Dilvei.recs - Blog Posts

omg oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon oberon 😳😳😳😳😳😳

i will be the first person to send you anything fate related so yandere headcanons for oberon (or merlin ig..................) pls

i was going to send in smth related to the yandere alphabet but i couldnt find it ):

OBERON MY BELOVED MY TIME IS NOW (love this guy, he's my favorite but like actually) These headcanons takes place in an AU where Chaldea's functioning like a normal organization with multiple masters and servants and the reader isn't mankind's last master. These aren't super duper romantic, since this some surface level interactions but I'd be more than happy to do a follow up!

Something had gone incredibly wrong during the summoning process, or that's what everyone said in a panic when the platform in the summoning chamber overflowed with blood as thick as blood. You didn't know who or... what you even had on your hands until you pulled them out of the filth. You were surprised by how easy it was, since you expected pulling a body out of knee deep filth would be much harder.

You didn't pay any mind to your peers saying to abort the summoning process. Why would you? You were always told servants call out to masters, and for some reason this... whatever it was was calling out to you. It would be wrong to throw them away. Maybe there's something wrong with you as a person.

You could tell it was a person -- a man, although he had more in common with a dead tree branch than an actual human being given how pale and gangly he was. His spirit origin was so weak that you had to actively supply him with mana so he could maintain his form and not fall back into the throne of heroes, an issue no other masters had with their servants.

Something truly had gone horribly wrong once you were able to get him assessed properly. His saint graph was entirely corrupted. You weren't able to get his true name, and you weren't even able to view his class. No one Chaldea had any interest in helping you figure out how to stabilize this servant, so you were all on your own.

You dove head first into the training simulations, eager to get some embers to help add some fire to your servant. He couldn't help, or maybe he wouldn't. He'd watch you, a human mage, do combat with the weakest of the simulations just so you could get even the most basic of embers.

Day in and day out, you'd be mocked by your peers for turning into the servant in your partnership. Day in and day out, he would just watch you struggle and fight. His face remained expressionless, and his eyes were glazed over and unblinking. It was like hauling a living corpse around, with his cracked lips and cold, clammy skin but you were too stubborn to give up. A part of you had to know who and what he is, but a bigger part of you wondered why he chose you.

After you were pressured over and over again by your superiors to let your nameless servant go, you were sent off on a mission. You couldn't exactly stay in Chaldea for forever without doing your part. This was actually a power play to get you to reconsider because you were very likely to die on this mission. But you didn't give up even in the face of danger.

Things go about as well as expected, which in this case meant catastrophically poorly, and as you were about to perish, your servant springs forth to life. He transforms in an explosion of skin and gore, reforming in an instant. Insect wings sprout from his back, and his legs take on the shape of a grasshopper. His pale hair shifts into a darker shade. A crown of blue stars sits atop his head. And he rips apart the rogue enemy that had you staring a dead end in the face with a monstrous arm. It was as if he shifted and ascended through every part of his spirit graph until he was...

"Vortigern" he calls himself, finally revealing his true name. It was the first time you heard him speak. He sounded... quiet, or rather tired. When you tried to view his class, it didn't appear as unreadable anymore but instead was more cryptic. It shifted from class to class. One moment he's a rider, and you blink and now he's a ruler? He grins at you in satisfaction.

And so, when you finally return to Chaldea with a very different looking servant, everyone has quite a few questions. Vortigern refuses to engage with this, and you can feel the disgust radiate off of him. Just because he was too weak to move didn't mean he was unaware of what was happening. He was very aware of the hardships you went through to just to keep him here, and of how you were the only one who seemed to want that. It was why he called out to you.

It had to be you, someone who would accept him even in all of his wretched ways. He'd be willing to wait forever if it meant he'd find someone like you, but he didn't have to. When you were getting overwhelmed by the whiplash of the situation, he'd step in without mincing words prying back some of the solitude you had to make peace with and found comfort in. "I'm Oberon. Could you kindly fuck right off?" It was quite the introduction. He was as foul mouthed as he was formal. People get the message really quickly and get out of your business.

Vortigern, or Oberon as he refers to himself to people who aren't you, becomes your most loyal ally. Or maybe your only ally. You just think he's shy and standoffish, but in reality he just sees everyone around you as unworthy of being in your presence. But it doesn't bother you that it's just the two of you. It's been the two of you for so long that it feels like home.

You get sent off on more and more missions. The people in charge don't have any issues with you now that you actually have a functional, albeit still faulty, servant.

Vortigern would become anything you need. A saber to cut down a lancer, a rider to trample casters -- even special classes weren't off limits to him. Whatever you needed, he gave you. Every time you looked at him, you could see him boring into you with those vivid blue eyes of his. Despite how unnerving and overwhelming his presence was, you never grew tired of it. There was no place you felt safer. If only you knew how wrong you were.

𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 | yandere!dottore x m!reader

warnings | torture, religious imagery (if u squint), psychological horror, gore (detailed), non-com/dub-con, human trafficking & experimentation, what do u expect its dottore, no beta we die like kdj | might contain some mischaracterisation or misconception somewhere or whatever because I stopped playing genshin in 2021 lol 

pairings: dottore x m!experiment!reader

summary: after creating you, dottore grows to be obsessed with the idea of you, and your perfection.

was requested by anon

THE FIRST THING YOU FEEL, is the absence of being.

It’s strange to feel so substanceless; so inhuman. When consciousness first awakes in you — when you feel the first rays of the glaring lights seeping into your eyelids — all you can do is blink your eyes, wincing. 

SUBJECT 094 HAS JUST BEEN CREATED.

Your body is shivering and naked and raw — you’ve just been created. Hands rove over your body, but they aren’t lecherous: rather, the way they touch you is purely clinical, like how a butcher would inspect meat. You hear bits and pieces of words you don’t know, floating over your head. You wonder if they’re any perforations in you — whether you’re another failed experiment, another creation to discard.

Your hands are without a single blemish. You’re new.

You hear them say you’re perfect.

An experiment. A perfect experiment, after ninety-three times. 

They call you 94. 

You long for a name.

Your creator has not met you yet: but you’ve seen people who look exactly like him, working on you — they knock you out with pills, drugs, serums — they give you injections with thick, blunt syringes and stuff your mouth with tissue when you want to scream. They ignore your convulses and your shrieks and the tears that roll down your cheeks madly — they too, are not human. They have no emotions to pity you: and you too, shouldn’t have the capability to feel, and yet you do. Shamelessly, piteously, and horrifically — you feel human.

That is the desired result, one tells you, when you spit those words out. They tasted funny in your tongue, sitting there and rotting until you finally tossed them out. We wanted you to be human. A perfect being. You will aid Fatui greatly.

Fatui? You had echoed.

Fatui, another murmurs, the order we serve. And our master, Dottore, who you are supposed to serve.

You learn that Dottore is away in a place called Sumeru. This place is Snezhnaya, and the place you’re in is Dottore’s lab. Dottore. The name drops down honeyed from your lips, and so you repeat it: Dottore…

The master you serve.

The master you serve is named Dottore. But you will call him Doctor, one warns you.

You tuck those words in your head, and they insert more needles into you. Your skin has become an atlas of thin, small holes — non noticeable to the human eye, but each pulsing and swelling beneath your skin.

You wait for your creator to come.

You wait for your God to come.

.

.

—

.

.

You see him for the first time when crimson and carmine is marred on his cheek, and when his eyes are amused and glinting. He’s beautiful, you note, terrifyingly so. He has red eyes: blooming crimson ones — and wavy blue hair. Half of his face is obfuscated by a mask, but still you can see his lips move as he speaks his first word to you: “Y/n.”

Your heart leaps. Your creator moves towards you, his eyes inspecting you, his deft fingers moving your face to the side, checking every part of you to ensure you aren’t damaged. His lips curl up into a satisfied smile, but your brain is still reeling from the name he has called you.

Almost like he can read your thoughts, your creator grins. “Y/n,” he says in a lilting, falsely warm tone, “that is the name I give you. But the minute you step out of line, I’ll be ripping that away from you. Remember that, pet. Remember that, alright?” His touch is gentle as he thumbs at your hips, tracing circles around your skin. You swallow, nodding your head.

I’ll be ripping that away from you.

Essentially speaking, the moment you misbehave, you’ll have your own chance at humanity taken away from you.

“You will call me Doctor,” Dottore speaks slowly, his words like music to your ears, “you, Y/n…you must remember that you are incredibly special. You are the first successful weapon I’ve made. The word “human” will have to be earned — but for now, be good, alright?”

You drink his words up. By the side is a cart filled with more medication — more knives, more needles, more syringes. You’re sitting on a white bed — everything around you is white. The different clones have started to look like smudges of white to you: blobs moving and shifting around in a distance. You can’t tell if your reverence for the Doctor is programmed, or if it’s because he is your creator — but it doesn’t matter. You want him to praise you. You need it. If he likes you, he’ll give you your humanity — and you want that.

“Y-yes,” your voice wavers as you speak, “y-yes, I’ll —”

“Ah…the first order of business,” The Doctor — Dottore — says, “stitches. It appears that the ones who have finished creating you have lacked something: an organ, if you will. It isn’t something a human would necessarily have, but well…” His red eyes study you, and there’s almost sadism rampant in his eyes — “you aren’t a human, are you?”

You stay silent.

“Well, Y/n, what do you think? I’ll make it painless,” Dottore smiles, “why aren’t you giving me a reaction? It’ll be simple. I’ll cut you up, insert some things inside you, stitch you back up,” he says carelessly. “Hm. Perhaps it will be painful…but good things come at a price. With this, you’ll be a better prototype than anything else. You’ll be special — to me. You want that, don’t you?”

What is my purpose? You want to ask, why am I different from the other people?

“And on that thought, I suppose you can withstand pain. You’re a robot — a false creation. I might have programmed you to make you feel pain, but now a new thought has occured to me: I certainly can’t have any painkillers messing up the careful system in your body.” The Doctor stares at you, hard, “but you’ll be willing to do that, right?”

Pain, you think. The word explodes in your brain. You don’t know what that word is. It’s strange to think that you understand human language: that you can somehow articulate it out, like it’s been annotated in the blood of your veins — but you can’t live it. Words have no meaning to you: after all, you have not learnt or earned them. Is pain the feeling of aching when you feel blood burst from your body? You are a machine, but yet you’ve been gifted flesh. So what exactly are you?

“I will,” you whisper, “I can.”

“Good boy,” Dottore hisses quietly, “now, be a pet and behave, will you?”

You nod your head.

.

.

—

.

.

For the next few weeks, Dottore indulges in you. He buys you sweet treats he knows you can’t taste, he comforts you when you cry, he makes you dependent on him. Soon, your whole world consists solely of him, just him, your creator. You wonder if he’s forgotten about his whole promise to “tweak” you, to perfect you, but finally, the day comes.

Dottore’s hands are gentle as he props you up the operating table. You look around, noticing that it’s just the two of you.

“The others —” you manage a shaky sentence, “they aren’t helping?”

“As advanced as they are, they aren’t me. Now that I’ve laid my eyes on your perfection: your potential for perfection, that is: I cannot risk anyone else touching you, tainting you: destroying you…” Dottore shakes his head. “Now lay down, Y/n.”

You obey, lying flat down on the operating table. You expect a subtle, soft kind of pain — the kind that you’re accustomed to: but instead, he stabs into your jugular, and you scream. 

Blood — there was blood — that burst from your neck, soaking your skin. Your eyes started to tear, but still you lived.

“How interesting, right?” Dottore muses as he continues to dig the knife through your skin, “how strange. I needed to acquire quite a bit of blood to ensure that you functioned just like a human, while retaining the qualities of what a God would be like. So I imagine it’s quite painful for you. Right, Y/n?”

You’re convulsing now, screams slipping from your mouth.

“I forgot. You can’t exactly speak now, can you?”

“D-Doctor,” you rasp out, “will I be stronger after this? Will I be better?”

“Of course, my dear,” Dottore hums, “it’s just a slight tweak in your body, and you’ll be better than ever. Do you know what? I’m aghast, really, at those who call this human experimentation. I suppose in your case, since you aren’t quite human to begin with — well, you were made from human extracted parts — it’s not quite counted. But when I take little test subjects, there are some who mock me. I remember the ruler of Sumeru quite well: quite a pathetic Archon she was — saying, and I quote: experimentation is an insult to the very concept of life…do you agree, Y/n?”

Your body recovers frighteningly fast. The pain is there, but the wound closes as quickly as it has appeared. Dottore stares at it with fascination, with a small ah of gratification.

“No,” you say, words muffled with sobs, “I don’t agree.”

You feel another knife press into your skin — your belly this time. He doesn’t cut you up first — he carves into you, a bloody insignia on your skin. “With me, or with her?”

Your creator is never wrong. “Her,” you choke out.

“Bingo!” Dottore hums in delight, “correct. I’ve always believed that there is potential for weaponization. Discussions of research on beings like you have to be increased in the future. Humans have unlimited potential. It may be foolish of me as a researcher to say this, but with enough input, I might be able to reach the level of a 'god', or so people might call it. Some say it’s heresy. I disagree.”

You splutter. The surgical knife has made it past the first layer of skin: he’s flaying you alive. 

Are you even alive? Can you be associated with the words of life and death, when you are not even human?

My name is Y/n, you desperately think. My name is Y/n. Y/n. Y/n…!

I’m human. Tell me that I’m human, please.

“And others say I blasphemous further against human life as a member of the Fatui, by creating clones or "segments" of myself. But really — I do have convictions. Just different from everyone else’s…” Dottore strokes your tear-stained cheek, tilting his head. “You’re such a good one, aren’t you? You aren’t even refuting what I say. The earlier ones before you — subject 43 in particular — kept making a fuss. You, however…” his eyes are gleaming. “Might be fun to play around with.”

You aren’t wriggling anymore. You aren’t shaking. You force yourself to be ramrod straight on the operation table. The knife is embedded in your skin.

“You are both machine and human, and yet you are too much and too little of both to be truly worth anything…but really, all you need to do is to stay loyal to me. When people like Capitano, Pantalone, or even Childe approach you — do not speak to them,” Dottore says softly, so softly you have to focus on his voice to hear him — “you understand that, don’t you? Because you are my perfect creation…no one else can tamper with you. Not even for a minute or second.”

You nod your head.

“Good. And now, for the matter of your heart,” Dottore tells you, “your heart, Y/n, is unlike any other. It’s an amalgamation of all the artificial blood vessels I’ve managed to make from other projects. But frankly speaking, I think you might be better without it: my clones have told me that you seem to feel too much. And weapons do not feel. They never do, Y/n.”

“I understand.” 

“So — I will do this —” in one quick motion, Dottore rips your heart from your chest, holding it as thuds in front of you. 

You freeze.

Your heart is there. There’s a gaping hole in your chest, and the presence of absence has made itself known. You watch as Dottore bites into it: in front of you he feasts; his mouth bloody and your heart rimming his teeth. There’s blood pooling in your mouth too, dripping onto the table. Your skull has never felt this light. Pain was present in every inch of your body, but still your heart continued to beat. 

“I might need to rewire your brain too,” Dottore looks at you intently, “if your loyalty is skewed. But if you prove that you’re loyal to me, then of course, that won’t be needed.”

All you can think about is: your flesh lines his throat. But you’re a dirty being. 

“I’ll prove it,” you gasp, “I’ll prove it. So don’t discard me.”

“Your desperation is adorable,” Dottore coos, “did you know I based your heart off a pomegranate? Delicate hands are required for it, to peel back later after layer. And it is red that dyes your fingers when you touch the juice sprinkling out — like blood. There’s concentration needed to break the surface, a certain strength needed to crush the seeds between voracious teeth and sip up the sweetness of the nectar. Then the juices will hemorrhage your tongue: it’s supposed to remind you of your actions. Similarly, you — Y/n — you have stained my tongue. Don’t you adore their idea?”

You nod again, weakly. “I do.”

“And on that note, I find you a remarkable project: you hardly ever scream, you hardly ever move, and your wounds heal beautifully. You’re just so perfect for me, aren’t you, Y/n? Just for me, right?” Dottore continues on, words honeyed and sweet, “oh, Y/n…” he strokes your hair gently, shushing you softly as little hiccups escape your lips. He thumbs at your waist, his face a breadth away, “you are so endearing. So flawless.”

Your skin is covering the empty hole in your chest. Dottore pulls you to the lap, steadying you, before he kisses your lips softly. His words are the knife — heaving, forceful, hungry. And when he kisses you, only then can you taste yourself, your shame, guilt, pleasure. You wonder if you taste as rotten as you feel — if there’s a part of you that can be cradled. You feel like an open wound, your guts ready to spill out. He continues to kiss you, and slowly, your body becomes the atlas of your twisted relationship with Dottore; marks and bruises scattering across your once unblemished skin, a map of what he has done.

Kisses.

Your creator has kissed you.

“My darling, my beauty,” Dottore smiles, crimson still staining his teeth, “is this not the most human action one can do?”

a/n: unedited, I apologise. sorry if it’s wonky or whatever I’m just experimenting lol || reposts, likes, and comments are always appreciated! leave a comment to tell me how it was :)

well, well, well. if it isn't my favorite priest pookie pie 🥧

𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐘 | yan!priest x male!reader | nsfw

WARNINGS: extremely dubious consent, graphic and explicit smut. please do not read if you are not comfortable, or if you are triggered. In no way is this disgusting yandere behavior meant to be romanticised. This excerpt is taken from my fic on wattpad, twisted faith.

PAIRING: yandere!priest x male reader

SCENARIO: after one too many attempts of rebelling against him, the priest (anton) decides to punish you.

WORD COUNT: 4.2k

You knew. You knew the minute you were brought to Anton's home — you knew the minute you were washed and fed by several maids, and was brought right before the priest.

A sickening part of you knew.

You had always wondered when. When Anton's obvious desire for you would finally break, when the final straw would be until Anton would take you

And now you stood right before him, washed—your hair still a little damp—robed, trembling.

Shit. It was about to happen. It was about to happen. It was—

You didn't know what to do. You were utterly terrified, utterly helpless.

"To first cleanse your sins," Father Anton said quietly—his hands resting on your back, tracing circles, "you must purify the body." The motion was smooth, gentle, supposed to be comforting, but instead all you felt was an unwanted heat traveling up your spine, along with deep seated dread. Thick, sludgy dread.

This was part of the plan, you thought, swallowing. This is part of my plan.

Someone had already warned you, had they not? That with the priest, he was looking for something else with you. Something deeper. Something akin to lust, akin to desire.

"Yes, Father Anton..." you whispered. You wanted to close your eyes, but you feared the consequences that came with it. Instead, your own trembling (e/c) eyes were forced to stare at pools of liquid diamond—the color that belonged to the priest's eyes.

"You want this, don't you?" Anton purred, "you want this. You admitted it yourself. You needed purifying. And now I shall give it to you. Everything. I will purify your heart, your soul, your body..."

First, your shoulder. You found breaths shallow and quiet when Anton used one finger to slowly undo your clothes, starting from a simple slip of the shoulder, until your collar bone was exposed.

Exposed, for the priest to see.

You no longer felt like it was you. Your mind was growing hazy, your body was responding to Anton's touch in such a way that you were horrified by it. You could feel his own unwanted arousal slowly burning your insides, and before you knew it, you were pressed down onto the cool sheets of the bed, stripped of your clothes—Adam and Eve once roamed the Garden of Eden in their naked form freely, you recalled, before the serpent made them sin.

Was this what Anton meant? To return to the roots of mankind, before sin had existed? 

It wasn't long before the priest started to undress himself, and you nearly wanted to kill yourself there and then when you saw just how—just how huge Anton was—because fuck, how the hell were you supposed to fit him inside?

You watched as Anton dipped his fingers in sweetly scented oil—perhaps even the liquid from a while back, in the confessions room—and coated it liberally on his own cock. The oil was costly, but perhaps, to Anton, there was no better purpose than to anoint one of heaven's own.

Fuck, you started to breathe heavily, feeling Anton's hands slowly grasping at your hips, his touch bruising, and lining his arousal up—you could feel it. Every inch of him.

Deep breaths. In and out...

"Ugh—" you let out a soft sound that was quickly muffled when you pressed your face down onto the pillow, ears burning with shame.

There was no greater pain and pleasure than this.

Anton pushed forward ruthlessly into your body. Anton did not stretch you out or give you advance warning. If the initial intrusion was painful, it was meant to be, as part of your penance. 

"Cleansing," Anton purred, his voice sending shudders running down your spine, "punishment. This, my dear Y/n, is divine punishment."

Fuck, you teared up as you gripped the sheets, yes. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps this was an atonement of your sins, your crimes towards your own humanity. Perhaps you deserved this for spitting such cruel, careless words at your sister, for showing his weaknesses so blindly to your friend...

"Anton," you gasped out,  the delicate flesh of your insides was battered and pried open by Anton's enormous girth, "I—I..."

Anton pressed into the hilt and then stopped, giving you time to adjust, and enjoying the trembling shudders of the bruised and violated muscles clenching around him.

"Give it all to me, turn everything over to the Lord and let me purge the sin from your flesh. Let me morph you; Y/n; let me purify you.”

"Slower," you begged him, tears starting to roll down your cheeks. You felt so utterly helpless—so pained, yet there was that deceitful pleasure crawling up in your insides, telling you this was what you wanted. This was what you asked for.

In a way, it was. In a viscerally twisted and distorted way...yes. You had planned this, did you not? You had orchestrated this plan to seduce the priest for your own survival, and you would fall down into the abyss with it.

There was no foreplay. Nothing. Nothing that could have told or prepared you of the pain that had shot up in your stomach—nothing that could have told you that you would be throbbing with pleasure, aching with sin. Your body felt filthy instead of pure, and the tears staining your face felt like they were burning. Anton kissed it all away—but that did nothing but to send feverish heat and silent hatred worming into your insides.

"Oh, Y/n," Anton cooed, his fingers trailing every inch of your skin, exploring every curve, every flat, "you were made for me. Made to be a vessel for me. You saved me, Y/n...you saved me."

Anton felt God would forgive the sin of his omission—after all, he was the closest being to godhood, and you were so beautiful and precious and pure. God's creation and the wonders of nature—from your mesmerising eyes, from how the arch of your back highlighted the delicate curve of your spine.

You made a strangled sound, biting back your moan that was about to slip past your lips. The pace remained brutal; relentless, and when you tried to grip on the sheets for some sort of stability to the madness, it failed. 

"Confessing," Anton whispered, "is something you were never good at. But perhaps this gives you clarity. Perhaps this will help." 

With suddenness, Anton stopped— instead, he pulled out, leaving your walls empty and clenching around for something. Just anything. Anton pressed one finger to the opening, almost like he was teasing you. Teasing you with inviting warmth, but not giving it to you. The priest was the one who reduced you to such a state, so how dare he? After stripping you of your innocence, claiming he would purify you…

You had never hated someone so much before. You hated him.

"C-Confess?" You managed to choke out, voice hoarse, "y-you want me to..."

Anton pressed the finger in deeper. More. You wanted more. It was not enough. 

"Confess, yes." Anton tilted his head, his other hand pressed against your shoulder, the touch firm and gentle. It was strange how he seemed to treat you like you were so precious, like you were made of glass, but then his actions would contradict and you would feel the lower part of your body searing with deep, hot pain.

Blood. You could feel it trickle down your leg.

Anton waited until your breathless pants slowed and then spoke, "You may begin."

Your voice was thick with tears as you spoke, "Bless me father, for I have sinned."

The priest's hips began a slow and steady pace, pressing in deeply and then pulling out until the head of his cock caught on the thinly stretched rim. It kissed it slowly, slowly pushing until half way inside. You let out a strangled gasp, sobbing. 

"Continue."

Oh, but how? You found it hard to find words scattered here and there, when your brain was a mush and you didn't even feel like you were you anymore. You weren’t yourself anymore—you weren’t innocent. Anton had ripped away any last remnants of sanity and purity that you had, claiming it for his own, marking you as a sinner. 

Y/n...Y/n...who were you even, now? The feeling of derealization pierced your chest. 

Anton's cock looked impossibly large as he pressed it against your gaping hole. It looked like it could split you open. You trembled from the stretch — you wanted more, in a horrible sense, and the only way you could get that was to atone. To confess all your sins to the greatest sinner in the world.

Your stunning (e/c) eyes went wet with tears, but it only made your submission sweeter and it only made the priest's cock throb harder as your body worked to accommodate him; flesh clinging and gripping deliciously as he pushed deeper with each second, but never quite hitting the end. 

It was a tease, a long drawn punishment.

Anton's hot gaze dropped so he could watch your belly bulge each time he entered you fully. The evidence of his physical penetration into you— his innocent, innocent savior—only made the dark feelings in his stomach swirl, twist, knot. 

"I'm sorry," you found yourself begging, "I'm sorry, Father Anton—I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have—"

I shouldn't have existed.

"I shouldn't have went outside the church walls," You sobbed, "I shouldn't have met anyone else, I shouldn't have—"

"Don't even say that." Anton's voice was serene yet so damned. "What else?"

"I shouldn't have murdered the man." You babbled on like your mind was shattered; broken beyond repair.

"I shouldn't have talked to her—"

You felt another sharp pain crawl up your spine when Anton rammed inside you. The priest's hands went to cover your mouth, stifling your moans that threatened to slip out.

"Ah, no," Anton whispered, his voice sultry and deep, "we can't have you making such noises, can we?"

"Just—just..." You felt the tears roll down your cheek, felt the way your chest heaved and your hips ached — all this felt too much; too overstimulated.

You released; arching your back and feeling your fingers grip on the sheets with reckless abandon. Your thoughts were pounding in your head and so was the slow, subsiding heat: what have I done? You thought with misery, with fuzziness and dazed eyes, what have I done?

Anton smiled and leaned forward.

"You have been purified."

The second time, it was because you had disobeyed him. You ran away — at least, you attempted to. But it had been foolish, and now you had to face the consequences of your actions. You willed your trembling form to straighten, choking down a sob.

“I’m sorry.”

"That's what I thought." Anton smiled in amusement. "Here I was praising you, darling," Anton tipped your chin up and you swallowed, fear started to flood within you. "But it seems that once again my trust in you has been misplaced."

"I'm sorry," you started to say—to beg—"don't put me back there. Don't!"

Fear rotted between your teeth and gave you that toothache feeling: the slow thudding of realization,  the slow ache of cavities worming into your insides, staining your mouth. The sweetness had been too much. Too painful. 

"I won't."

"...Then..."

What will you do? 

"It's been long since you were purified."

Inwardly you shattered once again. 

"Slow down," you gasped, feeling Anton's cock enter in, unrelenting, brutal, merciless—you dug your fingers into the expanse of his back, taking it down, causing a soft sigh to elicit from Anton. "Please," your voice took on a begging note. "Please."

Anton paused for a while. His fingers cupped your cheek, and his eyes were almost dazed with pleasure.. But they still held a certain maddening clarity that you were afraid of. 

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Anton tilted his head. You felt the cock inside you press further still, your walls squeezing it, your body welcoming it, with pleasure spilling in your gut. Unwanted pleasure. "You wanted this, darling. And so I give it to you."

How long had it been? The tears were running down your face but your body betrayed yourself. For there was your own answering arousal between your legs, the way your hips lifted and responded to Anton's fast, full thrusts, the way moans slipped off your mouth like nothing. You wiggled your body a little, squirming, trying to find a better position—but another ram into you, another buckle of your hips and a sharp cry—stopped you from being able to do so.

"Slower," you repeated once again— begging him, before Anton shoved his fingers down your throat, causing the yoo choke on your words. Saliva coated the priests's fingers but he did not seem to care. Kisses were planted on your bare form—the shoulders, the nose, the lips—Anton seemed satisfied, actually. More than that. Darkness was twisting in his eyes. Anton loved it—loved ravaging your, loved having sex with you. He pulled those fingers out and your mouth felt empty.

"You're doing such a good job," his voice was so gentle, so sweet—you could have cried. Yes, there was the constant pleasure in your body that Anton managed to induce—the kind of pleasure that made you yearn for more, the kind of pleasure that made you moan into the kisses that Anton provided, obscene and all, but oh, it betrayed your mind. "Continue on. You have barely managed to take me yet."

I'm disgusting, you wept, oh, someone save me. I'm so disgusted with myself. 

"I can't," you panted, your fists gripping the sheets. "Anton...I really can't."

The only answer was a push that pressed you flush against the bed. Anton's fingers wrapped around your jaw slowly and turned your face to the side, peppering kisses on it. It was a soothing gesture—Anton was marvelous at what he did. He would torture you mentally, sexually, but treat you like porcelain physically, treating you with such tenderness and gentleness at times that you werebdazed by it. And it worked now. 

"Good job, darling." Anton cooed, almost relishing in the soft moans that you were desperately trying to keep down your throat. You felt tears roll down your cheeks slowly, you felt the pain down there, swollen and overstimulated. You knew the sheets were stained with your earlier releases, and now would be what, the third? Fourth? Fifth? Anton was brutal in his pace.

How far had he fallen, already?

Behind Anton you could make out through your teary vision, a small cross. And now that cross taunted you. Watched you ws your purity was slipping away from you.

Tears rolled down your cheek, and you felt yourself slipping into darkness.

To feel anything would make you deranged.

After Anton had…purified you — you had scrubbed endlessly at your skin, hoping to remove any memory of him. But with that purification, also came a change of treatment. Anton grew gentler, kinder, and you grew more tired, more willing to be deceived.

Simply put, you didn’t know how to place your rage anymore: there was the rage  that was simply rotten, incurable love—there was the rage which were all the tainted truths and desires—and then there was the rage that was like a unanswered prayer, rattling in your mind, ricocheting off the walls. 

You had learnt a long time ago that your body betrayed your mind. That your mind betrayed your heart. You feared that you had grown to love Anton, in some sickening, undeniable way: but was that not inevitable? A human will crave fire, though deadly, in the light of cold. And in this case Anton had stripped you of everything you ever had, and now you were craving warmth.

And Anton. He was that very warmth. You wanted his embrace — you wanted it so desperately, the feeling of being loved, cared for, tender and sweet. After all, Anton had never hurt you before, did he? Everything earlier had been some sick farce, some disgusting aversion to all things good. But it was alright. You had learned your lesson.

You needed only Anton, and yet Anton seemed to withhold from sex,  like he was dragging it on. You wanted it carnally, biblically. You could feel the sins and evil swarming under the layer of your skin. You wanted it. You wanted to be made pure again, you wanted that sin purged from your flesh. You wanted it eviscerated. You wanted it to be painful, almost.

But as luck had it, Your  purification this time was not one of pain. Anton was always tender with you —but the purifications were always painful, rightfully so, as penance.

The sheets were soft and silky, as luxurious as you remembered. It was the same bed that you had laid in during your first time. Oh, how rebellious you had been. How unwilling. But now you are older, wiser. You knew to behave—you knew this was for your greater good. 

You have made life miserable for yourself. Why did you bother trying to resist? It had taken coaxing—and you had been so delightfully and wonderfully patient with you. Anton had already been so sweet even when you had been feisty and sharp-tongued, but the priest treated you with honeyed, saccharine sweetness. See, Anton seemed to tell him. See, you should have obeyed me earlier. This way, no one would have died. You could have carved out your own ending. 

And now Anton bit at your lip until you could only groan. Supple, strong hands removed whatever clothes you had on— you were kissed until you were lightheaded and breathless, until the only thought that remained was the priest. Anton, Anton, Anton—until those thoughts flooded your mind, strong and vicious.

The priest’s hands were warm as they trailed down your bare skin. You wanted to lean into the warmth: you wanted to tattoo it on your flesh, you wanted it imprinted, made permanent. You could have said that these desires were ignominious, even, humiliating, hideous. But you were no longer blind by the evil that had blinded you. This was good. This was good for you. You had utter faith in Anton.

Your feelings once had been raw and ambivalent. And now they carried on within you, strong, unwavering, comforting.

Anton pressed onto your chest, tapping at where your heart was.“This, Y/n,” Anton’s voice was heavy and commanding. “This belongs to me.”

You took a hitching breath, swallowing.

Anton moved to kiss your neck. “Only I can purge your sinful urges. And only I, my darling, can consecrate you. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, “yes, I do.”

Anton smiled. His gaze was heavy, like his words: shadowed, dark, dangerous. It was clouded with haziness, and his arousal was pressed against your thighs, his arms spreading your legs apart. You whimpered, but offered no protest. Your muscles shook from the stretch, but you remained obedient. Sweet, darling lamb. Yes. You would be a sweet, darling, obedient, loving lamb. 

“You have been so good lately,” Anton purred, “and there are no more lies. You have changed—I was right, wasn’t I? Around you there was only a plethora of distractions. And now it’s just…” He pressed his forehead against yours.  “You and I. You have morphed, Y/n, you have become perfect.”

Hell was a man’s own creation, so was heaven. And you were a piece of heaven that had been carved out for himself. You were his, fully his — you were no longer anyone else’s. His, his, his.

Anton pressed his fingers against the wetness of your hole, slowly slipping into it. You gave a startled pant: where was it? Where was the pain you were expecting? This was no penance, this was—

“See,” Anton said softly, pressing further until you gave another strangled sound, breathier this time, when his fingers brushed against your prostate. “See, Y/n? Your sins have been absolved. By submitting yourself to me, there is no pain. No penance.”

“Please,” you panted—the fingers were not enough. Where were you? You were still so impure, so dirtied— you wanted it.The pained ecstasy. The purification. The Anointment. “Why won’t…why won’t you give it to me?”

Anton tilted his head, smiling. “I thought you wanted this. I remember you begging me last time: to be gentler, to be tender. What’s wrong, Y/n?”

You could not even place it in words. Breathless moans left as your throat when Anton pressed deeper still: you swallowed, before you shook his head. “I…don’t…know,” was all you managed to choke out, “I don’t know.”

“Hm,” Anton murmured. “Very well,” he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. “you are loose, Y/n—you are so loose. Were you thinking about me? Were you waiting anxiously for this? Did you want this?”

“Yes, Anton,” you managed out in between your breaths, quick and dirty. “Yes.”

Anton pulled his fingers out abruptly, and you were left trembling. Your eyes were watery, almost: your back arched, your fingers fisted around the sheets. You almost caught your breath before you felt the same feeling again: the feeling you wanted, of origination and sin and purification—You could feel the delicate flesh battered and pried open again. You gave a soft moan—Anton pressed to the hilt, and thrusted. You started to scream—but it was of pained ecstasy.

It was nowhere as painful as the first time. This time was more mellow. Anton’s touch was bruising against your hips, leaving behind imprints of blue and black. The thrust pinched everything from you, all your breaths and your thoughts and all that horrifying, twisted doubt—all those reservations.

Anton continued. That same feeling plunged all the way up to your gut—it crushed your prostate entirely. You felt yourself start to release guttural, muffled sounds: you tried to swallow back your sobs, unable to discern between the wretched desire and pleasure that kept pulling, yanking at you—and the pain. Anton was still certainly gentler than last time. And this time round, Anton had prepared you. 

You screamed, your hands flying out to claw at Anton’s back. You could feel yourself nearing your first orgasm; so painful, so soon, and tears flowed freely down your fever red cheeks. Your hole stretched painfully around the girth of Anton’s cock—Anton continued this pace, but oh—he was so gentle with you.. It was almost like the priest was praising you. 

Good job, Anton seemed to be telling you, with the kisses peppered on your face, with the gentle, supple tugs of your hair whenever you started to wobble—good job. 

“You are doing so beautifully,” Anton cooed, “so, so well.”

You could barely think through the hazy pleasure. Anton set up a rhythm like this, Anton sliding out just right to see you clinging almost whorishly to his cock—then pressing, pushing, spreading you open with a force that made your throat raw from the obscene sounds you made. Anton’s voice was calm and soothing, low, almost menacing, a juxtaposition to the violence below. But it wasn’t his fault. Anton had wanted to be gentle, you had refused. You wanted the pain, it was your punishment. You would claw Anton’s back, Anton’s lips would capture your own with each cry you wanted to release. His kiss was always breathtaking—literally, in a sense that all coherent thoughts and all your breaths were ripped away from you; and then Anton would chew on your bottom lip, biting it, allowing a stream of crimson to bleed out.

“Anton,” you moaned out feverishly, “Anton.”

The priest continued to fuck you with a blind frenzy, eyes dark and hooded and the grip on your hips so tight—so that you wouldn’t dare to even crawl away. So that you wouldn’t even dream of it. So that you would remain pilant and soft and warm and obedient. 

“I’m sorry,” you started to say, your words punctuated by sobs, “I’m sorry I was so…”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Punish me all you like. I deserved all of it. I deserved every single bit of it. Every inch. Everything. Everything Anton did—was it not what you were practically begging for? Anton had given you so many chances, but you had failed him each and every time. 

“There is nothing to apologize for,” His voice was calm and soothing, not matching the violence below. “You have repented. And that, Y/n, is the most important.”

Anton pushed again—and this time the sound you made was almost inhuman: when you finally, finally—felt the warmth flooding into you, when you finally felt your insides being filled, your sin being washed away. And you were filled so completely, so much of it that some spilled from your hole, that you felt like you were choking on it. You released at the same time—the electrifying heat spread all the way to the tips of your fingers, enveloping you whole, leaving you dazed and weightless from the ecstasy of it.

Anton kissed your tears away, and his face was one of pride when he touched your forehead gently.

“Good job,” Anton whispered, his voice lilting and insidious. “Good job, Y/n.”

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OFFERING | YANDERE IMAGINES

prompt: you are sacrificed by your village to be the god’s offering. You expect to die—but instead, the whole situation spirals into a maddening obsession.

character(s): yandere!god, you

warnings(s): possessive, manipulative behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamic

note(s): male reader, second person, present tense, not beta read

You do not expect anything but death.

You hear the hostility and animosity boiling in their throats, scorching your skin with the heat of a thousand suns. You feel the hands that pull at you roughly, dressing you up in garments you’ve never worn before— silks that are red, hot and heavy, a veil that hides your features. They do not bother to hide the wounds that are festering on your skin—it is a common fact that the God, Elias, kills the offerings, and his heart is as cold as ice. He will not bother about you. He will not care about you. You know that being offered is akin to courting death.

You are despised by the village. You are abandoned by your parents, and you have no one to call a family or friend. The scars you bear are not pretty, either, and no woman will take you as a husband, and no man will take you in as his wife. 

You have lived a lifetime of suffering, and now you only wait for it to end.

So you choose to close your eyes, having a fitful sleep in the rocky carriage. You are convinced that this night will be your last.

—

You do not see the God named Elias, at first. 

But you hear his voice in whispers, in echoes. 

“So you must be the new offering,” his voice is soft, elegant, graceful—your first thought is that he cannot be the fearsome God people speak of—“do you, [Name], know of the fate that awaits you?”

You are a mortal. You feel fear, no matter how much you’ve prepared yourself. You will fear death, after all, and you will wonder if your death will feel quiet and painless, or if it will be excruciating. You’ve heard horror stories of the latter.

“You…” your voice stays firm to your surprise, “will kill me.”

You still cannot see him. He is described to be beautiful in some stories, ugly in others. You truly don’t know. But his voice is lilting, quiet, and music-like. Is it toned down on purpose for you to let your guard down? Will he rip your heart out the minute you doze off? Will he torture you before he kills you? There are a million questions you don’t dare to ask him.

“Truthfully,” the voice holds amusement. “You are the first to truly make it to me.”

You stiffen. “I’m sorry?”

“The others have died, yes,” the God says, “but I did not kill them. They committed suicide. Is it not pathetic to have people be so fearful of you that they will choose to end their lives before they meet you?”

He’s lying. He’s definitely…lying. You remember the horror stories you’ve heard: first, the village chief’s daughter, Sarah, who had her throat ripped out viciously because she dared to be rude. Second, the village chief’s niece, Amelia, who had her body found beneath a cliff, supposedly punished for her grave misdeeds for stealing, thirdly, the male, Rufus, who had been the first male offering towards Elias, who had his remains returned to him for supposedly no reason.

“And spreading rumors about the deity cruelty, really,” Elias’s voice flows on like a steady stream, mirthful, “ridiculous, is it not?”

“Are you…” you find your voice at last, “saying you didn’t kill them?”

“No, of course not,” Elias says, “you are the first one who has made it to me.”

“That is not one I’ve heard.”

“Rumors can be exaggerated.”

You think back to the earlier offerings: of Sarah, who kicked at you, spat at you, and slapped you until your cheek welled. Of Amelia, who framed you for stealing and got you whipped in front of the village folk. Of Rufus, who got a group of boys to strip you of your clothes before they dumped you shivering into a river. They met a rather fitting death.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, “if you want to kill me…”

You squeeze your eyes. Your heart is thumping against your chest wildly: you feel fear course through your veins, fear thrumming at the surface of your mind. Do not be deceived, you tell yourself. Do not be deceived by this murderous God.

The blow never comes.

Your heart still beats.

You are still alive.

You can’t see him, but you can feel a hand tip your chin up.

“Now,” Elias says, his tone strangely fond, “why would I ever kill you? I’ve been looking forward to your arrival for a long time after all.”

—

You see him for the first time, drenched in moonlight.

The first thing you think is: he’s beautiful. He is. He truly is. His hair is silvery blue under moonlight—it’s long and falls to his waist. His features are delicate, yet masculine enough for him to seem more handsome than beautiful. Everything about him seems—perfect—the slant of his nose, the glittering of his magnificent teal eyes, and the fullness of his lips. He seems so vividly familiar to you.

For the past few days, he’s been speaking to you merely as a voice; as a shadowy whisper floating to your ears. 

And everyday you marvel at the fact you’re alive. You’re still alive.

He treats you gently. He treats you like the very thing you were supposed to be: a bride. He brings you gifts, he feeds you well, he dresses you generously in luxurious silks and attire. You didn’t see his face then, but you could feel the sensation of his gentle touch against your skin, as he brushed off a petal, or a loose strand of hair.

You want to ask him why. Why he chooses to hide his appearances, why he treats you so well. You fear the answer. You fear that this was how he treated the earlier offerings before he slaughtered them. You fear many things, and his tenderness is one of them.

“I kept you waiting, didn’t I?” Elias says softly, before he reaches out to you. You flinch, and he frowns. “My mana has yet to be restored. I apologize. What’s wrong, [Name]?”

You think back to his words a while back: why would I kill you? I’ve waited a very long time for you. Does this apply to the general idea of a companion, or is he referring to you in particular?

“Before all this…” you murmur. “Did you know me? Did I know you?”

Your memories are patchy as a kid. You cannot remember the face of your mother, and neither can you remember the face of your mother. They are all erased in your mind.

Elias smiles. He always smiles at you—you can’t tell if it’s genuine or deceitful. You tell yourself continuously that it’s fake—it’s easier to live with him that way. Every breath you take, you are amazed at the fact that blood still flows within your body. The place you live is empty, except for strange servants, except for Elias. It’s a lonely place, completely devoid of anyone. It makes you realize that divinity is lonelier than any human existence.

“I’ve waited a long time for you,” is all Elias tells you. His hand reaches out to you and touches your cheek gently, pressing on a scar almost sorrowfully. “You must have gone through a lot of pain in the village. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.”

“You know me.” You swallow, “but I don’t know who you are.”

Elias doesn’t say anything. He kisses your forehead gently, brings you to the bed, and tells you to sleep well. His skin is cold against your own and he pulls the sheets over your body, bading you goodbye.

“Sleep well, [Name],” Elias murmurs. “I will tell you another day.”

—

That night, you dream for the first time in years. And this dreams continue to persist for the next few days,

You dream of a flower field. You see your fingers picking our petals from the flowers. The flowers are odd, unlike any other thing you’ve seen before. It has silvery blue petals, much like the color of Elias’s hair. You see a silhouette from a distance, and you feel yourself calling out a name—

“—Elias,” you whisper, as you fist the blanket. You had awoken from the dream in panic, and now you found yourself panting, shivering. What was that? You think desperately, just what was that? A cold feeling washes over you, and you stumble to your feet. You find yourself walking to the grass outside, your bare feet treading on grass. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel the breeze caress your cheeks.

You freeze.

Your hand trembles as it reaches out to touch the flower in front of you. It’s the exact flower you found in your dream.

“I don’t…” you give a long sigh, closing your eyes. A headache starts to thrum in your head. “I don't know what’s going on anymore.”

Ever since you came here, you’ve seen flashes of memories pop in your head—of laughter, of the warmth of shared hands, of someone. The boy cannot be seen, and he’s unnamed. You feel younger, more childish, more happy in your dreams. And each time the male turns to face you, the dream ends. 

You feel your heart getting weighed down every time you wake up. Turn around, you plead, turn around! Let me see you!

You feel a blanket drape over your shoulders, and you soften. “Elias.”

“[Name]. What are you doing so late at night?”

“I’ve had…” you say absentmindedly, “the same recurring dream.”

“A nightmare?” Elias asks, his voice dressed in concern. A hand immediately reaches out to touch your forehead, measuring your temperature. “Do you feel unwell? Humans are such fragile creatures.”

“You speak as if you’ve lost a human before.” You say, amused, before you shake your head. “No. Not nightmares. Strangely enough, I’ve dreamt of this flower field multiple times. With someone…with myself, reaching out to these very flowers, plucking off the petals…” you turn to face him. “I don’t know anything, Elias. I only know your name. You don’t tell me why you care for me so. You don’t tell me the truth about the earlier offerings. You don’t…”

You don’t tell me anything.

It’s impossible for you not to fall in love with him. Such gentleness—such love—can only cause your feelings to spiral out of control. It can only cause you pain and grief. Elias has ulterior motives, you are convinced, and you use use those motives to destroy your feelings before they can destroy you. So you continue.

“But perhaps it’s for the better, isn’t it? To place a distance. After all, a mortal can never be a God. And a God can never be a human.” You tilt your head. “You are shrouded with mysteries. You will never explain anything to me. You will treat me with fondness—love, almost—and you will expect me not to doubt you. But of course I doubt you. How can I not, when all my life, I’ve been taught that love is a privilege, and not a right?”

“No, [Name],” Elias says in a strangled voice.

That’s foolish, you think, gods should never have such an expression on their face.

Elias’s heart throbs. He’s heard these very words before from you. He has. You don’t know it—you don’t know that he’s been waiting for your reincarnation for ages now—you don’t know that he does know you, from eons, centuries ago.

.

.

“But you’re human, aren’t you?” You smiled as you faced him, joy alighting on your features. “Why must you rob yourself of such emotions?”

Human..

Your words were like music to his ears. They filled him with immeasurable joy.

Human.

How long had it been since someone said that to him? His mother had told him before, perhaps, but that had been…no, had anyone even told him that before?

A person as bright as the sun, as beautiful as the flowers. Those were his thoughts as he looked at you— a picturesque sight you made indeed, hair messy and a playful smile on your face, limbs dipped in the water. You seemed more like a God than himself, with the way the moon seemed to favor you; coating your whole body in some resplendent light.

Your scent had him intoxicated. Your voice. Your words.

Elias had loved you desperately. He had, before you had been ripped away from him from a common cold that killed you.

Elias grieved.

Humans are such fragile creatures.

.

.

“I did,” Elias turns away, shadows casting down on his face. “I did know you.”

You don't say anything for a few seconds, before you open your mouth. “What?”

“There’s a reason I asked for offerings,” Elias murmurs. “I thought it would be you. I wanted you to come back to me. It wouldn’t matter to me what form you would be in, what you looked like—I just wanted you with me.”

“You must be the male in the dream, then,” you realize, “but—”

“I’ve waited so long for you since you died.” Elias swallows. His gaze is almost murky, almost dangerous… “so, so long. Centuries have passed since the last time I saw you alive. You pledged your eternal devotion to me then. But you…” Elias’s hands are cold as they seek warmth within yours. “You took so long to appear to me again.”

“Then the offerings. They didn’t commit suicide, did they?” You ask him. You know the answer. And you fear that you’ll forgive him for his cruelty. After all, is this not the male—not the God—who has treated you with so much kindness? So much love? Is this not the God whom you dream of, the one who had been your lover before? Is this not the God whom you have so utterly and pathetically fallen for? You have given your heart to a God, and now his divinity will kill both your souls. 

“They hurt you,” Elias closes your eyes. His hands are pulling you to him now, your head buried into the crook of his neck. “I…lied, because I simply…” He kisses your neck softly, his tone low. “…I could not deal with the idea, [Name], of those dirty vermin hurting you. And I waited and waited and waited for that useless village chief to send you; for me to reunite with you, but…it took four tries. Four tries, [Name].”

Your memories are rushing back to you. You remember Elias’s words from your past life: I’m sorry, [Name]. Loving a God is never easy. When I kiss you, you will taste the loneliness rotting my tongue. When I hold your hand, you will feel the ichor and ice in my veins, freezing you, and when I gaze at you, you will see my faults and my coldness. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to remember you.” You shake your head. “I didn’t..understand. I didn’t understand anything at all. I felt confused; lost: in a constant state of almost anger—because I wanted a reason greater than my love for you to explain why you were so tender to me.”

“I do,” Elias almost melts against your skin, like he’s seeking refuge within you; like he’s been starved and deprived and he’s been finally quenched of his thirst—“I love you, [Name]. I…”

His love for you is terrifying. He’s seen ungodly parts come out within him when others hurt you, when others dare to lay a hand on him. It has taken three bodies to be sent back to that stupid village for you to come to him. Divinity is lonely, and Elias hated the days without you. You have to be with him. You have to be with him, no matter what. He will not allow any other thing: you will stay by his side, he will annihilate everyone who dares to even touch you. You’ve given him a reason to live, and now he must make sure to protect you. Elias has never cared about mortals until now: but now he laments their weaknesses, he loathes their fragile selves. 

Everything that Elias has ever loved has disappeared. His mother perished. The pets he raised as a kid died. And now you…Elias fears that he’ll have to wait another few centuries for you should you die again.

He is willing to wait, of course, but sometimes, it’s impossible—it’s impossible.

Elias never had a chance to kiss you. Despite being your lover in your previous life, he’s never kissed you before. And perhaps that is the answer of divinity: his divinity will flow from his lips to yours. Perhaps it’ll be painful, but you love him too, don’t you? Won’t you stay with him?

It does not matter. Nothing will matter. Perhaps fragility is best. It’ll ensure that you’ll never run away from him, after all. You say you love him, currently—but how can he be so sure of that? Humans lie too, and you are still human.

Elias will make sure that you are beside him, no matter what, even if it means ripping your humanity away from you.

comments are always appreciated! I apologise if the pacing felt strange and the writing was off :’) low key forgot how to do oneshots. pls reblog and like, it’ll mean so much to me!

Sweet Slumber

An Emanator such as yourself that traveled for so long deserved to rest and Sunday is more than willing to help you sleep.

₊✦Honkai: Star Rail | Sunday x Gn!Reader | Yandere content up ahead!! (if you squint)✦₊

Additional Notes: Wrote this for my mutual @dilvei and it was her idea too, so go check her out right now!! 😤😤

Also might write more parts for this since I like the concept but idk, maybe, possibly.

The cosmos had been so lonely lately.

It felt desolate, a lot more than it normally did. You didn't know when exactly this change occurred, only that it did and that the only reason you could think of on why you weren't affected was because you were an Emanator of the Trailblaze.

But then, why didn't you see anyone else who was following the Path of the Trailblaze as you did? Or even other Emanators? Sure, you encountered a few Emanators of Nihility — all of whom looked more hopeless than ever — but you could count how many you encountered in just one hand during the past decade traversing the universe.

Something happened, but what was it?

Maybe you just needed to travel further out to find out.

So that's what you did.

But everything was the same no matter where you went.

There was nothing— no trace of life in any of the planets that you visited. The few "lifelike" beings you found might as well have been corpses, having fallen so deep into sleep that waking up was but an impossible dream for them. You wanted to help them, but alas, your powers were more suited for persevering, not healing, so leaving those poor souls be was your only option.

If only you had the Astral Express by your side so you could at least ensure that they'd remain safe under your watch, but the Express was also missing; having disappeared around a decade ago when all of this began.

So you left them behind.

The cosmos got colder that day, but feathers started fluttering about wherever you went from that point onwards.

It must've been a sign, surely, that you were getting close to something that was very important. Whatever it was, you weren't sure— Aeons know that it might already be too late and that important thing was already gone, dead even, but you needed to take whatever you could at this point.

This solitude was not one that you were fond of.

But the feathers, they were soft to the touch and gently drifted across space. Holding one in your hand brought comfort and travelling in the direction they came from filled you with a sense of ease. Like you were meant to head in that direction, in that way.

Wasn't this just the perfect way for the universe to guide you towards the answer for why there was barely anyone around?

Something felt wrong deep down, but what did you have to lose? If it was your life at worst, then there was no need to fear as you were an Emanator of the Trailblaze. The moment you felt death coming your way, you could just warp back to a planet far away and straight to safety. It was that easy.

So with your mind set, you travelled towards the source of the feathers.

₊ ˚ - — - ˚ ₊

Upon further thinking, this might've been a mistake, but the sight presented before you was certainly worth the trip at the very least.

Hundreds of thousands of wings stretched out far and beyond. You didn't see them before, but now that you were closer to this… sun-like being standing in front of you, it looked as if they stretched out infinitely; leaving no corner of the universe untouched.

You wondered if you could reach them and brush your hand against them.

If you focused, you could also faintly hear what sounded like a choir singing in the background. It sounded familiar, but why it did was beyond you.

Nevertheless, this sun-like being didn't appear to notice you and while it would be a smart choice to make your getaway now, the curiosity you felt about all this only drew you closer to it.

After judging the distance between you and it, you began closing in on it cautiously. The choir that was barely audible just a few moments ago grew louder little by little until you could pick up on it with ease. It was a melody you've heard before, you were sure. But it was an old melody from an equally old memory, you doubted that you'd be able to remember where it was from on your own no matter how much time you spent on it.

That didn't stop you from humming along it.

Each star you passed seemed to be replaced by a musical note, all of which slowly coming together to undoubtedly form the very melody being sang by the choir. Rainbows, just as infinite as the wings themselves, weaved themselves into existence as the dark blanket covering the universe slowly lifted and revealed colours akin to the purple littered sky of dusk.

Then it noticed you.

That sun-like being noticed you.

The wings, once stationary, seemed to rush forward to wherever they were extending to with speed you could barely comprehend; resulting in millions of feathers to fall out and scatter in every direction. The illusion that the universe provided quickly cracked and fell apart, the sky returning to its cruel dark colour and the stars losing their shape as the sun-like being approached you.

It was only when the being was right in front of you did the illusion it provided fully break, and only then did you start seeing the humanoid body that was attached to the wings and sitting right in the center of what you thought to be a sun.

Eyes were littered all across their body barely covered with deep purple and white silk cloth together with golden jewelry decorating every inch of it. You couldn't get a glimpse of their face due to the two small wings covering it, but you could see their silver hair — as well as the golden crown floating right behind their head — gently cascading down their shoulders and floating behind them as they slowly came closer towards you.

Then they stopped.

A chuckle, a low rumble, echoed throughout the space around you before a pair of hands — much bigger than you were — approached you from below and captured you within their grasp. They held you gently, settling you within their palms before moving you closer towards their— no, his body.

"You need not be afraid," He whispered softly, bringing you just close enough to get a better view of the decorated wings that covered his face. There was nothing left for you to see, not with how each individual silver feather tucked away his features delicately behind them. "I will not harm you."

"I… didn't think you would," you answered hesitantly. Truthfully, you very much thought that you would get squished between his palms or crushed between his wings, but his presence brought with it a sense of comfort so powerful that it made you want to fall asleep instead.

His head tilted in response and his feathers fluttered; moving in such a way to tease you into thinking that the smallest part of his skin would be revealed. "Is that so? But I can feel your heart beating within your chest, Emanator. If you are not afraid, then are you nervous?"

You shook your head. You were beyond nervous but strangely calm at the same time.

"Cute."

You froze.

"Cute..?"

Why did he call you cute? Did you— wait, no no! You couldn't afford to get sidetracked now! This being, he likely had answers as to why the universe was so quiet, why everyone had fallen into an eternal slumber, or some clues at the very least.

"Never mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions!"

He tilted his head, "Questions?" before he finally stretched out the wings covering his face, allowing you to see it as his lips shifted into a smirk, "Very well. Ask away, Emanator of the Trailblaze."

You parted your lips, prepared to ask every question that had been dwelling in your mind only for no sound to come out as you found yourself distracted by his eyes; those golden eyes that seemed to burn holes into your very being while trying to drag you deep into their depths at the same time.

You heard him chuckle lightly before tilting his head, his earrings gently swishing to the side and chiming just as sweetly as bells did, washing you over with a wave of fatigue.

Wait, fatigue?

"Changed your mind, Emanator?" he cooed, "You do look rather tired."

You weren't tired just a moment ago though!

"I'm… not…" you protested weakly, your words coming out slurred and quieting down little by little. "Not…"

Tired.

You shouldn't be tired.

What did he do to you?

"Oh? But you very much are, Emanator."

He shook his head, the chiming of his earrings lulling you further into sleep as he brought you up to his shoulder and plopped you down right next to his neck, uncaring and unbothered by what you could possibly do to him with your new proximity.

"I'm sure your journey has exhausted you so," he said, nudging you a little with his index finger — which was just about the length of your entire body, if not slightly longer — and adjusting your position so you were lying down and curled up against his skin. "Rest well, Emanator. I shall take good care of you until you wake."

"W- Wait… your name… please…"

You wanted to find out at least one thing before you inevitably joined the rest of the universe, and if the information happened to be something as small as the being's name, then so be it.

"My name… Ah, I haven't been called by it in so long."

Your eyelids shut close as your body finally plunged into the depths of dreams.

"Call me Sunday, Emanator."

this is so yummy i could read this all day 😭👌

Stripper y/n being drained by bottom yandere and getting fucked by dom yandere basically a threesome

UNEXPECTED CLIENT. [ yandere ! ceo x m ! reader x bodyguard ]

summary : yandere ceo brings an unexpected guest with him, claiming that his father had insisted on bringing his bodyguard with him everywhere. you don’t mind, you could use an extra buck or two.

expected content : threesome with reader being in the middle ✧; overstimulation ✧; willing stripper reader ✧; voyeurism

masterlist !

✩ i've been gone for 3 months (again wkwk sorry) i'm trying to get back into writing though, but i can't promise daily fics. it might take me a week or two to post new fics. requests are open, but selective :] don't be shy to ramble about our ideas. happy reading ! ✩ cero's one of my rare gentle yanderes, except for the fact that he tries to buy you out from time to time kekw. love this man. ✩ also, thank you to @dilvei for beta reading for me ! helped my muddled brain to get through this fic fr <3 they also write scrumptious fics, make sure to check out their blog !

➷  it was something that started out as a mere curiosity turned into an insatiable longing that persistently drew him back to the same place every single night. after a long and tiring day in his secluded office, cero sought solace in a place bustling with neon lights and busy bodies grinding against each other. 

➷ however, the allure of colorful and decorative drinks wasn’t what made him return each night. it was the sensation of your soft lips brushing against his and your body pressing against him closely that dissolved all his problems. your time together became his nightly routine as much as it became yours.

➷ adorned in a black robe made of fine silk that stopped above your knees–one of cero’s extravagant gifts–you settled on the king sized bed, meticulously prepared by the club for its most discerning clients, awaiting the ceo who was unusually running late.

➷ cero soon arrived a few minutes past your appointed meeting time. you quickly rose to greet him as usual, but to your surprise, he wasn’t alone. a towering figure trailed behind him, pausing by the door.

cero saunters over to where you stood, slowly taking off his blazer that had started to weigh heavily on his shoulders after wearing it for the entire day. he blocks your vision of the man that stood attentively by the door, making you divert your attention from the man to the ceo in front of you who had wrapped an arm around your waist to catch your attention.

"the color suits you well," he comments as soon as he notices his gift worn by you. a smile adorns his lips as he stares you down with hungry eyes, so much that you could feel his gaze undressing you. you return his smile with a sultry one, trying to ignore the eyes that burned a hole through you.

your hands instinctively work to undo his tie slowly as you speak, your curiosity getting the best of you. "who's the unfamiliar face ?" you question quietly, hoping that the conversation does not reach the man's ears.

you hear cero sigh deeply, visibly annoyed. you could imagine him rolling his eyes by the tone of his voice. "a bodyguard," he starts as he leans down to capture your lips in his, hands trailing down your waist to trace its shape. he pulls away after a moment, mustering a small frown. "someone had recently tried to make a move against the company, so father insisted that i bring him along wherever i go or don't leave home at all."

a low hum escapes your lips, listening to his little rant as your hands work on his buttons. you gently slip his dress shirt off his shoulder, your lips pressing themselves against his shoulder blade as you toss his top aside for him to find later.

it isn't long before he finds himself buried deep inside you, ordering you to hold your legs apart as you’re forcibly faced towards the unsuspecting bodyguard. cero’s fingers knead at your swollen buds, teeth sinking on your exposed shoulders to leave marks.

you start to feel conscious as your eyes land on the man by the door who was forced to watch the entire thing. you were starting to think that cero purposely made you face his bodyguard to try and throw him off. if that was the case, it wasn't working.

"your bodyguard's hard," your raspy voice catches the ceo's attention, his eyes trailing down to confirm your statement. there was indeed an obvious tent forming on the bodyguard's slacks, restrained by the tight fabric. you inwardly snicker when you notice the male attempting to slightly shift sideward to hide his embarrassment the moment he notices that the attention is now on him.

"won't you be a bad employer if you left him in that state ?" you prod at the ceo, your words hinting at your intent. as much as you favored cero, you didn't mind pulling in another client. it would only mean more income for you after all, and his bodyguard wasn't too bad looking. there was no reason to leave him out of the fun.

however, cero doesn't seem too pleased with your suggestion, a deep frown now etched onto his lips.

"are you suggesting that he joins in ?" cero questions, his tone failing to hide his disapproval. his fingers pinch and twist at your pink buds, leaving you shuddering and twitching in his embrace. your cock humiliatingly stands proudly when cero successfully prod at all the right spots that made you melt against him.

you try to muster up words despite barely being able to form a coherent sentence. cero eventually understood that this was something you wanted, and as much as he hated the thought of having someone else lay their hands on you, he could never turn down your request.

"elliott." defeated, cero calls for his bodyguard. in an instant, the bodyguard's attention is on the ceo, a startled expression on his face. cero gestures for him to move closer, and compliant to his employer's commands, elliot hurriedly brings himself over. his large stature led you to think that he'd be more snappy and alert, but his movements were unexpectedly awkward and stiff.

elliot's gaze briefly met yours, your vision blurred with all the tears that cascaded down your cheeks; half-lidded eyes filled with pleasure. his gaze is suddenly ripped away when a hand roughly grabs at his cheeks, forcing his attention away from your form to meet cero's stern gaze.

"you stare too much." cero’s forehead creases, not bothering to hide his displeased expression. he releases his grip on elliot. "strip."

"pardon ?" elliot's expression is replaced with one of disbelief, his mouth slightly agape upon hearing the order. however, one look from the ceo was enough to make him start stripping himself of his clothing, knowing his job, and possibly his life, was on the line.

your eyes watch with interest as the male strips himself bare before you, and as expected, he had a good build that was totally up your alley. compared to cero, elliot was a lot bigger; both in body size and–

a hand harshly drapes itself over your eyes and forces your head back, shrouding your vision in complete darkness. you can both hear and feel cero's hot breath caressing your skin, making you stiffen as the realization of your mistake dawns over you. “i don’t appreciate the way you’re eyeing my employee, y/n.” the ceo’s lips brush against your sensitive earlobe, the sharp edge in his tone causing a shiver to run down your spine.

“I didn’t expect you to be the jealous type,” you poke fun at him in a lighthearted manner. you hear cero scoff at your words before he slams himself inside of you once more, making you jolt in surprise. your limited vision heightens your senses, making everything you feel twice as pleasurable (or painful) compared to having your eyesight. 

cero pauses abruptly, his cock still buried deep within you, as he feels your whole form tremble against him. your grip around your own legs falters slightly. you could feel each vein on cero’s throbbing erection, making you conscious of his every movement. “keep your legs up, we’re just getting started.”

your thoughts are a mess, your inability to see beginning to slightly overwhelm you. it doesn't help that a piece of fabric has now replaced the hand that covered your eyes, an order carried out by cero to elliot who wrapped his own tie around your eyes. before you could register anything with your muddled thoughts, a warm sensation wraps around your hardened cock, catching you off guard.

“what–” you cut yourself off with an unexpected whimper escaping your lips when cero suddenly starts to move his hips once more. the action causes you to arch your back slightly, your lips gaped open as wanton moans involuntarily escape them.

in addition to cero’s rapid thrusts that tore at your insides with his size, the lips that wrapped themselves around your erection began to move at a fixed pace.

your fingers instinctively pull at elliott’s brown locks, your breathing ragged as you try to process each sensation their movement brought you; the fingers kneading your nipples, the lips around your member, the teeth leaving marks on your neck, and the dick ramming against your ass. it was all too much for you to handle all at once.

you bite back a moan when you feel yourself getting closer and closer to climax, until you can't hold it back anymore and end up releasing your load down elliot’s throat. your limp member that sits inside the bodyguard’s mouth twitches as elliott shifts to remove himself from your member, licking the remaining remnants of cum that trickles down his chin.

cero’s thrusts grow more desperate when he feels your walls tighten around him, as if he’s trying to remind you that he was still there. purple bruises and red bite marks litterboth your shoulders, cero having done a number on you. you can feel each mark sting painfully as your sweat glazes over them.

you jolt at the sudden pain on your thigh. elliott buries his teeth on your inner right thigh, his eyes gazing up at your lewd expression. to his surprise, the sensation makes blood rush up your cock once again, and your cheeks flare up in embarrassment.

“what a slut,” cero groans out as his eyes land on your hardened member. the ceo removes his hand from your sore nipples to tug at elliot’s locks, pushing the guard back down on your cock. a gargled sound reaches your ears as elliott struggles to catch his breath from the sudden intrusion in his mouth. “that’s it. this was what you wanted, right ?”

having just recently finished, your cock is in an extremely sensitive state, twitching inside elliott’s mouth. you whimper, the sensation bringing a slight tinge of pain. too much of something is not a good thing after all, and right now you feel overstimulated.

your whole body trembles, a string of curses leaving your mouth as you try to plead for cero to stop moving for a moment. your pleas fall on deaf ears as they focus on chasing their own release. elliot’s hand wraps around his own neglected member, his hands following the pace of his own bobbing head.

it isn’t long before you feel the warmth of cero’s release painting your insides white with his seed. in sync with your second time climax, elliot groans against your member as he stains the satin sheets, your overflowing cum trickling down his chin.

you tiredly lean against cero who gives a few more sloppy thrusts before eventually pulling out of you. he gently nuzzles his face on your bruised shoulder, listening intently to your ragged breath. your vision returns when cero removes the fabric from your eyes, met with a blurry and blinding light.

“good boy.”

needless to say, you received the extra bucks you worked so hard for by the end of the night.

*insert barking dog meme*

SACRED | YANDERE IMAGINES

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

warnings(s): mention of violence, god complex, religious imagery, dub-con, not to be glorified or romanticised

note(s): male reader, second person, past and present tense, not beta read. from twisted faith on my wattpad.

It takes a few moments for you to truly process what just happened. From the coarse sheets underneath your skin that differ greatly from the silken ones you have grown so accustomed to, to the air that smells like blood, you know something is terribly wrong.

Then you see a mural of a priest on the wall, and you remember where you are. A horror game.

Anton. It’s the name of the priest you need to find.

The first time you see the priest is the day after you transmigrate into a horror game. The said game, Spiraling into the Abyss features almost a cult like fanaticism with religion: you learn in the first few seconds of your time in the new world that they worship a priest like a God, and that they sacrifice humans to please the apparent gods of the heavens.

You’re a sacrifice. You know that. You are found to be guilty of some stupid crime you didn’t commit, and as far as you know, you are a worthless extra who will die by burning—you will do everything to prevent that.

To survive, you need to get into his good graces. You see him on the day or worship, when you come early to the Church: and his beauty astounds you. Symmetrical features—and the whole blue eyes and golden hair combination that is seen as rather cliche, in terms of beauty—but Anton doesn’t have a common kind of beauty; he is radiant. Benevolent. Ethereal. You marvel at him. His skin is without a blemish, and is fair, like he hasn’t gone out in the sun for a while...yet it has a healthy glow to it. His expression is serene. Anton's hair frames his face perfectly, and his eyes are expressive and rather captivating, with long, dark lashes that draw attention to it. His cheekbones are well-defined, his nose straight—and those only add to Anton's appeal.

He speaks to you in lilted tones, and immediately, you realize the priest isn’t just evil—he’s downright a menace.

"Sometimes I forget you are a new, naive believer. God is perfect, is he not? So his messengers, in turn, can do no wrong. He sends his messages through me. God is part of me. I'm merely ridding the world of evil."  He strides to where you are, and his hands touch the top of your head lightly. His fingers fall to your cheek, and he strokes it gently.

You can only swallow. “Yes, Father Anton.”

There’s one day where you ask him why he burns those bodies. He calls it “cleansing”, apparently.

“They donate to the church out of the kindness of their hearts,” you tell him, swallowing the bile down your throat as you hear more screams. “Is that not…a little extreme?”

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

“That is the cleanest way to proceed. Their ashes tumble away, and it makes it much easier for the people, too. If we were to use magic, or beheading, or even hanging—it would be much messier, no? And I believe fire is such an awfully beautiful thing. It can make death look inviting; and even though the heavens might cast them away…in hell, all they will see is the fiery pits. This is their punishment. To feel sorry for them is strange, Y/n.”

Despite this, for the sake of your survival, you continue to visit him. Now, such visits are rare: Anton barely makes time for anyone. But he does, for you. 

Of course, this partial treatment doesn’t go unnoticed by you. He treats only you like this: it’s concerning, actually. His words are light and gentle, but the weight of it isn’t. In fact, he speaks of cleansing, he speaks of murdering in such a calm manner that you wonder if the devil truly resides in him.

But one thing is clear. 

To survive, you need to get into his good graces.

You feel your sanity slip each minute you spend in the game.

Anton kills. So does the Church. And you still can’t explain the goddamn obsession he has with you. Why has he not killed you yet? Anton is no saint, not at all.

Perhaps Anton was ensnared by the promise of Godhood—ensnared by the tendrils of his own self proclaimed grandiosity. Perhaps he had been idolized so much…worshiped by the devoted believers that he had simply been led to believe in his imagined divinity. Anton was a mortal who had dared to cast a shadow that eclipsed the very stars that he had reached for. Anton was simply adorned in robes of imagined omnipotence, and smelt of the fragrance of narcissus.

Here, he was god, but Anton was completely alienated from empathy. For what was a god in isolation but a sovereign ruler over an empire of one, ruling over a realm devoid of the richness of God’s grace?

You can’t deal with him much longer. He keeps murdering: he murders those who come to you under the guise of the silly notion of cleansing, he finds it amusing to see you sob and cry…and he has no qualms about drugging you. If not for the items you have stored in your inventory, warning you of drugs, you would have succumbed long ago.

Anton is no priest. 

And now he stands before you, his lips curling into a smile when he sees the look of despair on your face. He has just killed a friend,

You have to. You have to fight Anton…you have to…

Anton leans forward. You two are a hair’s breadth away.

God. Is God real? Is the devil real—has he taken form in Anton himself, twisting, persuading, begging, tempting people to court evil, to withhold the stench of death? The crimson flames have not faltered for long, and have only seemed to welcome him with fiery contempt, only surrendering when everything has been destroyed in its wake.

You long to spit curses towards Anton. You long for your limbs to connect with his face, and leave a mottled bruise there. You long for your twitching fingers to wrap around the priest’s neck; watch as oxygen slowly slips from his lungs out of your throat. You long to see his body grow limp.

“You are so perfect,” Anton murmurs, “so, so divine. So perfect…”

You don’t get why he says this. He’s been telling you this for ages: it’s the reason why you’ve been treated well. He claims you are some savior from an oracle ready to save him, he claims you saved him.

And now in this scenario, where his fingers are grazing your cheek?

You swallow. There was no way, right? No fucking way—

“I want to kiss you.”

Your heart drops. “…If I say no, you wouldn’t listen.”

A kiss. It would just be a kiss, right? That was okay. It means simply brushing your lips against Anton’s…yeah, that was possible.

You want to cry. Anton presses his lips on yours—it’s a mixture of heat and warmth; the way Anton ravages your lips has some sort of twisted hunger to it, craving and craving and craving. There is an obscene sheen of saliva coating your lips when you part.

The kiss tastes just like the forbidden fruit, plucked from the tree of desire. It is the same way that Eve sinned—eating a fruit that had belonged to the serpent. It was as if you had forged a pact with the devil himself—that in kissing Anton, it was like sealing your fate in the molten wax of sin, staining the canvas of your soul. Had matted it black. 

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

Once Anton fully lets go, he smiles, and you collapse on the ground, tears running down your face.

He needs you, Anton thinks, he needs you. You are the savior who has brought him from the depths of hell. You are his miracle. You are his little pet; his little divine sacrifice, the white sheep with the white wool. You are the one who will follow him guiltlessly. Untouched, untainted, clean.

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

It needed a savior. Someone to bring them out from the depths of hell—to cleanse them. After all, was that not what the texts read? Was that not what he had learnt, ever since young? Was that not what had been instilled in him since his very birth? Luke 15:11-32. The wayward son who squandered his inheritance but was welcomed back by his forgiving father—Anton had marveled at it when he was young. To think someone would have such boundless grace; such forgiveness for a foolish person…

The oracle. Anton saw the oracle as a gift—a symbol from God. It had been delivered to him when he was young, naive, and careless. 

Anton remembered very little about his childhood. Extremely little. He remembered his mother, his father. But that was it—but oh, how he hated them. Anton did not remember why he hated them, why the portrait of his family had been torn out. He regarded life then, and now, as the beginning of the end.

Something fleeting, something ephemeral. Something tragic. Life was a wonderful tragedy.

People look at me with such endless wonder; such spellbound eyes and widened mouths. They see me as God—they see me as a deity above them all.

And that was true, Anton thought. That was very true. Sinners. Wretched, dirtied, horrid sinners, all of them! Anton despised humankind; they were worthless—made of brittle bones with flesh. He did not even see them as humans. They were just mere vessels in need of salvation.

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

He was anointed by a divine purpose to purify the soiled souls of the world…

Yes, that was his purpose.

It was relieving and calming to have a purpose. To drift in the vast expanse of the world; the universe without a tethering purpose is akin to being a feather in the breath of the wind. Useless, damaging, lonely. Anton could see—it was very easy for him to see who were those who were aimless in life, compared to those who had the bright, bubbly life shining magnificently in their eyes.

Oh, Mother. Anton would stand before her grave. Again, he did not remember much of what he believed was to be a mundane, boring childhood, but his mother’s name left a bitter taste on his tongue, horrid and painful. Somehow, he did not feel a single bit of…remorse, or guilt when he gazed at her tombstone. He expected to feel guilt for something he was quite sure he didn’t do.

But his lips would always curve into a smile when he saw the words etched on the grave. She was dead, he would remember. Dead. Occasionally, snippets of memories would come to him—her shrill voice, her messy, jagged hair, her crazed, crazed eyes. The way her fingernails felt on her skin when she scratched at him wildly.

Clearly, she deserved to die. How did she die, though? What exactly transpired? What kind of person was she, and what kind of person had she tried to make Anton into?

Anton found, to his surprise, that he was bothered about this. Detachment was something he prided himself on: he would never venture too close.

To have attachment with someone would be detrimental. Annoying. Haunting.

There were times—many, many times when Anton had awoken, hollow and void. 

The oracle.

The oracle.

When is it coming? When is it coming? Have the gods lied to me?

The oracle—his lifeline since he was young—was the very proof that this world had a chance, to live on, to heal.

A savior.

There were times Anton would grow impatient. He needed to do something about the state of the world. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Why did people falter in front of flames? What did people shun away from blood? Was the sight not wonderful, not enchanting? The heat was welcoming—a gentle caress. Those who ventured in, would have their faces bathed in mesmerizing glow. Nevermind their screams, nevermind their bleeding, rotting flesh. 

The fire illuminated the world before it dissolved like nothing. Like it hadn’t existed. 

“Horrible! Horrible! You’re fucking horrible!” Then the stinging of flesh. There was something piping hot, something burning him.

“Why won’t you even flinch, you monster?”

Anton smiled loosely. Another memory. They came into his mind occasionally and quickly. He never pondered over them—it was useless to; for he already had everything he wanted.

The day you came into the world, was the day he felt alive. Waiting had become a bore to him—it was the same routine over and over again, with the same stupid, foolish people—

Something extraordinary had graced his reality. The oracle. You were the chosen one. The chosen one. The chosen one. The one he yearned for; seeked for; the change in the world.

“Dear God,” You had said the first time he saw you. “I confess I have been impure in my holy spiritual presence…”

Anton had seen you before the mural; your head lowered, your words soft and quiet.

Anton had stepped before you, tilting his head to the side as he observed you. In fact, you seemed to be struggling.

“You have to be sincere. You can’t just read off the mural.” Anton sighed.

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

“Forgive me, Father Anton, for I have sinned.” You appeared shocked for the words to even slip past your lips; and oh, you were beautiful. Lovely. Innocent. Anton gazed at you—this was the person he had been waiting for his whole life—fervently, impatiently, silently. 

“You don’t seem to be used to this,” Anton said at last, as he took off his hood. He had not meant to come to church today—he was aware the crowd was growing more stifling, more crazed by the minute. The women of the church reminded him of his mother. There were times he wished he could draw a blade to their throat, and watch the blood spill out in a wonderful crimson.

“I’m afraid it’s been long since my last confession.”

Anton couldn’t help but smile. You were lying. 

“That’s alright,” He said calmly, “you have come now. Is there something in particular that’s troubling you, perhaps? To bring you to confession?”

“I…”

Anton could read human beings exceptionally well. From the way their eyes narrowed, the way their pupils widened marginally, to the gap of their fingers…you were trembling. You were thinking of what other lies you could say.

An adorable fool.

“You…?” He prompted. “You must not feel self conscious in the eyes of God. He already knows, Y/n. He is only waiting for you to confess.”

I am only waiting for you to confess. To tell me that you are from the oracle.

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

“What do people come here for, Father Anton?”

Many things.

“The ones who have sinned so awfully they are made to be sacrifices.”

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

There were times he would stand before dead bodies, blood in his hand, blinking slowly. When? When had he killed them? It all happened so fast, he wasn’t even aware of the blood staining his clothes, the bodies riddled on the ground.

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

Anton wanted to laugh. A textbook answer. You had much to learn, didn’t you? It was alright. Anton could teach you. Teach you from ground zero, till you would become who you were supposed to be.

“Mostly, it’s their lack of faith. Rebelling against us. It is their perceived lack of loyalty, and their utter ignorance and disregard for God that leads us to take drastic measures.”

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

“But that doesn’t matter,” Anton said softly, “you show a desire to learn. And that is always very splendid, always welcomed.”

Anton would morph you and turn you into something splendid, divine.

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