ilovepearlsm

[ilovepearlsm]

oh, my angel nun! crona x nun! fem! reader

[ yearning, religious themes, mild sexual themes, crona will be referred to as they/them but will be called ‘sister’ for the au’s sake, crona is aged up in this ]

a hush descended and stilled longer than usual, draped in the weight of the midnight silence. beyond the windows, the window draped the stone-carved walls of the convent silver, and the wind tiptoed through the dimly-lit corridors like a prayer left unspoken.

inside the sleeping quarters, twelve bodies tucked into humble sheets, cotton pillows, and nothing but a small candle by the door, as if a quiet analogy of the life they gained by joining the convent as a sister.

crona sat upright in their bed, trembling. their fingers dug into the coarse blanket, jaw tight to keep the sounds of panic from spilling into the room.

a dream—or perhaps a memory—had come clawing back, dragging them under like deep water. ragged breaths. shaking shoulders. a shame that clung to them like wet linen.

the mattress dipped beside them, and there you were. the nun who entered the rickety gates of the convent with big doe eyes and chest swelled in humility and quiet happiness. as if a treasure chest just opened its locks right before your feet that seemed to have never met a day’s hardship.

‘bad dream, sister?’

you tilt your head, eyes half lidded and lips curved into a sleepy smile as you tuck your knees to your chest and your fingers inching closer to crona but halting mid-way.

‘i-i didn’t mean to wake you’

crona pursed their lips trying to calm the heaving breaths crawling up their throat. their cheeks regrettably flushing as their body trembled just a bit more.

crona never intended to befriend you. you just happened to take a liking to their lavender-tinted hair and scrawny tall stature that never fails to give you a night’s worth of neck sores for looking up so much just to meet those faltering eyes.

crona also never meant to glance at every corner to see if they can somehow not-so-unintentionally run into you, stare a bit too long at your chest when you breathe raggedly after hard labor by the church gardens, or bite back a plead of your name when you’re enjoying another sister’s company in front of them.

‘i have a joke for you, i swear it’s funny this time sister’ you grin as you stifle a small laugh already escaping your lips.

crona could only nod after being taken out of their thoughts. it was cute, honestly. of all the nuns they’ve met, you were the funniest—to some—and most carefree of them all, as if this life didn’t mean a fate of restraint or sacrifice but a life of happiness and freedom.

‘what did the grape say when the nun stepped on it?’

crona tilted their head.

‘it whined-!’

what a perfect servant of god you were.

the silence was broken by a hiccuped breath of surprise from crona—was it a laugh? or a sob? they didn’t even know. but it made you giggle, quietly, and your body nestle just a bit closer to theirs and that felt warmer than any morning in spring and fireplace inside the convent.

your thigh brushed against theirs.

your hand hovered over their own, fingertips brushing, like a suggestion.

crona’s chest welled, drowning out any remaining echoes of their nightmare. instead, they could hear your heartbeat too—soft, patient, and achingly close.

and it hurt—god, it hurt. to look at you was to be pierced. Your lips, parted slightly with sleepy breath. your eyes, bright even in shadows. your kindness, your easy joy—it made Crona’s chest ache like a wound freshly opened.

how could temptation be this soft?

their gaze dipped—to your lips, your neck, your fingers. And lower. to your soft thighs squeezed together and your chest that stretched the fabric of your nightgown.

their own hands twitched beneath the blanket, every nerve screaming to reach out and hold, to clutch, to keep. but they didn’t. because to touch would be to ruin.

to touch would be to break something holy.

crona shut their eyes tight. you stayed there, beside them, as sleep tiptoed back into the room ‘you should pray those nightmares away, sister.’ you smiled softly, cheeks puffed and your fingers circling over their bedsheets.

crona could only nod and stared at the ceiling, unable to pray.

because how could they ask god to keep their nightmares away? they are simply not deserving. not when their throat throbs and head flooding with thoughts on how utterly soft your thighs would be underneath their fingernails

if they just dip their head lower tonight under the hem of your nightgown?

maybe they the nightmares are god’s punishment. and moments like these in between are the devil’s enticement.