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tseneipgam · 20 days ago

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"There are few things humans are more dedicated to than unhappiness. Had we been placed on earth by a malign creator for the exclusive purpose of suffering, we would have good reason to congratulate ourselves on our enthusi- astic response to the task. Reasons to be inconsolable abound: the frailty of our bodies, the fickleness of love, the insincerities of social life, the compromises of friendship, the deadening effects of habit. In the face of such persistent ills, we might naturally expect that no event would be awaited with greater anticipation than the moment of our own extinction."

"he had never esteemed himself highly ['If only I could value myself more! Alas! It is impossible] and had once referred to himself as a flea and to his writing as a piece of indigestible nougat"

"With a father so masterful at aerobic instruction, at advice on corsets and sewing positions, it seems as if Marcel may have been hasty or simply overambitious in equating his life's work with that of the author of Elements of Hygiene. Rather than blame him for the problem, one might ask whether any novel could genuinely be expected to contain therapeutic qualities, whether the genre could in itself offer any more relief than could be gained from an aspirin, a country walk or a dry martini.

Charitably, one could suggest escapism. Marooned in familiar circumstances, there may be pleasure in buying a paperback at the station news-stand ['I was attracted by the idea of reaching a wider audience, the sort of people who buy a badly printed volume before catching a train, specified Proust]. Once we've board a carriage, we can

abstract ourselves from current surroundings and enter a more agreeable, or at least agreeably different world, breaking off occasionally to take in the passing scenery, while holding open our badly printed volume at the point where an ill-tempered monocle-wearing baron prepares to enter his drawing room - until our destination is heard on the tannoy, the brakes let out their reluctant squeals and we emerge once more into reality, symbolized by the station and its group of loitering slate-grey pigeons pecking shiftily at abandoned confectionery [in her memoirs, Proust's maid Céleste helpfully informs those alarmed not to have made much ground in Proust's novel that it is not designed to be read from one station to the next]. Whatever the pleasures of using a novel as an object with which to levitate into another world, it is not the only way of handling the genre. It certainly wasn't Proust's way, and would arguably not have been a very effective method of fulfilling the exalted therapeutic ambitions expressed to Céleste. Perhaps the best indication of Proust's views on how we should read lies in his approach to looking at paintings. After his death, his friend Lucien Daudet wrote an account of his time with him, which included a description of a visit they had once made together to the Louvre. Whenever he looked at paintings, Proust had a habit of trying to match the figures depicted on canvases with people he knew from his own life.

The possibility of making such visual connections between people circulating in apparently wholly different worlds explains Proust's assertion that 'aesthetically, the number of human types is so restricted that we must constantly, wher. ever we may be, have the pleasure of seeing people we know Any such pleasure is not simply visual: the restricted number of human types also means that we are repeatedly able to read about people we know in places we might never have expected to do so. Such intimate communion between our own life and the novels we read may be why Proust argued that: "In reality, every reader is, while he is reading, the reader of his own self. The writer's work is merely a kind of optical instrument which he offers to the reader to enable him to discern what, without this book, he would perhaps never have experienced in himself. And the recognition by the reader in his own self of what the book says is the proof of its veracity." But why would readers seek to be the readers of their own selves? "

"As Proust saw the problem: "People of bygone ages seem infinitely remote from us We do not feel justified in ascribing to them any underlying intentions beyond those they formally express; we are amazed when we come across an emotion more or less like what we feel today in a Homeric hero … it is as though we imagined the epic poet . .. to be as remote from ourselves as an animal seen in a zoo." It is perhaps only normal if our initial impulse on being introduced to the characters of The Odyssey is to stare at them as though they are a family of duck-billed platypuses circling their enclosure in the municipal zoo."

But an advantage of more prolonged encounters with Proust or Homer is that worlds that had seemed threaten- ingly alien reveal themselves to be essentially much like our own, expanding the range of places in which we feel at home. It means we can open the zoo gates and release a set of trapped creatures from the Trojan War or the Faubourg Saint-Germain, who we had previously considered with unwarranted provincial suspicion, because they had names like Eurycleia and Telemachus or had never sent a fax. (in) A cure for loneliness We might also let ourselves out from the zoo. What is considered normal for a person to feel in any place at any point is liable to be an abbreviated version of what is in fact normal, so that the experiences of fictional characters afford us a hugely expanded picture of human behaviour, and thereby a confirmation of the essential normality of thoughts or feelings unmentioned in our immediate environment. After childishly picking a fight with a lover who had looked distracted throughout dinner, there is relief in hearing Proust's narrator admit to us that 'As soon as I found Albertine not being nice to me, instead of tell- ing her I was sad, I became nasty', and revealing that 'I never expressed a desire to break up with her except when I was unable to do without her', after which our own romantic antics might seem less like those of a perverse platypus."

An effect of reading a book which has devoted attention to noticing such faint yet vital tremors is that, once we've put the volume down and resumed our own life, we may attend to precisely the things which the author would have responded to had he or she been in our company. Our mind will be like a radar newly attuned to pick up certain objects floating through consciousness, the effect will be like bringing a radio into a room that we had thought silent, and realizing that the silence only existed at a particular frequency and that all along we in fact shared the room with waves of sound coming in from a Ukrainian station or the night-time chatter of a minicab firm. Our attention will be drawn to the shades of the sky, to the changeability of a face, to the hypocrisy of a friend or to a submerged sadness about a situation which we had previously not even known we could feel sad about. The book will have sensitized us, stimulated our dormant antennae by evidence of its own developed sensitivity."

Unfortunately, the very artistry of Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Flaubert has the tendency to suggest that it would have been apparent even from a news-in-brief that there was something significant about Romeo, Anna and Emma, something which would have led any right-thinking person to see that these were characters fit for great literature or a show at the Globe, whereas of course there would have been nothing to distinguish them from the somersaulting horse in Villeurbanne or the electrocuted Marcel Peigny in Aube. Hence Proust's assertion that the greatness of works of art has nothing to do with the apparent quality of their subject matter, and everything to do with the subsequent treatment of that matter. And hence his associated claims that everything is potentially a fertile subject for art and that we can make discoveries as valuable in an advertisement for soap as in Pascal's Pensées."

"A good way of evaluating the wisdom of someone's ideas might be to undertake a careful examination of the state of their own mind and health. After all, if their pronounce- ments were truly worthy of our attention, we should expect that the first person to reap their benefits would be their creator. Might this justify an interest not simply in a writer's work, but also in their life?...It now seems as if the magnitude of Proust's misfortunes should not be allowed to cast doubt on the validity of his ideas, indeed, it is the very extent of his suffering that we should take to be evidence of the perfect precondition for insights. It is when we hear that Proust's lover died in a plane crash off the coast of Antibes, that Stendhal endured a series of agonizing unrequited passions and that Nietzsche was a social outcast taunted by schoolboys, that we can be reassured of having discovered valuable intellectual

authorities. It is not the contented or the glowing who have left many of the profound testimonies of what it means to be alive. It seems that such knowledge has usually been the privileged preserve of, and the only blessing granted to, the violently miserable. Nevertheless, before subscribing uncritically to a Romantic cult of suffering, it should be added that suffering has, on its own, never been quite enough. It is unfortunately easier to lose a lover than complete In Search of Lost Time, to experience unrequited desire than write De L'Amour, to be socially unpopular than the author of The Birth of Tragedy. Many unhappy syphilitics omit to write their Fleurs du Mal and shoot themselves instead. Perhaps the greatest claim one can therefore make for suffering is that it opens up possibilities for intelligent, imaginative enquiry"

"It's quite true that the sky is on fire at sunset, but it's been said too often, and the moon that shines discreetly is a trifle dull. We may ask why Proust objected to phrases that had been used too often. After all, doesn't the moon shine discreetly? Don't sunsets look as if they were on fire? Aren't clichés just good ideas that have proved rightly popular? The problem with clichés is not that they contain false ideas, but rather that they are superficial articulations of very good ones. The sun is often on fire at sunset and the moon discreet, but if we keep saying this every time we encounter a sun or a moon, we will end believing that this is the last rather than the first word to be said on the subject. Clichés are detrimental in so far as they inspire us to believe that they adequately describe a situation while merely grazing its surface. And if this matters, it is because the way we speak is ultimately linked to the way we feel, because how we describe the world must at some level reflect how we first experience it."

"We know there is a demarcation between the sea and the sky, but it can on occasion be hard to tell whether an azure-coloured band is in fact part of the sea or the sky, the confusion lasting only until our reason re-establishes a distinction between the two elements which had been missing from our first glance. Elstir's achievement is to hang on to the original muddle, and to set down in paint a visual impression before it has been overruled by what he knows.

Proust was not implying that painting had reached its apotheosis in Impressionism, and that the movement had triumphantly captured reality' in a way that previous schools of art had not. His appreciation of painting ranged further than this, but the works of Elstir illustrated with particular clarity what is arguably present in every success- ful work of art: an ability to restore to our sight a distorted or neglected aspect of reality. As Proust expressed it: Our vanity, our passions, our spirit of imitation, our abstract intelligence, our habits have long been at work, and it is the task of art to undo this work of theirs, making us travel back in the direction from which we have come to the depths where what has really existed lies unknown within us."

distracted, generating vital thoughts only between stretches of inactivity or mediocrity, stretches in which we are not really ourselves', during which it may be no exaggeration to say that we are not quite all there as we gaze at passing clouds with a vacant, childlike expression. Because the rhythm of a conversation makes no allowance for dead periods, because the presence of others calls for continuous responses, we are left to regret the inanity of what we say, and the missed opportunity of what we do not. By contrast, a book provides for a distillation of our sporadic minds, a record of its most vital manifestations, a concen- tration of inspired moments that might originally have arisen across a multitude of years, and been separated by extended stretches of bovine gazing. To meet an author whose books one has enjoyed must, in this view, necessarily be a disappointment ['It's true that there are people who are superior to their books, but that's because their books are not Books'], because such a meeting can only reveal a person as they exist within, and find themselves subject to the limitations of time."

The disparity may be less dramatic. No doubt he believed precious few of his proustifications, but he nevertheless remained sincere in the message that had inspired and underlay them: I like you and I would like you to like me. The fifteen long-stemmed chrysanthemums, the marvellous planets, the devoted worshippers, the Athenas, goddesses and splendid images were merely what Proust felt he would need to add to his own presence in order to secure affection, in the light of his previously mentioned debilitating assessment of his own qualities [I certainly think less of myself than Antoine (his butler) does of himself ]. In fact, the exaggerated scale of Proust's social politeness should not blind us to the degree of insincerity every friendship demands, the ever-present requirement to deliver an affable but hollow word to a friend who proudly shows us a volume of their poetry or newborn baby. To call such politeness hypocrisy is to neglect that we have lied in a local way not in order to conceal fundamentally malevolent intentions but rather to confirm our sense of affection, which might have been doubted if there had been no gasping and praising, because of the unusual intensity of people's attachment to their verse and children. There seems a gap between what others need to hear from us in order to trust that we like them, and the extent of the

negative thoughts we know we can feel towards them and still like them. We know it is possible to think of someone as both dismal at poetry and perceptive, both inclined to pomposity and charming, both suffering from halitosis and genial. But the susceptibility of others means that the negative part of the equation can rarely be expressed without jeopardizing the union. We usually believe gossip about ourselves to have been inspired by a level of malice far greater [or more critical] than the malice we ourselves felt in relation to the last person we gossiped about, a person whose habits we could mock without this in any way altering our affection for them. Proust once compared friendship to reading, because both activities involved communion with others, but added that reading had a key advantage: In reading, friendship is suddenly brought back to its original purity. There is no false amiability with books."

"It may even be defended in the name of friendship. Proust proposed that "the scorners of friendship can . .. be the finest friends in the world', perhaps because these scorners approach the bond with more realistic expectations. They avoid talking at length about themselves, not because they think the subject unimportant, but rather because they recognize it as too important to be placed at the mercy of the haphazard, fleeting and ultimately superficial medium that is conversation. It means they have no reservations about asking rather than answering questions, seeing friendship as a domain in which to learn about, not lecture others. Furthermore, because they appreciate others' susceptibilities, they accept a resultant need for a degree of false amiability, for a rose-tinted interpretation of an ageing ex-courtesan's appearance or for a generous review of a well-intentioned but pedestrian volume of poetry."

However, the immediacy with which aesthetic judgements arise should not fool us into assuming that their origins are entirely natural or their verdicts unalterable. Proust's letter to Monsieur Mainguet hinted as much. By saying that great painters were the ones by whom our eyes were opened Proust was at the same time implying that our sense of beauty was not immobile, and could be sensitized by painters who would, through their canvases, educate us into an appreciation of once neglected aesthetic qualities. If the dissatisfied young man had failed to consider the family tableware or fruit, it was in part out of a lack of acquaint- ance with images which would have shown him the key to their attractions. Great painters possess such power to open our eyes because of the unusual receptivity of their own eyes to aspects of visual experience; to the play of light on the end of a spoon, the fibrous softness of a tablecloth, the velvety skin of a peach or the pinkish tones of an old man's skin. We might caricature the history of art as a succession of geniuses engaged in pointing out different elements worthy of our attention, a succession of painters using their immense technical mastery to say what amounts to, 'Aren't those back streets in Delft pretty?' or, Isn't the Seine nice ourside Paris?" And in Chardin's case, to say to the world, and some of the dissatisfied young men within it, Look not just at

the Roman campagna, the pageantry of Venice and the proud expression of Charles I astride his horse, but also, have a look at the bowl on the sideboard, the dead fish in your kitchen and the crusty bread loaves in the hall.' The happiness which may emerge from taking a second look is central to Proust's therapeutic conception, it reveals the extent to which our dissatisfactions may be the result of falling to look properly at our lives rather than the result of anything inherently deficient about them. Appreciating the beauty of crusty loaves does not preclude our interest in a chateau, but failing to do so must call into question our overall capacity for appreciation."

"By a quirk of physiology, a cake which has not crossed his lips since childhood and therefore remains uncorrupted by later associations has the ability to carry him back to Combray days, introducing him to a stream of rich and intimate memories of the past. Childhood at once seems a more beautiful period than he had remembered, he recalls with new-found wonder the old grey house in which aunt Léonie used to live, the town and surroundings of mbray, the streets along which he used to run errands, parish church, the country roads, the fowers in Léonie's garion and the water lilies floating on the Vivone river. so doing he recognizes the worth of these memories, Inspire the novel he will eventually narrate, which is sense an entire, extended, controlled Proustian moment', to which it is akin in sensitivity and sensual immediacy. If the incident with the madeleine cheers the narrator, it is because it helps him realize that it isn't his life which has been mediocre so much as the image of it he possessed in memory. It is a key Proustian distinction"

"The narrator has been avoiding not only racecourses, but also the seashore. He has been looking at the sea with his fingers in front of his eyes, in order to blot out any modern ships that might pass by and spoil his attempt to view the sea in an immemorial state, or at least as it must have looked no later than the early centuries of Greece. Again, Elstir rescues him from his peculiar habit, and draws his attention to the beauty of yachts. He points out their uniform surfaces, which are simple, gleaming and grey and which, in the bluish haze reflecting off the sea, take on a seductive creamy softness. He talks of the women on board, who dress attractively in white cotton or linen clothes, which in the sunlight, against the blue of the sea, take on the dazzling whiteness of a spread sail."

The incident emphasizes once more that beauty is something to be found, rather than passively encountered, that it requires us to pick up on certain details, to identify the whiteness of a cotton dress, the reflection of the sea on the hull of a yacht or the contrast between the colour of a jockey's coat and his face. It also emphasizes how vulnerable we are to depression when the Elstirs of the world choose not to go on holiday and the pre-prepared images run out, when our knowledge of art does not stretch any later than Carpaccio [I450-1525] and Veronese [1528-1588] and we see a two-hundred-horsepower Sunseeker accelerating out of the marina. It may genuinely be an unattractive example of aquatic transport; then again, our objection to the speedboat may stem from nothing other than a stubborn adherence to ancient images of beauty, and a resistance to a process of active appreciation which even Veronese and Carpaccio would have undertaken had they been in our place."

The images with which we are surrounded are often not just out of date, they can also be unhelpfully ostentatious. When Proust urges us to evaluate the world properly, he repeatedly reminds us of the value of modest scenes. Chardin opens our eyes to the beauty of salt cellars and jugs, the madeleine delights the narrator by evoking memories of an ordinary bourgeois childhood, Elstir paints nothing grander than cotton dresses and harbours. In Proust's view, such modesty is characteristic of beauty: True beauty is indeed the one thing incapable of answer- ing the expectations of an over-romantic imagination . What disappointments has it not caused since it first appeared to the mass of mankind! A woman goes to see a masterpiece of art as excitedly as if she was finishing a serial-story, or consulting a fortune teller or waiting for her lover. But she sees a man sitting meditating by the window, in a room where there is not much light. She waits for a moment in case something more may appear, as in a boulevard transparency. And though hypocrisy may seal her lips, she says in her heart of hearts: 'What, is that all there is to Rembrandt's Philosopher?'

"Such disastrous encounters with aristocrats might encourage us to give up on our search for so-called eminent figures, who only turn out to be vulgar drones when we meet them. The snobbish longing to associate with those of superior rank should, it seems, be abandoned in favour of a gracious accommodation to our lot. Yet there may be a different conclusion to be drawn. Rather than ceasing to discriminate between people altogether, we may simply have to become better at doing so. The image of a refined aristocracy is not false, it is merely dangerously uncomplicated. There are of course superior people at large in the world, but it is optimistic to assume that they could

be so conveniently located on the basis of their surname. It is this the snob refuses to believe, trusting instead in the existence of watertight classes whose members unfailingly display certain qualities. Though a few aristocrats can match expectations, a great many more will have the winning qualities of the Duc de Guermantes, for the category of 'aristocracy' is simply too crude a net to pick up on something as unpredictably allocated as virtue or refine- ment. There may be someone worthy of the expectations which the narrator has harboured of the Duc de Guer- mantes, but this person might well appear in the unex- pected guise of an electrician, cook or lawyer."

once they see them fit the dominant image of an intelligent person, and learn of their formal education, factual knowledge and university degree. Such people would have had no difficulty in recognizing that Proust's maid was an idiot: she thought that Napoleon and Bonaparte were two different people, and refused to believe Proust for a week when he suggested otherwise. But Proust knew she was brilliant ['I've never managed to teach her to spell, and she has never had the patience to read even half a page of my book, but she is full of extraordinary gifts']. This isn't to propose an equally, if more perversely, snobbish argument that education has no value, and that the importance of European history from Campo Formio to the Battle of Waterloo is the result of a sinister academic conspiracy, but rather that an ability to identify emperors and spell aproximately is not in itself enough to establish the existence of something as hard to define as intelligence."

"Trapped inside a novel, these unhappy characters would, after all, be the only ones unable to draw the therapeutic benefits of reading it."

After looking at a mountain, if we shut our lids and dwell on the scene internally we are led to seize on its important details, the mass of visual information is inter- preted and the mountain's salient features identified: its granite peaks, its glacial indentations, the mist hovering above the tree line; details which we would previously have seen but not for that matter noticed. Though Noah was six hundred years old when God flooded the world, and would have had much time to look at his surroundings, the fact that they were always there, that they were so permanent in his visual field, would have given him no encouragement to recreate them internally. What was the point of focusing closely on a bush in his mind's eye when there was abundant physical evidence of bushes in the vicinity? How different the situation would have been after two weeks in the Ark, when, nostalgic for his old surroundings, and unable to see them, Noah would naturally have begun to focus on the memory of bushes, trees and mountains, and therefore, for the first time in his six-hundred-year life, begun to see them properly. It suggests that having something physically present sets up far from ideal circumstances in which to notice it. Presence may in fact be the very element that encourages us to ignore or neglect it, because we feel we have done all the work simply in securing visual contact."

"If long acquaintance with a lover so often breeds bore- dom, breeds a sense of knowing a person too well, the problem may ironically be that we do not know them well enough. Whereas the initial novelty of the relationship could leave us in no doubt as to our ignorance, the subsequent reliable physical presence of the lover and the routines of communal life can delude us into thinking that we have achieved genuine, and dull familiarity; whereas it may be no more than a fake sense of familiarity which physical presence fosters, and which Noah would have felt for six hundred years in relation to the world, until the Flood taught him otherwise."

Proust compares Albertine to a student who visits Dresden after cultivating a desire to see a particular painting, whereas the Duchesse is like a wealthy tourist who travels without any desire or knowledge, and experiences nothing but bewil- dement, boredom and exhaustion when she arrives. It emphasizes the extent to which physical possession is only one component of appreciation. If the rich are fortunate in being able to travel to Dresden as soon as the desire to do so arises, or buy a dress just after they have seen it in a catalogue, they are cursed because of the speed with which their wealth fulfils their desires. No sooner have they thought of Dresden than they can be on a train there, no sooner have they seen a dress than it can be in their wardrobe. They therefore have no opportunity to suffer the interval between desire and gratification which the less privileged endure, and which, for all its apparent unpleasantness, has the incalculable benefit of allowing people to know and fall deeply in love with paintings in Dresden, hats, dressing gowns and someone who isn't free this evening."

If prostitutes …attract us so little, it is not because they are less beautiful than other women, but because they are ready and waiting; because they already offer us precisely what we seek to attain. O: So he believed that sex was everything men wanted to attain? A: A further distinction might have to be made. The prostitute offers a man what he thinks he wants to attain, she gives him an illusion of attainment, but one which is nevertheless strong enough to threaten the gestation of love. To return to the Duchesse, she fails to appreciate her dresses not because they are less beautiful than other dresses, but because physical possession is so easy, which fools her into thinking that she has acquired everything she wanted, and distracts her from pursuing the only real form of possession which is effective in Proust's eyes, namely, imaginative possession [dwelling on the details of the dress, the folds of the material, the delicacy of the thread], an imaginative possession which Albertine already pursues, through no conscious choice, because it is a natural response to being denied physical contact."

"It may have been a particularly inept kiss, but by detailing Its disappointments Proust points to a general difficulty in a physical method of appreciation. The narrator recognizes that he could do almost anything physically with Albertine, take her on his knees, hold her head in his hands, caress her, but that he would still be doing nothing other than touching the sealed envelope of a far more elusive, beloved person. This might not matter were it not for a tendency to believe that physical contact might in fact put us directly in touch with the object of our love. Disappointed with the kiss, the risk is that we would then ascribe our disappoint- ment to the tedium of the person we were kissing rather than to the limitations involved in doing so."

Ruskin sensitized Proust to the visible world, to architec- ture, art and nature. Here is Ruskin awakening his readers' senses to a few of the many things going on in an ordinary mountain stream: If it meets a rock three or four feet above the level of its bed, it will often neither part nor foam, nor express any concern about the matter, but clear it in a smooth dome of water, without apparent exertion, the whole surface of the surge being drawn into parallel lines by its extreme velocity, so that the whole river has the appearance of a deep and raging sea, with only this difference, that torrent-waves always break backwards, and sea-waves forwards. Thus, then, in the water which has gained an impetus, we have the most exquisite arrangements of curved lines, perpetually changing from convex to con

cave, and vice versa, following every swell and hollow of the bed with their modulating grace, and all in unison of motion, presenting perhaps the most beautiful series of inorganic forms which nature can possibly produce. Aside from landscape, Ruskin helped Proust to discover the beauty of the great cathedrals of northern France. When he returned to Paris after his holiday, Proust travelled to Bourges and to Chartres, to Amiens and Rouen. Later explaining what Ruskin had taught him, Proust pointed to a passage on Rouen cathedral in The Seven Lamps of Architecture, in which Ruskin minutely described a particu- lar stone figure which had been carved, together with hundreds of others, in one of the cathedral's portals. The figure was of a little man, no more than ten centimetres high, with a vexed, puzzled expression, and one hand pressed hard against his cheek, wrinkling the flesh under his eye."

Yet something in this forceful defence of reading and scholarship intimated Proust's reservations. Without draw- ing attention to how contentious or critical the point was, he argued that we should be reading for a particular reason; not to pass the time, not out of detached curiosity, not out of a dispassionate wish to find out what Ruskin felt, but because, to go back with italics, 'there is no better way of coming to be aware of what one feels oneself than by trying to recreate in oneself what a master has felt'. We should read other people's books in order to learn what we feel, it is our own thoughts we should be developing even if it is another writer's thoughts which help us do so. A fulfilled academic life would therefore require us to judge that the writers we were studying articulated in their books a sufficient range of our own concerns, and that in the act of understanding them through translation or commentary, we would simul- taneously be understanding and developing the spiritually significant parts of themselves.

And herein lay Proust's problem, because in his view, books could not make us aware of enough of the things we felt. They might open our eyes, sensitize us, enhance our powers of perception, but at a certain point they would stop, not by coincidence, not occasionally, not out of bad luck, but inevitably, by definition, for the stark and simple reason that the author wasn't us. There would come a moment with every book when we would feel that something was incongruous, misunderstood or constraining, and it would give us a responsibility to leave our guide behind and continue our thoughts alone. Proust's respect for Ruskin was enormous, but having worked intensely on his texts for six years, having lived with bits of paper scattered across his bed and his bamboo table piled high with books, in a particular burst of irritation at continually being tethered to another man's words, Proust exclaimed that Ruskin's qualities had not prevented him from frequently being 'silly, maniacal, constraining, false and ridiculous"

"The fact that Proust did not at this point turn to trans- lating George Eliot or annotating Dostoevsky signals a recognition that the frustration he felt with Ruskin was not incidental to this author, but reflected a universally con- straining dimension to reading and scholarship, and was sufficient reason never to strive for the title of Professor Proust. It is one of the great and wonderful characteristics of good books (which allows us to see the role, at once

essential yet limited, that reading may play in our spiritual lives) that for the author they may be called 'Conclusions' but for the reader 'Incitements'. We feel very strongly that our own wisdom begins where that of the author leaves off, and we would like him to provide us with answers when all he is able to do is provide us with desires… That is the value of reading, and also its inadequacy. To make it into a discipline is to give too large a role to what is only an incitement. Reading is on the threshold of the spiritual life; it can introduce us to it: it does not constitute it."

However, Proust was singularly aware of how tempting it was to believe that reading could constitute our entire spiritual life, which led him to formulate some careful lines of instruction on a responsible approach to books: As long as reading is for us the instigator whose magic keys have opened the door to those dwelling-places deep within us that we would not have known how to enter, its role in our lives is salutary. It becomes dangerous, on the other hand, when, instead of awakening us to the personal life of the mind, reading tends to take its place, when the truth no longer appears to us as an ideal which we can realize only by the intimate progress of our own thought and the efforts of our heart, but as something material, deposited between the leaves of books like a honey fully prepared by others and which we need only take the trouble to reach down from the shelves of libraries and then sample passively"

"It obligates us to read with care, to welcome the insights books give us, but not to subjugate our independence, or smother the nuances of our own love life in the process. Otherwise, we might suffer a range of symptoms which Proust identified in the overreverent, overreliant reader"

Symptom no. 2: That we will be unable to write after reading a good book This may seem a narrowly professional consideration, but it has wider relevance if one imagines that a good book might also stop us from thinking ourselves, because it would strike us as so perfect, as so inherently superior to anything our own minds could come up with. In short, a good book might silence us. Reading Proust nearly silenced Virginia Woolf. She loved his novel, but loved it rather too much. There wasn't enough wrong with it, a crushing recognition when one follows Walter Benjamin in his assessment of why people become writers: because they are unable to find a book already written which they are completely happy with. And the difficulty for Virginia was that, for a time at least, she thought she had found one. Marcel and Virginia - A short story Virginia Woolf first mentioned Proust in a letter she wrote to Roger Fry in the autumn of I919. He was in France, she was in Richmond, where the weather was foggy and the garden in bad shape, and she casually asked him whether he might bring her back a copy of Swann's Way on his return.

I was 1922 before she next mentioned Proust. She had rumned forty and, despite the entreaty to Pry, still hadn't read anything of Proust's work, though in a letter to E. M Forster, she revealed that others in the vicinity were being more diligent. Everyone is reading Proust. I sit silent and hear their reports. It seems to be a tremendous experience, she explained, though appeared to be procrastinating out of a fear of being overwhelmed by something in the novel, an object she referred to more as if it were a swamp than hundreds of bits of paper stuck together with thread and glue; Tm shivering on the brink, and waiting to be submerged with a horrid sort of notion that I shall go down and down and down and perhaps never come up again.' She took the plunge nevertheless, and the problems started. As she told Roger Fry, Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence. "Oh, if I could write like that!" I cry. And at the moment such is the astonishing vibration and saturation that he procures there's something sexual in it - that I feel I can write like that, and seize my pen, and then I can't write like that. In what sounded like a celebration of In Search of Lost Time, but was in fact a far darker verdict on her future as a writer, she told Fry: My great adventure is really Proust. Well - what remains to be written after that? . .. How, at last, has someone solidified what has always escaped - and made it too into this beautiful and perfectly enduring substance? One has to put the book down and gasp.

In spite of the gasping, Woolf realized that Mrs Dalloway still remained to be written, after which she allowed herself a brief burst of elation at the thought that she might have produced something decent. I wonder if this time I have achieved something?' she asked herself in her diary, but the pleasure was short-lived: Well, nothing anyhow compared with Proust, in whom I am embedded now. The thing about Proust is his combination of the utmost sensibility with the utmost tenacity. He searches out these butterfly shades to the last grain. He is as tough as catgut and as evanescent as a butterfly's bloom. And he will I suppose both influence me and make me out of temper with every sentence of my own. But Woolf knew how to hate her sentences well enough even without Proust's assistance. 'So sick of Orlando I can write nothing,' she told her diary shortly after completing this book in 1928. I have corrected the proofs in a week: and cannot spin another phrase. I detest my own volubility. Why be always spouting words?' However, any bad mood she was in was liable to take a dramatic plunge for the worse after the briefest contact with the Frenchman. The diary entry continued: "Take up Proust after dinner and put him down. This is the worst time of all. It makes me suicidal. Nothing seems left to do. All seems insipid and worthless. Nevertheless, she didn't yet commit suicide, though she did take the wise step of ceasing to read Proust, and was therefore able to write a few more books whose sentences were neither

insipid nor worthless. Then in 1934, when she was working on The Years, there was a sign that she had at last freed her- self from Proust's shadow. She told Ethel Smyth that she had picked up In Search of Lost Time again, which is of course so magnificent that I can't write myself within its arc. For years I've put off finishing it; but now, thinking I may die one of these years, I've returned, and let my own scribble do what it likes. Lord, what a hopeless bad book mine will be!' The tone suggests that Woolf had at last made her peace with Proust. He could have his terrain, she had hers to scribble in. The path from depression and self-loathing to cheerful defiance suggests a gradual recognition that one person's achievements did not have to invalidate another's, that there would always be something left to do even if it momentarily appeared otherwise. Proust might have expressed many things well, but independent thought and the history of the novel had not come to a halt with him. His book did not have to be followed by silence, there was still space for the scribbling of others, for Mrs Dalloway, The Common Reader, A Room of Onè's Own, and in particular there was space for what these books symbolized in this context, perceptions of one's own."

idolatry. In the religious context, idolatry suggests a fixation on an aspect of religion - on an image of a worshipped deity, on a particular law or holy book - which distracts us from and even contravenes, the overall spirit of the religion. Proust suggested that a structurally similar problem existed in art, where artistic idolaters combined a literal reverence for objects depicted in art with a neglect of the spirit of art. They would, for instance, become particularly attached to a part of the countryside depicted by a great painter, and mistake this for an appreciation of the painter, they would focus on the objects in a picture, as opposed to the spirit of the picture - whereas the essence of Proust's aesthetic position was contained in the deceptively simple yet momentous assertion that 'a picture's beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it' Proust accused his friend, the aristocrat and poet Robert de Montesquiou, of artistic idolatry, because of the pleasure he took whenever he encountered in life an object which had been depicted by an artist. Montesquiou would gush if he happened to see one of his female friends wearing a dress like that which Balzac had imagined for the character of the Princesse de Cadignan in his novel Les Secrets de la Princesse de Cadignan. Why was this type of delight idolatrous? Because Montesquiou's enthusiasm had nothing to do with an appreciation of the dress and everything to do with a respect for Balzac's name."

"Françoise's Chocolate Mousse Ingredients: 100g of plain cooking chocolate, 100g of caster sugar, half a litre of milk, six eggs. Method: Bring the milk to the boil, add the chocolate broken in pieces, and let it melt gently, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon. Whip the sugar with the yolks of the six eggs. Preheat the oven to 130°C. When the chocolate has completely melted, pour it over the eggs and the sugar, mix rapidly and energeti- cally, then pass through a strainer. Pour out the liquid into little ramekins 8cm in diameter, and put into the oven, in a bain-marie, for an hour. Leave to cool before serving."

"The danger is that La Cuisine Retrouvée will unwittingly throw us into depression the day we fail to find the right ingredients for the chocolate mousse or green bean salad, and are forced to eat a hamburger - which Proust never had a chance to write about. It wouldn't, of course, have been Marcel's intention: picture's beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it."

"There is something eerie about driving into a town which has surrendered part of its claim to independent reality in favour of a role fashioned for it by a novelist who once spent a few summers there as a boy in the late nineteenth century. But Illiers-Combray appears to relish the idea. In a corner of the Rue du Docteur Proust, the pâtisserie-confiserie hangs a large, somewhat puzzling sign outside its door: "The House where Aunt Léonie used to buy her madeleines."

" Combray may be pleasant, but it is as valuable a place to visit as any in the large plateau of northern France, the beauty which Proust revealed there could be present, latent, in almost any town, if only we made the effort to consider it in a Proustian way. Ironically, however, it is out of an idolatrous reverence for Proust, and a misunderstanding of his aesthetic ideas, that we speed blindly through the surrounding countryside, through neighbouring non-literary towns and villages like Brou, Bonneval and Courville, on our way to the imagined delights of Proust's childhood locale. In so doing, we forget that had Proust's family settled in Courville, or his old aunt taken up residence in Bonneval, it would have been to these places that we would have driven, just as unfairly. Our pilgrimage is idolatrous because it privileges the place Proust happened to grow up in rather than his manner of considering it, an oversight which the corpulent Michelin man encourages, because he fails to recognize that the worth of sights is dependent more on the quality of one's vision than on the objects viewed, that there is nothing inherently three-star about a town Proust grew up in or inherently no- star about an Elf petrol station near Courville, where Proust never had a chance to fill a Renault - but where if he had, he might easily have found something to appreciate, for it has a delightful forecourt with daffodils planted in a neat border and an old-fashioned pump which, from a distance, looks like a stout man leaning against a fence wearing pair of burgundy dungarees."

"In the preface to his translation of Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies, Proust had written enough to turn the Illiers- Combray tourist industry into an absurdity had anyone bothered to listen: We would like to go and see the field that Millet .. shows us in his Springtime, we would like Claude Monet to take us to Giverny, on the banks of the Seine, to that bend of the river which he hardly lets us distinguish through the morning mist. Yet in actual fact, it was the mere chance of a connection or family relation that gave . Millet or Monet occasion to pass or to stay nearby, and to choose to paint that road, that garden, that field, that bend in the river, rather than some other. What makes them appear other and more beautiful than the rest of the world is that they carry on them, like some elusive reflection, the impression they afforded to a genius, and which we might see wandering just as singularly and despotically across the submissive, indif- ferent face of all the landscapes he may have painted. It should not be Illiers-Combray that we visit: a genuine homage to Proust would be to look at our world through his eyes, not look at his world through our eyes. To forget this may sadden us unduly. When we feel interest to be so dependent on the exact locations where certain great artists found it, a thousand landscapes and areas of experience will be deprived of possible interest, for Monet only looked at a few stretches of the earth"

"The moral? That there is no greater homage we could pay Proust than to end up passing the same verdict on him as he passed on Ruskin, namely, that for all its qualities, his work must eventually also prove silly, maniacal, constrain- ing, false and ridiculous to those who spend too long on it. To make [reading] into a discipline is to give too large a role to what is only an incitement. Reading is on the threshold of the spiritual life; it can introduce us to it: it does not constitute it. Even the finest books deserve to be thrown aside."

#book

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a-student-out-of-time · 2 years ago

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I’m talking about Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571.

Ah yes, that story...

I haven’t heard that one.

It was a plane that took off from Uruguay on October 13, 1972, carrying 45 passengers and crew, including a rugby team that was due to play against a team in Santiago, Chile. But they never made it there.

The pilot made a critical error when crossing the Andes mountains, and by the time he realized they were too close to the cliffs, it was too late. The plane crashed, killing 12 passengers immediately and badly injuring several others, many of whom succumbed to their injuries days later.

That wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was that the survivors were trapped in the snow, over 3,500 meters up, with only the ruined plane for shelter. They tried to get the attention of some passing planes, but the wreckage blended into the snow.

They were stuck in the mountains for 72 days, and out of 45 people, only 16 made it back home.

Holy crap...how the hell did they manage that?

Pretty ingeniously, actually. They used things like the seat cushions to make snowshoes, pieces of shiny metal to melt snow into drinking water, made coats and blankets from wool seat covers. They even used rugby balls as toilets, since it was safer than going outside.

They also had a medical student with them, 19-year-old Roberto Canessa, who cared for the injured as best he could.

But...after 9 days, they ran out of food.

So, what? Did they have to go hunting?

No, at that altitude, there are no animals and no vegetation.

But the cold temperatures also meant the bodies of their fellow passengers were well-preserved.

...

It was not an easy decision for any of them. Not only were the dead all friends and family members, the survivors were all devout Christians, and many of them refused to eat for days, praying to God and asking for some kind of guidance.

But there was nothing else for them, and they knew if they waited too long, they wouldn’t have the strength to survive. They also all had other friends and family waiting for them back home, including children.

And many of them asked, if they’d been the ones to die instead, wouldn’t they have wanted their loved ones to survive?

Dang...

Canessa-san helped ease their burden by having them see it as an act of communion. That their loved ones were helping to keep them alive, and it brought them closer together, physically and spiritually. The survivors even offered to donate their own bodies to the group if they didn’t make it.

Which, after an avalanche on day 17, eight more of them didn’t. Even after their pact, it wasn’t an easy decision, but they had to survive.

So...how’d they get home?

Well, even after the crash, they did have a functioning transistor radio, and when they heard that the search for them was being called off, Canessa-san and another survivor, Nando Parrado, set off to get help themselves. They hiked for 10 days before they finally reached the bottom of the mountain.

Thanks to some farmers living down there, they made it back to civilization and lead a rescue mission to find the crash site. After over two months of being stuck in the mountains, the survivors of Flight 571 were able to make it home.

But...the public wasn’t happy when the news got out.

A lot of them took issue with the fact that the survivors had resorted to cannibalism. In the days afterward, rumors circulated in their home country that they’d taken to murdering their fellow passengers for food.

It took five days for a press conference to be called, where they could explain the truth of what happened. Thankfully, that’s when public outcry started to diminish.

A Catholic priest even told them that they’d be forgiven what they did, since it was their only real chance at survival.

Personally, I don’t judge them for it. When it comes to life and death, a lot of people will do whatever it takes to survive, and to make sure the people they love survive.

...

#danganronpa #nwpm #neo world program monitor #sdr2 #super danganronpa 2 #Estu Deguchi #Masa Esumi #Hajime Hinata #Kyoji Nakamura #a student out of time #DR #The Price of Fate arc

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pleasantanathema · 4 years ago

Text

Santa Daddy | Jean Kirstein x Reader

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Daddy kink, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, friends to lovers (or, rather, idiots to lovers), lots of holiday fluff

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This is my Secret Santa gift to @whats-her-quirk 🎄💕 June, thank you so much for being a wonderful friend; I was truly lucky and privileged to get you as my Elf for Secret Santa! I hope this fluffy (and dirty) little fic with our best boi Jean brings you some holiday cheer!

There were only a few things in the world that made you happier than watching Jean Kirstein smile. Like most of your friends, you’d met him through work, but there was always something so special, almost magical, about seeing his darling smile and hearing his boisterous laugh. And you rarely passed up on a chance to see delight spread across his handsome face, which is why you couldn’t say no when he asked you to join him on a get-a-away with your friends for the holidays.

The inquiry came after you mentioned how you wouldn’t be able to make it home for the holidays due to a winter storm blowing in. It would be the second season in a row that the weather kept you from visiting home.

You could still hear his voice in your head, “alone? For Christmas?”

He’d then insisted you join him and his friends at Sasha’s family cabin. It was tradition for them, a gathering of misfits finding communion together out in the wilderness for a few days before the new year. You had taken trips with your friends before to amusement parks, festivals, even to the beach at Armin’s request, but something about being invited to an intimate setting to celebrate holiday traditions had you anxious.

So, there you were, swaddled in blankets, listening to Eren bicker with Mikasa while Sasha and Connie bustled in the kitchen to make eggnog and treats. Armin had declined to join, citing that he’d seen too many horror movies about young adults alone in cabins to feel comfortable making the trip.

And, true to form, Jean was running late. He was always late, his mind constantly moving a mile a minute unless he consigned himself to much needed rest and relaxation. Though, this time, you felt a little lonely while waiting for him on the couch, like there was a small part of you missing as you watched the snow fall outside.

“So, none of you guys go home for the holidays?” You looked over toward the modest, plastic tree that Sasha had thrown down from her attic to bring a little holiday cheer to the living room, a few poorly wrapped presents and bags nestled under the branches.

“Well,” Eren cleared his throat, “we are orphans.” He pulled at Mikasa’s scarf for emphasis.

“Oh fuck, yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about, he just always brings it up to get sympathy gifts.” Mikasa sighed, jerking the red cloth from his hands and scowling. Eren only laughed, brushing a stray hair from his face that had come loose from the bun at his nape.

You sunk a little deeper into the cushions, eyes glancing out the window in hopes you’d see headlights flash in the driveway.

“Do you think Jean’s okay? He should’ve been here a while ago and the storm is getting closer.”

“Jean, Jean, Jean,” Sasha trotted into the room, balancing a mountain of sweet-smelling cookies on a plate, “you’re always worried about him.”

“Someone should be, guy’s an idiot.” Eren chimed in, green eyes shining from the low flames rolling in the fireplace. He and Mikasa were sitting in the floor, a game of checkers spread out before them, with more stolen pieces resting near the cunning Ackerman’s side of the board.

Eren wasn’t wrong, but over the years you’d known your group of friends, you’d noticed just how much the man in question had grown. In his early twenties, Jean had been quite the bumbling fool, having literally met you by bumping into your shoulder while leaving work, only to look at you and mumble “god you’re beautiful,” before issuing a quick apology as he rubbed at his neck sheepishly. You’d never mentioned the moment again, though your stomach still churned with a slight thrill every time you thought about it.

But over the years he’d managed to turn that puerility into something much more charming. He was more refined, almost infuriatingly suave, easily gaining attention from anyone and everyone. And though you sometimes hated to admit it, he’d captured your thoughts as well.

You kept your budding crush on Jean Kirstein close to your chest, not admitting it to any of your close friends. You always figured he was out of your league, seeing that he had a new, more beautiful girlfriend just about every other month. But, despite your simmering feelings, you still allowed yourself to get closer and closer to him over the years—some might say he’s your best friend, but you might call him your most treasured vexation.

Another hour or so went by, your time spent nibbling at cookies and reminiscing with everyone about another year passed.

Then the door finally opened, cold air gusting into the small living room as Jean stomped his damp boots on the entry mat.

“Have you guys opened presents yet?”

You glanced over the back of the couch, heart tugging in your chest as you noticed snow dusted in his long hair and a sizeable red and white polka dot package in his hands.

“No because Christmas is tomorrow, or did you forget that too?” Connie said it with crumbs in his mouth, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Jean laughed, running a hand through his hair before wrapping the gift in his arms like it was something valuable.

“I know, I know, and sorry I’m late, had something important to go get.” He smiled, bright and cheery, hazel eyes bouncing between his friends and the carefully guarded box, “I ask because…uh, this needs to be opened kind of soon.”

“Is it perishable?” Sasha perked up, already ready to go make room in the fridge if something delectable was waiting as a gift.

“I mean…you could say that? It may or may not be alive.” He was laughing, that kind of infectious laughter that had everyone in the room grinning whether they wanted to or not.

Jean didn’t set the present down to even take off his shoes, instead tracking snow in with him and plopping onto the couch with flurries still on shoulders. He nudged your knee with his, pushing the present toward you. You pressed your lips together, hands getting sweaty as you pieced the puzzle together.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah,” his grin was pulling at his cheeks, eyes so sincere and happy and it almost startled you, “it’s for you.”

The top of the box moved, the green bow popping on top of the polka dots.

You moved the gift into your lap, pulling off the top to find perky ears and green eyes peering up at you—a kitten, grey and striped, with long, white whiskers and a pink bow around its neck greeted you with muted curiosity. You just stared at it for a moment, and it stared back, like you were both wondering just how it got into your lap.

“I just,” Jean was getting nervous, carding his fingers through his hair again as he waited for your reaction, “I wanted to make sure you’d never spend another holiday alone, you know?”

You carefully picked up the little cat, watching how it stretched and yawned as you pulled it from the carefully lain blanket inside its temporary home.

You smiled, pulling the warm little bundle to your chest.

“Um, Jean, this cat has six toes on her paws,” you said, pressing your thumb gently against one of the extra appendages in question.

“Six toes?!” Sasha was jumping up from her seat, bounding over to kneel in front of you and pluck one of the kitten’s paws into her fingers. The cat quickly pulled its paw back, little black toe beans curling to its chest.

“Yeah, it’s what drew me to her. She’s extra special…” you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter something under his breath, a little musing of “just like you,” but any hushed murmur was overshadowed by the ohs and ahs of your friends gathering around to look at the adorable little creature.

The kitten had been lulled to sleep by the car ride from the shelter to the cabin, content to just curl up in your arms as inquisitive fingers prodded at her little kitten mittens and the silky, white tufts in her ears. Even Mikasa was enraptured by the tiny animal, taking the time to retie the little pink ribbon around her neck to make a bigger, prettier bow.

You noticed how your friends were whispering, cheeky grins pressed against eager ears as they looked between you, the precious kitten, and Jean on the couch. You were starting to feel like you were missing something, or maybe that you were at the end of a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet.

“Thank you,” you whispered to Jean after the fuss died down, everyone returning to their seats and back to their previous fixations.

You’d mentioned perhaps wanting a cat a few weeks ago; it was just a silly, off-hand comment you made over coffee about how you’d once read that people with cats live longer because they pick up on the nine-lives of their feline partner. You didn’t believe it to be true, but you’d mused about the idea of having a cute kitten of your own to snuggle up with on lonely nights.

“I know it’s sudden and a lot of responsibility, so if you don’t want her—”

“No,” you cut Jean off, bundling the kitten a little closer in your arms, your heart singing as you felt her start to purr, “no, I want her, she’s perfect.”

Jean finally started to get settled himself, standing up and shrugging off his jacket. He was in a tight turtleneck, coal black threads stretched to their limit across his broad chest and shoulders, hugging his trim waist. You were careful not to stare for too long as he stretched his arms above his head to shake off the weariness of his drive through the snow.

He always looked like he stepped out of a fashion catalogue, fresh and so put together that sometimes you were tempted to snap his photo when he wasn’t looking; he just looked that good all the time. He loved to wear designer clothes and keep up with the latest menswear trends, and tonight was no different, that beautiful black turtleneck (that was covered in grey fur) undoubtedly belonging to a designer whose name you probably couldn’t pronounce.

“What are you gonna name her?”

He sat a little closer this time on the couch, a brawny arm outstretched behind you as he leaned over to scratch at the kitten’s chin.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, gazing down at the serene, sleepy face in your arms, “I’ll have to get to know her first.”

“Well, I’ve been calling her Frankie.”

“Frankie?” You smiled through your confusion, the name sounding oddly right.

“She was pretty wild in the car and kept meowing when Frank Sinatra was on the radio.”

“I see,” you laid the kitten down into your lap, sweeping your fingers through her fur and watching as she curled up into a tighter little circle, “well, I’ll consider it.”

You felt warm, heavy fingers brush against the back of your neck, Jean absentmindedly painting figure eights into your prickling skin. Heat flushed to your face as you realized just how close your bodies had become—his thigh was pressed against your own, dark jeans tight and hot, the scruff of his cheeks brushing against your own as he toyed with the sleeping cat’s tail.

There were voices all around you, the muffled sounds of your friends relaxing together falling almost on deaf ears. Your whole world felt like it just revolved around this couch, like nothing else mattered beyond the simple touches to your skin and the drowsy kitten beneath your hands. He never wanted you to spend another holiday alone, you replayed his words, the sweet sentiment finally settling into your spirit.

_______________

You could tell everyone was starting to get a bit sleepy, a few hours spent drinking spiked eggnog and chasing the new kitten around with a feather toy having left you especially exhausted. Your head was a little swimmy as you bid everyone goodnight, the grey tabby cat following closely on your heels to your bedroom where Jean had already brought in a litter box and a bed for her to sleep in. Jean, underneath all the designer bravado and smiles, was perhaps the most thoughtful person you knew.

But despite the heaviness in your head, you couldn’t seem to sleep. You tossed and turned in the bed, occasionally picking up your phone to scroll through it or just watch the time tick by. You had a lot of thoughts mulling around in your mind, most of them revolving around the man sleeping just right across the hall.

Never in a million years did you expect Jean to walk in with a beautiful, perfect kitten as a gift. The little thing was back to sleeping again, this time curled around one of your feet, each exhale a little purr against your toes.

You’d carried the weight of this crush around for too many years. You rubbed your palms against your eyes, sighing as you came to terms with your feelings for Jean for what felt like the thousandth time. Your pining was starting to take its toll, too, what with the sleeping giant so close yet so far away.

And you still felt like you were missing something.

Throughout the night, your friends had seemingly been playing coy, teasing Jean about getting you such a big, sentimental gift. Maybe they had all caught wind of your suppressed feelings and were poking at Jean for even daring to indulge you. Now you were just getting frustrated with your thoughts, sighing as you tried to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep.

But then you heard a little sound, the soft buzz of your phone against the wood of the night stand.

Jean: You awake?

Your heart skipped a little in your chest as you saw his name flash upon your screen. You texted him nearly every day, yet he never failed to send a little jolt of adrenaline down your spine.

You: Yeah. Can’t sleep.

Jean: Me either. Cabin is too fucking cold.

You: I have a kitty asleep on my feet, definitely helps beat the chill.

Jean: A warm kitty sounds nice right now.

Only a few seconds passed before the next message appeared.

Jean: Wanna come keep me company?

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, your mind not even thinking about the words in front of you. Instead, you were picturing Jean in his bed, hair tussled with his own phone in his hand as he texted you, light spilling over his bare chest in the dark. You wondered what he was thinking—maybe he just wanted you to bring the cat over to see him for a bit, or maybe his mind was wandering in the same place yours was, which was picturing him naked beneath his sheets.

You set the phone down, momentarily starting to panic.

You hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Jean might be asking you to come get in his fucking bed with him. Thank god you took a leisurely shower earlier—and you still smelled good, you checked.

You stood up from the bed, watching the kitten stretch and quickly fall back asleep on top of the blankets. You bent down to slip on your pajama pants, but then found yourself debating if you should just leave the flimsy material behind.

If this was what you were hoping it was, walking in without pants would send the “I got the hint, I’m here to fuck,” message loud and clear.

But if this was just ��hey pal come keep me company, I’m bored,” walking into his room in nothing but a shirt and panties could be quite awkward.

You decided to hedge your bets, stuffing your pajama bottoms back into your bag as that lingering liquid courage from the eggnog set in. If worse came to worse, you could always say you forgot to pack them.

You carefully closed the door behind you, making sure the cat didn’t follow.

Then, it was literally just a few steps to Jean’s room. Conveniently, his door was cracked. Did he get up and leave it open for you? Did he always sleep with his door cracked? Or had he planned all along to ask you to come over?

You shook your head, taking a deep breath. Those inessential thoughts needed to be quieted.

The door creaked as you slid past it, the old hinges signaling your arrival and making Jean’s attention whip towards you. His phone was still in his hand, like was watching your messages and too-eagerly anticipating your reply.

“Hey,” you whispered into the darkness, wincing as the door kept groaning as you pushed it shut behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, too nervous to just waltz up to his bed and fall in. You chewed at the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to break the silence.

“Aren’t you cold?” He whispered back, shifting in the bed.

His figure was illuminated by the pale, grey light from window, the snow clouds still keeping the moon suppressed in the sky. Like you’d imagined, he was shirtless, all those hard-earned muscles on display from where he was propped up on his elbows, sheets low against his waist.

“I thought you were cold, Mr. No Shirt.”

“You’re not wearing pants.”

“I’m not wearing pants,” you parroted back.

You watched the smile spread across his face, that darling, infuriatingly pretty smile that made you a little too happy in this moment.

He pulled his sheets back in invitation, revealing that he, too, was not wearing pants, only clad in blue boxer briefs that were sinfully tight around his upper thighs, etchings of Calvin Klein pressed against his lower stomach.

His hands were on you before you even settled onto the mattress, warm and greedy and pulling you flush against his body. All those worried thoughts you had before vanished under his touch, the message you had been missing suddenly loud and clear: you weren’t the only one hiding your feelings. All those veiled emotions came alive beneath wandering hands, your fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as his found the flesh of your thighs.

“Was this what you were thinking about when you invited me here?”

You breathed in the smell of his warm skin as you settled against him, notes of his cologne still lingering against his body.

“This is what I think about all the time,” he confessed, nudging his thigh between your legs.

You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your mouth as the muscles of his thigh pressed against your aching core.

“Me too,” you were pulling his face down to yours, thumbs against his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his.

A satisfied sound rang from both of your throats, lips melding and slanting against one another hungrily.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His words were lost within the kiss, being swallowed down as you kept drinking him in.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You echoed back, gasping as his hands slid underneath your shirt and began to wander across your belly, reaching up toward your ribcage.

You both knew the answer to that: you were idiots, too scared to admit feelings even though they were clearly on display for everyone around you. But now the question didn’t matter, all the answers you wanted about to be shared between your anxious bodies with starved kisses and touches.

You shamelessly pressed yourself a little harder against his thigh, sighing as your pussy found relief against his leg. He groaned at your action, moving his thigh back and forth a little bit to see how you would react. When you whimpered, your own thighs squeezing around his, he smirked, repeating the motion of sweeping his thick, sturdy thigh back and forth between your legs.

“You like that?” His head was tilting down, teeth nipping at your jaw and down your neck as your head fell back against the pillow.

“Y-yes, feels so good.”

His hands were still traveling, wandering across your heated skin like he wanted to map your curves into his memory. He groaned against your throat when he discovered you’d also forgotten to wear anything under your t-shirt, his thumbs lazily brushing the undersides of your breasts.

You felt like you were burning beneath his sheets, like he was painting fire against your skin with every touch. His large hands engulfed your breasts, carefully kneading and rolling your soft flesh in his palms. He was eager to kiss you again, to slip his tongue past your parted lips and get addicted to your taste.

Jean pinched and pulled at your hardening nipples, greedily taking your little mewls into his mouth. He touched you like he already knew you, pulling at your body like you were the perfect little sex doll on strings for him to play with; rocking you on his thigh, tugging at your nipples, tongue dancing in your mouth, his hair tickling your cheeks, his cock hard and hot against his stomach.

Your panties were getting more and more wet by the second, the soaked material sinking into your folds as you rubbed yourself against the downy hairs and rounded, solid muscle of his upper thigh. His boxer briefs were bunching closer to his hips, pre-cum already staining against the fabric where his cock was imprinted into the threads. You slipped your hand down his impressive chest, fingers dipping into the elastic of his briefs.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling back to suck in a breath as your fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, “fuck you’re so hot riding my thigh like that, so fucking wet.”

“You did say you wanted a warm kitty.”

Your words had him pinching harder at your nipples, making you gasp as he chuckled.

“Mhm I can’t wait to play with your kitty, make you mine,” he punctuated his sentence by bouncing his leg up, sending electric pulses of pleasure racing over your nerves.

You responded by pulling his cock from its confines, wrapping your fingers around it and tugging at the silken skin. God he was thick, barely fitting in your palm as you moved your wrist up and down. You suddenly felt so small against him, realizing that he was dwarfing you just by lying next to you in the bed. His long, thick fingers could spread across the entirety of your chest, the thigh sliding against your pussy was enormous, but it felt like it belonged there; you could get used to riding him like this.

You both fell into a frenzied, delirious rhythm, your bodies bucking and panting as you found bliss against each other.

His hands slid down your body, leaving your tender breasts and searching for a new home. He found your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he rocked you back and forth against his thigh himself, using the strength in his forearms to have your pussy pressed down against him in the most perfect way to have you seeing stars and whining his name.

“Gonna cum, baby? Gonna cum just from riding me?”

“Fuck, yeah, yes, please, make me cum like this.”

Your hand had gone slack against his cock, your mind almost unable to concentrate under the waves of pleasure building and coiling inside you.

It felt too good to have his rapacious hands on your hips, grip mean and tight as he basically fucked you against his thigh. You wanted to scream, your other hand clawing at the back of his neck for stability.

“Baby,” he breathed, peppering a few kisses along your cheek, “could…could you call me daddy when you cum?”

There was a hesitancy in his voice, like he was ashamed to ask such a thing.

Your lower belly clenched, heat racing across all your nerve endings like he’d just poured sin straight out of his mouth.

You nodded your head for him, uncontrollable moans and gasps getting in the way of your own words. The thought of calling him daddy, that sent something wicked down to your pussy, had your fingers squeezing and tugging at his cock again and your eyes falling shut.

It felt like your sanity was breaking, like reality was splintering and this wasn’t real—you were dreaming again, weren’t you? But then you felt his cock twitch in your hand, felt your swollen clit brush against your panties and his thigh, and you were thrusted back into the actuality of your situation. You were with Jean, he was groaning in your ear, and you were about to cum all over him.

“D—da…,” you were choking, so overwhelmed with a final cresting of bliss that you almost felt like sobbing.

But he just clutched you more tightly, pressed you harder against him, whispering your name in encouragement to let yourself go for him.

Then, you lost all of your sensibilities, euphoria washing over your body as you snapped and came undone with a little whine of, “daddy,” against his lips. You slowed the rocking of your hips, your heart beating out of your chest, your pussy pulsing and clenching as you rode out the last remnants of your orgasm.

“Holy fucking shit that’s so hot, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, one of his hands smoothing against your cheek.

“Wha—,” you smiled, shaking your head as you caught your breath, “what are you doing with a daddy kink, Jean?”

He mimicked your smile, hands moving to slide your ruined panties down your legs and removed the rest of your clothing as he repositioned your bodies. You let him move you around like a ragdoll, so delirious in your afterglow that you barely even registered how he was hooking your legs onto his shoulders.

“Do you not like calling me daddy?” There was a seriousness laced into his tone that told you he’d drop it if it made you uncomfortable.

“I like it,” you fisted one of your hands in his hair, bringing his lips to yours for a slow, messy kiss, “just didn’t expect it.”

“I’m full of surprises, baby.”

You felt the head of his cock nudge between your wet folds, his hands back on your hips where they belonged. Your head fell back against the pillow as he started to push inside of you, stretching your walls and making your toes go almost numb from the pleasure. You felt like you were splitting apart, like a fissure was forming down the middle of your body, stemming from where he was spearing into you.

With your legs on his broad shoulders, he was pushing you into the mattress, his hands urging your hips to relax and let him sink into your warm heat.

“Ohhhh fuckkkk daddy,” you couldn’t help but to whine, all your senses suddenly overwhelmed again. You were drowning in him, falling deeper and deeper into the throes of heaven with every inch of his fat cock slipping inside of you.

“God you’re so tight,” he presses his forehead to yours, keen eyes watching how your lips were falling apart and your eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure, “that’s right, daddy’s going to take such good care of you.”

It felt like all your history with him was being wiped away, like this moment wasn’t about two friends fulfilling all their years of mutual pining, but instead about a new relationship blooming between two bodies full of lust and desire. This was about Jean fucking you senseless, about him taking control and finally having what’s belonged to him for longer than he probably even realized. You wanted to lose yourself to him, lose yourself to his appetite and just let him devour you.

All the air left your lungs when bottomed out inside of you, your walls clenching and sucking him in. He stayed still for a moment, nearly lost himself at the feeling of your cunt wrapped so tightly around his cock.

“So fucking perfect,” he groaned, dragging his cock out of you slowly before pressing in again, your cunt greedily sucking him back in.

“I always have been,” you teased, one hand lost in his hair while the other slid down the expanse of his back. You bucked your hips in his hands, coaxing him to keep moving.

“Oh fuck. Good girl.”

His praise made you feel drunk, liquid heat rushing to your ears and between your legs.

He began to snap his hips, repeatedly burying his cock into your depths, the angle of your body making him hit that fleshy patch inside of you. You cried out at the feeling of being so stuffed, your walls burning from the intrusion but that coil inside your belly tightening again, hotter and more intense than before.

“Mhmmm, such a good girl, I promise,” you pressed your lips to his in reassurance, letting your breathy moans fall into his mouth as he started to get a little rougher. His pace was steady, solid, a hard motion of his cock thrusting in and out of you, each push and pull full of purpose and passion. Every plunge was making your lower stomach spasm, making pleasure burst across your body so forcefully that you felt that urge to cry again.

“Wanted to fuck you for so long,” his face was tucked underneath your chin, mouth trailing across your throat between his words. A particularly hard suck against your neck had your back arching, breasts flattening against his chest and your nails clinging to him.

Jean sat back on his knees, big hands smoothing down your thighs as he looked to where your bodies were conjoined, watching how your pussy enveloped his cock with every thrust of his hips, sweet skin encasing all of his length. He looked enraptured by the sight, groaning and hissing every time he pressed inside of you.

Then his eyes were flashing up to your face, softening as he took note of your blissed-out state, your face flushed and your lip between your teeth.

“So pretty,” he mused, a palm ghosting up to your chest to toy with one of your tits as he found a new rhythm.

You were ensnared by the scene before you as well, eyes wide with delight as you admired the man before you. Jean felt unhinged, electric between your legs, like he’d finally let go and was pouring all his clandestine secrets into your willing body. His chestnut hair was swept over his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and across his body rolling, rounded and thick like he was marble come to life. And his face was smooth, pretty, concentrated, cheeks dusky with a dark blush as he found euphoria from within your body.

Your hips began to match his thrusts, bucking up into him in order to feel his thick cock fall deeper into you. His strong hands encouraged you, gripping into the supple flesh of your thighs as he pressed himself into your wetness, faster and faster with every thrust.

“Daddy,” you called out to him, having to bite back a grin as you observed how quickly you earned his attention, “you feel s-so good,” your hand was traveling down your chest, trailing over his fingers on your breast before snaking down to your clit, “p-please let me cum again.”

You had an inkling that he would take over for you.

His thick, long fingers hovered over your own, carefully aiding in swirling over your aching clit. You hissed, recognizing the buildup to orgasm pooling within your belly.

Jean’s other hand slid higher upon your body, fingers lacing around your ribcage, framing the underside of your breast. He began to forcefully pull your body into his, sliding you upon and down the sheets and upon his cock. You cried out, legs tightening at his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to devour you and take what he wanted. His thumb was almost impatient on your clit, now circling so quickly that your body was shaking, lower stomach clenching and unclenching repeatedly like you were lost in a reckless tide.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last with you squeezing me like that, baby.”

Your mouth watered at the thought of him finding that ultimate pleasure inside of you. Your ears became tuned to the chorus of resonances between your legs, the sweet, wet sounds of skin against skin, of slick at the base of a fat cock, of Jean grunting your name like a lost prayer.

The final chord of your sanity was threatening to snap, you could feel it again, like he was pulling the strings of your body too tightly and you were going to splinter and break with just the right swipe of his thumb.

“I-inside,” you mewled, unable to keep your eyes open any longer as your thighs began to quake, “daddy—oh fuck, fuck—cum inside me, please,”

God you were so fucking close to falling off the edge, and he could feel it, using his grip to bring you even harder and faster down onto your cock to get you careening and falling again.

Your push into oblivion came when you heard him pleading, almost whining, above you, sweat dripping down his skin as his syllables flowed together, “please, please, please, fuck, cum for daddy, cum for me, please.”

You could both feel it, how you creamed around his cock, pussy sucking him in so deliciously tight that it caused him to lose all control. His fingers dug a little too deep, his cock throbbing and pumping deep inside of you with his release. It was like the world went quiet, like a blanket of snow fell onto your bodies and hushed your sounds and cooled your skin. You could feel the heavy weight of him inside of you, like he was meant to be there. Your body relaxed, feeling like you were sinking into the mattress and he was the only thing keeping you from being lost.

When he finally pulled his spent cock from inside you, he wasn’t gone long. His hands were back on you again, pulling you in for simple, affectionate kisses and rubbing tenderly at the places he’d perhaps explored too roughly.

“Jean…” you cut yourself off with a yawn, fatigued limbs winding into his own.

His thigh found its home between your legs again, both of you groaning with a mixture of lust and disgust as you felt his cum drip into a mess between your thighs.

“Whatever it is can wait until morning, we need to sleep.”

“Oh fuck, it’s Christmas.”

He nuzzled your cheek, lips searching for yours.

“Mhmm, Merry Christmas, baby.”

You laughed, laying your head against his chest.

_______________

You weren’t sure how long you slept, but it felt like you spent a small eternity in Jean’s bed before your eyes opened again. When you awoke, he was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with the kitten in his arms. She was ready to play, striped tail swishing as he dangled a toy mouse just out of her reach.

“What time is it?” You stretched, suddenly all too aware that you were still very naked beneath the sheets.

“It’s only eight, everyone else is still asleep aside from Mikasa who actually went for a run in the fucking snow.”

Jean smiled, hair tucked behind his ears, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you realized just how madly in love with him you were. You always aimed to make him smile, to hear him laugh, but to see him gazing at you in the morning sun with pure adoration shining in his hazel eyes had you practically melting into the bed.

“I meant what I said last night, you know,” he said, turning the kitten loose to run across the bed.

“You said a lot of things last night, daddy,” you teased, watching his cheeks turn a pretty pink at the mention of that name.

“I meant about you never spending another holiday alone. Because, you know, I’d like to…” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was genuinely nervous.

You sat up, running a hand down his arm before kissing at his shoulder, momentarily getting lost in the smell and feel of him.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

No one was surprised that the two of you, and the kitten, spent every single holiday together thereafter, mostly naked, and always smiling.

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draconicsorceress · 2 years ago

Text

Please find and enjoy below, my first one-shot (smut -shot?) with original characters. I've been writing this forever and it finally felt ready to post!

M!Demon x F!Reader, 4.2k words

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43453942

Tw for explicit sexual content, hints of religious trauma, passing mention of arranged marriage and sexual harassment. NSFW content below the cut.

In the House of the Father

If there was one place from your childhood that you could say was like a second home to you, it was your daddy's church. He was a preacher like his father and grandfather, and like your brother would be one day. You had grown up in the sanctuary, from helping to pass the communion and offering plates to leading worship and children's Sunday school to teaching classes in the yearly Vacation Bible School over the summer. All the members and attendees knew you and your brother, perfect little twin angels with hearts for Jesus.

No one could have guessed the reality.

Your father had been stealing from the church for the entirety of his ministry. He and your mother had both conducted secret adulterous affairs, both also bribing your brother after he had caught them on separate occasions. As for your brother, when he wasn't blackmailing your parents he was bullying and sexually harassing the younger children in the youth group. A roiling shitstorm bubbled just below the perfect, pristine exterior your family showed to the world.

And how did you, the most sheltered and innocent member of the family, know all this?

The demon you were sleeping with had told you all about it.

On your eighteenth birthday, some friends had coaxed you into joining them in the forest to try a ritual meant to summon a demon. You could tell they didn't really believe it would work, but they kept joking about you being the virgin sacrifice if it did. Naturally it did work, producing a demon nearly seven feet tall with blood-red skin and black hair and horns. Everyone but you had run scared, leaving you behind as though you really were the proverbial sacrifice. The demon had approached you, curious at your stillness. You whispered a prayer, something from the Psalms, and he laughed and told you that your God was not listening. Silent with shock, you learned from this terrifying creature that Jehovah no longer gives any heed to any happenings on earth.

Now he is teaching you every carnal pleasure known to mankind.

And because the land on which your father's little non-denominational church rests isn't properly hallowed, his favorite classroom is the sanctuary.

That's where you are now, spread out in front of the podium your father preaches from on Sundays, the skirt of your simple cotton summer dress bunched up around your waist and your lacy black panties clutched in your demon's bitten-short claws, wound around the fingers that grip your hips while his tongue flutters, delves, laves at your dripping pussy. When you moan involuntarily, his mouth abandons your swollen folds briefly to hush you.

"Shh, angel… what if someone's around to hear us?"

You know that there isn't, since you're the closest thing the church has to a cleaner and no events are ever scheduled for Saturdays; but the gravely baritone of his voice imploring you to be silent makes you wetter than you thought possible. Swallowing thickly, you nod.

"Good girl," he purrs, giving another teasing lick up and down your dripping slit with his double-tipped tongue. He moves slowly, as though he's savoring the taste of your wetness. You languish under his sinful caresses, whimpering soundlessly, the tiny squeaks your throat wants to make becoming nothing more than hitches in your breathing.

"God damn it, you're so good," he groans into you before covering your vulva with his almost-too-hot mouth, thrusting his tongue into you as deep as he can before zeroing in on your clit. "I love when you obey me." The words bite out from between his fangs and he seals his lips around your sensitive pearl of flesh, sucking and flicking with the twin tips of his tongue.

Your hips roll against his face and you gasp for air, wanting the finishing stroke but knowing if he gives it to you you'll scream. All you can manage to communicate is a strangled "please" as breath rushes in and out of your lungs, in time with the throbbing of your over-sensitive pussy.

"Please what?" The demon's wicked yellow eyes meet yours, his mouth still working between your legs.

Your poor fried brain struggles to find the words to answer his question. "Please… let me cum," you breathe finally.

He chuckles darkly. "What a good little girl, to beg me so politely," he says around his mouthful of your flesh, sucking sharply on your clit. "Do it again. Use my name."

"Please, Samael, I need it," you hear yourself whimper pathetically. "I need to cum for you."

Growling almost too loudly, your demon attacks with renewed vigor, licking and sucking at you as if in a frenzy, using every trick he's learned you like. His fingers, burning hot as the rest of him, find their way to your entrance and thrust into you. "I can't say no to you, angel," he purrs, the vibrations of his voice driving you to an excruciating edge, and with his fingers twisting in your cunt you come undone on his tongue and light explodes behind your eyelids and you can feel the ecstasy sizzling like an electric current in your veins. You seize his great black horns and press his face into your pussy, and he grazes your mound with his fangs, sending sparks flying off the ends of your nerves. Your back arches up off the floor and your cunt trembles, contractions rippling through your muscles as he continues to work his fingers in you.

You whine as his assault on your pussy continues, driving you to the point of overstimulation. Thighs shaking out of control, you try to drag him off of you by your tenuous grip on his horns, but he doesn't budge. His tongue curls around your clit and sucks sharply. Too sharply. A high-pitched squeal is forced out of you and he claps a hand over your mouth.

"Sh-sh-sh." He comes up from between your thighs, grazing your belly with kisses on his way up to claim your mouth. The lower half of his face is wet and slick with your juices, and you can taste yourself on his lips. "Did I hurt you, angel?" he asks you between gentle kisses.

You shake your head, whimpering softly against his mouth. "It was just… too much."

"Well, you can have a break for a little while. It sounds like someone is coming." One long, pointed ear twitches, listening to something your human senses can't pick up. He presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before dissolving into gray smoke.

Swiftly, you arrange your dress back into place, covering your legs. Your panties are nowhere to be seen; Samael must have taken them.

Your father walks into the sanctuary before you manage to get to your feet, so he finds you sitting on the steps in front of the podium. "You aren't through yet? What are you doing sitting around?" he asks coldly.

"I was just taking a break to pray." The lie falls easily from your lips, sticky with your own slick mixed with demon saliva.

The pastor huffs slightly. "Don't take too long. And don't forget to lock up when you come home.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and to your dismay, continues talking. “Kenny came by after lunch. He wanted to talk to you and I both, but I had to tell him you weren’t home. He was disappointed.” Your father’s slight southern drawl, usually so jovial, is chilling.

“I hope you expressed my regret at missing him,” you lie through your teeth, like the polite lady your parents think they’ve raised. Kenny is a new member of the church, and has been pestering you for the past six months with your father’s encouragement. You avoid him when you can, and this afternoon you were thrilled to take the opportunity to both dodge Kenny and spend time with Samael.

“I did. For some reason he didn’t seem to believe it.”

Starting to get agitated, you rise to your feet. “He comes calling every weekend, is it so bad if I’m unable to see him one day?”

“Sweetheart, I want to make sure you’re taken care of. Your mother and I won’t be around forever.”

You take a deep breath and try to focus on staying calm. Counting down from twenty, you try not to think about Kenny asking your father for your hand. “I’m nineteen, Dad. Are you really trying to marry me off to a forty-year-old man already?”

“We’re not having this discussion tonight. I’ll see you when you get home. Don’t be too much longer.”

He steps out of the sanctuary, not noticing your grimace. After the door falls slowly closed, you return to your task of dusting the pews, abandoned an hour ago when Samael had appeared to ravish you with his mouth. Shortly afterwards, you hear the front door close behind your father.

"I thought he'd never leave."

You whirl around in surprise to see Samael leaning against the altar behind the podium. His lascivious grin turns your insides to jelly and makes your knees weak. "I didn't know you were back!"

"I'm never far, angel. Now, what do you say we pick up where we left off?" He curls one long finger, beckoning you to him.

You feel like you couldn't resist even if you wanted to, and you throw yourself into his strong, hot arms. Your skin practically sizzles where he touches you and you moan against the skin of his neck. You start to kiss a trail down his bare chest, flicking his nipple with your tongue on the way down.

"Ah, angel… is this how you want to repay me for your pleasure?"

"I was thinking something more like this," you respond, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and he frees his cock from his black leather pants, letting you brush your lips across the tip. He has the most beautiful penis you've ever seen, long and thick and veiny, symmetrical with a slight upward curve that stimulates your g-spot incredibly. For now you use your mouth, tongue swirling around the head and running gently through the slit at the tip.

He growls in satisfaction, laying his hand on top of your head and urging you to take more of him into your mouth. When you comply, he moans openly. "Mark this, Yahweh," he shouts to the ceiling, his grip tightening in your hair. "This loyal follower of yours, on her knees for me. Serving me, in your house."

Your heart thunders in your chest, your lover's words both terrifying and exciting you. He had assured you long ago that God no longer paid attention to anything said on Earth; but his blasphemous taunts still… well, they freak you out a little. The first eighteen years of your life you had been taught to speak of and to God with only the utmost respect, and now you couple with a partner who hurls insults and obscenities to the sky with triumph in his voice. It's taken some getting used to, to say the least.

His hand presses more firmly on the back of your head and you obey, opening your throat to allow him to thrust deeper into your mouth. He groans as his abs tense, making his hips cant forward and seating himself almost to the hilt between your lips. You clutch at his hips, tracing the lines and ridges of his muscles with deft fingertips. He pumps into your throat, fucking your face for several heartbeats before you tap his thigh, signaling your need for breath. When he extracts himself from your mouth, a long, thin string of saliva keeps your friction-plumped lower lip connected to his glistening cock. You take him in hand, spreading the wetness from your mouth over the entirety of his length before going down on him again, tasting the salt of his precum and the sweet musk of his skin.

"What have you given her?" Samael growls through his teeth. Your vision jerks upward, but you realize he isn't talking to you. "That bastard of a father? A bitch of a mother? No wonder she plays the harlot for the demons of hell; the God of heaven neglects her while devils ravish and please her. Just look at her: fellating me so eagerly, like she's hungry for my seed."

You swirl your tongue around his head once more before releasing him. "My mouth is hungry for you, but my cunt is hungrier."

His eyes sparkle down at you. "Hear her admission," he whispers to God's deaf ears. "Hear her asking me to fill her womb. Will she bear me a child? Only you know, oh omniscient one." His voice drips sarcasm like a poison with those last words. He reaches down to help you to your feet, then lifts you up to sit on the altar. His hips nudge your knees apart as he tugs your skirt up. When his mouth finds yours, he kisses you softly, almost tenderly, as he pets you gently between your legs. One finger, claw short and blunted, tests your opening. He makes a sound that is half growl, half moan when he finds you soaked for him, and he pushes you gently onto your back to climb on top of you.

As your demon lover mounts you, you're acutely aware of where you are: prostrate atop what is supposed to be a sacred altar to God, legs spread for an abomination, a fallen angel, a fiend from hell. The thought sends another gush of wetness through your pussy, and when Samael lines himself up to enter you he slides in with no resistance.

The preliminaries are short, and soon he's fucking you mercilessly, slamming into you as though to crush you between his body and the stone of the altar. You've grown accustomed to his violent style of copulation, even enjoying it. You let the sparks fly through your body, raking your nails down his back as he grunts his growing pleasure against your neck. You hear your name on a soft moan and you run your fingers through his long, silky mane of black hair. His rhythm stutters for just a moment as he murmurs words of adoration and praise in a long-dead language. When he picks up the pace again, he lays into you with more force than you've ever felt before, and you wrap every limb around him to welcome his onslaught.

On a series of particularly brutal thrusts, you hear a loud crack and he stills. "Are you alright?" he lifts his head to ask you, eyes confused and concerned.

You nod. "I'm fine. What was that sound?"

He looks down and his lips curl into his most devilish smile. "Angel, we broke the altar."

Your jaw drops open.

He chuckles at your expression of shock. "To be fair, it was flimsier than I thought it would be. Here, let me rearrange…" He sits back on his heels, grasping your hips and pulling your ass into his lap. Once you're situated, he lines himself up and thrusts into you, flicking your clit with his thumb experimentally.

You writhe desperately, twisting and bucking your hips until he gives you more, again railing into you at a breakneck pace. Rapidly climbing to the summit, you beg him not to stop, to let you cum with him, to cum inside you.

The latter gives him brief pause, and his movements slow. "Are you sure, angel? You know what might-"

"I'm sure," you rasp, rolling your hips to keep the friction going, balancing yourself on the razor's edge. "Please, fill me. I-I want your cum inside me."

His yellow eyes, fixed on your face, darken considerably when you make that plea. His hips began to piston again, changing the angle so he hits your g-spot repeatedly while he thumbs your clit. You will certainly not last and he will be sure of it.

"Say my name when you cum, angel," he demands, his body working yours skillfully. You can tell he's about to push you over the edge, all he's waiting for is your acceptance of his terms.

"Yes, Samael," you simper pitifully. "My lord, my life, my master. I'll do anything you say."

When you feel the pleasure begin to overwhelm you, you become a babbling mess, chanting his name over and over, and he thrusts into you so deep and so hard that your orgasm blinds you, your inner walls gripping and pulsing around the demon's cock. You're still twitching and moaning, just starting to come down from the absurdly high peak when he falters, his face contorted with agonizing pleasure as he comes unwound inside you. The rush of heat within you almost burns, it's so hot; but you relish it, wrapping your legs around Samael's waist to pull him deeper into you.

Eventually his ragged breaths even out, and he moves to extract himself from you. You pout slightly, but you release him from your leglock and allow him to lower your butt back down to the smooth stone of the altar. When he slips from within you, you pull your knees to your chest to trap his semen inside, tipping your hips up just a bit to make it run up into your womb.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice shaky. You've seen Samael post-orgasmic dozens of times, but this was the first time he'd finished inside you. He looks almost vulnerable, the usually very sharp, aggressive features of his face softened with… exhaustion? Satisfaction? Pleasure? You can't quite place the look of it. When he comes around to the side of the altar to stroke and kiss you, you let him. One hand pushes back a few sweaty tendrils of hair from your temples, plastered there by exertion; the other tilts your chin up, giving him easier access to your mouth. A handful of kisses land there before his lips start traveling southward, gently nipping at the soft skin of your neck. His fangs barely graze you, and you wiggle in excitement.

"Exquisite woman," he murmurs into your neck. "If demons could dream, I would worry that I'm about to wake up."

Gently, you card your fingers through his hair, stirring up a subtle hint of the scent of hell: smoke and sulphur. By now you're used to it, even growing to like it by association with being close to him.

When he pulls away, you let him, trailing your fingers across his shoulder and down his arm. He catches your hand and squeezes it gently. "Come, let me help you clean up. I don't want your father to be angry with you for your lateness."

Instead of sitting up when he tugs on your hand, you let your body relax, going fully limp on the stone table. You're not ready for him to send you home yet, and you're determined to drag your feet as much as possible to prolong your time with your lover.

"Angel." The tone of his voice is as though he's talking to a recalcitrant child.

"Please, Samael. Don't make me leave you." Your voice is soft, beseeching, and your eyes hazy and pleading. He's never successfully denied you when you do this.

This time appears to be no exception. He sits on the edge of the altar, still holding your hand. "You know, eventually someone is going to catch on to you. Imagine what would happen. What would your parents think?" He pauses, a sparkle in his wicked yellow eyes, and his tone changes. "What would Kenny think?"

He's teasing you, and you roll your eyes. He knows you don't give half a shit what Kenny thinks of you. "Gee, I don't know. I guess he'll just have to find some other barely-legal girl to pester." You roll your hips again, the blistering heat inside you beginning to cool. "Isn't thirty-eight a little old to be pursuing a teenager?"

“You know very well that isn’t the only reason I won’t have him." Another gentle tilt of your hips. "He's gross and weird, and he looks like his last wife died in his basement. Besides," you catch his eye, "I have the attention of someone much more intriguing, and handsome, and powerful, and sharp, and wicked, and-"

Samael snorts in amusement. "Angel, I am millennia old. You find nothing objectionable about our trysts, yet you reject a human suitor for being twice your own age." He shakes his great horned head. "I am perplexed by human behavior."

He cuts you off with a searing kiss. His tongue plunders your mouth, leaving you breathless when he pulls away. "You are the most miraculous woman in humanity," he growls, his breath feathering over your lips making you shiver with glee. "What I wouldn't give to have you as my own. I would keep you like an empress; attended to by servants and slaves, never to lift a finger yourself. I would parade you from one end of the world to the other, and then through hell itself. How I would relish the faces of men and devils alike, jealous of me and admiring of you."

You feel a blush rise in your cheeks. When the two of you first took up together, he would joke about stealing you away and keeping you as a pet. His tone is much more earnest now, talking about making you his mate, caring for you, providing for you. Your coy refusals remain part of the banter, but it is becoming harder to say no to him.

"Please, cor meum," he whispers as his mouth trails down your neck, nibbling at your collarbone. "Let me make you mine."

You hesitate, and his tongue traces the low neckline of your dress, teasing the gentle swell of your breasts. The no on the tip of your tongue is forced back when you gulp for air. "Not tonight," you say instead, meeting his eyes as he raises his head. You give him a smile that you hope comes across as coy, but you can tell that the effect he's had on you shows in your expression.

Samael's eyes are strangely sad, but he smiles back and nods. "Whether you decide to come with me or not, I'm yours as long as you'll have me." He strokes your hair gently and presses one more kiss to your cheek before helping you sit up and handing your balled-up panties back to you.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" you ask as you slip the lacy undergarment back under the skirt of your dress. You know that you sound all too eager, but you don't care.

The devilish spark reignites in Samael's eyes. "Of course, angel. I wouldn't miss my favorite day with you."

Your cheeks flush with heat as a smile cracks on your face. "In the basement? Ten o'clock?"

"Just like last week."

Something deep in your belly quivers as last week returns to you in a flash. Both of you breathing hard, the hot bursts of his breath contrasting the cool underground air. His searing touch under your shirt, fondling your breasts and pushing you up against the hard concrete wall. He had demanded that you beg for your orgasm, just as he had tonight, and you had complied. You had to bite down on his shoulder to muffle your scream of completion, and he had withdrawn swiftly and roughly to spend his release onto your belly and thighs.

Samael draws you back to the present with a warm hand, gently taking your own and bringing it to his lips.

He helps you down from the altar and walks with you to the door, pausing while you collect your things. At the heavy wooden door, he clasps your hands in his and raises them to his mouth again, kissing the knuckles of each hand with what you would almost call reverence, a combination of mischief and awe in his eyes. You feel yourself blushing and have to look away from his penetrating gaze, casting your eyes back into the sanctuary.

The hideous carpeting, the abhorrent tile, the walls devoid of iconography because your parents insist it's "idolatry," but was in reality the reason Samael was able to enter the building in the first place. Your eyes fall on the altar and you cringe: the flat slab of stone on top is split clean in half, and some of the bricks beneath it are crushed. Dust and pebbles litter the ground around the base. A wet stain hints at the debauchery that took place on top of this supposedly-sacred table of the Lord.

"Quite a number we did on it, eh Angel?" You can hear the mischief in your lover's voice and you turn back to see that his gaze had followed yours.

"I just wish I didn't have to be here when they find it tomorrow. I'm sure I'll be blamed for it."

Samael's eyes turn back to you, serious for a moment, and he snaps his fingers. A sound like rending stone echoes through the building, and when you look back at the altar it's in perfect repair.

Your jaw drops. "I didn't know you could do that."

"For you, Angel? Anything." Samael pushes the sanctuary door open and ushers you through it. "Besides," he adds, mischief returning to his yellow eyes, "we can always break it again later."

***Latin translation: Cor meum - my heart

#my writing #do not repost #not safe for waluigi #this is pwp #demon boyfriend #tw religious trauma #tw religious mention #tw christianity #tw harassment mention #feels

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chiwhorei · 4 years ago

Text

habit

pairing: s. tendou x catholic fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ minors dni

word count: 1.2k

warnings: drug use (pot), dubcon, sacrilege- this is a total fuck you to my catholic upbringing and i’m so sorry (no i’m not)

a/n: there’s no beta on this, also absolutely no explanation other than i’ve been stuck in a rut of writers block and am tying desperately to crawl back out. This is part of HQHQ’s monthly server collab, you can check out all of the other amazing pieces here! this is dedicated to the love of my life and fellow deeply repressed catholic @undermattsun

hymn: dirty little secret by: all american rejects

The weeks bleed by with practiced pattern, school work, bible study. Rinse and repeat. Sundays are for 10 AM mass at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, the church you have knelt in for two decades. You take communion and sing hymns squished in between your parents.

If it’s the first Sunday of the month, you have stale donuts after and make small talk with fellow congregants. Every other week you are shuffled to a stiff brunch where your parents fuss over Father’s homily. You always remember to listen just enough during mass to posit something vague so they know you had been paying attention.

Wednesday evenings are ear-marked for youth group with the other young, spritely Catholics of your university. Two hours of acoustic guitars and promises to your Lord and Savior ring in your battered ears as you bid goodbyes to your friends. While the rest of your youth group heads to the cafe a few blocks away, you head for the opposite direction. The designated laundromat parking lot comes in to view only a five minute walk from the church, and a beat up mustang is outlined in the retreating sunset.

As you climb into the passenger seat a long, bandaged set of fingers turn your face, Tendou does a once over, patting your cheek and pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, the mess of red hair gleaming in the low light still hanging on the horizon. He revs the car to life, rattling abjectly as he pulls out onto the street and towards his apartment.

“So, does your immortal soul feel all nice and clean again, princess?”

Sundays are for mass, Wednesday evenings are for youth group. Wednesday nights are for the heady fog of pot and choking back sobs whilst brutally pounded by Tendou Satori.

“Satori, s-slow down. If you give me a hickey my parents are going to kill me.” You huff from your position on his lap, both knees digging into the decades old shag on either side of his thighs, you feel a damp spot on your shin. Probably bong water.

His mouth was on you the second he unlocked his front door, pushing you inside unceremoniously and laughing as you stumbled. Always the gentleman.

You had made it to the living room floor in a trail of your own clothing, leaving you in only a pair of cotton panties, the apartment was dimly lit and dense with smoke. You always wonder how he can get away with his whole apartment covered inch deep in the skunky smell, but his complex doesn't really seem one to check up on the occupants anyway.

Tendou licks a long stripe over your collarbone, blowing back along the same path to watch you shiver, “C’mon princess, doesn’t having a stick up your ass all the time get exhausting?”

You roll your eyes at the comment, knowing he likes it when he can rile you up. Instead of gracing him with a retort, your fingers move to the blunt carded in between two fingers. Tendou lets out a disapproving tsk, bringing it to his own lips instead. His other hand comes to rest under your jaw as he pulls from the blunt. Tendou brings a calloused finger up to pop open your lips. You lean in dutifully, letting the smoke pass from his mouth to yours in an almost kiss. You cough slightly when you inhale, still not totally used to the burning feeling.

“Such a precious little thing you are, y/n. Your father must be so proud,” Tendou takes another drag, inhaling fulling and blowing the smoke into your scrunched up face, “I wonder what he’d do if he knew you were with me right now.”

You’re hot in the cheeks now, feeling every bit feather-light and obnoxiously weighed down.

“What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” Your response is weak, blood turning to syrup in your veins as the minutes pass by. Sixty seconds come in the slowest intervals known to man but rush forward just the same.

Your back is flush against the nasty carpet in the next instant, dragging uncomfortably against the stains of God-knows-what. Tendou’s supply is always too strong for someone so inexperienced, it makes you much more compliant when he gets you under him. You try to push yourself up to regain any control you can, but your wrists are trapped in one large hand. He looks over your form, flushed and panting. The lines are blurring in your head, as they always seem to do when trapped within Tendou’s orbit.

“What he doesn’t know is sending you straight to hell.”

You’re both deftly aware of what this arrangement is. There’s no love in the closing space between your two bodies. This isn’t the beginning of a sacrament with a pretty white veil and the pointed roof of a cathedral. This is nothing more than a baptism of writhing, sweaty bodies coming together in only the way a husband and wife should. Tendou is your most perverse habit.

“Oh, this is new.” Your captor notices the shiny silver around your ring finger, the band still fresh against your skin. Your father had slid the velvet box across the dinner table on your birthday last week. His words fall heavy on your shoulder still.

A reminder to maintain virtuous. A promise to your future husband.

Any attempt to speak is quelled by the feeling of Tendou’s lips wrapped around your finger. You feel his teeth scraping against your skin, pulling off the gifted silver with a pop from his sinful lips. His eyes hold you down captive, scanning your reaction from where you lie dizzy below him.

The ring peeks out from its home in between Tendou’s teeth, a devious smile pulls on the corners of his lips. He hums softly, head dipping back down to the hot skin of your neck to trace patterns against the collecting sweat. You feel it against you, the cold metal a constant reminder of just how wrong this is. However wrong though, in your lust and drug clouded haze, it’s ten times hotter.

Tendou hears your soft mewls below him, begging for his next move. Hands find your hips, pushing into the skin with wandering hands. His mouth is trailing lower, tracing around the curve of your breast and flicking your nipple with a growl. The teasing is enough to make you crazy, you just want him to do something.

Tendou chuckles darkly above you, and you realize you had voiced your desires in a whine instead of where you thought they had died in your throat. His lips hover over your own, pressing the ring past your lips to sit in between your teeth. He draws back with a sickening smile.

“Good girl, now keep that there while I fuck your little pussy. You can save your prayers for church on Sunday.”

Tendou is a hard habit to kick, especially with the unceremonious removal of your slick-covered panties and the way he prods at your aching hole with little regard to wether you’re ready for him or not. You always squeeze down on him so well when you’re high, begging for him in strings of tears and muffled pleas around the sickening symbol of chastity. You squeal when he presses into you, cock hard and heavy. He’s never gentle. This isn’t the marital bed you’d always been taught to wait for, it’s the grimy, stained carpet of the worst man you’ve ever met.

If your parents ever found out about your little habit, you’d be dragged to the nearest convent and given a new one.

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

#tendou x reader #tendou satori smut #tendou smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #tw dubcon #tw drugs

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tintentrinkerin · 4 years ago

Text

nothing on my tongue but hallelujah...

Rating: Explicit

Pairing:

Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles, Jared/various, Jared/Alex Calvert

Warnings:

Gangbang, Barebacking, Jealousy, Top Jared Padalecki, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Religious Cults, Power Dynamics

Summary: Jared's Cult, the "Church of Grace" is a peaceful and harmonic little community in the South. Then young Jensen appears and rocks the Cult leader's world - moreoever, it rattles Alex awake, who's been sure to be his leader's most loved member.

Written upon request

Word Count: 9.9k

Read below the cut or on AO3

Kudos are love <3

The Divine Five Pillars of “Church of Grace”

Obedience

Purity

Community

Free Love

Kindness

The “Creed”

I believe in God, the Father and the Almighty,

who created the world, the people, the seas, the animals and the trees.

I believe in God’s son, who is his true Vicar on Earth

For he brings joy, love, community, kindness and hope.

I reject the Devil and his kin. I turn my whole existence to

the true Vicar of the Holy Father.

I hereby swear to follow the five divine rules of the Church

and give myself into the hands of God’s most graceful creation.

May He and God’s Angels lead me into Paradise.

Amen.

2 Corinthians 11:13-15

For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds.

Siddharta Gautama

Through true honesty deeply believe that all sentient-beings are one.That all beings have the same true nature, wisdom, virtue.

If people knew how much effort it took to get an orgy going, they probably wouldn’t even bother and settle for porn instead.

Jared and Alex had to plan every monthly “gathering” very thoroughly, especially, when new recruits and adepts arrived. The new boys and girls would maybe chicken out at first, but that wouldn’t be punished. Later, yes. At their first time? No. Jared was very kind to those he found. In other communities they’d be punished right on spot. But Jared, no no, he wasn’t that barbaric. He wanted everyone to feel happy and included. Everyone had to use the headquarter’s communal showers or baths after they had an extensive cleansing plan, to purify their body and also a very intense work out session. All for purity’s sake. Jared loves purity.

The garden behind the Church of Grace’s headquarters was around 400 acres, enough space to celebrate free love, the holy spirit within all of us, and most importantly, worship the true Vicar of God on Earth. Forget Jesus.

Jared was pleased when he saw his usual very busy adepts who were about to be initiated in the second step of Priesthood. They were so eager and they had a fantastic taste in decorating. There will be a bonfire, it’s May 1st after all, one of Jared’s favorite dates for a gathering. Pagans used to celebrate Beltane, well, they still do. In tiny groups, the Wiccans and the Druids. He has no affiliations with them, but as a shepherd of his sheep he needs to be informed. Wise. He wants to be the one who can answer all their questions, give interpretations. His interpretations. His view of the world. And in his world, only his Church will bring them peace and harmony and closer to God’s grace and mercy.

The bonfire wood is piled right in the center of the garden, the part of the garden that members are allowed to see and walk on. Around the bonfire a lot of big wooden logs are placed for the followers of Jared to sit on. As soon as the fire burnt down a little bit and some chalices of holy wine were emptied and some delicious weed was consumed, the orgy might start. Jared will let the believers start first. There’s always a couple or a single horny person that will start wooing a person of their interest. Jared will join later, when the ecstasy is palpable and the adepts play the drums, letting the mass of naked bodies find their rhythm. Behind the huge pile for the bonfire, there’s Jared’s seat. A massive chair made of dark wood, polished, carvings all over. Still a thing someone could find a little too pagan, but Jared doesn’t care. The truth is what he speaks, not the others. And the truth is, that people still are just the same as in the early Middle Ages. The same things struck them with awe, and it’s not churches in white marble and Jesus hanging from crosses. Nature and it’s forces, the hidden desires. Intimate, primal and authentic. That’s his motto. No nude angel chiseled out of porcelain will make people feel this kind of raw euphoria and devotion as a bonfire and some drums do. Let the drums shake their cores and make their blood rage. This is how you make people feel their primal truth, and then, they’ll realize why doing this once a month is so freeing. They will get back to work, back to Jared’s mass, satisfied and their needs soothed. Then they will happily obey, stay pure, pray and make the community itself a functional unit of people with the same values.

And their money. It’s always gonna end up in such a community running itself, on donations, the members’ money and other things.

When the sun sets, the members of the community sit down on the wooden banks or logs, or they bring a white towel to sit on. Jared counts the members and everyone is there. Alex sits beside Jared’s chair, obeissant.

The white flowy cult dresses start billowing in the wind. Jared sits down on his chair, with a graceful flowing movement. He’s dressed in white too, linen, see through even when dry. When he sits all the heads turn to him. In the twilight of the remaining sunbeam, you could think, Jared just descended from heaven. He likes that idea. He raises his arms and in his strong, rough voice he proclaims “Brothers, sisters, it’s time for our monthly celebration. You cleansed your bodies, you prayed and did good service to the community. Now is the time to reward you, my brothers and sisters. Let’s have the holy communion, break bread and offer it to your neighbours, offer wine to your friends. Connect.” There’s faint applause and Jared puts his hand down. “No need to applaud, my dear sister, tonight, we celebrate you and your devotion and purity!”

He turns to Alex, dressed in white linen trousers. “Brother Alex will light the fire and then, brothers and sisters, enjoy the bread and wine, let your spirits flow and find your matches for tonight!”

The crowd cheers and they end the chorus with a loud and enthusiastic “Amen!”

“Amen!”Jared echoes and his voice layers upon everything else.

When he sits down and Alex lights up the fire he watches all these people, the four new recruits. A young cute redhead girl, she looks like condensed sunshine - a young boy, looks like he’s here because the redhead is here (he’d be weeded out tonight) - another redhead, looking fierce. A snake. He might take a closer look at her - and then, there is Green Eyes. The boy that Jared picked himself. Usually one of his lower assistants would pick them but this time, Jared had to intervene. He needed these assistants to weed out the no go’s just before Jared could even see them. He couldn’t check on every person willing to join, they needed to make a first sighting and then the few ones who might be of Jared’s interest, would be invited to meet the True Vicar himself. Usually, that was 10 out of 200 or even less. And Jared was just as rigorous with ditching the foul seeds. But Green Eyes was his favorite all along. Those eyes…

Alex breaks the loaf of bread and offers it to Jared. Of course, he’s on his knees and only looks up when Jared takes the half of the loaf and gives him his blessing.

“May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” Jared says very formally. Alex looks up, his face has tiny sprinkles of ash on them already and his robe turned transparent from the sweat. He’s decent. Will he try as the first one today? Like always?

“May you be blessed by your Father, Our Lord and his Angels,” Alex replies until Jared gestures to him to stay up.

“Amen.”

Jared eats and then receives the wine from Alex too. That’s a golden rule. As his personal assistant, Alex receives the blessings from Jared. Just after him, anyone is able to be blessed by their Master. They share half of the bread, they will need the rest later. In this community it is not necessary to receive Jared’s blessing to consume the holy communion as his liberal practice says that any true believer in their community, on one of the 12 holy days of their community “gathering”, can offer and receive blessings from a brother or a sister. Jared’s happy about that, because blessing 120 people would make him pass out drunk and he can’t have that. He is in control. And he needs to stay in control, too.

Around him, the wine, the food are eaten and some herbal cigarettes are lit, the thick smell of weed is everywhere. Four cult members responsible for music start playing the drums and flutes now. Quietly still, just a hint that soon, the gathering will start with their original purpose. The physical and mental connection of the members with each other. Jared can already see people who are done eating, wine tipsy and a little herbally relaxed. Hands wander under togas and robes, simple shirts and wide hippie trousers. Alex stays with Jared, looking down on the obedient sheep doing what they’re supposed to do. The fabric in his crotch is tenting. One look in Alex’ face tells Jared everything.

“You won’t give up, huh?”

Alex shakes his head. “No. I will never give up.”

Jared now stands up and stretches like a cat that has just awoken and now is on their way to do some mischief. “Boy, all of you try so hard, but none of you can take it.”

“It’s about receiving your mercy,” Alex says, now sounding a little sulky.

Jared heads towards the bonfire where some couples (or more) are intertwined with each other, laying on the bare grass, sitting on logs or they found a nice spot on the white towels everyone brought. Right in the center, around the fireplace, it is too hot to sit there. Jared makes his rounds, ruffles some hair here, kisses a girl there, even helps a young girl settle on her lover’s cock.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he coos, “that’s how you show your love and devotion.”

She would be too tight and small for him though. All the women here would surely love to try again and again, but none of them would be prepared for his cock.

When he is done doing rounds around the bonfire he sits down on an empty white blanket and just like it’s natural, the free members gather around him. The drums start playing a hard and catchy rhythm.

The psychology behind music and rhythm. His members really know how to play a mass of people and put their bodies in the right directions. Alex joins and everyone respects Jared’s assistant too much to try and get Jared before him. In absolute devotion, Alex pulls Jared’s white linen pants down to his naked ankles, then off his naked feet. The participants murmur and gasp, such a delight every time. Jared didn’t wear boxer briefs or anything else underneath and so, everyone can admire his massive cock. It’s big, the erection growing strong and hard and the tip bounces against Jared’s toned six pack, above his belly button. Even Alex with his long filigrane and very skilled fingers can’t wrap around the shaft fully.

They all watch, not even Alex dares to touch him yet.

“You. Alex. Claire. You were such a good team last time. Would you show me how perfectly you harmonize?”

The blonde girl blushes deep red and Alex first raises an eyebrow. It’s clear who he wants, but he would never deny one of Jared’s commands. And that’s what it is. A command.

Alex pushes Claire on all fours, one strong hand in her hair and presses her down while he sucks on two of his fingers and then penetrates her with them. She squeals and giggles, but before Alex fucks her he knows he has to give his true interest a show, and he will. While fingering her he presses his face between her buttcheeks and starts sucking. The scene gets very loud with pleasure noises very soon and another guy asks to accompany them.

Jared supports himself with one arm and the other he uses to stroke his cock, throbbing and hot, he loves it when his followers put on such a show. He’s leaking some precum already and a boy next to him looks at it. Greedy and inexperienced. Jared doesn’t let him taste yet, and instead the nameless boy bends down to kiss Jared’s very muscular thighs. Another follower starts doing the same on the other side, everything with Jared stroking himself slowly. He wants to enjoy every minute of it. His toes are sucked on, submissive followers suck them like it’s his massive member. The first brave adepts gather around them too and Jared can’t help but smile. People stroke his hair, kiss his neck and leave their marks, but what Jared really needs is someone taking his cock like a champion. He knows he’s intimidating. Thick and lock, and even grows bigger when hard. The first adept who is bold enough to come forward is very much welcome. He has himself oiled pretty well, he smells flowery and when he sinks on Jared’s cock (just the tip!), he freezes.

“Oh… God”, he hisses, “oh my f… so big…” Jared smirks, his hands on the twink boys hips. Such a beautiful boy, Jared would love to fuck him and fill him up, but it looks like he is already failing at the tip.

“Go slow, my dear,” Jared says nonetheless. A guru can hope.

Two hands on his shoulders push the boy farther down and he cries out, half in pleasure, but also in pain. The hands disappear and the young man on Jared’s cock looks like he’s about to cry.

“It’s too much for you, hm?”

The boy nods and gets up, legs shaking. You can tell he never had a guy fuck his ass before, bonus points for using oil as lube. He might try again after he gets used to it with another cult member. He stammers an apology. Jared pulls him down for a second and presses his thumb on the boy’s forehead.

“I bless you, brother.”

It’s a ritual, it’s a necessity, or the boy will maybe consider leaving. But most of the boys, like Alex, stay close to Jared and try it again and again and again. Some people are overachievers, maybe one day it will be successful.

The boy mumbles an Amen and then strolls away, looking for another group he can find a place in. Jared still feels the tight ass of this boy and, damn, how much he loves it when they’re tight, maybe an anal virgin even, and he’s the first to fuck them. Another brother sucks him off, but he also has trouble swallowing more of Jared’s wand than just the tip. His sucking is superb, ambitious even. Drool runs down his throbbing cock, damn, he even makes delicious sounds! Jared’s head falls back and he wishes he could blow his first load, but all these attempts of his followers just leave him just ‘almost coming. The man takes him deeper now but is interrupted by heavy gagging and he has to give up. Now it’s Alex who claims to be next. Alex is the kind of guy who acts like a passionate lover with anyone, even though he only craves Jared’s attention. He’s open and gaping already, must've gotten into a very nice threeway with Kathryn and the other member. Alex sinks on Jared’s cock, his back pressed against Jared’s sweaty chest. Alex is able to take more than just Jared’s tip after extensive dilating practice or when he’s been fucked already by two or more of his brothers of the Church, but that leaves Jared only semi turned on, too. He feels loose, not as tight as when he tried it the first time and cried for several minutes because Jared’s dick almost tore him apart. It’s enough to make Jared cum and bless Alex with an intense prostate orgasm, but still Jared is not satisfied. When Alex leaves and some others follow him to the pool, he sits down again, crotch still throbbing, his need still not satisfied. Around him the orgy is at its peak, no one is alone by now, everyone is sharing their love and energies. Jared is gifted, his cock is ready again five minutes later and he mounts that ginger woman, the adept. But she winces when he’s halfway in and Jared has to pull out. She’s biter and a scratcher, her thick accent is sexy and he makes her cum multiple times with his tongue and fingers, but he holds back now, he waits for the perfect one. Someone to form a union with. A tight one, but skilled and resilient. A man that can take his cock and even if it hurts a little, push through.

Jared sinks down on one of the blankets, lies down and stares in the clear starry night, a follower brings him a pillow and others massage his thighs and arms, his feet. God, yes, his feet are so sensitive. Another guy shyly asks if he may be of service and when Jared opens his eyes and looks up it’s Green Eyes. He hasn’t seen the boy since the beginning of the orgy. Jared immediately hikes up and shoos his other followers away.

“Sure, sit with me.”

The boy with the forbidden pretty pouty lips, the rough voice and piercing green eyes sits down, facing the self proclaimed Vicar of God.

“You want to be of service, what was your name again? I’m sorry that I have to ask, I am terrible with names – most people change theirs after initiation anyway and that’s what stays in my memory.”

Green Eyes looks at him. “I’m Jensen.”

“Hello Jensen. I’m glad you came to our monthly free love gathering. Is that the kind of religious practice you seek?”

A girl offers them some bread and a chalice of wine, plus some mushrooms on the side.

“It would be an honor, Jensen, to break the bread and drink the wine with you. Mushrooms are not mandatory if you’re allergic to that kind.”

Jensen grins and echoes the girl’s “amen” and gives her a smile. It’s gotten a bit quiet around them, some followers watch Jared and his new recruit very, very closely.

“I don’t want to break the protocol, who is supposed to break the bread and offer it?” Jensen asks with a shy grin. Jared chuckles.

“We do not have a strict protocol, not on these special nights when we celebrate freedom and harmony. And free love. When we surrender to our primal instinct, you understand?”

Jensen nods seriously. “Yes, I get that.”

He rips off a piece of loaf then a second and offers one to Jared without the ceremonial motto. Jared ignores that (at least today) and receives the bread. “May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” he says, presses his thumb on Jensen’s forehead and mumbles an “Amen”. Jensen echoes again, then takes a bite. When he’s done Jared offers him the wine with the same motto, and this time Jensen copies it, even though the Vicar is addressed during that sentence with “May you be blessed by your Father, our Lord and his Angels”. He will learn that, Jared will make sure of it.

No one dares to come any closer after they’ve been offered shrooms, bread and wine. Some couples, or whole piles of copulating people don’t care what’s around them but some very devoted followers of Jared’s doctrine watch their Messiah and the new man very closely. Some are envious. Some are in awe of these two beautiful men sharing the body of Jesus Christ (strictly speaking Jared’s ‘brother’, just a few thousand years earlier) in such a manner. Jared’s tanned body glistens in the light and sparks of the bonfire and his hair started curling a little lately. Several people’s eyes turn wet. Given the beauty of their leader. Or given the fact there’s a new boy in town. And this boy is too pretty for his own good.

The wine is dry and aromatic, nothing you would just chug down and Jensen and Jared empty four chalices which are refilled by a maid that was brave enough to disturb her leader and the new recruit. It’s gotten chill and the bonfire shrinks and shrinks, some members of the Church try to revive it for a little longer and throw thick and heavy branches on it, along with brushwood that would burn easily and then transfer the fire over to the branches.

Just like in the 16th up to the 18th century – this is how you build a pyre to burn witches.

Jensen carefully, even a little shy now, lays a hand on Jared’s leg. The leader is surprised, given his attitude and behaviour he didn’t count on Jensen to take part in the orgy, he seemed more the watching type. The bonfire reflects in his intense green eyes and Jared feels an aching towards his new recruit.

Now he realizes that Jensen’s white shorts are tenting. The way he looks up at Jared, through his thick blonde eyelashes it’s absolutely acting. Jensen is not that shy. Maybe a little.

“The others told me…” Jensen started, “that I should under no circumstances give in to your… advances. You would, how did they say… tear me apart…? I wonder why…”

Jared snorts as an answer. Amused. His followers keep saying this to either see if someone’s brave enough to come forward right in their first few months here or if they’ll chicken out.

“Well!” He has to laugh again. “Look, I think you’ve… you’ve watched a little without participating in this celebration, right? You’re still dressed, to my dismay!”

Jensen blushes, one hand on his crotch. Now, this reaction is a little more honest.

“I can, I mean…”

Jared laughs louder now and then lays his hand on Jensen’s, that is covering his erect penis.

“Don’t make it awkward, Jensen, it’s fine. Not many participate in their first orgy and you are not obliged to, either. This is about free love. Father gave us free will for a reason. Because without free will, there is no love on this Earth.”

There’s one streak of Jensen’s chin long hair, it’s styled but now the hairspray or the gel isn’t working it’s magic anymore. Jared brushes the strand behind Jensen’s ear. He’s closer to the recruit now and Jensen’s hand under his pulls away for the messiah to feel what’s underneath.

“Regarding your concern about ripping you apart… I would never. But as you can see…”

Jensen’s eyes fixate on Jared’s growing cock and he gulps visibly.

“Yes, I…”, he looks up again, doe eyed and his mouth slightly opened, his pink silky tongue wets his lips.

“You have the face of an angel, do you know that? I wonder what hides behind that…”

Jared’s voice is low and rough now, he groans when under his fingers Jensen’s cock jumps.

“Jared, but… what if I can’t--”

“Shush, I’ll prepare you for it. And we have masses of oils. We’ll go slow. Very slow.”

A whisper erupts amongst the witnesses, their leader and idol! – wooing Jensen. A newbie. Some figures in the dark hurry for more oil, whole cans of it, juices, towels and fresh clothes. This is a choreography of duty to care for Jared. Everyone knows this is an occasion they won’t be able to witness that often. So far only one person could take Jared’s cock and fulfill his most aching wish.

It’s Alex’s now hated duty to bring it all over to the blanket where Jensen climbs in Jared’s lap, panting faintly between two very passionate kisses. There’s fresh bread, more wine, water from the Church’s own well, fresh clothes for both and a big bottle of lube, oil based. It will stain every inch of fabric it’ll meet. Jared doesn’t even look up at him when he retreats, but he throws a ‘thank you’ in his direction. As soon as Alex is out of reach he is forgotten.

Jared takes his time with this one. His commune members are in such harmony with each other already that prolonged foreplay isn’t necessary, but of course encouraged. Jensen is vocal, moans in their kisses and Jared loves the effort and the devotion he shows already. Jared pulls Jensen’s clothes off and bathes in the glow of this beautiful sight. Jensen’s skin is flawless, soft. It’s a joy touching him. Jensen pulls him in another kiss and arches in the leader’s strong arms - so responsive, in every way!

“I want to try it,” Jensen then whispers, shakily.

“What exactly?”

“Take you. Suck you.”

Jared chuckles and gets up, pulls Jensen along on his lap. Jensen’s hand is big, he has deliciously thick fingers and Alex would appreciate some good fingering from him. He should introduce these two a little later

Jensen slides between Jared’s legs, who’s supporting himself with his arms to be able to watch Jensen try and gag on his cock. Jared senses some of his sisters and brothers coming closer, silently, to not interrupt them in their exploration ritual. He can’t blame them for being curious, and this is the exact purpose of their monthly gathering. Enjoy each other freely.

Jensen’s mouth waters and when he opens his lips, a thick streak of drool runs down his face and chin. He doesn’t hesitate to bend down and wrap his lips around Jared’s tip.

A moment of breathless silence from everywhere.

Jensen. slides. deeper.

Jared moans and his head falls between his shoulder blades, so that he can see the clear starry night sky.

He will stop now, it’s too much. Oh God it’s too much, he can’t do it, Jared thinks, and then he starts praying Please let him go deeper.

Jensen’s mouth feels tight, soft, and hot and he produces so much drool, it makes it messy. Perfectly messy. Jared’s head falls foward again and he watches Jensen taking him inch by fucking inch. Jared’s cock disappears in Jensen’s tight throat to the root. Jared stays perfectly still and tries to not even move a hair’s breadth. Jensen’s hand slightly presses on Jared’s stomach and then pulls away slowly. Painfully slowly, while working Jared’s incredibly thick shaft with his tongue. As soon as he’s able to look up to Jared everyone can see streaks of tears in his angelic face and his flushed cheeks. He keeps on working Jared’s tip, circling the bundle of nerves under the tip and then, with a high pitched gasp, pulls away completely.

He looks over to Jared and smiles. “Did I do good?”

Jared nods. It’s been ages since someone took him completely. It takes all of his willpower to not grab in Jensen’s hair and force his mouth down again to suck him off.. and then fuck his recruit’s face. He would gag and whine so pretty…. Jared needs a moment to breathe in and out very deeply, call himself to reason.

“You are perfect,” he says, his voice shaky. “By the Angels, you are the best.”

Jensen blushes even deeper and looks away. He notices the other believers have gathered around them. Jared combs through his hair. He feels that Jensen now really is shy.. that’s not a show.

“Don’t bother, my dear. They won’t touch you if you don’t want to. I’m here for you and only you. Okay?”

Jensen nods. “So I really did good? Did no one before me take you that deep? I mean it’s a bit tricky but -”

Some of the watchers moan.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“They all tried, dear. And failed. I guess you just earned yourself a title.”

Some of the watchers lurk in the dark, some are illuminated by the fainting bonfire. The sound of drums is gone. Jared watches Jensen look around and get used to it, after all. Then he turns to Jared and grins.

“I will work to keep the title then…,”

Jared pushes his delicious mouth on his cock again, and yes, fuck, holy fuck YES, Jensen can take him. He takes him so deep that Jared can feel his throat tighten and contract, but he’s not gagging in the bad way. Tears fall and drool runs down his reasonably thick shaft. Jared’s hand grips in Jensen’s hair and pulls. Jensen utters a surprised but pleased moan and keeps going faster and faster. One hand sneaks around Jared’s balls and massages them. Jared’s hips buck up and Jensen needs a break for a second, deep, hectic breathing, his teary eyes, the rest of the bonfire glistens in his eyes. Jared has a hard time holding back his possessive nature when Jensen just worships him like that. Faint and aroused moans around them show Jared that the others enjoy Jensen’s show as well. Some couples even have started fucking. Girls stand close by, rubbing their swollen and wet parts.

“Look around,” he orders Jensen, “look around, how much love you spark.”

“Your voice… so deep… so much deeper,” Jensen is still fighting for breath. It makes Jared only crazier.

“That’s you, you do that to me.”

Jensen’s hand is still stroking him. Jared would be ready to come just now, preferably he’d shoot his massive load right in his throat, but what he wants even more, what’s the source of the deepest aching is the longing to finally be inside someone fully. He wants to ram his cock in Jensen up to the root and make him come first, then Jared could let go.

“You’re close,” Jensen whispers and presses a kiss on Jared’s lips. “I swallow if you’re into that…”

Jared’s answer is a low and growl. “What I really want…”

“Let me guess… you want to fuck me? Here in front of all these people?”Jensen sounds out of breath, thrilled, over excited. His hands are shaking when he pulls himself on Jared’s lap.

Jared holds him close, his raging, painfully hard cock pressing on Jensen’s asshole. It’s slick from all this spit, but he wouldn’t dare to just enter him now, without warning. Without giving him something to chew on while Jared has to push his way in.

“Free love. My pleasure is their pleasure,” Jared manages to say. He’s very proud to have that uttered in a manner that makes him seem still in control of himself.

Jensen laughs quietly and then climbs down Jared’s lap. He stands up. And everyone can take a look at this beautiful body, shaped by God to strike people in awe. His own cock is thick and looks just delicious, Jared might want to get a taste one day, too. Then Jensen turns around and lowers on all fours, his perfectly shaped ass in Jared’s direction, head down, almost submissive.

“Make your pleasure my pleasure,” he whispers, only Jared seems to hear it.

Men and women formed a crescent around them now, the opening pointing to the dying fire. Jared licks his lips while he squeezes a very lavish amount of oil in his hand. He doesn’t cover his cock yet, he will help Jensen first. He enters him with one finger and Jensen bucks away first, in surprise but then lowers himself on the finger, starts fucking himself with it. His broken and sweet moans make Jared’s blood boil and also the participants around them start jerking harder. One hand gesture from Jared, and his followers stop. They shouldn’t finish before Jensen does, that’s just and right.

“More,” Jensen demands, looking behind him with big teary eyes. His pupils are tiny and the iris of a thick and rich green. Jared gives him more. Jensen literally sucks the second finger in and when Jared starts massaging his prostate from outside with his thumb, Jensen cries out, stretching more and swallowing Jared’s long fingers to the root. He gasps tiny “oh god’s” and “fuck’s”. And then Jared isn’t able to hold the urge back and test if Jensen really is what Jared needs. Someone who fits him. He covers his long member with a lot of oil and also spreads generous amounts around Jensen’s anus.

“You think you’re ready, yeah?”

Jensen nods. “Positive.”

He even grabs his buttcheeks and pulls them apart, Jared has perfect sight of his slightly mouthing, dilated hole and all he has to do… He gulps violently, but then places his tip on Jensen’s entrance and sloooowly pushes in. Inch for inch. Jensen has to let go of his buttcheeks and his hands press on Jared’s hips.

“Holy… sh…”, Jensen huffs, “Is swearing even allowed?”

“Too much?”

“It’s a lot, but not too much… fuck…”

Jensen breathes heavily but slowly, as slowly as Jared goes, his hands don’t push against him anymore and Jared can slide in even deeper. He’s amazed by how Jensen’s hole just swallows him, inch by delicious inch. He’s tight, extremely tight, thanks to the thick oily lube he won’t be hurt. Quite the opposite. Jared pushes in, freezes and rubs over Jensen’s back, soothing him. Jensen doesn’t need that much soothing though, after a few seconds of Jared holding perfectly still and just twothree inches away from going inside all the way he sinks against Jared’s hips, taking him fully with a low, needy moan that seems to last an eternity.

“Please… move…” he moans, while Jared still holds Jensen’s hips and stares. Just stares in awe.

He really did it.

Jared can’t believe it’s really happening, that he feels so close to someone, again, finally, after such a long time. As he doesn’t start moving, Jensen rolls his hips back and forth, his back stretches and his hands clawing in the blanket. He just fucks himself on Jared’s member, doesn’t wait any longer and the moans he utters are - there is no other word -- they’re downright vulgar. It shows how much he lets go and it washes Jared away, his fingertips dig into Jensen’s hips as he meets his recruit’s pace. Now Jensen cries out, the words and moans just drop from his lips, he wants more, and Jared can feel how greedy he is.

The audience around them is a choir of pleasure sounds, each of them takes Jared up so high he feels like he’s more than drunk. More than high. He feels like he’s elevating.

“Jared… Harder!”

Jared fucks him harder. Jensen around him stretches and clenches like he wants to milk him dry, make him cum, but not now. It’s too good to let it end too early, he’s been starved too long and he wants to enjoy every second of fucking this angelic but oh so slutty adept. No one ever met his pace, wanted to be fucked harder and harder, no one asked to be sore, but Jensen does.

His moans are so loud his voice breaks and trails off, chokes on his own sounds. Jared loses it at this point, he grips in Jensen’s glossy hair and pulls him on his knees, closer to his body. Pounding his ass now makes beautiful wet sounds. Jensen leans on Jared’s chest and reaches for the prophet’s ass to push him deeper. And deeper.

“Can’t get enough, huh?”Jared growls, his hand in Jensen’s hair is pulling stronger, the other on Jensen’s hip holds him steady. “Want every inch of me?”

Jensen nods, sobbing. “Yes, never been fucked so good… just how I need --” He can’t even finish the sentence, Jared’s mighty deep thrusts make his voice fade into a cry. “Oh, God!”

Jared needs to slow down just for a bit, give himself time to breathe and hold back the orgasm that’s building up. He’ll shoot a massive load for sure, he wants it to be worth it. He bites Jensen’s neck and feels the violent shudder. They cling onto each other, hands in hair, fingernails scratching and leaving red trails.

“No, no, don’t stop now… I’m so close,” Jensen huffs, turns his head to Jared, their lips meet and Jared kisses him until both are too breathless, too close to be gentle or patient.

When Jared picks up his pace again it’s only a matter of a few seconds until Jensen cries out and sinks back on all fours, hiding his face in the blanket. He doesn’t have to touch himself to cum, with a loud and guttural sound he spills. And spills. It’s such a mindblowing orgasm. Everything about it is perfect. Jensen’s moans, how he pulls out handfuls of grass. His clenching asshole around Jared. The amount of cum he splatters on the sheets. Jared bends forward, pulls Jensen’s face up and turns it to the crowd.

“Let them look at you,” he hisses, “share the love.”

And then Jared cums, grunting and thrusting as deep as he can. His cock pumps and pumps masses. He’s never come so hard, so long, so satisfying. For a couple of seconds he doesn’t know anymore where he ends and Jensen begins, that’s how good and intimate it feels. Jensen’s tightness squeezes him tight and makes it impossible to move or pull out.

Jared collapses on Jensen’s back. He’s dizzy. He needs a moment.

Around them the noises turn from moans to grunts. Heavy breathing. Jared gestures to the watchers to stop jerking. He wants to have Jensen for himself for another moment when he pulls out. Jensen winces underneath him but his face just shows blissful exhaustion. Jared loves to watch his cum pouring out his partner’s holes and it’s no different tonight. Not after this divine intervention. Not after he’s been blessed with such a partner.

It’s a lot. Jensen turns his head to Jared, his face puffy and red, strands of wet blonde hair on his forehead. And now there’s the hint of a smirk.

“Did I do well?” he asks.

“I think you know…” Jared replies.

His hand strokes Jensen’s still half hard cock and Jensen moans. So sensitive. Next time, Jared might return the favor and suck that pretty cock.

“Your brothers and sisters want to show you how much they enjoyed watching you.”

Jensen looks around, then back to Jared.

Now the smirk is undeniable.

“Let ‘em come.”

Jared gets up, his muscular body beaming in the light of the moon and embers of the fire. He feels like he’s about to rise above anything and anyone. This union has given him the deepest peace he could ever feel. He still feels painfully hard and when he looks down he still is. His glossy cock perks up, but he won’t take Jensen a second time and risk really tearing him apart.

Jensen is on his knees, arms stretched forward like a satisfied lioness, sticking out his freshly bred ass to the audience.

“Children. Time to welcome Jensen in your midst.”

Alex approaches Jared to wash him off with a fresh wet cloth and a sponge while the others gather around Jensen. No one touches the recruit, after Jared united with him, but he will be showered in attention and much more.

Two days later, Jensen is still a bit sore.

He didn’t sleep much on the night of the celebration, he’s been too hyped, too high from the rush of alcohol, adrenaline and sex. Especially the sex. He can still feel Jared’s massive pole in his ass and everytime he gives in to the memory he shudders and feels his white robe tent.

Everything in this commune is white. The community houses in which the members live, white. The Church, white. Jared’s residence, white. The only thing that seems to be different is the massive wooden chair in which Jared sat during the celebration and watched his followers unify.

The blankets are white, the towels, the plates. Purity is an important pillar of this group, and everyone who’s not familiar with the customs might argue that collective orgies aren’t really pure, but Jensen knows better already. Purity is based on keeping your body healthy. The diet here isn’t vegan, but the community has their own farm. 120 people need food and water. Most of them live and work here. On the farm where vegetables and fruits are grown seasonally, or they take care of the cattle, pigs and chickens. Others help keep the houses intact.

Days are warm, the nights are pitchblack, there’s a lake and a river closeby. Women wash the clothes of the community. There is no “mine” and “yours” in the Church. There is only “we” and “us” and “our”.

Jensen has his own room, because the morning after the orgy, after the morning prayers and morning sports, in the great hall at breakfast, Jared proclaimed that Jensen was indeed heaven sent. Chosen by the Angels. That makes him special enough to have his own room for a while and it helps him acclimate in this environment. Most new members need that. They come from their picket fence life in the suburbs or the pulsing lives of a big city. They had day jobs, night jobs, family, addictions and almost everyone of them has been materially wealthy.

Everything that keeps them away from living a pure, devoted life with God is taken away here. Jared provides everything they need.

Some take a week to find their place in the community, some struggle for years. Some pack their bags as soon as they realize that the sense community here also consists of freedom in love, friendships. Children are born in this community and are raised by everyone, not only their genetic parents. No one here claims to own someone or something.

Well.

At least they say so.

Alex’s room is - as it’s appropriate for his position - in Jared’s residence. This morning he decided to cut his shoulder long, honey blond hair and trim his long beard.

Purity doesn’t mean to be shaven clean or have short hair. Purity comes from the heart, free will and the ability to love. Alex doubts he is quite pure at the moment. The community is free of the toxicity of a material life - in the community, you don’t aspire to climb up ranks. There are simply only three ranks. The community, Alex, Jared. Jared is their natural leader, it is supposed to be like that. Alex is chosen. Alex is confident.

He was. His heart is full of love for the cause and for Jared.

Until a few nights before he looked in the mirror every morning and smiled at his reflection. Because the reflection showed him a confident young man of faith. Full of love, not bound but blessed with free will.

Then, his heart started to hurt.

Now he hates his blue eyes, he hates his long hair, he hates the beard. He hates that he isn’t able to provide Jared the one thing he ached for.

It feels like an inconsistency of Jared’s teachings. Or Alex just isn’t at the point of enlightenment he always thought he was. He finds the fault in himself rather than Jared. But he likes it most thinking that it’s Jensen’s fault.

Jensen with the dazzling green eyes that tantalize Alex. And his damn ability to merge with Jared. Something no one in the community ever could provide.

Alex hates that someone other than him satisfies Jared in any way.

When he looks in the mirror he sees the man who came here all these years ago when Jared’s predecessor was still alive. The man who crashed here after drugs and sex addiction ruined his life.

Growth is something that never stops. And any day you don’t work through your struggles puts you one step further away from divinity and back into the life of materiality and toxicity.

Jared mustn’t know.

Alex stares blankly in the mirror while he shaves his beard off. Completely.

It takes a few days generally for the community to calm down after such a night. Jared knows that. He feels sore himself, but in a good, satisfying way. His community is thriving, they have new members. Fresh blood. The prayers are inspiring. Jared insists on holding the divine services all by himself. These days he’s beaming with love and the rich and satisfying feeling of being connected. This is Jensen’s merit. His sensuality, his sexual aura, everything about him reminds Jared of the Archangel Michael, the fiery son of God who guarded Eden. Everything about Jensen seems to set Jared on fire. And not only Jared. The others feel it too. The women, the men, everyone stares when he passes. It takes Jared a lot of introspection, prayer and exercise to not just drag him back in his bed. Jared is known for being considerate, kind, and balanced. He leads these people on their path to God and divinity, he is their idol. The true Vicar of the Holy Father. Preferring Jensen in his first month here would weaken his own strong will. He’s sure this man is sent by his Father to heal his hurts, but he needs to care for his community first.

Jared must not be selfish. He obeys the Lord and he will follow His guidance wherever it may take him. When he knows that his community is safe.

After morning’s prayer and exercise Jared retreats to the communal bath. Alex prepared everything like always. He’s shaven clean and his hair is way shorter than before. While Jared sinks in the hot tub, Alex hesitates to accompany him. He looks bitter. Some of the old worry lines reappeared. Jared makes an inviting gesture.

“Come in, Alex.”

Today, Jared notices, it sounds like more than an order.

Alex first shakes his head, but then looks up and his face softens. The lines disappear. He undresses and joins Jared for a bit.

Jared pulls him on his lap, it’s unusual for Alex to be physically distant. He recognizes his assistant has a razor cut on his chin. He runs his thumb just right under it and Alex inhales sharply.

“Why did you shave your beard?” he asks.

Alex looks away, bites his lip. His tooth gap is adorable.

“I didn’t like it anymore.”

Jared frowns.

“Do you doubt yourself?”

A scoff. Jared knows he just hit a nerve. Alex never scoffs at him.

“It’s just hair,” he replies. Now he even sounds a bit defiant.

“Alexandros.”

Alex stiffens. Jared has a habit of calling him by his full name when he fucks up, just like a mother would.

Jared cups his face and looks straight in those bright blue eyes and he sees the vulnerable boy that Alex still is. His progress is phenomenal, but part of him will always stay in the darkness he escaped.

Alex writhes but doesn’t honestly struggle against him.

“Your looks are not important. Be careful with your heart.”

A faint nod. Jared kisses his forehead, then his lips. Suddenly no writhing, no defiance, no stubborn behavior. Alex is pliant. Good.

“I have to go”, Alex mumbles, “I have to prepare our departure to Seattle… Our original flight was cancelled…”

Jared nods. Actually he has no desire to attend this event, but as the leader of this religious community, he has to fulfill some duties. Like going to charity events. It’s not that he hates charity, quite the contrary, as a son of God, it’s his pleasure and deepest wish to make the world a better place, but he hates the whole attention. He hates being compared to apocalypse cults or worse. His teachings are as pure as they can get under given pretenses and the struggle of humanity to overcome the Great Tribulation.

Alex knows. “I know you don’t want to go. But I will make it worth the trip.”

“You always do.”

Alex gets up with slightly shaky legs and a very impressive erection. When he jumps back in his clothes he even turns away. Suddenly he is so shy. When they’re back from Seattle, Jared will have to hold some very intense prayer and service sessions with Alex. He seems in need of healing. And that’s what Jared was chosen for. Provide for people like Alex.

Alex isn’t gone for five minutes when Jared hears a shuffling behind him.

“Did you forget something, Alexandros?”

Someone’s clearing their throat and it’s not Alex. When Jared turns around he sees Jensen standing in the entrance, blushing and looking at his feet.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… umm, am I disturbing you?”

Jared’s face lights up and he turns around fully, crossing his arms on the brim of the pool. Jensen is in his white robe, bread crumbs along his collar. He probably just ate breakfast. His hair is messy.

“Not at all,” Jared replies, “usually, I don’t have guests when I bathe but you’re welcome to join today. You’re new, you can’t know.”

Jensen frowns. “Alex doesn’t count as a guest?”

“No. He is wherever I am, unless he doesn’t want to be.”

Now Jensen’s eyes glow.

“Like now?”

Jared grins.

“You are a cheeky one, aren’t you?” he asks.

Jensen stands there, looking at him like he’s about to say ‘yes’, but ultimately doesn’t.

Jared gestures. “Come in already.”

Ruffling of clothes tells him that his recruit followed his wish and now gets undressed. A moment later Jensen slides in the water beside Jared, about an arm’s length away. His cheeks turn pink.

“Are you well?”Jared asks, just as the caretaker of his people, he is always worried about them. Always ready to provide care if needed or wanted.

Jensen’s teint turns even brighter. Ah. The orgy. It was surely his first time.

“I mean, I think I got a little rough with you there,” the leader admits.

Jensen shakes his head a little, a shy smile and a dreamy gaze show that Jensen might indeed be well. It would be reassuring to hear it though.

“No, no, it wasn’t rough at all but I would lie if I said I don’t still feel you inside me. It was a very world-shaking experience.”

“Uh-huh,” Jared replies, “it was.”

The memory alone makes Jared’s body fill with a need to do it again. Just right here. His pliant and slick body, how hot and tight and damn, how responsive and eager he was to take his cock. And that he succeeded!

Jensen turns to him, comes a little closer to get in touch, physically and Jared is very fond of the idea to have him close. Without a word, Jensen’s hand under the water’s surface, lays a hand on Jared’s thigh. Very close to his member. Flaccid. Yet. And still very big. Jared knows he’s gifted with this large cock and people who can take it, they won’t want anything else after they’ve tried it.

“I wondered, why, umm, everyone treats me like I’m super special, you do too…” Jensen’s eyes are fixated on the tiny waves his hand causes when he strokes along Jared’s thigh. “What makes me special?”

That is a very interesting question and Jared needs some time to think about it. Take deep breaths. It also shows that his new member has not ingrained all of the lore of the Church of Grace. That’s normal. No one knows it by heart after joining so recently.

“Being special is a gift from the Lord, my Father. Everyone is special in their unique way. Take Alex. He’s devoted and tough, loyal and very good at organizing things. Ruth and Judith, you probably crossed their paths already, they’re the best cooks I’ve ever been blessed to taste. Also they are very skilled in sculpting. Everyone is special. Some special things seem to be common, like, so many people on this Earth are talented cooks, tailors, musicians, yogis. And you, you are special, because you give me a feeling of unity in such a primal way, it may seem succinct or superficial. What is it worth, being able to take me? It might not be special to others, but to me this is a thing that brings me peace. And this peace, I can multiply, share it with my people. And by the Lord, it’s not only your physical perks. The way your brothers and sisters here look at you. Some are jealous, but most see in you the most important addition to the community in years. You have a spark in you and you will do great things for the Church. I’m sure of it.”

Jensen stares and Jared notices the slight squint of his deep green eyes. His utter beauty is a gift to humanity already. He radiates purity. If he knows that?

“Is that understandable for you?” Jared asks. He lays a hand in Jensen’s neck and gently squeezes. Pulls him closer. Just an inch but it’s enough to feel Jensen way better and catch his vibes.

“Yes, it is,” Jensen says, “I’m glad this community welcomed me, I’m glad I met you.”

Now he wraps his hand around Jared’s shaft, which is still too much and he won’t be able to embrace it completely.

“I was worried, I am worried, it will be the only time to be close to you.”

“You will be close to me every day. At the service, at the monthly celebration. We share everything here.”

“But, can I be alone with you, just like now?” Jensen huffs, his grip tightens. Jared is just a man, his body reacts and he grows hard, so big that the tip would break the water surface now if Jensen let go.

“I’m a man of my people, I will not deny you. To be honest, yes, I invite you to be with me.”

It would be so easy to lift Jensen up and let him sink down on his cock. It would be amazing to feel him right now. But he is still a little sore. Complete physical unity has to wait.

“Jared…” A sigh. “What you made me feel that night… I think I felt closer to my true self than ever.”

“I’m glad this is helping you. There will be a lot of occasions for you to discover your deepest self, your fears, your worries… Everything will come to light and I know, you will overcome, you will shine and rise above your plain human being.”

Jensen’s hand moves now. He knows how to touch a man, strictly physical. It's a mechanical reaction after all, but when Jared looks deep into these green eyes he discovers his own need and how much he suffered without a mate that would be close to him.

“Tell me, how do you like it… I feel it, I need it… you need it…?”

“I long for it.”

Jared wraps his hand around Jensen’s to guide him with the strokes.

He wants it to build up slowly, and his hand on Jensen’s neck holds him steady, whispering his instructions to keep eye contact, when to slow down and when to get faster. And Jensen is all in with it, he’s passionate, his tiny moans and curses, just from seeing Jared, make it extra hot. Actually Jared doesn’t need to climax here, because the mere anticipation of his partner is more than satisfying. They sink in a kiss when Jared’s instructions turn into a breathless staccato of ‘yes like that’s. He’s noisy when he comes and jerks in Jensen’s hand, forceful first but rapidly turning lazy and soft.

“Teach me more,” Jensen whispers, his face burning red, making his freckles pop even more.

Jared's head sinks on Jensen’s chest.

“About what?”

“About, what you like, how you like it… how we… connect… unify… Physically, I know… I can do that,” Jensen bites his lip.

“But you don’t know how it works spiritually?”Jared asks, placing a kiss on Jensen’s freckled shoulder.

“Is that a stupid question?”

A headshake. Why should it be? But Jared knows, Jensen is insecure, he longs for answers and guidance.

“Believe me, you didn’t ask a stupid question so far. You crave unity?”

Jensen nods.

“Just like you do.”

“I would love to show you more of it. But I will have to go to a congress in Seattle in three days. Alex and I will be gone and you’ll be on your own for a couple of days,” Jared replies. There is indeed some longing in his voice.

“Oh, that is… it will be long and I’m new, I…”

Jared clicks his tongue while he combs Jensen’s hair. “You don’t have to worry, everyone will take care of you. They will do what I’d do. You will be shown around.”

Jensen shakes his head. His muscles stiffen just lightly.

“That’s not my worry, but- I wish I could be with you.”

This causes Jared’s eyebrows to raise. He wants to be with Jensen, too. Show him the world that Jared lives in and help with the settling. It’s hard to find a place in a community. Jared also fears (and hopes) that Jensen found a way in his heart.

“You are with me. And you will be. You belong to the community now.”

Jensen winds.

“I mean… could you… I would like to go to Seattle. With you…”

“And Alex,” Jared corrects.

“And Alex,” Jensen confirms.

There is no reason to say ‘no’, but there is also no reason to say ‘yes’ that is justifiable. Jensen is new. But he’s shown commitment and he wants to learn. They would bond. Jared wants it. Badly.

“Will it put your heart at ease when I say yes?”

Jared smiles and it’s a knowing one. Jensen smiles. He also knows.

“Yes, it would.”

The way Jensen smiles and blushes is cute, maybe a little staged. Jared’s not an idiot, he knows that Jensen is wooing him. Trying to impress. Wants to appeal. He already does, there is no need to be overly pliant. Jared enjoys the attention though, who would judge him for it? He presses a kiss on Jensen’s lips and their hug turns closer, just like the last minutes of touching didn’t exist. Jared wouldn’t complain about that, either.

“Thank you,” he utters before he can think it through.

“For what?”

Jared squeezes Jensen’s growing cock.

“For giving me - peace.”

Peace is not the only thing Jared wants to thank his disciple for, but Jensen’s soft moan drowns any further thoughts. He wants to merge. Now. He doesn’t want to wait. Not for them to be in his room or Jensen’s. Just take him here.

Alex listens to the quiet conversation that turns into moans and splashing, Jared’s deep and ground shaking grunts. He would be a big fat liar if he claimed to be untouched by it, even Jensen’s soft noises make him rock hard. But what he feels in his heart and what he feels in his body, these two things diverge wildly from each other. He shoves a hand in his pants and hates himself for it. But who he hates more is Jensen. He will take Jared away from him.

That mustn’t happen.

Alex has to do something about it. Soon.

#j2 #j2 fanfic #sin is sinning #supernatural rpf #part 1 of 3

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dwellordream · 3 years ago

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“In theory, Victorians concerned with troublesome issues on the margins of respectable fiction for girls could deal with them within the family reading circle. Reading aloud was perhaps the most common domestic entertainment within the Victorian family, used as reward, improvement, or therapy for life’s challenges. The sisters taking turns reading to accompany their needlework, the matron at the sickbed, the daughter reading to her father at the end of a business day—there were myriad arenas in which families used reading to ease, amuse, and instruct.

At its most basic, reading aloud enabled the sharing of resources (a book, or a fresh installment of a periodical) among many. But beyond that, it was a profoundly social way of responding to the lessons of history, current fiction, or poetry. The critic Andrew Blake suggests that the novel, in particular, was ‘‘a most important point of contact between the public and the private’’ because ‘‘it gave people a chance to discuss domestic ideology in public without touching on domestic secrets.’’ The semipublic sphere that was the family circle provided an important venue for the discussion of reading. Within this context, instruction in morality could be accomplished informally, gently, impersonally, with reference to fictional characters rather than through direct criticism and rebuttal.

The convention of the family reading circle generally restricted polite novels from treating illicit sexuality or immoral characters, but if any lapses occurred, the family circle could deal with them most effectively. Thus Elizabeth Gaskell said of her own novel Ruth, which features an orphan who has been seduced by an aristocrat: ‘‘Of course it is a prohibited book in this, as in many other households.’’ The one circumstance that would change its unsuitability for young people, she opined, was if it was ‘‘read with someone older,’’ perhaps with an older female relative within a family reading group.

The kind of family conversation which could improve all who participated was explained by Sarah Browne in a private diary in 1859. ‘‘Albert brings [Harriet Beecher Stowe’s] the Minister’s Wooing. We sit quietly and hear how James is brought back to the living, we calmly rejoice with Mary, plan and maneuver with Miss Pressy, call Parson Hopkins in very truth a Christian and wind up the evening by wishing to see Mrs. Stowe, knowing how she would seem and if she would talk at all, like other women.’’

Albert Browne Sr. was generally the reader in the Browne family, sometimes of ‘‘superior articles in the Atlantic Monthly.’’ In these moments of quiet, Sarah Browne most idealized her shared family life, ‘‘sitting as we do in our little western chamber, Father, Alice and I storing in the rich thoughts of others as a life element of our own.’’Reading aloud enabled a submersion of family tensions in a focus outward on the problems of others.

The idealization of the shared reading experience suggested stylized familial communion to daughters as well as parents. During the final days of the Civil War, as she anticipated her own marriage, Helen Hart thought to memorialize the evenings reading aloud together. ‘‘I think I never enjoyed evenings more in my life. First Bertie reads, then Hady, and then Mother and I; from History, Shakespeare, the Atlantic, and other miscellany. Such peaceful, happy winter evenings at home! Something for us to look back upon in after years when we are scattered. I have treasured up each one as it passed, as a sweet and sacred memory.’’ The pleasure came from the contrast between ‘‘our quiet harbor’’ and ‘‘the world with its commotions, its struggles.’’

Never did home seem so secure and safe as when implicitly contrasted with the adventures and misfortunes of fictional characters, warring nations, or past princes. Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s biographer noted that Charlotte and her destitute and emotionally distant mother were at their best when reading aloud to each other, their fraught intimacy dissolved in their shared focus on the lives and feelings of others. Those moments of community might even be resurrected by rereading books so experienced. (‘‘It seems as if we were gathered around the nursery fire again. I can almost hear Aunt Mary’s voice.’’) The pleasures of reading aloud were those of reading mediated—reading mediated by the fiction of shared purpose.

Reading aloud did not have a single simple meaning, however, nor did it model only one kind of power relationship. The Browne family’s shared reading was patriarchal, with father reading and other family members (according to the hardly impartial mother) celebrating familial harmony. Alice Stone Blackwell, in her irreverent and spritely diary, offered another example of paternal reading aloud, lightly satirizing her father, the noted reformer and women’s rights advocate Henry Blackwell:

‘‘Papa sat with his feet on the top of the stove, saturated with laziness, and rated me for enjoying stories [fiction], and formed plans to give me a taste for instructive literature, and ended by making me bring Plutarch’s Lives, and beginning to read them aloud.’’ This depiction of a well-respected father indulging in playful tyranny of his only child suggests a quite different emotional shading—if a similar actual structure—to the idealized portraits of patriarchal reading circles.

Daughters also read on their own, though, and given the risks of immoral reading and the gains from uplifting reading, good parents attempted to mon- itor what they read. The goal in choosing reading, as in all the lessons of character, was to instruct gently and surely so as to encourage daughters to make familial lessons their own. Advice to parents ranged from the relatively cut and dried—‘‘Parents should choose the books that their children read until the age of 15’’—to the more subtle: ‘‘Wise parents put so many good books in the way of their children that the taste for them is formed unconsciously, and there is never any feeling of restraint.’’ (The latter piece of advice, made in 1901, was clearly advice for the book-wealthy.)

Ellen Emerson’s correspondence with her mother while away at boarding school suggested the appropriate supervisory relationship of parents over girls’ reading. Explaining that she was reading Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford, which she found ‘‘a very funny book,’’ she went on, ‘‘I never read any that I am not sure you would be willing to have me,’’ and recorded her assumption that Scott, Gaskell, and several others were ‘‘not forbidden.’’ She went on to query, ‘‘May I read [Margaret Oliphant’s] ‘Head of the Family’?’’ Middle-class or elite parents who participated in genteel Victorian culture assumed an important role in controlling the reading of their daughters—its quantity, its contents, and its circumstances.

In the elite midwestern Hamilton family, a family with a strong and eclectic reading tradition, novels were doled out prudently like candies during vacations from school, so as not to interfere with schoolwork. When her daughter was fifteen, Phoebe Hamilton gave her ‘‘Ivanhoe for my holiday reading, she always gives me one of Scott every vacation.’’ The next year her mother was more liberal, providing Scott’s Quentin Durward for a Christmas book and giving permission for the reading of Dickens’s Little Dorrit and Jemima Tautphoeus’s The Initials. As January arrived, Agnes lamented, ‘‘I have finished the latter but I am afraid as I go back to school next Monday I shall have to let Little Dorrit wait till summer.’’

There was a hierarchy within Hamilton family reading, and despite her voraciousness, Agnes felt that her tastes fell short of her family’s preferences. ‘‘Oh! why haven’t I the love of learning of the family?’’ She indicated what was expected in her next breath: ‘‘Knight’s England vol. III has been read all but two chapters since last fall and during two months I have read but four books of the Odyssey.’’ She forced herself to be realistic. ‘‘During this next week [probably a school vacation] I want [to] finish half a dozen or more books which I have begun but I dare say the novels are the only ones that will be looked much in.’’

Like the Hamilton reading regimen, other family routines, too, involved matters of both quality and quantity. There were appropriate ages for the reading of different books. At fifteen, Margaret Tileston wanted to read George Macdonald’s Alec Forbes of Howglen, an homage to the dignity of Scots country life. The author was certainly approved, but Margaret’s mother didn’t want her to read the book ‘‘yet.’’

At eighteen, Margaret was still reading under adult scrutiny. Sick at home she was ‘‘allowed’’ to read Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, considered excessively charged for young girls, and polished off 340 pages on the first day. Reading was one way of being inducted into family ideology; when Margaret reread Pilgrim’s Progress in 1883, she was conscious that she was reading a book that had been important to her mother when she was young.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Reading and the Development of Taste.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#victorian #history #american #how young ladies became girls #jane h. hunter

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ninjakasuga · 3 years ago

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Sonsally Celebration Week, Year 3, Day Four!

Sonally Celebration Week, Year 3, Day Four!

Another day of Sonsally Week, unlike the last few entries, this is where I break linearity and go travel back to a prior period in the timeline. When the prompt of ‘Power’ was shown my mind of course went to the Super-Forms, the Deep Power Stones, and the like. Yet also my mind went back to some fanart from last year about a certain someone I would have loved to have seen share a Super Form with Sonic… Y’all can see where this is going.~

Forward: Timeline wise, this is 9-10yrs before Crossroads; the last battle of the war with Dr. Eggman. I admit I’m once again sprinkling tidbits from my still WIP Archie-Sonic-Verse that has yet to be published, but I think the easter eggs and hints of things yet to be seen will be fun for the reader.

Power:

“Sal, are you flipping insane?!” Cried Sonic as he stared Sally down at her suggestion. “You want to use the Deep Power Stones to amplify our Super Forms? What about all that ‘overload potential’ nonsense?!”

Standing beside Sonic, one eye on the half of the Deep Power Stone in her hand, the other on the approaching Egg Armada. A legion of robots, ships, and what other mechanical horrors Eggman had left to try and quash them all for good. With the world-wide alliances winning victory, after victory, Eggman grew desperate and now was throwing everything he had at them in a ‘If I can’t have it no one will!’ tantrum of a scorched world move. Basically it was done to the wire, and now they were as desperate as Eggman.

Her grip tightened on the stone, that madman would not have the last laugh. He wouldn’t end their world as he did the Mobius he came from! “It’s something I was thinking about for awhile, Sonic. We’ve seen what the stones can do just augmenting the individuals who bring the stones together. If we bring that kind of augmentation to the Super Forms? We have the Master Emerald already channeling to empower the Seven Chaos Emeralds, imagine channeling the Stones through it to the Emeralds and the Power Rings. All of you could not just have a greater power boost, but potentially the forms will last longer, long enough to wreck most if not all of the Egg Armada and put an end to this war for good!”

“It might work…” Murmured Tails, standing on the other side to Sally. “Channeling the Stones' power through the Master Emerald, which itself is a beacon and conduit for the Seven Servers…” He began to murmur as his brain went over the numbers and possible calculations. As the two-tailed fox finished his thoughts, he turned to the Guardian of Angel Island, wanting his thoughts. “The Master Emerald is your expertise Knuckles, you think it will work?”

The red-furred Guardian furrowed his brow as he contemplated this. “Maybe, I admit while my communion with Tikal or my Great Grandfather has given me greater insight to the mystical aspects of the Master Emerald, I’m still a novice truth be told.” He sighed, looking apologetic. “Sadly I know more of the scientific side of things given the Brotherhood’s data mostly focuses around that. Even my Father’s old notes are more historical musings than proven theory.” He sighed again, mentally cursing his forebears for yet another aspect of oversight the Brotherhood neglected during their long tenure of guarding Angel Island. Then again, save for the Lost Tribe, it would seem most of the old mystic arts were lost to the Echidna of today, what few were left. “Given we’ve found many connections to the old mystical artifacts of the world, there’s a good chance they’ll work together as Sally thinks.”

A low growl-like ‘hmm’ punctuated the air, before a stern voice interjected aloud. “Or it will overload the Emerald, destroy it, and fry all of us, or potentially create a super-bomb.” Shadow stated with arms crossed, and looking pensive. As all looked his way, he spoke on. “I’m not saying we ditch the idea, but it’s something to consider. I have a vow to protect this world to uphold, as well as too many I care about to let them die.” His thoughts dwelled on Rouge, Omega, and Hope especially. His other comrades within G.U.N. and the Thorndyke Labs. Even of those here, despite any past animosity, he wanted them and their loved ones to equally live. They all had family, and friends to protect.

The last member of the group, his expression uneasy, yet a deep resolve in his eyes looked about his comrades, and then the horizon as their enemy continued to fly toward them. “We don’t really have a choice do we? This is the last chance, for all of you, as well as the Future I want to prevent from coming to pass.” Clenching his fists, Silver felt his powers hum through his being. It had been a long journey, and one not without many hurdles. From his bungling to interpret data from then Future, and its founding in the past, to dealing with the truths of his own ‘Master’ and the struggle of wondering if he was truly a pawn to bring about ‘his’ world versus a world for everyone to be happy. In the end he was wiser, more experienced and ever resolute to ensure the dark future never came to pass. All other obstacles save Eggman had been dealt with. This was the final hour. “So, save for Sonic we’re all in agreement?”

Hands on his hips, Sonic frowned deeply, looking rather indignant. “Hey, hey! I never said scrap the plan, I was just pointing out how before everyone kept yammering about doing something stupid with the Stones. Given either configuration usage done wrong could lead to KAB-BOOM! Jus’ pointing that out!” Eyeing everyone, his gaze rested on Sally, those deep blue pools that always sucked him in. Reaching for her hand, he wrapped his hand over hers, their wedding rings shining in the sun together. “You think this is our best bet, Sal? If you’re really onboard, so’m I.”

In truth, Sally did share the same concerns as Sonic and everyone else. She knew even using just the ‘boost’ augment which so far had been the safest, could lead to disaster as much as the other configuration which always ended destructively. Plus this would be the last time they could use them. As per Merlin Prower’s warning, the Deep Power Stones could be used a handful of times, and the mystic had given them warning they were on their last usage. This was due to a special magical limiter the Neo-Walkers put on the Stones, halving their ability so the Freedom Fighters and their allies could have an edge. However with the last use, the limiter was off, and so it was full power, and potentially the best opportunity for the worst case scenario. After this the Stones would vanish for another millennia until they were recharged and reappear randomly about the planet again.

Yet as Silver pointed out, what choice did they really have? Eggman was going all out; and thus, their hands were tied. “It’s the best shot we have. G.U.N.’s mechanized forces are exhausted and what isn’t in the repair bay is out fighting the forces encroaching their borders. None of the rest of the allied nations have any armies big enough to fight this horde. We can’t call for help from Blaze or any other friends from other dimensions because the Zone Cops sealed all dimension travel to Mobius Prime to prevent Eggman from escaping. This, this, is all we can do.” Her resolve sounded unshakable, despite her internal doubt, she had to sound resolute. Matching her gaze with Sonic, she managed a grin as she laced her fingers with his. “Let’s do-it-to-it, gang!”

Smiles formed about at the catch-phrase that was so infectious even Shadow was sucked in. One by one, Tails, Knuckles, Shadow and Silver joined in placing their hands over each other, forming a lock. “Let’s do-it-to-it! They all cried, before breaking to get into place. While Sally stood by the Master Emerald with Knuckles, the others began to loop around the Master Emerald, each linking their hands together. From Shadow to Silver, to Tails, to Sonic. Instead of holding Knuckles’ hand, Sonic placed his own on the Echidna’s shoulder. Knuckles did the same with Sally, while his free hand touched the Master Emerald. Sally held the Deep Power Stones in each hand, waiting for the right moment to place them together. Craning her head to Knuckles she nodded, and he nodded back, his gaze shifting to the large emerald his bloodline made their mission to protect along with Angel Island itself (well Echidna population for them, Knuckles was out to protect everyone).

“The servers are the Seven Chaos… Chaos is power, enriched by the heart… The controller exists to unify the chaos!” As he started the chant, he briefly saw a flash of Tikal within the Master Emerald, smiling at them all. This allowed Knuckles to smile, but he didn’t let this distract him. “We who are blessed by the Chaos, beseech to wield your power and wisdom, to save the planet and the innocent lives that dwell upon it. Let us be the Guardians of Mobius, of the Chaos, and the Light of Gaia!”

“We will gladly give our lives if you can let us protect all we love, please help us.” Murmured Sally, interjecting her own addition once Knuckles’ incantation chant was finished. Staring at the two halves of the stones, Sally placed them together, the halves flashed as they became one. An intense glow emanating from the black object that soon blinded them all. A bright, green glow from the Master Emerald broke through the white, with the gathered Power Rings (including Sonic’s Billionth Special Ring) all giving off a golden glow as the colors mingled together. A pillar of the mingled colors erupts from the Master Emerald’s resting place, shooting up, and up into space as the island is bathed in its warm glow.

Tails was the first to regain his sight, and once the relief they did not explode passed through him, a wide grin formed on his face as he felt it, the power of his Super Form. Not only that but he could ‘feel’ the power was increased. “Alright I think it worked!” He hollered, pumping his arms as he felt the power of Turbo Tails peak and flare briefly. “Hooo it’s been a long spell!”

Shadow merely made a ‘heh’ sound, yet smiled as he stared at his own glowing hands. “Yes, I can feel it, now those machines can feel Super Shadow’s fists and Chaos Spears.”

“This still blows me away with how powerful it makes me feel.” Murmured Silver as he marveled at his Super Silver transformation.

“Oh holy crap…” They heard Knuckles utter, followed by Sonic stammering “S-S-Sal?”. Everyone turned their heads and gasped in awe.

“Oh, my God…” Was all Sally could murmur. Her fur was a pink-orange tinge, and her hair a golden glow, flowing freely from the sheer power itself. “H-how? I thought only those with a tie to the Chaos Force could achieve super form?!”

“Maybe the powers that be felt you were worthy.” Knuckles mused, giving a nodding approval to this development. The light-pink glow of his Hyper Knuckles form, arcing with energy like everyone else. “In any case it looks like it worked.”

“I’m not a fan of the colors, they remind me of when I spent hours scrubbing chemicals out of my fur.” Muttered Sally, recalling the chemical splash that caused her fur and hair to change colors twice, before finally returning to her proper brown and auburn tones. She shuddered at the memory; she was lucky Rotor and Quack were able to make a fur-shampoo solution to cleanse the stuff from her fur, and luckier she wasn’t exposed long enough to cause any health issues.

Rubbing his chin, Sonic flashed a wide smile as he drew in his wife’s Super Form. “I dunno Sal, you rock the colors, and do’. It’s giving me ideas-.”

Tails held up one hand, and the other he put a finger to his mouth. Making a faux-gagging sound. “Sonic, I’m right here, don’t wanna hear that stuff!”

Snorting, Sonic rolled his eyes, “Hey, hey Li’Bro who said my mind was going to the gutter?”

Knuckles shot Sonic an incredulous look. “And I quote, “I’m always horny for Sal.”, end quote.”

Both Sonic and Sally managed to blush through the color of their super forms. Each coughing, and averting their gazes from their friends for a time.

“How about we can the small talk, and focus on saving the world?” Shadow stated, breaking up the moment as he turned and pointed towards the approaching Armada. “I’m sure Eggman saw that light show and is going to get even more antsy to try and finish us off.”

Clearing her throat, Sally stepped forward from the Master Emerald, letting Shadow’s comment further help to put that momentary embarrassment behind them. FAR behind them hopefully! “Shadow’s right, we got the power, now let’s use it.”

Pounding his fists together, Sonic began to jog and jump in place to pump himself up. “Juice and jam time folks, let’s show ol’ Eggy he should’ve stayed on that satellite in his home dimension.”

“If not just shriveled up and died.” Growled Knuckles as he flexed his fists before slamming them together.

“For everyone here, and those yet to come, we must win.” Silver uttered as he began to float, flexing his psychokinetic powers in anticipation.

Spinning his twin-tails, Tails began to hover as well. “Sally, give the word, we’re ready!”

“Everyone, it’s been an honor… LET’S GO!!”

#boundingforfreedom #Sonic the Hedgehog #Sally Acorn #Archie-Sonic Comics #Knuckles the Echidna #Shadow the Hedgehog #Miles 'Tails' Prower #Silver the Hedgehog #Master Emerald #Deep Power Stones #Super Forms #Fanfic

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