Sir Lucifer Morningstar
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Is It Wrong To Crave Love (In A Dungeon?) Chapter 12 - Delight
🕑 Added 2025-09-24 18:00:11 +0000 UTCCatgirls.
Catgirls in maid outfits. Catgirls and an elf in maid outfits. Catgirls and an elf in maid outfits in a fantasy tavern. Catgirls that could be loved. An elf that could be loved. That could love me. I could love them. I would love them if they let me. Perhaps even if they didn’t let me, I would still love them.
Ah… goddess, my goddess… grant me strength!
I would have wept.
Had I not honed my willpower every morning I awoke in my goddess’s embrace and desisted from performing activities that would have the devil making the sign of the cross…
I would have wept.
Had I not honed that will, had I not tempered myself every morning, battling down the yearning in the pit of my soul and tempering it with the fear that it would lead to my destruction, I would have gawked and gaped. Yes, probably, I would have made a scene as I entered the Hostess of Fertility, I would have stared about like a country hick, sucking my breath and teeth and lips. I had seen catgirls before, and I had seen elves before, but I had not seen them in maid outfits before, and I had not seen them together.
Such a lethal combination set my heart pumping too fast, and too quick. Skipping and racing so quickly, I almost laughed at myself, and almost mocked myself, and almost chastised myself, and berated myself. How could it be that this much was still enough to get my heart beating fast, even when Syr held my hand?
Yes, Syr, even now, was no doubt watching my every move, my every action. Syr, whom the orphans had attempted to play matchmaker for, and Syr, who invited me to this place. Syr, who appeared a little ditzy, a little unsteady, almost constantly stumbling and requiring me to hold her, but also alternating between not wanting my touch and wanting too much of my touch.
I did not quite understand Syr.
She was not like Lilly, who was similar to me in ways I understood. Lilly, who, this morning, had left, saying she would be back, that she needed to finalize some matters with her former Familia. Lilly, whom I had hugged perhaps a little too long, a little too hard, a little too tightly, feeling every contour until her face was the red of blood, and she reluctantly pushed me away after my hands unwittingly began to wander and her breath started to hitch. Lilly, whom already, my heart, my desire for love, questioned whether or not I would have the same will to restrain myself with her as I did with my goddess.
I did not believe I could. A part of me understood, bitterly, cruelly, that my goddess, my beloved goddess, was the one person, the one being I could not afford to lose, no matter what, which was why I was reluctant to take that step. She was divine, and therefore, where be it upon me, lowly as I am, to encroach upon the sacrosanctity of her divinity?
With Lilly… that fear did not exist. That worry did not exist.
But would that not be too cruel? Too selfish? To speak of love to her one moment, and the next, have her bare herself to me naked, go raw and hard with the force of a battering ram upon Troy’s gates?
It felt… cheap.
Sleazy.
But it was not. It was love. Raw. Passionate. Burning. Intense.
I wanted to do it.
I wanted to hear her whimper and moan my name.
I wanted her legs to tremble.
I wanted her to ache with pleasures that would sicken all of Sodom and terrify all of Gomorrah.
Gods above, I wanted—
To. Make. Love!
Yet, therein lay my conflict in my desire for love. I knew in my heart that it was pure, it was true, but to act upon the baser aspects of affection would somehow make it seem… horrid. Unsightly. Perverse.
What would she think of me? I, who sang sweet nothings into her ears one moment of love, pure, now wanted her to bounce up and down atop me like a beast? To squeeze her bosom and cup her breasts? Would doubt not dawn in her eyes? Would she not look at me with dismay? Would she not think all I was after, then, was her flesh, her body?
I was not, as my goddess be my witness, I was not.
Yet, I was aware of how it would appear.
Which was why I hesitated.
However, it was bubbling. My desire. The desire to make love.
I could feel it bubbling.
Could I be blamed? Who could withstand constantly being around my goddess, around my beloved lady Hestia, day in and out, feeling her touch, her warmth, her softness, her voice, feeling her chest rub against their back, her feet and toes tease their stomach, her hands snake into theirs, and not be driven to desire?
I was not a stone! I was a man! Flesh! Blood! Living! Breathing!
I wanted to make love!
I could not even relieve my urges by myself, because a part of me was almost certain my goddess would choose that moment to ‘stumble’ upon me, and were such a situation to arise, not even the gravitational pull of a neutron star would be able to pull me out.
I was not a Saint. No matter how hard I attempted to be, I could not be like the Saints the Orphanage Matron told me tales of in my youth and my childhood. I was a sinner, I had always been, and my willpower was not infinite.
My yearning was growing.
When I met Syr, I felt ashamed that the first thing that ran through my mind was the image of her naked body. I had always been a pitiable person, but I was not so piteous as to desire to know the flesh before I did the spirit; to yearn for the body before I did the soul. I did not understand why that instinct had come, or for what reason. It had not happened with anyone before. There was a moment again, when she looked at me, and asked if I had plans, and I had almost been overcome with an urge to tear off her clothes and make her the Jane to my Tarzan and the Ann Darrow to my King Kong.
I did not understand what had happened; I could not fathom from whence those impulses came. I did not know what it was about Syr that had elevated those desires tenfold.
I was afraid. This fear came from the question: who, truly, could I subject to become my partner in unleashing decades of libidinous frustration without shame?
That was why I decided to visit the Hostess of Fertility.
For Syr.
Why my brain defaulted to her, I did not know. I could not explain it. I did not know what part of me just believed, somehow, she was the one who would and could solve that problem. She felt like me, yet unlike me, she felt familiar, yet foreign.
I did not know what it was about her that made me feel like we were kindred spirits. It sounded absurd, mad, even, but something in the depths of my soul felt like it was pulling me towards her. Some part felt as if it demanded to consume her.
I wanted to know more. I wanted to know why.
Then—
She randomly came into the picture.
My attention had not been on her, but once I felt that aura of divinity, I grew cautious.
Once she decided, on her own whims and impetus, to sit down on my lap—
I pondered why the universe loathed me so. Why had it sent this interloper to disrupt me so?
She would not compare to my goddess. None could compare to my goddess, but there was now a set of buttocks, clad in jeans, placed firmly upon me with neither shame nor care.
“What? He doesn’t mind,” The goddess said, offhandedly. “You don’t mind, do you, skinny?”
Did I mind that she had chosen to sit on me? No. I did not. How could I mind? How could I mind the actions of a goddess?
“Not really, no. Though I’m not sure it makes a difference…”
I did not desire goddesses. Divinity was beyond my reach. I did not even dare covet my own goddess, let alone another.
Yet, I saw an opportunity. A feeling of… mischief rose from me, from somewhere in me. I was not foolish enough to think I could outwit a goddess, deceive a goddess, or fool a goddess; however, one could beseech the gods for their assistance, in roundabout manners. One could achieve goals through the aid of the gods that they were destined to fail relying on their own power.
“You’re a Goddess…”
Because gods—
“There is no right or wrong to a god’s actions, so, even if I didn’t like it, would it make a difference if I objected?”
Gods can do what cattle may not.
=====)+(=====
A Mortal cannot lie to a God.
The gods could not be fooled nor tricked, nor could they be deceived by overt mortal deception. All gods could sniff out deception upon hearing it, as it was a compliment of their divinity, an added benefit that came with inherent godhood: the inability of the creation to deceive the creator.
Thus, when he’d uttered those words, Loki had known.
Truth.
Moses Vanderzee had not lied. He believed them. Genuinely, he believed them. It was rare for a mortal to have that perspective of godhood. A vast majority of the mortal children believed there were good gods and there were evil gods, but Loki was well aware that distinction did not exist amongst the gods themselves. Good and evil were entirely up to their whims, just as this world, the Familias, the Familia members and children, were simply just a game to the vast majority of them. A way to pass the infinite stretches of time and liven up their immortal lives.
Moses Vanderzee was correct in that the complaints of a mortal were, in many ways, meaningless towards the whims and predilections of a god. Any freedom, will, choice, ability to choose, or ability to refuse that a mortal possessed before a god was more often than not, illusions granted by that god upon that mortal because they were ‘playing a game.’
If a god truly wanted something, genuinely desired something, whether a mortal refused or not was meaningless.
However, knowing that and accepting it were two different things. Knowing it and conceptualizing it in his actions and deeds was an entirely different thing. Moses Vanderzee let her sit on his lap, because he believed gods can do whatever gods want to do.
There was a reverence for divinity within him, one that she had not seen in anyone, not even her Familia members. Her Familia members revered her, yes, but they revered Loki, the person, not Loki, the goddess. They did not worship her by the mere nature of her divinity, and would not grant her special privileges by the mere nature of that divinity.
Aiz would shut her down if she started teasing her about her body, and Lefiya would smack her across the cheek when Loki started getting too handsy, because there was a level of trust between them, and unspoken contract that said, even though Loki was a goddess, her Familia members could talk back to her, banter with her, chastise her, or even, if she was deserving it, as she sometimes was, hit her.
However, someone like Moses Vanderzee, someone like him, who held absolute reverence for divinity, that sort of thing would not compute.
This meant he was fundamentally crazy.
“Do you like me sitting on your lap, skinny?”
“Is whether I like it or not important?”
“Do you or do you not want me sitting on you?”
“Does whether I want it matter?”
“Answer the damned question, skinny.”
The boy was giving her politician’s answers. Neither affirming nor denying comfort or discomfort, living in a liminal zone of doubt and deniability. He was surprisingly well-versed in doing so, skirting around answering because any confirmation or denial would instantly be picked up by her as true or false.
He was also… pinching himself?
It was small, subtle, and he tried to hide it, but Loki saw it.
…Why is he pinching himself?
The entire thing made her feel like one of those sleazy gods who would grab any woman in their Familia, pat their laps with a greasy grin, and tell them to sit, and the women, afraid of their wrath, would comply.
Loki was not one of those gods. However, Moses Vanderzee was making her feel like one of those gods, because he was neither confirming nor denying discomfort. Loki could simply stand and let the matter die, but there was a greater issue with his decision to neither confirm nor deny comfort or discomfort, and that was his inherent deference towards divinity.
“Moses, do you want her to get up?” She finally asked, the gray-haired one. “You can say so. You don’t need to be worried about offending Lady Loki.”
“Well,” Moses said, after a moment’s pause. “Where I’m from, many people would gladly die to be sat on by a goddess. I don’t suppose I can complain.”
Truth.
Loki paused at that. She was not the only one. The gray-haired girl also paused at that bit of information. Die to be sat on—?
“Please allow Lady Loki her seating privileges. I hope this isn’t a bother, Syr?”
The gray-haired one, Syr, gave her a smile. “Not at all.”
“I’ll get you a special treat on the menu.”
She shot her a glance before departing into the back. Moses Vanderzee shot a glance at her, and then he sighed, leaning close and whispering until his breath just tickled her ear.
“She’s likely going to get something like hot soup or liquor and spill it on you by accident, Lady Loki.”
…That does sound like something she would do. Syr, that one, was already known for clumsiness. That wouldn’t surprise her. What did surprise her was that Moses Vanderzee was keen enough to pick up on that.
“...You.”
Then, it clicked.
This brat…
“You do not like me sitting on you.”
“Yes.”
Truth.
“You accepted me sitting on you to make her… jealous?”
“Yes.”
Truth.
“There is something different about Syr. I suspect it is the reason you decided to get between me and her, Lady Loki.”
Loki looked into Moses Vanderzee’s eyes.
…Did Shortstack actually manage to get a kid with something between his ears?
No… something’s… off. Why do I feel like… I’m… looking at…
Myself?
Loki felt something amiss. Odd. Something different. Something had changed the moment she sat on him. Something was changing about him. It was almost as if he was not the same person who entered into the Hostess of Fertility.
His eyes were sharper. Deeper. More mysterious. More…
…Squinted?
“I do not wish to know whatever reason it is you interfered, Lady Loki. But I would kindly ask you do not get in my way again.”
Moses Vanderzee smiled with squinted eyes.
“For these violent delights have violent ends,” he recited. “And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.”
Loki fully opened her eyes.
She was the Goddess of Tricksters, and as such, Deception, Lies, and Deceit were elements of her Authority. Her eyes were always squinted, always, because with them fully open, she saw it all clearly. A glance at a person, a mortal, and she saw what sort of lies they had told themselves, see what deceptions ran within them, what tricks they had played to themselves wittingly or unwittingly.
Humans, the Children, were unusually fond of lying to themselves. All of them. They always did. They required it to be sane. One of the most common lies they told themselves, one of the lies present in every human, was that they were special, that they would not die, and could not die. Death-denial was the most fundamental of human self-deceits, a belief that death is something which happens to others, but not to me, because it was necessary for every healthy human to have that belief, to compartmentalize that belief.
Denial of death, denial of the detriments of aging, denial of one’s mortality, denial of one’s ephemerality, denial of insignificance, denial of one’s nature, denial of one’s desires, denial of one’s wants, denial and lies, lies and denials. Constant lies atop lies, but these were necessary lies one needed to have to be considered ‘sane.’
Moses Vanderzee had none of that.
No death denial.
‘I need to fully know love before this ends.’
No self-importance denial.
‘Am I truly worthy of my goddess' love?’
No mortality denial.
‘When I’m old and need care… Will I still have the strength to love others?’
No denial of his nature.
‘Ah! I am a hideous soul ever wishing for more love, yet never satisfied... ’
No denial of his desires.
‘Can I get Syr to love me? Those catgirls in maid outfits… can I get them to love me, too?’
Loki saw it clear as day.
His intense reverence of the gods was just a tiny symptom of his greater craziness; it was just the tip of the iceberg, hiding behind an even deeper, more terrifying depths beneath.
He was absolutely crazy about love.
His soul was twisted, twisted in a way that it was directly affecting his flesh, his body. His body was affected by that craziness, and it was why he was so skinny.
Loki could tell, no matter how much he ate, no matter how much he gorged himself, no matter how much he tried to bulk up, no matter what he did, Moses Vanderzee would always appear skinny and malnourished. He would always appear that way, because his soul itself was ravenous; his soul was craving a single source of sustenance, and his body, shaped by that craving, that hunger, displayed it.
Sitting on his lap, she could have sworn something had been sucking her in, being drained from her, and going towards him—
No, it was not her imagination.
For that reason, Loki stood up from him as if she’d been burned.
As she did, the squint in his eyes vanished. He suddenly blinked, as if confused, as if muddle-headed.
“Lady Loki?”
Yet, it was still there, lingering within him. A small piece, a tiny portion, beneath the stormy sea of his eyes—
Her Authority.
Moses Vanderzee had an absolutely blasphemous skill.
A skill that grants him the privilege to use Divine Authority? No… more than that. It shares personality… mannerisms… Is it based on physical contact? Proximity? Closeness?
Whatever it was, Loki realized she had been worried for all the wrong reasons.
If that is the case—
Moses Vanderzee did not need to be wary of the gods.
The gods needed to be wary of Moses Vanderzee.
Comments
Rolen
Man this fic is def going to be voted by me when the poll comes around
DraconianGreed
I wonder if Loki will try to use this for Blackmail.
