#but what is not okay is following the progression of multiple scenes

[saetoru]

anon that sent me the ask about the geto fics being similar—yes :,) i agree they were eerily similar :,) so i did message the person to handle it privately and they’ve agreed to take it down so thank you for bringing that to my attention :,)

​sorry to make a vague post ab this on dash but i wanted to address it to the anon so they were acknowledged

[hannieehaee]

desperately need scoups x brat reader where she’s somewhere she isn’t supposed to be and keep pushing his buttons 😫

18+ / mdi

content: dom!seungcheol, afab reader, smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, penetrative sex, etc.

wc: 1510

a/n: thank u for requesting <333 hope u enjoy <3

masterlist

seungcheol was sure as hell what he was seeing wasnt true.

because if it was true, then that would mean you lied to him, and his pretty and sweet girl wouldnt do that to him, would she?

except it was true. there you were, in the background of one of your friends' stories as you downed a shot in the club.

it's not that seungcheol was over protective (okay, maybe a bit). he just cared too much for your safety. he knew that the scene during nighttime in the city could get a bit dangerous, so he just preferred you stayed home on days in which he had prior engagements and was not available to come pick you up in case something went awry. the both of you always agreed that that was reasonable enough, which always kept seungcheol at ease.

but today it seemed like you wanted to break the rules.

as he continued to watch the myriad of stories multiple of your friends had posted, he could always spot you peaking somewhere in the background; never really making a full appearance in the stories – almost as if you'd been attempting to make sure that seungcheol would not find out about your little rendezvous.

maybe his annoyance wouldnt have been as big if this had been just some random occurrence. maybe you'd just forgotten about your agreement or something. but seungcheol knew that wasnt the case. you had brought up the idea of going out on this specific sunday about a week ago, which seungcheol had sadly advised you against since he knew he'd be unavailable for the entirety of the day and would not even be able to make it home until the following night. you had agreed with ease and the subject was not brought up again after that.

the situation only got progressively worse as he saw more and more stories posted by multiple of your friends. as the minutes went by, more stories kept popping up, with your own eventually showing up on his feed.

now you were just being shameless about it, going as far as posting videos of yourself as you danced and drank with your friends, even at some point sending him a cute selfie of you with your makeup done and a dazed look on your face that indicated to him that you were most likely buzzed.

and now all seungcheol could do was sit there in confusion as he analyzed your behavior. had you purposely avoided the subject just so you could go back on your word and even go as far as to taunt him? that just would not do for seungcheol. no. now you were forcing him to take matters into his own hands. now he would have to leave the company earlier than expected and explain to his members that he'd be unable to stay the night at the dorms like they'd originally planned to do. all because you'd decided to be a brat.

~

he knew he had time to spare in arriving to your shared apartment. since you'd been out clubbing, he assumed that you would likely be back by 1am or so, so he made his way home at 12 and had a while to spare before you made your arrival.

he had not responded to your selfie in the way he usually would (with a variety of flirtatious messages in return), but had instead chosen to ice you out until he could receive you at home and deal with you face to face.

after your unanswered selfie, you had decided to occasionally send your boyfriend the occasional pouty emoji and teasing texts asking him if he was mad and if he was going to 'deal with you' when he came back the following night. pleased with knowing you weren't expecting him home tonight, he put his phone aside and calmly waited for you to arrive, already thinking of how he would put you in your place.

only a few minutes later and he could hear voices coming from the hallway, likely you bidding your friends goodbye before distractedly making your way inside.

you hadn't noticed at first, only jumping back when you'd already put your purse and coat down and making your way into the living room.

"holy fuck! jesus christ, cheol. announce your presence next time, you almost killed me."

"really? that's all you have to say to me? i cut my day short and endure your brattiness and this is how you greet me?", things weren't off to a good start.

"baby ... cmon. i just went out for a few hours. it's fine! nothing happened," you approached him with a cheeky smile, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"you said you'd stay home, then proceeded to go out and tease me about it. that's not really my definition of fine", he let you grab onto him despite his annoyance, even wrapping his own arms around your frame.

"i only did that so you'd know where i was. i didnt wanna worry you ..."

"oh? so you were being good? are you sure about that, angel?"

"mhm, scout's promise," you gave him a childish grin.

"baby, you were never a scout."

"still! im sorry, cheollie ... didn't mean to make you mad."

"but i feel like maybe you did ..", his arms squeezed you even closer to him, eyes a little dark.

"well, about that ..."

"hah, so you did want to make me mad, huh? any particular reason for that, angel?", he saw this as the perfect opportunity to start running his hands up and down your body, which was clad in a tiny little dress he had yet to see on you.

"j– just wanted your attention, that's it!"

"oh, you have it. and you're gonna have even more of it."

no further words were spoken as he quite literally swallowed them into his mouth as he kissed you. he showed no mercy in the way his tongue snuck into your mouth and his strong arms manhandled you all the way into your shared bedroom, shredding your sad excuse of a dress off on the way.

"want my attention, baby? well, now you're gonna have it all night."

he kissed you again and again, eventually laying you down on the bed as he made his way down between your legs.

pressing light kisses along your thighs, seungcheol drank in your whines for more, knowing that your pleasure was in the hold of his hand and that only he could decide when you'd finally receive any type of stimulation.

"cheollie, just ..."

"just what?", he licked so so close to where you wanted him, but still not enough.

"kiss me ..."

"kiss you where, baby? here?", he pressed a fleeting kiss to your weeping cunt and accompanied it with a flick of his tongue.

he repeated this action a few times as you whined for more, adoring the way you mewled his name.

unexpectedly, seungcheol then got up and fully separated himself from your cunt, now throwing off his own clothes to join you on the bed. that's when he caught your adorable look of annoyance at him.

"oh, you thought a brat would get her pussy eaten? are you new here, baby? all you get is my cock, and whether you cum or not is not my problem."

with that, he entered you, making you cry at the sudden intrusion before allowing you a few moments to get used to his size inside you.

his groans and praises at your tightness could not be helped even when he meant to punish you. even knowing that you had been disobedient and a brat (and that you had lied to him), he still wanted nothing more than for you to cum with him, which was why he began angling himself in a way that he knew would hit that special spot that always had you wailing his name and leaving scratch marks on his back.

as expected, you became delirious as he fucked his cock into you, begging for more and more despite already taking on his brutal pace.

"be thankful for what i'm already giving you, brat," he thrust extra hard as he said this, making you arch your back and pressing your nude chest against his own.

seungcheol's punishing pace only sped up with time, soon arriving to its crescendo as his body begged him for release, with your own orgasm following his as his hand went down to caress your clit.

he fell exhausted next to your own limp body, barely able to hold you against him as the two of you caught your breaths.

"angel, just ask me to come with you next time, jesus", he chuckled breathlessly.

"then how am i supposed to get you to throw me around like this?"

"you have a chronic case of being a brat. i think we need to fix that", he turned to you, beginning to feel you up once more.

"hmm. yeah, i think so too," you giggled in the return, clearly very into the idea.

[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 ✶

[wannabanauthor]

The little nuances of BuckTommy always gets to me. I’ve rewatched their first kiss scene nearly everyday. Seriously, it’s my bedtime routine to watch it multiple times before going to bed.

Anyway

It takes pictures of that scene for me to realize how fucking scared and terrified Tommy was after their first kiss. He’s able to exhale, but the look on his face was so serious and scared. He knew what a huge risk it was to kiss Buck (known womanizer who used to have sex in the fire engine), but he did it anyway. He didn’t even have a hint of a smile until Buck says “yeah, that works”. Then he smile slightly and asks if the kiss was okay because he can’t help but feel giddy.

I do love that Tommy likes to pretend to be the overt confident one, and it works for Buck because he believes it without a second thought. But seeing Tommy’s confidence shaken for a few seconds was gold to me! It makes him human and endearing. It also illustrates that even though he’s been out and around the block a few times, there’s still that fear that even in LA (a city that pretends to be progressive yet is trying to get rid of homeless people for the Olympics), he could be in danger of homophobia. Yet he thinks and is correct that he’s collected enough evidence to prove that Buck is into him, yet it’s still a leap.

I love Tommy Kinard so much.

Now onto his soulmate, Evan Buckley:

Nearly every single scene or moment before the first kiss, Buck is smiling at Tommy.

In the helicopter, smiling at Tommy.

After Bathena is reunited, Buck is touching Tommy and smiling at him.

During the tour, lots of smiling.

During the basketball scene when they chat at the beginning, Buck is smiling so hard at Tommy. The way he smiles so big when Tommy fist bumps him, and the way his eyes follow Tommy onto the basketball court. God, Buck was crushing so hard.

Even when Tommy showed up to the loft to talk to him, Buck’s first expression (or one of the firsts) was elation. He got Tommy’s attention. Sure, he showed up to Buck’s home unannounced, but Buck was internally happy. He tried to play it off like it was nothing and tried to act surprised, but secretly he was like “yes, I’ve gotten his attention”, but then there was the confused look when he closed the door.

His expression of “I wanted this so badly, but now that he’s here I don’t know what to do” but good thing Tommy had a conversation topic on mind and a schedule to keep.

I swear, sometimes, I think Tommy plans for his interactions with Buck to be kept short so he can seem even more cool when he has to leave. I’m totally not projecting my own method of flirting of “hey look at all the cool plans I have, don’t you want to spend time with me”.

Back to the point:

Even after the kiss, Buck was elated again when Tommy asked him out. His face was so pure and excited when he said “Yes, I’m free”. He finally got what he wanted, and he wanted it even after the kiss. He was ready to be Tommy’s one and only.

Actually, Buck reminds me of that shark post of when lemon sharks get jealous of tiger sharks who befriend the lemon shark’s human scuba diver friend. Idk if it’s actually true about sharks, but that is clearly Evan Buckley coded. Let me find that picture…

Yep, this is definitely Evan Buckley when it comes to Tommy 🤣

I don’t even remember what my original point of this post was, oops.

[inuyashaluver]

Loving your fics could we get a laia aleixandri one

love notes - laia aleixandri

laia aleixandri x reader

description: in which you’re out for the season due to an acl injury, your girlfriend leaving notes for you to find during your time at home while she’s out

warnings: mentions of injury - i guess it’s considered a bit angsty?, spanish in bold italics!!

a/n: helllooooo, hope you enjoy this one, thank you for your love and support!! xx

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

you and your girlfriend, laia, grew up together in spain, progressing from childhood friends into lovers. you both followed each other everywhere, going to the same clubs at the same time to ensure you would never have to be separated.

laia and you loved to play together, many people found it surprising how the both of you weren’t sick of each other after knowing each other for so long, but when they see you interact with one another, they realise the mutual affection and how much you both mean to each other.

you were a winger for man city while your girlfriend was a defender. frequently working together to achieve a win for your team. each time the both of you do something well, the other will always be the one first to celebrate. when one of you got injured or badly tackled, the other was the first to you, checking if the other is okay before going to defend your lover.

laia swore that you made her a better player, always wanting to impress you, you feeling exactly the same, both of you wanted the praise of your significant other. she frequently told you that she wouldn’t be able to play without you, you promising her that you would always be there. and you were…until a manchester derby has laia’s world crumbling down.

you had the ball, ready to pass it over to lauren hemp so she could strike, just as the ball left your foot, your marker moved at the same time, your body twisting to avoid them and immediately feeling your knee pop. you let out a heartbreaking scream, clutching your knee and falling to the ground.

laia, behind you the whole time saw the entire scene in front of her. her eyes tearing up hearing your blood curdling scream as you roll on the ground in tears. she sprints over to you, kneeling down and placing your head on her thigh.

“cariño (dear)“ she breathes out, both of you having tears rolling down your cheeks. you were hyperventilating at this point, not even registering that your girlfriend was the one consoling you right now, the pain in your knee unbearable. laia signals for the medics to come, looking down at you worriedly.

“bebé (baby), deep breaths okay?” she moves to sit behind you, your back resting against her front while your legs remained stationary to the floor. you do as she says, matching her breathing patterns and eventually calming down, while the medics determined your injury, all you focused on was your girlfriend whispering words of praise in your ear: “i’m so proud of you”, “you’ve done so well”, “i’ll take care of you no matter what, mi amor (my love).”

the medics look at each other with saddened expressions, “(y/n), we’re so sorry” laia’s grip on you tightened, holding you impossibly closer to her chest. you smile, absolutely defeated and shake your head at them, you already knew what it was coming. “it’s your acl, we need to get you on the stretcher and take you off.” a singular tear rolls down your cheek, laia quick to kiss it away, giving you multiple kisses on your cheek as a form of comfort, doing wonders for you honestly.

all she kept thinking about how hard you had been working, not only at man city but the spanish national team also, another tear runs down her cheek at the thought of you degrading yourself.

you were hauled on a stretcher, laia holding your hand and getting you and her subbed off. but not before giving a murderous glare and a shove to the player that was marking you, she wasn’t blaming it on her, she just needed to take out her anger. everyone clapped as you were taken off, your teammates sending you comforting but pained smiles your way.

about two days after, you had managed to get an early surgery, laia taking a week off training to be with you, acting as your own personal nurse.

she couldn’t stop touching you, scared you would disappear if she stopped. like always, she knew you like the back of her hand, knowing that physical intimacy eased your worries. for the rest of the week, laia showered you with love and affection during the beginning recovery stages. carrying you everywhere, making your favourite foods, watching your favourite movies, whatever you wanted, you got it.

laia was completely heartbroken when her week was up, meaning you were left at home by yourself. she knew you would be feeling down that she wasn’t there for the beginning parts of the day due training, you kept reassuring her you would be fine but she just couldn’t believe you, she could see right through you.

—

her first day back, she woke you up and carried you over to the couch. she had woken up early, creating a comfortable space for you, the couch decorated with soft pillows and blankets, pulling the coffee table close and setting it up with your breakfast, a big bottle of water, your favourite snacks and setting up your favourite show for you to binge watch.

you were in her arms as she showed you her creation, you were so touched at her display of affection and care for you. you place your arms around her neck, pulling her into a tight hug, hiding your face into her neck, hot tears making contact with her skin. she quickly rushes to the couch, sitting down on the couch with you sitting in her lap. she coos and cradles your head to her chest.

“bebé (baby) don’t cry” she slots a hand through your hair, lightly scratching your scalp with her nails to calm you down. you look up at her with a pout, putting one of your hands out to cup her cheek. “mi corazón (my heart), i love you” when she hears the nickname and words you’ve said to her thousands of times, she still reacts the same way, grinning brightly with flushed cheeks. “i love you more, mi amor (my love)”

she reluctantly gives you a loving kiss goodbye, a sweet melody of moving lips, full of love and passion even though she would be back just before lunch. you kept pushing her away with a giggle as she leaned in again after each kiss, shaking her head and saying “one more” each time. “bebé! go!” you exclaim, “promise you’ll call me if you need anything?” she pleads with a slight frown evident in her face. “pinky, bebé!” she smiles at you once more, peering at you behind the door before she closed it to make sure you were really okay.

you were enjoying your set up that your sweet girlfriend had carefully and thoughtfully constructed, indulging in it all. the only thing missing from this however, was the bathroom, and due to your girlfriend keeping you nice and hydrated, you needed to go. you hobble with your crutches, a short distance from your desired location.

once you finally arrive to the bathroom, your heart stops. your bathroom mirror was littered with pink sticky notes, all containing a small love letter to you. “i love you”, “you’re beautiful”, “i miss you”, “you’re my favourite” throwing in some cheesy pick up lines too just to make you giggle. you couldn’t believe it, laia was such a softie for you and everyone knew it, but this was just on a whole other level of love.

—

once you hear the familiar jangle of keys in the door, you perk up from your spot, peering over the couch to look at the front door. as soon as laia walks in, she gives you a bright smile, giving you a little wave when you smile back at her.

“laia aleixandri, come here right now please” you say with a mischievous smile, holding your arms out, she quirks her eyebrow at you but rushes over, rushing into your outstretched arms.

“hi bebé (baby)” she grins as you rest your weight on her comfortably. before she could let in another word, you pull her down into a searing kiss, gasping when you slip your tongue into her mouth. she grins into the kiss, your needy (her favourite) side showing. you run your hands up and down her arms, giving her biceps a gentle squeeze, you returning her grin when she lets out a small whine of satisfaction. ‘curse her knee’ she says to herself.

you pull away, pupils completely blown out as you look at each other with lovesick grins. you grab her hand and intertwine your own with it, giving her hand a kiss. “thank you for your notes, mi corazón (my heart)” she looks down at your hands, sheepishly, feeling silly but it all washing away when you pull her into another quick but passionate kiss.

you grab the back of her neck, pulling her ear to your mouth, “i loved them”, placing a gentle kiss on the shell of her ear, giggling as she places numerous pecks on your face and neck in response. and so, everyday, laia left you love notes on the mirror, you collected each one in a box and storing them.

you and laia are just in love. there’s nothing else to say but that. you’re in love, and you both couldn’t be happier.

⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆ ★ ⋆

just pretend it’s you - MWAHHH

liked by esme.morgan and 44,232 others

laiaaleixandri: i get through the day knowing it’s one step closer to you and i playing together again, i love you, my girl @/yourname

view all comments

yourname: i get through the day because of you in general

↳ yourname: mainly because you make me breakfast every morning

↳ laiaaleixandri: wow okay 😞

↳ yourname: I LOVE YOU

↳ laiaaleixandri: i love you too, i guess

↳ yourname: wow okay 😞

[showtoonzfan]

So to sum up, here’s what Viv did to Ken regarding the document:

1. Saw their fanart of Cherri Bomb, asked if she could use their pose as a reference for Cherri’s character sheet, but instead traced the pose and despite saying she’d give credit, never did.

2. Excuses the fact that her idea for Sir Pentious’s third eye being an emote to him was a copy of Ken’s character they refer to as “TF”. Ken mentions it made them uncomfortable and suggested that his hat be an AI or something Pen created himself, but obliviously in the final product of the pilot, it was never explained what Sir Pen’s hat was or why he had it.

3. MOST importantly, NEVER credited Ken for their involvement with writing the Hazbin pilot. Viv goes to Ken multiple instances, admitting she isn’t the best at writing and only comedy, and needs help. She shares some ideas with Ken, and here are the following ideas and scenes that Ken came up with THEMSELVES that appeared in the final product of the pilot:

The joke scene where everyone laughs at Charlie, but Angel dust is brought up with her proudly saying he’s making great progress, only to cut to him on the news helping Cherri out and everything being screwed up for her, saying “oh shit” or “oh fuck”.

Angel being the only patron of the hotel, and only being there for a free room, with Vaggie and Charlie scolding him that he would change and him not caring

LITERALLY WAS THE ONE WHO CAME UP WITH ALASTOR APPEARING IN THE PILOT AND WANTING TO INVEST IN THE HOTEL BECAUSE HE’S BORED.

Alastor and Husk knowing each other PERSONALLY and Alastor being the one who hired Husk to help

The joke scene where someone brings up that they’re trying to help sinners not encourage this stuff and Angel immediately says “shut up we’re keeping this”-

The joke scene of Angel telling Al he can do the deed and Al immediately going “haha! No!”.

Came up with the idea that Al’s introduction on who he is should be through Angel asking Vaggie and came up with the “wait you don’t know him?” - “eh not big on politics”- dialogue.

Alastor’s line of “If I wanted to hurt anyone here, I would have done so already”-

And yet, despite being responsible for these jokes and plot threads, when Erin had confronted Viv about being credited, Viv had all this bs to say:

At first she rambles on about how she didn’t credit because apparently the stuff Ken came up with was early draft shit? Despite the fact that everything I listed above was in the actual pilot? And then didn’t want to credit them because she wanted to make a “promotional” post despite Spindlehorse not even being created yet and Ken had every right to ask for credit since it’s true that people DO assume that Viv does all this stuff by herself. And apparently telling everyone what members did what is too much for Viv, because Ken’s getting paid anyway so that makes it okay! Then Viv being Viv thinks Ken is attacking her and pulls the poor pity me card simply because she couldn’t understand what Ken was asking her I guess, but I suggest y’all read the entire doc because I’m scratching the surface, I just bring this up because the writing was the most important part.

4. Blacklisted and talked horrible of Ken behind their back. Ken was hesitant and late into signing the document, but eventually Viv had started to speak negatively of Ken to other members, calling them an abuser ect:

Again, read the document for full context, but this is just fucking awful, especially since at the same time when this was happening, Viv had been talking to Ken at the time and being all nice. It’s just amazing how awful Viv sounds, how she thinks Ken is out to get her and her show, all for wanting credit and wanting to make sure they didn’t sign their rights and characters away. Someone who had literally helped Viv on the pilot and was there for her in a vulnerable time of need, got treated like dirt, and it is NOT okay.

Please spread the document link:

[gri1evances]

Devilman Crybaby - An Analogy for Love

[ i've just rewatched the series for the 6th time, here's an essay i wrote about it a while ago ]

Warning: this following doc contains spoilers for Devilman Crybaby

Before I begin, I would like to make a note saying this is pure speculation and my thoughts and opinions on my three watches of the series. I have gone through and made notes on things that have stuck out to me episode by episode, and each interpretation of the characters is based on my own opinions. Enjoy.

-

“Love’s not real. There is no such thing, therefore there is no sorrow. That’s what I thought” Is the opening line of Devilman Crybaby, delivered by Ryo Asuka. The first line in this series being about love and a character’s interpretation of it gently opens the gates to the rest of the series and the subtle undertones of love scattered throughout the episodes and the relationship between characters.

From the start, Ryo is portrayed as a cold character with an unhinged side, shown in his initiation of the massacre of the Sabbath. Yet, whenever speaking to Akira, Ryo seems to soften, as if letting down his walls for the one person he may consider a friend. Akira Fudo, on the other hand, is a gentle soul, as shown in the opening scenes of him reaching out to Ryo, asking if he’s okay, and protecting the kitten the two had found on the cliff, putting himself in harm’s way to make sure Ryo wouldn’t injure it. Akira bleeds love, and it is shown through all his actions in the series, from following Ryo to the Sabbath to fighting him head-on in the final episode.

Part one: Before the betrayal (Episodes 1-5)

Akira Fudo

Episodes one to five focus on showing the audience more of Akira and Ryo’s friendship and how it developed from that to codependency, where Ryo took advantage of Akira’s kind heart and his love for his friends and humanity and used that as leverage to eventually put Akira in a situation where, no matter what he said, Ryo managed to successfully manipulate the world and turn it against Akira and the other Devilmen.

From the first episode, it is evident that Akira has unconditional love for everything that lives, and he is a very sensitive person at heart, having an almost ‘sixth sense’ where he can tell what someone is feeling even if they don’t know it themselves, earning himself the nickname ‘Crybaby’. An example of this is in the first minutes of episode one, where Akira is crying after the death of a kitten he fought hard to take care of. Ryo asks him why he is sad since he knew the kitten was dying, as “The weak ones die” and Akira counters his words by saying “You’re crying too, Ryo” which works as direct foreshadowing to the final episode, where Ryo sheds his first tears in his life over Akira. Throughout these episodes, Akira shows multiple different forms of love in the connections he makes, the first being platonic love, shown in his relationships with Miki Makimura, Ryo Asuka, and other people he meets whilst following Ryo, and the second being familial. The show of familial love is seen both in his encounter with his deceased parents after they had been absorbed by a devil, and in his relationship with the Makimura family, where he acts as an older brother figure to Taro, and almost as an adoptive son to the Makimuras. These are the two major forms of love Akira shows throughout the first half of the series, however, other forms of love are shown as the series progresses.

Ryo Asuka

From the get-go, it is made explicitly clear that Ryo is not a good person. He is cold to the world outside of himself and Akira’s friendship, and even then the word ‘friendship’ doesn’t seem to quite cut how he feels about Akira. To Ryo, Akira is a pawn, and he has been ever since he returned from America and swept him away from the docks to bring him to his house. He knew what kind of person Akira was, and took full advantage of the fact that he would do almost anything to help his friend, even accompanying him to the Sabbath to help with Ryo’s ‘research’. Ryo never shared his intentions with Akira prior to arriving, and he led Akira into danger for the chance that Akira would assimilate with Amon and become a Devilman. He knew that Akira’s heart was too pure to be completely corrupted by the assimilation, making him a new form of devil and therefore an important part of Ryo’s research.

Through the assimilation, Ryo created a codependency with Akira- he placed him in a situation where Akira couldn’t tell anyone else what he had done and who he was now except for vague comments, such as him saying to Miki ‘This body needs a lot of fuel’ as they were walking home together. He put Akira in a situation where Ryo was the only one he could speak to regarding his current state as a Devilman, and in return, Ryo would provide him with enough food to fuel himself, but would also make Akira accompany him and record him in his Devilman state. At a point, Ryo became obsessed with being the only one with access to this footage, going as far as finding the home address of the photographer Nagasaki to wipe the files from his computer, and then get rid of any evidence that he had been there in the first place. Ryo realized Akira was special, and he wanted to do anything he could to keep him under his thumb for his plans to go smoothly.

After the betrayal (episodes 6-12)

In the second half of the series, love seems to take a backseat as violence and the war against humanity come into full swing, however, the undertones are still there and still lingering, from Taro’s mother sacrificing herself so her son didn’t go hungry in his Devilman state, to Miko’s confession and declaration of love and admiration towards Miki. However, as the other characters seem to have grasped at and come to terms with their own forms of love, Akira’s love towards Ryo flickered and faded away after his betrayal and attempt at turning humanity against Akira. Ryo’s plan was simple; turn Akira’s love towards humanity into hatred as humans turned against him and whoever stood beside Akira, so Akira would side with him in destroying humanity. However, underestimated how much Akira truly loved his family and his friends- Miki’s death ruined him emotionally, and instead of running towards Ryo and wanting to enact revenge in Miki’s name, Akira knew that she would still have been alive had Ryo not betrayed him.

Akira Fudo

Akira slowly became a shadow of himself following Ryo’s betrayal, especially after he discovered that Miki had defended him publicly online, and as a result, had died horribly. Akira’s last remaining family had died, and he witnessed the cruelty of humans firsthand as he saw his friends body parts be raised on stakes and waved as trophies in front of the remains of what once was his house. Despite this, Akira still wanted to save humans. He wanted to make sure Miki’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain, he wanted to hold out hope that humans and devils could co-exist, and he wanted to do it to honor her.

Despite his previous close relationship with Ryo, Akira’s love for humanity outshines whatever love he had towards Ryo, especially following Miki Makimura’s death. As Akira’s love for him decreased, Ryo’s love for Akira seemed to grow more and more, growing from a (questionably) platonic love into obsession- obsession with wanting Akira by his side as he destroyed the world, and a deep desire to be able to control him the way he could control the other devils.

Ryo Asuka

After his successful slaughter of the human race, Ryo was left with the consequences and the aftermath. He repeats what he said in the first episode- “Love’s not real. It doesn’t exist, therefore there is no sorrow. At least, that’s what I thought.” but this time he turns and asks “Akira, why am I the only one whos speaking?” and it is revealed that Ryo successfully killed Akira. For the first time in his life, Ryo begins to feel emotions to someone other than himself- he realizes, too late, that he too, loved Akira, in a way that was left open to interpretation by the audience. Ryo realizes he is now alone, and he killed the only person he loved. Perhaps that was his divine punishment from God- not being exiled from heaven, but made to live the life of a human and feel their emotions, and only then he could understand the true wrongs of what he had done, both towards humanity and to the one person he cared the most about.

Despite starting as something codependent and possessive, Ryo’s love towards Akira was real, and therefore so was his sorrow. He grieved the loss of his love, and in doing so he felt a minuscule amount of the pain he had caused Akira to go through by tipping the dominos that inevitably caused the death of the Makimuras.

At the end of it all, Ryo lost. He may have succeeded in wiping out humanity, but the loss of Akira stunted him and made him realize that he could have everything and destroy it all, but nothing could fill the void caused by the loss of a loved one, let alone when their death was caused by your actions. Satan had never been as human as he was at that moment, faced with the aftermath of everything and a newfound understanding that there was no reversing it.

Love through other characters:

Despite Ryo and Akira’s crumbling relationship as the series progressed, other forms of love blossomed and died, one being the unconditional love of Noel and Akiko Makimura towards their son, Taro,

Familial love:

Upon discovering that her son was now a Devilman after he consumed a dog to satiate his never-ending hunger, Akiko decided to leave to protect him as best as she could. Inevitably, Taro’s hunger began to hurt him, and so Akiko sacrificed herself so her son could eat. Noel Makimura found them after tirelessly searching, and he was distraught as he found Taro, in his Devilman form, consuming his mother. After seeing his father Taro began crying, perhaps out of the guilt of having killed his mother, or fear that his father would inevitably kill him, however, both Taro and Noel met their demise as a firing squad shot them both to death, with Noel’s final words being those begging the officers to stop because his son was in the tent.

Romantic love:

Episode five shows a reference to a deeper romantic love between Silene and Amon, as well as Caim and Silene. Amon was Silene’s lover at a certain point before he had assimilated with Akira, and Caim was devotedly in love with Silene. While Caim longs for Silene, she repeatedly puts him in his place and tells him she would never love him, yet despite this Caim still sacrifices himself for Silene in her fight with Amon.

Another direct relation to romantic love is seen through Koda and Junichi. Although not much is known about Junichi, his death greatly affected his boyfriend, Koda, who became distant from his former self and eventually turned against humanity to ‘survive’.

Miki (Miko) Kuroda’s confession of love towards Miki Makimura was another example of romantic love. Despite her confession being rushed, as the two were being hunted, Miko declared her love to Miki in the midst of it all, with Miki reciprocating, saying she loved her too. Miko proceeded to sacrifice herself then, to give Miki a head start in running in the hopes she’d get away. She spent her last moments begging for Miki to be spared, and ultimately her sacrifice was in vain, as Miki was baited with the deceased body of Wamu before being brutally killed and dismembered.

Ryo’s love for Akira could also be seen as romantic, and I believe this is the case. Akira is the only person Ryo seems to genuinely care and be concerned about, even if inevitably he betrays him, he seems like a softer person whenever he is around Akira, and he realizes his feelings for the other when it is too late.

All in all, Devilman Crybaby is laden with undertones of love, and the story itself is an analogy for many different kinds of love as well as how love can be corrupted by lust. Love is what helped Akira Fudo inevitably win against Satan, and love is the reason why the story of Crybaby is a time loop, the story repeating itself over and over again every time Ryo kills Akira. Love is Ryo’s divine punishment; he is made to suffer through love and loss over and over again in a never-ending loop as his punishment for defying God, and he can never change the order of events with each new cycle his mind is wiped clear once more. From Akira and Ryo’s troubled relationship to Taro and his mother, there is always some form of love being represented on screen, whether it is obvious or not, and by realizing that and understanding the emotions Ryo is neglecting to realize, the heavy aspects of the show seem to hit twice as hard as, at the end of it all, even in his mighty heavenly glory, Satan is reduced to nothing but a lonely man in the absence of love.

[gunkreads]

Okay, but for real this time.

What on earth were they thinking with Nynaeve's non-arc this season? The arches were a dead end--there was no clear intent with those and no clear change, either forward or backward progress, in her. Instead of framing the arches as "Face your fears so you can solidify your sense of self and cement your motivations to becoming an Aes Sedai", they were just framed as "Face your fears. 'Cause." The show did not follow the arches up with any reason why they had to happen. There was no payoff for them. Why did she go through them? What tools did she gain from them? What scars did she gain from them that she didn't already have? The mental damage done in the arches overlaps too evenly with the issues she already had to deserve an entire episode of major focus. She came out of them almost identical to how she went in.

Why has the show changed the nature of her block? Why did she end this season not only completely impotent, but also DIRECTLY overshadowed by other characters whose roles in the story give them no reason to step into Nynaeve's role as a combat medic.

Okay, so let's assume that the showrunners have decided that they wanna slow-burn Nynaeve's arc to become a healer--they want to have Nynaeve be outstripped by her closest friends, have them become her superiors at the thing that used to be Her Thing, then have a big heroic speedrun where she breaks her block and makes a ton of progress and is Healer Supreme. If this is gonna be what they do, they're fucking it up. One, I just don't like it, but two, more importantly, they have not focused enough on her specific failures. The show has only focused on Nynaeve's inability to channel. In the show, like in the books, that's not really something she cares about; instead, she cares about her inability to Heal. Of course, channeling is how she does that, but it's secondary to the actual ability to make things better. Because the show doesn't do enough to emphasize the specific reason she's frustrated with her block, it feels like she's missing the ENTIRE core of her motivation. Don't like it. Whatever. Moving on.

Actually, not quite yet: What was up with cutting back to the Looney Toons girls sitting in the exact same position in the courtyard like 4 times in that last episode? What function did that serve? The function I believe it served was to do an embarrassingly bad job reiterating that Nynaeve can't channel. We know. Why did you take multiple separate scenes to establish that? Why did it take her so long to realize she couldn't use this power that she's almost never used? I know that "being arrowshot" is not high on the list of problems a Wisdom has to fix on a daily basis, but come on, man. It's a flesh wound; you know what to do with flesh wounds.

Why has Nynaeve been rewritten throughout the show into such a panicky person? She had such a strong sense of focus in S1, but S2 has really knocked her down too many pegs, in my opinion. I get that the whole "almost dying" thing made everything much harder to approach--though it was completely unmentioned in S2 for some reason--but the writing in S2 completely stagnated Nynaeve. She never did a single goddamn thing on purpose and was dragged everywhere she went. Even though it was only 3 episodes, I would've liked a little more actual back-and-forth between her and Elayne, with each of them getting corrected by the other, rather than just... Nynaeve being wrong every time. I don't feel that this does any credit to Elayne, either.

Elayne is very nearly a non-character, not in the sense that she's actively dull, just that she's... so off-puttingly normal and level-headed. First off, why is she just big chillin with an arrow through her leg? Ach, whatever. I'm a little upset that I don't really have enough material with her that I can make any solid assertions.

Except...

Are you fucking kidding me with that shit at the end? She's the one to Heal Rand's gut wound? What the hell and/or fuck? Robert Jordan did not make an entire cast of women while carefully omitting "nice, polite, awkwardly maternal healer love interest" for these assholes to make a mockery of the surgical precision with which he avoided that.

Anyway.

Where was my sword fight in the sky? Don't answer that. I just miss it.

Also, what the hell was up with that Joss Whedon-ass "let's all team up together! Woohoo team moment!" shit against Ishamael? How hokey can we get? Please tell me that was the cap.

Also also, what was the big old power jump for Rand suddenly being able to control his channeling? Did one little conversation with Logain and one bit of practice breaking Moiraine's shielding make him able to fucking Terminator a crowd of dudes? Like... Ach, whatever, I'll just phone in the analysis and say it's a sign that Lews Therin got a much stronger grip on him after he rejected Lanfear.

Hey. Where was Ingtar's beautiful, beautiful last stand? Where was his admission that he was a Darkfriend, but he believed Rand could save them all, so he was betraying the Dark? I know where it was; they dropped it in S1E8 when they had Rand head off on his own, eliminating any chance to set it up. Still sad they cut such an amazing scene.

Anyway, Egwene and Perrin are the main characters and everyone else is a sideshow. They're the only characters in the show who seem to have actual arcs, or progress of any kind, on the single-season scale. Sure, Rand and Mat changed between seasons, but during this seasons, they were mostly static. The most basic metric I know for this is that if you transplanted their E8 selves into E1, they wouldn't have made any crucially different choices that didn't involve "knowing secrets".

Season 1 started strong and fell off linearly as it went, then ended in the dirt. Season 2 started weak, built up to be fucking stellar around episodes 5-7, then fell off a fucking cliff in the last episode. I dunno.

Once again, I'm having a pretty solid time with each episode, but the show just feels badly-written. Little clarity of purpose.

[kailoraurelius]

Hey! I’m curious what are YOUR fic recs 0_o

My fic recs??? Oooh, okay, hold on. Lemme pull up all the hundreds of tabs on my phone.

Of course, Experimentation by Redlance. Tried and true and NOW COMPLETE OMG???

Literally anything by iPhone. Hella creative, great voice and characterization. I've had multiple iPhone stories open in my tabs for literally years.

I used to reread over and over a story called Favorite Record, where Beca was a single mother and Chloe was an old schoolmate and they reconnect. But it's GONE AND I'M SAD, SO IF YOU FIND IT, SEND IT TO ME PLS AND THX.

Baby, I Know Places We Won't Be Found by hedaswolf (amazing author name, I'm js.)

Forgive Me These November Days by obstinate_questionings. So good. There's a specific line that I've never forgotten even though it's been years since I read it. "Chloe’s heart was too full as she stared at the girl who, so it appeared, would follow her anywhere." Like, stab me in the face, it would be a faster death than this wtf.

Irrational by Grotchon, which I just recently found. It's still in progress and I'm STRESSED waiting for more! But so worth reading immediately so we can all hold hands and wait for more together.

And if you're looking for something that ISN'T Bechloe, I will offer up:

Allegiance and, its second part, Avowal, by fullyajar. Shannara Chronicles, Princess Rover. Hella well written. An exceptional talent for setting and horror. So good, dude.

Satin Town by coalitiongirl/absolutely anything by coalitiongirl. Once Upon A Time, Swan Queen. Love me some fantasy setting and dark intrigue. Like, Ow, but it's real good.

Safe by SgtMac. Another story I revisit often because it's so well written and because it really touches on healing sometimes needing space and pain.

Our Hearts (Have Minds of their Own) by EffortlesslyOpulent. It's been a while since I read this one, but I seem to recall a VERY interesting scene on the edge of a bed somewhere? Hm.

Banishment by tothevision. It's been a very long time since I read this one, but I remember it being very well written and having a great portrayal of guilt vs. anger.

And A Different Landing by RhinoMouse. The 100, Clexa. Amazing writing style and a real gift for switching perspectives that I haven't found elsewhere. That story's writing style has inspired a (secret) future Bechloe story of mine, so it deserves some reads.

Think that's enough for now lol. Hope y'all enjoy!

[sassyandclassy94]

Last Line Tag

I tagged myself because last I knew, America is still a free country, darn it.

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you like).

I’ve been working on multiple things so I’m gonna post a few. Buckle up, buttercups.

Untitled Don x OFC oneshot:

“You look nice!” She stated as she quickly glanced at him from his head down to his feet. His hair was combed neatly (like it always was) and he was wearing his Sunday best: black pleated slacks, a crisp and pressed white shirt with a subtle design on the fabric, suspenders (despite belts slowly becoming more affordable again), a dark tie with a dotted design, and Oxford dress shoes. His black blazer was either hanging off the door or draped across their bed but once he’d put it on, it would complete his look. He shot her a sideways glance and nodded before she headed for their bedroom.

Untitled whump fic about Bobby (which may or may not be based on personal experiences)

But now? As the afternoon was coming to a close? Things were not so great. He started feeling off when he was getting dressed for the crew’s victory party; he felt tired and sore but chalked it off as simply being in the sun all day. It wasn’t until he got back to his room that he saw how red he really was. Sure he noticed his arms getting a tad pink but now he saw how bad it really was. His reflection nearly caused him to jump out of his skin.

“Oh this is just perfect…” he said to himself as he inspected his arms.

“I Feel Like Gold” (part of my ‘He’s Progressed and She’s Impressed’ series)

“And it meant I did my job well, right? Because,” he paused, looked down for a moment before he lifted his eyes to her again. “It sure sounded, and felt, like I did.” He flashed her another lopsided grin.

Kate felt blood rush to her cheeks and shyly grinned at him. “You, you did.” She stammered. “You definitely did.”

Untitled Bobby x OFC fic (I stress about titles later, okay??)

“Don’t make a scene,” he scoffed. “You say that I’m not good enough because of my height and you tell me not to make a scene?” His voice reached his coxswain volume and when Tilly tried to shush him, he waved her off. “No! You don’t get to shush me. You know what? Fine. I don’t care if you find my height undesirable. Really, I don’t care! But what’s really pathetic is how you led me on over this entire year!”

Swan Song - an ANGSTY SwanFire story told through Henry’s point of view (see?? I’m still writing SwanFire, girlies!)

“I just can’t. But I want you to have it. Maybe you can give it to the girl you decide to marry one day, I don’t know. But I know you’ll keep it safe for me.” I noticed tears forming in her eyes again. “This was the first gift your father ever gave to me,” she paused and smiled fondly at the memory. “For my eighteenth birthday. He said I didn’t seem like the diamond earrings kinda girl - which of course he was right - and knew I loved swans… so, he got me this.”

“Secrets, Lies, and Blessings” (this one is a THORN in my side, I swear I’ll never get it done)

“No,” Emma shook her head and looked back at her reflection. “I just don’t wanna, ya know, squish the little prince.” She may not have been pregnant for very long but she was already becoming very protective of her unborn son.

Yeah, no… I’m not tagging THAT many people. I don’t even FOLLOW that many people…

No pressure Tags: @coneygoil @eviebelieve-y @swanfireprincessmydear @heatherfield @morningdawnbreaks (do you write?? I can’t even remember, it’s late here in my corner of the world so if you don’t I’m sorry😭) @strangethings-everywhere @okieedokes @fan-writer02 @selkiesstories I don’t know… if I missed anyone, or if you’re a writer and want to participate, have at it! You can even say I tagged you!

[worldismyne]

Seeing how you actually are able to keep your promise of weekly chapters, any tipps to commiting to a schedulde? I often think with all my free time I should be able to do the same with my storys but I just get burnt out or distracted and then self loath cause when I actually have the will again I have work responsibilities or other important stuff going on

Don't commit to an upload schedule until the first draft is finished.

Write to entertain yourself, not to meet a deadline.

Write as much as you can while the idea is new and exciting.

When soft writing and/or brain storming, I like to make a playlist specific to that story. The scenes I have that are tied to specific songs are the easiest to write.

Find the 1 hr on your days off that you have the most energy. (For me it's right after breakfast). Try as often as you can to write then. Even once every other week, is amazing.

It's okay to leave fics unfinished.

Your freetime where you rest is important

Listen to audiobooks in the same genre that you're aiming to write.

Whenever stuck, don't google, put < get there > and keep writing. When editing go back and either add to the scene or just cut it. 9/10 if I think a scene needs something to start it off, it actually doesn't.

(Longer explination of my process under the cut).

DON'T COMMIT TO AN UPLOAD SCHEDULE UNTIL IT'S ALREADY DONE.

I write as much as I can while hyperfixating on a story without posting it. So the draft for the fic I'm uploading atm was finished three months ago. I started uploading when I had 16 chapters written (or 4 months of backlog).

I can't count on how long an idea will hold my interest, or if I have enough material to stretch it out over multiple chapters. (I only just recently got into one shots. If you look at my other fics, I average around 20 k for a 'long' fic, because I get bored). So don't hold yourself to a strict length. Write the important, most engadging parts, walk away, come back and make sure it flows.

The important thing is I'm writing to entertain myself. Writing for a self imposed deadline or to meet audience expectations always burns me out. (No amount of kudos or comments will ever combat that)

I work 3, 12 hr night shifts a week, so a lot of the writing I do is during downtime at work. I personally find it difficult to write at home and spend a great deal of time recovering from working. The body needs that time to recover and it took years of unlearning that rest and self care are unproductive or a waste of time. If your work doesn't allow you that luxury, have a place out of the house you go to for longer periods of writing.

The playlist thing is a lifesaver, never discount the importance of soft writing. I literally can not visualize things, so music helps me have an outline to plot out scenes or chapters (i.e. what tone am I trying to capture). Also works to reignte the spark of inspiration. The time I'm most active is the morning, but that time often gets eaten up by real life, however it's easy to budget a half hour of time to that peak writing time. Those lil bits add up. If you haven't made progress on something in a while, it isn't a bad thing that you've prioritized other things. The writing process should be fun. It's like playing pretend, but you get to keep it afterward.

It's okay to abandon fics.

I still reread unfinished fics people posted, because what they had up was full of passion. A lot of the fics I couldn't finish were either the scope of the story was too big for what I wanted to write or the direction I was taking the fic wasn't working. Crest of the Dragon was on a 6 year hiatus before I was able to come up with an ending I liked. I was surprised people who'd followed it and left tumblr came back just to congradulate me for finishing it. Your readers will understand if you have to step away from something for a while. Updating serially often puts fic writers in a corner, by having the WIP up for everyone to see.

Burnout is usually not from the writing, but the real life shit going on around us. It can take years to figure out the main source and how to deal with it. Mental and emotional rest are important. I'm a bit neuro spicy, so there are straight up weeks where I have to resign myself to not creating anything. Having the back log helps in those instances, since l typically make things in fevered burst and then have to recoop.

Recently figured out listening to disc world novels has helped with my SE fic. It has good examples of absurdest humor, world building and general descriptions. I don't have time to read, but a lot of audio books are free on youtube. If you really, really get stuck, seeing how a pro tackles things can help even subconciously.

<get there> is my new friend. I'm not big on writing non-linearly. For longer stories, I'll parse out the main story beats and then hope the characters develope in that direction. Sometimes they go off the rails on me, or a planned subplot gets scraped. So, for this fic, I had all the mystery reveals spaced out between the two storylines. For character arcs, I go on explorative vibes.

All this to say, writing for me is an escape, and most of the time I'm doing it when I'm in a position where my options are either be on my phone or write. If I got 15 min or more, I choose write. If I got a sentence out, that counts.

It doesn't have to be perfect, or finished, or written in a timely matter. It just has to be, as long as what you're writing entertains you. Worry about uploading once you're done with it.

[construingseacats]

Umireread: Legend of the Golden Witch - Chapter 3: Guesthouse

Sat, Oct 4 1986 - 12:00 Noon

The following contains spoilers for the entirety of Umineko. Please do not read if you are yet to finish it.

Interesting note in the tips about how there’s canonically multiple “on” servants on Rokkenjima, and that Kanon and Shannon just happen to be the two that we see. I wonder what Yasu’s other personalities are like… and how many costumes she has to be able to fool the rest of the family.

Not entirely related to Umineko, but I do like how George is still considered “one of the kids” at age 23. Speaking as a 27 year old, entirely accurate, he’s still a baby, but it’s so common to see pieces of media treat people in their early 20s as bonafide adults - so this is really refreshing to read.

BATTLER DON’T SEXUALISE THE FUCKING CHILD. This is undoubtedly the low point of Umineko jesus christ

There’s a point made here about Maria always keeping her promises - that’s joining the “George never lies” in the folder of things to keep an eye out for going forward.

George??? You can’t just laugh and say “the cousins didn’t feel complete” without Battler in response to him talking about groping a 9 year old??????? Like, maybe there’s a point here about how Yasu would have been a similar age to Maria the last time she met Battler and crushed on him, but really this is just indefensible, creepy writing that the story is much worse for.

Moving swiftly on - it’s interesting how Kanon is introduced as being around 2 years younger than the group, but Shannon is described as being the same age. I suppose it’s an intentional ploy to make sure they’re not twins (which would raise more suspicion about them being the same person, and could risk skirting close to Knox’s 10th), but it’s still something to take note of. I wonder what the ages of the other “on” servants are given as?

Yasu once again stuttering as her mind fills with thoughts of “hot boy”.

I hate the justification here. Like, I’m glad that Ryukishi is at least trying to paint Battler as more than a mindless perv by saying he does it as an act to lighten the mood, but like, you’re still writing him as a perv. You can just have him be charming without trying to randomly sexually harass every girl he meets. But then I guess he wouldn’t be taking after Kinzo, eh?

So. This scene.

I think of all analytical re-reads of Umineko, this is probably the most notorious scene to pick apart, since it’s simultaneously another case of Battler being a creep at the start of the story, but arguably one of the most important moments where Yasu’s entire plan was inches away from falling apart.

On the one hand, I am a sucker for the stuff going on behind the scenes here - Yasu wants to be caught. She wants Battler to discover that Shannon is a fake identity, but Battler being unable to “commit to the bit” (if you will) prevents him from doing so, and there is no universe where he is able to prevent the massacre before it even begins. It’s dramatic irony at its finest.

But… What message does that really give? The moral is “if Battler was more of a perv then everything would have been okay”, which is, uh, not good? The most charitable reading here is one of Yasu writing this scene intentionally as “I wish Battler was more forward/aggressive but he’s a real gentleman”, which I’m still not super on board with. That potentially has some insight into Yasu’s psyche and messed up relationship with sexual urges, especially if you see it through the lens of a metaphor for Yasu being unable to engage with other people in that way, but that still leaves us with the big issue here.

The biggest problem is this is another scene of Battler being a creep far before the audience is hooked. So far, we’ve been introduced to almost 20 characters, none of them have really done anything yet, the plot hasn’t progressed beyond “they’re here for a family meeting”, and our protagonist is out here sexually harassing women once again. I legitimately do not blame anyone who gets to this point and then immediately puts Umineko down, never to pick it up again. Maybe this would have been a good scene to put at the start of Episode 2 for the earlier reasons, but as is, it just does far more harm than good to the story as a whole. Nevertheless, we powered through it the first time, so we’ll keep pressing through here as well.

Nice pause before furniture here. I can’t help but feel that she scrambled for that excuse, and that the real reason she’s hesitant to stop people from Battler-ing her is, once again, because she’s desperate for her deception to be uncovered. 

It’s extremely funny to see this just plainly stated and brushed away. I sure hope this isn’t foreshadowing to Kanon and Shannon being the illegitimate heir of the Ushiromiya family or something.

Alright, after Battler being the absolute worst against Maria and Shannon, I think we’re through the low point. Don’t get me wrong, we’re about to barrel into the inheritance discussion, which is possibly one of the driest parts of the whole story, but I’m fairly sure all the perv stuff is out the way and we can stop being disgusted at the guy we’re supposed to root for.

There’s a throwaway comment here from Maria about seeing herself as unsociable and it just kills me. My heart breaks for her. Although we haven’t got to the point of her going full creepy kid, so who knows, maybe I’ll grow to hate her again.

Interesting first mention of the war here. It’s one of those details that seems superfluous in the moment, and you’re probably skipping over it automatically, but the history here is fairly significant.

The big door sound effect in Umineko is definitely one of the more iconic ones in it. I can’t help but think that it sounds a lot like a video tape being played (heck, maybe it is, sound design is all about lying to your ears). I know it’s likely unintentional, but it feels thematic with the whole elements of having a fantasy story play out before your eyes.

bore-ral intensifies

And here’s our Golden Witch.

Umineko is a masterclass in misdirection with a lot of its writing. There’s a common theme where it will walk you through a truth, but then go “but no, you’re smarter than that, that can’t be right” and make you abandon the reality that it just waved in your face. In this case, it’s the discussion about the Witch in the Forest and Folklore - you’re told there’s a Witch out there, but come on, you and I both know that these sorts of stories are just made up to stop kids from running into dangerous places, so that’s clearly false. Anyway, while your ego is being massaged, there actually is a Witch in the Forest that the kids needed to stay away from, get rug pulled nerd

Would the 2 year time period of the portrait being installed roughly line up with Kinzo’s death? I’m not sure if it’s just an element of the reworked graphics, but you can see a portrait in Kinzo’s study as early as the Prologue, so I’m wondering if they just took the one that he had in there and placed it out here.

There’s a line here about the whole thing being creepy as hell - I can’t help but wonder whether she’s actually talking about the portrait, or the whole covering for Kinzo act.

No wonder you feel the same misfortune, given she’s the one who blew up the shrine to test that the bombs still worked.

Aha, here’s the dismissal of the sexism in the Ushiromiya family that I was looking for. I’m happy to rescind some of my comments about the presence of it in Chapter 1, although the story did leave that hanging in the air a little long for my liking. Especially considering Battler needed way more redeeming features to make up for his actions in these first few chapters.

Once again, very bold of the story to be going into excruciating detail about the Ushiromiya family before any of them have been endeared to us. Getting all of the details out of the way now definitely makes for a better story later on, but man, I just wish that anything of import had actually happened yet.

A lot of the discussion on chauvinism and sexism takes a very sorrowful tone when viewed through the lens of Yasu’s writing. If women are only good as “borrowed wombs” and she’s reduced to the level of furniture after the accident…

I also feel pretty sorry for Natsuhi here as a fish out of water. I honestly can’t wait for Episode 5 to see her front and centre again.

And then they all starved. The end.

God this scene is so good. Jessica is taking any chance she can to rebel against having to pretend Kinzo is still alive. Seeing her go “I feel better without him” and having Natsuhi slam her down for knowing the real connotation of that is *chef’s kiss*

A sealed room… I’m sure we won’t be seeing many of them in the future.

It’s interesting how our first proper fantasy scene isn’t even related to the murders or the actions of Yasu, but of Krauss pretending Kinzo is still alive.

Kinzo would know all about having your own body used as firewood.

Honestly, it’s kind of incredible how this scene immediately establishes the servants as associates for the fantasy scenes. As soon as we get the red truth that Kinzo died before the game begun in the Episode 4 Tea Party, anyone revisiting this scene really has the entire game blown open for them.

Sure is, buddy.

Sure are, buddy.

The mental image of Genji just sitting alone in the study and kicking back as he drinks to himself is so funny to me. I can’t help but wonder what he was feeling in these moments of protecting the masquerade.

Yasu giving the gold medal to Yasu here. Everyone else is unworthy.

…Well, that’s what the story is about, at the end of the day. Dealing with the true leader of the Ushiromiya family having multiple people in the same body.

We’re still in the opening stretch and we’re already repeating ourselves, woof. I’m glad we’re getting more Kinzo time since he’s the one actively reminding us of the actual plot, but I don’t think we covered any particular ground here that we didn’t already show off in the Prologue. I wonder if anyone has done a count of all the times we get a proper “BEATORICHEEEE” in the story.

I’m really glad Jessica is having so much fun with the Kinzo lies. She clearly doesn’t want to keep up the facade, but has to, so she’s making her own entertainment out of it to cope with the situation. As someone constantly inventing personal win conditions and games to play to stave off the suffocating mundanity of a normal life, I relate to that hard.

End of Chapter.

Bonus round!

Ah, I'd entirely forgotten about the Fukuin house stuff - yeah, you're right. I'm actually mildly disappointed by that, since it kind of nullifies the point on Shannon and Kanon's names being a reflection of their Ushiromiya heritage (since they're just names given out to all the orphans), and also the idea of having more personalities than just these 2 was kind of fun. I'd definitely be interested in seeing someone take a stab at a forgery with a third Yasu personality in the mix.

Seeing George projected onto Battler is definitely an interesting take, although I'm still a little concerned that this is falling more into "Ryukishi is horny" territory than a fully fleshed narrative idea. As much as I'd love to give him the benefit of the doubt, it's a bit too suspect given some of the treatment Rika and Satoko received in Higurashi. I suppose the real thing to see is whether this crops up again post-message bottles, or whether we can truly confine this to Yasu's writing.

[xluciifer]

You and @kttybot need to stop hurting me with Lucifer/Kitty. 😭 I don't think I read anything on your blog regarding Lilith? Can you go further into depth about why hearing Lilith's voice out of Kitty wasn't a comfort and more of a trigger for him?

Me and @kttybot plot A LOT behind the scenes. Plenty of which we still haven't even introduced to the Tumblr followers yet!

Buuut, yeah, you'd think hearing the voice of someone who was your entire world and miss dearly would be a comfort, it wasn't. It was definitely triggering to him, it's a topic he never touches on, never mentions her name, etc. For his own sanity if anything.

I've left what had happened to Lucifer and Lilith kind of up in the air because I don't really have a Lilith to flesh out that part of him yet, really. I have the wonderful @hellarchy but we're in the midst of settling in Hell before rebuilding it and making it their own in v ; the fall and revival. Plus they have a lot of active muses too. ❤️

But I imagined some sort of falling out had happened. Or she's dead. Or Lucifer has convinced himself that she's 'dead' only because she's no longer with him/around/in contact with. And Lucifer hasn't come to terms with it and still wears his wedding ring. His depression's really done a number on his mental state.

He still has photos, videos, etc hidden in crevices in his home that he refuses to look at and acknowledge. And the one audio clip Kitty ended up finding was the one he used to torment himself over and listen to on repeat, just to hear Lilith say she loves him again. That's why it was so triggering to him to hear her voice out of Kitty's mouth for multiple reasons:

1. How did she find that audio? 2. Why did she think this would help him? 3. He was finally getting better with his depression because of Kitty's influence, so he's grown to have feelings for her and to hear a ghost of a person he's been trying to forget out of the mouth of someone he currently had feelings for fucked him up. It was whiplash.

So he reacted, violently, out of character. But that didn't make it okay. Kitty didn't know, she was designed to be the perfect companion and she's been thus for him, it was on Lucifer because he never opened up and talked about Lilith really with her. It was already bad that some traits of Kitty reminded him of Lilith but that he was easy to let slide and overlook. Kitty knew he missed Lilith and just wanted to help him.

But because of this event, he hurt someone he vowed to never hurt and it'll trigger him back into his shell, destroying the progress they've made because the two things that he doesn't talk about that keep him chained to his depression is: Lilith, and Heaven.

He's grown comfortable in the wake of his depression; and so, he'll revert back to the man he was before Kitty and him met, not contacting or reaching out at all and sticking to what he knew best to cope with what he knew: creating in the silence of his home. His self loathing gets worse because he hurt someone that he cared about the most due to his flaws.

He'll never forgive himself for it.

[rallamajoop]

Hi !! I've followed your fics across multiple fandoms, and I've always been really impressed by how quickly and consistently you're able to put out works. How are you able to write seemingly so quickly?! Do you use betas? Do you spend a lot of time planning, or are you more of a chapter by chapter writer? I'm always really fascinated by people's process. Thank you if you answer this, and have a good day!! :D

Well, thank you first of all ‒ it's always such an ego-boost to know anyone's following me across fandoms! But as for 'how I write so fast', I think 'seemingly' may be most of your answer. I do like to have some fic to post every week or so, but my consistency on that comes and goes. I've done okay so far this year, but only if you ignore the part where I posted nothing during the whole month of February, or in the entire last quarter of 2023 ‒ and there was a solid 6 month gap where I posted nothing back in 2022 as well.

Back before I hit my current stride in Witcher fandom a few years back, months or longer between fics was even more the norm for me. Productivity on the fic-writing front comes and goes in bursts for me for all sorts of reasons. But it's not unusual for several bits and pieces I've had not-quite-finished for months to end up getting posted close together though, even after I've been quiet for a while, which might help with the illusion I'm better at keeping up that schedule than is really accurate.

Even when I am actually managing to keep that weekly schedule, a lot of what I post is short (2K or less), and gets lumped together into anthology-fics like Spare Parts, Viscera or The Beast of Castle Heisenberg (and other stories) (which also saves on the minor hassle of thinking up proper titles for them all). Coming up with short concepts like that is something I've always enjoyed doing (going all the way back to my time in xxxHolic fandom over a decade ago). Occasionally, I'll come back later and expand them into something longer (another habit that started way back in Holic fandom, actually), but posting them as shorts means that at least I've posted something, even if the longer version never happens. Whenever a fic works as shorter chapters, I'll post it that way ‒ it's just easier to edit in smaller chunks (and I can't really overstate how big of a motivator positive feedback is for me, if it does go down well with people).

Obviously, not everything I post lends itself to being broken down ‒ smut particularly tends to require much longer scenes, but stories like that have often been in progress for months before they actually get posted. At 15K in a single chapter, Quarantine stands out as the longest thing I've posted in years that I couldn't find any way to break down into shorter pieces ‒ and I'd been working on that one on-and-off since around, oh, August last year? Having multiple different things in progress at once works for me, because if I'm not in the mood to work on one, maybe I'm more in the mood to work on another. I'll often bash out rough drafts of various parts of a few different ideas in one spell if I'm in a good mood to just sit down and write, then come back to finish and polish them later. A lot of my ideas build themselves around dialogue ‒ having a good sense of the characters' voices is really central to how I think about writing for them ‒ so a lot of scenes might start as just dialogue, and then I'll come back and flesh out the rest later.

Planning… really depends on the length of the fic? Sometimes you need to know exactly where a story is going just to figure out how to start it, other times you don't realise half of what's really going on in a scene until you're in the middle of actually writing it down. For example, I currently have about three more (very rough) chapters of Follow Me Home sitting in a word document, which is as much of that story as I had planned out in real detail ‒ the rest consists of scattered scenes I know I'm aiming for later on. But in the process of writing them, I realised more or less exactly what needs to happen in chapter 4, so that's encouraging ‒ we'll see where it goes from there.

For years now, I've done most of my writing on laptops ‒ before that, first drafts were mostly scribbled down by hand in notebooks. I own a desktop computer too, but that gets used for so much else (work, gaming, watching videos, etc etc) that I find it's useful to have a separate platform that's 'for' writing, that's portable, something I can curl up with in a beanbag with, and (crucially) presents less distractions. A notebook or a low-spec laptop (my current one is a tiny tablet computer) is also something I can get out on the bus on the way to work or in a cafe while waiting for a meal. I wouldn't say I do most of my writing out of the home like that, but it's definitely a long-established habit.

It does help that I've been writing long enough to be reasonably confident with the general process of sitting down to make a story happen. I'm reasonably lucky just having the time and energy to dedicate to all this fannish nonsense, and to have an enthusiastic beta-reader/BFF who's always encouraging about my work ‒ she's seriously a huge help (and probably too kind with her critiques, if anything). It has taken many years of doing this to get to the point where I can do something like (for a recent example) realise there's a week or two left before the a challenge deadline and go, "oh, sure, I can bash out a few thousand words worth of smut in that time to fill a treat for that prompt I liked." But as a rule, a posting rate of maybe a couple thousand words a week, not every week, isn't that much of an output (it's probably a lot more if you count all the fannish meta I churn out too, but I mostly don't think about that too much). But writing means a lot to me, even if it's mostly fannish nonsense that makes no money, so it's something I'll make time for.

If I've got any advice that might be useful to someone else, it's to suggest that getting yourself to write something is usually better than sitting on something you're blocked on, even if that does mean perpetually getting distracted by the shiny new idea instead of staying bogged down on the huge WIP you promised yourself you'd finish (and maybe you will come back to that WIP later, fresher for having given your brain a change of scene ‒ or maybe not, that's not the end of the world either). Short fic is fine, more words do not automatically make a story better, and unfinished WIPs are just a fact of fandom (or even original writing). Part of the joy of fanfic is that you can jump straight to the novel bits, trusting your readers already know who these people are and how the base story goes (seriously, the number of fics out there that spend chapter after chapter just retelling canon in prose form boggles my brain).

But like all writing advice, if that doesn't sound like it'd be useful advice to you, it probably isn't ‒ what works for people can be terribly individual. No-one's obligated to aim for a couple of thousand words per week (let alone per day, to hit NaNoWriMo or Stephen King levels of productivity) if they're just writing as a hobby.

And I hope you're having a good day too. *g*

[lightning-macrine]

Izzy Hands is not a cut-and-paste villain and deserves to grow and change

No okay so I hate it when people try to make Izzy out to be some sort of master manipulator and possessive monster over Ed because he tried to leave!!!!! He was packing his stuff!!! He was preparing the dinghy!! He APOLOGISED for saying all those things!!!! And even after they survived, after Ed and Stede’s plan worked, he still accepted and owned up to the disrespect he’d shown his captain and tried to leave/resign as he said he would.

That’s what the significance of “I need you” is, instead it’s actually Ed (possibly unknowingly) manipulating Izzy into staying with him because he knows he can’t go on without Izzy. He tells Izzy his ‘plan’, he “promises” (he doesn’t use the word promise but he highly highly hints at it and that’s how Izzy takes it:“he promised me”) Izzy a ship of his own if he stays. Izzy would have been perfectly fine leaving before this (he was practically docile!), before he was lured back in by Ed’s promises, Ed’s manipulation.

What Ed wants to keep Izzy around for (killing Stede himself because he can’t do it or keeping the ship running) isn’t fully clear but what is is that Ed knows what to say and what to do to make Izzy stay. Which is what makes me so frustrated when people demonise Izzy as some jealous hag (of course if we’re following DJ’s idea of him as a jilted spouse that’s certainly an aspect) because there’s multiple layers to just how spurned Izzy can and should feel here.

We know that Ed’s slowly become more and more distant, not telling Izzy and the crew what his plans are, and whichever plans he does decide on are dangerous and risky (ie. attack a Spanish naval ship!). We also know that Izzy has been the one handling it all the past few years. So of course he’s jealous that Stede and the Revenge crew are suddenly getting all this attention and affection when he’s been fighting tooth and nail for scraps of it for years. Of course he feels neglected when Ed continues to not tell him any plans (oh but he’ll tell Stede!) and the one plan he was told of progressively gets less and less likely to happen. It’s betrayal. A betrayal of his (and Fang and Ivan’s) trust, a betrayal of the years of work and energy he’s put into his role both physically and emotionally, and a betrayal of the lives of the crew members who died on his orders.

Of course, I’m not saying all his actions and reactions are justified, his ratting out of Stede to the British navy is definitely done out of spite and with malicious intent as well as with his genuine belief that he is protecting Ed (ie. sending Jack out to separate him & Stede, bargaining to keep Ed free), but I am saying that there’s no underlying dark evil master manipulator plan in all this. For as much as Izzy acts like a hard-ass, he’s very much controlled by his emotions and his pride. He wants to keep Blackbeard alive and get things back to how they were when they first started, so he works to do so. I truly don’t believe that he has a desire to keep Blackbeard under his control (look at how happy he is post-toe scene, his captain just mutilated him and he’s smiling, he doesn’t care what Ed does to him so long as his old captain comes back) but genuinely wants things to go back the way they were.

It isn’t healthy of course, for either of them, and part of his arc should be learning to accept the kindness and softness that Stede taught to Ed, which I do think is possible in season 2, purely because I do believe he’s not this unredeemable monster villain, but rather a very flawed and very human character who for all his faults has some valid reasons for the things he does.

[void-bitten-ghost]

Okay, bear with me.

Adult Dancer Y/N.

It's a normal Fazbear Pizzaplex, but with blackjack and hookers. Like, an entire adult area sectioned off with a guarded hallway with like 6 layers of security (for cheating purposes and to keep any kids out).

Faz co realised they were missing out on a huge market. Aka: the adults bringing their kids. So they made a 'bar' section (alcohol free) with poker tables and cage dancers. All themed of course. The animal costumes are a client favourite.

But yeah, human dancer y/n on their way to clock out. But they're being harassed by a group that will not take a hint. They're getting progressively more anxious and worried as the group just will not stop following them. So they head to the most anti-hor knee place they can think of. The Daycare.

OR. Maybe they have a kid? Maybe that's why they took the job in the first place. Stable hours and reliable childcare that they can check in on during their regular breaks. Probably pretty familiar with Sun then since they check their lil gremlin in and out every other day...

Anyway. We have a Y/n, being chased down by pursuit predators at this point, and they're heading to the daycare hoping that the intimidating presence of an 8 ft animatronic with security protocols will get them to back off.

It's not Sun that greets you.

The lights are off. You've never been in the daycare when the lights are off. Gosh, had you really been that late? You hoped your baby was okay. Maybe it was a bedtime protocol? Would you finally get to meet the elusive Moon you'd heard so much about from Sunny--?

You're grabbed. Multiple hands. Fleshy. Clammy. You bite and scratch and kick until there are no hands on you anymore. You hit the floor and there are bodies flying, hitting the glass walls with sickeningly wet crunches. You can't see the streaks they leave, can't see anything but the glowing red of LED optics in the dark. Optics that are trained on you.

This is how you meet Moon.

He's holding your sleeping babe close to his chest with one hand, the other suspiciously dark and shiny as he holds it out to you, helping you to stand on shaky legs.

You don't question. You say thank you because God knows what might have happened had those hands held you a minute - even a second - longer. You say thank you because he hands you your babe without a word, not a hair on their head out of place. And really, that's all you care about. The fact that even after hours, when their jurisdiction had long ended, the attendants had kept your child safe and secure...

Woah. I rambled huh. But yeah, original thought that sort of started this. Dancer y/n needing to pick their kid up earlier and in a hurry and turning up to the daycare in An Outfit. The kids are either curious or unperturbed by this, but it sends the adults into a FIT because you can't show your legs and arms to my child your shoulders are confusing my husband How Dare You--

Bearing in mind it's like. Shorts and a shirt. The least offensive one you could grab that morning knowing you had to go to the daycare earlier than usual... but you only did that so you wouldn't cause a scene but here you are, having a Karen(tm) aggressively crowd you back to the doors, stopping you from getting to the checkout desk and picking up your kid.

You're trying to calmly negotiate a way around the woman when you obviously Say The Wrong Thing about her husband specifically being one of thee worst customers you've ever had to entertain and she Swings for you--

You dodge, but you needn't have. There's a yellow and silver fist squeezing the women's wrist until the bones quietly creak. Sunny is standing there, leaning over menacingly with a ram-rod straight back, white eyes darkened to a dirty grey, revealing tiny white pupils that are practically shaking with a barely contained something while he stares the woman down.

"Violence Is Not Permitted Within The Daycare."

-_-_-

Jqbsbjsjbs okay maybe I just write a fic at this point idk 😅