#Unspoken Sermons

[magicwingslisten]

meditation for the day: inexorable love

For love loves unto purity. Love has ever in view the absolute loveliness of that which it beholds. Where loveliness is incomplete, and love cannot love its fill of loving, it spends itself to make more lovely, that it may love more; it strives for perfection, even that itself may be perfected - not in itself, but in the object... Therefore all that is not beautiful in the beloved, all that comes between and is not of love's kind, must be destroyed.

#meditation for the day #unspoken sermons

[ddarker-dreams]

Chrollo tells you a story from his childhood centered around bread.

(Warnings for religious mentions and canon typical depictions of his hometown, Meteor City)

“Hm… how uncanny is that.” 

Knowing that he’ll continue speaking cryptic phrases until you express an interest you most certainly don’t have, you sigh, and rest your cheek on your fist. 

“What’s uncanny?” 

Please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread, please don’t mean the bread— 

“This bread loaf,” he inclines his head toward it, as if you couldn’t spot the table’s lone occupant, “It’s bringing up some memories.” 

He’s really going to talk to you about bread. Fuck.

“Meteor City, destitute as it is, was an attractive prospect for missionaries. My friends cared little for the religious doctrine they’d expound, but I always found the teachings fascinating. It wasn’t uncommon to go days without eating, so they’d come along with me on the sole condition that food was being provided. The priest, knowing this, had me relay the message that at his next teaching, there’d be fresh bread. Children overflowed from the tent that normally only I would occupy. He preached his sermon.” 

There’s a nostalgic air to him as he continues. “By the end, he presented us with a challenge: whoever capable of best verbally expressing their devotion to God could have the bread. Each child present wanted to be the victor. There was a great deal of murmuring and thinking. He had us form a line, where one by one, we’d give what we hoped to be the winning response. My friend Phinks was first. ‘If I’d been there, I’da stomped the shit out of that snake,’ is what he went with. As you can imagine, the priest kept going down the line. 

Eventually, he got to me. I’d been closely monitoring his body language and facial expressions. From what I could tell, no answer so far had even come close. I decided to take a different approach. From his theology, I could tell he was of the Roman Catholic persuasion. And so I suggested that to best prove our love, we should have mass. I thought that by focusing on the collective rather than oneself, I’d meet his unspoken criteria. He intended to keep the results to himself until everyone had spoken their piece, but no sooner as the words left my mouth did I know that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

After everyone had their turn, he brought the bread out for all to see. While we were all excitedly wondering who the lucky individual would be, he raised his voice and began admonishing us. He quoted Matthew, ‘It is written: Man must not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God’. With that, he left us there, so that we could ‘think about what we’ve learned’.” 

Your jaw practically hits the floor. 

“I intended to counter his points later that night to see if I could win the community the bread they were promised. While I was preparing, a few children happened by, eating the bread that was pulled from under our noses. I asked where they got it from — they said Uvogin. Apparently, he learned what had happened and was incensed. I went to go see him so I could ask how he convinced the priest to give him the bread. I didn’t find Uvo at the place he normally hung out at, but I did see the priest.

He was… shall we say, arranged in a way that’s strenuous on the body. All the while he kept chanting, ‘Pater, aphes autois, ou gar oidasin ti poiousin’, though he lay dying. It left a strong impression on me. Especially because his pronunciation was slightly off… but more than that, I thought it interesting he held firm to the belief which landed him in this position. A belief he didn’t even understand properly. He passed with a content expression. He must’ve fancied himself a martyr. It later became a popular joke that in the end, he did prove that you can’t live on bread alone, since it didn’t seem to do him much good.” 

“How… how old were you?” 

“Seven or eight, I believe.” 

You get up from the table. You can feel his eyes following your every movement, from the suite’s dining room to the living space it's connected to. The suitcase you’ve yet to unpack sits patiently as you rummage through its contents. Grabbing what you need, you return to the table, where Chrollo regards you with a curious countenance. 

Your antidepressants rattle inside a small orange container as you put it before him. How he gets the medication, you haven’t the slightest clue. It’s more convenient to receive them from your enigmatic kidnapper than an uninsured trip to the psychiatrist. He’s got one thing going in his favor, at least. 

“Do you already need a refill?” 

You shake your head. 

“Just… after hearing that story… I think you might want to consider getting some of these for yourself. High dose.” 

#fun story time with chrollo (?) #yandere chrollo x reader #chrollo brainrot #my stuff

[hirayaaraw]

Dwindling Faith and Unspoken Confession

Tags: friends to lovers; marriage for convenience / fake marriage; pining

Previous

Your mom already left. She rode the bus scheduled to leave in the afternoon after she gave you an earful sermon about marriage. But you decided to go to the city river and contemplate the things she said.

You hate the disappointing look she had in her eyes. Your life revolved around her approval and making her smile. Ever since her divorce with your Dad, your 8 years old mind made it a goal to make her happy and to not make your sister feel the abscence of a father figure. Despite all of the efforts, you never once felt you are enough. The one time you think she genuinely smile was during your graduation and her hugged validated your whole being.

"Getting married without letting me know. This is not you. Do you even understand the whole deal of being married?" After a long silence, these are her words to you. She is right. It's not a norm for you to jump on risky decision. You are calculative. You want assurance and safety net if all else fail. "It may be fun right now but years later? Where will you be? Divorced like me? Your dad and I dated each other for 3 years before getting married but look what happened. You and Wonwoo..."

She looked at you and you know she is trying to find the right words. And you know how her words always bite.

"Wonwoo is a nice kid but this is so abrupt. It's like you agreed without thinking. Men changes as they age. You'll never know when you are done being the apple of their eyes and next thing you knew he is now meeting a younger and more beautiful woman than you."

"Mom..." Your throat starts to feel constricted.

"Next thing you knew he will be serving you a divorce paper and you will realize your life revolved around him but to him you are just something he can dispose easily."

"That's you and dad, Mom. That's your life, not mine." You said so softly. You can feel the heaviness of your head. She shrugged what you said then gave you the dishes she cooked for you.

You took a deep breathe. You know that your life path is different than hers but your mind is tricking you to dive in this pool of anxiety. Your parents were in love but still this happened. On the other hand, you are just the only one in love in this marriage. You call it a wishfull thinking but you hope the friendship you have with him will be enough.

The raging thoughts ended when a message notification popped out from your phone. It's Wonwoo.

Wonwoo: Done meeting with Mom. :) Are you still with your Mom?

You: No. She already went home.

Wonwoo: Already? That's new.

Wonwoo: Are you already home?

You: I'm here at the cafe in riverbanks. I'll go home in a bit.

Wonwoo: Okay. I'll go there. Let's go home together.

It took 30 minutes for Wonwoo to reach you. When he saw you, he immediately notice your dark aura. He knew something went wrong. He took all the paper bags in his right hand. Wonwoo took your hand with his free hand like it belongs there. You felt safe and secured whenever he is around.

The sun is setting and rays of sunshine falling against his face. You held his hand tighter and enjoyed the moment. Trying to imprint it on your mind. Telling yourself that if all else fail, you will still be grateful you were given a chance to marry the love of your life.

Even in the drive on your way home which is just 10 minutes away from his place, he held your hand in every chance he gets. Upon arriving at home, you both organize the dishes in the ref.

"How did it went?" You asked him after keeping all the dishes. Wonwoo took out a tub of coffee ice cream and two spoons then pulled you to seat at the sofa.

"She's sad." Your shoulders fell down upon hearing it. You felt like everyone is against this. Wonwoo noticed it so he pinched your nose. "She is sad we did not invite her but Mom is so happy that it is you who I married."

Happy is an understatement. Wonwoo's mom is so excited knowing that you are her son's end game. She has been rooting for you and thought that Wonwoo has no chance on you.

"She said I made a good choice." Wonwoo nudged you lightly. He took a spoonful of ice cream and feed you. "When did I make a wrong choice?"

You laughed at his arrogant statement. Good choice. Funny how your mom criticize your decision to marry him but his mom praised this choice. You can't blame her. She has a different background and history than his mom.

"Congratulations for formally ending the endless blinddates." You shove a spoonful of ice cream to his mouth. Wonwoo grimaced at the cold and swallowed it while giving you a death stare. Without wiping his mouth, he gave you a kiss on your cheeks.

"Thank you for marrying me, wife." He grinned upon seeing the ice cream marks on your cheek.

"You are disgusting!" You took a tissue and wipe it away but giggled.

And there it is again, Wonwoo falling all over again. Head over heels. For some people falling in love makes everything goes slowmo but for him, it makes everything fast forward. He can see you laughing with him toothless and grey hair. Wrinkled skin and all but still loving you.

Wonwoo reached for your face to wipe the ice cream that were not removed. "How was it with your mom?"

You just smiled at him. Wonwoo's knows that smile. The smile that did not crinkle your eyes nor showed your dimples. It did not go well.

"She is worried." To put it in simpler terms. You don't know how to explain it to him that your mom went on assuming that he will cheat on you and leave you like an old rug. "Mom is just scared that I will walk on her path too."

Wonwoo knows your family story. Too well that he actually have a personal grudge on your dad. You remember how he went with you when your dad asked to meet you after 2 decades. He sat on a different table but made sure you can see him. You thought he is making ammends, but the truth your Dad wants to ask for a financial help upon hearing you graduated from college and got a great job in the city.

"Her concern is valid." Wonwoo said then took your hand and caress it gently. "Do you want me to talk with her?"

"She is still has clouds on her head right now. Not the best time." No words will come out from her nicely. Wonwoo nodded respecting your request. You just observed him eat with frown on his eyebrows and you know he is thinking how to make you feel okay.

"Can you promise me?" Wonwoo look at you with spoon on his mouth. You know this is ridiculous but you just want to say it to calm your heart. "If one day you find the one who made you fall in love, can you give me like heads up that you will divorce me and not surprised me with a divorce paper on the table?"

You laughed to make it light hearted, but Wonwoo's frown grew deeper. Suddenly, you feel scared. It is like you stepped on a landmine.

"We are not talking about this." Wonwoo said firmly. He dig the spoon on the ice cream tub then look straight at you.

"It's just a possibility, Won."

"And I don't like it. One week into marriage and we are talking about divorce." He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "It's bad luck."

"Are you serious? Since when did you became superstitious?" You laughed at him who is still frowning.

"I'm serious." You reach his cheeks and gently tap it. You can't help but smile upon noticing his pout. "I'm stucked with you until the end of my life. But of course, if you want me to leave..."

"Okay fine. We won't talk about it anymore." You cupped his cheeks. He looks adorable sulking right now. You giggled at how cute he looks right now.

Years since college but he can still make your heart flutter. You studied his face and took your time gazing on him without realizing that Wonwoo is staring at you with love. When you noticed his stares, you can feel him slowly crossing the distance between you.

You can feel the whole world moves in slow motion. You can feel your heart beat accelerating. When his lips found yours, your fears flew out of the window. Your hand encircled on his neck as he deepened the kiss.

This is different from the first kiss you shared with out of curiosity. This not like the kiss you shared with because both of you are drunk. This kiss blurs all the worry and fears you have.

Wonwoo wrap his arm around your waist and pull you on to his lap. You pulled away from him to breathe. You removed his eyeglasses slowly before lowering your face to capture his lips.

If this is greed, you are willing to sin because you want more of him. All the times you thought that you can settle for loving him from afar but now all you want is every inch of him.

And then one thing lead to another. Every corner of his apartment were filled by whispers of his and your name. Surrendering to each other because you both know that tomorrow will come and you still both have each other.

#kpop scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen imagines #seventeen fic #wonwoo angst #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo scenarios

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Priest getou and nun reader or villager reader....(anything other than the word both isnt acceptable...😡😡😡 /j) -🪄

🪄 ANON I SEE YOU AND YOU RAISE A VALID POINT but please consider…… priest!geto and non-believer!reader.

like… imagine. you just happen to waltz into a church one day. you don’t believe in god, you aren’t interested in praying, but you’re exploring a new town and the church is pretty and you figure it could be a nice way to burn time.

you enter the building to find that a sermon is taking place. a priest is speaking to the few rows of people listening; it’s a fairly small church, but paintings and sculptures and beautiful cathedral glass give it a sense of mystique that you’re drawn to. so you take a seat and halfheartedly listen, not praying like the rest, not singing along to the hymns… you stick out like a sore thumb, but hey, it’s not as if anyone is paying attention.

except someone is, and it happens to be the priest that was holding the sermon just a second ago. the same one you spent most of your time oogling once the paintings started to bore you, because he’s so pretty for a priest. beautiful long black hair, amber eyes, sharp facial features, pretty hands — and the smoothest, silkiest voice you’ve heard in your life. like a sun-soaked bundle of lillies.

… also, his cassock is just a little too tight of a fit to tear your eyes away from.

you stick around a little longer once most people have left, just scrolling on your phone and basking in the quiet, and that’s when he approaches you. he jokingly tells you that it’s always obvious when a non-believer enters a place of worship, but he’s not mad; only amused. you end up chatting a bit about your beliefs, he’s a lot more chill than you expected, and…. well. he’s just really, really charming.

so maybe you end up coming back the week after. maybe his smile is a bit like a spider’s web. maybe it becomes a kind of routine to speak to him after his sermons; you still don’t sing along to the hymns or spend any time on prayers, and he still finds it funny. maybe once in a while you end up liking a paragraph from the scripture he’s reciting, and he’s always more than happy to discuss it with you. but mostly you’re there for him. for your chats, for standing outside and badgering him about how contradictory the old testament is while he smokes and listens with an amused grin.

rain hits the ground with a steady rhythm, earthy tobacco floods your veins, spiders by the ceiling weave a web of dew, and his presence is a little more intoxicating than you think is appropriate.

suguru just… isn’t a very orthodox priest. he only believes about a tenth of what the bible says, he has his own view of god, his own thoughts on worship. he smokes. he may or may not occasionally manipulate church-goers into donating money so he can invest in another overpriced painting. you once ask him if there are any bodies in the basement you should know about, and he answers that any self-respecting priest wouldn’t conduct their blood rituals in the basement of their own church. he knows how to pick locks. he tells you once, very quietly, that he doesn’t believe man was created in god’s image. there’s a look in his eyes that you don’t comment on.

he’s funny. charming. pleasantly suspicious. your conversations are enjoyable for the both of you, and eventually the edges of his cedar eyes begin to crinkle the slightest bit whenever you walk into his field of vision. sometimes he eyes your lips for a little too long, and a honeyed irony seeps into his grin when you call him out on it. he asks you if you’re tempting him on purpose, and you shrug. whatever exists between you remains unspoken.

one day, he tells you that he believes it was god who sent you to him. you furrow your brows and protest with a mutter reminding him of your beliefs, how you believe in free will, how you waltzed into his church out of your own volition. no one else’s.

he only smiles, and flicks the butt of his cigarette. you think he remains unconvinced.

#don’t know if i made it clear enough but he is in fact . a bit slimey #a little ill. a little too good at hiding it. plagued by thoughts that only calm down when he’s praying or speaking to you <3 #(he’s really insane abt you btw i don’t think he knows how to love normally this goes for any sugu but ESPECIALLY priest!sugu) #but yeahhhhh priest!geto is very fleabag coded to me :3 he’s a chill priest <3 a cool priest <33 #i’m imagining reader pointing out a homophobic passage from the bible and him just chuckling #(he isn’t homophobic just very gay and very used to hearing that particular passage) #literally all of this is taken straight out of the outlines for my priest!geto fic btw 🙏 one day i’ll write it all out… one day…… #ty for giving me an excuse to talk abt him 🪄 anon…. pls pls feel free to elaborate on nun!reader 👀👀 bc i am Looking. #ask tag ✩ #🪄 anon !! ✩

[lottiecrabie]

pray for my soul. part one – matty healy

you are a good girl: devout christian, studious student, dutiful daughter. resident atheist matty healy might be tempting you, but who can blame you when he looks like sin itself?

warnings: eventual 18+, kiss, religious imagery, blasphemy, (the author has never been to church and had to google some really weird shit to half-figure out how services go lol)

part one of five

2351 words

Sundays you spend on your knees. Hands tucked together, dainty cross falling gracefully between your collarbones, you recite the prayers diligently. The priest’s monotonous voice resonates against the vault, sloping across the arches. Beside you, your father mouths the words. 

You hear some sort of muffled laugh. Peeved, you open your eyes, turning just slightly to catch a peek of him. Matty Healy, black hair falling over his forehead, face drenched in the blue and red and green of the stained glass. He sits on the pew when everyone kneels, biting back a laugh. He looks utterly sinful; dark and half in shadow, spitting in the face of God. 

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips. You don’t know why he even bothers to show up if it’s just to cause a ruckus. 

As if he could hear your thoughts louder than the organ ringing through the room, Matty’s eyes snap to you. You stifle a jump; your stomach dipping in sheer surprise. His eyes are dark like him, piercing. He sees through you, underneath your flesh and blood, seeping through your bones. You don’t know what he sees. It unsettles you, how deeply he watches, how baring it feels on your covered skin. 

Your crossed hands clench, digging your poor heart ring in your skin. Muted pain spreads down your palm, but you barely feel it. You stare back at him, unwilling to let him win. 

The priest praises the Lord. Matty smirks. You shift your knees on the cushion. 

“Pay attention,” your mother hisses, reaching two fingers to your side and pinching in warning. You startle, turning back towards the pulpit dutifully. 

Somewhere behind you, another quiet laugh, much more taunting, much more pleased. It slitters under the pews, climbing up your straight spine. You tighten your hands into fist you wish you could use. There’s some unspoken anger living inside of you, something unfit for a good girl, a dutiful daughter, a pious person. You let it breathe with you because you cannot smother it; you’ve tried. 

Still, you exhale loudly, unclenching your hands, shaking your shoulders to relax them. You plaster a smile over your face. You recite the right words, echoing the pastor. 

When he calls for the eucharist, you stand up, following in line between your two parents. You feel a pair of eyes on your back, itching under your modest cardigan, tickling the ends of your hair. You try to ignore it, but you can’t stop yourself from throwing a look Matty’s way. He catches you, of course, smiling like he got you. You hurry to look away. 

In front of the preacher, you open your mouth. Gently, he places the sacramental bread on your tongue. You don’t let it dissolve; you bite, swallowing the body of Christ. Again, you open your mouth, taking a holy sip of wine. 

Turning around, you lick your red lips clean. You give yourself another self-indulgent glance towards Matty. He’s distracted by your mouth, it seems, but it snaps back to you. He smiles shamelessly. He’s stayed perfectly seated throughout the eucharist, of course. You scowl to yourself, although you can’t quite pinpoint why it bothers you so. 

“Don’t make that face,” your mother warns beside you. You smoothen your features, schooling a complacent smile again. You sit back on your pew while your mother mutters to your dad exasperatedly, “Such a pretty face. I don’t know why she frowns like this.” Still, you smile, staring straight ahead. 

It was a lovely sermon. Sundays leave you clean. 

—

Everyone gathers after the service in the Fellowship Hall. Although most people do it to gossip, there is a table of snacks against the wall. There’s watery coffee, but your parents don’t like when you drink it. You take a paper cup, pouring yourself some orange juice instead. You turn around to make sure your mother is busy chatting Mrs. Finley over some recent neighborhood drama and grab yourself a cookie. 

You scarf it down in two bites before anyone sees. 

“That looked like the single most delicious biscuit ever made.” 

Of course, one person had to have seen, and it had to be him. You look up, stopping yourself from cursing the higher above for his sick game. You flip to Matty with a crisp grin, something utterly stuck in your cheeks. “It was.” You don’t manage to make it sound cheery. Condescension drips on your tongue. 

Matty laughs through the bite. “Do you have something to tell me?” 

You clench your jaw. Refusing to give him an inch of ground, you grind through your teeth, “No.” 

“No?” He says, and he makes it even more condescending, practically pouting at you. “You sound a little upset.” 

“I’m not upset.” 

“Mmh. That’s not how you’re coming across.” 

You huff, impatient, crossing your arms. “I’ve said five words.” 

“Six.” Matty smiles cheekily. “More, now.” 

Enough, you can’t stop yourself from snapping. “You know what?” Rage twists in your belly, something uncontrollable, unreasonable, unexplainable. “I don’t know why you bother to come if you’re just going to be a—” 

“A what?” Matty asks, and he looks thrilled, something childishly gleeful in his taunting smile. 

“Nothing. Just— Nevermind.” Clutching your arms, you twist around, trampling away from him. 

He’s quick to follow, hot on your trail as you trudge out of the Fellowship Hall. “It seemed like you were about to curse.” 

“I wasn’t.” You hiss. He’s beside you now, shoulders knocking against yours. You scowl, walking faster. 

“No, I’m pretty sure you were. What was it gonna be? Dickhead? Asshole? Little shit?” 

“Can you shut up?” 

“Can I? Yes. Will I? Now, I think you can figure out the answer to that, smart girl.” 

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.” 

He prances beside you, careless, carefree. His hands dig into his jeans pockets. “It’s for my mom, if you must know.” You throw him a look, arching an eyebrow. “Why I come here. Personally, I couldn’t care less about church, seeing as I’m an atheist.” 

The word grinds your ears. You knew, in a broad, immaterial way, that he didn’t believe in God. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so brazenly is another thing. You’ve tried to be open, but there is something so off-putting, so wrong about the sheer idea of a faithless life. Where does he go? How does he trust the path he’s on? 

You stop in your tracks, staring at him. “Does it not scare you?” 

He snorts, as though that was a silly question, as though he wasn’t slapping away God’s merciful hand. “No.” 

“But you’re— you’re alone.” 

“Everyone is. You’ve just deluded yourself into thinking you weren’t.” 

You clutch your cross, furrowing your eyebrows. “That’s not true.” 

“Isn’t it worse, inventing some grander thing just to sleep at night? Speaking to the sky like there’s anyone listening?” 

“You’re being mean.” 

He clicks his tongue. “Maybe. It’s still the truth.” 

This whirlpool of anger, uncouth for a nice girl, a devout Christian. You clench your fists. “It’s not. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re speaking like you— like you understand any of this. But you’re never listening. Not to the sermons, or the prayers, or the voice of God.” 

“The voice of God?” He says, and it sounds derogatory coming from his mouth; small, ridiculous. You huff air from your nostrils. 

“Yes, Matty. He’s— He’s there, he’s with you, and you’re not listening.” 

“Well, tell him to give up. He’s wasting his time.” 

“Oh, my Gosh.” You roll your eyes, continuing to walk. Again, he follows you. “You’re not getting it. You’re miserable and you don’t even know why.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “I’m miserable?”

You stop, twisting to him. “Yes!” 

“That’s presumptuous.” 

“So is saying I’m deluding myself!” Your heart races. Your stomach knits together. “You— You just shit on everything I believe in because, why, you think you’re better than me? Smarter than me? Is that it? Because I’m not a cynic? Because I’m trying? Who are you to judge? You are not God, you’re not even his opposition. You’re just some guy laughing in church, being a fucking dickhead.” You yell, throwing your arms up, “And, yes, I can fucking swear!” 

You pant. Matty’s eyes darken, dipping to your lips. Whirlwind coiling in your belly, spreading its rapacious fingers through your limbs. You breathe harder, quicker. A curl streaks across his forehead, tickling his brow. His jaw clenches. He’s beautiful. You curse to yourself, tightening your fists into weapons you’ll never use. Your eyes flick to his mouth. 

Jeremiah, prophet of doom, circles you like prey. You fall into it face first, crashing your lips against sin itself. 

It’s a harsh kiss; it’s your first kiss. Two hands grasp his jaw, like you could shatter it, like you could own it. Matty does not even seem scared of the boundless possibilities existing between your fingers. He grins, cocky, satisfied. 

“Don’t say anything,” you warn, frustrated, because he would, because he was about to. 

To make sure of it, you open your mouth, coaxing your tongue in his. He welcomes it easily, a groan falling into your wanton lips. You lick it up greedily, then sneak a hand in the mess of his curls, tugging to trick new ones from him. He offers them willingly; you take and take. 

Euphoria hikes up your head. You’ve never been drunk, but this must be it. You let go of his hair, finding the warmth of his waist, the firmness. He’s so real against you, something tangible, something breakable. You sigh as he licks your lip. Your eyelids flutter, as does something lower. 

Matty’s hands find your back, digging in your red cardigan. He clutches, stretching the material, then lets go. Fingers climb up to the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your cross necklace. You push the realization away, his proximity to the clasp.

He could undo it if he pleased. He could undo you. 

He adventures his other fingers down, grabbing a handful of your ass, and it feels like he does. Need throbs in unspeakable places. You clench your thighs. You shouldn't let him undo you. You shouldn’t even give him the opportunity, dancing with fire, with the devil itself. You moan into his open mouth. 

Matty breaks away from you, breathing heavily. He stares in one eye, then the other, falling to your swollen lips, to your heaving chest, cross rising with it. His look darkens. “I understand why fools believe in angels.” 

You pant, “Shut up.” You drag him back to you, diving into your downfall. 

When you bite his lip, tugging it to hear the resounding groan slip from his swollen mouth, you bite into something sacred, something hidden. You shouldn’t have. Still, you lick his tongue, gripping the cotton of his shirt, the warm skin of his waist. He tastes like apples and cigarettes. 

His stomach is tense, rippling underneath your silk hands as you climb them higher and higher. You discover his skin, smoother than you’d have thought, stumbling on a few scars and drawing them over and over like your new prayer. He breathes quicker, harsher. Maybe he’s discovering new religions, too. 

Eve was just a girl. You don’t eat; you devour. 

There’s an endless pit inside of you. You store the aggregation of your stifled, festering sins: all the rage, all the envy, all the pride, all the lust. It grows, swallowing you whole. You want and want, desperate, greedy. 

You want to pop him like a balloon between two heavy hands. You want to be all the girls he’s seen before you. You want to be his best. You want him, hot and hard and alive and twirling a thumb around your peaked breast. 

Reverbs of pleasure. You let go of his lips just to moan in galactic shock, face scrunched. You taste the infinity on your tongue, the greatness of the universe; splinters of light. Why must you contain it inside your skin? Why must you smother it, kill it? You want him. You want him. 

“Are you gonna pray for my soul?” Matty whispers, low and hoarse, half-broken out of his throat. You moan again as he twists two fingers around your nipple. “Get on your knees?”

Clarity is a bucket of cold water. You come out of the deep end, gasping for air. Your eyes snap open. Matty is watching you with black eyes. You feel him against all parts of you; under your palms, on your breast, on your hip, still burning on your lips. 

You step away, letting go of him. He reaches a hand for you, trying to coax you back to him with a shrewd smirk. 

You want to spit the taste of him out of you. Want to scrub your skin where his touch still lingers. He’s marked you, you can feel it. You want to scrape yourself clean. (You want him.)

“You disgust me.” You say, even if your belly still swirls at the sight of him, even if you’re still dripping down your thighs, even if your lips are viciously red from a head-twisting kiss. 

Matty gives you a onceover purposefully, clearly considering all the reasons he doesn’t disgust you. “Yeah, darling. I felt that.” You blush, digging your nails in your palms in punishment. 

“Don’t talk to me again.” You say, even if you’re still out of breath. “You’re— You’re a bad influence.” 

He arches an eyebrow. “Me? You practically mauled me.” 

You frown, gasping in offense. “I didn’t—”

“I think my lip is bleeding.” Matty holds it, slurring his speech to prove his point. 

You snap, “Good.” You turn around, walking back to the Fellowship Hall without looking back. 

Your mother spots you, smiling as she beckons you over. She has her coat on, but she talks with Mr. Collins still. “There you are, honey.” She frowns, bringing a hand to your forehead. “You look a little flushed.” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. “I’m not feeling very well.” 

“Oh, no. Are you sick?” 

You lick your lips. Apples and cigarettes. “Maybe.”

#matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #matty healy imagine #matty healy #the 1975 #the 1975 smut #imagine #smut #writing #i am literally an atheist i had no idea how to write any of this #i do not have the religious trauma for me to find corruption this hot #sorry if this is offensive to some religious bffs out there i swear i will write some less weird shit soon #pray for my soul

[venusandsaturnsrings]

★彡 devoted little lamb!

synopsis: to worship was your purpose and it only made sense that this extends to the most beloved of priests.

contains: afab/fem reader, sacrilege, blood sacrifice, power imbalance, reader is a virgin, f.receiving oral, and fingering.

a/n: this is a full 3k words of blasphemy. please enjoy cuz i sure did!! ꒰(͏ˊ•ꈊ•ˋ)꒱

father Alhaitham was something of a miracle worker for you. with any troubles you could trust he’d dispel them with so much as a goblet to your lips and a prayer unspoken. such power, to anyone outside the church, should warrant fear. it should warrant caution and even a call to the matra. even in a world of elements, gods, and visions he was unnatural and worthy of bone trembling terror. you should find your skin prickling with fear upon the favour he bestowed to you yet, so much as a single raised hair was never felt. much like any other that attends his sermons, you revere father Alhaitham; he comes only second to your beloved god. blessed by the archon of wisdom herself, father Alhaithams knowledge knows no bounds. through his eyes you’re sure you could see the innermost workings of anything those viridian hues laid upon. he is positively worth all of the commotion the people, yourself included, give to him.

with slender fingers, he shuts the heavy text he’s surely already memorized. with every sermon you feel as though you see a new and more impressive side of father Alhaitham. no doubt, his mind and body are akin to the most divine of pastries; smooth layers to which only the most delicate and sharpest of knives could split open to admire the inner beauty. only metaphorically, of course, would you dream of splicing him so carefully. his voice reverberates over the room. honey smooth and laced with dominance came all his words; almost practiced, though, you knew he wouldn’t need it. what is practicing worth to a man who already has it all? his light bow and gesture for the acolyte to trail him had your guts in knots. a man as self assured as himself would make a lovely god, you think.

the cool tones, ones that nearly matched his eyes, of many stained glass windows shimmered down his form much like stars opening at his wake. you wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if the sky had opened up to gift him his own ever present galaxy. royal blue, gold, and jade painted over his already handsome features to create something you would have painted had you had the time. his skin and hair nearly glittered with how delicately the light graced him as though he was only porcelain, a vessel handcrafted by Buer for her most perfect messiah. one she’d fill with riches and a soul of the most lovely. his shoes made a soft ‘clack’ with each step he took across the hand tiled floor. you heard rumours that each one had been individually blessed by father Al-haitham but you wouldn’t dare bring such a ridiculous statement to his attention; you only desire to keep his favour. after every sermon you’d wait for the majority of the congregation to dispel before leading yourself to his office, your own personal taste of heaven.

the hallways are linear. to get from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’ was a task even a freshly born puppy could do so the first few times you got lost, father Alhaitham reprimanded you with a firm hand on your shoulder. he wasn’t truly mad but you felt something you’d never felt before when he mumbled about how, ‘you’re such a silly one. a lost little lamb, hm? no matter, you’re here now.’ with a voice that reached your stomach it was no wonder how he’d managed to wrap you around his finger. with gentle knuckles, you knocked against the bright wood door. the man in question opened the door as if he’s been waiting on the other side for your arrival; due to routine, he had been.

“you’re here. come now, today will be a bit… different from our usual sessions. i’m afraid i have concerns about your… state,” such words he’d never spoken to you before. with knitted eyebrows he re-closed the door before giving you a once over, right hand under his chin. the room was already dim due to the window facing away from the sun but with his presence seeming as though it loomed alongside your demise, it felt even darker. he stepped towards his desk which had already been covered in a number of tools you’d seen before; a rosary, a glass of holy water, a golden goblet of dandelion wine, and bread. yet, one was unfamiliar to you; what looked to be a freshly polished silver knife, a cross engraved in the handle. father Alhaitham glanced over his wares before letting out a long sigh and nodding to himself as if receiving his own approval. maybe after this you’d be on the end of this nod rather than a collection of objects. he spoke without turning to look at you, “i sense what can only be described as sin bubbling up within you,” he shook his head with clear upset, “this cannot go unattended. you are one of my, and our gods, most wonderful treasures. please, allow me to purify you.” had you not been so trusting of him you’d have thought your god was an afterthought in his actions but fear flourished faster than you could think. with trembling legs and tears beading in the corners of your eyes, you begged. you begged for him to make you clean once more, for whatever this sin was to no longer afflict you, for father Alhaitham to praise you once more. those with sharp minds would decode your words accurately; you were begging for his love, not your gods. he swivelled and his gaze found you once more, “righteous as always. forgive me, but i require you to remove all your clothing. on our beloved god, i will not look for the sake of your modesty. instead, i will busy myself with the final preparations for our ceremony.”

he rolled up his sleeves to reveal the pearly skin of his forearms. on other occasions perhaps you’d stop to admire the display of skin but you were given a task, to strip. your shaky fingers began removing your clothing and folding it nearly on a small side table located in the corner of the room as he prepared the stone altar against the window with a combination of holy water, myrrh, sweetgrass, and sage. father Alhaitham took his time delicately preparing the surface, hands lovingly applying the mix and massaging it into every crevice with a level of sensuality that had you averting your eyes. with all clothing shed, you modestly covered your most intimate parts while mentally steeling yourself for his eyes to land on you. when he turned, if he had any feelings about the view of your body in its most natural state, his expression did not waver from one of concern. before ridding his hands of all residue, he gestured to the stone alter, “please, lay down.”

cold, damp, and unpleasant were all words you could attribute to the experience of your bare skin atop the surface. your nose wrinkled a slight bit and you tried to find comfort in knowing it would heat up through your body and that this is all for your own good. after this, you’d be clean of sin once more. father Alhaitham returned to your side, rosary in hand. nimble fingers gently guided your shaky ones to hold it the way you had many times before when praying at his side. typically, you found that he had no patience for any nervousness but it today, for you, he made no comment or move to chide you. though you were lying down, soon bread was placed against your palate by his own hand. he gently drew it back to caress your cheek with what could only be described as the most tender of care. with such worry directed to you by father Alhaitham, you could nearly cry; it’s a blessing in its own right. the goblet soon followed, wine pouring into your mouth and the slightest bit down the corner and across your cheek. this time, no hand came to remove it though his eyes followed its path down your neck. he swallowed harshly and paused in his movements momentarily before turning back to take up the knife. if you were nervous before, you were terrified now.

“relax. i promise i would never do anything to you that wasn’t required, especially if it involves pain,” he almost looked as if your pain would be his own and perhaps it was. you didn’t dwell on this thought for it was a selfish one. the pain of any loyal worshipper of the same god would be his own, you are no special exception. “for this portion, i will draw gently upon your form. along each arm and leg, from the bottom of your ribs to your navel, and across each breast. this knife is sharp so it will take no more effort than the weight of the handle. i urge you to refrain from moving.” you sucked in air in tandem with him as the blade first came to your sternum. his words were most certainly truthful, expected of a priest, as he added no extra pressure when gently dragging it lower. the first thing you registered was just how cold the tip of the knife is, the second was the sharp pain. your slight wince didn’t go unnoticed as father Alhaitham mumbled an apology. he raised the knife from your flesh when it came to the end of his mental line. the blades edge took on a dark sheen of your blood that he looked over. his most beautiful eyes inspected the silver before dropping to where the knife had cut; he hummed in satisfaction before bringing it to just below your left hip, the next place he’d cut. father Alhaitham took to softly singing a hymn you were familiar with, seemingly to comfort you as the blade came across all your limbs in the following moments. it rose up to your chest where he gulped. no longer could he ignore just how bare your are under him and just how dollish your eyes were as they fluttered, glazed over in both pain and fear. while his right hand placed the knife appropriately, his left came to cup your cheek. with his thumb soothing across your flesh, you barely noticed how he cleanly cut atop each of your breasts. you were simply too caught up in the delightful feeling of his skin against your as you lay exposed to his lowered gaze. had you not been so assured in the professional nature of this encounter, you would have noticed the increasing thickness in the air that could only be attributed to the intimacy and the arousal you had not noticed pooling between your folds; father Alhaitham did.

he stood up straight and drew away from you to admire the work he had done. your form under the soft light of the window and painted in your own blood, the most lovely of sacrifices. the goblet was in his hand once more as he brought it to collect the blood dripping down your waist and sides, mixing with the remnants of wine previously drank. the metal was wonderfully blunt compared to the blade that had just split your flesh open. with what he gathered, father Alhaitham dipped his thumb in to draw the horizontal and vertical lines to complete a cross on all seven of the cuts he had made; one for each element of Teyvet. he was more than satisfied with his work, if the soft smile gracing his features was anything to go by.

“my dearest little lamb, it pleases me greatly how well you’ve done for me here but,” he seemed to be conflicted by his next words, “would you allow me to indulge myself in you?” the meaning of his words was lost on you but how could you ever decline him? how could you ever decline the one that has given you purpose, light, and salvation should you ever need it? you nodded and half expected him to request your words as he always does but, today only a movement was enough for him. “please, continue holding the rosary as you are.” strong hands pulled you down the stone by your knees until you rested with your lower legs dangling off the edge which elicited a sigh from your most beloved priest; your pliancy always did please him. with hands still on you, he gently parted your legs as he kneeled between them before speaking in a tone lower than you had heard before, “consider this my own kind of worship.”

your face was certainly flushed already but it heated up tenfold as his tongue made its way through your soft folds and you could hear him sigh as your grip on the rosary became tighter. he used the tip to gently poke through and play softly with your virgin entrance, one hand coming up to push the lips of your pussy open much like a flower blooming. your hips jerked slightly as his nose came in contact with a spot you weren’t familiar with but that felt so very good. a whimper left your throat as a moan left his, the vibrations travelling through your cunt and causing a whole new gush of slick to leave your pussy. eagerly, father Alhaitham lapped it up before bringing his lips to your clit. he planted a couple soft kisses to your pretty and glistening nub before wrapping his lips around it and suckling oh so perfectly. he knew you were a virgin but didn’t expect you to come undone on his face with only a slight suck to your cute little clit. a sudden and loud whine left your mouth as your back arched to push your pussy further against his face. the feeling of an orgasm was entirely new to you but you were already addicted to the intense pleasure brought by your priest. he leaned back slightly, panting and in reasonable amounts of shock from such a sudden reaction. with your wetness still on his face, he mumbled to himself, “apologies but i suspect i’ll have to worship for awhile longer.”

you didn’t even have time to come down from your first high before his face was settled into the heat of your core once again. a small sob left your throat upon the contact but you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked up to meet his mouth. father Alhaitham, as always, knew exactly what you wanted and needed. his tongue worked wonders as it gently fucked into your hole, where his cock would rest at a letter date, and his fingers moved to gently flick at your clit. he buried his face impossible closer to you only to inhale the scent your pussy let off, one he could spend the rest of his days smelling like some sort of inhalant drug. his mouth and fingers swapped places so he could lathe over your clit and provide teasing nips to the sensitive bundle. with one gently finger, he circled your hole to gather more wetness before slowly plunging into you. as if an apology for the sting, he kissed at your clit endlessly before twisting his finger to provide the perfect angle he needed. with your utmost comfort in mind, father Alhaitham waited until your sobs subsided before fucking you gently with the single finger. he curled it slightly and made sure to push up against where he knew would have you writhing on the alter as he nipped once more at your clit to keep you grounded in the reality of his face between your legs.

for a man with, what you assumed, no prior experience he sure knew how to fuck you without his dick. all his concentration was solely on how much he was falling in love with your pretty pussy and how much he wanted to die buried between your thighs. gods be damned, you were his new religion and your moans his scripture. he was pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, rutting against the side of the alter. his cock rubbed harshly against the stone through his pants and while he mourned for the warmth you’d most certainly provide, he’s nothing if not patience. you, his most devoted lamb, were to be rewarded with all his mouth can give. your grip on the rosary became tight enough that it broke, beads falling down to the floor. you’d have been appalled at how careless your treatment of such a sacred object was had you not been so caught up in the pleasure bestowed to you. with eyes rolling back into your head and a particularly high moan, you drenched his face. father Alhaitham would take it as his new holy water, siphoned directly from his own personal fountain of youth and most importantly, from his lover. he panted much as you did as well but this task was far from over for him. how could he end things here when he craved so much more? when your pretty hole was fluttering so enticingly and when his cock was so very close from emptying his balls inside his pants? only a fool would hold back now, he thought as his mouth placed open kisses and bites to your thighs for slight mercy to your already abused cunt. a dreamy sigh left his watering mouth, you really do smell delightful. he spat onto your pussy in a rather debauched fashion before drawing his tongue up from the cleft of your ass to the top of your cunt. with eyes finally drawing back up and across your form, he mentally sent a genuine prayer to your shared god. one so filthy he’d most certainly be sent straight to hell upon death but he couldn’t find it in himself to care; hell could be delightful as long as you’re there with him. his eyes dropped back to your pussy.

“c’mon little one, a bit more for me. you truly are my favourite.”

#cw: sacrilege #cw: blood sacrifice #cw: power imbalance #female reader #afab reader #alhaitham x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut

[sofiaispunk]

Hot priest Morales. Thats it. that's the request

btw love your dbf series!

Sacred Temptations

pairings: priest!Francisco Morales x Reader AU

a/n: Thank you so much, beautiful! fuck YESSS hot priest Morales is making me feel all kind of things rn. I immediately pictured him as Pedro at the Oscars with his white slutty little buttonup. Thank you for your request! I really appreciate you and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think and if I should make a part 2 maybe?

words: 2k

warnings: religion, smut, flirting, forbidden romance, bratty reader, blasphemy, inappropriate behavior, 18+

You reluctantly followed your parents' lead as they made their way to the local church for Sunday mass. Your outfit for the day reflected your style and individuality, a short blush dress, which barely covered your body. The dress had delicate ruffles along the hemline, adding a touch of femininity to your attire. You paired it with a light cardigan, casually draped over your shoulders, providing at least a bit modesty.

Throughout your life, you had never been particularly fond of churches. The rigid traditions, the solemn rituals - they had always felt foreign to your free-spirited nature. Sunday mornings were often spent indulging in your own pursuits, watching Netflix, brunching with friends or lazily laying in bed, far removed from the pews and hymns.

However, as you returned from college for the summer, something within you had shifted.

Perhaps it was the newfound sense of maturity or maybe it was the desire to reconnect with your roots and understand your own beliefs better. Whatever the reason, you made a conscious decision to join your parents on their weekly visit to church.

As you entered the church, your eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the ornate stained glass windows, the flickering candlelight, and the peaceful atmosphere. Amidst the congregation, your gaze fell upon the priest, who stood at the pulpit, preparing to deliver the sermon.

You found yourself momentarily drawn to his presence, observing how he engaged with the congregation, his gestures emphasizing his words, and his voice carrying a soothing tone. His light brown hair, sleekly gelled back, added a touch of refinement to his overall look. However, scattered throughout his hair were subtle streaks of grey, hinting at the wisdom and experience he possessed.

A neatly trimmed, patchy beard adorned his face, accentuating his rugged charm. It framed his jawline, which was sharp and defined, lending him an air of strength and determination. His broad shoulders hinted at physical presence, giving him a commanding stance as he stood before the congregation.

Curiosity gnawing at you, you turned to your mother, who sat beside you , and leaned in to whisper a question. "Mom, who is the new priest? I don't think I've seen him before."

Your mother, engrossed in the beginning of the service, momentarily glanced at you and then followed your gaze toward the young priest. With a warm smile, she whispered back, "That's Father Francisco. He recently joined our parish. He is a lovely man. Father Francisco has been a guiding light for our community. He's been instrumental in organizing outreach programs, helping the less fortunate, and supporting charitable initiatives. The impact he's made on our community is truly inspiring and a true blessing.”

You nodded, taking in your mother's words. The intrigue surrounding Francisco only intensified as you listened to your mother's description.

As the Sunday service progressed, you couldn't help but feel a peculiar sensation, as if you were being watched. You shifted your gaze and found yourself locking eyes with Father Francisco. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as your gazes met, and an unspoken connection seemed to form.

Surprised by the intensity of the eye contact, a familiar heat rose in your core. However, instead of looking away, you felt an unexpected surge of boldness within you. Perhaps it was the curiosity sparked by your doubts, or the desire to seek answers, but you decided to seize the opportunity and act upon this newfound courage.

Determined to engage in a conversation with Father Francisco, you waited until the end of the service when the parishioners started dispersing. As people began to leave the pews, you approached the young priest, your steps deliberate and your mind racing with desire.

With a deep breath, you stood before Father Francisco, and mustered the courage to initiate a conversation.

"Father Francisco," you began, your voice steady and lower as usual. “I was hoping you could spare a moment of your time.”

“Of course, my child. What can I do for you? I believe we have never met before.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you challenged Father Francisco's claim of not seeing you before.

“Father, are you truly suggesting that you haven't laid eyes on me in this sacred space until now? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps I simply didn't catch your attention until today.” you laid it on thick, making sure to flutter your eyelashes innocently.

“My apologies for not giving you the attention you deserve. It seems I'll have to make amends for that oversight. But I assure you, I am honored to make your acquaintance now.” The corners of his mouth curved into a gentle smile, his eyes mirroring the twinkle of your own.

You leaned in in slightly, the playful tone never leaving your voice. “Well, Father, it appears that divine intervention has finally led you to notice my presence. I must say, it's quite flattering to have captured the attention of such a captivating priest.”

“Ah, I don‘t think flattery will get you anywhere. But what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my child?“ he smiled at you, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“There’s something plaquing my mind lately, something I haven't experienced in a long time. I'm not familiar with the process of confession. And I was wondering if you could help me, confess my sins?“ you asked innocently, your teeth grazing your bottom lip while your fingers played with the hem of your dress.

“I see. Come to the confessional after next week's mass. We can sit down and discuss the things that weigh heavily on your heart.” As he began to respond, your conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a line of people forming, seeking his guidance and counsel. You, understanding the demands on the priest's time, gracefully stepped back.

“Well, Father, it seems you are a man in demand. I won't keep you from attending to the needs of your flock. I’ll see you next week, then.”

You offered a playful wink before making your way out of the church, subtly swaying your hips.

-

Surprising your parents, who had grown accustomed to your reluctance to attend church voluntarily, you made your way to the church the following Sunday. Feeling bold and sexy you opted for a green two-piece lingerie set adorned with subtle lace details, which flattered your skin tone perfectly. You threw on a modest high neck white dress on top which made you appear extra innocent. 

Seating yourself in the front row, like a diligent Christian, you eagerly awaited the arrival of Father Francisco.

The Sunday mass took place as usual, without any noteworthy incidents.

Midway through the service, though, you uncrossed your legs, inadvertently capturing Father Francisco's attention, causing a faint blush to color his cheeks. His words momentarily faltered, a subtle indication that your presence had made an impact.

Father Francisco regained his composure, seamlessly continuing the service with his priestly duties. Though his gaze occasionally drifted towards you, he maintained his professionalism, determined to carry out his responsibilities.

You, too, were aware of the effect you had on the priest. A playful smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you observed his momentary distraction.

After the last strains of the closing hymn faded away, and the majority of the parishioners left the church, you seized the opportunity to approach the confessional. With each step, your heart beat a little faster, a mix of nervousness and anticipation filling you.

The confessional stood at the back of the church, tucked away in a quiet corner. Its wooden structure, weathered with time, carried an air of solemnity and reverence.

You approached the confessional, noticing the ornately carved wooden door adorned with intricate religious symbols. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and gently pushing it open. The door creaked softly, as if welcoming you into its sacred confines.

Inside, the confessional revealed two compartments separated by a latticed screen—a space for the penitent and a space for the priest. Soft, golden light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns onto the wooden panels.

Taking a seat on the worn cushioned bench, you found yourself enveloped in a sense of hushed tranquility.

In the dimly lit space, you could make out the faint silhouette of the priest's side. 

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. That’s what I am supposed to say, right?” you said, your voice hushed, almost sensual. 

“Lately, my thoughts have wandered to someone who is unattainable. Someone who is meant to inspire and guide, yet remains just out of reach. But I can’t help it, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him at night, think about his big hands and how they would feel on me. About how his big cock would feel deep inside of me. These impure thoughts plague me at night, but they plaque you too, don’t they, daddy?“

Your breathing became heavier as you continue. “Tell me, do you think about me? About your big dick filling up my tight little cunt. Putting your big hands in to my little panties, working me open with those thick fingers of yours. Tell me, Frankie, how badly you want to fuck me. “You shifted on your seat, your thighs rubbing together relieving some of the tension, your own words riling you up. “I can be your little good girl, you know. Just say the words.”

You sank deeper into the plush cushions, Slick arousal pooling in your panties at the thought of him being only a few inches away from you. The tension and the longing became too strong, and you slipped your hand under your already soaked panties. You let out a small whimper as you dragged your wetness up to your clit, rubbing small circles on it. “Oh, fuck Frankie. I am so wet for you. “ you let head fall back, moaning his name loudly. “Can you hear how wet I am? Just let me sit on your face, Frankie. I want to make your whole face wet with my juices. “ You pant, unable to believe that you are so close to cumming after such little time of playing with yourself.

In an act of playful audacity, you reached down and slid your now ruined panties down your legs. With a sly grin, you slipped the fabric through the narrow slit, allowing it to dangle enticingly between the little gate that separated you from the priest.

You held your breath, anticipation mingling with a hint of nervous excitement, hoping you didn’t go too far this time. Moments stretched into eternity as you waited for a response, your heart beat thundering louder with every passing second. Then, amidst the silence, you watched as the priest's hand reached through the small slit and carefully retrieved the green lacy piece you offered. A faint rustle accompanied the movement, and then, silence enveloped the confessional once more .

But it was not the quiet that captured your attention; it was the deep, audible inhale that followed, that made another flood of arousal coat your fingers.

Then, only mere moments later you could hear his sounds. Lustful groans filled the small space.

The furious slapping of his fist as he worked his cock made the tension coil in your own stomach. “Tell me what you want Frankie, you want me on my knees, huh, worshipping your cock?” another loud grunt. “Ahhh, yah that’s it. I wish my mouth was on that dick too, baby. I want to swirl my tongue around it. I bet your cock tastes fucking amazing. I’m going to drain every last ounce of cum out of you.” 

“Oh, God,” he let out one final strangled sound that almost sounded like he was in pain, reaching his climax. You followed soon after, clenching down on your fingers hard, shouting out his his name.

As you both came down from your high, only your breaths were audible.

“I'm not quite familiar with how this whole confession thing works. Do I need to say a dozen "Hail Marys" or perform a few extra penances to make up for that?” you asked innocently, awaiting his answer, but you were only met with, once again, silence.

Suddenly the heavy wooden door separating you swung open, revealing Father Francisco standing before you. His gaze intense and focused solely on you, “No.” he growled, letting out a low, almost predatory laugh, “that’s only reserved for good girls.”

#pedro pascal #frankie morales #hot priest #priest novels #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales #pedro gonzalez #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro x reader #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #fanfiction #joel miller #triple frontier #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #pedro pascal au #joel miller fic #joel x reader #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #triple frontier imagine #triple frontier x you

[ryndicate]

Eren x female reader

warnings: 18+mdni, priest au, bit of eremika, sacrilege, jealousy, manipulation, voyeurism, angst-ish, birthday drabble birthday drabble~

“Let us pray.” 

Those simple words are usually followed by everyone bowing their heads and closing their eyes, but like always you stare straight ahead, using this moment freely with no one’s prying gaze. You trail your eyes over the man leading the procession like it’s your own ode to prayer.

Long brown hair tied back over a sinfully handsome face, Father Eren doesn’t close his eyes during prayer. You wonder if anyone else realizes this. Most often he stares at the ground, other times his eyes sweep over the pews. When he does glance out, your heart always pounds, lost in a desperate hope that you’ll find him searching you out. He never does but you can’t let go the possibility.

Through all your time watching, you can’t help but notice there is someone he does seek out, and it aches. The perfect example of a good follower, a good person, always lending a helping hand, a heartfelt prayer, all of her attention to every sermon. You wish you could be like her, and you’ve tried...

But you’re not like Mikasa. You can try, but you’re not, with her cute short haircut and perfect body and that glow in her eyes when she looks at Father Eren that you couldn’t copy if you dedicated your whole life to it like he has to God. It’s like she sees more when she looks at him, more than you ever could. Maybe that’s what he likes about her...maybe that’s what sets you and her apart. 

A chorus of hushed ‘amens’ breaks you from your thoughts. You blink and realize everyone’s heads have risen once more, and choir has filed up to the front, beginning to sing, voices carrying to the ceiling and the heavens beyond, signaling the end of the service.

Father Eren’s already moved to the back doors, giving goodbyes to those who usually leave as soon as the sermon ends. The rest of the churchgoers are striking up conversations with each other, sharing news about their week, exchanging stilted ‘how are you’s’ and ‘I’m fine’s’ to keep up their appearances.

You usually find yourself one of these, mingling with the crowd as an excuse to lay your eyes on Eren for a few minutes longer each Sunday. It’s how you came to notice a pattern. After most of the parishioners have finally dwindled, conversations exhausted, the end of the unspoken competition to be the one who stayed longest at an end, as if that in itself were a representation of faith, Mikasa always approaches Eren to thank him for his sermon.

And Father Eren always offers to pray with her in his office, though they rarely go there. 

With few left to pay them mind the two withdraw to the back rooms of the church, and like every Sunday, you can’t stop yourself from following.

The halls behind the main sanctuary are mostly shadows split by sunlight beaming in through the high windows. You pause outside the warmth, slipping into the cool darkness to remain hidden as you peek around the corner to where the emergency exit is. Its green glow is all that can be clearly seen, which is why you’re certain this is their favorite spot to disappear to.

You can make out their figures in the dark, taller pressing the smaller against the wall as the wet sound of lips meeting graces your ears. Instead of risking being seen snooping, you duck back around the corner and simply listen.

“Are you having impure thoughts again?” His voice is a low rumble, and you love to imagine he’s speaking right into your ear, his body pressing into yours.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Lift your skirt.”

You strain your ears, resisting the urge to peek again. After a few moments you pick up a familiar wet sound, followed by Mikasa’s soft, bitten moans.

“That’s it, does that feel good?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Forgiveness is meant to be a relief,” Eren says softly, his voice tight. “—to those to ask for it, I don’t hear you asking for it.”

“Forgive me, father,” Mikasa chokes on a whimper and your hands inch towards your own waistline, aching for relief.

“Good girl, move your hips down- there you go.”

“Forgive me—”

“Keep going Mika,” Eren groans. Mika. You hate how much you can hear in his nickname for her. It sends flames of envy and hurt across your body, but you still can’t tear yourself away from listening. It’s easy to imagine him in his dark robes, the cross of his necklace hanging between them as he’s bent over Mikasa’s shaking form, pretending it’s not her. “I won’t stop until I’ve soaked up every impurity. Give your heart over, good girl.”

Your body is hot all over, desperately wishing Eren was touching you instead of her. You would sell your soul just for the chance of it, you’re certain. Maybe then Father Eren would take pity on you, the poor girl without a soul to send to heaven.

You close your eyes and breathe deep, rubbing over your panties, easily soaked through and sticking to your folds, wishing you were brave, or less prideful, enough to really touch yourself to the sounds of them together. They sound so caught up in each other, but the deep desire to be a part of it is too much to overlook. You’ll be able to relieve yourself at home in the dark of your room, where you’ll be able to forget about Mikasa’s moans of pleasure.

The sound of the doors opening down their hallway jerks you from your own mind, and your eyes widen as you pull your hand from your waistline, ready to flee, only to find yourself face to face with Father Eren, who for a moment looks just as shocked to see you. But as he reads the guilt and embarrassment of your features, his expression slowly changes.

His eyes seem flat and cold as he stares you down. You would breathe if you thought it was allowed, standing in pure stillness as you wait for him to speak.

“A soul that covets is a soul that dies.”

Is that a warning? Is he telling you there’s nothing for you with him? Your heart quivers under the strain of not shattering. Of course he sees right through you. He wouldn’t be a man of the Word, of the truth, if he couldn’t see your pathetic desire for him. Before your mind spirals off, Eren releases a sigh so soft that you almost think he whispered something.

You look up hopefully; his eyes are warmer, brighter, his shimmering greens and grays studying your face like he’s never truly seen you before. There are thoughts swirling in his eyes that make you wish you knew him better, to understand them without him having to say a word.

You’re elated.

“As one of my sheep, it’s my duty to lead you away from harm. Come to my office after service next week, and I'll help rid you of your sin."

#eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #aot x reader #eren smut #aot smut #snk x reader #snk smut #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan smut

[venusxsturnio]

FIGHTING TEMPTATIONS

PAIRINGღ chris x christian!fem!reader

SUMMARYღ what happens when a super horny, but holy, y/n's dreams of having sex with her boyfriend and gives into the temptation?

FROM VENUSღ hi guys! wassup, how are we ding this morning? good. well I'M NOT! THEY TOOK AWAY THE BOOPS! i'm so sorry for that, anyways.....lmk what y'all think. ✿ btw this was a request. lowkey i don't even know how a relationship with a christian even works...so lmk if i got sumthin wrong, but remember my requests are always open! and remember i love criticism. :)

WARNINGSღfluff...christianity...cussing...SMUT(i don't know what i'm doing)

not proofread!

Y/N POV

i was on chris's lap. we were on the edge of the bed. he was so smooth. his soft lips sucking the skin on my neck. i let out a soft moan, as he hit my sweet spot. instinctively my hips started to grind, on his clothed hard-on.

i gasped as i was awoken by chris shaking me. i started blushing. "What's wrong baby?" chris said with tired eyes. "Nothing..." i said slightly disappointed, as i wanted for that dream to become real so bad, but i knew the rules. And i had to obey them. "Come on let's get ready." i told chris. but he looked at me with confusion. i returned the expression. "You didn't forget did you?" i asked. he scoffed, playing it off as if he didn't. but i knew he did. "No..." i rolled my eyes playfully as i got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. "Yeah...whatever you say..." i did my morning routine.

then moved onto my facial. next i started taking my clothes off. i grabbed my outfit and put it on. i walked out of the bathroom to a fully dressed chris. da- oops. lord forgive me. phew, i'm sorry but that is one good looking man. and him. in that suit. "Babe." i said biting my lip. i thought back to that dream from earlier, it's like i could feel the presence of his lips on my skin, even when they weren't. "Yes..." he said dragging his words a bit. "Nothing. Come on." we finished getting the last of our things as we left the house. we got into the car. chris started the car and we slowly pulled out of the driveway.

NARRATION

as y/n sat beside chris in the car, he reaches his hand over and caresses your thigh on their way to church, the atmosphere was serene and silent, the hum of the engine being the only sound filling the space between them. yet, despite the tranquility of the moment, y/ns mind was anything but calm.

with every passing mile, thoughts of chris flooded her mind, each glance stealing her breath away. the gentle curve of chris's jawline, the way his eyes sparkled in the morning light, it was all y/n could think about. as they sat in silence, y/n couldn't help but wonder, what if the dream became real? The anticipation of the church service ahead was overshadowed by the whirlwind of emotions swirling within y/n, leaving them lost in a reverie of longing and uncertainty.

y/n and chris arrived at the church, the service was already underway. despite the familiar hymns and reverent atmosphere, y/n found it impossible to focus on anything but chris. his presence seemed to fill the entire space, eclipsing everything else. thoughts of him consumed her mind, drowning out the prayers and sermons echoing through the sanctuary.

she couldn't shake the memory of the dream she had about him last night, the vivid images lingering in her consciousness. In the midst of the sacred surroundings, y/n was lost in a whirlwind of longing and desire, unable to tear her gaze away from chris, who sat beside her, oblivious to the storm raging within her soul.

as the service concluded, y/n and chris said their goodbyes and exited the church, they entered the car and pulled off. the weight of unspoken emotions lingering between them. chris's concern was palpable as they settled into the car, his inquiry about her well-being met with a deflective response from y/n. with each passing mile on the journey home, the tension in the air grew thicker, suffocating y/n with the weight of her unspoken desires.

they finally reached their destination. home. y/ns sudden desires had a hold on her. a strong one, one that she couldn't let go of. they exited their car and made their way into the house. walking upstairs to their room. they changed out of their clothes, getting ready to take showers. once done they both sat on the bed. y/n reading a book, and chris scrolling on his phone.

finally, unable to resist any longer, y/n threw caution to the wind, ignoring all rules as she made a bold move on chris. in a moment of recklessness and raw passion, she leaned in, capturing his lips with her own, finally surrendering to the overwhelming pull she felt towards him. she threw her book somewhere in the room, as she straddled on top of chris.

Y/N POV

chris pulled away slowly. "Babe...what the hell. I thought you couldn't do that stuff." chris said a confused expression coming across his face. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I had a dream last night and ever since, I can't get you out of my head." i said looking down at my hands, fidgeting with them. i felt chris's hand taking place on my chin, as he slowly lifted it up, so that our eyes met each others gaze.

i closed the gap between us connecting our lips. i felt heat go to an area i've never felt before.

NARRATION

chris trails his palms up your thighs slowly, approaching your waist and giving it a tight squeeze. before moving his hands any further down your body, he gave you a look, as if he was asking for permission. you gave him a slight nod, before he jumped back into the kiss.

chris found his way from your lips to your cheek. his lips leaving a trail of red marks along your skin. you let out a soft moan, which caused him to lead his fingers down to your heat. you let out another moan, but it was louder this time. he slid his hands into your shorts, then he pushes your underwear to the side, as he flicks his thumb over your clit just to hear the loud yelp you make. "Chris!" you scream, you could feel his smirk against your skin.

he moved his way to your revealed chest area. he continued to play with your clit as he sucked on the top area of your breast. his eyes shot up, he gave you a deadly stare as you threw your head back. you bit your lips to hold back the sounds you were making. "Open up baby. I wanna hear those pretty moans." chris said as he ripped your top that you had on, to reveal your perky breasts, which caused you to gasp. "Damn." chris said holding back a chuckle. chris leaned down, as he started licking your nipple.

"Please Chris.." you whined. you needed him so badly. "All this begging…" he trails his open hand over your nipple, and started flicking and messaging it, "for me?" You nod frantically, causing your head to lift up, making you meet eyes with chris. you head fell back again as his lips met your breasts once more.

"Yes...Chris...please...just fuck me already!" you shout, in need of chris. you wanted him. you needed him. you picked your head up and looked at him. finally giving you a sense of relief, chris slides his two long, meaty fingers through your folds. they slipped in so smoothly, your slick, substituting as lubricant.

your back arched as you let out a moan so loud it filled the whole house. you were experiencing something you never have before. and it felt good. your hips started to grind in sync with his fingers, as they curled inside of you. chris breathes, placing one palm on the side of your ass.

you focus on the smooth sensation of chris's fingers on the throbbing of your heat. when chris slows the pace of his fingers inside of you, the disappointment in your face shows. "Don't worry baby...I got you." chris exits his fingers and pulls your shorts and underwear down in one smooth and swift motion. then he slips his own sweats and boxers off the same way he did yours.

you watch in awe as his long, and hard dick flings out, hitting his stomach. he pumps himself a few times before finally slips himself into you it’s with ease. he stares at your body once it’s in. he hooks his fingers on your bra clasp and looks up at you for approval. “can i?” you nod, he removes your bra, throwing it somewhere on the floor.

he cups your boobs almost immediately and starts flicking your nipples again. you moan softly as he places one of your nipples into his mouth. the other being caressed by his hand. his tongue flicks around with your nipple as he sucks on it. this results in you moaning loudly.

chris pushes himself into at an even faster pace now. you whine loudly. “c- close.” he smirks, “yea? you close? cum on my dick.” you feel an unfamiliar knot in you stomach and start moaning louder. you yell out, “holy shit...i- im gonna cum!” he covers your mouth and shakes his head. "hold it, don’t cum without me.”

you scream from the insane amount of pleasure going through you and cum all over his cock. he follows shortly behind you, pulling out and shoots his sticky liquid all over your stomach. he plops down beside you, breathing slowly but heavily.

he slowly leans over and kisses your forehead. he gets up from the bed and walks into the bathroom. he comes out with a warm wet cloth, and walks over to you and proceeds to clean you off then himself. he walks over to your closet to get you both a new pair of clothes.

you both put on your clothes and sit back on the bed cuddling. you look up at him with sad eyes. "What's wrong baby?" chris said, his voice filled with sympathy. "I-it's just that...i feel bad.." you said putting your head down, playing with your hands. chris lifted his hand to your chin, and lifted it up to meet your eyes gaze. "About what?" chris said. you could see it in his eyes, that they were filled with love.

"I feel bad...because, we weren't supposed to do this." you said trying to hold back the tears that were forming in your eyes. "But baby...you couldn't help it." chris said moving his hand from your chin to your cheek, and slowly caressing it. "Yea... But, biblically were not suppose to do it until were married." you said your voice being filled with guilt, as the actions you just acted felt like a weight on your shoulders.

chris cupped your face with both of his hands and leaned in to give you a quick peck on the forehead. he parted from your face and looked at you in the eyes. "Listen baby...even if what you did was wrong, I'm sure God still sees you as the perfect child in his eyes." chris said giving you a small smile of reassurance. you returned the smile. you leaned into his body as you two laid there and cuddled for the rest of the day.

FROM VENUSღ hey guyssss! how was it?!? did i do good? pls don't hate me if some of you don't agree with this choice!! don't forget requests/dm's are open :)

credits: @slut4chriss

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #venusxsturnio #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo imagine #sturniolo x reader #black!fem!reader #sturniolo fluff #character x reader #chris x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets x reader #x reader

[evolutionsvoid]

The depths of the ocean bears many mysteries, some that intrigue the mind and others that chill the soul. Many don't know what to make of such a place, a realm so cold, empty and impossible. At least the deeps of the earth itself can be reached, slowly but surely as the sprawling tunnels bore through ancient flesh and soil. But the abyssal void remains out of man's grasp, for those willing to even entertain such an idea. There are plenty of tales surrounding the deep, but they are born from fantasy and scraps of washed up knowledge. For a realm so inhospitable to flesh and fluid, the Church of Divine Wealth would be quick to deem it outside the divine ways. This world would be labeled as empty as a bottomless pit, not worthy of attention by divinity. For many, it should just remain a gnawing mystery when sailing across the seas, wondering of what lurks far below their ship. However, the things that wash to shore sometimes bear proof that the abyss isn't so empty, that a sort of life exists in that realm of shadow and cold. What to describe these things that drift into the shallows is up to constant debate, with arguments that they are either holy or blasphemous. Their alien appearance and strange bodies sure strike revulsion in some, but what truly unsettles the people are the similarities we see in them.

One of the great mysteries and incredible phenomenon born from the abyss are the Saints, creatures who sheer existence sparks endless debate amongst the churches and priests. These sightings are rare, but each one sends waves through the divine, reigniting the investigation into these bizarre beings and the unknown world they ascend from. Their arrival is heralded by the thrashing of a great leviathan, a massive fish roiling in the shallows of the coast. For a beast of such size, traveling to such thin waters would mean death, but yet it willingly throws itself upon the shores. It will beach itself, laying there as if already dead, but then its great maw shall open wide. Unfurling from the darkness of this yawning throat is a Saint of the Sea, a bizarre insectile creature whose appearance strikes a chord in the devout. Despite the fearsome beast they are attached to, they are calm and careful creatures, their bodies and limbs moving in methodical slowness, as if a statue come to life. Their claws are bent in gestures of holiness, and at times they have been seen gripping tablets and effigies carved from ambergris. While these arrivals are rare, they do appear to have some kind of purpose or intent. As far as one can tell, there is always at least one person in the vicinity of the beach to witness their coming. For those who gaze upon this beached figure, it shall beckon them forth silently, with subtle gestures of their claws and faces. These Saints seek an audience, with seemingly no preference on who witnesses their sermon. 

From the tales, those who approach this waiting Saint shall be granted their blessing, sometimes in the form of carved ambergris or in cryptic words that echo in the mind. These aromatic totems are etched with odd symbols and unknown words, a tongue still not yet discovered. What purpose they serve is quite a mystery, but those who receive them and cling to them swear to odd events and fortunes changing their lives. Something comes from these effigies and words, even if one cannot understand them. Claims that they somehow steer one's fate, told by those who's dreams are now cold and dark. For those who are blessed with unspoken words, they will be at a loss at first. Though this message is translated to their tongue by their mortal mind, its meaning and purpose will be quite an enigma. But yet, those who hear them will find them guiding in the most unexpected of times. As if they had been granted a prophecy of their own lives, and now realize that this message was meant for this one single moment. Some have found these words saving, while others have been doomed by them. Are the words of these Saints meant to warn of what is to come, or merely the telling of a story already written?

While the legends of these encounters may excite one on the possibilities of meeting a Saint, a word of caution must be given. There are those who indeed grant blessings to those who draw close to hear, but not all Saints appear to be sworn to peace. Other tales speak of those who reach towards extended claws, to accept a priceless gift of ambergris, only for those talons to snap shut on their flesh. In one horrid moment, the Saint bolts to action and seizes the helpless sheep in its arms. The jaws of the leviathan shall close upon the screaming victim, and its great bulk shall churn through the shallow waters and sand. With the powerful thrashing of its body, it will push itself free of the shore and return to the deep, where all shall descend into the abyss once more. What happens to these stolen victims is up to our imaginations, with some simply believing that the Saint devours them, while others claim that it is for breeding purposes. All that is known is that those taken by these divine claws are never seen again. How these victims are selected, no one knows. There are plenty of guesses on things like purity, intent or allegiance, but so far the tales of those lost bear no discernible pattern. Much like everything else with the Saints, it is a mystery. 

Due to their holy appearance and sacred blessings, there are some sects of the church that believe that these creatures are truly divine. The idea that perhaps the abyss bears some kind of connection to the devout, that maybe it is a place meant for those who truly live by the word. The sea is strongly tied to Phlegm, in its calm and emotional ways. Why else does the rhythmic sound of the waves bring peace? What else can be compared to the waters that can be so serene and still one moment, than wrathful the next? These sects do find some connection to the sea, so why should the abyss be any different? To imagine a world of sheer darkness, where endless cold and stifling pressure robs the senses. Yet, in this deprived state, isn't it the perfect state for the mind? To truly meditate in a world where only the mind remains? With these beliefs, there are plenty of priests who see the abyss as an extension of their religion, a holy land where only the truly reverent can go. Thus, the Saints are seen as true saints, and they weave new tales to explain it so. 

If there are no answers to the mysteries of the world, than the devout shall take their faith and bend it to fit so. When asked how these divine Saints came to be, there is a myriad of tales to choose from. One popular legend claims that the first Saint came from a holy man who sought peace for his meditations. He wished to ponder upon life's great purpose, but to achieve the perfect state of Eukrasia, he needed absolute silence and stillness. Yet, each time he sat to pray and think, something would bother him and make such a journey impossible. His tale had him traveling to every room in the monastery, but yet each location had a flaw. He would then venture out into the world, hoping to find true peace out there. Yet again, each spot he sat to think in presented a distraction. At last, frustrated to no end by this constant failure, he cast himself into the sea, where he was devoured by a great fish. The tale ends with him in its belly, deep in the abyss, finally having found that true peace and quiet. As the story speaks:

Yunus, Yunus, mercy me

Where can your peace truly be Yunus, Yunus, mind now free

It's in the bowels of the sea

Another tale suggests that the Saints came to be because of the forbidden love between a divine priest and an abyssal creature. As the story goes, this priest was known for his wondrous sermons, and his flock came each holy day to hear him speak. Seeing how much his words meant to his people, he made sure to practice them every day to ensure perfection. The best place for him to ease his mind and test his sermons was upon the beach, where he found peace in the gentle waves and soft sand. Eventually, his pleasing words fell upon the ears of some creature of the deep, who was moved by them. They would come to the shallows to hear him speak, and the priest soon took notice of this strange audience. Rather than be afraid, he was equally moved at how such a strange beast loved his speaking, and thus was encouraged to keep doing so. Every day, he would go to the beach to share his sermon, and the abyssal creature would come to listen. Eventually, the two fell in love, and the priest began to neglect his duties. So caught up in sharing his words with his abyssal lover, that he began to miss his own mass, and the people grew angry. When they discovered him upon the beach with this horrible beast, the church and its flock cast him out and sought to execute him for heresy. It was then he and his lover embraced and fled into the ocean, vanishing into the abyss. The tale says that their children came to be the Saints, whose unknown swings between blessings and violence are from these offspring both caring for the humanity their father loved and despising them for driving him away.

Lastly, another popular story says that the Saints were born from two divine figures who sought to answer the mysteries of the world. However, their quest to learn all came upon a problem when they considered the vast seas. How would they be able to figure it all out, if they couldn't fathom these oceans? And if they committed themselves to the sea, how would they learn of the land? So the two came to an agreement: one of the divine would bind themselves to the earth to learn its secrets, while the other give themself to the ocean so they may explore its depths. Every ten years, the two would meet upon the shore, where their two realms conjoined, and share their new wisdom. This went on for decades, until one day the divine of the sea returned to find their partner missing. They would soon learn that the divine of the earth was killed in a thoughtless act of violence, and the knowledge enraged them. Furious at the corrupt world of man, they returned to the sea, taking their immense knowledge with them and never coming back. What birthed from this event were the many Saints, who still came to land time to time to share knowledge. However, they are all conflicted, torn between enlightening the world of man or condemning it. Those who approach will see what choice these Saints currently settled on..

Which of these are true, if any? To most, it does not matter. The Saints are divine, and blessed be to those who are granted their offerings, and woe to those whose sins doom them to the maw.

Look to the Saints who rest, unharmed, in the jaws of beasts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Saints of the Sea"

Was looking at old pictures and drawings of sea monsters, when I stumbled upon some old depictions of Jonah. Looking closer at a few gave me an ol' "Hmmmm, that looks familiar!"       

#monster #creature #isopod #parasite #tongue biter #leviathan #fish #fall of ichor #art #drawing #cymothoa exigua #saint

[gasolineghuleh]

would love to see a conversation between Defroque and Terzo, idk if they'd genuinely get along or if they'd be beefing the whole time 🌝

"Hm. You are a man of the cloth, then? For the eh- the big man upstairs?" Terzo pointed a sly finger heaven-ward, his white glove flashed reflected in the aviators of the man in front of him. His style was neat-- clean. But something lurked underneath that promised a mire and morass that Terzo was more interested in.

"You could call him that, I suppose. I prefer to call him our shepherd. It sounds a lot more like a man that I could get along with." Jim flashed a toothy smile at the anti-pope, gladly taking up the subtle and unspoken challenge. His voice lilted gently with a clear Southern upbringing, the consonants merely a glimmer of being present.

"And yet, you act as one of us. For why?" Terzo stepped slightly closer to the man, seemingly right at ease inside the small and modest Chapel that Father Jim Defroque oversaw. "Are you not called to righteousness like those you oversee? Teach? Guide?" There was a small sense of curiosity behind the mismatched eyes, focused so intently on the Father.

"Mm, a loaded question from one of your ilk. Do you not indulge as well, Father? The finer things in life?" Jim gestured to Papa's fine suit, obviously well tailored and expensive before hooking his thumb into the pocket of his own suit pants-- no doubt just as expensive as he implied Papa's were.

"Of course I do. But I do not pull the wool over my Clergy's eyes, si? Some of us are more discerning." Terzo took another step forward, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized the priest from head to toe. "You sell your religion for personal gain. Am I not right?"

"You are correct, for the most part." Jim nodded slowly, his face betraying his discomfort at the closeness of the imposing man in front of him. "Creature comforts keep the sermons coming, though, and that keeps the flock happy. Would you not suffer for your sheep as well?"

"Sheep? Feh." Papa's lip curled in annoyance at the descriptor. "I do not lord over a flock of sheep."

"No? Then what would you call your little followers?" Jim rolled his eyes behind the aviators and crossed his arms. The conversation was quickly becoming more and more irksome to the man.

"Wolves." Papa took another step closer, entering the Father's private space in a way that sucked the air out of the room. Jim would have sworn on the Bible that at that exact moment, Papa's eye flashed, and the temperature dropped. "I cultivate a Clergy of wolves, Father. I preach the demonic to the demons, the enochian to the angels. I preach truth."

"All of us preach our own truths, Father." Jim resisted the urge to step back from Papa, holding his own under the weight of his gaze-- no small feat, and one that Papa noticed.

"No... some preach because we have no other option." Papa shook his head and folded his arms. "Some preach because we believe the words. And it is Papa, Jim."

#lorraine writes #fic #fanfic #the band ghost #ghost bc #ghost #ghost bc fanfic #ghost fanfic #fanfic author #fic authors #fanfiction #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus #papa emeritus iii #papa iii #terzo #iii #jim defroque #defroque

[xjulixred45x]

Kinda Second part of Suguru Geto x Disabled Reader bc i can't have enogh

Reason to do this: IM IN A BRAINROT BEFORE EXAMS START, SO LETS DO THIS

This is more a Drabble so is more short

Warnings: Reader IS DISABLED(But not specificated what type, just it dificilt their movility), neutral Reader, soft Geto, Kinda hypocrite Geto bc Reader is implied to be an Non-Sorcerer? Idk, canon Geto behavior.

First part HERE for context.

Just thinking about Geto and his adorable Disabled Spouse, who he absolutely and utterly ADORES. Geto loves his disabled S/o so much, regardless of the difficulties they had.

For this reason, he tries to make their life as comfortable as possible, anything that can make their life easier is an immediate Yes (prosthesis? check, wheelchair? check, analgesics for chronic pain? double check, crutches? check, emergency injections?CHECK) it's really not a problem for him, and he finds it adorable if you try to stop him by telling him he should save all that money for his "cause", Awww look at you, thinking he gives two shits about the cult, you're so adorable .

Geto keeps you close almost all the time, yup, even in sermons, but at least he makes sure you're comfortable when he does, probably let You sleep in his lap meanwhile he speaks(he thinks is SO CUTE), and above all, keeping you away from the monkeys.

Thanks to this habit you now have something like your own worshipers, Geto doesn't blame them, it's the treatment you deserve, but he can't tolerate seeing them try to touch you, he already has to put up with your family doing it (to take care of you and your disability ) so it is an unspoken rule NOT to touch you, at least not if you appreciate your hands and life.

He helps with your disability with his own experience with you, but definitely what he likes to do the most is bathe with you (not in a perverted way!), it is simply very satisfying to get rid of the "monkey smell" that you get when you interact with the believers. He sees it as something quite intimate without having to be sexual.

He constantly argues with himself whether he should let you do more things for yourself or pamper you to the fullest. On the one hand, he knows that it is good for your health (both physical and mental) to do more things on a physical level in addition to the typical exercises you do with your family. so that the muscles do not atrophy, but on the other hand there is the very satisfying feeling of seeing you all sleepy and cuddly when he carries you "floating" (actually on top of some harmless curse) and the need not to want to make you lift a finger. It is a scale that usually tips one way or another depending on the day.

and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! How he hates seeing you in pain! the whole family does it, but he becomes the clingiest human being in the world!But despite that, he understands that sometimes the pain is simply too much to even endure physical contact, so (with pain in his heart) he resists the urge to pamper you and lets the family members who know of medicine and those of your family take charge of the situation.

Of course, hope that when you feel better, you both have a LONG bath, both to get rid of the smell of mokeys your family and to relax after such a big scare.

There's no way anyone would dare try to woo you or, god forbid, say something nasty about you. The first ones will at least have the blessing of dying quickly, BUT THE SECONDS....yes, one really doesn't want to know.

You are grateful for not knowing.

That was kinda thanks to 1-his love for you and 2- the family.

Manami was VERY skeptical of you at first, as ugly as it sounds, she saw you as Geto's pet at first, but you didn't want to leave things on bad terms, so you tried (and managed) to get along better with her. She is like your part-time personal assistant when he is not with Geto, she is the one who tries to prevent the "Monkeys" from touching you, who organizes your schedule with your doctors and your family and Geto, she even helps you choose your clothes, always inside of your tastes.

Miguel is another relevant character, if you are important to Geto, then he accepts you, but he didn't think you would be so... sweet despite your situation with your disability, he understood well why Geto chose you among all the people as "the exception", only you would understand the minimum that they went through (even if it is with a different context). He respects you deeply. Act as your biggest guardian alongside Mimiko and Nanako.

Mimiko and Nanako are the members most interested in you as a person, you are like a second father figure, although they don't love you as much as Geto, you are the closest to that(they wish they could have meet You or Someone like You BEFORE). and I can definitely see them trying to help you walk on your own or do things for yourself (even if Geto worries). They are your cheerleaders so to speak.

although I think Geto would put aside all concern if you tried to direct you to HIM, in a certain way. He would be EUPHORIC, congratulating you all the time. the twins recording everything.

Overall, as long as you can turn a blind eye to his questionable ethics, it's not a bad match after all. He will love, protect and treasure you no matter what.

#headcanons #neutral reader #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk #jujustu kaisen geto #jujustu kaisen #mimiko and nanako #getou suguru x reader #jujutsu kaisen geto #geto x reader #jujutsu geto #geto suguru #jjk geto #disabled reader #nanako hasaba

[cinycesum-fan]

Levi's monologue when he was beating the shit out of eren

I can't believe it. I mean, really, can you? It's like a twisted, messed-up joke that humanity's last hope is pinned on a group of bumbling, power-hungry, so-called leaders. These guys couldn't even lead a donkey to water without getting lost in the desert...

And don't get me started on the Yeager brat. Ugly as a Titan's backside, but they want to barbecue him like he's the main course at a Titan buffet. The poor brat is scared out of his mind, stuttering like a broken record, begging for his life every few seconds. Newsflash, brat: nobody understands you when you're gagged. It's like trying to have a deep philosophical debate with a brick wall.

Nile Dok, the shining beacon of all that is pig-headed and self-important. Head of the Military Police, they call him. But from where I'm standing, he's the grand poobah of all things nonsensical. And let's not forget Nick, the Minister Shitface, holding the prestigious title of vice-judge. It's like a match made in heaven – two peas in a pod of bureaucratic incompetence.

Erwin, on the other hand, well, he's got his own history with Dok. Something about stealing Erwin's girl, Marie, way back when. The details aren't clear, but you can bet your boots that it's a festering wound that still stings. You see, Eyebrows may look as calm as a tranquil lake, but beneath that serene exterior, there's a storm brewing.

Minister Nick and his never-ending religious sermons. He's all about that Walls mumbo-jumbo, but honestly, I've got more important things to do, like keeping your sorry butts alive in this Titan-infested world. If I did give a damn about religion, I'd want a better spokesperson than this guy. I mean, really, it's like having a dung beetle as your life coach. Nick's "inspirational" speeches would put even the most dedicated insomniac to sleep. But hey, maybe that's the secret to his survival – bore the Titans to tears. While he's preaching about the great beyond, I'm out here in the real world, making sure you have a future to even worry about.

If there's a heaven, hell, or purgatory, I hope they've got better entertainment than this holy bore. Dok's playing puppet master to Zackly, and it's a damn puppet show I'm not willing to watch any longer. The clock's ticking, and I can't let this charade continue. The jury needs a reality check before Dok's nonsense becomes law.

Erwin, my partner in crime, gives me that unspoken signal, and it's like we share the same damn brain. Twins, they call us, and they might be right. But let's get one thing straight – I got the looks, and I've got the, well, length, if you catch my drift.

It's time to step up, cut through the crap, and bring some order to this chaotic world. Because if there's one thing we don't need, it's more clowns in this circus of despair. It's time for the Survey Corps to do what we do best – kick some Titan ass and take names.

It's a damn shame that I have to resort to beating the living daylights out of Eren Yeager to make a point. But let me tell you, it's like a twisted kind of therapy for me. The kid's got a hair-trigger temper, and it doesn't take much to set him off. I mean, everything makes him lose his marbles.

You'd think we were living in a world where Titans are the least of our worries, with the way Eren goes ballistic over the smallest things. It's like he's got a personal grudge against serenity. But hey, if my fists can knock some sense into him, then I'll gladly be the bad guy. In this world, losing your cool can get you killed, and I'll do whatever it takes to keep this circus from turning into a bloody tragedy.

Mikasa, the black-haired girl, can't seem to stop gushing over "Ereh!" like she's some kind of Titan-slaying goddess. The way she clings to that Titan-spitface is almost comical. Kid's got herself a full-blown crush on Mr. Yeager.

And sure, I've heard it before, that Mikasa Ackerman looks a bit like me, despite us having zero ties. But let's get one thing straight – I'd rather be related to a sack of potatoes than be associated with a brat who's obsessed with Eren.

I'm not one to toot my own horn, but between her and me, I'm the hotter one in this messed-up circus. Beauty might not save the world, but it sure beats being infatuated with a Titan-transforming teenager.

It's not the stench of their porky existence that gets to me, although that's a close second. No, it's the fear that I feed on, thrive on, and let me tell you, it's a feast.

Dok and Minister Nick are probably soaking their pants, and also shitting right about now, knowing that in my mind's eye, I'm picturing them in Yeager's shoes. There's something satisfying about watching them squirm, knowing that their day of judgment might be just around the corner. It's like a sweet symphony, and I'm the conductor, orchestrating their fear, one crescendo at a time. This world is a savage playground, and I'm the merciless player.

Wait shit, was that a spit and blood covered tooth? Holy hell, it doesn't matter. I need to pull back. Just one more kick.

Okay, maybe one more for good measure. Can't leave things unfinished, right?

And one last one, just to make sure things are nice and tidy. It's not often I get to let loose like this, so might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Another kick for the sake of, well, cleanliness.

TLDR: Shipping between Levi and Eren won't be tolerated, it's disgusting.

#levi aot #levi ackerman #levi #rivaille heichou #rivaille ackerman #eren yeager #eren jaeger #aot erwin #erwin smith #erwin #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #shitpost #funny #sarcastic #sarcasm #dry humor #anime #manga #aot #cinycesum-fan-stuffs

[spookyspaghettisundae]

None the Wiser

With walls so white that fluorescent lights made them blinding, Chloe Grant soon started seeing bright spots everywhere. Ghostly echoes danced about her field of vision, around her own reflection in the bulletproof glass surface. Instead of bars, clear windows separated visitors from the inmates in their cells, with thick glass plates reaching from floor to ceiling, and tiny breathing holes that wouldn’t even permit anybody to poke as much as a finger through.

Automatic lights turned on everywhere they wandered. Stern-faced and square-jawed guards kept close watch, sporting glossy body armor, and electric stun batons hooked onto their belts. Doors here never opened to traditional keys, their magnetic locks only yielded to plastic cards with RFID chips. Electric buzzing came muted and quiet from those devices, with tiny red lights turning green, and dim touchscreen interfaces flanking the sides of every cell.

Low ceilings swallowed all echoes and suggested floors upon floors of other tracts, and the overall oppressive atmosphere made it less inviting to say anything than in a church during a sermon.

Though security here was as high as it got, this whole place felt less like a prison, and more like a strange sanitarium, transported from a dark past into an even weirder future.

On the way in, Chloe Grant had half-expected to see a real-life Hannibal Lecter standing inside one of the bright chambers, bound in a straitjacket, goading them to step closer.

Instead, Singh paced back and forth inside his cell. Dark rings underlined his haunted eyes, and every joke the thin man cracked to lighten the mood felt forced.

Grant recognized this brand of despair. Their former colleague was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.

“I’d love to tell you more,” said Doctor Solomon. The corners of his lips twitched with a hint of a smile, like a child who could barely contain himself. “But I believe everything we say here is recorded and gathered, and for the sake of our continued paychecks, I must keep our upcoming innovations confidential.”

The eccentric doctor and lead engineer in their company was doing his best to cheer up Rida Singh. It wasn’t working. Still, Singh’s face featured a brief flash of recognition over Solomon’s noble effort.

Ruiz scratched his five o’clock shadow and nodded. They all knew what Solomon was trying, so Ruiz offered his best attempt towards the same end.

“Can we get you anything in here? Everybody’s being sketchy about visiting times, and rules, and the likes.”

Singh shook his head and coughed.

“No. This place is only temporary anyway. Lawyer said, uh, I’m being transferred to some other facility next. Before the trial, yeah?”

Grant hedged so many unspoken questions for Singh. Why he had pulled the move he had to land himself here, what he had hoped to accomplish, and if he realized that his stunt had effectively gotten Carter killed.

It wasn’t the time nor place. She held her tongue.

She had almost expected Ruiz to pose those questions, anyway given he seemed to have been closer to Carter and Singh and a spy for… another agency? Company? Who knew? Bennett was still digging.

Ruiz was playing it cool. Playing the concerned colleague all the way.

Or maybe he wasn’t even playing at all.

The most convincing liars rarely lied. They drew their confidence from the naked truth, letting deceptions fall unnoticed through the cracks.

She had been watching him for the past days. She had noticed the shake in his hand. At Carter’s funeral, Ruiz had tried to hide the shaking. Not even smoking could do it.

And the man’s eyes had welled with tears at the funeral. His loss appeared profound and honest. Carter and Ruiz had been working closely together for over a year.

Grant’s inner monologue drowned out whatever superficial things the three men were talking about now.

Singh’s eyes wandered her way and she felt pressured to say something again. So she did.

“Whatever you do, don’t say anything without Spencer’s legion of lawyers to sand it down.”

He smirked. Scoffed.

“Man, I am really,” Singh started. Pausing, he ran a hand through his frazzled hair and sighed. “I don’t know, I’m just really disappointed in Spencer. He’s leavin’ me hanging here, man.”

Grant sympathized. With both Singh and Spencer.

The CEO needed to keep the ship running. The lights on, the bills paid, the progress made.

Meanwhile, Singh had only been doing his job, and if things had worked out, he might have been celebrated for his actions. Instead, Carter was dead, the US government’s team had killed the T-Rex and taken its remains, and Singh, their former head of IT, now sat in federal prison, awaiting a trial that could put him in a cell for life.

“Yeah,” she replied. Sighed. She hated that this was the best she could muster in response. “Wish we could do more.”

Singh cracked another feeble smile. He appreciated her own miserable attempt at giving him any shred of courage.

He continued pacing back and forth in his cell.

“Don’t worry old chap,” Doctor Solomon told his junior colleague. Despite the oppressive gloom of this brightly-lit prison, the elderly man beamed. “Chin up. Spencer’s a cold fish when you shine a light on him, but he rewards your loyalty when you least expect it. And speaking of fish, Bernie’s taken care of—I have him in my lab and he’s only being fed the best money could buy.”

Solomon tapped the window between them twice and gave Singh a reassuring nod.

Singh exhaled sharply and he smiled the first honest smile since their arrival.

“Thanks. Owe you one, Doc. Just, uh, don’t do anything funny with Bernie, okay?”

“I would never dream of it,” said Solomon. Then he tilted his head. “Unless you give me consent to experiment on him? See, his species would make him a good specimen for tests relating to the Devonian—”

“No. N. O,” Singh said, spelling out his denial and emitting a nervous chuckle.

None of them were sure when Solomon said things like that.

“In all seriousness,” Ruiz said, “I bet you, Spencer got Bennett and whoever else diggin’ on what really happened out over in Midland. You’ll be out in no time, then the first drink’s on me, amigo.”

Grant wasn’t convinced.

How much did Ruiz know? How much of it was in his hands? Could something he knew set Singh free?

She flashed Singh a smile so feeble that they may as well have been looking into a mirror, rather than through a glass window.

“Stay frosty and see you soon,” she said. A deep breath, and part of her composure returned. She winked at him. “And don’t bite too hard when you get any cake, might just be a file hidden in there.”

His smile widened, replete with warmth.

The three visitors remained quiet on their way out. Down the claustrophobic corridors, past the tiny blinking lights, and doors that only guards could open with their mag-lock keycards. Before long, the trio found themselves back out on the parking lot of the Carrington Federal Correctional Institute.

High fences topped with razor wire surrounded them. Only few other vehicles stood parked on the visitor’s lot.

The shadows of visors concealed the watchful eyes of prison guards, all observing their every move as the trio shuffled about on the parking lot.

The three stopped and stood in silence, all grappling with what to say next, before they inevitably scattered in the winds.

Uncomfortable in this environment, Solomon was first to speak and first to leave. He straightened the collar of his gray jacket. “Oh, well, don’t let any of this eat at you. I’m confident Spencer can pull some strings and get Singh released soon enough. He’ll be back to annoying you on comms before you know it. On a lighter note, I’m excited to share with you the details on our newest achievement. Not here, of course. I’ll see you two back at the office. Bring beverages, the briefing might take a while.”

The head engineer disappeared into his old blue Charger and drove off, leaving Ruiz and Grant behind.

Ruiz was smoking a cigarette, leaning against his motorcycle. Grant hadn’t even noticed him light up his cancer stick.

His eyes narrowed, studying one of the fence’s watchtowers. Like a sharpshooter, observing his mark, staring back at a guard up there. When he spoke, it almost looked like he was talking to the faraway guard, but the words were aimed at Grant.

“Why did you come here, anyway?”

Her heart started pounding like a huge drum. It wasn’t even like she felt caught—the question offended her somehow.

“Excuse me?”

Ruiz took a long drag from his cigarette. “You’re still pretty new to FP. I never figured you and Singh to have been close.”

This left her speechless. He must have known how his words would hit. But why? And why now?

He answered unspoken questions, answering for his offense unprompted. “Sorry. Just curious. Trying to get to know you better. You know what, though? I ain’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Preciate you’ve been here—been to Carter’s funeral, now, this—good having you… havin’ you on the team.”

Ruiz’s gaze wandered from the watchtower to Grant, locking onto her eyes with a burning stare. He took another drag. His eyes glittered something strange. His model shape looked stunning in this sunlight.

She swept her hair back, stewing on his speech, looking for the right words to counter it with.

“Don’t mention it. Least I can do.” She bit her lip. Maybe the easiest way to keep tabs on him would be to… “I know you offered Singh a drink when he’s out, but how about you offer me one sometime?”

She got into her car while he stood there, staring after her, smoking.

“Careful,” he said. Every syllable billowed out like smoke. “Don’t wanna get us into hot water for fraternizing too closely outside of work.”

Ruiz nodded, as if agreeing with himself on what he had just said. He stood still where he leaned against his motorcycle, posed like the languid statue of a post-modern deity, rivaling famous underwear models in his attractive poise.

She shot back. “Hold them horses cowboy, it’s a just a drink or two.”

His lips curled into a smile. He performed a mock salute with two fingers.

She took off, pulling the car around and driving away.

Grant shot furtive glances in her rearview mirror as she left the prison’s parking lot behind. Ruiz continued staring after her as she drove away. Then he stamped out his cigarette on the Tarmac, mounted his bike, and slipped the black helmet over his head, visor flapped down.

Then, as Grant’s car trailed around the curving road, lines of tall trees swallowed Ruiz and the prison whole.

She had a lot to think about, and she had a long drive ahead of her. Visiting Singh here was quite out of the way, and he would be transferred even farther for the trial.

Things weren’t looking good for Singh, and she wondered if she could get him off the hook… if only she gathered enough evidence on Ruiz’s espionage, and the mystery redhead he worked with—that suspicious suit he had been meeting at the café in Austin.

He had met with that redhead more than once since Grant started following him around. Grant had been stalking Ruiz, always careful not to tip him off to his tail.

She used rentals, taxis, and even set up in any inconspicuous locales where she could watch the roads he frequented throughout the city.

Grant even knew where Ruiz lived now. Downtown, fifth story of an old building that looked fit for gentrification in the near future. She wondered what his place looked like inside.

Endless minutes later, her phone buzzed, piercing the mind fog. Danielle Bennett was calling.

Grant plugged in an earbud and tapped her phone to take the call.

“What’s up, Danielle?” she asked Bennett.

“Where are you? Driving?”

“Mhm. On my way back from visiting Singh in Carrington.”

“Did he—you know what, tell me later. You’ll have to step on the gas, we got another incursion to deal with. The operative C2A is about to go out any minute now.”

Grant clicked her tongue. “Where?”

Bennett’s fingers hammered away at a keyboard with incredible speed.

“Kentucky. Appalachian mountains.”

Grant sighed. “Guess my book needs to wait. Again. I’m on my way.”

Her finger hovered near the button to hang up. More words from Danielle followed, stopping her from pressing it.

“What are you… you know what? Tell me later? Uhm,” Bennett paused for a long beat. More click-clacking at her keyboard followed. “I didn’t just call about the incursion, I, uhm, I got more on… you-know-who.”

She sounded as mousy as she usually looked. Grant knew exactly who Bennett meant.

The redhead Ruiz had been holding his clandestine meetings with.

Grant kept her eyes on the road. Traffic on the highway drifted in slow motion despite her car accelerating. “You sure this is the right channel to talk about it? The walls have ears, and all that?”

Bennett gasped. A frustrated gasp. Grant immediately regretted posing that question.

“Hey, I’m no newbie here. If I don’t want to be seen or heard, then I won’t be seen or heard.”

Grant smiled, stifling a laugh. “Okay, okay. I know. Just… we gotta be careful, okay?”

They still hadn’t informed anybody yet. As far as Grant knew, nobody knew that she and Bennett knew about Ruiz’s espionage on Spencer’s boardroom meeting. Or about the redhead.

“Do you wanna hear it, or not?” Bennett asked.

“Sure thang. Hit me.”

Bennett simmered in another long pause. The furious typing at her keyboard stayed absent for several beats, for so long that Grant almost asked if everything was alright, just before Bennett started hacking away again.

“Her name is Loretta Corsino. She is in no shape or form affiliated with the American government. She’s a consultant in the private sector. Harvard, attorney, squeaky-clean record, can’t find dirt on her anywhere.”

Grant snorted. This surprised her. Another private firm, butting into FP’s business?

It made enough sense. For now. Still, some pieces of the puzzle were missing. Frustratingly so.

“Huh.”

“She works part-time in cybersecurity at a US branch of a British company named Celava Semi-Conductors.”

“Huh,” Grant said again. “So they’re IT?”

“A little bit more than that. Get a load of this,” Bennett said. “They’re kind of a pioneer in the field of high-energy physics, developing new forms of semi-conductors, shielding, and other components for use in nuclear reactors, particle accelerators, and other high-tech projects.”

Grant’s heart started racing again. Celava sounded like competition. A rival for Future Proof. This wasn’t good.

They knew. The had to know what Future Proof was dealing in.

“The plot thickens…”

“No kidding! CEO’s a guy named Malcolm Wright, a real Conan the Barbarian-looking guy in a suit,” Bennett’s typing ceased. Her syllables drawled out as she was reading something off a screen before continuing. “Celava used to be trumpeted by the British government as an example of how their national industry was ‘moving into the future’, but then Wright caused a rift between the government and his company.”

Now, Grant was intrigued. She said nothing. Bennett continued uninterrupted.

“A year ago, there was an accident at Celava’s main research facility. Two scientists died. According to official accounts, there was some kind of explosion of super-heated steam when a faulty valve blew. The families of the two dead scientists there were given generous compensation—and, curiously, made to sign an agreement that both funerals would be held immediately, with closed coffins and no viewing of the bodies.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. You thinking what I’m thinking? This also sound very cover-uppy to you?”

“Yeah.” They knew. The Anomalies, the dinosaurs from the past, the mutants from the future, and the secret operations to keep these things from the public. “Yeah, they sure as hell know.”

“Good, glad we’re on the same page. You gotta be careful, okay? No telling how deep this rabbit hole really goes. It’s a whole other can of worms if the spy’s working for someone else in the private sector.”

“I know, I—”

“I mean it. I know you know. I know you’re going to tell me that this is the kind of rabbit hole where people disappear and wind up dead, or in closed coffins with no viewing of the bodies. I know you want to tell me to be careful, too. I know.”

“Okay. Yeah, let’s just,” Grant took a deep breath. “Let’s just play it cool, keep our cool. Keep working like we’re none the wiser. I’m starting to think we need to go to Spencer about all this, sooner than later. We, uhm. Speak soon, Danielle, I’m stopping at home before hitting the HQ for airlift. I’ll be a few minutes late.”

“You… call me Dan.”

Grant smiled.

“Okay, Dan. See you soon.”

They hung up.

Half an hour later, Grant pulled into her new driveway. Gravel crunched underneath her sneakers on the short way from the garage to her front door. The fresh coat of paint looked good.

It was a nice place.

Even with all the cardboard boxes inside, cluttering the entrance foyer, and the living room, and the kitchen, and the—

The doorbell rang. It startled her. She froze, heart racing again, in the middle of packing a bag to exchange her laundry at Future Proof’s city HQ. Just as she zipped up her duffel bag, the doorbell rang a second time.

A shadow awaited her outside. Still, calm, and looming, the tiny windows obscured everything about her visitor but the shadow.

She opened the front door.

The shadow turned out to have been Ruiz. He was standing out there.

Ruiz thumbed his lip as their gazes met.

How did he know where she lived?

“Hey,” he said. Husky, smoky, and stern. “I needed to see you. Speak to you. It’s urgent.”

What? About what? How—

She almost voiced her doubts unfiltered, then found her cool, thinking back to what she had told Danielle earlier—to keep their cool. “Is this about the incursion, or about the drink?”

Ruiz smirked. His eyes glittered something strange again. Flashing with something seductive.

“No. Getting to HQ for the job needs to wait, too. I need to speak to you. Alone.”

Taken off-guard, Grant rubbed the back of her neck, and considered her options.

He gave her no space to think.

“Can I come inside? Talk in there?”

“It’s… quite a mess. I’m still moving in,” she fired back.

“I ain’t fussy,” he said. His eyes flashed again. Narrowed. Drilling into her, scanning her up and down.

Did he know? Did he know what they knew?

“Okay, sure. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. Let’s chat.” She stepped aside and invited him in with a sweeping gesture.

He stepped inside, swerving past the stacks of cardboard boxes, looking for a place to talk.

Grant licked her lips.

Her gun was upstairs.

#spoospasu #spookyspaghettisundae #horror #short story #writing #literature #spooky #fiction #mystery #thriller #spy #espionage #scifi #science fiction #Primeval #Future Proof #fic #dinosaur #Anomaly #corporate #cat and mouse #Celava #Chloe Grant #Doctor Solomon #Ruiz #Singh #Bennett #Loretta Corsino #conspiracy #rival

[qqueenofhades]

Might I request Helnink sharing their country’s winter/holiday traditions with each other?

"I don't care how traditional it is in Fjerda," Nina says warningly, putting her hands on her hips. "I am not eating lutefisk."

Matthias gives her a slightly hurt look, as if they're finally reunited (well, mostly) and working on actually reconciling, and the first thing she does is go and slander his country's terrible, terrible food. The winter solstice is an observation of particular significance to Djel -- something about the renewal of the year, the holy light returning to the fallen world after an eternity of darkness, and so forth -- and Nina would think there would be more joy and cheer to it, but of course, Fjerdans are suspicious of anything that looks too much like fun. There are other traditional foods, to be sure, some of which she might even voluntarily consume. But when it comes to lutefisk, no. She is putting her foot down.

"Fine, then," Matthias huffs. "What do they do in Ravka, then?"

"We have lots of things," Nina informs him, "that people actually like to eat. Babka, kalach, sochivo, peljmeni, tvorozhniki, just to name a few. I'd cook some for you and we could have a contest, but that might throw you into terrible religious disfavor."

Matthias throws a sour look at her, as if to point out that by virtue of deserting his homeland and his calling, his military training, his order of humorless witch-hunters and all the rest, and taking up in carnal cohabitation with a Grisha demoness, that pretty much does for any scrap of his religious favor anyway. Nina laughs, then bites her cheek, feeling slightly guilty, and pads over to put her hands on his chest. "I can, if you want," she adds. "And I'm even willing to take a stab at some Fjerdan food, but no lutefisk. What else?"

He thinks about it. "Pinnekjøtt," he says, after a moment. "It's a special rack of lamb. Same with juleribbe. And there's rice pudding with sugar and cinnamon, risengrynsgrøt. Marzipan, apples, almonds, hot spiced wine." He pauses, eyes going briefly distant. "My mother used to make marzipan candy. A long time ago. It was one of my favorite things about Yule."

"Well, then," Nina says briskly. "We'll just have to find Fjerdan marzipan somewhere in Ketterdam. If we did make a whole dinner, do you think Kaz, Jesper, and Wylan would want to come?"

Matthias snorts. His opinion of their new cohorts remains unavoidably low, though there's a grudging and very unspoken respect between him and Kaz. Jesper is always up for any party anywhere, of course, and Wylan will perforce tag along. Nina's up for eating most things, and even despite her intransigence on the issue of lutefisk, she does want to do something to make the holidays special for Matthias. They're not quite as tentative around each other as they used to be, but after how long he spent rotting in the guts of Hellgate -- it's the least she can do, that's all.

"What else?" she says. "Is there a service? Do you have to go prostrate yourself for hours in front of some frozen ash tree, or -- ?"

"Some of us," Matthias says with considerable asperity, "do still take the gods seriously. What about you?"

"Ravkans go to church, usually. Kneel in front of the icons of the saints and ask for their blessings." Nina hasn't been religious for as long as she can remember, and frankly, after what she saw the so-called Sankta Alina do in the Fold, the way she used black merzost to bring back her defunct otkazat'sya lover, she's especially suspicious of anyone or anything proclaiming to be pure and holy as sunlight. "I don't think I'll be doing that this year, though," Nina adds, half to herself. "I've never really wanted to."

Matthias briefly looks as if he is about to deliver a stern sermon on her lack of pious sentiment (truly, why does she like this man so much?) but then sighs and gives in. "All right," he says -- and look at that, the big bad druskelle, actually making compromises. Maybe there is hope for them after all. "As long as we get the food."

"Oh." Nina rises on her tiptoes to kiss him -- just on the cheek, but still, and at last, he does not flinch away. "When it comes to Nina Zenik and food, you can always count on me."

#anonymous #ask #helnik #helnik ff #sab ff #winter prompts

[a-formal-lad]

"Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest," he sighed to himself.

It had only been an hour, but Alex'a hand was starting to cramp up. It would be at least another four, he guessed, before their work was done.

He could hear Scott, who was so close they were practically touching, working on his own writing task behind him, and knew he would be having the same trouble, the same thoughts. They were not forbidden from looking around at each other, only from communicating, yet neither dared steal even a glance, as that would certainly be the moment they were caught.

Had it been worth it? In hindsight, no, it hadn't. But they both couldn't help sharing a joke during the last prayer at church that morning. It was only one changed word, and nobody else heard it among the chorus of voices. It had made them giggle, but it had infuriated Sir. He gave them a glare, and they spent the rest of the sermon staring at their bare knees, knowing their fun would cost them.

After the sermon ended, Sir ushered them quickly toward the exit, pausing only for a moment to thank the minister for the service and wish him well, before pointedly mentioning he had to be on his way with two boys who needed attending to.

The walk home from the church had been silent and uncomfortable, save for the clatter of dress shoes on concrete paving, with the two boys walking sheepishly behind Sir as he strode purposefully home. They dared not speak a word, and occasionally caught a look back from Sir.

They were ushered into the house as bruskly as they'd departed the church, and once the door was closed, it began.

Sir whirled around and said only one thing: "Pinks. Five minutes. Now."

They knew what this meant, and they both quickly moved to ascend the stairs.

* * *

They were not technically brothers, but you would be hard pressed to tell. They'd arrived within two weeks of each other. Strangers, both grown men, yet both needing something else that adulthood couldn't give them. Something more traditional, more disicplined, more old-fashioned.

Alex had been the second to arrive, and within two days, they both sported identical haircuts and identical new wardrobes. Albeit in a slightly larger size for Scott, being the taller of the two. Even though it was not really necessary, Sir had each lad affix a name label to the inside of each item of clothing to distinguish one from the other. Alex had worn contacts since his late teens, and Scott had 20/20 vision, yet Sir fitted them both with identical thick black frames; corrective for Alex, while Scott's had a subtle prescription, and they were to be worn at all times.

They were moved in together, occupying identical twin single beds on either side of the spartan small bedroom they now shared. In the context of the rest of the house, it was the smallest bedroom, suitable for a nursery or a single child's bedroom, but was now occupied by two ostensibly fully grown adult men.

They had bonded very quickly, thrown together as they were into a world of rules and chores and early bedtimes and inspections.

It was an unspoken rule between them, to never tattle on each other. Initially, this meant that if Sir knew who was responsible or who to punish, he'd punish that boy alone, but if he didn't, they would both accept punishment together, never giving up the other. But there came the day when Scott accidentally dropped a dish while they were cleaning up, and Sir knew who would require 6 strokes of the strap to his hands. But Alex could not watch this unfold. It wasn't just because he felt partly responsible - maybe he hadn't properly rinsed off all the suds, leaving it slippery, or maybe he hadn't handed it to him carefully enough. But also because this was his brother.

Before Alex had known what he was doing, the words tumbled out of his mouth: if Scott was to be punished, then Alex should be punished as well. Something tight in his gut made him regret it immediately as possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but also the right thing, the only thing, to be done. Sir had taken a moment, genuinely surprised, then laid down the rule: one punished, both punished. They had both looked at each other, then nodded in agreement. "Yes, Sir." The dishes had thus been completed very carefully and gingerly by two lads with well strapped hands.

Alex wondered why he was willing, or even wanting, to take 12 strokes of the cane for this man, whose real last name he didn't even know, and concluded that it was the same reason the grown adult men in the military bond together, through adversity and because all they have to rely on is each other.

Scott never asked Alex's own real last name either, and Alex decided he didn't want to know Scott's. It was an irrelevancy. They were Sir's boys, his sons, and brothers never need to discuss what their last names are. They never even told each other their real birthdays or ages, so had no idea who was actually the eldest or by how much. Sir had decided their shared birthday had been that second day, when they'd both been shorn, shaved and put into matching school uniforms, as that was the day their lives had properly begun. They did agree, though, that Scott seemed to be the older of the two "twins," fraternal presumably, as he seemed to be a little bit more the sensible brother, grasping more quickly what was going on, while Alex was a little more mischievous.

They slept together, studied and did their homework together, helped with the meals together, did the dishes together, prayed before bed together, polished their shoes and ironed their shirts together. The only time they were ever really apart was matters relating to the bathroom. Even then, Sir bathed them together once a week, the two grown adult boys crammed into the tub so that Sir could make sure they started the week scrubbed and freshly shaved from the neck down.

And so it was then, that two naughty boys were heard by their Sir to recite "lead a snot into temptation" during the Lord's Prayer at Sunday service, and to then be facing a dressing down now they were home.

* * *

The clatter of hard-soled school shoes could be heard as they ascended the staircase, as they moved swiftly. This wasn't a race; if one was late, they would both be late, but they knew not to keep Sir waiting.

In their room, they stripped off their Sunday best suits, everything all the way down to their white underwear. They glanced at each other for a moment in recognition, Alex slightly tilting his head as if to say, "oh well," as they recognised and understood the nature of the bulge in each other's underpants. It had only been a week ago that the steel locks concealed within had been reduced, again, from their already diminutive size down to Nubs, during their weekly shared bath and shave. Both had been locked since their respective first days, and neither had spent any time unlocked except for the weekly shave-downs, which Sir always ensured used plenty of cold water. Nor had there been any sign of this changing.

Now nubbed, time had been rewound to before either of them had commenced puberty. They were smooth and tiny. Emasculated, juvenile boys. It was humiliating enough to have Sir fit each boy into it, his hands on his head, the other boy facing the wall, also hands on head. It was even more so when Sir described the results, their manly endowments, as being "boy buttons."

Scott was still folding the short trousers for his church suit when Alex sighed and reached for what was next. His Pink Punishment uniform. Pink shirt, pink shorts, pink socks, it was intended to humiliate and geld two exuberant boys.

Scott was still putting on his black shoes as Alex looked at himself fully pinked in the mirror. Somewhere in his mind he registered that he was - they were - two grown adult men who should be at the pub or watching a football game. The two could just walk out of there and go get a pint.

Except, it was impossible. His vision shifted from himself and his silly pink outfit to Scott and the rest of the room, reflected in the mirror. This was his world. Was it that a real man wouldn't allow himself to be dressed so humiliatingly and be subjected to what was to come, so he couldn't really be a real man? No, it was more the opposite. He was man enough to know that what he needed most was to be what every man craves: a good boy. Going to the pub would be taking the easy route. Alex and Scott were not.

With time ticking away, Alex was already ready, he plucked out the cleaning rag from their shoe polishing kit and knelt and gave Scott's shoes a quick rub as he finished tying them. Even if Scott had still been getting out his Pinks, Alex would remain there and wait. Brothers stick together.

Scott fiddled the last knot into place and stood up. They both tightened their ties and scanned each other up and down, looking for anything that could get them in trouble. An improperly tucked shirt, a sock adrift, a tie knot askew.

"You look like a sissy."

"No, you look like a sissy."

They both smiled sheepishly at each other, silently acknowledging that this was humiliating and weird - even real teenage boys wouldn't be subjected to this - and yet neither of them wanted to be anywhere else. They quickly moved, with the sound of clunking school shoes on the hallway floor, to the bathroom to tidy their hair. Again, another quick check of each other and they were ready.

Scott took Alex's hand and started for the stairs. They both stopped and looked at each other, then at their hands. They'd never done that before. "I... it was just instinct." Alex squeezed his hand and nodded towards the stairs, and Scott led the way. It wasn't a romantic gesture - boys hold hands with their assigned buddy to keep them safe as they cross the road or navigate up or down stairs.

The clatter of shoes on hardwood stairs rang through the stairwell as they descended. At the bottom, they released hands and took up their places standing outside Sir's study. They could hear him in there, and there was no chance of him not hearing them come back down. Sir would attend to them when he was ready.

After several minutes, they were summoned. "In here, now."

They bustled in and took up their places facing his desk. He sat for a moment, then stood and walked slowly behind them, to observe the two grown men - naughty little boys, really - in their ridiculous pink uniforms. He completed his circuit to stand before them. A contrast of his adult masculinity in his white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, charcoal suit trousers, and thick tie, compared to these absurd, humbled children in long socks and bared knees. There was only one adult, one man in the room, and it was he.

And that's when it came out. The disrespect of making jokes during solemn worship, the gall to make vile body fluid substitutions in the Lord's Prayer, the hypocrisy of two foolish, sinful boys being led into temptation, the contempt for him, that his boys would shame him in front of the congregation if they should have heard, the disrespect to the congregation, to the minister, to the Lord God Almighty. And then to top it all of, doing all this in the Lord's own house?

"Sorry, Sir."

"You sure will be, because to make sure you get it right, you'll be writing out the Lord's Prayer, in full, 100 times." As lunch was not far away, they would immediately stand in the corner until it was time to eat, and then after cleaning the lunch dishes, receive 12 each of the strap before setting to their writing task, to really ensure they retained focus.

"Yes, Sir."

Scott and Alex each took their place in their usual corners, hands on head. Alex usually tried to keep track of time remaining by counting Mississippis, but there was no point, as they would be in "their" corners until lunchtime, and he didn't have a sense of how long that would be.

* * *

The ache in his arms and his shoulders had well and truly set in, and he'd tried to adjust his stance and the position of his arms for the dozenth-dozenth time. He thought back to those hypothetical guys in the pub on a Sunday, instead of in a silly pink uniform about to bend over to be strapped, and then write out church prayers all afternoon. If those guys saw what was going on in here, what Scott and he were wearing and doing, subjecting themselves to, those guys would rightfully laugh and mock them. But it was the only thing that made sense to the two boys.

Nothing compelled them to stay. Legally, technically, and in every way, they could leave at any time. Both he and Scott could change clothes, walk out the door, go get a drink at the pub, and then sleep off the hangover until the middle of the next day.

But they wouldn't. They'd go to bed at their early bedtimes in their little twin beds, be up before 6am, wear their uniforms, do their chores, their schoolwork, homework, bible study, say their morning and evening prayers and grace before meals, go to church, get their fortnightly haircuts, polish their shoes, iron their shirts, and accept all the little indignities and humiliations throughout the day, such as waiting for scheduled bathroom breaks, holding their hands out to receive the strap for bad work, and having a tiny steel-cased bump in their tight white briefs. Because that's what good boys do. They needed to be there.

The ache in his arms, his uplifted tie-knot pressing at his throat, the breeze around his bare knees, the condensation on his glasses from his breath reflected back by the wall, the stiff clompy feeling of his school shoes... all of this was better, more compelling than a frosty cold beer. When was the last time he'd had a beer? He couldn't even remember. For all intents and purposes, it probably was the last time he would have a beer. Boys drink orange juice, milk or water.

Almost as if on cue, they were summoned to lunch. They stood at their seats either side of Sir until he was seated and he then invited them to seat themselves, as they had been taught. They held hands for the blessing as they said grace together. The rest of lunch was conducted in silence, with Sir having said all he needed to for the timebeing, and the boys well aware their chitchat was unwelcome. Once Sir had finished, the boys cleared the table, washed the dishes and wiped the benches, all still in their silly pink punishment uniforms. The job done, they returned to their corners to await the next step.

Sir took his time. He changed out of his church suit into a more weekend-typical slacks, shirt and tie, and washed his hands before returning to his study and the boys with their noses buried in their corners. He contemplated putting a name tag in each corner, to assure them both that it was "their" corner. Unconcerned with their comfort, he pawed through the letters on his desk and wrote some checks for bills, noticing from the boys the increasing fatigue in their upraised arms as they subtly tried to adjust their posture. He was in no hurry, however. They would remain in position because they knew better than to disobey when they were already in trouble.

The mail and bills sorted, he stacked them up and put them aside, then simply sat and watched for a few minutes. Those juvenile pink uniforms were just delicious and worth the cost of special-ordering them. He would look into re-ordering them, but with shorter shorts. But for now, there were matters to attend to.

Sir's voice summoned them to turn around and face him, which they did, still keeping their hands on heads. Guilt and shame broadcast from their faces. He withdrew his heavy strap from its displayed position on the sideboard and moved in front of his desk.

It had been his habit that when the guilty boy was unknown or was both of them together, to alternate which boy was punished first. But when one boy was guilty, the innocent one would be punished first, to allow the culprit to digest the punishment fully cognizant and undistracted from the burning of his own punished posterior. He suspected Alex was more behind today's church prank, but it was Scott's turn to be punished first anyway.

"Scott." Sir gestured to the spot in front of his desk.

Scott made his way quickly to the spot, his hands still on his head, as were Alex's. Once in position, he lowered his arms, unbuttoned his shorts and lowered them and his white underwear, then bent over to touch the carpet.

Sir flipped up Scott's shirt-tail out of the way, then glanced at Alex to ensure he was paying due attention. His arm drew back and he swung.

"One, Sir."

"Two, Sir."

"Three, Sir."

Scott sucked his teeth. ".... Ffour, Sir."

"Fiiive, Sir."

"Six, Ssir."

"Sevven, Sir."

Scott flinched with number 8. "Remain in position or I start over, boy."

"Yyes, Sir. Eight, Sir."

"Nnine, Sir."

"Ten, Sir."

"Eleven, Sir."

Sir took a moment, rotated the shoulder of his strapping arm, then delivered the final.

Scott sucked his teeth even harder. "T...twelve, S...sir. Thank you, Sir."

"Up. Back in position."

Scott, face red, retrieved his pink shorts and white underwear, tucked everything back in properly, adjusted his glasses, then returned to his position in his corner, hands on head, to face his disciplinarian.

"Alex."

Alex moved forward, stepped to the correct spot, lowered his arms, undid his shorts and lowered them with his underwear to his ankles and bent over, staring at his black shoes and the puddle of ridiculous pink and white, his tie pressing tightly into his neck and hanging over his face, and his glasses shifting slightly off his nose.

Sir took a moment, placing the strap on the table, to loosen up his strapping arm some more. The boy could wait a moment.

When he was ready, he began.

"One, Sir."

"Two, Sir."

"Ththree, Sir."

"Louder boy, or I'll assume you don't know where we're up to and start over."

"Three, Sir!"

"Four, Ssir."

"Ffive, Sir."

"Ssix, Ssir."

"Sseven, Sir."

"Ay-Eight, Ssir."

Alex audibly grunted with the ninth. "You take your punishment like a man, boy. You're not a farm animal. We'll do that one again, and be grateful we're not starting over."

"Yes, Sir."

"Nnine, Sir."

"Tten, Sir."

"Eleven... Sir."

The final one was always an event. Alex steeled himself and curled his lips into his mouth so as not to give away any ungentlemanly reaction.

It almost knocked the wind out of him and took him a moment to recover. He breathed heavily. "........... Twelve, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

"Back."

Alex retrieved his underwear and pink shorts, put himself back together, adjusted his somewhat fogged glasses, then reassumed his position standing in his corner, hands on head.

Sir adjusted his own shirt sleeves and tie, then took his place seated at his desk.

"Clean up, then get to work. Two minutes."

The boys moved briskly, knowing what to do. Since the downstairs guest bathroom was for good, not for boys to use, they headed for the stairs. Through moist eyes and fogged lenses, Alex smiled as Scott took his hand for the climb up the stairs, each boy holding the banister on either side.

With only two minutes, they had to share the bathroom, taking turns to have a wee - seated, of course - and to wipe their faces with cold water, blow their noses, clean their glasses, and give their sore bottoms a rub. They scanned each other up and down for presentation worthiness, then took hands and descended the stairs again, heading for their schoolroom.

Like their bedroom on the upper floor, this was the smallest room on the lower floor. It had two desks crammed into it, the door had been removed, since school boys do not need privacy, and it was here that the boys worked at their studies each day.

But this Sunday, it would be the venue for something else. Not altogether that unique, as they'd spent Saturday or Sunday afternoons writing lines, essays or apology letters as required, but unique enough: hours of two well-punished boys writing out the Lord's Prayer that they'd mischievously mangled in church. Still holding hands, the boys regarded the desks that would be their home for the next few hours as they worked.

Sir had already left on each desk a printout of the prayer to be repeatedly handwritten, along with the bolded, underlined word: NEATLY. As he would be along any second, they took their seats and began.

"Our Father, who art in heaven..."

* * *

Alex calculated as he was completing number twenty, that it had probably been about an hour. His hand was cramping and he suspected Scott was in a similar state. There was nothing else but to press on. There was no reprieve, there was no "I'll finish it later." They keep working until they're done. Sir had been moving around the house, passing by the doorway on occasion, both heard and sensed him, but neither dared look up from their pages.

As the tedium set in and the throbbing in his bottom lessened, Alex's thoughts wandered.

Time with Sir had an end-date. The arrangement was that Alex and Scott would fully repeat high school, and complete tertiary degrees through off-campus study at the local, but still well-regarded university, and once completed, they would be deemed ready to rejoin society as proper men.

Alex and Scott's predecessor had been a solo lad who had undertaken similar training with the same goal: be rehabilitated, educated, shaped, disciplined, then move out. Indeed, Sir periodically took the two boys with him, dressed in their short-trousered suits of course, to visit his earlier protege, who was, for all intents and purposes, an "uncle" of sorts. Despite their curiosity, they were not allowed to ask him questions, being too impolite for children. However, their uncle probed them for their own progress. While he had clearly been successful post-training, with very fine shirts, suits and ties, he assured the boys he maintained a proper school uniform and a short-trousered church suit, should they become necessary. And they got periodic, although infrequent, use.

Sir had not actually been intending to handle two lads at once, but in addition to their similar natures, they both seemed to have a longing beyond the structure and discipline. They seemed lonely. And so it was that he put them together as "twins."

Alex wondered what would happen at the end of their time. His biggest fear was that one of them would fail a year of school or uni, or simply not reach Sir's high expectations - merely passing was not acceptable - and have to repeat, which could send one out a year before the other. He had resolved that if Scott failed to pass any year, he would repeat too. And he hoped that Scott would want the same.

But what then? They graduate together and then go their separate ways? That was unacceptable too. Scott was his brother, and he loved him. Not in that way. The steel locks had rendered both of them inert anyway, but that wasn't what he meant.

When he pictured his life beyond Sir's house, he pictured Scott there too. He pictured them in their own place, still sharing a bedroom with twin beds.

Despite being a rather convinced atheist, and suspecting Scott was too, he pictured them praying, doing bible study, saying grace and going to church. He didn't believe in the god, but the ritual, the regimentation and the subjection were something he reveled in. If only there was an irreligious version of church and prayer.

He pictured them still having identical wardrobes, dressing identically, being correctly attired as proper men in shirts, ties, suits and dress shoes each day, but like their uncle, having their more juvenile clothes - their school uniforms, short-trousered church suits, and even their accursed Pinks - available at the ready when needed.

He pictured them sharing a home office still, from which they would pay the bills and attend to all manner of grown-up affairs, or catching up with work from their jobs, whatever those might be.

He pictured them holding hands when they cross the road or climb the stairs, because that's what you do, you take your buddy's hand and hold the banister with your other hand, to keep you both safe.

He pictured them holding hands as they turned off the lights at the end of the day and headed to their bedroom. He pictured them taking it in turns whose bedside to kneel at for their bedtime prayers - first a shared Christian prayer out loud, then silent personal prayers. Alex always liked to thank the universe, fate, or whatever, for putting him in Sir's care, and for finding and putting him with his brother. At his most honest moments, he'd be grateful for all the things that made life so difficult in a disciplined household: the old-fashioned ticking alarm clock that woke them with that horrible alarm first thing in the morning; the thick frames that sat on his face that he could no longer imagine himself without; the pinch of the steel lock at night when it was doing its job; the humiliation of publicly walking to and from church in a short-trousered suit; the shame of having "his" corner of Sir's office, because they were there often enough to have one; being a grown adult man and needing all this, craving it to his very core.

The truth is, although he knew it would have to change, he didn't want it to end. He'd given up a lot to take this path: his job, his freedom, his home, his possessions, his dignity, even his manhood. But he didn't really want any of that stuff back.

"Now what number am I up to?" he thought. "23. Only 77 more remaining." Somewhere around number 50, he anticipated Sir would allow a brief water and bathroom break.

He returned to his thought only three "Our Father's" ago. Had it been worth it? No, it was a stupid joke. Of course it was his idea, they'd whispered about it the night before, after lights out. He was legitimately confident they'd get away with it, that nobody, not Sir, would know, only they would. But it hadn't turned out that way, and now both of them were suffering the consequences.

It certainly wasn't true that when only one of them was the culprit, it was each of them half the time; truth be told, most of the time, it was Alex. But Simon never objected. He never pulled him up and told him to stop getting them into trouble.

* * *

Simon scanned down the left margin to make sure his numbering was correct. 19... 20... 21... "... the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen," he finished.

He shifted Sir's printed card down to cover his previous writing. He and Alex had learned from painful experience to always copy from the source, not from your written copies above. You and your brother spending four hours writing lines, only to have both tasks invalidated because you dropped a "that" early on and replicated it through the rest of the lines is not a fun experience. Nor is having them torn up and being told you'll redo them all tomorrow. And it's even less fun when you're told that once they're all redone, you'll start on a second set of lines, the same amount, about silly boys and their carelessness. But it does teach you a lesson.

Simon shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He had his smarting backside pressed to the hard wood of the chair, and stainless steel compressing and weighing down his underpants. There's never an actually comfortable position for a boy, he had realized. It was simply a matter of making the best of it that you could.

He had always passed for being a few years younger than he actually was. He secretly estimated he was probably about five years older than his twin brother. Not that it mattered. Once shaved smooth, subjected to a traditional haircut and put into boy's clothing, one would be hard pressed to spot the age gap. And functionally it was irrelevant, as they were treated as twin boys in a strict household.

Completing another line and moving the card down, Simon considered his current situation. Here they were, suffering again. How had he been talked into the prank in church this morning? The truth was surprisingly simple: Alex was fun.

Buried somewhere inside Simon, in the very being of this grown man, was a little boy who yearned to be put over his daddy's knee and spanked until tears and snot were flowing freely and he wailed "I'm sorreeee daddeeeeeee! I'll be a goooood boooooy." But Simon was a good boy. He always had been. This created a curious contradiction: a boy who never felt like a good boy, who was a good boy, who wanted to be a good boy.

Simon couldn't bring himself to be actively naughty. He made mistakes, like writing his lines improperly necessitating their repetition, but was not intentionally unruly. But Alex was fun. It's not that he sought out ways to land the two of them into trouble, or that he didn't feel bad if they did. It's that he had more of that boyish imp in him still. Something Simon couldn't access or unlock. At least, not naturally.

Alex was a good boy too, but in much the same way a teacher might tell a father about his son's grades, "he tries so hard, and he puts a lot of effort and energy into his work."

And so, if it was largely Alex's fault that the two of them might end up consigned to an early 7pm bedtime, the sun still not down on a summer evening, both face-down, sobbing into their pillows from the severe caning they just took, so much the better. He would be in shame and misery, but the little boy at his very core would be in ecstasy.

Could Simon have talked Alex out of their prank at church? Probably. But he didn't want to. Because he never knew where it might lead. It could end up with them getting away with it, and they would have giggled and whispered about it in bed that night after lights out. Or it could end up with the pair suffering the rest of the afternoon in disgrace in their silly pink uniforms. And that was good too.

* * *

As the afternoon wore on and the Lord's Prayer seeped deeper into their brains, Simon reached his pink socked legs out under the desk to try to stretch them a little, while Alex arched his back and flexed his shoulder blades a bit as it was starting to ache. Both wiggled around slightly on their wooden seats, as their bottoms became slightly numb, but dared not get up. Finally, Sir came to the doorway.

"Five minutes, then back."

Finally, after more than two and a half hours of sitting in the same spot, they rose awkwardly, sighed and stretched. This was their halfway break. Knowing the rules, they didn't speak a word, but leaned over to check each other's notebook. Alex had completed 51, Simon, 48.

Sir had returned to his office, and they knew he would be timing them, so they needed to move. Alex smiled and reached out his hand, which Simon took, and they walked to the kitchen, shoes tapping loudly on the hallway floor.

On the kitchen bench were two glasses of ice water, and a small plate with two chocolate chip cookies. Sir was strict, but not a monster. They quickly consumed the cookies, and sipped down the glasses of water. Then quickly washed, dried and put away the glasses and plate. Time was still running short and there was still one thing left.

Hand-in-hand, they climbed the stairs again to the bathroom, and once again, and in requisite silence, took turns to have a wee, and to wash their faces, fix their hair, and straighten their socks and ties. Alex had trouble with the fly on his shorts, but finally struggled it up. Hand-in-hand they descended the stairs back to their schoolroom, and back to their seats, their desks, their work.

As they proceeded along with their writing, Sir appeared in the doorway.

"Five minutes and twenty-three seconds. Bedtime will be a half hour earlier tonight."

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon wore on as the boys made their way through their assigned task. Late in the day, Sir dropped in several times to check their progress, departing without a word. As Alex was finishing number 98, Sir returned, checked their progress and then remained in the room to observe. Nervously the boys continued on, Alex finishing number 99 and moving on to the last one.

With number 100 completed, Alex silently placed his pen down and folded his hands. Sir checked the work, then consulted Simon's, who was at number 97.

"Three more."

Alex understood. Simon was typically the slower writer, and Sir liked the two of them to finish at the same time. So, Alex continued on with number 101.

Sir stood over them as they worked away, arms folded. He would watch Alex work for a bit, then move over to observe Simon, then back again.

Eventually, Simon placed his pen down and folded his hands. Sir took his pages and scrutinized them, placing them back in front of the lad. A moment later, Alex was finished as well, and these were likewise checked.

"Right, then." They knew this was their cue to stand. "I trust you two no longer have any confusion about the Lord's Prayer, and can now recite it faithfully and correctly?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Very good. Begin."

"Our Father, who art in heaven..." Having spent hours staring at the page and the miles of ink that he had scrawled across them, Simon's own handwriting flashed before his eyes word by word as he recited the prayer in sync with Alex, almost like subtitles.

"... Amen," the boys finished.

"Satisfactory. Let's have those pages done with." The boys each took their stack of pages, folded the stack neatly into quarters, then tore it in half. That always hurt. Hours of work turned into scrap in a second.

"Back to my study, and let's see." As Sir directed them down the hall, the boys took each other's hands and filed out. Sir observed this new development, but said nothing, collecting the torn pages from the desks.

In Sir's study, they took their places in front of his desk. Sir deposited the refuse in his trash, then settled himself into his chair and observed the two pink clad men.

"Again."

"Our Father..."

The boys took a moment to sync together, then recited the prayer perfectly, just as they'd written a hundred times each.

"Very good. So, there will be no more confusion in the future."

"No, Sir."

"Let's make sure of that, shall we? Corners. Face the wall." The boys assumed the position at in their corners, hands on head.

"Thirty minutes. Begin." He noted the clock on his desk.

"Our Father, who art in heaven..."

"Louder. The wall may be able to hear you, but I cannot."

"Our Father, who art in heaven..."

Alex usually tried to keep track of these types of things, but was too focussed on getting the prayer correct and remaining in sync with his brother.

For thirty minutes they recited the Lord's Prayer over and over and over and over again. Sir leaned back in his chair and simply observed, delighted at what was before him. They were good boys overall, even though Sir knew they didn't feel that way. A common phenomenon in lads of late, it seemed. They were good boys, but they needed pressure and hardship to become good men. These were not men.

At about the 15 minute mark, and without a word, he rose and strode out of the study, the boy's voices still delivering the prayer. He checked the dishes in the kitchen had been washed and dried, and then made himself an ice-tea, returning with it to his study. The boys continued on.

A little after 30 minutes, the boys finished the prayer yet again, and Sir interrupted them. "That will be sufficient."

"Step forward." They turned and stood before his desk, hands still on their heads. "At ease." They finally lowered their aching arms to their sides.

"Now that this little... incident is over, I trust there will be no more blasphemy from two wicked little sinners?"

"No, Sir."

"Right. Now, you can go on back to your room for now, we will be preparing dinner shortly, and your bedtime is half an hour earlier. And since you know the Lord's Prayer so well, you can recite another ten tonight during bedtime prayers. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed." The boys moved quickly to exit. Sir noticed as they departed their hands flick together. He heard their loud shoe taps on the floor approach the stairs, then rise up towards the second floor.

Simon and Alex didn't dare whisper a syllable until they got into their room.

"'Us not,' 'a snot,' 'us not,' 'a snot,'" Alex repeated. "How could he possibly tell?"

"I don't know. Just Super Sir Hearing?" Simon was sitting on his bed, pulling his pink socks further up.

They made no movement to change out of their pinks, as it was well understood they would be wearing them for the rest of the day.

Alex stood in the mirror, adjusting his tie and pulling his own socks up. The tiny little button in his underwear stirred, but that's all it would be able to do.

It had been a long, exhausting day, even though it wasn't even over yet. Alex felt responsible and guilty for all of it.

"You're not mad I got us into trouble?"

"No, why would I be? I mean, it would have been nice if it was a little bit funnier. It was funny enough at the time, but it seemed funnier last night."

Alex sat on his bed and stared at his shoes thoughtfully.

"Is this weird?"

"What's that?"

"This. What we're doing. What we're doing here. All of it."

"Yes."

Alex laughed. "What, just like that? 'Yes'?"

"Yes, it's weird. It's very, very weird. It's incredibly weird. It makes no sense whatsoever. It's weird and there's probably something wrong with both of us. Just imagine going to your high school reunion and filling them in on what you've been up to. You couldn't. It's weird."

"I imagine my uni friends out drinking, and us here, standing in the corner, or tucked up in bed before they've even gone to their second pub. It's like I'm from another planet or a different species or something."

"See, yes, it is weird. But it's okay, because it's excruciating, it's humiliating, it's uncomfortable, it's belittling, it's embarrassing, it's awful, it's ridiculous, it's all those things and a thousand more. And I hate it, I absolutely hate it, but I love it all, all the way through me, and I want more."

Alex grinned. Simon was definitely the older twin.

Simon pushed his glasses back up his nose and continued, "I hated the strap and the corner and the writing, the endless writing, but I loved the strap, and I loved the corner, and I loved the writing, and I don't understand it, but it's okay. So don't worry about getting us in trouble. I'm here for all of it, and I don't want to be anywhere else. Cause it's weird together. It's very weird together."

"You know you don't wear glasses, right?"

"Yes."

"I like it being weird together with you."

"Me too, bro."

A bell sounded downstairs signaling Sir summoning the boys to help prepare the family dinner. They stood, checked each other up and down for any issues. Alex tightened Simon's tie.

Simon offered his hand, and as Alex took it, said, "let's go be weird."

Alex silently looked around the little shared bedroom, and then nodded in the direction of the mirror, and the two pinked up men holding hands reflected therein.

"Never mind."

Note: Images are all AI generated.

#a formal lad #ai generated #adult schoolboy #domestic discipline #dress code