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becauseicantthinkwritings · 4 months

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No Other Gods

Serial killer! Billy Russo x Female Reader.

Billy’s POV mostly

Summary: Billy’s on the run, moving from place to place as he leaves a trail of bodies behind. When he steps into a church to hide, he stumbles upon someone that makes him want to stay.

Warnings: Dub- con, violence, gore, blood, blood smearing, so much murder, mentions of Billy's past assault attempt, suggestion of possible sexual assault attempts toward the reader, religious themes, blasphemy, sexual acts in a church, thoughts of non-con (no actual non-con), poison, restraints, oral, fingering, sexual intercourse, wax play/heat play, Devil worship.

If you want clarification on a possible trigger, I am happy to elaborate.

I took the dove out back, shot it, then resurrected it so I could kill it again. Be warned.

For my lovely @ittybxttykxttytxtty who was so instrumental in the design of this fic. This goes out to you, love, who reminded me that I shouldn't be afraid to write whatever inspires me.

He’s calm.

Each step he takes is slow, measured, he hears the echo of it on the quiet street, the drag of his shoe on the concrete sidewalk.

He turns the corner, and has to fight the instinct to hold his breath as they turn their heads to look up at him. The murder weapon tucked into the waistband of his jeans feels ten pounds heavier.

Even breaths, one in, one out, he knows nothing, he has no sense of concern, or worry. He blinks, feels trepidation wash from his skin.

Internally, he readjusts his course, doesn’t want to walk past the group of officers that are studying him from further up the street, doesn’t want to answer questions just yet, not until he has his story straight.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the church and he changes his walk ever so slightly that it looks as though he’s been heading there the entire time.

When he’s at the closest point, he raises his head and smiles, gives a little wave to the officers, wishes them a good day, though he knows what they know, and it’s not a good day for them.

The church is pristine, unlike the other buildings on the street, it stands with fresh paint and the smell of almost dried varnish and scrubbed steps that tell him that this church is probably the most coveted place in the entire town.

Billy, having just cut a man’s throat in the High school gymnasium, steps past the door, and does not immediately combust.

Surely, that must mean he’s doing something right, that his cause is a good one, maybe even approved of in the eyes of God.

He’s not convinced.

For a moment, he thinks it’s empty, thinks he’s alone with God and his thoughts, up until the slight movement of shoulders draws his eye.

He’s in disbelief that he missed you the first time, the light of the stained glass hitting your sedentary form.

He takes some quiet steps forward, swears he feels the concealed knife grow warmer. He watches you, studies in rapt attention the way the coloured lights look on you, the way they illuminate your hair, makes his fingers ache to touch something that looks explicit in its forbiddenness.

Your dress is white, or a cream colour that tells him the outward state of your mind, the purity nurtured in your soul.

He moves faster now, eager to see you, to know what you look like, to hear your voice, to look into your eyes.

He turns when he makes it to your pew, sees the way the light caresses the planes of your face, and he wishes he could do the same.

You are radiant, undisturbed beauty, your hands clasped together beneath your chin, a small rosary wound between your fingers. He wants to touch your hair, swirl strands of it around his finger, he wants to feel your skin, hold your form beneath his palms.

Everything he wants, halts, the moment you turn your head and look up at him.

His lips part in surprise, he’s taken by you. You must be an angel, or something more.

“Hello.” You say softly, gazing up at him with unsure eyes.

“Hello sweetheart, I'm sorry to bother you.” Billy answers smoothly, as though he isn't desperate for you to get closer so that he can catch your scent.

You look like you smell like flowers, he thinks to himself, bristles with delight when you finally stand, the light streaming through the stained glass paints you with a myriad of colors.

“It's okay,” you soothe, “I don't mind helping.” You smile at him, an ease of trust in your eyes. Trust, he could so easily extinguish with the weapon concealed on him.

You extend your hand, giving him your name, he smiles, gives his back. In your eyes, he can see something he doesn’t quite recognize.

Too pure, Billy finally decides. You're too pure, there must be some wrong.

“I’m new to town,” Billy explains, leaning in so that he can stand in God’s light with you, in hopes that you can absolve him of the thing he has done.

“Got a little bit lost. Will you help me find my way?”

You smile, and it reminds him of warm fires in the winter, of standing in sunlight after being drenched from head to toe.

“Where are you going?”

One of the wives whispers something in your ear, Billy watches you tilt your head back laughing. You had this entire town wrapped around your finger and before he’d arrived, he’s sure no one had ever questioned your purity.

A white dress and blue cardigan, he wants to take you into one of the back rooms of the church and push his murderous hands under your dress, feel your gasp in his skin as his hands paw at your delectable thighs.

He wants to ruin the very image of you, reshape you for him, and him alone.

He turns his head slightly, observes that he’s not the only man here transfixed by you, but one in particular catches his eye.

The reverend, in the same clothes he’s just delivered Sunday sermon, gazes lustfully at you, his glasses balanced at the very tip of his nose to conceal the direction of his eyes.

He recognises the expression, knows it like he’s looking into the face of someone who once looked at him the very same way. The reason he started killing in the first place.

He feels the itch swell inside of himself, his fingers flex.

It seems as though it would be time to hunt again very soon.

“Lost again?” Someone says behind him while he’s picking out laundry detergent.

He turns, seeing you there, in a pale pink shirt, and tan pants that hide your figure from his view.

He smiles, watches the way you light up even more. A sweet, little morsel made for his fangs.

He holds up two different boxes of detergent for you to see.

“What do you think?” He asks.

You hum, deep in thought.

“This one,” You say, pointing at the item in his right hand, “smells too flowery for my taste, and you don’t seem like a man that likes to smell like flowers.”

He smiles, raises his eyebrows, intrigued.

“And this one,” You point to his other hand, “Oh, that’s the one I use.”

“So it must be the best.” He agrees, as if you made a proper suggestion, putting the latter into his shopping cart.

You smile up at him in amusement.

“So, how are you getting all of this back to your place?” You ask, tilting your head at the moderate amount of groceries in his cart.

He turns, looking at what you were observing.

“You’re right, I might have picked up too many things for my walk back home. I’ll have to put some things back.” He agrees with her implications.

“No way!” You protest, reaching to take his hand, tugging him with you.

“Pastor Wade brought me along with his wife, I’m sure they’ll have some extra space in the back for you.” He follows, feeling anger that Wade had found himself closer to you than before. You wave your hand excitedly at the reverend, and Billy smiles internally at the sour look he receives from the man himself.

The trunk gets filled with the reverend’s new items, and Billy smiles, looks at you as you tilt your head, trying to solve a problem of too many groceries and too many people trying to fit into one vehicle.

“Give it up,” He says, mouth angled near your ear, “I’ll find another ride-”

“Don't you dare,” You argue, “I promised you a ride home and I won’t back down now.”

He smirks, watches you pile yours, and then his items into the backseat of the car. When you’re done, there’s only just enough space for only one person to fit.

“That’s okay.” You insist, “I can sit on you, if you don’t mind?”

Of course he doesn’t mind.

“If you’re sure.” He taunts.

“It’s a great idea.” Wade’s wife echoes, too eager to have them both in the back seat and the journey started.

Billy does his best to appear aloof, he gets in, and looks up at you expectantly.

You’re hesitant at first, before looking around, and then climbing into the back seat of the car to seat yourself in his lap.

Billy takes a deep breath, exhales, watches the pores on your neck and collarbone rise when his breath touches you.

A few moments into the ride and you’re wriggling uncomfortably in his lap.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Warm.” You explain, reaching for the buttons on your pink cardigan, brushing his stomach with your hand as you tug it off your shoulders.

Billy watches, with rapt attention as you reveal a white shirt beneath your cardigan. When you almost slip off his lap, he reaches to grip your knees.

“Hold on, sweetheart.” He whispers, just so you can hear.

You hold conversation with Wade and his wife throughout the journey, talking about how excited you are for the upcoming Christmas season, and that dressing up as an angel at the annual concert is a highlight for you.

All the while, Billy keeps you seated in his lap, your ass right on his hardening cock, the smell of blossoms drifting from your hair.

He closes his eyes, tries to distract himself from thinking too much about you, but he knows it doesn’t work. When the road gets bumpy, Wade apologises for the rough ride, and you respond with something reassuring.

You stiffen after a moment, and he knows he’s been caught.

He knows you feel him when you turn your head to look at him in surprise, his cock, hot and hard below your ass, rubbing against you as the car sputters along.

He looks right back at you, meets your shocked look with a sinister one of his own, wants you to know what a man feels like, makes sure you commit him to memory.

In the rearview, he sees pastor Wade glance at the pair of you. Billy looks back, holds his eyes, gives the supposedly pious man a smirk.

The next Sunday, you sit beside him in church.

It completely unfocuses him from his next target, he tilts his head to look at you.

Such a curious thing, drawn to something you now know isn’t as wholesome as appeared to be. It makes him feral, makes him want to put his hand on your thigh, slide it slowly up until he’s at the apex, tuck his obscenely large fingers under the waistband of your panties, find you dripping, feel you aching, press a lone finger to your swollen clit, make your sweet little cunt gush in God’s sacred domain.

When it’s time to take his hand in prayer, he makes sure to do it as slowly as possible, dragging his fingers along your palm, your touch makes him feel blessed.

It becomes a habit, sitting beside him for Sunday mass, the eroticism of your touch right before you pray, before you ask God for forgiveness from all your impure thoughts and deeds, and Billy sits besides you, blood dripping from his hands as he imagines the ways he wants to violate you in this very church.

It’s a Wednesday evening when he steps into the church, the most desolate time possible. He knows there’s only two people here, him, and his target.

He moves slowly, cautiously, on the balls of his feet to avoid making too much sound. The wind blows, the front doors to the church groan.

He passes the stained glass windows where he’d first met you, he passes the pew he sits at every Sunday while thinking about you, he passes the doors at the back of the church that he thought would make a decent place to defile you.

He goes deeper, till he can hear the quiet familiar slapping of a man going at it.

He’s not shocked by it, or scandalised, he knows his wife barely touches him, he knows she has an idea of what goes on inside his head. Billy’s studied her too, looked at her while she watched the way he leaned in to speak to you, a spark of realisation in her eyes.

He makes gentle movements, turning the doorknob with two of his fingers at a pace so slow it goes unnoticed by the person on the other side of the door.

He gazes steadily through the small gap.

Pastor Wade has your pink cardigan pressed to his face. Billy remembers the last place he saw you wear it- in the back of Wade's car.

He has one hand to his face, and the other stroking his meagre erection. Billy waits, in the stillness, the only sounds are the preacher’s laboured breaths and the movement of his hand.

There’s a right moment to act, and Billy waits patiently, he doesn’t have to talk himself into this one as much as he’s done with some others before. This one comes easily, in part because he’s grown accustomed to the feel of blood spilling onto his hands, almost craving it now, but mostly, it’s because Wade’s next intended victim is you.

In front of him, Wade groans, tilting his head back pace quickening. Billy pushes the door open. The wooden door doesn’t groan like it did before, Billy had greased the hinges just last week in preparation for this.

Billy stands behind the man, waiting for the precise moment, and when the preacher lets another groan loose from his lips, a warning of impending release, Billy strikes.

The man comes just as his throat is cut open, blood spraying from his neck as semen spills from his cock. Warm blood pours over Billy’s hands, as he supports the man as he drops, not wanting to cause more noise than necessary.

He lies on his side, turns his head upward, mouth parting in surprise as he sees Billy’s face.

“I wish I could punish you more, but I’m not worried, I know the Devil is going to take his sweet time with you.”

He watches the words register behind the dying man’s eyes, and Billy smiles wickedly as life leaves him.

He tugs your cardigan free from Wade’s hand, it’s partially soaked in blood and will need to be properly disposed of, he doesn’t want anyone finding it and linking you to the crime in any way.

He studies the soft pink material, smiles at the thought of you. He brings the material up to his nose, catching the smell of blossoms just barely clinging to the fabric.

The fluttering wings of a bird above makes him glance upwards, and he figures one must have found its way into the space between the ceiling and the roof, searching for a comfortable space.

He uses your cardigan to clean his knife, before turning, and heading for a sink to wash the blood from his hands.

He brings a casserole to the deceased’s house the evening they discover him dead.

It’s just a little something to help out, he explains to Wade’s widow when he greets her in the kitchen. Her eyes are bloodshot and swollen, crying from the moment she’d heard the news, no doubt.

He doesn’t stay with her too long, excusing himself despite her attempts to hold onto his hand, the women around her gazing at him, more intrigued than ever about his culinary skills.

He wants to find you, to see you. There’s an itching inside of him that won’t go away until he knows you’re here with him.

When he finally catches sight of you, something inside of him unknots itself. You’re standing in the middle of a large group of concerned people, you look like you’re fighting tears with everything you have. A woman touches your shoulder, and you raise your head to give her a brave smile.

He pauses on the outskirts, wonders how he’s ever going to get your attention.

But he doesn’t have to worry, because your eyes lock with his as soon as he stands still, as if you’d been seeking him out this entire time. He gives you a small smile, something of an icebreaker from so far away, and you take it as an invitation, running right to him with tears already spilling down your cheeks.

Your body collides with his, and for a moment, there’s only you, and the softness of your form, and the smell of your hair and he’s quietly reassuring you that everything is going to be okay.

He enjoys it, the way you grip his shirt, the way you cling to him with every ounce of strength you have. He hugs you back, finding a way to the soft loveseat in Wade’s living room. You don’t pull your head from his chest as you cry, you shake with big, heaving sobs, and he tries his best to comfort you.

If you’d only known what Wade’s intentions were with you, you wouldn’t be crying. After a while you calm, and you continue to cling to him while you sniffle, his shirt damp with your tears and he wears it like a badge of honour.

So many people stop in to check on you, more and more with each passing hour. Billy thinks more people are concerned with your wellbeing than with Wade’s actual widow.

It amuses him, that so many people are drawn to you, that you have such influence on everyone, that they care so much for you, and here you are, tucked into his body, turning your head into his chest to cry every now and again, growing less frequent with the more time that passes.

Later, he offers to take you home. He’s just been able to afford a slightly beat up car, and he asks if you’d be okay with being driven by him. You accept with sleepy eyes, and he smiles internally, going to find Wade’s wife to bid her goodbye.

He overhears one person speaking with another about the state in which the body was found, covered in his own blood and semen, throat slit from ear to ear. Billy is delighted to hear it, he wants everyone to know, he wants to shame Wade’s name, even in death.

His widow is sad to watch Billy leave, she grips at him once more, trying to wrap her arms around him the way you do. When he mentions your name, he watches her stiffen, mouth set in a grim line, something in her eyes like accusation, or knowledge of something that she cannot say to another soul.

She doesn’t speak her accusations to him, and he leaves, wraps an arm around your wobbling form and helps guide you to his car.

You’re so tired, and you fall asleep in his car as soon as you’re buckled in. He drives slowly, takes the long way, anything to be by your side longer. Your cheeks are stained with tears, he thinks about how beautiful you’re going to look in black.

You hum sleepily, reaching across, he blinks in surprise when you take his hand in yours.

“I heard how he died. Can’t wrap my head around it. Someone just decided he shouldn’t be alive anymore. Can you believe that?”

The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away, he wants to say.

Out loud, “I’ve seen it a couple of times, back in New York.” he says instead.

You squeeze his hand.

“Do you think you could ever take a life?”

His breaths pause, it was time to confess to you.

“I have,” He clears his throat, “I have killed people, I was in the army.”

Your head swivels to him in his peripherals, he glances back with a sad smile.

“I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

You continue to hold his hand.

“You- you’re not- you don’t hate me?”

“It’s not in me to hate, I have to believe that the path you’re on was necessary to bring you to me.”

“To you?”

“So I can help you.” You answer, squeezing his hand.

He wants to rip you apart and reshape you with his own hands.

When he finally gets to your house, he helps you out of the car, helping you up the few stairs and supporting your weight as you get the door open. When he tries to let you walk on your own, you stumble, and he has to catch you before you fall.

“I’m really tired.” You explain to him, and he hums in understanding.

He takes you up to bed, watches you collapse onto the soft surface, knee length dress rucking up so that he catches just the quickest glimpse of your underwear.

His hands clench into fists. He wants to push your skirt up, bury his face between your legs, taste your little cunt, worship you until you come on his tongue.

“Will you stay?” You ask, arms spread out, legs slightly bent as they press together.

He kicks his shoes off decisively.

“What will people say?” He teases.

“You don’t strike me as a man who’s ever cared about that.” You whisper softly.

He grins, climbs into bed beside you, reaches around your hip so that he can pull your body against his.

“Goodnight, angel.” He whispers as your eyelids flutter, struggling to stay conscious.

“G’night, Billy.” You respond, touching your face into his chest once more before you doze off completely.

It's too much power, and you must know it. To fall asleep so easily right beside him, every temptation to be like the predators he hunts. He could press his palm to your thigh, drag his hand up to your hips, you would never even know. He could do so much worse, pin you to the bed, pull his cock out and take you right here, watch you wake in shock while he fills you. Watch his cum leak out of your little hole. What could stop him? You? God? Everything he's wanted at the tip of fingers and all he has to do is take.

In the end, he doesn't do it. He lies beside you and thinks of all the vile things he could do and doesn't act on a single thing and he doesn't really know why.

He thinks it's because of the consequences. Doing that would mean you wouldn't want to be around him, and he needed you to want to be around him.

By the time morning comes, and you wake, he's spent the entire night memorizing the feel of your body against his. If you feel his aching erection, you say nothing of it, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or not.

He finds you right after the funeral, lighting the candles that have gone out when the doors had been wide open to allow the coffin through.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, approaching you, swallows as he finally has a chance to fully appreciate your funeral attire.

It's loose, giving you an almost formless shape, to hide from everyone's view, your skirt is just a little shorter than usual, probably something you haven't worn in a while, resting at mid thigh and no doubt giving the women something to chat about in hushed voices.

You glance at him with a little smile, before continuing your painstaking process of relighting each candle.

“I'm alright. The lord gives, and like natural order, the lord takes.”

He blinks.

“That's right.”

“What do you think about the Devil?” You ask suddenly, not looking up, simply tilting your head to continue your work.

“What do you mean?” He pries.

“Is he evil? Or is he just the way God made him?”

“He's both.” Billy answers.

You smile, and finally turn to look at him.

“Do you think God loves him?”

“Doesn't the Bible say God loves all his creations?”

You smile wider, nodding. For once, Billy feels like he doesn't have the upper hand in a conversation.

“Are you worried about eternal damnation?” Billy asks, taking a step closer, ready to reassure you that someone as sweet as you couldn't possibly end up in Hell. If you were damned, well that didn't bode well for him.

“I'm not afraid of Hell, I can handle fire.”

Billy watches you raise a hand, and hold it closely over one of the candles. He hisses, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away.

He turns your palm to check for any serious burns, but he'd withdrawn your hand just in time.

“I'm alright, Billy.” You reassure him, leaving your hand in his, and using the other to continue with your previous task.

It's the first time he realises that there is more to you than he'd initially thought. He'd seen you as a pristine painting before, something to be looked at, forbidden to touch, to love from afar. Now? You were an enigma, a puzzle whose pieces were made to be handled, to be solved by the right person.

Billy wanted to be that person.

“-He wants to be here with you, the lord is one with everything, he’s in everything you see, and everything you touch. You just have to close your eyes and let him in.”

From around the corner, Billy listens to you speak, your hands holding the other woman’s, who’d stumbled into the church an hour ago, searching for someone to speak with.

“I’m not worth the forgiveness.” The woman sobs.

Billy is ashamed to admit that the very sound of your voice turns him on. He feels sick, that listening to you speak about the lord makes him hard. If he closes his eyes, he swears you talk about God as if he’s just another person in the room,

“He believes in you. You’re here, you found me, because that’s what he wanted. You found the strength to come in, to open yourself up to being judged just a little, and I know he appreciates that. He loves you, and I do too.”

Later, when the woman leaves, with a promise to be here on Sunday, Billy finds you, shuffling and reorganising reading materials near the altar.

“You’re good at this.” Billy murmurs.

You smile.

“I’m just doing what he commands.”

Jealousy stirs in Billy’s chest.

Before he can stop himself, he’s stepping into your space, you look up at him with wide eyes, as you try to back away.

“You’re so selfless, don’t you know what people say about you?”

You blink in surprise, your body lowering as you descend the stairs, away from the altar and toward the pews.

“It- why should it matter what people say?”

“They call you a temptress, you’re the reason Wade’s burning in Hell. I heard his wife say it herself.”

“That’s not my fault.” You defend.

“It’s not? You’re telling me you have no idea of the effect you have on men?”

You go down another step, he follows.

“I- I don’t- I’m not-”

He feels so large, looming over you, frightening you.

“You don’t?”

“I only want to serve.” You whisper.

“Who?” Billy taunts.

“What?”

“Who do you serve?”

“The Lord.”

The back of your legs bump the wooden pew. Billy watches you gasp.

“And what if I wanted you to serve me?”

He doesn’t let your confused expression last for too long.

Billy acts fast, sitting on the pew, and gripping your hips to drag you onto his lap. He guides your legs over his, spreads his thighs so that you’re forced open too.

You suck in a deep breath, head falling back onto his shoulder. You look up at him, mouth parted, eyebrows drawn together.

“What are you doing?” You ask, your body still on top of his own, he realises that you’re not fighting him like he was worried you would.

He shushes you, gently presses the tips of his fingers right above your knees, takes his time dragging them up.

You reach for his hands, covering them, unsure if you should stop him or not.

“I’m giving you what God can’t.” He simply says, looking up at the altar before them, listening for anyone walking in as he brings a veined hand up to cup your mound.

You let out a little whine, fingers gripping his wrist, unable to pry his hand away.

“This is wrong.” You whisper, tugging at his wrist.

“I’ll make you feel right in a minute.” He answers, moving slowly to push his hands into your panties.

This is what your cunt feels like, is his first thought. Billy bites down on his bottom lip, his fingers feeling over your pussy, exploring, learning, and when he finally dips his hands lower to find you wet, he can’t help chuckling to himself.

The wrongness of your situation turns you on, and Billy uses it like fuel, lights a fire so readily, eager to watch everything burn.

“This is all an act, isn’t it?” He jabs, “You pretend to be so pure but that little cunt is dripping on my fingers.” You shake your head in protest.

He’s gentle when he finally touches your clit.

You gasp, let out a strained moan, trying to fight a losing battle with your body.

He circles his fingers on your little bud, pulls your legs open wider when you try to shut them. He’s slow, he’s careful, he feels you tremble, feels your breaths get faster.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already.” He chides, “I’ve only just started.”

A soft cry is your only response.

When the sun is at the right angle, it shines through the stained glass and paints you both in multitudinous colours. He looks down at you, your face is one of mindless pleasure while the hues dance on your trembling skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs reverently, “sinning in God’s light.”

Your eyes roll back in your head, mouth parting with the start of a loud cry, he slips his free hand over your mouth, muffling the sounds of pleasure you make.

You rock on him, cunt spilling more and more onto his fingers, his mouth begs for a taste.

Your nails dig into his wrist, he welcomes the feeling, delighted to have given you something only he could give.

When he’s sure you’re going to be quiet, he slips his hand from your mouth, and after a few moments, he pulls his hand from your panties.

His fingers go right into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss at your tart taste, he licks his fingers clean, runs his tongue over them one more time to make sure he’s gotten every drop of you.

You look at him with parted lips, caught in your own amazement, coloured light still spilling onto you.

He smiles, pulling your skirt down, closing his legs which close yours.

He pauses when he feels your fingers touch his chin, he looks at you in surprise to find something calm in them. You part your lips, like you’re about to say something, and then you startle when the doors to the church are pushed open.

You slip off his lap, rising to a stand, you smile, welcoming the people coming in.

Billy is waiting in the confessional booth for you to pass by. You’d been so exhausted recently, trying to help the newest preacher get settled, and then someone else had been murdered. A woman working at the bank had been stabbed repeatedly in the face inside the bank vault. Her body had been found on a pile of money.

It was odd, Billy thought he was the only one of his kind in town, to know there was another out there, made him want to look out for you more than ever.

This, was not him looking out for you.

Rather, he was waiting to pull you away, to be your distraction from another funeral, to save you, if he so dared call it that.

He hears footsteps, identifies you from the click of your familiar shoes on the church floors.

He hears the large wooden doors at the front open to allow the coffin in, and while everyone looks in the direction of the doors, he slips out, wraps his hand around your mouth, and pulls you, struggling into the confessional.

You stop fighting when you see him, and he smiles, bolting the doors closed from the inside.

He looms over you, cock hardening in his pants, presses a finger to his lips with a smile.

Your mouth parts, curious about him, and when he presses you back, settling your body onto the wooden bench, you don’t have much choice but to obey.

He watches you, fire in his veins. You look up at him with the sweetest eyes, and he knows he’s ready to defile you right here.

Instead, as the funeral begins, he drops to his knees in front of you, pulling your panties down your legs so that he can worship you with his tongue.

He keeps you right on edge for the entire sermon, licking you slowly, your hands in his hair, your breathing deep and low to avoid attracting attention.

He edges you, echoes the prayers being said outside into your heated core, licks at your sweet bundle of nerves, doesn’t stop for a single second.

When the congregation takes up a gospel in praise, he waits till the voices are at their highest point to let your orgasm take you.

He tastes you greedily, thankful to have ever crossed your path.

He closes his eyes, decidedly not done with you, peeling at your virtue until nothing remains.

He takes you home that night, helps your exhausted form like he did before, hands gripping your waist to support your fumbling steps.

“You need to stop expending all your energy like this.” He chastises, lips in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“I’m fine, I just need to sleep.” You protest.

He guides your key into your door.

“Will you stay again?” You ask hopefully.

“If you want me to. But if someone sees me leaving-”

“I know, they’ll have reason to call me a whore.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” His voice is maybe too sharp with you.

You let out a little laugh.

“Right. Sorry.”

He gets you up the stairs, feels you take a deep breath as you yawn.

“Help me get out of this dress?”

God, you really were tempting him.

He watches you fall back onto the bed, clad in only your underwear. He finds it impossible to look away, when your body looks so divine.

He gulps, wants to kiss every exposed inch, wants to make you see heaven any way that he can.

You watch him while he watches you, he’s transfixed by you.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?”

He curls his hands into fists.

“I always want to touch you.”

You give him a sleepy grin, arching your back, reaching behind to unclasp your bra.

“Can you bring me a dress from my closet?” You ask softly, and he stiffens to obey.

He pulls the door open, searching through the delicate things suspended from hangers for something for you to sleep in. He finds a sheer dress, smiles as he pulls it from the closet, he glances back at you to find you already asleep, your breasts exposed to the cold air.

He smiles, turns back to close the door, pauses when something shiny catches his eye.

It’s behind the wooden walls of your closet, shining through the slats. Billy’s eyebrows draw together, leaning in to press against the spot, the entire panel of wood shifts, and he realises that the closet has a false back.

He tosses your dress over his shoulder, reaching for either side of the wood, he presses down gently, and the entire thing shifts upward, allowing a space for his fingers to fit in.

He pulls, the piece of wood is heavier than expected, turns, and tucks it against one side of the closet.

What he finds… washes his mind blank of any rational thought.

It’s an altar, but it’s not for God.

There’s an inverted pentagram painted onto the wall in something that Billy, with his years of experience in the matter, knows to be dried blood. On the pentagram, there are photos pinned, polaroids of him that he’d never seen you take, taped to your wall with little hearts scribbled on. There’s other things as well, the dog tags from his bedside drawer, the pocket square he’d thought he’d misplaced after Wade’s funeral. So many little items of his, in this space, and he realises that he has no idea who you are at all.

On the floor, is the pink cardigan soaked in Wade’s blood, half burned from where he’d tossed it into a quick fire in the woods behind the church. Billy kneels, fingers brushing the handle of a knife with a blade embellished with flowers, stained with blood. The skull of a goat, surrounded by black and red candles.

He knows he should be feeling fear, but there’s no ounce of it anywhere in his body. He licks his lips, plucking a photo of himself from the wall, he feels his lips curl up involuntarily.

He stands, turns to wake you, to confront you, and halts when he finds you already behind him.

You look sleepy still, swaying on your feet, body still bare, and before he can say anything, you raise a fist, and blow a strange powder directly into his face.

It stings when it touches his eyes. He groans, drops the photo of himself he was holding, presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and stumbles. His throat tickles, he coughs, body trying to expel whatever you’ve dosed him with. He can’t see, and he reaches for where he knew you were last, only to find formless air.

He tries not to panic, if you wanted to actually hurt him, you would have by now. Perhaps you just didn’t know what his reaction was going to be and you were safeguarding yourself.

He feels the handcuff wrap around his wrist, but he fights it, his eyes sting too much for rational thought.

“I’ll help you if you cooperate.” He hears you say.

He huffs out a breath, extending his cuffed arm for your guidance.

You pull at him, bringing him to your bed, and cuffing both his arms to the frame. His eyes sting when he tries to see through them, his face burns too, like it’s on fire.

The next thing he feels is a cold cloth on his face, and then there’s instant relief.

You place a damp rag over his eyes, and on the lower half of his face, leaving his nose exposed for him to breathe.

“Let it sit for a little, it needs to neutralise the poison.”

Poison? He thinks in shock.

He tries to calm himself, tries to tug on his restraints as little as possible. He tries to run through everything he’d learned in the past few minutes, sort them into his head, solve puzzles he didn’t even know existed.

You were entirely not who he thought you were, not even a little, not even at all.

No, not true, he’d seen it, glimpses of the real you from the very start, too pure, he’d thought, too pure that there must be something wrong.

He should have seen it from the minute you took his hand, from the minute you sat on his lap, when you felt his erection and still flocked to him. Billy should have known. It was in the way you thrived under the attention, the memory of you holding your fingers over the candles in the church. He’d seen it all, and had been unable to put the pieces together.

He hears movement, feels the bed dip as you come closer to him, feels your weight settle on his hips, straddling him.

The rags are pulled from his face, and you use the edge to wipe the remnants of something he can’t see.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t want to hurt you, but it was this or hitting you over the head with a bat.” You smile down at him, he can still see you there.

You don’t look like a new person, you only look more relaxed in his presence, his eyes drop down to find you wearing the dress he’s picked before he’d discovered your secrets.

“You don’t worship God.” He starts.

You smile.

“No I don’t.”

“But you go to church, you help other people find God.”

“You think that saves them? No one in that church is free of sin, no one is made better by being there, they’re only better at hiding it.”

He blinks, tilts his head, waits for you to continue.

You reach for a box of matches, striking one, you light the candle sitting on your bedside table.

“I go to church, because every time I step in there, I spite God.”

He watches you reach to strike another match, lighting the candle on the other side of the bed.

“My Lord, the only one I pray to, is the Devil himself.”

Billy blinks, tilts his head.

“You tempt everyone there with your innocence on purpose.” He says, thinking out loud.

You make a sound of disagreement.

“Not exactly, I’m just charismatic, and the fruits fall where they fall. My intention isn’t to tempt, it’s not my fault that men are so easily… tempted.”

He raises his eyebrows in amazement at your point.

“Look at Wade for example, I was only as nice to him as I was with everyone else, but he took it another way, I’d finally decided to kill him when he touched my thigh for too long… I was watching him from a small space in the roof when you came in.”

Billy watches, hypnotised as you drag your palm over your stomach, your ass grinding gently against his semi-erect cock.

“I watched you stand behind him, waiting for the right moment.” You whisper, hand slipping under your sheer dress, working its way down the front of your panties. Billy’s teeth clench, pulling at the handcuffs.

“I watched you cut his throat,” You groan, “There was blood everywhere.” Your head tilts back as he watches you touch yourself to the memory of his past crimes.

“You took my cardigan. I knew there was something about you before, but it was only then that I knew I had to have you.”

He watches you, fingers hidden from his view as you pleasure your little cunt. He feels rage at not having any control.

“The woman in the bank,” Billy tries to think with you so close, “That was you.”

You nod, smiling down at him.

“She was a bad person. I wanted to give Satan someone to play with. Just like he gave me you.”

Billy’s hands are in fists, blunt nails pressed to his palm.

“Let me go.” He grits out.

You smile dreamily, shake your head.

“Not yet. I want to have you first.”

His breath halts in his chest, desperate to ask you what you mean, but he thinks your intention is clear enough.

He pulls harder on his restraints, not wanting to be bound the first time he feels you.

“Don't fight it, Billy. Let me have you how I want, and then, maybe we'll see about those cuffs.”

He stops struggling, takes a deep breath, goes still.

You smile, undoing his belt as quickly as you can, and then tugging at the buttons of his shirt until his torso is bared to you.

He listens to you hum with delight, feels your scorching tongue lave at his chest, over his heart, flicking at his nipple.

He begins to understand how feral you are, listening to your hums of appreciation as your tongue drifts over his neck. He realises, that you’re just a small thing, searching for someone exactly like you in a world full of people pretending.

When you open his pants, his mouth goes dry, his jaw drops open as you suck on the tip of his cock for just a small moment, enjoying the taste of him before you’re slipping your panties to the side to take him in.

Billy closes his eyes, swears, low in his throat. You feel better than he’d imagined, your walls fluttering around him, pulling his cock deeper into you so naturally that he swears it was always meant to happen.

You moan loudly, head tossed back.

“I would have let you fuck me in that church.” You confess, “I would have let you fuck me in a pool of Wade’s blood.”

Billy groans.

“I’d fuck you in the bare earth.” He grunts, supporting your conversation, “I’d make you beg me to.”

You clench tightly around him, and Billy swears he sees stars for a moment. Your breasts bounce as you roll your hips on him, and after a moment, you pause, reaching for one of those lit candles beside your bed.

Billy looks at you, keeping your steady gaze, trying to prepare himself for the possibility that you might drop hot wax onto his skin.

But you spare him, instead, you tilt the candle, letting a few drops of molten wax fall onto your thigh.

He feels you tighten, grunts in pleasure at the vigour your pace takes on.

He’s so captivated by your enjoyment of it, that he can’t help but ask.

“Do it to me.” He asks.

You smile, hovering the candle over his chest, and when the first drop hits, he gasps. It stings, burns like fire, but then something sweet fills the space, his body somehow asking for more.

You don’t give him any more though, placing the candle back in its original spot, and beginning to rock your hips in tandem.

You’re struggling to achieve orgasm in this position, and he feels amusement rise within him, knowing more about your own body than you seem to know.

It finally makes him relax, knows that no matter how hard you try, you still need him to get you off.

He waits, and waits, and finds that he can be patient when it comes to pleasuring your cunt.

You pause, pouting.

“Poor little girl,” Billy chides, “Can’t manage to come on her own. You need my help, don’t you?”

Your eyebrows are drawn together When you look down at him, trying to make sense of his words.

“N-no, I can, uh, do it myself.”

He grins sharply, relaxes.

“You’re so out of your depth.” He taunts.

“Nuh uh.” You hum, still trying to use his cock to pleasure yourself. Billy turns his head to study his restraints, the wooden pillar he's cuffed to on the headboard is wobbly, he figures one sharp pull at just the right angle would get that hand loose. The other pillar however, is too sturdy for a move like that.

He has to move fast when he does it, find a way to get you to release his other hand.

But first, a distraction.

“You're beautiful like this,” he says truthfully, “Your true self is so much more than I'd imagined and- well maybe we are right for each other.”

He watches you nod eagerly, still trying to reach your peak, your head tilts back, lulled into a false sense of security.

Billy takes his opportunity to strike.

He pulls as hard as he can on the wooden pillar of the headboard, muscles flexing almost painfully. He almost thinks he's going to fail but right at the last second, the wood gives, freeing the handcuff and allowing movement.

Your eyes fly open, and you reach for something behind you, pulling out a knife.

He catches your hand, twists your wrist so that the knife falls free, and pushes it off the bed.

Before you can scramble off of him, his hand grips your hair harshly.

“Unlock me.” He hisses into your terrified face.

Despite your obvious fear, he still feels you clench around his cock, and his desperation to have you exactly how he wants, increases.

“I'm not going to hurt you.” He clarifies, “But you're mine now, so unlock me.”

Your eyelids flutter, your eyes glancing at a spot beside him. He doesn't turn to look, simply leaning his body with yours, hand still fisted no doubt painfully in your hair.

He looks from the corner of his eye, as you tug the bedside drawer open and stick your hand in.

“You better not be reaching for another knife. It wouldn't take much for me to squeeze the life out of you, even with one hand tied.”

He feels you clench around him again.

“You like that? That I could kill you without a second thought? Your cunt’s gripping me so tight, baby.”

You let out a little whine, withdrawing with just a metal key pressed between your fingers.

“Good girl,” Billy praises, feels even that go right to your cunt, “Now unlock me.”

You do his bound hand first, and then pull the other cuff from around his wrist. Your eyes cling to the reddening bruise on his wrist from pulling too hard.

When he's finally free, he grins, right in your face, before pulling you off his cock and flipping you over.

You gasp in surprise as your back hits the bed, Billy leans away to get a good look at you.

He can see your delectably shaped tits through the white sheer dress, he admires the way it looks- like innocence and somehow pure sin wrapped all in one.

He thinks, for the first time, he finally sees you, finally understands what he has, looking up at him with careful eyes.

“You said something earlier. That the Devil sent me here for you,” he leans forward, cups your breasts through the dress, stiffening your nipples, watches you writhe beautifully under him.

“But I'm not your plaything, little girl,” His fingers pinch down, pressing your nipples between his thumb and forefinger, watching you gasp in pain and pleasure, “You're mine.”

It sets off something inside of him, and like an avalanche, any semblance of self control he'd ever had, just crumbles.

He leans down, lips pressed to yours, he feels an ache inside of him lessen.

You kiss back, with forceful lips, your hands gripping the back of his head, fingers in his hair to stop him from pulling away.

His hands press against your shoulders, feeling their way over the sheer sleeves of the material, gripping your hips, fingers catching on the fabric as he touches your body for the very first time.

Your legs wrap around him, it makes him so delighted, that you want him, that he's going to use that against you.

He pulls back, grinning when you whine, reach for his mouth once more, his hand finding your throat too easily, gripping it to push you back.

“Where did my little fighter go, hmm?” He leans forward to lick your cheek, enjoying the surprised expression on your face.

“Please,” you whisper, “I need you to make me come.”

His nose brushes yours.

“Why? Don't you touch yourself all the time?” He taunts, already knowing your responses before you say them.

“I haven't been able to- since you touched me.”

He laughs, watches you get more and more demure with each moment.

“You haven't been able to come since I put my hands on you? I wonder why?”

“You feel too good.” You confess to him.

He tries to fight it but it makes him laugh again, he buries his face into your neck, amusement so heavy in his body and he has to let it out.

“Sorry, It’s just that- you haven't even seen what I can really do yet.”

“Show me.” You beg.

His hands caress you gently, he nods his head, and then, tears your dress into pieces.

You’re so turned on, aching for him, you shudder as he pulls the remnants of your dress from your skin.

His touch is frantic, his palms skate over your skin, gripping, feeling, your thighs, your legs, your arms, it makes you so much more aroused to be felt like this. No part of your body is safe from his wandering hands, it feels as though he’s trying to learn you, and you are so eager to let him.

His lips are next, kissing the top of your breast, working his way between them, the feel of his lips on your skin makes you feel more connected to him than before. He pulls your panties off in a swift rush, kissing at your knees when he finally gets them off.

“Want to know why my touch feels good? Because I know you. I know what your body likes.” Billy says, you lift your head to look at him, his hand sliding up between your thighs, the tips of his fingers making delicious sparks.

He touches your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt so gently, desperation pooling under your skin. He presses a single finger against you, until he just brushes your clit with the very tip of his finger.

“You need this little bundle here touched, kissed, and it can’t be too harsh.”

You cry out when he just softly strokes your clit. Pleasure burning through you at just the simplest move.

“You think that just because you like pain, that this has to be rough too, but no, your pretty body craves a soft touch.”

He proves it to you, his gentle fingers massage your clit, he makes it look effortless, eyes drawn to your centre, looking up at you with dark eyes every now and then.

It’s the burn of his slow movements that make you lose your mind. The worst part is that he’s right, you’ve never touched yourself so gently before.

“Does that feel good, baby? I’ve killed so many people with these same hands. But I bet that makes your little cunt even wetter.”

You mewl, nodding, remembering the way you’d seen Billy kill. The amount of blood he’d left behind, such a messy crime scene.

You bite down on your bottom lip, back arching, hands gripping your sheets.

Just a little bit more, you think, gasping, quietly urging him on, hoping that he doesn’t stop his movements.

“That’s it,” Billy praises, “Just like that, show me exactly who owns you.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, your vision goes white as pure euphoria overtakes you. It comes in waves, cunt fluttering around nothing, your body shudders as your brain tries to process pleasure beyond your comprehension.

It takes you a moment before you can breathe through it, and like before, it feels like you’re floating, somewhere deep in your subconscious.

His face comes into your line of sight, a proud smile on His lips, beautiful in every way as He hovers above you.

You suck in another breath, it helps you feel your body, and the remnants of your still occurring orgasm.

“The first time I saw you, I couldn’t look away. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I wanted you all to myself. Now that I have you here, now that I see you, I want you forever.”

You nod eagerly, smiling up at him, gripping his hand to press your cheek into his palm. You wanted that, you wanted to be His as well.

“Now be a good girl and stay still.” He whispers, lowering his body once more, burying his face between your thighs for the second time in your life.

You almost want to scream. His tongue pushes its way to your clit, flicking softly, dipping down to lick at your entrance.

You hear Him moan between your thighs, you shudder, arching your hips into his face.

He slaps your thigh, a warning that he intends to uphold the discipline of His instruction, you simply clench in response.

You wanted- so much more than you could admit.

You'd thought, for a brief moment, that he was the personification of Lucifer himself, that Billy was a reward for your years of devotion, but somewhere in the back of your head, you were starting to feel something different, new, that not even your devotion to Satan himself could match.

He licks you like he's starving for it, hands on your thighs, tongue in your cunt you want to struggle just so He has a reason to hold you down.

You say His name, you feel your thighs tremble, His lips kiss at your swollen clit.

You don't know what you're feeling, something in your chest, that tugs everytime he touches you.

Drunk on His mouth, you hiss when his pace increases, unsure if you'll even be able to have another orgasm so close to the last.

He's careful, dexterous, precise, he licks cunt the way he kills- with careless precision, a spectacle to be admired, spoken about in hushed tones.

Billy doesn't ask, he simply manipulates your body until you're wound so tightly on edge once again, unable to comprehend how you got here in the first place.

You groan, your grip on sanity crumbles away, all you can think about is Him, and the way his beard feels, scratching between your thighs, and the darkness of his hair and the grip of his fingers on you, holding you to him, daring you to struggle.

There’s a loud rushing in your head when your next peak finds you, your back bowing off the bed once more, something pinches in protest but you can’t focus on it, the pleasure too important to give up just because you’re a little uncomfortable.

He licks at the arousal spilling from you, moans into your body with each taste, making you see stars, or fireworks or maybe even just flashes of bright lights and colours.

It somehow reminds you of the stained glass of the church, makes you feel adjacent to something that’s on the tip of your tongue but you can’t find the right words for it.

He draws back, beard wet with your slick arousal. It’s gorgeous, and you watch him tug his black shirt off- that he’d worn to the funeral of the woman you’d killed- and use it to dab at his chin.

Your eyes roam down his body, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen a man as sculpted as he is, lean and muscular, small bits of hair on his chest and a spot right below his navel that your tongue aches for.

You sit up, looking at him, pressing your thighs together as he pushes his pants all the way down his legs, his cock already solid and leaking for you.

You remember the first time you felt Him, the way you knew without a doubt that you were going to have him, before you even fully understood what he was.

He reaches for you, grips your thighs and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You gasp at his easy display of strength, watching as he strokes himself for a few moments before lining his cock up with your dripping entrance.

Your past orgasms have made you more sensitive, each inch of him he presses in makes you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to breathe through the overwhelming pleasure and the stretch associated.

“You're so tight.” He utters with a strained voice.

You can only moan, reach to touch Him, the light of the candles flickering on his bare skin in the dead of night.

Your fingers graze a circular scar on his lower abdomen, and at the same time, he thrusts the rest of his cock fully into you.

You cry out, the sudden bliss of being stretched, goes right into your head, you gasp, your body begs for more, begs to be undone by him.

You swear you can taste blood in your mouth from biting down on your bottom lip too much, unable to vocalise your appreciation of him, he draws his cock out, before making another harsh thrust.

Your back arches, you don’t feel like you’re in your body, or maybe you feel too much in your body, the only thing you know for sure is the pleasure that fills you, that threatens to swell under your skin and explode outward.

He keeps his motions swift, harsh, deep, following through with each shift of his hips fully before beginning another.

“Who’s your God? Tell me.”

“L-Lucifer.” You utter automatically, but it’s the wrong thing to say. He stops, hands gripping your jaw tightly, bringing all your focus to him.

“What was that?” He grits out.

“Lucifer?” You whisper, voice light with pleasure.

He shakes his head, leaning away and reaching for something nearby.

You tighten around him when you spot the burning candle in his hand.

“Say that again.”

“Um…” You stutter, unsure of what to say.

You gasp in surprise when the first drop of hot wax hits your hip. It stings, just for a moment, before leaving the sweetest tingle in its place.

“Please.” You moan, pressing your hips upward for more of his torment.

“Can Satan do that?” He asks, rutting his cock into you at a slow shallow pace. When you don’t respond, you feel another heated droplet sting the skin of your hip.

You peek at him through parted eyelids, watching the way he looks at you in amusement, before tilting the candle again, this time to allow hot wax to fall onto the opposite side.

“Billy.” You moan, and you watch him grin.

“Answer my question, little dove.”

You shake your head.

“N-no. Satan can’t make me feel like this.” You whisper.

He moves, drips wax onto your thigh, making you gasp in pain, feeling it heighten your euphoria.

“Do you like feeling this way?” He asks, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re nodding, raising your hand to your chest to roll your nipples between your fingers for his appreciation.

“I like it, Billy, I love it.”

“Then tell me who your God is.”

You think you finally understand what he's trying to say, his cock pressed deep inside of you. He's the reason you feel so good, he's been the person occupying most of your thoughts from the day you met. He's someone you'd be willing to kill for.

“You.” You finally answer, and he smiles, moves his hand, still holding the candle, wax dripping onto his fingers, he tilts the candle and lets a few heated droplets touch the skin over your womb.

You gasp, the skin there is a little more sensitive, the burn is more intense, more pain than pleasure but He doesn’t seem to care, simply continues to smile as he blows the candle out, putting it back on your nightstand.

There's still another candle on the other side, allowing you to see, though everything is just a little dimmer now.

Your skin tingles, warm, the dried wax on your skin cracks as you move, but you don't get a chance to focus on it too much, because as soon as Billy lets go of the candle, he's pressing into you with renewed vigour.

Your thighs tremble, tears pool in your eyes, He's rough, grunting with each stroke he makes, earning a reciprocated cry when his cock bottoms out inside of you each time.

Skin against skin, sweat glistens on his chest, you want to taste him.

“Say it again.” He commands, leaning over you to brush his lips to your ear, “Who do you worship?”

“You, Billy.” You respond eagerly, gripping his shoulders, pressing your nails in, listening to him hiss in response, gripping your jaw to bring you into a bruising kiss.

It's messy, his tongue dipping forcefully into your mouth like he owns you, his cock doing the same, taking everything as if it's owed.

You bite down on his bottom lip, hears him grunt out a manic laugh in response.

“You're all fucking mine.” He grits, leaning back and pulling your boneless body up until you're on top of him, his hands gripping your hips to keep you moving on his cock. You tuck your head into his neck, unable to be anything more than a receptacle, to take Him, over and over until he's finished with you.

“How does it feel to be saved by your new God?” He grunts between thrusts.

You can barely find the words to speak.

His hand slaps the flesh of your ass hard, demanding a response.

Cruel, you think, that He wants you to speak, that He thinks you're even capable of thought.

“Feels good.” You hum, fingers gripping his neck, nose to his jaw, taking what he gives, you tears dripping onto his collarbone.

He groans into your ear, it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard and you finally begin to understand true devotion.

“Please,” You beg, “Please.”

He grunts out a chuckle between thrusts.

“You don’t have to beg, I’m here, I’m not leaving.”

You tilt your head up, vision hazy, your body tingling with something too intense to be just bliss.

He kisses you softly one more time before dropping you back onto the bed, pushing your knees upward so that they’re almost to your ears.

He feels so much deeper this time, fucking you hard, merciless thrusts that has your cunt fluttering again, warning you that you’re on the right path to an orgasm.

He doesn’t stop, looking right into your eyes as he pushes his cock into you, over and over and over. You see stars, you see him, you see nothing else.

He licks his thumb, lips wet with saliva, he slips it between your bodies, angles it right against your clit, swipes gently from left to right.

You make a loud sound, followed by a flurry of pitiful whines, trying to warn him, to implore him. He doesn’t stop fucking you.

Your toes curl, one small breath of air before the most intense rush of ecstasy takes root in your body. You’re lost in the rapture, taken by the experience to even register the sounds you make.

You feel fire, you feel sparks, tingles that rush all over your skin, your inner walls gripping him so tightly as you’re forced to experience bliss at His hands.

He groans loudly, and before you know it he’s fucking into you rougher than before only for a moment before he makes a sharp sound of relief, cock pulsing as he spills himself into you.

You clench around him, making sure he gives you every drop of himself. Knowing that this is the right way to show your devotion.

There’s a moment of insecurity, when he crashes to the bed beside you, eyes closed, his breathing is quick, as if he’s just run for miles. You worry that once he’s had his fill of you, that he won’t be interested any more.

Your head is turned to look at him, lungs still heaving, the bliss of your orgasm hasn’t left you completely yet, and you watch him, curious to observe what he does next.

He peeks an eye open, mouth pulling into a smile that bares his teeth, he pushes himself up, crawls closer till he’s in the space between your body and arm, kissing at your cheek and shoulders softly.

It opens something inside of you, to feel that, to know without a doubt that He meant every word He said.

You raise your hand in wonder, fingers gently brushing His cheek, before pressing your palm to His face.

He looks down at you, moves his own hand to run the backs of his fingers against your face, two people, finally seeing each other, finally showing themselves, unafraid.

It’s more than you could have ever hoped for.

Billy stands in the shadows, waiting.

He watches his targets leave the bar, two men, laughing with each other as they head to the nearby bus stop.

He follows, observing the way they move, trying to figure out just exactly how drunk they are. One wears a leather jacket, with his hair slicked back, the other wears a plain white t-shirt, and jeans.

They talk loudly, confessing to things Billy already knows about.

When one of them looks up, and sharply elbows the other, nodding to a place ahead, Billy knows what they see.

You lean against the bus stop, face buried in your phone, too occupied with it to notice that you’ve been spotted.

You’re beautiful, Billy muses, white dress, denim jacket, a little purse hanging from your elbow, standing under a small streetlight. It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

The man in the leather jacket gets to you first, looking over your shoulder, peering into your phone looking at what you’re doing for a moment before saying something to you.

He watches you startle, look up at both men as they approach.

It’s like a dance, the way your fright gives them confidence, the manner in which you step back, warning them that you’re going to run before you actually do.

He smiles as you slip from their reaching grip, running into the nearest alley, he watches them take chase.

He moves faster, making sure there’s no chance of putting you in any real danger.

When he gets there, they’ve got you cornered, your back against a wall with them closing in. They’re too focused on you to ever notice him.

He takes a breath, waits for a moment, enjoys the thrill of what he’s about to feel.

When one of the men reaches to put his grimy hands on you, Billy strikes.

The man in the leather jacket makes a gurgling sound as his throat is cut wide open, splashing mostly on himself, but some of it gets on your dress and he knows he’ll get on his knees later to apologise for getting your dress messy, even though he knows you like it.

The other man can only make a single sound of terror before he’s falling to the floor, mouth agape as the handle of a knife protrudes from his eye.

He’s still alive, though not for long as Billy watches you drop to one knee, pulling the knife from his skull to plunge it into his vocal cords next.

You look up at him, with bright eyes, excited to be doing this with him. He bites down on his bottom lip, thinks you look adorable when you’re seeking his approval.

He doesn’t care if the men are in their last moments, he reaches for you, grips the collar of your jacket and hauls you up, manoeuvring you until your back is pressed against the wall of the alley.

He drops his head, angles to place a fierce kiss on your lips, smearing blood on your face when he grips your jaw.

Billy pulls away, breathless, heart hammering with the thrill of murder, he looks into your eyes, and finds himself looking back.

He’s not surprised- simply acknowledging to himself that it’s what he’s been seeing the entire time, what he couldn’t put a name to when you first met, he now knows.

“And the lord said ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’”

It makes you look up, to meet Billy’s eyes.

You watch the corner of His mouth twitch in amusement.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #the punisher #my writings #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #serial killer!Billy Russo #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #just overall bad #everyone is evil #there is not a redeemable character in sight #Forget 'I can fix him'#reader just said 'watch me make him worse'

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pooksgetspooked · 4 months

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Hierophilia pt2.

Summary: A devout priest of unshakable faith stumbles upon what could only be called his own slice of heaven. With no creature holier than you roaming the mortal realm, it serves to be beyond troubling when Leon finds himself quickly falling into the clutches of corruption by the mere presence of you. Pairing: Leon s. Kennedy x Angel!Fem!Reader Word Count: 3k

Content warnings: MDNI! Religion, Corruption, dub-con/non-con, possessive & obsessive undertones, definitely blasphemy

“Leon? You look awfully tired,” you hummed, peering down at him with worried eyes while you placed a gentle hand atop his head, caressing the mop of blonde, “is all well?”

Was all well? By all means, he should be, but he was anything but. You were ruining him. He was losing more of himself with each day around you.

Somehow, someway, you evoked all sorts of vile thoughts he would have once cringed at, but now made his dick twitch in his pants. He had never prayed more in his life than he has in the past week or so; and despite his lust driven devotion, the notion of God abandoning him was suddenly feeling all too real.

“I’m well, please don’t worry about me,” he sighed, voice gravelly and head hung low as he sat on the bed in his quarters with you standing above him. With what had transgressed, you quickly noticed Leon’s shifty behaviour, but not the cause of it.

For the better he thought, because he was certain if you could peek into his mind, you would take off like a skittish dove at first chance.

He didn’t deserve you, or the tender care you put into him. You had thought he was falling ill despite not sensing any ailment, but you made an effort to heal him.

You made soul food for him and brought it to his quarters for him to rest, tried to haggle with the ever growing mob of believers without him, you even tried to take over some of his duties so he would get more time to himself to rest.

He wanted to cry for all too many reasons. The internal conflict wagering between his relgion and beliefs; all thing he knew prior to you was at war against the very notion of having you.

But you were so kind, gentle and soft, like nothing he had ever known in his life. You showered him with a warmth he had never known in his life, and it felt like he would cripple if you were to ever leave him. He knew he shouldn’t feel any way like he did towards you, but he couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure? I’m growing worried about you, Leon. You’re more withdrawn, less enthusiastic to go talk with the other chapel people, you’re eating far less than you should. Please, is there nothing I can do for you?” You were almost begging him now, your voice making his chest ache.

He finally dared look up at you, his eyes dragging up your legs through the sheen nightgown, breath hitching when he found himself at eye level with your chest, before forcing himself to meet your gaze.

“I- no, we- there’s nothing, dove,” he tried to stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth, and from his crotch from bulging, but the damage you dealt on him was nothing he could stop. He couldn’t dampen his heavy breaths, or stop his gaze from trailing back down to stare at your nipples and how they peeked through the fabric, thin enough to see the pretty flushed shade.

Your eyes widened as you caught his words, back straightening in attention. That only had his boner at attention, because your chest nudged an inch closer to Leon’s face, his lips now close enough to hover over where your nipples were.

“You said we. There’s something we can do together to help you then!” You were so excited, the feathers of your wings ruffled and your halo seemed to glow just a little brighter. So naive and innocent, but he couldn’t. Not with you. Maybe he should just hook up with one of the chapel ladies he knew always eyed him during sunday masses and call it a day. Far less damaging to his guilty conscious, and he might still have a shot of maintianing his ticket to heaven.

He shook his head, lips parting as he leaned back just slightly. He needed to breathe. Had to pull himself out of proximity of your breast before he caved and did something he knew would be a point of no return. “No, no we can’t,” he breathed out, blinking hard as he scrambled to piece together the jumble of thoughts bouncing around in his head. “I mean there’s nothing. There’s nothing for us to do,” he corrected himself, cursing himself for the slip up as soon as he noticed the look of curiosity on your face.

When you were curious, you were relentless.

You whined softly as you leaned forward with him, staring down at him with sad, wide eyes and limp wings, “no, there is something and you’re keeping it from me. Please? I’ll do whatever it is, i’m okay with it!” So eager to please, Leon had to stop himself from groaning as his dick jumped beneath the cloth of his boxers. How could he resist when you made him feel like you looked up to him as your new God?

You were quickly closing the proximity between the two of you, your chest steadily approaching him as your leaned closer to him each time he leaned back, and Leon was growing dizzy as his eyes were steadfast on your chest.

He didn’t know how much more he could take before he relented. You were making it so needlessly difficult, how was he supposed to turn away from you.

It was when your hand slipped, no longer able to prop up your weight. Leon had always commented that you should eat a little more and exercise to put on some muscles on your twiggy arms. Now, Leon was a little more grateful for the bone of defiance in you.

Your chest planted into his face, your eyes growing wide as you hastily apologized and tried to pull away, “Leon! I’m so sorry, are you hurt-” any attempt to pull away was stumped by the slithering arms, toned and firm, coiling around your waist with hands creeping up your back to keep you in place.

Before you could say another word, the sensation of his tongue, warm and wet pressed flat against your nipple flooded out any previous thought. The sensation had your back arching, crotch nudging into his pelvis with hitched breath as your mind went hazy.

“Leon, wha?” You couldn’t help the pitched whine coaxed out of you when his lips wrapped around the pebbling nipple, tongue flicking and swirling around the hardened bud. Your legs were kicking, arms scrambling for purchase to try and pull away, but what use were limbs that had never worked a day in their life against someone who was well adept at labour? You were a snagged dove in the maws of a wolf. Helpless and very much fucked.

“Shh, calm down angel. You said you would help me, right?” Leon finally pulled away from your nipple with a pop, half lidded, dilated eyes staring up at your trembling form. He could feel you shaking above him, your wings fluttering with you as you panted from your struggle. Cute.

Leon didn’t give a shit anymore. He had to do something about this lust addled haze or he might actually combust and die. He can worry about any of the irreversable ramifications later, heaven be damned, because there’s no way heaven would grant him a pass to sleep with an angel as divine as you anyways.

“I- I did but this feels funny,” oh my god. You didn’t know the first thing about sex, or what it was did you. Leon almost laughed, because he knew he was actually going to hell now.

“Feels funny? Can you tell me how it feels funny?” He breathed against your nipple, admiring how it poked through the now see-through fabric as he gently tightened his hold around your waist, arms clenching like a vice.

“It- it feels like-” another whine, halfway a garbled moan as he gently bit down on your nipple, warm and wet appendage still toying at the teat, lavished with all his love and attention. “Go on,” he mumbled through suckles and kisses, “tell me how it feels. It feels nice, right?”

“No it- it feels weird, like hot and tight, Leon please,” tears gathered at the corner of your eyes as you fought to breathe through weak struggles and the growing sensation that made your head fuzzy.

Meanwhile Leon was watching you intently, blue eyes never straying, soaking in every fidget of your expression. He couldn’t help but coo at you, his dick throbbing at your confusion. Despite your words, he could feel the dampness on his pants, stained from your leaky core.

It was like your mind was only in control of your words and that was it. Every other bodily reaction was detached from your brain, and wholeheartedly honest in a manner entirely different from your words. Your body and your mind was at odds with each other, and it was stirring an odd sense of satisfaction within his chest.

Maybe it was getting to see you experience just a modicum of what he had been facing for the entirety of the last week and more. You were responsible for what could only be deemed as his downfall, it was only fair that you repent for it in some way. It was only fair for you to help Leon out in this little way that you could, just like you were so eager to before.

“Do you trust me angel?” He allowed you just a small reprieve. The last one you would ever get before he really allowed himself free of his inhibitions and commit a sin so devastating that God might have to come down and smite him himself.

He watched you eye him through teary eyes as one of his hands crept lower, skirting beneath the fabric and rubbing soothing circles into the plush flesh of your thigh. Plump lips curled into a soft pout as your thighs twitched against his hand, damp panties rubbing against him without even realizing.

“I do, but everything feels weird,” your eyes screwed shut, blinking back stray beads of tears that threatened to fall. Leon shushed you softly, his other hand crawling up your back to cradle the back of your head, before trailing across your cheek to wipe the tear away.

“It feels weird now, but I promise you it’ll feel really good later for the both of us. You wanted to help me right? My precious angel, always wanting to help everyone,” he gently tutted, discreetly brushing the tear collecting on his thumb against his lips to lick away while his gaze sharpened in on you, clinging onto every word you say and every expression you make.

You snivelled, shoulders hitching each time you did as your brows knitted in that adorable confusion Leon wasn’t used to seeing, but was quickly warming up to. You seemed so conflicted, as though you inherently knew something about this was amiss without even being taught, but Leon knew you by now. He had never seen you turn anyone away before, and he knew he would be no different.

“You promise it’ll feel good?” you hesitantly peered into his eyes, all shy and meek, Leon had to restrain himself from diving back into your tits once more.

“Oh angel, I promise.” He was going to have you seeing God again by the end of the night. Or maybe, he would have you chanting his name in place of God. That sounds far more fitting for the man who would break you down, and rebuild you into something grander.

He started off slow, wanting to ease you into deep waters. His lips found their place back onto your tit as his hands rubbed soothing circles into the soft flesh of your skin before his hand on your thigh drifted. Agonizingly slow, he kept his arm around you tight when you flinched at the initial contact with your drooly cunt through the damp fabric of your panties.

Finger rubbing along the slit, outlining your puffy pussy, paying special attention to your little clit, it wasn’t long before he had you babbling and coming undone for him. You were so easy to make a mess off with how your slick would drip down the expanse of your inner thigh. By the time he had shifted your panties out of the way, your cunt was a creamy, sticky mess.

Of course, Leon had to get a taste. He lowered himself till he was eye level to your crying slit, and said his grace for the feast splayed out before him.

“Lord God and giver of all good gifts, we are grateful as we pause before this meal, for all the blessings of life that you give to us. We ask this through Christ Jesus, Amen. Lord, as we gather here before this table, we pause to give thanks for the bounty of the earth from which this meal came forth.”

Leon had you seeing stars by the time you unraveled the second and third time on his tongue. He ate like it was his last meal on death row; a starving man who didn’t know when his next meal would be. The way your cunt squealched and cried made Leon’s dick cry all the same.

Wet llps trailed gentle kisses up your thighs, occasionally nipping at the flesh and sucking bruising hickies while his rough thumbpad rubbed at your clit. He planted his first kiss on the bud between your legs, before licking a fat stripe up your slit, collecting the slippery liquid on his tongue. He switched between suckling on your pulsating button and making out with it, pussy kissing his lips with nearly as much enthusiasm as he was putting out. His lips sealed around your cunt, slobbering into the honeyed cavern, nose bumping into your clit in a dual pleasure that was driving you dumb.

The rapidly approaching tipping point was nearly pushed over the edge. Leon moaned and hummed into your cunt, and the effects were devastating. You could feel his moan in your womb, tickling the empty organ in a way that had your cunt spasming, coiling heat growing to be searing while your thighs ached from the tension of another cresting orgasm.

He rutted against the sheets in a bid to chase his own release while eating you out, but his rapt attention remained fixated on you. He eventually dared to slip a finger in, curling in a way that had you gasping for air. With each moan and cry that got louder, Leon’s strokes grew wilder until you were spasming and clenching down on his finger and tongue, granting him a taste of the sweet cream he had prayed for.

He was serious about your prior reprieve being your last, because you didn’t catch a break for the next hour or so. After his feast that had you crying and squirming, he had you splayed on your back atop of him, your bare back flushed against the skin of his chest so that he could squeeze two fingers into your cunt, his other free hand caressing your jaw while two more fingers played with the soft little tongue past your lips.

“Leon, please, I can’t take anymore,” your words were barely coherent, but there was no need for words when you were weeping now, nearly as much as your core was. So overstimulated and sore, you didn’t know how much more you could take.

Your thighs trembled and spasmed, wings twitching while your core clenched on his fingers, pruned thumbpads driving you wild with the rough texture rubbing against your abused clit.

Leon did what he did best. Shushed you gently, drowning your words with his own lips as his fingers curled up, far enough to make your brain flicker and scramble any plea on the tip of your tongue.

“But you’re doing so, so well for me dove, and I know it feels good for you. You can feel how much your pussy is crying in joy, can't you? Just like how you are.” To drive his point home, he pushed his fingers deeper, adam's apple bobbing at how your cunt squelched in response, the ring of cream rising closer to his knuckle.

“Just give me another one, okay? Last one, and we can cuddle and rest together.”

Leon was either a dirty liar, or he flunked his math, because the next wasn’t the last. Neither was the one after that, or the one after that. It was only when you were babbling stupidly and cross eyed did he find it in his heart to give you your second hard-earned break.

“Oh angel,” he sighed down at you with dreamy eyes, his fingers slipping out of you.

For the first time in awhile, he pulls his gaze away from your face to watch the glisten of your slick coating his fingers, before curling his tongue around his digits and cleaning them until he could no longer taste you on him. “You need a break?”

You were a limp mess, your mind lagging behind on his words before it finally caught up. You could only muster a drunken whimper, brain still fried from the mind melting pleasure Leon had forced upon you ceaselessly for the past who knows how long. Spread out on the bed, sweaty and weak, a sight for sore eyes. For leon’s eyes.

He hummed softly, familiar tune of a hymn that you could barely connect as he leaned down to press his lips against yours, tongue darting past your lips while his arms caged you in. Only when you started flailing and whimpering from the lack of air did he pull away with flushed face.

“Rest up darling, I just need a little bit more of your help, and I’ll be happy again.”

He made a silent vow to himself, hushed mumble beneath his breath too soft to catch. Leon s Kennedy was going to make sure he was all you would ever know and worship once he was done with you.

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #got lazy

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the-crooked-library · 5 months

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Hannibal and Control

Alright so out of all the Hannibal interpretations out there, I don't think there are any that irritate me more than the idea of an unequal balance between him and Will. There's this opinion floating around - that he is so much of a control freak that he can never let Will make his own decisions; I've seen it in fic, in Tiktok videos, an occasional textpost, and it is just so grossly incorrect that I have to say something on the subject.

As early as season 2, we get this:

This is perhaps one of the most famous scenes in the series - in which Hannibal states, out loud, canonically, that the reason he is so fascinated by Will is because, unlike most other people, he can never truly predict him. No matter how much he may "whisper through the chrysalis," Will Graham will find a way to surprise him; he expressly doesn't follow the lines Hannibal has written for him, and that is a key element of their relationship throughout the show.

Now, I am not denying that control is a prominent element of Hannibal's life - it is indubitably important; but it is not everything - especially in this particular context. As much as he maintains that iron grip on himself, it does not reach nearly the same extent with Will; and it falls apart entirely by season 3, in which Hannibal explicitly gives up his control of the story, risking his life and freedom - both things he valued above all else earlier in Mizumono.

The message here is clear; as much as his control, his liberty, his own continued existence matter, Will Graham is infinitely more precious to him; and to suggest otherwise - that he would attempt to fully subjugate the man he views as his only equal, as the only deity he recognizes - frankly, he'd call it blasphemy.

Moreover, this interpretation of their relationship stems not only from a mischaracterization of Hannibal himself, but also from a rampant infantilization of Will. There is a tendency in some areas of the fandom to entirely absolve Will Graham of his guilt; and, with the culpability handed over to Hannibal in its entirety, he assumes the role of an innocent, redeemable, good person in the eyes of such viewers - which could not be further from the truth. Will Graham's agency is integral to the story; though he wrestles with some moral dilemmas throughout the series, he is ultimately responsible for his own choices, especially post-season 1. There is a clear distinction between circumstance and desire - for instance, Randall Tier did invade his home, which did force him into violence; however, it did not force him to throw aside his gun, or relish the brutality, or bring the body to Hannibal, or eat of it, or display parts of it, or store the rest in his freezer.

He did all that himself.

He knows that.

Will Graham's infantilization (no, he was manipulated, he was tricked, Hannibal tempted him into something he didn't want, he didn't want to be a murderer, he is a sweet darling boy) is rooted not only in homophobia, but also in the same sort of ableism real-world autistic adults face every day. His own desires and agency get overwritten by that ever-present bigotry; the same way that some people believe that autistics cannot give consent to sexual activity, or participate in nuanced discussions, or understand the harm or violence they do, the other characters assume that he is fundamentally an innocent right until the very end. Jack, Alana, Molly, even Chilton make that mistake; and Will does play on their ignorance within the world of the story - but it is truly discouraging to see the success of his act extend to the viewers, who should have the necessary context to understand it for the lie it is.

He has agency, and it is paramount to the themes of a series that explores queer desire, internalized homophobia, and the guilt that often surrounds this sort of experience.

As such, the story, from Hannibal's perspective, is about learning to let go of his otherwise unwavering control; it's about finding a common ground with someone that understands him, and allowing himself the final trust fall. From Will's perspective, it is a coming out story, with everything that entails - which also culminates in him taking a leap of faith into the arms of the man he loves. The reason why Hannigram is so enduring as a ship is because it is founded on that balance; to deny this equality, therefore, is to fundamentally undermine the theme of these characters' narrative, and twist them into caricatures of themselves.

In short, it does them a disservice.

#hannibal #nbc hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #if you think that will is somehow innocent in their dynamic. you should watch seasons 2 and 3 again. then go back and rewatch season 1 #that man has been a freak from the beginning #hannibal nbc

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is-it-mungojerry-or-rumpelteazer · 3 months

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Edit: The month is September, I just cannot read

#jesus christ superstar #text posts #polls #fandom #jesus/judas

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 7 months

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"Only the death penalty is appropriate for a blasphemer."

Muhammad was a liar and a pervert, your "holy book" is primitive, ignorant man-made nonsense constituting a call to violence and war, and your religion is obviously complete bullshit. Come find me.

Sept 30 is International Blasphemy Day.

#International Blasphemy Day #Blasphemy Day #islam #blasphemy #blasphemy laws #religion of peace #sharia law #sharia #death penalty #religion #religion is a mental illness

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icarusignite · 6 months

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The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

Alfred the great x POC! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 3k (angst/hurt-no comfort, yearning, religious imagery, blasphemy)

Dedicated to @justasightseer , sry this took me so long yet again lol

A/N: lol lowkey hurt myself writing this. So technically this is now complete, but if yall want another part, lemme know (fair warning though, them reconciling wouldn't be a very realistic ending but i am happy to write us a delulu happy ending where he proposes to reader lol). Also plz someone tell me you liked the religious imagery. I went a little nuts writing it <33

Part 1

"Perhaps it was sacrilegious, but what was a little blasphemy in the face of something this holy."

"Good morning, Your Majesty. And how are we feeling today?"

As the soft, early morning light streamed into the library, a sense of tranquillity hung in the air. With your trusty satchel slung over your shoulder, you approached the king for his daily check-up, giving him one of your best smiles. Although, if he was being honest with himself, all the smiles you gave him were your best. The veil that draped over your shoulders today was a vibrant green, and it reminded Alfred of early spring.

"I'm much better these days," the Saxon king grinned at you, feeling almost boyish. It was the highlight of his days, these mornings spent with you tending to him. "It's all due to your hard work and dedication," he added.

You inclined your head, acknowledging the king's words with humility, sporting slightly red cheeks at his compliment.

"It is my utmost pleasure and honour to be of service to you, Your Grace. Your health is of paramount importance."

As you approached the king, who was seated comfortably on the divan that had been brought in for him, your nimble fingers deftly unfastened your satchel's clasps, revealing the carefully prepared herbs that had been instrumental in King Alfred's recovery. With meticulous care, you began to administer the prescribed treatment, all the while keeping a gentle conversation that offered solace and companionship.

"Excuse me then, Your Majesty. I need to take your pulse."

When you reached out to put your fingers around his slender wrist, Alfred froze, heart thundering in his chest at the touch. His breath hitched when you stepped a little closer, a faint floral scent enveloping him. By God, you smelled like spring too. Alfred closed his eyes.

You completed your assessment quickly and pulled back with a sheepish smile, mumbling a quiet apology for invading his personal space, but the King paid it no mind. In fact, his fingertips brushed against the sleeves of your dress, fighting the urge to pull you into him.

The King was in love. There was no doubt about it. He had suspected it yes, back when he watched you sleep right here in this library, but the feeling had only solidified as time passed. It had been a while since he felt like this. He didn't even think he was capable of loving again, not after the death of his beloved Aelswith. He was somewhat ashamed to admit that yes, he had been with quite a few women after that, but there were no feelings involved. It was simply temptation, a weakness of the flesh.

"It is good to see you doing better, Your Highness. Now that I have shown your healers the English substitutions of many of the herbs I use, they will be able to brew you these tonics even after I am gone. You will be in good hands."

Alfred looked up at her in alarm, snapped out of his internal reverie. You would be leaving? Why didn't he think of that? Of course, you would be leaving. Wessex was not your home. You likely had a family, someone you cherished back home. You had to leave one day, but the thought of not having you in his life sent an aching jolt through his heart. The feeling was so visceral, so real that he closed his eyes and winced.

You gasped and rushed to his side, fingers splayed on his arm as you murmured your concerns frantically. Alfred finally opened his eyes to look at you, a little taken aback at your proximity. if he leaned forward just a few inches, he could kiss you. He could kiss that damned frown off your face. Instead, with great restraint, he nodded.

"I am perfectly alright. Just a spell of unpleasantness," he waved his hand dismissively.

You reluctantly pulled back, "Are you sure, Your Grace? I-I wasn't expecting such a reaction. The medication I gave you is not meant to have such side effects. Perhaps I might reevaluate your treatment plan again?"

"No!" the king blurted. "It has nothing to do with that I am sure."

How was he to tell you that you were the cause of his pain? You were both his downfall and his salvation, both poison and cure.

"Are you sure, You-"

"Stop!" the King snapped.

You blinked, a flash of hurt flashing across your eyes.

"No, no, I did not mean..." Alfred sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I am sorry. I did not mean to speak that way to you."

"It is quite alright, Your Majesty. You may speak however you wish."

You bowed your head, not quite meeting his eyes. How presumptuous of you, to imagine that you and the king could be friends. He was still the king, and you were just...you. It was audacious of you to even feel offended at his tone. He was free to treat you as he pleased and you swallowed the tears that you felt bubbling in your throat. It was foolish. A mere traveller and the king. There was no room for anything else between the two of you. It was foolish to even feel this way. It was foolish the way your heart raced every time you saw him and the way you looked forward to your daily conversations. It was foolish that your heart had begun to yearn for something that could never be yours.

As if sensing your internal anguish, Alfred finally gave in to temptation and wrapped his hand around your wrist, pulling you down to sit next to him. You comply, too immersed in your thoughts to realize that you were practically seated on his lap now.

"I am truly sorry, you know," Alfred whispered. "It's just that...I was wondering if I might ask you for a favour?"

Slowly, you looked up at him, into his striking eyes and for a moment you couldn't speak.

Alfred couldn't help the smirk that twitched at his lips at your speechlessness.

"Do not worry, it is not something you are not capable of giving me."

"I-Alright, Your Grace. If it is within my power, then who would I be to deny you."

"See. That right there. I want you to call me Alfred. No more Your Grace this, Your Majesty that. Just Alfred."

"I could never, Your Gr-"

"Please..." the king's voice was ragged.

"But-"

"Please," he said again, softer.

A prayer. A plea.

"But you are the king," you protested.

"It is a heavy mantle to bear. I am always the king. But sometimes, I would just like to be Alfred, the man. So, at least while we are alone, I would like to be referred to as...just Alfred."

Your eyes softened at the desperation in his voice and you graced him with one of your radiant smiles. God, you were dazzling.

"Very well then, just Alfred," you teased. "If you promise I won't be beheaded for it..."

Then you realized that you were still seated in his lap and a fierce crimson blush spread up from your neck to your cheeks. You hurriedly moved to stand but the king wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you back down. You gasped in surprise, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders for support.

You just stared at him, eyes wide, equal parts terror and anticipation. You were on his lap. You were face to face with the fucking king of Wessex and yet all you wanted to do was press your lips to his. You must be utterly insane.

Lucky for you, Alfred was just as insane.

"Are you married?"

A startled laugh broke free from your chest as you wrinkled your brows in confusion, "What?"

"Are. You. Married?" the king enunciated slowly, eyes drilling into yours with a ferocious intensity. "Or Betrothed. Or whatever... are you a woman spoken for?"

"What? Absolutely not! Why would I be-"

There would be time later for Alfred to rejoice about the fact that you were not, or for him to wonder how someone as breathtaking as you wasn't. For now, there was just you, and him and the searing heat of your hands pressed you into his shoulders. He lifted his hand gingerly, his movements painstakingly slow, allowing you plenty of time to pull away, to push him, to run.

When you didn't, he let his fingertips trail up your jaw to cup your face. You stilled, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn't breathe. When he brushed his thumb across your cheekbone, you just about passed out.

"Is this alright?"

You didn't say anything. You couldn't say anything. The words were stuck in your throat.

"Say something..." Alfred's voice was low and raw. He was scared. Scared he had offended you. Scared he had pushed you away forever.

"It-it's more than alright," you finally choked out.

That was all he needed, and perhaps that was all you needed too, because it wasn't clear who made the next move. There was just a breath of silence, and stillness before the two of you were crashing into each other. Drowning.

Alfred kissed like he prayed. With a devotion so dedicated that it left you breathless. His lips moulded into yours and you sighed against him, your arms going to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Please."

A prayer. A plea. A call to the divine.

Alfred's eyes were closed. He was drowning. He was drowning and you were the breath in his lungs. You were proof that God existed because who else could have created a creature of such perfection? You were the heavens brought to Earth and Alfred would spend the rest of his days on his knees, thankful to have gotten a taste of your sacred lips.

Perhaps it was sacrilegious, the thoughts he had about you now, but what was a little blasphemy in the face of something this holy.

A sudden knock on the door sent you jumping from your seat, pupils blown wide, and chest heaving, and Beocca's probing voice for his king, sent you skittering across the room. When the old priest entered the library, you were out of sight behind some shelf, pretending to be engrossed in one of the manuscripts should someone spot you.

"Ah, there you are Your Grace," Beocca smiled as he approached the king with a nod. "And how are your treatments going?"

Beocca's smile faded when he saw the glazed look in Alfred's eyes. It was only there a moment before the king quickly schooled his face into a scowl, but the old priest had sharp eyes.

"Pardon the interruption, then, Your Grace," Beocca sighed. "Were you with one of your...women then? You are being careful I hope. Edward is nearly of age, and we have no time to be dealing with another...situation...that would rival his claim."

"You speak out of turn, Beocca!" Alfred snapped. "How I conduct myself in my private affairs is none of your concern."

"Of course, my King, I come from a place of concern...there are rumours."

"What rumours?"

Beocca hesitated, "Nothing too serious."

"When I ask a question, I expect it to be answered clearly, Beocca."

"It...it's your foreign healer, my King. Some of the ealdormen feel as though you have been spending too much of your time with her. They feel as though your efforts might be better suited to finding an appropriate bride."

"They want me to find a wife?" there was a dangerous glint in Alfred's eyes and the old priest knew he had to tread lightly.

"I am sure it is just so that they can present their own daughters as candidates. I am just informing you, Your Majesty, so that you proceed with caution. There are many who seek to bring about your downfall and they are not above over scrutinizing every action."

Alfred sighed, heart sinking. He was fully aware of your presence in the room and he was not pathetically optimistic enough to hope that you hadn't overheard this conversation. He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation and sighed.

"If that will be all, then leave me be, Beocca. I shall...take your words into consideration."

"If I may, Your Grace..." the priest hesitated.

"Go on then, you always do."

"While I have greatly appreciated the lady's presence here at court, and it is truly joyous to see you in good health again, perhaps it is time for her to return home. She has taught us much and I believe our healers here in Wessex will be able to properly administer her treatments to you now."

"Leave Beocca."

"Yes, Your Grace."

As the door closed softly behind the priest, there was a stifling silence in the room.

"You may come out now," Alfred muttered dejectedly. "I...I am sorry you had to hear that."

Your hurried form rushed out from the back corner of the library, making a feeling for the door. The king, in his panic, stood immediately, reaching to grab your elbow before you could leave. You pulled away from his touch as if it burned. His heart plummeted.

"Apologies, Your Majesty. I must be taking my leave now," you bobbed your head in a bow, a curtain of your hair escaping the confines of your undone veil and falling over your face, obscuring your expression from him.

So you were back on formal terms then. The Your Majesty grated on his nerves and he stepped forward to grab your wrist again, pulling you closer. Then, he pressed his fingertips against your chin, urging you to lift your head.

What he saw when you did broke his heart.

Tears streamed down your face. You had your lips pressed tightly into a thin line and your fingers clenched into fists. When you caught the expression on Alfred's face, you ducked your head and moved to pull away again.

"Wait, don't go, please..."

The desperation in his voice might have moved you, if you weren't so incredibly consumed by the weight of your own self-loathing. You felt so utterly pathetic. He was a king, and you were nothing. What did you even expect? He had had other women clearly, judging by the words his priest spoke to him just moments ago. You would be nothing more than another notch in his bedpost if you allowed this to continue any further. Already you had debased yourself. You could not bear to lose any more dignity.

With great difficulty, you freed yourself from his grip.

"Will you at least let me explain," he called out after you.

A strangled laugh burst out of you, fresh tears charting their course down your flushed cheeks. With a sudden surge of recklessness, you turned back toward him.

"Explain what? You don't have to explain anything to a mere foreigner such as myself, Your Majesty. And Beocca was correct. I do think I have overstayed my welcome here in Wessex. I will leave detailed notes on your treatments with your healers and take the next ship back to Baghdad. Rest assured I will leave you in good hands."

Alfred shook his head frantically, "I do not want to be left in good hands. I want..."

"What? What is it that you want?" you scoffed. "What is it you want that you do not already have?"

You. I want you. For the longest time, all I have wanted was you.

"I want you to stay," was all he said.

Perhaps it was not quite what he had wanted to convey but it was the closest thing that he could push past his lips at the moment.

"It appears you are the only one then. It is clear to me that I am of no more use here."

"I want you!" the king blurted.

Then you really scoffed, your eyes sharp and angry.

"How will you have me then, Alfred? In secluded corners, under the cover of darkness?" you spat, your voice venomous, but your stricken eyes and tear-stained face betrayed your pain. "I will not be your whore. I will not be your mistress. I deserve better than that!"

Alfred inhaled sharply. You had said his name. It was lovely. You had said his name and the syllables were right at home on your lips, just as he was too. The circumstances were all wrong but he could not help but marvel at it all the same.

"You cannot deny it, can you? You have nothing else to give me!"

"But I-"

"Don't say it," you pleaded.

Perhaps the king should have listened to you.

"I-I care for you."

"That is irrelevant!"

"I have come to love you!"

"That is not enough!" you exclaimed.

Alfred stepped forward, taking your hands in his. You let him.

"What will be then?" he asked, urgency laced in every syllable.

"Nothing," you sobbed. "I will not be your plaything, and you will not marry me. This is how it must be."

"I could-"

"Don't! You. Will. Not. Marry. Me. Your people would never accept a foreign queen, much less one who isn't Catholic."

"Is that what you want then? To be Queen?"

"What I want is to be respected. To have my honour, my dignity. I will not have that taken from me."

Alfred pressed a reverent kiss to the backs of your hands, "You will have it. You will be respected."

"Not as your whore. Not as the woman their king beds while his people pressure him to find a lawful wife."

"Please."

There it was again. A prayer and a plea.

"You can't say it, can you? You can't say that you will marry me because you know it's impossible."

A single tear escaped the king's eye, streaking down his face. You were already insane you thought. What was a little more insanity? You reached up and brushed the stray thing from his cheeks. He stiffened at your touch, closing his eyes and leaning into it.

Then you pulled away and he was left missing your warmth. When you walked out the door, he did not stop you. He did not stop you to tell you that you were already the queen of his heart and that anything else was a mere triviality he could deal with.

Alfred, king of Wessex had a duty. A duty to his kingdom, a duty to the future of Christianity and a united England. A duty to his children, and his people. Alfred, the king, was revered, respected, and had a reputation to uphold.

However, all Alfred, the man, could think about was the feeling of your lips against his and the broken betrayed way you looked at him when he told you he loved you. Alfred, the man, was only human and there was no desire more human than the one to love and be loved in return. Not revered, not worshipped, just loved.

#the last kingdom #the last kingdom alfred #tlk alfred #tlk alfred x reader #alfred the great x reader #alfred the great #tlk x reader #tlk uhtred #tlk fanfic #tlk season 3 #sihtric kjartansson #tlk fandom #finan x reader #sihtric x reader #tlk osferth #uhtred #ewan mitchell #alfred x reader #alfred of wessex

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murderousink23 · 2 years

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9/30/2022 is Orange Shirt Day 🇨🇦, Martyr's Day 🇨🇳, German Butterbrot Day 🇩🇪, Blasphemy Day 🇺🇲, International Day of Podcasts 🇺🇲, National Chewing Gum Day 🇺🇲, National Hot Mulled Cider Day 🇺🇲, National Mud Pack Day 🇺🇲, World's Biggest Coffee Morning 🇬🇧, International Translation Day 🇺🇳

#orange shirt day #martyrs day #butterbrot #blasphemy day #podcasts #chewing gum #hot mulled cider #mud pack #world's biggest coffee morning #international translation day

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secret-smut-sideblog · 22 days

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To Build A Home

Gale x F! Tav (named)

(Child Of Dawn series, Part 5)

18+ religious trauma, complicated feelings, tenderness (platonic and romantic), love proclamations

The wound in her chest healing, Aurum confronts the ties that still bind her. And with Mystra's new expectations given, Gale cannot wait any longer to tell her of his feelings...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

Sat in waist high grass, she waited.

World still dark, head bowed, hands resting in her lap.

As soon as the crown of the sun's head rose over the mountain, the hymn began. Low, distant, but gaining power.

Her flock calling for her.

She responded in the old song. Heart aching with loss, anger, regret. Fury at being here again, at herself for re-looping this cut thread around her wrist.

But, more than anything, ashamed at the relief. The feeling of not being alone. That her convocation was with her again.

Their voices strong, surrounding her in rapturous wordless prayer. Her own voice rising high above, feeling their devotion like lovesick children.

Tears streamed down her face, bitter and tender in equal parts.

As the sun, the true sun, fully crested the sky, their voices faded into the ether. Gone until the next morning.

Gripping at her weathered holy robes, her tears fell silent.

"I am not your savior." She whispered to the crickets, to the waving grass.

Her chest still ached, both in restraining the sun inside and the deep fracture that struck down it.

She had gone too far and she couldn't go back now. Unless devine intervention struck, the sun had been rose. And a false sun cannot set.

Reawakening had been what had saved him from the shadow curse, but at such a cost. She could never tell him the extent of the choice she had made that day.

Clenching her fist, she cried. So close. She had been so close to being out.

But what was done is done. Now she had to learn to live with it again.

Rising her palm to the sun streaked sky, she let the sigil of Lathander burn above her.

Maybe he would be more forgiving than Amauntor. The same god she is sworn to in essence, but a different facet. She did call upon some level of his power already.

But could the false sun turn him from her? The blasphemy seated inside her chest.

A dome of light covered the entire of the clearing as she hushed the incantation, lifting the ends of her hair.

She closed her eyes and tried to channel him, palm burning in defiance already.

Only when her chest began shrieking in indignant betrayal did she release. But she felt it, if just for a moment.

"Aurum?"

She turned her head, letting the spell fall away. Smiling warmly at the legs approaching in the grass.

"How'd your hunt go?"

Astarion flopped down next to her with a sigh, stretching long legs out.

"That good, huh?" She teased, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned his head in kind.

They sat quiet like that for a moment, tall grass waving around them. Hidden away in a small pocket of the earth.

"I missed this." He sighed, lacing their hands together. "And I didn't even remember it. Isn't that silly? Missing something that you forgot you had."

Aurum hummed in agreement. She felt the same, tenderness between friends was something she could barely recall. But her heart ached for it all the same.

"So, how's the hopeless pining going?" He teased, knocking his knee against hers.

"Oh, about as well as your hunting."

He scoffed, and she laughed.

"I'm well enough that you can feed on me again, Astarion. I promise."

"I'll take you up on that offer. But you're avoiding my question, you're oh so good at that."

She sighed, turning to face him. Picking up pieces of grass and laying them in a line on her knee.

"It's just so complicated. There's so much going on even outside of my internal problem. The Absolute, the tadpoles, the orb... Gods don't even get me started on Mystra and her order to detonate it! The bitch..."

"Language!" Astarion admonished.

"Oh her and I would have words, I promise you that. It's just..."

As she trailed off he squeezed her hand in encouragement.

"I don't know how much Gale wants me or he wants another Mystra, you know?"

Astarion hummed in agreement.

"I think on some level he sought me out as a replacement. Another goddess to worship. Gods the way he looked at me in those early days, I felt like I was back in the temple in Waterdeep."

She looked up at him, smiling sadly.

"I wish he could see me the way that you can. Messy, imperfect, honestly a little annoying."

Astarion snorted. "A little?"

She pinched his thigh.

"I just... I don't want to be a devine messenger anymore. Though it seems that may be my fate."

She felt tears threatening. "I wish things could be any other way."

The sun flared in her chest, and she cupped her hand over it.

He put his hand over hers.

"I hear you."

She smiled, pressing her forehead to his.

"Thank you."

They took another moment of comfortable silence. Connected to one another.

"Let's go back to camp, darling. Before we get ticks."

She laughed, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"True, we only have enough room for one bloodsucker around here."

"Absolutely vile feedback, my dear."

He pulled her up by their clasped hands. Thumb rubbing hers as they walked. The risen sun at her back, they returned to their small noisy, messy world.

"One moment with you could sate me for a lifetime, and prise the fear from my heart. I'm so very glad you came, to share this with me."

Aurum's heart ached, finding his words to be true. The canopy of Weave he had constructed floating over her, blanketing the sky in ribbons of blue and purple.

"I know this is all unreal, but I created it for you. You must know that you're..." He paused, face tensing. "That you're very special to me."

She pulled her bottom lip into her teeth, not voicing her underlying thoughts but still feeling them.

"If things were different, if we were home, I'd have taken the time to do things properly. To say it all better. But time is short."

His soft brown eyes fell on her then, face strained.

"I'm in love with you." A near whisper.

She knew he was, had known for a while. In the way all devotees love their object of worship.

She took his hands and kissed him deeply.

"I don't think I can be what you want from me." She hushed against his lips, pulling away slightly. "I can't be your new goddess, Gale."

He took a sharp breath in, but didn't pull away.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've put you in an unfair position."

Relief flooded through her at his admission.

"If we do this, we must be equals. I cant..." She paused, tears threatening. Turning her face down.

"I can't take being held above anymore. It hurts too much."

He cupped her face, bringing her eyes back up to his.

"I can love you as mortals do, I promise I can."

A knot in her throat silenced her for a moment.

"I think I could love you the same if you'll still have me." She hushed.

He laughed softly

"Of course I'll still have you. Gods, that's a relief. It would be a shame to spend my final hours making an ass of myself."

Aurum giggled, wiping her tears with her fingers.

"Well, I had planned to bond with you the way gods do. But given the circumstances that would be rather ill mannered, wouldn't it?"

He offered his hand to her, pulling her up.

"So you've caught on." She teased.

He scrunched up his nose in that playful way she adored.

"But if you'll allow me, I'd still like to take you somewhere. How about the perfect night in Waterdeep? Yes... Let's imagine how it would be."

She nodded, and with a wave of his hand a warm room enveloped them.

"The scene is this: you and I stand in the room that is the center of my universe."

As he introduced the room to her, she followed behind him. Taking in the cozy decor, the crackling fire. Fingers gently trailing along small objects on his desk.

He got quiet, staring at her in adoration.

She picked up a small trinket and held it to the light.

"What?" She smiled to his staring.

"Oh, nothing. You just look good here. It suits you, being in the heart of my world."

Her chest lit up white.

She looked down in shock.

"Are you okay?" He stepped forward, concern in his eyes.

"I think so. It's just... it's never done that before."

She held her hand to the sun, feeling a pleasant heat.

Then she started laughing.

"Care to share your epiphany?" He stepped forward, placing his hand next to hers.

"You know we see the sun as yellow or even orange..." She started, moving her hand to let him have full touch.

"But it's an illusion. Its true color is white."

He smiled down at the brilliant light carding between his fingers, looking back up at her.

"Can I show you my favorite spot?"

She nodded, and he led her by the hand to double doors, opening for them with a gentle creak.

"Ah, the weary sun takes its gentle dive into the sea." He hummed as they stepped out into the warm light.

The sea illuminated in the soft pink hues of the resting sun. Sailboats drifting, the gentle sounds of lapping water.

Aurum walked out to the railing, taking in the view with him. Both tinged in longing for a place far from them.

"When this is all over, I want to go back. I miss Waterdeep so much." Aurum sighed.

He turned to her, taking both of her hands in his.

"Could I take you home? Would you allow me that honor?"

She smiled, squeezing his hands.

"I would like that. Though I don't know if I could call Spires of the Morning home."

She paused then, a sad but honest thought crossing her.

"I've only ever lived in temples. I guess I've never had a home."

He stepped forward, holding the back of her head as she looked up at him.

"If we survive this, and if miraculously by the end we're both whole and sane... if you still will have me by then, I will make a home for you. Whether my own, here, or one entirely new. Would you want that?"

The sun burned a radiant white inside her, telling him her answer before she could speak. But she did anyway.

"Yes. Yes I want that."

He kissed her deeply, drinking her through. As endless as the sea and as replenishing as summer rain, he poured love into her.

When he finally pulled away she whispered to him.

"Please take me to bed, Gale."

Part 6

#doomed by the narrative girls ily #gale x tav #gale smut #lyrics by: two - sleeping at last #screenshot by me!

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kagrena · 9 months

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August 12th: Free Day

for @tes-summer-fest. Consider this a combination of Beloved, Mortal, & Profane prompts.

At the very end of time, two dwarves reunite. Follows the events of A Thesis: On Twelve Tones.

Thanks to @ervona for all her help with this.

--------

6E 2521, Sun's Dawn

Bthemetz, formerly, Esteemed Dwemer Architect, since turned Dashing Exile and Roguish Renegade – or at least, that was how she told it, when she was in a good mood – was enjoying the cloud-top view on the upper decks of her very own steam-powered airship – en route somewhere between the Sunk Halls of Colossus and the Anequinan Archipelago, she would have estimated – when she received the letter that turned her circuits inside out.

It arrived, magnificently, via bird. One who announced its triumphant arrival by pecking at her cranial plates.

Fine, the absurdity of it aside – it was an old-fashioned yet not entirely obsolete means of delivery, still common enough amongst the islanders north of the Niben Sea. Really though, what would they want with her, though? She stayed well clear of anything close to New Dwemereth. And why not a courier, or a tonal telegraph, or a direct apparition using the teleportation matrix, for that matter? This was before the painfully detailed instructions on what exactly to do in case the letter was not delivered to its intended recipient – which was herself, it turned out, someone had written this for her – were addressed. This crow whisperer and sendee had outlined no less than nine sub-divided steps on how the letter might be returned to Ghourrock Isle (which Bthemetz presumed was some far-flung Orcish settlement known for their overly familiar corvid population), or, if not possible, how to dispose of the letter (quite vigorously – this person presumed the recipient had some highly concentrated acid to hand) and what precisely to do with the bird that had been entrusted to deliver it (which had some quite peculiar care requirements, it turned out).

The first warning sign was that these same instructions were repeated on the reverse in four different dialects of Aldmeris, ranging from antiquated to simply baffling. Who on Tamriel was still writing in High Chimeris of all things?

(A Dwemer)

Bthemetz didn't particularly want to think about that – because if this message hadn’t slipped out from a scamp at the back-end of Oblivion (which Bthemetz wasn’t entirely discounting, she still kept a few contacts with troublemakers in the forbidden regions), it was almost definitely from another Dwemer.

(A very old Dwemer)

One who had refused to reckon with the changing state of reality since The Reappearance. One, whom, from the choice of and number of languages, was likely both a powerful and exceedingly well-educated individual, most likely from Western Morrowind or Vvardenfell – Bzanthzel or even Vvardenfell-Khoram, knowing her luck – appeared well-versed in both local politics and international affairs during the height of the First Council –

(A very old, very powerful Dwemer, yet to reappear–)

Her stomach was sinking already.

(But why would they send a bird?)

She unsealed the letter.

Fourteen pages. Careful Dwemeris, double-sided, black ink. Encoded three times over. She almost shut down, seeing it all. The exact set of ciphers she had difficulty recalling, it had been so long since she sat on the Architects Committee, but the codes themselves – unmistakable.

And oh! Oh so personal – it came flooding back, they’d used this set exclusively in their own correspondence, hadn't they? Bthemetz had all but inscribed these old codes over her stilled, dead heart and then burned them in there, burned them, along with the broken tea sets and the stolen bedsheets and the careful hands braiding her hair and the casual blasphemy and the principles of Anuic Disruption they had co-authored and their careful hands, again –

She couldn’t finish that thought. It would bury her.

She went back to the delivery instructions. Chose a language both of them had contempt for. That would be safe. Bthemetz couldn't even read High Nordic – she did not share the sender's gift for languages, and had torn their tongue out merely learning to speak Dwemeris improperly, let alone anything as useless as High Nordic, which was three millennia dead. She lurched forward, which made the bird – who she discovered was a crow named Gnorgi, could not eat carrots, and had since decided the piping of her external combustion engine was a very comfortable perch – very upset with her. Had their handwriting always been this meticulous? So carefully spaced? She remembered it being messier. She tried to picture it messier.

She tore open the letter.

Bthemetz, I scarcely know how to begin.

She tore herself away.

She sat down. Stood up. Walked in a circle three times. Her legs did not fold beneath her and her body did not break and the motor engine where her heart should have been did not begin to roar and scream and hiss. The crow, Gnorgi, looked at her curiously. She went back to the letter. Rifled through the pages. Tore through them, at random, because she definitely wasn't trying to find something, anything, any kind of sign or direct confirmation, telling her this wasn’t exactly what it felt like –

—and I find myself so overwhelmed. The world has moved on without me. So many people I treasured are long dead. I could not begin to list what I mourn, who I mourn. My life's work and purpose, stolen, defaced, ridiculed. I am a parable for children, Bthemetz. 'Beware, the Dwemer, defeated by their own hubris! Hoisted by their own cutting bells!' And yet, for all their mockery, I am struck by the way we loom in those tales like giants while calling us ‘dwarves’. Menacing, unfathomable, foreign ‘dwarves’. How much we frightened them, Bthemetz! They coveted everything we had as much as they wanted to burn it. They built empires out of our ashes as soon as they turned our names into a curse. They sought to comprehend our ‘magics’ as distant ancients, yet none of them would dare imagine what it was like to be alive at that time, after war and occupation and constant patrols around our city borders, surrounded by god-fearing men and mer who all wanted to slit our throats. Did they realise that we raced towards discovery for fear that it would be seized from us again? I cannot think too long on this, for the thought burns inside of me like dragonfire, and I become torn with anger. I would think of you often, then, as I read these ‘Tales’ the local witch lent me. About what you lost. What you endured and what you still, now, endure. I don't think I grasped it then - how could I possibly have? I understand something of loss, but you returned to Tamriel thousands of years after your death, to broken poems and pottery shards and a world that had moved on. And you looked at us, at our world, and decided immediately that it would be yours. That you were going to live again, live anew. How did you even manage it? How could you bear it? How on earth could you decide to live, so easily? I loved you for your courage, amongst your many other admirable qualities, but knowing what I do now, I don't think I loved you enough for it. I would be lucky to have even half as much—

Bthemetz folded the page crisply in half. She clutched her right wrist. Her right wrist contained a device that could incinerate paper and parchment in a matter of seconds. The page was folded crisply in half, and was not crumpled on the floor. She clutched her right wrist.

(She was back)

Years. Years of hopeless searching – from Morrowind to Elsweyr, from Tamriel to Akavir to beyond, to the darkest corners of Oblivion and the Void beyond it, before she had to give up, give up and move on, or else consume herself utterly in the maddening glimpses of what she had held so dear. Years. And Bthemetz had never once entertained the thought that Kagrenac would be the one to find her.

She did not know what to do with herself. She clutched her right wrist.

----------

6E 2521, Rain's Hand

They meet again, after so long, on the last island before Atmora. They wander out to northernmost cliffs, Kagrenac and Bthemetz, two old dwarves near the end of time, for a short walk before the rains come.

The world they know has vanished: gods have come and gone, cities have sunken beneath new oceans, and magic has almost vanished – now the sole purview of White-Gold tower, squabbled over by Imperial wizards and witch-pirates who traded in rare spells. Wrothgar is not an ancient mountain range that houses a great history of Orcish-Dwemeri relations, but a string of storm-swept isles where wreck-divers and scrap-riggers cobble together something skyworthy from whatever washes up from the Sea of Ghosts.

Kagrenac tells Bthemetz of this. Of Clan Marog and the Isle of Ghourrock. Of Grasha, a teenage crab-catcher who found her washed up dead in a cave while looking for lichens, and Witch-Wife Rikka, a former Weather-Witch who stitched her wounds and tended to her after she woke up, alive again, without explanation. Spin-Sister Shufti, who spins tales as much as she did Echatere yarn and brings fresh gossip with over-salted clam stew. Chief Moraga, a rugged old Ship-Rigger from the pirate clans, now settled down and more than happy to help Kagrenac string together an instrument from salvage, who finds it greatly amusing that they enjoy bawdy old Wrothgaran love songs quite so much. The rest, who herd goats and spin wool and while they wait for the clan-ships to return from the hunt. Of how life was both tedious and tightly-woven.

Bthemetz asks more on that than anything else. Was it a home? Was it a coffin, slowly rotting? Both, replied Kagrenac. Are you content out here? Yes. Oh, very much yes. Surprisingly, yes. Perhaps in another life, the winds would have kept her here. Bthemetz does not say much, after this, for a long time.

“Ah. I see,” says Kagrenac. There is a slither of a smile, but not unkind. “You're envious.”

Bthemetz almost baulks.

“Of what, precisely? Grey cliffs and 90% chance of rain?” She pauses. “The shipwreck engineers are quite resourceful – I do admit that much–”

“Oh, you'd be bored beyond your greatest imagination, Bthemetz. Bouncing off the walls.”

Bthemetz scoffs. It is strange for Kagrenac to see her, a mess of wires and melted-down brass, ill-fitting parts cobbled together, make the exact same expressive gestures as she did as the Brass Architect, a living work of art.

“And yet, the fine company of Chief Moraga gra-Marug does not bore you, does it Kagrenac?”

Kagrenac offers a hint of a smile. It is a sad one. Not once has Bthemetz called them 'Rena', 'Renya', 'Kagrena', or anything but their full name since they began speaking.

“I am quite well acquainted,” Kagrenac adds. “With her witch and wife, Rikka, as well.”

Bthemetz throws her head back and laughs.

“Oh, you have been busy. What a productive fifteen months.”

“I was too ill to leave my bed for a great number of them, frankly,” Kagrenac says. “I didn't know how to send a message off the island before the lunar new year.”

Bthemetz halts.

“Is that an apology, Kagrenac?”

“An explanation.” She almost knits her hands together, as a girl might, before stopping herself. They rest awkwardly at her sides. “I was also... quite upset.”

Bthemetz looks out to the horizon. The sun is lingering at its edge.

“Are you still, in your own words, quite upset?”

Kagrenac shakes her head. “Dwemereth, as we knew it, is gone. It seems senseless to still seethe over a betrayal to what doesn't exist.”

“I asked how you feel. Not how you ought to feel.”

Kagrenac crumples her brow.

“I – I don’t know if I follow.”

“It has been a year. You cannot so easily bat away sheer rage with a puff of logic.” Bthemetz says. “Surely you know this. You spent almost your whole life fueled by it. You are perhaps the most resentful person I know. I almost wonder how you can even stand to speak to me.”

Kagrenac closes their eyes. Their hands still. Their takes a step forward. Their voice lowers.

“Would you feel better, Bthemetz, if I openly despised you?”

“It would feel more familiar.”

They step away.

“For that, I am sorry.”

Something clenches.

“I hurt you.” said Bthemetz. “Terribly.”

“I want to move past that.”

“I betrayed our people. Our home. I took our dearest secret and delivered it straight in to the hands of our worst enemies. I started the damned war–”

“I know,” they say, gravely. “Bthemetz, I have always known. I stand by my previous statement.”

Bthemetz stops. She flings her arms outwards.

“You tried to kill me!”

“I know.”

It is soft and it is tense and it is mournful. The way she says it. Almost a whisper.

“How.” There's rattling. Bthemetz's arms begin to shake. “I don't understand – I simply do not understand how you can–”

She seizes up. The lights flicker off and on.

“Bthemetz?”

There's a moment where nothing is said, and all that is heard is the rumbling of the ocean, the crashing of the waves. A bird cries in the distance. A light switches on suddenly.

The next words are cut with gritted teeth.

“I – I apologise,” says Bthemetz. “This iteration,” she gestures to her brass form, “it has its limitations. As you can very well see.”

“Would you rather I visit your realm?”

“No. No, I would rather you not.” She sighs. “I mean, not to be discourteous–”

“It is fine. No explanation is required.” Kagrenac says. “And we do not need to have all of this conversation now.”

Bthemetz looks at her carefully.

“You're sincere about this, aren't you?”

Kagrenac nods.

They continue walking as the cliffs give way to the coast. They climb their way down to the shore, rough rock and crashing waves, and here, at the edge of a world neither of them really understand, Bthemetz speaks again.

“You asked me how I could bear it.”

Kagrenac turns. The wind pulls sharply at the winter shawl they have borrowed from Shufti, at the braids Rikka had re-beaded only four nights before. Something in them wants to come loose.

“How I could bear...” Bthemetz pauses. “Living in a world that has left me behind, I believe you said. Broken poetry, something to that dramatic effect. I think, well—” and there's her laugh that twinkles and sounds like the smile Kagrenac could not touch, devastating to the ears, “—you still idealise her, a bit, don’t you? The Radical Rabble-Rouser that I was. The little priest who tried to set herself and The Priesthood ablaze in the fires of Revolution.”

It is such a Bthemetzian twist of rhetoric. A glib reference to her hated past, an unspoken accusation, and a gesture that circled entirely around the point, and yet Kagrenac can only respond as they always have:

“How could I not? I grew up on tales of you.”

Bthemetz, who has heard this a thousand times before, laughs.

“I think the dishonest answer would be that I moved on because I hated that life. It's half-true, but...”

She trails off. She's rattling in the wind. Kagrenac has to ask her, before it blows either of them away.

“What of the honest answer?”

Bthemetz does not and cannot smile. There's a metal mask bolted on in place of where a face sits. Kagrenac does not see the knowing smile in the breath where an answer should be, that quick uptick of her lips that liked to say things such as: there is so much pain in the world you don't even know. Kagrenac does not see anything in Bthemetz before she gives her answer.

“I had you, of course.”

It shouldn't have felt like a knife to the heart. To hear her say that.

“And when you disappeared,” continues Bthemetz. “When all of you disappeared. And I was alone. That was when I couldn't bear it. I... I couldn't bear it.”

The wind begins to roar. The seas surge inwards. The cold is sharp in the air. Kagrenac realises, despite themselves, that they would move the mountains to the stars to close the distance between them at that moment. That they would remake time and the world itself to lessen her pain, if they had such a power. The unspeakable things they would do, yet again, for Bthemetz! Those very same things that had torn them and the world apart. And where does that leave them, now? Here at the end of the world, apart and away from their people? They are only mortal. They cannot do anything. It is bitter, it is such a bitter thing, to reckon with.

“I am sorry,” they say softly.

It is all they can offer.

#tesfest 23 #kagrenac #dwemer #morrowind #the elder scrolls #bthemetz #dwemereth #kagrenac/bthemetz #in some ways I am sad because this is the companion piece to the half finished 'kagrenac wakes up in a fishing village' AU #but also this is my favourite attempt at a final epilogue ive ever done quite frankly #tesfest23

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mariacallous · 4 months

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The ninth International Degrowth Conference, held in August this year in Zagreb, Croatia, opens with a provocation. Keynote speaker Diana Ürge-Vorsatz, the newly elected vice chair of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), has two requests to make of the audience. The first is to figure out how to coordinate with governments of all stripes, since the climate crisis requires global unity.

The second? “Maybe consider a different word.”

It’s about as close to blasphemy as this niche, academic, and politically radical conference can get.

To a rising minority of European leftists, the term “degrowth” is proving an attraction rather than a turnoff. The protean climate movement that exists under its banner is gaining momentum among academics, youth activists, and, increasingly, policymakers across the continent.

The European Parliament hosted its second (and terminologically defanged) Beyond Growth Conference just this past May, this time with unprecedented buy-in from elected officials; as organizer and European Parliament member Philippe Lamberts (of the Belgian Greens) told the Financial Times, the “big shots” are now “playing ball.”

Those in Zagreb frame the Brussels push as “extraordinary” and “major,” with the parliament building “filled to the brim” by a new swell of activists, nongovernmental organizations, academics, and elected officials totaling some 7,000 strong. Julia Steinberger, a longtime researcher of the social and economic impacts of climate change at the University of Lausanne, adds: “And they were young.”

This energy carries over to the degrowth circuit proper, which multiple veterans tell me has long outgrown its humble beginnings. At a watershed, self-organized gathering in Leipzig, Germany in 2014, ragtag participants made their own meals. This year’s conference, by contrast, is co-sponsored by the city of Zagreb, attended by the mayor and representatives of the IPCC, and professionally catered with vegan canapés.

With its deepest roots in direct democracy and anti-capitalism, the degrowth movement is bent on challenging the central tenet of postwar economics: that further increases in GDP—strongly correlated with increases in carbon emissions—translate to further advances in social and individual well-being.

The implications of the critique extend far beyond the usual calls for countries to reach net-zero emissions targets. To degrowthers, the climate crisis is a social problem, and addressing it will require no less than reengineering the entire global, socioeconomic order, especially in the wealthy global north.

Why the sudden interest in this radical program? Why Europe, and why now?

Perhaps the answer should be obvious: Late August 2023, when the Zagreb event convenes, caps off the hottest global summer ever recorded. The defining characteristic of degrowth’s latest influx of followers, as the movement’s major figures will stress to me again and again over the next four days, is youth—which is to say, a heightened vulnerability to the future effects of climate change.

The status quo has left these young supporters disillusioned and alarmed. And no wonder. When, during her keynote address, Ürge-Vorsatz draws up a heat map showing the proportion of the Earth that will become unsuitable for human life by 2070 under business-as-usual projections, no one bats an eye; it’s data that this particular audience has seen before.

The suggestion to “find a better word,” however, is met with an affronted laugh. For Europe’s young people, degrowth isn’t just a utopian slogan, but an intentionally provocative, environmental necessity—and an existing reality.

Parallel to these radical calls to abandon economic growth as a policy goal, many economists have observed that capitalism in developed countries is already slowing down, seemingly of its own accord, and very much against the mainstream political will. The trend is called (in a manner that hardly satisfies Ürge-Vorsatz’s invitation to find a more appealing term) “secular stagnation,” and it predicts that in highly developed economies, a near future of stagnant growth is more or less inevitable.

This slowdown in the year-over-year growth of GDP per capita is detectible in wealthy industrialized countries such as Japan, Germany, France, the United Kingdom, and the United States, according to economists such as Dietrich Vollrath, whose book Fully Grown describes this phenomenon.

The deceleration is accompanied by a rise in inequality, which contributes to increased polarization on both the left and the right. Poorly managed energy transitions and climate-induced disasters are poised to exacerbate the trend. So are declining fertility rates, which lead to a lopsided age distribution in the workforce, putting further strain on welfare systems. While it is tempting to ascribe the decline in birth rates primarily to the rising cost of having children in rich countries, in the EU, generous benefits to parents (Hungary, for example, recently waived personal income tax for mothers under 30, among other pro-family measures) have failed to turn the tide. At a certain point, wealthy societies in advanced stages of modern capitalism no longer want to grow.

As a consequence, for the first time since the mid-20th-century, young people from the world’s richest nations, such as those gathered here in Zagreb, cannot expect to be better off than their parents.

The anxious backdrop is enough to make one wonder whether the uptick of interest in degrowth isn’t, in fact, just another symptom of a lack of economic growth in Europe, coupled with impending environmental degradation. It brings into focus a bigger historical picture, one of wealthy countries around the world struggling to manage ecological decline and rising domestic discontent when the usual remedy—rapid growth—may be as economically impossible as it is environmentally dubious.

If such degrowth is inevitable, degrowthers ask—if for a very different set of reasons—how can it best be managed?

And is it possible for Europe to greet it with anything other than anxiety and despair?

On the opening night of the International Degrowth Conference, at a reception held in the lobby of the Zagreb Museum of Contemporary Art, at least two surveys of the 680 registered participants are going around, gathering demographics in the name of ongoing academic research. The shoe-leather approach provides a good estimate: A quick turn though the crowd proves the attendees to be overwhelmingly white, youthful, and fit.

And yet, considerable diversity exists within that apparent uniformity. Degrowth is a big tent, one that attracts graduate students, activists, Marxists, feminists, decolonizationists, and in more recent years, elected politicians, all of them disillusioned with the promises of “green growth” inscribed in the EU Green Deal, or in the United States’ growth-oriented Inflation Reduction Act. It could be described as an academic field, an intellectual crossroads, a political movement—or better yet, given its versatile nature, as a cultural one.

The term decroissance first emerged in France during the resource debates of the 1970s, when the Club of Rome published its famous 1972 report, The Limits to Growth, which is still one of the most controversial and bestselling environmental books of all time. That study argued that exploding global population and resource use would exceed the Earth’s carrying capacity within one generation, resulting in a precipitous decline in welfare.

Strongly influenced by a natural scientist’s understanding of the conservation of energy (as opposed to an economist’s understanding of abstract and theoretically limitless variables, such as demand), the report popularized the enduring idea that there is no infinite growth on a finite planet. Kenneth Boulding, author of the essay “The Economics of the Coming Spaceship Earth,” echoed the concept in congressional testimony delivered during a discussion of the global ecological situation in 1973: “Anyone who believes that exponential growth can go on forever in a finite world is either a madman or an economist.”

Predicting the future is a risky business. The Club of Rome report was—and still is—ridiculed by mainstream analysts, who pointed to the fact that the next generation became, au contraire, ever richer and more populous. Others rightly questioned the report’s tendency to stoke the West’s racist fears of population growth in the global south. From a purely ecological view, however, research from natural scientists continues to suggest that the 1972 study got more right than wrong; ecologists warn that we have now exceeded four of nine planetary boundaries that define a habitable planet.

Today’s iteration of degrowth, translated from the French, disavows these earlier debates’ Malthusian focus on population growth, instead shifting the emphasis to per capita consumption. This time, the culprit is decadence in the global north.

Embracing the ethos of anti-consumerism, anti-advertising, and decolonization, the idea of reorienting rich economies away from the hegemonic pursuit of GDP growth gained purchase in France and Southern Europe following the 2008-09 financial crisis—which was seen as yet another consequence of the reckless pursuit of growth—and the austerity measures that it drew into its wake.

Vincent Liegey, a French thinker, author, and organizer who was active in those earliest years of the degrowth movement, tells me that these days, degrowth might be best understood as a “tool,” one used “to question dominant paradigms and address 21st-century problems with [the idea of] well-being.”

There’s an academic flair to the accrual of terms and definitions in the conversations that I have over the next four days: “conviviality,” “frugal abundance,” and “well-being” are favored. (A primer from one of the movement’s foremost thinkers, George Kallis, bears the title Degrowth: Vocabulary for a New Era.) Marxism is more than ambient. But so are appeals for direct democracy and municipalism, as well as serious engagement from NGOs and members of the European Parliament.

It can be difficult to keep track of where the ideological accent lies. In their book The Future Is Degrowth, Matthias Schmelzer, Aaron Vansintjan, and Andrea Vetter helpfully break the movement down into different “currents,” of which there are two dominant schools: green-liberal economic reform, which relies on familiar tools (such as market mechanisms, taxation and regulation) to bring growth and institutions into accord with planetary boundaries; and “socialism without growth,” which focuses more on fundamental changes to distribution and ownership (and which distinguishes itself from the Marxist productivism practiced in Soviet Russia or Maoist China).

Natural scientists, too, supply working definitions. One of the most common (and politically neutral-sounding) goals repeated in Zagreb harkens back to a widely circulated 2020 Nature Communications paper titled “Scientists’ Warning on Affluence”: Drawing on economist Giorgos Kallis’s definition, the paper’s authors argue that degrowth aims for an “equitable downscaling of throughput (that is the energy and resource flows through an economy, strongly coupled to GDP), with a concomitant securing of well-being.”

“There’s always been an activist and an academic part of the movement,” the aforementioned Steinberger, a co-author of that paper, tells me. Though both factions have historically lacked traction with the broader public, 2023 may be the year this marginal status starts to change. Degrowth has made “giant steps forward” in “how we can articulate these ideas and how we can make them popular,” Steinberger says, pointing to the May conference in Brussels as an example.

Ürge-Vorsatz likewise welcomes the new momentum as a “really exciting development,” one further linked to recent degrowth-adjacent legislation such as a draft directive proposed in the European Parliament that would ban “planned obsolescence” and increase the durability of consumer goods.

There are further signs of momentum. The sixth IPCC assessment report, published last year, made its first mention of degrowth, citing the literature’s “key insight” that “pursuing climate goals … requires holistic thinking including on how to measure well-being,” and name-checking the movement’s “serious consideration of the notion of ecological limits.”

The writing of Japanese philosopher Kohei Saito, a rising international star (and also in attendance in Zagreb), has become a surprise hit in Japan and around the globe, with his 2020 book Capital in the Anthropocene grossing more than 500,000 copies; the week of the conference, he was profiled in the New York Times for his philosophy of “degrowth communism,” while a German translation had just appeared on the Der Spiegel bestseller list.

And it’s a kind of “cultural victory,” Liegey says, that policy magazines such as the Economist and the Financial Times, not to mention the present publication, have also begun to engage—even if only to debunk degrowth as a brewing economic disaster.

Pressed to explain the surge in interest, however, it’s notable that many organizers and researchers didn’t cite concrete proposals from degrowth’s own economic agenda, but rather the ruins of the old, postwar paradigm.

They cited record-breaking temperatures that have risen quite literally off the charts. They cited the pandemic, an experiment in rapid social transformation that has broadened the public imagination for what is possible in a narrow time frame. They cited, above all, the energy of the younger generation of activists heralding from Ende Gelände, Extinction Rebellion, Fridays for Future, and the many youth and graduate students who are getting involved in degrowth itself.

One such newcomer, here in Zagreb as a volunteer, tells me that she discovered degrowth after becoming disillusioned with green growth narratives and party politics in her native France. “I’m not sure how much is propaganda,” she says with a laugh, gesturing toward the cacophony of workshops and academic presentations taking place simultaneously in the conference center (the usual purpose of which, I’m told, is to host weddings; at least three can take place here at once). But she admits that she finds it “inspiring to see so many people working on solutions” after more mainstream channels left her pessimistic.

She is not the only person attracted to Europe’s degrowth movement by a combination of pessimism about the current conditions of the world and the promise of political solutions to quell that anxiety. But degrowth also raises the question of just how real these solutions are meant to be—or whether managing pessimism is the primary draw.

Asked to explain why the movement continues to enjoy more support in Europe as compared to other parts of the industrialized world, degrowthers point to the continent’s long tradition of leftist organizing and greater cultural openness to restraining the excesses of capitalism.

“There’s more freedom in Europe to question mainstream economics and the growth paradigm,” says Steinberger, who received her Ph.D. in physics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. “It’s not that it’s comfortable,” she adds, “but it’s at least … nobody’s going to [be] fired for it. It doesn’t generate the same sort of kneejerk revulsion.”

Saito, who studied in both the United States and Europe before returning to his native Tokyo, where he is now a professor of philosophy at Tokyo University, echoes the claim: “I think in some sense, EU countries already regulate this system of capitalism, creating other space for other things, for noncommercial activities. And that’s already half-degrowth.”

But there is, potentially, a broader cultural backdrop to the increased interest, especially among the young. Gwendoline Delbos-Corfield, a member of the European Parliament representing France (and the Group of the Greens/European Free Alliance parties), tells me that the youth she speaks with are notably pessimistic. “Girls tell me we shouldn’t be having children because it harms the planet,” she says.

Youthful (and hyperbolic) critiques of the status quo are hardly novel to European politics. But the current attitude feels distinct from the student protests that swept the continent in the 1960s: “I feel there is more despair,” Delbos-Corfield adds.

There’s always been an anti-materialist, anti-capitalist bent among green revolutionaries in the West, but degrowth should also be understood as separate from the back-to-the-land or hippie spiritualism that marked the environmentalism of the 1970s. The main drivers on display in Zagreb are economic and environmental anxiety as the world slips into very real ecological and civic unrest.

“They have a lot of access to depressive information,” Liegey says of the young people he sees joining and reshaping the movement, “and no way of acting on it.” Ürge-Vorsatz echoes his assessment. “If you just look at climate [policy] in Europe,” she says, “then I think we should be very positive because Europe has been doing great things.” On that front, there’s reason for optimism. But as for the broader political landscape, she notes that it often seems as if Europe is entering “into an era of crisis after crisis after crisis” that will require an updated political vision: “The only way we can actually manage crisis is to think for the long term.”

Charges of pessimism, alongside demands for continued economic development in the global south, are arguably where critics gain the most traction against degrowth. Self-described “techno-optimist” thinkers such as Andrew McAfee and Steven Pinker have more or less self-consciously pitted themselves against it. Regarding climate goals, these thinkers call for more growth, not less, and especially for the so-called decoupling of that growth from increased material resource use. Their self-described optimism stems from the fact that this decoupling is already taking place; they reckon it can be accelerated through new technologies and judicious policy.

It’s worth noting that across this very fraught and contested spectrum of opinions—from techno-optimism and green growth to degrowth—everyone agrees on one thing: In order to avoid the very worst of possible climate futures, the material and carbon throughput of the economy must be drastically reduced. The attitude in which they go about achieving that reduction, however, could not be more different.

There is indeed evidence that relative decoupling has been underway since the mid-20th century, but so far only partially, and only in rich countries—and then only after an enormous intensification of resource use. Early evidence of dematerialization from midcentury peaks in countries such as the United States, furthermore, does not yet extend to powerhouses such as India or China.

It is also hotly debated whether this partial trend properly accounts for rich countries’ offshoring of material-intensive manufacturing, or for the so-called rebound effect, whereby more efficient and “dematerialized” production of goods and services translates directly into increased consumption, immediately canceling out ecological gains. Degrowthers, for their part, argue that the absolute decoupling is an outright fairy tale—one as dangerous as its proponents accuse degrowth of being.

Whether decoupling amounts to magical thinking or not, given current data, one would have to be very optimistic indeed to believe that decoupling scenarios alone will bring economic activity into accord with planetary boundaries and tipping points. The lack of evidence for an immediate silver bullet brings us back to the multitrillion-dollar question: If an economic deceleration is inevitable, are our options really delusion versus despair?

It’s no mystery why we fear economic slowdowns. Crumbling state finances, recessions, and economic transitions are enormously painful and disruptive, especially for those in the lowest income brackets. Juicing growth numbers as a means of alleviating economic pain and discontent, however, is increasingly looking like a holdover from an era when politicians could promise that rapidly rising tides lift all boats.

In today’s world—when global inequality is reaching prewar levels—it perhaps makes sense to lay at least equal focus on the redistribution of wealth accumulated in the 20th century, precisely with an eye toward insulating society’s most vulnerable from economic and environmental shocks that are increasingly intertwined. This makes even more sense if we consider that in the rich world, the previous century’s boom-time growth rates might be the result of nonlinear, irreproducible events, such as women entering the workforce, globalization, the financialization of government debt, and the use of imperialist force.

Perhaps, as techno-optimists predict, artificial intelligence will lead to yet another gain in productivity, yielding a 20th-century-style spike in growth. (Though this comes with the potential cost of AI turning on its human makers, which would hardly be conducive to economic flourishing.) For now, the shifting composition of developed economies calls for a correspondingly historic shift in policy focus.

“A fundamental difference between natural science theories and social science theories is that natural science theories, if valid, hold for all times and places,” former U.S. Treasury Secretary Larry Summers wrote in a opinion for the International Monetary Fund published in 2020, “In contrast, the relevance of economic theories depends on context.” He continued: “I am increasingly convinced that current macroeconomic theories … may be unsuited to current economic reality and so provide misguided policy prescriptions.” The same could be true of chasing after GDP growth.

In that case, one might imagine that it would be the task of the degrowth movement to persuade the broader public of the point. And yet, if the idea of doing more with less has a branding problem—which is to say, a political problem—it’s not a problem that anyone in the degrowth movement seems immediately positioned to solve. Almost no one I speak to in Zagreb is inclined to “consider a better word.”

The issue of language and popular appeal hovers over the conference. On a smoke break, a local Croatian volunteer, a mother of two with a marketing background, voices concern over how the scholars gathered here plan on communicating degrowth to a larger audience. She tells me that her school-aged children recently came home announcing they no longer want to shop at secondhand stores. “It feels very different to degrow when it’s a necessity versus a choice,” she says.

During lunch, over plates of (vegan) lentil Bolognese, another volunteer, a Zagreb native in her 20s and a member of a local all-female eco-collective, shares impressions from her own visits to the academic sessions, many of which are open to the public. She’s come directly from a presentation about a hypothetical “ecofeminist city,” where she, too, wondered about vocabulary and broader appeal. “The girls in my eco-village, the ones [the presenters] should be speaking for,” she says, “I don’t think they would have the education to understand. I wondered, ‘Who is your audience?’”

Consulting the abstract for the ecofeminist city in question, the authors’ proposals indeed seem less than tangible or concrete: References include “configuration of spatial and temporary infrastructures” and “feminist time politics.”

The volunteer’s question—“Who is your audience?”—is a fair one, especially since parts of the movement really do hold the potential for popular interest.

After all, the primary aim of degrowth, Saito explains, is to carve a space “outside of capitalism,” whose market logic has colonized too much of our social and economic decision-making, but also outside of traditional socialism or Marxist productivism, whose ecological record in Maoist China and Soviet Russia proved just as devastating.

Though I’ve been wondering whether it’s the word “communism” or “degrowth” that poses the greater threat to the movement going mainstream, the more I ask, the more it seems that to degrowthers such as Saito, “communism” means something much closer to municipalism and an expansion of the welfare state (financed, presumably, through a mechanism that rejects both imperialism and economic growth) than it does to classical economic planning.

“I call it commonification,” Saito says of his own updating of Marxist principles for a climate-distressed era. “Make it common; make it common wealth. A society based on that kind of commonification of our basic needs, which shouldn’t be left to the market logic.” Every thinker I speak with is committed to democracy and rejects the one-party state. Saito easily sees room for market mechanisms: “Of course you should be able to buy an apple or an orange on the market. But does that apple need to come from Africa?” There is a commitment to an expansion of social services such as universal health care, education, public transport, and housing, with additional discussion of reduced work weeks and job guarantees; people use less energy and fewer resources when they buy and work less.

Saito himself doesn’t mind if others “use a different term” than degrowth “as long as they’re willing to think outside of capitalism.” But he notes that using provocative language often serves an important purpose; degrowth was coined precisely to be unmarketable, with its founders anticipating the greenwashing that has befallen the likes of terms such as “sustainability,” “green growth,” and “carbon footprint.”

The persistent use of radical terms, Saito further argues, can pave the way for progress. “Ten years ago,” he says, “in America, you couldn’t say the word ‘socialism.’ Today the taboo has been lifted, with politicians like Bernie Sanders and AOC [Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez].”

On the other hand, one could just as easily argue that the normalization of former taboos is simply a sign of greater polarization and discontentment with capitalism; taboos are being lifted just as quickly on right.

In this tense political environment, should the degrowth movement continue in its usual role of leftist activists and academics, or has the time come to think more like politicians—in other words, people who have to compromise?

On this point, the movement seems divided.

It’s clear, however, which faction is ascendent. On a concluding panel, activist and scholar Julia Steinberger, who wields considerable influence on social media, recaps the need to liaise between the public and centers of political power. “Science tells us we need to degrow,” she says, “but this means nothing to politicians unless we can also help them translate this to the public.”

She describes presenting data to elected officials, only to have them respond that their hands are tied unless they are also given a way to sell the implications: “And we said, ‘We thought that was your job and the journalists’ job.’ And they said, ‘No, we can’t do it, and the journalists aren’t doing it, so I guess it’s your job.’”

Natural allies for the movement, not to mention connections to more mainstream economics, do exist. If degrowth plays its cards right, its proponents might not have to do the job alone.

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cherry-stained-corpse · 1 year

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After watching the final episode of Netflix’s Wednesday, rewatching the whole thing a second time, and then letting it sit for a couple days to get my thoughts together, here are my overall likes/dislikes/critiques. Hopefully I don’t forget anything as I tend to do sometimes. I am notorious for long written posts, you’ve been warned.

❌ WEDNESDAY SPOILERS ❌ [obviously]

I still hold true that overall I quite love the show. While there are a few critiques and things I didn’t like very much or that I thought could be done better, I would watch it again and still enjoy myself. So now to get into my thoughts in the form of bullet points and lists :). The critiques may seem longer, but that’s mainly because I go into a bit of a rant in regards to writing and choices and stuff. Overall what I like does out way what I disliked or considered flaws.

-What I Liked-

• The casting and overall characterization of Wednesday Addams.

• Maintaining that she’s so bizarrely out of the scape of ‘normalcy’ that she’s an outcast even amongst other outcasts.

• Latino main characters and representation for once.

• Enid. I love her claws and just everything.

• Eugene.

• The focus on being primarily Wednesday and not on the Addams as a whole. It’s a Wednesday show about HER after all. The whole internal conflict is her not wanting to be overshadowed by her mother.

• The further exploration of Wednesday not just being a mini-Morticia

• The inclusion of the supernatural, creatures and such and showing how being a different species does not necessarily make you the oddest one out.

• Gothic Aesthetics done wonderfully.

• Wednesday’s wardrobe.

• Wednesday actively listening to Spanish music and the language overall being used a bit more in dialogue by, yknow, Latino characters and not limited to the usual “hola” and “gracias” in the script. Have Latino characters speak more Spanish more often please I get so excited every time…I promise it’s accurate why do you think spanglish is a thing?

• The headmistress and how it didn’t go down the stereotypical “evil headmistress/the headmistress was the one behind it all or involved” plot twist.

• The school was more interesting and kind of better than Hogwarts and that’s coming from someone who’s a massive HP fan all my life. I just wish we could have spent more times at the school related stuff doing school things. Maybe go harder on the monster high vibes (OG monster high, not G3)

• The uniforms and having Wednesday’s be different was a great choice. This girl cannot be seen in any other color that would just be blasphemy and I can totally see her taking and dying the uniform herself.

• Cello, Typewriter, Gramophone (or as most people would refer to it “record player”). Made me very happy to see those as they are literally things I love as an antique collector and user.

• I love that she’s a writer. Not just cause I can relate as a writer myself. But because it just fits so incredibly well.

• Using the term normie.

• Fuck colonizers

• Blood dance visuals

• Dark Gothy tone with gothic architecture, a boarding school with very nice uniforms, Murder mystery, secret societies…this show is dark academia.

• young Gomez and Morticia was fun to explore.

• Thing. But that’s a given.

• I can go on and on about what I liked but then this will end up way too long.

Things I Felt Could Be Done Better But Did Not Hate.

• Morticia Addams. I thought the actress did a lovely job overall (she certainly got that Morticia walk down), and I don’t really agree with a lot of peoples criticisms. But I would have liked to see a bit more attention to the part she plays in the strain between her and Wednesday. Like I would have liked to spend a bit more time on that, it kind of felt like it just got dropped after that one episode where the parents come to the school and Wednesday’s complex about being compared to her just disappears a bit too quickly.

• Weems and Morticias whole thing going on. Loved the idea but sad it wasn’t explored more, it had such interesting potential. Especially in regards to Weems and Wednesday’s dynamic.

• The whole resolution between Gomez and the Sheriff dude was way too fast. Your telling me this guy that has held a grudge for years against Gomez, is suddenly going to be all friendly after it being proven he was innocent? An apology is fine but then that should have been it. I dunno that final interaction between them even if ht was really short felt a little too “we are friends now yeah my son likes your daughter haha isn’t that funny”. Just would have liked that executed a smidge differently.

• The drama with Bianca, I liked what we got but would have liked to see more of a rivalry and moments like that.

Things I Disliked/Critiques

• while the CGI wasn’t the absolute most amazing, it wasn’t the worse…until we get to the CGI and overall designs of large creatures. I’m sure you must know I’m referring to the Hyde, but Enid’s werewolf form is not at all exempt from this criticism. Granted the Hyde’s form is a lot more agreggious. The only thing I disliked about Enid’s wolf form was her face. As a furry that follows many furry artists including ones that work with 3D sculpting and stuff, I dunno. I felt like the face, the snoot mainly, could have been shaped differently? She looks kind of derpy, the body is fine but it’s just that face. Also the way her hair/fur in her head was shaped reminded me and my partner of bibble.The Hyde though? Everything but ESPECIALLY the face. And why do Tyler’s eyeballs have to be the first things that transform and bulge out I could not stop laughing it was so…wow. It reminded me of when cartoons inflate themselves by blowing into their thumb and their head is the first thing to expand like. I dunno I couldn’t take it seriously. The art Xavier drew of the Hyde looked way cooler and scarier than the actual model of the Hyde, which is such a shame because I think the model could have done the art justice if just a few tweaks and details where added. There wasn’t enough detail so I feel like that made the face look cartoonish in an uncanny way, and not in a good uncanny way.

• Why is Wednesday so eager to work with the police? You could probably argue that she only worked and cooperated with them because they had access to resources she needed so yknow she was using them but that’s not how it came off. This is I think one of two things I did not agree with In regards to this characterization of Wednesday. And yes there are really only two as far as I remember. She was way too cooperative with the sheriff, wanting to work together with him which is very out of character even to this very characterization of her. We are supposed to see how she commits all sorts of criminal activities no problem, I mean it’s in her nature, but she still goes and asks to work with the sheriff? It made it feel almost like a jarring 180 when she did what we expect her to do, disregard morals and torture/kill people without batting an eye. Not sure if I’m making much sense. I would have expected her to have acted like Bianca in that regard, not trusting the police and going straight to Weems instead like she had said to her.

• The second thing I didn’t agree with in regards to this characterization, and it is mainly because I don’t think it’s written well. Why is Wednesday, the girl that is writing and has written several mystery novels about a detective, probably has done in depth research on murders and crime and probably has read detective novels herself…committing the mistake of jumping to conclusions way too soon and forgetting evidence that would actually debunk that conclusion? Like the whole thing with Xavier. Her first inclination to confront him and accuse him? Yeah okay. That’s fine. She’s a teen she’s bound to be impulsive. But after she knew the DNA results had come back and didn’t match? Why did she ignore/completely forget that and continue to pursue, even arrest Xavier? As a suspect yeah he could have remained in her list of suspicious peoples but shouldn’t she have considered that very specific debunking fact SHE had sought out in the first place? Wednesday is a clever person, and she’s written here to be considered as such. But she’s conveniently written to forget or not consider things that I felt like she absolutely would have while sleuthing. Not only that, but just…I feel like after falsely accusing Xavier, and then being further made to question her own deductions thanks to the results of the DNA, why did she continue to go and throw out accusations so easily? It would have made more sense to me if the DNA results made her question her first conclusions and sort of take a step back and proceed more carefully when it came to investigating her potential suspects. She wouldn’t have continued to make the exact same mistake the next several times. I think this was done with the intention of showing how she interpreted her visions with too much bias and kept clinging to a story she put together rather than consider how her visions only show a small piece and not the full picture…but I feel like the over repetition of her kind of blindly going up to and accusing people didn’t quite show that.

• Everything with Tyler and Xavier portraying anything Wednesday did or said as “signals”. I’m fine with either of them kind of crushing on her. With Xavier, it did feel a bit more one sided and more like he was trying to get close to a girl he liked but then later I feel like that got ruined by him saying “you don’t know who your real friends are” just because his attempts and advances where ignored or rejected or obliviously brushed off. It veered into demanding a bit and not actually being considerate of how she just doesn’t work that way. She’s not selfish for only focusing on a mystery she’s been very clear about wanting to solve, she’s not selfish for not paying any mind to you or your advances. Same goes with Tyler but I feel like he’s kind of worse. At first I found it cute but when he said stuff about her “sending signals” and “I thought you liked me” I was like huh? When? Where? I was at first under the impression it would develop into a more obvious attraction between them as Wednesday learned to navigate any feelings she was beginning to experience for the first time, but by the time he says that there hasn’t been an inkling of development in regards to romance yet other than his very clear interest in her. But not so much the other way around. Also, while I understand being upset or jealous that the person you like is going or chose to go to a dance with someone else…you’re not entitled to them or their time? You can’t really get mad at them for not choosing you when they haven’t even made any actual advance or show of interest towards you. This goes for Xavier too. Why is it that when she went to ask for his help when he was locked up, and she told him about the vision she had that exposed Tyler as the Hyde, his focus was on her “getting action while he’s being framed”…wouldn’t you at least be more interested in how someone finally knew you where innocent and was going to help you? Basically…with both boys it just came off as very forced “obligatory Hetero love interests”. Because it was literally just “Boy like girl. Girl interacts with boy. Boy takes that as interest from girl who is clearly not in tune with those kinds of emotions and hasn’t shown a single whiff of interest. Girl ignores advances and puts epic mystery above any romance. Guy gets mad and views this as selfish and callous for not reciprocating and focusing on her case even though this is all she would talk about around them”. It just feels like they could have done the same conflicts and plot lines with these characters without it having to be love interest right off the bat. Developed in a later season? Yeah okay. But instantly? Instant love interests that are forced in? It feels a but pushing heteronormativity and kind of disregards how character development should be gradual. People growing and especially someone who is not in tune with emotions won’t suddenly be interested in a boyfriend when they don’t even have interest with friends. Someone like Wednesday that is used to isolation and only relying on herself needs to first develop an understanding of friendships and how it’s okay to let people be your friend, that it’s not a weakness, before jumping to insta romances.

• This might go back to the whole sleuthing thing before but I’ll put it in a separate bullet point cause I would not want to make them too terribly long. But…the way Wednesday figured out Tyler was the Hyde…she didn’t actually figure it out. It was pretty much spelled out for her, shown to her. And that could be fine if executed differently but it takes away from the whole whodunnit detective-ing thing. There’s a level of satisfaction we get when we watch or read our main characters finally solving a mystery and finding out the epic answers we witnessed them searching for this whole time, and I feel like having her figure it out because her vision power actually showed her takes away from her actually solving it thanks to her cleverness and the clues she gathered, as well as conflicts with the whole “don’t trust your visions so easily they don’t show the full story and you have to learn how to navigate them” plot.

• Next. Weem’s death. Why? I really wanted to see that character arc between her and Wednesday flourish and conclude properly, maybe even have them bond a little? Explore more about her as a character and her past through Wednesday? But she died. They killed big tall lady headmistress >:(. And so quickly too not even a final word to Wednesday or anything. I get why but still. Such a loss of great potential.

• The vampires are there…but…where are they? We introduce sirens and their existence, we explore werewolves and how they work. Adequat introductory lore for those. But Vampires get one mention, and that’s it. I didn’t even realize Yoko was a vampire until I realized all the vampires wore sunglasses. I would have liked an actual main character with more than two lines to have been a vampire. I would have liked to explore a little of what vampires in this world were like the way we got to explore the wolves and the sirens a little bit. As a vampire enthusiast this made me sad.

• It kind of feels like they where too scared to go full Wednesday Addams level of cruelty and immorality. Like they kept her personality in tact but things where a bit too almost sanitized to keep her as the “good protagonist” when she’s a very very very dark grey. She’s always had a strong sense of justice but she’s not above vengeance and carrying it out in the most fucked yo ways possible. You can’t have her gush over serial killers and but then call the murderer behind the killings a “psychotic murderer” in a derogatory way but then admire murder cases. When we all know she would have been impressed by it at least a little. Cause she’s morbid that way. Also I read someone say that she would have driven her therapist insane and I wish she had that would have been so perfect. There’s ways to differentiate a character like her from the actual antagonists without watering down those aspects. Like when she was down to torture Tyler. But that ended up conflicting with some other things due to that “watering down/sanitization” of her actions.

•I didn’t mind Ajax as character but he also felt particularly empty and like he was only added in to ensure heteronormativity love interests for the mains. He especially had not much to him, no real development, hardly a personality, and on top of that it’s just established that Enid likes him but we never explore any of that so it feels empty and thus forced and shallow.

• Why are there no gay guys? Or non-binary/trans? I see the lesbian parents and potentially lesbian Yoko and that other girl but like…can we have some gay men too please? And gender inclusivity? Non-binary/Trans people would be a nice inclusion to this allegory about outcasts and being different to societal norms.

That’s it for now. If I remember anything else I’ll edit it in probably :) sorry it’s so long I just have lots of thoughts in this silly skull of mine.

Bonus section, personal headcanons I agree with :)

• Autistic Wednesday

• Morticia is totally aware of weem’s resentment towards her and considering how the Addams tend to have a very different perspective on things most people view as a bad thing, she’d likely consider it a nice aspect of their friendship. Don’t all friendships include the spice of bitter resentment?

• Bisexual Enid

• Wednesday starts listening to true crime and supernatural podcasts.

• Puerto Rican Wednesday and no one can take that from me.

#netflix wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #wednesday 2022 #addams family #enid sinclair #wenclair #thing addams #the addams family #t

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