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spikedfearn · 4 days ago

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Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter II

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 11.2k

a/n: wasn’t expecting the Jimmy fic to get so much hate, but honestly? It just made me wanna make him extra gross and grimy. So here you go—extra unhinged, extra filthy, and extra long 😘!! big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for beta reading, you're the backbone of the Jack O'Connell fandom on tumblr!!

warnings: dark!romance, dead dove: do not eat, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, captivity, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, cumplay, spit kink, overstimulation, corruption arc, sexual tension, graphic violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, cult themes, brainwashing, forced religious imagery, indoctrination, twisted morality, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, escape attempt, childhood trauma, trauma bonding, power imbalance, manipulative affection, non-traditional grooming

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter II: My King, Glory Onto Thee

The first thing you notice is the warmth.

A hearth burning low. The crackle of wood being eaten slowly by flame. The sting of moss and woodsmoke curling deep into your nose. You draw a breath before you open your eyes, and when you do, the world swims slowly into focus.

You’re in a room that doesn’t match the ruins you passed through the night before. Not the crumbling chapel. Not the moss-slick corridors. This space feels kept. Not grand, not orderly, but loved in its own strange way—every surface cluttered with relics of a long-dead world.

The walls are patched stone, lined with warped shelves and crooked cabinets. Upon them, a trove of forgotten toys rests like sacred idols. A Power Rangers action figure, scuffed and chipped but still standing proud. A Teletubbies lamp—long extinguished—grinning its eerie smile from a shadowed corner. A Barney the Dinosaur plush, faintly torn and patched with thread, resting beside a Digimon figurine with its tail snapped off. A Pokemon lunchbox, its paint faded but still hopeful, tucked between a stack of brittle comic books and a metal tin adorned with neon spaceships.

The floor is layered with faded rugs and long-stitched pelts, old and threadbare but softened by time. The air hums faintly with dust and dried flowers. The ceiling beams are adorned with ropes and dried herbs that twist like old vines. Against one wall rests a long, low pallet—not a bed, not a cot, but a nest of patched blankets and animal hides. The one you’ve just woken upon.

You shift, brushing a hand across the threads. The room doesn’t just hold you. It keeps you.

The sound of movement draws your attention sharply. The door creaks open.

Two figures slip inside. The same two that had stood witness as Sir Jimmy Crystal announced your name the night before. The same hands that tightened the rope around your wrists now bear a chipped bowl and a tin cup. One is wearing a red Adidas tracksuit patched with old flannel, the other blue Nike replaced by crude stitching, both made of nylon fabric. Their long blonde hair hangs in tangles down their backs.

They don’t scowl. They don’t sneer. They bow their heads as they cross the threshold, brushing their hands to their chests before looking at you. Not like a prisoner anymore. Not like a thing. But like someone. Someone special.

Holy.

“Petal,” the one in red breathes, voice soft-boiled out of childlike awe. Not ‘you.’ Not ‘her.’

“He said you’d be awake soon.”

The other gestures to the tin cup, setting it down beside you. The water is lukewarm, faintly smelling of boiled metal and woodsmoke.

“We’re to bathe you,” she adds quietly, brushing long strands of hair from her own sharp, too-thin face. “To make you clean. As He commanded.”

Through the open door, the hallway beyond is faintly illuminated by a guttering lamp. The walls out there bear the same strange, shrine-like clutter: a shelf lined with broken action figures and figurines, torn comic book pages plastered like holy scripture, a long-abandoned Game Boy wedged between chipped jars. The air hums with old memories and fresh obedience.

Here, surrounded by relics of a boyhood long ago lost, by threads and scraps of a world gone quiet, you understand:

This room doesn’t just belong to Him.

It’s a piece of the man he used to be, pressed and dried between the pages of decay—a relic. A treasure. A warning.

And, as the two draw closer, reaching for your hands, brushing hair from your face with practiced care, you can only wonder:

What will Eden ask of its newest seedling?

What will He make of its newest flower?

But when one of them gestures for you to rise, to disrobe, to walk with them to the wash basin—something in you snaps. You draw yourself up sharply and fix them both with a stare that burns.

“I can wash myself,” you bite, “if He’s so desperate for obedience, maybe He needs a bath first.”

They hesitate. Just long enough for you to register the shock that blazes across their faces, making the room seem suddenly too quiet.

The two women glance at each other—quick, sharp. Not afraid of you, precisely, but wary of making a wrong move. They wait until you stand, taking your sweet time, brushing the dust from your grimy attire. Not like one of theirs. Not like some feral thing to be scrubbed and collared. But like someone making a statement with every breath.

Then one of them gestures, slow and cautious, toward a long, shallow basin set upon a low table in the corner. The water within is faintly steaming, laced with dried petals and faint traces of moss. It doesn’t smell like any luxury you remember from before. The world doesn’t have luxuries anymore. But it’s clean. Careful. An offering.

“He said you were to be bathed,” the woman whispers, voice soft as freshly fallen snow, “to be made clean. We’ll help if you need it.”

You draw closer, the pads of your fingers skimming across the surface of the water. The warmth bleeds into your skin—sudden and soothing. The petals shift under your hand. The faint crackle of dried moss reminds you of the earth itself. The air here is thick. Not like the cold mist of the woods, but like a room that knows it has a purpose.

Behind you, the second woman shifts the door shut, the sound swallowing itself quickly. The room narrows to this moment: you and the two women, bathed in faint lamp glow. You don’t ask for help. You don’t need help. Not anymore.

With slow, deliberate precision, you shrug free of the threadbare shirt that has felt like a second skin. The air tightens. The two women glance down instantly, the threads of their tracksuits shifting as if some celestial weight rests upon their shoulders. Not because you’ve exposed skin. Not because you’ve undressed. But because you chose it.

Willingly.

In a place where obedience is enforced, where silence is holy, choice is an alien concept.

One of them exhales sharply as you step into the shallow basin. The water embraces your legs, rising higher as you sink to your knees. The petals shift, brushing your skin like ghostly fingers. The other woman kneels beside the basin, hand hovering over the surface of the water, unable to touch until granted permission.

“He said you were special,” she murmurs, voice low. “That you weren’t like the rest of us.”

You flinch, just a little, not because you disagree, but because of the terror in how she says them. Not suspicion. Not disdain.

Reverence.

The other woman returns with a cloth—torn from a long-ago bed sheet, worn smooth. You don’t ask for it, don’t accept it. You raise a hand sharply, brushing wet tendrils of hair from your neck, reaching for the cloth. The woman freezes, then bows her head and hands it to you.

You wash yourself.

Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, every bead of water on your skin illuminated in the faint glow. The room doesn’t breathe until you’ve rinsed your arms, your throat, your hands. Until the threads of dried moss and petals cling to your knees. Until the air tastes of alga and charcoal.

Beads of water cling to your skin, cutting lazy wet trails from your shoulders down the length of your back. The room holds its breath, silent and careful.

Then, from the doorway—a soft sound.

Footsteps.

Not quiet, but not loud either. Leisurely. Certain. Purposeful.

You feel the shift before you see him, the subtle tightening of the two women, their posture rigid with nervous reverence. Neither lifts their eyes from the stone floor as the footsteps approach, then stop. Right there. At the threshold.

He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t announce himself. He simply fills the doorway with his presence, radiating all the authority of a leader. It spills through the space, trickling along your spine, making every nerve tense.

You don’t turn to look. You don’t have to. You can feel his gaze on your back—intense, patient, deeply amused.

The silence thickens, stretching, becoming uncomfortable. Until finally, his voice fills the quiet, velvet and whiskey-soft.

“Petal. Ye look good like that. Clean suits ye.”

He steps fully into the room then, black sneakers scuffing lightly against worn stone, closing the distance one easy, slow step at a time. He carries the scent of smoke and something faintly sweet, old wood and dried herbs clinging to him like a shroud. He pauses, eyes flicking briefly to the two women posted on either side of the door. He nods once, short and sharp.

They stand instantly. Quietly. Without argument, without hesitation. They exit the room like ghosts, door whispering shut behind them.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jimmy shifts his weight, leaning back against a cluttered shelf crowded with those childish relics, arms folded casually across his chest. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the gentle tap of a ring against wood.

“Had a chance tae settle in, have ye?”

His tone is conversational, almost playful—but there’s something buried beneath it, a quiet warning that runs like wire through silk.

You glance over your shoulder, deliberately slow. Defiant. Careful. You don’t speak. Not yet.

He grins when your eyes meet his, that charismatic, unsettling smile sliding across his face—warm, boyish, deeply unsettling in its innocence.

He shifts closer, pausing to pluck something from the shelf—a small, faded Pokémon figurine, its paint chipped, its eyes hollow. He turns it slowly between his fingers, gaze fixed on it, momentarily childlike.

“Funny, innit? How things from before…” he trails off, rubbing a thumb over the worn plastic. “We still cling to ‘em, don’t we? Like they’re special. Precious. Even after they’ve broken.”

His eyes flicker back to yours—sharp, intense, strangely vulnerable beneath the twisted humor.

“But even broken things have their place, Petal. Don’t they?”

Your chest tightens. You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you lift your chin just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

He chuckles softly at your quiet defiance, setting the figurine carefully back onto the shelf.

“Ah, quiet today, aren’t ye?” He shakes his head slightly, hair falling messily across his eyes. “Gotta say, I’m surprised. Thought ye’d be mouthin’ off again by now. Guess the water washed away more than just dirt, huh?”

That does it. You narrow your eyes, feeling the words sharpen on your tongue. You know better than to bait him, but something in you can’t resist. Can’t help testing the wire between you, feeling how much pressure it takes before it snaps.

“Maybe I just didn’t have anything to say to a grown man playing with his toys.”

His eyebrows lift, slow and deliberate. Not anger—interest. Delight.

“Oh,” he breathes, soft and dangerously amused. “There ye are.”

He pushes off the shelf, slowly stepping toward you, the worn soles of his shoes echoing softly against the floor. His eyes never leave yours, locked in, hungry with a child’s selfish need to own, to possess, to conquer. He stops close—too close, the heat of him pressing against the cool, damp air around you.

“I was worried I’d lost ye already. Thought I’d have tae work harder tae coax that bratty wee tongue out.”

His voice drops lower, nearly a whisper now.

“But we’ve plenty o’ time for that, don’t we, Petal?”

He’s still standing so close—close enough that you can feel the heat of him radiating into your chilled skin. Close enough that each breath feels like borrowed air. His eyes roam deliberately, openly, tracing the droplets that linger across your collarbone, sliding down your throat and pooling at your chest before your body disappears beneath the water.

Slowly, he reaches out.

You stiffen instinctively, but his fingertips just brush your shoulder—featherlight, tracing the path of water droplets downward. It’s barely a touch, but it ignites something low and dangerous in your blood.

“Look at ye, Petal,” he murmurs, voice rich and low as honey poured over gravel. “All sharp edges and attitude, thinkin’ ye’re safe as long as ye bite.”

His hand trails lower, thumb catching a droplet just above your collarbone. Your breath catches, your heart hammering traitorously in your chest. You tilt your chin up, defiant even as heat floods beneath your skin.

He notices. Of course he does.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice thickening with amusement, his thumb brushing slowly along your collarbone. “I knew ye couldn’t stay hidden long. It’s alright tae want tae fight me. Makes it sweeter when ye give in.”

Your teeth grit, words spilling out before you can bite them back. “And if I don’t?”

His grin broadens, darker now, a shadow creeping across the corners of his eyes. He leans closer, lips hovering just near your ear.

“Ye think it matters what ye say, love?” he whispers, voice velvet-edged with warning. “In here, what matters is who owns the room. And we both know it ain’t ye.”

He draws back slowly, gaze locked on yours, fingers curling just enough to make his touch possessive. A shiver ripples down your spine, betraying you.

“I might be king round here,” he continues, softer now, gaze heavy with something dark and patient, “but I’m still just a man beneath the crown. A man with needs, Petal.”

He dips his head, his voice dropping even lower, rougher, the heat of his breath grazing your cheek.

“And my patience is wearin’ thin.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest. The air between you thickens, electric and raw, your breathing uneven, heavy. You feel the space narrowing, closing tighter around you both.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, studying you, savoring your silent defiance.

“How long do ye think I’ll hold back, hm?” he murmurs, lips curving slowly. “Ye’ve got fire in ye, Petal, but keep burnin’ too hot and I’ll have tae snuff it out. And believe me, sweet thing…”

His thumb slowly drags over your lower lip, parting it slightly, eyes darkening when your breath trembles against his touch.

“When I do, ye’ll thank me for it.”

He drops his hand slowly, leaving your lips cold in the absence of his heat, stepping back just enough to let you breathe again. But the room still pulses with the threat, the promise, the dark, tangled desire beneath his warning.

He smiles again, boyish and warm and utterly terrifying in how deeply you already feel yourself falling into it.

“So watch that pretty mouth,” he says, voice sliding back into a mock-innocent lilt. “Or next time, I won’t be askin’ so nicely.”

The water laps gently at your shoulders, lukewarm now, liquid tendrils slowly pruning your flesh. It offers no protection—not from him, not from his gaze that slips effortlessly over you, unapologetic and hungry. You feel exposed, vulnerable beneath that stare, but something inside you refuses to back down.

Jimmy tilts his head slightly, gaze never wavering from yours, a slow smirk spreading across his mouth

“Awful quiet now, Petal,” he murmurs softly, deliberately. "Did I manage tae tame that sharp tongue already? I expected better.”

He kneels slowly beside the basin, his presence crowding you, leaning closer until he's nearly breathing your air. You can see every tiny detail now—the tangled blonde strands of hair that fall over his forehead, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hint of boyish mischief that makes him as dangerously charming as he is unsettling.

But you refuse to wilt beneath it like a flower that's given up.

Instead, you glare up at him, raising your chin defiantly, your words steeped in venom. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you're brave enough to actually do something about it.”

His smile sharpens, something hot and bright glittering behind his eyes like fire under ice.

“Oh, brave enough?” He chuckles softly, low and rich, cocking his head in amusement, his breath ghosting across your cheek. “Careful what ye ask for, love.”

He reaches out slowly, fingers tracing over the surface of the water, deliberately close to where your skin hides beneath it, yet never quite touching—teasing you, testing you, daring you to move away first.

“Ye think ye're strong enough tae handle me?” he whispers, dangerously close now, voice heavy with implication. “Because once I start, Petal, I won’t be stoppin’ just because ye ask nicely.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken, betraying you again, as your pulse races against your skin. Your breath catches, voice sharpened with defiance.

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

Jimmy's lips twitch upward again, his gaze dark and possessive. He leans closer, eyes locked with yours, every word a deliberate caress against your ear.

“No. It’s supposed tae warn ye.”

Without warning, his hand dips beneath the surface, catching your jaw firmly—not harsh, but commanding, thumb brushing against your lower lip with quiet intent. Your pulse jumps at his touch, your breathing uneven and shallow, betraying a heat you want desperately to deny.

“That defiant wee mouth of yours is askin' tae be disciplined,” he whispers, close enough to feel his hot breath fan across your side profile, his voice coarse and possessive. “I’m tryin’ tae be patient, Petal. I’m tryin’ tae give ye a chance tae be good for me. But ye keep testin’ me, and soon I’m not gonna hold back.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough for you to see the raw hunger in his eyes, the thin thread of control fraying dangerously.

“I’ll take ye apart, piece by piece,” he murmurs, low and rough-edged with promise. “And trust me, ye'll love every fuckin’ minute of it.”

His calloused thumb drags slowly across your lip again, gaze heavy and unblinking, daring you—begging you—to provoke him just a little further.

And despite yourself, you feel the urge to do exactly that.

You hate the way your breath trembles.

Hate that the heat lingering on your lips is his. Hate that he looks at you like he already knows you’ll break—that you’ll thank him for it. That you’ll beg.

So you speak. Not because it’s smart. Not because it’s safe. But because it’s you.

“You talk a lot for someone who says he doesn’t ask nicely.”

Your voice isn’t as strong as you want it to be. It wavers. It cracks. But the words come out anyway—sharp and proud, as if your spine hasn’t started to shake beneath the surface.

For one perfect moment, there’s nothing.

Just stillness.

Then the air snaps like a struck match.

He moves—fast.

His hand grips your wrist, hard enough to startle but not enough to bruise. The water splashes as he pulls you upright, the warmth cascading off your skin in quick, shivering rivulets. You stumble forward out of instinct, out of balance—and suddenly his body is flush with yours.

His chest, warm and solid, pins you back against the edge of the basin. The crushed velvet texture of his deep purple tracksuit presses to your skin, the soaked fabric clinging where you’re still dripping. His other hand braces beside your head on the stone wall, caging you in.

You can feel the tension in him, taut like a wire stretched too far.

“That’s the trouble with mouths like yours,” he breathes, his forehead hovering near yours, not touching—but close. “They never know when tae stop.”

Your pulse slams in your throat. The stone is cool at your back, but his presence is scorching—full-body heat, as if every part of him is coiled with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

“Think you’ve got me on some leash, do ye?” he murmurs, voice thick, edged with something feral. “Think just ‘cause I’ve waited this long, I’ll keep waitin’?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the air knocked clean from your lungs.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, taking in your parted lips, the flicker in your eyes, the twitch of your jaw as you try not to flinch.

“That’s what I like about ye, Petal,” he says, softer now, almost reverent. “That fight in ye. But don’t mistake my patience for mercy. Not in Eden. Not with me.”

Your breath comes shallow. His body still hasn’t moved. You can feel his heartbeat now—pounding in time with yours.

“Ye think this is about breakin’ ye?” he murmurs. “It’s not. It’s about proving you belong here. That ye were made for it.”

His voice is low, dangerous, and laced with something that sounds almost tender—if tenderness could be twisted, distorted, fed on worship and want.

Then he shifts, leaning closer, mouth beside your ear now.

“But keep mouthing off like that, love…” A soft chuckle. “And I’ll have tae do somethin’ about it.”

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just lingers—letting you feel the threat of it, the inevitability of it, hanging there like a promise too heavy to hold.

Then, finally, he steps back.

The cold hits you like a slap, your wet skin suddenly bare again without the heat of him. He lets your wrist go last—slowly, deliberately, fingers dragging away like a man not finished, just… pausing.

“Dry off,” he says, voice cool again, distant. “Then we’ll talk about that mouth.”

And with that, he turns and leaves—door swinging shut behind him like the closing of a trap.

The door shuts with a finality that echoes.

Not loud. Not slamming. But loud enough. Enough to leave its shape pressed into the walls of the room like a bruise.

You don’t move for a long time.

The water clings to your skin in thin, shivering trails. Your heart drums like it’s trying to claw its way up your throat. The place where his hand had closed around your wrist still tingles, phantom-like. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just presence.

You should be angry.

You are angry. The burn in your chest confirms it. Fury, sharp and bitter, swirls with something else—something you don’t want to name. Not heat. Not hunger.

Something worse: curiosity.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the basin, nails biting stone. You breathe through your nose, hard. Once. Twice.

You dress with shaking hands—snatching up the fabric laid out for you, something soft and far too clean for a place like this. As if someone knew you’d belong here before you ever did.

And just as you knot the thin cloth at your waist, the door creaks open again.

It’s not Jimmy.

Two of his flock—Jimmy Ink and Jimmima, you think you overhead before, though you’re not sure who’s who—stand in the doorway. Same long, matted blond hair. In their frayed, mismatched tracksuits, Same sun-dazed, glassy-eyed calm.

And, up close, you can see the red, puckered scar tissue of an inverted cross that had long since been carved into the flesh of their foreheads.

Their gazes flicker differently when they look at you.

Not curious.

Reverent.

Like you're no longer just a stranger plucked from the woods.

Like you're something claimed.

Neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. One simply gestures, head bowed. The other carries something in their arms: a towel, neatly folded, and a small object cradled carefully in their palms.

A plush rabbit.

Old. Patchy. Once white, now yellowed with age. One button eye missing.

Childhood.

Your stomach turns.

“He said you were to be shown your place,” one of them murmurs, voice hushed like they’re in a church mid-sermon.

The towel is offered to you, and without waiting for a response, they guide you from the room.

The path is narrow. Winding. The walls of Eden are damp in places, lined with ivy that’s been permitted to grow wild and tangled, like the hair of its people. There’s no hum of electricity. No modern sound at all. Just dripping water, footsteps on stone, the rustle of branches far above.

Until the air changes again. Warmer. Close.

They lead you to a door. Carved crudely but sturdy. You notice marks seared into the wood like runes—a sunburst of some kind. Radiating lines. A crown. An inverted cross. Seven x’s.

They open it for you.

The scent hits first.

Not rot. Not damp. Not the sweat and woodsmoke that saturate the rest of Eden.

This room smells of plastic. Dust. Paperbacks. Old glue. Something sweet and artificial—nostalgia embalmed.

It’s his room.

Or no—not quite. His sanctum. His retreat.

Toys line the shelves. Plastic bins overflow with battered VHS tapes. Piles of old teen magazines curl on the floor near a bunk fitted with a faded Blue’s Clues comforter. A cracked CRT television sits proudly on a table like an altar, surrounded by sticker-covered remotes and tamagotchis with dead screens.

You step inside before you realize what you’re doing.

“This is where He keeps His most precious things,” the girl says, almost dreamily.

“You’ll sleep here now,” the other adds.

There's a stretch of unsettling silence, both of them blinking at you once—twice, before they shut the door behind you.

And for the first time since arriving in Eden, you’re alone—but not free.

Not even close.

You quietly slip out of Jimmy’s sanctum not long after being left alone, the heat of being half-bathed and half-dressed clinging to your skin. You step into the corridor, bare feet pressing against cold, uneven stone, and the air embraces you—a far cry from the overwhelming warmth of his room.

The hallway is empty, silent, but the walls hum with something old: echoes of laughter too long gone, of toys peeled open, hearts carved out and replaced by faith. You move forward, tracing your fingers along rough-hewn stone, each dip and crack a story of survival, ritual, decay.

The hallway opens to the central courtyard—but even before you fully emerge, you’re hit by its effect: seven figures moving in choreographed harmony. Not dozens. Not a mob. Just seven. Seven who belong to Eden.

They’re working: carrying water, stacking wood, sharpening arrows. Their bows lean against the courtyard’s mossy bench, waiting. Their tracksuits? Clashing. Electric—neon orange next to forest green, blood red next to midnight blue. Loud in this drab world.

Their hair—shoulder-length gold, tangled and greasy, stuck to their necks and backs with sweat. Their skin sun-worn, marked with scars and theology—scratches forming crosses on necks, wrists, even the backs of hands.

They work in eerie silence—or quiet so deep it hums in your bones.

Then—

Jimmy steps into the courtyard.

They all still immediately. Heads bow. Knees bend. The air slackens as though the world itself tips toward him.

He advances, tracksuit hanging open over his chest scars, chestnut-blond hair over his shoulders, eyes sharp as cracked glass. He breathes in once and the courtyard leans forward with him.

“Mornin’, me beautiful bastards,” he sings out, voice warm and brittle like aged whiskey. “D’you pray this mornin’, or think I’m sleepin’ in, eh?”

Their voices ring collectively:

“Sir Jimmy.”

“Sir!”

“Blessed be!”

Their tone is worshipful—shook off mundane life, baptized in his godhood.

He twirls on dusty stone, raising arms wide—as if the world is made of nothing but his command.

Your throat tightens. You step back, weaving along the shadow of a broken pillar. You know they’ll obey. All seven of them. You also know the intimacy here is exclusive—and you’re watching a private performance.

You shift, cloth clinging to damp skin. Your stomach clenches when they approach: one of them glances, steps forward to interrupt—bows—but another stops them with a single sharp noise. The seven freeze again. Even their bowls of water suspended in mid-air.

Jimmy’s eyes sweep the courtyard, hunting. When they land on you—quiet in the shadows—something changes. Not his voice. Not his posture. Something softer, hungrier.

He inclines his head.

And they all part instinctively, like reeds in water.

“There she is,” he announces quietly, pacing toward you in three light strides. “My bloom in the wild, eh?”

Your heart hammers. The sun cuts lines across your damp pants, lines cutting you into pieces—and he loves every one.

None of them speak. Not even Jimmy.

The silence curdles. Heavy and ardent. Their gazes crawl over you—no lust, no violence, just…awe. Pure and raw and enduring, like they’ve been starving for a myth and you’ve stepped right out of it.

You shift your weight. You don’t dare break the tension, but you don’t want to hold it either. It feels like you’re inside something ritualistic—some old pageant you were never meant to see, let alone star in.

Around you, Eden breathes in muted ritual: a carved stone basin hewn into the courtyard’s perimeter, stained with moss and dark rituals; bows and quivers hung at precise intervals along weathered pillars like offerings on an altar; a circle of smooth river stones at the courtyard's center where the cult often gathers for silent communion at sunrise—praying in silence before daybreak, and giving thanks in whispers to Jimmy’s name.

The cultists don’t blink. They don’t look away. They don’t whisper. But something changes in them. A new current. Where before they looked through you, now they see something in you. A shape that belongs. A prophecy confirmed.

And Jimmy?

He walks past them like parting a curtain.

You don’t move, but he moves around you, slow and casual, like he’s testing the air between you. The heat of his body hovers inches from yours. His presence is a weight against your spine, and you feel the power in his posture: unholy and absolute. He stops behind you, close enough to whisper soured warmth into your ear.

“They’re not used tae change,” he says softly, just for you. “Not unless I say so.”

His tone drips with quiet triumph. You can practically feel the cult shifting behind you, the air distorted by devotion.

“Ye’ll get used tae the starin’. Or ye won’t. Won’t matter.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. You don’t hear apology.

Then, still behind you, voice dropped low enough it barely cuts the air:

“Petal suits ye, I think.”

He trails his fingers down the column of your throat—barely—but enough to burn.

“Ye’re soft around the edges. Not so soft in the middle.”

His words rasp across your skin like a blade. The intention is erotic, possessive, menacing.

“But even the thickest of blooms can be pressed flat.”

There’s a wetness in your mouth—fear, desire, adrenaline. The word “pressed” tastes like warning and promise.

“If someone wanted tae keep 'em.”

The words hang there, sharp and cloying as heat and honey. Your breath catches. Behind you, you sense the cultists waiting like wolves suppressed by a leash only he holds.

You don’t dare turn. Not with the flock still watching like statues—blond hair catching the morning's chill light, bows slung across backs like extensions of their bodies. Their faces are blank, worshiping in an almost mechanical devotion.

You’re no longer prey. You’re purpose.

He laughs quietly once, and it rings hollow and shattered.

“So when ye’re ready tae kneel…remember who taught ye the posture.”

He back steps, not breaking contact but ending it. The loss of his warmth feels like falling.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead he steps into the center of the courtyard, and the cultist archers follow him, forming a semi-circle around you, wreathed in morning mist. The stone altar lies between.

He lifts his voice, not to shout but to preach gospel.

“Watch closely, me beautiful bastards…”

And the edges of the gathering tilt forward as he begins—words rumbling under his breath, drawing in the cult. He’s speaking about you, about her destiny, about the seed he’s chosen. You stand there as the heart of an impromptu ritual, the world narrowing to him and the seven believers leaning into his voice.

Jimmy's voice resonates across the crumbled ruins of the clearing, weaving through the morning haze. Each syllable hangs, delivered with uncanny precision—the cadence of a preacher, the magnetism of a high-wire showman.

“Wundrous—ain’t it? A single bloom pushin’ through cracked stone,” he says, his tone light until it lands like a hammer. "Petal is a miracle, aye? A spark o’ life in Eden’s wrecked creation."

He sweeps his arm toward you, fingers spread wide as though presenting the sun itself. The cultists lean forward ever so slightly, bows held loosely at their sides, eyes locked on his every movement. They drink him in the way parched lips taste water.

“Did ye come from the wild, filthy world beyond our gates?” he murmurs, stepping forward. His trainers crush the morning dew, the gentle hiss and crunch echoing like a heartbeat. “Did ye crawl through ash and corpse and cold just tae find this?”

He pauses, scanning each face. The cultists are every bit his choir—bright eyes, drawn skin, the type of devotion that's loud in the silence. He lets it swell, hold steady, then resumes, voice richer now:

“Because that’s what Eden is, my sweet Petal,” he breathes, and the word sweet fills the courtyard like warm honey. “A shelter made by hands cracked with grief. A cradle built outta crucifixion.”

He leans close, stepping past you so his chest brushes yours, voice smooth yet blistering like whisky over firewood.

“And ye—“ His gaze drops to your chest, then lifts, unwavering. “Ye carry something within ye.” He breathes out, slow, deliberate. “Potential.”

You feel the quiet thrum under his words—like the air itself vibrates, ready to burst.

"A seed,” he whispers. “Not just o’ flesh. O’ hope. O’ dominion. O’ a world remade. And that’s why they follow me.”

The cultists shift at the word hope, an almost imperceptible exhale. A silent murmur of consent, reverence, fear.

"Aye, they followed me when I stood in empty ruins. When I spoke of the world we’d wrested from plague and horror.” He raises his voice, rich and cracking all at once. “And now—now—they follow her.”

He steps back. The courtyard smells of damp wood, moss, sweat—blended with his cologne: rosewater, stale whisky, ash.

"Look at them,” he says, nodding at the cultists. “Blinded by purpose. They bow for me, but they breathe for you. Because you are what comes next.”

His voice becomes intimate, low. So soft you hear the scrape of leather where his breastbone meets his tracksuit.

"Imagine this,” he urges, eyes burning in the mist. “A child not of plague. But of paradise. Born here, in Eden. With a father—” He glances at you— “—who farms devotion as carefully as soil, who tills the land with conviction, who gathers the faithful and raises them like trees.”

You taste copper fear on your tongue. His words aren't just praise—they're promise.

"I built this kingdom one sword, one prayer, one body at a time,” he whispers, stepping close again. You feel the shudder in your bones, as though something beneath the earth recognized itself. “And now…you will bear the first fruit.”

The words echo like a pulse, making the quiet seem loud.

He holds your gaze then, alone—though he’s surrounded by seven souls, all wide-eyed, faces pale in the morning glow. You’re at the center of something terrifying, sacred, and utterly intoxicating.

He finally releases you from his stare, opening his arms—an invitation, a declaration, a warning.

“Raise your eyes with me,” he commands gently, and the cultists raise their heads in unison. “Look at what destiny has offered us.”

They watch you. They watch him. And you realize: this sermon isn’t just words.

It’s construction.

A ritual built from desire and power, forging a bond you can’t unfeel.

And Eden trembles with it.

Jimmy’s voice rises and falls, a hypnotic wave that pulses through Eden’s silent courtyard. The morning mist glistens around you and the cultists, sounding like breathing. His gaze never shifts—he’s entirely focused on you, only you, as if no one else exists in this sacred moment.

“Picture it,” he begins, voice low and deliberate, yet tethered to a spark of manic fever. “Your womb—my crucible. Our blood the water that bathes this garden anew.”

You feel the cultists lean in, as though the air itself has condensed, forming a hushed audience to a revelation. Their bows drop into their grips like promises unspoken, hands tensed, waiting.

Jimmy steps closer, his breath brushing your collarbone.

“We’ll plant seeds not just in soil, but in flesh. We’ll carve out a lineage o’ Eden’s bairns, born o’ passion and promise, raised on devotion and steel.”

The words settle into your bones; you can almost see the flicker of unborn life taking root inside you. Part of you recoils—this is monstrous. And yet you find yourself swallowing, moved by the pulsing conviction in his tone.

He glances at the cult with a lordly smile.

“They’re ready,” he says with absolute certainty. “Ready to follow your bairns as they’ll follow ye.” He returns his gaze to you—hungry, demanding. “And ye, Petal…will be the mither o’ this resurrection.”

Your breath hitches. It’s like standing beneath a waterfall of power—relentless, overwhelming, impossible to resist.

Jimmy lifts his chin, chest swelling as though he’s already stepped into his throne.

“I’m no longer just Jimmy Crystal,” he continues, voice rising with cold exaltation. “I’m the flame that ignites Eden’s rebirth. The architect o’ our new covenant.”

He raises one arm, palm open to the sky. The cultists mirror him, hands lifted in solemn unity.

“And ye,” he says, voice like fire, like the crack of dawn after endless night, “ye're the catalyst.”

Then he pauses.

A weighty moment.

Every breath tastes like sacrament.

You find yourself nodding—softly, unconsciously. You are drawn in. You are buying into it, even as your mind screams to run.

“I can't stay,” you murmur, voice trembling but clear. “This…this is too much.”

His gift is patience. He tilts his head slightly, steps closer—closer than you’ve ever let him.

“Aye, ye cannot stay,” he agrees, tone gentle as a vice. “Not when this garden needs plantin’.”

Pain. Excitement. Fear. Heat.

You inhale sharply, mouth going dry.

His hand hovers at the small of your back. The cultists stand still, witnessing the exchange but frozen in silent obedience.

“But ye will stay,” he says, voice as tender as a threat. “Not because I keep ye here.”

He lets the words hang. Then:

“Because ye’ll want tae.”

He leans forward, brushing his lips against your ear as though kissing a sin.

“Because Eden needs ye. Because I need ye.”

Your knees buckle, but he catches you, anchoring you to the courtyard stone. A spark of dizzy devotion rises in your chest.

The cultists echo his sentiment with a soft, singular murmur—“Amen.” It’s barely audible, but enough.

You’re too far gone now.

Caught in his sermon, in his fervor, in the promise of becoming something both holy and damned. The courtyard spins with electric devotion.

His voice lowers again, a dark lullaby.

“So stay,” he breathes. “Stay with me in Eden’s breakin’. Stay and grow what only we can birth.”

The mist curls around your ankles, hiding your tears—tears of something you barely recognize. Something between surrender and conviction.

Jimmy’s breath settles into a slow rhythm as the final echoes of his voice drift across the courtyard. His eyes remain locked on yours, offering devotion and dominion in equal measure. Around you, the mist curls and settles, as if Eden itself is breathing—you, the epicenter of its pulse.

He lifts a finger to his lips, a silent command that hushes the cultists. One by one, they lower their bowed heads, hands unclenching from their bows, posture easing but never truly relaxing. They’re anchored in worship, unable to simply walk away.

Jimmy steps closer, hand extending toward you—not in salvation, but in signing a contract no one sane would sign under this sky.

Instead of speaking, he places his palm over your heart, the fabric of his tracksuit warm and tight against your chest. A tremor passes through you. The world narrows to his touch, his gaze, his vow—yet he keeps that final note of tension alive.

He leans forward, voice hushed yet fierce:

“By this moment, you’re bound to Eden. To me. But damn me…I’ll hold you to it.”

He brushes his lips to your forehead, a soft and sacred seal. An obsession swaddled in devotion. A betrayal wrapped in devotion. Your knees threaten to buckle, but he steadies you—silent and immovable.

He steps back, the gravity lifted, yet still heavy in the air. Eyes never lowering, he inclines his head once. The cultists rise as one and fall into formation, bows back on shoulders, ritual complete. They disperse in perfect symmetry, leaving you and him in the echoing hush.

For a moment, nothing moves but his chest—rising, falling, storming with unspoken promise. Then he turns, voice void of warmth but brimming with ownership:

“Come.”

He leads you across the courtyard—slowly, deliberately. His grip is suggesting, guiding. His eyes are unwavering: a beacon and a warning.

You follow because something in your chest—a mix of fear, yearning, dread—won’t let you do anything else. You’re caught, spinning—but not yet still.

The seven cultists melt into Eden’s edges, returning to their daily worship. But now, you carry the memory of Jimmy’s reclaimed sermon, his seal, his kiss—a wound and a mark you’ll never wash away.

As you cross the threshold back into his sanctum, you lean into the wall, bare shoulder pressing against cold stone. Behind you, the door shuts with quiet finality.

You are alone. But moved.

You are bound. But not broken.

Yet.

You stand in the dim glow of Jimmy’s sanctum, every breath rattling between conditioned compliance and primal fear. The sanctity of his relics—tattered VHS tapes, faded childhood plushies, inverted crosses—presses in too tight, like a coffin you didn't ask for.

Your heart pounds. Your palms sweat. You taste cold metal on your tongue. This isn’t tenderness. It's poisoning.

Memories flicker—his sermon, the kiss upon your forehead, the stretching hush as seven marked bodies watched you be claimed. It wasn’t devotion. It was possession.

You step back, pressing your shoulder against the stone wall beneath the crooked coat hook. Your gaze flicks to the door as if praying for escape.

A whisper inside you rising—urgent, insistent:

Get out. Now.

This place was built by a broken god. His rituals are chains spun of charm and terror. And you…you’re supposed to be the seed.

The incubator.

You ball your fingers, nails biting into your palms until they bleed. That burst of pain clears your mind.

You tiptoe toward the door, careful not to disturb the dusty relics scattered across wooden shelves: a broken Game Boy with chipped cartoon buttons, a child's drawing pinned beneath a cracked frame, a lone Teletubby plush—the purple Tinky Winky—perched on a dresser like an accusation.

Each relic mocks you.

You slip your hand to the latch. It gives. Because Eden isn’t built of steel.

Just ritual. Just false worship.

The corridor beyond yawns into darkness. You don’t hesitate.

A single step into the hallway. Shadows swallow you. Your damp clothes cling, dragging. But you're moving—one foot, then the next, tense and determined.

A noise jumps from behind—wood creaking, breath soft on stone. Your heart stutters. You whirl, pressed against the rough wall, knife-edge panic cutting through the haze.

But it's just a single track-suited cultist rounding the corner—wrenching muddy-blond hair away from their face, eyes blank.

They don’t betray you. Instead, they stop.

You hold your breath.

They gape for a moment—then step aside. The faintest nod. Almost reverent. Then they turn away, leaving you to the corridor that stretches beyond Eden’s heart.

No chase. No command. Just silence.

Your fingers tremble at the door latch. One final breath. You lift the latch.

You slip from the sanctum like a shadow dislodged from the wall—silent, shaken, desperate. The air outside his room tastes colder, more real. The scent of mildew and old stone clings to every breath, grounding you. Each step feels like breaking glass underfoot, too loud, too obvious—but still, you move. You don’t know the layout of Eden, not really, but something primal propels you forward.

Your pulse is a roar in your ears. Each footstep is measured, careful, a prayer under your breath: Not yet. Not yet.

Behind you, the hush of distant chanting glimmers—half-remembered prayers spilled into morning mist. You don't stop. You can’t.

Pass by a toppled shelf, scattered VHS tapes underfoot. You step around them, boots thickening with dust. A snapped doll arm curls in your path, and you pause—heart rattling—then push on.

At the junction, you hesitate. Two directions. The left path slopes downward, lined with rusted iron bars—cells, maybe, or storage. The ceiling drips cold water in rhythmic plinks. The right path climbs toward dim daylight, pale beams cutting through cobwebbed arches.

You move toward light, urgency lending grace to your limbs.

A breeze tickles your damp hair as you push the next door. It resists, hinges groaning like a protest, then gives. You burst through into the ruins beyond—a half-collapsed hall once grand, now claimed by sky. Vines strangle stone, and damp air tastes like wild freedom.

Your stomach lurches with hope.

You sprint, more instinct than plan. Each breath screams. Heart rattles ribs like a drum of panic.

Ahead: an arched doorway opening into sunlit debris—broken benches, fallen statues, a shattered stained-glass window where primordial light filters through shards of color.

You’re almost there.

Vines tug at your shirt as you duck through the lintel. The scent of summer outside—wildflowers, dead leaves, fresh rain—hits your lungs. Freedom buzzes across your skin.

But Eden stalks.

A distant thunk: soles on stone.

Another.

You break into a sprint across rubble, feet pounding cracked marble, vines tangling in your ankles. You hear your breath, like glass breaking.

Then:

A hand clamps over your mouth, fingers digging in, scent of firewood and coarse earth pressing against your spine.

Steel at your back—a bow? A spear? Doesn’t matter. You twist with all you’ve got, muscles screaming.

Enough to see him:

Sir Jimmy Crystal. Tracksuit damp with mist, his face smooth but fierce, eyes blazing with uncanny devotion. He smirks.

He doesn’t need to speak.

He holds you like an answer.

Your palms scrape stone as he guides you back, every crack and echo mocking the triumph you felt.

He pins you flat against a collapsed statue, vines scraping your arms as he presses his weight behind you. His breath is hot, his presence absolute.

One thick hand knots into the back of your shirt, twisting the fabric until it bites your ribs, the other clamping around your wrist, grinding bone to bone. You twist, you shove at him, thrash like a caged thing—but it doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s stronger. Broader. Hungrier.

You spit—hot and defiant, slicking his cheek, warm and wet, and yet he moans like you kissed him. Low and guttural, like something feral caught between pleasure and violence.

The moonlight dances across the carved altar behind him—stone cold and bathed in silver, the centerpiece of this sanctified hell he’s dragged you into. And you? You're no longer walking. You're being hauled.

He throws open the heavy wooden door to the sanctum like it’s nothing. It groans against its hinges, spilling in warm amber candlelight, and the stench of smoke, old incense, sweat, and something feral. The room feels alive, like it's holding its breath for what comes next.

“Aye,” he growls, dragging you over the threshold, “ye had yer chance tae repent, Petal. Now ye’ll bleed faith.”

You stumble, crash to your knees. The floor bruises you instantly, but Jimmy’s already behind you, a fist curling into your hair and yanking your head back so hard your throat arches for him. He crouches low beside you, licking your spit off his cheek, his grin grotesque and glowing in the lowlight.

“Ye taste like defiance,” he breathes into your ear. “Sweet, stupid defiance. But ye’ll be beggin’ tae taste me before this night’s done.”

You try to jerk away—he only laughs, full-bellied and victorious. Then you’re lifted again. Thrown.

Your back hits something flat and cold. The altar. Stone or marble, it doesn't matter. It steals the breath from your lungs as he pins you there with one hand spread across your chest, not even flinching when you claw at his wrist. His coat peels off in one movement, tossed somewhere behind him. He straddles you fully clothed, bearing down, dirty from the day’s sweat, smoke staining the collar of his shirt. You catch the scent of blood—not yours—and it’s on his skin like cologne.

"Been patient," he mutters, biting the words into your neck. “Waited, starved, listened tae yer preachin’, yer threats, yer screams. But this? This is mine now.”

You open your mouth to scream—his palm slams over it.

“Shhh,” he breathes, dragging his face close to yours, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll make ye cry soon enough, pet. Screamin’s sacred, remember?”

With one hand, he wrenches your legs apart, his thigh wedging between them with obscene ease. He grinds forward, not even bothering to unfasten his belt yet, just letting you feel the weight of his cock against you through the cloth. Hard. Thick. Twitching.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice dark with glee. “That’s a sermon, Petal. That’s holy.”

He spits directly into your mouth with a practiced snap of his tongue, slick and filthy, watching your eyes go wide as you choke and sputter. He grins down at you with sick satisfaction, rubbing his spit into your tongue with two fingers.

“Swalla it,” he says. “Show me ye can behave like a proper wee Eve. Go on, now. Tha’s a good lass…”

You do. You don’t know why—whether it’s fear or something darker—but you do.

Jimmy makes a noise that sounds like praise.

“Fuckin’ precious,” he says thickly. “Gonna breed the rebellion right outta ye.”

And then he pulls the knot loose on the drawstring holding his trackies up. You feel it first—hot, already leaking, heavy against your inner thigh. He palms his cock and groans at the contact, eyes fluttering shut like he's touching the divine. When they open again, they're locked on you.

“Ye’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch, lass,” he says. “Every. Inch. And when I fill ye, when I spill inside that wee, tight, wicked cunt, ye’ll thank me.”

He pushes your track pants down past your hips with rough, unsteady hands, breathing harder now, feverish, until the fabric pools around your ankles. His fingers curl between your thighs, dragging through your folds.

"Shite," he whispers, aroused and earnest. "Already wet. Oh, Petal...ye were made for this."

He lines up. One hand fists in your hair again, forcing you to watch his face as he begins to press in—thick, unrelenting. It’s stretching, burning, brutal.

And he just grins as you cry out, lips curling back to bare teeth.

“That’s it,” he pants, driving deeper. “Cry fer me, Petal. Let th’ angels hear.”

The sound he makes as he bottoms out is obscene. A guttural, low, trembling moan that rolls straight from his chest like thunder cracking through stained glass. His cock is buried so deep inside you, you feel it in your lungs—stuffed full, your cunt stretched open around his filthy, leaking length, already pulsing with the promise of what he plans to leave inside you.

“Fuckin’—Christ, yer tight,” he growls into your throat, hips flush to yours, not moving, just throbbing. “Like a virgin altar, aye? Like ye were carvin’ yerself out fer me. Say it. Say ye were waitin’ fer me tae come ruin this wee cunt.”

You shake your head—because you weren’t. Because you aren’t. But your mouth opens anyway, and all that comes out is a gasp that melts into a moan as he starts to move.

Not gentle. Not slow.

Jimmy fucks like a man possessed.

His hips snap back and slam forward, the sound of skin-on-skin violent, loud enough to bounce off the carved walls of the sanctum. He grunts every time he drives into you, grinding deep like he’s trying to knock the fight out of you one brutal thrust at a time.

Your back arches hard against the stone as he slams into your cervix again and again, his pace merciless, his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed, splitting you open and making a mess of your insides.

“Aye, there she is—clenchin’ on me like she needs it. Like her filthy little hole knows what it’s for.” He leans over you, his sweat dripping onto your chest, mouth dragging against your jaw. “Ye were starvin’ for this, weren’t ye, pet? Wanted tae act so holy, so pure. But look at ye now.”

He rears back, spits down between your bodies, watches it land where you’re joined—stringy and slick, glistening as it coats your pussy lips and makes everything louder, wetter.

Then he spits again, this time straight into your open mouth just as you're panting out a plea you didn't mean to say.

“Swalla,” he orders, grinning like the devil in a cathedral. “It’s communion, Eve. Holy water right from the source.”

He thrusts harder. Faster. You’re being fucked, not made love to—bred, taken, used. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your fingers scrape at the stone for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Nothing except Jimmy. Jimmy and the altar. Jimmy and his cock, pistoning into you with purpose.

Your cunt squelches lewdly with every slap of his hips, a symphony of filth and friction and possession. And fuck, he loves it.

“That sound,” he pants, voice thick and ragged. “Listen tae it. That’s yer body beggin’ me tae fill it. Soaked, stretchin’, flutterin’ round me like a fuckin’ halo. But yer no angel, are ye, wee thing?”

He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes open, his stare blown-wide and wild.

“No. Yer a sinner. My sinner. My Eve. And I’ll fuckin’ ruin ye fer anyone else.”

He slams in so deep you see stars. Your legs jerk—your body trying to run even though it’s already too late.

“Where d’ye think yer gonna go?” he snarls, voice cracked and raw with ecstasy. “I’m inside ye, lass. Deep enough tae leave a mark. Every time ye close yer legs from now on, ye’ll feel me leakin’ outta ye. That’s my fuckin’ prayer.”

Then his voice drops low, almost reverent.

“I’m gonna fill ye up, pretty thing. I’m gonna fuck ye so deep yer womb won’t dare reject me. I’ll breed ye full. Again. And again. And again. Til ye’re heavy with my sacrament. Til ye glow with me.”

Your cunt tightens involuntarily around him and he feels it.

“Ohhh, aye,” he hisses, bucking even harder now, fucking through your resistance like he’s conquering land. “There she fuckin’ is. Squeezin’ on me like she wants it. Like her body’s acceptin’ the gospel. That’s my good wee girl.”

Your climax blindsides you—rips through your spine and into your fingertips. It shatters you. Your cry rips out from your throat raw and hoarse, and Jimmy howls like something ancient and holy just bared itself before him.

“Fuuuuuck—ye’re milkin’ me, Eve. Ye want it, aye? Want yer belly heavy with my sin?”

He fucks through your orgasm, driving through your spasming walls until he can’t hold it back anymore. He slams in one last time, his cock buried so deep it feels like it’ll never come out—and then he spills.

Hot. Endless. Violent.

He moans, breathless and broken, rutting through the creampie like he’s trying to breed it in deeper, the warmth of it thick between your thighs, leaking down onto the altar as he rocks against you.

“There,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping into your hair. “Took it all. So fuckin’ good for me. Yer mine now. Marked. Claimed.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he licks the tear off your cheek.

It’s hot in the sanctum now—too hot. Your legs are trembling, your whole body humming from the aftershocks, and your cunt? Raw, used, filled. You feel it leaking already, thick and warm and wrong, smeared between your thighs and pooling under your ass on the altar stone. Sticky. Sacred. A baptism you never asked for.

Jimmy’s still inside you. Still hard. Still twitching like his cock isn’t satisfied yet, like he’s waiting for another wave. He huffs out a slow, shuddering breath as he shifts his hips forward in a lazy thrust, grinding the base of his cock deeper—too deep—and watching your face as you flinch.

“Still flutterin’ round me, Petal,” he murmurs, voice soaked with pride. “So greedy. So fuckin’ needy. One load’s not enough for a hungry little hole like this, is it?”

He pulls out slow. Deliberately. Your walls cling, trying to keep him, and when he finally slips free, it’s wet and filthy—his cum oozing out in long, viscous strands, streaking your thighs, the altar, and the floor beneath.

Jimmy moans at the sight.

“Look at that,” he pants, eyes black with lust. “Wasted. Precious fuckin’ seed drippin’ out like yer tryin’ tae defy me again.”

You’re too dazed to move. He grabs your thighs—spreads them wider—and spits right onto your exposed cunt. Then again. Each glob warm, messy, coating your slit with his saliva until it’s glistening with a mixture of spit and cum and sweat and whatever dignity you had left.

“Don’t ye dare let it go tae waste.”

He pushes two thick fingers into you with no warning, shoving his cum back inside. You gasp, buck, instinctively trying to close your legs, but he’s stronger. Always stronger.

“Shhh, shhh. Gotta make sure it takes,” he croons like it’s tenderness. Like this is love. His fingers curl inside you, slow and cruel, making you feel every inch. “Gotta keep it in, aye? Let it take root.”

You squirm. He leans down and licks your breast—filthy, wet, teeth grazing your nipple—and groans like a starving man.

“Ye’ll carry me,” he whispers. “Ye’ll grow with me inside ye. My seed. My heir. My Eve.”

He presses another kiss to your thigh. Another to your navel. And then—mouth hovering just above your still-pulsing cunt—he spits again, slow and thick, watching it mix with the rest.

“Yer no virgin sacrifice now,” he mutters. “Yer mine. Bred. Blessed.”

Your body jerks as he gives one final pump with his fingers, and that’s when you realize—

He’s still hard.

You blink up at him, dazed, hoarse, your voice a scrape across your throat: “Jimmy…”

He smirks. His hand comes up to stroke his cock—coated in both your slick and his spend, still flushed and angry and aching.

“Thought we were done?” he says, soft and cruel. “Oh no, lass. No, no.”

He climbs back over you. The tip of his cock notches at your abused entrance again, already slipping back inside with ease. Slick with the mess he made of you.

“We keep goin’,” he breathes into your hair. “We go til it takes. Til I’ve fucked the rebellion right outta ye. Til yer beggin’ me tae give ye more."

And then he starts again—slow, deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs, making you whimper, your body too overstimulated to bear it but too ruined to stop.

“Ye’ll take every fuckin’ drop,” he growls, “and ye’ll thank me for the honor.”

Your body shakes beneath him. Every inch of you raw and humming, fucked beyond what you thought was possible, already stretched open and leaking, your cunt too swollen, too sore—but it doesn’t matter. Not to Jimmy. Not to the beast bearing down on you like you’re still fresh and untouched.

He’s sliding back in, slow now, cruel in the way he presses inch after inch into the mess he made. There’s no resistance—just slick, ruined heat—and still, you gasp like he’s splitting you apart all over again.

“Tha’s it,” he groans, rolling his hips once he bottoms out, keeping his cock deep, grinding against your cervix like he owns it. “Just like that, pet. Yer wee cunt was made tae be fucked twice over. Look at ye—still open for me.”

You try to turn your head, to look away, but he grabs your jaw and makes you meet his eyes.

“No hidin’ now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost gentle—almost. “Want tae see the moment ye break, Petal. Want tae watch ye shatter.”

Then he moves.

Slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, dragging the head of his cock against your overstimulated walls until your thighs shake and your breath comes in hitched sobs. You’re too sensitive, too raw, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s savoring it—this second round meant to punish, to claim, to seal the desecration.

“Shhh,” he croons, his body heavy and hot above you, his breath fogging against your cheek. “Ye can take it. Ye will take it. Yer body knows me now. It wants this.”

You whimper, your hands fluttering against his chest, pushing weakly—but Jimmy just catches your wrists and pins them above your head, locking them there with one hand while the other snakes between your bodies and grabs your thigh, hiking it up over his hip to fuck you deeper.

“There we are,” he mutters, almost lovingly. “Open wide for me, lass. Let the holy spirit in.”

He spits on your mouth again. It drips down your cheek this time, and he groans like he’s watching something divine. His hand shifts from your thigh to your belly, pressing down—hard—so you feel every thrust even more.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s me settin’ up camp inside ye. That’s me claimin’ what’s mine. My cock in yer cunt, my cum in yer womb, my fuckin’ name etched into yer spine.”

You arch up and scream when he hits a tender spot, your body locking up—overwhelmed, overstimulated, broken. Your cunt spasms around him, and he feels it, groans deep and primal as your walls milk him for more.

“Ohh fuck—yes, yes, fuckin’ yes, there she is,” he pants, slamming into you now, pace picking up, rougher, faster, like the slow torture was just a prelude. “That’s what I wanted, pet. Wanted tae hear ye break. Wanted tae feel this wicked little pussy beg me without words.”

You’re crying again—pleasure and pain and pressure spiraling into something helpless and filthy. You can’t stop clenching around him, your body greedy even when your mind is gone.

And he loves it. Drinks it down like wine at a sacrament.

“Ye’ll remember this every fuckin’ time ye walk,” he snarls. “Ye’ll feel me leakin’ down yer thighs and know yer nothin’ but mine. A vessel. A holy hole.”

He starts to shake—his pace desperate, his cock twitching—and you know he’s close. His moans turn to groans, then to growls, animalistic and unhinged.

“Gonna fill ye again,” he hisses, teeth dragging against your throat. “Gonna fuckin’ breed ye full, Petal. Til yer belly swells. Til they all know who owns ye.”

And when he cums, it’s even more than before.

A violent, endless spill that chokes a moan from his chest and a cry from your lips as he grinds into you, trying to bury it deeper, trying to fuck his seed into your womb and seal it there.

His cock throbs inside you as he ruts through the aftershocks, his breath catching in stutters, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Took it all,” he whispers, dazed and reverent. “So fuckin’ good fer me. That’s my girl. My Eve.”

His hand finds your thigh again and rubs small, gentle circles—tender, even as you're shaking beneath him, used, ruined, full of his cum and too wrecked to speak.

“You did so good, pet,” he murmurs, kissing your temple with a reverence that shouldn’t feel soft—but it does. “Yer gonna make me a God, y'know that?”

Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You’re limp on the altar, splayed and trembling, sweat cooling sticky against your chest, your thighs sticky with everything—his spit, your slick, his cum, leaking out of you slow and thick and obscene. Your pulse flutters in your throat. Your nipples ache. Your cunt twitches around the phantom of him.

And Jimmy is still there. Still over you, half-draped, his cock softening but glistening with the slick sheen of everything he just put inside you. His hand strokes down your belly, worshipful, thumb rubbing in slow circles like he’s blessing it.

“Gonna grow round with me, pet,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm. “Ye don’t even fuckin’ know it yet, but yer already carryin’ me. Felt it when ye came round me—took me. Held me. Yer wee womb’s just waitin’.”

He sounds in awe of it. Of you. Like you’re not a girl he just fucked raw on an altar—but something sacred. Something chosen.

Then he shifts.

Sits back on his heels between your legs and grabs the base of his softening cock—still filthy, still dripping. You twitch as you watch him. You want to look away. You can’t.

“Ye made a right mess,” he mutters, smiling like it’s your greatest accomplishment. “Look at that. My cock’s still soaked in ye.”

He strokes himself lazily. Then he points the tip at your mouth.

“Clean it,” he says softly. No malice. No command barked with cruelty—just an invitation. A test. A reward.

When you don’t move fast enough, he leans forward and taps the head against your bottom lip. Smears his mess there. You flinch—and that’s all the opening he needs.

His fingers slip into your hair, grip your scalp, and he presses forward until the weeping crown of his cock breaches your mouth.

“There she is,” he purrs. “Open nice ‘n wide now. Ye took it in yer cunt like a blessed thing—ye’ll suck it like a devout one.”

You gag a little when he pushes in deeper, but he’s not even trying to fuck your throat. Not yet. He’s just feeding it to you, inch by inch, making you taste yourself and him, watching the filth coat your tongue.

“Tha’s right,” he breathes. “Good wee mouth on ye. Meant tae worship, weren’t ye? Not just made tae take cock—made tae honor it. Keep suckin’.”

You swirl your tongue around the head, and he groans, his hips twitching forward once, twice. Then he pulls out with a pop and slaps the tip across your cheek.

“Fuckin’ angelic,” he mutters, looking at you like you’ve been crowned.

Then his hand goes back to your belly, pressing gently.

“Ye’ll swell,” he says dreamily. “Ye’ll show. And when ye do, I’ll fuck ye every day of it. Keep ye full. Keep ye obedient.”

His palm spreads across the soft plane of your stomach, smearing the sweat, rubbing it in slow.

“Yer not yers anymore, Petal,” he says, quiet now. “Ye’re mine. My vessel. My church. My fuckin’ salvation."

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your navel. Another to your cunt—just a filthy brush of his tongue, like he’s sealing you. Then up to your sternum. Your throat. Your lips.

His breath is warm. Heavy. Honest in its delusion.

“We’ll do this again soon,” he whispers. “Won’t stop ‘til yer swollen and shinin’.”

And then—he gathers you.

Lifts you from the altar like you’re weightless, your limbs slack, your mind fogged, and carries you back into the depths of his sanctum. Not a prison, now—a cradle. A shrine. He tucks you beneath furs that smell like smoke and cedar and sex, and he curls around you like a wolf protecting its mate.

One hand on your belly. Always on your belly.

Murmuring prayers in the dark.

#i can make him worse #gaslight gatekeep god-complex #imagine getting rawdogged by the second coming of teletubby trauma #sir jimmy crystal #sir jimmy crystal x reader #sir jimmy crystal x you #jimmy crystal x reader #jimmy crystal x you #28 years later #jack o'connell

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