“Take me to church.”
God! Zayne! X FTM! Reader!
Synopsis- Reader was born into a cult with the mark of the god— Zayne— they worship, the reader doesn’t believe in said god, but is forced to learn how to be the best wife for him. The thing is, he isn’t the only one marked.
W.c 7.k
Tags- Divine Zayne! Mean dom Zayne! Breeding kink! Alter sex! Sacrificial offering! Exhibitionism! Afab Reader! M!reader! Virgin Reader! MDNI! NSFW! NONCON!!
A/n: reader’s sex gets called a cunt btw… also wrote this was supposed to be my last kinktober post.. didn’t actually start writing it until the 3rd, wrote this in 2 days so.. don’t shit on my writing. This is so vanilla. (^з^)-☆
A/n pt2: don’t forget to read the Rafayel and Sylus part of this series!
You can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t dedicated to him, when you weren’t told you had to be the perfect bride for him. The god of annihilation: Zayne.
There’s no deep meaning as to why you can’t remember a time when your life wasn’t forced to evolve around him; it simply always has. Since the day of your birth, since the day the elders saw his cursed mark across your womb.
That day.
Will forever be.
The worst day of your life.
You weren’t the only one cursed with this mark; however, the others see it as more of a blessing. To be chosen by your god, no matter what it’s for, is the greatest honor of all, after all.
You were practically raised together, taught to give your god anything he could possibly want if you were to be chosen.
The day of judgement is fast approaching, a mere three days away.
By the time the clock chimes at midnight on the third day, one of you will be chosen, and the rest of you will be servants to the god and his new bride.
The others are too naive to see how fucked up that deal is, to overcome with the joy of being able to be close to their god until they die of old age.
They would be happy to eat their own hearts if it satisfied that god of theirs.
As long as he watches them do it.
That’s all any one of these god worshippers wants, to be noticed by the deity they dedicate their entire way of living to.
You never understand why exactly they’d rather let a being they’ve never even seen control their way of life, why won’t they just live the way they truly want?
Why won’t they practice the freedom that’s just a breath away from them?
That’s what you would do if you had the choice.
Be free.
Free of this bride to a god nonsense.
Free of people watching your every move.
Free to do whatever it is you want.
You dream about it sometimes— freedom— a strange concept that you haven’t been privy to since leaving your mother’s womb.
It’s a refreshing thought to have, then you awake to the rude reminder that you’re nothing but a potential bride, and that is all any of these people will see you as.
Not a being worthy of recognition unless chosen by their beloved god; only then will they bother to remember your name.
Only then will they bother remembering you.
—
It’s only when the day of judgment is near does the people here grow restless, excited to finally be able to welcome their god after waiting all their pathetic lives to do so.
They throw a three-day-long banquet leading up to the day of judgment; each day, you and your fellow potential brides are put on pedestals and watch as the people below you gawk at you.
Secretly wishing that they were in your place.
They would never say such wishes out loud, fearful of losing their heads.
The elders do not like it when such things are spoken.
Scared that their god will overhear and punish all of them, for if one of them is so cocky enough to think they are worthy of being at the side of a god, they all are.
And so they watch what they say, what they think, even.
Scared in some way.
Somehow
It’ll get back to the elders.
“Did you hear what I said?” A familiar voice chimes in, interrupting your thoughts. “What?” You ask, confused.
How long has he been talking to you?
“I asked if you were excited, you know. For the day of judgement?” He giggles, clutching at your forearm. “The others and I were talking about it, and I thought I would ask you.” He tells you, looking back at the others who are watching your interaction.
They’re always doing that, watching you. For some reason, it’s more strange than when everyone else does it; maybe it’s because of all the people here that they should be the ones who understand you the most.
“Uh, yeah… I guess I am pretty excited,” you smile, giving a fake nervous chuckle. Digging your nails into the cloth of your pants, “God, he can’t even fake it,” one of them snipes, sneering at you as the rest nod their heads in agreement.
The hand on your forearm tightens as the only person who seems to like you here glares at the other brides in your stead, sneering at them in turn. “You can all go fuck yourselves.” He barks, opening his mouth to say more, before you place your hand on top of his, stopping him.
“It’s okay,” you assured him, patting the top of his hands. “Whatever they say is entirely irrelevant now; the day of judgement is upon us.” You mock, watching as the male next to you— Elias— softened his glare as his gaze shifted towards you.
“I don’t understand how you can stomach being near him, Elias. He’s not worthy of being chosen by the God of Annihilation. I don’t understand how he was born with a mark; his parents must’ve carved it into him or something.” The same potential bride from before sneers, huffing and crossing her arms across her chest.
“Don’t worry, Yasmin, we all know our god will choose you. We have long accepted it.” One of her faithful followers pipes, smiling at her before turning their hateful gaze to you.
“When I am chosen, I will have your head, you cursed unbeliever.” Yasmin snarled, leaning back into her chair and returning to watching the banquet goers.
“God, I hate that spoiled twat.” Elias whispers to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as he turns his attention back to the banquet as well.
“Lucky for me, her bark is much worse than her bite.” You quip, knowing that people have said far worse things to you.
Since the knowledge of your non-belief was made public, multiple crowds of people have gone to the elders with complaints. Telling them you are unworthy of being anyone’s bride, let alone a god’s.
They commanded the elders to prove your mark true.
You were forced to strip in front of all of them.
Forced to stand, humiliated. As an elder poked and prodded at your mark until you bled, scraped off your skin, and watched as it healed almost instantly. The mark an everlasting proud blemish on your flesh.
Only then did the people believe that you were chosen, that you were destined for a god that you didn’t believe in.
Some pitied you, forced to be raised as an offering to a being you don’t even acknowledge the existence of.
But most deemed you ungrateful, a disgrace to the entire clan.
Someone who doesn’t believe in the god of annihilation doesn’t belong here, and they most certainly do not deserve to be offered up as a bride to him.
‘HE’LL KILL US ALL’ they’d yell, scared that the god will do exactly as his name foretells if he were to find out there is a nonbeliever amongst his choices.
They’re all fucking idiots, honestly.
—
The day of judgement is here.
The day you’ve long loathed has finally arrived.
The sky seemed to glow gold, even as night fell, and clouds covered it; the gold still shone through.
The air felt heavier, as if the earth itself knew what was upon us, what being would be gracing its soils in just a few hours.
People moved around you in excitement, trembling in their eyes, practically glowing with childlike joy.
A joy you couldn’t bring yourself to feel.
The only feeling you felt was an unending sense of doom.
—
When night fell, you were forced into a bath, one filled with goat's milk and petals of flowers you couldn’t hope to name.
Hands rubbed at your skin with soap blessed by one of the many priests here, they’re grip on your limbs unforgiving as they washed your body and hair before rinsing you down with flower-scented water, and yanking you out of the bath.
“This would be much easier if you worked with us, you know.” One of the helper say, their face is covered with a cloth. On the day of judgement, the only face the brides are allowed to see is the gods; everyone works together to make sure that rule is followed.
The brides are prepared in separate quarters and directed to separate routes to get to the temple. To make sure the brides arrive at the same time, the ones with longer routes are prepared first.
You’re forced to sit on a stool, still as bare as the day you were born, dried off by the same hands who washed you.
“You honestly don’t know how lucky you are.” The same helper tones, rubbing your back with vanilla-scented oil.
They’re not even supposed to be talking to you, and yet this one won’t shut up.
“How can someone as ungrateful as you be one of the chosen? is unbeknownst to me, nor anyone for that matter.” They sigh, moving on to drying your hair, before pausing, their hands sliding down to your shoulders.
“I mean, if I had been blessed with a mark…” they trail off, laughing to themselves before focusing back on their task of doing your hair.
You stare straight ahead, watching them play in the hair of someone you no longer recognize. Not with the smooth, perfumed skin and glossy lips. This person, looking back at you, almost looks like a doll.
A doll…
That’s exactly what you are.
Something meant to sit still and look pretty.
And by the gods, as much as you hate to admit it, you are pretty like this.
The other attendants move quickly, wrapping your body in the softest of silks and warmest of furs. Clasping jewels around your neck and wrist— each piece heavier than the last.
The talkative one hums from behind you, finishing your hair at last. “Smile more, no one wants an unhappy bride. Certainly not a god.”
You look at them in the mirror, smiling at them, “Are you speaking from experience, or..?”
They fall still, their hands clutching at their skirt.
Silence fills the room as one of the other attendants slips your feet into flats.
You rise from your seat, smiling at them once more before addressing one of the attendants, “Do we head to the temple now?” You ask, flipping your veil and following them when they nod at you, leading you to the route you’re supposed to take.
Passing you off to a guard of sorts, they consider you a flight risk, so you’re to be escorted there instead of finding your own way like everyone else.
Their head is covered too; they look at you once before grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you towards the temple.
Your route is rather short; it’s a mere ten minutes away from the place where you were readied. And as planned, all of the other brides arrive at the same time as you.
You don’t look at each other, you don’t even acknowledge each other.
Just keep walking forward, into the place where your fates will forever be sealed.
——
The temple's doors groaned as they opened, and the sound of them closing behind you echoes like you’ve just been found guilty of whatever crime you’ve committed. The brides are lined up into two rows, veils blowing in the draft that spills from the altar ahead of you.
At the center stands one of the elders, his robes as white as bone, his face covered by a hood like everyone else you’ve encountered thus far. Though it had golden sigils stitched onto it, the same ones that cover the walls of the temple.
His hand raises, as if to silence the already quiet room.
“Children of the mark,” the elder beings, his voice cutting through the stiffening silence in the room. “From the moment you were all born, you have been waiting for this day. The day our god would return to us, and find a vessel worthy of his power— of his grace among us. You have been chosen! Not for your beauty, nor your virtue— but for the divine mark engraved into your very flesh. It is not pain, nor betrayal you should feel tonight. The only emotion you should feel is gratitude.”
His gaze sweeps across the room, pausing on each and every one of you. But for some reason, it seems to linger longer on you.
“One among you will rise. The rest will serve. All will be blessed by his light.”
The once suffocating silence returns. You can hear one of the other brides, sniffing behind you. Her joy overwhelming as she realizes how close she is to meeting her god.
The elder lowers his hands, stepping away from the altar.
“ Bow your heads,” they commanded, “and open your hearts to the God of Annihilation. Let him see what we have made. What we have created in his honor!”
As soon as the elder’s final words faded, the torches along the temple walls flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then, steady once more — their flames burning a shade too bright. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of incense and metal.
No one dared move.
Some brides trembled and whispered prayers beneath their breath. Others stared straight ahead, their eyes teary as their heartbeats quickened, excitement pulsing through their bodies.
You could feel the weight of the elder’s words pressing down on you in judgment.
A warning, perhaps.
From somewhere beyond the altar, a low hum began to rise, vibrating through the bones of the temple. The marble under your feet felt alive, pulsing faintly with it.
The elders bowed their heads.
“He comes,” they said in unison.
The hum deepened, rolling through the marble floor like thunder through the skies. Your gaze drifted upward — you didn’t exactly know why. It was as if something was forcing you to. And so you did: you gazed past the altar, past the elders, to the statue towering behind them.
It was carved from the purest white marble, shining even in the dark. It stood twice the height of any man, depicting the very god who got you into this mess — the God of Annihilation himself: Zayne. His features were serene, beautiful even — befitting that of a god — but there was something cruel about the way his sculpted eyes glared at you.
Then, suddenly, a sound.
A single, sharp crack.
As if something broke.
At first, you thought you imagined it — until another followed, echoing through the temple like a whip. Thin fractures raced across the sculpture, glowing faintly, gold seeping from the cracks like molten light.
Someone gasped.
The elders fell to their knees, the shock too much for them. “He awakens,” one of them whispered, voice trembling in reverence and fear. Prayers began falling from the rest of their lips.
The cracks worsened as the marble began to fall to the ground, gold bleeding from every opening like blood leaving a fresh wound, until the statue was no longer white but blazing, radiant — unbearable to look at. Heat poured into the air, radiating from the statue. The scent of smoke and molten metal filled your nostrils.
Then the statue shattered.
Golden shards flew in all directions, causing everyone to cry out and run for cover — everyone but you. As badly as you wanted to run, you couldn’t move.
The shards froze in place moments before hitting anyone, dissolving into motes that faded into nothingness.
And there, where the statue once stood, he now stood — in all his glory.
The God of Annihilation.
Zayne.
The light died down, leaving him bathed in faint embers that clung to his skin like fallen stars. His eyes opened slowly, gleaming with the same molten gold that had poured from the statue.
He looked around the room, slowly, watching as the others cowered away from him.
Then his eyes landed on you, and the molten gold was replaced by a vibrant hazel green, then covered by a black transparent blindfold.
He walked toward you — slow, methodical. Everyone in the temple was watching, their eyes tracking his every step.
You. The nonbeliever.
They whispered among themselves, shock evident on their faces.
“There’s no way he’s going to choose the nonbeliever, right?”
I fucking hope not.
“Of course he’s not.”
“Why is he walking toward him?”
“To smite him, of course. Why else?”
“That doesn’t sound too bad, honestly,” you whispered under your breath, finally tearing your gaze away from the being heading toward you.
“Is that what you want?” a monotone voice asked, right next to your ear.
You gasped, slapping your hand over your ear as you turned toward where the sound came from. He was right there, his gaze boring into you like a drill.
“I’m sorry?” you squeaked, stepping away from him.
“Do you want me to smite you?” The voice came again, from the same distance — it was almost as if, no matter how far you moved away, he’d always be there. In your head. Perks of being a god, huh.
“Yes!” a voice yelled from the other side of the room, and finally — finally — his gaze left you. It cut across the room to none other than Yasmin.
“Why are you even asking him? He didn’t acknowledge your existence until he was forced to by seeing you in the flesh tonight!” someone else chimed in — Amber, you thought her name was.
The god glanced at her, too before turning his attention right back to you. “They think I should smite you. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked. You were getting really tired of his questions.
“Stop asking him for his input! Kill him already!” Yasmin yelled, stepping toward the two of you — only to be stopped by Elias.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Yasmin,” he said, grabbing her forearm and pulling her aside.
The god tsked, turning toward the two of them, his gaze on Yasmin. “Do you think you command me?” he asked her, stepping closer to you.
Why was he stepping closer to you and not Yasmin?
“What? No, of course not. I am to be your wife — we are equals!” she cried, her delusions spilling forth as she tried to run to him.
“You’re not my wife,” he said, though it sounded more like a question, as if he couldn’t believe she was saying it.
“What are you saying? You’re going to choose that nonbeliever over me?” she barked, disbelief flashing across her face before she yanked her arm away from Elias and ran toward the god.
Dropping to her knees, she clutched at the god’s robes. “Please! You must be mistaken! There’s no way that thing is your chosen bride. YOU CANNOT CHOOSE HIM!” She was hysterical now, crying into his robes as she unraveled at the seams.
“He is bold for his disbelief — and yet you are bolder for daring to tell a god what he can and cannot do, just so it will appease you.” He leaned down, glaring at her.
“You’re not worthy of being my wife, let alone my bride’s servant.” He sneered, harshly grabbing her chin, his nails digging into her otherwise unblemished flesh.
“Get out of my temple,” he barked, releasing her before standing to his full height. “Out!” he roared. The doors of the temple slammed open, and something from the shadows reached in and dragged her out.
The god took a deep breath, running his hands through his long locks of hair.
“Now,” he began, unbelievably calm after what had just happened, “does anyone else want to tell me what I can and cannot do?” he asked, looking around the temple, meeting the gaze of everyone there.
“If not, it will bring you all great joy to know that I have found my bride.” He smiled — then turned his sights on you.
For a flicker of a moment, you think that you misheard. His words hang heavy in the air, echoing throughout the temple, as you stare at the shocked faces around you.
You, the nonbeliever. Is to be his bride?
Someone laughs— sharp and disbelieving— almost mocking this situation. It takes you a moment to realize it was you.
“That’s a good one,” you say, nerves clawing up your throat as you stumble away from the man, “Really funny, truly. You should be a—“
“Quiet,”
That single word stops everything, the slight breeze in the air, the fire on the torches. Even managed to stop the gossip.
You try to breathe but no air fills your lungs no matter how hard you try, it’s almost like the temple itself is holding its breath, preventing anyone else from drawing any.
Zayne stares at you for a moment, his gaze somehow more intense than it was a moment ago. Then he walks towards you, one step forward for every step back you dare take, you watch as the temple floor glows beneath his feet with each and every step he takes.
“I do not jest,” he says, voice low, almost kind— reassuring. “You were marked before your birth,” he muttered his hand reaching out for your womb— your mark. “ You have always been destined for me, even if you refuse to believe it.” His hand is firmly planted over your mark now, his voice somehow deeper.
You can hear sobbing coming from somewhere, the crowd's whispers start up once again— but, like with the statue you can’t look away.
“I didn’t ask for this” you weep, your voice trembling from held back emotions, your hands coming up to lay over your heart.
“No one ever does.” He answers, tilting his head slightly, “But the stars do not ask permission to shine.”
You hated it when you pulse quickens at his words, something deep inside your chest being yanked on, pulled from the darkness and into the light, towards him.
Your body reacts before your mind can— you shove his hand away, hard. The force of it frightens you, you were never very strong, let alone strong enough to shove a god away from you.
The God’s hand falls back to his side, the tilt of his head deepening in surprise.
“Don’t touch me” you growl, voice surprisingly steady despite the storm brewing inside you.
His gaze somehow grows darker beneath the blindfold, and you could see the molten gold from before flickering underneath the hazel green, like sunlight threatening to break through.
“And yet,” he mutters, leaning down towards your ear, “you burn for it— you burn for me.”
Your pulse stutters, “you mistake fear for longing,” your lips tremble as you say it, hands clutching at the silk of your pants.
He laughs, low and soft, like thunder rumbling far off in the mountains.
“Fear is just the body’s way of remembering the divine,” he says, “you should be honored yours still remember me.”
The words are like poison wrapped in silk. The air between you vibrates, faint golden specks through it.
Then he moves, like that of a snake. Quick and swift it sticks its fangs into your flesh before anyone can react. He grabs your wrist, his grip is firm— unyielding.
You stumble as he pulls you forward—towards the altar— the world spinning into a blur of gold and shadow. The brides whisper in awe at their God's power, some still in disbelief at you being chosen. But they all watch as you are forced up to the altar.
“Zayne—“ you cry, low and meek, but his name is swallowed by the low hum vibrating through the temple.
“Shh,” he shushes, voice quiet, almost tender—loving— though his grip says otherwise. “No amount of struggle or rebellion will change your fate, it’s time for you to accept that.”
He forces you down onto the cold stone, his strength inhuman. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, he’s already binding your wrists to the carved edges of the altar with bands of shimmering gold. They move like liquid—alive—coiling around your skin until they harden.
You thrash, but it’s useless. The more you struggle, the tighter they cling.
Zayne’s face hovers just above yours now, his blindfold still in place, though you can see the faint glow pulsing beneath it.
“You were made for this,” he murmurs. “For me.”
The elder from before steps forward, facing the crowd of brides, his shadow falling across your body.
“At last,” he breathes, voice trembling with awe. “The vessel is bound. The star’s promise fulfilled. We have waited through famine, through fire, through the silence of forgotten gods— and now the cycle starts anew.”
He raises his arms, and the other elders answer in unison.
“For eons we have waited”
Their chant shakes the walls of the temple. Dust drifts from the ceiling, carried by the vibration of their faith.
“The first flame fell from his hand,” the elder continues, his voice swelling with happiness and pride. “And from it, he made the heavens and the void. From it, he made us. Yet only through him shall his divinity be reborn. He who bears the mark. He who cannot flee destiny, for destiny is carved into his soul.
You pull against the bindings, but they only tighten. You can feel the pulse beneath your skin matching Zayne’s—steady, relentless, like your heart beats in his chest instead of your own.
The elder lowers his arms. “Let the fire bear witness.”
A gust sweeps through the temple. Every torch extinguishes at once, plunging the room into velvet darkness. Then—one by one—the brides are handed candles, their wax shimmering with molten gold.
Zayne lifts his hand. Sparks dance along his fingers. With a single exhale, he breathes life into the flames. Each candle ignites, a circle of golden light surrounding the altar.
The elders step back. The chanting fades.
Zayne steps forward.
The glow of the candles catches his face—no longer hidden by the blindfold, the ashes of it still drifting from his hair like smoke. His eyes are molten gold.
When he speaks, his voice is meant for you alone.
“Before the stars bore names, I waited for you,” he says softly. “Through centuries of ash and silence, I dreamed of your heartbeat. I carved worlds from the dark to fill the ache of your absence.”
He stands beside you, his hand hovering just above your chest.
“They call this union sacrifice,” he murmurs, “but I call it return. Returning what is lost to time, to destiny.”
His fingers brush your mark, and it burns—like a branding. A forever reminder that no matter how hard you try to deny destiny, you’re his. And forever will be, for it is written in the stars.
“With this fire, I claim what was promised,” he says. “With your breath, I breathe again. With your heart, I rise. With this fire, our hearts shall forever be intertwined, our flesh made equal. With this fire, we will fulfill our destiny.”
The candles flicker violently, their flames
bending toward the altar as if they’re drawn to the divinity in the room.
The candles flare, their flames stretching tall—unnaturally tall—until the wax begins to melt in streams down trembling hands.
Then the earth groans.
The marble beneath the altar splits, thin golden fissures crawling across the floor like veins of light. They climb the walls, slither across the pillars, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling where the sigils begin to pulse with the same molten hue.
A low hum fills the air—deeper, louder—until it swells into a sound that isn’t just heard but felt. Like the heartbeat of the world.
The elders drop to their knees, foreheads pressed to the cracked stone. “The prophecy is fulfilled,” one whispers. “The god and his vessel are one.”
Outside, thunder rolls through the skies are clear. The stars blink—one by one—each dimming as if bowing to their returning god.
Zayne’s hand presses harder over your mark, you cry out as the heat begins to become unbearable, his voice is low enough that only you hear it.
“Do you feel it?” he asks. “Even the heavens remember you.”
You moan, kicking your bound feet as you try to overcome the pain radiating from your divine mark. “Hurts.” You grit out, crying when the only thing the god towering over you does is apply more pressure to the thing that’s hurting you.
“Don’t worry darling, it’ll be over soon,” the God says, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Just bear with me.”
This would be somewhat comforting if he weren’t the one causing you such pain, if the people who forced you to be here weren’t watching.
“Don’t focus on them,” he whispers into your ear, turning your face towards him. “Eyes on me, focus on me.”
Then, suddenly, without warning, he kisses you. His lips are impossible soft and his body radiates nothing but warmth, and despite yourself.
You don’t pull away.
Every fiber of your being screams in resistance, but your body betrays you.
The first brush of his lips against yours was electric, a current shooting through your veins and sparks igniting beneath your skin.
The world shatters around you.
The temple—the walls, the torches, the elders, everything but the brides—all vanish in an instant. You are no longer in the temple. You are somewhere else entirely.
The world around you stretches and bends, molten gold light and shadow dancing in impossible patterns. The ground beneath your feet is translucent, like glass infused with liquid fire. Above, the sky is alive—a swirling cosmos of deep indigo and violet, speckled with stars that pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat. The air hums with raw energy, carrying the scent of ozone and burning jasmine.
Zayne stands before you, taller, more imposing than ever, yet calm, radiating an authority that pulls the world into focus around him. Golden strands of energy coil around his form, connecting him to the shifting realm.
Around you, impossible structures rise—towers of black marble streaked with gold, spiraling endlessly into the sky. Bridges of shimmering crystal arc between them, reflecting the constellations above. Rivers of molten light flow like veins through the land, their glow illuminating the jagged, floating islands suspended in the air.
The edges of the realm bend and fold in impossible ways, creating a sense of vertigo that makes your stomach lurch. Yet, despite its alien beauty, there is an undeniable harmony—everything here exists because of him, because of his will.
Your bound legs tremble as you take in the sight. It is overwhelming. Majestic. Terrifying.
Zayne does not move closer, yet the space between you collapses, as if drawn by some invisible force. His eyes of molten gold, molten emerald, and black swirling together—a kaleidoscope of power and focus.
“You are here,” he murmurs, voice reverberating through the very fabric of this realm. “You are where you belong, with me.”
You want to speak, to argue, to insist that this is wrong—but the power of this place, the undeniable pull of Zayne, robs you of words.
He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that is both intimate and divine. Slowly, deliberately, he leans down and presses his lips to yours again. This time, there is no testing, no hesitation—only certainty.
The world shivers and twists around you. Energy from the realm pulses through your veins, mingling with the fire of his kiss. You feel it, feel him, everywhere at once.
The stars above pulse brighter, the rivers of light beneath your feet roar like a chorus of voices, and every floating island trembles. You are no longer merely a witness to his power—you are part of it, entwined with it, inseparable.
And in that moment, as the realm bends to his will, you realize: there is no going back.
This is your home.
It takes you a moment—longer than it should—to realize that your mark is no longer burning. The searing pain has faded, replaced by a lingering warmth, a low, insistent thrum beneath your skin. Divinity simmers there, quiet but undeniable, as if something ancient and eternal rests just beneath your flesh.
The brides stand around you, arranged in an awkward circle, their candles vanished. There is no need for flame here, in a realm where the sun never sets, where the sky glows with a constant, shifting light that dances across floating islands and rivers of molten gold. The warmth from the light seeps into your bones, mingling with the heat radiating from Zayne.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, they lift their veils. Faces that were hidden under cloth now emerge, flushed with fear, awe, and curiosity. You can see them clearly, and for the first time, their expressions are unfiltered—raw, human, vulnerable.
Elias is stationed at your head, his posture relaxed but alert. A smile tugs at his lips, faint but genuine, the kind of smile that carries both reassurance and a quiet pride. His eyes meet yours briefly, grounding you amidst the swirl of power and alien beauty around you.
Amber is beside him, her face sharp, her gaze cold. Envy flickers in her eyes, impossible to mask, as they dart between you and the divine being who looms over you, unblinking and impossibly still. There is admiration there, too, but buried beneath layers of resentment and disbelief.
The other brides are less subtle—some whisper to each other, voices like rustling leaves, while others glance at Zayne and back at you, unsure whether to tremble or step closer. In this realm, the usual rules of obedience and ceremony hold no weight. Only the god and his will matter here.
“Eyes on me.” A voice echoes, and your eyes instantly focus in on him, he’s kneeling over you now. Playing with your hand bounds, his hair dangles over your face, and you notice strings of gold interwoven with the black strands of his hair.
“You’re gorgeous.” He mutters, his hands coming down to rest on your hips, “Your deviance, it’s part of your charm.” He smiles as he says it, amused by the struggles of mankind.
His hand snakes behind the silk cloth hiding your full form from him, his hands are unnaturally warm, a welcoming contrast against the cold hard marble you’re tied to.
“Do you know what happens now?” He asks, slipping your silk shirt off your shoulders, chuckling at your silence, “No?” He mocks, frowning down at you, “Now, I will claim you, fully and thoroughly.”
The binds on your limbs disappear, and so do your clothes. You’re laid bare as the day you were born, your mark shimmers on your skin, calling out to its counterpart.
Your legs are forced apart as he slides between them, keeping you open for his gaze— his touch.
“As much as you claim not to want me, your body says otherwise.” He says, his hand reaching out to play with the lips of your cunt. “I mean, look at how wet you are?” He says, holding his hand up so you can see, “and I’ve barely touched you.” He chuckles, going right back to playing with you.
“I probably won’t even need to prep you,” he hums, slipping his fingers into you, “not an ounce of resistance.” He mutters, before adding another digit.
Your face burns from embarrassment, as you watch him play with your cunt. It takes you a moment to realize that you’re not the only one watching him, all the others are too.
They watch as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, watching as he hooks his fingers to hit that special spot inside you.
The brides behind him step closer, as if trying to get a better view of his fingers stretching out your cunt.
“I’m almost done,” he sighs, almost bored-sounding. “Then we can get to the fun part,” he smiles up at you, chuckling when he sees the other bride's curiosity.
It feels methodical in a way, like this is something he does on a regular basis. Like you’re at a doctor's appointment and he’s your doctor.
“That should be enough,” he mutters, popping his fingers into his mouth.
He hums as he savors the taste of you, you’re almost positive you saw his eyes flutter.
saliva“The taste of you could drive a god mad.” He says, before wiping his saliva off onto the skirt of his robe.
“Zayne.” You whine, not liking the feeling of no longer having his fingers in you. “Shh,” he shushes, grabbing you by your ankles and pulling you into his lap.
“I’m gonna give you everything you want and more.” He promises, kissing your temple.
He nudges open the slit of his skirt, pulling out his cock— gorgeous thing, the engorged head shimmers with gold as the veins of it pulse with ichor—, tapping it to your clit.
Once
Twice.
“Do you want it?” He asks, mocking, rubbing the head of his cock against your cunt.
Listening to your whines and mews before stopping completely, grabbing your waist, “Answer me.” He demands, grabbing your chin and focusing your gaze on him. “Do you want it?”
“Yesyesyes” you rush out, feverish with lust. Your back arches are you try—and fail— to get his cock to slip inside of you, the only thing you succeed at is getting the gods disapproving tsk, “the only one who’s putting my cock in you is me.” He warns, his glare harsh as he looks down at you.
“Please, I’m so wet and empty. Please. I need it.” You beg, eyes teary as you pout up at him. “See, wasn’t that hard now, wasn't it?” He smiles, before finally— finally— positioning his cock to your hole, you try to push yourself down onto it, impatient. But he is far stronger than you.
His cock pushes into you, crushing that special gland inside you almost instantly, carving a permanent home inside of you as it pushes in.
Your reaction is immediate, your mouth falls open in an endless chant of swears and moans, your back arches as your nails find a home in the flesh of the God's stomach.
“There we go, darling.” He hums, as he bottoms out, right against your womb, right below his mark. He smiles as he notices the bulge that your abdomen has taken on to provide room for his cock, “Do you feel that?” He asks, pressing down on the aforementioned bulge.
He watches you squirm, gasping as you realize just how deep his cock is inside of you, “please,” you moan, pushing yourself down into his lap. “Fuck me, please.”
He hums, licking his lips, “That’s what I’m doing, is it not?” He mocks, tightening his hold on your waist, “You’re supposed to be a virgin, but you act like an A class slut.” The insult stings for a bit, but you’re too overcome with lust to care about it.
“Please, fuck me. I’ll go insane if you don’t.” Decorum is forgotten as you beg for the God to properly fuck you, “Pleasepleaseplease,” you whine, as tears begin falling down your cheeks.
“I’ve chosen a crybaby, so it seems,” he grunts, leaning down to lick your tears away, before lifting you up by your waist, ignoring your panicked cries.
“Nonono,” you cry, too cockdrunk to realize he’s giving you what you asked for. He shushes you, pecking your lips before dropping you back onto his cock.
“Zayne!” Came your choked out scream, whining and clawing at your mark as he repeats the process.
Your mark begins to burn again, though instead of it hurting like it did before, the pain blends with the pleasure, sending your nerves into overdrive.
“Zayne,” you whine, pressing down on your mark, moaning out at the pain increases, “Zayne.. wait, I’m gonna-“ you try to warn, but it’s far too late. Your cunt squeezes around the cock inside it as you squirt into the God's lap.
“Zayne.” You whine as he keeps his pace; rather than slowing down, he speeds up. Pounding into your cunt as if he’s trying to break something, “Zayne!” You yelp, feeling the head of his cock slide past your cervix.
“It’s time to fulfill your part of the oath.” He tells you, biting and kissing your neck. “It’s time to bear me a child.” He growls, his thrusts getting that much stronger.
“Zayne!” You cry, gasping as everything comes to a stop, as he climaxes, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his cum feels boiling inside you, thick and viscous.
The God groans, his hand gripping the marble of the altar, only for it to crumble under his strength.
You both gasp for air, sweaty and sticky from your actions.
The brides— now servants— around you step forward, taking your long forgotten clothes and heading off into one of the other rooms.
One of them linger— Elias, he smiles as he gives you a cheeky thumbs up before disappearing like the others.
“Are you thirsty?” The god suddenly asks you, lifting his head from your neck.
“No, not really,” you answer, clearing your throat, “are you tired? Hurt anywhere?” He asks, massaging your hips and thighs. “I’m fine, promise.” You mutter, bringing your hands up to play with his hair, toying his the golden strands.
He sighs, leaning into your touch, “I’ve missed this,” he confesses, breathing you in, “I’ve missed you.”
You hum, not quite paying attention, “You’ve known me before?” You question, whining softly when he moves, “Yes, I did. In a different lifetime, but that was eons ago.” He confirmed, kissing your collarbone.
“You know,” you began, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I could really.. go again,” you hum, biting at his lower jaw. “And.. judging by this.” You begin, pressing down on your mark. “You are too.”
“You really are an A class slut.”
—-
A/n: I lwk wanna make a pt.2 but I don’t know… let me know if that’s something you guys would enjoy!!
