cleaner, Brother Santiago López.”

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ghost-1-y · 1 year

Text

Temptation

Angel!Mitsuri x AFAB!Succubus!Reader

Content Warnings: MDNI, dark content, sacrilege, blasphemy, religious themes, dubcon (aphrodisiac), manipulation, sexual content, dom!reader, sub!Mitsuri, unprotected sex, oral (reader receiving), scissoring, virginity loss (Mitsuri), corruption k!nk, praise k!nk, degradation, hair pulling, concepts of "purification" and "chastity", concepts of sex and sexuality being "dirty" and "sinful", slight mentions of blood (not in a sexual context), use of bible verses (in italics), references to bible passages/stories, people who are religious may find this content offensive, please read with caution

Summary: Mitsuri had always done what she was told to do, glorifying her god and helping those who needed it. She never once thought about breaking the rules – much less her vow to chastity, until she found what initially appeared to be a human in a darkened alleyway in need of help, unknowingly falling into a trap that would corrupt her from holiness for the rest of eternity.

Word Count: ~3.3k

Divider Credit: the wonderful @/benkeibear

A/N: so, I used to be religious (Christian), so a lot of this might've come out of my own personal traumas that I experienced (eg. the concept of purification and chastity and being ashamed of having "dirty" thoughts). Obviously, I no longer hold these views (as evidence by writing these fics LMAO), but that somewhat influenced how I wrote this fic, maybe some of y'all will be able to relate? I hope you enjoy!!

Let your light shine before them in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.

Mitsuri loved the world, she loved humans and nature and all the beauty that existed in between. She would watch the sun rise upon the earth and how it would cast its rays upon trees and cities as life basked in its holy light.

She loved the night as well – how it brought tranquility and peace as those she watched over rested until the sun peeked over the horizon once more.

She sometimes wished that her light would not interfere with such serenity.

But the world also saddened Mitsuri, she mourned as those she loved from afar returned to dust underneath grassy knolls; her heart broke as she witnessed fighting amongst nations and arguments amongst lovers. She knew that loving the world would bring grief upon her, because the world was infested with sin.

The world would never be perfect, yet she loved it anyways.

So Mitsuri spent her eternity by helping those who needed it – taking on a human form so others wouldn’t be afraid. She helped by working in food banks and soup kitchens – oh how she adored those humans who set such wonderful services up – and would afterwards walk along roads to give food to those who, for whatever reason, found such services inaccessible to them. She would volunteer in hospitals, helping the sick in whatever way she could, and would listen to their stories and offer comfort should they share their suffering with her, holding their hand in hers to offer support – however small.

It was not a coincidence, then, that she caught sight of you, a human lying alone in a darkened alleyway, isolated from the bustling street that was doused in sunlight. You were covered in shadows to the point where it looked like darkness emanated from your body itself, curled up and alone – hiding within the stench of garbage and discarded roadkill.

Mitsuri approached you – her kindness limitless and unbounded by fear as her light blessed your shadowed figure, gentle and warm – a light that was neither blinding nor dim as you looked up at her.

“Are you alright, my love? My name is Mitsuri, I saw you here and wanted to help,” she smiled sweetly. It didn’t matter what language you spoke, since Mitsuri’s words would translate perfectly once they fell from her lips and graced your ears.

Burning lips and a wicked heart are like a potsherd covered with silver dross.

Teary eyed, you smiled up at her, “Thank you, I didn’t think anyone would come, but you’re here now.” Mitsuri’s gentle eyes looked over your condition, a cut on your forehead which was seeping a dark red, and smudges of dirt all over your body.

“Oh, love, let me get you cleaned up a bit!” Mitsuri exclaimed as she secretly materialized some cotton pads, pretending to fish them out of her pocket. She wiped the blood that was dripping down your face, “I don’t have antiseptic wipes on me, would you wait here as I go get them from a convenience store?” You nodded, staring past her shoulder.

If Mitsuri knew any better, she would’ve thought you could see her wings.

Mitsuri rushed across the street and bought the antiseptic wipes, more cotton pads, and a couple bottles of water before running back to help you. She knelt beside you, and began cleaning up your face. “You know, you should take better care of yourself,” she smiled softly as she wet the cotton pads with water and began wiping away the smudges of dirt on your skin.

You said nothing, letting Mitsuri work on you. Once finished, she stood up and held out her hand, “Are you able to stand?” she asked.

You looked down at her hand and reached for it, slowly encasing it in yours, with your index finger pressing against the pulse in her wrist. A strange flush of warmth spread through Mitsuri’s arm and to her chest, causing a shiver to move up her spine. She shook her head, and helped you get up.

The warmth continued to spread and fester within her, and she couldn’t figure out why – you were human, or at least looked like you were.

You gave her a saccharine smile, “I appreciate your help, angel, but I have to get going – I’ll see you around, no?”

Mitsuri’s eyes widened at the pet name you let slip – you couldn’t possibly know what she was – it was a coincidence, that’s all.

She who trusts in her own heart is a fool,

But she who walks wisely will be delivered.

Still, it caught her off-guard, and if she wasn’t flustered before, she definitely was now, slightly panicking despite knowing that humans wouldn’t be able to see her wings, or halo for that matter.

Mitsuri stuttered, “Of course, I– see you around.”

Days passed, and Mitsuri started to believe you’d fallen off the face of the earth – completely unable to sense your presence or soul. Yet, the warmth she felt from holding your hand did not fade – rather, it worsened, beckoning her to drag her dainty fingers along her stomach and downwards.

She shook herself out of it, but the heat lingered and pooled between her legs, so much so that it started to drip down her inner thighs – yet she wouldn’t give in to the temptation, she couldn’t – it was against everything that she was taught, everything that she believed.

Or were the beliefs forced upon her?

It wasn’t until after forty days and forty nights that she sensed you once more. It was early morning, so early that the sun had not graced its rays upon the world quite yet. You sat underneath a lamppost, its artificial light illuminating the bench beneath you, but oddly failing to reflect off of your own soft skin.

“You’re not human, are you?”

You looked up at her, a glint of mischief in your eyes as you shook your head. Standing up, you walked towards her, causing Mitsuri to take a hesitant step back.

“Don’t be shy, angel, I don’t bite – not unless you beg for it.”

“I– I’m not begging,” Mitsuri muttered, as though she were trying to convince herself more than anything.

Submit therefore to God. Resist the devil and she will flee from you.

You approached her once more, and she remained still. Taking her wrist in yours, you slowly graze your nails over the skin of her arm, tracing up and down as she spoke. Her cheeks were red, flushed hot with both the strange warmth that found its home within her soul and now the shame of actually seeking what she desired.

You both sat down on the bench, a shrub blooming with jasmine flowers alongside it – the rich scent flooding her senses as her eyes locked with yours.

Do not desire her beauty in your heart,

Nor let her capture you with her eyelids.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you asked, fingers circling the pulse point on her wrist.

Mitsuri frowns, “What do you mean?” You take your other hand and place it on hers, tracing your thumb across her skin, sending butterflies into her stomach.

“I mean,” you started, “do you get tired of kindness? Of righteousness?” you questioned, “do you ever wish to know beyond those things?”

“Um…I–” she paused, swallowing thickly, “N-Not really?”

It was a lie, and you knew that.

“Oh, well that’s too bad,” you pouted before leaning in towards her, “because I could show you things you’ve never even felt before, angel.” You glanced up at her, and you could see her eyes pooling with the desire to accept.

“I– I really can’t, it would– it would be against my nature.” An excuse, but a truthful one. If she consented, she would be damning herself – condemning her soul to the farthest reaches of hell.

It was something unthinkable for a being like her.

“Hmm, but nature changes over time, does it not?” you questioned, “if I’m not mistaken, I can see the want in your eyes. You desire this change, yet you won’t grasp for it. Why?”

“You– you wouldn’t be able to understand,” she stuttered, retracting her hands from yours as she formed fists with them in her lap.

“Angel, I think I understand more than anyone else,” you smirked, "to me, you seem lost – you're falling, aren't you, angel?"

You got up from the bench, eyes flashing a brief red as you looked down at her – causing Mitsuri’s breath to catch in her throat.

For the lips of an adulteress drip honey

And smoother than oil is her speech;

But in the end she is bitter as wormwood,

Sharp as a two-edged sword.

Her feet go down to death,

Her steps take hold in the house of it.

“If you wish for more than the mundanity of your everlasting life, you know exactly how to find me,” you told her, and before Mitsuri could look up at you once more, you were gone.

—

Mitsuri knew that it was wrong, she knew that it would go against her vows, her duties, her entire purpose, and yet – she found herself walking past that same alleyway each day, only peering into it out of curiosity before collecting herself and continuing on her way.

Until the seventh day, when she decided to stop in front of the alley, the sun beaming down on her as she stood just outside of it, as though the lined buildings on either side created a threshold that she couldn’t bring herself to pass.

As Mitsuri peered into the shadows, she saw a figure stand up and walk towards her. She couldn’t look into the being’s soul – it was as though it didn’t have one at all. It approached her from the dark, and its silhouette depicted that of sharpened horns and a long tail which was pointed at the end.

“Have you made up your mind, angel?” you asked sweetly, extending your hand past the threshold for her to take, “I promise, you’ll love how it feels to let go.”

Mitsuri hesitated, but as she looked into your eyes, a fire ignited deep within her once more.

My child, if sinners entice you,

Do not consent.

It was all she needed to extend her own hand and place it in yours.

Shocks of electricity traveled up Mitsuri’s arm, much more intense than the warmth she felt before, it traveled deep into her gut, and her face flushed red as she was pulled into the shadows, fully enticed by you.

You pinned her against the wall, her back facing you. Her wings shuddered in excitement as you leaned in towards her ear, “I’m proud of you, angel,” you whispered, your breath hot against her ear, “I know how difficult it must’ve been to give in, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” You grazed a finger along her left wing, nail lightly scraping against the feathers. She whimpered, her blush hot across her face as heat pooled in her stomach.

“I– I know you’re a–ah…” Mitsuri started, swallowing thickly before a soft moan escaped from her.

“A demon? Yes, angel, I am,” you chuckled, grabbing at her hair to pull her head back, “but I’m not here to hurt you, love, no, I’m here to make you sin.”

You turned her around and kissed her fervently, your lips sweet against hers. It felt euphoric, Mitsuri had never been kissed by anyone before – it was always said to open the doors to lust.

Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death.

However, she melted into your kiss, malleable and pliable – eager to feel more of it, the fire inside her being nurtured and stoked as you continued to kiss her innocent lips. You licked at her, and bit down on her bottom lip before parting – a string of saliva connecting her lips to yours, binding her into damnation as she uttered her next words.

“Please, I need more.”

You smirked, and leaned in towards her neck, licking a long stripe with your tongue before kissing just below her earlobe, with Mitsuri letting out tiny mewls and gasps every so often. You traveled further down her neck towards her pulse point. You left marks deep in burgundy upon her as she moaned into your ear.

“I love the sounds you’re making, angel, make some more for me,” you purred, bringing your hand down towards her heat, pushing aside the white linen to rub your fingers along her entrance. “Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you cooed.

“Nngh, n-noo that- that’s dirty,” Mitsuri whined, and you smirked.

“Trust me, you’ll learn to love feeling this way.” Your breath was hot before putting her into yet another searing kiss. She whimpered, but kissed back, slowly accepting her growing addiction towards them.

You circled her clit with your finger, and she whined, face flushed as she tried grinding onto your hand.

“That’s it, angel, take what you need, such a good girl,” you encouraged her, rubbing her clit slightly faster as she ground into you, a blushing mess as she did so. Mitsuri’s moans got progressively louder, loving the sensations once unknown to her.

“Mmh–! I– I feel strange…like something’s building up in me!” she whined, “what– what’s happening–!?”

You kissed her once more, quieting her, “shhh, angel, that’s a good thing, just relax and let it build up, okay?” She moaned again, grinding harder into your hand as she obeyed your words.

“I– It’s gonna–! I’m gonna–!” Mitsuri’s eyes rolled back, letting out a strangled moan as she came all over your hand, juices gushing into your palm as she rode through her orgasm, her hips undulating until she couldn’t take it anymore – quickly becoming overstimulated from the feeling of pleasure coursing through her veins.

“Too– too much! Can’t– no more!” she cried, tears falling down her cheeks. You licked at each stray teardrop, the saltiness of it coating your tongue as you stopped your movements with your hand.

“Such a good girl for me, angel,” you praised, and she hid her face behind her hands in pure embarrassment. You took her by the wrists and held them down.

“Don’t hide your pretty face from me, I want to see every last bit of your pleasure.”

Mitsuri whined and asked “can you– can you do that again, please?” Her tone was so sweet, begging for more like a pathetic slut who has abandoned all of her morals.

However, you refused, “if you wish for more of that, you’ll have to please me, first.” Mitsuri looked at you, confused, before you shoved her down to her knees, her face in line with your hips – the pretty lingerie you were wearing disappearing in an instant before you took her by the hair and pulled her towards your weeping cunt. “Make me feel good, angel, and I might consider actually fucking you this time.”

Mitsuri’s eyes dropped from your face down to your pussy, admiring how sweet and juicy it looked.

When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, she took from its fruit and ate.

So, she went entirely off of her own instinct as she brought her mouth to your heat, before licking at the wetness of it with her tongue. The sweetness of it coating the inside of her mouth like syrup; Mitsuri had never even thought of committing such lewd acts before, but now that she’d gotten a taste, she couldn’t help herself.

She started off shy, with kitten licks and tentative kisses on your clit. She may not have experience in giving pleasure, but she was there in the beginning when humans, angels, and devils alike were all created in the same image, and so she knew the insides and outs of their bodies unlike any other.

Her tongue delved deeper into your cunt, licking up any juices that seeped out of it, earning soft groans and grunts from you as you pulled at her hair. She adored your taste – it was addictive, a taste that she would gladly sin for if it meant she could feast upon it for the eternity of her damnation.

Her lips pursed around your clit before sucking gently, your eyes rolling back as she looked up at you. She whimpered, wishing you’d make eye contact with her and tell her she was doing such a good job – instead only receiving a few strokes through her hair as you thrived off of the pleasure that her mouth was giving you. Her own cunt was weeping, the heat from her abdomen becoming unbearable as she continued licking you up with her tongue – so much so that she reached down between her legs with her fingers, but before she could provide herself even the slightest bit of relief, you yanked her by the hair.

“You think you can touch yourself without my permission? Think you’re allowed to make yourself feel good? No, angel. Only I am allowed to do that. Any and all pleasure you receive, any and all sin that you commit, will be caused by me – for my sake.” You leaned down closer to her, breath hot against her face, “do you understand me?”

Mitsuri nodded, only to wince as you gripped her hair tighter.

“Say it.”

“Yes, I– I understand,” Mitsuri spoke softly as she removed her hand from between her thighs.

“Good girl.”

You pulled Mitsuri up once more and, in an incredible display of flexibility, she raised her right leg so that it pointed up toward the sky, with you supporting her by holding her up by your hand.

“Hah– you’re no angel, are you? Angels don’t act this way, y’know– you’re just a pathetic little slut, a pleasure-seeking whore that can never get enough,” you panted, before mounting your foot against the wall so your cunt was flush against hers, grinding against her wet heat. You grabbed her by the jaw and forced her to look at you.

“What are you, hm? Tell me.”

“I– I–” she whined, “I’m– ‘m your slut…oh shit, ‘m your slut!”

“That’s right, you’re nothing but a stupid cumslut, aren’t you? Raised to be holy and perfect, but look at you, drunk on lust all because some demon tempted you. How pathetic.”

Mitsuri whined as you ground into her, feeling absolutely no shame as she condemned herself further with each movement of your hips. The familiar tension in her gut started to build up once more as she took everything you gave her.

“Nngh– it- it’s happening a-ah– again!” she moaned, and you ground against her faster.

“That’s it, slut, cum all over my cunt. Sin for me.”

Mitsuri’s thighs trembled as her orgasm flooded through her in waves, her mind addled with euphoria and lust as her pussy gushed all over you, her moans so raw and unbridled as she allowed you to claim her as yours, knowing she will never find pleasure like this through anything or anyone except you.

You are my God, and I give thanks to You;

You are my God, I extol You.

“My– my God,” she panted, “you– you are my God.” She knew it was blasphemous, yet she didn’t care, for she found a new being to worship, to love and to praise as she damned herself for the rest of eternity, certain that she would choose this over holiness in every lifetime if given the honor to do so.

For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

Amen.

Taglist: @oreo-creampie, @k-a-t-h-r-i-n-a, @wow-im-gay, @peanutpunchy, @love-me-satoru, @crazycatlddy, @pastelbluecloudy3, @dinosaur-crime-scene, @thisbicc, @gojoscumslut, @bisexuawolfsalt, @everyonesfinaldestination, @leehoonii-i, @kyojurismo, @briefrebelfanalmond, @izuoyarmin, @ahashiraswife, @d1gitalbathh, @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701

(If your name was crossed out, it means tumblr didn't allow me to tag you - apologies for the inconvenience)

I hope you all enjoyed!!! 💕

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theyungihven · 7 months

Text

The Demon's Infatuation • Sex Demon Yunho

CHAPTER 2

↬ pairing: dom demon yunho x sub female reader

↬ genre: smut, romance

↬ warnings: breeding kink, cream pie, pain kink, unprotected sex, hip bruises, biting kink, slut-shaming, choking kink, hard core dom yunho, yunho is OBSSESSED,

↬ word count: 1.2K+

↬ author’s note: this full novel length fic is a dedication to my boyfriend alex and the demon that visited me at night two years ago every full moon night

Summary : She's just an innocent heartbroken girl who just wants to be loved for once despite her flaws and imperfections and he's a wicked demon who wants nothing but to corrupt her soul to till all she can think of him. What can go wrong if he takes a little interest in her? Heaven along with Hell are not going to collide with the Earth, or will they?

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST : @yunhogrippers @haram-monbebe @atinism @yvnhoos @st4rhwa @lomons

“So I teleported near the old city. And then, I got this strong whiff of blood.” I tell San.

We sit under the neon lights on the barstools as we rest our hands on the bar counter. The brown wood creaks under my weight, a reminder of its ancientness

I feel the bartender’s eyes widen with every word I say, as if he’s a columnist and writes the infamous gossip column catered to making the most scandalous secrets known to hell’s residents.

However, I don’t care enough and continue about my latest endeavour to a very uninterested San. The fellow demon looks like he will jump into the holy water any moment, if given the chance to cease his existence.

“I saw a girl on her knees begging someone to love her.” I say and a small smile greets his lips. “She looked delicious and I’m telling you, she smelled sweeter than an elixr.” I continue and the bartender bends down to access the lower cabinets of the counter, all while his eyes stay hooked in my direction.

“And what’s better than trapping a human in distress? So I thought, why not make my presence known? And then, mate,” I chuckle as I remember the moment she ran inside and the look that crowned her face when she noticed my shadow form, “she has the audacity to recite verses, but she couldn’t even do that right.”

“Humans are pathetic, I'm telling you." Dante agrees with me as he smiles a little, his lips thinning but not even curling a degree up whatsoever for some reason unknown to me. My heart skips a beat as my smile drops.

The clitter clatter of the glass and the chatter of the demons inside the infamous club Hell’s Inferno is constant, with fights erupting every now and then, like an active volcano.

However, today, it is eerily quiet in the dead of a full moon night.

It is unusual, but I enjoy the bourbon in my hands.

I swirl it around while taking a little peek at my dear friend, San who is playing with the end of his tail. He looks very odd today, as if he has fucked up real bad and is now going to be banished from hell. His skin looks pale as if he’s losing his colour from malnutrition.

However, as from the latest gossip and news about the duo’s latest adventures also according to the not so quiet whispers, celibacy isn’t the case.

“Mate, you look like you prevented a sin.” I say, as I place my bourbon glass on the counter and stare at him. Nothing but worry fills my heart.

“Nothing.” he replies lifelessly as if he has given up on reality and accepted defeat.

“Then, the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream.

Everyone in the club looks at me as if I tempted a human to commit a good deed.

I take a deep breath in order to calm myself down and then say,

“How’s your girl, San?”

“urm…she’s doing…umm…well!” Dante shutters. He then gulps his drink all the way and stares at the glass.

My suspicions and the word of mouth which had travelled to me earlier this week were indeed true.

Dante did associate with an angel, committed treason and is next on line to getting banished from hell.

“You fucked up big time, mate.” I chuckle as I say, swallowing the bitterness on my tongue which attempts to slip but I don't want to hurt Dante anymore.

“I know, I know…” Dante sighs. He then takes a deep breath as he corrects his posture.

“I FUCKING KNOW OKAY!” He slams the glass on the table as he stares at me dead in the eye.

“What are you going to do with this girl though?” Wow, now I am the main focus of the conversation. I look up at Dante as I lick my lips, refreshing my memory at all things I’ve been thinking to do with her.

“Tempt her, seduce her, get so deep into her mind” I say as I swirl the drink which the bartender refilled in order to infiltrate our privacy.

I gulp down the whole thing in one go and slam it on the table.

“That she’d desperately crave me like a drug.” I finished, and Dante’s reaction to my words is magnificent. He looks like a human when they see me in my demon form for a split second in the corner of their room as I give them my charismatic smile.

“But how?” Dante asks as he looks at me all confused.

I get up from the barstool and walk closer towards Dante.

“Good things take time, my dear.” I pat Dante's shoulder as I continue, “but wonderful things…” I lean in as I whisper into his ear, “takes a good strategy and patience.” I say, then lean back, flashing him my trademark smile as I turn around and make a dramatic exit which leaves everyone gasping.

#yunho #demon yunho #ateez smut #san #ateez yunho #san smut #seonghwa #hongjoong #yeosang #mingi #jeong yunho #incubi yunho #incubi san #yunho smut

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moontoonart · 29 days

Text

Good and Evil in “Good Omens”: A Theological Reflection on Aziraphale and Crowley ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

In the world of Good Omens, the eternal debate between good and evil is explored in unexpected and profound ways. The series, based on the novel by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, offers a theological reflection that challenges traditional concepts of divine justice, revealing how the boundaries between good and evil are not always so clearly defined.

Aziraphale and Crowley: The Unlikely Pair of Good and Evil

Aziraphale and Crowley are emblematic characters who represent good and evil, respectively. Aziraphale, the angel, is often seen as a guardian of divine rules, but his tendency to deviate from celestial norms reveals an unexpected complexity. Despite his role as a bearer of goodness, he often questions divine decisions and acts according to his own judgment. For instance, his act of giving the flaming sword to Adam and Eve is initially seen by him as a potentially wrong choice, although Crowley reassures him that, as an angel, Aziraphale cannot truly do anything wrong. This resonates with James 1:17: "Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows."

Crowley, the demon, is also a surprising character. Although he represents Hell, his actions and motivations demonstrate that even a demon can have positive intentions. Crowley reflects on the issue of temptation and worries whether, by tempting Adam and Eve, he acted correctly. His reflection raises questions about the role of the demon in causing trouble or doing good, and suggests that even when a demon seems to act with good intentions, it can create chaos in unexpected ways. Romans 8:28 states: "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose." This verse suggests that even in the most controversial actions, there may be a divine plan guiding towards good.

The Ineffable Plan of God

The concept of the Ineffable Plan in “Good Omens” is central to the plot and theological reflection. This plan, which transcends human understanding, implies that every action, whether good or bad, fits into a larger, incomprehensible divine design. The Bible itself mentions the ineffability of the divine plan in Isaiah 55:8-9: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” This passage underscores that human understanding is limited compared to the divine plan.

The Act of Giving and Tempting One of the main concerns of the characters is whether their actions align with the divine plan. Aziraphale, worried about giving the flaming sword to Adam and Eve, reflects on whether he acted correctly. His concern is eased by Crowley, who reassures him that, as an angel, Aziraphale cannot do anything truly wrong. This reflects the idea that angels, as messengers and servants of God, always act in accordance with divine will, as highlighted in Psalm 103:20: “Praise the Lord, you his angels, you mighty ones who do his bidding, who obey his word.”

Crowley, on the other hand, is troubled by whether his role as tempter may have had positive or negative effects. He wonders if it is possible that, even if a demon does something right, it could still create disastrous consequences. This theme is explored in 1 Corinthians 10:13: “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.” This verse suggests that even in situations of temptation, God provides a way out and guides towards salvation.

The Question of “What is Right and Wrong”

Crowley raises fundamental questions about the concept of divine justice and understanding what is right and wrong. In the series, his reflection poses a crucial question: if a person is punished for a mistake, why not instead guide them to understand where they went wrong? This reflection raises deep questions about the nature of divine justice. If punishment is the only response to errors, then the process of learning and moral growth is sacrificed. Crowley suggests that understanding and guidance are more effective than mere punishment, and that true moral progress comes from awareness and improvement rather than simple sanction. Proverbs 3:12 says: “Because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.” This verse highlights that correction and teaching are tools through which God guides and disciplines, rather than mere punishment.

Conclusion: Beyond the Dichotomy of Good and Evil

“Good Omens” invites us to reflect on how categories of good and evil may be more nuanced than they appear. The complexity of Aziraphale and Crowley’s characters, and the concept of the Ineffable Plan, show us that morality is often a gray area rather than a clear-cut boundary. Actions that seem wrong or evil may ultimately serve a higher good, and decisions that appear right can have unexpected consequences.

The series challenges us to reconsider our ideas about justice and redemption, suggesting that true good and true evil are not always what they seem and that a deeper understanding of the divine may reveal a grander and more complex design than we can imagine. Ultimately, good and evil might be more interconnected than we believe, and actions that seem immoral or wrong could, in the grand scheme of things, serve purposes that transcend our immediate understanding.

#good omens #good omens 2 #analyses #theory #crowly x aziraphale #crowley #good omens spoiler #aziracrow #aziraphale #good omens theory #good omens crowley #azicrow #evil #good and bad #good and evil #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #inefabble husbands #inefable

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a-world-in-grey · 7 months

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I think I'm gonna need a list of Sola's relationship status in different verses because I'm lost.

Nox!Sola gets married at 20 and has three kids by the time canon rolls around.

Dyn!Sola is married but has only the one kid when she's 27.

Hanahaki!Sola is dating but not married?

And I have no idea what the rest of them are doing.

No problem!

In Shadows of Heaven's Light, Sola starts dating Libertus at 20, marries at 24, and they adopt their first kid during the Long Night when Sola is 27-28 (exact timeline on that is still TBD). For reference, Libertus is 5 years older than Sola.

For aus or crossovers where Sola and Libertus don't time travel, they end up adopting another four kids. Sola dies in her sixties from the strain using so much magic over the years had on her body, while Libertus lives into his eighties and gets to meet the first of his great-grandkids.

Take My Breath au (Hanahaki!Sola), Libertus and Sola don't start dating until she's 25 at the earliest, but I may push that back to when she's 26-27 depending what I plan to do with the plot. So she and Libertus are dating but not married by the time canon starts.

Sunshine Never Stops au (Nif!Sola), Sola doesn't meet Libertus until she's 19-20 years old, and while she does get a crush on him, she hasn't at all considered the idea of dating anyone while she's so focused on curing the Starscourge.

Nox!Sola starts dating Libertus when she's 20, like in SoHL, but she and Libertus have a whoops pregnancy when she's 21, resulting in twins when she's 21-22. Sola and Libertus marry Galahdian-style shortly after Sola finds out she's pregnant, but they don't have a Lucian wedding until after the twins are born. Then, during the Roadtrip Nox and Sola take Noctis on when Nox and Sola are about 24, Sola finds out part way through that she's pregnant again, resulting in kid #3 by the time she's 25. Which is all I've got so far for that.

Dyn!Sola again started dating Libertus at 20, only for Noctis to disappear a year later. Sola and Libertus married shortly before Noctis came home with Dyn, and Sola got pregnant about three months before Noctis' Coming of Age, shortly before she turned 25, so she'll give birth in the coming spring, a couple months before she turns 26. As for how many kids that'll be... I think I'll keep that under my hat for now. >:)

But general rule of thumb: if Sola's younger than 20, she hasn't started dating Libertus, and barring a whoops baby or other unusual circumstance, Libertus and Sola date for four years (traditional in Lucian culture) before getting married. And, barring extenuating circumstances such as time travel, Libertus and Sola eventually end up with a bunch of kids, biological and/or adopted.

Hope this helps!

#ffxv #Shadow of Heaven's Light #Sola Lucis Caelum #Libertus Ostium #Nox verse #Blood of my Blood verse

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moobloom-mention · 3 months

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The Broken Pleas of a Familiar Face (And an Exhausted Shadow)

Summary: The Great Sage finds himself a moment of reprieve from his Journey to the West and decides to visit Flower Fruit Mountain for the first time in centuries.

Unfortunately, it's not joyous cheers and festivities that greet him, but his own shadow's tired eyes and lashing tongue.

Content Warning(s): Angst, Brief violence

Word Count: 3761

To find the Great Sage straying far from the side of his Master was an odd thing to discover.

After all, the grand king's predicament was well-versed in both the celestial realm and mortal plane, humanity's fear of Wukong's supposed "freedom" having forced the Heavens to announce that the nuisance would be kept beneath a careful thumb.

Under control, Macaque had interpreted, tail kinked at such an outlandish proclamation. As if Wukong, the epitome of chaos, could ever bare to exist under the cautious eye of another.

And yet two years had reigned since the beginning of his sworn brother's journey to the West, two years since he'd been spared from centuries more of wasting away beneath a mountain. At the first sign of freedom, the Great Sage's shadow had assumed that he'd be visiting his kingdom to meet the newest generations of Flower Fruit Mountain, to laugh amidst monkeys who'd grown up beneath Macaque's watchful eye instead of their righteous king.

But the rulers of Time and the cruel grin of Fate cared not for the occupants of their home, as two years of the king's freedom turned into three.

And three into four.

Wukong's continuous absence from his homeland was such an oddity that it had been the reason Macaque had left the safety of the island's hidden cave in the first place. Had he felt twinges of guilt for leaving the little ones curled up and fast asleep by themselves? Of course, he had been their sole protector for the past five centuries after all, but he couldn't bare the thought of his king's subjects awakening to find him tormented by self-doubt and concern.

Besides, a walk had always done well to dissipate his frequent fears and trepidations of loneliness, feeling welcome beneath the moon's merciful light and the vegetative flush of the island.

Five centuries of recovering from Erlang's fury had done well to regrow the dense forestry, he'd thought kindly, as though it wasn't sinful pride and mockery that such a thought ignited within his chest. Everything about Flower Fruit Mountain was soon to be righteous again, and after having convinced himself of the mantra's truth, he'd waved aside the guilt of leaving the little ones asleep without his presence.

But to feel the breakage of one of his many seals protecting the island? And to find the Great Sage himself, Equal to Heaven, to be the culprit? Macaque had expected the Heavens themselves to come crashing down behind the reckless king, screeching of betrayal and fury.

The sky, however, does not fall as the shadow expects it to, instead calm and but a witness to Wukong's barreling form.

"Mihou!" his king cries, nimbus cloud but a figment of the past as he crashes into his shadow with chitters of delight. It's small blessings to find that the Heavens had not crushed the celestial monkey's energetic spirit, still ever-so-generous with his infectious smile. "How I've missed you."

The foreign sensation of embarrassment carves itself within Macaque's chest at the way his own face floods with relief, feeling at ease enough to reciprocate such a loving sentiment. There's far too much he'd missed in the five-hundred years of the Sage's disappearance, from the playful arch of his king's eyebrows to the subtle gleam of light illuminating his golden pelt. It was a feature so unmistakably Wukong, just as was the way his voice could naturally blend between English and ape-speak.

It was a talent not even the king's shadow had been destined to master, and he finds delight tapping oddly at his heart. How adored will the little ones be to learn of such a quaint detail of their king?

"It's been too long," Macaque agrees, trying his hardest to melt into the embrace of his sun. He feels almost uncomfortably warm within the other's arms, trapped in close range to body heat no pile of little ones could dream to accomplish.

Easily had he grown used to seeking warmth in the comfort of the actual sun, forced to make due in the absence of Wukong.

But it mattered no more, he decides joyously, for his sun had finally broke free from that of his captives and returned to tend thoughtfully to the island.

"How are the little ones?"

"Handfuls," Macaque admits, the vulnerable words uttered freely. It is not often he finds himself willing to express his own challenges, but his king deserves to know the mischievous antics of his subjects.

"The newest generation is curious about your plights with Heaven," he comments, voice soft with joy in spite of the teasing lilt to it. "I'm worried I've run out of stories to tell them of your reckless past."

"Reckless!" his king exclaims, faux offense present in not only his voice but the playful rise of his fur. "I'm sure you've only run out of stories because the rest involves your own mischief."

Guilty the king's shadow may be, but the little ones would never let him hear the end of it should they find out such a detail. "Causing trouble is a requirement to be a General of yours."

Wukong's head tilts in exasperated laughter, practically bouncing on his toes. It's only when Macaque finds himself searching the other's gaze that something amiss makes itself known.

"Y'know, Wukong, you don't need glamor with me," Macaque smirks, unused to seeing the other without his blood-red eyes. "And golden eyes, really?"

"They're fashionable!" the king protests, but the glamor remains. Perhaps the Heavens themselves had made a mark on Wukong's mental state as the king's shadow had feared. Yet it was nothing that time surrounded by little ones could not erase. "Besides, I worry I'll scare someone with them."

"The little ones won't care," his shadow declares with an uncharacteristically kind expression. "They'll just be happy of your return."

Something uniquely anxious captivates the his king's gaze then, and suddenly, it feels as though the scene has almost turned monumental.

A shadow and its owner standing face-to-face, one baring an expression of childish hope and the other of raw emotion.

Wukong had always been the type to extend himself amidst moments of concern, to offer sanctuary for others within a joke or grin. But now his king resides, eyes unfocused as though waiting for the Heavens to condemn him once more beneath a mountain.

"You are staying, right?"

But silence is the only reply.

"Stay."

It's a simple plea, a rare one that drips sorrowful and foreign from his tongue.

Long buried is his pride, forgotten amidst the demanding voices of their subjects that the Great Sage return forever to the domain he proclaimed to be his home. They'd begged Macaque to be merciful and allow them to meet a king they'd only known through the shadow's tales of Wukong, as though their protector had any ability to rise against the Heavens and rescue the chaotic monkey.

Their demand to meet the grand deity had only barely faded in passing time, still eager to see for themselves of the courageous and caring tendencies that had instated Wukong as the island's king in the first place.

The same tendencies and familiar habits that Macaque could never imitate nor perfect to his own liking.

His destiny lies comfortably in between the lines of Wukong's own tales, and there is a reason he remains nothing if not the shadow of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. His job will forever define itself as someone unfearful to stand alongside his sun and protect whomever Wukong wishes.

It was the very reason Macaque had agreed to never stray far from Flower Fruit Mountain in the absence of his king, ordered to protect the kingdom and upkeep the morale of Wukong's subjects that eventually things would be okay. That their king would return soon and beg for forgiveness for ever abandoning his adoring kin.

He is but a monkey who has spent centuries watching the island's population grow from younglings until they eventually pass into the afterlife. And one who had grown to confuse selfishness with selflessness, declaring his aching plead to be from the mouths of the ones Macaque protects, and not from the shadow's own heart.

"I can't."

And there.

There exists the crack, the temperamental divide from reason and logic that defines the Great Sage Equal to Heaven. It's the same split that brings upon the banishment of "Sun Wukong, the Handsome Monkey King", and the very one that declares Macaque to be a hopeless fool.

Ego tainted with surprise, terribly so does the warrior wish for his body to lunge forward, for his mind to grasp ahold of the instinct to lash out against the being responsible for his rupturing sanity and his fear of abandonment. So fiercely does he demand to sink to the depths of Diyu, to the level of the Great Sage, and start a fight against one he'd sworn his eternal allegiance to.

Instead he denies himself the waste of breath that is the question of "why".

"You know I can't."

The Sage's mind and expression stand as firm as the stone that had birthed the stubborn ape, position unchanging in the face of his own shadow.

"You can't," the shadow repeats unamused, his ears long having flattened themselves against his head. "The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, can't return to his home because the Heavens said so."

Grating is the Great Sage's nervous laughter on his shadow's nerves. "I mean, it's more complicated than that, but-"

"Oh, of course. If I found myself equal to Heaven, I too would happily abandon the little ones to instead kneel before a monk," Macaque agrees, voice venomous with spite. "What, is the cost of your pride to be able to live without the weight of responsibility? To find yourself protecting one instead of thousands?"

Wukong's tail flicks, and the warrior mourns for how familiar the gesture stands. Their bond long extends past that of the centuries his king had spent away from the island; a simple twitch of the other's tail still stands as familiar as the route of patrol Macaque had been taking the day his king was condemned to punishment.

The Sage's calm facade had encountered a crack, and soon his mask of humor was to follow. "He saved me."

How viciously does the shadow grin, if only to hide the layers of disappointment rotting beneath his skin. "Saved you? Don't make me laugh. He serves the very deities who damned you beneath that mountain."

Oddly does such a comment affect his king openly, tail now lashing in irritation. "I wouldn't have escaped elsewise."

Lies had always been an awful thing to pour from the king's mouth, so expertly and beautifully crafted to befit whatever narrative the Great Sage would attempt to create. Had the king attempted such a trick to someone else rather than his own shadow, he may have gotten away with it.

"Bastard," the shadow's lips curl back in a snarl. "Don't lie to me. The Heavens could not leave you to rot forever beneath that mountain. But what did you, notoriously impulsive and selfish Great Sage, do? Traded your kingdom, your most loyal subjects, at the first offer of freedom."

"Mihou, I-"

"It's been four years. Four years and not a word from you, even by letter."

It mattered not how keen Macaque is to the fact that the king is not gifted in writing. However, a true ruler, His Wukong, would have learned just for any chance to communicate with his shadow and kingdom.

"Was being able to stretch your legs worth being imprisoned in a worse way? Was it worth having to use glamor with me to cover the fact that you're tortured the moment you refuse a command?"

The king's head swings, as if to further hide the golden headband he'd attempted to conceal with glamor. How foolish Wukong must think his shadow to be to not recognize the odd hint of glamor not only found in his eyes but forehead as well. Little did the ape ever use glamor in the first place, wearing his scars as though to prove his strength against the trials of the world.

"That's enough."

"No," the warrior objects, voice thin with patience. "It's not enough, is it? If it were, you would be begging, swearing to fight the Heavens once more in an attempt to free yourself of this quest. At the very least, you would have found time to visit the ones you've sworn your loyalty to.

"Great Sage you may be," he spits, furious, "But it's been long since you lost the title of 'King'."

"I am still king-"

So desperately does Wukong play into his shadow's grasp, eager to refute the truth with fury.

"Oh that's rich. Remind me of that the next time I have to explain to the little ones why they'll never be able to meet their king in their lifetime. Your absence is soon to outlast the lifespan of those who were young when you disappeared, and your throne has been reduced to nothing but ivy and a broken legacy of what once was. Why should a king need his shadow to describe what His So Gracious Majesty looks like to his subjects? What am I to tell them if you leave now, and your return is when only I have lived long enough to recognize you? When even the island's oldest generation has solely known your looks from murals and your personality from the bitter words of their elders?

"What is to happen when you return as their proclaimed king, and your subjects turn against you? When they mock you for your arrogance or point at me and-"

("Macaque!" one of the little ones, a peach-furred monkey, had once screeched, eager to disturb the warrior's attempts to bask in the evening sun. It had been during a time in which Macaque was still growing used to such a name, "Mihou" having faded from ape-speak. "Why are you not our king?"

It had been a question that had surely taken the shadow by surprise, uncertain he could trust his tongue with answering. Even still, he kept his response lame and tensely guarded. "The throne does not belong to me."

"But you've been our protector for as long as I've lived," they'd chirped, confused. "Is that not what you've said a king is meant to do?"

"Oh, Èzuòjù," Macaque sighed, his laughter gentle and grin exaggerated if only to hide his true exhaustion. "He'll return someday soon, and when he does, you'll realize that I could never upstage the 'Great Monkey King'.")

The warrior wants to snarl at the way his throat closes over the memory that'd occurred nearly a century ago. Unfortunately, Èzuòjù never lived to see the Great Sage in person, passing at the devastatingly small age of fifty-three. The little one's belief he'd meet the grand king had never wavered, however, even as Macaque held his tail during his passing.

How dare Wukong stand tall with the expectation that he will one day return to Flower Fruit Mountain and be allowed to act as though he hadn't abandoned them? The king was already lucky to of not been turned away the instant he stepped onto the mountain with the knowledge that the Great Sage couldn't stay for long.

"What will happen," Macaque breathes, tempting fate to deliver him the consequence of his words. "When you perch atop your throne and your subjects demand that I am more befitting of its seat?"

He tries not to grow surprised at how quickly his king throws the shadow to the ground, a hand grasping mercilessly at Macaque's neck.

Not often had the warrior ever found himself to be the target of the king's unbridled fury, a powerful emotion capable of shaking the Heavens themselves. It's a terrifying thing to stand in the ire of, surely, but not nearly enough to disturb Macaque's spitting anger.

It shouldn't be easy to reflect upon the loyalty both Wukong and Macaque had sworn upon each other with blood and grinned promises, reinforced through late nights of playful bickers and sparring matches. It was such a bond that meant little had the king and his shadow truly argued against one another, with the exception of the occasional bared teeth or harsh mutter amidst tension. Macaque had always thought that the patience and trust Wukong had earned over the course of their lives would never be able to dissipate at a moment's notice.

And yet, as he lies with his silver fur growing brown with dust, he can't help but find his chest heavy with fear.

Of all beings, Macaque knew better than most that his king was impulsive and stood not for the tainting of his ego. To an on-looker, it may have seemed as though Wukong would follow through his notorious temper and crush his shadow for testing his patience.

But how foolish it would be for the king to exercise his frustrations on the sole being capable of protecting Flower Fruit Mountain from destruction. It could take years, decades even, to fetch the scriptures of the West, and without a celestial monkey's protection, the island would be prey to the thousands Wukong had wronged in the past.

It shouldn't be satisfying to watch the king's eyes alight with fear of his own as his shadow falls limp, Macaque's stance one of gloating nature in spite of the submissive posture.

"Kill me," the warrior demands with a sneer, two words that he prays will shatter that world of the Great Sage and appeal to his shadow's plea for him to stay. "Go on, banish me from this island. Leave the little ones defenseless whilst you cause mischief with your Master and ontourage of demons. Prove me right. Prove to me that your loyalty lies with Buddha and not the innocents you once swore to protect."

Silence and grief is a pitiful look for the king, the shadow decides.

It's cowardice, resigned, and a mere shell of the explosive sun Macaque had learned to seek refuge and comfort within.

"I don't have to prove a thing."

Gone is the weight that had once pinned the shadow, Macaque instinctively shuffling his red scarf to hide the reddened print on his neck. He would not grant the Great Sage the satisfaction nor guilt of knowing he'd caused any bit of damage.

That for a beat, he'd existed as a threat to the safety of someone he'd once grown so close with.

"Bloodshed isn't needed to prove your betrayal," Macaque comments, his note of the Great Sage's inability to look at him an irritation stirring in silence. "You're going back to them."

"I don't have a choice, Mihou-"

How miserable their native language sounds falling from the king's throat.

"Don't."

Macaque's word is not a plea to be reasoned with, more-so a demand born of selfish desire to keep his world from crumbling.

"Great Sage, 'Equal to Heaven' you are not. You stand before your own shadow, fearful of Heaven's power, of what they will do to you should you think of betraying them. Are you too busy hiding behind your Master to understand that the Heavens will not dismiss you once your scriptures are fetched?"

The king's tail flicks, irritated. "I don't have time for this. Master expected me back three minutes ago. I'm a lucky monkey to of not been cursed with aching headaches already."

How benign of the Heavens to not of gifted the king with six ears like his shadow. Maybe then, Wukong would have debated the logical roots of Macaque's growing fears.

"Don't bother with the pleasantries of 'goodbye'," the warrior dismisses as though his stomach doesn't twist at such a thought. "Go make fun with your Master and demonic brothers."

"That's your final word to me?"

"If the Heavens are merciful, your question will be the last words I ever live to hear from you."

A nimbus cloud swirls beneath the tense posture of the king.

Despite Macaque's wishes, it is a staring content that exists as their true bidding of farewell to one another, Wukong disappearing surely to seek affirmation from his new Master that it had been moral to part with his subjects.

Dense ape, the shadow snarls to himself.

So selfish and naive, unfitting to hold the title of king.

It's a poor coconut tree that pays for the king's idiocy, obliterated by the purple flash of shadow magic. Such a childish rampage would have continued if not for a soft chirrupt, gentle and offering of comfort. It dismisses the warrior's rage at an instant, having grown used to bottle his rage in the face of needing to comfort a little one.

Wukong may have been able to run off and slip beneath the ruling thumb of his Master, but he had not dismissed his shadow of the duty to protect the occupants of Flower Fruit Mountain.

"Hey, kiddo, what are you doing all the way out here?"

How the little one could have bared to slip from the comfort of the island's waterfall by themself is beyond Macaque's understanding. Perhaps, the celestial monkey entertains bitterly, the poor thing had grown nervous of their guardian's absence and wanted proof that they had not been abandoned once more.

It is a fear that Macaque finds himself all-too acquainted with.

"Don't worry, little one. Six-Eared Macaque isn't going anywhere."

The young monkey gives a single nod before they nestle themselves atop the shoulders of the island's rightful warrior.

His tail flicks, adrenaline nothing if not prey to the growing flame of anxiety within his chest.

As furious as he is with the selfish king, he finds Flower Fruit Mountain miserable without Wukong lounging about. The king had never failed to grace the island with care and a sense of belonging Macaque could never replace. It'd be weaponized naivety to not identify that it was longing that had weaved itself between his heart and lungs, a longing for someone so incapable and selfish, yet irreplaceable all the same.

And so he struts, making his way back to the caves with ease as though new expectations and responsibility had not found its way onto his back. Conflict would arise from this, he thought, undoubtedly so. Every shadow was needing of a sun to cast it into existence, and every kingdom was doomed to fail without a king.

How foolish, though, to expect a shadow to be both his own host and owner of such a grand title.

#lego monkie kid #lmk fic #shadowpeach #lmk wukong #lmk macaque #angst #this is old af but I forgot to post it to Tumblr #these monkeys need therapy

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