#cw religious writings

[sleepyfan-blog]

Religious Excerpts

Author's note: this is the first part of the Fem!Guilliman in 40k AU fic! I hope that you enjoy it! Next

tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @the-pure-angel @i-am-a-dragon34 @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @bleedingichorhearts

warnings: religious writings, deification,

summary: A small collection of snippets from a collection of writings on the demi-goddess of the Imperium, Roberta Guilliman

She had asked for a brief synopsis of how she was most likely to be seen as, by different parts of the Imperium. She had sent out hundreds of intelligence gathers to move stealthily throughout the Imperium, including within Ultramar itself.

Her sons had been eager to follow her every order, the worshipful way in which they interacted with her bothered her tremendously. But she had been handed a dataslate that was a collection of poems, psalms, prayers, and fables written about The Lady Of Ultramar, the Daughter of the Emperor, Roberta Guilliman. If known, the date of creation and the author’s name has been noted down, though many such details have been lost to time.

Ballad of the Risen Primarch - written by Frater Matthew, Militant Apostolic, M42.076

The Lady with her sword aloft

Charges into  the fray

To hunt down the vile traitors

And bring them true dismay

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers 

While we were lost and desperate 

Showing us that she cares

She scoured Chaos from Imperial Worlds

And chased them from our space

The Avenging Daughter protects us

From Chaos and disgrace

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers 

While we were lost and desperate 

Showing us that she cares

The xenos quail before her gaze

And fall before her might

Orkz, Aeldari, Tau, Tyranids

Failed to survive the fight 

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers 

While we were lost and desperate 

Showing us that she cares

Her divine light shines so brightly

As does her wit and charm

She rules with a just and fair hand 

She protects us from harm

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers 

While we were lost and desperate 

Showing us that she cares

She guards us from internal strife

Corruption, decay, lies

All are placed into cleansing flames

She is Evil's demise 

From deepest slumber, she arose

And she answered our prayers 

While we were lost and desperate 

Showing us that she cares

This was written by Frater Matthew, the current Militant Apostolic working alongside Primarch Guilliman herself. He was inspired to write this poem after spending a number of months in her holy and robust presence.

She could feel a familiar headache starting to build in the back of her mind, and a low, frustrated growl threatened to rumble through her chest. She had picked Frater Matthew as he was an orator of some skill, and able to rally mortals and Astartes alike to his cause. But this... Travesty was annoying to read through.

Mother's Psalm - Author unknown. Suspected to have been written somewhere in the mid-M35s.

The sacred temple lies

The saintly Mother, who's eyes

Watch over her sons’ endless toil

At home and on foreign soil

The stasis field keeps her here

Away from the reaper's spear

Traitor's poison will not take

The fortress’ walls will not break

As Mother does, Maccrage stands

Protected by loving hands

And a sturdy wall of blue

Made of sons, loyal and true

One day, Mother will awake

With her, a new dawn shall break

She'll lead us out of shadows

And send evil to the gallows

This Psalm is found to be commonly sung by serfs of Ultramarines as well as their successor chapters, along with the civilian populations of Ultramar itself. The Psalm is also sung by the Auxilla of Ultramar, though they tend to prefer singing war songs in praise of The Avenging Daughter as she leads them to battle in Righteous fury against foul xenos and traitors alike. 

A soft sigh left her as she finished reading the psalm. At least this was less overtly religious in tone, though the fact that this was marked as a psalm did not improve her mood in the least. She was starting to realize just how wide and deep the Adeptus Ministorum had a stranglehold on the Imperium of Man as a whole... This was going to be a misery and a half to slowly and carefully untangle... If she could.

Prayer for Information This prayer was written sometime in the early M37s, by a Historitor whose name has been expunged from all records by the Ordo Hereticus.

Oh great Lady of Insight and wisdom, Maiden Mother of fair Ultramar, I come to you, humbly, on bended knees and clasped hands.

To you, I confess that I have not been sending my daily morning prayers to Him on Terra as I should be. Instead, I have been researching what I can of the history of our Great Imperium. I know it is a sin to try and learn of the past beyond what is taught in school… But my curiosity pushes me onwards nonetheless. Surely this knowledge will not cause harm?

You have my deepest thanks. For I and many others upon the world of [REDACTED] owe you our lives. Because if your auxilla and Astartes had not come to our rescue against the [REDACTED] we would have all been killed and our souls consumed by the forces of [REDACTED]. 

I humbly ask you to grant me entry into the library within the Temple of Corrections, where I would be able to continue my research and studies. I feel that if properly understood, our past could teach us many things. I patiently await your response.

Your humble servant,

[REDACTED] 

There was quite a bit of fierce debate as to whether or not to include this particular prayer to Lady Guilliman, as it has heretical elements in the prayer. Ultimately, this shows that even otherwise stalwart and obedient citizens can be heretical, and that one must always be vigilant.

... Since when was knowing the history of the Imperium illegal? Father damn them all. Those who did not learn from history were doomed to repeat it. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, unable to read on as she swore viciously in every tongue she knew. Considering what the Inquisition was like... She could guess that this poor Historitor's fate was a gruesome and miserable one indeed. She also hated that this letter had been phrased as an Emperor-damned prayer.

Psalm of praise - written shortly after Lady Guilliman’s interment into the stasis chamber, perhaps three hundred years past that event.

I will extoll the Lady at all times; her praise will always be on my lips. I will glory in HER; let all who hear rejoice. Glorify the Lady of Ultramar with me; let us exalt her name together. I sought the lady, and she answered me. She delivered me from all my woes.

This Psalm is frequently murmured by serfs and similarly ranked civilians who often work under Astartes. Particularly while the Astartes are preparing for a particularly vicious and bloody battle. 

After reading the first psalm, she decided to skip the rest of the section, the blood boiling in her veins as the grip on the dataslate caused the device to creak in protest. She would rather not have to request a new one with this information on it, because she had broken this one in her fury.

A Lesson in Obedience- This fable was written sometime in the early M34s, and presented without the artwork to shrink the file size.

The world that The Soldier was going to be deployed to protect was one of hundreds if not thousands like it. A small yellow gem of a world with over ninety percent of the available aland devoted to growing a singular crop that fed the loyal and true citizens of the Imperium. It was this soldier’s first deployment, and excitement thrummed just below the surface of his skin as he walked over to where his mother was busily working.

His mother with her honey-blond hair and clever ice-blue eyes was carefully working at her desk a dataslate in one hand, a stylus in the other as she swiftly worked. She looked up and smiled warmly as her son walked over to her. She set down the dataslate and hugged him tightly, murmuring “Good morning, my wonderful son. How goes your training?”

“It goes very well! Mother, I have good news to share with you!” The eager, blue-clad young man explained, happily hugging his mother back as he beamed with joy. 

“What news do you bring to me my son?” His mother asked, reaching up and ruffling his dark, curly hair with one hand, still hugging her precious son. 

“Like my older siblings before me, I am benign deployed to fight foul xenos! I am being sent to fight Orkz who threaten one of the worlds that grow crops, mother.” The soldier explained, still beaming up at his mother “I will be the one to kill the most of the vicious brutes of my entire battalion! I will decapitate the Ork Warboss and rip his tusks from his mouth. I will carve them into combs for your hair, mother. As a trophy!”

A soft sigh left the Mother as she hugged her over-eager son, pressing her forehead to his, before looking into his dark eyes, hoping that her words reached his heart and resonated within his mind “I don’t need an ork-tooth comb my son. As with your older siblings, all I want is for you to serve our great Imperium with honor and grace. Fight and win the battles set before you, but do not seek glory for it’s own sake. Rushing to grab glory with your own hands will only get you killed first, my son.”

“That won’t happen, mother~ I am too strong and too swift for the Orkz to be able to kill me.” The young soldier protested, shaking his head a little “My armor is too sturdy for their shoddy and broken weapons to damage.” His armor was indeed well-polished. Shining a brilliant blue and bright gold. 

“Orkz are -” The soldier’s mother tried to warn him, but the young man stepped out of her embrace as his vox began to buzz loudly.

“That’s The Captain, mother! I have been taught how to fight Orkz and other filthy xenos. I will come home victorious and with a chest full of accolades before you can start to miss me!” The young Soldier boasted as he ran out of his mother’s office, ready to take on any threats, big or small. “I must answer the call to war! Goodbye for now, mother!” 

~

Years of training and months of waiting and sparring had led to this moment for the young Soldier as he stared over the incoming horde of Orkz. They were a disorganized tidal wave of hooting and hollering green, and he double checked his bolter before he started to level his weapon at them, taking in a breath and letting it out as he prepared to fire.

“Hold your fire.” The Captain ordered. “I need you four to help complete the evacuation of the civilians from this world.” He pointed to the young soldier and three of his fellow warriors. 

“But… But sir, the Orkz are almost upon us! Shouldn’t we start to fire?” The young soldier asked, a confused expression appearing on his face.

“Are you questioning my orders, soldier?” The captain asked, his words underlined by the roar of artillery fire as they steadily flung shell after shell at the oncoming Orkish horde. “They are too far for you to hit reliably. Get going, soldier!”

The young soldier grumbled to himself as he dutifully got up and followed his squadmates over to the landing pads where several other groups of soldiers were -

She put down the dataslate, unable to force herself to continue to read the fable. She could guess as to where the story was heading, and the likely ways in which it would end. It was not worth the space it would occupy in her brain to continue to read through it. She hid her face in her hands and let out a low scream, trying not to alert the guards outside her office as to her distress.

There was a brief knock on the door before one of her brasher Captains barreled into the room, sword in hand as he did a visual sweep of the room. He didn't see any threats, so he removed his helmet and approached her, a look of mild concern on his face "I heard your yell, Mother. Is something bothering you?"

Roberta couldn't help but smile a little at his concern. Cato was rough around the edges and brash, but his boldness meant that he was the least anxious of her officer-sons to interact with her directly. "I was reading through the collection of legends that have sprung up about me, in my absence."

"Ah." Cato rumbled, briefly glancing at the dataslate on her desk, before looking back up at her "You are widely revered and held in great awe, as are all of the Holy Primarchs."

"Mm, but who we truly are has been lost to time. If Sanguinius found out how the masses - and perhaps his own sons believe him to be now..." Roberta sighed. The majority of the Imperium had come to believe that Sanguinius was a tragic, gentle-spoken martyr, whose death at the hands of the Vile Arch-Traitor was the final proof of the utter depravity that Horus had sank to. They seem to have forgotten, or been made to forget, from whom the Black Rage that afflicted most if not all sons of Sanguinius stemmed from. “His reaction would have been… Spectacular.” Throne on Terra, she missed her siblings. 

Cato nodded, looking uncertain. “Is there anything you wish of me, mother?”

A small smile appeared on her face “Only your company, if your duties permit it. I am… Finding it difficult to adjust to this new time I have woken up in. Please tell me of the battles you’ve participated in.”

Cato’s eyes lit up as he begun to talk about his past exploits, gesturing occasionally for emphasis.

[chrollohearttags]

love thy neighbor • r. sukuna

(Y/N) moves into an apartment complex on the other side of town and winds up living right next door to one of the most notorious drug dealers in the city nonetheless! But looks can be deceiving…

📝: black!fem plus size reader, plug!sukuna, age gap (6 years or so) mentions of toxic relationship and baby trapping, religious trauma, anxiety, alcohol + drug use, comfort + fluff and angst to smut, missionary, prone bone, oral sex, reader cries during, daddy is used a couple times, size difference, lots of kissing, positive affirmations, creampie

wc: 3.0K

🎙️: I swear imma get back to posting regularly! I’m just being lazy and hating my writing rn (it sucks) 😭 but I hope y’all enjoy

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you didn’t know what to expect when you found yourself residing on the same floor as plug!sukuna..it was your first time living on your own. Fresh out of your parents’ house with minimal belongings and all of the savings you had managed to scrounge over the years. Enough to cover first and last month’s rent with some extra left over..working as a receptionist in a local doctors office by day and offering online tutoring services at night to suffice your income. You'd return home from your shift, ready to relax by at least eight o clock..meanwhile, plug!sukuna was just beginning his night. Heading out into the streets to do God knows what until the early morning hours. But he’d never leave until he’d done two things: said hello and made sure that you were straight. You never really understood the logic behind it..especially considering the fact that you weren’t exactly close friends or even acquaintances beforehand. Hell, he didn’t know you at all and yet, he was just as kind as an old lady bringing you cookies to welcome you to the neighboorhood.

nonetheless, plug!sukuna would always tell you “..keep that door locked, don’t answer that shit for nobody and call me if you need anything, aight?” his deep voice was the last voice you’d heard for the evening and the first when you awoke in the morning. Sometimes, he’d even bring you breakfast per your request and you’d eat together. You’d cut off all ties to your controlling, religious fanatic family and the narcissistic ex who’d all but attempted to stick you with a kid you didn’t want and turn you into his personal doll…trapped inside of the house with no purpose other than to serve him. It was the way all of the men in your former faith operated. But you weren’t interested. Not in the slightest. In fact, you wanted change so drastic, it’d make their goddamn heads spin! Over time, you’d grow closer to plug!sukuna. His second long check ins and warnings became full blown conversations as the two of you congregated downstairs in the pool area or at the mailbox for a cup of coffee. A cigarette dangling from his fingertips to go light once he went outside.

“I know this place seems nice and all from first glance but…imma let you in on a lil’ secret, baby. It’s all types of people who come here..looking for trouble and hell, I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m part of the reason. That’s why I tell you to keep your door locked. Your pretty ass answers for the wrong person and somebody is bound to try and take advantage. ‘Damn shame I’d have to fuck someone up if something were to happen to you..”

plug!sukuna was sweet and endearing in his own right. But that’s what drew you into him..he was the very antithesis to what you knew men to be. Brutally honest yet so empathetic to your feelings. Rough as hell around the edges but a total gentleman. He may have done horrible things but he was a good guy..the best damn one you’d ever met. Unbeknownst to him, you’d watch him from the window leaving out; others surrounding him in the parking lot in similar cars. Blacked out with tinted windows..doing sleight of hand to pass something to other tenants who you’d recognized. Only what you could assume to be drugs. A couple of the guys you’d recognized from church, talking to deacons and pastors..now it’d all made so much more sense. Even so, plug!sukuna kept you out of that part of his life as much as possible. Eventually, some months would pass and it was a secret to no one that you’d grown quite fond of him..damn near smitten even.

however, plug!sukuna was adamant on not taking it there with you! He’d admitted himself that you were beautiful and in another life, any other circumstances..he wouldn’t hesitate to make you his. The problem was, you were still too vulnerable and he was knee deep in a lifestyle he wanted you to steer clear from. You were healing from years of trauma and downright abuse..trying to navigate this world on your own. If he were any other scumbag, he could have easily sucked you into his world and had you out here doing his bidding.

“(Y/N) baby..do you know how many girls just like you..who leave bad situations and end up in worse ones because some nasty motherfucker saw how vulnerable they were and used that to their advantage? How many girls went from being in the church to being on their knees for some pimp? I care too much ���bout you to let that happen. I’m no good for you, I swear. You’d only end up hurt because I can’t give you all of me. Shit, I can’t even promise I’d make a good boyfriend. I’m selfish as hell, I’m always gone..I’ve slept with more women than I can remember. What could you possibly want with somebody like me, huh? What could I possibly do for you, (y/n)?”

but you saw right through plug!sukuna’s facade. He was gentle at heart..a romantic even. He wanted his person to spoil and adore just as much as you did. The streets were his only love for most of his life. He’d seen many things but nothing quite like you..those round, doe eyes; so innocent and pure. Pouty lips, chubby cheeks and the soft, ringlet curls that surrounded that gorgeous face. That soft, plump body and those thighs that rubbed together when you walked away. He wanted to devour you whole sometimes..many nights had plug!sukuna lied in his bed next door, thinking of you being on top of him. Those perky breasts jiggling as he bounced you up and down on his cock. Those nails clawed at his chest as sweat poured down his skin. But those thoughts were far too lewd and disgusting for someone like you! He was ashamed of even having them. But he couldn’t help himself..especially when that sweet, airy voice all but begged him to take you.

“Because I love you, Ryo..I love everything about you. Even the bad shit. I don’t care what you do because it’s not who you are..you’re the man that brings me food and coffee in the morning so I don’t have to rush before work. You’re the man who kisses my forehead when he leaves because you know, deep down..it could be the last time I see you. You’re the man who calls me every time he hears a gunshot or sirens because he worries himself sick about me when I’m not near him. You carry my laundry baskets and groceries, you clean my apartment while I’m sleeping because I’m too tired. And not once have you ever tried to touch me. You never made me repay you with sex or anything. You could easily hurt me and you can’t even bring yourself to raise your voice, even when I’m dead fucking wrong. No one has ever cared about me that much, boyfriend or otherwise and I don’t give a damn if you sell drugs or blow up buildings. A man who’d do all of that for me and never asks for anything in return is exactly who I want.”

plug!sukuna found himself dumbstruck for the first time in a long time..standing there with your small hand cradling his chiseled jaw, tears streaming down your face, he’d find that his own eyes were welling and burning. He’d never heard anyone speak about him in such a way. “Damn, I guess you can read me like a book.” Hell, he’d never acted that way with anyone else either. Yet here he was, treating you like a princess. He couldn’t pretend anymore..he had to be honest with you..and himself.

“I—I love you too, (y/n). So much..”

“Then make me yours. Right now..right here.”

“you know once we do this, we can’t go back..”

“Please..leaving the past behind is kind of my thing.”

it didn’t take long for your lips to meet in a fiery haze, tongues intertwined in a moment of heated bliss. Your hands roaming one another’s bodies as moans slipped through..your clothes all but becoming discarded heaps on the living room floor like a movie scene cliche. His lips traced from your neck to your collarbone; slightly dredging his teeth along the skin in the process.

“Here, baby..take my hand.” plug!sukuna, in one fell swoop hoisted you into his arms as if you weighed practically next to nothing. Continuing to feed you those slow kisses, he’d carry you to a nearby wall and part your thighs. With your legs resting on his shoulders, he’d mark every inch of you. From your sensitive nipples which he cradled in his mouth to that pudgy tummy he loved so much to that juicy center, which was practically leaking for him.

“This all me? Just from some kissing?..” “This is nothing. I touch myself every night thinking about you..you should see the mess I make then.” plug!sukuna could barely sate his urges now, hearing how nasty this supposedly innocent girl was for him! He wasted no time slithering his tongue into that aching cunt. Swirling it around on that throbbing clit, spitting into those pretty pink folds and those succulent brown lips encasing them. He feasted like a man unhinged; greedy and selfish as fuck, just like he claimed. You’d grasp a hold of those dark reddish and black locks, grinding yourself into his face. Rubbing his nose in between your slit.

“Mmmph! Ryo…” “Yeah, fuck my face. Don’t hold back now. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

plug!sukuna would eat your pussy until he heard you sobbing and felt that orgasm come barreling out. Your tight hole spasming on air as those juices trickled down his throat, chest and mouth. He couldn’t help but to laugh as he watched you writhe in pleasure. Attempting to push him away as you rode out that orgasm.

“Wha—how did you?—“ “What? I told you..I’ve had a lot of practice.” Choosing to omit the fact that he’d fantasized about you sitting on his face more times than he could count. Tossing you a wink and one final lick before carting you over to the sofa. Where he laid you down gently against the cushions…pinning those legs back whilst hovering over you. The entire time, he couldn’t take his gaze away from those gorgeous eyes..they glimmered so bright. Full of lust, adoration and excitement. No matter how much you smiled, he always sensed a certain emptiness behind them. A light stolen from you and now, he hoped to reignite it.

observing your movements, plug!sukuna began to chuckle when he saw you pawing at his crotch. So eager to unsheathe that hard on from his boxers. He could tell that the shy, bashful demeanor you presented was only a front. If given the opportunity, he could turn you into his personal slut with ease..but for now, he wanted to focus solely on making love to you. Giving you every part of him that he’d long to for months now. You’d examine his chiseled torso, reaching up to caress his abs and trace your fingertips along his various tattoos. But you couldn’t distract yourself from how large that bulge was..protruding and leaking with precum…

“Can I?—“ Go ahead, baby..take it out.” And without hesitation, you’d tug that elastic waistband back and let it spring forth. He was so girthy and long. Clean shaven and although he was erect now, you could tell he was huge even when flaccid. Nonetheless, plug!sukuna grasped those thick thighs of yours and mounted in between them; gliding that aching tip along your folds. ”Now you tell me if it hurts, okay baby? If I see you flinch or look uncomfortable, I’m pulling the fuck out. We clear?” And you knew when he spoke, that was law. Nodding in agreement, you’d consent to his terms as you rubbed your folds, waiting for him.

“Good..and tap my arm if you can’t talk. I’m ‘bout to start moving. You ready?” with your permission, he’d glide in slowly and immediately, he thought he’d seen stars! Plug!sukuna, by his own volition, had been with countless girls. From strippers to models, but never had he felt pussy this tight! The warmth immediately cradling him and not letting go. He’d suck his teeth before muttering a single ‘fuck’ under his breath. You were going to be some pressure, he was certain of it. But he’d continue on, gathering his footing and working that cock into your entrance. A single pop, along with wet, squishing sounds rang out across that living room as you lie underneath him.

“Goddamn…your shit feels incredible, baby. I know you had some good pussy..I can tell just by looking at you.” Forcing a wide, toothy smile on your face. You’d never heard him talk so vulgar but it was the side you’d brought out. He was officially obsessed!

“Yeah? Well I’ve been wanting to give it to for so long..I never thought you’d fuck me..”

“I kept you waiting, huh? I’m sorry..guess it just means we gotta make up for lost time then, huh?”

plug!sukuna was thrilled to know that he’d no longer have to hold back because you were on the same wavelength. You’d have no issues matching his energy..so with that, he’d speed up those thrusts. Pounding you with gentle but well paced strokes. The sound of your thighs and skin slamming together, coupled with the sounds of both your moans, made for a beautiful chorus. Your hands around his neck, scratching at his back; legs around his waist and his muscular arms planted right at your sides. Drilling you just as you’d requested and there was no limits between the two of you.

“Yes! Keep fucking meeee..oh my goodness. I’m gonna come again!”

“You’re so fucking cute..damn..” adoring how you sounded squealing and laughing as you met his thrusts. He couldn’t believe how receptive you were and how it took no time at all for you to open up.

“And you look so pretty taking all this dick for daddy. I can’t stop staring at you.” That deep voice showering you with praise as his thick cock thrashed around your insides. Even though you had always been a bigger girl, he made you feel so dainty and small..like a precious treasure he never wanted to lose. “You deserve this, baby..to get fucked just like this. To be spoiled and get whatever you want. I can put you up..you ain’t ever gotta worry about shit. Not a bill, not rent, your family..I got you, baby. I promise. I love you..” You believed every single word and clung to them with every fiber you had. You’d never had anyone treat you with such grace and care before..and that wasn’t the end. He’d continue doting. Telling you how proud he was of you and how far you'd come. How he admired your strength to get out of your situation…he was in awe. plug!sukuna would continue singing your praises until he looked up and spotted tears coming down your face. He was tempted to stop until you told him that you were just fine. He on the other hand..was struggling to maintain his stamina.

“No no..please don’t stop. You just make me feel so good. No one has ever fucked me like this.”

but that alone seemed to ignite a second wind and in a moment of haste, you’d find yourself flipped over into your stomach with his entire body weight shifted on top of you.

“You mean that, baby?” Those outer fangs of his teeth glistening and mouth slicked with saliva as he began pounding you once more..hands pinned to your back and his frame covering your own. The plumpness of that ass ricocheting off of him as he penetrated those walls. You’d come once again, dripping onto the leather couch and making that aforementioned mess he’d been dying to see. This time, his pace was rougher..less structured and sporadic. He couldn’t help it..he was running on pure fumes, trying to give you the first time experience you deserved. Tugging your head back by those thick curls, plug!sukuna fed you the deeper strokes he could muster until those chocolate eyes rolled back.

“Y-yes! This dick is amazing..”

“Tell me who it belongs to. Who’s this good pussy belong to now?”

“Y-you, daddy. It’s yours! Oh fuck..”

never having uttered such lewd words in your entire life, you reveled in the fact that he had been the one to bring this side out. And now, you were about to bring a side out of him. One far more vulnerable than the public witnessed..one that would beg you to let him come inside of you and cry out your name in sweet ecstasy as he did so. You’d feel those warm seeds pouring into your womb as he came to a halt and you welcomed them. plug!sukuna didn’t hesitate to swaddle you in his arms for kisses and comfort.

“I don’t want this to end..tell me it doesn’t have to, Ryo. Can we be this way forever?”

“We can stay like this for as long as you want, baby. I’m not going anywhere.“

and it was a promise he intended to keep. Not just as your neighbor or the guy next door looking over you. But now, as your lover and the man who’d never leave your side.

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

> summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold > tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[madaqueue]

FALL FROM GRACE

do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes. put to death that which is earthly inside you.

pairing: priest!sunday x succubus!f!reader

themes/content: dubcon (char!receiving - he says "stop" and it's basically ignored, and there's some heavy coercion/corruption stuff going on here), somno depending on how you look at it (succubi technically visit people in their dreams, so he's asleep ? sorta?), lots of religious guilt around sex, heavy catholic religious imagery (literally straight up bible verses). smut. handjobs, fingering/masturbation, p in v. i wanted to explore the rigidity and internalized shame sunday feels so uh . here's this ! (wk: 3.6k)

a/n: me when he's burdened and tormented (also i had to put my religious trauma somewhere ! hope it's yummy) :3333

The first night is always the most fun.

They never wake, not on this visit; the mind is a simple thing to trick, eager to make excuses for the gentle touches trailing over one’s torso, down their chest. A dream, they call it, a ready and waiting path to forgiveness.

The second night is usually the same - feather-light hands, breathy kisses - but you find Sunday to be a near-impossibly light sleeper when he begins to stir beneath you. Pinned under thighs that straddle his waist, his eyelashes flutter, nearly roused; his lips part, almost a sigh. It’s an uncanny thing to be so beautiful and so unaware; you wonder if he’s grateful for this gift. With a quick peck, you send him back into the waiting arms of slumber.

The third night you visit him, his eyes open slowly, still clouded by dreams. It’s rather obviously unexpected to be found in this position, with a stranger resting over him, smiling, trapped beneath their weight.

“Who are you?” he breathes, barely above a whisper. There’s no fear behind his gaze, only shimmering curiosity.

“Who do you think I am?”

Your fingers trail lower, tracing circles into his abdomen. It’s a fitting pattern for what you’ve seen of him: controlled, precise, predictable. No hard edges or uncertainty, just smooth and calm. Something about a vow, you think, has made him like this. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. A promise to a power too self-righteous for your taste.

His eyebrows furrow as he attempts to focus upon you, vision still blurry. The most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, curves casting shadows under the fading starlight, black lace and soft skin. Then, there’s a flash of horns, a flicker of your tail, the markings below your abdomen pulsing through the dark. He swallows. “What are you?”

Ruby lips spread into a grin, one that veers sinister - he’s such a cute little thing, a chocolate covered strawberry, all sweet and flesh and blood. “An angel.”

The silk pillowcase rustles as he shakes his head, too innocent, too naive to do anything but be truthful. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” you lean forward, feeling his pulse thrum below your palm. “I’m not.” You kiss his cheek, and whisper a goodnight.

The fourth night, he’s more awake, but less verbal. Instead, sun-bright eyes follow your movements, the crackling fingerprints that travel his skin. He lets you touch him, lets you trace out the muscles lying below the surface, feel the nerves and arteries that quicken under your touch. Drowsy little whines leave his throat, barely a sound, as you work. Up wrists, over shoulders, to collarbones, counting ribs and diving into his hips, along his thighs, and back again. It’s a beautiful routine, just light enough to keep him half-slumbering.

From there, it’s mostly the same - you touch and trace and tease him, and he watches, silent and mostly unconscious. A week passes, maybe two. The time doesn’t matter, not to you, not really. What matters is the way his skin sparks beneath your fingertips, the way his eyelashes flutter under the moon’s silken glow.

You aren’t granted the privilege of visiting him awake, not yet, at least. There’s no way for you to see the way he pours over text, books with cracked spines and dusty pages, to find the source of these…dreams, of the being that visits him and steals him from the respite of sleep. The word succubus is heavy in his mouth, more bitter than communion wine, with no unleavened sanctity coming after to dull the taste.

On the seventeenth night (you think, if your count is right), he wakes in a notably different position, no longer cradled by the mattress upon which he put himself to bed. Under the mottled moonlight, he finds himself sitting upright, the bare skin of his back resting against something much warmer than the wooden headboard.

“Good morning, Sunday,” you purr into his ear from behind.

He murmurs something, slowly turning over his shoulder to face you. For the briefest moment, you think you catch the flicker of a smile.

“Good morning, demon.”

“Oh?” you let out an airy chuckle. “So you’ve figured it out then. Good, I was worried all you priests were nothing more than fools.”

The lightest laugh brushes past his lips, allowing his eyes to rest for a moment. “I’m no fool. Now tell me, why are you here, demon?”

Through a feigned pout, your hands make their way back to his chest. “What, are you sick of me already? You don’t like me, is that it?”

“I have no particular feelings towards you.” He’s quick to respond, quicker even to remind himself of his place, of his duties, as your palms threaten to burn through his skin. Poverty. Celibacy. Obedience. Important ideals. Good ideals. Holy ones, at that.

Through a hum, you travel lower over his body. It’s a test, really, to see if he’ll stop you, grab your wrists and yank you from behind him and banish you from this place forever. It would take so little: a splash of holy water, or even a simple curse, and he’d be rid of you. Surely he found that little fact in his readings.

And yet, he simply follows your path downward with his gaze (you can’t say you’re truly that surprised - it has become your routine, after all. And Sunday cherishes his routines).

“No feelings for me, you say,” you say, pensively. Lower, and lower, and lower.

Just as his lips open to speak, to throw some calculated retort, your fingertips brush between his legs and the sound twists into something else, something needier, a noise he couldn’t have controlled with all the constitution in heaven.

You gasp at the response, too, awe bubbling inside your cheeks.

“Oh, Sunday,” you breathe. “You poor thing, you must be so pent up.”

“I- mmm.” With a second run of your palm over his hardening length, his eyes dance shut, his entire body shuddering.

“Don’t they allow you to touch yourselves here?”

It’s evil, this touch, coursing with sin and dark, dirty blasphemy. He ought to shut his mouth, rip out his vocal cords if that’s what it takes, and wait. Perhaps a blood smear above his lips would protect him, make you pass him over tonight and all nights thereafter.

“N-not in the monastery,” he chokes out. “It’s against the rules.”

He grants you the privilege of grazing his warming skin, before letting out a shaky breath. Thou shalt not covet. Dispel desire.

“You…you should stop.”

“Stop?” The absurdity leaks into your voice. “You’ve given up so much for this silly church, don’t you think? Why give this up, too? Don’t you deserve it?”

A pause, a steadying breath, to quiet your dissatisfaction disguised as rage.

“And besides, look how badly you need this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” An angel, caught in your trap; to think you may not even have to clip his wings. “Don’t you want to feel good, my dear Sunday?”

Eyelashes delve into the creases of his eyelids as he tightens them closed, lips pulled into a gasping frown. Everything in his mind, in the years of his training, of memorizing verses and teachings and sermons and rules and rules and rules, tells him to say no, to force a stop to this nonsense.

“And,” you perk up at his hesitation, “it won’t even be violating your so-called ‘rules’ if I’m the one touching you, right?”

Even through the feather-light touches, Sunday worries he’s losing his mind, like your fist might as well be piercing through his chest and ripping his soul from it, dragging it into hell with you. The thoughts that make it up his spine are too blurry with lust to let the more sluggish Reason through.

“Right.”

Smiling into his neck, you feel his carotid jump under your teeth. “Good, good. So just let me do this, okay?”

So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires.

He says the words over, and over, and over in his mind.

Do not be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshiping the things of this world.

He knows better than to make idols.

And yet, all he can do is nod his head.

He doesn’t face you, of course, buried under the shame of it. If the church was any older, he’d worry the brick would collapse in on him at any second, to punish him for the sin he was too weak to avoid committing. Perhaps he should be turned to salt, a fate befitting of his pathetic disobedience.

“Okay.”

It’s immediate, the way he relaxes when you finally reach below his boxers. The heat of your touch melts him, his throat craning as it releases strained whines. He’s heavy in your hand, a weight his so-called gods would surely commend, if they could spare such thoughts. Soft skin, unsoiled, untainted. Utterly holy.

As you stroke him with a tenderness only known to the clouds of salvation, he looks nothing short of angelic, the arch of his spine making space where wings ought to be, the tickle of his hair soft like a crowned halo. And you, wrapped around him like a flame, carry him through the air. Lower, and lower, and lower. To soften the blow when one falls from grace.

It takes so little for him to shake, to shudder and cry and bend, until you worry his shoulders may snap if you weren’t caging his torso against yours. His head falls back, slack-jawed and awe-struck, as he releases into your palm, pumps of white coating your hand.

It’s a beautiful thing, the sounds he makes, the purity of it. White and cream and gold, just as you’d imagine heaven to be.

There’s waves of pleasure, his stomach clenching with each one, pushing him further and further into you, and you swallow him whole, welcoming with open arms.

Slowly, you press your lips to his cheek, scalding hot.

“Goodnight, Sunday.” And he falls into your chest.

It grows increasingly difficult for him to hide the dreams (at least, that’s what he would convince himself they are). It’s been months now, although truthfully, you’ve stopped counting.

Every night, he falls into a troubled, humid sleep. Every morning, he wakes to a mess, still half-hard and panting.

And yet, he’s more relaxed, his shoulders less tense. When he turns to the parish, his neck moves more easily. As a well-educated (well-trained) man, he assumes he hides it well, but his relief is palpable, a taste too thick to anyone who knows him.

“You seem different lately, Sunday,” Father Wood observes casually.

With his back facing him, Sunday conceals the way his spine tightens. “How do you mean, Father?”

Pensively, Father Wood lights the altar’s candles, an honor given only to those most highly ordained, an honor Sunday used to dream of performing (now, of course, his dreams are consumed by other desires).

“Just…different, is all.”

Sunday’s attention falls to the flames before him, to the way they dance nervously despite the still, stagnant air inside the church. Perhaps they know something he doesn’t.

“I’ve been spending more time in the library lately. Perhaps my reading has enlightened me.”

“Perhaps,” Father Wood echoes. With quiet purpose, he lights the final candle. “This church is your home, my boy. You had nothing before you came here. I remember the day we took you in, the day you were saved.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one that grows and grows and grows; he’d expect it to taste like acid, but all he gets is honey. “I remember it, too.”

Father Wood hums, facing away. “‘If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.’” A pause, a flickering flame. “Sunday, I trust you not to forget the oaths you swore.”

A shiver runs up his neck. Poverty. Chastity. Obedience. “Of course not, Father.”

That night, you meet Sunday in bed. Normally it’s little trouble to untuck the sheets, to find the welcoming skin of his thighs, but tonight he seems determined to bury himself within the blankets.

“Sunday,” you say. He fails to respond, but his ears twitch. “Sunday, I know you’re awake.”

One eye slowly cracks open, revealing the sun behind his eyelids. “Go away.”

“Excuse me?” you choke a laugh. “You want me to ‘go away’?”

Closing his eyes, he hums in affirmation.

Within your chest, your heart flutters - he’s so cute when he thinks he’s in control. Perhaps that’s why you chose him (the chase is always the most fun, the tension of it all; you think Eve’s first bite of the apple must have been underwhelming compared to its weight in her palm).

Perhaps your routine will bring him back. Slowly, you trail a finger along his collarbone - before he pulls away. Curling himself onto his side, he tucks his knees to his chest and shuts you out.

This is certainly a novel development. And it certainly will not do.

“Fine then,” you state, leaning back to the corner of the mattress.

In response, his left ear twitches, but he gives no other response. So be it.

Against the wooden footboard, you open your legs, visible if he were only to turn towards you. With well-practiced hands, you easily slide the black lace panties down your knees, letting them fall at your ankles and leaving you bare (it requires few garments to do your work successfully, after all - they’re made for this).

Silently, you spread your ever-wet folds open. With your other hand, you draw circles around your clit, slowly, tauntingly. Delving into your own heat, a sound of relief comes as an exhale, one that finally has Sunday’s gaze peeking from between his eyelashes.

“What are you doing?”

“If you don’t want me to touch you, I guess I’ll just have to touch myself instead,” you say. The words flow easily, thick like milk and honey, something sweet, something to help him sleep.

This time, his eyes remain open.

His mouth does, too.

Silent except for the ragged breaths coming past his lips, he watches you pleasure yourself, the way your fingers curl, knuckles disappearing only to reappear shining. The inky pattern adorning your womb morphs and glows; a spot of saliva catches in the dim light, and he makes no move to wipe it away.

With an arch of your back and a tilt of your head, you beckon him closer - always such an obedient little thing, your Sunday (he was praised for it, once); he slowly rises. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, holding it unsteadily, as he crawls towards you. Unwavering attention held raptly between your thighs.

“Sunday,” you say, to snap him out of the trance that pulls him towards you. He says nothing, a small trail of drool spilling from the corner of his perfectly eager lips. “Sunday.”

His eyes snap up to yours, the sun eclipsed behind the growing shadow of his pupils.

Your palm cradles his jaw, thumb wiping away the glistening desire. “Are you going to behave now?”

A blank stare.

A fragile nod.

“Good.” Your grin splits the earth open with wicked flames, poking between your teeth. He drinks in the heat with a starving throat, ignoring the way it burns (or reveling in it).

A sparkling star shines in his eyes, nearly glowing. You pull the two fingers from your cunt, still warm and sticky and sweet, and hold them before his face.

You don’t even have to tell him to open his mouth - obedience is such a lovely thing.

When your taste lands upon his tongue, he releases a moan like molten gold. His lips close around your fingers and he sucks and licks the essence from them, hungry and gnawing. Your fingertips glide over his molars and he fights the urge to bite, to claim (a well-trained dog is still just a dog, after all).

There’s a half-hearted whine when you remove your skin from his, one that makes your cheeks ache.

“Tell me what you want, my dear Sunday. Anything you want.”

If our minds are ruled by our desires, we will die.

Perhaps dying here tonight, with your taste still lingering in his throat, would be a graceful demise. A martyr of his sacrilege.

Already, he looks ravished, his cheeks dusted red and eyes wild and unfocused. The pretty ones are always the most fun to ruin, to dirty with desecration; they look so beautiful as they fall.

“I want-” there’s a lump in his throat where his servitude lives, where the years of holiness coalesced and stayed. He swallows heavily. “I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“Ah,” you breathe. “I suppose I can do that.”

“But-” he catches himself. Rules, and rules, and rules. They clog up his esophagus, his vocal cords straining to get past them.

With a gentle finger, you hush his worries. “Just let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

He exhales, a shaky sound. “Okay.”

It takes little pressure to recline him onto the bed, the sheets already dampening from the sweat collected in the hollows of his back. He lets you undress him, lets you place scalding kisses into his skin, soft and sweet as a fig. Ripe like one, too.

Only two pumps of your fist up his length and he’s already leaking, twitching and aching.

“So eager,” you coo when his hips rut into the air, chasing your touch.

“M-my apologies,” he says weakly.

“Nothing to be sorry for, my sweet Sunday. Pleasure is a thing to be worshiped, don’t you think?”

They’d bury him for this. The other priests would crucify him and leave his body out to rot. He’d deserve it, he wouldn’t even complain, he’d be perfectly obedient until his very last breath.

As your thighs encase his, as you line his tip to your entrance, as you sink down, slowly, slowly, slowly, until you’re flush with him, until you’ve swallowed him whole and nestled him inside of you, his vision goes white and he feels the warm smile of forgiveness.

“Yes.”

From behind, your tail twitches into his peripheral vision. A cruel reminder, a crash and burn. Melted wings and the sea. But then your hips circle, once, twice, and he forgets himself again, he enjoys the fall.

His hands fly to your waist, before they’re swatted away with a click of your tongue and a sparkle in your eyes. “Ah, no touching me, remember? Those are your rules, after all.”

“Right.” Instead, his fists dig into the sheets, knuckles turning white.

With each plunge of your warmth up and down his cock, he’s reborn, fresh and gasping, each breath burning like the first. Crescent moons carve into his palms, and he groans.

“Is this…is this real?”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. “Do you want it to be?”

He hesitates for a moment, lets your hand rest on his unsteady heart, lets your skin stick to his. Just below it, a knot forms, the strings tightening and tightening and tightening under years of strain.

“Yes.”

You fill his vision, all-consuming, eating the space between you with sharp teeth. When you speak, it’s a low sound, a rumbling purr. It makes his stomach clench. “Good.”

His breaths come in faster, now that he knows it’s real, that the heat creeping up his neck and down his legs is real, that this is happening. That something exists that feels this fucking good.

And then, all at once, the knot unties itself. The moans he releases are holy, more beautiful than a choir with all its ordained voices.

Damp palms grab at your hips, and you let them. With greedy fingers he holds you in place, fucking himself up into you. Tears well in his eyes and in the blurry haze, he thinks he sees heaven. It opens itself before him, warm and beckoning, in the space between your thighs.

“God, fuck,” he exhales, and you grin.

“How blasphemous, Sunday.”

If he hears you, he gives no indication. Curses tumble from his lips, raw edges cutting his lungs.

He chases a high with urgency, with uncoordinated thrusts and a too-tight grip. His dedication is truly a virtue.

It’s only a moment before he stills, eyes widening, jaw falling open to release an angelic cry. Truly beautiful as he falls, as he comes undone. In the space below his arched spine, you swear there’s a momentary flutter of wings.

Eyelashes open and close, as if to prove that this is not, in fact, real. But the heat still encircling him is proof enough. He shivers.

“Fuck,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Oh Sunday,” you hum, fingers tracing ribs that rise and fall unevenly. There’s a twinge of something mixed into the pride, something sadder, something longing. “This certainly has been fun.”

“Fuck,” he says again. Dread settles on his shoulders, heavy, heavier than duty or scriptures or a grave, than a cross. “Will I…?”

“Be excommunicated for this? Probably not,” you smirk.

Weakly, he shakes his head, sweaty strands of hair sticking to the pillowcase below. “Will I see you again?”

The question makes your heart flutter. How cute.

“If you’d like to, my dear.” With a gentle hand, you brush the fringe from his forehead. “Anything you want.”

At that, he relaxes, his shoulders sinking deeper. With heavy eyelids, his blinking slows. “Good.”

How beautiful he looks like this, half-conscious and spent, utterly debauched. Utterly holy.

“But for now, get some rest.” Warm lips press into his cheek, and he leans into them with a hum. “Goodnight, Sunday.”

[kabr0ztrousers]

dubcon/noncon scenario, fem!reader on a wildlife sightseeing tour in Africa, getting separated from her tour group and fucked silly by a group of humanoid crocodilians (they’re bigger and stronger than her, chubby, and have cocks bigger than anything she has ever taken), and the tour group doesn’t notice her absence and leaves without her, so nobody’s coming to rescue her from her captors (or their numerous friends that they share her with)

Wow, re-reading this prompt, I may need to add it to my "revisit in case of emergency" list, because what shook out doesn't quite fit... Having said that, here's

Kabr0z Writes episode 87: Crocodilian

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: noncon; kidnap; oral sex; group sex

A/N: All hail Sobek! Lord of semen!

Having said that, I realise that my Egyptian geography is about 2000 years out of date. So expect some weirdness with that

#######################################

Kayaking up the Nile. It's been on your bucket list for years, and now you're finally here. You'd already ticket Alexandria off the list, then Cairo, Luxor and and now you're on the way South to Heirakonpolis, hitting all the important bronze age archaeology on the way to Abu Simbel.

Of course, you'd left the glittering cities behind in the Nile delta. This far south the riverbanks fade between farmlands and overgrown nature. You'd learned the hard way that farmers aren't keen on random tourists portaging their boats and pitching their tents on their land, so you found some relatively solid ground to drag your kayak onto, set up the pop-up tent in your pack and crawled into your sleeping bag,

You woke to a tearing sound, the thin canopy of the tent rent open. Three men stood over you, crocodile-headed and well-built. Each had a spear in one hand, a shield in the other. You went to scream. The butt of a spear hit you in the head, and you were silenced.

A cold stone floor beneath you. Shadows flickered on massive sandstone blocks, cast from flames you could hear in the corners of the room. You tried to look without being spotted, turning your head ever so slightly. One of the men noticed you. He yelled something. You don't know what he said, you'd never even heard that language before. Two sets of footsteps echoed down the hall, hurrying towards you. Strong hands lifted you, carrying you between two of the men as they walked.

Measured, perfectly drilled steps took you out of the room. The chamber you found yourself was huge. A ceiling at least thirty feet above you, held up by pillars as wide as a man is tall, decorated with fern leaf motifs. A statue stood at the end of the room, presiding over the altar you were being carried to. Twenty feet tall, at least. A man, tall and thin, in that way that Kemetic statues are. A tall crown sat atop the head of a crocodile. One hand clutched an ankh, the other a staff with topped with a feather.

Sobek.

Your mind raced. You weren't an expert on the Kemetic religion, but they were generally good natured gods. Human sacrifice is rare, normally it's bread or something related to the god's domain. Sobek was the god of the Nile, he dictated the ebb and flow of the yearly floods. There was something else as well, something you couldn't quite...

Oh. Yeah. That's how he controlled the floods. Legend has it that every year, Sobek would masturbate into the Nile, the river swelling with his semen. Indeed, in years where the flood was too low, the Pharaoh would ceremonially jack off into the river to try and appease him.

Suddenly, this all made a little too much sense.

The men lay you on the altar. You shivered from the sandstone under you, looking between the reptilian chin of the one above your head, and the maw of the one holding up your ankles, spreading you apart as his hips rubbed his cock against your pussy.

The one above you removed his loincloth, baring his cock to you. It hung over you, scaled and ridged. He pinched your nose, holding it shut as you tried not to breathe, not to give him the opportunity.

You failed. Instinct took over and your mouth opened to take a breath. It filled with cock instantly. You tried to bite down on it but he didn't seem to notice, the scaly skin unbothered by your teeth. He took it slow, crooning gently at you as he pushed himself into your mouth.

The other had finished rubbing himself against you, bracing his tip against your entrance as he leant gently on you. Your body let him in and you whined as every hard ridge and bump massaged the inside of your cunt.

It was like his cock was made for you, every move stimulated you in just the right way to raise goosebumps on your skin despite the tropical climate. You moaned slightly, the sound muffled by the cock in your mouth.

They both sped up, moving just out of sync so one pushed in a moment after the other. The third stepped up beside the altar, chanting to the god looming over you, cock erect and throbbing. His hands caressed you, one holding your right breast, rolling the nipple under his thumb, the other massaging your clit as his comrade fucked you without pause.

Your cunt clenched and wept, the sound of your arousal audible over the steady Kemetic chanting of the men. Your legs shook, one hand on your tits, the other holding the scaled wrist of the one in the middle. You bucked your hips against the cock in you, tongue rolling around the one in your mouth. Sticky precum coated your tongue as it worked on the length pistoning into your mouth. You drank it down, every gulp warming you.

The third one let go of your tit a moment, just long enough to guide your hand to his already dripping member. Your fingers closed around it, pulling him off in time with his chants.

The prayers grew in intensity. Every syllable brought you closer to your peak.

The cocks pulled out of you. All three pulsing over you, spurting hot cum as your hand rubbed your clit. You wailed in orgasm as the crocodile-men covered you in a stream of sacred cum, coating your skin, getting into your hair.

You fell back, exhausted, stroking the scales of the men standing over you.

Above you, an ancient god smiled

###############################################

Well. The next time I think to myself "I'll leave it here tonight and finish this part before I start my shift tomorrow" please slap me.

This won't interrupt regular posting, you'll get Episode 88 tonight, as scheduled. For now though, I'm playing some Stellaris.

[quarterlifekitty]

Another strange little idea

cw: child death, Catholic school trauma (based on outlast 2)

As I lay down my head to sleep

Johnny could tell you when his issues with authority started. Still has them now, though Price knows where to direct the teeth of a mad dog. He could tell you so much more than just the age— he could tell you the very day. The hour. The minute. The second.

It was the last second he saw you alive. The moment before your body made its final fall from the last step, cracking your skull on the linoleum, a halo of blood soaking your hair and the skewed blue wool of your uniform vest.

Johnny talks a lot. In fact, it’s hard to get him to stop. But that one moment has stayed buried deep, still stuck at the base of his 12 year old spine.

I pray the lord my soul to keep

They say girls grow up faster than boys. It’s true. Your best friend—your girl best friend, that is— clumsily shoved a pile of loose leaf paper into his hands when school had resumed on Monday. When everyone knew. He looked at them, confused— like runic cryptograms of femininity, the pages were covered in doodles of hearts and centaur men, creased by dozens upon dozens of repeated intricate folds, emblazoned with line after line of glitter pen ink.

“She, uhm— she really… I think she’d want you to know— she really liked you.” He barely looked up in time to see the flutter of a navy skirt as she ran away, having finished her grave deed.

They stayed clandestinely tucked into the back pocket of his binder for an agonizing week before he’d had the courage to read them.

Johnny? As in Johnny Mactavish? Ewwwww. he’s so stupid.

All boys are stupid. At least he’s cute. His eyes are pretty. And he’s like…. Funny-stupid. Not mean-stupid.

So when are you gonna get married? Are you gonna have a hundred babies and have a dog and a cat? And live in million-pound house in London?

Shut up!!! Bitch.

Slag.

Maybe we will get married. And have a million babies and they’ll all have his blue eyes and my perfect hair and you’re gonna be so jealous!!!

And if I die

He was still in his boyhood then. When he looks back now, it was all so obvious… the excuses to hold his hand. To come over to his house after school. Begging him to join the same after school club as you. Leaving butterscotches in the little pocket on his book bag.

Maybe if he’d had just a little more time to grow into himself— to understand the fairer sex, he’d have known things. He’d have liked you back. Maybe you would’ve been happy together. Maybe it would’ve lasted two weeks.

But now there was just no way to know.

You died running. Pushing. Escaping. No more than five minutes after you’d begged fearfully for him not to leave you to pray with—

And it planted the awful little rotting seed deep in some under-used vessel in the recesses of his heart. A purpling bruise from every possibility that was shattered. Everything that could’ve been. It warped your image in his mind. How could it not, when he was taught to admire and adore innocents that had died?

You became his personal saint. And try as he might to move on, to forget, no earthly woman had a chance to compete with that. Not really.

Before I wake

He should’ve known. When he saw that patch of blue in the corner of his eye. That strictly kept length of hair. When Simon had to snap at him to get him to fucking pay attention if y’wanna keep that useless ‘ead on ya shoulders.

When he heard that little—

Please don’t go.

Right in front of the tunnel.

When your halo became a blinding light where it had been the blood of an ingenue spilled against cheap, beige and white speckled plastic flooring. When he smelled angel’s trumpets instead of rubber burnt into the grit on the edge of the steps.

When he heard the click of a three ring binder instead of the gunshot.

I pray the lord my soul to take

But he does feel it when the bullet makes a home in the side of his skull. And he prays to god that he falls the very same way you did.

[boxeom]

Insane Character Analysis/Rant About Caleb/Mahiru/Xia Yizhou

Okay so MAJOR SPOILERS for Caleb's storyline/Myth/Cards, cw. incest/pseudocest, cw. religious themes.

As much as I love Caleb's eng va, I do have to say that the moments where he's being y'know- insane- don't hit as well as they do in the JP/CN versions. Since the english localization is bending over backwards to remove the pseudocest that is straight up a key part to mc/Caleb's entire relationship, there are a lot of moments that don't really make much sense in terms of tension when you go with the whole "childhood friend" context. I've listened to both the JP and ENG versions of cards I've found the most significant for mc and Caleb and the differences are insane to say the least.

The amount of times "nii-chan/san/gege/big brother" is removed from the english captions is honestly hilarious to me. As long as you don't understand some basic Japanese or Chinese, it might go right over your head. But even as someone who isn't fluent in Japanese, I have a good enough grasp on the language to know that there is a VERY different story being told- so much so that it's gotten to a point where I consider Caleb, Xia Yizhou, and Mahiru three entirely different characters from each other because of how vastly different their writing is by each localization.

Caleb and mc's obvious symbolism is the biblical story of Adam and Eve and the Forbidden Fruit- a story of man's first sin being temptation and receiving enlightenment at the cost of falling from God's Grace. The apple is well known in literature to represent the Forbidden Fruit. It's a theme that commonly alludes to sexual liberation, forbidden knowledge, lustful temptation (not just in a sexual sense), and a physical representation of sin. I have some thoughts that the chip also plays a part in being a more literal version of the Forbidden Fruit, since it lowers previous hesitations and exacerbates more obsessive, possessive, and impulsive qualities of mc AND Caleb as well as their sexual wants for each other.

Now, to me, having the imagery of the Forbidden Fruit in the trope of childhood friends makes little to no sense. There is no taboo to shy away from, no reason for mc and Caleb to feel as clearly conflicted as they do when they start toeing at certain lines- if anything, I feel as though it would be something to be encouraged. But when you take the time to look at and listen to the JP/CN versions, well...it becomes MUCH more obvious why the apple is there in the first place.

Acknowledging the fact that mc and Caleb do and have always seen one another as siblings and developed a codependent bond founded in trauma ties every missing thing that the english localization just can't piece back together while trying to do a "boy next door" theme for Caleb (I mean they literally grew up in the same house, had bedrooms across the hall from each other, saw the other grow up in the closest way anyone possibly could- there's nothing "boy next door" about that).

Below are just a few examples that I've collected that I think both show how the childhood friend angle just doesn't work with Caleb and how much his and mc's relationship is reliant on something forbidden, something that they both know is wrong between them but keep managing to indulge in no matter how hard they try not to;

Now there are DOZENS of more moments like this littered throughout Caleb's entire story and what we have between him and MC so far. And in particular the second row does NOT have mc say "childhood friend" in the JP version (can you guess what she refers to him as instead?). These "dangerous thoughts", the "cushion that stays between", the fear of rejection that Caleb possesses is so much more than just something between two people who grew up together in the context of childhood friends.

The first and last screenshots in particular are some of my favorites (taken from Intertwined Gold and Exclusive Aftertaste). For Exclusive Aftertaste, it's not only a cute moment of mc silently confirming Caleb's suspicions that she was waiting for him but, on a deeper level, acknowledging that she will always love him no matter what happens between them. And at an even DEEPER level, it's mc knowingly partaking in Caleb's favorite forbidden fruit- his favorite sin. They BOTH took a bite from it. And though we never get to SEE what happens, we HEAR the bite they take in unison. It's safe to assume what happens. There's a damn reason the card is called "Exclusive Aftertaste". And then they proceed to never talk about it again.

Meanwhile, in Intertwined Gold, mc is literally expressing that she wishes they'd met differently so that they could be together without having to lie to themselves about what's happening. Like COME ONNNN. Why would a childhood friend EVER need to say this?

In my opinion, getting rid of this intended layer of Caleb and mc's relationship doesn't do his character justice at all. Caleb/Mahiru/Xia Yizhou is an incredibly well written and complex character- he's deeply flawed, traumatized, and in desperate need of connection in any form he can get from the one person in the world he's ever loved with all his soul. It mellows out the moments of desperation, manipulation, and intensity he has during his darker moments that just don't convey the tragedy and bittersweetness of mc/Caleb.

There are a billion more things to say here but it is seven in the morning rn and I've been up writing this in one sitting since six. I will definitely add more when I'm not running on fumes and the crack that is Caleb's character. 🙏🏽

[bhramarii]

THE PROPHET // THE SAINT

[mosaickiwi]

Fall Unto Me (part three)

Part one, part two

I said I was on break but then a lot of things immediately fell out of my brain cause of stress so now I feel silly... sowweeeeee 🤡 Part four WILL be the last part I swear. If you see more Angel!Angel and Demon!Ren from me after that (and da infodump if i get to it) genuinely tell me to shut the FUCK up!!!

yes i am probably writing the NSFW version it'll be in my compendium post if it happens

cw// religious themes

14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI

Your resolve was getting harder to hold on to, but you kept it. This would be the last time. You couldn't part from heaven again after returning. Atonement was waiting for you, eternal devotion to your duty right after.

Another few weeks went by as you stayed with Ren a little longer, the sea of flowers outside your bedroom window changing little by little each day. So many of them were already fully blooming, most of their petals stretched open to show off a myriad of colors while others curled inwards to hide from you. Practically a taunting mockery with how they took their time. As if insulted you would dare leave once they painted the horizon with their beauty.

It made it all the more painful that you'd never see them again. Or the companion that now felt like a piece you'd been missing.

Something about that encroaching deadline had affected the devil, too. Ren was calmer in some ways. They still brought you gifts and knowledge like usual, but he seemed to be taking his time just like the flowers. Simple answers to your curiosities became thorough while he held you close and urged you to ask more questions about whichever object took interest. 

He'd offered to revisit trinkets you loved as well. Until you were as familiar with using them as he was. You couldn't understand it. 

Your time together was draining away by the second. Didn't they want to make exciting memories? No matter how much you enjoyed it, mastery over human instruments or crafts served no purpose. Heaven wouldn't let you bring those things home, nor could you ask a higher power to recreate them for leisure.

Maybe your love was in denial of your departure. Or maybe spending little mundane, quiet days and nights together like this was their way of coming to terms with it.

Today, you chose to fiddle with one of the oldest gifts while chatting with him. The sun was just beginning to set, casting the room in the faded, flaming gold hue you'd only now gotten used to. 

“—Love?” He was calling you, the end of his tail swaying gently in front of your face to get your attention. You’d missed a few words.

“Hm?”

“You've gotten much better at this,” the pink haired devil hummed above you. His chin was resting atop your head as they cradled you in their lap on a frayed rug, his back against the bottom of the couch.

You looked over your work. The woven red string wrapped around and through your fingers took the shape of a pointed star. You knew real stars looked differently, but the human interpretation was interesting.

“Truly, it’s better than before,” you said with wholehearted agreement. The first time you'd tried—only on the third day of your visit to earth—had simply tangled the string to a knotted mess stuck upon your fingers for Ren to deal with while you apologized, embarrassed beyond belief. 

The patterns they taught you were almost easy thanks to your afternoon of trying. You unwound the string and painstakingly wound it again into one that often graced your practice: an angel. He'd been particularly smug about teaching you the motions of that one.

“An impressive self portrait,” Ren joked and squeezed you tighter in their embrace. “Although it'll take more than some thread to capture your divine beauty.”

Naturally, you rolled your eyes even though the soul it was meant for couldn't see it. A mortal gesture you'd gotten the hang of quicker than anything, as he so favored innocent teasing before expressing his deepest sincerities.

You untangled the string and tossed it to the side, then turned in their lap to make a face this time for their benefit. “I’ll do a painting, then. I’ve had enough of this toy.”

He relaxed his hold long enough for you to wander across the room in search of new distractions, but innocently called after you, “We’ll have to light quite a few candles for you to see well. Unless you plan to have me mix paints for you in the dark.” A second passed before he spoke again. “It’d be a pleasant surprise, I’m sure.” 

“Something else?” you replied, making a swift turn towards the bookshelves. You came back with a couple of novels and sat beside them with your treasure. “Is this really all you want to do? You’ve read every book here before.” 

Even the books he’d bought with strange, flimsy paper currency for you, Ren had said so casually, were already familiar territory. Tedium hardly described how boring you thought these weeks must be for him. But he never objected to anything you chose, as long as you both stayed close to home during the day. 

And you always kept your wings hidden in case a human roamed nearby. You'd never seen one come close to the cabin, or even the field of flowers, but he insisted your safety—and proximity to them—was of utmost priority. It was hard to remember the last time you let loose your wings at all after walking on the beach with him. They interrupted your thoughts once more.

“My sweet, delicate angel, I’ve had all the time in the world to do anything I want.” Their blue eyes narrowed with a smile as they spoke and you knew more teasing was coming. “We could even sit here in silence all night, if you asked me nicely.”

“How kind of you, my darling demon,” you teased them back. 

Another jesting response in his gaze faded to something different as you pulled him down for a kiss, gently at first. The books you’d brought over lay forgotten, soon shoved under the couch in favor of your new activity.

Kissing the demon you called yours felt like second nature now. There was no sting that ever came, no homesick aching in your back anymore. Only the flood of tender emotions he gave you, tainted by your own guilt and fears of parting from him.

You needed more. A stronger distraction. Your hand on his shirt tightened, determined to keep him. To stay in this moment as long as possible.

Ren exhaled, a muttering of blasphemous praise you dare not repeat whispered from his lips to yours, along with one word. A word that sounded odd to your ears. 

You'd heard it countless times over the months, but it didn't feel strange until after the first kiss you shared. He must have said it earlier, too, when you were occupied with that damned little red string. Demonic language was much different, it certainly wasn’t that at all. And the sounds of the word did feel similar to mortal languages, but nothing came to mind. So naturally, you could only assume it to be another of their pet names, but…

The thought fell to the side as you focused on him. He was all that needed to matter right now.

Their comforting warmth that called of your sacred home, your nails curling into the bottom of his shirt just to fall lower, an iron, almost nectar-like taste that flowered on your tongue—did you bite him this time? It felt good. 

Desperately, you brushed your hand over his thigh, getting dangerously close to where you knew things risked going further. You caught yourself and froze. You wanted him, you’d known since that day in the rain. In every way a being could yearn for another’s love. And of course he felt the same. But could you really go home if it happened? 

“Before I…” The words hung in the air and what remained weighed in your throat. Before I leave. Departure was looming on the horizon, sure as the sun would rise tomorrow. You dare not mention it to the one you loved again. You opened your eyes to meet theirs, cautiously as you wondered, “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” they answered, longing clear as the evening sky in his voice. “I couldn’t bear—or ever want—to deny you. Little angel, all you desire of me is yours to take.”

Without another word you did just that. You thought nothing of the faint, staggered line you felt under your fingertips that seemed to start somewhere along his shoulder blade as you lifted the shirt away and pushed him to lay on the rug. Your hands pressed their ink-stained arms flat next to the disheveled mess of pink hair and horns. Ren grinned at your audacity to pin him, but held still for your much needed exploration. 

Eyes half lidded with patient lust, mouth parted to show off pointed fangs, the devil looked to be the very picture of your sinful desires.

To be one with them, even just once, was a memory worth making. No matter what punishment waited for you at heaven’s boundary. You skimmed your fingers from the base of his collarbone, down over their stomach, and began to undo the buttons that concealed what you’d been waiting for.

[sunlight-s0ngbird]

Can I please request Demitrius x Bi reader?

Like he is crushing on her and asks about past relationships and she's like "No real exes" his heart flutters till she keeps going "well other than Ruby"

Would love to see him confused by the concept of bisexuality lmao

My heart leapt from me.

Yandere religious boy x Fem! Bi! Reader headcanons Summary: When the topic of relationships comes up, Demetrius's crush on you takes a turn when you happen to slip in a comment about... a girl? Content warning: weird ideas of "purity", no real religion was used in this btw, unhealthy views of love/relationships, slightly sexual comments (nothing intense, just comments). A/n: I took the reader as being female because of the use of she/her pronouns in the ask. AI was not used to make this. Do not use to make or for ai. Welcome board Request rules Yandere religious boy masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Demetrius knows somewhat about love, the teachings from the church, his mother, and childhood crushes were kind of it. The things he’s heard from his mother and the church was simply taught to keep him “pure”; wait until you’re married, don’t get distracted by other women while being married, and marry for a family. 

Your statement of never having partners excited him. Not because he was excited to experience new things with you, but rather purity. He liked that he could be your first, first boyfriend, kiss, love, husband. It excites him a lot. 

“What do you mean ‘other than Ruby?’” Demetrius quickly spats, tilting his head at your wording. You knelt down by the bristles of the broom, brushing the dirt into the dust pan. A smile drew onto your lips. 

“Something might have...,” you trailed off, looking at the small pile of gray dust, wetting your lips before continuing. “Happened between us.” 

Demetrius stared blankly at you. He had heard ten billion times that girls helped each other understand themselves but... not like... that. No, you were better than that. “Like, friend stuff?” 

Standing up straight again, you give him a huff of a laugh at his tone. “What do you think is ‘friend stuff’ to girls?” You asked and turned back to the pews at the spaces between them. 

Even though it’s 1917, Demetrius isn’t blatantly biphobic, at least to his knowledge. He doesn’t know about bisexuality, obviously he wouldn’t know about it. He just hates the idea of anyone but himself being with you. Living in a small religious town in a pretty closed-minded time will make a person believe anything about anything. 

Though the news of your purity excites him, it also confuses him. If we’re going off fantasy, Demetrius would accept it and leave it be. If we’re being realistic, he runs to the priest.  

“Father,” Demetrius called, rushing down the aisle to the priest, the rest carpet contrasted with the black leather of his shoes. The priest stood at the front of the church, under the vibrant colors of the stained-glass windows. 

“Yes, child?” The priest said back with a smile, glancing back at him as he fixed up the books behind his usual preaching space. 

“My lady has kissed women before me. What should I do?” Demetrius asked with intense blankness. 

Demetrius hates the idea of men loving you, men is not his name. Women may be seen a little differently, but they still have the ability to kiss you, which isn’t what he wants. 

He genuinely will not understand your liking for men and women. Isn’t that a bit too much on your plate? Now he has to deal with competition from both sides. The gendered segregation in the church did little to appease his growing jealousy. He liked it at the start because you weren’t around any other boys your age. But now girls? It’s essentially your heaven! 

Demetrius isn’t a violent boy, he’s not willing to turn to fighting or hurting others. He’s above violence because whatever he prays for, the lord will bless him with. He wants your little “Ruby” gone? He’s at church justifying why he’s “not praying for violence onto others, rather praying for them to leave a pure girl alone”. The lord and his mother would be very mad if he fought someone. He’s also as thin as a twig and would be taken down in seconds. 

Demetrius wouldn’t take compliments of others as lightly as before. “That girl’s dress is very beautiful” oh? Is it because it’s on a woman and she herself is beautiful and you want her? He’s back at church praying for her downfall. 

Demetrius never blames you for your feelings, he blames the people are you that had the audacity to tempt you to begin with. 

His courtship of you isn’t any different. When it comes to it, he knows best about loneliness and how terrible it can be when alone with a girl. Demetrius rarely allows himself alone with you, those times are only at the brook behind the church. And even with the place of his lord nearby, he still wants lustful things from you. 

Even with your bisexuality, Demetrius still wants you. He has little understanding of how that love works but he doesn’t really care how you do it. As long as you’re considered his lady, he’s alright with anything. 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Thank you so much for the request! I had a lot of fun writing this!!

[toddthinkeritis]

ishak. written october 2024.

(bruce and jay, father and son, abraham and isaac. a poem.)

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 24: The Ritual, Part 3

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes Anthology Here

Find part 1 of this 3-parter here, and Part 2 here

CWs: marriage; demon fucking; dubious consent turning into enthusiastic consent; creampie; physical transformation

A/N: This one was a fun 3-parter! I've got a couple of requests to go before I run out, but do feel free to send in any thoughts, ideas, construction criticism, whatever!

#######################################

You looked around. The sulphurous air singing your nostrils. You're definitely wearing a wedding dress, long and white. Definitely in some sort of church, maybe a cathedral? Swanky. The spikes and braziers wouldn't have been your first choice though. And for some reason the officiant had horns.

Wait. What?

You looked at the man next to you. He was tall and thin. His skin was gaunt and pale against his bones, ragged strips of smouldering black cloth hanging from his limbs. He was leaning in to kiss you, his eyeless face pressing against yours. You were paralysed to stop him, to pull away.

"You'll make a fine baroness" he whispered in your ear, a voice like dragging roofing slates over one another. He lifted you up in a princess carry, taking care not to hurt you with his long claws, and walked with you out of the building, into a city.

He took flight. Clutching you to him as you held on to his neck, his arms far more powerful than they appeared. Below you the city was cast in a yellow hue, streets bustling with activity, like watching ants swarm around dropped bread. Then you landed on a balcony, and he carefully put you down.

"I expect you have questions?"

You nodded, the flight and the acrid air having robbed you of your speech

"Very well. We'll have the rest of forever to answer them all. For now, know this. I am L'Saat, Baron of the City of the Gap, Oracle of the Seal, et cetera, et cetera" he wheeled a clawed hand, noticeably bored "It all gets a bit much. Your titles are much simpler. You are my wife, so Baroness of the delightful city you see below you."

You nodded, struggling to take it in. You're a noble now? In hell? Not ideal, but a step up from a barmaid

"And the marriage? That was a bit..."

"Sudden? Yes. I've had my sights on you for a while. So full of lust and desire, I simply had to have you. I had my worshippers bring you to me" You're not sure if he was capable of tenderness, but the way he looked at you, you'd almost think he really admired you, despite the callousness with which he described your recent murder

"And I'll get wings? And horns?"

"Just some of the benefits of your station. Given time, you will learn to mold yourself to any form you desire. But that can come later. Now, we come to business"

He ushered you on, pushing you through a door to a bedroom. You sat on the bed, dreamlike, and watched as he removed his loincloth. You could see the end of his cock poking out of its sheath, thick and flared. It made your mouth water just looking at it, and you could feel your pussy getting hot. You couldn't help but squirm with arousal as he stepped over to you, which only got worse as he drew one of those wicked-looking claws along your skin, effortlessly cutting through the sheer fabric of your dress. You placed your hand on his ribs, visible under the taut-stretched skin, and felt his crotch with the other. He was a man like any other and you knew how to get what you wanted from him. His cock was getting harder, emerging from its sheath as you ran your fingers down its length.

Some of your regulars in your old life had been big, this dwarfed them all. It was easily as thick as your arm, and even semi-erect already over a foot long, every throb drawing another couple of inches out. He pulled away from you a moment, before diving into your pussy. His tongue was long and agile, expertly finding all the best places, stimulating parts of you never dreamed of before. He took you to the edge, again and again, masterfully ramping up and down to keep you whining and whimpering, begging him to let you cum.

That's when he put his cock into you. The length and width shocking you into a rolling orgasm that felt like a thunderstorm in your breast. His claws raking down your skin, pressure expertly applied to cause just enough pain, but not break the skin. You came almost non-stop as he was thrusting inside you, until he drove himself deep inside you and you felt a swelling at the base of his cock, locking you together.

Suddenly he was almost a different person. Gone was the rough, feral ride. Now he was sweetness and kisses, stroking your hair, holding you close to him and cooing sweet nothings into your ear. There you stayed for at least an hour, though time meant little in this place. When he finally became soft enough to pull out, a great wash of semen followed him, drenching the sheets underneath you. You ran a hand through your hair, matted with sweat and noticed a pair of short horns on your forehead

Have to look the part, you suppose

[boxeom]

Starve and Gorge: The Birth (Sukuna wip)

Contains: (cw.) death, (cw.) cannibalism, (cw.) violent childbirth, (cw.) violence against infants, subtle religious theming.

His first memory is hunger.

An ache twisted His tiny gut, it demanded and consumed. Within His mother's womb, He starved. He had no choice, no malice, no idea. He simply wished to make it stop. He did what He knew could be done.

And so, He ate.

He ate the brother that grew beside Him- devoured and consumed until nothing was left. Until He hungered no longer. From then on, His birthright would be passed unto Him. The birthright of hunger. Damned by what He could not control, damned and faulted by the instinct to live, His curse was starvation.

He tore from his mother's belly, His first inhale and His second time taking a life. What else could do that if not a curse? If not a little monster doomed to destroy everything? He shrieked and cried, thrashed and squirmed into a world that would not hold Him. Bathed in the blood of His mother, He was not touched. Yet again, He starved- yearning for the first comforting brush a child would get from His mother. Instead, He squeezed His umbilical cord in His tiny fist (the one and only connection He would ever have to His mother). With no mother to love Him, He could only do what He knew.

And so, He ate.

No one wished to lay a hand on the thing that had just birthed itself so violently. He was an omen. A mistake. A curse. A blight upon the very essence of existence itself.

The meat around Him feared and cowered at the sight. They could not let an abomination like this continue to exist. They poked knives and needles, swung katanas and axes, burned fires and burrowed grave after grave, yet He lived. Scream, He most certainly did. But die? It seemed He'd been starved once more. He'd only been days old, yet denied of His humanity. The meat, horrified that this demon untouched by death defied that of human limit, questioned what could possibly be done now. They threw the thing into a cellar and locked it within.

[omenlight]

argenti being reminded of his old friend w boothills conviction.... he sees the vow for protection (in the form of vengeance), hears the crack in boothill's voice when he speaks of his family–of the innocent who were taken, and argenti is reminded of a shared loneliness from years past.

it is blasphemous to consider a nonbeliever in the same light as another knight, he knows that. beautiful boothill may be, he is still blind to the beauty's blessing– thus unaware of the threats that surround his lifestyle. completely oblivious of how the triple demon's whispers are a sweet poison that always lurk behind self-indulgence. boothill acts in ways that argenti has long known to be tempting fate. he drinks liquor during their late-night rendezvous, rants freely on all sorts of carnal pleasures, and is unafraid to show his frustration at the world's cruelty. argenti watches, awestruck yet terrified for his own sanity. if his departed master were to meet the company he kept, he'd surely assign another full month of penance for the sin.

yet... despite the oath he swore and its consequences, he remains silent on idrila during their meetings. when he is with boothill, the rosary he keeps remains the closest tie to THEIR guidance. it stays clutched between his fingers, grounding him when they speak. they exchange words in the way that he was warned out of long ago. they laugh, argenti treats him to good food, and they are so utterly alive despite the metal shells that have encased their hearts. boothill doesn't fault him when he's unaware of what to do with his own fragility, together they are human. that may be the worst part of it all.

they always depart from one another before dawn. after all, duty does not rest regardless of company. afterwards, argenti kneels in the solitary reality that is the one and only, that same rosary clutched between both hands now as he prays for penance. for a knight repenting can only do so much, he knows that, but an unsightly human side of him wishes it were different.

much like ena's dream of tranquility, the near-nightly trial of his own indulgence for boothill is nigh impossible to overcome. the dream visits him when he is alone, striking between panicked nightmares of his childhood.

he pictures them together, on a planet unscarred by war and pilaging, with hands entwined. they would watch as the sun set, and in that reality the red color of the sky was comparable to a million different things before their own blood. they share warmth, they make mistakes, and no aeon is there to take credit for their joy. he never had a childhood, not in the way boothill did, but he wishes that they could share one together.

the want chips at his vows bit by bit, much like the way his friend's scales wore down by his lance, resisting right up until the very last strike. unlike then, though, he is blind to the ending of this fantasy. if there ever is to be one.

if that dear friend was as unaware as boothill was, perhaps he would have been spared from such a fate. sin is the most potent when it is known to be such, this was one of the first of the knights' lessons. it is a selfish desire, that for boothill's ignorance– born from ghastly scales and hissing pleads. it is those memories that push him to stay silent about the oath of ascetism around boothill. argenti watches him in awe, and drowns in guilt when he is back to his own isolation. it aches, sickeningly familiar to the grief he holds for his own mortality's limits.

all he can do is pray harder that idrila will teach him to overcome this trial, and all he hopes is that boothill will never know of it.

[sillyblues]

‘pecador.’

synopsis— you bring the sinner out of miguel o’hara

cw— religious themes, blood, mild nsfw, 18+

“En el nombre del Padre,”

Miguel O’Hara was a sinner. Violence has always resided in his soul, along with anger that bubbled in his veins. It was evidently clear to him and everyone, even back then when he was younger. He could barely remember his first memories of joy with his mother nor a play with his brother, but he could remember vividly when he threw a punch at somebody who told him that he and his mother and brother were dirty.

And ever since then, he has not learned of a moment filled with peace. His father berated him and punched him as well because how dare he hurt the son of his boss. Because of it, his father had been fired, and they had no money anymore. But Miguel didn’t care. How could he when that little shit insulted his mother in front of him? He let his father vent his anger and frustrations on him. 

“Y del Hijo,”

But a mother’s love was great, and his own mother couldn’t bear to see her son getting hurt, so she tried to stop him. She took her in his arms and protected him from his father. But she shouldn’t have done that. He wished his mother stayed put in place and come to him when his father was done with him. But she didn’t because her love for him was great.

His father grew furious at the sight of his wife hiding his son away from him and in wrath, he hurt Miguel’s mother as well. The slaps and the punches and the hair pulls were thrown at his mother and he knew it was painful. He tried to pull away from her as his eyes were wide and tears streamed down. He begged his father to stop and asked him to forgive him, he sobbed as he said to him to hurt him instead, just not his mom. But despite it all, his father turned a deaf ear to his pleads and his mother’s embrace was tight just so he would not get hurt.

“Y del Espíritu Santo,”

His father’s anger was a large fire that evaporated away his family’s water of tears but Miguel’s resentment was a burning fiery hell only reserved for his father. His rage was molten and flowed through like lava and it pulsed within his heart and consumed his rationality. His fury blinded him and he didn’t know what he had done until he regained his vision momentarily back to see his mother crying.

“Miguel, escúchame,” his mother whispered to him with a tremble as she took the bloodied knife that he didn’t know he was holding from his arms. He looked at his hands soaked in red and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“My baby boy, thank you for protecting Mama,” she hugged him and rocked him back and forth as she sobbed. Like instinct, he hugged her back weakly. “I love you so much, I want you to know that.”

“Be strong for me and for your little brother, okay? He has no one but you. Take care of him and yourself, alright?” her soft voice was full of sadness and he desperately wanted to look up to her and comfort her. He wanted to tell her that he also loved her very much and he will but like a lullaby, her voice sent a wave of sleepiness and his vision darkened.

But he couldn’t help it and then, he fainted. When he woke up in a hospital room with his little brother, Gabriel, snuggled beside him, nurses and the police greeted him. There, he knew his mother killed herself.

“Amen.”

He took his mother’s words to his heart and swore that he would protect his brother. He did not let anyone take him or his brother or relied on adults because he trusted nobody. He appealed to the court at 16 years old that he could take care of himself and his brother. Fortunately, he was approved and he took multiple jobs to sustain their needs. He didn’t go to school, no, he didn’t have any time but he made sure that Gabriel did. He worked tirelessly sleeping barely 5 hours a day just to bring food to the table and have a roof over their heads. But despite his busy schedule, he made sure to be there on Gabriel's important days.

Years went by and they had formed a mundane lifestyle. And he tried so hard to keep it that way. But violence resided in his soul and the sinner in him was rekindled once more when his brother was found dead one early morning. He received a call when he was about to go to work and rushed to the crime scene when he heard the news. When he saw Gabriel’s lifeless body and the blood that pooled around him, the remaining hope in his heart was crushed and rage once more visited him and burned fiercely. The police ruled it as suicide as he was found in an alleyway in between buildings. But Miguel knew that it wasn't because of his brother who was so happy and talked his ear off about graduating and becoming a billionaire so he could support him and would never give up on life like that.

“Padre nuestro,”

Miguel decided to join the underworld where mafias and gangs ran about. He took jobs there not only for quick cash but to form connections and information. He investigated more about his brother's death and found out that he was bullied for a long time by a group of kids his age. Apparently, they picked on him because he was sorry for being dirty and a son of a filthy murderer. There was evidence on the autopsy that was not reported that he was burned, with cuts and bruises littered all over his body. A camera evidence that was also not submitted and was deleted (but luckily saved by the corrupt authorities who tried to keep it as a blackmail opportunity) showed that they pushed Gabriel to his death and they all laughed about it. Not only that but he wasn't their only victim.

Miguel felt so angry at himself and guilty that he didn't know that behind his brother's insistence on being covered up from head to toe, lies numerous wounds. Knowing him, he probably didn't tell him so he wouldn't worry about him. He wished he did. He wished Gabriel was a little more selfish and made him worry about him instead because he would protect him better.

With this, he took his time to learn more about the arrogant pricks that murdered his brother. He moved to a different city, to Nueva York, so that he had an alibi. He stalked the conceited brats who did the same to numerous people and their rich parents who didn’t give a shit whether their children murdered someone. He learned their routine. Their schedule. And when the time was right, he put a bullet through their heads one by one when they least expected it. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, come on man, I’m sorry,” they begged with tears and snot dripping, crawling backwards under his shadow. “Don’t kill me, please, I’ll give you anything.”

“Money? Do you want money? I’ll give you hundreds and thousands,” they always said the same thing, thinking that money was enough for him to forgive the suffering they had caused to his remaining family that they took away, the bruises and cuts on his brother’s body, the damage they had done on him mentally. “No? Half a billion? No, no! One billion!”

His jaw clenched. Pathetic pigs. He cocked and aimed it at them.

“No, no, no! NO—!” they stuttered and screamed but were cut off by the sound of a bullet fired by a gun with a muffler.

He wondered if they at least felt some remorse or at the very least thought about how Gabriel or the other kids they tortured and killed felt as they begged them to not hurt them. But he knew people like them, he had seen them countless times including his very own father. People like them didn’t care about anything or anyone other than themselves. These kids were just the same as them.

He made sure to clean up his tracks, deleted potential shreds of evidence, and made some story that would make their case solved and closed easily. He left the city swiftly and came back to his new home. With this, he tried to leave his old past behind and began his life anew.

“Que estás en el cielo.”

Miguel hated himself. He hated the fact that he killed his father which resulted in the death of his mother so that nobody will know that he killed him. He hated the fact that he was so ignorant of his brother's suffering that he had to be pushed to his death for him to realize that his brother was in pain. He hated the monster he turned out to be, always out for blood and killing people like it was nothing.

The sea of guilt and remorse suffocated him and he drowned himself in alcohol and women. The money he saved up which was supposed to be for Gabriel’s graduation gift was used on his vices. 

Day and night, his sins weighed heavy on his mind and not once, was he given at least a moment of peace.

“Santificado sea tu nombre.”

A knock snapped Miguel out of a trance as he smoked out of the window of his apartment. The wispy grey stench wafted in the air as he raised an eyebrow, wondering without much interest who could be knocking on his door. It couldn’t be the landlord as he just paid his month’s due. His past flings? Probably.

Knock. Knock.

He took another drag and inhaled as much as he could before he exhaled and extinguished it on the ashtray full of ashes and butts of leftover cigarettes.

“Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He opened the door and found nobody, but a baby in a basket with a letter sticking out of the blankets wrapped around it. The sight of the baby filled him with anxiety and dread. He looked sideways, hoping to at least find who put the baby on his door but only the sight of closed doors greeted him. He had an inch of what was happening and he did not like it one bit. 

With a shaky sigh, he took the baby and cradled it in his arms. God, he didn’t even know its gender. But the sight of him made the baby giggle and coo at him and he bit his lip. Fuck. He opened the letter with his other hand and the words written on it confirmed his suspicions.

“It’s your baby, Miguel. You were the last one I hooked up with before I found out I was pregnant and even then, it was too late. She was too grown and I cannot abort her anymore. I don’t have any papers of her because I have no money and I can’t raise her.”

Miguel could feel a migraine forming and he rubbed his forehead. The baby must have found his distress amusing because it giggled once more and tried to grab his fingers. 

No. She. Not it. 

Fuck.

Miguel wasn’t ready to be a dad, he doesn’t even think he was suited to be one because he was a piece of shit but he took another look at her that was so snug and comfortable in his arms as she looked at him with wonder, he thought it wouldn’t be so bad to try to take care after her.

“Venga tu reino.”

A few years passed by and Miguel accepted his role as a father. He named the baby Gabriella after his late brother. He got into therapy and went back to work so he could raise her with no financial problems and so that he wouldn’t be a bad father to her. Gabriella was a handful child. He slept countless sleepless nights, often waking up early in the morning because she was crying. Sometimes it was because she was hungry, sometimes she just needed help to digest the milk, and sometimes there wasn’t any particular reason for her cries. But still, he cradled her in his embrace and sang lullabies to her softly.

It felt like it was just yesterday Miguel opened the door and found her on his doorstep. Gabriella has grown into a bright young child. She took after his looks as she inherited almost all of her genes from him. 

Oh, she was so lovely. She was the best of him, better than him and Miguel liked that because she deserved better. She made him believe that he wasn’t the worst piece of trash and that he wasn’t useless. She made him feel loved and he made sure she felt loved as well.

She was very much into soccer and he was so proud of her. He attended all of her games without a miss, winner or not. He was there with her by her side, teaching her how to be kind enough to not hurt anybody and allow herself to be hurt. He taught her to be emotional yet to also remain logical. He taught her to tell him anything yet also let her remain her own privacy.

Miguel loved her very much and she loved him very much as well. 

“Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo.”

But he was a sinner and there will be time that his sins would catch up to him. He understood this one day when he got home one afternoon as he got home after work and was greeted by his child, his precious baby, his Gabriella’s lifeless body in her blood.

The tears came fast and thick. He immediately cradled her into his arms and rocked her back and forth. He begged her to wake up, to open her eyes for Papa. To surprise him that this was just a prank. Or a dream. Anything.

Please, wake up. You can’t die yet. I haven’t lived the rest of my life with you yet. I haven’t seen you on your quinceañera yet or your graduation or the first time you get a job. I haven’t seen you get married or surprise me with grandchildren. 

I haven’t seen you live your life yet.

Please. Don’t do this to me.

“Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día.”

Violence has always resided in his soul and with his daughter’s death, he committed his one last vengeance. He visited his old life once more. He got back with his connections and his trusted friends gave him whatever he needed in exchange for nothing and as their condolences.

The killers of his daughter were related to his previous crimes. They were related to the families of the people he killed and they decided to kill his daughter as their revenge.

And in return, hunted them all down. He hunted all families down and despite all the scars, all the sharp cuts, all the black and blue bruises, and all the bullets that pierced him, he never gave up and killed them all. Multiple mafia familias were down and he made sure that they couldn’t even think of getting revenge and that all they could do was bow before him.

“Hahaha, you son a bitch,” one cackled as he spat on him, “you deserve it all.”

“You heartless bitch, you’re the reason why all your family’s dead. Fucking cunt, you think you can revive them? Dream on.” he babbled his useless mouth on and wheezed.

“I know.” How could Miguel not know? For not one second that had gone by, he could never ever forget how he killed his family.

“Your death will not bring my family alive but it will make sure that any other families won’t be killed.” And with that, he pulled the trigger and let the loud sound of the gun resonate through the room. His head spat out red and some solids of his brain decorated the wall behind him. His blood dripped down and it joined the pool of the blood of the other corpses that lay dead in the room. The rays of the rising sun shone through the window and it gleamed on the pool of red. Silence filled the room and only the sound of his breaths remained.

Miguel’s eyes gave up suddenly and he fell to the ground on his knees with a harsh thud. With a tear, his shoulders loosened.

Finally. It’s over. Everything’s over.

Miguel should be glad that all of his enemies were gone and nobody would even dare to hurt him anymore but what does it all matter when everyone he held dear was gone?

“Perdona nuestras ofensas,”

Due to the rules of the underworld, the top dogs with Miguel O’Hara leading, their identities would be hidden and they would not be allowed to surrender themselves to the government as it could overthrow the black society altogether. Partly because of this, he turned to God and moved to a quaint town. He became a priest with the sole purpose of repentance and earning forgiveness for his sins. He didn't know if he was asking God to forgive him or his family who died because of him to forgive his carelessness in protecting them.

It was ironic really because he never really believed in God despite the nightly mass he, his brother, and his mother used to have. The words he uttered were redundant, merely sounds he couldn't understand nor tried to. When his mother died, he and Gabriel did the nightly mass in honour of their late mother. And when he died, he could only attend Sunday mass in the church with Gabriella because of the ache of missing his mother and brother yet still continue the tradition of being faithful to God. He wanted her to grow up good and kind so he taught her the values and morals of being a Catholic despite not fully believing in God.

A hypocrite, that's what he was and usually thought about as he led the mass during his schedule.

And he still was when a quiet mysterious woman moved into town. 

You.

“Como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.”

You appeared so suddenly out of nowhere in this town. He lived in the Church but in such a small town, words tend to spread easily. In just two days of your arrival, he already heard of a young woman who had just moved in. 

Miguel was a bit wary as this town barely had any people. Most residents were grandparents or older parents who were already retired and their children who left to move to the cities for bigger opportunities and education. He didn't know what you were thinking about coming here. Were you sent here by the underworld? No, it can't be. He was protected by his friends who ruled the underworld now. Did you have a past like him? Were you running away from something? He sighed as he shook his head. Then again, it was none of his business and it was most definitely not his right to pry.

The next Sunday was the first time he saw you. You sat there at the back, ushered by your neighbours, he presumed. In rows of people, you stood out so brightly. Your back was straight, there was elegance so blatant despite the plain clothes you wore. He met your gaze one too many times and noticed the way you hung onto every word he uttered.

And when the mass had ended he stayed around longer this time and talked with the locals a bit more. And without a doubt, your new friend introduced him to you.

“Oh good morning, Father O’Hara! Wonderful mass, by the way, I loved the homily, well, as usual, it really reflected my situation now with my son in college. Do you still remember?” Mrs. Lorraine greeted him with a handshake.

“Oh for God’s sake, Lorraine, yes Father still remembers that and I’m sure he appreciated that you love it. Don’t forget you’re here to introduce [Name] to him.” Mrs. Eleanor said, cutting Miguel off before he could even reply.

“Oh! Dear me, why yes,” with widened eyes, she laughed, “Yes, forgive me.”

“Father, this is [Name]. They just moved in here and I invited them to join the church.” she moved her body to show your figure and Miguel finally had a close look upon you. Your eyes stared at him and for a second, he felt like there were just the two of you. You looked at him with wonder and curiosity and Dios mío, you looked so innocent and he was reminded of the darkness that exists from within him. He felt like one touch and he could corrupt you easily. He clenched his jaw and furrowed his brow, desperately hiding any tremor in his composure.

“[Name], this is Father Miguel O’Hara. He moved into this town a little while ago and clearly, one of our only priests.”

“Oh, good morning, Father Miguel.” Christ, your voice was soft as a wind that tickled his heart. You held out your hand to him. “It's nice to meet you.”

“Good morning.” He nodded stiffly. He took your hand and shook it.

Even your palm was smooth and he forced the thought down to hold your hand longer.

“No nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos del mal.”

You were kind. Endlessly so. You sponsored this town’s community event alongside donations to the church anonymously but everybody knew it was you. Everyone just decided to keep their silence to respect your decision in keeping your identity. 

You preferred to listen to others and learn more about them rather than talk about yourself. You always asked how everyone was doing and gave them gifts under the excuse of it being old despite it polished brand new. Whenever children or the grandchildren of the locals visited, you always stopped by their house and gave them little gifts as well.

Miguel had seen you interact with children multiple times whenever he was doing groceries and pass by at yours, he saw you giggling along with the children. He saw you reading books to them under the shade of a tree and rays of sunlight would gently decorate your faces and the winds would play with your hair. He saw you happy and the children happy with you as well.

And his heart throbbed at the sight of you each time but he swallowed the feelings forcibly down as his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Amén.”

He hated you.

He hated the way you invoke feelings in him. He hated the way you tempt him unknowingly and he cannot blame you to take any responsibility for the way you make him feel. He hated the way you make him want to sin again, to unleash the beast inside him he had caged for so long but for another different reasons entirely which was you.

He was a priest, someone who he tried so hard not to sin but you make him falter in his beliefs so effortlessly.

So he hid himself who had become a sinner once more just at the thoughts of you.

“En el nombre del Padre,”

But he was so weak for you.

After a mass one sunday morning, you asked him if you could have a talk with him just the two of you and somewhere private. Miguel knew he should have said no. He should have turned you away and pretend he has not been watching you from afar and from the corner of his eye. But he was weak for you and before he knew it, he let you in on his office room.

“Father Miguel, why are you ignoring me?” you asked so suddenly and he knew it was coming. He has turned away from you, pretending he doesn’t see you coming and would walk the other way. But he was still caught off guard. You leaned closer to him he could smell your delicious scent. He leaned away because his patience with you was just so little he might lose his hard-earned control.

“Pardon me, but you’re getting too close.” He said with gritted teeth and tight fists. You looked hurt at that. With widened eyes that were soon filled with dejection, you slowly rubbed your arm. Guilt flooded his being and as much as he wanted to apologize, he couldn’t. Any second with you drove him insane and he could only take so much of this. He didn’t want to lose his reason, his morals, his values as a Priest. He couldn’t bear to. But any more second with you, he just might lose it all for you. You bit your lip.

“Why do you hate me so much?” you whispered with small tears welling up your eyes and Miguel hated himself more. There was nothing more he wanted to do at the moment than to hold you and wipe your tears away himself. But he can’t. It’s wrong. Priests don’t get close like that to their fellow believers. 

“I don’t hate you—” he sighed as he looked away but you cut him off.

“Then why do you look away from me? Am I so undeserving for you to not look me in the eye? Am I so disgusting for you to get close to me? Am I so inadequate and worthless for you to treat me like you treat others?” you said harshly at him while tears slipped your eyes. You took a step at him with every word you said and he took a step back in every step you took until his back was pushed to the wall behind him. “So do not tell me that you don’t hate me when all you did made me feel like you despised my entire being.”

For fuck’s sake.

He grabbed your arm and turned your body, switching positions with his. He made sure to cover the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wall too hard and he growled under his breath.

“I do not hate you.” he said with gritted teeth. “I want you.”

Your eyes widened at that.

“What?” you confusingly and breathlessly asked.

“Every time I see you, there is nothing more than I want than to be with you. I look at your pretty face and I want to kiss you so bad. I look at your nice figure and I want to hold and caress you. I want you.” he panted silently, the words he never dared to even utter to himself outloud was finally out of his chest. And now that they were free, he looked at your eyes to see how would you react. Would you push him away and slap his face? Would you be disgusted with him you’d never want to see him anymore?

He would understand but he didn’t know if he could bear with your hatred.

“Then take me.” your hand encircled his neck and the other gently stroked his cheek.

No.

“I’m right here.”

I can’t.

“Show me you don’t truly hate me.”

It’s wrong.

“Show me how much you want me.”

In an instant, he captured his lips with yours as his hand slid to the back of your neck. At the touch of your lips, the hidden lust for you blossomed. He pressed his face to yours and yours closer to his deeper, his kiss burning so passionately and fiercely. You opened your mouth with a moan and he invited his tongue in, and he nearly groaned at your fragrance hynotizing him and your sweet taste that ignited a new kind of hunger for him. His tongue swriled with yours and together, they danced a dance that left him breathless.

He pulled away slightly and a web of both of your saliva disappeared. He stared at you as you panted. You looked at him pleadingly and your stare sent a rush of blood down in his pants. He wanted more and he knew you wanted the same.

And with that, he plunged to the roaring sea and its waging waves of lust.

“Y del Hijo,”

For you, he threw his title as a Priest and became just Miguel.

All for you, he returned to his origins and became a sinner once more.

“Y del Espíritu Santo,”

Each day and night, you invited him into your temple and he worshipped you. What once was just thoughts that tortured him became reality that gave him a glimpse of heaven. Your aroma engulfed him and filled his never-ending greed of you and your flavor satiated his endless glutton for you.

“Amen.”

As he finished his prayer, he stood up from kneeling and bowed to the Cross of the Lord. He fixed his clothes and the sounds of his footsteps against the tiles of the Church rang as he left with thoughts of you.

He wanted to hear your melody that was akin to the trumpets of the angels again. He wanted your soft and supple skin to be against his dark and rough ones. He wanted to be pressed under you with your legs on the either side of his head and your juices spill in his mouth. He wanted your warm cavern envoloped around him and to feel you come undone by him.

With a silent chuckle, he thought about how he tried so hard to not corrupt you by with his wicked thoughts only to be corrupted by you instead.

For Miguel O’Hara was a sinner and no matter how much he tried to change that, he will always be one. Violence has resided in his soul, along with anger that bubbled in his veins but time changed him and has now become lust that occupied his being along with the infinite greed and glutton that only wanted you.

[mcondance]

cw blasphemy.

“i’m a jealous lover.” druig croons, dancing his lips against your parted ones, a hand on your waist. the wall behind you is steady, a contrast to druig’s swaying form. quiet and composed, sure in his emotions, he lays them bare to you in a moment of vulnerability. still, he has to play, to pick and prod with his words in a way only he can. ‘jealous lover’ he says, making holy the words that humans have made holy for centuries.

his origin is not important, not here, not now. now, he’s normal. simple. a reference to god is just that; a morphing of text to something that means much more to you than it’s source. he’s a jealous lover. the context in which it’s used makes it hit you harder, to know he’s referencing a god’s envious love for his people in his love for you.

“jealous lover, huh?” you sing, and he huffs a little breath out of his nose, the corners of his lips turning up. he nods once, his head notching up just a little. “you quotin’ the bible to me?”

and he knows it’s silly, knows you think it’s funny just as you do the religion he quotes, but it’s here, and it’s true. and you know that too.

“i’m jealous,” he almost pouts, the hand on your waist pulling your body to him and swinging his body to yours. your hands come up against his chest, curling around his neck and crossing at the wrist behind his head, your bracelets clinging together softly as they hang.

“what for?” you smile, looking in his eyes like he hung the stars in the sky. it’s ironic, really.

and just like a god, he’s unexplained and understood only by those who worship him. “nothin’.”