#where is the line between fic and weird quote thing?

[herearedragons]

ahem now it's only fair that you talk about YOUR watcher's relationship with Edér because i want to know everything please and thank you 😊😊😊

EYES START GLOWING LIKE AN ANIME CHARACTER

ahem yes hello hi welcome to herearedragons dot tumblr dot com where being not normal about Selene (my moon godlike cipher) and Edér is my favorite pastime.

Selene's thing is that she's a cipher with Big Trauma from growing up in an Ondrite cult that almost ritually drowned her, and her first moment relating to Edér comes when she realizes the way he talks about Eothas reminds her a lot of how she feels about being an Ondrite: this thing that used to bring you comfort, walking through the halls of a temple and knowing that miracles are real, but it's gone now. gone because your god has directly or indirectly ordered your death, and you have chosen to live, and now you can never go back.

all throughout POE1 Edér is her closest friend out of all the canon companions, partially because she relates to him, partially because listening to his thoughts grounds her (she can't really turn off her telepathy but she can choose when and where to tune in), and partially because she just. likes him. his attitude of "you can tear your hair out and check yourself into the sanitarium, or you can keep going", his ability to find joy in the small things despite everything he's been through, his faith in people and his ability to understand what they feel. and for Edér, well, he really just needs a purpose and an excuse to do anything other than let Gilded Vale eat him alive, and following a shiny stranger is as good a reason as any, and at first she's weird and alien and impossible to read, but there are things about her he understands. he knows she's been through something bad, because the signs he sees in her he's seen in other soldiers and in himself. he knows she's keeping it to herself, and he doesn't pry because it's none of his business, but he also knows it can get lonely going like this, so he offers a little support, in whatever way she'll accept it. conversations by the campfire. he keeps her distracted with jokes. he tries to figure out if there's a substance she can take to make the voices in her head quieter - hey, he's got his whiteleaf, right? might work for her too.

basically not to quote my own post but before there ever was an "I love you" or even a "you're my friend" between these two there was an "I want you to live" and that's really the Edérene Thesis if I'm being real.

everything under the readmore is SPOILERS so everyone who hasn't finished the White March Part II DLC: DON'T LOOK

okay so The White March. The Ondra DLC. The Ondra And Abydon Were In Love DLC. the "wish they knew you like I did" DLC. that DLC.

my first iteration of Selene's White March arc had her stay behind to strike the crystal and realize some Feelings upon hearing Edér's "wish they knew you like I did" line, but the rewrite that eventually became the "canon" version for me is SO much more fun to me.

I wrote a whole fic about it and I am legally obligated to plug it here. it's like 10K words in total.

the short version is: Selene is DEEPLY unwell about the Abbey of the Fallen Moon and the Low Tide because that's what SHE was. when her cipher powers awakened supplicants would come to her to have painful memories removed, remembered by her instead, and when she couldn't bear it anymore she was supposed to be drowned like the Low Tide. but she wasn't. she killed four priests and escaped.

coming back to the White March, realizing that the Eyeless are Ondra's, feels like her decades of running away brought her exactly to where she started. a dread settles in. she's going to die here.

but she's stronger now. not alone. she resists. she defies Ondra again. she sets the Low Tide free. she reads past her words and realizes that she was in love with the god she killed.

Ondra decides to teach her a lesson.

there's no choice, when it comes to striking the crystal. Ondra sweeps in and floods the cave, and when the water recedes, almost all of Selene's party is by the exit, and one of them is near the crystal, with the hammer. and it's Edér. and there is a cave-in separating him from the exit.

see, Ondra saw her godlike standing there, having defied her over and over again, confident, in love (and she hasn't even realized it yet), and decided to put Selene in her place. make her choose between saving everyone and saving the man she loves.

Edér tells her to leave him. she tries to argue, but, eventually, she does. out in the snow, she collapses and communes with the Eyeless, and asks them to rebuild Abydon, to rebuild him angry, so he can hurt Ondra like she never could.

and then Edér survives. he's carried out of the cave by the spirits of the Forge. they both make it. and, at some point, Selene realizes two things:

- Ondra chose Edér as a direct stand-in for Abydon, because Selene loves him

- if she tries to act on her feelings, Ondra just might try to kill him again just out of pettiness

so Selene decides, well, it's fine. she doesn't really need anything more than they have right now, anyway. just having him around is enough. which serves her alright until Thaos is dead and Edér leaves to find his own way or whatever and she's UNWELL. she buries herself in work (restoring Dunryd Row after Lady Webb's death) and tries not to think about it (she's thinking about it.)

......about two years later she gets a letter from Edér saying that he settled down in Dyrford and inviting her over, and she starts visiting, and it takes a few months before Edér realizes having her in his house feels right in a way that probably Means Something aaaaand he confesses to her and she's not made of stone so she confesses right back and then they kiss about it. and by the time Deadfire rolls around they've been together for a couple of years and HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I think you might have to send me a separate ask about that one because it's a WHOLE OTHER THING and I've already typed out a lot but: basically I'm rewriting a lof of things about Deadfire Edér. kind of have to because they're Already In A Relationship. Bearn is still there. Selene is doing badly again. then she gets better. Selene has to confront the fact that, being elf-born, she's going to outlive Edér by A LOT. they have a breakup arc and then get married midgame.

.......also idk if you want to read Edér x Watcher fic it's like. most of my fic these days dhsjdhdkdndj you can look at the Pillars fic list in my pinned post or in my "#edérene tag" tag or on my AO3 or whatever, I. literally cannot shut up about them. emotional load bearing sun/moon ship

[essentiallyleaf]

day 26. selfcest. with. miyeon.

854 words.

tags.

kinktober ‘23, idol x futa!idol (???), selfcest, narcissist miyeon, supposedly a mostly comedic piece but at the same time it’s not very funny, narrator might sound too salty though really they’re just annoyed [beep beep cop out alert beep beep], the real cop out is that miyeon sounds awfully similar to me in this and that’s scary, okay maybe outside of the selfcest part, this entire fic is a huge cop out for me having zero creativity and wit to be honest, sorry for the excessively long tags i’ll stop now, no i won’t, yes i will, no i- okay not funny.

notes.

-5. honestlycantwaitfortheendofoctoberly, leaf.

Miyeon always wanted to write an autobiography, maybe a script, or rather, to get it written for her, ‘cause “Who’s got the time for that, y’knowhatImean?”, and definitely not because she hasn’t used pen and paper for anything other than autographs since she - barely - got out of high school; “Maybe a book of quotes, that could be quicker. What? Whose quotes, you asked? Mine, who else’s? HaHA”

Nah, her life is not really book material. It’s more like a b-movie (or, Bee even?), with all the bad jokes and none of the ironic laughs. This one time she was asked, if you could describe your entire life in a frame - one shot, one opportunity; would your mom be making spaghetti in it? - what would it be? With an intense glare and an abnormal amount of dramatic pauses in between she answered, probably me, in front of a mirror, side-eyeing my own reflection, y’kno, because I, am my only, enemy, the biggest obstacle, on the road to success; wow, that deserves a spot in the book.

It doesn’t come as a shock that a person like her had weird dreams, dreams where she randomly comes across a woman that looks exactly like her, and starts researching about her, trying to get more information, discover where the woman comes from, what she does in her life; it also doesn’t come as a shock that none of that is a product of her own imagination, she just really likes any film with Jake Gyllenhaal in it and can’t come up with any original ideas, even in the hours of the day when her unconscious is completely free and unbound from the chains of the real, or even of the realistic. Joining this exhibition of the unshocking, the first words that Miyeon utters when she gets to meet the woman (even in a dream, where every texture, every face is out of focus and blurred, where humans have twelve fingers and mushrooms have eight legs, she can see the woman’s features clearly - almost like she spent about the same amount of time in a day sleeping and looking in the mirror and could draw her own face blindfolded - and they exactly resembles her own) are “Oh my God, I look so beautiful”. So beautiful that she wants to feel the woman’s sharp, V-lined jaw, her perfectly angled, straight, thin nose, her thick, juicy, pink lips and fuck, how good they’d feel on-

Her tongue invades the double’s mouth like she’s about to have a taste of heaven, and ascending is what Miyeon does as she gets a sample of her own flavor. She feels the woman’s body up all over, hungry for contact, swiping and gripping and tugging now on her soft thighs, now on her bouncy cheeks, now on her perky tits. I need this real fucking fast, she thinks as she feels dampness between her legs, so she kneels to pull the dress of the other her up to her waist, and what she finds is no underwear (it would have been worrying to know that her perfect double does wear it, to be fair) and a gargantuan semi-erect penis. An absolute utopia, truly, for Miyeon to be in front of the two things she loves the most, fused together: herself and dick. No questions asked then, - and honestly, who’s ever questioned anything in their own dreams, even when it’s sucking yourself off - she wraps her lips around the mushroom head and starts bobbing like it’s her favorite hobby, and it is. It’s like she’s practiced her entire life for the moment she gets to taste the cock she never knew she wanted, and that cock thrusts hard back into her moaning throat because only one can know what she always wanted. And as Miyeon loses herself, - in the music, the moment - that’s where it stops, and her body is turned around and put on all fours, her round ass in the air. She feels her slick being spread around and onto her puckered hole, and as the woman’s tip pushes into her back entrance. One thrust in, and then out. Two, a little further. The third time, the huge girth leaves her hole gaping. Four, five, six, and when she loses count (quite soon, and not because of her poor math abilities), that’s when she breaks. That’s when her moans turn into screams, when her hand automatically goes to her clit and starts rubbing, the pleasure from her own fingers causing her muscles to relax even more and her double’s length to reach even deeper into her. The sound of hips bumping into cheeks and of her own feral wails is all she hears before she feels herself cumming and concurrently several spurts of cum fill her ass.

When Miyeon wakes up she has another quote for her book in mind, one to be remembered for generations to come, surely, and just as surely not a stolen one: the opportunity to meet face to face with your greatest enemy comes once in a lifetime - and the enemy will certainly not miss her chance to blow.

-

footnotes.

getting repetitive. contritely, leaf.

[wearwind-ao3]

Fic behind-the-scenes, 2/?

Tanaras (2020, Fire Emblem: Three Houses)

You know how sometimes you read a book and then you begin to write just like that, as if your entire brain was just a sophisticated word digestion and expulsion machine? Tanaras is probably the clearest example I have of that.

By that time we're still in lockdown, and I have lots of time on my hands (you know, because of this whole social isolation thing). There are three past-times I practice religiously: walking, reading, and chatting to my pals from the Claudeleth server. Around that time I pick up two books in particular: Madeline Miller's Circe and T. H. White's Once and Future King.

Tanaras is the ungodly Frankenstein's monster of all those. Picture a beautifully green English countryside at the turn of spring to summer, suffused with that profound loneliness of not being able to speak or see anyone but through that dry eye-inducing rectangle in your pocket. Add the melancholic Arthurian vibes, spruce it up with Circe's poetic syntax, and then put it all on the soil of wanting to see my Claudeleth pals suffer - and here you go. Tanaras. Written slowly and with leisurely angst in the middle of a global disaster.

I miss having time to read that much, though.

Tanaras lives here.

In Obscurum (2021, Fire Emblem: Three Houses)

Okay, now shit's getting weird.

It's still the pandemic, mind you. I am working full-time, studying for a masters with impending first-term exams, and having an extended mental health crisis. There's a bunch of works in progress I have going for my actual ship - you know, Claudeleth - but in the meantime, I get an idea for Claude/Hubert.

I think the hook for it was something stupid, like a line I've written in an earlier fic where Claude mentions wheedling Hubert for intel on Byleth. The idea that came out of it was: Hubert von Vestra's POV as he EXTREMELY UNWILLINGLY falls in love with a little golden trickster that could theoretically, in a perfect world, reciprocate. I initially wrote maybe five hundred words and left it there.

Then a wet, dark, miserable November came, life turned stressful, and I started writing the biggest vent fic in the history of vent fics. In between studying and lying face-down on my bed I was spewing chapter after chapter of absolute fucking venom, hating my POV character and everything about him. It was enjoyable, I think, to write such an awful human being and then having him struggle with his just desserts. Pure catharsis. In the meantime, I started publishing the fic and picking up regular commenters.

And then, I'm not sure when exactly, I grew to like Hubert and his awful conniving little mind. It was still a tragedy, an inevitable bad end, but now barrelling towards it gained an extra poignance. When it was complete, and I went back to beta it with a friend, we added the chapter titles: excerpts from the Catholic chant for the dead. What started as In Obscurum (In Darkness) became recontextualised in its broader quote: ne cadent in obscurum ([So that they may] not fall into darkness). At some point, my little hateful spew turned compassionate.

I'm not sure what I learnt from that one, except that I am capable of writing awful people but not irredeemable ones. It's a weird, weird fic. I enjoy coming back to it.

In Obscurum lives here.

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[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Four's Masterlist of Fics

Thanks for stopping by my weird little corner of Tumblr! I am thrilled to have you here!

Bit About Me:

You can call me Four.

She/Her

Writer who wishes she could draw/paint, so I live vicariously through my talented artist mutuals.

Currently, I've got an ongoing Warhammer 40k: Rogue Trader fic (Heinrix x RT), as well as some Baldur's Gate 3 fics (Astarion x Durge).

I write fanfiction for myself as a way to decompress from life and because I enjoy sharing my stories with others. It legitimately makes my day when someone is entertained by my writing, so thank you for every comment, like, message and kudo. Much love and appreciation to you all!

Ao3 Account - All of my fanfic works are crossposted to Ao3.

BG3 Incorrect Quotes - If you're here for BG3 Incorrect Quotes, follow that link for the masterlist.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

Rogue Trader - - -

Ongoing Work

Mongrel Hearts / Read on Ao3 Current Rating: M Updates: Weekly on Fridays Playlist & Chapter Index Heinrix van Calox is a watchdog of the Inquisition. Bound by duty and fueled by a deep-seeded shame, he continues to serve the Imperium the only way he’s ever been allowed, on the tight line of a leash. Obedient and steadfast, Heinrix has always been eager to prove himself. And yet, no amount of accolades or praise will ever assuage him from feeling like a vile cur, simply grateful to not have been put down. Visenya von Valancius is a void wolf. Forced by circumstance into an existence where she has had to fight for every breath, she dreams of freedom from the tireless hunters who stalk her footsteps and seek her ruin. Thrust once more into a life she did not ask for, Visenya must now lead those who once saw her as nothing more than a mongrel. Both are strays in a war-torn galaxy, simply seeking a place to belong.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

One Shots

Hello My Demise: An incident in the Lord Captain's chambers on Janus concludes with Heinrix and Visenya sharing a moment of levity. You Feel It Too: Heinrix and Visenya share a close moment before her Magnae Accessio. Stay: (E NSFW18+) A heated conversation turns into a night of passion between Heinrix and Visenya. However, in the darkness of the night that follows, Heinrix is unable to escape the fears and anxieties that push in on him from all sides.

Mongrel Hearts Artwork:

Beautiful depiction of the scene from Chapter 4 by @nananarc Cute domestic scene of Visenya and Heinrix by @sanzosin Portrait of Visenya by @jaal-ama-daravv

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

Baldur's Gate 3 - - -

One Shots

In chronological order:

Fall for Me ---> Faint of Heart ---> Midnight Prayer

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Fall for Me Rating: E NSFW18+ Astarion wakes from a nightmare and goes to Eli, seeking reassurance as he struggles with the denial of his feelings. The last thing he wants to do is give someone else control over him, not after he’s so recently regained a taste of freedom. Over the past 200 years, every relationship Astarion was involved in had been nothing more than a means to an end, with Astarion either playing the role of manipulator or the one being manipulated. Attachments were leverage, giving someone a hook they were able to dig their claws into in order to gain ground. Isolating himself from connecting with others was how he had survived.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Faint of Heart Rating: M Somewhere along the way, more and more truth has begun to slip into the words Astarion has been using to charm Eli into his bed. He's not sure when it started, but sometime between their passionate nights and hard fought days, genuine feelings began to stir. It all comes to a head after the crew stages a prison break out of Moonrise Towers. Now, during a rare evening of respite, Astarion is determined to make a confession, regardless of his fears over the fallout.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Midnight Prayer Rating: M Neither Eli nor Astarion knows what they're doing when it comes to romance. Their combined histories with healthy relationships adds up to an unsurprising total of zero. Astarion once admitted to Eli that he couldn’t remember ever bedding the same person twice. And Eli…well, she can't remember anything, frankly. Her memories of past lovers are nonexistent…at least… At least until today. Today, when they’d finally met the infamous Enver Gortash.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Ongoing Work:

Head Full of Ghosts: On Hiatus Current Rating: M Chapters: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 Eli has spent a lot of time combing through her fractured psyche, trying to piece together any semblance of facts about who she was before she awoke on a mind flayer nautiloid. In all that self-reflection, she has concluded there are two things she is very good at. Killing people and drinking. Neither of which is proving very useful as she tries to navigate interpersonal pitfalls after being appointed leader of a ragtag group of maladjusted misfits who are trying to source a cure for the illithid tadpoles in their heads. As if that isn't problematic enough, she's also having to contend with the growing affections between herself and the group's resident vampire spawn, Astarion. Between fanatic cultists, goblin raids, murderous urges and cryptic memory loss, Eli figures a relationship is the last thing she ought to get herself wrapped up in. And from what she's seen of Astarion, the cavalier rogue seems to have his own breeds of specters haunting his steps. Neither one of them has any business mucking about with romance. But, neither one of them is particularly good at staying away from things that entice.

[karliahs]

Aizawa, Present Mic, and All Might for the character ask!!

thank you anon!! here we go:

aizawa:

favorite thing about them

god i was hoping someone would ask aizawa for this but also. picking one fave thing is so so hard

this is kind of cheating but my fave thing might be...contrasts. like how in so much of his screentime he's lazing around, so languid and barely present, and then when needed he explodes into motion with this insane fighting style that's clearly the product of years and years of hard work. and how he has his whole strict teacher thing where he is harsh and scares kids on purpose, but is also capable of this incredible gentleness - the overhaul arc alone has so many examples, him with ochako & mirio & izuku...argh. his flat neutral monotone that then makes it so impactful when it breaks, like when he finds out about shirakumo/kurogiri and there's this incredible rage. i love that he's easy to interpret as kind of a hypocrite! it's extremely fun to play with in fic. i love that iconic all might line in the ep where aizawa's introduced - in your own strange way you're a very kind man, aizawa - and like that's...that's the thing. the kind and the strange. you've gotta have both for it to feel like aizawa

god this is already so long. please know that i could continue for like 19 more things and am actively restraining myself from doing so. thank you.

least favorite thing about them

hmmm i was gonna say the fact that he is a relatively minor character in this anime, but i wonder if he'd have quite the same impact for me if there wasn't that space to kind of read around the canon moments?

so i guess maybe the ways he falls victim to other flaws in the logic of the show, its biases and faults...mineta is a big one. i actually kind of hate the scenes where aizawa kind of offhand scolds/warns mineta for stuff bc it's so...inadequate. and kind of more damning than if he was never shown responding to it at all. but as with everything else concerning mineta i find it's best to just ignore it entirely

favorite line

"There's a difference between sacrifice for others and throwing your life away." and the parts that follow (approximate bc this was me scribbling down quotes while i watched): "When these naive kids get the two mixed up, I can expel them, give them a little death so they'll learn. That way they know what's at stake and they'll strive to reach even higher."

i just adore this encapsulation of the strange kindness embedded in his weird teaching philosophy. and maybe my favourite thing in this show is how it grapples over and over again with the intersection of self-sacrifice and self-destruction (even if for me it's maybe better at asking these questions than answering them).

it's also just very satisfying to have been writing aizawa having this exact perspective for years and then seeing it laid out so simply. there is a difference. and he's dedicating his life to trying to teach it to these kids.

brOTP

okay it's weird to use the word bro about a mentor-student relationship, but if we're taking this one to mean any platonic dynamic then...gestures to the number of midoriya & aizawa fics i've written. i just think they're neat...and i love aizawa's perspective on self-sacrifice playing off the way my boy mido is just...Like That

but also eri!! and shinsou. and i've been enjoying the hints of midnight-aizawa friendship in vigilantes especially

OTP

erasermic...honestly i find their dynamic equally interesting whether it's platonic or romantic but still. way back in 2018 when i first wrote bnha fic, i was very erasermic-focused. i enjoy the flavour that's v common in fic where they just in the background are secretly married, it's very cute. but in my heart of hearts i have a particular attachment to the erasermic variety where they have not at all figured their shit out by the time canon starts, bc i think it's so juicy and excellent if there's been some level of longing there for fifteen years, but they're still for one reason or another holding each other at arms length

nOTP

i don't really care for eraserjoke. i'm only just about capable of enjoying the joke of their interactions anyway, but if you put genuine romantic intent there then...bleh

random headcanon

torn between doing a sad one or a funny one. uhhh (spins mental wheel) i think he had a terrible energy drink phase in his early 20s in which he was like it's fine it's fine i can utilise caffeine to stay awake longer when required. it's logical. it's fine. and then it very much wasn't fine and since then he cannot even look at one without feeling a little bit sick

also sneaky second one: like many characters in this show, i do think he has some level of chronic pain. bc holy shit those usj injuries.

unpopular opinion

uhhhhhh. i don't know how many of my aizawa opinions are truly unpopular. i guess...i often see in fics him referring to his kids as stuff like hellions/hell class to their face. which i get bc i think it probs started out in more lighthearted crack fics etc and then spread through fanon. but I was surprised in rewatch by how formal and at times polite he is to the kids, like he's blunt but I think his variation of strictness precludes that kind of thing. behind their backs...possibly

song i associate with them

oh man I actually…don't have any aizawa songs. which is wild given how much real estate he occupies in my brain. if other people have aizawa songs, please tell me them

favorite picture of them

best hairstyle best look...i could and do stare at the gif version all day

i can't believe how long this has gotten....others below the cut

mic:

favorite thing about them

performance!!! how the idea of performing yourself is so baked into the whole character! the levels where like...it seems like an intentional joyful performance, but can also have sad flavours of hiding behind a mask to stay safe. and it's also very fun to bounce him off aizawa, who I think also performs himself if in a different way

i accidentally scrolled really far back in my notes app the other day and found a bunch of notes-form fic from 2018ish, one of which included a note at the end reading "loving present mic is lgbt culture bc complicated relationship with self-performance and artifice and also have you seen the way he dresses" and honestly. i stand by it

least favorite thing about them

once again i was briefly tempted to say the fact that he is such a minor character, but also i do enjoy that space to expand on stuff myself

okay this feels mean but...when i switched from subs to dubs i liked all the new voices pretty much immediately...except mic's. it's a reasonable choice to dial into the goofiness like that but...it took some getting used to for me for sure

favorite line

"Some people have arbor ardor but I'm more of a city kitty, ya dig?"

this. is the perfect line of dialogue actually. no notes. i think about it and the textpost referring to it as "the most delightfully gay thing" said tumblr user had ever heard...all the time.

the wordplay. having fun with language. the phrase city kitty in itself. we don't deserve present mic.

brOTP

shirakumo...it's interesting to me that the vibe i got from vigilantes is the strongest friendships in the trio aren't between mic & aizawa? like they are friends for sure but I got the vibe both of them were closer with shirakumo than they were with each other. that shirakumo mic friendship ahhh...

and I'm forever thinking about that panel of aizawa climbing the rope, mic left on the ground. aizawa coping in a very specific way that kind of…leaves mic behind. mic's grief. the feeling that he's lost both his closest friends all at once. ahhh.

OTP

hey look it's erasermic again

nOTP

i don't really have one! i don't often see him shipped with people other than aizawa honestly

random headcanon

i sprinkled a bunch of mic headcanons into the last chapter of swim or drown that i still like a lot...one is a little mention of him cooking. i like the idea of him being one of those people who doesn't like to make a recipe the same way twice, measuring with his heart and playing around a lot with big flavours...everything he makes either slaps or is inedible

unpopular opinion

hmmmm i think a lot of the time he gets kind of morphed into this profoundly well-adjusted dude to play off aizawa, and i don't necessarily object to that! i've arguably done it myself. and it's part of the comedy of taking these two weirdos and deciding they have a profoundly functional domestic relationship off-screen.

but i find it interesting to consider the inverse too - with his rage, especially. one of his earliest scenes is him suggesting using his quirk on a bunch of random journalists (maybe as a joke but...hm). and there's a line about what he's gonna do to the people responsible for making nomu that made me go "MIC. BUD" out loud to my screen. i think it's entirely possible he has dealt emotionally with...nothing, ever.

song i associate with them

i hadn't consciously connected this before, but thinking about it i think dirty imbecile by the happy fits could be a mic song

favorite picture of them

if i can cheat and use a gif then it's this:

i just love his wind-ups to gestures so much. he's so extra and it rules

all might:

favorite thing about them

how hard he tries. all that work for all those years because he cares about people and wants them to be safe. i love that little shot of young toshinori running towards the future like...even with all that insane power, it's about the work of it. the long, hard graft of trying to make the world safer

least favorite thing about them

i.......sometimes find the america gimmick distractingly silly

favorite line

gah i think it's the line after kamino to midoriya when he says "I will dedicate myself to raising you." like......them......and i also really love the whole speech where he talks about deciding he's going to live. idk it really moves me to see him discovering new purpose after he'd accepted that he was going to basically destroy himself for the world. picking yourself back up after that...finding new things to keep you going...

brOTP

midoriya!!! the mutual admiration, the devotion, all might bringing izuku into this world he's longed for for so long, izuku making all might remember the hope and idealism that almost burned out of him after all those lonely years. i'm nuts about it

OTP

i kind of like aroace all might honestly!! erasermight is cute though...

nOTP

don't really have one

random headcanon

hmmm i imagine him being kind of relieved when the dorm system was implemented and all the teachers start living on campus too. i imagine his living spaces at least for the last few years or so have always been...large, objectively comfortable, but very empty and lonely

unpopular opinion

aha this one might be very unpopular, but of all the stuff all might gets criticised for from the early eps, i actually get him telling mido he can't be a hero the most...it's definitely still bad! but i can really see it from his POV...like he's basically been fighting a war for decades. and for like 5 years he's been doing it basically alone, the people in his life unwilling to watch him do this to himself anymore. and it feels so necessary and vital and also he can feel his ability to do it draining more and more everyday, this awareness that any day now he might fall and leave a space for all that darkness to sweep back in...i feel like if any teenager, any child, looked at you and asked if they could head out onto that battlefield too, without even the weapon you've relied so heavily on...no is a really understandable answer! not a good answer, but very explicable in character terms at least

song i associate with them

the whole beat the champ album by the mountain goats is about wrestling, which i really like as a bnha heroes analogue because it's about fighting but also artifice, deliberate creation of identity, so a lot of beat the champ songs ping me when i think about bnha heroes and all might especially...there's a part in the legend of chavo guerrero that always makes me think about all might and midoriya: "and I need justice in my life, here it comes"

favorite picture of them

okay i love the whole scene in the forest where they're bathed in this golden light but also. maybe instead it's this:

iconic

[vimesbootstheory]

📚✨❤️

📚 Is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend?

Hm well this is tricky 'cause I don't know what fandom you followed me for, 'cause anon. I've been on my CK bullshit for a while so that would be the most likely one? That's hard too, though, because honestly I don't tend to read a lot in the fandom I'm writing for. it's stupid, but I get competitive. So outside a couple of dark h/c fics that I wouldn't recommend to anyone I didn't know was already into that, I haven't read much CK fic in a while.

I will say, I really like GoldStarGrl's writing style, and have had two of their fics up in tabs for the last couple weeks, trying to be all 'two cakes' about it.

✨️ Out of the comments you’ve received on your fics, what are two or three of your favorites?

Ohh picking favourites from comments feels weird lol. I think the one that's stuck in my mind the most was on one of my Pretender fics, where someone said they missed their metro (train? bus? sth like that) stop because they were too engrossed in reading the fic. That was great.

It said two or three. I'll pick one from the latest chapter of the recidivists (or a part of one, since quoting the whole thing feels like I'm on an ego trip) from the lovely landslided:

"ugh, what a wonderful chapter! i love LOVE how much want daniel has, how much desire he’s battling because he shouldn’t want these things (johnny) but he does so very badly and he’s tired of not letting himself have them. and wow!! the whole scene where johnny is just, training daniel to look at him, to recognize that it’s JOHNNY who is giving him this and not whatever fantasy daniel can conjure up in his mind… these two are so crazy crazy, i love them so much."

Also lots of love to blak68, I'm enjoying slooowly picking up Italian from their wonderful comments <3

❤️ What is your favorite line that you’ve written in a fic?

I'm so bad with these superlative questions 'cause I'm like, my absolute FAVOURITE?? well now I must scour all my fics.

no, I'm not gonna do that. I know, here's a quote that I was unreasonably proud of and that made me giggle and then nobody mentioned, from the traditional card game between louie and the daves + daniel:

“Daniel doesn’t want to play for money, we’re not playing for money,” said Louie, putting his foot down. “If I’m honest, I’d rather play for giggles, anyway. Less fraught.”

“The fuck’s a fraught?”

“When two guys rub dicks. We’re playing spades, who’s in?”

there're lots of lines I love more but man the frot/fraught joke. where's the love for the stupid frot/fraught joke

Thanks for sending this! <3

[slutnali]

3 Concepts and a Dare

tagged by mi amor @sweetlikesunflowersandhoney 💜💜

1. Do the dare of the person who tagged you in the game.

2. Write up three concepts* for a fic that you'd be interested in either writing or reading, but resist the temptation to write it before you've completed the tag game.

3. Come up with an easy dare that the ones tagged can do. Be nice!

4. Tag those writer friends of yours to do the game.

*You can do this in any way that you want, really. Like describing the world/setting the story would take place in, write a summary of this hypothetical fic, write a small blurb that gets the idea across, do it through headcanons... don't feel forced to do it in any one way.

1. I was dared to quote a line/paragraph/fragment from my own writing that I love, bonus points if I can say why I love it.

“So.. what’re your thoughts on the weather?”

He purposely uses the icebreaker and hopes against all odds she’d understand his humor and ridiculous attempt to fill the air between them and the hot tub jets.

Anetra knows it works in his favor as soon as he spots the smile forming on her lips paired with the shake of her head. 

“You’re dumb.”

I was rereading tripping, falling, with no safety net and smiling at it.. I loved how I captured the awkwardness and overthinking going on in Anetra's head! Not wanting to sit too far away but also would sitting too close to Sasha be weird? when they met not so long ago? Portraying the crush and admiration they have for one another, Sasha providing comfort when he's doubting his place in the competition. It was sweet and I've been thinking about cc sashnetra a lot recently since I've been rewatching season 15. I know what happens, I have their whole love story mapped out tbh. I just suck at sitting down and writing

2. Three concepts:

a. this is a wip i'm actually planning to write:

a/b/o sashmiranetra. married alphas anetra and sasha meeting sugar bb omega miri at an event where she was hanging off the arm of one of her clients. she's a pretty little thing, i dont blame them for being interested.

oh and masc dykenetra my utmost beloved

b. another wip i'm planning to write:

genv au and if u dont know what that is it's basically like sky high but set in college and some super fucked up shit going on. but anyway, bigender neech, blood bender sasha and mind manipulation miri. dont know who else im casting in the other roles.. maybe xu, morph, luxx... i dont know. still in a big planning phase. but rivals to protectors/teammates to lovers!!!!!!!!111

c. a concept thats up for grabs:

costume designer/seamstress neech x performer sasha and/or miri.. idk! just knowing that anetra makes a lot of her looks irl, so picturing neech as someone whose lost inspiration/motivation to create and design but then finding a muse in sasha and/or miri

3. the dare:

share a hc, fun fact or hidden gem from something you've written that you hoped readers would notice

4. tagging:

@goodemethyd , @hannahlovesdance07 , @adoordelano , @fuckyeah-dragrace

[mareenavee]

For the ask game :D

54. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

35. What is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain?

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them? ( 👀👀 at this one. No idea how you whip up so many ideas but more power to you LOL may they keep coming)

Hello <3 I haven't actually answered an ASK in forever, but I love these!! AH. Thank you.

54. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

My absolute favorite part is the ability to slightly twist canon and provide readers (and myself) with new takes on ✨weird magic shit.✨ Hehe. I really love when I can read TES like a text (which it kind of is), find a strange detail and absolutely go wild with it. I like writing on the rails for World, too, for the most part, but I'm really enjoying the bits I get to make up, like new pieces of dungeons, or worldbuilding that isn't touched on in the source material. It's a ton of fun.

35. What is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain?

@paraparadigm teaches us this best with Undnar, but the best kinds of villains believe wholeheartedly that what they are doing is the best way to proceed to get to their goals. That they are, without a doubt, wholly correct in their approach because to them, there is no other way. There is such a super fine line between a hero and a villain -- it should be that if you flip perspectives and hop into the villain's head, the HERO of the original story or POV looks like the villain from there. Evil for the sake of evil is hard to get right -- Evil because of really high stakes for that character is also difficult but I find it to be more satisfying to read and to write. :>

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

HEHE <3 I just stunlocked myself and @archangelsunited with the answer. I have 41 WIPS at the moment. BUT to be fair, I am participating in a prompt challenge or two, and more than half come from prompts and are mostly being collected as a crow might collect shiny things.

It's tough to narrow down a favorite 1 new WIP I'd like to talk about...but I can speak on one that's not related to the main fic's universe, and that's The Bitter, Bitter End.

It came up from some brainstorming sessions on Skywind and ultimately we didn't go in this particular direction because of...oof so many reasons...but I still LOVED the concept and, since I do write fanfic, I can twist it even further.

The quote might sound familiar to other Morrowind Fans. It will be a doomed Morrowind where the incarnate dies, but that's background as to why the world is as bleak as it is in that one. The main focus will be a political snakepit and the narrative will center around two slimy POVS: Nevena Ules and Orvas Dren. Or rather. Nevena/Orvas. It will end with what happens with the fact that Dren has linked up with the 6th house and nobody is around to stop the spiral of destruction. This links up super well with the villain question above. How does one build a story around two villainous POVs? I think it'll be a really fun challenge.

[twilightknight17]

P5T Story Finale - Part 1

I'm just starting off with the assumption that this will have to be 2 parts, to fit all the pictures I took. XD

So, where we left off, I was doing pretty good.

We'd beaten Metal Marie, and Lavenza had some challenges for us to unlock our final skills. I was kind of hyped, because honestly, it seemed like a good opportunity to get everyone's ultimate personas back. And then Erina could just have whatever.

It was not second awakenings, despite the way they talked about it sounding very second-awakening-ish. Instead, we get a maximum power skill for each Thief's specific element. And, sorry everyone, but Joker's is the coolest.

I also think that it's worth mentioning that when you die, Lavenza quotes Paradise Lost at you.

She also quotes it at the very start of the game, so she's very well-read. Probably Margaret and Theodore's influence; I can't see Elizabeth sitting through a book like that. XDDD

Anyway, Lavenza's challenges were some very elaborate puzzle levels and endurance missions with gimmicks, but nothing that was completely unreasonable. The one where you had to kill everything in one turn by using one-mores and platforms to get Joker to the top of the level to trigger the widest-possible AOA range was awesome. I felt smart when I finished them, which was the important part.

And my reward, other than skills, was......

You have to be level 96 to fuse Satanael, tho, so like... holy fuck, Atlus. Booooooo. And he's got like seven components, which I'm pretty sure he did in P5, but you couldn't fuse him til NG+, so you at least would have had most of them by then. This is just taunting me. Plus, it's not nearly as easy to get money in this. You have to replay missions, and later missions give more money but also take longer, so it seems like it'll be a little tedious to complete the compendium.

ANYWAY.

Metal Yoshiki and Metal Shadow Toshiro went down next, and I'm pretty sure it confirmed that it wasn't actually Toshiro's shadow, just a piece of Salmael masquerading as it. I wasn't... super impressed with these fights? They were basically the same as the first go round, just with more health, more damage, and slightly different arenas. Metal Shadow Toshiro skipped his first round and went right to Giant Scary Eri, so... Yeah. They were fine, I guess.

I did notice something a little funny, though. The final Kingdom is "The Path to God" in the replay menu, and there are six missions (not counting the bosses), each with a letter appended to them.

All six in order spells "A S Y L U M".

If Salmael rules this Kingdom, is he the crazy one, then? :P

So, we are off to the final boss. My goblin kids are ready to beat the shit out of their third god in like... four months? Wow.

Slap him so hard he drops his head, Futaba!

I finally realized what this thing's appearance reminds me of. Some weird fusion of Yald, and the Queen from Deltarune.

He has the SMUGGEST VOICE of any god so far and it just makes me want to hit him harder. Maybe I should have done some grinding for Satanael after all.

He just wants to ~save humanity~, and I'd just like to mention how much I love my wife.

Salmael is totally cool with our disagreement, obviously.

Us? All by ourselves? You think so highly of us~

Salmael says that his actions are the consensus of humanity, so we should just give in. The game gives you an option here between "Our wills are firm" and "Send us back to the real world." Which, if you remember, he offered to send us all home without our powers or memories, so... put a pin in that. We'll be back. In THIS timeline, we tell God to fuck off, as is our wont.

I feel justified in writing Ryuji calling Yaldabaoth "Yald" in an actual fic, now. XD

Seriously, Atlus, one line of dialogue. "We've already beat up a 'god' who thought he knew what was best for us." Call Maruki on his BS.

Anyway, as always, these gods who want peace and happiness and order are willing to murder us. Ooohhhh nooo, I don't waaaaant to use force, you just leave me no chooooooiiiiiice~ Blarg. XD

The battlefield is wild, though. I'm always down for a good giant clock.

The five platforms rotate either forward or back based on a skill that warns you in advance. Platforms that go past the end positions sink into the green, and more arise on the other side to replace them.

So, we wallop the shit out of god while avoiding being tossed into a green abyss. I only lost Toshiro during this stage of the fight, so I still had my three primary fighters and three baton passes.

Salmael, upon being knocked down in round 1, throws a temper tantrum, and... well, I guess calling it "going one-winged-angel" isn't appropriate here. He's still got all his wings, just gets more raggedy and dirty.

But the important part is that he loses the mask and his face is FUCKED UP

He gets two new attacks for this round. The first one is a very Dark Hour-esque clock which leaves numbers on some of the platforms. That's how many people need to be standing on that particular platform to avoid triggering an attack that paralyzes you on your next turn.

Overall, challenging! Especially because the numbers don't rotate with the platforms, so if he does both skills at the same time, you've gotta make sure you're not gonna rotate away from the number you need. (Learned that the hard way.)

The second one is some kind of giant antenna that spawns in the middle of the arena, and you have like... three turns to AOA it before he does some horrible targeted missile barrage. I had the worst time with that. That's how I lost all three of my remaining squad in one turn, because I couldn't get the downed enemy to line up right to allow the AOA.

So we're down Ann, Morgana, and Akira. Welcome to the fight, Haru, Yusuke, and Ryuji!

Salmael's second form has about twice as much health as his first form, which can be mitigated by AOA-ing the antenna, because Futaba can then turn the missiles on him. I only managed that once. X'D But the game REALLY smacked me when it did the clock attack and the arena rotation on the same turn, and the clock was four platforms, each with a 1 on it. I didn't have Toshiro anymore. I couldn't put one person on each platform. So everyone got paralyzed, and the rotation was poised to dump both Haru and Yusuke into the abyss with no way to move them.

It was going to be up to Ryuji to win this fight alone.

...or, it would have been, but as I watched Yusuke sink into the green depths, I realized that... the platform just popped back up on the other side. Yusuke was fine. Didn't even do any damage. X'D I spent the whole fight thinking that if I got sucked down with a platform, that person would just die. But no.

In the end, Haru dealt the final blow, and Salmael took that really well. He just straight up starts taking a swing at us and throwing gears. So I guess we DID slap him so hard he dropped his head!

My baby boy gets to say more than one line of dialogue in this game!

This is the smile of a savior, everyone.

Honestly this last AOA cutscene is wild. I like it better than Scramble's, I think? I need to watch it again, but it's really well done. Halfway through, Erina gets squashed by a whole ton of gears and ends up... I'm assuming drifting in the Sea of Souls, and Toshiro calls her back so she can take her Ernesto form and blast the hell out of Salmael. And then she turns back into Erina and she and Akira slam a flag through Salmael's face. :3

Yeah, yeah. Same as every other monster.

Salmael takes defeat well, of course. By exploding.

And Toshiro catches a brief glimpse of the overwhelming existential dread that knowing about meta-space can cause: namely that humanity is constantly accidentally almost destroying itself.

I like to think that he gets a phone call from the Shadow Ops at some point. XDDDD

Anyway, with Salmael dead, his primary Kingdom is collapsing, so it's time to get the hell out of here. And with this, I have hit the image limit, so... Off we go. Part 2 is next!

[fangel]

OH MY GOSHHH ♡-໒₍: o̴̶̷᷄ ̫ o̴̶̷᷅ก̀₎১՞ i can’t believe i was able to give you some inspiration that’s so crazy to me and im soooo happy you were able to overcome the fear of writing unholy nasty content because ya know what, hell yeah !! embrace the weird freak nasty pervert sht. i love you ㅠㅠ thank god you took this fic out of the drafts !!! my rambles i made while reading are below.. ♡

first part in and i was already HOOKED. i’m (very obviously) a sucker for religious fics so of course i was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog when i saw this notif. but it’s the way you write their devotion so beautifully detailed that i was like ‘oh yeah, im in for a ride.’

AND mc so quick to be like …maybe thinking of sin isn’t so bad just from seeing jake WHILE PRAYING IN CHURCH FOR HIMMM 😭😭 #real adore her already

something about jake is so perfect for religious au’s and idk how to describe it but YOU get it. i know you do.. i love u for that hehe

I LIVE AND LOVE for mc trying to find understanding of her feelings :( poor baby trying to navigate human emotions while being swallowed by quilt. the other girls talking about jake with “a quiet admiration, soft and innocent” — meanwhile mc’s is as you described “heavier” SET HER FREE !!!!! — “why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned.”

⤷ YOURE COOKING, and it’s still only the beginning askdlakzpa

(insert every quote of dialogue from the scene where the nun lectures purity, masturbation, and sexual nature because every single line was hard as fuck oh my god) ((..kiss me pls i beg of you i love your brain…))

the apple…. the snake…… the garden of eden reference….. the first sin…. !!!! I WILL SUCCUMB EVERY TIME !!!!

who tf got my girl karina expelled 😒 a girl can’t have hobbies and be hot ? she can’t get some ?? fuck it i would’ve joined them

“eve took the apple. she chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. and for that she was cast out. but maybe that was never a punishment. maybe it was freedom.” SPEAK YOUR (THE) TRUTH KARINA 🔥🔥🔥 okay but seriously love this sequence of mc finding someone who indulges on what she wants to, and being told that it’s not something to regret. mc needed that — so much of religious lessons / morals (my brain isn’t working to find the right words) are based on fear !!! rights and wrongs, the consequences of going against god’s word or values, etc. putting fear into people to live a certain way. i love how you touched on that

her touching herself THERE, IN THE PLACE OF WORSHIP… ?! okay me too #twin #realfreaksonly

THE FUCKING TENSION BETWEEN MC AND JAKE DURING THE CONFESSION SCENE WHATTHEHELLL AHHHHHHHHHHHH i would’ve bent over that pew so fast 😭

the scene of jake begging mc to show him how she touched herself….. and then she just gets down to it and whips his dick out anzjakzak “i’m going to pray for forgiveness” LMAO I LOVE U LIL PERV CHURCH GIRL - the entire thing was so hot.. i am the real pervert 😞

once they started they didn’t stop LMFAO already diving into talking about kinks too !!! this is what i’m here for !!!!! i just know his nose would drive me insane too.. mc is just getting more and more real

why do i feel guilt ?!? “because we’ve been taught to fear Him more than we’ve been taught to trust His love.” OHMYGUCKING GOD JUST SHOOT ME — continues to spew more beautiful dialogue (ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣︿˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू) while just lovin and touchin on each other oh wow where is my completely devote partner to worship and love me regardless of what anything else says

THEY ARE IN LOVVVEREEE 🤍🤍🤍🤍 all is right in the world

okay but honestly, this was such an amazing read (and my first jake fic i’ve read, so this is extra special to me hehe) the way you captured the characters emotions was so well done. i love all the religious references as a former catholic girl myself so of course i ate this up. all the analogies and metaphors were so perfect. you also write dialogue really well. there were so many more quotes i could’ve included because so much of it stood out to me ㅠㅠ truly phenomenal !! your characters felt real and it was so easy to connect with them too. from the imagery and details to the overall themes of guilt and shame are just so good, so yummy. really enjoyed jake’s pov too omg ily so bad also the smut was hot asf !!! TRUST, i will be reading more of your works bc that freaky nasty poly jayke fic has been calling my name for weeks now

i haven’t read a fic in over a month maybe longer but this tag really brought me right out of my reading slump. i will tackle your other works tomorrow ♥️ thank you so much for writing this, you’re so talented and amazing and beautiful and lovely i adore you

the fall of a man — sjy

SYNOPSIS: You were taught that virtue was a woman’s greatest strength, that temptation was a test of will, that desire was the serpent’s whisper leading you astray. But when temptation comes in the form of Sim Jaeyun—holy, untouchable, the very image of devotion—your faith begins to waver.

content tags: slow burn, plot with little bit of porn, mutual pining, both of them are religious and virgins, set in catholic university that is lead by nuns, they don't have sex ed!! adam and eve references, religious guilt, reader crushing and thirsting over jake in religious way that's been written for almost 5k words, some of the scenes are heavily inspired by 'guilty as sin' by ts.

warning: heavy sacrilegious content, karina kind of represent the serpent in reader's pov, blasphemy, explicit content (smut): reader masturbate in the chapel, virgins trying to fuck, virginity loss (obv), blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex (condom don't exist), jake call out god's name a lot of times. wc: 16.7k

note: my darling, @fangel really inspired me and make me overcome my fear in writing the most unholiest thing in the world, i'm inlove with you, bae and you really changed my world with your fics <3 i wrote this fic for armin arlert way back 2023 but never had the guts to publish it, but hey u give me a reason to continue this fic. and to my readers out there, i hope you enjoy reading this fic, i love writing jake's pov here :)

Ever since you were a child, you followed everything your parents told you. Raised in a devoutly religious household, your days revolved around faith—joining church activities, attending every Sunday mass without fail, even flying to Puerto Rico with your family to take part in Misa de Aguinaldo.

Religion wasn't just a part of your life; it was your life.

You loved God. You loved listening to preachers, absorbing their words like scripture carved into your soul. You loved spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the warmth of faith filling you every time you shared His name.

You prayed constantly—palms pressed together, head bowed, whispering words of gratitude for every blessing, of repentance for every misstep. You prayed for strength, for purity, for the will to resist temptation.

And yet—temptation had a name.

And his name is Sim Jaeyun.

You remember the first time you saw him walking through the gates of the Catholic university you both attended.

Jake Sim was the very embodiment of devotion, of unwavering faith. He carried himself with an air of holiness, always with a rosary wrapped around his fingers or a Bible tucked beneath his arm. He spoke with conviction, every word laced with the kind of certainty only true believers possessed. And yet, to you, he was something else entirely.

The way he moved, the way his voice echoed through the chapel—it was hypnotic. Your prayers would falter on your tongue whenever he stood at the altar, leading hymns with a voice so steady, so sure.

You had watched him, your eyes tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. You had memorized the way candlelight danced across his skin, the way the veins in his hands shifted when he clasped them in prayer.

The boy who knelt before the cross with his eyes closed in deep, persistent faithfulness.

The boy who touched the rosary beads with such reverence, his fingers gliding over each one as if they held the weight of his salvation.

But all you could think about was how those same fingers would feel tracing the lines of your body, how they would press into your skin—not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

How his lips would taste if they weren't murmuring scripture, if instead, they whispered your name in the dark.

How his faith would crumble if he ever looked at you the way you wanted him to.

And as you sat in the pews, hands clasped, head bowed, you prayed—not for strength, not for purity, but for him.

You shouldn't think about him that way. You shouldn't let your mind wander, not here, not in the house of God.

You knew the weight of sin, the warnings etched into you since childhood. Your family had made it clear—masturbation, desire, sex before marriage—each was a path to damnation. To act on them was to betray God.

Do not lay a hand on any boy. Do not think of flesh, of pleasure, of sin. Do not touch your body with thoughts of another.

But if you had never touched him, never let your hands stray to your own skin —if all you had were thoughts, then how could you already feel guilty as sin?

The golden light of the late afternoon filtered through the stained-glass windows of the university chapel, casting soft hues of red, blue, and gold onto the polished wooden pews. The air was still, filled only with the faint scent of old parchment and melting candle wax.

You sat near the front, fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of your prayer book. The chapel was mostly empty, save for a few students lingering in quiet reflection. And him.

Sim Jaeyun stood near the altar, carefully arranging hymnals. Even in the simplicity of his tasks, there was a quiet devotion to him—an unshaken faith that made it impossible to look away.

You tried to focus on the words of the scripture open in front of you, but your thoughts were restless. It wasn't the first time you had stayed after midday prayers, and it wasn't the first time you had found yourself stealing glances at him.

A quiet sound of footsteps against the marble floor.

"You're here again."

You glanced up to find Jake standing at the edge. You nodded, offering a small smile. "I like the chapel in the afternoon. It's peaceful."

Jake hummed in agreement, sliding into the pew beside you, though he kept a respectful distance. "It's my favorite time, too," he admitted, clasping his hands together. "When the day is slowing down, but the world isn't quite asleep yet."

You studied him for a moment, watching as the sunlight touched his face, illuminating the softness in his features. "What do you pray for?" you asked.

Jake exhaled, his gaze fixed ahead. "For strength," he said. "To always follow the right path."

You nodded slowly, looking down at your hands.

"And you?" he asked.

You hesitated. You knew what you should say. Strength. Wisdom. Purity.

But instead, you murmured, "For understanding."

Jake turned to you, brow slightly furrowed. "Understanding?"

You swallowed. "There are... thoughts I don't always understand." You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of your prayer book. "And I ask for guidance. To know what is right."

For a moment, Jake was silent, then he offered a small, knowing smile. "God sees our hearts even when we struggle to see them ourselves." His voice was gentle and reassuring. "Sometimes, we don't need to have all the answers. We just need to trust Him to show us the way."

His words should have comforted you. But as you looked at him—at the boy who made your heart race in ways you couldn't explain—you weren't sure if the path you longed for was the one God had intended for you.

Sim Jaeyun barely even knew you. The two of you only shared a religion class, occasionally finding yourselves in the same prayer group. Your interactions were brief—just passing glances, a quiet exchange of smiles. Sometimes, after kneeling in prayer, he would hand you a sandwich and a bottle of water and you always accepted with a small nod of thanks, though the warmth in your chest lingered long after.

During every community outreach, you would catch glimpses of him—kneeling to pet stray dogs and cats, laughter spilling from his lips as children clung to his arms, their tiny hands gripping at his sleeves. He spoke to the elderly with a patience and gentleness that felt almost sacred, offering up his seat without hesitation, carrying their bags.

He was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made faith feel tangible—something living and breathing, rather than just words in a book.

You wondered if someone like him, someone pure as gold, ever sinned.

Sim Jaeyun was a name whispered often in the girls' residence hall. Every night, as curfew neared, you would hear them murmuring from their bunks.

"He'd make such a good husband." "Imagine him as a father—he'd be perfect." "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

A quiet admiration, soft and innocent. So why was yours so much heavier? So much more?

Why did yours feel like something that sat in your chest, something that pressed against your ribs with every prayer, something that burned?

"Your body is sacred."

The nun's voice rang through the classroom. She moved slowly between the rows of desks, the wooden stick in her hand tapping lightly against her palm with every step.

It was an all-girls class since she was teaching anatomy. But this wasn't just about the body. It was about purity.

She stopped near the front of the room, turning to face the class. Her gaze swept over each of you, as if she could see straight into your thoughts. "God has given you this body," she continued. "A temple. A gift. A vessel meant for holiness, not for sin."

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat.

"Temptation is everywhere," she said. "It creeps into your thoughts, into your hands, into the desires you do not speak of. But hear me, girls—"God is watching.""

The stick tapped against her palm again.

"Masturbation," she said, the word itself feeling heavy as it filled the silence, "is a sin against your own flesh. To lay a hand upon yourself in lust is to defile what was meant to be pure."

A hush settled over the room. Some girls looked down at their desks, others sat rigid, eyes wide, hands folded neatly in their laps as if to prove they had never done such a thing—never even thought about it.

You felt a heat crawl up the back of your neck.

"When you indulge in these acts," she continued, voice sharp with a warning, "your body burns—not with passion, not with pleasure, but with sin. A fire that does not cleanse, but corrupts."

She paused, her gaze sweeping the room again,

"And when you engage in sex outside of marriage, when you surrender yourself to the desires of the flesh, that fire does not leave you. It stays. It marks you. And on the day of judgment, when you stand before God, He will see it. He will know."

A shudder ran through you. You clenched your hands together, nails pressing into your palms.

Then, the nun's eyes landed on you.

"You understand, don't you?" she asked, though it wasn't really a question.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

And just for a moment, you thought of him.

Sim Jaeyun.

Of the way his fingers brushed over rosary beads in prayer. Of the way his voice sounded when he spoke of faith, of devotion. Of how those hands, that voice, could ruin you.

And as the nun continued, warning of damnation, of the watchful eyes of God, you couldn't help but wonder.

If God was watching, did He already know what was in your heart? And worse—had He already condemned you for it?

"Yes, I understand," you said, though the words felt heavy on your tongue.

Guilt settled deep in your chest. Your palms were damp, fingers twitching slightly as you clasped them together.

You needed to repent.

You needed to pray until the thoughts left you, until the weight of sin lifted from your heart. Until the fire the nun spoke of no longer burned beneath your skin.

"Here, an apple for you."

A small hand reached toward yours, fingers curled around a tiny, imperfect apple. The child's eyes were bright with innocence, his smile wide as he offered it to you.

It was community outreach day in the mountains, where children ran barefoot over the uneven ground, laughter ringing through the crisp afternoon air. The scent of earth and firewood lingered, mingling with the distant voices of volunteers.

You knelt slightly, accepting the apple with a gentle smile. "Thank you," you said, your voice soft.

The boy beamed, pleased by your gratitude before running off to join the others.

You were about to take a bite of the apple when a sudden tap on your shoulder made you pause. Turning, you found your classmate standing behind you, her expression impatient.

"I need you to find Karina," she said, arms crossed. "She's missing again. And we need to leave by three."

You sighed, tucking the apple into your pocket. "Alright, I'll look for her."

With that, you made your way up the stone steps leading further into the hills, where the trees grew denser and the voices of the other volunteers faded into the rustling of leaves. The fresh mountain air brushed against your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke.

As you climbed higher, a small tug on your sleeve made you stop.

"Lady, where are you going?"

You looked down to see a little girl standing beside you, her dark eyes round with curiosity. She was sucking her thumb, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt.

Crouching down to her level, you offered a reassuring smile. "I need to find my friend."

The girl tilted her head, studying you with the kind of seriousness only children could manage. Then, after a moment, she leaned in slightly and whispered, "Be careful out there."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She pulled her thumb from her mouth and grinned, baring her tiny teeth. "There's a snake," she hissed, making a slithering motion with her hands. "They bite!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'll be careful."

With a gentle pat on the girl's head, you urged her to go play with the others before continuing your search.

"Karina!" you called, your voice echoing through the trees. The afternoon air was with the scent of damp earth and pine, the only sounds around you the rustling of leaves and the distant chatter of children below.

After what felt like ages of wandering, you sighed, pulling the apple from your pocket. Your thumb brushed against its smooth surface as you took slow steps forward, letting yourself take a small break.

Then, just as you were about to take a bite, something caught your eye.

It was small cabin, worn by time, tucked between the trees. You hadn't noticed it before, hadn't even realized anyone lived this far up the mountain.

Lifting your head, you parted your lips to call for Karina again but you heard a low, quiet, barely audible voice over the wind.

Your breath hitched slightly, and instinctively, you stayed silent.

Tilting your head, you slowly took a bite of the apple, the crunch loud in the stillness. Step by step, you moved around the cabin, careful not to make a sound.

You crept closer, your breath shallow, your fingers curled tightly around the apple. The rough wooden cabin stood against the trees, its single window slightly ajar. Through the gap, the muffled voices inside grew clearer—soft murmurs, hushed laughter.

A breathless moan.

Your body tensed, You hesitated for only a moment before tilting your head, peering through the dust-coated glass.

And that's when you saw the most sinful acts you've ever witness.

Karina was sprawled against the wooden table, her back arching beneath the weight of the farmer pressing into her. Her dress was bunched up around her waist, her bare thighs caging his hips. His hands gripped her skin, fingers digging into the softness of her legs, his mouth trailing down the curve of her neck.

Your stomach twisted, but you couldn't look away.

Karina wasn't resisting. She wasn't recoiling in shame or horror. There was no fear in her expression, no sign of guilt or repentance.

She was pulling him closer.

Her fingers wove into his hair, tugging slightly as her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to his lips. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her mouth parting with quiet, trembling gasps.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

The nun's words echoed in your head, warnings of fire, of suffering, of bodies burning for their sins.

But Karina wasn't burning.

Your breath trembled as you stared, as the world you had known—the one built on prayer, on restraint, on the fear of temptation—began to splinter.

How is she not burning?

The apple slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground with a dull thud.

A hiss was heard. The sound was sharp, unnatural, cutting through the silence of the forest. Your body stiffened, a cold shiver crawling up your spine. Slowly, your gaze flickered to the tree beside you.

A snake. Its body coiled around the rough bark, scales glistening in the fading sunlight. It was watching you, its tongue flickering out.

Eve was tempted. Eve took the fruit.

Your stomach twisted violently as you staggered back, tearing your eyes away from both the serpent and the scene inside the cabin.

You ran. Branches scraped against your skin as you pushed through the trees, your feet barely touching the ground. The echoes of Karina's breathless moans clung to you, no matter how fast you tried to outrun them.

You needed to forget. To erase the moment of sin that had burned itself into your mind. To cleanse yourself before the weight of temptation swallowed you whole.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

Your eyes clenched shut as you muttered the prayer, over and over, you repeated the words, as if their rhythm alone could cleanse your mind, could undo what you had seen.

The rosary felt heavy in your hands, the beads pressing into your palm. But no matter how tightly you held it, no matter how desperately you clung to prayer, the memory would not leave you.

"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your chest tightening.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—"

Your voice broke. This was your fall.

A single tear slipped down your cheek, then another, until you were gripping the rosary so tightly your knuckles turned white. A quiet sniffle escaped you, but the tears kept coming, blurring the dim candlelight of the chapel.

You could not stop trembling, your stomach tightening, a dull ache spreading between your legs, heat pooling where it should not.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it did nothing to stop the throbbing. You clenched your fists, willing the sensation away, but the images had already taken root.

Karina. The farmer. The way her body had arched into him, how she had clung to him. It should have horrified you. It should have disgusted you.

Instead, a shudder ran through you as your mind betrayed you, as the image shifted, reshaped itself into something far more forbidden.

Not Karina.

You.

And not the farmer.

Jake.

Your breath hitched. The thought was wrong—blasphemous. But it came unbidden, vivid and consuming, slipping into the cracks of your mind like sin itself. You saw him above you, his hands gripping your waist, his lips murmuring something against your skin.

Your rosary slipped from your fingers, the beads scattering against the marble floor.

You gasped softly, snapping your eyes open as if waking from a dream—no, a nightmare.

Your hands flew to your chest, pressing against your heart as if you could smother the racing beat beneath your skin.

No. No, no, no.

Tears welled in your eyes again, this time not just from guilt but from fear—of yourself.

This was your fall.

The serpent had coiled itself around you, whispering its venom into your ears, seeping into your thoughts, your body.

Karina was expelled after the nuns discovered what she had done during the community outreach.

You helped her pack in silence, folding the last of her skirts into a worn-out suitcase.

Your nose was red, your eyes swollen—for many reasons. Of course, you hadn't told anyone what you saw. That was yet another reason you were a sinner. You had kept her secret, watched in silence as she was cast out.

But worse—you couldn't stop thinking about it.

And worst of all, you had lost another prayer partner.

Your voice was quiet when you finally asked, "Do you regret it?"

Karina's hands stilled over the fabric of her blouse. She stared at the ground for a long moment before exhaling slowly. "No."

"They're sending me away," she continued. "Some isolated place, far from men. Away from temptation. They'll make me enter seminary, force me to repent, try to fix me."

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. "Fix me. As if I'm broken."

You said nothing, letting her words settle between you.

Karina turned then, her gaze finding yours. "But I don't regret it. No matter what they try to tell me." A small, humorless smile tugged at her lips. "But you wouldn't understand, would you?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as you folded it, staring at the delicate lace trim. "There are a lot of things I don't understand," you admitted. Then, meeting her eyes, you added, "But I do not judge. I am here to listen."

Karina studied you, her expression is pained. Then she let out a slow breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You know the story of Adam and Eve," she said.

You nodded. "Of course."

"They call it the fall," she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "But have you ever thought that maybe it wasn't a fall at all?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers intertwined. "Eve took the apple. She chose knowledge, chose to know desire, hunger, craving. And for that, she was cast out." Karina exhaled through her nose, a bitter smile on her lips. "But maybe that was never a punishment. Maybe it was freedom."

She glanced at you then, "Christianity tells us that craving is sinful. That wanting—whether it's knowledge, pleasure, or love—will ruin us." Her voice lowered, "but tell me—why would God give us bodies that feel if He didn't want us to use them?"

Your throat felt dry.

"You've thought about it, haven't you?" Karina questioned. "You've felt it."

Heat crept up your neck, shame curling tight in your stomach.

Karina smiled, but it wasn't mocking. If anything, it was knowing. "It's normal to crave, you know," she said. "To want."

"In the city," Karina continued, "I heard students openly talk about sex. About how it's natural. They even discuss things like hormones, the way the body reacts to desire. When your clitoris—"

"Shhh!" Your eyes widened as you shot a panicked glance toward the door. Your hand moved on instinct, pressing against her lips to silence her.

"Do not use such vulgar words!" you hissed, even hearing such a thing felt wrong, like an invitation for sin to take root inside you.

Karina only laughed, she gently pulled your hand away, her lips curling into a teasing smile. "Why? Because the nuns don't want you to know your own body?"

Your cheeks burned, your fingers curling into your lap as you looked away. "Because it's wrong," you muttered. "You speak of things that lead to damnation."

Karina sighed, tilting her head. "Says who? The nuns? The ones who tell us that touching ourselves will set our bodies on fire?" She leaned in slightly, "Tell me, have you ever actually tried it?"

Your breath hitched as you swallowed, your pulse hammering against your skin. "I—I would never—"

Karina smiled knowingly. "Of course you wouldn't. Because you're afraid, aren't you?"

You stiffened. "Afraid of what?"

"That they were lying to you," she said simply.

You stared at her, Karina reached for your hand, her touch gentle as she placed it over your own lap. "If it's really so sinful," she murmured, "if it really makes you burn... then why don't you test it?"

Your breath caught in your throat. Her fingers pressed lightly against yours. "Go on. Just once. Just to see if their words hold any truth."

"If you want to touch yourself," she continued, undeterred by your silence, "put your fingers inside—but don't just push in and out. Curl them inside, find the spot that makes your legs shake."

Your entire body went rigid as Karina leaned closer, her lips curling, almost amused at your reaction. "And your clitoris—"

"Stop," you gasped, eyes widening as you instinctively clamped a hand over her mouth. Your other hand flew to the door, your head snapping toward it, terrified that someone might hear.

She giggled against your palm, her laughter muffled before she gently pulled your hand away. "Why are you so scared?" she teased. "It's just your body. It's natural."

Your cheeks were burning now, hot with embarrassment.

Karina sighed, tilting her head as if she pitied you. "If you ever do find someone," she continued, undeterred, "a boy—"

You swallowed hard.

"Let him play with your nipples." Her voice dipped lower, as if she were sharing a secret meant only for you. "Let him suck them, bite them just a little. It feels so good."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

"And a boy," she went on, eyes glinting with mischievous, "his penis—"

"Karina!"

She laughed, completely unashamed of her own words. "What? It's true! If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it, suck on it—especially the tip."

A choked sound escaped you.

"Giving someone pleasure," she said, watching your reaction, "is just as enjoyable as receiving it. Maybe even more."

Your hands trembled in your lap. You couldn't even look at her now. Your mind felt clouded, a war raging between every lesson the nuns had taught you and the curiosity her words planted deep inside you.

Karina exhaled, shaking her head. "You poor thing," she murmured, you bit your lip hard, trying to drown out the heat rising in your body with pain.

"You should try it, you know," she said after a beat, her voice almost gentle now. "Just once. Just so you know if they were lying to you all along."

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering so loudly you feared it might betray you.

Because the worst part wasn't her words.

It was that you wanted to know if she was right.

So you repented again.

You prayed and prayed for forgiveness, whispering desperate pleas beneath your breath, pressing your forehead against the cold chapel floor. You gripped your rosary so tightly that the beads left indentations in your palm, as if pain itself could cleanse you.

But it was getting harder. Especially now, with Holy Week approaching. Longer prayers, deeper fasting, more time spent in solemn reflection. And yet, the more you immersed yourself in worship, the more temptation gnawed at you.

Especially since Sim Jaeyun was the one leading Passion Week.

You sat among the others, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the cross, trying not to think about him. Trying not to remember Karina's words.

"If you ever find someone, let him touch you, let him play with you—"

You swallowed hard, clenching your fists against your thighs.

Women and men were not allowed to be seen too close together. A proper distance must always be kept, a respectable space left between bodies. A simple conversation was permitted—but only from afar.

"You do pray very often."

The voice came from behind you. You stiffened, your breath catching in your throat as you turned slightly—only to find him.

Jake stood just a few feet away, hands clasped in front of him. "Is something bothering you?"

You turned back toward the cross, swallowing the lump in your throat. Your fingers curled against your knees, sweat forming at your temples.

"No," you whispered, though the lie burned on your tongue.

Jake was silent for a moment. Then, softly, he said, "You can talk to me, you know. If something is troubling you."

You closed your eyes. How could you tell him?

How could you tell him that the prayers weren't working? That no matter how hard you tried, the thoughts would not leave you? That he was becoming the temptation you could no longer escape?

Your eyes started to water again, he knelt beside you, as his presence settled so dangerously close—closer than what was proper.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your fingers tightening around the rosary.

Jake watched you. From this close, he could see the way the candlelight illuminated your face, casting soft shadows along the delicate curve of your cheekbones. Your skin glowed, almost ethereal, as if touched by something divine.

You looked like a painting—one of the old Renaissance depictions of saints and martyrs.

Beautiful.

His gaze drifted lower, to the way your lips barely moved as you whispered prayers, the words shaky, your hands trembled over the rosary, clutched so tightly.

His eyes fell to your knees. The fabric of your skirt had shifted slightly, revealing the barest hint of bruised skin—evidence of hours spent kneeling.

He had seen piety before. He had witnessed countless prayers, watched the most devout of worshippers bow their heads in absolute faith.

But this—the way you prayed, the way you looked before the altar—felt different. He couldn't imagine what sin someone like you could have possibly committed.

His voice came quietly, "You should rest."

You flinched slightly at the sound of his voice,

"I can't," you murmured.

And then softly, without thinking—he reached out.

His hand hovered over yours for just a breath before settling atop your trembling fingers. Palm to palm, warm and steady, stopping you mid-prayer.

He didn't know what possessed him to touch you. Perhaps it was the way you looked so lost, so utterly consumed by something unseen. Or perhaps it was the fact that no nun was watching, no one to scold him for standing too close, for placing his hand over yours.

His touch was meant to be assuring. Nothing more. Nothing sinful.

But then you stiffened beneath him.

Your breath caught in your throat, your shoulders going rigid, your fingers twitching beneath his. Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs.

You turned your face toward him.

Jake sucked in a quiet breath as his eyes met yours—wide, desperate, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

He had never seen a gaze like that before. Not in church, not in prayer, not in the face of someone seeking salvation.

His fingers flexed slightly against yours, the warmth of your skin radiating beneath his palm. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a slow, instinctive movement, like a silent reassurance.

Before he could stop himself, his other hand lifted. Gently, hesitantly, he swiped away the tear that had slipped down your cheek, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

You gasped softly. It was the smallest sound, but it sent something through him, something that made his fingers linger just a second too long against your face.

Your skin was warm beneath his touch. Soft. Alive.

It took everything in him to pull away.

The moment his fingers left your cheek, a strange kind of loss settled in his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the fabric of his handkerchief before carefully pulling it out. Silently, he placed it in your trembling hands.

"Whatever you were praying for," he murmured, "I'm sure God will understand."

As if to anchor you back into the faith you were grasping so desperately onto, he smiled.

The kind of smile meant to bring comfort. But to you, it only made it worse.

"I should go," Jake said, you nodded, unable to meet his gaze. He shift beside you, the soft rustling of fabric as he stood. His presence lingered for just a moment longer before the sound of his footsteps echoed against the chapel floor, growing fainter.

And yet, his warmth remained.

Your hands trembled as you lifted the handkerchief to your face, pressing it against your damp cheeks. His scent clung to the fabric—a faint trace of sandalwood and incense, something undeniably him.

You exhaled shakily, squeezing your eyes shut.

God will understand.

A broken sob escaped your lips as you clutched the fabric tighter, your body trembling with something you no longer had the strength to fight. Tears slipped freely down your cheeks, soaking into the handkerchief as you sniffled against it.

Your fingertips skimmed over the waistband of your skirt, then lower, brushing against the thin fabric beneath.

A sharp breath left you when you felt the wetness, sticky and warm, pooling between your thighs, evidence of the thoughts you had failed to purge.

You should stop. You should repent.

And yet, your other hand only tightened around the handkerchief, pressing it closer to your face, inhaling the faint traces of him.

Still kneeling, you stared at the cross before you. Your body trembled, shame curling in your stomach.

You sobbed, your weight tipping forward, forehead pressing against the marble floor. Your free hand clenched at your skirt, your knuckles white with restraint.

Your finger dipped inside, a choked gasp slipping past your lips at the sudden intrusion.

The feeling was new, startling and unfamiliar. You hesitated only for a moment before pressing deeper, your body clenching around the touch, breath hitching as pleasure licked up your spine.

The nuns had warned you—the body will burn.

But as your fingers curled, as something electric shot through your legs, making them tremble, you realized this was not pain nor suffering.

Your mouth parted, a quiet, breathless sound escaping as you rocked into your own touch, your other hand bracing against the marble floor to steady yourself, the overwhelming scent of him filling your senses.

Sim Jaeyun—his hands hovering over yours, the warmth of his palm against your trembling fingers, the way he had wiped away your tear.

Your fingers pressed deeper, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. You imagined it was his touch, his fingers exploring you with hesitant curiosity.

"You do pray very often," his voice echoed in your mind, "Is something bothering you?"

Yes, he was bothering you.

You pictured him above you, his fingers tracing over the same places your own were now.

"Does it burn?" he would ask, voice laced with something both sinful and sacred.

And you would shake your head—because it didn't.

It felt holy.

Your body arched into your own touch, your legs trembling as heat coiled deep inside you, tighter and tighter, threatening to consume you whole. The pressure, the ache, the need—it was overwhelming. It was blasphemous.

Yet, it was the closest you had ever felt to salvation.

A gasp tore from your lips, soft yet sinful in the silence of the chapel. Your fingers pushed deeper, your body rocking to meet them, each movement sending dizzying waves of pleasure through you.

Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead, falling onto the floor. You added another finger, stretching yourself further, testing the limits of your own body. A choked whimper escaped as your walls clenched around the intrusion, your breathing ragged. Your other hand fumbled against the floor, grasping for stability, but there was none—no safety, no sanctuary, no way to stop now.

You think about his hands on your waist, his lips trailing down your neck. Your body tensed, your fingers working faster, chasing the edge of an unknown pleasure that built higher and higher—until it was too much, too much.

With one final, shuddering breath, the world shattered around you. Your body trembled, pleasure crashing over you in violent waves, a silent cry caught in your throat as your mind went blank.

Your body slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool marble floor, your fingers slipping out as the aftershocks of pleasure left you breathless.

There was only silence. Only your heaving breaths, the scent of candle wax and incense thick in the air, the fading echoes of his name somewhere in the depths of your mind.

Then, guilt settled in, so heavy. You had really fallen.

And yet, as you lay there, pulse still racing, you couldn't bring yourself to repent.

The days blurred into nights, and with each passing moment, you felt yourself slipping further into something you could no longer control.

You couldn't meet your own reflection anymore. The girl in the mirror was not the same—her eyes hollow with guilt, her lips parted in silent prayer that never reached the heavens. You had abandoned the comfort of your rosary, leaving it untouched on your bedside table. Even the scent of candle wax and incense, once a balm to your soul, now felt suffocating.

It was as if a devil had settled inside you, whispering in your ear, feeding your thoughts with things no holy woman should crave. And yet, no matter how fiercely you fought it, you kept returning to your sin.

Each night, beneath the shroud of darkness, your body became a traitor. Your hands moved without permission, exploring places you had been taught were forbidden. Your bedsheets tangled around your legs, damp with sweat, evidence of your transgressions.

And always, always, his name spilled from your lips.

Each time, you found yourself back in the same position—fingers trembling, thighs clenched, gasping into the silence of your room, drowning in him. And it felt too good to stop.

"Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love..."

You whispered it every day in the chapel, hands clutching the rosary so tightly. "According to Your great compassion, blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin..."

Tears slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric of your sleeves as you knelt before the altar. You sobbed, your body wracked with guilt, your lips forming words of repentance.

And yet—when you returned to your bed that night, your body trembling with guilt, your prayers still lingering in the air—

You touched yourself anyway.

"It's impressive how you always pray," Jake said, his voice gentle, filled with quiet admiration. A small smile graced his lips. Another interaction. Another moment that would be burned into your mind, another weight added to the burden of your sin.

"How you always find time to speak with Him," he continued. "I'm sure whatever you're praying for, you'd be heard."

You swallowed hard. Would God listen when your prayers were no longer pure? When you begged not for salvation, but for relief from the temptation standing before you?

You forced a polite nod, quickly wiping at your damp cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice how red your eyes were. How broken you looked. Your knees ached from kneeling for so long, your fingers sore from gripping the rosary too tightly. If only he knew what your prayers had become—not words of devotion, but desperate pleas for deliverance.

You were about to stand, to create distance, to escape before your body could betray you again. But before you could move, Jake lowered himself to kneel beside you.

The proximity sent a shiver down your spine. His presence was grounding, yet it set something uneasy alight inside you.

"You know," he said, voice soft, "I quite admire you."

Jake smiled, warm and sincere, his eyes searching yours as if he was seeing something sacred in you. "You share a special relationship with God," he continued. "The way you pray, the way you devote yourself—it's beautiful."

"I've seen the way you never miss a prayer," he went on. "The way you kneel here for hours, speaking to Him when no one else is watching. I've seen the tears, the way you hold your rosary."

His gaze flickered down to your hands, still red from gripping the beads too tightly.

"And I think... that kind of devotion is rare."

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away, because his words—his praise—felt heavier than anything the nuns had ever told you.

Because it was him saying it.

He didn't know that your devotion wasn't pure. That your prayers were not for holiness, but for control. That when you closed your eyes at night, it wasn't scripture that filled your mind, but the memory of his touch.

"God must love you very much," Jake murmured, tilting his head slightly. "To have someone as loyal as you."

You inhaled shakily, without thinking, you shifted back, settling onto the wooden pew. Jake stayed where he was, still kneeling, his gaze fixed on the cross. You swallowed. Your fingers curled around the rosary in your palm

"Can I confess, Jake?"

Your voice was barely above a whisper. Jake turned his head, he hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you, his posture still composed. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice is with quiet curiosity. "I am not a priest—I can't take such confessions."

You exhaled sharply, your grip tightening around the rosary.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned."

Jake stilled beside you his confusion was evident in the way his brows knitted together, in the way his head tilted slightly as if trying to piece together what you meant. "Why?" he asked slowly.

You couldn't look at him. If you did, you feared he would see it. The truth. The war inside you. The way he was the very thing you needed to confess.

Your throat tightened as you muttered the next following words. "Because," you whispered, forcing the words out before you lost the courage to speak them, "I don't think I want to repent."

Jake stiffened beside you. His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid. His fingers curled against his lap, gripping the fabric of his trousers. "H-How can you say that?" His voice was unsteady, a stark contrast to the usual calmness he carried. His soft features, always composed, always gentle, were now pulled into shock and disbelief.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your heart slamming against your ribs as you forced yourself to continue. If you stopped now, if you let fear take hold, you would never be free of this.

"I think of things I shouldn't."Your voice trembled, but your gaze didn't waver this time. "I touched myself."

Jake's body jerked slightly, his lips parted again, but no words came, as if he had been struck speechless, as if the confession had ripped the breath from his lungs. His Adam's apple bobbed with a harsh swallow, the tendons in his neck tightening. His gaze flickered away, darting briefly to the cross above the altar, as if seeking guidance, as if seeking a way out. But there was none. He could not look at you, not when the weight of your confession was still lingering in the air

"You..." he started, but the words failed him. He shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. His brows furrowed, "Why are you telling me this?"

Your hands clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to speak—forced yourself to ruin yourself completely. "Because it was you, Jake."

Jake inhale, his eyes widening, but only for a second. Something changed—something deep inside him, something that flickered behind his dark gaze like a dying flame suddenly reignited.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, your skin tingling under the intensity of his stare. But you didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

Jake's fingers dug into his thighs, gripping so tightly. His breathing turned shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling at a pace that betrayed his struggle. His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips, before snapping back up, but the damage was already done.

He was flustered.

"D-Do not say v-vulgar things," Jake whispered, his hands trembling slightly where they rested against his lap. But it was his eyes that held you captive—wide, burning, conflicted.

Your throat tightened, and before you could stop yourself, tears welled in your eyes again. "I don't think I'm free of guilt if I confess to God."

Jake flinched at your words. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach for you, to stop you, to comfort you—but he didn't. Because he shouldn't.

"I keep praying for forgiveness," you continued, your voice trembling, "but I do not regret what I have done."

Jake inhaled sharply. His gaze flickered to the cross for only a moment—as if searching for guidance—before returning to you. Your lips trembled as you forced out the truth, the final confession that sealed your fall.

"I only feel guilty because thinking of you is a sinful act against my own people."

A tear slipped down your cheek, falling onto your lap, soaking into the fabric of your skirt. You weren't sure what you were asking from him—absolution, understanding, or something far more dangerous.

"God is willing to forgive again and again, right?" you choked out. Jake's breath hitched, and then you asked the only question that truly mattered. "But are you willing to forgive me?"

His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, but he couldn't speak. Because there was no answer to give. Not one that would be right. Not one that would be true. He stood abruptly. The movement was sudden, almost jerky, as if he was running—fleeing.

You watched him, lips quivering, hands still clenched together in your lap.

His palm was sweaty as he brushed it against his robe, his pulse erratic as he stepped out of the chapel, the heavy door closing behind him with a finality that made your chest ache.

You didn't call after him. You didn't move. Because what could you say? He was already gone.

Jake arrived early at the residence hall, his movements stiff, controlled, as if forcing himself into habit, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his composure cracked. His chest rose and fell with deep, unsteady breaths, his hands running through his hair in frustration. The ghost of your voice lingered in his ears, wrapping around his mind like a noose.

"I touch myself with the thought of you."

"I do not regret what I have done."

His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He sank onto the bed, head falling back against the pillows, eyes squeezing shut.

"But are you willing to forgive me?"

His breath came out shaky, ragged, as he muttered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..." His voice was strained and the prayer did nothing.

Nothing to rid him of the images flooding his mind, of your tear-streaked face, of the way your voice trembled, of the way you looked at him as if he held the answer to your salvation. He sucked in a sharp breath as his hands gripped the sheets beside him, as the tension in his body coiled so tight it hurt.

And then—he felt the unbearable heat pooling low in his stomach. The painful ache of his cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

He let out a quiet, desperate whine, the sound muffled against his palm as he ran a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away the shame, the want, the overwhelming weight of you. Still, the words of his prayer tumbled from his lips, over and over, between broken breaths.

Just like Adam, he had been steadfast. Pure. Untouched by temptation. He had walked the path of righteousness without faltering, without question, his faith as unwavering as the ground beneath his feet. He had known his purpose—to obey, to serve, to resist.

And yet, you— the Eve.

A whisper of temptation. Just as Eve had reached for the fruit, her fingers brushing against the knowledge of sin, you had reached for him—not with hands, but with words.

And now, like Adam, he was failing. He had seen the fruit before him. He had heard the serpent's voice, had felt the first stirrings of doubt deep in his chest, where conviction once lived.

He wanted to reach back.

To taste. To know. To fall.

Because wasn't that what Adam had done? He hadn't been deceived—he had chosen to fall with Eve. He had taken the fruit from her hand, knowing what it would cost.

"Take a bite."

The voice echoed in his mind, low and insistent, curling around his thoughts like a serpent coiled around a branch. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, but he did not see it.

Instead, he saw you.

He imagined you whispering to him, your lips forming the very words that now tormented him. He imagined your fingers brushing against his wrist, leading him closer to ruin. Just as Eve had turned to Adam with the fruit cradled in her palm, you had turned to him with your confession, tempting him in ways he had never been tempted before.

His cock throbbed painfully beneath the confines of his pants, damp with his own arousal.

"Take a bite," the voice urged again, slithering through the cracks of his crumbling resistance. His hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He should continue praying, to fight whatever temptation the devil was filling him.

But instead, he lay there, panting, burning not with the way the nun teaches, his body betraying him as he squeezed his eyes shut. He let himself imagine.

"Heaven and earth are full," the voices soared inside the chapel, the morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows.

"Are full of your glory."

Jake's lips parted, but he did not sing. His gaze was fixed on you. You stood in the choir, your voice blending seamlessly with the others, yet somehow, to him, it was the only one that mattered.

Your long white dress fell in soft folds to your feet, the fabric catching in the gentle morning breeze drifting through the open doors. The wind moved through your hair, shifting it slightly, making it look almost weightless.

You were a vision of purity wrapped in divinity.

"Hosanna, hosanna."

Your eyes are dull and distant, told a different story. You sang the words, but you were not present. There was no joy, no reverence, only an emptiness that should not belong to someone standing before God.

"Hosanna in the highest."

But to him, you were the highest. More than the chapel's towering walls, more than the altar bathed in candlelight, more than the cross above them all. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to reach, to worship. But not as a believer should.

"Show me."

The words slipped from Jake's. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes widening as you stared at him.

The small room at the back of the chapel felt unbearably tight, with the scent of old books and dust, the faint aroma of candle wax lingering in the corners. A candlelight was at the center of the table.

This was a place of study, of quiet contemplation, and A man and a woman should not be alone together. Not when the door was shut.

"Show me." Jake swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Show me how you touch yourself."

"H-Huh?" You stuttered, barely able to form words, your mind struggling to comprehend what he had just said. "Jake, you're so pure... I don't want you to be tainted like me. I already disappoint God—"

"Please, just show me."

His voice was desperate, his restraint fraying at the edges. Jake stepped forward, closing the distance between you.

Your breath hitched as he leaned over the table between you, hands bracing against the worn wood, trapping you between his body and the cold stone wall.

"I have thoughts about you too."

Your eyes snapped up to his, his eyes were glassy, his lips trembling as if the weight of his own confession was too much to bear, unshed tears brimming in his lashes.

"I thought of you that night," he murmured. You sucked in a breath, pressing yourself further into the table.

"I disappointed God too."

"Jake. . . " Your breath hitched at his confession as your eyes is searching on him. "Are you not afraid? Of the fire that will burn you?" you asked.

Jake's breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling as he leaned closer, his hands tightening against the edge of the table. "Does it burn you when you touch yourself?"

"Because when I thought of you," Jake continued, "my body just ached for your embrace."

Your heart pounded so loudly; you almost want to lower your head due to the proximity.

"It's not the fire that burns me."

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched as his gaze bore into yours, "It's the ache of longing for you."

You had feared he would resist, that he would turn away, condemn you, beg for salvation. But he wasn't begging for salvation. He was begging for you.

"Take a bite," a voice in the back of your mind hissed—low and insidious.

And without another word, without hesitation, you reached for him. Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, you pulled him in, lips met his.

A low, desperate moan escaped Jake's throat as he crushed you against him, his hands finding your waist, gripping you so tightly. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating through the layers of fabric that still separated you.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that startled you. The tears that had brimmed in his eyes slipped down his cheeks.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling, needing. The kiss was desperate, both of your teeth are clashing. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The pressure of his mouth against yours softened after a moment, his lips parting slightly, then his tongue brushed against yours.

A soft gasp left your lips, and Jake seized the moment, his tongue slipping past the seam of your mouth, exploring, tasting. He groaned into you, the sound vibrating against your chest, making something hot coil in your stomach.

Your grip tightening in his hair as the kiss deepened, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes, coaxing you into submission.

"If you want to make a boy weak, touch him there. Play with it, stroke it."

Still kissing him, your free hand drifted lower, hesitant, until your fingers pressed over the hardness beneath his pants.

Jake cried out. His entire body jerked, his hips stuttering beneath your touch as he broke the kiss with a sharp gasp.

"Oh my Lord—"

His head fell forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in ragged, uneven pants. His hands clenched at your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress.

You swallowed, watching in fascination as his body trembled beneath your touch.

Carefully, experimentally, you pressed your palm more firmly against him, stroking him slow through the fabric.

Jake whimpered. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing the pleasure, more relief, yet it was never enough. Your name slipped from his lips in a strangled moan, muffled against your shoulder.

"I want to see you. Please." You whisper, more like a whine as your fingers continued to stroke him through the fabric of his pants.

Jake lifted his head slowly, his breath ragged, his pupils blown wide with something that had nothing to do with faith. Tears streaked his flushed cheeks, his lips parted as they trembled.

His gaze locked onto yours, vulnerable yet so needy.

"W-Will you touch me more?"

His voice cracked at the end, his body shuddering as he fumbled with the buttons of his pants, his fingers shaking too much to work quickly. You watched as he hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, before finally tugging the fabric down past his hips.

Your breath caught in your throat.

A penis. His cock was thick, long, flushed a deep shade of red. Fluid leaked from the swollen tip, dripping down the shaft in slow, glistening trails.

You remembered feeling disgusted way in anatomy class, staring at the stiff, clinical images in textbooks, thinking the male body was strange, almost grotesque.

Now, your mouth watered.

Heat pooled deep in your belly, your pussy clenching together involuntarily. You didn't even realize what you were doing until you were already on your knees.

Jake's breath hitched, his body going rigid. His wide, teary eyes stared down at you.

"W-What a-are you doing?" He exhaled sharply, his voice cracking. You glanced up at him, your hands settling on his thighs.

A whisper from your past came back to you, "Suck on it—especially the tip."

Your lips parted, and you murmured, "I'm going to pray for forgiveness." then you took him into your mouth.

"Ahhh—!"

A choked gasp tore from his lips, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. His hands flew to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, but he didn't push. He held on for dear life.

His knees buckled slightly, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps as your warm mouth engulfed him.

You tasted the saltiness of his arousal, the unfamiliar flavor spreading across your tongue, but instead of pulling away, you took more.

"Jesus Christ, this is disgusting," Jake cried, his voice shaking—yet his hands remained buried in your hair, his hips jerking forward, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

His breath came out in broken gasps as he watched you, watched the way your cheeks hollowed around his cock, the way your lips stretched to accommodate him. His fingers trembled where they tangled in your hair, torn between holding back and pushing in further.

"It feels too good—too good, too good—" he whined, his mouth falling open, eyes glassy.

Your stomach tightened at the sound, heat curling between your thighs at the way he was breaking apart. You wanted more, you needed more.

Your tongue traced along the underside of his shaft, your head bobbing steadily, each movement coaxing more whimpers from his lips. His thighs trembled beneath your hands, his entire body shaking with pleasure so foreign to him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain." The words echoed in the back of your mind, a commandment you had already shattered beyond repair.

But you like hearing him, hearing the way he gasped for God, the way his voice cracked when he moaned between whispered prayers.

Your eyes flickered up, meeting his gaze. Jake whimpered, his breath stuttering as you took him further, pushing yourself until the tip of his cock brushed the back of your throat. Your gag reflex tightened, but you didn't pull away. You held him there, letting him feel everything.

"A-Ahhh—!"

A loud, uncontrollable moan ripped from his throat as his head fell back, exposing the column of his neck, veins prominent, his Adam's apple bobbing with every gasping breath.

His body tensed, his fingers gripping you too tightly, as if he was seeing God Himself in the pleasure washing over him.

His moans grew louder, needier—his entire existence reduced to you and the sin you were leading him into.

His grip in your hair tightened, his hips stuttering as he fought to keep himself from thrusting into your mouth, from losing himself entirely.

"S-Something's coming—something's coming."

His voice broke, whimpering and breathless. Still bobbing your head, you reached down with one hand, lifting your skirt, fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your underwear. The moment your fingers brushed against your slick folds; a moan vibrated against his shaft.

Jake gasped, his thighs tensing, his entire body shuddering at the sensation.

Your wetness coated your fingers, and with no hesitation, you pushed one inside, curling it the way you always had when you were alone—except now, you weren't alone.

Now, it felt too good to be true. Because Jake was in front of you.

Because Jake was falling with you.

Your own pleasure built with every movement of your fingers, every muffled moan that sent vibrations through him.

His hand slid down, trembling, until it brushed against your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears pooling at the corner of your eyes, tears from how deep you had taken him, from how overwhelming it all was.

His touch was tender, contradicting the broken, filthy sounds spilling from his lips.

"You're—" he choked out, his voice wrecked. "You're touching yourself?"

You hummed around him, confirming, not slowing down, your fingers working deeper inside yourself as his body tensed above you.

Jake whimpered, his head falling forward, his lips barely parted as he stared. His stomach coiled tighter and tighter, his body trembling as his hips stuttered, chasing the feeling, unable to hold back.

"You look so beautiful," he sobbed, his voice raw and shaking. "So divine."

His gaze never left you, drinking in the sight of you—on your knees before him, lips wrapped around his length, taking him so deep without breaking eye contact.

A choked moan tore from his throat at the way you looked up at him, at the sheer devotion in your eyes. It was as if you had been sculpted by God Himself, crafted not from dust but from light, from holiness.

Jake had always admired you.

The way you prayed every afternoon in the chapel, hands clasped. How your lips moved so softly in whispered hymns, the way your voice blended into the choir like something celestial.

How you knelt before the altar, head bowed, untouched by the world around you, your beauty standing apart from anything he had ever known.

Now, you were kneeling for him, your mouth worshipped something else entirely.

His hips jerked forward, unrestrained, a sob catching in his throat.

"Oh—oh, my God—"

His entire body shook, the pleasure nearly blinding. A choked sob left his lips as his release spilled into your mouth, hot and thick, coating your tongue. His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing deeper until your nose met his abdomen, forcing you to take every last drop.

You moaned at the sensation, fingers working faster inside yourself, chasing the same pleasure that had just undone him. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, salty, forbidden—yet you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste.

Above you, Jake shuddered violently, his hands tangling in your hair as if clinging to you for stability.

His head tipped back; his lips parted in a silent cry as he came down from his high. His fingers trembled against your scalp, stroking gently.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered, his eyes clenched shut, his chest rising. He held you there, cradling your head against his abdomen, his body still twitching from the aftershocks.

You tapped his thigh twice, a silent signal. Jake inhaled sharply, His grip loosened instantly, and with shaky hands, he let go of you, his cock slipping from your mouth.

A thin string of saliva connected you, stretching between your lips and the flushed tip of him before breaking. Your tongue remained out, your breath ragged, your lips swollen and slick with the remnants of his release.

"You... you swallowed my seed," Jake whispered, you stared up at him through lidded eyes, your breath shaky, your body still moving, fingers still working inside yourself.

His gaze flickered downward, following the slow, desperate motion of your hand beneath your lifted skirt. His cock twitched, still sensitive, yet already stirring again at the sight of you.

"It... it should be in your uterus," he muttered, his brows drawing together. "Not your mouth."

A slow smile curled at your lips, heat simmering beneath your skin as you reached for his hand, guiding it to your cheek.

"Then pump me with your seed, Jake," you whispered.

A sharp inhale left his lips, his fingers tightening at your sides before he pulled you to your feet.

His mouth was on yours again, his hands trailing down your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He tugged it down slowly, the fabric loosened, slipping over your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

Jake pulled away, his lips parting as he took you in—your bare form. His throat bobbed, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over your waist.

He bent down, lips finding the curve of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

Your gaze lifted past him, to the walls of the room—where portraits of nuns, saints, and martyrs hung in quiet judgement. Their solemn eyes bore into you, unblinking, unwavering. Your chest tightened, guilt creeping in but you didn't want to stop.

Instead, you let your eyes fall shut, choosing to surrender—to savor the moment.

"Teach me how to please you," Jake murmured against your skin, his hands encircling your waist, holding you close.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers threading through his hair before drifting down to cup his face. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling.

Jake's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed against your palm, his lips brushing against the center of it before pressing a tender kiss there. His own hands lifted, fingers tracing the shape of yours.

You pulled away slowly, you reached behind you, unclasping your bralette. The straps slipped from your shoulders, the fabric falling away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the afternoon light. Your underwear followed, sliding down your legs until you stepped out of them, standing before him in nothing but temptation itself.

Jake's breath caught, his entire body rigid as he took in the sight of you—completely bare, completely his to look upon, to touch.

His lips parted, his gaze roamed over you, over the soft curve of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the smooth expanse of your thighs. He had seen statues of angels, paintings of the Virgin Mary draped in flowing white, but no work of art, no scripture, no vision of heaven itself had ever looked as divine as you did now.

You turned, settling yourself onto the wooden table behind you, your legs parting slowly, revealing yourself to him without hesitation.

A shaky exhale left your lips as your fingers trailed down your own skin, tracing along your inner thigh before sliding to your labia. You arched your back slightly, sighing as you spread yourself wider, holding his gaze.

"Come here, J-Jake," you moaned, your breath hitching as you pushed a single finger inside yourself. Jake swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he reached for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undid them. He let the fabric slide from his shoulders, pooling onto the floor before taking slow steps toward you.

As he neared, his breath hitched, his gaze lowering to where your fingers disappeared inside your slick folds. His pupils dilated, "It's so wet," he whispered.

Before you could respond, his hand moved. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, still slick from your arousal, and gently pulled your hand away.

Jake's gaze flickered to your glistening fingers, then he brought your hand to his lips.

You gasped, your walls clenching involuntarily as his tongue flicked out, tasting you for the first time. His lashes fluttered shut, a soft groan slipping past his lips as he took more of you onto his tongue, savoring the taste.

When Jake opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I want more." A sudden moan tore from your throat at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You reached for his wrist, guiding his hand between your legs, breath hitching the moment his fingers brushed against your slick folds.

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers trembling as they hesitated at your entrance, slowly he pushed a single finger inside you.

A gasp escaped you as he entered. His jaw clenched at the sensation, his breath uneven as he felt you—felt the way your walls clenched around him, soft and wet and so impossibly tight.

His free hand gripped your thigh for support, his own body shuddering. Then he curled his finger.

"Oh God!" A sharp cry left your lips, your back arching at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Jake choked on a moan, watching you intently, his eyes locked onto every flicker of expression on your face.

He did it again, this time slower, pressing deeper, and your fingers dug into his shoulders.  His breathing grew heavier, his forehead nearly pressing against yours as he whispered, "Can I touch your breasts?"

Your head fell back, your lips parting on a silent gasp. You nodded frantically, eyes shut, too overwhelmed to speak properly. But a pleading "please" slipped from your lips.

That was all the permission he needed. Jake's other hand rose cautiously, fingers ghosting over the curve of your breast before cupping it fully, squeezing experimentally. His breath hitched at the feeling—warm, soft, the peak pebbling under his touch.

You moaned at the contact, pressing into his palm, "You like that?" he asked.

You nodded quickly, tilting your chin up to kiss him again, swallowing his breath. Your body was burning in a way that the nuns never depicted, your core aching with want, and you didn't care how shameless you sounded when you pleaded, "Please, touch me more."

Jake swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his fingers kneaded your breast, his other hand still buried deep inside you, working slow, torturous circles that made you gasp.

"Lean down and suck my breast," you whispered against his lips. "I heard it feels good."

Jake pulled back slightly, blinking down at you, his cheeks flushed. "Like a baby?" he asked, almost innocently, though the way his hips pressed forward, grinding his aching cock against your thigh, told another story entirely.

You let out a breathy laugh, though it was cut short when he twisted his fingers inside you, making your back arch.

"No," you whimpered. "Like a man who wants me."

Jake groaned, before lowering his head, his lips parting as he took your nipple into his mouth. The moment his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud; a cry left you.

He started gently at first, his lips soft and warm against your breast, still testing, still learning how to touch you. But as your back arched, as your fingers tangled into his hair and held him there, he grew bolder.

His lips sealing around your nipple, his tongue swirling. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, just enough to send a delicious shudder down your spine.

"Jake—" you gasped, thighs clenching around his waist, trapping him against you.

He moaned against your skin, his free hand massaged your other breast, fingers rolling the hardened peak between them, mimicking the movements of his tongue.

"Add another finger inside me—please, please," you begged, voice breaking, hands clutching at his shoulders, urging him deeper.

Jake's forehead pressing against your chest bracing himself as he obeyed. His second finger slipped inside, stretching you further, filling you in a way that made your toes curl. Your walls clenched around him, tight, warm, so wet, and Jake whimpered, his hips bucking against your thigh at the feeling of you around his fingers.

"I want you inside me," you whispered into his ear, tears slipped down your cheeks. Jake let out a shuddering breath, his body stiffening at your words. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "They said it will hurt," Jake whispered, his fingers, still buried deep inside you, twitched. His free hand came up to your cheek, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, his touch so tender it made your chest ache.

He swallowed hard. "I don't want to hurt you."

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his wrist as you whispered, "I want to feel all of you, Jake. Even if it hurts, I want you."

Jake's breath hitched, his forehead pressing against yours. With trembling hands, he withdrew his fingers from your heat, watching the way your body shuddered, the way your thighs quivered as he left you empty. He brought his fingers to his lips without thinking, tasting you again, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a quiet, needy moan.

Jake let out a shaky exhale, gripping himself at the base. His other hand rested on your thigh, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. "Are you sure?" he asked.

You nodded, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to him completely. "Please, Jake."

With a shaky breath, Jake lined himself up with your entrance, his tip pressing against your heat. His hands trembled as he gripped your thighs, steadying himself, his forehead resting against yours as he slowly, carefully, began to push inside.

A gasp tore from your lips the moment he breached you. Your arms wrapped around him, clinging to his shoulders, molding yourself against him as your body adjusted to the slow intrusion of his thick cock.

The stretch was overwhelming. Tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks as your walls struggled to accommodate him. Looking down, you saw—he had barely entered you. Only the tip, and yet, it already felt so much.

Jake let out a strangled moan, his breath stuttering as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"S-Slow," you whimpered, your body trembling beneath him. Jake nodded rapidly, biting his lip so hard. His entire body was tense, his self-control hanging by a thread as he forced himself to move at an excruciatingly slow pace.

"You’re so—" He choked on his words, a desperate whimper escaping him. "So tight—God—"

His hips twitched involuntarily, and you gasped, your nails raking down his back at the sudden jolt of sensation. Jake's breath hitched at the sharp sting of your nails, his cock throbbing as he pushed in another inch.

A broken sob escaped you.

"I-It’s too much—" you whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him.

"Shh, I know, I know—" he whispered, kissing your tear-streaked cheek, peppering soft kisses along your jaw, trying to ease the overwhelming stretch. His hands slid down to your thighs, holding you open, rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he murmured against your lips, "do you want me to pull out?"

You shake your head, Jake exhaled sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his hands steadying you before he pressed forward again, stretching you further. Until you felt his abdomen on your navel. Every movement forcing your walls to open for him, to take him in ways you hadn’t known were possible.

Your breath hitched when you finally felt the press of his abdomen flush against your navel. A hiss escaped you, your back arching off the wooden table at the overwhelming sensation of being completely full. "Y-You're inside me," you gasped, as your gaze dropped between your bodies.

Jake groaned softly, his hands gripping your waist, his cock throbbing inside you as he fought to remain still, to give you time to adjust. "Yeah," he murmured, "I'm inside you."

Your breath was ragged, your fingers shaking as they slid up to his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. "I'm not burning," you whispered, half in disbelief. "I'm not burning."

The nuns had lied. The warnings, the fear, the fire they swore would consume you if you ever gave in to desire—it was nowhere to be found. There was only warmth. Only Jake.

Jake swallowed hard, his gaze locking onto yours. He reached for your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"You're not burning," you whispered. Jake brows furrowing, a gasp tore from your lips as he pulled out slightly before thrusting forward again, sinking into you. His mouth fell open, his head tilting back as he felt you, felt the way your walls clung to him, squeezing him.

His lips parted, but the only sounds that came were broken, incoherent prayers.

"Oh, God—" he choked out. His hands shook as they traced over your body, touching you, his fingers skimming your sides, your stomach, your breasts. You cried out as the pain shifted, morphing into pleasure.

"You're so beautiful," Jake sobbed, he thrust back inside you, deeper than before, his arms tightening around you. His chin rested atop your head, his lips brushing against your hair as he inhaled, breathing you in, letting your scent consume him as much as your body did.

"You're—you're everything," he whispered shakily, his hips rolling into you. "Made perfect, sculpted by God’s own hands," he moaned against your skin. "How could something so sinful feel so good?"

You whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders. 

"I could do this every day," he moaned. Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering open, finding his face above you. He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his trembling hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, wiping away the remnants of your tears. His forehead pressed against yours.

"I would do this every day," he corrected himself, groaned as he thrust deeper, his hips stuttering slightly at the way your walls clenched around him. "Worship you like this. Love you like this."

Your moans grew louder, your nails pressing deeper into his skin, leaving marks along his back as if claiming him in return.

Jake groaned, his lips parting, his body trembling from the way you felt. "Would you let me?" His eyes searched yours. "Would you let me taint you? Every day?"

His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist, then sliding lower to cup the back of your thighs, pulling you closer. His movements slowed, dragging out every sensation, every inch of him inside you.

Your back arched, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, locking him in place, your breath coming in soft, desperate gasps as the pleasure built inside you. "Yes, yes!" you cried out. "Taint me, fill me with your seed—I don’t care anymore!"

A ragged moan tore from his throat as he thrust harder. "You're all I've ever wanted." His pace turned desperate, frantic. His hands shook as he rocked into you. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing your moans as he drove deeper, his body pressing you down into the wooden table. The room was filled with the sinful sounds of skin meeting skin, of breathless gasps and muffled cries.

"I’ll give you everything," Jake panted, his forehead pressing against yours, sweat dripping from his temple. "I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you mine—"

His thrusts grew erratic, his hips snapping forward, chasing release, chasing you.

Your walls clenched tighter, pulsing around him, and he whimpered, his body tensing, his breath stuttering as the pleasure coiled unbearably tight inside him.

"Jake, Jake," you whimpered, your hands drifted lower, fingers grazing over the stretch where your bodies met. You could feel him inside you, thick, pulsing, dragging against your walls with each deep, sliding thrust. 

Your fingers dipped lower, pressing against your clit. A sharp gasp escaped you. The moment your fingers touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, a bolt of another intense pleasure shot through you. 

Jake groaned at the movement, his grip tightening, his lips parting as he watched you touch yourself.

"It feels too good—too good," you sobbed, rolling slow, shaky circles against your clit, heightening the pleasure building inside you. Your walls spasmed around him, gripping him tighter, making his hips stutter.

"Oh my Lord," Jake moaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his body shaking with the effort to keep himself together. "This—this feels too good. I am willing to sin every day to get a taste of you."

"I would trade heaven just to stay inside you forever—"

His teeth grazed your jaw, his fingers locking around your wrists, guiding your movements against your clit, urging you faster, desperate to bring you with him.

"Please—please, come for me," he begged, and with one last deep thrust, as your fingers circled your clit faster, as his cock hit the perfect spot inside you.

The pleasure snapped through you, your entire body seizing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing, milking him as your climax washed through every inch of your being.

Jake choked on a moan, his body jerking as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering, his breath breaking into ragged gasps. His hands trembled as they gripped your hips, holding you still as his release spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

His lips found yours again as he emptied himself into you, his body still shaking from the intensity of it all.

You gasped into his mouth, still riding the aftershocks, feeling the warmth of him inside you. Neither of you moved for a long moment, too overwhelmed, too wrecked to do anything but exist in the sinful haze of what had just happened.

Jake’s hands slowly slid up your back, his fingers tracing over your spine made your chest tighten. Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze soft but dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had done—what you had done together.

 "Are you okay?"

Your heart ached at the tenderness in his voice, at the way he searched your face for any sign of regret. But there was none. You reached up, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his cheek.

"I'm full of you," you murmured, "I can feel you inside me."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening on your hips, his entire body tensing as he let out a shaky breath. Yet, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, his cock twitched inside you—still buried to the hilt, still too sensitive, yet already stirring again at your words

"Don't say that," he whispered, but his hands betrayed him.

They slid upward, over your waist, tracing the curve of your ribs before finding your breasts again, cupping them, thumbs circling your pebbled peaks. His fingers kneaded softly, rolling the sensitive flesh between his palms. 

Your back arched, your head tipping back, letting your hair cascade over the edge of the table. Your lips parted in a breathless moan, the aftershocks of pleasure still tingling in your veins, yet now, a new wave of desire was coiling inside you again. 

You were undone beneath him, your body glistening with sweat, your lips swollen from his kisses, your eyes still dazed, darkened with lust. And yet, you looked untouched. 

His grip on your breasts tightened slightly, his hips pressing forward just enough to remind you that he was still inside you.

"You make me forget who I am," he murmured, his breath shaky against your throat. "What I'm supposed to be."

His lips found the pulse at your neck, trailing down again at every inch of your skin. 

Neither of you noticed the way the candlelight flickered. Because you had both awakened the Tree of Knowledge.

And neither of you would ever return to Eden.

Jake had always been a man of God.

From the moment he could speak, he was taught that he was formed from the dust of the earth, molded by divine hands, a creation of purpose. His parents instilled in him the belief that he was meant to walk the righteous path, to live a life devoted to prayer, to obedience, to purity.

He appreciated every intricate work of the Creator—the way the sun spilled golden light over the stained-glass windows of the churches, the way the choir’s voices soared in perfect harmony, the way scripture spoke of faith and the reward of salvation. He saw God in everything, and in return, he gave himself to Him, dedicating his days to scripture, to service, to resisting the sins that so easily ensnared others.

Where others strayed, he remained steadfast. Where others indulged in temptation, he turned away.

He had watched boys his age succumbs to their own desires— lusting over naked bodies, wandering hands beneath heavy blankets. He had seen the way girls blushed at their names being called by the wrong kind of voice, the way they giggled behind cupped hands, oblivious to how close they danced to damnation.

But not him.

Jake had spent his youth guarding his body, his mind, his soul. He never allowed himself to waver, never let his thoughts wander to things he had been told were unholy. And if—if—his body ever betrayed him in the quiet of night, if his skin burned with an unfamiliar ache, if his mind was tempted by images that had no place in his heart, he would fall to his knees in prayer.

He would beg for forgiveness, whispering fervent apologies, asking for the strength to resist, the grace to overcome.

And for years, he believed he was strong enough.

He believed his faith was unshakable, that no force on earth could tempt him away from his devotion. He had spent his life resisting, rejecting, turning away from desire as though it were a serpent poised to strike.

During one of his evening services at the university chapel, he saw you. At first, it was nothing. A passing glance. A new face among many, just another student filling the pews, singing hymns.

But then, he saw you again.

And again.

You stood among the choir, always placed near the back, always just slightly out of reach—like something meant to be admired from afar, never touched. Your voice wove seamlessly into the others, rising with the organ, filling the chapel, but it wasn't just your voice.

It was the way you bowed your head in prayer, hands folded so delicately. It was the way you knelt before the altar, the way your fingers curled around your rosary.

And every time he saw you, every time your lashes fluttered closed, every time your lips parted to whisper scripture. He would whisper to himself, Song of Solomon 4:7.

"You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you."

Because when he looked at you, he saw something more than human.

He saw a reflection of God’s love, a testament to His creativity—flawless, untouched, pure in ways he never realized he could ache for.

He told himself it was admiration. That his heart only quickened because he saw God in you. That the warmth spreading through his chest whenever you smiled at the nuns, whenever your fingers brushed against the pages of your worn bible, was nothing but spiritual devotion.

But the more he saw you, the harder it became to believe the lie. Because you were forbidden. So untouchable it hurt.

And by the time he had a taste of your poison, by the time your lips had met his, by the time he had felt the warmth of your body pressed against him, wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop craving.

"Jake—" you whined, your voice hushed, breathless, your hands pressed against the cool tiles of the wall for balance. Your body rocked with each deep thrust, your skirt bunched up around your waist, your panties pulled aside in rushed desperation.

Here he was, buried deep inside you in the thin, suffocating space of the girls’ restroom, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you bounced against him. He had barely gotten them down before he was inside you. 

Jake let out a shaky breath, his forehead falling against the back of your shoulder, his hips snapping forward, a choked moan escaping his lips as your walls squeezed around him.

"D-Do you love my c-cock inside you?"  He stammered. His hands slid from your hips, traveling up, slipping beneath your uniform blouse to cup your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he thrust deeper.

"Answer me," he pleaded, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

A sharp gasp left your lips, your head tilting back against his shoulder as your walls clenched even tighter. "Y-Yes," you whispered, your fingers curling against the cold tile, your knees going weak.

"Say it."

"I love it, Jake," you sobbed, barely holding yourself up as he drove into you faster. "I love your cock inside me—I love it so much—"

Jake whimpered, his grip on you tightening, his entire body shuddering against yours as he lost himself again.

Nothing in this world felt holier than you. Every secret rendezvous was another prayer whispered in the dark, another moment stolen between fleeting glances and hurried footsteps, another sin sealed between trembling lips.

It was your skin against his, pressed against the cold walls of empty classrooms, hidden beneath the dim glow of flickering candlelight in the chapel, tangled in sheets that smelled of guilt and devotion.

It was your kiss—sweet and sinful, your lips brushing against his top lip before capturing him fully, pulling him under, making him forget the weight of his conscience.

It was the way your fingers found his face, tracing over his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, down to the sharp line of his jaw.

"Jake," you would whisper, your touch like a baptism, washing away the person he once was and leaving behind someone entirely yours.

Your hands never hesitated when they roamed his body, memorizing the contours of his muscles, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of his spine. Your body molded to his, fitting perfectly, as if you had been crafted just for him.

And God, how could something that felt this right be wrong? How could he look at you and believe this was damnation?

You were not a temptation.

You were his salvation, And if this was sin—if loving you, wanting you, needing you—meant turning away from heaven, then so be it.

Because Jake had already made his choice and he would choose you every time.

"They say if you have sexual preferences, it's called a kink," Jake mused, his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders as he stared out at the lake, watching the water ripple under the soft afternoon light.

It was a rare that the both of you escape—just the two of you, away from the suffocating walls of the university.  Here, it was quiet. Peaceful.

You hummed in amusement, leaning back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Hmm, I think I have a nose kink."

Jake chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "A nose kink?"

You grinned, turning to look up at him, mischief dancing in your eyes. "I love your nose," you said simply, reaching up to tap the tip of it gently with your finger. "I love how it bumps against my clit."

A giggle slipped from your lips as Jake let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head, his ears tinged slightly pink.

"You're unbelievable," he murmured, pressing his chin lightly against your shoulder, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his fondness.

You shifted, wrapping your arms around his, your fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeves. "What about you? Do you have a kink?"

Jake pretended to think, his lips pursing before he finally admitted, "I love your tongue."

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

His smile widened, his fingers trailing lazily along your arms. "I love how soft it is when you kiss me," he said, voice dropping slightly. "I love the way it feels against my skin, how warm it is when you—"

He stopped himself, biting his lip, his cheeks darkening as he let out a flustered chuckle. "You know."

You turned fully in his embrace, resting your chin against his chest as you beamed up at him. "Say it."

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes, but there was nothing but adoration in them as he dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I love how your tongue feels when you're tasting me."

Your giggles turned into full laughter, your arms tightening around him, and he let out a breathy laugh of his own, shaking his head in defeat.

The wind rustled through the trees, the lake shimmering under the sunlight.

"Do you think God still loves us?" you asked, Jake's fingers threaded through your hair, slow and gentle, playing with your scalp as he stared out at the lake, watching the way the sunlight danced over the rippling water.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

You blinked, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. "How can you be so sure?"

Jake exhaled softly, his lips curling into a small, thoughtful smile. "Because love doesn’t disappear just because we fall." His gaze met yours. "God loved David even after his sins. He loved Peter even after he denied Him three times. Love isn’t something that fades because of our mistakes. It’s unconditional."

Your chest tightened at his words, at the quiet conviction in his voice.

"Then why do I still feel guilty?" you whispered, pressing your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Jake sighed, his chin resting lightly atop your head. "Because we've been taught to fear Him more than we've been taught to trust His love."

Silence stretched, only the soft rustling of trees and the distant laughter from the festival carrying through the breeze. After a moment, Jake spoke again, "but when I’m with you…" he paused, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm, "I feel closer to God than I ever have before."

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. "How?"

He smiled, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead again before whispering,

"Because you are the most beautiful thing He’s ever created."

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening around his shirt as warmth bloomed in your chest.

Jake tilted his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "And if loving you is a sin…" he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, "then I guess I’ll just have to keep repenting."

His hands wandered lower, tracing slow, idle patterns along your upper thigh. You shivered slightly at his touch, but it wasn’t just the sensation that made your breath hitch—it was the way his finger moved deliberately, forming letters, one by one, spelling out a single word:

"Mine."

Your lips parted, your heart stuttering in your chest as your gaze flickered up to meet his.

Jake only smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting, "I will leave the university," he said suddenly. 

Jake exhaled slowly, "I’ve realized a lot of things, and one of them is…" He hesitated, searching your face, then sighed. "I don’t think I was ever meant to be the man they wanted me to be."

Your throat tightened. "Jake—"

"Everything is okay," he reassured you, his voice firm, calming. "I don’t regret any of it. Not the prayers, not the faith—but I also don’t regret you. And if the only way to keep you is to walk away from what was never truly mine, then I’ll do it."

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears, your fingers curling around his wrists. "You would do that?"

"I would do anything for you," he muttered, "I was never meant to be a saint, and I don’t think I want to be anymore." His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch, in the certainty of this moment. "I just want to be yours." 

A breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding.  You swallowed, your lips parting before you whispered, "Ruth 1:16-17."

Jake tilted his head slightly, his brows raising in curiosity. You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay."

His gaze softened, warm and full of love, as if in that moment, there was nothing else in the world but you and him. Jake swallowed, his fingers tightening around yours as he whispered back, "Song of Solomon 3:4."

Your breath hitched. A sharp sting burned behind your eyes as you realized what he was saying, as the words sank into your skin, into your soul. Tears welled up, spilling onto your cheeks as he brought a trembling hand to cup your face, his thumb wiping them away.

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

A quiet sob escaped you as you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle into the deepest parts of you.

That was the day you faced the judgment of others.

Whispers followed you down the chapel halls, sharp as knives, spoken behind cupped hands and lowered eyes. You were no longer the devout girl they had known, no longer the image of purity they had placed on a pedestal.

You were cast out, stripped of the life you had once known, condemned for surrendering to the desires they warned you against. For falling, like Eve, for stepping into temptation and taking the bite that could never be undone.

But none of it mattered. Because just as Adam had followed Eve into exile, Jake followed you. It had always been him and you. It would always be him and you.

You would always choose him—religiously, faithfully.

You clutched Jake’s hand, sweat beading on your forehead, your body trembling as pain surged through you. Your body trembling with exhaustion. The midwife kneeled before you, her voice firm yet reassuring, guiding you through labored breaths as she prepared to deliver your third child.

Jake pressed a kiss to your damp temple, whispering words of encouragement, of love, his grip unwavering as he held onto you, just as he always had.

He wiped away the tears spilling from your eyes, just as he had that day by the lake, when he promised you that everything would be okay.

And as you cried out, as life pushed forward, as your body bore the proof of your love.

"You’re so strong," he murmured. "Just a little more, my love. I’m right here."

Another sharp cry left your lips, your back arching as the final push sent waves of relief crashing over you.

A baby’s cry filled the room.

A sharp, piercing sound, followed by the relieved murmurs of the midwife as she carefully wrapped the tiny, wriggling form in soft cloth. Your head fell back against the pillow, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. Jake’s hand trembled as he reached for you, his lips pressing against your knuckles, his gratitude unspoken but infinite.

Tiny footsteps thundered against the wooden floor.

"Mama!"

The door burst open, and two small figures ran inside, their eager little hands gripping the edges of your bedsheet.

Cain and Abel—your firstborns.

Their wide eyes shimmered with excitement; their faces flushed from running. Cain, the elder, clung to Jake’s arm, while Abel climbed onto the edge of the bed, trying to peer over your shoulder.

"Did it hurt, Mama? Are you okay?" Cain asked, his brows furrowed in concern, his little hands gripping onto Jake’s sleeve.

"It’s okay, my love," you soothed, your voice weak but filled with warmth as you reached for them. "I am okay."

Jake’s breath hitched as the midwife gently placed the newborn into his waiting arms. A soft gasp left his lips as he cradled the tiny child against his chest, his eyes glistening with tears. His fingers traced the delicate curve of the baby’s cheek, his voice breaking as he whispered, "Seth."

At the sound of his father’s voice, the newborn let out a small, sleepy whimper, tiny fists curling against Jake’s chest. Cain and Abel watched in awe; their excitement momentarily silenced as they stared at their new baby brother.

"Seth," Abel repeated softly, as if testing the name on his tongue.

"He’s so small," Cain murmured, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to reach out and touch him.

Jake let out a choked laugh, pressing a kiss to Seth’s forehead before carefully settling beside you on the bed. His arm curled around your shoulders, pulling you close, his free hand still cradling your newest son. And as your children gathered around you, their voices filled with wonder.

As Jake’s lips found your forehead once more, you exhaled, a breathless, relieved sigh. You thought of Eden. Of Adam, formed from dust. Of Eve, crafted from his rib, made for him, meant to be his. The two of them had once lived untouched, unburdened, perfect in their innocence.

But love—true love—was never meant to exist without choice.

And so, they had fallen. Not out of defiance. Not out of sin. But out of love—a love so deep, so human, it had rewritten the course of existence itself.

Your body spent, your children nestled close, your husband’s arms wrapped around you as he held his world in his hands. Your tired eyes fluttered shut, as Jake pressed another soft kiss against your skin, your newborn stirred gently in his father’s arms.

Falling had never been a punishment. Because It is a gift.

perm taglist: @won4me @ikaw-at-ikaw, @kristynaaah, @fancypeacepersona @tunafishyfishylike @vvenusoncasual, @cutehoons02,

[lavenderprose]

Sorry If this is a weird question but do you have any advice on naming fics? I’ve very recently started writing fanfic after reading it for a very long time and I am currently sitting on a fic, very reluctant to post it, simply because I have exactly zero clue what to name it. Its WIP title has nothing to do with the fic and there aren’t any lines in it that I think would work. I guess I’m just kinda stuck and frustrated at this final hurdle that shouldn’t be harder than actually writing the fic but is still somehow grinding everything to a halt. (Also I really enjoy your work, time between was the first emmrook fic I read when I was trying to see what all the fuss was about and now I am absolutely deranged about that old man. I ended up restarting a play through just to romance emmrich)

Sweet anon, I wish I had some good advice for you. Would it be a comfort if I admitted that I also find titling a piece to be one of the hardest if not THE hardest part of publishing fics? Like a lot of people, I tend to take inspiration from songs. 'Aim Low' is named after a line in Hozier's Too Sweet, which I listened to a TON while writing that fic, and also just in general because I love that fey Irishman with all my heart.

I also do this kind of dumb thing where I google the phrase 'Quotes about [theme of the fic]' and see what comes up. That's what I did when I was naming Time Between.

Honestly though, I tend to work almost exclusively on vibes. I've named fics after lines in poems, proverbs, Shakespeare sonnets and even bible verses. I've made up a few random rules for myself--for instance, I avoid using words like 'I' or 'me' in fic titles, because I abhor first-person POV to an almost fanatical degree, but that's totally just me and some of the best fic titles I've seen have had I or me in the title. I also try to keep my titles short--four words max, but you'll clearly see that I break my own rules all the time. Keeping them short just makes it easier, for me, to decide on a title.

I would really urge you not to let indecision over a title prevent you from posting your fic though! I know how important the title feels, and some people probably are drawn in by titles more than other things, but it really is just one facet of your work.

[redactedgoose]

Good morning goose! Is it ok if I ask about your writing process? Like - do you have an outline for your fics, how close do you stick to it, do you listen to anything in the background when you write?

Yeah, of course! And it's a miracle I caught your ask this early, since usually I'm abjectly terrible at both noticing and remembering to reply. Like I have trick or treat asks from not the last Halloween this year (2024), but the Halloween before that (2023). I think I noticed them some time in... May? April? Next year, aka this year. So. Uh. Yeah. Whoops-

Anyway. To actually answer your question (read more because this got long for some reason)-

My process/method/etc, whatever you want to call it, starts with an idea that comes out in one of two ways.

Sometimes it's just a little pop up like "oh shit it'd be cool to do an AU where Izuku has Mahito JJK's power as his quirk. Shigaraki would be pissed at him for stealing his hand gimmick and there would be parallels between Izuku and [redacted1] and [redacted2]."

But more frequently, ideas 'manifest' as snippets immediately. Or a snippet pops in my head and I write it and then figure out the overarching idea/plot.

Because of that, it's usually pretty easy to then make an outline. The au with Izuku having Mahito's power for his quirk is actually something in one of my docs... but the most I've gotten re: planning is a couple bullet points with quotes, how some major plot points would change, and a family tree connecting him and his mom and [redacted2] together.

For an idea that already has a paragraph or three of snippets, I just... keep spooling it out from there. For Raise Hell, for example, the snippet popped out after I read the post here on Tumblr, then I started (mentally) sketching out a plan for the fic after. (It's not the best example, since I don't think I've done extensive planning with most of my DP or DPxDC fic (like I have with several BNHA fics) except for Danse Macabe but anyway-

From there, I continue generating snippets as I think of the progression of events, making little bullet point notes of events that don't spark a snippet but are chronologically next in line. All those get roughly divided into chapters (with room for error because if I write a crap ton more than I was expecting to, I'll split it up, and I am Very Bad at estimating how much I'll write).

From there, snippets and already written sections (because sometimes I go Overboard) get slapped into the doc that holds the actual fic. Bullet points are transformed into written bits and I stitch together the scenes (sometimes generating new things right then and there because I've neglected to give myself any direction on a transition event/etc) into an actual narrative chapter.

Now. The actual writing of the chapter has probably taken place over several days. When I come back to a work, whether it's a few hours later or days later or longer, I read what I've got so far and (basically) edit it as I go through it to the point where I stopped.

I don't usually properly edit stuff, tbh. I'm able to write things fairly free of grammatical and convention errors on the first go because that's just the flavor of my autism. Usually (but not always, and it has bitten me in the ass before) I won't have to worry about the throughline or any plot issues thanks to my outlining. Or I've already caught it in one of the skims getting back to the place I left off.

That's all to say that the most real, dedicated editing I do is reading over a chapter one last time in the Ao3 text box before I post it, and that's mostly so I can catch weird spacing issues or formatting fuckups that come with copying and pasting in.

And I'm most always listening to some kind of music whether I'm writing or not, tbh. I've made a couple different playlists on Spotify for specific fics, but I usually always just listen to my liked songs or a Spotify-generated daily mix or Discover Weekly—nothing specific, basically. No dedicated writing playlist! But sometimes if I'm writing something that has a specific mood, I'll go and search for a playlist that fits it.

[justlikeheavenfest]

life’s a ball if ya let it be! ball out this saturday in pasadena at just like heaven festival.

About the artist: @makrustic “Hi, I'm Mak! I'm a Landscape/Environmental Pixelartist who's been making squiggly square lines and blocky trees for over 5 years. My works are pixelated love letters to the romantic sceneries that go through our minds every day.”

[revvethasmythh]

17 25 30

17. talk about your writing and editing process

Honestly, it varies wildly from project to project, and is especially different between fic and original fiction. I'm much more lackadaisical about fic because it requires a lot less prep and usually will have a lot less length than my original fiction (I never mastered the short story--all I know how to do is write full length novels).

The writing process for fic is usually that I'll come up with a concept, maybe scribble down a few lines that could work as an entry point to the story, and then I'll just do it and see where it takes me. I keep editing to the minimal, usually just line edits, though I'll do some structural edits when absolutely necessary and obviously edit to correct mistakes regarding canon. But that's basically it, the process isn't very complicated for me even dealing with bigger pieces (or pieces that get bigger as I go along), I'll just outline as I go until I've got it all figured out. I wing it, basically.

Original fiction is a little trickier. There's a lot more that you have to build out in an original story and I tend to let ideas simmer for a long time before committing anything to paper. I like to have a full compendium of main characters, setting, worldbuilding, magic, and some philosophical concepts where necessary (such as, my current draft is highly focused on death and the afterlife, so what does that look like in-world? How do people interact with the afterlife/ghosts? Funerary rites, philosophy on death, that sort of stuff). I've sat on stories for a year or two figuring this sort of stuff out before writing anything beyond cursory character descriptions. And editing for original fiction is a lot harder for me specifically, because I'm not great at editing! Large, structural edits are very difficult for me! (And they're usually necessary due to the "figure it out as you go" nature of the way I write). I prefer drafting a lot more than editing, which is probably my biggest weakness as a writer. The day I crack outlining and editing it's over for you all. Alas, who knows when that will be.

The only consistent thing about my process between fic and original is that I pretty much always take notes/figure out my next steps in a physical journal. I don't know what it is about writing on actual paper, but it's the only way I can really organize my thoughts. It just doesn't happen when I'm typing on a computer the same way at all. So my journals are filled with weird quotes and half-concepts that help get the ball rolling again. If I didn't do that, I'd get stuck on just about everything I've ever written.

25. besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

I have a lot of random hobbies. I knit, sometimes I crochet even though I hate it (holding ONE needle?? uncomfortable, impossible, awful), I'm an equestrian, I'd consider myself a home-chef and a hobbyist baker, I kickbox, I cosplay, sometimes I draw--man, I don't know, I do a lot when I can. Does working out in general count as a hobby? I'm pretty fitness oriented on the day to day.

30. share a fic you’re especially proud of

I'm pretty proud of this bg3 fic I wrote (for my durge) during the holidays actually. Considering I was low-key delirious for half of the writing time (I wrote 7 out of 9.5k of it in one night!) I think it turned out remarkably well and has some in-character dialogue/conversations I'm especially proud of in all my work.

ask me about writing!

[writing-for-life]

@violetoftheendless Yes, the important punchline about my quotes is: “It is how we engage with the deeper questions that these characters present us with that’s far more telling.”

The way fandom engages with characters can be (and definitely is) problematic. I still have a fairly strong reaction when the lines between characterisation and said engagement with those characters become blurred. Because that’s partly where this whole mess comes from, and what I already write in the OP: A character in a work of fiction, and accepting them as part of the story, does not imply endorsement of their actions.

So to stress my own view again: No one who reads the original story and doesn’t have an immediate knee-jerk reaction to cancel a character or get the pitchforks out is *anything* by default. And people on both sides of the apparent divide would, in my personal opinion, acknowledge each other’s humanity if they also gave that benefit of the doubt?

Can, and on occasion should, we wish for things to be changed (especially moving forward in the TV show)? Absolutely. I would personally prefer if they replaced Thessaly with Johanna, for reasons I have already laid out in many posts—I even wrote a bloomin’ meta on why the soundtrack supports it LOL.

But do I have a problem with Thessaly in the original run (bar finding her absolutely horrible, but she is SUPPOSED TO BE)? No. And I would be equally okay if she were in the series. I think the topic around transphobia could be handled with sensitivity, even if she stayed, and as far as I’m aware, Neil wants trans writers involved to do exactly that.

Same goes for Hob, or any other character. Hal, as an example, isn’t exactly unproblematic in the comics either. We learn things about him that make him a horrible and fairly hypocritical arsehole, but predictably: The queer character cannot do much wrong and gets a free pass where some others don’t. So do many, many others. In fact, there are very few characters in the Sandman that are morally “good” in a straightforward way.

On the flip side, I think it’s to be expected that supporting characters will always, in every type of fiction, be measured with regard to their connection points to the main character (which is Dream—he is the one constant, even in stories he is hardly in). I don’t have a particular problem with that. I personally also don’t have a problem with not elevating every supporting character to a main character. If they were supposed to be main characters, they would be, but they’re not for good reasons.

That’s what fan-fiction is for. It’s the realm of head-canons, fix-it-fics and AUs, and that’s totally fine. I think we have to be careful not to stray into the territory of telling people what they should or should not like. I don’t write Dreamling, and it’s a million times harder to get people to read OC fics (especially if they’re not reader POV, Y/N, one-shots and/or smut). But it’s my choice not to cater to that audience, and I wouldn’t tell people they can’t enjoy Dreamling. Neither would I assume they’re inherently racist, misogynistic or anything else.

What’s definitely important though is what you point out about one relationship

a) that is non-canonical in the way fandom focuses on it and

b) begins to define every other relationship, canon or not.

And if the lines between head-canon and canon become so blurred that people who talk about canon and explore deeper questions related to it get flack for it because it goes against… head-canon. That is definitely a fandom problem, and not a story problem.

And how this links in to all those uncomfortable questions around racism, misogyny etc in fandom is definitely worth exploring because it’s real. But it’s also tricky because we’re using written language here, and the written word doesn’t always come across the way we intend (plus, we have a lot of non-native speakers in fandom. The fact that everything in fandom is anglicised, even presented from an often americanised viewpoint, is also worth contemplating by the way. Not everyone is US American with a background rooted in specifically US American problems and history).

There is definitely a sender/receiver dynamic at play that often isn’t particularly helpful for discourse in general. Hence my personal conviction that learning to communicate in ways that don’t add fuel to flames (even if we don’t always get it right, no one does) is really important. And I thank everyone who engages in these discussions respectfully despite strong opinions, and despite talking about uncomfortable topics.

Nuance in (The Sandman) Fandom

I thought a lot over the past few days, partly prompted by discourse on here, partly due to a couple of “interesting” asks and messages I received (the type you don’t answer). I *think* they might have been prompted by engaging in discourse on topics like anti-blackness/racism, misogyny/sexism, TERF characters etc in The Sandman.

Fandoms are always getting super sensitive if someone shines a critical lens on their favourite works, authors and characters. So to make this clear (in case it isn’t already obvious from my brain-rot blog):

I love The Sandman. I love Neil Gaiman. I have an extremely soft spot for Dream (and Desire btw, who deserves a lot more character analysis than just being summed up as “villainous, sexy bitch”. One day, perhaps ;)).

I can read The Sandman and just get lost in the story, even after decades and many rereads. 

But I can also view it through a critical lens—these things aren’t mutually exclusive.

Not critical enough or too critical?

As fans, we can get trapped in certain thinking patterns, like:

“My blorbo can do no wrong”-syndrome 

“Characters with flaws are inherently problematic and imply authorial endorsement of those actions” 

“Characterisation and problematic subtext are one and the same” (aka overanalysing and looking for problems where there are none is the death of every story, but failing to see problematic patterns where they are clearly visible is a problem, too).

Don't say anything bad about my favourite character

I think this doesn’t need much further exploration. It’s not my personal way of looking at stories through permanently rose-tinted glasses (I always feel it stalls my experience, but my experience is not everyone else's). Some people prefer that type of escapism, and I’m good with that (although the downside is of course that by not willing to engage with issues, we can unwillingly perpetuate them). Live and let live, ship and let sail. But please, for the love of god: Don’t insult people via their inboxes or messages just because their opinions and preferences don’t align with yours. I’m not going to sugarcoat it or phrase it “nicely”: It’s infantile (and a form of bullying btw), end of.

How can you even like a character who's so horrible? And that author must be equally horrible, too

We have to separate flawed characters, even those who are written to be really problematic, from real-life endorsement of these actions. 

Author, narrator and character are three fundamentally different things, and don’t overlap as much as some people seem to think. 

We can write vile, despicable characters to make a point (for me, Thessaly was always a prime example for this, and I explained why here). We probably hate them as we write them. I don’t know what else to say, but this facet of writing seems to get more and more lost on people, and it’s a worry. Crying for sanitised characterisation is one step away from censorship. We explore what is problematic about people and humanity through story. That’s how we process and learn. It’s nothing new, but it becomes impossible if we can’t write flawed and even disgusting characters. 

Face value…

Since I’m mostly in The Sandman fandom, I often read that its ending is hopeless, and that’s supposedly the entire message. 

It is agonisingly sad, yes. But is it truly hopeless? I personally see it as quite the opposite, but of course that’s my opinion, coloured by my life experiences.

I also get that show-only fans often haven’t read the comics, or at least not the whole arc. And as such, their outlook from what they’ve seen so far (and choose to focus on) has to be different by default. I also understand that many people are quite new to the comics, even if they have read them in their entirety. I’ve sat with them for 30 years, and I still find new things on every reread (and I read it more times than anyone should 🙈), and I still don’t feel like I’ve understood it all. Perhaps because I still haven’t fully understood myself (and it’s unlikely I ever will). If there’s one thing The Sandman isn’t, it’s one-dimensional and easy to grasp in its whole depth.

I just wrote a ginormous meta on it, if you’re interested, it’s here:

Subtext, (not so) glorious subtext

This is where it gets complicated:

We shouldn’t mix up characterisation and story subtext. Overanalysing every line to death will always make us find something that’s “problematic”, when it really isn’t in the wider context of the story.

Zooming in is NOT always a good thing. Sometimes, we actually need to zoom out. 

But subtext *can be* (accidentally) problematic. Even in stories we love. And none of this negates what I previously wrote.

Stories have real-life implications of sorts, and we need to be able to talk about it. That’s where those slightly flabbergasting, hostile inbox messages come in, and I want to expand on that "topic of contention" a bit:

Neil himself confirmed that the Endless basically warp reality, and that this is why, after Dream’s failed relationship with Nada, many black women in his vicinity suffer terrible fates (Ruby and Carla in particular). And that this spell is only broken when he dies, and that it is the reason why Gwen doesn’t suffer the same fate. And said Gwen then gets used as a plot device to basically absolve Hob (who canonically really is a problematic character, whether show-only fans like it or not) from his slaver past. Once again, very clearly: No one is making this up. Neil confirmed it (for the comics, and that was over 20 years ago. It remains to be seen if his stance has changed as we move into that arc in the TV show).

I don't think it is correct to imply that Dream as a character is racist (I've read that, too) because he logically can’t be. He holds *all* the collective unconscious. He is also, strictly speaking, not white. He is everything and nothing, and he shows up in many different ethnicities throughout the whole arc, depending on who looks at him. But Neil played with a subtext here (reality warping due to a bad relationship which then affects everyone with similar physical traits) that will read very differently to a black person than it reads to a white person, and we have to understand why that is an *extremely* slippery slope.

Plus, we are supposed to see Hob, who *was* a racist at some point (you can’t not be if you’re a slave-trader—it’s impossible by default) as redeemed. And yes, he *does* regret deeply, good for him (and if I were saying this aloud, you would hear the sarcasm in my voice, because it is indeed all about him. We are to sympathise/empathise with him and his character growth while there isn’t much mention of the people he maltreated). But also: it was a black woman who basically forgave him (with dialogue that personally makes me cringe). And that black woman who offers forgiveness is not truly a black woman—she is a character written by a white man. And as much as author and character are not the same (see above), there is an inherent sensitivity in that power imbalance that we can't brush under the carpet.

I don’t think Neil is racist. Probably quite the opposite, and I can even see that his intentions were good from a storytelling point of view. BUT intention and impact are two fundamentally different things, and telling the story this way (comic version) betrays blindspots only white people have. Just like women have blindspots when they tell stories about men, and men have blindspots when they tell stories about women (and there are a few of those in The Sandman, too). And and and…

As storytellers, we can’t always speak from lived experience. It’s impossible. And that also means we occasionally make mistakes that look bad in hindsight, even if our intentions were good.

I guess the proof is in the pudding: What do we do when people who *have* that lived experience tell us it looks bad? If they inform us why it is hurtful, plays into old stereotypes etc?

Are we willing to listen and yield (both are the foundations of allyship btw), or are we insisting that our viewpoint as someone *without* lived experience is right? That lived experience extends to all lived experiences (sex/gender, sexual orientation, age...), and from all we’ve heard from Neil so far, it seems important to him to rewrite what he sees differently today. Whether they’ll always get it right for the show—we’ll see. At the moment, it looks a lot better than in the comics, and certain issues are already being handled with a lot more sensitivity, but a few problems remain.

Pushing back on criticism that comes from people with lived experience is problematic—I’d encourage us to think about what it looks like if a white majority in the fandom is basically saying that the opinions of POC are essentially “overreactions” (and yes, that happened).

It’s complicated. The Sandman was written in a different time, and I think we have to distinguish between things that weren’t really problematic at the time but have aged poorly (again, Thessaly springs to mind, and I have lived experience as a queer person during that time, so I can see it in context while at the same time acknowledging that I would make changes to bring it to the present day), and things that were always a problem due to blindspots. They were a problem in 1990, and if they don’t get changed, they are still a problem today.

This fandom is generally so much more open and nicer than others I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s infallible, because it’s full of humans. 

Nuance is sorely needed, in both story interpretation and interaction between said humans.

(tagging @violetoftheendless )

[hintofelation99]

Justice League Babysits Dick

Aquaman, picking Dick up from school

Aquman: Hi, kiddo. Batman had to go out of town, so you’ll be spending the night at the manor with the league.

Dick: Ok! Hey, wanna see a trick?

Aquaman: Um, sure?

Dick proceeds to jump out of the moving car.

————

Superman: I still can’t believe we are just going along with Batman bringing a CHILD out on patrol with him!

Flash: I still can’t believe we got talked into babysitting him.

Green Lantern (GL): More like ordered to, there wasn’t really a choice.

Wonder Woman (WW): All of you stop. Clark, the Robin is young, but he has the heart of a warrior. It is not our place to drive him from the battlefield. And you two, stop complaining Arthur will be back any minute with the Robin and I do not want the little bird to hear your fighting.

Flash: Oh there they are! Hey Arthur!

Aquaman: Here’s the kid. I’m going to bed.

GL: But it’s the middle of the day?

Aquaman: Spend a few minutes with the kid, then you’ll understand

GL: Oh, okay?

Dick: Bye Mr. Aquaman!!

————

Dick: HimynameisRichardbutyoucancallme-

Flash: Okay kid, that’s a bit fast. Even for me.

Dick: Sorry! My name is Richard Grayson but you can call me Dick. Wait?! Are we using made up names? Okokok, forget everything I said before! My name is Robin! I’m an acrobat and I-

GL: Are we sure this is Batman’s kid? When did he even have time to raise a child

Dick: Oh, Bruce isn’t my real dad. He adopted me after I watched my parents fall to their death

GL: W-what?

Dick: Yeah they were murdered.

GL: ...

Dick: I still have nightmares about it

GL, whispering to Wonder Woman: why is he still smiling??

Dick: It’s to hide the pain

GL: I think I understand what Aquaman meant now. I’m gonna go to bed too.

Flash, muttering under his breath: Coward

Dick: Bye Mr. Green Lantern! Wow he seems odd, ya know Batman says he’s an imbecile but I don’t know he doesn’t seem [rambling continues for like 20 minutes]

————

Dick: Hey Mr. Flash, can I help you cook dinner?

Flash: You can call me Barry, Dick. And sure, I’d love your help. Can you fill this pot with water?

5 minutes later

Flash: HOW DID YOU SET THE SINK ON FIRE??

Dick: I DON’T KNOW??

————

Dick: Thanks for helping me with my homework Ms. Diana, Mr. Barry said he would but then Aquaman and Green Lantern called and he had to go.

WW: Of course little bird, I’m always happy to help. So question 1-

Dick: Hey Ms. Diana look what I can do!

Jumps from banister to chandelier to couch

WW: NO!

30 minutes later

WW: Clark, it’s your turn with the kid.

Superman: Oh my god, Diana are you okay??

WW: He just doesn’t stop moving? And he jumps off of everything, I think this child has a death wish!

Superman: Why don’t you head to bed, I’ll take care of him.

WW: Fine, just be careful, the kid will jump from anything.

————

Clark: Hey Dick, how about we play a game of tag?

Dick: REALLY?!

Clark: Yeah!

4 hours of non-stop tag across the roof tops of Gotham.

Clark: Ok, time to get ready for bed, alright?

Dick, trying to hide a yawn: Ok uncle Clark

————

The next day

WW: I feel bad for leaving Clark last night

GL: He was probably alright, probably.

Flash: The kid just had so much energy, and he set water on fire?

Aquaman: Why did we leave Clark alone with him?!

WW: It’s almost 10:30 and they do not appear to be awake. Do you think they’re dead

Clark: Haha ok I promise next Friday I’ll take you flying!

Clark and Dick walk into the kitchen with Dick on Clark’s shoulders looking calm, they’ve clearly been awake for hours.

Clark: Look who’s finally up!

Flash: You’ve been awake this whole time??

Clark: Yeah I took Dick flying and then to the park to burn some energy.

WW: But how did you keep him from trying to jump from fatal heights?

Flash: Or from setting things on fire?

GL: And what about he non-stop talking?

Aquaman: HOW DID YOU KEEP HIM FROM JUMPING INTO TRAFFIC??

Clark: He’s just... a bit energetic? All he needed was an outlet for that energy.

WW, smiling: It sounds like you found the Robin’s weakness

-----------

Next ->

[emoprincey]

Ok I'm thinking abt a human au where all the incorrect quotes happen, so here's a little bullet fic based on that:

Patton and Logan are married because I said so.

They have six dogs because one of Patton's friends had a dog that gave birth unexpectedly. The friend couldn't take care of the puppies, and wanted to know they'd gone to a good home, so Patton agreed to take the whole litter.

Patton now spends his time learning dog-friendly recipes for baked goods, and covering the lawn in mugs for the sake of a pun.

Virgil was Logan's roommate in college, and used to beta read his Star Trek fanfiction.

Logan in turn has assisted Virgil with phone calls that make him anxious. It usually went about as well as you'd expect.

Patton is strangely attached to Virgil and is very insistent that they become friends. The feeling seems mutual, even if Virgil is a little overwhelmed by him at times.

Virgil is also friends with Roman. They often play video games together, even though Roman isn't very good at it.

Roman lives with his twin brother Remus, who can often be found doing weird things like eating shaving cream or drinking spaghetti through a straw.

Janus was a bully when he was at school. His best friend, Virgil, ended up ditching him because of it, and the two of them haven't spoken since they were teenagers. (If Janus was extra put out because he'd lowkey been in love with Virgil since they were kids, well... who's to say)

Janus and Remus are spies. They're partners in crime and are absolutely inseparable.

Their line of work often leads them into predicaments, and they have a lot of 'sleepovers' in the emergency room. This isn't helped by Remus' penchant for committing arson.

Virgil ends up becoming a spy too. He works for a different organisation to Janus and Remus, but on one mission they end up working together to steal somthing.

Things are still rocky between him and Janus, but they're starting to put the past behind them and work things out.

Until Janus betrays Virgil and steals his credit card, breaks in and steals the target himself.

This whole debacle leads to Virgil getting stabbed by an enemy agent.

Patton and Logan happen to be passing by, and they find him. Logan has some medical expertise and asks what his blood type is. When Virgil says "B positive" Patton, who isn't used to this situation at all, replies "I'm trying!"

Virgil does end up making a full recovery.

When Janus finds out Virgil was injured, he regrets betraying him.

If I was writing this out as a full fic, this is where I'd end part one, but I think after this point I would have Janus and Remus become double agents working for Virgil’s organisation, as Janus slowly tries to regain Virgil’s trust and eventually they kiss or whatever.