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beardedjoel · 6 months

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smother - part i: deliverance

dark!joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | kofi

summary: starving. lost. desperate. you find a cabin in the woods, and to your dismay, it's occupied. a plan to have a quick bite of food with an intense, intriguing stranger turns into more than you'd bargained for when he makes you realize everything you've been missing out on. 8.6k words chapter warnings: 18+ MDNI! noncon, nonconsensual touching, dubcon - reader eventually enthusiastically consents but the syndrome is stockholming so its dubcon, reader is a virgin, big juicy age gap (reader is 19, joel is 55) manipulation/lying/gaslighting, slow burn and tension building chapter, joel is kind of a creepy menace ngl a/n: i'm so so very excited to share the first chapter of my new series! (if this flops after how much i got hyped for it i will be logging off forever) the themes in this story are dark so if the tags aren’t for you it’s understandable & just keep scrollin on by! this will end up being nasty and smutty, but only after a wee bit of buildup so don't fear. comments and reblogs are always beyond appreciated!

Save me. Please, anyone…

Another wave of desolate, crying desperation tears through you as you trudge along, tripping yet again - maybe over your own two feet, a root, the very ground you walk on, something. You’re much too hazy and burnt out to even care what you stumbled on as you just press on, press on, press on.

A wave of pain rolls through your stomach again as it burns cavernously empty. You move as a ghost, a shell of yourself now, using passing trees as support. Your hands touch the cold wood reluctantly, a painful little hiss through your teeth as your fingers practically cramp up from the cold. You’d lost your gloves somewhere along the way, days ago now, what feels like a lifetime. You need to stop and rest desperately now, your body close to giving out. Your heart hammers in fear, wondering if you’d even be able to get up again.

A cabin comes into view in the distance, tucked nicely in a clearing of trees. You think your eyes are deceiving you, that you’ve finally succumbed to the madness that comes with such hunger and loneliness, your brain conjuring up images to comfort you. You see smoke coming out of a chimney on the roof, and your heart equally swells and drops at the discovery - it’s not a shelter for you alone, no. Not a lucky discovery, somewhere to lay your head tonight that’s dry and warm without disturbance. Someone already lives here, has a home here, and they might not take too kindly to strangers. If there’s anything you’ve learned in the last few weeks of your own personal hell, it’s to tread carefully. Always.

You keep your footsteps light and quiet, trying to approach with some semblance of caution. Your empty stomach is pushing you along, begging for any scrap of food that might be inside, hopefully offered up to you by the kindness of a stranger. Berries and the occasional rabbit or lucky can of food found were not enough to live off of anymore - you could feel the way your body faded away by the day, losing any bit of strength you’d had in the first place.

You pause, hitching your breath and then barely daring to breathe at all when you get close enough to hear a sound - a low, throaty grunting followed by the crack of wood. Your eyes scan the area as you sneak closer and then land upon him. He’s broad and muscled, you can see that much from back here. Messy, dark hair that curls all around his head and down his neck. When his body turns enough that you see his face a little bit more, you notice he looks older and has dark, piercing eyes. They send a shudder through you, even from afar, only making you feel colder out in this frosty afternoon.

You wrap your coat a little tighter and decide to get closer, assess the situation, see if he seems friendly enough to give you something to eat and send you on your merry way. He swings an ax high up in the air and brings it down swiftly onto a large piece of wood, splitting it before tossing the logs into a pile already full of more firewood. You press your lips together, noticing how strong he is, betting there are well built up muscles underneath that flannel shirt of his. That makes him a threat, a big one, you quickly assess.

You’re too distracted, not watching your step, when a large branch cracks underneath your boot. You wince and squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, holding perfectly still, your breath coming out in quick, staccato exhales.

“H-hey!” you hear a gruff voice, sounding out of breath. You peek your eyes open slowly to see the man looking in your direction and silently curse yourself. “C’mon out!” he yells, and you see him reach to his waist, hands grazing a shining revolver holstered there.

Your stomach pulls into tight knots and you stand frozen for a few moments. Your brain quickly assesses everything, weighing the options. Running away, with no possibility of eating a single thing is one option, but the likelihood this stranger will shoot you seems high no matter what, so you decide to take your chances.

You put your hands in front of you, palms out, and slowly emerge from behind the trees. You walk gingerly along the crisp, frosty grass, crunching under your feet every step of the way. Your anxious breaths come out in little puffs in front of you as the cold air enters and exits your lungs.

The man falters, his fist closing and then opening again, pulling away from the revolver on his hip a bit. He blinks hard, staring at you in this silent showdown. “W-well shit, you’re just a girl…” he finally says quietly to himself, his posture relaxing a little. You stand perfectly still, choked up now that you’re confronted with the idea of speaking to him, such a large, imposing wall of a man, and those eyes, god, those eyes.

“I’m not gonna hurt you if you don’t give me a reason to, now, girl.” His voice is the tiniest bit softer, and you pick up on his Southern drawl, an accent you’ve heard a few times before. “Do ya need help?” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, a gleam of sweat having built up from chopping wood and his large chest still heaving. He takes a step closer to you, and you don’t step back, but feel every muscle coil up tightly as your mind screams at you that this was a mistake, a huge fucking mistake. Your feet tingle, toes flexing and getting ready to run, but you can’t make yourself do it, to take that first step.

Instead, you nod. “I- y-yes…” you say quietly. You’ll never understand why you say it, other than the fact that you’re drawn in by him, by his chestnut hair flecked with gray, his patchy beard that he’s currently scratching. By his build that looks so… safe yet dangerous, but you get the feeling that no, he’d never hurt you. You envision those arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly, shielding you from the world and everything you’ve been through. You never thought much about relationships or boys before - just a few simple and innocent crushes, but it hadn’t been on your radar as such a shy kid and teenager. But this… this was what people talked about - attraction. It nearly stole your breath the closer you got to him, threatening to suck you into what felt like an endless void.

“Alright,” the man replies, trying to match your quieter demeanor. He glances around, eyes narrowed and scanning the woods beyond you. “You with anyone? Or all alone out here?”

You know why he’s asking, you’ve seen what people can do - sending someone innocent and unimposing out to lay a trap, but you don’t lie when you shake your head. “A-alone. I’m alone, swear, sir.”

His jaw seems to tick, noticeable even from the distance you’re at before he answers you. “Okay, then. C’mon a little closer, I won’t bite, okay?” he says, and he’s so convincing that you do believe him, despite your instincts telling you otherwise. The world is cruel and unrelenting, taking away most of the trust you’ve ever had in humanity the second you place it into anything or anyone.

You move a little closer, small, gentle steps, and he nods encouragingly.

“Now there ya go. Look at ya…” he marvels with a click of his tongue, shaking his head once you’re just a few feet away from him.

He takes in your messy hair, slightly matted from wearing a winter hat on and off the last few weeks and sleeping on the ground. Your clothes have seen better days too, your skin smudged with dirt no matter how many water sources you found to try and rinse off a little bit. Even despite all of that, he gazes at you with a curiosity, with that look of interest that you felt like you’d given him without trying to. It’s quiet for another moment, the both of you sizing each other up, until Joel’s look turns a little more pitiful when you shiver as a sudden gust of wind whips past you, your threadbare coat doing little to protect you from the chill in the air here. You can’t be sure if your shuddering has less to do with the wind and more with the way that this man’s eyes are digging into what feels like your very soul.

“We gotta get you inside, okay? You’re shakin’, and you look like you ain’t had a proper meal in… too long…” He continues to eye you up and down, taking in your weak frame.

You stay silent for another moment, swallowing hard and then shuddering again. “I - I don’t know…” you breathe out. You might have some sudden, fantastical dream that this man is your savior, but it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be cautious - the mind is a tricky, deceiving thing.

“I ain’t gonna ask again, ain’t gonna beg ya, girl. C’mon,” he says a little more roughly, a hand shooting out quickly and grabbing you by the wrist and tugging. “Just want to get a good meal in you, alright?”

You wince at the grasp on your wrist, the roughness and hardness he’s starting to show you, but you let him pull, starting to move your feet and trail after him.

“T-thank you…sir,” you murmur quietly, and he swings his head to look back at you, his eyes softening.

“You’re welcome. Now get inside and get warm. I’ve got a fire goin’.” He lets go of your wrist, trusting you to follow him as his heavy boots clunk up the few steps leading to the front door of his cabin. It’s modest, beautifully constructed, all dark wood around the outside and a small porch. You start to wonder if this man built it himself, or just found it as it is. Your initial impression of him leads you to believe that he does seem like the type to build a whole god damn cabin. He half looks like a lumberjack already in the plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

“Found this place ‘bout five years ago,” he says as if he could read your mind while he swings the door open. “Real nice and private, so don’t worry.”

Your eyes narrow slightly at his last comment, but you try to brush it off as you enter inside with him. The warm air hits your body, an immediate balm to your frayed nerves and chilled skin, a slightly smoky smell from the fire hits your nostrils and you immediately hear the crackle and pop of the logs in the little fireplace. The cabin is mainly one big room, a kitchen tucked into the corner right to the left of the door, and the living room beyond that with cozy couches and chairs, even a TV that you doubt is working but find yourself hopeful for some reason. It’s been a long time since you were able to watch a movie, flashing back to childhood memories when you’d lived in a more stable, thriving community that had power.

Stairs beyond that lead to what you assume are bedrooms or a bathroom, and your eyes curiously take in all the little details and decor - the man’s jackets hanging along the wall near the entrance, his rifle propped next to the door and several different pairs of worn boots.

You realize you’re just standing right near the doorway, silently looking around in a daze while your new acquaintance has been trying to get your attention.

“Hey, girl, I’m talkin’ t’ya…” his voice says, the noise fading back into your consciousness.

You shake your head. “S-sorry,” you say quietly, a shy little squeak. “I was just -“

“S’alright. I got some stew goin’, that okay? I mean y’don’t have much of a choice, but I’ll ask anyhow,” he says with a wry chuckle. You simply nod in response.

“Now go on, put your things down and sit ‘n get comfortable,” he waves towards the general direction of the kitchen table and the couch before turning back to the stove to stir the pot simmering there. You stand, feeling frozen still, panic threatening to climb up through your insides and completely take over. You still don’t feel safe, despite this man offering to warm you and feed you. How could you, you think, when you’ve been running for several weeks, trying to get away from the carnage that became your life.

He eyes you, unmoving and frightened looking and sighs heavily. “I said,” he says, tension thickening in the air around you, “Sit.”

You clear your throat, desert dry and scratchy, and set your backpack by the door, slowly creeping over to the couch, not wanting to make this mystery man any angrier. You settle yourself down and the cushions feel like heaven, your legs and body achy from the lack of comfort you’ve had for weeks. You try not to show just how good it feels to settle into the soft, plush fabric, letting the cushions mold to your body.

“Good,” Joel coos as he glances at you from the stove. “Now that we’ve got you settled in, you got a name?”

You weakly tell him your name and he shows you the first little smile you’ve seen from him, nodding. “Gotcha. I’m Joel, okay?”

“O-okay.” You push the words out while you watch him stir the pot on the stove. You sit in silence for a few moments, thankful for the time to just catch your breath and think. Just one bowl of stew, and you’ll be out of here. You’ll ask if there’s a community nearby, somewhere that could take you in, then grab that information and run, not bother this man any more than you need to.

Joel walks over, handing you a cup of water that you shamelessly start to gulp down before he goes back and ladles some of the delicious smelling stew into a bowl. The second the scent hits you, your stomach rumbles loudly. Joel cracks a smile as he hears it and continues ladling, a brow quirked.

“Hungry, huh?” he asks, walking the steaming bowl over to you with a spoon. You gingerly take it from his hands, being careful not to brush your still chilled fingers against his. You swear his eyes flash at you when he notices how avoidant you’re being, but he turns and walks back to the stove, getting himself a bowl as well. Joel settles down into a chair across from the couch where you sit with a weathered groan, just watching you for a few quiet moments. It does everything but put you at ease, your stomach twisting a little. You blow on a spoonful of stew before taking a bite, your mouth an explosion as it waters and takes in the delicious, rich, food.

“Mmm,” you whine out, unable to help it. Your body wants to lunge forward, lap the stew up until every single drop is in your starved body and you can finally feel a sense of fullness again. You quickly take another spoonful, much too hot, and wince a little as it hits your tongue.

“Slow on down, girl,” Joel says. “Let’s talk a little and it’ll slow down your eating.”

You just stare, noticing your body is trembling a little bit, and has been since you met Joel outside. You try to take a deep breath to settle your nerves, your legs so tensely pressed together that it's starting to hurt.

“You feelin’ afraid of me, that it?” he asks you, looking a little too self satisfied at the observation as he crosses his arms and leans towards you. His biceps bulge and stretch with the motion and you can’t help but find your eyes drawn to them, the way they pull at the soft flannel of his shirt. You feel your face heat up all the way to your ears and you blink hard, averting your eyes.

“I- I mean… I don’t know you…” you mutter, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

“I know,” he says, sounding more sympathetic. “Done some bad things in my time, so hell, maybe you should be scared of me. I ain’t a nice guy. But I won’t hurt someone like you, promise ya that.” His words are enough of a reason for you to hightail it out of here the first second you can, but why do you believe them? Why do you believe him?

“How d-do you know I’m not bad too? That I don’t deserve it?” His eyes narrow and his lip twitches into a smirk before he lets out a mocking little chuckle in your direction.

“Oh sweetheart, a man jus’ knows these things. You never hurt even a fly, now have you?” That smirk stays plastered on Joel’s face as he asks and it frustrates you how little of a threat he sees in you, how little fight you have left to give. Yet you can’t find yourself blaming him, you think. If you were facing yourself in his position you’re sure you’d look like as much of a feeble joke as you feel.

You frown, still unable to look him in the eyes for longer than a few seconds, and shake your head. “No… just for hunting…” you admit.

“Alright then. Y’don’t need to act tough in front of me, girl, got it?” Joel concludes, going back to eating his stew.

“Got it,” you respond quietly, letting yourself sink further into the couch as you feel your muscles slowly relaxing.

“Now tell me... what’s this all about? What’s a little young thing like you doin’ out here by herself?”

You bite your lip and sip slowly on another spoonful of stew. “I’m… uh…” you stutter nervously.

“Spit it out now, there’s nothin’ to be afraid of here, hm?” Joel tries reassuring you, but his words keep coming out so gruffly, doing little to make you feel much better.

You inhale a deep breath. “Okay…” You swallow. “I was in a… community. I lived there a long time. T-they’re all gone now, I think. We got completely overrun and so I ran.” You sniffle as your nose starts to run from the warmth of the house opposing the cold you’d gotten accustomed to.

Joel leans forward a bit in his chair, taking a hearty bite of stew, mulling your words over. “Overrun how?” he asks simply, glancing at you, studying your movements, your body language, everything.

“U-uh, hunters, raiders, whatever they are. Bad.. b-bad people…” You look down at your bowl, not wanting to meet the intensity of his gaze, afraid to fall into his strange, hard warmth.

“Hm… awful fuckers, ain’t they,” he says, scratching a hand down his beard. “You got away, then?”

You nod and bite inside of your lip, taking another spoonful of stew to keep yourself occupied. “Y-yeah. I ran and ran… just kept… going. They took everything, took over all of our homes…”

Joel sighs, his eyes finally going a little softer. “‘M sorry to hear that, darlin’. You know if anyone is still alive?”

You shrug. “No…”

“Your family? They with ya at this community?”

“Oh.” You shake your head. “No. They… all, uh, passed a long time ago.” Why the hell are you being so open with this stranger? You don’t owe him your story, your secrets, any of it. But you sense the urge to share it, anyhow. Maybe you’re just that desperate for human connection right now.

“Mm, sorry to hear it again. We all know that feelin’ in a world like this,” he replies thoughtfully. Your eyes widen a bit at the softness he’s showing you right now and you give him a tight lipped smile to show your own sympathy for his losses.

“You feel up for tellin’ me a little more about the attack? S’okay if it’s too much,” Joel adds on, still studying you with an odd gaze, almost like he’s drinking you in, quenching some thirst he had. His hand twitches, almost as if to reach out to you, but he’s much too far from where he sits right now.

“I’m not sure if t-there’s much to tell…” you start, but then you find yourself spilling out more details, feeling the freeing sensation of unloading your burdens onto someone else. You tell Joel your community was small but well taken care of, plenty of supplies and food, in an abundant time in its history the last few months. One evening everything changed, when an armed group of mostly men came in, a few women and children in tow, looking absolutely miserable, and they aimed their guns in the air and shot off a few rounds to get everyone’s attention. People came flooding out of their homes, trying to run, only to be tackled or shot down, forced to give up our food and belongings. You tried to hide for as long as you could before slipping out of the home you shared with an older couple who had been taking care of you since you were a teenager, Harry and Josephine. They’d urged you to run, run, run, so you did. Then came your lost days, where you had no clue where you were, when you’d find your next semblance of humanity. Just trying to head west, further and further from the bitter memories you’d now have to leave behind. Barren towns and wilderness passed you over the days, hardly seeing another soul as you hid from infected, spending your nights crying yourself to sleep when you had the energy.

And now… here you were, sitting on Joel’s couch and eating stew. Unsure of what the hell you’d do next or where you had to go. You had been an orphan for a long time, but this felt deeper, like you were an orphan to the entire world, almost, like you had nothing to even call your own now.

Joel sits patiently, watching you stumble on words as you tell your story to him, trying not to get too choked up as all the emotions resurface. How empty things had been, how desolate the landscapes to match your faintly beating heart.

He’s leaned fully forward now in his seat, stew somewhat forgotten in his lap as you finish your recounting of the last few weeks. He breathes in and out, a large, heavy sigh that fills the room. It’s still now, fully quiet for a moment.

“You’re a strong girl for goin’ through all of that, you know that?” he says finally, eyes softer than you’ve seen them yet.

You just look down, returning to your stew, taking a few bites now that it’s at the perfect temperature. You’ve stopped shaking now, your body warmed up and starting to recognize that you’re getting full. You can’t eat much, your stomach unable to handle more just yet, so you push the stew away, setting it on the coffee table in front of you.

“Yeah…” you say, not really believing it as you glance out the window to watch the late afternoon sun, glaring off the ground outside, light filtering through the trees.

“You got somewhere to go? After you’re fed and looked over, of course,” Joel asks, his eyebrow shooting up.

You consider lying, just to avoid what you’re afraid he’ll ask you. What you’re afraid you’ll say yes to. You still end up shaking your head silently, clearing your throat. You feel a sting of tears behind your eyes, your whole body going hot with the need to cry, but a deep desire to not show that weakness to him holds you back. You sniffle and blink, studying the knots in the old wood floors.

“Hey,” Joel says, trying to get your attention, to make you show him your vulnerability. “Look at me, c’mon now.” You hear him shift in his seat, a small movement born of irritation as you refuse to do as he says.

You sniffle again and clear your throat, a shake of your head making your hair fall forward, covering and hiding you further.

“I said look at me.” That stern tone of his is back, sending a shudder through you and fear rippling deep inside your chest. You flick your red rimmed, shining eyes up to his, meeting the dark brown stare, lines permanently etched in between his eyes from all his years of worry.

“Atta girl,” he coos, completely pleasant now. “I got you, okay? You can stay, if ya need. I got food, a home, a warm bed for ya. If you have nowhere else.”

One more blink sends the tears falling down your cheeks, fat and overdue as they slide down your dirty skin, leaving tracks. You sniffle and nod, suddenly feeling a rush of gratitude towards Joel. He may be a stranger, but he fed you, got you warm, and is offering just about the kindest thing he can right now - an invasion on his space, his personal sanctuary, all for a girl he hardly even knows.

“Y-you’d really do that?” you ask, a little incredulously, like this is a dream you’re about to wake up from any time now.

He nods, a half smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Satisfaction plastered there now that he’s swayed you in his direction. “I would. Now I don’t wanna hear another word about it. You need to rest, you’ve been through a lot.”

“T-thank you. B-but-”

“Not. Another. Word,” he practically hisses, flashing his eyes angrily before it fizzles out quickly. You can see him practically having to reign in his impulsiveness in the moment. “There ain’t anywhere else to go that’ll keep you as safe as here, I’m tellin’ you that now. You’d be fuckin’ lost out there.” He sits back with his arms crossed now, and you’re worried that you’ve truly upset him now, that unsettling look in his eye glinting again. He wants you to stay… nearly seems to need it. It scares you, yet you feel a tug, a pull, some form of intrigue wanting you to explore that need, understand just what he could see in you.

“I’m s-sorry… I just - you’ve already done a lot for me, and I’d hate to, well, impose, or something,” you say, trying to appease him. It’s mostly true, anyhow, that you do hate to take Joel’s food and time away from him.

He stands up and silently walks the few steps over to the couch, sitting down next to you, turning himself towards you. It feels like every muscle in your body tenses at his proximity - it makes him seem even bigger the way he takes up his cushion on the couch, body sinking in deeply, his wide shoulders practically a shield to you right now to everything behind him. Something about seeing him up this close is sending you reeling, able to study the lines in his face, his strong, wiry beard streaked with a few gray spots. You flick your eyes over his face, hoping to not be too obvious, but needing to drink him in, learn his features.

“I’m gonna have you listen to me right now, okay? Make sure you’re listenin’ real good, sweetheart.” He pauses for a moment to catch your eye, reaching a hand towards you but resting it right next to your thigh on the couch. “I’m offerin’ somethin’ mighty nice to you, ain’t I? You were ‘bout to die out there, if I’m honest. Much longer and you’d be a goner, I think. Don’t you?”

He’s waiting for a real answer from you, you realize, so you nod, eyes practically unblinking as you hang on his words, a hot coil burning in your stomach as you feel uneasiness eat at you.

“Right.” He sighs quietly. “I’m not tryin’ to be mean, sweetheart. In fact, I care a lot, that’s why I’m tellin’ the truth to ya like this. You ain’t built to be on your own, can see that clear as day. So I’ll have ya stay here and get fed and get your bearings. And I don’t want to hear anymore about it.”

Of all the things Joel has just said to you, the thing that is stuck in your mind as you turn it over, is the way he’d said he cares. He cares about you. Would that be such a bad thing to be cared for, even if just for a little bit?

You give him a small dip of your head, a shaky smile coming to your lips. “Thank you. I’m uh, grateful.” You’re not sure what else to say, feeling like you’re signing yourself away to something you don’t feel sure about.

“Ah look at that - a smile,” he says, clearly feeling much more light hearted now that you’ve agreed to accept his help.

You sit back a little, your muscles finally losing some of their tension and start to eye Joel a little more curiously. “S-so you just live here all by yourself?” you ask, wishing you weren’t still such a stuttering mess. The fact was, this man made you nervous, in a way that you weren’t used to. He scared you, but in a way that it drew you in, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite explain yet. Something in him commanded respect, reverence, almost, without trying. It was mesmerizing to witness, completely scrambling your mind if you started to think on it too hard.

“Mhm,” Joel nods languidly, finishing off his stew and then sitting back with a satisfied sigh. He eyes your bowl that’s only half empty and then flicks them back to your face. “Ain’t gonna finish?” he asks, sounding a little irritated before his face softens. “Probably can’t fit much in your little belly right now, huh? Shrunk right up when you didn’t eat much these last few weeks.”

You nod. “I-it was good, I just… I couldn’t finish. It started to hurt…”

His eyes flash with concern. “We’ll take it slow, then,” he says, a little smile creeping onto his face.

You had noticed his avoidance to say much more about himself, so you decide to try your luck and press him again. You clear your throat, trying to turn towards him a little more as well. “You live alone. Don’t you… do you ever talk to other people?”

Joel chuckles, almost condescendingly. “‘Course I do. Town not too far from here - Jackson. I go once and a while to stock up, trade ‘em for some stuff and they’re mighty hospitable to me.”

You nod, trying not to let his snide laugh and tone get to you too much, blinking away the sensitive little tears that threaten to fall again. Joel cocks his head suddenly, seeming to notice. “T-that sounds pretty nice,” you choke out quickly.

“Sorry if I upset ya. Guess you’re right, don’t get enough practice talkin’ to people,” he says a little lighter now, smiling softly again. Joel’s version of a smile seems to only be a soft upturn of his lips, not friendly by nature. It puts you at ease and unease at the same time, that smile of his, but you’d rather see that than the scowl he was sporting at you earlier today. He pats your thigh a few times, showing his apology, and you watch his large hands move on you, noticing they’re scratched and rough. A man’s hands.

“W-wait… Jackson… this town. It’s close by?” you ask, glancing back up at him, the wheels in your head starting to turn.

Joel’s face falls in an almost dramatic fashion, the lines between his eyes and around his cheeks getting deeper. “Why d’ya ask?” he says, his tone short and frayed sounding, leaning forward again, practically glaring at you from under his eyebrows.

Your own face falls, jaw slack for a moment before it tightens back up. “I just… I want to get out of your hair as quickly as possible, I-I don’t want to be a bother. Could find a new community there, or something…” You feel quiet as a mouse, unsure of how to assert yourself in front of Joel - it feels like there isn’t space for it when you share a room with him.

Joel’s expression becomes more stern. “Didn’t I already tell you, girl, that I’d take care of everythin’?” he spits out, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. You’re visibility tense now, your hands pressing into the cushions of the couch, ready to get up at any moment and bolt. “Y’don’t want to go to a place like that, so big, you’d be lost there, darlin’. Nobody to take care of you…”

He sits back a little, hands falling into his lap and an eyebrow cocked at you. “‘Sides,” he says, glancing out the window for a moment before studying you again. “Too far to go on your own. Can’t have you gettin’ lost in these woods again… look what happened last time, yeah?”

Maybe he’s right. You barely survived these last few weeks without completely losing your mind, and then your life, as he’s been so apt to tell you several times now. Joel… he saved you, and is offering you a place to stay, so the least you could do is be grateful for now. You could always convince him tomorrow, after you’ve had time to think and reset, to take you there, show you the way, and you can see for yourself if it’s a good fit for you or not.

“Y-yeah…” you stutter out, nodding. The look he shoots you has you choking out the next word before you can even think about it. “Yes,” you say more definitively.

“It’s settled then,” he says matter-of-factly, breathing in deeply, his burly chest rising, and then letting it out in a long, slow breath. “You probably wanna get some rest, yeah? I can set up the bed for ya.” Joel says, standing up and grabbing your bowl, taking it to the kitchen along with his empty one.

“Do y-“ you start, standing up off the couch.

“Yeah, I got two bedrooms, don’t worry.” His smile grows, liking that he found you predictable enough to know what you were about to ask. Your shoulders sag a little in relief and you give Joel more of a proper smile now, nodding your thanks.

“That would be great, then, yeah. And if it’s not too much…” you voice trails off and you stare at the ground, focusing your eyes on the pattern of the well worn rug underneath your feet. “Maybe a shower, bath, whatever you’ve got.”

Joel turns to face you and then walks back into the living area. He has a calm, serene expression, slightly lit up. “I’ll do ya one better. Get you some clean clothes to wear after that shower, too.”

Nothing in the entire world sounds better than what he’s offering right now.

You hiss loudly as the hot, steaming water hits your leg when you step in. Within moments, you’re basking under it, watching the dirt and dried blood from your various scrapes and scratches swirl down the drain for what feels like ages, finally seeing the water run clear as you lather up the threadbare washcloth Joel had left out for you and scrub yourself down. Every nook, every cranny, your scalp, face, everywhere you could get three times over. You can’t remember the last time you’d felt so clean, even when you’d lived back with your community. You hum happily for a few moments, letting the water soothe you for just a while longer. You hoped Joel could forgive you for taking a little bit of extra hot water today given the circumstances.

Joel hears the water running from downstairs, his fists balling up and relaxing over and over as he sits on his favorite chair, his gaze facing the stairs leading to the spare bedroom and attached bathroom. He feels tense, rolling his neck, continuing to pump his fists open and closed. A feeling in the back of his neck, traveling down his spine and legs that he couldn’t ignore - an urge. He stands up an instant later, not bothering with his well-ignored conscience, and walks upstairs and through the bedroom door with careful steps as he still has on his boots. He presses a hand onto the brass doorknob, turning it slowly, ever so slowly, pushing the door open just an inch, just… enough.

His eyes fall on the shower curtain, a white cloth that perfectly shows your silhouette through it. The valleys and curves of your body move around, arms scrubbing yourself. Joel can smell the evergreen scented soap drifting through the steamy, thick air, watching your body move fluidly as you start to hum quietly to yourself and rinse off.

He wishes he could lie to himself, deny that he felt the blood rush straight to his cock at this little show he was watching. So content, so sweet, so vulnerable right now. Need consumes his every cell - the need to show you just how good you could have it here, to take every bit of you for himself. He grins, a hungry little twitch of his mouth, moving to shut the door when a floorboard creaks under his heavy boot, and he freezes, shuffling out of the way quickly.

You’re humming quietly when you hear it, just a distant sound, but enough to catch your ear. A creak of a floorboard, something you figure isn’t unusual for an old cabin like this, but you feel a shiver run down your spine and rush to turn the water off. You throw the curtain open, water dripping down into your eyes. You quickly rub your fingers over them and glance around the spacious bathroom to find… nothing. You sigh, shaking your head, nearly laughing at the relief you feel. You’re just being paranoid, you chastise yourself as you grab the towel off the hook, squeezing the extra water out of your hair and wrapping it around yourself, snuggling into the simple comfort of a fluffy towel as you dry yourself off.

Your fingers freeze, running cold when you reach the door, noticing a few inches of space that has the door cracked open. You swore up and down that you’d shut the door behind you, giving you that extra layer of privacy in a stranger's home. It wasn’t possible that… no, you think quickly, shaking your head again. You have to stop being so damn paranoid - your brain is just in survival mode still, looking for threats that aren’t there.

You step into the bedroom, surveying the heavy wood furniture - an extremely cozy, country feel to the room with large logs comprising the bed frame and a patchwork quilt draped over the top. You peer around, feeling somewhat squirmy at the realization you don’t have any clothing. Joel seemingly came in and took your dirty clothes while you were in the shower, failing to leave you anything clean. It made you feel that strange swirl deep in your stomach again, the one you kept brushing off.

This is a kind man. A kind man, got it? Positive thinking.

You decide to pull it together and head out and down the stairs to the living room. You feel your cheeks heat up, a hot heat creeping all over your body as you feel so exposed, standing in your tiny towel as you descend the stairs. Joel’s eyes follow you down, watching your glowing skin, so fresh and clean, hair dripping errantly, leaving water droplets on the floor in your wake. You see a flash of something a little cloudy and hungry in his gaze before it disappears just as quickly as he showed it.

He isn’t saying a word, isn’t offering anything, so you swallow down your discomfort and clear your throat a little. “Er… I noticed there weren’t any… clothes… for me…”

Joel sits up a little straighter, putting down the book he’s been looking at. He offers you a smile devoid of much emotion and stands up, his eyes locking on your hips for a few extra seconds. “Shucks, sorry about that, sweetheart. Let’s get you something right now. Got your old clothes ready to be done next time I do the washin’.”

You nod, fighting the urge to chuckle nervously as he walks over and passes you, his arm brushing your damp, bare one before he heads up the stairs. You’re grateful you get to trail him, afraid of just how skimpy this towel is if he’d have insisted on following behind you. You follow him into the other bedroom, his bedroom, and it’s a little more decorated, some books and little wooden carvings on the surfaces, dirty laundry scattered throughout. He opens up a drawer and tugs out a tee shirt, handing it to you, then a pair of gray sweatpants and warm, thick socks.

“These should fit alright for ya, honey. We’ll get you some more proper fittin’ stuff soon, just gotta have a look around this place. This’ll be nice and warm for ya f’now.” He seems more chipper now, clearly much more talkative than before, and you suppose you don’t mind the change too much. It’s only proving that your paranoia was completely unfounded, just a symptom of your current circumstances. You typically find yourself a pretty trusting person, enough to have gotten you in trouble before, but the events of the last few weeks have broken that for you, leaving you feeling like a shell of who you once were.

You snap back to reality and take the clothing in your arms, nodding in gratitude. “Thank you. I’ll go, um, change.”

Before you turn, Joel’s voice booms through the air again. “Need anythin’ else to eat? Anythin’ I can get you?” He almost sounds hopeful, like he wants you to need something from him. His eyes linger on your body, leaving you feeling just as naked as if you didn’t have the towel over you at all.

You shake your head nervously. “Er, if it’s alright with you, I think I just want to rest… A full night’s sleep in a bed sounds like heaven right now.”

“Let’s get you on off to heaven, then.” He grins, letting you leave the room before trailing after you, waiting outside your door while you change into your clothes. You discover some women’s underwear in the drawers inside of your bedroom, gratefully putting on a clean pair before throwing on everything Joel gave you. It’s comfortable and dry, so you won’t complain about the fit or the style - you’d still be in your dirty, worn down clothes if it weren’t for him.

You creak the door open to find Joel and thank him again for hosting you, only to see him waiting right outside in the hall. You nearly jump, your face completely giving away your tense surprise.

“Jus’ wanted to make sure you got to bed alright,” he says gently, explaining himself.

“Oh…” You bite your lip. “I, uh, I think I’m all set. Thank you again, Joel, really, for everything.”

His smile brightens as much as you’ve seen it and his eyes look much kinder as he nods, a dip of his head. His hand reaches forward and takes yours through the frame of the door and squeezes it. You freeze at the sudden touch, his hand so warm and rough, calloused fingertips grazing over the softer skin of your hands. It sends your entire body into a fuzzy flash of heat for just a moment before it dissipates. He squeezes once more, thumb swiping gently over the back of your hand before he releases it. Your lips sit parted in shock, eyes a little wider and hand starting to tremble a little.

“Anytime,” Joel replies simply, his face falling before he turns to walk away, leaving you standing breathless for several moments before clicking the bedroom door shut behind you.

You jolt out of your sleep, a gasp of breath catching in your throat and dying out as you go to yell, finding your mouth tightly clasped by a large, warm palm pressing in.

“Shh, shh,” the voice comes, right near your right ear. You shudder involuntarily from the hot breath fanning on such a sensitive spot and try to yell again, letting it die out as a whimper against the skin pressing on your mouth.

“Shh, it’s alright. I got you,” Joel coos, his voice coming out hoarse. “No yellin’.”

You squirm helplessly against his hold, realizing another arm is draped across your abdomen, holding you in place. Your body exhausts quickly, still half asleep as you feel your struggle die out. Joel’s hand across your mouth loosens slowly, relieving the pressure.

“You were havin’ a nightmare, darlin’. Shh… c’mon now…” His hand that had been against your lips ghosts up to your head, landing in gentle strokes against your hair. You blink a few times, heavy breaths through your nostrils now as you try to steady your mind and body. Your chest struggles against his heavy arm as it heaves, your body fully taut and mind trying to play catch up.

“W-what…” you murmur groggily, laying stiffly as Joel holds your waist, fingers brushing against your curves, pressing you close as his other hand still works tender strokes along your hair.

“Oh, sweetheart, glad I heard you, hm?” he practically whispers, his face nuzzling close to the skin right under your ear. You feel the tickle of his breath and facial fair, prickly and rough against such delicate skin. You squirm gently, trying to signal that everything is too tight, too much, too… confusing. Joel is lost in his own world, absorbed in the softness of the places he begins to touch, hand grazing from your waist to your bare arms, fingertips exploring hungrily under the guise of being caring.

All he’d needed, alone and laying awake tonight, his body burning and resolve thin, was a simple touch. A chance to show you all that you needed, all he could provide for you. Only to help you, to take care of someone who couldn’t care for herself. You’d proved that much to him - you needed his guidance, his protection, his experience.

“What’re you…”

“Jus’ comforting you, darlin’. C’mon now,” he whispers, never once pulling back or stopping the exploring he’s doing with his hands.

He runs through his list of reasons to convince himself why everything he’s doing is perfectly necessary before losing sight of all of it entirely when he strikes that sliver of bare skin where your tee shirt has hiked up a bit off your waist, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. His hand travels a bit higher, pushing the shirt up and grazing famished fingers across your ribcage and stomach. A small groan ripples across his chest, the vibration felt by where your body meets his. He surprises you next by tugging your shirt back down, covering the bare skin before returning his hand to your hip, pulling you closer. He’s a wall of pure mass, muscle underneath his soft belly and chest, a man who’s strong but still showing a bit of his age. You nearly whimper and shake, feeling a sickly heat coursing through your veins now.

“Mmm…” he mumbles in your ear, your own voice caught in a trap of fear lodged right in your throat. Equally afraid of the way you don’t know how this night is about to end and that you’re not sure you mind where it’s going. You’ve never understood men or their intentions, and never had anyone bother to teach you, no worked up teenage boys offer to show you when you were at that age. No, you were left to guess, giggled at by other girls when you couldn’t pick up on their meanings as they discussed their own secret rendezvous. This had to be everything they talked about, didn’t it? The way you could feel heat and energy practically pulsating off of Joel’s body, his noises anything but natural sounding as he hummed little groans in your ear.

“Y’just needed someone, sweetheart. Y’need someone to take care of you, don’t you?” he finally says, fingers still running their way across your hair, nails scratching against your scalp. You whimper quietly at the feel of it, how damn good it all feels. You don’t move, don’t speak as he goes on.

“Need a man like me, darlin’, y’do. I can see it - need me to take care of everything…” He mumbles similar sentiments repeatedly in your ear before bringing his lips right to your neck, just letting them graze, the wet but chapped skin of his lips pressing in gently on your pulse point. You try not to gasp, the feeling as pleasing as it is terrifying, finding yourself gripping the sheet tighter to try not to give yourself away, give him any kind of response.

“Don’t you, honey? Need me to take care of you?” He sounds a little more desperate now, needy for the answer he’s searching for from you.

He’s broken you down to the point you feel tears stinging at your eyes, the long awaited emotional release you’ve needed sitting right there on the precipice, a small crack waiting to fully rupture. You can’t be sure if you nod, just imperceptibly, you think, but Joel’s body language relaxes against you as he leans his entire chest and torso into you even more, giving you a squeeze. You know then that he got his answer, just what he was looking for. You let the tears slip out, rolling down your cheeks, onto the pillow on one side, likely falling right onto Joel’s face or in his hair on the other. He seems to barely notice, just swiping them quickly off your cheeks before resuming his position wrapping himself tightly around you.

“Good, sweetheart… good girl, I got you…”

You hear his breathing start to even out shortly after, steady rise and fall of his chest against your body, and you realize he’s dozed off. Like he got what he wanted and decided he could rest now. Your entire body relaxes, a careful breath whooshing out that you hadn’t even been aware you were holding in. His hand is still tangled in your hair, other one possessively on your hip, giving you absolutely no room to move. You’re not sure you want to anymore, anyways, never having had such strength covering you, cloaking you from all of the dark, sinister things that the nighttime holds for you.

If you’re going insane, feeling safe with this man who forced his way around your body tonight, then so be it. Why shouldn’t you let yourself feel safe for once? Let yourself feel less of that burden, turn it over to Joel? Your own turning wheel of thoughts starts to scare you, the little voice in the back of your head telling you what you already know and have been trying to ignore. The one little thing that you immediately put your finger on but were too scared afterwards to lift it back up and observe it closer.

You weren’t having a nightmare, no, not at all. You knew when you woke from one, as sure as the god damned sky was blue and the grass was green. It wasn’t a foreign concept to you by any means after what you’d been through in your life. And tonight… tonight hadn’t been one of those nights.

dividers by @/saradika!

thank you @jupiter-soups and @huffle-punk for always beta-ing my shit and talking inspo with me. love you to the moon and back <3

#fic: smother #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!reader #dark!joel miller #dark!joel miller x reader #x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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dumbsoftheart · 4 months

Text

threads of fate

pairing: peacekeeper!coriolanus snow x preachers daughter!reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dub-con, heavy and dark religious themes, dark themes, fingering, kissing, swearing, sliiight voyerism, corruption and innocence kink,

summary: after a chase in the woods, coriolanus becomes devoted to making you his one and only follower.

notes: i don't know what came over me.. enjoy!

word count: 7.2k

౨ׅৎ

the blood of the lamb, washed over the sins of those strayed away from god, atones those begging to be spared from destruction. the saccharine ichor was the ultimate gateway towards deliverance- and thus sought out by sinners and saints alike to be granted eternal redemption for the transgressions that permeated the sweats and tears of the individuals whose secrets would have them damned to the dreadful inferno beneath their feet. the sweet lamb; symbol of innocence and purity, and the wolf who hunted it, the face of deception and treachery, stood now in the heart of the woodlands, the sweet kill hidden shamefully in the asylum of the crowded aspen as it’s predator tauntingly whistled in pursuit of it’s coveted prize.

tears fell in a waterfall down into the vessels of your collarbones, trailing down and staining the frail white fabric of your dress, unveiling the soft tanned skin of your chest in its wake. with one hand clasped tightly against your mouth, you tried to conceal your wails of fear and the threatening thumping of your heart so as not to draw attention to the towering figure looming dangerously close to you, chuckling lowly as he carefully made his way through the maze of trees and forestry. your other hand was clutched desperately on the golden cross that hung around your neck, thumb haphazardly caressing the delicate engravings and etchings of the cool metal.

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.

shame washed over you as you thought of your mother and father- your dear father, and what they would make of your inevitable disappearance. you were taught the way of the lord since you emerged from your mothers womb; it followed you everywhere you went. by all means, you had lived your life for god himself. what would he think of you now? the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of god. and yet there you were, a thief, running from, no doubt, god’s punishment for your sins.

despite your fathers widespread fame throughout the district, your family struggled to bring food and water to the table regularly. seeing the despair that clouded your mothers eyes as she failed to provide a dinner some nights for her family had driven you towards madness. you grew desperate- desperate to alleviate the stress that haunted her and satiate the hunger that settled in your stomach for the fifth day in a row. you rationalised, that with your undying devotion, god would find it in him to forgive you. with all the work your father put into his sermons and dedication to delivering god's word to the poverty stricken peoples of district 12, the divine being would be forgiving in his punishment in recognition of the loyalty you harboured.

now, you knew you were wrong.

you berate yourself for even entertaining the stupid idea of pilfering from the small bakery near the marketplace. in truth, it wasn’t even stealing. you had waited until dark threatened the sky, then snuck behind the establishment to snatch a few meagre, stale loaves that had been carelessly discarded in a small bin beside the refuse receptacles. combined with the butter you had been gifted earlier in the week, these provisions would barely suffice to stifle the persistent pangs in your stomach for a few days, at most. you naively assumed you were in solitude and hastily fled when you’d filled up your small leather bag with as many old rolls and loaves as possible.

oh, how wrong could you have been? you never caught sight of the face of the man who now charged after you- only a faint glance at a familiar blue that weaved its way through the trees- but the adrenaline rushing through your veins urged you to run, and to never stop. and now, here you were, caught in the act, pathetically weeping as you waited for the repercussions of your actions to find you.

you moved to press your back harder against the thin trunk of the tree, a twig snapping under the weight of your foot, and your eyes widened with fear as the sound reverberated against the still of the forest, the soft footsteps that trailed behind you coming to an abrupt stop. then, a voice.

“my dear, it would make it so much easier for us if you just came out. i promise you, i don’t bite.” it purred. the way he spoke was low and unrecognisable, laced with an amusement that had you shiver with the depravity of it. your crying ceased at an attempt to remain as hidden as possible, nary a whimper escaping from behind the painful grip of your hand across your mouth.

“i know you know what you did was wrong. i mean, stealing from a bakery? i wonder what your father would think of you now, his daughter a thief.”

you fought back tears at the mention of your father, shame once again weighing at your conscience, “come out, and i promise your punishment won't be as harsh as it should be.”

the proposition had you thinking for a bit, the truth behind the words appealing to you for a sliver of a moment. before you could consider your next step; find an out or comply to the omnipresent man’s offering, a gunshot pierces your ears, and you let out a shriek so loud you swore all of panem could hear you.

you begin to wail again then, uncontrollably, screaming and begging for respite as your body gave in under the weight of itself; your knees buckling and falling harshly against the ground. you shake with the ferocity of a small rodent before you’re pulled up by your shoulders and engulfed into a familiar, warm hug. your eyes wide with panic, you thrash your head back in forth in an attempt to find the man who was tormenting you, only to see that he was now gone, and in his place, a small search party lead by a peacekeeper cheered in glory at the sight of you. relief washed over you as you looked up to find your father, falling into the safety of his arms as he escorted you out of the forest, giving a curt thank you to the peacekeeper and another man you recognized to be one of your fathers students, before dragging you to the comfort of your home.

౨ׅৎ

when your father found out the reason behind your being in the woods, you’d landed yourself a life of extra chores and punished to more frequent church visits until your father decided you had repent enough. your father, reassuring you of god's forgiveness as his child, warned that your actions wouldn't fade from memory. he emphasised the necessity of restoring your relationship with the lord and savior. you were under his constant watch, now. each morning, before dropping you off at school, he compelled you to pray fervently for protection over your family and yourself, urging you to plead for deliverance from the consequences of your actions.

with your increased presence in church taking up most of the time you had to yourself, you found yourself taking note of the other frequent church goers. your father, of course, and his dedicated student, were a constant in your peripheral vision. the old couple who lived only a few minutes away from you, mrs. harmon and her froofy, dirty church outfits, her boisterous children, and her grumbling husband. you noticed small things; like how the wife of the newly-wed couple in town had stopped wearing her wedding ring, and how her husband seemed to never give her a second look. how the twin boys in the grade below you suddenly surpassed you in height, and their younger sister now seemed to lack a certain innocence that was pertinent in her character before. you made a small promise to yourself to pray for her.

there was one person, however, who you were not familiar with, yet you could feel it in the deep ends of your bones that you knew exactly who he was. he had begun to appear only once a week, his shiny buzzcut and blue peacekeeper uniform sticking out sorely from the rest of the crowd. then, twice a week- then three- and then suddenly you found you could not escape from him. everywhere you turned, he was there. when you walked home from school, you would catch him patrolling somewhere nearby, or laughing and chatting with his peacekeeper friends. when you opened the church doors for mass, he would be first to walk in, handing you a small smile before making his way to sit in the pew farthest away from you. he was there, everywhere you looked, and it unsettled you greatly. there was a lack of sincerity in his eyes when he smiled, and for a moment you thought that it had seemed like hunger, but you pushed the idea away before your brain could process it. one night, when closing the church doors and heading to your home, the small sound of rapid footsteps triggered your fight or flight response, the latter winning. when the man rested his hand on your shoulder politely, handing you a handkerchief you had dropped, you felt a strange sense of deja vu. the speed at which it sounded he had ran towards you didn’t match how he stood before you now; breathing even, chest pushed out pridefully, his dark sapphire eyes never leaving yours. but you were so sure that the man had been sprinting, just like the man who had sprinted after you a few weeks ago had. you gave him a small thank you before speed-walking your way to the front door, panting heavily as you locked it shut behind you and your hand made its way back to the pendant on your neck, grasping it so tightly it hurt, the stipe digging into the soft flesh of your palms as a way of grounding yourself back to your senses.

that night, when you got on your knees to pray, you couldn’t shake the look on the mans face from your thoughts. his features themselves were even, lacking any sense of emotion, but his eyes troubled you the most. the way they bore into yours made you feel as if you would burst into flames right then. it made you feel as if there was something he wanted from you, but your poor innocent soul couldn’t figure out what. when you nestled yourself into your bed that same night, you vowed to stay as far away from him as possible.

you hadn't realised how hard that would be.

he approached you the next morning. it was saturday, and the usual gloomy weather of district 12 had been forced away and replaced with the harsh, bright sunlight. it shone spectacularly through the stained-glass windows, gracing the dark wood of each side aisle with vibrant reds and yellows and blues and brightening the deep red carpet that lay evenly along the nave. you stood behind the pulpit, readying your fathers sermons and homilies for that week's sabbath. he had barged in unannounced, making his way towards you slowly as you pretended to ignore the tall figure making its way down the red path.

“good morning, miss,” he spoke lowly towards you, peering upwards slightly as the pulpit was slightly taller than the rest of the church, and you pretended to read through the cards and flip through your bible as if it were you preparing to speak in a mere 15 minutes. he cleared his throat once, and you waved your hand nonchalantly towards the pews, “the preacher will be ready shortly. please, have a seat.”

from behind your fathers flashcards, you could see a small tick of his jaw and he pressed his lips together tightly, nodding slowly before making his way to his usual seat, feigning interest in the architecture of the building.

“its quite beautiful, no?”

you hummed.

“i wonder how the district could afford to pay for it.”

the comment caught you off guard, causing you too look up at him with scrunched brows, your lips parted in confusion. surely, he knew the capitol had paid for it- and even then, what did it matter? a sanctuary for god deserved only the best of resources, you thought. the beauty of the church was a reflection of the beauty of your religion, the intricacies and meticulous carpentry of the building spoke to one of the three transcendentals that point to god. of course, it would be beautiful.

before you could think of a response to the bizarre musing, your father burst in, pressing a light kiss to your cheek and thanking you kindly for preparing for him. the man stood up to make his way to greet the preacher, and you were out of sight as fast as lightning.

that cycle continued for a while. he would sit in the pews, admiring the architecture (when really, he was admiring you), then stand to greet your father enthusiastically, frowning ever so slightly when you disappeared the moment he made any closer to your father. eventually, you had become quite good at avoiding him. you saw him less in the markets, saw less of him in church, and rarely caught sight of him anywhere else. that was, until you found him at your doorstep one hot summer day.

you and your mother swore it was the hottest day to see district 12, and you sat on the porch in a small, lace trimmed top and cut-off jean shorts. your hair was carelessly tossed into an updo to relieve your neck of some heat, and you sat in your fathers old chair as you sipped on some juice your family had been given earlier that day.

you weren’t expecting any visitors that day, so it was safe to say you nearly choked when the man appeared from behind the path of thrush that hid your small home from sight of the church, dressed only in the blue dress pants of his peacekeeper uniform and a thin white shirt, silver dog tag swinging like a pendulum across his chest as he made his way towards you. your father had emerged delighted, mr. snow!, he cheered, patting the man- snow, what a fitting name- on his back and urging him inside. you scrambled to the backdoor and into the kitchen where your mother rest, the door slamming behind you loudly as you entered, causing her to jump.

“dear?”

“that man daddy’s talking to- who is he?”

she gave you a halfhearted shrug, “i wouldnt know, pumpkin, it’s probably business with your father. he goes to the church, no?”

you nodded, pacing back and forth, ignoring the crazed look your mother threw at you as you processed the information.

“do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she reminded you, and your jaw dropped at the silent accusation she threw at you.

“absolutely not, mother!” you stormed back out the door, drowning your mother’s laughter out with frustrated mumbles of has she lost her mind? and what a woman! how she could ever think something about snow was tempting you was beyond your understanding. however, when you made it back to your chair and your watered down glass of juice, the sight of a shirtless ‘mr. snow’ and your, otherwise fully dressed, father in the garden, dripping sweat shamelessly into your mothers vegetable patch, a snap thought breached your mind that perhaps there was something tempting about the mysterious man.

that sent you into a frenzy. your knee bounced anxiously as you silently begged god to forgive you for the thought, and that it was simply intrusive, and not reflective of the morals and high grounds you held closely to your heart. nervously, you grabbed the book you had abandoned weeks ago and shoved your nose into the pages as if to distract yourself from your own brain and its wicked ministrations.

you weren't sure of how much time had passed, yet it felt like the man's stay was suspiciously short as he and your father made their way inside. you gave him a curt nod, and your father gave you a small lecture about manners, insisting that the two of you become accustomed to one another. and there you were, legs drawn up to your chest as if to protect yourself from the sinful looking man before you.

“my name is coriolanus snow,” he said. coriolanus. it was unlike any name you’d heard before. you returned the gesture softly, hoping that he would disappear behind your father into the house and you could breathe again, but he stayed and stared at you with that look, “your father tells me we’re the same age. he’s a nice man.”

you bit your lip at that. the same age? there was something about coriolanus that seemed older. it also begged the question: what was someone his age doing as a peacekeeper? you opened your mouth to pry at him, but he cut you off, stepping closer.

“tell me, dear, what sins weigh in your heart?”

you drew yourself back further into the safety of your chair, face laced with disgust as you tried as hard as possible to distance yourself from the imposing man now caging you into your confinement. his breath was heavy on your nose, and your heart pounded harshly- from what, you weren’t sure. fear? a sense of danger? temptation? his lips were so close to yours now, you could smell the faint scent of cologne that mingled with the saltiness of his sweat, and you tried your best to keep your breathing as even as possible, feigning indifference to his proximity to you poorly.

“i dont know what you mean, mr. snow.”

he smiled at that, laughing lowly. he didn’t expect you to know what he meant, of course, but he had an inkling that if he played his cards just right, he’d have you right where he wanted. he leaned closer now, lips dodging yours, lightly brushing your nose as his head turned to whisper in your ear.

“do you think of me at night? our little chase?”

“wh-what?”

“you’re smart, miss. think about it.”

he disappeared into the house, bidding goodbye to your mother and father and whisking himself away. your mouth remained parted, eyes wide with confusion as you tried to process what his words could have meant.

surely, he couldn’t mean..

no. absolutely not, you decided. coriolanus may have unsettled you ungreatly, but he was a peacekeeper- and your father had always told you that they served to protect you, that they would never harm you purposely. you stood shakily and made your way quietly into the old house, reeking of old wood and boiled vegetables. you sat on the couch near your brother, holding his head to your chest as you stroked his hair comfortingly, still trying to process. from the kitchen, your father called, “he’s a nice boy, no? perhaps he could be of some influence to you, sweetheart.”

you agreed meekly, despite disagreeing with your father completely. you werent entirely sure what he saw in the man at all, yet you were adamant that he was, in fact, not a good influence, but a parasite. you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. he made you feel unsafe- unsure of yourself, and for some reason, your faith. you decided he was no good; but yet you couldnt make any understanding of the bittersweet ache between your thighs.

when coriolanus walked home that evening, he couldn’t fight his smile. he saw you, in all his glory, struggling pathetically under his gaze, squirming and fidgeting uncontrollably as he trapped you within the cage of his arms.

the sacrificial lamb has been caught, he thought.

what a stupid, stupid lamb.

౨ׅৎ

you rushed into church near 5 am the next day, sleep deprived from the constant running of your mind and the damned words of coriolanus snow.

“our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” you repeated to yourself, kneeled below the large wooden crucifixion of jesus, hands clasped tightly together, your head resting painfully against the white of your knuckles.

what you were praying for, you didn’t know. you couldn't go to the confessional- heavens forbid, no. confessing secrets of your dreams of coriolanus’s hands, the outline of his jaw, the way he whispered his sinister words so sweetly into your ear- to your father? you would rather be hanged for the whole district to see. there was nothing sinful about your dreams, exactly, but it felt sinful, dirty, downright hellish. you thought of his lips, the soft and pink flesh of them, the stormy blue of his eyes- and, oh god, you couldn't stop replaying his words in your head.

‘do you think of me at night?’ he had asked you so earnestly. as if he needed you to tell him yes, you did think of him, every night. it wasn't a lie, of course, only the way you had begun thinking about him had changed. but that wasn't your doing at all, was it? no, he was to blame, for speaking to you like that, for dangling his dog tag so close that it brushed your cross indecently, for showing up to your house and stripping himself half naked, sweating impurely over the soil you and your mother sowed and reaped with love, with innocence, purity. it was entirely his fault, from the way he seemed to be forcing himself into your life. the church door creaked open, and you continued to pray, “give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

your heart raced as footsteps neared closer, as if you knew exactly who they belonged to.

“what troubles you, little lamb?” his voice took you with fear, the way it rumbled in his chest and reverberated on the walls confining the two of you, alone. you raised your head, refusing to look back at him, “i do believe that's none of your concern, mr. snow.”

you heard him chuckle lowly, repeating the words mr. snow to himself under his breath. it made you shiver, and you recited the bible verses your father drilled into your head from as young as you could remember: vindicate me, o god, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation; rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.

you could feel him now, knee pressed lightly against your back. you stood up and turned to face him, eyes wild and daring as they searched the azure maze of his own. his hand reached to stroke your hair, and you flinched.

“why is it that you fear me so much, do you think?”

“i’m not afraid of you.”

he tsked, “‘fear’ is different than ‘being afraid’, darling. to be afraid is a fleeting moment. your brain's immediate response towards danger,” he moved to touch your hair again, now more forcefully, tucking the loose strands along your hairline behind your ear.

keep back your servant also from willful sins.

he continued, “i asked, why do you fear me?”

you tried to search deeper into his eyes, trying to grasp any understanding at what he was trying to communicate to you. your mind ran amok, and it was no help that coriolanus's hand now snuck its way into your fingers, fidgeting with the soft digits mindlessly.

“i don't.. i don't know-” he cut you off by stepping closer before you finished. you had wanted to tell him that you didn't know why he thought you feared him, that you didnt understand the question, and that you needed to get home soon, so to please excuse you.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

you let out an involuntary laugh, giggling childlishly at the accusation. you stopped, when his eyes darkened.

“i’m sorry, mr. snow, but i really don’t know what you mean!” you were struggling to contain your girlish giggles. what he imposes between me and god? it was such a bizarre statement, so plainly laid out for you, that you couldn’t even comprehend it entirely. your laughing ceased, for good now, when his hand circled tightly around your wrist.

let them not have dominion over me.

then i will be upright.

“i’m not stupid, love. i saw you, yesterday, practically drooling over me. i wonder what your father would have to say if he saw the sinful way you ogled at me,” he paused, and you swallowed painfully, “and dont tell me you’ve forgotten all about our little chase, hm? wasnt it exhilarating?” now, panic engulfed you. you tried to back away from him as the pieces etched themselves together in your brain, but his hold on your wrist was only getting tighter.

“that was you?” your voice was impossibly small, weak from the alarm that blared in your head. your eyes darted back and forth desperately, searching for an out, hoping and praying that someone might burst in and see the scene before you, tear hades away from his persephone and save her from her impending doom.

i will be blameless and innocent of great transgression.

he dipped his head to your neck, lips deliciously grazing over the supple skin of your collar bone, pressing kisses so light you could barely feel them as you tried to wriggle from his grasp.

“of course it was me, darling,” the way you felt him smile against your skin was chilling, and you fought back tears as he moved impossibly closer to you, “isn’t that adrenaline rush just addicting? tell me, dove, what do you think about me when you lie in bed and replay our precious little moments together in that pretty head of yours?”

your breathing quickened, and you winced as coriolanus gripped tighter at your wrist, his other hand painfully gripping the small of your waist, massaging the gentle muscle of it. you could feel his entire body pressed against yours, and a tear threatened to slip when you felt the hard pressing of his lower region on your stomach. you shook your head, refusing to give in to his line of questioning, but his grip on your waist tightened and you cried out in pain, “your hands!” you whined, relief slowly making its way to the sore area of your waist as he loosened his grip. he made to grasp your chin under his index, forcing you to keep eye contact with him and urged you silently to keep going.

“your..” you let out a shaky sigh, “your h-ands, your voice, the words you speak to me. i don't understand why.”

he cooed at you now, as if proud of you for speaking up. your eyes darted to his lips, and you saw something flash in his eyes, “anything else?”

let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,

lord, my rock, and my redeemer.

you tried to look down at your feet as if to run away from the question, but his hold on your chin was unrelenting. shamefully, you whispered, “your lips.”

he let out a small ahhh, as if the admission shocked him. he knew, of course. of course he knew. you poor thing. sweet, little lamb, so innocent and pure. untouched by lust, blind to its deceptive allure. he knew from the moment he’d gone after you in those woods and failed to catch you, that he would do everything in his power to make sure you would never escape his grasp again. he knew when his frail attempts at getting closer to you failed, he had to resort to a harsher solution. he needed to infiltrate every space you breathed in, and break his was into your mind until he had you right where he needed you to be: malleable, so he could corrupt you just as easy.

he knew your father protected you, the extent to which he went to protect you, as well. banning sex education in your school, ensuring your mind stays as pure as possible to the exploits of fickle men and their wants. you knew the basics, thanks to your mother and her worrisome self, but her teachings were meddled down into some confusing allegory that left your mind as clueless as before, so that you stayed intact, perfect and pristine in the lords eye as well as the rest of the district, in your white frilly dresses, light makeup, and perfectly crafted manners.

he knew how easy it would be to get in your head. the human body is funny, like that, wherein it begs for things it doesn’t know of. he knew when he flexed his hands you caught sight of it, when he swallowed you intently watched the way his adams apple bobbed, he knew when he showed up to your home and stripped himself almost bare it would plague your mind with an unknowing want and desire, and soon enough, you’d have no choice but to give in to it, abandon your god and his lessons for coriolanus alone.

he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, swiping his thumb across yours as if to mirror himself, and then ducked his head closer, “go on.”

you squeezed your eyes shut. everything felt so, so wrong, and you didn't know why, but you couldn't stop. when he continued to toy with your lip, slightly plunging the tip of his finger past them and into your mouth, you let out an involuntary, small moan, and your legs shook and quivered as the strange ache from yesterday returned.

“wh-what?”

“kiss me.”

your eyes widened, and you shook your head. coriolanus thought it was adorable, how you struggled to piece together what was about to happen, how your brain tried desperately to fill in the blanks with information it didnt know. you heard coriolanus sigh disapprovingly at your protests and he shoved his thumb further into your mouth, causing you to choke. he removed it, then wiped the saliva that remained over your bottom lip before inserting the digit in his mouth, tasting you.

“its okay, little one. you can kiss me. he wont mind,” you didnt realize your fingers lingered over the necklace nestled on your chest, and your gaze followed his finger as he gestured upwards. he wont mind. you racked your brain over the things coriolanus said to you from he entered the church.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

now, you truly hoped someone would burst in, and you could scream and wail as you explained the horrors coriolanus was about to commit to you (even if those horrors were unclear). he was so close, and something still pressed hardly against your stomach, and suddenly you couldn't breathe, “he would mind. i promise to pray for you coriolanus, i don't know what troubles you, but the lord-”

he cut you off by shoving his lips onto yours harshly, groaning at the contact. his hands made their way to rest on your clothed breasts, and you wriggled and struggled to try get away from him, but your efforts were fruitless. you were cornered, now. a lamb with nowhere to run or hide, forced to face its fate. he ravaged your lips, hands restless as they caressed all over your protesting body. the ache between your legs grew, and a small part of you realized that the last thing you wanted right now was for someone to walk in, and see the preacher's daughter being completely defaced by a peacekeeper.

“your god cant give me what i need, angel. cant you see? you did this to me,” his hand grabbed yours as he pulled away to speak, trailing it down the hard muscle of his abdomen and palming the hardness that threatened to burst through the seam of his pants. your eyes were wide and doe-like, and coriolanus never needed to fuck you more. his lips met yours again, and his other hand fumbled to remove his pants, hissing when the air hit his straining cock, all while you tried your best to distance yourself from him as much as possible. your face was hot, and your hands remained in the air, unsure of where to rest them, as you slowly allowed coriolanus to slip his tongue into your mouth.

“good girl,” he practically growled, and you let out a pathetic squeak when you felt your core tighten, pleasure washing over you at the small praise. coriolanus was turned on beyond conception, moaning disgracefully as he stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear. if you could see the spectacle the two of you were making, in the middle of church- no less, the thought alone had coriolanus close to the edge. you gasped when you saw him palm himself, and without thinking, your hand brushing his ever so slightly, lingering a second too long before his eyes snapped up at yours, pleading you to go ahead and touch him.

when you finally pressed your hand to his clothed region, you swore the way coriolanus threw his head back with a small mewl and moan would land you an eternity in hell alone.

“thats it, baby, jus’ like that.. keep going..” you gasped when his hand sneaked its way under your dress- your sunday best- your hand faltering a bit when his long middle finger lightly grazed your clothed cunt. the foreign feeling it elicited from you had you desperately searching coriolanus’s eyes for an answer, unable to speak as his fingers that toyed with the most intimate parts of you had you moaning softly and lowly, uncontrollably. you continued to palm him, and his hand slipped into the lacy cotton of your panties, cursing hotly under his breath when he feels you.

“so wet for me. you dirty fucking girl, look at you: making a mess in church.” you didnt know what he meant, but shame burned through your skin. confusion grappled at you and you began to sob, not ignoring the way your tears seemed to make coriolanus throb beneath you, “please stop, coriolanus, this is immoral.”

“baby, if it feels good, then it cant be bad,” he stroked the tear stains on your cheek softly, cupping your face with false earnest as he pulled your head to lay on his chest, “does it feel good?”

coriolanus reveled in the way you looked up at him, like a devoted follower in the arms of their saviour. when you nodded slowly, he gently spun you around and shoved your face into the cool wood of the crucifixion behind you, his hand painfully pushing against your cheek enough so that you couldn't look anywhere but above you, into the sad eyes of jesus.

your panties were ripped off with a shriek that was muffled by coriolanus’s hand around your mouth, and you sobbed as pain mixed with pleasure as he gave a few slaps to your dripping cunt, mumbling about how pretty it is. in a desperate attempt to wiggle out of your new position, you accidentally arched your back further, giving him more access.

“let me show you how i can love you,” he whispered into your ear, before returning his fingers to the slick mess that coated your cunt, your body jolting when they occasionally brushed over your clit, the unfamiliar sensation already too overwhelming for you to handle. with a few more agonising strokes of his fingers, he prodded at your hole, teasing your entrance in a way that had your eyes roll to the back of your head. when he finally slipped them in, your hand pounded desperately against the cross you were pressed up on, pleads to stop falling pathetically into the hand of coriolanus and onto deaf ears. he was merciless with it, greedily pounding his fingers into you in a way that had your knees gravitating towards each other and animalistic grunts of pleasure vibrating through his hand.

something in you burned, your body was pleading for more as an unfamiliar coil formed in the pit of your stomach. your hand continued to bang against the cross, tears falling as you forcibly peered into the eyes of your saviour while you got your cunt ravaged in the middle of his shrine.

“oh god, oh god” you mumbled through his hand. you were unsure if it was shame, or the delicious way coryo pumped his fingers into you, but you grew lightheaded and dumb, eyes hazy as you grew closer to your release.

“thats it, take it. you’re filthy, taking my fingers so well in the middle of church.” now, both hands scraped desperately against the cross, leaving marks in the wake of your fingernails digging into the hardwood. coriolanus tugged your head further up, forcing you to stare at him with tears streaming down your face and desperate pleas for him to stop going unheard. he smiled coyly when he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, and he withdrew them just before you reached your release, a loud, agonising whine of relief and desperation leaving your smushed lips. he was quick to replace his fingers with his cock, the slow intrusion of it making you let out a low, droned out groan as he stretched your virgin cunt past its limit.

he removed his hand from your mouth, and a string of prayers tumbled out of it, “o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended thee,” and “and i detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend thee, my god, who art all good and deserving of all my love.” it earned you a slap to your ass, and you cried out loudly as coriolanus shoved your dress off of you, watching as it fell uselessly around your legs into a pool of white. he flipped you around, admiring your soft breasts and the way they spilled over in the hold of his fingers, and he traced the soft, plumpness of your belly as he chuckled lowly at your continuous prayer. with his cock still nestled into you, he leaned forward to whisper in your ear.

“god loves you, but not as much as i do,” and then he thrust his cock into you with such force that you nearly tumbled to the floor. his hand rest on your lower back, forcing you to arch closer to him, your hips meeting his unwillingly at his fast pace. coriolanus’s cock grazed the inside of your gummy walls perfectly, and you found yourself slipping from reality as he continued to pound his dick into you, moaning when you contracted around him without rhythm, your inexperienced self almost overloaded with pleasure, unable to control your body.

“you’re being such a good girl, taking my cock like this,” he weaved a hand through your hair, “‘n you’re gonna let me cum inside you, yeah? gonna make a woman out of you.” you couldnt focus on the words he was throwing at you, lost in pleasure as the tip of coryo’s dick hit that one spot over and over again. the way he spoke to you had you at a crossroads, and it didnt help that he was fucking you into oblivion, and now you understood what he had meant when he said he imposed between you and god, because you were becoming addicted to the push and pull of his cock inside of you.

“thats right, take it. you look so pretty all dumb and fucked out on my cock,” you reached to grab his arm to steady yourself, your orgasm creeping in closely, “you gonna cum for me?”

you didn't know what it meant, but you nodded anyways, completely lost in bliss, “coryo..” you moaned out, his brows raising slightly at the new nickname, a smirk settling on his face. moans and mewls lewdly left your mouth as he quickened his pace, his unused hand massaging at your tits, twisting and pinching softly at your nipples as you thrashed with pleasure under him.

“gonna make you worship this fucking cock, baby” he was close himself now, his head falling and his voice itching up an octave, lewd moans clashing with yours as the rhythm and pace he set began to falter, and he fucked you as hard as he could as he chased your high and his own, “gonna make you devoted to me. you’re never gonna wanna be away from me again,” his face twisted with pleasure, and you circled your arms around his neck as you tried to ground yourself, the coil in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel and threatening to snap. a shadow passed, and your eyes widened with terror as you slapped coryo’s arm haphazardly, begs falling from your mouth to stop. he turned his head lazily to look at what you were whining about, but his thrusts didn't stop.

“let them see what a dirty fucking girl you are.”

your walls tightened and your eyes rolled so far back into your head you were scared they wouldn't come back up as your orgasm reached you. you covered your mouth, shrieking desperately as the shockwaves of pleasure rolled over you, the newfound feeling unrelenting as it took over every part of your body. coriolanus repeated words of encouragement and praise as he fucked you through your high, before bottoming out and releasing his load in you, christening your walls. you whined at the feeling, so full and drunk off of it that your concerns of the passerby faded. the both of you stood there, panting heavily, both groaning when coryo slid out of you. he slapped his tip on your puffy clit one, two, three times, before a loud knock rapped on the church door.

you could feel coriolanus’s spill leaking out of you as you crouched on your knees, hidden, and you cried silently, the reality of what had just happened to you settling in. coriolanus snow had corrupted you, in the worst possible way, and now you could only feel yourself crave more of him. as he spoke to the intruder, egging them to run along, a thumb caressed your head gently, as if to tell you he had everything under control. the small southern drawl he’d begun to pick up was more prominent. when the intruder finally left, you were forced to your feet, and coriolanus grabbed your ruined panties, resting on his knees below you to shove them into your used cunt, before making his way back to his feet, towering over you. he spoke to you like he would if he were on duty:

“you go on home now, miss. and tell your father i say hello.”

and you did.

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow smut #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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devildomwriter · 6 months

Text

Satan Birthday Special 100 Fun Facts

1. Satan was born from a combination of Lucifer’s intense wrath and him tearing off his wings, this gave Satan flesh for a body

2. Physically, Satan is the youngest but he is ranked fourth as he is fourth strongest of the seven brothers

3. Satan often fears he is nothing but a lesser copy of Lucifer

4. Satan’s wrath was so out of control after his birth his brothers did anything they could to stop his rages, including tying him in chains and stuffing him in a locker, knocking him out, or holding him underwater until he passed out

5. When Satan discovered cats he burst into Levi’s room demanding to know more about this

6. Satan believes Leviathan is mature in the way he focuses on other people’s opinions

7. Satan has always been a demon and accepting wrath as part of who he was so he did not struggle with his sin like his brothers did

8. Satan treasures the first things his brothers ever gave him

9. Satan’s tail is spiky and you can be injured touching it if you aren’t careful

10. Satan gets angriest over petty inconveniences

11. Simeon believes that Satan always only wearing one sleeve of his jackets is his way of rebelling

12. Satan has a tendency to overthink things

13. Satan does his best to avoid arguing with his brothers even when they annoy him

14. Satan is compared to a cat by his brothers due to his tendency to show up in completely random places when you least expect

15. Satan has connections in almost every industry as he’s easily able to socialize and make friends

16. Satan claims his books are organized in a way he understands

17. Once Satan’s books collapsed on him and he stayed there for several days relaxing

18. Satan enjoys the fine arts and likes going to art museums

19. Satan enjoys theatre and the opera

20. Satan easily gets his hands on rare and cursed objects to the point it impresses Lucifer

21. Satan has successfully cursed Lucifer several times. The worst of them being when he transferred his pain from Solomon’s cooking to Lucifer.

22. Satan originally looks down on manga but changes his mind after reading a bunch of manga Levi switched out in his room as a prank

23. Satan loves watching dramas and mysteries, especially Mid-Fall Murders

24. Due to watching crime shows regularly Satan believed that when dining in the human world you tell the waitress you’d like “the usual” and they’ll know what you mean

25. Although originally Satan complains he’s never beat Diavolo in chess, it’s implied he finally beats him in season 3

26. Satan has a major inferiority complex when it comes to Lucifer which causes him to often doubt himself

27. Satan is subscribed to Monthly Devil Architect’s Digest

28. Satan was once cursed to see everything as cats, he wasn’t the least bit bothered

29. Satan gifted Lucifer a scarf that was cursed to grow eternally

30. Satan doesn’t seem to realize how terrifying his anger is when he is visibly confused as to why his brothers are hiding

31. Satan has hoarded cats in the past and is no longer allowed to have any

32. Satan feeds a local cat he has named Sir Cat

33. Satan gives MC instructions on feeding many of the cats who come by serenity manor

34. When attempting to turn Simeon’s cafe into a cat cafe he “borrowed” a bunch of cats from witches. He was distressed when they were all returned to their owners.

35. Satan once fell asleep with a cat in public and ended up covered in Hell Zakura petals. Solomon thought it was cute.

36. Satan cursed a pizza deliverer for putting pineapple on their pizza

37. Satan desires to be on the receiving end of a loving headbutt by a cat in full force

38. Satan checks cat blogs before he goes to bed as they give him energy for the next day

39. Satan has to be told to stop using cat stickies as he puts them everywhere

40. Satan covered his and Belphegor’s laptops in cat stickers

41. Satan enjoys classical music, symphonies, and Ska music

42. Satan prefers food chunkier than smooth because it has more bite to it

43. Satan enjoys the bitterness of Dark chocolate

44. Satan has said his type is someone he can have a mutual understanding with when it comes to anger

45. Satan has had things thrown at his head multiple times in the game, some of these items include a pillow, a piece of trash, and a pile of pancakes

46. Satan hates baby talk, more specifically when Asmodeus uses it

47. Satan has inherited some of Lucifer’s memories and emotions

48. When Satan was cursed to stay close to Lucifer he would just stare and growl at Lucifer from the corner of the room

49. Satan’s antagonistic behavior towards Lucifer is somewhat compulsive as even he wishes he didn’t dedicate so much time to Lucifer but cannot stop himself

50. Satan let’s Belphegor sleep on his lap even though it annoys him

51. Satan learned how to read ancient human text from Solomon

52. Satan considers Mephistopheles an ally since they both dislike Lucifer

53. In a love survey on B’s Log Satan says he wants to “bind and monopolize” his lover and is the active one pursuing love

54. Satan cherishes relationship anniversaries and special dates of remembrance

55. In a relationship with obstacles, Satan chooses to face the difficulties with passion

56. When it comes to a lover, Satan said he would get jealous easily

57. Satan originally did not understand humans and assumed they’d all be fine receiving expensive items and gems as gifts and was angry when MC did not

58. Satan has ranked his favorite cat positions as stalk-straight tail, slow blink, making biscuits, head butting, and bellyflops

59. Satan secretly dislikes Green Peas

60. Satan is annoyed by the RAD Newpsaper Club account and has the notifications for it turned off

61. Satan says he tends to sleep on his stomach to avoid being hit in the face when his books randomly come avalanching down on him

62. Satan starts all his baths by washing his left arm

63. Satan’s daily activity is petting a cat

64. Satan’s dream is to have a cat

65. On sleepless nights, Satan calls MC because he finds their voice soothing

66. Satan’s motto is “Wisdom is the treasure of all generations.”

67. Satan’s rage emits so much energy it’s too much for humans to handle and can shake buildings and break things without getting near them

68. Satan sends cursed chain mail to Lucifer daily

69. When Mammon could only speak cat, Satan was called to help and he spent the day happily playing with cat toys with Mammon

70. Satan became enraged with Raphael when he was compared to Lucifer

71. Satan is very knowledgeable when it comes to the constellations and the specific stars among them

72. Satan believes Easter is the perfect excuse to throw eggs at Lucifer

73. Satan looks forward to fall as he believes it’s the best season for reading

74. Satan has trouble eating something if it looks like a cat

75. Satan always has a bag of cat treats with him wherever he goes

76. Satan seems to remember exactly where he left off in a book when he falls asleep reading. In an interview with B’s Log he says “Yesterday I was in the mood for The Complete Book of Cat's Paws, but I fell asleep on the Havana Brown page, around line no. 27.”

77. Satan sometimes hums the theme song to mid fall murders

78. Satan’s compliments often sound more like insults

79. Satan originally took Levi to be a nobody with no powers.

80. Satan once used Diavolo as a hostage

81. When Satan wanted to get MC a gift he offered to kill someone for them

82. Satan enjoys a railroad building mobile app

83. In the baseball game in the anime, Satan’s team lost 0 to 666 but Satan still claims it’s the game where he trumped Lucifer

84. Satan owns a book that can enter the memories of whoever first opens it

85. Satan built a life like snow sculpture of Lucifer out of spite, knowing Lucifer would feel uncomfortable

86. Satan once decorated the backyard with cat towers hoping it’d become a cat colony

87. Satan is the secretary of the RAD student council

88. Satan is the one who introduced the idea of second-hand/used bookstores to the Devildom.

89. Satan has a collection of priceless jewels that are rare in both the human world and Devildom. It’s not stated how he got his hands on them but he is alluded to being very wealthy by Leviathan

90. Believing they were lost deep in the forest, Satan initiated sex with MC but they were immediately after found by Beelzebub

91. Satan said if he was in a horror movie he’d be the silent killer “helping” the detectives and frame Lucifer for all the murders

92. Satan once got into a fight with Beelzebub over who liked Devilcat most

93. Satan once went to a riddle event with Solomon and MC

94. Satan bribed Barbatos with rare tea to let him go to the human world alone

95. In an interview with B’s Log he said his everyday small happiness is gaining new knowledge

96. Something Satan believes is absolutely not allowed in front of him is disrespecting cats and is quoted saying “Dare to make disrespectful remarks about cats in front of me. I’ll **** and **** your ****.” — B’s log

97. Satan’s three rules for his daily life are — Read books, play with cats, and make time for yourself

98. When asked if he prefers mature or child-like people, he states he prefers mature people and then immediately references Simeon

99. Satan is skilled with cooking stews and enjoys working with the variety of spices and herbs Barbatos gives him

100. Satan believes his composure makes him “cool” and that he only “very, very occasionally” loses his temper

#obey me fun fact #obey me fun facts #obey me satan #om satan #happy birthday Satan #omswd Satan #obey me shall we date Satan

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catfern · 19 days

Text

deliverance

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: priest!abby anderson x afab!sinner!reader

music: the deliverance playlist

word count: 5k

summary: your mother is dead, and you're left returning to a home that never really was to pick up the pieces. memories are haunting creatures, insistent on destroying you. luckily, your redemption may come by the hands of god yet.

WARNINGS: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED ─ themes of religious trauma and abuse, hint of encouraged disordered eating, mother issues, non-major character death, some internalised homophobia

you never thought you had missed the magnolia trees. you had very little thought about the soft, white flowers of your youth after you left, scattered the pieces of yourself across the midwest to rot, forgotten.

a foreign pit sits in your stomach now as the jaunty convertible rolls across the dirt of the road. pillowy cream petals line the overgrown grass, dance in the wind and fall in your back seat. a concession. the only welcome you’ll ever get.

the soft smile on the solicitor’s face is a cruel, mocking joke. you don’t know how long he’s been waiting for you to roll down the long drive, but you can see the imprint of his shoes on the decaying wood steps, the scuffle of his path through the dead leaves, the rotten petals.

you had gotten the call late at night, breaking through an unwelcome silence. not from the hospital, but from the state. your mother was dead, and a team of lawyers had chased a harbinger trail left by your sixteen-year-old self to find you.

you left those breadcrumbs, in delusion, for your family. a final call, love me, love me, love me. years passed, no one followed.

you pull the car into park, the echo of the radio dying across the empty plains.

“miss-“ his voice is syrupy, a deep rasp coddled in the kindness of an all-american accent. he’s cut off by the slam of the car door, the scratch of your heels on the gravel driveway. you eye him, slowly, the foreign entity on your mother’s porch. stood by the neglected swing, the smell of rust and sand and infestation clinging to him, inane.

“can’t you leave me to clear this place out in peace?”

he stutters something unsure, you can feel his eyes draping over you, a quick flash of something delusionally hungry, “w-well, miss, there’s the matter of the funeral. your mother named you executor of her will.”

of course she fucking did.

you sigh, something innately powerless nipping at your heels. your mother’s last laugh from the grave. well, from the morgue, really. if you could let that woman sit in a faithless freezer, an eternal purgatory, you would. she’s not worth the embrace of her god’s dirt.

“fine.”

you supposed you had hoped to get it all done in two days. pack everything in flimsy cardboard boxes and dump it in the parking lot of the nearest salvation army, purposefully forgotten.

and now, with the door forced open, the warm, unmoving heat of the sun pouring through and eating at your back, ghosts of a slighted childhood tease you, in the rotted landscape of your home. perhaps once, there was something happy here, but the domain of a conformist hoarder shows you no such peace.

the looming feeling of the cross your father nailed above the fridge when you were fourteen was something you had hoped to never feel again. a jittery taunt as the light inside it comes alive,

‘god sees your gluttony,’

clearly, considering the only thing left in the fridge was the whispering stench of rotted milk. you hold the carton at arms length as you toss it in the small waste basket in the pantry, and weigh your waning options.

spend a hundred bucks on food delivery fees, or make an appearance in town, for the low, low price of the dignity you lost years ago.

summer hasn’t changed, in the breast of the small town you grew up in. nestled between the buzz of marshes and the sprawl of empty, overgrown farmland, stately buildings with wasting foundations cast shadows, small reprieves from the unforgiving burn of the sun on the pavement.

the small chatter of young housewives echoes in the quiet of the late afternoon as you step out from the shield of the air conditioned supermarket, heaving your bags in tow. you forgot how much the underhanded heat sneaks into your body, lays in your bones. even still, with the foreign freedom of shorts and a shirt your mother would have never let you wear, summer sits in your crevices, uncomfortably in the hollow of your skin.

something flashes in the corner of your eye, something unfamiliar hiding in the sunlight. you squint, a misguided effort to chase the feeling settling deep beneath your stomach, pushing in on your organs. awareness abandoned, you stand in wait like a dog tied to a pole outside the corner shop, lips ajar as you stare into the blown light of noon, eager.

slowly, the anomaly comes into blurry focus.

that’s new.

gold catches in the sunlight, a soft sheen of sweat like diamonds in your eyes.

a woman. you’ve never seen her before, and this place is hardly somewhere people choose to come.

She was shaking the hand of Mr. Collins, your neighbour. God, he aged poorly. Next to the shrivel of a man, she looked as if sculpted by god. a gift, the contour of her muscles beneath the relaxed fit of her shirt a taunting appraisal. cargo shorts and a graphic tee, not the expected attire of a woman. she definitely looked out of place, especially here, but the air of comfortability she carried said otherwise. people were happy to see her. her face, made so harsh and angular, was soft in conversation. figures.

you, an abomination. her, this stark difference to everything you were ever taught, welcomed.

your name echoes across the tranquility of the plaza, and for a moment, your eyes meet. the woman swallows.

“i thought that was you! my stars, i never thought i’d see you again!”

a manicured hand grabs at you, and you’re broken from your haze.

prudence was smiling at you. you’d never seen her smile, only snicker and whisper.

“i haven’t seen you since high school!”

for a reason. you clear your throat, and manage a strained smile. friend, tormentor, you were always unsure whether she was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole. you had hoped to never see her again.

“how’ve you been!” her voice was too sugary, too loud for the daze of a summer afternoon. you felt hungover.

“hm? fine, i’ve been fine.” you’re trying not to sound distracted, disinterested. you’re watching as the woman from earlier disappears around the corner of the store. her face, curious and kind, lingers in your mind.

the oppressive heat of the morning breeze wisps through your hair, beating the tenets of unease down onto your skin. the church stands foremost, casting a shadow that offers no cool relief, no reprieve. per her last wishes, you will bury your mother in her congregation.

the solicitor assured you that the old pastor has passed since you left.

an early morning appointment, for privacy, to discuss the burial. the way to go about it.

might as well get it over with.

it hasn’t changed, since you were young. you remember sticking to the pews, sweat melting your skin as you leaned to find a whisper of a breeze. the walls do well to trap the swelter of mid-year.

“for a minute there, i was sure you weren’t coming.” a low, calm voice echoes in the emptiness of the hall.

there, the woman from yesterday stands, not yet looking at you. instead, she opts to fiddle with the cuffs of her blazer, her golden hair tied back in a neat braid, falling down her back and shimmering in the artificial light. when she meets your eye, there’s that flicker of curiosity and disquiet, the way she looked at you in the square.

she clears her throat, holding her hand out. “i’m abigail. you must be-“

“yeah,” you say all too quickly, taking her hand tenderly.

there’s a beat of silence, your bravery seeming to pin you looking at each other, unable to shake the gaze of the other.

finally, abigail speaks, “why don’t we-uh, do you wanna? let’s sit,”

you nod, following her as she leads you back, through the twisting, turning halls, a path so densely taken by you once. you knew the way, but you followed behind her all the same.

her office is .. different, to how father mckenzie decorated it. where his walls were bare, imposing, quiet and godly, abigail’s is showered in kindness, in humanity. pictures of her soccer team, of her volunteer work, her smile a littered memory through all of them. her degree in theology from a far off university is pinned proudly behind her.

learned, real, tangible.

“i was.. sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. i’m sure it was quite a shock to you as well.”

she uses that voice. the voice of pastors, the voice of god. for years, you’d wondered how long they practiced it. walking the line between genial and authoritative, the voice that brings others to kneel.

you nod slightly, remembering your obligation to reaction. your throat is dry, “yeah, well, we hadn’t spoken in a few years, so…”

she frowns, skin deep, a purchased expression, “i’m aware. she often confided in me her troubles, she was… kind. i can imagine a life without her support must have been difficult.”

a vicious laugh half erupts from your throat before you struggle to contain it, but you half expect abigail to shoot you a knowing smirk.

kind?

“are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?” you eye her now, slumped back in your seat, like a defiant child. tongue in cheek, you let your head roll back, “speak to anyone, i’m sure ‘kind’ isn’t the word they’d use.”

abigail clears her throat again, shuffling around some papers on her desk, letting the discomfort of the room get to her, “dutiful, then. i apologise if i struck a cord.”

“no, no,” your gaze is scrutinising, painful to be underneath. in a way, gratification snuck under your skin with how easy it was to upset her, to finally be the bigger, badderperson in this godforsaken room, “she was kind to you,” your eyes flutter over the heave of her body as she breathes, “you’re lucky then. that’s not a courtesy she extends-extended to many.”

“well, then i’m particularly grateful.”

“you should be.”

a stalemate, almost. your words sit dry in the air, hanging like a taunt.

“right, well,” abigail begins, looking down at your mother’s will, “your mother requested that i speak the sermon at her service. i know you aren’t particularly religious, but i would encourage-“

“did she tell you that?”

she looks up at you, her eyes hanging through her eyelashes. perhaps she grew tired of your contempt, perhaps she grew firm, “would it be such a bold assumption either way?”

that actually brings a laugh from you, harsh as it is. a beat, “no, i suppose not.”

you watch as she continues, skimming through the will and taking anecdotes with her right hand, penmanship on show. you can see the etching of her arm even underneath the cursed wool of the jacket, the broadness of her shoulders hiding beneath her holy uniform. you wonder how long it took for her to carve that out of herself. you wonder if the clergy collar was the thing stopping you from something you would’ve usually done.

“just do it according to what she wanted,” you say quickly, readjusting yourself in your seat as you break from your own glaring, “i suppose i’ll pay for it either way,”

abigail looks at you, a stare akin to a kind, confused dog. “oh, alright, well,” she stands curtly, going to shake your hand once more, “thank you for coming in then. it was good to finally meet you,”

you nod as if to say the same, but the words don’t actually fall from your lips. turning to leave, your name in her voice hooks you,

“i would encourage you to come to the sunday service, if you have the time.” she says, her face painted genuine, generous, “perhaps peace with the lord is something that you find you’ll need.”

it’s not like the invite was a mockery, you tell yourself as you buckle your heel. she was extending something kind. maybe she read you better than you did yourself.

you hadn’t exactly packed for a formal occasion, disregarding the knee length black dress you borrowed from walmart the day you found out you were staying for a funeral.

this was the next best thing.

dark red against the bare of your skin, your dress barely brushed mid-thigh, although the omission of fabric on your tits would be welcome in the afternoon trapped in the church. you eye the ornate glass cross your mother kept propped up on the console table,

oh, well. if god loved you, you suppose he would just have to forgive you.

you resolve to be david attenborough, you think to yourself as your convertible jaunts into park on the dirt road leading up to the congregation. scholar of these creatures in worship.

you can feel the town eyeing you as you take your first brave step, whispers a background to your arrival. makes you feel special, at least. you hardly have the time to act tough before prudence rushes you, husband on arm.

“we didn’t think we’d see you today!” she smiles, “you remember anthony?”

of course. anthony, the frightened young boy you had once shared a cigarette with outside the hubbub of the church’s youth mixer. you had comfort in you, back then, enough to share. you had told him once that his ‘weird feelings’ toward another boy at school was nothing to be scared of. nothing trumps the fear of god, though. he ran home and opened his mouth, he got you run out of town.

you stifle a laugh, and nod as you follow the swarm of people inside.

you know it’s narcissistic to assume that all eyes are on you, that every slighted giggle was directed at you, but right here, right now, it’s true. your mother no longer around to backhand your rebellion, you bare it full force.

you slip into an empty pew at the back, not scared, but rather hopeful to capture the breeze of one of the two standing fans.

the torrid heat already getting to you, a sheen of sweat is sitting on the cup of your cleavage that’s bare, heaving with each thick, heavy breath. your eyes trail abigail as she takes to the pulpit.

“i am so, so happy to see you all here with me today, under the eyes of the lord,”

something about summer agrees with her, you suppose. the brutality of it doesn’t seem to cling to her, her stride and keen smile unbroken. you can still eye, from the back, the details in her hands as she flips through the paper of her sermon.

there’s strength behind how gently she carries herself.

for one neurotic moment, you think you see her eyes dance over you, meeting yours before flittering away. you cross your legs and shake the feeling.

instead, you find yourself swallowed by the steel of her gaze. the authority that so well suits the sharpness of her features. you can tell she was not built to be generous, that god believed her stare to be absolution. the benevolence that she wears, that so illy sits on the brawn of her body, was never meant for her.

you wonder what abigail was like when she was mean. you wonder if she ever was.

“before we begin today, i want to remind you all that we will be bidding farewell to an esteemed member of our beloved community tomorrow. i beseech you all to attend if you can,”

softness doesn’t belong to her.

maybe, in another life, you would’ve seen the abigail god intended. crossed paths in the dive bar you frequent in the city, found her in the bathroom of a club, framed by the deafening beat of bad music.

you think to what her hand would feel like, rough and blistered with work unholy, pinning your wrist to the grime of a bathroom stall.

the warmth of her breath, coddled in whiskey and smoke, on your skin, the scent of her determined.

you eye her fingers as they turn the page of her notes, and imagine the strength of them pulling you apart, twisting you to her desire.

“i urge you to keep her soul in your prayers, so that she may find her way home to the lord,”

you feel the trickling of heat up your neck, your ears burning, your breath quick and scattered. something sick and swallowing sits in your stomach, you can feel eyes on you, but when you look up past the congregation, you see nothing.

it’s like you’re being smoked out, a sinner in church. you almost fall to your feet as you scramble out into the aisle, chest heaving as you rush out the open door.

you break through the stuck door of your family’s home, arid and heavy. your grip on your mother’s glass cross is titan, as you toss it, watch it shatter across the floorboards.

this was a joke.

the soft, rhythmic flap… flap… flap of Mrs Dixon’s black bone hand fan was the drum procession of which you were to bury your mother.

considering the climbing heat of the day, it was a wonder her bones hadn’t already rotted in the cheapest coffin you could’ve found. the sun high and taunting in the cloudless sky, it burned down on the congregation, the swelling crowd that had come to worship the life of that creature. that tormentor.

the old women of the church, the same who had once chewed their cheeks over the skirt length of your sunday best, who had counselled your mother over her faithless daughter, stood crown among the sea of black, eyeing you, scrutinising you, as they had always done. and like a hare caught in the crosshair of a hunter, you found yourself shrinking, as you once did, when you were fourteen.

you purse your lips, and try to steel your withering facade.

“we gather here today, to put to rest our sister in christ,”

abigail’s voice was commanding, you had to give her props. gentle, but worthy of attention. you can imagine a kind word from her was heavily sought after, amongst the faithful, chasers of praise from the workers of the lord. you watched her, embraced by the back of the daylight, the skin of her neck glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. her breath was heavy but not scattered, the rise and fall of her shoulders, broad, something mesmerising, oddly comforting.

her hands tighten their grip on her sermon. you can spy the cursive writing sifting through the back of the paper, bathed in sunlight. she must feel the bristle of your gaze.

“a pillar of the community, a hero of the faith,”

you studied her, like you would a specimen, cut open and bare. there was something about her, something in her that your mother liked, enjoyed, despite her many ungodly flaws. like the indeterminable, you stood in fascination. what was it? what was it that she had, that you had lacked?

was she merely hiding behind the cross, behind her steadfast dogma? you could have done that. you didn’t, but you could have.

you could have stayed, here. played your part. you could have been that child of the church. you could have done it, had you not chosen your own convictions. would, then, have abigail still appeared, had you stayed and been your mother’s daughter? a perfect echo of everything you weren’t?

was she just a spectre, summoned here to mock you in your failings?

the pit in your stomach is decaying, swallowing you whole. you knew perfectly well that had you stayed, you still wouldn’t have been what your mother wanted. you never were, never could be. you could not have deigned to touch the pedestal that abigail sat on.

a tear stings at the baseline of your eye, a foreign feeling, and you swallow the sharp presence in your throat.

abigail finishes, tucks her sermon away neatly in her pocket. the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

you never could’ve done the right thing, had you had the chance to go back and change it all. for your mother saw you, and saw everything she hated. every quality she herself turned away from god.

after all, filth begets filth.

the harsh clicking of the lighter broke a holy, suppressive silence in the halls of the church. you stare up at the great stained glass mural behind the lectern, fractures of colour scattered across the carpet. you pull the cigarette from the purse of your mouth and watch as the smoke swirls up, splits and ebbs into the clean, pure air.

“you can’t smoke in here,”

her voice isn’t harsh, or reprimanding, but rather, lost. quiet, unsure, like a mouse. something cowardly.

you hold the cigarette out to her, not risking to look back and face her. she takes it gingerly, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, doesn’t dare to put it out.

“my mother loved god. more than she loved my dad,” you look over your shoulder to meet her eyes. her brow furrowed, her expression meek.

“the lord is easy to love,” she steps forward, to stand level with you. her blazer brushes against the bare of your arm, soft cotton. you scoff quietly, mockingly.

“i never felt that.” you take the cigarette back from abigail’s hand in one fowl swoop and take another drag. she says nothing, “god is difficult.”

she looks at you, as if you were a mystery, quizzically, “you take His name in vain so easily.”

you meet her gaze and almost laugh. she’s frowning at you with the face of a child, with the same innocence that’s almost insulting, “yeah, well,” your words fall as you suck in smoke, “Him and i are old friends.”

there’s a sudden, shifting silence between you. the ash of your cigarette falls contrast on the red of the carpet, but you make no move to clean it. you hold your gaze at the cross at the front of the hall, almost daring it to look away first.

“i understand you and your mother had a complicated relationsh-“

“you know nothing about me and my mother,” you say quickly, sharply, negating any comfort. suddenly, you’re pinning abigail under your gaze, and her graciousness falters.

“she told me a great deal of things,” abigial says firmly, almost cementing herself in place against the wind of your unwavering disposition. for the first time, you see in her defiance, a challenge.

you step forward for a moment, unsteady on your tiptoes, and the fine details of abigail's features become briefly clear. the light, sun kissed pink brushed across the high of her cheekbones, the crook in her nose where she undoubtedly broke it once, the gold in the baby hairs that escaped her neat braid to frame her face wildly, contrast to the carefully kept order of her appearance. you had hoped to push her back into uncertainty, back into a quiet disposition, and perhaps you have. you watch her swallow headily. your closeness could melt you if you weren't careful, the heat from her breath swirling against your skin. you want to celebrate the nervousness creeping into her eyes, but instead you just feel... enthralled.

"and what did she tell you about me, hm?" you hold your chin high with a wicked cruelty in your smile, "did she disclose to you my many sins?"

her voice is a quiet choke, as much as she fights to keep it steady. she looks at you, examining you like a human to an animal, "you're troubled, you lack guidance-"

"your guidance? or god's?" your eyes flicker but you couldn't say to where. oppression is a symphony, in the house of the lord, makes the air syrupy, dazed. there's a blur in this moment between you, "is there any difference?"

you can hear her breath catch in her throat, the space between you thick, immobile.

“tell me, am i exactly how my mother described?”

“more than.” she stifles an unearned breath, “you test me.”

you take a final drag of your cigarette, stamping the butt into the carpet. abigail says nothing, does nothing.

“is that what she told you would happen?”

she swallows, her breath shaky.

“you’re tempting me from god,” she sounds unsure of herself, even now. you, despite your air of ego, beg to close the distance.

“is that what this is?” your voice is barely a whisper on her lips, prickling at her skin.

in one fell swoop, she moves on you, wretched and despairing and yearning. her lips run down your neck messily, unsure of herself as she falls.

a jealous mantra, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” as her face drags in the skin between your thighs, peppering fevered kisses with her warm breath up your dress.

you throw your head back in a quiet, celebrated ecstasy, ambrosia humming beneath your skin. you hear her pleas just faintly, “what?”

something simmers in her throat, a frenzy, her hands, so gentle, so firm, unseen from hard labour, drag up the silhouette of your body, bunching the fabric of your clothes up past your hips. laid bare, she means to worship you,

“for my sins, dear god,” she hums, her words a soft hum brushing your clit, your nails clawing wood from the pew,“forgive me,”

all grace forgotten, all discipline jilted, she’s tentative at first, so soft and unsure, her tongue dragging gentle, lazy traces, just to taste you. but you, oh you, weep ichor, something so velveteen and compulsive, something that sits in her throat and leaves her needing. her hands grab at the flesh of your ass, an anchor or a desecration against you as she moves, pinning you in your seat. shaky moans reverberate inside of you as she takes her fill, restless against you, her tongue an abuse that leaves you in threads.

your hands curl into the tight kempt of her hair, shaking her braid loose until it hangs on her shoulders, your nails scratching at her scalp.

“fuck, abby,” it falls from your lips before you catch it, not that you have the right to care anymore. “right there, right -god- right there.”

abby, never before knowing this need, is ravenous, a temptation lost in your touch as she consumes you, greedily, a sharpness, a predatory unfamiliarity that is so unlike her.

“god, oh god,” her lips drag sloppily up your body, smearing your own cotton slick against your stomach, your dress, a patterned trail to your lips, warmth resting in the friction between your bones. you taste yourself on her, but you smell her on you, pine and cheap cologne and sweat.

“tell me to stop,” she chokes in a moment when she leaves your lips. she’s almost dragged back to you, a magnet to metal. “please, tell me,”

her hand is crawling down your body, down to rest between your legs. her fingers dance, hesitant, just brushing your clit. it stings, and your seethe melts into moans, “i don’t-i don’t want you to. don’t.”

“fuck,”

her fingers stretch you so uncertainly, so kind, content to just knowing the feeling of you. the push back you give her as your back arches, your breathing shivers.

control. something so rarely desired by her, something you won’t give her. but for a moment, as she starts to find your heartbeat’s rhythm, her fingers pulling and pushing like the weight of the tide against you, she feels that rush. that supremacy she so desperately searched for. it only eggs her on for more of a taste.

her speed picks up, her forearm so lazily draped across the plain of your stomach, she looks up at you. pinned in your seat by her weight, your hair wild, your face contorted. a flush falls over your body, heat dripping down the dip of your chest as she pulls whine after whine from the swell of your lips. her.

“pastor abigail?”

prudence.

if pitchforks and torches were still in style, you’re sure an angry mob would’ve chased you, high on your heels, out of town. instead, you settle for a mournful, cowardly escape.

you slam the trunk shut, the sharp sound sending cacophonies of disruption through the magnolias. echoes of blue jays take flight across the muddled grey of the sky. the humidity is sticking to your skin, a sleekness that feels like an insult to the fragility of the moment.

abigail’s truck rattles down the distant drive, the silence of her despondence drowning as she screeches to a halt beside you. she stumbles out in a stupour, aberrant with an emotion difficult to recognise.

“you’ve led me to the slaughter,” her face is red, the heat clinging to her hairline, her chest heaving. christ, the redeemer, is slung around her neck, lopsided, “I will live forsaken from god.”

the taste of sulphur sits on your tongue, like a burnt match rotting in your throat. you look at her, and she looks at you, her pupils blown with pleading, like a child who has just become conscious of death.

what have you done to her? brought her down to you? pulled her down from the pyre, stripped of her defences;

has that made you happy? have you finally settled inside yourself, with this victory? looking up at her, seeing a pleading servant of the creature that turned you away, are you happy in her defeat?

you purse your lips, an ill attempt at forgiveness, at apology. moving past her, you feel her hesitance, her corroding need to reach out to you, like wading in waist high water.

in the car, your fingers wrap around the steering wheel, a vice grip. the last tether to this plane of existence, this piece of yourself.

“take it from me,” your voice is a soft croak, unsure of itself. you look up from the driver’s seat, and see her. is her own god forgotten in her eyes? you swallow,

“your guilt won’t purify you.”

─ psssst, hey! you made it this far! great! just wanted to let you know i've opened up a kofi to help support time for my writing. if you like my work and want to show your support, even just 1 buck would go a long way for me right now.

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