#PEW PEW amplified

[goldfades]

PLAYING WITH FIRE──FATHER CHARLIE

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─ summary | a preacher's daughter becomes involved in a secret and passionate affair with a priest, challenging her strict upbringing and the expectations of her family and faith.

─ pairing | father charlie mayhew x preacher's daughter!reader

─ warnings | NSFW (with plot) under the cut. fingering, heavy make-out sessions, praise/degradation?

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Your father always said the church was supposed to be your sanctuary.

From the time you were old enough to sit still on a pew, the towering stained glass windows and the echo of hymns in the vaulted ceiling had been your world. Every sermon, every candlelit service, every whispered prayer had woven itself into the fabric of your life, wrapping you in a cloak of devotion that felt as natural as breathing.

Now, standing in the shadow of the altar, that cloak felt a little too tight.

The evening light filtered through the stained glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floors. Blues and golds stretched in long, quiet beams, like the church itself was holding its breath. Outside, the world was settling into the calm of twilight, but inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. It pressed down on your shoulders, thick and stifling.

You stood there, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of the wooden pew in front of you. The familiar scent of incense and old books filled your lungs as you breathed in deeply, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had been crawling under your skin for weeks now. Something was different, though you couldn’t quite place it. The church, once a place of comfort, now felt... constricting. Maybe it was the weight of expectation—or maybe it was something else entirely, something you didn’t dare to name yet.

Your gaze drifted to the large crucifix at the front of the room, eyes tracing the well-worn details of it, the soft glow of candlelight flickering at its base. You were supposed to feel something here. Reverence. Peace. But instead, a knot twisted in your chest, a tangle of emotions you couldn’t unravel.

Footsteps echoed behind you, soft but deliberate, the sound pulling you back to the present. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. You could feel his presence like the air had shifted, like the temperature in the room dropped just a fraction of a degree.

“Evening service is in an hour.”

Father Charlie’s voice, smooth and low, cut through the silence, brushing against the nape of your neck like a whisper. You swallowed, your pulse quickening, though you weren’t entirely sure why. He always had that effect on you, though you told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just... respect. Nothing more.

You turned to face him, forcing a smile as you nodded. “I know. I just... wanted a moment before the crowd comes in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, and something in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you—it was the way you felt when he did, like you were being seen for the first time, like every carefully crafted piece of who you were might unravel if you weren’t careful.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice still soft, but there was an edge to it now, something unspoken that hung in the air between you.

You looked away quickly, your fingers curling tighter around the pew. Your father’s words echoed in your mind, reminding you of your duty, of your place. You were the preacher’s daughter, after all. Everything about your life was tied to this church, to your father’s legacy, to the faith you were supposed to uphold with unwavering loyalty.

But then why did it feel like everything was starting to crack?

You forced yourself to stand taller, clearing your throat as you spoke again, your voice quieter this time. “I should probably go help with preparations.”

“Right,” Charlie said, though he didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off you.

The silence stretched between you once more, and you could feel the weight of it, heavy and unspoken. Something was shifting, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

───

College had opened a thousand new doors for you, each one leading you further away from the world you had known for so long. The freedom was intoxicating—more than you could have imagined. Late nights spent in libraries, impromptu road trips with friends, a city that felt alive beneath your feet, humming with possibilities you had never considered. For the first time in your life, you weren’t tethered to the expectations of your family, the expectations of the church.

But even as you explored new ideas, met people who challenged the beliefs you had grown up with, and carved out space for yourself in a world much bigger than the small town you’d left behind, something kept pulling you back. A tug, a whisper, a lingering sense of obligation that gnawed at you when the campus quieted down in the early hours of the morning.

It wasn’t just the faith you were raised in that haunted you; it was the weight of your father’s voice echoing in your head, the way he spoke about duty, commitment, and sacrifice. His sermons had always been about more than just scripture—they were about life, about how the world tested you, how sin was a slippery slope. How it could seduce you without you even realizing it.

You thought you could ignore it for a while, push the thoughts aside as you embraced everything new. But when the holidays came and you found yourself back home, the old routines settled over you like a heavy coat. The Sunday services, the church events, the constant watchful eyes of the congregation. You could feel them all waiting, wondering if the preacher’s daughter had come back changed, if the world had gotten to you.

And then, there was Father Charlie.

You hadn’t expected to see him again—not like this, not after everything had shifted inside of you. College had given you new perspectives, yes, but it hadn’t prepared you for the way your pulse raced the moment you saw him standing in the front of the church, speaking with your father as if everything was still the same.

But it wasn’t.

Charlie looked different. Or maybe you did. He was older now, though not by much, and there was a certain weight in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just his sermons or the way he carried himself with that steady, unshakable calm; it was the way his gaze lingered on you, the way it seemed like he could see through the mask you were trying so hard to keep up.

You’d always known him as the priest who helped your father, the man who had been an almost constant presence in your home, at dinners, at family gatherings. He was someone you trusted, someone you never questioned. Until now.

There was something about him now, something that made the air feel too thick when you were in the same room. Maybe it was because you had changed, maybe it was because you had seen more of the world and realized how small the one you left behind had been. Or maybe it was because for the first time, you were looking at him not through the lens of innocence and trust, but through something darker. Something you weren’t ready to name.

It started innocently enough—helping your father prepare for services, catching up with old friends from the congregation, falling back into the role of the dutiful daughter. You had perfected that role long ago, and slipping back into it felt almost too easy, like muscle memory. But every time you caught a glimpse of Charlie, that mask cracked just a little more.

You told yourself it was nothing, that it was just the stress of being home again, of reconciling who you were now with who you had been before. But it wasn’t long before you found yourself lingering after church events, staying late to help clean up, just to see if he’d still be there. Just to see if his eyes would meet yours again, if that strange, unspoken tension between you would return.

And it always did.

It was subtle at first, the way he looked at you from across the room, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long before he turned away. You tried to convince yourself you were imagining it, that it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then there were the conversations, those moments when the two of you were alone in the church hall, the only sound the distant hum of people outside. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he leaned in just a fraction too close, the way his hand brushed yours when you passed him something.

It was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But one evening, after a particularly long meeting at the church, when everyone else had left and you were gathering your things, you turned around to find him standing in the doorway, watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat. The look in his eyes was different this time—darker, more intense. There was something there that you hadn’t seen before, or maybe something you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze didn’t leave yours, not even for a second.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as you tried to gather your thoughts. “It’s home,” you replied, though even you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

He stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. The sound of it clicking shut seemed to echo in the silence, making the space between you feel even smaller. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to find something, some answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet.

You should have felt uncomfortable. You should have made some excuse to leave, to get out of there before whatever this was could unfold. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your breath shallow, your heart racing in your chest.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice lower now, almost a whisper.

Your heart skipped another beat, a wave of heat washing over you at his words. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say to the man standing in front of you—the man who had always been so steady, so composed, and now looked like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.

“Charlie, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted, taking another step closer, his eyes still locked on yours. “I know this is... complicated.”

Complicated didn’t even begin to cover it. He was a priest. You were the preacher’s daughter. There were rules, lines that couldn’t be crossed, things that couldn’t be said.

But here you were, standing in the quiet of the church, and those lines had never felt more blurred.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong. You knew it deep down, felt it in the pit of your stomach. He was a man of God, your father’s closest confidant, the last person you should have these thoughts about. And yet, here he was—standing before you, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch, like you were the only person in the world at that moment.

He was too close now. You could smell the faint scent of incense still clinging to his clothes, could see the slight furrow in his brow as he struggled to keep his composure. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of footsteps outside the room.

You should leave. You needed to. But instead, you found yourself taking a slow, steady breath, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible.

Charlie exhaled softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Neither do I,” he admitted, his voice low, almost broken. “But I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and dangerous. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be a man above these temptations, above human desires. And you were supposed to be someone who understood that, who respected the boundaries that came with it. But somehow, those boundaries had started to blur long before either of you realized.

His hand twitched at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch you, to close the distance between you. For a moment, you thought he might actually do it. That he might cross that final line. But he hesitated, clenching his fist as if to hold himself back.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered under his breath, taking a small step backward, as if the space would help clear the growing storm between you.

You bit your lip, trying to find the right words, the right way to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions inside you. “Charlie...”

“Don’t,” he cut you off softly, shaking his head. “You don’t understand how wrong this is.”

His words hit you like a cold splash of water, but they didn’t stop the way your heart fluttered in your chest, or the way your stomach twisted with something dangerous. You knew he was right. This was wrong, on every level. And yet, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and something darker—something you didn’t dare name out loud.

“Because,” he finally murmured, his voice thick with restrained emotion, “I can’t help it.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those words settle over you. It wasn’t the confession you had expected, and it wasn’t one that made things any easier. If anything, it only made the situation even more complicated.

“I should go,” you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to take a step back, to create some distance between you and the storm brewing in the space you shared.

That was all you said before turning around, and leaving the room.

───

You weren't sure how this had happened, but sure as hell did. Charlie's lips were on yours, pushing you into the door with force. You hummed into his lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

All you remember was his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. The world outside that door no longer existed, fading into a blur as Charlie’s lips moved against yours with a fervor that felt like it had been building for far too long.

All you remembered was the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else—the quiet of the church hall, the soft creak of the door behind you, the whisper of your name on Charlie’s lips before everything had spiraled out of control.

You had always imagined this would be different, more hesitant, slower, maybe even sweet. But this? This was something else entirely. It was rushed, desperate, like both of you had been holding back for so long that the dam had finally broken, flooding every bit of restraint.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to close the gap between you entirely. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as if he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t. His lips were warm, insistent, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, surrendering to the pull you had resisted for so long.

The weight of what you were doing hit you in flashes—between the soft gasp that escaped your throat and the way Charlie’s breath hitched when you responded with equal need. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. But nothing had ever felt so... inevitable.

The taste of his kiss lingered on your lips, sending sparks through your body that only grew more intense the longer it went on. You could feel the tension radiating off of him, the battle he was fighting between what he knew was wrong and what he wanted more than anything at that moment.

It was a battle you were losing, too.

You broke away for a second, gasping for air as his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily. His eyes—dark, conflicted, and filled with something so raw—locked onto yours. For a moment, the weight of what you’d just done hung between you.

But then, before either of you could think too much, his lips were back on yours, silencing any doubts. This time, softer.

This time, his kiss was slower, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. The urgency had dimmed just enough to let the moment stretch out, to let the reality of what was happening sink in. His hands traced a path from your hips to your waist, pulling you even closer, while his lips moved tenderly against yours, tasting you in a way that made your knees weak.

Your mind was a blur of sensations—the warmth of his breath, the soft friction of his body pressing into yours, the quiet hum of the world outside this stolen moment. Every touch, every kiss, felt like it was lighting a fire inside you that you couldn't put out, even if you tried.

But then, as his lips left yours to trail softly down your jawline, the weight of it all crashed down on you. What had you done? What were you doing?

“Charlie,” you whispered, your voice trembling as reality clawed its way back in. His name fell from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure if you were asking him to stop or to keep going.

He froze, his breath hot against your neck. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his hands still gripping your waist as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a shuddering breath, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression filled with a storm of emotions—regret, desire, conflict, everything.

“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. His eyes searched yours, as though he was looking for some kind of answer, some justification for the lines he had just crossed. “I shouldn’t have...”

You shook your head, still catching your breath, your hands sliding down from his shoulders. “No,” you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t apologize. I wanted this, too.”

Charlie swallowed hard, his gaze flickering between your lips and your eyes, torn between the undeniable truth of your words and the overwhelming guilt gnawing at him. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he took a step back, running a hand through his hair as if to ground himself, to keep himself from falling further.

“We can’t do this,” he muttered, almost to himself, though the words were meant for both of you. “This... it’s wrong. It goes against everything.”

“Charlie,” you scoffed as you straightened up. “So what? So what if this is wrong, who said we can't have fun every once in a while?”

Charlie’s eyes darkened at your words, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his features. You watched as he clenched his jaw, wrestling with the temptation that you had just fanned back into life with that careless, reckless comment.

“Fun?” he repeated, his voice low and strained, almost like he couldn’t believe you had said it. “You think this is just fun?”

You tilted your head, shrugging, though you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. “Why not? Why does it have to be this heavy, guilt-ridden thing? It’s only wrong if we make it wrong.” Your voice was bold, but there was a trembling edge beneath it, one you hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Charlie’s hand ran through his hair in frustration as he stared at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t get it,” he muttered, taking a step closer, and for a moment, you saw the fire in his eyes again—the same fire that had pulled you both into this moment in the first place. “This isn’t just some game. You have no idea what you’re risking.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance again, the tension between you crackling like electricity. “I know exactly what I’m risking, Charlie. And I don’t care. Don’t you get that by now? I want this.”

For a split second, you saw the conflict in his eyes again, the internal war he was waging, but then his hand reached out, gripping your arm, pulling you closer. His breath was ragged as his forehead pressed against yours, his fingers tightening around you like he was holding on for dear life.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, his voice thick with desperation. “This isn’t something we can just... play with. It’s wrong, and I—”

“Do you want me to stop?” you cut him off, your voice soft but firm, your lips inches from his.

Charlie’s breath hitched as his grip on you tightened even more. His eyes searched yours, the weight of the decision heavy between you both. For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with anticipation, with the unspoken truth neither of you could deny anymore.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with all the tension and desire he had been trying so hard to suppress. “But I should. We should.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession, and without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Then don’t.”

That was all it took.

In an instant, his resolve crumbled, and Charlie’s lips crashed into yours with a force that sent a shiver down your spine. All the restraint, all the guilt, evaporated in that single moment as his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you against him like he couldn’t get enough.

That was how this little affair had began. What started as a reckless act of rebellion, something thrilling and dangerous, had spiraled into something much bigger, something neither of you could have anticipated.

For Charlie, everything began to shift. At first, it was just the stolen kisses and the hurried, whispered moments behind locked doors. But then, gradually, you noticed the change in him—subtle at first, but undeniable as time went on. He wasn’t the same devout, principled man he’d been before. The conviction that once held him together was starting to unravel, and it wasn’t just about you anymore.

His sermons, once delivered with unshakable passion, began to falter. He spoke the words, but there was a hollowness to them now, a lack of fire that hadn’t been there before. The weight of his role as a priest no longer seemed to sit so heavily on his shoulders. It was as though he was slipping further away from the man he had been, day by day, like he had loosened his grip on the faith that had once defined him.

It wasn’t just in the church either. You saw it in his eyes, the way they lit up when he saw you, no longer clouded with guilt or hesitation. The same man who had once knelt in prayer for hours, seeking forgiveness for even the smallest of sins, now seemed to be the furthest thing from repentant. There was a spark in him that had nothing to do with religion—a hunger for something more, something that you had awakened in him.

You had become his escape, his release from the rigid life he had once lived. And it was clear that, for the first time in a long while, he was having fun. Real fun. The kind that made his eyes light up with a mischievous glint, the kind that left him grinning after each secret encounter. He was no longer the solemn, restrained Father Charlie that everyone in the church knew. Around you, he laughed more, joked more, and seemed more alive than he ever had before.

There was a recklessness to him now, a side of Charlie that had been hidden beneath layers of duty and piety. When you were together, it was as though none of the rules applied. His hands roamed freely, his lips found yours without hesitation, and the weight of his priesthood—the guilt that had once threatened to crush him—seemed to melt away with each touch, each kiss, each stolen moment.

He wasn’t praying for forgiveness anymore. He wasn’t praying for anything at all.

And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all. Charlie was slipping further and further away from the man he had been, from the role he had devoted his life to. But even as you saw him change, a part of you knew—you liked this version of him better. The one who wasn’t weighed down by morality, the one who let himself live, who let himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

Because, in truth, he had never seemed happier.

Then, your family's Christmas Eve dinner came and of course, Charlie would be invited. Your mother and father were practically buzzing with excitement—this was their biggest event of the year.

It would be in your home, just as it always was, with the dining room decked out in festive decorations. The smell of cinnamon, cloves, and roasting meat filled the air, and the flicker of candlelight danced along the walls. Your mother had spent days planning every detail, from the table settings to the perfect holiday playlist softly playing in the background. This was the night your family pulled out all the stops, and the guest of honor, of course, was none other than Father Charlie.

As you descended the stairs, dressed in a modest yet elegant outfit your mother had insisted upon, your stomach churned. The thought of Charlie sitting across from you, pretending nothing was happening between the two of you, made your skin prickle with a strange mix of anticipation and dread. You could already picture him, composed and serene, his priestly demeanor fully intact. But you knew better. Beneath the calm exterior, beneath the collar, there was a man who had unraveled, one you had helped tear apart.

The dining room was a scene of festive cheer by the time you arrived, your parents bustling about, greeting guests and making sure everything was perfect. You could hear your father laughing loudly from the other room, his booming voice full of pride as he told someone about how Father Charlie had become such an important part of the church community. How proud they were to have him there.

And then you saw him.

Charlie stood near the fireplace, talking to a few of the older parishioners who had arrived early, his usual composed expression firmly in place. He looked every bit the part—his black priest’s garb impeccable, his hands clasped in front of him in that familiar posture of calm authority. But when his eyes flicked over to you, for the briefest of moments, something shifted. His gaze lingered, and you saw the hint of heat behind them, a flash of memory that you were certain only the two of you understood. His lips quirked up in a small smile, seemingly innocent and kind. But you knew better.

Your heart skipped a beat as your mother’s voice pulled you back into the moment. “Sweetheart, come say hello to Father Charlie!” she called, her voice brimming with affection.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto your face as you made your way toward him. Your mother was already gushing about how wonderful it was to have him here, how much your family appreciated him spending Christmas Eve with them. You barely heard her, your mind racing as Charlie’s eyes met yours, steady but unreadable.

“Good evening,” he said softly, his voice smooth as ever, though there was an edge to it that only you could catch. The soft smile that graced his features had turned into a small smirk as he took in your shy expression.

He extended his hand, and for a split second, as your fingers brushed his, a jolt of electricity surged through you. It was barely noticeable—a moment so fleeting your mother wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But for you, it was enough to send your mind spiraling back to all the times his hands had been on you in a much different way.

“Good evening, Father,” you replied, your voice steady, though your pulse was racing beneath the surface.

“Such a lovely home, as always,” Charlie said, turning his attention to your mother with a charming smile, ever the perfect guest. But as he spoke, you caught the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he was trying to hold back something deeper.

As the evening unfolded, you found yourself painfully aware of Charlie's presence, of the way he seemed just a little too comfortable, a little too close. He wasn’t careless enough to raise suspicion, not with your family and half the parish sitting around the table, but there were moments—subtle, fleeting moments—that made your heart race.

It started with the way he looked at you. His eyes would linger a beat too long whenever you caught each other’s gaze across the table. He spoke politely to your parents, laughed at the right moments, even indulged your father’s long-winded stories about the church’s history. But every time he glanced your way, there was something beneath the surface. A smoldering awareness.

Then, there were his hands. When he passed you the breadbasket, his fingers brushed against yours. Not an accident, not something your parents would ever notice, but it was enough. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, and the heat in his gaze told you he knew exactly what he was doing. His thumb grazed your wrist in a way that made your breath hitch, and when you glanced up, he was already looking away, like it never happened. But you knew.

Charlie was being reckless, though not in an obvious way. His behavior was just subtle enough to keep from drawing attention, but to you, it was impossible to miss. His foot nudged yours beneath the table during dinner, a simple tap, but the look he gave you when your knees touched—it was almost too much. You could barely keep yourself composed, your mind spinning with the memory of him pushing you up against the door, his lips on yours.

"Father, would you like more wine?" your mother asked, completely oblivious to the tension simmering between you two.

Charlie smiled, nodding graciously as he held out his glass. "Just a little more, thank you."

As your mother poured, his eyes found yours again. This time, he didn’t look away, not immediately. The corner of his mouth quirked up, just enough to send your thoughts into overdrive. It was like a private joke, one that only the two of you understood. A secret dance of hidden touches, stolen glances, and unspoken words.

You tried to focus on your plate, on the conversation happening around you, but it was impossible. Every move he made felt like it was meant for you, no matter how small. When he reached for his napkin, his hand grazed your thigh under the table, just for a second, but it was enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You glanced at him in shock, and he gave you a sideways smile, the kind that spoke volumes without a single word.

He was playing with fire, and so were you.

Dinner stretched on, with your father telling more stories and your mother doting on everyone, but all you could think about was Charlie. The way he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping the room, but always coming back to you. It was reckless, the way he was letting his guard down, letting you see the cracks in his calm facade.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” your father asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. His concerned gaze made your stomach tighten.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yes, just tired, I think. It’s been a long day.”

Your father patted your shoulder, satisfied with your answer, but when you glanced at Charlie, you saw the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that told you he wasn’t tired at all. He was far from it.

As dessert was served, the tension between you two only grew. He was no longer pretending to keep his distance, not really. His foot stayed lightly pressed against yours under the table, and when your fingers brushed again as you passed him a dish, he let them linger, his thumb trailing over your knuckles for just a second too long.

The worst part? No one else noticed a thing.

Charlie was playing this game with expert precision—just enough to make your pulse quicken, but not enough to get caught.

As dessert came to an end, Charlie's eyes flickered towards you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He had barely spoken directly to you the entire night, but now, it was like he couldn’t wait any longer. You were both playing this game, pushing the boundaries of how far you could go without crossing an invisible line—at least in front of everyone else.

"Could you show me where the coffee cups are?" Charlie asked, leaning back casually in his chair. His voice was calm, maybe even a little too casual, but you caught the subtle undercurrent of something more.

Your mother’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. "Father, you’ve been here enough times to know where they are, haven’t you?"

You held your breath, your pulse quickening at the way your mother’s question hung in the air. Charlie smiled smoothly, shaking his head.

"Ah, but every time I’m here, something’s moved around. You know how it is in a busy house," he said, chuckling lightly, the picture of a gracious guest. But his eyes were on you again, and you knew this wasn’t about coffee cups. Not even close.

"Of course," your mother laughed, brushing it off with a wave. "Go ahead, sweetheart, show Father Charlie where everything is."

Your heart was pounding as you rose from your seat, barely able to look at your parents. The room felt too small, too hot, like every eye was on you as you and Charlie stood up from the table. But when you glanced back, your father was already engrossed in another conversation, and your mother was busy with the dishes.

Charlie followed you into the hallway, his footsteps too close behind you. Your breath hitched as you led him toward the kitchen, trying to act natural, but the tension between you two was suffocating. You could feel his presence like a shadow, his gaze boring into the back of your neck as you rounded the corner.

The second you stepped out of view, his hand caught your wrist, pulling you to a stop. You spun to face him, heart racing, and before you could say a word, his body was pressing you back against the kitchen counter.

"Charlie—" you whispered, but he silenced you with a look, his breath coming fast and shallow.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer," he muttered, his voice low and thick with something dark. His hands came to rest on either side of you, trapping you against the counter, and you could feel the heat radiating from him. "I need you, baby..."

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your face, and you felt your resolve start to crumble. You knew this was wrong—knew it with every fiber of your being—but Charlie’s lips were dangerously close to yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"You’ve been driving me insane," he whispered, his voice ragged, filled with a hunger he hadn’t bothered to hide anymore.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment crushing down on you. There was still time to stop this, to step away, but you knew neither of you would. You had pushed each other too far, and now, there was no turning back.

"I know," you breathed, barely able to get the words out. "I’ve been waiting for you to crack."

A low groan escaped him, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. His hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the heat between you was overwhelming. It was reckless, dangerous, but it was also everything you had been waiting for.

The tension that had simmered all night finally broke, and you melted into him, your hands tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with the same desperation. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth.

Charlie pulled away just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breath ragged as he looked into your eyes. "Your parents are in the other room," he murmured with a small smirk, though the way he held you betrayed any thought of stopping.

You smiled up at him, your heart racing. "Then why can’t you stop?"

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands exploring your body with a reckless abandon that sent a shiver down your spine. The world outside the kitchen, the family dinner, the church—it all melted away as you gave in to the dangerous pull between you.

Charlie pulled away for a second, his hand reaching up to grip your face harshly. "Dirty girl, aren't you?"

You couldn't help but laugh, your eyes never leaving his. "You started this, Charlie."

Charlie's grip tightened, and you felt the heat of his gaze searing into you, both intoxicating and possessive. He kissed you again, his mouth fierce, almost punishing, as if he couldn’t stand the space between you. Your back hit the counter, but the discomfort barely registered—he pressed his body into yours, and you gasped against his lips, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation flooding your senses.

His hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before sliding beneath your shirt, the roughness of his palms igniting your skin. You felt him pause, as if savoring the feeling of you under his hands, and when he finally pulled back, it was only to whisper against your ear, his voice low and thick with desire. "You like this, don't you? Knowing we could get caught..."

You could barely think, your body burning with need. You bit your lip, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. "Isn’t that what you want?" you whispered back, your own hands sliding under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin.

Charlie groaned, his grip on you tightening. His fingers found the hem of your jeans, teasing, as he trailed hot kisses down the side of your neck. "Always so defiant," he muttered, his breath warm against your skin. "But I’ll break you yet."

The intensity of his words sent a thrill through you, and you tilted your head back, giving him access to more of your neck as he kissed you, nipping at your skin, leaving a trail of marks behind. His hands, strong and demanding, finally dipped lower, and you gasped as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.

"Charlie," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as your hands clutched at his shoulders, needing him closer, needing more.

Charlie’s breath was hot against your neck as his hands traveled lower, teasing the edge of your jeans. His fingers dipped just beneath the fabric, tracing your skin with maddening slowness. "Say my name again," he demanded, his voice husky and filled with dark need.

Your lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as his fingers toyed with you, just enough to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy the aching desire that built inside you. "Charlie," you breathed, your voice trembling, desperate.

His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you harder against him. "Louder," he growled, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He was taunting you, daring you to give in completely, and you could feel the power shift between you. You were no longer in control—he was, and the knowledge only heightened the tension.

You clenched your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, trying to keep your composure, but he wasn’t making it easy. His other hand slid to your throat, not choking but holding you in place, his grip firm as he pressed his lips against yours again, more demanding than before.

"You think you can push me, don’t you?" he muttered against your lips. "Make me lose control." His fingers slipped lower, brushing the spot that made your knees weak, and you gasped, unable to stop the flood of heat that rushed through you. He smiled, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense your surrender.

Your head fell back against the cabinet, your breathing ragged, your body burning under his touch. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again, his eyes dark with lust and dominance. "But you're mine," he murmured, his voice a promise and a warning all at once. "And you’ll break before I do."

Your heart pounded in your chest as Charlie's words sank in, his hand at your throat tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you of his control. The intensity of his stare sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you found yourself caught between the desire to challenge him and the undeniable pull of surrender.

"Are you sure about that?" you whispered, your voice soft but laced with defiance, the words barely slipping past your lips as you fought to maintain some control.

A dangerous smile tugged at the corner of Charlie’s mouth, his gaze flickering with something dark and unrelenting. "Oh, I’m sure," he said, his tone low and dripping with confidence. His fingers danced over the waistband of your skirt before slipping inside, his touch both teasing and commanding, and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen intensified, your breath hitching in response.

His fingers played with your panties, that were already soaked before slipping in a finger. You let out a soft hum, your head falling back on to the counter as your eyes squeezed shut. You tried to steady yourself, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you fought to stay grounded, but Charlie’s presence overwhelmed you.

His lips found the hollow of your throat, and he kissed his way down, each press of his mouth against your skin sending shockwaves through your body. When his finger moved deeper, the other brushing against your clit, your body betrayed you with a soft, needy whimper.

"That’s it," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low growl, filled with satisfaction at the sound. "Let me hear you."

The tension inside you built, every stroke of his finger pushing you closer to the edge, and you were losing the battle of resistance. Charlie’s hand tightened around your throat, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you locked in place, at his mercy. His breath was hot against your ear, his fingers moving in a rhythm that had you trembling.

"Tell me what you want," he demanded, his voice rough with desire.

Your mind was clouded, your body aching for release, but you bit your lip, fighting the words he wanted from you. The defiance only seemed to amuse him further, his grip tightening slightly. "Still holding out?" he asked, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "You think you can win this game?"

Your heart raced, your body betraying you as you squirmed under his touch, and you knew you were close to breaking. His fingers moved with more purpose now, pushing you closer to the brink, and a gasp escaped you as your resolve began to crumble.

"I—" You could barely form the words, your body arching into him, desperate for more.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice a rough whisper. His fingers curled, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure coursing through you was too much to bear.

"Charlie—please," you finally gasped, your voice breaking as you surrendered to him completely. "Make me cum."

A satisfied grin spread across his face, and he pressed his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his hand finally giving you what you needed as his finger moved deeper and quicker. "Good girl," he whispered against your mouth, his voice dripping with possessive pride. "Cum for me."

That was all you needed to let out a shuddering moan, your knees falling weak as the knot in your lower stomach snapped. Charlie's hand covered your mouth quickly, the sound muffled by his large hand. After you rode out your high, Charlie's hand slipped out of your skirt as you caught your breath.

As if on cue, your mother came in with some dishes in her hand. There wasn't even a trace of suspicion in her expression, she was too busy with the dinner to even question why you two were taking so long and why you two were standing so close.

"Did you guys find the cups?" She asked with a sigh, loading the dishwasher with the dishes.

Charlie casually wiped his hand on his pants, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he hadn’t just had you unraveling under his touch moments before. His lips curved into a smirk, eyes glinting with amusement as he shot you a sideways glance. The contrast between your rapid breathing and his calm demeanor was infuriating. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—and he was reveling in it.

"Yeah," he said smoothly, his voice steady as ever. "We were just…looking for them."

You tried to compose yourself, struggling to regulate your breaths without drawing attention. Your legs still felt shaky, and the warmth of his body so close to yours lingered like a sinful reminder of what had just happened. You forced a smile, hoping your mother wouldn’t notice the flushed look on your face.

Your mother barely glanced at you two as she continued with the dishes, completely oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. "Great, we're just about to leave for service," she said with a tired sigh. "I’ll need your help with cleaning the table soon."

"Of course," Charlie responded, his voice filled with an edge of playful charm, though only you could hear the smug satisfaction underneath it all. He took a step closer to you, almost brushing his arm against yours as he reached up to grab the cups from the shelf. The proximity sent another wave of heat through you, and it took everything in you not to react visibly.

Your mother turned her back again, preoccupied with the dishwasher, and Charlie seized the opportunity. He leaned in ever so slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "You’re going to have to work on that poker face, baby."

You shot him a sharp look, your body still buzzing from the intensity of earlier, and now his teasing only made it worse. The urge to wipe that smug look off his face was almost overwhelming, but you had no choice but to keep it together, your mother only a few feet away.

As he moved past you, you caught the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. He knew how much power he held over you in that moment, and he wasn’t going to let you forget it anytime soon.

Your mother finally turned back to face you. "You okay, honey?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly as she noticed you standing still by the counter. "You look a bit flushed."

You swallowed hard, fighting to find your voice. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little warm in here," you lied, managing to give her a weak smile. "I'll help with the table."

Charlie glanced back at you, his smirk still firmly in place as he picked up the cups. His voice was smooth and casual, betraying nothing of the wickedness lurking beneath the surface. "I’ll take care of the rest," he said, shooting you a look that made your pulse quicken. "You just… relax."

Your mother nodded, oblivious. "Thanks, Charlie."

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[xxanaduwrites]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a residue series installment ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

sweet talkin’

main hive 🐝 | next part here: honey, are you comin’?

✎ elementary-teacher!reader (miss.honey) x biker!benny 🏍️

summary: in which “uncle benny” picks up johnny’s girls from school and finds some honey along the way ;)

warnings: not much of anything besides talks of danger & some side eyes from on-lookers. an absolute fluff cake of a piece really. enjoy! x

author’s note: ngl there is some inaccuracies. i fully made up locations & such. never been to chicago or illinois even, but maybe someday :)

word count: 2.8k

💌 requests are open, send ‘em honey 💋

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You remember it like it was yesterday, the very first time you met Benny Cross. Ironically, it was one of those sticky sweet days in June, just before the start of summer ‘65. The Chicago heat was hard to beat in the cramped little classroom you worked in on Phipps Avenue. Your third graders were all flushed faces with curly cues frizzing about, and their red little cheeks burned in exhaustion. It was no surprise that you lost their ears to the tsk tsk tsk of sprinklers swirling about on the school grounds. Even though the principal was against it, you were rather relieved to see your students running about the wet grass come dismissal.

It was a lovely reprieve, truly to be out of the shoe box you worked in at the end of the day. Sure, the heat hadn’t let up. It was awfully sweltering passing clammy hand to clammy hand to their designated pick up person. But you loved being a teacher. Moreseo you loved those sweet turned up smiles that graced those baby faces of your students as they chatted about their after school plans. Heading down to the local pool or picking up a firecracker pop at the corner store was such a sweet treat. It made you miss being that young again, finding hidden treasures through the little bits of life.

You moved like clockwork during dismissal, attentive as you made small talk with parents and hugged your students goodbye. The pick of the cycle was usually smooth on your part. You knew who tended to be retrieved right away and who was left hanging, so it took you by a hint of surprise when you found yourself still hand in hand with Mr. and Mrs. Davis’s little girls.

You knew the Davis’s well — as well as anyone could holding residence in the quaint village of McCook, Illinois. Mr. Davis and his wife Betty were perishoners at the local church you frequented with your Ma and Pa. St. Caron’s on the corner of Rose and Dawn. You’d see them all together in their Sunday best, the kids in puff pastry kind-of dresses packed together in a pew with their Ma, while their Pa was mulling about in his pressed suit and tie. There was no trace of the Vandals you’d come to know, the Johnny that would be amplified under that some-what imposterous clean cut demeanor. You’d see him solemn as ever ushering pew to pew with the collections basket for the poor and at communion during the mass.

Yet, if you had to name one thing that complimented Johnny to Mr. Davis, it had to be his consistency with being on time. Never once was he ever late to church. 12pm sharp he’d be looking at his watch, waitin’ for the priest and deacon to do their thang. The same applied for his children and their respected school schedule.

It took you a moment to remember the note from the office that was sent up in the afternoon. In your defense, mastering concentration in this heat proved almost impossible. Until it wasn’t. You could see the lovely writing of the secretary with that neat cursive of hers in the back of your mind, reminding you that the Davis girls would be picked up by their Uncle Benny come dismissal.

That would explain it, you thought. But would it really? Fathoming a member of Mr. Davis’s family not being as meticulous as him? You momentarily wondered how the man would react to such a thing as being late. You were sure it wasn’t in his vocabulary by any means.

Your fingers, engulfing the petite ones of the Davis girls, squeezed their hands reassuringly. “M’sure your Uncle Benny will be here any moment.” Neither of them said anything as you glanced between the two flanked at your sides, little eyelashes blinking up at you without a care in the world. And here you thought they would be just as anal-retentive as their father.

They weren’t.

Since the school yard was becoming less compact with people, and the principal put an end to the fun with the sprinklers, you figured some chit-chat wouldn't hurt to keep them occupied. “You girls have any fun afternoon plans?”

The Davis girl on the right, taller, darker hair, lookin’ far too much like her father — a carbon copy if you will — spoke up then. “Yes! Uncle Benny is takin’ us to a picnic. Gonna see Daddy race his bike, Miss. Honey.”

A bike race, huh? You couldn’t remember seeing anything in the McCook weekly papers ‘bout an upcoming cycling event. But, hey maybe you happened to miss it on your skim of the thing, when your Pa just so happened to put it down for a second durin’ dinner.

“Well, ain’t that sweet!” You chirped, smiling brightly at the girls with genuine excitement in your eyes. “Sure it’ll be tons of fun.”

“S’not when Daddy gets all muddy.” The smaller girl, the one that looked more like her mother. Lighter hair and lighter eyes said. Her tiny face contorted into a grimace.

Muddy? Weren’t cycling races on the roads?

Surely the town would block off the streets like they did for those celebratory parades. The little one was probably exaggerating.

“Aw,” you hummed, a frown dousing your features. “M’sure your Pa is just real dedicated, y’know?” You tried to bring out the bright side for your student. “S’like when you buy a fresh book and worry about those pages dentin’. Y’won’t know if you like it if you don’t read it, right?” The girls nodded. “Dentin’ the pages just goes to show all that love you had for that book while readin’ it.”

“I guess…” The Davis girl shrugged, tiny fingers wrapping about the strap of her pretty pink backpack. Seemingly, she wasn’t as impressed as her sister to the right.

You were gonna change the subject. Gonna start chatting ‘bout something else, when a twist of tiers against the pavement sent a squeak across the air. Your mother-hen instincts kicked in instantly, protective hands pulling the girls behind you without a second thought. All heads turned simultaneously to the intrusion on the road, expecting the worst. Expecting a crash of sorts. But no, there was no crash, just a slick car pulling abruptly up against the sidewalk and jerking to a startling stop. One that could only be equated to the driver going far above the speed limit in a school zone.

It went quiet. Far too quiet as the lot of remaining faculty, students, and parents alike kept their eyes peeled back sharply at the reckless driver. Funnily enough the attentive stares of onlookers could have very well been just as bad as those witnessing an actual crash.

You weren’t any better than the rest, collecting snap shot after snap shot like a roll of consecutive film. You could still hear the engine cutting out, the door swinging open and closing with a solid flick of his wrist. A wrist that would do far worse to you in the bedroom. Far worse in the eyes of your religious upbringing, but would feel too holy to you to be considered a sin.

You only caught a glance of him for a second until his back was facing towards you, thick white letters staking his claim with a skull and crossbones for the Chicago Vandals on his cut down vest.

You’d heard a thing or two about those motorcycle men. Your father ranting and raving about the disturbances near route 95 and police chases. But never, had you ever seen one of them in the flesh up close and personal. A shrill of unprecedented delight shot up your spine at the colorful sight, no longer reserved to those blurry black and white paper cuttings.

Stopping in his tracks, you figured his car must have broken down or somethin’ – but no. He was putting out his cigarette with his worn down boot before making his way over to you, and oh he had his eye on you alright.

A relative unease wahed across the school yard, harder than the obvious heat wave as he sauntered across without a care in the world. As if dozens of heads weren’t makin’ disgusted faces and whispering about. Yet a clear intimidation set over them, people stepping out of the way without a word as if he was a Bible figure. Like Moses parting the red sea.

“Uncle Benny!” One of them chirped. Who you didn’t know, couldn’t know with the sudden flush creeping against your cheeks. Your heart dropped to your stomach once you realized who it was and that the man himself with dirty blonde scruff, calloused fingers, and a black inked layer over a honey toned canvas was makin’ a beeline to you. A beeline to you and the girls.

It was the taller Davis girl that must have called out his name, cause suddenly she was pulling you and her sister forward to meet Benny half way. You almost tripped down the stairs within the broken bubble of her excitement. Barely having a moment’s notice to collect yourself, you found your pristine baby pink ballet flats toe to toe with some scruffed up biker boots that had seen better days. You managed a breath before you looked up and boy were you glad you did.

The wind was practically knocked clean out of you when you were caught face to face with the Benny Cross. It wasn’t because you were scared of him — no. You were more taken aback with how pretty he was. How his deeply set ocean eyes managed to speak volumes without saying a word.

And suddenly, on the front steps of Phipps Avenue School you felt seen. More seen than you had ever felt in your life. He wasn’t the only one sticking out like the sorest of thumbs. So were you with your baby pink tank to match your shoes with your signature embroidered denim overall dress. Hair up and out of your face, loose honey curls frizzing about. Your kitsch tastes and unpolished attire were rather baffling for the picturesque depiction gracing the magazines your Ma read at the salon.

Some would say you were lost somewhere in Neverland. Lots of your fellow teachers would crack jokes here and there ‘bout it too. Sure, on a bad day a jab or two could get to you — but hey you liked what you liked and you weren’t gonna change that. Not for anybody. Not even for your Ma or Pa who grimaced at your bedazzled pins wedged into your messy curls during Sunday mass.

So Benny, well who were you to judge him?

“Hi, you must be Uncle Benny,” you greeted the brood of a man in front of you, flexing a sweet-like-honey smile that was just oh-so-you. You let go of the Johnny look-a-likes hand then, allowing her to wrap her small self around Benny’s leg in pure delight to see him as you outstretched your hand in a shake. To your dismay, he didn’t take it. Instead, his free hand that wasn’t mushing up Johnny’s girls dark locks as he patted her head fished for his pack of Marlboro reds in his vest pocket. That didn’t stop you from introducing yourself though. “I’m Miss. Honey.”

He gave you once over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before the edge of his lip tweaked up in a sly smile. “Honey, huh?” He mused, that deep set voice of his, thick and smokey sweetin’ up something deep inside you.

Dropping your hand back down against your dress, the material felt rather rough on your clammy skin. “Yuh-huh.” You nodded, that tight smile of yours making your eyes twitch just a bit.

A fresh cigarette materialized between his teeth then, unlit. A strange courtesy you found rather charming on the midst of educational grounds. “Hm,” he hummed, the narrow cylinder vibrating against his lips as his eyes devoured you a second time. Yet, you figured he was more unimpressed. Most were anyways.

“Benny! Benny! Can we go see Daddy now?” The girl wrapped around his leg yanked his belt loop with a small finger. The little one was still at your side, hand in hand with you. It was kind of amusin’ how different the two were. It was simple figuring out who was the bigger Daddy’s girl of the two.

“In a ‘inute, sweet-art,” he mumbled, that cigarette of his disrupting any fully coherent sentence from spillin’ out. “C’mere ‘ittle one,” he motioned to the shorter girl who was rather uninterested in leaving. In the midst of your conversation, she managed to keep her hand raised, keeping herself conjoined to you as she sat down on the bottom step in complete and utter protest.

“Don’t wanna.” She pouted down at her bunny tied saddle shoes that matched her pretty little pick-tails.

In a sense, you couldn’t blame her. Now it was all adding up. What was really going on. This wasn’t just some run of the mill village cycling marathon. This was a Vandals bike race.

Any other teacher would have probably made a stink, called the parents in for a sit down with the principal over infiltrating their kids in a biker environment infused with criminal records. But, you weren’t like that — no. Especially when you’d see a child’s eyes light up with so much delight. It was clear that Mr. Davis’s look-a-like was really proud of her father. Who could blame her? Respected throughout the community, a family man who put his all into a trucking' job.

A picnic with some bike racin’ wouldn’t be so bad, right?

Not with Mr. Davis involved.

So, you gave the benefit of the doubt. Sure, it could have been for all those reasons that were swarming about your head, but in actuality your heart was working double time over your mind. The image of the Davis girl clinging to Benny’s leg had teddy bear written all over it, giving you all the sweet talkin’ you’d need. Ironically enough, in due time that soft side of him would turn into plushy lovin’ reserved just for you.

“Lemme,” you mouthed to Benny before getting down to the little one’s level. Flattening out your skirt you took a seat next to her and rested both hands over her own in her lap. “Remember when we were talkin’ about a good book? Dentin’ the pages?” The girl nodded, but didn’t meet your eye. Instead, Benny doing the opposite, his eyes practically grilled onto your peripheral vision. “Well, sometimes if we are too protective of it. Too keen on keeping it all in tack, we’ll never learn not to and we’ll just be more and more disappointed when we come across a little crack we never created in the first place. We may not like it, but it’s there, and there is so much love there.” You squeeze the little girl’s hand. “Just like your old man racin’. You may not like it, but he does, and that’s quite alright. You know why?”

“Why?” She looked up at you then, little doe eyes attentive as ever, clinging onto your every word. It was times like this that reminded you why you were a teacher.

“‘Cause you love him, no matter what” You replied, tilting your head ever-so subtly to observe her reaction.

And oh did Benny love you. He didn’t know it then. Couldn’t fully compartmentalize it until later. Yet, unbeknownst to you, it was one of the first of what would become many of Benny's thoughts on how damn good of a teacher you were, how fine of a wife you’d make, and how sweet of a mother you’d be.

Thankfully, your words must have resonated with the little girl. It only took a moment for those delightful dimples of hers to grace those little features before her lips turned up in a sweet smile. “We gotta go Uncle Benny!” The girl declared suddenly, standing up straight with a whole new attitude. You were glad to supply the optimism. That’s what you were all about. That was the lesson you hoped to instill to your students the most.

You couldn’t help but smile yourself, feeling like a warm blanket was being draped over your shoulders soundly. Not uncomfortable. Not contributing to the intolerable heat wave. You’d only been in your second year of teaching, but hey — small victories like this made it worth it. Made you proud of yourself, even if you couldn’t find such gratitude from others.

Little did you know, Benny — he was so fuckin’ proud. Proud to see you spreading such honey-coated wisdom to a youngin’. And there on the steep steps of Phipps Avenue school as the little one wrapped her arms around you and thanked you profusely before grabbing Benny’s hand and heading to Johnny’s car, he found his mission.

You were gonna be his wife.

He was sure of it.

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this was so much fun to write! i hope you liked it :) i’m thinking of also including some honey interviews curtesy of danny ! stay tuned for “from the hive” 🎙️🐝

also to note, my requests are open for any miss honey x benny cross works + any convos about these two in general. don’t be shy honey, i’m all for yapping in the asks.

+ don’t forget to comment if you’d like be added to “da bee hive” (my version of da tag list)

smoochies. all da love xanadu 💋

da bee hive 🐝🍯:

@nervousnerdwitch

@sunnbib

@rose-deathman

@austinbsblog

@thegabbyh

@jihyowrrld

@bellesdreamyprofile

@superemobitch

@m00npjm

@imusicaddict

@astrogrande

@alana4610

@cynic-spirit

@mariaenchanted

[rainylana]

“Don’t tell me no.”

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

summary: you and eddie fuck in an abandoned church.

warnings: prob the dirtiest smut i’ve written in awhile, imo, so enjoy!! warnings include, smut, sex in a church, dom/sub dynamics, sub space, pre-consented to as always, decrophylia, light slapping, dirty talk, it’s very hot in this church lmao, language.

You’re both giggling as you burst into the old church, the sounds of the doors hitting the wall amplifying with an echo. You squeal as you run down the isles, looking back as he chases you. His face squints, his legs beginning to cramp as he puts his hands on his knees.

“Ah, no more.” He waves his hand breathless. “I’m getting too old to be chasing you around, darlin’.”

You laugh breathlessly, sweat rolling down your neck from the summer sun. You look around the room, the church many years abandoned since it’s last service. There’s beautiful stained glass windows, empty pews and discarded Bibles on the floor. A large cross hung on the wall, catching your eye as you looked up.

“This place gives me the creeps.” You shiver, nearly tripling on a bible. “Why’d you wanna bring me here, anyways?”

He shrugged his shoulders, finally able to breath again. “I dunno. Thought it was cool. Wayne always said the place was haunted.”

You looked around and cringed. “Great.”

The room echoed with your voices, the walls chipped with old paint and rust, weeds that were starting to grow through the cracks in the walls. There were leaves on the floor, covering the old carpet that was in desperate need of a good washing.

You felt Eddie’s hand on your waist, his hand sweeping your hair to expose your neck. You smirked when his lips found your skin. “Oh, I get it now. You brought me here to fulfill some fantasy, huh?”

You felt him smile against your skin. “What makes you say that?” He muttered innocently.

“I should have known.” You relaxed back into him, the excitement of the situation making your belly heat up.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, angel.” He moves up to your ear. “I’m just givin’ my sweet girl a kiss, is all.”

You turn to look at him, noses barely brushing over each other’s as you lock eyes. You blink and so does he, eyes asking each other for permission to continue. His lips capture yours in a hot, desperate kiss that says I need you.

Your arms tangle around his neck, his wrapping around your waist. Your lips attack his, kissing him desperately, wanting more. His tongue isn’t enough, swiping over your teeth and licking up your saliva. It’s not enough. You let him back you up against the wall, the bounce of your bodies making dirt fall from the ceiling.

His leg parts your thighs, his own resting against your mound as he makes love to your mouth. “I can feel you.” He husks, hotly. The room, your bodies, it’s all so hot you can barely stand it. “You’re so warm.”

Your pussy flutters for him, the deep throbbing of your clit becoming an uncomfortable ache that needed to be fixed. You grab his face and break apart the kiss. “Touch me.” You beg, hiding your face in his chest.

He’s panting, laying his forehead against your shoulder. His cock is straining his boxers painfully hard, you can feel it against your clothed cunt. “Touch you?” He repeats, turning his nose to your neck. His tongue licks your sweaty, sun burned skin, before he’s pushing you back against the wall. “What do you say?” He’s gripping your chin, softly, yet enough to hold your attention, as if he didn’t already have it.

He looks at you sternly, seductively. Dominantly. Slipping into a role that you knew all too well. It made you feel small, but it made you throb every time it did. You instinctively rub yourself against his jeans. He doesn’t miss the action.

“Please?” You mutter, face flushing in embarrassment, or maybe it’s just the damn heat. “Touch me, please, Ed?” You push your weight down on his thigh, your mound resting perfectly against it like a puzzle piece.

He smirks, grabbing each one of your hands and pining them at the sides of your head. “Doesn’t seem like you need me for that, sweetheart.” His lips go back to yours, plump and pink that fight yours for dominance. He bites your lip, making you whimper into the kiss. “Fuck yourself against me.”

You open your eyes in surprise. “What?” Your voice is shaking for lust. “No, I-”

“Don’t tell me no.” He grips your face so hard your cheeks press together, giving your face a little shake. “Do as I say, or we’ll leave and you’ll get nothing at all.”

You’re whimpering at the harshness, the lust making you light headed and dizzy. You choke out a dry sob, embarrassed, as you rub yourself against his thigh. You look away, but he lightly taps your face.

“Uh-uh.” He disciplines you, giving you another light tap. “Eyes on me. Watch me as you fuck yourself like the desperate whore you are.”

It’s so hot, he panted out the words. It had to at least be 100 degrees in there. Your fingers squeeze at the hands that hold your wrists as you fuck your cunt against his leg. Your clit throbbing at the feeling of denim against the swollen bead. You moan, you can’t help it. You’re so hot and you feel so good, so fucking needy for him. You rock yourself faster, you’ve barely started and you’re already so close to finishing right on his thigh.

You keep eye contact with him, and he slowly inches closer to you to rest his forehead against yours. He helps you out, rubbing his own thigh against your pussy. You cry out, getting messy with your desperate rubs that attempt to get you undone.

“Good girl.” He praises you. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you, baby?”

You nod ferociously. “Yes, sir!” You slip into your submissive roll, sinking back further and further into your brain that makes you go foggy.

He stops you, pushing on your leg before you can cum, separating your cunt from his thigh. “Not yet, honey.” He let’s go of your wrists, hurriedly working to undo his belt buckle. “I wanna fuck that sweet pussy of yours.”

Your face burns bright in excitement, you’re nearly falling to the floor. He grabs your hand and urges you to follow him, bringing you to the closest pew and bends you over it, your hands resting on the old wooden railing of the seat.

“Hold on, baby.” He flips up your dress, pulls down your panties and slowly pushes into you so you can adjust to his size. A desperate moan ripples through you, your fingers gripping at the seat you’re bent over. You’re jaw falls slack as he thrusts all the way into you, that familiar, welcoming burn stretching you open.

“Oh, fuck.” Eddie praises after the first thrust, looking up to the ceiling with his eyes closed.

He pulls out and quickly switches the pace, now that you’ve adjusted to him. He fucks you fast and hard, messy and desperate, aching to please you and himself. Your legs shake so badly you fear they might fall off, you’re sobbing, hot, boiling tears falling down your face and onto the floor.

Your clit is throbbing, so you reach between your legs and messily swipe at it to dull the ache. His hands bruise your hips in a menacing grip, his hips snapping against your ass that had the room echoing with sensual, pornographic noises.

“Oh, god, baby.” His hair is damp at the tips from sweating, it’s dripping onto your back. He feels so good, his dick is throbbing and his belly is as tight as a drum. He’s so close to snapping that bubble, but he wants to give you more.

“Do you like it- when daddy, ah shit, fucks you, baby?” He’s getting messier, his voice is shaking.

You’re barely able to speak. “Yes!” You blubber, drool spilling out of your mouth that matches the tears in your eyes, the sweat above your lip that leaves a salty taste on your tongue. Each thrust leaves you hiccuping, sobbing. Your breath hitches when you body twitches. Eddie feels you, giving one last, hard thrust that his him busting inside of you.

You’re both releasing together, your pussy clamping down on his cock that his him spewing out curse words in the abandoned house of god. Your body is shaking so bad you can barely move, the tears haven’t stopped and it’s so damn hot.

He collapses atop of you, his body on yours as he fights for air. You’re slipping from your spot, making his eyes widen briefly before he stands up and catches you. “Woah, baby.” He says in exhaustion, heat exhaustion.

You fall into his chest and allow him to pick you up, your head lulling to the side. “You alright, honey?”

You smile, somehow manage to, your body rippling with the pleasure of his cock, his arousal creating a sticky substance down your leg. You’re not able to say anything, but you give him the goofiest grin you can muster, sticking up your thumb in a thumbs up motion.

He snickers and kisses your head, looking down to realize he’s still naked. “Fuck, babe, I gotta put my clothes back on.”

[nihildenial]

the ghouls are very interesting because they refuse to run on a treadmill (swiss says its too bouncy, sunny hates the noise, and the frequency of the electricity bothers phantom) so copia had to literally buy a human sized hamster wheel.

however, because of mountain and aether's large stride length, it had to be XXL large so the ghouls could run on all fours.

so the only place to put it...is in the main sanctuary:

"Blessed Dark Lord, today we raise our sins as an offering--"

*squeak squeak squeak*

Phantom scuttles on the giant wheel on the far side of the room, but the acoustics of the nave only amplify the sounds.

Copia sighs and continues on, reraising his incense burner. A sibling giggles, but everyone in the pews looks back at their unholy bibles.

"We give our sins as an offering for the deconsecration of this unholy cathedral that we call home. Let us be cursed by happiness, embraced by community, and--"

*squeak squeak THUMP thump-thump*

Everyone turns to see that Phantom lost his momentum and was forcefully tumbled around like an armadillo caught in a hurricane. He sits up, smiles brightly and starts to run on the wheel again.

[novaursa]

Legacy (union of fire and gold)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Just a reminder how events of this story differ from the canon.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: homecoming

- Next part: by his design

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The day dawned overcast, with a pale, muted light casting a gray hue over the city as the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolled, echoing throughout King’s Landing. The streets were lined with onlookers, commoners and courtiers alike, whispering in anticipation of the union about to take place. News had spread quickly, tales of the Targaryen princess returned to the capital and soon to be bound to the most powerful lord in Westeros. The marriage of a lion and a dragon—an alliance many had once thought impossible.

The Sept itself was adorned for the occasion, candles flickering in every alcove, their soft glow illuminating the vast marble hall. The high arches soared above, casting an almost ethereal light across the space as the silent sisters moved through the aisles, their white robes sweeping the floors in solemn reverence.

You stood in the antechamber, waiting for the ceremony to begin, your heart steady but your mind a storm of thoughts. The gown you wore had been chosen carefully, a testament to your heritage as well as a nod to the new life you were stepping into. The fabric was deep crimson, almost black in certain lights, shot through with threads of silver that shimmered faintly as you moved—a tribute to the colors of House Targaryen as well as House Lannister. The gown’s neckline was modest but elegant, dipping just enough to reveal a thin, intricate necklace of Valyrian steel, a rare piece that had been salvaged from the relics of your family. It rested cool against your skin, a silent reminder of the bloodline you carried.

The sleeves were long, fitted tightly down your arms before flaring at the wrists, each cuff embroidered with delicate silver dragons coiling around golden lions. The waist was cinched with a slender belt of red and gold, inlaid with small rubies that glinted like fire in the dim light. Your hair had been swept up, held in place by delicate silver pins shaped like dragon wings, with a few tendrils left to frame your face. You’d refused a veil; this was no ordinary marriage, and you would meet the eyes of every witness with your own head held high.

As the silent sisters moved to open the door for you, a figure approached—Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak a stark contrast to the richness of the ceremony’s decor. He regarded you with a warmth that softened the lines of his face, a faint smile touching his lips.

“Your family would have been proud to see you today,” he murmured quietly, his voice steady. “I know they would have been.”

You nodded, offering him a grateful smile, but said nothing. The memories of your family weighed heavily on you, but this day was one of duty, of survival. You took a steadying breath as the doors to the Sept opened, revealing the crowd of nobility that filled the pews. Each head turned, and whispers began to ripple through the hall as you entered.

Ahead, Tywin stood waiting at the altar, his posture as commanding as ever, dressed in rich red and gold that seemed to amplify the severe lines of his face. His expression was impassive, though his eyes met yours with a piercing intensity that was both reassuring and possessive. The High Septon stood beside him, adorned in robes of white and gold, his hands folded before him as he waited to perform the rites.

You moved forward with steady steps, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you, each step a deliberate, measured acceptance of the path you had chosen—or had been chosen for you. As you neared the altar, you caught a glimpse of Cersei in the front row, her expression a tightly controlled mask of resentment and bitterness. Beside her, Joffrey watched with a cruel smirk, his eyes glittering with an amusement that made your skin crawl. Sansa was seated a few places away, her eyes wide, filled with something close to awe and hope as she watched you.

The High Septon began the ceremony, his voice solemn and resonant, echoing through the hall as he recited the ancient vows. His words seemed to fade into the background as you faced Tywin, your eyes locked on his, each of you a picture of calm control amidst the ceremony’s grandeur.

“Do you, Lord Tywin Lannister, take Lady Y/N of House Targaryen as your lawful wife, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?” the High Septon intoned, his voice formal.

Tywin inclined his head, his voice strong and unyielding. “I do.”

The High Septon turned to you, his gaze solemn. “And do you, Lady Y/N of House Targaryen, take Lord Tywin Lannister as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, to honor and protect, from this day until the end of your days?”

You swallowed, the weight of the vow settling over you as you answered, your voice steady. “I do.”

The High Septon lifted his hands in blessing, and the audience fell silent as he spoke the final rites, joining your hands together in a ceremonial binding. The feel of Tywin’s hand over yours was firm, unyielding, his grip a silent promise that left no room for uncertainty.

“With this union,” the High Septon proclaimed, “House Targaryen and House Lannister stand as one. May the Seven bless this bond, now and forever.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the ceremony concluded, and Tywin leaned in, placing a chaste but possessive kiss on your forehead—a public gesture of claim, a declaration to all present that you now belonged to him.

The bells of the Sept tolled once more as you and Tywin exited the altar, arm in arm, each step echoing through the hall as you faced the court together. The nobility stood, bowing as you passed, each of them aware of the significance of this marriage, the union of two great houses brought together by fire and ambition.

When you reached the doors, they opened to reveal the courtyard filled with onlookers, each one craning to catch sight of the newly wed couple. Tywin’s gaze was fixed forward, his grip on your arm as steady and unrelenting as his own sense of purpose. This was his victory, his triumph—and now, it was yours as well, even if it had come at the cost of your past.

The crowd cheered as you descended the steps, and the sound grew louder as you made your way toward the Great Hall, where a grand feast awaited. The tables were laden with the finest dishes King’s Landing could offer—roasted boar, honey-glazed fruits, thick stews and freshly baked bread, each dish arranged with meticulous care.

You took a seat at the high table beside Tywin, your gaze sweeping over the hall as you settled into your new place. The nobility began to fill the room, each one eager to partake in the feast, to toast to the union of fire and gold. The sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses filled the hall, the air thick with the scent of wine and spices as the night began.

You kept your gaze steady, a quiet resolve in your expression as you prepared to face what lay ahead. This was your new reality, your new path. And as the feast began, you knew that whatever challenges awaited, you would meet them head-on, just as you had met the vows you’d taken that day.

The hall was alight with celebration, filled with the sound of laughter, clinking goblets, and lively music. Nobles from across the realm raised their glasses to toast your union with Tywin, each vying for favor, some more genuine than others.

At the high table, you sat beside Tywin, who remained as composed and impenetrable as ever. His gaze swept over the crowd, his mere presence commanding respect, if not fear, from those who dared approach.

Not long into the feast, you noticed a figure making his way over to the high table, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips: King Joffrey. His golden hair gleamed in the torchlight, and his green eyes held a glint of malice barely concealed behind a play of princely decorum. He stopped in front of you, giving an exaggerated bow that was more mockery than respect.

“Lady Y/N,” he drawled, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Or should I say, Lady Lannister? My, my… congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with a calm, steady expression, refusing to rise to his bait. “Thank you, Your Grace,” you replied, your voice polite but cool. “It is kind of you to offer your well wishes.”

Joffrey’s smirk widened, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Yes, I imagine it must feel… different, being back in King’s Landing after so long. Such a shame, really, that you had to spend all those years in the North. But then, not everyone can be so… fortunate as to live here in the capital.”

You held his gaze, letting a faint, knowing smile play at the corners of your lips. “Indeed, Your Grace,” you replied smoothly. “But I’ve found that those who endure hardship often come out stronger for it. And King’s Landing, as I recall, isn’t without its own… challenges.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Joffrey’s face, and you saw his hand twitch as though he longed to wipe that smile from your lips. Before he could retort, Tywin’s voice cut through the tension, cold and commanding.

“Enough, Joffrey,” Tywin said, his tone laced with steel. “This is neither the time nor the place for your petty provocations. Show respect or be silent.”

Joffrey’s smirk faded, and he flushed with anger, but he dared not defy his grandsire. He cast a sharp look at Cersei, who was watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, a mixture of irritation and helplessness on her face.

“Mother,” Joffrey snapped, turning on his heel. “It seems I am unwanted here.”

Cersei stood, a warning in her gaze as she took her son’s arm, steering him away. “Come, Joffrey,” she murmured, her tone firm but placating. “You have guests to attend to.”

As they left, Tywin’s gaze remained fixed ahead, a faint look of satisfaction in his eyes. “That boy would do well to remember his place,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Moments later, you noticed another familiar face approaching, and this time, your heart lifted with genuine joy. Sansa, dressed in a soft gown of light blue that brought out the gentle hue of her eyes, approached tentatively, her expression filled with a mixture of awe and warmth.

Rising from your seat, you extended a hand, and she took it gratefully, allowing you to pull her into a gentle hug. Tywin said nothing, merely casting a brief glance in her direction before returning his attention to the festivities.

“Sansa,” you murmured, your voice soft, filled with the affection of long-lost family. “It’s so good to see you.”

She pulled back, her gaze brimming with warmth. “And you, Lady Y/N… or should I say, Lady Lannister?” she teased lightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You offered a gentle smile. “I think for you, Sansa, ‘Y/N’ will do just fine.”

Guiding her a little farther down the hall, away from the prying ears and eyes, you found a quieter corner where you could speak more freely. Once you were sure no one would overhear, you turned to her, an apology already forming in your eyes.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” you said softly, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “I had hoped to speak with you before all of this began.”

She shook her head, her gaze filled with understanding. “I know… I understand. Everything has been so chaotic.”

A shadow crossed your face as you recalled the recent tragedies. “I heard about your father, Sansa,” you whispered, your voice laced with sympathy. “I am… so deeply sorry. Lord Stark was an honorable man.”

Sansa’s eyes welled up, and she quickly looked down, her voice barely a murmur. “Thank you. It’s… it’s been difficult.” She glanced up at you, a flicker of hope in her gaze. “But having you here… it’s like having a part of Winterfell again.”

You smiled gently, squeezing her hand. “Then perhaps I can be that, in some small way.” Leaning closer, your voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And Sansa… I saw Arya.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching as she gripped your arm. “Arya? She’s… she’s alive?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your gaze warm and reassuring. “I saw her, briefly. She was dressed as a boy, keeping herself hidden. But she’s alive, and she’s strong, just as you’d expect her to be.”

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes, and she stifled a small, choked laugh. “That sounds like Arya,” she murmured, her voice filled with a mixture of relief and longing. “Thank you… for telling me.”

You brushed a hand over her arm, giving her a look of quiet assurance. “She’s out there, Sansa. And she’s doing everything she can to survive. Just as you are.”

Sansa nodded, composing herself as best she could, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips. “Thank you, Lady Y/N. You don’t know how much this means.”

You shook your head. “You don’t need to thank me, Sansa. Just remember, I’m here for you.”

She gave a final, grateful nod, her gaze filled with gratitude as she glanced back toward the high table. The weight of everything unsaid lingered between you, but the connection you shared was unbreakable, stronger than any marriage or alliance. And as you both returned to your places, the sounds of the feast washing over you, you felt the quiet strength of family—a bond that would survive the walls of the Red Keep and beyond.

Returning to the high table, you slid back into your seat beside Tywin, feeling the weight of the hall settle back over you. The brief conversation with Sansa had brought a sense of warmth and familiarity—a small reminder of the bonds that had shaped you. But now, as you glanced at Tywin, that warmth turned to steel, a reminder of the duty you now carried.

Tywin watched you with that piercing gaze, a subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He gave a slight nod, as if approving of your composure. For a moment, he was silent, his attention seeming to linger on you a moment longer than usual.

“You handled yourself well,” he said, his tone low, barely carrying over the noise of the hall. “The nobility are already whispering of you. They’ll see you not as some relic of the past but as an ally to House Lannister.”

You met his gaze, reading between his words. His approval was visible, but there was something else—a faint softness beneath the iron, something almost akin to pride. His voice, though guarded, held a trace of something warmer, something almost close to affection.

"Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your own tone carry a subtle warmth. “I’m merely living up to the role I’ve been given. And, I must say, I find myself… intrigued by it.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, almost imperceptible but enough for you to notice. “Good,” he said, his gaze softening, just for a moment. “The strength to endure is as important as any alliance. I expected nothing less of you.”

The hint of pride in his voice surprised you, leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted, loud and already tinged with the effects of a fair amount of wine.

“Ah, Father!” Tyrion’s voice carried a note of barely restrained amusement as he approached, goblet in hand. His eyes were sharp with mirth as he took in the sight of you and Tywin seated side by side. “I trust everything is precisely as you envisioned? After all, I took such great pains to ensure every detail met your exacting standards.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to Tyrion, a faint flicker of irritation flashing across his face, though he maintained his composure. “It will suffice, Tyrion. I see you managed not to make a mockery of the occasion.”

Tyrion raised his goblet in a mock toast, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “High praise from you, Father. I shall cherish it.” He turned his attention to you, his smile widening. “And as for you, Lady Y/N, I do hope my arrangements have been satisfactory. It was quite the ordeal to bring King’s Landing up to par for a Targaryen-Lannister wedding. One can hardly imagine the stress.”

You matched his grin, letting a glint of amusement show in your eyes. “I daresay you succeeded, Lord Tyrion. The feast is exquisite, and I confess I’ve never seen a hall so thoroughly adorned with lions. Though I imagine it’s less about my comfort and more about making a statement.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly pleased with your wit. “Ah, perceptive as well. My, my, Father, it seems you’ve made an excellent match. A woman who sees the truth behind all the finery.” He raised an eyebrow, giving you an appreciative nod. “Quite a feat, Lady Y/N. I can only hope my efforts haven’t gone entirely unappreciated.”

You inclined your head, playing along with his jest. “On the contrary, Lord Tyrion. I’ve found your touch to be both charming and… pointed. King’s Landing certainly knows who reigns here.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted between the two of you, a glimmer of something like amusement, though he hid it well. “Perhaps, Tyrion, you’d fare better showing less charm in your wine and more restraint in your presence,” he said, his tone clipped but lacking its usual severity.

Tyrion merely chuckled, entirely undeterred. “Ah, but Father, what is a wedding without a bit of wine and wit?” He leaned in closer to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “After all, Lady Y/N, you’ll soon find that in this court, a sharp tongue can be a most valuable ally.”

You smiled, meeting his eyes. “A lesson I learned long ago, Lord Tyrion. Though I’ll admit, it’s refreshing to see it wielded so… skillfully.”

Tyrion laughed, clearly enjoying your exchange. “And here I thought I might have to work to keep you on your toes. It seems, Father, that Lady Y/N has a mind of her own.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though you could sense his approval as he studied you. “A mind put to use in furthering our family, I trust.”

Tyrion raised his glass once more, a gleam of amusement in his eyes as he looked between you and Tywin. “Indeed. A toast, then, to our union and to the surprises yet to come.” He grinned, bowing his head in your direction. “And to you, Lady Y/N. May you continue to be every bit as sharp as you’ve shown yourself to be tonight.”

With that, he gave a small, mocking bow and moved off, blending back into the crowd, his laughter carrying over the music as he raised his glass for another drink.

As you watched him go, Tywin’s gaze lingered on you, the hint of approval in his eyes once more. “You handle him well,” he remarked, his voice low. “Perhaps even better than I expected.”

You smiled, letting your gaze flicker toward him. “I’ve found that wit is a language, Lord Tywin. And I’ve learned to speak it well.” You paused, choosing your next words carefully. “I believe I’ll find my place here, as I have wherever fate has taken me.”

Tywin regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable, though his eyes held a trace of something warmer, perhaps even respect. “Excellent,” he said, his tone softer, almost approving. “Then perhaps this is where you’re meant to be.”

You held his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you as the noise of the feast rose around you.

Tyrion moved through the bustling hall, goblet in hand and a lightness in his step that came only after a certain amount of wine. He spotted Jaime leaning against one of the pillars near the edge of the festivities, his face thoughtful as he observed the high table where you sat beside Tywin. Tyrion approached, raising his goblet in a silent greeting.

“Enjoying the spectacle, dear brother?” Tyrion asked, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he joined Jaime.

Jaime’s gaze didn’t waver from the table, his expression thoughtful, almost nostalgic. “I was just thinking,” he murmured, “about how strange it is to see her there. Lady Y/N… sitting beside Father, wearing Lannister colors.” He shook his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “I remember when she was a girl, wandering these halls. Back then, she moved through the Red Keep like she was born to it, like it was her domain.”

Tyrion took a long sip of his wine, studying his brother’s expression. “And now?”

Jaime chuckled softly, though there was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Now… she’s a guest in her own home. She’s not the same as she was, but she still carries herself with that Targaryen pride.” His gaze flicked to Tywin, then back to you. “It’s strange, seeing her beside him. Like fire and stone.”

Tyrion nodded, his gaze shifting thoughtfully as he watched the high table. “A strange match, to be sure,” he mused. “Though it seems they understand one another in a way that few could. A meeting of wills, perhaps.”

As they spoke, Ser Barristan Selmy approached, his white cloak trailing softly behind him. He inclined his head to both brothers, his gaze lingering on the high table with a look of quiet pride.

“Ser Barristan,” Jaime greeted, a glint of interest in his eyes. “Admiring the new Lady Lannister?”

Barristan nodded, a faint, almost wistful smile touching his lips. “I am,” he admitted, his voice carrying a rare warmth. “It’s a relief to see her alive and well. She was… always a light in these halls. Her family’s pride and spirit lived through her, and it’s heartening to see she survived.”

Tyrion tilted his head, intrigued. “You almost sound proud, Ser Barristan,” he remarked, his tone playful but curious.

Barristan’s gaze softened as he watched you, his expression almost paternal. “I am proud,” he replied quietly. “To see her here, despite everything. Princess Y/N survived when so many of her kin did not. But I can’t help but feel sadness too.” He sighed, a shadow passing over his face. “She’s separated from her family, from the brother she loved and the sister she never met. A Targaryen alone in a city that once belonged to her blood.”

Jaime’s gaze hardened slightly, his expression sharpening. “She’s no longer a princess, Ser Barristan,” he pointed out. “Lady Y/N is a Lannister now, by marriage.”

Barristan’s expression didn’t change, his voice steady as he replied. “Titles are given and taken by men, Ser Jaime. Blood, however, is eternal. She was born a princess, a Targaryen. No marriage can change that.” His gaze shifted to Jaime, a subtle challenge in his eyes. “Even now, sitting beside your father, she holds more claim to the Iron Throne than any in this hall combined.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, watching the exchange with interest. “A bold statement, Ser Barristan,” he murmured, swirling the wine in his goblet. “One that I suspect would be poorly received by certain parties in this room.”

Barristan’s eyes held firm, unwavering. “The truth doesn’t change to suit the comfort of others,” he replied, his tone measured but resolute. “She is the last of her line, the daughter of a king. That is not something even Lord Tywin can strip from her.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking back to you as you sat beside Tywin, poised and composed, your Targaryen heritage evident even in your Lannister colors. “Perhaps not,” he conceded quietly, though his voice held an edge. “But claiming the throne and ruling are two different things. And she seems… content with her place.”

Barristan’s gaze softened as he looked at you. “Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s merely playing the game, biding her time. That’s what a true Targaryen would do. Endure and rise, against all odds.”

Tyrion chuckled, taking a long sip of his wine. “Well, I can certainly drink to that,” he said, raising his goblet in a small salute. “To fire, and to survival. Qualities, it seems, our new step-mother possesses in spades.”

Barristan inclined his head, his gaze lingering on you, admiration and loyalty etched into his expression. “She’s her family’s legacy, as much as she is her own,” he murmured. “And I, for one, am grateful that legacy endures, even in these halls.”

The lively atmosphere of the feast was beginning to settle as goblets emptied and platters were slowly cleared. Laughter and music filled the hall, though an underlying unease lingered in the air, an anticipation that rippled among the guests. As the night wore on, Joffrey rose from his seat, a sly, mischievous grin spreading across his face. He raised his goblet, calling for attention.

"Well, now that we've all had our fill of wine and merriment," he drawled, his voice carrying across the hall, "it's only fitting we send the bride and groom to bed, don't you think?" His smirk widened, and he gestured theatrically toward you and Tywin. "After all, what would a wedding be without a bedding ceremony?”

The hall fell into a hushed silence, a murmur rippling through the guests as they turned to look at you and Tywin. The flicker of amusement on some faces hinted at their eagerness to indulge in Joffrey’s suggestion, but Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, his gaze fixed coldly on his grandson.

The young king leaned forward, his grin growing sharper, relishing the moment. "Come now, Grandsire. Surely you don’t mind allowing the court a bit of sport? I’m sure Lady Y/N would love to be escorted to her marital bed in true royal fashion.”

You felt a flush rise in your cheeks, your stomach tightening as the weight of every gaze settled on you. But before you could respond, Tywin’s hand gripped yours firmly, grounding you, his touch unyielding.

With a single, cold glance, Tywin silenced the murmur in the room. "There will be no bedding ceremony tonight," he stated, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority that cut through the hall like a blade. “This is a matter of dignity, not sport. And I expect the court to respect that.”

Joffrey’s face twisted in irritation, his eyes narrowing. His pride had already been bruised earlier, and he was clearly in no mood to back down. “But it’s tradition,” he argued, a petulant edge creeping into his voice. “The people expect a show, a proper send-off. Surely, Grandsire, you wouldn’t deny them that?”

Tywin’s gaze turned icy, his grip on your hand never loosening as he rose from his seat, standing to his full height as he regarded Joffrey with a look of utter disdain. “Tradition,” he repeated, his tone laced with contempt. “Is not an excuse for vulgarity, Your Grace.”

Joffrey flushed, anger sparking in his eyes as he clenched his goblet tightly. “I am the king,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “And I think I’ll decide what is or isn’t vulgar.”

Before he could continue, Cersei rose quickly, placing a calming hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, her voice soft and soothing. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her tone placating, though there was an underlying edge of desperation. “Let us not ruin such a joyous occasion. Your grandsire only wishes to maintain the dignity of the court.”

Joffrey shook her hand off, his gaze fixed stubbornly on Tywin, his face red with frustration. “I am not a child to be chastised in my own hall,” he spat, glaring at Tywin. “You do not command here, Grandsire. I do.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, his gaze steady, cold, and unyielding. “Then act like a king, Joffrey,” he said, his voice low but filled with steel. “A true king commands respect, not indulgence.”

The hall fell into tense silence, every eye fixed on the standoff between Tywin and Joffrey. For a moment, it seemed as though Joffrey would argue further, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But under Tywin’s relentless gaze, his confidence faltered, his resolve wavering. He looked away, muttering under his breath as he took his seat again, his face twisted in humiliation.

Cersei exhaled quietly, her expression a mix of relief and simmering anger as she settled back into her seat beside her son, casting a sidelong glance at Tywin that spoke volumes.

Tywin’s attention returned to you, his hand still firmly gripping yours as he turned, addressing the guests in a final, dismissive tone. “The feast is over. The court may enjoy the remainder of the night as they see fit. Lady Y/N and I will retire.”

Without waiting for a response, he drew you to your feet, guiding you away from the high table. His grip was steady, possessive, a silent reminder that he had claimed you, that tonight, you would not be subjected to the mockery and spectacle Joffrey had intended.

As you left the hall, the noise of the feast faded behind you, replaced by the quiet footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the Red Keep. Tywin’s silence was as unyielding as ever, his gaze forward as he led you through the winding passages, his presence a wall of unbreakable resolve.

Finally, as you neared your chambers, he spoke, his voice calm, his tone laced with something you could almost mistake for gentleness. “This is your night, Lady Y/N,” he said, glancing down at you. “And no one—not even a king—will take that dignity from you.”

You met his gaze, a flicker of gratitude and perhaps even warmth in your expression as you nodded. “Thank you, Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of his protection as much as his authority.

He didn’t respond, merely nodding as he continued forward, guiding you into the privacy of your chambers, where the rest of the night awaited you—without the eyes of the court, without the mockery of a bedding ceremony, and with only the silent understanding between you and the man who now, irrevocably, held your future in his hands.

As the heavy doors of your chambers closed behind you, the sounds of the feast, of laughter and music, faded away, leaving only silence in their place. The faint light of candles cast a warm glow over the room, illuminating the rich tapestries and the faint gleam of polished silver in the dimness. You could hear the soft clicking of your jewelry as you began to remove the more intricate pieces, each one a reminder of the ceremony, of the role you had stepped into today.

Tywin moved to unfasten his cloak, his motions slow and deliberate. The silence between you grew, thick with unspoken words and expectations. He caught your gaze in the reflection of a nearby mirror, his expression impassive, though his eyes held a glint of steel.

“Do you know what is expected of you, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low but firm, carrying an authority that left no room for hesitation.

You met his gaze steadily, nodding as you removed a bracelet, feeling its weight slide from your wrist. “I do,” you replied, your voice calm, though there was a trace of quiet defiance there. “I am well aware of my duty, Tywin.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of approval mixed with his usual severity. “Good,” he replied. There was a beat of silence, and then, his tone became almost matter-of-fact, his words carefully chosen. “You understand, then, that I have no clear male heir for Casterly Rock. Jaime’s oath binds him to the Kingsguard, and I would sooner see Casterly Rock crumble than pass it to Tyrion.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “Yes,” you said, lifting your gaze to meet his. “That particular… predicament has been common knowledge since my first time at court. The succession, or lack of it, has always been a concern, hasn’t it?”

A flicker of something crossed Tywin’s face, a momentary shift in his expression. He looked away, his hands pausing briefly on the golden clasp of his ceremonial cloak before continuing. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone taut, controlled. “It has.”

As you removed the last of your jewelry, a thought crossed your mind, one that lingered at the edge of this silent conversation. “Then why wait so long to address it?” you asked, your voice soft but curious. “Why didn’t you… find a solution sooner?”

For a moment, Tywin was silent, his back turned as he removed his cloak, laying it across a nearby chair with precise care. The question hung in the air, unanswered, but his silence spoke volumes. There was a slight stiffness in his stance, a subtle shift that hinted at something unspoken, something deeply personal, though he would not allow it to surface.

He turned back to face you, his gaze colder, more focused, as though he’d shut down any hint of whatever sentiment had momentarily slipped through. “This is not the time for speculation, Y/N,” he replied, his voice as unyielding as iron. “You have agreed to this union, and you know your role in it.”

With that, he moved to unfasten the buttons of his doublet, his movements precise, measured. His gaze lingered on you, a silent command as he spoke. “Undress yourself,” he said, his voice low, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his authority but also recognizing the power you still held. You began to undo the fastenings of your gown, your movements as calm and deliberate as his own, feeling the layers of fine fabric slide from your shoulders and pool at your feet. The air felt cooler against your skin, a reminder of the vulnerability and duty that now lay between you.

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes as he continued to remove his own attire, his gaze unwavering as he observed you. There was a quiet intensity in his stance, as he guided you to the bed.

The cool night air of the room barely reaches you, as Tywin’s weight starts pressing you down into the silken sheets. His gaze is steady, his hands firm yet surprisingly gentle as he guides you beneath him. There’s a glint in his eyes—something raw, something primal. You’re all too aware of the closeness between you, of his warm breath as he hovers just above, taking in every detail of your face.

Tywin’s hand moves between you both, adjusting as he positions himself. You feel the pressure as he presses forward, the unfamiliar stretch drawing a sharp, stifled yelp from your throat. His expression doesn’t soften—no, Tywin Lannister isn’t the sort of man to show tenderness in moments like this. But his eyes close briefly, and a low, rumbling exhale escapes him, something between pleasure and satisfaction.

When he begins to move, his pace is deliberate, calculated. His breaths, warm and shallow, mingle with yours as his mouth hovers just near enough to feel the brush of his lips on yours without fully meeting. Each motion is purposeful, and he watches you, every flicker of discomfort and pleasure written across your face. His hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close as his body presses deeper, filling you in a way that sends ripples of sensation down your spine.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel, both commanding and restrained. You meet his gaze, feeling yourself yielding under the weight of it. His thumb strokes along your cheek in a rare gesture of softness as his movements grow a fraction more urgent, his rhythm deepening.

The ache in your body slowly melts away, replaced by a growing, unfamiliar pleasure. Small sounds escape your lips, and you sense the change in him as he takes them in, each soft moan seemingly driving him further. His mouth hovers near your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs, almost as if to himself, “You’re mine now, truly.”

Your hand rises instinctively, finding purchase on his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as your body adjusts to the rhythm he’s set. “You didn’t need to send me North for that, Tywin,” you manage between breaths, the faintest hint of defiance lacing your words.

A smirk tugs at his lips, a rare crack in his composed facade. “It was necessary,” he says, his voice steady even as his own breathing grows heavier. “Winterfell kept you safe… untouched, unspoiled, exactly as you should be.” His words settle over you, a possessive edge to them that sends a thrill down your spine. It sounded almost like a confession.

As the pace quickens, any response dissolves into breathless gasps, the friction of his movements drawing forth pleasure in waves. You arch against him, feeling the tightness between you, the way his hands press into your sides, urging you closer with each thrust. His hand slips down to your waist, securing you firmly as he drives forward, every part of him focused on drawing out every sound, every sigh.

The sensation builds, your body yielding to his with every motion, every glance, the sound of his breath mingling with your own until there’s nothing else—only this connection, this raw and unspoken understanding between you.

As he finally stills, the silence in the room settles around you both. His eyes are still on you, a lingering intensity in his gaze as he brushes a stray pale strand of hair from your face, his thumb resting briefly against your cheek.

“You’re mine now,” he repeats, quieter this time, as if sealing a promise with each word.

Tywin remains within you, his presence filling every space, grounding you beneath him. His weight and warmth press down, possessive, as he settles himself closer, his hands still resting on either side of you. His gaze sharpens, fixing on you with a commanding steadiness, yet there’s something more—a shadow of restrained intent.

“You understand, of course, that you’ll be expected here often,” he begins, his voice low, each word crisp and certain. “Until you are with child, my needs in the bedchamber will be met… regularly.”

You don’t flinch, don’t look away; instead, you meet his gaze with equal resolve. “I’ve told you already how I know my duty, Tywin,” you reply, a calm edge to your voice. His expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something in his eyes—just the faintest flicker of acknowledgment, of approval. You continue, your voice soft but unwavering, “But I am more than that.”

A rare silence follows your words, and you watch as his jaw tenses, a flicker of something that almost resembles surprise crossing his features. His fingers brush down your arm, lingering, and for a moment, Tywin seems almost… caught, suspended in a gaze that feels somehow intimate, yet distant. His eyes search yours, calculating, introspective, as though weighing every word, every glance. There’s something in his expression—something unspoken, raw, and real—that betrays a hint of what he might not dare to say aloud. Perhaps he’d imagined this moment more times than he would admit, even to himself.

You feel his hand tighten gently at your hip, and his voice comes, low and rough, the barest hint of a softened edge. “More than that… perhaps.” He leans down, his mouth lingering just above yours, close enough to feel his breath. “But I am not a man who permits sentiment to cloud his purpose. You are here because you serve that purpose. You are mine, in name and blood.”

There is a pause, one weighted with the tension between you, the undeniable pull beneath the surface of his words. “But understand,” he continues, his tone dipping as his eyes trace your features, “you are not some idle decoration or a tool. If you wish to be ‘more,’ then prove it. Show me what more means to you, and perhaps… I’ll allow it.”

His words hang between you like a challenge, his gaze penetrating, unwavering. And as his fingers brush your cheek, there is a finality to his touch, a promise that neither of you will speak aloud but feel all the same.

“You know well enough,” you murmur, your voice steady and unyielding, “that I am more than that. And if I am yours, then let it be known that you are mine as well. I will not be merely the mother of your heirs.”

A rare, subtle smirk pulls at his lips, and he lets out a breath, something between resignation and faint amusement. “Bold words,” he replies, his voice softening ever so slightly. His gaze intensifies, locking onto yours with a fierceness that borders on admiration. “Perhaps that boldness is what drew me to this arrangement after all.”

His lips find yours, a kiss as demanding as the man himself—hungry and consuming, yet just gentle enough to hint at a restraint he rarely affords anyone. When he finally pulls back, you feel his thumb brushing over your cheek in the barest hint of tenderness before his gaze hardens again, as though the moment of softness never existed.

“You will come to know your place here,” he says quietly, but there is an understanding in his words, a promise that, while unspoken, settles deeply between you both.

In this silence, his hand lingers on your skin, a shared recognition passing between you—one that speaks of purpose and strength, of duty and the rare, guarded understanding that neither of you may ever speak aloud.

[rosen-und-mondlicht]

first time posting hazbin lucifer x fem!reader

how about some sacrilegious sex after the Pope died?

The cathedral built in Lucifer's honor deep in the heart of Pentagram City was beautiful. the deep, red velvet curtains mixed with black granite stonework and pristine white marble made the tall structure like those in Europe, comparable, if not even more lavish than it's predecessors.

Pews made of dense wood stood empty before the pulpit where the altar of marble stood. The white marble was selected for its blank slate, to better contrast against the red of whatever sacrifice being offered.

normally it would be a beast, or a Sinner; scarlet running down the marble once the ceremonial dagger plunged into their flesh. The cries of celebration would fill the room, echoing into a roar of cheers before it morphed into songs of praise, the acoustics of the cathedral amplifying sound into angelic like songs.

Lucifer never cared for the affairs of the Church Of The Fallen, no. As king, he only attended at the behest of his Queen and even then, he didn't care for the subpar sacrifices they offered, after all, why would he be happy with the gifts that were only a spectacle for a blood hungry mob?

No, Lucifer never cared for anything offered on this tainted altar.

Until now.

Lucifer was dressed in a white cassock, decorated with golden stole over his shoulders, the ends decorated with golden upside down crosses. his cincture was gone, the white garment unbuttoned and open as he stood before the altar, facing the golden artifacts of his image and the colors of the stained glass overhead decorated his offering.

her hands were bound with the golden cincture, the soft material made sure not to chafe, but strong enough that she couldn't do anything but grab the edge of the altar. she was utterly bare before him, the lewd smacking of their skin and the muffled squeals from behind the rubber ducky gag he placed on her.

Yes, this “sacrifice” would do.

“I'm sorry, little dove. Did you say something?” he quipped, smug. The moan he got from another harsh thrust and the responding clench almost made him break character. He groans softly, reveling in the sound as it reverberates in the cathedral.

He snaps his fingers so he can hear her, the angelic voice to sing his praises and fill the space with her worship.

her song is one he could listen to for hours; her cadence and pitch manipulated by his own efforts.

He pulls back and she lays on the altar, her legs shaking under her as her hole twitches around nothing. He hums in content and smacks her rump, watching the fat jiggle deliciously for him.

“ Tired already? we're only just getting started,” he mocks and she whines uselessly. Lucifer manipulates her to on her back and spreads her thighs, probing fingers against the flushed mound and playing with the stickiness between plump lips. He tastes her, cleaning his fingers before leaning down to slurp her juices. plump thighs cover his head as he feasts.

her song changes to airy arias interspersed with praise and Lucifer has never felt more cherished and adored by a single being. he would gladly trade an entire population’s worth of devotees for even a glance from his beloved. he mouths his adoration and gratitude into her pussy, signing his name deep within with just his tongue.

he pulls away reluctantly, licking his face to clean himself.

“I need you,” he rasps before he nudges his neglected cock back inside.

she whines at the change and sighs softly when his hips meet hers. He holds her hips firmly, smirking down at her when he sees how her bound hands have her poised. hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“Look at you,” he rumbles. “praying I'll fill you up, little lamb? What do you desire? tell me, and I will do as you ask. a god loves to reward their devoted after all.” he brushes against her clit, making her twitch and clench.

“Please,” she wheezes through his petting. “make me yours. mark me as yours. fill me, my lord,” she cries when he takes his hand away. He gently shushes her and places a soft kiss to her sternum.

“I'll fill you up, don't you worry precious.” he looks up with crimson eyes glowing up at her. “all I ask is you say my name.”

she doesn't disappoint. his name falls from those sinful lips like a chant, a prayer to a corrupt god and he listens and he preens.

his six wings extend out and cover them, creating a screen of privacy for just him. This offering is for him and only him as he basks in her lewd expressions and the sight of their joining. He sighs and rolls back his head as he enjoys the feel of her tight walls and her squeals. her words going straight to his groin as she pleads to him.

his attention returns to her when she cries for his seed. He stops and she sobs at the cruel action.

he gently shushes her, petting her thighs, still deep inside as he throbs within.

“did I hear correctly, dove? Do you want my seed?”

“Please, my lord. please! I want it. I want your cum! please cum inside.” she cries, her hands white knuckled.

Lucifer laughs, the cathedral amplifying the quiet sound.

“Such a sweet little lamb.” he leans down to kiss her tears away. his claws cut the good cording and he feels hands over his skin, marveling and grasping for him. his wings shudder over them, the only subtle sign that he gives that he's putty in her hands.

“I'll give you all that you desire, and all I ask in return is your entire being. you belong to me, little one.” his red eyes glows and she sighs and leans up to kiss him

“I give myself to you,” she whispers, reciting it like a marriage vow. He growls, pleased.

she's startled when he shifts and begins anew, the pace continuing from before as he drives into her with precision and force and she falls back onto the altar. his wings flap excitedly while he loses himself until he feels himself come close to the edge.

“Almost, baby,” he pants, bringing a hand to rub circles into her clit. “cum with me, alright,” his character breaks as he ensures she's close before he gives her what she asked for. He groans when she squeezes him like the sweetest vice, recognizing that she's close. He leans down and kisses her neck sloppily before biting down.

she cries one last time, sustaining the note like an angel as he feels her cum around him. He groans and follows her off the precipice to cum inside.

when they come to, he feels fingers gently brush back his hair and he brings his wings around her to keep her warm and covered. He'd never let any undeserving sinner or demon get an eyeful of what's his.

“how are you feeling, sweetheart? Are you ok?” he asks softly, kissing the bite mark and soothing it with his power. she giggles and kisses his temple.

“I'm ok. could use a glass of water though,” she rasps. her hoarse voice makes him blush softly and he leans down to kiss her softly.

“of course.” he tries to move away and he feels her legs weakly hold him close.

“Not right now, just stay close.” she nuzzles into his neck and clings to him like a koala. Lucifer chuckles and pulls her close, opening a portal to their bedroom. he manages to keep her close and pour her a glass of water, and prepares a damp washcloth to help clean her down as she drinks her water.

Unlike in the cathedral, Lucifer kneels before her and wipes her down with reverence and care. he's slow and meticulous, gentle and loving as he wipes down the mess of their game from her skin. he kisses her wrists to make up for binding them and kisses the small bloat of her tummy from where his seed sits within. after she finishes her second glass of water, he gently lays her on their bed where he covers her with his wings, her favorite blanket.

she yawns and snuggles into his side. Lucifer brings her close and watches her as she snoozes contently at his side. he admires the woman in his arms, the soft goddess he's learned to worship and please. despite their little game, he's the one that would do anything to please and adore her as she desires.

He soaks in her warmth and absorbs her presence like she's the air in his lungs. He grows tired after just watching her sleep and he brings her close.

“my little goddess,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he closes his eyes to join her in dreams.

@heart-of-the-morningstar

[peterspinkrobe]

Communion | AU Priest Miguel O’Hara x female Reader

A/N: I commissioned the above Priest Miguel. Ever since the artist sent the sketch, (@ ejpuki on twitter plz go show love!) this story has been a brewin’ in my cranium. I am not a newbie when it comes to fanfic, but a virgin to writing Miguel. Please accept this offering to the mania that is fandom. Feedback is appreciated. I know the tenses are probably all over the place. Part 2 is live!!. Let me know if you’re interested ~~

Warnings: Religious content, parents, dirty-minded reader, no mention of Y/N

As you sat in the middle pew, aisle seats, you fiddled with the dress your mother guilted you into wearing. The hem of the skirt had a little fraying and you couldn’t help but pick at it.

The meddling was met with a small smack on your wrist from your mother.

“Stop! You’re going to make it worse! I know it’s an old dress but it will only look that way if you pick at it.” The sharpness in tone and the lacy lilac dress from high school brought you back to all of the Sunday mornings you’d been ripped from the comfort of your bed to attend church.

Church. Your head was already starting to hurt from the early morning light pouring through the stained glasses windows, but your tried to remain neutral to spare mom.

Your relationship with the Almighty soured not long after your father passed. Faith was hard to come by and the struggles you’d faced recently only strained that even further.

“Sorry, mama.” You say quietly, acting like you’re still twelve and not in your mid twenties.

Ever since you moved back in you’ve had to live under “her rules”. Sunday service is one of those rules. Considering the headache you’ve caused her recently, you ignore your own and do as she asks. It’s only fair.

But church? Last week was your first time back inside a church since leaving for college five years ago. It was the same one you’d been dragged to in your younger years. The same stained pews, same old books of Psalms, same feeling of estrangement despite being surrounded by the same old folks.

Your mom had turned her attention to the lady that lived on our street and you turned your own attention to your fingernails, scraping underneath them for dirt that wasn’t there. You think about how you had dropped the habit until moving back in, but was interrupted by microphone static.

You pulled your gaze to the front of the church and saw Father Steen tapping the microphone. Despite only being five years since you last saw him, the man seemed to have aged decades. His frail frame balanced on the podium as he spoke. You realized why the microphone was needed when he started speaking - amplifying the hushed tone of the elder addressing his congregation.

“Good morning and many blessings to you all this Sunday morning,” he began and you couldn’t help but lower your gaze back to the frayed bit of your dress. His monotone voice was… kinda boring. You hated thinking that way because Father Steen was such a good man and he cared for your mother greatly when dad passed. He was mentioning an upcoming surgery and you were back to picking at your fingernails. His voice eked on through the speakers, “so we will be having a transitional deacon come in to take over my position until I recover. This fine young man has graciously accepted this position as he is working to become a priest himself. Please welcome Mr. O’Hara as he leads us in prayer to begin communion for this month.”

There is respectful applause and your eyes are still on your hands until your mom elbows you gently. You start to apologize again for not paying attention but notice she and her pew neighbor are giggling as they clap. You start to clap your own hands as you look up at what they were giggling like schoolgirls about when your hands freeze in their clapped position - almost like you’re praying.

The deacon that Father Steen introduced was… gorgeous, and he was looking at you. You blushed, embarrassingly, under the gaze of the dark eyes. Could he tell you hadn’t been paying attention?

Well, you most certainly were now.

You pulled your eyes away from him to look at your mother who was wiggling her eyebrows at you, causing you to blush even deeper and turn back to the front.

The first thing you notice about the man standing at the front of the church was his height. He towered over the podium he placed a hand on. Father Steen came up to only just above his elbows with his hunched body.

The eyes that were watching you now surveyed the room and the light from the windows shown dark, warm pools of irises. His face…

Sharp symmetry made up his countenance. Distinct cheekbones bobbing as the smooth bronze skin stretched upwards into a smile. The strong jawline accentuated with the muscles of his lips pulling back, revealing a dazzling toothy smile.

When he spoke for the first time, you understood why your mom cried during Psalms at times. His voice was gospel.

“Thank you, all, for welcoming me into your parish. I know that you have received excellent spiritual guidance from Father Steen. I can only hope to at least partially fill his shoes in his absence.” His voice boomed throughout the church with no need for a microphone. “Before we begin the sacred ritual that is communion, let us bow our heads in prayer.”

The church around you dutifully lowered their heads, and you did the same. Hating closing your eyes to the alluring man in front of the church. At least his voice still filled your ears with song.

“Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today, in your house, in the name of your Son to receive the Body and Blood of Christ…” you decide it won’t be such a terrible sin to sneak a peek during prayer. You lift your head up to catch another glimpse at the ethereal creature leading prayer while he wasn’t looking.

But he was looking. Right at you as he continued to recite, “We are all sinners, and we are all in need of your grace and forgiveness.” You start to think about how much you needed his grace, when you pinch yourself for the blasphemy.

You’re still staring at each other as he finishes, “We pray that You will bless this communion and that it will deepen our relationships with You.” You instantly feel heat in your gut when you wonder just how deep it can go..

You think you see him grin slightly, but he pulls his eyes away from yours and you quickly put your head back down.

“In Your Blessed Name, Amen.” He ends. “Amen”, the church responds in unison and you squeak it out as well.

The first pew stands and approaches the front of the church, choir boys retrieving the communion goods. You notice that there is a split in the line as one is given the small wafer and grape juice shot by Father Steen and the other line the new deacon.

You can’t keep your eyes off him as he offers the sacrament to each person in line. He is taking longer than Father Steen, seeming to ask questions before presenting the body and blood of a savior.

As it came to be your pew’s turn, you stood. With only a few people in front of you, you studied Miguel’s figure in short glances.

Along with being a towering figure, he was a wide one as well. Muscles filled in the long-sleeved black button down shirt. His large upper body tapered off into a slim waist, tucked neatly into dark pants. A belt accentuated the fit waist even further. Your eyes trailed quickly across the thick neck that was accessorized by the all too familiar white collar of priesthood. When you were just behind one more person, your eyes fell to the floor.

Part of you wished you would be on Father Steen’s side as you feel as though you’re about to burst from this proximity of the giant man. He was bent over speaking to an elder of the church, giving her a soft smile as she blessed him for coming to ‘our little church.’

The man in line in front of you stood to Father Steen and the woman was letting Mr. O’Hara go from a sweet embrace.

Thank God, you guessed, for the years of attending communion as your muscle memory tore your legs from their form rooted position at the altar.

You approached the tall figure and your eyes are locked on the lips of the man in front of you. You see them move, hearing nothing but the beating of your heart in your eardrums.

“I-I’m sorry. What?” You sputter the words and heat creeps into your chest and face.

A soft chuckle escapes his full lips and he smiles as he repeats, “What is your name?”

You give it to him. And he says it. The way your name sounds in his music makes you smile up at him. He holds your gaze for a moment before speaking again.

“The Body of Christ.” He extends his hand in an upward position, the white wafer between his index finger and thumb.

You bow your head slightly in reverence of the offering. As you start to pull your head up again, his pinky and ring finger catch under your chin, lifting your face the rest of the way.

You breathe out a small gasp and open your mouth. He seems to mirror the action slightly as his own mouth drops slightly open. You extend your tongue a little as he places the thin wafer onto it.

His gaze is heavy as he watches you take the offering into your mouth. Your breath hitches when he runs his thumb across your pouted bottom lip, catching some saliva with it.

“Amen.” You respond and it’s not until he pulls his hand from your face when you turn to grab a small glass of grape juice. “The Precious Blood.” You hear him say behind you as you bring the glass to your lips, relishing the sweet refreshment.

Your face is red hot as you turn to walk back to your pew, ignoring your mother’s glances as she had already been back to her seat.

The burning in your cheeks is even more fiery as it dawns on you that the whole church saw the exchange. You hope, you pray, that it was perceived as a normal moment between a new Shepard and a member of his flock.

Communion wraps up and Father Steen takes a seat behind the the new head of church as he begins his sermon. The slight pressure of his thumb on your bottom lip created a pool of heat in your belly that wouldn’t go away.

You try to pay attention to the Good Word, you really do, but your mind is other places. Definitely not holy places.

Maybe coming to church won’t be too bad after all…

[hotchnerwrites]

Holy Ground

Pairing: Robert Chase x reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: SFW, submissive & pathetic Chase, religious references, a lot of catholic guilt, corruption k1nk, rope restraints

A/N: Hello, hello, it's been a while. This one is written for my dear friend @ineffablestardust . Hope you all enjoy it!! There will be a part two soon, that will be nsfw 👀 Keep an eye out for that :)

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

My requests are open, send me stuff!

Chase’s mind was in disorder. 

His arms were restrained behind his back with thick, black ropes, the rough strands cutting into his wrists as he knelt on a cold, hard floor. Yet he felt no pain. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face and down against his neck. The position he was in felt strangely familiar, though it had never been voluntary before. When he was young, his mother had always insisted that he kneel in the pews of their church during prayer, hands clasped tight, and head bowed in reverence. But that had been an act of devotion. 

This? This wasn’t devotion. 

This wasn’t even a prayer. No, this was punishment.

For wanting you. For letting his body betray his mind. Years of mental resilience broken down by just the scent of your skin. By the sound of your laugh. By the look in your eyes. 

His chest rose and fell erratically, breaths falling in shallow gasps. A dull throb registered in the back of his mind from kneeling, but it was nothing compared to the twisting, gnawing sensation in his gut. Thick ropes of guilt coiled in his abdomen, spreading through his veins like venom. Chase had learned these feelings a lifetime ago— classic Catholic guilt instilled in him from the day he started speaking. Drilled into his mind repeatedly every Sunday. Whispered into his ears by his mother at night. Burned into his soul by the priests to whom he had confessed every sin so they could scrub him clean. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The commandant pulsed in his mind like a sickening drumbeat. The stillness of the room only amplified the wild rush of his thoughts. A lock of hair fell over his face, damp with sweat. The strands stuck to his skin, but he dared not move it out of the way. Instead, his eyes flickered over to you. 

There you sat on the edge of the bed. Head cocked to one side, watching him like a hawk. There was amusement in your eyes, but your gaze was predatory as it fell on him, like a lion sizing up its prey. And he was your prey, wasn’t he?

Even from the floor, Chase could feel it in every fibre of his being. That pull, the magnetic force that he couldn’t escape since the day he met you. Restrained as he was, his body struggled to be closer to you. 

Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Chase yearned for your touch, your proximity. But he also hated himself for it, for the weakness he felt, and how every instinct he had screamed at him to break free of the ropes and do whatever it took to feel you. Every part of him wanted to give in to embrace the temptation. And you were giving it to him like a sweet poison. 

“You’re so tense, Chase,” you said, voice soft but laced with a power that kept him on his knees. “I can see you fighting, honey, but you don’t have to. Just… let go.”

His heart hammered in his chest as your hand reached out, brushing the side of his face with a tenderness that made his stomach tighten. It was a simple touch, but it felt like a branding iron.

"Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to finally understand what you are?" you whispered, moving in closer. His body tensed even more as you leaned down to whisper in his ear, your breath hot against his skin. "I’ve watched you struggle, Chase. I’ve watched you pretend to be a good little boy, so controlled, so... obedient.”

The word lingered in his mind—obedient. Was that how he had always been? Always following the rules, the commands, the rituals that kept him locked in a cage of guilt? He had spent his life by the book—never questioning, never challenging. His entire existence was governed by the comfort of obedience. He had never made a choice, professional or personal, that wasn’t dictated by a rule or ritual. He had learned to find a certain luxury in this. But now, kneeling here in front of you, it felt as if everything he knew was unravelling.

The rhythmic clicking of your heels as you circled him was hypnotic. The walls seemed to be closing in with every step, the air thick with tension. 

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” your voice cut through the haze settling over his thoughts. Your fingers ghosted down the side of his neck, tracing the line of his jaw, and he couldn't help but shiver.

His lips parted, but no words came out. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only feel. And what he felt was... need. A raw, primal need.

“I know what you want, Chase,” you whisper in his ear.

He wanted to pray. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He wanted to scream. But there was no voice left in him, only the swirling hunger taking over every sense of his, impossible to ignore.

“You want to feel free.”

It felt like a question, but it wasn’t. You both knew the answer, even though Chase wanted to deny it all. The relief he had once found in submission, in following the rules, now felt suffocating. He had been conditioned to stay in line but he had nothing left to anchor him to the shore. He felt paralysed by the weight of the choice he now faced.

Chase could feel the warmth of your breath against his lips now. “Say it,” you beg, the words like honey. 

He wasn’t sure when it happened. Was it when you placed a hand on his chest, the heat of your touch searing through his clothes? Or was it when you repeated your command, voice solicitous yet soft?

“Yes.”

The words escaped him like a confession. 

What had he just done?

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the man who had always obeyed, who had always followed the rules. This was something else. Something reckless.

His breath hitched in his throat as the gravity of his choice settled over him. He had never made a decision like this before. He had never chosen for himself. But now there was no going back. The relief was almost immediate, unexpected—a flood of release he hadn’t known he was craving.

It wasn’t just about the act, the surrender. It was about the permission he had just given himself. 

Chase’s voice cracked as he spoke again. His actions were automatic, even reflexive— a prayer ingrained into his bones. 

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

But this time, there would be no priest to forgive him, no ritual to cleanse him. And for the first time in his life, Robert Chase did not want absolution.

Chase slowly lifted his head, blonde strands shrouding his vision. His eyes fell at your feet and slowly made their way up the length of your body. When he finally met your gaze, you were smiling.

Not a sweet, comforting smile, but a cruel and knowing one. A smile that told him that he had just sealed his fate.

And for a crystal clear moment, Chase realised he was feeling something he hadn’t in years— relief.

It wasn’t salvation. It wasn’t peace. But it was freedom.

And that was something he hadn’t known he needed until now.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

pt. 2

[unabashegirl]

Vicious 1 || Harry Styles x Mafia

After his father's death, Harry Styles must take control of the family mafia while dealing with his unpredictable brother, Silas. He meets Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, and learns about their arranged marriage.

Author's note: Hi everyone, I need your help. I’m $1,000 short on my medical tuition, and the deadline is January 13. With 2,800 followers, even $1 from some of you could make a huge difference. If you’ve enjoyed my writing, please consider donating or sharing. I'M DESPERATE. PLEASE HELP ME! HELP ME HELP MY MOM! I don't know what else I can do. 

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vicious masterlist

The air inside St. Anthony's Cathedral hung heavy with the scent of incense, a somber melody playing on the organ as mourners dressed in black filed into the pews. The grandeur of the cathedral seemed to amplify the gravity of the occasion—the funeral of the late mob boss, Arthur Francis Styles. The flickering candles cast shadows on the marble pillars, echoing the secrets and sins concealed within the heart of the city.

Amidst the sea of black-clad mourners, a solitary figure stood out—one of sons of the deceased, Harry. His sharp gaze, inherited from his father, scanned the room with a mix of grief and determination. The weight of his heritage rested upon broad shoulders, and the tailored suit he wore could not conceal the burden of responsibility that had been abruptly thrust upon him.

The funeral was a spectacle of contradictions. The cathedral, a symbol of divine sanctity, now played host to the final farewell of a man whose life had been entwined with shadows and whispered alliances. Harry’s eyes swept across the assembly, recognizing familiar faces, each harboring a tale of loyalty or betrayal. As he approached the casket to pay his respects, the gravity of his new role settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.

Arthur Styles’ passing had left a void, a vacuum that would inevitably draw power struggles and rivalries. Harry, the heir apparent, found himself at the epicenter of this storm. The funeral served not only as a farewell to his father but as the beginning of a new chapter—a chapter stained with blood, loyalty, and the unspoken code of the Mafia.

As Harry stood in the dimly lit cathedral, he felt the weight of his father's legacy press upon him, and the whispers of the past seemed to echo through the hallowed halls. The mournful hymns played on, but the symphony of the streets would soon drown them out, revealing the true nature of the shadows that lurked within the city's underbelly. The funeral was over, but the legacy of Arthur Styles would live on, casting a long, ominous shadow over Harry’s uncertain future.

Harry observed as his father's supposed friends and family offered their condolences, each reverently kissing the ring that adorned his father's lifeless hand. It was the very same ring around which they had sworn allegiance and loyalty, seeking resolution to their problems.

The wooden bench in front of him felt the weight of a pair of hands settling on its back. The distinctive ring on the third finger of those hands revealed the identity of the person without Harry needing to turn his head.

"Harry," Anthony started, his voice a subdued murmur blending with the somber atmosphere. "I never thought this day would arrive." Anthony, the younger brother of Harry's father, continued, "He appeared to have the capability of outliving all of us."

Harry nodded subtly but chose to keep his silence. His mind was a tumultuous sea of thoughts, and his head felt burdened, almost oppressively heavy. He was acutely aware that the path ahead would be arduous. His father had been grooming him for leadership since he could articulate words. Yet, Harry never anticipated ascending to power without his father by his side.

"Taking the reins of the English Mafia won't be a stroll in the park. Your father maintained a delicate balance, and stepping into his role makes you a target." His uncled warned.

Harry nodded solemnly, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. "I know. But someone always must lead."

Anthony's gaze bore into Harry's, a grave understanding passing between them. "You're right. But brace yourself—old alliances may crumble, and new foes will emerge. The English Mafia is a beast, and maintaining control is a constant struggle."

Harry surveyed the mourners, his gaze lingering on the faces of those present, contemplating the intricate challenges that loomed, he spoke, "I worry the most about the Italians and the Russians. Dad always said that dealing with them required finesse, and I'm not sure we've earned enough goodwill in those circles." The gravity of the situation hung in the air as he acknowledged the potential pitfalls that awaited them in the unpredictable world of the English Mafia.

"You can anticipate the maneuvers of the Italians and Russians, and they don't reside under your roof. Your brother, on the other hand..." A shadow fell over Anthony's countenance. "He's a wildcard, Harry. Young, impressionable, his allegiance might sway. Keep a vigilant eye on him, especially when you make your move. Not everyone in the family will readily embrace the change.”

A furrow deepened on Harry's brow. "You think Silas might turn against us?"

Anthony's response was as measured as the somber atmosphere around them. "In our world, blood doesn't guarantee loyalty. Silas has his own battles, and he might choose a different path."

Harry tightened his jaw, the mere thought of his younger brother betraying him causing his blood to simmer with anger. After their mother's passing, Harry had essentially taken on the role of raising Silas. Harry had played more of a father figure to Silas than Arthur ever did. Their father had shown minimal concern for Harry, the firstborn, which made Silas seem like nothing more than a contingency, a spare kept in reserve in case of some unforeseen tragedy.

Anthony leaned in, his gaze piercing. "I believe you will rule righteously, Harry. But be prepared for anything. The English Mafia is a game where pieces move without warning, and the stakes are higher than you can fathom." With that, he offered a reassuring pat on the back, bidding Harry farewell.

Harry bided his time, waiting patiently for the crowd to disperse, before rising from his seat. Straightening his suit blazer and fixing his tie, he approached the casket at the cathedral's end—the final resting place of his father. The familiarity of the suit caught Harry's eye, a garment he had seen his father wear countless times. A small blood stain near the boot of the pants, a detail his mother had frequently lamented, marked the attire. Suppressing a smile, Harry noted the irony that his father had been laid to rest in the suit his mother detested.

Leaning down, Harry whispered into his father's ear, "Omnes sumus peccatores," before deftly sliding the ring off his father's finger.

Chapter 2

[inubaki]

Touched by an Angel (fire)

-part 3 (final)

story commissioned and written by @libby-for-life! One art piece by me and the other by @sir-tater-of-the-tot. Warning for suggestive themes. What better addiction to add to Advent Adamsapple than a church? ————————

That night, Adam found himself trapped in a vivid and unsettling dreamscape where fields of once-lush crops were engulfed in flames, the fiery glow illuminating his distress. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, and he could hear the crackling of the earth as it surrendered to the inferno. When morning finally broke, he awoke in a state of disarray, his skin marked with a constellation of angry scratches as if some unseen force had clawed at him throughout the night, leaving behind a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

As he stood before his congregation that day, delivering his sermon with a heavy heart, the peace of the moment was shattered by the raucous cawing of crows. These black-feathered intruders swooped down from the bleak sky, interrupting his words with their loud, harsh cries as if protesting against his message. Their presence felt ominous, a sign of the decay surrounding him. The gardens of his community were wilting under an unrelenting sun, producing crops that failed to flourish. The rising cost of food weighed heavily on the community, amplifying their despair.

In the midst of this turmoil, donations dwindled to a trickle, and Adam sensed the fragile threads of faith beginning to fray. The once-vibrant community felt distant as if he were becoming an outsider in the very place where he sought to foster love and unity. Whispers of blame began to echo through the pews, fingers pointed in his direction as people struggled to understand their plight. Each accusatory glance pierced him, making his heart clench painfully in his chest. Adam felt the suffocating grip of despair tightens around him, threatening to extinguish the light of hope he desperately clung to.

The final straw came as Adam broke bread surrounded by his brothers and sisters, a sense of dread weighing heavily on his chest. They reached for the bread, each piece a familiar reminder of their shared past, yet this time, it felt even more stale than usual—dry and crumbly and it hurt their throats as they swallowed. But it was the wine that truly unsettled him. 

As he raised the cup to his lips, the deep crimson liquid caught the light, its surface swirling ominously. Taking a cautious sip, Adam's senses jolted at the overwhelming flavor that hit his tongue. It was metallic, with an unsettling richness that surged through him, and in that moment, he felt as though he had gulped something far more sinister than mere wine. Blood.

His eyes widened in shock, and he instinctively recoiled, a wave of nausea rising within him. He watched in horror as several others at the church struggled, some choking on the grotesque vintage that seemed to echo a dark memory. The laughter and conversation that once filled the room faded into a cacophony of gagging and disbelief. 

This was the moment he could no longer ignore; it was clear that he needed to break free from this spiral. Adam’s heart raced as the realization sank in—he needed help. He needed Samuel.

That night, beneath the flickering light of a single candle, Adam knelt on the cool stone floor of the church, his heart heavy with despair. The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and burning wax, wrapping around him like a solemn shroud. He whispered his fervent prayer to his guardian angel, his voice barely rising above a whisper. “Please, I need your help,” he implored, desperation lacing his words. He sought salvation for his beloved church—a sanctuary that had weathered so many storms but now felt burdened by a dark curse that had plagued him for months. 

In the quiet stillness, Adam closed his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped by the warmth of his angel's presence. He had doubted that Samuel would respond, yet deep down, he held onto a flicker of hope. Suddenly, he felt a gentle touch, like a soft breeze brushing against his skin, followed by a deep, resonant chuckle that seemed to echo in the chapel’s silence. 

“Adam... I believe we can come to some arrangement,” Samuel's voice rumbled, rich with both power and reassurance. 

With a flood of relief, Adam opened his eyes, the shadows dancing around him suddenly seemed less menacing. Nodding, he felt a surge of determination. He would go to any lengths to shield his church and protect the family that had gathered within its walls, even if it meant making a pact with forces beyond his understanding.

Samuel came in a blur. For once, he was able to see him. He had told Adam that he wasn't fit to run a church as complex as his. He would need someone like him to run it. Adam agreed and Samuel appeared in front of him, taking him on the floor of the church. Adam moaned his angel's name as his seed spilled into him. The next day, Adam introduced the church and community to their new Head Priest, stepping down from his position and allowing Samuel to take his place.

Without hesitation, he proclaimed the unification of Adam, revealing that the two were to be wed. This announcement sent shockwaves through the church community, stirring a mix of surprise and confusion among the congregation. However, under Samuel's confident leadership, it seemed that every lingering issue had resolved itself overnight. Gone were the days of suffering; the community began to thrive, experiencing a renaissance of hope and prosperity. Months passed.

Adam, now a central figure in this transformation, stood proudly by Samuel’s side during the sermons. Clad in the flowing robes of a nun, he projected an aura of serenity and strength, despite being visibly pregnant—a fact that sparked whispered conversations and curious glances among the parishioners. As the weeks passed, the congregation affectionately referred to Adam as the new "Mary," embracing this title as a symbol of his pivotal role within their community. Samuel, embracing this image, supported the sentiment wholeheartedly. He even went as far as to call Adam his lamb. 

Samuel smirked when he saw Adam's barely concealed breasts and knew that he would be leaking soon...that was fine. Adam shivered under his gaze and couldn't wait for tonight.

Samuel didn't even wait for that night, taking Adam on the podium in front of everyone. Somehow, he was still able to teach while Adam was fucked in front of everyone. The entire church seemed to watch them with rapt attention and some even smiled and laughed as Adam came all over the floor. Samuel asked him to clean the mess for him. Despite not being asked, he used his tongue.

Samuel took him to bed that night too. Adam loved every minute of it, unable to imagine a word where he didn't have this. He was always meant to be Samuel's. Always.

Pervs:

[a-mossy-amethyst]

For the Malevolent writing prompt, maybe blind faith first kiss?

Sorry if this isn't what you wanted but alas, I am not a blindfaith shipper and love using religious imagery for angst

That being said, this fic has a lot of Christian (particularly Catholic) imagery. Take care of yourselves!!

This is an alternate scene for episode 38's ending, so some of the dialogue is taken from there.

“But when we get back, after I drop you off at the hospital, when this is done… this is done. I can't… our partnership is over.”

Arthur’s breaths line with the beat of his steps. He struggles to stay upright through exhaustion and carrying Oscar’s weight.

Said man's voice is ragged and weary, words lined together hesitantly as he struggles to form sentences.

“Arthur… you're my…”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, no, Oscar, no.” Guilt and grief crash like waves against his ribcage, a torrent of emotions amplified by his sleep deprived mind. “I'm not–”

The door, right before us, John chimes in, silent save for his directions.

He tries again. “I'm not… no.” He can't get the words out.

Oscar worships a god Arthur refuses to believe in. He worships like a lifeline, alcohol his temptation and the Bible his savior. A struggle between the pew and the bottle, the confessional his judge.

Arthur does not understand this. He had drank and hoped it would do him in. Hoped, not prayed. Even in the depths of his grief he dared not do that.

He does not seek redemption in God. The problem of evil is not an argument he is willing to have lest his anger get the better of him. Not when he is the evil allowed to live and Faroe's fate the tragedy God let happen.

“Arthur.” His name rolls off Oscar’s tongue like a prayer.

Arthur is not a saint; he will not carry his prayers to the Lord.

“I know you feel that, but it's not true,” he says, remorse draped on his shoulders, the weight of his sins against this man. “It can't be true. I'm sorry, but I can't help you anymore.”

He wonders if he ever helped him at all. Was his speech at the bar for Oscar, or for himself? He needed Oscar's assistance. The effort granted him that. Arthur is perpetually left asking if he wants to help others or is only interested in how they can aid him in return.

“Alright. Okay.” Oscar takes the rejection with the acceptance only the most devout can achieve. Sinners like them were not taught to question, only to bow their heads to the word of the Almighty.

Arthur is not a god; he will not bring mercy in exchange for humility.

The car is–

Arthur cuts him off. “I know. I can hear it.” He doesn't want to hear John's voice right now. He's giving this up for him, but it hurts. He can't get angry again. It'll make him feel worse about himself.

“Hear what?” Oscar asks.

“No, no, I hear…”

“Hear…?

Arthur changes the subject. “Rest, Oscar. Here.”

He opens the car door, gently pushing Oscar into the backseat.

“Aye.” Oscar sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

Arthur nods, moving to shut the door.

“Wait.”

He stops. “What is it?”

There's the ruffle of paper. “Here,” Oscar says, “It's where Daniel's Freemasons meet. You told me to… find out. I did. Forgot to tell you. Or, rather, I thought we'd end up looking together.” Grief tints his tone.

Oscar's holding a paper out to you. Just reach out– yes, there.

“Thank you, Oscar,” Arthur says. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You…” Oscar's breaths come out ragged. “What happened, it's not your fault.”

Arthur's heart immediately rejects the comfort, tightening in his chest.

He dragged Oscar into this, desperate for someone to rely on. If it's not him at fault, then who?

“Just rest.”

“I'm serious. I chose to help you. You're my–”

“I'm not your purpose–”

“–my hope.”

All the air is pulled from Arthur’s lungs. Oscar continues.

“You're what I've been waiting for. What I thought I could never have. I thought I could let myself believe that… maybe it's okay.”

Arthur presses his lips together. Nothing would be okay around him. Death surrounds him like a curse. Oscar’s already lost an arm. He won't let him lose his life. “I’m not what you think I am. No god sent me to save you.”

Oscar’s voice is remorseful. “You don't understand.”

“I… I do, Oscar. I can't–”

“No.”

Oscar is shaking his head, John narrates. He's reaching out, his hand shaky from blood loss.

Something pulls at his collar.

… Arthur, he's grabbed the front of your shirt.

“You don't.”

Oscar pulls him in closer. Arthur stumbles forward, caught off guard.

“If you did,” he whispers, his breath hot against Arthur’s lips, “you'd never have taken me along.”

Then he kisses him.

Arthur’s eyes widen. He doesn't move at first, startled out of a reaction.

Oscars’s lips taste salty from the rain. He presses forward lightly, characteristically soft.

Arthur finds himself frozen. He doesn't want to hurt Oscar by pushing him away.

But he needs to end this.

Arthur, what the fuck is he doing?”

John’s voice snaps him out of his shock. He leans back, breaking the kiss.

“I…” His grip on the car door tightens.

Oscar was right, Arthur didn't understand. He does now. He doesn't like what he sees.

Oscar loves like a martyr. A sacrificial devotee to his tragedy.

Arthur is not a romantic; Oscar will not find a heart beating the same rhythm as him in Arthur.

Arthur wanted someone to trust. He'd like to be trusted in return, but this doesn't feel like trust. Oscar's devotion feels like blind faith, and Arthur feels too much like a false idol. Pretty and promising but lacking anything to give in return for worship.

“You don't feel the same way.” Oscar doesn't frame it like a question.

“I'm sorry.” Arthur means it. Wishes it didn't have to end this way. Knows there was no other way it could go.

“Who's John?” Oscar asks, voice wrought with… something. A feeling Arthur can't decipher.

He sighs. “No one. No one you'll ever meet. Goodbye, Oscar.”

Oscar doesn't respond. Arthur shuts the door.

Arthur, what the hell was that? John asks harshly.

“I don't want to explain right now. Later, I will,” he promises. When the wound is less fresh, when he can talk about this like it was an inevitable mistake he made. Always flawed, always hurting others. Arthur can talk about it when he convinces himself it's in the past and he is still capable of helping people.

… Okay, John agrees. The lack of argument makes Arthur wonder how wrung out he must sound.

Cold rain beats harshly against him, numbing his skin. He takes a deep breath.

In. All his feelings, threatening to overtake him like a tsunami.

Out. He exhales. The pain is still there.

[miss-starlet]

♤ Bury Your Head Prologue ♤

Prince of Darkness! Yang Jeongin × Princess! Younger Sister of Chan! Y/N

Release Date: Early June

Word Count: 700+

Warning: Devil! I.N, light mention of blood, and talks of killing the uncle

The biting cold of midwinter's wind cut through Chan mercilessly, sending shivers down his spine as he quickly walked to the chapel.

The chapel was nestled in the back of the garden that was located on the side of the royal palace. It was once filled with lavish detail and decor, but under his uncle's reign as king, he sold what could make him more money, and made sure the rest went to ruin. The ornate details on the door were weathered, the stained glass windows shattered and broken, and long vines of ivy crept unchecked along its outer brick. Chan was well aware that if his uncle's reign over the kingdom continued, it would be the end of their kingdom and people, just like this old chapel. He was willing to do anything that was necessary, even the most drastic measures for his uncle's end.

Swinging open the heavy wooden doors, he gets to work. He sits the book he brought with him down on the pew and lights every candle located still in the building. Chan then cracked open the ancient book that contained how to contact spirits and demons. As if the book knew, it flipped open to the precise page he sought. Kneeling on the dusty wooden floor, he etched the symbols shown in chalk before meticulously laying down a protective salt line. Afterwards, he studied the arcane words, reading and whispering them under his breath again and again to ensure their accuracy. Before he loudly echoed the words on the page.

He shivered from the cold air that drifted in the chapel. Yet the cold wasn't enough to distract him from the loud pounding of his heart. It should have worked by now, why hasn't he appeared? Chan threw the book on the floor devastated, he failed his people. Then suddenly the candle's flames went out with a fleeting gust of wind leaving Chan in darkness for a few seconds before reigniting. The sound of hushed whispers he can barely make out before it's back to quiet. Then the chapels doors swung open with a forceful push, revealing the entrance of a striking man dressed in black silk.

The man started taking slow deliberate steps towards Chan. The sound of his shoes echoed around the chapel. The soft colored light from the moon and candles creates a radiant glow upon him, one akin to an angel bathed in celestial light. Each movement of the satin fabric he wore seemed to amplify the ethereal effect. Pausing just before the salt line, he fixed his gaze on Chan and introduced himself, “ I am the prince of darkness, the devil, yet 'Jeongin' will suffice for now.” After the introduction, he steps over the salt line, still heading towards Chan. Chan flinged back and commanded the being, “Stop.” Jeongin stopped for a moment, smirking.

“I am Bang Chan, the prince of Lavender. I seek my uncle's demise, grant me the throne and the title of eternal king," he proclaimed. Jeongin's pauses momentarily, as if he didn't expect that request. "While I cannot claim your soul, I shall instead claim something that holds even greater value than your kingdom and its inhabitants."

Chan didn’t know what to think about this, he was unsure of what could be more important and grand than the state of the people who lived in the kingdom. He cared for his siblings, yes, but they are not more profound than the fate of his people.

Without delay, Jeongin unsheathed his sword attached to his belt, causing Chan to take another step back nervously. He watches the demon slice his palm open before roughly grabbing Chan's hand. Pulling him closer before flipping his hand back to see his palm before repeating the action, before clasping their hands together. They shaked each other's hands, their blood mixed together, sealing the deal.

"Your uncle will be dead by morning, and as for my offering…” Jeongin withdrew his hand, fixing Chan with a chilling smirk. “I will take it when you least expect it." He declared, his tone ominous, leaving Chan wondering if he did the wrong thing. Jeongin turned, and walked out the wooden doors. The candles blew out once more, leaving Chan back in darkness.

[onlyglaives]

Kicking this blog off with the best Glaive, the only Glaive, the one true Glaive - The Enigma! I'm about to get very wordy.

A very tasty weapon, The Enigma (respect the name!!) is a Void oriented weapon obtained from the Witch Queen quests. (However, this one has been with me so long I've forgotten how exactly it came to be!) It was introduced alongside weapon crafting, and if it isn't one of the most well known weapons, it should be.

Not necessarily the longest Glaive, or the fanciest, but The Enigma is reliable and won't see you locked out of a fight. An Adaptive Glaive, it doesn't succeed in any particular area, but since Glaives aren't considered the strongest weapon that doesn't matter. It hits smoothly, feels nice to chain melee hits, and has an ok shield. That's good enough for me!

I love being able to get out of a close range fight by bashing my way out rather than blowing myself up accidentally (thanks, any explosive weapon I've ever handled).

Being craftable, it has an amazing range of perks to choose from, and all have their uses. Some with more use than others, but I have tried a few different perk combos. My current Loadout includes the Lightweight Emitter, Light Mag, Impulse Amplifier, Thresh and the Psychohack origin. However, I'm likely to change Thresh back to Unrelenting now that I'm not using Bad Juju.

Thankfully, The Enigma is great with pretty much all its perks, and it's simply a matter of deciding how you want to fight that day.

Personally (and I'm gonna get into crafting here) I say these are the shakedowns (of course, keep in mind this is my own opinion, I'm sure you have your favourite perks regardless of what others think):

PvP:

Ballistic Tuning, Swap, Threat Detector/Impulse Amplifier, Unstoppable Force

PvE:

Ballistic Tuning/Lightweight Emitter, Swap/Light Mag, Impulse Amplifier, Unrelenting/Frenzy.

Elaboration:

PvP: generally with a Glaive you want to get in and out, but if you do get into a gunfight there are a few options. Ballistic Tuning, while diverting the shield, increases range. This perk makes it so you can do both the stab stab and the pew pew better. Swap, obviously, because in PvP timing is crucial. One slow draw and that Hunter with the double perk weapon has gunned you down.

Threat Detector just gives good stat boosts when there's someone nearby, but if you want faster shooting, go Impulse. Unstoppable force increases that damage. So you can hit fast and hard, or get stat bonus and damage.

PvE: More combinations are possible here simply because all situations are so varied. I would not suggest taking Glaives into end game situations, but to say that would also make me a hypocrite. Glaives are love, Glaives are life.

Anyway. Ballistic for the reasons in PvP, but Lightweight Emitter does much the same, but with slightly less range. In exchange you get extra handling. Swap, again, it's just good to quickly change weapons, but also Light Mag, to increase reload speed and range.

Impulse Amplifier lets you keep that speed going. The faster you shoot, the quicker you stab, the faster the enemy dies. Unrelenting works because health regen is sorely needed when you go in Glaive blazing, bashing all those ads within an inch of their lives. Also works with Impulse to increase your speed. Frenzy is great in general, because increased stats in a prolonged gunfight are crazy good - who doesn't love even faster reload and more damage?

Finally, as parting words, I'll say this: the Enigma fits many roles due to its versatility - close range, far range, it works on all fronts. That's how Adaptable it is!

If all weapons were held away from me, and I was told to only use one for the rest of my game experience, I wouldn't pick The Enigma. However, if you let me choose one Primary, Energy and Heavy, The Enigma would be my first choice for the Energy slot. The Enigma is my one true love, and a weapon I'll cherish for as long as the game still runs (and maybe long after).

Thank you for listening, and make sure to polish your Glaives ;)

...but seriously, take them out of your Vault and give one a try.

[allthegeopolitics]

Immigration and crime were once again central themes throughout the US presidential election campaign. The belief that immigration drives up crime is one of the oldest—and strongest—convictions held by the public, spanning over a century in the US and elsewhere. This view remains deeply rooted despite mounting evidence to the contrary, in large part thanks to politicians such as Donald Trump, who are all too keen to amplify this narrative. Since his first presidential campaign announcement in June 2015, Trump has persistently linked immigration to crime. At that time, he stated: "When Mexico sends its people, they're not sending their best. They're sending people that have lots of problems … They're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime." He has since stepped up this rhetoric. In the final stretch of his recent presidential campaign, he made claims such as: "The corrupt media is outraged that I keep talking about migrant crime and the migrant crime epidemic. It's the worst thing that's happened to our country in 50 years. They're taking over our small towns and cities." According to survey evidence from the Pew Research Center, an American thinktank based in Washington DC, immigration and crime were two of the top three issues for Trump voters in the 2024 election, after the economy. But what does the evidence really show? Our analysis reveals that studies consistently find no causal link between immigration and increased crime across a variety of countries. Research from the US, including both older and more recent studies, as well as research on Italy and the UK, demonstrates that immigration does not have a significant impact on crime rates.

Continue Reading

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Colin Wright

Published: Nov 26, 2024

In a stunning series of events, two leading media organizations—The New York Times and Bloomberg—abruptly shelved coverage of a groundbreaking study that raises serious concerns about the psychological impacts of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) pedagogy. The study, conducted by the Network Contagion Research Institute (NCRI) in collaboration with Rutgers University, found that certain DEI practices could induce hostility, increase authoritarian tendencies, and foster agreement with extreme rhetoric. With billions of dollars invested annually in these initiatives, the public has a right to know if such programs—heralded as effective moral solutions to bigotry and hate—might instead be fueling the very problems they claim to solve. The decision to withhold coverage raises serious questions about transparency, editorial independence, and the growing influence of ideological biases in the media.

The NCRI study investigated the psychological effects of DEI pedagogy, specifically training programs that draw heavily from texts like Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist and Robin DiAngelo’s White Fragility. The findings were unsettling, though perhaps not surprising to longstanding opponents of such programs. Through carefully controlled experiments, the researchers demonstrated that exposure to anti-oppressive (i.e., anti-racist) rhetoric—common in many DEI initiatives—consistently amplified perceptions of bias where none existed. Participants were more likely to see prejudice in neutral scenarios and to support punitive actions against imagined offenders. These effects were not marginal; hostility and punitive tendencies increased by double-digit percentages across multiple measures. Perhaps most troubling, the study revealed a chilling convergence with authoritarian attitudes, suggesting that such training is fostering not empathy, but coercion and control.

The implications of these findings cannot be downplayed. DEI programs have become a fixture in workplaces, schools, and universities across the United States, with a 2023 Pew Research Center report indicating that more than half of U.S. workers have attended some form of DEI training. Institutions collectively spend approximately $8 billion annually on these initiatives, yet the NCRI study underscores how little scrutiny they receive. While proponents of DEI argue that these programs are essential to achieving equity and dismantling systemic oppression, the NCRI’s data suggests that such efforts may actually be deepening divisions and cultivating hostility.

This context makes the suppression of the study even more alarming. The New York Times, which has cited NCRI’s work in nearly 20 previous articles, suddenly demanded that this particular research undergo peer review—a requirement that had never been imposed on the institute’s earlier findings, even on similarly sensitive topics like extremism or online hate. At Bloomberg, the story was quashed outright by an editor known for public support of DEI initiatives. The editorial decisions were ostensibly justified as routine discretion, yet they align conspicuously with the ideological leanings of those involved. Are these major outlets succumbing to pressures to protect certain narratives at the expense of truth?

For Joel Finkelstein, the NCRI researcher leading the study, the editorial reversals are as revealing as the data itself. In communications with reporters, he described the findings as “sobering with likely impact for DEI policy, as well as congressional impacts and potentially civil litigation.” Finkelstein further stated that, “This seems like an effort to suppress research that challenges prevailing narratives around DEI and worryingly, implicates standard practices for egregious harms.”

The harm in question goes far beyond the scope of individual programs. Across multiple experiments, the study documented a consistent pattern: exposure to anti-oppressive DEI rhetoric heightened participants’ tendency to attribute hostility and bias to ambiguous situations. In one experiment, participants read excerpts from Robin DiAngelo and Ibram X. Kendi, juxtaposed against a neutral control text about corn production. Afterward, they were asked to evaluate a hypothetical scenario: an applicant being rejected from an elite university. Those exposed to the DEI materials were far more likely to perceive racism in the admissions process, despite no evidence to support such a conclusion.

They were also more likely to advocate punitive measures, such as suspending the admissions officer or mandating additional DEI training.

A particularly revealing aspect of the study focused on DEI training centered on Islamophobia, using materials developed by the Institute for Social Policy and Understanding (ISPU). The findings echoed the broader concerns of the study but offered unique insights into how DEI programming shapes perceptions of bias and fairness. Participants were presented with a scenario involving two fictional individuals, Ahmed Akhtar and George Green, both convicted of identical terrorism charges. When participants were exposed to the ISPU-inspired training materials, their perception of Ahmed’s trial was significantly altered—they rated it as far less fair than George’s, despite the trials being described in identical terms.

This discrepancy highlights a core issue with DEI narratives that emphasize systemic oppression. By priming participants to see injustice against specific groups, these trainings appear to cultivate a “hostile attribution bias”—a tendency to perceive prejudice and discrimination even where none exists. While sensitivity to genuine bias is critical, the NCRI findings suggest that DEI interventions like the ISPU materials may create unwarranted distrust in institutions and undermine confidence in objective fairness.

Another alarming aspect of the NCRI study involved DEI training on caste discrimination. Participants exposed to materials from Equality Labs—a prominent provider of anti-caste training—were significantly more likely to perceive bias and endorse dehumanizing rhetoric, including adapted quotes from Adolf Hitler where the term “Jew” was replaced with “Brahmin.” The findings suggest that these programs may not only fail to address systemic injustice but actively cultivate divisive and authoritarian mindsets.

Critics of DEI have long pointed to its lack of empirical support, and the NCRI study adds weight to those concerns. Research cited in the report highlights how many DEI programs rely on untested theories or unverified self-reports, with little oversight or accountability. A 2021 meta-analysis found that some initiatives not only fail to reduce prejudice but actually exacerbate it, fueling resentment and perceptions of unfairness. The NCRI study’s findings echo these conclusions, suggesting that far from fostering inclusion, DEI programs may perpetuate a cycle of suspicion and punitive retribution.

Yet, as troubling as the study’s findings are, its suppression may be even more consequential. The decision to withhold this research from public discourse speaks to a larger issue: the growing entanglement of ideology and information. In a moment when public trust in institutions is already fragile, the media’s role as a gatekeeper of information becomes all the more worrying. When powerful outlets like The New York Times and Bloomberg withhold stories of such significance, they fracture trust with the American people.

The public deserves to know if the tools being deployed to foster “equity” and “anti-racism” are instead causing harm. The NCRI study raises urgent questions about the real social consequences of DEI programming, but it also underscores the need for transparency and accountability in how we address these issues. Suppressing this research does not further the goal of making society more inclusive and accepting—it undermines it.

As DEI programs continue to expand across schools, workplaces, and governments, the stakes could not be higher. Whether this research sparks a broader reckoning or remains buried will depend on whether institutions—and the media that hold them accountable—are willing to confront uncomfortable truths.

--

https://networkcontagion.us/wp-content/uploads/Instructing-Animosity_11.13.24.pdf

Instructing Animosity: How DEI Pedagogy Produces the Hostile Attribution Bias

DEI programs purport to cultivate inclusive environments for people from diverse backgrounds and encourage greater empathy in interpersonal interactions. A key component of DEI offerings lies in diversity pedagogy: Lectures, trainings and educational resources ostensibly designed to educate participants about their prejudice and bias in order to eliminate discrimination (Iyer, 2022). As institutions across corporate and educational sectors increasingly embed Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) into their foundational strategies, it is crucial to evaluate the effectiveness of common aspects of this pedagogy.

A 2023 study by the Pew Research Center found that 52% of American workers have DEI meetings or training events at work, and according to Iris Bohnet, a professor of public policy at Harvard Kennedy School, $8 billion is spent annually on such programs. Despite widespread investment in and adoption of diversity pedagogy through lectures, educational resources, and training, assessments of efficacy have produced mixed results.

A meta-analysis by Paluck et al. (2021) found that too few studies in the field have investigated real-world impact on “light-touch” interventions or seminars and training programs. Taken together, the limited evidence suggests that some DEI programs not only fail to achieve their goals but can actively undermine diversity efforts. Specifically, mandatory trainings that focus on particular target groups can foster discomfort and perceptions of unfairness (Burnett and Aguinis, 2024). DEI initiatives seen as affirmative action rather than business strategy can provoke backlash, increasing rather than reducing racial resentment (Kidder et al., 2004; Legault et al. (2001). And diversity initiatives aimed at managing bias can fail, sometimes resulting in decreased representation and triggering negativity among employees (Leslie, 2019; Kalev, Dobbin, & Kelly, 2006). In other words, some DEI programs appear to backfire.

==

DEI is cancer.

Now we have the proof.

[stromuprisahat]

Ravkan trivia

Siege and Storm- Chapter 15

Royal hunts

The formal Ravkan hunt forbade the use of firearms, but I noticed that several of the servants had rifles on their backs, just in case the animals proved to be too much for their noble masters.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 16

Royal Chapel

The chapel was the only remaining building of a monastery that had once stood atop Os Alta, and it was said to be where the first Kings of Ravka had been crowned. Compared to the other structures on the palace grounds, it was a humble building, with whitewashed walls and a single bright blue dome. It was empty and looked like it could use a good cleaning. The pews were covered in dust, and there were pigeons roosting in the eaves. ... We didn’t waste much time in the vestry. The few books on its shelves were a disappointment, just a bunch of old hymnals with crumbling, yellowed pages. The only thing of real interest in the chapel was the massive triptych behind the altar. A riot of color, its three huge panels showed thirteen saints with benevolent faces. I recognized some of them from the Istorii Sankt’ya: Lizabeta with her bloody roses, Petyr with his still-burning arrows. And there was Sankt Ilya with his collar and fetters and broken chains. “No animals,” Mal observed. “From what I’ve seen, he’s never pictured with the amplifiers, just with the chains. Except in the Istorii Sankt’ya.” I just didn’t know why. Most of the triptych was in fairly good condition, but Ilya’s panel had sustained bad water damage. The Saints’ faces were barely visible under the mold, and the damp smell of mildew was nearly overpowering.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 17

Ravkan-Fjerdan wars

“We took back most of this territory in the last campaign,” he said, pointing to Ravka’s northern border with Fjerda. “It’s dense forest, almost impossible to cross when the rivers aren’t frozen, and all the access roads have been blockaded.”

Os Alta

The city had an ancient system of warning bells to alert the palace when an enemy was in sight.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 18

upper town of Os Alta

The Gritski mansion was in the canal district, considered the least fashionable part of the upper town because of its proximity to the bridge and the rabble across it. It was a lavish little building, bordered by a war memorial on one side and the gardens of the Convent of Sankta Lizabeta on the other.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 19

the festival of Belyanoch in Saint Petersburg Os Alta

The days grew longer. The sun stayed close beneath the horizon, and the festival of Belyanoch began in Os Alta. Even at midnight, the skies were never truly dark, and despite the fear of war and the looming threat of the Fold, the city celebrated the endless hours of twilight. In the upper town, the evenings were crowded with operas, masques, and lavish ballets. Over the bridge, raucous horse races and outdoor dances shook the streets of the lower town. An endless stream of pleasure boats bobbed through the canal, and beneath the glimmering dusk, the slow-moving water circled the capital like a jeweled bangle, alight with lanterns hung from a thousand prows. The heat had relented slightly.

Os Alta from above

I gathered my courage and looked down. The rolling grounds of the Grand Palace stretched out below us, crosscut by white gravel paths. I saw the roof of the Grisha greenhouse, the perfect circle of the double eagle fountain, the golden glint of the palace gates. Then we were soaring over the mansions and long, straight boulevards of the upper town. The streets were full of people celebrating Belyanoch. I saw jugglers and stiltwalkers on Gersky Prospect, dancers twirling on a lit stage in one of the parks. Music floated up from the boats on the canal.

Siege and Storm- Chapter 21

Os Alta's lower town

I crossed the canal, the little boats bobbing in the water below. From somewhere beneath the bridge, I heard the wheeze of an accordion. I floated past the guard gate and into the narrow streets and clutter of the market town. It seemed even more crowded than it had before. People hung off stoops and overflowed from porches. Some played cards on makeshift tables made of boxes. Others slept propped up against each other. A couple swayed slowly on a tavern porch to music only they could hear. When I came to the city walls ...

the tent city of Sun Saint's fanatics by dawn

The tent city had grown. There were hundreds of people camped outside the walls, maybe thousands. The pilgrims weren’t hard to find—I was surprised to see how their numbers had increased. They crowded near a large white tent, all facing east, awaiting the early sunrise. The sound began as a swell of rustling whispers that fluttered on the air like the wings of birds and grew to a low hum as the sun peered over the horizon and lit the sky pale blue. Only then did I begin to make out the words. Sankta. Sankta Alina. Sankta. Sankta Alina. The pilgrims watched the growing dawn, and I watched them, unable to look away from their hope, their expectation. Their faces were exultant, and as the first rays of sun broke over them, some began to weep. The hum rose and multiplied, cresting and falling, building to a wail that raised the hair on my arms. It was a creek overflowing its banks, a hive of bees shaken from a tree. Sankta. Sankta Alina. Daughter of Ravka.