LUKAS IS YOUR FAV? LUKAS IS MT FAV TOO!

Vei, I just read your post about yandere naga and male reader, it was magnificent! Can I ask you, if you're up for it, to write a nsfw part 2?

omg that post is so old 😂😂😂 but yes sure i can definitely write some freaky with the yandere naga anonnie!! though it'll probably take a while cause im still in thesis hell 😔

I need that part two for the fiancee fic pookie😭🫶🏻

UR WRITING IS AWESOME

oh that part two is definitely going to get written down for sure after i finish up some other requests 😏😏😏 and thank u pookie ur writing is very awesome too!!! ❤️❤️

Saw your like post thing about how you forgot to turn anon on and I legit thought you just wanted to know who we were and when I sent my ask in I felt naked lol

noooo it's like an honest accident that i just never realized 😭😭😭 i saw ur ask and went wow!! this person's really brave i could never type this with someone knowing it was me i would perish aaaaaaa agaksgsjshdjsh 🙏🙏🙏

speaking of ur ask it's currently like the third thing to do on my list here so hehe ✌️✌️ hope you'll enjoy it later <3

@𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐈. welcome to my silent sanctuary, where we weave words to life — quotev | wattpad | masterlist | inbox | requests (currently closed)

this blog is just a cozy corner of mine where i write depending on the whims of my heart. you’ll likely find a mix of yandere stories and a few fandom works featuring characters i adore

★ ″ my works vary between nsfw and sfw, so tread carefully! you're welcome to interact and follow, but how you engage with the content is up to you, and any consequences fall on your own shoulders

★ ″ i mostly lean towards writing for male + gender-neutral readers, but you might stumble upon an occasional fem reader piece, like very rarely

★ ″ hate messages? they’ll be ignored. this blog is just my little corner, so if you're not into what i write, feel free to move along. respect is a must here!

★ ″ if you enjoy my content, give it a heart or maybe even a little reblog. it helps my posts reach more people, and i really appreciate every bit of love

all works shared here are original and posted under this name. please do not plagiarize or feed it to ai !!!

mahe u piece of onion just come out and say it: you love the silly blonde haired man 🤥🤥🤥🤥

FIRST OF ALL. he's bl*nde, second, he STANK. I can smell how stinky he is whenever he appeared on my screen, and whenever that happen i spray kisspray all over the screen and he would still be a stinky fucker

ok mahe whatever you say 🤯🤯🤯🤯

I would like idris to bottom out in me

i'm sure he'd gladly do that anytime you ask

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 ( y! dragon x m! human reader )

yandere! dragon x male! human reader

warnings:

nsfw

throne sex

overstimulation

the dragon has two pp's and a long tongue

i think my tumblr looks a little like a desert rn since I haven't posted anything in a while, so take this old smut oneshot of mine that I posted months ago in watt and q. for like context: it's from a fic of mine called mythical devotion, but the really important fact is that the dragon's name is Idris and the mc, you, are the current ruler/king hehe.

Frankly, you still find yourself questioning how it is that you've led yourself into this situation.

The empty throne room is filled only by the audible sound of your breath. Idris towers over you as you remain seated on the throne, his claws tight around your skin, digging securely into your arms like a vice.

Suppressing a grimace, you lift your chin, meeting the dragon's gaze. "What is the meaning of this, Idris?"

There is an almost single-minded intensity from how Idris is watching you, and you gulp as you receive no answer from the other, unsettled by the rare silence.

"Idris…?" you murmur his name, a furrow of concern creasing your brow before it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

A startled gasp escapes your lips as Idris suddenly makes himself at home, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he whispers,

"[Name]."

Idris’s voice is pitched lower than usual, like fire trailing down your skin. You can’t stop the instinctive shiver that runs through your body at the sound of it. You attempt to move, but Idris’s grasp on you remains unyielding.

A deep inhale reaches your ears, and you frown, holding your breath. Is Idris... inhaling your scent? You can't even begin to understand why.

You've been sitting all day on the throne, addressing endless requests and grappling with the council's demands. There is nothing there for the dragon to smell except for your sweat.

You shift again, but you are caught off guard by what happens next. Idris emits a low groan into your ear before the sharp sting of fangs sinks into your neck. "Ah—!"

Blood trickles down.

A searing tongue laps up each bead of blood, sending a fiery tremor down your spine with each wet lick of his tongue. A fleeting smile brushes against the juncture of your shoulder and neck.

"You've been so consumed in your duties, Your Majesty. Not even a moment spared for your adoring beloved. How very, very rude, my sweet little darling. Discourteous, even."

Heat brushes against your cheek as you become aware of the rigid, hard presence pressing against your thigh. Oh, this is...

Your mind scrambles for purchase, desperately seeking an escape from Idris’s unexpected fervor. You have to find a way out of here.

Certainly, you had brushed aside Idris's presence most of the time he visited you in the throne room, but still. "I was— Of course I was busy. I have a kingdom to manage and rule over, I can't just—"

Idris tuts you to silence, his lips gently nibbling at your ear. "Wrong answer."

Idris climbs onto the throne, wedging a leg between yours and pushing you further back into the velvet seat.

There is the promise of being devoured whole in those dilated golden eyes. As you bare your throat to Idris, you can't ignore the unmistakable pool of desire reflected in the dragon’s gaze, crowding you entirely, palpable and consuming.

"You have the freedom to walk away at any moment, [Name]. But I doubt you would, prideful thing you are," Idris remarks, his finger trailing down your cheek before tilting your chin upward, bringing your face closer to his.

It's dizzying, disorienting, and when it all subsides, you see it.

Despite Idris looming over you, it feels as though the dragon himself is the one on his knees, pure awe etched on his features, a reverent finger caressing the contours of your cheek. What does Idris see in you, you wonder.

Sometimes, you still cannot comprehend Idris’s mind. How is it that the dragon holds such devotion for your entire being? There is always love—an overwhelming love—that threatens to engulf you whole.

Idris has yet to resume any of his firm touches, but at the same time, he does not move away, a maddening smirk playing upon his lips.

A surge of annoyance courses through you at the sight. Without hesitation, you shake off Idris's grasp—something akin to triumph crosses Idris's face—and pull the annoying dragon down by the neck, crashing your lips together.

You are the one who started the kiss, but Idris is the one who controls it.

The pace is slow at first, your head tilted up to accommodate the embrace, but soon Idris’s long tongue delves deeper, coaxing your head to the side as if to consume you. Your muffled whimpers are drowned out by Idris’s groans, and your shaky hands desperately clutch at his frame.

It isn’t until you are nearly out of breath that Idris allows your lips to part. Desire curls low in your stomach.

"Don't lose your breath so early now, [Name]," Idris tells you, a smile on his face. "We've barely just begun, hm?"

You glare in reply, gripping tightly onto his shoulder. "And whose fault is that, dragon?" you question back, words barely audible from how out of breath you are.

Idris chuckles sharply in reply before, strangely enough, moving away from you.

"Idris, you— What exactly are you—" Your words falter easily as Idris kneels and tugs both your pants and underwear down before casting them aside. A sharp pang of shame ignites as your arousal springs forth, hard and slick already.

"Oh, [Name]," Idris begins, voice laden with want, "you're always so eager for me, aren't you?"

"Move," you stammer, eyes roaming across the room, "Not here, Idris. This place is—"

Idris’s body abruptly shoots up, his fingers gripping your chin and forcing you to meet the gaze of his golden eyes and nothing else. "There's no one here, Your Majesty. Just you and me."

Those golden eyes remain fixed on you, capturing every nuance of your expression. You shut your eyes in shame, trying to evade the piercing scrutiny as best you can.

"That won't do," Idris chides gently, "I need you to look at me, [Name]."

You stubbornly keep your eyes closed, denying the request, and Idris hums, releasing his hold to go back down and—

"Ah—!"

A firm hand closes around your erection, and your hips instinctively buck. However, Idris’s unoccupied hand swiftly pins you down, and you moan, loudly, your body twitching at the dragon's casual display of strength.

"Still refusing to look, even now?" Idris whispers, his breath teasing your arousal, and you bite down on your lips, stifling another moan. "This is unfair, you know? I've been patiently waiting for you all day." The hand on your cock twists and tightens, and you use all your strength to swallow down the scream of a whimper that threatens to escape.

"Open your eyes for me, [Name]. Please." Idris's plea is soft, a stark contrast to the dragon's unrelentingly pressing body, his every touch branding you as his.

Swallowing a hiss, you try to sort out your words and force your mouth open in an attempt at protest, but your words die in your throat as Idris adjusts his grip. He places a hand on your shaking thigh, pulls, and hoists your leg over his shoulder, baring everything.

You finally open your eyes, see the cruel smirk on the dragon's lips. "N-no. This position—"

"Look at you. Still so pretty, even here," Idris murmurs softly, golden eyes trailing between your legs, almost spellbound. "I've always wanted to taste more than your lips."

Humiliation courses through you as you try to shield your twitching hole with your other leg, preserving whatever modesty it is you have left, but with a speed that you've rarely seen in the dragon, Idris's other hand swiftly seizes your leg and pins it down firmly.

"Don't hide away," Idris whispers, his tone sweet like saccharine, a wicked smile on his lips before the dragon maneuvers your leg even higher, eliciting a whimper from your throat. "You'll enjoy this, dear. Trust me," Idris says sweetly as he moves and licks his tongue into your hole.

Your entire body spasms, your leg instinctively clamping down on Idris’s shoulder as the persistent probing of his long tongue inside you sends waves and waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, a never-ending sensation shooting up your spine.

"Ah, ah, Idris—!"

Idris hums inside you, and tremors rack your frame, the vibrations shaking you to the core. Your hands scramble helplessly on the armrests of your throne.

"Idris— Idris, please—"

You whine, tears welling in your eyes as sobs escape your bitten lips.

You try to stifle the moans rising, crawling, from your throat but you can't. Idris denies you of it, immobilizing both your hands with his tail as the dragon's tongue slithers impossibly deep. "Stop, I can't— Idris, Idris, no—"

In response, his tongue curls inside of you, deftly spreading your walls, searching for that bundle of sensitive nerves that'll send you spasming and spiraling into ecstasy.

Idris finds it, easily, and with dark lustful eyes staring right at you, the cruel dragon presses his tongue unrelentingly against your prostate.

You tense, your body arching, jaw slack as your eyes roll back into your head. With a loud sob, you shatter, cum splattering on your royal attire, your body going limp as you gulp for air like a drowning man, eyes struggling to focus under the haze of pleasure, senses reeling in the aftermath of it all.

"Who am I to ever deny you, my dearest love," Idris breathes out, withdrawing his tongue and replacing it with two slender figures. Alarm bells flicker within you.

You suck in a sharp breath.

"Haven't you— had enough yet...?" you ask, voice barely audible. Idris gives you an amused huff, taking out his fingers as the dragon removes his pants, revealing his hard, leaking erections.

"There's still a long night ahead, hm?" is the answer you receive before he manhandles you to a different position. Your back is pressed firmly against the throne, your hands still bound by the dragon's tail as Idris's hands grip open your thighs.

A lovely blush sits high on your face as Idris leans toward you, his lips brushing against yours. "Don't scream too loudly, [Name]." Idris draws his cocks to slide between your ass, teasing gently against your perineum. "All right?"

"Ngh—"

Idris smiles, radiant eyes crinkling at the corners as he guides his cocks to where you are waiting, open and eager.

Your mouth falls agape as Idris enters you, a rush of delirium washing over you as you watch the dragon's cocks disappearing into you, inch by inch, until Idris reaches the deepest part of you, bottoming out with a groan.

It helps that this isn't your first time together with the dragon, but the sensation of fullness still overwhelms you. Coupled with the searing stretch, you can't suppress the loud, keening, almost broken moan that rips itself from your throat.

"You're so big," you mumble, filter completely abandoned in the throes of ecstasy. Clenching around Idris's cocks, you savor the heady feeling of being filled to the brim. When you look down, the sight of your stomach swelling from being filled to the brim doesn’t surprise you one bit. But what Idris does next does.

The dragon presses a hand down on your stomach, and your eyes cross from the pure pleasure you feel. "So so full—oh!—of you. Ah! ah—"

"That filthy little mouth of yours," Idris growls, voice husky with desire, and you choke out on a wail as Idris withdraws completely before plunging back into you with a single, powerful thrust.

"Idris, Idris. Hhh— Ah, Idris—!"

"Ah, I do adore it when my name is the only thing on your lips," Idris exhales sharply, each word punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his hips.

Tears well at the corners of your eyes, your mouth forming a silent plea with each exhale. You feel more exposed and vulnerable than ever before, reduced to a broken, shattered, needy mess of a man. The image of yourself in his mind—panting and debauched—sends a surge of arousal straight to your cock.

"You are so utterly exquisite," Idris murmurs, moving to sharply bite down on your neck once again.

"Idris," you moan in warning, the need to cum again is unbearable, and you shudder in your need, a whine trapped in your chest.

"What is it, my love?" Idris groans mid-sentence, and glances at you through the strands of white hair falling over his forehead. There's hunger burning inside the dragon's eyes, an adrenaline-fueled smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm going to— Again. I—"

But before you can finish, Idris spreads your legs wider, teasingly denying your release. "Not yet," Idris answers before slamming back inside, hitting an angle that sends you reeling, legs trembling all over.

A hoarse gasp escapes your throat as you writhe beneath Idris's every touch, your breath shallow, your mouth dry. You can't hold on much longer, not when Idris is pushing you relentlessly toward the edge just to wring you dry in the end. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably with each thrust, and you're sure you can hear yourself sobbing, voice raw and fractured. Tears blur your vision, and you struggle to even draw oxygen into your lungs.

"Don't pass out on me, [Name]," Idris's voice cuts through the haze.

"I.. I..." Your voice is punched out by another particular sharp thrust, and then you're gone, lost in a whirlwind of sensation. "Idris. I have to— Please, please–ah!—please I can't—" you sob to him, pleading, frantic.

Idris's smile widens as he shifts forward and slowly captures your lips in a soft kiss. "Good boy. Do as you please." Then plunges himself back in, muffling your scream with his mouth as he sets back to a punishing, relentless rhythm.

You mewl as you come undone once again to another climax, body wracked with oversensitivity as Idris continues, showing no mercy. Drool pools in your mouth, dripping from your open lips down to your chin. With a gasping breath, you realize your hands are no longer bound, and you wrap them around Idris's neck like it was always meant to be there.

Idris nails your prostate with a final, forceful thrust, eliciting a spurt of warmth that floods inside you completely, causing you to shake apart once more, toes curling as you keen loudly into his ear.

You've become a disheveled mess of gasping breaths and fractured moans, unable to do anything but whine as Idris shifts you into a new position. Now seated on Idris's lap, your body still impaled on Idris's cocks, you feel the dragon gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"I should inform your dear council you'll be terribly indisposed tomorrow. I highly doubt you'd be able to walk after all this."

Tomorrow...? Right, there's more work to be done tomorrow, you can't do that, you can't neglect your duties as ruler. With your mind still reeling, albeit a bit blank, you shake your head in response.

"No?" Idris slams up inside you and you hiccup through the mind-shattering thrusts, barely able to focus and listen as Idris continues, "Well then, I suppose I'll have to exert myself a little more to make that a reality."

In response, you clench around him with a soft moan, blissful through your misty, tear-filled eyes.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ masterlist...

˚➶ ｡˚ — YANDERE TUMBLR OC'S

the emperor x m! assassin reader

✦ the perfect kind of murder ( part one )

the naga x m! hunter reader

✦ a serpent's embrace

the dark prince x m! fiancée reader

✦ woes of marriage

the bodyguard x m! sniper reader

✦ missed your shot ( nsfw ) — coming soon

˚➶ ｡˚ — MYTHICAL DEVOTION

idris x m! human reader

✦ misty eyes

*insert barking dog meme*

SACRED | YANDERE IMAGINES

prompt: yandere!priest x transmigrated!male!reader

character(s): priest (anton), you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Extreme? Why, no, not at all.”

“You burn people alive.”

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

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

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

But one thing is clear. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anton is no priest. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to kiss you.”

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

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

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

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

It was shameful. So utterly shameful that the kiss…

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

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

You are shaking like a newborn lamb.

He presses another kiss on your forehead.

[ before, Anton’s pov ]

The world was dirty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father Anton!”

“Father Anton, would you please help me?”

“Bring me to the path of salvation!

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

Yes, that was his purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The oracle.

The oracle.

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

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

A savior.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You seemed to look at him with flickering recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

“I…”

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

An adorable fool.

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

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

“I cannot even recall it.” You admitted.

You cannot recall it because it is not true.

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

Many things.

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

Oh. Sacrifices. Anton did not even—

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

“You tell me, Y/n.”

“Murder…?”

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

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

“But that’s…that’s killing isn’t it?”

So pure. So untainted, so innocent. 

The oracle. The person from the oracle. 

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

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

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Voila it's me again, and I will hold you to your promise until the end of time so I will come for you if you drop out the last second👺

so i see (is that a threat HMM?!)👺👺👺 but don't worry, i'll write it cause i need to see it happen ... and to see if it fits too 👉👈