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dogbites-puppylove · 6 months

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Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW: Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human.

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer.

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower.

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath.

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him.

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours. To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love.

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root. Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again.

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them.

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty.

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

#yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader

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jolapeno · 3 months

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you're a prize

joel miller x f!reader

summary: it's date night, and joel takes you to the fair

wordcount: 1.9k warnings: allusion and minor mention of smut. no outbreak. established relationship. joel is cute and wants to win you something. an: written for @iamasaddie's zodiac sign edition writing challenge. i got the lovely joel, fair au and virgo. I ignored the word limit, I’m sorry!!! thank you to the @thetriumphantpanda for proofing this little baby for me.

The air smells sweet as you step out of his truck.

Popcorn, cotton candy, and fried treats waft through the air, mingling with the cooling evening breeze as you take in the colourful stalls and bright lights.

The sound of his door slamming brings your attention back to him. His face is tight, unreadable—chest slightly puffed out, his hands fidgeting with his belt before he runs a thumb along the tucked-in edges of his shirt. Fixing. Adjusting for perfection, as though this were your first date and not close to the hundredth. When his eyes finally meet yours, you grin a little wider, and his own smile begins to break through.

It had been Tommy’s idea—but you’d suspected it was actually Sarah’s. The masterplan being laid out when you’d made coffee, the promise of an empty home, a coincidentally timed advert in the newspaper about the fair being in town as you looked at Joel:

Wanna take me to the fair, Miller? Show me how teenage you would have wooed me.

Sometimes, you can’t quite believe he’s yours.

A thing you’d said when you’d begun getting ready, your outfit laid out, putting your necklace on when he’d walked into the bedroom, shirt open, jeans unfastened, belt hanging there—a sinful picture that somehow was real and yours.

It’s why you’d breathed it out, caught off guard, made the two of you leave far later than you’d told yourselves when he’d left this morning. Your eyes having dragged up and down his frame in the mirror before you pressed the very same words to his mouth. Hungry, all of a sudden desperate. Fabric dragged down his arms, jeans somewhere at his ankles—pulling and tugging, needing more until he was on his back and you found yourself sliding down his cock, finding all semblance of words unable to form.

Somehow, even now, an hour later, you have to pinch yourself.

Unable to wrap your head around the fact that your things are alongside his. That you wake up and sleep beside him. A chance encounter, a right-place-right-time, turned relationship.

A thing you know he thinks too—confirming as much when sleep threatens to take him, the veil of honesty at its thinnest as he murmurs about not deserving you, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you the first time you’d met.

He makes up for the handful of hours he can give you between working, parenting and sleeping, by writing poems between your thighs, scriptures against your skin, mouth and neck. Making promises he did his darndest to keep.

“You look good, Miller. Don’t worry.”

“Not worryin’.”

You make a soft noise to yourself, offering your hand as the strings of multicoloured bulbs draped between the parking lot and the stalls flicker on, casting a warm glow across his face as you smile at him.

Date nights happen so infrequently, that you’re not sure you remember how they go outside of takeout and movies on the sofa. Not that you complain, happily trade almost any evening for one of them.

“God, you’re handsome,” you whisper, tightening your fingers around his hand—looping them, feeling how much larger his is, than yours—as your other arm bends at the elbow, slinging around his neck. “Fuck I’m one lucky lady.”

He snorts, loudly. His eyes flick to the side before they land back on you, bashful, soft, as he clears his throat and you scrape your nails against his scalp. “Think I’m the lucky one.”

You smile, all uncontrollably as you inhale the scent of his aftershave. It’s all wooden-edged, peppery—just him. Reminded all of a sudden to the wisp of it the night prior, the fan having picked it up, blew it across the room as you turned a page in your book and heard him sigh, would do anythin’ for you.

“I could kiss you.”

Licking his lips, flicking his gaze from yours to your mouth and back. “Yeah?”

You wonder if he catches how it leaves his lips. How wrecked it sounds, how it’s more gravel than velvet, making heat bloom in your stomach as you draw a shape along his scalp.

“Could. But won’t. I think I need a corndog, maybe a ride on the Big Wheel. Real date night vibes first—not often we have some alone time. Don’t want to squander what Tommy has given us.”

Scoffing, he shakes his head, “Tommy.”

Grinning, you nudge into him when he tugs you to begin walking. Glancing up to notice how the sky is shifting in real-time from deep blue to velvet indigo—feeling him release your hand, to slide an arm around your waist. Guiding. Leading through shifting crowds.

You feel grateful, almost overwhelmed, as you take in the scene around you. On both sides, colourful stalls burst with energy, each humming excitedly. The ring toss calls to you with glistening glass bottles and the satisfying clink of rings, while the joyful pops of balloons from a nearby dart game fill the air.

It becomes apparent, quickly, you’re not sure where he’s leading you—not as you pass cheers that grab your attention, only jolting back to him when he comes to a stop at a stall. One less busy, the outer edge overflowing with giant stuffed animals and oddities—

“Hey look, it’s you.”

Your eyes narrow, flitting around, staring as he squeezes your hip.

“There,” he whispers.

All gruff, right into your ear. His breath dances along your cheek. Making your throat dry, making heat bloom between your legs when his chest becomes flush with your spine, and you follow where his finger is pointing, finding at the end of it—

“A sloth. Like you.”

“Fuck you, Miller.”

His laugh ripples out of him, loud, cracking in places as he wraps an arm around your chest, keeping you pinned—letting you feel how it rumbles through him, vibrating your bones with it as you find it hard not to join him. Shaking your head, but smirking, staring up at him before he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

The same kind he leaves in the morning when he gets up before you; the same one he leaves on your skin when he walks in and finds dinner cooked, and the evidence of a hard day on your face. The same one that means three words, a thing you’re happy to take, each and every time.

“Gonna win it for you.”

“Joel, c’mon, you don’t need to do that, can just go on the ride, grab a snack and go—”

“I’ll be quick. Promise,” he replies, tightening his hold across your chest, mouth dropping back to your ear as children scream as they run past, “Lemme win you a prize, baby.”

Rolling your eyes, tongue in cheek as you stare at him. “What if you’re the only prize I need?”

He contemplates, in the way he always does—mouth scrunching up, nose twitching. “Still gonna win you a sloth.”

Folding your arms, you see little point in arguing. Resting your hip against the side, watching him familiarise himself with the goal: aim the rifle at the row of little metal flaps and shoot them down one by one—each having painted in little ducks on in faded yellows, and in your opinion had seen better days.

It's odd to see a rifle in his hand—wooden, smooth, worn from countless hands over the years. You're so used to seeing him with a tool of some kind or a coffee mug when he's at home.

Joel's first go isn’t too bad. The second, third and fourth, range from worse to about the same.

Each time, he grumbles—a little grunt here, a fuck there. It hissed, whispered—right under his throat with the passing reminder of children still running around the place—as you shift from leaning to standing, and arms folded to hanging loose at your sides.

“Joel, c’mon, let’s go play something else—”

“Goddammit, I can do this.”

Placing your hand on his forearm, feeling it twitch under, spotting the way his bicep twitches under the fabric of his shirt, you busily focus on his face. “Hey, I know you can. But, I want to go on The Big Wheel—maybe, make out a little, you know? Little over the clothes. See what it was like to date teenage Joel Miller.”

His jaw ticks—teeth running over his bottom lip as his nostrils flare as he inhales. His grip remains tight on the toy, fingers flexing over the trigger as your palm rubs in a line up and down his arm.

“One more go, promise.”

Smiling, you close your eyes and shrug—dropping your hand. “One more go.”

Stepping back, watching him nod to the man to reset the metal flaps, you have a thought. “Hey.”

Brown eyes meet yours—the bulbs of the stall reflecting in them, making them shimmer, shine. His face smoothed out, soft, as though work hadn’t been stressing him for weeks, as though bills hadn’t been keeping him awake.

“You win me that sloth, Miller, maybe I’ll ask the guy at the Big Wheel if we can stop at the top and admire the view.”

His eyes narrow, staring, your tongue dragging along your upper lip before your teeth bite on your lower and you tilt your head. Then, his eyes flash.

Head turning, cracking it on either side as he adjusts his stance and squares his shoulders—his grip different, almost more expert as you press your thighs together at the sight of his arm flexing again, his neck tensing.

Then, he knocks one down and your pulse hammers in your ears. The second makes you jump a little, as your heart skips a beat in your chest.

And you know he still has three attempts for the third, plenty of time. But you pinch your thigh through the fabric skating over them. Trying to level your breathing; trying to not move in anticipation. Fingers almost wanting to cross as you stare at him, admiring, unable to tear your eyes away from him—

Then the third rings out.

Metal clanging—a win announced, practically bellowing and vibrating through the air as he cheers when the bell is rung and you find yourself with your arms around his neck. You don’t think as you press a kiss—all painted in joy, happiness and pride—against his cheek. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest when your hand slides over it, rubbing, trying to soothe it as he shakes his head in disbelief when the toys is held out to him.

He takes it, his hand large and strong, the same one that just skillfully shot down metal ducks to win you a prize. As he hands it to you, his other arm slips gently around your waist.

“Told you I’d win you it.”

“My hero,” you smirk, tapping his nose with the sloth’s hand.

Feeling him pinch your side, forcing a giggle out, he drops his voice again, “C’mon, want my prize now.”

“Am I not your prize?” you tease, smiling, faking innocence as he stares—blinking, unsure what to say.

“Some parts of you more than others.”

Grinning, mouth falling open in shock, you hear him chuckle. “Good job I’m interested in finding out what winning tastes like.”

His eyes darken, lips parting as you watch him swallow, before he groans all in the back of his throat. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your lip. “Wanna see how much it costs us to have five minutes at the top?”

Joel practically drags you towards the Big Wheel, the fair music blaring from it as you clutch the sloth toy tight to your waist, trying to keep up with him, grinning, from ear to ear.

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comfortless · 7 months

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Priest!König and succubus!reader perhaps 👀? (Unless you're uncomfortable)

cracking my knuckles… sin??

18+. minors do not interact. this is a little shameless. corruption kink, religion, implied virgin!König, cunnilingus, come eating, a little angst.

It’s rare to find a parishioner in the confessional this late; the church’s doors were always open, their opening and shutting is not what had König stirring from a restless sleep, but the creaking of the old hinges in that little booth certainly had. The priest hurriedly dresses himself in his cassock and makes his way to the opposite end, closing the door behind him as he wearily drags himself to his seat.

“Father,” the voice greets on the other side, so soft and quiet he can hardly hear her at all. Shy, almost. The woman on the other side seems to shift, her movement rustling against the boards of wood that separate them.

“Bless me… I have never made a confession before.”

Not a parishioner, then. A stranger coming under the veil of night… König allows a silence to settle over the confessional for a moment before he produces the holy text and sets it in his lap in preparation to free this poor woman from the sin that binds her.

“Go on then, child,” he encourages, tone mirroring her own. The priest anticipates the usual: admissions of lust, falsehoods, or the common doubts. He has pages dog-eared in his book that list of scriptures for those common problems, the ones he would easily find the words to pray for, to cleanse her soul, to hopefully return to his bed to sleep before morning prayers.

There’s laughter from the other side of the booth, muffled as though an attempt to stifle it beneath her palm had been made. Then, “Father, what if I do not wish to be absolved?”

There had been no preparations made for that, but something in the tone of her voice holds his attention. His side of the booth regains its silence as his brow pinches, determined to piece together some reasoning as to why someone would choose to play some dull prank on him of all people…

“Let me see you.”

Her demand catches him off guard again, but of all things this is hardly strange. Her tone suggests nervousness, a feeling he knows all too well as he wrings his hands and rises with a heavy sigh. The door shuts quietly behind him as he waits for the woman to follow suit. A soft rustling follows his leaving from her side, and when she does step out…

No amount of internal Hail Marys could keep his stare from lingering upon the sight of a woman nude: it isn’t that he hasn’t fantasized before, he would take his lashes and fastings and sit in the quiet of his room to comfort himself with prayer after a weak defeat to his own sins. Still… imagination could not compare to the real thing; he takes note of each soft curve, each dip and line and groove of her. Her breasts are soft, her hips enticing, the length of her legs and what lies between her thighs…

He damns himself the moment his cock twitches to life below the cassock, there’s no slow tensing; only the immediate feeling of feeling horribly confined within his own clothes. He breathes out a drawn out sigh, feigning disinterest when his eyes squeeze shut and he turns his head from her.

“… You need to leave.”

The woman’s lips purse in a small pout when he does will himself to meet her eyes again- just her eyes. No part of him wishes to lose his place in heaven, let alone take advantage of some poor lady who clearly must have lost—

“But you are so lonely… I only want to help,” she whispers, her eyes are wet and pleading, expression only further softening as she gazes up at him with an adoration he hasn’t even seen on his flock.

And those words… something shatters in him, breaks into a thousand tiny pieces when he recounts all of those miserable nights lying in bed alone, imagining a woman as he pulled his cock free and gave himself so many weak, dull orgasms that the skin of it began to sting. If God could forgive him for his weakness then… surely, just once he could allow this.

König sighs again when her hands move to free him of the cassock, but he does not take her wrist to stop her. Even with each hesitant motion, he doesn’t take her wrists into his hands or push her away. He lets her strip him bare, lets her see the way his cock drools at the sight of her and his breath seems to stutter in his chest.

“See? It’s alright,” she coos as she takes his face into her gentle hands. There’s Hell in her eyes, the devil on a forked tongue, but he allows her to guide his face downward, to bring his mouth to her tit, and he feasts upon her. To have his last supper be forbidden fruit… all of the metaphors buzz in his head when his tongue begins to circle her nipple, then the other without her even needing to prompt him.

He could not even begin to describe the sounds she made, like the softest of voices amidst the roaring of a choir in his head, Hell’s wailing and Heaven’s chiming all at once as he licks his way down her sternum, her middle and finds his nose pressed to her mound. Nothing in Heaven could have tasted as sweet as her, no amount of lashing could pull the same shudder from him as he feels course through each knob of his spine when his tongue lathes over her slit, up to the hood of her clit and back.

The sounds of her pleasure only increase further when his grip on her thighs forces her to kneel. He maneuvers her onto her hands and knees to lick her properly, eat her out in ways he had only imagined himself doing before as he grips his weeping manhood in one hand and grips her ass with the other. His tongue sweeps over her in repetition— sloppy, clumsy even as he tries to keep himself from spilling into his palm from her taste and the sight alone.

He gets… curious, flicks his tongue over her other hole too and his fingers move to graze over her clit. She encourages him with soft squeals of pure delight, even draws her hand back to touch herself while he spears his tongue in her hole. If it’s only once, he would be sure to make the most of it.

Lust is not his only sin, because pride wells up deep inside of him the moment she orgasms. He smiles, grins, before he buries his tongue back into her leaking cunt, desperate to consume her, lapping inside, around, over her her until she shivers and whines, saying that it’s far too much.

He doesn’t know how to fuck her properly, admits it sheepishly when she lies back on the floor intent to have her take him in some gentle manner, sweet for her sweet priest. Missionary of all things seemed most blasphemous considering where they are, beneath a holy roof.

So, she opts to climb into his lap, seats herself on his cock in one go. He knows he’s well-endowed, thick and lengthy, and he babbles his concerns about breaking her in a weak string of words. Her cunt is too tight, he feels the way she stretches to accommodate him, each ridge of her walls when she squeezes him… The woman only tosses her head back and laughs, digs her nails into his shoulders as she bounces on his cock with such an easy grace he can’t watch— can’t because he already feels himself beginning to tense, feels the blinding heat spread from the pit of his stomach to pull his balls taut.

He swears he sees the angels right before she pulls off of him, leaves him a trembling, aching mess where the wetness of her own arousal has spilled down to his thighs.

“I want you to pray,” she suggests, sweetly peppering his face in the most chaste of kisses. “Pray you get to finish in me.”

She wants to ruin him, wants drag him down to Hell with her. There are no protests when she bends over to present herself to him; the priest does as she asks in a whisper, pleads for her and when it’s done, his reward in in the form of two words “good boy” and her tight, pulsing heat wrapped around him again.

He doesn’t last long, doesn’t even try to anymore for fear she may decide to leave him high and dry entirely. He ruts into her with a grip on the back of her neck and the plushness of her hip, leans his weight entirely over her as the sounds of impact fill the hollow church. God isn’t watching, but the little succubus below him is so appeased and her favor is all he can care for anymore.

When he comes, he fucks her through it, doesn’t even attempt to slow down as he whines into her ear about how good she feels, how they could get married, have this forever and he will show her the light. Fuck, he would leave the church behind entirely for her if she would just let him feel this every night. His thrusts only slow when he grows soft, when he can’t even keep himself inside of her cunt, slippery with his own seed.

She lies back, spreads her legs and lets him see what he’s done, fingers herself and presses his own come to his lips. She tells him he’s fed her better than anyone else, tells him to have a taste too and he does. He laps at her fingers as desperately as he had her pussy, until she pulls away, wipes his saliva onto her thigh and asks him if he’s ready to sleep.

The bed feels so much warmer with another person present, safer somehow even if he’s never felt himself in any danger… not here. He falls asleep in her embrace, the most blissful sleep he’s ever had. It’s only a shame that he had… because when he wakes in the morning the woman is gone. He misses his prayers searching for her, for even a trace of what occurred between them. There’s no stain on the floor or clothing in the confessional… not even a note to suggest she would return.

He goes back to his sad masturbation sessions, doesn’t even repent for the way he wanders into the confessional after service to fuck his fist and imagine her voice calling to him from the other side. He pictures her body beneath him, thinks of her praise and the way she damned him when he shoots spurts of wasted come against the boards. There’s no love, no woman at his side when he returns to his bed at night, but he has his imagination for that too.

#könig x reader #konig x reader #do not look at me

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 6 months

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ATSV Fun Fact!! - Mumbattan Cultural Details

Gayatri & Inspector Singh follow the Sikh Religion

Have you ever heard of Punjabi Sikhs?

If you don't know - Sikhism is a religion that originates in northern India, specifically Punjab.

The turban Gayatri's father wears - along with his last name 'Singh' implies that her father is most likely a Punjabi Sikh.

I notice this the first time watching ATSV and was like 'wow that's so cool :)'

It only hit me today that 'Oh wait I don't think a lot of people know about this very-specific, rarely-mentioned religion maybe i should say something,'

And because I LOVE yelling about world culture, LET'S GO!!!

[a SHORT essay where I explain the basics of Sikhism, a religion built on equality and justice. And details in The Singhs design, and exactly why Sikh Representation matters]

So What's Sikhism about?

Often mistaken for Muslims - Sikhs are actually a non-Abrahamic religion, with 20 million followers worldwide.

But even with so many visible practicing members, most people know very very little about this beautiful religion!

Sikhs believe in equality and unity - and defending the oppressed. Their book of faith, The Guru Granth Sahib Ji, is called 'Guru' for a reason - Sikhs see the book as not just a code of conduct, but as a living, breathing teacher for every practicioner;

From Wikipedia on Guru Granth Sahib: Sikhs since then [1708] have accepted the Guru Granth Sahib, the sacred scripture, as their eternal-living guru, as the embodiment of the ten Sikh Gurus, the highest religious and spiritual guide for Sikhs. It plays a central role in guiding the Sikh's way of life.

The Guru Granth Sahib is the spiritual leader of Sikhism, and it's treated as such.

That's why in Gurdwaras - their place of worship - it's treated as such, being clothed and held in ornate structure, constantly fanned throughout it's readings (the fan you can see in the left picture).

They believe that by following the Guru Granth Sahib Ji, they can cultivate compassion, peace, and harmony in their communities, while diminishing 'Mara' - concepts like hatred or violence.

Sikhs believe that every Sikh should revere themselves as champions of unity. And because of this many Sikhs have the same last name -

Kaur for women (Meaning Princess) and Singh for men (Meaning Lion).

Having the same last name also does away with the Indian caste system, making it another point of equality.

In ATSV Gayatri last name is Singh. However from my understanding, her name would most likely be Gayatri Kaur in reality.

I think they kept her last name as Singh as a deliberate choice to keep her initials as GS, like Gwen Stacy.

So is Gayatri Sikh?

Maybe - most likely.

But we can't be sure. Mainly because of her hair.

Gayatri has a short bob haircut, and while that might not seem like it matters, it does!

In Sikhism there are the '5K's - different aspects Sikhs wear to show their faith.

Notice the first one?

'Kesh' is the practice of leaving ones hair completely uncut. That's why you may see a lot of Sikh men with long, long beards!

And hence, the large turbans.

It's done as respect for God's creation - leaving it unaltered.

[Fun Fact! - Rastafarians, a Jamaican religion, also don't cut their hair for this reason. Think Bob Marley. Rastas call God - Jah]

So, Gayatri having short hair means she doesn't keep Kesh.

However, Sikh is a super accepting and open religion, and it's main focus is on acceptance of difference, not conformity - so she could entirely follow the faith without doing all of any of the 5Ks.

Also, if you're curious about the steel sword K - Kirpan, yes that's a thing!

Sikhs of all genders are encouraged to carry a small ceremonial blade with them.

Instead it's a symbol of the commitment to fighting for what's right - and defending those who cannot defend themselves.

A Kirpan can ONLY be used to defend the life of yourself or others, which is incredibly rare.

Why is this all so rad, cool, and important?

If you haven't noticed by now, Sikhism is a religion driven by justice. Not just in theory, but in really life as well.

That's why you may see many Sikh police officers and politicians, even here in the West. Most of them wearing the emblem on their turbans.

In fact, Canada has SO MANY Sikh politicians, that in 2019 they elected 18 of them.

For centuries Sikhs have been dedicated to justice, and developing systems of support, whether that be political involvement or feeding those in need.

The biggest Gurdwara (a place of Sikh worship) The Golden Temple feeds over 100,000 people A DAY.

For FREE.

It's a practice called Langar. A communal meal anyone can enjoy. And of course, Langar food is vegetarian.

Making Inspector Singh a Sikh - and showing him saving people and being warm to his daughter on screen is great representation for a community so often overlooked! Despite the fact they are over 20 million practicing Sikhs.

It's a great detail for Indian and Punjabi representation in specific. It accurate shows their beliefs and commitment towards helping others, no matter the cost.

And from what we can tell, this choice came later in development. We know this because ALL of his concept art shows him with a turban, not keeping Kesh.

It seems like someone later on down the line said 'Wait if his name is Singh I think he's Sikh and if he's Sikh then we're gonna have to redesign him and make that obvious oops'.

That, dear audience, is why you always have an Anthropologist in the writing room. Or some amateur anthropologist like me :)

-------------

I hope you enjoyed reading this, I really enjoyed writing it!! Sikhism is one of my favorite religions and if you have never heard anything from the Guru Granth Sahib I HIGHLY recommend it, it's very optimistic and compassionate. Sikhnet(.)com is also a great resource!

I have no idea if this will pique anyone's interest, but I hardly ever see Sikhs reflected in media and I know many many people may confuse them with Muslim, especially since many women Sikhs keep kesh and cover their hair as well.

But if you ever wanted to know the difference, here it is! If you read this far, thank you SO MUCH. And if you're a Sikh and reading this, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

As usual, here's a photo of Hobie for your travels.

BYE.

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chococolte · 2 years

Text

☼ — osculatus solem

my take on sagau/cult au zhongli, reactions to first meeting you/as a worshiper + reactions to being your lover

word count. 4.2k

୨୧ — ꒰ cw. yandere, unhealthy relationship, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, religious + cult themes, sagau + cult au shit, g/n reader. i do not condone yanderes irl.

୨୧ — ꒰ a/n. im sorry if tense is weird im kinda dumb lol

Zhongli has waited for you for six-thousand years.

It wasn’t until he was faced with you that he realized how cruel the wait was. Six-thousand years of patiently waiting had never felt like grueling punishment until he realized what he was deprived of. Like a man starved, he had grown used to the numbness of constant hunger— he found it almost comforting, as he had lived his entire life malnourished. He lived unaware of what it was like to have a full stomach.

Your presence is primeval. It emanates, and it overwhelms all else. When Zhongli looked into your eyes for the first time, he finally felt complete. He was finally where he was meant to be. Finally with who he was meant to be with.

The scripture had described you in detail, but there were only so many words, so many different ways to speak of you. None of them could compare to how you looked in person, standing in front of him.

Your eyes hold all the knowledge in the world. Constellations and stars shine within them, a myriad of stellar tapestries formed within the small reflective surface of your eyes. Past, present, and future dance inside, moving according to your design. You see all. You are all. Everything that is, and everything that will be, is you. Every burgeoning bud, blooming flower, roaring wave, and colossal beast; you are every death, there in every mournful cry and scornful glare; you are every mortal life and every god.

You are the sun that brings warmth to Teyvat, the moon that caresses its tides, and Zhongli wants nothing more than to worship you for it.

Zhongli was not always your devout worshiper. He was once, like all of his temperament, rebellious and spiteful. He refused to believe that all of his victories in battle had simply been part of your design. Just a single thread in your grand tapestry.

His triumphs were his, and his alone. He won by his own virtue, will, and vigor. He won by his own hand, spear, and stone. You did not aid him in his wars. You did not save anyone worth saving. Zhongli watched his allies die, slip through his fingers like grains of sand— and he would never thank you for what he endured. He promised himself that if ever faced with you and your faux benevolence, he would demand answers from you. You owed him that much. A recompense for all the hardship and injury he had sustained.

Zhongli, in his youthful hubris, did not care who heard his blasphemy, and whether they thought it distasteful or not. He was the god of war, and would allow no being to silence his voice. Zhongli bathed in his rage, wallowed in it; he would not allow himself to believe what others so easily indulged in. Ignorance led way to arrogance.

Guizhong had always been of the opinion that you were a kind, gentle god. She argued that your light could not be quantified, nor labeled; just because you did not act in ways he could see, did not mean you did not act at all. You breathed life into the abandoned, the lost— you embraced those without a home, without purpose. You forgave and you pardoned, and you rained down fury on those wicked and vile.

Zhongli had long grown used to her arguments. Every victory of theirs, despite the tight grip on his weapon and the ichor on his blade, was attributed to you— your grace, your blessings. By your grace you allowed them one more day, by your blessings you allowed them one more triumph. Zhongli thought her pitiful; you had done nothing to deserve her kindness. She worshiped you, and what had you given her in response to her devotion?

Guizhong died in his hands, and he had nothing to show for it. Helplessness ate it's way at him, through his flesh and bone. What was left was nothing more than a husk, a parody of a god. What was once anger at authority transformed into righteous anger at the one who made him. You allowed him his victories, to parade around with pride and vanity; you gave him your blessings, benediction and approval, and yet you let the one who meant the most to him die. The one who worshiped you above all else.

Why did he live over her? He did not appreciate you. He did not worship you. He made no offerings, nor did he pray. He did not believe in your salvation, neither did he ordain your will. But he was the one left behind with the sorrow and the guilt, and Guizhong was the one turned to dust. Why was he chosen?

Zhongli knew that asking questions was meaningless. You would not deign to answer. Maybe it was to be expected. Why would an Almighty God answer to a lower being demanding answers far beyond their comprehension? Why should you have to explain yourself, when you saw all? Zhongli was merely the god of Geo. You could take even that from him.

You were the God of All. The Primordial One. No being had authority over you; not even one of the Seven.

It was only in the light of Guizhong's death that Zhongli had finally begun to understand her perspective. He might’ve been alone, but that did not make you cruel. It did not mean you were unable to be kind, tender and loving. You loved as much as you breathed— the world was showered in your love for it, in the wind that caressed its people and the sea that fed them. Your love was in its bountiful harvests and its gentle rain.

You loved just as any other, but Zhongli had long refused to see it.

He started small. Gestures of devotion hidden underneath many layers of misty glass, only clear to those who looked hard enough. Zhongli had postured to those still with him that he no longer minded if they worshiped you in his presence. If he was feeling particularly daring, he would join in and mutter a small word or two of thanks. Perhaps he thought of it as a way to make up to Guizhong after so many years of his disapproval.

Though he may have found it unbearable at the beginning, he soon began to pray to you in times of need. He looked for you when he found himself in need of counsel, forgoing the people around him. He made offerings in your name when there was a drought or a shortage, praying for your guidance. Even if he did not initially believe that you would truly respond, the comfort it brought outweighed the logistics. If there was no one else he could turn to, he still had you— and you would never forsake him.

Zhongli started to find your answers in the strangest of places. An arrangement of flowers in some botanical garden of some odd scion, the conversation of two orphan boys that shed a new perspective; a tale that seemed almost catered to him told by a storyteller at a tea house. Perhaps he was imagining things— he surely would have thought so a millennium earlier. But were they truly coincidences, if they only happened after he had prayed and offered at his altar for you?

If it was the Zhongli of old, he would have said yes. But the Zhongli of new knew better now: it was you, speaking to him through indirect means. You answered his prayers and accepted his offerings. You forgave him for what he had done and the things he had said in the past.

Liyue was modeled after what Zhongli believed you favored the most. Its jagged cliffs, jeweled karsts, cuihua forests, and vibrant plant life; sculpted and molded to fit your tastes. He sometimes daydreams of showing you his life’s work— would you like it? Would you tell him he’s done a good job, that he had done enough to please you? If you found it distasteful, would you tell him why? Even if it meant tearing the land asunder and usurping the earth that tethers it to its place in the sea, Zhongli would change whatever it is you dislike immediately.

Even if the problem was himself. He would happily bow his head, whisper one last plead for forgiveness, and take his own life. If it was your will, there is nothing he wouldn't do.

When Zhongli meets the Traveler for the first time, he is frozen in place. His heart drops to his stomach as he sees the gleam of your existence in their eyes. It's you. You're here, in front of him— he wants to kneel and worship you the way he's always wanted, but…

Why is it them, and not him?

Zhongli knows he shouldn’t be jealous. It’s a blessing in the first place to meet you like this. It's a blessing to know that you're real. But he can’t stop himself from lying awake at night, thinking of what it would be like if he was the eyes through which you experienced this world.

It’s an ugly feeling. A twisted, nasty feeling. It leaves him feeling bitter in the morning and sick whenever he sees the Traveler walking through Liyue’s streets. He assists them on their quest, because you are there with them— watching him through their eyes. He hopes to leave a good impression, to assure you that there is no problem with him; perhaps, that is why you did not choose him? Because he was faulty in some form?

Hours upon hours of self-reflection spent in dark, locked rooms. Zhongli stays there, looking in mirrors, searching for reasons why. He looks at his mortal form and wonders: is this why? Did you want him to serve you as the Geo Archon for longer? Why not him?

Was he not enough? Was Liyue not enough? You are never wrong, never incorrect— the problem lies with him. But no matter how long he looks, he can't find the reason. He's better in every way. Better in his devotion for you, better in his worship— he would kneel until his knees turned raw and skin gave way to bone, he would pray and sing your praises until his throat bled. He built Liyue with earth and stone, and cracked the land until it was worthy enough of a formation, molding it with his hands to please you. He had changed himself until he was deserving of your forgiveness, until he was worthy enough to worship you.

The voice in the back of his head tells him it was because he once hated you. Once, when he was a fool and a heathen, he spat on your good name, derided it with disgust. Zhongli thought you forgave him for the sins of his past. He thought you still loved him despite it. He thought he had purified himself long ago, but perhaps he still had some rot left to root out. What part of him wasn’t perfect? What part of him wasn’t enough for you?

Zhongli knows he’s only being ungrateful. You’ve done enough for him. Who is he to demand more?

REVERENTIA ; first meeting/as a worshiper

Zhongli did not know what to do with himself when his eyes laid on your figure for the first time.

You were beautiful. Resplendent and illustrious. When you spoke, crying out so timorously, he shuddered involuntarily. He clasped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to steady his breathing, but your voice was infectious. His heart felt heavy in his chest as you looked at him with wide eyes.

Nothing could compare to your stare, to the life that swirled within your eyes.

Zhongli knelt, then, his head hitting the floor. His shoulders trembled with tension as he kept them taut and straight, keeping his posture as poised as possible.

His first words to you: "Welcome home."

Whether your reaction was volatile or not, Zhongli is at your beck and call. He waits on you hand and foot, staying by your side and keeping close. He acts as your shadow, following your orders, even simple commands, as if the result of his failure will be death. Zhongli is aware that your current form is weaker, mortal in nature; but when you ascend once more, he wants to be known as the one who never doubted you, never thought of you as lesser because of your current circumstances.

Zhongli, despite his worship of propriety, is still prone to decadence. His hands as he helps you dress linger for far longer than they should, brushing against the soft skin of your shoulders. The tips of his gloves burn from where they've touched you, and you notice him wearing them less and less often, now.

In Zhongli's eyes, you are never wrong. You stand at the pinnacle of righteousness, justice and light; anything you say is gospel. He commits all of your opinions, even of the littlest, pettiest things, to memory. His personal thoughts on the matter are meaningless, now— if you dislike it, then it's bad. Simple as that. If you find something enjoyable, then it's good. If your concept of morality is twisted and murky, then he will morph his own to match it; there is no internal struggle, no hesitation in his thoughts and behavior. Your will is all that matters.

When in your presence, Zhongli is perfect. He is courteous, gentle, and benign. He never does anything without your explicit permission. He brews you tea, and tells you anything you wish to know. He worships you with so much vigor it's hard to deny him.

Outside of it, he is barely hanging on by a thread.

Zhongli doesn't know how he lived without you before. He feels vaguely sick even thinking of going back to when you were not present. Just a moment without you is hellish. Every step away from you is like walking on scorching coal. It is an agonizing pain, one slow and tortuous.

He has never felt such pain before. The mere thought of leaving you by your lonesome sends him into a frenzy powered only by his desire to stay by you. He is willing to tear anyone apart should they stand in between him and his god. He can't leave, not when he isn't worthy of your forgiveness yet, not when you're so fragile in your current form.

Every night he rests only barely. Every morning he rises with relief, knowing that once more he is allowed to bask in your company.

Perhaps he's still driven by his insecurity, by the idea of you thinking him unworthy of you.

Zhongli speaks of your grace and elegance, of the light you inspire; he tells you how long he's worshiped you, how long he's loved you.

He tells you of his devotion, of the offerings he's left at your gilded altars, jewels and the finest riches. Zhongli brings them directly to you, now, with an uncharacteristic bashfulness.

He tells you of the wars he's fought in your name, of the blasphemers he's slaughtered— though, conveniently leaving out that he used to be one. Zhongli hopes you're proud of the things he's done in your name, that you will finally embrace him, utterly and wholly.

In the dark of the night, when doubt and searing loneliness so clearly bite at his mind, Zhongli walks to your room. He never dares to walk inside, always conscious of your privacy— but he kneels outside your doors with muted footsteps, only the soft echo of ruffling fabric to accompany him.

He mumbles into the gelid floor unintelligible prayers. He listens for your breathing, for assurance you're still within reach. His unrest is barely abated each time.

When he is particularly nervous, he stands by your doors until morning light, shoulders trembling with unease until you rise from your slumber.

Zhongli is fearful. His muscles are tense as he whispers pleadings that you stay, that you at least say goodbye, should you leave again. He fears one day he will awake and you will be gone.

He fears that he will be left alone again, once more without the tenderness of your guidance. Back to when he had thrown you away, when he only knew of bloodshed and the weight on his shoulders.

You freed him from his self-imposed shackles, whether knowingly or not.

Only when he's assured you're safe will he allow himself peace and serenity.

Only then, will he finally rest in the only paradise he wishes for: being by your side for eternity.

VENUSTUS ; as your lover

Zhongli has always loved you. By virtue of your holiness and sacred being, he has always loved you as his god. As his guiding hand and light, sculpting him into the Archon you want him to be; into a believer worthy of worshiping you.

Faced with your luminous presence, finally able to see what he has only imagined before, Zhongli's love for you only grows. It unfurls like a blossoming glaze lily, petals perfect and serene.

He would never dare presume that his feelings are returned. As his God, you are above him in every way— you are above him in every breath, every step you take. In every slight movement of your fingers, you establish the bridge between you. The line he should never cross.

You are above him. He is beneath you.

Whether it is intentional or not, Zhongli knows his place. He is grateful to be where he is, blessed enough to stand beside you in any capacity. To know that you exist would've been enough, but to care for you personally— to be the one with whom you spend the most of your treasured time with; that is an honor worth dying for.

Zhongli has played with the idea of being your consort before. Of being yours, utterly and entirely. He never lets the thought stay for long. Shame begins to eat at him all too quickly, twisting his stomach into knots of guilt and remorse. He's embarrassed more than anything; of having the gall to dare to imagine himself ever being so important to you.

The thought would've never crossed his mind before, the mere idea laughable. You were untouchable. Above even The Seven, above Celestia. You had not shown interest in any individual for a millennium, and it would be no different now.

But Zhongli knows you now. He's felt the brush of your touch, the zephyr of your breath when he leans in too close. He's felt the warmth running through your veins, the warmth that leaves him flustered, even when you've only touched him for a moment.

The thoughts come more often, now. More vivid. More apparent. You cradle him in your arms, whispering soft words of loyalty and love. You hold his hands in your own, intertwining your fingers, and tell him how you have come to love him. He is special. He alone is yours; no one else.

It terrifies him.

Zhongli is nothing more than your worshiper. He is your servant. He may have been a god, but now he is just your tool. He is content with that much. He should be content with that much. But his heart wants more from you, more than you've deigned to give him.

It wants your love. Your attention. His heart yearns to be special to you; to be the sole holder of your affection.

It's a selfish desire. A nasty one. One that he wishes he could remove, exorcise out of him like a spirit. But every attempt to carve it out of him only leaves him bleeding, and it hurts more to pretend like it doesn't exist. It burns him from the inside out, a fiery jealousy that roars whenever he sees you with another.

It should be me, his heart trembles. It should be me, his heart weeps.

Zhongli is terribly flustered when you begin to show signs of reciprocation. Small things like careful touches, honeyed tones, and words of favor. You compliment him more often, go out of your way to do things that please him; brushing and running your fingers through his hair, listening to him spin tales of old. He is aware that you must know everything already, but you look at him with such big eyes of wonder and interest he can’t help but go on.

He’s barely able to speak when you admit to him your feelings. His heart beats fast in his ears like war drums, his heartstrings tightening as if nocked by an arrow.

It's an uncharacteristic moment of timidity for the wise ex-archon. He's stammering over his words, barely able to keep up his façade of calm. Is that something you truly wish to do? With him?

You assure him— I want this, you say— and Zhongli allows himself to believe you. He follows you when you lead him by the hand into the palace of your heart. He cradles it softly in his hands, gentle and delicate. Zhongli swears to never hurt you, to never let another harm you in any way; but he still fears, still doubts you.

It should be expected for you to have multiple consorts. Multiple lovers, all equally vying for your attention. Zhongli should be happy that you have any interest in him at all— but the thought of being second to another in your heart makes him sick.

Venti, the verdant bard, does nothing but drink. He wastes away his woes in bottles of wine and bourbon; surely, you will not choose him over Zhongli? Ei lorded over her people and took their freedom away. Her reasons do not matter. All for an eternity unreachable by mortals and gods, she attempted to trespass upon your domain. Surely, you will not choose her over him?

The thoughts are foolish. Nearly sacrilegious in nature. He has no control over you; no place to demand that you only love him. But Zhongli has spent thousands of years worshiping you— is it wrong of him to believe himself better than the rest? Venti does not worship you in the way he does, with such fervor or zeal. Ei may pray or rest her eyes beneath your statue, but she has not spoken good of your name like he has, hasn’t hunted blasphemers like he has.

She’d rather her servants deal with them, whenever they so rarely come. Zhongli deals with them personally, knuckles clenched around his blade.

In every way that matters, he is better. As such, he shouldn’t fear, shouldn’t worry of when you will inevitably grow bored— he should enjoy the moments he has with you, the brief time when he is all that you have. When he is still all that you want.

Fear still grips his throat with its tiny, intangible hands. Even if he severs its wrists, it continues to thrive; to suffocate him with its pervasive thoughts.

He must prove himself, it echoes. Or else he'll be deserted. Discarded when another proves themselves his better.

Zhongli won't let himself be thrown away. Whatever he must do to please you, he will do.

Until his mortal form wears down to nothing but dust and bone, until his only coherent thought is how wonderful it is to worship you— until you have no need for anyone else.

Whatever your command is, he will follow. As long as he alone stands in your heart, as long as he alone can kiss the dirt off your feet, he will be content.

He only hopes that he can love you as you deserve.

Zhongli’s zealous behavior worsens to an obscene degree. He never falters in his fervent, almost fervorous veneration— it becomes excessive, almost actorly. Though his obsequiousness appears inflated, it is entirely genuine; he fawns a tad more obviously, smiling with dazed eyes when you kiss his cheeks or lips.

This has always been how he feels. He's only unrestrained, now. And even still, he hides the deeper parts of his worship, the servile and fanatic in him that wants to drool at your lap. It's hard to stop himself every time you sit on your throne to immediately drop to his knees.

Zhongli is happy to give and never receive. He is pleased with being yours, though it never clicks in his mind that the same is applicable to you.

You are not his, but he is yours. If you call yourself his, Zhongli melts. His face blossoms red and it permeates his cheeks for hours afterward. His hands slightly shake and he has trouble standing still in the immediate aftermath. All he wants to do is kneel, and say I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you—

If you'd like it, Zhongli would let you do whatever you want with him. Tear him apart with your bare hands, and shred him of any sense; it matters not as long as it's you.

You are everything, your love is everything. Even the softest of your kisses and touches have him breathless and numb, and anything else only serves to make him fall deeper into you.

Only with you is he easy to fluster. Anyone else, and he'd have punished them long ago, if not tore out their eyes for having seen him in such a state.

But it's you. You could crush his heart in your hands, leave him heartbroken and bitter, and Zhongli still would not find it in himself to hate you.

You are the lifeblood that runs underneath Teyvat’s cracked earth, the soft undercurrent that ties it together— and, if only you'd let him, Zhongli would worship you for it.

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ouroborosorder · 5 months

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Hi! As someone newer to ak, I would actually really love a “rawest Ak lines” list if u don’t mind sharing!

Okay so if I *did* run this, I would have to crowdsource some, because I haven't read everything, and I don't always remember to update my document when I do read shit. So my list is extremely biased, extremely incomplete, and very all over the fucking place. Do not take this as a comprehensive list, but rather just some of my favorites:

Patriot: "Rhodes Island. I will advance." A classic. A legend. A salsa that everyone at the table can enjoy.

Rosmontis: "You didn't want to die alone. You want to be remembered by me, and live on within me. But no. I came here just to watch you die. And now, I've forgotten you."

Eblana: "You'll remember me, shapeshifter. Your long and refractory memory will have chapters that belong to me." (not the official translation but I'm using this one because it goes SOOOO much harder)

Andoain: "I would rather be the torch that burns by the feet of those who are freezing to death. Even if its flame will soon be extinguished."

In game boss description text for Kristen Wright: Egotist. Betrayer. Seeker. Loner. Pioneer. Goodnight, Terra.

and of course, Woodrow: "May this bullet forgive what my heart cannot."

and then of course, Stultifera Navis, which has so many it was basically a contest to see who got the coolest line before the event ended. I have literally 8 lines in my notes document, my favorites being:

Irene: "You have not sinned in any way. The Holy Scriptures do not even mention your existence. Right now it is only I, as an Iberian, who is handing down this verdict. The scourge of the seas must be wiped out. You have no right to live. In the name of Iberia."

Carmen: “You, and your pathetic ideas, will be buried in Iberia. Before your last breath, be sure to pass on our thunderous roar to your kin. ‘The sea faces an ancient enemy called civilization, one you stand no chance of overcoming.'”

Captain Alfonso: “Remember this well, Irene! Return to land and sing the praises of Alfonso's feats! The last monster that Alfonso slew... was himself!”

Ulpianus: “If you care about the word of God, then so be it. The Seaborn are not gods, nor are their forefathers. I have seen how your gods die, their screams coursing through the currents, their flesh and blood smeared across abyssal ravines.”

I think for the sake of the hypothetical bracket, I'd probably want to limit it to one line per event before the entire thing is consumed entirely by just Stultifera Navis

#arknights

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theturtlelovers · 6 months

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Hi! May I request, for the sentence prompts, number 5: “I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention.” For a female reader with Donnie who are bf and gf, and the reader is saying it to Don?

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Pairing: Donnie/GN!Reader Rating: Everyone Contents: The reader is implied to be female in request but can be interpreted otherwise, Donnie licks icing off of pop tarts Warnings: None Wordcount: 666

Notes: Hehe, getting back to knocking those requests down! It'll be a while before I even consider reopening requests, though.

What you were doing wasn't particularly new. It had become a routine to lovingly annoy your boyfriend until he had no choice but to turn his attention to you. Because miraculously, the moment he did, he would see you fluttering your lashes and sending him a sickeningly sweet smile dripping with feigned innocence. If it were his brothers, Donnie would be ready to scold them to the point they'd regret even being in the same proximity as him. Yet, because of that victory grin you would flash when you got him to look at you, he couldn't bring himself to do so.

And it was very interesting because you'd always find new ways to grab his attention.

One time, you texted him that you needed assistance at your apartment. Being the helpful lover he is, he came over ready to lend a hand, only to find that you had lied and just wanted to have dinner with him. Although annoyed as his mind was already recalling his list of tasks, he realized how hungry he was and how much he yearned for your touch. So, he ate the home-cooked food you made and then stayed even longer for movies.

Another time was when he hadn't emerged from his lab for nearly an entire week. While you absolutely respected the effort and dedication he put into his work, you missed him, and he seriously needed to take care of himself. So you sat next to him and started reading. Out loud. Very monotonously. And it was the Bible! "In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth," you began, your voice droning on in a blank tone. "And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.”

Donnie didn’t register it at first, but then he looked at you in absolute confusion.

"And God said, 'Let there be light,' and there was light," you continued, not missing a beat.

“What are you doing?” If he had eyebrows, they’d definitely be raised right now. In his confusion, he was trying to fight a smile creeping up.

You looked up from the overly thin pages of the scripture, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “What do you think? I’m reading till you love me again.”

The self-taught scientist rolled his eyes, his annoyed confusion forgotten. “Okay, okay, come here.” Then there was that smile.

This time, you decided to employ the most annoying yet basic tactic to garner his attention: poking him repeatedly. Leo had once again clumsily broken the toaster, and it was out of commission. Donnie wanted to be able to toast his Pop-Tarts before licking the icing off later, so repairing the toaster was an absolute must.

It was hard to do that, though, when you slid in like a worm (he’d still love you as a worm; you’d be beneficial in different ways) and started poking him.

The first few pokes didn’t bother him at first. They were so fleeting and feathery he didn’t really care that you were touching him. They weren’t impeding his work.

But then they got a bit harder. And longer. And it was actually affecting his ability to think since you were choosing to poke random spots.

“I’m not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention.”

Donnie took a deep breath and slowly turned to you. You blinked at him blankly. God, he was so lucky was madly in love and your cute face and pretty lips- Donnie’s eyes closed for a moment. He took another deep breath and released it with a small shake of his head.

“Well, you certainly have it now.”

You did your little weird giggle as if you were some sort of gremlin. “Hehe! What’d the toaster do to Leo this time?”

While he recalled Leo’s version of the grand battle he had against the appliance, Donnie couldn’t help grinning when he saw the same smile you always have. Victory once again.

Tagging: @mrghostings, @whygz, @supershiny-raven Interested in getting tagged? Come check it out!

Like what you read? Check out my masterlist to see if you find anything else!

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slutshamethesquirrels · 4 months

Text

A First Time For Everything

choso x fem!reader

length: 10.7K

tw: religious guilt, drug use, nsfw, loss of virginity

You left your small hometown to pursue your dreams. Along the way, you've encountered new experiences and challenges that shake your beliefs to your core. In your new city, you meet Choso, who challenges your beliefs and introduces you to a different way of thinking. As you navigate this evolving new life, you find yourself drawn to him, leading to an exciting journey and a whole lot of firsts.

All you could think about was how disappointed your mother would be. You could see her there, in your tiny hometown, crying into a cup of coffee at the local diner, her friend rubbing her back affectionately. She'd tell her friend that she didn't know where she'd gone wrong, and her friend would sigh and quote scripture and tell her some old saying about how no lamb can stray too far from the herd for the shepherd to find again.

Would the preacher give a sermon on Sunday morning? About the devil and how he presents not as himself, but as pleasure? As sex and drugs and money? As freedom?

Six months ago, when you’d graduated college and took a job in a big city a thousand miles away, you'd never have pictured yourself in the predicament you found yourself in now. You wanted to experience, to learn, to breathe in the world around you and expand your mind. To you, that meant working, and trying new foods, maybe taking an art class.

It definitely never occurred to you that it might mean sitting on the cement of a skate park with three alternative men, watching the youngest of the three pack a - what did they call it again? - right, a ‘bowl’ full of weed to pass around the circle.

It makes you nervous, watching the setting sun dance off the pink top of his hair, handling an illegal substance so brazenly, out in the open like the cops couldn't roll up at any minute, like god wasn't watching-

A hand on your back between your shoulder blades, rubbing affectionately, reassuringly.

You look up to meet his eyes, flashing a small forced smile.

“I’m okay, Choso. I promise.”

Ah, if the devil presented as everything you wanted, then Choso Kamo may be Satan himself.

He’d frightened you the first time you'd met him. It was at a bar, sometime early in the night. You’d never drank before and wanted the experience of sipping a cocktail at the high tops, maybe shooting pool with a handsome stranger. You'd quickly learned that cocktails were vast and varied, and strangers came in so many different shapes and sizes out here. Unfamiliar ones, scary ones.

You’d simply asked the bartender for the special, and had been met with something that tasted like drinking straight cough syrup. It made you gag. Too heavy, too sweet, and to top it all off it burned.

He’d slid up to the bar a few seats away and you'd almost pissed yourself. He was huge, muscular, with a thick solid line tattooed across the bridge of his pierced nose. Tattoos decorated his arms, plastered the muscle that threatened to tear the fabric of his intentionally tattered t-shirt from the inside out. It was a deep maroon color, and it made the pale of his skin almost glow in the dark bar lighting. He was distressed jeans and combat boots and danger and fire. Alternatively styled hair, pigtails that somehow looked masculine on him. Tattoos and piercings and just the faintest hint of eyeliner. He was everything you had been taught to avoid. Everything that had ever been off limits.

And the way a match ignited in your stomach as you watched him order? That was definitely the cocktail.

And the way saliva started to pool in your throat when you watched him reach into his pocket to produce his wallet with special attention to the way his eyelashes fluttered? That was definitely the cocktail.

And the way you felt like vomiting when he'd caught you staring? Stupid fucking cocktail.

Or that's what you had told yourself.

When he’d approached, it wasn't what you expected, not at all what the movies taught you. He’d introduced himself, shook your hand, asked what you were sipping on.

“I actually-” you’d looked at your glass in disapproval “I don't know. I don't really drink but it's kind of gross.”

He’d giggled, boyish and in direct opposition to his appearance and you'd had to grip the bar for support despite already sitting.

“Yeah, I bet! Looks like it's 98 percent juice.” His brows had raised, a genuine smile plastered across his face. The whites of his canines made you feel like you were dying in the best way possible. It was overwhelming. You couldn't breathe.

“You can try mine, I haven't touched it yet. So, you know, no cooties or whatever-”

He slid his glass over to you. It was clear and bubbly, a lemon wedge floating in the top. Unable to even speak real human words back to him when he looked so good, you'd hesitantly pulled his straw between your lips, eyes gazing up at him as his gaze locked directly onto the way your mouth moved, unsure of why his expression faltered momentarily.

You took a sip and your face lit up. It was refreshing, almost like sparkling water. The liquor was there, but it didn't burn like yours. It was smooth and cooling.

“This is so good!”

He seems to be pleased by your excitement, his smile going soft “Yeah? It's a gin and tonic, I can buy you one, if you'd like.”.

Your expression must've told him you weren't sure. Isn't that what men did when they wanted to have sex with you?

“No expectations, I promise.”

He seemed so genuine that you'd gladly agreed.

And when he'd asked for your number, or if you wanted to hangout at his house with him and his younger brother, or if you would like to learn to skateboard- it was much the same.

Since that night, the two of you had melded into each other's lives effortlessly. Choso was sweet and kind, always respectful. His younger brother Yuji lived with him after the untimely passing of their mother. Yugi’s boyfriend, Megumi, was always around as well. Being around the three of them made you nostalgic for something you never had. Sometimes, the feeling you would get when watching the siblings fight over a game of Monopoly called back to the tightness of your chest during worship on Sundays. You used to think it was God speaking to you, but now you weren't so sure.

You weren't sure what the nature of your relationship was with Choso, either. Sometimes, he felt like a friend and nothing more. When he’d send you random goofy memes, or pretend to be upset when you couldn't come over. Other times, you thought that maybe he liked you. When you'd sit a little too close while watching a movie and catch him more concerned with watching you than the film. Or when he'd walk you to your car at night and linger just a bit too long at your window. Or when he’d insist upon you staying the night. But when you did agree to stay, he’d always tuck you into his bed and then head downstairs to sleep on the couch, often complaining the next morning about how Megumi and Yuji kept him up all night.

You didn't know the first thing about men, but surely if he liked you, he’d make the first move, right?

On the other hand, you'd come to learn just how shy Choso actually was. He preferred ordering delivery to avoid talking to strangers, wrote down scripts for himself before making phone calls, and tried his best to keep interactions with cashiers and bank tellers to a minimum. You’d wondered before what made him talk to you in the bar that night all those weeks ago.

“You sure? You look like your eyes are about to pop out of your head- ow!” Yuji’s voice brings you back to the present, giggling as he fails to dodge a playful blow to the back of his scalp from Megumi.

“I’m fine , you guys! I promise!” you insist as Yuji finishes packing the bowl with the corner of his lighter.

A few short minutes later and Choso’s on his knees in front of you, holding the bowl for you with a steady hand as you take a deep breath, preparing yourself mentally for your first time ever smoking. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, your father yells and throws a glass plate at the dining room wall, but even the glass shattering is hard to hear when Megumi and Yuji are peering around Choso on either side, their faces akin to children on Christmas. Like getting you high for the first time was the greatest thing they'd ever do.

“Ready? Last chance to chicken out.” Choso’s words are teasing but his tone is gentle, kind. He's offering you a lifeline in a way that will still make him seem cool in front of his brother, and you know it.

“I was born ready.” you bold-face lie.

With that, you attach your lips to the mouthpiece, your eyes following Choso’s hand as he brings the flame of the lighter to the bud, giving you a gentle command:

“Inhale. Slowly.”

And so you do. He’d warned you that you wouldn't get anything until he moved his thumb from the air hole on the side, but somehow you’re still shocked when the flavor hits you. It's foreign, earthy, a little sour but not entirely unpleasant. It tickles as it slides down your throat and Choso pulls the glass piece away from you, passing it to Yuji.

Coming up isn't half as pleasant. The ticklish feeling now burns, and your lungs feel tingly and odd. You cough, once lightly and then violently. By the fifth one you think you may throw up. Your mouth feels dry and you can't comprehend why the boy’s would willingly do this to themselves.

It doesn't take long to understand, though.

Within a few minutes and another turn in the rotation, the world is softer, your thoughts not so organized and pointed. Everything is pretty, and silly, and any sensory input feels like you're experiencing it for the first time.

Yuji asks you stupid questions, has you rattling off haphazardly strung together and entirely too far thought-out opinions. Megumi seems to find this greatly amusing. It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh, you think.

And Choso?

He keeps inching closer. You're not sure if he even intends for it to be that way, but eventually you end up sitting between his splayed open legs, your back against his chest and your fingers absentmindedly toying with the frayed holes in the thighs of his jeans. If the weight of the two of your bodies is too much he doesn't say so, his palms splayed out on the concrete behind him.

The two of you watch the younger couple skate from above, your eyes carefully trailing back and forth between them. You weren't sure how they ended up together. Megumi was a bit of a hard ass, he almost came off as pretentious if you didn't know him well enough. And then there was Yugi, who was loud and rambunctious and overly extroverted. You wondered who had bullied who into falling in love, and you giggle at the thought.

“What is it, pot head?” Choso asks from above you.

The boys had been teasing you about your “weed problem” all evening.

“Do you think Megumi bullied Yuji into dating him or was it the other way around?” You ask candidly, and this time Choso chuckles, vibrating your spine.

“I’d put money on it being the other way around. Yuji’s tougher than people give him credit for.”

A few silent, thoughtful moments pass and then he adds:

“Plus, Megumi’s super introverted. He's kind of like me in that way. I can't imagine he'd make the first move.”

For a moment, it's lost on you, but after it rolls around in the fuzziness of your brain for a while it dawns upon you that his words might've been a hint of sorts. You shift so that you can see his face, your legs swinging over his thigh and your elbows resting on the other for support, half laying on his lap.

“Yeah?” You prod, trying your best not to get lost in the deep chocolate of his eyes or the curve of his jaw.

He really was beautiful. Today, his hair is down, surrounding his face in a shaggy frame that makes him look a little softer. There's a red twinge coating the skin of his cheeks under his tattoo, but you couldn't decide if it was from the heat or not.

“Yeah” he breathes as his eyes scan your face, almost like he's in awe of you.

His eyes settle on your lips and you watch him swallow harshly.

It reminds you that your own mouth exists, and its dry as hell.

“Choso?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm thirsty.”

Your admission seems to jar him out of the haze as he cracks into a giggle, his nose scrunching up and eyes crinkling at the corners. You're pretty sure he's never looked better.

“We have some water bottles in the car, you wanna walk with me?”

Of course you do, you think you’d go everywhere with him if you had the time and money to do so.

A few minutes later the two of you are sitting in his car with the AC on full blast and the radio on low. Of course what was supposed to be a two minute venture out to the parking lot had lengthened when Choso had offered to show you a new band he had discovered.

Usually, his music was too heavy for you, but you actually didn't mind this one all that much. It had it's moments, but the incomprehensible screaming was spaced out, intermingled with melodic guitar and an only-slightly intolerably whiny vocalist.

“So, does this one get the y/n stamp of approval?” He asks.

You faux-ponder for a moment, tapping your finger against your chin thoughtfully before you give him the expected answer:

“No, but it's better than the last one.”

“Oh, come on! I thought for sure I’d have you this time!” He groans, jutting his bottom lip out like you’d really hurt his feelings.

“Sorry, big guy. The only whiney little man I like is you-”

It slipped out before you could even stop yourself, your face immediately flushing at the admission, horrified that you just said that. You were never smoking weed again.

What if he didn't feel that way? What if he was disgusted by the thought of you having feelings for him? What if he didn't want to be friends anymore? What if-

“I mean, I-”

“Do you mean it?” His tone is flat but his eyes are wide, observant, drinking in every minute detail of your expression. You're mortified.

“No!”

“Oh.” His face falls and his shoulders droop, and your heart cracks a little at the sight.

“I mean, not like that! I just-”

He chuckles a little, but it sounds strained. Slumping into his seat and tapping his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel awkwardly, he doesn't pull his eyes from his own fingers as he speaks “Y/n, it's fine. Really. You're not obligated to like me just because you're a woman and my friend. I'll live.”.

Fuck.

How were you supposed to fix this? How could you get out of this situation without admitting to your little crush? Either way, the dynamic of your relationship would change from here on out.

You tried to summon your bravery, but in the end it was futile.

You didn't like the way the change was playing out.

Choso’s texts to you slowed over the next few weeks, and then eventually stopped altogether. You had yet to be invited back over to his place or out to the skate park by him personally, instead getting invites from Yuji, all ending with the speculation that you could come “if you want”. Not a direct invitation, not a enthusiastic expression of a desire for your presence, and definitely not from the person you wanted it from.

You wondered if you had told him the truth, would it be like this?

You missed him. The smell of his cologne, dark and earthy and smokey. The way it felt to fall asleep on his shoulder watching TV. His penchant for take out, his awkward demeanor. You’d even forced yourself to listen to his playlists. It felt like a piece of you had died.

Out here in the big city, surrounded by a million strangers, yet feeling alone because the ones you chose had been taken from you as punishment for your lack of nuts.

You check your phone after work before heading home, unsurprised to find no new notifications, but disappointed nonetheless. You almost text him, tell him you miss him, but it felt wrong. So instead, you put his playlist on and start your drive.

Fittingly, it was pouring rain, effectively turning the concrete of the city into a pond. Traffic creeps forward, inch by miserable fucking inch, and you think how much better this would be if he was in your passenger seat. Shit, it would even be better if you could just call him. Your emotions swell and blur together. You're mournful over the loss, regretful over your choice of words, angry at him for not just telling you what he was thinking. Angry at your hometown for driving you out, angry at your mother for never calling, angry at god for keeping the rest of the big wide world from you for so long. Angry at god for keeping Choso from you for so long.

Someone blares on their horn a couple lanes away and you sober, come to a revelation of sorts. You’d thrown god the middle finger a long time ago. He couldn't stop you from living, from experiencing. And by that logic, he couldn't keep Choso from you either. Not if you had any say in the matter.

You don't drive home, taking a turn instead two exits early. You’d memorized the route to their house, didn't need a GPS to lead you into their suburb.

When you pull into the drive Choso’s car is the only one parked outside, but quite frankly you didn't care who was there. You march out of your car with the determination of a soldier, not bothering to worry about how the rain was absolutely pouring down. By the time you reach the door you’re absolutely soaked, with your hair plastered to your face and your business casual button up transparent, clinging to your frame.

You pound on the door with force and wait for a few moments, and then pound again. You know he doesn't like to answer the door to strangers. He's not impolite enough to tell religious canvassers to piss off, and everytime it's a salesman he buys whatever product they're pushing just to get them to leave.

Third time's the charm.

He opens the door in nothing but a charcoal pair of sweatpants, his hair messy and disheveled like he’d just woken up at 6pm. His tattoos are on full display, but his torso remains untouched by ink, giving you a full view of his pecs, his abs, and that v shape above his hips that has you breathing funny. You shamelessly trail your eyes down his body.

“You're soaked.” He meekly points out, and you realize he must've been sizing you up as well, because his lips are parted and his face is flushed when you jerk your eyes back up to meet his gaze.

Fuck it.

You take two steps forward and jerk him down to you by the nape of his neck, crashing your lips into his with a fervent heat. You would explain later. Right now all that mattered was the way he grunted against your lips, the way his tongue felt pushing past the plush barrier to swirl against yours, the way his hands gripped your sides like they were sculpted to do just that. He tastes like weed and mint and something sweet, and you think you maybe could get addicted to something like that.

He pulls back but you’re not finished yet, lapping hungrily at the sensitive skin of his neck. It was the best you could do with the height difference.

“Y/n. Inside, please.” He slurs, groaning and gripping you tighter as you transition from licking to sucking, ignoring his request entirely.

You hit a spot he must like, because he gasps and then his hands are scrambling to the wet backs of your thighs, hoisting you up to his waist and retreating into the familiar space.

Once the two of you are inside he sits you down, his hands scrambling to put some space between the two of you, grasping at your wrists and pushing on your chest just slightly. You both know he could easily shove you off if he wanted, but as always his manners are entirely too poised for that type of behavior.

But you’re hooked on the flavor of his skin, lapping at any place you can reach with desperation. You missed him so much, you needed him. Closer and harder and more-

He barks your name, unusually harsh, and it snaps you out of your lusty haze a little.

“Sorry,” He apologizes when he catches your disappointment, his hands reaching up to cup your face, lips pressing to the damp skin of your forehead gently to remedy his harshness “You're absolutely drenched, love. And it seems like we need to talk.”.

It's almost impossible to tuck away your need, but you manage, somehow.

Thirty minutes later and you're wrapped in one of his hoodies, the sheer size of it large enough to fall at mid-thigh.

With the daylight streaming through the window, Choso’s bedroom looks different. You’d never noticed before just how much of a collector he was. You knew he had shelves full of nick-nacks and oddities, but in the light they seemed far larger in number than you’d ever noticed before. He had an interest in the occult, a fact that had once scared you, but now you knew it to be harmless.

Every crystal, jar of herbs, and statuette had a meaning. You’d ask him about it sometimes, which rock was supposed to represent good fortune, or which little wax sealed spell jar was for protection.

Choso viewed spirituality not as a guide book for how to enter heaven, but an encyclopedia for exploring the unknown. You loved that about him. He didn't need one divine being to judge whether or not he was a good person, he just was .

The two of you sit at the top of his bed, your backs pressed against the headboard, your legs against the top of his plush comforter. It's such a deep shade of purple it's almost black.

The tension between the two of you is somewhat awkward. You were sitting close enough to feel each other's heat, but neither one dared to touch. You kept yourself busy by twisting your fingers together, trying not to think about how tense he was beside you. His arms were clenched tightly across his chest, as if defending himself from the thick air, and when you stole a glance at him you wondered how he hadn't bitten through his cheek yet with how hard he was chewing on it.

Several times, one of you opens your mouth to speak, but words evade you.

Eventually, you tap your bare toes against Choso's playfully. Once, twice, three times.

“Weirdo,” he teases “You come in my house, you kiss me, you steal my clothes and now you wanna hold toes?”

You gasp, full of faux offense “Excuse me?! I am not trying to hold your toes! If I wanted to hold your toes, I’d do this- ”.

You slide your body down a bit so you can reach and curl your toes over the top of his. Immediately, he recoils, sarcastically gagging, but its interrupted by giggles as he tries to no avail to squirm away from you.

“You freak!” He laughs, desperately shuffling away from you as you latch onto his body, attempting to reach his foot again with your own playfully. He squirms downward to use his height to his advantage, his giggles getting a little higher pitched as he evades your desperate attempt.

“Is this some kind of weird religious trauma? Jesus liked to wash feet, not touch them together-”

He's shit talking between giggles and now you're giggling too, sliding down the bed to try and reach him once again, your lip pulling between your teeth mischievously as you frantically wave your leg, toes pointed like a ballerina. You pay absolutely zero mind to his protests. So close, so close-

He practically shrieks your name when he feels your toes graze against his skin and the sheer girlieness of the noise has you erupting into genuine, chest rattling laughter, and before you can recover, he's reached over you to hook a large and under your knee, flipping you across his waist with ease so you’re straddling him, genuinely beaming as you try to catch your breath, your hands pressed against his bare chest to support yourself.

After a few moments, the realization sinks in that you’re here, in Choso Kamo’s bed, with no pants on. Straddling him with your knees struggling to even touch the bed underneath, the only thing separating your most private area from the skin of his abdomen being the thin cotton of your bikini cut panties.

His expression softens as he stares at you, lost in the way your lips part and your eyelids get heavy as he brings a hand up to fix pieces of your hair that were out of place, the both of you completely lost in the moment.

“I’m so sorry Choso-” you start, finally attempting to address the elephant in the room.

“Don't be, there's no need” he murmurs as his fingers move from your hair to your jawline, his thumb grazing the soft skin of your cheek tantalizingly slow “I told you, you're not obligated to feel-”.

You're glad he's not dodging the issue, but you can't let him continue that line of thinking for another fucking second. It was killing you, so you cut him off.

“But I do, Cho. I do feel…” You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing as a knot rises in your throat. Why the fuck was this so hard?

And he wasn't making it any easier, the way his hand was trailing from your face to your neck, across your shoulder and down your clavicle like it had a mind of its own. You have to fight not to shudder.

You close your eyes, avoiding his gaze and focus hard on spewing what needed to be said, wanting it out and over as quickly as possible.

“I like you. I liked you the moment I laid eyes on you. I just didn't know how to say it and when I did I didn't mean to. And you looked so pretty and I didn't want to fuck anything up and so I tried to shove it all back in but it was too late and I-”

Words are tumbling out of your mouth quicker than your brain could proofread them, your hands balling into fists as you metaphorically word vomit into the sticky air in front of you, and it's not until you feel Choso shift underneath you that you stop.

He's pushed himself up on his palm, his free hand moving to tangle in your hair and pull your lips to his, a silent way of telling you he understood. This kiss wasn't like earlier, this one was gentle and poised, every little motion of his mouth overly intentional. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and you gladly grant him access, sighing against him as he strokes the inside of your mouth with the grace of a painter intending upon a masterpiece.

Momentarily, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours and panting slightly, his eyes fluttered shut as he basks in your warmth. The air between you is thick and sweet, a mixture of clean oxygen and your breath swirling together.

You know what he's doing, trying to regain some control over himself. The two of you have talked extensively about your background, he knew you were a virgin. He didn't want to do anything you weren't comfortable with-

“You’ve been holding back this whole time” you let the words tumble out in a whisper, and you smile when he nods, the sweetness of the entire misunderstanding exploding through you.

“I never wanted to force you into anything,” He sighs “God knows you’ve had enough of other people guiding your decisions for you.”.

“Was that a play on words?” you try not to giggle, but he snorts and then you’re both laughing, with him shifting your bodies again so you're fully in his lap, his legs curling underneath you and his arms squeezing you in an almost boyish way, his giggles getting lost in your hair where he buries his face.

***

“I want to have sex with you”

You’re firm and unwavering in your disposition, face stern and hands pointed at your sides. You stand in front of the coffee table where Choso currently has one boot clad foot perched, his long fingers working on weaving the laces around the hooks in a far too intricate pattern.

He stills momentarily, staring at you with a slight blush creeping across an almost unreadable expression before he chuckles, returning to the task at hand.

His reaction causes you to cross your arms across your chest and reiterate “I’m serious. I want to have sex with you.”.

Since your initial miscommunication with him, you’d come to the conclusion that you would simply have to be direct with your wants and needs from him.

He doesn't pause this time, but does lift his head to shoot you a glance, flashing a much softer smile this time. It reminds you of when you first met him.

“I know, I’m sorry. You just said it so officially. I half expected you to be wearing a lapel collar blazer and holding a briefcase. It was cute.” He speaks as he finishes up with the first boot, and then quickly moves onto the next.

He was getting ready for work and looked absolutely scrumptious. His hair was pulled back in his signature buns, little pieces falling forward to frame his face, and his uniform clung to him in all the right ways. He swears he doesn't actually do much as a security guard, but everytime you see him in uniform you can't help but melt a little.

‘Remain strong’ you tell yourself.

“Well maybe if you could take a hint I wouldn't have to present myself like a legal case,” your tone was teasing, but it was true.

Earlier this week you'd crawled in his bed with nothing on but a thong and one of his t-shirts, pulling his arm around you and settling the flesh of your ass firmly against his boxers, innocently “adjusting” your position repeatedly. When his cock was hard enough for you to feel it spearing your thighs you thought you had him hooked, but he simply pressed chaste kisses onto your neck a few times and told you goodnight.

The day before that, you’d met him in his bedroom when he got home fresh out of the shower, nothing but a towel clinging to your frame and pulled him in for a steamy makeout session. It had ended with him offering for you to wear an outfit of his.

Just last night, you’d made sure to pick a movie with a raunchy sex scene, and even though you’d watched his face flush and his breathing falter, he didn't so much as attempt to make a move on you.

He says your name gently as he finishes up with his shoes and rises from the couch, making his way over to you and wrapping his fingers around your jaw, manually forcing you to look up at him.

“I can take a hint just fine, baby.” He coos, his voice dark and smokier than you’d ever heard it, seemingly out of nowhere “It's just that I'm a patient man. I was waiting for you to use your words.”.

You're already putty in his hands, beet red and gripping his uniform desperately as he captures your bottom lip between his, rolling his tongue along the tender flesh before sucking harshly, pulling your lip between his teeth and biting lightly.

It shouldn't be enough to have you dripping onto the soft cloth of your underwear, pushing muffled whimpers against his lips, but here you are anyway.

All too soon, he pulls away, leaving you breathless as he makes circles beneath your ribs with his thumbs.

“Unfortunately, though, my little legal council, I do have to work-”

“Call out.” It sounds like a plea.

He giggles, allowing his forehead to fall against yours just briefly as his shoulders shake with the sound.

“Cho!” You whine, desperate and slightly embarrassed.

“I can't call out horny, my love.” He’s still giggling as he says it “Plus, if it's what you want, that's fine but I’d like to have time to dedicate myself to making you feel good. It's your first time, you deserve that.”

His words soften as he speaks, and he plants another kiss on your lips, muffling your resigned response.

“You gonna be here tonight? When I get home?” He asks, his voice suggestive.

You hadn't been planning on it. It was usually a dice roll, whether you’d end up at your own apartment or his house by the end of the night, but you needed to go home. Your drawer full of clothes here was dwindling and you desperately missed not having to hear Yuuji and Megumi in the other room.

Plus, you worried sometimes that you needed to relax, to give Choso a chance to breathe. He was an introvert, and even though he never seemed to mind your presence you were always worried that you were overstepping boundaries.

“I was planning on it.” You lie, unsure if you were convincing.

“Shame,” he sighs, pecking your nose before heading towards the door, strong hands reaching for his keys hanging on the rack “The boys are gonna be here. I figure you don't want them hearing-”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, I-” you scramble for words and he turns to watch you fumble desperately to communicate, giggling through pearly white teeth.

“I can be at home. Tonight.” You take a deep breath, feeling like the air was all of a sudden too hot in the room.

The look on his face is one of pure adoration. His eyes drink you in like fresh water in a desert oasis. You’d been taught that God was the only one who could love you unconditionally, the only one who could marvel at the way your soul had been sewn into your body, but there in that moment, you had the thought that Choso Kamo just might be able to as well.

He crosses the room once more, and when you think he's going to kiss you again, push a little harder against the thin bubble of list pooling inside you, he shocks you by wrapping his arms around you instead, pulling you into him and squeezing you tight, like he didn't want to let go.

The hours pass all too quickly. They also drag on like snails on the sidewalk.

You do everything in your power to prepare yourself. By the time you've driven home and shaved every feasible inch of your body, showered like you could never be clean enough, and applied enough lotions and oils for the next seventeen years, you still have four hours until Choso gets off work. Two and a half of those get filled with cleaning, not that your apartment was dirty in the first place, but you vacuum and dust and wash your bedsheets. You consider scrubbing the grout in the kitchen, but decide against it, not wanting to ruin your immaculately washed form with sweat.

Picking out what to wear is another daunting task. You weren't one for expensive and skimpy lingerie sets. You’d never considered the possibility that anyone would be seeing that secondary layer of clothing. Would Choso be disappointed in your plain black cotton panties and a matching black bra? Realistically, no. You knew he thought you looked amazing in anything. But there's still a small part of you that thinks maybe he will be.

In those last few hours, the nerves really settle in with the reality of the situation. You stand in front of your bathroom mirror in your underwear for what feels like an insane amount of time, scrutinizing your body. Every stretch mark, patch of cellulite, scar and wrinkle screams at you. The way your underwear digs into the soft fat of your body makes you sick. You imagine Choso swallowing his disgust to power through it, and flip off the lights to go pull on some shorts and a t-shirt.

And when he texts you to let you know he's on the way, you feel like you may vomit, a mix of excitement and shame flooding your system.

Beneath his notification is one from your mother. She doesn't reach out much these days, and when she does, it's always an attempt to guilt you into returning home. In her mind, it's not too late.

She doesn't know how far you’ve strayed. You're no longer a girl in the middle rows of pews with your blossoming body swallowed in a light pink dress from your neck to your shins. You don't find excitement at the glances you would steal with the choir boy while he sung the good lord's praises.

These days, you drank and smoked and spent your nights in the bed of an unwed man who thought Jesus was no more than a person who once lived. No more or less than himself, or you, for that matter.

The bible verse she's sent you today seems fitting.

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

She used to tell you, when you were tiny, with dirt stained knees and sunburned cheeks, that when you found your husband, you should replace the word “love” with his name. And if you could not recite it and believe it to be true in it’s new form, he simply was not the boy for you.

Choso Kamo is patient, he is kind. He does not envy, he does not boast, he is not proud.

You see him in flashes. How he patiently waited for you to make a move on him. How he was kind enough to bolster you through every step of your new journey. How he was quiet, gentle, humble in his words and his actions. The blush of his cheeks, the warmth of his embrace-

Choso Kamo is not rude, he is not self seeking, he is not easily angered, he keeps no record of wrongs.

He took your misplaced rejection in stride. Never once did he snap at you. In those weeks you’d been separated, he’d drawn into himself. And when you'd showed up on his doorstep with no justification, he'd welcomed you back with open arms, dressed you in his own clothes, held you like a precious gift-

Choso Kamo always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves.

Yuuji had told you one night over a midnight snack about how Choso had immediately cleared out the guest bedroom when their mom had passed. Yuuji, before that point, was old enough and had more than enough money to have lived on his own, but Choso had insisted on him moving in. He’d told you, with a saccharine half smile as he stared into his bowl of cheerios, that he thought that Choso wanted what was left of their family to persevere. It may have been small, torn from years of hardship, but they were gonna make it good. They were gonna be the kind men at the end of the street who neighbors called when they had a flat tire. Their home would be a safe haven, a place to rest when their friends were weary. After that conversation, you’d crawled back into bed with Choso, who was fast asleep, and cried into his shoulder. Your sweet boy, your angel-

Choso Kamo never fails.

That one doesn't count, you decide. It was too unrealistic. But then you rephrase it a little, and it sounds about right:

Choso Kamo’s love never fails.

Yeah, that was more like it.

But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

For we know in part and we prophesy in part

You send your mother back a message, entirely too brief. You are no longer sure if you believe in god, but what you are certain of is that you are going to live each moment of your life like it's your last. You’re helplessly in love with a man who practices witchcraft and smokes weed more than he breathes air. But you followed her rule, and he fits the standard. You don't want to hear her opinion, and your father, god rest his soul, may be rolling in his grave, but he's probably not burning in hell, because it doesn't exist.

but when perfection comes,

A knock on your door, in an all-too-familiar corny little rhythmic jingle that warms your heart.

the imperfect disappears.

You block your mothers number and toss your phone on the plush surface of your sofa and practically run to the door, throwing it open and then leaping into Choso's arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, burying your face in his neck and drinking in the smell of his cologne.

He's unprepared, stumbling slightly as he catches you, a breathy “Woah, there!” escaping his lips as he steps with you in his arms over the threshold of your apartment.

“What happened to ‘Hello’?” He teases, pressing soft kisses into your hair “-Or ‘Hi, how are you?’.”

All the while he's struggling to kick his shoes off and get the door locked without setting you down, giggling at himself candidly in your ear. Every rattle of his chest only has you pulling him closer, latching onto him impossibly tight. It hurts in the best way possible. You never thought you’d find this, you could be barefoot and pregnant in that choir boy’s kitchen right now. But he was here, and real, and patient, and kind, and hopeful, and trustworthy, and all that stupid shit the pastor used to yap about on Sunday morning.

“What is up with you? You cosplayin’ a boa constrictor or what-? Oh- What's wrong? ”

His tone softened when he pulled back to look at you and saw large tears rolling down your cheeks.

Even now, with a downturned brow and a pout plaguing his features, he was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. His hair was down, his face free of any of his typical makeup and his skin baby soft and butter smooth. Beautiful dark eyes traced worried patterns over your face, searching for the cause of your tears. His grip on your thighs tightens, protective.

“If you changed your mind-” He starts, voice low and hushed.

“No.” You cut him off, and plopped your forehead against his, probably a little too hard but he’d be okay. You’d tease him about his thick ass skull later.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.

You swallowed your fear, your reservation, the silly, petulant notion that Choso held anything in his chest but genuine adoration for you.

“I’m crying because I’m happy. You make me happy.” You murmur, your eyelids slipping closed. You can't bear to look at him when you say it.

“I love you, Choso Kamo. I love you.”

The air freezes, tenses, and you can swear for a moment the world stops turning. You pry your eyes open against your will to look at him, and he's staring at you in awe, worrying his lip between his teeth, and- were there tears welling in his eyes?

“Say it again.” He whispers “Please.”

“I love you-”

He cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours feverishly. It's gentle, but you can tell he's fighting himself, his hands trembling against your thighs with the force he’s using to force himself into taking his time.

Lips and tongues melding as he carried you down the hall, soft whimpers escaping his lips as your fingers twist in his hair, willing him somehow closer than he already was, wanting him to take your body, and maybe your soul, make it his. He could have it, all of you if he wanted, you knew he'd keep it safe.

“Again” He commands as he lays you on your bed, his hands working your shirt off like he couldn't stand the fabric that hid you from him for a second longer.

“I love you, Cho.” You watch as he pushes himself up off the mattress, standing so that he can pull his own shirt off, revealing that tantalizingly hard frame that you’d fantasized about since the first night you met him. He doesn't give you much time to admire the view before his rough palm is sliding along your freshly bare skin from your hip to the side of your neck. His other hand plants on the mattress beside you, holding himself up as he presses his lips to yours again and then allows himself to leave a sloppy trail of wet kisses across your jaw and down your neck. His tongue is hot and desperate, flicking against your skin and leaving cracks of electricity in it's wake.

“Ah, fuck-” the words seem to bubble out of your lips from nowhere as he transitions from licking to sucking, the slightest bit of pain outlining the pleasure. The hand that's been resting against your neck slides down and around your body, and you arch your back so he can undo the clasp of your bra, running your hands along the defined ridges of his back and trying to remember every breath, every touch, every feeling he’s giving you.

How could this be wrong, when his tongue gliding along your collar feels like heaven? How is it that you were reveling in sin if him removing your bra from your chest felt like removing everything that's ever caged you? How was it blasphemy if the way his eyes held contact with yours as he drew stars along your nipple with his tongue felt like worship?

It also felt like hell fire, though, the way there was heat coating every inch of the room, every inch of your body, pooling inside you and sloshing against every flick of his tongue.

Your body knows what you want, even if you don't, and your hands tangle in his hair and push him downwards, urging him to pick up the pace.

He chuckles against your skin, muttering a hushed “So fucking cute-” before kissing your nipple once more and following your silent command, mapping out the skin of your abdomen with his tongue, humming in satisfaction against your skin, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the taste.

His hands trace your sides until his thick fingers are hooking under the rim of both your shorts and your underwear, pulling them off in one fell swoop.

And then there you are, naked in front of the most attractive man you’d ever seen. Naked in front of a man who looked like everything you’d ever been warned about, but acted like everything you'd ever been taught was good.

He looked otherworldly, with his hair fluffy and tousled by your fingers. His blush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, all the way down his chest, and you notice for the first time the tent in the front of his sweats. His eyes scan you, gliding over different parts of your form, looking hazy and far away, almost lost-

One hand moves to part your knees, which had subconsciously moved together to cover yourself, but he doesn't push, instead lifts his eyes to you, smiling softly. Adoringly.

“Can't do anything for you if you don't let me see, babe.”

You nod, slowly, and begin to part your legs, but something about your face makes him falter, moving to grip your knee and stop you.

“What's wrong, y/n? Do we need to stop?” He's stone-serious all of a sudden “We can stop whenever you want. I promise I can wait.”.

Patient. You remind yourself. Choso Kamo is patient.

“N-no!” You find your words, and he relaxes a little, his grip on your knee loosening “I just- What if you don't-”. You feel embarrassment stinging hot on your cheeks.

His brow furrows as he questions you “...Don't what?”.

The words feel like shattered glass sliding out of your throat:

“What if you don't… like what you see?”

His face falls, and for a second he looks genuinely sad, and you think you’ve ruined it. Again. There's a few silent moments where you think he's gonna call it off, help you redress and leave you here to sleep alone. You recall how you felt in those few weeks of not talking to him the first time.

…But he doesn't. His hands reach out for you and you take them, allowing him to pull you into a sitting position while he stands at the edge of the bed, holding your face upwards so that you have to look at him.

“Y/n.” His tone is somewhere between a scold and a plea, a warning and a prayer “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, and I am lucky to have you.”.

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you draw a shaky breath “I just-”

“Aht.” He stops you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a sickeningly sweet gesture “Let me show you.”.

He pushes on your shoulder until you lean back on one of your palms, and this time when he parts your legs to hike your knees up on his hips, you allow it.

He grabs your free hand and and turns it over in his own, speaking softly, slowly:

“I love your hands, and how small they feel in mine.” He kisses your knuckles, humming against your skin as he continues “I love it when you wrap your arms around me at night, how soft your skin feels against me.”.

He starts at your wrist, planting kiss after kiss, trailing upwards until he lands in the hollow of your throat.

“I love your voice, love to hear you say my name-”

“Choso-” you whine, the flick of his tongue causing your hips to instinctually rock. His clothed erection grinds against your bare clit and you gasp at the contact. It was unfamiliar, but so so fucking good.

“Mmm, yes, baby. Just like that.” He praises, his voice low and husky, and his hands move to your hips to guide you in grinding against him, the pace slow and rhythmic, tantalizingly slow.

“I love these little love handles,” He's speaking through breathy pants now, index fingers tapping against the skin beneath his hands to point them out “They're so hot, doll. You have no idea. I wanna bite them so bad. And just look how nicely they fit in my hands.”.

He's melting you, you're head tipping back and your mouth hanging open, eyes squeezed shut as you jolt with every brush of your clit.

“I said look-” he growls, and brings one hand up to the back of your hair, jerking your head forward. Your eyes fly open in surprise at his sudden forwardness, only to be met with the sight of him grinding against you, the front of his sweats absolutely soiled by your wetness- or maybe his precum from the other side. Both? Probably both.

But he was right, if you didn't know any better, you'd think your hips were hand carved to fit into his palms.

“Cho, please, please!” You have no idea what you're begging for, but you need more, the unfamiliar heat building in your stomach becoming damn near unbearable.

He chuckles, not his usual way but something a little lower, huskier, almost taunting, and takes a slight step back. You open your mouth to whine about the loss of contact, but then he's kneeling by the bed, throwing your legs up over his shoulders and you realize- oh fuck .

“I love these little tiger stripes” He's back to his monologue, tracing the stretch marks on your inner thigh with his lips.

“So. Goddamn. Pretty.” His words are punctuated with kisses in between “How many years did it take you to grow them? Hmm? How many good meals and growing pains and jeans sizes are painted here, baby?”.

He's babbling, lost in adoration, and all you can do is gasp and whine and keen as he draws closer and closer to your core. You're overwhelmed, by him, by his words, by his lips. Your insides have been blended up and set on a low simmer, sure to bubble and boil until you're completely caramelized, an entirely different form than when you first started.

He presses a chaste kiss to the hood of your clit, almost innocent, and you tense, your whole body coiled in anticipation as you prop yourself up on you elbows to look at him with blown pupils.

“Can I?” He asks, and before the words are even out you’re nodding eagerly, unable to even form words with the way he's got you wrapped around his metaphorical finger.

Tentatively, almost experimentally, he licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, smirking as your back arches into the feeling. It was unlike anything you'd ever experienced, it was indescribably good. Your hands find his hair faster than you can stop them, instinct taking over as you push him down into you by way of gripping his hair, your body aching, pleading for him to do it again.

And he happily obliges, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you down so he can work his magic, and holy hell did it feel like magic. If your brain wasn't absolutely melted, you’d thank him for suggesting your apartment instead of his house. The sounds that we're escaping you were loud and high pitched, broken syllables of his name intermingled with cursing as he draws figure eights on your clit with his tongue, gradually picking up pace until you're tossing your upper half back onto the mattress, feeling like he was pulling your very soul from your body in the best way.

“Want my fingers inside you, love?” He pulls away, just briefly, back to kissing your thigh languidly as he waits for you to sober a bit and give him proper consent.

“Yes, yes, yes-” You're helpless against him, trying to roll your hips back up to his face, only to be met with the pressure of his hand against your hip, holding you in place. You’d let him do whatever he wanted.

“Okay, okay!” He giggles, and this time it sounds genuine “Relax for me, pretty girl, it shouldn't hurt but if you're tense…”.

He trails off, pressing a kiss to your other thigh as you settle yourself, laying back with your eyes closed and taking deep, slow breaths while trying not to tremble.

You feel his tongue again first and immediately jolt, and he mumbles your name almost disappointedly, like he expected you to tense again the second he touched you. You mumble an apology, trying again to relax, focusing on the way his tongue felt working your body.

It doesn't take long for the heat to return, soft whine's escaping your lips as you let him take control, loving the way he groans against you, like getting you off was a pleasure. With each stroke an unknown feeling was building in your core, a live wire winding tighter and tighter and-

You gasp as you feel a sudden pressure, his finger pushing into you slowly, carefully, pumping in time with his tongue, working you from the inside and out.

You're back up on your palm now, your free hand reaching for his, tangling your fingers in his, squeezing as your face falls into an opened mouthed silent moan. He hesitates, just briefly, and the panic at the idea of losing the feeling helps you find your words:

“Nonononono, don't stop, Choso, baby, please- please don't stop it's so good, please- please!”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, smirking against you. You didn't give a fuck. Let his ego inflate until it bursts. Let him think he owns your body, because goddamn, you’d let him. You wanted him to. Anything, anything so long as he didn't stop.

Without warning, he slips another finger in and the stretch along with the swirl of his tongue is unreal. You cry out, squeezing his fingers impossibly tight and doubling over just slightly. He's hitting something inside you that you didn't know existed, some type of magical button that had that coil in you wound so tight you feared it might break. And then you feel it, a sharp and hot sensation, brought on so suddenly it had your eyes flying open and sent you scrambling backwards away from him.

“Stop!” You bark, and immediately he pulls out of and away from you, but keeps your fingers intertwined with his, his face crunched in concern.

“You okay?” He asks, genuine worry plaguing his very being “Something hurt?”.

“Yeah, no, it felt good, I just- I felt-” You struggle to describe it, searching for a similar sensation in your mind to compare it to.

While you think, he presses small kisses to your knee, his eyes not as concerned as they were a moment ago, but still cloudy.

“I think I have to pee?” You finally state, but it comes out as more of a question than a matter of fact.

His eyebrows jolt upwards as he breaks into a wide open mouthed grin, and then he laughs in that way that makes you melt, in the way that makes his nose crinkle up and his eyes look like crescent moons.

“Baby!” He cackles incredulously, rising to his feet and placing himself up on the bed, his shoulders resting against the pillows.

“What?” You whine, mildly embarrassed, but take his hands when he reaches for you, letting him guide you until your straddling his hips, shuddering as you feel his still-hard cock spearing your ass.

“You were gonna cum, that's what that was.” He chuckles, pulling you forward to kiss him. You can taste yourself all over him and it lights you on fire.

Choso, smiling, giggling, rock hard beneath you, swirling his tongue around yours when you find yourself smiling too.

Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

“Cho?” you murmur against him, and he hums inquisitively back against your lips.

“Make love to me. Please. Need you close.”

“Yes ma'am. At your service.”

In a few moments, you're on your back in front of him, your thighs spread around his own, watching him roll a latex condom over his length. An artist couldn't paint a view as beautiful as the one in front of you.

Fully protected, he leans down over you, and before he can move to do it himself you’re lapping hungrily at his bottom lip, willing him closer, wanting him to invade your every inch, stake his claim in you.

He hikes one of your legs up with his hand under your knee and you feel him nudge against your entrance, and you surprise yourself with your own feelings. There's no fear, no shame, just love and want.

“You sure?”

“Choso!” You fuss, and he giggles, planting a sweet kiss on your forehead and then resting his own head there, nuzzling you gently. Anyone else, it would be gross; both of you had a sheen of sweat glistening across your foreheads.

“Deep breath for me, sweet girl.” He murmurs, and you do, drawing a heavy lungful of his breath and the hot air surrounding the two of you. At the peak of your intake, he pushes into you, slow and careful, stretching you around him with the patience of a teacher and the intensity of a priest in the height of surmon.

It was all-consuming, the absolutely delectable way he fit inside you, his tip grazing your cervix just ever-so-slightly. Maybe it was the way he’d brought you to the brink of cumming (apparently) before, or just the way your body craved him like water, but he was right; it didn't hurt. Pressure, sure, but not pain.

“Gonna move-” He speaks, and you realize you’re affecting him too. His brow is knitted, bottom lip trembling between his teeth, voice cracked and whiney.

“Please, Cho?” You whimper out, sliding one hand around his back, the other intertwined in his dark hair, now damp from desperate sweat.

He presses his lips to yours and begins to rock his hips, slowly at first, until he hits that sweet spot inside you again, earning him a puppy whine from what felt like the deepest part of your guts. From there, he's zeroed in on that spot, rolling his hips in a way that has him grinding against it over and over.

Each stroke pushes you closer to the brink of enlightenment, you think, modulates your very being with the way that heat is rising inside you again. He moans and whines and whimpers against the crook of your neck as he works, giving away just how much you’re really doing to him, whether he wanted you to know or not.

It makes you smile through the pleasure, and if any sounds could escape you other than moans you may have giggled. He was so fucking cute.

The pressure inside you intensifies, builds until every stroke is crashing over your body in boiling waves, and you feel that hot sensation again as he picks up pace, your pussy twitching around him desperately and your thighs tightening around his back, warning him you were close.

“Say it again for me, baby. Please?” He pants, propping up to watch your face as you inevitably would come undone beneath him.

One of his hands reaches down to circle your clit as you cry out.

“I love you. I-I love you, Chos- nngh, fuck! ”

You cum, for the first time in your life, and it feels like you’ve stepped off the edge of a cliff, adrenaline and excitement exploding from your core. Against your own will, your head flies backwards into the pillow behind you and your body clenches from your scalp to your toes as you ride out your high.

A curse, followed by a keen from Choso as he’s quick to follow behind you, his thrusts becoming sloppy and slow as he pumps hot ropes of cum into the condom.

He presses into you, resting his body weight against you as the both of you take a moment to catch your breath. It's crushing, his weight, but you couldn't think of a better way to go, so you let him. As you regain some semblance of control over your body, your fingers find their way to his back, swirling along the defined muscle in languid motions.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

“Oh,” He says after a moment, casually, like he'd forgotten to tell you some half hearted plans “I love you too, by the way.”.

You giggle, and jerk his face up to look at you, your hands pressing into his cheeks and puckering up his kiss-bitten lips.

“You are an idiot, Choso Kamo.”

masterlist

#jjk #choso x reader #choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso smut #kamo choso #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso x female reader #cross posted on ao3 #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #jjk smut

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schoenpepper · 2 months

Text

Like Raven Feathers

Intro: Riddle does something against the rules. And because of that, he'll fall from Heaven, oh he'll fall, just for you.

Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, proofread by quillbot, Riddle's mom is mentioned, lots of religious whatever, bro's a simp through and through

A/N: Lookie what I whipped up with a random dose of motivation. Riddle's not even in my top five faves so I'm not sure why the first full fic I'll ever post is one about him. This has no effect on my Isekai'd Chronicles series update schedule, but it does share the same universe so go check it out if you're confused.

Masterlist

Riddle has always lived his life by the Bible of the Church of Light. Every movement is according to scripture, and every choice is made under the guidance of his mother, the Saintess. Since she has the highest authority in Heaven and is the angel closest to the God of Light, surely she's correct in all that she does. Surely he's correct to follow her. He would keep his wings pure and abide by every rule; no one likes a fallen acolyte of Light.

In this little circle, he's safe.

He wakes up at sunrise every day and prays. He does as is taught to him: give his thanks for every blessing and apologize for every failure, for every sin, and for every wrong he's committed. Most days, he doesn't know why he's begging for forgiveness. Today, he does. "Forgive me, oh Lord of Light," Riddle mumbles piously under his breath. "I have done something unbecoming of your servant. I have developed…feelings, for a mortal nonetheless. I have given away the love that rightfully belongs to you. Please have mercy and forgive this poor soul."

He never says a word about repenting.

After ten minutes of prayer, he makes his bed, takes a bath, straightens out his feathers, and brushes his teeth. Then it's time to double-check all the items he needs for classes and ensure that he's done all the assignments necessary for each day. He has breakfast with the rest of his dormitory members after giving thanks to his Lord for the food. There's another prayer after eating.

Another careless apology leaves his lips.

Classes go by far too slowly for his liking. When he sits at the cafeteria for lunch, his blue-gray eyes search for the mortal that's been in his mind for far too long, far too often. They light up when he finds you.

There's you beyond his circle, just out of reach.

Riddle isn't shy when he asks you to spend lunch with him. When you agree with a smile, his heart seems to beat faster than before. Too fast for his brain to keep up with. He's short of breath around you; you make him unable to even think. He's like an electronic toy short-circuiting in water. That's what you are, after all—strange, unfamiliar territory he isn't allowed to traverse. But even the first angels fell to temptation, so who is he to be the exception?

You're the sweetest forbidden fruit.

He has to go back to class eventually, but he hates that he does. That's weird, that's wrong; he's Riddle Rosehearts, and studies should be his priority after his God. But his hand is out of his control when he doodles little hearts on the border of his notebook (why would he do that? It's so childish, so immature.).

After class, he sends you a text to ask you to study with him in the library. Alone, preferably, because your friends always raise a ruckus (that's the excuse he tells you and himself). He feels content, happy, when you show up by yourself. The two of you sit across from each other, and he reviews topics for you that he still remembers clearly from his first year. Riddle finds it fun. Perhaps some would call it tedious, but he thinks that you're a worthy use of his time. He gets paid by the way you pout when you're struggling with a question. He feels fulfilled when you smile that bright smile, all teeth showing, eyes squinted into crescents, when you claim to finally understand something you've been struggling with for a while. He thinks he can die happy in your arms when you hug him in excitement and thank him for tutoring you.

You trespass into his little circle.

He packs up too soon because you have some commitment with some other person; he's alone in the library now. He sees the way other people look at you. You're just so uniquely you; he understands they want you the way he does. It doesn't mean he'll relent his efforts to snake his way into your heart. You're something he desperately wants, needs, even.

He's envious of the way other people make you laugh. Riddle's never been the humorous type (do you like that type better?). He's too strict, too strait-laced. Maybe you don't think he's fun, or cool, or interesting. Do you even think of him at all?

He still can't touch you.

When he's back at the dorm, he spends the rest of his time buried in his assignments. Perhaps getting you off his mind is the best thing he can do today. He's unproductive when you're the only thing on his mind, so he buries you underneath mountains of schoolwork.

Why can't he reach you?

He lays in bed after another prayer. The same apology is said. He can't even bother to change it. At some point, he'll stop asking for forgiveness. Some time in the future, he'll only confess his love for you in his daily prayers without being sorry for it. Falling in love with a mortal is wrong. Praying insincerely is wrong. But you, you, oh, you're everything that's right in this sinful world. His mother will never understand him.

But the God of Light will.

Because he doesn't even know when it started, but you've become his light. He fears for the darkness that will swallow him when you're gone.

Don't choose someone else. Don't find someone else. Don't love someone else.

He'll leave his circle on his own.

And when the angel falls, he'll make sure he goes out with the most glorious fireworks.

With you.

#disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twisted wonderland #gender neutral reader #twst x reader #x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #heartslabyul #heartslaybul x reader

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dragoneyes618 · 2 months

Text

The Sh'ma contains the one verse of Scripture that probably every Jew in the world knows by heart, or has at least heard often, Deuteronomy 6:4:

Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.

The observant Jew says it in the morning and at nightfall every day of his life, with three related passages from the Torah. It is the first Hebrew sentence a child learns, and it is the utterance with which every Jew is supposed to breathe his last. On this point I will obtrude a short personal anecdote. I used to wonder whether, in the last extremity, a man could really call to mind and recite the Creed. Then once during a typhoon in the Pacific I was almost blown off the deck of a ship, and I remember quite clearly thinking, as I went sliding toward my fate, "Well, if I drown, let me say the Sh'ma as I go." Luckily for me the lifeline I grabbed happened to hold; and so I postponed the utterance, and the world has a few plays and novels it could well have wagged along without, and the patient reader is enduring the present harangue. I believe there are one or two literary critics who may wish I had gotten to say that watery Sh'ma, but I cannot help that, a man hangs on if he can.

- This Is My God, Herman Wouk, pages 99-100

#this is my god #herman wouk #judaism #jumblr #shema

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and-her-saints · 17 days

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Hey sorry idk if you'd know this but I quite literally don't know where to turn about this so I'm sending this ask to every queer+catholic blog I can find

Are there *any* resources out there for queer/trans Catholics that go beyond affirmation and show how to pursue a religious life that goes beyond the laity (e.g. priesthood, joining a convent/monastery, something similar) without having to brush your queerness aside. I feel like if I don't find something soon I might go insane

years ago, i attended a Zoom event with Fr. James Alison as a keynote speaker, and something he said has been glued to my brain ever since. he said it in Spanish, so i'll try to remember, paraphrase and translate: "while they try to get us to stop being queer, what we must try to do is to be better queers."

i love what you said about "beyond affirmation" and that is precisely why i got reminded of the quote and WHY this quote resonated with me to begin with.

imho, there is a fundamental issue with a lot of queer theology and it's that it doesn't go beyond apologetics. it's not pragmatic nor does it seem to engage critically with the material conditions that work with or against queerness. and it's truly such a shame, because living "religiously" to me, as a queer catholic, it's infinitely more a matter of coherence, love, devotion and solidarity, than learning how to "reconcile" gayness/transness with the Bible.

it's a journey, of course. the apologetics were and are necessary for many of us to unlearn the hatred that might've been instilled in us through religious education and upbringing. however, here are some resources that, in my opinion, show how to pursue queer-religious-life.

💌 catholic/christian resources:

[book] The Reckless Way of Love: Notes on Following Jesus by Dorothy Day. Unlike larger collections and biographies, which cover her radical views, exceptional deeds, and amazing life story, this book focuses on a more personal dimension of her life: Where did she receive strength to stay true to her God-given calling despite her own doubts and inadequacies and the demands of an activist life? What was the unquenchable wellspring of her deep faith and her love for humanity?

[book & account] Black Liturgies: Prayers, Poems, and Meditations for Staying Human by Cole Arthur Riley. Black Liturgies is a digital project that connects spiritual practice with Black emotion, Black memory, and the Black body. In this book, she brings together hundreds of new prayers, along with letters, poems, meditation questions, breath practices, scriptures, and the writings of Black literary ancestors to offer forty-three liturgies that can be practiced individually or as a community.

[book] Cry of the Earth, Cry of the Poor by Leonardo Boff. Focusing on the threated Amazon of his native Brazil, Boff traces the economic and metaphysical ties that bind the fate of the rain forests with the fate of the indigenous peoples and the poor of the land. He shows how liberation theology must join with ecology in reclaiming the dignity of the earth and our sense of a common community, part of God's creation. To illustrate the possibilities, Boff turns to resources in Christian spirituality both ancient and modern, from the vision of St. Francis of Assisi to cosmic christology.

[book] Undoing Theology: Life Stories from Non-normative Christians by Chris Greenough. The fundamental issue with ‘queer’ research is it cannot exist in any definable form, as the purpose of queer is to disrupt and disturb. Undoing Doing generates a process of ‘undoing’ as central to queer research enquiries. Aiming to engage in a process which breaks free from traditional academic norms, the text explores three life stories

[podcast] The Magnificast. "A weekly podcast about Christianity and leftist politics. The Magnificast is hosted by Dean Dettloff and Matt Bernico. Each week's episode focuses on a unique or under-realized aspect of territory between Christianity and politics that no one taught you about in sunday school."

💌 non-christian but still excellent resources:

[book] Hijab Butch Blues by Lamya H. A memoir by a butch hijabi that follows the experiences of the author through stories and figures from the Qur'an.

[book] Lean on Me: A Politics of Radical Care by Lynne Segal. Questions of care, intimacy, education, meaningful work, and social engagement lie at the core of our ability to understand the world and its possibilities for human flourishing. In Lean On Me feminist thinker Lynne Segal goes in search of hope in her own life and in the world around her. She finds it entwined in our intimate commitments to each other and our shared collective endeavours.

i don't think these are precisely what you were looking for. but i hope these resources bring you as much peace and hope as they have brought me.

#thoughts #long long post #long post #christianity #anon #ask away #anon ask #resources #books

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spooky-pomegranate · 1 year

Text

Price's Scars

Price’s breath was steady and warm on your neck. The bristles of his beard moved ever so slightly up and down against your skin with each inhale and exhale.

You turned and faced him. Watching him sleep he looked peaceful, his strong jawline relaxed, and his lips slightly parted. You reached out and traced your fingers along his stubble, feeling the soft salt and pepper bristles beneath your fingertips.

He looked different.

He felt different.

Things had changed.

Each scar on Price’s body had been like a page from his private diary and earlier he had finally let you in. He had let you read his story. He had spent hours laying himself bare, letting you flip through his pages, and inviting you to study his text. And you had reveled in it. You had soaked in each detail like he was a sacred script, that the gods had blessed you with from on high. And you had memorized every line and stroke of ink like a preacher, devoted to his scripture.

He was still Price, a man whose heart was harder to get to know than most, but now you had a better understanding of him. He had dealt with more pain than you had ever imagined, and that knowledge made you handle him differently. You touched him more delicately and looked at him with a deeper understanding.

He was strong. Physically you had always known that, but now you knew he was a fighter down to his core. And he had promised to fight for you.

Your finger trailed over a small silver scar on Price’s jaw. Training accident when he was 18. Your hand moved to his chest. A bullet wound just below his shoulder. Kastovia, 2014 op gone sideways. You touched a tiny mark behind his ear. This one made you smile. A game of cops and robbers with the boys in his neighborhood. He’d been nicked with a plastic baton a little too hard. He was 8.

As you brushed his hair away from the scar there, you imagined a tiny John Price riding around his childhood neighborhood somewhere in England, doling out prop justice with a bicycle and a vivid imagination. You bet he was cute then. Shaggy brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He probably gave his parents hell too with the trouble he got into. If he never sat still now, he must have been on another level then.

You couldn’t help but smile.

God, you loved this man. This scarred but perfect man.

#call of duty #captain price #captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader

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aestheticpebbles · 1 day

Text

Servus Dei

Pairing: Priest!AU Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY! MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED, MDNI!, swearing, violence, murder, smut, religious/catholicism imagery/mentions/themes, priest+nun power dynamic abuse, dirty talking, light dubcon if you squint, fluff if you squint harder, use of alcohol, porn with plot, fingering, overstimulation, choking, oral (f receiving), p in v intercourse.

Summary: Father Aegon arrived at your convent, but things become alarming once you realize he isn’t the priest he appears to be.

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: fic below the cut! not religious at all so please correct me if I messed anything up! also, not proofread… but enjoy! inspo from his cunty hair serving from s1.ep.8.

1548. Somewhere outside of Florence, Italy.

“Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.“

The rosary beads clenched tightly laced around your slender fingers nearly gave way to a pinching sensation between your knuckles as you prayed under your breath, reciting ‘Our Father’ as you do every morning upon dressing into your white habits and joining the nuns and sisters at the first morning service of your convent.

However, you weren’t sent here upon your own bidding, rather than fulfilling the wish of your parents after they sought to nip your rebellious streak of your late teenage years in the bud after you expressed during a drunken fit that you instead wished to dance and drink until you dropped before marrying off to some Lord.

You knew your parents did this to reduce any scandalous likelihood of you, an unwed daughter of a newer-money noble family, boring a bastard, but you still did not forgive them for your new life of chastity and divine mercy worship. Yawn.

You were still considered to be relatively new to the convent as you were just beginning your second year of working towards your devotion to God and being tested on your postulancy, so you still wore white robes and veils rather than black. You felt as though you had done well in your studies of the faith thus far considering the circumstances in which you were brought here upon.

“Good morning sister,” Sister Hilda, another white-robed sister about a year older than you, smiled once the first service ended and you found a place next to her side while making your way to the dining hall for breakfast.

The sun’s morning rays that began to peek over the horizon illuminated the dining hall with a dim, blue hue as the world awakened. You both made yourselves plates of bread and cheeses before sitting down together. Talk was kept small and hushed between the two of you while discussing various scriptures and chores needed to be done.

“I heard the new priest is arriving this morning,” Sister Hilda suddenly whispered under her breath, my eyes flickering up to meet her gaze upon the sudden topic of a conversation that could be considered borderline gossip and would serve much to the dismay of any superiors if anyone would overhear the two white-robed and veiled young women conversing over such a topic.

Instead of scolding Sister Hilda once your gazes met, you proved your nature of still wearing the white fabrics rather than blacks by leaning in as well about an inch or so, quickly looking around to see if anyone was lingering nearby to eavesdrop before responding to her.

“Is that so?” Your eyebrow cocked up in surprise. There had been talks of a new priest that had recently left from an abbey outside of London, and was continuing his preach of faith now here with us at our nunnery as our current priest was, well, he was old, “have you…?”

“Within the hour, I heard,” Sister Hilda’s eyes lit up with excitement, proving her own nature as she still struggled with her own inner turmoil with such activities. You found the vow of celibacy at first to be something that you wouldn’t have to think twice about while you devoted yourself, but as time went on, you found yourself seeking repentance and trying to pray away the gnawing feeling you felt bubbling within sometimes that made you doubt your own worth in the eyes of the faith.

You nodded once, acknowledging her words carefully with a playful side smirk. Though gossip was highly discouraged, word still had many opportunities to be carried by the wind throughout the dormitories of your convent.

“Il suo nome?” Your voice dropped down low once more after a few moments, switching from English to Italian just to be safe when you asked Hilda ‘his name?’, but she only shrugged in response, unsure of the answer either.

After breakfast, like usual, you found yourself in the library as you were one of the few sisters who, thanks to your upbringing in a decently noble family, had been taught Latin. You often found means of completing your daily chores by aiding in the translation of Holy passages and texts.

Today, you had been handed a scripture to be translated by an older nun who always wore a signature grouch, so there wasn’t much to be said when you were given the dusty book made of animal skin and thick, waxy lacing that secured the spine.

A relic of the sort lost to at least 300 years, resurfaced once more only to become your problem to deal with when you immediately find yourself scowling under your veil at the faded ink on the ancient pages. God help me. You stood up and found yourself a dictionary in Latin just in case whoever wrote that damn pitiful book didn’t know what they were saying, much to the older nun’s dismay but you didn’t care as you sat back down.

Dipping your feather quill into a jar of black ink, you began your day’s work of translating the pages that were practically wanting to fall apart as you delicately turned over each one.

It possibly would have felt odd for another white-veiled sister like yourself to have been tasked with translating such an eerie text of those who wore multiple, yet all beautiful faces and how to ward them off, but like it was just another day, it was just another book of Latin words that you were tasked to translate into fresh ink of English literature between your obligatory meetings for daily prayers and masses with the others, and you’ve read worse.

Your legs were itching to stand after sitting down for an extended period of time, nearly a static-like burn radiating deep as you leaned back in your chair from your upright posture, slouching your shoulder forward for a grace moment with an exhale before standing upright once more properly in case the Abbess, Mother Esther, walked by.

Afternoon sunlight beams shone through a nearby window that you now stood in front of trying to warm yourself up from the cooler temperature of the library, your muscles easing against the windowsill as your wrists and fingers had ached for a little while as well.

Being on the 2nd floor of the building meant having a lovely view of the convent’s architectural layout and the courtyard within the open holdfast of about an acre or so. A few young black locust trees littered the acre, creating enjoyable spots for shaded rest you occasionally found yourself under, almost smiling to yourself when thinking about better times than translating 300+ year old scriptures from Latin to English about an ill-satiable apparition—it’s biblical name, Agneo, one who shapeshifts and requires to feeds from the sins of its prey. A book of complete lunacy that was a blessing in disguise as it gave you something to do.

However, the momentary bliss of recounting suddenly soured once you realized you were about to miss the 4th prayer service mass of the day when you looked down from the window and saw a huddle of those remaining outside waiting to file along inside in orderly fashion across the courtyard of your convent.

It was no use to try to rush out and attempt to make it, so you hesitantly let out a tense sigh and leaned against the window still, your eyes moving to ground below until you saw mainly atop skulls of Mother Esther dressed in her finest– and in tow, a man that nearly made your lips part upon the sight of his features after the involuntary oath of celibacy you took on.

Broad shouldered, his face even from above was sharp-featured, and hair blond as could be neatly combed across his hair. He is the most beautiful man you have ever laid your wretched eyes on, and the sight made your legs press together as you watched the two of them below you.

Once seeing him, you were desperate to see Sister Hilda to willingly break your vows of what your new lifestyle meant to share the gossip of sin, to gossip silly words that meant plenty well beneath the surface that meant for yourself at least to have plenty of reason to seek confession and repentance from His mercy in the foreseeable future.

During your brief moment of pure sin, or what sin at least means to you at the time, you let out a small gasp and moved away from the glass realizing the neat head of hair was slowly tilting upwards in an almost premeditated manner, and from the 2nd floor, his ice blue eyes burned hot dagger like the gates of hell straight into your soul for the second that you held his sudden eye contact.

As if he knew you were standing there above him and Mother Esther, as if he knew you had been leaning against the edge of the windowsill with your legs crossed and your thighs pressed together at the perfect angle while you watched them when you were supposed to be in the 4th prayer service.

Your heart was pounding in a mixture of adrenaline, anticipation, and … excitement. A certain feeling you haven’t felt since before being sent here. Desire.

Despite shifting away from your original stance next to the window, your vision couldn’t move away any further out of sight from him as the two of you kept your eyes locked.

Within that brief moment that felt like eternity and despite the temptation that threatened to fester within your neglected core now reigniting, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up as your instincts inside your mind began screaming ‘flight’ but your feet were cemented in place while looking down into his cold, dead eyes.

Behind the decrepit Mother Esther’s back, the new priest held his eye contact with you with a stone-like expression of almost disgust until the corners of his lips tugged and curled upright into a smirk. One side of his lips tugged higher than the other side and it made your blood run cold despite the heat pooling between your legs.

You exhaled once his head turned to meet Mother Esther’s as she turned back around to him to point out the library, and the two of them continued on and you were finally able to move from the frozen stance you held.

You had managed to avoid the new priest, his name quickly learned by you through Sister Hilda to be Father Aegon—until you found yourself kneeling before him at the altar rails while he wore the same disgustedly amused expression while placing the communion bread into your cupped palms sitting upright.

“Amen,” you murmured softly, placing the wafer into your mouth as he extended his other hand and brought the cup of wine in front of you as you swallowed thickly.

“The blood of Christ, shed for you,” Father Aegon nearly purred, the sound of his voice speaking directly to you for the first time was intimidating enough, let alone the manner in which it rolled off of his tongue was enough to catch you off guard and leave you stunned at such a vocal display during a Holy service.

Your lips had parted a few centimeters due to your shock and your bottom lip quivered as you barely choked out another ‘amen’ in response while he pressed the rim of the chalice against the pillowed flesh.

Maybe it was the way he spoke, or the way he wears delivish smirks like he knows he's fluffing up another chicken house with unpreened, unruffled hens who live among cobwebs, or maybe it’s the way you can feel him staring straight down into your soul as you took a sip of the wine while holding eye contact with him up through your eyelashes.

After drinking the same wine since the day you first arrived and you had returned to your seat, you realized on your tongue that the aftertaste of the once bitter representation of the Blood of Christ was now sweet. Too sweet.

The type of sweet that makes the feeling of temptation to yearn for more not sound half bad even though you still found shame while you prayed in your seat until the end of the communion.

You actually managed well to avoid Father Aegon as he settled in and slowly took over hosting more and more masses and prayers over the next fortnight.

No matter the distance between the two of you, an unnerving fear always found you when in his presence and even more so if it was without your knowledge on a passing occasion or he could see you but you couldn’t see him. Since the day he arrived, you felt like you were no longer alone at any moment, always holding your breath to turn a corner like an accidental dance of cat and mouse for no real reason.

You’d be shunned if you dared speak the reason of your maintained distance being temptation, even if you were going such lengths avoiding him to resist such.

Father Aegon’s piercing gaze alone sent chills down your spine, enough to rattle the assembled vertebrae within the confines of your habits just like the one that coursed through you while you browsed the shelves of the library looking for works regarding astronomy to keep you company in the late hours after the Midnight Mass.

You didn’t need to see him to know he was likely stalking nearby, whispering with that strangely enticing demeanor he holds himself up with, and the way his perfectly plump lips were always cocked in some purse of amusement to offset the dark purple, sunken look to his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days, weeks.

Your own eyes had begun to mirror Father Aegon’s sullen look as well during your descent into the madness occurring within your mind when you started to lose sleep because of him sinking his claws into you even in your dreams filled with imagery of sin beyond your comprehension. The more time you spent trying to avoid him, the more he encroached upon every aspect of your life and you hadn’t so much but exchange momentary glances and proper greetings spoken hushed on your part.

After all, anyone would find holding eye contact difficult with one whom they have carnal, perverse dreams about, waking up panting in the middle of the night covered in sweat and an agonizing pool between your legs.

“What could possibly interest you at such an hour, sister?” The voice of the dreaded priest you desperately sought to avoid drew out from behind you, causing your shoulders to roll back into a stiffened posture to play off the chill that threatened to visibly shake you. You closed your eyes for a moment while goosebumps broke out across your skin hidden beneath the white fabrics before quickly reaching up to grasp the book you intended to grab and pulled it close to your chest before turning around to face him.

“Astronomy, Father,” you answered without nearly half a spine, mentally cursing yourself at your inability to hold yourself with dignity when subject to his commanding gaze.

Father Aegon never failed to not wear his smug smirk that seemed to compliment the sullen orbs that were half-lidded in what could only be described as a seductive manner. When you finished answering him and his smirk grew, you didn’t miss his tongue swiping across his pillowy bottom lip— both stained red… and the smell that belonged to that of alcohol.

You swallowed thickly once putting the puzzle pieces in place and your fingers gripped the corners of the book tighter and the edges dug into the creases of your fingers creating a pleasant stinging sensation to help stay grounded.

Father Aegon’s smug half-smirk was still etched on his mouth that sent another chill down your spine when his irises unmistakably fell from holding your gaze down to your own lips with those lazily-hooded blue eyes swirling with emotions beyond your comprehension.

Father Aegon was absolutely terrifying to be around, but although your fear didn’t directly come from him, your own body produces enough cortisol and epinephrine for an entire herd of corralled sheep by just being around him. Afraid of the fact that if he touched you right now, you know you wouldn’t be able to stop. Afraid of the fact that you know he may know how you truly feel deep down by just looking at you with those eyes that appear to be hiding an inferno from within himself.

“Copernicus…” Father Aegon suddenly murmured with a cock of his eyebrow as if he had posed the single word as a question rather than the affirmative tone he used when referencing a Polish astronomer whose works had caught your interest when accessible, “you like him, Sister?”

“He’s an accomplished astronomer and a fine mathematician,” you responded carefully, unsure of the waters of the moment and feeling the bile threatening to rise and expel which prompted you to kindly dismiss yourself wishing to depart to rest for the evening until he suddenly reached out as you turned to walk. His taut grip around your dainty wrist in comparison to his large hand was daunting and was an unexpected rush of surprise-horror when you were practically yanked back where you stood before him.

“Hm,” Father Aegon hummed in amusement, a flash of something eerie glazing over his lazily hooded eyes while his strong grip on your wrist loosened slightly, but not without his calloused thumbpad grazing gently across the delicate skin of the underside of your wrist, “why don’t you come by my office tomorrow evening? I have a piece that would interest you… brought it with me from when I met him briefly at Oxford.”

Your own eyebrow cocked at his words, nearly-half bewildered that a man like him went from such a prestigious place like the Oxford society to… priesthood in Florence where he, in the middle of the night, now was intoxicated and having you cornered like a rat subject to his mercy.

Your eyes flickered down to the tight grip he held on your arm and you dared to pull once more, and much to your surprise he let go. Looking back up at him, he was smirking with a strange sense of triumph as if he could already foresee the internal turmoil you would be rolling in all day tomorrow until you would eventually cave in within yourself to give in and seek him out for the sake of knowledge.

Wasn’t that the sin of Eve? Coaxed by the snake, the devil, to taste the forbidden apple of knowledge?

Father Aegon wouldn’t taste half as sweet as an apple, but a part of you knew deep down that dealing with a man like him comes with knowing the venom from his fanged canines would likely sting twice as bad in the days to come if you did not seek him out.

So like the loyal hound you were, there weren’t many inhibitions that stopped your fingers from clasping the golden ring hanging from a matching golden lion’s head mounted on the wooden door and knocking twice. You knew you had no business being here at this hour. You had stopped by this very office twice today, once before dinner, and again afterwards but left both times with only pursed lips and heightened anxiety. Evening. Evening. Evening.

“Sister…” Father Aegon grinned upon seeing the sweet lamb standing there outside of his door waiting so patiently for him like the good girl that he knew she is even if she couldn’t muster any words to properly greet him. He stepped out of your way with an outstretched palm directed towards an empty chair sitting on the other side of his desk, the open hand gesturing to you to sit, “please, come in.”

Shame and humility fueled the pace that drove your footsteps from the corridor and into his working office in a scurry, the fuel most delectable for sin to fester within and grow necrotic while Father Aegon shut the door behind you. You couldn’t miss the sound of the lock turning over as you focused on your breathing pattern and your fumbling fingertips toying with one another as you sat down and silently pulled your chair in under yourself.

It wasn’t the locking of the door that made your eyes widen, but watching him pick up a golden, jeweled chalice that sat on the edge of his desk with matching rings adorning his thick digits, taking a hearty swig while sauntering behind you and over to a large bookshelf on the left wall that likely carried prized works both owned by the convent and his finest pieces.

You kept your head straight for the most part, only tilting it slightly to be able to keep an eye on him in the corner of your peripheral through the thin white veil head covering, watching his ringed finger reach up to one of the shelves while the other hand held the chalice. The way he moved so freely was almost sensual in a way, his fingertip grazing the spines of the prized collection of knowledge as he searched using the dim orange glow emanating from the roaring hearth that danced as the flames waved.

“Tell me, sweet girl, what is it about the stars that calls to you… draws your attention so?” Father Aegon suddenly broke the silence that only hosted the soft crackling of the embers causing your head to angle slightly more in his direction. You swallowed thickly again, inhaling through your nose while watching his index finger curl around a medium-sized book and gently tug it free from the confines of the neat shelf.

“One can’t help but wonder who they are,” you answered shakily, referring to the stars themselves, the subconscious anxious habit of your fingertips toying with one another going full blast in your lap that had sparked back to life hearing the previous words of endearment he must addressed you with as if he was toying with you too, “what are they… what are they made of?”

Father Aegon nodded slowly with another hum of acknowledgment as he turned on his heel with his chin cockily angled, walking back over to where you sat on the other side of his desk and stepped next to your chair. He held out the book for you to take and you did after a moment of hesitation, taking the book delicately from him as your eyes danced over the intricate stitching and adhesives carefully applied that held the valuable text together.

He stood over you for a moment with one hand on the back of your chair, the other bringing the rim to his lips for another swig before he let go, much to your approval as you let out an exhale you didn’t realize you were holding, and stepped away to sit down in his own chair on the other side of the desk while you admired and he purred out, “the book… Copernicus’ heliocentric theories. One of the first copies given to me from Nicolaus himself. I’ll let you borrow it for the evening...”

You couldn’t hide the spark of interest that illuminated behind your eyes at the topic that you had been wishing to learn more about as the theories were still considered recent developments. A small smile crept onto your face but you quickly pursed your lips together to swallow your pride and triumph– something that didn’t pass by Aegon, but the suggestive tone towards the end of his final words didn’t pass by you either.

“Thank you Father,” you murmured softly, your thumbs grazing over the pressed letters of the title embossed and sealed by gold leaflets, “you are very gracious.”

Father Aegon only chuckled darkly, something you hadn’t heard yet until now and it was scarier to experience first hand than his empty, soul-piercing glare.

He took another sip of his wine before setting the chalice down on the desktop and leaning forward on his forearms with intertwined fingers and an unmistakable gleam in his wicked eyes, “I’ll tell you what Sister. I have heard nothing but good remarks regarding your performance… I’ll let you have it if you promise to take good care of it.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and your forehead scrunched in confusion, lips parting in shock but quickly stammering out a response to his words while gently placing the book down on the desk with a forced smile. A part of joining sisterhood was an oath of poverty despite your aversion to the lifestyle but your conditioning was taking over your frazzled mindset, and a book of that value had no business being in your possession good marks or not.

“Father I-I apologize, I can’t accept such a gift, you honor me but-I,” your tongue and lips failed to coordinate without an exasperated stutter while your brain misfired, only making Father Aegon’s lips curl further upwards in a devious smile.

“Call it a favor then,” Father Aegon replied with a low purr, his half-lidded eyes missing any trace of the blue pigment against the orange hue of the fire and the darkness of the world as he stood up, slowly stalking back around to where he stood behind your chair again.

“A…favor?” Your eyebrows dropped from the cocked expression of shock into one of weary alert as you tried to read him as best as you could, holding eye contact with him until he eventually always won with the inferno that reflected in his black holes for dilated irises while he walked to your most vulnerable side.

“A favor,” Father Aegon sluggishly murmured in response, his teeth baring in his amused grin when you flinched feeling the topside of his knuckle reach up from behind you and brush against your cheek.

Your eyelids fluttered under his delicate brushing touch against your cheek, unable to comprehend a single thought in regard to how to react to such inappropriate behavior and gestures being exchanged, but after involuntary celibacy and conditioned shame, it only drove you further mad for the touch of a skilled lover.

It wasn’t until his index finger pressed against the underside of your chin to lift your head up and his thumb curling up to press against your bottom lip that you were violently dragged back to reality. Looking up at him while clutching the book against your chest, he smiled deviously as if he was a child with free reign in a candy shop.

He stepped in front of you to enter the small space available between you sitting in the chair and his desk, leaning against the edge as he twisted and reached back to grab the chalice he’d left behind, turning back to you. Your heart pounded in your chest watching him extend his hand, guiding the rim to your lips and raising the cup for gravity to let the rich, deep red juice funnel into your mouth.

Eyes widening, you realized he wasn’t relenting until you finished off the remnants of the chalice and having to swallow in faster lapses than expected to keep up with his antics causing you to choke softly.

You pursed your lips shut tightly with a bemused expression on your face between his actions and the sweet red wine, unable to save the small bead that gathered and trickled down from your lip to your chin, but Aegon was there to spare your white habits from any stains with a brush of his thumb collecting the alcoholic nectar and bringing it to his own lips to suck clean off.

“Tell me… why are you really here?” Father Aegon slurred out between tipsy snickers after releasing his thumb with a sickly sweet suckle like he knew exactly the effect he had on you and the reactions you were willing to give back with a little shove.

“My parents wished not for scandal,” you blurted out, almost like not caring how sloppy you spoke for the sake of your own honorable presentation.

“So, you liked to get around. You liked to have fun… you were a whore?” Father Aegon’s grin was wicked and curled up with a sense of malice as he gently caressed your cheek while you shared details about yourself to him. You knew he found some sort of satisfaction with your words by the way his teeth clenched like he was thinking hard through the intoxicated haze of his own mind.

“Um-,” your eyebrows furrowed again, a streak of anger shooting through you causing you to flinch again away from his hand, pulling out of his grasp on your chin as you stood up, holding out the book for him to take back, “I apologize Father this is highly inappropriate. I should go.”

Your abrupt reaction to his words seemed to replace the playful gleam in his eyes with one that teetered on the edge of malice and danger, one that made your blood run cold and panic flare through you when he dropped the golden chalice, grabbing the book with one hand and your wrist with the other, yanking you back down to sit again.

“We are not done talking, Sister,” Father Aegon snarled out, a sinister gleam in his eyes while he stood up straight and took the book fully from you to place down on the desk, turning back to you and letting go of your wrist only to take a hold of your chin once more, “I haven’t given you permission to dismiss yourself.”

“I-I am sorry, Father,” you sputtered out, unsure of how to respond to him and his firm, calculated grip that always reminded you he was one step ahead at any given point. Aegon only hummed in amusement, his moist tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip as he turned your head in his grip from side to side, studying the details of your face against the orange glow from the inferno of the fireplace.

“Let me see you show it…Prove it,” Father Aegon’s eyes lit up in deranged excitement while yours glossed over in confused horror, sitting frozen in shock while he kept his grip on your chin with one hand, the other reaching up seemly to lovingly caress your cheek only to fist a palm full of your white veil, forcefully undressing your dreadful headdress and revealing one of your secrets you hid from your other Sisters. Instead of cutting your hair short like the rest, you kept yours braided and secured beneath your headdress, the same one Aegon pulled off without hesitation that made your jaw drop in disbelief.

“I don’t understa-,” you cried out in a sudden frustration, angered that he was abusing the power dynamic he knew he held, then still having enough fuel inside him when daring to lay a hand on you in such an inappropriate manner and revealing your hair.

If your Sisters found out you hid your hair, you could suffer greatly socially, and Aegon just paved his way straight over without any second thoughts. Your words though were cut off when his fingers clutched your braids and yanked you back to your feet.

“Understand this, doll. I see the way you look at me, how you scurry away from me like a mouse, there’s nowhere you can hide from me,” Father Aegon taunted, his dilated pupils laced with delirium and sin as he maniacally giggled, “I know everything.”

Any protests or shrill shrieks that could have escaped your mouth would be forced to be made straight into Father Aegon’s mouth that nearly swallowed your face whole when his lips came colliding down on yours in a pre-established sloppy, yet demanding kiss.

You wished to want the will to release a frightful scream against his lips, to cry out in disgust, to thrash around violently in his concrete hold on you while he forced his tongue into your mouth after letting go of your chin and dropping down to your hip.

His grip quickly moved from squeezing your hip around to your backside, grabbing a fistful of your buttock and his other hand still holding and tugging on your hair to elicit a gasp while your palms were outstretched when pressing back against his firm chest, but you did none of those things as your mind began buzzing softly, signaling the beginning the swirling descent into a tipsy haze from the amount of alcohol he had you consume in one sitting.

In fact, you did the opposite once the taste of him resonated with you when you found yourself sucking back on his tongue instead of screaming and crying about your dignity, your outstretched palms bundling up the fabric of his neat, black collar between your fingers like a deserted whore needy for more. Because that’s exactly what you felt like, and the realization made you sick when you suddenly were spun around in his groping embrace to be lifted onto the desktop.

Father Aegon wasted no time shoving his knee between your legs and parting them to situate himself between your legs without breaking the heated exchange between your lips that caused soft groans to escape from the both of you.

His hand that held your buttock again wasted no time reaching under your skirts, hiking the fabric up while he held your whimpering skull in place by your hair as he kissed down your jawline, panting heavily in your ear when he traced up your inner thigh.

He smiled wickedly against the shell of your ear while you managed to let out a stifled moan feeling his fingertips slither their way past your small clothes dampened by your arousal, massaging agonizingly slow circles against your clothed clit, sending ripples of electricity through your body.

“For someone who took a vow of chastity, your cunt weeps like a virgin,” Father Aegon nibbled softly on your earlobe while your face contorted in pent-up pleasure and your mind swirled. In truth, you hadn’t truly consumed that much alcohol, but the effect he had on your mind caused the effect to feel 10-fold from the scent of his musk and the wine on his lips and tongue assaulting all of your senses out of nowhere.

Your fingers clutching onto his black button up gripped on for dear life feeling his fingers begin to variate their course from rubbing circles to teasing your slit before dropping down, his middle finger breaching fully past your entrance coaxing a shrill gasp from your throat that his lips were licking and placing open-mouthed kissing down. One of your hands jumped from his shirt to his bicep, wincing from the sudden scissoring penetration as he got to work establishing a pace.

“Fuck, your pussy is so tight,” Aegon murmured quietly through a groan against your skin, your entrance clamping down almost painfully around the 2nd digit he teased your tight hole with for a moment before adding it in, his middle and ring finger moving in and out of you in overwhelming patterns that made you look at the back of your skull doubled with the feeling of his free hand suddenly groping your breast through your robes, pinching and rolling your clothed nipple between his fingertips, “this pussy ever been fucked?”

Your eyes rolled back straight and snapped wide open at the vulgarity of his words, your lips parted nearly in sheer shock that those words could all even be used together in a sentence, but your body was still betraying you as you ground your hips against his hand that was fucking you mercilessly. How this man became a priest was beyond you at this point, barely choking out a ‘yes’, his gaze darkening as if that wasn’t what he wanted to hear and he let go of your breast, reaching up behind the nape of your neck again.

Aegon’s hand found a hold your braided hair and twisted once more, a pained cry leaving your lips and your eyes screwing shut in another wince while his own lips were curled upwards and his eyes bright with a sinister intent, his other hand still pumping his two fingers in and out and you panted with a heaving chest.

“My name, sweet girl, say it right,” Aegon purred with an underlying, dangerous tone of voice that hid the true intentions that he was only giving you one chance to say it right despite multiple answers being applicable to stroke his ego while his fingers repetitively curling a ‘come hither’ motion within you.

“Yes sir,” you finally cried out, your spine arching as the coil deep within you threatened to build up. As if Aegon could read you like the back of his hand, he let go of your hair and reached around you as he swiped everything, including the prized book, clear from off of his desk.

He withdrew his fingers from your weeping cunt much to your dismay, only to be rendered speechless when he used both of his hands to grab and move you by your hips to the side of the desk, using one to shove your back down to lay on the surface and the other to hastily hiked up the skirt of your habits as his head dipped down, his lips kissing and his teeth nipping up your inner thighs.

You prayed that nobody was walking by Father Aegon’s office as they’d receive earfuls of lewd cries that fumbled from your throat in wails after he practically dove headfirst, your legs on his shoulders and his hands holding you in place by your thighs as his lips and tongue got to work swirling and sucking on your clit.

His platinum silver curls that were neatly parted down the middle, combed and slicked back behind his ears was disheveled within seconds as you reached down and carded through his hair, crying out in pleasure and awe at his ability to seem like he already knew every inch of you by heart.

“O-Oh my,” you squeaked out, your jaw agape as you tried to grind your hips against his face as he groaned delicious vibrations against your core, his tongue in place of his fingers greedily drawing your essence from your walls in filthy slurps that had you sobbing praises in a pleading mantra as you writhed in place.

“That’s it, good girl,” Aegon praised between quiet growls, kitten-licking your tented and overstimulated bud leaving you whining and yearning for more. The coil had begun to wind up tightly in your lower belly creating a burning sensation that threatened to snap like a taut rubber band.

“I’m gonna’ come,” you cried out softly and he chuckled darkly, nipping your sensitive flesh before suckling harshly that elicited a sharp yelp from your throat that quickly morphed into a wail of surprise as you flew headfirst into your first orgasm in almost a year. Aegon feasted and slurped every drop that expelled from your contracting cunt like a starved man, groaning in delight when your evidence of ecstasy from his touch spilled from your aching core and into his greedy mouth that caused your toes to curl painfully.

Father Aegon quickly stood up, not bothering to wipe his fingers and chin that were still glistening with the residue of your orgasm causing a deep blush to form on your flushed cheeks as you slowly came back to reality from the sound of his belt unbuckling.

Aegon hastily reached into his pants and pulled his throbbing cock free from the confines of his black dress trousers, watching his beautifully plump lips parting when he slapped the angrily flushed head against your weeping cunt a few times. His vile actions were so bewildering you were rendered speechless once more, unable to formulate words when looking up at him with bleary eyes as he fondled your cunt for a few seconds, gathering your slick and smearing it across his tip and down his thick shaft waiting impatiently to fuck you in half.

“This is wrong. I-We shouldn’t do this. I don’t want this. God for-,” you managed to blurt out in soft whimpers, lying to yourself to try to hold onto the last shred of dignity you had while shaking your head only earning a sadistic smile in response from Father Aegon as he cut you off.

“You don’t want this? You weren’t the same girl watching me, pressing her thighs together as she hid in the library? Stupid girl, you’re so desperate and touch-starved, I could smell your cunt from outside. Your False God isn’t here. He can’t save you,” Aegon cooed softly, shutting you up immediately. Despite his cruel words, his tone of voice was almost sweet if his hand wasn’t guiding the head of his cock back to your entrance and you braced yourself with a shrill gasp while he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours while he giggled maniacally under his breath sending chills of fear down your spine.

Father Aegon whispered in a taunting sneer as he continued to threaten you in a gravelly voice under his breath, the stench of wine still lingering on his tongue mixed with your release, “oh, pretty girl, the only God here is me,” and with that, he pistoned his hips forward.

A sharp hissing cry fell from your lips feeling the tip of his cock parting your neglected walls, splitting you from the inside out as your jaw hung agape and his eyes were wide– almost deliriously so as his own jaw hung agape too as if he was breathing out the energy of the cries carried out by your exhales. Like his hand, his hips made work establishing a steady pace as he fucked you open for him, drawing raw shrieks from your diaphram that forced him to clamp his hand down over your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon snarled against the back of his hand as your eyes rolled back, his lips kissing the corner of your parted lips when he finally let go of your mouth after the initial burn within your core dissolved and your sobs died down. His plump lips continued to kiss down your jaw, suckling and nibbling up and down your neck as you moaned and cried out shamelessly.

His words were absolutely vile and defiling and he knew it only spurred your innocent heart further, his hand that was pressed against your mouth dropping back down to grope your breast as he fucked you deeply, “God your cunt was made for my cock. Fuck it’s so fuckin’ tight– you like it when I talk to you like that? You like being fucked like some needy slut? ‘Course you do. What would your Sisters think if they found out what their whore pupil was doing in here?”

“I can’t, I can’t,” you suddenly started blabbering out in response despite your own legs hiking up around his hips to draw him in closer, your hands reaching up and gripping onto whatever you could while you rocked back and forth to his merciless motions.

“Yes you can,” Aegon panted breathlessly against your skin, his tongue swiping across your collarbone as he grunted over and over in his own world of desire, the lewd sound of skin slapping and your cunt squelching was foul in harmony with the considerably romantic blazing of the fireplace while he kissed his way back up your neck and caught your lips in another fiery, sloppy kiss between grunts and moans and cries of pleasure.

He murmured against your lips and his free hand not holding you down against the desktop in place by your breast being kneaded between his fingers, reaching between the two of you with his other hand and rubbing furious circles on your overstimulated clit, “say my fuckin’ name. give it all to me.”

“Aeg- I’m,” you cried out against his lips trying to obey his command to use his name while feeling the coil quickly wind tight once more as he effortlessly fucked you apart. As you came, stars littered your blacked out vision as you trembled and writhed, your spine arching pathetically trying to gather as much friction as possible while you shook in pleasure. Aegon moaned lowly feeling your walls contract and squeeze his cock as he continued without stopping, fucking you straight through the waves of ecstasy that left you feeling as though you had to piss everywhere.

You could not have cared any less about any repercussions of your undoing with this man tonight— until he pulled out, flipped you around and bent you over the desk, plunging back inside of your cunt from a new angle causing a mewl to rip through you.

But as Aegon was turning you around, you suddenly looked behind Father Aegon for the first time and took in the image that could have fueled your nightmares for the rest of eternity. His shadow against the flames of the hearth’s inferno illuminated the two of you with shadows, except two massive wings stood above Aegon shadow as you mewled out incomprehensible words of confusion through the haze of pleasure that wracked your mind.

“Aegon,” your voice cracked, your eyes flickering to a mirror hanging on the wall dead ahead of the two of you, finally seeing Father Aegon for who he was finally through another lense and the sight alone made a scream of fear tear through you, but once more his hand came clasping down on your mouth and another sharp cursed reprimand dripping in poison was hurled at you from behind. The reflection of the man that had you bent over like a plaything, pistoning his thick cock roughly in and out of your aching cunt in the reflection of the mirror was unlike any creature you’d ever laid eyes on before.

In the reflection, while your face was streaked with tears and flushed in terror, his face looked nothing like what you saw with your own eyes, his reflection having beady black eyes, almost paper white skin, teeth long and sharp like fanged razors and his hands with long, clawed digits. You couldn’t miss the tall, pointed and curly black horns and the almost impressive black feathered wings that slowly rose and outstretched in the air after you said his name.

You couldn’t pull your eyes from the mirror even after he said your name, his hand eventually let go of your mouth and roughly grabbed your jaw, holding your head steady. Tears flowed hot from your eyes as you tried to thrash in his hold but it was no use as he chuckled wickedly above you, his pupils blown wide but it was no comparison to the dark, gaping holes you saw in the reflection of the mirror.

Father Aegon was no Father, no priest at all, learning within seconds that life was in fact cruel like that. Was there truly a God now realizing you had the entire situation practically spelt out for you when you translated that ancient scripture in the library, but you were too naive to realize the foreshadowing. The name of the shapeshifting apparatus isnt Agneo. It’s fucking Aegon.

This revelation truly meant only one thing: Aegon was a demon, and you, by saying his name, sealed off the deal and selling him your soul, his hand angling your chin up and to the side to press his lips down on yours, his tongue working your mouth apart once more, grunting against your lips when his pace faltered.

You felt your womb grow heavy while he panted and mewled, his wretched seed spurting from the head of his cock as his hips twitched between stilled moments, painting your walls as he moaned into the crook of your neck. You thought it’d be the end of the night, your mind too frazzled to even comprehend what to do next as your blurry eyes cracked open from being scrunched shut.

But Aegon’s nightmarish reflection remained the same, his smile sinister and evil as his snakelike sharp, black tongue trailed up the side of your cheek as his hand kept its tight grip on your chin to hold you steady while he collected your salty tears.

“Aegon…Please don’t hurt me,” you whispered pathetically, trying to claw at his taloned grip on your face and it almost struck a chord within his despicable body as he chuckled darkly, placing a soft kiss on your trembling cheek.

“I think it’s too late for that, sweet girl,” Aegon purred softly, your doe eyes wide with horror watching in the reflection of his other hand reaching up, his clawed talon delicately moving a stray lock of hair from your face. He actually admired you, pleading through tears and drool and all, but the moment had to end at some point as his clawed hand caressed your temple and he murmured softly against the apple of your cheek.

“Just know this though, so far, I think you were my favorite,” Aegon kissed your pillowed flesh for the last time after vocalizing his odd apology that almost felt genuinely sentimental before his talons dug into your chin and your temple to hold you steady as you cried out in protest, then silenced for eternity after his wrists rolled and snapped your neck.

His deflating cock was still buried to the hilt within you as you dropped lifelessly against the desk, and the demon removed himself from his latest victim with a triumphant smile. He hastily readjusted himself and your skirt to cover your modesty, not that you were alive anyway to care, as he sat back down in his seat.

Father Aegon kicked up and crossed his legs on the desk while pouring himself another chalice of wine, continuing to admire your lifeless expression of shock while your pupils slowly dilated, and the blood that slowly dribbled out of your nostrils and out from your lips onto the desk, dripping down onto the floor while your lost soul descended to the pits of Hell with that same sinister smirk he wore the first time he laid his eyes on you.

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