#Pedro pascal priest
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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝐆𝐎 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋.
DAY THREE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN
prompt: priest au + “worship me. until i tell you to stop.”
pairing: priest!ezra x f!reader
genre: explicit smut, minors dni, dark content
summary: after a breakup, you find solaca at the local church. there, you meet father ezra.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: dubcon, manipulation, brief mention of reader going through a breakup, reader having a brief anxiety attack, reader having confidence issues, loneliness, messy blowjob, degradation, leg humping, dirty talk, facial, power imbalance, dumbification if you squint, use of whore, religious themes, this is written for horny purposes only, priest kink, a lot of 'yes father's and 'forgive me father's
Comfort is what leads you to your local church.
You wouldn’t exactly say you’re a believer, but coming to the church and sticking wishing candles into the sandy surface was one of your finest memories from your childhood. You enjoy the chocolaty smell of the wooden benches, the stained large panes of the windows that cast vibrant rainbows upon the polished floor when the sun hits them just right.
When you sit on the bench, surrounded by a calm dimness and silent prayers, you feel contented, like the world outside doesn’t exist.
You feel lonely out there in the modern world, especially after your breakup, which was the turning point that led you to the adorned wooden doors of the church in the first place. It wasn’t a messy breakup, still, it left you in shambles. He’d moved on so quickly. Just picking up his clothes and throwing them into the bag before he left. It broke your heart if you’re being honest. He was never overly affectionate or necessarily cared about the things you cared about, but it was better than being utterly alone.
Just a little bit of comfort. That’s all you want. Just a sense of belonging.
Here at the church, the sense of commune affects you, even if you’re not exactly a part of it.
Sitting at the edge of the bench, you look up. The church is empty today due to the heavy downpour, there’s only one more person other than you. They’re busy in prayer so you don’t stare at them for long, not wanting to be rude.
Your eyes move away from the person, they linger on the confessionals. You always found the idea appealing in some twisted way. As if asking for forgiveness from some random man will solve all your problems. You never went it, always feeling too paranoid that someone might hear how stupid you sound.
The person finishes their prayer, and as they walk down the middle, you notice it was a youngish man, his hair stuck to his forehead. His steps echo, a second later the sound of his departure rings dull against the cold walls.
You rise slowly, eyes once again fixed on the booths. They’re barely noticeable thanks to how dimly lit the church is, and with no sun there’s little light to guide you.
You’re not even sure a Father will assist you when you open the door to the small space. It creaks loudly and your skin crawls. You’re hesitant, yet you still climb inside and take a seat. It’s small, dark, and smells overwhelmingly of wood. It’s oddly comforting.
You’re unsure what to do with yourself until you hear the door opening and closing from the other side of the booth.
“Welcome. I am Father Ezra, and I am here to listen, guide, and offer you the grace of God's forgiveness. As sunlit moments blend with shadows, so too do our lives weave intricate tales of both frailty and strength. With open ears and an open heart, I beckon you to unburden your spirit. When you're ready, please share your thoughts, knowing that your words are heard in the spirit of compassion and understanding.”
Your eyes widen at the sound of his voice. He doesn’t rush his speech, taking time as if every sentence is a story of its own. It’s so smooth, enticing, beckoning you to pour all the darkness that lingers around your heart. You’re surprised to find yourself wanting to hear more of that honey-dipped voice.
Father Ezra, you’ve heard his name before and from afar, even laid eyes on him. You can barely remember what he looks like now though. You certainly never heard him during sermons, you would’ve definitely remembered his voice if you had.
You’re pulled away from your thoughts when you hear a creak and a soft flutter of a robe.
“Sorry,” you say, quick and silent. “This is my first time doing this and I didn’t really have a prepared thing in mind.”
His soft chuckle echoes—god, why does he sound so good?
“Sweet, lost, little bird, you do not need to rush it. You can start by introducing yourself. Tell me your name.”
A shudder that starts from your toes claws all the way up to your spine. All he did was ask your name, yet, it feels like he’s asking for something drastic like your life. You swallow around the know in your throat, lowering your gaze even though there’s no one that can see you.
You give him your name and something you can’t discern shifts in the air.
“What a lovely name,” he hums. “Now tell me, what troubles you on this rainy day.”
“Nothing specific,” a sigh parts your lips, and again, a creak comes through the other side. Your skin prickles. You can feel as if his eyes can see through the thin wall that separates you both. “I’m feeling a bit lonely. I—I went through a break up a couple of weeks ago and. . . I guess I can’t help but feel it’s my fault somehow.”
You wait for him to say something, but when he doesn’t, you continue.
“This might sound dumb—”
“There is no such thing,” you can almost hear the smile in his voice. “There’s no shame in asking for guidance and forgiveness.”
“There were these things. . . that he said about me. Things like I was too needy, too dependent, and too much overall. And I feel like it’s true because no one ever seems to stay with me,” you let out a bitter chuckle as tears begin to well in your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m like this, maybe—maybe God is punishing me for a sin I don’t know and i-if that’s the case, Father, I seek forgiveness.”
A breath. A low, violent exhale of breath. Your eyes flit to the grille, a pair of plush lips now visible through the tightly made slats.
“You ask for forgiveness, atonement, yet do you actually believe?” he coos, voice low.
“I don’t,” you answer a bit too quickly and blood boils under your nails. “I–I mean I don’t know.”
“How do you expect me to help when you doubt the lord’s existence, little one?” Despite the provocative question, you see the faint curve of his smile through the darkness. “Are you desperate?”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” you say quietly. The rain pour had begun again, drowning out the rest of the sound. “I’ve been coming here ever since the breakup. I enjoy watching people pray and smile, looking comforted. I just thought that if I did this, that comfort would extend to me as well. I’m sorry.”
“The comfort is fleeting when you don’t believe it to be true,” he murmurs, ignoring your apology. “If you seek guidance, I can help you understand better and maybe then you’ll receive the comfort and the forgiveness that you crave oh so deeply.”
There’s a mocking lilt to his tone that you decide to ignore. It feels only right when you had outwardly said that you didn’t believe in the man’s religion.
With an open heart, you accept his offer of guidance.
You visit his office almost every night.
You found yourself enjoying the church even more after hours. Ezra became a friend, which didn’t surprise you because that man had an essence about him that would charm the pants off of any devil that he might encounter. You guys did bible studies together and talked about other religions as well, and what it means to understand the words inscribed and given to the people. It was interesting to listen to. He would even give you assignments sometimes, telling you to read a specific paper or book. It felt like being at school again. He’d given you something you thought you had lost forever; A sense of purpose.
It didn’t hurt that he was a sight to look at. His dark brown eyes always held a certain mischief to them, lighting up in amusement whenever you said anything peculiar.
You knew it was cliche to have a crush on a priest, yet here you were, wagging an imaginary tail whenever he praised you for doing a good job.
But tonight is not one of those days you feel all giddy and excited to see him. You enter the wide halls of the church and take a sharp turn towards his office, all you sense is impending doom, your insides riddled with anxiety. You’re shaking, barely able to feel your legs as you walk.
When you enter, his eyes look up from the papers that lay in front of him, his gaze momentarily dropping to where your dress ends, then back up. His brows furrowing instantly at your heavy breathing, “Little bird, what’s wrong?”
“Everything!” you exclaim, heaving a breath. “Everything is wrong—I’m wrong—I—fuck—”
Ezra clears his throat in warning, “Language,” he says with a click of his tongue.
“Sorry, Father.” you look down in shame, your hands balled into tight fists as you fight the urge to pace around his office. “I just—”
He cuts you off, “Why don’t you take a seat and tell me what happened?” he smiles kindly. “And maybe you can stop shaking while you’re at it.”
You nod as you take a seat. Your heart continuously rams against your ribcage and you can barely breathe, your throat convulsing in agony. Ezra gestures to you to look at him. When you do, he takes a deep inhale, making a demonstration in showing how his chest expands and contracts, his hand following the movement as if on waves.
You breathe with him, the oxygen that fills your lungs calming you.
“Good,” he hums. “Now tell me what happened.”
“I saw him today. My—My ex,” you shook your head, reliving the moment. “He’s already seeing someone, which is fine if he was just honest about it. It’s some girl from work, the same girl I asked him about when he moved out,” a hiccup parts your sentence and you continue, your eyes dropping away from Ezra’s. “I said ‘is it her, do you like someone else’ and he said no. He pretended not to recognize me, even though his girlfriend did. I could see it in her eyes but he just walked past me, like I never existed.”
A sole tear trickles down your cheek and you wipe it away with your sleeve, sniffling. When you feel another, you repeat the motion, finding solace in the softness of the fabric. “I’m an idiot,” you say, still not looking at him. “What am I even doing here? I should try to face reality not escape it in some—some church.”
You hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. The church had helped you when you needed it most, it had given you Ezra, most of all. But you couldn’t help the words, you’re angry. Furious. You feel invisible out there, but here, here people recognize you, and ask where you’ve been when you came back the other day. It’s good to know that if you disappear some people would wonder about you.
Ezra’s voice rings in your ear, and without even understanding the words he’s saying, you’re looking up.
“Let’s try something,” he says probably again. “Come here.”
You’re slightly confused but obliged. He pushes his chair slightly back, making some room between him and the desk. Your eyes drop to the end of his robes, two shiny shoes peaking from underneath.
“Get on your knees.”
You snort, “Excuse me?”
“It’s going to calm you,” he says. “Do you trust me?”
Your lips part with a faint gasp, you don’t blink as your eyes search his. There’s a tranquility in his expression that makes your heart throb. “Of course, Father,” you get on your knees.
“Good girl,” he pats his thigh. “Now lay your head.”
You do so without question this time, appreciating the firmness of muscle under your head. A moment passes, awkwardness starting to settle in, then you feel his fingers touching the back of your neck and gradually they move up to your scalp. Humming a gentle melody, he starts to stroke your hair, massaging your head as he went along. A deep sigh comes from the depths of your lungs, your nerves humming, your rigid muscles finally relax.
“You’ve been doing so well these past couple of weeks,” he says, a hint of amusement lingering in his voice. “You’ve been learning, little bird, but you still have much to learn. The church is part of the real world, you haven’t been doing nothing.”
Listening to him so intently, he sends shivers down your spine, the thickness of arousal pooling between your legs. He drags blunt nails down your scalp and comes down to your nape to squeeze from both sides. You’re embarrassed of the moan that rattles your throat but he doesn’t seem to mind it. You lean closer, pressing your cheek further against his leg.
“Isn’t this nice?” he asks without needing the answer. “You, my obedient girl, listening and eager to please. You’ll always feel like this when you’re with me. No anxiety, no need to compete and try to accomplish something when all you want to do is. . . relax. . .”
His voice had dropped to a whisper, every word a gentle caress to your skin. Eyes fluttering close, you only focus on the ups and downs of his voice, your body reacting to every stop and turn. The fabric of your underwear dampens, your folds becoming slicker the more you inch towards him. You ache for your fingers—or better yet his cock—but he isn’t allowed to touch you is he?
You try to remember the lessons in celibacy but can’t seem to remember any of them.
Your tighs instinctively press together, the brief friction doing little in dousing the wildfires between your legs. You wiggle a bit closer, his voice nothing but a siren song now.
Ezra notices the constant movement, his fingers slip under your chin, and drags your eyes up to face him. Your breath hitches. The faint moonlight that trickles through the windows behind him cast his face in complete shadow, his features hardening with darkness. He slips his foot between your legs, the floor creaking under the sole of his shoe, “Now, why can’t you stay still when I’m trying so hard to soothe you, little bird?”
He lifts the point of his shoe, the leather pressing directly against your throbbing clit. A surprised whimper rips from your throat, your body shaking as he drags the leather tip down. Your insides clench with want, with a primal need that you can’t seem to understand.
You’re haunted by his words and the darkness that lurks in his eyes. Despite yourself, you press yourself up against his leg like some animal. You can’t seem to stop staring at him. And by the way he pushes his shoe further into you, borderline on almost being painful, you don’t think he minds either.
Your eyes flutter as he parts his robe, your gaze immediately drops to the outline of his cock that’s visible. Your mouth waters.
“Worship me,” he unbuttons himself with expertise but leaves it at that. “Until I tell you to stop.”
His leg still between your legs, you pull out his cock. The tip is an angry shade of red, precum dotting at the tip, without much thought you lean over and dip your tongue, tasting him for the first time. The taste of him coats the inside of your mouth and you swallow greedily, the blood rush to your ears muffling his voice.
“Such a sweet whore,” he hums. “You like sucking cock, don’t you?”
Dragging your lips down the length of him, you answer with him between your lips, “Yes, Father.”
“I really do enjoy it when you call me that,” his thumb touches your cheek as you finally take him between your lips, you allow out your cheeks and flatten your tongue against the underside of his cock. “All you needed was a little encouragement and now you’re the perfect hole for me. There’s nothing wrong with you, all you need is someone to take care of you.”
You hum in approval around him, taking him deeper while grinding against his leg, your dress rides up your thighs, your underwear nearly sheer in color.
“I can feel how wet you are. So needy,” he lays back in his chair and spreads his legs. “I want to feel every inch of your mouth. I said worship, if this is how you think that works you’re mistaken, dove.”
Your stomach churns at that. You want to make him happy—you truly do. You part from him, strings of saliva following the frame of your lips as you bend down closer to the floor, feeling the full shape of his shoe. You look up to him, the heft of his cock laying directly in the middle of your face, the scent of sex and him clinging to your nose. Opening your mouth, you lick between his balls, taking one into your mouth, you swirl your tongue around it. His eyes roll in pleasure, a thick drop of precome dripping to your forehead.
“That’s it,” he raps and guides you back up, lining the bulbous head of his cock against your lips. He pushes forward, cock filling your mouth then inching down your throat. Tears trickle down your cheeks, your throat convulsing as you try to accommodate to the width of him. You swallow and swallow, until your nose is buried into the dark curls that crown his length. You can barely breathe. “I knew you could take it all, little one. I know that mouth could do more than talk.”
The heavy palm of his hand moves down your throat, he feels the shape of himself through the skin. His cock twitches when it feels his hand, straining your mouth further.
He pulls out and you gasp for air, his grin is wide as he looks down at you. “I want to make a mess of that face,” with the rough pitch of his words, you roll your hips, your clit catches against his shoe and a loud moan spills from your damp lips. He clicks his tongue with annoyance. “Ask for forgiveness,” he growls, hand moving up and down his cock with hard strokes.
“For what, Father?” your voice is barely above a whisper. And you’re not sure why you asked when you’re going to surrender to his wants regardless of what they are.
“For being a whore,” he spits. “For talking about a past flame and for taking pleasure without permission.”
He watches with heavy eyes as you straighten yourself, his cock aimed directly at your face. You watch him with parted lips. His nail gently traces the vein that curls around the length of him, slick sounds filling the normally silent office. He swipes a thumb over his head and thrusts into his fist.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you begin. “It has been two weeks since my last confession. I have behaved like a whore, talked about another man in the presence of the clergy, and taken pleasure without permission. I come before you seeking God's forgiveness and guidance.”
“Will you repeat your sins?”
“No, Father. Not unless I have permission to do so.”
His hand quickens, his grip tightening, “Do it then,” he snarls with a devilish smile. “Ask me permission to be a whore.”
Instead of a verbal permission, you part your mouth wide and stick your tongue out. His eyes widen with shock momentarily before understanding. He seems pleased and in return, you feel genuine jot for finally doing something right.
He grips your chin, pulling you away from his leg and directly between his thighs. It doesn’t take him long to go over the age—one, two more strokes and you feel the first string of white come spurting over your face. It drips down your forehead from your face. The sounds Ezra make are unhinged, his hips lifting from the seat as he moans openly into the air, defiling you and marking you as his. His seed feels heavy over your face and with your tongue, you catch a bit of it, moaning as you swallow.
Ezra hunches over you and you feel his tongue on your cheek, taking himself into his mouth, he presses his tongue into your mouth, forcing more of himself inside of you.
When he parts away, you’re dazed, all pretense of the life outside of this church gone.
“My sweet bird, so dirty now,” he purrs, this time he collects more of himself over his fingers and stuffs it into your mouth. Your eyes rolling you swallow over and over. “What do you say?” he asks melodically.
“Thank you, Father.”
#ezra prospect x reader#ezra x reader#ezra prospect x you#ezra prospect x f!reader#ezra prospect x fem!reader#priest!ezra#tw dark content#tw dubcon#pedro pascal characters#hauntedhoedown#pedro pascal character fanfic#prospect fanfic
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Pearl Rosary || Din Djarin
Word count: 1.7k
Summary: Priest of Mandalore!Din Djarin listens to your sins during confession
Notes: part three in my week of horror series! minors dni; public(ish) sex, finger sucking, deepthroating, cock worship, facial, reader is a Mandalorian who takes her helmet off, so much religious imagery
In the Cathedral of Mandalore, there’s only just enough light to make out the back of the wooden pew in front of you. The doors and windows are adorned with an ornate red glass that wash the chapel in a somber crimson gloom, a reminder that only those dedicated to their creedal faith are permitted inside.
The nave is silent beyond the occasional clink of beskar and the solemn bells ringing overhead in hourly intervals. You’d counted three resounding chimes, then four, then five, as the day stretches on outside the walls of the chapel.
In your tightly coiled spiral of pensive rumination, time seems to stand still.
Your eyes snap up as another Mandalorian passes by your aisle in their departure from the confessional. The small curtained booth at the front of the church has a strangely foreboding presence, and you’d been working up the courage to step inside all day.
The front doors close, and you’re left with your guilt once again.
If you admit to the thoughts weighing on your conscience, maybe you’ll have the chance to repent. Or, if the pit of dread in your stomach is any prediction, you’ll be cast out for your inclination towards a life of sin.
Before you can work up the nerve to decide whether to gamble your fate, the head of the church, Din Djarin, steps out of the other side of the confessional, rolling his shoulders to relieve the stiff ache of being confined in his narrow compartment.
His armor has grown dull with age and wear, buffed with a flat luster that speaks of its obstinate strength.
Others have said that his appearance makes him seem ordinary, but you’ve always thought that his mannerisms were what set him apart. His imposing stance, his commanding way of speaking, the way his head tilts when he’s deep in thought – he’s beautiful if you know where to look.
When he turns in your direction, your breath catches in your throat.
“You’ve been here for quite a while.” His voice has an unexpected warmth that licks up your spine. “Are you here to speak with me?”
Your eyes flicker warily to the confession booth. “I’m not sure.”
He seems to pause for a moment before making his mind up to join you, floorboards groaning under his heavy boots as he draws near. You shift uncomfortably on the hard bench, squirming under the spotlight of his attention. He stops at the end of your row and rests a hand behind you on the back of the pew.
“We can speak out here if you’d prefer.”
You’re surprised that he’d recognized the source of your unease, though you’re not sure if he realizes why the embrace of the confessional is so distinctly unnerving.
The people of Mandalore are not known for their empathy, especially not those held in high regard by the church. Din Djarin is a fiercely orthodox man, and you doubt he understands the position you’re in.
“I’ve seen you during services,” he comments. “Always so attentive.”
Heat rises to your cheeks at the thought of being recognized in the mass of devoted warriors that frequent his sermons. Is your shame so pronounced that you stand out in a crowd? “I didn’t know you paid attention to the assembly.”
He hums in response. “I care deeply for everyone in my congregation, especially those who are in danger of losing their faith. Tell me, what’s been troubling you?”
You hesitate before answering, skirting around the truth as much as you can, as much as he’ll let you.
“I’ve had… impure thoughts, father.”
“Oh?” His voice is rich with interest. “Indulge me, cyar'ika. What tempts you?”
His smooth, full baritone makes it impossible to deny his entreaty, like he’s wrenching your secrets from the far reaches of your mind.
“I’ve thought about… taking my helmet off in the witness of non-believers. I’ve thought about what you look like underneath your armor.” You pause for breath. “I’ve thought about your image at improper times.”
His chest falls with a heady sigh, though the sound is lost beyond the rasp of his modulator. “I see. And how do you think you should pay for your transgressions?”
The presence of other Mandalorians can be heard from outside the chapel – an admonition of what you have to lose if you are turned away. The air in the room shifts. Your hands flex at your sides.
“I’ll do anything.” You push forward onto the edge of your seat, ardently pleading for your chance at repentance. “Tell me how to make things right.”
He shifts in place, mulling over his options for what feels like an eternity. You swallow the urge to scream as silence rings in your ears.
Finally, he speaks.
“Maybe you’re too curious,” he decides. “Too concerned with things you cannot have.”
Your fingers dig into your palms, awaiting the final blow of his judgement.
“I think you need to experience firsthand the gravity of your desire.”
He leans down like he’s sharing something that no one else can hear, a sentiment too clandestine to be born in a house of worship.
“This is a sacred place,” he explains. “If you’re going to commit an act of sin, let it be here.”
You’re taken aback by the implication of his words. You’d been expecting a show of indignation, maybe even outrage for your betrayal of the Way, but it seems like he’s encouraging your lapse in faith. Surely, you’ve misunderstood.
The hand caressing your shoulder tells you that you haven’t.
“Revealing yourself to anyone a sin, and the public would have you exiled for removing your helmet. But here, in the presence of a higher being, I will make an exception.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before his hands are on the underside of your helmet, tipping your head back with the force of his grip. The fabric of his gloves glides against your jaw as he lifts your beskar veil and exposes you under the chapel’s dim, ruddy glow.
You squint at the sudden shift in the light, surprised to discover what your dark-tinted visor had been hiding from you. The red halo cast around him is much more intense without the obstruction of your helmet. His outlined form burns with a fiery sanctitude that makes you shudder.
Your attention is drawn to his hands ghosting over your face, cradling your cheeks with a curious touch. The pad of his thumb presses against your mouth, tugging at the plush of your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?”
You swallow thickly and chance a look up at him, finding your face in the reflection of his visage. Your lips part in fascination at the sight of your own eyes staring back at you.
“That’s it, open up for me.”
His thumb presses further into your mouth and hooks behind your teeth. The taste of the holy chrism melts across your senses, balsam and olive oil and something you can’t name. When your tongue swipes out to meet his digit, he hums low in his chest and pulls his other hand back to curl around his belt.
“Does this make you feel good? Corrupting a man of faith?”
You whimper around his thumb, eyes blown wide with lust. The metal buckle at his waist glints in the low light, seemingly pleading for your touch. You don’t know how far he’ll take this lesson, but you’re hoping it ends in a mutual exchange of sin.
As if persuaded by your thoughts alone, he works open his belt and the fastenings of his pants, revealing a patch of tawny skin that contrasts the muted tones of his beskar.
“You need more than this, though. Don’t you?”
With a low hiss, he pulls his hardening cock from its confines, and your mouth waters at the sight. He’s eager, alive, twitching in his tight grip. The tip of his cock weeps as he bucks into his hand.
The heat simmering in your belly has grown into a blazing flame. When he swaps his thumb for the head of his cock, your thighs clench with the urgent need to consume him in every way.
His warm, salty taste is so human, so unlike the righteous figure he’s made out to be. You can almost picture what the rest of him looks like by the glimpse of what he’s offered you.
Your lips wrap coyly around his length, an earnest appeal for his approval.
The tint of his visor hides his eyes, but you gaze up at him anyway in hopes that he meets you halfway, that he commits the image of your debauched affair to memory.
“C’mon, this is your chance to atone.”
You trace the vein on the underside of his cock, tongue laving over him in search of a reaction, in search of redemption through your greedy act of worship. His hips stutter in response and the head of his cock twitches against the roof of your mouth.
He mumbles something akin to prayer and focuses his efforts, sliding further into your mouth until your nose presses against his pelvis and his cock settles in the back of your throat. You gag at the foreign pressure and try to pull away, but he settles a hand on the nape of your neck to hold you in place.
“That’s it, take it all.”
His thrusts are slow, lazy, careful not to overwhelm you. When he moves, it’s a gentle drag over your tongue, not the heedless intrusion you’d expected from him. He bucks his hips like he wants to know you’re enjoying it too.
“Fuck,” he grunts, chin dropped to his chest. “Your filthy mouth was made for this.”
You wish you could see him without the beskar disguising his reaction. The heave of his chest, the flex of his hands, the jump of his cock when you tongue the right spot – his body is so expressive, you have no doubt that his face would be too.
A few more juts of his hips and he’s pulling out of your mouth and forming a fist around his length, flushed skin glistening with your spit.
He chokes out a broken noise and angles his hips towards you, painting the evidence of your transgressions over your cheeks and your lips.
You touch your fingers to your face when he pulls away, eyeing his handiwork with a sound of approval. This part of yourself, it’s his now. Desecrated for the use of someone more sacred than yourself.
The corners of your mouth stretch into a grin. This is exactly the forgiveness you were looking for.
#sweetercalypso’s week of horror#Din Djarin#din djarin x reader#din djarin smut#the mandalorian#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian smut#pedro pascal x reader#din djarin x y/n#din djarin one shot#the mandalorian x y/n#the mandalorian fic#din x reader#Star Wars#star wars x reader#star wars smut#priest!din#priest!din Djarin
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Take You Back To Church
Priest! Joel Miller x F! Reader
Synopsis: You came to get forgiveness for your sins, the priest has some ideas on how you can do that.
Genre: smut
Warnings: religious talk, religion, religious themes, sacrilegious, cheating, infidelity, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral m! and f! receiving, spanking, pet names, degradation, choking, sex in a church, public sex, almost getting caught, hair pulling, if I believed in hell that's where I'd be going
Gif credits to owners!
♫ Church by Chase Atlantic ♫
"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been one week since my last confession." The partition between you and the other side of the confessional booth slides open, revealing the silhouette of the priest on the other side.
"Go on, my child." Knelt down in prayer, you glance up barely catching a glimpse of him, as his gruff voice sounds out.
You clear your throat, "I've been having thoughts about a married man, father." A shuffle is heard on the other side, almost like the priest is sitting up straighter.
"It's more than thoughts, actually. I've been having relations with a married man, father, and I can't seem to stop."
Another noise comes from the other side before the door is opening and he is throwing your side of the booth open. Looking down at you on your knees is Father Joel Miller, the married man you had just been talking about.
A few weeks ago you had come to the confessional to confess your sins and had met Joel. Who instead of forgiving your sins, gave you even more to confess.
You glance up at him through your eyelashes, lust blowing out your pupils. You almost make a motion to stand, before his hand is placed onto your shoulder and keeping you where you are.
"Stay on your knees, baby." He says before he's closing the door behind the two of you and unlatching his belt buckle. He's pushing his pants down quickly like you could disappear right out from under him.
Your mouth is open and waiting for him when he pushes his dick past your lips. All the way back, causing you to gag at the intrusion. He fucks into your mouth, gripping your hair roughly to aid in dragging your mouth onto him.
He keeps thrusting into your mouth, head tossed back at the feeling of using you. You stay on the floor, at his mercy. Knees bruising a bit from the rough wood flooring, but you don't seem to notice as your own pleasure drips down your thighs.
You know better than to touch yourself, but its getting harder and harder as his thrusts get rougher. You gag onto him again, causing him to groan. The sound and the way his knuckles are going white from gripping your hair so tightly, has you moving your hips trying to feel anything. He notices and strokes your face with the hand not in your hair, making a noise of annoyance at you.
"Don't even think about touching yourself." Is all he says before he thrusts into your mouth one last time, before pulling out. You look up at him confused, knowing he hasn't finished yet.
He grabs your chin and pulls you to your feet, attaching his lips to your already swollen ones. Kissing you for only a moment before he is bending you over the prayer bench and pushing your dress up past your hips. Ripping your panties off of you before attaching his mouth to your dripping pussy.
Licking a stripe up your tender folds, he grips your ass cheeks and spreads them, giving him complete access to your pussy. He licks you roughly, again like there is no time to waste. He brings a finger to your neglected clit, working it in time with his tongue.
You are already on the peak of your orgasm. Your hips push back into his mouth, trying to help yourself over the edge. This has him pulling away and flipping you over to face him. His eyes bore into you and only the dominance in his eyes has you cowering, knowing not to push your luck any further.
His lips return to your folds, tongue now focused on your clit, while he pushes two fingers in past your dripping center. His tongue fucks your bud in quick circles, while his two fingers curve inside of you stroking your g spot. You are brought back to your edge almost too quickly.
Just as your pussy is clenching onto his fingers and your orgasm is washing over you, the heavy doors of the church are opening and a few sets of footsteps are funneling inside. The fear of getting caught has him working you through your orgasm even rougher, fingers fucking into you harshly. His teeth bite down lightly onto your clit before pulling off of you.
Lips now finding yours as he is trying to silence your heavy breathing. He pulls his fingers slowly out of you as to not make you too oversensitive. Pulling away from you, he pulls his pants back up.
Glancing down he sees your panties in a bundle on the floor. Picking up the torn fabric, he gives them a quick sniff before shoving them in his pocket. Looking down at your flushed form, he strokes your hair soothingly, before leaning down to whisper in your ear.
"We aren't done yet baby. Come to my office at 6, want that pretty mouth back on me." He says before he's leaving you a mess in the booth.
6 o'clock on the dot, you find yourself sauntering down the halls of the back offices of the church. You went home, calmed yourself down, and cleaned yourself up a bit before returning to the silence of the old building. Deciding against putting new panties on.
Almost as soon as your knuckles find contact onto the door of Joel's office, the door is whipped open and he is pulling you inside. His lips find yours quickly and hands are ghosting up your legs, goosebumps raising in there stead.
When his fingers find contact with your bare cunt, he is smiling into the kiss. He mutters a, "good girl" into your lips, before his hands reach under your thighs and lift you up to wrap your legs around his waist.
He keeps his lips on your feverishly, tongue slipping into your mouth. Walking the two of your over to his desk and placing you onto it. Bare ass exposed to the cool wood. His lips detach from yours and he's glancing down at his watch.
"You were almost late." He says, mouth inches from yours, torturing you.
"By only a minute...please." The last part comes out as more of a whimper than you intended, but it conveys your need.
"Tell me what you need, my child." His eyes darken as they read yours. Its almost laughable how much he got off on the whole power dynamic of this all.
"Just need you, father. Show me how to be forgiven for my sins." He chuckles and returns his mouth to yours. Kissing you deeply for a moment before breaking it and getting down to his knees.
For the second time today he is lifting your dress up past your hips and attaching his mouth to your pussy. And for the second time today your pussy is completely drenched for him without him even having to do much. He could look at you and you'd be soaked.
Unlike earlier, though, he is licking at your folds a bit slower. Taking his time, knowing that now there was really no way for the two of you to interrupted. He works your bud in slow circles, the motions causing your hips to jerk into his mouth, somehow still sensitive from earlier.
This time he doesn't stop you and lets your body just feel the pleasure. A bit of is dominance has faded with the passing time of the day but you know that soon he will be fucking you like his life depends on it.
He licks you for a bit, letting your body get ready for him. The action of giving you pleasure, also getting him harder by the second. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been hurting from his blue balls earlier.
When he decides you have had enough, he returns to his feet and kisses you once before pulling you by your hips off of his desk. He walks you over to his desk chair and sits down before patting his lap. You follow the instructions and straddle him, you lean forward trying to catch his lips with your own. But he holds up a finger against your lips, pushing it in past the warmth. You swirl your tongue around it a few times.
Pulling out his finger he brings it between your thighs and pushes it past your walls. Fucking you quickly with his index finger, knowing that only one finger was not enough for you. But now he was teasing you.
He works the finger in and out of you, the feeling of his rough digit causing you to writhe on top of him. A moan escapes your lips, the first one you've let out all day.
"There she is." Joel says before he's pulling his finger out of you and gripping under your ass. He lifts you off of him and flips you over. Pushing you down flat onto his desk.
One hand stays on the back of your head, keeping you from glancing at him as he unbuckles his belt. The fabric of his underwear and pants pool at his feet. He grunts as he works his dick twice before swiping the tip onto your folds, gathering the wetness.
The action causes you to let out a whimper and this is all he needs to hear before he is pushing his dick fully inside of you. The stretch barely noticeable with all the prep that you have had to endure today.
He groans at your warmth and tosses his head back, reveling in it for just a second. When he recovers he is fucking into you quickly. The blue balls from earlier are catching up with him. All focus on you is now thrown out the window, all he needs is his release.
His hands fiddles around at your neck. His hot fingertips trying to find purchase of anything, finally finding your cross necklace. Fingers grip the thin chain as he pulls it back, the cool metal choking you.
Hips thrust into yours, all that is heard is skin on skin, and your little moans. The hand that isn't gripping your necklace is digging into your hips, probably leaving bruises there.
He grunts, "It's been too long since you've came to see me."
With how much he is holding you down, there isn't much movement that you can make. But you do move your neck slightly trying to look at him. Instead you make eye contact with the pictures on his desk. One is a picture of him and his daughter, identical smiles shining on their faces. The other is his wife on their wedding day, her white dress almost blinding.
You gulp and close your eyes, "Don't wanna get caught, do we." A pang of guilt hits your heart, but this moment is quite literally fucked out of your mind when he lifts your hips and thrusts into you at a new angle.
His arm is wrapped under your waist holding you up, the other is still gripping your necklace. Its almost as if he noticed what you had been looking at because he is now spearing you with his cock, like he's on a mission. A mission to make you forget. A mission to make you cum with him.
And it works because you are clenching onto his cock, warning of you oncoming orgasm. You know he is close too, with the way his hips stutter ever so slightly.
"Cum for me." Is all he has to say before you are thrown over your edge. Vision blurring as he fucks you through your peak.
You've barely come down from your high when he is pulling out of you. You whimper at the loss, still not being able to turn and look at him with the grip he has on your necklace.
His own hand works his dick, chasing that orgasm he denied himself of earlier. The hand on your necklace pulls back harder as he reaches his own orgasm. Ropes of cum paint your thighs and ass as the chain of your necklace finally snaps, cross clattering to the desk under you.
When he finishes he is leaning his body over yours, trapping you to the wood. He licks your earlobe before biting onto it lightly. He gets off of you, letting you finally turn and look at him.
You pick up your broken necklace from the desk and hold it up to him. Your head cocks in question. He lets out a chuckle, before taking it from your hands.
He places a kiss on your forehead, "I'll fix it."
#fanfiction#fanfic#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#the last of us#joel miller#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#the last of us joel#last of us joel#joel the last of us#joel tlou#the last of us fanfiction#pedro pascal smut#smut fanfic#smut#priest smut#priest joel miller#tlou smut#tlou joel#joel miller fanfic#joel miller story#joel miller fic#tlou#tlou fic#tlou fanfiction#the last of us fanfic#the last of us fic
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Say your prayers little girl
Vampire Priest Joel Miller x f!stripper reader
Warnings: Dark fic/Dead Dove, non/dubcon (non bc he uses his powers on her taking away her consent but she does want it), religious theme, p in v (wrap ya dick kids), vampirism, blood, neck biting, mentions of sex work, oral (f receiving), dark fluff?? (The ending ended up softer than I intended), squirting, I believe that’s it!
Summary: Working in the adult industry tends to leave a bad taste in people’s mouth when they find out about your job. Growing up the church has been the only place you’ve been able to find solace and that’s where you seek solace now.
A/n: So I have no experience fucking vampiric priests but I do have religious trauma and a deep seeded need to fuck creatures of the night. Lightly edited, not beta’d, all mistakes are mine! Enjoy!(:
(Mood board made by moi 😇)
Living in LA is nothing like you imagined. Growing up in the Midwest, you moved out here for a fresh start with the hopes and dreams of becoming a movie star. Those hopes and dreams were dashed rather quickly when you struggled to find acting jobs and instead had to resort to working at a high end gentleman’s club. If you were being honest you did enjoy working at the club. You liked the attention, you liked the other dancers but most of all the money. However outside of the club it seemed as though everyone knew what you did for a living and despised you for it. Never in your life have you felt so judged by every passing face. You purposely wear an extra large hoodie with the hood up and sweat pants on just to go to the grocery store.
After working at the club for a few months, one night, around 3am, you were just getting off work. It was a chilly early Sunday morning, the streets covered in fog. Normally you drive to and from work but this particular night you didn’t have your car since it broke down on you a few nights ago. Walking the few blocks to your apartment you just happened to glance down the street you were crossing and saw a church sitting on the corner. Having only lived in the area for a few months, you hadn’t really explored it. Noticing the church doors were open, you decided to walk down to the church and take a peek inside. You grew up in the church. Your family went every sunday, your mom was the Sunday school teacher and your father and brothers regularly volunteered to help be alter boys or set up for fundraisers or whatever else the church needed. You always struggled with what they taught and stood for. If God is the one and only that you should worship why are we praying to all of these patron saints? If God answers prayers why isn’t he answering the prayers of those starving? Of those that are abused or dying from illness? Why does Debra from Mississippi who is judgmental and mean to others get her prayers of a fancy new car get answered but not little Susie who prays she gets taken away from her abusive father? At a rather young age, you struggled immensely with your faith and beliefs but you always found the church to be a place of comfort.
Approaching the front doors you notice some lights were on and someone was playing the organ. You slowly walked up the steps and went through the doors. As you walked in, there were pews on either side, a few random stragglers scattered all over and in front was an alter of Mary surrounded by lit candles and flowers laid at her feet. You passed the first two pews, choosing to stand in the back and just observe. You could hear someone quietly crying and sniffling, a couple of others whispering the rosary and before you know it you can hear soft footsteps behind you.
The sound of a man clearing his throat comes from behind you, making you jump and turn around.
“Well hello there. And who might you be?” says the priest with a smile.
Putting your hand over your fast beating heart, “Oh hi I’m so sorry Father. I saw the doors were open and I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always found comfort in the church.” You tell him as you introduce yourself.
“It’s very nice to meet you sweetheart, I’m Father Joel. Unfortunately we are about to close for the day. You see we like to keep rather strange hours for those who seek out the lord when others are usually in bed. But we will open back up at 10 o’clock tonight if you would like to come back.” He says sweetly as he touches your arm. You can’t help but have this overwhelming feeling of calm. You feel safe and wanted? Your not sure if wanted is the right word but it’s the closest to what you feel. The two of you smile at each other as the priest lifts open his other arm as a guide for you to go back out the doors you entered. You cast your eyes down as you walk back out into the early morning fog. Before you go to step down you turn back around only to be greeted by closed doors.
Hmm that’s weird. You didn’t hear the doors shut. In fact you didn’t hear anything nor did you see the other people leave. Confused as to what just happened you continue on your way back home.
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It’s been six months since you first discovered the church. You try to go as often as you can finding comfort not only in the church but with Father Joel as well. It didn’t take long for him to catch on to what you did for a living. But he never made you feel bad for it. In fact he seemed to be proud of you. One night you were on stage at work and you swore you saw his face in the crowd. That same night you found an envelope in your locker stuffed with money. Five thousand dollars to be exact. But today you decided to take the night off and go spend time at the church. The real reason why you liked to spend so much time there was Father Joel. You couldn’t help but be attracted to him. He had these beautiful brown eyes, fluffy curls on top of his head, the sweetest smile he seemed to save just for you. Oh and his smell! He had this scent to him, a clean yet woodsy scent that never failed to travel from your nose directly to your cunt. Ever since you’ve met him, you’ve been having these dreams of Father Joel. In these dreams you usually run into him in random places, sometimes it’s your house other times it’s a trail in a park you find yourself walking on. But every time he always gives you this look, a rather creepy smile and his eyes change color making him look evil before he dips his head down and kisses your throat. Always leaving kisses on your throat, kissing up your neck, nibbling on your ear sending the most delicious chills up your spine. You always feel this mix of being scared of him and also needing him so bad you might explode if he doesn’t touch you. Most of the dreams are just that. Running into Father Joel, him kissing your throat and neck and then you wake up. However lately the dreams have gone further. He’s started kissing your lips, you swear it feels as though he is actually pushing his tongue into your mouth and he’ll undress you leaving you naked and vulnerable. All for him he’d say as his eyes scan your body much like a predator would size up its prey. In your dream last night it was the same thing except this time after Father Joel undressed you he pulled his cock out, turned you around and pushed his cock in in one thrust. It felt so real you almost forgot it was a dream. He thrusted only a few times before you woke up only to be laying on a wet spot. As you jumped up off the bed, you gave it a quick sniff to make sure you didn’t pee. And sure enough it wasn’t pee. You must have been so turned on from your dream that your juices leaked out of your panties and left a little spot on your sheets.
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It’s already 11 o’clock at night when you make your way to the church. Wearing your favorite black dress with cap sleeves that hang off the shoulder and the bottom hits a little above your knees, you already feel better as you come into view of your sanctuary. Walking right in you immediately run into Father Joel hitting him square in the chest.
“Woah there little one. Not so fast now” he chuckles as he helps you straighten yourself back up. His hands holding your biceps as he stills and just stares at you.
“Father Joel I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there!” You say breathlessly with a chuckle. Your smile almost wiped clean off your face when you see the way he’s looking at you. His eyes. . .
Almost in a flash his eyes go back to their normal brown shade and he smiles at you again.
“You look beautiful tonight. Go on go find a seat in the front row. I’ll be in there soon.” Father Joel tells you. As if by magic you quickly walk to the front pew and sit down. You body moved automatically as if you had no say in your body at all.
Folding your hands in your lap, you look straight ahead at the alter of Mary. Her statue looks as if she’s looking down at you with a soft,caring look on her face. A look that’s almost as if she feels sorry for you.
Soon enough you feel Father Joel’s presence next to you. However you’re stuck. Frantically moving your eyes all around, You realize you can’t move your neck or your arms or any part of your body. Starting to feel scared, your stuck sitting down, facing forward with your hands in your lap. That’s when you feel Father Joel’s hand land on your thigh.
“You know sweetheart it’s not appropriate to wear pretty little dresses like this to church.” Comes his husky low voice whispering in your ear, “especially at night all alone.” His hand starts to slowly move up your thigh, pushing your dress up.
Gasping as if you’re just now able to catch your breath, you can feel your body and your able to move again. You barely move your head to the left when you felt his face on yours. His nose brushes your cheek and you can feel his warm breath on your face. His lips almost touching your cheek.
“You never know who or what you’ll run into sweetheart.” He says as he continues to push up your dress, his thumb rubbing your thigh. Soon your dress is pushed all the way up, exposing your black panties underneath.
“Oh sweetheart,” he says tsking, “you’re wet. Don’t you know lust is a sin baby?” Father Joel said in a very low, hushed tone. He took his finger and rubbed up your clothed slit making you notice the wet spot on your panties.
Sucking his teeth he makes a disappointing noise,
“F-fa-father Joel w-what are you doing? I- we we can’t do this! Y-you’re a priest.” You hurriedly whispered to him. In your head you wanted him to touch you, you wanted your dreams to come true but you also knew he took vows as a priest. There was no way he could ever have relations with you. Not in the way you wanted.
“Oh sweetheart don’t be so naive,” he says as he nips at your neck, “I never said I was a good man. I never said I was a man at all.”
Terrified at the last thing he just said, you turn to face him and that’s when you see his pupils have gone black and his lips pushed back, exposing fangs.
You gasp, eyes go wide as you take in the sight of a man you thought you knew.
“Now get on your knees and pray.” He demands.
Your body obeys his demands as you sink to your knees and you bend forward, resting on your forearms, clasping your hands together as your bow your head in prayer.
You happen to glance up at the statue of Mary and she’s crying tears of blood! The flames of the candles seem to be flickering even higher and you notice there’s no other noise, no music, no murmurs. You feel Father Joel kneel behind you, his big hands gripping your hips and bringing your ass to meet his crotch.
“Mm you’re such a good, obedient little one,” Joel croons as he grabs your hair and pulls you up so your back is touching his chest, “Don’t worry baby you’ll like this next part.” Smirking, he whispers in your ear before opening his mouth and biting down on your neck just below your ear.
Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, the searing pain you feel from the bite. Tears start to fall down your face, you’ve never felt a worse pain than this. The pain seems to get worse, you can feel him sucking the area he just bit. All too soon you feel your energy drain.
Licking his lips, “Mm you have the sweetest taste my little one. You’re mine now. Your blood is mine, your body is mine.” He says in a hushed tone as he begins to lick your wound, laying chaste kisses on and around it as he goes. As weak as you are, you can’t help but feel these licks and kisses, it’s almost as if they’re in high definition. In fact all your senses feel sharper, more defined. Joel brings his wrist up to his mouth slicing open his wrist on a fang.
“Open wide my little one, I need you to drink the body and blood of your savior.” Joel says as he lifts his bleeding wrist to your open mouth. You suddenly find yourself extremely thirsty, your throat burning. When he offers his wrist, you suck down every drop greedily.
“Mm ooohh yes just like that baby drink every drop.” He moans out loud. Hearing him moan as you drink from him turns you on. Makes you want to do more to cause him to make those sounds.
Your face is covered in blood just like Father Joel’s as he pulls his wrist from your mouth and shoves your head down, forcing you back into a bow.
"Give your body to me now, let your savior in little one." Joel grunts out as he let's go of the back of your head and reaches down to pull your panties down. They drop around your knees, your hands go to clasp in prayer again as you feel him pull his cock out and rub it up and down your soaked folds.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, my cunt craves your cock Father. Please fuck me. Use my body, it's yours." You confess to him. This man, this creature, whoever and whatever he is; you want him. Your very soul now craves him.
Grunting, Joel slowly dips the head of his cock in your entrance, just barely giving you the tip before he pulls back and dips back in, giving you a little at a time. After a few teases, he pulls out and thrusts his cock in in one swift motion, filling you like no one has ever filled you. He begins to pump his cock in and out, you can feel your walls stretching just to try and accommodate his length.
"Ooohhgg nnggg yes father!! Oh fuck me! Fuck my cunt father!" You moan loudly, without a care in the world, "My body is yours! All yours! Fuck your cunt Father!" You scream out as he continues to pound into you mercilessly.
Hearing you declare yourself to him has Joel ready to bust. He's been watching you this entire time. From the very first meeting that he orchestrated, he knew you'd be so sweet and everything he wants and needs. He first saw you walking into the club, you looked too young and innocent to be a dancer. He immediately tapped into your thoughts and was able to discover everything he needed to know. Like how you're new to the area and very much alone and how you struggle with your faith in God but find comfort in the church. That gave him the idea to set up a trap just for you. See Joel owned this house on the corner. It's one of many, and this particular one, he decided to decorate it like a church. One day, he just happened to walk by your apartment and saw your car parked out front. Good thing he happened to be there because your car was leaking fluids, and Joel just happened to have a knife on him and he cut your fluid lines. It took you a couple of days but eventually, you stumbled upon his church and now he has you right where he wants you.
Joel continues to pound into you over and over, spearing you on his cock. The head kisses your cervix, making you scream out in pleasure. You can’t help but fuck yourself back on his cock. Pushing back on him almost as hard as he’s pushing into you. You feel yourself getting so close, never having felt a cock fuck you so good you came from penetration alone. You just need a little bit of attention to your clit.
“Fuck that’s it baby just like that. Fuck yourself on my cock. Nngh ooh oh fuck”
You feel Father Joel’s thrusts start to stutter, after a few more thrusts you can feel his dick pulse inside you, coating your walls with his thick load. You let out a whine as you feel him pull out. You were so close to coming, if only you could’ve touched yourself a little bit you would’ve came but he finished before you got a chance.
Joel pulls out and holds your pussy lips open with his thumbs as he admires his cum slowly pushing out of your entrance.
Hearing your whine Joel grabs your hips and helps roll you on your back. Once your completely on your back, he opens your legs, pushing your knees back up in your chest,
“Oh you poor thing. You didn’t get to cum yet did you? You just let me use this pretty little cunt huh? Don’t worry sweetheart it’s my turn to worship your heavenly body at the alter I built just for you.” Joel says to your sore pussy. Looking down at Father Joel, watching him stare at your cunt has you whimpering as he lowers his face and licks a wide stripe up your slit. Holding your legs up and he keeps his hands on the backs of your thighs, you can’t help but gush even more as he begins to suck on your clit as though it’s the most delicious piece of hard candy he’s ever tasted. You feel your high begin to build again in no time.
Joel can’t help but moan into your pussy. The taste of you and him combined is the sweetest nectar he has had the pleasure of experiencing. He starts to swirl his tongue around your clit while simultaneously sucking on it making you squirm around. His grip on your thighs tightens as he continues to feast from your body.
“Ooh oh fuck right there! Right there! Oh fuck! Yessss!” You scream out loud as you hit the hardest orgasm you’ve ever received. You pussy gushes so hard you actually squirt, watching it hit Joel in the face. He has a look of intense hunger as he opens his mouth to collect every drop.
Joel’s mouth leaves your body as you continue to lay there with legs shaking. He slowly lifts up and looks at you with a devilish grin.
“Let’s get you home and cleaned up my love. There’s a lot I have to teach you and show you now that you’re mine.” Joel says as he pulls your panties up. Finally starting to get your wits about you, you realize your covered in blood. So is he. Joel goes to stand to fix himself when he rips the white collar out,
“Don’t need this anymore” he chuckles as he throws it to the side. He reaches back down, placing an arm under your back and the other arm under your legs and picking you up like a baby, cradling you to his body.
Glancing around the empty church, “Father Joel what happened to the other people who were in here?” You ask.
“ Just Joel baby. You can call me Joel. And they were all an illusion my love. Merely a figment of your imagination. I had to make this church believable for you sweetheart. If I kept it empty you would’ve been suspicious. I couldn’t have that now could I?” He replies.
Despite all of the red flags that have been going off, you are perfectly content. Happy to be in his arms as he walks out the doors and down the steps to a car parked outside. Carefully opening the door, Joel sits you down in the passenger seat before shutting the door and walking around to the drivers side to get in.
Once inside the car, Joel starts up the engine and goes to grab your hand,
“Let’s go home my love” he says to you smiling. You smile back at him, ready to spend the rest of your days by his side.
A/n: I hope y’all enjoyed this! It literally came to me the other night while I was getting dicked down lol (: anyways yea. Thank you so so much for every like/reblog/comment! You guys are the best!♥️
#vampire priest Joel#joel miller#Joel Miller au#vampires#spooky fic#dark fic#dead dove 🕊️#pedro pascal#joel miller x reader#joel miller smut#joel miller x you#joel miller fic#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal cinematic universe#tlou fanfiction#joel tlou
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PEDRO PASCAL
95th Annual Academy Awards (March 12, 2023)
#pedro pascal#oscars#academy awards#pedropascaledit#ppascaledit#tloucastedit#gotcastedit#swcastedit#userconstance#tuserpolly#userksena#usermagsam#*edits#strong priest vibes & the RINGSSS omg
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It’s me and my obsession with middle aged men that appear on tv against the whole world
#pedro pascal#andrew scott#paul mescal#cillian murphy#jonathan bailey#matt bomer#all of us strangers#fleabag is therapy#fleabag#hot priest#house md#fellow travelers
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Hot priest Morales. Thats it. that's the request
btw love your dbf series!
Sacred Temptations
pairings: priest!Francisco Morales x Reader AU
a/n: Thank you so much, beautiful! fuck YESSS hot priest Morales is making me feel all kind of things rn. I immediately pictured him as Pedro at the Oscars with his white slutty little buttonup. Thank you for your request! I really appreciate you and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think and if I should make a part 2 maybe?
words: 2k
warnings: religion, smut, flirting, forbidden romance, bratty reader, blasphemy, inappropriate behavior, 18+
You reluctantly followed your parents' lead as they made their way to the local church for Sunday mass. Your outfit for the day reflected your style and individuality, a short blush dress, which barely covered your body. The dress had delicate ruffles along the hemline, adding a touch of femininity to your attire. You paired it with a light cardigan, casually draped over your shoulders, providing at least a bit modesty.
Throughout your life, you had never been particularly fond of churches. The rigid traditions, the solemn rituals - they had always felt foreign to your free-spirited nature. Sunday mornings were often spent indulging in your own pursuits, watching Netflix, brunching with friends or lazily laying in bed, far removed from the pews and hymns.
However, as you returned from college for the summer, something within you had shifted.
Perhaps it was the newfound sense of maturity or maybe it was the desire to reconnect with your roots and understand your own beliefs better. Whatever the reason, you made a conscious decision to join your parents on their weekly visit to church.
As you entered the church, your eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the ornate stained glass windows, the flickering candlelight, and the peaceful atmosphere. Amidst the congregation, your gaze fell upon the priest, who stood at the pulpit, preparing to deliver the sermon.
You found yourself momentarily drawn to his presence, observing how he engaged with the congregation, his gestures emphasizing his words, and his voice carrying a soothing tone. His light brown hair, sleekly gelled back, added a touch of refinement to his overall look. However, scattered throughout his hair were subtle streaks of grey, hinting at the wisdom and experience he possessed.
A neatly trimmed, patchy beard adorned his face, accentuating his rugged charm. It framed his jawline, which was sharp and defined, lending him an air of strength and determination. His broad shoulders hinted at physical presence, giving him a commanding stance as he stood before the congregation.
Curiosity gnawing at you, you turned to your mother, who sat beside you , and leaned in to whisper a question. "Mom, who is the new priest? I don't think I've seen him before."
Your mother, engrossed in the beginning of the service, momentarily glanced at you and then followed your gaze toward the young priest. With a warm smile, she whispered back, "That's Father Francisco. He recently joined our parish. He is a lovely man. Father Francisco has been a guiding light for our community. He's been instrumental in organizing outreach programs, helping the less fortunate, and supporting charitable initiatives. The impact he's made on our community is truly inspiring and a true blessing.”
You nodded, taking in your mother's words. The intrigue surrounding Francisco only intensified as you listened to your mother's description.
As the Sunday service progressed, you couldn't help but feel a peculiar sensation, as if you were being watched. You shifted your gaze and found yourself locking eyes with Father Francisco. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as your gazes met, and an unspoken connection seemed to form.
Surprised by the intensity of the eye contact, a familiar heat rose in your core. However, instead of looking away, you felt an unexpected surge of boldness within you. Perhaps it was the curiosity sparked by your doubts, or the desire to seek answers, but you decided to seize the opportunity and act upon this newfound courage.
Determined to engage in a conversation with Father Francisco, you waited until the end of the service when the parishioners started dispersing. As people began to leave the pews, you approached the young priest, your steps deliberate and your mind racing with desire.
With a deep breath, you stood before Father Francisco, and mustered the courage to initiate a conversation.
"Father Francisco," you began, your voice steady and lower as usual. “I was hoping you could spare a moment of your time.”
“Of course, my child. What can I do for you? I believe we have never met before.”
Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you challenged Father Francisco's claim of not seeing you before.
“Father, are you truly suggesting that you haven't laid eyes on me in this sacred space until now? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps I simply didn't catch your attention until today.” you laid it on thick, making sure to flutter your eyelashes innocently.
“My apologies for not giving you the attention you deserve. It seems I'll have to make amends for that oversight. But I assure you, I am honored to make your acquaintance now.” The corners of his mouth curved into a gentle smile, his eyes mirroring the twinkle of your own.
You leaned in in slightly, the playful tone never leaving your voice. “Well, Father, it appears that divine intervention has finally led you to notice my presence. I must say, it's quite flattering to have captured the attention of such a captivating priest.”
“Ah, I don‘t think flattery will get you anywhere. But what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my child?“ he smiled at you, the corner of his eyes crinkling.
“There’s something plaquing my mind lately, something I haven't experienced in a long time. I'm not familiar with the process of confession. And I was wondering if you could help me, confess my sins?“ you asked innocently, your teeth grazing your bottom lip while your fingers played with the hem of your dress.
“I see. Come to the confessional after next week's mass. We can sit down and discuss the things that weigh heavily on your heart.” As he began to respond, your conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a line of people forming, seeking his guidance and counsel. You, understanding the demands on the priest's time, gracefully stepped back.
“Well, Father, it seems you are a man in demand. I won't keep you from attending to the needs of your flock. I’ll see you next week, then.”
You offered a playful wink before making your way out of the church, subtly swaying your hips.
-
Surprising your parents, who had grown accustomed to your reluctance to attend church voluntarily, you made your way to the church the following Sunday. Feeling bold and sexy you opted for a green two-piece lingerie set adorned with subtle lace details, which flattered your skin tone perfectly. You threw on a modest high neck white dress on top which made you appear extra innocent.
Seating yourself in the front row, like a diligent Christian, you eagerly awaited the arrival of Father Francisco.
The Sunday mass took place as usual, without any noteworthy incidents.
Midway through the service, though, you uncrossed your legs, inadvertently capturing Father Francisco's attention, causing a faint blush to color his cheeks. His words momentarily faltered, a subtle indication that your presence had made an impact.
Father Francisco regained his composure, seamlessly continuing the service with his priestly duties. Though his gaze occasionally drifted towards you, he maintained his professionalism, determined to carry out his responsibilities.
You, too, were aware of the effect you had on the priest. A playful smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you observed his momentary distraction.
After the last strains of the closing hymn faded away, and the majority of the parishioners left the church, you seized the opportunity to approach the confessional. With each step, your heart beat a little faster, a mix of nervousness and anticipation filling you.
The confessional stood at the back of the church, tucked away in a quiet corner. Its wooden structure, weathered with time, carried an air of solemnity and reverence.
You approached the confessional, noticing the ornately carved wooden door adorned with intricate religious symbols. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and gently pushing it open. The door creaked softly, as if welcoming you into its sacred confines.
Inside, the confessional revealed two compartments separated by a latticed screen—a space for the penitent and a space for the priest. Soft, golden light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns onto the wooden panels.
Taking a seat on the worn cushioned bench, you found yourself enveloped in a sense of hushed tranquility.
In the dimly lit space, you could make out the faint silhouette of the priest's side.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned. That’s what I am supposed to say, right?” you said, your voice hushed, almost sensual.
“Lately, my thoughts have wandered to someone who is unattainable. Someone who is meant to inspire and guide, yet remains just out of reach. But I can’t help it, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him at night, think about his big hands and how they would feel on me. About how his big cock would feel deep inside of me. These impure thoughts plague me at night, but they plaque you too, don’t they, daddy?“
Your breathing became heavier as you continue. “Tell me, do you think about me? About your big dick filling up my tight little cunt. Putting your big hands in to my little panties, working me open with those thick fingers of yours. Tell me, Frankie, how badly you want to fuck me. “You shifted on your seat, your thighs rubbing together relieving some of the tension, your own words riling you up. “I can be your little good girl, you know. Just say the words.”
You sank deeper into the plush cushions, Slick arousal pooling in your panties at the thought of him being only a few inches away from you. The tension and the longing became too strong, and you slipped your hand under your already soaked panties. You let out a small whimper as you dragged your wetness up to your clit, rubbing small circles on it. “Oh, fuck Frankie. I am so wet for you. “ you let head fall back, moaning his name loudly. “Can you hear how wet I am? Just let me sit on your face, Frankie. I want to make your whole face wet with my juices. “ You pant, unable to believe that you are so close to cumming after such little time of playing with yourself.
In an act of playful audacity, you reached down and slid your now ruined panties down your legs. With a sly grin, you slipped the fabric through the narrow slit, allowing it to dangle enticingly between the little gate that separated you from the priest.
You held your breath, anticipation mingling with a hint of nervous excitement, hoping you didn’t go too far this time. Moments stretched into eternity as you waited for a response, your heart beat thundering louder with every passing second. Then, amidst the silence, you watched as the priest's hand reached through the small slit and carefully retrieved the green lacy piece you offered. A faint rustle accompanied the movement, and then, silence enveloped the confessional once more .
But it was not the quiet that captured your attention; it was the deep, audible inhale that followed, that made another flood of arousal coat your fingers.
Then, only mere moments later you could hear his sounds. Lustful groans filled the small space.
The furious slapping of his fist as he worked his cock made the tension coil in your own stomach. “Tell me what you want Frankie, you want me on my knees, huh, worshipping your cock?” another loud grunt. “Ahhh, yah that’s it. I wish my mouth was on that dick too, baby. I want to swirl my tongue around it. I bet your cock tastes fucking amazing. I’m going to drain every last ounce of cum out of you.”
“Oh, God,” he let out one final strangled sound that almost sounded like he was in pain, reaching his climax. You followed soon after, clenching down on your fingers hard, shouting out his his name.
As you both came down from your high, only your breaths were audible.
“I'm not quite familiar with how this whole confession thing works. Do I need to say a dozen "Hail Marys" or perform a few extra penances to make up for that?” you asked innocently, awaiting his answer, but you were only met with, once again, silence.
Suddenly the heavy wooden door separating you swung open, revealing Father Francisco standing before you. His gaze intense and focused solely on you, “No.” he growled, letting out a low, almost predatory laugh, “that’s only reserved for good girls.”
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Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter one: the high priestess
series summary: when you find love in a priest, a litany of spooky events begin to follow you that can only be described as a haunting. is it your own guilty conscience that disturbs you... or could it be something else?
chapter summary: you're visiting your best friend in her new town for the first time when you are begrudgingly thrust into her devout way of life. however, something - or someone - makes you rethink your plans of avoiding the church at all costs.
word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.4k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, SLOW BURN TABOO RELATIONSHIP BABYYY, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ lots of character introductions so pls bear with me, mention of the death of a loved one and some light grief, food and eating mentions, sudden illness, potentially cringe banter, take a shot for every time i wrote 'father pike' in this (trust me we learn his first name soon enough but for now it's all formalities between him and reader), is this whole thing blasphemous? probably
a/n: sooo this is something very different from what i normally write, but i'm so excited to be trying something new! :) i'm not too sure where i want to take this story yet, so i don't have a total number of chapters or an ending planned (i really don't even have much of the plot figured out LMAO) but i'd really really appreciate any and all feedback from my readers! ♥️ let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in future chapters!
“So I won’t burst into flames when I walk through the doors?”
You ask your best friend, Lucy, sending her into a fit of laughter. She clutches your hand tighter in hers, squeezing it with pompous affection. Despite your best efforts to maintain your feelings of impartialness towards the church, your palm slips against hers with a sheen of clamminess as you travel closer to the hulking cathedral.
“No!” She laughs, that breathless laugh you’ve always found comfort in. “You’re holier than most of the people who go every Sunday.”
You scoff and give her some side-eye, something that just makes her shake her head even more. Whether or not this is how you wanted to spend your first day in Carmeltree visiting her, you are going to this harvest dinner.
She sighs contentiously, contrasting the playful smirk on her face, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Now come on, we’re gonna be late!”
——
Lucy has been your best friend since kindergarten. The maple leaves that swirl around you both in the crisp autumn air as you run through the streets now invoke a fierce sense of nostalgia, one that’s almost painful. One of your first memories together is making leaf rubbings in class with the fallen leaves that blanketed the frosted school grounds. She liked warm colors and you liked cool colors; she liked maple leaves and you liked birch leaves. Two complete halves made an even brighter whole when you came together, and the rest is history.
Despite the big city you grew up in, somehow you always managed to be in the same classes, share the same hobbies. But your luck had to run out sometime; when you both graduated, you got accepted into universities on opposite sides of the country. You kept up your communication, talking to each other every day and spilling your guts about everything, from the monumental to the regrettable, the joyous to the devastating.
You thought something was amiss when she called you in the middle of the night a few months back. At first you brushed it off, thinking maybe she fell asleep with her phone in her hand and dialed you by accident, something you’ve both done plenty of times over the course of your friendship. When she called you back as soon as you didn’t answer, you knew there was something wrong. That’s when you learned her mom had passed away.
It wasn’t sudden, but that didn’t spare her any devastation. You were there for her all day, every day. Consoling her when she wept, relishing in the happy memories that brought a rare but vital smile to her voice, sympathizing with her grief. But without a physical shoulder to lean on, Lucy went looking for more support to help her.
Her mom was a devout Christian and, by proxy, so was Lucy. She isn’t as rigid in her faith as her mom was, but she always viewed it as a guiding light to betterment, a sturdy foundation to catch her when she crumbled. Luckily, the whirlwind of life events in the past six months that displaced her from her college friends to the small town of Carmeltree was gracious enough to gift her a tight-knit, painfully orthodox population.
On the contrary, you grew up in a household without any influence of organized religion. Your family celebrated Christmas and Easter, but it was mostly for all of the gifts and chocolate.
Religious differences never caused any turmoil between you and your best friend, because you love each other for who you are, regardless if you share spiritual beliefs. If praying and attending sermons helps Lucy to process her grief and gives her something that uplifts her soul, what kind of a friend would you be to forbid her from that?
——
That doesn’t make you any more enthused about being dragged to the dinner held at the church to celebrate the autumn harvest. Lucy dropped the plan on you the second she picked you up from the major airport, whose segregating miles seem to swell with every second that passes. Knowing you would come up with an alternative plan you’d both like better, she didn’t give you a chance to back out, and you didn’t fight. Committed to being a good friend, and with a curiosity pricking your heart, you run alongside her through residual puddles as the street clocks chime eight times.
And let’s get one thing straight - “church” was a dishonorable term for the structure you’re going to. For hundreds of years, since the first round of colonizing settlers that invaded this square patch of disparate land, the citizens have been addicted to worship. They would lend their last cent to their religion, egregiously ignoring their growling stomachs and dilapidated houses for the sake of a prosperous God. The result of this frenzied generosity is the biggest cathedral you’ve ever seen.
You’re still a few blocks away, but the spires reach over the trees and spear up at the moon; whose craters can be seen with miraculous clarity on this autumn night. As you move closer and closer, the details in this spectacular of gothic architecture reveal themselves. There are a litany of pinnacles that stand like soldiers guarding their fortress and clerestory windows that dance and swish with light coming from inside the maw of the beast. When your eyes drift to angular beams that aid the structure - flying buttresses, if you remember correctly - your marvel is suddenly absent.
“No gargoyles?” you ask.
Lucy matches your disappointment with a shake of her head, “They come too close to the pagan border.” It’s unmistakable the way she lowers her voice, though there’s only a handful of patrons a hundred feet away from you.
Against the cloudless, darkening sky and a comically-eerie full moon, anyone would be dosed with at least a few drops of intimidation by the staggering black outlines. You fail to find any ease once you come to one of three entrances. The carvings of ancient tales you don’t know loom over your head in the angular tympanum and greet you with uncertainty. Are they supposed to make you feel welcomed or warned?
The gigantic doors are swung and held open by their own weight, giving way to the narthex. There’s a singing choir hidden deeper within and their melodies echo all around you. A large chandelier emits a soft orange glow, which is peculiarly swallowed up instead of reflected by the intricate, gilded etchings that coat the walls. Maroon velvet beneath your feet turns into a dark abyss of shadows from the unprecedented amount of people in here. You cling to Lucy’s coat with both your hands, somewhat subconsciously, and she laughs before taking your hand in hers and parting though the sea.
You’ll admit it, you can be very shy when you’re overwhelmed. Though for some inexplicable reason, crowds usually didn’t give you a fuss. You actually found a sense of comfort in being lost in the blur, blending in as just another body amongst hundreds, sometimes thousands of others. But you didn’t like this crowd, didn’t know these people, and not in a stranger-danger kind of way; you’ve unknowingly crossed the line of some Christians in the past and have dealt with their fiery ravings. From knowing Lucy all these years, you seem to have an understanding of their way of life, but then you slip up - use His name in vain, talk about a crush you have no plans to marry a little too fondly. You’ll be chewing on your third forkful and look up at the table, meeting ghastly stares and wanting to smack yourself in the face for completely forgetting grace.
Lucy never scorned you about forgetting or misunderstanding the rules. She knew that you didn’t mean any malice, you just simply… thought it was all a little silly sometimes. Between lighthearted Lucys and tyrannical Karens, it felt like walking on a minefield. So, you guess, you do know these people; it’s their unpredictability that worries you.
The claustrophobia wanes as you enter the nave. The ceiling spreads out, breathes, and is lined with stained glass windows that bend the moonlight into faint rainbows. Some of the outermost pews have been moved to accommodate long tables, adorned in chestnut velour, copper filigree and serve as the throne for only the most impressive squashes of the harvest. A buffet joins the autumnal decor, sitting in sterling silver that you can imagine was forged at the beginning of the century and is used only for occasions such as these.
Ever atune to your mind and body, Lucy pulls you into the line of hungry patrons just as your stomach grumbles. You’re transfixed by the magnificent altar at the back of this illustrious cave, your eyes climbing up the grand steps of the sanctuary to the stone table where you know the priest stands when mass is held. You try to picture one giving a sermon and reciting from scriptures. Doesn’t he have a cup or something too?…
A plate is stuck in front of you, waving a little, and the priest laughs at you when he finally gets your attention. You take the plate with a little embarrassment, your smile a sheepish one. “Sorry,” you mumble with pity.
The tall, wispy-haired man smiles with his teeth and places his arthritic hands around one of yours as you hold the plate. “Oh, it’s alright, my child. I myself have gotten lost in the wonders of the cathedral many times.”
Lucy chimes in, reading your awkward gaze. “It’s her first time,” she whispers with a little too much excitement for your liking. The priest puts on a goofy surprised expression, his eyebrows going up and his mouth forming a small 'o'. He looks back to you with a softer smile, “What a beautiful thing to witness, then. I’m Father Gala, pleased to meet you.”
“There’s no one better to come here with for the first time than Miss Finkle. You’re in very good hands.” As you nod in agreement, you can’t help but wonder… what would this elder man, in his starched and pressed vestments, think if he knew you and Lucy had “practiced” kissing so you’d know what you were doing when the “real thing” happened?
You wave the thought away like a gnat, not wanting to feel like you’re keeping another clean secret that’s considered dirty by some. You’re already under the guise of being a practicing Christian; Lucy had said they were more readily accepted than anyone else, despite the church’s proclamation of aiming for cultural diversity.
The choir has ended their singing, replaced by applause then the soft, overlapping chatter of the religious folk, and their red robes merge seamlessly into the surrounding crowd. Three other priests emerge from doors on either side of the sanctuary, two from the door closer to you and one from the other. You don’t get a good look at the singular man, since the door is on the opposite side of the grand hall from you. The two others are deep in talk, gesturing with their hands and keeping their faces close to one another while they walk as to not let anyone eavesdrop. You move ahead in line and depart from the eldest priest, whom the two new faces greet and guide a few feet away from everyone.
You don’t mean to pry, but you can’t help your curiosity and look back at the men. You can’t hear them, only watching their mouths move, but Father Gala’s sweet smile grows somber, then bitter. With scowling brows to match, the other two priests keep up their gestures laden with well-maintained passion as they tell Father Gala a story.
In the first lull of this conversation, the eldest priest, with his arms crossed over his chest, flickers his eyes to yours without moving his head. Your heart springs from your chest to your throat. His glower lessens when he bites the inside of his cheek, but you feel a doubling, tripling of stress when the other two priests turn to look at you too. The taller one, with a jet black, scraggly bowl cut, mirrors Father Gala and crosses his arms. He looks down his long nose at you in dignified annoyance. The third, with stocky limbs and strawberry blonde hair, glares at you from his periphery. Your eyes widen, in an attempt to show them you’re not a threat, expose your remorseful guilt, or provide a silent apology, you don’t know.
Lucy snaps you back forward with a gentle push against your back to get you to move in the line. You’ve finally reached the buffet, but suddenly the smells that wandered up your nose in wispy, tempting little tendrils earlier instead worm their way down your esophagus and instill a powerful nausea. She can sense your discomfort, your disorientation from what just happened, and supplies your plate for you. With a protective gaze over your head at the men, and a loving hand on your bicep, she guides you to sit in the pew farthest away from them.
She has to stick a fork in your petrified fist for you to speak. “What the hell was that about?” You question, chancing a glance over your shoulder at the offending party and see that they’ve gone off to greet guests with friendly smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, they just looked worried and-“
Lucy pats your knee once, “Don’t worry. There must be some sort of drama happening behind the scenes, something that the town would inquire about. Since they’re priests, they think they have immunity from gossip.” She scoffs lightly and you think you catch your devout friend rolling her eyes at those most holy. “They’ve been acting weird for a while now, off and on. One week, Father Gala is like Mr. Rogers, and the next, he’s Dracula.”
That earns a snort from you, hiding your smile behind the back of your hand. She gives you a reassuring smile, filled with her signature warmth that’s comforted you all these years, “You’re doing great. Now eat.”
Thankfully, your nausea has quelled enough that you taste the delicious food as it’s meant to be tasted. Maybe you don’t have to worry about foraging during your stay in this town void of all fast food, only relying on two quaint grocery stores to feed itself. You’ll just have to become friends with whoever made this delectably gooey mac and cheese.
Lucy interrupts you, “Oh, by the way,” she covers her full mouth and then swallows, pointing daintily, “that’s Father Thorn,” at the tall one, “and that’s Father Angus,” at the blonde one. You nod once in understanding, taking a look at their faces to match their names with, before Lucy turns away with a laugh. She teases under her breath, “Maybe they’re all pissed they could never be as handsome as Father Pike.”
“Priests can be handsome?” you ask of the mysterious fourth priest, bemused. Priests, deacons, popes and the like all conjure up images of men with wrinkles as delicate and numerous as the pages in the ancient books they abide by. If they’re not a million years old, they’re unsightly at best and possess a visceral lack of sensuality, like Father Thorn and Father Angus. Lucy has got to be pulling your leg.
“Yes,” she breathes, a soft pink blooming in her cheeks, “and young, and warm, and have a voice that makes every sermon a lullaby, and big, tender hands…” she trails off in a dream.
You let out a laugh, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, so he’s really ugly, then,” you sneer, trying to expose her hyperbole.
She giggles at your tone, shaking her head. You reign down on her, spurring her giggles on with a barrage of sarcasm until they’re uncontrollable.
“Is that why this place doesn’t have gargoyles, because he can take its place? Does he have leathery skin,” you drag your hands down your face, pulling your cheeks down to expose your eyes, “rotted fangs,” hold your hands by your mouth and snarl your fingers, “hairy feet with long, twisting toenails that tear through his shoes?” You get up and drag your feet along the floor, growling and licking your lips rabidly.
Lucy doubles over, tears threatening to spill over her eyes every time her lungs have to suck in a breath, “Stop!” She’s wheezing and you drop the act, putting your hands on your hips.
“Well, you gotta tell me if I’m wrong or not!” Tapping your foot, you await her retaliation, until a voice warm with a smile cuts through the air.
“You forgot the giant rat’s tail that drags behind me.”
Your heart stops for a second, thumping wildly when it starts up again to catch the missed beats. Turning tentatively on your heel, you’re met with… exactly what Lucy described.
Before you is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, if not the most handsome ever. Chocolate waves that crest over top one another in a cute, slightly overgrown style glisten like ganache on top of his head in the candlelight. He’s got a scruffy beard that’s cut close to his cheeks and jaw, avoiding looking unkempt, threaded with two or three streaks of gray. His aquiline nose is gorgeous, there’s a little dimple in his cheek that deepens as he’s smiling, and his eyes… oh, his eyes…
“I’m Father Pike,” he extends his hand in greeting, keeping his other tucked behind his back. He has to bend forward slightly to reach your height better, aiding your descent into enchanted madness as he gets closer. You take his hand and introduce yourself- GOD Lucy was right. His grasp is light, comforting. Where Father Gala made you feel stuck in his eternal cage, Father Pike sets you free. You fall into a stupor fantasizing about what his hugs must feel like.
He smells like cinnamon. It could be from the pie you suspect he ate, from the apple undertones you detect, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how he naturally smelled. A warm, cozy, inviting dream; he sure looked like one, at least.
His gaze lingers on your expression frozen with intrigue before he turns and welcomes Lucy. They begin a polite banter that allows you to stand back and try to quell your blood that throbs with nerve. If you had known someone like Father Pike was going to be here, you would’ve dressed in something nicer, possibly sexy - the modesty expected in a place of worship be damned. You curse yourself for choosing these well-worn jeans and roomy sweater over the opaque tights and a dress of an acceptable length you were going back and forth on in your mirror earlier. But, in an odd sort of way, you still felt exposed in front of Father Pike from underneath all your thick layers. You couldn’t hide yourself from him, no matter how many clothes you armored yourself with.
He turns back to you, and he doesn’t ogle your nervous body, or try desperately not to; he looks into your eyes with a soft smile that crinkles the skin around those big brown puddles. It makes your chest feel like it has a big, gaping cavity that you could look inside of and see your heart thumping hard, vulnerable blood spilling from all your edges and trickling down your legs. The flustered emotions of a blooming crush rapidly morph into something malicious and parasitic, causing you to put the back of your hand to your forehead that has broken out in clamminess. It’s hard to hear Father Pike over the rushing buzz in your head when he speaks to you.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, are you new?”
And just like that, your knees start trembling beneath you. Your heart misses a beat, causing your lungs to seize in anger and you suck in a harsh breath. In a flash, Father Pike’s friendliness snaps into genuine concern and he steps forward, taking your elbows and catching you on your way to the floor. You make a startled sound and his timbre slashes through your panic, “Let’s get you sat down somewhere, okay?”
You can barely muster a nod, tears threatening to spill over your eyes and join the rivulets of sweat on your cheeks. Father Pike more or less carries you by your middle as you pathetically cling to his arms, dragging your debilitated form a short distance to a secluded, abandoned pew by the door he entered from earlier in the evening. Father Pike sits you down and takes the place right beside you, putting his left arm around your shoulders and his right hand in yours. As soon as you’re grounded on the unforgiving wood, your vision stops spinning, even though you didn’t realize it had started. Breathing suddenly feels easy again, returning to its involuntary glory instead of being laborious. It’s like your body resumed its regularly scheduled programming with an invisible snap.
Away from the hub of the crowd, his voice seems louder, its velveteen quality more clear, “You alright?”
You take a precautionary, steadying breath before meeting his eyes, fearful that something in him will set off all your alarms again. But when you meet his eyes, everything is serene. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”
A pause to verify your sincerity, and then he chuckles, trying to uplift the atmosphere with a lighthearted tone, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just…”
You laugh, as much as you can muster in your breathless state, “No, no, you didn’t!” He retracts his hand from yours slowly and you instinctively grasp his forearm with a reassuring touch. Once you notice what you’re doing, you let go of him with an embarrassment like he’s burning you. “I- I don’t really know what happened, all of the sudden I just felt… sick.” With your confession, a wave of nausea infiltrates your stomach and makes you feel a little queasy again. It’s climbing to its previous intensity quickly. The fossilized church feels like it could cave in on you at any moment.
Father Pike touches your shoulder softly, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?” You nod and the waning gleam in your eye sends him swiftly disappearing into the crowd.
A decent number of paces away, an older woman looks at you with fear as Lucy speaks to her, no doubt explaining your abrupt qualm. Drawing any more attention than you already have will just worsen your panic, so you thwart the drama. You raise your hand at her with a thin-lipped smile to deter her worry and she places her hand over her heart with a happy sigh before walking away.
Father Pike reappears behind Lucy and drifts by her with your drink clutched tight in his hand. Lucy’s eyes flit from the priest’s chivalry to your shy, measly form and she raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth with a scoffing smile. You could read your best friend’s face better than written word: she thinks that you’re doing this on purpose to get the Father’s attention.
You wish you could say you were reeling him in with salacious spite, however, you were anything but. Your illness was true and unforgiving. You shake your head at her in defiance, but you can tell she doesn’t buy it. She turns away to busy herself with the rest of the party, but really she’s intending to give the two of you some privacy from the wink thrown over her shoulder. With a roll of your eyes, you think about how you’ll have to defend yourself with a foolproof case under her gavel later tonight.
Father Pike retakes his seat next to you, handing you the bottle of water, unopened, that your puny fingers struggle with. Kindly, he offers his hand and you pass over the bottle for him to open. He hands it back to you and sits hunched over his lap, hands clasped between his open legs, staring at you intently as you take a few slow sips. You feel a little awkward, looking down at the bottle in your hands and fidgeting with the wrapper on the outside, so you take a note from his book and try to lighten the mood, “I knew I wasn’t a big fan of parties, but I didn’t know I was this bad.” You chuckle dryly, risking a glance at him. It works: he’s laughing with you.
“I’m not a big party person, either,” he smiles, his dimple creasing within his beard. You raise an eyebrow at him, a little befuddled by his statement, given he inserts himself into the lives of others for a living. He takes your hint, “I enjoy talking to people, giving sermons and all of that… but even this feels a little overwhelming for me.” You nod, finding comfort in the fact that you’re on the same page. He keeps that endearing smile with a measuring eye as he continues watching you, looking from the crease of your brow to how your legs squirm uncomfortably.
There’s something about this man that makes you feel… transparent. Like how you felt exposed to him earlier, even underneath all your coarsely knitted layers. You feel like a fraud, sitting next to one of the holiest figures in the entire congregation. And for some reason, out of all of the people here, you feel that he deserves the truth. There’s nothing about him that has given you any indication that he won’t turn on you like the rest would if you confess to your disguise, but at the same time… he makes you feel safe. Of course, he just recovered you from some undisclosed blight, but you can write that off as convenience. You were sick, he was right there, certainly he would’ve tended to you. There must be some moral code within the priesthood to never let a sick person lie. But even before that, putting aside his obvious handsomeness, there was something in his eyes that held you. Let you know that it was all okay. You decide to ply him with honesty.
“Um… so, I’m not very religious. Like, at all.” Your voice is a little shaky, worried if his nice-guy facade will finally melt away to reveal a sneering orthodox. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, so you keep going.
“So, if I’m not religious, and I’m drinking this, does that mean…” You trail off in question, and he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at.
“It’s holy, right?” You raise the water.
Father Pike looks like he can’t believe what you just asked. He shakes his head in amusement, void of condescension, leaning the slightest bit closer towards you. He lowers his voice slightly, protecting you from any invasive ears. He softly explains, “Just because it’s water in a church doesn’t mean it’s holy. A priest or some other figure has to bless it.” His smirk deepens at your visible relief, “You’re not sinning, or anything near it. You’re perfect.”
He said you’re… what? Your heart skips again but this time it’s not from sickness. Well... is it sick to be attracted to someone who is virtually untouchable? You get to thinking; you know enough about the church and its inner workings to know that priests usually take a vow of celibacy. Consequently, most never date or get married. Does that mean… are they barred from all things sensual? Are they allowed to tenderly brush their fingers against someone else’s, and not for the purpose of prayer? Can they share a glance that lingers a little too long for it to be considered chaste? Can they… can they even think about anything remotely sexual?
There’s no way that can be true. You can understand physical celibacy, sure, but it’s impossible for one not to have a thought that makes them quiver at least once in their life. In your own experience, sensuality sometimes has nothing to do with sex. You’ve felt the warmth of eroticism lying under the sun’s rays in the middle of spring, savoring a delicious meal, when you finish a book with a satisfying conclusion. If Father Pike starves himself of such pleasures, you can’t fight the pity that chokes you.
“What if they have priests at the packaging plant?” You joke, hoping to simultaneously break the silence that has swelled between you two and put a wedge in your brain’s cogs so they’ll stop churning.
Father Pike laughs, genuinely from his belly, and oh you could get used to that sound. His eyes crinkle at their corners with a grin, “Then the church would be thrilled at our outreach.”
You go to take another sip of your water, but his hand comes out to touch yours. The impossible delicacy almost makes you flinch. He puts gentle pressure on your skin, making you stop in your tracks. He shifts closer to you, his voice dropping an octave, warning you, “I’d be careful though; there is a possibility that you could grow rotted fangs and hairy feet, if I’m remembering correctly.”
Your fluttering nerves make your laugh squeak out of your tightened throat, louder than you intended, in a bark. Slightly mortified, you hide your smile behind the hand that isn’t suspended in the air by Father Pike. With mercy, he releases you.
“What about a rat’s tail?” You ask with a teasing glint in your eye.
He ponders for a moment, comically deep in thought. “That only affects the most sinful of us,” he reveals.
...What? That was flirty, right? It had to be flirty. There’s no way he didn’t mean it to be flirty. Your imagination can be very active at times, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his mustache to repress a smirk.
Trying to ignore the furious heat that has instantaneously kindled between your thighs based on that singular tone change, you latch the bottle to your mouth and avert your eyes elsewhere. Out of your periphery, you think you see Father Pike’s shoulders droop and his gaze lower to the ground with a silent huff. Shit, did he take your silence as a blow to his humor?
You can’t think too much now because the clocks outside in the streets resound ten chimes. Lucy appears and her beaming at the two of you seems to rejuvenate Father Pike a little. He straightens his back before he stands and they begin talking, shaking hands. Their mouths spew unintelligible babble to you as your entire nervous system is locked on one thing: Father Pike’s back. His gorgeous personality had swept you up and away into a cloud of bubbly giggles and blushing cheeks that you hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. Maybe if the robes had made a greater impression on you, they would’ve served as a reminder to restrain yourself from dreaming about the forbidden, but alas.
Father Pike is dressed identically to the other priests: black clerical shirt, cassock, pants, and shoes, and a white tab collar. But he wears everything so much better. The garments are majorly obscured by the enveloping cassock, but even the thick, flowing fabric can’t hide the broad width of his shoulders. When he gestures with his hands, you can see the muscles move dreamily in reaction by the flickering candlelight. He’s tall, and this fact is only emphasized as you continue to sit motionless on the pew watching him and Lucy.
When he turns with a hand outstretched to help you to your feet, you bite your lip with ravenous desire. Somehow you didn’t notice - probably because you were too enthralled with everything else about him - how his Adam’s apple sits on glorious display with the white tab collar as its pedestal. The tempting image makes you swallow hard. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“Time to get going,” Lucy says, motioning from behind the Father’s back for you to take his hand. You do and stand, drifting to the front of the church on autopilot. It feels like the calm quiet of your time with Father Pike and the chummy, sociable atmosphere of the dinner has dissipated and a sense of urgency has taken root. The friendliness remains in the goodbyes and promises of meeting again you hear all around you, but you’re definitely being ushered out with the rest of the herd. You guess, remembering a tidbit about religious folk, that they have a curfew.
It feels like you’re being ripped away from Father Pike and you don’t like that. Although you’ve only known him for all but two hours - which sounds ridiculous when you put it like that - you’re desperate to know more. You’d find genuine, complete contentedness in simply watching him go about his daily activities. Recording what details he decides to give you privy to and admiring his boundaries when he reserves himself. He’s the first possibility of a new friend in this conservative township and you don’t want to let him go.
You’re grateful that he ghosts your back as Lucy leads you to the entrance, it gives you comfort and makes this dream last as long as it can. You don’t sense just how close he’s following behind you until you get to the heavy front doors and the toe of his shoe snags on the heel of yours. It makes you trip and fumble forward, but Father Pike reaches to catch you. His hands grip your waist, molding your oversized sweater to your body. Then, he gently steadies and pulls you back upright. The foreign sensation of your flattened heel tickles your foot and sends you stumbling back into his chest. He looks down at you, his hands still on you, “I-I apologize.”
Through the darkness you see the tips of his ears glow red. Before you can say anything in return, he renders you speechless by getting on his knees. Without a word spoken, moving in tandem with implicit choreography, you lift your foot up so he can fix the heel back into place. He doesn’t give you the choice of wobbling on your lonesome, placing one of your hands on his right shoulder to keep you balanced. And god, you wish he hadn’t done that.
Your lips part as your breaths gain some weight, but you snap your oblong mouth shut when you hear an ancient, warbly voice. “Oh, no, what have we here?” Father Gala teeters over just as Father Pike finishes retying your shoe. Imperceptibly, you squeeze his shoulder in reverence as he stands up and then you let your hand fall innocently to your side.
You shrug, giggling a little uncomfortably, “Father Pike stepped on the back of my shoe, it was an accident.”
“Young and clumsy,” Father Gala jokes, you think, with a grumbly tone. He claps a hand on Father Pike’s left shoulder with more effort than you thought the old man could muster. As Father Pike steadies the elder priest’s cane, you reason he more so fell into Father Pike than anything else. Your favored Father chuckles with accountability.
Father Gala passes off his cane for a moment to take your hand in his two, like he did when he gave you the dinner plate earlier this evening. Clearly the party has tired him out; his hands are quivering and his back is permanently bent at an angle. “Peace be with you,” he croaks with cheerfulness, despite his withered voice.
You freeze. You know you’re supposed to say something back to complete this exchange and from the innermost depths of your brain you think it should be a simple phrase, something that any ardent Christian would remember. Between your disinterest in the church and the Father Pike fog that has eclipsed your mind, you’re dumbfounded.
An angel appears in your midst and comes to your rescue: Father Pike, peering into your eyes over the shoulder of the crouched figure before you, mouths the words silently, “And also with you.”
“And also with you,” you recite amicably. Father Gala smiles, pats your hand twice in delight and turns to give Lucy the same departing sentiment. You release the air of worry you held inside and take a few steps to meet Father Pike, whispering close by his side so only he will hear, “Thank you.”
The handsome Father closes your height difference by leaning down and pretends to brush some invisible dust off of your shoulder, an excuse to be this close to you.
“Don’t mention it. Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmurs.
And you trust him to keep his promise. Sure, he could go behind your back and spill your lies to the other priests, the entire community, let them know that there’s a rat infiltrating their congregation.
The mischievous sparkle in his gaze as he looks at down you, biting your lip to suppress your giggle and keep your little inside secret just that, tells you he won’t let one word slip.
Father Gala has returned for his cane, so Father Pike clears his throat and stiffens himself. Clasping his hands together, he builds an appropriate distance between the two of you before anyone sees it was anything otherwise.
The night winds have picked up, biting at bits of exposed skin with a malevolent appetite. To shield the older priest, Father Pike guides him back into the cathedral. “I hope to see you two back soon,” the handsome Father interjects as you’re turning to leave.
“We’ll be here Sunday!” Lucy shouts over an unnatural gust that howls and warbles her voice. With one arm over each other’s shoulders, holding tight together, you begin the trek back to her house to take refuge for the night. Behind you, you hear the cathedral doors shut, sealing you off from a final parting glance to Father Pike. You aren’t too disheartened by that and the cold can’t gnaw at your heart, either; Sunday is only two days away and you can’t contain your excitement.
——
The whole night has felt like a whirlwind. To your complete and utter surprise, visiting the church is no longer seems like it’ll be a chore, but rather an opportunity. For what, you’re not exactly sure just yet. But you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks and skirting down your spine at the infinite possibilities. Maybe you should start praying for your salvation now.
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series masterlist ♥️ main masterlist ♥️ join my taglist!
💘taglist (if you have a strike through it means i couldn't tag you): @pascalpanic @melody13522 @tenderwhat @maievdenoir @pedrostories @uncassettodiricordi @harriedandharassed
#pedro pascal characters#marcus pike x you#marcus pike x reader#marcus pike#marcus pike x f!reader#marcus pike x afab!reader#priest kink#priest!marcus pike
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Father Joel's breath caught in his throat as you stepped closer to him, your hand tracing the sign of the cross on his chest. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of desire and conflict swirling within him. He looked at you, his eyes searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt, but all he found was trust and adoration. Slowly, he raised his hand, mirroring your gesture, and gently made the sign of the cross on your forehead.
"May God's blessings be upon you, my darlin'," he whispered, his voice tinged with a mixture of reverence and longing. The intimate exchange sent a surge of conflicting emotions through him, a battle between his role as a priest and the desires that burned within him.
#priest!joel miller#joel miller#joel miller x you#joel miller x f!reader#joel miller one shot#joel miller the last of us#joel miller imagine#joel miller x reader#joel tlou#joel the last of us#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#tlou hbo#f reader#tlou#fanfic
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🎃 PedroStories HallowReads Celebration 🎃
This is such an adorable event because there are so many wonderful writers out there that deserve to get something special for all the stories they give us that allow us to escape the real world for a few minutes. Thank you so much @pedrostories for hosting this event. As always, you guys are doing the lord's work and getting us to interact with more writers out there that we may have never found otherwise. Love youuuuu 💕💕💕
And now for the treat.
@whataperfectwasteoftime you single-handedly get my Marcus Pike obsession going with all your juicy fics and I just want to let you know that Lead Me Not Into Temptation was especially sinful...no pun intended. I am a pretty religious person so I'm always torn between reading Priest AUs or stories that involve religion in general (don't mind the one I wrote with Pero Tovar, I was going through it lol) and I was so close to not reading it but then I remembered I was stalking your account and I just had to. I had to.
That fic is hmmm. It's just so fucking good. From the perfectly-placed sentences of the Lord's Prayer, to the back-and-forth struggle, to the smut...I was wide-eyed the entire time reading it. It was so flipping hot.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. That was delicious. And I hope you like this treat.
The line crossed so subtly, in the quiet of the night,
His world spiralled downward, out of holy light.
She moans a plea, a prayer, an invocation,
"Come," he whispers, his heart brimming with anticipation.
He drank from her essence as if quenching a thirst,
In the desert of desire, he found her oasis first.
Amen he breathes, his soul heavy with sin,
If this was his Hell, he'd willingly dive in.
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Another Update 🤗
Frankie Friday fic is scheduled for tomorrow morning! 🤗 Frankie is a bit mean like me. 😩
Working on Dieter, chapter 2. Close to done, I gotta do more research about rich people shit. 🤣 I don’t know much about it.
Feel like writing an Agent Whiskey fic but not sure where to start. I gotta outline it or just throw some stuff at the wall.
Priest Din is coming along. It would be my first fic about him. 🖤
Working on my smut skills. I’d like to get to the level of so many writers on here. The descriptions, the invocation of feelings, thoughts and emotions, I wanna to that one day. ❤️❤️❤️❤️
#pedro pascal characters#fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#din djarin#joel miller#dieter bravo#family#frankie morales#nerdie thinks aloud#writing#priest din
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i just had a dream where pedro pascal was kinda like hot priest in fleabag
i want to go back to that dream
#(like his personality)#i mean hes kinda like hot priest in many ways irl too ig#lord put me back in i miss him#i couldnt sleep like ive woken up 3 times in 2 hrs and i slept like 4 hrs#whateva#anyway i miss u pedro pascal (theres so much content ab u but i miss u nonetheless)#pedro pascal
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Follow Me
#pedro pascal#Kevin owens#damien priest#MJF#Sami Zayn#the shield#Wwe#the umbrella academy#seth rollins#jon moxley#Randy orton#adam cole#shawn michaels#triple h#chyna#bryan danielson#hangman Adam page#Sasha banks#Lita#Bayley#aj lee#asuka#Paige#Anthony bowens#marvel#Spider-Man#Tobey Maguire#Andrew Garfield#Tom Holland#Michelle McCool
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Y’all better HOPE pedro pascal never plays a priest cause that’s the day I’m going full feral and giving children rabies.
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Saviour Complex- goddess!Reader x Warrior
Plot: Reader is a young goddess, still yet to come into her full power. The patron goddess of innocence and compassion, she resides deep within the forest, caring for any lost souls who come her way. Destruction finds its way to her lands, as the Emperor's men flood the forest, tasked with cutting down anyone who refuses to denounce their heathen ways. One warrior finds the reader's temple, and tasks himself with 'saving' the reader from herself.
TW: Loosely based on posiden and medusa, which if you know is a trigger warning all on its on, SA, Implied non/con, talks of religion and religious genocide. Neither the warrior's or reader's religions (so to speak) are actual practised or once practiced religions. They are completely made up. Sexual talk. This fic is from the warrior's point of view so very much misogynistic, ignorant, and him being a dick. Also breeding is mentioned (a few times, opps) I see the warrior as Pedro Pascal as Pero Trovar
Notes: This was meant to be priestess reader but I liked this idea better. Enjoy!
He would hardly call the temple before him a temple. It was nothing more than some stones and arches pilled together, hidden under the canopy of a great oak. It was not as old as the other temples he and his comrades had pulled down. The other's, older and more grand than the one in front of him, were infested by savage heathens. They had been dozens of them milling around the great stone pillars. Some leaving tokens of good faith, other's seeming to be in constant service to their wild gods.
This land he found himself in was not under the watchful gaze of the Eye. Nor were they subjects of the Emperor. Instead they worshipped petty gods and goddesses, born from mortal parent's, given gifts of power from Mother Wild. The gifts given depended on their actions as growing gods. Raised as mortals until their 20th nameday, when Mother Wild gives them her final gift, immortality. At least, immortality to a point.
They age as mortals do, but the hands of time pass ever slowly by. As they watch their family and friends grow grey and old, only days have the wild gods aged. It is said that they can one day grow old, grey and tired, succumbing to death as all living things do. But none had ever yet to reach such an age. Gods were able to be killed but it took strength and numbers to do so, and the sword of Caleen, the first wild god ever born. Caleen's own blood had been mixed with the metal, creating a sword capable of penetrating through the gifts given to them. The sword, gifted to him by the Emperor, lay dormant in its sheath by the warrior's side. It was the only method known to truly kill a wild god.
Until then, the only way to defeat a god without the sword was to force them to act in a way that went against their patronage. Salios, once god of law and order, had his gifts ripped from him by Mother Wild, when he unjustly killed an innocent man. Without his gifts, age and sickness came for him thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of years before he should have perished as a god. Yet such an act had not occurred for hundreds of years, least of all forced by human hand. So these wild gods reigned over their forgotten wood, almighty in power and reverence.
It was heresy.
These 'almighty' beings were nothing but demons, given unholy power by the forces of darkness. Born human, yet corrupted by power. It was unnatural, it was all that went against the teachings of the Eye. Humans were sinful creatures, and the more power one had, the more corrupted they became.
The warrior grimaced as he walked up to the temple. A stupid move if he was being honest. He was here alone after being separated from his battalion. But he needed a place to shelter the coming storm, the air thick with the scent of rain. He would rather face a barbarian than freeze in the wilderness. The temple seemed to be empty, no worshippers leaving offers or priests caring after the god. It was quiet and lonesome. Yet strangely welcoming. He could feel warmth emerging from inside the temple, the scent of delicate florals dancing through the air.
He hesitated at the threshold of the temple, it was clean and well looked after. The walls were lined with soft candlelight, and murals of prancing deer and maidens dancing through the woods. A statue of a woman stood silent in the middle, bathed in dark sunlight by a round hole in the roof. The statue was covered in crowns of flowers. Some placed on her bowed head, others hooked onto her arms as they reach outwards, palms facing towards the sky. Gifts of pearls, lilies and feathers of pure white were placed delicately at the foot of the statue.
He did not care to learn these savage gods names. There were hundreds of them, some more powerful than others. Some given patronage over small, worthless things. He had laughed for hours when he discovered that there was a patron god of footprints. Whoever this temple was erected for, was loved yes, but not revered.
The warrior walks deeper into the temple, becoming enveloped in a sense of peace and compassion at the care given to this little goddess. He grunts in frustration, these stupid gods and their stupid 'gifts'. When he and his brothers in arms desecrated the patron god of fear's temple, the battle was nearly lost as they nearly fell to the wild gods powers. Fear racing through their ranks. Just being in the presence of a god was enough for their powers to linger in the air, effecting a mortal humans thoughts and feelings.
This little goddess must still be here.
Rain began to fall from the heavens, it came down with a fury. Yet, the rain that fell through the hole came down in fat, gentle drops upon the statue of the goddess. Water drippled down her stone face, the warrior had to admit this little goddess was quite the beauty. If her statue was anything to go by. He walks deeper into the sanctuary, closer towards the statue. He stops just in front of her image, breathing in deeper at what he can only imagine is her scent, sweet yet comforting, there was an earthiness to it too. He reaches out to caress the stone cheek of his little goddess. What a pretty thing she was.
He kneels to take in the sight of the gifts offered to her. There were the pearls, feathers and lilies he had seen before. But now he could see spools of white wool, wrapped in ribbon, and carvings of hearts, flowers and dozens of names circling the statue.
Lightly touching the most prominent of the carved names, he allowed himself a grin. He had found the wild goddess of innocence and compassion.
He had found you.
You were the youngest of the gods, only decades since you were gifted your immortality. Yet, you had quickly become beloved by your worshippers. The patron goddess of innocence and compassion, you resided deep within the forgotten woods, caring for the animals of the forest and any travellers who crossed your path. It is said that only those in needing of help or guidance, and children looking for a home could find you. The delicate smell of flowers leading the way to your temple. The names carved upon the stone at your feet were those you had cared for over the years. Travellers lost and afraid. Children without parents or care. Women hiding from vengeful men. And men scarred by life itself. All found their way to you, to your compassionate and pure hands.
You were the last of the major gods that the warrior and his men were yet to find. Your brothers and sisters before you had fallen. Some had run like cowards leaving their temples, and their followers, to burn into the night. Others, slaughtered by his hand. Time may only harm the wild gods so much, but Caleen's sword is a deadlier foe than time itself. It filled him with joy remembering plunging Caleen's own sword into the first wild god's heart. He was the first of the wild gods and as such he was the first to fall.
The warrior stood to his full height quickly as soft footsteps made their way through the temple. They came to a stop, the owner hidden by darkness still.
Outside the storm raged on.
"That you little goddess?" the warrior jested, hand coming to rest lazily on his sword's pummel. He stepped around the statue, giving a slight kick at a doll that was laid carefully at its feet.
The sound of hesitant shuffling could be heard. His little goddess was nervous.
"May I see your face, dear one? I have come a long, long way to find you. I wish not to leave this place without seeing your face, it would break this poor soldiers heart" he pouted in fake hurt, creeping towards you as a wolf moves closer to its prey.
"Who are you?" you ask, voice calm and strong. Yet, he could sense fear in your words.
"Just a poor soldier, a lost traveller if you will. Seeking the care and compassion of your grace" he answers, bowing slightly. He toys with his pummel, he had a feeling he would not need to draw it this day.
"Are you hurt?" you plead, taking a closer step towards him, your sense of empathy and compassion shinning through.
The warrior saw his chance, and he was going to take it.
"Not physically your grace, but I have not yet broken my fast or had a drop of water in days." he furrows his brow, grimacing and holding his stomach with his free hand.
"Oh! Your poor thing!" you exclaim, rushing forward to meet him. Once in the light, the warrior damned the creator of the sculpture for failing to capture your beauty. The statue was nothing in comparison to you. Your hair was thick and healthy, framing your face perfectly. Your skin soft and supple. Lips dewy and oh so kissable.
Your were the most beautiful woman he had seen in his entire life.
And here you were, all his for the taking. You were dressed as a goddess deemed fit, perfectly tailored and fetchingly so. But all he could think about was ripping it from you in a daze of lust. You rushed up to him and guided him deeper into your temple. He only realised that the temple was much larger than it seemed when he was outside. These wild gods and their tricks. You cooed to him the entire time. Stating there would be a warm bath and fresh fruit and clear spring water for him in his room. You hadn't even noticed his weapon, or if you had, you truly were the patron god of innocence.
He allowed you to fuss over him. Allowed you to lead him deeper into your temple, until you reached an open court yard, filled with plants of all colours and sizes, soft grass below his feet. At one end a statue of Mother Wild stood, vines and flowers blooming across her figure. In the centre of it was a beautiful flowering tree, more gifts had been left here to.
He stopped you from leading him further on, his eyes set on this tree. There was magic in its very fibre, unnatural power. He could feel it.
"Everything ok soldier?" you try, hand coming to rest on his back. He flinches at the contact, it was so soft and kind. No one had touched him with such care before.
"What is this tree?" he turns to you.
"Oh! Its a magnolia tree" you grin
"No, I know that, why is it here, and why.." he stops himself, he was going to ask you why he felt power radiating from it. "why are there gifts at its base."
You give him a soft smile, gently grabbing his hand you lead you to its base. You softly bring yourself and him to the ground. White flowers fell softly to the ground. You reached a hand out to touch the bark, closing your eyes, before reopening them to look at the warrior.
"Here, give me your hand"
Without thought he places his hand in yours.
What wicked spell have you put him under.
And why does he not care to know.
With your gentle touch on his, the warrior felt heat rise deep inside him. You placed his hand on the bark, yours overlapping his.
"Do you feel it?" you whisper, voice soft and kind.
Of course he could feel it. Pure innocence, unbridled compassion and love.
He hated it.
"This tree is an extension of myself. The day I was born, when my parent's realised who and what I was, they planted this tree. They understood that they and all those who I love would grow old, die and leave me alone. This was their way of giving me a companion. The day I received my gifts and my patronage was the day I laid my parents to rest under this tree's shadow."
He watches in silence as tears well up in your eyes.
"I hadn't even turned four and ten springs yet, when...when they attacked. They were raiders from the south. Brutes, really. My parent's told me to flee, but there were younger children, pregnant women and injured men who couldn't flee, or didn't know where to flee to. So while the warriors in my village tried the best they could to defend us. I went back and forth between this tree and the village, carrying, dragging and leading all those I could to the safety of the great oak that shadows my temple. When I went back the last time, there was nothing left. Our warriors were slain and my parents...."
You break off, tears trickling down. He feels the sudden urge to wipe them from your cheek. He lets himself have the honour of doing so, and your let yourself have the pleasure of him touching you.
"Anyway, there wasn't much else I could do, so I brought them here, buried them, and cared for the survivors the best I could. It was then I was given my gifts, for my compassion for my people and my innocence in the face of death, I was given my patronage. We rebuilt our village, and life was good. But the years after I was given my final gift, were... difficult to say the least. Watching my friends grow old, have families of their own. Then watching their children age and grow grey. I... it was difficult."
You give him a pointed stare, now turning your back onto the tree and rested upon it. He removes his hand from the bark, mirroring your actions.
"Can I tell you a secret?" you plea, eyes big and soft.
"Of course my little goddess, I will take it to my grave." he sternly replies, practically giving you his oath as a holy warrior of the Eye. You thought he was joking, jesting with you after such an emotional story. You gave him a giggle and playfully smacked his chest.
"No need for that, but thank you." you trail off, thoughts of long ago in mind. He nudges you softly, eager to learn your secret.
You look back up and him and sigh, turning off into space.
"Sometimes, when I have no one to look after, and its been months, sometimes years, even, since someone has walked through my temple's door. I wish I wasn't born a goddess. I wish I could grow old, fall in love, marry, have children of my own." you look down, playing with your hands.
The warrior was troubled, yet excitement grew. You could be saved. You wished to be without the corruption of the dark forces that ran through your very being.
"But you could start a family. I have heard tales of demigods"
"Yes, but I can't" you stress turning to him. "I am the goddess of innocence, not just compassion. To bare a child would mean I am no longer innocent, therefore my powers would be stripped from me. I would be mortal again."
You huff in frustration. Even if you were able to have a child, it would still grow old, and you would be left to bury another one of your kin below your beloved tree.
The warrior was delighted. Overjoyed, perfectly happy with this news. Some gods had gifts that were hard to strip from them. How do you make the god of footprints go against footprints? Cut off their feet? Unless....
No he's getting distracted. Here he was being given his own gift, from his god. The Eye was testing him, for sure. Allow a wild goddess to continue her wicked magic, or save the mortal within. You already told him you wished to be free of your curse, the burden placed on you the moment you were born. All he had to do was take your maidenhead. Put his seed in your womb and watch it grow. And what a fine mother you would be. You had spent decades being a mother to hundreds, so what more a burden would a few of your own be. In fact he was sure your would revile in it.
You were practically begging him to fill you with his seed, with those big, soft eyes and those curves that screamed at him to take you. He was without a wife, he would have to break you in for sure. You were a wild one of course. But with a few whelps to look after and one surely in your belly, how much could you defy him?
His cock began to stir. His eyes laden with lust. You look up at him once more, brow furrowing at his darkened eyes.
"Is everything okay soldier?" you sweetly ask, actually concerned for his wellbeing.
"Let me give you the life you want, little heathen" he begs, pushing you down onto the soft grass below the tree.
"What? No! Get off!" you plead, pushing against him. He tightens his grip on your wrists.
"Give me the honour of cleansing you of your dark powers, instead allow me to gift you the honour of carrying my seed." He growls, coming down to give you a lust filled kiss.
You bite his tongue with a vengeance, the taste of blood trickles onto your tongue.
"Mother!" you scream, turning onto your belly. Reaching for the silent statue of Mother Wild. She sat impartial, watching silent and cold. You begin to sob, as the warrior pulls your hips and ass into his crotch.
"Shh, shh little goddess, it will all be over soon. You shall be my sweet wife and you shall grow fat with my child." he comforts, his words tasting like iron on your lips.
"No!" you cry, elbowing him in the nose. You get up to run, straight towards Mother Wild, you drop in front of her and beg for her help.
"Help me Mother Wild. Please!"
You were only gifted the power of healing and other small gifts that now seem useless. What could were they against a man like this? The warrior gets up with blood streaming down his chin.
"My! The little heathen has some bite, huh" he sneers, pulling his sword from its sheath. You turn to look at him in fear, surely that was not what you think it is.
"Recognise this? I drove it through your first wild gods heart, and many more of your brother and sisters since then. I wish not to harm you little goddess, but if you do not renounce your claim to your wicked birth right, then I will be forced to kill you." He almost grins at the sight of you kneeling and afraid.
'That's it heathen, fear me, fear the holy Eye.'
You turn to Mother Wild once more, pleading and begging for protection.
Nothing happens.
You sob as you are ripped from your place by the statue and dragged back to the ground under your tree. You are pushed onto the soft grass, for a moment you forget what is happening, and you are young again, watching the sky through the leaves of your tree. Your parents are still alive, you had yet to be given your gifts, and you can kid yourself into thinking life will be like this forever. You are broken from your daze as Caleen's sword is plunged into the soft dirt by your head, and you are quickly reminded what madness you found yourself in. You stare up at the warrior in front of you, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. He kneels down onto you. His blood drools out of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His eyes are filled with lust and pride.
What an evil, wicked man.
You choke back a sob in fear of what is to happen next.
"My dear one, do not cry for the life you are renouncing, cry with joy for the life we are to create." He shushes you gently, a rough hand caressing your tear stained cheeks.
"What poetry is this, that you should lose your gift of innocence the very place it was given"
#yandere#yandere x reader#yandere imagines#yandere drabble#yandere prompts#yandere x female reader#yandere male x reader#oc yandere#warrior yandere#breeding tw#tw sa#fem!reader#soldier yandere
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