ok i get the desire to push back against annoying dominant christian interpretations of the torah/old testament. i really do. however i also wish that people would stop being like “actually, the jewish perspective on this is--” before listing off one (1) jewish perspective, usually either reform or humanistic, that also happens to be the most politically convenient and moral according to the standards of tumblr. like y’all if anyone tells you that there is only one jewish interpretation of something you should know that they are probably wrong, there’s at least one jew out there who would vehemently disagree with them, and also judaism is a complex living culture that you really should not put on a pedestal
tagged by my beloveds @cordiallyfuturedwight and @aprylynn for the july list <33 i'm terribly afraid the glen powell of it all got to me this july and thus..
you can find this country music for beginners playlist here and check out lizzy's guide to the delicate art of making a playlist for a breakdown from yours truly if you feel so inclined <33
tagging my musical favs if they haven't already: @thvinyl @kimtaegis @jihopesjoint @visionsofgideontheninth @hoseeok @eoieopda @monismochi <333 and your lovely self reading this also
hiya!!! I would like to know how adrian actually met simon. how did rocky find out about him?
Great question! So while Rocky and Grace were doing their thing, Adrian was actually on a separate astrophage mission where they met (rescued) Simon.
You know that bloodymary trope that’s like: Grace rescues Simon from the blood ocean and he’s all like “omg are you an angel?”.
I like to think a similar thing happened when Adrian rescued Simon… except more biblically. Simon saw a multi-limbed, no face, creature singing in chords rescue him and was like “is this an angel??”.
Rocky has known about Simon since reuniting with Adrian. Simon’s just never been that important to him (it’s kinda just his partner’s cat), Grace is Rocky’s top priority. Adrian has mentioned Rocky and Simon in conversation to eachother but they haven’t actually officially met. But that’s spoilers for the future… ; )
ayyy twin ur so goated i saw u got requests open !!!! can i request my husband idia shroud tryna bag a baddie and lowkirkenuinly feeling like he’s fumbling (bc yk how he is) but then he finds out she’s like highkey into his shit anyways lebron smiles down at you twin ily and ur writing so so much !!!!
www.twst › LOVE IS THE ANTITHESIS OF GAMERS (?)
💭: idia has a crush—what's the worst that could happen? apparently, his IQ and rationale drop by 70 points every time you're within a three-foot radius near him.
fortunately for everyone except idia, you think it's positively adorable.
pairing. idia shroud x fem! reader
wc. 4.3k
warnings. loser idia lol, idiots in love, reader lowk wants that cookie bad too, not proofread
a/n. HII ANON !! thank u for the request first and foremost 😋 , and this was highkenuinely a cute prompt to write. tysm my king may lebron smile upon all of us twin 🥹🥹
Idia Shroud is in some deep shit.
Much to his horror, it's not the "I stayed up a whole night or two grinding an event raid knowing full well I have PE the morning after", nor the "oh shit my mom found out about my history searches" type of deep shit. No, this is far, far worse than he can ever imagine—an insidious, life-altering catastrophe of Biblical proportions that has rendered his hyper-optomized intellect completely obsolete.
To put it in simpler terms: he has a crush—a real person, too.
He has a crush on a real person in a sense that it is not on one of his oshis that exists safely behind a screen where rejection cannot physically reach him, but rather, an honest-to-gods, horrifyingly tangible crush on an actual living person who walks the halls of Night Raven College and greets him every time they meet like that alone isn't enough to reduce his entire system into decimated rubble.
He handles this revelation as well as you think—disastrously. Now that he acknowledges it with no room for denial, every interaction with you feels like a limited-time event quest with irreversible dialogue options, except unlike in games, there is no strategy guide to look up online (that he finds feasible, anyway), no save slots, and no guarantee that choosing the wrong response won't have him want to dissolve into ash on the spot.
Take his latest predicament, for instance. Yesterday, you asked him about one of the newest figurines on his desk, and that was all it took. One harmless little “Oh, this one looks cool. Where did you get it?” and suddenly Idia blacked out so hard that he regained consciousness midway through a ten-minute ramble about it, up until the character archetype marketing.
The moment his consciousness finally jogged up with this mouth, Idia felt his soul try to physically detach from his body. He stopped dead mid-sentence, the horrifying realization of spending ten continuous minutes infodumping about a literal figurine washing over him after a few seconds.
Oh, that was it. Any second now, you were going to execute a hard skip on this dialogue tree, back away slowly, and backfire him from your social circle forever.
He could practically see the dialogue box clearly—
INCORRECT CHOICE !
Love interest is now deeply uncomfortable—Affection Points decreased significantly.
He squeezed his eyes shut, hands flying up to grip the strings of his hoodie as he braced himself for the inevitable. “A-Ah—whatever, it’s stupid anyway! Just ignore me, I-I’m basically just a glitch in the NPC matrix, disregard everything I just said!—”
“Whoa,” you quip, your lips curling into a warm, effortless smile that thoroughly crumbled his remaining frame rate. “I didn’t exactly realize that so much detail went into marketing for these. You really know a lot about these, Idia.”
Despite his initial spiral, he was stunned to find that you just sat there, leaning forward slightly with your chin resting in your hand, looking up at him with a genuinely captivated expression. You hadn’t interrupted him once, he realized, and that you had been listening to his rambles the whole time with your head tilting with curiosity at all the right moments, completely unfazed by his mile-a-minute, high-pitched tech jargon.
In fact, he’s pretty sure his soul briefly left his body the moment you continued, “I like hearing you talk about things you’re passionate about.”
Like… huh?
What kind of romance-route dialogue is that?! That’s not fair—that’s literally a critical hit to his EXP!
His blue hair violently combusted, the flames instantly shifting from panicked embers into a blinding, neon, flustered pink from root to tip. The flames crackled and hissed so vigorously that they nearly drowned out the sound of his own hyperventilating and the hysterical pulses of his heartbeat. His eyes darted wildly around the room, desperately scanning the air for hidden cameras or a floating twitch chat.
Surely, this was a prank set up by some high-tier Pomefiore influencer for a “pranking the local Ignihyde otaku” video, right? Real, actual 3D heroines didn’t just say stuff like that—they didn’t just sit there looking like a literal SSR drop while handing out free, unprompted ego buffs.
Idia stammered against his words, voice hitting a higher frequency than usual. He yanked the strings of his hoodie so tight his face was practically swallowed by the fabric, leaving only his wide saucer-like eyes visible. “Y-you’re… you’re hackling. There’s no way… what kind of broken RNG…?”
You just let out a soft and melodic chuckle at his absolute meltdown.
“I’m serious,” you said, leaning in just a fraction closer, completely unfazed by the heat radiating from his blushing flames. “It’s nice to listen to someone who actually has deep lore to share. You should show me some of your other setups sometime.”
Idia nearly fucking died.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he remained as he was in his gaming chair for a solid thirty seconds, staring blankly at the closed door. After what felt like hours, he folded forward until his forehead hit the desk with a loud thunk, his flustered pink sparks dancing wildly against the ceiling.
This was bad—this was incredibly, dangerously bad.
Idia is in some deep shit, and he’s got it horrendous.
That leads him to his current train of thoughts, which mostly consists of him staring into the middle distance like a war veteran while questioning where exactly his life took such a catastrophic turn—genuinely, when did this happen?
Idia never planned for this; people like him aren’t supposed to fall in love in the first place (love, he thinks, is supposed to be a word that he mouths with no lingering weight of pathos promised and entangled within its philosophy). He isn’t built for the main storyline—a background-dwelling tech support NPC like him is supposed to be the guy behind the scenes, he’s supposed to be with the rest of the audience that spectates on the male lead sweeping the female lead off her feet, he’s supposed to be the comic relief shut-in who is named Supporting Character A.
Supposed, supposed, supposed—yet, here he is, completely and irreversibly hard-locked into your route, with a heart that is currently hammering against his ribcage so violently it feels like a mechanical keyboard stuck on macros.
He has never wished harder in his life for visible quest objectives and navigation to magically appear in front of him. At least then, he’d know what he’s supposed to do.
Hell, not even the otome games he downloaded for this specific situation help him much. Those self-insert protagonists can casually lean against walls, trap their love interests in kabedons, and whisper devastatingly smooth lines into their ears without wanting to blow their shit smooth off—but Idia? He’d rather die than do any of those things in public, let alone in the halls of fucking Night Raven College, where those normies can have a front row seat to his social doom.
Absolutely not.
Sure, he’s confided in Ortho, which, in hindsight, might’ve been his first fatal mistake.
Ortho, being the wonderful little brother he is, immediately treated the situation like a full-scale strategy game. By the time he pulled out pie charts and statistical breakdowns with alarming enthusiasm, Idia belatedly realized that somehow made things infinitely worse because now, with every analysis that spills from his brother’s mouth, the suspicion that comes with every tiny interaction with you worsens.
You smiled at him, you laughed at his niche gaming references, you reposted anything remotely romantic? Was that normal, platonic friendliness, or was that a hidden affection flag?
At this point, his brain is running thirty tabs at once while overheating catastrophically. The worst part is that, despite everything, a small delusional part of him is starting to think that maybe—just maybe—you actually like him back.
Which is an insane thought—actually clinically insane on his part, because there’s no way you would genuinely look at his chronically online ass and think, yeah, this one. I want this one.
…Probably
Muscle Red: Oho! A love trouble? Then you must court them properly!
Muscle Red: Listen well! Courtship is a sacred tradition between two burning souls. You must demonstrate sincerity, devotion, and the unwavering confidence of a man prepared to seize happiness with his own hands!
Muscle Red: Bring her gifts! Walk her back to her dorm! Praise her openly before others! Challenge rivals for her affection if necessary!
Gloomurai: im gnna throw up
Suffice to say that Idia can only stare at the screen in mounting horror.
Walk you back to your dorm? In public? Where people can see him? He would rather get caught accidentally liking a six-month-old post on your account at three in the morning.
Praise you openly before others? The closest he has ever gotten to publicly complimenting someone was typing “cool fit” into a server chat once—and that led him to overthink about it for three business days.
Don’t even get him started on the “challenge rivals” part.
What rivals?! This isn’t some shoujo manga where he dramatically confronts another guy beneath cherry blossoms while orchestral music swells in the background. If anyone else liked you, Idia would simply accept his defeat and back off.
The next few days become a special kind of torture, during which Idia spends approximately ninety percent of his time internally debating every possible interaction before chickening out at the last second.
Should he message you first? No, too desperate.
Should he invite you to hang out in his room again? Too suspicious.
Should he casually send you one of those funny cat videos you liked last week? Wait, no, what if you think he’s weird for remembering that—
By day three of this psychological gridlock, Idia is practically a ghost haunting his own gaming chair. He hasn’t even logged in to do his daily quests, a tragic metric that has Ortho considering launching an emergency medical protocol.
Every time his phone buzzes with a notification, his entire central nervous system experiences some sort of shock wave. If it’s an update from a gacha game, he sighs with a mix of relief and profound patheticness. If it’s you, his blue hair violently flashes a bright, neon-pink warning signal before he shoves the device face-down onto his mattress like it’s a live explosive.
He’ll stare at your chat head for twenty minutes, his thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard with the manic, trembling high-APM of a pro e-sports player at a grand final.
“hey, r u free to look at that coding script 2day?” Draft deleted—he sounds like he’s an underpaid IT helpdesk NPC.
“yo, i got a rare item drop if u wnt it.” Draft also deleted—what if you think he’s trying to bribe your affection metrics?”
“uhm, wyd.” Yet another draft deleted—literally a cry for help, he sounds like some no good frat boy.
Ultimately, he locks the screen, buries his face deep into the fleece of his hoodie, and emits a muffled groan of absolute defeat.
Unbeknownst to him, however, his unsuspecting self is about to be hit with a massive, unavoidable random encounter. On the fourth afternoon of his isolation, just as he finally sneaks out of Ignihyde to restock on his highly specific, premium snacks and energy drinks under the cover of dusk, he turns the corner of the courtyard, and runs straight into you.
“...Uh. W-well.”
The single syllable chokes out of his throat, hitting a pitch so violently uncalibrated.
He does not remember much from that embarrassing moment, his brain entirely wiping its cache of those crucial ten seconds due to a system-wide stress overload. Next thing he knows, his autopilot script had somehow had him stammer out an invitation to his dorm under the paper-thin, incredibly pathetic excuse of “O-ortho wanted to show you something new.”
Which brings him right here—the thing that Ortho had apparently “mentioned” happens to be a co-op game. He didn’t even have the time to swap his oversized fleece hoodie before you are already sitting right beside him in his personal sanctuary.
“T-the game itself is this co-op puzzle RPG where the mechanics are built around synchronized movement patterns and environmental coordination, so if one person messes up, both players immediately explode. Which is, uh, fun—in theory.” He explains quickly, his hands fumbling as he offers you a spare controller.
“Sounds perfect for us, then,” you joke lightly as you take the controller from his hands.
He sounds like a loser thinking about this, but the moment your fingers brush against his for less than a second, Idia almost drops dead on the spot.
Blissfully unaware of his inner battle, you merely settle beside him, knees nearly brushing against his. Idia sits rigidly beside you the entire time like a corpse being propped upright for a funeral service, while you are having the time of your life.
“Okay,” you grin, glancing at the character selection screen. “Who do I get to be?”
Lord, he’s finished.
The first round goes surprisingly well so far, mostly because Idia becomes terrifyingly competent the second a controller is in his hands.
“Okay, jump there—no, not there there, the glowing platform—wait!—”
A shrill, distorted scream echoes through the speakers as your avatar pinwheels downward into the endless abyss below. Idia's avatar—who had been perfectly balanced on the platform a second ago—is immediately yanked off the edge after you like some poor sack of potatoes.
Then, in giant ornate Gothic lettering, splattered across the holographic display are the words Game Over.
“...Oops,” you say weakly.
Idia makes a strangled noise beside you—not an angry noise, per se, more like a sound of someone watching years peel off his lifespan in a matter of seconds.
“W-we actually died in under four minutes. This might actually be a new record.” He mutters. “A total server-wipeout… in the very first run.”
“Hey,” you nudge his elbow gently with yours, a soft, bright burst of laughter cutting through the air. “Don’t pass away on me, yet. I still need a teacher to help me get the hang of it.”
It’s not even a full shove—just a tiny bump of your elbow that barely grazes his sleeves—and yet, his heart jolted so violently that he nearly drops the controller straight into his lap.
Fuck, why did his entire nervous system fail him at the contact? What is he? A plaintive, sopping loser?
“A-ah, no, you’re fine,” he blurts out, his posture akin to that of a statue at this point. “I-I mean, the first quadrant is basically designed to filter casuals, anyway. The devs are sadists, it’s not your fault—well, not fully your fault, but—”
He watches in absolute horror as your eyes widen theatrically.
“Wow,” you gasp. “I’m quite offended.”
“N-no!” His voice cracks so hard in his flurry. “That’s not what I— I meant statistically speaking! The map layout is intentionally made to be deceptive and—”
You can’t even hold the fake, theatrical offense for more than three seconds before you completely lose it, letting out a loud and joyous laugh that echoes beautifully throughout his room. You slightly lean back, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath.
The holographic screen paints shifting blues and violets across your face while you grin at him like this is fun—like he’s fun, and something terrifyingly warm twists and convulses fiercely in his chest.
“I’m kidding,” you assure him between giggles. “Relax, Idia. We can just try again.”
Idia lets his hands drop, his pink hair settling into a slightly calmer, but deeply flustered magenta. He wipes his palms against his pants, yanking his hood down just enough to shield the red that peppers across his cheeks, though he can’t hide the tiny, incredibly bashful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“U-ugh… fine. A very funny joke modifier,” he mutters, his fingers snapping back onto the joysticks with a sudden competitive burst of high-speed adrenaline. He gives you a sideways glance through his glowing blue bangs, his heart doing completely unpatched glitches against his ribcage. “But you gotta seriously lock in for the second run.”
His fingers twitch anxiously over the buttons. “Besides… it’d be kinda lame if we give up after one try.”
The words come out more honest than he intended, because the thing is, he doesn’t care about the game anymore—not really.
He just likes the low flare of the holographic screen reflecting in your eyes, the sound of your laughter resounding through the room instead of the usual mechanical hum that he has come to liken with his dorm, the fact that you’re sitting here beside him close enough that your sleeve brushes against his every few seconds without recoiling from him once.
Judging from the way you beam at him afterward, Idia finds that awful pressure in his chest doesn’t feel quite as unbearable anymore.
It’s still absolutely mortifying—his heartbeat is pounding so frantically that he’s halfway convinced the controller can feel it through his palms, but beneath the burning embarrassment and internal, non-stop screaming, there’s something warm—dangerously close to elation—blooming quietly.
“Okay, okay,” you laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I’ll try not to drag us both to our death next time.”
“Good,” he murmurs, though the tiny smile clawing at the corner of his mouth completely ruins any attempt at sounding cool. “C-cause carrying you is already consuming like… ninety percent of my processing power.”
Thankfully, the next several stages go relatively smoothly. There are still several incidents involving nearly avoiding laser grids, one extremely unfortunate puzzle mishap where both your avatars get flattened by a giant stone mechanism, and a particularly humiliating moment where Idia nearly accidentally walks straight into a cursed debuff trap because he was too busy staring at your excited expression after you solved one of the rune sequences correctly.
By the time the twelfth stage materializes, the difficulty has scaled exponentially. The environment shifts to a scene of ruins that give way to a massive suspended cathedral floating in the void, stained-glass windows glowing with fractured luminous light while chains hang endlessly beneath the platforms, mimicking the remains of a fallen god.
You lean slightly closer to the screen, brows furrowed in concentration as you navigate through a narrow, razor-thin edge.
“This is the midpoint difficulty spike,” Idia mutters. “Most co-op teams dissolve here because the synchronization timing gets super strict and the platforming physics become—”
Midway through this explanation, your character encounters a sudden collision glitch, causing its footing to skid perilously close to the platform’s edge. Before his processing units can even boot up, let alone catch up to his mouth, Idia jolts in a frenzy.
“Careful!”
At the same exact moment, his right hand shoots out entirely on instinct, abandoning his controller to steady your wrist.
On the massive screen, your character’s sprite catches the edge of the mesh at the last possible frame and pulls itself up.
The good news is that your avatar survives—bad news is that Idia might as well be the opposite.
He is made painfully aware that:
One: He is holding your wrist—his long, pale fingers are wrapped firmly around your skin.
Two: your skin is warm, in contrast to the chill touch that lingers on the expanse of his skin.
Three—
Holy fuck.
What if that looked overly possessive?! What if he just triggered a permanent creepflag?! What if his user rating just dropped into absolute null?!
His hand jerks away from you so fast it may as well have been a recoil animation. Had you not known, you might think he’d just been struck by a high-voltage lightning spell.
“S-sorry!—” he stumbles out the apology immediately, nearly swallowing his tongue. “That was—uh—gamer reflex! It’s purely a tactical maneuver! N-not in a weird way! I’m not trying to, like, grab you or anything! T-that sounded bad—wait, no, that made it worse—”
His words rapidly devolve into incomprehensible static, his entire chest heaving beneath his hoodie. His saucer-like amber eyes are blown out to the size of dinner plates as he tries to compress his entire lanky frame into the deepest, darkest depths of his ergonomic gaming chair.
The flames around his head explode, burning such an aggressive and flustered pink that they cast an almost blinding, radioactive glow across the room.
You blink, completely stunned for a second by the sheer, thermonuclear velocity of his meltdown. You look at the vibrating bundle of hoodie and pink sparks sitting next to you, and then down at your wrist, where the faint imprint of his surprisingly firm (and pleasant) touch still lingers against your skin.
A chuckle escapes your lips, cutting through his frantic static like a high-tier debuff cleanser.
“Idia,” You reach over, using the edge of your controller to lightly tap his rigidly locked elbow. “Relax, if anything, I should be the one thanking you. You literally saved our run.”
The flames around his head sputter more glaringly.
“I’m serious,” you reaffirm, a warm and blithe smile tugging at your lips as you lean closer, wholly unfazed by the subtle crackles of his blushing flames that slightly warm the air between the two of you.
“Besides, if you’re going to keep saving me every time I almost fall off a cliff, I think I’ve got a pretty good teammate.” You tilt your head. “Guess I’ll just have you stick with me, hm?”
“Oh.” The eloquent response escapes before he can stop it.
You raise an eyebrow in amusement. “Oh?”
“Uh, N-not—” His voice cracks. “I-I mean, y-yeah, technically. The fail state would’ve been triggered if your character fell there. So from a purely strategic standpoint, preserving teammate integrity was the optimal choice.”
His hair slowly begins to cycle back into a deeply flustered magenta, casting a warm glow over his sharp features as he fixes his gaze on the screen, refusing to risk looking at you again. “Of course, maintaining both player units is the most efficient route for progression, so it wasn’t, uh, anything special or—”
He continues to ramble, his clarifications getting increasingly tangled in technical jargon.
“Mm.” You hum thoughtfully, leaning your cheek against the top of your controller. The single sound is enough to make him nervous.
“Mm?” He echoes weakly.
You let the pause hang for a beat longer, your lips curling into a soft yet thoroughly amused smile that fully dismantled his remaining defenses.
“I think that’s the longest explanation anyone’s ever given me for grabbing my wrist,” you tease. “I never thought you would be so flustered over this, though.”
He makes a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. “T-that.”
A useless syllable, that he is aware of. He stares straight ahead at the suspended cathedral on the screen with such an unblinkable intensity.
“You—uh.”
His grip on the controller tightens, the joysticks creaking ominously beneath his thumbs. What the hell is he supposed to say? “Oh, sorry. I’m flustered because I have a humiliatingly massive crush on you, and I can’t think of anything every time you stand within a three-foot radius?”
Yeah, fuck no, he might as well dig his own grave and lie down in it at this point.
“Y-you’re making it sound weirder than it was,” he mumbles instead, visibly shrinking further (if that’s even possible) into his hoodie. He looks everywhere but at you—staring intently at the carpet, at the glowing power strip on the floor, at the stray charging cable—anywhere to avoid your direct line of sight. “I just reacted before I thought—that’s all.”
“Mhm.” Your voice hums with a smooth, heavy drop of skepticism that slices right through his defenses.
“I did,” he insists, his voice hitting a slightly higher and defensive cadence that completely betrays his inner panic.
“Sure.”
“I-I did!”
The immediate high-pitched defensiveness almost makes you laugh out loud.
“I mean, obviously, I didn’t want to run to fail,” he continues, the words tripping over themselves and colliding in his throat as he rushes to build a logical explanation. “And we’d already gotten past, like, twelve stages, so it would’ve been a huge waste of progress, unallocated playtime, and—”
There he goes again.
You don’t interrupt—you don’t think you could even if you wanted to. The rambles keep branching into increasingly specific tangents, spiralling from game mechanics to reaction times, then, somehow, jumping seamlessly into other rabbit holes.
At some point, you subconsciously begin to focus on him. You watch the way one of his hands flails and moves as he talks, while the other still rests over the joysticks. You notice the sharp and defensive hitch of his shoulders whenever he thinks he’s embarrassed himself, the fabric of his hoodie bunching up like some sort of armour.
Your gaze traces the dance of pink embers around his head, watching them flicker into dazzling starbursts every single time his tongue buffers. Beneath his bangs, you catch the frantic, side-to-side darting of his wide amber eyes, because he still can’t quite summon the courage to look you in the eyes.
Cute.
The thought arrives so naturally and unprompted that it almost catches you off guard. You blink; the word echoes in the space of your own mind, carrying a strange warmth in its wake.
Across from you, Idia is still rambling himself deeper into whatever massive hole he’s currently digging, his voice dropping into a low mumble as the seconds stretch by. He’s not even aware of the shift in his room—thoroughly and utterly hopeless against the silent psychological warfare of your stare.
A soft smile tugs at the corner of your lips—he’s… kind of adorable, no, scratch that, he’s incredibly and devastatingly adorable when he’s trying this hard to pretend he doesn’t care.
Judging by the sudden, stupid little flutter that your heart gives the exact moment his eyes finally steal a brief glance back at your face—
i’ve been following you for a couple of years, i knew about you from your christ illustrations, i love your take on biblical scenes and its moving how much genuine love seeps into your works
this question might be a bit personal, so feel free to ignore it. but how do you reconcile your queerness with your religion? as a lot of christian practitioners preach that homosexuality or “divergent” gender expressions are sinful. i would like to hear your point of view !
It's still an ongoing process of course, I always try to stay quiet in many conversations about this because I know I intrinsically have a lot of lessons I need to unlearn. But I think very early on when I was in my teens, I realized there was a fundamental disconnect between the teachings my church would impart and the actions they take. And in response to that, I think there's a part of me that clung on harder out of spite? In a you introduced me to an all loving god, I won't let you tell me he has exceptions kind of way. It's all very complicated I fear, and I've not fully reconciled everything. It still hurts to be around because I can't really leave and find a different community, but thankfully through all the questionable things I was taught, the importance of kindness and love stuck the hardest. For every time my pastor told me my kind was evil, my gay friends have held my hands, shown me love. My trans siblings have given me more love and grace than my pastors at school. Queer catholic friends who share my grief and anger. The love I'm given cannot be sinful. It doesn't turn dirty when turned on the wrong person. There's no line I draw between god and queerness, to me he created everything, and in turn gave me the ability to create. And he saw that it was good
if you’re comfortable writing smut for yelena, i think i might have one: reader is embarrassed about having a sexy dream about yelena—especially because despite being on the same team, they haven’t really hit it off, and reader suspects that yelena isn’t fond of her. reader tries to go about her day, ignoring both the dream she had AND yelena, but we all know how perceptive yelena is and she catches onto reader being weird and asks her what her deal is, and isn’t even the least bit shocked when she finally pries the sex dream information out of her 😂 (in fact, she’s so un-shocked and intrigued, that she proposes recreating the dream 👀)
just a lover - y.belova
yelena belova x fem!reader
・❥・summary: Though you would prefer to keep the fact that you’ve been inadvertently dreaming of your attractive Russian teammate under wraps, you overlooked one crucial fact: she’s way more perceptive than you give her credit for.
・❥・warnings: SMUT ‼️MINORS, DNI; one (1) spicy dream description (though not too descriptive, i don’t think?), R being weird and not handling her crush well in the slightest, top!yelena, more Russian petnames because i can and i want to, nipple sucking, grinding, fingering (r receiving), praise kink, two seconds of edging, lap riding, cute banter
・❥・word count: 3.9k
・❥・a/n: i’m on my period and feeling a lot of things, and writing this fic made me need Yelena biblically, but that’s neither here nor there. thanks for the request and hope you enjoy!
☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
It feels like it’s 100 degrees and climbing by the minute.
Your nerve endings are tingling, your head is swimming and you can’t think straight. The gorgeous blonde below you calls out sensual instructions to keep going, to keep moving against her as her calloused fingers grip your hips for purchase. A glorious sheen of sweat gathers in the hollow of her throat that you’d like to kiss away. The heat is almost too much to bear, and you’re so close to breaking that you can almost taste it.
That’s when she pushes herself up, catching her balance on one elbow as she pulls you down on top of her, your chest flush against her own, her hot breath fanning your neck as she whispers in your ear. “What are you waiting for? Come for me, y/n…”
You gasp awake as if your very breath is being torn from your lungs. A furtive glance around your room tells you that whatever you just experienced wasn’t real. Just a product of your incredibly horny imagination. “What…what the fuck…” you whisper to yourself in the dim lighting of your bedroom. The sun wasn’t even over the horizon yet, the pinkish-purple hue of dawn barely visible through your drawn curtains.
You whisper “what the fuck,” once more because it’s all that comes to mind as you run a hand through your matted hair. “Did that really just happen?” was the perplexed question that followed. And an incredibly appropriate one it was, because did that really just happen? Did you really just have a wet dream about Yelena?
Yelena, as in Yelena Belova. Your scary Russian teammate who wouldn’t have anything to do with you.
Well…that much had never really been confirmed or denied, but you assumed she wanted nothing to do with you based on the energy you were likely to receive from her whenever you made the mistake of light conversation
Sure, Yelena wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. But you’ve seen her let her guard down with Bob, with Ava, and even with Bucky sometimes. But when it came to you, you might as well have been dog shit on the bottom of her shoes.
The first time she brushed you off, you figured that she was having a bad day. Or an off day. Things were weird right now, and she wasn’t used to being part of a ‘team’. Hell, neither were you, and you completely understood that. But the more she continued to develop friendly (or at the very least, cordial) bonds with everyone except for you, the more and more discouraged you became.
And despite all of that, you held no animosity of any kind toward her. There was something admirable about the way she carried herself despite everything she’s been through. She knew how to look out for herself and she was damn tough. You actually liked her a lot. Maybe more than you anticipated given the dream that you just had. But all this time you’ve been around her? Seems a little late to realize that you might—
No. You shook the thought from your head before it could even think about forming. That’s not what that was. Your feelings for Yelena absolutely did not stray past platonic. As for why you had that dream? You chalked it up to the fact that you probably just wanted to get laid in general. It has been a while. And your vibrator was tired.
You dismiss any and all thoughts of Yelena, your dream, and whatever other weird feelings might’ve been lingering beneath the surface as you pull yourself from your bed and grab a shower. It was still quite early by the time you finished and got dressed though. There was a bit more brightness outside than when you first awoke, but if you had to guess, it was barely seven a.m. And since there was no mission or assignment today, you figured that everyone else was sleeping in. Which meant having the kitchen to yourself for at least an hour.
That thought was motivation enough to hurry downstairs, to soak up the peace and quiet in the tower that came with early mornings off. But once you reach the kitchen’s threshold, you realize that you’re not the only one who had that idea.
Yelena stands in the kitchen, her back to you as she mixes what seems to be some sort of batter in a bowl. She hasn’t noticed you yet, and for that, you’re grateful, because you’re trying to figure out how to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
Yelena is dressed in a white tank and black lounge shorts. You’re not sure if the spicy-sweet scent that hits you is her perfume or if she simply smells that divine naturally, but you don’t mind either way. And though you fight to keep your gaze above her neck, your eyes seem to have a mind of their own, taking in her toned arms, the line of her back, the sliver of skin at her waist where her tank top stops.
You want to back out of the kitchen and pretend you were never there. You definitely want to pretend like hadn’t just been ogling Yelena, but you can’t get your stupid feet to move. And it’s too late anyway. Yelena must feel your presence because she turns around, looking right at you. Your breath hitches.
“Good mo—“ Yelena starts, but before she can even finish the casual greeting, you rush to say. “Sorry, I thought I was the only one up,”
Yelena raises a brow. Your ears burn. And so does your face. And your neck. “I’ll just go,” you add.
“Well, you’re already here and I’m going to make waffles. You might as well stay,” Yelena says.
You swallow hard. Now that Yelena is turned to face you, you notice the way her cropped tank stops right above her belly button; a patch of her skin that you’ve never had the liberty of seeing before. Your dream flashes back through your mind—Yelena beneath you, her hands on your hips, and suddenly, you have to catch yourself on the counter behind you before your legs give out.
“That’s okay, I…I’m not that hungry,” you say, studiously avoiding Yelena’s very confused gaze.
“Why are you being so—“
“I’ll talk to you later,” you blurt, cutting Yelena off. Then, while still avoiding her gaze, you turn and rush out of the kitchen before she can ask you why you’re acting like an absolute freak.
***
By some miracle, you managed to avoid Yelena for the rest of the day, complete with finding excuses not to be in the same room with her and using Ava and Bob as carrier pigeons should you have a message to pass along to her. And though your methods were a bit unorthodox, and you definitely earned some raised eyebrows from Ava, you seemed to have successfully avoided your Russian teammate.
Or so you thought.
Around seven in the evening, after you’ve forgone dinner with the group and chose to have takeout in your room instead, you get a knock at your door. But before you have a chance to tell whoever it is that it’s open, the door knob turns and in struts Yelena. And suddenly, your heart is in your throat.
“It is later,” she says simply, closing the door behind her. “Time to tell me why you’ve been weird all day,”
“I haven’t been weird all day,” you reply on impulse. But even now, your gaze is somewhere around Yelena’s socked feet and you can’t meet her eyes.
“You’re being weird right now!” Yelena points out. “You can’t even look up at me. And all day, you’ve been practically racing out of the room any time I walk in. I have a hard time believing that you find me that scary,”
You scoffed. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,”
“Don’t tell me not to—“
“You think I’m dumb or I don’t know, annoying or something,” you cut her off. “You don’t like me and it’s so obvious, so you don’t have to concern yourself with why I act the way I do. If I told you, you’d only make fun of me anyway,”
Yelena’s brows furrow and then her features soften just the slightest bit. “You think I don’t like you?” She asks.
You shrug, picking at a loose stitch on your duvet.
Yelena lets out a heavy exhale, raking a hand through her hair. “Look, I don’t dislike you, y/n. I may not be a fan of your constant optimism and cheerfulness, but I don’t dislike you. I’ve actually been impressed by you since the time I saw you stronghold that guy at the bar,”
You smile at the memory. A “girl’s night” that Ava had organized led the three of you to a nice bar. And some guy had seemed intent on ruining your night by ignoring your collective disinterest and constantly asking to take you home.
When Ava told him no for the tenth time, he got in her face which prompted you to wrench his arm behind his back, advising that he fuck off if he knew what was good for him. Your protective nature and your strength has been a surprise to both Ava and Yelena. But Ava had been the only one to voice that she was impressed. Until now.
“So, is that really why you’ve been evading me all day?” Yelena’s voice pulls you from your daydreaming. “Because you thought I disliked you?”
You mull over just how much you’re willing to share. “No, not exactly,” you say. “The real reason is a lot…” you grapple around in your mind for the right word as you look up at Yelena. “…odder,”
“Odd how?” Yelena prompts.
“Well, I had this dream and…” you trail off, biting your lip. “…and it was a lot,”
“So…a dream made you act weird?” Yelena’s tone is dubious.
You nod slowly.
“I’m still not really following,” Yelena says.
“You have to promise not to laugh,”
“Why would I—“
“Just promise. Please, Yelena?” Your pleading gaze is enough to make Yelena sigh and concede.
“Alright, fine. I promise I will not laugh. Now hurry up and spit it out. The suspense is killing me,” she says.
“I had an intimate dream,” the words rush out, falling into each other as you speak. “About you. That’s why I avoided you all day,”
You wait for your confession to land. You wait for the exclamations of disgust or embarrassment. But all you get is silence. And when you can’t take it anymore, you look up at Yelena, who’s expression is carefully neutral.
“Intimate how?” She asks.
You lift your arms and let them fall back down, exasperated. “God, it was a sex dream, Yelena, okay? I was…I dunno, riding you. And you were praising me the whole time,”
Yelena’s expression belies nothing, and if it weren’t for the fact that her pupils were slightly dilated, you wouldn’t have thought your confession made any impact on her.
It’s as if you blink and she’s stood right in front of your bed, looking down at you. Now, you have to tilt your head to look up at her. “In the dream, did you…” she trails off, expecting you to pick up her thought.
You do, and it makes nerves flutter low in your abdomen as you admit, “I woke up before I could get off,”
Yelena nods, her gaze still on you. “That’s a shame,” she says it in such a low tone that you almost think you imagined it. The flutter of nerves in your stomach slowly start making their way up, the butterflies hovering right behind your belly button. Yelena is still staring at you, and she keeps her gaze trained on you as she lowers herself onto the mattress beside you. The bed dips a little with her added weight.
“What did you do?” Yelena’s gaze drops to your mouth for a brief second, but long enough to make you want to part them. Then, her eyes catch on yours again. “When you woke up from that dream, what did you do?”
“I dunno,” you’re embarrassed by the breathlessness in your voice as you respond. “Showered and then went down to get breakfast?”
“You just left yourself high and dry? You didn’t take care of yourself?” Yelena asks.
“No, I didn’t,”
Yelena hums, her eyes slipping slowly down your figure. The air between the two of you suddenly feels charged, like there’s a chance you’d get shocked if you even breathed a little too deeply. You couldn’t figure out what Yelena was thinking, and it was driving you absolutely wild in the best way.
“I feel like that’s not okay,” Yelena says, her eyes once again darting back to yours, but not before sneaking yet another peek at your lips. “I feel like it’s not okay for you to be left hanging like that,”
You feel the tips of Yelena’s fingers on the edge of your knee and suddenly, it’s so much harder to breathe.
“Yelena—“
“Y/n,” Yelena doesn’t use your name often. You know this because hearing her use it now feels like the first time, and makes you realize how fucking great your name sounds when it falls from her perfect lips. Her hand travels higher up on your knee. “Is this okay?” She asks.
You’re afraid that if you try to speak, you’ll end up whimpering, so you nod your head instead. Yelena scoots closer, bringing both her body heat and her deliciously spicy-sweet fragrance so much closer to you.
“You’re needy,” Yelena says it like a statement, not a question. “I can fix that,”
You’re so caught up in the way Yelena’s hand feels on your thigh that it takes your brain a minute to catch up, the nature of her statement slow to cut through the fog.
“You mean you want…” you trail off, searching Yelena’s eyes. She holds your gaze.
“I want to help,” She says simply. Her hand is higher now, palming softly at your thigh, and making your stubborn hips buck softly with the touch. “But only if it’s okay with you,”
Of course it was okay. It was so goddamn okay that you couldn’t breathe. So instead of answering with words, you let your body guide you forward to capture Yelena’s lips in a heated kiss.
You don’t know what you were thinking this morning—all that nonsense about only having platonic feelings for Yelena. Because the way the two of you kiss is anything but platonic. It’s dynamic. It’s passionate. It’s bruising. It’s hungry.
You’re more than happy to let Yelena dominate the kiss, her tongue sliding against your lower lip in silent permission that you didn’t even have to think about granting her. Her tongue is warm as it slides into your mouth and it’s here that you’re no longer able to keep your moans at bay.
“Yeah, you sound good,” Yelena mumbles against your lips as she guides you onto your back. She pulls back from the kiss way before you’re ready, pulling a whine of protest from you in the process. She only smiles and shushes you, kissing her way down your neck, your chest.
She lifts your arms above your head, then rids you of your shirt and bra. She utters a soft swear against your breast before taking the left one into her mouth and palming the right with her rough, warm hand.
You moan again, hips writhing beneath Yelena’s body as she works you over with her mouth. And when she grinds down against you, it only makes you moan louder. You can feel your nipple harden as Yelena lavishes the sensitive nub with her tongue. And she pulls away just long enough to grant you a devilish grin before switching over to your right breast, providing it with the same skilled suction while her left hand gets to work on the neglected breast. You buck up against her again, and she meets you, her hips grinding back into yours.
Her hand slides away from your breast to work the waistband of your sweats down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear. But before she can rid you of those too, your hands reach out, sliding under her tank top, and finally touching the warm skin of her stomach that you’d been aching to feel earlier this morning.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you breathe.
“Maybe you should do something about that,” she replies.
So you do.
Yelena lifts her arms as you slide her tank over her head. Her bra is next to go, and then her sweatpants. Your hands are on the waistband of her underwear when she suddenly grabs both of them and pins them to the bed, making you gasp. “Keep them here,” she whispers, her tone of voice making you want to do anything and everything she says.
“Okay,” you reply.
“Good girl,” The praise goes straight to your core, making you clench your thighs together.
Yelena keeps one hand on your pinned wrists, keeping you in place, while the other travels between your legs, spreading them open so she can cup you through the fabric of your panties.
Your body jolts and you moan Yelena’s name as you move to meet her touch. She drags a finger through your center, and the whine it makes you utter would’ve been embarrassing if you had any self awareness left. But you can’t remember having any kind of cohesive thought since the moment Yelena’s hand first landed on your knee.
“How’s this?” She asks, working at your increasingly-damp entrance through the material of your panties. Not once even teasing one of the edges. Not making any move to rid you of the stubborn barrier.
“Yelena please. Please, please, please,” you beg. You buck your hips up, but when you do, Yelena just moves her hand further away. You let out a frustrated moan along with what has to be five more pleases in a row.
“Please what, little one?” Yelena says.
“Touch me,” you panted. “Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll be so good. Just touch me. I can’t take it, this isn’t enough. Please,”
“See what happens when you ask nicely, milaya?” You don’t have a chance to respond to Yelena’s cheeky reply before she follows up with. “Lift your hips for me,”
You do as you’re told, letting Yelena slide your underwear down and off your thighs. Again, she drags a finger ever so gently through your folds before hooking two fingers inside and curling them. You’re already seeing stars and she just started and you can only pray that no one can hear your breathless moans outside your bedroom.
“Oh god, oh god,” you babble as you rock against Yelena’s fingers.
“You’re so wet,” Yelena remarks. Her fingers slide in deeper and you have to bite your lip so you don’t scream. “Who did that to you?”
You look up at Yelena through lidded eyes, but it doesn’t seem to service her as much as a verbal answer would. And she proves this by curving her fingers again, letting her thumb brush against your clit in a way that pulls another moan from you.
“I said who did this to you?” She prompts you again.
“You. All you, just you,” you gasp. “It’s all you, Yelena,”
You think you hear Yelena call you a good girl again, but it’s hard to focus on anything aside from the way her fingers feel inside you, bringing you so much higher, closer to what will likely be the most intense orgasm you’ve ever experienced. But just when you’re about to be sent hurtling over the edge, Yelena pulls her hand away.
You practically sob at the loss of contact, already aching for more. “No, please. I’m so, so close, Yelena. I just need—“
“Shh,” Yelena leans closer, pressing a kiss to one corner of your mouth and then the other. “I am not done with you yet. I just want to make you come the way you were robbed of in your dream,”
Yelena’s proposition alone is enough to make you see stars and you already feel boneless as she switches your positions, lying down on your sheets where you had been previously and pulling you down on top of her to straddle her waist. The anticipation builds back up inside of you, hot and needy, and you don’t even need to wait for a command before you take off, hips grinding into Yelena’s.
Just like in your dream, her fingers grip your waist, guiding your movements. Though Yelena is more subtle in the way she showcases her pleasure, you can tell she’s into this just as much as you are, if her parted lips and the soft furrow of her brows is anything to go on. If none of those gave her away, her soft Russian curses every time you moved, definitely did.
Your bodies move in tandem, a hypnotic rhythm that’s easy to lose yourself in. Yelena’s hands stay mostly on your hips, but she does steal a playful ass grab that makes you squeak and she laughs when you do. When her teeth sink into your neck, you’re pretty sure you’ll break then and there. But you hold out long enough to wait for her signal.
“You want me to say it, don’t you?” She whispers against your ear, her hands sliding up your hips to the curve of your waist, the outline of your ribcage, before settling on either arm. “You want me to tell you to come?”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes please. I need it,”
“Okay,” Yelena takes a hand and tilts your chin up to meet her eyes. “Then come for me,”
This time, you don’t have to wake up. Because this is very, very real, and so is the way that you spin out into oblivion as you chase and capture your release on top of Yelena, letting your orgasm fall over you like an avalanche.
Yelena’s climax is more understated, but not any less pleasurable—a pinch between her brows and parted lips giving away her pleasure as she guides you through your own.
Soon, you collapse forward, your head on Yelena’s chest. For a moment, you think she’s going to reject the physical contact, but just when you’re about to move away and apologize, her arms come up to wrap around you, pulling you closer. You hide your smile in the junction of her shoulder.
“Can I say something?” You’re the first to speak after a prolonged silence.
“Sure,” Yelena replies.
“I really needed that,”
Yelena laughs breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that surprises you. “Maybe I did too. I’m glad we cleared up the whole ‘me not liking you’ thing,’”
“And just for the record, you do? Like me, I mean?” You lift your head and look up at Yelena. She doesn’t answer immediately, but you catch a hint of a smile on her lips before she quickly schools her features.
“Hey, I saw that!” You tease.
“You saw nothing,” she deadpans.
“Yeah, you just smiled!”
“Shut up. I did not,” But Yelena can’t hold back the corners of her mouth from twitching, even if she tries.
“You’ve got it bad for me, don’t you?” Your smile matches Yelena’s as you poke a finger into the soft skin of her naked hip.
“If I kiss you, will you stop talking?”
The question only makes your grin widen. You don’t respond with words, however, leaning down and capturing Yelena’s lips in another kiss. And there’s no more talking after that. Nothing but pleasured sighs and soft breaths to fill the quiet of your bedroom as you take each other apart for the second time that night.
Summary: Dean can't think straight when you're around, wanting nothing more than a moment alone with you, but when a case brings you to a church, can he keep his hands off?
Warnings: Smut, Unprotected sex, Religious imagery, Sex in a church, biblical slut shaming?... Everything that comes with Dean dressed as a priest.
Dean eyed you carefully as you straightened out Sam's clerical collar, biting your bottom lip in concentration.
Normally by this time he'd already have fucked you once, maybe twice even, all noise and skin and hedonistic pleasure. It didn't matter that you were barely ever in the same state, both of you hunting all over the country, whenever you landed in the same place, he knew you would be up for some fun. He wasn't completely sure what you were. Fuck-buddy seemed too crass, booty-call too casual, friend with benefits too... Friendly. All he knew was when a hunt put you in the same city, you would call him to whatever outdated motel you'd found yourself in, and he'd come running.
Except this time. Because this time you'd both promised Sam you'd be on your best behavior until the hunt was done.
It wasn't like you hadn't hunted together before. In fact that's one of the things he enjoyed most about his time with you, the way you'd cut through a vampires neck without missing a beat, or exorcise a demon without a second thought. But normally that would end with a fuck in the back seat of the Impala, or a blowjob so mind blowing he'd still be jacking off to the thought months later.
Ever since Sam caught wind of how distracted Dean was getting, though, he'd be trying to tell you both to back off, cool it for a few days until the hunt was done. When he'd phoned you, telling you him and Dean were in the area, that they had a case you might be interested in, you'd agreed to his conditions easily, your mind fixed on the hunt. Dean was more difficult to persuade, the idea of seeing you and not immediately taking you back to his motel room so you could moan his name for hours on end being incomprehensible.
And he'd turned out to be right- kind of. While you seemed to be holding up okay, his need for you was causing more distraction than actual sex ever did.
"Dean-" Sam clicked his fingers in front of his brother's face, "-are you even paying attention?"
He blinked hard, trying to clear his thoughts, "Yeah- uh- what?"
"She asked if you're ready to go?"
Dean looked at you again, biting your bottom lip in a smile, knowing you'd caught him out.
"Yeah, I'm ready..."
You walked over to him, smoothing out the creases on the shoulders of his black shirt, the feeling of your hands rippling over him making him hold his breath. You took another look at both of them, a grin from ear to ear, "You two look positively virtuous."
That's more than could be said of your outfit, a short white dress that Dean couldn't work out if you genuinely thought made you look innocent or you were only wearing to rile him up. The truth was a bit of both, having chosen something you knew would help you fit in with the church going congregation while also giving Dean, who spent more time looking at your legs than your face, something to gawk at. Of course, he didn't know you'd opted not to wear any underwear either, conscious that he'd have to break sooner or later.
You smoothed out your dress, trying to keep your secrets to yourself as you all climbed into the Impala, just three devotees on their way to Sunday church.
Dean couldn't focus on anything else but you in the rearview mirror. Even as you and Sam spoke, your minds on the case, building a plan step by step, he didn't pay any attention. Instead he thought back to the last time he'd had you in the Impala, a hunt down in Georgia that left you both desperate for release. He'd made out with you for hours, savouring your taste as the windows had steamed up, hiding you away from the world.
"What I don't understand-" You were looking directly at him in the mirror now, coaxing him out of his distant state, "-is how either of you think you're going to get away with pretending to be priests."
"I know my fair share of Latin, darlin'." He laughed, looking back towards the road.
"Do you know anything about the bible though?"
"Enough to be convincing."
By the time you got to the church your plan was fully formed. They'd act as visiting priests, how they managed to pull those strings you had no clue, while you'd go in as part of the flock, all of you seeking out as much information as you could, as quickly as you could.
Dean let you out around the corner, to avoid any suspicion, and almost called the whole thing off as he watched you walk away from the car, your dress looking even more scandalous from behind. Sam swatted his arm to focus him again, and they drove off to fulfill their part of the plan.
Your life as a hunter consisted mainly of having to get people to like you enough to spill secrets, and as soon as you turned the corner and saw the group of old women gathering outside the church, you knew this would be no different.
You assimilated quickly, making up an excuse for your newness easily: "My Grandmother is just so sick I couldn't stand the idea of her being alone in a different state. But my goodness, I couldn't miss church even for one week, I just had to come here!" That seemed to soften them up, and they quickly started letting you in on the gossip. You weren't sure any of it was particularly useful to the case, but you had to admit it was fun hearing about Brenda's daughters date mishap, and how the mailman had knocked up Sandra's sister.
As you made your way towards the pews you made sure to sit next to a lady in a lime green dress who seemed to be the most loose lipped of them all. You relaxed into the hard wood as the mass began, the only thing on your mind being the hope that the boys were making better progress than you. You kept an eye out around the room for them as the priest spoke, unable to spot them anywhere, suggesting either they'd managed to hide themselves away successfully, or they'd never even made it in the church.
As you reached the 45 minute mark, you finally saw him. Dean, tucked into the side of the church, biting his lip nervously. You tried to catch his eye, but his were firmly fixed on the front, lost in thought. You couldn't deny how good he looked in his mock-priest outfit, the black shirt only extenuating his solid figure, his shoulders wrapped tight, and the collar- well from the second he'd put it on you couldn't think of anything else.
"And now, visiting from St. John's church," the priest was looking over at Dean, focusing your mind back on the room, "I invite Father Rose to come up here and speak to you all today."
As you watched Dean walk up to the front of the room, all eyes on him, you could only imagine what situation they'd got themselves in for him to have to do this. You could picture them both scrambling, the stuttered excuses. You hoped this meant Sam was somewhere getting the answers you needed. Dean just needed to stay as congruent as possible.
"Lust!"
So much for not standing out.
"What is lust?" He spoke calmly, gently, almost- sensually. You knew he'd spotted you, but he was avoiding any eye contact as he looked around the room. "It's desire. Passion. Yearning."
You pushed together your already crossed legs. This wasn't fair - Dean was never fair. His lingering looks, his hand brushing over your skin. But this was something else. You felt a coil forming in your core as his silky voice filled the space.
"The bible warns us of lust. Warns us that we must flee from the sin, no matter how much we want our desires filled. And you may be desperate for it. Desperate to be filled over, and over, and over."
You glanced around the room. You couldn't tell if anyone else was hearing his double entendres, but all your new friends seemed just as enamored as you.
"I must admit, I have fallen for the sin of lust before. I have lusted for desires of the flesh. But what does the bible say? For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh."
You really wished he'd stop saying flesh.
"And desires of the flesh are merely superficial. They're messy, and indecent and... Confusing."
You never expected Dean to be describing your relationship, or lack thereof, as confusing. After all he was the one always lauding just how simple it was. You could tell he was padding for time now.
"But we must flee from temptation. The temptations of pleasure, of indulgence, of self gratification. For the Bible tells us," he turned to look directly at you now, punching the air from your lungs as his jaw tensed for a moment before continuing, "that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."
You had to admit he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.
"Because you can commit the sin of lust even with your eyes. With only your eyes you can still caress, still touch, still... Taste."
Even he knew he was pushing the metaphor.
"I want everyone now to close their eyes and sit with me in this moment of thought. Please, think of a moment you have lusted, when your desires have been too much to bare, think of those moments now."
You kept your eyes open, fixed firmly on him. Only once he was certain everyone else had closed theirs did his face break character, a grin. You shook your head gently, he could tell you were amused even if you were trying to look stern. He shot you a wink, both of you minds filled with every moment you'd had together, naked, sweaty, moaning.
"And if everyone could once again open their eyes for me..."
You weren't even listening anymore, your thoughts placed firmly on him, on his lips.
It took you a moment to realize he was now walking away again, clearly his homily was over. Your new friend leant down, poking you with an elbow, "Well wasn't he just a tall drink of water."
"I'm not sure he's quite my type." You smiled at her, warmth over your face hiding your exasperation.
"Well why don't you go speak to him, you're both new to the Church after all."
You tightened you jaw, looking over at where he now stood, "You know what, I think I just might."
The moment the service was over you shuffled out of the pew, your mind fixed firmly on one thing. You made your way over to him, his eyes on your body as you walked to the front. Clearly, many other members of the congregation had the same idea, a small group now talking in front of him and their priest. You pushed through gently, meeting Dean's eye.
"That was an enlightening talk, Father." You smiled at him, all innocence.
"Thank you." His jaw tightened, the shoe was on the other foot now.
"It really gave me so much to think about. I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on sin, on how we can truly come together to resist such a wicked thing."
The small huddle turned to him, expectantly. He coughed gently, clearing his throat, "You know it's just such an interesting topic. Why don't you take a walk with me and we can discuss this further."
He placed his hand on the small of your back, pulling you away from the tangle of other people; clearly this was a demand, not a request.
The second you were out of sight his lips were on yours, his hands desperate and frenzied, grabbing at your jaw, the back of your head, your waist.
You broke away from his kiss, looking at him with as much purity as you could muster, "We can't, Dean, we promised." Your words didn't stop your hands, which were now tugging at the bottom of his shirt, trying to get to his abdomen.
He pushed his face into the crook of your neck, "Sam's not here, sweetheart, please I'm desperate."
"Not here, it's too public, it's a church for God's sake!" But your hand came up to the back of his head, pushing his mouth against your skin. You leant into him, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and motel soap.
He nestled into you, his lips pressed against you, sending fire through your body, "Follow me, I know a place."
He half guided, half dragged you through a twist of hallways that seemed far more modern than the church, clearly him and Sam had had enough time to get a simple understanding of the place. His hands were on your hips as you moved, mouth still messily attacking you any chance he got. He pushed you into a small space, barely any light filling it as you became aware of your surroundings.
"Dean, this is a confessional box."
"So?" His hand found your inner thigh, needy for you.
"It's not exactly private!"
"Be quiet then." He guided his hand up between your legs, expecting to be met with the resistance of fabric but instead finding you bare, "You- you're not wearing-"
"God, Winchester, you're getting too predictable." You rolled your eyes, pressing your lips against his once again as you fumbled with his belt buckle.
He pushed his fingers through your soaked folds, and you rewarded him with a moan as he sent waves of pleasure through you. Not wanting to waste any time, he pushed two fingers into you, thrusting hard as you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself steady. You rolled your hips in time with his movements, pornographic sounds filling the small space.
He reached up with his other hand towards his collar, intending to release himself from it's hold, but you stopped him, grabbing his wrist with a stern look, "Keep it on."
He looked at you with amused surprise, pulling his fingers out of you and moving towards your clit, rubbing it gently with small circles, "Oh you've come here to worship?"
You bit your lip, unable to form any words.
"I'll give you something to worship. On your knees, sweetheart." He pulled his fingers away, pushing them against your lips as you sunk to his knees before him, making you taste yourself. He sat back, groaning at the image of you in front of him, his fingers lazily shoved in your mouth.
He pulled his own cock out, letting it spring free from his pants, giving it a few firm strokes as he looked down at you, your eyes firmly fixed on him. You leant forward, wrapping your lips around it's head as he rolled his head back with a groan. You pressed your tongue against his slit, the taste of his precum filling your mouth as you wrapped your hand around the base. He lifted his hand to the back of your head, holding you there as you lapped at his tip, beginning to move your hand, stroking his length.
"Fuck-" He had his eyes closed, his head pressed against the hard wood of the box as he swore through gritted teeth.
He pushed your head down lower and you let him fill your mouth, his cock pressing against the back of your throat as you swallowed him down. You bobbed your head gently, his length throbbing within you, his panting becoming strained as he got closer to the edge.
You choked on him, his hand pushing you lower. You let your fingers ripple down his abdomen, looking back up at him with wide eyes, his own gaze falling back on you as he bit his bottom lip hard.
"Come 'ere." He murmured, pulling you back off of him before he reached his peak.
You stood up, his hands reaching out to your waist, jerking you towards him. You hitched your dress up only slightly as you moved to straddle him, your lips crashing together once again as he lined his cock up with your entrance.
You sunk down onto him quickly, sucking in a breath at the feeling of him stretching you out. He groaned again as you began to roll your hips into him, his own body moving in time with yours to push himself as deep into you as he could.
You lent down, your mouth pressed against his ear, your voice a breathless whisper, "Forgive me Father... for I have sinned..."
He looked back at you with a wicked smile, one hand gripping your hip tighter as his other moved up to trace a thumb over your bottom lip, "Go on."
"It has been... too long since my last confession-"
He eyed your lips, his hunger for you evident.
"-These are my sins..." You wrapped your arms over his shoulders to keep yourself steady, "... I've lusted after you, I've - fuck- I've been tempted by you, and I'm only going to be tempted again... and again... and - Jesus- again."
You felt your climax rising as he pounded into you, keeping your rhythm steady with his grasp. He kissed you again, his mouth heavy and messy, open mouths panting into open mouths.
"For these and all my sins... I am- fuck I'm gonna come."
He chuckled lightly into you as you sped up your movements, holding his shoulders tight.
He pushed his mouth against your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, "You still on birth control?"
You panted against him, "-Yeah."
You kept your movements steady, both of your breaths thick against each other, fingers digging into one another's bodies. You could tell how desperate he was to come as you continued to grind against him, only holding out in the hope you'd crescendo together.
You bit down hard on your lip to hide your moan, your body quaking with pleasure as you pushed yourself to the edge. You came quickly, your body shaking, a wave of pleasure striking through you.
At the feeling of your pussy clenching around him he finally allowed himself to release, his seed spilling into you as you arched your back, letting him fill you. You pressed your face into his shoulder as both of your movements faltered, focused more on your pleasure than your rhythm. He gripped your hips tighter as gratification wracked his body.
You continued to move against each other slowly, your body slumping against him as you felt his load dripping out of you around his cock. You sat for a moment longer with him buried inside you before carefully sliding off of him, holding onto his shoulders to steady your shaking legs.
You felt his cum leaking down your inner thigh, dipping your fingers down between your legs to swipe the mixture of his juices and yours away, bringing it back to your lips and popping it in your mouth as he stared at you, his jaw hanging. You gave him another smile, pulling your fingers back out as you swallowed the taste down, biting your bottom lip.
He met your grin, his thumb holding your chin, "Fuckin' sinful."
You flattened out the bottom of your dress, trying to pull yourself together, suddenly regretting your lack of underwear. He stood, guiding you back out the booth as he rebuckled his belt.
Sam stood opposite, his jaw tight as he shook his head, staring you both down, "You're kidding me-"
