#Novice Path

[sovlstr]

✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐋𝐋 ✦

• An interactive fanfict storyline where YOU, y/n, will choose what you will do next in the World of Ciren City.

[You x Don Walker Calloway]

|| All characters/world credited to @zesketches . All paths align loosely to stated/inferred canon. This is a route for Don Walker Calloway, heavily inspired by the Stress Relief comic, not entirely canon to the Agents and Kings storyline. Please support the artist/creator by visiting them and reading their webtoon here.

|| INTRODUCTION. ||

⸻

You weren’t supposed to end up here.

Not in this city, in this concrete sprawl of velvet crime and gold- toothed devils. Not working clubs where every stage creaked under the weight of eyes hungry for something they can’t name. Brushing against monsters in silk suits, whose smiles don’t always reach their eyes.

But you did. And here you are.

A blind performer. The dancer who sees with your hands, your feet, your skin. You don’t need eyes to read a room when you feel it. The resounding tension. The way the pulsing music hummed through your bones. The way footsteps echo’d and voices hushed when someone dangerous walked into the room.

The way he feels whenever he watches you.

Don Walker Calloway.

They say he’s the king of Ciren’s underworld. Old money. New blood. A gentleman with a temper like a lit fuse. You’ve heard the whispers. Felt them wrap around your arched spine when he enters the room.

He never speaks when you perform. Never claps.

But he always stays.

Because there’s something different about the way he sees you. Not as a showpiece. Not as a weakness. As a puzzle.

When you pass by his corner booth and your skin prickles with something like fear- curiosity.

⸻

|| WHO ARE YOU. ||

You’re you- really, whoever you want to be. Just doing it with the hand your given.

You’re a performer. A dancer. A siren in silk and satin. You live by rhythm, texture, and instinct. You read the world through fingertips, footsteps, scents, and sound. You laugh when you’re nervous. You taste things you shouldn’t. You feel everything.

A person with a past you keep wrapped like the bandages lining your wrists and calves. Blind from birth- or was it something else? An accident? A punishment? All the city knows is that when you move, you own the room. And when you speak, even the monsters listen.

You don’t beg for safety. You earn it.

⸻

|| THE RULES OF THE STORY. ||

Choices will be offered. You’ll pick what you do next.

Some choices lead to trust.

Some lead to danger.

Some lead to love.

Eventually, you may become his.

But be warned. Dons don’t fall easily. And when they do, they don’t fall gently.

⸻

|| YOUR STORY BEGINS. ||

Ciren City isn’t kind to soft things.

Not that you’re soft.

You learned long ago that being blind didn’t mean being helpless. It just meant listening harder. Feeling deeper. Moving smarter.

And you move beautifully.

People talk about you like a rumor-

“… Hands like poetry,”

“Don’t make the mistake of guiding them- they’ll guide you.”

“Dances like they got ghosts in their skin.”

They call you the blind starlet, the velvet flame, the one with eyes in her hands. But you don’t need their names. You live in rhythm, in breath, in the shape of music and air against your skin. You perform in lounges and backrooms and velvet clubs tucked beneath the ribs of the city. Some nights, your audience is made of aching hearts and strangers with whiskey on their breath. Other nights, the crowd feels too quiet. Too controlled. Like it’s watching you closely. Measuring.

You feel him before you ever meet him. That recognizably large overbearing presence in the darkened corner. Still, but warm. Eyes like heat. Hands that haven’t touched you, but you swear you could trace them anyway.

A man who never applauds.

A man who always returns.

You’re backstage when you take your leave just after midnight. The thick black makeup clings to your lashes. Your robe is too warm. The manager’s yelling about broken sound wires but you’ve already slipped out of the side door.

You need air.

The city greets you like it always does- humid, gritty, alive. A thousand heartbeats layered over one another. And somewhere in the mess of neon and footsteps and static jazz, you can make out a car engine idle. Smooth. Rich.

Maybe you know it’s him. You don’t need eyes to know as you feel it. His warm voice calls your name. Not harsh. Not commanding. Simple patience with the softness of his words.

“Can I take you somewhere safe?”

He never rushes you.

But he never asks twice, either.

⸻

✦ FIRST CHOICE ✦

Your first real decision. What kind of story is this going to be?

OPTION A- Get in.

You don’t know what you’re walking into, but you’ve danced at the edge of danger long enough to crave the leap. Perhaps it’s time to see what’s behind the voice.

OPTION B- Refuse.

Safety in Ciren City usually comes with a price. And you’re not ready to pay it- not yet. You’ll find your own way back.

OPTION C- Negotiate.

You’re not a doll to be scooped up and stashed away. If he wants your company, he can earn it. Ask him what he wants- and why.

[blowjob-horseguy]

There are sooo many "beginner witch tips" that are just telling people what they think specific herbs do and what to research and not nearly enough "here's how to avoid joining a spiritual cult" or "recognizing white supremacist in pagan circles" or even "spot the difference between someone genuine who wants to spread resources with the community and a bitch who just wants your money"

Like, the novices don't need the 500th video about putting Rosemary and salt on your window sill, they need someone to teach them how to recognize when they're being groomed to join a mass delusion

Practical witch shit is hard to find :/

[realcube]

— GOONER! FANBOY! KENMA

tws & tags ;; headcanons into short fic. nsfw mdni smut. cybersex. sex work. objectification. vibrators + self pleasure. nipple play. squirting.

GOONER! FANBOY! KENMA who has been watching your content since before you had one hundred followers.

FANBOY! KENMA who, despite being a massive streamer himself, lurks silently in your chat and enjoys your cute commentary and novice gameplay without saying a word. he knows that if he invited you to one of his own streams, your viewer count would likely increase exponentially, but he can't quite pluck up the courage to ask you. (and a part of him enjoys keeping you as his precious little secret gem)

FANBOY! KENMA tunes in to every single one of your lives. he'll drop whatever it is that he's doing to hear that dulcet voice, and see you awkwardly prattle on and charm your small audience with your eagerness to please.

FANBOY! KENMA whose heart would skip a beat when you notice him among your small pool of regular viewers, "hi, kudzuken! uh, i hope i'm saying that right. thanks for joining." you'd say into the camera accompanied by the most endearing smile. he'd then promptly donate $10 to your live-stream as a thank you for the jerk material.

FANBOY! KENMA is repulsed when he looks at your chat to see it overrun by trolls, spammers and perverts due to your lack of a moderation team. a bunch of weirdos online sending inappropriate comments on your body and seemingly innocuous statements that somehow read as creepy. ('love ur smile, babygirl..' 'keep sitting just like that!!!') and kenma can't helped but be disgusted, and partially because he knows he's just as perverted as these other internet trolls. his stare is also often stuck to your tits in those low-cut tops, or the inviting glossiness of your cute lips. he could get lost in those sweet innocent eyes for hours, imagining giving you a tight hug and feeling those soft tits pressed against his chest — just the thought alone was enough to cause a tent in his pants. but at least he had the decency not to type out all those lewd fantasies and post them to a public domain. that had to count for something, right?

FANBOY! KENMA who is disappointed but not surprised when you quit your online gamer gig to pursue a different type of live-streaming. your views were never great and hardly improving, and any subscribers you did have made it exceedingly clear they were only watching for your pretty face or hot body. so kenma couldn't blame you for trying to capitalise on your strengths and explore a career path you may be more suited for — in fact, it was a smart business move.

FANBOY! KENMA who was distraught, but still not surprised, when your camgirl account took off immediately and you gained over ten thousand subs in less than a week of creation, and the numbers were only growing steadily from there. every time he checked and saw your subscriber count had gone up, a small piece of him died. he realised it was parasocial and fucked up to be so upset by you, a content creator, receiving the attention of others, but truthfully, he missed when you were just his little secret.

FANBOY! KENMA figures that even though you were popular now, at least you were doing something that was (shamefully) far more appealing to him. he wasn't able to sleep for days before your first scheduled livestream in your new niche. no matter how hard he tried or how many melotonin gummies he ate, he just couldn't. he was too excited. and rightfully so.

FANBOY! KENMA who almost passes out twenty mintues into the stream. he was, of course, one of the first people to join, and the five or so minutes where you just sat there fully clothed and idled while saying, "i'm just gonna wait for some more people to join before i start.." was about the longest five minutes of his entire life. but the pay-off was worth it. he was hard and stroking it before the show even began, and had his first orgasm when you took your bra off to reveal your pebbled nipples. (but he's proud he lasted that long because he was about to nut as soon as you took your top off). his second and third orgasm came when you started fingering yourself on your gaming chair. he feels blessed to be able to behold your sopping pussy that he's been dying to see for who-knows long. it was more gorgeous than he could've ever imagined. in fact, every single part of your delicious body exceeded his expectations — and trust, his expectations were not low. you were nothing short of a idol in his eyes; a beautiful, cock-riding idol.

FANBOY! KENMA who, regardless of how famous you were, will always be your number one fan. he blabbers to himself about how sexy you are as he cums, he watches all your videos and live-streams and donates crazy amounts of money just to see that vibrator stuffed in your snug pussy go that little bit faster.

FANBOY! KENMA who is an og and can always tell when you are fabricating or 'faking' your reactions. he can identify easily when your clit isn't actually as 'sensitive' as you make it out to be for the camera and he most definitely knows when you fake an orgasm. but he can't really blame you. you've been fingering that desperate little pussy for ages chasing your high but you can't quite reach it and your subs are getting restless, so you just need to cave and give them what they want to see. it's business, and kenma gets that. but he swears to himself that one day you won't need to rely on your weak fingers or some shitty dildo, because he'll make you finish so good and so hard around his own cock.

FANBOY! KENMA that will subscribe and pay for whatever vapid, cashgrab content you release. low-quality nudey pics taken in your bathroom mirror? sold for $20. a blurry photo of you dressed as a slutty bunny on halloween? sold for $40. an upskirt you took when you couldn't afford an uber home from a bar? sold for $60. pair of used panties? sold for $100. jar of your bathwater? sold for $400.

FANBOY! KENMA that will always request private shows with you. his income fluctuates depending on how well his stocks perform or the current trends that denote the viewship on his own gaming livesteams. but regardless, he will ensure to put a pretty penny aside so he can offer a deposit for a private show. during which, if you accept, he'll refuse to show his face. he doesn't want you to recognise him as a semi-famous gamer and put a face to his simp account. he won't give you his real name either but it's okay, he gets hard just hearing you coo his username.. ':)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

"kudzuken.." you tilt your head as you read the familiar username, "did i say that right?" you giggle awkwardly, afraid you may have butchered the name of your private stream donator — who offered $500 just for this twenty minute show.

kudzuken: yes

he replies in chat, and you smile. "perfect." you murmur, pushing yourself away from your desk and hopping out of your chair so you could show off your whole outfit (or lack thereof) for the camera. "i'm a bunny! hmm— wait, what noise do rabbits make?" you do a little spin, and kenma, on the other side of screen somewhere, was sitting utterly stunned. your 'costume' consisted of a furry grey bikini top, some floppy bunny ears on your head and to complete the look, a cute little pompon rabbit tail. and kenma quickly noted that you weren't wearing any panties, so it was almost a mystery how this tail accessory stayed put over your perky ass.

"i decided to dress as one because you said in my comments once that you liked the pic of me in my bunny costume for halloween." you mused, clasping your hands together as you sat back down in your oversized gaming chair. "so, i thought you'd appreciate this."

kudzuken: i do

you actually read his comments and pay attention to them? was this real life or was he having some kind of hyper-realistic wet dream?

you looked like a fantasy, all cute and exposed for him on his monitor — and just for him. your pussy on full display for him. idly fondling your own tits and palming at your cunt lewdly as a performance dedicated to him. albeit, you do show it to other men as well, but not right now. currently, it was only the two of you, and he felt connected to your bare body on a sexual and interpersonal level. the way your eyes bore into his through the monitor and your glistening cunt basically screamed his name. but he craved more. hence, he stroked his free erection while typing out his messages with his other hand.

kudzuken: take the top off

you pout at message, still teasing him by pushing your boobs together as you purr, "you know the rules, silly~ it's an extra fifty for any clothing remo--." and within an instant of the words exiting your mouth, your donation chime went off.

kudzuken donated $100 with the message: get rid of the tail too

you smile appreciatively at the money, and hum, "thank you.. but i thought the tail was quite cute." you giggle, making a playful jab at his eagerness to rid you of your little pompom tail which you thought completed your costume. little did you know, kenma loved the tail too, but he was even more desperate to see how you kept it on.

as promised, you unclasp your bra and make a show out of the release of your tits: pinching your nipples and rubbing them for the camera. you'd even feign a couple of light moans just for him — although, kenma could always tell when you were acting, but he appreciated the effort.

next was the tail. turned over and with your chest pressed against the back of your chair, you spread your ass to reveal the plug that jammed nicely inside your puckered hole, attached to a small rod that held the fuzzy tail. kenma was in awe as he watched you fidget with the plug cautiously, stifling moans in response even the slightest movement.

kenma was in awe, his grasp on his cock subconciously tightening as he increased his pace. he bit his lip from admiration at how sensitive you were in that little hole of yours, and how shy you were too. he noted how you'd face away from the camera or hide your expressions with your spare whenever the stimulation from the toy would elicit any reaction from you.

kudzuken: don't be coy. pull harder.

you sighed. hesitantly wrapping your fingers around the fuzzy part of the tail and inhaling a deep breath, before harshly tugging on the plug. it wasn't quite like ripping off a plaster. no, you had to pull for a bit and feel your ass contort and stretch around the foreign metal as it tried to escape the confines of your restrictive walls. groaning the entire time, body going limp against your chair. "ahh— i didn't think.. ngh.. it would be so— hah— hard!"

eventually, after a concerningly laborious process, you manage to yank it out. leaving it a cute little temporary gape that kenma would pay anything to fill with his tongue. but alas, he's hundreds of miles away and the best he can do is fist his aching dick while you shallowly finger your hole for the camera.

"i've been filming since super early this morning, kudzuken." you sigh, his username feeling a bit strange to utter in casual conversation, but you roll with it away. your fingers slowly graze your exposed ass and pussy lips as you drone, " 'm so tired now. just wanna cum n' relax. think we can do that together?"

kudzuken: yeah

"yay." you hum lowly, lazily shifting so you are sat normally, except you then sling your legs over the arms of your gaming chair, so your entire soaked pussy is on display for him. you rub sloppy circles over your clit while glancing between your cunt and the camera. "my hands are soo tired though," you whine, relaxing your head back, "mind if i grab something to use?"

kudzuken: don't mind

you could shove a lava lamp up your pussy for all he cares, he just wants to watch you cum. perhaps a very selfish an hedonistic view, but his tip is in agony and he just needs to see you writhing in pleasure before he nuts. otherwise, it's physically impossible for him to climax; it's almost a curse.

during the time his eyes were screwed shut and he was begging his body for just an ounce of relief, you had rummaged in your draw and found both your juul and your favourite vibrator. one went straight into your pussy and the other went straight to your lips.

you put it on the medium setting, so the little pink thing wasn't exactly tearing up your insides, but it still brought you an immense amount of satisfaction. like scratching a severe itch that had been persistent all day. it finally felt like you were being taken care of and you could relax.

"mm, that feels so good.." you purr, eyes closed and enitrely absorbed in the moment. hand wandering down your bare body and spreading your folds so kenma could get a perfect view of your favourite toy stuffed into your tight cunt. he could even faintly hear the buzzing noise. "hmm, this is the best way to de-stress after a long day, huh?"

although a part of him wondered what you could possibly be 'de-stressing' from considering you were a camgirl and you probably did stuff like this all day, the majority of him was so deeply involved in the moment that he didn't even have the mental energy to concern himself with his pedantic worries. instead, he drifted off into a fantasy of his own, imagining those slender fingers pumping his cock were yours.

kudzuken: the best

despite the brevity of his messages, you don't take offence. in fact, it suggests you're doing a good job if he's left with only one hand to type with. so you continue, legs spread wide as you gaze longingly into your computer webcam. your fingers rub sloppy circles over your throbbing clit, but for the most part, the pink toy was doing the heavy-lifting and was the reason your face would scrunch with pleasure every so often.

"nghh, feel so good.. want more.." you whine into the emptiness of your room, your eyes drifting shut and allowing your mouth to freely babble whatever cries appeared in your lust-glazed mind. "wish it was something bigger.." you muse innocently, knowing exactly what you do to him.

kudzuken: me too

and the most shameful part is that kenma knows your being flippant and trying to appeal to his perverted desires, but he doesn't care. it just eggs him on further to imagine his cock in the place of that humble little toy — jammed right into your snug cunt, where he belongs. whatever it was: your pussy, your hands, your mouth, he just wanted to feel you somehow.

"mmph, it's so nice to finally let go.." you say as a breathy whisper, eyes entirely shut as the corners of your lips curl into a faint smile, "can you tell how much i've been needing this?"

his eyes twinkled as he watched your pretty hole suck on the head of the toy as it vibrates within you. your walls were twitching yet you looked stunningly relaxed, limbs all spread out across your chair, as your body practically melts into it. your mouth hung open just a little bit to show a tantilising peek of your tongue. what kenma wouldn't give to insert his cock in there too.

his fingers stiffened around his dick at the mere thought, and before long, he had undergone his first climax, making a mess of both his hand and his black sweatpants. but thanks to you, he's got plenty of practise at this and has built up the stamina to go for multiple rounds. it didn't take long of watching your pussy flutter around the vibrating toy and hearing your melodious moans before he was fully hard again, stroking his length.

"mm, i think.." you murmur, legs beginning to twitch and shudder slightly, as you feel the pool of liquid heat in the pit of your stomach begin to stir and bubble. what was supposed to be a relaxing and tranquil experience, was quickling boiling into something far more intense. "i think i'm getting close.."

kenma's eyes light up at the thought, and his hand instinctually speeds up. originally laid back against his chair, upon hearing your desperate mewls about an impending orgasm, he hastily leans forward, engrossed in the screen afore him. paying attention to every little detail: the way your spread legs shake, your pouty and lewd expression, your drenched pussy and the slick gathering by your enterance around the toy, and how it dripped down to ass and formed a small puddle on the seat of your chair.

strands of your hair would fall into your face and poke at the corners of your agape mouth, which you would then have to swiftly brush aside before returning your hands to rub frantic circles on your clit. "ah, ahh— 'm so so close, boutta finish. can i? can i cum? please—" you plea to the camera.

kudzuken: yes kudzuken: cum pretty girl

it's as though his fingers acted on reflex, effortlessly typing the response in less than a couple seconds, all while his other hand still vigorously pumped his cock.

"nngh, okay, thank you, sir.. i— fuck!" you squeal , feeling light-headed as your orgasm overcomes you much earlier than you anticipated. you toss your head back in pure bliss as your knees tremble and you rock your hips against nothing, searching for more stimulation from the stagnant toy. despite it going at the same pace that previously relaxed you, the vibrator now felt like it was ravaging your sensitive insides, and all you could do was lie there and take it while your cunt walls convulse in defence.

"ahh— shit, i think— oh my god.." you cry, a second heat erupting within you shortly after you reached your high, as demonstrated by the fury of fluid that all came gushing out of you, with such a violent force that your vibrating toy was pushed out. "fuck's sake! nghh, 'ts too much! i can't, i can't!"

kudzuken: please

you scream and writhe in your chair as this powerful climax overwhelms your poor tired body, and all kenma can do is sit and gaze up at his monitor in awe. he is so astounded that he forgets to keep rubbing himself but the sight of your perfect pussy squiriting all over your chair and desk was enough to make him cum as well, and he released his second load across his clothed thighs again.

a lot of his semen dripped right back down his own shaft but he didn't care; if anything, it helped and served as lubrication. anyway, he was far to immersed in watching you submit to a blinding euphoria to care about the disgusting mess he was making of himself.

once you were done and your pussy has squirted out every last drop of sparkling fluid, you were left breathless and absolutely soaking. your wide-eyes gaze darted across your wet chair to your damp computer screen. you weren't looking forward to cleaning it all up, but alas, you sigh and relax back into your chair, "that was— so good. thank you, kudzuken." you heave, cute tits rising and falling with each deep exhale, "nothing feels better than cumming after a rough day.. it's like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, don't you think?"

you were seeing stars and babbling nonesense, but kenma was amused by it.

kudzuken: thank you too

you smile weakly at the chat reply, "anytime." you hum, slowly sitting up and crossing your arms over your chest, "erm, anyway, i should probably start cleaning up and head to bed. 'm so tired, it's been such a long day. but this was fun, we should do it again sometime."

kudzuken: yes

"well you know where to find me." you titter, reaching forward to your mouse and keyboard so you can end the private live-stream, "bye. have a nice night."

kudzuken: bye (y/n)

was the last thing he was able to type before he was disconnected from the chat. and that was certainly not the last time you spoke. it was an expensive habit, but he'd keep paying to watch you cum before bed almost every night for two months straight.

[magicdustsworld]

Skincare with husband!Sylus... that's it, that's the plot, nothing more.

“Stay still.”

“You’re poking my eye, Kitten.”

“I am applying the eye cream.”

Honestly, Sylus doesn’t know how everything came to this. He recalls watching you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, sliding on the fluffy headwrap which contains a pair of bunny ears. You claim that it’s your favourite but he thinks its ridiculous and it makes you look like an overpriced cartoon character (not like he’ll ever say that to you). Regardless, you had recently washed your face and your cheeks were dewy due to the toner you had sprayed, mere moments ago. But then your eyes met his in the mirror and thus, the fiend fell as a sacrificial lamb to the condemned sorceress.

He lounges lazily on the edge of the bed, head tilted back so you can reach him better. He has never been the one to succumb himself into frugal things like skincare, therefore, his knowledge of the products stems as far as a novice’s would allow (that is none). Lips pressed into a thin line, he keeps himself wordless for the time being and exhales a languid breath.

“Stop blinking.”

“It’s breathing.”

“Same thing.”

“Its differ—“

“No,” You seem to halt in your procedure. “You are being difficult.”

Sylus cracks open an eyelid, his carmine irises meeting yours. “You know, for a woman who claims to have married a grown man you sure treat me as a toddler.”

“Uh huh,” You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. “At least toddlers don’t argue when you tell them skincare is important.”

“They think its paint.” He says as a matter of fact and your eyebrow twitches, “Give them a dollop of your thing— skincare and they’ll bathe in it.”

You don’t rebuke him, don’t make the effort to grace him with a snide remark. Instead, you just twist the lid of a new container and smear a glob of cold foundation over his skin.

Instantly does Sylus recoil, his nose scrunching into a startled expression. “I didn't sign up for Witchcraft!”

“Night cream.”

“No, this is some new feature of your evol.”

You roll your eyes—concluding his dramatism would end once you complete your task at hand—and return to smoothen the moisturizer over his skin in deliberate softer strokes, letting your fingers linger for a second or two long. “Yeah, yeah, hold still.”

Unexpectedly, your husband does hold still. For once, Sylus truly listens and lets you take care of his skin like you wish to. Your hands move across his face like he’s something precious, something fragile to be cherished and hold onto instead of one of the most wanted criminals in the N109 zone. He was never the one to receive care, choosing to rather craft a path for him by himself. Therefore, here and now, with you pouring him so much affection—he almost wants to fall as prey to this domestic bliss.

After two moments of quietude, you wedge yourself back. “There, all done.”

Sylus straightens his posture, glancing at himself in the mirror. His skin seems luscious under the bathroom lights and when his finger grazes his jaw, he is taken aback due to the softness that greets him. He pokes himself again, astounded with the texture under the pad of his thumb—dragging it over his cheek but he is interrupted by the sound of your groan.

“Don’t touch your face without washing your hands.” You chastise but before he could take any action, you grip his wrist and bring it over to the basin. Turning on the faucet, the cool water runs down his palm. You move back and once satisfied with the hygiene, he turns it off. “Don’t wipe the moisturizer, sleep like that—glowing , radiant and peaceful as ever.” You pause a second before, “maybe you’ll dream about how annoying you are.”

To which, your husband merely smirks at your quip, “Impossible, kitten. I only dream about you.”

You groan—rotating on your heels to walk away but he seizes your wrist just in time, pulling you back so you collide with his chest. He leans down, stealing a soft kiss on your lips and you—you can’t help but oblige eventually.

Oh, Skincare? Sylus decides, would be his new favourite part of the day.

Inspired from Sylus’s 5 star memory trailer: magnum opus

[tellingtell5]

Midnight Mass 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

Remmick x v femreader

Summary: The church welcomed a new preacher. Poor souls—they let in a monster. But even monsters fall, and he’s already on his knees for a novice.

A/N: I can't stop with this man. I stumbled upon an idea recently and it just wouldn't leave my head—so I wrote something. I don’t even know what it’s supposed to be, just a story full of sinners, churches, and a Remmick who's starving… for touch.

This story was born from a simple idea that goes like this: "I need a fic where Remmick just straight-up plots on a nun reader and her innocence taunts him. Like he'd weep to see her do the littlest things. When she prays he feels just a little bit of salvation when she speaks it makes his knees go weak. He sees her as his angel." This story wouldn’t exist without @jaythewriter

The irony of it all might have struck him as amusing—had it not been one of the finest ideas he'd conceived in the last few centuries.

That preacher had the misfortune of crossing Remmick’s path, and he, in turn, had seized the chance to rob the Almighty of yet another servant. By his own tally, he was winning.

In the pathetic man’s final memories—memories he had not the sense to lift in prayer as his jugular was torn—Remmick saw what he had long been searching for. A flock. A community who listened devoutly as their shepherd preached from the pulpit, vowing undying loyalty.

The sensation bloomed within him like fire, and a thought took root deep in his mind. He would crawl to the gates of that temple glimpsed in the dying man’s memory—and make it his own. He would become the new shepherd, the one who saved these poor souls from their fate. He would raise a congregation of the devoted, shaping them little by little, through the Word and through blood.

It had not been difficult. One of the sisters had opened the door without question the moment she saw the collar.

“Come in, Father. We’ve been expecting you.”

He hadn’t even needed to request permission to enter—she had simply stepped aside and held the door wide.

The women received him with open arms.

“We weren’t sure how long it would take for them to send another pastor.”

He had smiled and praised their hospitality, drawing blushes from those who had been cloistered longest within those walls.

He could already hear the whispers circulating about him.

“The new Father is so young… and that smile of his… It won’t take long before we adore him.”

Convincing them to change the hour of the liturgies had proven more arduous. He claimed his training had taught him that the veil of night brought one closer to the Almighty.

Dusk, he said, was a sacred time—more contemplative, more intimate.

Though skeptical at first, the sisters soon adopted the change. And they were right to trust him.

At first, only the sisters and a few vagrants—seeking a full belly and warm bed—attended the masses.

But then a rumor began to spread:

The new pastor promised eternal life.

Here. On Earth.

No more waiting for the solace of a cold grave to be reunited with one’s kin.

He claimed to have brought true immortality.

“You are not dust, nor shall you return to it.”

The pews filled with bowed heads, all paying homage to the new Word of God, which now took flesh in the hungry smile of that shepherd.

As they drank of the blood of their savior, he drank of theirs, those faithful who sought redemption at his altar.

He took his time, amassing followers. Drunk on power. He spoke—and countless voices answered with gratitude.

They offered themselves freely.

“Father, help me—I have lost the path.”

“I shall help you find it,” he replied, before reshaping them into creatures of the night.

But among the sea of souls, one figure stood apart.

You.

The girl newly arrived to the parish.

Sent to take your vows.

A novice.

A woman just beginning to kneel at the altar, offering your life to the Almighty.

Had he still breath in his body, it would have caught in his throat when he saw you kneel. It was visceral—the way you did it, as if your very soul depended on it.

His mouth watered at the sight of your bowed head, so deep in prayer.

He lost the thread of thought each time your voice reached him—those whispered fragments of breath, gasping with devotion.

And then you would rise, and your eyes would meet his. Eyes brimming with such innocence it could only be blasphemy.

A weak smile played on your lips, and though no sound escaped, your mouth would shape a single word: “Father.”

He would have to bite his own lip, stifling the sound that threatened to betray what stirred within him.

In those moments, all other prayers faded to ash. None of it satisfied him—because he had not yet claimed your devotion. There was something strange blooming in his chest.

He wanted to be the vessel of your prayers.

The reason you knelt.

The one to whom you begged for mercy

He nearly let the mask slip. That mask of the gentle shepherd promising redemption—he nearly let the wolf beneath show.

The first time it happened was after mass. The congregation stood, lining up for communion. And when his favored lamb stepped forward, he almost surrendered.

You looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

An innocent smile curved your lips.

Your mouth opened slowly; the tip of your tongue peeked out, waiting.

He forgot what he was meant to do—that he should place the host on your tongue and send you in peace.

Another thought crept in: that he could offer you his body in truth—that his could be granted real salvation.

He came back to himself as he reached out with the wafer. The wet heat of your mouth brushed against his fingers.

A broken sound escaped his throat.

And you—

You answered it with a gasping moan so soft, so trembling, it nearly made the sacred offering fall from your lips.

He had no need for the devotion of all those people. What he truly craved was the touch of that novice. The barest graze of your hand would have sufficed. He pictured those fingers—now clasped in sacred supplication—threading through his hair, gliding just above the skin of his shoulders. His knees quivered, and he feared he might fall to them and beg you for mercy, beg you to touch him.

It lasted only a moment—a fleeting breath for you, an eternity for him. You closed your lips and, just before taking your leave, offered him the first words you'd spoken since arriving:

"Father?"

He responded with a guttural hum, void of words.

"You're drooling."

He blinked several times, struggling to comprehend your meaning. When he failed to react, you stepped closer, raised a hesitant hand, and brushed the tip of your fingers along his chin, collecting the trail of saliva. He remained unmoved, lost in thought, lost in the warmth of your living skin against the pallor of his own. A strangled moan escaped him, and he fought the urge to beg you to take it away with your tongue. When you were done, you did not wipe your hand. You left him in silence.

His bones ached. His skin itched—desperate to be touched like that once more. He was fascinated by you, by everything about you. He could watch you for hours, kneeling in silent devotion before a god who never answered. But he would answer. He would reward every one of your prayers.

Something stirred in his dead chest when he thought: if you could give yourself so wholly to a god cruel and thankless, what might you offer a monster who spoke back? A flicker of hope burned within him. A glimmer of salvation. But he still did not know what it was he truly wanted from you—whether to corrupt you and make you his, or surrender to your innocence and your aching desire to save others.

He always chose the first.

The last time his mask slipped was in the confessional, listening to the woes of his flock. He found it dull—time dragged unbearably, which was saying much for a creature such as he.

He was about to leave the cramped chamber when he heard the wood creak beneath someone's weight. The cloying scent of incense that had surrounded him was swept away by something else—something that made his fists clench and his composure waver. Every sense lit up, overwhelmed by your presence. He could not help but wet his lips, seeking the taste of you in the heavy air of the confessional.

He needed to flee that space, now a prison thumping with the echo of your heartbeat. A slow rhythm, one that had lulled him to sleep through the stone walls that separated your quarters from his.

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

The sound of your voice struck him like a blow, and he grasped the wooden bench beneath him to stay upright. No words came—he was too dazed by your nearness.

You remained still. From the moment you entered that narrow chamber, the blood beneath your skin had begun to stir, crackling and restless. Just as it always did in the preacher’s presence. You felt like a moth, spellbound by the colour and scent of a newly bloomed flower. Suspended in a kind of limbo, you waited for his reply, uncertain whether you'd spoken your words rightly. You breathed deeply, unaware that each breath drew you ever closer to the Devil himself.

"Speak, child. What burdens your soul?"

Your tongue felt thick, clumsy. His voice had rendered you motionless. It had emerged rough, reverberating through the wooden walls as though he were everywhere—like the Almighty Himself.

"I have had doubts, Father."

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from correcting you, from begging—no, pleading—for you to call him by name. For you to form the true syllables of his being with those lips, those lips that tempted him with every prayer they uttered to God. But he did not. He waited in silence for you to continue.

"Since I came to this congregation, troubling thoughts have come upon me."

You shifted, seeking to relieve your sore knees. The movement brought your thighs together, and an unfamiliar tension began to stir low in your belly. And all the while, you knew—knew with perfect certainty—that the very cause of your unrest was seated just on the other side of the wooden screen. You could see his silhouette leaning in, as if trying to draw nearer to you through the lattice.

The sound you let slip filled his ears. The sweet scent of your desire clouded his mind completely. He let it invade his hollow chest, and in that moment, he swore he could feel his dead heart beat again. He could almost swear he had glimpsed the face of God just by breathing you in.

He summoned your face in his mind and, for the first time in his existence, believed in the divine. If angels walked the earth, surely they would wear your countenance. He wanted to leave that chamber, to kiss you. No—that wasn’t enough. He wanted to drink you. To beg you to touch his body with those hands that had only ever known the flesh of the Lord. To run your lips across his skin—the same lips that had spoken a thousand prayers, now offered to him.

And then he would repay you. He would fall to his knees and press his mouth to every place where your pulse thundered, where your body cried out for pleasure, where—

"Father?"

He had collapsed to his knees within the confessional. The pressure in his trousers had become unbearable. He was utterly lost in the rapture of his own imaginings. You had kept speaking while he spiraled ever deeper into his thoughts.

"Forgive me, I was…" What would he say? That he had been dreaming of destroying a soul like yours? "…I was distracted."

"It’s alright. Please, don’t worry. It’s only natural to have one's thoughts elsewhere. It happens to me often."

There it was—that goodness in you that tore the words from his throat. That left him hollow, aching to be something better than what he was.

"Continue."

He just wanted to hear your voice. Any excuse would do. To listen to the way your heart sped or slowed with every emotion that crossed your face.

"Father, as I was saying… I have been troubled with doubt. I am told I must give my devotion entirely to the Lord. But… another man appears in my prayers. How can I vow eternal devotion, when my thoughts already belong to someone else?"

Desire gave way to jealousy—an emotion he had never known. Bile rose in his throat, and he had to swallow hard to push down the knot of fury rising there. He searched the memories of his converted faithful, those whose minds he now shared. Demanded an answer. But none had seen another man near you. Only images of you, watching him when he wasn’t looking. Only him.

"But it is not only my thoughts, Father. He appears in my dreams as well."

"What kind of dreams?"

He startled himself—he hadn't thought he had strength enough left to summon his voice.

"I’m ashamed to admit it."

Another sound, the whisper of movement. The wood creaked once more beneath your weight as you shifted, trying to ease a pressure that clung to you all day, dull and persistent.

"In those dreams… someone touches me. It’s that man. Not roughly, not in sin. It’s... gentle. Tender. As if I were the one being worshipped."

Silence fell—thick, suffocating. A silence you could slice through like meat.

"...And I like it. When I wake, I find myself wishing it were true."

He couldn’t speak. Not a single word. He tried to root himself to the floor, to keep from leaping upon you like a beast. Because what you were offering—what you had just confessed—was what he had longed for more than anything.

"How am I to give myself wholly to the Lord," you whispered, "if my soul and body no longer belong to Him?"

He opened his mouth, but another voice came out—not his own.

"And to whom do they belong, child?"

Again, that terrible stillness. Another shifting of cloth and knees on old wood. And then the words that shattered him.

"To you, Father."

There was no shame in your voice. Not a flicker of repentance. That’s when he understood: you hadn’t come seeking absolution. You had come to offer yourself.

Like a lamb stepping willingly into the wolf’s mouth—and rejoicing in the devouring.

A gasp rose to your lips but never left them as the confessional door burst open. He stood there, wild-eyed, breathless, as if trying to drink in your very presence. You were still on your knees, looking up at him.

You feared divine punishment. Retribution. But it never came. Instead, he fell to his knees before you.

The desperation in his eyes was raw. He looked up at you the way saints must look up at their holy relics, with terror and awe. He trembled—perhaps from restraint, perhaps from hunger.

"Please."

It was not a command but a plea. You didn't need to ask what he meant—you already knew. You raised a hand, and without hesitation, you buried it in his hair. That shadowed thing, that spiritless wretch, melted under your touch like frost beneath the sun. He crumbled in your palm, begging silently for more.

A sound escaped him—was it a sob? A groan? It broke something in you. You wanted to give more. With your other hand, you reached across his chest, still clothed. He never wore the cassock, and you preferred it that way—it let you see him better.

He leaned into you until his forehead rested against your shoulder, as though that contact alone kept him alive. His breath was a trembling wind in your ear, his chest heaving with a storm he dared not unleash.

He clung to you like a penitent to a relic, a damned soul clinging to the last scrap of mercy.

"Touch me," he whispered—and it was as though the stone walls of the chapel shuddered.

The word was a prayer. A surrender.

He, who had always held the final word. He, who had heard confessions and passed judgments.

Now he begged.

"Please..."

His voice broke under the weight of need. He raised his eyes to you—dark, shining with the sting of frustrated longing.

"I need your hands upon me. Do it. Let you be the one to bless me. With that touch. With that skin."

His fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, trembling, unsure. He could not bring himself to remove it—not without your permission. Because in that moment, you were his deity.

Your warmth bled through the linen between you, a slow-burning fire that consumed him from the inside out.

And then, you moved.

Your fingers slid up along his jaw, guiding his gaze to yours. At the touch, he let out a low, aching sound—half sob, half plea. Like a wounded creature unsure if comfort would come.

"Give me one reason to believe," he whispered. "Make me believe I still have a soul."

And you touched him—not with pity, but with dominion.

One by one, you undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing skin marked by sleepless nights and some long-forgotten struggle for virtue. He trembled with each new inch of flesh uncovered. His lips parted with the anticipation, the unbearable sweetness of it.

"Look at me, Father," you commanded, drawing out the title like a dare.

And he obeyed.

Because he was no longer priest, nor man, nor monster.

He was devoted. A thing made of longing, of need—kneeling before the only divinity that might still offer him salvation: you.

When your lips touched his bare chest, he released a sound caught between a sob and a laugh. As if, for the first time, he understood what it meant to believe.

You watch the way his lashes flutter, how his mouth parts as if readying a prayer or a moan.

Your fingers trace the line of his collarbone, slowly, deliberately. His skin is hot — fevered almost — as though your presence alone has set him alight. When your thumb brushes the hollow of his throat, his head falls back just slightly, exposing more of himself. Offering it. Offering everything.

You lean closer. Your lips barely graze his skin — a whisper of contact — and he gasps like it hurts. Or like it heals.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur.

“I’m trying,” he chokes out, “so hard not to fall apart.”

But he’s already unraveling for you. Each second is a thread undone. And you like watching him come undone.

You lower your mouth to his chest. He cries out — softly, beautifully — and fists his hands into the fabric of your habit like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this world. You can feel his need pressing against you, insistent and utterly helpless, but he doesn’t dare move. Doesn’t dare guide your hand.

He’s waiting. Needing. Yours.

You let your hand drift down. Slowly. Testing.

When your palm rests just above his waistband, he inhales sharply, his whole body tightening beneath you. His hips rise, involuntary, and his eyes flutter open in a haze of worship and hunger.

“Please,” he whispers, voice rough, almost broken. “I beg you. Don’t stop.”

And so you don’t.

You undo the button. You pull down the zipper. You feel him shudder — a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through both of you — and you push the fabric down just enough to free him.

The sight of him, hard and flushed and trembling, sends a rush of heat to your core. He is beautiful in his vulnerability. Glorious in his surrender.

You wrap your hand around him, and he whimpers.

No. He weeps.

Not from pain. Not from guilt. But from relief.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, lips brushing your neck, and you feel the wetness there — hot, desperate tears as he mutters thank-yous and praises under his breath, not to any god, but to you.

Only you.

Because in this moment, you are not a nun. You are a miracle.

And he is your worshipper.

You feel him twitch in your hand, a pulse like thunder just under your palm. His hips strain forward, breath catching again and again against your neck. His lips linger too long there now — not in reverence.

In hunger.

You sense the shift instantly. The way his tongue flicks the hollow behind your ear, how his breath suddenly comes cooler, shivering over your skin like a prelude. It’s no longer just need — it’s instinct. Ancient. Ravenous.

Then you feel them: the tips of his fangs grazing your skin. It’s subtle, gentle. A test. A question.

But you answer it before it becomes a plea.

“No.”

Your voice is firm. You don’t raise it, but the word cuts through him like a lash. He pulls back with a strangled groan, his whole body wracked with restraint.

“I—” he tries, his voice hoarse, desperate, full of shame. “I didn’t mean to, I just—”

You hush him with your touch. You never stop moving your hand. If anything, you tighten just slightly. He gasps, eyes rolling back, head falling against your chest again.

His hands are gripping your thighs now, not to take, but to anchor himself — shaking like he might fall apart if you let go. He’s trying so hard to hold back. But he wants. You can feel it rising in him — this deep, writhing hunger not just for your body but your blood.

And you make him wait. Let him ache. Let him tremble.

He moans something — unintelligible, fervent — and just as his climax builds, as his breath shortens and his whole being coils beneath your touch like a creature about to break — you raise your free hand to your mouth.

Your teeth sink into your own wrist. The pain is sharp, but clean. Righteous.

A thin line of blood blossoms instantly, warm and deep red, and his eyes snap to it like a beast scenting prey.

He stares at it. Then at you.

A heartbeat. Two.

And then you press your wrist to his mouth.

He freezes — utterly still — even as your other hand continues to work him toward release.

He’s panting, eyes flicking between your face and your bleeding wrist. You feel his lips twitch against your skin, and you whisper:

“Now.”

He opens his mouth — wide, reverent — and draws you in. The first pull is soft. Careful. Almost prayerful.

Then the second comes, deeper, more desperate, and you feel him groan against your skin. Feel the growl ripple through his chest as your blood hits his tongue. His hips jerk forward and he spills into your hand with a cry torn between rapture and agony.

He drinks like a starving man.

Your blood slides down his throat, and you watch his body convulse under the weight of it — of you. He clutches you as though you’re the last holy thing left in this godless world. You feel the thank-you he can’t speak thrumming through his veins. You gave him everything — not just your touch, but your life, your essence.

And he gives himself to you.

Completely.

[catbolt]

Sylus thinks of himself as a professional. And he is, in most every aspect-- thorough, calculated, dedicated. Sophisticated in the way he does what he does.

He knows he could have quit a couple years ago with enough resources to last a lifetime and more. Money was really never an object. The truth is (and it's not even that hard for him to admit to himself--) the work simply consumes him. Head to toe, like a body of water. Like a boa constrictor.

He's good at killing. And he's even better at getting what he wants. So he lets it consume him. What's the problem in doing what you're good at? He'd reasoned with himself, morals be damned. He'd never been one for rigid principles, anyway, preferring to consider himself adaptable. A deft navigator of the seedy and convoluted inner workings of the N109 zone.

You, however, had made things somewhat unpredictably difficult. Not that he's secretly some big softie, or that your unshakeable devotion to being an upstanding citizen was suddenly making him rethink his entire career path. Difficult in the way that sometimes he ends up waiting a millisecond longer than he should before pulling the trigger to put a bullet in the head of one of his sniveling rivals. Difficult in the way that he starts worrying for about whether his music taste and antique collections come off as effete instead of charming. Difficult in the way that he finds himself wondering while attending an auction whether you'd prefer the ruby gauntlet or the diamond tiara on the auctioneer's pedestal.

Difficult in that he starts doubting himself, for the first time in a very long time. And Sylus is not the kind of guy who is used to doubting himself. He's a professional, after all...

But you make him feel like a novice.

[userparamore]

"“What have you done?” the king said, when at last the princess ran out of words. “Seven save us, what have you done? Have you given one of these boys your maidenhead? Tell me true.” “True?” said Saera. It was in that moment, with that word, that the contempt came out. “No. I gave it to all three. They all think they were the first. Boys are such silly fools.” Jaehaerys was so horrified he could not speak, but the queen kept her composure."

"Princess Saera might have been forgiven and restored to favor if she had done as she was told, if she had remained meekly in her chambers reflecting on her sins and praying for forgiveness. [...] The king was angry and unyielding, for his shame was deeply felt, and he could not forget Saera’s taunting words about his uncle’s wives. “She is no longer my daughter,” he said more than once."

"She [Saera] would never be a septa, much less a silent sister, but she required punishment, and it was thought that a few years of silent prayer, harsh discipline, and contemplation would be good for her, that it would set her on the path to redemption. [...] All this she suffered, for a year and a half...but when her chance came, in 85 AC, she seized it, fleeing from the motherhouse in the dead of night and making her way down to the docks. When word of her flight reached King’s Landing, it was assumed that Saera would be hiding somewhere in Oldtown, but Lord Hightower’s men combed the city door to door, and no trace was found of her. [...] The truth did not come out until a year later, when the former princess was seen in a Lysene pleasure garden, still clad as a novice. Queen Alysanne wept to hear it. “They have made our daughter into a whore,” she said. “She always was,” the king replied."

– FIRE & BLOOD, George R.R Martin

[spider-stark]

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN OLD FRIENDS

Gwayne Hightower x Septa!Reader

Summary - Devotion will never be enough to make the Gods forgive you for the sin of your existence. They will keep finding new ways to punish you.

Warnings - fem!reader, bastard!reader, septa!reader, mostly edited, heavy religious themes & guilt, angst, yearning, *slightly* ooc gwayne but mostly cause he's drunk and bitter lmao

Word Count - 1.3k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Dark obsidian walls glisten like the night sky as you enter the Starry Sept from the motherhouse. Towering statues stand sentinel around the round-altar, carved in the likeness of the Seven. Forever repenting for the sin of your existence, you often acknowledge them as you draw close—with a nod, a prayer, an offering. 

But not tonight. 

Even with his forehead pressed to the altar, you recognize Gwayne by his tawny hair, shimmering like bronze in the candlelight. His tunic is wrinkled, half-untucked from his trousers. The sharp scent of alcohol burns your nose, strong enough to smell it from across the Sept.

For a moment, a smile touches your lips. You think of lost nights spent by the Honeywine river. Skipping rocks on the water and drinking from a bottle of arbor gold, snagged from his uncle's cellar.

But nostalgia is all too fleeting, soon replaced by deep worry for an old friend. 

Cavernous and austere, the Sept echoes your every footfall. Consumed by a drunken haze, Gwayne remains oblivious to your presence, even as you sink to your knees beside him. 

It’s only when you speak that he looks up. 

“I’m reminded of a verse from The Warrior’s Edicts.” Armed with sword and helm, the God's stony eyes seem to peer down as you recite His wisdom: “Drink muddles the sensible mind. ‘Tis the duty of knights to remain sober-minded, to pave a path of rectitude so that all men might follow.” 

Gwayne’s voice is unusually hoarse, wavering slightly as he tells you, “You won’t find a sober knight in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Perhaps that’s why there are so many indecent men,��� you turn your head to him with a soft smile, “because none are willing to pave a better way.” 

Altar candles flicker, bathing his features in dim warmth. You note the faint stubble along his jaw, the dull shine of sapphire eyes. When was the last time you sat this close? It feels like a lifetime ago, now. 

He swallows, looks down at his lap. “How did you know I was here?” 

“Septon Halleck saw you come in,” you tell him. “Thought you looked in need of a friend.” 

In the years since swearing your vows to the Faith, the aging Septon was your only blessing. Between services, he spins tales about his life before coming to Oldtown—of a youth spent north of the Neck, about a pale castle surrounded by frigid waters. 

You tell Halleck stories about your life, too. He pretends not to notice that Gwayne Hightower is at the center of them all. 

Softly, you tease, “Though if he had known you were drunk, he might’ve sooner tossed you onto the streets.” 

Gwayne scoffs. Starts fiddling with his fingers, picking at them. “If the Septon’s life was half as grueling,” he grumbles, “then he would understand my need for a drink.” 

“And what’s so grueling about the life of a trueborn son?” 

It’s not meant as a slight, though a certain bitterness seeps through. 

Raised in the shadow of trueborn siblings, you know well of the luxuries they’re afforded. Watched as your sisters were swathed in silk and coddled with gold, freely given all which you were made to claw for. 

You recall a quote on envy that Halleck recited during your novice years, when your blood still ran thick with resentment: He who sits at the head of the table will still covet crumbs off a beggar’s plate.

But what if you’re the beggar? If the Gods gave you nothing but crumbs. Would envy still be a sin? Or a sign of injustice. 

Gwayne shakes his head. Mutters under his breath, “You’ve never understood.” 

“Understood what?” 

“What it’s like to be shackled by your father’s name,” he answers, frustrated. 

His thoughtlessness is a fist around your heart, squeezed tight. 

If he was sober, he would apologize. If he was sober, he wouldn’t be here at all. 

You suck in a calming breath, interlacing your fingers and resting your elbows upon the altar. Heat from the flames caresses your forearms as you utter a wordless prayer to the Warrior, asking Him to keep your voice from wavering. 

“You’re right. I don’t understand.” Images flash in your mind. The hazy face of a father who didn’t want you. You clear your throat, say, “But I know it is to be nameless, and I can’t imagine the shackles of a noble-name hurt any worse.” 

“Better to be nameless and free,” he says, “than noble and in chains.” 

You fight the urge to laugh, instead citing a relevant phrase from The Book of Reflections. “Those bound in chains oft discover they were forged by thine own hands.” Gwayne’s head tips back, groaning. Your lips briefly twitch. “It’s not your fate to be nameless,” you tell him. “But, even if it were, the shackles are of your own making—you would bear them all the same.” 

Drunkenness exaggerates his expression. Pulls his brows together, tugs his wine-stained bottom lip into a deep frown. “If I had known you were just going to quote scripture at me,” his words slur slightly, “then I wouldn’t have come.” 

You don’t let yourself wonder at the implication there. That maybe he had come to see you. 

“Why come to a Sept if not to receive wisdom from the Gods?” You ask. 

Gwayne’s stare shifts upwards, settles on the scales of justice clutch in the Father’s stone fist. Sapphire eyes begin to blaze like searing flames. “For forgiveness,” he answers slowly, without inflection. 

Hesitant, you ask, “So that’s why you’re here tonight? To ask the Gods for their forgiveness?” 

His head shakes. His fingers never still, never stop tearing at his cuticles. 

He holds the Father’s stare and, with a voice like death, says, “I’m here so they can beg for mine.” 

The pressure in your chest grows tighter, his words resonating with a part of yourself long since buried by the Faith. The angry, bitter part of you—the nameless, the beggar, the bastard. 

Instinct tightens your fingers, still interlocked. You look to those stone Gods. Feel an old weight settle on your shoulders as they look back. 

Strained, you ask, “For what reason?” 

Gwayne doesn’t answer. Asks his own question, instead. “Why did you join the Faith?” 

You think of the Honeywine. Of the last time you sat this close. 

Of a boy born with such honor, cherished by his Gods. 

Of a girl born with such shame, scorned by them. 

You think of the Faith. Of the passage that led you away from his side. 

A Bastard's life is a testament to the reach of sin. 

Tainted and tarnished, all they touch will come to rot. 

Tears sting the back of your throat. Unsure of a better answer, you tell him, “Because we all bear our own shackles.” 

As if comparing wounds, Gwayne offers up his own answer, too. “There was a feast tonight,” he tells you. “My father announced that I am to be wed.” 

There’s such hollow silence. Obsidian walls wrap around you. Starlight burns your skin. 

“To who?” 

Something tells you that you won’t like his answer. A soundless voice, a whisper on a phantom wind. 

Quietly, voice wavering, he tells you, “One of Lord Mullendore’s daughters.” 

A stone drops in your stomach. 

“Lord Mullendore…” Your mind begins to reel. Images flash. A hazy face. Silk and gold and clawing clawing clawing. “One of his daughters…” 

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. As if oxygen is yet another thing denied to you in the name of repentance. As if all your devotion still isn’t enough to purge the rot from your existence. 

Both soft and resentful, he murmurs, “She has your eyes…” 

You keep your fingers interlocked. Gwayne picks his bloody. The Gods watch. 

The path of devotion is fraught with pain. But fear not! Trials endured in Faith shall always be rewarded with Light. The Seven are just. The Seven are wise. The Seven are merciful.

a/n - Honestly, I just wanted to explore the internal conflict that might come from a bastard going the Faith of the Seven considering that, while they're welcome to become Septons/Septas, they're still viewed as being sinful and treacherous by nature. Additionally, the idea of a bastard being so in love with a pious, honorable man that she turns to his religion just feeds something inside of me?? like, her turning to scripture to communicate with him?? him beginning to resent the gods that 'cherish' him?? neither of them ever getting what they want??

anyways--all thoughts/opinions/feedback are welcome and very very appreciated!

[diorkittys]

yoga lessons ˚ ♡ ⋆｡ teacher!ramattra + [human] reader

synopsis : being late to your teachings with your bhikkhu wasn’t unbeknownst to either one of you. though, maybe you should’ve studied up a little more on your poses. it’s okay, your teacher will remind you lazy work does not go unpunished. maybe that’s not a punishment in itself.

—TW : smut , female body parts , mentor and student (not an age gap, i promise) , size difference , hittin it from behind , dom! ramattra , exhibitionism , slight dumification , slight overstimulation , yapping

‘sleeping in’ was a foreign concept in the monastery of the monks. you were expected to be up ‘before the arrival of surya’—the sun himself. Although, that wasn’t necessarily a problem anyone there faced; an unspoken rule of awaking at 4:00, meditation until 5:00, and chanting before 6:00… all to be fulfilled to begin your day.

early mornings didn’t phase you anymore, it was to be assumed regarding the fact you live with the monks. And so whilst everyone finished their routine, you had an extra step: teaching. Bhante Ramattra took you under his wing as his novice 6 months ago, when you had fled to the monastery in search of spiritual guidance and inner peace… as most do. He was a stoic mentor with a gentle soul; and he was always gentle with you. you figured he, as a bhikkhu, however, was like that to most. it was still nice to perceive it as your own.

“Namo tassa bhagavato arahato samma sambuddhassa.” you finished your daily prayer, taking in a deep breath, and standing from your place on your cushion. in about 5 minutes you would be late to your lessons with your bhikkhu.

you hurried to put on your robes and make your way to the gardens of the monastery. you passed by various monks walking the halls, taking a quick bow with your hands together to each one. you finally reached the scenic path to the gardens, feeling the cold cobblestone nipping at your socks. bhante ramattra sat on an intricate-patterned mat in a clearing of grass. his back straight and turned against you. you approached quietly, seemingly tiptoeing on the meadow.

“late again, my lotus?” you cringed, scrunching your nose. how could you sneak up on someone who’s practice is higher understanding? and his endearing nickname only seemed to make you more awkward.

“only by a minute or two this time. you can’t blame me if my reasoning is prayer.” you sat on the mat draped in front of him, noticing his loose robe showing off his chest plate. you let your eyes wander for a brief second.

“a moment delayed is an opportunity for patience and reflection… have you practiced either of the sort during your travel here?” if ramattra’s eyes shown, they would be staring deep into yours, quizzical and smug.

“well, what about you? you weren’t very patient for my arrival..”

“in questioning, we uncover the path to wisdom. in your case, i see no benefiting outcome in questioning me, besides a failing grade.” ramattra folded his arms.

“since when am i graded?” you giggled.

“i am your mentor; i grade you by progress, not by numbers.” at this point, ramattra has begun his dhyana mudra practice, joining his thumb and index together as a way to get rid of the headache in front of him. “now, have you rehearsed your yoga poses i gave as homework. i would hope you took this seriously as today’s lesson encompasses the custom.”

“yes, i think i have them all perfected.” you started on your warmup stretches, pulling your leg, then the next, to your sides. “excellent. are you confident to demonstrate your teachings?” you nodded and even with an expressionless face, ramattra seemed pleased.

you started with a simple locust pose to begin—balancing on your stomach, neck bent upwards, and hands stretched behind your back. your bhikkhu hummed in contentment, “very well, my lotus. now form into a cobra stance.”

again, the pet name only made your body stutter and for a moment you had blanked on how to do such a pose. ramattra is observant, he was taught about even the smallest body language from an early start of his own teachings—he noticed.

your black out didn’t last more than a second, though, and you pressed your pelvis to the floor, steading your weight on your hands. the omnic watched as you faced the sky, adam’s apple bobbing when you swallowed. 

again, ramattra hummed, watching the muscles of your back push together. “you’re doing well. i see my instructions didn’t fall on deaf ears. switch into fish pose.”

“you know,” you strained, falling onto your hands and rolling on your back. “these names don’t have any correlation to the pose itself. who came up with them?” you propped yourself on your elbows and awaited a response.

“matsyasana. that’s the original sanskrit name. we haven’t fully completed your language lessons yet, so we will stick to the westernized name of the position.” the omnic looked a bit displeased with the naming himself, but he was considered more traditional, so you assumed he didn’t like the newer adaptation.

“but how does it resemble a fis—er.. matsyasana? all i am doing is arching my back—what matsyasana have you seen do that?”

ramattra let out a raspy chuckle, and it brought a sense of pride that you could get that out of him. you liked the sound… even if it was a bit robotic and rough; almost like it was new to him too.

“you seem to keep ahold of your humanistic, logical ideals; embrace the current of life’s flow with a light heart.” your bhikkhu sighed, “but, if you must know, the pose resembles the graceful arch of a fish jumping out of water.”

ramattra stood to sit at your side, placing a metal hand under the palm of your back; he put his other on the cavity of your chest, gently forcing your rib cage to stick out. “like this.”

you looked up at your mentor, he looked down at you… and for a moment you could’ve sworn you both couldn’t look away. but in the second he was above you, he was now back to where he sat. it was probably—most likely, in your head.

the pose was difficult and hard to keep. your breathing wasn’t very steady as your body contorted in almost 180 degrees. “try not to focus on the position, instead focus on each exhale, releasing your struggle.”

“…easier,” you huffed, eyebrows furrowed, “…said than done.” ramattra tried to think of another way he could find you strength, but something in front of him was blurring his thoughts…

your breasts were perked up by the way your back stretched, laying on your chest oh, so perfect, and so vulnerable. something inside ramattra was whirring—electronic signals zapping circuits and tangled his wires.

he’s never… he’s never felt so hot before; maybe it was a malfunction.

but your chest kept heaving as your breathing deepened. your mouth was slightly agape as you tried to hold together, on a tiny thread. and your little noises were only stirring on this… feeling inside him even more. no, it couldn’t be a malfunction; he knew his sensations were purposeful. but, by devine presence, what kind of monk would he be? still holding onto the chains of lust, how foolish.

and yet, here he was, allowing himself the pleasure of watching you, watching you struggle, watching your body with desire. so lost in his own selfishness, he didn’t even hear your pleas.

“bhante ramattra? bhikkhu? please… am i finished?”

you were so strained. maybe this was a test? why else has your bhikkhu let you hurt without lesson?

ramattra snapped out of it, now feeling slightly guilty for letting you writhe in pain. “my apologies, lotus. you may lay out of pose.” he didn’t have to tell you twice. letting your body drop to the floor in exhaustion.

“i’m sorry.”

“for what?”

you let yourself calm down before continuing, “i’ll admit, i didn’t practice that position as much as i should have.” your mentor shook his head. “learn from this experience, and with a sincere heart, your efforts will blossom.” although, ramattra knew it shouldn’t be you to take the blame.

…

“are you restful enough for another demonstration?”

you nodded. ramattra was satisfied.

“marjaryasana.” he spoke, finding your readiness to speak more sanskrit endearing.

you remembered from previous teachings that ‘marjaraha’ meant ‘cat’ and you understood it to start a cat pose.

you planted yourself on the ground with your hands, balancing on your knees and lifting your head to the sky. you expectingly awaited your bhikkhu’s approval… but he said nothing.

“you’re missing something.”

“this is a cat pose, is it not? marjaraha?” what could you possibly have done wrong? you may have messed up your last instructions, but you were certain you had this simple one down. your continuous practice the night before being a witness.

“your sanskrit is correct; i’m proud of your remembrance—but your posing is lacking.” ramattra stood from his spot to come kneel behind you. “allow me to help.”

the large omnic loomed over you. from an outside perspective, it looked as if a wolf engulfing it’s prey.

but ramattra wasn’t a ravenous creature, at least, from your understanding.

he took two big hands and gripped your waist, bunching up the fabric of your thin sanghati; ramattra would have to have a word with you next time on wearing the correct number of robes.

“bend.” he commanded. gesturing to the small of your back. you obliged. you were warm all over besides the chill of his metal holding you in place, which hardened your nipples through your clothes.

you wondered if this explicit position was all but innocent… surely, your wise mentor didn’t have any further intentions; you couldn’t hold yourself to that high regard… that didn’t stop your lustful thoughts. and anyone with common sense could stumble into the garden and most certainly view it just as suggestive as you… right?

you kept silent, letting the bigger man behind take the lead and guide you. he pressed against your skin until your arch was just to his standards.

you were almost positive that you could feel warmth radiating from how close his crotch was from your ass… that is, if a robot could emit such a thing.

“perfect.” he finally spoke. the bhikkhu admired his work from above.

you were afraid to respond… partly because you didn’t want to scare him away, and partly because you felt that if you opened your mouth, a long, suppressed moan would come out instead.

so you sat there, on all fours, back arched, unmoving, trying—desperately trying to squeeze your thighs together as best as you could to maybe satisfy this need you craved.

biting your lip, you stifled a pathetic whimper as ramattra’s thigh grazed over yours. how wrong this must be. a novice lusting over their bhikkhu… in a place of respect and religion. siddhartha, guide you now…

ramattra noticed your quietness, bending down closer to your head. had he made you uncomfortable? were the tensions thick for you too? he’ll admit his grip on your waist was rather tight; the plush skin beneath your garments was enticing.

you were… small compared to him. you allowed him to touch you and you obeyed his words. very obedient. and now comes the remembrance that you were practically all his. his novice. his responsibility. his student.

and you were a very good student.

“what’s wrong, my lotus?” he asked, hovering over you. “is this pose too much for you than the last? i would’ve expected this one to be easier.”

you shook your head. your shoulders were stiff now, especially with that whirring, raspy voice his speakers emitted behind your ear.

“in silence, we give, but in words, we convey. should we revisit that lesson again?”

his words were teasing. ramattra slid his metallic fingers up your torso, just enough for the skin of your back to peak out.

you shook your head again. he squeezed.

“no…” you shivered, berating yourself for the unsteadiness of your words.

“no, what? perhaps a deeper dive into honorifics sometime the-“

“no, bhante ramattra.” you blurted before he could finish. “…sorry, bhikkhu. i didn’t mean to come out disrespectful.”

“mistakes are life lessons. now listen to your teacher once more and bend down on your arms.”

this craving could not be denied any longer. ramattra should listen to his… perhaps, vile instincts and have you here, right beneath him. how foolish he has accepted himself to be in this moment of need, because he did, in fact, need you. his star novice; much to learn, but he knew you had so much to give.

where in his circuits he’d be wired to lust, who knows. but after all, sentience was a gift to be held… and to be cherished. no amount of enlightenment could take the selfishness out of living.

it was clear now to the both of you that this was not so unrequited. that this back and forth game, that no other monk and apprentice shared, was not out of the blue, but a slow burned 6 months.

of course, you did not disobey your bhikkhu. you, ass up, face covered by elbows, awaited ramattra’s instructions, or actions.

the large omnic let his hands travel down the small of your waist, down below your naval. his other hand let way, bunching your beige attire into a fist. but he stayed a second longer, observing.

“tell me, lotus, are humans naturally this sensitive? i’ve barely touched you and you’re quivering as if it were snowing.” ramattra chuckled.

it was true. a simple graze was enough for you to be fully at his mercy. embarrassing, really, but one look from this monk could have your knees buckling. did he not realize how enticing he truly was? you can only imagine how many yearn for his attention—but no villager has ever had it; he’s been to busy teaching you.

“just… cold.” what a believable response.

“cold? the sensors in my fingers speak otherwise; you’re burning up.” he continued, “a lie is temporary refuge for a simple answer. you’ve been rather deceiving today—something you did not learn from me.”

“how have i? i know better.” you furrow your brows. this is… frustrating. speaking when all you want to do is scream the omnic’s name. waiting when he knows exactly what he’s doing. was this really a time for discussion?

“you should have told me sooner that you have had selfish thoughts. these are things that will lead you astray from your higher path.”

“i-“ he cut you off.

“i am no fool; i see how you look at me. how you react to the small things i do. how you stutter and play with your fingers when i look down at you.”

ramattra slowly slides his middle fingers along your slit, coating himself in your arousal. you stifle a whimper, burying your head in your folded arms.

“for thoughts like those, you could be casted out of the monastery. it is frowned upon to hold a bhikkhu in such low regard.”

long fingers split you open and felt you inside. each circle on your swollen clit was a jolt of hot pleasure through your body. your sounds were lewd—moans rolling off your tongue like your prayer this morning.

“it’s a good thing i like you so much; otherwise, your consequences wouldn’t be so… nice.”

does he ever stop talking? isn’t it apart of monk code to be listening instead of boastful? his voice is sexy though, you thought. as long as he keeps reassuring this was not at all one sided, it’s not a problem.

ramattra was toying you, using your venerable feelings as a way to touch you the way he wants. touching and pressing—and you could’ve sworn his robotic fingers had a sort of buzz to them. but this was torture, and he knows it; you needed him elsewhere.

“bhikkhu… please.”

“please what, lotus?” his movements were slower now, giving you just enough to want more.

“what do you need?”

“you,” you huffed, “inside me… please.”

ramattra dragged his long digits across your pussy, stopping at your hole and pressing down. you let out a guttural moan, shoving your ass forward for him to continue. he slowly pushed himself inside you, basking in the way you choked on your voice. whole body tensing and then relaxing all in a second.

“right here?”

“right there.”

he pumped in and out, curling into the spongy spot that had your hairs sticking up. his other hand pushed your garments out of the way, feeling you up—goosebumps littering your skin from the cold.

you slightly swayed from his movement, fingernails pressing into the rug below you so hard it almost hurt. but, you couldn’t focus on anything besides the full feeling you got from his fingers knuckle deep inside you, and then that empty, needy—pleading feeling your pussy sent all the way to your head when he pulled out. a back and forth that eventually fried any coherent thought you could have formed; sensory overload that made your skin buzz and toes curl.

your previous nervous and shameful scenarios of anyone being able to find you like this—to see one of the most disgraceful acts performed inside a sacred monastery, still stuck somewhere in the back of your mind. by divine presence, how awful! you would surely be cast out—you and your bhikkhu, just like he said. could even buddha be enough to guide you back astray?

and yet, here you were almost worry-free. for some reason that hadn’t been discussed, you felt as if… protected—safe with your bhikkhu behind you. as though bhante ramattra truly wouldn’t allow anything to happen to his precious student—and you were the most precious in this moment.

ramattra’s free hand moved from the fabric of your robe to the mound of your breast. he lingered beneath your nipple for a minute, almost like hesitation… too much for his artificial hormones to handle. after all, this was fairly new to omnics—like testing the waters to see how far he could make it before short-circuiting.

he let the quiet air sit still for a brief second, hearing the ever-present squelches sounding from beneath the two of you, and your breathless noises, before speaking.

“i would be deceitful to say you were the only one sneaking lustful glances, my novice… i have… wondered… how you must look coming out of the shower, or behind closed doors when we say ‘goodnight’. i’ve pictured you bare, as dishonorable as it sounds.”

another pump inside you.

“although, you leave nothing to the imagination when you don’t wear your proper attire—i assume there’s more than just me whose thought of you like that… but, i wonder… if you dress like that just for me.”

his voice lowered; it sent a new chill down your spine, and a new whimper out your plush lips. ramattra leaned even closer to your ear, hunched over you.

‘ramattra wasn’t a ravenous creature’, you thought, but right now, you worried he might actually devour you.

his movements slowed. again, keeping that tortuous pace that barely gave you what you need. just enough for you to whine and groan.

“i wouldn’t put it past you; i’m surprised you haven’t begged me onto you before now—so needy, you are… practically clung to me.”

he lowly chuckled, in his own robotic, whirring way.

“and my teachings can’t be that good, no… my lotus… you’ve needed me.” “ah!” you sharply gasped, teeth digging into your lip when your bhikkhu hit a particularly sensitive spot.

the monk’s hand now pushed past his previous hesitation, coming to grope your breast, fondling the plush skin. you heard the slightest grunt come from his speakers, if at all. his middle and index capturing your nipple and pinching.

“oh, fuck!” you moaned, furrowing your brows.

ramattra, again, chuckled, “i haven’t heard you curse since the beginning of your teaching… might i add that to the list to revisit?”

you groaned, “is this really—erugh!—the time for judgement?” the monk shook his head, “there is no place for judgement at any given moment; i do not judge you, my lotus, far from it. i admire you.”

ramattra curled metal into the tip of your cervix, slightly spread his fingers, then curled again.

“is that not obvious?”

maybe you were see-through—had he made that comment in a normal circumstance, you surely would’ve stumbled on your words. picturing it now with heat blooming across your pretty cheeks, nervously toying with your pinkies as if that’s the highest regard anyone could’ve held you at.

prized student, but now also, ramattra’s worship.

the omnic switched from fondling your sensitive breasts to trace his hands over the skin of your chest… then your waist, then below your navel, pressing ever-so-slightly to feel the indent of himself inside you. it was almost like he was trying to remember you; perhaps, scared that this might be the last of this lesson—that he’ll never get to see his student like this again, so he will savor it.

the metal of his thumb stretched out to your clit, pushing on the bundle of nerves to see how’d you react, which you would respond with a mewl of his name and he’d take that a sign to continue.

he started carefully, then gradually began the same pace he was fucking you with. ramattra huffs and holds onto you a little tighter when your once coherent moans turned into a mess of crying, whining, and blurts of ‘bhikkhu!’.

you felt a familiar, sickly sweet feeling bubbling in your tummy, flowering to your chest, and burning your inner thighs. your desperation had a mind of its own, and you arched your back farther than you thought you ever could. your pretty ass pressing more into your mentor’s crotch, fingernails bracing yourself. your blissful noises shortened and choked on each other as your mouth hung agape.

with another teasing pull of ramattra’s fingers, coming almost all the way out before shoving back inside your dripping cunt, you tipped over. that sweet, hot, white feeling coating your entire body, prickling the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. you orgasmed… hard, coming undone right beneath your bhikkhu, all for him to see.

your knees quivering, body too heavy to carry now, but ramattra had a firm hand to your navel, keeping you up for him to pump his, now cum-coated, fingers through your high. and when the slightest graze to your g-spot had you jolting, he stopped, setting you down gently and running his hands down the sides of your waist once more before sitting back on his knees.

you heaved your breaths, sweat glistening in the sunbeams through the trees, clothes tousled almost purposefully around you. ramattra would mutter a comment about how you look celestial, astrology hanging from the droplets in your hair.

it took a moment to get your bearings, and even 5 minutes later, you’re still tired and sore and hung up on the fact your teacher, who you no idea reciprocated your feelings, had fucked you so hard and passionately next to a statue of aurora ten feet away.

ramattra placed a hand on your back—the same one used to pleasure you, would you ever look at it the same?—but, nonetheless a hand and you were grateful it was made of metal, cool to the touch.

“yathā tvaṁ mām āvaśyakaṁ, tathā aham api tvāṁ āvaśyakam.” ramattra muttered, quiet and soft. you wondered how an artificial intelligence could muster up something so human sounding.

you peek up at him, the side of your face still pressed against the mat. he dragged a finger down the disks of your spine, tilting his head. you question, “i’m sorry, bhante ramattra, i haven’t gotten that far in my studies; i don’t understand.”

“and i wouldn’t expect you to, my lotus. but in unknowing lies the seed of understanding—soon, lotus, you’ll be able to read between my lines—like a flower holding the promise of fruit. i will teach you much more.” he promised. you stare at him; he stares back.

suddenly, you pushed yourself up with your hands, gathering your disorganized fabric to cover your chest. you were in the middle of the gardens of the monastery. you fucked in the middle of the gardens of the monastery. “oh, siddhartha—oh, shit!”

“what is it, novice?” ramattra watched as you frantically dressed yourself in your sanghati. you turned to him with wide eyes and a flustered face. “we just fucked in the gardens!” you whisper-yelled.

your bhikkhu did not respond in the panicked way you thought he would’ve. no. instead, the monk began to laugh, more of a chuckle—well, more of a buzz—whatever noise equates an omnic laugh.

“i assure you, lotus, i will not let harm or discrimination come your way. you’re safe with me. besides… the clock strikes the time for afternoon prayer; no one must have walked our path.”

and that lifted a weight off your shoulders. was your entire public display lewd and dishonorable? absolutely. but something tells you this is one of many more lessons to come… and you’ll simply have to get used to it.

notes: “yathā tvaṁ mām āvaśyakaṁ, tathā aham api tvāṁ āvaśyakam” - “i’ve needed you as much as you’ve needed me”

[meo-eiru]

Micah is like a potter, he coaxed life from the earth, shaping it as a potter shapes clay, and in return, the garden flourished. A paradise, it was— a glimpse of Eden.

He knelt in the soil, hands deep in the black earth, when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Slowly, he rose, wiping his hands on his cassock before turning. And there she was.

Sister Y/N, the newest novice.

The Mother Superior had introduced them formally last week, a brief exchange of pleasantries— a mere formality. She, like so many others, had barely registered in his mind at the time. Another novice, another soul seeking redemption to the Lord.

Unspoiled, and faithful. Her face was soft, framed by the simple habit, her eyes wide and too trusting. Micah had smiled, a smile crafted with the care of a sculptor.

Before he knew it— he wanted to ruin that pure expression to something deliciously defiled.

How sweet indeed, terribly sweet.

Y/N approached him, that same sweetness clung to her like the dew that glistened on the petals at dawn.

“Father Micah,” she says. How she looks at him, it was quite adorable to say the least. The way she seemed to hang on his every word— completely unaware of his unholy thoughts… adorable.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He turned to her, hands still cradling a delicate white rose, its petals soft like a cloud. “Ah, how thoughtful of you to offer your assistance, fufufu,” he cooed. His fingers brushed the rose almost reverently. "But I fear there is not much to be done in this garden. The flowers here have already been watered and primmed."

“I see…” Y/N looked visibly disappointed, a pout formed on her lips. As she began to turn and move away, she felt a warm hand gently close around her own.

"Before you go, I have something for you."

Grasping the slender stem of the white rose, Micah plucked it carefully. The flower in his hand appeared to match her— pure and delicate in its simplicity.

"I cannot let you leave empty handed, Sister," he extended the rose to her, its pale petals glowing in the light. "Here, a small token of my appreciation for your kind offer."

Her expression brightened like the sun on a clear day. “T-Thank you!”

She reached for it, her smile shy as she accepted the gift. But as her fingers closed around the stem, she winced— so slight, a brief flicker of pain— her finger slipped, catching on one of the rose’s hidden thorns. A single drop of blood welled up from the wound. It was a small thing, a mere prick.

Small tears welled up in her eyes— it set delightful shivers into his spine. He watched, transfixed, as the crimson bead slid down her finger, falling onto the white petals below.

The rose drank in the blood greedily, the purity of its petals stained with red.

Ah, it appears the thorns have claimed their offering. A small price to pay for such a lovely color, his thoughts coo at her, patronizingly.

He reached out without warning, his long, slender fingers encircling her wrist in a firm grip. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise at his sudden grasp. Startled, her gaze met his closed eyes, confused.

"Let me see,” Micah says, there honeyed sweetness in his words. "Such beautiful hands are not meant to bleed.”

Unless he wills it so.

Micah gently brought her finger to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste the blood— sweet as the forbidden fruit. He understood why Eve took the bite of the apple.

He then brought the digit between his own, using his free hand to gently squeeze, coaxing more blood to the surface. He brought his lips to her again, licking the remaining blood away. A tiny gasp escaped her lips, and her cheeks flushed slightly. He could feel her pulse quicken under his fingertips.

She was sweet as he had thought.

"F-Father!”

"Is something wrong?" Micah continued to hold her wrist, feigning innocence.

"It's just that..." Y/N began, stumbling over her words as her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of scarlet.

“Hmmm?”

"N-No, it's nothing..."she replied, her cheeks growing even more flushed.

As he continued to keep hold of her slender wrist, his other hand gently moved to cup her chin, holding her gaze steadfast.

"You seem awfully flushed," he said, his thumb brushing over her rosy cheek. "Are you unwell perchance?"

“No— I-I'm fine,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But your face is so red," Micah noted with a slight tilt of his head. "Let me check your temperature.

His hand moved to her forehead, his touch gentle yet firm. He allowed it to linger there longer than necessary.

She closed her eyes as his fingers brushed her forehead, the sensation of his touch sending a shiver down her spine. A shaky breath escaped her lips, and his gaze fixated on them.

"Sister Y/N!"

The voice, coming from further along the garden path, called out. Y/N's attention was instantly snapped away much to his dismay as she recognized the voice of one of her fellow novices calling out to her.

With a small gasp, she swiftly turned, breaking eye contact with Father Micah. "I-I have to go!"

Micah easily masked his irritation with a small smile. He watched as she turned towards the voice of her calling out for her.

"You best run along then. Duty calls, it seems."

She looked at him, and for a moment, he thought he saw something flicker in her gaze— doubt, perhaps. But then it was gone, and she was smiling again that made his blood burn.

He watched her go, his smile still firmly in place. He could wait. He would wait.

He knew he could not rush this. Like the flowers he so carefully tended, he needed to nurture her fall, to ensure it was as inevitable as it was irreversible.

The devil was in the details, and he was very good at details.

GOD THIS WAS SO GOOD

You did such an amazing job writing Micah I loved it so much I need a continuation!!!

[rukafais]

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR, SWORDTEMBER 2024 (get your prompt list here)

Wings "An implacable weapon that settles for nothing less than the complete subjugation of its opponents. Its preferred technique is a single and swift impalement that leaves shattered bones and armor in its path, often severing the spine in the process.

It resembles a lance more than a sword, disdaining the cut and adoring the thrust. Even in the hands of a novice wielder, it hunts targets with unstoppable force."

[moonyeyedstar]

Omg can you do a part to to I want you both!! Pretty please 🥺

I Want You Both pt 2 (Poly!Mauraders x f!reader) (Smut)

*18+* Part 1 Link I hope you like it! <3333

“Come on, hurry up!”  Sirius called out as he shivered in the Black Lake completely nude, with his two best friends.  It would have been pitch black if Remus hadn’t been smart enough to remember a few lanterns.  The flame flickered away in the glass shell, illuminating your path to them.

“Shut up, Black!”  You stripped quickly, earning a whistle from Sirius before both James and Remus pinched him.

“Oi!  Hands to yourself!”  Sirius yelped, and you ran into the lake, dark water splashing around you.  

“This was a bad idea,” your teeth chattered, but Remus quickly put his wandless magic skills to good use and cast a warming charm around the four of you, not only making the water bearable but actually pleasant.

“Oh, you love me,” Sirius grinned as he leaned in for a kiss, which you would’ve been stupid to deny.  You rolled your eyes but eagerly returned his advancement, deepening the kiss.  Sirius was no novice when it came to making your knees weak.  You let gentle moans make their way into the kiss.  Remus wrapped his arms around your waist from behind you, pressing his already hard cock agaisnt the small of your back.  Slickness began to grow between your thighs.  James pumped himself to his full erection as he watched the three of you, his cock twiching in his palm.  

“Oh, fuck me, Remus,” you moaned out as you pressed yourself against Remus, feeling his smirk as he kissed the back of your neck.  You sent a hand down to grasp Sirius’s cock, you could feel his breath hitch in the kiss as your grasped him and pumped him in your firm grip.

“Fuck,” Sirius moaned out, his hips jerking into your hand.  Remus pulled back, his hands sliding down from your waist to your hips as he slowly filled your aching cunt inch by inch.

“Why don’t you fuck Padfoot, James?”  Remus smirked to himself as you cried out moans from the way your pussy stretched around his cock.  “I think he would love that, won’t you, Pads?”

“Fuck yes,” Sirius moaned out shamelessly as you pumped him in rhythm with Remus’s thrusts.  James’s cheeks warmed as he grasped Sirius’s hips, using a spell to make his tight hole slick.  Sirius whimpered from the tingling sensation the spell cast upon him but was all too eager to take James in his arse while you pumped his twitching cock.  James slowly buried his thick size in Sirius’s tight hole, both of their heads falling back in pleasure.

“Fucking hell,” you moaned as Sirius’s lips separated from yours.  Watching James fuck Sirius while Remus fucked you made your stomach do flips.  They looked so fucking hot.  

After a few thrusts, Sirius returned his gaze to you, doing his best to regain his composure and prolong his orgasm that was threatening to release at any second.

“So fucking tight,” Remus groaned agasinst your skin, now leaving bruise marks on your shoulders with his lips,  

“Oh, Remus,” your moans were muffled in the kiss you shared with Sirius, and your hips shook as he picked up his pace, fucking you harder than ever.

“You take me so well, Pads,” James smirked on the back of Sirius’s neck, trailing his lips to nibble on the bottom of his ear lobe before sliding one of his hands off his hip and up his chest, feeling him tremble in his touch, as he grasped his neck firmly.  Sirius choked out his moans into your mouth, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he was so damn close.

“I’m gonna cum!”  You cried out as your hips shook and your knees buckled.  Your body went limp against Sirius, but he held you strong against his chest.  He buried his face in the crook of your neck to muffle his moans as he caressed your back and you continued to pump him lazily, his cock twitching quicker than ever.  It only took a few more minutes for him to be spilling out.

“Merlin fuck!”  Sirius’s hips bucked, but James held him in place as he gave him his last few thrusts before filling his tight hole.  James loved the way Sirius arse throbbed around his cock.

“R-Remus, please,” you moaned drunkenly, your second orgasm rocking through your body from Remus’s relentless tempo.  “Please cum inside me,” you whined.

“Shit,” Remus moaned under his breath as he pumped you full of his seed.  You were all limp and practically floating in the lake.

“Who goes there!”  Filch’s shrill voice shouted, a meow following not too far after. 

“Shit,” the four of you all sunk under the water.  Filch mumbled something bitterly to himself, and he picked up all your clothes off the grass and tossed them over his arm that carried a rusty, creaky lantern.  Sirius was the first one up to check if he was gone.

“Wanker stole our bloody clothes!”  Sirius cried out.

“What’s he going to do with a lady's undergarments?  He is far too ugly for drag,” James stared at the empty grass.

“I know what he’s gonna do,” Remus's nose crinkled, earning a gag from all of you.

“Well, someone better do something because I am not streaking through the school,” your tone was firm.

“Don’t worry, I would love to streak through the school,” Sirius beamed and ran out of the lake.  “Get your cameras ready, ladies, here I come!”  Sirius disappeared into the darkness.

“Prongs… Didn’t you bring the cloak?”  Remus looked over to him.“Yeah, but that idiot is happy, so don’t tell him,” James laughed.  Oh, Sirius.

[buttercandy16]

Corrupted Vows

PAIRING(s): Nun!Agatha Harkness x Novice!Reader

SUMMARY: Sister Agatha, a revered nun with hidden desires, becomes obsessed with corrupting the pure-hearted novice under her care.

WARNING(s): Religious themes, manipulation, power imbalance, corruption, morally ambiguous behavior, and dark themes.

A/N: Sinful...

The abbey was cloaked in silence, its heavy stones steeped in centuries of prayer. The air was cool and faintly scented with wax and incense, a comforting cradle for your thoughts as you knelt in the chapel, whispering soft, fervent prayers to the Divine. It was your sanctuary—your refuge—until Sister Agatha arrived.

Her presence was undeniable, a velvet shadow slipping between the stained-glass windows and casting its allure over the sanctity of the room. There was something magnetic about her, something in the way her eyes lingered too long or her voice curled sweetly, like forbidden fruit on the tongue.

"You work tirelessly for your faith," she said, her voice low and tender. It startled you. You hadn’t heard her enter, but here she was, her face serene under her veil.

You looked up at her, blinking like a doe caught in lantern light. "I... It is my duty," you murmured, averting your eyes. Her gaze always felt too heavy, too piercing, as if she could read every stray thought that strayed from the righteous path.

Agatha smiled, stepping closer. Her robe whispered against the floor, brushing the silence aside. She reached out to tilt your chin upward with a gloved finger, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Duty," she repeated softly, as if tasting the word. "Such a heavy burden for someone so young, so delicate."

You flinched slightly under her touch but didn’t pull away. You told yourself it was respect, but deep down, the fluttering in your stomach betrayed an unease you didn’t understand.

"I was praying," you said quickly, retreating to the safety of your well-rehearsed habits. "For strength and for wisdom."

"Strength," Agatha mused. "Wisdom." Her fingers slid from your chin, lingering against your cheek, too intimate to be innocent. "Those are noble requests, my dear. But are you sure that’s what you truly need?"

Your eyes darted downward. "I... don’t understand."

She knelt beside you on the pew, her presence warm and overwhelming. "Do you think the Divine asks us to deny the very desires They instilled within us?" Her voice was velvet, an insidious comfort.

You froze, your mind reeling. "Sister... we are taught to resist temptation. To walk in the light."

Agatha chuckled, a low, melodious sound that felt sinful in itself. "Temptation is not the enemy, child. It's a lesson. To feel it, to embrace it, is to truly understand your faith. How can you resist what you do not know?"

Her hand brushed against yours, her fingers curling softly around it. Your breath hitched at the contact, a pang of guilt piercing through your chest even as you remained motionless.

"Sister Agatha..." you whispered, unsure of whether you were protesting or pleading.

"Shh," she soothed, stroking the back of your hand. "You work so hard, always giving, always sacrificing. But what have you been given? What warmth, what love, have you received for your devotion? Tell me."

You felt tears sting your eyes. It wasn’t something you’d allowed yourself to dwell on, but her words cut too close to a hidden wound. "The love of God is all I need."

"Is it?" she murmured, her lips close to your ear. "Then why do you look so lost, so lonely? Faith is powerful, yes. But it is not enough to fill a heart meant for more."

You shuddered, her breath warm against your skin, her grip firm now, anchoring you. "I’m not lonely," you insisted, but your voice cracked under the weight of the lie.

Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, not quite a kiss, but enough to leave you trembling. "Let me show you what it means to be truly loved, to be truly seen. The Divine isn’t just in the light, my dear. The shadow holds Its secrets, too."

For a moment, you were caught in her thrall, her words weaving a web of doubts and dangerous possibilities. But when she pulled back, her smile was soft, her eyes tender. "Think on my offer, little one. I’ll wait for your answer."

As she stood and left the chapel, her departure was like a storm receding, leaving you adrift in its wake. The air was colder without her, and the familiar silence of the abbey felt suffocating.

You clasped your hands tightly, bowing your head once more, but the words of your prayer faltered, her voice and touch lingering too deeply.

Somewhere in the depths of your soul, a seed of doubt had been planted. And Agatha, with all her charm and shadowed intentions, would be patient.

You lingered in the chapel longer than you should have that night, trying to exorcise the memory of her voice, the whisper of her touch. But even as you murmured prayers to drown her out, her presence clung to you like incense smoke—heavy, invasive, intoxicating.

When you finally left, the halls of the abbey were silent, save for the soft patter of your footsteps. You paused outside your cell, hesitating before entering. It felt too small, too quiet. The walls pressed in, as if they were accusing you. But of what? You had done nothing.

You thought sleep would bring respite, but it didn’t. Dreams came instead, vivid and strange: Agatha’s voice echoing, her hands on yours, guiding, possessing. The darkness around her swallowed everything, and you couldn’t stop walking toward her.

When you woke, sweat clung to your skin, your heart racing like you’d been running. The morning bells tolled, and you hurried to begin your duties, your shame a constant specter at your side.

But she found you again—of course, she did. She always found you.

This time, it was in the garden. The sun had dipped below the horizon, the twilight air cool against your skin. You were trimming roses in silence when her shadow fell over you.

"Good evening, little lamb."

You stiffened at the sound of her voice but didn’t turn to face her. "Sister Agatha," you said, trying to keep your tone even, though your hands trembled on the shears.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

It wasn’t a question. She stepped closer, her hands clasped in front of her, the picture of serene authority. "Do I frighten you?"

"No," you lied, swallowing hard.

Her fingers trailed over a rosebush as she watched you with that predatory gaze. "Good. Because I see something in you, something… untapped."

"Sister, please," you said, voice shaky as you turned to face her. "I don’t understand why you keep… saying these things."

"Don’t you?" Her voice was silk, sliding under your skin. She moved closer, invading your space, the scent of her—warm and faintly spiced—intoxicating. "You’re a bright little spark trapped in stone, and I cannot stand to see you dim yourself. Your God does not demand you be less than you are. Why should they?"

Her words struck a chord, unearthing a bitterness you didn’t even know you’d buried. You flinched, and she saw it—she always saw too much.

"I’m fine as I am," you said weakly, trying to step back, but she caught your wrist, her grip firm.

"No," she said, her voice darker now, carrying an undercurrent of steel. "You’re not."

The gentle tenderness in her face twisted into something sharper, a mask cracking to reveal the dangerous power beneath. "You’re wasting your light here, giving yourself to something that cannot love you the way you deserve. Why do you punish yourself for wanting more? Why do you fear me when I am offering you freedom?"

"Because it’s wrong," you whispered, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

She tilted her head, her grip on your wrist tightening just enough to send a shiver of unease through you. "Is it wrong to want what you’ve been denied? To step out of the shadows of guilt and into the arms of someone who sees you—truly sees you?"

Your breath hitched as she stepped closer still, her other hand rising to cup your cheek. The look in her eyes pinned you in place, a storm threatening to engulf you. "You know it already," she whispered. "Deep down, you’ve always known. All you need is someone to take your hand and lead you to the truth."

Her lips brushed against your forehead, light and reverent like a prayer. You shuddered, frozen under her touch. "I can give you everything you’ve ever denied yourself," she murmured, her voice heavy with promise—and threat.

Her hands fell away suddenly, leaving you cold and bereft. She stepped back, her expression softening, though her eyes remained predatory. "The choice is yours," she said, turning to leave. "But I’ll make it simple. Tonight, after Compline, come to the east tower." She paused, her smile slow and wicked. "Or don’t. We’ll see if your devotion is as pure as you think."

You stood there trembling as she disappeared into the shadows, the roses around you whispering in the wind. For the first time since you’d taken your vows, you didn’t feel safe within the abbey walls. Worse still, you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

You couldn’t focus during Compline. Your lips formed the words of the prayers, but your heart wasn’t in them. Every moment dragged, the solemnity of the abbey’s rituals weighing on you like chains.

And through it all, the thought of her lingered. The east tower.

Your mind swirled with doubt, fear, and something darker—something you refused to name. Every warning from your teachings echoed in your ears, but they felt distant, drowned out by the sound of her voice, the memory of her touch.

When the prayers ended, and the sisters began retiring to their cells, you hesitated. Your legs felt like they belonged to someone else as they carried you through the dim corridors, each step a betrayal of everything you’d vowed to uphold.

The east tower loomed ahead, its staircase spiraling up into darkness. You paused at the base, your breath coming in shallow gasps. This was your moment to turn back, to prove you were stronger than whatever spell she’d cast over you.

But something deeper pushed you onward.

The climb was silent save for the soft shuffle of your shoes on the stone steps. The air grew colder the higher you went, the shadows darker. When you reached the top, you hesitated again, your hand hovering over the heavy wooden door.

Before you could knock, the door creaked open on its own. She was waiting for you.

The room was dimly lit, a single candle casting flickering shadows across the walls. Sister Agatha stood by the window, her back to you, the moonlight outlining her figure. She didn’t turn as she spoke.

"I wondered if you’d come." Her voice was calm, almost pleased.

You stepped inside, your throat dry. "Why did you ask me to come here?"

She turned then, her expression unreadable, her sharp eyes cutting through the low light. "Because I couldn’t bear to see you suffocating any longer," she said simply, stepping closer. "You’re meant for more than this, little lamb. And I mean to show you."

Your back hit the door as you instinctively stepped away from her. "This isn’t right. It—it’s not what God wants."

She laughed softly, a sound that felt cruel in its mockery. "And who told you that? The priests? The abbess? Have you ever asked God what they want, or do you simply recite the rules you’ve been given like a good, obedient servant?"

Her words cut deep, stirring something rebellious and bitter in your heart. Still, you shook your head, clinging to the shreds of your convictions. "No. I—I have faith."

"Do you?" she challenged, now only inches away from you. Her hand lifted, brushing against your cheek again, her touch electric. "If you had true faith, why are you here? Why are you trembling?"

You didn’t have an answer.

Her other hand slid to your waist, holding you firmly but not cruelly. "The truth, my sweet little lamb, is that you’re afraid. Not of me, not even of sin, but of the freedom I can give you. Because freedom is terrifying, isn’t it?"

Her grip tightened slightly, her lips so close to your ear you could feel the heat of her breath. "You could leave right now," she whispered. "I wouldn’t stop you. But we both know you won’t, don’t we?"

Your breath hitched, tears springing to your eyes as you fought against the war raging in your chest. She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her face softening as she saw the conflict within you.

"I don’t want to break you, my lamb," she murmured, her voice strangely tender now. "I want to save you. From this place. From this life. From yourself."

Her lips hovered over yours, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you. She didn’t move, didn’t take the choice from you.

It was yours to make.

You closed your eyes, your head swimming, every nerve in your body screaming for you to decide—to turn away or to fall.

You stood at the edge of a precipice, the storm of emotions inside you threatening to consume you. Every teaching, every prayer you’d clung to in your short life wavered, fragile as the flame of the candle flickering behind Agatha.

You opened your eyes, and her face was still there, so close, her gaze unyielding. She was waiting—patient, confident—but her eyes betrayed something else: hunger. She wanted you to choose her, to step willingly into the darkness she offered.

Your lips parted, trembling as your breath mingled with hers. And in that moment, you let go.

You leaned forward, barely aware of the decision, and your lips brushed hers, soft and tentative. Agatha let out a soft hum of satisfaction, her hands tightening on your waist as she deepened the kiss. It was overwhelming—her warmth, her touch, her control—and for a moment, the world around you dissolved.

When she pulled back, her eyes burned with triumph, her smile wicked. "There, now," she murmured, her voice dripping with honeyed sin. "That wasn’t so difficult, was it?"

You staggered slightly as she released you, the weight of what you’d done crashing over you. Your fingers went to your lips, trembling, as the shame seeped in.

"I—I shouldn’t have—" you stammered, taking a step back, but Agatha caught your wrist and pulled you to her with a strength that belied her graceful demeanor.

"Hush," she whispered, her fingers threading through your hair as she tilted your head back to force you to meet her gaze. "No more lies, little one. Not to me, and not to yourself. You came here because you wanted this. You needed it."

"I… I don’t…" The words faltered, your resolve crumbling under the weight of her conviction.

Agatha’s hand moved to your throat, her touch firm but gentle, her thumb brushing along your pulse point. "Don’t fight it," she murmured, her tone soothing. "You’ve been caged your whole life, chained by rules and guilt that were never yours to carry. I’m not asking you to abandon your faith. I’m offering you something truer—something deeper."

Her lips found yours again, this time demanding, devouring. You tried to resist the pull of her darkness, but every part of you betrayed you, leaning into her, clinging to her. You hated the way her touch made you feel alive in a way that prayer never had, hated the fire it ignited deep in your chest.

When she finally broke the kiss, her hands still cradling your face, her expression was softer, though no less commanding. "You belong to me now," she said simply, her voice like the closing of a door. "Body, soul, everything. Say it."

You shook your head weakly, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I can’t…"

Her thumb brushed away your tears, her gaze unfaltering. "You already have, my lamb. You just haven’t admitted it yet." She leaned close, her voice lowering to a whisper. "Say it, and I’ll show you a world beyond the walls of this prison. Refuse, and you’ll stay trapped, forever haunted by the taste of freedom you denied yourself."

Her words wrapped around your mind like chains, pulling you deeper into her orbit. You were drowning, and she was the only hand reaching to pull you out—but into what?

The words left your lips before you fully realized you’d spoken them, trembling and quiet: "I… I belong to you."

Agatha smiled, her eyes gleaming with victory. She pressed a kiss to your forehead, reverent in its tenderness. "Good girl," she purred. "Now, the real work begins."

Her hand slid to yours, her fingers entwining with your own, and she led you toward the window, the cool night air washing over you as she opened it. The moon hung low in the sky, full and luminous, casting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

"This world," she said, her voice soft yet commanding, "is far darker than they’ve prepared you for. But don’t fear it. It is only in the darkness that we find the truest light."

You stared out into the night, your heart pounding as her words sank in. You couldn’t go back now. Even if you wanted to, the part of you that craved her, that had always longed for something more, was awake.

Agatha stepped behind you, her arms wrapping around your waist as she rested her chin on your shoulder. "It will hurt," she said quietly, her voice almost tender. "Transformation always does. But I’ll be there for every moment, shaping you, remaking you. Until the only chains left are the ones you choose."

And as the wind swept through the open window, carrying the scent of freedom and danger, you closed your eyes and let yourself fall.

The following nights became a blur of shadows and secrecy, a rhythm you couldn’t break, even if you had wanted to. Agatha’s hold on you tightened with every encounter, her presence an intoxicating blend of tenderness and cruelty that left you more disoriented with each passing day.

She began isolating you in subtle ways—requesting your assistance during communal prayers, leading you to walk with her when the others gathered, always ensuring your focus remained solely on her. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence, but deep down, you knew better.

One night, she summoned you again to the east tower, her presence colder now, sharper. You hesitated at the threshold, the memories of her touch pulling you forward even as your instincts screamed to turn back.

The candlelight illuminated her silhouette, and for the first time, the shadows in the room seemed alive, flickering and dancing unnaturally. Her voice was soft when she spoke, but there was no warmth in it. "You came," she said. It wasn’t a question.

"You… asked for me," you murmured, your voice weak and brittle as you stepped inside.

"I did," she said, turning to face you. Her gaze pierced through you, her expression unreadable but heavy with something sinister. "And you came because you belong to me, don’t you?"

Your mouth opened to reply, but the words caught in your throat.

Agatha stepped closer, the air around her charged with something oppressive. "Say it," she commanded, her voice low and firm.

"I belong to you," you whispered, your voice barely audible, and yet it echoed in the silence of the tower.

Her smile was slow, almost predatory. She reached for you, her fingers brushing over your cheek. The touch felt colder tonight, no longer tender but claiming. "Good girl. You’re learning."

She turned abruptly, moving toward a small table in the corner of the room. You hadn’t noticed it before—though how could you have missed it? On it lay a single black book, its cover worn and marked with strange symbols, and a slender dagger glinting faintly in the candlelight.

"You’ve prayed to the Divine all your life," she said, her back to you as she traced a finger over the book’s spine. "And yet, here you are—willingly giving yourself to something far darker. Do you know why?"

You swallowed hard, unable to answer.

She turned, her eyes burning with something unholy. "Because your prayers were never enough. Because no matter how pure you tried to be, there was always that voice in your head, wasn’t there? The one that whispered of things you could never name. Desires you buried. Pleasures you denied."

You shook your head, your breath shallow. "I—no, I’ve always been faithful."

"Faithful," she said mockingly, her voice cutting like glass. "And yet, you’re here. Kneeling before me as if I’m your god. Isn't that what you’ve always wanted? Not salvation, but surrender."

Her words wrapped around you like chains, binding you tighter as she stepped closer, the book now in her hands. "I told you before, my lamb, that transformation would hurt." She set the book down, her eyes never leaving yours. "Tonight, we begin."

You took a step back, dread pooling in your stomach. "What do you mean?"

Agatha smiled, a dark, cruel thing. "This innocence you cling to—it’s a lie. And I will burn it away until there’s nothing left of the girl you were. Only then will you be truly mine."

Her fingers wrapped around your wrist, her grip ironclad as she dragged you to the table. The dagger glinted ominously as she pressed it into your trembling hands.

"Cut away the veil," she whispered, her voice a velvet command. "Offer a piece of yourself, not to the Divine, but to me. Show me your devotion, your true faith."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face as you tried to pull away, but her grip was unrelenting. "I—I can’t—"

"Yes, you can," she hissed, her gaze unyielding. "Because I own you. And you will prove it."

The blade trembled in your hand, the weight of her gaze suffocating you. Your mind screamed to resist, but your body obeyed her command, as if your will no longer belonged to you.

You pressed the edge against your palm, the sharp pain bringing a gasp to your lips as a thin line of blood welled up. Agatha’s smile widened, triumphant.

"Good girl," she purred, taking your hand in hers and holding it over the book. The blood dripped onto the ancient text, the crimson stark against the dark leather.

You collapsed to your knees.

You knelt there, trembling, clutching the blade in your hands as the tension in the room suffocated you. The glint of metal against your bloodied palms seemed more symbolic than dangerous—a mark of your crumbling will, etched into flesh by your own choices.

Agatha’s presence loomed above you, her hand resting on your shoulder in a gesture that was almost comforting, though it carried no warmth. Her grip tightened slightly, possessive, reminding you that there was no escape, even if you wanted to flee.

"There’s no power in that blade," she said softly, her voice carrying the same chill as the cold stone beneath your knees. "The only power here is mine. And the only reason it matters is because I have chosen to give it to you."

You looked up at her, your tear-streaked face illuminated by the pale candlelight. There was no trace of kindness left in her expression. Her features were serene but unnervingly controlled, as though her emotions were held behind a wall, deliberate and impenetrable.

"What… what do you want from me?" you whispered.

Her hand slid from your shoulder to your chin, tilting your face so your gaze met hers. Her smile was faint, and the silence stretched uncomfortably before she finally spoke.

"I want everything."

The words settled heavily between you, an undeniable truth wrapped in her commanding tone.

"You cling to these walls, these prayers, as if they’ll save you from what you truly desire. But deep down, you know they won’t. No one here will." She leaned closer, her eyes fixed on yours, her voice low and intimate. "I am the only one who sees you for what you really are, and you can’t bear to look away. Admit it."

"I don’t understand," you stammered, though you did. You understood perfectly, but admitting it would mean giving her the power she claimed—and more terrifyingly, that she already wielded.

Agatha chuckled softly, a sound devoid of humor. "Oh, but you do. You came here tonight, not out of fear or obligation, but because you wanted to." Her fingers trailed lightly down your cheek, a touch that sent shivers of confusion and guilt through you.

"I came because—"

"—because you couldn’t stop thinking about me," she interrupted smoothly. Her confidence was unnerving, like a hunter closing in on its prey. "Every word, every touch, every breath I take has haunted you, hasn’t it? And now, here you are, begging me for something you don’t even have the courage to name."

Your throat tightened, the air in the room too thick to breathe. "This isn’t right," you said, the words barely audible, more for yourself than for her.

She smirked. "Isn’t it? Who defines what’s right? The same voices that told you to suppress your desires, to live in quiet servitude while they hold the power over your life? Or is it me—the only one who truly knows you?"

Her grip on your chin firmed, and her voice dropped, colder, sharper. "Don’t play the innocent with me. I see you, really see you, and you disgust yourself because I am everything you can’t admit to wanting."

The truth of her words struck like a slap, and you flinched.

Agatha released your face and straightened, towering above you as she studied your trembling form. "Stand," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument.

You hesitated, but the force of her gaze compelled you. Your legs wavered as you stood, and she stepped closer, her body almost brushing yours.

"You are not leaving this room until you admit the truth," she said, her tone deceptively calm. "And it isn’t the blade that will cut away the lies—it’s me."

She circled you slowly, her eyes never leaving you as you stood frozen in place. Every step she took amplified the weight in your chest, the humiliation of her scrutiny unraveling you piece by piece.

"I could break you," she said, her voice a cruel whisper in your ear. "I could shatter every illusion you have of yourself and leave you as nothing but a hollow vessel for me to fill. But that’s not what I want."

Her hands rested on your shoulders now, firm but strangely gentle. "What I want," she continued, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, "is for you to choose me, willingly. Because deep down, we both know you already have."

The words hit you like a knife to the chest. She was right. Every action, every choice you’d made up to this moment had been in her favor. You hadn’t fought; you hadn’t resisted.

And she knew it.

"I… I don’t know who I am anymore," you choked out, tears spilling freely now, and you hated the way her touch steadied you, grounding you in the chaos she’d created.

Her lips curved into a smile against your skin, predatory and satisfied. "That’s the first true thing you’ve said all night," she murmured.

Her hands slid from your shoulders to your arms, holding you firmly as she stepped in front of you again. "But you will, little lamb," she promised, her tone softening into something almost tender. "Because I will tell you who you are."

And for the first time, you felt the chains wrap around you—not of her making, but of your own submission.

Her hands never left your arms as she held you firmly in place, her piercing gaze locking you in place as surely as iron shackles. The dim candlelight flickered in the space between you, shadows licking at the edges of the room as if they too were captivated by her presence.

"You've fought so hard to hold onto this idea of innocence," she murmured, her voice as soft as a prayer, yet laced with wickedness. "But innocence is nothing more than ignorance dressed in virtue. And you, my sweet lamb… you crave knowledge. Don’t you?"

"I don’t—" you began, but her fingers moved, brushing down your arms, and the words faltered in your throat. The touch was slow, deliberate—a map being drawn along your skin, one line at a time.

"Shh," she interrupted, her voice almost soothing. "No lies, little one. Not now, not after you've already given me so much."

Her hands found your waist, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of your habit. She tugged you closer with such ease, you wondered if you had moved yourself. Her breath was warm against your cheek as she leaned in, her lips hovering near your ear.

"Tell me," she whispered, her voice low and intoxicating, "what does it feel like to surrender?"

You shook your head, though it was more a reflex than defiance. "I haven’t—"

"Oh, but you have," she said, her tone firm now, almost chiding. "Every time you step into this room, every moment you stand here shaking under my gaze… every time you look at me like that."

"Like what?" you asked, though you hated the desperate note that crept into your voice.

"Like you’re mine," she answered easily. Her hands slid upward, brushing over your ribs, her fingertips grazing the edges of your vulnerability with surgical precision. "And you are, aren't you?"

"I don’t know," you managed, the tears welling up again as your mind swam with confusion and guilt—and something else, something that simmered low in your stomach and climbed higher every time she touched you.

"Let me make it simple for you," she said, her tone gentler now, like a teacher coaxing a student toward understanding. One hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up so you couldn’t avoid her eyes. "Obedience. Faith. Devotion. That’s what they’ve told you your life is meant for, isn’t it?"

You nodded shakily, unsure why you were even answering.

"Good." Her thumb brushed over your lips, a fleeting touch that left you breathless. "Then let this be your new faith. Me. Let this be your devotion: giving yourself entirely to what you feel, without shame. Let me show you the freedom they would deny you."

Her other hand traced the line of your back, her nails grazing your skin through the thin layers of cloth. The sensation was subtle but electric, sending a shiver down your spine that you couldn’t suppress.

"I don’t want to hurt you," she continued, though her voice carried a weight that made you wonder if that was entirely true. "But if that’s what it takes to strip you bare—of your innocence, your guilt, your denial—then I will."

Her lips brushed yours, featherlight but deliberate, and you froze. The kiss lingered there, her proximity overwhelming, her breath mingling with yours until it felt like there was no air left for either of you.

"You don’t have to fight anymore," she whispered against your lips. "Just say the word, and I’ll give you what you’ve been too afraid to ask for."

And yet, she didn’t move closer. She didn’t take that final step, leaving you in the suffocating limbo she’d created. The decision, cruelly and mercifully, was yours.

Her eyes bore into yours, expectant, unyielding. "Say it, lamb," she commanded softly, her hands now resting just above your hips, firm yet still offering the illusion of gentleness.

"I…" You hesitated, the war raging inside you as tears blurred your vision. Everything about this moment felt like a plunge into something you could never return from—a fall orchestrated solely by her hands.

"Say it," she urged again, her voice growing darker, less patient. Her grip tightened slightly, her fingers digging into your flesh just enough to remind you that she held all the control here.

You closed your eyes, trembling as your lips formed the words you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting to say. "I’m yours."

And as the room fell silent, save for the sound of your uneven breathing, Agatha smiled.

"My sweet lamb," she murmured, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now… we begin."

Her lips claimed yours then, not tender or patient, but consuming, pulling you deeper into her grasp as her hands explored every vulnerability she could find. Her touch was both a reward and a punishment, each movement calculated to dismantle what little resistance you had left.

Agatha Harkness was nothing if not thorough.

Agatha’s lips moved with calculated precision, coaxing you deeper into the moment as her hands roamed your body—not rushed, not hurried, but deliberate, every touch a claim that made your skin burn under the weight of her possession.

Her kiss was all-consuming, and in it, you felt the dissolution of everything you thought you knew about yourself. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t affection. It was domination veiled in intimacy, her way of branding you in a way no eyes could see but that you would feel forever.

Her hands slid up your sides, her touch searing through the thin fabric of your habit. She gripped your shoulders with gentle force, breaking the kiss to study your face, her eyes dark and unrelenting.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice like velvet laced with steel.

You tried to avert your gaze, overwhelmed by the intensity of her stare, but she tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

"No hiding now, little lamb," she said, her tone soft but laced with warning. "I want you to feel every part of this. Every piece of the girl you were falling away until there’s nothing left but my creation."

Her words sliced through the silence, leaving you vulnerable and exposed. She wasn’t asking for your consent; she’d already claimed it in every moment leading to this. The tension in the room was unbearable, the candlelight throwing long shadows that seemed to stretch toward you like witnesses to your undoing.

Her fingers traced along the neckline of your habit, her touch maddeningly slow as if savoring your trembling beneath her hands. "This," she murmured, brushing the fabric lightly, "is a shroud. A shield you think protects you from the world—and yourself. But all it does is hide who you really are."

She began to undo it, each motion deliberate, giving you ample time to stop her—not that she believed for a second that you would. And you didn’t. You stood frozen, paralyzed by equal parts shame and desire as the heavy fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet like an offering.

Agatha stepped back, her eyes dragging over you with an expression that made your stomach twist into knots. It wasn’t hunger in her gaze; it was victory, as if stripping you of your barriers was the real prize she sought.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice low and almost reverent. "Do you feel it yet? The freedom? The weightlessness of leaving behind the person you were forced to be?"

You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, your shame warring with the part of you that longed to be seen by her—truly seen.

"None of that," she said sharply, stepping forward and prying your arms away. "You are mine now, body and soul. You will not hide from me."

Her hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Her lips brushed against your ear as she whispered, "This is where you belong. With me. No prayer, no god, no doctrine will ever make you feel this alive."

Your heart hammered in your chest, your breathing uneven as her words sank deep into your mind like hooks. You wanted to argue, to plead for some semblance of salvation, but there was none left—not in this room, not in her grasp.

"I’ll ask you one last time," Agatha said, her voice softening slightly as she pulled back to look into your eyes. "Will you give yourself to me completely? Without hesitation, without shame?"

You swallowed hard, the enormity of her question pressing down on you. She wasn’t asking for a fleeting moment of vulnerability. She wanted everything—every part of you, stripped bare and given over willingly.

Your lips parted, the words hanging on the edge of your breath.

"I will," you whispered, the final crack in the dam holding you together.

Agatha’s smile was dark and all-encompassing, her hands tightening their hold on you. She leaned in, her lips hovering over yours as she murmured, "Good girl."

And then, she took you fully—not gently, not kindly, but with the same measured cruelty that defined her every action. She unraveled you piece by piece, her touch leaving marks on your skin and mind that no prayer could ever erase.

This was her victory, and you knew it. You were hers, entirely and irrevocably.

The room was cloaked in an oppressive stillness. The air felt heavier now, the flickering candlelight casting warped shadows on the stone walls. You sat on the cold floor, your limbs heavy and your mind a hollow, swirling abyss. Agatha remained poised beside you, her presence as dominating as ever, though her silence held a suffocating weight.

"You’re trembling," she murmured, her tone deceptively soft as she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-slicked brow. Her fingertips lingered just a moment too long, a constant reminder that nothing about this closeness was accidental.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Words had abandoned you, slipping from your grasp as thoroughly as your innocence had.

Agatha exhaled slowly, her fingers tipping your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet hers once more. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze piercing. She searched your face as if savoring the wreckage she’d left behind.

"I expected more fight," she said casually, though the faint curl of a smirk betrayed her satisfaction. "But no… you gave me everything. So easily, so completely."

You swallowed hard, but your voice refused to rise. The fire you once thought would guide you had been extinguished, replaced by something raw and consuming. Shame twisted in your stomach, mingling with the dark thrill that you hated to admit still simmered beneath your skin.

"How does it feel, little lamb?" Agatha asked, her voice a mockery of concern. "Knowing there’s no part of you I don’t own now? No thought, no desire, no boundary that belongs to anyone but me?"

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to give her that final triumph. And yet, the words spilled from your lips before you could stop them.

"I feel… nothing," you whispered hoarsely.

Her smile deepened, a mix of condescension and triumph as she cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to hold her gaze. "Oh, but you will," she purred, her tone laced with an unsettling intimacy. "What you feel now is fear. Emptiness. But that’s what I want. I’ve stripped you down to the core, burned away all those useless pieces of you until there’s nothing left but… potential."

Her hands dropped, and she stood, her towering form casting a long shadow over you as you remained kneeling at her feet. "And now," she continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, "we begin the process of rebuilding. Of shaping you into exactly what I need. What I want."

She turned, walking leisurely toward the small table in the corner. Your habit lay crumpled nearby, and she picked it up with a slight sneer, letting it dangle from her fingers as though it was a discarded shell.

"This no longer suits you," she remarked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. She dropped the fabric back to the floor and gestured toward the remnants of your previous self. "These trappings of piety, of humility—they’re meaningless now, don’t you think?"

You stared at the crumpled garment, your mind struggling to reconcile the life it represented with the one Agatha had forced you into.

When you didn’t answer, she stepped closer, her shoes clicking softly against the stone. Her fingers trailed over your shoulder, down your arm, sending shivers through your exhausted frame. "Speak," she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp enough to make you flinch. "Do not make me ask again."

"They are meaningless," you said quietly, the words like lead on your tongue.

Her smirk returned, and she crouched before you, her face inches from yours. "Good girl," she murmured, brushing her thumb over your cheek. "I knew you’d come to understand. But remember this—what you are now is not a failure. It’s freedom. Every choice from now on is mine to make for you, but it will feel like it’s yours. Do you understand?"

You nodded hesitantly, and her smirk turned into a full, wolfish grin. "Wonderful."

She stood again, but her hand lingered, tangling in your hair for a moment too long. Her grip tightened slightly, enough to send a spike of fear through your chest before she released you.

"You’ve pleased me tonight," Agatha said, turning to face the door, her silhouette regal and unyielding. "But know this—pleasure is earned. And obedience is only the beginning."

She turned back toward you, her gaze pinning you where you knelt. "Clean yourself up," she said, her tone now cold and commanding. "And tomorrow, you will come to me for your next lesson."

With that, she swept from the room, the sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind her echoing in the suffocating silence.

You remained on the floor, trembling in the dim light, the imprint of her words—and her touch—burned into your skin and soul. For the first time in your life, you felt unmoored, untethered to anything but her.

And as you reached for your discarded garments, you realized with a sickening clarity that you no longer wanted to resist.

_-_-_

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[beware-of-pity]

You believe me like a god (I destroy you like I am) III

Masterlist

Previous Chapter - Next

Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

TW: Self-hatred/Implied Self Harm. Complicated family relations.The reader is a Targtower.

Cross-posted on Ao3

Chapter III: Cathedral where you cannot breathe (no need to pray, no need to speak)

The Sept was cold and empty, to accompany you in your prayer, there were only the candles burning bright on the marble altar in front of the statue of the Mother and your septa behind you, who sat on the stone bench.

Muffled in the background was the sound of novices singing. They had been singing in the sept all morning, but in reality, they had been doing so since your mother’s departure from this world a few days past. 

The sound of their voices mingled with the comforting flickering of the candles.

Now, along with the names of your siblings, you added that of your mother as you lit a candle for each of them.

The air was hot and heavy, smelling of incense and sweat from the heat created by the many lit candles, crystal-kissed and candle-bright; it could make anyone dizzy at first breath. You knew the hymns; your mother had taught them all to you a long time ago.

As you joined your voice with that of the novices along the tune of the hymn of the mother, your mind wandered to the first time you knelt to pray.

You could count five years of age on the sunny spring day your mother had taken you with her to the Grand Sept. Your father’s health had been anything but perfect, and many worried he would die as a result of it. Your mother, despite her hidden wishes for his timely death, had brought you and Helaena with her for a prayer in the name of his good health.

Even though your young mind couldn’t comprehend the weight of your father’s deteriorating health, you understood better than anyone the implications of it. Your mother wasn’t exactly subtle in her plans and plots behind closed doors when she would whisper them in the privacy of her room to you and your sibling, encouraged by her father.

The intricacies of the faith of the seven were never lost on you; your mother had a servitude of lady maids who hailed from Old Town, some were her cousins of a lower rank who served in her household, all faithful servants and devoted members of the faith. Your Septa being one of them or at least one of the only remaining ones that had not returned to Old Town or fled at the first news of war breaking. Safe to say that even before that day, you were not privy to the teachings of the faith, which your mother wished for your education to be stipped in, as opposed to those ‘Vulgar’ Old Valyrian Gods your sister Rhaenyra and your uncle Daemon believe in.

You were her daughter, and she would see fit that you were raised as she wished, and she wished for you to be raised in the manners of a courtly and devoted young lady, who professed to the faith’s teachings of modesty and submission, in the name of duty, honour and sacrifice.

The paths of the Mother, Maiden and Crone were laid for you since you were born, ones you were not forced to embark on, having taken a liking to those figures out of your own volition. You had tarot cards with their images drawn on them, which you would look at to pray with when you couldn’t go to the sept.

Your mother had helped you kneel, her warm and reassuring hand drawing circles on your back as she watched, so small and not even tall enough to reach the altar where the candles lay. She led the prayer, being the one among you three better suited for the task. You didn’t know how to talk to the gods, you wondered if the words you whispered in the solitude of your room were as heard as those your mother spoke before them when she came here.

“We ask the Mother for mercy. We ask the Crone for guidance in these trying times” Your mother’s voice was instructing but humble, her words pleading behind the falsehood of her requests.

Let him die, she would think to herself, he’s of better use to me dead than alive

“We ask the warrior to give our lord husband and father courage. We ask for the Stranger to not come for him yet, as his time has yet to come”

Your father did, indeed, get better, though you weren’t too sure it was because your mother had asked the gods to have the mercy of making it so.

His rising health was the cause of celebration, with a feast held to celebrate the occasion, one everyone was commanded to attend. Your mother smiled and kissed the cheek of your father, who gloated at her affection while she frowned and sneered when he looked the other way. This was just the way things were, and even at five, you knew the kind of love they shared.

Sometimes, you wondered if your mother would have wept had he died that time. If she would have played the sullen widowed at his funeral to garner the sympathies of others.

The night your father died had brought the many scenarios you had imagined and turned them into your reality - giving you every answer to the questions you once pondered and making you wish you had never asked them.

He had been kept in his room, locked, for ten days after. The stank coming from the cracks and crevices reached deep within the walls of the Keep, all so your mother could have the time to properly make sure Aegon sat the throne instead of your sister.

You had begged your mother to let Silverwing at least burn him, put him out of his misery and let him enter the afterlife, which she had refused and had made you wait until the news of your brother’s coronation had reached Dragostone. Only when the tide had brought news of Rhaenyra’s premature labour did your mother send for the servants to prepare the funeral for your father, an occasion she hoped would soon befall Daemon to plan for his wife and child.

Small boys become large men, in time, and a babe sucks down his mother’s hate with his mother’s milk - how long until you turned out like her? Traitors' blood is said to run thick, after all.

Your brothers had been shaped in her very image, which your father saw and never stopped himself from pointing out. No wonder he preferred his daughters, you included, over his sons.

But you were of the same blood as that had flowed in your brother’s veins. In the quiet of the night, your thoughts and you were left with the question of if you were bound to become like them. Ambitious and cruel.

Your father….he was a man, a better one than most, but alas, a man he remained. And that did not mean he was a good one.

You heard often of the tale detailing the death of his first wife, how he had married your mother only half a year after that. Some said he loved your mother more, that she had a hold over him that the late Aemma Arryn never had.

There were whispers, that….you never allowed your ears to listen to; about how your mother had been entertaining your father long before his wife’s death.

How they had been in a sort of affair of some kind before Aemma was cold. Had your mother truly seduced him or had simply caught his attention, the story goes that your mother was chosen above all to become the second Queen to hold your father’s hand and perhaps his heart.

Whatever the case, the love your father had for his first wife never overcame what he felt for your mother, honouring Aemma’s memory in upholding Rhaenyra as his heir until his very end, when your mother had laboured between death and life five times to give him his children, and never getting anything in return other than his ‘love’.

Which your mother thought wasn’t enough, especially when she had no love or fondness left in her for him when he hit the sickbed during the last months of his life. You didn’t blame her. You understood the resentment she felt towards being the exception of a thousand-year-old tradition and precedence. Every queen before her had watched their sons sit on the throne unchallenged, unquestioned.

Your mother did not have the same privilege, and she felt like it was wrong of her to be deprived of what she felt she should have rightfully been given for her loyalty, her sacrifices, and her effort in upholding the duties she bore as Queen. Especially when your father did not concern himself so much with his.

If your mother was the strict and duty-bound parent, your father was the fun, lenient one. Lenient was a better word most used for absent.

It’s not that he wasn’t around or made any effort in his ways of parenting you or Helaena; you two were close to him, not as much as Rhaenyra, but more than Aegon and Aemond could claim.

You loved the afternoons you got to spend with him in front of his model of Old Valyria, listening to the histories and tales of your family’s destructed ancestral home. When you were young, he used to tell you tales of how he had flown Balerion north of the Wall to fight Wildinlings, giants and wargs.

Of course, those tales were made up, but the way you smiled and laughed at them paid his efforts in making them sound as realistic as they could.

But, apart from that? apart from that…..he wasn’t much involved.

Most responsibilities when it came to raising you and your siblings came down to your mother. And every choice she made was seldom opposed by him.

You wished he had been more around, more active, to teach you more, but at last, perhaps he just…..didn’t want to.

He worried about Rhaenyra more, despite how he loved you and Helaena too.

Whenever news from Dragonstone came, he was at the beck and call to be the first to hear of them.

If Rhaenyra was sick, he would know. If she was with child once more, he would write and congratulate her with words of goodwill for the pregnancy. It was always Rhaenyra, and it remained Rhaenyra for the rest of his life.

He had Aegon and Helaena marry mostly to put Aegon out of the marriage market and to shut forever the possibility of him marrying Rhaenyra, a notion your mother often insisted on and one your father did not take kindly to.

With two of his children out of possible alliances, he had ruined your mother’s plans of marrying either to future potential allies.

He delighted in Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, as well as Maelor when he was born, making Helaena bring the little ones to his room so he could recount the stories he used to tell you in your infancy to them, as if to pass them down as true history.

He loved his grandchildren so much that he had begun to make plans for a possible betrothal for you before he passed.

To who you did not know, but some of the papers left and found in his room, when it was getting cleaned off the stank of his rotten body, suggested he thought of Jacaerys as a possible husband for you. Perhaps to end the discord that ran between the two factions and unite them once and for all -  but he had died before he could do so.

Plans that were never put to motion or mentioned were no plans at all, ones no one would follow. Merely empty words, and even if he had approved of something officially, your mother was sure to get rid of any evidence.

You were briefly betrothed to a Lannister during the war, one of Jason Lannister’s young sons, just as Aemond was to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters. If you were not wrong, the young girl was now married to one of Rhaenyra’s most loyal allies. Was it Floris? Maris? No, Maris had been the one to instigate your brother to follow after Lucerys at Storm’s End. If only she knew what she was setting up in motion with her sneering words.

You were so lost in your thoughts you neither felt the presence nor the steps approaching the altar you knelt before. What you felt, though, was your Septa standing from her bench and walking a short distance to give you and this new presence the privacy that had been requested.

Your singing had stopped long ago but you dared not open your eyes as you felt what you most certainly believed to be a man, kneel beside you.

You did so, only when the sweet scent of leather and dragon hit your senses, knowing of only one man possible of carrying such scent.

“I did not take you for a man of prayer”

Indeed, Jacaerys was never one for religion. His mother had been more fond of the Valyrian Gods, such as the one she had named her dragon after. He had been made to swear on the Seven-Pointed Star when he was sent as a messenger up North to gather the support of House Arryn and House Stark. Mission he had proved more than successful in, unlike his brother….

“I am not”, he said “I’ve been taught my entire life that we Targaryens are closer to gods than to men. But alas, there are moments when my own flesh urges me to return to the nature of my soul. I am but a man before the gods, and when the time comes, I will be judged by them as such”

He had stopped calling himself a Velaryon the moment he was pronounced Prince of Dragonstone, opting for the name Jacaerys Targaryen. You watched from the side as he paraded himself by that name, with a confidence he lacked with his last.

“My heritage and my dragon will not defy my fate, but my devotion to the life I’ve served. There are times where I too find myself drawn to the common vices of men such as faith.”

You looked at him with the tail of your eye, the seriousness of his words, and the hardness of his features only highlighted more by the soft glows of the burning candles.

“You’re an honourable man. I do not see why the gods would judge you for the deeds you’ve done to protect your family” you said

“You know why” The sharpness and resignation of his tone were more than telling of what he was not willing to reveal. But you understood.

“That is no fault of yours” you reminded him, as you had done before, many times. “They know that too, just as I do”

“My very own existence is a sin against the gods” This time, he spoke with sorrow and dejection, ones you thought he had been carrying within his entire life

“The gods forgive every sin. I don’t see why they could not forgive this one” To that, he did not respond. “One that has always been out of your hands, out of your own will”

In the silence of the sept, here, two beings that carried so much guilt inside of them knelt before the gods as they spoke the truth heavying their hearts.

Your hand reached for a candle stick, holding it out for him to take. He looked sceptical at the prospect you were opening for him, but he took the stick, although with reluctance. He lit a candle that had been burned many times already, caved to the inside, burned by prayers, calls, and words lost only to time.

“How do you…?” He asked, but his question trailed at the ends.

“I don’t know” You were honest about your response “She taught me how, and I never….I never thought her wrong in her methods” Hesitation ran through you before you spoke again “Say whatever you wish, the gods will not judge. It is for you and them to know”

He held his hands up to the altar, crossing his hands as he fell into a silent prayer.

Beside him, you offered him terrestrial comfort and he sought that of otherwordly beings.

“I find this to be a way to be with my mother” Your words were soft, almost hunting as they reverbed slightly through the air “and with my siblings. I light a candle for their lost souls”

His eyes opened to look at candles lit in front of you before returning to find yours “I feel close to them as if they’re here with me” You pursed your lips “I get to say to them what I was never able to in life”

“Is that why you starve?” His question, although blunt, did not hold edge, anger or arrogance. It came from curiosity, a need to understand why you were hurting yourself when it pained him to watch. “To feel close to them?”

“No” your response held the same tone as his “I don’t starve. I fast. I rid myself of the guilt I carry with me”

“Call it whatever you want, but you’re hurting yourself” Now he was angry, surely he must by the forwardness of his words

“It’s a practice performed by Septas that want to rid themselves of the guilt they carry without revealing their sins” he would probably not understand, but you felt the need to explain, “My mother’s Septa she…used to be extreme in her methods. My mother would spy on her when she was young and took after her mentor as she grew” you sighed “I know you think of my mother as a cunning, ruthless woman that held no remorse for what she did but….I saw it. She ate at herself at times, and I think she used to beat herself up”

“You have nothing to rid yourself of” he was trying hard to convince you, making you realise that the truth you thought your words of carrying was no truth at all but rather one you had made yourself believe to be. You had done nothing, and yet here you were, punishing yourself for something others had done in your name, in your family’s name. Jacaerys thought it unfair.

When Lucerys had died, he had been angry, but most of all, he felt guilty. Had he not suggested for him and he to be sent as messengers to propose a more appealing approach instead of ravens, then perhaps Lucerys might still be here with you all. But Jacaerys had learned long ago that to kill himself with his feelings was not what Lucerys would have wanted. Lucerys was a sweet boy who loved his brother, and he would have hated to see Jacaerys beat himself into an early grave.

Many nights he had cried, nights he had visited the nursery, hoping to find comfort in his younger siblings, Joffrey in particular, who reminded him most of Luke. He didn’t know how to answer the childlike questions Aegon and Viserys asked him of when Lucerys would come home; he hoped the words of the mighty adventure he had embarked on would last until they were old enough to learn the truth.

“How can I not when my very name angers people?” You asked, “When my own existence is met with disdain? My presence pitied?”

“That I do not know” he responded, “but we can try how to”

Your eyes met, glistening into the light, silent words only you two would know until the end of your very days, whispered and sworn in the presence of the gods.

Together.

AN: So, about Alicent. I feel the need to explain what I'm doing with her. I'm writing for book Alicent while keeping the storyline of Otto forcing her to get close to Viserys and having him fall for her so Otto can get his bloodline on the throne. The idea is that she was not kin to the plot and was not a happy participant in it, but becomes who she is the moment she realises the bed was already made and how strong the need to play the game in order to survive was, turning into the leader of the Greens and taking over her fathers plans. She's....very complicated to explain, but if you look hard enough there are small hints of young show Alicent. So we're going with book age and characterization for her. Hope you have fun with this.

Taglist: @esposadomd

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silver and bronze (wherein you're always the second option and so is yoongi, so you assume that you're meant for each other — except yoongi doesn't really want you)

benefit (wherein celebrity hoseok's your boyfriend who denies every rumor about being in a relationship with you, a blue-collar worker, but doesn't deny anything with other celebrities)

🌟 like kids do (wherein jin's engaged to you, but you learn that his best friend hates you because they promised to marry at 30 if they're both single by then)

b*t worse series (wherein you and him aren't really lovers.. but worse (7/7 fics in total))

🌟 carbon copy (wherein you and ex-boyfriend yoongi aren't really lovers, but you're the only one who can put his baby to sleep)

🌟 novice series (wherein you're a virgin, and jungkook's sextape from his past highly-publicized relationship gets leaked (and you don't know what to feel))

🌟 in vain: continuation and finale

skew lines (wherein you and yoongi are polar opposites in a relationship, and sometimes, you get tired of his silence)

🌟 crybaby series (wherein older bf hoseok's normally patient with crybaby oc, until his ex reminds him how... different he used to be)

🌟 jungkook's village series (wherein your bf jungkook has too many exes and he's in good terms with everyone, and he still works with his ex from his longest relationship)

secondhand (wherein retired playboy jin makes a bad joke and makes you re-evaluate your entire relationship with him (also, you're pregnant))

exposure (wherein older husband namjoon's always neutral, even to his friends who keep criticizing you bc he thinks you've been soft all your life)

studio for three (wherein yoongi's studying to be a doctor, and you have to make ends meet raising your daughter... and your husband)

🌟 paths series (wherein your long-time boyfriend taehyung conveniently wants a cool-off every time it's his and his ex's supposed wedding date)

🌟 in vain series (alternatively, jungkook’s your sugar baby — except the only thing he needs to do to get paid is to be your friend.)

🌟 drop anchor (wherein you have a will they, won't they friendship with yoongi who calls you his baby in front of everyone so nobody would set him up (until you get sick of it))

preservation (wherein gravure idol jungkook knows you're a fan and he likes you, but he always pushes you away because he doesn't want to "corrupt" you)

🌟 nesting series (wherein you have a push n pull married life with politician's son yoongi who only married you bc you got pregnant, and his family doesn't want a scandal)

succulent (wherein low-maintenance boyfriend taehyung lets you be Too Much to the point that you don't ask him anymore to come to special events)

crown jewel (wherein older husband namjoon's second marriage is to you, and his ex-wife is still his family's favorite)

🌟 stanchion (wherein jungkook's the club bouncer that you have a crush on so u keeping going with ur friends, until a rough night puts u out of commission (read: jungkook has a crush on you too and he's worried out of his mind))

up and tight (wherein you're in an arranged marriage with tightly-wound heir jin and need to share a bed with him)

🌟 to the touch (wherein hoseok's almost The Perfect Boyfriend whose love language is physical touch towards you.. and everyone else)

🌟 retrospect (wherein your older bf taehyung's love language is tough love, so he doesn't grovel when you stay at your place (turns out you're sick, and he's really stupid))

🌟 text AUs (apex yoongi, matilda jungkook, mature jungkook, (un)like the movies aka ex-husband n baby daddy yoongi, fine print yoongi, take five yoongi, michelin jin, was it casual? jin, nine to five jimin, playing house jin...)

early access: anything (alternatively, yoongi's your best friend and you've been in love with him your whole life)

big picture (wherein ob-gyne namjoon, your boyfriend, who wants to be a dad but not a husband… ends up meeting your ex who’s willing to be both)

early access: mature (alternatively, crushing on jungkook who's in your friend group is, has, and will never be a good idea)

🌟 show out series (wherein jungkook's your surgeon boyfriend who always changes your blue-collar job title whenever someone asks)

🌟 breadwinner series (wherein taehyung's a breadwinner who always thinks you're pitying him, so he tells you off in the dark.. in the surprise party you threw for him.. for everyone to hear)

who hurts who (unearthed! wherein loving a single dad like teaehyung who hasn't moved on from his ex isn't a herculean task — until it is)

big city (wherein you're taking your master's degree and jungkook's a professor at another university (read: you're the fragile roommate and jungkook's the stoic one))

🌟 night, day, noon series (wherein yoongi cheats on you)

🌟 trophy series (wherein f1 racer jimin thanks his famous ex-girlfriend for always believing in him in his victory speech)

michelin: the food poisoning drabble series (wherein jin's ex eats at your restaurant and gets food poisoning, and the thinks you did it on purpose)

🌟 learning curve (wherein you’re pregnant and emergency doctor yoongi, who’s always tired from his shifts, has a little meltdown (you just want to take a walk!!!)

🌟 loved next door series (wherein namjoon's your building's resident sweetheart, and inconveniently, your soulmate who thinks emotional cheating is Not Real)

thick and blunt series (wherein pornstar taehyung likes pissing you off, his fluffer, as a kink — except he goes too far and actually hurts your feelings)

one and a half (wherein overly independent boyfriend namjoon doesn’t share his burdens with you, but instead with his overly attached secretary)

monopoly (wherein jungkook, your best friend’s brother, keeps snitching on you and your dates ever since you stopped confessing your feelings for him)

🌟 middle ground series (wherein both you and your ex-boyfriend jungkook are broke and stuck with the lease, so his solution is to invite his current girlfriend to live with the both of you)

🌟 stationary (wherein single dad jin doesn't want to marry you, even if his daughter loves you)

🌟 (un)like the movies series (wherein jimin's your boyfriend who lacks fatherly instincts to your daughter, and he gets to meet your ex-husband yoongi, right after your big fight with him)

refer to the 100+ more bullet points that made my first navi post full and prompted me to make a new one :-)

this month's schedule for patreon citizens! :D

[s3thwrit3sstuff]

*pulls the 45 cents I have to my name out of my pocket and drops them on your table*

I can't believe my name will be forever attached to this but one (1) Kenjaku solo session with Heianera!YN portrait, please

❝ life and death will always lead to love and regret (but you have the answers, and I have the key) ❞

Kenjaku x Heain Era!ftm!reader [one-sided] | Heian Era!ftm!reader x Sukuna Ryomen | r! is a curse-user & sukuna ryomen's concubine, NSFW | sub. bottom. reader (AFAB) | NOT PROOFREAD | wc: 4.1K

warnings: creepy/stalker behaviour, Kenjaku is a 'passive'-yandere (in the sense that Sukuna would and will kill him if he tried anything), manipulative behaviour, gore (detailed), Kenjaku jerking off in front of a portrait of r!, very unrequited

authors note: don't be ashamed, Gabriel. I got way too excited writing this and I think that speaks volumes on how I need to get checked, LMAO. On another note - yes, my YN's will always have a harem of men in the JJK-verse because that's what YN (and you, my dear reader) deserve!

I wrote this partially on my phone so bear with me guys...

*song on repeat: Bernadette by IAMX & Rule #34 by Fish in a Birdcage. * YN is described as having long hair because of the heian beauty standard (hair colour and texture not mentioned).

People often compared the years they lived as sand. The hourglass holding it is comparable to the human body. He often thought that metaphor was weak. People — humans — were not hourglasses and their years were not sand. No, no. That’s far too neat for humans.

Humans are messy. They are loud, and chaotic, they defy nature's rules and destroy her for the sake of progress. They had no balance, their compass broke when the synapses in their brains sparked conscious thought.

In that chaos, humans made curses. Or, well, you could argue it who came first but without humans and their silly consciousness — cursed spirits wouldn’t thrive.

People are flesh left under the sun. With their blood drying out, flies and maggots eagerly feast on what they can while the meat greys and rots. That’s a much more appropriate metaphor for a human life. If anything, the hourglass comparison should be used for himself. Constantly turning it over to keep going; uncaring of what kept the sands in confinement so long as it could continue its path.

Down, almost empty, flip, repeat.

Kenjaku had perfected his cursed techniques. He had earned this, he had earned his right to let his curiosities run rampant. He had earned the right to be in the presence of Sukuna Ryomen and you.

“Yuuji, you still owe me for eating my yoghurt from the fridge. It was expensive and it took so long for me to find it!” Nobara huffed. “You might as well just buy some for yourself. I’m labelling my food now.”

Megumi glanced over his shoulder at the lack of reply from the pink-haired boy. Nobara stopping next to him with her brows furrowed, sighing as she looks around for him.

“...I was just talking to myself? Seriously?” she grumbled. Megumi adjusts his grip on the bags. The grocery trips were a good team-building exercise according to Yuuji, a way to get to know each other better. Megumi and Nobara agreed after a particularly harsh mission that aimed directly at their novice team fighting experience.

So far, the results that were yielded from it were found that Nobara had an aversion to pineapples, Megumi had expensive tastes, and Yuuji was very good at budgeting money.

“No, he was right beside you a few minutes ago,” Megumi reached for his phone. Nobara placed her hands on her hips, tilting her head as she continued to scan the crowd.

A gaggle of businessmen came out from the underground train station and between the crowd of slicked-back hair, desperate combovers, and sweaty bald heads, she spotted him.

Tugging on Megumi’s sleeve, she pointed to him. Yuuji was standing and staring up at some sort of vertical banner. As they both approached, they shared a glance.

“Oi, Itadori,” Nobara placed a hand on his shoulder. Smacked it really. He didn’t budge. There was a dullness to his eyes that unnerved her enough to remove her hand. Megumi tightened his grip on his phone as he called out to him again. She took a look at the banner and her brows furrowed.

It was promoting an opening of someone’s private gallery. Some rich kid’s great-great-grandfather’s collection. The painting they used was of a true beauty. A man with long hair, dressed in the finest robes with a serene barely-there smile. It looked to be more European in nature, the art reminding her of the portraits of giant frilly dresses and puffy shoulder sleeves despite the obviously Japanese clothing, accessory, and manner in which the subject was regaled in the painting.

The banner must have costed a pretty penny considering how much detail they could see. Megumi could practically feel the raised textures the artist had used to mimic the pattern of the traditional robe the man wore. The flow of his hair, the texture and pattern it had; and his lashes were surely not that long in reality.

Megumi tore his gaze to Yuuji.

It was like he was in a trance. His mouth was slightly ajar, his brows furrowed and his hands shaking as his knuckles turned white.

“Itadori?”

Yuuji had long forgotten this. This ache in his chest that he sometimes woke up with. When he reaches for the empty space next to him and finds no one. Those moments in the basement when he watches a historical movie and his chest tightens as the nobles courted one another.

“Do you know the painter or something?” Nobara asks.

No, he wants to say. Not the painter. If he knew who it was that did this portrait, he’d tear their heads off their body. But the man? He knew him.

That hellish grin, that perfect face and most importantly those nightmarish eyes.

You’ve seen dolls, right? Those porcelain ones specifically. The craftsmen who make them, the expensive ones with real human hair. To be left on shelves instead of being played with. They would draw these white dots on the eyes, varnish them even, so their eyes would reflect back. A mimicry of humans, that’s what dolls are. But even then, their eyes still twinkled. Not this man. No. It was devoid of light. Pools of (eye colour) and nothing more. These eyes would swallow up any trace of light and diminish the stars from the sky with just a glance.

Yuuji knew him. His soul knew him. His hand clutches over his heart and his friends watch this with trepidation.

It’s been 2,000 years. Sukuna was no longer human and therefore his memory was not as fickle. He still remembers those moments before dawn; the sight of your bare torso breathing softly as you rested next to him. The sun filtering through the windows and making you appear even more ethereal and deadly. How your brows would pinch seconds before you woke. Those soulless eyes that shot through his very soul.

Sukuna could recognize you even if he was blind. He’d be able to hear you just by feeling your chest rumble. If he had to eat one thing for the rest of his life, your body and flesh would sustain him.

In his Malovent Shrine, whilst he sat on his throne, he’d summon his flames in his palm. There he’d watch as your figure danced across his hand. You’d twirl between his digits, a smile across your face as he watches the imitation of you.

It used to be enough. Lately, the action brings him more contempt then fondness. The flames never quite catch your shape anymore. Constantly shifting. That coyness is gone, mini-you petulantly staying hidden behind his fingers. So he snuffs you out in his fists.

He hates you for making him miss you. A King should not be missing anyone or anything. Yet, as his vessel stands here, Sukuna teeters on the edge of breaking the Unbreakable Vow he’d made with the brat just to gaze upon you.

The painter got your resemblance and it was agony for him.

How could he continue to be without you when he’s seen you again? Days ago, he wanted to kill you for making him delirious and now he wants you back in his arms.

“Itadori.” Megumi’s tone is firmer. Nobara smacks his shoulder again and Yuuji jolts forward, nearly falling until his rigid legs quickly come back to life.

“Huh?”

“Are you alright?” Megumi asks, his thumb hovering over the DIAL button of Gojo Satoru’s number. Yuuji glances at his wrinkled shirt and releases it, confusion painted across his face at the fading pain across his chest.

“I...yeah, yeah. I'm okay. I have no idea what that was....”

Rich bodies made life significantly easier.

What was that saying humans used?

Money can’t buy happiness?

Kenjaku chuckles at the thought. Foolish and vain — typical of humans. Clinging onto whatever they can to convince their egos they’re better than most when they’ll all meet the same fate. Kenjaku forgets the exact point where he stopped seeing himself as one of them, but he’s sure anyone would if you’ve lived as long as him. Apathy. Most call it a disease of selfishness. Kenjaku simply thinks they’re lying to themselves.

“Mr Geto?” the gallery was a lucrative endeavour. A piece in his grand scheme that required little effort but great rewards. More personal gain on his end.

“Mr Hajimoto mentioned you specifically in his will. The private room is all yours. Thank you so much for your donation to this fine institution of arts.” Kenjaku offers the man a polite smile and nod. The awkward silence prompts them to open the large doors and Kenjaku is greeted by you.

(Y/N) (L/N). In all your glory. In his favourite colours and his favourite kanza. The bespoke lighting on your portrait makes his hands fall limply to his side. You were a brushstroke away from taking a breath. The colours used to recreate that undertone your skin had, the delicate curves of your lashes and the plumpness of your lip.

The two guards in the corner of the room are a nuisance. But with a simple twirl of his right hand, the Slit-Mouthed Woman makes quick work of them. This curse technique was truly convenient, the mess she made cleaned up by a different curse who laps at the blood with vigor. The noises are all muffled as he admires those vicious eyes.

Just saying your name makes warmth travel down between his legs.

“I’ve almost forgotten how you look like.”

Silence ticks by for a minute.

Then Kenjaku bursts into laughter. Clutching his stomach and covering his mouth as he does. He can still smell your blood. Even if Suguru’s body had never had the pleasure of touching you — Kenjaku remembers it.

The way it flowed out of you like silk ribbons. Warm and wet and virile.

“You are an unusual sorcerer,” those were the first words you said to him. He knows you meant that in a derisive fashion — the curl of your nose was a clear indicator. But that was the day a feverish need was planted inside of his very soul.

You. You. You.

The shape of your face.

The cadence of your voice.

The way the wind carried your scent to his nose.

The sound of your cat-like foot-steps.

The effortless way you carried yourself despite the heavy robes that a revered concubine of your rank would wear, along with the golden hair accessories that would probably break a lesser man's neck.

It didn't stop there either.

Your brain, the wickedness that ran through your very veins and that fire that burns within you. Kenjaku wanted to be inside of you in every he could fathom. To sit within that perfectly shaped skull, to thread his fingers between the locks of your hair and take a scalpel to that skin he so craves to taste. Or perhaps inside in the traditional sense, between your legs, embraced by your warm insides and your deadly arms.

Kenjaku ponders on the time he has. He decides that he should indulge in you. He undoes the robes this body wore and sighs as it reveals the torso. Bodies were all the same but he does appreciate the care Geto Suguru took into his temple — there was no need for shame when he's already desecrated this corpse so viscerally already. His hands travel down his torso and that pronounce v-line and past the patch of wiry pubic hair.

You make him feel young again. Reckless and stubborn. Your eyes watch him as he leisurely spits into his palm and strokes it over the tip.

Evil is such a lame word. So primitive in its nature, another one of human's attempts at letting go of responsibility. If something or someone were evil, they were inherently irredeemable. Humans used to call snakes evil simply for doing what a snake would do when hungry, instead of realising they shouldn't have left the door to their huts opened and their sleeping brat asleep.

Was something evil when it simply did what it was meant to do?

They were simply following natures course.

This act Kenjaku is doing now, is not perverted or evil, he is simply being. Simply living, existing, relishing.

If anything, you were the undoing. The evil. You've made, and continue to make, him lose crave and hunger. You were so cruel, so ethereal — so evil.

Kenjaku groaned your name, walking backwards and dropping onto the low seat the gallery provided. His legs spread and he hung his head down but his eyes remained affixed to your painting.

"He sounds beautiful, Mr Hajimoto," the blonde painter had told him once or twice or thrice. Young but talented, the way he used his brushes on canvas was so impressive and Kenjaku missed you so much (Y/N). He simply had to spread the wickedness of your beauty, immortalize it forever within canvases and lesser non-sorcerers minds.

"Did you know him?" his accent was clunky, the Japanese language tumbling on its delicate legs following the rhythm of the painters voice. Still, he — Mr Hajimoto, Kenjaku — gave him a gentle grin.

"Very well. He was my lover."

The small notebook the painter had written your features down in, it was displayed in this very room as well. In a glass casing, handled with gloves to ensure pesky skin oils wouldn't deteriorate his inked strokes.

Speaking of strokes, Kenjaku's was beginning to pick up it's pace. His smile now looser, like an animal that caught the scent of blood, his tongue curled over his teeth as he imagined the disgust on your face. You'd probably cover your nose with the sleeve of your robe and the thought makes his cock jump; you were wearing his favourite colours and it made him moan.

The notebook was filled with sketches of you. Kenjaku recalls correcting the human, correcting him when he disrupted the harmony of your anatomy. You were the humans muse for years, (Y/N). Even as he neared his death bed, the blonde artist kept drawing you. Sketches lose, your shape less tangible, but hauntingly beautiful. Like your dark flames flowing in the wind. Even as his memories of his life escapes him, the artist remembered you. What a blessing. Kenjaku had visited him before he died and whispered your name into the old man's ear.

Sorcerer Society keeps your name hidden. It's their way of control. Making Sukuna Ryomen more monstrous by telling others he ruled coldly and cruelly alone; death was not as harsh as being erased. They say Sukuna needed 20 of his fingers and his mummified heart to be revived. That's what those poems talked about after all.

A misunderstanding.

The heart was Sukuna's, yes.

But it wouldn't revive him.

"You were so angry," he chuckled out, "so defiant even when I was inside of you."

The sky was blood red, the black smoke making the colour more saturated as it seemed intent on blotting out the sun. Uraume had felt a sudden chill, you did too, and they swiftly rose as the scent of deceit was so thick in the air.

“Uraume,” your voice remained nonchalant. But there was a tenseness in your throat that even they could decipher through the layers of regality. They turned, mouth pressed into a thin line as they went on their knees.

You continued to stare, impassively looking down at the patterned swirl of their snow-white hair. The red and black sky turning the colour of your eyes a pleasantly mournful shade; the golden kanza in your hair that your Lord Sukuna himself had commissioned for you glimmered righteously. The teeth of a beast, the curling of centipede legs, and the melded wings of a raven. It was beautiful just as much as it was unusual.

“You leave your Lord’s prized possession to fend for himself?”

Uraume lips reveal a modest amount of teeth. Their face like a porcelain doll as they raise their head. It makes your heart flutter and squeeze.

“You are stronger than these worms, they wouldn’t dare attack you.”

This is true. A fact. You were strong. 100 sorcerers or 1, 000 sorcerers — it made no difference to you. They’d turn into dust and wither right before you. But it shocks Uraume when you place your palm against their jaw, thumb stroking over their cheekbone as you gaze down at them.

“How horrid it is, making me defend myself.”

They see your eyes soften. It was no wonder you were Lord Sukuna’s concubine. Just being touched by you, looked down upon by you; it makes their spine melt.

“I should have your head for your insolence.”

Uraume apologizes, lips stilling when your thumb presses down on them.

“Return to me. Whole. My Lord Husband and I will not be pleased if you do not. We don’t want weaklings to stand behind us.”

Uraume bows, their lips kissing your knuckles as they do before they raise and disappear from your sight. The screams of terror that are heard outside at the sight of them make you slip your eyes close.

Kenjaku appeared before you what felt like hours later. He looks at the scene with a raise of his brow. Your feet were soaked in blood as bodies were strewn across the wide room. The floor was shimmering, looking as though it was breathing as it creaked from his weight. The clothes the bodies wore painted a clear enough picture — they were your servants. Loyalties were swayed as the fight prolonged. These little ants thought they could save themselves from punishment if they showed these righteous sorcerers your head.

He couldn’t smell smoke and there were no signs of charring. The bodies were mangled beyond belief, guts spilling out, eyes gouged, arms bent unnaturally.

Yet, in the gore and horror, you stood across from him with only your feet stained by traitorous blood.

You were a vision. Delicately wiping away blood from the tiger claw kanza with the sleeve of a dead servant. Then, he watches as you carefully put it back in place atop your hair.

“Kenjaku.”

He bows his head, bending at his waist, then lifts himself up again.

“The Kamo clan, your clan, joined this rebellion. I feel that should be a good enough reason to kill you.” The fire in your eyes makes his heart race. He moves forward, casually stepping over a torn torso.

“That would be unwise,” he gives you a grin. This body of his is new. The stitches are still fresh and red. Most likely a desperate attempt of his to hide away while they destroyed his old body. The corpse is younger, and more plain-looking. Despite it’s Curse Technique being a mystery, you’ll take your chances at strangling him.

“I’ve come at the behest of your Lord Husband. To ensure your longevity.”

Your brows pinch. Kenjaku delights at the creases it creates, tucking away this sight into his memories for lonely nights. Then, you scowl.

“You lie.”

His giddiness is palpable. The wide grin on the corpse’s face is clearly not his own; cheeks lifted too high and smile too large and unnatural. Kenjaku must’ve been a truly ugly man with a truly ugly grin. The body struggles to adjust to this display of amusement.

“I’m not.”

He takes a step forward and you lift your hand. The standstill would’ve lasted longer if it weren’t for the yells and thunderous footsteps clambering up to your room.

“You lie!”

Dark flames roared out from the windows. The heat so smoldering it causes a burst of hot air to knock back the men on the stairs, burning their skin and face. The blood on the floor boils, the iron scent now more acidic as the once fleshy bodies now crumble into dust.

You feel his breathe against the nape of your neck. As you turn, he wrings his arms around you like a snake. One across your stomach, the other around your shoulder. That horrible smile is pressed against your skin.

“Kenjaku,” you growl through gritted teeth.

“That’s right. Say my name.”

Fighting feels a lot like sex.

Kenjaku can feel your passion behind every strike, the bruises you leave behind on his skin are akin to hickeys. When you yell out and scream, cheeks so hot he can feel the rush of blood to your face just from looking — the rapid pulse you have and the way your face is contorted.

Kenjaku pins you down. Your legs are thrown over his own while you gnash your teeth at him and spit insults his way. Your hair was so beautiful, thrown back around your head like a lion’s mane. He slides your wrists above your head and holds them with one hand while the other undoes the meticulous array of folds your kimono had.

Sweat drips down his nose. It’s all your fault. Using your Curse Technique in this room, charring the wood and setting it all aflame. Still, he could work in this conditions.

“Ah,” he moans at the sight of your bare skin. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, licking his lips as he places a hand over your heart.

When you kick at his stomach, he acts like he cannot feel it. When you kick again, this time hard enough for a loud crack to be heard, he looks at you.

“If you kill me, you will break the Binding Vow you and Ryomen had made with me.”

He feels your feet dig into his rib, the spiderwebs of cracks spreading further. He allows this with a pleased hum. Your ragged breathing all at once calms and with a blink, your eyes lose that unbridled fury.

“You dare say my Lord’s name so casually?”

Kenjaku laughs. As he leans down, he presses his forehead to yours. Your nose curls in disgust but you keep your lips pursed. The feeling of his sweat sliding down the sides of your forehead and dipping to travel the side of your nose; threatening to get into your eyes as it slips just beneath it.

“Forgive me, venerable concubine.” Kenjaku does not mean this. When he presses his fingers together and imbues his hand with Curse Energy. He enjoys it.

Slicing through your skin at a pace that made the cut more ghastly then it would be if it was done quickly. You remained stone-faced while Kenjaku chewed on his lower lip, every twitch or squint just fueling his hunger.

He is past your skin and now he sees the yellow, when he twists his wrist you grunt as he slices through the threads of muscles. He spreads his fingers and your teeth part as you let out a strained yell.

"You can be louder if you want," his lips brush against your cheek every time he speaks.

"When I return, I'll take pleasure in ripping your head off your body."

"Threatening me?"

He reaches bone. His finger scratching against it before he peels away and settles between your legs. Your hands aren't pinned but you do nothing but curl your fingers into fists as he shoves another hand into your chest. The squelching and pulsing of your flesh, the bursts of blood from your throbbing veins and pumping heart. The wetness and warmth of your insides. He can feel your body clenching around him, and he convinces himself its because you truly enjoy this depravity just as he does.

The size of his hands in your chest is unbearably uncomfortable. Invading you, filling you when you want nothing more than to burn him, as he moves his digits and wrists within you.

He grasps onto your bones and breaks it under the pressure of his wrist. Your blood is spraying him, staining his clothes.

"Your blood looks like ribbons," he whispers to you, "even your insides are like works of art."

You want this to be over with already.

Your arms move down, eyes still set in a glare. You slip your fingers under the soaked clothing and spread it apart further to reveal more of your skin. Shimmying your shoulders so your torso is now bare of any clothing.

The tent between his legs pressed into your crotch. It's hard to ignore, but you push through and grasp onto his elbow and force him to go in deeper.

"Promising you."

Kenjaku's elbow straightens sharply and he moans as he feels your heart beating in his palm. He pulls it out of your body, panting as your eyes slip close and your heart slows. Beating slowly...slowly...slowly...

Kenjaku moans at the memory of your heart in his hands. Your warm blood coating his skin, drying under his nails and crackling in the creases of his joints.

"I wanted to keep you on me forever," he grunts out as his pace gets faster. "The smell of you, of your flesh."

"I didn't need your body, but it was too beautiful not to be admired."

Kenjaku throws his head back, placing his palm across his nose and lips as he sifts through his memories so he can conjure it all over again.

The painting watches on impassively. The croons and purrs of Geto Suguru's cursed spirits echo faintly in Kenjaku's ears while his hips thrusts into his own fist. It's desperate. He usually isn't like this. Even when he was creating the Death Womb Paintings — even when his plans are so close to coming into fruition.

You make him like this. Make him lose control, every thought poisoned with you even when you're nothing more than a mummified heart hidden so desperately away by Sorcerer Society.

"I've gotten a lead," Uraume had informed him just a few days ago. "They've hidden him in the ocean in an underwater research facility."

"Underwater, hah, they think it'll keep your flames contained. Keep your loyal servant away as if the depths of the ocean is enough to scare them, us — Oh, (Y/N)."

His fist stops and Kenjaku stands, removing his clothing fully as he places a hand against the wall of the gallery. The textured wall, the grooves, give way to his nails as he digs them in. He stares into your eyes, imagining the crease of your furrowed brow and Kenjaku groans out your name as he cums all over the wall.

"...Oh, I can't wait to see you again, venerable concubine."