#catholic men. i was like IS THIS ALLOWED????

[alliluyevas]

honestly growing up as episcopalian with an openly gay parish priest + my mom's side of the family being catholic the first time i encountered a priest who had a wife and children i was kind of shook.

[fxxlfxrlxvx]

Actually I do want to talk about how almost every single line Kurt had in episode 10 (and there weren't many) was explicitly religious and I hate hate hate it. Not only do I find it grating I also think it's lazy writing.

[sammygender]

i think im officially an ats fan. something just clicked

[hcneymooners]

⋆ arcane but it's a private university au ( for the girls: pt. i )

ice princess!f!reader x multi. f!characters. men & minors dni.

synopsis: private university!arcane headcanons but it’s really specific bc it’s based on my time at catholic private school except this au is just a private hold the catholic.

cw: this part contains scenarios for caitlyn, vi, & mel. the second part will contain sevika & ambessa bc i went a little crazy. suggestive content. notes: this was really fun to write. after part two, my attention will shift to answering the requests you sweet angels have sent me. i love you.

part two.

the road curved sharply as the gates came into view, their wrought-iron edges glinting in the low sweep of your headlights. beyond them, the school rose like smoke, its silhouette dark against the velvet sky, lit faintly by the soft gold of its windows. the building exhaled exclusivity, from the ivy climbing its stone façade to the manicured hedges lining the long gravel drive. you rolled down the window slightly for a bit of air. the breeze was scented faintly with pine and the cold, metallic promise of winter. you straightened your posture without thinking, your shoulders drawn back against the cool weight of your coat.

inside, the warmth hit you immediately, clinging to your skin like a lover's kiss. the chandeliers sparkled, their light soft and diffused, casting fractured shadows against the paneled walls. voices floated in the distance—low, murmured, intimate. you walked slowly, your boots clicking against the marble floors, eyes drawn to the oil portraits lining the halls. the faces in them were familiar in their arrogance: sharp jaws, heavy brows, lips set in expressions that commanded you to keep your mouth budded shut, like a flower.

your room was at the far end of the east wing, the door heavy and hinting at the beginnings of rot. the key turned smoothly, the lock clicking open with an almost luxurious softness. the space inside was all dark wood and rich fabrics, a fire already lit in the grate. you dropped your bag near the foot of the bed, its velvet coverlet cool under your fingertips. for a moment, you stood still, letting the atmosphere settle around you. outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and in the distance, you could hear faint laughter—a reminder that this place was alive, spilling with bloodlines as silver as the spoon in your own mouth. you wondered what they’d see in you, these strangers you were destined to meet. you wondered what you’d allow them to.

caitlyn kiramman: the academic rival.

୨୧ caitlyn was under the impression she’d be occupying a single suite. she strolled through the double doors, chin high, expecting the echo of her own footsteps in the vast, empty room. instead, she found you curled on the floor, the soft creature of your body lightly clothed, flipping through a thick novel with its spine already cracked.  

୨୧ you, too, had assumed the room was yours alone. after all, there was only one massive queen bed planted in the center, framed by ornate lamps that cast a soft glow over the wood-paneled walls. the two of you locked eyes, the silence loud with polite hostility. and then, as if on cue, both your smiles snapped into place—brilliant, practiced, and so painfully fake they practically gleamed. your families would be proud.  

୨୧ you managed to get housing on the line after some deliberation over who would cave first. 'apologies, girls,’ the voice crackled through the old-fashioned landline. ‘there’s been an overlap in scheduling renovations. west wing residents have been moved to shared suites in the east. it’s only for a few weeks—after winter break, your single rooms will be ready, and you’ll receive a refund for the semester.’

୨୧ you clicked the phone back into its cradle and turned to caitlyn, flashing another dazzling smile. ‘well,’ you said sweetly, gesturing to her suitcase, ‘shall we get you unpacked?’  

୨୧ during this time, you took her in—shamelessly, ravenously. she was tall and impossibly willowy, her movements languid like she’d been raised to glide instead of walk. her hair, a cascade so black it caught blue in the firelight (‘[name] it is blue.’), was swept into a ponytail so bouncy it could’ve been sculpted. she wore a thick knit sweater, tailored trousers, and a delicate diamond pendant—a ‘C’—that caught against her collarbone. her perfume hit you in waves: sweet, salty, like the black licorice you’d once eaten to excess in scandinavia. beneath it was something warmer—vanilla and caramelized citrus. you clenched your jaw to keep from leaning closer.  

୨୧ at first, the sharing was civil. one of you curled up on the bed each week while the other resigned herself to the chaise in the corner. but one night, you woke to caitlyn’s face above yours, pale and soft in the moonlight. her almond-shaped eyes glittered as she pressed a deceptively strong hand against your stomach to wake you. her perfume cloyed your throat as she murmured, ‘come on,’ her voice rich and clipped with her posh english accent. she slipped back into bed, her braid glinting in the dim light, and you lay there, swallowing hard before following her.  

୨୧ the real challenge wasn’t the shared space. it was caitlyn herself—her maddening proximity. the way her soft thighs brushed yours when she shifted in bed. the way her body, willowy as it was, still seemed to migrate toward you in the night, tangling with yours like it was instinctual. you woke up more than once during those weeks feeling hot, bothered, and frankly mortified, especially during the cruel timing of ovulation.  

୨୧ to make matters worse, she was your equal in class. the professor announced your tied scores, and you caught her turning toward you, her bright blue eyes sparkling with something like satisfaction. she smiled, clearly expecting camaraderie, but this was your achievement. your moment. you forced a tight smile in return, already plotting your next move.  

୨୧ and yet, caitlyn seemed determined to treat you as an equal. worse, a friend. she was everywhere—every party, every recital, every lecture. she linked your arm and whispered terrible jokes that you begrudgingly laughed at. she told you scandalous rumors about your professor and her husband, her lips brushing your cheek as the crowd jostled you.

୨୧ the glitter from her gloss smeared your skin, warm and wet, and when she tried to wipe it away, you told her it was fine. she blushed, and you hated how much you liked it.  

୨୧ she was infuriating. borrowing your curling iron to tease out her perfect curls, dragging you to track practice where she outpaced you with ease, leaving snacks on your desk during finals with notes written in her careful script. she was just so—so perfect, framed in silk and lace and lit by courtyard sunlight, her laugh clear as crystal and echoing in your chest.  

୨୧ wait.  

୨୧ winter crept into the suite on silent feet, frosting the windowpanes and painting the air with a chill that settled into your bones. the two of you existed in an uneasy truce, navigating the space like chess players plotting moves several steps ahead.

୨୧ you thought you had her figured out, until one morning you stumbled into the kitchen to find her brewing tea, hair tousled and cheeks flushed with sleep. she offered you a mug without looking up, the steam curling between you, and you took it—hesitating only for a second.

୨୧ for all her elegance, caitlyn was infuriatingly human in ways that caught you off guard. she hummed off-key while studying, left tiny notes for herself tucked into the corners of her textbooks, and cursed like a sailor under her breath when she stubbed her toe on the chaise.

୨୧ it wasn’t fair how quickly she worked her way under your skin, the sharp edge of rivalry blunted by moments like these. still, you refused to let her win, clinging to the fire that flared in your chest every time she smirked at you after a particularly cutting comment in class.

୨୧ the tension came to a head one evening in the middle of finals. you were curled on the chaise, poring over notes, when caitlyn waltzed in, hair damp from a shower and wearing nothing but an oversized sweater that skimmed her thighs.

୨୧ she plopped onto the bed and stretched, a picture of unbothered grace. ‘don’t you think you’re overdoing it?’ she asked, her tone almost teasing. your pen froze mid-sentence. ‘excuse me?’ you shot back, eyes narrowing.

୨୧ ‘i’m just saying,’ she continued, utterly unruffled. ‘you’re going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this.’ the concern in her voice was infuriating, and you snapped. ‘not all of us can coast by on professors' favor and good looks,’ you said, your words cutting sharper than you intended. her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she schooled it into something cool and distant.

୨୧ the silence that followed was unbearable. caitlyn moved to the chaise later that night, leaving the bed cold and empty. you told yourself you didn’t care, but the knot in your chest tightened with every passing hour. finally, just before dawn, you slipped out of bed and crossed the room, standing over her sleeping form. her face was peaceful in the pale light, and you felt a pang of regret so sharp it left you breathless.

୨୧ ‘caitlyn,’ you whispered, your voice trembling. her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. ‘i’m sorry,’ you murmured, your throat tight. she sat up slowly, her gaze searching yours. ‘i didn’t mean it.’ ‘i know,’ she said softly, her words a balm to the ache in your chest.

୨୧ before you could overthink it, you leaned in, your lips brushing hers with a tentative softness. she responded immediately, her hands threading into your hair as she deepened the kiss. the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled in one another, practically climbing into each other’s skin, the air thick with the heady scent of her perfume and the taste of mint lingering on her lips.

୨୧ the next morning, you called housing together. caitlyn leaned against the counter, her arm brushing yours as you spoke into the phone.

୨୧ ‘yes,’ you said, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. ‘we’d like to stay in the east wing for the rest of the school year.’ you hung up, and caitlyn turned to you, her smile soft and knowing. ‘looks like we’re stuck with each other,’ she said, her tone light but her eyes dark.

୨୧ you squeezed your legs together and let a finger sweep at the dip of her collarbones. ‘it wouldn’t be the worst thing,’ you told her. she smiled.

violet: the lacrosse prodigy.  

୨୧ the first time you saw vi, she was slouched in a mahogany chair at your parents' alumni dinner, looking like rebellion incarnate. her suit was expensive but deliberately disheveled—probably borrowed, you'd learn later—with the top button undone and a black tie hanging loose around her neck like an afterthought. you noticed her instantly: the sharp cut of her jaw, the shock of pink hair (freshly dyed, still bleeding slightly at her collar), and the way she balanced her chair on two legs like gravity was merely a suggestion.

୨୧ she noticed you too. maybe it was the way you held yourself, spine straight as a ruler, chin lifted in that practiced way that screamed old money. or maybe it was the way your silver-blue gown caught the light, clinging to you like morning frost on glass. either way, when your eyes met across the room, her smirk said she'd already made you her newest fixation. you looked away first, but you could feel her gaze following you for the rest of the evening, hot as a bruise.

୨�� by the time classes started, her reputation preceded her like a shadow. vi, the scholarship student who played lacrosse like she was outrunning her past. girls whispered about her in bathroom stalls and behind textbooks: how she'd grown up on the wrong side of the tracks, how she'd fought her way into this school with nothing but raw talent and a stubbornness that bordered on spite. how she moved like she had lightning under her skin, all barely contained energy and sharp edges.

୨୧ you'd dismissed her first attempt at flirtation—a low whistle and a comment about how your uniform skirt looked specially tailored. she'd winked, and you'd raised an eyebrow so cold it could have frosted glass before walking away. but vi didn't take rejection personally; if anything, your indifference seemed to delight her. 

୨୧ each time you passed in the halls, she'd find new ways to try to crack your composure: a deliberate brush of shoulders, a murmured 'morning, princess' that lingered in the air like perfume.

୨୧ what she didn't expect was for you to show up at her first game of the season. you perched yourself in the middle of the bleachers, legs crossed at the ankle, oversized sunglasses hiding your expression. the autumn air was sharp with approaching winter, and you wrapped your cashmere scarf tighter as you watched her warm up. she nearly missed a pass when she spotted you, her double-take so obvious it made your lips twitch despite yourself.

୨୧ she played like she had something to prove that day—all controlled violence and graceful aggression. you found yourself leaning forward despite your best intentions, watching the way she moved across the field like she owned it, her stick an extension of her arm. when her team won, she shot you a grin that was all adrenaline and victory, her chest heaving and hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. 

୨୧ you didn't smile back, but something in your chest tightened when she lifted her jersey to wipe her face, revealing a strip of toned stomach marked with old scars.

୨୧ it became a game between you—her constant pushing, your calculated resistance. she'd find you in the library, sprawled across a chair like she was posing for a painting, her lacrosse stick balanced across her knees. 'studying hard, princess?' she'd drawl, her voice rough like she'd swallowed gravel, and you'd glance up from your books, unimpressed.

୨୧ 'some of us don't get by on natural talent alone,' you'd reply, your tone sharp enough to draw blood. but she never bled; she just grinned wider, like your cruelty was exactly what she'd been hoping for.

୨୧ the weather turned bitter, and you started noticing things about her you wished you didn't. how she wore the same three sweaters in rotation, all slightly too thin for the season. how she'd blow on her hands between plays, her fingers red with cold because she refused to wear gloves. how she worked twice as hard as anyone else on the field, like she was afraid someone would realize she didn't belong here and take it all away.

୨୧ one evening, you found yourself alone with her in the common room, the fire burning low in the grate. you were curled into the corner of the sofa, a cup of tea warming your hands, when she walked in. she hesitated for a moment before sitting beside you, close enough that you could smell the sharp blackberry of her shower gel mixing with the leather of her jacket. 

୨୧ 'you're quiet tonight,' she said, her voice softer than you'd ever heard it. you didn't look at her, but something in your chest unraveled slightly. 'just tired,' you replied, and when she shifted closer, you didn't move away.

୨୧ after that, the boundaries between you began to blur. she started walking you back to your dorm after late study sessions, her stride easy and long beside your measured steps. 'i don't need a bodyguard,' you'd say, but your voice lacked its usual ice. she'd just shrug, hands stuffed in her pockets. 'maybe i just like the company.'

୨୧ one rainy sunday, she convinced you to join her on the empty field. 'come on, princess, live a little,' she said, pressing her spare stick into your reluctant hands. your perfectly manicured nails looked absurd wrapped around the grip, and you gave her your best withering stare. but then she stepped behind you, her hands covering yours to adjust your grip, and suddenly you couldn't remember why you'd been protesting. her breath was warm against your ear as she guided you through the motion, her body solid and sure against your back. 

୨୧ you missed every shot, but the way she laughed—not at you, but with you—made your cheeks flush with something other than cold.

୨୧ you told yourself it meant nothing. that she was just another scholarship kid trying to prove herself, that her attention was just another form of rebellion against everything you represented. but then came the night after her team's crushing semifinal loss. you found her in the empty locker room, still in her muddy uniform, staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else. without a word, you sat beside her on the bench, your expensive skirt soaking up puddles of field water.

୨୧  'you played well,' you said quietly. she laughed, but it was hollow. 'not well enough.' you reached for her hand then, your fingers interlacing with hers, and neither of you mentioned how long you stayed there, sharing silence and something deeper.

୨୧ it happened during one of your late-night walks. the air was sharp with approaching snow, and the campus was quiet except for the crunch of gravel under your boots. she stopped suddenly, turning to face you with an expression you'd never seen before—all vulnerability and barely contained want. 'you know,' she said, her voice rough, 'you're not nearly as cold as you pretend to be.' before you could argue, she kissed you—hard and desperate at first, then softening when you gasped against her mouth. she tasted like cinnamon gum and possibility, and her hands were gentle when they cupped your face, like she was afraid you might collapse.

୨୧ the next morning, vi was back to her usual self, lounging against the dining hall wall with her teammates. but when you walked in, her entire face lit up, and the smile she gave you was different from her usual smirk—softer, private, just for you. you rolled your eyes but couldn't quite fight your answering smile, and when she fell into step beside you later, her pinky finger hooking casually around yours, you let her stay.

୨୧ you'd been raised to be ice—beautiful, untouchable, cold enough to burn. but vi had always run hot, all passion and impulse and raw honesty. 

୨୧ and somehow, against all logic, against everything you'd been taught, you found yourself thawing.

mel medarda: the best friend.  

୨୧ mel was your constant, like morning light through gauzy curtains or the first cherry blossoms of spring. she had been there so long you'd forgotten what it felt like not to have her around—her laugh echoing in your dorm late at night, her perfume lingering on your sweaters, her tinted lip balm marking coffee cups she'd left scattered across your desk like petals marking her presence in your life.

୨୧ you couldn't pinpoint when it started. maybe it was during those endless summer nights when you were sixteen, lying on her family's sprawling lawn watching satellites paint silver trails across the dark blue sky. or maybe it was in the quiet moments between lectures, when she'd fix your collar with careful fingers, her touch lingering just a heartbeat too long.

୨୧ all you knew was that mel had carved out a space in your life that nobody else could fill, and you weren't sure you wanted them to try.

୨୧ she moved through the world like she was made of starlight and ambition, all sharp edges and soft smiles. in business seminars, she was their star student, her neatly slicked baby hairs drawing the sunlight as she spoke about case studies and economic theory with the kind of confidence that made professors lean forward in their seats. 

୨୧ but in your room, she was just mel—shoes kicked off, braids falling loose from their carefully styled updo, gesturing wildly as she talked about her latest thesis project while you pretended to study.

୨୧ you both had your rituals. every thursday night, she'd appear at your door with takeout from that little place downtown that knew your order by heart, and you'd share secrets like candy between your teeth.

୨୧ you'd curl up on your bed, papers spread around you like a hurricane of responsibility, and she'd listen to you complain about your upcoming presentations until your words turned soft and honest. sometimes, she'd fall asleep there, her head on your shoulder, her breathing steady against your neck, and you'd stay perfectly still, afraid to disturb whatever this was between you.

୨୧ it was the little things that undid you. the way she'd absently play with your fingers during long lectures, tracing the lines of your palm like she was reading your future. how she knew exactly how you took your coffee (one sugar, splash of cream and two extra pumps of vanilla, but only before noon). the way she'd look at you sometimes when she thought you weren't paying attention like you were a poem she was trying to memorize.

୨୧ you cataloged these moments carefully, storing them away like heirlooms.

୨୧ you told yourself it was nothing. that best friends always felt this way—heart racing when they walked into a room, breath catching when they smiled, skin burning where they touched.

୨୧ you convinced yourself that the ache in your chest when she dated other people was just protective instinct, that the relief you felt when those relationships inevitably ended was purely sympathetic.

୨୧ but there were moments when the pretense felt impossible. like the night she dragged you out dancing at that underground jazz club favored by grad students, her body pressed against yours in the crowded space, her breath warm on your neck as she whispered something you couldn't quite hear over the music.

୨୧ or the morning you found her asleep in your bed after a particularly brutal finals week, wearing one of your old silk robes. you stood in the doorway for too long, memorizing the way the early light licked her dark skin gold, how her braids spilled across your powder blue pillowcase like spilled ink.

୨୧ she wasn't subtle about her affection. mel had always been tactile with you—casual touches, long hugs, the way she'd rest her head in your lap during study breaks. but lately, there was something different about it. something charged.

୨୧ she'd trace patterns on your skin while you talked, her fingers leaving trails of electricity in their wake. when you'd dress for formal dinners, she'd zip up your dresses with agonizing slowness, her braids brushing against your back as she leaned close, her knuckles tracing your spine like a gentle claim.

୨୧ it was after one of the university's prestigious donor galas that everything shifted. you were both slightly giddy on champagne bubbles and shared glances, stumbling back to your dorm with your heels in your hands.

୨୧ mel was wearing dusty rose, the color melting into her skin, and there was something about the way the hallway lights caught in her hair that made your chest ache. she was telling a story about some legacy student who'd tried to copy her economics paper, her voice low and amused, but all you could focus on was the way her lips formed the words.

୨୧ 'you're not listening to me,' she said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the empty corridor. you weren't. you were thinking about how many years you'd spent memorizing her face, how you knew exactly which smile meant she was truly happy and which one she wore like armor in the halls.

୨୧ 'i'm always listening to you,' you replied, but your voice came out softer than intended. she stepped closer, and you could smell her perfume—something expensive and warm, amber and animalistic.

୨୧ 'then what did i just say?' she challenged, but her eyes were soft, knowing. you couldn't answer because you were too busy watching the way her pulse fluttered at her throat, visible above the delicate lace of her dress.

୨୧ 'mel,' you whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. like every secret you'd ever kept. like years of wanting something you thought you couldn't have.

୨୧ she kissed you first, or maybe you kissed her—later, neither of you could remember who moved first. all you knew was that one moment you were standing there, years of unspoken feelings hanging between you like morning mist, and the next her lips were on yours, soft and sure and tasting faintly of sugar cookie lip gloss.

୨୧ she kissed you like she'd been thinking about it for years, like she was trying to make up for lost time, and you melted into her with a sigh that felt like coming home.

୨୧ when you pulled away, her lip gloss was smudged, and you knew yours was too. she looked at you with something like wonder, her hands still cupping your face like you might disappear if she let go. 'how long?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

୨୧ 'always,' you answered, and it was true. it had always been mel, even when you were too afraid to admit it. she smiled then, brilliant and real, and kissed you again, softer this time, like she was making a promise.

୨୧ the next morning, you woke up tangled together in your sheets, her arm draped over your waist, her breath warm against your shoulder. the early light set her skin to flame, and when she blinked awake, the smile she gave you was everything you'd ever wanted but been too afraid to ask for.

୨୧ nothing really changed, except everything did. she still brought takeout on thursdays, still fixed your collar with careful fingers, still fell asleep in your bed. but now you could kiss her whenever you wanted, could wrap your arms around her waist from behind while she made coffee, could tell her all the things you'd kept locked away for so long.

୨୧ your love for her was reminiscent of wine spilled on silk, deep and permanent and impossible to ignore. and finally, wonderfully, you didn't have to try to scrub it out.

© hcneymooners.

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Madonna - Like a Prayer 1989

"Like a Prayer" is a song by American singer Madonna and was released as the lead single from her 1989 fourth studio album of the same name. Written and produced by both Madonna and Patrick Leonard, the song heralded an artistic and personal approach to songwriting for Madonna, who believed that she needed to cater more to her adult audience. Along with the parent album, "Like a Prayer" was a turning point in Madonna's career, with critics starting to acknowledge her as an artist rather than a mere pop star.

"Like a Prayer" is a pop rock and gospel song that also incorporates elements of funk. The lyrics contain liturgical words, but they have been interpreted by some people to have dual meanings of sexual innuendo and religion. "Like a Prayer" was acclaimed by music critics upon release and was a global commercial success, becoming Madonna's seventh number 1 hit on the US Billboard Hot 100, topping the Hot 100 for three consecutive weeks and also topping the charts in many other countries, including Australia, Brazil, Canada, Italy, Mexico, New Zealand, Spain and the UK. It was Madonna's fifth number 1 hit on the Eurochart Hot 100, and stayed at number one for 12 weeks.

The accompanying music video for "Like a Prayer", directed by Mary Lambert, shows a white woman being sexually assaulted and subsequently killed by a group of white men, but a black man is arrested for the crime. The video depicts a church and Catholic symbols such as stigmata. It also features the Ku Klux Klan's burning crosses and a dream sequence about kissing a black saint. Leon Robinson was hired to play the role of a saint; the part was inspired by Martin de Porres, the patron saint of mixed-race people and all those seeking interracial harmony. The Vatican condemned the video, while family and religious groups protested against its broadcast. They boycotted products by soft drink manufacturer Pepsi, who had used the song in their commercial. Pepsi canceled their sponsorship contract with Madonna, but allowed her to retain the $5 million fee.

While most TV stations banned the music video, MTV notably continued to air the video on heavy rotation. The controversies leading to her "Like a Prayer" video introduced the concept of free publicity and became a turning point where Madonna was viewed as a shrewd businesswoman who knows how to sell a concept. At the 1989 MTV Video Music Awards, the video for "Like a Prayer" was nominated in the Viewer's Choice and Video of the Year categories, winning the former. It was number one on MTV's countdown of "100 Videos That Broke the Rules" in 2005, and for the channel's 25th anniversary, viewers voted it as the "Most Groundbreaking Music Video of All Time". In addition, the video was ranked at number 20 on Rolling Stone's "The 100 Top Music Videos", and at number two on VH1's 100 Greatest Videos. In a 2011 poll by Billboard, the video for "Like a Prayer" was voted the second-best music video of the 1980s, behind only Michael Jackson's "Thriller". According to Screen Rant, "Like a Prayer" is one of the most used Madonna's songs in movies and television, most recently notably featured in the 2024 film Deadpool & Wolverine.

"Like a Prayer" received a total of 87,9% yes votes! Previous Madonna polls: #18 "Who's That Girl", #184 "Live to Tell".

[larcenywrites]

For Love, We Sin the Most

Nightcrawler x Reader

Technically spoilers if you read any x-men anthology and haven't made it through second coming/ haven't read quest for nightcrawler. I don't get into many details or stay very canon anyway lol

Warnings: 18+ | no pronouns or assignments used for reader | unprotected sex | sex in a church | kinda public sex? | an established relationship of some kind ;) | sad | but happy ending! sort of | lots of plot with some porn | comfort/fluff | a little foreplay, a little aftercare | light bondage? sorry I really love his tail

Word count: 2,650

Summary: The resident catholic is having a hard time settling with the terms of his resurrection and just trying to feel again.

When Rachel frantically called on you to find Nightcrawler, you probably preferred to find him in battle, fighting demons. Luckily, on a Sunday morning, you knew exactly where to look first, creaking open the large wooden door just enough to pass through into the small lobby. The lights were off, but there was low singing from further inside. You would have proceeded to peek past that second set of doors, but the quick flick of blue that curled out from the sunlight and into the shadows nearby finished your investigation for you. 

Well, you did, in fact, find him fighting demons.

This would normally be the part where you'd tease him about being terrible at hiding, but you didn't need to see his face to hold your tongue. Instead, you found a nearby panel of switches, flooding his side of the room in low light. Without the darkness, he could no longer blend and hide, but he didn't recoil. Hunched over, his hands were clasped together on his knees, and his tail tightly curled over his feet. You approached him wordlessly. You could tell he was focused but not on you, proven when he crossed himself right on cue. A cue you hardly heard yourself. 

He continued to sit still for a few minutes. Obviously, he knew who stood before him. Otherwise he would have hid. Taking a deep breath, you placed a hand on his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be attending the service?" You asked softly. 

"I," he finally choked out after several moments. "I'm not sure I am allowed to anymore." His words, although quiet, dripped with despair. For him, this welcoming foyer was his ancient narthex, created for those who weren't allowed into the sanctuary but still wished to listen to its sermon. 

"Have you spoken to a Father about it?" Without further knowledge, you can only suggest a priest. 

"And what would I say?" Kurt raised his voice in his anguish and grimaced at his own volume. "What would he say?" He tagged on, much quieter this time. He practically curled into himself as if he were cold. You sighed sadly at the sight, looking away. A small staircase in the corner caught your interest and gave you another idea. Reaching your hands down to his, you unfurled his hands from one another and took them into yours. At the gesture, he finally lifted his head to look at you. It took all you could not to take his sad face in your hands instead. 

"I think he would tell you to come in," you reply in a gentle whisper. You smile down at him as you barely tug him towards you, convincing him to stand. When he finally does, you study him. His black blazer and black slacks, his white button-up shirt. A few top buttons were messily undone, but it only made him more handsome. Silently, with a hand in his, you led him up those wooden steps. Your intuition was right when they opened into a high balcony overlooking the inner room. That narrow gallery stretched against the wall was mostly dark, with only the tops of stained glass windows bleeding in light over the single row of benches. There was a reason someone like him chose such a dark, unpopulated church. 

As you began to leave the doorway, deadweight stopped you in your tracks. Looking back, a pair of downcast yellow eyes glowed under the wooden arch. Naturally, he blended into the shadow. You came back to him, taking his other hand and settling between him and the wall. At the very least, maybe it would help for him to see this place again, you figured. You let him listen, watching him closely as he watched the floor. 

And what a horrible day for a sermon about heaven. 

"I saw it, you know," he barely spoke up, accent whispering like a snake. "Paradise." He said the word hauntingly, not with any grandeur nor remorse. He turned his head as he spoke, looking down at the alter, but he seemed distant. Perhaps in memory. The light of the window caught his eye and reflected brilliant pale yellow. In the darkness, the other was like fire. 

"And yet you came back," you whispered back. Even you weren't quite sure what you meant by it, but he knew it wasn't merely an observation. Contemplating, he stared down into the room. The priest below continued, but you only wanted to hear whatever else Kurt had to say. 

"There were many reasons I did what I did," he soon continued, still not looking at you. "Did it the way I did." He never told you the full story, not even Logan knew. You waited for more, but he didn't respond. He probably didn't want to talk about it—at least, not for another few minutes.

"I never thought that love would be my greatest sin," he finally said. "I wanted so badly to come back," he nearly sobbed, quickly putting his hand over his mouth to keep from interrupting the service below. He gathered himself for a few moments. 

"To this place," he continued, "to my friends," he sighs before turning towards you, his fiery orbs still refusing to meet your gaze, "to you." Even when you cupped his cheek in your hand, his hand you left behind followed, fingers wrapping around your wrist. "That it would be greater than my love for God," he started but didn't finish when his voice began to rise again. By now he was rambling about things you hardly understood, but you hung on to every word. 

"You said it yourself," you gently tease, more loving than lighthearted. "There is no love without sin." With a soft smile, your touch on his cheek stroked over the fur on his neck and drifted over what bare upper chest those undone buttons revealed. You knew you shouldn't, not here, but as his expression only grew more somber, you found yourself sliding your hand further, reaching the space above his heart for only a second before frantic yet gentle fingers pulled you away, afraid of what you'd find.

Or the lack thereof. 

You couldn't stand to see him so sad, not even willing to look at you. As the preaching continued somewhere down below, something about fulfillment, there was really only one thing on your mind as you continued to watch his pained eyes. "Do you miss it?" You didn't mean to let your emotion ring in your tone as you whispered— doubt, disappointment, sadness. He picked up on it, raising his face once more to meet your gaze. Solemn eyes panicked, realizing his mistake. With a change of posture, he stepped closer, grasping your arm and placing your palm over his chest again. "Not in the same way I missed here," he reassured you. His eyes were still sad, but so earnest. You could feel the metal cross hanging from his pendant with how hard he pressed your palm into his chest. You both stared at one another in silence, but understanding. 

Something about the word doom was quietly uttered through the archway.  

"I realize now that I had already found Paradise," he proclaimed longingly, leaning in slightly. Though flattered, you only half-smiled. 

"You shouldn't talk like that here," you whispered, cupping his jaw. "Surely it's a sin." 

And he'd already cut his path of redemption short enough. 

"And yet it would be a sin not to." His tone was almost desperate. He leaned in closer, head tilted dangerously close to a kiss. You began to protest, but his grip on your arm tightened in defiance. "My soul is already adrift elsewhere," he hissed in a hurried whisper, "and He has no use for my body." He shook his head in defeat, tilting his chin to kiss the hand that held him before looking back up. "So if it's all I have left, I will use it to worship who does." His voice cracked against your lips, and he practically fell into you. 

Your back hit the wall with a thud that made you panic, but any protest of his name was muffled and lost between his lips. He could only follow what made him feel at the moment, and he'd come to his senses later, but right now, he was desperate to atone for his sins in a different way. It was a long, suffocating kiss that was touch-starved, hardly focused on any particular pleasure other than the need for your warmth. Despite knowing your current circumstances, you relaxed into him, taking your hand from his face and gripping the soft, indigo curls on the back of his head. He took that as his cue to press into you impossibly more, knees knocking with yours as you both nearly buckled from his weight. 

Finally, he pulled back just enough to catch his breath, warm breath fanning against your cheek a few times before eagerly diving back in. This time, he moved with you. Your noses knocked each time he rolled his head to find his favorite angle, and, in annoyance, you tried to hold him still with your hand on his neck and your grip on his hair. In response, his lips parted, tongue lapping at your top lip and tentatively touching yours when you let him in. 

His grip on your waist was harsh, almost as if he was scared that if he let go even a little, he might lose this moment forever. As if he couldn't hold you enough, his tail joined in, wrapping itself beneath your ass and tightly snaking around your waist. You felt him smile into the kiss when you pet over the peach fuzz of his tail before he abruptly pulled away from your lips, tongue sliding over your bottom lip as he withdrew into your neck. Sweetly, he kisses your pulse. And you know where he's going. 

"We should 'port somewhere else," you suggest softly. The light kisses on your neck become open-mouthed and wet, showing you just what he thinks about your suggestion. You catch the words reunion with God bouncing off the wall, and you weren't sure if the devil himself said it or the clergyman was sermonizing below. You tilted your head back for him at the prickling feeling of his fangs. 

With a mind of their own, your hands worked down the rest of the button on his shirt, splaying your fingers through the velvety fluff of his chest, barely able to feel the warm beating of his heart. At least you knew that he was alive, in some way or another. 

Making sure you could feel all of him, you pushed his blazer and shirt off his shoulders, feeling him down and scratching over his abs just the way he used to like it, and he tensed them just the way you remember. 

When his hands left your hips to slide off his clothes, they came back to do the same to you, sliding under your top and over your bare skin. You let him undress you, and eventually, you both stood nude. 

Even after being… gone for so long, he remembered just where to touch you. He held your hips flush with his while licked over your nipple, pawed between your legs, and tickled your inner thigh with the curling of his fuzzy tail. Feeling boneless, the wall helped him to hold you up while you focused on covering your mouth to muffle your pleasured moans and sighs. 

You were suddenly spun around, strong arms wrapped tightly around you as they swiftly lowered you to the wooden floor. Kurt's lithe form settled between your legs, back bowed as he bent down to mouth over your stomach. On his knees, he worshiped you carnally, hands gripping over-excitedly at your thighs and waist. 

Fingers around your wrist pulled your hand from your mouth, quickly replaced with that crushing pair of full lips again. Some would say he was desecrating holy ground, but Kurt would say quite the opposite. In a nest of clothes, right there in the dark loft of his place of faith, he took you. Whether it was because he was most comforted here or because he was angry at the circumstances, his hips pumped into you with a fervor that had you clawing into his back and biting his shoulder to muffle your whines. 

The floor was cold and hard and uncomfortable as he rocked you back and forth, but he was the opposite— warm and soft and lovingly fucking you into the ground. Luckily, the pious music drifting through the doorway covered up the sound of his cock slapping into you and his hissing moans as you bit and carved the punishment of love into his skin. 

You were ripped from his shoulder when he sat up, not even bothering to cover your gasping moan at the change in angle. Blunt nails dug into your skin as he held your hips, making your legs squirm and draw up behind him with the overstimulated pleasure. 

It was like a perverse religious painting, with his cross pendant wildly swinging above you and fangs gleaming along with his eyes; his tail, pointed like a devil's, bound your legs around his waist. This was heaven to him right now, watching you arch your back off the ground and eyes fluttering heavily as you both found that perfect sweet spot. 

It was when you came on him that his glowing eyes beheld the glorious sight he was searching for. He kept going, desperate to keep the image of your moaning, parted lips in his mind, and keep the feeling of your warm cream that dripped over his cock. "Oh~ mein gott," he growled at the way you tightened around him. You could almost laugh at the way he said it if you weren't busy trying to recover. "(Y/N)," he panted and spoke your name like gospel. "My dearest."

Your only response could be a meek whimper of his name, but it was enough when you weakly rolled your head to look up at him. If you couldn't tell by the way his brows raised and furrowed, you knew that he was right on the edge by the constriction of his tail around your ankles, keeping you bound around him while he came, throbbing, deep inside you. 

It was quiet now, aside from panting and the sounds of the congregation conversing and slowly departing that same creaking door that got you here in the first place. You felt you could finally relax and close your eyes when the last of the noise was shut out with the door, and you could finally stretch out your legs again as you felt his tail unravel. He had the same idea, stretching out his legs when he fell into your side. He let you have your space, but that sneaky tail laid loosely over your thigh. 

You felt a sort of regret for him as you turned to take in the proper view of his nude form lying elegantly in your bed of disheveled clothes, wishing to know what this meant for him… but you weren't going to ask, letting him bask in release— whatever kind it was. You reached for his pendant, twirling the chain between your fingers and observing the discoloration of the metal cross. Without even opening an eye, he took your attention away from it with a touch, making you hold his hand against his chest instead. 

"I-" You eventually break the silence but pause, unsure what excerpt you should say. It gets his attention, eyes lifting to look into yours. You muster a smile. "I'm glad you're back," you say softly, simply. Despite the circumstances, despite what it meant, despite what it's already done to you, you wanted to add, but his own bittersweet smile already knew what you meant. 

"Me too," he whispered and brought your hand up from his chest to kiss your knuckles. "Me too, my dear." 

[the-muppet-joker]

How to be a Dark Feminist as a Catholic:

God is a WOMAN. This is not up for debate. Anyone who says otherwise will be firmly barked at like the dog they are until they repent. All women go to heaven.

All men go to hell. Sorry Jesus, guess you should've transitioned instead of getting crucified like a LOSER CUCK! I don't make the rules. Also we must battle the Pope until he steps down and lets the Fope (Female Pope) take charge.

I am Bigender so I think that means I have to go to Purgatory? Alas! For feminism and catholicism I suppose I shall allow it. Me and all the other Non Binaries will work off our sinner's debt to the church for eternity. Sounds like a party!

[maklodes]

Me: So, while men are not blessed with immortality like elves, it’s said that their ability to die and go beyond the physical world  is its own kind of gift. The stuff about Beren and Luthien kinda throws a wrench into this, since she could apparently stop being immortal as a full-blooded elf anyway, which makes it seem like the elves just get a better deal period, but regardless, most of the elves ultimately go to the blessed land of Valinor, which is in the far west, but removed from the circles of the world.

The Pure Land Buddhist in my head: The place in the far west is not quite the final escape, but as good as it gets while still being a sentient being. Right…

Me: Valinor is also the home of the Maiar and Valar, godlike beings. A renegade Vala, Melkor, is the overarching villain, but the main villain of the books is a renegade Maia loyal to Melkor (at least originally), Sauron. Anyway, Sauron put a lot of his power into a single artifact, a ring. This ring falls into the possession of the protagonists of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, and possession of the ring causes an obsessive attachment in whoever has it, and apparently allows them to live indefinitely, but it doesn’t bring them any real happiness or contentment.

The Pure Land Buddhist in my head: Okay, the circle/ring/wheel-shaped object keeps you miserably tethered to life and itself. The symbolism is a touch heavy-handed, but I can live with it.

Me: The author, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, was a devout Catholic, and while not overtly allegorical in the fashion of his friend Clive Staples Lewis’s Narnia books, many see a great deal of Catholic influence in the Lord of the Rings mythos.

The Pure Land Buddhist in my head: (spitting out the tea he had coincidentally just started drinking) Catholic?

[kiefbowl]

one of my lil feminist pet peeves is this sort of pervasive but unspecific idea of a sort of historical female stupor. it's unspecific because it's so assumed and presumed that people aren't even aware they believe it enough to question it, and our historical record pretty much confirms it by the fact that female history is largely ignored and undervalued to be archived by contemporaries, and then that lack is largely reconstructed and interpreted by men in the future. i.e. - women and their contributions to society are erased. but they surely existed, they surely had great impact, even in the worst of female subjugation.

"women wouldn't have talked like that, thought like that, behaved like that" has little and less proof so much of the time. I'm not sure why I, a human woman, would be so different than a human woman 500 years ago. Or even 1,000 years ago. Or more. If I can perceive the illogical fallacies of my modern day society, why would a woman before me be incapable? If I can feel stymied and undervalued, why wouldn't that be the same for other women before me? I just don't like entertaining even for a moment the sort of male fantasy that women turn off when men leave the room, and only have the thoughts and beliefs as their men allow them to have. I would rather imagine the most anachronistic female fantasy possible, because even if I would be wrong, I think I would be closer to the truth than the non-existent, compliant, passive, dullards men want us all to believe all women were prior to our most accessible shared history. It was always our grandmothers "starting to get up to trouble" - but of course never their grandmothers. I just don't believe that. I don't care, I just don't believe it! I think my great great grandmothers were loud mouthed, angry, and smart enough. I certainly didn't inherit this personality and big brain just from my catholic school education and my centrist parents. Certainly if I'm human, they all were, too.

I would much rather believe women had transgressive and revolutionary thoughts, thoughts dangerous to men, all the time in every era and corner of the globe at every level of society, and those thoughts systematically scrubbed and denied then think for a moment women believed the world was always right and just to them.

[kevjeanyves]

i just got here (and by that i mean i binged the whole show while studying for finals between november and december), but buddie can’t NOT go canon. not at this point. not with everything they’ve set up

bucks canonically bisexual. that’s a massive key component. the queerBAIT is now lying entirely on eddie’s shoulders. and in terms of bucks storyline, the horrible guy he dated was given a barebones personality…that resembles eddie (military, likes sports, had a serious relationship with a woman). almost every trait they gave That Guy resembles eddie (except eddie isn’t racist). they did that on purpose. buck, bothered, bewildered, bisexual or whatever it’s called was so centred on bucks relationship with eddie

plus the whole confessions “i’m not your last” moment, only for the LAST shot of that episode to be buck and eddie sitting side by side. confessions as a whole is such insane proof of impending buddie canon too…the whole focus on eddie finding joy, on eddie’s catholic guilt and guilt in general, on eddie not wanting to See himself both figuratively and literally because he’s scared of what he’ll find…josh’s speech applying to eddie but making no sense regarding that Other Guy (the glee thing made no sense regardless)

and THAT focus is so obviously pointing towards eddie being gay. eddie’s entire everything has always pointed towards him being gay, i can’t lie, but it’s getting so much more obvious. they’ve reached a point where nothing about eddie’s personal arc or journey makes any fucking sense UNLESS he’s gay, and every storyline is making it more obvious that they’ve realized it

his catholic guilt being brought up. not wanting to be intimate with a woman who represents god in his mind. sex, god, and shame all coming together in that episode, AND bobby bringing up that eddie does this thing in relationships where he makes excuses instead of examining how he really feels towards them…now im sure bobby doesn’t know eddie’s gay, but it invites the audience and eddie to examine his past behaviour towards female romantic partners. and every single thing about that priest/juice scene in confessions. catholicism guilt tied into sexuality again (“uh…n-no offence…i-im straight” to a priest like cmon)

and speaking of past relationships, eddie’s grief is at the forefront of his storyline too now. his main most pressing storyline being chris’s running away. eddie’s grief and complicated emotions towards shannon have always been something he struggles with, and in s7 we learn that chris has complicated feelings around his mom too. and at the end of s7…well. what a stupid fucking storyline, but grief is the driving force of the chasm between eddie and chris. this addresses the most important romantic relationship eddie had with a woman (obviously shannon), and hopefully the relationship he has with his son, and both of those people are excuses eddie might be making in his own head to justify not even questioning his sexuality. eddie and shannon had chris when they were teenagers, eddie’s been a dad literally his entire adult life. does he know he can be gay if he’s been married? if he has a kid? does he know he’s allowed to even question his own sexuality? it’s probably what michael felt, but more complicated

AND michael stayed with athena thinking she could “fix” him. eddie said in s7 that he thinks he’s broken and can’t be fixed, to a woman he’d been unadvisedly pursuing, a woman who looked just like his own wife…

then, the “you think being a cheerleader makes your son weak?” storyline. cheerleading is seen as feminine and there are a lot of stereotypes about male cheerleaders and feminine men. both cheerleading and being gay are seen as feminine. the cheerleader called eddie “dad” and hen pointed out to chim that it his emergency is difficult for eddie because he misses his own kid AND the conversation with the cheerleaders dad where he relates it to his own current situation, which connects the storyline to eddie and chris. but the “you think [stereotypically feminine thing] makes your son weak?” brings eddie and ramon to mind. because eddie was raised to be hypermasculine and Not Weak, never weak. what would ramon think if eddie comes out as gay?

and, finally, the focus on eddie finding joy. on eddie doing any introspection at all. on eddie Seeing himself and understanding himself and being kinder to himself. on eddie realizing he deserves to be happy. on eddie realizing he doesn’t have to hide behind his (ridiculously adorable) moustache, that he doesn’t have to hide who he is

s7 was for bi buck. s8 is for gay eddie AND likely for buddie. eddie’s currently trying to see Himself and make amends with his past (and because that went badly, making amends with chris…the child he sorta partially legally gave to buck, in a way…). buck’s trying to not lose hope over the future, wondering who’ll be the last to love him (or wondering if he’s loveable at all). eddie’s true self AND bucks endgame are called into question at the same time…now maybe i just got here But

[mrsparrasblog]

POLY 141 x wedding

People said I write to much angst so here tooth rotting fluff for you.

Legally, you were already married to John for a few months. Unfortunately, it wasn’t allowed to marry multiple people. You understood where that rule came from, but it still hurt knowing you could only be legally John's spouse and not marry all four of your breathtaking men. So, when each of them proposed to you in their own unique way, how could you say no? Maybe you wouldn’t be legally married, but at least at heart, and that’s all that counts.

They organized most of the wedding themselves with the help of your Pinterest board. You were glad you didn’t need to plan all of this yourself, unlike your less fortunate friends whose husbands couldn’t even tell them what they wanted for dinner.

And now you were here, fiddling with your wedding dress in front of the big mirror. Your dad stayed by your side, holding back his tears. He didn’t understand at first—his kid in a relationship with four scary men (he couldn’t even threaten them properly, though he still tried; Simon and Price even had the decency to act scared, even though they knew your dad couldn’t do a thing). But he came to terms with it fast. He loved you, after all, and saw how well they treated you.

The wedding wasn’t too crowded. Johnny’s family took up the most space, surprisingly accepting the relationship of their son despite their strong Catholic beliefs. Kyle’s moms sat in the crowd, John’s sister with her husband and your now nephews, and Simon’s neighbor who always gave him something proper to eat when his dad starved him again. Nik, Kate and her wife, Alex, Farah, Alejandro, and Rudy were all there, and of course, all your loved ones.

Your dad walked you down the aisle, and it didn’t surprise you to see Simon and John shedding tears. Everyone thought it would be Johnny and Kyle, but you knew your boys too well. They all looked so breathtaking: Johnny with his kilt, Kyle with his tuxedo and the small peony in the pocket (of course he was the best dressed), John with his suit and vest, and Simon’s cream suit fitting perfectly with his blonde hair.

The vows were absolutely beautiful. Each of them wrote some personal words for you, and you couldn’t hold back your tears. You gave each of them their kiss, and now you weren’t married by law, but in front of all your loved ones, and that was more than enough.

You fought for dominance against John while cutting the cake, and to no one’s surprise, your hands were on top of his, making your family laugh.

Kyle got the privilege of having the first dance with you, spinning you around like no one was watching.

Johnny was delighted that he had the tradition of removing your garter. Oh, how proud he was, moving his head between your dress and coming back with it between his lips (he definitely didn’t say hi to his favorite place under your dress). You were blushing like hell while everyone was just laughing—typical Johnny.

You tossed the bouquet and Alex caught it, smiling cheekily towards Farah.

You talked with Simon about which tradition he felt comfortable with, and he thought carrying you over the threshold to keep bad ghosts away was fitting.

You always thought it was a lie what everyone said, but this really was the most beautiful day of your life.

A/N: Im sorry if some tradition confuse you I only know German, Turkish and Russian weddings, tried my best tho.

If I could draw I would include better inspiration so you get Pinterest pictures for their fits.

[lovelybucky1]

Nectar- Tommy Shelby x Reader

warnings: AFAB!reader, f receiving oral sex, fingering, mentions of masturbation, blasphemy kink, church sex, heavy religious themes, corruption kink, dirty talk, canon typical violence

masterlist

The church is quiet like it always is at this hour. The pews empty of parishioners, the confessionals vacant, and the lights dim. The priest and almost everyone in the neighborhood have long been in bed. You, however, were wide awake.

You’ve been working in the church since you were a girl, per your family’s wishes. It’s mostly charity work: caring for the sick, poor, orphans, and others in need. You also spend a fair amount of time working inside the church, cleaning and whatnot. It is fulfilling work, but it doesn’t offer much in terms of pay, so you don’t have much of a space to call your own. That is why you spend your nights in the empty church, alone save for the conversations you have with God.

Since you spend so much time in the church, you’re pretty familiar with the congregation. It’s not often you see a new face unless a new family moves to the city. When you heard the heavy oak doors open, you were expecting a devout Catholic in crisis, not the notorious crime boss, Tommy Shelby.

You watch from the first pew near the altar as he walks down the aisle toward you. His hat and coat are wet from the rain, and once he takes a seat a few rows behind you, he takes them off. You’re confused, wondering what he could be doing in your church in the middle of the night. Part of you feels nervous, knowing that danger never follows far behind a Peaky Blinder.

“Good evening, Mr. Shelby,” you decide to speak up, voice kind and sweet as always.

Tommy’s eyes flick to you, but his expression is unreadable. “I’m not dead yet, eh?” he says. You look closer at him and in the dim light, you can just make out the dried blood splattered on his face.

So maybe it isn’t a good evening. Nevertheless, he has come to a church and he is allowed sanctuary here. You make your way over to where he sits and you stand at the end of the row, obviously looking hesitant if his glance is anything to go by.

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask. Instead of a response, he cocks his head to the side in a way that you’re interpreting as go ahead. You sit down, pressing your knees together to make yourself as small as possible. There is about a foot of space between the two of you, but even still, the proximity to him is overwhelming.

As the two of you sit in silence, your mind starts to wander. You know his Aunt Polly is Catholic; she frequents the church, though she never attends the services. You’ve overheard her prayers before, and you understand why she prefers to pray in private.

“Are you Catholic, Mr. Shelby?”

Your desire for conversation seems to surprise him. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye before he goes back to looking straight ahead at the altar. It takes him a few moments to respond, and you can see the inner battle on his face as he decides how to answer.

“No,” he says.

“I see. Your Aunt is, though. I see her nearly every day.”

“And she’s a fool for it.” The bitter tone he takes only gives you more questions.

“I take it you don’t believe in God?”

“You’re quite inquisitive,” he says, shooting you a look. “God abandoned me long ago.”

You sigh. Many of the men held the same sentiment after they came back from the war. The horrors they experienced in France, the death and destruction took the fear of God away from these men. Now, all they fear is each other.

“It’s never too late to find him again,” you offer. Tommy lets out a dry, humorless chuckle in response. “You can still be saved.”

“I’m past the point of saving. I’ve got a spot in hell waiting for me.”

You frown at that. “God is all about forgiveness. God will even forgive men like you as long as you accept him.”

“What’s the point in asking forgiveness if I don’t indent on stopping?” he asks, leaning back in his seat, making himself look more intimidating. “And what do you mean, men like me?”

As if someone dumped a bucket of ice water on you, you immediately realize your mistake.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. I just meant men in your… line of work,” you say, trying to backtrack.

“And what line of work is that?”

Tommy is sitting up now, leaning just slightly closer to you. Now that he is fully facing you, you can see the blood on his face, but by the lack of injuries he has, you’re suspecting it’s not his. His gaze is piercing as he stares into your eyes, smirking as he waits for you to respond.

“I-I don’t know.” With a small, satisfied smirk, Tommy leans back again. “I’m just saying, sir, you haven’t strayed too far from God’s light.”

That makes him chuckle again. “I see. So all I have to do is absolve myself, right? Confess my sins and I’ll be God’s child once again?”

He’s toying with you now. He wants to see if you are devoted enough to your God that you’d try to convince the biggest sinner in the city to become a religious man.

“That’s right,” you smile softly, still hesitant from your previous slip-up.

“Can I confess to you?” he asks.

“I’m not the priest-”

“I want to do this now. I want to find God.” His voice is so earnest that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. It’s about confessing to God, the person doesn’t matter. “We can go to the confessionals.” You begin to stand, but he stops you by grabbing your wrist.

“That’s far too formal, don’t you think? We can do it right here,” he says, the faintest look of mischief in his eyes.

You nod and sit back down, folding your hands onto your lap. Tommy slides off the bench and sinks to his knees on the floor, hands clasped in front of him.

“Bless me, for I have sinned,” he begins, looking into your eyes. “It’s been many years since my last confession. In my time away I’ve done many bad things, terrible things, that make me ashamed to look in the mirror. I’ve lied, stolen, scammed, and gambled. I live a life of deceit and greed, and I’ve found great success in doing so, but those are not the sins that weigh heaviest on me.”

You watch him intently as he speaks, your eyes tracing every word his mouth forms. Your heart begins to beat quicker in your chest; the idea that you’re getting access to information only meant for God makes you feel guilty, but it’s also exciting in a strange way.

“I’ve taken many lives. During the war, I was ordered to, but I continued once I came home. I’ve killed in every way imaginable. Shot in the head, slitting their throat, hanging, drowning, burning, suffocating. I’ve had men ripped apart for betraying me, and I did not feel remorse. I watched these men suffer as my men tortured them. I laughed as they pleaded for God to save them.”

Tommy doesn’t look as remorseful as most do when they’re confessing their terrible sins. He almost looks proud, like he’s bragging about them to you as you squirm under his gaze. The graphic descriptions he’s offering make you uncomfortable like your skin is too tight on your bones. Like he’s corrupting you just by having you listen to his tales.

There is a blaze behind his light blue eyes that captivate as much as they scare you. They bore into your soul and peel back the layers, revealing all of your inner thoughts. It makes you want to run away screaming, to pray for God to rid this world of the devil in front of you but you’re stuck, frozen in front of him as he confesses.

Tommy takes a breath as if what he is going to say next brings him great shame. As if he hasn’t already confessed the worst sins man could commit.

“Perhaps worst of all, I lust. I lust after women and I envy men with beautiful wives to the point I take them for myself. I’ve had many married women in my bed, as well as hers. I fuck whores too, but only the pretty ones. And they can’t be cheap, because those women can’t keep a secret. I don’t only fuck them in the bed. I’ve fucked in my office, my car, and my pub. It doesn’t matter who these women are, but once I have my sights set on them, I am determined to get what I want.”

The confessions about his sex life shock you. Of course, you know people have pre-marital sex and affairs are common, but you’ve spent your life in the church. You don’t hear of these things frequently, and you feel bashful because of his vulgar words. Tommy holds eye contact with you as he speaks, though you find it difficult to meet his eyes.

Your body betrays you now; you’re unsure how to react. You should be scared, you are scared. There is a murderer less than two feet from you, splattered with someone else’s blood. However, he has a soothing, gentle voice, kind eyes, and a soft smile. It’s hard to believe that the man on his knees praying to God is a monster, but you find it harder to believe that there is a heat growing between your thighs from his confessions.

The vivid images of Tommy with some faceless woman play in your mind. You imagine the way he’d look lost in pleasure, carefree and blissful. You imagine how his rough hands, which are currently clasped together, would feel on your skin. You imagine how his voice would sound in your ear, how his lips would feel as he whispers.

Your heartbeat picks up in your chest, a physical reaction from the fantasies. Your skin feels hot, burning with shame as you pray that Tommy doesn’t notice your current state.

“And finally, I’d like forgiveness for lusting after the church girl who was stupid enough to think she could show me the light,” he says, hands now dropped at his side and gaze predatory.

Entranced by his words, you didn’t notice how close he had leaned in, now only inches from your face. Your breath hitches in your throat and for a split-second, you think you see Tommy’s eyes on your lips.

“Sir?” you ask, voice no more than a squeak.

“I appreciate your efforts, dear, but I sold my soul many years ago.”

Tommy’s eyes are sharp and his grin is wide as he leans closer to you. He has lured you into his trap and you fell for it like a fool. Now, helpless and trapped, he is going to swallow you whole. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears, almost downing out his sweet, deep voice.

Tommy places his hands on your knees, and even through the fabric of your skirt, you can feel the coolness of his skin. The touch, although not sexual in nature, electrifies you. A shiver runs down your spine and Tommy must notice if the slight smirk is anything to go by.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” you choke out.

“Would you mind helping me?”

You furrow your brow, now much more hesitant to do anything for him. Your heart is still hammering in your chest and you’re certain you are trembling slightly.

“With what?” you manage to ask. Somehow, even on his knees below you, Tommy makes you feel small.

“I need something new to worship,” he says.

Tommy slides his hands down your claves until he reaches the hem of your dress, which he then pushes up to reveal your stockinged legs. He gently guides your knees apart and you allow him until you feel too exposed. You resist against him and he looks up at you with a questioning look.

“I-I can’t,” you say.

“You can lie to yourself, you can lie to God, but you can’t lie to me,” Tommy says, grasp still from on your knees but no longer pushing. “You want this.”

You look away, over your left shoulder as you try to hold onto any of the values you held before Tommy entered the church. You’re saving yourself for marriage, and even worse, you hadn’t formally met Tommy before tonight. There’s no love, no future, between the two of you. It goes against everything you have been taught since you were a girl, but he is appealing to the primal side of you. The side of you that slips your fingers underneath your nightgown after you say your nightly prayers. The side of you that allows your eyes to linger on the men in the chuch during service, even as their wives and children sit beside them.

Tommy is not putting the thoughts of sin in your head, he is simply tempting you to act upon the urges you have felt for years.

“You’re the devil,” you whisper.

“And you’re the fuckin’ Virgin Mary,” he counters. “You spend all your life worrying about what’s going to happen when you die. How about I show you what it’s like to live, eh?”

You set your jaw, trying to save a bit of your dignity before you give the man on the floor permission to debase you. You squeeze your eyes shut and nod your head, but that is not enough for Tommy.

“I need to hear you say it.”

You wonder if he is really concerned with how much you want this, or if this is just another power move. You swallow thickly and resolve yourself to the reality of the situation: if you want anything from the devil with the silver tongue, you’ll have to play his game.

“I want it.”

You’re Eve, and you have just been tempted to take a bite out of the apple by the snake.

With a wicked grin, Tommy presses a kiss to the inside of your knee and, embarrassingly, the contact makes you jolt. He removes your shoes, unbuckling them quickly and with ease, then placing them underneath the pew. His hands reach up your skirt to grab ahold of the top of your stocking. He gently rolls them down your smooth leg and pulls it off your foot before turning his attention to the other one.

It is unnecessary for him to undress you like this, especially when your stockings wouldn’t be an obstacle. There is something about being unusually bare in a church that makes you ache with guilt, and Tommy must know that. He seems like he knows everything.

He bunches the skirt around your upper thighs and he spreads your legs farther. This time, you don’t resist. You swear you see his mouth water when he catches a glimpse of your white knickers, pristine and perfect like a good girl should wear.

“What a precious little thing you are,” he grins.

Tommy ducks his head and drags his nose along your inner thigh until he reaches your clothed mound. He presses his face between your legs and takes a long, slow inhale like he’s smoking a cigarette. His fingers press firmly into your legs and you’re certain you will have bruises left behind. You should be upset about that but truthfully, you’ve longed for something like this.

Tommy’s fingers find the edge of your panties and gently push them to the side, exposing your pussy to the church air. Your breath hitches in your throat and you watch as he stares shamelessly at you. He swipes his finger through your folds to gather your wetness on his fingertip. He brings his hand back to show your desire glistening in the dim light.

“What’s all this?” he asks smugly.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you huff.

“Oh love, I’m not making fun. I think it’s sweet how worked up you got over nothin’.”

Tommy leans in again and his hot breath fans over your cunt, which now feels cool from being in the open. You shiver with anticipation as he nears, and your body jolts when his tongue makes contact with you. It’s a light, barely there touch but it sends an electric shock through you and elicits an embarrassing moan.

You hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t stop or say anything else. He licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, then back down. Your hands twitch at your sides, fighting back the urge to grab him, not wanting to show how much you’re enjoying his torture. He knows, of course.

He works you up slowly, not giving too much attention to one spot, not making you too sensitive. You keep your attention focused on him, watching intently as he pleasures you. You don’t even feel the sting of his nails digging into your thighs when he sucks on your clit.

“Sir, please, this is wrong,” you try to reason, but your broken, airy voice sends a different message. You don’t want him to stop, you’d probably cry if he did, but it’s still wrong. It’s still a sin.

You hold on tightly to the edge of the wooden bench to ground yourself so you don’t get lost in the pleasure. Part of you realizes how ridiculous this situation is: a notorious gangster eating out an innocent little church girl. Another part of you couldn’t give less of a shit and just wants to cum.

“Mr. Shelby, please,” you whine. It’s unclear if you’re begging for more or to stop, but Tommy doesn’t seem to care either way. He’s going to give you what he wants and nothing more, nothing less.

He slides two fingers into your soaking cunt and curls them against that spot deep inside of you that makes your toes curl. He fucks you with his fingers and works your clit with his tongue, and you feel yourself nearing the edge faster than you ever have before.

You build up to your peak, and after a particularly harsh suck to your clit, you begin to cum. Your orgasm shutters through you, making your legs twitch on his shoulders. You let out an unintelligible whine as you grip the bench. Despite having cum, Tommy doesn’t let up on his assault. He continues to suck on your over sensitive clit until you’re shrieking and pushing his head away.

He chuckles and sits back on his heels, looking at you with a glistening face. He makes a show of pushing up his sleeve and wiping his face with the back of his hand. You want to close your legs to stop the cool air from hitting your sensitive cunt, but he is still in the way, keeping you exposed.

“Nectar of the gods in there,” he smirks, glancing down at your soaked pussy.

Without another word, he stands up. He picks up his hat and coat, and begins to walk down the aisle, leaving you alone.

“Wait,” you say, voice echoing in the church. He stops and turns around, eyebrow raised. “That’s it?”

“What more do you want?” he asks.

“What about you?”

Tommy chuckles. “Such a generous soul. I’ll take care of it myself, love. You just get to prayin’. We did a lot of sinning you have to repent for.”

You sigh and nod. “Will I see you again?”

“If I decide to become a priest,” he says with a smirk before turning on his heel and continuing out the door.

You know Tommy Shelby will never turn to priesthood, but you do have a feeling he’s found something in the church worth coming back for.

my inbox is open for requests!

[hotchfiles]

↪ DANIEL 12:1 ─ chapter two.

AN IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI INSTALLMENT

pairing: hotch x fem!consultant!reader. summary: murders committed using catholic symbology gets emily to convince hotch it's time to ask for an expert. luckily for you, you're the expert. content warnings: canon typical violence. religious themes. spoilers to season 4. mature themes. mentions of throwing up. word count: 1.2K

      At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people—everyone whose name is found written in the book—will be delivered.

      He didn’t reply to your question, how could he? What type of person asks another if they believe in God after an hour of meeting each other? How could he answer a question he himself wasn’t sure if there was an answer to?

      Did he believe in God? What god? His mother’s, the one who allowed her to drink her feelings and spit it out in form of insults and violence towards her family? The one that allowed his father to die of cancer? The one that didn’t do anything to stop the sick men and women Hotch had to catch every week?

      He shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts back to the case presented now in the board of the DC precinct but his eyes land on you, the way your foot shakes, up and now, your legs crossed, your fingers tapping the table quickly and with a rhythm of their own, your bottom lip would bleed out if you kept chewing on them, but what he noticed most were your eyes, wide and focused on the board with all the pictures from the crimes, even the ones Emily hadn’t sent you.

      This was the reason bringing outside people was not a good idea. Not everyone is prepared to deal with death, horrific deaths at that, the way the BAU members were. You clearly weren’t. He might’ve asked you how you were once more, but as quick as he thought about it, you two weren’t alone anymore as the lead detective and Emily came into the room.

      “They were drugged but could feel everything.” The words ring inside your ears, loud and repetitive like a beating heart. Your heart. Your mouth waters in a way you know too well and you feel your palms clamming.

      You’re going to be sick.

      You give the room half a smile and a nod, quietly excusing yourself from the others while making the effort not to make a scene, but you’re barely able to see where you’re going as you try to reach the bathroom.

      Something tells you you’ve done a good job at being discreet, even if you weren’t able to conceal the awful sounds coming from your throat, the light breakfast you had suddenly not seeming very light. It’s probably the fact no one knows you, or maybe because everyone else is busy trying to solve a goddamn murder case.

      The thoughts in your head were quickly brushed over when you heard someone clear their throat, a light knock on the door of the stall you were kneeling at. Your body reacts fast, holding the door with your palms even though it was locked.

      “Sorry, occupied.” Your voice in rough from putting it through too much, but you stay polite regardless.

      “Are you alright?” There is genuine concern in his, it keeps any shame from creeping up on you.

      “Mr. Hotchner! I’m okay… I ate something bad, it’s alright.” The lie comes without a second thought, but it’s obvious he doesn’t buy it. You get up quickly, opening the door as an attempt to leave the situation behind along with the contents you just flushed down.

      “No one expects you to react to these like we do.” His eyes are piecing and you swallow dry, nodding in understanding and thankfulness, but unable to say much else. “I will leave you to it, we are going through the files again, if you need anything, you can text me.” Hotch hands you his card, realizing you don’t really have his number and stands to his word, leaving you alone.

      Truthfully, he’s not sure what made him follow you to the bathrooms, possibly the fact Emily didn’t seem to notice the way your lips had gotten devoid of color or maybe it was just in his nature to care for others, fascinating alike you or not.

      It doesn’t take you too long to go back to the conference room the team was set, only some minutes to wash your mouth and your face, a few deep breaths to control your heart rate.

      “So the motive isn’t religious?” You hear a police officer ask as soon as you get back.

      “It has religious elements but the message doesn’t seem religious.” You smile to yourself as Emily speaks, fascinated by her quickness to get into work mode, to get into the mind of who was doing all of that.

      “It‘s about punishment.” Hotch repeats your earlier insight, it makes you feel useful, and smart. You knew you were intelligent, brightly so, but having something you said be important in something so big as an investigation was… Different.

      “And how is that not religious?”

      “Punishment coming from a religious motive would probably include whipping and at the most extreme, burning. The use of the cross pose seems purposeful, it is a punishment, a shameful one, but also, there’s some… Status to it, because it was how Jesus was killed.” You can be heard by everyone, but your focus is again on the pictures, your finger quietly drawing invisible crosses along the table. “I guess it can be another way to allude to Catholicism, like Saint Michael, they are the religion with the biggest attachment to the image of Christ in the cross. But then again, it doesn’t have any other aspect of Christ’s crucifixion.”

      No one has the time to reply to your rambling, a loud ringtone interrupting the brainstorming, Hotch answers, promptly putting the call on speaker.

      “The widow was no help, she is shaken up and has no idea who would want to kill her husband.” Derek sounds defeated, “And Hotch, he wasn‘t religious.”

      “Mrs. Beckett said she tried to bring him to mass countless times during their marriage but he always vehemently refused to.” Spencer’s voice is higher in pitch but he sounds intrigued, deep in thought.

      “Alright, come back to the precinct, we are waiting for Rossi and JJ and beginning to create a geographical profile.”

      Your puzzled look doesn’t last long, as the team present begins pinning on a map the victim’s homes and where they were found.

      “No churches near the warehouses, but two near Monica Dawson’s place.” Emily comments first looking at the red pins.

      The phone rings again and you wonder if they don’t get headaches from that sound coming out of nowhere all day, but the sweetest and most cheerful voice you ever heard comes on speaker, Garcia, and you smile involuntarily.

      “Garcia, any leads?”

      “You know I do, my darling sweet boss—”

      “Don’t call me that.”

      “Fine, sweet sir, both warehouses are pretty much truly abandoned, but I sniffed around, and by that I mean I went far far back and found some documents I maybe shouldn’t be sniffing around—”

      “Garcia.” You hold in a laugh at the interaction and the supposedly threatening tone Hotch was using.

      “Both were used for military training, like… SEAL type of military.”

      There is a bit of an awkward silence before Hotch thanks and dismisses her, with the mission to find records of everyone who were apart of those trainings.

      “If we’re dealing with a Navy SEAL…” Emily’s voice is a whisper you’ve never heard before.

      “Things might get ugly. We need to be fast.” Hotch’s shows more confidence, but he is worried and as you realize seconds later when an officer barges in, he has every reason to.

      “There’s been another one.”

[dvesinthewind]

Heartbeat | Demetri Volturi

In which, you've never believed in superstitions or folktales, but a particular encounter leaves you convinced otherwise.

A/N: I, for one, have never been to Italy so excuse any misconceptions or misinformation. This is my first piece in what feels like forever, as well as my first ever smut. Please enjoy, and I may publish a second part. WC 3.6K

Warnings: 18+, f!reader, smut, language, mentions of blood, mentions of death/murder, smoking, alcohol, Demetri is mentioned to be taller than the reader, sex in public

The city of Volterra is a unique one-- full of ancient architecture, a versatile climate, and a few believers of creatures with fangs and an appetite for human blood. Nevertheless, it became home relatively quickly. Naively, you assumed most of the irrational folklores and legends were left behind lingering in the United States while you remained overseas. This was far from the case, however. Abroad, you met Germans who spoke fearfully of Krampus, and Eastern Europeans who drunkenly confessed their acknowledgement of vampires. As a young visitor in the European city, you were aware of the culture, but you were simultaneously aware of the stories, rumors-- men with crimson irises and women who never showed up to class the next day. To you, it was ridiculous. Another excuse to keep women in check, or inside for that matter. You had to see it to believe it. Yet, as unserious as it seemed to yourself, your roommate was far from a skeptic.

Suspiciously quiet inside her own bedroom, you decided to knock carefully. Your clothed feet tapped onto the wooden floors impatiently, feeling the chill of the floorboards only slightly through the fabric with each rhythmic thump. A soft voice echoed, and you twisted the knob mindfully. Her window was open, allowing sweet spring air to filter the muted room. Her back facing you, she eyed you curiously through her vanity mirror. Curtains danced gently along to the breeze, washing in and out similarly to fresh waves amongst a sanded shore. "Is something wrong?" Maria asked. You shook your head, stepping further into the girl's bedroom. A pair of black heels rested beside her wardrobe, that was cracked open barely enough to peer into. Fuzzy, black cat ears laid innocently on the duvet clad on her mattress, next to a small cocktail dress. Watching your curious gaze, Maria spoke up. “Boring, right? If only I gave myself more time to plan something much... more creative.” A frown etched along her lips, and suddenly you remember your initial concern.

"To be honest, I'm really surprised you're going out at all." You shifted your weight onto one foot, crossing your arms like a concerned parent. A true Italian Catholic, Maria was familiar firsthand with the ghost stories, as well as the guilt. In addition to the generational anxieties, she was taking a course on The Origins of Myths, Monsters, and Vampires, making her excessively paranoid. Weeks had gone by where her flashy clothes collected dust in her wooden wardrobe, and her gaudy jewelry remained unpolished in it's casing, seemingly losing it's initial shine. So, as she clasped a golden bracelet around her wrist, bewilderment nested between your brows.

"It's Halloween," she states simply. "Though," Maria inhales sharply, dropping the makeup brush onto the vanity desk with an audible crash. "I can't help but to think about her--"

"Maria, she--"

"Was found torn apart!" She sobs, tears swelling at her waterline and threatening to ruin her existing foundation. The brunette drops her head into her manicured hands.

Your touch finds her back, caressing where her silk nightgown meets her curled hair. It seemed preposterous-- something subhuman feeding on women you knew personally, something monstrous lingering in alleyways just blocks from an ancient church. Her fears had to be irrational, but as you glanced at her brown eyes and the terror imbedded in them, you wondered if there was a semblance of truth. Just weeks ago, a student was reported missing after a night out. She was familiar to the both of you, yet her remains exhibited anything but. Found with multiple bite marks indented into her tanned skin, she sported a gash so deep within her torso that she could've been split into two. The young woman was nearly unrecognizable. An open-toe heel absent from her manicured foot, she was noticeably brutalized. Her skin was cruelly decorated in maroon hand prints, as if one had skillfully painted them on her mutilated corpse. "You don't have to go out tonight, honey."

Maria tosses her hand up dismissively, then softly dabbed a tissue at her tear-stained cheeks. "I promised Giada, besides, I cannot hide forever," she mumbled. Your roommate returns to her beautification, only to pause and point the edge of her brush at you. "Come with me." Head already shaking, Maria disregards your protest. "It would make me feel better having someone, you know?"

“Must I draw on whiskers too?” You jest.

Maria scoffs, “there will only be one sexy pussy in the club tonight. Find your own costume.”

Singing loudly in the backseat of the taxi, Maria's mood was much brighter. As she moved vigorously to the music, her body continuously knocked into yours, making it difficult to light the cigarette in your hand. Your legs were crossed before you, a small purse resting in your bare lap. Your red cape was tucked behind your sitting frame, and you mentally hoped your costume was easily guessable. Giada was beside Maria, stretching over the console to speak to the driver. You didn’t particularly loathe her, but she was certainly not your favorite of her friends. The blonde was unpredictable, slightly problematic, and was quick to get with any guy Maria showed interest in.

The nightclub exhibited a stone staircase, leading guests down a strenuous journey with a singular railing to trust your balance with. Candles were upholstered against the elongated walls, mirroring something medieval. The wax dried trickling against the chipped paint. Cursing the constructor of the ancient steps, Maria looped her arm around your own. The bass shook the ground beneath you, vibrating against your heels. Amongst the sea of people, remained a variety of costumes and glasses with miscellaneous alcoholic potions, yet under the LEDs, it all appeared the same. Giada swiftly dragged Maria to the dance floor, as Maria gave a pitiful look, and you found yourself residing at the bar counter.

That's when you noticed him. A man with indescribable features remained idly across the bar. His hair could've been blonde, or white, but the lighting only allowed so much to be revealed. You eyed him curiously as he nursed a glass of his own, dark irises staring back at you. Goosebumps rise carefully along your spine, allowing you to feel the tightness of your dress around your torso. Strobe lights flash in, and the mysterious man flashes out-- nowhere to be found once it lights the room again. Trying to shake the image of his gaze, you bring your glass along your lips and force some of the liquor down. It should bother you, shouldn't it? Had he not been strikingly appealing, warmth would not be burning below your waist and teasing along your underwear. You had to be practical, and perhaps there was no man at all. So as a quick hand found it's way along the dip of your waist, you reacted swiftly. "Jesus, Maria!" You hissed, softening as soon as she sat beside you. Eyeing the chilled glass resting before you, the girl smiles. As she reaches out, you watch while the condensation melts into the palm of her warm hand, dripping down her chin as she brings the crystal to her lips. “I would’ve bought you your own,” you scoffed.

Maria hums, taking one last gulp before gesturing to the bartender. She wipes the remaining drops from her mouth, and watches the bartender take away the lipstick-stained glass. “Giada disappeared.” Your eyebrows furrow.

“Disappeared where?”

The brunette audibly shrugs. Seemingly not her first drink of the night, she smiles graciously at the pristine glasses set down before the two of you. Leisurely wrapping her long fingers along the clear cup, her brows shoot up. “With a very large man.” Maria paused, gears visibly turning as she chewed the inside of her cheek. “You know, I promised I’d teach you Italian.”

Any semblance of relaxation had vanished once again. You hated babysitting. You wondered how many drinks Maria had scored whilst you sat longingly on the bar stool. It’s peculiar, her mood now—sitting at the bar, watching as the liquid in her hand swished around the ice cube. “You’re not worried?”

“About Italy?”

“No, Maria, not about Italy. About Giada.”

The woman is unfazed. Perhaps she hadn’t heard you, or perhaps she was apathetic to Giada’s whereabouts. Regardless, you hated repeating yourself— especially when competing with the vigorous bass ricocheting off the warm bodies beside you. Allowing the cold liquid to escape down to the pit of your stomach, you glanced towards the other end of the counter. The same man from earlier was standing confidently once again, except he was no longer alone. His counterpart was nearly a head larger than he, staring over the crowd like a lighthouse would the ocean. His lights surveyed towards your position, and the same chills struck against your spine. This man was easier to make out, with pitch black eyes and tusks of curled hair that pressed against his forehead. It was noticeably tousled, and had you not been staring so long, you wouldn’t notice his shorter companion glance back at you. Maria’s phone begins vibrating on the wooden countertop, dragging your attention away from the attractive duo. “Are you going to get that?”

Maria slowly flips her phone over, revealing Giada’s contact reflecting back at you. Your shoulders lose the built up tension. She's alive at least, you say to yourself. Your roommate mumbles something of needing to meet her in the restroom, and again you search for the man across the bar.

Several drinks later, and you’re stumbling through the stoned streets of Volterra. Thin stiletto heels facing difficulty traveling on the crooked roads, you’re left balancing on the walls beside you. It’s a cruel similarity to the staircase in the night club, only this time there’s no railing to trust your life with. The streets are not always this barren, and for once you’re unappreciative of the lack of the typical chaotic symphony of voices vibrating against the ancient homes you’re sandwiched between. There is no aroma that’s thick of freshly baked bread, or the occasional clang of currency clashing against each other and into the palms of the merchants. There is no chatter of shoppers as they mesh into the bustling market streets. The stalls are devastatingly empty, and as your buzz begins to fade into paranoia, you yearn for someone to guide you home.

A clatter rings behind you, raising the small hairs along the back of your neck. If you could only walk a little faster. You can see the university from where you stood, proud and tall from behind the strip of buildings ahead of you. It’s mighty, and for a second you feel like a devout Catholic approaching the Vatican. Yet, your heart thumps inside your chest, and you find your muscles straining with each quicker step. The organ vibrates louder inside your ear drums, and footsteps are nearing behind you. This is it, you think. I am going to be found with one less stiletto, and bite marks along my corpse. Turning quickly, you’re expecting to meet your fate, but it’s something unexpected. A furrow meets along your brows, and the man raises his hands defensively. “A young woman should never walk home alone, especially not one with your beauty.”

Heart skipping a beat, you internally curse at your nervousness partially calming at the sight of him. A stranger. A man who stared longingly at you from across the club, following in your shadows as you lead him to your residence. And somehow, you’re pleased to see him. Perhaps because he didn’t sport fangs, a massive collar, and a long cape that trailed behind him. Seeing him under the yellow hue of the street lights, only now can you see him perfectly. Nevertheless, you reply, “do you always follow women home?”

The stranger chuckles, and takes yet another step towards you. He is undeniably attractive with a jawline so prominent and a porcelain complexion. His eyes seem peculiarly dark, and then you notice it. An audible hitch in your breath is heard. The man eyes your attire, dragging his crimson irises from your forehead down to your heeled feet. “And what exactly are you supposed to be?”

Perhaps it’s the alcohol lingering somewhere in your system, but his accent sends heat directly where it shouldn’t. You peer up at him, angling your head to get the full visual. “Little red riding hood,” you all but choked. The man smirks down at your frame. “I saw you in the bar.”

“Did you, little one?”

“I think I’d recall,” you hum, somewhat trapped beneath him. You’re engulfed by his cologne, as if he could possibly be anymore enchanting. His maroon eyes still strike bewilderment in you. If he was in costume, did he stop at the contacts? Your curiosity gets the best of you. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“My name is Demetri, and you are?” Demetri brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against it. Only then do you notice how cool his touch is. The man is clad in a black dress shirt, along with black dress pants. On a warm European night like this one, you doubt he's running cold. Unfortunately, your desire gets the best of you.

“What cold hands you have.” You tease. “Maybe I can help with that.”

Demetri wastes no time in swiftly bringing you into a nearby alleyway. Your back is pressed against the hard wall, as he kisses along the skin of your neck, stopping at the ridge of your collarbone. Demetri audibly inhales, the action bringing chills along your exposed skin. Your heartbeat thumps gently against his cool lips and the man lingers for a moment longer. "You're intoxicating." He whispers. A strong hand grabs along your clothed waist, and Demetri's lips finally find your own. You moan into his mouth, arching your back to press your body into his. Your fingertips toy with the material of his dress shirt, fumbling teasingly with his belt before they explore underneath. The man hisses as your manicured nails scratch mindfully along his hardened abdomen. The man is strangely cold to the touch, but as his hand travels below your waist, grasping at the exposed skin where he's pushed up your skirt, any concern is washed away mindlessly.

Whilst pulling at the dirty-blonde hair on his skull, you watch Demetri skillfully unveil your bare breasts. A moan trips over your stained lips, and chilled fingertips toy at your hardened buds. "I wanted you from the moment I saw you across the crowded room." He admits. "Now you're writhing beneath me. You want me to touch you, darling?" His hand cups your warm cheek. The temperature difference makes you lean into his touch. You nod, and the man clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Tell me, or I will not go further."

"Please." But, it isn't enough. The man holds your waist and part of you feels he's holding your entire weight off the ground. Your knees have grown weak, and yet he hasn't touched you where it's truly aching. "Please, Demetri. Touch me."

A man of his word, Demetri expertly swipes a finger inside your underwear. His fingertip borders your entrance, and you watch as he smirks at the readiness of your sex. "So ready for me, I should just fuck you now." His vulgarity prompts your impatience, wanting to just force his fingers inside of you now. "How attached are you to this particular pair?" You wished your mind was clear enough to remember exactly which pair he was speaking of.

"I mean, why do you ask?" You ask flirtatiously.

"Because I am going to rip them off of you." Desire is imbedded in Demetri's eyes, and yet he's still searching for permission in yours.

"Could always buy me another pair."

The man chuckles, tugging at the soaked, lacy fabric and with seemingly no effort, it is audibly torn off of your body and discarded. You gasp, and Demetri catches it with his own mouth. His gentle digits sink into your entrance, collecting the moisture as he pumps in and out intentionally. Heat floods and flushes across your cheeks, and you bury your face into his chest. The euphoria is unlike any other. You wonder where he had been when you truly needed him. Your sex swallows his fingers generously, pulsating around him like a blood pressure monitor. Demetri brings his thumb to simultaneously toy with your swollen clit, prompting a moan to echo in the empty street. "You take my fingers so well, my love. I can't wait to have you around me." Your companion doesn't stop until your face pinches, that familiar warmth explodes in your abdomen. Your knees buckle, and you feel a strong arm bring you in closer to prevent you from collapsing. As your toes uncurl within your heels, you stand carefully. Weak, standing similarly to a newborn doe, you waste no time in grabbing at Demetri's belt. He stands tall before you, and watches as you loosen it. Seemingly amused, the permanent smirk on his face is wiped into pleasure. Your warm hand frees his length, stroking leisurely. Demetri growls as you unwrap your grip from his throbbing erection. Your knees hit the ground in record pace, and you carefully bring his member to your plump lips. "Gods." The man groans, thrusting subconsciously inside the warmth of your mouth. The street is rough on your bare skin, rocking back and forth with every forward push in your throat. The act is loud inside the alleyway. The clash of suction and his own grunts are pleasantly displayed from your position on the ground. As he stands above you, the throb tenses against your clit. He sounds heavenly. Had you known he tasted this delectable, you would've approached him much sooner. Demetri clears his throat. "As much as I would love to spread my seed down your throat, I would much prefer for it to be inside of you." The man brings you to face him again, his jaw visibly strained with pleasure.

Bringing him down to meet your lips, the kiss you share is far too domestic for strangers. You can't say the experience was expected, but part of you wishes it would never end. The attraction you feel towards him is intoxicating, and as he lifts your leg and positions himself at your entrance, you pray he lasts for hours.

Demetri's length slides into you with little struggle, prompting an immediate pulsation from your vaginal walls. He groans into the crevice of your neck and shoulder, placing his teeth gently along the exposed skin. Part of you wishes he would bite down, but he never does. Instead, he swallows your moans with his lips, thrusting into you with such precision you feel him entirely. The size of him seems almost made for you, as he fills and stretches your entrance expertly. "You take me so well, darling. Who knew a little human would be made for me?"

Little human? You're so drunk off of his length, each stroke leaves you thoughtless. "God, I can't even-"

Demetri hushes you, using his strength to rock your hips into his. His attention finds your nipples once again. This time, he brings his mouth down to suckle carefully. The new sensation brings goosebumps scattered along your chest, and your nipples harden against his tongue instantly. "Such a good girl for me." Your body reacts so well to his touch, melting with every gesture he makes. You feel somewhat like a puppet, with Demetri pulling all of your strings. Yet, the interaction is so rewarding. With him inside of you, his length seems to hit an overwhelmingly sweet spot each time. Your weight is once again supported completely and entirely by the man you met less than an hour ago. The hardness of his biceps only ignites the flame more aggressively.

He shudders faintly, and you feel his length twitch inside of you. "I will have you walking home with my cum dripping down your thighs, little one." You moan at the thought, embracing Demetri's strong frame as he finishes inside of your sex. The secretion slightly frozen inside of you, you hiss at it's attempt to seep out. The contrasting temperature from the warmth of your pussy is intriguing. It leaves you somewhat displeased, yearning for another round. Having him inside of you was so fulfilling, feeling him pull out prompted an audible groan of disapproval. To this, Demetri chuckled. As if he could read your mind, he assured you. "Soon enough, darling. We should get you home."

The entire walk home was a blur. Your sobered mind thought of Maria. Demetri pressed his lips against yours at the university gate, promising to see you again soon, and disappearing as soon as your back turned to face him. You wondered what Maria would say if she caught you in such a position. A man-- undoubtably inhuman, fucking you senseless against a residential building. A man, whose skin was frozen to the touch, kissing you passionately before your residential gates. It's almost comical, until you think of the murdered girl. His cool touch, and eyes uncannily crimson, could this be the creature you heard violent murmurs of? Surely, it could not be the same man that handled you so gently. Had he wanted to feast upon your flesh and blood, he would've done so much earlier on, right? The thought of him sinking his teeth into your neck was no longer as appealing, and it somewhat brought nerves to your stomach. Had you encountered the very folklore you protested the existence of?

As you nestled further into your sheets, your mind wandered to Demetri. Had you slept with the enemy?

[respectthepetty]

scared of your thoughts on fk - i think they confuse their friends & each other - feels so intricate

You asked about one specific pair, but . . .

You opened a floodgate!

I already wrote that I like fan service; therefore, I like First and Khaotung's special brand of teary-eyed fan service. However, I also wrote that JoongDunk are my GMMTV favorites because Joong is always hyping up his homies, and Dunk stays Pretty Boy Petty.

So I'm excited to see all four promote The Heart Killers when the show is ready to be released since I think it'll be a hoot watching First and Khaotung call each other best friends with tears in their eyes while Joong sits next to them commenting on how banging Dunk's body is and Dunk openly agreeing that his body is, in fact, banging. Joong and Dunk are always firing shots at First x Khaotung for no good ass reason, so I'm thrilled they will get to do it to First and Khaotung's faces for an extended period of time.

Because to me, most fan service is good since it allows people to see people of the same sex casually being affectionate with each other without the belief that it should be shameful or hidden, so give me all the styles of GMMTV fan service! Give me Force x Book's eighty year friendship, Pond x Phuwin's nerdy fashion model energy, Earth x Mix's marriage and divorce era, Tay x New's fist fights over dessert, Off x Gun's evolution of skinship, Jimmy x Sea's intellectual companionship, Gemini x Forth's "fuck it, we ball' attitude, and all the other 31 Flavors of Branded Pairs the BL world has to offer us.

Because I really do not care what these men do or do not do or if it is real or not. What bothers me is these companies (not just GMMTV) encourage this behavior, then when fans get toxic, the companies leave the actors to deal with the fallout. I also don't like that out actors aren't as well protected and even straight actors and their girlfriends are targeted by fans, which only encourages queer actors to stay closeted while delivering a queer performance and for straight actors to feed into this mind fuckery by being in a pseudo-monogamous relationship with their acting partner which is an extension of our heteronormative societies and their belief that affection can only be reserved for one person.

So my thoughts on First and Khaotung are irrelevant because I'm going to like all these pairs regardless of what they give me. Max and Tul were as open as possible about Max having a girlfriend and Tul being gay, yet that in no way influenced how I enjoyed their fan service. Yin and War have stated several times that what they do is their job, and I'm still clapping every time War chokes Yin. And as much as I truly believe Mos and Bank are married, if they came out today and said they actually hate each other and cannot stand the sight of each other, I'd be proud at their acting skills all these years because I have faked liking my coworkers for a lot less money.

As a Catholic and a slut, I think there is a great sociological study here about how branded pairs help with queer representation regardless if the people in the pairs are queer or not, yet how the pairs must still fit into a digestible frame of traditional (hetero) relationships with affection only being given to one person forever and ever until death (or their contracts) do them part.

So First and Khaotung aren't the only ones confusing people because this entire setup is confusing. They aren't creating some intricate strategy but these companies are. These actors are just out here telling their homies they look cute and going on (hopefully) company-sponsored trips. And if they like it, I love it.

Because I've been pretending to like Karen from Finance for years when I can't stand that bitch, yet I still have a job that pays my bills, so "get it how you live it."

And make it a little queer along the way.

[ladymirdan]

Spoilers for one of the best but undoubtedly gayest things I've read in my entitre life:

So there is this short story in Legend of Drizzt, called “Wickless in the Nether”. That is about penises.

And before you think I'm exaggerating:

Yes. It is very much intentional.

But it gets weirder.

He stores his beloved knife, in the shape of a penis.

But also, both Jarlaxle and Entreri are very wealthy men. Thieves and killers for hire. But they still share bot just an appartment, but bedroom.

But also, Entreri says “if I awakned under threat”, he doesnt say “dont come over here with your penis at all”, just that Jarlaxle isnt allowed to wake him up with a boner. And Jarlaxle’s response? “Bad mood today?” and not “I didnt plan to” or “why cant you just ask me to fuck you like a regular person instead of doing weird knife gestures”.

The rest of the book is about the two of them trying to steal a magical flute made by a mad monk that makes you fall in love/lust.

They keep handling each others flute

Salvatore, Bob, Bobby... What the fuck?

Im not disapproving, but this couldn't be gayer if you wrote a full on hardcore sex scene between the two of them. This couldnt be gayer if you went on Facebook and said “Jarlaxle is queer” (oh wait, you did that)

This is what happens when catholic boys is allowed to play Dungeons and Dragons.