──﹕I don't write NSFW, don't request smut. / No escribo NSFW, no pidan porquería.
──﹕I write dark content, so please read with caution. / escribo contenido oscuro, así que por favor, lean con precaución.
──﹕I don't write from certain fandoms so please read the ones that are listed. / No escribo sobre fandoms específicos, así que por favor, lean los que aparecen en la lista.
Tags fem sunday x fem reader, religious imagery, women in priesthood, corruption, forbidden love, starvation/ eating disorders kinda, homophobia, misogyny, blasphemy
Summary As a novice, there's a lot of things you're not used to in your current church. The massive amounts of funds donated by the congregation seem to disappear, but by far the oddest thing is the secret Father Sunday has been hiding.
A/N Just a little series im rlly excited for :)) this is Catholicism bc lowkkk I don't think i know the religion in the official story well enough and its close anyways. Also might not be suuperr accurate bc I'm not a nun but i tried to get as close as it could be when it comes to scheduling and stuff.
Wake up, mass, work, prayer, sleep.
Wake up, mass, work, prayer, sleep.
Wake up, mass, work, prayer, sleep.
Day in and day out, those are the principles you live your life by. It's a routine you find yourself grateful for.
Mornings start early, at 5 am— deafening bells ring throughout the entire chapel, announcing that the day has officially begun. With heavy eyelids, you push the fluffy comforter off, letting the freezing air rush over your exhausted body. Sparks of electricity run up your vertebrae, shocking your system awake. You contemplate staying in bed and getting just a few more minutes of sleep, after all, you slept late yesterday… it'd only be for a little bit. But the humiliation you would feel arriving to mass late, with judging eyes staring daggers at you, far outweighs the need to stay enveloped in the cottony toastiness of your covers.
You have to clean up, pray, reflect, and get dressed. There's already so much to do, and you only have thirty minutes to get to mass. Does God really care if you got up this early? Surely they could start at a reasonable time. Groaning, you start getting dressed. It takes a while, but you finally get the veil neatly on your head— bright white. In a few years, hopefully the black overlay will join it too. You layer on a sweater and track pants underneath your habit to defend against the cold. Despite all the donations the church seems to get from its loyal congregation, the heating never seems to work.
By the time you look back at the small clock hung on the wall, the hands are already showing that it's 5:40. Shit. You rush to the chapel, barely remembering to grab the rosary and brand new bible you were gifted personally by Bishop Wood when you officially reached the novitiate stage of your religious journey. He's a kind man, one you look up to.
Arctic wind whips past the sensitive skin of your face as you run out of the dormitory and into the chapel. You stop right in front of the door, working up the courage to go in— to face the disappointment in your superiors eyes. Head bowed, you push open the heavy solid wooden door. A loud rumble sounds through the mostly quiet room, making everyone turn to look at the source. Your shoes tap quietly against the shiny tile floor as you take your seat in the back, so as to not bother anyone.
You barely peek up at the person at the altar, Sunday, before he speaks up. His voice is stern, with piercing golden irises staring into your soul, “Nice of you to finally join us. Just a reminder, Mass begins at 5:30 sharp. I do not want to tell you again.” Your cheeks burn as all the blood rushes towards your head, nodding in acknowledgment of his words.
The service continues with you phasing in and out of listening in. Every time the halovian’s gaze looks in your general direction, your heart jumps into your throat— afraid he'd make another example out of you. You've already had more than enough dishonor for one day. The abbess, Robin, will probably work you to the bone for the next week at least.
Soon, everyone starts lining up in the middle aisle, with Sunday standing at the front, facing the sea of simple, black and white garments. In his hands in a golden chalice, covered with a simple white rag— the purificator. The gentle glow of the candles behind him make everything seem warmer, and he looks… like an angel. You look away as soon as the thought enters your head, quickly joining the back of the queue.
The line slowly goes down as more people are blessed and receive Christ into their heart. Bishop wood joins Sunday as it gets closer to your turn, momentarily distracting him. They whisper between themselves quietly for a few seconds, before the gray haired man goes back to his duties, mouth twisting into a soft smile that does not reach his eyes. Sweat coats your palms the closer the time comes for you to receive communion.
You never wanted to disturb the time people had to worship. Walking in, after mass has already started is disrespectful, and the guilt weighs heavy on your chest. This is your chance to make up for it, even if it's in a small, roundabout way. It proves dedication to God, and above all it proves to your superiors that you care— you want this life. Driven by instinct, you bow when the woman in front of you receives the eucharist and starts to leave, holding out your hands, left over right.
When you look back up, Sunday has started covering the goblet with the cloth again. “Not today. Please go to my office after the service.” Stunned, you freeze. Your eyes drift to the man beside Sunday, silently pleading for him to do something so you won't have to sit back down after receiving nothing but shame. His excellency looks back with a mild, barely noticeable smirk on his face. You can't find it in yourself to protest, nodding quietly. “I understand. I'm sorry, Father.”
A low, persistent buzz settles underneath your skin as you walk back to your seat, and throughout the rest of mass. You try to concentrate, but every time the halovian speaks, his words turn into a loud ring in your ears, and you get flashbacks to every single mortifying moment in your life. You wish you were a halovian too, then you could just fly away and never have to show your face again— you'd never have to feel the pervasive cold sinking into your bones.
People start pouring out, not taking a second glance at your stationary form. Some others stick around, pulling down the kneelers and praying quietly— heads tucked down in surrender. Your fingers run over the worn down, white rosary with you, listening to the beads clank together and sing. The tense muscles in your shoulders slacken. No matter what, the prayer beads always bring a sense of tranquility with them.
Just like the others, you put the kneeler down, and leave the bible on the pew. As if on autopilot, your body makes the sign of the cross and begins softly whispering the words you know so well under your breath. Your hand travels around each bead, feeling the coolness of the smooth metal and glass, thumbing at the peeling paint. When the practice is finished, the tips of your fingers ache, there's even small scraps of the coating stuck between your fingernail and nail bed.
You gather your things and walk out of the main room, heading through the small dark hallways to the familiar office. The walk there is a long one, filled with anxiety. It smells like fresh roses and wood varnish here. A relaxed voice calls out from inside, “Come in.” Your hand wraps around the faded gilded knob, twisting and pushing the entrance open. He looks up from the stack of papers on his desk, putting his fountain pen down and gesturing for you to sit down.The room is decorated with half used candles and vases full of deep red roses, thorns peeking out from the bottom of the sepal and leaves. Bookshelves cover all four walls, leaving a small gap for the window to peek through, spilling golden morning light into the office.
“You know why I called you in here, I'm assuming.” He starts. You bob your head. “Of course. I’m sorry, I was just up late yesterday-” "That's not an excuse. You have thirty whole minutes to walk the short distance from the convent dormitories to the chapel. You aren't new to this anymore. You are still a novice, yes, but it's been a few years since you've joined. This is a routine you should have become accustomed to within the first month. Yes?” The words can't seem to claw themselves out of your throat. “Yes,” you manage to spit out.
“I'm glad you understand,” his hands clasp together, resting on the table. “Now, I did not necessarily call you in here just to scold you. I am not really upset enough to deny you the eucharist, but you must understand that when bishop wood is visiting, I cannot exactly go soft on anyone's transgressions.” You didn’t notice how your fingers had started pulling at the loose threads in your habit, tense and sore. But as soon as the words left his lips, your hands rested in your lap—- still. “Yes, father.”
A small smile crept onto your face, and relief washed over your stiff figure. Sunday’s yellow eyes sparkled as he watched you relax. “Now, I know I am not technically directly in charge of you, but I will have to have a longer talk with Robin to see what we can do to avoid this again. It's very distracting to others,” he says.
“Well… I don’t think I need anything, this is just a mistake. People do things wrong once in a while, right? I rarely arrive late anywhere.” His eyes narrowed, unconvinced. “That’s fine then, but I expect absolute punctuality then, or you’ll be repainting the walls.” Your brain momentarily freezes, unsure of how to respond to that. “For now, in addition to your other side work, I'll need you to be in charge of cooking. Since His Excellency is visiting, I'd like to make sure he’s comfortable. Lunch is at 12 pm, let me know when it’s ready, we want to eat it hot.” Your eyebrows furrow. “Are you really allowed to give me additional work like that? Robin is my direct superior, not you.”
His bitten lips curl into an annoyed grimace. The wings surrounding his head flutter and stretch, ”I already talked it over with Robin, she agreed it’s best this way.” he answers coolly. You’re planted in your seat. Despite being kind of an asshole, he is thorough. You find yourself admiring that quality about him. There’s no guessing games with him. When something is wrong, it is corrected—- and there’s no exceptions to this rule.
Rules.
They are the glue that holds society together—- and the conventions leading your life. The routine you find yourself grateful for every single day is guided by the regulations put in place by your convent, and by the church. And following them properly will lead you to the kingdom of heaven, to eternal happiness.
You’re glad to find another like-minded individual. One you haven’t had much contact with before, but who is still a pleasure to get to know now.
Taking a deep breath, your eyes drift over to the fresh roses on his desk. The beautiful layers of fluffy petals all come together to form one stunning flower. Each leaf and thorn is placed meticulously on the stem, giving it a sense of organized cohesion. Rarely, will you ever see a rose with the thorns growing through the middle, stabbing into the delicate petals that it’s meant to protect. It’s the law of nature—- an unbendable rule.
If you were to pick one up carelessly, naturally the consequences would catch up to you. The spines would attack your fingers and draw red droplets from your ruptured blood vessels. It makes sense to you. You do something wrong, the outcome could be something you don’t like—- maybe even something that hurts. But with time, the wound will heal. Your white blood vessels will patch up the tiny pinpricks left on the pads of your fingers, and you will learn to do it properly. Then, you can fully enjoy the delight of holding a rose, of feeling the velvety petals between your fingertips.
The gray-haired man notices your staring, his eyes drift from your face back to the blade he has on his desk. “You keep staring at them, would you like one?” he asks innocently. Your heart skips a beat. Cold water cascades over your head. He obviously does not mean it in a romantic way, but your chest aches for it.
Well… technically since you still haven’t taken your vows you wouldn’t be in as much trouble, but unfortunately he has. Not to mention that it would still be a mortal sin since you are not married.
Stupid rules.
You nod eagerly. Any gift from him is precious. He smiles and it’s like a thousand suns have flashed you in the eyes. There’s a subtle glow to his skin that shouldn’t be possible naturally. Every article of clothing he’s wearing is ironed perfectly, without a single hair out of place. Is it possible for someone to be this perfect? or are you in a coma dreaming while other voices chatter in your room. “Alright then, If the food is to Mr. Wood’s liking, I will gift you a vase full of them.”
It's just an incentive. You know that. However, a small part of your brain wants to look deeper into the way his eyes linger on you, or how he seems to be a little softer on you than others. If someone else had walked into the service late, you’re sure he would have been much stricter. Sometimes, the other nuns gossip— telling stories about times they’ve said something out of line and were rewarded with extra hours cleaning up the exterior of the church, in the dead of winter.
“I'll get right on it then. But… Can I use your restroom first?” you ask hesitantly. You can feel the heat sizzling underneath your skin. Surely he can tell too. He points out the bathroom to you, with thin well-manicured fingers. “Go right ahead.” You put your bible and prayer beads down meekly on his desk and lock yourself in the bathroom. It's much nicer than the one in the nuns dorms— decorated with intricate wooden crosses and soft lanterns instead of the harsh led lights you've become so accustomed to seeing. There's a fluffy white mat on the floor, completely clean. Even the cabinets have fine woodworking and a beautiful shiny finish to them. The ones you have, even Robin’s, are covered in thick layers of white and gray paint. The wooden floor isn't even real, it's just vinyl painted to look like wood.
Priests have their own special jobs, you know that— but this discrepancy is huge. Technically, an abbess and priest are in a similar place in the hierarchy, so why does he get so many better things? You're definitely going to start using this bathroom instead of the regular ones.
Curious, you start snooping around quietly. Sunday is right outside, and he would definitely hear if you slammed any of the cabinets shut. You carefully crack open the shelf under the sink— there's nothing interesting there, just some screws and a hammer, simple tools. In the cupboard across from the porcelain toilet, there's mostly just small rags and aerosol room spray, a few candles and— of course— a bible. He would be the type to read on the toilet. Doesn't he find it weird to keep something so holy in a dirty place like this?
You look deeper, pushing things to the side to see what's hidden behind and higher up in the shelves you can't reach. Your hands barely brush over a small box. Hopping, you just manage to grab hold of it enough to pull it out of the cabinet. A familiar, colorful little container comes into view. He has pads? This is his own personal restroom. Your eyebrows furrow a little. It's hard to wrap your head around this, most men are bothered by even seeing things like this, but he is a servant of God. Perhaps you're being a little close minded about this— it has to be for when women in the congregation need it. He's just trying to help. He's so thoughtful.
A minute smile forms over your face, one that you can't force down no matter how hard you try. He's so kind. Hastily, you put everything back in place and splash a little bit of cold water on your face. The itch spreading in the contours and periphery of your face stops.
Irritated fingers reach for the handle and turn it. The gray-haired man's eyes make contact with yours, startling your system. He had your bible in his hands, open, but when he sees you're back he quickly closes it, pushing it back to where it was, with the worn-down rosary resting on top. He looks somewhat nervous, with a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead. “Feel better?” he asks innocuously. A blockage forms in your throat so bulky you can't get out a simple yes. You squeeze your hands closed, digging your jagged nails into the tender flesh of your palms and force out the words, “Yes, thank you.” Fine wrinkles form around his eyes as he lets out a little chuckle, letting a pleased grin spread over his lips.
You eye him quietly while taking hold of your things, hugging the scripture closer. “I'll get started on the meal then.” Your head bows politely. “Alright then, I trust you'll do well.” he leans back in his chair, watching as you finally leave his office. You walk down the hallway, elated. They're not angry at you— well, Bishop Wood is definitely upset— but Sunday and Robin aren’t, and their approval is arguably more important to you.
Now, you just have to figure out what to cook. What does a man like Gopher Wood even like? He seems like a man that enjoys finer things… So maybe some kind of steak? The church does not splurge on fancy cuts of meat, a simple meal is always best. Especially when the money can be used to help the community— so he'll have to settle for cubed stew meat. You dash back to your room, just for a second to put your things down, then run back out to get started on lunch. It's still a bit early, but you also have to make sides and drinks to go along with the main dish.
Slimy fluids form a thin film over your hands as you handle the red meat. The knife nearly slips out of your grip when you go to cut it. The cool blade is far too dull to be safe, but you make do with what you have—- putting a little extra force behind the chop. The rice is already cooking on the stove. Hot air fills the entire kitchen, drawing a drowsy sigh from your abdomen. The meal will be simple but tasty, just rice and meat with a sauce, almost like a curry.
There’s definitely not enough seasonings in this kitchen, but it should be just enough to not taste like warm solid water. They should understand… right? You toss the needed meat onto a sizzling pan, backing up when the oil and butter starts jumping at you. Sweat rolls down your forehead. You regret not changing out of the sweater earlier when you were in your room.
The constant heat is irritating. Your hands grip the tools just a bit tighter when your other sisters walk in, talking loudly about nothing of importance. Soft taps break through the wall of conversation as your foot twitches impatiently. It doesn’t take long for everyone to leave when the thunder cloud hovering over your head is so obvious.
As soon as the food is finished cooking, you get started on cutting up a few limes. It stings as the acidic juices drip into the scrapes and peeled off skin around your fingernails. Mixing the sugar in takes forever and it never seems to be sweet enough. Mindlessly, you stir in circular motions, waiting for the tiny grains of sugar to disappear from view to the naked eye. The prickling in your bones only gets worse.
It's nearly noon already, you’ve made meat, rice, and some baked garlic potatoes that took way too long to cook. If everything isn’t served soon, you’ll get in even more trouble. Hurriedly, you dump some ice into the limeade and carry the pots and pans as well as you can over to the nice dining table.
Most of the time, people eat in the kitchen, but for special occasions like this, there’s a special room reserved in the back rooms behind the chapel. Usually it’s for weddings and banquets, but now is as good a time as any. It takes a few trips back and forth—- by the end of it your hair is sticking to your scalp underneath the veil, and there’s barely any air circulating in your lungs. You don’t have time to admire the intricate decor and catch your breath before you’re off again, searching for Sunday.
It's still the middle of the working day, he should be in his office. You need to get them both in the dining room before the food gets cold, and you still have your other duties on top of that. Frantically, you knock on his door, “Father Sunday?” You call out but there’s no answer. Rolling your eyes, you push open the entrance. He seriously had to make this harder for you now?
There’s nothing but papers strewn about his desk and unlit, cold candles. The door to his bathroom is open, with the light turned off. Maybe he’s in his room then? Groaning, you take off again. Running in a habit and veil is not ideal. There’s sweat stripping down your face and the cloth suffocating you is just letting it marinate more. Sometimes you really wish you weren’t held down by these dumb legs. At least halovian's have the liberty of being able to fly. They can feel the tepid wind underneath their silky feathers.
His room is not far from the church, just a few meters but you’re struggling to breathe properly after making it there either way. You knock on the door before waiting for an answer, but there’s still nothing. again? where could he be?? Your slippery hands twist the handle, opening the entrance.
A soft gasp makes you look in the direction it came from. Sunday’s eyes widen as he scrambles. It takes a few seconds for the shock to register through your brain. Boiling hot blood bubbles up through your veins and the blockage in your brain is finally lifted. Quickly, you cover your eyes with your hands, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” You can still see the image burned into the backs of your retinas—- Father Sunday, stripped of all the previous modest clothing expected of a priest, with multiple constricting sports bras on. His hair is disheveled, unlike his usual clean and polished self. The wings surrounding him flounder and flutter, trying uselessly to cover himself up.
The bras themselves could be excusable, if you couldn't see the small bits of fat overflowing beyond the seams. Now the pads in his restroom make sense.
Father Sunday isn’t a normal priest at all, he’s a woman.
SUMMARY|| Just the beauty and the beast plotline, but I changed a few things.
From the moment of his birth, The Young Prince was given everything.
Respect was graciously given by him the minute he was born into royalty. His people wrapped around his delicate gold finger. And without a care in the world.
He would throw them away at any chance.
…
Once upon a time in the hidden heart of France.
An eloquent brush gathers splotches of red.
A handsome young prince lived in a beautiful castle.
Vibrant colors stain his cheeks and eyes.
Accentuating his sharp features.
Chuuya’s parties were enamored by the people of France–Civilians would rip their fingernails off to even attend. To keep up with its reputation, it was as splendid as people made them out to be. Women with their extravagant dresses dance and sing as they cling onto their husbands’ arms. All with over-the-top wigs stuck onto their heads–It was a wonder how their heads didn’t tilt over by the excessive amount of hairspray they stick on their mounds of hair. The needless accessories could come out as pounds.
Although his events were attended by the wealthiest in France, and he never had to lift his pretty little finger. Chuuya was unkind and extremely selfish. His room may be made of gold, but his heart was not. Indirectly stealing from the impoverished victims in France. Spending everything on his self-centered desires. Relishing in the anguish his people bled. The childish lord was distant, his judgemental eyes glaring down at the mutts who fell at his feet.
Fiery locks were curled into a high up-do, accentuating the heavy makeup that lays on his face. Resembling that of a young woman. But it suited him quite well–despite him being a man. The feminine appearance emphasized his sharp eyes and his malicious expression. An expression that terrifies everyone to their core–which Chuuya has always used to his advantage.
“Master, it's time.”
His butler, a lanky man with dirty blonde hair shaped into a thin ponytail, and glasses pulled out a pocket watch–intricate cherub designs were engraved on the outside, you could tell how delicately the watchmaker carved the ornament. Slender fingers hidden behind his ivory, silk gloves--the clock opens to show the time. The prince had to make his appearance soon.
Chuuya looks over, dead eyes glancing at the roman numerals. He nods and gestures to his makeup artist to hand over his brass candle holder, drops of fire glide over the air as Chuuya brings the candle over himself. His manicured hand takes it with an iron grip. He raises his hand-held mirror to see a beautiful face looking back at him. Red rosy lips curl up in a cruel smile, the warm light filtering over his features.
That will be the only time where he’ll seem human.
“You look exquisite, Sir Chuuya.”
“Don’t I? The colors blend together with my face, making it one beautiful painting.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Chuuya chuckles, reeling in his own egotistical delusions–he was truly the most perfect man in the world. His hand grazes his cheek, white face paint not even staining his tanned fingers.
He stands up. His lifts bring him up to an extra 2-inches. It’s not like his height was anything to be ashamed of, he just wanted to feel taller. Not much of a difference anyways, he was still smaller than everyone else.
Of course Chuuya always had to have the most expensive and gorgeous things. His chandeliers would well be over his servant’s salary. Not like he paid them fair wages in the first place.
Oh well.
He doesn’t have to fuss about that. They were only stupid pests. All at the heel of his foot.
...
“Oh how divine!”
A melodic voice chimes in. The singing was that of an opera singer, absolutely flawless. Not grating in the slightest, and perfect for the occasion. But it didn’t seem to lift the redhead’s spirits. If anything, he seemed bored out of his mind.
Though, the party was his idea in the first place.
“Glamour, music, and magic combine!”
Women and men were swaying just like flowers blooming in the spring, they were all passionate yet elegant. You can consider them as peacocks from the way they were trying to tempt Chuuya. Despite their gracefulness, The Lord was unimpressed. He recalled how his eldest brother threw events like this, until he moved away with his husband. A man with long black hair and a charming smile. Verlaine never seemed to visit either–far too occupied with his ill lover to care about his family anymore.
“See the maidens so anxious to shine!”
Chuuya could vaguely see the worried expressions of his suitors. All of their makeup would’ve been ruined by the sweat if it wasn’t for the great amount of setting spray and powder. It was amusing how everyone wanted to be by his side all the time.
“Look for a sign that enhances chances!”
The tempo of the song turns faster and so does the dancing.
“They’ll be his special one!”
Tails of men’s tailored suits and the skirts of women’s dresses hover over the air as they try to keep up the racing music.
“Let us sing with passion, busto, fit to bust, oh!
not a care in the world!”
Her voice echoes over the ballroom as the maidens waltz in a circle.
They all begin trying to rapidly move with the song, and a few of them would trip if it wasn’t for…
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
They all stopped.
The pianist still rested his fingers on the keys but did not push them down. He was entranced by the sudden noise. The singer brought her arms down, instead, her claws were out. She was not a woman that backed down so easily.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Murmurs were heard. Ladies grab onto their husbands just in case a disaster strikes–but what would they do? A few backed away to prepare themselves.
The pianist looked at the singer,
and she looked back at him.
The suitors looked around,
and they all looked back.
Until they all looked back at Chuuya.
And while he was about to take the first step…
BANG.
“AAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
Screams were heard, but mainly from the women as they held each other for safety.
The door swung open!
No amount of will-power would ram the doors open!
They stand at a frightening 20 feet!
Chuuya quickly retreated. Like a startled cat.
“Kunikida! The candle!”
His butler rose his head up, adhering to his master’s command. Kunikida searches for the brass candle that was by his side. The light reflected on his glasses and he picked the object up. Those glasses were gifted by Chuuya. Kunikida was a klutz before he received them–until that point, he didn’t know he needed spectacles. The prince was frustrated and annoyed by how careless he was and was about to fire him ‘til he figured out what was wrong.
Kunikida immediately made his way to his boss.
“Here, Young Sir..”
Chuuya took it forcefully from his hand. His fingers grazed Kunikida's clothed ones. Even though his behaviour is expected, Kunikida felt a twinge in his heart. He thought since he knew the young master the longest.. Maybe he would be exempt from his unpleasantries. But that didn’t happen anytime soon.
The freckled man stepped over to the intruder.
“Who dares disturb my party.”
His voice was stern, fit to send shivers down anyone’s spine.
Though.. The figure did not speak.
“Are you mute? Deaf? Or just plain stupid?”
The hooded one did not lift his head either.
Chuuya scoffed.
“Hello?! Can you hear me?”
“My apologies, Lord Chuuya.”
Everyone was slightly taken aback. Not by the man speaking, but from his thick Russian accent. It was clear the man was a foreigner.
“So he does speak.. Tell me intruder, what do you seek?”
The pale individual stays silent for a moment, taking something from out of his pocket.
“I wish to stay here for shelter..”
Before Chuuya could protest, the hooded figure went on.
“..In exchange.. I offer you this singular red rose..”
And there it was.
Blood red petals were the main highlight of the plant. It was exquisite, the mere sight of it could make someone gasp in awe. The rose exuded beauty, untouched by the sinful pests of the world. Prickly thorns stick out from the sides of the stem–if you grab it tight enough, blood would come out, and it would be the same color as the petals.
The rose was precious, one of a kind.
No other rose would be as perfect as the one Chuuya was looking at right now.
But the sight of it made him laugh.
How foolish the stranger was to even offer up the stupid plant in the first place. For all the indecencies the intruder has committed, how could he think a simple rose would fix it? The obtuseness of this man was astounding.
Chuuya’s hand smacked the rose away.
And he laughed right in the stranger’s face.
“Hah! Hahahaha!”
Everyone else chuckled with him.
And when Chuuya stopped laughing, everyone else stopped.
Chuuya scowled at the intruder. Disgusted by the sight of him. Eyebrows knit together from his burning anger. Everything was bubbling up inside of him, and his guests were prepared for him to unleash hell.
“You’re joking right? How stupid do you have to be to break in here, risk breaking my fine doors, and try to fix everything by offering up a pathetic plant? How disgusting. EIther I have your head, or you leave this town altogether.”
The redhead rolled his eyes, stomping the rose with his shoe–disposing of the thing until it was a red mush on the ground.
…
The stranger stayed silent.
Chuuya was getting enraged.
“Well?! Are you going to spe.. W.. Wh..”
He was cut off from a light emerging out of the Russian man’s hood.
The prince looked back, and everyone looked back at him. They were all scooting away, all of their eyes were back at the stranger.
And they gasped.
The women were terrified.
The men were shaking.
Chuuya turned around to see him again.
But it wasn’t the same man anymore.
It was a gorgeous angel, it seemed like gold surrounded him. His pale skin was that of the snow, like he was made for the winter. Red lips were the same color as the rose, plump and kissable. The angel’s hair was flowing with the wind, ebony black and stunning. And his eyes… His eyes were a deep, royal purple. You could be entranced and hypnotized by his irises. In fact, you could be hypnotized by his beauty.
There were few people that the freckled man would consider magnificent. And the Russian man was the most magnificent person Chuuya has ever seen.
Were those angel wings?
Was he so beautiful that he actually grew wings?
Am I imagining it?
At that moment, Chuuya didn’t have the mind to be scared.
“DIsgraceful. You dare frighten me with empty threats? You are a cold and cynical man.”
Chuuya dropped to his knees and begged for another chance. Blabbing about how precious he was.
“Please, My Angel! Forgive me! I can’t afford to be punished! Please!”
The angel scoffed.
“You’re too late, Sinner. From now on, Everyone in this god forsaken castle will be stripped of their humanity. As for you..”
Chuuya peeked his head up, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.”
“You.. will be converted to a hideous beast… Until you learn to love before your 22nd birthday.. You will forever be a monster”
CRACKLE CRACKLE.
The converting beast’s back breaks as he morphs into an aggressive creature. Instead of screaming, he growls in pain. Howling at the servants to do something.. Anything! But everyone was trying to rush out of the castle as fast as they could. Screams of horror reverberated behind Chuuya.
Everything was so painful, he couldn’t handle it. He gasps for air as he claws his paintings.
Clawing the especially dear painting of him and his brother together.
Not a request, but wondering if Rin attempting is going to have a part 2? (Again, not a request, more like curiosity because I kind of felt related to it)
I'm not sure, it was kind of a spur-of-the-moment vent fic. I might do a part 2 since everyone seems to like it.
i don't want to sound rude but i wanted to ask if there's gonna be a part 2 of the dr.ratio fic cause it's made me sob a little, so i wanted to know if there will be a part 2.
good day/night!
yes!! there will, I'm just trying to take time for myself and posting spanish translations. I will immediately work on the Dr. Ratio fic after I'm finished taking the break.
look at how stupid they are, why is ice so short and wide. They really need to go on ozempic if they even think they'd be able to chase hispanic people down. Get some hair plugs before you come terrorizing us lmfaoo
[Notas de Pickle: primera historia traducida al español. Necesitamos más Nikolai x Lector Masculino]
ᴇꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ
Nikolai te habría mantenido secuestrado, esperaba que gritaras y suplicaras por tu vida.
las personas desesperadas por salvar sus vidas y llorando para que sus asesinos las salvaran siempre fueron muy agradables a sus oídos
sin embargo, eras diferente. Quizás no eras tan inteligente como Fiodor ni tan encantador como Dazai, pero lo tienes envuelto en tus manos como una serpiente
le sorprendió lo bien que estabas. Entendiste lo vacía que es la vida y lo inútil que es. En corto, después de esa conversación, pensaba que eras demasiado precioso para matar
también tomó una increíble cantidad de tiempo convencer a Fiodor de que te mantuviera con vida
ᴛᴇᴏʀÍᴀꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴘɪᴀꜱ
Significas MUCHO para él. Siempre a tu alrededor, queriendo estar en tu presencia
Honestamente, no importa si eres un hombre, a él no le importa si la gente te mira mal (¡les cortará las piernas más tarde!)
Definitivamente te interroga por diversión, incluso si te equivocas en la respuesta, te dará un beso en los labios
Empuja de tus piernas a través de su portal para asustar y luego se pone muy feliz cuando te ve
-¡hola, моя любимая!
-¿¡NIKOLAI, QUÉ DIABLOS?!
Probablemente molesta a sus víctimas por hablar de ti, y de lo afortunado que es de tenerte como novio
si vives con él, pone una ALARMA RUIDOSA a las 4am solo para despertarte
le gusta bañarse contigo, no tiene que ser algo sensual, simplemente es bueno para tener un momento solos
no lo dejes que cocine para ti, podría quemar el lugar, no es una broma.
te regala un corazón de humano para el Día de San Valentín, el olor era repulsivo, al final tú decides si lo tiras o lo guardas.
trae 1000 animales a tu lugar, algunos de ellos eran jirafas, ¿CÓMO LO HIZO?
si estás en el DOA, él sería tu compañero todo el tiempo
si no trabajas con él, estaría feliz a introducirte a Sigma y Fiodor, pero también preferiría que te mantuvieras alejado de esa organización.
te hace trenzarle el pelo todos los días, no importa si eres muy malo, porque seguiría peinándose contigo
PROBABLEMENTE DUERME EN SU DISFRAZ DE PAYASO TAMBIÉN, CON SUS ZAPATOS RIDÍCULOS Y TODO
AMA el contacto físico y dar regalos; son sus lenguajes del amor
Hablando de contacto físico, le encanta darte los abrazos de oso, tomarte de la mano y acariciarte
además, tus regalos consisten mayormente en partes del cuerpo o cadáveres (qué romántico)
reader in late teens to young adulthood || NEUTRAL PRONOUNS || reader can be binary trans or nb
🕊️ ┆ summary ; Reader was with Dazai throughout his PM life. It was until Dazai and his sibling decided to stay was when he realized he missed so much of their life
"Too bad.. I want to stay here."
"..Here?! [DeadName] you can't be serious."
"I'm not going with you, Dazai."
"... Fine. Starve and die here. You're not my problem anymore,"
That's all that you remember of him anyways.
It's not like you cared anymore.
He said it himself. If you died here all alone, cold and helpless with nowhere to go, it wouldn't have mattered to him.
You take a sip of your bitter coffee, it contrasted with your past brother's sugary milk coffee. It was always revolting looking at it.
"Excuse me, Mx. Would you like more coffee?"
You look up at the tooth-rottingly sweet maid. She has a coffee pot ready at the go.
Your mouth forms a kind smile as you give her a reassuring answer
"No, but thank you, Miss. I'll take the check instead"
She gives a slight bow
"Of course! I will have that ready for you right away!"
You nod your head in conformation, as you watch her leave, your hand reaches for your wallet before she returns.
Suddenly, the door chimes indicating that more customers have arrived.
Well "more" is an exaggeration.
You were the only person there.
An obnoxious, grating voice cut in, releasing you out of your serenity.
Two other masculine voices interrupted the unpleasantly, raspy one.
"C'mon, Kunikida! Pay for us"
"There wouldn't be any universe where I would pay for a bottom-dwelling pig-nosed ape like YOU. You I AM NOT PAYING FOR YOU"
Geez.. I think he gets it...
Damn them, they just had to ruin the moment and come in and yell like they're drunkards at a bar. Screaming obscenities at each other like it was a contest.
You sigh.
"Mr. Kunikida, I think you should stop screaming at Dazai, we're in public.."
What?
What..?
Dazai?
Dazai..?
Are you hearing that right?
No
No..
There's no way..
Dazai is a common last name... in Yokohama.. you assume..
Fuck.. you didn't expect to see him here.
You always swore that if you saw him again, you would punch in square in the face.
Now you're not so sure..
"Oh.. right, my apologies.."
The so-called 'Kunikida' cleared his throat and sat down. Clearly embarrassed.
You didn't even realize your shoulders were tensed up until you relaxed them in relief.
The waitress came back with the check.
"Here you go Mx. Da- Oh wait! I just realized! You and this man have the same last name!"
Shit..
"Could you two be related?"
...
Could it be any more quiet?
"Ehm... Alright then, I'll just.."
The waitress ran as fast as she could to avoid the potential confrontation.
Oh god..
You fully turn your head around to look at your brother.
There he was.
In the flesh..
This shocked expression remained on his face, he knew it was you, he would always know it was you..
"You're... Is it..?"
"Dazai? Who are they-"
Dazai rose his hand up to stop the white-haired boy from talking.
"Dazai.."
"How.. When..? You look so.."
"Different? I'm aware"
Dazai rushed over to sit in front of you.
There you were.
The snot-nosed kid by his side was gone.
You changed everything about yourself.
He couldn't believe it.
He knew why you did it.
I mean, he's your brother, he's still the cold man you've always known.
He missed out on such a pivotal part of your life.
"[Deadna- or.. erm.."
"[Name]. My name is [Name]"
"Yes.. Yes yes yes.. [Name].. Of course.. I just.. can't believe it.. I never knew you were trans"
"I know.. I know.. I only just transitioned recently.... After you left.. I just don't know.. Maybe it was the fact that I still wanted to be the little sibling you always knew, maybe that pulled me back from my true identity"
Dazai stayed silent.
"Ah.. well.. I'm sorry.. I would've accepted you no matter what, even after I said all those things.. it wouldn't have changed anything"
"I know 'samu, I was just blinded by my own delusions. No one reacted as vile as I thought they would"
"Well, they're criminals, I don't think they'd care that much"
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