#forgive me for the religious themes I don’t know what’s wrong with me

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hiii, just dropping a request<3

There's nothing I adore more than a good, old, sweet betrayal so pls make the villain offer a lot of money to superhero just to turn the hero in and have them all by themselves. Make the superhero and the league betray hero, drug them and take them to villain. For whatever reason. May that be to take their time to break them or due to possessiveness. It's one of my really loved tropes so I'd love it a lot if you wrote it. Make it extra angsty for us pls

That's all, thank you for providing us with your amazing work but make sure to rest well and stay hydrated. Much love to you sweetheart 🩶🩵

“I’ve missed you,” the villain said softly, their hands landing on the hero’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

Their hands ran down the hero’s throat and with one finger, they lifted their chin. Despite their raw nature, the hero was much too tired to fight it. The drug had exhausted them.

“Look at me,” the villain said. “It’s such a pleasure to have you here.”

And the hero did meet their eyes. Lingering longer than they wanted. It wasn’t easy to escape the villain but that one moment of hope when they’d gone back home a month ago, was insignificant now.

They realised, they couldn’t win. The villain would do anything to possess them. They’d break their knees (they’d done it before), they would drug them (had also happened), they would break into their apartment (more than twice, actually) and do absolutely anything in their power to have them.

And they’d gotten their wish.

“You know I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Living with the villain sounded like a secure future. They’d take care of anything, literally anything but the hero also knew how lonely it was.

There was the villain and nothing but the villain. No friends, no family. The villain was greedy and stupidly in love.

So, the hero’s fingers curled around their nemesis’ hand. It was a fake kind of security but, god, they preferred it over whatever had happened to them. Where had friends led them? Right back to the start, right back to zero. It was a cycle, an endless one.

“Am I really that replaceable?” they whispered, staring in horror at the security footage the villain was showing them. The villain raised their hand to kiss the hero’s.

“Sweetheart, you know you’re not. Everybody knows,” they said.

“Why did they give up on me? I don’t understand, I don’t…” The hero looked at their nemesis, searching for an answer, searching for something. A moment of clarity, a moment of complete and utter clearness. But everything was blurry, everything was falling apart. They were unwanted, unloved.

They didn’t feel like a person anymore. The villain wanted them in a shallow way, they didn’t care about them. Not really.

Bleeding out like a sacrificial lamb.

The villain’s fingers traced the hero’s spine, all the way down and the hero was quite aware that they admired them. Wanting and deserving are two very different things.

“What does it feel like?” the villain whispered. “Knowing that you’re with me again?”

“Like I’m back in hell,” the hero answered. They swallowed and let themselves sink into the villain’s office chair, rubbing their face with the palm of their hand.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.” Again, the villain’s hand was on them, touching their throat and going down to their collarbone. They weren’t scandalous, never tried more than that. As if they wanted an actual relationship with consent and love. But the hero knew that this would never happen, that they would never break to become a pawn.

“It is, I resent you.”

“I saved you. I showed you what these people did to you. They don’t care about you. They knocked you out of their heaven, so they could live more luxuriously. These people love money more than company. I don’t,” the villain said, angry now. “The word became flesh.”

The hero looked at them, frowning.

“Are you religious?”

“Not in the slightest,” they answered. “But when I look at you, I sometimes believe that I am.”

The hero hated that answer more than anything.

[corn-fanfiction]

love confession during an actual confession for damien karras maybe? could be sad, if you want.

And it will be sad, anon. It will be.

Confessions (Damien Karras + GN!Reader)

Rated: T

Tags: religious themes, hurt no comfort, confessions of love, CATHOLIC GUILT!!!!

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

Picture it: August, 1971. Georgetown, Washington D.C.

The leaves are changing. The times are changing.

You are changed, and you don’t think it’s for the better.

A heaviness fills the hole in your chest as you pull open the heavy doors to the church, allowing the first fallen leaves of the season to tumble inside. It's late afternoon; the church is mostly empty, save for a few people praying either at pews or at candle stands. Distantly, you can hear singing in Latin as the choir practices a room over. Midday sun sends multicolored beams through the stained glass windows to catch dust in the light. The pity and hollowness of this room reflects the voided aspect of your life that is soon to come. You find some strange comfort in that.

You know he's minding the confessional. You have most of his schedule memorized, and you're not proud. You give the sign of the cross upon entering the nave, then turn to step quietly into the booth, despite the fact that the ancient wood creaks and announces your presence and purpose to the entire world.

Damien clears his throat through the partition.

"Go ahead," he instructs in that low, calming voice of his. God, you don't even want to speak. You don't want to hurt him. Perhaps it's vanity that convinces you that you'd have that effect on him at all.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been...three weeks since my last confession."

Upon hearing your voice, he grows deadly quiet. And even when you're finished speaking, there is an unbearable moment of silence.

"Why the long wait?"

You fidget with your hands in your lap.

"I've been...afraid to confess my sins...here."

"This is the safest place to confess and receive forgiveness. There is no judgment here."

"No, Father. There is. Because it's here. Because it's you."

You can almost feel him stiffen. His breath is either hitched or silent.

"I will not judge you. It's not my place."

You chuckle humorlessly. "I'm pretty sure the big man upstairs already knows. Of course, I can't imagine why He'd put me in this position."

He sighs. "It's not His work-"

"I know, I know, it's the evil in the world. But still. You can't...feel what I feel, so pure, and for whom I feel it for...so kind, and not think it divine. Even if I know it's not."

"...You still have not confessed your sin."

His voice has grown thick. With what, you can't be sure. You almost don't want to know. Knowing might keep you from your purpose here.

"I love. I yearn for someone I can't have. But God has put him in my path, made him kind and close to me. Put it in my mind that he could even possibly reciprocate my feelings. But I know he can't. Why would an Evil do that to me? It doesn't make sense. Just to hurt me? I don't inflict pain."

"No, of course not," he attempts to comfort, but neither of you can stop the tears that begin to pool at your eyes. "Sins can be small. Sins can be harmless to others. By coming here, you show that your heart longs to repent."

"God won't hear me when I ask him to stop this. Maybe coming into His house, speaking to His servant..." Guilt eats at your gut. "But I know it's wrong, because I knew you'd be here. I know I wanted it to be you to hear this from me...and that, I think, is inflicting pain. Two birds with one stone, I guess," you laugh, referring to gallows humor to mask your pain.

"You consciously came to inflict pain?"

"No. I came to speak the truth, knowing it would cause pain. Which is worse? To lie, or to deliver a painful truth."

"Well, lying is a sin..."

"Then I won't lie. I'm sorry for what I'm about to say to you. I love you, Damien. I'm so, so sorry that I do. I know it's not fair to you to be the object of my desire, or to hear this. But you have to hear it as much as I have to say it. This is what I beg forgiveness for. Perhaps more than the feeling itself. I can deal with the emptiness. I can't handle hurting you."

"But you must."

"I must."

Silence. Something has dropped out of you and plummeted into hell itself.

"Well, you were right- per usual. It is painful."

Having already been dealing with the complex feelings of this reality, you're almost relieved that he's validated your fears.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. I'm sorry if I...did anything to spur this on."

He thinks this is his fault?

"It's your existence, and that in and of itself is not bad. You help, you heal. But I think I'm one that can't be saved."

"Why not?"

My god, you think. He's crying. He's crying over you.

You'd rather burn in hell to have just spared him this.

"Because I can't stop this." You sniff, wipe the tears from your eyes, content with their perpetual presence. "I'm so sorry. You'll never see me again."

Your hand reaches for the handle but you hear him move.

"Wait-" there's panic in his voice. "You can't leave."

You heart stops. "I have to."

"No. It's not fair. There are ways, things we can do to...curb these emotions. We have to be stronger than this."

We we we we we we we we-

"No. I can't. And I don't think you can, either."

You hadn't planned on coming in here and calling him weak. But if you're on a roll of telling difficult truths...

"Please," he begs.

You can't stay here. You stand.

"I'm sorry. Please know that I've never been sorrier for anything in my life."

Before he can respond, you've left the booth, fleeing from the church and leaving him, alone to cradle his head in his hands, feeling like a damn coward for keeping his own truths inside.

-·=»◆‡«=·-♡·=»◆‡«=·-

I'd apologize anon, but...I think we both knew this is how it would go. Thanks for the req!!! 🩷🩷🩷

[finestoftheflavors]

Scientology

I’m watching Leah Remini‘s Scientology: The Aftermath documentary (on Netflix at the moment) and enjoying it. I’ve seen about ten episodes of it so far. Have a few thoughts.

There’s very little focus on weird beliefs like Thetans, Xenu, etc. The content of the beliefs, and what fraction of Scientologists actually believe that stuff, it doesn’t matter. What matters is what people do. What matters is the broken families and the dishonesty and the emotionally abusive fundraising. This series is agnostic to any religious beliefs, you could believe in Thetans and Xenu and still agree with the conclusion that the organization of Scientology is bad to the core.

Everybody on this show is an ex-Scientologist. All of the complaints about the cult are coming from people who were in the cult themselves. Interesting dynamic. This is very much a forgiveness-and-redemption story for everyone involved. “I supported Scientology and fought on its behalf, then I realized I had wasted decades of time and effort” is the norm. There’s a very real “hate the sin, love the sinner” attitude here because the show’s protagonists want their former friends, those who are still in Scientology, to get out, they’re waiting and hoping for a happy reunion someday.

Mike Rinder in particular, as the second protagonist, confesses that he personally worked in the part of Scientology that harassed people trying to leave. At one point he says that he’s sorry for what he did to other people who were trying to leave Scientology, but that none of them point a finger at him to say “you personally screwed me over”. I guess the theme is that all the people who participate in Scientology are doing something to hold up the system of dysfunction. First and foremost everybody involved is harming themselves.

David Miscavige is apparently a real-life nineties movie villain asshole-in-a-business-suit type of guy. There’s room for somebody to say, “Miscavige is bad, but Scientology is good, Miscavige is just leading it in the wrong direction.” There’s room to say LRH wasn’t bad like Miscavige is bad. The descriptions we hear of LRH indicate that he was kinda bad, though. LRH set up all the abusive practices that Miscavige builds on. I mean, LRH was the guy who set up an organization on a ship, the most isolated environment available, and encouraged parents to give their children to him so he could have an organization made up of people who don’t know anything else, and raised them in an environment that openly endorsed physical and emotional abuse. Was he as bad as Miscavige? Did he have redeeming qualities that Miscavige lacks? I don’t know. When the ex-Scientologists talk about LRH, some of them seem to have a nostalgia for the guy.

The descriptions of the cult environment sound very similar to descriptions I’ve read of abusive relationship patterns... so much that it makes me suspect a cult and an abusive relationship might be the same thing somehow? The same thing on a different scale. David Miscavige is like an abusive stepfather to everyone in the Sea Org. The fact that LRH set up Scientology to encourage people to hand over their kids to be raised by Scientology just makes it very on-the-nose. But even apart from that, the organization of Scientology is like a system for Miscavige to apply relationship abuse tactics to everyone around him, and for a other people in the organization to form sort of a pyramid scheme of abusing and being abused, it’s like some sort of lasagna layering of victimization.

[wishing4nuclearwinter]

O Grave, Where Is Thy Victory?

Whumptober 28 — Anger Born of Worry | Punching the Wall | Headache [ft. Nadia and Varmint modern AU]

Warnings: corpse description, death, religious themes

AO3 link

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.

The pew groans something woeful as Varmint leans back. He drapes an arm over the hard wooden back, his casual display betrayed only by the other hand balled white-knuckled in his lap. 

There is no one to witness it anyway. He’s tucked himself away in the furthest corner, emergency exit sign haloed above his head. 

At the front of the sanctuary, a preacher who looks too young for the silver marking his hairline blathers on. He seems earnest, maybe overly so, but his somber tone is the first thing that hasn’t felt like a mockery since Varmint stepped over the threshold. 

He wonders if he knew her or if it’s merely the weight of it all that hangs on his words. 

“— cannot understand why Nadia was taken so young, but we need only place our trust in the Lord’s divine plan—”

Every syllable clangs in his ears, driving nails through his skull. He’s beginning to regret leaving his sunglasses in the car with his suit jacket, even if they might have drawn attention to the less than concealed hangover. But it’s easier to forgive red puffy eyes among a crying crowd and Nadia’s father doesn’t need another excuse to forcibly remove him.

As it stands, Zachariah’s mediation is all that has held him at bay. 

“I invited them, Dad, don’t make a scene. They have as much right to be here as anyone else.”

Varmint had had to bite his tongue, offering a smile somewhere between apologetic and sheepish. He has far more of a right to be here than most of these bastards.

Somebody several rows ahead coughs. The preacher’s microphone whines quietly as he shuffles the papers on the pulpit. 

Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to calm the heartbeat echoing behind them, Varmint misses her father’s introduction. He misses the eulogy that comes after it more purposefully. 

Her mother and sister follow, giving what was meant to be a joint speech. Her sister can’t get more than a sentence and a babbled apology out before breaking down. She’s all but sobbing on stage while her mother speaks for the both of them. 

A prickling, diluted pain drags over Varmint’s knuckles as last night’s scabs split open. He imagines the cruelty of mourning for the little sister she’d turned out onto the winter streets. He imagines the small wells of blood on his knuckles smearing with the fat tears running down her rosy cheeks.

Clenching his jaw, he wrestles down the lump in his throat. Nadia had once said his anger was ugly. That hers was too. She said that’s what happens when you neglect it. She would have been pissed at the fist shaped hole he’d left in their living room wall. 

As much as he willed it, he couldn’t be better for her any more than she could for him. 

It doesn’t matter now. 

Zachariah is the last of the family to be called up. He looks wrong, signature tan blazer replaced with starched formal wear and greased hair slicked flat against his head. The facade can’t disguise the bags beneath his eyes nor the blonde roots beginning to peek out beneath jet black dye as he so rarely allows them to. He dutifully plays the part of the mourning big brother.

It’s genuine. 

Varmint’s chest aches. 

“I, uh, didn’t prepare any kind of speech.” His gaze splits through the small audience, distant and unfocused. “I think she’d try and haunt me if I stood up here gettin’ all teary eyed.” He cracks a grin and nobody laughs. 

“When she was a kid we’d drive out into the desert at night with a bunch of old CDs and just…” the hesitation carries something unspoken, like if he shares those moments aloud they’ll lose their holiness. Varmint knows them only by Nadia’s own stories. 

“…We’d just listen. This is from one of them.”

He locks eyes with Varmint from across the sanctuary for the briefest second before moving to the grand piano perched at the edge of the stage. It’s a tune he’s heard, faster and more animated than any traditional hymn, though Zach’s croon is no less mournful. 

Seven lonely days and a dozen towns ago

I reached out one night and you were gone

Don't know why you'd run, what you're running to or from

All I know is I want to bring you home

As he sings, Varmint finally finds himself unfurling. The hand in his lap opens to cradle the tiny silver cross it has hidden since the viewing. He’d gotten a moment alone with her at least, though he struggles to call the desecrated corpse they displayed Nadia Loving, regardless of the name engraved into the plaque.

The dress they’ve sewn her into certainly wasn’t hers, nor were the dainty earrings they’ve replaced her studs with. Layers of makeup corrected her more masculine features and covered her tattoos— Varmint tries not to imagine the fatal injuries they hid. The overly thick blush against her pale skin was almost clownish. 

She looked like her mother.

Varmint wonders if the family feels victorious, finally presenting to the world the daughter and sister they’d always wanted. 

Was it worth it?

There was a hint of smugness in the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke they’d failed to fully cover even under the embalming chemicals and perfume. 

They’d left her necklace on her, the one she’d worn everyday since childhood. The thought of it being buried with that unrecognizable shadow of herself had discomfort burrowing under Varmint’s skin.

When no one was looking he’d ripped it off of her. 

It’s sweaty in his palm and he’ll have to replace the broken clasp, but it’s more sacred than anything in this church. 

As the last three ivory chords are drawn out the room rings in silence. He finally notices the threat of hot unfallen tears at the edges of his vision. Forcibly blinking them away, he slides the necklace into his pocket so that he may take her home.

Now is not the time or place to mourn; not for him and not for her. 

Varmint rises as quietly as he can and slips out the back door.

[kirozai]

No because imagine like "disciplining" the acolyte basically the acolyte get on there yandere shit and you don't like it so you give them a punishment it could be the cold shoulder just you being mean or a more " physical punishment"

The Arcons (I think that's how you spell it I don't know man😞)

Basically someone do something the Arcons don't like they get mad and hurt the person you get pissed off and punish them

archons* 😭 dw anon we all get spelling mixed up

“that’s enough from all of you.”

CW: angst, religious themes, cult au, sagau, self awareness, yandere themes

synopsis: the different type of punishments you give to the archons.

T.O.R: gn!reader, god!reader, darling!reader

zhongli

“please your grace i beg your forgiveness!”

gosh.. you sure got them riled up haven’t you?

i suppose at times zhongli does go quite overboard. no matter what power they have over you or the whole entire world, the one truly in power is you. you could have the world of teyvat destroyed in a matter of minutes if it was your wish.

zhongli is strong and can endure much of your insults or punishments. he will take them all with no question. but there is a point, when you give him no eye whatsoever, he beg and begs, this is where you’ll see him on his knees on a daily occurrence.

this is where you can get what you want no matter what you want. zhongli is basically a puppy infront of you…. waiting for a drop of attention. oh but don’t break him to much, stone that has been cracked is quite difficult to repair….

venti

“w-wait! f-forgive me your grace it won’t happen again!”

venti absolutely knows when he has pushed to far, which is when he starts profusely apologizing out of fear and regret.

the fear that you’ll throw him out, never pay any need of attention to him. all of those things will shatter his core. he can’t, its killing him inside, he’s like a trapped bird in a cage with no right way out. he will do absolute everything to appease you.

sometimes it’s kind’ve cute though. when his annoying demeanor turns into a hurt puppy against his god.

venti hates the pain. physical punishments make him shrivel up in distress. so a piece of advice. unless you want a clingy bard following you around begging for forgiveness stay away from the physical punishments. its also much better to just ask him to be clingy if your into the that stuff.

baal

“i’ll do anything! anything!!”

baal’s fantasy of spending an eternity of you is shaken by the fact she did something wrong to be punished.

she’s in fear that she has made a mistake and one of the biggest mistake she made was the vision hunt decree. the punishments were harsh but justified. it made her learn to keep her place in your domain.

baal is probably the most fragile out of the three, immediately offering up her own nation to make you haply with her. afterall who needs a nation anyways?

punishments would range from lack of physical touch to complete isolation, but it’s different. she has to think about you might hating her for the rest of her life. an eternity.

during those times though, she thinks if eternity is really what she wants, but of course, she will be running back to you right when she has the chance.

an angst and fluff prompt in one day!! yayy!!! im glad i was able to complete this! -12:16am!

kirozai out!

tip jar! (buy me a coffee?) :)

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

Lord Save Me My Drug Is My Baby (+18)

Summary: Father Spencer and Y/N reminisce about their salacious encounter and then find themselves giving into the very thing he's supposed to deny

CW: Spencer Reid (Priest AU) x Female Reader (strong religious themes, kissing, corruption kink kinda)

Word Count: 4400

Note: OMG here it is!! This is either good or really bad...

Taglist Sign Up | Tell Me What You Thought | Part One

I could recognize that perfume anywhere. It’s the most delicate, yet potent aphrodisiac known to man. It’s so wrong, the one true example of sin, but I don’t even try to stop myself anymore. Not when I can feel her soft skin against my hands and inhale her perfume with every breath I take. 

“This is wrong,” I murmured, my teeth catching her earlobe as I kissed her next. She smelled sweet like summer rain and sinful like a broken prayer, “I just need one taste. One taste and maybe I’ll be able to forgive myself,” 

“Your God won’t strike you down for a little kiss, now would he,” the woman says, teasing dripping from the lips that I desperately want to capture between my own. Her body was flush against mine. Every bit of her is soft and plush where I am hardened and smooth. My hands move down her body, gripping her hips like a vice. 

How can something so good, so seemingly divine and angelic be the one thing I’ve been ordered to swear away. Her skin is hot, sticky with sweat and sinful with broken promises. My lips burn against her’s. I haven’t kissed a woman in ages. I love the burn. I love the way my lips melt into her lips amidst the flickering flames.

Her eyes are icy, but burn into my soul. If I look hard enough I could see myself reflected in them. It reminds me of a homily I gave, months ago. Something about eyes and souls and knowing someone entirely and completely. The exact words escape me at the moment, but I think I finally understand what I was trying to say. 

Her hands swiftly undo my belt, yet her eyes never leave mine. They bore into my soul, icy yet burning. She’s like rum on fire and I am nothing but an unlit match. I’d bathe myself in gasoline if it meant I could feel the heat of her touch. Her lips slip between my lower lip as her hands sneak under my shirt. I desperately want to deepen the kiss, but resist the urge. 

The edges of the indescribable room grow fuzzy and her touches are soft. Her breathless voice rings in my ears, calling me in like a fatal siren. 

It’s too fuzzy. Too soft. Too breathless. Too beautiful. 

Yet, I can feel her soft kiss below me. I can hear her breathless moans as I bite her lips, wondering if I’ll taste her. I want to kiss her neck, cover her in my marks so the entire world and the Heavens beyond know that she’s mine. 

God forgive me, I am only human. A man.

A man who needs a frigid shower and a half marathon. 

It would be a sin in itself to ask for forgiveness for something that I don’t want to be forgiven. Yet, I am a priest. I made a vow to my Heavenly maker to deny myself to the carnal pleasures of man. I broke that vow already, exactly six days ago, when I gave into the deep desire that I feel for the woman in the confessional. 

Running is the worst exercise known to man. It’s nothing but knees and feet pounding against hard pavement. My chest aches with the guilt of my desire, but I attempt to convince myself it’s not that. I decide, convinced of my own convictions, to lose myself in the run. The pain in my knees and the tightened noose around my heart is of my own doing. I’ll take the pain of my human form over the guilt of man’s desire any day.

But God help me I’m only human.   

I think of her hair.

I run. I think of the smell of her handkerchief that I stowed in my drawer. 

I run. 

I think of touching her, her touching me. I think of her breathless whispers, chanting my name like a prayer. I think of her body writhing under mine, giving her divine, Heavenly pleasure. With the same sweet shock of Adam when he first came. My chest burns, begging me like a sinner to give in to my thoughts. To give into the figment of a woman that dwells in my dreams and corrupts my conscience. 

And so, I run some more. 

– 

Trepidation seemed to drip from her fingertips as she sat in the back of the church, eagerly waiting for him to end the mass. She had never been to a Catholic mass before, and even though she didn’t find herself there with the most pious of intentions, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t interested. It would also be a lie to claim that her interest in attending the mass rested in the hands of a particular priest. 

A priest, who looked like he was preserved in pickle juice and whatever crappy wine they serve at Communion, was dressed in ornate green chasuble, and wore a look of deep contemplation. He looked lost in thought as he prayed under his breath. A couple of times, Y/N swore she saw him doze off. The deacon, a man with bronzed skin and curly hair, had to nudge him a couple times. Even on the way back, Y/N caught that. She figured she needed something to pay attention to, considering her attempt to catch Father Spencer in his most natural habitat was a no go.

The choir, made up of another collection of eldery women with permed curls and enough blush to make even Dolly Parton remove some, sang a hymn that Y/N recognized as Amazing Grace. She flipped through the book, unsure which page the words to the song would appear on. Just then, she felt a breeze against her side. Looking up, she was face to face with the last person she would be expected to sit next to this morning. 

Father Spencer. 

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, his words sounding eerily familiar. He must have a habit of scaring women, “It’s page 345 by the way. Or you can just share with me,”

She smiled, grateful for his kindness. As she sat there, Y/N’s mind wandered off to their first encounter. It’s easy to recall the way his voice, deep and gravely, sounded through the small screen of the confessional. She remembered the way the firm kneeler felt against her skin. It was hard and cool, the unforgiving leather left marks against her skin. Y/N thought about the way Father Spencer guided me during the confession. He was gentle, kind even. And Y/N, being anything but innocent, found herself thinking about him in more nefarious situations. 

He was like a forbidden fruit, for lack of better metaphor. He was untouchable, yet Father Spencer was the only man she wanted to touch. Her brain was sent into overdrive. Did he know who she was? Could he possibly recognize her voice? She remembered hearing his door creak open when she fled the confessional, her body coursing with embarrassment and humiliation. He must have heard fifteen different people that day. It would be silly, foolish even of her to think he’d remember her, remember their…encounter. 

But she remembered it. Oh did she remember it all too well. 

Fuck. 

She was so fucking fucked. Y/N scrolled on her phone, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread rush over her. It’s not that she didn’t not believe that it was a sin, because she was pretty sure whatever being that was up wherever had better things to care about than her getting off to a hunk of plastic because her (now ex) boyfriend was too much of a tool to even try. Like, even if there was a God or whatever wouldn’t they care more about starving children or sick old ladies or the wars? It made sense that way, but in her limited experience, religion rarely did. 

That isn’t why she was fucked though. Y/N was fucked for a very different reason. She zoomed into the picture on her screen, unable to help herself. Greeting her, was a very handsome, very off limits man. He was young, at least by priest’s standards. In her mind, men of the cloth were in the age range of graying grandpas, not 35-ish men with sweet brown eyes and perfectly plump pink lips. Confessing something like freaking touching herself to a man that looked like he stepped off a taboo issue of Hot Priest calendar would be a near impossible task.

Yet. 

Y/N’s two feet, adoring her favorite ankle cut boots, walked to the church steps. They were small, but long and led up to the doors adorned with stained glass windows. She wasn’t knowledgeable enough to understand what they were depicting. With her heart threatening to thump out of her chest, Y/N opened the doors. She was met by a gust of cool, air conditioned air. It made her realize just how hot it was in her car. Y/N’s back chilled in the coolness of the large room as a cold sweat formed. The church was strangely quiet, but then Y/N realized that it’s probably that like most days.

 An eldry woman, dressed in bright salmon pink tops and white capri pants knelt in a pew. Her shoulders were slumped with either age or reverence, Y/N wasn’t too sure. Uncertain what to do, Y/N looked around at the tall windows above her head. Some she understood, the story of Adam and Eve, the first Christmas, and Easter. Others were beyond her scope of religious knowledge. Standing near the sign for Confessions, Y/N stared up at the stained glass depiction of Eve handing Adam the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. 

She always found it silly that women got the blame for being tricked by Satan, when the real fool is Adam. But, she supposes, faith isn’t supposed to be logical. If it was logical, well then it wouldn’t be faith would it? 

Speaking of the illogical and fantastical, the image of the man she’s about to confess to burned in her mind. The way his smile was somehow boyish and coy, yet wise and chock full of intelligence. You could see it. The intelligence. It was as if it seeped from his warm brown eyes and straight into her thumb that couldn’t help but zoom in and out. 

She sat in a pew, staring at the stained glass and attempting to rid her mind of the less than pure thoughts that circle the drain of her mind. Fiddling with her thumbs, Y/N watched as an eldery man exited the small room to her left. Unsure what to do, or if it was her turn, she took a second to take in her surroundings. The old woman, who knelt a couple pews behind her, looked deep in prayer. Y/N figured that she already went and was taking a moment of reflection. That’s what happened. Right? 

Plagued with uncertainty, she let the man find a spot to sit before entering the small room with a heavy oak wood door. It was dark in the room, save for a small battery operated candle. In the tiny room, Y/N realized that there wasn't much room for anything, but to kneel. Again, that’s the point, isn’t it? 

“You’re supposed to be kneeling,” 

Her heart stopped. It didn’t just skip a beat or two, it actually stopped. His voice startled her, not unlike an innocent lamb at the hands of an unsavory predator. But if anything, she’s the impure one in this duo of sinners. 

“Sorry for startling you,” he apologized, a layer of sincerity piqued her interest, “You sound like you don’t know what you’re doing,” Y/N felt her skin heat at the man…the priest’s words. It wasn’t suggestive. It was far from it and it was unfair of her to take it in such a way, “I don’t,” she chuckled, kneeling on the leather kneelers. They were hard against her knees, bound to leave marks when she stood. 

“That’s quite alright. I can show you the ropes if you like,” 

He sounded….kind? Sweet, even. I knew he was young. And handsome. Ridiculously, wonderfully gorgeous. And completely off limits. A fucking Catholic priest is perhaps as off limits as a man can get. God, there should be rules or something. Like they should all have to wait until they’re graying or wrinkling or smell like talc and moth balls. Before she could help it, her mouth overtook the more sensible part of her brain, “Do I really have to say ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’ or is that only in the mafia movies? 

She could have sworn she heard him chuckle. Swallowing the last bit of pride she had left, Y/N listened to Father Spencer as he instructed, guided her, like a wise, kind shepherd leads his unknowing flock. From his handsome countenance to hearing his rich, velvety voice, Y/N is resigned to the conclusion that she’s thoroughly, inconceivably fucked. 

The choir, probably half exhausted, half in need of resuscitation after their rendition of Amazing Grace with great gusto, instructed the congregation to sing what they called a processional hymn. Y/N, unsure of what to do, looked over at her not unwelcomed companion’s shoulder. 

“You’ve got an incredible voice,”  

His humble voice reached Y/N’s ear through the echoey church, making her shudder with anticipation. She didn’t fully understand what he was saying, nor did she ever think she believed in it. But it was hard when he looked so sinfully beautiful doing it. 

“Father Spencer,” she says, nodding her head politely. She looks up towards him, wondering how he snuck into the pew so silently, “You’d think you would get enough of this,” she teases, taking note of how he tinges pink. 

“One could never get tired of this,” Father Spencer murmurs, raising his head and looking at church with an unidentifiable longing. 

Staring at him, Y/N found herself hit with a wave of jealousy. She wondered what it would be like to devote yourself to something so ardently. Y/N didn’t have that privilege or burden, she’s not sure which is it. But whatever it is, Father Spencer certainly makes it look attractive. 

In more ways than one. 

“I have another confession to make, Father,” she whispers, shocking herself with her brazen words. She sneaks a look at her pew companion, searching for some reaction to her confirmation, “It’s not as….salacious as the last one,” 

“You’re not supposed to talk during Mass,” Father Spencer mumbles, “It might just bring us back to that confessional again, my dear,” 

Heat rises to her chest, as the memory of closed off, stuffy confessional rushes back. She remembers the feel of the leather kneelers against her skin, the sound of his voice, warm and rich like a glass of whiskey. 

“Well, at a risk of being bad,” Y/N starts, her eyes flickering to Father Spencer. He swallows his clerical collar moving up and down as he collects his thoughts, “I have to admit, the only reason I came here today to because I thought I’d see you,” 

“Hmm,” he says, neither agreeing or disagreeing with her confession. 

 “And now, Father,” she starts again, “I’m wondering if you’re here with the same intentions,” 

The congregation sits, finished with three verses of Amazing Grace. The priest, pickled and pruning, gestures for the altar boy to collect the basket for donations. While the rest of the church is occupied with finding spare dollars and change in exchange for their souls, Father Spencer’s fingers dig into her elbow. His voice is rich and warm against Y/N’s ear and if she focuses she could feel his lips brushing against the hard part of her ear. 

“Follow me,”  

She wasn’t sure what prompted her to listen, but there’s something magnetic about Father Spencer. It’s in the way his eyes, light with promises of something more tinilating flickering below the surface, shone in the church. His breath was reveret, not unlike a prayer, against her neck, beckoning her like a lost lamb towards its rightful shepard. Father Spencer, never letting go of his grip against her elbow, leads Y/N down the stairs. Storage rooms and secret nooks are filled with ornate statues and altar decorates. She knows that they must have some significance, but the very thought is lost to her at the moment. 

It was as if the world stopped. Y/N, breathless and timorous, could hardly breathe. She found herself all too aware of Father Spencer’s grip against her elbow. His nimble fingers, attached to strong veiny hands, bore into her skin. She found herself wishing he’d leave marks, a testament to this…whatever it was being real. 

“Is it presumptuous of me to assume you had thoughts of me, wanting me to touch you, to kiss you, to do things to you that good girls should never be thinking of, in a church no less?” Father Spencer cooes, leading Y/N’s back against a strong stone wall. 

Guilt and shame and lust rose in her chest, demanding to be dealt with. She could feel it ebb and flow from her body, tethered to the Earth, to Father Spencer’s tethered to Earth by a power unknowable to her mind.

“Tell me that’s not what you want, little lamb,” Father Spencer asks, his lips dipping closer to Y/N’s neck, barely touching yet leaving not a millimeter of space between them. Father Spencer’s hand came to rest on her thigh. He brushes her skin and plays with the hem of her delicate dress. His eyes rank her body, lust evident in his eyes. She wonders, silently, proudly if she’s the first woman he’s touched, wanted, lusted for since taking up the cloth. A wave of unearned, yet potent jealousy washes over her. She may not have Father Spencer, she very may be denied him, but damn if someone else will procure the very looks she gets from him.  

She whimpers into him, inhaling the smell of the incense coupled with the aroma of his Earthy, woodsy cologne. It’s so wondrously him that she wants to lose herself in it. 

“You fucking undo me, and I don’t even know your name. You’re everywhere. My dreams, my runs, you’re the prayer on my lips. You’re the reason I’ve had to beg for forgiveness. And I don’t even know your damn name, my dear. And hear you are, in my church, brazenly flirting with, reminding me of what you’ve done,” 

Y/N gasps, whining as Father Spencer peppers careful kisses along the expanse of her jawline. Her skin is sensitive, but with his lips on her flesh it’s like he’s on fire. Y/N reaches forward, searching for something to yank her closer to her body. She’s desperate to feel their bodies flush, joined together as one in some bastardized sacrament. Her hands touch his hardened body, a juxtaposition against her soft, smooth one. 

“Oh my God, please, Father Spenc-” she cries, her lips bitten a bold, sinful red. Father Spencer groans the sound threatens any sense of reserve that remains. 

Father Spencer’s hand rises to her cheek, thrilling her heart as it holds her gently, “And to think I thought you would have had more resolve. That pathetic boyfriend of yours did know what he had, didn’t he. But, my dear, look at me when I speak to you. You’ve made me question the vows I gave with my whole heart. You’ve made me doubt the undoubtable, and for that, little lamb, I think you deserve a kiss,” 

Father Spencer’s hands cup her cheeks, bringing her lips towards his lips. They are bitten and swollen from her attempts to stifle any noises. They hear the swell of the organ, alerting them that mass is over, but neither of them care to move. Her chest rises and falls with trepidation as Father Spencer’s bowed head eclipse the low light in the storage room. Y/N’s back, pressed up against the cold wall, arches into the kiss. She tastes his hesitation in the kiss. Her eyes kill the lights and for a moment, she feels like a person. 

Her breath, wary and unsure, bleeds into Father Spencer’s mouth. Y/N kisses him, languid and deliberate, savoring the musk of his sweat and the taste of his tongue against her lips. She shudders as his hands grip her hips, ordering her to stay in place. She’s docile in her arms, puddy in his lips, hot liquid against his skin. 

No words needed to be said. Somehow there was a silent exchange between them as she stole his breath like a thief. Y/N marvels at the strength in his hands; he holds her so forcefully, pinned up against the wall. 

He smelled so good, his hands so rough and big; and he moved them higher up her hips and to her waist, raking the hem of her dress up as he went, like he'd forgotten who he was and where they were. Desperation, as it turned out, wasn’t something only she was plagued with. 

It wouldn’t be another sin to try to convince Father Spencer that Y/N was the kind of girl that found herself pinned up against a wall by a man. She’s a good girl. Kisses that make her lips ache and touches that bruise are foreign to her. She stifles a moan, her remaining decency dwindling as Father Spencer’s teeth graze her bottom lip. Desperation floods her skin, as he grinds his lips against her groin, reminding her of the sweetness of Earthly pleasure. 

Oh what she could show him, oh what they’ve both been missing. It’s wrong how something that feels so good could be so depraved. Father Spencer’s lips reach her neck, hellbent on leaving marks that will last longer than his fleeting touches. 

His hands rest on her hips, forming refuge against her ribcage. Father Spencer, in what seems to be his better judgment, releases her.

“My name,” Y/N says, “It’s Y/N. I want you to know what you’re calling out when you’re alone, Father Spencer. Because I do,” 

“And here I thought you were a good girl, my sweet Y/N,” Father Spencer trills, his long fingers dashing up her face. The sound of her name against his lips is almost too much for her to bear. She feels flush and weak, like some ill Regency woman that faints when men so much as ask her for a dance. But it’s her name repeated over and over again as the devilish, yet angelic man mauls her throat. He plants kiss after kiss, washing away all the ones that came before. 

“I’m sorry, Father.” She admits. Y/N’s tone is soft, yet she is sure Father Spencer is witty and clever enough to catch the glimmer in her eyes as she lowers her gaze.  

“Good Catholic girls don't lie to priests, my dear,” 

“It’s a good thing I’m not a good girl, or a Catholic, Father,” Y/N teases, a chanting sort of tone beckoning him forth. He can’t resist the whims of a woman, of a divine enchantress. 

Father Spencer’s hips shift, attempting to either hide or announce his pleasure from their secret thyrst. His hands caress her thighs, up to her soft chest, hidden by the confines of her dress.

Her confession, not her first to his ears, and certainly not the first to effect his resolve sends a shockwaves down his spine. His hands shake, perhaps tormented with the gravity of his sin or taken by the woman before him. It’s like in a moment everything in the Earth finds its realignment. The birds return to the sky and the fish to the sea. The grass is green again and the clouds white. 

Father Spencer, a man of the cloth, a believer of all things visible and invisible breaks away from the woman before him. He rests his head against her head, unable to not have his body pressed against hers. In a moment, Y/N’s chest rises and falls with her panty breath. She slums against the wall, her mind wandering at the last ten minutes. 

"I have to go."

With that, Father Spencer is gone. And all that remains is the knowing, ironic eyes of St. Agnes looking down below her. 

Taglist

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[all-about-kyu]

Pairing: Wonwoo x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slight angst

Rating: PG

Warnings: religious themes, mentions of princes of hell (Judas, Cassius, Brutus) and Lucifer

Word Count: 398

Summary: You and Wonwoo love each other but are destined to be tortured in one form or another.

Requested by; Mei @februaryflowers

for The Cafe request event

This was the only place you could meet him without getting in severe trouble with your higher-ups. Sitting here in the human realm on a grassy knoll with your slightly grumpy demon partner, Wonwoo. Your head rested against his shoulder, his large midnight wing wrapped around your form. You would give anything to just be here with him forever. It felt right to have his wing wrapped around yours, though the contrast in color was rather comical. Your halo occasionally bumps against his cheek or gets caught on his horns, which curl downwards. It all felt so right though. You love him, he loves you. Yet still, you can never be together as a normal couple could.

“I love you,” he states not looking at you, “I really really love you.”

“I love you too Wonwoo.” you smile, looking up at him.

“You know what we’re doing is wrong though. You’re committing sin, you’re risking too much for me. What if you get kicked out and end up in Trechary, I could never forgive myself. I couldn’t live with myself knowing my precious angel is down in the lowest levels of hell. Especially when Judas, Cassius, and Brutus are down there. Along with Lucifer of course. But I’m just in Lust, that’s only the second level. I got kicked out for loving you, God kept you safe from that punishment. I hate him for it sometimes.”

“Wonwoo,” you sigh, interrupting him, “Even if I get sent down to Trechary for still loving you when you’re a demon now that won’t change anything. I love you.”

“I love you too, my precious angel, I just don’t want you suffering a worse punishment for the same crime.”

You both stay quiet for a few moments longer, you knew this was risking it all for one person. It was dangerous, forbidden, you loved him more than anything though. Maybe, just maybe, you could talk to God and have him just send you to Lust with Wonwoo. Or maybe admit to committing that sin with another angel who was willing to take the fall with you. Mingyu would, he has always gone on and on about how much he misses Wonwoo. That’s just wishful thinking though. You were bound to be separated in one way or another. Whether that’s you in a frozen lake for eternity or being trapped in separate worlds.

COPYRIGHT STARLITMARK 2023© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED — reposting/modifying any fic or piece of original writing posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations are not permitted. 

Networks: @kwritersworld @k-vanity @caratwritersclub

Tag List: @bts7aus @catscoffeeandkpop @notbeforelong @ericssmile @bluejaem @00solarsmiles @leneswrld @stayinzencity @doggienoo @jeonqquk @spectracully @jaemcupcake @softforqiankun @markistheloveofmylife @winwindose @markleepooh @im-just-trying-to-survive-man @http-lovelyknow @cloudnitee @baekhyunstruly @sakuracheol @umbralhelwolf @brattybunfornct @neoculturesnoopy @ShuShuaSoo @angelarin​ @pandabunbuns​ @masterpiecejoonie​ @soobin-chois​ @nctdom​ @mythicalamphitrite​ @jenoxygen​

[littleoddwriter]

Hii ^^

How are you doing? I hope you're doing great <3

Could i request a Eli Sunday x male reader? I had this scenario in my mind where the reader is someone who was in a very low point in his life but Eli kinda saved him and the reader visists him to say thanks and ends up confesing his love for Eli by accident. The reader actually thinks that Eli would hate him for feeling like that and is scared but Eli reciprocates his feelings towards him. Just a little bit angsty but really fluffy.

Sorry if i wrote too much tho, sometimes my brain just won't stop thinking. Have a good time!

The Path that Led Me to You | Eli Sunday x Male!Reader

Hello there! Aw, thank you! I'm just terribly overwhelmed and exhausted, to be honest. I do hope you're doing well/great, though! <3 Absolutely loving this scenario. Thanks for the request! I really hope you like what I've done with it! It may have gotten more angsty than fluffy, I'm sorry if so! ^^" <3 And no need to apologise, you did great and I don't mind it at all when people write more in their requests. :') Take care! <3

summary; See above.

notes; Male!Reader; Planned Suicide Attempt (Implied/Referenced); Suicidal Tendencies; Religious Themes; Religious Guilt; Being Saved; Angst; Hurt/Comfort; Fluff; Falling in Love; Love Confessions; Kisses.

All your life you’ve been feeling this crushing guilt. Guilt for things you hadn’t done, things you had done, things you had no influence on, and so on and so forth. And when you didn’t feel guilty, you felt nothing. A suffocating kind of emptiness. It was an endless cycle and you wanted out. You didn’t know what else to do anymore. You had no one. You were no one. 

So, you decided that you were going to kill yourself. To end it once and for all. All this suffering you’ve been enduring for virtually no reason. 

Had you done something terribly wrong in your previous life? Was God testing you? No, was He punishing you? And if so, for what? 

Whatever the answer to any of those questions was, you would never know. 

Before you did it, though, you went to church. You wanted to ask for forgiveness before your deed. You were weak and you knew you were going to Hell for it. And so the least you could have done was apologise.

You thought you’d been alone in the church, kneeling before the big cross.

Tears were streaming down your face, as you sobbed out your apology, “Forgive me for what I’m about to do, Lord. You may be testing me, but I can’t do it anymore. It’s too much. I can’t- I’m so sorry. Please, oh, God, please. Forgive me!”

The sound of hurried footsteps on the church’s wooden floor made you jump, startling you out of your apology and instantly causing you to stop crying. 

“Y/N?” It was Eli.

Bowing your head in shame, you wiped away the tears with your sleeve, attempting to look more put-together than you were. It was stupid and useless, though, wasn’t it? He’s obviously heard you already.

“I’m sorry, Eli. I’ll be out of your hair now,” you said, getting up from the floor and walking past him with your head kept down. Or, at least you tried to walk past him, but Eli stopped you with a gentle, but firm, hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N,” he said sternly, tilting his head to attempt to meet your gaze. You wouldn’t let him and only lowered your head further. “What’s going on? What for were you asking the Lord for His forgiveness?” 

“It’s not important. Please let me go, Eli,” you told him, pleading with him. You sounded pathetic to your own ears. 

“You do know that suicide is a sin, don’t you?” Eli spoke firmly, as though he was preaching, and in a way he was. To you. Just you.

“I know,” you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. You haven’t done anything yet. And for as long as you don’t, you won’t have to ask for forgiveness from anyone. Especially not our Lord,” Eli told you kindly. “Sit with me.”

Defeated, you followed him and sat down in the front pew with him. At last, you looked at him. Compassion was basically written on his face. You didn’t know how much you needed to know that he wasn’t judging you harshly. The relief you felt bloomed in your chest, making some of that crushingly suffocating guilt go away. 

“Why did you want to commit suicide?” Eli asked softly, then.

You spent a little while explaining everything to him. And all he did was listen. He nodded in understanding. He showed you compassion. He put a friendly hand on your shoulder, your back and your thigh throughout, letting his palm travel to each of those places and squeezing your flesh to show you that he was right there and that you were not alone. And strangely enough, it helped you more than you could put into words. 

Once you were done talking, Eli sighed heavily, rubbing your thigh soothingly, where his hand still rested. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been feeling this way. I can only imagine how difficult that must be. But do you really think that killing yourself is the right choice? Do you not think that there’s something worth living for? Even if it’s just finding out why you’ve been made to feel this way all your life thus far?” 

Eli’s words rang through your mind. Perhaps he was in the right. Perhaps ending it so soon wouldn’t be good, if it kept you from finding the answers you’d been searching for. And perhaps there were things, people even, worth living for. You could currently think of one at least. Eli himself. 

Nodding, you once again used your sleeve to wipe away the tears that stained your face from your retelling. “You’re right, Eli. I- I actually think, no, want to find out. I want to keep going. I’ll try harder now, I promise.”

“Good,” Eli smiled at you, “I assure you, it’ll be worth it. If not for yourself, stay alive for the community. For me. For God. He’ll want you to keep going, I’m certain of it.”

“Yes, of course,” you said, smiling back at him.

“Will I see you at the sermon tomorrow, then?” Eli asked after a few moments of silence.

“You will.”

______

Months later, you’ve been going to every sermon again. 

Shortly before you had wanted to commit suicide, you hadn’t gone as often anymore. 

And every time you showed up, Eli smiled at you. He made eye contact with you, smiled at you, touched your shoulder, thanked you for coming, and asked if you were going to come back the next time. 

And every time you felt valued. You felt like you had a place you belonged to, like you weren’t just wasting away under those crushing emotions you’ve been feeling. 

Not only that, though. 

By now, a new feeling was added to the pile. A good one. It was love. 

At first you didn’t know how to identify it, since it would only ever come to the surface when you were around Eli. But soon you could put your finger on it. And once you did, you only felt it become stronger every time you saw him. 

You thought it was bad. It had to be. You were two men. You weren’t supposed to be in love with him. And besides that, he was a man of God. No one else existed for Eli, never has. He would certainly hate you if he knew.

So there was no chance for you to be with him. And that was okay. You had made your peace with that. 

The only thing that you still felt was long overdue was your gratefulness, though. You realised that you had never truly thanked him for saving you all those months ago. So you wanted to finally do that. 

You were on your way to him, nervous and with your heart racing. You only wanted to thank him. No big deal. And yet it felt like something far bigger. 

Knocking on his door, you waited. 

You kept tugging at your suit and fixing your hair nervously. 

Eventually the door opened to reveal Eli. He looked surprised to find you at his door, but smiled at you, asking you to come inside.

He offered you to sit down at the kitchen table with him, as he brought you a glass of goat milk. 

“So, may I ask what you’re doing here?” Eli asked, once he sat down across from you. He sat at the head of the table and you sat on his right.

“I, uh, I wanted to thank you. For saving me,” you said, averting your gaze, “You pretty much breathed new life into me, in a way. I’d really been at my worst then and you- you found me and you helped me. And I can’t thank you enough for it. I love you so much, Eli, you have no idea. You’re amazing, you- Oh.”

Once you realised what had slipped out in-between all your grateful gushing, you interrupted and stopped yourself, curling in on yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Eli was sure to kick you out of his house, the community, the church, the town. You shouldn’t have said that. You wished you hadn’t. He was going to hate you. He-

He laid his hand on your thigh and squeezed it gently.

Looking up at him in shock, you saw him smile shyly at you. His face was completely red, like he was blushing. Was he?

“How do you mean it when you say that you love me?” he asked, sounding cautious, like he almost didn’t want to know the answer, but not for the reason you had previously thought.

“I mean that I’m in love with you,” you responded without thinking about it. This was what would seal your fate. Be that for better or worse.

Eli closed his eyes and sighed in relief. You almost couldn’t believe it.

Smiling, he opened his eyes again and looked at you. “I love you, too,” he admitted, “I’d thought I was very obvious about that, but maybe not, considering how scared you just were.”

“I thought you were just being friendly. You know, making sure I don’t go and kill myself this time, if you show me enough kindness. I- I don’t know. It just made sense to me. You’re always so good to everyone,” you explained your view of things, shrugging awkwardly.

Eli agreed that you had a point, chuckling softly. For a split second you thought you had died and were in Heaven now. This must have been Heaven. What else could it have been? 

“May I kiss you?” he asked after a few moments that you two just smiled at each other. 

Putting your own hand on his, which still rested on your thigh, you nodded, “I’d love that.”

Eli leaned forward until he couldn’t anymore without falling from his chair, and you followed him suit. And then he cupped your cheek in his free hand and placed a chaste kiss on your lips. You reciprocated it as soon as it happened, kissing him again and again, ever so lovingly and sweetly.

“Thank the Lord for leading us together,” Eli murmured against your lips, pecking them.

You'd never been this happy to be alive.

[sluttyten]

craving you like the devil craves heaven

summary: you’re a succubus (a female demon that seduces men to death) and you task yourself with seducing someone difficult. enter mark lee, a priest with a vow of celibacy that he’s already struggling with. you think you’ll have some fun. (based off this message from an anon)

length: 8,622

warnings: religious themes, sacrilegious, corruption, demons, priests, oral sex, masturbation, sex

As a newly-made succubus, you wanted to impress your peers and superiors, and therefore decided to challenge yourself by making your first time special and big.

“A priest?” Your direct superior shook her head in disbelief. “Most would start with a regular mortal who is much, much more likely to succumb to sin. Are you sure you want to commit to seducing a priest? You realize they swear to be celibate, and typically they’re committed to destroying demons like you and I?”

You do realize all of those things, but you’re sure if you find the right one you can do it. Not all priests are perfectly perfect and holy.

All it took was a little bit of divine intervention (or rather you intervening in the divine), tapping into that holy line of mortal prayers. A little eavesdropping, careful listening, and at last you plucked the correct line, listening to the reverberating prayers of a holy man dealing with such sinful thoughts, praying for help in remaining faithful to the vows of the priesthood.

It was night in this place where the young priest was. Cool and dark, the air was damp and would surely make you shiver if you were mortal, but the cold didn’t affect a demon like you, nor did the mist as it clung to your eyelashes and the strands of your hair. You stood across the street from the rectory, standing in the shadow of a doorway, gazing up at the faint golden light of a window on the second floor of the holy man’s house.

You could still hear a whisper of his prayers.

“Lord, it’s me, Mark, your servant. I pray you give me the strength to resist these desires, the sinful thoughts.” He prays, and you can almost picture him kneeling with his hands folded before him, head bowed, and lips moving slightly as he repeats the words of Latin prayers.

You decide to study him.

That night you stand there on the street and watch the house, listening to his dreams, and catching glimpses of his neighbors’ dreams, as well as the other two priests who share the home with Mark. And in the morning you shift yourself to match the wall behind you, to continue your observations as the young priest rises and dresses and walks down the street to the church. You watch as he passes through the cemetery tucked behind the church, and he pauses at some of the headstones to straighten flowers or offer a prayer, and then he enters through a side door, and you stand outside, waiting.

Several hours later a crowd begins to arrive, passing inside through the large, ornate front doors, and soon after music swells, voices rise, and you hear the chanting of prayers upon prayers. You watch as Mark emerges from the church among his parishioners, as he smiles and talks and shakes hands with them.

You take special note of the way that his eyes repeatedly flick toward another human, near the same age as himself. You notice the way his eyes follow their movements, how he smiles when they meet his eye.

Ah, this one. That one is the source of the young priest’s sinful thoughts.

You observe as the crowd thins, disappearing from the front steps of the church until it is only the priest speaking to a mother and her toddler that keeps tugging on her hand and crying, and Mark tries his best to pay full attention to her, but the lovely human who has attracted his notice stands a few feet away, holding a folder in their hands.

Eventually as the bell tower above the church chimes the hour, Mark excuses himself from the mother, stating that he has an appointment to get to, and you watch with renewed interest as he leaves the mother and beckons the nervous-looking folder-wielding individual to step back into the church with him.

They pass through the nave of the church—their footsteps echoing up to the vaulted ceiling, through all the empty pews—and bow at the altar before stepping around to the side, and passing through a doorway tucked behind a statue of a saint. They shut themselves away in the priest’s office, and you listen eavesdrop from your hiding place across from the church, a safe distance from all the blessed holiness that would try to keep you out.

You can’t quite hear Mark’s thoughts, but bear enough to it, sensing the fluctuations in his emotions as the parishioner shows him the divorce file, and pleads with him to help them resolve the issues in their marriage to their spouse in a way that won’t end like this.

You can feel Mark’s tension, the conflict within himself. It’s his duty to help. But the desire he feels for this person sitting across from him.... it’s sinful, it goes against his vows.

That night you watch him walk back to the rectory after another mass, several meetings, a meal at the home of one of his parishioner’s. You listen as he prepares himself for bed, as he prays once more for the strength to get passed this way he feels because he knows it’s not right in the eyes of the church and God.

And that night, after Mark’s window has at last gone dark, after he’s fallen into dreams, you decide that your time for first contact has come.

Mark’s dreams are easy to intrude upon. The boundaries upon the rectory, blessed though they may be, are old and worn and leave several gaping holes for you to slip through and into his mind.

What you’re doing isn’t possession. That’s not in your repertoire.

In his dream, you take the form of Mark’s desire. You form the dream into what you require, setting up the scene as being back in his office, that desk between him and you, the future-divorcée’s file open on the desk.

Mark doesn’t notice a thing, he just slips right from his normal dreams into this one, picking up his lines without a skip.

“....and pray to the Lord. You and Alex can get through this. Counseling and prayer works miracles.” Mark says, and just as he’d done earlier in the day, he reaches across the desk and takes the hand sitting there atop the file.

Unlike earlier though, you’re in control of this dream. You’d felt Mark’s mind buzzing when his hand came in contact with the hand of his secret desire, so you turn that to your benefit now, making your first changes.

“I know it’s wrong,” you say in the voice of the divorcee, “But sometimes I think there’s no use saving the marriage. Alex feels one way about it, and I can understand that. Alex could fall in love with someone else and be happier and I want that for my spouse, of course I do. And if I could fall in love too....” Your look up at Mark sitting across from you, his hand still on yours, and the look on your face is one that you put as much want and lust into as you can.

Mark gulps. His fingers twitch against your hand. “Sometimes people fall in love with someone else. A peaceful resolution to a marriage, the dissolvement, annulment.... that can happen and both parties can remarry happily.”

He’s trying so hard, the poor thing. One look into his eyes and you can see the nervousness and excitement, the way his mind is rushing at this news that the person sitting before him might want to look for new love.

“Sometimes the person that we’re meant to be with is actually right in front of us.” You say.

Mark nods, swallows again. You test the waters, stroke your thumb over the back of his hand.

He jolts in his seat and stands, rubbing a hand over the top of his head as he paces over to a water disperser in the corner of the office, and he fills a small paper cup for himself, gulps it down. And you take this as your next opportunity to try to twist this dream to your advantage.

“Father Lee,” you step closer and closer, coming up right behind him.

His hand shakes as he fills the cup again, but before he can quite lift it to his lips, you curl your hand against his, and take the cup, bringing it to your lips and draining it while you look at him. He watches with his lips parted, eyes wide. Mark drinks too—drinks in every detail of you wearing his desire’s face and putting your lips where his had just been. You can hear his adorable thoughts—the innocent rush he gets from thinking that’s like an indirect kiss.

Things are moving too slow now, you can tell that even in a dream, even when you’re offering everything up for him to make the move, Mark won’t take the opportunity. He’s trying too hard to hold back, and you just want to seduce him.

So you push things ahead just a little bit, rearrange the dream to your liking, which is you sitting on the edge of the desk, leaning back on your hands with Mark’s hands on you. He’s got one hand tangled in your hair, the other on your waist, and the overwhelming sexual frustration you taste on his tongue as he kisses you is so fucking sweet.

Mark murmurs your name.

Well, not your name. But the name that belongs with this face. You press closer, kissing him back to make him shut up, to keep him distracted and enchanted by the lust of the dream.

But perhaps doing that pushes it too far.

Mark breaks away, gasping, “No, wait. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Irritation flashes through you, and for a split second your true self shines through.

Mark’s eyes widen and he gasps, the whole dream fluctuates, shaking and tipping to the side, and then you’re ripped back to reality, just a monstrous succubi hiding in the space beneath his bed.

You hold still as Mark staggers to his feet. Bare feet brush across the floor, and you hear him slapping his face, pinching at his inner arms, and then you hear him murmuring prayers again.

“Father, I’m sorry for my sins. Please forgive me.” and “Father purge these demons from my mind.”

You wrap your arms around yourself under his bed and smile. You don’t plan to go anywhere.

Several more days pass and you let Mark be. You even return to Hell for a few days to update your supervisor on your progress, and while it’s not as much as you’d like, they are impressed with your target.

By the time you return to watch Mark again, he seems to have calmed down a bit from that naughty dream you’d given him. You return just in time for him to say his nighttime prayers, and once more you wait for him to fall asleep before you enter his space.

You bring yourself physically into the space—at first incorporeal, but then you manifest a tangible shape that you personally admire for all of your earthly adventures, and you settle in to do your work for the night.

Even with a real body, you’re still light as a breath of wind, so when you climb onto the bed and settle over Mark’s chest, he doesn’t stir. Nor does he do anything as you step into his dreams.

This time you observe the dreams for a moment.

You seem to be in a memory. Mark’s brother and himself when they were younger, riding bikes down a street that fades off into white nothingness at the edges, not that either of the two boys seem aware. The dream shifts naturally from that bike-ride to sitting in a car, the windows rolled down, a night breeze filling the interior and raking its fingers through Mark’s hair. There’s a girl sitting in the seat beside him, talking and smiling and dressed cute with a milkshake in one hand that she pauses her story every now-and-then to take a sip at. A girlfriend or a first love. When she reaches over and lays a casual hand on Mark’s thigh, he jumps a little. It’s close enough to what you need, so you grasp onto it and take control of the dream like you’re the one driving a car.

You wear the dream-girl’s face as easily as you’d worn the one in the last dream. You move her hand higher up his thigh.

Mark turns his head to the side with a sharp inhale, staring at you. And then you realize, startling even yourself, that he’s actually staring at you.

The dream ripples and you can feel it pulling away from you, Mark resisting your attempt to control the dream.

“Who are you?” His voice asks, but the Mark in the dream before you doesn’t move his mouth. The voice echoes and booms from all around you.

Abort. Fleeing a dream, tearing yourself from the web of his mind, abandoning your victim in a situation like this seems like the absolute most perfect idea.

But tragically, it seems impossible.

The dream closes in around you, squeezing tight as if holding you there. You grapple with Mark’s mind, and then suddenly the dream releases, Mark gasps awake, trying hard to suck in breaths against the new weight of you sitting on his chest, a succubi filled with the lust and dream-energy you’d been siphoning from him.

Before you can truly flee, dissolving back to your incorporeal form and slipping out into the free night, Mark’s hand closes around your wrist, and with a strength and agility you didn’t expect, he flips you under him, pinning your form to his bed. Trapping you between his warm body and the firm mattress.

“Who are you?” Mark hisses.

You let your true eyes shine through, hoping that the dimly glowing sulphuric color of them will frighten him into letting you go.

Instead, he reaches into his shirt and draws out a cross on a silver chain. You flinch back into the sheets as Mark asks the same question again.

“I’m here to help you.” You turn your gaze away from the cross, locking your eyes on his. “You’re so loud with your lustful thoughts, and I’m here to help you feel better, to tame your lusty sins.” You buck your hips up, pressing up against his hips.

Mark swallows hard. “I don’t know what you are or what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, so you don’t want to fuck that sexy, soon-to-be singleton you were dreaming about the other night?” You bring your hands up both of his arms until your fingertips are under the sleeves against his biceps. “Oh, Father Lee, don’t you know how sinful that is? What would your fellow priests think? What must He think?”

Mark’s jaw tightens, and he brings the cross closer to your skin. Your body tingles and burns.

“Let me up.” You tell him. He doesn’t budge. “I swear to all things evil, let me up or I’ll scream and moan, transform to look like your secret desire so when your Brothers came running in here all they’ll know is I’m moaning your name, and you’re....”

Mark moves.

“Demon.” He spits the word at you like an insult.

You sit up, fixing your hair, and you wink in his direction. “You got it.”

“Get out.”

“Hey.” You stand, raising your hands innocently. “You’re the one that summoned me here. I’m a succubus, and the amount of sexual frustration radiating off of you was too delicious to pass up.” You lean in and sniff at his neck, just to take the opportunity to make him uncomfortable because he’s cute like that. “I just want to help, to show you that you can still feel good, Mark. And anyway, is it breaking your vows if I was just trying to entice you in your dreams? It’s not real is it?”

Mark shakes his head, taking an unsteady step backwards. “Even thoughts are sins.”

You roll your eyes and sink back down onto the edge of his bed. “That’s such a modern misconception. Back in the early days of your faith, people weren’t quite so... prudish. They had sex, some even saw it as praising Him, thanking him for the goodness of it all. Some people still do, why do you think people scream His name during the throes of ecstasy?”

Mark blushes. “Stop it. I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just trying to help.” You reply, leaning back on your hands and looking up at him. “You’re horny, I can feel that. You’re channeling all of your lust toward one unattainable person because they’re married, Mark. Not to mention, they call you Father Lee, which is very unsexy, might I add. But if you would just give in to your dreams, have a hot little dream of making out, getting down and dirty in your office, then that would give you a bit of satisfaction, right? Have a wet dream like you haven’t since you were a teenager? Or at the worst, wake up with a boner, take care of it yourself. You do jerk off still, don’t you, Father Lee?”

Mark frowns at you. “Shut up.”

“Is that a no?” You gasp, sitting up. “Seriously? But you’re still so young, you’ve got all of these hormones, this energy that you need to release. Even if you feel you can’t release it with someone else, do it yourself.”

Mark turns completely away from you then, but you can still see him reflected in the mirror across the room. “Get out.”

His tone is so dour, dark and serious, that you do get out. You flee into incorporeality, still able to observe the look on Mark’s face when he turns around a second later and sees you’re gone, can still see the shape of where you’d say on his bed. He runs his fingers through his hair, and then begins to whisper prayers to his God for forgiveness for his weakness.

You let a few more days pass before you return, scared that coming back too soon would cause too much damage. But several days, you think, gives him time to think more about what you’ve said. You do watch him though, you watch closer than you’d done before, and you see Mark clumsily try to touch himself, as if thinking about what you’d said, but he always pulls his hand away after a moment with a groan of frustration.

On the fifth night since you’d last appeared to him, Mark lingers in his office at the church, pouring over papers, notes from meetings, notices from the parish school. In the yellow half-light cast off by his desk lamp, Mark looks so much older and more tired than anyone should look at twenty-five.

“You need to do something to relax,” you tell him as you manifest right behind his seat, already rubbing at his tense shoulders.

Mark spins his chair around so quickly, he nearly falls out of it. His pupils expand with fear, his chest rising and falling with the surprised, panicked breaths you’d startled out of him.

“How are you in here?” He asks, his eyes darting around the room to the closed door and the latched windows. You know he’s thinking about how the doors of the church are locked (because he’d checked them earlier after the last service for the evening), and then you can see the switch flip in his mind as he starts thinking about how you’re a self-confessed demon currently standing on holy ground. “How are you here?”

You shrug and step around him, sitting on the edge of his desk and plucking a paper from the middle of one of the piles. “It’s easy to be here. I just feel all tingly in all the good places.” You wink at him.

Mark groans and punches the bridge of his nose. “Am I going crazy? Is that what this is? You’re a manifestation of my mental breakdown?”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh. “I’m real. See?”

You take his hand from his face and bring it down between your thighs, close enough that Mark can feel the heat radiating off your skin, but before you can actually make him touch any part of your body, Mark jerks his hand away. You sigh sadly and return your focus to the paper in your hand.

“So, marriage counseling going well for the unhappy couple?” You scan the document which is notes Mark had taken during the counseling session for his crush. “From the looks of it they have issues. The unresolvable kind. Alex just won’t put out, and your sweetheart has needs, huh? But you know all about that, don’t you, Mark?”

Mark snatches the paper out of your hands. “That’s a confidential document.”

You hold out your hand, and right before Mark’s eyes another page from his desk appears in your hand, and this time you read aloud. “When we first got married, we would have sex regularly. At least once a week, usually more.” You raise your eyes to look at Mark. He’s trying so hard not to blush; you wonder how he got through the session. The next few lines of the message are more whining about the current lack of a sex life, and then it’s gets into the sordid, juicy details that you feel certain Mark had struggled to copy down, but had done so for the specific intent of reliving the rush he felt hearing about the sex life of someone he desires.

So naturally you read that part aloud to him as well, and Mark just squirms in his seat. You look up at him and see that he’s definitely blushing, his hands folded as he stares down at them with such a forceful look of concentration, that you’re surprised they’ve not burst into flames. He’s so determined to ignore you, you can hear the prayers racing through his mind.

But when you toe off your shoes and bring a foot up into his lap, you’re amused to find a raging erection hiding there. Mark shudders as the sole of your foot caresses him. His hands untwist, and one moves to your calf, curling around it, but he doesn’t push you away. Not as you keep moving your foot over him like this. His eyelids flutter.

You don’t dare speak, just let the silence hang in the room as you rub Mark’s erection with your foot, his hand on your calf, the other clenching into a fist on the arm of his chair. His lips part, small sweet-sounding sighs falling free. His eyes close, head dropped back against the headrest of his fine leather seat, and his hips shift beneath your foot.

He looks beautiful like this, you think.

Half-lit by his lamp, blushing and glowing with list and finally-felt pleasure. Your body tingles with your own pleasure, the success of doing this.

Mark’s teeth catch his bottom lip, trapping a grunt within his lips. You press your toes to circle them at the tip of his erection, and Mark’s hips lift up, chasing the feeling, grinding against your foot. He sighs, soft moans and pretty sounds, and then at last, he whispers “oh God” and then shudders and slumps back in the chair.

You feel the wet heat beneath your heel, Mark’s cum filling his trousers.

Satisfied, you vanish before he can open his eyes.

You return the following night. This time Mark is in his room at the rectory, sitting up in bed. His eyes are closed as he leans against the wall, his bedsheets pooled in his lap, his hand resting there. He’s not touching himself, but you can tell that he’s challenging himself not to. He’s hard again, and the moment you present in the room, his eyes open as if he could feel the change in the air.

“Demon,” his eyes narrow. “What did you do to me last night?”

“Why? Did it feel good?” You smile. You don’t walk straight to his bed, though you know you’ll end up there. You walk to the closet, run your fingers over the hangers, you skim your fingers through the dust gathering on the books lining the shelf on his wall.

When Mark clears his throat, it’s then that you finally look at him. “Why are you here?”

“Because you need me.” You nod at his lap, wave your hand in a long gesture at his whole body. “I’m telling you, Mark, the energy coming off of you, it’s a wonder you don’t draw every succubus in Hell to come seduce you, drinking up all this juice you’ve got, I’ve never been so full.”

Mark’s eyes flash darkly, his eyes stuck on your face. “Well you had your fill last night right? I can’t believe.... I’ve prayed to the Lord for forgiveness so many times since last night I went to confession earlier today.”

“Oh did you?” A burst of excitement goes through you, and you hurry to sit on his bed, taking up his hand. “What did you tell them about me?”

Mark shakes your hand off. “I didn’t mention you. Why would I? They’d either think I’m losing my mind, which I’m still not convinced that I’m not, or they’d think that I’m just breaking my vows and having sex with someone. I just confessed that I lost my battle against lust and took care of myself.”

You tut at him disapprovingly, shaking your head as you say, “Lying in confession? Isn’t that an oxymoron? And a sin?”

Mark’s hands clench at the sheets. “I wasn’t lying really. Not if I believe that you’re a figment of my cracking mind.”

You smirk, and when you lean closer and lay a fingertip on Mark’s cheek, tracing along his cheekbone and then dropping to outline his lips, you whisper, “And do you believe that? Truly? That I’m just a figment of your imagination?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” Mark whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know if it’s better to think I’m doing this to myself or that there’s a demon taunting me.”

“Maybe I’m actually an angel in disguise, sent in answer to your prayers.” You shift onto your knees, and lean close to Mark’s face. You hold just an inch away from his lips. He goes almost cross-eyed trying to keep looking at you. “In which case, you should take advantage of this opportunity, no? Let me help you, enjoy it.”

Mark pulls his head back, closing his eyes tight as he drops his head back gently against the wall. “This is a sin. I’m a priest, I can’t be doing this.”

You roll your eyes and move.

Mark peers curiously, and almost fearfully, through a cracked eyelid when he feels your weight leave the bed. But a split second later you’ce settled completely in his lap. He goes stiff, murmuring prayers under his breath as well as something that sounds suspiciously like some sort of chant to banish you.

You stay firmly in your spot. “Why did you become a priest, Mark?”

Your question catches him off guard. His prayers cut off and he opens his eyes, looking directly at you. “What? Because I was called. I heard His voice calling me.”

“When?”

“The first time I was young. Fifteen, I think.” He looks up at the ceiling, remembering. “Again when I was eighteen. I entered the seminary at nineteen, studied until I was twenty three, when I became a deacon, and then I was ordained earlier this year. At twenty five.”

You shift your weight. “And you never doubted it? That this was what you wanted to do? That you wanted to swear yourself to celibacy? Never have sex, never allow yourself to experience pleasure? Tell me, Mark, are you a virgin?”

Mark’s blush returns, flooding his face with heat. “Why do you care?”

“Have you ever been touched by another person?” He stays silent, and you think about what you’ve observed in him. You think about him clumsily touching himself before giving up, about how easily he’d fallen apart under your touch the night before. “Have you ever touched yourself, Mark?”

You can feel how hard his heart pounds now, and in each loud beat you hear your answer.

“Cute. Little virginal priest.” You put your hands on either of his cheeks, turning his face so he has no choice but to look right at you. “Was last night your first orgasm?”

Mark breathes through his nose, holding your gaze, trying to steady his racing heart and mind. “Can you stop.”

“But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to feel it again?” You drop your hands from his face. “I can give that to you again. I can make you feel even better, actually. If you let me, Mark, I can open up a whole new world to you.”

When his eyes close you can tell that he’s thinking about how to banish you, to send you back to hell. You find that very attractive, particularly when a muscle in his jaw flexes.

“Mark,” you whisper, and you lift a gentle hand to his neck, tracing a finger along a vein that stands out there. “Mark, what if I’m just a figment of your imagination? It’s not wrong then, is it? To want to feel good like you did last night? I can give that to you again, I can make you feel better. Just tell me yes.”

The silence buzzes in the room as you wait for him to speak or do anything.

“Yes,” Mark’s voice comes out shaky, hoarse. “Yes, okay. Just one more time.”

You move before he can decide to change his mind. Mark just takes steadying breaths as you sink down the bed, slipping beneath the covers, fitting between his thighs. He holds his breath when you tug down the waistband of the plaid flannel pants he’s wearing, when you touch his bare erection with your fingers, the tip of your tongue, your lips closing around him.

You’re not sure that he breathes until swallow around him, pushing to take more of his cock down your throat. Your body buzzes with the heat coming off of him, the energizing power of making him feel good.

Mark doesn’t touch you. He clenches his fingers in the bedsheets on either side of his hips as you give him his very first blowjob. You can’t help looking up at him as you do this; watching every look of pleasure and satisfaction cross his face, unrestrained. And when he moans, they’re soft moans, always conscious that you’re not alone together in this house of holy men, that there’s another priest just two doors down, an empty bathroom in between.

You keep sucking him off, taking him as deep into your mouth as you can when he blows his load for the first time.

Mark bites his knuckles to keep quiet. You pull off his erection, keeping your fingers on him, playing with him as he shudders through the last waves of pleasure.

“Look at that, would you? Felt good? How could that be a bad thing?” You drop a tender kiss to his tip, and then sit up, feeling very satisfied in yourself. “Do you want more?”

“More? No. I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.” He put his hands over his face, pinching at his nose. “Shit. What am I doing? You need to leave.”

You look at him with his face covered, his body on display to your eyes. “Well, if you want more, I’m sure you can look up a summoning ritual for me in one of your holy books, Father Mark. Call me.”

You stand up, and it’s not like you’re going to leave by the door, or anything, but you turn to look around his room one last time. You’re done here. You seduced the priest, drank energy from him, there’s nothing more to be done. You’ve enjoyed your first time, but you’re not going to do the full succubus job to this man, you’ve enjoyed him too much. You won’t drain him and leave him sick. You just hope you opened his eyes.

“Wait.” The young priest grabs your arm before you have the chance to disappear. “How do you expect me to summon you if I don’t know your name?” He says it lightly, almost joking, as if he’s still not sure that he can really take this seriously, this whole you being a seductive demon thing. But the look in his eyes is hopeful.

With a light touch to his chin, you lean in, and whisper your name in his ear.

Months pass in mortal time. You move on from the young priest, seducing many men and some women, draining a few of them dry until they’re just shells of their former selves. You’re currently seducing a wannabe actor, literally sitting on his dick, when you feel a tug inside you. It’s a strange feeling, nothing you’ve felt before, and it’s not pleasant at all.

You push at the man’s chest, the unpleasant feeling spreading through you. “I’ve got to go,” you tell him, and then you turn and vanish, following the strange feeling.

You find yourself in a strange room, a small bedroom.

“So you really never came back to me.” A voice says from behind you.

You spin around, noticing all at once the candles, and then right before you--

“Forgive me, Father. I thought you didn’t want more from me.” You reach out to Mark, standing right here before him for the first time in so long. You missed him. You missed teasing him.

“I didn’t expect you really wouldn’t come back.” Mark stands there just out of reach, his arms folded across his chest. And he looks so good, so handsome in a black button-down shirt and gray pressed slacks. But he’s barefoot and his hair is messy, adding a toned-down casual level to his attractiveness. He clears his throat and you look back up to his face as he says, “I had to make do without you around, you know.”

That piques your interest. “Oh? Did you finally learn to jerk off? Have you been touching yourself? Here in the priest house?”

Mark shakes his head. “Look around, does this look like my room there?”

No, actually. It doesn’t at all. And a quick look out the window shows that you’re in somewhere completely different.

“I left the priesthood,” Mark explains. “What you said, what you did to me, I realized that the priesthood wasn’t what was the best choice for me. I can still serve the Lord in other ways, other ways that will allow me to explore the side of me that you awakened.” And now Mark steps closer to you. At last, he reaches for your face, slipping his fingers into your hair. You practically purr at the contact with him. “I’ve been busy since you left me.”

“Oh?” You lean into his touch. “From priest to manwhore in just a few passes of the moon.”

Mark nods. “I tried to stay on that path for a little while, but I just couldn’t. I craved more, that same feeling you gave me.” He nibbles his bottom lip nervously for a second before admitting, “I actually slept with a woman before I decided to give up on the priesthood. I prayed for forgiveness afterwards, but it just felt like I fucked up too much on that one, so I decided to leave. I moved away, started over, slept around, but none of them touched me the way that you did. Nothing feels better than you.”

You shrug. “It’s part of the job description really. I’m a seductress. You think I’m not going to be the best you’ve ever had? Is that why you summoned me, you want more at last?”

“Demon, I want to make you a deal.” Mark caresses your cheek. “I am a man of faith, and you’ve steered me down some side path that I had absolutely no intention of going down. In the past, I didn’t know what to do with you, but I wanted you. Now, I still want you, but I know what I’m doing. I know about you. I did research about your kind while I was looking up how to summon you again. I want to make a deal.”

“A deal?” You pull back from him, breaking all contact. “Mark, what the hell. Don’t you know what making a deal with a demon means?”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, dismissive. “I don’t care. I know the risk, but, fuck, I swear you got me addicted to you. Just a few hits, and I crave you.”

“Why would you want to make a deal with me? A binding pact?” You push at his chest and Mark takes a step back to balance. “Are you fucking stupid? You think I want your soul, Mark Lee? You had a good soul, a pure one. That’s why I left you and never looked back! Some things are too good starting out, and tarnishing them with my hands....” You look down at your hands, and you can see through the glamor you wear, down to your real form the ashen hell-burnt flesh.

Mark’s watching you when you look up at him. But he doesn’t look afraid, doesn’t look sad or sorry.

His eyes still burn with need.

“I don’t want your soul,” you tell him, “So I don’t want a deal.”

Mark takes another step back from you. “But I want you. So take the damned deal. Fuck me.”

“And what do you get out of it? You won’t get fame or fortune or health from this deal. You literally just get to fuck a demon until you die, so no, that’s not good enough.” If you were human you’d be sick to your stomach right now. What Mark’s offering you, if he were anyone else you would take the deal, but Mark Lee was a good man when you met him; he was cute and innocent, a pure soul that you wanted to protect so you left for his own good. You couldn’t make him pay the price of being with you.

No, Mark shakes his head in denial and desperation. He comes close to you again, standing just an inch away from you, close enough that both of you can feel each other, but not close enough that any part of you is actually touching.

“Just touch me, please.” Mark pleads. “I miss your touch. The way you made me feel, I’ve been chasing that high for months, and nothing compares. Please.”

You want to touch him. You really, really do.

With a groan of frustration, you cup Mark’s face in your hands. “I’m going to be the death of you,” you tell him in the moment before your lips meet his.

The kiss is absolutely intoxicating. Mark moans and wraps around you, moving backwards toward his bed, limbs tangling together as you both collapse onto his sheets. You pin him beneath you, kissing the air from his lungs, your fingers sliding down the front of his shirt, buttons falling open just at your touch. And when your fingertips move a bit lower, grazing the front of his pants, you find that he’s devastatingly hard.

He rolls his hips up against your hand, groaning into the kiss, whimpering delightfully when you squeeze his erection.

You sit up on him, and Mark follows, needy for your kiss. His mouth crashes against yours, sharp and hot. You push his shirt off his shoulders, and you let him roll you under him, your body nestled into his sheets as Mark unbuttons his fancy slacks, pushing them down enough that you can see his cock pop out.

You grab onto the edges of his pants, dragging him forward up your body, and you all but throw your mouth onto his cock.

Much like the last time, Mark seems caught off guard by the way you make him feel. He moans loudly, fingers knotting in your hair. But unlike the last time, he quickly recovers, seems to know what to do to get exactly what he wants, using his hands in your hair to direct your mouth.

When you can see it in his face that he’s enjoying this a bit too much, you pull off, using your hand on him instead, looking up at him as you jerk him off over your chest.

“Mmm, fuck,” Mark moans, a hand running over his chest and down his abs. “No one makes me feel this good. Not with anything they’ve done to me.” He thrusts forward into your hand. “I need to feel you around me.”

You nod. You want it too. You’re ready for him, and he’s clearly more than ready for you. Mark quickly disposes of his pants, climbing back on the bed, sinking in to kiss you again, and you fall into the kiss, more intoxicating than anything you’ve ever felt. With a hand to his chest, you press Mark onto his back, and you climb over him, straddling his thighs.

You don’t break the kiss, just reach down as you move forward to situate yourself over him. Teasing the head of his erection against your wet, dripping entrance, Mark whines, shifting his hips up eagerly. “Patience,” you murmur, and you leave his lips behind to kiss down his throat, down the center of his chest, and you glance up at him as you allow his tip to slide inside you just as you circle your tongue on one of his nipples.

He bucks up, wanting to bury himself inside you, but you’ve already pulled away again.

“Thought you said you’d know what to do now?” You ask, flicking your tongue over his pebbled nipple. “When are you going to prove that? Because from where I’m sitting--” you sit upright, right down on him so his erection is trapped between his abdomen and your wet heat, “--you’re still the innocent boy who doesn’t now how to fuck me.”

You’re not entirely sure how he does it, flipping from submissive boy trapped beneath you to you suddenly being on your back with Mark’s mouth ravaging your throat, and his cock rutting between your legs, still not inside you, but now it’s you who groans at the tease. His erection glides over your clit, and each time you feel a zip of pleasure.

You grip at his arms, fingers digging into muscle, and then Mark’s cock slips and on the next thrust, he fucks right into you.

Both of you moan as he sinks inside you, his teeth catch at your throat, instantly soothed again by his lips. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mark mumbles the words against your skin. “You’re so soft, warm. Heavenly.” He buries his face in your neck, his entire body presses against yours--chest and hip, legs tangled together as he shallowly fucks into you while sucking at your throat.

This is intimate and strange and fascinating and fantastic. Your usual partners are just quick fucks that you feed off of their sexual energy and then you leave. It’s not intimate at all, no matter how many times you’d fucked them, there was no intimacy--rarely were attempts made by them, and never by you--but here you can’t get enough of this. You just want Mark closer until you can’t feel where your form ends and Mark begins.

Your fingernails scrape the back of his neck, twisting in his hair as you bring his busy lips from your throat to your lips, needing to satiate the hunger.

This is pure lust, addiction to him and his addiction to you.

You’re not even feeding off the sexual energy of this intercourse, just existing in the moment for the carnality of it all.

Mark’s thrusts grow bigger, deeper, more powerful, and you wrestle with him, letting him stay on top until suddenly you want him beneath you. You want to fuck him, to ride him, and that lasts for a bit until you’re on your belly pressed into the bed, Mark thrusting into you from behind with his lips against your cheek as he murmurs praises. There’s teeth and nails, Mark’s hair sticks to his forehead with sweat. He shivers in delight when you press him again beneath you, circling your hips on his cock, tracing your fingers over the raised pink lines from your nails down his chest.

He looks high, his pupils wide, his skin flushed, and he’s alive with a glowing energy that calls out to you, begging you to drink it in. But you don’t want that here. You just want this, to feel a part of this, to make him feel the best you can because experiencing sex like this with Mark where you’re not using your demon powers feels absolutely insane, makes you feel even better than when you do answer that call, and drink off the energy of your partner.

His hand snaps against your ass, and you realize you’ve just been sitting there, gazing down at him in admiration. “Move, baby.” And he does it again.

“Fuck, Mark. Do you go to confession and tell the priest that you dream about getting fucked by a demon like this?” You roll your hips, sinking forward until your lips are beside his ear. “Do you confess your sins. Forgive me, Father, but I let a demon into my life. She fucked me so good I stopped being a priest because her pussy is worth it.”

Mark moans.

“Forgive me, Father, but when I was a priest, she made me cum for her in the Church, on holy ground.” You squeeze around his cock, and he lets out a beautiful sound. “Mmm, forgive me, Mark, but I think no amount of confession will make up for sinning like this, loving every single thing we’re doing right now.”

“Holy--!” Mark’s voice cuts off as you sit up, curling your delicate fingers around his throat. His eyes roll back from the pleasure, and you just smile down at him, applying pressure to his throat and circling your other thumb around his nipple. He blinks and looks up at you, his mouth hanging open in soundless awe and appreciation, his eyes glowing with lust and something else. You just want to make him feel good.

You press forward, unable to hold back, needing to feel his lips on yours as you ride him, as you feel that pleasure seeping through your body, a warm silvery-golden glow as your toes curl and your body goes warm and light and fuzzy.

Mark’s hands are on you -- on your hips and your hands and in your hair and on your thighs, touching you all over, pressing you down as he bucks up into you, and then he’s cumming and it feels so good too, better than when the others have done it.

You keep kissing him, rolling your hips down on him, wanting to keep this feeling going. It’s one you’ve never truly felt before.

But eventually it must end, and you roll off to the side, and Mark follows, not wanting to let you get too far. He tucks his face against your neck, breath hot and damp on your skin, and his thigh slips comfortably between yours. You feel sticky and sweaty all over in places you didn’t know you could be sweaty, and you feel like you need to catch your breath.

Mark drops a singular tiny kiss to the center of your chest, and then he pulls back, his head resting on one side of the pillow, yours on the other, only a few bare inches between the tips of your noses. You’ve never been this close to a human before (on multiple levels) and you don’t pull back.

“I made a deal with a demon,” Mark whispers, and he uses a finger to brush back a section of sweaty hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Or at least, I meant to. Don’t leave me.”

“Mark, I won’t kill you.” You tell him, absolutely refusing to let this go where he seems to carelessly want it to go.

His fingers tighten in your hair. “Then give it up. I want you. All the time. And it’s not just because you’re a succubus. I know that’s part of the enchantment, I completely understand that, but I know in a deeper place in my heart that I crave you in a way that’s separate from your crazy, mystical demon powers, okay? Give it up.”

You stare into his eyes, his wide and innocent and hopeful eyes. You want to do it for him. You want to give Mark whatever he asks for. But... “I can’t. This is who I am, I can’t just give up being a succubus. It’s what I was brought into existence to be.”

Mark shakes his head. “I refuse to believe that. You’re a demon, but what are demons except fallen angels.” His thumb strokes over your cheek. “And I see an angel when I look at you.”

You roll your eyes and push his hand away. You sit up, ready to leave his bed, to flee into the unknown from him. But Mark’s fingers circle tightly around your wrist.

“I know how to summon you, I’ll just bring you back,” he says.

“And if I asked you not to?” You flex your wrist, testing his hold. “If I told you that I truly wanted you to leave me alone. What then?”

Mark’s hand falls away and he closes his eyes, turning onto his back to face the ceiling. “I would leave you alone. I would wish I could have convinced you to stay. Because I can see that you want to be here as much as I want you to stay.” He opens his eyes, looking right at you. “You gave me your name before you left, you opened this path for me to find you again, so you must have wanted me to, right?”

Right.

“So stay. I’m a theological man, and I’ve done my research into demonology and the supernatural, into good and evil. You think you’re just a demon, but I think you’re an angel, and somewhere in between where you stand and where I stand is a happy medium, a place where you and I can have this--” he gestures between your two bare bodies in his bed “--without you being afraid of destroying my soul.”

This is absolutely ridiculous.

You want it more than you can explain.

“Make a deal with me, demon.” Mark says, taking your hand in his, guiding it to his chest. He presses your palm flat over his heartbeat. “Stay with me, and I’ll help you become the angel that I know you are.”

This story began with a demon set on destroying her sexual victims and with a priest certain of his fate as a celibate holy man, and now you’re here. Both of you have already come so far from where you began.

You take Mark’s hand, guiding it so his palm lays over where your heart would be.

“The deal is true.” You tell him, and Mark gazes into your eyes as he repeats those words back to you, and just like that a bond is formed, a pact made, and you sink down against him, pressing your cheek to his chest as his arms wrap around you.

And this time you stay.

a/n: oops, I knew as soon as I first read this message that it was probably going to end up as a drabble, but damn I didn’t think I’d make it this long lol

If you liked it please reblog, like, comment. If you’re into the corruption of religious figures thing, definitely also check out Righteous a 5-part series by the wonderful @skzctnightnight​ it’s not got demons but it does have seminarian student Mark being tempted by the reader and it’s very hot and good

[arcadejohn127-9]

Okay so I have a personal head cannon that demon hunters are a thing in the Obey Me World. So I wondering if you could do the brother and undatables finding out that a bunch on demon hunters kidnapped MC while they were in human world because they found out of MCs packs. Your writing is so good, honestly this is one of my favorite Obry Me accounts.

Thank you! It gives me pride for being one your favourites!

I love expanding the world of obey me and idea of hunters is one that seems realistic in a world of demons and angels and just in general, really interesting. Before I joined writing on Tumblr I was actually a Wattpad author and one my books was about a monster hunter who got in a love square with Frankenstein's monster, Dr Jekyll and Mr hyde

Never finished it but it was fun concept so any type of supernatural hunter already just wins in my department

Do I have a thing for making the demons violent and showing off a more aggressive and bloody side to them? Yes, I really do

Warning: kidnapping, gore-ish, violence, religious themes, angst, guns, mentions of torture, long

Your breathing grew heavier as the crushing feeling on your chest continued to grow, your heart slamming against your ribcage. Begging to be released from its suffocating prison. If it weren't for the lump in your throat you were sure your heart would of leapt out of it. 

your feet pounded against the street beneath you; you were running faster than you’ve ever ran before. How did it get to this situation? well, you didn't have time to reminisce but to make a long story short - a group of demon hunters revealed themselves to you and are now chasing you down as you refused to cooperate. they wanted to use you for your pact and you didn’t want to be involved, especially seeing as they were literal demon hunters! they were going to kill your friends! 

but sadly, fate was not on your side. your ankle twisted to the side, pain shooting up from your ankle all the way to your knee. rope surrounded you, you thrashed against the net as your body slammed to the floor. The last thing you saw was the hunter tower above you, the butt of their gun coming down on your head. 

when you finally woke up you already had a gun back in your face, you tried to escape but you were forced backwards. chains rattling behind you. you looked behind you to see you were chained to a cross, both your wrists and ankles were bound.

Your situation only grew worse when the hunter Infront of you snarled down at you. Demanding you used your pacts, spitting on your face. You thrusted forward, matching their snarl as you bared your teeth at them. Demon mannerisms have rubbed off on you but it wasn't doing you any good. The gun clicked, unlocking off safety mode.

Your heart sunk immediately.

"Use your pact or else."

You could only hear the blood rushing through your ears. Trembling as their finger slowly pressed on the trigger. You knew they were going to kill the brother's if you did but you were terrified that were going kill you. You shook your head, letting it hang low as fat tears rolled down your cheeks.

You kept refusing to use your pact and summon the seven demons. Every time you refused they'd hurt you; kicking you, slamming the guns butt down on your head, throwing your head back on the cross. You could barely hear what they said, they just kept screaming at you. Calling you filth and a traitor to mankind.

Despite all the pain you were grateful they weren't killing you. You just had to keep pushing your luck. You couldn't summon them no matter how scared you were. You refused. You couldn't do it.

But fortunately, Magic doesn't always act the way you want it to. Your soul - your entire being BEGGED to be saved. You wanted to save yourself, you desperately tried to spark at the chains and remember any spells but your mind was at a blur. nothing was processing.

You cried out when you saw the large magic circle appear on the floor. You tried desperately to close the summoning circle, cursing to yourself. You demanded your magic to listen to you but it wouldn't work. The brothers symbols appearing in each part and soon enough, they appeared in full demon form.

"FIRE-!"

Lucifer:

his wings blocked at the rapid bullets going their way

His whip quick to come out and wrap around a hunters wrists, he twisted his hand around it and pulled the poor hunter towards him

"This isn't very welcoming, now is it? How bold."

the hunter went flying, the brothers dodging in time

Mammon:

He smirked, a bullet between his teeth and more between his fingers

Steam was drifting off them but he just crushed the metal bullets with no other thought

"How nice of ya to give me a gift~! You really know how to make a demon happy."

He spat out the last bullet and it went flying, hitting a hunters eye

Levithan:

The ground shook beneath you, many hunters missing their shot at his brothers

A crab like beast bursted out of the ground, sewer sludge splattering on the floor

It swiped and grabbed at the hunters, screams filling the space, bodies snipped in half in seconds

"You're all worse than Normies! You took the wrong human from the wrong demons!"

he back hand slapped a hunter that approached him, growling

Satan:

He leapt off the crab, grabbing the nearest hunter to him by the head

Their neck snapped to an odd angle and they immediately dropped

"This isn't how I expected to spend my evening but you took my reading partner....you won't receive my mercy."

He shoved his clawed hands through their chests and spines, ripping out the first organ or bone he could grab

He didn't lie, he didn't show an ounce of mercy

Asmodeus:

His wings flapped behind him, he dragged his claws along the backs of the hunters he flew past

Giggling as they screamed in pain

"Aww I'm just flirting, was it really that bad?"

He pouted before swiping at their faces

Shoving another hunter towards his more violent brother

Whilst he had no issue letting himself get wild, he saw how scared you looked

He didn't want to get too dirty or else how could he comfort you?

Beezlebub:

Beel could be ruthless if TRUELY provoked

And hearing your whimpers when he arrived stirred furious anger within him

When he finally saw your beaten state it made him snap

Hungry for blood

Hunters head being crushing with ikr hand

"You don't even look appealing to eat, you're worst than Solomon's cooking."

He took a chunk out of one hunter when they aimed at one of his brother's

Refusing to let his family get hurt

Belphegor:

We all know he's cold blooded

So it was no surprise blood was gushing everywhere

His dream dust filling his area and nightmares surrounded the hunters

"They're mine....and yet you stole them and hurt them, you're disgusting."

hunters would disappear into the mist and not come back out alive

Bodies littering the floor as he swooped through

As soon as things got gory your eyes were sealed shut, trying to shut out the sound of flesh tearing and screams of agony. Whimpering as you thought about the brothers smiling faces, how gentle and soft they usually were. Chanting in your head that they were here to save you, you were safe, they're still them.

You screamed as your body was lifted off the platform you were on, the cross rising. You were now fully crucified; feet slipping as you struggled against the cross. The chains were barely supporting your weight so you just dangled, fear rising in you.

Mammon charged towards you, his brothers continuing to fight against the hunters. He ripped the chains out of the cross, you fell right into his arms, your heart thumping against your chest.

"look at what they did to you....I shouldn't of protected ya, I hope you'll learn to forgive me - they busted you up real bad."

He caressed your cheek; eyes glaring at your busted lip and the many bruises forming on your face. You winced when his hand touched the side of your head, he recoiled feeling something warm on his palm. It was blood. YOUR blood.

He almost broke down right there and then, looking at how hurt you were - he couldn't handle it.

"thanks...that makes me feel so much better." You let out a pained laugh, hoping to make him feel better.

He only frowned more, softly rubbing his thumb on your cheek. It was obvious he was struggling to keep himself calm. You held his hand, showing off your best smile.

"i don't blame any of you, the hunters did this, okay? You didn't do anything wrong."

Your sweet moment was ruined when the 6 brothers backed all bumped into the two of you. Forming a protective ring as the hunters surrounded them; it seemed like there was no end.

You raised your shaky hands, magic swirling around your wrists and to your fingertips. You barely had enough strength to put on a little light show but you weren't going to just let the demons defend you without even trying to help.

It your lucky day as suddenly, the hunters hideout doors bursted open. You could barely make out the outside but there was blood coating every wall, steam coming off dead bodies. Soon enough four figures emerged and your heart almost leapt out of your throat.

Lucifer growled as he strangled a hunter, turning his attention to the new comers.

"I'm surprised you came so late, espically with the company with you, my lord."

Diavolo laughed, his hands coming together as his magic flared brightly. Barbatos had his arms behind his back, smiling to all of you.

"Forgive our tardy timing, these hunters are determined."

"don't forget us, though I may of caused us to take our time, it's been so long since I've fought this many people."

Solomon adjusted his sleeves, his many pacts glowing against his skin. Simeon, unlike the others, looked completely untouched by the chaos. Smiling as he kept his hands together.

"I beg for your forgiveness (Y/N), It appears we've angered Lucifer more than the hunters have."

UNDATEABLES↓

Diavolo:

Time slowed down within the room, only the hunters going still

Their movements frustratingly slow

"I think it's best to clean up this situation whilst you take (Y/N) back, they've seen enough."

He looked at Lucifer, both men nodding

The prince moved freely through the frozen room, eyeing the amount of hunters

Barbatos:

He bowed to the brothers, offering you a comforting smile

"I must agree with my lord, things will get rather unpleasant."

He slowly slipped off his gloves

He approached you, gently handing you his gloves and patted your shaky hands

A silent request to keep them safe for him

Solomon:

The wizard blew the steam off his wand

Smirking as he pointed it towards the magic still present around your wrists

"Isn't it good I came along? You're going to fall sleep if you keep using your powers, little apprentice, let me open a portal for you."

Just as he finished talking he summoned a portal to the devildom

He gave you a small salute

Simeon:

He hastily rushed towards you all

Checking on each brother for any serious harm, thankful they were okay

He turned his attention to you, doing the same

"all is going to be okay, I promise, I'll bring over some desserts when we get back - tell Luke I won't be long, I know he's anxious about your safety."

He walked you to the portal, caressing your hands

You got a gentle push towards the portal

Once you were all through the portal, you completely shattered. Crumbling to the floor as you broke down sobbing. The brothers tried to approach you again but your nostrils flared, face scrunching up in disgust. They reeked of blood and guts.

Beels mouth was covered in blood, flesh between his fangs. Levithans hands trembling from adrenaline red and stained with blood. Belphegor was showered in the red liquid, a feral look still in his eye. Mammon was the most clean out of all of them but he had blood dripping down him. Asmodeus had flesh on his nails and blood on his cheek. Satan looked just as drenched as belphegor, his shoulders shaking with anger. And finally, Lucifer was the second cleanist but he still was no better than the others.

"i need time to- time to calm down....just.... please just wash."

They all accepted your wishes, hesitant but they understood your predicament.

You laid on the floor, chains still on your wrists and ankles. They felt so tight on your limbs, you whimpered as they scratched at your skin. It took one small burst of magic to make them drop; you were finally free.

You continued to just lay on the floor, shakily grabbing a nearby pillow. Inhaling the sweet comforting scent, letting it fill your scenes. Everytime you even smelled a faint swift of the gore-ish scene from before you just took in another deep inhale.

You laid there for what felt like hours. Silently crying as you hugged the pillow.

You grounding yourself. Reminding yourself you were safe and back in your room. The brothers were safe and they weren't mindless beasts.

You rolled on your side, something poking your hip. It was your phone. You pulled it out from your pocket and began to type, messaging Luke that Simeon was okay aswell as you, apologizing for not seeing him in person. You sent him a quick selfie of you smuggled into your pillow and tried to look somewhat happy. Hoping it'll comfort him.

It wasn't a moment later until you heard a knock at your door. You questioned who it was.

"we're all clean now, meet us in the living room if you want....I made your favourite drink~" Asmo's voice was soft, gentle on your ringing ears.

A small smile appeared on your face. Shuffling out of your room still hugging your pillow, trailing after the lustful demon. Soon enough, you were both entering the living room.

The room was dim, the fireplace being it's only lighting and warming the room up nicely. There must of been something with the wood as it smelled so comforting. The brothers all sat along the sofa, Some on the floor. Everyone had their own drink, blankets and pillows surrounding them.

You curled up in the middle of the sofa, letting yourself be engulfed in multiple hugs. Everyone touching you in some way and you all just sat there. In peaceful silence as you just hugged.

You really needed this....

"thank you for saving me."

"We'll always save you"

"you can always count on us-!"

"I won't let this happen to you again, I promise to protect you better."

"no one is allowed to touch you like that, I won't let them."

"You don't need to thank us, darling."

"I will always make sure you're safe, no Matter what."

"I won't fail you again."

you all hugged each other even tighter, embracing each others comfort and warmth. Tears falling and soothing words shared, each brother did their best to be strong. But even they couldn't stop themselves from shedding tears when the adrenaline died.

They almost lost you. You were kidnapped and hurt because of your connection to them. They were never going to let you get harmed again, no matter the cost.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

another poem! this one from the point of view of c!tommy praying. tws for religious themes, self loathing, self victim blaming, and referenced abuse and dehumanisation.

dear god, any god out there, i pray

to all that may harm me, keep them at bay

i know it’s a lot to ask, man, i got a list

got a lot of people pissed, but i want to exist

not forever- fuck no, i'd never ask for that

and, look, enough chat, i know I’m a brat,

i get that, but i'm scared. there, i said it.

it's a bit hard to admit it, to submit

to the idea that you're just a kid

way in over your head, and i know what i did

was wrong, i'm sorry, i’m sorry, don't forgive me

i don’t deserve it, oh, it would be

a fucking crime to forgive me, i got what's deserved

if anything, it was reserved what i was served

but i don't want bruises staining my skin and my brain

it's selfish, i know, man, but i don't want more pain

i'm a big man- i can take it, if you don’t waste your time

on a sad stupid little sinner with a long list of crimes

but i'll be good- i promise, really- if you answer my plea

I’d have been so much better if they ever listened to me

but see, god, if you're listening, you really must care!

and maybe, just maybe, you'll answer my prayer

if you're there, i swear, I’ll do anything for you

just keep Him away, one more day, i'll start anew

just Him, i promise, i can deal with the rest

i've been a pest long enough, I’m not second best

and, yeah, man, i want to exist but i'd rather drop dead

than exist as a puppet, punching bag, toy, all that’s ahead

an eternity worse than hell could ever be, ever was

i mean, i know hell, i've been in its jaws

i'd take that void over Him, but I’d rather survive

no, live, do more than just stay alive

if i may, god, could i make one other request?

it's fucking stupid, i know, but i digress

i'd like a nice day- or night, i don't mind

on the bench, music playing, my friends by my side

i miss those days of peace, i'd like to see them again

i'm rambling, aren’t I? anyway, man, amen

[monstersinthecosmos]

(i swear i’m still retired but one more thing)

VAMPIRE THERAPY THOUGHTS: 

Marius's ego & rigid belief systems read as survival mechanisms to me in a super poignant way, perhaps because I had to rely on similar survival mechanisms as a young person with no support system. (ie: super edgelord teenager shit that I thankfully grew out of but that he is stuck in perhaps as a hyperbolic & evergreen VC theme or because he’s like, yknow, not real and a perpetual exaggeration of human behavior.) I see myself in that part of him a lot and it's strange to interact with because I've tried so hard to forgive my past self for times that I was cold and arrogant to people around me because I couldn't afford to be vulnerable. It means that I empathize deeply even as I laugh at him and recognize his bad behavior, but I don't demonize him because as a reader I am cheering for him and want to see him grow and learn, the way I try to grow and learn.  Unmarried men in Ancient Rome were super ostracized so I feel that this might have been a skill he developed when he was alive, which gave him the courage to travel and study and do what he wanted despite the social stigma. He creates an identity around his independence and believes in himself because he has to. Even speaking towards his privilege as a man in a patriarchal society, he didn't quite fit in and have a place there.

So then he gets abducted by religious zealots, murdered & sacrificed, and forced into vampirism, and not only have they taken all of his autonomy from him but he's suddenly being confronted with mysticism that he STAUNCHLY disbelieved his whole life, and he's shoved into this drama with the Parents that he didn’t give a fuck about. His entire worldview is shattered during a moment where he has no control over anything in his life.

To take control the way he did, obsessively, and to lean back into an old habit of fortifying himself with ego & self assurance, is the way he survives and the way he copes with this horrific life change that he didn't ask for.

And hundreds of years go by where his methods continue to be affirmed. Like no, he can't share the secrets because zealots will raid his home. No, I cannot trust anyone else with this burden. It's mine and mine alone.

Later when he loses Pandora I think it reinforces this as well--she leaves and it puts him in a position to comfort himself by acting like he's choosing the Parents over her, and whether or not that's true it's one thing he can keep control over. So that this behavior repeats and repeats doesn't surprise me. It's worked for him and it's how he operates. His need to control everything & everyone and his need to tell himself he's doing the right thing are born from the same place.

I do think Marius tries to do the right thing and be a good person, but he's operating with a super limited tool set. He doesn't leave enough room to entertain that other people don't share his feelings. But I think it would be unwise to assume that every wrong thing he has done was calculated to be harmful, insofar as we must say at some point "bro you're 2000 years old please do some self work"

There's also a world of growth between the way he treats Armand's emotional needs and the way he treats Lestat's--with Lestat he's a much better listener, takes his misery seriously and offers him really sincere advice. He even admits he fucked up with Armand.

(Off screen we also know that Bianca has told him to fuck himself by this point so he is learning.) He is certainly one of the most polarizing characters and his trauma does not excuse him but I think it does offer a lens to understand why he does the things he does. Even in real life when people behave poorly you should hold them accountable, but it's worth asking "What happened to you?" because really it is so rare that anyone just behaves this way for no reason. In fiction it’s even easier to have these conversations, because these people do not exist, no one has been harmed, and what is humanizing the boogeyman if not an exercise in empathy and forgiveness? Monsters exist in fiction as placeholders for all the terrible things we’ve all done, and yet a character like Marius has the depth to be more than the things he’s done wrong, just like all of us. We are not our worst deeds. In a horror novel we use vampiring as a symbol, IRL maybe it’s about a time we were rude to a friend. This is a good space to practice. 

I've seen a few reads on Marius as like an old white mansplainer LMAO and I do see that, I get it, but I don't think it's a completely appropriate comparison. There's a context to that person when we talk about him IRL, a stereotype that it's just peak male privilege that creates adults who have never been challenged in their lives, and that's not what Marius is.  (I have a whole side-essay inside me about Marius’s position of power over people and whether or not it was gained at the expense of others but whew enough tumbling for now.) 

Marius's ego is not a product of "My life is easy so I don't understand the struggles of others", it's "My life has been horrifically traumatizing and I've fortified my own ego as a means to survive it."

He doesn't particularly have peak privilege in this context, and not just speaking to his human life but so much of his character as a vampire revolves around loneliness and desire to be involved in the world, even when he knows he can't and often doesn't even feel worthy of it.

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

Not The Forgiving Type

[Name] was a kind kid. He was poised to be number one until shit hit the fan. But he wasn't gonna let his dream die no matter who got in the way.

Or

The one where All Might neglects his son a little. The son eventually goes apeshit and hurts the people that wronged him on his journey to becoming the Number One Hero

Warnings: Major Character Death, Vengeance, Murder, Blood Mentions, Religious Themes/Imagery, Christianity is not portrayed in a good light, All Might is compared to God, There is no good guy, sad ending.

The thing that [Name] hates most is his smile.

Christians believe that every human was born with sin. As such, you spend every day of your life abstaining from further sins as you try to erase the red from your ledger. You’re encouraged to do acts of service, not to win the favor of God but from the kindness of your heart. Because you care about people. Yet not doing those acts of service puts you years behind if you aim to present God with a clean ledger.

[Name] was kind. It wasn’t something that came natural to him nor was it particularly easy all of the time but he made the effort. Be kind to others, the family motto. His father was like God to the people he saved. Keeping a smile on his face as if at the shine of his teeth all life’s problems would flash away. And he’d give grand speeches for no other reason than he could.

“Power” his father would say grandstanding “is for the strong to be able to protect the week” [Name]’s father had the kind of power that made the weak feel untouchable. All might would save them. They were sure of it. [Name] was sure of it too.

‘Daddy’s so strong’ [Name] thought ‘I’m gonna be strong too.’ It was a shared thought between the two actually. He was the son of the number one. The son of God. Destined to bear the weight of everyones sins. The reincarnation, who stretches himself thin for the sake of saving others. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Strong should his resolve be, lest that head roll off of his shoulders.

[Name] was four when he got his quirk. Yagi was ecstatic. There was a slim chance that the boy would be born quirkless like Yagi himself and [Name]’s mother wasn’t in the picture. A one night stand who was paid off after she showed up on his doorstep with a baby. There was no way to be completely certain what would happen, but he believed. Hoping for all hope his little boy would be strong. At the proud look on his dad’s face, [Name] smiled. He would continue to make his father proud.

At the age of nine [Name] had all but mastered said quirk. He was a prodigy who’d trained with heroes like Nighteye, and Eraserhead practicing both combat and battles of quirk. Within the next year All Might finally thought [Name] was ready. And sometime after [Name]’s 10th birthday Yagi sat him down to talk about the possibility of him being the next person to wield One For All. [Name] was more than shocked to hear that his dad had been quirkless and possessed a rare, powerful quirk. In his nervousness all he could manage was a smile, a wide confident smile that masked all his hesitation and surprise.

“I’ll be the next number one hero dad” [Name] said “And i’ll make you proud”

Yagi gave his son a matching smile “You already have. And I can’t wait to see what you will do in the future my boy”

At age 13 [Name] took down his first villain. It was illegal of course, but things are easily swept under the rug when you’re the child of God. But why should he have been punished? He was doing good for the sake of good. Saving others with a smile on his face. That was the family motto. It mattered not that the streets were stained with the villain’s blood. No, he was a hero. Heroes saved the day by defeating the villain and giving hope to the people. His actions should please God.

“He’s not ready”

“He’s my son”

“And that’s why you can’t be impartial. Take a break, spend some time with [name] and teach him how to be a hero”

[Name] creeped closer to his bedroom door at the sound of the furious whispers trying to figure out who was talking about him and why. He leaned his head against the door not risking the chance that if he opened it to take a peak he could be seen or heard.

“He’s a great kid, with a powerful quirk. He cares about stopping injustice, and he gives people hope. Like I did. He’s primed to be my successor”

“All might you know I think of you as a great hero. But he’s too much like you”

‘Nighteye’ [Name] realized

“I think he spends too much time trying to be like you that he doesn’t know the true meaning of heroics. You’re right he’s a great kid but I don’t think he’s ready for the kind of responsibility that comes with One For All.”

“Who else if not him?”

Nighteye paused, and answered cautiously “I met a kid. Resembles you in looks, a little more than [Name] does. He has a strong work ethic and made his debut into class 1B at UA. His quirk isn’t exactly strong but he’s made it so. Give him a chance”

Toshinori gave a hesitant “maybe” and the conversation ended there.

Betrayal felt like a sharp stabbing sensation. Nighteye, his precious mentor doesn’t think he’s ready enough. Doesn’t want him to succeed. Wants his father to mentor another kid because he doesn’t believe in [Name]. Ouch.

The next morning, [name] is quieter. More unsure of himself as he asks his dad to stop training with Nighteye. The relationship between All Might and Nighteye is frayed and [Name] knows that. He’s the glue keeping them together so to get back at Nighteye, [Name] will sever the connection between idol and fan. He doesn’t need Nighteye, he just needs to please his dad. He’ll train on his own and become number one. Praise be to God.

Hands gliding through the air, [Name] played with a bright red colored mist that flowed through his fingers and gathered in the palms of his hands. He would flex them, some fingers pointing down, others curled inward as if he were grabbing something with that finger only. Depending on the weight of the object he moved, his arms would flex too.

In a fight his stance became wider, more sturdy almost as if actually shouldering the weight of the object. His knees bent when he planted himself into the ground, resisting the push and pull of gravity as he lifted things with a thought and a flick of his hands. He was powerful. The kind of powerful that makes you smirk at your opponent, not because you underestimate them but just because you know you’ll win. It’s a long hard road to becoming that powerful and [Name] was damned if he wasn’t going to show it. The perfect venue was coming up too. The UA Entrance Exams.

[Name] unconsciously used his quirk to stop something from landing in the koi pond he’d been walking past. “Poor fishies” [Name] thought as he grabbed the floating book. It read ‘Hero Analysis For the Future’  He casually flipped through it, silently asking for forgiveness. He’s not a snooper; he just needed a little guidance if he was going to be the best. It was a little burnt but thorough. He heard the noise of a bunch of boys walking by and he looked up. At the sight of Bakugou [Name]’s eyes flashed red. Bakugou looked away and scowled knowing he couldn’t beat the son of the Number One hero. Not yet.

“Oh [Name]-senpai you found my book”

“Izuku-kun. I came to you for advice. But also just because I wanted to see you.”

“Of course! We’re friends you can ask me anything”

“I’ve been training a lot on my own recently because I wanted to surprise my dad with my progress but pretty soon I think I’m gonna ask him to personally train me. The UA entrance exams are pretty soon. And I want to make him proud”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine! You’re a great hero already with an amazing quirk. I think he’ll be proud of you no matter what you do”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive”

“Thanks. I’ve gotta go train, my exams are way sooner than yours. You’ve still got about 10 months right?”

“You honestly think I can make it senpai?”

“I don’t know. But I like you and you’ve got the right attitude so I want to support you. Who knows maybe you’ll make history as a quirkless hero.”

[Name] smiled and bid Izuku farewell as he headed off in the opposite direction intending to train even harder to become the number one. Everything in his life was primed so he would be the best. He was Icarus chasing after the sun on his man-made wings. But he was determined not to fall, not to drown and he refused to fail even if the sun burned him up upon first contact.

[Name] passed his entrance exams and was ranked number one in the incoming first year class. His first number one. The sports festival being his next goal, and once he finally had One For All, there’d be no one to stop him. He was sure of it. And that’s what he wanted to tell his father the day Yagi came home and excitedly told him he’d met and befriended a young boy from Mustafu called Izuku Midoriya. [Name] smiled brightly happy that the two of them had met and instead promised himself to bring the topic up the next morning.

The opportunity never came considering All Might had gone missing from the house every morning before [Name] woke up and he’d come home deflated and exhausted. [Name] would just smile at the exhausted Yagi and make the two of them dinner or tuck Yagi into the bed when he’d fall asleep on the couch. It was pretty easy for a telekinetic to tuck their dad into bed without waking him. Sometimes [Name]’s eyes and hands would glow and he’d flutter his fingers near Yagi’s temple sending him sweet dreams. After about two months of this [Name] decided to confront Yagi, and he camped out on the couch that faced the front door. When Yagi tried to sneak out [Name] spoke up

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got some work to do early this morning”

“Everyday for two months?”

Yagi’s eyes widened, not knowing [Name] noticed his habits. And that was a part of the problem. [Name] paid attention to everything, he was a strategist who had a degree in All Might. It was how he and Midoriya became friends in the first place and why they continued to get along so well

“I’ve been training”

“For what” [Name] asked and at the slight downturn of his father’s smile he realized he’d been asking the wrong questions. “Where?” He received silence

“Who are you training dad? And don’t lie to a mind reader”

“I’ve been training Young Midoriya”

“For his entrance exams? Why not invite me? The two of us are friends and I can teach him how to spar”

“It’s just between the two of us, no need to wear yourself thin. Focus on training for the sports festival”

“I’ve been trying to ask you to train me. This is the perfect opportunity”

“Perhaps later my boy”

The disappointment barely got a chance to sit on [Name]’s face before he smiled “Have fun dad. Tell him good luck for me, yeah?” Yagi nodded and headed out the door, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. [Name] was a good kid.

[Name] returned to training alone, and cleaning up after his dad, and going to school, and listening to his dad lie, and smiling. But the feeling that he was missing something took over him and set him on edge. So he went for a walk. And who better to find than Izuku Midoriya and his dad training on a beach. [Name] reached up a hand to wave at them before realizing this is what was setting him on edge. His dad was paying more attention to his quirkless kohai than his own son. He felt another stabbing sensation similar to when Nighteye had betrayed him but this time the pain was in his chest and didn’t go away. It was accompanied by the desire to cry. And so [Name] stood there hysterical with a smile on his face and tears streaming down his cheeks. The taste of snot reaching his tongue through his teeth.

[Name] waited for them to finish training before he followed Izuku pretending to just casually bump into the boy. “Oh wow Izuku you’re shaping up. My dad says you’ve been training lately” [Name] knew the boy was horrible at lying and would probably nervously blurt out the truth between the two, and if he didn’t there was always the option of reading his mind.

“Hehe, yeah” Izuku chuckled nervously

“So what’re you training for exactly? I know you’re aiming for UA but what’s your strategy for passing the exams? Just regular old strength training?”

“Actually All Might’s been training me for something else entirely. I’ve got to go but I’ll talk about it more with you later okay?” Midoriya screamed behind him as he put some distance between the two. He was smart, smart enough not to look in [Name]’s direction anytime he lied, a strategy that kept him safe for months. All good things must come to an end.

[Name] showed up on the beach one afternoon and demanded to know what was happening. His expression was serious and his eyes glowed the moment they tried to placate him.

“I’ve been training Young Midoriya to be a hero” All Might started

“Yes I know that”  

“More accurately his successor” Midoriya finished

“Wait what” [Name] frowned

“I knew you approved of Young Midoriya becoming a hero and when I saw him save Young Bakugou from the attack I saw myself in him”

“I’M supposed to be your successor. You don’t see yourself in me? Your son?”

“Bubs-”

“Don’t Bubs me. And You!” [Name] whipped around furious, hurt in his eyes as he faced Midoriya “I told you all I ever wanted was to be like my father and make him proud. I befriended you and protected you when I could. On the day of the attack I told you I wanted to train with him and you stole him. You took him right from under me.”

“I’m sorry” Midoriya stuttered out “But you have a quirk. You don’t know what it’s like being powerless and picked on. He gave me a way out”

[Name] looked at Midoriya sympathetically, simultaneously wanting to reach out and hug the boy but also wanting to make him suffer. At [Name]’s conflicted silence Midoriya continued “Senpai, please. Can’t you just be happy for me? I’m finally getting to live my dream”

[Name] looked at him apathetically “Why would I be happy you sacrificed my dream for yours?”

“Please” they begged and oddly enough, they begged in harmony “Don’t go. Forgive us, we didn’t mean to hurt you” Their eyes were pleading almost as if they knew the second he turned his back on them, it would be the end of their relationship. [Name] got a high off of their suffering. It was the first time in months he’d truly felt happy. They got a taste of what he’d been feeling.

‘This is karma’ [Name] thought ‘God’s in his heaven and all's right with the world’ He looked at the two of them and smiled. A reassuring smile. They let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding in as he laid a hand on the side of each of their heads. “I’m sorry” he said sickeningly sweet “I’m not the forgiving type”

Neither All Might nor Midoriya had time to react before [Name]’s eyes glowed and he sent them into a nightmare where they were abandoned and lonely calling out for help only to be betrayed. [Name] walked home with his head feeling more clear than it had in weeks. He’d always thought of his father as God. And if he were God that would make [Name] Jesus.

God made Judas, and All Might made a hero out of Midoriya.

Things were awkward in [Name]’s house after that. Yagi and Izuku were still training, and so Yagi would come home to a dark house and no son to greet him. If [Name] was around when Yagi got home, he’d pretend not to notice or leave the room immediately and have his things float up to his room. Yagi knocked on his son’s door one day and though he got no response he knew [Name] was listening.

“You can still be a great hero my boy. I know you’ll do great things”

“There’s no room for me to be Number One while One For All exists”

Yagi was disheartened and walked away leaving it at that. The day of the entrance exams was coming up and Izuku would finally receive One For All. He hoped they could take it one day at a time from there, considering they’d all be attending the same school for the next few years. Midoriya went on to pass the entrance exams and earned a spot in class 1A. Yagi was ecstatic and Midoriya got a taste of what it felt like to be a hero.

The UA Sports Festival made for a grand spectacle where Izuku Midoriya had called out to the world and said “I Am Here”. He showcased an amazing power but also his poor control over said power. About a week after the festival, Izuku was attacked by villains who believed the key to his strength was in his DNA. They knew he wouldn’t sit still and let them pluck hairs, so the easiest way was to make him bleed. They ambushed him, subdued him and took him to a second location where he was bled and beaten to death. His body was found a week after his disappearance. Broken arms, legs and lacerations all over his body. The police suspected most of his injuries came from him trying to escape.

The villains couldn’t remember why they took him. The harder they tried to remember the worse their heads hurt and their eyes would glow red. Even Naomasa with his lie detector couldn’t pick up the truth. All the villains knew was that his blood was supposed to give them a boost, like some of the other illegal quirk boosters on the market. The suspects were released on bail and disappeared several hours later.

All might of course felt responsible and was weighed down with guilt. He had killed Young Midoriya through his own negligence. Heavy is the head that wore the crown. Yagi was strong enough to keep his head on his shoulders but he could not move from the position he was in.

He recalled a conversation between himself and [Name] a day or two after Midoriya’s disappearance. The boy who hadn’t smiled once since their fight on the beach gave a twisted smile as he asked “How’s your successor doing? Have they found his body yet?

Yes, All Might had done this to Young Midoriya himself. He played the part of instigator and now he was the secret keeper. He was to bear the sins of his son and himself as he prayed that unlike [Name], Young Midoriya up in heaven was of the forgiving type.

[boneshine]

Jack Stauber’s “Opal” Theory

Last night, I stumbled across Adult Swim premiering Jack Stauber’s “Opal” and got to enjoy it in its entirety. I’m a huge fan of his work, and seeing his latest and biggest animation to date was quite the treat in this season of tricks!

I really enjoyed the lore and thought I would (try to) explain my personal theories regarding the story.

If you haven’t watched “Opal”, I highly suggest you do so. It’s available for free on Adult Swim’s Youtube channel. Go ahead. It’s quite the ride.

SPOILERS BELOW CUT!

The first time you watch “Opal” and the second time you watch it, the story completely changes. The atmosphere changes. The characters change.

What you thought was a surreal tale about a young girl exploring a forbidden house and being consequently terrified by the residents inside transforms into a story where a young girl suffers in a neglectful and abusive household and tries to escape into her fantasies to cope.

You’re led to believe in the beginning that the girl’s name is Opal and that the residents mistake her for someone named “Claire”.

At the end of the story, you realize that “Opal” is actually Claire.

“Opal” is Claire’s fantasy. She pretends to be this happy and bright girl on a billboard in the distance (Opal’s Burgers), surrounded by a family who love and “see” her.

The story begins with “Opal” sitting in her kitchen with a burger while her “family” (the family depicted on the billboard) sings to her.

We see you, Opal

Your troubles are miles away

We see you, Opal

And in our eyes you’ll stay

These lyrics are important because no one in Claire’s house sees her.

From the dialogue/lyrics, each character that Claire interacts with in the house showcases how they never truly see her.

The grandfather watching television is blind. (“And the girls are singin’. They dance too, I assume.”)

The father spends all of his time in the Reflection Chamber staring at himself. (“Why do people look at me like the way you probably are right now?”)

The mother is always intoxicated and lying in bed and sees through a drunken haze. (“Who’s that?”)

None of these characters actually see Claire, which is why she delves into a fantasy persona where she’s given positive attention and love and affection.

The fantasy portion in the beginning, I believe, shows that Claire spends most of her time at or on the billboard until she has to go back to the house to sleep.

In Claire’s fantasy, “Opal” sneaks into the mysterious house next door (which her Billboard Parents warn her to “don’t mind the house across the street”), but she hears cries coming from the attic and goes to investigate.

The realization at the end is that the cries are coming from Claire herself, and her inability to escape her abusive household as she’s locked herself in the attic.

Let’s take a look at the rest of the household in detail...

There are three other residents in Claire’s home, which are represented by the billboard: The Mother, the Father, and the Grandfather.

The Grandfather

Claire’s real grandfather is a blind, obese chain-smoking man addicted to television. He struggles to breathe, coughs up blood, and scolds Claire for hiding his cigarettes, claiming that “it’s evil to help someone that doesn’t need help”.

Claire appears frightened and nervous around him.

When he demands that Claire give him his cigarettes, he soon grows concerned that she “smells weird” (because she had been outside) and won’t say anything.

Due to his blindness (and possible dementia), he mistakes her for a stranger, panics, and lashes out, yelling at her to “get out of his house”. In his panic, he falls out of his chair and screams as Claire runs away.

The Father

As Claire continues on toward the attic, the Father stops her. He sits in his Reflection Chamber in the bathroom, surrounded by mirrors. He is unable to see anything but his own face.

(It’s implied that he is delusional, as you can supposedly see the Father’s True Face at 11:09, which is distorted, grey, and horrifying)

Claire appears perplexed by him. It’s obvious that she isn’t used to him speaking to her. However, it becomes apparent that he doesn’t truly speak to her, but rather projects his own insecurities and feelings onto her.

He appears to be extremely narcissistic and unaware of the world around him. Religious themes collide with his self-reflection, as he rambles and talks about how “God is in his skin” and he considers himself in the process of becoming the world’s next “savior”. He spends all of his time fixing his appearance because “they turn me down so I live my nightmare”, and his need to be “seen by somebody somewhere”.

When she tries to leave, he raises his voice at her, only to calmly remark that “you could spare me a little time, you know; you act like I’m a complete stranger.”

Which, to her, he most likely is.

The Mother

Claire’s mother resides in a dilapidated room, surrounded by wine bottles, pills, and romance novels.

She lies in bed (or on the floor) underneath the sheets and grabs Claire’s leg.

She speaks with a slur, heavily intoxicated.

At first, she doesn’t recognize her daughter, but comments that “you’re being a person today, huh?”, implying that Claire often spends her time away from the family-- and for good reason.

She speaks morosely and in confusing tangents that reveal her inner turmoil about the family and her circumstances.

“Goodness exists. If I wait, Claire, and sit still... it will arrive.”

“You should be more considerate, obviously, but I forgive you. I forgive every single one of you... every night. It’s a virtuous cycle.”

“How did this get so bad? I feel terrible for all the things I... I feel terrible.”

“You and I don’t live, Claire. We survive.”

“Our adversaries are in denial. They don’t know the wrong they do. And they never repent how I want them to.”

(To Claire) “And you, you’re just like me. You’re just as powerless as I am, Claire.”

She lies back into the bed and drunkenly sings a lullaby.

The Mother’s Song

Mama needs a little girl to land on

Mama needs a little girl to fall in her arms

Mama needs a Mama’s girl to take good care

Mama needs a baby girl to hold her hair

After this, the camera zooms into the Mother’s rolling eye and a flashback is rapidly shown, including a hand dialing 9-1-1 on a phone, a child(?) being struck and falling to the ground, and what appears to be the Mother (or, perhaps, the Mother’s Mother) screaming in terror (or anger).

This is either a flashback to the Mother violently attacking someone, or a flashback of the Mother’s childhood where she herself was abused.

(It should be noted that the side of the Mother’s head appears to have a dent, implying she may have been the child.)

Claire appears absolutely terrified in her presence, most likely having suffered before from her physical abuse and escapes as soon as the Mother lunges at her, fleeing up to the attic and locking the door.

The truth about “Opal” is shown, and Claire quickly surrenders to her fantasy in her mind as her family beats on the door, where the camera zooms out and the story ends...

In conclusion, the world of “Opal” is a sad tale. Its themes center on fear, neglect, isolation, and abuse in its many horrific forms-- physical, emotional, and psychological. It focuses on Claire’s escapism in her mind, to imagine a happier life, far, far away from those who hurt her.

A forbidden house across the street, filled with dark and foreboding figures, and a little girl that just wants to be seen and loved.

[writingwithcolor]

Hi, thank you all so much for running this blog--I was hoping I could get your feedback on a Jewish MC. The crux of my question is whether I, a gentile, would be out of line depicting her experiencing internalized discrimination from her own father (who in my first draft was Catholic, but I think that will be changing to a TBD protestant denomination).

The backstory I have for her right now is that her mother is Jewish and places great value on the history and culture of being Jewish, but is not a particularly religious person. Her daughter refers to her as having sometimes attended events at a local reform synagogue and making note of the high holidays but she is, overall, not someone with strict religious observances of any kind, and for a long time she and her husband (raised Christian but deeply agnostic) raise their daughter on the idea that it's important to understand where she and her family come from but that how she ultimately pursues faith--whatever that faith may be--is up to her. Both parents introduce her to the stories and lessons they grew up with but don't pressure her to attend religious events, etc. unless she has a personal, independent interest in doing so. For the first 16 or so years of her life this is how she's raised and her family is stable and her parents seem deeply in love. So far beta readers from households with one Jewish and one Christian parent have told me this backstory seems fine to them, though I welcome any feedback you have, too.

What I'm most concerned about, though, is when she's a teen and her parents divorce. Right now I have the reason for their divorce as being that they fell out because her dad becomes a bit of a Christian zelot and becomes less and less respectful of his wife's religion and background as he gets deeper into this mindset. The reason he becomes like that is essentially that when 9/11 happens MCs mother, who grew up with the story of how her grandparents fled from the Soviet Union because of religious discrimination under Stalin, only narrowly managing to immigrate as far as the US before the breakout of WWII, powerfully empathizes with the people suffering from the horrible rise of Islamophobia we saw in 2001-2002. Her husband, on the other hand, does what I saw a lot of people in my family and community do and becomes increasingly religiously conservative as a reaction the percieved "threat" of the Islamic world. (This is all clearly identified in the book as his being in the wrong.) One of the ways this manifests is that he starts pressuring his daughter, the MC, to attend church services with him and become Christian. His rationale is that he just wants what's best for his daughter--to be "saved."

MC's mother has no tolerance for that crap, as she shouldn't, so they fight quite a bit going forward and eventually separate. Mom gets custody of the MC.

While her father never says anything openly antisemitic--implying those ideas but never stating them explicitly--he does respond to 16 yr. old MC basically asking him if he would still love her if she pursued her mom's faith by saying some bullshit along the lines of "well honey I just love you and want the best for you," as his answer. She never says to him that she's cutting him out, but after this moment she's never close to her father again and by the time the main narrative takes place 10 years later, she hasn't spoken to him since she was 21.

This backstory helps build a foundation for a lot of themes for the MC in terms of different ways alienation manifests in her life, how she trusts, and what we can and cannot forgive our parents for, so I like it from a narrative standpoint, but I would deeply appreciate your feedback on whether writing this kind of experience for a Jewish character is inappropriate for me to be doing. And, if not, do you have any suggestions on ways to modify this backstory, or would you recommend scrapping it entirely? Thank you so much.

Interfaith family broken up when Dad becomes a jerk and a bigot

A difficult situation definitely but I don’t have a problem with the setup. If this isn’t based on your own observations, it’s probably a good idea to get a beta reader with experience around bigots of the same stripe as Dad to make sure the awful stuff Dad says uses word choices and ideas that feel authentic. If that IS your experience I am so very sorry and I hope you have other wonderful people in your life to make up for it. 

--Shira This seems very well planned, and thought out. It's also very real, and will be an emotional read I'm sure. As long as your character isn't forced to give up her Jewishness because of her father, and provided that you are careful during fight scenes between the parents earlier in the work (to ensure that the mom doesn't end up seeming like the Shrill Jewish Woman stereotype), I think you are on solid ground. Good luck!

--Dierdra

Also, I just caught that you said "internalized discrimination" from her dad -- that's not what internalized discrimination means. Internalized discrimination is when someone is feeling negatively about their own group, because they've absorbed bigoted ideas from outside. Discrimination from someone who isn't yourself isn't called “internalized” even when it comes from someone as close as a parent. But that's just a little language correction.

--Shira

Oh no, this backstory is so sad! I hope your MC has a happy ending with some very mutually supportive relationships.

I agree that this shouldn't be a problem as long as you take care to avoid stereotypes on a more micro level in specific scenes. As for the overall idea, nothing jumping out at me. You've clearly put so much effort into creating a believable background for your character and its influence on her current psyche - that gives me confidence that you will write humanised characters rather than falling back on tropes!

Also, don't know if you knew this but something to note with interfaith families: if MC's mother is Jewish, she is a Jew in Jewish law. It doesn't matter what she believes or practises or how she was brought up. (I don't say this to invalidate patrilineal Jews or oppose anyone self-identifying the way they want, but just halachically. You should be aware that many more religious Jews will consider her that way.)

Good luck with your story! I would read this 😌

--Shoshi

[piduai]

i don’t think that what ogata feels towards yuusaku can be called guilt, or rather that he feels anything towards yuusaku at all. don’t get me wrong there are definitely complex feelings involved and i do think that what he’s feeling is close enough to guilt but it’s more than that and less than that at the same time.

people go really deep into analysis of biblical themes in gk while clearly having a christian-influenced perspective. gk does have its share of them obviously, though i think most if not all of them are fake deep and hand-picked for the aesthetic. one of the more obvious biblical themes is that yuusaku was ogata’s sacrificial lamb, therefore he was the perfect, blameless victim. yuusaku’s purity is what drives ogata crazy - a life so innocent even someone who kills with no remorse gets second thoughts. ogata’s slip into insanity started the second he shot yuusaku; we get an objective perspective where he falls down immediately, and we have ogata’s perspective when he turns back and looks at ogata in an accusing, surprised, disappointed way. your sins staring back at you, in a way, accusing you of committing them, accusing you of evil.

yuusaku is not really a person in the narrative, he’s purposefully kept as lacking personality as possible, and without ogata he would be pointless. yuusaku is everything ogata could be. yuusaku is everything ogata hates. 

ogata was never loved. as humans we're all wired to want to connect with others, but because he was never loved, good, healthy bonds are alien to him, so he tries to reach others in the only ways he knows how - through negative bonding. ogata is hyperaware of his inadequacy and the fact that he's severely lacking something as a person, but he prefers to self-sabotage and self-destroy by hurting others. he projects onto people as a way of connecting and as a way of rationalizing his own thoughts and experiences. yuusaku is everything that ogata could have been, he represents everything ogata lacks as a person and is ogata’s antithesis. he is the epitome of the normalcy ogata so craves. i don't think ogata would care much if it wasn't his own flesh and blood, but by being his brother yuusaku basically stole ogata's spot under the sun, the normal life and normal personality ogata could have had, in a way. of course, none of it was yuusaku’s fault, and ogata was aware of that, but bitterness and jealousy are feelings difficult to control just by understanding and acknowledging them.

if yuusaku left him alone ogata would probably leave him mind his own business, but yuusaku pushed his presence on him too - not out of ill intent, he just wanted to get close to his older brother because that’s what normal people do, they value and appreciate family, especially someone who was actually raised with love and care and virtue. he kept rubbing salt into ogata’s wounds by being so painfully normal and pure and idealistic and stupid, and his worst sin was trying to be kind to his brother. trying to see the best in him, telling him that he’ll be by his side no matter what, and showing hope for him. he cried for him. who else cried for ogata? who else disregarded his defenses and embraced him for warmth and compassion? who else accepted him? ogata is so critically not used to being shown normal human kindness that when he gets it he freezes. and it's the worst when it comes from his nemesis. "how dare you look at me from your high position, golden boy? how dare you pity me? how dare you love me?"

and ogata tried his best to tear yuusaku down, to dirty him and soil him and drag him down to his level, but he could not. so he killed him in hopes that his death will prove that ogata also had a chance at normalcy, and that if yuusaku's gone he will become ok. but he didn't. so he hates himself for killing yuusaku without managing to soil him. he realized his own mistake the moment his bullet hit his brother’s head; he realized that this mistake will haunt him to the end of his days, this failure of absolving himself of perceived sin, this acceptance for innocence as the currency for moral corruption. guilt towards other comes with a regret for doing them wrong, guilt towards oneself is often selfish in nature, born out of failure to do the right thing. i don’t think ogata feels regret towards killing yuusaku, but he does feel regret towards killing yuusaku while allowing him to stay pure and failing to tear him and his hypocrisy to shreds. if only yuusaku allowed himself to get corrupted in order to humor his brother - slept with a hooker, murdered an enemy - then these moral qualms on ogata’s side wouldn’t exist; he would have killed someone who is just like him. 

while obviously flawed, ogata’s logic isn’t difficult to follow. both yuusaku and asirpa were innocent if the question is framed in terms of morality, but their innocence comes with a price everyone else has to pay. asirpa is against committing murder for religious reasons; those who kill humans are cursed and will go to hell, but she isn’t necessarily against murder itself if others do it, though she does not condone it. yuusaku was keen on keeping both his virginity and his killing count to 0 because he wanted to fulfill the role his father put on him - bearing the flag, putting yourself in the danger of the front lines and raising morale, what an honor. but ultimately both of them just refused to get their hands dirty while everyone else had to. it comes off as hypocritical and cruel. there is no bloodless revolution and there is no bloodless war.

ogata saw yuusaku in asirpa. he hated her for that. he hated asirpa for holding onto her hypocritical ideals and principles of purity the same way yuusaku did.  he hated asirpa for being kind to him. "people like you and him shouldn't exist in this world" - they crumble his delusion that everyone is inherently rotten. and if people are not inherently rotten, then it means that the problem, indeed, lies within himself.

guilt towards others comes with remorse, wanting their forgiveness and pursuing ways to atone. it is selfless, it is something that is not self-centered. therefore i do not think ogata feels guilt towards yuusaku. even after yuusaku’s murder at his own hands, ogata assumes that he is forgiven - he tells the ghost he hallucinates that his kindness will ruin him. guilt towards himself and his failures though? that’s his cross to bear.