❦ Summary: Fenrico took you in when you had nothing, to become a woman of the cloth.
"Serve me and the Divinity, the greatest Sentinel Imperator, as an acolyte."
He gave you shelter, a life and a new identity in exchange of your faith and devotion. Additionally, your body.
As the night draped the cathedral in shadows, he whispered your name like a silent prayer.
╰───────────༺⚚༻───────────╯
Heels clicked against the pristine floor as your legs carried you closer, and closer, to none other than your mentor.
Fenrico.
Imperator’s chosen one, divinity’s messenger.
The embodiment of temptation.
He, who had rescued you, given you shelter. He–who was your blessing and your curse, your savior–was a devil in disguise.
To fall from grace as an acolyte demanded a price too steep for you to pay. You knew exactly what would happen if you refused the Enlightened One.
In return for his selfless generosity, he had but one simple request.
Meet the Primus in the evening, after all acolytes had retired to their quarters.
So there you were, walking into the Primus’s private chambers, deep within the cathedral, which most acolytes had never glimpsed during their lifetime.
“Primus.”
Dark lashes fluttered open, revealing a pair of contrasting, pale blues. A sharp gaze, honed by years of experience—bonds and betrayals, calamities and outbreaks. Reverence and disdain.
He was loathed by many, but revered by many more.
“You came.”
Abiding by his orders, as always. A good, obedient little acolyte.
He didn’t stand. His left hand extended toward you—an invitation—one you didn’t refuse, couldn’t refuse, hadn’t refused in the past few weeks.
As much as you hated to admit it, pushing the lingering guilt aside, you enjoyed it—every second of your nightly rendezvous—his hands exploring your curves settling beneath the fabric, lips trailing kisses from your neck down to your chest, heavy breaths marking desire upon your skin.
The golden hem of your robe swept across the floor as you approached, walking closer Further into his room, deeper into the shadows. Moonlight spilled through the windows, mingling with the curtains, the autumn wind blowing in an icy delight. Yet, your body only grew warmer.
He stared at you, gaze unwavering, waiting. He knew you couldn’t run. You had no escape, no luxury to refuse and break this arrangement, for death would be your only way out—a humiliating one at that, through a pilgrimage sail.
Your limbs refused to move, frozen like a deer in headlights. Helplessness, guilt, desire– swirled into a sweet and savory cocktail inside your mind, leaving a confusing aftertaste behind. You inhaled, breath trembling. Then, you stumbled forward, unlike the graceful walk you were planning.
Once you stepped within his reach, gloved fingers clasped around your smaller ones, pulling you closer. Fenrico sat up straight. With a gentle tug, he urged you to straddle his lap, right hand caressing your thighs.
Your breaths slowed down, so did time in this sanctuary– where two souls intertwined in a devil's tango.
You felt large, slender fingers splayed across your back. Not control, not possession, no.
Admiration is a word for it. But another dangled at the tip of your tongue, never braving to take the leap, nagging at the back of your mind for some reason– worship.
He slipped off your cloak. Piece by piece, your robes came undone, lying a pool of silk at his feet. His eyes raked across your moonlit, bare body–shivering in cold, and perhaps, excitement–in his arms.
So fragile, and soft, and utterly precious.
If you'd paid attention, you'd have caught the faintest, quietest sigh he lets on every time while unravelling you, like unveiling a sacred relic. But your mind remained elsewhere. It was evident by your lack of response and the glossy, unfocused look in your eyes. He didn't like it.
He almost felt hurt, upset at the feelings of negligence and carelessness. Was he not worthy of the least bit of your attention?
"Look at me."
You did, attention lazily gliding over his broad, squared shoulders as they relaxed at your acknowledgement.
'Pathetic', you thought.
You wondered who'd come out on top if you were to compare between you and him based on pitifulness.
A deep, low hum of approval vibrated through his chest, a reward for your compliance. He lifted a hand to your cheek, cupping your face as the other one laced itself around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
A sigh escaped your lips at the feeling of his hard panes against your softer curves. The foam dipped underneath your combined weight as he leaned back on the plush sofa holding you. Laboured breaths mingled together. Your gaze locked on his lips.
A long, painful minute passed by. He was taking his sweet time, building up the pressure, eyes dragging over your face like a lover's farewell. Every night, it only seemed to get longer, as if your encounters grew into something meaningful, something deeper; intimate, even.
It scared you, more than the early times when you were fucked senseless by a lust-crazed lunatic, a man of the cloth falling from his high throne of vows and values.
It was safer that way.
This? This was dangerous, an absolute threat to your mind and soul.
His lips pressed into yours. Slow. Tantalizing. With such tenderness you'd only expect from the devout of a goddess.
As the night draped the cathedral in shadows, he whispered your name like a silent prayer.
It confused you. He confused you–when he prolonged your meetings, not just the nightly rendezvous; what he's done to save your skin in both trivial and crucial matters; how he himself knocked on your door when you hadn't showed up for a meal once-
Why, you never dared to ask. Not him, nor yourself. The possibilities of a particular answer–the possibility of deeper feelings, perhaps, love, had crossed your mind countless of times, leaving you terrified.
And so, you buried the questions deep underneath your desires, letting lust take over each time when fear and doubt plagued your mind.
The devil wasn't a silly, red man with a tail and a pitchfork. He was a handsome man– an achingly, devastatingly handsome man–with keen eyes and a gentle smile.
And so, with the devil, you worshipped every night; and perhaps, this time, Satan might have answered your call.
Although my delayed flight due to wildfires was hardly sexy, your Domme Air post definitely was. A scrumptious read again- just when I needed it most! Thank you sir
An airport departure lounge is the perfect place to read Domme Air, and fly away in your filthy imagination instead.
I've often thought modern air travel is probably the most submissive experience most people ever have, (outside the bedroom).
Doing what you're told by uniformed authority figures. Sitting quietly where you're supposed to be, buckled and restrained. Gratefully accepting the food and drink that's handed out to you. All as the ambient din of the cabin slowly numbs your mind.
Went to the aquarium today. Saw this guy and immediately decided to name him “The Governor” because just look at the authority this fish exudes. Barely moved from that spot the whole time.
So let me get this straight, for you Enid would be a better sexual partner for Donovan than Weems?
Holy God that sucks…
I hope at least in your fanfiction Wednesday is over 20 years old when you have her screwing a man over 50 otherwise there is a problem
You're new here, aren't you.
1. Enid would be fun and interesting to explore. It's different, and finding the path towards them can be teased out from canon if you try (him saving her, her saving him from Hyde Tyler). I even have a short and somewhat tender platonic Enovan scene upcoming in the final chapter of Afterburn.
You can think the ship sucks all you want. I don't give a fuck. I'll pair Wednesday or any of the characters with anyone, and I don't give a goddamn flying fuck what you think. Why? Because you can do the same, and I won't give a shit (I might question or dislike the pairing and critique your writing Wyler, Wenclair, but I'll still defend your right to write it).
2. As for this
I hope at least in your fanfiction Wednesday is over 20 years old when you have her screwing a man over 50 otherwise there is a problem
You can have your problem and cry all you want about it then, because you're a lazy Karen who didn't do her due diligence and just GLANCE at the fucking pinned post I've had up there since the summer of 2023. They have a 39 year age difference.
Satisfying Afterburn is canon compliant. It's designed to slip into canon without disturbance. At this point in the story she is 16, but she was 15 in the flashback with Mr. Fortunato, who was in his late 40s.
Afterburn Wednesday has two behavioral qualities [that she did not express in Netflix canon] when combined makes her unique in the fandom: She's a (functional) stoner and sex obsessed (like her parents). I suppose her self-harm is also an added quality I gave her. She is not your 'Wednesday', and she doesn't have to be.-
Afterburn Donovan/Sheriff Galpin was never in pursuit of her, even though he found her magnetic/charming. Once again, you didn't do your fucking due diligence. It was all AB Wednesday
The Nightshades all fuck each other too, and there are/will be forthcoming stories of actual sexual abuse in there as well (and I'm reminded of Wednesday's attempted rape, but that was a Deleted Scene). People will find SOMETHING sexually disturbing in it, I guarantee you (I mean, unless literal shit eating is your thing). But none of it is intended to be a didactic treatise on fucking old men or fucking underage teens. People of sound minds understand this about erotic fiction/smut, and understand that the relationship is not to be emulated out here in the real world.
Why the fuck do I have to tell this to you? Do you lack common sense?
You sound like this charmer, whose post I've had in my drafts because I wanted to stew on it before I reblogged it but I've decided to just screen it because that shit doesn't deserve a reblog and this is the perfect time to address it:
Not me (screencap for those w/dark mode)⤵️
Clearly this fuckhead⤴️ does not understand fiction and wants to compel other Weemsday people not to fantasize about student-teacher relationships when it is a HUGE FUCKING TROPE (so goddamn huge that Jenna goddamn Wednesday Ortega starred in a whole ass movie about it). And to that I have to tell this author to fuck the fuck off, and once they've fucked off, they can fuck back on to fuck off again with a goddamn fuck yourself boomerang.
I have always, always been anti-censorship in the arts and sciences. I was born into it; my father was/is a polymath scientist/artist/writer/carpenter who immersed himself in banned books and world erotica when he was young. (BTW, my Dad also had a big collection of Henry Miller's books, which I guess might be another reason I'm kind of stuck on Miller's Girl. I'd read Miller when I was younger than Cairo Sweet.) I learned the value of artistic freedom of expression early in life (by the age of 5), and carried that with me through high school when they tried to censor me there as well (for writing a lesbian-themed poem; I was also featured in my state's big name newspaper for my anti-censorship dissent when a sex educator came to visit our high school and some parents got upset over that). I never took being censored in the arts lying down, especially when it came to my own sexual expression as a youth. And yes, I had sexual expression very young, I've been writing smut since the second grade. My followers know this, or should.
My father isn't perfect, but he introduced me to some of the greats who utilized the English language to entertain and sometimes horrify, particularly to the ones whoses voices some shitbag somewhere tried to silence. (I was taken to meet Allen Ginsberg when I was 14, then a few years later I met with him again at my university. ...Damn, that was 30 years ago now. I'm fucking old.)
You're one of those types though, aren'tcha? A moralizing shitbag type who wants to tell people what to do. Imma tell you what I was going to tell that other moralizing shitbag I capped above: It's called freedom of expression, both creative and sexual. When you bring fantasy closer to our moral reality, you start to lose your grip on reality when considering the fantasy. That's why you're too bothered by the subject matter. You fully believe that our moral codes and rules should apply to a fantasy world where people shapeshift, make things move with their telekinetic powers, and make it possible to fucking resurrect a goddamn 400 year old corpse via black magic.
I'm not sure who it is you think you're protecting here. What is your purpose, in screaming about these underage pairings? Did you think that some fresh-faced 10-year-old is going to read Afterburn and think, "WELL HOT DAMN, I NEED TO GET ME SOME OLD BASTARD COP DICK ✨RIGHT NOW 😭😭😭💖✨!"? Same goes for the Weemser, for scolding the underage teens who write Weemsday. Go get that boomerang.
TLDR for the both of you et al;
Fuck off with the would-be censorship and do not tell others what they can write about.* 🫠🖕🏽
TW: cut/knife/blood, whumper in a position of authority
He was cornered by whumper, trapped against the wall. Whumpee scrambled back but the aforementioned wall was unyielding. His breathing was labored as he managed to look up at whumper. “Wh-what do you want?”
“Well it’s good to see you don’t have the temperament problem you had during our last encounter. But you’re smart whumpee. What do you think I want?”
“N-no, not again, I’ll-I’ll tell someone. You’ll get fired, arrested!” the marks on his back burned as his memory fed his fear.
Whumper’s hand crashed into the wall next to whumpee’s head, making him jump. “You won’t do jack, and you know it. Wanna know why? Because no matter who you tell, they won’t do a thing.”
Whumpee felt hopeless and vulnerable, he hated it but there was nothing he could do. Tears started dribbling down his cheeks and he stifled a sob. “Please. Don’t.”
Whumper seemed to be inhaling his fear like the scent of a rose, sweet and shuttering. “Know what?” he drew a knife from his belt, “If you don’t scream, I’ll let you off with just one cut. How’s that sound?”
Whumpee’s gaze was dampened with dread, but what else could he do? He nodded.
“Oh come on that’s no way to agree to a deal, you gotta ask for it.”
He felt the tears corrupting his voice but he managed to choke out, “Please cut- cut me.”
“Atta boy. Raise your arm for me now,” he patronized.
Whumpee wouldn’t risk losing this deal to his own confusion or pride. So slowly, he raised his trembling arm. Whumper pressed an inch of the knife into whumpee’s side. Whumpee immediately tensed, almost bending around where the blade was drawing red. His mouth opened but nothing left it. Whumper slowly drew it up over the rib cage, whumpee squirmed making a sound like a whimper, but it was thoroughly repressed.
When whumper was satisfied with the damage dealt he put the knife back in its place on his belt. “You’ve got a lot of self control. I’ll see you soon.” he ruffled whumpee’s hair and stood, walking off.
Whumpee curled into a ball, pressing a hand hard into his side. His body shook in silent sobs, he was terrified, wishing his life could be anything but this, that he could be anywhere but here. Please, someone make it stop.
