#FIRST TIME DRAWING A ANATOMICAL BRAIN

[marveljesus69]

Biblically accurate smackie

[runningwithscizzorz]

(1)Learn the rules before you break them + Gather proper references

(2) Understand what you want to break and how

(3) Can't do it? Find someone who can

(4) It's going to look really bad for a while

(5) Have fun with it!

(1) -Yes, I am that kind of artist. Yet, not in the conventional way. I encourage people to go in guns blazing when it comes to drawing something new, then coming out analyzing what they know, and what they need to learn more of right away.

-Here, I broke down the anatomical pieces of Nour and Narinder's face with the same labels so you guys can understand this weird invisible pattern that I follow in my work. Doing this with any animal you're attempting to draw greatly improves your line confidence when drawing different face shapes. Also understanding the biological function for why animals look a certain way helps you keep consistency.

(3) Time to throw any artistic guilt you have for heavily referencing people's art OUT THE WINDOW and start ANALYZING PEOPLE'S WORK YOU WANT TO BE LIKE✨ I've always done this, having a reference of someone else's amazing work right next to my own drawing so I can try and understand how they make their magic work! No shame, no embarrassment, nada. Pure, unadulterated will and spite that I would be just as good as the artist who made me so motivated and happy with their work! I couldn't figure out how to make Nour's face both sheep-like, and humanly expressive, so I looked at a LOT of Zootopia and old Disney art for help!

(2) With how I draw narilamb, I'm still working on it (as you can see) but I wanted to break Narinder's face to be fluffier and slimmer, while Nour's face would be shorter and flatter. If you look at it for too long, it's absolutely going to look weird, in the way that if you look at Anna from Frozen for too long she starts looking really weird. The anatomy isn't meant to be correct or consistent, it's meant to convey the emotion and energy I want out of the characters in that moment. If you're able to properly get that across, then you don't need to think about how broken something looks, as long as your eye is happy enough to trick your brain into thinking what you're seeing is canny.

(4) Yeah, I hate this part too. It's going to look like shit at first. I can't even look at my art from a few months ago when I was figuring out their designs... God, so fucking ugly. If it weren't for the shittiness of those drawings, I would have never gotten here! Wading through the "trust the process" stage always really sucks, but it's absolutely worth the relief of when you finally get something to look right.

(5) Art is work, yes. It's stressful, it's long, it's straining, its draining, it's exclaiming, blah blah blah. But, I try to keep my art FUN. If I find my artwork becoming slow as I depressingly drag my pen over my tablet, I'm failing. You MUST keep spirit and life in your work. The spirit of emptiness or the life of sadness can have a very meaningful place in art, but those can only exist with keeping work light, easy, and fun! If you're stressing how a specific thing looks or how you can't get something to look right no matter what, FUCK IT. Draw something to bring the flavor back in your work! I'm kind of rambling, but just, HAVE FUN!✨️ Be messy, scream, laugh, slash canvases, throw paint, smash sculptures, tear apart books, GO CRAZY

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[quibbs126]

So I’ve been making this

So basically last night, I was listening to some music, specifically Not Gonna Die by Skillet, more specifically a version on YouTube with the intro (because I’m not the biggest fan of Good to be Alive where the intro actually is). Anyways, when it’s night, my imagination tends to be more active and I tend to have more energy. While listening to the song, I eventually got this mental image in my mind of this scene with Dark Choco, and the more it crystallized the more I wanted to draw it. I was going to go to sleep and maybe do it in the morning, but I realized that I probably would forget the vibe and not have as much energy, so instead I decided to power through and draw the idea

It was a bit difficult since I had limited references for the pose I wanted, and I suppose I can admit the sword looks a bit off anatomically, but it looks good enough I think, and lets me keep the eyes revealed

I did eventually have to stop drawing, because my iPad had been worked all the way down to 4% (and it was at 30% when I started, the poor thing), not to mention it was around 11:30 already which is pretty late for me, and my earbuds had been running nonstop for over 2 hours (yes I was listening to the same song, it’s how I keep the vibe). I was at least able to get the pose, base colors and lineart done, and I’m still pretty proud of where I left things last night

Today was mostly just doing the background and lighting, which admittedly I may have fumbled. I’m not very good at backgrounds and I didn’t know how to draw lightning. I tried my best, but honestly I don’t think I got the image in my head. Didn’t help that my brain was playing the wrong Skillet song this morning

Oh yeah and by the way, the background is supposed to be from this. That’s what I used as reference

The lightning both feels like too much and too little. Like, it’s crowding the picture, and I can’t have more because it’d be way too crowded with it, but also at the same time, it doesn’t feel like enough, like there isn’t as much power as I wanted

Actually wait, maybe I can add some small particle effects to like, enhance the lightning feel. That was in the original sketch but I omitted it in the final. If you see one with that, you know I did that

Edit: I did indeed do that

To be fair though, I don’t think I have the art skill to properly convey the image in my head. Basically the scene is that Dark Choco is using absolutely every amount of his power for this final swing down, so much that it’s too powerful and the Strawberry Jam Sword completely shatters. But also it’s too powerful that Dark Choco’s body simply can’t handle it, and he basically ends up exploding. The scene depicted would be the wind up to that final swing that destroys the both of them

This isn’t necessarily the first time I’ve come up with this scenario, and the setup would basically be that he turned on the Cookies of Darkness slightly earlier, because he didn’t want to destroy his homeland again, and he tried to get rid of them while in the kingdom but not yet at the Citadel, but he ended up failing, so with nothing to lose, he chases after them and decides to put everything into destroying them, even if it likely ends in his death. After this he probably killed Pomegranate and crippled Licorice in some way (I don’t think he’d attack Poison Mushroom), so his final act did have some effect, but he’s still dead by the end of it. And he and his father never got the chance to properly reconcile because Dark Choco thought that could never be a possibility anymore and he had resigned himself to his fate

But yeah, I just don’t know how to convey that sheer overwhelming power and emotion that this scenario suggests. I tried my best though

I also want to submit this to the Dark Cacao Forever contest, but I’m not sure if it’s good enough for it. What do you think?

[ryuki-draws]

How does having only half a brain left affect your survival odds in a Gundam? Time to find out!

N°3 was not meant to ever set foot in Asticassia but I decided she needed to join Geroge and Erik's emo band. I'm sure nothing bad will ever happen to her. (And I just wanted to draw her in a dress. As a treat.)

Rambling under the cut!

Marleen (name assigned by the researchers) has suffered severe epilepsy her whole life and anatomical hemispherectomy - surgery which removes parts of the brain that cause the seizures - was the last resort in effort to make the constant attacks stop. Unfortunately, the surgery was done at Claire's Peil under their enhanced person research program. So the now vacant space in her cranium was fitted with GUND implants and she was basically rolled off the operating table directly into a pilot seat of the company's prototype GUND format MS.

Luckily for her, having half a brain already running on the same format, the implants were able to process the information influx faster to a certain degree, thus making it possible to reach higher permet scores without getting what's left of her organic brain fried immediately. It is, however, not a solution to the overall problem - while the extra implants provide some added resistance, the data storm would still eventually kill her, even though it may take longer than previous subjects were able to withstand (RIP N°1 and 2). Plus, with her condition, permet score 3 and higher come with a risk of seizures unexpectedly returning while piloting, which opens a whole new can of problems.

When the duelling game started, she wasn't deemed suitable for a body double candidate and this ordeal was assigned to N°4 instead. She was, however, dispatched to school alongside him as a second year piloting student with a cover story of being a "test pilot" for Peil Technologies with clearance to participate in duels in non-GUND MS, unless instructed otherwise.

Additional assorted stuff (mostly EPs lore because I'm Unwell™)

the whole AU shenanigans primarly take place one year prior to the events of WfM, hence students with "K" designation in their ID number being second year, as opposed to third in the series

the duelling game started with the year of Miorine's admission to Asticassia, and with it the need for an EP body double to participate in the duels instead of Elan (who's a terrible pilot and would not be caught dead in a Gundam himself). There were three prior EPs at the research facility but N°4 was the first one who on top of everything has become a body double

when EPs outlive their usefulness to the company, they're sent back to the research facility, where they're further used as test subjects, as they may "still have research data worth obtaining in them." Deemed as truly expendable, they're first in line for anything too dangerous or unethical, but are not outright executed (no, I'm not over ep. 6, thanks for asking)

as mentioned in my previous posts, inspiration for Marleen's creation was Siri Keeton from the novel Blindsight by Peter Watts - who also had half of his brain removed due to seizures and replaced with implants - thus, the shared last name (the book is great, go read it. it's a sci-fi thriller and it has vampires in space! there's also a fan-made short film (4 minutes) based on the book worth giving a watch. this post is now Blindsight propaganda)

[scarlet97531]

⭕️❗️CAN WE PLEASE TALK ABOUT HOW A BOOK SERIES FOR NINE YEAR OLDS LITERALLY STARTS WITH GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND DOES NOT GET BETTER??????

((General warning for graphic depictions of violence, lots of caps lock, and some swearing sprinkled in for fun for the rest of this post, also I don’t hate WoF, I love WoF, but I also think it’s batshit insane and needs to be addressed (in a pretty unserious way)))

The fucking prologue.

HELLO??? AM I CRAZY FOR THINKING THIS IS A BIT MUCH FOR THE PROLOGUE OF A CHILDREN’S BOOK???

This shot was the gateway drug for us istg. This fucking book series got is so hooked on fictional violence man 😭

We were drawing detailed dragon gore as fanart, looking at detailed gore that other people had drawn as fanart?

Seriously am I crazy????? This is the second main character killing her father to prove a point?????????

This is what we get for an explanation for where the first main character came from? His backstory is literally that his mom sold him for some cows??????????????????? WTF

Also just mudwing society in general is. It seems. Pretty weird. Like really weird.

“As the [human] shrieked again, she bent down and bit off its head.

“Blech,” she said, spitting it out again immediately. The head bounced across the grass as the body slowly toppled over, blood pouring out of it’s neck.”

UM?? OKAY!!

“She scored her talons along his wing, ripping open the scars”

“She shook Dune lightly, as if she were shaking the fluff off a dead pigeon. He clawed at her talons, his eyes bulging. “I mean, what use is a crippled dragon who cannot fly? I’m surprised you haven’t killed yourself already, SandWing. But I can take care of that for you.”

DAMN????

“No!” Sunny screamed, leaping at them.

But it was too late. With a chilling crack, Queen Scarlet snapped Dune’s neck and dropped his body on the stone floor.

“Dune!” Sunny howled. She squirmed past Scarlet and crouched beside him, shaking him with her front talons. His mangled wing flopped, his scales scraped against the rocks. His black eyes were empty. “Dune, wake up!””

HOLY SHIT???? WHY WAS THIS NECESSARY FOR A CHILDRENS BOOK

WHAT THE FUCK

AND THIS IS JUST SOME OF THE FIRST BOOK, DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON LEGENDS OF DARKSTALKER MAN THAT SHIT WAS CRAZY

THIS IS BEING SOLD FOR NINE YEAR OLDS

THIS COULD VERY WELL BE A CHILD’S FIRST INTRODUCTION TO DEATH

WHAT WAS TUI THINKING???????????

LIKE ACTUALLY WHAT????

Honestly it is so unsurprising we turned out the way we did when this is what we were reading as a kid 😭

Literally our primary caretaker is named after Scarlet. The same scarlet in those quotes earlier. Like this shit is so in our brain and has been since we were twelve.

This shit. Is. Crazy.

And then every time I try to point out flaws In the writing or the plot ppl tell me “oh it’s not that deep it’s just a children’s book it’s not a big deal” LIKE. FUCKING. HELL IT IS.

ABSOLUTELY NOT. NO FUCKING WAY.

I am completely convinced that if we had never read these books our gorey pseudo memories would not be HALF as detailed and disturbingly accurate as they are now. Like seriously we did so well in anatomy classes because of this. Maybe that’s mostly the autism but i we never would have been so interested in anatomy if we weren’t trying to figure out how to draw anatomically accurate dragon disembowelment because of these damn books 😭

Anyways all this said I still fucking love wings of fire and I’m thinking of bringing back that thing where I draw cute cartoony dragons dying horribly :3

If anyone has horror stories about growing up reading wings of fire I want to hear them

WAIT ONE LAST THING- I forgot to mention the icewing massacre, attempted genocide, and general dragon racism….. hmmmm a topic for another time perhaps

[basiatlu]

@black-occamy here again 🖤

Oh, amazing Artist! Would you be so kind to share some tips for absolute crap beginners?

Love 😘

Helloooo~☆ I took a moment to type this out a little bit ago and to tweak and edit as I saw fit so ty for waiting.

Ok ok so here's Crap Tips for Crap Beginners:

Stop calling yourself "crap, bad, and trash" when first starting out. - You wanna improve and have the drive to make art and feel satisfied at the end of a drawing? Then give yourself the positive reinforcement that most pups need in learning a new skill and trick. Treats and good pets and "nice jobs!" The whole world will fight against you, they'll try to beat you down and tell you what you do and how you do it doesn't matter. You've got to tell them to stick that where the sun doesn't shine. Aggressively support yourself - fake it till you make it etc etc. Pretend everything you do is intentional until you see yourself making more intentional decisions with your artwork.

With the pep talk out of the way - Warming Up is so important. Just like athletes and dancers do beforehand, you need to stretch your hands and arms and shoulders. And then you need to have a healthy back posture if possible. Draw with your whole arm and not just your wrists and fingers. Aaaand then you need to get the squiggles out. By that I mean make marks on your medium/paper/tablet. Little hatch marks, boxes, circles, tornados, silly emoji faces! When learning to draw, there will be 100 bad drawings before you reach a single good one, is what my college professor would say. And damn was he good.

If you can't draw something well or easily then you need to draw it again and again and again.... and again. I was really struggling to draw hands and feet! So I took pictures of my own hands, of my friends' hands, saved pictures from online, etc and made studies of them. Just paid extremely close attention to what I was actually looking at (and not what I thought hands where supposed to appear as). I also studied medical anatomical diagrams on hands to learn the bones, muscles, and tendons in the hands! It's very important!!! Studying can be applied to anything: cars, plants, animals, braids, fabric textures....

You have to refresh your lessons - once you do a study it doesn't permanently install into your brain for you to copy/paste whenever you need it. You have to revisit and keep that muscle memory in your hands for when you go to draw. I fall out of practice ALL the time and need to dedicate time to relearn how to draw things. And this isn't because I'm failing or wasting away as an artist, it's just a simple fact that I lost a little bit of my artist muscle mass and need to work out those muscles again. See?

You don't need fancy tools to draw, but they do help. I always break it down to the simplest form of sticks and mud. You can draw with pencils, twigs, charcoal, paint, on paper, in the dirt, in the sand, on canvas, on your phone, on a tablet. On and on it goes. Have the tools you need so you don't hinder yourself but don't hold back because you need to 'wait for the latest and greatest tech.' Why wait? Brush packs will not instantly make you a better artist, my dude. Printer paper and a sharpened pencil will take you miles.

And that's honestly it! Generally all good tips to keep in mind for when you're first starting. Some of these I have to also remind myself. I get down on my abilities and need the reminders too. Getting down to the basics is really important. Stretch, practice, stay strong, and oh! Also take breaks. ✨️

[wachtelspinat]

I've been in a rut as of late, and I really want to get better at form and anatomy. Your style is one of my favorite ones ever, what would you say were your biggest inspirations throughout the years?

hey, first of all i’m so very sorry for the late reply. hope you get to see this still since it’s been a while since you sent this ask... sorry

secondly, thanks a lot! i try to give some insights here, this question's always kinda hard for me to tackle because i'm having a hard time identifying my style and what makes it tick, idk... i guess it's a combination out of everything i like, starting from the artstyle of tf2 to various styles of my mutuals and people around here (but i think tf2, wanting to draw humans ever since i first laid eyes on tf2 and the cartoony artstyle of it all are my major fuels, ngl). 

as for anatomy and form: this is a matter i just recently pushed myself into because i felt really stuck in my ways. like... i never really did studies in my life, so when i wanted to draw i kind of had to count on it to ‘just work’, idk if this makes sense... i always felt like i didn’t actually know what i was doing there, and i worked with ref a lot (i would always recommend using ref, no matter what, what i want to say is that i realized i had not enough fundament to truly fool around in the way i liked to). and now that i started actually doing anatomy studies i feel so dumb because yeah. it IS making things easier x) i understand tho that for most it’s a motivational issue... you have to find a way to make it work for you. like doing studies, but implementing what you learned into a sketch of your blorbo, as an example.

as for resources, it’s hard to find good tutorials, mostly because the place is flooded with art bros trying to tell you “you don’t NEED anatomy and here is why” and then they make a sketch and you can SEE that they put SO MUCH ANATOMICAL KNOWLEDGE INTO IT. so there’s a lot of bs out there. there is good stuff out there tho, but it might take you a while to find what’s best suited for you. i could make a list of yt channels that really helped me but the thing is, everyone is at their own lvl and with different goals in mind, so i don’t think this would be very helpful.

what i can link you to tho are 2 videos that really opened my eyes in regards of a) finding your style and b) getting better at drawing a certain topic.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLfH9yOGs3o - this video tackles the whole ‘finding your style’ topic. because i often give the tip that you don’t find your style, style finds you (and i still think that is in its regards correct, because you just get subconsciously influenced by the media you consume and like and your fave artists’ style’s if you really dig them) but the ability to actively WORK on your style is there. it’s just something you have to put a lot of work into. but we’ll never stop learning, so there’s that. (she describes it with her landscape drawings but really this works for anything... from dynamic linework to just trying to find the right energy in your pictures)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0ufz75UvHs - this one really helped me getting over my fear of ‘drawing something ugly’ (big words from someone drawing ugly men as a hobby) but hear me out... because i have a weird brain that makes me recoil from something my mind thinks is ‘imperfect’ i really often get stuck with my art and either don’t experiment at all or get stuck with a sketch and spending hours on it trying to fix it... so approaching this matter like the video described just... melted that away. because when you draw 20 faces a day just telling yourself “NOBODY will EVER see this” you start loosening up... or at least i did. it’s also good for an analytical brain or people who strongly lean into that. this approach was especially nice while being stuck in an artblock... because i could easily just fool around and it kind of changed how i see doing art... like... nothing is ever perfect so i don’t have to make it perfect, i can analyze my art through a more neutral lense than my emotional attachment to it now... does that make sense?

last but not least, there are a ton of good resources out there for anatomical studies, my fave is still “anatomy for sculptors, understanding the human figure” by uldis zarins sandis kondrats.

SORRY THIS GOT A BIT LONGER BUT i put A LOT of thought into this as of late so yeah... maybe it’s gonna help someone too

[preeetzeeels]

BAD SPELLING SORRY ;;;;;;;;;

English is not my first language

I have lots of ideas in my head but I have to organise them. ;;

I mean. I'm looking for a better art style specifically for male characters because they look too young, and I want them to be adults (what they actually are). It's been a long time since I drew men and got used to drawing girls in a moe style because I love it and pray for them. (Bc they're cute)

Also. I've been Practicing more anatomic bases bc I want my drawings to be as smooth as possible, so I'll be posting my progress. (Maybe not, who knows).

Anyway, I'm redesigning EJ. I'm not at home rn for showing you guys how's going, but I'd prefer to continue looking for a better concept of him. ;)

I ALSO want to draw LJ, but clowns are my big nemesis. I'll give it a chance before giving up now.

AND THE LAST ONE: I'm very bad at writing, but I should at least try to do some quick notes about my AU. (huh?)

My brain will burn with all of this, but if I don't note all that I said, maybe I'll forget and never reach what I want.

[lilacerull0]

For the human body thing, can I have the eyes? 💜

i would LOVE to draw this for you, but it's one of the 3 lessons i have yet to hear this semester. i took pictures of eye related elements from my atlas for you tho!!!

sharing some anatomical fun facts because we covered this in anatomy already. okay, so the eyes are so beautiful because they are literally an extension of the brain in embriologic terms so they're basically your brain peeking out... the mechanism of the optic nerve is also the main precondition for inherent contradiction humans are built on. simply put, because (some of) the fibres of the optic nerve cross the whole body followed (it would be too difficult to have one mechanism in one part of the body and a completely different one in the other... or it's just the human instinct to follow what somebody else is doing and it's a chain reaction🤣 so once one element fucked up...) this is the explanation for that thing where left brain controls the right side of the body and vice versa. why the fibres cross in the first place has more to do with physics and how light enters the eye which i'm not an expert on, but i have a friend who is so i might add to this some time in the future.

[white-collar-cannibal]

um. here's a snippet from an incomprehensible version of the tlt au. i may elaborate but don't bet on it. tlt!gl!ranboo pov. cw: discussion of gore and gun violence

You knew who the figure was the first moment you say them move, despite the layers of combat surplus it wore, despite the thick glasses and the blue pleated mask and the shadowy hood that all obscured any inch of the face from sight. You would have known the figure if it had been ten thousand years.

You reached out, very gingerly, like a lord extending a hand to be kissed. The figure drew a long, thin fountain pen from a hidden jacket pocket, and jammed the point into the middle of your hand, into the arch of artery that you forgot the name of. You managed to swallow most of the wounded noise your mouth wanted to produce, but your shoulder and elbow tensed, twitching the hand and tearing the wound minutely. The pen withdrew, and blood welled out in thick drops before the skin of the hand smoothed over, in perfect anatomical form. The figure wrote a thick swatch on a notepad, removed a glove and pressed the corpse-pallored thumb of a willowy hand to it, and was still.

“Aw, what the fuck.” 

Each of the people around you stirred upon hearing the familiar voice of Charlie, n��e Septem-Sextae, your brother who had never been your brother, a man who had the stolen face of another of their missing-presumed-dead friends.

You crumpled to your knees, bowed your head, letting long black-and-brown hair fall about your face, and said, like a penitent, “In the hope of forgiveness for the death of your cavalier, I offer you my life and my service in perpetuity.” 

What a joke. His cavalier wasn’t dead at all, you knew that too well. His cavalier writhed in your chest every night, when you slept and did not dream. His cavalier had wormed his way into the crevices of your brain and your senses, had muddied your memory and your thoughts. His cavalier was right in front of him, and he couldn’t even see it.

No one spoke at first, but then they all yelped, and you felt something press against the back of your head, and heard the fat click of the safety of a polite little short-recoil pistol, poised to turn the medulla of your brainstem into fatty, useless mush.

A voice, thickly Edenite, said “Don’t flatter yourself, zombie. Stay down,” and then, faintly, just to you, “What happened to your eyes?”

You could have done anything. You could have exploded the bone chips embedded in your terrible novelty jacket outwards into a revelation of shrapnel, could have poured out thanergy in gouts and calcified the tendons of your assailant so they could never hope to pull the trigger, could have bought yourself enough time to draw out an entropic field spell big enough to turn the whole room to ash. Instead, you stood very still, and your mouth said, “Good to see you too, Niki.”

[infinitycutter]

Looking Back from the Design Notebook: [Undercover]’s 25 Year History

by Housekeeper, ph. Taro Hirano (2015)

A retrospective exhibition will be held at <Tokyo Opera City Art Gallery>. To commemorate that, I will store hand-drawn design notes!

This year marks the 25th anniversary of Jun Takahashi's start of <undercover> with a friend when he was at Bunka Fashion College. In commemoration of that, a large-scale retrospective exhibition started. " TITLED "LABYRINTH OF UNDERCOVER", mainly about 100 collection archives, videos, dolls, paintings, etc. are developed one after another in various spaces of various sizes. It is an exhibition where you can experience the complex and intertwined multifaceted creation as if you were walking in a labyrinth (maze).

SS07 ‘PURPLE’

A collection that became a turning point by launching a sensual and luxurious female image that could not be seen in the previous Undercover seasons. Jun Takahashi been drawing design notes since the past two years.

Design drawing of the dress on the photo. The organdy cut into a skull shape on the left page was placed throughout the dress.

Therefore, this magazine specially released the design notes of Jun Takahashi. The design drawing carefully drawn in detail using a Rotring mechanical pencil on an A4 size thick notebook made for each collection seems to be a work by itself. However, the design drawing was not drawn from the beginning, and in the early days, they drew textiles on a Mac computer and assembled them with three-dimensional cutting, and made clothes that were reconstructed by dismantling basic items. Jun Takahashi started to draw design drawings by hand since the Spring Summer 2005 season. He said, "I draw in great detail, so there is a limit with computers, and paper and pen are more free to expand ideas."

Some of the design notes will also be exhibited at the exhibition. If you compare it with the actual clothes, you should be able to get a glimpse of the secret and process of the creation of Undercover.

SS09 ‘GRACE’

A season that produced a creature doll called GRACE and expressed the collection with a photo book that shot it like a scene from a movie. " The doll of "GRACE" will also be exhibited at the exhibition.

Sketch of "GRACE". From the overall form to the range of motion of the neck and the size are drawn in detail.

AW13 ‘Anatomicouture’

"Anatomical" and "Couture" are combined to make "Anatomicouture". Motifs that make up the human body such as brain marrow, skeleton, and five organs appear in various clothes, such as prints, jacquard, and embroidery.

The original drawing of the lace used for the three-dimensional dress part of the look on the photo. This detail is beautifully reproduced.

SS15 ‘Pretty Hate Bird’

A woman who looks like a swan lake motif walks along a giant cherry figurine with a skull carved. Undercover expresses the unique dark fantasy in an elegant and cute way.

The look imaged by the design drawing is almost reproduced as a real thing. Is that technique a gift of 25 years of history? It is carefully colored with a marker on a sketch drawn with a pencil.

Jun Takahashi

Born in 1969. Started Undercover in 1990. Participated in the Tokyo Fashion Week for the first time in 1994. Participated in Paris Fashion Week since 2002.

[catwings-writes-things]

For the ao3 wrapped: 3, 6, 16, 29

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

Surprising no one, I'm gonna have to say A World of His Own. Before this year I'd never written anything (I do mean anything--no fanfic, original fiction, essays, nothing) longer than around 15,000 words. Now I have an in-progress fic with a single coherent storyline that's over 100,000 words long and nowhere near done. Some of the chapters are longer than 15,000 words. And not only that, but I'm really proud of the writing and the characterization. The Jailbreak Squad have taken over my brain and I have no objections whatsoever.

6. Favorite title you used?

De Humani Corporis Fabrica--Latin for "On the Fabric of the Human Body"--is the title of the best-known anatomy text by Andreas Vesalius, a Rennaissance anatomist and pioneer of human dissection, which at the time was considered taboo. As such, most anatomical knowledge came from dissections of animals, inspection of traumatic injuries, and conventional wisdom from earlier anatomists who had largely been working under the same restrictions. Vesalius was both sufficiently dedicated to his pursuit of accurate anatomical knowledge and sufficiently unbothered by other people's opinions as to cut bodies down from the gallows after public executions (sometimes having to fight stray dogs for them) and take them home to study, even allowing them to decompose in his living space to get at the bones once he'd learned all he could from the soft tissue. (He was also my first historical friend-crush, which probably tells you quite a bit about me, although perhaps not much to which my fic wouldn't tip you off.) De Humani Corporis Fabrica is his masterwork, illustrating what he'd learned with intricate drawings of bodies in various lifelike poses and states of dissection.

Needless to say, Andreas Vesalius was a Flesh avatar if ever there was one, not to mention probably autistic AF, and De Humani Corporis Fabrica seems as good a candidate as any for a Leitner. So when I set out to write a fic featuring late human-era Mike Crew nearly working himself to death in an extended burst of autistic hyperfocus and Angela the Flesh avatar trying to both help him deal with the immediate fallout and convince him that bodies have limits and he needs to treat his with more respect if it's going to last long enough to get him wherever he's going, using "De Humani Corporis Fabrica" as the title seemed pretty damn perfect.

16. What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

Families of Choice, which is the canonical tag on AO3 for the concept I've mostly heard referred to as "found family." It's specifically tagged on three of the seven fics I've posted this year (that number is misleading, due to my aforementioned longfic), but it could or should have been tagged on six of them. ("Fix-It," "Temporary Character Death," "Complicated Relationships," and "Twisted and Fluffy Feelings" appear on two fics apiece, which probably also gives some relevant information. Especially that last one.)

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

Honestly, I can't decide. I've been proud of so many things I've written this year that I really can't narrow it down--which is a good problem to have! If it helps, after I post chapter ten, I think I'm going to make a "pick your favorite bit of out-of-context A World of His Own dialog" poll--each option a line spoken by a different character.

Okay, never mind. I found a favorite. From Chapter 2 of A World of His Own:

“I can't... sit and watch television with you,” Helen finally said, almost a snap. “It won’t work.” She gestured at herself, head to feet. “This isn't even a real body. It's more of a... concept.” “Well,” said Harriet mildly. “Sit the concept of your butt down and let us introduce you to The Twilight Zone.”

Thank you so much for the ask, anonymous friend! I hope you have a great day!

[browzerhistory]

tips for beginning artists from someone who's been drawing since he could first pick up a crayon:

1. anything worth doing is worth doing poorly

scared the drawing you want to make will turn out ugly? nervous you won't do the angle/character/lighting/etc justice? do it anyway. do it scared. do it weird, do it anatomically incorrect, do it uncolored, but whatever you do, draw that thing. it's better to get the idea out on paper/canvas/etc than to leave it in your brain to eventually fade away. if you still really love the concept, you can come back to it later with better skills, and if you end up disliking it, well, now that you've drawn it you don't have to ever again!

2. get a little silly with it

experiment with your art. go to a color palette generator and make something with the first thing you get. make ocs with complicated designs and weird backstories. change things about your style just to see how they look. the more things you try out, the more things you'll find out you like (or dislike), and your art will start to really feel like yours. i'm not sure if the Youth of Today get as hung up over not having an art style as i used to, but if you do, there's only one way to get it: fuck around and find out.

3. always cheat

listen. there are many people who will tell you that tracing a reference or color picking from a photo or whatever is cheating. those people are lying to you. obviously there are limits (like don't trace/recolor art and post it without credit), but the vast majority of the time, tracing and taking inspiration from other people's art is how you get better.

(one way to stop yourself from plateauing is to trace a reference, then try drawing it by hand. you can also try breaking down a pose into basic shapes/lines; if this seems confusing, just pretend you're making hitboxes for it video game style.)

4. take a goddamn break

if drawing is starting to feel more like a chore than a hobby, or if you feel like you've run out of good ideas, stop for a couple days. pursue another hobby, eat good food, observe local flora and fauna. even if you love drawing with all your heart and think you'll never get enough of it, your brain needs a refresher every now and then to come up with new cool stuff to draw. trying to push past burnout will most likely just ruin the fun of it for you.

5. make a mary sue oc immediately

there's way too much hate on mary sue characters, especially when so many stories introduce protagonists by going "what if there was a guy. and he was the Specialest Guy Ever." having a character who's sexy and smart and powerful is not only fun, but good for the soul, and nobody gets hurt when you make one. plus, it's hard to overstate how good it is to have a character you love to draw in lots of different outfits, poses, and situations.

6. your art is good because you made it

now this one will probably be controversial, since a lot of artist memes are about feeling self conscious about or straight-up hating your own art. but you've gotta find pride in what you make. you've gotta look at your drawings and say, "this fucks actually and i did an amazing job." for me, even if i don't like how a drawing turned out, i try to find at least one thing i really like about it, like the shading or colors or emotion. making self-deprecating jokes stops being ironic the more you do it, and the same applies to jokingly tearing your own art apart.

7. keep your old art

a very good poster once said that throwing away/deleting your old art is like walking up a staircase and smashing every stair behind you. even if you're very high up, you won't see it because it looks like you're just on the first step.

personally, i have sketchbooks going back to early 2018, when i first started regularly using them, and i keep some of my first ever digital pieces in an archive on my tablet, but i get that that sort of record keeping isn't possible for a lot of people. the gist of this advice is just to have some reminder of where you've been, so you can look forward to where you're going.

8. make furry characters

beyond the obvious (you're probably a furry and it's nice to be able to draw your fursona), doing furry art is also a great way to find community in art. whether you do commissions, comics, or just draw yourself for fun, furry art is a wonderful method of self-expression that has the added bonus of being basically limitless. my main fursona is a bug, my secondary one is a gastropod. follow your dreams.

there may be more i add to this list later, but these are the main ones i can come up with. obligatory disclaimer that i'm just one guy with one experience; this advice might not work for everyone; etc etc. i've just tried to base this off of what i wish i knew when i started getting into art seriously.

[pointreyesjournal]

The Amnesiac : ep21

Drawing From Serotonergic Hyperactivity

We’re all gathered around the coffee table, Henrik, Emma, River, Me and Doctor David Hoover, Department Chair, UC Berkeley College of Psychology and resident expert in the illicit distribution of psilocybin mushrooms.

“There’s some debate amongst the academic community about acquired savant syndrome and the use of psilocybin mushrooms” says Dr. Hoover. “I’d point to Serotonergic Hyperactivity as a potential factor in acquired drug-induced synesthesia.”

“What does that mean doc?”

“It means the synesthesia you experienced was chemically identical to a traumatic brain injury. Following a brain injury the dead brain cells are flooded with serotonin, which can cause the acquired savant syndrome you experienced.”

“So it’s true about drugs killing brain cells?”

“No. You see, that’s the beauty of this whole experiment. Psilocybin induces the synesthesia without the cell death by dumping serotonin into your healthy brain. It was - relatively speaking - harmless.”

“I don’t think harmless is exactly the right term” River chimes in. Dr. Hoover doesn’t know about the purple butt plug incident, therefore isn’t able to contextualize the comment so he just responds to her in a scholarly way. “You’re exactly right River, any treatment modality runs the risk of side effects or comorbidity, but these risks are statistically insignificant.”

Clearly, he nor anyone else in the group has any idea what happened physically between us last night, so River smartly just lets his comment pass and moves onto the more pressing question. What do the pictures mean?

The Drawings

#1

The front side of the first drawing features River sitting nude with legs crossed in the lotus position. Hair covers her breasts, and Dave Jr., my dead potted fern is between her legs obstructing the view of her private parts. The back side shows River, head to toe, walking toward me with a creek underfoot through a narrow, vertical-walled canyon, heavily vegetated with ferns. She’s dressed in jeans, big waffle stomper hiking boots with red laces and a cozy looking off-white sweater.

#2

The front side of the second drawing features River standing in my living room wearing one of my old red flannel shirts and no pants. The back side is, oddly, a bearded man, possibly Henrik, wearing the same old red flannel shirt and standing next to a big blue dog.

#3

The front side of the third drawing is a close up portrait of River’s face, hair parted slightly to the side. It is very flattering, in bright pastel colors and highlighting her bright blue eyes. The back side is the same portrait, but dark brown as if River was a statue carved out of wood. Her eyes are cold and lifeless. It is haunting, bordering on disturbing.

#4

The front side of the fourth drawing leaves nothing to the imagination anatomically. It is a graphic close-up sketch of River’s private parts. The back side looks like an ocean of water pouring into a hole. Like someone pouring the entire ocean into someone’s anus.

#5

The front side of the fifth drawing features River laying nude on my wood floor, surrounded by a rainbow of cartoonishly drawn flowers. Those same cartoonishly drawn flowers are still decorating my floor, there is a blank space the shape of a chalk body outline where River’s body once laid. On the back side, River is laying, once again in her big off-white sweater, in a field of perfectly drawn tulips in a rainbow of vivid colors.

#6

The final image features another close-up of River’s face, but this time hidden behind a silver camera. Henrik immediately recognizes it as a Leica M camera, but is unable to distinguish the exact model or vintage. Unlike the other images, the back side is seemingly independent from the front side, this time showing the main street of a fairytale Bavarian village.

—

“Clearly River is an allegory, emblematic of something or somewhere, I’m just not sure what that something or somewhere is. Does anyone recognize these locations?” says Henrik. The only person who recognizes a location is Dr. Hoover. “The back side of print #4, that looks like Thor’s Well. I’m certain of it. But I don’t recognize anything else, and they don’t seem to have any commonality beyond River’s presence.”

I drew the images, and even after extensive review, I can’t make sense of where, why or how these images are related to each other, nor can I discern any meaning. The drugs were supposed to eliminate my amnesia not exacerbate it. But I find myself staring at a bunch of images that aren’t bringing me any closer to solving the mystery of my disappearance. Worse is that Dr. Hoover is a annoyed that we burned through about a month’s worth of his stash in a single evening, and have really nothing to show for it.

“Guys, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think I’ve been to any of these places. Thor’s Well is the screensaver on every Amazon Fire Stick and it’s the background image of 90% of those shitty Chromebooks. That Bavarian village proves it. I didn’t magically disappear for a month to Europe. These are just places I’ve seen on the internet. I doubt they’re real memories.”

I can see that Henrik is really trying to solve the puzzle. His head is tilted to the side slightly and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. Then I see his eyes light up. “Floody, where did you say your phone was?” he queries.

“It’s gone missing.”

“Is it an iPhone? Do you use iCloud?” Henrik asks.

“Yes.”

“Floody, use the Find My Phone locator from your iCloud account!”

“You can do that?”

“Yes, of course. Fetch your laptop!”

I put my laptop on the kitchen bar near the espresso machine and let Henrik drive. He opens the web browser, then navigates to iCloud, and clicks to find my devices.

“Floody, your phone is in Yachats Oregon. You were in Yachats Oregon! Do you know what else is in Yachats Oregon?”

“Why do I feel like you’re about to say Thor’s Well?”

[steveskafte]

THE DEPTHS Introversion has an interesting way of making your social relationships more honest. From my earliest childhood memories, I saw myself as a person separate from any assigned position. I didn't feel part of any group or way of thinking – I was an independent individual whose thoughts defined their borders of being. Maybe that way of thinking woke up on long, sleepless nights. Insomnia leaves a lot of time for philosophizing, or at least at whatever level a child is capable of conceptualizing. I'd lay awake staring at the ceiling, the closet clothing, or the headlights passing on my wall through the bedroom window. All that had a soundtrack from the sound of my older brother snoring – a consistent white noise until I was sixteen or so. We shared a room, and on the off-chance that he was awake when I was, sometimes we'd talk about what was rattling around in my mind. But mostly, he slept. Even though I look at myself in the mirror with no real complaint, I spent my teens on the run from cameras and reflections. Looking like a kid was easy, because it seemed to bring no weight of expectation. I didn't need to be attractive or self-assured, and if anyone ever called me cute, it mattered very little. But life as a young adult marked me on the outside of expectations, and for the first time, I started caring. The tallest and the skinniest teenager in the room draws attention, as my limbs stretched out and all my bones started showing. Suddenly, my peers had ideas of who I was from purely visual cues, and I hated the feeling of my external image getting ahead of my inside self. The randomness of childhood was being replaced with a very specific, very narrow identity that I felt no affinity for. There was never a time in my life when being a man really mattered to me. The depths of my disinterest in anything that masculinity supposedly entailed was simply explained – being a man was something that started and ended with my body. I've got no argument with my image at this point in my life. I see a self-portrait like this, and say: "Sure enough, looks like me." But everything else about what constitutes "male" rings hollow. From the most old-fashioned notions of my gender's apparent superiority and strength, to the way my brain is said to function, it never moved me. I've always gravitated toward an opposite expression. Things like gentleness, grace, and emotional openness made me feel belonging. That's what I was to myself in isolation, kind as I could be, so why not express the same to others? This isn't something I've obsessed over. I've been far more interested in my life as a storyteller than the somewhat ambivalent position I occupy in the hierarchy of my gender. But I think it's worth mentioning for those who feel displaced within a definition where they'd otherwise belong. I'm a man who is attracted to women, which is a pretty large category of human beings. But if there's a scale that runs within that range from Mr. Rogers to The Rock, I'm sure it's clear by now which end I inhabit. I've got virtually no aversion to sharing every emotion, and no worries for how weak it may make me appear. That is the strength I'm after, when every day runs the risk of being totally exposed, but the only muscle really flexing is a metaphorical, non-anatomically-correct heart. Ain't I a man? July 20, 2023 Digby, Nova Scotia Year 16, Day 5730 of my daily journal.