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watsittoyah · 10 months

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Prayers From A Sinner- Dick Grayson x Blk Fem Reader

Warnings-Sexual content, and adult content. Toxic behavior, enemies to lovers? Oral sex, slight rough sex, drug use, violent behavior.

I do want to let everyone know that this story will have dark themes. It’ll be erratic at times and the main characters morals will be tested. There will be foul language and lots of descriptions of acts of violence and other uncomfortable subjects. If those themes aren’t for you, I won’t feel any way about it and you don’t have to continue. But for those who decides to stay and read, thank you, I’ll do my best making this story…interesting and entertaining.

Chapter 1 - Thou Shall Not Kill…

“Dear God, I know we haven’t spoken in ten years, but…I know you listen. Even to sinners like me. I know I won’t make it to those pearly gates but you please please save her. My mothers faith has never wavered, she always speak so highly of you. Just…don’t take away the one person who loves me.” You pray as you knees at the alter.

The sentiments were soon gone when you felt a shadow beside you. You open your eyes and turn to face him. “You shouldn’t be here.” The reverend says glaring at you. You kiss your fingertips and proceed to tell the good lord amen and then you look back at the Reverend.

“What? Can’t sinners come to church and pray too?” You ask in an innocent tone. “You know God won’t be listening to your prayers, you little demon.” He hisses at you which only gets a rise out of you. You rise from off of your knees and lean in.

“Tell me, reverend…do you still get those urges?” His glaring shakes a bit as he knows what you’re asking. “You need to leave, now Miss Price.” He tells you ignoring your question. “Oh but Rev, I was just asking do you still get those urges? Especially when you do communion? Do you get a stiff one when you have the men open their mouths when they eat that cracker?”

“I said get out!” He snaps causing you to laugh in his face. You wipe the tear from your eye and pat his arm. “Don’t worry, Reverend Jones. I was only teasing. But if you ever want to settle those urges you know where to come. I got the best boys that’ll satisfy you better than the misses. Just remember I won’t tell if you don’t.” You wink at him and motion for your three body guards to follow you outside of the church.

“Church people are so judgement.” You tell Nathan, your best guy. “That’s why I’m atheist.” You laugh and he helps you down the stairs while Marc gets the truck ready and Jake holds your umbrella.

You stop mid step and sigh. “Hold on, boys. I’ve got company.” You turn and right in the shadows you see him. “I’ll be back.” You pluck the umbrella from Marc and continue down the steps.

“But Miss Price-” You turn to Nathan and give him a look that makes him back down. “I’ll be fine, now don’t hover you know I hate when you do that.” You walk away from him and you walk down the alleyway, and stand in the slight moon light.

“You know you’re not your daddy, Richie Rich. Come out so I can see you.” You say with a slight smirk on your lips. Dick Grayson had stepped out of the shadows but he wasn’t wearing his stupid getup.

No he was dressed differently. Hell he stood differently, and he was more filled out than the last time you saw him. But things change in six years. “What are you doing here, Victoria? I thought it was clear that you were never to come back here in Gotham.”

You cock your head to the side at him. Clearly his attitude hasn’t changed.

“That’s rude, normally when you greet an old friend you ask them how they’ve been and what they’ve been up to.”

“We’d have to be friends for me to ask that.” He steps up close to you and you smile. “Awe, Richie Rich that hurt my feelings. Now kiss my lips and make the pain go away.” You say as you lean in.

But he moves back from you and leans against the wall. “Why are you here?” He asks again. “I have business to take care of here, since you’re so concerned. Now where is Batman? Is he still around?” You ask looking past him.

Dick looks at you and you see the sadness in his masked face. “I heard about your mother. I’m sorry-” You raise your hand and stop him. “Don’t be sorry, people die all the time. It just happens to be my moms name on the reapers list.” You say in a cold tone.

“You know that I can talk to some people. See if she can get better treatment.” You laugh in his face. “What you don’t think I haven’t done that? You don’t think I haven’t tried to buy more time for her? I have thrown enough money at these so called doctors, and all they’ve told me was she has no time! She is dying! And I can’t do a fucking thing for her! You and I both know she doesn’t deserve this, she’s one of the good ones in this dump of a city. And I have to watch her leave me!”

Dick walks over to you and he hugs you as you feel your shoulders shake. “I’m here for you, you know that right, Victoria?” Dick makes you look at him and you give a nod. “I know. I just-I hate crying. God damnit.” You wipe the tears and Dick kisses your head.

“You…you can’t stay here in Gotham. You have too many warrants and you’re a target.” You shake off his embrace and glare at him. “You think I give a fuck about that right now? You insensitive bastard!” You go to slap him but he catches your wrist and he sighs.

“Don’t take your anger out on me. I know you’re hurt. I know you want to lash out just to make yourself feel better. But I just want you to be safe. You know I care about you.” He tells you as you oddly become calm.

“If you want me to feel better then, make me feel better. This suit looks good on you. Makes your shoulders look more broad. And you smell good. I bet you still taste good.” You start to press up against him and you cup the front of him making him flustered a bit. “Victoria, I can’t. We can’t.”

“Are you scared of me, Dick? I promise I’ll be a good girl for you. I won’t leave bruises like last time. I’ll even let you leave some down my throat.” You press him against the wall and as you go to kiss him he stops you and he holds you still.

“No, I said no and I mean that.” Your eyes get low and you step off. “Fine, I won’t press my luck. I apologize.” You say in a monotoned voice. “I just want you to know that I’m here for you if you want to talk. Maybe we can-” You turn on your heel ignoring him and you feel him follow you. As he reaches out to you, you snatch your arm back and point to the siren noises.

“Superman ain’t here so get to it Robin.” You spit at him as you walk towards your truck. You don’t even look back as you step inside. You just toss the umbrella and glare out the window.

“Marc, take me to Spades. Miss Molly is getting a bit dull and I want to show her off.” You tell him as Nathan and Jake both sit quietly. “Sure thing boss.”

••••

“Watch the doors fellas.” You tell Marc and Nathan as you step into the strip club. You see ass and bare breasts all around. You see a great amount of men, all salivating at the women dancing for them and you yawn. You take off your fur and Jake takes it for you while you walk towards the vip section. You feel eyes on you and but no one catches your attention like he does.

There was something about Dick Grayson that made you get into this mood. You never let your emotions go like this, you were a pro at bottling them up, but old Richie Rich just knew how to break that bottle and make you pour.

You knew he could bring out the best side of you, he could help you with your attitude and you’d be an upright citizen. But why would you want that? You’ve left far too many dead bodies in your wake. And you didn’t want to scrape for pennies ever again.

You’ve made a name for yourself and you liked the fear it invoked in others.

So that is why you needed a distraction, you didn’t want to think about him anymore. So you eyed the male dancers. One had a very large bulge as he moved his hips to the slow yet low base beat song. You two made eye contact and you take a crisp one hundred dollar bill out.

“You’re cute, what’s your name?” He gets on his knees and he crawls over to you. “Nicholas, but you can call me yours, pretty lady.” He accepts the money from you and you smile, looking at his pretty tan skin and his pretty white teeth.

“I think I’ll keep you. You wanna come home with me, Nicky?” His deep brown eyes seems to look a bit panicked and you gently place your well manicured nail under his chin. “Don’t be scared. Trust me, I’m all bark.” You flirt as you stare into his eyes.

His pupils dilate which causes you to smirk. But suddenly you feel someone behind you. “Now this looks like a party.” You smell cheap scotch and you turn, seeing Jake grab the strangers shoulder but you shake your head and he backs off.

“Nicky, go get us a room and wait there for me.” You pass him another one hundred and he gladly takes it and nods. “I’ll be waiting pretty lady.” He leaves off the stage and walks away, you look at his ass and you sigh.

“Come on, baby can’t I watch?” The cheap scotch drinker asks. With a swift move you take out your rose gold beretta that was secured to your thigh under your dress. You placed it under his chin and as soon as he heard the click, he sobered up quite quickly.

“Wa-” You shake your head at him. “I thought you said you wanted to watch? Well I don’t think you’ll want to watch that pretty boy eat my pussy out. I bet you’ll want to watch some girl on girl action? Well let me introduce you to miss Molly. Ain’t she pretty? She packs a mighty blow and I’m sure you’d want to watch that right?”

“N…no. Please don’t kill me.” You raise a brow at him. “I’m really a nice lady, now if I recall I asked you a question. Answer it. Isn’t Molly pretty?” The man stutters out a yes and you smile.

You pat his cheek and rub the barrel against his lips. “I think, everyone should meet Miss Molly. Now stand there and be quiet while I introduce her.” You move the gun from his lips and you shoot three shots in the air, scaring the hell out of all the patrons in the club.

The music comes to a holt and you blow the smoke from your gun. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I want to introduce my little friend named Molly, and I wanted to reintroduce myself. I am Vic Price. You may have heard of me, and if not then let me remind you who I am. First things first, I am not someone to fuck with. Okay? I will shoot you and then go out for ice cream because I feel like it. Secondly, I know a lot of you in here are my enemies main men, let your bosses know I don’t give a fuck about the targets. I’m out for blood and I’m ready to spill it. And lastly, does anyone know this guy?” You point to the scotch drinker and just about everyone in the place shakes their heads.

“Good, this is a lot easier for me.” Without hesitation you shoot the man in his face and his blood as well as brain matter splatters against the stage. You step up closer to his fallen body and you shoot him in his mouth as well. A few girls scream and a few people scramble to the door but they stop as they see Nathan and Marc.

“Here you go boss.” Jake hands you a handkerchief and you wipe your gun clean and place it back on your person. “Jake you’re the best, and because you are the best please explain to the lovely folks in the room, why I shot that man in his face and his jaw.”

“Miss Price here shot that sack of shit in the face, because she doesn’t want him to be recognized by the Gotham police. And she also shot him in his jaw just so he can’t be identified by his dental records. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Price simply shot him because she was in the middle of a conversation with someone. I don’t know about you lot but I wouldn’t want to fuck with this lady.”

You clap as you laugh. “I love this guy! Now where is the owner of this fine establishment?” You scan the room and Jake points to the chubby man trying to run back stage. “Grab him.” You order.

He moves quickly and grabs the man. “Hey le…let me go!” Jake tosses him at your feet and the man looks up at you scared.

“I don’t want any problems. I respect your father and-” You bend down close to his ear and whisper something only he could hear.

“You know my old man? Please let him know his baby girl is back in town and she’s coming for what she’s owed. And if you don’t tell him, I will shoot your little pecker off and make you eat the rest. Do you understand?”

He nods quickly and you smile. “Good boy. You know what, I’m going to stay in Gotham for a while and I think I’m going to take this place off of your hands. You don’t mind right?”

“I can’t do that-” You stomp your stiletto down on his hand and he gives out a cry. “What was that?” You ask. “It’s yours! It’s yours Miss Price.” You remove your pointed heel and you look back at the crowd.

“Spades is under new management! Ladies and gentlemen all the tips tonight belongs to you. As for the rest of you that have came in to pay? Tip my people well, I’ll be making more change’s tomorrow! Jake, you make sure you keep these people from bothering me. I have a new pet to break in. Oh and one more thing, cut that cheap scotch drinking bastards hands off and drop them somewhere no one can find them.” He smiles wide and nods. “You got it boss.”

You walk down to the vip room and you lean against the door frame as you knock. Nicholas opens the door and he looks spooked. “Were those a gun shots?” He asks as he looks past you.

You place your hand on his toned chest and you move him back into the room. “Don’t worry about those loud noises, Nicky. I took care of that. Now come dance for me.” You say as you look into his brown eyes.

He gives a slight smile and he leads you to a chair. You sit down and he moves close to you and he places your hands on his abs, as well as his thighs.

“You wanna be my special friend, Nicky?” You ask as you move your hands from him and place them on the hem of your dress. “All depends…what are the benefits of being your special friend?” He asks as he eyes your body.

“You get access to me, you get spoiled. And I do love spoiling my friends. And most of all you get to have the best sex in your life. I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll see God and the devil at the same time. How’s that sound?” You ask as you raise your heel and he takes it, letting his soft hands rub down your calf. “That sounds amazing, but why me?” He asks as he unclasps your heel and he rubs your pretty black painted toes.

You let out a giggle. “Because I like that bulge you have in those skimpy little shorts, and because your eyes remind me of someone. They look…kind.” Nicholas smiles at that and he brings your foot to his lips.

“Can I?” He asks as he kisses the pads of your toes. “Go ahead, let me see you enjoy yourself Nicky.” He sucks your toes and he lets out a soft moan as he licks and suck’s your foot. You rest your head on your chin and you can visibly see he’s getting rock hard.

“That’s enough, Nicky.” You tell him. He gently places your foot down and you hike your dress up past your belly button. “I want to see what else you like sucking on.”

He kneels down and looks up at you. “I..I won’t get in trouble will I?” He asks as he looks down at your freshly waxed brown pussy. “Nah, the new manager here said she’ll let this slide. Come closer, I’m sure you’re hungry after dancing all night.” He leans in and as he grips your thighs he freezes and moves his hand back.

That movement makes you giggle. “Awe, what’s the matter? You don’t like guns?” You ask as you pat Molly. “I..um, I don’t have great experiences with them.”

You cup his chin and move in close as if you’re about to kiss him but you stop. “Well I won’t ever raise Molly to you as long as you don’t make me upset, if you do oh you won’t like that. Now Molly is staying right on my thigh. But you don’t need to be concerned about that. Just pay attention to what’s between my thighs. Now I have two things to tell you. After you give the correct answer we can have fun. Number one…I want you to know I have two main rules. One, you only get to fuck me. If you fuck someone else I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again. And two, I want you to treat me like I am your god. When I enter your presence, worship me. When I walk past you, hunger for me to come to you. Do you understand?” He nods but you grip his chin. “Answer me.”

“Y…yes pretty lady.” You let go and you place your hand on top of his head and move his face between your legs. “Now answer this for me as well. Do you have full understanding on how to eat pussy?” You hear him inhale the scent of your sex and he lets out a moan. “Yes, yes I do pretty lady.”

“Call me Vic, and I’m so happy to hear that. Now take that delicious looking clit of mine, move the hood back and lick it with just the tip of your tongue.” He does what he’s told and you lean your head back as you feel him lick circles around your clit.

“Such a good boy you are. You’re going to be my favorite. Now go ahead and suck.” You push his head deeper between your legs and you let out a soft moan as he sucks your clit hungrily.

Even though you know it’s Nicholas between your legs, your mind still wonders to Dick. In your mind he was the one licking you out and making you wet on the seat.

“It’s so good to be home…”

#richard grayson #watsittoyah #prayers of a sinner #dc dick grayson #richard grayson x reader #richard grayson x victoria price #richard grayson x black reader #victoria price #dc comics #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson smut #nightwing #nightwing smut #brenton thwaites #brenton thwaites smut

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thebrightestlodge · 8 months

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Eleonora, Violent Bloody Finger. A skilled, graceful swordsman who now fights like a beast, howling to God's born of blood and of storms.

Once a student of Yura who now hunts man as if they were beasts. Her commitment and adoration of Dragon Communion is the only part of her that holds stronger than the love of Mohgwyn. A violent death is the greatest mercy one can grant her, since Yura could not complete this ...

She should be drawn fuzzier, I like her fuzz.

#elden ring #eleonora #my doodles

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loving-n0t-heyting · 25 days

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man if i wanted to disabuse the ppl who told me my decade-old personal confession about my sexual insecurity and fear of inadvertently becoming a predator was proof i thought i was part of the rebel alliance when i was actually in communion with the evil empire of their errors i would not go writing long posts about how my deciding to pursue sexual-romantic relationships was just like a bunch of my plucky underdog co-ethnics bravely conducting a violent campaign of ethnic cleansing in the name of establishing a new homeland for my ppl

he was completely in the right back then too whys he gotta fucking burn all his credibility like some sort of ritual sacrifice

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renthony · 2 years

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Recently I got extremely stoned and gave a twenty-minute speech about how the Carrie remake was terrible, and how I would update Carrie for a modern audience instead, as an adult who actually grew up as an anxious Catholic girl getting violently bullied at school for being The Weird One, to the point where my bullies literally called me "Carrie" as an insult. (You'd think they'd have been more self-aware, but teenagers are dumb as shit sometimes, I guess.)

If you want to do a halfway-decent job of including social media and smartphones, instead of the super lazy attempt the remake made, you could so easily integrate a plotline about the tampon scene going viral on YouTube. There's an easy way to contribute toward why her mother gets increasingly aggressive about keeping Carrie isolated. It would give Carrie's rampage through town an added layer if you showed the way the viral video reached people she didn't even know, who recognized her around town as an internet laughingstock and made fun of her for it. The entire world really is out to get her, everyone really is making fun of her, she really is isolated and alone with no support. Nobody cares if you bully the weird girl who went viral for being cringe. Literally nobody gives a fuck. They think it's funny.

The school counselor had elements in the original film of genuinely trying to help but being overall useless at it, and an updated version of the film could easily incorporate the real-world issue of schools being completely fucking useless at stopping abuse of students. Teachers and guidance counselors who keep telling you "just ignore them, don't fight back, we have a No Tolerance policy, fighting back would just give them what they want and get you in trouble, too."

I also think there's a lot of compelling potential in Carrie's mother being a hyper-conservative Catholic to the point where she got in a feud with the priest at the only local Catholic church, and refuses to attend any Mass performed by that priest. I've seen that exact scenario happen in real life, and it would give better context to her being extremely Catholic but never seeming to actually go to church. It would also really drive home that "reactionary even to the reactionaries" vibe. She would rather forego Communion than listen to the teachings of a *gasp* hippie priest who tells her to Love Thy Neighbor, Even The Gay One.

On that note, holy shit, there are so many ways to read queerness into the story and I would love to see an adaptation that highlights and adds to those. Repression and fear of being queer in a hyper-conservative Catholic household? Goldmine. Fucking goldmine. There's also plenty of potential in there somewhere for the way modern queer youth face homophobia from their peers, and get policed in their queerness by other queer youth.

Basically what I'm saying is that I think I should write horror because I have Ideas.

#original post

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reignsupreme-inyourdreams · 6 months

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Is Jonathan turning into a vampire?

I saw someone say that Jonathan's reactions to Dracula in the Piccadilly confrontation make him seem less human, and that has gotten me thinking about the 'Jonathan is turning into a vampire like Mina' theory I've seen others discuss.

Now, I have to pay attention to Dracula Daily/ Re: Dracula going forward because my husband has my copy of the book so I can't dig around for evidence later in the book right now, but here is what I have noticed from entries in the timeline thus far:

Personally, even though it's not explicitly stated, I think Jonathan was bitten on Dracula's final night in the castle. It's his blood that revives Dracula's youth, and I think that is why he reacts violently to seeing the blood dripping from Dracula's mouth.

We also know from Van Helsing that anyone bitten by a vampire will become one. What complicates this is Dracula's blood exchange with Mina, if biting her is enough to turn her then why have her drink his blood? I theorize that having a victim drink his blood allows him to have a connection with or influence on them that he otherwise would not. He seems unaware that Lucy is dead when he gloats about the group's women belonging to him, and as there is no evidence that Lucy received his blood then it would make sense that he doesn't have that connection with her and thus, would be unaware of her true death. Going by this logic, If Jonathan is turning into a vampire then it seems unlikely that he received the Count's blood as he doesn't seem to have any mental link to Dracula either. I have seen the argument that Dracula did have a mental connection with Jonathan that was broken when he began to target Lucy instead, as Dracula Daily made it clear that Jonathan's 'brain fever' broke on the day that Lucy sleepwalked (slept-walked?) to Dracula.

Jonathan is likely Anglican, and says that his religion finds crucifixes and the like 'idolatrous', meaning that it's unlikely he would commonly come into contact with religious items in his day-to-day life. When he was in the convent/hospital he was delirious and in bad physical condition, it's possible that-like Mina with the wafer- he was reacting negatively due to his latent vampirism. Perhaps the early, prolonged exposure to religion suppressed his vampirism, and it fades away as he gets away from it. It could explain his slow recovery in England.

(It is also interesting to note that, while in the convent, Jonathan is being cared for by Sister Agatha. As a recovering Catholic I unfortunately retained some of my religious knowledge, and Nuns take on new names when they take their vows. Usually they take the name of a biblical figure that inspires them; in Sister Agatha's case it would be Saint Agatha who is, amongst other things, the patron saint of rape victims. Vampire bites have a loooooong history of being an allegory for sexual penetration and, with Mina's attack later in the novel being a clear reference to sexual assault, it seems likely to me that this was a subtle nod by Bram Stoker that Jonathan was bitten. Unfortunately it would likely have been censored if he had been more blatant given Victorian censorship laws.)

With this in mind, it's likely that seeing Dracula in London 'unlocked' his suppressed vampirism, and could explain him passing out. Though, admittedly, he does have a history of fainting when confronted with horrific things.

Going back to Jonathan's connection to sacred items, we never see him come into contact with any directly. When the group is entering Carfax Jonathan is handed two vampire deterrents, a wreath of garlic flowers and an envelope with a bit of communion wafer in it. Jonathan makes a point to mention that the garlic is withered however; I have to wonder why it was specifically called out as withered. Could that lower it's efficacy? As for the eucharist, well, it's in an envelope. The Count, a full vampire, reacts badly to it when the envelope is brandished at him. However, Mina, not yet fully turned into a vampire, seems to only be negatively affected when it touches her skin directly.

Another piece of evidence that I find interesting is Jonathan's hair color change. Listening to Re: Dracula made me realize that we have another character whose hair changed color; Lucy after her death. Vampire Lucy is described with dark hair, whereas in life her hair was compared to sunshine (meaning she was most likely blonde). Now we have Jonathan, whose hair was described as dark brown by Seward, turning white. The Characters write it off as shock despite the sudden change (shock/stress would have caused it to grey over time, realistically speaking), but it is interesting to note the link to vampire Lucy.

Jonathan's quick responses to Dracula's presence in the Piccadilly house are also notable. You could argue that it's the daytime so the Count is not as fast as he would be otherwise, but Seward points out that he, Arthur and Quincey are all experienced hunters and yet Jonathan, who Seward described as a 'quiet, business-like gentleman' when he met him 5 days earlier, is the first person to react. Jonathan goes so far as to climb out of the window to follow Dracula when he retreats.

It is entirely possible that Jonathan is in denial of having been bitten; he says himself while in the castle that 'I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.' He would likely have been bitten on the neck, a place he can not see without a mirror, and Dracula makes a point to destroy the only mirror Jonathan had. Jonathan specifically notes that there are no other mirrors in the castle, either. Thus, if he was bitten but reluctant to admit it, he would have had no way to see if he had a wound and it would further justify his reaction to finding Dracula bloated with blood in his tomb. Denial is a hell of a drug. If he can not confess it to himself, it seems unlikely that he would tell anyone else, especially after his illness that affected his perception of reality.

As I said, I don't currently have access to my copy of the book to check the future dates so I will look for more evidence as we get the daily releases, but I think there is pretty strong evidence that Jonathan is in the process of turning and doesn't realize it.

#jonathan harker #dracula #re: dracula #dracula daily #dracula theory

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queenlucythevaliant · 4 months

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Heartstrings

Written for the @inklings-challenge Christmas Challenge 2023.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

The string was still there, knotted beneath Rose’s left ribs. She was driving 75 miles an hour down the freeway in her ten-year-old Carolla, the radio on at a buzz. Outside the window, miles and miles of monotonous New York forest passed by.

Her sister Joan was asleep in the passenger's seat, medical gauze still visible beneath her pale pink blouse. She dozed uneasily, turning her head occasionally from side to side, or else sniffling faintly. Rose hummed along to the radio and tried not to focus on the pulling sensation in her chest.

Everyone has a heartstring that leads them home, which for Rose meant Eastledge Church in the Massachusetts town of the same name. Heartstrings are thick and fibrous, made of many smaller cords all twisted together. Rose's string had been wrapped round her heart in many tight loops over the course of her childhood, constricting her cardiac muscle while simultaneously holding it safe and secure. She didn’t know if her heart could beat without it.

So: she drove. Exit in 143 miles, rest stop in ten.

Eastledge Church was rotten. It had black mold in the walls and liars in the pulpit. Rose knew she should cut the string that tied her there. She wanted to. Joan had managed to yank out her own heartstring, but it had bled and bled and she’d needed two trips to the ER before it was safe for her to travel. Even now, she was pale and weak from the bloodloss.

Still, Rose knew she should cut the string. She kept a pair of scissors in the glove box, in case she ever got up the courage to do it.

“Where are we?” murmured Joan. She stirred a little, carefully shifting her weight away from the left side of her body.

“You missed the Erie Canal– or, well, the picnic area anyway. There’s a rest stop with an Arby’s in like ten miles if you want dinner.”

They arrived at their hotel in Buffalo just after two in the morning. Rose had an ache in her hamstring from working the gas pedal, but it was nothing compared to a chest wound. Both she and Joan had forgotten to call ahead from the road, so they had to wait while the front desk concierge went to find the manager and ask if he could still check people in once they’d started the night audit. The manager appeared at the front desk a few minutes later and told Rose curtly that it would be a while yet.

“It’s standard practice at hotels.”

“I know,” said Rose. “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with my heartstring, see? And my sister’s got ripped out. We had other worries. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” the manager answered dubiously. “Well, make yourself comfortable in the lobby and we’ll let you know when we can check you in.”

It was three by the time Rose finally stumbled into the room and collapsed onto the hard mattress. Joan came in behind her, barely coherent through the fog of her exhaustion. The light in the bathroom was flickering, but Rose didn’t care. Her heartstring hummed with promises of rest. Turn around, it seemed to say. You know you won’t be able to sleep the night until you’re back home.

“Screw you,” Rose said aloud.

“Hmm?”

“Not you. The church, Pastor Mark, and this stupid string in my chest.”

“Hmm,” agreed Joan.

Rose indulged herself for a long moment in imagining the violent demise of an elder who had taught her to play Go in the welcome room once, and who had made excuses for the rot in the walls many years later. Her heart thrummed like a violin string. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

The next day, they drove as far as Gary, Indiana. Rose could feel her string getting tangled whenever she got on another exit; she worried about it even changing lanes.

“Mind if I put on something a little more upbeat?” said Joan when Rose winced on a long merge. “I think we could both use it.”

“I don't think it'll help, really.”

“Alright, but maybe it'll get us singing along?”

Rose waved her hand in a way that meant “fine.” She bobbed her head to the peppy pop song her sister selected and tried to enjoy the drive. It was pretty country, a sunny day, and they kept passing signs for different scenic lakes along the way.

“Finger Lake, Elbow Lake… do ya think we're building an arm?” she quipped, feeling lighter.

But when Rose tried to start the car outside the diner where they’d stopped for lunch, her key wouldn’t turn in the ignition. Joan was paying for parking, but when she slid into the passenger's seat, careful not to jar her stitches, Rose threw her head down on the steering wheel and sobbed. She turned to her sister, questions about oil cans and engines on the tip of her tongue, but right then her heartstring yanked so hard on her heart that all she could manage to say was, “It hurts.”

“I know Rosie. I know it does,” Joan said back. “Mine does too.”

Fortunately, there was an Ace Hardware half a mile away. Rose left Joan with the car and walked there, then paid for the lubricant Google said she needed and headed back. There were still so many miles to drive that day, so much string left to unspool.

On the way to St. Cloud, they changed time zones. Rose felt it deep in her chest when they passed from Eastern to Central time: a jolt on her string, like lightning down a kitestring.

“Did you feel that?”

“I didn’t feel anything,” said Joan.

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Rose stared at the glovebox a long moment before she remembered to keep her eyes on the road. There was only an hour difference between Eastledge and here, but with all that time pulling steadily against her ribs, Rose could feel every minute of it.

Joan suggested calling their parents when they reached their hotel that night, before both sisters remembered that they would be asleep by now. Rose wondered if Pastor Mark was sleeping too. She hoped he had nightmares. She hoped he woke up with guilt pressing hard on his chest.

They drove past Chicago in a heavy drizzle and spent two hours sitting in traffic. Joan tried calling their parents again, since there was nothing else to do. “I don’t know how you and Dad stand it,” she murmured. “Staying in town with your strings half-frayed. Isn’t it killing you?”

“Sometimes,” said their mother. “But your father and I have spent our whole lives reorienting our hearts. We've had to do it many times, and it never gets easier, but we get better at it.”

“Do you blame Rose and me at all– for leaving?”

“Of course not. But we'll miss you at Christmas.”

That night, Rose and Joan snuggled up together on a hotel room queen bed and watched the second half of some Julia Roberts movie that was playing on cable. Joan cracked jokes about the female lead's neuroses and by the time the credits rolled she was lying half on top of Rose. Their hearts were beating in time, and suddenly Rose was grateful, so grateful not to be alone with this grief.

They'd been traveling for days now and Rose's heartstring grew more and more taught by the mile. Now, if she touched it, blinding agony would shoot through her chest. Even just the glancing brush of a fingertip over the fibers squeezed her heart until all she could think of was the place under the stairs where she’d hidden for hours once when she was eight, sleeping bags spread out across the sanctuary floor, or sneaking into the kitchen during summer VBS.

“Do you remember those lantern light picnics they used to do for a while? Right as summer was ending, you know, and the whole congregation came out for it, and it was just kind of magic?”

“Yeah. I also remember ditching it that one time and running out to the creek with Olivia and Liam.”

“What about that tea and testimony women’s event when they asked me to be on the panel?”

“Don’t remember that one. I didn’t think you ended up doing it?”

“I didn’t. Prior commitment. But it felt nice to be asked.”

“Mmm. I felt the same way when they asked me to do the layout for the new photo directory.”

“Teaching Sunday School. Nursery. Organizing the craft closet and going crazy with the label maker.”

“Mmm. Food drives, clothing drives, and silly little theatricals.”

“Remember when I got to sing ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ at the Christmas pageant? And the year you were Mary? And that one play after I aged out where you spray dyed your hair gray?”

“Some of it. I was pretty young for the first one. And I’m trying to forget as much about church plays as I can. Mr. Pierce directed them all, and I don’t want to think about him at all if I can help it. Not after what he said to Mom.”

Rose sighed.

“Yeah, that's true. It's a bad lot, top to bottom. Anyway. How’s your heart?”

“It’s doing better, I think. The wound’s not seeping anymore. Sometimes, it barely hurts at all.”

It was Christmas Eve when they arrived in Helena. A Wednesday. Rose pulled into their aunt’s driveway and parked, then they both went inside to greet the extended family. Joan called their parents to tell them she and Rose had arrived safe.

They had dinner with the family, but then the sisters went and sat together on the guest bed for an hour trying to figure out what came next. Rose pulled at the string beneath her left ribs until she could barely stand it, trying to decide if she could bear the Christmas Eve service her aunt and uncle attended. Joan just sat scrolling mindlessly on her phone, trying to forget for a while.

They both wanted to go to church on Christmas Eve. That was maybe the cruelest part. Rose’s heart longed for carols and Scripture readings with a tender ache altogether different from the ever-present, stripped-raw yanking of the string. Joan was healing, and didn’t want to dwell on losing Eastledge any more than she’d already done.

“I’m going, I think,” Joan said finally. It was nine p.m. and the service began at eleven.

“I’m not,” whispered Rose. “I just can’t. It hurts too much.”

She made an apology to her relatives while Joan went to get dressed, gesturing vaguely at the place beneath her left ribs. Once the house was empty, she resigned herself to the tinny sound of carols played over her phone speaker and a few whispered prayers. When she prayed, Rose heard Pastor Mark’s voice as often as her own. Sometimes he told the truth, but most of the time he lied.

Oh God. This time back home, they’d be singing “The First Noel.” They’d be lighting candles soon, and the upstairs sanctuary under whose stairs she used to hide would glitter when they turned off the lights.

When the churchgoing party got home, half an hour after midnight, Joan found her sister in the guest bath. She was sobbing and covered in blood.

“I cut it,” Rose whispered. “I cut my heartstring. I couldn’t bear not being at the service–not the one here and not the one at home– so I cut it out of me. I took the scissors and I just– I– I think I’m bleeding.” She looked up. “I am bleeding, right? This is all my blood.”

There was blood oozing out of the wound in her chest, but it was on her hands too. It was on her lips, her nose, and how had even that happened? “I’m bleeding,” Rose said again. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

Joan called an ambulance, but first she reached back and unzipped her dress. She pulled it over her head and stood there, in her bra and black tights and nylon slip in front of her bleeding sister. “Mine stopped,” she said, slowly peeling back the gauze that covered her heart. The wound was shut, though the scar was still red and angry. “It hurt a lot tonight, Rosie, but it’s not bleeding. Yours will stop too. I promise.”

They spent Christmas night in the ER. “It’s a busy night in this ward,” one of the nurses remarked. “Lots of people pick tonight to tear away their heartstrings. It’s the worst night of the year for people who can never go home.”

The Sunday after Christmas, Rose felt light-headed as she stepped into her aunt and uncle's church. She’d missed the carols, but some of the decorations were still up. The altar cloth was still white and gold, and so it would remain for a few days yet.

Everything was either an echo or a contrast to Eastledge. “I wish they wouldn’t sing this song,” said Rose in her sister’s ear, pressing a hand to the place beneath her ribs where her heartstring had been.

After the service, Rose went up to the front of the church and stood in front of the altar. She reached out and ran her fingers over the scalloped edge of the cloth, wanting to salvage some Christmas joy but instead only able to imagine the corresponding cloth a thousand miles away in Eastledge, Massachusetts.

No, no, none of that. Rose screwed her eyes shut and she forced her thoughts back into something like order. She thought about Christ Incarnate leaving his home in heaven. Which way had his heartstring pulled him, she wondered. Had it tied him back to the Father, or had his heartstring led him straight to the cross?

“Eastledge Church broke my heart,” she didn't quite whisper. “You broke my heart, God, and I don't know what comes next.”

There was no immediate answer, but the gold threads against her fingertips were rough and scratchy. They ran along the white cloth in embroidered images of starbursts, crowns, and crosses. Her fingernail caught on a loose end, which unraveled a little when she drew her hand away.

Before Rose quite understood what was happening, that loose end of golden thread had disentangled itself from the altar cloth and was hanging in the air before her eyes. As she watched, one glittering end wove its way towards her chest, underneath the bandage and through her skin. With a strange gentleness, the thread wound its way past her left ribs and tied itself, she was certain, in a knot around her heart. The string gave a little tug, but it didn't hurt her; Rose felt only a delicious warmth that began in her heart and seemed to radiate all through her body, from the hairs on her head to the tips of her toes.

For an instant, Rose assumed that the other end of the thread was still embedded in the altar cloth; that this was God's way of telling her that she belonged here, at this church. Yet as her eyes traced the length of golden thread, they found themselves gazing up, where a faint shimmering was just visible high up in the rafters.

“It doesn't end there,” she realized. With that, Rose turned and sprinted down the aisle and out of the church.

The gray December sky was dotted with snowflakes. When Rose raised her head, they fell in her lashes and she had to blink them away. Yet there, high above her, she could see her golden heartstring vanishing into the clouds.

“It leads to the Throne Room,” said a voice beside her. Rose turned and saw Joan standing beside her, with Rose's own coat draped over her arm. “I think it must.”

“Yours too? I mean, did your heartstring–”

“Yes. Christmas night, in the hospital with you. I looked up and it seemed to be unfurling down from the ceiling like Jacob's Ladder.”

“You never said.” Rose sniffed hard, not sure if it was the cold or the overwhelming emotion that caused it.

“I don't think it's the sort of experience you can talk about, much. Put on your coat, Rosie. I won't say let's go home, not now– but the car is warming up, and I bet I can get Auntie to make us some cocoa.”

#inklingschallenge #this is a weird one gang #hopefully I was able to convey my thoughts in an eloquent way but i guess we'll see #it was cathartic to write at any rate #and! i did work in the twelve days of Christmas in that the climax occurs the sunday after Christmas (does that day have a name? idk)#anyway #here's what i got hope you enjoy #taking one line from Jane Eyre super literally and transposing it into a completely different context #pontifications and creations #leah stories #unto us a child is born #inklings challenge

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howdoyousleep3 · 3 months

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*cracks knuckles*

Okay, I grew up catholic and have tons of religious trauma. 🙃🙃🙃🙃

You’re a senior at your all girls school (OF COURSE). Father Ari is on his way out because all the girls have a crush on him and the diocese has caught wind of this. It cannot be ignored any longer, it’s getting out of hand and so he’s been transferred to an all boys school. (Cardinal Rogers has seen the social media posts you naughty girlies and has absolutely jacked off to them inserting himself into the stories about getting fucked by Fr. Ari - all the evidence collected by bitter old Sister Peggy). You have never participated in this because you are a good girl and that pulsing in your pussy is SCARY. More scary than exciting at this point. You are sheltered, practically infantilized by your equally troubled mother who looks at you with resentment because good girls marry the first guy they date and accidentally get knocked up by, solidifying their future that is nothing close to what they dreamed of.

Anywhooo, the church has always sort of given you bad vibes. Especially at night, you’re there a lot helping out and in the rectory after hours. You envy the peace it seems to give others. You can’t quite seem to feel that, only a shiver, a feeling that something lurks nearby. Something wicked.

You hate the stations of the cross. It’s violent retelling of Christ’s final moments. You wonder what is the point of it all. As you walk around the church, genuflecting beneath each beautifully brutal stained glass depiction of torture, you glance at Fr. Ari only to find him looking at you. Staring. It’s..weird. The look in his eyes reminds you of an animal. It’s wild. Feral. You don’t understand.

Face to face confession is the worst. You hate it. You much prefer hiding. Confession is weekly. You struggle to even come up with something to confess. You don’t do anything wrong. So you tell little white lies - you copied off of Sarah for a test, you stole some of your mom’s favorite caramels. You don’t even like caramel but you literally have nothing to say. Do you even believe in god? It all seems like a pointless joke.

He can smell the sweat on you. He wants to lick your face. He just knows your tits would taste so good. You don’t even realize he can see your crotch with the way your sitting. White cotton panties. Of course. Of course this little slut would wear something straight out of the porn he conjures up in his mind when he’s fucking his fist. When he thinks about you. He’s so fucking horny he thinks he can see your pubic hair sticking out of your panties. The tight little curls poking out slightly. He wants to stick his whole face into your pussy. Make you cum and drink up all of your creamy, salty, sweet, foamy pussy juice. Lay you down on the altar and place communion wafers one by one down your body, eat them off you, pour the wine all over your breasts and suck it off your nipples…

Idk that’s all I’ve got right now. Should I come off anon and give y’all more??

Take me the fuck away, nonnie.

Halfway through reading this masterpiece I had to stand up and take a little walk in my kitchen because I could not BELIEVE what I was reading, holy shit.

I would devour more of this. I won’t say I need this because I don’t want to put thy kind of pressure on you but 👀 please GOD I need more.

#askK #religious trauma #blasphemy #father levinson #father ari #holy shit holy shit holy shit #he’s a fucking feral beast #I want him

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monsterfuxkermarya · 1 month

Text

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman.

And I, unfortunately, am a lot like the type o-negative song, simply titled “Christian woman”. I will never be like the nuns at my church or the dedicated mother doting on her children, either.

I give into temptation. I lust and give into the sins of the flesh. I beg to serve and be served sexually. I want to be on my back or knees.

But, Christ, oh Corpus Christi. The purest lamb, son of god and carpenter.

I bow my head in shame when I see someone pray. I wonder what it’s like not to struggle with your religion. I sob violently when I pray, ashamed of who I’ve become. I know the child I used to be is wondering where I went wrong, why I no longer try to believe. I cry for her when I pray.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I’ve failed to meet so many expectations put upon me.

I curse like a sailor. I steal alcohol occasionally. I’ve gotten high. I masturbate at least three times a week. I skip church. I refuse to kiss and venerate the cross or priest, not out of disrespect, but shame and loss of belief. I don’t venerate the icon and I refuse to go to confession. I can’t look at an icon without my eyes welling up with tears in shame. When I was forced to go to church I was told I had to take communion, even if i hadn’t prepared or fasted. I felt so ashamed that I took your body and blood, knowing I had in no way prepared for it.

I was once the lamb covered in mud because time and time again I ran away from the herd and got stuck in a bush of thorns. My once beautiful coat is muddied. My skin is bruised and cut. My soul is tainted.

I can only hope that my sins will be washed away at the pearly gates. My coat will sparkle a fresh white, my bruises and cuts gone, my soul pure.

Because as I am no lamb anymore. I am the goat. The devils creature. My eyes have turned into slits because I judge people. I have grown horns to defend myself. My coat is so matted it becomes thin and bristly. My tail is jagged and torn.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I, unfortunately, pray for forgiveness every Sunday night. The same night I usually find my fingers knuckle deep in my virgin sex.

I beg to be saved, to be cleansed by the holiest of holy water. I grip my prayer rope tightly and beg for this round of Our Father’s to be the one I stick to. I weep every time I go to confession, so ashamed of the sins I’ve committed.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. But Jesus would still wash my feet, right?

I still have a favorite set of Bible verses I say to myself when I’m scared. The small child in me repeats them when the sky lights up with thunder and lightning in the dead of night. Joshua 1:9 and Ephesians 2:8-10 repeat every time I have to do something I’m scared to do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I feel weak when I can’t continue my fasts because I get light headed and nauseous on my period.

I feel so unclean and ashamed of my period, even though it is a miracle and a blessing to be so healthy. I cry when my cramps hit, not only because of pain, but shame, knowing our savior went through so much more to save us. I writhe in pain for hours, hoping my suffering will make up for my sins.

My suffering will never make up for my sins. It will never make up for the people I’ve hurt and driven away. It will never make up for all the times I pushed Lord Christ away.

My back aches. My head pounds. My throat is dry and my eyes strain. My feet are sore. I know that if I were to come back to the light, be the lamb once again, my pain and suffering would subside. I could once again bask in the healing light of the Lord. But I feel as if I’m too far gone. My body has contorted into that of a goat, devilish and angry. I must defend myself as I have no God to guide me anymore. I strayed too far from his light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I can barely look Father John in the eyes.

He’s been my priest since I was a kid, I love him dearly. But I can’t even fathom telling him these thoughts. Having a person I’ve known since I was a kid know my struggles. I’m scared he’d bash me for falling so far from the light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I fear the day that lent starts. It’s marked on my calendar with a question mark. March 18, 2024: lent starts?

It’s not a question because I don’t know when it starts, I’ve been aware since the beginning of the year. It’s a question because Am I Gonna Participate This Year? Will I go to vespers, will I go to confession, will I read the gospels, will I attend the matins services, will I fast, will I? Will I?

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I know all my actions and words cast shame upon my family.

My dad’s side of the family is from Greece. My grandma, God rest her soul, was a devout Greek Orthodox Christian. I know the farther I fall from my faith the more shame I put upon her and all her family before her.

My mom converted to marry my dad in the Orthodox Church. I wonder if she struggled with her faith as much as I do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And my church is unfortunately my second home.

And I am estranged from my second home.

It brings me so much guilt and pain to step into my church, but the second I smell the incense and the chanting hits my ears I know I am home. The incense is infused with rose, the chanting in soft Greek and Arabic. I used to be able to chant with them fluently as a kid. I used to ask my dad what certain geek words meant. He’d spend hours explaining it if he had the time back then.

Oh, and the theotokos, the bearer of god, mother of the savior. I was so infatuated with you. I’d draw your icon in my sketchbook. I’d talk to you like you were my own mom as I waited to confess alone. I can’t imagine the pain you went through when you saw your son get nailed to the cross.

I weep in front of your icon now. I look at you and oh holy Jesus the Christ and weep. I have fallen so far you look like tiny dots of light from where I lay in the darkness.

I used to walk around the church in circles, looking at each and every icon. The portraits of saints, the depictions of the holy gospels, the last supper, Christ raising from the dead, Lazarus raising from the dead. I used to ask Father John who a certain saint was if their icon was really unique and look them up later.

I miss Lazarus Saturday and eating Lazarakia with my brother. I miss eating dolmas and plain rice as potluck instead of the usual feast because it was lent. I miss breaking the fast at three in the morning because that’s when the service finally ended when it started at 10:30 PM. I miss playing tsougrisma with my family. I miss screaming “Alithos anesti!” With the congregation. I miss trying to respond “indeed he has risen!” in as many languages as possible on Easter Sunday.

Because I am no longer a fortunate Christian woman. I am an unfortunate Christian woman.

And I long to go to church and not question the teachings.

And I long to make palm crosses with my mom and her friends.

And I long to read at the matins services and chant in the choir.

And I long to breathe in the incense and leave smelling like it.

And I long to be held in the warm and loving embrace of our Lord and savior Jesus the Christ.

And I long to say, “forgive me a sinner”, to be met with a soft hug and the loving response, “God forgives and I forgive” at forgiveness Sunday.

Forgive me a sinner, for I am an unfortunate Christian woman. I have sinned against thee.

#god #religion #tw religious themes #vent post #personal vent #slam poetry #maybe idk #monster fuxker marya #ex religious #religious guilt #yes it’s not smut #yes this is serious #im so sorry if you find out this way #orthodox christianity

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suikamelon6 · 1 month

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My love letter to VC!

The Easter Eggs are practically rolling all over my new fic! Last time I counted, I found about two dozens (no seriously!) Based on QotD, TVL, TVA and Prince Lestat, this is the silliest, most CANON-compliant short fic I've ever written. Mafia = Vampire. Murder is their love language. They are well-dressed, violent, horny and fun as hell... So much parallel there it's unreal.

Previous Saveur was based on "Blood Communion" with Rhosh as the biggest enemy Lestat's ever faced, this one has got Akasha. And my beloved Fareed & Seth's love story!

#vc #interview with the vampire amc #vampire chronicles #lestat #ldpdl #daniel molloy #armand #akasha #QotD #The Vampire Lestat #The Vampire Armand #iwtv fic #iwtv fan fic

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asharaks · 3 months

Text

these torn constellations

820 words tw: self-harm, torture, sex wyll/the dark urge, kressa bonedaughter

A woman leans over you and tells you she loves you.

One day, you took a knife to your face and carved yourself open, lips to throat. You laughed as you did it, your Father's light filling the wounds, your Father's blood filling your mouth.

Today, she opens you throat to groin, starting at the very tip of your scars. You laugh (you think you laugh) as she does it, your Father's light gone from you, spilled red on the glistening floor, holy communion gone to waste.

One day, you'll lie in a warm bed with a man who loves you. The sunlight will fall on his skin and you will fall on your knees for him, time and time again, a worship untainted by blood.

Today, you lie on a cold table, and a woman leans over you and tells you she loves you. Her hands reek of death, and the darkness around you is no match for the darkness within, writhing-wriggling-squirming, clawing and crawling, and she takes the hand you raise for violence and she laces her fingers with yours

(and if you had the strength you'd break those fragile bones to splinters)

and she kisses you on the forehead, carrion-breath rancidsweet on your skin,

(rip out her tongue at the root and watch her choke on blood)

and she murmurs, “Hush, sweet one-”

(something so satisfying about killing necromancers: they always die screaming)

and when you look down you can see the carvings on your ribs (the Given), discordant with the ones on your face (the Chosen), the flutter of your lungs and you find yourself

searching

staring

looking for the red for the itch for the hole the place where He lives in you (and your blood spills over, wet and rich and dark in her hands) and

One day, you killed a man three times. Opened him up so pretty, teeth in his throat claws in his gut watched him bleed out squirmingscreamingsobbing: felt your Father's love, an offering received with grace. You took that love and you took his body and you filled him with it, brought him back through the dark to your waiting hands (jugular knitted back abdomen closed smooth) and you

Today, she tuts over your writhing carcass and smoothes your hair back from your sweating brow and she stitches you up with a surgeon's care (hands on your stomach on your thighs on parts more intimate more inside) and when she's done (when you're closed) she leans in and kisses your cheek and she says: “I'll see you tomorrow, special one.”

One day, he'll kneel before you and tell you he can see into eternity. You'll feel the carvings on your ribs, and the violence in your hands, and you'll (wish you'd died before you ever met him) (wish you'd died on the crashing nautiloid) (wish the tadpole swallowed you whole left nothing but meat and tentacles no soul no heart no mind) tell him there's a god in my blood and He won't let me

Today, you die. On her table, your heart stops beating. On her table, your body turns to (stillblessed still Chosen) meat, your Father's favour soaking into the spongy ground. Your Father's blood stops flowing (stops whispering), your Father's love dries up (a murderer murdered, a saint martyred)—

—and in His place, she calls her own god, and he drags you back through the dark to her waiting hands.

One day, you'll kiss him. When the fathergod is bled from you, when your hands and teeth are yours once more, you'll be able to kiss him. It won't change the way you want him

(violently, breathlessly, completely)

but you'll be able to touch him without fear, kiss him without blood. You'll learn:

he likes to talk while he fucks. Gasping, airless, punchedout pleas, his voice an anchor in the split of your skull. You'll learn:

he worries about you. About the things you make yourself do for him. The chore of his body, a fist clenched tight around you; the burden of his desire, your own body wrought for a bloodier purpose. He says, you don't have anything to prove to me, and you, so much to prove you'll never manage it, say:

(I want you so bad my teeth ache with it)

kiss him hard, kiss him until he moans, because the hunger isn't gone

(radiating out from the marrow to the muscle)

isn't changed, just blooded, now, teeth filed down until you can bury them in his neck and he (doesn't bleed) just bruises, pretty and willing, arches his spine and

(let me in let me in let me in)

opens for you, and the only thing in your blood is fire and

(I want I want I want)

love, splitting you open, splitting you in two, a scalpelblade down the core of you until the only anchor is your hand, laced in his.

(One day, you knew.)

(One day, you'll die.)

(Today, you die.)

#tia: i am desperate to be loved #kressa: I love you:)#tia:#honestly she's one of the most fucked up characters in the game. to me. kind of obsessed with her #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #tiavyn #writing #wyll #wyll ravengard #the dark urge #the dark urge bg3

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unpun1shable · 7 months

Text

From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea

The confessional was dim. Small and almost cramped. A little alcove for those to bid their sins, and pray repentance. Pray for the touch of salvation.

Aegon found his between Aemond’s knees.

Word Count: 1.4K

Aegond - Priest AU- Priest Aemond- PWP - Oral (M recieving) - Canoodling in the confessional- Violent imagery - Targcest - Not beta read.

Read on AO3.

Aegon never knew when to stop. When to stop drinking. When to stop fucking. When to stop pushing and prodding and poking.

Aegon thought that he, himself, was not an addict. He just was addicted. One of anything would never be enough. Whether it be a jest, a drink, a woman, or something as simple as a laugh. He was a simple beast. One taste- one good taste and he’d scarf down the same meal over and over again like a hound.

The best taste was Aemond.

His annoyance was intoxicating.

He didn’t know when it exactly started. Perhaps when Aemond grew a head taller than him and he’d feel an ache in his neck anytime their conversations went on too long. Perhaps it was when they were children- when Aem always wore that little scowl. An eternally kicked puppy that Aegon reveled in pushing to the dirt. Perhaps even before then- when he was a toddler waddling into his mother’s birthing chambers and he heard Aemond’s cries for the first time.

Something about Aemond had a vice grip on him. It wouldn’t let go. Insufferable and gnawing.

***

It was no surprise when Aemond became a priest. Aemond was poised- a righteous twat, in Aegon’s humble opinion. That long, silver hair trailing down his black robes. High collars and draped fabric. The man was in his element.

Aegon was never one for church. Even as a child it never really wrapped around his brain. Like a nail and a hammer that always missed. But, it was his first time back in Oldtown in years. With him having gone off to the crownlands after college and losing himself in the hot, summer nights.

The silver-haired man sat in the back pew. One arm draped over the back of the wood. Ankle resting on his opposite thigh. Clad in a pair of dark trousers and a baggy hoodie with a bleach stain on the pocket. Completely uninterested as the senior priest gave his sermon.

He wasn’t here for him, after all.

***

There were things about priesthood that Aemond enjoyed. Communion was not one of them. Sure, he was fine with it most of the time. Most people were normal. Most people took the cracker and the little cup of wine and went back to their seats. But there were always a few people. Those few fucking people that opened their mouths. That expected Aemond to reach into their soggy maws and place the cracker atop their tongue. It was just gross. Demeaning for both of them.

So, as he stood at the front of the dais to hand out communion, he was pleasantly surprised. One row of pews after another filing up and actually being normal people. In fact, he almost got to the end of it without having one person open their god damn mouth.

Then, he saw a flutter of silver. A mess of untamed, grungy waves.

Aegon.

He wanted to throw the entire plate of crackers at him with the strength of a bull. Made only worse when the greaseball actually trotted up to him. Leaning forward with his arms knitted behind his back. Lips parted and twitching, pink tongue on display. That knowing, poking glint in his violet eyes.

Aemond was going to throw him through the stained glass windows. Slammed full force. Watch as Aegon was left littered with shards of blue, red, and green.

However, first, his thumb slipped past Aegon’s lips. The skin just brushing as he pressed the cracker to Aegon’s tongue. But it did not end there. Aegon wrapped his lips around Aemond’s digits before he could pull away. They were warm. They were unholy. Aemond wanted to pry them open and fill them with fire.

Instead, he almost jolted his arm back. It did nothing to deter the impish sinner, however, as Aegon simply grinned and turned. Taking a cup of the communion wine between his thick fingers on the way.

It took all of Aemond’s strength to not lunge at him as soon as he turned his back.

***

Once the service was finished, Aegon went out to the side of the building to smoke. Hidden from sight as he watched, beneath two stained glass windows, as the parking lot slowly emptied. Those who stayed behind for confession slowly filing out. Running off in their Corvettes and BMWs. A bunch of old money, that’s what the reach was. Old, old money.

When the final car pulled away, Aegon flicked his cigarette. Letting the little streak of simmering embers arch and disappear into the grey dusk.

He slipped back in through the front door. The sounds of sneakers against wood echoing in the empty hall. It was bigger on the inside than it looked on the out. A great, echoing building of white and oak. The greens and blues that once reflected off the polish disappearing as the sun went down. An autumn chill running along the walls outside. A scratching itch raking down Aegon’s stomach. His violet eyes meeting Aemond’s single, amethyst one as he left the confessional.

“Have time for one more?”

***

The confessional was dim. Small and almost cramped. A little alcove for those to bid their sins, and pray repentance. Pray for the touch of salvation.

Aegon found his between Aemond’s knees. His body knelt, head pushed down my the priest’s long, slender fingers. The other hand pressed to the oak. Aemond’s head strained back. His chest rising and falling with every breath. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut. Staving off breathy groans and low moans as his cock sunk into the heat of Aegon’s mouth. Soft, sinful velvet wrapped around every inch.

Aegon’s hands bunched in the black fabric of Aemond’s robes. Knuckles just grazing against his hips. He was like a snake in the birds nest. Slithering and consuming. Taking all he can get and still begging for more. The man’s nose brushing against Aemond’s stomach. His throat constricting around the head. Yet it was not enough. Never enough. Aegon wanted him deeper. He wanted everything. He wanted Aemond to fill him until all of his body was burrowed out and left hollow. He wanted to break Aemond’s bones and suck out the marrow.

A low growl rumbled in Aemond’s chest. His hips picking off the bench to bump against Aegon’s face. Forcing him to take more. Forcing him to choke around his cock. His nails digging into Aegon’s silver locks and scrape against the scalp. A ripe, dripping apple he wanted to demolish. Tear apart until the very fibers were unrecognizable. He wanted to see him cry. He wanted to see him bleed. Aemond wanted to see Aegon sob as his cum ran down his throat.

Aegon’s digits left Aemond’s robes. Slowly spanning out over the dark, rich oak of the bench. His head cocking to the side, tongue running along the vein on the bottom of Aemond’s cock. Relishing in the twitch that he received in turn. In the barely-muffled groan that spilt down Aemond’s chin from his lips. Swirling down Aegon’s mind straight between his legs.

When he came, it was like a holy flood. The back of Aemond’s fist bit between his teeth. His eyes stinging as if he was about to cry. Aegon took it all. His greedy, gluttonous lips wrapped around the base. His throat open and so, so willing. Devouring. The humid and heavy air of the confessional drowning the both of them.

***

Light had bled from the day. The world washed in blue and grey. Once beautiful, masterpieces of glass now dark masses of nothing in the night.

Aemond stood beneath them, a cigarette perched between his lips. He had tried to quit too many times to count. Nothing ever worked. Not the carrot sticks or the straw. No cheap imitation could ever give him his fix. He was a picky man. He had tried- oh, had he tried.

Nothing ever beat the true itch.

Aegon stumbled out of the church, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Aemond had tried to push him away after the first round. Even knocked his head into the wall of the confessional in the attempt.

However, the kicked sound Aegon gave drove him mad. He’d pushed him up, then. Forced the man to stand with his back to the wall as he returned the favor. Watched as Aegon squirmed and whined like a bitch as he sucked him off.

Now, the two stood perched beneath the eyes of the holy dimmed in the twilight. Blind to Aegon raising his own stick to Aemond’s. The burning embers setting his alight. The smoke twisting in the air above in dark coils. No gods there to bare witness. Just two lowly sinners beneath navy blue skies. Two restless, insatiable eaters doused in their own sweat and filth.

#i am weak for priest aus #and i’m not sorry #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd smut #house of the dragon smut #aegond #aegon x aemond #aemond x aegon #aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #priest aemond #targcest #aegond smut #on the edge of the deep green sea

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