#it was so Black church in a non-church setting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gladiatorcunt · 5 months

Text

summary: priest!leto x afab!reader x priest!paul (title from scorpio by pour vous)

cw: blasphemy if i’m being so real, spit roasting, reader is lowkey losing it but they’ll be okay, dubcon, pwp-ish (there’s set up but it’s not that long imo), mention of paul being into predator/prey, daddy kink coded without the actual daddy kink, horror elements, unreliable narrator vibes, mention of them being willing to non con reader if things didn’t go their way, no incest between leto & paul 💀, reader’s their sad loser turned attic spouse, mention of eventual impreg, implied soft dom!leto & mean dom!paul, religious practice inaccuracies, possibly predictable plot twists, implied painful anal but reader’s too out of it to feel it, implied natural aphrodisiac in their spit, reader bleeds

wc: 2.5k

block & move on if uncomfortable,

do not translate/repost/give my works to ai

please consider commissioning me or leaving me a tip !!

You’ve been feeling… lost. The trees keep secrets from you and the clouds mix together like egg whites. You wish you knew what kind of pill you need to be on, you wish you knew what was wrong with you. You’re paranoid and seeing blank eyes watching you through the brick and mortar of your apartment. Your skin burns hotter than hell and sometimes you think that there are claws grabbing at your ankles when you sleep.

Church hasn’t been something you’ve bothered to attend since you were a kid, but you yearn for it now.

You pull your tattered coat around yourself as you step into the ancient building. The Church of Caladan is the oldest church in the country, if not the world. You hope you don’t look silly when you take caution with how hard your feet hit the stone. ‘You break it, you buy it’ must apply to old churches too.

Your unease rolls off you in waves, and a couple nearby priests seem to sense it in the same way that horses can sense fear. For a second you imagine bursting into flames, but there are hands groping your flesh through the great hellfire.

They’re about even in height, though one is clearly older. The gray hair weaved into his temples suits him more than it shows his age. The younger man has the same dark and wavy hair, but his gaze is a touch more haggard and rife with burden.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn't have burst in here…. I'm just looking around.” You rush to explain so they would go away, internally cringing at yourself.

“No, we want newcomers to feel comfortable enough to ask questions. I’m Leto,” He says and shakes your hand. “And this is my son, Paul. He’s recently started working here at the church with me.”

Paul steps up to shake your head as well, his mouth doesn’t move but you swear that the corners twitch. The stained glass windows cast a multicolored hue on his eyes and you find yourself lost in the swirling pools of light. Then black holes swallow the brightness in the irises, cosmic cannibalism.

You blink in alarm and awkwardly take a step back from the two priests. Father and son share a look between them that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing them.

Leto clears his throat and pointedly grabs your hands in both of his, encapsulating them in his warmth.

“You’ll have to forgive him, Paul’s never dealt with a lamb as darling as you before. He’s never dealt with one at all actually, you two can go through this together.”

Paul smiles but it fits all wrong, with teeth that should be fangs and with a tongue that appears forked. You blink again and all is well, the man before you fits his human skin like a glove. Maybe you should give them the benefit of the doubt, you’re convinced you’re going crazy anyway and Priests would never be capable of hurting someone. Ghosts aren’t real and Demons are just a crazed mother’s bedtime story.

“Um, okay. Thank you for accepting me.” That’s all you want, deep down, and they know that. “I felt moved to be here, I can’t explain it.”

Leto nods and Paul rubs your shoulder in sympathy. They would hiss that they know full well what called you here, but you might bleat and scurry away. You make a sad picture, abandoned and half insane, but that’s what they are for. To soothe and to serve you, to purify you from the inside out.

“Then all the more reason to stay and sit for a moment, don’t you think?” Paul finally speaks, the boyish tone surprising you.

“Paul’s right, let’s get this jacket off you, poor lamb. You must be freezing to death.” Leto coos, shushing your protests and carefully pulling the cheap thing off of you.

They take you on a little tour of sorts, pointing out the architectural details of the building itself as well as passionately delving into its history. Centuries of worship and service to the community, strangely never having sustained any kind of property damage. The priests speak of the church as if they were wandering through the halls all this time, and they chuckle when they tease you about how relieved they were that you didn’t suffer from a nosebleed. They’re quite common apparently.

“I think that should do it, i’d hate to think that we’ve been talking your ear off, dear.” Leto says, rubbing the inside of your wrist and directing you towards the large piano on the stage at the front of the church.

He must notice the sudden spark in your eyes at the sight, because his crow’s feet wrinkles deepen as he pulls the black piano bench out. Leto’s palm spreads out wide and he gives the leather seat a firm pat, signaling for you to sit down. Butterflies swirl in your stomach with anxiety but you feel too shy to refuse the clearly eager offer. You take a seat in front of an onyx grand piano far grander than you’re used to seeing in a church.

Leto soon occupies the space next to you. The bench is small enough that your thigh is pressing against his, warmth bleeds through your clothes and the indication of muscle really makes you wish you were alone in your room with a rose toy. You place your fingers on the pristinely polished keys and clumsily play some hodgepodge of a melody that you remember from your childhood. A mix of tchaikovsky and children's church songs.

You jump and play the wrong note when you feel thick fingers slide up your thigh. Your cheeks burn with heat but you focus on the music. Leto sighs with sugary sweet satisfaction but doesn’t move his fingers any further. He also doesn’t try to play, it’s almost like he only wants to bask in the domesticity of watching you perform. You think you hear him whisper “That’s it, who knew such a talented lamb would be gracing our doorstep?”

You get a flash of riding him on the piano, gasping into his hair chest when it breaks under the weight of your passion. Thin fingers come from behind to caress your ass as it moves, much colder than the cock you’re bouncing on. Then it fades away, and you’re back to making a fool of yourself with your little song.

Paul watches from the pulpit, eyes drinking in the way your curves expand and move as you squirm. His grip tightens on the bright wood but you’re none the wiser. You almost forget that he’s even there, something which he realizes because he strolls to stand behind you and his father. The music stops once you feel his breath on your neck and he bends down to tenderly pull your hair off of your shoulder, getting himself acquainted with the texture as he rubs his fingertips down the strands.

A distant voice calls out for Leto and he stands, smiling apologetically and thanking you for the performance. You feel adrift as you watch him walk away, reminding yourself that a man like him has other things to do than coddle you.

Paul slides a hand down your back and guides you down to the pew right up front, with a view of center stage, sitting right beside you with a wink. Once Leto returns, you spot the silver tray of communion wafers in his hands. The tray is set on the pulpit by his side.

The older man's eyes darken as he puts one in his mouth, and your brain shuts down when he snatches your face in his rough palms and kisses you sense no less. The wafer cracks as his tongue passes it into your mouth, the salty crumbs oddly making you crave something even saltier. There’s a sticky sweet sensation traveling through your body as you exchange saliva with him, your brain feels so foggy.

You break away, curling your hands into the collar of Leto’s uniform.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Your voice is small and not completely filled with disgust, you’re honestly too desperate for some form of human contact to make good decisions.

“We’re helping you, honey.” Leto purrs into the seam of your mouth, shaking his head in apparent fondness.

You’re too cute for your own good, at least they don’t have to worry about covering their tracks. Any incubus or succubus would be glad to get a hold of someone as lonely as you, but they wouldn’t love you like you deserve. You haven’t been watched by anyone as long as you’ve been watched by them. He hopes that Paul doesn’t shove his foot in his mouth and let it slip that he wished you gave them the opportunity to take you by force. His son carries a torch for a bit of predator and prey action, he likes playing with his food too much. You’re different from the scrambling mice that get torn to bits, though, you’re forever.

Plus, if you don’t get it now, he has no problems with explaining everything when you’re too weak to get up and try to run away.

Paul buries his face in your neck, spilling the vial of wine he had in his pocket down your shirt. It soaks the tank top underneath and though you try with all your might to wriggle away, the desire to resist gets brushed away under a heavy fog.

It’s nice to be touched, to be wanted after a lifetime of feeling the exact opposite. Perhaps this is why the lord guided you to his grandest home, so you could take his prophets into your body.

The black vanishes from Paul’s eyes and you sink against his chest, making out with his father as your eyes roll back into your head.

No words are uttered verbally as Paul shuffles to the side and pulls you to lie back on the pew’s cushion. Leto deprives you of his tongue and gives you a chance to breathe, which both men do with you in sync, resting their foreheads against you.

The nectar on your tongue tastes divine, little lamb, a voice whispers in your mind.

Let us give you purpose so you no longer need to roam, another begs.

You’re crying from the relief of having your mouth filled, Paul tilts your head up by your chin as he slowly slides his cock into your mouth. The ridges and bumps of what feels like piercings sends a jolt of arousal through you.

“Fuck-” He hisses and rubs your neck, watching you adjust to the stretch. “So warm-”

Leto tuts and clamps his hands around your hips, you’re already too fucked out to register sharp black claws taking care of your clothes. Leaving you bare. A shiver passes through your body as he drags his huge hand down to your pussy, being mindful not to accidentally scratch you. He intends for there to be no blood, this time, not a lot.

You gag on Paul’s length when Leto slams your hips against his pelvis, grinding not one but two large cocks against your cunt. If you were looking at his face, you’d see pitch black eyes and intimidating fangs, but all you can focus on is the hazy candle light and what must be someone playing an organ.

You catch a view of one of the stained class windows, a pair of angels cradling a lamb. It’s the only damaged part of the church, with cracks running along the angel’s wings. You’d think it’s a sneeze away from shattering entirely. Your view of it is blurred by Paul’s quick thrusts, gagging on it again. Drools drip onto the red carpet.

Leto grabs one of Paul’s curled horns and yanks his head to the side, scolding at him to be nicer to you. You’ve clearly never taken three cocks inside you, the one you’re servicing is proving to be overwhelming enough. Again, Paul’s new to this experience as well, just in a different way than you are. In a sense, it’s like he was born yesterday. The older man relays this to you through your choked moans and tears, assuring you that he’s taught Paul how to clean up his messes and be grateful. Something like this will be no different.

“Hush, beloved. I would have gladly speared your mouth but you would be dead before I could cum inside it.”

You see God in the sky when Leto slaps the tapered tip of one of his dicks against your slick entrance, God sees you when he gets the tight walls of ass to wrap around the other. Unbeknownst to you, it’s funny how so many things are, your blood pools around his balls. You’re in pain sure but you’ve never felt as much pleasure as you have in this instance. Both “Priests” smell your blood and well, only your body can tell the rest of the story. Later you’ll wake up to find that the building around you has ruby walls and it seems to be breathing. The shooting pain in your left hand is the result of two iron rings being chiseled into the bone of your ring finger.

The four leathery wings protruding from your back, with spikes poking out from the joints, are waiting to be discovered. As are the nubs sprouting out of your hair.

For now beads of sweat highlight your bouncing tits, Paul gropes one and Leto runs the edge of his claw along the side of the other. They’re hissing words that string together and disappear in the blink of an eye, voices slurred and sticky. Their babbling stops and starts again as you reflexively swallow around Paul’s cock when he skull fucks you without warning. They laugh too, but you can at least pretend that Leto’s tone is kinder.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough teasing.”

“But father-“

“I said no. And don’t think for a second that you’re getting anything else but their mouth.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“You lack self control, it wouldn’t be suitable for conception to occur like this. As delectable as their quivering cunt is, demons shouldn’t abstain from courting.”

“You’re saying that as you’re balls deep inside of them.”

“Don’t start with me, Paul.”

All while you’re making gurgling sounds in between the younger priest’s thighs. You hear growls that sound like a mountain lion’s emitting from both men, and the heavy thumps of something flapping in the air gets you holes clenching around Leto. Both men feverishly scratch up and down your limp body, but you’re so enraptured by the chorus of angels happening outside. You have no sense of time, it’s minutes or it’s hours before their cum spills inside of you. There’s too much to possibly keep it all inside, a good amount of it leaks from your cunt and your throat. Leto feels like Christ incarnate when you squirt all over him and yourself with the dumbest expression on your face. Multicolored pieces of glass fall down around you with the loud chime of an invisible bell.

275 notes · View notes

candycandy00 · 5 months

Note

Character: Sukuna

AU setting: Church

spice level: NSFW

Mood: writers choice

Kinks: Non-Con(however would it be alright if it's consensual non con?), daddy kink, breeding, spanking, Size difference and Praise

(Could it be Fem reader? Thx !! :))

Father Sukuna’s Discipline - A Sukuna x Reader Fanfic

I might have added a couple kinks and took some liberties with the CNC kink but I hope you like it!

Smut. 18+. Fem Reader. Sukuna as a Priest. Probably very offensive to Catholics (I know nothing about Catholicism so please look over any errors). Breeding. Spanking. Sort of CNC. Dubcon. Daddy kink (he’s a priest so Father is used instead of Daddy), light bondage. Size difference. Rough sex. Praise. Dividers by @benkeibear.

Part of CandyCandy’s 2k Followers Event! Any feedback whatsoever would be adored!

You stand in the drafty hallway outside Father Sukuna’s office, shifting from one foot to the other. He’s angry with you. He definitely saw that you were late for morning prayers, and he happened to be walking by when you flubbed reading the study verses to your students. As a new nun working in this Catholic school, you should be providing a strong example for the students to follow. Instead, they giggle when you try to scold them.

Father Sukuna, the headmaster, has had to discipline you several times now for your careless behavior and mistakes. You appreciate that he’s taking the time to give you such personal attention, but his punishments can be… severe.

And so you take a deep breath before knocking lightly on his door. He calls for you to come in, so you twist the brass doorknob and push the heavy wooden door open, then step inside.

The room is large, with high ceilings and tall windows along the back wall. The air is chilly, despite the low fire burning in the fireplace. You flinch when the door slides closed behind you, feeling like you’ve been sealed in.

There’s a large wooden desk in the center of the room, and behind it sits Father Sukuna, looking at you over the top of his reading glasses and closing the Bible in his lap before placing it on the desk.

“Do you know why I asked you to come?”

His voice is deep and smooth. His black priest robes do little to conceal his muscular form. As he pulls off his glasses, his unusual red eyes seem to shimmer. His handsome face is lined with black tattoos, remnants of his former life before joining the priesthood.

You fidget beneath his piercing gaze, thinking, far from the first time, that it’s a waste for someone like him to be a priest. Sensuality seems to ooze from every pore on his body. Every little move he makes, every word he utters with that voice, makes you think impure thoughts.

“I was late this morning,” you say, looking at the floor.

“And?” he prompts.

“And I messed up my reading of scripture.”

“Twice,” he adds.

You nod pathetically. “Yes, twice.” You raise your head then, meeting his eyes. “I beg your forgiveness, Father! I’ve only been a nun for six months now. I’m having a hard time adjusting.”

He stands up from his leather chair and walks around the desk to stand in front of you. This close, you’re very aware of how tall and big he is, how he towers over you, how he could throw you around like a rag doll if he wished. You can smell his cologne, a deep musky scent with contrasting cherry blossom undertones.

“It seems that you need more discipline, Sister. Did you come prepared?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, your face burning with shame as you reach your trembling hands down and grip your robe. Hesitantly, eyes on the floor to avoid his face, you slowly pull the fabric up to your waist.

Just as he instructed, you’re wearing no panties, only black silk thigh high stockings. Even with your soft thighs pressed together, he can definitely see your bare pussy, shaved the way he demanded.

“Ah, so you can follow instructions after all,” he says, and you glance up at his face to find him grinning widely. It’s an expression wholly unbecoming of a priest.

You watch as he steps back to his desk and uses one arm to knock everything off it with a single swipe. Then he pats the desk and says, “Climb on, and get in position for your punishment.”

You drop your robe and move over to his desk. He lifts you up and sits you on it, then you nervously maneuver yourself to be on your hands and knees. Your limbs are shaky as he walks around behind you and jerks your robe up again, letting it bunch up at your waist, leaving your lower half bare. One of his large hands sets upon your naked ass, then rubs down it, tracing your shape.

“As for what we discussed earlier… are you still certain?” he asks.

“Y-yes,” you say.

Two days ago, Father Sukuna proposed giving you “special discipline” to help you improve as a nun and turn away from your careless, sinful behavior. He said it would be intense, possibly painful and embarrassing, and that you would have to consent to allowing him full access to your body, using it however he sees fit. He gave you those two days to think about it. Today, you gave him your answer.

Now, with his eyes roaming over your exposed flesh and his warm hand squeezing the fat of your ass cheek, you don’t regret your choice, even if it’s humiliating. Because you truly do want to be the best nun you can be, and… being touched by a man like him, so tall and so intimidating, with those wild tattoos, makes your body quiver with excitement. So many nights you’ve laid in your bed, shamefully touching yourself while thinking of him.

He gave you a word, what he called a “safe word”, for you to say if you decide you can no longer handle the discipline and want to stop. Otherwise, he said, he would continue no matter what you say. The very thought of being completely at his mercy both frightens and thrills you.

Stepping around to the front of you, Father Sukuna pulls your rosary from your neck and winds it tightly around your wrists, binding them together and forcing you to lean more on your elbows than your hands. This makes your position slightly more unstable, and leaves your ass elevated higher than the rest of you.

He moves out of sight for a moment, and returns holding something in his hands. It’s a large wooden paddle with several holes drilled into it. Your eyes widen as you stare at the threatening object.

“Years ago, before I became Headmaster, this paddle was used to punish misbehaving students. We don’t do that anymore, but we keep the paddle around. Sometimes it’s effective to just have it lying on the desk when talking to an unruly student.”

He slaps the paddle into his open palm, resulting in a loud thwacking sound that makes you jump. “The holes supposedly make it sting more,” he tells you, that unnerving grin spreading across his face again.

Moving to your side, he holds the paddle up, looking down at your glassy, wide eyes, then he swings it downward, smacking the harsh wood against your trembling, vulnerable ass. You cry out in pain, feeling the burn of the holes, instinctively trying to scoot away.

Father Sukuna uses his free hand to firmly grip your shoulder, holding you in place, before bringing the paddle down again. This time the sting is enough to bring tears to your eyes and a scream from your throat.

But he remains merciless.

Thwack!

Three more hits, each one hard enough to make your body jump from the desk. Your ass burns. It has to be totally raw by now.

“Father, please! Forgive me!” you weep, your knees nearly collapsing, your face now buried in your forearms, your hands clutching the rosary that has them bound together.

Father Sukuna pauses and sits the paddle on the desk beside you. He uses his now empty hand to grip your sore cheek, kneading it, making you whimper.

“Spread your legs wider,” he commands, and you struggle to comply, scooting your shaking knees further apart. He leans over to look, making you flush with heat and embarrassment. “Such a sinful body,” he says. “You’re absolutely dripping.”

“I’m so sorry, Father!” you cry, desperate to close your thighs and hide your shame, but knowing better than to anger him.

You feel his hand slide down, and then his fingers dip into your wet folds. You shudder, fighting the urge to try to pull away. He laughs as his fingers brush over your clit, making you twitch. “Such a fuckable little cunt,” he says, and you glance back at him over your shoulder, shocked by his words.

“Father?” you ask, trying to ignore the feeling of his fingers stroking you.

“Hmm? Do my words concern you, Sister? I find that hard to believe when this soaked pussy is practically begging to be fucked. Do you want that? Do you want to be fucked by my huge cock?”

“I… I don’t…”

He suddenly withdraws his hand, picking up the paddle again in one smooth motion and then slamming it back down on your raw, stinging ass. This time it hits so low that it connected with your pussy. You squeal and jerk, and Father Sukuna holds the paddle up to his face. “You’ve gotten it all sticky,” he says.

After sitting the paddle back down, he reaches down with both strong hands and effortlessly flips you over onto your back. He grabs your bound wrists by the rosary and jerks your arms above your head, then forces your legs even wider apart. He pulls your whole body down toward the end of the desk, making your robe ride up even further, nearly exposing your chest.

He uses one hand to pull up his own robe and open the black pants underneath. “I fucked countless women before becoming a priest,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. “I thought I got it all out of my system. But fuck it, I’m still a man. So I’m gonna ruin this cute little pussy of yours.”

His tone of voice, his manner of speech, they seem different, rougher. “F-father, please,” you beg, “be gentle with me!”

He pulls a massive cock from his pants and lines it up with your entrance. “Not a fuckin’ chance!” he says, then immediately shoves himself all the way in.

You gasp as you feel yourself being completely stuffed, his hands firm on your waist, keeping you steady as he pounds into you. “Please forgive me, Father!” you sob out.

“Huh? Forgive you for what?” he asks, that maniacal grin on his face.

“F-for being so sinful!”

He laughs before he leans down and extends his tongue, licking a stripe up your crying face. “No need to apologize. Your tight pussy feels fucking incredible! This sinful body of yours is a blessing!”

You feel dazed, out of your mind, as his cock repeatedly slams into you. You have no idea what’s right or wrong anymore. You gaze up at him through teary eyes. “Is… is this part of the discipline? To make me a better nun?”

He reaches one hand down to stroke your clit, making your hips buck off the desk. “Yeah, I’m making you a better nun!” he grunts. “I’m making you my personal little slutty nun!”

You can’t take anymore. Your mind and heart are so confused. Only your body seems to understand Father Sukuna’s discipline. So you let go, you let yourself fall over the edge, and you scream out his name as you cum around his cock, clenching him with everything you have.

His grin only gets wider, his red eyes gleaming, as he fucks you even harder. And when you finally feel him pulsing inside you, followed by a gush of his hot sticky cum filling you up, you lose all strength, going limp on the desk beneath him.

Once he’s bottomed out, he pulls back and looks down at you. “Good girl, taking my cock so deep. I’ll forgive your mistakes this time,” he says as he buttons his pants and pulls his robe back down. His voice is returning to his more formal tone. “But if you don’t show more grace as an employee of this school, I will have to discipline you again.”

He reaches down and unties your hands, then gives your rosary back to you, leaving you speechless and stunned. You quickly recover and scoot off the desk, jerking your robe back down to hide the cum dripping down your thighs.

“Thank you, Father,” you say with a quivering voice as you hurry out of the room.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #Candy #candys2kevent

371 notes · View notes

krahk · 6 months

Text

Blood for Ruin

(Or, Alastor and That One Time He Got Drunk and Forgot He Tried To Make a Black Magic Agreement With a Radio Only For It to Come Back to Him in the Worst Way)

Masterlist

Pairings: Alastor x Reader (She/Her/OFC) as reluctant semi-soulmates via non-consensual deal (on both ends). No use of Y/N.

I understand he is aroace, but I couldn’t stop thinking about this idea so here it is.

Eventual smutty smut happening, but be kind dear god am I rusty.

_________________________________________

Exhausted was simply not what you were - you were so past that, your brain so fried out that you didn’t even know what word you were.

Because if you were seeing smiling figure-like shadows on the walls with long dark tendrils wrapping around your surroundings, and radio static from nowhere, then yea. You were fried.

But hey, it had been a crazy long weekend. You’d just spent the last 4 days cleaning up your hoarder of a great aunts shack in the Bon Temps bayou with the other scattered remainder of her family, rooting through about 4 unidentifiable rooms with confirmed animal carcasses and straight up trash-garbage piled to the ceilings. But since your mother died, any family connection at this point was appreciated, right?

‘Couldn’t be more wrong, but it’s too late now’, you think. It was way too late to back out now, you had something to prove. Your Great Aunt’s remaining son had called you ‘slicker’ because you lived in a town with more than one lighted intersection for Christ's sake. And because you used ‘whom’ in a sentence, that opened up an entirely new thrush of nicknames from your distant cousins. You wouldn’t be beaten down, you guys were almost all done with the cleanup anyway, the only remaining items being that of actual use or salvageable material. A couple family members had taken a few items home already, and since you weren’t particularly close with these relatives you weren’t about to ask for anything until-

Well until the little radio was brought out.

For some reason, the craftsmanship of this radio caught your eye. It was a beautiful dark wood, with intricate swirls carved around the speakers - the entire thing was shaped like a miniature church cathedral window. It was clearly vintage, basically a historical piece, you thought - and you did ask quietly if you could keep it. Your uncle fiddled with it to make it work but it needed some attention. It looked virtually untouched otherwise. It was a gorgeous piece, and it looked like it was a new acquisition to the deceased woman’s collection - there wasn’t a spec of dust visible on it. Your uncle figured it wouldn’t be able to pick up football (and also “why would I listen to football when I can WATCH it?”) he let you take it with you.

So you brought it back to your temporary home, the little motel at the outskirts of town (the only motel even close to the town) and set it on the little desk. And there it sat for 2 days before you finally dove in, trying to figure out what was going on with it. You had deduced it was likely the wiring, and after watching 5 or 6 videos on wiring repair on YouTube (good old YouTube) you were fairly confident a simple repair would take no time at all.

But things made in the 20s were a lot sharper, and more metal based, compared to the newer plastic models of recent years. So when you undid the back panel and attempted to unscrew a fastener around the side of the main component, you had successfully sliced your palm open on an errant piece of metal. And holy crow did it hurt AND gush blood immediately. Even though you had whipped your hand close to your chest almost as soon as you realised what had happened it was too late, there was a fair amount of blood that got on the inside of the machine.

Uttering curses, you’d rushed to the bathroom to grab a couple threadbare cloths and sop up some of the larger drops on the desk. Moving around the radio to the light, you had a clearer idea of where your blood landed. Palming one cloth in your wounded hand, your other one attempted to clean up the mess within the radio. Which is where you noticed the funny little symbols written on the inside of the back panel of the radio, which had lain facedown on the desk as soon as you had removed it. These little symbols looked like runes of some sort, unidentifiable to you. They almost looked like they were written out of blood themselves. It was clearly dried now, but the jagged nature of the strokes and brownish un-ink like material that was used to leave the symbols certainly looked like dried blood might look like on old wood.

You wiped your blood off the radio, and ran the cloth right over one of the runes, making it glow briefly with a green light. Maybe.

Well, that was what you thought you saw. But it was so brief you would have missed it with a well timed blink. The sun was setting, light streaming through the window in hazy little streaks, maybe you saw some prismatic effect? Or maybe, maybe you needed a shower and bed. Clearly if you sliced your hand open on a little radio you were tired. Sloppy coordination indeed. You reattached the back panel to the radio and decided to ignore it until you were in a better headspace.

Radio abandoned, you went and started to clean yourself up and get ready for sleep. But when the lights in the bathroom started to flicker, only to stay on slightly duller than before, paired with a strange static that scratched the inside of your eardrums, you decided to end your shower quicker than ever. Exiting the bathroom, you were chilled to realise that the main room had the same ambient experience waiting for you. And if you focused on the moving shadows from what you hoped were passing cars (electric, judging by the lack of engine noise) there was a solid larger mass lingering on the wall with the dresser and broken TV. One that looked like it had a smile, and glowing red eyes (from a car's tail lights, duh!). Yes, yes. Tired. SO tired.

Calling the front did not help, since the static was so loud when you lifted up the receiver you slammed it back down. Your own cell phone was still charging on the side table, flashing the little dead battery symbol to let you know you needed to be more responsible with your charging habits in the future. It could be another 15 minutes before it was ready to turn on.

So, obviously tired, it was time to attempt to sleep. Hopefully. If you were lucky. It wasn’t enough that the bayou was creepy all on its own, the evening took a sharp turn into scary-town after you started messing with the little radio.

Pyjama-clad and ready to sleep you decided that the hallucinations were exactly what you thought they were - hallucinations and nothing more. Nothing spooky, or supernatural, or dangerous.

But you had been wrong before.

It was the initial crashing sound of the motel room door hitting the wall that woke you up first, screaming male voices really kicking your brain into high alert as you scrambled out of bed. Ending up in the corner facing the opposite corner where the door was, you took in what was happening. 2 men, yelling at you for whatever you had - but you were screaming louder than they were, scrambling for anything in your grasp - just that stupid, fucking radio - but judging by the hot impact of a projectile hitting your chest they were not thrilled you weren’t immediately cooperating. Hand clenching around the radio’s cord you hit the corner and slumped down to the floor, lungs burning and immense pain taking over your consciousness. As your mind faded, you could hear the two men bickering, freaking out over the turn their burglary took. Oh, you being shot was an accident? Stellar. Your vision became hazy, it even looked like shadows were overtaking the men as their arguing turned into painful screaming. Whoever came to your aid was simply too late, though you could appreciate the gesture as you died.

You always thought that you would end up looking down at your dying body when the time came, but from the forceful pull downwards your soul felt, it was clear the afterlife had different plans for you.

Now you weren’t really sure what the hell, like actual, literal, hell, was going on. The impact you felt from your sharp tug into the afterlife, landing on a very detailed rug at what looked like the lobby of a hotel was one thing. The tiny radio following your fall shortly after, merely denting a corner of the wood with a loud thunk was another, cord still clenched in your hand. Oh good!

Dazed, you were immediately hoisted up and hugged - yes hugged - by probably the tallest women you had ever met, and the fastest talking one as well. Rambling about “welcome”, “hell rehab”, something or other about redemption - honestly the look of relief you gave the shorter woman who approached and reined in the other made her smirk as she introduced them in a much clearer manner.

Vaggie and Charlie. Vaggie was a resident of the hotel with her girlfriend, the owner and operator of this ‘Hazbin Hotel’, Charlie, both working at redeeming the souls of sinners and getting them into heaven. There were 2 residents, Angel & Sir Pentious, who were not present, a Janitor Nifty (currently wiping your landing spot with a cloth) the bartender, an angry bird-cat man Husk, and the host (also missing) Alastor. Your open mouthed confusion clearly made Charlie snap into attention (finally) because she finally morphed into a being that was capable of conversation.

“So, new to hell?” She inquired.

Well. Duh. “Um yes. I think I was just shot? Am I actually dead?” You asked, hopeful this was a very vivid nightmare.

“As a doornail!” She exclaimed, chipper with positive energy, “Not that doornails are dead, they don’t have souls like you or Angel but really-”

“Yes. You’re dead. And a sinner, which is why you’re here.” Vaggie cut in, patting Charlie on the back. Charlie smiled brightly and nodded at you.

“Yes, and here you can redeem yourself and hopefully make it to heaven! I have faith in our program.”

Oh god this was too much. The sound of a door opening and closing was faintly heard in the background, but that didn’t stop you from being a speedy spiral into mania.

“So. One, I’m dead. Two, why am I in hell I am pretty sure I was a decent human? I didn’t go to church, sure, but I had very little control over my working schedule. Three, is it supposed to be so freaking loud down here? I’m-“

Intense breathing interrupted - yes, breathing. It was the janitor, her one eye staring at you while she lifted the little radio. ”This is diiiirty” she semi-sang. A horrific giggle was lingering under her breath. You grimaced at her behaviour and dropped the cord immediately, avoiding any contact by proxy with this creature. What a creepy little -

“Did that come with you?” Charlie asked, looking confused as you answered with a nod. “Strange, usually possessions don’t follow a soul into the afterlife…” She trailed off, finger tapping her chin with a frown. Everyone turned to look at the manic janitor essentially vibrating with the radio in her hands.

“Interesting! What has inspired us all to gather this fine evening?”

”Alastor!” Charlie greeted an individual behind you. ”This might be our newest resident…she’s just arrived!” Her hands wildly gestured from you to whoever was behind you. You could see the shadow of the person on the floor, stretching into a long figure that looked vaguely familiar. You were certain your eyes were burning a hole into the carpet beneath the shadow. If the shadow was this frightening what exactly was behind you? The shadow appeared to smile wider as you stared at it.

“Hmm!” Alastor, you supposed, responded. “What an exciting new development why - Oh!” Something had caught his attention. He walked towards the janitor, and you glanced at the back of his figure as he walked past you towards the tiny creature. He was tall, very tall, and slender. There was an ominous presence around him, even the nature of his clothing was fashioned in a way that seemed off. It was unnerving. Broad shoulders tapered into a very slim waistline, his jacket flared out behind him in a style reminiscent of a different time. Head to toe red and black, which was also just…something else. But the other patrons also had an interesting approach to their wardrobes as well, save the 2 women. Maybe that was just…how it was here.

“Now where did you find this delightful little item, Nifty?” He said, his profile coming slightly into your view. Dear god, terrifying. You couldn’t even begin to describe his appearance. Chills ran down your back, and suddenly you remembered you were still in very thin pajamas.

“Eh-hehe a dirty radio sir!” She answered, thrilled with herself. “it came with our new guessst” her eye switching from the tallest, creepiest creature you had ever set your eyes upon to your gaze. You swear you could hear the bones crack in the man's neck as he fired his gaze to yours. You were trapped.

“Is that so?” He began to slowly walk towards you, the room filling with a static hum similar to what you felt in the motel room, your skin tingling as he got closer. It was getting harder to hear the others try and talk to the approaching figure, the hum was getting louder.

“And what,” he started, “are you doing with my Radio, my dear?” His eyes were radio dials at this point, sharp jagged teeth glowing alongside them as his head tilted in an inhuman manner, the cracking from before louder than before.

What? Oh for fucks sake. Fuck your backwater, bayou-residing, rude, nasty, hoarder family-

As your eyes rolled back into your head, your body went limp and you hit the foyer carpet. Hard. For the second time that night

Part One : Part Two : Part Three : Part Four

#Hazbin hotel #Alastor x reader #Alastor smut #Hazbin #alastorxreader #Alastor x off #Alastor x you #angel dust is the best supporting character #eventual smut #Alastor

382 notes · View notes

doberbutts · 7 months

Note

I’m wondering if you have thoughts on James Baldwin’s “open letter to the born again”? I’m struggling a bit with what his point is in that piece; it feels kinda dismissive on Jewish zionists agency in creation of Israel? But I may be missing parts or not getting things

The text in question.

And the segment I think anon is struggling with:

I know what I am talking about: my grandfather never got the promised “forty acres, and a mule,” the Indians who survived that holocaust are either on reservations or dying in the streets, and not a single treaty between the United States and the Indian was ever honored. That is quite a record.

Jews and Palestinians know of broken promises. From the time of the Balfour Declaration (during World War I) Palestine was under five British mandates, and England promised the land back and forth to the Arabs or the Jews, depending on which horse seemed to be in the lead. The Zionists—as distinguished from the people known as Jews—using, as someone put it, the “available political machinery,’’ i.e., colonialism, e.g., the British Empire—promised the British that, if the territory were given to them, the British Empire would be safe forever.

But absolutely no one cared about the Jews, and it is worth observing that non-Jewish Zionists are very frequently anti-Semitic. The white Americans responsible for sending black slaves to Liberia (where they are still slaving for the Firestone Rubber Plantation) did not do this to set them free. They despised them, and they wanted to get rid of them. Lincoln’s intention was not to “free” the slaves but to “destabilize” the Confederate Government by giving their slaves reason to “defect.” The Emancipation Proclamation freed, precisely, those slaves who were not under the authority of the President of what could not yet be insured as a Union.

It has always astounded me that no one appears to be able to make the connection between Franco’s Spain, for example, and the Spanish Inquisition; the role of the Christian church or—to be brutally precise, the Catholic Church—in the history of Europe, and the fate of the Jews; and the role of the Jews in Christendom and the discovery of America. For the discovery of America coincided with the Inquisition, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain. Does no one see the connection between The Merchant of Venice and The Pawnbroker? In both of these works, as though no time had passed, the Jew is portrayed as doing the Christian’s usurious dirty work. The first white man I ever saw was the Jewish manager who arrived to collect the rent, and he collected the rent because he did not own the building. I never, in fact, saw any of the people who owned any of the buildings in which we scrubbed and suffered for so long, until I was a grown man and famous. None of them were Jews.

And I was not stupid: the grocer and the druggist were Jews, for example, and they were very very nice to me, and to us. The cops were white. The city was white. The threat was white, and God was white, Not for even a single split second in my life did the despicable, utterly cowardly accusation that “the Jews killed Christ’’ reverberate. I knew a murderer when I saw one, and the people who were trying to kilI me were not Jews.

But the state of Israel was not created for the salvation of the Jews; it was created for the salvation of the Western interests. This is what is becoming clear (I must say that it was always clear to me). The Palestinians have been paying for the British colonial policy of “divide and rule” and for Europe’s guilty Christian conscience for more than thirty years.

Finally: there is absolutely—repeat: absolutely—no hope of establishing peace in what Europe so arrogantly calls the Middle East (how in the world would Europe know? having so dismally failed to find a passage to India) without dealing with the Palestinians. The collapse of the Shah of Iran not only revealed the depth of the pious Carter’s concern for “human rights,” it also revealed who supplied oil to Israel, and to whom Israel supplied arms. It happened to be, to spell it out, white South Africa.

Well. The Jew, in America, is a white man. He has to be, since I am a black man, and, as he supposes, his only protection against the fate which drove him to America. But he is still doing the Christian’s dirty work, and black men know it.

My friend, Mr. Andrew Young, out of tremendous love and courage, and with a silent, irreproachable, indescribable nobility, has attempted to ward off a holocaust, and I proclaim him a hero, betrayed by cowards.

For context: Andrew Young, considered the right hand of MLK Jr, had a longstanding and occasionally fraught relationship with the Jewish community. He stepped down from Congress shortly after being forced to choose between voicing support for Palestine and continuing to work towards black-jewish interests by his constituents and fellow politicians, as he felt very strongly about supporting both. This was a fairly unpopular move. While I don't believe he ever called himself Jewish by the strictest sense, he was actively involved in Jewish communities and the known "white" ancestry within him is a Polish Jew in his great grandparents.

To be honest, I don't really see much a problem with this as I think it fairly closely matches up not only with my understanding of the history of this problem but also my own country's part in it as well as my personal feelings on it decades later. It pretty blatantly says that Zionism is utilizing a machination of white supremist colonism due to the extensive history of antisemitism and having had the ancestral land dangled in front of them like bait on a hook from the British Empire, which owned Palestine at the time. It also goes on to say that many Zionists aren't even Jewish and are antisemitic in nature, but are Christians happy to get rid of as many Jews as possible and how that tracks due to the Christian church's millennia-deep history of antisemitism.

I don't think it lets anyone off the hook. I think it pretty much flat out says this is a problem caused first and foremost by white Christians who hate Jews and Arabs alike and have a vested interest in getting the two populations to fight because it'll be easier to kill off just the one group instead of both of them, if one ends up eradicating the other. It even talks about the friction between the black community and the Jewish community, what caused it, what drives it, how that friction in itself is a tool of white supremacy to hurt us both.

223 notes · View notes

sebaztianlovesgeek · 8 months

Text

THE NON CANON PARTS OF THE BLACK BUTLER ANIME IN BOTH SEASON 1 AND 2 AND ALSO THE SPECIALS WERE WILD

(in no particular order)

Ciel hires a random naked dog man who can turn into a giant wolf to be his servant even though he literally does nothing around the manor and just hangs out with Finny all the time

Finny forms a crush on a character we later find out is an angel named Angela and after the dog village arc ends we never hear of his crush again

For the most part the curry arc is the same, but for some reason they decided to change the ending. In the manga Lau and Ranmao killed Nina and her husband, in the anime everyone becomes evil by eating curry, and Sebastian had to feed them all his curry buns to turn them all good again, WHAT??

Sebastian has sex with a Nun in some cult church

Angela took Vincent and Rachel's bodies and stitched them into a weird Frankenstein looking thing because apparently that would combine their souls in the afterlife so they could be together forever

Also the whole thing with Ciel being kidnapped by the cult is never explained despite Queen Victoria and Angela being responsible for the death of his parents, therefore you'd think they'd also be responsible for the whole cult thing? But they would have no reason to sell a 10 year old to be abused by a cult-

Ash (aka Angela because they're the same person) turns Queen Victoria into A FREAKING LOLI

Ciel is framed for drug trafficking

Sebastian is arrested and kept in a torture dungeon for like 3 days where he is BDSM whipped by Angela for some reason

Fred Abberline dies

Fred before he dies mentions he doesn't have any family yet he has a brother who shows up in season 2-

Lau and Ranmao die yet they also show up in season 2

Lizzy gets kidnapped by a doll man and is almost turned into a doll zombie (not a bizarre doll just a doll zombie)

Sebastian ditches Ciel in France for some reason

Ciel finds Undertaker on some random boat and then Undertaker tells him he's gonna freakin' die

London is on fucking fire

Who caused the fire? Pluto. And thats the only part of the story where he is relevant

The final fight between Sebastian and Ash/Angela is fucking awesome though

In season 2 Ciel is just in a suitcase and has amnesia

Alois pokes Hannah's eye out for spilling a drink or something

Ciel and Lizzy try to find a deer or something and everyone thinks they're gonna break up after just 1 argument

Lau even started a gambling thing where people put down their bets on whether or not Ciel and Lizzy were gonna break up

Some weird old lady set random people on fire because she didn't like her husband, for some reason the fire disintegrated the souls so Grell couldn't collect them which doesn't make sense

Some weird bullshit happens on a train with a Pharaoh, a murderer and Sebastian being cool like always

Alois has a dress up party at his house

Soma and Agni cry because Ciel has amnesia

Soma is dressed up as Sherlock Holmes even though black butler takes place before that came out

Lizzy dresses up as a Native American, lets just say she's lucky Twitter didn't exist in the Victorian Era

Kinda like the whole curry thing everyone turns evil except its from music from a magic instrument Hannah plays and not curry, and Sebastian stops it by playing his own music kind of like the final battle in Equestria Girls Rainbow Rocks

Alois crossdresses and turns Ciel bi curious

Sebastian and Claude have sexual tension in the lake

Ciel and Alois have a sword fight, Ciel is thrown off a balcony and Alois is stabbed

"PLEASE HELP ME CLAUDE, HELP ME I'M DYING 😭"

We soon find out about Alois' backstory and it's actually quite sad and hits a bit close to home for me, I won't go into detail but the poor kids been through a lot, Alois is genuinely an interesting and kind of well written character its a shame he was put in the non canon pile of shite

Claude then crushed Alois' skull and takes his soul and puts it in a ring

Kids are getting their eyeballs ripped out and apparently Alois is doing all of this, but for some reason Scotland yard THINKS CIEL IS ALOIS WHICH IS SO DUMB BECAUSE THEY'VE BEEN WORKING WITH HIM EVER SINCE HE BECAME THE QUEENS CORGI GUARD DOG

He is taken to some doctor and is dumped into a pool of gatorade to fuse his and Alois' souls

Ciel's backstory is basically half of Alois' and half of Ciel's and thinks Sebastian killed his brother Luca

Ciel doesn't like Claude because Claude is a goober

Hannah does a weird thing with Ciel she like... Possesses him? And his eyeball appears in her mouth or something? I had no idea what was going on

Soon it is revealed Hannah was the one who ate Luca's soul and is now feeling like a mother figure for Alois because of it

Grell shows up again (yay) and she keeps trying to take sexy photos of Sebastian

Soon Claude and Sebastian end up at a maze thingy and they need to answer trivia questions to get to Alois/Ciel's soul

Soon they go to some demon island and they end up fighting using a demon sword while Ciel and Alois talk about shit in some void

Claude fucking dies (rip goober)

Alois' soul is finally set free and the poor kid gets to be with his little brother again

Hannah turns Ciel into a demon so Sebastian can no longer eat his soul so Sebastian just becomes Ciel's butler for all eternity and I lowkey feel bad for him, because yeah eating childrens souls is wrong but BRO WORKED SO HARD HE LITERALLY BANGED A NUN FOR THIS CHILD AND THIS IS THE THANKS HE GETS??

Ciel and Sebastian fake their death, the end of season 2 and a few years after that the ACTUAL CONTINUATION OF THE CANON PARTS come out

Ciel in wonderland is very silly

Sebastian as the rabbit is hot for some reason, does that make me a furry?

There is a lot of weird fan service, for example Ranmao keeps shoving her boobs and butt into Ciel's face... LADY THAT IS A 13 YEAR OLD YOU CANT DO THAT-

I'm glad it wasn't canon because I love Ranmao and she would never do that in canon

Madame Red as the queen of hearts is very cool

Weebalu already mentioned this but I wish J Michael Tatum (Sebastian's dub voice actor) did a Alice In Wonderland audiobook in the Sebastian voice

The one where Ciel puts on a play for hamlet was funny, the part where they're practicing is funny because its like an actual theatre club

Soma and Agni are the kids who are always eating, Ciel is the kid who just sucks at acting, Grell is the one who is great at acting but is very annoying and Sebastian is the theatre teacher who wants to commit kms because of all of these stupid kids

Ranmao is seaweed

Grell tries to commit incest during the play-

The special where its basically a 'behind the scenes' thing kind of like an actor AU

Sebastian is a fucking 2010's boy band looking lad

Grell is just amazing in this

In the final "trailer" Grell got pregnant, Queen Victoria built a giant robot, Claude tried to destroy the world with the fucking moon, Hannah... Uhhh lets not talk about what she did, a whole load of "I am your father" type plot twists took place and Alois was Ciel and Sebastian's great great great great great great grand-

The special where theres this character who's basically a self insert but she's a white girl so if you're not either of those its kind of hard getting into it (cries in gay guy)

The POV shots look like something out of Dora The Explorer

Soma wants to marry us for some reason, I wouldn't mind that he's cute

We also get kidnapped by Viscous Druitt for no reason and then Sebastian and Grell save us from a boat in the middle OF THE OCEAN

Finally Will The Reaper (I'm sure there are more specials but I'm lazy)

Grelliam galore

Probably one of the best specials because Grell and William are the main focus and they're just the absolute best

179 notes · View notes

tojisprincesa · 1 year

Text

I'm your angel

fyodor dostoevsky x fem reader

a/n : This is my first piece of writing containing smut, so please be nice! English is not my first language & I don't know how to properly format my writing on here either so I apologize in advance. I would GREATLY appreciate feedback! Thank you for reading my work and hope you enjoy it :)

word count : 2.1k

summary : The devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful, because he's a fallen angel and he used to be god's favorite.

✧ warnings : MDNI 18+ NSFW sexual content, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, hickeys, manhandling, possible objectification, degradation, dacryphilia, name calling, overstimulation, multiple rounds, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, belly budge, stalking, yandere behavior, virginity loss, manipulation, possessiveness, obsession, sacrilegious, creampies, mention of sex in a church, slight dubcon, betrayal, multiple orgasms, dumbification, aphrodisiac serum usage, non consensual recording, praise, hints of aftercare, reader referred to as a dog, reader is gifted but its not used in this piece, not proof read. please tell me if I missed anything. MDNI 18+ NSFW

Inspired by: I'm Your Man by Mitski

On a midnight walk home, alone you enjoyed the breeze winter had bestowed upon Yokohama. The moon was full and shining down on you. It was so cold out you wouldn't be surprised if you woke up to snow. You had stayed at the agency quite late finishing up some paperwork. Dazai had been no help, again. You hated working on a case with him simply due to the fact you were always stuck with ALL the paperwork. This case had been a big one, thanks to the decay of angels.

You loved your job truly, helping people was your purpose in life. Your ability was called “ Angel Wings”. It was a rare and very powerful ability, you were able to use what was essentially dark magic. But what gave your power its name was your majestically, beautiful wings. They looked just like an angel’s pure white wings but as fate would have it yours were as dark as the midnight sky.

You were the only one in history with this gift who had been born with black wings and the only one who had access to dark magic as well. The people of Yokohama had rumored it to be a bad omen.

Your parents had left you abandoned on the steps of a church. As a baby you were taken in and grew up in the monastery. At 10 years old you had discovered a file the sisters had on you, only to discover your parents had left a note on you as a baby stating only god could save your soul, they called you an abomination more so, a fallen angel. It was at that age you were determined to use your powers for good.

You’d like to believe you left that life behind at 18. But only god knew it plagued your thoughts day & night. And on this fateful night that's exactly what you thought about on your journey home. You were so lost in thought you didn't notice the cold amethyst eyes that tracked your every move.

✧

As you arrived home, all that your body wanted to do was rest. But you decided against that so you took a hot shower to relax your tense muscles. You deserved it after a long day at work. Unfortunately, it gave the devil watching you a perfect opportunity to set his trap. After your shower you decided to skip dinner due to your exhaustion and headed straight for bed. You had failed to notice the faint smell of gas leaking from under your bed. That mistake would cost you your freedom, you had not only fallen in a deep slumber but in the jaws of his trap.

As you opened your eyes all you saw was the moonlight so scarce, you couldn't even make out the room’s layout. But you immediately recognized the ominous voice that spoke to you. Fyodor Dostoevsky. You and everyone in the agency had been warned of this man who was a demon, no more like the devil himself. Dazai had given a brief rundown of his encounters with such a foe, stating even he himself wasn't sure of his ultimate goal. He warned that no one could win against him nor his intelligence. He was always a step ahead.

“Awake already? That gas should have knocked you out for a couple more hours..huh you're full of surprises angel” he spoke as he stepped into the light shining through the stained glass window. He looked like a god.

“There’s no use yelling, it's just you & I in the middle of nowhere so don't get any ideas. I doubt even Dazai could find us here”

It was as if he was reading your mind. You were left speechless whether it was out of fear or shock you weren't quite sure. But you couldn't let him know that. So you got straight to the point.

“What do you want from me?”

“It's quite simple really. I want your cooperation, your loyalty, and you.”

‘“ Me ?”

“Yes. You, mой ангел” [my angel]

He reached out to caress your cheek & your mind was racing. But the moment his ice cold fingers made contact with your warm rosy cheeks, it went blank. All you could focus on was Fyodor, his touch was all consuming. You found yourself leaning into him but the cushioned chair you were tied to did not allow much movement to your dismay. Your wings were aching due to the tight position you found yourself.

His haunting eyes were staring right into your soul, you were convinced he could rid you of all the sins you've committed. You did not dare to look away. He then let out a chilling laughter while holding your chin. He said

“It's not like I am giving you an option dear. You will essentially be my dog. You will obey my every command and this will be the only warning I give you, do not test me. Your disobedience will not bring any harm to you, yourself but I cannot say the same for others at the agency. Nod, if you understand.``

You gave him a subtle nod. He had made it clear you had no choice but to obey him. An eerie smile stretched across his face, it sent chills down your spine. But the way he was speaking to you sent a pulsing heat to your core. It was embarrassing to have your mind and body reacting differently, to have them be at war.

Unbeknownst to you at the time, Fyodor had injected you with an aphrodisiac serum while you were passed out. He thought it would make you easier to manipulate. Not because he thought it would be difficult but because he had a strong desire to see you beg for him. The same way he had yearned for you all these months. Watching you from the shadows, studying you. You were the object of his desire. His obsession with you was sickening and unexplainable. He had to have you and now he does.You were his. He wouldn't. No. He couldn't hold back any longer.

What shocked you like electricity running through your veins was Fyodor’s lips on yours. It was an intensely passionate kiss. You found yourself kissing him back instantly. The heat you felt between your legs had spread all over your body. His kiss had left like an ice cold sip of water in the blazing hot summer heat. You needed more to soothe this ache and he knew that.

In an instant you were untied and swooped up being led towards a bed you hadn't even realized was there. As he set you down on the cool silky sheets he made his way down your body undressing you with kisses. You couldn't protest, not with this heat making you physically dizzy, you needed him and fast. It was at this moment you realize this must've been his doing but you didn't care, a part of you had wanted this. Deep down you wanted this handsome devil to have his way with you. You were his for the taking.

“Please” you moaned

“ Please, what angel. Use your words”

Fyodor was losing his mind at how simple this all was. You really were like a dog begging for its master.

“ Please Fyodor.. I– I need you, inside me” You groaned frustrated with the heat building up and meeting its peak.

“Such a greedy mutt I have” he whispered in your ear as he nipped it. The degradation heightened your arousal, he quickly undressed and pressed his body against yours while he sucked on your neck, marking you as his. Simultaneously, his fingers played with your clit and he applied pressure as he twisted and pulled on it. You moaned out in painful joy.

“ More. I need more” you pleaded. He slapped your aching pussy, hard.

“ Where are your manners stupid slut–” he felt what was like a heartbeat come from your cunt as he said that.

“ Oh fuckk my angel is no saint, I will indulge you my dear” you felt tears escaping your eyes from how much you needed relief. Fyodor could tell from how wet you were alone. He was going to make sure only he could relieve this heat from you now and forever. He had done his research and found that you were a virgin. Not yet tainted, his angel had yet to fall from the favors of god.

He took his tip and rubbed it on your cunt giving you pleasure moaning out as he inserted himself fully. He did not give you time to adjust, not that you needed it despite it being your first time. Like a whore you screamed out in pleasurable pain. It was as if you were made for him, made to take him day and night. You were his to breed like a bitch in heat.

You looked between your legs to see the moonlight illuminating his pretty face perfectly. With the stained glass window behind him he might as well have been fucking you in a cathedral. He no longer looked like a god, he was your god, your savior.

His touch was heavenly. His pace was relentless. In and out he went with harsh deep strokes he hit your weak spot every time. He left no part of you untouched. You felt like you were suffocating in pleasure. If sex was considered a sin out of wedlock, God could add it to your list of sinful deeds. You were born a sinner but you'll die a saint. You were sure Fyodor was god himself. Each touch he bestowed upon you, cleansed you.

You whimpered as you got closer to finishing. He could tell by how your cunt squeezed around him.

“ My sweet angel, what would the detective agency say if they saw you now? Taking me so well, huh?”

You couldn't help but squeeze him tighter and cry out to him. He leaned down and whispered

“ Go ahead and say hello” as he gestured to his right. You had failed to notice a camera was recording you, capturing everything that was conspiring between the two of you.Your dignity was long gone at this point. You obey his command and let out a high pitched moan.

“ helloooo”

Fyodor groaned at the fact it wasn't even a command but you followed it nonetheless. Maybe training you wouldn't take long after all.

“ Good girl, my good girl”

He sped his pace up with harsher strokes while one hand had went down to play with your clit and the other around your neck restricting your air flow. You rolled your eyes to the back of your head and your tongue was hanging out of your mouth. You were panting like a bitch. So he'd treat you like one. He let go of your throat only to grab you cheeks, squishing them together to spit in your mouth. This only brought the knot in your stomach closer to snapping.

“ Please, Fyodor let me cum” you begged. And who was he to deny his pretty angel when she asked oh so nicely.

“Look me in the eyes when you cum angel”

Looking at him and seeing his eyes full of lust and love. His devotion to you brought upon your unraveling. You moaned his name as you cummed causing him to reach his peak as well.

His cum had you filled up to the brim. You could feel it sloshing around inside you when he applied pressure on your stomach. He knew you weren't on any birth control but that didn't matter. He needed a successor anyways. He wanted to see you plump and round full of his seed. This was his way of permanently marking you from the inside out.

So cock drunk you had lost count of the round you were on. You only realized a vast amount of time had passed due to the sun rising. The sheets were soaked from your juices mixed together. You had done unholy things. But you felt reborn as though you had been baptized in his cum. There wasn't a part of your body that wasn't covered in it by now.Your body had been pushed past your limits. Fyodor knew that and cleaned you up, he brought you water and ibuprofen. He caressed your hair holding you against his chest, laying down he praised you.

“ You did well my angel” rewarding you with a kiss on top of your head. You smiled and succumbed to your exhausted state.

You were now a fallen angel. And Fyodor was your god.

✧

After you had given Fyodor all the information he needed with no protest. He rewarded you, like a pup. You had betrayed the agency like a man. One day you'll meet your judgment by the hounds and whether that be heaven or hell you didn't care as long as you had Fyodor by your side. For if he should leave you, you should die. You deserve it don't you? It had sealed your fate. You were positive no one would ever love you like your god again.

✧ ALL WRITING BELONGS TO ME. PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK. ✧

#bsd smut #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor #yandere fyodor #obsessive fyodor #kinktober 2023 #fyodor dostoevsky smut #this is filthy #happy friday the 13th #first time posting my writing and participating in kinktober #reblog if you feel so inclined #fyodor smut

329 notes · View notes

mcondance · 6 months

Text

southern fantasy

— this is indulgently a self-ship. | reader is explicitly and beautifully Black southern (specifically from louisiana). this is literally the definition of “i wrote this for myself, but you can read it too.” | no smut 😱 | hotch got me writing fluff yall do you know how out of character this is for me? | inspired by @murdrdocs’s persisting southern enthusiasm with her characters | story is non-linear mostly, just snapshots if you wanna call it that

1.2k words of fluff and southern fantasy, ft hotch. a love letter to my state, and to hotch.

in the car, hotch’s finger taps in time against the steering wheel, sliding gracefully into the rhythm of the song rumbling out of the stereo. the sun is setting, casting a glow over his face, outlining his prominent nose and cheeks, lighting up the smile on his face.

southern skies are beautiful when you’ve got hotch to see them with.

the south is your home, your territory, your space. hotch, on the other hand, is new. he was fresh, but he’s fit in so well. the difference in birthplaces was stark, at the start, hotch’s eyes gaining a youthful glow every time you showed him a green bayou or took him to a gas station in the middle of nowhere with chicken and meat pies so hot he laughed through the burn.

he still sees everything like it’s new, eyes surveying the small towns you take him through, telling him you have family from here or there, about how your dad knows someone from here and your mom’s childhood friend lives here now. but he’s experienced, has a thing for the nights when it’s quiet out, when even in your bed he can hear the crickets chirping just outside the window.

he likes the drives, the rolling roads and graveled streets and towns that pop up here and there. the breaks in trees that reveal a church, the yellow, faded Dollar General signs and the pastures with cows and horses grazing away.

the towns are his favorite, though. small and cozy, one store for everyone, a mom & pop shop, a church.

lousiana summers are hot, bright and burning and, with the proper precautions, he can enjoy you in the sunshine. under the shade of pecan trees, a distance away from the playground, you sit across him on a checkered blanket, and it looks the image of a picnic date, your dress loose and flowing.

the nights are his favorite, too. you’d both picked a house on the edge of town, half an hour away from the nearest big store, where it’s more practical to hit a market or a gas station than drive to Walmart.

so at night, when it gets dark, it gets dark. he’s never seen the stars so clear until he met you. you and your southern wit entranced him and are still entrancing him now. he likes the subtle differences, the different ways you go about things.

and if he’s being honest, your drawl makes his head spin. he hangs on your words, on the elongated syllables and sour twang and how your accent grows deeper when you’re angry about something, or when you’re so excited your words twist and curl around themselves.

he can’t help but poke fun at you for it sometimes, when you’re speaking normally and a word comes out a little more flavored than the others.

he repeats it to you in his own voice, laughing as you scold him, saying he knew you were country when he met you.

“i did,” he concedes, and it’s like a gut-punch every time he speaks with such fondness about anything related to the relationship you two have shared.

you showed him a different kind of southern, one that isn’t horses and cowboy boots, but parties with familiar songs and a city where everyone knows everyone, nights with fireflies, and foxes you just barely catch glimpses of, rap groups proclaiming their pride in their southern heritage and experiences you only know if you’ve been here.

he’s learned some party songs, and you’ve taught him the dances. he’s so comfortable with them now that he can do them with his arms draped over your shoulders, leaning into the groove as the family you welcomed him into enjoys themselves around him.

he’s a dream at the backyard parties. he lets the kids bounce him on the trampoline, and hang off his shoulders, and pretends like he doesn't see your little cousins sneaking up on him with water guns that look more like water bazookas.

“you know, if that thing isn’t registered, i could confiscate it,” he jokes, dripping with water and too entertained to even fein professionalism.

your cousins shriek with delight, running off to no doubt refill their guns and attack him again.

he’s got rhythm, for a white guy, still awkward but endearing and he’s got enough to make the line dances fun. he claims his favorite is a toss up between “cupid shuffle” and “candy,” but it’s obvious what he leans toward more. he hears the bassline of “candy” and he’s rising out of his chair with a beer in his hand and turning to pull you up too, dancing you backwards into the mass of your family.

your love for him grows with every party you attend, with every dramatic slap he delivers to the ground.

he watches you run and play with your siblings, grown but morphing into the children in the pictures hanging on the walls of the house, your dress soft and purple and flowing and he falls further in love when he hears you scream “stop, i’m not playin’ with you,” all country and playful and beautiful.

inside, squeezed up beside you on a chair, the darkness of night falling over the party and moving everyone inside, his heart is light. he goes back for more plates than he’s proud of, pretending like he doesn’t hear a cousin or aunt giggling at you as he walks away with the promise of bringing you more lemonade.

he’s grown accustomed to the hour long goodbyes, where he’s still talking to your dad or brother about something or the other with his keys dangling in his hand and you talking to your aunt as she plates and wraps up another bowl of her banana pudding.

and the drives. god, the drives. he traded his big truck in for a lowrider at your request, an old car from the 70s that’ll fall apart before it needs to hit the shop. he’s navigated this road more times than he can count, knows what gas station is where and when to look out for the nasty bends and twists that are so prevalent back here.

there’s a CD labeled with yours and hotch’s name in the player, fashioned with hearts all around and a plus between the two names. the sunset flows in through the window, eclipsing hotch’s face and molding him so perfectly with the sky you swear he belongs there.

high and happy, the gas station stop is silly, you fill the small space up with your laughs and chopped up words and hotch laughs with you, finding humor in the smallest things with you.

there’s soft conversation and snacking and feeding him food, him trying and holding his own on a particularly difficult song. he slows the car down, at times, cruises way under the limit cause he just wants to look at you, wants to indulge in the sight of you while he listens to you speak in that tone he can’t get enough of.

he really can’t get over your accent. he gets wrapped up in the push and pull of it, the lows and the highs and the way you sometimes sound like a southern belle, sweet-talking him into staying in bed another hour or hitting the store nearest your house for a drink.

his ears perk up when he hears the subtle (and sometimes, not so subtle) inflection, the way you say “baby,” how his name sounds different from your mouth. he’s wrapped up in a southern girl, in the life he’s grateful to have been given.

southern nights with hotch, through the window of a car or in a closed-in porch on a house in the middle of nowhere, are a dream. a fantasy.

#hotch x reader #hotch fluff #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotchner x black reader #aaron hotchner x black!reader #aaron hotchner fluff #hotch x y/n #hotch x you #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #— 🎠#mcondance 2024 #. southern hotch

122 notes · View notes

eyesxxyou · 10 months

Text

❝ forgivness ❞ (priest!miguel x black!reader)

｡ﾟ･ ¡ content. catholic gulit. religious references. sexualizing of religion. usage of "father" in a non-familial way. oral (m receiving). handjob. riding, creampie. virgin!miguel. kinda predatory reader. miguel has only every known how to be good, he's never had anything he needed to feel guilty over. not until you came into his life.

wc: 6k

Miguel has never done anything he had to be truly ashamed of. He grew up a good child; quiet, agreeable, as obedient to his parents as he was to the Lord. He held his head lowly, with reverence for those above him and spoke quietly. There was never an ounce of rebellion, no smoking, no sex, nothing to reserve himself a place in guilt. His mother always pinched his cheeks and crooned, “Mi buen chico.” He was always the good boy.

Growing up in the Catholic Church, Miguel grew up knowing he’d become a priest, his mother always said so. It was his Godly purpose. He cleansed his soul and made a sacred vow to turn his back on worldly pleasures and remain celibate. After that, it was easy falling into line with priesthood. Temptations came and they went like a breeze, each one becoming easier to handle with time.

No, Miguel O’Hara has never done anything he had to be ashamed of, had to beg for forgiveness over.

Not until he met you.

You were not good for the mind, body and soul. Miguel knew it from the very moment he met you, with your sucker-stained lips that always curled into mischief-filled smiles as you watched him squirm under a gaze hotter than the sun and so sharp that it cut through him, tore him open, displayed his every emotion for your greedy eyes to intake. He knew it from that cheap perfume you dappled against your throat, the one that smelled like chocolate roses and raw sex. He knew it from the way you stirred unholy thoughts in his mind and made his cock twitch.

You were the kid of a dedicated member of the church, a 20-something who had fallen away from God and into “debauchery” as your mother put it. She wanted him to be your religious counselor, to put the fear of God back into you and set you straight. “The devil has come into my daughter and I want him out. I just want my little girl back.” She pleaded with him, her hands grasping his arms, eyes glazing over with tears. Miguel agreed only to avoid the mess of having to console a mother grieving the loss of their child to the world.

He didn't know exactly what kind of mess he was getting himself into until you knocked on the door to his office after service. You were standing there, all pretty like, in the shortest jean skirt he’d ever seen in his life, tight, torn up stockings, leopard-print camisole with black lace trim, an assortment of jewelry hanging from your wrists and neck that jangle every time you move, and a fur-lined jacket to top it all off. Your hair was messy, makeup even messier, but in an intentional sort of way that seemed cool with the kids nowadays.

“Father O’Hara.”

“Please, come in.” He stepped to the side to allow you access to his office. You looked up with him. Your smokey, hooded eyes maintained contact with his until you passed him completely. There was a sway in your hips as you walked. Maybe intentional, maybe not, either way, Miguel turned his gaze elsewhere simply out of duty and self-respect.

“You can sit if you’d like.” He motioned to the chair in front of the desk as he went to sit in his own swivel chair. Miguel leaned forward, lacing his fingers atop the sleek surface of his large, mahogany desk. He watched you slide your jacket from your pretty, bare shoulders and toss it down on the chair in front of him. “I’d rather stand.” You offered him a smile with those full, glossy lips of yours before turning away to look around and get a sense for your environment.

That skirt of yours left hardly anything to the imagination. He could see the round of your ass barely covered as they slope into your full thighs that breezed against each other with every step you made. You were a pretty girl, that's for sure. And at the end of the day, he was simply a man, watching, ogling, at your young, spry body.

‘Forgive me, Lord'. That would be the first of many unbeknownst to Miguel. He cleared out his throat and turned his gaze away as he wrung his hands, balling them into fists before relaxing in one full motion. “Do you know why you’re here?” His voice – though deep – was patient and warm, offering a kindness to you that your parents did not.

You scoff softly. Something of a distasteful scowl forming across your lips. “Yeah, ‘cause my mom said I have to go or she’ll kick me out of the house. I can't afford to leave yet, not in this economy.” You cross one leg over the other, your plush thighs pressing together. You look at a picture of him with the Cardinal framed and hung on the wall with your hands bound together against the round of your ass.

He should be ashamed of himself. He’s a little more than twice your age, just nearly old enough to be your father. He’s a priest for Christ’s sake and here he is, looking at your chaste thighs like a dog in rut, ready to hump anything in sight.

Miguel cleared his throat again as you readjusted your skirt and turned back to him. “Do you know why she wanted you to come meet with me?” He asked again. He slipped a finger between his throat and the collar that suddenly seemed to tighten around his neck and tugged to loosen it. That gaze of yours bore into him, dug and ripped and tore until he was nothing mor ethan a pile of guts on the floor. Could you see the way he struggled? The way that body of your that you so shamelessly flaunted elicited the most impure of thoughts?

“‘Cause she wants me to ‘love God again’.” Your voice became high-pitched and nagging, mocking as you quoted your mother. “I’m going to tell you right now, I won't. I don't plan to.“

You came over and dropped down in the chair in front of him. He the way your breasts moved with the action.“It’s really a shame too. You’re just my type. I’d love to spend more time with you.” You leaned against his desk with your back arched, pressing your breasts together in front of him in a subtle manner as you took one of the pens from his desktop and twirled it between your fingers. Your breasts sit pretty on your chest and Miguel can't help but to admire them. This was the beginning of your temptation, and God, you were so subtle with it. You were a master at your craft.

Miguel chose to ignore the comment to his own sake. “That’s fine. My goal is not to convince you to convert, I will never get you to change your mind that way. I’m just here to talk to you. I'm a counselor at the end of the day.” Which adds an extra layer as to why he shouldn't be looking at you the way he is. He’s supposed to guide you, not prey upon your pretty, little figure.

“If you think I’m gonna spill my sob story out to you–”

“We talk about whatever you want to talk about. You lead the discussion.”

You look at him, searching for an ounce of deceit in his gaze. Satisfied with his answer, you stand up once again and grab your coat. “Nice talking to you, Father O’Hara but I’ll be taking my leave now.” You make your exit swiftly before he has a chance to stop you.

Miguel sits still in his office for a while after you leave, unsure of what to do about the discomfort between his legs and the tent growing through his trousers. He made a cross over his chest and said a quiet prayer for forgiveness and for strength.

Miguel would not see you until the following week. Mass. It seemed your mother required you to attend these because you did not come to the regular services.

You sat close to the front, in a white slip dress that showed a bit of your black bra. Your fingers were adorned in rings, neck in necklaces of various length, wrists in bracelets. Your makeup was just as messy as it was intentional. Your mother beside you didn't seem very happy about your choice in clothing. Her lips were pressed into a firm frown, her hand strangling your wrist to keep you beside her.

Miguel looked everywhere that was not you during the reading of the word, knowing that he'd stumble about with his words like an idiot and have to start again. But he could feel your gaze on him out of all the others, burning, prying, tearing into him. If he looked at you, he would choke up, he would break, he would confess his sin right then and there to alleviate the guilt of knowing that he found you far more attractive than he should.

But he managed to get through the reading without so much as a hitch and thus began the Eucharist. The congregation ordered themselves in a tidy line down the center of the aisle. You sway slightly while waiting, he can see, you’re impatient but you’re not far from the front, it won't be long. Your mother keeps trying to stop you but you shrug her off your shoulder every time and continue to sway, catching glimpses of Miguel every time you do. You smile at him and Miguel turns away from you because your smile is too pretty for his face not to grow a little flustered.

But the line passed through far too swiftly for Miguel’s comfort before you were before him. You were so small, so pretty, so soft-looking. You dropped down on the cushion, kneeling before him as you looked up at him with those smokey eyes and the smallest pinch of a smile across your glossed lips. Your laced fingers sit in a ball against your chest as if you were praying before him.

Miguel let out a shaky breath as you opened your mouth and offered him your tongue. He picked up one of the little white wafers and swallowed, “Body of Christ.” He placed it up on your tongue with his thumb and let it pause there for a moment. The wafer melted quickly and soon, the pad of his thumb weighed heavy on your hot, wet tongue.

He could just imagine having you like this in his office, your hands eagerly working at the buckle of his belt before waiting there, placidly for him to slide his cock into the pretty, messy mouth of yours. How much could you take before you gagged? Looking at you, he bet you didn’t have a gag reflex at all.

You were pretty in a messy way, beautiful in a way that liked to stir shit up and cause trouble. The kind of beauty that made men do very dumb shit. There was a begging in your eyes to be used in the filthiest ways imaginable. You brought out a version of Miguel he had never known before, a version of him that clawed at the walls of his skull and simply begged to take you on every surface he could imagine. Just once would be enough, just once to get it out of his system.

He stopped himself before he could get carried away and retracted his hand to grab a little cup containing wine. His hand was trembling as he took the cup to hand it to you, your fingers brushing against his as you took it from him. You could see the way he shook for you, the way he could hardly contain himself and felt yourself satisfied with your work.

“Amen. Thank you, Father.” You whisper slowly as you stand from your knees and walk away back to your pew, your hips in that little dress swaying. Oh, those dark chocolate thighs of yours brushing against each other while you walk. His hands would look so nice on them.

Miguel asked the deacon if he could take over the Eucharist while he went to the bathroom. He retreated quickly to his office with a breath he had been holding in since you had first walked up to him. Your eyes, your lips, your tongue, your thighs. You were temptation on legs, sacrilege walking. The greatest test God has sent his way and Miguel wasn't sure if he was strong enough to pass it.

MIguel knows he shouldn’t have avoided you. He did not tell your mother that he could no longer help you. It would break her little heart and he couldn’t imagine the consequences it would spell out for you at home. He didn’t want to cause any trouble. He simply needed to overcome his weakness before he attempted to help you find your own way back to the Lord.

Confessions happened before every service. Anyone could come to the booth and ask for forgiveness for whatever sin they had committed, no judgment. Miguel has heard it all, from lying to cheating and back again. These people, though sinners, were trying to be good, trying not to fall for temptation and begging for forgiveness when they did.

Miguel had done nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to beg for forgiveness for. Not yet.

Miguel lowered his head as the next person came into the booth. They took a long moment to sit and adjust themselves before sighing woefully. “How does it go?” Your voice was soft, teasing, plaguing him like the impure dreams he’s started to have of you. They've left him waking up with the head of his erect cock sticking out from his pajama pants and a thin, sticky layer of cum coaking his chest.

Miguel’s heart jumped nearly out of his chest. He swallowed thickly, grasping the white fabric of his robes to calm himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he lead you, murmuring lowly as if he were the one begging for forgiveness. Oh, how he’s begged in the silence of his office for these thoughts of you to be wiped from his mind. These thoughts of your body, of your mouth, of your eyes looking up at him while he used your body and mouth.

He needed you gone for he feared that with a little more time, he might succumb to his thoughts.

“Yes, that.” You adjusted yourself against the bench and looked at him through the grate that separated the two of you. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” You said it in a perfunctory manner and sighed. “I’ve been bad.”

“Tell me what ails you.”

“I’ve been having bad thoughts about a priest in the clergy, Father. Impure thoughts.” You nip at your bottom lip, hiding something of a smile as you speak. He can hear it, the honesty in your mischief, the plans you have to cause nothing but trouble. “He’s just so…pretty, and large, and pathetic like a wet dog but in a good way. I think of him while I touch myself at night.

“I think of him while I slip my hand into my panties.” Your voice lowers into a whisper as you speak through him through the grate. Miguel can feel his tunic tighten around his neck. “My cunt is already wet because I was thinking about him all day long. When I finger myself, I imagine it's his fingers stuffing my pussy full.”

He should stop you. This is going too far but his dick is stirring and he can't help but imagine it as you practically whisper it in his ear all the dirty things you do to yourself.

‘Lord, forgive me please’, he pleaded.

“My fingers aren’t as big as his though, so I imagine his head between my legs and his tongue licking my pussy. And when I cum, I say his name. ‘Father O’Hara!’” You mimic yourself, moaning softly into his ear. “ Everytime, I’m near him, I want to fuck him hard and fast. I need him…biblically. Does that make me bad, Father? Does that make me a sinner?”

He can't let out anything beyond a choking whimper, rendered speechless. He’s hard and desperate to keep that blasphemous mouth of yours quiet one way or another. “Y/n–”

“I’ll see you after service, Father. I won't keep you waiting.” You always make your exits swiftly, leaving him breathless and speechless all in one motion. His cock was twitching with arousal and the bulge against his crotch was leaving him far more uncomfortable than it was all worth. But never more than you were worth.

You kept your promise and came to visit him in his office after service, knocking at his door in a little tune while you shifted your weight between your toes and your heels. “Father O’Hara, it’s me. I’m here for counseling. Are you okay?” You play nice, play innocent behind the door but he knows better. You know better. You know what you do to him, you’ve known it from the very first day you’ve met him.

You don't wait for him to tell you to come in and instead make yourself comfortable and come in on your own. Your dress flows so delicately as you shut the door behind you.

Miguel isn't sure if he should tell you to leave, that you weren't welcome here after that stunt of yours in the confessional booth. It’s his job to help no matter who walked through his door. He can't let a little hardship stop him from doing what he had dedicated his life to. He remained firmly behind his desk as you wandered about his office, examining his wall-length bookcase.

“Have you always wanted to be a priest, Father?” You ask, tracing your fingers of the old, weathered spines of the books. You bend over to get a view of a book on one of the lower shelves. Miguel nearly choked, catching a glimpse of your clothed pussy peeking out between your plush thighs. The outline of your lips were visible through the pretty, white fabric of your underwear.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling dizzy. His cock pressed harder than before against his trousers and his mouth ran dry. His hand writhed, desperate to know what you felt like under his palms. You were probably soft, almost pillow-like. Miguel reached into his pocket and clutched his rosary for strength.

“I uh- no I didn't. But I had a change of heart after God spoke to me in a dream and told me my life’s work was with the church.”

You stood up and turned around to look up at him. You would say nothing of disrespect. You didn't believe in God but you weren't going to be an asshole about it, no reason to bash on anyone else over it. “That's a nice thought, someone just tells you what to do and you trust them wholeheartedly in that.” You hold your hands behind your back and sway softly. For a moment you look innocent in that white dress of yours.

“Is it about trust for you, then? Do you not trust God?” He needs to shift his mind. There should not be an ache between his legs in the house of the Lord.

“I don't trust him ‘cause he’s not real, of course.” You state it like it's a fact, like it’s obvious. “He can't be with all the bad shit that goes on in the world. And if he does exist, he’s either not all powerful or not all loving. I just don't wanna follow someone who lets a bunch of old perverts run his church.” You shrug with a pout of your lips.

“It’s an unfortunate side effect of people having power but not all religious leaders are ‘perverts’ as you put it.”

“No, of course not. Not you, Father O’Hara, you’re not a pervert.” You slowly make your way over to his desk with a sway. “You don't look at girls like me per se and think about how much you wish you never took that vow of celibacy.” You stand before him, hands on the sleek mahogany and you lean in close to him. “You don’t look at me and wish you could fuck me, do you?”

Miguel shook his head. “Those are not that same, y/n. You’re an adult.” He suddenly felt a sweat starting to form in his bow and around his collar. You looked at him and found swiftly that you liked watching him squirm. “So you admit, you’re attracted to me?” You smiled coyly.

You watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down behind the thin skin of his warm brown throat. Slowly, you stood and began to walk around the side of his desk to stand on the same side as him.

“That would be wildly inappropriate for me to say, y/n. I’m a priest, I’m your counselor–”

“Please, like you haven't been ogling at me from the moment you first saw me.” You scoff and grab the arm of the chair to turn him about and show his shame. He was incredibly hard, so hard you could see the outline of his thick cock against his leg. He had his rosary in hand, dripping so tight you thought he might snap it. “You can't help it, Father. You’re just a man after all.”

You lowered yourself into your knees before him, your hands on the solid build of his thighs. You could feel the muscles of them under your palms as you slid your hands up his thighs. You palmed at his cock through the fabric of his pants and watched him shudder. “I wonder… how long has it been since you’ve felt the touch of a woman?”

Miguel tried to find the strength to refuse you, your temptation, but as you began to undo the buckle to his belt, he melted into his chair. “N-never.” He never wanted to, not until marriage, and once he decided he’d join the church and took a vow to dedicate his life to God, he’d never have the chance. Not until now.

You paused, gazing at him with something of a coy smile across your glossy lips. “Oh, Father. Don't worry, I’ll treat you real good.” You worked to release him from the confines of his pants with your soft hands.

He’s so thick and long, with veins running along the length of it, one on the underside ran from his pretty, brown tip to his heavy balls. You wrapped a hand around the base of it and stroked the length of it with a gentle flick of your wrist. You adored the way Miguel writhed beneath you, his hands balled into fists as he pressed his lips tight.

“Relax.” You ran a hand up and down his thigh while your thumb brushed a few beads of precum pearling at his slit. Miguel watched you with heavy eyes as you leaned in and pressed a sticky kiss to his head, smearing his precum like lipgloss across your lips. God, you were filthy.

Relaxing seemed like a pipedream in a situation like this. He was destroying the sanctity of his priesthood, all he had worked so hard to uphold the values to, and here he was succumbing to a girl, a seductress. And it felt so good. His whole life he was so good, why can’t he do wrong just once? All he ever felt was guilt, why not have a valid reason for it?

You took his tip into your mouth and suckled softly, that tongue of yours rolled over his slit while your hand firmly stroked his cock from head to base. “You’re so fuckin’ big, Father. So heavy.” You slid your lips further down the length of his fat cock, your mouth hardly able to open wide enough to take the thick of him.

The way you took him had to be considered blasphemous because that mouth of yours felt better than any god. So soft and wet. Miguel shuddered, his hips bucking into your mouth uncontrollably, thighs flexing. He did not ask for forgiveness, he wanted nothing but your hot mouth and soft throat that was slowly taking him further and further as you pushed down his hips and kept him still. You looked up at him with glazed eyes, breathing softly through your nose. You’re good at this, an expert.

Miguel lost it as you began to play with his balls, all heavy and full from never knowing the touch of sin. He placed his hand upon your head and grabbed a firstful of hair at your scalp. Would you let him take control, let him take what he needed from that pretty mouth of yours, your sharp tongue turning so, so soft?

You let your jaw go slack, let him drag your head up and down the length of his cock. Your tongue lapped at his slit every time he dragged you up and licked the underside of his cock with each thrust down your throat. Miguel clenched his jaw as you took control once again, bobbing your head, taking his cock like a champ.

“God- ngh~ fuck.” Miguel relaxed like puddy in your hands, watching the way you took him all the way down your throat and swallowed before hollowing your cheeks as you released him with a pop from your sweet mouth. You worked him with your hand with firm tugs at his cock. He reached out for you, his hand cupping your full cheek as he ran his thumb across your full, bottom lip.

Oh you were so good, too good, pumping his cock better than he ever imagined that he could. It’s been so long. An orgasm was quickly approaching on the horizon, building within the pit of his stomach. His breath trembled with pleasure and his abdomen flexed with the telltale signs of climax.

“Gonna cum already, Father?” You tease, jerking his cock with creamy, wet strokes, your path slicked by saliva and precum. “That’s cute. Go ahead then, cum for me. Give it to me.”

It was torture. The kind you beg for all your life, the good kind. The kind Miguel never knew he needed so badly in his life. He rutted his hip up into your hand, cock aching with the beginning of a feeling the burned throughout him and ravished his body completely.

It came out of him in a thick spurt of white that shot out and landed on his chest. The rest oozed from his tip and over your knuckles as you milked him of ribbon after ribbon of cum all built up over the years. There was so much of it, pooling at his base and over your pretty, dainty fingers. His thighs rock open and closed with the weight of his orgasm.

Miguel was seeing stars, his eyes rolling back as he shuddered and gripped his rosary until the beads left imprints in his flesh. His face glowed red from his collar to the tips of his ears, flushed. He let out something of a satisfied groan, more akin to something feral than human. A need, a pleasure that transcends all.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” You ask as the last few pathetic dribbles of cum roll over your knuckles. You reached out over his desk and grasped a few tissues to clean off your hand. “Must’ve, you came so fast, Father.”

Shame and embarrassment washed over Miguel. You could see the post-nut clarity all over his face and knew for certain that this wouldn’t end well. It’s always the religious boys that hold the most repressed shame in them.

“We shouldn’t have done that.” Miguel grabbed his own tissue to clean himself up, patting out the cum from the fabric of his shirt and hoping it wouldn’t stain. “That was wrong, y/n. This can never happen again.” He shook his head firmly, muttering under his breath, “never again”.

You scoffed, standing from your kneeling position. “Are you sure?” You reach up and take the straps of your dress, pulling them down. The dress fell away easily after that. Miguel didn't have the heart to tell you to stop as you reached around your back and undid the clasp of your bra until it fell loose on your chest. You let that drop along with your panties and let it pool at your ankles.

You looked so soft, so pretty, so vulnerable. Miguel didn't stop you as you stepped out of the puddle your clothing made around your ankles and approached him once more. You straddled his lap, pussy rubbing his half-hard cock back to life while you cupped his pretty face in your hands. You eyed his rosary. “That's pretty.” Your hand reached out and slowly, tenderly, unraveled it from his break-neck grip of it.

You took it from him and examined it carefully, your fingers brushing over the intricate design of Jesus on the cross. Suddenly, before he could stop you, you put it on, the cool metal of the cross resting against your naval.

Miguel didn't want Him watching his shame, his sin, but he couldn't stop you, not as you held his cock between the lips of your pussy, all wet and sticky, and rutted your hips to coat him in yoru slick before letting him sink into the soft love of your cunt inch by inch. He shuddered and tossed his head back against his chair. “Good God!”

God, this must be the closest thing to heaven on Earth. The soft, wet, gummy walls of your pussy enclosed around him, hugged him, gripped him like a vice. You sank all the way down in his lap, coating your pussy and thighs in the remaining cum he had yet to clean. It was all so filthy, so disgusting, so beautiful. It was certain, he was going to Hell.

Miguel was seeing stars, his hands came to find purchase on your hips and thighs, gripping at any piece of pretty, soft flesh his large hands could reach. He eyed your tits, bouncing with temptation before him, your pretty nipples pebbled with arousal.

“Go ahead, Father. Take what you need.” You offered yourself to him like a buffet and indeed, Miguel took. His lips latched to one of your breasts and suckled with desperation at your bud, tongue swirling and lapping while you held him and caressed his head, running your fingers through his thick head of hair and tugging when he nipped a little too harshly. “Gentle, Father.”

He couldn't be gentle. He needed you, his hips rutted into your pussy every time you rode him. It only took four pumps for his cock to twitch deep inside your pretty, little pussy. You felt too good, too tight, he had never known such pleasure.

This could be religion, this could be worship. What a beautiful, blasphemous thought.

You rode him through orgasm after orgasm until he started going numb, each one following another shortly after the other. Your pussy dribbled with cum, running down the length of his thick cock each time your creamy cunt milked him.

Miguel guided your hips though he had no control over the way you bounced on his cock. His rosary slapped your navel with each stroke of your pussy against his cock, swinging just against his act of sin where he came inside your young, begging pussy until he couldn't anymore.

You moaned in his ear with every stroke of his fat cock inside your tiny cunt. His tip kissed your cervix and dragged along your gummy walls, molding them into just the right shape to take him. You shivered each time your clit stroked against his pelvis, cum-coated and aching.

This was sin, this was temptation, this was sacrilege, and he loved every second of it. Every quiver of your pussy around him, every shiver you made when he came inside you and left you more spoiled than before, every time his rosary slapped your soft belly and got a little cum on it.

You were his rebellion, his bad behavior, and what a time to have it.

Miguel slid his hand beneath your thighs and lifted you up. A gasp escaped you as he placed you down on the surface of his desk, your legs hooked around his hips to keep him close.

He stuffed your messy hole full of cock, his hands on your hips to keep you still. Each thrust eliciting a creamy stir of your used up pussy. His length met that soft ridge inside of you and you weren't sure you could take what you had given out.

“F-Father, wait!” You attempted to close your legs but he splayed them open, kept you nice and exposed for him. What a messy little cunt.

He fucked you so hard that the desk was beginning to slide with each stroke of his dick. Your legs were beginning to tremble at his abuse to your poor, swollen pussy. You could deal it but you couldn't take it, the moment he reciprocated your energy, you were a weeping mess beneath him, gasping for air and begging for mercy from a god you didn't believe in.

Was this how he could convert you? Fuck you into believing? It didn't seem like a half bad idea.

And oh– when you came, your pussy clamped down around him and triggered another one of his own. Your hips both shudder at the sensation and your groans intermingle like one holds hands. You can hardly handle it. Tears prick your eyes as you hold onto Miguel’s rosary for stability and rock out an orgasm so intense you fear you may never have one like it again. It rocks your entire body and leaves you shaking.

You don't know how many times Miguel came in you but you knew the feeling of it all coming out of you in thick globs when he pulled out. It was all backed up in there, you couldn't blame him. He made an attempt at cleaning you up as best as he could with the tissues he had on his desk.

You chuckled softly, crooning out, “I didn't think you had that in you.” You sat up and leaned in with a smile, easing your lips against his to which he immediately pulled away from you, shaking his pretty head.

“Don't think anything is going to come from this, y/n. This can't happen again for the sake of my job. This was wrong.” He had to set you straight now before this got even further out of hand than it already had.

You knew better. You made the motion of zipping your lips and tossing away the key.

You got up and made your way over to your clothing on the floor to dress yourself. “I won't tell a soul but Father, this wasn't wrong.” You pulled on your bra and clasped it together behind your back, then your dress. “This was always going to happen, it was just a matter of time. Plus–” you lean in close as he flinches away from you for fear that you might kiss him again because he knows if you did, he wouldn't be able to resist you.

You got up on your toes and whispered sweetly into his ear, “I’ve already had you. I was your first. That means you’re mine.” You slipped your bunched up panties into his hand. “Beg for forgiveness all you want, Father, but until you accept that, you’ll always feel guilty about everything you do.” You pulled away and looked up at him with an earnesty he’s never seen in your gaze before.

Neither of you said anything more. You gave him back his rosary and left the room swiftly before your mother somehow found you in here all breathless and fucked out. She’d never suspect that the holy Father O’Hara would ever do something as scandalous as to fuck her daughter. If only she knew the way you defiled him, tore him to pieces, left him weeping in his office with the guilt of what he’s done.

“Father, please forgive me.”

#across the spiderverse #atsv #spiderman atsv #spiderman #spiderman 2099 smut #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel smut #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara

212 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months

Text

Forget-Me-Not 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Loki

Summary: You return to your childhood home to put the past to rest.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You spend the night on the couch. You don't go further than the bathroom. You can't bring yourself to check her bedroom or the one you left behind.

You go out to get your bag and change in the yellow haze glowing behind the faded curtains. You check the time. Jan is expecting you in an hour.

You emerge into the dewy morning and tramp down to ground level. You get in the car, reversing out without looking back at the dingy house. The final farewell can't come soon enough for the slanted walls.

Jan is out in the yard, hammering a pineboard as you drive down his lot. His white hair curls with the sweat beading on his skin. He stills the hammer and wipes his forehead as you pull up.

You get out as he greets you in the way all the villagers do. A manufactured friendliness that cannot erase their true judgement. They smile in face just as easily as the mutter your name under their breath. You mother harboured little good will in Hammer Ford and blood is sacred here.

“Sorry to hear,” he says.

“Matter of time,” you shrug dismissively.

“Isn't no way to come home,” he shakes his head and coughs into his fist, “walnut,” he points the hammer over his shoulder, “like ya said.”

Walnut, like the dining table. Where she sat and drank herself into that box. You nod and follow him over to the casket. The hinges are brass and the finish is rough. What does it matter? It's just going into the dirt.

“Got cash,” you say. Jan doesn't deal with the bank, everyone knows that. Funny the little things that stick with you.

“Thanks,” he accepts the bills as you count them out. So much for a rainy day. The sun shine bright as if mocking the grin affair beneath its watch. “I'll have it taken down to Norn's.”

“Yep,” you agree, “she's there.”

You head out without further niceties. Neither of you uphold those. Better to say what you mean and nothing else.

You get to the property line and idle. You turn away from the woods. You're not ready to go back yet.

You stop by the church first. Father Oswald sits with you to discuss the ceremony. You'll say a few words at the grave site. You don't think anyone would come to a wake. You don't want them to.

You set off again, still reluctant to retrace your steps. You drive to the spare core of the village and park outside the library. You cross the street and peer in through the window of the bakery. It wasn't there when you left.

You venture inside and peruse the sweets behind the glass. You order a black coffee and a cinnamon bun. You pay the woman behind the counter, vaguely familiar. You're certain she was a few years behind you at school.

You sit and pick at the glazed dough. You don't have much of an appetite. You don't feel much of anything. You're just wading through, try not to get lost in the tide.

You sip the coffee. Bold but rich. Not bad. Better than the instant powder gone stale in your mother's cupboard.

The door opens and shuts, several times over as you stare at the table. The city taught you apathy. You don't let the noise bother you.

The chair across from you slides out and a figure plants themselves on the seat. You raise your head, your vision narrowing to make sense of their features. You turn your head to gaze out the window as Loki blows over the top of a mug.

You slide out your phone, a defence mechanism. Still no reception. You put it down and keep your attention diverted. He clears his throat and taps his toe next to yours.

“You know, I do have an important matter to discuss with you,” he says.

You don't react. You know that's what he wants. That's why he showed up the night before. He undoubtedly insisted on being his clan’s representative.

“You've sent your condolences.”

“Mm, yes, but that isn't what I mean,” he traces his finger up the handle of his mug. “The house.”

You lower your brows and keep your eyes beyond the window. The village moves slow as ever. Not like the endless flow of the city streets. There's no where to hide here.

“My father has an offer. The property has value.”

You check your cup, almost empty. You swig the last of it. You stand and gather the cup and unfinished dessert. You put the porcelain on the counter and toss the cinnamon bun on your way out.

The door doesn't close behind you. He's following you. Your heartbeat piques. In an instant, you're hurled into the past. You're running through broken twigs as he snickers behind you. You ball your hands as your breath hitches.

You cross the street without looking, only just dodging a bumper. You go to your car, fumbling with your keys. Before you can stick them in the slot, there's a snare around your arm.

You spin and shove Loki off of you, biting down on a shriek. You glare at him and point the key at his chin.

“Not interested.”

“My father will give you more than the bank,” he counters.

“Don't care.”

He sniffs and quorks his head, “is this because I never called?”

You choke on a scoff. You turn and ram the keys in the slot and twist. You open the door as you step around it. The edge hits him as you swing into the driver’s seat.

“The house is worthless. The bank will give you pennies for the land.”

“Go tell your daddy you failed,” you sneer and yank the door shut, hitting the lock with your fist.

You start the engine without a glance in his direction. You pull put as he barely avoids getting his toes run over. Just as ever, this village belongs to the Odinsons. They won't have to pay the bank much to get what they want but you will never sign your name next to theirs.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #drabble #au #backwoods au #series #thor #avengers #mcu #marvel #forget-me-not

123 notes · View notes

lovepookie · 9 months

Text

₊˚ෆ No Presents - s.mt

♡ sypnosis: you and matthew agreed on no presents this year in order to save up to see his family for christmas next year. he has pestered you for a christmas tree, and now he won’t stop clinging to you because “it’s christmas, woman!” little does he know, you have a little gift up your sleeve.

♡ genre: fem!reader, teeth-rotting fluff, suggestive, established relationship, non-idol au, christmas centered, just wholesome shit lol

♡ 2.4k word count

♡ warnings: suggestive, sexual innuendos, playful threats, cursing, mentions of the catholic church as a joke, please let me know if there’s any you’d like me to add!

♡ nano note: the gyubin fic is doing so well! 🥹 so here 🤲🏻 have this matthew christmas fic!! matt makes me squeal so i just knew i needed a christmas au for him. sorry im late! xoxo

.♡.

“Matt! No not there!” You yelped out, the brightest smile on your face as you watched your boyfriend place the ugliest ornament he could find right smack center of the tree.

“What do you mean? I think it looks great.” he teased, grabbing you by your hips and urging you close to him.

He placed you in front of him as he stuffed his face in the crook of your neck, taking the scent of you in—you smelled like peppermint hot chocolate; it was his favorite for this time of year so naturally he prepared some for the two of you whilst you decorated the Christmas tree.

It was about the second week of December and you both had finally decided to put one up after a lot of back and forth bickering.

“But why not, Lady? It’s Christmas! We need a tree!” He’d wine out, pouting your way whilst his fingertips pulled you close. It was always within his nature; if you were ever near him, you’d naturally find his hands on you.

“We’re not even having presents this year, we don’t need one…” You’d counterattack over and over, but it just never seemed to suffice.

It was true. This year, you’d both agreed to no presents because you were saving up for a trip for the following year together. So why did you need a tree?

It all boiled down to this; Matthew was a brat.

A brat who had always gotten his way with you.

And now here you were, in fuzzy matching christmas socks, sliding across your tiled living room floor as he pulled you to dance.

“Stop! Matthew, you know I’ll kick you in the balls.” You threaten, the widest smile on your face as he tugged you closer with his firm grip, urging you to dance with him.

“What?? You’re so mean- were you even sorry for doing that on Halloween?” He wined out, a pout on his face as he grabbed you closer.

You laugh out, throwing your head back.

“That was an accident! And I was sorry, but you’re going to drop me right now!” You reason, strength weakening with giggles and rendering you helpless in fighting back. He laughs too this time, halting you two mid-spin in order to take a good look at you.

You watch as his eyes smile at you, the pretty mole near them framing his face in a way that should’ve hinted mischief to you the moment you met him. After a bout of silence, you un-grip his black muscle shirt from your grasp now that you were sure he wouldn’t spin you again.

“Look, all that fighting but the tree looks so pretty…” He says, head nodding to the tree you just finished setting up. You look over for a moment at the masterpiece your boyfriend wouldn’t shut up about until today.

“…it’s almost as pretty as you.” He says, sparking a blush to form from beneath your skin.

You roll your eyes as you playfully hit his chest, but he’s quick to catch your hands and pull you back against him.

“Stop fighting me, Miss—let me love you!” He laughs and he yells out, then leans in to press a kiss to your head.

As if your luck had expired, he slips slightly in the process and before you know it, you’re yelping out as you and Matthew go toppling down to the floor.

“Ah shit!” You gasp out in shock, one of Matthew’s hands cupping the back of your head so you wouldn’t get hurt. When you realize what happened, you can’t help but laugh, and then like clockwork, your eyes meet Matthew’s.

He’s hovering above you, eyes wide as he searches yours for any signs that you’re hurt.

“Are you alright?! Did you get hurt? I kind of fell on you, are you okay-“ He rambles out, but you’re quick to cut him off.

“Matthew I’m fine.” You chuckle, looking up at him. Yeah, he kind of did fall on top of you and knocked the air out of your lungs for a second, but you weren’t in any pain and the look of worry in his eyes was too good. You’d always told him if he kept fucking around he’d find out, and it seems he finally got a taste of the consequences for not listening to you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, a bashfull smile making its way onto his face—it’s cute, a little too cute actually. He stays exactly where he is though, never moving an inch over you, one hand still beneath your head. You chuckle and lift your head to make your way off the floor, but then Matthew uses that moment to now take both of his hands and encage you beneath him indefinitely.

“Aye- What are you doing?” You question, realizing your mobilization is limited to your boyfriends arms—it seems he is still on his bullshit. Matthew just smiles his ridiculously cute smile as he peers down at you before dipping down to do a push up.

His face comes eerily close to yours as he looks deep into your eyes.

Well, Merry Christmas indeed.

“I’ve always wanted to do this.” He mutters, before smiling at your blushy bothered state and lifting his body weight back up. You feel your face go hot and suddenly wish you hadn’t cranked the heater up like your boyfriend requested earlier—he just hated wearing actual clothes.

“Stop playing around Matt, let me out.” You say, giving him a look of warning. He smirks as he holds back a laugh and dips back down again.

“No. We don’t get presents this year so you can’t get out. Sorry.” He frowns playfully, before he’s placing a kiss on your chin. Within another second he’s lifting himself back up to complete a second push-up.

You glare up at him.

“Matthew, you want presents?” You ask, deciding that in order to combat mischief, you gotta get your hands dirty too. He perks up at your words for a second before he’s lowering himself again and kissing the tip of your nose.

“Of course I want presents, what’s Christmas without them?” He questions playfully, before he’s picking his weight back up again. You smirk up at him which must really alarm him because his face goes blank for a second before his eyes squint at you.

“Ayeee…are you thinking dirty thoughts right now?” He questions, peering down at you like he’s a father at the Catholic Church and very disappointed in what you may be insinuating. You can’t help but laugh and lean up to grab his face to squish.

You don’t know where he finds the strength to stay hovering there whilst you play with his cute cheeks and distort his face into a smile or the noot noot face—his lips puckering as you hold his cheeks together with one hand—but it’s impressive, you have to admit. You lean up and kiss his nose back, hoping secretly he never changes his very cute mannerisms for as long as he lives.

“What? Is this my present then?” He looks at you, trying to pout but a smile makes its way through instead. Your laugh resonates throughout the living room at his antics before you take this opportunity to slide out from underneath him hastily.

Almost instantly, Matthew’s protests can be heard as his tries to grab at your ankles to pull you back.

“Hey! That’s not fair, you escaped once my guard was down-“

“Matt! Will you please let me go, I’m trying to give you a present-!” You squeal as his hands trace up your leg and his strong grasp litteraly slides you back towards him and under his grasp.

“Never. I don’t need presents. You’re the present.” He says cheekily, pulling you down just enough so he can place his head on your stomach and finally let go of his weight between your legs.

“I’m tired. You tire me out, woman.” He mumbles, as you chuckle and stop squirming, evidently admitting your defeat. You felt very hot in the face.

“Brat. No one told you to trap me and do pushups.” You counter, but your hands make their way to his head to whisk your fingers through his hair. It was like catnip for men; just rake your hands through their scalp to weaken them for just a moment.

A moment was all you needed.

Maybe after you could escape.

Matthew hums as his eyes close, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You know I’m playing right? I don’t need presents this year. Thank you for caving on the tree, pretty. Thank you.” He mumbles out, and you can’t help but smile, once again happy that you were just able to make him happy.

“I know…” You mumble out too, “Thank you for pestering me, it was worth it.” You finish.

And just like that, it was like you hit a nerve again.

Matthew raises his head right after your words, eyes furrowing and a firm pout painted on his lips; “Pestering? Yah! You’re mean, this is why we can never have nice things!” He wines, hands going to tickle you. You giggle out begrudgingly, body weakening once again.

“Matt!! I’m sorry- fuck! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say pester, you’re not a pest! I fucked up- haha! Stop!” You laugh out, so weak that fighting back doesn’t feel like an option.

Matthew laughs out at your words before stopping and sitting up, grabbing your hands to pull you up with him. You continue to laugh tiredly as you look at his very satisfied face before you’re leaning over and resting your forehead on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Matt.” You whisper out, now exhausted.

In the end, he puts up with your antics more than you put up with his and it made one thing clear to you;

Maybe you didn’t need to escape.

Maybe this is right where you belong.

“Yes, I’ll spare you just this once, lady. Next time I’ll suffocate you with kisses. We’ll see if you even want to escape then.” He teases triumphantly, hands reaching over to the coffee table for his mug of peppermint hot chocolate.

This was your chance, now that you’ve regained your strength, only one thing was left.

As he sips away at his hot cocoa, you stand up and make a b-line to your two’s shared room where you reach for a small present from under your bed. Once you return, you smile cheekily at your boyfriend with the present behind your back.

“What? What are you hiding?” Matthew asks, staring at you suspiciously. You laugh, knowing he’d read you like a book within seconds, just as he always did.

“I have your present. And this time you don’t have to wait.” You say, showing him the small gift and handing it to him for him to open. Matthew stares up at you with a side eye, but a smile is silently growing on his face.

You knew how much Christmas meant to him; how much family meant to him. It’d been too long since he had the opportunity to spend the holiday’s with them too. So you saved up a little more than you intended to surprise him.

“Open it.” You urge, nodding towards the box in his hands. He continues to stare up at you, love stored in his eyes in a way that made even the frostiest of nights toasty.

“I thought we said no presents this year. We are supposed to be saving up for next year-“ He ponders, but his words are cut short when he opens the box and see’s the contents inside.

Time stops for just a moment as he stares down into the shallow gold box.

Within seconds he seems to analyze the situation, then his neck shoots over to you, and it doesn’t even take another half-second before he’s onto his feet and embracing you.

“I- I thought the plan was for next year—what is this?” He questions, so overwhelmed with emotions that his words are quickly strung together. You laugh a bit as you hug him back, very proud that he seems to love his gift.

“We can see them this year. I’ve never been to Canada before. It’s time for me to see a real snow storm.” You chuckle out as he pulls away slightly to get a good look at your face and read your sincerity, printed out plane tickets and hotel receipts gripped firmly in his hands.

“You…” He starts, eyes searching yours with an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. It held love and respect and surprise—it held everything all at once and more than you could place or name.

“I didn’t want a Christmas tree because we won’t even be here for Christmas stupid-“ You start, before being rudely interrupted by Matthew’s lips on yours.

His hand grips your jaw in order to control the kiss, and he kisses you with the most passion you think you’ve ever received.

Once he pulls away, eyes foggy with lust yet his smile sweet and almost shy, you can’t help but feel red shoot down your neck at the way he’s staring at you.

“Forget the tree, I have a present for you now.” He says playfully, hands pulling you even closer in a way that hints at something he’d just accused you of earlier. You laugh and smack him away, deciding maybe the egg nog should be spiked tonight.

“Miss, what would you like? Anything in particular?” He asks, head tilting in a playful way as his eyes squint at you, his arms going to cross in front of him and outlining his muscles just right. You stare at him with warning, but your smile never faulters.

You took him in, the way he stood with a purpose; light brown hair all messy and fluffy, black muscle shirt clinging to him in a way that screamed something completely opposite of what his stupid soft Christmas pajama-bottoms had to offer.

He was so stupid.

He was your stupid.

And now he’d get to spend Christmas like he’d been wishing to for years—with his family.

And you’d be right there with him.

Maybe the great Christmas escape was destined to fail.

Maybe Seok Matthew was home, so escaping him was never an option to begin with—you didn’t know.

You were just happy to fail the said escape over and over again.

“Seok Matthew, are you thinking dirty thoughts? AH!-“ You yelp out, as he leans forward and hoists you over his shoulder, quickly making his way towards your two’s shared bedroom.

“Enough of your teasing, it’s my turn.” He says through a smile, prancing down the halls with you in his firm grasp triumphantly.

He was so proud and cute when it came to you; and you’d let him win every time.

Every single time.

.♡.

♡ please do not plagarize, repost, copy or translate any of my works. thank you.

#. . . nanowrites #lovepookie/au.doc #seok matthew #zb1 matthew #zb1 fluff #zb1 x reader #zb1 x you #zb1 masterlist #zb1 imagines #zb1 #zerobaseone fluff #zerobaseone x reader #zerobaseone masterlist #seok matthew suggestive #suggestive #zb1 scenarios #zb1 au #seok matthew au

109 notes · View notes

mrrwsoup · 7 months

Text

a bit of an intro post for my ocs, been meaning to do one for awhile

Most of them are all interconnected in some way and involved either directly or indirectly with two different fronts for organized crime (circus which is run by my ocs, and importing company which is run by my bf's) but there's a few that are outliers and belong to different time/setting.

i also have more ocs lol but these are the ones that are most involved with my bf and I's headworld. There's more i could say about each of them but since theres so many i'll keep it short LOL.

Heres my toyhouse for more.

And the intro post i did for my bfs ocs.

Dirge

graverobber. non-employed misanthrope, prefers the company of the dead.

involved with Mamba

Micajah

chainsmoking magician and animal handler, with a lot on his hands.

involved with Jackson

Rueben

trickshooting necrosadist who's charming in front of an audience, and insufferable one-on-one.

involved with Elias

Kryl

circus ringmistress. takes discipline seriously. likes cards, roses, big fur coats, and weather that allows for them.

involved with Westley

Jules

acrodancer. flexible in multiple regards. always on the lookout for a good time, especially one he can sink his claws into.

involved with Ruckus

Nova

trad goth knife thrower's assistant, getting blades thrown at him in the ring while secretly inclined to wield them outside of it.

involved with Zero

Trinity

dirty crook, and mama's boy. bashing skulls in the alley but still escorting his mom to church on sunday.

involved with Morrigan

Midas

gunrunner. disfigured from a malfunction in an altered firearm. recreationally lovesick.

involved with Rowdy

Meyer

up and coming trick rider

involved with Blythe

Feliks

circus manager. working hard behind the scenes chugging coffee and pulling out feathers over paperwork. just wants peace and order (rarely obtained).

Jaime

former competitive martial artist, hired as "security" at the circus but acts more as general assistant. patron of dive bars.

Rama

circus promoter. incessant gambler, not above leaning the odds in his favour by any means.

involved with Saul

Saul

runs a sideshow oddity cart. once involved with black market sales but is completely law abiding now, for sure. absolutely…

involved with Rama

Wolf

back-alley doctor. dwelling within his family's dilapidated estate, tirelessly working to procure the bride of his dreams.

involved with Doll

Seth

swagless aspiring hacker. tfw no gf

involved with Ryker

Grimm

sullen black dog cemetery groundskeeper

involved with Cadence

Sinclair

identity document forger for hire, family shame. evading penalization thanks to his lawyer older brother

Silas

a higher demon, posted to the mortal world and hellbent on sowing seeds of corruption.

alternatively in modern au, struggling black metal artist and occultist, performing rituals to capture an angel and bring himself fortune

involved with Valentine

Cyril

victorian player, flexing his position as he moves up the ranks of society.

involved with Julian

Kaan

under the influence of an inherent instinct to put wolves in their place.

involved with Hutch

136 notes · View notes

sleepyfan-blog · 2 months

Text

Church

Author’s Note: This is the next part of Cedric’s Adventures in the Astartes Husbandry AU! First. Previous. Next

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34

Warnings: panic attack, references to religious suppression, ask me to tag if I missed anything,

Summary: Cedric hears Church Bells while wandering the city and goes to investigate.

As he’s managed to prove that he won’t randomly attack people if not constantly monitored by firstborn Brothers or Cousins, Cedric has finally been allowed to wander the mortal city that the base is part of without needing an escort. While he does prefer to be in the company of at least one of his fellow Primaris Marines, the others are all busy today. Jophiel has been claimed by the Firstborn Blood Angels and is being trained in his psyker powers. Claude has been talked into interacting with some non-crazy firstborn Night Lords - who apparently existed at one point in time.

Catius is interacting with several older Ultramarines with Ramiel accompanying him as both emotional support and back up. Cedric has been allowed to wander wherever he likes, so long as he stays within city limits, or informs an older Brother or Cousin if he wants to wander through the nearby woods that surround the city before doing so. It’s early in the morning with Terra’s Star just barely peeking over the eastern horizon, and Cedric desperately wishes that he knew of a place where he could perform morning prayers and hymns without making his older brothers and cousins uncomfortable while doing so. Religion, worship and prayer made many of them deeply uncomfortable, after all. Those who weren’t Black Templars, nor were from M42.

He’d briefly talked to Brother Arnault and Brother Roland about it, but neither of them had found a place where one could gather with other worshippers to sing and pray together, either. Both had been delighted if a bit cautious when he brought news of Ramiel, a Chaplain in training of their shared Chapter. But the crux of the issue remained the same; there was nowhere where the group of them could gather and go through the morning services that had been so routine on both the planet-bound monasteries and the cathedral-rooms of the chapter ships that he had served on. The private homes that both Roland and Arnault lived in were too small to host multiple Astartes - besides, the singing and prayer would wake either of theirs human bonded, which was unfair.

Cedric still felt the loss, despite having been brought to Ancient and Holy Terra months ago now. A forlorn sigh left the young Black Templar as he continued to wander through the streets of the city, making a mental map of the place.

He froze when the sound of something he hadn’t expected to in this time.

Bong

The ringing sound of metal on metal, the clear, resonant sounds of a church bell ringing in the early morning. It took the young Templar several moments to process what he was hearing, and several more to figure out in which direction the sound was coming from. There wer some baseline humans wandering about the city at this time of day, but Cedric barely registered their presence as he started to sprint at his full (and considerable) speed towards the source of the ringing church bells, his hearts having flown up to take residence in the back of his throat.

He skidded to a halt in front of the beautiful stone building. He could see stunning mosaics made out of stained glass set in the windows, catching the light of the morning light. He could see the tower where the bells were still ringing, hearing the bells swing back and forth as they were rung over and over again.

The front doors of the church were open, and a steady stream of baseline mortals were entering in an orderly line. Excitement and nervousness battled for dominance in Cedric’s hearts as he made his way to the back of one of these lines, glad that he was wearing fairly nice civilian clothes, as most of the mortals around him were wearing nice clothing as well.

He had to duck a little to enter the church, the top of the door a good foot or so shorter than he was tall but that was a paltry price to pay as he silently took in the entry-way before him. The floor was made out of polished stone that shone in the artificial light and the rainbow of colors that the stained-glass filtered in. He followed the line of mortals to the main worship chamber. Dozens of padded pews made of wood were in neat orderly rows facing the pulpit, where the chaplain or whoever was to speak.

There was a massive musical instrument built into one side of the walls of this worship room, and Cedric silently wondered what it sounded like. He silently eyed the pews, deciding that it was unlikely that they would be able to support his weight, along with the mortals, and he really didn’t want to damage any part of this sacred and holy place.

Each pew quickly filled up with mortals, and Cedric found himself at the very back of the worship-chamber. One of the robed clergy-members were handing out pillows to those who did not have a proper spot to sit, guiding the mortals to sit in neat, organized rows, while another helped keep the line in order.

Both paused for several seconds when Cedric stepped forwards, looking up at him with inscrutable expressions on their faces. Cedric looked down at them, head tilting a little to one side as he worked up the courage to talk to them. Talking to a member of the Ecclesiarchy was always a nerve wracking experience back in M42, and the young Black Templar really wanted to make a good first impression. He didn’t want to be kicked out of the church because he offended them by accident. “Is… Is something the matter?” Cedric managed to ask.

The member of the clergy who was handing out pillow-seats spoke up first “Forgive me for the assumption, but are you an Astartes?” Though their voice was quiet, it carried far in the room. Deep silence followed their question and Cedric could feel the eyes of dozens, if not hundreds of mortals staring holes into the button-down shirt he was wearing.

The scrutiny made Cedric tense up, though he did his best to keep his voice quiet and respectful, making sure to avert his gaze from their faces as he answered “I am… Is that a problem?” He hadn’t been told that there was anywhere within the city that Astartes were forbidden to go… But perhaps his older cousins hadn’t thought that he would wander into a random church, so they hadn’t thought to tell them?

“No… But many Astartes are quite… Vocal about their distaste for religion - organized or otherwise and have caused trouble in the past. If you plan on trying to stop the service, we ask you to please simply leave.” One of the clergy-people explains, gesturing to one of the others who leave the room “If you refuse to leave, there are Astartes who are willing to remove you from this place - by force if necessary.”

Oh. Oh no. Cedric could easily imagine that happening “... And if I wish to observe the religious practice quietly and without interruption, would I be allowed to stay? While I do agree that many of the older Cousins and Brothers who have been brought to Terra are… Strongly against religion of all kinds, this does not hold true for myself nor the handful of Brothers who were taken from… Places similar to where I was taken from.” He hesitated for a couple of moments, as he could tell that the baseline clergy weren’t entirely convinced that he meant no harm and did not intend to cause trouble. He continued to try and explain himself “I have religious beliefs that I hold quite deeply, and as long as your beliefs are not violent towards innocents, or use vital sacrifice during any part of it, I do not think I would interfere with the proceedings.”

“Would you seek to convert others to your own beliefs, through word or physical force, were you allowed to stay?” The clergy person asked, a wry tone in their voice.

Cedric blinked twice. The amount of trouble he would get into for attempting that would be catastrophic. It had been made explicitly clear to him that though the God Emperor was alive somewhere in this time period, he had not yet revealed himself to be the Master of Mankind, and to try and draw attention to him at such a time could be devastating. “No… If I were asked about my beliefs, I would be honored to explain what I’m allowed to, but much of it is..” Not exactly a closed practice, from where and when he came from, but much of it would require explaining about the Great and Terrible future that Humanity was facing tens of thousands of years in the future, which was forbidden to speak of in detail without explicit permission “I would not be allowed to explain without prior permission, which I do not have.”

“Is there a particular reason why you sought out our church in the first place?” The baseline asks, stepping a little closer to where Cedric was standing. Some of the wariness and suspicion had left their voice and their body posture was a bit more open “... You seem… Young, for an Astartes. Am I wrong?”

Cedric shook his head “You are not wrong, ecclesiarch. I am young for an Astartes, and still am in training for parts of my duty to my chapter.” He had yet to tell any Brother or Cousin his precise age, mostly because he was pretty sure that Captain Ash’val would explode spectacularly. Or Apothecary Hura would kidnap him and keep him by his side at all times because Little Baby Brothers need constant supervision. Honestly! He’s been on deadly and difficult missions without his Mentor before! He also survived the longest in M42 of the Primaris Marines who he knows about anyways. It’s not his fault that most of the Firstborn Astartes he’s run into are at minimum upwards of three hundred years old if not much, much older. The cantankerous bastards. He heard the sounds of ceramite on stone, and the heavier step of an Astartes walking towards them. “... May I please stay? I promise not to cause trouble. The sound of the church bells were familiar to me, and I… I’ve missed morning prayers and psalms in the months I’ve been on Terra, terribly.”

“Are there not places to worship in one of the Astartes bases in town? And Ecclesiarch is the incorrect term, please refer to me as Sister Superior.” The be-robed mortal asked and gently corrected Cedric.

Cedric fidgeted a little “Not that I am aware of. The reclusiums are to be used by the Chaplains alone along with whoever they have trusted to keep those inner sanctums clean and well-tended to. Chaplains are meant to tend to the mental and emotional health of their Brothers and Cousins, among other duties, however…” Cedric also kept quiet about the other duties that Chaplains were to tend to - at least among the Black Templars as he didn’t want to potentially concern or distress the Sister Superior he was speaking with. Perhaps she was part of an order that was a precursor to the Sister of Battle? “Among the chaplains who I have interacted with on Terra, the only one who might be comfortable leading the morning prayers and psalms I dearly miss is around the same age and training level as myself. We don’t… We don’t have a space to worship where we would potentially draw the ire... Erm. Discomfort of our older brothers and cousins who do not hold the beliefs we do.”

He could hear the approach of the other Astartes, he was getting closer. Cedric deliberately did not look away from the Sister Superior to try and figure out who this Astartes was, nor from which direction he was approaching Cedric in, as the young Black Templar really meant no harm. He also had truly been just drawn to the sound of the ringing church bells, and a soul-deep longing ache still resonated inside of him.

“Were you hoping to see if this church would be serviceable to your needs? Or merely drawn by the sound of the ringing bells? They do sound beautiful when they do ring, and this church is one of the loveliest in the region, in my humble opinion.” Sister Superior answered, a small smile on her face. She gestured wordlessly for him to come closer, which the young Astartes obeyed.

Cedric knelt so that he was closer to her eye level, keeping his gaze focused downwards, penitent and trying hard not to seem threatening. “I was drawn by the sound of the bells, and this church really is beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve seen stained glass like that. It reminds me of the worship halls on m-... In the fortress-monastery I enjoyed training in the most.”

“I will say that you aren’t the first Astartes who has been drawn to our church, with the earnest desire to find a space in which to worship without being judged by other Space Marines who are vocal about their dislike of open displays of worship. Ah, there you are, Lykos. You needn’t worry, this young Cousin of yours wandered in out of curiosity and an open heart, rather than to try and cause trouble.” The Sister Superior murmured, her gaze focusing on someone behind and slightly to the left of Cedric.

A deep, rich voice with an accent that Cedric did not recognize rumbled Astartes-deep behind the young Black Templar “I see… I was hopeful that was the case, as you arrived at this church without arms or armor, but that is not always the case. What is your name, Cousin? I am Brother-Chaplain Lykos of the Word Bearers Legion. I am from mid-M31 originally.”

The older Astartes was wearing black armor with red, silver and gold accents. There were runes inscribed on much of his armor, written in neat rows that Cedric did not immediately recognize, and the symbol of an open book with white pages set aflame on one of the other Astartes’ pauldron the other having a red arrow on it. Upon the other’s chest-plate was the the symbol of the two-headed Aquila. He had a black cape that draped regally behind him, and almost but not quite touched the floor. His skull-helmet was clipped to his belt, and his head was shaved bald, with dozens of golden tattoos on his face and neck shone in the light of the early morning sun.

Cedric froze for several seconds, the breath in his lungs freezing over solid at the approach of a strange first-born Chaplain. Brother-Chaplain Lykos had no mutations, no extra appendages and no spikes. He did not smell like a Chaos-tainted Astartes, either, but Cedric still felt very small and threatened as the chaplain loomed over him.

The quiet murmurings of serfs in prayer echoing in the stone chamber, the slight waft of incense as the Firstborn Chaplain approached him, one hand on his chainsword, a neutral and disapproving expression on his face. The other’s voice rings in his ears but Cedric is having difficulties processing what he’s saying.

A ceramite-gloved hand reaches out to where Cedric is still kneeling and, to his eternal shame, he flinches and cowers away from the attempt at contact. Why is it so difficult to breathe, all of a sudden? Cedric is breathing fast and shallow, as a heavy, oppressive weight is pressing against his chest.

One of the Sisters steps between Cedric and the Chaplain, and the noise in Cedric’s ears roars louder. Her fingers tremble a little with the age of a mortal, and the expression she gives him is of gentle concern. She reaches out to cup his face, and he leans into her touch, a tiny sound leaving him. Most of his focus is on the knees of the Chaplain, however, knowing better than to keep his focus from wavering from One of Them.

“I asked you a question.” The Chaplain rumbles, voice sharp with irritation and disapproval “What is your name? To which Legion or chapter do you belong to?”

#oc: cedric #oc: Lykus #word bearer #black templar #warhammer 40k #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #my writing #adeptus astartes

34 notes · View notes

thelampisaflashlight · 1 year

Text

Lost Little Lamb

[Omega finds a curious little ghoul in the dark under unfortunate circumstances. Implied non-consensual body modification and death.] Below the cut.

The first thing that hits him is the smell.

Mildew, rust, and the unmistakable scent of rot.

It takes a minute or two for his eyes to catch up with his nose, and when they do, he can't help but close them, unable to stop the puff of air that escapes his lips like a pained hiss.

Omega tries not to let it get to him; He's a beast from Hell, he's seen worse, but that doesn't make this -any of this- good, or fine, or okay in the slightest.

It's...

"Satanas..."

There had been an anonymous tip about a small sect of the church that was attempting to "make" ghouls.

Not summon.

Make.

"How many do you think there are?" someone asks from further in the darkness, "I count seven."

"Do we... do we count-"

"See to the ones moving around first, check for breathing... leave the rest until later. Prioritize the injured."

Omega scans the room before him, trying to get his bearings, but being a ghoul means he can see... see so much more than the human clergy along with him.

It's a curse to be able to see the scale of the horrors that have taken place here, but his keen eyesight also has its advantages, and he will use it to his advantage to search this manmade pit top to bottom.

"I'll..." he breathes, steeling himself, "I'll get a better lay of the land."

The basement is massive.

Longer than it is wide, but still the fact that the space seems to keep going and going is...

It makes his stomach twist with unease.

When he finally reaches the end of it all, Omega has to set himself against the wall, running his hands over his face as he tries to understand what has happened here.

He can't.

He cannot imagine the sick and twisted minds of the people who did this, and frankly he doesn't want to, but it's his job.

He has to figure out what happened, and...

Crunch.

Omega pushes himself from the wall at the sound of movement, thinks to call out for whoever -whatever- is shifting in the darkness to show its self, but that's when he sees it...

...sees them.

Crawling around through the mess on the floor, pale hands caked in dirt, long white hair obscuring their face, is the smallest, skinniest little ghoul he's ever seen.

When he shifts involuntarily, the ghoul turns to him slowly.

A single coal black eye shining dully in the faint overhead light filtering through a crack in the ceiling above.

They look him up and down, tail curling around their frail body protectively as they move to sit up, kneeling there before Omega looking so...

Omega crouches down to be on eye level with the ghoul, inspecting their face and trying to match it to any of the missing persons he'd seen in the file he was handed earlier, but, whether through a flaw of his own memory or an oversight by the investigators, he doesn't remember anyone like them.

"Hello." he whispers, he doesn't have to, but he can't quite seem to force himself to speak any louder, "Hi, I'm Omega. I'm here to help... You... do you have a name?"

The ghoul scratches lightly at the dirt floor, and for a moment Omega thinks they might start writing something, but instead, they just knead the soil.

Digging blunted nails into the dry earth as they stare.

The anxious motion makes Omega's heart squeeze.

"Do you want to go around to the front with me?" he asks, "There are people there that can give you a little check-up, make sure you're okay?"

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

"Can you..." Omega clenches and unclenches his hands for a moment before taking his finger and drawing a line from his ear to his chin, hoping the ghoul might understand the gesture.

They squint at him for a moment, then repeat the gesture, shaking their head.

"Okay... okay, so you can hear me then. Can you talk?" he tries, and the ghoul nods, but...

They crook their middle and index fingers and hit their fists on top of each other.

Hard? Maybe...

"It's difficult?"

They nod.

Omega looks at their legs.

"Can you stand?"

In the end, Omega has to carry them to the exit.

They can stand, but they keep moving down to crawl or to skulk on all fours, and it all looks very painful and dirty given the state of the floor, so with a bit of convincing and very little physical effort on Omega's part, he manages to scoop up them up.

The whole way back, Omega can feel the ghoul's every heartbeat against his own chest, and the subtle fill of their lungs as they breathe.

They seem so small tucked into his arms.

Omega finds himself rubbing soothing circles into their back, shushing them softly when they fidget a bit before getting comfortable.

He holds them the whole way to the van, only letting go when one of the other ghouls gives a nervous chirrup from the backseat, prompting the smaller ghoul to climb out of his arms and slip over the seats to comfort them.

They don't say anything as they curl up against the frightened ghoul, rubbing their face against them, and giving a loud, gravelly thrum from their chest.

The others seem to take the small ghoul's return as a cue to relax.

"Is there anyone else?" Omega asks, "Is there anyone else down there?"

"No." replies one of the larger ghouls watching over the rest of the group, their eyes never leaving their companions, "It's just us left."

"Okay..." he nods, "Do you have names?"

"I don't... I don't know." they reply, looking down, "I'm... I'm the newest from... from what I can tell."

"And the others?" he questions, "Do you know who's been here the longest?"

"I do..." They say, "...But I don't know for how long."

"That's fine, who..."

They point at the little ghoul, who is now sleeping with their head in the other ghoul's lap.

"They were here before everyone else."

Omega breathes.

"...and how many years was the second longest here for?"

"Six."

It takes three years.

Three whole years.

For Omega to sort through everything from the basement incident.

But even after all that time, he still cannot seem to find anything about the little ghoul he found in the very back of the basement.

Lamb.

"I can't find anything about them anywhere in these documents, nothing matches." Omega groans, "It's like they appeared out of thin air.

"Perhaps, and mind you this is just a theory..." Brother Elijah hums thoughtfully, looking through a series of test results, blood work for the ghouls formerly quarantined in the lower den, now occupied by the Ghost Project band ghouls, "...the reason we cannot find anything about them is because they were actually summoned, unlike the rest, and used as the sort of... originator... of the ghouls the sect created."

"What?"

The human slides the papers to Omega.

"The method the sect was using to 'convert' those people was through blood transfusions." he splays the papers across the surface of the table, pointing at a red circle he's drawn on each of the results, "This here."

Omega frowns.

"Everyone else has a trace amount of this... unknown element." the man continues, "Except for Lamb."

"Then how-"

Brother Elijah places yet another paper on top of the pile.

"Lamb has nearly forty times the amount of the rest of them. It's as prevalent in their bloodstream as iron." he says, "In fact, they have such a surplus of it, it seems to be leeching from their pores. That's what makes their skin glow."

"So you think they used Lamb as their patient zero?" Omega asks, "...Even if that's the case, where did Lamb come from to begin with?"

"We still don't know." Brother Elijah admits, leaning back in his chair, "And until Lamb remembers, which..."

Omega rubs his temples.

"...Is unlikely."

"I could... I could try entering their mind again." Omega scratches his chin, "But..."

Brother Elijah pats his arm.

"No need to push yourself, my friend."

"I just... I don't know what happens if we can't find anything." he frets, "What happens to them?"

"That will be for them to decide, but, in the meantime, is it really so bad for them to stay here?"

"...You and I both know things are happening behind the curtains, Eli." Omega sighs, "I worry for what it could me for the future, for the project and..."

"Terzo?" the other smiles sadly, "I'm sure he'll be quite alright. Even if the rumors are true and Sister Imperator wishes for him to be replaced, I doubt she would bring him any harm... stepping down might do him some good, and just think of how much more time you would get to spend together once he retires."

Omega chuckles, "I guess you're right... Still though-"

A knock at the door.

"Brother Elijah, Mister Omega? There's been an incident involving one of the new summons..."

"Enter." Brother Elijah calls.

A sister of sin with long red hair steps inside, looking rather fidgety.

"What's happened?"

"Well..." she purses her lips, glancing at Omega, "You see, um, the new water ghoul summon, Rain? He, uh... He's hurt."

"How severely?" Omega asks, already pushing his seat back.

"Oh, y-you see, he's fine, but..."

"But?"

"The reason I came to report this to you directly is because L-Lamb was involved." she laughs nervously, "They, uh..."

"What's wrong? What happened to them?" he frets, heading for the door.

"...They bit Rain's ass."

"WHAT."

#lamp writes #shitghosting #nameless ghouls #omega ghoul #rain ghoul #ghost band #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost band fanfic #ghost band oc #nameless ghoul oc #Lamb chomped that ghoul

104 notes · View notes