Unhappy Thoughts - my random yan thoughts that don't quite meet my definition of a drabble and aren't fics
All those tags are on this post for easy access. This is a link to my old pinned because I don't feel like retyping all the tags I use to find my debauchery
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I unfortunately need to move out within three months and there is no way what I make at my job will be enough to cover down payment. I will still write or do requests for free (Asimov anons & Camu anon I saw your requests a while ago, things have been hectic lately but I will get your fics out I swear), but I don't know when.
Payment options:
Ko-fi
Paypal (DM for nsfw commissions)
Tiers:
As of now, I only have one because I want to keep it manageable, but I may add more in the future or other kinds of comm options (I.e. drawings)
5$: 400-1k words,
5$: eye pfp of a character of your choice (ex. directly below)
Will write:
- Yandere
- Gore
- NSFW + SFW
- Probably every kink except defecation, ask if you need clarification
- OC's or other characters I'm not familiar with
Will Not Write:
- Romantic or sexual relationships with minor characters
I will add or clarify as needed. If you have something specific you want me to do that isn't currently available in the tiers, you're welcome to ask me about it (ex. borders as seen on this post, longer writing requests, etc)
Content warnings: Yandere themes, dubious consent, fantasy drugging, and mentions of blood. DARK CONTENT. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT
SMUT UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
The first time Oak got close to you outside of work, you were half-asleep, darkness threatening to claim you as your eyes glaze in a futile attempt to read the documents.
New supplies of medicine, something about the increasing costs, and the subtle change in basic ingredients of a medicine rendering a few patients unable to ingest it or risk a fatal reaction. There was always something to be done, something that needs fixing, and as one of the few people working here, you have to pull your weight, too.
But, you cannot deny your own exhaustion.
In a daze, you flick the document to the next page, intending to place the document asking for a permit to perform a blood test on the Sinners to the side. It was something you could not handle yourself, as such things require direct approval from the Chief - and you could deal with it in the morning.
As you were about to take the paper, though, a stinging sensation split your skin open, and you hiss in pain, awareness returning to you with the sharp sting.
“(Name)?”
You jerk your head to look at the source of the voice. Of course you recognized her, after all, she was one of the few patients assigned to you. Though you never interacted with her beyond what professional duties were demanded of you, she was here long enough for you to know a little bit about her, including her Mania-induced mutation that gave her a taste for blood.
“Oak? Why are you here? It is late.”
“You’re injured.”
Your mind was bleary from exhaustion, but you were able to notice that she didn’t answer your question.
For a long moment, Oak stared at the red bead of blood seeping out from the slight cut, pupils blown and dilated. If her gaze could rake hot coals onto its target, you would’ve been turned into ashes long ago. She swallowed, bit her lips, and turned away, fishing for the handkerchief hidden beneath her clothes. Even under the dim lights of the late-night office, it looked pure-white and well-maintained.
“It’s alright, Oak, I can just—“
Your protest were interrupted by a hiss escaping your own mouth, and the press of soft cloth against your wound. You watched as blood bloomed on the cloth, stark and sharp stain marring it. Oak did not seem to mind, her mismatched eyes staring at the scarlet stain in marked interest.
It was then, you realized, that you were alone, exhausted, and in the presence of a Sinner with affinity for blood.
“You should rest. Not much time left until dawn approaches,” Oak said, pocketing the sullied cloth, her expression unbothered. “If you start the next day exhausted, as much as I would enjoy witnessing the proof of our mortality stemmed from careless mistakes, you would not feel the same.”
“But, there is still—“
“Perhaps, you would prefer to sleep next to me instead?”
The thought of sleeping inside a coffin was enough to silence you, and in turn, push you to go back to your quarters.
“Alright. Good night, Oak.”
As you closed the door, she sighed, lips curving in a triumphant smile. Pale fingers hooked on the dirtied handkerchief, and she brought the stained part close to her face, taking a deep whiff with the glee of a starving man who was given a plate of fresh food, her lips grazed at it in a desperation she would not show anyone but you.
She muttered your name with reverence, each repeated call leaving her lips tinted with desire and want. The sweet, sweet scent was enough to almost bring her to her knees, clawing at her sanity. The pitter-patter of your steps, going further by the second, was enticing her to go and give chase, to claim and possess you. Needle-sharp fangs poke at the blood, a show of desperation for you.
“(Name), you…” she muttered, voice breathy. With each moment, her desire for you soared. Her mind was an echoing mess, only telling her one thing.
Claim them. Take them. Do not let go.
—
The second time she got close to you outside of work, you were alone once again. This time, though it was a bit late at night, you decided to sort through the haphazardly-placed medicine bottles, just so it would not add to the hassle of tomorrow. Mind-numbing would be an understatement, and you ended up daydreaming as you sorted the glass containers in the correct order with the aid of muscle memory.
As you were lost in your own thoughts, there was a slight creak from the door, and you call for your visitor without even thinking.
“Is it an emergency? I will have to ask you to come back tomorrow, otherwise,”
Your voice were tinged a bit with exhaustion. The day has almost ended, and if you could help it, you would rather not have additional work.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” a familiar voice spoke, each word accompanied with a cold breath on your ears. One hand snaked around your waist, another creeping up your neck to tilt your head to the side. A pair of needle-sharp fangs was grazing your neck, hovering to search for that sweet spot.
“Oak, you—“
“Shh, (Name), there is nothing to be afraid of,” she cut you off with a reassuring voice. “You’re in good hands.”
You could feel her smirk against your skin, her warm breaths, full of anticipation, fanned your trembling body. Even with your struggle, in hopes to at least have your captor in your field of vision, yet the iron grip of the pale arm circling your wrist remained. Your scream died into a soundless gasp as she sank her fangs onto the tender spot on your collarbone, followed by throbbing pain in tune with your panicked heartbeat. Though adrenaline flowed throughout your body, your limbs felt leaden, frozen in place, locking your attention towards the spot where your captor’s lips connected with your shoulders.
“Does it hurt?” She whispered as she retracted her fangs, her tongue swirling a loving pattern on the puncture wounds. “It’ll be all better soon.”
At first, there was only pain, soothed partway by the way she blew cold air over the throbbing wound. Yet, with each passing second, the pain faded, changing in tune with your panicked heartbeat into a pit of yearning. Your legs felt wobbly, supported only by her body pressed flush against yours, and you were unable to muster any form of protest as she directed you towards the bed. Now, with her on top of you, even the darkness was not enough to conceal the unbidden desire swirling in her soul, shining through mismatched eyes with intensity enough to devour everything alive.
“I’ve been waiting for this chance. You were always so cautious, so afraid of me and most of the other Sinners,” she breathed out, one hand grasping your face, her thumb stroking your cheek, “and now, you truly are mine.”
You bit your lip down as another jolt of desire racked your body, a shudder running down your spine and gathering straight at your sensitive bud. You felt as if your body were set aflame from the inside, venom melting you from within and preparing you for your predator’s feast. Oak only smiled at your state, pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, cleaning traces of your blood.
“Let me help you, then. Consider this as a thank you.”
One hand held your wrists above your head, and the other reached down to your pants, pulling the fabric down to expose your drenched panties. One touch of her fingertip, even through the ruined fabric, was enough to send your mind into overdrive, desperation ridding your addled thoughts from all thoughts of survival. With just a twitch, you felt the edges of your vision turning white.
“Do you feel it? The desire pierced into your soul, now spilling out from here?” She asked, giving the bite wound another lick, fangs grazing upon the spot again. “Should you desire relief, you need only ask~“
“Ask? How dare—“
Again, she did not let you finish as her fingers explored deeper, pushing the soaked panties aside and exposing your bare sex to the cold air. Her movements were restrained, though her twitching fingers all but signaled that it took all her willpower to even prepare you for her. She added in another finger soon after, scissoring motions pressing on your walls without a rhythm.
From her quick movements, it was clear that it took everything in her to restrain her own lust, let alone give you consideration in this twisted act of passion. The worst part was that despite how wild and selfish this mockery of love was, her attempt to fan the flames burning on your stomach was working, your desire climbing higher as pleased noises began to spill out from your lips, your voice calling for Oak’s name in half-formed syllables. One spot made your toes curl, your high pitched voice bitten down in a half-hearted attempt to not allow her the satisfaction, yet you could tell your attempt have all but failed, and every so often, she made it a point to brush the sensitive spot with a teasing smile that reminded you of a cat batting its dying prey.
Kisses were trailed down all over your body, the hand holding your wrists now gliding down towards your torso. You thought it was a chance to fight back, yet, a slow, agonizing, pleasurable lick at the bite wound and a simple command to stop was enough to statue your body into perfect obedience. The black nail on her index finger sharpened into a claw for just a moment, enough to split your clothing, allowing her access to mark your neck, down to your shoulders and the valley of your breasts.
She swirled her tongue on a nipple, and the nub hardened as if on command, the cold making it even more sensitive. Her fangs stopped at your chest, right where your beating heart is, then she bit down, licking the wound just as you started to get lightheaded. At the same time, you finally tipped over the edge, and your vision whited out as you came all over her fingers.
With an embarassing squelch, she pulled out both of her fingers, and she stared at you in the eyes as her tongue cleaned your slick.
The flames in your belly have started to settle a bit, but saying this would be enough is nothing short of a blatant lie.
Oak gave you a knowing smile and got off you. However, as you were about to sigh in relief, you saw her take off her panties, letting the fabric fall on the floor. Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw the fabric was soaked, as well, juices glistening under the dim light of the room.
“What an insatiable thrall,” she said in a chastising tone, a contrast to her mischievous smile, “then, you wouldn’t mind helping me out as well, hm?”
She stopped your protest once again - her cunt resting so close to your face. Then, there was a nip in your inner thigh, the familiar piercing sensation from her fangs, then the pain fading into a mounting pleasure that all but erased your previous fatigue. Loathe as you are to admit it, you were once again forced to feel pleasure, her tongue licking your puncture wounds to soothe it before resting flat on your folds.
“What do they usually say… Ah, right, a favor for a favor.”
To emphasize her words, she grinded her cunt on your face, enveloping you in her scent. A wordless suck on your aching bud became your cue to start, your tongue tracing sloppy patterns on her folds. Your efforts did not go unrewarded, as she matched your speed, and even her breaths on your wet heat was a strong enough stimulation to make your hips buck towards her, your thighs enveloping her head to draw more friction, give more fuel to the creeping sensitivity that had enveloped your entire body once again.
As you sped up, calling her name in between breathes that smelled like her, you finally tip over the edge. Though your climax did not hit you with the same sheer force as the first one, you were forced to feel every moment of it, and the clear liquid gushing forth from your twisted lover’s climax soon after became a reminder of your current state. Your face was practically drenched, and you were frozen, perhaps both from exhaustion and mortification, as she licked your juices clean from between your thighs.
She finally shifted off you, swiping her own slick from your face with her thumb with the care of a loving partner. She licked her own thumb soon after, and the last thing you hear, just before your vision went dark, was her promise.
“I will see you again soon, (Name).”
—
The third time you met her, you were sleep-deprived, nightmares filling the dark every time you closed your eyes.
Ever since that encounter, you had begged at your superior to allow you a transfer, preferably somewhere you wouldn’t have to deal with Sinners aside from a need-to-know basis. Though your request was granted, you quickly discover that your mind has betrayed you, images of that encounter replaying in a loop, giving you a restless sleep that left you wanting the next day. Your body and mind seem to have all but betrayed you, conjuring a burning need for someone that was more than content to keep you, if not as a lover, as a thing to satisfy her own twisted desires.
You had fallen asleep, once again, though at least your luck allowed you to keep your wits until the last few minutes of your work.
As your eyes fluttered open, your gaze met Oak’s mismatched eyes, and it took everything you have to not kick and shout like a wild animal. You two were in a dark, narrow place, and your arms brushed wooden walls as you try to move.
She was pinning you down with an almost embarassing ease.
“Are you avoiding me?”
The question was asked with a relaxed lilt and a smile, not much different from a dear friend asking about the weather.
“What did you do to me?” The question slipped out from your lips before you could stop yourself, venom all but spilling from your tone.
“It was a simple thing, really. Have you never heard of the undead being capable of creating thralls?” She smiled, full of victory as she pressed the spot where her fangs sunk into you for the very first time. “I told you, you were mine now, yet you still refuse me.”
She stroked your hair in what was, perhaps, meant to be a comforting gesture, and to your horror, it all but worked, as you closed your eyes from the comfort.
“But now, there is no need to worry. We will have plenty of time to get to know each other, after all~“
This mfker can fall in love for us MC we should marry him asap
Marrying eldritch horror husband
Motherfucker holyshit crap ass piece of *** Im crying and no amount of swears and heavy languages I can use to decribe how WRECKED I FELT seeing this blush
Gently holds*
Youre precious, Uvhash...
Uvhash baby, shhhh Im here I will pat you, and I will kill everyone and even myself to protect that blush
Please if anyone care you can reblog with quote to lmk which chapter this scene was in
If not then thats ok lmao but yeah just asking sjjdjsksksks
Previously I FANON him hes also a bit pouty and blush-y EXACTLY like the image above
So it was canon all along...
Uvhash is secretly soft
Yes my style in simping Uvhash is babying him and treating him like a silly harmless little creature
Before I was kinda expected Uvhash will be 100% cold blooded
Like he will not give a shit or have caring language aside murder
This
This new information
KILLS ME
I enjoy this canon SO MUCH, he turns out to have humanity deep in him after all I knew my delusions are true, so hes capable to feel and has human side...I EAT THIS UP AHHAHAHHAHAH I EAT IT WELL
Murder god having soft side...
Im emotionally attached to Uvhash, deep and def on an unhealthy level
I love this man he shall be my new comfort character, I RARELY have comfort character and Uvhash is my 3rd one after AGES
My 1st comfort I liked since 9 years ago and my 2nd is 2 yrs ago
It's in his Reproduction Frenzy. Yes, reproduction as in fucking, Uvhash is just an awkward little freak though so no implications or fancy wording of the deed.
To get it, you need to get past the second or third level in chapter 9 , aka desert chapter (I might be wrong, but I'll double check and correct it later). That chapter is a pain in the ass to get through though, whenever those enemies pop up again I want to die they suck so much
I rarely interact and prefer 0 interactions but I can feel comfortable enough to ask wait holdon why is the game R18????
No I dont actually wanna talk abt hot stuff Im genuinely confused because I always thought this game was serious about battles and suddenly Uvhash breeding season????? IM RATHER CONFUSED????
It's pretty heavy on the horror for one, and second there are some characters in the frenzy who end up fucking keeper or it being implied. Uvhash is not one of them and it's not every character. For some it's just spending time with keeper
Ok I did not expect a battle card game to be a R18 dating visual novel
Honestly my reaction to all of these was
Wow
Im surprised
Very
Because Ive always like thinking Uvhash is emotionless and cold blooded and how the game focus on serious stories
And no dont misunderstood I dont hate this new info Im just very surprised
Also surprisingly I would be turned off if Uvhash is overly sexual since even I simp him Im not simping in a "SEX SEX SEX" style lmao I just like to make a few "not family friendly" jokes abt him so Im glad the keeper and Uvhash ended up not doing anything canonly
I mean, it's only a dating sim if you really care about these stories that are locked behind two layers of requirements and only last 5 mins or less. I mostly just see it as a side thing, it has no value outside of your own interest and can be completely ignored otherwise
Also, as far as I know, Uvhash does not appear in main story at all, so the frenzy and his randomized messages from the communicator are all he has atm
This mfker can fall in love for us MC we should marry him asap
Marrying eldritch horror husband
Motherfucker holyshit crap ass piece of *** Im crying and no amount of swears and heavy languages I can use to decribe how WRECKED I FELT seeing this blush
Gently holds*
Youre precious, Uvhash...
Uvhash baby, shhhh Im here I will pat you, and I will kill everyone and even myself to protect that blush
Please if anyone care you can reblog with quote to lmk which chapter this scene was in
If not then thats ok lmao but yeah just asking sjjdjsksksks
Previously I FANON him hes also a bit pouty and blush-y EXACTLY like the image above
So it was canon all along...
Uvhash is secretly soft
Yes my style in simping Uvhash is babying him and treating him like a silly harmless little creature
Before I was kinda expected Uvhash will be 100% cold blooded
Like he will not give a shit or have caring language aside murder
This
This new information
KILLS ME
I enjoy this canon SO MUCH, he turns out to have humanity deep in him after all I knew my delusions are true, so hes capable to feel and has human side...I EAT THIS UP AHHAHAHHAHAH I EAT IT WELL
Murder god having soft side...
Im emotionally attached to Uvhash, deep and def on an unhealthy level
I love this man he shall be my new comfort character, I RARELY have comfort character and Uvhash is my 3rd one after AGES
My 1st comfort I liked since 9 years ago and my 2nd is 2 yrs ago
It's in his Reproduction Frenzy. Yes, reproduction as in fucking, Uvhash is just an awkward little freak though so no implications or fancy wording of the deed.
To get it, you need to get past the second or third level in chapter 9 , aka desert chapter (I might be wrong, but I'll double check and correct it later). That chapter is a pain in the ass to get through though, whenever those enemies pop up again I want to die they suck so much
I rarely interact and prefer 0 interactions but I can feel comfortable enough to ask wait holdon why is the game R18????
No I dont actually wanna talk abt hot stuff Im genuinely confused because I always thought this game was serious about battles and suddenly Uvhash breeding season????? IM RATHER CONFUSED????
It's pretty heavy on the horror for one, and second there are some characters in the frenzy who end up fucking keeper or it being implied. Uvhash is not one of them and it's not every character. For some it's just spending time with keeper
This mfker can fall in love for us MC we should marry him asap
Marrying eldritch horror husband
Motherfucker holyshit crap ass piece of *** Im crying and no amount of swears and heavy languages I can use to decribe how WRECKED I FELT seeing this blush
Gently holds*
Youre precious, Uvhash...
Uvhash baby, shhhh Im here I will pat you, and I will kill everyone and even myself to protect that blush
Please if anyone care you can reblog with quote to lmk which chapter this scene was in
If not then thats ok lmao but yeah just asking sjjdjsksksks
Previously I FANON him hes also a bit pouty and blush-y EXACTLY like the image above
So it was canon all along...
Uvhash is secretly soft
Yes my style in simping Uvhash is babying him and treating him like a silly harmless little creature
Before I was kinda expected Uvhash will be 100% cold blooded
Like he will not give a shit or have caring language aside murder
This
This new information
KILLS ME
I enjoy this canon SO MUCH, he turns out to have humanity deep in him after all I knew my delusions are true, so hes capable to feel and has human side...I EAT THIS UP AHHAHAHHAHAH I EAT IT WELL
Murder god having soft side...
Im emotionally attached to Uvhash, deep and def on an unhealthy level
I love this man he shall be my new comfort character, I RARELY have comfort character and Uvhash is my 3rd one after AGES
My 1st comfort I liked since 9 years ago and my 2nd is 2 yrs ago
It's in his Reproduction Frenzy. Yes, reproduction as in fucking, Uvhash is just an awkward little freak though so no implications or fancy wording of the deed.
To get it, you need to get past the second or third level in chapter 9 , aka desert chapter (I might be wrong, but I'll double check and correct it later). That chapter is a pain in the ass to get through though, whenever those enemies pop up again I want to die they suck so much
Warnings: Very fanciful descriptions of fucking, maybe dubcon, slightly cannibalistic implications
It felt smooth. Easy coaxes drawing your nerves to a heightened state, pushing you higher and higher, closer and closer into the all consuming aura of his presence.
Whispers whip around your ears, the room fallen into distorted shapes and shadows. It presses you down and holds you up, it keeps you in place as he coils you tighter and tighter. It was unstoppable, inescapable, the lull his hands pull your body into, to strive for every hardened insistence he makes on it even as he presses more fervently into your curves.
His eyes, gleaming with eager bloodlust as he watches you gasp, shuttering and struggling towards and against him. Your fingers clawing then pulling and clawing again as you shiver. As always, his actions are pointed, meditated maneuvers on your skin all so you can shatter on your sheets that are heavy with his cologne. Red markings carve their way down his throat and into yours as frenzied, manic whispers eagerly lap up the idea of breaking you down enough to become one in a truly inseparable way.
You could feel the warning in your bones, sharp, pointed spikes glimmering in response, eager to tear into his flesh as his Mania is to tear into you. Yet, you still pull his lips to yours, still enthusiastically meet his rhythm only to shiver away then back again. You bite his lip and he groans, fists balling as his teeth find your flesh in a tender yet forceful embrace. A dance that won't end until tears are pulled from your eyes, until you're left with no choice but to release those crimson spikes so he can reach the dizzy euphoria you're in now. Until you're left worn to your bones with a shuddering beast of a man in front of you, ravaged on Shackles.
Inch by inch, he's taking from you so deliciously, drawing you weaker by the second and your sanity teetering on collapse, holding thinly to the thread of your Shackles; your foreheads meet, his eyes dimly illuminating his features that almost seem to warp at their edges, rocking you closer and closer until—
Until you're too weak to hold on anymore. Your thread snaps as your body collapses and the spikes impale you both and his arms snake tightly around your waist, his body rolling into them as you tremble. A calloused hand grabs you, forcing you to once again meet his scarlet gaze, and between listless breathes of waking wonder, he brings you down again to catch your breath and mix it with his.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to let you out of my sight again."
Content warnings: Yandere themes, dubious consent, fantasy drugging, and mentions of blood. DARK CONTENT. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT
SMUT UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
The first time Oak got close to you outside of work, you were half-asleep, darkness threatening to claim you as your eyes glaze in a futile attempt to read the documents.
New supplies of medicine, something about the increasing costs, and the subtle change in basic ingredients of a medicine rendering a few patients unable to ingest it or risk a fatal reaction. There was always something to be done, something that needs fixing, and as one of the few people working here, you have to pull your weight, too.
But, you cannot deny your own exhaustion.
In a daze, you flick the document to the next page, intending to place the document asking for a permit to perform a blood test on the Sinners to the side. It was something you could not handle yourself, as such things require direct approval from the Chief - and you could deal with it in the morning.
As you were about to take the paper, though, a stinging sensation split your skin open, and you hiss in pain, awareness returning to you with the sharp sting.
“(Name)?”
You jerk your head to look at the source of the voice. Of course you recognized her, after all, she was one of the few patients assigned to you. Though you never interacted with her beyond what professional duties were demanded of you, she was here long enough for you to know a little bit about her, including her Mania-induced mutation that gave her a taste for blood.
“Oak? Why are you here? It is late.”
“You’re injured.”
Your mind was bleary from exhaustion, but you were able to notice that she didn’t answer your question.
For a long moment, Oak stared at the red bead of blood seeping out from the slight cut, pupils blown and dilated. If her gaze could rake hot coals onto its target, you would’ve been turned into ashes long ago. She swallowed, bit her lips, and turned away, fishing for the handkerchief hidden beneath her clothes. Even under the dim lights of the late-night office, it looked pure-white and well-maintained.
“It’s alright, Oak, I can just—“
Your protest were interrupted by a hiss escaping your own mouth, and the press of soft cloth against your wound. You watched as blood bloomed on the cloth, stark and sharp stain marring it. Oak did not seem to mind, her mismatched eyes staring at the scarlet stain in marked interest.
It was then, you realized, that you were alone, exhausted, and in the presence of a Sinner with affinity for blood.
“You should rest. Not much time left until dawn approaches,” Oak said, pocketing the sullied cloth, her expression unbothered. “If you start the next day exhausted, as much as I would enjoy witnessing the proof of our mortality stemmed from careless mistakes, you would not feel the same.”
“But, there is still—“
“Perhaps, you would prefer to sleep next to me instead?”
The thought of sleeping inside a coffin was enough to silence you, and in turn, push you to go back to your quarters.
“Alright. Good night, Oak.”
As you closed the door, she sighed, lips curving in a triumphant smile. Pale fingers hooked on the dirtied handkerchief, and she brought the stained part close to her face, taking a deep whiff with the glee of a starving man who was given a plate of fresh food, her lips grazed at it in a desperation she would not show anyone but you.
She muttered your name with reverence, each repeated call leaving her lips tinted with desire and want. The sweet, sweet scent was enough to almost bring her to her knees, clawing at her sanity. The pitter-patter of your steps, going further by the second, was enticing her to go and give chase, to claim and possess you. Needle-sharp fangs poke at the blood, a show of desperation for you.
“(Name), you…” she muttered, voice breathy. With each moment, her desire for you soared. Her mind was an echoing mess, only telling her one thing.
Claim them. Take them. Do not let go.
—
The second time she got close to you outside of work, you were alone once again. This time, though it was a bit late at night, you decided to sort through the haphazardly-placed medicine bottles, just so it would not add to the hassle of tomorrow. Mind-numbing would be an understatement, and you ended up daydreaming as you sorted the glass containers in the correct order with the aid of muscle memory.
As you were lost in your own thoughts, there was a slight creak from the door, and you call for your visitor without even thinking.
“Is it an emergency? I will have to ask you to come back tomorrow, otherwise,”
Your voice were tinged a bit with exhaustion. The day has almost ended, and if you could help it, you would rather not have additional work.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be quick,” a familiar voice spoke, each word accompanied with a cold breath on your ears. One hand snaked around your waist, another creeping up your neck to tilt your head to the side. A pair of needle-sharp fangs was grazing your neck, hovering to search for that sweet spot.
“Oak, you—“
“Shh, (Name), there is nothing to be afraid of,” she cut you off with a reassuring voice. “You’re in good hands.”
You could feel her smirk against your skin, her warm breaths, full of anticipation, fanned your trembling body. Even with your struggle, in hopes to at least have your captor in your field of vision, yet the iron grip of the pale arm circling your wrist remained. Your scream died into a soundless gasp as she sank her fangs onto the tender spot on your collarbone, followed by throbbing pain in tune with your panicked heartbeat. Though adrenaline flowed throughout your body, your limbs felt leaden, frozen in place, locking your attention towards the spot where your captor’s lips connected with your shoulders.
“Does it hurt?” She whispered as she retracted her fangs, her tongue swirling a loving pattern on the puncture wounds. “It’ll be all better soon.”
At first, there was only pain, soothed partway by the way she blew cold air over the throbbing wound. Yet, with each passing second, the pain faded, changing in tune with your panicked heartbeat into a pit of yearning. Your legs felt wobbly, supported only by her body pressed flush against yours, and you were unable to muster any form of protest as she directed you towards the bed. Now, with her on top of you, even the darkness was not enough to conceal the unbidden desire swirling in her soul, shining through mismatched eyes with intensity enough to devour everything alive.
“I’ve been waiting for this chance. You were always so cautious, so afraid of me and most of the other Sinners,” she breathed out, one hand grasping your face, her thumb stroking your cheek, “and now, you truly are mine.”
You bit your lip down as another jolt of desire racked your body, a shudder running down your spine and gathering straight at your sensitive bud. You felt as if your body were set aflame from the inside, venom melting you from within and preparing you for your predator’s feast. Oak only smiled at your state, pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, cleaning traces of your blood.
“Let me help you, then. Consider this as a thank you.”
One hand held your wrists above your head, and the other reached down to your pants, pulling the fabric down to expose your drenched panties. One touch of her fingertip, even through the ruined fabric, was enough to send your mind into overdrive, desperation ridding your addled thoughts from all thoughts of survival. With just a twitch, you felt the edges of your vision turning white.
“Do you feel it? The desire pierced into your soul, now spilling out from here?” She asked, giving the bite wound another lick, fangs grazing upon the spot again. “Should you desire relief, you need only ask~“
“Ask? How dare—“
Again, she did not let you finish as her fingers explored deeper, pushing the soaked panties aside and exposing your bare sex to the cold air. Her movements were restrained, though her twitching fingers all but signaled that it took all her willpower to even prepare you for her. She added in another finger soon after, scissoring motions pressing on your walls without a rhythm.
From her quick movements, it was clear that it took everything in her to restrain her own lust, let alone give you consideration in this twisted act of passion. The worst part was that despite how wild and selfish this mockery of love was, her attempt to fan the flames burning on your stomach was working, your desire climbing higher as pleased noises began to spill out from your lips, your voice calling for Oak’s name in half-formed syllables. One spot made your toes curl, your high pitched voice bitten down in a half-hearted attempt to not allow her the satisfaction, yet you could tell your attempt have all but failed, and every so often, she made it a point to brush the sensitive spot with a teasing smile that reminded you of a cat batting its dying prey.
Kisses were trailed down all over your body, the hand holding your wrists now gliding down towards your torso. You thought it was a chance to fight back, yet, a slow, agonizing, pleasurable lick at the bite wound and a simple command to stop was enough to statue your body into perfect obedience. The black nail on her index finger sharpened into a claw for just a moment, enough to split your clothing, allowing her access to mark your neck, down to your shoulders and the valley of your breasts.
She swirled her tongue on a nipple, and the nub hardened as if on command, the cold making it even more sensitive. Her fangs stopped at your chest, right where your beating heart is, then she bit down, licking the wound just as you started to get lightheaded. At the same time, you finally tipped over the edge, and your vision whited out as you came all over her fingers.
With an embarassing squelch, she pulled out both of her fingers, and she stared at you in the eyes as her tongue cleaned your slick.
The flames in your belly have started to settle a bit, but saying this would be enough is nothing short of a blatant lie.
Oak gave you a knowing smile and got off you. However, as you were about to sigh in relief, you saw her take off her panties, letting the fabric fall on the floor. Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw the fabric was soaked, as well, juices glistening under the dim light of the room.
“What an insatiable thrall,” she said in a chastising tone, a contrast to her mischievous smile, “then, you wouldn’t mind helping me out as well, hm?”
She stopped your protest once again - her cunt resting so close to your face. Then, there was a nip in your inner thigh, the familiar piercing sensation from her fangs, then the pain fading into a mounting pleasure that all but erased your previous fatigue. Loathe as you are to admit it, you were once again forced to feel pleasure, her tongue licking your puncture wounds to soothe it before resting flat on your folds.
“What do they usually say… Ah, right, a favor for a favor.”
To emphasize her words, she grinded her cunt on your face, enveloping you in her scent. A wordless suck on your aching bud became your cue to start, your tongue tracing sloppy patterns on her folds. Your efforts did not go unrewarded, as she matched your speed, and even her breaths on your wet heat was a strong enough stimulation to make your hips buck towards her, your thighs enveloping her head to draw more friction, give more fuel to the creeping sensitivity that had enveloped your entire body once again.
As you sped up, calling her name in between breathes that smelled like her, you finally tip over the edge. Though your climax did not hit you with the same sheer force as the first one, you were forced to feel every moment of it, and the clear liquid gushing forth from your twisted lover’s climax soon after became a reminder of your current state. Your face was practically drenched, and you were frozen, perhaps both from exhaustion and mortification, as she licked your juices clean from between your thighs.
She finally shifted off you, swiping her own slick from your face with her thumb with the care of a loving partner. She licked her own thumb soon after, and the last thing you hear, just before your vision went dark, was her promise.
“I will see you again soon, (Name).”
—
The third time you met her, you were sleep-deprived, nightmares filling the dark every time you closed your eyes.
Ever since that encounter, you had begged at your superior to allow you a transfer, preferably somewhere you wouldn’t have to deal with Sinners aside from a need-to-know basis. Though your request was granted, you quickly discover that your mind has betrayed you, images of that encounter replaying in a loop, giving you a restless sleep that left you wanting the next day. Your body and mind seem to have all but betrayed you, conjuring a burning need for someone that was more than content to keep you, if not as a lover, as a thing to satisfy her own twisted desires.
You had fallen asleep, once again, though at least your luck allowed you to keep your wits until the last few minutes of your work.
As your eyes fluttered open, your gaze met Oak’s mismatched eyes, and it took everything you have to not kick and shout like a wild animal. You two were in a dark, narrow place, and your arms brushed wooden walls as you try to move.
She was pinning you down with an almost embarassing ease.
“Are you avoiding me?”
The question was asked with a relaxed lilt and a smile, not much different from a dear friend asking about the weather.
“What did you do to me?” The question slipped out from your lips before you could stop yourself, venom all but spilling from your tone.
“It was a simple thing, really. Have you never heard of the undead being capable of creating thralls?” She smiled, full of victory as she pressed the spot where her fangs sunk into you for the very first time. “I told you, you were mine now, yet you still refuse me.”
She stroked your hair in what was, perhaps, meant to be a comforting gesture, and to your horror, it all but worked, as you closed your eyes from the comfort.
“But now, there is no need to worry. We will have plenty of time to get to know each other, after all~“
A/N: for @lirational apologies for any oddities in the work. This draft has been sitting for too long and I'm kind of rushing to get it done. Let me know if any warnings are missing.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Her expertly manicured fingernail came down on the mahogany table as continuously and expected as the ticks of a clock. A cup of tea was set in front of each of you, its color seeming unnatural yet enticing, the fragrance alluring, but the stillness of the place kept you from moving.
Aside from Lady Fisalia, there was not a single sound, as if the entirety of the castle was frightened into silence. It didn't help that her realm resided in planes of purple grass, framed by a blood red sky and tacet discords raging not far from her home, though when you asked about them, she only said:
"Worry not, my guest, they never dare come near."
Somehow, that frightened you more. Despite the seemingly unwelcome environment, her abode was truly something to behold. The sentinel proudly residing over the entryway, the relics displayed in little cases, and the polished floors and plush carpets. Although if you had to pick the most beautiful scene you'd seen in this mansion, it would be the one in front of you right now.
The purple-stained glass window shone like a haunting light; her frame was shadowed, but her headpiece glowed like a halo. Her hair delicately rested on her shoulders, and her eyes never left you even once, since you came here.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
She shifts, a gentle rustle of her clothing as her elbows rest on the table and her fingers interlock with each other. She rests her chin on them, watching, and then she tilts her head.
"You've been sitting there for quite a while. Is my tea not to your liking?"
"No!" Your hands clamp over your mouth, panic building like a tidal wave. What have you done? What have you done? What have you done? "I'm so, so sorry I didn't mean to—"
A gentle raise of her hand is all it takes for you to wilt back in silence. "There's no need to be nervous, my dear, it's just a business meeting, isn't it?" Her fingers gracefully curl around the cup's handle, and she deftly raises it to her lips. "I take it this is your first meeting of this caliber?"
You feel heat rise to your cheeks, and you shift in your seat. You can't mess this up. "Yes," you say in the steadiest voice you can muster. "We've never had any high-profile clients before. I suppose I'm just overwhelmed." Your fingers wrap around the cup, the warmth soothing your nerves.
"Of course." There's a gentle clink of her cup being set down on the plate. "Many will ignore the value of something handmade for the sake of something easy to obtain."
"Truly." You laugh nervously, shrinking into yourself ever so slightly. "Uh…Shall we get to business?"
She leans back in her seat."I'm intrigued by your Corpse Flowers, there's nothing like it that exists in Ragunna, both in name and its appearance."
"Well, they're certainly an interesting attraction, but," you gesture at where you believe her garden is. "I'm afraid they won't fit well with your other plants. "
She cocks her head ever so slightly to the side. "Oh?"
"Well, Corpse Lilies are native to humid environments and are quite large, standing taller than most people, so I'm afraid you'd need to build a greenhouse for them."
She waves her hand, her painted nails catching the light; a light purple that turns to a more deadly shade of violet at its pointed edges. "Oh, that won't be an issue."
"Well, there's also the issue of the smell." Your fingertip rubs against the porcelain, your eyes finding refuge in the brightly colored tea. "It smells like a rotting corpse."
There's another stretch of silence, and you prepare yourself. This is it. No one, especially not a high-ranking aristocrat, would want a flower that blossoms so rarely and emits such a retched smell that no one wants to be anywhere near it.
"Don't worry, the Porto-Veno Castle sees few visitors. I'm sure you'll provide us with notes on how to care for it?"
"Right…of course. However, the entire plant is poisonous. If one of your servants happened to touch it without proper gear…"
"Do you happen to have any documentation of it?"
You blink. It's not an unreasonable request; it's good to know the effects of the highly poisonous plant you're purchasing, but something hidden between her words seemed to hint at excitement. A glimmer in the depths of the ocean.
Nonetheless, you reach for your bag and pull out the familiar, heavy tome of every plant you've come to meet. "Yes. The whole plant is covered in small crystals that will cause skin irritation if touched." You flip through the pages full of your notes, pictures, and drawings, finding the page you're looking for with ease and sliding it over the table. "Besides the crystals, it also has its own poison that will cause irritation, swelling, and pain on the tongue and throughout the digestive tract, as well as causing vomiting, but this should be avoided if possible since it will cause the symptoms to worsen." Your gaze shifts from the pages of your book to Cantarella's face. "If enough of it has been consumed, it may cause death."
She chuckles, reaching for the book, a smile contorting her delicate features. "I see, that's quite enlightening."
She lets the room fall into silence, and you can hear the faint sound of her fingertips brushing over the thick paper, and your soft breath fills the room. Every sound is subdued by the carpet beneath your feet, yet amplified in the stillness of everything, as if the very walls of the castle hold its breath for its master.
It reminds you of sitting across from your tutor, hands wrapped into each other as his brows grew tighter and tighter together. That same fear that you've once again made a mistake and you'll be gifted with that sharp stare and the crack of a whip on your skin.
You find yourself drawn to the tea again, its surface glitters like stars in a violet sky. Could something so vibrant really be made from the leaves in her garden? It reminds you of the most common rule in nature, that poisonous things mark themselves with bright colors.
"If my tea isn't to your liking, you could've said so, and I would've gotten you something else."
You jolt, and you find yourself at the center of her attention once again, your book untouched, resting on the table. You had hoped that the Corpse Lily would've taken all the spotlight, allowing you to walk away without having any food or drink from the Fisalia house, but now it's starting to seem impossible. You guess the store owner was right, and the upper crust do mind their table manners more than most.
Lady Fisalia clicks her tongue, something that brushes against a sneer hiding in it. "Ah, I see now. You're afraid of it being poisoned."
Something in the air shatters, heavy, sharp shards falling and clogging your throat. As much as you'd like to believe that the little flower shop you've grown so fond of would be fine without the Fisalia's, you know how everyone would feel if you came back empty-handed, all because you couldn't humble yourself enough to put on an act. To drink the tea, make the pointless small talk, and put on your best smile through every snide remark and wayward glance. You'd be fired on the spot.
You grin, plastic in the folds of your cheeks. "Oh no, no, no! I was just so focused on the Corpse Lily that I had forgotten!"
There's a tilt of her brow, so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it. "Is that so?"
Her oceanic eyes linger on your hands, wrapped around the cup. Your grip tightens, and you raise it to your lips. The porcelain presses against your lower lip, and a warm liquid coats your tongue. Her eyes meet yours, purple tendrils swirling in their depths as the saccharine flavor seeps into your tongue and coats your throat, parching something you didn't realize was there.
Lady Fisalia leans forward in her seat, her plush pink lips parting as the tip of her tongue drags over her bottom lip. Only then do you realize the drop of tea that's escaped your lips and is crawling towards your chin.
You clumsily drop the cup back onto the table, hastily wiping your mouth. "I'm so sorry, I—"
"Now, now," She rises from her seat, her shadow engulfing yours, an uncanny glow to her eyes, "don't panic."
She moves, graceful and smooth like a phantom. Drifting closer and closer to you until she's right next to you. Every inch of skin tingles like it's coming alive and coming apart at the same time, the edges of your vision blur, and you feel your heart hammering against your chest. There's a call in your mind, a whalesong beckoning you to the depths.
You stand, maybe you can make it out to the door, maybe you can call for help from the staff, maybe you can—
Tap, tap, tap.
Your mind ripples, and you crash to the floor. You hear the thud, but it sounds distant, as if it were happening to someone else.
"That took quite a while." Lady Fisalia chuckles as she stands over you, her pristine heels inches from your face. "I almost thought I'd have to resort to other measures. No matter," she crouches down and cups your face, a fond smile on her lips, "you're home now, get some rest."
Your head is ringing, and each limb burns with an aching fire. It's like your muscles are being turned to mush, the bones dissolving and rearranging into something else. You twist, only to find yourself strapped down. There's a light shining down on you in the darkness, a circle of white that only lets you catch a glimpse of the white floors beneath. There are glints of things in the distance, the light reflecting off something you can't make out.
The coldness of the metal beneath you makes the boiling heat beneath your skin more apparent. Your fingers itch to peel at your skin, but your wrists are tied down just far enough that you can't reach your own body. Your nerves buzz, and your heart pounds against its cage; each breath is heavy and painful, a tearing pain that threatens to break open your chest.
You hear a weak, muffled crack from somewhere in your body, and your eyes pop wide. Body contorting as you feel the scream rip open your throat instead of hearing it. Your nails dig deep into the skin of your palms because it's the only thing you can claw that will yield.
You're vaguely aware of your skin stretching down and out, a process usually so slow you barely notice, now making you itch. There are miniscule needles poking at your skin from the hips down, and with each passing second, you begin to fear that those little invisible needles will break the skin and you'll be left to bleed.
You have to leave. Maybe there's something here that you missed, too deep in the throes of pain to notice. You look to your side, and two ocean-blue eyes are glowing in the darkness, watching you.
Pain erupts like a volcano, a string of cracks and snaps following as the eyes watch. Warmth pools under you, and whether it's piss or blood, you don't care because— "It hurts! It hurts! It fucking hurts! Make it fucking stop! Please!"
"I know and I'm sorry, but once it's all over, you'll live a life full of love and comfort, free from pain." A cool stream of her voice reaches you, offering a fleeting reprieve from the breaking of your own soul into something new.
You'd give anything to get out of your skin, to crawl out of your body and be free from this. Why is this happening? What did you do? Maybe you're just in a nightmare. All the anxiety and mutterings from that old gardener coalesced into a wild dream where Madam Fisalia is torturing you in some hidden room. That's it. All the pain is just imaginary, none of this is really happening, right? I mean, does stuff like this even happen in the real world? Yeah, you can be broken down and remolded into a Tacet Discord, but that's something different entirely!
There's a crisp click, then another. "You will be beautiful." Jellyfish float up from below the table, swirling around you as blue light crept towards you before reaching into you. "You will be cherished and loved as you've always deserved." The binds come undone as you're lifted above the table, the blue light mixing with the crimson of your flesh.
"You shall be as resilient as dragon scale, and as brilliant as Abyss Luminary, and you shall always obey me."
For a moment, you hear nothing, nothing but the tension in your body before a SNAP!
Your legs are gone, and everything falls into darkness.
I adjust my uniform one last time, checking for any unsightly dirt stains. Cleanliness is a virtue, and it must be upheld no matter what lies ahead.
Satisfied, I clear my throat before briskly knocking on the great doors of the Fisalia Estate. "Greetings, I am Matteo on behalf of The Order. We have some inquiries to discuss with Madame Canterella Fisilia."
I wait, my hands folded neatly into themselves as I stare into the wooden door. I hold back a sigh as one minute turns into two, then three, and four. I dread to think of the possibility of using force, so I raise my hand once again and— click.
"Apologies for the wait, sir. Please come inside." A maid smiles reservedly behind the partially open door, fear hidden in the lines of her lips. She steps aside, allowing just enough room for me to come in.
I nod and take my first step into the threshold. My eyes are instantly drawn to the statue of our Sentinel, though my heart sinks at the layers of dust upon Their head. I turn to the maid, about to chastise her for the lack of care and respect to our Sentinel, but she speaks first.
"Madam Fisalia is waiting for you in the garden. Please follow me." She begins walking to the hall, and I am left with no choice but to follow. Perhaps my complaint would be best saved for The Lady of the house instead. The overall lighting of the mansion is rather dim for my liking, but nevertheless I dutifully follow the maid past artifacts and paintings, winding through the corridor until we reach another door.
The maid opens it wordlessly. offering me a curt smile and a slight bow as I pass. The garden is plunged in midnight, the sky of Porto-Veno always maintaining its ominous glow. In turn, the plants of the garden seem to reflect that, appearing strange and alien. Beyond the cliff, jellyfish float up from the depths in languid patterns. I can't help but feel a chill cling to my spine as I approach the infamous Fisalia herself.
She's posed against a chair, drinking tea with a decoration of sweets on the table in front of her as if she is unaware of the gravity of my visit.
"Greetings, Madame. I am Matteo from The Order here to inquire about a missing person." I nod in greeting.
She seems slow to respond, lingering with her tea and taking a deep breath before her gaze meets mine, and oh, how I wish it hadn't.
"Welcome, Matteo, please, take a seat." Under the Witch's watchful gaze, I carefully take my seat across from her.
"I pray The Order hasn't fallen for some rumor to send you here." She takes an empty tea cup and reaches for the teapot.
"Ah, thank you for your generosity, but I'm not in need of refreshments." I take a small breath, watching as she slows and withdraws her hands into her lap. "As for rumors, I'm afraid not. We received notice of a gardener having not returned home after visiting you."
"That is strange, but I'm sure you're aware that my castle isn't always kind to its visitors."
My hands tighten into themselves. "I am indeed aware, but surely you must have noticed something amiss."
Her gaze is measured and unreadable, a bottomless pit in which many secrets lie, but none come up to the surface. "They seemed a little nervous, but that's to be expected of someone unfamiliar with me."
"We have reason to believe that you may have known them before their visit."
Something flickers, like a dagger in moonlight, but just as quickly as it came, it vanishes. "I'm not sure I understand. Their visit two weeks ago was the first time we'd met."
"The past relatives of the owner were found to have dealings with the Fisalia family in the past, supplying some rare herbs to the estate."
"Yes, but that's past tidings. We have no communication with the present descendant." Madame sighs, brushing her slender fingers through her hair. "To be honest, I was rather disappointed he sent an employee on his behalf instead of coming to meet me himself."
I can't help the aggravated sigh that leaves my lips. "It still stands that you were the last person to see them, and Porto-Veno Castle is the last place they were known to be."
"I'm afraid I have nothing more insightful to give—" Suddenly, she perks up. It's as if she's seen the sun after a long time wandering in darkness. A joy that weaves into her silhouette as she looks at something behind me.
A flourish of bright blue and capri appears in the corners of my vision, and what I behold is unlike anything I've ever seen before.
A naked, human-like torso sits upon a jellyfish plume. The flesh of its arms turns to scales towards its fingertips. Each one pointed with a claw. Its eyes are a bright cyan that glows against the darkness surrounding us. Long tentacles flow behind it, and I have to dodge one that narrowly misses my head as the creature bounds towards Cantarella.
"There you are, my dear." It nuzzles against her happily, as a dog would greet its master, and all at once, a feeling of wrongness settles deep in my gut. The creature seems oddly familiar, like I'd seen its face somewhere before, but I know that's impossible.
It chirps before it raises a clawed hand and spits something out, and hands it to Cantarella. She takes it between to fingers and—
It's a tooth, a bloody, human tooth.
"Another one fell out? Let me see." She holds the creature's chin and it opens it's mouth, rows of sharp teeth glinting in the red light, and then, as if it wasn't any concern to that Witch at all, she fished her fingers around inside it's mouth before humming. "Your new teeth are coming in well. Soon you'll be able to tear through almost anything."
The creature glows with excitement, those horrid teeth shaping into a large grin. Unable to stand this a moment longer, I stand, and instantly their eyes are on me. Both are glowing like monsters that lurk in the darkness.
"Leaving already? I thought you were going to grill me about that case of yours." Her head tilts, tooth in her hand as she stares, her creature lurking behind her.
"Ah— that will be all for today." I hastily bow and turn to leave, eager to escape this place and return to The Order.
"Well, thank you for visiting. If you have any more inquiries, we're always here to answer your questions."
PL⛧NET HER: WHEN SIN ORBITS YOUR PU$$Y.ᐟ
𝐒𝐈𝐍#𝟑 𝐆⛧𝐄𝐄𝐃 — 𝐀𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞
𐕣 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐧: what I claim, I keep. even if it breaks in my hands, it will never belong to anyone else.
𐕣 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: corruption kink + car sex + sugar daddy dynamics + orgasm denial + riding + edging + coercion + sassy!reader
𐕣 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4824
tw: very dark yandere themes & heavy monopolizing
𝐬𝐬 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Have you ever met someone who clutches too tightly? Not just to money, but to love, attention, even air itself?
That’s Aventurine, a man who can’t tell the difference between having something and owning it.
You don’t have a life anymore.
He made sure of that. Every breath you take is financed by him—every bill, every beauty appointment, every heartbeat under his name.
You can’t even buy coffee without his fingerprint already authorized on the register. Once, you tried to pay first, just to feel normal. He didn’t yell, didn’t curse.
He only looked at you—smiling that banker’s smile that never reaches his eyes—and said, “Don’t do that again.”
Your phone plan? His name.
Your apartment lease? His signature.
Your mornings? Bought and scheduled like stocks in his portfolio.
He plans your life with the precision of a man balancing ledgers. Hair, nails, doctor, gym—all prepaid. When you open your closet, it gleams with designer silks and lingerie he chose himself, tags still attached, receipts filed neatly in his office like proof of ownership.
You weren’t always like this.
Before Aventurine, there was the stage.
Penacony’s top-floor clubs glowed like open jewelry boxes, and you were the diamond everyone came to see. The floor below the poles was always crowded—suits and heiresses pressed shoulder to shoulder, throwing chips and cash until the air itself smelled like perfume and money.
You didn’t just dance.
You conducted the room.
Lights bent to your rhythm; spotlights skimmed over oiled skin, glittering bracelets, and the heavy gold chains draped across your hips.
Every twist of your body sent bills fluttering down like holy confetti. The DJ shouted your name between sets, and a line curled around the block just to get a glimpse.
When you spun upside down and the jewels on your ankles caught the light, the crowd howled.
Someone once called you “the Saint of Lust and Luxury.” You liked that. Earning you your stage name: Deluxe
You built yourself from shimmer and smoke, made men beg just for the privilege of tipping you.
Here, you weren’t a worker—you were a brand.
And that’s where he found you.
Aventurine sat high in the VIP private balcony, the one reserved for gamblers with more credits than conscience.
He didn’t whistle or throw money; he just watched, eyes half-lidded, calculating.
You thought he was another investor, bored and looking for something shiny.
But he wasn’t watching your body—he was watching how the crowd reacted to you, the way they spent for you.
To him, you weren’t just beautiful; you were profitable.
He found you again a few nights later, when the crowd had thinned and the lights were fading into that soft champagne haze that meant closing time.
Moving like he already owned the place, “I’ll give you everything you want,” he said.
“All I ask for in return… is you.” He spoke with the ease of a man who had never heard the word no.
He didn’t try to charm you; he simply offered numbers.
Rent. Debts. A car. The total of your freedom written on a napkin.
You really laughed — thought he meant attention, a few dates, maybe a picture to show off.
You needing a man? Please. You are the man, the woman, and the legend.
You weren’t looking for love; you were looking for security. And who better than a man who could buy the sky if he wanted to?
So you said yes because it sounded easy.
Well at first, it was.
He lavished you with gifts, paid off every lingering bill, and stacked your vanity with perfumes that cost more than your old rent. He spoiled you until you gleamed—until even the mirrors seemed to blush at the reflection.
You weren’t in love; you were practical. You reminded yourself of that every time you caught his eyes lingering a second too long.
“You used to dance for scraps,” he teased, running a thumb over your jaw. “Now you dance for me. Isn’t that better, princess?”
“Boy, please,” you shot back. “I was fine without you. You just wanted to play Captain Save-a-hoe.”
He laughed—low, indulgent—then slid a diamond bracelet onto your wrist, cool against your skin.
“You don’t have to love me,” he said. “Just wear what I give you. That’s all I ask.”
But the gifts grew heavier.
He stopped asking—started deciding.
Payments became permissions.
The car he bought you came with a tracker “for safety.”
The new phone logged your location “so he could send drivers faster.”
Every piece of generosity hid a leash.
When he handed you a new set of lingerie—black silk trimmed in gold thread—he called it curation.
“I like seeing what’s mine look perfect.”
You laughed it off at first. It was better than shaking ass to pay rent, right?
But the pattern crept in.
He began timing your replies, demanding photos of where you were, of what you were wearing.
Miss a text, and the accounts froze.
The cards declined.
The silence from him was louder than a shout.
When you confronted him, he only smiled that casino-bright smile, lying flat on the bed, blonde hair falling back, and said, “Hmm?~ Actions have costs, sweetheart.”
And that’s when you realized: every coin he’d ever given you was already spent—on you.
Kakavasha tells you pieces of his past the way he tells every lie—like a secret he’s selling. He doesn’t even flinch when he says his real name, the one nobody uses anymore.
The syllables roll off his tongue soft and low, rehearsed and dangerous, like he’s testing how it sounds in your mouth.
“They took everything from me once,” he says. “So now I take everything back.”
You don’t know whether he wants sympathy or worship.
Maybe both.
He keeps trophies—little shrines to you, to his victories. Panties, hair, your lipstick smudged on glass. All labeled, dated, locked away. You’d think he was curating an exhibit called Proof I Was Loved.
And in a way, he is.
Lately, he’s been keeping records. A sleek, black ledger that used to hold business deals is now filled with you.
Moment of Midnight: — breath on my neck, 23:52.
Moment of Dusk— moans, 3:04, priceless.
Golden Hour — perfume on pillowcase, lingering, $0 but irreplaceable.
He writes like a man praying—numbers traded for sensations, currency replaced by obsession.
And when he looks up from that book, there’s no trace of remorse—“Funny,” he murmurs, flipping another page. “Even your sins look beautiful on paper.”
Then come the “accidents”.
Your ex-boyfriend, gone.
The client who flirted too boldly vanished.
He sighs like it’s tedious work, wiping the blood from his cheek, another balance sheet to settle.
When he’s done cutting off your friends, your family, your options, he kisses your forehead like it’s affection.
“You don’t need them,” he says. “You have me. You have everything.”
And he means it—because in Aventurine's world, love and possession mean the same thing.
Currently, you sit on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand, acrylics tapping against the glass screen like nervous clock-ticks. The penthouse sprawls around you in gold and stars, the city glittering below like a pile of loose diamonds.
Everything smells expensive—amber cologne, crisp linen, the faint bite of champagne gone flat.
And still, you can’t breathe.
You rehearse the words again: I’m done.
Simple. Firm. Final.
He’s crossed a line this time—sold your likeness for a fake brand deal, “an investment,” he called it, that quietly moved every cent of your money into his accounts. He even changed the password to your own phone plan.
You’re the accessory now. The doll that matches the décor.
As much as you adore the taste of money—Aeons, the Orison, the Feldspar, the Reverie—it’s starting to feel like a cage.
The flatscreen murmurs in the background, volume low. Some late-night news anchor drones:
“—authorities continue to search for a missing college student believed to be connected to Professor R—”
You glance up, pulse quickening for no reason you can name. The words fade under a luxury-car commercial.
You change the channel. You’ve got your own problems.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself, legs crossed, voice wobbling. “Just say it and walk away.”
The elevator dings.
Your stomach drops.
Aventurine’s footsteps are soft, measured, and deliberate. That same rhythm that makes your pulse sync whether you want it to or not.
When he appears in the doorway, he looks as immaculate as always: dark shirt open at the chest, rings glittering, smile smooth enough to sell mercy itself.
He leans against the frame, eyes catching the city lights. “You look tense, sweetheart. Did one of your cards decline again?”
You inhale through your nose, trying not to crack. “You know exactly what happened.”
“Oh?” He feigns innocence, adjusting his collar as he steps closer. “You mean the account adjustments? I told you—it’s easier if everything’s under one name. Ours.”
“There is no ours,” you snap, voice sharp.
“You—” your words tremble, “—you’re controlling everything. My rent, my car, my phone. Even the fucking keycards have your name on them.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just smiles, patient, patronizing.
“Control? No, no, darling. It’s called protection. I’m taking care of you.”
You stand, fists balled at your sides. “I want out, Aventurine. I’m serious this time.”
A pause. Too long. The city hums behind the tinted glass.
Then—soft laughter, quiet enough to make your skin crawl.
“Out?” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “And go where, exactly?”
You fold your arms. “Anywhere that’s mine.”
He hums, like he’s considering it.
“Alright,” he says finally, smiling wider. “If you want to leave, you can. But you’ll need to pay me back first.”
You blink. “What?”
He gestures toward the tablet on the nightstand. The screen lights up—rows of transactions, gifts, transfers. The total at the bottom looks fake, obscene.
“Everything I’ve ever given you. Rent, clothes, jewelry, tuition… it adds up.”
You laugh, disbelieving. “You’re fucking joking.”
He doesn’t laugh back.
The silence is heavy—thick with perfume and danger. His smile doesn’t falter, but it sharpens around the edges.
“Freedom has a price, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping close enough that his breath brushes your cheek. “And you, of all people, should know I don’t make bad investments.”
You stare at the glowing tablet. The number at the bottom looks more like a joke than a bill—eight digits, followed by two decimals and a signature line.
“...You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious,” he jokes softly, setting down his coat. “You like to spend, bunny. Don’t look so shocked when the bill arrives.”
You shoved the tablet back toward him. “I never asked you to—”
“To what?” He cuts you off with a smooth grin. “Buy you things? Feed you? Keep you safe?”
“You don’t keep people safe by owning them.”
That earns a quiet laugh. The kind that doesn’t sound amused at all.
“You think freedom is free? You’d starve without me. The moment you leave this place, your cards decline, your accounts freeze, and your name vanishes from every lease and record I ever signed you onto. You want out?”
He tilts his head, magenta and cyan eyes gleaming gold under the low light. “Then pay me back.”
You cross your arms. “I don’t have that kind of money, and you damn well know it.”
Aventurine exhales through his nose, the faintest sigh—patient, indulgent, like he’s explaining arithmetic to a stubborn child. “I didn’t expect you to. Not in cash, anyway.”
He walks closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing right in front of you. You can smell his cologne, the faint mineral warmth that always reminds you of new coins.
His gloved hand lifts, the soft leather tracing your chin. “There are other currencies, you know.”
You freeze. “Don’t.”
He hums, ignoring the warning. “Time. Devotion. Flesh.” His thumb presses against your lower lip until it parts. “I could take payment in kind. Think of it as… a physical arrangement.”
You laugh bitterly. “So what? You want me to fuck you until I’m debt-free?”
“Until I feel compensated,” he corrects smoothly. “A fair exchange.”
“You’re fucking insane.”
He snickered again, low and velvety. “No, I’m realistic. You think men like me waste money on something they don’t plan to keep? You were an investment from the start. I gave you a life most people can’t even dream of—and now you’re having buyer’s remorse?”
You step back, but he follows, predator-close. “I’m done with this.”
He smiles wider, teeth catching the light. “You’re not.”
“Bet.”
Aventurine's gaze flickers downward—slow, heavy, proprietary. When he looks back up, that easy charm of his cracks at the edges, revealing something colder. “Don’t mistake generosity for weakness, baby. You can’t walk away from what you owe.”
You flinch as his hand comes up to your face again—gentle this time, tracing your cheek with the back of his knuckles.
“I’d hate to see you out there,” he murmurs, almost tender. “Alone. Hungry. Dressed in last season’s clothes.”
The soft mockery in his tone makes your stomach twist.
“Don’t worry,” he adds, “I’m not unreasonable. I’ll let you work off your debt. Little by little. We can start tonight.”
⭐︎
The ride down the elevator is silent, velvet-lined, and suffocating. The city shines beneath you, a thousand lights flickering like chips on a casino table. Aventurine's hand never leaves the small of your back.
He’s still smiling, but his mind is unraveling behind it. You won’t look at him—won’t even breathe in sync—and that shouldn’t sting the way it does.
He's Aventurine: everything the world wants. Money, charm, questionable reputation polished to gold. Desire wrapped in designer.
So why does he feel like a beggar every time you pull away?
He tells himself you should want him. You do want him. Just not the way he needs you to. It isn’t him you crave; it’s the glitter, the safety, the expensive distraction he keeps buying you.
And that realization bruises deeper than he’ll ever admit.
Hasn’t he given enough? Bled enough to be worshiped?
The elevator hums, a heartbeat too slow. He watches the floor numbers fall, wonders how affection can slip through fingers lined with diamonds.
By the time the doors part, the decision’s already made—he’ll drive you home himself. Keep you close. Convince you he’s worth loving, even if it kills both of you.
He leads you into the waiting limo—doors closing with a soft, hydraulic hiss. Gold trim, crystal flutes, low jazz humming through hidden speakers. The sort of car meant for power deals and confessions.
You cross your legs, refusing to look at him. “I’m not doing this,”
“Oh, you are,” he says easily, pouring champagne into two glasses. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”
The car slides onto the strip, glass buildings flashing by. He lounges beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, diamond cufflinks catching every passing light.
“Let’s play a game,” he suggested.
“Hell no.”
His smile deepens. “If you can hold off—don’t cum before I do—I’ll clear your debt. Wipe it clean. You’ll be free.”
You scoff, but your pulse jumps.
He shrugs, sipping his drink. “Call it gambling. You used to like watching me win.”
He presses a button on the console. The partition slides up, sealing you both off from the driver. The soundproof glass clicks into place.
Your throat tightens. “Unlock the door.”
Aventurine leans close enough for his breath to ghost your ear.
“Freedom’s right there,” he whispers, “all you have to do is earn it.”
When you twist away, his gloved hand catches your wrist, firm but not rough—yet. “Stop fighting me, darling. You’ll wrinkle the dress.”
“I don’t care about the damn—”
The fabric tears. Silk rips like paper, slipping off your shoulders in a shimmer of gold. You gasp, half-rage, half-shock. He tuts softly, eyes glinting.
“A shame. It was custom.”
His hand traces up your thigh, catching the thin strap of your g-string. One tug, and it snaps. The sound is obscene in the quiet cabin.
“Look at you,” he says, voice low, reverent. “Even when you’re furious, you’re beautiful. You really were made to be spoiled.”
Electricity courses through your veins as his fingers slide between your legs, slow circles on your clit that make you shiver despite yourself. “Stop it—”
He hums, pretending to consider. “Stop? But you’re trembling, love. Is that fear… or excitement?”
Your retort dies in your throat as he presses his thumb harder, rhythm precise, merciless. “There,” he whispers. “That’s honesty. That little gasp—worth a thousand dollars.”
You try to escape, but his other hand catches your chin, forcing your eyes to his. “Don’t look away when I’m collecting.”
The limo sways gently with the turns; every movement rolls you closer into him until you’re half-straddling his lap.
His slacks are already open, revealing a leaking cock, standing proud and achingly hard, the tip flushed a shade of pretty pink.
With prominent veins glistening with precum that dribbles down his balls, glinting faintly in the passing light.
He bites his lips, lounges back in the cushy limo seat leisurely, hand picking up champagne, relishing the way you watch, annoyed, while his hand begins moving in small, unhurried motions up and down his rock-hard length.
“Bunny,” he breathes, dragging the word out, “if you want to pay me back, this is where you start.”
You shake your head, but he’s already guiding you down, the tip pressing against your slick entrance.
“This is the game, sweetheart.” His mouth brushes your jaw, his grin audible in the dark. “You want to be free? Then don’t lose control.”
And before you even had a second thought, not bothering to ease you into it, before he’s thrusting into you, stealing the air from your lungs.
Shittt. The feeling is almost painful.
Your face screws up, discomfort and pleasure tangled together as your head drops onto his shoulder.
His hands grip your ass, pulling you closer with every brutal snap of his hips. Each breath leaves you ragged; every movement drags another noise from him, low and hungry in your ear.
You try to pull away, but he only follows—relentless, needy. “I need this,” he breathes, the words breaking apart on a moan. “Need to feel you, to mark you, to make you mine.” Every phrase lands like a shackle.
Despite his constant objectification, there's a twisted sincerity in his words. He loves every inch of you, a twisted worship that’s almost tender.
He imagines you as his trophy wife — a prize to be displayed and cherished.
“Your pussy belongs on a pedestal,” he murmurs, sucking your neck reverently, deranged.
Wet sounds fill the cabin; hips piston even faster now, your ass jiggles with each thrust. The limo rocks with the rhythm. You choke on a gasp, shame curling tight as your body betrays you.
The partition rattles, glass trembling with each thrust.
Tears blur your mascara. Your gummy walls clench around him, desperate for release—and then he stops.
The abrupt cessation leaves you on edge, the withdrawal a painful numbness that’s almost worse than the pleasure itself.
He chuckles, “Ah, ah, ah. Remember the deal, sweetheart,” Aventurine says, low and cruel.
You glare, humiliated, but he only strokes you again, slow and taunting. “Let’s see how long you last,” voice velvet over iron.
He began to move again, thrusting slowly, balls tightening, each one deliberate and punishing. “Brats don't get paid in pleasure,” he taunts, his words a reminder of the twisted rules of this game.
You're trapped, caught between your disgust and your body's undeniable response to him.
"Come on," he whispers, his voice a tempting devil in your ear. "You don't want to cum, do you? You don't want to lose." His words drip with mockery, each syllable twisting the knife of your desire.
“Asshole.”
The word cuts through the heat like glass, but it only makes him laugh. The limo rocks with every movement, the air thick with sweat and champagne. His pace turns merciless, every thrust a demand for surrender.
The slick sounds of his balls snapping against your ass fill the confined space, each sound mocking your attempts at control.
Aventurine's grip bruises the fat of your ass and hips; it wouldn’t scar, but it would certainly add to the inevitable bruising. "Hnngh! AH–FAHHH—" You cry out, the noise breaking in your throat.
He pants against your ear, voice raw, frayed at the edges. “You’re doing so well,” he moans, the praise a weapon. “Your debt’s going down fast, dear.”
Tears blur your vision, mixing with the mascara that streams down your cheeks. Your raw walls surge around him, your body clawing for release.
It was honestly pathetic how quickly you were already about to come undone again. You clench your teeth, tears spilling freely.
His rhythm punishing—measured, precise, each motion designed to drag you closer. “Cum for me,” he pants. “Let go, and I’ll let you go. If you resist…” his smirk ghosts your cheek, “I’ll make this last forever.”
Just as you reach the precipice, he withdraws, leaving you empty and gasping. The denial is cruel, a harsh punishment that leaves you trembling with frustration.
Shit, how is this man still not close to cumming.
Your body trembles, traitorous and overstimulated. “No,” you gasp, the word barely audible. “You’re delusional. I’ll never be yours.”
“Oh, but you are,” he says, greed twisting his tone into something worshipful. “You’re already halfway there.” His hand slides up your throat, holding you still. “I love you so much,” he whispers—half confession, half curse.
“Let me prove it.”
⭐︎
The world narrows to breath and sound — the wet slap of skin, the creak of leather, the dizzy rush in your ears.
Time dissolves into motion and breath. The limo shakes under you both; the sound of skin, leather, and glass blends into a nauseous rhythm.
Minutes—or maybe hours—later, the driver stands at a polite distance, pretending not to hear.
By the fourth round, he’s not even pretending this is about debt anymore. His thrusts turn ragged, his dick bullying itself in your cunt deeper, his voice breaking with every exhale.
“Mine,” he growls into your throat, again and again, until the word doesn’t sound human anymore. You can barely breathe; your nails rake his back, leaving thin red crescents that only make him move harder. “Keep going, sweetheart,” he pants. “You wanna leave? Then earn it.”
By the sixth round, sweat slicks your skin, thighs trembling from how many times he’s dragged you to the edge and yanked you back. Drowning in his cologne, you’re folded beneath him, hips caught in his merciless rhythm. “Don’t you dare cum,” he growls, fisting your hair as he drives into you. “You wanna come? Then beg for it. Tell me what you’re worth.”
You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Mmf fuck, y-you—”
“Wrong answer.”
His hips still suddenly, cock throbbing deep inside you, and the denial hits like a shockwave — so close, so damn close, and yet gone.
“Patience is profitable, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling out just enough to make you sob. “Don’t make me teach you the hard way.”
By the ninth round there’s no rhythm left — just pure obsession. He’s lost his composure completely, voice cracking with every thrust, breath ragged.
“You think ah! I don’t know what this does to you?” he hisses. “You’re shaking like you’ll die if you don't cum.”
His gloved hand slides between your thighs, thumb finding your clit, rubbing lazy circles that make your body twitch.
You cry out, hips jerking helplessly, but he stops again right before release — cruel, grinning, his teeth dragging along your neck. “Not yet,” he whispers. “You’ll come when I say. You’ll come when I let you.”
By the eleventh round, Aventurine laughs between delirious, ragged moans. “Eleven rounds, eleven million off your debt. You should be proud.”
Holding your legs up, he deliberately plows himself harder against your cervix; your body seizes up, releasing tension into pure white energy that you swore was pumping through your every vein as an extension of your whimpering pussy.
Oh, he’s just in heaven - letting out a deep, guttural moan in your ear, “Every part of you has value. Every moan, every tear—I’ll collect them all.”
The seconds tick by like hours, your mind spiraling into chaos.
Too much, too much, TOO FUCKING MUCH.
Your thoughts blur, consumed by the relentless assault on your senses.
His mercy is nonexistent; each thrust a ruthless drive to claim every part of you.
Your body folds against his chest, hips rolling in feverish desperation. The limo smells like sweat and champagne; gold light flickers off the tinted glass, catching on every slick line of where your bodies meet.
The mess between you two spreads across the leather, glistening with each motion, every thrust painting the car in sin. You clutch the seat for balance, trembling, every breath another gamble between pleasure and collapse.
"O-only– hah, one way to end this, pretty girl~ Admit you are gold, m-mine to hoard forever,” he taunts, tracing a finger up your tummy, pressing down hard where he’s plowing deep, your body jolts. "No shame in confessing."
For a second, you almost laugh — a hollow, broken sound swallowed by the rhythm of his thrusts.
Admit it? As if this was ever about truth.
This was a game rigged from the start, a house built to make you lose.
You told yourself you’d never fold, never let him turn your body into another one of his winnings.
But your thoughts are unraveling, slipping through your fingers like the slick heat between your thighs.
Each drag of his hips steals another piece of defiance, another breath, another lie that you’re still in control. The line between pleasure and punishment blurs until it’s just white noise in your head.
You hate him.
You hate that it feels this good.
And Aeons, you hate that he’s still holding out — not a tremor, not a stutter, like even his own release is just another bet he refuses to lose.
There’s no escaping this. The inevitable consumes you, your resistance collapsing in on itself.
You needed to cum. “I… I admit it,” you whimper, the words pathetic and catching in your throat.
Aventurine freezes — just long enough to let the admission sink in.
Then his control shatters — he drives himself deep, chasing the high he’s been denying for too long.
All you can do is cling to him, nails digging, every breath a shudder of defeat.
He was holding back. The bastard was edging himself just to make sure you broke first.
Body locking around his shaft as the heat hits — a whiteout that swallows thought, sound, everything. The pleasure mingling with shame and despair.
The limo rocks with it, the glass fogging, skin slapping, hearts pounding in sync like the roll of dice that finally lands snake eyes.
Tears prick at his eyes, voice wrecked and reverent all at once, spilling inside you at the exact moment your body convulses around him.
Thick ropes of release paint your walls, wet warmth spilling over his length and balls.
A perfect tie — except you both know what it really means.
He won.
You lay limp against him, both breathless, your bodies entwined in the car seats. The weight of defeat presses down on you as heavily as the arm he’s draped over your waist.
Only the engine’s hum and the faint clink of glasses break the silence.
He grunted, head leaning on yours, nuzzling into your hair, “First and foremost, bunny,” he drawled, smug and tender all at once, “you belong to me. Every part of you—your body, your time, your loyalty—it’s all mine now.”
You can feel the smile in his voice as he strokes your hip, casual, possessive. “You’ll live in my estate, under my roof. No more running, no more games. You’ll be my little treasure, kept safe where no one can touch you.”
He exhales, content. “And your debt?” he chuckles cruelly. “Consider it restructured. You’ll pay it off in full… as my wife.”
Your breath catches, horror sinking in. He cups your chin, forces your eyes to meet his.
The gleam in his gaze is victory wrapped in affection. “You lost the gamble,” his voice like silk over a blade. “But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you.”
He kisses your temple gently, then tightens his hold, voice low and final.
“After all,” he murmurs, smiling like he’s granting mercy,
“A jewel doesn’t choose its owner — it only shines for the one who bought it.”
𝐚/𝐧: its givingggg the devil wears prada meets pretty women. yea things are only getting crazier from here, we heading into the psychological nightmare sloth - jing yuan next!
reblogs and comments helps you escape this designer hell ★
Hello! Can I request some Yandere Vera from (pgr) x commandant! male reader? (Romantic hcs sfw and nsfw, please?). If not you can ignore this request, have a good day!
Punishing gray raven
Yandere Vera SFW & NSFW for M.commandant
•Okay, normal Vera is already possessive as hell, however contrary to nostalgia Yandere's it doesn't increase much
•Instead she actually gets protective of you and territorial, so I hope you're okay with just having hickeys on you for days whenever she gets the chance to be with you
•As most fans know, Vera is not stupid and is very good at using loopholes to get away with stuff.
•So if a construct is trying to intrude on what's hers, she won't kill them. However, she'll get pretty damn close to it
•And she is VERY good at keeping people alive but in excruciating pain. She's a Medic and support construct that fights like she's a Frontline combatant
•Vera is actually surprisingly affectionate towards you in both public and private.Though in public, her affection comes off as more domineering and flirty. However, in private, it's actually more soft and sensual
Nsfw
•Yeah, you're probably gonna be sore a bit because Vera is gonna be starving for you
•It doesn't help that you'll find it difficult to deny Vera when she's craving you
•Both because of how domineering she can be but also because of how addicting being intimate with her is
•Since when you have sex with Vera, she makes you feel like you're the center of her world
•She's amazing at guiding you into not only giving her mind-blowing pleasure but also having you experience it as well.
•That's before the two of you link M.I.N.D's, cause once you do this, there's absolutely no going back. It doesn't matter if you somehow break up or she dies. You will ALWAYS remember how she made you feel and how you made her feel
•She's absolutely not worried if you ever decided to end the relationship. She's very much aware that while it will take a few months at most, you will come back to her in the end
•Afterall there's pretty much no other construct out there who could make you feel the same things she made you feel. Sure, others may give you something with a similar impact, but the substance would be different.
•And Vera? Well, she knows you're tastes very, very well, and she's aware that damn near no one could give you what she can
If your doing genshin lucky eggs, could I get a Wriothesley please?
LUCKY EGG
Yandere!Wriothesley x Reader
The Lucky Egg Dispenser was meant to be just that—lucky. A silly little machine promising fortune or surprise. At night, you swore you heard something shifting inside. A faint scratching, a soft tap-tap-tap against the shell. The idea of something alive in there unsettled you, yet a strange attachment formed.
Then, on the third day, it happened.
You weren’t even there to witness it fully. You had stepped away, just for a moment. Trouble had found you, as it always did. A group of men, rough and mean, had cornered you in an alley, their intentions unclear but certainly not good. You fought, struggled, but they were stronger.
crack
A rush of cold air surrounded you.
The men barely had time to scream.
When you turned back, the egg was gone. And in its place, standing over the mangled bodies, was a man.
Dark hair damp with the remnants of his birth, eyes gleaming like frostbitten steel. His hands, coated in fresh crimson. His chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.
The words hovered just above him, as if the universe itself was assigning him to you. He wasn’t just some random creature that had hatched—he belonged to you.
The alley reeked of blood. The bodies lay crumpled at Wriothesley’s feet, their faces frozen in terror, throats torn open like paper.
And Wriothesley… He stood there, fresh from his hatching, the remnants of his cracked shell still at his feet, shards slick with whatever strange ichor had birthed him.
"You left me." His voice was deep, smooth like ice cracking over a frozen lake. "They tried to hurt you."
"Are you....Wriothesley? you—"
"I fixed it."
You should have run. Should have screamed. Should have done something. But you didn’t.
Fate wasn’t about to let either of you walk away so easily.
The commotion had drawn attention. Footsteps thundered down the street, voices shouting orders. The air filled with the sharp clang of weapons being drawn. Guards.
You barely had time to react before they surrounded you, their eyes darting between you and Wriothesley, to the carnage at his feet.
"Drop your weapon!" one barked.
You didn't have one. Wriothesley did. Himself.
He didn’t move, his cold stare sweeping over the guards like they were insects. For a moment, you feared he would kill them too.
But then his fingers curled around your wrist,
"I won’t let them take you."
"We can’t fight them all."
He didn’t want to let go. But the odds were stacked against you, and even he knew it. Slowly, he lifted his hands, though his grip on you never loosened.
The guards seized you both, shackling your wrists with cold, heavy iron. Wriothesley let them—for now. But as they dragged you toward the looming silhouette of the Fortress of Meropide, his voice brushed against your ear.
"This isn’t the end" he whispered. "You’re mine. No matter where they take us."
You shivered—not from the cold, not from fear, but from the certainty in his words.
This prison wasn’t your punishment.
It was his territory.
They dumped you both in like criminals, though only one of you had actually killed someone. You should have been terrified. The prison was deep beneath the ocean, its towering iron gates swallowing you whole as you were processed, stripped of anything valuable, and shoved into the main halls where prisoners loitered, eyes watching like hungry wolves.
The first few days were tense.
The prison had its own hierarchy—dangerous men who prowled like predators, others who merely tried to survive. You could feel the weight of their stares, assessing, testing. A few got too close, murmuring crude comments, trying to see if you’d flinch.
But you had him.
Wriothesley never left your side. Despite the loose prison uniform draped over his body, he carried himself like he belonged here—like he owned the place. His presence alone was enough to make most prisoners hesitate.
Well… Wriothesley had no qualms about breaking a few bones.
The first man to try and corner you learned that the hard way. A single glance from Wriothesley sent him to his knees, gasping, clutching his wrist at an unnatural angle.
After that, people kept their distance.
At night, when the dim lanterns flickered, you lay in your assigned cell, Wriothesley’s back pressed against the cold wall beside you. He watched you in silence.
"You don’t have to protect me all the time"
"Yes, I do."
You woke to the scent of iron. It clung to the damp prison air, sharp enough to make your stomach turn.
Blinking against the dim light, your vision adjusted to the sight before you— Wriothesley sat at the edge of the cell, his broad back turned toward you. His loose prison shirt was drenched in crimson, sticking to his skin. Blood dripped from his fingers, pooling onto the cold stone floor. It wasn’t his.
“Wriothesley…?”
At the sound of your voice, he turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see his face. His sharp features were calm, as if he had simply gone for a midnight stroll instead of painting the floor red. His knuckles were bruised, his sleeves rolled up, and there was a fresh cut along his collarbone.
He had stayed up all night.
Your gut twisted. This prison was dangerous, but how many threats had he already erased before they could even reach you?
“Did someone try something?” you asked cautiously, sitting up.
His lips curled slightly. “They were considering it.”
Your fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath you. You should have felt uneasy, but you didn’t. He had done this for you. And you weren’t the type to just ignore that.
“Stay still” you murmured, shifting closer.
His eyes followed you with quiet amusement as you reached for the cloth tucked near the water basin in the corner. Dipping it into the cold water, you wrung it out before gently pressing it against the bloodstains on his arm. The warmth of his skin contrasted against the sticky, drying blood, but Wriothesley didn’t flinch. He simply watched, silent and accepting, as you cleaned him up.
“You don’t have to do this” he said after a moment.
“I know”
But it felt like the right thing to do.
“You take care of me, and I take care of you. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
You didn’t answer right away. The truth was, you didn’t know if fairness had anything to do with it anymore. You weren’t sure when—if—you’d ever get out of here. But Wriothesley? He didn’t seem concerned.
To him, it didn’t matter where you were, as long as he was with you.
If this place unsettled you, he’d fix it.
And the first step?
Establishing dominance.
“We need people” Wriothesley mused, stretching his fingers, the remnants of blood cracking along his knuckles. “Loyal ones. If you’re uncomfortable here, I’ll change that. But I need men under me first.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By showing them what happens when they don’t follow me.”
Wriothesley was patient, like a wolf stalking prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The first step was simple: make a statement.
The bodies from last night had already sent a message, but words faded fast in a place like this. Strength had to be reinforced. And so, the next morning, Wriothesley found his first target—Orin.
Orin was a brute. Thick-necked, cruel-eyed, and one of the self-proclaimed big names in the prison. He controlled a handful of men, ruled over the food lines, and made sure the weak stayed weak. The type who thought himself untouchable.
Until Wriothesley put him on his knees.
It happened in the middle of the mess hall. A calculated move—right where everyone could see. Orin had swaggered up to you, muttering something under his breath, but he never got to finish the sentence.
One second, Orin was standing tall, smirking. The next, he was choking on his own breath, Wriothesley’s fingers clamped tight around his throat, forcing him down onto the grimy floor. The entire hall froze.
“Didn’t quite hear you”
Orin’s face darkened as he struggled, but Wriothesley held firm. The power imbalance was clear. He wasn’t just showing off strength—he was proving a point.
Silence stretched before Wriothesley leaned in and whispered something in Orin’s ear. You didn’t hear the words, but whatever he said made the man’s face drain of all color.
When Wriothesley finally let go, Orin stumbled back, gasping, his hands trembling. He didn’t fight back. Didn’t even speak. Just left.
After that, the whispers started.
No one wanted to challenge the man who took down Orin like he was nothing. Some men even approached Wriothesley afterward, subtly seeking protection, offering favors.
By the end of the day, he had a small following.
By the end of the week, he had control over the food lines.
And by the end of the month, Wriothesley wasn’t just another prisoner—he was someone in here.
Someone feared.
Someone who owned this place.
And through it all, he stayed by your side.
“You don’t need to worry anymore” he murmured one night, “No one will touch you. Not while I’m here.”
Even with Wriothesley’s presence looming like an unshakable shadow, you couldn’t ignore the way prison life slowly wore you down. The cold air, the damp walls, the constant tension—it was exhausting. Every step felt like treading carefully over thin ice, never knowing when it might crack beneath you.
Wriothesley made things easier, sure. But he wasn’t always by your side.
Lately, he had been busy. Busy building something. You knew what he was doing—gathering men, establishing his power, shaping the prison to fit his rules. He had a vision for this place, one where you wouldn’t have to worry.
But you did.
Because even if you were under his protection, you were still here. And the weight of that fact sat heavy in your chest.
So you took some time for yourself.
You wandered through the prison halls, avoiding trouble where you could, dodging the curious glances. You tried to focus on adjusting, getting used to the food, the routine, the idea that this place might be your life for a long time.
And when exhaustion took over, you finally decided to do something you should have done days ago.
You checked the status board.
Bringing up the system wasn’t hard—it flickered to life the moment you willed it to appear. And just like before, Wriothesley’s name was displayed at the top.
[Name: Wriothesley]
[Species: ???]
But there were new things listed now.
[Abilities Unlocked: - Dominance (Passive): Influence over others grows stronger through intimidation and power. - Territorial Instinct (Active): Establishes a ‘domain’ where physical abilities are enhanced. - Tracking (Active): Can sense and locate wanted individual at all times.]
That last one
“Found you.”
His hair was slightly damp, as if he had been moving fast. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing bruised knuckles and the faint traces of a fresh fight. But more than that, there was something intense in the way he looked at you.
Like a hunter who had just found what he was chasing.
“Where were you?” he asked, stepping closer.
“I just needed some space.”
"You should've told me."
"I don't have to tell you everything."
He exhaled slowly, like he was trying to keep his patience. “Maybe not everything. But when you disappear, I will find you.”
“...You were looking for me?”
“I’ll always look for you.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. The weight of everything—the tension, the exhaustion, the sheer stress of surviving in this place—pressed down on you all at once. And now, on top of it all, Wriothesley was here, standing too close, acting like you had done something wrong just by stepping away for a moment.
"You need to stop" you said flatly, eyes meeting his.
"Stop what?"
"This. Acting like I need to be under your watch every second."
"I was looking for you."
"And I didn’t need you to." Your voice came out sharper than intended, irritation creeping in. "I just wanted some space, and instead, I find out you've been hunting me down like I went missing. Do you even hear yourself?"
His lips parted slightly, but you didn’t give him the chance to respond.
"You’re so damn focused on controlling everything around you, making sure nothing touches me, but have you even considered how suffocating that is?" You took a step closer, eyes burning into his. "I’m already dealing with enough as it is—being stuck in this place, trying to figure out how to keep myself together. The last thing I need is you breathing down my neck."
Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "...Fine."
That was it. No excuses, no justification. Just a single word.
You studied his face, looking for any trace of mockery, but there was none.
You should have felt victorious. Instead, all that anger left you drained.
"I'm going back."
"To where?"
"Our cell." You rubbed your temple, fatigue settling deep in your bones. "I need sleep."
By the time you collapsed onto the hard prison bed, your body ached for rest. You barely reacted when Wriothesley sat down on the other end, leaning against the wall.
"You’re not going anywhere, are you?" you muttered, voice heavy with exhaustion.
"Not unless you tell me to."
You didn’t have the energy to reply. Within seconds, the world faded into darkness.
When you woke up, the exhaustion that had weighed you down for days finally loosened its grip. Your mind felt clearer, body lighter. For the first time since being thrown into this place, you didn’t feel like you were running on the edge of collapse.
You sat up, stretching out the stiffness from your limbs. Across the cell, Wriothesley sat exactly where you left him, leaning against the wall with his eyes half-lidded.
Standing up, you ran a hand through your hair. "I'm going to eat"
Wriothesley immediately shifted, ready to stand.
"Alone" you added firmly, shooting him a look before he could even open his mouth.
For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stared, searching your expression for any room to argue.
You held firm. "Stay here."
"...Alright."
You half-expected him to follow anyway, but to your mild surprise, he didn’t.
With that, you left.
The meal was nothing special. Just the same stale food, the same dull murmurs of prisoners eyeing each other across the hall, the same tension that never fully faded. But at least you got a moment to yourself.
By the time you returned to the cell, your body felt settled. But the moment you stepped in, you stopped short.
Wriothesley was still there.
Still kneeling.
On both knees.
Right where you left him.
His head was slightly bowed, hands resting on his thighs, his entire form eerily still. Like a loyal dog waiting for its owner to come home. The sight would have been unsettling if not for the way his shoulders were slightly tense, the way his fingers curled subtly as if restraining himself.
You took a slow step forward. "You—”
His head snapped up the moment he heard your voice, eyes locking onto you like a desperate, guilty puppy that had been caught after making a mess.
"You're still kneeling?" you asked, your voice softer than before.
"You told me to stay"
"I didn’t tell you to kneel like this the whole time."
"You didn’t tell me not to" he countered, but his voice lacked any bite. If anything, there was a strange mix of guilt and uncertainty in it.
You stared at him for a long moment. Despite everything—despite his strength, his violence, his cold control over the prison—right now, he looked like nothing more than a scolded dog.
Your resolve wavered.
"...I didn’t mean to be so harsh earlier" you admitted, shifting awkwardly. "I was just—tired. Angry."
"Get up already."
For the first time since you returned, something in his shoulders relaxed. He rose smoothly to his feet, still watching you carefully, as if unsure of where you stood with him.
You shook your head, crossing your arms. "Next time, just sit like a normal person."
"...If that's what you want"
You looked away, feeling something uneasy settle in your chest. This man—this person who had torn through the prison hierarchy with his bare hands—had been sitting there, waiting for you like this the entire time.
You weren't sure how to feel about that.
But for now, you let it go.
"Come on" you muttered, finally stepping further inside. "Let's just rest."
----
It happened fast.
One moment, you were just moving through the prison halls, minding your own business. The next, a rough hand clamped over your mouth, and your body was dragged into the shadows before you could react.
A fist slammed into your stomach. Pain shot through you like fire, knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could even recover, another hit followed—a sharp blow to your ribs, sending you to your knees.
You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to lift your head.
Three men. No—four.
They stood over you, sneering. You recognized them—part of another faction in the prison, one that had been growing restless ever since Wriothesley started taking control. They hadn’t dared to act before.
But now, they had you.
"Bet he’ll come running" one of them chuckled, crouching down to grab your chin roughly. "Let’s see how tough he is when his little pet gets put through hell, huh?"
You glared up at him, refusing to show fear. But inside, a cold weight settled in your chest.
They were right about one thing.
He would come.
Wriothesley had been busy.
Establishing order in a place like this took effort. Negotiations, displays of power, making sure his growing influence didn’t slip the moment he turned his back.
The moment he heard your name, everything else ceased to matter.
He didn’t ask where. Didn’t demand details.
He went alone.
The gang barely had time to react before Wriothesley stepped into view, his presence swallowing the space like a storm.
His knuckles were already cracking.
"You."
The leader of the group barely had time to smirk before Wriothesley moved.
The first punch landed so hard it sent a man crashing into the wall with a sickening crack. Before he could even hit the ground, Wriothesley was already onto the next, driving his fist straight into his gut, lifting him off the floor before slamming him down.
The others scrambled back, but it was too late.
One by one, he tore through them. Bone crunched under his fists. Blood splattered against the cold stone. Their screams echoed through the halls, but no one came to help.
By the time the last man fell—gasping, barely conscious—Wriothesley stood among the wreckage, his breathing slow, controlled. His knuckles dripped red.
And then—his eyes found you.
Without hesitation, he crouched down, hands hovering near you, hesitant for the first time that night.
"...Did they break anything?"
You winced slightly, shaking your head. "Nothing serious."
"You’re hurt."
You sighed, giving him a tired look. "And you just crushed a bunch of guys with your bare hands."
Wriothesley didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached out, carefully wiping away a trace of blood from your lip with his thumb.
"...They won’t touch you again."
And judging by the bodies around you, you believed him.
The next day, the entire atmosphere in the prison shifted.
Word of what Wriothesley had done spread fast—how he had taken down four men alone without breaking a sweat. But what came next was what truly cemented his rule.
He made them clean. Bruised, broken, and still limping, those same men who had laid their hands on you were now scrubbing the floors, wiping down the filthy walls, and polishing every rusted bar until they gleamed.
The mess hall, the corridors, even the corners everyone ignored—he had them working like dogs under his watchful eye.
When you saw it happening, disbelief flickered through you. The place had been a decaying wreck for as long as you'd been here—dirt-streaked walls, the constant stink of sweat and grime. Now, the floors were shining, the air clearer. It was almost surreal.
You leaned against the wall, watching as one of the men wiped down a row of benches with shaky hands. Wriothesley stood nearby, arms crossed, his eyes locked onto them with cold detachment.
"Didn’t think you’d care about something like this"
His head turned slightly, gaze flicking to you.
"You like things clean."
"You… did all this just because of that?"
"If we're going to be stuck here... it might as well feel like home."
Even after everything. Even after clawing his way to the top of this place, breaking bones and spilling blood—he was still the same creature that had hatched from that egg, bound to you by something neither of you fully understood.
You looked away, pretending the warmth rising to your face wasn’t there.
"...It’s not bad."
"You’ll like it better when it’s done."
You hated how easily he could disarm you with simple gestures like this. How he could make you feel safe even in a place like this.
But maybe that was just what he was meant to be.
A protector.
Later that night, when the whole prison finally settled into uneasy silence, you caught Wriothesley watching the clean walls with a small, almost satisfied smirk—like he had carved out something just for you in this pit.
You didn’t say anything.
Instead, you curled up in the makeshift bed, feeling the faint scent of soap lingering in the air, and let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe this hellhole could become something close to home.
If he kept his promise.
The air in the cell was quieter than usual. The faint scent of soap still lingered from the forced cleaning earlier, and for once, the place actually looked livable. You wouldn't call it comfortable, but compared to what it had been before, it was a damn improvement.
You exhaled, stretching your sore limbs before sitting on the edge of the bed. The events of the day weighed on you—your body still ached from the earlier fight, but at least you could breathe without feeling the grime of the prison clinging to your skin.
"Wriothesley....You’re staring"
"I worked hard today" he said plainly.
You glanced up at him. "And?"
"I deserve a prize."
"A prize?"
Wriothesley stepped closer, his movements slow but deliberate. The space between you shrank until he was right in front of you.
"You like it, don’t you?" he murmured, "The clean floors. The fresh air. I did that for you."
"You made a bunch of guys do it for me" you corrected.
"Same thing."
"What do you want, Wriothesley?"
"Something from you."
His hand reached out, fingers grazing the underside of your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.
The heat radiating from him felt suffocating, his presence swallowing all the space around you. But what unsettled you most was the look in his eyes, as if he was waiting for you to understand something he hadn’t said out loud.
"You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me" he murmured, his thumb brushing over your jaw. "And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you."
"Doesn’t that mean I deserve a little something?"
"...What are you asking for?"
"You’ll figure it out."
His hand lingered for a moment longer, before he finally pulled away, as if giving you the chance to decide.
Days passed, but Wriothesley’s words still lingered in your mind.
"I deserve a prize."
You hated how it stuck with you—how every time he looked at you, there was that quiet, expectant patience. Like he was waiting.
You had tried ignoring it. Acting like it never happened. But Wriothesley wasn’t the type to forget. He didn’t push, didn’t demand, but that made it even worse. Because the longer you didn’t acknowledge it, the more it felt like he was winning without even trying.
So instead of giving in, you distracted yourself.
The status board had been something you hadn’t checked much since ending up in this place, but with no other way to escape your thoughts, you finally pulled it up.
The glowing screen hovered before you, listing various stats—yours, Wriothesley’s, and even a shop tab you hadn’t noticed before.
Curious, you scrolled through it.
There were items—strange ones, some practical, some completely useless. But what stood out the most was that there was no listed currency. No gold, credits, or anything that made sense.
"Then how the hell do you buy things…?"
Your eyes flicked over the options, barely reading before your finger accidentally tapped on one.
—[Collar + Chain] Purchased.—
The moment the message popped up, a sudden weight jerked in your hand.
Cold metal. A chain.
And at the other end—
Wriothesley stood in the doorway. The black collar wrapped snugly around his throat, a sleek silver chain extending from it—straight into your grip. You both stared at each other.
"...Well," he finally murmured, voice lower than usual. "You should’ve just told me."
Your mind screeched to a halt. "What—"
"You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?" He took a slow step forward, the chain shifting slightly, the tension between you tightening.
"I—this isn’t—"
He didn’t look upset. Not at all.
"You picked this" he reminded.
"You think I picked it—"
"You did pick it" he corrected, and this time, there was a slight curve to his lips—something satisfied.
Like you had just unknowingly handed him his prize.
And worst of all?
You still hadn’t let go of the chain.
The situation was getting worse.
Wriothesley’s fingers lazily traced the collar around his neck, his expression unreadable but undeniably smug. The chain still dangled from your grip, the cold metal far heavier than it had any right to be.
You needed to get it off. Now.
Your fingers fumbled, desperately trying to find a way to remove it through the status board, but nothing was working. Worse, from the outside, it must’ve looked like you were adjusting the collar on his throat—your hands moving over his skin, the chain shifting as you struggled.
The cell door creaked open.
A man stepped in, looking utterly confused at the sight before him.
You—practically pressed against Wriothesley, hands on his throat. Wriothesley—staring at you with an expression that could only be described as possessive satisfaction.
To anyone else, it was exactly what it looked like.
Wriothesley narrowed his eyes. The temperature in the room plummeted. The way he turned his head, the slow, deliberate shift of his jaw—everything about Wriothesley in that moment reeked of murder. Like he had just been rudely interrupted in the middle of something sacred and was now considering bloodshed.
Before Wriothesley could so much as move, you frantically signaled the man to get out. Your wide eyes and sharp hand gestures practically screamed— "You saw nothing. LEAVE. NOW."
The man bolted. Smart choice.
You let out a breath before finally managing to erase the damn collar, the chain disappearing from your grip like it had never been there.
Relief flooded through you—only to be ripped away when Wriothesley suddenly leaned in, his lips pressed against yours.
It wasn’t a slow, teasing kiss—it was punishment. Payback for making him look like that. For removing what he had already accepted as his.
"That," he murmured, smirking, "was for taking my prize away."
Wriothesley just looked at you, utterly pleased.
You had no idea if you had won this round—or if he had just claimed something even worse.
it was an innocent question, born out of a curiosity; a simple “hey, kyryll, do you have wings?”
perhaps a simple “yes, i do indeed” would have sufficed, but when you look at him with those eyes, as you ask him with a sweet lilt in your voice, please, can i please see them? he could not help but pretend to ‘think’ about it first before giving you a silent nod.
he doesn’t think you understand how much he adores you. he’d tear open the fake sky and pull down the corpse of all the remaining moons if you wanted him to.
his clothes are off within a minute. an impressive feat, considering the inordinate amount of layers and how complex they are. his fingers gather the longer strands of his hair before slipping them in front of his shoulder so you can clearly see his back. for a moment, you only see unblemished snowy skin, until the air shimmers, and the bluish flames erupts from his back to form a pair of fae wings. they’re almost translucent, save for the very soft tint of bluish-purple that matches his hair and kyryll’s signature colored flames licking the edges of them as they flutter lightly under your awed gaze.
“can i touch them?”
“… you may. but please be gentle. they’re very receptive to any sorts of external stimuli, which is why i keep them hidden for the most part.”
“of course! i’ll be gentle, i’ll never hurt you,” you hum as your fingers trace the shape of them, and miss the way the side of his lips twitch.
you think he’s afraid you might hurt him…? how endearing.
perhaps you’ll never notice the way his eyes flicker whenever he’s taking you against the soft mattress of your home and your fingers dig onto his back. the way he would grit his teeth to hold back from bruising your hips and rut with reckless abandon, composure crumbling from the way your nails leave red marks onto the area that’s nearly as sensitive as the cock caressing your tight heat with gentle strokes. the carnal urge to imprint and bond your soul to his, force rewrite your identity in irminsul’s records, tie you to him for eternity even after your soul disperses and all that’s left is your memories on the leylines.
your fingers touch the base of his wings. the appendage flutters, bringing a joyous giggle out of your lips.
Synopsis: Gran had punished you, casting you out to pray for your sins. You find yourself between Heaven and Hell to clean your foolishness. But you come out of this charade even more ruined than before.
Warnings: Smut, Religious Trauma, Defiling a Church, Religious themes, choking, non-con elements, loss of virginity, double-penetration, fighting for your soul, Small SnowApple themes, dark themes.
A/N: Please read the tags! This is a darker Fic! But honestly one that I had the most fun writing!
You kneel at the altar, head bowed in penance. It's early in the morning, and the church is quiet—save for your whispered prayer. Your knees ache against the hard wooden floor, but you don't move. You've been here for over an hour.
Your Gran had discovered your sin—the stolen piece of candy from the General Store. A minor mistake, perhaps, but to you, it felt like a crime of unforgivable proportions.
She had tanned your hide so good, you couldn’t bare to sit. Even kneeling like this reminded you of your sin. Many wandered why you just didn’t leave. You were an adult now, but still squashed under the thumb of your Gran and the church.
The wooden pews creak as you shift slightly, wincing at the lingering sting across your backside. You should be used to it by now. Gran’s discipline was never gentle, and neither was God’s judgment in her eyes. But the shame still burns like fire under your skin, worse than any switch ever could.
You swallow hard, fingers knotting together in desperate prayer.
"Lord… forgive me," you whisper, voice trembling with guilt. "I know what I did was wicked… I let temptation rule me again." A tear slips free before you can stop it, hot and humiliating as it trails down your cheek. You shouldn't be crying over something so small… but Gran always said tears were proof of true repentance... right?
The weight of expectation presses down on you like a physical force, heavy enough that your breath comes shaky between each whispered plea for mercy.
There is a hand on your shoulder. And for a second, you think it may be God or his Son who has graced you with their presence. You open your watery eyes to see not a God, but a man who may as well have been chiseled like one.
His hair is long and black, cascading down his shoulders. His smile is gentle, but his eyes speak of things you know nothing about.
“Hello child.”
You flinch at the unexpected touch, blinking up through your tear-blurred vision. The man’s presence is overwhelming, not just in stature, but in the way he looks at you, like he already knows every dark corner of your soul.
His voice is soft when he speaks again. "What has you kneeling so early? And with such… distress?" His thumb brushes away a stray tear on your cheek before you can stop him.
Your breath hitches as guilt claws its way back up your throat. "I-I sinned," you admit hoarsely, unable to meet his gaze for long. "Stole something that wasn’t mine. Gran says I gotta repent proper or it’ll fester."
The man hums before crouching down beside you, his long hair spilling over one shoulder like ink against the morning light filtering through the stained glass windows.
"And do you believe that?" He asks you quietly in the morning light.
The hazel eyes roam over you, such a pure, innocent soul. Yes, Father was right about you no doubt. “I am Zayne. A…messenger, if you will, for our Holy Father.”
Your breath catches at his words. A messenger? Your Gran had always spoken of signs, of divine intervention but you never expected it to come like this.
Zayne studies your face for a long moment. “Such guilt over something so small…" His fingers trail along the curve of your shoulder, light as a whisper. “Do you truly believe He would want His child to suffer like this?"
The question hangs in the air between you. You’ve been taught that suffering is repentance. That pain is the only path to purity. But Zayne’s voice holds no judgment.
“You…you are an Angel…?” Your voice is full of child-like wonder. You look down at your dirty and torn white Sunday dress. Gran had thrown you out of the house when she discovered the candy. Your eyes travel back up to the man who was sitting next to you.
“But…don’t Angel’s have wings…?”
Zayne's smile is patient, fond as he tilts his head. “Do I need wings to prove what I am?" His fingers brush against your tear-stained cheek again, warm in a way that feels inhumanly gentle.
You shiver at the touch, but don’t pull away.
"Sometimes," he murmurs, "Angels walk among you in forms you can understand, especially when the ones they are sent to help are hurting." His eyes flicker toward the church doors.
Before you can open your mouth, the door to the church creak open. Heavy boots fall onto the creaking boards, and a whistled tune pierces your ears.
The man who walks through is not a member of the congregation. Oh no, he’s dressed in leather and chains. The clothing does little to hide his body, and you squeeze your eyes shut so you do not fall victim to sin.
Zayne clenches his teeth, and raises to his full height. Standing over you like a guardian.
“Caleb…this is the house of my Father. What gives you the right to waltz in here as if you will not burst into flames?”
Caleb stops mid-step, boots scuffing against the wooden floorboards as he eyes Zayne with disdain. His whistle dies off into a smirk.
"Last I checked," he drawls, voice rough around the edges like gravel underfoot,
"Your Father don’t charge entry fees."
His gaze flickers past Zayne, down to where you’re still kneeling on the floor like a wounded bird and his smirk falters for half a second before hardening again. "And last I also checked, “ Caleb adds, taking another step forward despite Zayne's warning glare. "-your dear ole’ Daddy left this church a long time ago. Horrible things have happened here. Or so the Big Man says."
Caleb’s boots thud against the old wooden floors as he steps closer, the leather of his jacket creaking with the movement. His purple eyes lock onto Zayne with a challenge simmering beneath them, like he wants this fight.
Zayne doesn’t back down, but his voice is calm when he speaks next. “You were told never to step foot in holy ground again."
Caleb barks out a laughs. "Holy ground?" He gestures around at the peeling paint, the cracked pews, the lingering scent of mildew under cheap incense. "Yeah… realll blessed place you got here."
His gaze drags back to you, still trembling on your knees like some sacrificial lamb. “But I ain't here for a sermon," he says smoothly instead. His eyes drop to you, as you finally peak open those pretty little eyes at him. The smallest of gasps leaves your mouth.
Caleb’s smirk widens as he sees your reaction. "Well now," he muses. "Look who finally decided to open those pretty eyes."
Zayne moves to block his path. "Leave her be."
Caleb laughs before leaning around Zayne to lock eyes with you directly.
"Oh no, no, no," Caleb clicks his tongue. “My boss said I gotta take her soul. Stealing ain’t your only sin. Is it? Why don’t you tell him how you’ve been touching yourself at night. When Gran is fast asleep, you turn into a Harlot.”
The words hit you like a slap in the face, and you can feel Zayne stiffen at your side. You gasp, a strangled, broken sound as your cheeks flush with a burning shame.
How does he—how does he know? You'd thought no one knew. The secret shame you kept to yourself, a stain on your very soul. Now it’s out in the open and you can’t stop the tears from streaming down your face as you shake your head desperately.
"Don't listen to him," your voice comes out as a whisper. "Please—"
Zayne won’t listen to another word. "Enough." He lifts his palm to the demon. "You will not torment one of His children under this roof."
Caleb stares you down, as if he can see every sin, every lie you’ve ever told in your entire life.
"Oh, I ain’t tormenting her," he croons. "I'm just tellin’ the truth…and we all know how much saints like you hate lying." His eyes rake over you. To the thick tears dripping down your flushed cheeks.
"But maybe we should check to see if her purity is still in tact. If it’s not, she’s mine. If it is, she can stay. Deal?”
You choke down a sob, your hands clenching into helpless fists at your sides.
This was it.
This was your worst nightmare, worse than anything Gran could ever do, and you felt like your skin was going to split wide open from the shame of it. Beside you, Zayne stiffens, his jaw clenching as he turns back to face the devil.
"The deal is done," he murmurs. "But I have stipulations."
Caleb laughs, sharp and cruel. "Of course you do, Saint boy. Go on then. Let's hear it."
Zayne steps in front of you further, trying to shield your body and spirit.
"You will not harm her," His fingers reach down to stroke the top of your head. "If she still maintains her innocence, you will leave the rest to me."
Caleb holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, angel boy," he quips.
The irritating whistling returns as your knight in shining armor steps to the side, allowing the demon to stalk closer.
"Alright, Kid," Caleb is towering over you, hands pulled from his pockets. His nails are sharper, coming to long points. "Let's check if that innocence’s still there."
You crawl backwards on your hands, fumbling over your own body, until your back hits the stair up to the altar. Your chest is beating wildly as they both begin to corner you. “No. No, please!”
Your back hits the bottom step with a thump, the cold wood wall of the altar at your back. You can feel the tears running down your cheeks and try not to let the panic bubble up in your throat.
Caleb coos in faux sympathy. He crouches down in front of you, and you can feel the raw power and evil radiating from him. "Aww… scared, honey?"
He reaches out, rough fingers grabbing your chin and forcing your face back up to his. Those sharp nails trail down the front of your throat. As if testing you to make one wrong move.
Zayne bats his hand from you with a sneer and cups your cheek. He’s so warm, feels so heavenly and gentle. “It will be quick. I promise. You are pure, yes?”
You nod, your eyes welling with more tears as you lean into his touch without even thinking about it. Zayne feels like kindness incarnate, like comfort in human skin. You shiver, desperate for comfort, for something good amongst this hell.
Caleb scoffs at your reaction, watching with dark eyes that make you want to shrink back. Your eyes flicker between the two men with a desperate plea.
"Y-yes," you whisper, your voice trembling. "I'm... I'm still pure."
Zayne's thumb brushes away a tear, his gaze softening with pity.
"Then there is nothing to fear," The words don’t ease the dread coiling in your stomach. Not when Caleb is still hovering over you like a vulture circling dying prey.
Caleb is shoving his way back closer to you. Those violet eyes flash for just a brief second. From this angle you can see the elongated canines that look like they could tear your throat out.
“That so?"
Caleb’s hands are scalding as they trail up your calves stained with mud and dirt. He pushes up the hem of your dress and-
“Holy shit.” he cackles at the choice of underwear.
The oversized, long bloomers are exactly what he expected from a lamb like you.
Cotton and white and hideous. He was not expecting a full lingerie ensemble, but you might as well have worn long-johns.
"Aw," he purrs, "Look at that, angel boy. The lamb's got on her Sunday best. You sure you don't need a shephard?"
You sob in humiliation, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of your dress to try and push it back down.
Caleb's grip is ironclad. His laughter rings in your ears, cruel and taunting as his fingers hook into the waistband of those stupid, oversized bloomers.
Caleb cares little for the fabric, yanking them down past your knees with one rough tug.
The cold air hits your bare skin and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut like maybe if you can’t see it happening… it isn’t real.
But Caleb doesn’t give you that luxury either. His hand grips your face again, forcing those tear-filled eyes back open to face him.
"No tears now, Lamb. Even though they do taste ohhh so sweet," his forked tongue lashes out to taste the cascading tears from your cheek. The other clawed hand leaves tiny scratches as it ascends between your thighs. "Let's see just how pure our little church mouse really is."
Caleb's fingers slide between your plush lower lips and you flinch like you've been burned—whimpering a desperate little "no—!" that neither of them seems to hear.
Zayne watches the process, his hands folded neatly in front of him as if this is just another holy ritual.
"Ohhh… now that’s interestin’." His last word is punctuated by a stretch of a finger sliding into your warm honey pot. The un-fathomable tightness has Caleb groaning. "Seems our little saint ain’t been touched by anything other than her own fingers.”
Caleb pulls out his claws, and holds them out to Zayne to test the dripping sin between your legs.
Zayne turns his head to the side as if the mere thought disgusts him, despite the growing need in his loins. “Hell, more for me then.”
Your face flames, hot with humiliation and terror. You're not supposed to be touched… you were supposed to stay pure—
"Looks like you were right," Caleb murmurs. There is disappointment on his face and in his eyes, but your focus is on Caleb as he brings his hand to his mouth and licks off the evidence of your innocence.
The devil hums at the delicious taste before holding out his fingers to the Angel. “C’monnn have a taste. I think you deserve it. Dear ole’ Dad clipped your wings and sent you to Earth. You can indulge yourself a little.”
You can see the anger in Zayne’s expression. Hazel eyes narrowing. Was that why he did not have the massive white wings you had heard in prayers and scriptures?
There's a long moment of hesitation, like he's holding himself back but then his tongue darts out in a small taste.
His eyes flutter shut for the briefest instance as if savoring it.
"What d’ya think, angel boy?”
Zayne swallows hard, the movement of his throat visible beneath his collar. He takes his time to respond, carefully considering his words. Or perhaps just composing himself.
“She tastes…pure.”
Feminine. Divine. Delicious.
All words that run through his mind but he would not dare speak them aloud.
A hint of irritation flickers across Caleb's face at the response, like he was hoping for a better reaction.
"Tch," Caleb snorts, watching the way Zayne seems to brush off that brief display of weakness. "Don't you get tired of being such a goody two-shoes?"
Zayne's only response is a longsuffering look. A look that's so tired, you'd think this was a conversation they've had a hundred times before. "Don't you ever get tired of being a jackass?" He quips back.
Caleb cackles at the response, like a joke from an old friend. “There he is! Better be careful cussing like that-“ Caleb points a claw up at the ceiling- “Daddy is listenin’.”
You try to crawl away, to escape this personal version of your Hell. You barely shift an inch before Caleb hauls you back against his broad chest. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He smells like spice. Not the kind Gran had in the kitchen, but something deeper.
His hands are hooked behind your knees. He’s spreading you out, thighs opened obscenely. Claws tear through those ridiculous underwear like butter.
“Now it’s your turn to check. Because demons lie all the time, right?” Caleb is speaking towards Zayne now, who’s standing in the middle of the pews. “Go ahead. Feel. See if that pretty hymen is still intact.”
Zayne ignores the taunt, as always. He pushes the sleeves of his white and gold robes, kneeling down between your legs. He’s murmuring a prayer. You don’t quite hear it. Maybe it’s one about forgiveness or one meant to defeat evil.
Perhaps one you recite before a meal.
It's strange because his touch is so much more tender than Caleb, almost reverent. It still makes you shiver. Long digits do not linger nor poke and prod incessantly like the demons.
It simply slips inside. Your tummy aches, and you have no choice but to turn your head into Caleb’s throat. He can feel you warm tears on his flesh. “Aww, you big meanie. Makin’ our pretty lamb cry like that. It’s okay sweetheart.”
You know Caleb’s words are cruel, but you can’t deny the way they make your heart flutter.
You also can’t deny how Zayne’s finger feels so much better knuckle-deep than your own.
For a moment, you could almost imagine his fingers were made to be there. Like it was a place of worship.
He can feel it, the thin piece of flesh that holds your innocence.
Zayne strokes against it. Once. Twice. Your thighs shake, toes curling in those ruined black boots that had seen their fair share of congregations and farm work.
When you get the courage to look up at Zayne, his eyes seem distance, detached. But his lips are parted, and his breath is labored.
His finger curls, eager to feel how warm you are further in. But the flesh is almost like paper, and shreds away in an instance. You can feel the burn in your tummy before either of them can say anything. Your face hides into Caleb’s neck, thighs clamping around Zayne’s hand.
The Angel pulls his fingers out in disgust, only to find them stained with blood. He had torn your hymen and taken your innocence.
The faint smell of blood hits Caleb’s nostrils. His pupils dilate and you can hear the sharp belt of laughter pierce your back and ears.
"Oh shit Zayne!" He grins, wild and victorious as he watches the blood smear against Zayne's fingers. "You fuckin’ broke it"
You choke back a sob, because now you're ruined in every way that matters. Your body is shaking as Zayne stares at his own hand in horror.
Caleb kisses the side of your head, gently rocking you in his arms. “I guess your Saint has urged like everyone else. Couldn’t help himself. Gran will be so disappointed in you…”
He clicks his tongue in chiding and you try to wipe your tears with balled up fist.
"I didn't mean to," Zayne stutters out. "I wasn't being careful enough. I didn't mean to—"
Caleb cackles, slapping his knees as he straightens, all his attention focused on the shocked, stunned look on the angel's face.
"Well it's a little late, Angel. She's defiled now. You sure Daddy's gonna be happy about this?"
You are sobbing, trying to push your dress down. You are humiliated. Ruined. The town would call you a whore, Gran wouldn’t be able to look at you.
Caleb laps at the tears on your cheek like an overexcited puppy. “Oh, but now it seems we get to share a meal together. C’mon Angel, you get first dibs since you took her purity. She’s already soakin’.”
The devil cups the front of Zayne’s linen robes that tent with his growing hardness. “Need me to get you warmed up? I know how much you miss my mouth.”
Caleb licks his lips, fangs glinting in the sunset. Zayne takes a shaky step back, but that cursed hand just follows him. You are shaking life a leaf, but your eyes are drawn to the scene before you.
Beings of the same gender were not supposed to do this. Not supposed to touch each other, to love each other. There was boy a bit older than you. Who had came out to his parents, with tears and shame.
They made him confess before the church. Gran had fainted, but in the back of your mind, you knew she was faking.
You never saw Little Ed again. You knew you should tear your sight away. But you were already tainted right? Your virgin blood pooled on the floor of the church already.
Caleb’s claws part the robes, and the flushed, angry tip slaps Zayne’s chiseled belly.
Caleb’s teasing breaks you out of the haze. “S’ all hard for me, Angel. Might have to thank your Daddy one day for giving you such a nice c-MMPH?!”
Zayne’s fingers tangle in Caleb’s dark hair, shoving the flared tip past such sinful lips. Caleb’s pretty purple eyes water from the burning stretch. He exhales through his lips so he doesn’t choke as much.
Caleb makes a garbled, choked sound. For once, the demon is speechless, lips stretched tight.
Zayne looks down at Caleb like this was always how it was supposed to be. His grip tightens when Caleb tries to pull back for air, forcing him deeper with a sharp thrust of his hips that makes the demon gag.
"You wanted this," Zayne’s teeth are gritted, his skin shimmers. You aren’t quite sure if it’s sweat or some mythical power you are unaware of. "You asked for my attention… now you get to choke on it."
A Demon and an Angel… locked in a battle of wills, even when one is so clearly at a disadvantage. In the church you grew up in, hiding under pews and running barefoot through.
You can see the moment the fight seems to bleed out of Caleb, he lets out a broken whimper around Zayne. Clawed hands scrabbling against his thighs as he finally submits to the angel's rough pace.
Zayne holds the demon down to the hilt of his cock. Caleb’s eyes roll back, white filling the voice where purple should be. Zayne moans, feeling the fear seeping through Caleb’s body. He could end him right now, send him back to Hell with a bruised throat and ego.
But at the last second, Zayne pulls his mouth off in a sudden jerk. A mess of saliva and male liquids splashes onto the floor. You gasp, shifting in Caleb’s lap as the demon sputters.
Caleb laughs with a wheeze and wipes his mouth. “Asshole.”
The demon clears his chin and his eyes snap back to you. He follows your line of sight to Zayne’s wet and weeping cock. “First time seein’ one. Ain’t it?”
The question has your cheeks burning. Zayne doesn’t speak yet, simply grabs the base of his cock and lets it bob in his palm. You give a simple nod.
Caleb shift you so you are kneeling beside him instead of sitting in his lap. You are directly underneath the Angel’s manhood. A dribble of a clear liquid escapes his slit before he can stop it, and it lands right on the tip of your nose like a blessing.
“So eager, Angel.” Caleb chuckles. His claw wraps around Zayne’s cock, and he presses the weeping slit right against your forehead. “Know you ain’t Catholic, but Angel here wants to give you his…Repentance.”
Zayne makes a choked noise deep in his throat. Caleb uses the tip of his cock to dirt drag down your forehead, leaving a sticky. He then crosses over that same line again.
The image left on your skin by pre-cum alone is too much for the pent-up Saint. His toes curl, fingers clench at his side, and he orgasms. Caleb cackles and quickly angles the throbbing cock back across your forehead t mo retrace the image.
Zayne is trembling and praying when he opens his eyes again. Most of his cum had landed in your once braided hair. But right there, as if on Ash Wednesday, was a cross. Instead of being made out of ash. It was made from his seed.
Zayne feels his stomach turn when Caleb finally releases his cock. The demon licks a droplet of cum dangling from your eyelash. “What do you say, Lamb?”
Your lips are wobbly, skin tainted with the seed of a man. “T-thank you….”
Your breast heave under your dress. Luckily the off white material is perfect for catching stray cum. It’s Zayne’s turn to kneel at the altar before you.
His trembling hands reach to try and clear your cheeks of his sin. “S-shhh…it’s alright.” You aren’t sure if he’s trying to comfort you, or himself. Caleb grins and shoves his hand between your shoulder blades, sending you into the arms of the Angel.
“Go on, Zayne. You already ruined her. Might as well be a decent man and claim her all the way.” Caleb leans back against the steps, his own cock throbbing in leather pants like it might burst free.
Zayne is fumbling to cradle you. He curses his own cock that pumps blood to the leaking tip. He should crawl in forgiveness. There is no way he was making it back to the pearly gates now.
“You must be cleansed…” his voice is rough against your ear. He shifts you so you straddle his lap, his heavy cock poking at your belly button through your dress. “From the inside out.”
You squeak, squirming on his lap. “B-but I-we aren’t married.” Those pretty tears are pouring from your eyes again.
“Think of this as…a heavenly marriage. Why would He send me here? Perhaps he sent me here to reward you.” The lie taste like ash on Zayne’s tongue. But he must have you. He could beg for forgiveness later.
You feel the blunt pressure, far bigger than your fingers. You are clutching at the robes on his shoulders like a lifeline. “H-hold my hand? Gran always holds my hand when I’m scared…”
Your voice breaks apart from terror.
Zayne guides his hand slowly, carefully sliding into yours. His grip warm and steady despite the way his pulse is still racing from earlier.
Caleb snorts at the softness of it all but doesn’t argue when you turn your head to glance at him expectantly. With a roll of his eyes, he links his fingers through your other hand, though not without muttering under his breath-
"Gettin' real sick of you playin' favorites with Angel boy."
Zayne finally pushes in while you are distracted. You body and mind immediately reject him. The head of his cock is barely inside and you wail.
“S’too big! Please!” Then, you are murmuring prayers with your eyes squeezed shut.
The pain is sharp—too much, too fast—and you can't help the way your body tries to recoil from it.
Caleb doesn’t mock this time. He doesn’t tease.
"Slow down, Angel boy. She ain't used to somethin' like you yet."
The advice makes Zayne grit his teeth. But he slowly feeds you every inch instead of trying to bully his way through. He was a warrior after all.
Your walls slowly welcome him in. The wet noises coming from your ruined hole fill the creaking church walls. Caleb cocks his head and leans back to watch you sink down on the massive cock. “Shew, I remember my first time takin’ it. Bled for a few-“
“Shut your mouth, demon.” Zayne hisses. He takes out the frustration on your poor cunt, driving up into you to make you squeak. “Sorry, little one.” He murmurs the apology into your hair.
Caleb snorts and unbuckles his belt. You and squeezing both of their hands until your knuckles turn white. You hear the faint sound of a zipper.
Before you feel another blunt pressure from your already overstretched entrance. Caleb is a demon after all. Eager and selfish. Hes kneeling between Zayne’s legs, and your curiosity gets the better of you.
His own cock nudging at your overstretched hole. “No! No I canticanticant-!”
Caleb just chuckles, eyes fixed on Zayne's face as he circles the tight heat with his aching cock.
"Oh c'mon, sweetheart… you can take it."
It's a statement, not a question, and his voice is so certain.
"I know you can. And look at you, already nice and pretty… all used and open,” his thumb catches just the faint trickle of blood where Zayne snatched the remainder of your virginity. “You think you're all full just from the big bad angel? You wouldn't wanna miss a little something extra, would ya?”
Zayne groans at the way your walls clench at his statement. You feel so full, but not full like you were after Sunday dinner. Full as in it finally soothed that ache that had been burning in your belly recently.
Caleb moves to his knees, holding his shaft steady, and the first ‘pop’ of his cock into your hole has you sobbing. You feel like they are trying to tear you apart. Maybe they were. Maybe that was your punishment for breaking so many rules.
Zayne is the one to comfort you, giving your hand a squeeze of remind for his presence. “Can I make you feel good? I promise it will sooth the ache.”
You can’t nod fast enough. He brings down his thumb, and presses it against the hidden pearl you’d fumbled around with a few times. But his touch is direct, and you jolt from the pleasure alone.
Caleb hisses at how you tighten, nearly pushing his manhood right back out. “Easy Lamb. Lemme in, open up f’me….” You try to relax your muscles, shaking in Zayne’s arms now. Caleb groans, your heated walls and the slick of Zayne’s own cock guides him in like a lighthouse in murky waters.
Your vision swims, and you go limp against Zayne. When Caleb finally nests balls deep in your core, you think Zayne may have already taken you to heaven. It aches. Good Lord, it aches so deep.
But when they both inch out, just to press back in, you feel helplessly ruined. “M’m sorry! Sorry!” You apologies spew out, much like the trickle of your first orgasm trailing down monstrous cocks. The demon and angel locks eyes over your shoulder, and Zayne is the first to speak.
“That’ssss a good girl. Just felt too good, hm?”
“Y-yeah, mm’ sorry I didn’t-“ With those pathetic little fingers there is no way you had brought yourself to completion before. Where Zayne continued to ease you into the experience, Caleb rutted like a damn dog. Sloppy, full, earth-shattering thrust that had you hiccuping and blurting out huffs of pleasure.
Your eyes roll back. The feeling of sin gathers in your belly. Were you a whore now? Taking not one, but two men into your body when you were supposed to be pure.
You begin praying, the only thing you knew how to do when confronted with trials and tribulations.
Your lips tremble as the words spill out in broken, breathless whispers between choked moans—
“Our Father who art in heaven… h-hallowed be Thy name…" A sharp gasp cuts you off as Zayne's cock drags mercilessly against a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
"T-Thy kingdom come… oh! Oh—!" Your fingers dig into Caleb’s arms as he pulls back only to slam back into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. Tears streak down your face, mixing with sweat and spit as you desperately try to cling to any shred of righteousness left in your soul.
But then Caleb leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear with dark amusement when he murmurs.
"Sayin' all those pretty prayers while takin’ two cocks like this? Hm. That's some dedication."* His voice is velvet in your clear, strong jaw digging into your neck. "But we both know God ain't listenin’ right now."
You shudder as his thumb rubs tiny, quick curled on your clit, pushing against Zayne’s own thumb like a battle.
"You keep goin’, now," he whispers. "Just keep prayin' and cryin' and prayin' some more. Beg your God to come and save you. I can see the little wheels turnin' in that pretty head of yours. Wondering if you're goin' to Hell for this…"
Zayne’s breath is warm against your other ear, his voice a low, steady hum that cuts through the haze of pain and pleasure—so different from Caleb’s taunting.
"Shhh… listen to me," You turn to face him, lips trembling where moans fill the same church walls that choir music usually fill. "You think I'd let you fall? You think I'd ever let Hell claim you?" His thumb swipes away a tear, his touch achingly tender despite the way his hips still move against yours.
"I’d carved my name into heaven's ledger just to keep you safe. You think I wouldn't carve it into Hell’s gates too if they tried to take you?" His cock pummels your clenching little walls. It’s driving you crazy, your head tilts back to the heavens. "I don't care how many prayers you break tonight. Your soul is mine.”
Caleb growls and presses his mouth to the curve of your ear. Both of their cocks are bullying inside of you, fighting over your body, your soul, and your orgasm.
"Sweet thing," he snarls, fangs grazing your pulse point. "You were always mine. You just didn't know it yet." His hips snap forward sharply, forcing a moan from your lips.
Zayne snarls at that, actual fury flashing across his face. "Liar."
Caleb laughs, his fangs trailing over your throat. His breath is picking up, his thrust growing more and more desperate.
"Oh? Then why’s she clenching around me like she doesn’t want me to leave?"* He presses in deeper just to prove his point, delighting in the way you whimper at the burn. "Face it, angel boy… this little lamb was never meant for heaven anyway."
And despite yourself and the punishment of sin being crashed down upon you, your body betrays you by squeezing around him tighter.
The prayers and curses blur into one dizzying, overwhelming storm, your body caught between salvation and damnation as they push you toward the edge.
Zayne’s voice is fervent, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs scripture like a lifeline—
"‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…’”
Caleb barks out in laughter. “‘I will fear no evil?’” he taunts, thrusting deeper just to hear you keen. “Too late for that now.”
Your vision blacks out. Every muscle in your body locks tight as pleasure crashes over you in ruthless waves, your orgasm wrenched from you with such force that it feels more like punishment than reward.
Zayne groans at the way you flutter around him, his own release following instantly, spilling deep with a broken gasp of your name against your neck like a prayer half-finished.
Caleb isn’t far behind; his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it all until his climax hits with a growl that vibrates against your spine.
And when they finally pull away, you collapse between them, trembling and ruined.
Caleb is grinning over your slumped form, licking the beading sweat from Zayne’s upper lip. "Still think He's listening?"
~~~
The church is quiet this Sunday morning—early enough that only a few others wander through the pews. Your footsteps echo through the nave as you make your way down the aisle, each step a reluctant reminder of your sins and the shameful act you committed a few nights before.
You silently wonder if it had happened at all. If it had been just a test from God himself.
As you approach the pews, guilt hangs heavy on your shoulders. Your eyes dart around nervously, as if expecting the walls themselves to judge your actions.
But no one looks at you, no one casts an accusing glance. Everyone is simply... praying.
You find your place beside your Gran. She was the one who had found you. She seemed almost remorseful for sending you away over a piece of candy. She smiles at you, brushing your hair from your shoulder as the preacher speaks.
“We have two new members of the congregation to introduce.”
Your focus drifts back to the preacher, a knot forming in your stomach. Two new members…?
Your eyes dart across the pews as he continues, searching for any unfamiliar faces among the congregation. But everyone here is a familiar one, all the same people you've seen here at least once a week since you were a child.
But then the sound of the doors at the back opening draws your attention, echoing through the quiet sanctuary like a gunshot.
You're not alone in turning to look. The entire congregation seems to freeze at the interruption, a ripple of curious murmurs moving through the pews as everyone cranes their necks toward the back of the church.
And your blood turns to ice when those familiar figures step through the archway into the church.
And Caleb... has the nerve to smile.
The preacher gestures for the two men to step forward. "Please, introduce yourselves to the congregation."
Zayne steps up first, his posture rigid.
"My name is Zayne. Former military medic." His gaze sweeps over the crowd with an intensity that makes several people shift in their pews. “And a man seeking… redemption."
Then Caleb grins—all lazy charm as he throws an arm around Zayne’s shoulders who visibly stiffens but doesn’t shove him off.
"Name’s Caleb! Big fan of long walks on the beach, making bad decisions, and uh…late night prayers. “He winks at the elderly lady in the front row who gasps. “Also here ‘cause this one—” he jerks a thumb toward Zayne “—won’t stop lecturing me about my ‘unchristian behavior.’ So! Here we are.”
The preacher looks momentarily flustered before clearing his throat awkwardly.
Your fingers tighten around your hymnbook until your knuckles go white.
Because you know exactly what they really came for.
And there isn't a single soul in this church who can save you now.
Tag List (if you’d like to be added, click here) : @chaemaire @purplemooned @vvi-vi @partypoison00 @l0st1nthedark @varpaat @boulder @space-trashlordd @hilliserose @rubylescent @joyfulyouthlover @lilacsandhysteria @cheezeandkrackers @zayneslover @roual @slave-of-heaven @ladyanonreader @kiyadeleine @emowitchwithatwist @nixia115 @aishabbbb @lordbugs @poisonivyae @embetie @mock-kett t @nanamisgirly @imsaemi @exe-toby @rhickah @slutforsnowcrow423 @kageyaxaa @pumpk1n-gurl
I haven't finished reading yet, but here are some additional tags the author forgot
Fem Reader, belief of hymen being proof of innocence, homophobia (believing being gay is a sin), Caleb x Zayne, non con, SA, reader has very Christian conservative beliefs
Also, please don't use "elements" when warning about things that are overtly in the work. Elements implies it's in the background or an if-you-squint type of deal which is not the case with the non con
