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John’s not a believer.
Well, he is. He believes that demons are real. He knows that much because he’s killed plenty of them, but that’s something he’d do if he wasn’t in the Order anyway. Pledging himself to Saint Katharine just makes that job easier. In the entire chapter, he thinks maybe only Ap Rhys and Kumari actually are believers. Kairos is more a disciple of Rhys’ and Petros is just there because that’s all he’s ever known.
And Karila… she believes enough to ensure she doesn’t let either of them stray, no matter how much they both want to.
He can content himself with that for the most part. Holy duties during the day, slipping into her room at night.
Or at least, he thinks he can. Up until Ghost and Spirit are banished.
He goes straight to Ap Rhys because maybe he didn’t choose this. Maybe the Order forced his hand and threatened him.
“Nothing I can do,” is all he can say. “Rules are clear on what clerics are allowed. They went into the forbidden.”
John bares his teeth. “But they were loyal!” he growls. “Y’know damn well they were loyal to y’.”
“It’s not about loyalty, MacTavish,” the Father snaps. “They made a vow. They broke it. Excommunication is the only response.”
“Spirit didnae even want it!” John retorts. “How's it her fault?!”
“My hands are tied,” Ap Rhys growls back. “Spirit can’t even cast a single spell. What the hell is that worth when we’re up against fucking demons?”
“Ghost’s never lived anywhere else his whole life neither,” John changes his tactic, “an’ now what’s he gonnae do?”
“Petros got possessed.” Ap Rhys is firm. “All those years he was here didn’t seem to keep him from falling, did it now?”
John’s got no response to that. “It’s fuckin’ wrong, Father,” is all he can insist.
The air releases from Ap Rhys’ lungs. “I don’t like it either,” the man tells him. “But I meant what I said. My hands are tied. Don’t go making it worse when the chapter is already two down.”
John frowns. “Making it worse, sir?”
Ap Rhys gazes into him. “Only reason you and Karila are still here is you’re treading a fine line. Don’t go fucking it up.”
John finds her in the chapel.
He likes it when she's in there. She puts up a tacit resistance before she lets him touch her. He knows that somewhere in his ancestry there's a raider or two who dragged a cleric out of the Order and turned them into a captive bride, and as frustrating as it is to not be able to do what he wants with her, Karila always hesitates and it makes him feel like he's won some battle.
She's knelt before the altar. He knows she knows he's there but she doesn't move. John kneels down behind her, and even as he feels her jaw move in time with her silent prayers, he unties her robe and lets it fall open. Her prayers halt and her breath catches as he touches her bare skin, and he's always known she stays naked beneath the robe but it still pulls a groan from his lips that he muffles into her neck.
“John,” she pants as he slips his hand between her legs.
“Shhh,” he whispers, fingers circling her clit slowly. “Keep prayin’.”
His beard scratches along the column of her throat with each kiss, breath fanning over her pulse as he presses himself into her arse. The hand between her legs keeps her anchored to him, lets her stay kneeling upright as he fills the other hand with the curve of her breast.
“Someone- someone is going to s-see,” she gasps, just as she pushes back into his lap. “They're- going to catch us, John!”
He hums into her throat. “Father knows, love,” he rumbles, “an’ dinnae give a shit if the rest find out too.”
She stiffens until he works a finger up inside her. She refused that for a long time, believing it would count. It doesn't seem to. At least, Karila can still use her ordained gifts even after he had three fingers in her. It’s things like that, that and his loyalty to the Father, that keep him from leaving the Order.
At least, it was keeping him.
Now he knows that no amount of service will keep him in their ranks if he stumbles, even if it's not his fault, John is starting to have his doubts.
He never cared for faith so won't worry if it's misplaced. And the knowledge that all he needs to do to lose his place is to slide his cock inside the woman knelt in front of him, well, excommunication has never looked more appealing than when it's in the shape of a half naked redhead.
John’s fingers fuck her until her thighs are shaking either side of his hand. Her prayers manage to stay mostly silent, but sometimes she fails, sometimes he catches a half-formed word that comes out of her in a frantic gasp.
“Prayin’ for our souls?” he rumbles, nipping at her throat.
“F-for the next mission, oh!”
Karila slumps, her hands gripping the altar and her knuckles going pale as she cums on his fingers. He can feel her jaw tense as she bites her lip to keep from crying out, and he closes his palm over her mouth to aid her.
“Up on the altar,” he orders in a rough groan, “good girl.”
Karila isn't able to get up by herself; he hoists her onto the stone slab and rolls her over to face him, the robe pooling around her wrists as she sits up and leaving her completely exposed. Red hair tumbles around her shoulders.
Fuck, he's going to corrupt her. Faith isn't worth more than the feeling of fucking this woman.
“What are you doing?” Karila whispers as he arches over her.
He kisses her, rough and deep, before kneeling in front of her. “Gonnae profane a church, love.”
“John-”
His mouth seals over her cunt before she can finish reproaching him for blasphemy.
The way he devours her, John is surprised the chapel doesn't collapse around them from the contradiction of his worshipping something other than the Blinded Saint. Karila slumps back onto her elbows and arches off the stone, shuddering above him. Since he’s been forbidden from fucking her, this is his favourite part. Not least the bit where her heels dig into his shoulders and her back arches off the altar.
“John!”
That part too. The frantic crack in her voice when his fingers breach her again and work in and out of her, joining his tongue in sending shudders racing up her body. Her hand snatches at his hair, holding tightly with a grip that trembles each time his tongue flicks over her clit. When his lips circle it and suckle, she shoves herself into his face and yelps.
“I can’t,” she gasps out, “too loud-!”
“Yeah, tha’s it,” he kisses her thighs, “don’ keep it down. Let ‘em hear.”
He returns to what he was doing, to lavishing attention upon her until she’s almost squirming off the slab. He thinks this is a better form of worship than the prayers and scriptures. All the litanies they say before battle pale in comparison to the sounds she makes when she tips over the edge and sinks her nails into his scalp.
Her robe is wet with sweat as he licks up the mess she’s made, tongue searching between his fingers for it until she’s smacking at his forehead with no effect. John ignores her and searches out her clit again, sending fresh shudders through her body and forcing her thighs to snap shut around his head.
“Enough,” she pleads, “please, oh, t-that’s too much!”
Most days he would ignore her, he’d stay there until he had his fill and she knows it. But he’s done waiting, done restricting himself for a belief that will leave him to die the moment he’s forced out of its narrow guidelines. John gets up from the floor and kisses her, hungry and smeared with her slick. He makes her taste it, guides her to lay on her back across the altar like she’s a sacrifice for the Beyond. His hand works open his kilt and then grips her hip, the length of him between her thighs.
Karila pulls back, panting, uncertain. “What are you doing?” she breathes.
“Somethin’ we should’ve done the day we fuckin’ met,” he retorts, the tip of his cock rubbing along her wet folds.
She starts to squirm, shoving at his chest. “You can’t, it’s not allowed,” she warns.
John kisses her again, holds her against him. “Don’t give a fuck,” he growls. “They kicked ‘em out, Ghost and Spirit, even though Spirit didnae break her vow willingly. Wha’s the point of that loyalty when the fuckin’ blind bitch isn’t gonnae see it?”
“John, you can’t,” she tries to insist.
He’s tired of being told what he can’t do. “Tell me y’don’t want this ‘cause ah’m done worryin’ about the thoughts of anyone else ‘bout if ah’m gonnae fuck you.”
She swallows. “What will you do? If I say no?”
Go insane, maybe.
John clenches his jaw, and looks away from her dark eyes. “Leave,” he rumbles. “Ah’d get up and jus’ walk out the damn Order. Like that.”
Karila touches his face. She looks down at his lap, swallowing. “Without me?”
John kisses her again. “Le’ me inside y’ an’ we’ll go together,” he purrs.
Her breath catches. “You’re going to fight demons without the oversight of Saint Katharine?”
He just shrugs. “S’all I signed up for here. Only reason ah’m even a fuckin’ cleric.”
She huffs. “You are a very hardy fool. You cannot fight demons without holy gifts.”
“Ah’m gonnae try.” He doesn’t shift from his place between her legs. “Cannae jus’ sit there and do nothin’ while the Beyond fucks the world over.”
She sits up. “You would end up possessed and then you would be the one fucking the world over, John.”
He can’t help it; he pushes her back down and fastens his mouth around her nipple. Karila whines, digging her nails into his shoulders, biting into the muscle. The pain makes him shudder, his cock dripping.
“C’mon, love,” he licks between her breasts, then murmurs into her throat, “not gonnae find a better way tae get kicked out than by fuckin’ y’. Y’know you want it.”
Karila pants sharply as the tip of his cock rubs along her clit. “Not here,” she moans. “Come to my room. Tonight.”
“Why've we got tae wait?” John groans, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Because there will be true believers wanting to pray, John,” she murmurs. “The only one who will be kneeling in my room will be you.”
He grins at her. “Not true. Gonnae have y'down on yer knees too.”
Her cheeks are flushed. “Later.”
John kisses her, slowly and deep, then withdraws. “Midnight. Dinnae be late.”
Karila slowly slips her robe back on and he doesn’t want to let her, but he restrains himself as she secures it back with the silk tie around her waist.
“Out,” she murmurs just as he leans in for another kiss.
Reluctant, he slips his clothes back on. “Yer no’ gonnae lend me a hand, love?”
“Your troubles are caused by your own desires, John,” she breathes. “I did not cause them.”
“Y’were happy tae have my aid solvin’ yer own,” he rumbles.
“You came to me,” is her only response.
He grunts, but does as he’s told and leaves.
The hours pass sluggish and boring. John cannot stop thinking. He is about to upend everything, to break a vow and drag both himself and another cleric out of the Order, for good. He has no idea what will come next. He just knows that there’s nothing left for him in a chapter that punishes its loyal followers for harm done upon them by others.
It’s not abnormal for him to be wandering the halls late at night, but it’s the first time he does it for this purpose.
And then Kairos grabs him by the arm, his hand glowing.
“Sorry,” he says, “Father’s orders.”
Whatever John is about to say dies on his lips as Kairos casts his spell and his body goes limp, the world growing dark.
“Shouldn’t be breaking the rules,” Kairos murmurs. “Remember, you made us do this.”
John comes to on his knees.
The room is dim, but Ap Rhys is stood in front of him, disappointment on his face and a silver flask gripped tightly in one hand. “I warned you, MacTavish,” the Father is staring at him with cold eyes, “I said it was a fine fucking line, and you crossed it.”
“The line’s bullshit. Jus’ fuckin’ kick me out,” John spits.
“No.” The man gestures to the flask. “I’m not throwing you out. Not until you know what it’ll be like. You think you'll survive out there, against demons, without a blessing? Let's see how long you last.”
“Father, you can’t!”
John’s head whips around and he realises he is in Karila’s room and she’s right there, tied to the bedpost by her wrists with her eyes wide.
“What the fuck,” John snarls even as Ap Rhys grabs him by the back of the neck, “what’re y’doin’?!”
“Consider this your test, MacTavish,” the Father grunts. “You restrain yourself and you can stay, no punishment needed. But if you don’t, if you fail, well… won’t need you if the possession breaks you, will I?”
Real fear spears John through the chest. It’s not possible. There is no way a cleric of the Blinded Saint knows how to summon a bloody demon from the Beyond to possess him. And yet the man in front of him looks confident that what he’s about to do will render John’s body a vessel for a creature of Makarios.
“Don’ drag her into this,” John finds himself begging, harder than he’s ever prayed in his life, “she’s innocent.”
“You want to cross lines, MacTavish, there are consequences,” Ap Rhys retorts. “This is the one I’ve decided fits the crime.”
With that, he jams the flask against John’s mouth and tilts it upwards.
John tries not to swallow what pours out of it but he can’t. It’s holding his lips apart and his teeth clack on the rim. His mouth is full of liquid and instinct has him swallowing it down, his primal mind insisting he will choke on it if he doesn't. Ap Rhys knows it, holds the flask there until John has had far too much of it. He finally pulls it away, and steps back with Kairos in tow. John collapses, coughing. The taste of the liquid in his mouth is somehow familiar but he can't parse where it is he knows it from. His mind won't let him think it through.
Ap Rhys gestures to Kairos to leave, his eyes fixed on John. “Remember, try to resist it,” there's a hint of mockery to the words, but frustration there too, “since you're so bloody capable of fighting off the worst demons from the Beyond without the blessing, right?”
The Father turns and leaves. The door creaks shut with a slam.
It starts in his belly.
Heat spreads from his gut, sears along his nerves. It's arousal, the most potent sensation he's ever felt. They all knew before that this was what happened to Ghost in the caves, it’s the same fate that befalls any poor fucker unlucky enough to be in the same place as demonic presence for too long, but to feel it-
No wonder his former Brother couldn't stop himself from taking Spirit.
John shudders, slumping from his knees to the floor. The cold stone is a balm on his bare skin but it's not enough. His whole body is liquid fire. His cock aches, almost to the point of physical pain, and as he tries to shift around, he feels it damp against the fabric of his kilt.
“John?”
He rolls over, gaze falling on the woman tied to her own bed. Her dark eyes are fearful, but her cheeks are flushed. The shoulder of her robe has slipped to expose bare skin. He wants to sink his teeth into the column of her throat until blood spills down her neck.
Fuck.
“John!”
He forces himself to his feet, pushes off from the floor and staggers towards her to catch himself on the footrest of her bed. Karila looks momentarily relieved before he’s on top of her, his hands as agile as a clumsy drunk. They pull her silk belt from her waist and it flutters to the floor, swiftly joined by the tattered remnants of her robe. He’s seen her naked plenty of times, many of them in this very fucking room, but the blurred edges of the world make her glow.
Like a saint. Like some holy woman.
He wants to corrupt her.
“Stop,” she’s muffled between sloppy kisses, “John, stop!”
Physically he can’t.
The ache in his body is like a compulsion, a voice in his ear telling him this might be his only chance to do this. He hoists her off the floor, her hands still bound to the bed, and tosses her onto the mattress, crawling over her.
“You have to resist-!”
John’s ignoring it. He presses his hand over her mouth and moans when her teeth sink into the flesh of his palm. He rips off his kilt and throws it down to join her ruined clothes. His teeth find her neck even as he grinds into the wet heat between her thighs. The responding gasp from behind his palm makes his cock throb.
“Can’t,” he moans. “Ah’m on fire, love, cannae stop m’self.”
“You can't, you- fuck!”
If he had his mind intact, he'd be shoving his face between her legs first, getting her open with his fingers. But his head is lost in a haze of desire and his cock hurts. The only thing that solves it is the moment he buries himself inside that tight, wet heat.
“Oh!”
John knows she was practically raised a princess, with the expectations that she would be untouched. He's known it this entire time, but the knowledge that he's ruined her completely is satisfying on another level to the need currently plaguing him. A moment later, though, he sees himself shimmer. Then light crackles off his skin and fades in little twinkles into the air.
That's his blessing gone.
Not that he can think about it. Not that he wants to think about it. His mind is empty of anything but the sensation of her perfect, wet cunt tight around his cock. He grips her by the hips, driving down into her again and again. Each time he hilts there's a slap that echoes in the air.
“John, please,” she whimpers.
“Can’t,” is all he can say, the sensation of his is just too good, “fuck, this’s worth it, don’ care if ah’m fuckin’ damned-”
He breaks off, shuddering as he grips her thighs and bends them over her chest and lets him get in even deeper. It pulls her muscles tight, makes her milk him for just a second. His tongue laps along her lips, pushes past them as he kisses her. Whatever she might be wanting to say is completely muffled, the words shattering against his lips.
“S’as good as ah fuckin’ thought, yeah, cannae believe y’were gonnae jus’ never do this,” he groans, “pledge yerself to some blind woman an’ called it a day.”
“It’s a h-holy calling!” Karila whines.
“This’s all the religion ah need, love,” he growls.
Karila reaches her own rapture then and there, crying out wordlessly in whatever prayer she was thinking of as the tight warmth of her cunt squeezes him in rhythmic contractions. Her thighs wrap around his waist despite how hard she protested, and a shudder rocks his body as his hips rut into hers, driving deep until he’s working her through that orgasm to the point of it being too much for her.
“Tha’s my girl,” he rumbles the words into her lips, “this’s better than wastin’ yerself all these fuckin’ years, no’ lettin’ me inside y’ and jus’- jus’- makin’ me wait.”
Her heel digs into his back. “John-!”
“Stop arguin’,” he groans, “stop fuckin’ mouthin’ off tae me, love, jus’ admit how good ah’m feelin’ when ah fuck this pretty little cunt.”
He sees her eyes widen; she hates that word and he knows it, he loves how much it makes her flush when he says it and the way she squeezes when it says it.
“Tha’s it, princess, this’s what that’s made for,” he groans, “shouldnae be locked away fer some religion. No’ when it all feels this fuckin’ good.”
He wishes he could’ve fucked her on that altar, but her bed does just fine for this, for her losing her virginity with him, to him. The heat is still searing through him, the pleasure unstoppable, and yet he doesn’t feel like he’s going to cum, not yet. It’s like the sensations keep building, layering on one after the other. The world outside could end in a demonic horde and as long as there’s her, him and the warmth clenching around his cock, John’s certain he could live forever.
“Y-you’re gone,” she gasps against his mouth, “y-you’re possessed, y-you can’t-”
“-gives a fuck if ah’m possessed,” he growls, his hips ruthlessly rutting into her own until she’s squirming into him. “Yer mine.”
Her skin is damp with sweat, glowing in the candlelight. She still looks holy, still looks like she’s got her blessing. He has no idea how that’s possible.
“John, y-you have to resist,” she pleads. “Just- just a little, please, y-you have to try-!”
“Wee bit beyond tryin’,” he bites along her throat, “yer jus’ as tainted as me, love, s’too late for any of that.”
The rope creaks as she tugs against it, her back arching off the mattress and her breasts pressing into the thick thatch of hair that coats him.
“Johnny,” she mewls.
He smiles at her, best he can when he’s breathless and needy and probably looks demonic himself. “Aye?”
Even as she cums again, shudders along his stomach, her eyes are clear, and she’s lucid.
“I will not apologise for this.”
Her fingers spark, a vicious blue that zaps from her hands and smacks into him. It’s like lightning down his spine. He cums too, his body crowding hers, cock twitching and pulsing. He fills her up, spills deep into her, thick and unexpected. It’s a twisted contrast; as his orgasm rips through him, burns him from the inside out, her holy magic cleanses whatever was tainting him.
And by the time he slumps down beside her, suddenly exhausted, he recognises that taste, the flavour of whatever liquid Ap Rhys fed him.
His eyes find hers. She’s unbound now, lounging up on one arm beside him, red hair sticking to her body.
“Th’ fuck,” he slurs.
Karila licks her lips. “You failed your test, John. Rather… rather loudly.”
At that, he scoffs. “Tha’ was a fuckin’ test?”
She rolls over, staring into him. “You were trying to leave, John. You were talking as though you could fist-fight an army of demons single-handedly! We needed to make it clear how impossible it would be for you to even begin!”
He glares at her. “Y’cannae stop me from leavin’. Ah’m no trapped here.”
“You are not trapped here,” she insists. “But you do need holy powers to fight demons, and this was meant to prove it.”
“You fuckers ambushed me, ah’d be able tae fight if-”
Karila grabs him by the shoulders, dragging him to her so she can kiss him to shut him up.
John can’t help groaning, then finally pulling away. “Th’ fuck-”
“Stay,” she pants. “Please.”
“Ah’ve no powers,” he begins. Then, he recalls it. “Wait, ye’ve yours, how?”
“I am a Paladin,” she replies, “not a cleric. I swore an oath, not just a vow.” He stares at her and she huffs. “John. I am a Paladin of 141, just like Spirit and Ghost. The clerical vow is just a test too. If you fail it without betraying the Blinded Saint, you are invited to take the oath to serve her. Paladins… do not have a vow of chastity.”
John blinks at that. At the information suddenly washed over him. “Oh.”
Karila lays back down. “Lie with me. I’m tired.”
John lays down and wraps his arms around her. “Wasnae actually possessed,” he rumbles.
“I know,” she murmurs.
He huffs. “Course y’did.”
She traces her fingers down his chest. “How did you know?”
He hums. “Drink tasted familiar. It’s from a plant that grows ‘round my homeland. Gets mistaken for another one pretty often and put into beer.”
“A wonder you’re still alive.” She gazes at him, and then cups his cheek. “I do not need you to believe. But I do want you to stay.”
He thinks it over. His faith isn’t really misplaced, not if Ghost and Spirit are still here. And he’s only ever wanted to kill demons. She’s offering him that. He dips his head to kiss her. “All right.”
“You’re a lucky man, MacTavish.”
Ap Rhys eyes him carefully, as if waiting for the retaliation he imagines he’s due after the test he’s put John through. Normally, the northerner would agree and give him what for, but he’s spent every night in Karila’s room and he can’t muster the anger needed to judge him.
“Aye, sir?” John asks instead.
Ap Rhys nods. “I was going to just toss you to the wolves. Let you break your stupid pride on some demons and bury your corpse properly. Your Paladin talked me out of it.”
John preens. “Deeply appreciated, sir,” he assures him.
The older man scrutinises him. “She tell you what’s involved in becoming a Paladin?”
“Aye, swearin’ an oath,” John replies. “An’ some more trainin’, since there’ll be some new powers tae handle.”
“Spirit will tackle that,” Ap Rhys tells him. “Figured you might prefer it to be her, since you were so furious about her being kicked out unfairly.”
John winces at that. Spirit is a taskmaster, even if she is a fantastic warrior on top of that. He knows he’s being punished for his little tantrum. But still, she was a good comrade, and she’ll be an even better trainer. He just nods. “Thank you kindly, Father.”
The Paladin hands him a crest, letting him regard it. It’s a set of laurels encircling a pair of wings, which themselves branch off from a sword with a skull topping the pommel.
“Quite somethin’, sir,” John comments. “Why’s it a skull, though?”
Ap Rhys scoffs. “It’s poetry, MacTavish. Saints are saints because they’re dead. And ours doesn’t have any fucking eyes because she’s blind and dead. You figure the rest out.”
John clips the crest to his belt. “So… how’s 141 so different to the Order?”
“Very glad you asked.” Ap Rhys stands from his desk. “We go where the Order can’t. We wait for no king. No mortal power can tell us to stop if our mission is critical to humanity’s survival. Politics has no leash on us.”
John grins. He can’t remember the number of times a mission or a task has been denied to the Order because of some pompous lord insisting it can’t proceed. “Sounds perfect, Father.”
“Good.” Ap Rhys gestures to the door. “You northerners best be as hardy as you like to brag. Spirit won’t make the training easy. Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real work starts.”
John’s not a believer. But belief itself won’t be what changes the world.
Sometimes, it just needs enough people willing to get their hands dirty.