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-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-
ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯
ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : ʜᴇʟʟɢɪʀʟ - ᴀʀɪ ᴀʙᴅᴜʟ
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↠ⁿᵉˣᵗ ˢᵒⁿᵍ ↺ ʳᵉᵖᵉᵃᵗ ⊜ ᵖᵃᵘˢᵉ
-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-
Trigger Warnings: Implied Sex, Degrading, Mentions of Death, Religion Talk, Reference to God
Reader: Gender Neutral
DO NOT REPOST
-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-
{ Prompt: Yandere Simeon x Reader │Stolkhome Syndrome }
-ˏˋ♥̩͙♥̩̩̥͙♥̩̥̩ ⑅⑅ ♥̩̥̩♥̩̩̥͙♥̩͙ˊˎ-
"What a useless child, father isn't proud"
A cold voice speaks, in minor, cool coldness, yet still a graceful hand of warmth, to your burning skin, and cruel beatings, injuries, littered on your skin, like a mask of flesh, that you were undeserving in his touch, but never his lash of himself. There the tan male stands over you, the light behind him, glowing through, then into his silhouette, in the most heavenly of manners, you stay grounded, hands, and knees, as you deserve, like worthless scum of the world, nothing to him, yet everything all the same, what a blessing you've been given. Gazing up at him, with nothing short of respect, adoration, and complete an utter enamorment, feeling small in comparison, there's nothing to be said on his part, but an apology waits idly, with each second, father grows all the more livid, at your horrendous misdemeanor.
"I'm sorry, forgive me father!"
You plead in shouts, eyes pricked with tears of humiliation, you debated gutting yourself, to show your humility, your sorrow, and that you indeed were of greater scum now than ever. You grip your thighs, digging into your skin, long drags, leaving the skin marked by you, only now was it grotesque to your injury. You sob quietly guilt ridden for even speaking out of turn, how unmannered you were indeed, unable to even know when to not utter a whisper, nor a breathe, you talk to yourself, in form of insult. Your God gazing, in amusement, and a mirror of disgust in you, all for the show, of greater ache to you. The way your breathe trembled, at the sheer thought of his way to you, by God, you really were at his mercy, if he moved his finger to his neck. Simeon knew you'd slit your throat for forgiveness, and that simply was a delightful sight to feel. Times he thought it a test, however you simply were far too a sight in it self to let go, you were easy.
A coo lets out his lips, you didn't dare match your Gods eyes, yet you knew the hue in his eyes never falters for air, when its derived in murk. The angel stands to his befitting level of his name, then steeps himself to you, directing your hair to his wanted state, his gloved hands, making way to your teary eyes, the injury left by you atop the bare skin of your thighs in your nudity. Your god is pitying you, in such care, the glee sent to you, in a hope of a falter of his rage, you desperately never wanted to make your father any but his light, in a spew of any but else motion. One quick pat to your cheek, he stands, and you grovel at his feet, like a dog. One quick caress, and he slips his gloved hands to the roots of your hair, gripping slightly, one push, one gleam in his eyes, and you understood his wants. To satisfy a God, was maggot work, perfect, befitting for you, and your name, your kind even, humans grovel at Gods, Kings, Queens, any power than you, you must bow in their prowess.
Simeon allows your touches, allows you to serve him, with your unworthy lips, sullied tongue, bloody hands and all. What a benevolent God you had indeed.
