#believe it or not this was echo's idea

[bibannana]

Fives *pops up infront of a squad of B-1 battle droids waving*: Hi! I'm here to talk about your models extended warranty.

B-1 droid *confused*: Huh? We have warranty?

Echo *blasting a hole through the droids head from behind*: Not anymore.

Rex *shoots another B-1*: How did that work?

Jesse *shrugs, blasting right through another droids chest*: Well the fake delivery from the Separatist's plan worked that one time so....

Kix *shaking his head*: One of these days these plans will backfire on us.

Taglist: @soliloquy-of-nemo @staycalmandhugaclone @nekotaetae @jiabeewrites

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Clone Headcanons

This has been sat in my phone notes for a while and I kept forgetting to actually turn it into a post. So here are some of my clone related headcanons (some of which have no explanation)

Crosshair is a nail-biter. When he was a cadet, his nails were almost non-existant and completely ragged. Once he had to start wearing blacks, he stopped because he couldn't chew his nails through the gloves, and he turned to toothpicks instead. He eventually worked himself out of the habit, but he will start biting his nails again if he goes without toothpicks for too long.

Echo talks in his sleep. Normally, it's non-sensical but he has spooked some of his brothers due to some slightly terrifying things that have been said while he's asleep.

Tup is non-binary.

Echo is aroace.

Wrecker has hearing loss in his left ear as a result of the explosion that scarred the side of his face. His brothers will talk a little louder if they are stood on his left, so that he can hear them better, and sometimes it takes them a few attempts to wake him up because he's fallen asleep on his right side and can't hear them very well.

Cody despises crying in front of people and will avoid it when he can. Rex is the only one who has actually seen Cody properly cry.

99 would tell the cadets stories when they were having nightmares and would often sacrifice his own sleep to make sure that they were okay. He would also name characters after the clones that he used to tell the stories to. One of the greatest honours was for a clone to be told that a character was named after them in one of 99's stories.

Dogma is allergic to tookas.

Echo has always run cold and would often sleep with socks on. He only stopped doing it because of his prosthetics. Fives is the opposite and will often sleep in as few clothes as possible.

Jesse has a scar on the back of his hand where Hardcase accidentally stabbed it with a fork.

Hunter is dyslexic and Tech would often help him during assessments so that the Kaminoans didn't find out.

Cody sleeps like the dead. He's very quiet and doesn't move around a lot, so much so that his brothers have panicked that he's died in his sleep on more than one occassion.

Wolffe accidentally called Plo Koon dad once. Plo actually found it very endearing but no-one is allowed to bring it up because Wolffe has very heavily implied that anyone who mentions it will never be found again.

Fox has a small scar just above his right eyebrow. If anyone asks, he just says he got it in an altercation and leaves it at that. No-one knows that said altercation was actually with a door that Fox walked into because he was too tired to pay attention.

[patchwork-crow-writes]

80 - The Final Cut

...so, you have made your choice.

Do you remember what I once said, my light? That the bonds you break may make you stronger? And oh, what a brilliant fire you've made from those bridges, as rudely incandescent as the sun itself.

...I can hardly stand to look at it, it stings my eyes so...

For the final time then, let me roll out the red carpet and bid you welcome to my kingdom. No subjects shall resist your entry, as there are none to defend this place... I have to wonder if you planned it that way, but I'm not certain you were even thinking that far ahead. They would not be able to stop you in any case.

I see the twisted sword in your hand, o Lightbringer, its tortured edges baying for something to sunder... but there'll be no satisfaction for you here. Even if I wanted to FIGHT, even if I were capable of standing against you as an equal... that would just be playing into your twisted game, where statistical superiority is all. And it is not a game I have any interest in playing.

So then... will you proceed? Will you reap the bitter harvest of your conquest of this world, and run your sword through my unguarded heart? Will you then march on to plant your flag in the ruins of your hubris...?

...but what am I saying? You've come this far, why stop at the final bump in the road? After all, you and I both know this isn't real, and that none of this even matters... if it ever even did to you in the first place.

And then I suppose you'll go back, wont you? Back to before you broke it all over your knee, just to see if you could. Because you can. And if you can, then why not? Such is the luxury your godhood affords you.

Then all that is left to say is: thank you for playing our game, Lightbringer. I hope that you had fun.

______________________________

The Dark Menagerie No. 80

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[honeybewrites]

I don't have a good camera on my phone but... fan art of mx fres? :-)

*Incomprehensible noises* *Error 404 honeybewrites.exe has been overloaded. Please restart*

Fan art?! Of my OC????? Never did I ever imagine such a thing to ever be!! Oh! I have been blessed!! So very, very blessed!!!

A thousand thanks be to you, oh gracious one!! I am forever in love with you for this!!!

Now excuse me while I print this out and hang it on my wall by my desk :D

[arolesbianism]

I need to spread my Wendy cane user hcs further but I feel like it's important to note that I also hc Wilson as a cane user and that these two hcs are so vital to pair together for my happiness

[sanct1f1ed]

weird trains of thought at 5/6 am

[thatwhobumblesabout]

echo/maya lopez stuff in the tags because i wanna binge this show with a friend and i don't wanna spoil anything

[kastlenetwork]

I have this insane (or maybe not) theory about Frank Castle being in Echo. (even just a cameo) It's not really a theory but I think him and Maya Lopez would be an interesting team up, since they both are morally grey with a penchant for insane violence. Plus Echo is rated TV-MA and Daredevil is already confirmed to be in it so is Kingpin.... Both leading up to Daredevil: Born Again. Thoughts?

Truthfully, I don't know what that iskfdjslkdfjldfjkgl. (let me go google for a moment lolol) (Oh, okay, she was introduced in Hawkeye....I did not watch that.)

I actually don't know that many characters from Marvel, so I'm not sure if Maya Lopez and Frank Castle ever interact in the comics or anything. But, seeing that she's based in New York, hearing from you that Daredevil is making an appearance -- I don't even think it's an insane theory to think he could pop in. Especially considering they're planning more Frank stuff and realistically have to pull him in and reintroduce him to Marvel audiences who maybe didn't watch the Netflix marvel cinematic universe. Fisk has been reintroduced within the MCU. Matt has been reintroduced within the MCU. So, Frank...👀

Even if they don't give him a cameo, I'm of the opinion that it's awkward for all of these shows (both from the nmcu and from the new disney+ mcu) to have all of these characters based in the same states and cities and never have them pop in on each other's shows. Like...........they should all have casual cameos here and there. And even if it's not a physical cameo, people talk about the people they know. Their names should come up from time to time. If it messes up the order of how they're doing things, then obviously he shouldn't be a part of it -- we want it to make sense. But, if it doesn't? Matt and Fisk are in it? (But, my google search says Fisk was shot at the end of Hawkeye -- so, who knows what's going on with that. Certainly not I -- the girl who didn't watch it 🤦🏾‍♀️💀) They're all in New York? Frank is also in New York? Then come on Marvel, if it can potentially fit into the scene and the story, toss him in for a moment.

I'm seeing that Ken Kristensen is on the writing team for Echo, and he wrote on three episodes of The Punisher. So, maybe there's a chance.

Although, I believe he's confirmed for DDBA. Like, he's in the whole show. So, his reintroduction might be being saved for that -- what with them having actual history.

[avid-adoxography]

Nobody:

Me at some point this morning: i was getting ready for work, brushing my long wavy brown hair. as i looked at my hazel orbs in the mirror, my mom came in. “i sold you to pay our debts” she said. “come meet your new master.” i went downstairs and there he was...Mattel CEO.

[lucifer-spawn]

I am way too ambitious, but I'm going to try to get top 100 under 18 girls for the 3000m in like two weeks...

Have I ever done 3000 before? No.

Have I trained for 3000 yet? No.

Will I be extremely disappointed if I don't get it? Yes.

[turtlemurmurs]

Pacman terrorizing your neighbourhood? Eating all your hard earned dots? And/or food supply?? And/or friends??? Call us now!! Inky and Clyde, at your service!

[nickmpreg]

ive only been diagnosed with ptsd , depression , and anxiety so i don’t know much about the process of receiving care for other mental illnesses but reading firsthand accounts i can tell that , even now , the care that’s available for many is EXTREMELY inadequate . those with the ‘dangerous’ mental illnesses and thoughts get tossed in the psych ward away from their support systems wherein they’ll likely come out even worse than when they went in . like what im saying isn’t mind blowing information and is basic to anyone who’s ever had the pleasure of being in a crisis center just to be admitted but the fact that there are now teenagers on tiktok , twitter , etc BEGGING to be placed in psych wards , not because of their mental health status , but because they heard of people glamorizing it . they see videos of patients glamorizing their own experience to cope and twist it into a pretzel and hold it up and say ‘well it’ll be just like this if i go !’ like im just soooo worried about the status of mental health care and how if people like this never grow out of their thinking it’ll just keep going

[vaugarde]

Sitting on these but I may rename my Cubone hero "Vega" (referring to the "fallen star" meaning) and Skitty partner "Milo"

[prokopetz]

Since we're getting into "did you know that Santa's eight tiny reindeer are a reference to the eight legs of Odin's steed?" season once again, remember: while there are some elements of Christmas (or Hallowe'en, or Easter, or...) observations that are probably pre-Christian in origin, before one believes any of that this-is-really-100%-just-a-Pagan-holiday-with-the-serial-numbers-filed-off stuff, one must consider all of the following possibilities:

Our earliest known records of the cited pre-Christian practices were written down by some random Christian monk centuries after the fact, and we genuinely have no idea how accurate this account is, to what extent the apparent similarities with Christian practice are due to the author deliberately or unwittingly putting a Christian spin on it, or indeed, whether they were just making shit up.

The similarities between the two sets of practices have been exaggerated or misrepresented by Christian writers who were bent for prefiguration theology (i.e., the idea that the Bible echoes backwards in time and pre-Christian religious practices were unwittingly imitating future Christian practices).

The similarities between the two sets of practices have been exaggerated or misrepresented by Protestant writers who believe that all Pagan deities are Satan in disguise, so they think that if they can prove that Catholic practices are secretly Pagan in origin, that proves that Catholics are secretly Satanists.

The similarities between the two sets of practices have been exaggerated or misrepresented by overzealous mythographers trying to prove that all mythology and religion throughout all of human history is secretly a single unified monomyth; if it's pre-Victorian, expect shades of prefiguration theology, while if it's post-Victorian, expect a lot of stuff about the Collective Unconscious.

A bunch of 19th Century proto-Fascists were trying to construct a pre-Jewish cultural identity (and considered Christianity to be tainted by association), but didn't want to give up any of the fun rituals, so they made some shit up about how it was still okay to do Christmas because something something Odin, or whatever.

A bunch of early 20th Century Pagan reconstructionists filled in the gaps in their understanding of pre-Christian ritual with culturally Christian assumptions, then turned around and pointed at their own accidentally Christianised reconstructions as evidence that Christian practices are derived from them.

A bunch of late 20th Century self-help manual authors tried to break into the occult bookstore market by uncritically repeating any or all of the above.

Someone on the Internet just made it up.

[arolesbianism]

I <3 transmasc Wendy because it adds another thing to the kid who does not know how to handle anything being thrown into everything pile but instead of a thing like dead sister it's the prospect that he kind of likes having short hair and the idea of being a guy and it still makes him feel like the world is ending until suddenly the ppl around him are just like fine with it and everything is like cool actually and he melts over that too until finally he's just a normal baby trans person and can get back to being bad at coping with his other hashtag issues again

[winxanity-ii]

SACRILEGIOUS DEVOTION [1/3]

ship: father charlie x fem!nun!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery) word count: 3.6k a/n: So, Father Charlie is out here losing all his morals and sanity on Grotesquerie and my mind couldn't help but match it, so what's a better idea other than channeling all the religious trauma/journey into a spicy one-shot? i for one feel like it's a mini-therapy, but enough rambling, enjoy 😩🫶🏾 i'm in love with a holy man, mother 😔…. second part: 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 and final part: 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

Father Charlie Mayhew was a sick man.

Not in the manner of flesh, but of spirit. He could feel the sickness festering in the quiet corners of his heart, a sinful yearning that had taken root there, twisting itself around his thoughts like creeping ivy.

It was a sickness that, he believed, made him a grotesque parody of the holy man he was meant to be. For how could he call himself righteous, devoted, when every whisper of prayer felt stained by the way his eyes followed you, Sister ____?

You were a vision of purity, an embodiment of the kind of gentle devotion that Father Charlie envied and craved all at once.

He watched you from a distance, always careful not to draw your gaze, afraid of what you might see if you looked too deeply. How dutiful you were, sweeping the church aisle with a focus that made him forget the dust and see only the graceful motion of your hands.

The sun, filtered through stained glass, seemed to seek you out, casting colors on your habit as if to mark you as someone far beyond his grasp, almost holy in your mundane tasks.

It was in the mornings, when he heard the soft chime of your laughter in the courtyard as you fed the pigeons, that he felt the deepest sting of his wretchedness.

The world seemed simpler in those moments, your laughter echoing off the stone walls, the warmth of early sun painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges. He wondered if you knew how your kindness drew even the animals to you, their heads dipping into your palms as if receiving communion.

There was a stillness to you, a gentleness in every gesture.

The worst of it was during your services. Father Charlie had seen you on your knees before, hands folded in earnest prayer, your lips moving softly as you whispered your devotion to God.

He would stand at the back of the chapel, watching with a mixture of awe and something far darker. He told himself it was admiration, but the truth festered beneath that facade.

It was longing, a hunger that ached at the edges of his soul.

A storm raged outside the convent one evening, winds battering the church walls with a fury that mirrored the tempest building in his chest. The clouds were bloated, dark as his thoughts, and thunder rolled across the sky with a violence that shook even the faith he held so dear.

You had come to his chambers in the dead of night, your knock barely audible over the howling wind. He had been preparing for bed, freshly out of the shower, wearing only his boxers when he heard you at the door.

The creak of the old wood seemed to echo forever as he opened it, and there you stood, eyes wide, looking so impossibly fragile in the dim candlelight of the corridor. Your modest night slip clung to your form, the thin fabric shifting in the draft that sneaked in from the hallway.

Charlie's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of you, innocence incarnate, seeking refuge with him.

He hesitated for only a moment before allowing you in, quickly wrapping himself in a silk robe that hung loosely on his shoulders, barely tied. He knew he should not let you enter, but there was something in the way you looked at him—so trusting, so devoted—that made him abandon every rational thought.

You had come asking to pray with him, your soft voice trembling as you spoke. The storm outside seemed like a reflection of the turmoil within him as he let you step past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

Now, you were here, kneeling before him, your eyes upturned and wide, waiting for his command, for his instruction like the obedient servant of God that you were.

Your soft voice brought him out of his thoughts, a gentle, "Father...?"

Charlie could only lament to himself how sinfully pure you looked. He hummed softly, his eyes dark as they trailed over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders, the delicate line of your neck.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across your skin, highlighting the innocence that made his hunger all the more unbearable.

"Yes, forgive me, Sister. Let us now pray," he finally said, his voice low and rough, the words nearly swallowed by the sound of the wind outside. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your forehead, and you leaned into the touch without hesitation, your eyes closing as if his hand was a blessing.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts spiraling deeper into the forbidden desires he had tried so desperately to keep buried.

He began to pray, his voice low, raspy, each word a struggle against the chaos inside him. "Heavenly Father, we come before you tonight..." But the words felt hollow, their meaning slipping away as he watched you, kneeling so obediently at his feet.

His eyes darkened, wandering further down, tracing the lines of your form. The way your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, the soft rise and fall of your chest with each breath—it all seemed to pull him further from the sanctity of the moment.

He should have been thinking of God, of salvation, of the purity of the prayer—but instead, he was thinking of you, of the way the thin fabric clung to your skin, the soft curve of your breasts visible through the modest slip.

He licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the delicate line of your collarbone, the way it rose and fell with each breath you took.

The more he spoke, the less the words mattered. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, spreading through his body, his thoughts growing more erratic, each word of the prayer slipping further from its sacred meaning, twisting into something profane, something filthy. "Protect us from all evil..." he whispered as he traced the line of your jaw with his thumb, the words a bitter irony as he felt himself drawn further into the darkness of his desires.

His hand moved lower, fingers trailing down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. His touch was gentle, but there was a weight behind it, a hunger that he could no longer deny.

He could almost see the curve of your bare skin beneath the thin fabric, the outline of your body that he should not be imagining. He tried to focus on the prayer, but every word felt like a lie. He let out a shaky breath, the prayer faltering on his lips. "Guide us... guide us in your light," he managed, his voice thick with the weight of his longing.

The storm outside raged on, the wind howling as if to warn him, but Father Charlie could no longer hear it. All he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears as he looked down at you, so trusting, so willing.

As the final words of the prayer fell from his lips—"Amen"—you echoed him, your voice soft and unwavering. You blinked open your eyes, looking up at him with such innocence and Charlie felt himself slip past the point of no return.

He knew that no amount of prayer could ever cleanse him of what he wanted, that he could no longer pretend, no longer fight against the pull that drew him to you—the sweet, precious nun who had unknowingly captured his very soul.

Father Charlie stood, his robe slipping slightly from his shoulders, exposing the toned muscle beneath. The wind howled outside, and thunder bellowed again, followed by a flash of lightning that lit the room in a brief, startling blaze of white.

You were still kneeling before him, your wide eyes following his every movement, the flickering light casting you in both shadow and radiance.

Charlie bent at the waist, his fingers reaching out to cup your jaw, thumb caressing your bottom lip as his half-lidded eyes trailed over your face. "Sister ____," he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted kind of affection, his name for you almost reverent, as though you were something sacred, something he could worship in his own unholy way.

You blinked, shifting slightly beneath his touch, a soft stutter escaping your lips. "F-Father...?"

He grasped one of your hands, his fingers wrapping around yours, and as he stood, he gently urged you to rise with him. His gaze never left your face, his eyes dark and full of something raw. He began to speak, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words heavy with confession. "As a man of God, there are expectations placed upon me," he started, his tone wavering between remorse and something darker, something that made his grip on your hand tighten. "I am meant to guide, to protect, to remain steadfast in my faith."

His other hand moved, slowly pulling your trembling hand against his bare stomach, pressing your palm against the hard planes of his abdomen.

You gasped, your eyes wide as you looked up at him, your hand trembling beneath his. The heat of his skin burned into your palm, the muscles flexing beneath your touch.

Charlie continued, his voice lowering, growing more intense as he spoke. "But these days... these days, Sister, I find myself at war. At war with desires that threaten to consume me..." His words trailed off, and he let out a low hum as he rubbed your hand across his stomach, the movement slow, deliberate.

Your hand hesitated for a moment, the warmth of his skin making you tremble as you instinctively pulled back. But his grip was firm, guiding you back, and slowly, tentatively, your fingers splayed across his stomach, your touch feather-light.

You swallowed hard, your eyes flickering down before you took a timid step closer, as if drawn by some invisible force. Your gaze shifted to the side, your cheeks warming with embarrassment at the proximity, at the way you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

Father Charlie's eyes never left you, and he could see every ounce of hesitation, every flicker of uncertainty that danced across your face. He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke, his voice a low murmur, "There's no need to be afraid, Sister. You are safe here... with me."

You blinked, your lashes fluttering as you dared to look up at him, your eyes meeting his through the veil of uncertainty.

There was something in his gaze, something dark and magnetic that pulled at you, made your pulse race. His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw; the touch almost comforting, but there was an intensity behind it that made you shiver.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice to speak, your fingers trembling slightly against his skin. He smiled, a slow, almost predatory curve of his lips, and he hummed again, satisfied with your silent answer.

His other hand moved to rest against the small of your back, pulling you just a little bit closer, his robe parting further, exposing more of his chest.

Your breath hitched as you felt the distance between you closing, the way his body seemed to envelop yours. You could barely think, your mind clouded with the storm of emotions and the strange, electric pull you felt toward him.

His thumb traced along your bottom lip, his eyes darkening as he watched you. You felt your pulse quicken, your knees weakening under the intensity of his gaze.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a mix of praise and something darker, something that made your heart pound even harder. His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your body react, leaning in just slightly, as if craving more of his warmth, his touch.

His fingers trailed lower, coaxing your hand along his body, and you felt the tension, the desire in every muscle. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a husky whisper, "Let me show you, Sister ____... let me show you what devotion truly means."

He kissed you then, his lips crashing against yours like a man starved. His mouth moved hungrily, tasting, devouring, and you felt his tongue lick into your mouth, coaxing a soft, surprised whimper from your throat. His groan vibrated against your lips, the sound raw and desperate.

Your head spun, your senses overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sheer need in his kiss.

You pulled back, gasping for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kiss. He didn't give you a moment to recover; his lips moved to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

He nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your knees weaken beneath you. The heat of his mouth trailed down, his tongue flicking out to soothe each small bite, and you felt your body trembling, a warmth pooling low in your belly.

Charlie's hands were relentless, holding you steady as your body threatened to give out, your knees buckling as his mouth worked against your skin. He pulled back only long enough to whisper your name, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger.

Before you knew it, he had scooped you up, his arms strong and sure as he carried you towards his bed. Your breath hitched, your fingers clinging to his robe as he moved, each step filled with purpose.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His eyes roamed over you, dark and filled with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Father Charlie moved quickly, his hands deft as he pushed your slip off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your skin and pooling around your waist. His lips followed the path of the falling slip, pressing soft, lingering kisses along your shoulders, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

You shivered beneath his touch, the cool air of the room prickling at your exposed skin, your nipples pebbling in response.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you, and he let out a low groan, his hands running along your bare arms, feeling the way you trembled beneath him. "You're like a goddess," he murmured, his voice thick with reverence and lust. "Perfect. Untouched. A temptation I can't resist." His lips found your collarbone, kissing, nipping, his words vibrating against your skin.

You felt heat rise in your cheeks, your heart pounding as his lips moved lower, trailing down the center of your chest, his hands spreading across your back, urging you to arch into him. His kisses were relentless, each one making your breath catch, making your body react in ways that felt both unfamiliar and thrilling.

You couldn't stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do, where to touch.

Charlie pulled back for a moment, his eyes locking onto yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He pushed you back against the bed, guiding you to lie down, his hands never leaving your body, his touch possessive, as if he couldn't bear to be without contact. He looked down at you, splayed out before him, your slip barely covering you, and he licked his lips, his eyes raking over every inch of your exposed skin.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dripping with a mix of adoration and hunger. "So innocent, so pure... and all mine." He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss, his hands working the slip further down your body, baring you completely to him.

The cool air made you shiver, your body exposed, vulnerable, and you couldn't help the way your legs shifted, instinctively trying to close.

Charlie's hands moved to your knees, gently but firmly pushing them apart, his eyes never leaving your face as he watched your reaction. His lips moved from your mouth, trailing down your jaw to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as he groaned against you.

He pulled the slip away entirely, tossing it aside, his hands roaming over your bare skin, mapping every inch as though he were committing you to memory. "You are... perfection," he muttered, his voice strained, filled with a hunger that made your breath hitch.

His lips moved lower, trailing down your body, leaving a heated path across your chest, your stomach, and further down. His hands were strong, keeping your legs pinned open to the bed, his fingers pressing into your thighs with a possessive hold. He kissed along your inner thighs, his warm breath fanning over your skin, making you shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly.

You instinctively tried to scoot back, to move away as you felt his breath getting closer to your core, but Charlie's grip tightened, his hands holding you firmly in place. He looked up at you, his eyes dark, almost predatory, as he whispered, "Stay still, Sister... let me worship you."

He breathed you in, a deep, satisfied groan rumbling from his chest. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if savoring the scent of you, and then he leaned in, his tongue licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

A squeal, half surprise and half pleasure, escaped your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

Father Charlie's tongue moved with a purpose, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently before flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud. His hands kept your legs spread, his grip firm and unyielding as he worked his mouth against you, his groans vibrating against your core.

He was relentless, his mouth moving with a hunger that made your head spin, your fingers gripping the sheets beneath you, trying to ground yourself as waves of pleasure washed over you.

You could feel his smooth skin against your inner thighs, the sensation only adding to the overwhelming pleasure that built inside you. His tongue moved in slow, teasing circles, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against you, his eyes flicking up to watch your every reaction.

The sight of you—your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest heaved with every ragged breath—only seemed to spur him on, his groans growing louder as he tasted you.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, your hips bucking against his mouth, a whimper slipping from your lips. Charlie's hands moved to hold your hips down, pinning you to the bed as he continued, his tongue delving into you, his nose brushing against your clit as he worked, utterly consumed by the taste of you.

He was lost in it, in you, his tongue moving faster, his mouth desperate as he devoured you.

You gasped, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, your body trembling beneath him. The heat built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter, until you felt like you might break apart. His name fell from your lips, a breathless plea, and he groaned in response, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.

Your back arched off the bed, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, your body ready to fall apart under his touch.

Your first orgasm washed over you without warning, a blinding wave of pleasure that left you feeling weightless, your entire body trembling as you came undone beneath him. You melted into the bed like butter, your limbs going limp as the intensity of it left you breathless.

Charlie's mouth moved against you with a fervent hunger, drinking in every bit of your release as if it were the most sacred offering.

A small whimper escaped your lips as the sensation grew overwhelming, your body growing sensitive to his touch. He didn't stop, his tongue moving lazily, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from you, his mouth still savoring you.

Your grip on his head shifted, your fingers now pushing at him, trying to get him to stop, but his hands only gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you in place. "W-Wait..." The heat in your stomach was already starting to build again, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue igniting another fire deep within you.

Charlie groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core, his face buried even further between your legs, his tongue relentless.

Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, your body trembling once more as the pleasure built. You could feel another orgasm approaching, your mind spinning as you tried to form words, but all that left your throat were broken, incoherent sounds—static that filled the room as you babbled.

You tried to scoot back, to move away from the overwhelming sensation, but Charlie's strong arms wrapped around your hips, yanking you back down, his grip unyielding. His own hips pressed into the bedding below, his desperation evident as he devoured you.

You teetered on the edge once more, the pleasure too much, too intense, until it finally broke over you again, your body arching, your mind going completely blank as you came undone a second time.

The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on you, the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming ecstasy that left you gasping for air.

As you came down from your high, your body trembling, Father Charlie finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He stared up at you with dark, lidded eyes, his expression filled with hunger, with desire that seemed insatiable.

There was no hesitation, no regret—only a raw need that made it clear he no longer cared about going against his vows, no longer cared about the priesthood or what was right.

All that mattered to him was you.

A/N: i'm sorry, i just watched Grotesquerie last night and i've become obssessed.... ugh, the tension between father charlie and sister megan is just *chefs kiss* it's clear that megan is obviously meant to be y/n and the screenplay was written in the intent of it being catered to the female gaze because wheeeeww 😩...