#forgotten names in Scripture

[pastorhogg]

Names That Shaped a Nation

Thru the Bible in a Year Let’s be honest—most of us don’t naturally gravitate toward genealogies when we’re looking for inspiration in Scripture. They can feel like long, winding lists of unfamiliar names and forgotten places. But in the grand narrative of the Bible, even the genealogies tell a story—one that reveals God’s faithfulness, the shaping of nations, and how individual lives mattered…

[mill3rd]

LIGHT OF THE LORD

synopsis. a woman of divine beauty, grace and fairness has plagued remmick’s mind and being. no matter where he goes, what time he’s in—you’ve been around every corner. he cannot escape your watchful eye. he knows you aren’t human but you are no vampire like him. and while he finds everything about his situation frustrating, he finds you quite intriguing.

tags and warnings. remmicks pov, hes pining unknowingly, mythical ambiguity for the most part, temporal ambiguity so lots of time skips, readers race isnt specified or specific to the story, know-it-all gf vs quickly humbled bf, fluffy, bit angsty, some discriptions of feeding

wc. 10k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

1,385 years. one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five long, excruciating years in which remmick had no choice but to endure your presence—your seraphic presence. seraphic, not in beauty, but in that maddening way you carried righteousness like armor, wisdom like a curse. your face, ageless and untouched by time, only deepened his resentment. the more he was forced to see it—those eternal, untarnished features—the more unbearable you became. there was nothing soft or lovely about it anymore. your immortality was a wound that never healed, and he bled quietly beside you for centuries.

you came to him first in the rawness of your glory—nude, your flesh supple and unnervingly perfect, like something carved from the dreams of old gods. it was only weeks after the catholics had spilled into ireland, clinging to their bibles and breathing scripture like smoke. remmick, newly turned and still trembling in the dark, didn’t yet understand what he was. he thought he had died from the wounds carved into him by war and man, and he sobbed like a child beneath the stars when he saw you approaching—not through the river, but on it. your bare feet pressed the water’s skin as if it were solid, each step leaving behind a shimmer like fireflies or some underwater bloom. the stream itself was dull, lifeless. it had never glowed before. it never glowed again. only when you walked toward him like it was the most ordinary thing in the world did it come alive with light.

“the lord does not encourage such violence,” was all you said. or perhaps not to him at all—your voice was distant, almost drifting, as if carried on mist. it felt less like a warning and more like a half-forgotten thought, spoken aloud without meaning to. weightless, airy, like you were reminding yourself of some rule you no longer believed in, repeating it out of habit more than conviction. the words hung in the air, delicate and hollow, and remmick wasn’t sure if they were meant for him or the sky above.

your words unsettled him. the lord. even hearing the name turned his stomach. after everything he’d suffered—everything he’d lost—invoking the man upstairs felt like a cruel joke. it was tone-deaf, sanctimonious. so when you opened your arms, all light and grace, offering some divine comfort, he recoiled like you were poison.

“stay away from me!” he snapped, stumbling backward. “i ain't interested in walking with god’s so-called vessel.”

his voice cracked, thick with fury and something raw beneath it—betrayal, maybe. or grief.

you merely frown and watch as he scrambles off deeper into the trees.

remmick wandered deep into the woodlands, far enough that the moon vanished behind the thick weave of branches overhead. the air grew colder there, denser, and the only light came in faint silver slivers where the canopy broke. he let the owls guide him, their low, rhythmic hoots echoing like warnings through the underbrush. every step tangled him deeper in roots and bramble, the trees growing close and ancient around him, as if they were watching.

then—a sound. sharp, low, guttural. a growl, too deliberate to be the wind. it came from ahead, thick in the dark. his eyes adjusted, and he saw them: teeth gleaming like shards of polished bone, bared in a snarl that pulsed with threat. a wolf. broad-shouldered, fur rippling like smoke in the moonless dark. remmick froze.

good, he thought. maybe now, finally, it would all end.

but something inside him stirred—deep, primal, and hungry. not fear. not relief. hunger. sharp and sudden, like a spike to the gut. his throat burned. his limbs ached to move. and before he understood what he was doing, he stepped forward, slow and silent, toward the wolf.

it blinked, muscles tense, and backed away—eyes locked on him, more confused than afraid. it knew something was wrong. it sensed something unnatural.

remmick kept moving, drawn not by instinct to survive, but by something darker, something ancient coiled now inside him.

before he could even think to lunge, a light broke open behind him—blinding, radiant, pure white. it wasn’t overwhelming. no, it was no different to the faint light of a flame. it was just unnatural underneath the shade of the canopy. the wolf didn’t wait. it bolted, tail low and body vanishing into the underbrush with a panicked rustle.

remmick turned, breath sharp, pupils blown wide as his eyes locked onto the source.

you.

you, this insufferable, god-touched creature, glowing as if the stars themselves bent to your will. no flame, no torch—just you, radiating light as effortlessly as a flower bleeds scent. it was unnatural. it was maddening.

remmick let out a low, guttural growl. his body trembled with hunger, pain pulsing in his torn flesh like a second heartbeat. he was wounded, starving, half-mad—and there you stood, pristine, untouched, a walking symbol of everything he’d come to loathe.

he squinted at you through the harsh light, eyes narrowed, seething with anger and exhaustion. “wha’dyou want?” he snapped, voice rough like gravel. “i thought i told you to stay away.”

you didn’t answer. instead, your gaze drifted lazily to his face, head tilting slightly, eyes calm—almost amused.

“you are drooling,” you said, voice soft and unbothered.

remmick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling as he turned away. “can’t blame a man for being hungry,” he muttered, bitterness coating each word like tar.

you only smiled, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and without a word, followed him—silent, steady, undeterred by his resentment. his anger rolled off you like water on stone.

“you will have to learn how to control that hunger,” you said, voice light, almost distant, like the words weren’t really meant for him alone, “you are not the man you used to be. not anymore.”

there was a quiet finality to it, as if the truth had already settled in the soil around you, waiting for him to catch up.

“what am i then?” remmick asked, voice rough and brittle, like dried bark about to snap. there was a weight behind it, something choked and bruised, the kind of heaviness that clung to a man who’d wept alone through too many sunless nights—because the sun, once warm and welcoming, had turned its back on him completely.

your expression didn’t shift. your voice was steady, almost cold.

“inhuman.”

“an’ what about you?” remmick’s voice cut through the air, a mix of frustration and suspicion. “you look human, but you ain’t one.”

you nodded slowly, your gaze steady, almost serene, as if every word you spoke was steeped in something far beyond him.

“a keen observation, remmick,” you replied, your voice soft yet filled with an ancient grace. “i am not human, nor have i ever been. i merely wear this face, this form, for as long as my time among mortals endures.”

remmick jumped at the sound of his name, the echo of it like a whisper from a past he hadn't invited. he never told you his name. never gave you the right to know it. yet, there it was, hanging between you like a thread woven from the air itself.

the world around him swayed, and it wasn’t from too many drinks of ale or beer. it was something far heavier.

“how did ya know my name?” he demanded, voice tight with disbelief, as his hand shot out, gripping your shoulder with an urgency that bordered on panic. “what even are ya? there’s something... unorthodox about you. nobody radiates light like that! and absolutely nobody galavants around naked, óinseach!”

you regarded him with an almost sorrowful expression, lips pressing together in a faint frown.

“i apologize,” you murmured, your tone gentle but laced with something ancient. “i can tone down my appearance if it frightens you.”

remmick froze, his pulse stuttering in his chest. then, before his very eyes, you shifted—your form bending, stretching, warping, as if reality itself could no longer hold the weight of your true essence. a blur of faces spun before him—his younger sister, laughing beneath the sun; his mother, her tired eyes soft with love; his wife, her smile warm, full of memories that felt like a dream; his older brothers, strong and brash, voices echoing through the corridors of his past; and his daughter, her innocent eyes full of questions, a life he’d lost forever.

each face flickered in and out of your shifting form, leaving a trail of aching familiarity in their wake, and remmick’s breath caught as the weight of it all settled over him.

a terrified yell ripped through remmick’s throat, his body jolting with a surge of panic as he stumbled backward, scrambling away from you. his legs carried him without thought, driven by instinct, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum of war.

he didn’t dare to look back. the images—the faces—clung to him like a curse, and the sight of them twisted something deep inside him.

this time, you didn’t follow.

you stood still, an immovable figure in the shifting darkness, watching him retreat with quiet understanding. your gaze lingered on the space where he had been, serene yet filled with a sorrow that was not yours to bear.

that was his first encounter with you and now he wears you like a burden. you didn’t show up for days after that and remmick began to believe you were a fever dream. something he made up due to delirium.

but then, just as suddenly, you appeared—the sound of waves washing softly on the shore marking your arrival. your natural glow was the only light beside the pale moon, soft and unearthly, illuminating the world around you in quiet brilliance.

remmick groaned in frustration upon seeing you, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “i thought ya’d have written me off by now. labelled me a lost cause.”

you shook your head, the motion slow and graceful, your presence like a steadying breath in the chaos of his mind.

“no,” was all you said, the simplicity of it carrying a weight beyond words.

without waiting for him to respond, you sat down beside him, where the sand darkened with the lingering traces of water’s touch. the cool salt air swept over you, and the ocean’s rhythm seemed to pulse in time with your being. the salty water kissed your skin, as though it had been waiting for you to arrive.

“i found some clothes so i would not stand out,” you chirped, your voice light and carefree as though nothing had transpired between you. remmick didn’t want any part of this conversation, but you were relentless.

he nodded, barely looking at you, pulling his head closer to his knee. “good on ya.”

“i wanted to give you space after our last conversation,” you continued, tone softening. “i realize i was... insensitive. and for that, i want to apologize.”

remmick raised an eyebrow, the bitterness in his voice sharper now. “if i accept it, will ya leave me alone?”

you laughed—a sound so unexpected and pure that it caught him off guard. the first time he’d heard it, and it was like a breath of wind through still air. “not forever, no. but for now, will that suffice?”

he sighed, letting go of the tension in his shoulders for a moment. “i forgive ya then.”

and just like that, you were gone. not with a quiet fade or a dramatic burst of smoke, but simply—gone. one second, remmick could hear the steady beat of your pulse, the rush of blood flowing beneath your skin, and the next, the world was empty, save for the sound of waves and the distant echo of his own heartbeat.

he waited in silence, the stillness of it pressing in on him, until his hunger clawed at him again, and he turned his focus to the water, waiting for a fish’s heartbeat to break the quiet.

it took remmick a long time to understand what he had become: a vampire. it wasn’t until he encountered others like himself that the true weight of his transformation hit him. in their eyes, he saw only the reflection of something monstrous—unnatural, evil. but remmick wasn’t evil. his life had been stolen from him, ripped away in a moment of violence, and now he was left to survive on instinct, just like any creature would.

that wasn’t evil. it was simply the harsh truth of nature’s cold hand. survival, stripped down to its most primal form. natural selection.

they taught him what it truly meant to feed, the raw satisfaction that came with fully indulging his hunger. feeding on humans—it felt strange, yes, but it also felt right, as if his body had been designed for this purpose and nothing else. there was no one to tell him there were other ways, no gentle voice reminding him of the choices he still had.

in truth, he hadn’t seen you in a long while. he hadn’t felt the comforting warmth of your light, nor the unsettling pull of your golden blood since that brief encounter at the beach. he had told you to leave him be, and you had listened—something he hadn’t expected but couldn’t help but feel grateful for.

still, as time passed, something gnawed at him. it was subtle, like a missing note in a melody, a strange emptiness in the quiet that followed your departure. part of him was glad you were gone, but there was another part—a part he couldn't ignore—that felt... unsettled.

when you finally appeared, remmick was nestled at the edge of an ancient castle ruin, tucked into the jagged rocks and rubble. the moonlight filtered through a gaping hole in the stone wall, casting silver beams across his form, and he lay there, eyes closed in quiet stillness. moonbathing, he called it. though, when you approached, he shot you a disgruntled look, clearly annoyed by the interruption.

“moonbathing?” you asked, your head tilting in quiet curiosity, “i understand that the sun darkens the skin, but why would you try to tan in the moonlight?”

remmick shrugged, not bothering to lift his gaze. “ha'fta keep my pale complexion up to date," he muttered with a dry smirk, clearly unbothered by your confusion.

“so you have no intention of tanning?” you ask, still standing in the frame of the hole in the wall. remmick shakes his head, “if i tried to tan, i’d get a little more than sunburn.”

you nodded slowly, a thoughtful motion, but before you could speak, remmick waved a hand and grunted, “move outta the way. you’re blocking the moon.”

he hadn’t exactly told you to leave, so you quietly stepped over the rubble, your movements as fluid as mist, and settled down beside him, folding your body against the cool stone as if it belonged there.

“do you know about constellations?” you asked after a pause, turning your head to face him, your voice gentle, like a breeze trying not to wake the earth.

remmick kept his eyes closed, but he could feel your gaze on him, steady and curious.

“no,” he muttered, “ya gonna give me a random fact o’ the day?”

you smiled faintly and nodded, undeterred by his sarcasm.

“many constellations are tied to the zodiacs,” you began, your voice slipping into that melodic cadence you often carried when speaking of old things. “twelve of them form a path the sun appears to follow throughout the year. the ancients charted them to navigate the seas, tell time, even predict their fates. and if you look just there—” you lifted a hand, pointing skyward “—you can see libra, the scales. it is faint, but present. balance, even in darkness.”

your words trailed off into the night, soft and steady, like starlight dripping into silence.

remmick grunted, finally cracking one eye open to glance at you. “fascinating,” he muttered dryly, “write a book about all that and they’ll string you up as a witch.”

“no one knows i exist,” you replied, calm and matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

remmick sighed and let his head fall back against the stone. “iontach. so i’m the lunatic talking to the ghost nobody else can see.”

“i am not a ghost either,” you said with a soft smile, the kind that barely touched your lips but somehow warmed the space between you. “i am sure you have figured out what i am by now.”

remmick let out a dry chuckle, the sound low and a little hollow. “my best guess?” he said, eyes fixed on the sky. “i’m seein’ things. you’re not real—just something my mind cooked up to keep me company when the silence gets too loud.”

“if that is what you believe,” you replied, your tone quiet, unreadable—neither confirming nor denying, as steady as still water.

then, without another word, you rose, movements fluid and precise. you stepped lightly across the scattered bricks, your figure momentarily silhouetted in the moonlight as you reached the jagged hole in the wall.

“until next time, remmick,” you said over your shoulder, voice echoing just slightly, like it belonged to the night itself.

remmick watches as you disappear but he swears your hand lingers on the brick for a second longer. he’s left in silence now until your words echo, until next time. he groans, what about never?

he does see you. again and again and again. your visits get more frequent until you’re both caught unexpectedly in war. the eleventh century. remmick thought he had escaped your watchful eye and found himself hitching rides with strangers in their carts, hiding under thick velvet rugs until nightfall where he bid his goodbyes and wandered off. he should’ve known you’d find him.

remmick stood at the edge of the treeline, deliberately keeping himself in the shadows, avoiding the last vestiges of sunlight that hung stubbornly in the sky. his eyes scanned the valley below, where the battle raged fiercely, men clashing in a frenzy of steel and blood. the air was thick with the sounds of war—shouting, the clang of weapons, the stampede of hooves. it was chaos, but he was content to watch from afar, detached from the madness.

and then, as if summoned by some unseen force, you appeared. he didn’t need to see you fully to know—it was the light that gave you away. a soft, golden glow that seemed to push back against the fading daylight. it clung to you, hovering just at the edges of your presence, and for a brief moment, it felt like the world itself dimmed just to make room for you.

“ain’t bored o’ me yet?” remmick muttered, his voice laced with annoyance and something else—something he refused to acknowledge.

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, there was a slight rustle in the air, a shift in the atmosphere as you moved closer. when you did speak, your voice was serene, effortless. “not at all.”

he couldn’t see it, but he could feel the subtle shake of your head, the shift in the air that told him you were amused. you always were, always so certain and unbothered by his disdain.

he huffed, rolling his eyes and returning his focus to the battle below. you were like a persistent, unavoidable breeze—always there, no matter how much he tried to ignore you.

its silent between you two as you both experience the rage of the battle of hastings below, the cries of men filling the air as blood stains the earth beneath. the dying light of the sun casts long shadows across the field, and the sky is a mixture of fading reds and purples. you stand at the edge of the treeline, your presence almost otherworldly, that strange divine glow surrounding you like a halo. it's the kind of light that would make anyone believe you're something holy, untouchable, perfect. but remmick doesn't care about any of that.

he stands next to you, his arms crossed, eyes bored as they track the chaos below. his face is hard, indifferent—he's seen enough of human suffering to not bat an eye at it. to him, they're all just ants. he turns his attention to you, though, the faintest hint of annoyance crossing his features. it’s the same thing every time. you show up, radiating light, acting like you’ve got a hand in this world’s fate. he’s sick of it.

you speak, your voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper. “do you ever wonder if they know what they are fighting for?”

remmick scoffs, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “i’m sure they’re all very aware of their ‘noble causes,’” he mutters. “but it don’t matter, do it? they’ll die anyway.”

you give him a sidelong glance, those piercing eyes of yours studying him like you always do. “do you think death is all they’re meant for?”

“i think most of them wan’ it,” he responds flippantly, his gaze flicking over to the chaos below. “or maybe they're just too stupid to know when to stop fighting.”

you shake your head, a quiet sigh escaping your lips, your tone almost sad. “you’re so jaded, remmick.”

he looks at you then, an eyebrow raised. “and you’re so holy.” he leans against a tree, crossing his arms tighter. “if you think they’re all so deserving of your pity, why don’t ya help ‘em out?”

you ignore his question, your gaze fixed on the battle once more. it’s almost as if you can’t help yourself—you have to watch, to be present. but then something catches his attention. the flicker of an arrow in the last rays of sunlight. it's a fleeting thing, but remmick notices it.

before he can react, the arrow strikes you.

it’s quick. too quick for him to fully process. he hears you gasp, and then you stumble slightly, your hand clutching at your side. the arrow, so perfectly aimed, has found its mark in the divine part of you, piercing through the space where your beauty and immortality should be untouched.

he doesn’t react immediately. instead, his gaze lingers on you, observing the way your breath hitches as the golden blood begins to seep through your fingers. his mouth curls into something that might have been a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. there’s nothing but quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that he’s right.

you’re not as untouchable as you think.

“oh, look at that,” he murmurs, the words coated in a kind of cruel humor, “a little scratch. guess you ain’t as perfect as everyone thinks.”

he watches for a moment longer as you stand there, your form still glowing faintly even as blood drips from you. you’re not the same now. you’re broken. you’ve been touched by the same death that touches everyone, and for some reason, that gives him a sense of relief.

you look at him, and there’s a flicker of something in your eyes—concern, maybe. or maybe just a question. but remmick isn’t interested. he’s never been interested in your divine presence. he’s only been stuck with you because you follow him, despite the fact that he wants nothing to do with you.

he takes a step back, turning his gaze away from you. “well, i’ve seen enough,” he says flatly, his voice devoid of any emotion, “you’ll be fine. immortals like you don’t just die from an arrow.”

he called you immortal because he didn’t know what else you were.

and with that, he turns, disappearing into the trees, leaving you there. blood staining the ground, your divine light flickering weakly.

he doesn’t care if you survive. in fact, a part of him hopes you don’t.

he leaves you there, under the dying light of the sunset, and walks away without a second thought. the darkness of night soon envelops him, and for the first time, he feels a strange sense of relief. maybe this is what he wanted all along—an escape from your presence, from your light, from the divine pressure of your existence.

he doesn’t look back. he doesn’t even think about it. he’s long gone, disappearing into the night.

remmick hadn’t seen you in over five hundred years. for a while, he thought the peace would last. the solitude had been... bearable. a century of living on his own terms, without your relentless light or your judgmental eyes, was a relief. he wandered through europe, a ghost in the shadows of history. he watched the rise of new dynasties, the endless wars of vikings, the decline of the roman empire, and the brutal reign of genghis khan. centuries passed, each one feeling like a whisper in time, and he thought he had finally outrun you.

but the renaissance? that was the point where it all fell apart. it was the 16th century in france, and somehow, against all logic, he had managed to convince the royal family that he, too, was royalty—a lost prince from some forgotten kingdom. he was skilled in deception, after all, and no one really questioned an enigmatic figure like him. they believed his stories, and the royal family, desperate to flaunt their connection to ancient lineages, eagerly threw a ball in his honor.

“to celebrate the visit of prince remmick i,” they announced, and the court was abuzz. everyone was charmed by the mysterious foreigner, the one whose origins were as hazy as the fog that rolled across the french countryside.

as the night stretched on, lit by shimmering chandeliers and the glittering eyes of aristocrats, remmick found himself drifting through the crowd, always watching, always smiling with that knowing smirk.

he should have known. he should have known that your light would pierce through the shadows of his false life. and yet, he didn’t hear your footsteps, didn’t see your radiance until you were already standing before him, like a vision from another time, another world.

"ain’t bored o’ me yet?" remmick asked, half-amused, half-resigned. he starts the greeting the same way he started the last one you had.

you smiled softly, as if you'd never left, "not at all," you replied, your voice soft as always, yet carrying a weight he could never ignore. you seem to remember too how he greeted you.

remmick’s fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into the flesh. how long had he really been free? how long could he ever escape your watchful eyes?

the music swirled through the air, soft and alluring, as the orchestra in the corner of the ballroom played their delicate tune. the sound of strings filled the grand hall, echoing off the gold-trimmed walls. remmick held you close, his hand firm on your waist as he led you in the dance, effortlessly twirling you through the sea of guests. each step felt like a rhythm he had known forever, like he'd danced this dance with you a thousand times, even though it was only now that he realized you were real—more than just a haunting image from his mind.

you moved with an ethereal grace, laughter bubbling from your lips like a song he couldn’t help but chase. when he spun you, the light caught in your hair, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like the entire room faded away—just the two of you, floating through time. his chest tightened as you laughed, that soft, knowing sound, and he couldn’t help but notice how your presence filled the space around him. he’d never let himself feel this before, not for someone like you.

but before he could think on it too long, the dance shifted. your hand slipped from his and suddenly, you were in the arms of another man—an older figure, no doubt a noble, with a grasp on your waist that was far too close, intimate. you laughed again, a bright, airy sound that made remmick's stomach twist and churn.

this is the moment remmick realises you have a physical manifestation and you truly weren’t apart of his imagination.

he stood still for a moment, watching as you moved away, the warmth of your hand no longer in his, replaced by the weight of something heavy that clawed at his insides. his eyes narrowed instinctively as you, effortlessly, slipped into another’s embrace. the man held you close, spinning you with a tenderness that made remmick’s skin prickle.

it shouldn’t matter, but it did.

he swallowed down the odd bitterness that had risen in his throat. it was absurd. he wasn’t allowed to feel this way—this possessive ache. but still, he couldn’t help himself, watching the way you laughed in his arms, the way your eyes shone so brightly for someone else.

remmick shook his head, forcing himself back into the present. the princess he had been dancing with swirled into his arms, but his gaze never wavered from you. he couldn’t look away. it was as if the room had ceased to exist around him—there were no voices, just the sound of your laughter and the light that shimmered around you.

he knew it was futile to hold on to any of it, but for as long as he could, he would keep you in his line of sight, hoping you wouldn’t slip away again, like you always did.

as the music reached its final notes, remmick's gaze never left you. he watched as you slipped gracefully from the arms of your partner, your presence like a flicker of light lost among the throngs of well-dressed nobles. the man—his face now blurred by the growing distance between them—seemed unaware of the way you had subtly detached yourself, drifting into the crowd of silks and velvets, where the shadows danced just as intricately as the guests.

remmick felt an inexplicable urgency seize him. his fingers grazed the princess’s hand, and with a smooth smile, he pressed his lips to her delicate knuckles in a gesture that seemed far more rehearsed than genuine. “my apologies, princess,” he murmured, the words slow and languid, “but i’ve promised myself a moment alone. something about cutting the cake, you know? a royal tradition, i suppose.”

she blinked, clearly satisfied by the excuse, her smile warm and unsuspecting. “of course, prince remmick. go enjoy your cake.”

and with that, she was lost to the crowd of swirling dancers, her attention already diverted. remmick didn’t waste a second more. he gave her a lazy bow and watched her retreat into the gilded glamour of the ballroom. then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he slipped into the labyrinth of bodies around him, the rich fabric of coats and gowns folding into a soft blur of color.

he didn’t care about the cake. he didn’t care about any of it. all that mattered was finding you again before you vanished into the shadows once more. his heart pounded as his feet carried him swiftly through the crowd, his eyes darting over the sea of faces, seeking that unmistakable glow that had haunted him for centuries.

there. between the columns of the balcony, under the flickering candlelight. your silhouette, radiant even in the midst of so many others, a beacon amidst the chaos. remmick’s pulse quickened, a feeling—half desire, half something darker—stirring deep in his chest.

“long time, no see…” you breathe, your voice soft as you stand at the edge of the courtyard, staring out into the cool night. the moonlight catches the edge of your dress, making it shimmer in a way that feels almost too ethereal. “remmick.”

he swallows, his throat dry, and his eyes track the curve of your silhouette in the dim light. there’s something about the way the dress clings to you tonight—it suits you better than anything he’s seen you wear before. he can’t help but notice, even in the midst of everything else, how striking you are, even when you're so distant.

“yeah…” he hums, his voice rougher than he intends. “how long’s it been?”

you don’t turn to face him, but he knows you’re listening. “ah, five hundred years. it was quite the break from your presence,” he adds, with a hint of bitterness that slips from his lips before he can stop it.

you give a small nod, the movement subtle, but it feels like you’re acknowledging something deeper, something unsaid. your gaze doesn’t waver from the distant horizon, the city lights far below barely flickering. “it was quite the goodbye. if i remember correctly, you left me to die.”

remmick laughs, a hollow, cold sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you remember correct. i’m quite fond of that memory, actually.” the words fall out like a joke, but the edge to his tone betrays him. there’s something about it that feels unfinished, unsaid.

you remain silent for a moment, your eyes still lost in the night. then, slowly, your head falls into your hand, your fingers pressing lightly against your temple as if to hold back something that could break through. remmick watches you, his smile fading, the silence stretching between them.

he doesn’t say anything more, because he knows—no words would make this any less complicated.

so, he let’s you speak first.

“why did you leave me like that?” your voice is quiet, but it cuts clean through the space between you. you still don’t turn to face him, your figure leaning into the cold stone railing like it might offer some kind of answer he won’t give. the moonlight brushes your skin like a veil, softening the tension in your shoulders, but remmick can still see it—the weight you carry.

“i got quite the scolding after that,” you add, almost like an afterthought. “that was your… one hundred and fifty-sixth second chance.”

the number hangs heavy in the air. remmick shifts behind you, a half-sigh caught in his throat. he wasn’t keeping count—but of course you were. of course you would remember every time he failed to live up to whatever cosmic expectation you held over him.

you don’t sound angry. not really. just… tired. like the years haven’t worn you down, but his choices have.

“glad to know someone’s keeping count,” remmick mutters, easing in beside you. the stone railing presses into his spine as he leans back, angling his body just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the moonlight.

your eyes drift to his—slow, reluctant—and for a moment, something catches in his chest. if he still breathed, it would’ve hitched, tight and sharp. you weren’t supposed to look like this.

he’d seen your face in every imaginable light: serene, righteous, unreadable. you always wore that same celestial calm like armor. but now… now you just look exhausted. not weary in the way mortals age and sag with time—but a deeper sadness, old and quiet, like the fading echo of a hymn long forgotten.

remmick isn’t sure what unsettles him more: the silence between you, or the way you won’t quite meet his gaze.

he swallows when you don’t respond, the silence stretching longer than he expects. so he tries again, voice lower this time, almost unsure, “if i’m on my one hundred and fifty-seventh chance… why didn’t you give up ages ago?”

you still don’t answer, and that unsettles him more than any sharp retort would have.

he shifts beside you, the corner of his mouth twitching in a crooked attempt at a smile. “seriously. you should probably reevaluate your standards after that.”

it’s meant to be a joke, light enough to pull you from whatever place your mind’s wandered to—but it lands heavy, as if even he knows it doesn’t quite cover the question he’s really asking.

after a long, deathly silence, you finally lift your head and meet his eyes. there’s no lightness in your expression—just that same quiet, ancient sorrow that’s lingered beneath your skin for centuries.

“do you want to know what i am?” you ask, voice soft but unwavering. “i am sure you have been wondering for a while.”

remmick lets out a dry chuckle, one corner of his mouth curling up. “you’re right about that,” he says, eyes scanning your face like he’s searching for the answer there.

“i am an angel of the lord,” you say, finally standing upright, your voice calm, absolute. “i was sent down to watch you—because god knew you would be trouble. that you would walk on both sides of the line between chaos and order.”

remmick stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. his eyes narrow, brows knit in disbelief, but somewhere beneath the confusion, it starts to make a horrible sort of sense.

“an angel?” he mutters, almost to himself. “an actual angel’s been breathing down my neck this whole time?”

he lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “no wonder i couldn’t stand you.”

“you say that in past tense,” you note, stepping toward him, “it could not be that you havee grown fond of me, could it?”

remmick smirks, “it could be.”

“you are angry. i have seen it,” you say quietly, stepping down from the balcony into the courtyard, your voice almost drowned by the hush of the wind through the hedges. you gesture for him to follow, and after a beat, he does—reluctantly, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

you walk side by side beneath the open sky, your glow washing over the stone path, brighter than the moonlight itself.

“when everything first happened—when the celts came, preaching christianity,” you begin, eyes forward, “it was not meant to be violent. but vikings... they are unpredictable, as you know. they brought fire to what should have been light.”

remmick stays quiet, glancing sidelong at you.

“god wanted someone to keep a close eye on you,” you continue. “he saw your heart. the way you could bend the world. not out of malice—but defiance. if left to your own instincts, you would unravel the threads of his design.”

you look at him then, calm, steady. “so, he sent me.”

remmick stops in his tracks, brow furrowed. “i’m sensing a but,” he mutters, voice dry. “there’s always a but.”

“but,” you say, and the word hangs in the air like judgment, “after a while, he realized you could not be saved. not in the way he intended. salvation was never going to come easy for you.”

remmick stiffens under your gaze, caught in the weight of your eyes—ancient, unwavering. he doesn’t need you to say it. he knows exactly when that shift happened. the moment everything inside him twisted beyond repair.

you step closer, your voice softer now, though no less resolute. “it took me five hundred years to convince him to let me walk the earth again… to stay in your shadow. because even if you could not be redeemed, you still needed watching. without guidance, you would leave only wreckage behind.”

remmick clenches his jaw, but doesn’t look away.

“i thought,” you add, quieter, more human somehow, “if i told you the truth this time… maybe you would finally be open. maybe you would stop running long enough to let something reach you.”

the silence that follows is thick with everything unsaid.

“you seriously believe i can change?” remmick asks, his voice low, edged with disbelief.

you don’t nod. instead, you shake your head slowly and keep walking, the gravel beneath your feet crunching softly beneath your light steps.

“no,” you say. “you cannot change what you are. that isn’t the point.”

your voice is calm, measured, not cruel—just certain.

“what drives you is not redemption,” you continue, “it is motive. it has always been motive. family… yes? connection. people who see you. who understand you. who can stand to be near you without fear.”

you glance at him, eyes catching the dim moonlight. “that is what keeps you from falling completely.”

your voice fades as you round the edge of a hedge, soft as mist, leaving remmick behind for a moment in the quiet. he blinks, then stumbles forward, hurrying to catch up, boots crunching against the earth. there’s something in the way you move—slow, graceful, unbothered—that makes him wonder if you see him more clearly than he’s ever let on.

he walks beside you in silence for a beat, eyes narrowed in thought. then, low and uncertain, he asks,

“why’ve i been given another chance?”

the words feel foreign in his mouth, like they don’t quite belong to him.

“partly because i begged for it,” you admit, “but also because the fates favour you.”

remmick raises a brow, “favour me?”

you nod, slow and deliberate.

“they do,” you say, voice like distant thunder softened by the night. “you have been offered two paths. one carved from selfishness, where every step takes you closer to your own undoing. and the other…”

your eyes lift to the stars, catching their faint shimmer.

“the other is compassion. it asks more of you, but it gives something in return—quiet, contentment, maybe even joy. and one day, if you choose it, you might find yourself watching the sunrise not with dread, but with purpose.”

“so you know how i go out?” remmick asks and you nod, confirming his assumption. he wants to bombard you with questions but you hold your hand up, “we should head back.”

he listens without a protest.

before you part with him at the balcony entrance, you offer him some words of advice, “do not take my words lightly, think about your actions and do not rely on me to tell you what to do.”

remmick watches you as you glide through the crowd, mingling effortlessly with the nobility, your light drawing them in like moths to a flame. it’s a scene so far removed from him—so foreign—that the ache he had felt earlier surges back, tight and gnawing at his insides. it pulls at him, twisting his stomach in ways that leave him feeling hollow, desperate.

he tries to shake it off, but the hunger claws at him, demanding attention. he stumbles away from his place, moving quickly through the high, echoing halls of the palace. the walls, steeped in rich history, stretch endlessly before him, their reflection of his shadow twisted and distorted as he moves through them, a ghost within his own skin.

the overwhelming scent of life all around him hits like a wave, drowning his senses. the guests, oblivious, stand in clusters, their warmth and the steady pulse of their blood flooding his senses. it's all he can focus on now. the desire to feed is primal, insistent. there’s no escaping it, no distraction from it. not when the banquet is brimming with potential prey.

at the end of the hall, a figure catches his eye. the princess, the one he danced with earlier, stands alone for a moment, separated from the throngs. the hunger takes over before he can stop himself, and he jogs toward her, the rhythm of his steps faster than he intends.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. she smiles, a demure expression. she asks him about the cake, her voice light and innocent. he tells her, with a playful tone, how divine it was—how it tasted like nothing he had ever known.

she seems to believe him, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, but her guard is down, naive to the danger she’s unwittingly stepped into. with the fluid ease of someone accustomed to getting what he wants, remmick guides her away from the crowd, leading her into a quiet, dimly lit chamber.

the door closes softly behind them.

he doesn’t waste time. with a practiced movement, he presses her against the cold wall, his fangs sinking deep into her neck. the warmth of her blood fills his senses, and the ache, that terrible, gnawing ache, begins to fade with each drawn breath. he feeds greedily, thirstily, until there’s nothing left to take.

when it’s over, the room is silent, save for the faint echo of his own breath. her body slumps in his arms, lifeless, pale. he lets her fall to the floor, her blood staining the carpet beneath her.

remmick stands over her for a moment, his chest rising and falling as he surveys the damage. a small flicker of something—guilt, maybe? regret?—crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting.

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his hunger sated, but the emptiness inside remains. the cycle repeats. it always does.

he’s not going to change.

not long after that night, remmick fled paris—your footsteps trailing his despite his growing resentment. he never lingered anywhere for long, slipping through cities like smoke through fingers. yet, somehow, you always followed. unwillingly bound or stubbornly tethered, you were there.

he dragged you through the winding streets of spain, the frostbitten stretches of russia, the misty peaks of the balkans. he even wandered through the dense, humming cities of asia for a time, lost in a sea of languages and lanternlight.

but no matter how far he roamed, his footsteps always led him back to ireland. something about the damp green hills, the crash of waves against the cliffs, the ache of memory in the stone—his heart answered to it like a song half-remembered. it was the one place that still felt like his. or at least, where the ghosts felt familiar.

you’d washed up on the english channel in 1888, clothes heavy with salt and divinity, and drifted through london’s smoke-stained streets before finally making your way toward ireland. but your journey was delayed—four months, to be exact—by a detour you hadn’t planned.

a pitstop, as remmick called it.

he confessed with a twisted grin that he’d developed a taste for the blood of london’s street women. easy prey, he said. no one missed them, and no one looked too hard when they vanished. they came willingly, and their fear made their blood taste as sweet as it was tangy, he added, and left quietly.

you spoke to him as you always did—with the calm patience of eternity. you reminded him of light, of the path laid by the divine, of mercy, and restraint. you quoted scripture, invoked parables, and offered him alternatives. but he only scoffed, sharp-eyed and smirking.

“nothing beats an easy target,” he muttered once, licking the blood from his fingers as if it were honey.

and that was when you realized: some pitstops aren’t delays. they’re tests.

remmick came home that final night drenched in blood, the crimson soaking through his shirt and shining beneath your glow like oil on water. you didn’t ask where he’d been. you already knew. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flung the bloodied fabric into a dark corner of the hostel you’d both occupied for months. you didn’t meet his eyes. instead, you recited, quiet and firm,

“violence shall no more be heard in your land, devastation or destruction within your borders; you shall call your walls salvation, and your gates praise.”

remmick snarled at the sound of scripture, his lip curling as if the words burned him, “i told you to quit spewing that holy bullshit around me, angel.”

he said your title like a curse, like something he’d spit into the dirt.

still, you smiled—an expression that almost reached your eyes, though it never truly did.

“you live in a world built from devastation and oppression,” you said gently, stepping closer, “but the real prison, vampire, is the one in your own mind.”

remmick, in a sudden fury, swept a plate of fine china off the rickety wooden table. it sailed past you and shattered against the headboard of your borrowed bed, shards of porcelain raining down like splinters of his frustration.

“ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind,” he barked, chest heaving. “i’m livin’ off what i know. what i am!”

your frown deepened. the glow around you dimmed, like a flame shying from wind.

“rough night?” you asked softly.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face, smearing blood across his jaw.

“nearly got caught,” he muttered. “some fella interrupted my meal.”

you nodded slowly, walking toward the mess he’d made, stepping carefully over broken china.

“you have built quite the reputation for yourself,” you said. “jack the ripper, they are calling you now.”

remmick scoffed, holding up a hand as if to physically reject the accusation.

“that ain’t me,” he said. “there’s a difference. he—he guts ‘em. rips ‘em open like game. i just puncture the neck, nice and neat. drain ’em sideways, clean as i can. i got some standards.”

your eyes narrowed. “do you?”

“for my kind, i do,” remmick mutters, casting you a sidelong glance as he sinks onto the edge of the bed. the frame creaks beneath his weight.

he feels it again—that phantom pump, the ghost of a heartbeat that only stirs when you’re near. if blood still moved through his veins, it might’ve rushed to his face, warmed his skin. instead, he remains pale, a static figure carved in cold ash and shadow.

you don’t move. you stand there, still as a monument, graceful and ethereal. divine. everything about you—your poise, your silence, even the way the light bends to wrap around you—makes his chest ache with something unfamiliar. something like longing.

your glow brushes his skin like the edge of sunlight, and in that moment, he swears he can feel your heart. or maybe it’s his own, trying to remember how to beat. he shakes his head, breaking the moment like glass.

“i’m leaving tonight,” he says, voice flat. final.

you just watch him—silent, as always—as he picks up his old acoustic guitar. it fits in his hands like it was always meant to be there, an extension of him. he’s always had a gift for music. even in the earliest years, before he knew what he was, he’d whistle back at the birds when they sang at sunrise, tap rhythms into the bones of tables, the sides of carriages, the hollow of his own chest. it was instinct. but once he found the guitar, it all came together.

remmick doesn’t look at you as he starts to play, but you can see his shoulders ease. his fingers move fluidly over the strings, coaxing out a tune that feels older than this life. you pull out a chair and sit, the wood creaking softly beneath you. no words pass between you. for once, there’s no biting sarcasm or divine reprimands. just the melody, soft and unhurried.

he plays like it’s the only honest language he’s fluent in. and you listen, like it’s the only time you truly hear him. it's brief, but in that moment, there’s peace.

remmick knows it, you know it. you’ll follow him wherever he goes.

remmick stayed in ireland for three decades, tucked away in green hills and rain-soaked stone villages. of course, you were there—always there. disappearing for weeks, months even, only to reappear when he least expected it, glowing like a bad omen he couldn’t shake.

then came 1921. something called to him—a sound, delicate and haunting. a woman playing an instrument so beautiful it made his dead heart ache. he boarded a ship of irish immigrants bound for boston, chasing the echo of her melody. he claimed he wanted to reconnect with his roots, to find the family he’d left behind. the truth was more selfish.

the voyage was a disaster.

desperate to reclaim what he thought he’d lost—music, love, belonging—remmick tried to turn them all. everyone on board: children, parents, the elderly. but vampirism is no gift, and none of them survived the transformation. blood ran like wine below deck, and the woman with the gifted hands? lost to the chaos. he never even learned her name.

when the ship docked three days later, reeking of death and silence, he slipped off unnoticed. another new instrument slung over his shoulder like a trophy. the only thing he managed to save.

but you? you were gone.

no glow in the shadows.

no soft footsteps trailing behind him.

for once, he was truly alone.

the last time he saw you—really saw you—was at a juke joint deep in the mississippi delta, about twenty years later.

he’d been lingering just outside the shack, half-shrouded in trees and night, the thrum of blues rolling out of the open door like the sweet aroma of pie out a window. his mouth was wet, glistening—thick ropes of blood and spit clung to his lips, soaked into the collar of his shirt, cooling on his skin.

he was a mess. a predator fresh from the hunt.

but even in that haze, he felt it. that pull. that warmth.

you.

your light slipped through the trees before you did, soft and steady, brighter than the porch lamps and louder than the music.

he didn’t need to feel warmth anymore to know it was you.

he’d always know.

"i should be more surprised that you’re here," remmick groaned, not bothering to turn around. he didn’t need to see your face to know what expression you wore—he could picture it perfectly: the sharp furrow of your brow, the disappointment etched into every line.

he leaned against a tree, dragging a bloodied sleeve across his mouth.

"why now?" he muttered. "gonna try and talk me down again? throw a bible verse at me like it’s some kind of holy water? think i’m gonna suddenly grow a conscience 'cause you showed up glowing?"

his voice was tired, bitter.

"you always show up when i’m at my worst. like clockwork."

“you are straying from your righteous path,” you say, your face unreadable but your voice heavy with sorrow. “are you sure you want to do this?”

remmick waves a dismissive hand, “i’m sure.”

you shake your head slowly. “you did not heed my warning.”

he arches a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “you warn me all the time. how’m i s’pposed to know which one?”

he knows exactly which warning you mean. but remmick aims not just for the best—he strives for something beyond that. his selfish path feels carved into stone, unchangeable. you’ve spoken of another way, a second path meant to offer hope. but he never entertained that hope. not once.

“i know what you think i do not know,” you begin, your voice steady, eyes fixed on the back of his head, “there is more for you, if only you listen to my age-old warning.”

remmick clicks his tongue in frustration, something sharp and bitter rising in his chest.

you continue, voice gentle but firm,

“life is beautiful, remmick—whether you see it or not. and i know you are unable to, not anymore. you have grown bitter, i have watched it happen, piece by piece. but it does not have to stay that way.”

your eyes focus on his form, steady and unwavering.

“you still have time. you can make peace with them, with yourself. you can reclaim what you have lost. not everything is beyond reach.”

you pause, searching for something in his body language—anything.

“do not do this. do not spill the blood of good people just because you have forgotten what goodness looks like.”

your calmness feels like mockery. he snaps—like a wire pulled too tight—spinning around so fast it startles you.

“you can’t seriously expect me to listen to anything you have to say,” he growls, eyes burning, “not after you vanished for twenty damn years just because you finally saw what i was capable of! how are you supposed to be my guardian angel when you’re so unbelievably shit at your job?”

you think your heart breaks—and remmick thinks he hears it. not a dramatic crack, but something quieter, crueler. like dry glass splintering under pressure.

his eyes flash a deep, dangerous red. for a moment, it looks like he’s considering it—really considering tearing into something holy.

he’d been cruel before, callous beyond belief. but something about tonight lands differently.

you don’t shout, you don’t plead, you don’t fall apart.

instead, just a few tears slide down your cheeks, slow and soundless.

and that’s what gets him.

he never thought he’d see the day an angel would cry. from what he knew, you were carved from calm, built to endure without cracking.

but now, standing under the weak light of a crooked moon, he sees it. sees you.

not a symbol, not a mission. just someone deeply, utterly tired.

you don’t let him linger in your sorrow. as soon as you feel the tears, you turn away—too proud to let him see what he’s done. too divine to shatter completely in front of him.

your wings unfurl—slow, deliberate, and unlike anything he’s ever seen. vast and radiant, feathers pure as untouched snow, glowing faintly with a divinity that makes the dark around him feel smaller, weaker. they catch the breeze like sails on a departing ship.

remmick freezes. not because he’s scared, but because he understands.

this is it.

you’re leaving.

and this time, you won’t come back.

a part of him, the part still clinging to something human, wants to call out. wants to say don’t.

but he doesn’t.

he stays silent, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight as he watches with empty eyes.

you offer him one last verse—your final tether, a hope you quietly beg he'll remember.

“judge not, that ye be not judged. for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”

your voice echoes long after your wings do.

with a single, mighty flap, the earth stirs beneath you. dust kicks up, grass bends, and then—

you’re gone.

all that remains is the soft imprint of your departure, a shallow crater in the earth where heaven once touched down.

his heart no longer beats in faux rhythm.

and when the sun finally rises, catching him where the shadows fail, remmick doesn’t flinch. doesn’t snarl or thrash or claw at the light like some cornered beast. he doesn’t beg, doesn’t run.

he just stares.

the light crawls across his skin, golden and relentless, and for the first time in one thousand, three hundred and eighty-five years, he lets it. he watches the sunrise not with fear or hatred, but with something else—something closer to awe.

his inhuman eyes brim with tears, not from pain, but from peace.

he knows you’re near. he can feel it. after all this time, he can still sense the pull of your presence like gravity. maybe you’re watching the same sunrise from some rooftop or ruin, silently praying for what’s left of him.

and maybe—just maybe—he’s praying too.

he imagines his ancestors waiting for him, the ones he lost to time and blood and tragedy, their arms open and music playing. but more than anything, he hopes you're there too.

and as the fire takes him, a slow, searing bloom that begins at his chest and spreads outward like a star going nova, he closes his eyes.

not in fear.

but in surrender.

in peace.

and he smiles.

you stand over the scorch-marked earth where remmick had burned. there’s no trace left of him—no body, no ash, just the faint smell of smoke clinging to the morning air and a body of water that moved indifferently as if remmick was never there.

you do not cry.

you knew this ending. had seen it coming centuries ago.

but still, your chest aches in a way that feels foreign. not divine. not righteous. just… human.

quietly, you kneel by the edge of a shallow stream, its waters catching the soft gold of the rising sun. your hand, steady and sacred, slips beneath the surface. it doesn’t take long. the chain finds you, just like he always did.

you pull it from the water—his gold chain, warm despite the cold stream, still whole.

your fingers trace its pattern, each link familiar, worn from centuries of wear.

you smile. not wide. not bright. but soft. pained. knowing.

“goodbye, old friend,” you whisper.

the wind stirs the trees behind you, and the morning continues.

you would not see his soul in the holy place.

not because he was born into darkness—he wasn’t. not because he was forced to live as he did—though that part was true.

but because remmick’s choices stretched far beyond instinct, beyond what was natural. he had time. he had chances. and every time, he chose wrong. knowingly, willfully.

and heaven does not make room for those who choose to burn.

[inwithrin]

｡𖦹°‧ you think he's watching?

imagine sevika meeting you—her new, sweet next door neighbor... and she sees you wearing a little rosary—now, she can't get you out her mind.

cw: this is more teasing than anything! sevika touching you, dom!sevika, restrained hands, religious guilt but reader deffff wants sevika, humilliation, mocking, and praise. i used to be religious, so this is based on my experience with dealing with liking girls and being christian hehehe

you’re all sunshine, lugging boxes in a white and blue gingham check dress that flows in the breeze, your glossy lips tucked between your teeth as you balance a plant pot too big for your arms. the moving company does most of the heavy lifting, but you’re still fluttering around, directing where things go, and laughing with workers.

sevika watches from her window, a cigarette long forgotten between her fingers.

your house’s right across from hers—she notices the all white and light wooden furniture, the fluffy pillows, the glittering wind chimes you hung on the porch, and how you placed tiny plants on the front door.

she hasn’t seen your face clearly, nevertheless, she already knows you’re sweet. she can tell by how you set every box down like everything you own deserves to be handled with love.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

on the second day, there’s a knock on her door. two quick taps. she opens it, a towel slung around her neck from the gym, and there you are—holding out a little plastic bag full of cookies tied with a blue ribbon.

“hi!” you smile. “i’m new here. i baked some cookies for the neighbors—i wanted to make a good impression.”

you hand her the bag, and sevika blinks for a second. 

your voice is soft, sweet—like a bell.

your nails are glossy pink. your lips too.

your eyes are glimmery and your long lashes curled.

then, she saw the little cross around your neck catching the light.

“you certainly made a good impression here, pretty,” she says, lips curling into a smirk. “my name’s sevika.”

you smile. “okay, sevika,” you say, nodding. “i live right there—across from you!”

you keep talking—something about how you’re still settling in, how you hope the noise isn’t bothering anyone, how you would love to invite her over for dinner once your place looks decent. but sevika isn’t listening.

she is shamelessly watching your mouth move. the way you look up at her with those sweet, glassy eyes. the way your rosary dips with every breath you take. the way your fingers twist the hem of your blouse absentmindedly. 

she thinks you look like trouble.

and she really likes trouble.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

it starts with the cookies.

but it doesn’t end there.

a few days later, there’s a knock at your door.

you answer it in your pajamas—an oversized band tee from a group sevika doesn’t recognize, shorts, and fuzzy socks. your hair was loosely pulled back, and cheeks warm from cleaning.

it’s sevika, leaning against the doorframe like she owns it, wearing a dark hoodie and sweatpants, a plastic container in hand.

“i figured it was my turn,” she says, holding it out. “i don’t bake—but i brough leftover pasta.”

“thank you,” your eyes light up. “that’s so sweet of you! wanna come in?”

she steps inside, eyes scanning the space—your house smells floral, and it’s warm and cozy. her eyes flick to your coffee table, catching onto your bible—worn, well-read, sticky-noted, the spine is creased, a white ribbon peeking out like a bookmark.

then, her eyes drift to you. before her eyes go to the necklace resting against your chest again.

you notice, trailing her gaze. “oh,” you mutter, brushing your thumb over the spine of the bible. “yeah—i’m religious. uh, i just try to be good, you know?” you glance up at her, with a nervous smile. “sorry. you probably don’t care.”

and you’re right, she doesn’t. not about verses or the scripture. she doesn’t know the names you whisper to when you kneel and pray at night. but she does care about the way you look when you talk about it—your voice all shy, your lashes casting shadows, your fingers delicate over the bible.

“nah,” she says. “i care.”

you tilt your head, smiling slow. “really?”

she shrugs, stepping closer. “i don’t know if i believe in heaven,” she murmurs, looking down at you with unreadable eyes. “but you might make me.”

your face burns as you look down at your rosary—you shouldn't even think about her like this.

sevika just watches you, quietly, the way someone watches stained glass glow in sunlight—curious.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

it’s a few days later. you weren’t expecting to see her so soon. especially with those thoughts you’ve tried to push away. but, there’s a knock at your door around sunset, and there she is—sevika, looking at you like you’re a cookie she wants to take a bite off.

“hey,” she says, simply. 

you let her in. “hello.”

she walks slowly, as you offer her tea, but she shakes her head. you try to act normal—sitting on the couch while she is still standing up, pretending not to stare at her broad shoulders, her hands, and how her eyes flick back to your rosary.

she’s obsessed, and you can tell.

“you wear it all the time?” she asks.

“yeah,” you nod, fingers brushing the chain. “since i was little—i feel weird without it.”

sevika hums, moving closer, until she’s standing right in front of you. “can i touch it?”

you nod again, and she sits beside you—too close—and reaches, thick fingers grazing the edge off the cross, her knuckles brush your collarbone. 

you suck in a breath, and she notices.

“pretty thing like you,” she murmurs, watching the cross sway on its chain. “wearing something so holy.”

your thighs press together. her fingers never leaving the rosary, instead—she drags her thumb along it, like she’s praying.

“do you think about god all the time?” she asks, voice low.

you blink up at sevika, lips parted. “i… i try to.”

sevika tilts her head, hand sliding beneath the chain, her knuckles brushing the base of your throat. “what about now?”

your eyes flutter as your fingers dig into the hem of your long, white skirt. you try so hard to keep your mind holy, but it’s hard when she’s looking at you like that, with her fingers lingering at your throat. 

“still trying, angel?” she asks, smiling. “or are you thinking about me now?”

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

her hands are big.

you knew that already, but it’s different when they’re actually on you—when your wrists are pinned together in your back and she’s wrapping one of your hair ribbons around them like she’s done it a hundred times before. 

you hadn’t meant for it to go this far. but now you’re kneeling on your bedroom’s soft rug, hands bound, your rosary still around your neck, resting against the slope of your chest.

and sevika is behind you on her knees too—hands trailing your waist, mouth warm at your ear. “say stop if you need to,” she mutters. “i’ll listen, okay sweetheart?”

you nod, you do want this. but your heart stutters with guilt. “i really—i really shouldn’t be doing this with a woman…”

“why not?” her lips brush the shell of your ear.

“i’m supposed to be good,” you whisper, swallowing.

her hand drifts up—palming the side of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw. “you’re good,” she says. “c’mon, look at you—you’re the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen,” she nudged your head to the side, kissing your throat. “you read your bible. you bake for your neighbors. you open your door for me. you are good, so—you need someone to help you feel good too.”

her hand slips, bunching your skirt in her hand, pulling it up. you squeeze your eyes shut—trying to hold onto something—the scripture, the guilt, your pastor’s voice. but then, sevika’s palm is sliding between your thighs, and all you can do is whine.

she presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “let me do it for you,” she mutters. “you don’t have to do anything, baby. just kneel there, pretty, and take it.”

you’re trembling—wrists still tied, the satin pressing against your skin, and your rosary cold against your chest. however, sevika is warm behind you, her hand is tracing closer to your clothed pussy—fingers slow, and her lips never leave you for long, kissing up your shoulder, nape, neck, and your cheek.

“still trying to be good, angel?” she murmurs, carefully biting your shoulder, licking the skin after—causing you to gasp.

“trying,” you whine, breathless and desperate. “i’m trying, sev.”

she hums low against your skin, her free hand wrapping around your bound wrists and tugging them back gently, arching your spine, tilting your head to expose more of your neck to her mouth.

“you’re so good,” she coos, finally cupping your pussy. “look at you—kneeling for me, saying you shouldn’t… but letting me touch you anyway.”

her fingers press deeper, slow circles against your panties, which are embarrassingly wet, and your thighs shake.

“you think god’s watching?” sevika asks. “you think he sees how wet you’re for me?”

you whimper, and she chuckles—more amused than cruel, but still pleased with herself.

her teeth scrape against your earlobe. “tell me to stop,” she says. “tell me to stop, and i’ll leave you alone—and you can go back to being holy.”

you hesitate because you should. but instead, you whisper. “please, sevi—don’t stop.”

“atta girl,” she smiles.

[devdozes]

ACCIDENTALLY KIDNAPPING A MAFIA BOSS?!

silly idea :3 should i make this into a series? was listening to bring me to life while making this lmao (also more phainon fanart at the end of the post)

It started with a simple friendship—one that no one really questioned. You and Phainon were practically inseparable, an odd yet perfect duo that made everyone wonder how the universe aligned so well to bring you together.

Phainon was the golden retriever of your life, all bright smiles, mischievous grins, and boundless energy that made it impossible to be in a bad mood around him. He was always there—whether you wanted him to be or not.

Like that time when you had a late-night craving for bubble tea, and he showed up at your doorstep five minutes after your text, holding two cups like he had been waiting for the opportunity all night. Or when you got sick and insisted you were fine, only for him to barge into your apartment with an entire care package—complete with soup, blankets, and a ridiculously oversized hoodie that smelled like him.

“You don’t take care of yourself, so I gotta do it for you,” he had said, grinning as he forced a spoonful of soup into your mouth. “If I wasn’t around, who’d be your personal nurse, huh?”

You had rolled your eyes, but truthfully, you loved having him around.

Phainon was also a menace in the best way possible. He made it his personal mission to embarrass you in public, whether that meant dramatically fake-proposing to you in the middle of a grocery store or loudly announcing that you were his “number one best friend” every time he saw you in class.

“[NAME]!” he had once yelled across the university campus, sprinting toward you like a lunatic while students turned to stare. “I haven’t seen you in two hours! Did you miss me?”

You had barely dodged him, tackling you in front of everyone. “Phainon, oh my god, please calm down.”

He was never calm. He never was and never will be.

But that was what you loved about him—his relentless energy, his unwavering presence. No matter what, he was always there, like a constant, bright force in your life.

And yet, beneath the sunshine exterior, there were times when his blue eyes darkened, moments where his grip on your wrist would linger just a second too long, where his playful teasing held an edge of something deeper. Something..terrifying?

Phainon wasn’t just close to you—he revolved around you. Every little thing you did, every fleeting expression, every shift in your tone, he noticed. He memorized your favorite drinks, your quirks, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved. He lived for those moments.

There were nights he stayed up scrolling through your old messages, rereading your texts like they were sacred scripture. He had a folder on his phone filled with candid pictures of you—laughing, sleeping, lost in thought. Some you had sent him. Some you hadn't.

If anyone got too close, if anyone dared to make you laugh the way he did, his jaw would clench, his grip on his drink tightening. He knew you were his. Even if you didn’t realize it yet.

And when you weren’t looking, when you weren’t aware of the way he watched you, the way his entire world narrowed down to just you—his smile would fade, his cheerful mask slipping, revealing the raw, unfiltered obsession lurking beneath.

On his wrist, always, was a simple black hair tie—yours. You had probably forgotten about it, left it on his wrist one day without a second thought, but to him, it was a sacred token, a symbol of ownership. He never took it off. It was stretched and worn from his constant fidgeting, his fingers absently tugging at it whenever you spoke, whenever you so much as smiled at someone else.

You had asked about it once, laughing, “Why do you always wear that? Do you even have long enough hair to need it?”

His grin was quick, easy. “It’s lucky,” he had replied, flicking it with his fingers. “And it reminds me of someone important.”

You had shrugged, not thinking much of it. But if you had paid closer attention, you would have noticed the way his fingers curled over the hair tie protectively, as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. As if losing it meant losing you.

Phainon was careful. He never let his obsession slip too far, never let you see the depths of his devotion. You thought he was just a clingy best friend, a lovable idiot who adored you. You didn’t know about the people who had gotten too close, only to suddenly lose interest, to quietly disappear from your life.

You didn’t know about the nights he watched you through the reflection of a window, keeping an eye on you from the shadows when you thought you were alone. You didn’t know about the things he had done, the people he had silenced, all to keep you safe—to keep you his.

And then, there were the little things. The way he always knew where you had been, even when you hadn’t told him. The way he always seemed to show up at just the right time, as if he had been tracking your schedule down to the second. He was always prepared—whether it was having your favorite drink ready before you even asked, or subtly steering you away from conversations with people he didn’t like. He never said it outright, never made his possessiveness obvious, but the hints were there. The intensity in his eyes when he watched you, the way his fingers tightened around your wrist when he pulled you away from a stranger, the way he always seemed to whisper, half-joking but dead serious, “You belong with me.”

It was a quiet evening when you curled up on your couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly, sipping on your favorite drink. The warm glow of the TV cast soft shadows across your living room, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion. That was, until the flashing "BREAKING NEWS" banner jolted you awake.

"Another victim of the infamous Flamereaver has been discovered in the city’s industrial district," the news anchor reported, their tone grim. "Authorities believe this is the latest in a string of calculated eliminations carried out by the elusive mafia leader. The identity of the Flamereaver remains unknown, but their signature brutality and precision leave no doubt—this was an execution."

You blinked, the weight of the report settling in your chest. The Flamereaver. You had heard the name before—who hadn’t? The ghostly swordmaster who had left entire organizations in ruin, a name spoken in hushed whispers, feared by even the most powerful figures in the underground world.

The news station flashed grainy images of the crime scene—police cars, body bags, shaken witnesses. You shivered, setting your drink down.

Another one? This was happening too often.

Your mind wandered, a passing thought striking you. Phainon had mentioned going out earlier, hadn’t he? Something about meeting an old friend.

You shook your head, dismissing the ridiculous idea that had briefly surfaced. No way. Not Phainon. He was too much of a goofball, too softhearted to be involved in something this violent.

Still, you couldn't help but feel an eerie chill run down your spine as you turned the volume down, trying to push away the unease settling deep within your bones as if someone or something was watching you.

Outside, hidden beneath the cover of darkness, Phainon stood motionless.

Draped in a black cloak and hoodie, his face concealed by the shadows, he watched you through your window, blue eyes burning with something indescribable. Admiration. Love.

You had no idea how beautiful you looked in this moment—so peaceful, so unaware. So his.

A gloved hand brushed against the black hair tie on his wrist, a slow, possessive motion. He never took it off. Just like he would never let you go.

Soon, he thought. Soon, you would understand.

Soon, you would be his completely.

And as the cold night pressed in, Phainon allowed a small, knowing smirk to curl at his lips. The world might fear the Flamereaver—but you? You would never have to.

Because he would do anything to keep you safe.

Even if it meant making sure no one else could ever have you. . . . . Minutes passed. Perhaps an hour. Only when the house lights dimmed, signaling you to retreat to bed, only then did Phainon finally move. He let out a slow exhale, fogging up the cold air before turning away, his steps eerily silent against the pavement.

And then, his expression changed.

His once cheerful blue eyes turned glacial, devoid of emotion. The warmth drained from his features as he tilted his head downward, staring at the lifeless body sprawled at his feet. A fresh corpse, still warm. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement, glistening under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The man’s face was twisted in frozen terror, eyes wide and vacant, his lips still parted as if in a final, unfinished plea for mercy.

Phainon had granted him none.

A golden blade protruded from the man’s chest, its edge gleaming even through the thick coat of crimson that dripped from its surface. Phainon knelt, completely unaffected, and with a practiced, almost lazy motion, he wiped the blade clean against the dead man’s own shirt. The metal shone again, immaculate, as if it had never been tainted with the act of ending a life.

His fingers moved to his face, smearing away a thin line of blood that had splattered across his cheek. The expression he wore now was unreadable—detached, mechanical. This was not the same Phainon who grinned and cracked jokes, who draped himself over your shoulders with a playful whine, who gazed at you like she was the very sun in his sky.

This was the Flamereaver.

His gaze flicked down at the corpse once more, unimpressed, before he stepped over it without hesitation, leaving only the scent of blood and death in his wake. His black hoodie rustled slightly in the night breeze, his golden blade disappearing into the folds of his cloak. As he walked, his fingers briefly brushed against the black hair tie wrapped securely around his wrist—the only tether left to the warmth he allowed himself to feel.

For her, he would remain the Phainon she knew.

For the rest of the world, he was a nightmare in human skin.

Meanwhile, inside your room, you sat on your bed, the faint hum of the television still lingering in the silence. You had retreated into your space, but your mind was far from tired. Instead, it buzzed with the same consuming thoughts that had plagued you for months—Phainon.

Your walls were a testament to your obsession, though no one else would ever see. A large corkboard hung above your desk, filled with drawings of him—his laughing expression, the soft tilt of his head, the way his golden blade gleamed when he trained. Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of one of the sketches before you turned your gaze to the digital clock beside your bed.

12:30 AM.

Like clockwork, your head snapped toward your window. You knew Phainon's schedule down to the minute. He always returned home at this hour, no later, no sooner. You had memorized the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his habits, the way he sometimes hummed to himself under his breath when he thought no one was listening. The way he would smile, the way his oh so beautiful cerulean eyes would glimmer under the moonlight.

Slipping quietly to your window, you peered through the curtains, your pulse quickening with anticipation. Your eyes locked onto the street below, searching, waiting.

Because just like Phainon watched you, you had been watching him all along. . . . . . . Something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark black robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just as they simply stood in front of Phainon's house, looking left and right as if he was searching for something.

But something was wrong.

Instead of Phainon casually strolling up to his house, there was another figure—taller, clothed in dark robes with a hood obscuring their face. Your breath hitched as you noticed the faint glint of a weapon in their grip—a golden blade, slick with fresh blood. Your stomach twisted at the sight.

A murderer. Right outside Phainon’s house.

Your fingers clenched around the windowsill as you watched, heart pounding. The figure stood motionless for a moment before casually wiping the blade against their sleeve, as if the act of killing meant nothing to them. Then, with eerie calmness, they sheathed the weapon beneath their cloak and turned slightly, revealing just enough for you to see their towering frame—easily around 6'3.

Panic flared through you. Whoever they were, they were close. Too close. Had they been watching Phainon? Had they come to kill him? Or worse—were they waiting for him?

You swallowed hard, eyes darting between the figure and Phainon’s front door. He still wasn’t home. He was late. He was never late. A creeping dread coiled in your chest as you gripped your phone, debating whether to call him, to warn him. But would he believe you? Would you even be able to explain this?

Your gaze flicked back to the figure just standing their eerily in front of your best friend's house, looking left and right as if they were searching for something or someone. . . . . Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted down the stairs, your thoughts racing just as fast. Who the hell was that outside Phainon's house? A murderer? A thief? Some lunatic waiting for Phainon to come home?

You didn’t stop to think. Your body moved on instinct.

Grabbing the cold, heavy metal baseball bat from beside the shoe rack, you tightened your grip, your knuckles turning white. As you shoved your hands into the worn leather knuckle gloves Phainon had given you—his little “gift” after you won a sparring match against him—you took a deep breath to steady yourself.

Stay calm. Stay sharp.

You flung open your front door and stormed outside, your breath misting in the night air. The distant hum of streetlights and the soft rustling of tree leaves did nothing to ease the sheer unease creeping up your spine.

And there he was.

The figure stood still—eerily, unnaturally still—right in front of Phainon’s house. His tall frame loomed at around 6’3, making him tower over most people. A long, black cloak with patterns of a crescent moon billowed slightly in the cold wind, its hood casting a deep shadow over his face. But what really made your blood run cold was the weapon in his hand.

A golden blade. Its edge gleamed faintly under the moonlight, marred by something dark, something wet. Blood.

Your grip on the bat tightened as your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t moving. He was just... standing there. Watching.

Was he waiting for Phainon? Did he already—No. You refused to finish that thought.

Without hesitation, you stormed forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

“Hey!” Your voice rang out in the dead of night, sharp and unwavering. “Oi bastard what the fuck are you doing outside his house?”

No response.

The man didn’t even flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge you.

Your body tensed. Every instinct screamed danger. But you weren’t about to back down.

“Oi, asshole! I’m talking to you!” You took another step forward, raising the bat slightly. “I don’t know what creepy shit you’re trying to pull, but you better step the fuck away from Phainon’s house before I break that fancy little sword of yours over my knee.”

Still, nothing. The figure remained silent, his presence as cold and unmoving as a statue.

The only shift was the subtle tilt of his head—just slightly—like he was regarding you.

Something about that small movement made your skin crawl.

Why did it feel so familiar?

But you had no time to second-guess yourself.

You tightened your stance, shifting your weight, ready to swing if you had to. This bastard wasn’t about to get past you.

The figure finally moved.

With slow, deliberate precision, he tilted his head downward—as if looking at the bloodied golden blade in his grasp. Then, with an eerily casual flick of his wrist, he wiped the blood off its edge with his gloved fingers.

The movement was practiced. Effortless. Like he had done this a thousand times before.

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just some random thug.

This man was a killer.

And yet… he still didn’t strike.

He simply stood there, staring at his weapon, his face obscured by the cloak’s deep hood. The silence between you stretched, suffocating and unnerving.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

For a split second, you considered your next move. Should you charge at him? Should you call someone? Should you—

You stood frozen in place, gripping your bat so tightly your hands ached.

The golden weapon. The black cloak. The blood. The way he moved. The way he didn’t attack you.

Your stomach churned.

Who the hell was that?

And why… did something about him feel so unsettlingly familiar?

. . . .

The moment he turned his back on you, something inside snapped.

Oh, hell no.

You weren’t about to let some bloodstained creep just walk away after standing in front of Phainon’s house like some horror movie stalker. What if he was waiting for Phainon to come home? What if he had already done something?

You didn’t even think. You ran.

Your feet pounded against the pavement as you rushed forward, closing the distance between you and the cloaked bastard in seconds.

And then—

CRACK.

Your fist slammed into the side of his face, the impact so strong you felt his jaw shift beneath your knuckles.

The force of your punch sent him staggering back, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

You pivoted on your heel, twisting your body for momentum, before swinging again.

BAM!

Your second punch landed hard on the opposite side of his face, his hood shifting slightly from the sheer impact.

The bastard stumbled further, nearly losing his balance.

But you didn’t give him a second to recover.

Your hands gripped the bat tightly—muscles coiling like a spring—before you swung with everything you had.

WHAM!

The bat slammed into his head with full force.

A sickening thud echoed through the empty street as the figure’s entire body jerked from the impact.

His legs gave out instantly.

His body collapsed to the ground, unmoving.

The once-imposing figure—shrouded in mystery, with a golden weapon still faintly glinting in his grip—now lay sprawled out at your feet.

Knocked out cold.

You took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, before glancing down at him.

And then…

You grinned.

A slow, faint smile curled at your lips as you admired your handiwork.

There was something thrilling about seeing this so-called intimidating figure sprawled out, helpless, after you had beaten him down.

“Tch.” You scoffed, tilting your head slightly as you inspected his unconscious form. “What, that’s it? No fight back? No last words? Kinda disappointing, really.”

You nudged his side with your foot, testing for any movement.

Nothing.

Your smirk widened.

This idiot seriously underestimated you.

Big mistake.

The golden weapon lay loosely in his grip now, the blood along its edge darkening under the moonlight. You eyed it for a moment, debating whether to take it—or at least break it—but then your gaze flickered back to the figure’s half-uncovered face.

And for a split second, something nagged at you.

Something felt… off.

That jawline… that build…

Why did he look so—

You shook the thought away. Who cares?

Right now, you needed to figure out what to do next.

This bastard clearly wasn’t some random mugger. Murderer? Maybe. Either way, you weren’t about to leave him lying here without some answers.

Maybe… you should drag him somewhere and question him when he wakes up.

Your grin turned sharper.

Yeah. That sounded like a fun idea.

You exhaled sharply, gripping the unconscious figure by his arm as you dragged his heavy, lifeless body across the pavement.

His golden weapon gleamed faintly under the streetlights, the bloodstains dark and fresh along its edge. You had it clutched tightly in your other hand, fingers curling around the hilt as you stole a glance at its intricate design.

This was no ordinary blade.

No mugger or common thug carried something this finely crafted.

Your grip tightened.

Who the hell was this guy?

Even unconscious, his presence felt off—too eerily still, too controlled, even in this state. It almost pissed you off.

No fear. No desperation. Just… silence.

You dragged him up the porch of your house, gritting your teeth at his weight before kicking open the door.

THUD.

His body hit the floorboards with a dull noise, limbs sprawled like a broken puppet.

Without wasting a second, you grabbed a chair, shoved it into the center of the room, and hauled him onto it.

His black cloak rustled as you forced his arms behind his back, tying them up tightly with thick rope. You did the same to his legs, making sure he couldn’t move an inch.

But the most unsettling part?

Even as you worked, his face remained hidden beneath that black metal mask—its golden vine-like engravings catching the dim light of the room.

You stepped back, crossing your arms as you inspected your handiwork.

He looked… oddly regal like this. A fallen king, tied up and waiting for judgment.

You tilted your head.

Something about this moment—about him sitting there, unmoving, under your control—sent a sharp thrill down your spine.

You stared.

Now… all you had to do was wait.

You stepped forward, tapping the flat edge of his own golden weapon against your palm, staring at him with amusement.

“Alright, mystery man,” you muttered under your breath, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see who the hell you really are.”

And with that, you settled onto the couch across from him—watching.

Waiting. . . . . .

You sat on the couch, idly twirling the golden weapon in your grip, its weight heavier than you expected. The craftsmanship was exquisite—each detail carved with precision, the sharp gleam of the blade still slick with drying blood.

Your fingers traced the intricate patterns along the hilt, a mix of black and gold, before your gaze drifted lower…

And then you saw it.

A small engraving near the base of the blade.

A crescent moon.

Your brows furrowed as you leaned in, squinting at the faint lettering just beneath it—so subtle, it was almost impossible to notice unless you were looking closely.

“Flame—”

Your stomach dropped.

“—Reaver.”

Your breath hitched.

Your grip on the sword tightened, pulse hammering in your ears as realization slammed into you like a freight train.

No. No, no, no—this had to be some sick joke.

Flame Reaver wasn’t just some low-level criminal—he was a fucking legend. A nameless swordmaster, a phantom of the underworld, responsible for massacres that tore entire syndicates apart.

Nobody knew who he was. Nobody even had a confirmed sighting.

But every victim—every last one—had been ripped apart with a blade.

And you just… tied him up.

In your own house.

Fuck.

A low groan echoed from across the room.

You froze.

The sound sent a cold shiver crawling down your spine.

Your head snapped toward the chair.

The figure—Flame Reaver—shifted slightly, his bound form tensing as he started to regain consciousness.

Your fingers instinctively curled around the weapon tighter, but your palms felt sweaty now.

Shit.

Your mind raced.

What were you supposed to do? Run? Kill him? Hope he has amnesia?!

Before you could even decide—

His head lifted slightly.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

And then—

The black metal mask tilted up, ever so slightly…

And you could feel it.

Even without seeing his eyes, you could feel his gaze locking onto you.

A quiet, low chuckle rasped through the air.

Oh, you were so fucking dead.

A dull, throbbing pain bloomed at the back of his skull. His senses were sluggish, slow to return, like wading through thick water. For a few moments, there was nothing but darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on him, his body sluggish and foreign. Then, piece by piece, it all began to come back.

The night. The streets. Blood.

A fight. A sharp pain bursting at the side of his head.

And then—

His consciousness snapped into place like a whip.

His muscles tensed.

Bound.

His arms wouldn’t move.

Neither would his legs.

The air was stale. The scent of the room was faintly familiar—wood, a trace of perfume, something warm yet utterly foreign in this moment. But none of it compared to the sudden, gut-wrenching realization that he was restrained.

A cold blade of tension ran up his spine.

He knew better than anyone that being tied up meant being vulnerable. He was never the one on this end of the rope. Never.

Where the fuck was he?

Slowly, deliberately, he cracked his eyes open behind the black metal mask.

And the moment he did—

His breath caught in his throat.

There, seated in front of him, holding his own golden blade, was 𝙮𝙤𝙪.

But it wasn’t you. Not the way he knew you. Not the way he had memorized you—every expression, every playful glint in your eyes, every ridiculous joke you cracked at his expense. The warmth, the laughter, the way you made his obsessive devotion feel justified.

No.

The person sitting in front of him now—this was different.

You were looking at him wrong.

Your expression was cold.

Your fingers gripped his weapon with a force that made your knuckles go white.

And worst of all—

You were looking at him with pure burning hatred.

Not mild irritation, not the usual exasperation you had when he stole your food or teased you too much—real, burning hatred.

Why? What Happened? Why..why were you..

His breath came slow and measured, but his mind raced violently. Everything was wrong. Everything was out of place.

And then it hit him.

You didn't know.

You didn't realize.

You didn’t know it was him. You didn't know that he was flamereaver You didn't know that he killed for you for years. He felt something deep and ugly twist inside his chest, but he remained utterly still. If he spoke now—if his voice slipped, if his tone wavered even slightly—you would realize. And he wasn't ready for that.

The second you moved closer, heart pounding in your chest, your fingers reached for the black and gold metal mask covering his face.

But before you could even brush against it—

SNAP.

The ropes shattered like they were made of paper.

Your eyes widened.

What the fuck—?!

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step back, a sharp golden clawed hand shot up and grasped your wrist.

Not tightly. Not enough to hurt.

But enough to stop you in your tracks.

Your breath hitched as you stared at the sharp, deadly claws glinting in the dim light. They were curved like talons, polished gold reflecting your startled expression. They could have pierced your skin. Could have ripped through flesh effortlessly.

But they didn’t.

He wasn’t hurting you.

He wasn’t even squeezing your wrist.

He was just… holding it.

Stopping you.

Slowly, your gaze trailed up from the golden claws to his mask.

It was still intact. Still covering his entire face. That damn mask—black with intricate golden vine-like patterns etched into it, elegant yet eerily haunting.

And then, he moved.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. But with a deliberateness that sent shivers down your spine.

He tilted his head.

His free hand, the one that had just torn through the restraints like they were nothing, reached up towards his mask but stopped.

Like he was considering something.

Like he was debating.

Your breath felt uneven. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t move any further.

He just… held your wrist in place. Why isn't he hurting you?? Why isn't he trying to kill you?? What fucking game is he playing.

A sharp tension filled the room, thick and suffocating.

Your fingers twitched, still aching to rip that mask off.

To see who the hell he really was.

But his claws remained firm on your wrist—gentle, yet unyielding.

He was stopping you.

But he wasn’t hurting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Who the fuck was he?

Your fingers tightened. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, a deafening rhythm of adrenaline and disbelief.

He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t trying to stop you any further, only holding your wrist in that maddeningly gentle yet firm grip.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp inhale, you yanked your hand free from his grasp and lunged forward.

Your fingers caught the edges of the black metal mask, and before he could react—

Rip.

You tore it off his face.

The mask clattered onto the wooden floor with a loud, echoing clang.

And for a split second—

You still had no idea who he was.

Because your eyes weren’t on his face yet.

They were on his hands—his claws. They were trembling, the golden tips slick with faint traces of blood.

And then—

Then you saw it.

The moment your gaze snapped up to meet his—

You stopped breathing.

Your stomach twisted into a thousand knots.

Because staring back at you—

Was a pair of wide, terrified, cerulean blue eyes.

A face framed by fluffy white hair.

A face you had seen every single day.

This can't be fucking real.

“P—Phainon?”

But you didn't even get a chance to speak the words in your mind.

Because in the next second—

Your back hit the floor.

He pinned you down against the cold wooden floor.

Your wrists were trapped beneath his claws, his weight pressing down against you. His breath was uneven, a mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something unreadable swimming in those now-exposed, once-gentle blue eyes.

Now they were shaken.

Now they were desperate.

But the worst part?

There was blood on his face.

Small splatters of blood on the corner of his jaw and cheek.

And it wasn’t his.

No, no, no, no.

Your brain couldn’t process it.

Couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Because this was Phainon.

Your best friend.

The cheerful idiot who always smiled at you, laughed with you, annoyed you.

He couldn't be—

The Flamereaver.

But the golden blade lying beside you on the floor—

The bloodstains on his face, his hands, his claws—

The fact that he had been standing outside his own house, alone, covered in blood, wearing a mask.

The fact that he hadn't said a single word.

It all made sense.

HI GANG !! this is the fanart I did for phainon. i am so down bad for him if you like this , please like, follow, reblog and comment :D

LONG HAIR PHAINON AAAA

[r-memberme]

you must be haunting me | k.m

⎯⎯Her lips are close enough to brush his as she whispers, “Tell me, Niklaus… what will you do if I don’t run this time?”

warnings: smut, 18+, Klaus being a munch, this is a heavy one

part I part II

The path winds like a silver wound through the woods, forgotten by time, remembered only by ghosts. Klaus walks it like a man spellbound, hunted by the echo of something he can no longer name. The night swells with silence again, broken only by the echo of her laugh—low, distant, taunting. A laugh not meant to mock, but to tempt.

He follows. Of course he does.

There are no stars above, only the sickle of a moon, veiled by drifting clouds. But he sees her anyway. Standing on the threshold of an old stone cottage veiled in ivy and moonlight. Her back is to him, but he knows every line, every breath, every ghost of a movement.

She doesn’t turn, even as he stops behind her.

“You led me here,” he rasps, his voice torn and scorched. “I’ve bled myself dry chasing ghosts, and still—you remain.”

"And yet," she replies, finally glancing back, her eyes molten in the dark, “you’re here.”

The door creaks open beneath her touch, and for a moment, she looks over her shoulder—not an invitation, but a challenge. Her lips curve. That same not quite a smile, not quite a secret.

Klaus doesn’t hesitate.

They’re barely through the door before it slams shut behind them. The air inside crackles with something electric, alive. Rain still clings to the windows, and a fire crackles faintly in the hearth, throwing their shadows wildly across the room.

"You never make it easy," he mutters as she walks ahead, slow, deliberate. Teasing.

"And you never make it boring," she tosses over her shoulder.

He catches her wrist again, spinning her around, but her smirk doesn’t falter. She stares at him like she knows every unspoken word trembling behind his teeth. And still, she waits for him to say it.

But Klaus isn’t made for patience tonight. Not after the hunt, the heat, the way she keeps slipping through his fingers like silk.

“You look at me like you want to be ruined,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence and rot. “So let me do it properly.”

His hand finds her face like a man blind in a dream—fingertips trembling against her jaw, tracing the path of something long-lost, long-craved.

His fingers brush her jaw like they’re reading scripture. “You’re not heaven. You’re not salvation,” he says. “You’re the altar I’ll burn on.”

There’s a tremor in the air between them now, thick as honey, sharp as glass. She steps into him, her hands pressed lightly to his chest, sliding up to his shoulders, then the back of his neck.

Her lips are close enough to brush his as she whispers, “Tell me, Niklaus… what will you do if I don’t run this time?”

He doesn’t answer. He just moves.

Lips crashing, breath stolen, hands lost in the desperate worship of touch. Her back hits the wall as laughter dances between kisses—soft, sharp, electric. He fumbles with the buttons of her coat, she with the collar of his shirt, both too caught in the storm to care for grace. His hands roam like he’s searching for the sacred—each touch a psalm, each sigh a prophecy.

“You’re impossible,” she gasps against his mouth.

“And you’re cruel,” he growls, nipping at her jaw. “But I’d still let you destroy me.”

She laughs again—hoarse, breathless, delighted. “You were doomed the moment you saw me,” she breathes. “And I’ve been burning ever since.”

The fire snarls higher in the hearth as they move—clumsy, desperate, divine. Shadows writhe on the walls like jealous gods. Her hand curls into his shirt as he lifts her into his arms, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, her fingers buried in his curls.

“This is sin,” she whispers.

“Then bless it,” he says.

His words break whatever fragile restraint had still held her back, and she surges forward, catching his lips, stealing his breath. There are no more secrets between them. No more games. No more walls.

She pulls away to breathe, her eyes meeting his—dark and wild and burning with the kind of want that makes his blood sing. Her gaze drifts lower, tracing his throat, the unbuttoned line of his chest, the curve of his mouth where her taste still lingers.

For a moment, neither of them moves. For a moment, it seems like the world holds its breath.

Then, his mouth curves. Slow. Sinful.

Hers follows.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a dare.

He takes a step forward, and she steps back—not in retreat, but in invitation. She leads him further into the room, until her spine meets the wooden edge of the table, the firelight flickering behind her, catching in the strands of her hair like flame.

He cages her in, one hand braced beside her head, the other finding her waist, thumb brushing over the curve of her hip like he’s memorizing her inch by inch. She tilts her head just slightly, baring her throat to him in a gesture that is half challenge, half surrender.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, lips ghosting along her jaw, “and I might forget how to be gentle.”

Her voice is a breath against his skin. “And what makes you think I want you to be?”

That’s all it takes.

His mouth finds hers again—deeper now, slower, like he means to savor every second of this unraveling. His fingers slide into her hair, tilting her head just so, and she melts into him, every barrier fallen. Her hands tug at his shirt, impatient, desperate, but still trembling slightly—still not quite believing this is real.

Klaus presses closer, the full heat of his body flush to hers, and the way she gasps into his kiss sets something alight in him. Her lips part under his, soft and wanting, and he takes—oh, how he takes—but gives just as fiercely.

She tangles her fingers in his curls, tugging until he growls against her mouth.

“You drive me mad,” he whispers, the words dragged from somewhere low and aching. “Utterly, beautifully mad.”

“And still,” she murmurs, lips grazing his cheek, “you keep coming back.”

“Always,” he promises, hands now at the hem of her blouse, slipping beneath. “Until you beg me not to.”

Her breath shudders. “What if I never do?”

His eyes darken, his restraint fraying. “Then I’ll never stop.”

His hands find skin—warm, soft, sinfully inviting—and she arches into his touch like it’s instinct, like her body already knows what her heart refuses to admit. Their mouths meet again, hungrier now, messier, full of teeth and tongues and heat.

She pulls him down with her, breathless, laughing softly against his lips as her back hits the table. His hand slides beneath her thigh, lifting, pressing, anchoring her to him as his name slips from her mouth—broken, reverent, aching.

He shudders. “Say that again.”

Her fingers trail over his stomach, up his chest, curling in his hair. Her smile is a wicked, tempting thing.

She whispers his name, and he kisses it away.

His fingers trail along her hip, over the waistband of her pants, the curve of her thigh. Her hands tighten in his hair, and her lips part beneath his—open, wanting, breathless.

She doesn’t have to speak. He hears her anyway.

Here, now, please

She writhes against him, his name still falling from her lips like a plea, and he aches for her.

His hands find the button of her pants, her gaze locked on his as his fingers dip just beneath the fabric. She arches up, a gasp catching in her throat, her eyes half-closed with wanting.

He wants to claim her—mind, body, soul—until even the stars remember her name

His hands hook into the waistband, and she lifts her hips to meet him, eyes never leaving his.

He tugs them lower, down her thighs, her knees, her calves, and drops them carelessly to the floor. His mouth finds hers again, his tongue sliding over her bottom lip, and her legs curl around his waist, pulling him closer.

He pulls back, just far enough to drink her in. She looks like a goddess, painted in firelight, hair a halo of curls, cheeks flushed, lips bruised and bitten and wanting.

His. All his.

He stares down at her like a man on the edge of a grave, reverent and ravenous. “You’ve always been the beginning of the end.”

A wicked smile curves his mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, he sinks to his knees.

Her breath leaves her in a rush. Her fingers curl into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He presses his mouth to the curve of her knee, teeth grazing her inner thigh, and she arches off the table. His hand slides up her leg, her calf resting on his shoulder, and he looks up to find her watching him with hooded eyes.

He meets her gaze, holds it. He wants her to see the truth.

His tongue traces patterns over her skin, his lips marking a path higher, and she writhes against the table. The hand still tangled in his curls tugs harder, and his groan reverberates against her, a broken prayer.

His mouth worships her like a man lost to hunger and heaven both—tongue slow, deliberate, cruel. Fingers slip inside her like secrets long buried, like sins spoken in the dark. She arches beneath him, a prayer and a curse all at once.

Her hips lift, helpless, like some ancient rite pulling her into the fire. His name tears from her throat—not a name, a summoning.

Her taste coats his mouth like wickedness—like war. He licks deeper, slower, as if dragging her down with him.

He doesn't hold back. Doesn't bother with patience. He just watches her, taking in every breath, every sigh, every arch and gasp and plea. Watches the way her hips lift to meet him, her spine curves off the table, her hands clench, searching for something, anything to ground her.

His hands find her waist, pressing her down, holding her still, and he drinks in the way she trembles beneath his touch. He knows she's close. He can see it in the way her lashes flutter, feel it in the way she strains against him, hear it in the way her breath hitches, her voice breaking.

She moans, not softly, not shyly, but like something holy cracking wide open.

His tongue is relentless, circling like temptation, teasing like fate with a cruel hand

He doesn't stop. He doesn't let her fall.

Her eyes fly open, wild and dark and full of fire, and a strangled laugh escapes her, sharp, hoarse, broken.

"Klaus..."

Please don't stop

"Niklaus please"

His hands tighten on her hips, fingers digging into her skin, and she doesn't hold back anymore.

Her eyes flutter shut like curtains before a storm, her body a symphony of surrender. His name breaks from her lips like a spell, unmaking her, remaking her in fire and trembling devotion.

His name. Just his name.

It builds like stormlight in her veins, something ancient rising to meet him. “Don’t stop,” she gasps—and he doesn’t. His tongue moves like punishment, like promise.

She trembles beneath him, not from exhaustion—but from the knowing. That nothing will ever touch her the way he does. That he is both ruin and resurrection.

He pulls back, and a breathless laugh falls from her lips.

"Well," she whispers, a smile in her voice. "That was..."

"I haven’t even started,” he whispers, his voice reverent, like a vow carved in fire.

His hands settle at her waist, her hips, and he lifts her easily, turning to press her back against the wall. Her legs wrap instinctively around him, and her smile widens as she meets his gaze.

"Impatient," she accuses.

"Always," he growls.

Her hand slides between them, and he groans, burying his face in her neck. She tugs lightly at his belt, the buttons of his jeans, and it's not long before they join her own discarded clothes on the floor.

When he enters her, it’s not gentle—it’s sacred desecration. Her gasp is not pain—it’s history repeating itself in blood and heat.

He moves like the breaking of something holy—slow, ruinous, steady as moonlight bleeding through stained glass. Each thrust burns into her bones, etching his name into places no one else will ever touch.

“I’ve waited lifetimes for this,” he growls, buried inside her like sin carved into bone.

She takes him in with a breathless arch, her body answering a question the universe has asked for centuries.

Her hand curls around the back of his neck, holding him close, and he doesn't hesitate. He doesn't pull away. His teeth graze her pulse, and her fingers clench in his hair, pulling harder.

He fucks her like he’s claiming something no man was ever meant to touch—like her body is both battleground and burial site.

Her eyes find his like mirrors of madness. He’s never known peace, only this—her breath caught beneath him, her body taking him like she was carved to bear his ruin.

"You're mine," he murmurs, kissing his way along her throat. "Mine."

Her hand lifts to his jaw, fingers splayed over his cheek. She's trembling again, her voice raw, wrecked. "Look at me."

He pulls back, just far enough for their eyes to meet, and everything slows. Everything stops.

"Yours," she breathes. "Only yours."

It's all he's ever wanted.

Her eyes never leave his as he kisses her, as his hips roll into hers, as his pace grows desperate, rough, almost painful. His name is a broken cry on her lips, and he swallows it whole. Her head falls back, and he buries his face in her neck, tasting her pulse, her skin, the salt and sweetness and fire.

“Say it,” he growls into her neck. “Say you were made for this—for me.”

Each thrust is a sentence, a command, a curse. He doesn’t move gently—he moves like prophecy tearing through skin.

“I was,” she breathes, nails carving down his back. “I was born a girl and died your sin.”

She falls apart beneath him like prophecy fulfilled. Her cries aren’t pleasure—they’re surrender. Her soul, breaking open, baptized in heat and hunger.

Her body shatters against him, a ruinous crescendo—like a cathedral collapsing in song.

She sobs his name into his shoulder, breathless and wrecked. It’s not prayer. It’s surrender.

“Yours,” she gasps. “Always yours.”

“Mine,” he growls, dragging her deeper. “Even in hell.”

He’s close—she can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath shatters against her collarbone. His grip tightens on her hips, bruising and desperate.

“God, you feel like—” He doesn’t finish. He chokes on it, teeth sinking into her neck like worship and war.

And then it happens—he spills into her with a broken sound that doesn’t sound like victory. It sounds like surrender. Like damnation laced with relief.

His whole body convulses, forehead pressed to hers, eyes squeezed shut. He moans her name like a vow—dragged from the pit of his soul and gasped into the open.

“Mine,” he whispers again. “Mine, even if the gods drag me into the dark for it.”

༊*·˚

They don’t speak. There are no words for this kind of ruin.

His hand finds her ribcage and stays there, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of her heart in case it ever stops again.

Like if it did, he’d know how to start it back up again with only his breath and the sound of her name.

She is quiet beneath him, utterly undone, the kind of still that comes only after storms—skin flushed, lips parted, hair tangled like a crown forged in fire and sweat.

He doesn’t move.

Not yet.

His body is still deep inside her, throbbing with the last pulses of his climax, twitching against the velvet ache of her walls. He can feel how wet they are, how raw, how warm. It’s a brand, not an embrace.

The mark of something unholy made holy by the fact that she let him do it. That she wanted him to.

A groan breaks from his chest, low and ruined. He presses his forehead to her temple, breathing her in like incense, like sin wrapped in skin and softness. His lips brush her hairline—then her cheek—then down to her throat, where he presses a kiss over the wild drum of her pulse.

"I'll never stop wanting this," he whispers, like a confession made at the gallows. "Even if it kills me. Especially if it does."

Her fingers twitch, sliding into his damp curls, curling at the nape of his neck. She pulls him closer, like she wants to carve him into her.

“You already died once,” she breathes. “So did I. Whatever this is—this ache, this madness—maybe it's all that's left of us.”

His hips shift just slightly, the motion dragging a broken gasp from her throat. Even now—after—he fits too perfectly, like something carved by fate and sharpened by fire.

A curse disguised as a man.

A vow made with teeth and tongue and thrust.

“I didn’t come here to love you,” she murmurs, her voice thin as silk and twice as dangerous. “I came to survive you.”

He laughs, ragged, against her throat. “And now?”

She closes her eyes. “Now I’ll burn with you.”

He’s moving again, slow and greedy, grinding deeper into the mess of her, his breath catching at the feel of it—all heat and slick and sorrow.

"You're still trembling," he says, voice husky, reverent. "And you're still inside me," she answers, with a wicked, breathless smile.

He groans again—less man than myth—and thrusts once, hard and deep. She chokes on a moan, clutching his back like she’s drowning in him.

"Again?" he whispers, like a dare, like a promise.

She nods.

And so he ruins her a second time—slower now, like he's memorizing a hymn, like he’s reading every part of her that no one else will ever touch again. This isn’t just lust. It’s devotion.

It’s grief. It’s the price for every lifetime he didn’t have her.

He makes love to her like the world already ended and she’s all that’s left. And when he comes again, it's quieter—no shout, no snarl, just a low, shattered breath against her collarbone, his body curling into hers like a vow.

A ruinous, eternal vow.

sooooo.....hah...what are we thinking?

taglist:

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@liataylorsversion

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

[thewertsearch]

During his penance, it was said the Sufferer's compassion for his people underwent a divine transformation, into limitless, burning rage.

I would expect nothing less. He might be a hero, but he’s still a Vantas.

It burned hotter than the irons shackling him to the imperial flogging jut, and redder than the blood soaking his Righteous Leggings.

You hear that, Karkat?

Those are holy garments that you’re wearing. Respect them.

When he was finally killed, his anger rung through the cosmos with his last breath. This Vast Expletive was his final sermon, and somewhere encoded in its wavelengths was the truth in his teachings, waiting to reveal itself to any who would inherit his burden.

Some day, the grand legacy of Karkat's bloodline will arrive in his heart – and if I’m not mistaken, it will arrive as the loudest FUCK that our boy has ever heard.

This is exactly the kind of awakening that Karkat deserves. 10/10.

His teachings would also persist through surviving disciples, but in hushed tones.

Redglare was born long after the Sufferer’s tale was censored out of existence, but these Pyropes are savvy girls. I'm sure the Neophyte was wise enough to question her planet’s bloody history, and sneaky enough to seek out like-minded compatriots under the Grand Highblood’s nose.

It seems like she even knew enough to predict the location of her own descendant’s hive, and gifted her a dragon that I’m willing to bet was kin to her own. An unsung hero of the previous age, for sure.

His following would dwindle to an obscure cult facing persecution for centuries.

Surely he’s not talking about Gamzee’s cult? Those clowns are all about the hemospectrum, and certainly wouldn’t heed the sermons of some bleeding-heart redblood.

Maybe the Juggalo cult is technically a splinter of Sufferism, but its founder’s message has been corrupted beyond all recognition, to suit the needs of those in power. We should all be thankful that such a disturbing concept has only been explored in fiction.

The Sufferer preached that after he passed, another Signless would come, heralding the end times for their planet. The Second Signless would continue his work, and lead his people to glory beyond this realm. The followers kept his teachings alive for ages, even as the uproar surrounding the movement subsided. By modern times, the Sufferer's scripture was little more than ancient superstition all but forgotten. Hardly the anathema of old. But the followers had already made their preparations in the shadows, and when the Second Signless finally came he would have a lusus to raise him and a sign to his name.

You hear that, Karkat? You were never really alone. If anything, you were the most loved troll in all of Alternian history – loved by trolls who would never meet you, but who worked for centuries to ensure that you’d be born safe.

That you’d have your Crabdad.

...alright, what if I just cried.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Hello and good morning/afternoon or evening wherever you are. I hope this isn’t a bother but can we have a doctor strange! Reader having to take down interdimensional threats like angstrom and mark variants before the time stream collapses ( kinda like spiderman long way from home. I love your work!)

A wise woman once said, “For a genius, nothing is more precious than failure.” 

For a doctor, there is no such thing as perfection–that’s why they call it “practicing medicine,” because there is always more to learn and there will always be something to improve.

Sadly, you were no longer a surgeon. Magic is the source of miracles, but even it is bound by destiny, and destiny states that you were meant to serve the world outside the operating room. Outside the realm considered “normal.” 

Being Sorcerer Supreme wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Sure, you could turn bullets into butterflies at the flick of a wrist, and yes, it’s nice being able to go anywhere without having to wait for the bus or sit still in an airplane next to a crying baby.

You prevented evil wizards from taking over the spirit and mortal world, stopped the sun from becoming a black hole more times than you can count, and outsmarted an interdimensional Eldritch abomination–

Blah blah blah. 

You missed the good old days, when you were just a student at the bottom of the food chain, when there was more to study, more to explore, more to learn. 

Humans are privileged in not having enough time to learn everything all at once. You were an unfortunate exception. With your astral projection, sleep was no longer something you worried about; while your physical form recuperated, your soul would devour all the books and ancient scriptures available. But now? You knew everything. Time is the enemy for mortal scholars, but what happens when time becomes your slave? 

The time stone has long been lost, but during the brief moments you had it, you bore witness to every branch from the tree of fate. Every probability, every parallel universe blooming with every choice made by everything and everyone in existence.

In one of those blossoms, a man named Angstrom Levy saw but a tiny fraction of eternity, and thought that he alone had unlocked the secret of the universe.

“Little fool,” you said, voice cold. 

He struggled against your binding spell but the golden strings around his neck, waist and limbs tightened in response.

“Don’t waste brain power trying to escape.” The spell that kept him in place also cut off the source of his teleportation. 

When he finally realized that there was no flaw to exploit in your ropes, he breathed out an angry “Who are you?” 

“Wow, you really tried to take over the multiverse without even knowing who I am? Very well–” You flipped your cape. “You are one of the chosen few to meet me in person. I am the Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts.”

“I have never heard of you.”

You laughed at his cheap attempts to insult you. “That’s all right. I’ve been around for so long that monsters have forgotten to fear me. Soon, you will be joining them.”

“Me? You’re punishing me? What about him–what about them?” He didn’t have to say a name. You knew exactly who he meant. And that person’s alternate selves were likely already killing each other in that wasteland dimension.  

“What about them?”

Angstrom was taken aback by your words. “Mark Grayson is nothing but a pest, a-a-a darkness that ruins everything–”

“Mark Grayson is the sole existence that’s keeping this world and all the other worlds alive.”

He looked at you like you were insane.

“You really don’t know anything, do you?” 

“Know what?”

You placed your palm over his eyes, white light flashing as you force-fed memories into his head. 

Angstrom screamed in agony.

You pulled back. “Now you know the truth.”

“No… it can’t be.”

“You’re supposed to be a smarter man than this, Angstrom, do not deny what has been placed in front of you.”

“No!” He wriggled, the binds suffocated him with each movement. “It can’t be! This world, me and him, you’re telling me… you’re telling me that every bad thing that has happened to us, every single choice we made was meaningless?!”

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘meaningless.’ You and everyone else here was born for a single purpose–” You smiled and said: “Entertainment.”

Golden threads wrapped around his mouth, stopping him from shouting once again. 

“The gods are cruel, aren’t they?” You whispered. “But there’s not much we can do about that.” 

You waved your hand and he was gone. 

Time to clean up his mess.

You cracked your knuckles and opened the last world he accessed with his powers.

It wasn’t a dying Earth, but a dying universe. Even if they flew out of the Milky Way they won’t be finding anything. 

When you appeared, two of them tried to attack you but your protection spells were quicker. 

“Now gentlemen, there is no need to be rough. I’m here to send you home.”

The Mark draped in black and yellow kept his fist on your shield. “You expect me to believe that? You’re with Angstrom, aren’t you? Where is he? I'm going to kill him!”

You didn’t say anything, merely watched as he tried punching you again. 

Another Mark with a veil joined him.

Idiots.

You snapped your fingers and your shields combined to a giant dome that pushed them back. “I’m not that little red-haired playmate of yours, it’s going to take a lot more than a few hits from a Viltrumite to break down my force fields.”

You waved your arm and they started floating against their will. Even with their smart atoms, they couldn’t fly away. 

The others regarded you with anger and suspicion. 

“Who…what are you?” The Mark wearing Omni-Man’s colors demanded.

“I’m the Sorcerer Supreme.”

There was a beat before he replied, “Who?”

Your eyebrow twitched. “Look, I already dealt with Angstrom, I came here to help you get back to your respective timelines out of the goodness of my heart, mind you.”

“How about you take us to Angstrom and we don’t beat the living shit out of you?” The guy with the awful haircut said.

“I don’t think you want that.”

“I think we do,” said the bald one. 

The Invincible with his whole head covered up stepped forward. “We don’t want to fight, so just surrender.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mohawk snorted. 

“Give up,” Omni-Invincible pointed his finger at you. “You are outnumbered.”

“Oh?” Your cape fluttered behind you. “Well, you are outclassed.” 

To call what happened next a “fight” would be an insult to the word. They fell like flies in a matter of seconds. 

You sent them to their realities and once again, the multiverse was safe from destruction. With a yawn, you went back home and watched a movie. 

A/N: I've never watched the Tom Holland Spiderman films and my knowledge about Dr. Strange is limited, but I didn't want to reject these requests cause they gave me a chance to write an OP reader. Once again, liberties were taken when I made this fic. (Y/n is also lowkey inspired by the unrivaled Madam Herta.)

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[nocturnewidow]

hi dovey !! i luv ur work , i was wondering if u could do kylo ren x reader ? im on my HANDS and knees begging bae , ty ilysm !! ur writing is so mwa mwa mwa kiss kiss <3

omg yes ofc !!

Black Star⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Kylo Ren x reader⋆˚࿔

content warning: smut + intimate themes !!

It starts with the silence of space. The kind that hums against the bones. He’s been gone for sixteen days, and the cold has made itself comfortable in your lungs.

He sends no transmissions. He never does. But something arrives a coded parcel hand delivered by a frightened officer who doesn’t dare look you in the eye. Inside,, lace, Midnight black, finer than breath, the kind of lingerie that belongs in a song. Agent Provocateur. His name isn’t on the card, but you know the handwriting like you know the tremble of his mouth when he says your name.

He doesn’t buy things. So this this offering wrapped in silk is a vow. A promise he’ll return.

And he does.

The door hisses open and there he is dripping starfire and shadow, robes still dusted in ash from some skirmish you don’t ask about. His gloves are off.

“Come here,” he says, voice like smoke, like ruin. You’re already moving before he speaks.

He doesn’t touch you like a man afraid of breaking something. He touches you like he’s already broken, and this you are the only thing holding him together. The lace is forgotten on the floor, but his mouth is reverent, his hands greedy. His words are not sweet. They’re honest.

“You think I forgot how you sound?” he mutters, nose against your throat. “I memorized your sighs like scripture.”

The lace doesn’t last long.

It was never about the garment it was about the ritual. About him seeing you in it, bare under the black, every curve he’s imagined under starlight, every place his hands have haunted in memory. He sits on the edge of the bed as you step out wearing nothing but that slip of shadowed silk and lace. His eyes, usually burning with fury, are wet with something quieter.

You straddle his lap and it feels like gravity bends around him. His hands slide up your thighs, slow, possessive, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again. One hand cups the back of your neck, the other rests on your hip, holding you steady.

“I thought of this,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “Every fucking night.”

You roll your hips slightly and he breathes through his teeth, hands tightening. He’s still in most of his robes, but his armor is gone left on the floor somewhere between the door and his need to feel you. You kiss him then, not a soft kiss but a slow, bruising one. The kind that says I missed you. I dreamed of you. I’m not letting go.

His mouth tastes like space dust and secrets. His teeth graze your lower lip, and he sighs like it hurts to stop. “You’re not allowed to leave this bed,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not until I say so.”

You smile against his jaw. “Who says I want to?”

He shifts, flips you underneath him like gravity itself betrayed you. The lace slips higher. His hand traces the garter strap, up to the line of your hip, over your ribs, like he’s memorizing topography. “You wore this for me,”he says, more to himself than to you.

“I always wear it for you.”

He hums. Like you just gave him something else to obsess over. He palms your thighs open and lowers himself, mouth dragging down your torso like a curse. He doesn’t rush. He studies. He lingers. His lips against your inner thigh, the dark rasp of facial stubble brushing lace, the heat of his breath right where you ache for him. His mouth moves slowly deliberately like worship. And it is.

The lace is pulled aside, ruined, and forgotten. He doesn’t stop until your thighs shake and your voice is hoarse. And even then, he kisses the inside of your knee like an apology.

You pull him up. Tug him out of what’s left of his robes. His body is carved and brutal, but he softens when you touch him—when your fingertips trace the lines of his chest, your lips follow. His eyes flutter closed. You guide him to you, and when he sinks inside, he gasps like he’s been gone a year and just found home.

It’s not rough. Not this time.

It’s intimate.

He fucks you slow. Deep. Like he’s trying to leave fingerprints on your soul. His forehead presses to yours, eyes open, watching. His thumb brushes your cheek. You kiss his palm. He whispers things between thrusts your name, his name, where he imagined touching you, what he dreamed of seeing. You tell him how cold the bed was without him. How the lace felt lonelier without his hands in it. How you didn’t want anyone else to ever see you like this.

He grits his teeth. “They won’t,” he snarls, suddenly savage. “They won’t even look.”

You tighten around him in response and he moans. The rhythm falters. You both fall apart seconds later, with his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid of hurting you, like you’re made of stars.

After, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just buries his face in your throat and breathes like he’s trying to memorize the scent of you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what that means, do you?”

“I do,” you whisper back, tracing lazy circles into his spine. “It means you’ll burn the galaxy for me.”

He laughs. Soft. Dangerous. “I already have.”

And when you fall asleep, tangled in fur and sweat and dark silk, he watches you like a god watches his last worshiper. ⋆˙⟡

[walalppper]

In the Sinners Land - Remmick x (Y/n)

Description: A remote chapel. A storm. A man who is not a man. When (Y/n) opens the door to a stranger soaked in rain and shadow, she knows something is wrong. But it’s not just the forest whispering anymore—it’s him. With a smile like a secret and eyes full of old sins, Remmick isn’t here to be saved. He’s here to collect. Warnings: Contains depictions of religious trauma, graphic violence and gore, implied sexual violence, supernatural and psychological horror, stalking behavior. Reader discretion is advised.

The chapel stood at the edge of the world.

Or at least, that’s how it felt to (Y/n).

Tucked miles away from the nearest whisper of civilization and buried deep within the gnarled bones of the forest, the crumbling church sat like a forgotten monument—its white paint peeled like old scabs, the bell tower bowed as if in shame, and ivy wrapped around its frame like veins around brittle knuckles. Her father used to call it “God’s land.”

But to (Y/n), it didn’t feel holy. It felt abandoned. Forgotten by heaven.

Remembered only by something darker.

She’d known that feeling since she was a child. The dreams had always come—slithering through sleep like smoke under a door. Dreams of trees whispering secrets in tongues older than time, of shadowed laughter, and a man standing just beyond her vision. He smiled like a wound. His eyes were slick and endless like spilled ink, and he always lingered at the edge—never speaking, never moving.

She never told her father. He was a preacher of hard truths and harder fists. A man with scripture in his mouth and judgment in his hands. There was no room for nightmares in his version of faith. No space for daughters who saw ghosts.

But lately, even the townsfolk had begun to murmur.

Not about dreams—no. About things worse.

Villages going silent overnight. Homes still warm, but empty. Livestock found hollowed and brittle, drained and curled in on themselves like forgotten fruit. The only things left behind were the smell of iron and the certainty that something had passed through.

They called it the devil.

A man cloaked in charm and tar. A voice sweet as honey and a heart blacker than pitch.

And he was coming.

When she asked her father about it, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up from the fire.

“He’s already come once,” he said, low and quiet. “And he’ll come again. That’s the nature of debt.”

(Y/n) didn’t understand.

Not then.

Not until the storm.

The sky split in two the night he arrived.

Lightning carved through the clouds like claws. Thunder rolled after it like distant war drums. Rain crashed against the chapel’s stained-glass windows, wild and relentless, as though trying to drown the light from within.

(Y/n) knelt by the hearth, coaxing the fire higher, her linen nightgown trailing like mist along the stone floor. Shadows stretched long across the worn wooden pews behind her. The smell of ash and damp filled the air.

Then—three knocks.

Slow. Heavy. Too calm.

She went still.

No one came this far. Not during a storm like this. Not unless they were desperate. Or sent.

Her hand hesitated over the iron latch. Her breath caught in her chest. She told herself not to answer. Told herself it was nothing. Just the wind. Just noise.

Then it came again.

Three more knocks.

Measured. Intentional. Confident.

She cracked the door open.

And there he was.

A man stood on the threshold, haloed by the storm. His coat clung to his broad frame, soaked and heavy, the hem dark with red clay. Rain sluiced down his curls, plastering them to his forehead. A satchel hung off one shoulder. His boots were thick with travel and time.

He looked like he’d been walking for miles. Or years.

But he didn’t look tired.

He looked certain.

What unsettled her most wasn’t the sight of him—it was the feeling. Like she was seeing something that didn’t belong to this world. Or any world. Something that knew her name, even if it hadn’t said it yet.

His eyes were dark. Gentle. Too gentle.

The kind of eyes that studied you like they’d already dreamed your ending.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, voice slow and warm, soaked in Southern ease but carrying something deeper—older. It curled through the air like incense. “Storm’s turned the road to hell itself. Thought I might ask for a little shelter. Just for the night.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t open the door any wider.

“You’re not from the village.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her grip on the door was white-knuckled.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, ma’am. Not anymore. But I’ve… seen this place before.”

He looked past her then—just briefly—into the chapel behind her. His gaze lingered on the walls, the fire, the pews—like he was remembering something. Or checking if something was still there.

It made her stomach turn.

“You been here before?”

His head tilted slightly.

“Not in any way that counts.”

That answer unsettled her more than a lie.

Rain surged harder. The trees groaned like something alive.

He shifted on his feet but didn’t step forward. He didn’t try to force his way in. He just waited—for her to decide.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he said, voice softer now, “if there was anywhere else nearby. But the storm’s not lettin’ up, and I’m soaked through. Thought I saw a light… figured it was worth knockin’.”

She didn’t open the door farther.

But she didn’t close it either.

His eyes searched hers—not pleading. Just watching. Knowing.

That was what made her skin crawl.

The way he looked at her like he already understood how she moved. How she’d say no—and still open the door anyway.

“You sure you’re not lost?” she asked quietly.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“No, darlin’. Not lost.” He tilted his head. “Not anymore.”

She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the storm howling behind him like it had teeth. Maybe it was something older. Deeper.

She let the door fall open. Just enough.

He stepped inside. "Thank you darlin' ." he said softly. (Y/n) only nodded, unsure why her throat had gone dry.

The rain didn’t follow him. The fire popped behind her as the air held its breath. He moved toward the hearth, the firelight catching on his wet coat and the faint gleam of something old beneath his shirt collar—something that looked like silver, or bone.

And (Y/n), standing alone in the doorway with the storm shrieking behind her, couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t let a man in.

She’d let something else in.

Something that had been waiting for this moment far longer than she could imagine.

He moved like something not entirely made of flesh—fluid, too quiet, too careful—casting shadows that didn’t quite follow the laws of light. His coat hung heavy on the hearth, water still steaming off it in curls, smelling of ash and distant storms.

(Y/n) watched him from across the room, arms folded over her chest. She didn’t sit, only came to fetch a mug of tea for the “guest”.

The fire popped in the hearth, casting long shadows across the chapel walls. Rain hissed against the stained glass. Outside, the wind screamed through the trees like something angry had been loosed.

Remmick sat with his back to the blaze, steam rising off his coat. His boots were still wet, dripping onto the stone floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held the mug she’d given him like it was something sacred—fingers long and pale wrapped around the chipped ceramic, the faint gleam of something bone-white glinting beneath his collar.

She hovered by the edge of the pews, arms folded tight over her chest, keeping her distance. Watching him.

“Quiet place,” Remmick said after a moment. His voice was smooth, low, like whiskey left out in a storm. “Smells the same. Cedar and ash. You burn lavender in here?”

She didn’t answer. He smiled a little. Not mockingly—just patient. “Your da always did like a little peace with his prayer. Still preaches, then?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s sick.”

“Ah.” Remmick gave a soft nod, almost respectful. “Shame, that.”

He sipped the drink, watching her over the rim. “But you’re tendin’ to things now, I reckon.”

“May I ask your name,” she said, ignoring that.

He smiled again, wider this time. “Remmick.”

“Just Remmick?”

“Just for you, love.”

She frowned. “That supposed to mean something?”

“Supposed to mean I’m bein’ honest,” he said, tone light but laced with something harder underneath. “Far as it goes.”

“You told me you’re not from the village.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You passing through?”

He hesitated. Just a beat. Then: “You could say that.”

She stepped closer, slowly. Her voice lowered. “You came from the woods. You weren’t passing anything.” Remmick chuckled, low and warm. “Ain’t you sharp. Thought I might ease into the truth a little gentler.”

“Try,” she said flatly.

He looked amused. Touched his heart with mock gravity. “Well, if you insist. I came knockin’, didn’t I? Brought no storm with me. I even said please.”

“You said ‘thank you.’”

“Manners all the same.” Silence stretched between them. The fire cracked again.

She took another step forward. “You’re stalling.”

He looked up at her then, really looked. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with a strange light flickering just behind them. The smile softened.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want?”

Remmick sighed and set the mug aside. He didn’t stand. Just leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely laced like a man about to deliver a sermon or a sentence.

“I came to collect a debt.”

Her stomach tightened. “What kind of debt?”

“Old kind,” he said gently. “Promised kind.”

Her voice turned sharp. “To my father?”

He tilted his head, gave a slow, almost fond nod. “Aye.”

She frowned. “He’s a preacher. What kind of business could a preacher have with a stranger like you?”

That got a soft chuckle out of him—low, amused, almost fond. “Oh, darlin’...”

“...a man can preach from sunup to sundown, wear the collar and call down heaven... but that don’t mean he don’t have debts. You know better’n that, don’t you?”

She said nothing, but her stomach curled tight.

Her throat tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

He leaned back in the chair, stretching his long limbs, fingers interlaced across his stomach like he had all the time in the world. “Ah,” he sighed. “But it’s the right kind of answer.”

“That’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re not even— He wouldn’t—”

Remmick’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “He would. He did.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.” She stared. The firelight danced across his face, catching on the curve of a silver chain around his throat. She hated how calm he sounded. Like this conversation was just part of a script he'd memorized long ago.

“What are you?”

The smile slipped from his face.

For one long second, his expression emptied. Not angry. Not smug. Just… quiet. Like something ancient inside him had turned its face away.

Then the smile returned—slower this time. Warmer. Almost sad.

“I’m a man who keeps his promises,” he said, the Southern lilt thicker now, the vowels dragging with old weight.

She studied him. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But it’s still true.” She stepped closer and finally sat across from him. Not close. But close enough to see the way his pupils didn’t quite move like human eyes should.

“You keep dodging.”

“And you keep askin’ questions that might make you lose sleep.”

She leaned forward. “I think you want me to ask.”

The smile froze. Just for a breath.

Then he picked up his cup again, turning it once in his hands. “You’re clever,” he said quietly. “He said you would be.”

“Who?”

He looked up. Straight at her.

“Your father.”

Her heart stuttered. Her mouth went dry.

“He told me you were strong. Stubborn. Faithful.” His voice softened. “Didn’t mention the fire in you, though. That... that part’s yours.”

She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t talk about me.”

“No,” Remmick said, shaking his head slowly. “He don’t talk much about anything anymore.”

The fire dipped. Or maybe just the light.

It felt like the room was listening.

“Why now?” she asked, her voice no louder than a breath. “Why come now?”

He watched her over the rim of his cup, his eyes darker than pitch. “Because,” he said, setting it down, “he’s not here.”

The weight of the words made her spine go cold.

“You waited until he was away.”

“No,” he murmured. He rose from the chair with slow, unhurried grace. “I waited until you were alone.”

She stood too, heart hammering.

“You’re not here for him,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Something old shifted behind his eyes.

She felt it in her bones. The dreams. The whispers. The name she never learned but always knew.

“You know me,” she said.

His gaze found hers and this time, it didn’t look away.

Not her name. Not her face.

Her.

He took a single step forward.

“I’ve known you since your first breath, love,” he said, voice like thunder behind silk. “Known you long before you learned to pray.”

She backed away.

“You’ve been waiting.”

“I’ve been patient,” he said, his accent thick now—Southern drawn through Irish peat and blood. “That’s a whole different sin.”

And with that, the fear bloomed. Fully. Awfully.

Like a mouth opening, almost like something ancient was calling her home.

She smartest thing she could do was turn around and run out the old door.

Branches clawed her skin, tearing the nightgown into ribbons. Mud sucked at her feet like hands dragging her down. Her lungs burned, throat raw from screaming—but there was no one to hear. No one left but him.

And he was coming.

Not fast.

Not yet.

The trees held their breath. The storm above howled—but the woods themselves were quiet, listening.

Hunting.

Somewhere behind her, a twig cracked. A sound so soft it might’ve been nothing—except her body knew better.

She bolted again, crashing through the undergrowth, slipping on wet leaves, skidding down a slope. Her bare knees slammed into rock. She gasped, blood slicking down her shin.

She didn’t stop, she couldn’t.

The chapel—her mind clung to it like salvation. A ruin now, but holy once. Her father’s sermons echoing through the rafters. If she could just make it there—

“Little dove…”

His voice floated through the storm. Gentle. Mocking.

“You know better than to run in the dark.”

She spun wildly, heart hammering. Nothing but trees. Fog curling like fingers around the trunks.

Then silence again.

"Hide. You have to hide." (Y/n) thought to herself.

She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling into the hollow beneath an old oak, body trembling, blood smearing the bark where her leg dragged behind her uselessly.

She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing.

Too loud. Too fast.

The rain fell in sheets. The thunder rolled on.

But then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Mud-slick boots crushing wet leaves just beyond the tree line.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Tuck yourself away.”

She froze. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t—

“I like a girl who makes me work for it.”

She whimpered, too quiet to be heard—she thought. But the footsteps stopped.

“There we are.”

A pause.

“Found you.”

The roots tore as he wrenched her from the hollow like a rabbit from its den. She kicked. Bit. Fought. Nails clawing his face.

He only laughed.

Not angry.

Thrilled.

She struck him hard as her elbow connecting with his jaw. His head snapped to the side.

But when he looked back, he was smiling.

“Ain’t you just full of fire.”

He shoved her against the tree. Her skull hit bark. Stars bloomed in her vision. The woods spun.

“I like that,” he said, voice low, his accent curling warm and wicked against her cheek. “Means your blood’ll be dancin’ when I take it.”

She tried to scream.

He silenced her with a hand, cold as marble, pressing over her mouth.

“Hush now,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the dead.”

And then he was carrying her.

She kicked and flailed, but he held her like something claimed. Dragged her through the trees until the broken chapel rose from the storm like a mausoleum.

He threw her down onto the stone floor.

She tried to crawl but her leg gave out. Blood pooled where her thigh was cut open. The wind screamed through the broken rafters.

He crouched beside her.

“Look at you.”

She didn’t.

He gripped her chin, forced her to face him.

His eyes glowed faint red—not bright, not cinematic. Faint. Smoldering. Like embers under ash.

“Do you know,” he murmured, brushing blood-matted hair from her temple, “what you look like right now?”

She sobbed, teeth chattering.

“Like an offering.”

He pressed her down.

Not fast nor violent, just a final show he was giving to no one but himself.

His weight crushed her against the cold stone. His breath ghosted over her collarbone.

“Please…” she whispered.

“Oh, dove’.” His smile was tender. “You were never gonna be saved.”

He pinned her wrists above her head. Fingers like iron. His body slotted over hers, deliberate, intimate, unbearable.

“You reek of faith,” he said, dragging his nose along her jaw, breathing her in. “Of prayer and purity and shame so thick I could drink it before I even touched you.”

She turned her face away. He leaned closer.

“And I ain’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Then his mouth opened, fangs bared, breath cold, lips brushed against her throat.

And he bit.

Pain exploded. She screamed, back arching, wrists twisting uselessly in his grip.

His growl vibrated through her ribs.

Blood poured into his mouth, and he moaned, slow and guttural—like he'd been starving for this. Like she was water after a century in the desert.

And maybe she was.

Because in that moment, he loved her—in his way.

Dark. Twisted. Ruinous.

He drank not for need, but for communion.

And he felt her soul with every pull. Innocence. Terror. Fury. Desire. It bled into him like wine into a white cloth. Permanent. Staining.

Pain bloomed—sharp, unbearable, intimate. Her back arched against him, a cry torn from her lips. He drank like a man possessed, growling low in his chest as her blood spilled down her shoulder, hot and wet.

Her head lolled. Her knees gave way.

Still, he held her close, cradled, like a lover might.

And when he pulled back, mouth slick with crimson, eyes heavy-lidded with dark hunger, he looked at her like she was divine.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent. “I could live inside you.”

He kissed the blood from her shoulder. Her throat. Her jaw. Lingering. Almost… adoring.

And then he lifted her.

Into his arms. Against his chest. Like she was already his.

“You ain’t dyin’.” His voice was soft now, but dangerous. “You’re comin’ with me.”

She tried to speak, but it was all too much pain, cold, the storm howling like wolves outside her skull.

He looked down at her as she shivered in his arms.

“You don’t get to die tonight, little dove.” He grinned, slow and blood-streaked. “You get to learn what it means to be kept.”

And then they were gone, swallowed by the night. The woods fell still.

And in the chapel, broken, empty and abandoned, the rain whispered secrets through the rafters.

Because heaven had never come for her.

And now, hell wouldn’t let her go.

Heyy, hope you enjoyed <3

[whizzing-fizzbee]

Emergency Contact

Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+, MDNI (smut, profanity), all characters are adults Words: 5,795 Tags: friends to strangers to lovers, post-Hogwarts, 2nd person POV

Summary: You haven't seen or heard from Sebastian Sallow in three years after a falling out splintered your friendship. But a sudden, urgent owl from St. Mungo's reveals he's been seriously injured, and you're still his emergency contact.

Notes: Just a random little one-shot I wrote in two parts so those who want to skip the smut can do so. Part I is plot. Part II is smut. Characters are post-Hogwarts adults.

Read on AO3 or both parts below the cut.

Part I

The moment your body was through the doorway, your shoulders slumped and your shoes were off.

Work had become particularly exhausting as of late. Most recently, your curse breaking career had led you to Albania, where you’d spent two weeks decoding a cursed chest of scriptures found in a coastal cove.

Now, all you could think about was how badly you wanted to crawl into bed and remain for three days. A quick glance at the clock told you it was nearly midnight, so you decided to forego dinner and get straight to sleep.

A brief hot shower and change of clothes and you nearly cartwheeled into bed, cozying beneath the covers until you sighed contentedly.

But as soon as you squeezed your eyes shut, a rapping against your bedroom window jolted you upright.

“Not now,” you groaned as you spotted a small brown owl hovering outside the glass. You begrudgingly hurled the covers off and pulled yourself out of bed to greet the unfamiliar visitor. 

You assumed it was your next work assignment, though you were supposed to have three days between them. But as you snapped the envelope’s seal, you recognized the official logo and letterhead of St. Mungo’s Hospital.

You quickly scanned the scribbles on the parchment, your ears ringing more with each word. 

The Ministry of Magic has your name listed on file as an emergency contact for Mr. Sebastian R. Sallow. 

We regret to inform you Mr. Sallow was injured while on a Ministry assignment this evening. Please see us at St. Mungo’s Hospital at your quickest and earliest convenience. 

Regards, Melinda J. Meadows, Lead Healer St. Mungo’s Hospital, London

Your eyes processed the letter much faster than your brain. But even after you read it no less than ten times, they lingered on one single line: Sebastian R. Sallow.

You hadn’t seen your former friend in three years. All you knew was he was an Auror. The fallout was still raw and real, a cloud of cruel memories that clung to you like smoke on your clothes. You both said things you didn’t mean. You exchanged unfair accusations and low blows meant to sting. But they inflicted much more than shallow wounds; they sank deep below your surface and rooted there, lingering even after all this time.

You blinked away your disbelief and snapped into action. Something terrible had happened to Sebastian, rendering your past differences meaningless. You needed to get to him immediately.

The air inside St. Mungo’s felt anything but still. The hospital’s corridors seemed to hum with an unsettling aura, as if pulsing the walls with life would balance out the death and dying happening inside them.

You approached the front reception desk with fear and confusion, unsure what you were about to learn. Your former friend was hurt, and you didn’t know how grave it was. You were scared for him, despite not having seen him in years.

You were also bewildered. How could you possibly still be Sebastian Sallow’s emergency contact? He clearly had forgotten to update his information since your falling out, but it surprised you. The ties you severed weren’t frayed; they were a clean cut, made with the sharpest knife of finality and reprehension. As far as you knew, Sebastian had no intentions of ever reentering your life.

“Excuse me,” you said feebly to the witch working the front desk. “I- I’m here to visit Sebastian Sallow.”

“Your relation to the patient?”

“Huh?”

“Are you a spouse or family member?”

“I… Neither. But I’m his emergency contact.”

“Let me check his records.”

You rocked back and forth between your heels and toes as you waited impatiently. You realized the hospital was cold and found yourself wishing you’d brought a jacket or sweater… then you felt foolish and guilty for thinking such a thing when your former friend may be gravely injured.

“Ah, I see. Here you are,” the receptionist said as she handed you a visitor badge. “You can go see him. Room 424.”

“Thank you.”

Your pace matched your rapid heartbeat as you hurried through the hospital and took the lift to the fourth floor. The room numbers climbed higher, and so did your pulse. You were about to see him again for the first time in three years. He surely wouldn’t be prepared to see you, nor were you ready to see him.

But you had to. You were apparently the only person he had.

Room 421, 422, 423… you paused as 424 came into view, lingering outside the room. The door was wide open but curtains surrounded the bed. You could see at least two healers inside, bustling about. 

Oh god, you couldn’t do this. How could you be expected to? You shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t your place, because you no longer had a place in this man’s life.

You closed your eyes and swallowed, willing yourself for a surge of courage. How could you possibly be such a fucking coward right now, when your old friend needed you? You were once a hero. You saved your entire school from a goblin rebellion. You’d freed numerous creatures from vicious poachers. You looked dark magic in the face on countless occasions. But you couldn’t look Sebastian Sallow in the face now.

You heaved a deep breath, your palms sweating as your feet finally shuffled forward toward the room. You lingered in the doorframe, your eyes scanning the room warily until one of the healers noticed your presence.

“Oh!” she said as she waved you to enter the room. “Are you Mrs. Sallow?”

“What? Oh, no. I’m his emergency contact, though.”

“Well, come in. I’m Healer McCartney,” she said with a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “I should prepare you, though. He’s in rough shape.”

You nodded. “What happened?”

“From what his colleagues said, sounds like he was hit with a combination of aggressive offensive spells – definitely Sectumsempra and Fiendfyre, and something else… some kind of hex that’s left some nasty scars and skin patterns. We don’t know what it was. He’s lost a lot of blood but he’ll survive,” Healer McCartney explained.

You breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t going to die. That was all you could ask for right now.

“Can… can I see him?” you finally asked. Healer McCartney nodded silently and reached for the curtain. She offered you a grim smile as she yanked the curtain backward.

Your breath caught in your throat. This wasn’t the same man you’d known three years ago. If it wasn’t for those familiar freckles, you’d wonder if you had the wrong room number.

But it was undeniably him. His brunette hair was shorter now, cut into a more refined style than the tousled mop you previously knew. He’d also bulked up a bit, his arms more muscular and his chest broader. He still had those long legs, though they were less lanky and much sturdier now.

He was unconscious and shirtless. You swallowed at the sight – his shirt had been cut away, discarded in a bloody heap on the floor. Bandages now wrapped his torso which was still smeared with blood. Black streaks snaked across his chest and shoulders like trails of smoke, evidence of the sinister hex that had struck him. 

“Sebastian,” you whispered breathlessly. Tears pooled in your eyes and you steeled yourself. This wasn’t how you wanted to be reunited.

“I’m going to go fetch the lead healer,” Healer McCartney said. “Wait here. She’ll need some information for you.”

You opened your mouth to tell her you couldn’t provide any information, that you didn’t really know this man anymore, but no words came out. You watched Healer McCartney scurry from the room and returned your gaze to Sebastian. He was breaking your heart all over again.

The end of your friendship damn near destroyed you three years prior. Sebastian lashed out at you over Anne’s treatment. St. Mungo’s was offering a clinical trial on a new experimental potion that might greatly reduce the symptoms of Anne’s curse, but the potential side effects were gruesome.

Anne had been apprehensive about the trial drug, so you sided with her, wanting to respect her wishes. Sebastian became frustrated and insisted there was nothing to lose.

“Nothing but your sister’s dignity,” you’d chided dryly. Sebastian unleashed a barrage of furious and hurtful words your way, and in defense, you hurled them right back. Soon, the argument was no longer about Anne. Years of suppressed declarations and tension erupted from you both, on the topic of everything from your romantic partners to the tragic events of your fifth year at Hogwarts.

The damage was irreversible and you walked out of Sebastian’s life, for what was intended to be for good. This was not supposed to be your reconciliation.

Healer McCartney soon returned with another woman, who introduced herself as Healer Meadows, the person who had owled you.

“Are you a relative?” she asked. You shook your head as you wondered how many times you’d have to tell people you weren’t a spouse or family member.

“I’m… just a friend,” you answered.

“You’re his emergency contact though, yes? You’re the one I owled?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me if he has any health conditions we should know about?”

“N- no? I don’t know.”

“Does he take any potions or medications?”

“I don’t know.”

Healer Meadows gazed at you with clear annoyance.

“Do you know his family medical history?”

“No, both his parents died when he was young. And his sister… she died about a year ago.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about him? Anything about his health we should know at all?”

“No,” you sighed. “Look, he and I haven’t been in contact for three years. I really don’t know what his health is like. As far as I know, he’s healthy.”

“But you were his emergency contact,” Healer Meadows repeated.

“Yes, I know. I’m guessing he forgot to update his information when we… dissolved our friendship.”

“I see.” 

“Sorry I can’t be of more help. I just really don’t know.”

“Well, thank you for coming,” Healer Meadows hummed as she turned to examine Sebastian. “We think he’ll make a full recovery. He’s just very weak now.”

“What about the hex?”

“It appears to be neurological,” Healer Meadows explained. “Meaning there may be some nerve damage. We won’t know until he’s awake and moves his appendages.” 

“But overall he’ll… he’ll be okay?”

Healer Meadows offered you a thin smile that was likely more of a grimace. “I don’t know,” she answered. “He’ll survive, yes, but we won’t know the extent of his injuries until he wakes up.”

“And when will that be?”

“We’ve given him a sleeping draught and some pain potion. I expect he’ll sleep through the remainder of the night. If you’d like to go home, I can owl you when he wakes up.”

“I’d like to stay,” you said much more forcefully than you’d intended. “If that’s allowed,” you added gently.

Healer Meadows nodded. “Very well,” she said, eyeing you up and down for a fleeting moment. “I’ll have Healer McCartney fetch you a blanket.”

It was nearly 2:00 in the morning by the time you settled into the bedside chair. It was anything but comfy but you weren’t planning on getting much sleep anyway. Once the healers had all cleared out of the room, you gazed at Sebastian in silence.

The tightness in your chest was painful, a menacing, constricting ache that worried you. You hoped you weren’t suffering from some sort of heart attack at the sight of Sebastian’s state, but you also were too worried about him to care.

A sliver of silver moonlight snuck through the wispy white window curtains, casting shadows over Sebastian’s face. You watched as his bare chest rose and fell with his breaths. It was a sight you once adored more than anything.

Your falling out with Sebastian fissured more than your friendship. It unraveled your heartstrings and stole the piece of your soul that was meant to be shared with another human being. You hadn’t been the same since.

You loved Sebastian, more than just friends or kindred spirits, as you called yourselves. You loved him like home; like a sip of hot cider on a chilly evening, or like the sound of the swaying trees when you sailed above them on your broomstick. You loved him passionately, fiercely and unconditionally, but you knew you had to love yourself more.

Because for all the brilliance and blaze that you saw in Sebastian Sallow, there was also a shell of a man, emptied by the cruel complexities of life. Dead parents by age 10, a dead uncle who had never wanted him to begin with, and a dead sister whose life had been cut short by a treacherous curse. Life drained Sebastian of much hope or happiness. Even his eternal optimism couldn’t surmount life’s lashings.

It made him angry and bitter. His temper was short and his moods were thunderstorms that sometimes lingered for weeks on end. His outlook on life became futile. It dragged you down until you also felt his despair, and when he launched harsh, irrevocable words at you, you decided you had to let him go in order to save yourself.

You didn’t want to give up on him. You had been the only one who supported him through everything. But you couldn’t keep killing yourself for a man who couldn’t even see how much you loved him.

“Oh Sebastian,” you whispered as you continued to watch him sleep. “Please, be okay. I still need you.”

By 4 a.m., you finally fell asleep.

---

You startled the following morning at the sound of Healer Meadows bustling around the room. You straightened in your chair and squeezed your eyes open and shut to pull the room into focus. When everything became clear, you froze.

He was awake. He was awake and he was staring at you.

“Sebastian,” you breathed as you scrambled to your feet.

“You’re here,” he croaked.

“Of course, I am. I mean, you still had me listed as your emergency contact, so…” your voice trailed off, unsure how to continue.

“Oh,” Sebastian managed. “Sorry. I guess I forgot to change that.”

“It’s okay,” you said reassuringly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell.”

“You look like it, too.”

“Thanks.”

You couldn’t help but crack the faintest smile. Your guard was up but your nerves were starting to melt. He was awake. He was alive. And he wasn't lashing out at you.

A blanket had been tossed over Sebastian, but you could see his bare shoulder, still covered with the hex’s claw marks.

“Your shoulder,” you whispered “Can you move it? Can you feel anything?”

Sebastian nodded. “I can,” he said slowly. “But it burns. When I move, it feels like there’s fire coursing down my arm.”

“We think our alchemists can concoct a cure,” Healer Meadows chimed in. “It’ll take nearly a week, but we’re hopeful.”

Your tense shoulders relaxed at the news. “That’s brilliant,” you breathed. “Thank Merlin.”

Healer Meadows left the room and you could feel Sebastian’s eyes burning into the side of your head. When you finally turned to meet his gaze, his expression remained unchanged.

“Why did you come here?” he asked quietly.

“Because they sent for me,” you answered. It wasn’t the entire truth, of course. You came because you always would, even when Sebastian didn’t want you there.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” you replied softly. “But… I had to make sure you were okay.”

The gates of defense were open now. You were both inviting one another in, with cautious optimism that your past could remain in unspoken territory.

“Well, thank you,” Sebastian said. “I appreciate it.”

But before you crossed that threshold, before you could step back into Sebastian’s life or allow him to do the same, you had to be sure.

“Do you… do you want me to go?” you asked carefully. The answer might kill you.

“No… not unless you want to,” Sebastian said. You could see the familiar traces of vulnerability in his eyes that were once reserved only for you. Everyone else saw Sebastian’s hardened exterior, but you had once peeled back the layers for a glimpse at the softness beneath.

“I can stay,” you said gently. “As long as you want me to.”

And so, you did stay. You stayed as the healers came and went. You stayed as Sebastian’s colleagues came to check on him. You stayed as you shared updates on your lives, swapping stories about your work adventures. You told him about the cursed objects you’d encountered during your travels while he recalled the duel with a cabal of dark wizards that had landed him in that hospital bed.

You stayed with Sebastian, but you had no idea you’d never actually leave again.  

---

Five days after Sebastian’s admittance to St. Mungo’s, you found yourself lounging lazily in that same bedside chair. It was like nothing had ever happened.

The two of you joked and teased, laughed about old memories and dipped your toes into nostalgic moments you’d shared. The sharp words you once swapped were cast away and replaced with new declarations of a renewed friendship. You were so happy, you practically skipped through the halls of St. Mungo’s when you came to visit each morning.

This day was particularly exciting, because the potion to heal Sebastian’s shoulder was set to be complete. They’d keep him for another night to monitor the potion’s progress, and then he’d be sent home.

You learned he didn’t live far away from you, in a flat two neighborhoods over. You also learned he lived alone, no romantic partners or other responsibilities. 

But you also learned that Sebastian had become a recluse since Anne’s death. When his colleagues came to visit, you spent some time catching up with Everett Clopton as Sebastian slept. Everett was also an auror, and he confided that Anne’s death had dragged Sebastian downward to an alarming, dark place. It left him reckless and impulsive, a familiar version of himself you’d seen your fifth year. You didn’t abandon him then, and you decided you wouldn’t do that now. Sebastian needed someone, and you wanted so badly for it to be you.

“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Sebastian groaned as you beat him at another round of chess.

“I don’t think a change of scenery is going to change the result of these chess matches,” you mused. “I’ll still kick your ass.”

“So you’re still going to come around once I’m out of here?”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed. You hadn’t discussed the nature of your friendship now. What if Sebastian was merely using you for entertainment while he was stuck in the hospital? He’d used and manipulated you in the past, back before you became close friends. Could he do it again, even in spite of your history together? “Well, only if you still want to hang out,” you said shyly.

Sebastian snorted, his arms folded across his chest. “Of course, I do,” he said. “I’m not going to spoil our second chance.”

Your mouth became dry instantly, unsure of how to respond to such a declaration. It moved you. It made you want to clap and squeal, or fling yourself onto the bed to hug him. You were back in each other’s lives, but more importantly, you were both committed to staying there.

“In all seriousness,” Sebastian said as he eyed you with a soft sincerity. “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for everything you’ve done here… and how sorry I am for everything I did in the past.”

“Sebastian-”

“I mean it,” he continued. “Life’s been miserable without you and I’ve wanted to make amends for years, but I was tired of tainting you with all my darkness.”

“Maybe I just wanted to be the light to that darkness,” you said softly. “Seb, I’m always here for you. Life’s been cruel to you, but you don’t have to face it alone.”

“I know,” he said, swallowing as if he was becoming emotional. “I know that now. And I swear to you, I won’t fuck it up. You’ve always meant the most to me.”

You smiled and reached for his hand, the first time you’d done so since the day Sebastian arrived at the hospital. You squeezed his hand and he held yours until the healers arrived with the potion.

---

There was an extra pep in your step the following morning. The potion had worked, meaning Sebastian would finally be released from St. Mungo’s. You were going to meet him there and accompany him back to his flat to make sure he had everything he needed.

You’d also put a little extra effort into your appearance that morning. Your hair cascaded over your shoulders in soft curls and you put on your favorite dress and perfume. 

It’s not that you’d expected anything to happen with Sebastian. The two of you were merely friends again, and you’d told yourself you were okay with that. Simply having Sebastian back in your life was enough. Still, you wanted to look pretty.

Your shoes clacked against the marble floors of St. Mungo’s as you made a beeline for room 424. You’d been there so many times that week, you could walk that route with your eyes closed. But when you reached the door, you stopped dead in your tracks.

The room was empty and the bed was vacant, its linens stripped completely. You caught Healer Meadows in the corridor from the corner of your eye and hustled after her.

“Healer Meadows, where’s Sebastian?”

She turned to look at you in confusion. “He was released first thing this morning,” she said. “Surely you knew that.”

“I only knew he’d be released today,” you replied. “I… I thought I was supposed to meet him here.”

“He was awfully eager to get home,” Healer Meadows said with a shrug. “Perhaps try there.”

But you didn’t go there after you left the hospital. Your insecurity reared its ugly head, suffocating all of your logic and reasoning. 

What if Sebastian lied? Maybe he didn’t actually intend on maintaining your friendship. Maybe he changed his mind and decided you weren’t worth the time and effort. Maybe you simply didn’t mean that much to him.

So you headed home, walking instead of apparating to clear your head. But by the time you reached the front door to your townhome, tears had stained your cheeks. They blurred your vision so much, you didn’t notice the figure sitting on your front steps.

“Sebastian?” you whispered as you stopped. “You’re here.”

Sebastian scrambled to his feet. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he admitted. “They released me from the hospital first thing, but I didn’t want to wait around for you to arrive. I was hoping you’d still be here by the time I arrived.”

“Oh,” you said stupidly. “I just left the hospital.”

“I figured,” he said as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry for making you make the trip.”

“It’s fine,” you said as you breathed a soft laugh. “Do you want to come inside?”

“I’d love that.”

Sebastian followed you quietly as you unlocked and entered your townhome. You could hear his footsteps behind you as you led him into the living room, and you smiled to yourself as you realized his tread sounded the same as it had years ago.

“Nice place,” he mused as his gaze drifted around your home.

“Thank you.”

You were met with a mutual silence that made you avert your own gaze. Finally, you cleared your throat as you kicked off your shoes. “Can… can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Oh. Er, sure,” Sebastian answered. 

“Tea?”

“That’d be nice.”

He followed you to the kitchen, where you put on a tea kettle. 

“So would you like me to come over later?” you asked casually as you gathered a pair of tea mugs from a cabinet. “I can help you get settled back into your flat.”

“I was only out a week,” Sebastian chuckled.

“I know. But it’s been a hell of a week.”

“Too true. But I’m not too worried about it. I’m in no rush to get back there… unless you want to get rid of me, of course.”

“Not yet,” you quipped. “But ask me again later.”

Sebastian smiled at you, and there was something about the way his eyes seemed to call to you that made your stomach flip.

“Well, I’d like to stick around as long as you’ll let me,” Sebastian continued.

“Seb, you just spent an entire week with me. Aren’t you sick of me?”

“On the contrary, it’s not been enough.”

Sebastian took a step toward you. His eyes seemed to cling to every one of your features, and you were certain he could hear your heart hammering in your chest. “Oh,” you said blankly, begging your face to stop flushing.

Everything unfolded in slow motion, yet all at once. Sebastian reached for you, a hand cupping the side of your face. You held your breath as he leaned in, slowly, slowly, much too slowly, until his lips were pressed against yours. It was soft and sweet, but you didn’t want it to remain that way.

You answered with eight years of desperate desire. You clutched the front of his shirt and pulled him harder against your lips until he had to hold your waist to steady you both.

Your lips moved in sync until your tongues battled. It was a perfect duel that left you both panting for air.

Sebastian smirked. “Sick of me yet?”

“Oh, shut up.”

You yanked him into another kiss that set your new status in motion. You were no longer friends. Now, you were exactly who you were meant to be. 

Part II (Smut warning)

You don’t know how long you stood there in your kitchen with your arms draped around Sebastian’s neck as you kissed him, but soon, you found yourself sitting on the ledge of the counter with your legs draped around his torso.

Your brain surged with dopamine while your core surged with arousal. Sebastian’s lips attacked your neck, his hands skimming over the tops of your thighs, as your head dipped backward against a cabinet.

Your eyes clung to Sebastian as you watched him slip his sweater over his head. He was quick to notice the way your gaze shifted from lust to concern. You couldn’t help it. The hex had left streaks across his shoulder, angry and red. They looked painful, though Sebastian had insisted he didn’t feel a thing. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he watched you study the imperfections across his skin, his eyes wide with concern. “Does it bother you?”

“What?” you breathed. “Sebastian, no. It doesn’t bother me. It just-” Your voice cracked. “It just stirs up a lot of emotion. I’m sorry. I just… seeing you like that in that hospital bed, thinking you might not recover – that we might not recover – it just makes me emotional.”

Sebastian smiled kindly and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “But we’re here now,” he said softly. “And we will recover. You understand that, right? You and I… it’s different this time because we aren’t holding anything back.”

You nodded silently in response and he leaned in to kiss you again. You could feel his lips forming a smile against yours. It reassured you more than words ever could.

Sebastian’s hands drifted to the small of your back, pulling you closer to the counter’s ledge, closer to him. Your thighs instinctively squeezed tighter around his waist until he was lifting you away from the counter.

He whisked you from the kitchen toward the corridor, where he paused to kiss you. “Where to?” he murmured.

“Last door on the left.”

He couldn’t walk fast enough. By the time he ventured into your bedroom and dropped you gently onto the bed, your skin was hot and your brain was buzzing. A mere week ago, you were returning home to this bed set to fall asleep alone. Sebastian hadn’t been in your life and you thought you were content with ignoring his existence.

Now, after everything that transpired, you couldn’t let him go again if you wanted. 

Sebastian crawled on top of you, his legs flanking your waist as he placed sweet, gentle kisses along your neck. His hand roamed downward over the curve of your waistline and beneath the hem of your dress. You could feel it skimming your skin until it reached your hip.

“Help me take this off,” you whispered. He helped you shimmy out of your dress and you watched him toss it aside to the floor. Sebastian stilled as he gazed downward at you, his eyes drinking in your bare chest. You, too, had scars and scrapes, battle wounds from all the dark wizards and goblins of your past.

“You’re so beautiful,” Sebastian breathed.

You reached a hand for his shoulder, your thumb tracing gently over the red trails that snaked across his flesh. “So are you.”

Sebastian smiled in understanding and returned his lips to your neck, planting a path of kisses to your shoulders before he found your breasts. You sucked in a sharp breath at the warmth of his tongue over your nipple while his hand squeezed the bump of your hip bone.

As your impatience mounted, you fiddled with the belt of Sebastian’s trousers until it clanked open. You immediately missed the warmth of his body as he fidgeted to kick them off with his briefs, leaving you to face his erection.

You tried to temper your breathing, scared the rise and fall of your chest was exposing your nerves. But as Sebastian leaned in to kiss you again, you became too turned on to care.

You shifted beneath him as the ache in your core demanded attention. Sebastian felt the way your hips rocked and smirked. You watched him with heavy eyelids as he peeled your panties down past your ankles, exposing every inch of your flesh to him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed as he stared. He positioned himself between your knees until your legs were draped over his shoulders and his tongue was swiping over your slit. You whimpered at his touch.

Your eyes nearly rolled back into your head as his tongue flattened against your clit, nudging at it until your high-pitched whines became breathy moans. Sebastian’s hands explored your body while your own fingers became tangled in his hair. You squirmed beneath him, each panting breath signaling your impending climax.

More, more, more. That’s what you wanted to scream, but your brain remained unable to form words. Instead, your body responded for you, your hips jutting upward until Sebastian’s tongue met you with more force.

You cried out as your legs went rigid, arching your back off the mattress as the force inside you crumbled, sending pulses through your cunt. Sebastian’s tongue continued its assault on your entrance until you whined in protest, your legs slackening and your clit too sensitive for more.

But still, you wanted more. Your pulse raced as you watched Sebastian crawl toward you, his erection bobbing between your thighs. You were still panting in recovery from your climax, but as the tip of Sebastian’s cock pressed against your soaked entrance, you held your breath.

You could swear you felt every ridge as it sank slowly inside you, parting your walls as they stretched around him. Sebastian smiled at you as your chest heaved.

“Relax,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”

You willed the tension to leave your shoulders as you allowed Sebastian to enter you fully. The delicious pressure enveloped your entire body, sending your nerve endings into overdrive. You couldn’t help but squeeze your cunt tighter around him, drawing a groan from Sebastian.

He rocked his hips forward and you moaned. Heaven couldn’t feel this good and hell couldn’t feel this hot. You squeezed your eyes shut as you focused on the friction within your core as Sebastian’s shaft dragged across your walls and his tip pressed into the deepest part of you.

Your fingers sank into his shoulder, leaving tiny crescent nail divots among his scars. If he felt them, he said nothing. Instead, he grit his teeth at your tight heat, his cock nudging you closer to the edge with each snap of his hips.

Sebastian was torn. The sight of your folds swallowing his cock was beyond anything he’d imagined, a vision he wanted burned into his mind forever. But he also felt a desperate longing to be close to you. He wanted to shower your face and lips with kisses while he whispered passionate prose in your ear.

“Seb, please,” you breathed, your eyes still closed tight. “Please.”

The way you begged, the way your flushed face strained in desperation and the way your slickness coated his cock, sent Sebastian into a determined frenzy set on feeling you fall apart for him.

His fingers sank hard into your hips as he drove himself into you, pulling your body toward him with each thrust, leaving the bedsheets clinging to the corners for dear life. You unleashed a series of moans, his cock driving you closer and closer to your peak. 

You were desperate to lose control around him, and as you could feel the heat mounting, you waited. The timing had to be right. Finally, as Sebastian’s cock prodded your sweet spot, you forced an exhale until your body relaxed. It sent searing spasms across through your muscles and nerve endings, causing your thighs to quake. Your hips rose upward and you wailed as your walls convulsed hard, surging your climax around Sebastian’s cock. 

He swore at the sensation and tumbled over the edge after you, his own back arching as he slammed inside you for the final time, grunting your name as he spilled himself.

He collapsed next to you, sharing the heat from his body with your skin. You rested your head against his chest, your eyes closing as you caught your breath and let your hazy head recover. The room was quiet. You liked it that way; not because you didn’t want to hear Sebastian speak, but because you wanted to relax into the peaceful scene and commit it to memory.

“One thing,” Sebastian finally said as he lazily played with your hair. “Do you want me to remove you as my emergency contact with the Ministry? I will if you want me to.”

Your tired eyes cracked open with a smile. “Whatever for?” you asked. “I can’t imagine anyone else is going to give you this kind of treatment.”

[sbeep]

Ok ok ok, who is Dawn, the tiefling? Can we get some history on them? I hope I'm not misunderstanding. Love your work!

No misunderstanding, you got it! Dawn is my paladin of Lathander OC, originally made for a pathfinder game that didn't pan out but as all rivers flow to the sea, my fantasy characters inevitably end up with a D&D/Forgotten Realms incarnation.

He's an Asmodeus-bloodline tiefling who was abandoned as a baby on the steps of a Lathander temple, the House of the Morning, and the clerics there took it as a great omen and portent that they had been delivered the blood of their enemy to strike back against the forces of evil~~. As such, they named the baby in the light of Lathander and raised him to be The Unbridled Glory of the Dawn.

Educated, trained, and conditioned to uphold Lathander's righteousness from the moment he could hold up a training sword, a huge amount of responsibilty and purpose was placed on Dawn's shoulders. He was raised to thank Lathander every morning that he had been delivered into the light instead of the infernal pits of 'his father's house'.

He and Evaric were squires together at the House of the Morning in Cormyr and they grew to be the best of friends. The companionship was one of the few personal outlets Dawn had in his youth even if he was subject to much stricter tenets than his human friend. Every moment of Dawn's life has been planned out and ordained in stone and scripture as the fire that overcome evil's flames.

With his identity so interwoven with the church, when Evaric left Cormyr it was a deep and personal blow to Dawn. It set him up with a view that his life and destiny was going to be a very lonely one, and he should take as much joy in Lathander's good works as he can.

Dawn is good at fighting, protecting, every bit the fairytale paladin and capable of being that destined sword to strike the forces of evil, but he would so much prefer to minister weddings, care for parents and babies as they're born, or simply walk through a festival of the arts sponsored by the church. But there's always some enemy of good to strike down, and he'll do it so others don't have to.

Tidbits:

Dawn's horns were shaped by the clerics to grow into the shape of a rising sun. The process stunted them and they will never grown longer.

Dawn paints beautifully. He loves to illustrate and illuminate new poems and stories.

His ideal profession would be as a midwife, because medicine and Lathander's dogma of new beginnings and rebirth are where he's found most comfort.

He is one of the happiest and most optimistic characters in my little D&D collection. He has a place, a purpose and meaning to his life that he cherishes (even if he doesn't cherish how many people and prophecies try to tell him how to live it.)

Dawn can be driven to the point of obsession when he knows something needs to be put right or anything needs to get done. You need a fearsome charisma roll to convince him to back down.

He holds the title of Morninglord in the Order of the Aster.

There is a statue of Dawn within the House of the Morning that he always remembers being there, but no one has ever told him if it was made before his birth or after it.

[yuebinnie]

Proverbs 5:19

☾ Pairing : Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) x Fem!Reader

☆ Warnings : mdni. Priest!Alastor, implied chubby!reader, noncanon Alastor, dubcon, coercion, blasphemy, abuse of authority, blood kink, blood drinking, squirting, multiple orgasms, fingering (f receiving), cunnulingus, catholic prayers used in a sexual context, scriptures used to coerce, cum eating, size kink, loss of virginity (implied, not talked about), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, literally just smut

☾ WC : 9.8k

☆ A/N : Taking a break from Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea to write Alastor smut ^^ This contains heavy Christian imagery, so if it's something you are uncomfortable with, this fic might not be for you! I really enjoyed writing this; it's my first time writing smut for Alastor, so hopefully I do not disappoint you all. I also posted the fic on AO3, if you'd prefer reading there. Have fun!

There was something about going to church that felt incredibly soothing. The deafening silence every time you walked in during the early hours of the day, steps echoing against the painted ceiling and colourful rose window, the shadows dancing behind the burning wicks of the candles set on each side of the main aisle, the smell of dust dancing in the air like a reminder of how desolate the people who came to visit truly were. You had not always been religious, but you had found peace in believing that there was a divine truth, that being good in this life would give you eternal bliss.

The church was a small one, and an old one; how it was still standing you had no idea. It was annexed to a small decrepit churchyard with moss-covered headstones that dated from at least two centuries ago. To any passersby, it'd be believed to be abandoned, as the outside of the building was quite literally falling apart, the bricks slowly eroding and the tiles covering the roof covered with the same moss as the headstones. The exterior appearance did not matter however, only the inside did; that's where God resided after all.

Despite its age, the inside and of the church was well kept. Yes, the rose window was cracked, and, as an attempt to keep the place as pure as possible, electricity had never been installed. The candles did the job of keeping the inside lit, and as for the temperature, well, dressing warmly was mandatory during the colder months of the year. The benches were old and the varnish that had once covered them was long gone; dents and chips could be found here and there, but they were still sturdy. The altar was small and simple, a wooden thing settled on a small stage that hovered only a few inches above the floor. Near the entrance sat a confessional which reeked of mould, but in the absolute presence of God, the smell was easily forgotten.

You had a habit of going to pray most days when you were not bedridden from the exhaustion of spending the night reading your favourite verses. 5 AM; the perfect time to pray, just as the world welcomed the sun's warmth and light. Very rarely did you meet anyone else; it had happened a few times, mostly old people nearing death coming to ask for absolution for their sins. Otherwise, the only person you had seen was the priest, whom you only had spoken to once or twice. He would look at you while you kneeled and mumbled prayers and verses, a smile plastered on his face.

It was the only downside of it all, that unsettling presence. The priest, a handsome man you had apologized to God for finding attractive, was always smiling. It was a bone-chilling sight; it made you feel as though he could see right through you, like he had access to every single thought that cluttered the inside of your mind. He had asked for your name once and had told you to have a 'delightful rest of the day'. That day had turned out to be horrible, as you had learned your grandmother was diagnosed with stage four cancer and only had a few months left. You had prayed for her, but God had decided to take her, nonetheless. Your subconscious had linked the priest's words as a direct cause of your grandmother's tragic diagnosis, and you had tried your best to avoid talking to him ever since.

When you woke up that morning, sweaty and feeling stickiness between your thighs, you felt sick to your stomach remembering the dreams that had plagued your mind in your slumber. A faceless man, dragging his lips down your stomach, his fingers touching your body in a way that was so sinful; the only logical explanation was that you had been visited by an incubus, an agent of evil. God was testing you, letting evil reach you to see if you'd be as faithful as Job or if you'd succumb to sin like Eve had. You cleaned yourself and changed your nightgown to proper clothes, putting a slightly warm coat on before leaving your house.

The sun had not yet started to show itself, and a thick fog floated above the quiet streets. The sky was covered with grey clouds that seemed to hang low, you wondered if you could touch them if you reached up, but your mind was too preoccupied with your predicament to try and touch something so close to Heaven. Mind running faster than a hare trying to escape a wolf, you tried to convince yourself simple prayers would do, but a loud voice kept coming back, telling you this could only be forgiven by confessing. The thought of having to talk to the priest whom you had convinced yourself was the catalyst of your grandmother's death made you want to cry, but the thought of failing God and disappointing Him was far more upsetting. You reached the church as the first rays of light made the dew covering the Earth glisten, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Your eyes fell upon the priest, who was bent down in the middle of the aisle, a long match in his hand as he lit the candles up. You froze, your eyes running across his shoulders and back. The door closed loudly behind you, and you jumped; the man's head snapped in your direction, his smile growing when he saw who had just walked in.

"You are quite early today, my dear," the priest stated simply, his focus going back to the unlit candles that still begged to melt under the burning flames. "Luckily enough, our Creator does not sleep; we're under scrutiny every second of our time on this earth."

You gulped at the words, the implications they held. You crept closer to the man, fidgeting as you thought of what to say. You let out a small quiet sigh, biting down your bottom lip as you stopped and stood a few feet away from him. The man straightened up and turned in your direction, his head tilted to the left as his gaze travelled across your face, "Oh my, whatever has you this upset?"

Your cheeks flushed as your eyes shifted from his eyes to the floor, the shame of what you had yet to confess weighing down your shoulders like the cross your Saviour had carried through heat and pain. You felt tiny, the priest towering over you; he had to be close to two feet taller than you. Had this been how Lucifer felt when he was at last pushed to meet his fate in the depths, a force greater than all administrating the final judgment? Sinfully powerless, a mere weak being? Tears gathered at your lower lash lines as you spoke, oh so quietly, your voice like the echo of an echo, "Father, I have sinned."

Seconds passed, silent ones, before the man hummed and walked past you, making his way to the front of the church. You twirled around, your eyes landing on where the priest now stood, in front of the old rotting confessional. You gulped, nodding to no one in particular before slowly making your way to the man who was stepping into the booth, the door closing behind him. You did the same, slowly closing the door after giving the empty church one last look, your eyes lingering a few seconds on the nailed Christ resting behind the altar, seemingly judging you.

You sat down, cringing at the creaking of the wood beneath your weight. The grille was pulled up, the silhouette of the man on the other side vaguely distinguishable. You took a deep breath, then spoke softly as you brought your right hand to your forehead, the gesture almost instinctual, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." You put your hand on your thigh, staring at the unmoving priest, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is.... too much time, since my last confession. I am a university student, in my last year to obtain a bachelor's degree." A low hum was heard, and you shifted in your seat, trying to find the exact words for your confession.

"Father, something terrible happened last night. In my weakened sleeping state, evil befell me. I was plagued with sinful dreams. You must understand, I am thoroughly devoted to Christ and our Lord, never have I let a man, or anyone, disgrace the body I was given; never have I had thoughts or dreams of this kind. I fear my will is not strong enough, that this evil shall come back and torment me. I fear I will fall into sin, just as our first predecessors did. I am nothing but willing, Father, so please, do help me. I am sorry for all these sins, and the sins of my past life."

You sniffled, wiping away the tears that had fallen down your rosy cheeks, your eyes glued on the silhouette of the man beyond the grille. His silence made you want to cry even more; were you a lost case? Had your fate already been sealed, your soul now tainted because of the touch of evil in such sacred places? You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth as you waited, seconds becoming minutes.

"This evil you speak of, what exactly has it done to you?" His voice seemed to have dropped lower, the sound a bit raspier. You furrowed your brow slightly at the question; you had been clear about the incident. As if feeling your hesitation, the priest continued, "Ma chère, only by knowing exactly what this evil put you through can I give you absolution."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, and flinched as the crack of thunder was heard beyond the church walls; your heartbeat quickened, was this Him telling you to obey?

You let out a small breath, before speaking up, the words shaky, "As I slept, this evil... Entered my dreams. It took advantage of my defenselessness. It disgraced my soul and my body. Upon waking up, there was... Remains of the sinful things it had my body do." You could feel the man's stare on you despite the grille separating you, causing yours to drop to your knees, feeling vulnerable.

"What sinful things did it inflict upon you?" Rain had started falling, as if the sky itself cried for you; the sound of it hammered against the roof, a continuous wail of grief for your poor soul.

"Father, I don't understand how this is necessa-"

"Do you not want absolution? Do you desire to be locked out of His kingdom? The choice is yours," his tone was harsher, demanding, even. You gulped and shook your head; no, that was not what you wanted. It was the furthest thing from it.

"I apologize for questioning your words, Father," you began, fidgeting with the hem of your coat, "From what I can remember... This evil took the shape of a man. A faceless man. I was in bed, and it joined me, and... We, uh, we kissed. It took my nightgown off." Your hands felt clammy, and you couldn't help but press your thighs together as you recollected the events of your dreams. "It kissed my breasts, then my stomach. It went... Down there, and stayed there until my whole body tensed up. Afterwards, it pushed itself inside me, it thoroughly disgraced my body. When I woke up, my body showed signs that it had reacted to the defiling. Father, please, believe me when I tell you that I was coerced by evil."

Thunder was heard again, breaking the silence that had settled between you and the priest. As the minutes passed, you became uneasy; was the man disgusted with you? Could he sense the sins radiating from your being? He cleared his throat, breaking your train of thought. Your eyes went back to his silhouette, waiting for him to speak up.

"I fear this is beyond the power bestowed upon me, dear," his voice was silky, it made warmth spread inside your chest, as if the vibrations it had created affected your very cells.

Your eyes widened; that was impossible. You had confessed and explained the evil that had haunted you. You had done exactly what He told His followers to do, confessed and asked for forgiveness. You shuffled closer to the grille, tearing up as you begged, "Father, please, there must be a way. I will do anything; I will suffer just like our Saviour has if it's what it takes. I'm supplying you, help me get rid of this evil."

“Very well,” the man said. You watched as his silhouette stood up and opened the door of the booth before it disappeared. The door of your little chamber opened, and you turned your head to look at the tall priest, who adjusted his glasses as he stared down at you. You took a few seconds to really look at him. Despite his smile that made shivers run down your spine, the man was handsome. His skin was tan, his hair dark and styled in an old-fashioned way. His features were sharp, intimidating, almost. Towering over you, his shoulders were wider than some quarterbacks’, and his waist was ridiculously small compared to them. His hands seemed to be twice the size of yours, and you found yourself wondering how he managed to button up his shirts with such big hands.

You looked back at his face as you blushed, realizing the man before you knew of your body in such intimate ways. You slowly stood up as you held his gaze, unsure of what to say next. He took a step aside and gestured for you to step out of the confessional, before closing the door behind you. The priest smiled down at you, “Follow me, dear.”

He started walking down the aisle, the flames of the candles on each side of it dancing as he passed by. You hesitantly followed him, looking out one of the small windows to see the rain pouring onto the world as lightning illuminated the sky. He stopped at the altar and turned to you, his smile ever present. You stopped in front of the stage; sinners did not belong anywhere close to that sacred place. The man stayed silent and with a gesture of his hand, permitted you to step up. You gulped and got on the stage, feeling extremely out of place.

“There is one way for you to repent,” he began, his stare fixed on you, “Though it is a bit unorthodox. The choice is yours, but you must remember that there is no place for sinners in Heaven.” He watched as you nodded quickly; you were eager to be forgiven, to go back to being free of sin. The corner of his lips twitched before he uttered one word, “Strip.”

Your eyes widened as your face turned a deeper shade of crimson. Stripping? You searched his face for hints of dishonesty, hoping he was playing a sick joke on you, but to your dismay, he was serious. Your body was frozen as you looked at him, not even the booming thunder making you flinch.

You opened your mouth to ask why, but the man beat you to it, answering your question before you even uttered a word, “Only by showing Him precisely how this evil tainted you can you be absolved. There is no need to be shy, ma chérie; isn’t He all-knowing? All-seeing? Wasn’t the shame of nudity created by His first creations’ sin? There is no purer form of devotion than to go beyond the embarrassment and bare yourself to Him; than to accept the vulnerable nature of your existence.”

He brought his right hand up to lay it flat against the wooden altar, observing you as you fought an inner battle with your dignity. His words were true, the wisdom of a man devoted to God, of someone who knew scriptures and their meaning. As if feeling your unmoving incertitude, he spoke up once again, “Proverbs 28:13.”

You blinked up at him, mind searching for the verse you had read many times before. You licked your bottom lip with your tongue before reciting softly, “He who covers his sins will not prosper, but whoever confesses and forsakes them will have mercy.” The priest hummed, and you raised your gaze to the crucifix hung on the wall behind the altar, feeling as if He was patiently waiting for you to submit to His will. You puffed out a small breath as you nodded to yourself, a hand coming up to the zipper of your coat, slowly bringing it down to then shrug off the piece of clothing and letting it fall on the floor.

You could already feel the wet cold seep through your thin sweater, but you ignored the feeling as you grabbed the bottom of it and lifted it up until it was completely off you; it dropped, finding its place next to your coat at your feet. Your eyes were unfocused, staring into thin air as you slipped your thumbs under the elastic band of your skirt, pushing it down so it pooled at your ankles. You stepped out of it, getting slightly closer to the priest whose gaze was burning your skin despite the goosebumps covering it. You brought a hand to your back, unclasping your bra before slowly taking it off, baring your breasts to the man. Your nipples hardened as the freezing air licked them and you bit hard down your bottom lip as you slid your underwear down your legs, then stepped out of your shoes, leaving you only wearing your lace-arbored anklets.

The man lifted a hand in your direction, a silent request for you to grab it. You did so all while avoiding looking up at him and followed him as he made his way behind the altar, his fingers squeezing yours slightly, “Our Lord blessed you with rare beauty, dear one, what a shame it led evil to you.” You gasped softly as his other hand wrapped around your waist, your eyes shooting up to look at him. He was still smiling, though his eyes seemed clouded with something you could not put your finger on.

He let go of your hand and grabbed the other side of your waist before effortlessly hoisting you up on the altar, the skin of your ass stinging from the cold of the wooden surface. Your gaze was questioning, and the man recited, his voice low and quieter than it had previously been, “I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” You gaped at him; a true man of God, that’s what he was. “Offer your body to Him, and you shall be absolved. Show Him what evil has done to you, so He can forgive and make you pure again,” he held your stare, his pupils slightly dilated. You nodded once, and the priest stepped aside, leaving you to face your Saviour in your naked glory.

You slowly leaned back, using your left elbow to not completely lie down on the wood. You brought your trembling right hand to your lips, the tip of your index finger stroking the pink flesh as you recalled where the lips of the faceless man had touched you. They lingered there for a few seconds before dipping to your neck, dancing around the column of your throat as your eyes fluttered shut; if goosebumps had not already been covering your body fault of the moist cold, they would have appeared, the feeling titillating. Your chest rose and fell in a timely rhythm as you dragged your touch to your breasts where your finger gently caressed your right nipple. Your lips parted, small breaths making their way out as you gathered with your small hand the heavy fat of your breast, squeezing. You could feel the stare of the priest on you, but you attempted to ignore it as you kept going.

Your fingers went down your stomach, using your nails to slightly scratch the skin, and they stopped a few inches below your belly button. You opened your eyes and looked at the crucifix; His peaceful expression, despite being nailed and in pain, gave you courage and you spread your legs, giving your Saviour the perfect view of your most intimate era. You nibbled on your bottom lip as you slowly brought your fingers down, choking on a soft moan when they made contact with your clit. The simple touch made your composure fall a little, your lips parted as your face reddened, feeling more exposed than you had ever felt before. You gently pushed against the bundle of nerves, gasping as your fingers started to move, following a small eight-pattern.

You could feel your heartbeat thundering against your ribcage, matching the loud striking of the heavenly fire against the earth beyond the safety of the church walls. Soft pants left your mouth as you started working on yourself, closing your eyes to focus on the memories of the previous night. Every touch and stroke were vividly drawn in your mind, your fingers moving in an almost instinctual way, leaving you a whimpering mess. You moved your elbow that was holding your weight, slowly leaning your back against the cold wood, before bringing the now free hand to your face, covering your mouth with it as your thighs trembled. Your body was thrumming, humming with new sensations, your mind as foggy as the early morning that had welcomed you when you had stepped out of your home.

Lost in pleasure, you jumped, your eyes shooting open as you felt long fingers wrap around your wrist, the priest looking down at you, his own eyes sharper and darker than they had been earlier. Your fingers nestled between your thighs stopped moving as you stared at him, but he tsked, “My dear, you must not hide anything from Him. These lovely, sinful sounds you make, are not to be repressed. Let them be; let Him hear what evil inflicted upon you,” his voice sent a chill down your spine, your back arching slightly. You watched as the corner of his lips twitched and let him pull your hand away from your mouth, gulping as you nodded weakly. “Good girl.”

Your breath hitched at the praise, eyes not leaving his’ as your fingers started to move once again, bringing your legs up to rest your heels against the altar, spreading your legs a bit more. As if in a trance, your gaze fixed on the priest as you moaned and gasped, your hips twitching as you rubbed your clit. You saw his Adam’s apple bob, his eyes narrowing as you used your free hand to caress the skin of your stomach, slowly inching towards your left breast. Your fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and with a bite on your bottom lip and a pinch of your nipple, you pushed your middle finger all the way to the second knuckle, your eyes widening at the feeling. You let out a throaty whine, pressing your head harder against the wooden surface that supported your weight. The cold was long forgotten, your body covered in a thin layer of sweat, muscles spasming here and there.

You slid your other hand between your thighs, the digits quickly finding your clit and gently stimulating it as you managed to push your finger further inside yourself. The faceless man from your dreams had used three fingers, and you could only wonder how your dream self had taken them, as you were struggling with a lonely, short finger. Despite the uncomfortable feeling, you bit down your lip and pushed your index alongside the finger that was already pressed inside you. Your face scrunched up at the stretch, a silent sob echoing through the dimly lit space. You felt your walls clench around your digits, your free hand still working on your clit as a way to make the dull ache more bearable. You waited a minute, giving your body time to adjust to the feeling, before carefully pulling the fingers out and thrusting them back in, a surprised whimper leaving your lips as a new feeling started to blossom in your lower stomach.

You arched your back and started speeding up the motion of your hands, unable to keep quiet as your body grew warmer and more tense. Your eyes fluttered open to look up at the priest, who was as still as Christ watching you from His cross on the wall. As you exhaled, you pushed a third finger in, welcoming the stretch with a high-pitched whine. Your knees dropped down onto the altar, leaving your womanhood fully exposed; you watched as the man glanced at where your hands were working in tandem to replicate almost exactly what the evil from your dream had done to you. You gathered the little concentration you had left and started muttering through gasps and moans, “Compassionate Father, you are the Lord who rescues His people. When I am overwhelmed with shame, help me find solace in you. You have said that you will help—though my sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are as red as crimson, they shall be like wool. Remind me that I have been purified by you, that the curse of sin and evil is no longer upon me. In your powerful name, Ame-” You were cut off by a large hand wrapping around your lower face, the feeling making your body jolt.

Right, it had to be the same as the dream; you had not uttered a prayer in it, far from it. You closed your eyes, moaning against the palm covering your mouth, as you focused on the growing tension in your core. Every second felt like minutes and every minute felt like hours as you quickly thrust your fingers in and out, all while you rubbed and nudged your clit. The pressure was almost unbearable, your whole body twitching as your hips tried to follow the movements of your digits as if they had a mind of their own. The priest moved his hand away, and you opened your eyes to watch him bring it to his mouth where he licked his palm, which was covered with your drool.

Something snapped inside of you and a loud sob made its way out of your throat as your muscles tensed up, your walls clenching tightly around your fingers as you stilled them, your mind unable to think about anything beyond the blinding pleasure that took over your body. Your eyes rolled back, pitiful sounds leaving your mouth as your back arched from the altar, your thighs squeezing together, trapping your hands between them. This felt so much better than it had felt in your dream. You teared up; the Lord’s love was so strong; evil could not even compare.

After a few seconds, your body relaxed, and you were left panting and sweaty, as if you had just run a marathon. Slowly opening your eyes, your vision became clearer as you blinked, a smile tugging at your lips as you looked at the crucifix, then up to the priest who had not moved. You removed your hands from between your thighs and brought your left one up to wipe the pearls of sweat on your forehead with the back of it. You wrapped your right arm around your chest, trying to hide your breasts as you spoke up, your voice small but hoarse, “Have I done it, Father? Am I free of sin? Has our Lord given me absolution?” Hope lingered; you had done what you were told to do, you had been good, and your Lord was good and forgiving, He had to have seen how faithful you were.

The man’s eyebrows raised before he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly, “My dear, this was only your confession. The truest and purest form of confession.” Your smile dropped. You looked at him as he made his way closer to the wall, where he stopped in front of the crucifix that had observed you as you worked on yourself. His chin tilted up as he looked at it, before his head slowly turned to look at you, “But confession is not enough for this type of sin, sadly; you must also be cleansed.”

You sat up, your brows furrowed, watching as the man stepped closer to you. He stood in front of you, his right hand coming to rest on your thigh, just above your knee. His touch was warm and inviting, but you still wondered what his words meant, so you asked, “Cleansed?”

His thumb stroked your skin as he hummed and brought his other hand up to your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it, “Yes, dearest, cleansed. Your body was defiled by evil, it must be purified. You’ve shown our Lord and Saviour how, and now He shall reclaim your body as His’.” You looked at him, your eyes round and big, trying to make sense of the words that had just been spoken. A small pout appeared on your lips, and the tall priest bent down, his face now closer to yours as he said, his voice slightly louder than a whisper, “You are so easy to read, you know? But to ease your confusion; I shall represent our Lord and make you pure again.”

You froze, the realization of what the man meant hitting you just like David’s stone had hit Goliath. You gaped at him, your mouth opening and closing, searching your brain for the right words to speak, afraid to insult God and the man who stood before you. You gulped and said after taking in a deep breath, “Our Lord… I cannot think of mentions of this procedure in the scriptures,” you blinked, your eyes shining as you looked into his’. “Father, has this procedure been tested before? Where does it come from?”

His long fingers dug into the fat of your thigh as you saw the muscle of his jaw clench, a small whimper leaving your lips at the feeling. He kept squeezing, his creepy smile growing, “Are you implying my authority was not given to me by our Lord? That my will does not stem from His’? That I would go against scriptures, something I have devoted my life to?” You shook your head quickly; you had messed up. You were to never question the words of a priest, for he was much closer to God than you were, and you had done just that. This evil needed to leave; it made you do, think and say things that would only make you unworthy of Heaven.

“Father, do forgive me! This evil, it has taken control of my body and sou-”

“There’s no need for that. I shall make your sins a purest white than Abraham’s sacrificial lamb. You will be reborn a new woman, utterly sinless,” he inched his hand higher on your thigh, “That is what you want, isn’t it? To let your God make you pure again?” You gave him a slow nod and his smile widened as he brought his free hand to his face, removing his glasses and putting them on the altar next to you. He nudged your knees open and settled between them, sliding a hand against the back of your head as he sang praise to you, “What a good girl you are, ma chère.”

His lips smashed against yours and you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you tried to follow his lead. The hand resting on your thigh slid to your waist and forced you to get closer to him, his chest pressing against your naked breasts. You moaned into the kiss, pictures of your dream flooding your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around his tiny waist and arms around his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair, letting the man run his tongue along your bottom lip, your mouth opening slightly in response. His kisses travelled down your chin, to your throat, his teeth nipping at your skin as you let your head fall back, giving him better access.

His mouth slid to your chest, and you lowered your chin to look down at him as he wrapped his swollen lips around your left nipple. You grabbed a handful of his hair and pressed him closer to you, arching your back slightly. His eye shot up to look at you, humming against your skin, the vibration leaving you a whimpering mess. He separated from your pink, wet bud with a last lick, smiling as he flicked your other nipple with his thumb, “So eager for absolution, aren’t you?” Your soft pants were interrupted with a small gulp as you nodded once again; there was nothing you wanted more. He ran a hand up and down your thigh before grabbing it and removing it from his waist, doing the same motion with the other one a few seconds later. You silently watched as he kneeled, his face a few inches away from your exposed core. The sight made your heart skip a beat.

Something caught your eyes on the wall, and you looked up, seeing a rainbow light up the crucifix hung on the wall; the rain and thunder had dissipated as suddenly as they had appeared, and sun rays were beaming through the colourful tainted glass of the rose window at the entrance of the church. A small smile tugged at your lips, this had to be a sign you were on the right path. You bit down your bottom lip and gazed down, seeing the priest eyeing your womanhood, a hungry look on his face. Your cheeks reddened as you waited for the man to do something.

He slowly inched closer, and let his nose nudge your puffy clit, causing you to gasp softly at the feeling. You felt something warm run up and down your slit, your grip on his hair tightening as he flattened his tongue against your entrance. Your brows knitted, a small noise leaving your lips as he started to move his wet appendage up and down, moving his head slightly as he did so to get his nose to bump against your clit with each lick. His hands went to your ass, and he brought you even closer to his face; you wondered how he could even breathe.

Your mind started to wander as pleasure slowly took over your limbs; was the man between your legs mistaking you for a wine-filled chalice? The slurping noises his mouth was making against you travelled through your body and rendered you dizzy. You pushed his hair back from his forehead and his eyes shot open to look up at you as his fingers dug into the fat of your ass. His pupils were dilated to the point that you could barely see his iris and there was wetness spreading on his cheeks and nose. Lips parted, you sighed and slightly scratched his scalp with your nails, leaving the man groaning as his stare was still fixed on your face. One of his hands made its way down your thigh and disappeared from your view before it reappeared; a dainty wooden-beaded rosary was dangling from his fingers.

The priest took his mouth away from you, a wide smirk painting his lips as he grabbed your wrist and dropped the prayer beads in your much smaller palm. His other hand came forward and started stroking the skin of your inner thigh as he wrapped his long digits around yours, forcing you to hold the rosary. He licked his bottom lip before speaking up, “You know how this works, don’t you?” His smile grew as he watched you nod, “Perfect. Recite them in your head, except the Five Decades; you must recite those aloud. It’s Thursday, so Luminous Mysteries. Whatever your Lord has planned next and does to you, you must keep going, understood?” You nodded again but he shook his head, “Use your words, dearest.”

“I understand, Father,” you said, your voice small.

The man hummed and let go of your hand, dropping it to your other thigh, massaging the skin there as well. His gaze dropped to where your thumb moved to make the Sign of the Cross on the small crucifix pendant. You closed your eyes as you started reciting the Apostles’ Creed, surrendering your body to the faithful man kneeling before you. His lips pressed against you as you finished the first prayer, your finger moving to the first bead. He fell into a now familiar rhythm, leaving you incapable of staying silent as you breathed out soft moans. Something prodded at your entrance and slowly slipped in as you fell back against the altar with a thud. You arched your back as it kept going, much deeper than you had reached with your fingers. It pumped in and out a few times before the man added a second finger, the pressure and stretch making you whimper.

His tongue kept alternating between sucking on and flicking your clit as you busied yourself with prayers. The priest hummed against you before removing himself; you opened your eyes and lifted your head from the wooden surface, eyes widening when you saw blood on his chin and bottom lip. He removed his fingers from you and showed them to you; they were bloody too. You stared at him silently, uncertain of what to say, but he broke the silence, “See what the evil has left in you? Aren’t you so lucky your Lord is ever so forgiving? That he’s cleaning you up to make you free of sin?” You nodded and bit the inside of your cheek. His eyes were gleaming as his fingers went to your lower stomach, smearing the blood on your skin, which made goosebumps appear.

You studied his face, his sharp, dark hooded eyes were staring at you under his defined eyebrows, his plump lips were stretched in a smile; his tanned cheeks and chin were coated with a sheening coat of your wetness and blood. His hair was now messy—your doing—and his fingers were slowly making their way back to your slit. Without thinking about it, you reached out and cupped his cheek with your free hand, rubbing your thumb against his bottom lip. His tongue darted out to lick your digit as his fingers sank back in you, knocking the breath out of you. Your eyes closed shut as you gasped, your hand falling from his face to rest on your hip. You heard him laugh under his breath before the warmth of his mouth was back on you. Your mind reminded you of the rosary you were holding, and you started reciting the Hail Mary.

As you neared the end of the Glory Be, you felt the man add another finger, the stretch making your eyes tear up as you mewled weakly. The words of the prayer passed in your mind, disappearing as he started to thrust them in and out. Your walls clenched tightly around his digits as your chest rose and fell quickly, panting as your body tried to get adjusted to the burning feeling.

Your fingers landed on the first Decade, and you gathered all your strength to start reciting the prayer, your voice shaky, “Then Jesus came to Galilee to the Jordan to John, to be baptized by him. John would have prevented him, saying ‘I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?’ But Jesus answered him, ‘Let it be so now; for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.’ Then he consented.” You were interrupted by a yelp as you felt the priest’s teeth grazing your clit, your free hand landing in his hair, gripping it. Your hips kept twitching as you kept going, stuttering through the words, “And when Jesus was baptized, he went up immediately from the water, and behold, the heavens were opened and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove, and alighting on him; and lo, a voice from heaven, saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’”

The drag of the man’s fingers had turned pleasurable, and you felt your muscles tense up, the feeling in your lower stomach rapidly growing. You pushed on the back of his head, searching for more friction, and you moaned out loudly when he started mumbling against your clit as his fingers kept moving, “Oh my Jesus, forgive me of my sins, save us from the fires of hell; lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.” You could not register the words but the movements of his lips on you made you come undone, your back arching from the altar as your thighs trapped his head in place, your hips lifting to follow his fingers and urge him to press his tongue harder against you. Your every muscle tensed up, crying out as the waves of your orgasm hit you just like the Red Sea had crashed into the Egyptians as He closed its parting. You spasmed around him, your walls trying to push his fingers out, and you felt wetness drip down your ass.

He separated from your clit, kissing it softly as he removed his digits from you, slowly standing up as you cracked your eyes open, your body still jolting randomly as it calmed down from your high. The light coming from the rose window had moved, and from your angle, it looked like a halo surrounding the priest’s head; a breathtaking sight that had you gape in awe. You watched as he tugged at the collar of his shirt, taking his Roman collar off and letting it fall to his feet. Your wetness was dripping from his lips which were harbouring a soft smile, his hands moving unhurriedly to unbutton his cassock. His eyes travelled up and down your spent body, then to the rosary you had forgotten you were still holding; you clenched your fingers around it and moved to a new bead, your lips moving silently as you recited the Hail Mary in your mind.

You kept your eyes on his hands as they reached the last button, the man shrugging off the black piece of clothing, revealing he was wearing a white tank top and black pants underneath it. You gulped at the true size of his shoulders; you had thought his cassock gave the illusion he was large, but even with it off, he looked huge. The smallness of his waist only accentuated how massive the built of the priest was. He had muscles but they were lean; despite it all, he looked strong and exuded a masculine aura that had you squirming in place.

Your observations were interrupted by his voice, “Do you feel like the weight of your sin has lessened, ma chère?” You dipped your chin once; you did feel lighter. The man grinned wider as his hands wrapped around your waist, bringing your torso up effortlessly so you were now sitting. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning over so his lips pressed against the shell of your ear, whispering, “You did so well, dear, you’re almost as pure as the day you were born. There’s only a step left in this procedure, but it will hurt at first.” He pressed a hand on the back of your head and pushed forward, forcing you to bury your face in the crook of his neck. You inhaled and felt his fingers massage your scalp gently.

He smelled so intoxicating; a mixture of moss, rain, coffee, tobacco and a hint of something floral emitted from his skin. You realized you had pressed your lips against the man’s neck when you felt him tense up, his hand stilling in your hair. You backed away slightly, blushing so brightly you were grateful he could not see your face, muttering an apology. His body relaxed again, and he hummed, “There’s no need for apologies. Bite down my shoulder—don’t be scared to bite hard—it will make you focus on something else.”

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant but pressed your lips together when you heard a zipper, followed by the shuffling of clothes between your bodies. You brought your hands to his chest, the rosary still in your hand, fingers fidgeting with the beads as you felt one of his large and cold hands spread your thighs a little further apart. You felt his fingers run up and down your slit and you gasped at the feeling, your nails slightly digging into the muscles of his chest. A wet sound travelled up to your ears and you closed your eyes, a shiver running down your spine when you felt a hand drop to your hip, kneading the fat there, and his voice, now a low murmur, “Bite down.”

You barely had the time to process the words that you felt pressure against your entrance which ceded, your walls wrapping around something so thick you shrieked before sinking your teeth into the man’s shoulder. It felt like you were being split in half; the thickness slowly forced its way inside you as tears gathered at your lower lash lines before they dripped down your cheeks. You bit down harder and pulled away quickly when you felt iron-tasting warmth coat the inside of your mouth, but the hand still in your hair pushed you against the bleeding bite mark, the priest almost growling, “Bite, and drink. At this moment, I am God; I am Christ. His blood is mine, and my blood is His’. Savour, dear one, and let me cleanse you inside out.” You let out a shaky breath before sinking your teeth back in his flesh, your brows knitting as he pushed his length an inch deeper inside you, “So obedient.”

You let the blood fill your mouth and swallowed, cringing at the taste but unwilling to go against Heavenly orders. Your arms snaked around his waist as he kept slowly pushing himself into you. The pain was unbearable, but your mind went to Christ, and how much he had suffered for the sins of all; the ache between your legs was a pinch compared to what he had endured, so you toughened up and let your tongue lap at the blood. Your brain felt foggy, and you could only take it as a sign that it was your body reacting to being filled with the divine energy pouring out from the priest. His length reached deeper than his fingers had, and you wondered how much of it you had left to take in.

You soon had your answer, the man stilling as his pelvis pressed against yours; he was so deep in you, stretching you so wide. Your mouth detached from his neck, and you pressed your forehead against his skin, panting loudly as you tried your best to relax your walls around him. The hand that was in your hair made its way to your waist, squeezing gently as you felt his lips press against your ear once again, “Your Lord is so pleased with you; you’re taking his cock so well. You’ll be redeemed in no time.” He slowly pulled out, leaving only his tip in, before thrusting in you at a medium speed, leaving you sobbing against his neck. It was overwhelming, the feeling of his length rubbing your inside and the warmth spreading in your chest, God’s love making you burn up. The feeling started to transform from pain to pleasurable pressure, your pained cries turning into needy moans.

You had managed to reach the tenth Hail Mary in your mind, your fingers reaching the second Decade. You whimpered out the beginning of the Second Luminous Mystery, “On the third day there was a marriage at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there; Jesus also was invited to the marriage, with his disciples.” The priest started moving faster, his hips meeting yours at a much quicker speed; you whined as his tip hit a certain spot inside you, the rosary dropping on the floor as you dug your nails into the man’s shoulder blades. You could not concentrate on anything other than the drag of his length against your walls, panting and gasping each time he bottomed out.

He slightly pulled away from your body and looked down at you, his hips still moving as he brought a hand to grab your jaw from under, forcing you to look at him. He eyed you before crashing his lips against yours, moaning as he tasted his blood in your mouth. You slid your hands up to his hair, tugging at it and scratching his scalp as your teeth clashed together, tongues dancing. You pressed your chest closer to his’ and sighed as your nipples rubbed against his tank top, the feeling sending electric shocks to your core. You parted away from his lips, catching your breath, and your eyes opened and landed on the crucifix watching you; you smiled softly—oh how good was His clemency. Your gaze went back to the priest who was slightly panting, his lower face covered in blood—just like yours— as he smirked at you, sliding his hand to your cheek, stroking the skin tenderly.

In half a second, he pulled out and manhandled you, so you were now bent over the altar, your breasts pressed against the wooden surface as your feet dangled in the air, his large hands holding you up. His knee nudged your legs open wider and you felt him slip back inside you, the new position bringing a different sensation. His hips met your ass, and he started thrusting into you eagerly, loud smacks echoing through the church. You held yourself up on your elbows, holding your head up as you looked at the front door; if someone were to walk in, they would see the priest cleansing you, a Godsent blessing.

Your elbows started to tremble, and the man noticed; he slid a hand below your stomach and hoisted you up against his chest, your back pressed against him. He held you up, his arms wrapped around you as his pelvis smacked against your ass, your feet dangling one foot above the floor. He slid a hand down, his fingers running down your slit, groaning as he felt where you two were connected. He ran them up again and pushed his middle finger against your puffy clit, gently rubbing it as he kept working himself in and out of you. Your head fell back on his shoulder, and he took the opportunity to attach his lips to your neck, kissing and nibbling at the skin.

You truly never had felt anything like this; if you had been a fool, you’d have thought you were glowing from how fulfilled you felt. The familiar tension grew in your lower stomach, lewd noises leaving your mouth as the man dug the fingers of his other hand into your flesh, holding you closer to him as his movements became erratic. His groans and grunts were sending shivers down your back, only adding to the multitudes of sensations you were currently drowning in. As if he could feel you were close to reaching your orgasm, he mumbled against your neck, “Let go, ma chérie. Let evil leave your body, let God replace it with goodness.”

Your breath hitched and with a few more nudges on your clit, the pressure building inside you snapped. Your vision went white as you came, the feeling different from your previous releases. Even through the waves of pleasure, you could feel something drip down your thighs and could hear squelches as the priest kept thrusting his length in you. Your mouth was open, silent cries leaving your throat as you clenched tightly around the man. You felt his lips move against your neck, but you were too lost in feelings to understand what he was saying.

Your tensed-up muscles slowly relaxed as the remains of your orgasm washed over your body. You whimpered as the man kept moving, your core feeling overstimulated by his length still burying itself inside your sensitive walls. He quickly pushed your front back against the altar, grabbing your hips as he moved both his hips and yours in sync, your nails digging into the wood as your ass smacked against him. His thrusts were harsh and fast, leaving you breathless; tears were streaming down your cheeks at the delightful ache.

His hips stilled, his length buried deep inside you, as he groaned lowly. You felt your inside be flooded with warmth, whining as you dropped your forehead against the wooden surface, the cold of it grounding you. You were panting, the warmth creating a pleasant pressure inside your core as the priest rubbed his thumbs over your Venus dimples. He stayed inside you for a few more seconds, before easing out of you, leaving you feeling empty. He once again manhandled you so you were now sitting facing him, holding your limp body up as he dragged a hand up your moist thigh, grinning, “See this wetness? It was the remains of evil leaving your body.” His hand reached your slit and he gathered a sticky white substance on his fingers, bringing his hand up close to your lips, “And this is goodness. Do remember, my dear, your sins are scarlet and they shall be as white as snow.”

You gaped at him; he truly was a man of God. He pushed his fingers past your lips, and you let him, wrapping them around his digits as your tongue licked at the goodness. The taste was bitter, but as your eyes met his’, all you could think about was how caring and selfless the man standing in front of you was. You had come to him, worrying about your purity, and he had completely cleansed you of sin and given you his own God-gifted goodness, not asking anything in return. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brushed your cheek with the back of his index, his smile not faltering, “What is this look you are giving me?”

You blinked a few times, your cheeks flushing as you realized you had been staring, “Father, I must thank you. My body and soul were barren, and you made them anew again. I do not know how I could ever repay you.” His eyes narrowed at your words, his hand reaching to grab his glasses before he put them on and ran a hand through his hair. It dropped to your thigh and drew shapes on there, his gaze not leaving yours.

“Alastor,” he said simply before stepping away from you and bending down to grab your clothes. Your expression turned to a confused one as you watched him slip your underwear up your legs, your skirt following. You let him dress you, his fingers skilfully clasping your bra behind your back before he motioned you to lift your arms so he could slip your shirt back on. Once dressed he let his hand lay on your thigh again, before he spoke up, “My name is Alastor. Call me by it and your debt is repaid.” He grabbed one of your hands and dropped the rosary in it before grabbing your waist and helping you down the altar, “Keep this, use it whenever you feel evil is near.”

You nodded up at him and smiled, your grin faltering for a second when you saw that the crucifix on the wall had detached and was now hanging upside down. Oddly, you thought nothing of it and you looked back at Alastor, your smile spreading wide, “Thank you, Fa—Alastor.” You squeezed the rosary between your fingers, watching as he bent down once again, but this time to grab his cassock and Roman collar. You stood silently as he buttoned it up and placed the white collar around his neck. He straightened the fabric with his hands, before meeting your eyes.

“You look quite a mess, dearest, you’d better go home and clean yourself.”

Your hand flew up to your face where dried blood was caked on your chin and around your mouth, and you felt a blush creep up your neck at his words; he did not look any better. Despite it, you nodded, shifting on your feet as you thanked him once again, “I cannot express how thankful I am, Alastor, truly. You, uh, you should probably get cleaned up too; people would probably wonder why there’s blood smeared on their priest’s face.” The man chuckled and nodded before bending down to grab your coat, handing it to you once he straightened up. You took it and quickly slipped it on, putting the rosary in one of the pockets.

You clasped your hands together and bit down your bottom lip as the man put a hand against your back and urged you to walk with him. You walked down the main aisle silently, stopping once you had reached the end of it. You turned to him and opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it, “Go, now. Enjoy your newly found purity.” You smiled and dipped your chin once; he grinned back, “I will see you tomorrow, though I am hoping you will not walk back in here with that same pitiful expression you had earlier.”

You let out a small laugh as you gestured that you agreed before giving him one last glance and turning around, walking towards the door. You could feel his stare burn holes in your back but ignore the feeling, pushing against the door and stepping outside, the sunlight momentarily blinding you. You sighed loudly, looking around to make sure no one was close; the last thing you wanted was someone seeing you limp, your face bloody. You began to make your way back home, ignoring the way your thighs stuck together from your and Alastor’s bodily fluids. You thought about his words, and strangely, you found yourself disagreeing; you hoped the faceless man would come back. You had tasted true goodness, the powerful and unconditional love and mercy of God, and you wanted more of it.

[jvnluaa]

“To Love the Void”—A Life with Chrollo Lucilfer

Your marriage to Chrollo Lucilfer does not begin with a kiss.

It begins with a choice.

A gaze across a blood-slicked floor.

A voice that spoke like scripture unraveling in the dark.

A hand outstretched—not to save you, but to ruin you beautifully.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

He said:

“There is a place beside me. Cold, yes. But eternal. Come, and I will make you part of the story.”

And you went.

Because some people don’t fall in love.

Some people drown in it.

─────────────────────────

Morning in the House of the Spider

The room you wake in is not warm.

Minimalist. Stark. High windows where moonlight lingers far longer than sunlight dares.

He sleeps next to you like a king fallen from grace—shirtless beneath black silk, pale skin against ink-dark sheets, a rosary still looped around his wrist. He doesn’t sleep often. But when he does, it is near you. Always near you.

Chrollo wakes with no startle.

No groggy disorientation.

Just presence.

His eyes open, and they see you—truly see you. As if he’s trying to memorize your soul before the day strips it from you.

“You’re awake,” you murmur.

He leans forward, presses his lips against your collarbone, lingering like a prayer.

“Of course. I dreamt of you.”

He doesn’t mean it romantically.

He means it philosophically.

You are his dream.

His obsession.

The last thing in this world he cannot dissect or fully predict.

─────────────────────────

The Way He Moves Through the Day

Chrollo moves like a man who owns every room—but mourns each one he walks through.

He’s always in black.

Not for fashion.

But because he considers mourning a lifelong discipline.

He reads before speaking.

He watches people like a god amused by ants.

But around you?

There’s a reverence in his gaze.

He touches the small of your back lightly in public. Not to show affection, but to remind you: You are not forgotten. You are always known. Always claimed.

The Phantom Troupe often watches you two in silence.

They don’t understand how he can kill with a smile one moment, and hours later, sit beside you with his head in your lap, quoting ancient texts about fate, entropy, and the meaninglessness of life… with his fingers tangled gently in yours.

But they don’t need to understand.

They just accept:

He doesn’t bleed for them.

He bleeds only for you.

─────────────────────────

When He’s Gone

When Chrollo leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye.

He leaves a page open in one of his worn books. A message hidden in poetry. A single glove folded over your favorite mug.

He disappears for days. Weeks.

You don’t question it.

Because you understand the paradox of loving Chrollo Lucilfer:

You are both everything to him—and nothing.

You are the final tether to something real, and yet he could vanish into the void at any moment without looking back.

But when he returns?

He never walks in.

He appears.

Black coat, blood-slick boots, eyes void of guilt.

And always—always—he says:

“I missed you. Or at least, the shape your presence makes in the silence.”

He doesn’t ask if you missed him.

He already knows.

─────────────────────────

When He Touches You

Chrollo is not rough.

He is precise.

His fingers trace your throat like a sacred path.

His hands are cold, always, but they warm only for you.

When he kisses you, it’s not with lust.

It’s with thought.

As if each movement means something. As if each brush of lips is one verse in a holy text only the two of you understand.

He whispers things like:

“If I lost you, I wouldn’t rage. I would simply burn the world in silence.”

“Your heartbeat is the only rhythm that breaks through the noise.”

“You are the only variable I never wanted to control.”

He does not possess you.

He includes you—in his madness, in his rituals, in his universe of scripture and slaughter.

And when you say his name—truly say it, with devotion, not demand—his eyes close, and for one moment, the chaos in him quiets.

─────────────────────────

Night – Ritual, Power, Worship

You once asked him why he sleeps beside you when he could be anywhere, alone in the dark, building plans inside his head.

He answered:

“Because gods do not sleep. But men do. And I want to remember I am still human while I have you.”

He doesn’t hold you like a lover.

He surrounds you like a religion.

One arm draped over your waist.

Fingers ghosting your pulse.

Always listening for your breath.

Always tracking your dreams.

Sometimes he wakes before you, watching.

Always watching.

Reading you like scripture.

And when your eyes meet his, he doesn’t smile.

He says, softly:

“You’re still here. Good.”

─────────────────────────

To Love Chrollo Means…

Accepting silence over promises.

Being the one place he returns to after death dances in his shadow.

Being quoted poetry instead of affection.

Watching him kill and knowing he does it with full control—and no regret.

Feeling his gaze like a cathedral collapsing over your body.

Knowing he would destroy everything if the universe took you.

But most of all?

Being the only thing he cannot understand.

And yet, the only thing he cannot be without.

─────────────────────────

Final Whisper Before the Next Chapter

One night, he murmurs against your bare shoulder:

“I was never supposed to belong to anything but death. But now you sleep beside me—and I fear I have become real.”

And you answer:

“Then let me be the only lie you ever believe.”

And in the dark, you feel him smile—for the first time in weeks.

[the-voice-beckons-below]

the last prayer

bucky barnes x deity reader (he/him, third person)

this is my entry for @elixirfromthestars ‘s cinema writing contest! it’s probably quite an out there prompt but i hope you enjoy nonetheless!! (dialogue prompt used: “it’s okay, i’ve got you now”)

synopsis: a decade has passed since the initial capture of james ‘bucky’ barnes, who after so long is finally running out of time to save his humanity. which is why for some reason he makes the absurd choice to pray, and unbeknownst to him, wakes something dark and ancient.

warnings: torture, violence, hints to murder, angst (it’s bucky, very expected). it’s not super religious, reader is like a god the way loki or thor is buttt there’s a few more mechanics to it involving worship and dormancy.

wordcount: 3,045

there is no god.

not within hydra’s snare, not within the depths of torture and brainwashing that has now spanned across years.

hope has long since been abandoned, if there is a hell, this is it, there is surely nowhere worse than this.

so bucky doesn’t know why in the heat of it all, while clutching at the tethers he’s been desperately hanging onto, the fragments of who he was - is, where they try to pull him apart once more, that he suddenly decides to hopelessly pray.

he does it silently in his head, viewing himself opaquely from behind a looking glass as they beckon him to become a machine. it is clear that soon, he will be buried within his own body, that something mechanical will take over to do terrible, terrible things. bucky knows by now that there is no light at the end of this tunnel, only blood, only death, caused by hands that are somehow attached to him.

he isn’t ready for when they finally break him.

there is no answer, the assumption can only be correct as they strap him down tighter into that blasted chair and try to forcibly fry his mind. electricity fizzles and crackles all throughout his head, it will forever burn, even when he’s not in the chair he feels it, a phantom pressure seeping beyond his socket, that is hard to discern if it’s real or false.

the harsh truth echoes all around him, reverberates in his bones.

no one is coming to save bucky barnes.

well, bucky barnes died falling from that train, he died the second hydra sunk their claws in. he is continuously dying as they slowly dissect whatever is left, they are in real time, attempting to convert him into an object, into a machine without autonomy or control.

they are trying to take away what is innately human. his thoughts, his feelings, they will be scrapped and forged into programming, orders and targets.

so yes, it is very obvious by now that no one is coming to rescue him from this.

what he isn’t aware of, is how wrong he actually is. this time bucky has not been ignored, something has noticed the anguish plaguing him, and it listens with rapt attention. it hangs achingly on every word, every cry, that echoes from him.

it is heard by a previously dormant god stirring awake from the depths, for the very first time in centuries. he wakes up nestled between dusty and crumpled ruins, what might’ve been an altar in his name, there are no scriptures or scrolls, it seems that he has been forgotten until now. a deity who slumbered without a single follower or believer for an untold amount of years, suddenly awoken by the most desperate and profoundly broken plea he’d ever heard.

there is barely time to look around, for the environment to sink in. why had his final resting place been here? why was he forgotten? who was his last devotee? a million questions flood his long, awaiting, buzzing body. a fizzle creeps inside his gut the longer he waits, the more he lingers and doesn’t attend to that sharp, hopeless call.

the god doesn’t falter, he brushes any tiredness away, this is his first follower in a long time, and they need him.

the scene that greets him does not aid his protectiveness, it only trebles it. it is no wonder the call had seemed wrenching, what is being done is unfathomable, a contraption which from just one look seems sickening. restraining a man, holding him so tightly in place, and the thing lodged against the eye is horrific.

whatever the plate attached to the right side of the face is, it’s certainly alive, spitting live sparks and light straight against skin. the person in the chair is biting down so hard that he’s surprised the other’s teeth aren’t cracking under the fierce pressure of their jaw locking. despite his caller’s mouth being firmly shut, the screams pouring out are barely muffled, they’re guttural, raw, and they make the god’s stomach twist even more.

it is nothing like he has ever seen before, and he has seen countless of lives, of mortals, their squabbles and war, their arguments and their loves. this surely cannot be the doing of humankind, it is too cruel, how can someone mutilate another in such a way?

but his eyes are not deceiving, there are humans in white coats roaming all around, ignoring the one so obviously in excruciating pain. they are used to it, that realisation alone makes his blood boil.

he cannot withstand it a moment longer, any previous silent acknowledgement to not meddle with mortals unwinds far from him. it doesn’t matter anymore, there is no religion in his name, it is just him and this one small devotee, soaked in pain and suffering.

so when he finally steps out of the shadows, now visible to the human eye, he doesn’t bother with politeness or pleasantries, those were already revoked at this point. there is no forgiveness, gentleness or compassion in the way he squanders the crowd surrounding the caller. it is a mess of screams, thick black clouds swamp the room, none of what occurs can be seen, but it undoubtedly violent, twisted, and permanent.

he just hopes if the soldier in the chair was watching, the smoke obscured it enough. to the god’s horror, the machine is still on, whirring and humming hauntingly. he doesn’t know what it is, what it does, but he strides towards it with panic anyway, and frantically rips it all off, searching for injury with furrowed brows.

“it’s okay, i’ve got you now.” he means it, this stranger is just that, a stranger, someone he does not know, yet the urge to take care of the other is overwhelming. “can you speak? what is your name?”

the voice that answers him is gravelly, spoken by a spent and tired man, “m’bucky, my name, it’s…it’s bucky.”

it is clear that bucky is delirious, stuck in a heady haze from whatever just occurred, because it takes him a few seconds to register the mass of people are gone, that the thing speaking to him isn’t human, that he’s being touched by someone who might once again hurt him. it isn’t a surprise that he flinches, and then tries to scramble away, it’s like his entire body gets dunked in total fear.

the god moves back immediately, unable to help the frown overcoming his face, the last thing he wanted was to scare this bucky. thinking quickly, he changes tactics and crouches lower to the ground, akin to approaching a spooked animal, his hulking body looks awkward with trying to appear small. “you called for me. i will not hurt you.”

bucky’s steel eyes flash with confusion, then uncertainty, then anger. “that’s not funny. i don’t know who you are, but just get it over with, don’t fucking play with me.”

a part of him wants to huff, to scowl at the way a mortal is talking to him, but he can’t really find it within himself to care enough about it. this human is unique, an enigma that doesn’t even know itself. instead of frustration, he sinks deeper into patience for this new follower.

slowly, he reaches towards the soldier, watching carefully for any jerky movements or instinctual reactions, when all he finds is wary glances at his hand, he continues, softly pressing the pads of his fingers against bucky’s ear that is lightly bleeding. it is miraculous what gods can do, how much magic they have within just their very fingertips, in the next moment, the trickle of blood is gone.

it looks like there was no injury to begin with. he repeats the action around the man’s head, and even around the shoulder which is deeply scarred and yet seemingly still deeply painful and sore. after the deity is done, he leans back, intently watching bucky’s face.

his brows are furrowed, lips parted, he appears to be a breath away from an argument or accusation. his muscles are pulled taut, ineffably tense, the metal of his left arm creaks. “you’re fucking kidding me. there is a god…and it took you this long?” it comes out flat and the laugh that leaves bucky is humourless, a bark that’s full of venom.

he doesn’t know what to say, there isn’t much to be said. despite the words spoken, there is not just hatred in bucky’s eyes, there’s also relief, but it seems neatly tucked away behind anger. “there’s multiple actually,” he awkwardly stops that sentence at the look on bucky’s face, half disbelieving and the other half pissed off. “i’ve just been dormant.”

the man borders on a scowl, “what do you mean dormant?” there seems to be more movement in his body now, enough so that he squirms to get out the chair, but immediately falls to his knees when he does, the deity is there to catch him, keeping him relatively upright. bucky huffs at the touch, his body still a little slack, the god shudders from the heat radiating off the human and pulls back enough to give him space. its been a long time since he's felt any warmth.

“i haven’t had anyone pray to me for a long time. so, i was dormant, asleep, unable to wake up until someone woke me. you did.” it's a clipped admission, like he is covering up how raw the reality actually is.

there’s a pause, a breath of confusion, “i did?”

he nods back to bucky, “you did." he then hesitantly adds, "i am sorry that i couldn’t come sooner.” there is a guilt that claws at his chest, bubbling up straight to his throat, where he is unable to swallow, “but i’m here now, and no one will hurt you, not while i’m here.”

he guides bucky far away from the chair, and then uses his magic to take them somewhere even farther, absent from the effects of time and humanity. it is extremely void-like, an ocean of ink that spans an unfathomable distance, yet it is not cold. more than anything it is comfortable, peaceful, if you focus hard enough you can hear the distant tweets of birds or the hustle and bustle of brooklyn.

atleast that’s what bucky hears, it’s a place designed to be safe, reminiscent of home. “why save me? could’ve just left me there.”

“i wouldn’t have.” its the truth, “and you needed me. you called for me.”

“i still don’t get it.” he scowls, but it holds almost no malice, he stares up at the god, eyes searching for something, for a hint of betrayal or bad intentions.

the skepticism finally washes off bucky’s face, whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t find it, he is probably too tired to keep his guard up, he’s been doing that for years. this place has the sounds of brooklyn, when he closes his eyes, he swears he can hear his ma’s voice, gentle, coaxing in his ears to rest. he’s been solely burning on reserves that haven’t existed, fighting against a force that was bound to always beat him, until a god decided to fight in his corner, which is still incredibly hard to wrap his muddled head around.

“you should rest.” the god speaks again, gaze flickering to bucky with an emotion the soldier can’t decipher. he settles down on his knees, huge body furling against the ground, and he watches bucky absentmindedly.

there is still that strange expression coated on the god’s face, almost like the start of a goodbye, close to fond and sad.

“where do i slee-“ before bucky can even finish, there is a bed conjured right in front of him, obscenely big compared to the cramped bed he used to sleep in, the apartment in brooklyn he shared with steve, with chipped walls and its slightly stale air. this bed would cost a fortune, he feels odd even stepping towards it. the question of how it appeared lingers on his tongue, but he’s too exhausted to question it, a god is right next to him, he doesn’t have the capacity to think about what a god can’t do. “oh.”

he still hesitates to clamber into it’s mountainous duvet and circle of fluffy pillows. even though the deity healed parts of him, there is still an awful ache that weighs him down, it’s like any sort of pain is clinging to him, whether it’s imaginary or not. subconsciously it feels like a trick, it can’t be safe can it? he’s not safe from hydra anywhere, they will always find him, he is just property-

“rest.” the god repeats, firmly, but almost faltering. “you’re not needed yet, i’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

“hey now-“

bucky doesn’t even have time to question that sentence, the moment his body sags onto the bed, it feels like coming home. there are inklings of steve, his ma, his siblings, brooklyn, everywhere and everyone he has ever loved, he hears them faintly, he smells them distantly. it is enough to lull him to sleep almost instantaneously, so even though he wanted to narrow his eyes and demand what that statement meant, he cannot. his mouth fills with cotton, his body weights what feels like tonnes, he is warm, he feels safe.

his eyes droop as he melts into the duvet, it is warm, comfortable, such a contrast compared to the agonising frost of cryo. there is a semblance of peace that nestles into his worn bones, it’s the first time in a long time that he can breathe, exist, without an abnormal amount of pain. in this odd bed, in an incomprehensible realm, bucky slips into a soft slumber.

bucky barnes has a larger purpose, he cannot just go back to brooklyn, he is needed, decades in the future. he will wake up to find his best friend was presumed dead and yet was somehow found, buried in a block of ice. somehow him and steve will have survived, and they will find each other again. both of their families will be mostly long gone, as well as everyone they ever knew, but they will have each other.

and bucky barnes will have avoided the reality where he got moulded into a killing machine, ruined beyond comprehension that he forgot who he was entirely. there is still a lot of work to do in this version, the man is still traumatised, may forever be wounded by what was done to him, and there is no guarantee in the future that hydra won’t get him again and finish the job, but atleast for now, he is alright. he is asleep.

the god will watch over, and will also be alone for around 60 years. no one will pray to him, he is quite sure of it, whatever happened with bucky was purely accidental, but he is glad it happened. his larger purpose is making sure bucky gets where he’s needed, and then after that? well, it will likely be dormancy, and this time, permanently. it is something he’ll need to make peace with, not now, but eventually.

after a few years, he momentarily departs from bucky, triple checking that the man is still comfortable and sleeping, and then heads to where he woke up.

it is still abandoned, desolate, it is in all, a sad sight. he meticulously checks everything, each compartment and nook is empty, ransacked. his gut twists with the realisation that they removed him from history, there isn’t a singular scroll or scripture. there is an urge to cry that wells within his chest, he has officially failed in his godhood, but it is fine, it has to be fine.

it may be hours or days that he spends wallowing in those ruins, raking over it what feels like a million times, committing the pathetic structure into memory, as if it might change for the better, or maybe because he won’t see it again. he has no plans to depart from bucky once more, there is no one else to visit, so he leans down, right next to the barren altar and presses a featherlight kiss to the cracked, carved stone. it is a goodbye for all those he failed, and all those who once followed him.

when he returns, bucky is still sleeping, but he has fidgeted with his metal arm, it glints and gleams, rippling with a hypnotising light. it is still strange to see, he doesn’t know whether to scorn it or admire it on the man knowing the way it got there must’ve been from a deep tragedy. there is a big chance he will never get the opportunity to ask how he got it, and a small pit of sadness swells within him.

despite it all, bucky is a vision, face messily framed by a brown mane, long eyelashes, slightly parted lips and his scratchy stubble. the scars on him are far from grotesque, they paint a picture so vivid he is unsure if he can look away. this man has survived, and in the future some day he will live again.

in all of his years existing as a deity, watching and observing lives but never living one himself, he lets himself yearn, for just one singular moment. what would it had been like? to chase fulfilment? perhaps love? it sounds odd, but the most emotion he’s ever felt is now, in the presence of being forgotten, but also protecting bucky. a part of him desires to inch closer to the man, to cradle him, or even weave his hand through that brown hair. he wishes to provide comfort for someone who’s been deprived of it for so long, but he sits perfectly still, and watches, just like he’s always done.

he has never been quite so attached to a singular mortal before. it could be because it’s the last one he might ever see, but that’s already false. there is something undeniably magnetising about this man, so, he finds himself quite lucky to be the one to watch over him for the next few decades.

it is a privilege to guard bucky barnes, he concludes.

divider creds: @strangergraphics-archive

author's notes (it turned into a huge rant be warned): if im entirely honest its been hard to write what ive wanted to write recently, partly because i felt obligated to cater to a wider audience. i put a lot of pressure on myself because i thought people wouldn't really read if i wrote a reader that was trans or used he/him. i am trying to get out of that mindset, and attempting to write whatever id like to, i think its just the people pleasing side of me being a little too incessant. this however was a step to writing what i wanted, and for that reason im really happy with it.

this is turning into an author’s ramble, if you’re curious on what happens to the god/what the god looks like in my mind, here’s the answer: some of the canon mcu events still did happen, the initial plan for the god was to watch over bucky for around 60 years, but bucky may have been needed by fate sooner. in any case, no matter when bucky wakes up, the god is expecting to go dormant, except i like to think that bucky doesn’t necessarily worship this god, but definitely remembers him, thinks of him in hard times, and in doing so the god stays alive, and dutifully (and excitedly) watches bucky’s life. he very predictably falls in love with bucky, but never takes action. the next time these two actually see each other would be after thanos’ snap, and when bucky blips, he ends up in the god’s realm. i imagine this time that bucky would refuse to sleep, insisting on knowing what’s going on in the world while he technically doesn’t exist anymore.

it would be such an interesting dynamic imo, bucky reuniting with this old god that saved him, knowing that he’s actually not forever dead because otherwise he’d be somewhere different, so he knows sometime in the future the avengers figure out how to undo the snap, and in the meantime he sets it as his goal to befriend this giant god who he only briefly got to speak to in what feels like a past life. i think by the end of it, when bucky gets snapped back, the god promises to visit bucky properly, because after five years of talking and keeping each other company, they’re quite close. this deity loves bucky fiercely, and bucky is probably a little taken aback when he realises, but eventually tries to show reciprocation.

can you imagine the faces of the avengers when one day this GIANT humanoid thing is walking behind bucky like a scary dog and they’re like tf is that??? are we just going to ignore that eldritch being hello???

that brings me to what i picture this god to look like personally, everyone’s interpretations upon reading will be different which i love!! i see him as huge in height, potentially multiple arms, shadow-like in the sense he’s pure black, his skin almost looks like a void, im imagining white eyes (perhaps multiple), and he’s both sharp and soft.

one last thing, i’d like to thank my one mootie for giving me the motivation to start writing more, you know who you are beloved!! (not tagging because i’m not sure if a he/him reader is your cup of tea but i wanted to do an end credits dedication to you mwah mwah 💕!!)

i said one last thing but i lied, im hoping i can maybe do one more entry for this challenge, it’s a great motivator and the prompts are simply amazing!! thank you so much EVERYONE who reads this at any point in time, it means the world to me <3

also song that helped to keep inspiring the fic was “about you” by the 1975

[thespianinthebackcorner]

I find Mephiles' name and its connotations and meanings so interesting. Especially in how the way you pronounce it changes the meaning.

Think about it- most people are aware the name is connected to "Mephistopheles", the name of a demon from some scripture I've forgotten (whoops). Therefore, we pronounce Mephiles the same as its lengthened form- Meh-fi-sto-fi-lees, me-fi-lees. Thus associating his name- and him- with a demon, with evil, and subconsciously emphasizing his worse acts. As if to say that his lying, conniving acts are natural; look at his name; how could he be anything less but pure evil. He's the mind of a god, how could he possibly be kind?

But the name "Mephiles" has a second meaning when seen from a modern English point of view. When you use a modern English lexicon, you get a fairly common mispronunciation. Mee-files. The thing is- and not many people realise this- that pronunciation of the name, despite having the same spelling, has a completely different meaning and connotation. Broken down with a modern English lexicon, it's not derived from a demon's name at all- it instead becomes:

Me (as in the sense of self)

-philes (a suffix used in English to describe someone who loves something).

Within a modern perspective, his name literally means self-love- his whole motivation for his actions; if he didn't love his whole self then he wouldn't fight so hard to reunite, right? Alternatively, it could also be twisted to mean loving whoever reads his name- loving you, directly telling you he loves you. Suddenly, you're taken from associating him with a demon to emphasizing that he is not just the mind but the heart of a god, too, and a benevolent, loving one at that. Suddenly his "evil" acts are not by nature, but a reaction, lashing out at what's around him for the pain he's been put through. With a simple switch of pronunciation, his name goes from being associated with evil and emphasizing his worst flaws to being associated with love and reminding the audience that he is capable of benevolence and love, and if given the chance can still be the same god that willingly gave his fire away to mortals just because he loved them and wanted to keep them safe.

Additionally, even in its original form, the name still carries connotations of love- in the original depictions of Mephistopheles, it's pretty well blatant that the original demon is gay. He himself carries a connotation of love if you look deeper than surface level, and it leads me to wonder how much more of Mephiles' character revolves around his heart than we realise.

I wonder if, had things done differently, we'd been able to see more of that love he has hidden away.

I wish we had.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

gold!reader

❤❤❤

Without further ado: Aurelia

The light that came before light.

Before creation had a name, before the stars were whispers in the darkness, she was Theia. The first light. The spark that would become the universe, born from silence and untold energies. Now, she is Aurelia. The gilded one. The angel whose golden wings could split the sky, whose light hums through realms and echoes in hearts long forgotten.

She is the beginning, the middle, and the end. She was the birth of all things, and now she is Castiel’s guiding star—his morning sun.

But behind the angelic name, there is always Theia. The one who remembers when the universe was only an idea. The one who is ancient and eternal, unknowable, and magnificent.

She isn’t from this world. Or any other. She is older than the stars, more ancient than the war in Heaven, more powerful than the words scrawled in blood across holy texts.

If the universe had a mother—it would have been her.

She moves like falling sunlight through stained glass. Her skin glows like scripture. Her eyes hold the heat of dying suns. And her wings—oh, her wings—are spun gold and judgment, stretching across dimensions no human tongue can name.

To gaze upon her is to remember paradise. To fear her is to remember why you were cast out.

She speaks like prophecy. Bleeds golden ichor. Smiles like temptation. Her laughter echoes in cathedral halls and collapsing stars alike. She smells like myrrh and apples, and when she cries—and she does cry—the tears pool like melted halos at her feet.

She is divine. Angelic. Serpent-tongued. She is every contradiction God was too afraid to write into His own image.

Dean calls her “junkless.” She laughs. Sam tries to catalogue her. She tells him stories older than Genesis. But Castiel—Castiel worships her.

He knew the moment he saw her—caged, wing-clipped, quiet and watching—that she was not another angel. Not a monster. Not a threat.

She was the answer.

She doesn’t speak his name. She speaks into it. And when their eyes meet, the veil between flesh and spirit stretches thin enough to burn. She stirs something inside him Heaven never allowed—desire, awe, rebellion, longing. He forgets his orders when she breathes. Forgets Heaven altogether.

Because this isn’t devotion. This is gravity. And she is the sun.

ETYMOLOGY: 

Aurelia & Theia pronunciation: Aurelia - Aw-REE-lee-uh Theia - THAY-uh

Aurelia: From Latin aureus, meaning golden. Evokes radiance, nobility, and divine light. Theia: Named after the Greek Titaness of sight and celestial light, mother of the sun, moon, and dawn. Theia is the primordial light, the cosmic spark before creation.

first meeting

To be continued...

a/n: HELLA DIFFERENT to anything I've done previous. It's supposed to feel like it's part of the colour!reader universe, but it's own standalone series, like a spin-off, but not quite. I'm going for a lot of biblical themes and imagery in this series (for the three Supernatural pairings, at least) because it feels fitting. And also like I'm reclaiming some of that religious trauma. Let me know what y'all think, please!!! <3