#Kneel. :: [INQUIRIES]

[divineprank]

" Is that blood? "

The cold desert night is unnaturally silent. The sharp, howling winds that once cut through the dunes has seemed to vanish without a trace—as if nature itself has fled from the carnage from earlier. Tattered red Gerudo fortress banners hang like flayed skin from splintering wooden poles, their only signs of life picking up within the occasional whisper of shifting sand.

Ganondorf can still hear the phantom chorus of the battle. War cries, steel clashing, the hollow whistle of shooting arrows tearing through the air, his sisters' screaming and the frantic baying of horses—all of it undercut by the booming of the Gerudo King's thundering commands. The memory still echoes so clearly behind his eyes even though the night has once again fallen quiet underneath the cold gaze of the moon.

But silence has never meant peace.

Not in the desert.

And not in him.

Deep inside the Gerudo King, his rage turns over like a crashing wave in a sea storm, all of his anger slamming against the stillness, refusing to settle. His left shoulder has caught by a stray arrow, the wound burning beneath his ruined cloak. The horses, still spooked, jerk against their reins and harnesses, wildly rolling their heads and bucking against their restraints as they remain tied down and attached to the supply wagon. Their fear only fueling Ganondorf's own fire as he removes the arrow from his flesh with a yell ripping from him; the sharp sound crackling like lightning, disturbing the otherwise still night. A warm stream of blood stains his cloak and instead he directs his attention to the nervous horses, who buck and fight against the King of Thieves, rearing up, kicking their front legs as they struggle within their restraints within the wagon.

"Still!" He barks, his deep voice meeting their ears like a heavy drum. The skin on his hands suffer an unforgiving burn as he fights against the leather straps in his grip, his sad attempt to force obedience and demand control where he has none has begun to prove itself a futile effort. Both horses thrash, hooves kicking up sand, causing Ganondorf's grip to tighten, tangling his fists around each strap until the veins in his hands bulge. He won't stop. Not until the horses are freed. He must do something to spend the fury from this loss that threatens to consume him. With his hands pleading for mercy, his gaze flicks to the wagon, to Shanri's lifeless form wrapped tightly and carefully in one of the blankets from the wagon, as though that can truly save anything of what him and his party had lost tonight. The guilt claws into Ganondorf deeply.

He failed her, he failed his sister.

He failed all of his sisters.

Footsteps approach, softly against the sand. He knows it couldn't be the priestesses he sent for, they wouldn't be this fast. He knows it can only be one other.

Then, a voice. It's her.

Nabooru. He does not pause, he does not hide the wound he'd created when he freed the arrow from his flesh, nor does he try to cover up the blood staining his cloak. He keeps working, forcing himself into the motion of it, clinging to this one remaining scrap of control he has over a situation that has fallen apart in his hands completely.

Her question earns a sharp yank—one of the horses' harnesses finally snaps loose. The beast stumbles back in surprise, freed, but still restless and shaken.

"Some of it is mine," he says, his voice low and weary. "Some of it is not."

He finally turns to her, his expression unreadable. But the fire in his eyes betrays him. Shadows flicker across his face, cast by the distant torchlight that struggles against the vast darkness of the desert. His jaw is tight, and his breathing is measured, as though each word he speaks must be forced past the very weight of his failure. "Shanri is dead."

The three words feel so foreign on his tongue, distant and cold, but their weight still crushing all the same. His gaze flickers to the wagon once again—to the still form wrapped in thick fabric and he exhales sharply through his nose, tightening his grip on the remaining leather strap in his hands. Defeat has never been something Ganondorf has dealt with well, especially when his failures reflect upon those he has been charged with protecting. "I sent the remainder of my party to seek out the priestesses," he continues, "they will prepare her."

The wind shifts and the scent of blood—his, theirs—clings to the heavy night air. His pulse slams heavily in his wounded shoulder, the gash searing hot as streaks of red continue to leak out, but Ganondorf refuses to notice. He must keep moving, he must keep his hands busy.

"At first light, I will take her to the Colossus myself." His gaze finally finds Nabooru again, their electric color sharp unwavering, practically daring her to challenge him on this. "Her soul will not suffer an aimless existence because her king was too slow to protect her from a group of worthless desert bandits." His grip tightens on the harness of the remaining horse, and with a sharp yank, the final strap comes free. The animal jerks its head but does not bolt away, its sides heaving from exhaustion. The wagon stands alone now. Motionless. Silent. Totally lifeless. This is when Ganondorf finally allows himself to notice it: the red hot fire in his bloody shoulder; the ache in his fists from the incredible force he used to end the bandits' lives—especially the one that stole Shanri's. There is nothing left of that man but pure ruin; the Gerudo King having continued to rip him apart with his bare hands well after the man took his last breath. He made certain that even the scavengers—the vultures, the coyotes—such creatures looking for scraps will turn up their noses at the unrecognizable carcass-turned-waste.

It was the only thing Ganondorf could do.

He can feel the warmth of his blood as it travels along his skin, a welcome distraction. It is not the sting of the arrow wound that threatens to unmake the Gerudo King, but rather, it is the knowledge that it happened at all. That he, the sacred male child—only one every generation—was brought low by a petty, miserable group of raiders who should not have posed such a threat to Ganondorf and his party at all, they should not have caught him off-guard. A king, forged by the hot sun, master of blade and beast, reduced to bleeding in the sand while one of his own fell.

It's not just a failure, it's a betrayal. A betrayal of his purpose, his people, of the very privilege etched into his bones, flowing within his blood. The desert's gods saw themselves fit to mark this one with blood of Gerudo nobility and Ganondorf feels he is squandering it. Throwing away his very limited time in this world by making up for the stupid mistakes that should never have been made in the first place. It makes him sick. He sees no progress, no growth, no change being made during his reign so far as king.

His stomach churns, deep and twisting. It's as if his own soul wants to crawl out of him and disappear into the dunes.

She trusted him. They all trusted him to be their shield, their sword; his birthright is not to sit uselessly on a throne and revel in ceremony like the overfed, oversexed, ornamental lumps Hyrule excuses for kings. But he is meant to stand as their mountain: unyielding and unshakable. A force so formidable that no harm could ever dare descend upon the Gerudo. Yet now, one of his own lies still. Wrapped in cloth.

Cold.

[seospicybin]

WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (22k words)

Author's note: This is a verrrrry late Jeongin bday fic. Have holy water ready near you and hope you enjoy it ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

-

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

-

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

-

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

-

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

-

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

-

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think��gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

-

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

-

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

-

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

-

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

-

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

-

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

-

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

-

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

-

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

-

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

-

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

-

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

-

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

-

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

-

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

-

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

-

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[beloveds-embrace]

Noona i NEED to yap about this thought I had about the angst Dukedom au so my brain worms will let me sleep. I Imagine a people's princess duchess who spends time with others to fill in for the lack of emotional connection between her and John and people just do not understand why she is out of the house so much. Tea with the ladies? She's there. Charity event for struggling orphans? Duchess is there to help! Church in the middle of the afternoon on a random day? She's in the pew. The house is taken care of, her parties are enjoyable, but why is she gone so often? Duchess just gives a pained smile and says that her husband does not mind her being gone because neither the staff nor him want her there. Why ask her husband for love when he clearly just needed someone to run the duchy?

Hope your sleep went well <3 i nees these men to suffer tbh

The house runs itself.

At least, that is what you tell yourself. The schedules are in place, the staff well-trained, the estate thriving. You have done your duty as Duchess of Price, managing affairs with grace, ensuring that the duchy’s name remains untarnished, that the books are balanced, and the tenants are provided for. You have even done more than what was expected, expanding the duchy’s charitable reach, establishing new programs for the less fortunate, and ensuring the nobility sees the Price name attached to every act of generosity.

And yet, despite all your efforts, there is no warmth in your home.

The staff keep their distance. There are no hushed greetings in the morning, no inquiry into your health when you sit at the long dining table, staring at your untouched, cold meals that are a stark contrast to the others’ steaming dishes.

They serve you as required, but do not linger. They do not ask if you would like another cup of tea, if your shawl is warm enough, if the flowers in your room are to your liking. You don’t need them to do it, but- it’s the emphasized loneliness that hurts the most.

John is no different.

You see him at dinners, always seated across from you, his gaze never lingering, his words few and functional. He speaks to Kyle more than he speaks to you. He shares glances with Simon that you have never been privy to, and when Johnny appears with a dish in hand, John’s expression softens in a way it never does for you.

Meanwhile, you are… tolerated.

And so, you leave.

Your absence from the manor goes unnoticed at first.

The city welcomes you in ways your home never has. Tea with the noble ladies? You never miss an afternoon, sipping floral blends as you listen to idle gossip, smiling where appropriate. A charity event for struggling orphans? You are the first to arrive, personally distributing warm coats and new shoes to children who look at you with something you rarely receive- gratitude.

Church in the middle of the afternoon? You kneel in silent prayer, hands clasped, seeking answers from a God who offers none. And yet the statues and pews are still not as cold towards you as your own husband.

“Duchess, you do so much,” Lady Bethany remarks one afternoon over luncheon, her fan flicking open with an appreciative snap. She’s a pretty thing, recently wed and already draped in the pretty glow of pregnancy. “I swear, I see you more than your own husband must.”

You laugh softly, demure and mindful. “The duchy has many responsibilities.”

“And yet you make time for everything but your home?” Another lady muses, curiosity laced in her tone.

You lower your gaze to your plate, the question hanging in the air. You have learned to navigate this tightrope of expectations, of unspoken truths wrapped in silk and civility.

With a practiced, pained smile, you say: “My husband does not mind my absence.”

You let the words settle before adding, voice barely above a whisper, “Neither he nor the staff particularly miss me.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Lady Bethany’s fan stills, her eyes softening towards you. Another woman fidgets with her gloves. No one speaks, and you take a sip of your tea, the bitterness sharp on your tongue.

Why ask for love when your husband only needed someone to run the duchy?

And the house remains indifferent to your absence- at first.

The staff continue their duties as usual, the butlers maintaining the schedule, the maids ensuring the rooms remain pristine. No one spares a thought for why you are always gone, only that it makes their jobs easier.

Until, one evening, Kyle pauses in the study, glancing at the untouched tea left on a side table. The Duchess usually ensures the staff are well taken care of, he realizes. Who had reminded them today?

No one.

In the kitchens, Johnny frowns when he notices the ledger left open, the list of requested ingredients unusually long. You had always been meticulous, approving the finest quality for the household, ensuring every item was fresh and of the best stock. The kitchen had run smoothly for months, never wanting for anything.

Now, it was as if no one had noticed the difference until the fruits arrived bruised and the meat not quite up to the usual standard.

Simon notices, too. The events you planned, the invitations you managed, the way you always ensured John’s name was spoken with admiration at every gathering- without you, the social scene seemed… quieter. The duchy’s presence less prominent.

And John notices most of all.

At first, he does not think much of it. His wife was always attending some function or another. That was her role, wasn’t it? To manage the estate, to see to the duchy’s reputation?

But then, he starts seeing the effects of your absence the longer you continue to keep to the people and not the duchy.

The reports come in slower. The meetings with city officials, once neatly arranged for his convenience, are now scattered, delayed. The letters from the nobility are fewer, the invitations sparser. The charitable events- ones that bore the Price name- have dwindled in number.

And the house itself… feels empty.

John returns from meetings to silence. Dinners are quiet, even when the others join him. There is no soft rustling of skirts as you pass through the halls, no gentle murmur of your voice as you speak to the staff.

One evening, he enters his study to find a stack of correspondence on his desk- letters you had handled, decisions you had made.

You had been doing so much.

Too much.

And no one had noticed.

When he finally seeks you out, it is not in your chambers.

John finds you in the drawing room, seated by the window, your hands resting idly in your lap. Your gaze is distant, unfocused, the usual light in your eyes dimmed. Winter was drawing nearer, and so gatherings dwindled in number and as a result, you had to spend more time in this cold, unfeeling house.

For the first time in months, he hesitates.

“…You’ve been busy.” He says at last.

You turn your head slightly, but you do not smile. Or at least, put no effort in making your smile appear genuine. “As have you, my lord.”

He swallows, uncertain. “You have done a fine job with the duchy, wife. The duchy is in good standing.”

You inhale, waiting for the unspoken ‘but.’

“But…” He hesitates. “Some matters are not quite as well-managed as before.”

Your lips curl in a faint, humorless smile. “Did it take you long to notice?”

John exhales slowly. He had not noticed, not until things started slipping. But now, looking at you- at the exhaustion in your frame, the emptiness in your eyes- he realizes you had been holding up far more than he had ever given you credit for.

“… You aren’t here anymore much.” His voice is quiet now, almost careful. As if he is speaking to an animal that will bite him if he misspeaks.

You laugh softly, but there is no joy in it. “Would you want to spend your days in a house where you are not wanted? That aside, I assumed you would prefer not to see me at all.

“I never said you weren’t wanted. Nor have I told you I’d prefer it if you were away.”

“You didn’t need to.”

The realization strikes down much like a hammer, and all that’s left in its wake is silence.

John had always assumed you knew- knew that your marriage was one of convenience, that his affections lay elsewhere, that you were never meant to be part of the life he had built with his men.

But looking at you now, he realizes he had mistaken your silence for understanding. Had mistaken your silence for acceptance, for agreement that you were complete fine with this cruel treatmeant.

He had thought you accepted it, that you preferred the distance.

But had you?

Or had you simply endured it because… there was nothing else to do?

You sigh, bowing your head to avoid his gaze. Your voice is quiet when you speak next, bereft of any hope, any warmth.

“…I shall return to my duties in the morning, and I will keep out of everyone’s way, my lord. Goodnight.”

[hanasnx]

updated it but please don’t shoot me 🙏🙏clark and feet please

MINORS DNI 18+

NOTES: DC is for December Event!

Tailbone set up on some pillows, your hole’s finally able to compete with CLARK KENT’s height while he kneels. The old mattress dips with his weight, and your suspended legs bob with his movements, hissing every time he bottoms out. You peel your eyes open one by one to view him, feasting on how picturesque his herculean body looks while his muscle flexes under his perfect skin. Big hands on your hipbones guide you in shallow ruts, running you into his beckoning hips only to jerk you out as they rear. However, his countenance is by far the most captivating. Forget his raw strength and power, you observe how lost in it he appears.

Eyelids heavy and darkly hooded, breathing through his slack jaw, he’s chasing that high like a dog in heat. He’s using you to get off, drowning in the mind-numbing sensations. As your leg swings, you get an idea, toying at it by straightening your knee until your big toe pokes the dent of his sternum. You bite your lip at the thought, and like a pretty little bow, you put your knees together, tightening the hole. He audibly notices, a choked sound emitting from his parted lips as the change in stimulation courses through his body like lightning. His pace alters, adjusting to fit his eagerness. Your toe coyly traces down his abdomen in a swirly trail, and he finally notes it. He bows his head, showing you his fluffy black hair while he watches the top of his curly pubes brush the pad of your foot right before you pull it away.

Questioningly, he meets your eyes, and you melt at the sight of those baby blues seeing deep into you, brows upturned. The noises of sex soundtracking your silent conversation, wetly slapping skin on skin mixing salty sweat with ore-cum. Curiously, your poised foot sweeps up, and stops just before his chin. It’s an inquiry. He glances between you and it, your expression giving yourself away, and a massive hand nearly envelopes it as he catches it in air. It’s cold against his warm, and you can see the gears in his head turn. Tentatively, he brings it to his lips, pecking the pad of your big toe. So soft and sweet, it tickles against such a sensitive area, but when you try to shy away he manhandles you back to him. An impish curl stretches his lips right before he feeds himself your toes, leaving a bite mark along the line of them. “Clark!”

[screamer-dream]

TFP Ratchet x Reader

----

Ratched worked quietly in his area close to the space bridge. The kids, bumblebee, and bulkhead on the opposite end of the room goofing around with a ball. Just loud enough to be heard over the noisy bots Ratchet hears, "Hey, I need that."

Ratchet turns to find you, his conjunx, looking at him from the cat walk. He replies with a startled "What?" Staring back up at him, you repeat yourself, face remaining neutral. "I need that." You point to the blue green object Ratchet held in his servos.

He looks down to the glass insulator, then back to you. He searches your face for any indication of what is going through your head.

"What do you mean you need it?"

You give him an impatient look. "I need it, ok?" "No! I need it." He shoots back almost immediately. "Yes! Give it!" You give him your best look of determination.

"You can't even carry it!" He tries to reason with you. You having none of it throw out a childish, "I'll figure it out." An incredulous looks over takes over his faceplate. "What...what do you even need it for?"

Impatiently, you fling your arms up. "Ratchet quit questioning me. I just need it, ok?" Silence hung in the air between the two of. Ratchet let's out a defeated sigh.

Before he can conjure a reply, Bulkhead yells a frantic, "Watch out!" from across the room. Ratchets optics look up to see the ball that they had been playing with was flying directly towards you with enough force to do some damage. The second Ratchet realized what was about to happen, he grabs you with his empty servos, bringing you close. He twists and kneels, shielding you with his body, just in time for the large ball to smack into the upper part of the arm holding the glass with just force to jerk his arm slightly.

It was enough. Ratchet watches the glass insulator slip from his servos, fall to the ground, and shatter. Ratchet stands facing the two sheepish bots, still keeping you closeto his chassis. He let's out a growl. "You almost hit her!" Then an exasperated he points to the shaped glass. "She needed that!" While you simultaneously apologize. "I'm sorry, Ratchet."

Whipping his helm towards you with a confused look. "Why are you sorry, sweetspark?" His inquiry has your eyes meeting his optics. "Because your pretty glass thing broke. I know you needed it." He nodded. "Sweetspark, it's just an insulator. It keeps live wires away from other metals. It's replaceable. You are not. I'd chose you over any object."

You take a minute to soak in his words. "I love you." You say in nearly a whisper. He offers a gentle smile. "And I love you." Suddenly, you can see the question cross his faceplate right before he asks.

"So why did you need it in the first place?"

[astrolynnworld]

warmhearted reveals

pairing: matt x reader

summary: you tell matt that you’re pregnant

warnings: fluff! love, romance, confessions, reassurance.

word count: 656

i prepared a nice dinner for when matt comes home so i can tell him the big news.

i can’t tell if he’ll be excited, shocked, or anxious. this is a big step in our lives, and i just hope he supports it

we have talked about wanting kids in the past, but we haven’t discussed goal, time, or plan.

i anticipate his arrival at the door as i let the food simmer on the stove for a little longer.

“baby? i’m home” matt says as he walks in through the front door

i go to greet him with a kiss and hug

“someone’s in a good mood today” he smiles as he sets down his stuff into the nearby office room

“you hungry? i made your favorite!” i gleefully share as he follows me to the kitchen

“duh!” he joking says, “it smells so good bae”

i prepare a plate for him before we sit across the dinner table

“how was work today?” i question

“it was great actually..”

“really? how so?” i follow up

“sucks to say but, one of the head managers of the inquiries office had gotten fired today because he violated one of the company policies, right?” he starts

“mhm” i acknowledge

“so they needed someone to take his job, and the head boss had put in a good word for me because he sees my progress in the job and says that i’ve been working hard for the last few months now.” he continues

“oh my god!! really? that’s so good baby. so what’s gonna happen?” i further ask

“well. today they had discussed it over a board meeting and went over some of my latest work to decide if i would be a good fit on the team and .. they all agreed.”

“BABY!!! that’s such great news oh my godd!! i’m so happy for you!! so you basically got promoted to the higher ups of the office right?” i proudly support

“yeah! and they’re raising my pay my 50%” he shares

“i’m so so happy for you matt!! great news all around. more money to go towards us and the baby!!” i quickly slip out

“what?” he questions

a smile plasters across my face

“i’m pregnant baby.”

he pauses and looks quickly takes a glance down at my stomach

“a- are you serious?” he anxiously stutters out

i nod my head slowly as i start to tear up

he comes around the table and kneels in front of me

“you’re not joking baby?” he says as the tears start to well up in his eyes

i shake my head no as i chuckle softly; tears starting to fall down my cheeks

he takes my hand and stands me up before embracing me into his own

“baby. we’re having a kid” he says as he tries to process his shock

“you’re pregnant with my baby right now, princess” he says as he pulls back from me

i see the tears starting to drip his face

“i can’t believe this baby. you’re really not lying to me?” he questions one more time

i grab his face and start to wipe his tears, “you’re gonna be a father, matt”

he lets his face fall into my hands as he brings his forehead to mine

“i can’t believe i’m about to start a family with you baby. it’s all i’ve ever dreamed of, since we were teenagers” he confesses

“i just can’t believe you’re really mine.” he says before kissing my forehead, “all mine.”

“i love you so so so so much, matt.” i speak out

“i love you so much more baby.” he kisses my lips, “both of you” he says as places his hand on my stomach

“why don’t you hop into bed, i’ll clean up dinner. there’s so many plans we have to discuss” he eagerly says

i laugh at his enthusiasm as i head back to the bedroom.

———————————————————————- taglist: @lenna-77 @cutiepatootie36273 @secret-sturniolo @sturns-blog @sturniolo-2003 @mayaaatok @sturnswrites @mattsleftnipple03 @mattybswife @tropicasturn @princessbetsy123-blog <333

[bokutosbiceps]

don't stop til ya get enough 

monkey d luffy x afab!reader | smut | ~700  words

warnings: smut. it's SMUT. i'm the blowjob queen + i hope it shows. based off a true story LOL

a/n: happy thanksgiving from me + luffy to you !!

18+ MDNI

luffy writhes as his cock slides between your pussy lips, throwing his head forward and feeling around with his mouth for your soft, jiggly tit to pop in his mouth. 

he pants as he feels the tip of your hardened nipple poke his cheek, mouthing at your nipple till he's sucking on it. the moans coming from deep within his chest add to the pleasure that his suction is giving you, and you can't help but moan, too. 

his hips stutter and you can hear the lewd sounds of his cock sliding through your slick as he grinds onto your pussy.

“you're doing so good for me, monkey.” you coo, running your fingers through his hair, starting at the widow’s peak that adorns his sweaty forehead. 

“gotta p-prove you wrong…” luffy huffs, his voice rising an octave with each glide of his cock through your labia. 

“so competitive!!” you giggle, your hips jerking upward as the tip of his cock brushes your clit. you gasp, a soft moan following. 

the sound drives luffy crazy. the sounds coming out of your mouth, the sounds coming out of your pussy, the wetness coming out of your pussy. it's all too much for luffy. he thought he'd be able to take on the challenge of spending ten minutes with you like this without cumming, but he suddenly realizes he doesn't care. right now, cumming is more important. cumming in you is more important. 

luffy decides to fuck it all, to fuck you, and halts the movements of his hips. he looks at you through his lashes, grinning at the way your eyebrows are raised in confusion.

“you okay—ah!” luffy’s hand around your neck makes your inquiry die on the back of your tongue. he squeezes, but not too hard, as he lowers his mouth to your clavicle, biting and sucking along the ridges of the bone. 

“ya always taste so good for me, sugar. how d’ya do that?” luffy’s breath is hot against the side of your neck. “m-my treat. no one else is allowed to have ya.”

he releases your clavicle from his mouth and crawls up your body, eventually kneeling above you and stroking his cock inches from your lips. you feel droplets of his pre cum sprinkle onto your face and your tongue subconsciously darts out to clean your face off.

“open wide.” luffy commands, using his thumb, sticky with his pre cum, to yank your chin down and open your mouth. he grabs the back of your head and shoves his cock deep down your throat, letting out a deep and guttural groan.

“fuck, so tight n warm…” luffy’s hips are erratic, snapping forward to shove his cock as far as down your thoat as he can, recoiling just enough to free his base. 

you moan, your throat closing around luffy’s cock and your eyes watering. luffy lets out a few breathy giggles, his other hand now on the headboard of the poor bed to steady himself as his hips continue to pummel your face. 

“are ya t-thirsty?” luffy breathes, his abs tightening and relaxing as he feels himself fighting off his orgasm. he wants to feel your throat around his cock forever. he wants to hear your moans, muffled by the way he's fucking your face, forever. “i’ve got a bunch of cum jus' for you, my girl.” 

he grabs a fistful of your hair and twists it, allowing himself to bury his cock in your throat and hold your head to his pelvis. his curly, black pubes tickle your nose and you whine, the vibration causing luffy’s hips to jerk a little bit.

“h-hey, don't—hah!” luffy is moaning and writhing and whining and squeezing his eyes shut as he holds your head still on his cock, his cum shooting in thick, staccato spurts down your throat. he lightly pushes you back, your lips releasing from his cock with a slick pop and a sharp gasp leaving your mouth as you fight for air.

his chest is heaving and his face is toward the ceiling, eyes squeezed shut and mouth wide open as he tries to catch his breath. you're trying to do the same, as you struggle to swallow the thick load of cum you were just so kindly force fed. 

once luffy’s almost recovered, he looks down at you, a big grin on his face as he licks his lips. 

“your turn, pretty.”

taglist: @kingofthe-egirls @bowsa-jr @anemptypuddingcup

[illustrationist-of-the-stars]

Im assuming you keep up with TWSt jp spoilers based on your past posts but if I’m wrong then please just ignore this 🙏🏼

Since past sunday was all about keeping people in dreams how do you think YuuSunday would react to the events in book 7 and after?

No, you're right, I generally don't care about getting spoiled about things like this anymore so it's cool :]

Get ready for some rambling because this is gonna be a little long so mb

Once Yuu!Sunday finally reaches the Book 7 arc and sees Malleus breaking down and Overblot's due to his own insecurity and fear of being completely alone, I think it'd be a major kick in the ribs for him as he tries to comprehend the irony of the now switched roles between them as he slowly succumbs to a potential never-ending slumber yet again by another's misguided attempt at a falsely perceived form of mercy.

Yet another individual that they think knows what's best for the lower masses and acts irrationally, disregarding what others and those beneath them would think and not accepting that they'd want otherwise because they must be the only one that understands, to weak to truly do yet far to fragile to be let out of the cage, and if a force of hand or a show of power is what it will take for them to kneel and accept their inevitable peaceful sancutuary?

Then so be it.

...

He wouldn't know if it would be appropriate to laugh or cry at this new yet dreadful development as he stares mutely at the replica version of his dear and forever beloved sister, he's seating at the table of a cafe that he distantly remembers her wanting to try out soon before disaster struck that left him forever ruined and let out of his confinement to venture on his own, wandering and consumed by wanderlust in search of an unknown purpose that may never be found in his short lifetime.

He's knowlegable enough about dreams and illusions that it wouldn't be right to be seated with this fake fantasy any longer, that it would be detremental to him and everyone else beyond this escapism and he needs to act and quickly find a way out because he has no idea if time dilation is a factor with this massive scale of a diabolical spell, that he shouldn't indulge in this fantasy anymore before it's too late and-

"Brother, are you alright?"

The feeling of (it's not her, it will never be, a mere mirage-) Robin's gentle touch on his hand and a soft yet concerned voice accompanies it is what it all took to halt and shatter his reverie and bring him back to the present, with her, with Robin.

"I- I'm sorry, dear sister... I just..."

The lump in his throat increases difficulty in swallowing down, it's as if he somehow ate glass as he truly looks at his dear sister that he misses ever so dearly, picking her apart and the differences and feels weighed down by the fact that it's a perfect copy of her, the posture, the micro expressions on her face, almost everything is close to the T except for the fact that it is not real. None of all this is but he hopes regardless of the fact like te fool he knows he is.

The distance and forced estrangement is still a fresh scar to his already damaged psyche that he couldn't help but equate to burns and lashes on his back as he continues to stare at her, just the same as he remembers he'd seen and left her....

He stares unblinking for a longer moment, prolonging it for all it's worth, unwilling to blink in fear of blinking away this sweet yet crippling dream when he should as Robin stares back at him aswell, without judgement and with the same soft yet concerned smile as she waits patiently however long he needs to finish his thought and reply back to her inquiry.

He thinks distantly that he can feel himself drowning and getting lost in this moment, wonders for a moment that if this is how devil's in scriptions tempted their prey and countless of clueless innocences into condemning themselves in a fate worse than death, turned into sinners and burning for all of eternity as they commited deeds so heinous in the name of their selfish and greedy desires as he carefully holds and grips back her deceptively tangible hand in his gloved one.

He can feel himself finally able to manage to swallow back his guilt and self-loathing as he stares back in kind to his sister, so real, by his side and right there in front of him, like it was always meant to be, with soft and crinkled eyes due to his own smile widening in acceptance at her presence.

"Yes, I'm quite alright. I'm just...so happy you're here, sister"

If indulgance in this sweet dream will condemn and ruin him further in sin than he already was before, he can always try to atone and build himself back up his shattered pieces again, or maybe he can be the ignorant fool and act like he didn't know it was all a lie in the first place but that wouldn't be right, would it?

No, it wouldn't. What a terrible thought, how could he think that? Let alone also consider it, how low must he have fallen to do that?

After this all ends, he'll try his best to repent for the crimes commited, for his willing condemination, he swears desperately as he contradicts himself yet again and again, as much as possible.

If no one will recognize him as man worthy of heaven any longer, that this clear indulgance in sin will set him back even further than he was standing before...

Then so be it.

.

.

.

This is what one would say, a taste of his own medicine, no?

Honestly, I don't think Yuu!Sunday would ever be willing to actually forgive Malleus for betraying his trust, companionship and making him betray his own self at the same time, despite his immense empathy that he was in volatile state and he has been there before, it still incredbily hurt in the worst ways possible.

Not at the moment, atleast.

He needs to work himself out before confronting such woes...

Though, he can't help but feel that this not yet the last of the many betrayal's of his trust as he looks towards at the wardrobe that holds his old ceremonial robes and other miscellanious clothing and trinkets.

He just...feels it.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Teeth

Part 22

Werpanther! Billy Russo x Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: Smut, smut, and more smut. Pool sex, and a sprinkle of a dominance kink. There is also actual plot I'm not insane.

A/N: I'm in so much pain right now.

You move up to him quietly, a gentle hand to the smooth skin of his back.

He turns his head to face you, eyes still closed, a sleepy smile curving onto his mouth.

You kneel in front of him, your fingers moving up to delve into his hair, hearing him groan makes you smile.

You stay there like that for a while, memorising the feel of his soft hair, the bristle of his beard along the backs of your fingers, and when you feel like you’re about to burst, you finally open your mouth to speak.

And then you pause, what if he just denied it? This was probably a big secret for him, something he might not be ready to reveal to you.

Should you wait?

Could you? Knowing what you know now, could you honestly remain quiet about it?

What would be the harm in keeping what you know to yourself?

You can’t decide on what to do, but you know you at least have to try now, or else it would affect the way you acted around him.

If he denied it, you would just let it go.

“Billy?” You finally say, soft and calm so that he gets an idea of how not upset you are.

His eyes remain closed, but his eyebrows raise as he makes a sound of inquiry at the back of his throat.

You study his gorgeous sleepy face, still not completely sure you want to speak.

“I know your secret.” You rush out.

Surprisingly, he makes a sound of amusement, a short laugh that has you questioning yourself.

“What secret is that, sweetheart?” He asks huskily, his low voice barely above a whisper.

You rub your fingers against his stubbled jawline.

“That you’re… the panther.”

His eyes open.

His eyebrows scrunch in confusion, turning his head to get a better look at you.

“What?”

You bite down on your lip for a long second.

“I know- I know that you’re the panther.”

He sits up, confusion fraught in his eyes. It makes you feel a little crazy. Was there any chance that you could be wrong? What if you had dreamt the panther coming to you? What if you were going insane from stress?

“I’m not sure what you mean. Is this code for something?” He remains calm, reaching for your kneeled form to bring you to sit beside him.

“It’s you. It has to be. When I first told you about the panther in the woods, you never- you never questioned me or tried to tell me that it was impossible. You knew, because it was you.”

“The panther that saved you? It’s not impossible, someone could have smuggled an exotic pet into the state, it’s rare, but not impossible.”

“N-no, it wasn’t an animal, it was a person, it was you.”

“Me?” He says incredulously.

You feel like you’re going insane. You close your eyes, gathering your thoughts.

“I get it,” You say calmly, “It’s something you probably never planned to tell me. And I don’t mean to try to force a confession out of you. I guess I’m here if you ever want to talk about… anything you want to talk to me about.”

You look up at him, hoping to earn some sympathy with your soft expression.

You watch the crease between his eyebrows smoothen out, he reaches out to cup your face in his hands.

“I appreciate the invitation.” He murmurs softly, leaning in, his lips brush yours, a slight tease before he presses his mouth fully to yours.

Like every time before, sparks explode in your head.

You sigh into his mouth, tension leaching from your shoulders.

You weren't sure if it was an admission or not, or if he was merely entertaining your accusation to keep you calm, but all of it is washed from your mind at the first touch of his tongue to yours.

God, he kissed like sin, wicked and delectable, threatening to devour you with the very mouth you adored.

You brace your hand behind you for support, to help you press your body more securely to his, his hand against the back of your neck, encouraging you to get as close as you can get.

He makes a small sound, as if he wants to say something, and you part your mouth from his to hear him speak.

“Sure about this?” He checks in.

“You have to ask?” You tease, leaning in to kiss the spot right below his ear.

He groans, tilting his head to give you space.

“I like hearing you say it.” He explains.

You grin into his neck feeling the need to worsen his desire for you.

“Yeah, Billy?” You tease right at the base of his ear, your voice light and flirtatious, “You like hearing me beg? Telling you how badly I want you to bend me over the nearest thing, and fill me with your cock?”

You sigh, kissing his skin, feeling him tug at your hips until you’re sitting in his lap.

“Just thinking about you makes me so wet, I can’t stop thinking about how right you feel when you’re inside me.”

He makes a low sound of frustration, before he grips your ass, rising to a stand.

You gasp, hands wrapping around his shoulders in surprise, your legs doing the same to keep you steady.

You want to ask so many things, like where, and how, as he approaches the door, you wonder what’s the likelihood of him tumbling down the stairs with you in his arms.

He manages to keep you steady with one of his hands, using the other to bring your lips back to his.

“-See, this is what I mean,” You pull back to say to him mid-kiss, “There's no human way you can be holding all of my weight with one hand and going down stairs.”

He laughs.

“I was in the marines, sweetheart, I've carried heavier for longer.”

You groan, frustrated at his lack of admission, leaning in to kiss him more.

At the bottom of the stairs, you're surprised when he doesn't stop at his bed.

“Where're we going?” You ask softly, kissing at his neck and collarbones as he walks, rubbing your body against his happily, after a moment, you tug the shirt of his you were wearing off your body so that you can feel his skin.

“Pool.” He answers, “Been wanting to fuck you in there for a while.”

It makes you giggle, gazing your teeth against his skin, listening to him grunt in pleasure.

.

A soft cry of bliss leaves your mouth, your head tips back against his chest.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he hums, kissing your cheek, “Take me deep like a good girl.”

His words only make you whimper more.

Your hands grip the pool's edge, he's right behind you, one hand plucking at your nipple below the surface of the water, his other hand sliding over your stomach on its way down to most likely touch your clit.

The room is dark, with only the auxiliary lights on, a soft atmosphere all around you.

You say his name, a broken moan as he just keeps filling you, rocking himself deep, taking your thoughts away with each glide of his cock.

You shudder when his fingers finally touch your clit, gentle, almost featherlight, you move one hand from gripping the edge of the pool to delve it into his wet hair.

He breathes roughly against your cheek, tongue darting out to caress the shell of your ear.

“Do you want to come on my cock?” He asks sweetly, tormenting you.

You sigh, nodding vigorously.

“Words.” He scolds.

“Please- make me come.” You beg.

“Is that all you want?” He pushes.

You fight to find sanity enough to respond to him.

“N-no. Want- to feel you come in me too, I want, oh god, I want you.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

“Me?”

“Uh-huh, all of you, everything, please.”

He growls, his both hands move to grip your hips, fingers pressing into your soft flesh, telling you everything you need to know about what he's going to do.

“Hold on.” He says, but you're not really sure where he wants you to hold, and you don't really get a chance to think about it before he pulls you down on his cock while simultaneously pressing up into you. The result is a sensation so full it reaches up to your throat.

The groan that leaves you is uncontrollable, and then he does it again, and again, a small, delicious seed of aching when he fills you to the very brim, your cervix no doubt protesting his length. It's completely overshadowed by the pleasure, the way your body tingles from the tips of your ears to your toes, you shiver, his breathing and the sound of sloshing water in your ears, your shared sounds of pleasure fill the room.

You grip his hair, tugging at his wet strands, toes curling beneath the surface of the water.

It comes slowly, but violently, even the feeling of being on edge makes you mindless. Your body trembles as he keeps going, filling you immeasurably from the inside, promising that this would not be the only time you feel this way.

Your body tenses, clenching around him, your hand curls tighter into his hair, your eyelashes flutter.

A low sound leaves his chest, you can almost feel the vibration of it on your back, a pure, unrestrained sound of desire, downright animalistic in its undertone, pushing you over the edge.

Your body trembles as you feel your center clench tightly around him, your body shaking as your vision darkens, pleasure erupting in your head, spilling past your lips in mindless pants and whines.

You can feel his entire length with the way you squeeze him, and after a few moments, your orgasm triggers his, and his warm cum spills into you, deep, right against that primal spot inside of you that aches for it.

You try to move, to slip off of him, but his hands grip your hips tighter, keeping you in place. When you turn to him for an explanation, he simply pulls you into a slow kiss.

.

He tries to keep you still on his cock, despite your restlessness, his instinct to stay inside of you for a few minutes after he's come overrules his body. You're aching, he can tell, and if he were more predator than man, he would bite your neck to keep you still while his seed takes.

You're soft and sweet and unbelievably human, his kiss distracting you from moving too much while he continues to fill you, everything about him is fixed around you in these small moments.

It's a little easy to keep you distracted, that spaced out look in your eyes makes you more suggestive to his whims, and you go pliant, kissing him softly while he waits for his body to be okay outside of yours.

.

You were growing to learn the things Billy liked about sex, things that made him lose control, things that he always did. For one, he loved hearing you ask for it. You could feel his cock jump in response sometimes when you gave him your explicit consent. It wasn't something you'd encountered before- but there was not much about him you had ever experienced with other men. He was special, in so many ways. The second thing was his desire to stay inside of you each time he came. Each time he filled you up, he held you still on his cock for minutes after. It was strange, But definitely not unwelcome. You thoroughly enjoyed the way he would hold you still, always wanting to squirm a little bit just so he would use force to still you, or find a way to distract you from noticing he was still inside you.

As he kisses you now, you stumble over the thought of, what if it was a panther thing?

He'd denied being the panther, but the things you'd seen- you knew it had to be him.

You draw back, looking over your shoulder, into his eyes for a moment, smiling up at him as your noses brush. It had to be him, it made perfect sense, he'd been trying to protect you this whole time, maybe even from himself.

Your heart warms, something endearing fills you. He was probably afraid to show you who he was, maybe even afraid of your rejection of him.

You needed to show him, that you would never turn away.

Smiling deeper, you tilt your head up.

“You've got a lot of endurance. We've been going at it for a while.”

He hums.

“Tired?” He asks, “If you can't take anymore, just say the word and I'll stop.”

You grin, shaking your head.

“I'm just saying- people don't usually… go for as long as you do, based on common knowledge. It's almost, dare I say, supernatural.”

There's a short pause, before he lets out an amused laugh, the sound sending shivers through you, making you clench around his cock that was still buried deep inside of you.

“I'm very flattered, sweetheart, but I shouldn't get all the credit, you literally make me so hard I can barely think straight.”

“Really?” You say in amused disbelief.

“Course,” he hums, “The way you look at me, the way you act, the way you talk to me- literally drives me fucking insane, and your body- fuck I love your body so much.”

You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief that this was the way he was spinning this.

“You don't believe me?” He asks, misinterpreting your laugh, one hand raising from your hip to run over your stomach, he huffs, blunt nails scraping at your ribs below the water.

“You're so- fucking soft, sweetheart. All I can think about is how badly I want you.”

Your breath hitches turning to look at him.

He smiles down at you, before you feel him tug you gently off his cock. You gasp in surprise when he spins you, and lifts you effortlessly onto the pool’s edge.

“Spread your legs, I want to see my cum drip out of you.”

Your mouth parting in shock, You do what he says without thinking.

You watch him, as he watches you with rapt attention, you feel his cum begin to slowly slip out, you clench to stop it from happening, but it's a little too late.

His eyes darken as he looks between your legs, and then remains dark when he looks up to meet your eyes.

He approaches you slowly, hands pressed to either side of you, his arms flex deliciously as he pushes himself slowly out of the pool, until he's at eye level with you.

You inch backwards, giving him space to climb out, his eyes are so dark, and predatory, fixed on you.

“Alexa,” he says out of nowhere, “moderate rain, please.”

Your mouth drops open as rain begins pattering over your naked skin.

He studies you, inching closer, grinning when he finally towers over you, water cascading down his skin in haphazard rivulets.

“If you let me,” he hums lowly, “I would fuck you on every inch of this house without break, just to feel the way you squeeze my cock when you come all over me.”

With shaky breath, you can only find one word.

“Please.”

.

He'll never get enough. He knows it for sure now. He kisses gently at the soft curve of your thigh while you sleep, your sweet body exhausted from how many times and how many positions he'd made you come in. He reaches up to your hips, eyebrows furrowing in concern as he notes the beginning of a light bruise from him gripping you tightly. He makes a note to get you some ice for it later. He smiles as he rubs his cheek to the soft of your stomach, his own back littered with scratches from your nails, body still swimming in pleasure.

He rises, giving a satisfying stretch, wanting to continue kissing you, but knowing you'll wake up soon and be very hungry. He places one final kiss to your forehead, before tugging on some clothes to start preparing an early dinner.

He's calmly freaking out about the fact that you know he's the predator now, he knows his act of denial isn't fooling you, he's not sure how you came to discover his secret, or how far you plan to push him in your efforts to discover the truth.

He knows that if he really wanted to, he could deny it vehemently, call you crazy, gaslight you into thinking that you'd made it all up- but that would make you hate him, and Billy couldn't bear the thought.

He couldn't come clean either- the more you knew- the more likely it was that you could get hurt.

His best option would be to avoid the topic altogether, switch directions any time you brought it up. He knew though, the first sign of you pulling away from him because of his avoidance would make him crumble.

It would kill him to hurt you.

.

When you wake an hour later, you grab the first thing you can find- a washed out t-shirt of his- slipping it on with a lazy yawn.

You grin when you remember the last 24 hours, the way you went at each other until you were nothing more than sated and exhausted bodies.

You can hear him in the kitchen, moving around, the smell of something delicious and garlic infused wafting through his apartment.

When you catch sight of him, you can't help the smile that pulls onto your face. In an old shirt, similar to the one you were wearing and a pair of sweatpants, he turns when he hears you approach.

“Good evening, sweetheart. How was your nap?”

You hum, smiling.

“Soo good.” You breathe, reaching out to slip an arm around his body, tilting your head and rising onto your toes for a kiss.

He obliges, soft and warm, he presses his lips to yours easily, laughing into your mouth when you don't seem to want to let go.

“What're you making?” You ask, between kisses.

“Honey glazed salmon.” He answers into your mouth.

You hum.

“Excellent meal for cats.” You tease.

There's a small pause before he lets out a low laugh, smacking the cheek of your ass gently in warning.

“Only the best for my favourite pussy.” He jabs back.

You try to ignore the pleasure that goes through your body as he spanks you. It's too gentle to give you a big reaction… but the idea of it…. the possibilities make you shiver.

You can't squash the smile on your face, the happiness you feel as you lean against him, it's the best feeling in the world, to be with him, there’s nothing that compares to it, like everything has been to get you here, beside him.

He says something, and you smile up at him, turning your head to watch him flip the salmon.

.

You're lying down, looking up at the sky. The trees surround your field of view, swaying in the breeze.

You let out a slow breath, relaxed, you turn your head to see that you're lying in a field filled with flowers.

“There you are,” a voice comes from somewhere in the distance, you turn your head the other way to see him slowly approaching. When he gets to the spot you're in, he takes his time sitting beside you.

“I've been looking for you everywhere.”

You wait patiently for him to look over at you. His eyes are dark, nervous, you feel the need to soothe him, dressed in a white shirt tucked into his pants, you notice there are no shoes on either of your feet.

“You found me.” You answer.

He blinks, some of the worry leaves him as he gives you a lazy smile.

“I did.”

He leans over you, a kiss to your cheek, one beside your ear.

“Now I have to figure out how to keep you.” He whispers, and your breath hitches, a slow burn working its way down your body.

“Keep me?” You ask softly, turning to meet his gaze, “Am I worth it?”

He blinks, A look of confusion spreads across his face for the smallest of seconds before he's smiling again.

He leans in, kissing your cheek, your neck, trailing a path over your shoulder. You find yourself tilting your head, allowing him the space to continue.

He pauses, right at the juncture between your neck and shoulders, hesitating before he speaks.

“Nothing on earth could stand against how badly I want you. From the second I found out you were real, I have been bleeding for you. It’s me, who can't hope to be worthy of you.”

You sigh, running your hands through his hair, admiring the way it feels catching on your fingers.

“Do you have a plan then? I know your secret. Would you lose me to keep it?”

He raises his head, meets your eyes, you bring your hand down to cup his jaw, lost in the haziness of the dream.

“I know your secret,” You emphasize, “I saw your teeth with my own eyes, you can’t hide from me, you can only lie.”

He blinks, parts his lips to speak.

You jerk awake when your phone makes a loud alarming sound.

He wakes at the same time you do, his body warm against yours, you reach for your phone as the notification continues to sound.

Your eyes hurt, forcing yourself to look at the screen, to read the words and try to figure out exactly why you’d gotten this alarm.

You grunt angrily, tossing the sheets back and stumbling out of bed.

“You have a security breach.” You grumble, leaving him in search of your laptop.

It’s hard to focus but you force yourself to, settling at his kitchen counter, opening your laptop and logging into the VPN that gives you access to his server.

You keep trying to wake yourself up as you log into the base software of his system, waiting patiently to see what’s going on.

Billy stands on the other side of the counter, looking a little concerned from his place across from you.

“They’re in the system. I can see the files they’ve accessed.” You mumble sleepily, “They’re downloading Project Medusa.” You glance up at him over the screen of your computer, watching as he reaches for his phone.

“Wait,” You call out to him, distracted by your computer, “Don’t call anyone yet, I’m going to trojan horse them.”

You embed malware into the folder as it’s being saved, turning your head to watch him come around to your side, looking into your computer screen, trying to see what you see.

“Medusa is a recon mission we set up for the government. We’re providing security at events they infiltrate in case things go south as an added layer of protection.”

“Why Medusa?”

He gives a little shake of his head.

“Case names are random, we’re not going to name them something that gives away the mission.”

“Then you have a leak.” You murmur, “They know what they were searching for.”

As you watch closely, you grunt in displeasure as you see the hackers attempt to download all the cases they can see, probably as an afterthought to sell the information to the highest bidder. The files they think they download are empty, you set it up that way for this exact reason, so no one person has access to everything.

“What’s happening?” He asks, and you can hear the worry in his voice. You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart tugging at the look on his face.

“Call someone you trust, tell them to do a sweep of Anvil. I can’t do anything about the information they got, but I can find them now once they open the file. If you have anyone on the field right now on this case, find a way to get them to withdraw without giving away that we know.”

He studies you for a long moment, you glance back at your computer warily, assuming that he doesn't trust what you're saying.

“I don't have time to explain, you just have to trust me. I'll have their location in a minute.”

You see him nod in his peripherals, turning away to type a number into his phone.

When the hacker opens up your file, you grin, snapping a photo of the location with your phone and sliding it across for Billy to see. You press a finger to your lips, a sign to keep whatever he'd planned to do as subtle as possible.

You get access to their system without them knowing, and you take your time, searching through bits for anything important. The system is clean though, a burner system that only has the essentials, but you have their general address, and you use that knowledge to hack something basic.

“I'm in his smartfridge.” You say, accessing the microphone built in and pulling up the audio for him to hear.

It's a little garbled at first, Billy moves to stand over your shoulder, leaning in while you activate background noise suppression to get cleaner audio.

You feel warm, almost sweaty with the level of concentration you've had to put out, heart pounding in your chest as you listen.

“-Other files are empty, she's smarter than I thought…”

You turn your head so that Billy can see you roll your eyes dramatically.

He huffs in amusement.

“-Are the agents listed there?” A deeper voice speaks.

You glance up at Billy, wondering the same question.

“They're coded,” he says, “The case handler is the only one that knows it, but it's related to their badge numbers.”

You assume if they know the code then the handler has been compromised.

“-I've got numbers, no names.”

“-No pictures either?”

It's Billy’s turn to roll his eyes.

You laugh.

“-At least we know when this is going down, and we know which Anvil guys are involved. We can set a trap.”

The other voice agrees.

“We're not going to get anything else, I think.” You murmur out loud.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Is there a way for you to kill their systems? You mentioned it a while back, have you got it running?”

You give him a sharp grin, sharing a look of complete understanding.

You isolate the computer first, overclocking everything you can while slowing the rpm of the laptop’s fans so that the system overheats with almost no cooling.

“-Do you smell that?” One voice says, right before there's a small popping sound, followed by aggressive swearing.

You make an evil chuckle, right before corrupting everything else connected to the network. A software reload would technically fix it, but it would take time and effort to get everything working again. Your connection is interrupted, your screen going blank as there's no more information to display.

You lean back, taking in what you've just done.

“Anyone ever tell you that you're kind of hot when you’re causing trouble?” Billy asks.

“Kind of?” You say with mock surprise.

He laughs deeply, turning your body to face his so that he can lift you off your chair. You gasp, gripping his shoulders for leverage.

“Very.” He corrects, pulling you in for a kiss that makes your toes curl.

You gasp, lips parting for a moment, looking into his eyes, trying to read the emotions running through his head.

You hesitate, wondering if you should explain more about the events that just happened, worrying that he might blame you for not building a secure enough system.

“We should-”

He stops you with a shake of his head.

Hand cupping your cheek delicately, feeling him take a slow step.

“We’ll talk about it later. Right now, you need to be rewarded.”

“Huh?”

He smiles, eyes on your lips as he moves with you in his arms effortlessly.

“You're such a good employee, sweetheart, you deserve a reward for a job well done.”

Desire tugs low in your stomach at his words. You look up at him curiously as he sets you down on his couch, a mysterious look of delight on his face.

“Take your clothes off. I want to see you.”

Fuck, you were almost dripping with the way he spoke to you, eagerly ripping off your shirt and shorts, looking up at him as your body is exposed to the cool air.

He hums, tilting his head as he looks at you.

“A very good girl, always going above and beyond to make me happy.”

God, this was turning you on more than you'd care to admit.

“Get comfortable, sweetheart, open those legs for me.”

Fuck fuck fuck, you shakily spread your knees, exposing your wet cunt to him, swallowing the desire you have in hopes that it stops you from begging.

You watch a smile pull onto his face, locked in deep appreciation, he sinks to his knees in front of you, eyes on your cunt.

“Very pretty,” he murmurs, raising a hand to calmly pet at your thigh, after a moment, he inches up until this thumb is pressed lightly to your clit.

You gasp, body eagerly melting under his touch.

“I know I'm not supposed to have favourite workers, but honestly baby, I can't deny it, you're very special to me.”

Your lips part, head hazy with pure want, you watch him take a deep breath, eyes rolling shut as he makes a deep, raw sound of appreciation from his chest.

It makes you breathe faster, the way the sound rumbles over you, making you clench.

“You're such a good girl.” He growls, before tugging your hips into his mouth.

You tremble when his lips press against you, reaching down, your fingers tangle into his hair almost immediately, back arching up, head pressing deeper into the soft velvet cushions.

He moans against you and you can feel the soft vibration on your clit.

“I'm breaking so many HR rules.” He says into your pussy and you don't know whether to laugh or pull his head back to your cunt.

You cant your hips up against his mouth, sighing happily when his tongue finally swirls over your bud.

He does something new, using the very tip of his tongue around your bud instead of directly on it, making your body burn with the superposition of pleasure.

“Oh, God, Please.” You whine desperately, squeezing your eyes shut automatically as you beg.

You feel him pause and you open your mouth to beg again before he interrupts you.

“That's not very professional, now is it, sweetheart?”

You raise your head, opening your eyes to look down at him quizzically.

“What?” You ask.

He gives you a small smile.

“You need to look at me when I'm rewarding you.”

Your mouth drops open.

You're unable to speak for a moment before catching hold of your thoughts.

“Yes… sir.”

His eyes darken, you can almost feel the energy shift in the room to something so much more heady and seductive.

He presses his face in, no longer going gently, using his tongue with purpose, gliding it over your clit easily. Your breath catches in your throat, pleasure exploding under your skin like a fire that just keeps spreading. Your body tingles, relaxes, tenses, trembles and through all of it he keeps his tongue exactly where you need it.

It's kind of embarrassing, how fast he works you up, but you're not surprised, because it's him, and he's unbelievably good at making you come.

You moan his name loudly, and he makes a sound at the back of his throat in response.

“Already there, sweetheart? You really are a good girl, hmm?”

You pant, nodding eagerly, whining when his mouth meets your wet cunt once more.

You keep your eyes on him, watches as he reaches up to gently rub his fingers against your bare nipple.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, head dropping back and he lets you without complaint, writhing on his tongue as the pleasure builds and builds until your body is begging for release.

Breathing shallow, body trembling, you can't suppress the cry you let out when you finally tip over that edge, body stiffening for a moment before moving from trembles to sharp jerks as bliss overtakes every muscle in your body.

You squeeze your eyes shut, focused on your breathing, feeling the air move in and out of you as hypersensitivity takes over.

You feel him move, lifting himself from between your thighs that had been clamped momentarily around his ears when your orgasm had hit, but were relaxed for the most part now.

He presses his hand to your cheek, smoothing away some of the hairs sticking to your face, while he studies you, his bearded chin glistening with your arousal.

You sigh, reaching nearby for your discarded shirt, offering it to him to clean himself up.

He gives you a gentle smile, accepting the shirt, wiping his face with it, before using it to clean you up as well.

When he's done, he picks you up, cradling you close as he begins walking to the bedroom you assume.

You yawn against his neck, enjoying the smell of him as it lulls you.

You're pretty sure you fall asleep before you even reach his bed.

.

.

.

[divineprank]

❝ i hate you , not for what you are ❞ a pause , with the type of anger only heard through clenched teeth. ❝ but for what you had the gods make me be. ❞ ( hello!!! :> )

"Then your hatred is misplaced, boy."

The words spill low and rough from Ganondorf's throat, like the rumble of distant thunder. His eyes do not blaze with anger towards the hero, but with something heavier, something much harder to put a name to. "I understand it, of course — it is easy to hate me. Easier still to blame me. I am the shadow the gods cast over your life, the wound they refuse to heal."

"But know this," he breathes while lowering his head and squaring his shoulders in a grave motion. "I, too, was shaped by their carelessness."

"If you must burn with such a rage, then I suggest you do not waste your fire on me. Turn it towards the so-called divinity that left us to rot within this broken design of their making."

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 6 "Hungry, all the Years"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

A/N: I've always wanted to yell fuck you at the Bene Gesserit, so here's to my own dream🥰 Also, me, who's been in awkward long distance relationships throughout all her teenage years: "Aahh, I knew this knowledge would come in handy someday! 🥹"

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

Wallach IX, one week later

"Kneel."

"Excuse me?" Incredulously, the relic stares into the Reverend Mother's eyes.

The anticipation of this day has left her sick to her stomach, her mind hysterical since she was made aware that Feyd remembers her and wants her. By noon, she will be on a heighliner. (A  heighliner! She remembers Feyd's inquiry from their last dream.) And after two days of travel, she will be with him. For the first time ever, she will be truly with him, kiss his sweet lips and be held by him and bawl her eyes out.

This is not how she imagined the hours before her indefinite departure. The reverend mother sits unmoving like a pillar of obsidian in a slant of sunlight, her face hidden beneath black mesh.

"Kneel. This is your final test."

"I'm not part of this order anymore, I won't partake in any tests."

"That is not up for you to decide."

"I will not kneel."

"Do as I say!"

Without a power of will, she falls on her knees, ears ringing, jaws slackening. No hatred has ever burned colder than the rancor she holds in the pit of her stomach right now. From the corner of her eye, she perceives a flash of metal slipping from the reverend mother's robes.

"I hold at your neck the Gom Jabbar. A poisoned needle. The slightest prick, and you will die."

The wayward woman holds the violence of a lifetime on war-riddled Old Earth in her eyes when she inhales, the rise of her shoulders bringing her neck dangerously close to the poison tip.

"Why?"

"That needn't interest you." She has not been and will not be informed about the breeding program, or else, they fear, she might abandon her precious Feyd-Rautha rather quickly. Their union must be under the dangerous premise of love. And yet, the test must be conducted. Most likely it will even make her desire Feyd-Rautha more and let Giedi Prime be more bearable. That and the fact that the sisterhood has purposely been withholding the yearning transmissions from the na-Baron. The relic is ready to do just about anything to get to the man of her delusions.

"Put your right hand in the box. If you pull it out, you die."

"What's in there?" She grates out, peering into the black maw of the unremarkable metal box.

"Pain," Mohiam replies monotonously, having grown almost bored of the ever same test throughout the decades. Of course, the woman will pass. Patiently, the Reverend Mother waits for her to relent, because of course she will. It is a tiresome game. The needle at her neck remains unwavering. 

She is thinking, of course, she could risk death out of spite, but she refuses to die before taking Feyd in her arms. So, she places her hand in the box and earns her place on the chess board as a fully carved figurine.

The box is empty. She moves her fingers around and is soon plagued by a phantom sting which swiftly develops into pricking needles. She lets out a grunt and the sensation becomes a slow cutting, like knives probing into her palms and fingers. Her face twitches, brows furrowing, sweat beading on her upper lip as her body goes rigid, fighting against the urge to pull back. A thousand knives now cut into her palm, ravaging the soft flesh and tearing it to shreds. She screams.

"Quiet."

"Fuck you!" She spits, having already concluded that not the box causes the pain, but an unspoken presence of the Reverend Mother's voice does, explicitly addressing her pain receptors in an increasing onslaught. To know that nothing is in the box doesn't make the pain any less real, nor the nauseating truth that she is being tortured at the whim of a person.

So, she sobs like an animal while enduring the cruel test, scorched, flesh-stripped fingers quivering against the cool metal. She will live to hold Feyd in her arms and she will live to burn down this universe with its thinly veiled slavery and misogyny. On Earth, at least everyone had been equally miserable.

The Reverend Mother conceals her dislike of the unpleasant sounds under her veil, noting how petty it is of the woman to torture her ears in revenge. She is a clever thing.

"You may remove your hand."

She does at an instant, hurtling backwards and standing tall, nostrils flaring as she regards the seated reverend mother. The neurobiologists from Magellan II would have had the time of their lives, dissecting the old woman's brain to decipher the voice. To imagine Mohiam without her ominous headgear on a dissecting table brings the relic an indecent burst of glee through her tormented nerves.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" She spits.

"Not at all. I'd prefer if you used your voice in a different, more useful way. But at least now we know that you are human." The reverend mother pats the box once.

"Oh." She speaks with pure disdain. "A generous conclusion."

"And you may board the heighliner to Giedi Prime. Feyd-Rautha will await you." 

"Yes, I will. And yes, he will!" To think that she's had more agency in a dream than in this new world is revolting.

"Pack your things."

"I want my necklace and I want my Sarcophagus. Don't you even think about denying me that wish," she bristles. "I am a human and I've been one even before your inhuman test. These things are of sentimental value and they belong to me. Give them to me!"

"This attitude won't get you far on Giedi Prime," Mohiam drones monotonously, hands folded in her lap with annoying calmness. Under other circumstances, she would have never let a pupil of hers enter a battlefield as harsh as Giedi Prime so unprepared, but if one can believe the fierce messages from Feyd-Rautha to Wallach IX, she will be protected enough.

"I'm human," the relic rages on. "But you and your pseudo-religious cult, you are not human. You are even worse."

Everything will be better once she is on Giedi Prime.

Giedi Prime, Day 1

For the past few days, Feyd has done nothing but counting down the seconds to this precise moment. But as soon as the shuttle from the heighliner comes sweeping down through the blanket of clouds, hammering anxiety punches against his insides so hard, he feels sick to his stomach. His pulse races against the high neck of his uniform and dizziness forces him to fight for every breath.

He has been walking through a nightmare for two years and the past week has been the awakening. Like a sleeper aware of his own dream, he had screamed, kicked, killed to free himself from the shackles of his nightmare.

When he first heard the rumors, he had cried for three hours in the solitude of his quarters, then plunged his blade into his own thigh to snap himself out of it. There had been real fear in his uncle's eyes when Feyd confronted him, declaring that the relic is his and he will kill every servant, every guard, until he has her, and himself if he cannot have her.

Luckily, the Baron and the Bene Gesserit have been unexpectedly forthcoming.

So, after waking up, here comes reality. Sweet and frightening and lurid.

Feyd's heart clamors so loudly, he thinks he's going to die.

Wind whips around the landing pad and through his clothes when the shuttle touches down 200 meters away and hot exhaust gasses are released from the valves with a hiss. He almost jumps but forces his posture into a rigid lock, feet set shoulder-width apart.

The ramp drops with a mechanical buzzing and Feyd's stomach drops with it. Suddenly, he viscerally wishes he had more time and could prolong the anticipation, the preparation, the hiding. He hasn't prepared himself at all for her arrival, he now realizes, hasn't even considered what to say, how to greet her in front of three battalions of soldiers and generals. What will she think of him when she sees him for the first time in the flesh? Will she be disappoin- Oh God, there she is. 

That must be her. Is that her? It's her!

After half a dozen staff, a figure  exits the ship, clutching her little coffer so tightly in front of her hips, like it's the only thing of identity she has in the entire universe. 

As she slowly walks, her gaze swivels across the mass of bald heads, identical like an army of clones, unmoving, devoid of color and every sense of individuality. She jumps fiercely when the black and white mass suddenly bellows and a thousand pairs of arms fly up, hands clutched over bald heads.

Seeing the troops (all men) lined up in formation, saluting fiercely, a glacial shiver rolls down her spine, reminding her viciously of one of the darkest chapters of Earth. 

She swallows her fear. The first impression isn't that important. This world will have its good sides and Feyd will show them to her. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. She believes now that he could have rescued her off every planet in this world.

Yearningly, her gaze bounces from head to head. She had thought she would recognize him immediately and is terribly ashamed when she doesn't. At least, her frantic overwhelm distracts her from the roiling of her stomach. She thought she was going to throw up from anxiety on the shuttle, and she would have, had they not ushered her down the ramp immediately after landing. 

Cool metal brushes comfortingly against the space between her breasts. Around her neck she wears a slender cord of silver links with a slim cuboid for a pendant, about the size of the first phalanx of a thumb.

She is being led down a corridor of saluting men, all grim faces, and wind whips around the long gown she was advised to wear. If only she had decided  to wear something she feels more confident in. She's meticulously prepared what to say to him for the past days, arranging every word in her head to perfection, but now she can't remember a single word of Galach for the life of her– There he is! 

There he is. There he is. There he is!

At the end of the corridor stands Feyd-Rautha in formal military livery, blocky shapes hiding all the softness of his body, only his face betrays him, full lips exactly how she remembers them, soft cheeks dented by the hollow below his cheek bones, gently curved jaws and blue eyes hidden beneath the shadows cast by thick brow bones. He looks like a frightened animal to her, throat bobbing repeatedly with dry swallows.

The deafening roar of salutes dies down to a distant buzzing as she walks through a tunnel towards him, steps quickening, vision blurring. She tries to smile and her cheeks feel awkward doing it, she doesn't know where to look. Feyd doesn't smile back, but his head tilts backwards, jaws flexing as if he's holding back either tears or words.

She cannot hug him in front of all the generals, Feyd thinks. I will break down if she does.

Without thinking, she runs the final meters and hugs him in front of all the generals, arms wrapping around his neck and shoulders, sobbing into the collar of his suit. "Hello." Her accent is thick and lovely.

"Hello."

Feyd knew he would break down. His chin quivers uncontrollably, jaws so tight that he thinks the tendons in his neck might snap any second. He exhales a harsh breath, arms wrapping around her waist, leeching the warmth of her body that sinks through the layers of dress and suit.

Feyd holds her, holds her so tight and her flesh, skin and bones are actually real, her beating heart is real, her soft voice is real. She is real.

"You're here," he whispers almost inaudibly into her ear, face lowered to press against the side of her head, chin hidden in her shoulder.

She cries like she's not ashamed of crying, nodding fiercely, and each nod is an apology and a promise to never leave him again.

Feyd wants to tell her how much he's missed her, how much his soul has craved hers every waking and sleeping hour of every day, how he's been split apart and nothing in the world could soothe him. But he cannot, not now, because they are not dreaming and he is Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.

"Not now-" he pleads and tries to stop her when her face slips in front of his, her cheeks painted with glittering tears, but her mouth is on his before he can finish, kissing him with salt-wet lips, hands clinging to the nape of his neck.

Of course, he kisses her back. Luckily, his longing is so all-consuming that he kisses her like he wants to crawl into her flesh, so he will never be alone again. With both hands splayed across her cheeks and ears, claiming his woman, none of his people will perceive him as weak.

The soldiers and generals don't know the pair's story, but they salute for their na-Baron, because they know the relic from Old Earth is now property of House Harkonnen.

In a world devoid of color, she would have expected the interior to be vibrant and bright to make up for the lack of it under the sun, but every hallway they have traversed has been even bleaker than the outside, like being swallowed by the underworld, if the underworld was made of concrete and plastic.

The throne room is no different. Curved pillars curl up to the tall ceiling, black within black illuminated by bluish glow provided by floating lights (glowglobes!) Feyd and her and a small entourage of guards and servants are gathered here and she stands in the very front, having refused to let go of her coffer when a servant had demurely offered their hand. She hopes her Sarcophagus is being handled with care.

Feyd is one step behind her and from her peripheral vision, she sees him rigid as a board.

Like instructed, she bows before the Baron Harkonnen, determined not to show any judgment for his harrowing appearance, like gluttony personified with sly, glittering eyes nearly hidden behind folds of fat.

"The relic from Old Earth…" The Baron rumbles and she sees that as her signal to straighten herself.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says and Feyd's jaw twitches.

"A pleasure?" The Baron chuckles. "Old earth must have been terrible then."

What is she supposed to say to that? Sweaty palms clutch the handle of her coffer and her gaze is momentarily drawn to a movement in the corner of the room behind the Baron's floating chair.

Nebulous eyes blink at her from the shadows, hidden in darkness, but she can tell it is a thing with too many legs. (Or are they arms?) Eight of them, and they unfurl grotesquely, glossy skin shimmering like jet black rubber. The pair of white eyes seems to be looking directly at her and this thing will haunt her nightmares, although it appears almost tame next to the faceless legions that had welcomed her at the landing pad.

The Baron speaks again, forcing her attention back to him. "I've only allowed this union because my dear Feyd has been in such a somber mood as of late, he has been such unpleasant company."

The thing in the back stirs and wildly scuttles and she realizes they're not arms or legs, they are arm-legs with hand-feet attached to them. Feyd inhales sharply behind her, just loud enough for her to hear. The arachnid creature halts and blinks and then decides to abandon its advance and return to the shadows.

"I understand," she says, determined to hide the fact that she doesn't.

The Baron takes a slow drag from his hookah and reclines, looking at her like she is nothing more than a pesky, necessary evil.

Feyd walks at the side of his woman, feeling lighter the further they get away from the Baron, though his breathing is still that of an animal in distress. He walks stiffly (actually, he prowls), overseeing the entire entourage. His right hand hovers over the blade he carries at the hip under his suit jacket, ready to slay anyone who dares to come near her.

Something terrible has been irking him but he refuses to think about it.

Meanwhile his woman's eyes are all over the bulky, coffin shaped container that is being carried to her new chambers by ten servants, following every step with anxious concentration. She wants to jump forward and help carry it, if only to place a protective hand on her sarcophagus, but she remains at Feyd's side, intimidated by the ten men who kindly do her heavy lifting.

"This is my wing," Feyd quietly explains as they step out of the third elevator. They must be quite at the top of the pyramid shaped building by now. She nods, quite relieved that she will be living close to Feyd. "My suite is right next door."

The corridor is black and austere, walls made of  bulky, thick plastic panels, intersected every now and then by slender windows that give way to the view of grey citiscape and factories as far as the eye can see. 'It's not that different from home', she tries to keep the creeping, crawling dread at bay.

The ten helpers turn into a room which opens to Feyd's hand tapping a panel on the wall.

"Over there, right in the sun is perfect, please. Thank you! Oh- Careful please!" 

With a loud clang the cryo pod is set on the ground in a patch of color-stealing sunlight that slants through the window. The helpers say nothing, merely salute and scurry away in a tight line when Feyd jerks his head. "Thank you!" She calls after them again.

That is one less worry. Exhaling loudly, she sits down right on top of the sarcophagus, unbothered for now by the monochromatic light. Under the confines of her gown, she has been shaking the entire time. The door whirrs shut and they are alone. Finally alone. Feyd stands in front of her, hands clutched in front of his pelvis.

"You don't need to say thank you to the slaves."

"The…? Oh." The corners of her mouth twitch downwards and she draws up her shoulders, pulling her little coffer in her lap.

What a horrible place to be. The only women she has seen so far haven't even looked at her, standing behind the Baron with their faces turned to the ground.

What a horrible place to be a woman.

"Do you know who that man was, in the audience chamber?" Feyd cannot keep himself from asking any longer. She saw his uncle. Knows what he did to him. Somehow, his own shame weighs a millionfold now and Feyd wants to crawl out of his own skin, so she won't have to touch the same body his uncle has touched.

Her attention snaps back to Feyd. "What?" She is briefly perplexed. "You mean… The Baron?"

"Yes. You know that's my uncle I've told you about, right? My uncle is the Baron."

She sits dumbstruck on her cryo pod, frozen before heat fills her face and bile gathers in her throat. She has never been so ashamed in her entire life.

"Oh shit, I-, I assumed the Baron is your father, because of the last name." Feyd had never mentioned his uncle's rank, nor had the Bene Gesserit deemed it necessary to inform her about their family relations. And why would they, assuming the relic is well-informed about the man from her dreams. "I'm so sorry, oh God- Feyd…"

Feyd is so stupidly relieved, he could cry. Looking to the side, he blinks the tears away, fighting the urge to sink his blade into his own flesh to stop the onslaught on his eyes.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry," she mumbles again and abandons her coffer and sarcophagus to wrap her arms around Feyd's middle without thinking about it too long. "Please forgive me."

Perhaps the reverend mother was right. Perhaps she is of lesser intelligence for favoring science over politics. After learning that her Feyd lives now, she had meant to study House Harkonnen until her departure, but had gotten lost in the physics of the three-dimensional incarnation of the Holtzman Effect which allows to fold space at the quantum level and enables faster-than-light travel with the aid of human computers.

Feyd's arms curl tightly around her back, nose buried in her shoulder, pressing her against his earthly prison so she can deliver him from evil.. How stupid he was to bring her here into the devil's den, where she is the easiest target one could possibly make.

"Nothing to forgive…" He wants to call her his darling, his beloved, and even more importantly finally verbally declare his love for her that's been like a wild, scared animal sitting in a cage all the years, but a heavy shyness ties his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Without the protection of the cage, what if this animal will be slain? What if it will slay itself?

I had been hungry, all the Years – My Noon had Come – to dine – I trembling drew the Table near – And touched the Curious Wine … - I had been hungry, all the Years by Emily Dickinson, 1891

A/N: Feyd: I've literally never had a loving interaction irl in my entire life and I'm terrified, but this is my woman🥺

FMC: I'm literally on a black and white planet full of space Nazis, my man is one of them and I'm terrified, but this is my man🥺

TAG LIST: @welliah, @nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @charmingballoon, @sebastianswallows, @minedofmoria, @flower-frog (I'm so sowwy, the tags are broken and I don't know how to fix them ;-;)

Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

[marwyn]

She was a young filly, spirited and splendid. Dany knew just enough about horses to know that this was no ordinary animal. There was something about her that took the breath away. She was grey as the winter sea, with a mane like silver smoke.

(AGOT, Daenerys II)

[…] the beautiful Rhiannon, whose magical white horse is impossible to catch.

Rhiannon, daughter of Hyfaidd Hen: her name derives from that of the Celtic goddess Rigantona (‘the Great, or Divine, Queen’). Rhiannon possesses magical qualities, and is closely associated with horses, leading scholars to associate her with the Celtic horse-goddess Epona[.]

(Introduction and notes to The Mabinogion by Sioned Davies)

Heed my words, my queen. The House of the Undying Ones was not made for mortal men.

(ACOK, Daenerys IV)

Rhiannon is no mere figure of Fairy folk-lore, but the survival of an immemorial myth in which she was the Great Mother who became identified with the Great Horse Goddess, Epona.

(Rhiannon: An Inquiry into the Origins of the First and Third Branches of the Mabinogi by W. J. Gruffydd)

Dany looked at Missandei. “What are they shouting?” “It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother.’” Dany felt a lightness in her chest. I will never bear a living child, she remembered. Her hand trembled as she raised it. Perhaps she smiled. She must have, because the man grinned and shouted again, and others took up the cry. “Mhysa!” they called. “Mhysa! MHYSA!” They were all smiling at her, reaching for her, kneeling before her. “Maela,” some called her, while others cried “Aelalla” or “Qathei” or “Tato,” but whatever the tongue it all meant the same thing. Mother. They are calling me Mother. The chant grew, spread, swelled. It swelled so loud that it frightened her horse, and the mare backed and shook her head and lashed her silver-grey tail. […] She laughed, put her heels into her horse, and rode to them, the bells in her hair ringing sweet victory. She trotted, then cantered, then broke into a gallop, her braid streaming behind. The freed slaves parted before her. “Mother,” they called from a hundred throats, a thousand, ten thousand. “Mother,” they sang, their fingers brushing her legs as she flew by. “Mother, Mother, Mother!”

(ASOS, Daenerys IV)

[scent73]

REAL FAGGOT FOR IRL USE AND ABUSE

I am a depraved and disgusting faggot. I exist to serve men—don’t care about your race, age, weight, appearance, endowment, or status. I seek use and abuse IRL.

I have few limits: No children, no animals, no drugs, no blood. and no scars. I am not looking for a master, but will gladly serve them and ALL other men.

Serious men seeking to use and abuse a faggot IRL should message me.

Why am I depraved and disgusting? Because there is VERY LITTLE I WON’T DO.

I am a cumdump and accept ALL raw loads in ANY hole. My cunt accepts cum, piss, and spit. Used condoms and frozen cum make fine lube, but fresh cum is the best.

My throat was made to be fucked too. Rough, merciless throat pounding is what my mouth is here for. Stuff it with your cock, your fingers, your feet.

Or shove your dirty, sweaty, stinking socks, jocks, and underwear down it to gag me. Make me lick your dirty sneakers and feet clean.

My mouth is a urinal and toilet. It is a sewer for your piss, spit, and shit. Piss down my throat.

Take a shit in my mouth. Smother my face in your dirty ass and make me lick it clean. Have me kneel as you take a shit on the toilet—sucking your cock as your stink fills the bowl—and then use my tongue as your toilet paper.

Fart in my mouth as I eat your hole.

Force me to clean the bathroom floor and your toilet with my tongue. Drag me to a public restroom—nastier the better and reeking of piss and shit—and laugh at my humiliation as I lick clean the toilets, and spit on me as I drink the stale piss from the urinals.

Force me to drink sock tea—soaking your nastiest socks in your piss, steeping them until every last particle of dirt, sweat, cum is mingled with your piss—and then watch as I drink every last drop.

Lock my useless fag dick in chastity. Screw in a urethral plug or catheter. Kick, slap or punch my balls and trample on my nuts. Crush my locked nub with boot. Torture my cock, balls and ass. Delight in my pain and agony, and feel disgust at how I beg you for more.

Restrain me as you slide a urethral sound down my piss slit and attach electrodes to my balls so you can send surges of electricity through my body.

Slap me and punch me in the gut. Whip me like the worthless faggot I am.

Use me as your slave, as an object. Make me clean your home, do your laundry, serve you meals and beverages, wait on you hand and foot. Enjoy yourself as I massage your body. Use me as a footstool.

Make me eat and drink of the floor. Whore me out to your friends and strangers. Humiliate and ridicule me.

I have few limits. No children, no animals, no drugs, no blood. and no scars. I am not looking for a master, but will gladly serve them. I am a slut and a faggot. I exist to serve all men.

Serious inquiries should message me.

[nerdydaydreamer]

Chapter 24: Of Dreams and Deliverance

MASTERLIST

Summary: Plucked from her mundane life and thrust into a glass prison alongside the captured King of Dreams, Nora becomes an unlikely confidante and defiant voice in his silent torment. As a century blurs into freedom, she discovers her own impossible existence is inextricably linked to Morpheus himself, compelling them to face future challenges and rebuild his shattered realm, together.

Previous Chapter

~From Void to Vow~

The ominous creak of the dark archway door dragged on, a tortured groan of old iron and protesting wood that seemed to stretch the very fabric of Hell’s perpetual twilight. Footsteps, loud and heavy, crunched on the obsidian floor, echoing through the vast atrium, and then they appeared. The same two hulking demons, their skin like cracked earth and eyes like embers, emerged from the oppressive blackness, dragging Nora back into the flickering crimson light of the fire pit.

She was barely on her own two feet, her worn shoes slipping precariously on the polished surface, as if her legs had forgotten the very concept of solid ground. Her head was bowed, a curtain of hair obscuring her face, and her arms hung limp and lifeless beside her, devoid of any tension or will. She looked utterly, frightfully empty – a vessel drained of its spirit, her essence diffused into the suffocating silence of the Garden of Perpetual Silence.

In the span of a single, agonizing heartbeat, Morpheus was there. He moved with a speed that defied his long imprisonment, a dark blur against the gleaming floor. Just as the demons, with a grunt of release, let go of her arms, he caught her, his pale hands firm and steady against her wavering form. He gently lowered her to be kneeling on the ground in front of him, his recently reclaimed helm, a symbol of his restored power, placed down beside them, completely forgotten for the moment. All that mattered was Nora.

Morpheus’s hands, pale and elegant, ran up and down her arms, a frantic search for any warmth, any sign of life. He felt the pervasive chill that clung to her skin, an icy touch that seeped into his very being, a stark contrast to the infernal heat of the coals. His fingers then moved, with an almost desperate tenderness, to either side of her head, his thumbs sweeping upwards to cup the delicate curve of her jawline. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“Nora,” he pleaded, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to crack with uncharacteristic desperation, “Nora, please… are you there? Can you hear me? Can you feel me?” He was begging, his ancient eyes, usually pools of starlight and fury, now wide with a raw, pleading vulnerability. Please, respond. Just a flicker.

Matthew, a flurry of black feathers and worried caws, hopped over, his tiny body trembling. He bumped his head, once, then twice, against her thigh, a silent gesture of desperate inquiry. “Nora!” he begged, his voice high with fear, bumping his head against her again. “Nora, come on!”

And then, ever so slowly, Nora’s eyelids, heavy with unseen burdens, fluttered open. Her eyes, clouded and distant at first, found Morpheus’s face, a beacon in the dim, red-lit expanse. A soft, bare whisper, barely audible above the distant clamor of Hell, escaped her lips: “Morpheus.” The word was a fragile thread, but it was there, a spark of recognition in the overwhelming void. And then, with an explosive sigh that seemed to release a century of suspended agony, she collapsed forward into his chest.

She didn’t have the strength to lift her arms, no matter how desperately she yearned to grasp him, to cling to his familiar presence. Her forehead came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, the smooth fabric of his new leather attire a sudden, grounding reality against her skin. All Morpheus could do was wrap his arms around her, holding her close, her stillness a terrifying weight against him. Please, let her be okay. She has to be okay. He squeezed his eyes shut, a silent, fervent plea echoing in the depths of his ancient mind.

He held her for several tense seconds, the frantic thrum of his own heart mirroring the terrifying silence on her side of their bond. The air, thick with the cloying scent of death and brimstone, seemed to press in on them, amplifying the dreadful sense of vulnerability. Then, a cold, steely rage, ancient and unyielding, began to unfurl within him, pushing back the edges of his fear. Without breaking his protective hold on Nora, he turned his head just slightly, his eyes, burning like twin abyssal stars, fixing on Lucifer.

“I will not forget this,” Morpheus practically growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the atrium, “nor will I ever forgive you. Any future interaction between Hell and The Dreaming, Lightbringer, you will tread with extreme caution.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken threats, the underlying power in his tone a stark contrast to his earlier weakness.

With his free hand, he pulled out his familiar leather pouch of shimmering sand. He poured a small pile onto the polished obsidian floor beside them. The golden grains immediately began to undulate, a shimmering, golden curtain rising and coiling around them in a wide, luminous spiral. The ethereal light of the sand pulsed, casting dancing shadows that momentarily softened the dim, infernal illumination of the vast chamber.

Lucifer, who had been watching the scene with an almost terrifyingly cheerful expression, reveling in the cruel irony of Nora’s broken state and the pain it caused Morpheus, suddenly found her sadistic amusement evaporate. Just as the shimmering light began to encompass them, pulling them away from the infernal realm, Morpheus’s voice, now sharp with ancient authority, cut through the air, directed solely at Lucifer. “And one last thing, Morningstar.” He paused, letting the words hang, letting the full weight of his impending declaration sink in. His gaze, cold and unwavering, locked onto Lucifer’s. “Nada is free to go.”

The pronouncement struck Lucifer like a physical blow, though she showed no outward sign beyond a sudden, almost imperceptible stiffening of her perfect posture. It was a final, exquisitely precise thrust of the knife, aimed at the very heart of her perverse pleasure. For ten thousand years, Nada’s continued imprisonment had been a small, private triumph for Lucifer. A living testament to Dream’s past rigidity and a constant, visible thorn in his side. To have that prize, that source of enduring satisfaction, snatched away so effortlessly, declared null and void by the very being she had sought to humble – it was an unbearable insult. The air around Lucifer seemed to crackle with suppressed fury, a silent, burning resentment. With Morpheus’s declaration, echoing with his newly reclaimed authority, Lucifer had absolutely no legal or magical grounds to keep Nada imprisoned and was compelled, by the ancient laws she herself so meticulously upheld, to release her.

~

In the next blink, the infernal atrium, with its burning coals and tormented air, vanished as if it had never been. Morpheus, Nora, and Matthew simply were elsewhere. One moment they were in Hell, and in the next, they were in the ruined throne room of Morpheus’s palace, still kneeling on the ground, just as they had been a moment before. Morpheus still held Nora, her head resting against his shoulder, and Matthew continued to hop anxiously beside them, his small body a bundle of worry. The spot they had seemed to land upon, where shattered marble and crumbling stone should have been, was miraculously clear of any debris, as if the swirling vortex of golden sand had meticulously swept it away for them before dissolving into nothingness around them.

"Nora," Morpheus murmured softly, his voice a low, insistent hum, one hand rubbing up and down her back in slow, soothing sweeps. His touch was light, almost a caress, designed to gentle her back to awareness. He desperately needed a response, any sign that the harrowing experience in Hell's void hadn't irrevocably shattered her. Through the deep, enduring connection of their bond, he began to pour a torrent of emotions directly into her mind, a desperate, targeted effort to reignite the spark within her.

He sent her the pure, unadulterated joy he felt from her very presence, a feeling so ferocious it had bloomed within him during his long solitude. He projected the sharp, unexpected amusement from her whimsical comments, the bizarre questions about giraffes in trousers or rainbow-furred capybaras that had brought light to his long imprisonment. He replayed the keen understanding that had blossomed when she offered her unique perspective on his past trauma with Nada, the incisive, compassionate logic that had begun to mend his ancient pride. He flooded her with the warmth of her own kindness, the selfless empathy she had shown him even when facing her own slow, agonizing demise. He sent the echoes of her laughter, particularly the breathless, joyous sound she made when recounting her absurd dreams, a sound that had been a fleeting connection to his lost kingdom. Every emotion he had gleaned from their shared century, every nuance of her vibrant spirit, he now poured into her, a frantic, desperate offering, as if feeding a starving flame.

Gradually, almost painfully slowly, her arms, heavy and unresponsive moments before, began to stir. They came up, with immense effort, her fingers seeking purchase on the sides of Morpheus's new leather coat. Her touch was so light he could barely feel it, a mere whisper against the dark fabric, yet it was there – a fragile, almost imperceptible thread of contact that pierced through his overwhelming dread. "Nora," he called out again, his voice raw with renewed hope, a desperate plea for more, for confirmation. And he felt it more than heard it, a soft, almost imperceptible breath against his neck: "Sandy?" The word was a fragile question, laced with disbelief, as if she were testing the reality of his presence.

"Yes, Nora. It's me," Morpheus responded instantly, his voice thick with overwhelming relief, a dam almost breaking within him. "You're here with me. You're in The Dreaming. We are safe." His voice, though quiet, was resolute, carrying the weight of ancient power newly re-asserted. She is here. Oh thank the endless night.

For Nora, those last three words, "We are safe," resonated like a hammer blow to glass, shattering the fragile composure she had maintained. He's here. He's safe. He's alive. Matthew's also here. He's safe. He's alive. The thoughts began to loop in her mind, faster and faster, a desperate mantra: Safe. Safe. Safe. They're okay. We're okay. She had focused solely on their survival, on his well-being, on Matthew’s, ignoring her own suffering in the crushing void.

Lucifer, in her twisted cruelty, had sought to inflict the worst agony a mortal could endure: absolute sensory deprivation in the Garden of Perpetual Silence, a void of nothingness designed to break the mind. What the Morningstar could not have anticipated was the nature of the deep, internal anchor bond between Morpheus and Nora. Lucifer was aware of some bonds throughout the universe, but the true depth and unique connection of theirs was beyond her comprehension. And so, while Morpheus had felt nothing from Nora's side, as she had absolutely nothing to project, Nora had felt everything from his.

In that terrible, crushing darkness, where she could see nothing, hear nothing, feel no breeze, no heat, no cold, she had still felt him. The searing pain of the venom burning through Morpheus's veins, the insidious gnawing of the butcher bacterium eating away at his insides and flesh, the terrifying conflagration of the nova, the sensation of being burnt alive. These were not pleasant feelings, far from it. They were agony, pure and unadulterated. And they were stretched out over what felt like endless, agonizing periods, from one wave of torment to the next, a constant, pervasive torment that felt as if it would never end. Yet, they were feelings. They were enough to ground her, anchors in the terrifying, formless void, proof that he was still out there, fighting, living, connected to her. She had clung to every spike of pain, every wave of exhaustion from him, knowing that if he still felt, he still lived. She had held onto that thread, that agonizing awareness, for every endless second she had been trapped.

Now, with Morpheus's voice confirming their shared reality, the dam inside Nora broke completely. The overwhelming wave of joy, of absolute, pure, soul-deep relief that he and Matthew were alive, that they had survived Hell, washed over her. Tears, hot and seemingly endless, streamed from her eyes, soaking into the fabric of his coat against his neck. A choked sob tore from her, her breath catching in her throat as she gasped for air. She was happy, so deliriously, utterly happy, it was almost painful. But beneath that joy, an acute weariness, bone-deep and crushing, asserted itself. She was utterly, completely exhausted. Her weak grip tightened on his coat, an almost desperate clawing, trying to ground herself, to pull him impossibly closer, to ensure he was truly there, truly safe. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, but her spirit, alight with fierce relief, refused to let go.

Morpheus felt the sudden, desperate clench of her fingers, the warm, wet deluge against his neck. A fierce, aching tenderness bloomed in his chest as her sobs shook her frame, a feeling so vast it threatened to overwhelm his ancient stoicism. Her gasps for breath tore at him, a raw sound of distress that pierced through his victory. He knew the ordeal she had faced in the Garden of Perpetual Silence was designed to break her, and seeing her now, shattered and clinging, confirmed the depth of the torment. His only thought was to offer what comfort he could.

He stopped the slow, soothing sweeps of his hand on her back, instead wrapping one arm firmly around her waist, pulling her even tighter against him. His other hand moved upward, past her shoulder, to cup the back of her neck, fingers splaying against her hair. With a decisive, tender motion, he pressed her head deeper into his shoulder, holding her fast, trying to absorb her tremors. He mumbled into her ear, his voice a low, continuous vibration of reassurance, "I'm here. I'm here with you. You're safe. I'm safe. I'm here. I'm not letting go. I'm never letting you go." The words were for her, but they were also a promise to himself, a vow whispered into the ethereal air of his restored realm.

They stayed like that for what seemed like very long moments, suspended in the quiet solace of their reunion. The air of The Dreaming, usually filled with the gentle hum of creation, felt muted around them, respecting the sheer intimacy of the moment. Gradually, Nora’s breath calmed, evening out from ragged gasps to soft, steady sighs, and the flow of tears against his neck subsided to a gentle dampness. The tremors that had wracked her body slowly, slowly receded, leaving her feeling hollowed out but undeniably present. She pushed ever so slightly against his sides, a faint signal of returning strength, a tentative movement to re-engage with the world. Then, slowly, she raised her head.

Morpheus didn’t remove his hand from the back of her head; instead, he lightly gave a comforting squeeze, his thumb tracing the delicate curve where her neck met her skull. His eyes, usually deep pools of starlight, softened further, filled with a raw, almost painful empathy. His heart, an ancient, cosmic thing that had endured eons of stoicism, now ached with a searing tenderness when he saw her face. Her cheeks were still stained with tear tracks, etched like painful rivers on her pale skin, and her eyes, though no longer vacant, were red and swollen from the intensity of her release. He had never wanted to see her like this, marked by such oppressive distress, her vulnerability laid bare before him, and it cut him deeply that she had experienced such agony. Every tear seemed to burn him, a testament to the suffering she had endured because of him, because of Hell.

Nora, with an unstable hand that still trembled minutely, raised it towards Morpheus’s face. Her fingers, cool and hesitant, gently cupped his jaw, feeling the sharp line of his bone, the smooth, cool texture of his skin. Her thumb began to rub along his cheekbone, a tender, feather-light stroke, a gesture of reassurance for both of them. A soft, but happy-filled, “Hi, Sandy,” escaped her lips, barely a whisper, yet resonating with all the warmth and irreverence he had come to cherish. The familiar nickname, a secret comfort between them, brought a jolt of relief through Morpheus.

He was momentarily static, stunned that even in this raw, vulnerable state, a small portion of the fire, the unique spark of personality that made Nora Nora, shone through, bright and unextinguished. He couldn’t help but let out a very soft grin; it just suddenly appeared on his face, there was no fighting it back. The warmth that bloomed in his chest from her very presence, the sheer joy that his Nora was still with him, spread upward, making his entire face glow almost imperceptibly with that happiness. Nora, seeing that rare grin, after a brief moment of shock, let out a light chuckle. “Oh, now you smile, huh?” she whispered, the words a soft, shared secret between the two of them, as she returned his gaze with a soft smile of her own.

Hearing that familiar sass, the playful irreverence he had come to cherish from Nora, Morpheus couldn’t help but let out a slight chuckle, a low, resonant sound that vibrated against her. It was a sound few had ever heard from him, a genuine expression of mirth. Nora’s eyes widened fractionally, a new glint of mischief shining through the lingering exhaustion. “Oh my,” she murmured, her voice still weak but laced with an undeniable, mock horror. “And the laugh too? Well, the world really is coming to an end.” She managed a faint, teasing smirk.

Morpheus adjusted his grip around her waist, pulling her just ever so slightly closer, tightening the protective circle he had formed around her. His gaze, now filled with an open, unshielded tenderness, met hers. “Oh no, My Star,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, unable to hide the feeling from her any longer. “The world is most definitely not coming to an end. I would rearrange the cosmos itself, unravel the very threads of creation, if it would keep that smile on your face and allow me to hear your laughter.” His thumb, still at the back of her neck, stroked gently. “Your joy is a melody I would traverse endless nights to hear, your presence a beacon that guides the very flow of my realm.”

As he continued speaking, his voice dropped even further, becoming a barely audible, intensely private murmur, meant only for her ears, for her soul. “You are My Star, Nora. You were the improbable light during my imprisonment, a small, absurd spark in my oppressive gloom that became the blinding, brilliant relief of a possible dawn. You are the light to my darkness, the unexpected constellation in my often shadowed skies. Stars are unique, are they not? They are singular points of radiant warmth, and they serve as navigational guides. You, My Star, help me navigate my own conflicts, the internal wars that have raged within me for millennia. You are the fixed point in my shifting reality, the constant against the chaos. To see you smile, to hear your mirth… it is something I have come to cherish more deeply than any dream, any realm, for it speaks of a future I once thought impossible.” He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping further, “You are a light, Nora, that has pierced through eons of my quiet darkness. And I would defy any entity, any law, any consequence, to ensure that light never dims. Never.”

Nora was utterly struck speechless. The hand that was cupping his jaw, her thumb, previously stroking his cheekbone, was now frozen in movement, paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his words. He… he said all that. All that, to me? He really said all that to me. Her mind, still reeling from the ordeal in Hell, struggled to process the magnitude of his raw, unfiltered proclamation. Rearrange the cosmos? A light to his darkness? A navigational guide? She knew he felt things deeply, knew there was a magnified connection, but to hear it articulated with such dreamlike intensity, with such utter devotion from a being as ancient and formidable as Dream of the Endless… it was almost too much. Her gaze, wide and unwavering, remained locked on his, trying to decipher if this was real, if she was truly worthy of such a universe-altering sentiment. It felt both impossible and undeniably, wonderfully real, a perfect dream woven just for her.

She couldn't find the words to respond. Her jaw worked, her mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, a silent struggle to articulate the tempest of emotions swirling within her. Anything she tried to form, any phrase that came to mind, felt utterly inadequate, too small, too mortal to encompass the vastness of what he had just bestowed upon her.

Internally, Nora reached, searching for the link in their minds, the bond that connected them. It felt almost dormant on her side, quieted by the oppressive emptiness of the Garden of Perpetual Silence, only stirred by the agony of Morpheus's struggle. She had to look for it, stretching her awareness, almost forcing it to open back up again.

The bond, which until this moment had been empty from Nora's side – a silent void where Morpheus had received no projected feelings – suddenly seemed to spark. Morpheus felt it, a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, a flicker like a distant, dying ember suddenly rekindling. Then, with astonishing, breathtaking intensity, it flared to life, a rush of sensation that felt like floodgates opening. Morpheus had to physically stop himself from gasping aloud at the sheer force of the sudden emotions Nora was sending him. It was a torrent, raw and vibrant, that surged through their link, an explosion of feeling that threatened to overwhelm his senses, a stark contrast to the quiet empathy he had carefully projected to her for decades.

Nora, with fierce concentration, focused on sending what she was feeling through the bond to Morpheus. You make me happy. So utterly, completely happy. The words were less words and more pure emotional waves, painting vivid landscapes in his mind. You make me feel whole. Like I have finally found where I belong, where every scattered piece of my soul converges. She projected her absolute conviction: I don't for one second regret anything. Not getting locked up with you, not spending all that time in the glass. I would go through every single moment of it again, every fear, every agonizing second, if it brought us back to this exact place, to this moment, with you. I couldn't imagine being with anyone else, anywhere else, in the entire, vast expanse of the universe. Her feelings were a boundless ocean of devotion, gratitude, and a love so absolute it was almost terrifying in its purity.

This… this is what she feels? Morpheus's ancient mind reeled, bombarded by the sheer, overwhelming beauty of her transmitted emotions. He had known her compassion, her wit, her defiance, but this... this unburdened outpouring of unconditional affection, directed entirely at him, was a revelation that shook him to his core. The warmth in his chest intensified, spreading through his entire being, solidifying the delicate joy that had blossomed. It was a deep, almost dizzying vindication of his quiet affection for her, a fulfillment he hadn't known he desperately craved.

Yet, even after pouring out the depths of her soul through their bond, Nora didn't think it was enough. The intensity of her feelings, the sheer boundless love, still felt too vast to be contained by mere thought. She couldn't not show him physically as well. After just a brief, almost imperceptible moment of hesitation, her eyes, now shining bright with unshed tears and a burgeoning hope, flickered from his cosmic gaze down to his lips. They were slightly full, with a light rosy tinge, a subtle contrast to his pale skin. Then, her gaze snapped back up to his eyes, a silent question, a daring challenge, a world of affection in their depths. She leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, bridging the last few inches between them.

Morpheus's breath hitched, a faint, unheard sound. His starlit eyes, which had been locked on hers, dropped to her lips, watching their approach, a dizzying anticipation blooming in his ancient heart. He too, with agonizing slowness, began to lean in, his pale face drawing closer, closer, until their breaths mingled, a soft, ethereal sigh in the quiet of the ruined throne room. They were only a few millimeters apart, the air shimmering with unspoken desire, with a century of shared solitude and a lifetime of burgeoning, impossible connection. This was it. The moment, vast and fragile, hung suspended in the very fabric of The Dreaming, a universe waiting for two souls to finally meet.

Then, a loud, piercing "CAW!" ripped through the sacred stillness, shattering the exquisite tension like a thrown stone.

Nora, startled, recoiled instantly, leaning back from Morpheus with a sharp gasp. Her head whipped to her right, her eyes wide as she found Matthew a few feet away, perched awkwardly on a crumbled pillar. He shuffled one clawed foot, his black feathers ruffling with feigned nonchalance, as if he hadn't just deliberately interrupted something cosmically important. He let out another, slightly more sheepish, squawk before proclaiming, "Hey, Nora! Glad to have you back!" It was quintessential Matthew: the perpetually anxious, occasionally brilliant, and unfailingly awkward third wheel. He had been a silent, suffering witness to their tender reunion, trapped between the desire to give them space and the undeniable, catastrophic awkwardness of what was about to happen directly in front of him. Clearly, his self-preservation instinct (or perhaps just his internal monologue screaming at him) had won the day.

Nora huffed out a laugh, a breathless sound that bordered on a groan, and shook her head. "Hello, Matthew," she said in a placating, almost chiding tone, as if speaking to a mischievous toddler. Her gaze, still soft with lingering emotion, flickered back to Morpheus.

He was frozen, statue-still, his face a mask of carefully controlled fury. Through their bond, Nora caught a tiny, almost imperceptible hint of pure murder and incandescent rage radiating from him. It might be time for a new Raven, Morpheus thought, the sentiment laced with dangerous ice, directed with chilling clarity at the cawing figure.

-

Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and feedback are appreciated! 🩷

Next Chapter

[darknesscreepin]

choi jiho | c.jh

jiho kneeling before you, looking like an angel freshly fallen from heaven. the way a pink ribbon adorned his hair, one gracing his neck, falling against his bare chest, and a last one—wrapped gently, yet tightly around his arms that fell behind him.

he’d look up at you with the biggest doe eyes, glossed over in adoration, and sparking like there were stars in them. he’d sit there blinking his pretty eyes, a small smile on his lips as he waited for your orders.

“you look so pretty, jiho.” you’d tell him, bending down and caressing his face. he’d look away and you didn’t miss the way his ears turned red, and cheeks became a light shade of pink. finding him cute, you would giggle which resulted in an embarrassed whine coming from jiho.

“enough teasing my cute baby, you want me to make you feel good?” your voice sounded to right to jiho, whatever you said, he’d do. jiho let out a nod to your question, but you needed more.

“i need to hear you say it. can you do that for me?” you asked, kissing his forehead, encouraging him to give you a verbal answer. jiho nodded his head before speaking.

“yes, ‘wan you to touch me.” his voice was airy, and barely above a whisper. a smile appeared on your face, hearing jiho.

“good boy, that’s much better.” jiho would have so much pride to keep up the title as ‘good boy.’ even in his bratty episodes, it didn’t take much to have him begging to be praised.

you remove the underwear your boyfriend is wearing, and take in his appearance. his lips were slightly glossy with his spit, the rise and fall of his chest draped with ribbon, making him look so delicate.

your hand moves to jiho’s cock and he flinches, slightly surprised at the sensation. your pace quickens as you feel him throb in your hand. if you were to spit in your hand, then jerk him, jiho would moan so loud. his mouth would part and he’d take several, short inhales.

the closer jiho got to his orgasm, the harder it got for him. as much pleasure he was in, it also felt like a punishment—not being able to touch you, to hold you, while you made him feel good almost broke jiho. but he’d stay good for you, only for you.

“can i cum?” jiho’s legs were spread, and he was challenging himself not to buck into your hand. his inquiry was followed by a series of airy moans. his eyes bore into yours as he silently pleaded, but you stood your ground.

“not yet pretty boy, soon though. can you wait for me?” your unoccupied hand made it’s way into jiho’s hair as you jerked him. your fingers massaged at his scalp as your other hand kept a slow, steady pace. his head drew back in pleasure and his mouth opened, again answering you with a nods.

“words, please.” you stated, a kiss being placed on his cheek.

“yes. yes, i can wait.” jiho was making the prettiest noises at this point, getting louder by the second. he could feel his body temperature rising, another loud groan leaving his throat as you circled his leaking tip.

gathering the pearl of precum, you slicked it over his length. a lewd, almost pornographic sound being produced with every stroke. you sped up, watching jiho writhe. his eyes were blown, black hair sticking to his forehead. you continued your actions, taking the time to kiss jiho and whisper praises into his ear.

“you’re doing so good for me.” jiho’s eyes screwed shut and he put his head in the crook of your neck.

“my beautiful boy, you deserve everything.” jiho couldn’t hold out anymore. he reached his orgasm, a loud, broken whine erupting from him. thick ropes of cum dripping from his pink tip, falling onto your hand, and the floor. his hips would buck into your fist, riding out his orgasm, before coming to his senses.

coming down from his high and realizing he didn’t ask you to cum, immediately upset jiho.

“mama, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry it just felt so good.” jiho shook his head, his plump lips in a pout. he wished his hands weren’t tied, so he could grab your arm—show you how serious he was.

“i swear i didn’t mean to, i was trying to be good for you.” jiho’s voice was whiny and he sounded like he was about to cry. you couldn’t do anything but smile at him, knowing he was being truthful.

you sucked your teeth and made your way behind jiho. “i know my sweet boy. you did so good, there’s no need to apologize.” you untied the ribbon restricting your boyfriend’s movements, unraveling the restraints with care.

you made your way in front of him once more. you lifted his arms and examined them—looking at the pink imprints the fabric made, almost like they were still there. you brought his arms to your mouth and place tiny kisses along them.

“you did amazing.” the volume of your voice mimicking jiho’s from earlier. your fingers carded through his black hair, soft sighs falling from his mouth.

“thank you so much.” jiho said, snuggling into you further.

UMMM I POSTED THIS AND IT GOT LIKE ONE LIKE LMAOOO SO IM REPOSTING IT! um to anon who requested this, i hope you saw the original post or this one comes across your feed😭i’m actually in lovebwith this ask tho. let’s see if i flop again🙏🏾

[moronkombat]

I'm not sure if you do funny requests, but if you do, maybe a single parent s/o with two chaotic kids dragging along Syzoth, Tomas, Kenichi, and Johnny to gift their mom a boyfriend?

i chose to do syzoth and tomas because i am feeling sleepy from all the typing. im sorry!!!

"Where are you taking me again?" Comes Syzoth's inquiry.

"To see mom." A small voice says.

"Yeah, she'll be very happy with us!" Comes another.

Syzoth's brow squirm in confusion but as two little hands guide him, just gently pulling on his fingers, he finds himself unwilling to pull away. Their smiles are that of happiness and he too once knew the happiness of a child.

But he hasn't the time to think about it, not when he feels a tug from the two little ones that pull him further. He hears some shouting then, panicked and calling. Names? Soon he doesn't have to guess who these names belong to.

A woman comes into view and her eyes dart to the children holding Syzoth's hands. "There you two are!"

She is rushing over to them now, kneeling down to check on them. She appears nervous and breathless, having been searching for her children for sometime now.

"We've brought you a present, mom!"

"Yeah, we've found you a boyfriend!"

What? Suddenly Syzoth is blushing and the woman is chiding her children before her gaze finds him. She stands then.

"I am so sorry, sir." She begins rather embarrassed.

"It's...alright." Syzoth says, giving a half smile, "I'm just glad they found their mother."

"You and me both, and you two-" her gaze snaps to her children, hands at her "-no more games about this, alright?"

Her children merely seem to laugh and giggle and Syzoth can't help but smile.

"So, what's your name again, Smokey?" Says someone much smaller than the Lin Kuei member

"It's Tomas."

"I like Smokey better. Don't you?" A small pair of eyes find another.

"Yeah. It sounds a lot better."

Tomas raises a brow as he follows these two kids who have claimed to have lost their mother. They rather calm to be without their caretaker, aren't they? That's what Tomas thinks but how was he to turn away two small children in need of help?

Shouting hits his ears and his brow quirks. The two children seem to speed up and so Tomas steps a bit lighter. When turning the corner he is met with a woman who appears most frantic. She is quick to run over, taking the children into a hug and Tomas figures this must be there mother.

"Where have you two been?!" She demands but her children appear ever calm.

"We went to go find you a boyfriend. His name is Smokey. Our plan was done perfectly, right?"

"Yup yup!"

Tomas feels awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. "They told me they lost their mother..."

"Oh did they?" She gives her children a look but they play rather innocent.

"Thank you for bringing them back to me and I'm sorry you got caught up in their game."

"Don't mention it. Just happy to bring them back to you. My name is really Tomas, by the way."

"Well, Tomas, it is good to meet you."