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salty-tang · 30 days ago

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favours owed (three-shot pt2)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader (mostly canon compliant)

Summary: Congressman Bucky Barnes does not like owing favours, least of all to you.

congressman bucky x congresswoman reader (set just before, and crosses into the beginning of, Thunderbolts*)

Warnings/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Teasing, Massage, Begging, Cunnilingus, Semi-Public Sex, Political Drama, No established relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Female Orgasm bucky barnes may not know how to politic but he does know how to eat a lady out, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, mild thunderbolts* (the movie) spoilers

A/N: If you wish to skip the graphic sex scene (or jump straight to it, no judging) it's bracketed by these ~*~ text breakers

favours owed masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

9 months later, The Battle of New York First Responders’ Fundraiser Ball

This time you get the chance to sneak up on Bucky Barnes as he stands in front of the large ‘A’ sign that used to adorn the Avengers Tower. It’s being exhibited to be auctioned off later in the evening. To be frank, there’s no way you could ever truly sneak up on the man, but you like to think you caught him a little off-guard with your arrival, especially with the sharp way he looks at you as you clear your throat.

It is not a common occurrence, but Bucky was lost in his thoughts – something that only really ever happens when he’s standing in front of ghosts.

“That was Mel, wasn’t it?” you say, offering him both a quiet smile and the other glass of wine in your hands. “I didn’t think I’d find you here otherwise.”

Bucky sighs, hearing the smugness in your tone as he accepts your offering with a tired smile. He digs his free hand deep into the pocket of his dress pants as he turns to regard you and you take the chance to take him in.

He’s in the exact same suit that he wore at the House of Representatives Ball. Though this time, he’s got a bowtie, and his hair is slicked back. A strong 5 o’clock shadow is developing along his jawline and puffy eyebags have formed under his eyes. To your dismay, those crystal blue eyes had lost a little bit of their usual shine.

It was fair to say that the last nine months haven’t been kind to him. It’s been long days and even longer nights of attending committee meetings, drafting bills, and meeting with constituents. Even with this being your second term, you carry the weight just as heavily; the exhaustion settling between the both of you like an unspoken truth.

You certainly don’t look any better yourself, your dark circles are expertly hidden beneath layers of colour correctors and concealers, but the weariness still seeps through. At the very least, you have a different dress this time – a lovely fuchsia pink Tom Ford silk-crepon gown with a high neckline and a tasteful keyhole cutout. The matching sheer cape cascades down your shoulders, swaying gracefully with your every movement.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Bucky says, brushing past your question about Mel as if it hardly matters. His attention is fixed on you, like your attendance, one of over two hundred, is the most important thing right now.

He scans you with that now-familiar intensity, and you resist the urge to straighten up. You have to give yourself a mental flogging – since when did his approval start meaning something to you?

“I wanted a quiet night in to rot in peace, but Derek – you’ve met him before, my Chief of Staff – insisted I make the rounds to fundraise for the next campaign. Barely just won this one and he’s already thinking about the next.” You grumble instead and Bucky chuckles.

“Tell me about it. Mine has grandiose ideas of Presidency.”

The two of you share a look and break out in low laughter. A Bucky Barnes presidency? That’s comedy at its finest. It’s already bad enough he shares a name with a former president – he’d never hear the end of it.

Besides, you’ve seen the man drowning in paperwork.

Once, late at night in the DC offices, you passed by his suite and caught a glimpse: him at the centre of a war zone of legislative binders and red-lined drafts, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched, eyes tracking margin notes like they were enemies on a battlefield. You almost said hello, but he looked so thoroughly overwhelmed that you decided it was best not to interrupt a man clearly losing a fight with committee memos.

Hard workers have always had your respect. And Bucky Barnes, you have to admit, is one of them.

He’s carved out his place as a political force to be reckoned with, his thoughts sharp and his questions sharper still. It helps, of course, that he is enthusiastically backing all your proposals. Maybe this was his way of paying back the ‘favours’ that he thinks he owes you. Not that you’re keeping score, but if you were, you’re pretty sure you’re still ahead since you haven’t been asking things in return. Not when you helped him push through his staff vetting process. Not when you slipped him that early intelligence on Senator Gary’s leanings, and certainly not when you quietly smoothed over that awkward encounter with the press on his behalf.

It has fostered a subtle closeness, one stitched together by favours and shared battles, with a warmth beneath the surface that neither of you quite acknowledge but both feel.

Since the last Ball, you’ve watched quietly from the sidelines as he and Senator Gary inch closer to impeaching Valentina de Fontaine – cheering him on in silence, applauding every hard-won victory from a safe distance. You’ve already played all your cards. You’re not eager to stick your neck out again just to impress Bucky Barnes – or for something as benign as affection.

You are way too busy with your own matters. And frankly, you value your life.

Still, standing beside him again now, close enough to share a pocket of quiet in the middle of a crowded room – you realise just how much you’ve missed him.

He’s always been your political ally first. A friend, occasionally. A headache, reliably.

But lately, lately you’ve been feeling the weight of how much you’ve given. And how deeply – quietly – you’ve started to hope that maybe, one day, he might give something back.

“Gods, the things I’d do to catch a break,” you sigh with feeling, rolling your shoulders and allowing yourself to slouch just a little as the last nine months wash over you. Bucky hums in agreement, a mono-syllabic sound that conveys more empathy than most people manage with full speeches.

“At least I’m not wearing those,” he says, nodding down to the pair of towering heels that you have on tonight. They are slowly murdering your feet in exchange for the privilege of looking down on most of the other men here. With Bucky, you can just barely meet him eye to eye.

“They make my calves look great,” you mutter, shifting your weight from one burning foot to the other. “But I’m throwing them out the window the second I get home.”

“You’ll traumatize someone on the sidewalk,” Bucky says drily.

“I mean, at worst it’s a misdemeanour,” you add with mock seriousness. “Campaign finance violations are still worse.”

Bucky hums, considering. “Could probably spin it as performance art. Civic awareness.”

You look at him. “You gonna bail me out?”

He tilts his glass. “I’ll vote to censure you. Publicly condemn your actions. Privately cover the legal fees.”

You snort. “God, you are getting good at this.”

There’s a pause – long enough to settle between you, easy but charged.

Then, there’s a subtle flicker of his eyes beyond your shoulder, and his body tenses just slightly.

You catch it instantly, though you resist the urge to glance behind you.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head. “Valentina?”

“No – it’s nothing,” he says, but there is something weighty in his expression that suggests that there is more going on than he lets on.

“That doesn’t look like nothing,” you prod.

He flashes you a crooked grin. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Got me forgettin’ things I shouldn’t.”

You chuckle softly, but before you can press him any further, he clears his throat and takes a long sip of wine. The moment recedes, swallowed back into the hum of the room. The clinking of glasses and the low tide of conversation pull the both of you back into the present.

“Just another hour more of cocktails, then the auction,” you sigh. “I’m doing my best, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night.”

Your feet are on fire. Every step feels like a walk across hot needles, and the leather has been sawing into your pinkie toe in a way that promises to blister mercilessly. You can’t wait for the auction to start, just so you have the excuse to sit down.

“I should let you go do the rounds,” you say, turning half-heartedly toward the crowd again. “And I’m going to find a seat before my toes give out. No one’s going to sponsor me if I have no toes.”

Bucky chuckles, but his voice is laced with genuine concern when he says, “there are no seats in this hall.”

“You’re kidding,” you whine as frustration bubbles up. You’re half a breath from arguing the point – because you, stubborn politician that you are, have to at least get a word in – until you remember who you’re dealing with. Of course, Bucky’s already swept the hall. Probably mapped ingress points, escape routes, and yes, even chair availability.

“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t have anything to apologise for. “If you’re not particular,” he continues, hesitating for just a beat too long, “I do know a spot where you could put your feet up for a bit. It’s quieter. Private.”

He hesitates. Then, under his breath, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear it, he says, “least I can do. After everything.”

You pretend that you did not hear him when you arch a brow. “Bucky Barnes, since when do you ‘know a spot’?” you can’t help but tease.

A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “Been hanging around the new interns too much, they’ve made it their mission to modernize my vocabulary or die trying.”

“Well then,” you say, stepping in closer, “lead the way, Congressman.”

⁕⁕⁕

The ‘spot’ that Bucky spoke of didn’t look very far away from the ‘A’ sign that the both of you were standing in front of. But the throng of attendees all clamouring for both of your attentions made the journey painstakingly slow. It would have been even slower if Bucky wasn’t wearing his signature surly expression – the one that works wonders in parting a crowd.

Eventually, you make it through and slip down a discreet side corridor to ride a service service elevator up just two floors. The elevator doors open to a deserted floor, dimly lit by a few soft lighting fixtures that feel like they’re left perpetually on. The hum and chatter of the museum floor fades out behind the both of you.

Bucky walks on with purpose, passing several other doors before opening one to reveal a hospitality suite. Inside, a well-stocked kitchenette and bar island greet you, but what captures your attention is a row of cushioned settees lined neatly up in the middle of the room, all facing a darkened glass window.

There are very many questions that buzz at the tip of your tongue, they are promptly ignored as you make a beeline for the nearest seat, grateful for the refuge.

The moan you let out as your bottom hits soft fabric can only be described as indecent, but right now you’ve thrown all forms of propriety to the wind. You close your eyes briefly as you relish in the feeling of sheer relief as you kick your feet up. You stretch out along the couch, not giving a damn how slovenly you look. You have a feeling that Bucky wouldn’t mind – in fact, you catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze before he turns away to busy himself at the bar.

Speaking of the man, you can’t quite put a finger on what he is doing, but you do hear several cabinet doors flick open and shut in quick succession.

“You’re a life-saver, Barnes,” you speak to the room at large, hoping he hears you. “This one goes on your tab.”

You hear him snort. “If this was all I needed to do, I would have done it a lot earlier.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say, tone deliberately light and teasing. “You told me once you don’t leave debts unpaid. And If I remember correctly... you still owe me at least one more.”

You’d said it as a joke, but you both know it’s only half a lie. You never cashed in the real favours – not the staff vetting, not the intel on Gary. Never ever asks for anything.

Bucky glances at you, and for the briefest moment, something flickers behind his eyes. He remembers. Of course he does.

“Not really,” he counters after a beat, “you gave me the tip on Gary, I’ll give you that. But the jury’s still out on Mel.”

“She’ll come around, I’ve been buttering her up.”

“Buttering her up,” he echoes flatly. You hear the sounds of a tap running.

“You know how miserable employees are always on LinkedIn looking for their out? I’ve been reposting and commenting on all those ‘social good’ stories so it shows up on her feed. Subliminal messaging and all that.”

Bucky gives you a look – some amusement, mostly exasperation. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

You shrug, unbothered. “It’s persistence! Or psychological manipulation. Depends on who’s asking really.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, but he says nothing. The silence between the both of you stretches out just long enough to make you glance after him.

When he returns, he’s holding two folded towels, which he hands to you without ceremony. His fingers lightly graze yours in the exchange – and you force yourself to play it cool.

They’re warm.

Your confusion must show, because he exhales through his nose, patient but just that little bit pointed.

“Heat helps with the soreness,” he says, voice low. “If you wrap your calves now, they won’t cramp up later. Trust me, I’ve had to learn the hard way.”

He shifts slightly, voice softer. “You’re the one always offering help – advice, cover, strategy… You never really ask for anything.”

He glances at you. “Maybe I should change that.”

He offers the towels with that quiet insistence that leaves little room for refusal. You take them from him, still warm from being soaked in piping hot water. You eye your heels like they’ve personally offended you (and they have – there’s no cushioning and all those criss-crossing ties are certainly the work of the devil) and you sigh again.

“This is going to be a whole thing,” you mutter under your breath, bracing yourself for the awkward bend.

Before you can even so much as reach in the direction of the first tie, Bucky crouches in front of you with the same quiet efficiency he approaches everything with – purposefully, and without asking for permission.

“Relax.” His voice is low, that familiar mix of dry patience and something steadier underneath. “You’ll pull something if you’re this tense all the time.”

You freeze up. You can’t help it.

You’re not afraid – it’s the opposite. He’s close. Closer than he’s ever been. You’re close enough that you can see all his finest details – the scar near his temple, right over his eyebrow, the texture of his skin, the exact shade of stormy blue his eyes shift to in the low light. It’s the kind of close that makes it hard to think about anything other than him, and how easily he’s settled there right before you.

Your heart threatens to give out when his fingers find the knotted tie that’s keeping your strappy heeled sandals together. There’s no hesitation in his movements, just calm, deliberate care. One heel slides off, then the other.

“You really don’t have to–” you start, but the sentence goes nowhere. Because he’s already wrapping the towels around your calves, snug and warm and startlingly gentle.

“I know,” he says simply. “Let me.”

And that – well, what can you say to that? It does something to you. More than his hands. More than the heat sinking into your muscles. It’s the quiet way he says it, like it’s not a favour or his flirtatious nature, just a fact. Just something he wants to do.

Then his thumbs start to move.

You almost jolt but catch yourself at the last moment. Every part of you is suddenly thrumming with barely restrained energy.

His actions are not rough or showy, just... precise. Like he’s done this before, like he knows what he's doing and exactly what kind of pressure to apply to make you exhale through your nose and try not to melt into the damn couch.

“This okay?” he asks, glancing up. His hands haven’t stopped moving. You’re not sure if they ever should.

You nod, probably too fast. “Yeah – didn’t know this came with the package.”

His mouth quirks. “Occupational hazard. Fieldwork’s hell on the legs. You learn a few tricks.”

Right. Experience. Of course, he knows exactly where the ache is deepest, and how to press just hard enough to coax it loose. Of course he’s the one doing this, hands firm and warm and devastatingly unhurried as if he is mapping the contours of your body, committing it to memory.

Your eyes flutter shut for half a second before you force them open again. He’s still there, still focused, still close. And for the life of you, you can’t remember what the hell your next move is supposed to be.

Because if this is him not getting ahead of himself, you’re not sure what you’ll do when he does.

⁕⁕⁕

Bucky Barnes knows he’s going to hell.

A lifetime – several lifetimes, really – of bad things done will make sure of that (and he can still hear his therapist’s voice telling him, ‘you can’t blame yourself for what you were forced to do’. But he still does anyway. He always will).

But this, this is the fucking whipped cream and cherry on top of a long, damning list. Because every conscious step he’s taken to lead him to this very moment is dripping in self-indulgence, sin, indecency.

In his defence, his original intentions were pure.

He was watching you from the very moment you walked into the museum, a vision in pink. He watched as you worked the room effortlessly, smiling as you greeted friends and potential donors alike, all with that practiced ease that he’s come to appreciate more and more every time he’s forced to do the same.

He’d also caught the look you shot him while he was talking to Mel – sizing up the angle, calculating your next move. You are always trying to catch him off guard, a little game you like to play, even if it’s ultimately a fool’s mission.

And of course, you are an open book to him – he sees the way you carry your tension in your shoulders, the way your complexion was just beginning to take on a bit of a grey pallor from too many sleepless nights.

If he had any say in the matter, you shouldn’t be here tonight. He would have chided you for it – almost, because he knows that it is an exercise in futility to change your mind when it’s set on something.

So instead, he does what he can do, following behind like quiet backup, ready to step in if you stumble.

The hospitality suite wasn’t much, an old relic from when the museum still hosted private performances. Donated by the Maria Stark Foundation, the space was designed to entertain in elegance, quiet, and comfort.

Not that any of the Avengers were big patrons of the arts, but it was reassuring to know that if Bucky flipped a certain combination of switches, one of the walls would open to reveal a cache of supplies – weapons, medical kits, that sort of thing. It’s one of many others, tucked away in unassuming locations picked precisely to be convenient and discreet.

And they call me the paranoid, over-prepared one, Bucky thinks as he collects clean towels from a linen cabinet and runs them under a stream of blistering hot water.

He turns around – and stops at the sight of you. You’re draped over the settee like some ancient ruin – head thrown back across the backrest of the settee, one arm flung tiredly across your eyes, beautiful gauzy fabric of slipping along the length of your outstretched legs, all silk and sighs and bare skin.

Completely unguarded.

Soft.

You look so soft.

Too soft for someone like him with all his broken and jagged edges.

Still, he can’t help the gentle smile that creeps onto his face as he approaches you. You’d tear him a new one if he ever voiced that thought out loud.

But this is how it begins. The slow erosion. The first breach in the wall.

He doesn’t consider himself a religious man, not anymore (whatever faith he once had was buried somewhere in the rubble of the fourth war), but as he kneels by your side and begins to gently wrap the hot towels around your legs, he fleetingly thinks of worship, of penance.

Of what it means to kneel.

Before you, these hands, once forged and hardened by battle and death and killing, have the chance to do something else – something better, something kinder.

He tells himself that he only came tonight to talk about the housing bill. It should’ve been clean – a quick ask, a downright easy pivot into business matters.

But then he saw you – draped in pink, heels too high, smile stretched just a little too tight. And all that resolve evaporated.

Your exhaustion is bone-deep.

And for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely, he decided you needed a break more than he needed your vote.

So he stays quiet.

Finds you a seat.

Your skin is warm and soft under his fingertips, and the way your breathing begins to catch ignites dark pleasure within him. His dick hardens without him noticing, and it strains uncomfortably against the thick fabric of his dress pants.

And the bill’s the last thing on his mind.

Mindlessly, his hands drift upwards, just past your knee, seeking the warm fleshy curve of your inner thighs.

You don’t move, don’t speak. It’s all that you can do to just focus on breathing.

He tells himself that he’s just checking for tension, for swelling. For the heat that might signal something torn or strained. But he knows that’s not why he’s still touching you.

You’re soft here. Pliant.

You give under his hands in a way that makes something deep in his chest clench, a flash of hunger so sudden and sharp it almost hurts like physical pain.

You shouldn't let him do this.

He shouldn't let him do this.

But you do.

And he does.

His metal hand stays anchored at your calf, cool and grounded. But his other continues upward, mapping slow circles into the tender skin above the towel, just shy of indecent.

You sigh. Not in protest. Never in protest.

He bites the inside of his cheek.

You’re tired. You trust him. You always have, maybe more than you should. You don’t know what it’s doing to him for you to allow him to be allowed this close. To touch you like this. To feel like this.

He presses the flat of his palm against your thigh, not squeezing, just holding.

Gods above and below, it feels too good.

And maybe that’s the worst part, that something so gentle, so quiet and reverent, could feel like the most dangerous thing he’s ever done. He really shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be letting him. But neither of you move. The only sound is your breathing – slow, tight, ragged.

And then –

“Shit,” you hiss, jerking slightly as his fingers dig in too hard.

It’s as if a gun has gone off in the room.

He snatches his hand back as if burned, suddenly slapped back into reality. He looks at you with wild abandon, breath catching, muscles tensing,

Really, what the hell is he doing?

This is you. His colleague, his fellow Representative. The woman who will stubbornly die on every small hill, and will lecture the legislative importance of a balance between a purposive and textualist approach to anyone who would listen. The woman who once called him a “misguided libertarian with a saviour complex” in front of three interns and the Vice President.

Now?

Now the exact tenor of your moans is carved into the deepest recess of his memory.

Worse still, the horrible, terrible, sinful truth of this situation is that he wants more. He wants all of it. Your gasps, your sighs, your whimpers, your pleads. He wants to be the reason for every last exquisite sound out of your pretty little mouth. With his hands, with his mouth, with everything he has.

Anything.

He would do anything to keep you going like this.

⁕⁕⁕

“No…” you whine instinctively. Not in protest, but in ache. In regret, maybe, for the moment that he’s just taken away from you.

You sit up quickly, cheeks flushing beet red, eyes wide as you take him in – kneeling, hands stilled, his broad shoulders between your legs. And the situation all comes crashing down on you.

What are you doing?

This is James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, your colleague, your fellow Representative. A war hero (war criminal?), an Avenger, a man who refuses to use the office’s coffee faucet on principle and so will walk four blocks in the middle of a DC winter to the only 24-hour coffee joint in the area just to be caffeinated. And now his (very large, very nice, very capable) hands are creeping up your legs and you are spiralling –

“We should not be doing this,” you manage to croak, and you hate the way that your voice betrays you. You wanted to sound firm, resolute. What comes out is desperate and breathy and pitched barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t flinch or move back.

“Then tell me to stop,” comes the reply. His voice low and so, so dangerous.

He’s still between your knees, still watching you with scorching intensity. He’s still touching you – barely. His thumb moves in slow, cruel circles against your skin, like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you.

Your body betrays you completely. Your thighs are pressed so tight they are trembling with restraint, and you are soaked through with want. Your mouth is so dry that swallowing feels impossible. Your brain is screaming, spiralling, trying to claw back some semblance of rationality.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t want to breathe.

You want his hands to wander higher. You want his fingers to bruise your inner thighs as he splays your legs wide open and make you come with his mouth over and over. Until your voice is hoarse from screaming his name. You want to beg him for more and mean it.

You don’t just want it – you need it unlike anything else you have desired in your life.

You swallow.

Fuck it.

“Don’t stop.” You tell him quietly.

When his eyes snap up to meet yours – hungry, feral, devout – you swear you forget how to think entirely.

~*~

Those two little words are all the permission Bucky needs. His hands still for half a heartbeat, but his eyes are locked on yours, dark and feral. Without a word, he resumes his maddeningly slow ascent.

You can feel the smugness radiating off him as he watches you writhe beneath his touch, the curve of his mouth twitching in satisfaction each time your hips buck or your breath catches. He’s taking his time, deliberately cruel in the way his fingers trace higher and higher, just brushing the edge of where you want him.

The simple truth is this – he wants it too. Maybe even more desperately than you do. There’s an unfamiliar desire coursing through his veins. It’s not just lust, it’s a hunger that makes him burn in a way he has not in decades. It scorches through him like wildfire, burning everything else away except the single-minded need to bury his face between your thighs and lose himself in the way you fall part.

He breathes in the scent of your arousal like it’s oxygen, like it’s salvation. His hands pause just short of the wet heat between your legs, like he’s savouring the moment before the fall. His jaw clenches like he’s trying to keep himself on a leash, but it's a losing battle. It’s one he’s not sure he wants to win anyway.

He wants more. Needs more.

This position won’t do – not for what he plans to do, so without warning, he wraps his hand around your waist, strong and sure, and lifts you with startling ease.

You let out a startled little squeak, and he grins like a devil.

Before you can even protest, he sets you down on the settee properly and drops to his knees like a man in holy prayer. At some point (when, you have no idea – you are barely paying attention) he’s lost the bowtie and the jacket. The discarded articles lie forgotten on the floor, joining your heels. He’s pushing up the white sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms, slow and deliberate, revealing sinewy muscle and the glint of that metal arm like he’s preparing for work.

Serious, filthy, goddamn reverent work.

If your brain was a little less lust-addled, you would have giggled.

As you are, up to your eyeballs in want and desire, it just makes you ache for him to bury his dick deep inside you.

Without any fanfare, or so much as a by-your-leave, he shifts, hooking one of your legs up and over his shoulder with careless strength, and pressing the other wide open under his hand. You’re so vulnerable right now – every inch of your need is laid bare on display for him. You feel how soaked you are, how your panties cling on like a second skin, and shame crawls up your throat at just how obvious your desperation is.

But he does not mind, doesn’t even dream of looking away. In fact, he likes the way your arousal is as plain as day, soaking through your underwear.

Gentle and deliberate, he presses a kiss onto your knee, the start of a trail of messy, feverish kisses that he drags down your thigh in a crooked, wet path. Then, he slips a hand under your ass, gripping you hard enough for the pain to be pleasurable.

And isn’t this the most exquisite form of torture? He shows no sense of urgency as he nips at unmarked skin, alternating between pressing hot open mouth kisses and sucking bruises into the fleshiest parts of your skin. Your senses are dialled to a hundred, making you painfully aware that he always stops just shy of your dripping, aching cunt.

You’re a proper mess now – babbling, whining, hands clawing at the settee like you’re trying to dig your way out of your own need.

Blood roars in his ears. You’re begging. You’re begging for him. It almost does his head in, the sheer thought that someone would want him so much that they are reduced to this spluttering, trembling, gasping, mess.

His free hand, the metal on, reaches around, fingers pushing aside the hopelessly soaked cotton with ease (they were doing nothing to hide what you are, anyway) to rub at the dark pink folds of your cunt.

Cold vibranium slides over hot, flushed skin.

You choke out a sound – half moan, half cry – the cool sensation of metal coming into contact with your slick wetness is a feeling unlike anything you’ve ever had before. Your mouth waters, the contrast of heat and cold makes your toes curl, your hips buck. You are already fantasising about what those cold, unyielding fingers would feel like inside.

But then – he stops.

“Still with me, darlin’?” He says, gently untangling his hands from you with unbearable care. He can’t bear not touching you, so they come to a rest on your waist. They knead at your side in slow, grounding circles, like he’s trying to tether you down to this earth.

“Put it in – I need – Please, please – ” you hear yourself whine. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore. You just need.

Your own hands that were just gripping the settee paw helplessly at his, trying to pull him closer, push him where you want him.

Anywhere.

Everywhere.

Bucky has the audacity to laugh, a low dark sound that rumbles through his chest and makes your heart clench. “As the lady wishes,” he mumbles against your thigh as he angles himself just so. His fingers hook onto the sides of your panties, and he tugs them off in one swift motion. They’re tossed aside like the rest of your ruined, beautiful evening.

He leans back down, and slowly, as if he were savouring the most exquisite of cuisines, deliberately licks a wet, hot strip from your entrance to your clit. Your taste fills his mouth, hot and salty and utterly addicting. His beard scratches your skin, raw from his earlier ministrations. You are already sore and sensitive from all the bites he had been doling out and this just about sends you over the edge. It hurts in the most perfect, perfect way.

His nose bumps against your clit with every lick, long and deep, and you don’t recognise the person who grinds her hips against his eager mouth. You’re a stranger to your own body, chasing relief like a woman possessed.

Your hands find purchase his hair and you tug at silky locks, but it seems to only spur him on. He groans again, tongue pressing deeper into you.

You are so plush and warm and smooth that he wants to mark you and sink into you so that you never ever leave. You drive him crazy. He wants some part, any part, of himself inside you. The need thrums through him as his right hand slides up to your cunt. Two fingers moisten themselves on your wetness and you moan – loudly, obscenely – as he slowly slides both digits in.

He too, groans as you flutter and clench around his fingers, and he’s barely all the way in yet. He’s wrecked by just how tight, how perfect, how right you feel around him.

His cock is screaming out with desperate desire to replace his hand, but no, today is not about him.

He steadies you with his other hand, fingers splayed reassuringly across your lower tummy as he mutters sweet words of encouragement as you get used to his size. He feels you loosen up around him, and that is his cue to move his fingers in and out of you. Slowly, at first, until he finds that perfect pacing that makes your whimpers louder, needier.

He is almost too much – you feel like you’re going to shatter into a million pieces – but you don’t care, urging him on with every pant and gasp that leaves your mouth. His pace never falters, and he is quick study at what makes you tick. Before long, he settles on a brutal rhythm that has him pushing – harder, faster, deeper – fingers crooking just right as he works on you in messy, practiced strokes.

You think that this is it, that this is what is going to be your undoing, until he bends his head down again, lavishing attention on your cunt with both his mouth and fingers, and you change your mind, because this, this is exactly what is going to break you. His mouth meanders along the planes of your body, unhurried, until he finds what he is looking for.

He sucks at your clit, and you see stars.

There are actual tears in your eyes as both your legs snap around his shoulders in a tight squeeze. You’re not sure if you’re trying to find some measure of respite from this onslaught of pleasure, or if you’re trying to keep him there so that he can keep pleasuring you forever.

Gods, this is – this is – everything. Like the sky cracking open in a thunderstorm. Like the moment a star goes supernova. Like the silence that swells just before a wave breaks, raw and utterly alive.

You are at the edge, head thrown back, spine arching up from the settee. And that is when you notice yourselves faintly reflected in the dark glass in front of you. You see your lips parted, your chest heaving, Bucky’s dark head between your legs as you dig your heels into his back.

You get to see the moment where he pushes you right over – you’re coming, shaking so hard that you cry. And Bucky keeps going.

God, he keeps going. His fingers work you through the orgasm, mouth dragging back slowly, licking up everything you spill for him with biblical greed. He watches you break all around him with an expression that comes very close to holy reverence.

And when it finally becomes too much, too sensitive, you reach down and regretfully push him away with trembling hands. He rises up over you, settling beside you with a low exhale, arms opening wide. He allows you to bury your face in his chest as aftershocks continue to shudder through you.

“My darlin’s so pretty when she comes,” he mumbles into your hair, voice rough, thick with something close to awe. You hear him, hear the second time he calls you ‘darlin’ – and you want to argue, want to laugh, want to tell him that you’re nobody’s darling (maybe, just maybe, you’d let yourself be his).

And if you had any energy left, you would have protested that this was all him – that the thin sheen of sweat on his body is testament to the fact that he has practically done everything to facilitate the most intense orgasm of your life.

Then he asks softly, “you still think I was buttering you up?”

You glance at him sideways, already half-curled against his chest. “Weren’t you?”

He lets out a soft laugh, almost embarrassed. “I was going to ask you to co-sponsor the housing bill.”

You blink. “You never did.”

“Got distracted,” he says. Then, quieter, “you looked tired. Figured you needed to sit more than I needed your vote.”

It’s the kind of thing you didn’t know you’d been waiting nine months to hear.

~*~

Bucky watches you carefully as you straighten yourself up, eyes scanning for any flicker of discomfort or regret. He finds none.

By the grace of waterproof cosmetics, your makeup does not run, and you seem quietly relieved, checking your reflection in the darkened glass, patting your hair back into place. His own shirt is rumpled, but it’s nothing his suit jacket cannot hide.

He watches you potter around the room, face flushing again as you gather your discarded shoes and panties and hand him his jacket and tie. He can still taste you on his tongue, heady and addicting, better than Asgardian mead.

You knew there are going to be consequences for hooking up with Bucky, but you’ve braced for the emotional ones – not the logistical nightmare of getting him back into public-facing shape and sneaking back into the event. You chew your lip, eyeing the state of his hair. His carefully gelled-back hair has been painfully mussed to a point of no return. With an exaggerated huff, you card your hands through the locks, trying to salvage what you can. His fringe disobediently flops into his face, untamed. He still looks nice, but nothing like how he walked into this event. You turn your attention to something you can fix – his bowtie.

He smirks. “And whose fault is that?”

You scowl and tug at the knot of his bowtie, a little harder than strictly necessary. It’s been a while since you did one of those and you are concentrating hard to make sure you get it just right (Bucky doesn’t tell you that he could have tied it himself – how else did he get it on in the first place? He likes you close).

He shrugs it off with a grin that makes him look as young as the interns. “You should worry about yourself,” he mutters, eyes raking down your body. “You look like you rolled down the stairs.”

You look down. Your dress is a roadmap of sin – creased, twisted, hopelessly revealing of exactly where his hands had been.

“And whose fault is that?” you echo, though like him, you are also smiling. “We’ll just have to tell everyone we got into some kind of rough-and-tumble.”

“Oh, sure.” He can’t help but chuckle, deep and unrepentant. “I’m sure the New York Times would love to hear about the kind of rough-and-tumble two of their political darlings got into. In a private hospitality suite. During a charity event. For first responders.”

“Shut up.” You reply, embarrassed. No need to dwell on the depravity. You were there; you have the bruises to prove it.

You both know you have to go back to the fundraiser – face the music, the donors, the polite small talk over flat champagne and canapé trays. But for a moment, you linger. You take a half-step back to admire your handiwork (you know he can tie his own tie, but damn if are going to give up another opportunity to be all up him). Better, much better.

Wordlessly, he raises his left arm. You step into it without hesitation, tucking yourself into his side. You’re still a little unsteady on your feet, but he doesn’t let you falter. He just slips an arm around you, like it’s instinct.

Together, you sweep out of the room–shoulders squared, expressions schooled, veneers sliding into place.

But your eyes meet just before you cross the threshold, and in that glance is everything – the spark of something new, something wild and unspoken.

A promise. A threat. A next time.

Whatever this is – it’s not over.

Not even close.

⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕⁕

A/N: And that's a wrap!

I actually have a third chapter that's their respective team's reactions to all this sneaking around (because that's my favourite thing to read), which will be uploaded in due time, but consider the main story finished and that as a ~post credit scene~

I also have some small out takes/ deleted scenes that I still love, which will be uploaded. It's a bit empty now, but I promise I'll flesh it out and I am always open to chats, saying hi, or even requests <3

See ya'll around!!

<<pt 1 || AO3 || pt3 >>

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urban-shade · 1 month ago

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Absolutely OBSESSED with your work. Can I perhaps ask for your angstiest headcanons that I totallywintdtealwhatareyoutalkingabout? :3

I NEED SLIGHTLY MORE THAN THIS FOR A PROMPT like 80% of my headcanons are angsty (i will absolutely dump paragraphs if i have enough of a prompt because thats what i do whenever we get any new crumb of pressure lore)

in terms of angst my aus are way worse than my headcanons and I'm not too sure what hcs to pull up so you get au infodump since they're more like headcanons about what i think would happen in slightly diff endings of pressure instead of true AU's

also i got a little carried away this is practically rough draft fanfiction i'm so sorry

ALL THREE of my AU's actually kind of work in tandem to explore how I feel Sebastian works as a character, I think no matter what, he doomed by the narrative to never get what he truly wants or have a perfect happy ending.

I'm only going to get into the specifics of one, but the rundown of all 3

Innovation Humanization (lowkey this fic is abandoned im too busy) Sebastian escapes the Blacksite during the power outage and Innovation hijacking a sub for him, he manages to bring Painter with him. He arrives at Innovation Arctic Base, and they go through the process of bringing him back to mostly human again over the next 6mo-year. He has to re-experience his greatest traumas ALL OVER again, but this time done by people that actually kind of care about him as a human being.

This is basically my "good ending" for him, he isn't a fish anymore, but he never gets his legs back. He has painter, and he has time to deal with his trauma. (I think innovation would have a therapist, and thats really the only therapist he COULD talk to about what he went through at urbanshade, normal therapy really wouldn't work.. you need the one that works at a kooky mad scientist base. He may or may not be able to see his family again, depends how evil you think urbanshade would be (if they'd hunt them down to find him so they can neutralize him)

Instantly Human He gets to be, perfectly, how he was before all this started. But he has to escape the Blacksite. Which is HARD AS FUCK.

This is a bit of spoilers for what part 2 to the comic is gonna be but, he has to knowingly leave behind Painter to die (he can't carry a computer as a person, too heavy). That's a "choice" he has to make. He also has no evidence that anything ever happened to him. Personally I feel like not even having a scar from trauma that fucked you up that bad would be upsetting bc it's like it didn't even happen yk? But also I know it is probably what he wants.

Teleported Home Lopee teleports Sebastian back home as his "reward" instead of turning him human like the IH au. Sebastian arrives at home in the middle of the day to his mother cleaning in the kitchen. I'll get into the details after this quick rundown

He gets to see his mom instantly! He doesn't have to deal with escaping the Blacksite! But . He's probably stuck as a fish and in hiding for a whiiile until they can contact Innovation for help. He also involuntarily leaves Painter behind to die in this one as well. He never got to even say goodbye or sorry. Painter is just wondering where Sebastian went (before he inevitably gets killed in a few days/weeks). And he's haunted by that (but also MAD at lopee). He let the kid down. More than let the kid down, he could do literally nothing about this lil guy he was protecting, dying an inevitable death.

You can't have everything Sebastian… Something must suck in some way… Urbanshade has permanently fucked your life

ok now for the details on the teleported home au this is practically a fanfiction that i didn't want to rewrite into actual writing because thats hard so forgive the like, swaps between writer thoughts and writing i know its weird 😭but i hope fun to read regardless!!

SO! Sebastian gets teleported home, Lopee is nice enough to make sure he's crouched down so his head doesn't go through the ceiling.

i dont know if ill ever do final art for this so you get my ms paint diagrams i hope you can bear with me. i gotta establish the setting here, it's in SoCal, middleish of the day. Sebastian was last in the norwegian sea at 9pm (yes this is an accurate time difference im autistic)

His mom is utterly terrified and screams and runs outside upon making eye contact with him. Who wouldn't?! Sebastian is kind of dazed and confused for a moment, he's HOME, and his MOM is 10 feet in front of him. One second he was in a chilly damp concrete box with menacing facility breaking down noises all around him, the next he's in a warm comforting home in the middle of the day with bird calls and shit. That's an insane transition.

He has to think quickly and chase after her even if he's really confused, he can't have the cops called on him and his identity exposed. I don't think she would fully recognize his voice, I choose to believe fishseb sounds different from humanseb due to the experimentation messing with his vocal chords/overall resonance. But his tone is similar to her.

She doesn't want to look at this Thing that's leaning outside of the doorway of her house, but, .. he does oddly remind her of her son.. but he's been declared dead for over 12 years now.. but the hair.. the look in his eyes. He honestly looks like he's about to cry to her , subtly trembling, hunched over like he doesn't want to scare her, but his arm weakly outreached like he doesn't want her to run away.

He's entirely conscious of the fact that he really shouldn't be seen outside right now so he's trying to stay mostly inside the doorway. He went after her on pure survival instinct/adrenaline. Hes so keenly aware of how utterly terrifying he is to her right now and feeling Miserable about being a creature a million times worse than he normally is because he's been thrust into ice cold reality of what he is. Which is something that humans should be terrified of

He didn't even get a chance to ease his mom into it, she's DOUBLY scared because there's a THING/GUY in the house and not just because he's a monster

He asks for her to come back inside so they can talk, she's still really scared but wants to believe its him. He's intentionally moving slowly while backing inside the house to not scare her more.

He doesn't sit on the couch since he's worried his weight might pop the springs (even just the upper torso) so he's just curled up in a pile near it trying to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. And he's ALSO trying to calm down like he needs a moment to breathe and take in his surroundings

She walks in all the way and sees him. He's truly trying not to scare her.. isn't he.. Sebastian was sweet like that.. She takes a breath to steady herself and asks him if he wants something to drink since she really needs a glass of water to help clear her mind

"Heh.. whiskey?.. I know you have it up in the cupboard above the freezer. Used to water it down back in the day. I never knew if you ever noticed." Sebastian was intentionally trying to bring up information that would help her believe he was himself, but also he could really use a drink.. and a smoke.. but he knew his mom hated those. If only she knew he used to sneak out to smoke years ago.

His mother just looks at him with an indiscernible look. Did he say the wrong thing? His ears pin back, he clears his throat. "Water is fine, I was uh..joking about the whiskey." (felt like this dialogue i wrote was really in-character/cute so I had to include it)

I think when they sit down with their waters to talk he, he explains the entire timeline of what happened to him. And once he starts explaining the experimentation she's trying to be quiet to be respectful to hear the whole story but she is absolutely crying. And she goes in for a hug around when he hits the point where he was promoted to Mr-p.

He can feel her shaking when she hugs him, she's still scared of him, but he knows she's trying so hard to comfort him and ignore her instinctual fear.

And they continue to hug as he explains the rest as well as the lockdown and Lopee teleporting him. He leaves out any details about him killing people, can't have mama knowing he's an actual killer now.. I think that his mom knew he was innocent and he is a victim of the legal system

I think Sebastian probably goes to bed around 9-10pm every day because I wouldn't be surprised if the Blacksite had him up really early for work assignments often. So after he talks with his mom for a bit he's noticeably really sleepy because it is Past his bedtime in Norway and ALSO because for the first time in a long time he's actually relaxed. He isn't in fish prison hell anymore!

They generally just hang out for a while after talking, and he passes out from exhaustion. She tries to put a blanket on him, but he violently jumps back while also shoving her away since it felt like another expendable climbing on him. (Side tangent I think he has an unnatural tendency for violence from his fishes in Addition to anger issues caused by ptsd)

He feels awful and profusely apologizes and they make up :)

that's about all i wrote for the start of it, but i had some smaller thoughts about later on

I realized he needs to eat a LOT and it'd be a major financial strain on his mom, I did the math and his calorie needs are like ~14-16k a day (THIS IS REALLY ROUGH but genuinely calculated with formulas and like muscle volume calculations ive done + adjusted to what i think makes sense, this is the Lower end of what i think it'd be. He might need more. It'd be more like 10k cal a day if he's true cold blooded. I feel like character wise it makes sense for him to be medium blooded but true cold blooded would really help him in terms of being Alive)

She basically has to keep him fed on costco rotisserie chicken because that is the absolute cheapest protein she can get (buying a whole frozen cow is still way more per oz than costco chicken) So he costs at minimum ~1000$ a month to feed.

He would be very cognizant of this and try not to eat too much and basically half starve himself. On like day 3-4 he is noticeably really, really out of it. All he can really think about is food and his mom is really worried about him. He really doesn't want to tell her but he'd eventually cave and be like 😓i need to eat like triple the amount of food you've been giving me. so she locks in and gets him some more food. Might have to take out a loan 😭 They really try to get him to innovation ASAP after this because she really can't afford to feed him for more than a few months.

ok that is roughly about all i have so far i know that was a massive infodump but i hope it was fun anyways Um. i make no mention of his dad cuz i feel like his dad isn't in the picture anymore but there's no reasoning behind it other than i like it

#when i say i dump paragraphs whenever we get new pressure lore i mean it. my poor friends are subject to it constantly(they love it)#asks #idreamtmygender #sebthoughts #data.txt #my aus

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etfrin · 2 years ago

Text

❝ ִִִִִִִִִִִִִֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶָָָָָָָָָָָָָ cramoysin lips — coriolanus snow ִִִִִִִִִִִִִֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶָָָָָָָָָָָָָ ❞

☆　Warning: NSFW | blowjob, mentions of blood, blood play if you squint, coriolanus is his own warning | lmk if I forgot anything

☆　Pairing: young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

☆　Summary: reader has a habit of peeling of dead skin off her lips and Coryo doesn't like it

☆　A/N: wanted to get this out of my drafts so i can fully focus on my new series!

masterlist | bc: @cafekitsune | navigation

Coryo doesn't notice at first. Your obvious nervous tick that you only do it around people you're comfortable with. Like your boyfriend (Coriolanus). He hates it. He hates it because he can't get you to stop. He even begins to carry chapstick for you and yet no change whatsoever.

When he begins to notice it. He thinks it's harmful behavior, but he realizes he likes seeing your lips swollen and bloody. However, he prefers that it was his doing not yours. Now with realization washing over his bones, he thinks about how to turn this habit of yours around.

He hates it because it shows a clear weakness. He hates it when you do it around other people like Sejanus (how dare you be so comfortable around him?) He hates how pink the flesh underneath the layer of dry skin is. He hates how swollen it makes your lips with your constant peeling. He hates how sometimes your lower lips begin to bleed due to the abuse. Your lips get crimson red and you ignore the flash of pain. If anything you like it and that infuriates him.

It begins with words, how concerning it was. How harmful it is. All of it. That doesn't work despite the frustration he feels. He begins with actions next. Holding your hand every time he sees your lips cracked up, handing you a chapstick from his pocket. You pout but use it.

In the end, however, you ended up the same, your fingers pinching and pulling the taunt skin causing your lips to bleed without care. And it frustrates him and drives him to madness because no matter how much he molded you with his manipulation, he can't seem to get it out of you.

As if this painful action was an echo of your soul. Well, he certainly couldn't let anyone else know of this. If he can't change it, he will reserve it for himself alone. So he makes sure of that.

It starts by kissing you on your lips, freshly soft and hurting too even if it's in public, PDA is good for his reputation even better if Sejanus was present. In the beginning, you used to flinch, overstimulated by the feeling of your lover’s lips against yours. However, just like your habit, it turns into a habit too. The innocent pecks in public turn into dirtier kisses in private.

The dirtier kisses turn into wet, sloppy, bloody make-outs with you being pinned against a wall or on his lap. His hand is woven into your hair, keeping your head in place. His other hand is hooked under your chin, moving your face to whichever angle he wants to control the kiss. He was much more crueler towards your lips than you ever could be.

His teeth dig into your flesh, making the bleeding lip of yours paint his lips red. His tongue savored the taste of iron. His mouth groning into yours. Your blood is consumed by him, with a kiss that is reserved for lovers. It was such a debased manner of claiming you, thinking about it made no sense whatsoever but fuck, it did get his dick hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered as he sucked on your lower lip, letting the blood flow into his mouth. He loved it. He fucking loved it so much being able to do this. He puts you on your knees, your lips smeared red and glistening mostly due to spit. Your pupils blow, your hair messy and your lips swollen.

His love. His pretty love.

You looked stunning with your lips being stretched around his cock. The crimson of your blood being transferred to the skin of his cock, the blue of his veins turning red on the surface. It was mildly disgusting but he felt ecstatic so it didn't matter much.

You take his cock well, despite tears welling in your eyes. You make sure that your tongue worships his cock, especially his tip. You pay special attention to his slit, your tongue licking his dick like the best-flavored lollipop. Your mouth hallowing to give him harsh, blissful sucks that had him gasping, his mind trying his best to grasp reality and not lose himself in pleasure.

You always made it so hard for him to tether to the harsh reality. That's why he has to punish you plenty, to remind himself of what he is, but he doesn't do it without reason. Of course, the reasons are his hypocrisy.

It's your fault that you suck him so good. It's your fault he loves your dick inside your mouth. It's your fault that he loves to fill your tummy with his seed. And it's certainly your fault how good the color of red looks good smeared around his dick.

It's. Your. Fault.

You swallow his cum, tears running down your cheeks as he roughly thrusts into your mouth. His hands are in your hair and he coos at you condescendingly, “That's a good girl. Take it all, don't let it spill, doll.”

He grins at the sight of your tears, he chuckles when he pulls his softening dick out of your lips and you gasp, trying to inhale much-needed air.

He pulls you up on his lap again and kisses you. He gently wipes your tears away, a big contrast from before. He whispered, his lips brushing against your swollen ones as he did so, “You know I won't be mean if you stopped peeling your lips. It's such a bad habit, you shouldn't do it, sweetheart.”

Even though you nod at his words. Teary eyes and throat sore, you know you will do it again. He will make sure to kiss your lips and make you suck his cock when you do so.

Current tag list: @stelleduarte @nowitsmissing @lifeonawhim @le-lena @dollfacedalls @motley-baby @champomiel @slytherinholland @randomstuff2040 @justacaliforniandreamer @emmalinemalfoy @hyuk4s @theamuz @watercolorskyy @littlebiwitchsworld @eir964

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gotham--fc · 6 months ago

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Désolée - A Marie-Philip Poulin and Laura Stacey Imagine

Part two of my previous Pou and Stacey fic which you can find here

Y/N comes to visit Pou and Stacey in Montreal and tempers flare

Y/N had never been so relieved for summer break.

She, like every teenager, counts the days until school is out, naturally, but this summer is different. From dealing with normal school stuff, to her hometown team who keep moving her up age groups and coaches not so subtly trying to poach her for their teams, to being in the national team rotation and suddenly being one of the most popular people in her town, she’s ready for a break.

Of course, hockey doesn’t stop, hockey never stops, but hockey takes a break. Or rather, she takes a break since she doesn’t have to attend tryouts and recruitment camps anymore. She feels bad, feels like she’s getting special treatment over some of the girls who have been on the team longer than her, but there’s nothing she can do about it. And she has plans, so there’s that.

She steps off the plane in the Montreal airport, carry on dragging behind her. She didn’t want to check a bag, so she shoved everything into her carry on and now it feels heavier than anything. She finds her way through the airport and out past security. She pauses for a moment, looking around at all the people gathered there, trying to find a familiar face. Her eyes land on a brightly coloured sign with “Mon Petite Lapinou” written on it. She shakes her head fondly, a blush rising on her cheeks and a warmth filling her chest.

“Salut!” Pou wraps her up in a big hug and rocks her side to side. “How are you? Was the flight okay? How did your exams go?”

“Marie, please, let the girl breathe,” Laura says. Pou lets go and Y/N hugs Laura. “She was a little too excited for your visit,” Laura whispers to Y/N.

“Have you ever been to Montreal?” Pou asks as they walk to the car. Pou took Y/N’s carry on from her as soon as they started walking and carries it easily.

“No, I mean, I’ve been to Quebec for tournaments and stuff but I never had any in Montreal. We were mostly in Gatineau and Sherbrooke.”

“You’ll love it, it’s a beautiful city,” Pou says, “Maybe you’ll love it so much you’ll want to come here after you graduate college.”

“Marie,” Laura scolds, “She’s not even done high school.”

“Okay okay,” Pou says, “But I’ll still make you like Montreal more than Boston. I don’t want you playing for my rival team in a few years.”

Y/N smiles at that. She has no doubt that Pou will convince her Montreal is a better city than Boston, but she has no idea what the future will hold. She doesn’t even know if she’ll do well in college, let alone get drafted and actually make a team in the PWHL.

“Are you hungry?” Laura places her hand on Y/N’s shoulder as Pou puts her bag in the trunk of the car. “We can stop somewhere for food on the way back if you want.”

“I’m alright,” Y/N says, subconsciously leaning into Laura’s touch. “I think I’m just tired.”

“Alright,” Laura says, “Let us know if you change your mind, okay?” Y/N nods.

They all pile in the car, Laura in the front seat while Pou drives and Y/N in the back. Pou talks the whole time, telling Y/N all the things they’ll do while she’s here, pointing out landmarks and buildings and telling stories. Y/N does her best to listen, but the flight and the rocking of the car pulls her to sleep.

“Marie,” Laura says quietly, “Look.”

Marie glances in the rearview mirror and sees Y/N asleep. She smiles fondly at her.

“It’s hard to believe she’ll be going to college in a year, she looks so young,” Marie says.

“Don’t say that when she’s awake,” Laura says, “She might kill you.”

***

Y/N really likes being with Pou and Laura. It’s fun, exploring Montreal, and getting to see the two of them outside of the camp environment. It’s not like they hide their relationship, since everyone knows about them, but they still keep things professional during camps. It’s fun seeing them without the pressure of camp and performing.

Pou wakes up every day at 5am to walk Arlo. They return at 6am and make the most noise possible and Y/N smiles as she hears Laura yell for them to keep it down and then the clamber of footsteps as Pou and Arlo run up the stairs and jump in bed with Laura. Y/N then usually pulls her pillow over her head and goes back to sleep until 8am.

Pou and Laura love going to farmers markets and Y/N tags along as Pou speaks in rapid fire French to all the vendors. Y/N tries to keep up, but her grade nine French isn’t enough.

“You’ll pick it up the longer you’re here,” Laura tells her, “If you even end up in Montreal. You won’t need much French in Boston, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Y/N says.

She doesn’t know how to explain the pit in her chest that opens every time one of them mentions Boston, or where she’s going to end up once she graduates. She knows she has to think about it, she’s going to Boston in a year, she can’t avoid it, but she just wishes everyone would let her spend the summer just being a regular teenager on summer vacation.

“I’ll have to send you a list of restaurants to try when you’re in Boston,” Pou says that night when they’re having dinner. “And me and Laura can come visit you and–”

“Can’t you spend one day not talking about Boston?” Y/N snaps, “I might not even go to Boston! And I might not get drafted to Montreal in five years if I even get drafted at all! I’m sorry that you only care about me because you think I’m your protégé or something but I’m not like you and I never will be!”

Y/N shoves her chair back and storms out of the room, frustrated tears in her eyes.

“Wh – Y/N! Come back here! Arrêt! Reviens à table!”

Y/N ignores her and slams the door of the guest bedroom.

***

Laura isn’t going to say she say this coming. She saw signs, the way Y/N got quiet and seemed to shrink whenever someone brought up college or the pros, the way Marie never seemed to notice. She won’t say she’s better at reading Y/N than Marie, or that Marie is unobservant, or anything like that. Laura only noticed because she’s been through this with Marie already.

Back when they first started dating, Laura wasn’t settled in her career. She still felt like an outsider, like a fringe player, and she spent years expecting the national team coaches to call her and tell her she didn’t make the team. Marie never understood that, because she never had to. Ever since her debut, she was a mainstay on the national team. She’s the captain, there was no question she would be on every team she was healthy enough to be on. She never dealt with the uncertainty.

Marie also never understood why Laura doubted herself. She never understood why Laura would plan for what happens when she gets cut. For Marie, Laura was a phenomenal player who made the team better, so why wouldn’t she be on every roster? For Laura, she was a good player in a sea of good players who all deserved a spot.

They had arguments, and times when they were both too stubborn and didn’t talk for days or weeks. There were times when Laura felt less than, and felt small standing next to the Marie-Philip Poulin. Of course, Marie never understood that either.

Things are better now, Laura is settled and confident in her skills. She doesn’t expect to get cut after every bad practice, and she doesn’t feel overshadowed by Marie. Yes, there’s still people who think she only got where she is because of Marie. People who think Montreal only signed her because they signed Marie first. But Laura knows what she brings to a team and she knows she deserves her spot. When Marie defends her, praises her, Laura doesn’t feel patronized. She knows Marie isn’t saying those things because she feels like she has to, or because she feels like she needs to appease Laura. Laura knows she says what she does because she loves Laura so much that she can’t stand to hear people criticizing her unfairly and she can’t stand people talking about her when they know nothing about her or her play.

Laura knows Marie sees a lot of herself in Y/N, but Laura thinks Y/N is a lot more like she is than Marie.

“Let her go,” Laura says, tugging Marie back down when Marie tries to storm after Y/N.

“But–”

“Give her space, you’re only going to yell at each other if you chase after her now.”

“She… She yelled at us! That’s… She’s… It was rude!”

“I know, love,” Laura gently rubs the space between Marie’s shoulder blades.

Laura knows it’s not the fact that Y/N yelled, it’s what she said that’s upsetting Marie.

“Let’s give her some time to calm down, and then I’ll go talk to her, see if I can figure out what’s going on.”

***

Y/N doesn’t emerge at all that night. Marie gets more and more sullen as the night goes on. Laura knows there’s nothing she can do when Marie is like this. They both can get in their heads and neither can let things go that easily, so Laura knows she just needs to let Marie sulk until she’s done sulking.

The next morning, Marie is still sulking. While Marie is out walking Arlo, Laura (even though she hates it normally) gets out of bed and prepares breakfast. She leaves two servings for herself and Marie and brings one serving up to Y/N’s room. She knocks lightly on the door.

“It’s just me, I’m leaving some breakfast here for you,” Laura says, “You can come down if you want, but you can stay in there for as long as you want.”

Y/N doesn’t come down, but Laura hears her open the door and take the plate. A little bit later, Marie comes home. Arlo gets halfway up the stairs before he realizes Laura is still downstairs. He leaps onto the couch and Laura laughs as he licks her face. Marie laughs too, but Laura can hear its strained.

“Is she still acting like a morveuse?” Marie says. Laura sighs.

“She is still upstairs, but she is not a brat,” Laura shushes Marie before she can start talking again, “She’s a 17-year-old girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. All you ever talk to her about is hockey or Boston, it’s no surprise she thinks that’s all you care about.”

“That’s not true!” Marie says, “I’m trying to help–”

“Marie, I love you, but sometimes your help doesn’t help,” Laura puts her arm around Marie’s shoulder and pulls her closer. “I know you think you’re helping prepare her for the future, and I love that about you, you know that.” Laura pauses. “Can you see that Y/N is stressed about college and her future in hockey and sometimes having that be all you talk about doesn’t help her be less stressed.”

“All I wanted when I was her age was for someone to tell me what to do,” Marie says quietly, her voice thick.

“I know, baby, I know.”

***

Later in the afternoon, Marie takes Arlo on another walk. Laura has told her not to spoil him during the offseason so he doesn’t expect this treatment all the time, but Marie doesn’t listen, and Laura doesn’t push it today. While Marie is out, Laura goes up to Y/N’s room.

“It’s just me,” Laura says after she knocks, “Marie isn’t home, can I come in?”

After a moment, Y/N answers quietly: “Okay.”

Y/N is laying on the bed. Laura sits beside her.

“How are you doing?” Laura asks. Y/N shrugs.

“Is she really mad at me?” Y/N whispers.

“She was,” Laura answers, “She’s not mad at you anymore. She was only trying to help and she didn’t mean to upset you. Look,” Laura sighs, “When she was your age, she was so scared. She had no idea what to expect. All she wanted was for someone to tell her what she was supposed to do and she assumed you would be the same way. She just wants to make things easier for you. She really does feel bad that she upset you so much.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it all,” Y/N says, “Like, it’s different for her, or you. I’m not that good and I just… I don’t think I’ll make it.” Y/N rolls over so her back is to Laura. “I don’t want to lose you both when you realize I’m not as good as you think.”

“When I first started seeing Marie, I felt the same way,” Laura says. Y/N’s head jerks towards Laura and she looks up at Laura with a confused expression. “I stopped talking to her, actually, because I didn’t feel good enough compared to her. I thought it would easier to break it off than wait for her to do it later on.”

“What happened?”

“Marie is more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met,” Laura smiles as she thinks about her fiancée. Y/N huffs out a laugh at Laura’s statement. “She wouldn’t let me go without a reason, so I told her. And she told me I was being an idiot and she was right. Marie loves hockey, but hockey is the last thing on her mind when it comes to the people she loves.”

“I chose BU because that’s where she went,” Y/N says quietly, “I just want her to be proud of me.”

“She is, she is so proud of you. We both are.”

***

Later, when Marie comes home, Y/N sits nervously on the couch. She and Laura practiced this whole speech that Y/N would say to explain how she was feeling and why she was feeling that way and Y/N was determined to say it. She was still running it over in her head when she hears Marie come in, when she hears Marie let Arlo off the leash, when she hears Marie greet Laura and walk towards the living room. Y/N takes a deep breath to center herself and stands. Marie pauses when she sees Y/N. Y/N opens her mouth to begin, but what comes out of her mouth is this:

“Mama.”

And then Y/N is crying and she throws herself into Marie’s arms. Marie freezes for a second, then she’s wrapping Y/N up in a tight hug.

“Oh, mon petite lapinou,” Marie says, “It’s alright, I got you, it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Y/N cries, “I’m sorry.”

“Non, non,” Marie says firmly, “You have nothing to be sorry about, I am the one who needs to apologize. I’m sorry I pushed you and I’m sorry I upset you and I’m sorry you felt like I didn’t care.”

When Y/N finally stops crying, Marie pulls back and takes Y/N’s face in her hands.

“Are you okay now, mon petite lapinou?” Marie asks.

“Yeah,” Y/N wipes at her eyes, but Marie swats her hands away and wipes the tears away herself, much gentler than Y/N would’ve. Marie gives Y/N a kiss on the forehead.

“From now on, we won’t talk about hockey at all unless you bring it up first, okay?” Marie says.

“You don’t have to do that,” Y/N says, “It’s okay–”

“There are lots of things that we can talk about that aren’t hockey,” Marie says, “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now that that’s over,” Laura says, “Can we go back to enjoying Y/N’s visit?”

Marie and Y/N look at each other, and Y/N can see the same idea pop up in Marie’s head. They grin at each other then both turn to Laura. Laura realizes a moment too late and Marie and Y/N grab her and pull her down on the couch. Laura shrieks as Marie and Y/N wrestle her down. Almost immediately Arlo jumps on them and Y/N laughs so hard her sides hurt as Arlo alternates between licking Laura and Marie’s faces.

As Y/N watches Laura and Marie and Arlo wrestle on the couch, she’s really happy she took this trip, and she’s really happy she chose to play hockey and that it’s brought her to this moment right here.

#marie philip poulin #laura stacey #marie philip poulin x reader #laura stacey x reader #marie philip poulin x laura stacey x reader #woho #pwhl #woho imagine #hockey rpf #womens hockey rpf

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blog-o-meter · 9 months ago

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Absolution - Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

warnings: self-discipline, caning, unprotected sex, girl i honestly don’t remember what else tbh those are just the big ones

required listening: Sanctified by Nine Inch Nails; Discipline by Nine Inch Nails

a/n: this is a first draft, so I’ll come back and change any mistakes or errors. I literally haven’t written a fanfic in over a year I think so this was mostly for my own enjoyment, if you happen to also enjoy it — awesome! Also I’m uploading this from mobile so sorry for any formatting errors!

I listened to Father Mayhew’s sermon intently. He spoke with fervor, with energy, that the other priests could never quite grasp. Father Mayhew’s thunderous voice echoed through the chambers, but he could just as easily speak as softly as a whisper. How he managed to hypnotize me with just the way he carried himself was something to be studied.

“Now, let us receive the body and the blood of Christ, our savior,” he called out to his congregation. As his eyes fell upon me, a covert smirk grew on the corner of his lips, acknowledging me with a gentle wink.

I grew flustered, rarely used to being greeted in such a manner by a man so….

Like clockwork, I, along with another nun, stood up from the pew and approached the table of chalices, eucharists, and communion wafers, grabbing the chalice of wine carefully with both of my hands — my palm at the bottom and the other on the stem. Making my way over to the father, I bowed before him and presented to him the blood of Jesus Christ.

Father Mayhew towered over me, like a lion before a lamb. His dark eyes glistened against the glowing haze of the chalice, but his gaze never faltered away from me. His expression was stoic; neither corner of his mouth breaking into a smirk. In my time that I’ve known Father Mayhew, during communion is the only time I’ll ever see him quiet and assertive yet gentle. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to quiver before him.

He grabbed the chalice from my hand, our fingers brushing against one another, and took a sip of the wine, wiping the rim of the cup with a cloth. A second nun stood next to him with the silver bowl of wafers — the body. He grabbed one, mouthing an “Amen,” before placing it under his tongue. He then turned to me and quietly said, “Sister?”

I stood in front of him, my hands in prayer. Father Mayhew carefully lead the chalice of wine to my mouth. My lips parted slowly as he tilted the cup toward me. I took a small sip, but still, a tiny drop managed to miss my tongue and linger on my bottom lip, ever so slowly making its way toward my chin. Right when I was about to lift my wrist to wipe it away, Father Mayhew beat me to the punch, using the edge of his thumb to wipe away the rogue drop. His warm finger slowly lined the contour of my lip, my stomach jumping at his touch.

I tried so hard to not break our eye contact but I grew so nervous and shy that I had to find security in glancing over to anything else except Father Mayhew’s eyes.

I watched his big hands reach into the bowl for the Eucharist. He held the small, beige wafer in front of my eyes, “The body of Christ.”

I meekly said, “Amen,” looking down at his robe before slowly opening my mouth to receive the body of Christ.

Father Mayhew led his fingers toward my face and carefully tilted my chin upward, forcing me to look right at him as he inserted the body into my mouth, resting it on my tongue. “Amen,” he repeated in a low voice.

I quickly did the sign of the cross and retreated to the pew, lowering the kneeler under the bench in front of me and resting my knees against it. Usually, I’d pray for my family back home — my parents, my grandparents, aunts, cousins, and siblings — but this time I prayed for myself. I was ashamed of the wicked thoughts trickling into my brain. Lord, please wash away the filth harbored in my thoughts and my dreams. I thought the more I tightened my eyelids, the better my prayer would be answered.

After mass, Father Mayhew and I stood by the doors to the church, saying goodbye to the congregation. I politely smiled at every parishioner as they left, shaking the hand of anyone who offered theirs. “Thank you for attending,” I’d occasionally say. I’d also occasionally glance over to Father Mayhew smiling at his parishioners, giving them a strong handshake. Sometimes I’d find he was already looking at me, which triggered my attention to return back to the parishioners.

After everybody had left, I made my way over to the pews to fix any stray bibles that were left on the benches. I’d carefully put them back in the wooden holder, all evenly spaced and evenly counted. Row by row, I took my time, not in any particular hurry.

The sound of echoing footsteps making their way closer and closer made me curious. I looked up and saw Father Mayhew standing at the end of the row, waiting for me to get to the end. There weren’t any stray bibles in that particular row, so I made my way over to him.

“Hello, Father,” I respectfully bowed my head to him, but only ever so slightly. I reserve a full bow only for mass.

He smiled, “Incredible mass, don’t you think, Sister (Y/N)?”

“They’re all incredible,” I replied. “Much more engaging than the ones back home, I’d say.”

The father smiled and glanced down at his red boots before his gaze fell back on me, “That’s right. Today marks two years since you’ve come to California.” He was quiet for a beat, “Are you going to celebrate?”

I stumbled on my words. I actually wasn’t planning to do anything special, except my usual routine. I nervously laughed, “Oh, no,” I shook my head, “It’ll just be another day for me — journaling and such.

He smirked, stepping closer and leaning his mouth toward my ear, “May your journal be blessed by your thoughts, then,” he whispered.

His low, soft voice was like a spark to the gasoline in my body. He stepped back and gave a gentle smile before walking away. I stood there, paralyzed and catching my breath.

Immediately, I abandoned my task and retreated to my room. I rushed through the hallways and through the courtyard, impure thoughts racking my brain the entire way. The moment I reached my room, I closed the door behind me and locked myself in, free to heave in peace.

My mind was in a flurry. I couldn’t stop hearing Father Mayhew whispering to me; I couldn’t stop replaying the moment his fingers brushed mine; and I certainly couldn’t stop replaying the moment he wiped away the wine from my lip.

I must get rid of these thoughts. I must get rid of these thoughts.

The chest in front of my bed stared at me. I walked past it and made my way towards my record player, a vintage wooden box. It was an elaborate thing — one given to me by my mother for my 13th. One would assume I’d have a collection of records to reflect such a setup, however, I was only ever an owner of one 7-inch single, and that one single was a very formative one.

I retrieved the 7-inch from its sleeve and quickly placed it on the platter, carefully hovering the needle over the record and pressing play. Sleep Walk by Santo & Johnny loudly started to play through the speakers, so loud I could barely feel my own heart beat.

I closed my eyes at the sound, already feeling some soothing but not enough. I turned my back and stared at the chest, slowly approaching and kneeling down before it, steadying my breathing. I opened the chest and retrieved something personal wrapped tightly in cloth, unraveling it to reveal my journal, a single pen, and a black rubber exercise band.

I grabbed the hem of my dress and pull it back, placing my thighs through the rubber band and opening my journal to the next blank page. I took a deep breath before I grabbed hold of the pen and began to write, one sentence at a time.

May our lord absolve me of my sins.

As soon as I finished writing the period, I slipped my hand between the skin of my thigh and the band, pulling it away from my leg as far as I could before releasing my grip and letting it loudly snap at my thigh, quietly groaning at the lingering sensation, watching the area of impact turn bright pink before proceeding to write.

How can one lust over a man of the cloth?

Another yank of the band — SNAP.

I have found my path toward faith, yet I am none the wiser.

SNAP.

My love should not be directed toward any man, especially one who stands in His place.

SNAP. The pain was beginning to sting badly, each strike more painful than the last. The pauses between the punishment and writing became longer.

I beg for forgiveness, hoping that God will take this burden from me, that He will cleanse my thoughts.

SNAP.

God, give me strength.

SNAP.

My session of discipline would continue until the record player repeated the single three times before the needle retreated by itself, and by then, my legs would have been in so much pain that I could barely feel them and I would’ve forgotten the impure thoughts.

As the room fell into silence, I heard the quick shuffling of feet outside my door. I quickly placed everything back in its right place and rushed to my door, opening it to find out if anybody was lingering outside. I found the hallway empty, only the wind blowing through the open windows and swaying the sheer curtains around.

I closed my door back up and put away the items back into the chest and turned off the record player, slipping the 7-inch back into its sleeve and resting it on the shelf below.

I lifted my dress to see that I had drawn some dots of blood, all of them along where the rubber band landed in a straight line across both of my thighs.

To further cleanse myself, I grabbed my shower caddy from the cupboard and made my way to the floor’s bathroom.

After my scalding shower, I lingered in the bathroom doing my nightly routine — brushing of the teeth, brushing of the wet hair, applying lotion all over, and putting on my silk slip. I carefully and precisely folded my habit, gathered my items back into their caddy, and walked back toward my room, my hair leaving the occasional drip of water behind on the floor.

When I walked into my room, I was surprised to find Father Mayhew sitting on the chest at the foot of my bed. “Father?” I questioned.

He turned his head and smiled, standing up, “Forgive me, Sister. I didn’t think you’d be getting ready for bed so early in the night.” His gaze into my eyes faltered, slowly falling to look at my slip.

I grew shy, hiding behind my wet towel. I tried to pull down my slip to avoid him noticing my bruised thighs, “No, forgive me. I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

“No apology necessary,” he spoke softly, his words almost melding together.

I trembled, partly because I was still humid from my shower but also because Father Mayhew was making his way closer to me one slow step at a time. He couldn’t have been making his way any slower. The memory of today’s mass flashed into my mind. It was all torture.

I cleared my throat, pushing away the thoughts, “What can I help you with, Father?”

Father Mayhew was quiet, studying my face. He stepped aside and motioned to the chest, “I’d like for us to talk,” he grabbed the wet towel from my hands, “Please, sit.”

I followed his instruction, awkwardly holding my arms as I walked toward the chest and sat facing him, hugging the bed post next to me.

I watched him close the door and open the towel completely, “I noticed you were somewhat distant in today’s mass — distracted,” and placing it over the back of the wooden desk chair. He turned around and walked toward me, speaking carefully, “Is everything ok?”

His concern seemed genuine; I could see it in the slight furrowing of his brow. Nonetheless, I felt nervous under his eyes, shifting my body on the chest. “Everything’s fine,” I spoke softly, though there was a little tremble in my voice. I had hoped he didn’t catch that.

He nodded slowly, stepping closer again, his eyes never leaving mine. “We all have distractions, Sister,” he said, his voice dropping to that same low, intimate tone he had used earlier in the day.

I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond, so I looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “Forgive me for my behavior,” I mumbled, my hands clutching the bedpost beside me.

He placed his hand under my chin, lifting it so I could look at him, “Everyone’s thoughts stray once in a while, (Y/N),” he spoke gently, “but it’s important that we know where to return our attention,” he smirked, almost… devilishly, dare I say.

His words seemed innocent enough, but the deliberate pace of them combined with the way her stood over me, holding my chin… it left a knot in my stomach that I don’t think will untie itself any time soon.

Father Mayhew stepped back, giving me space, though his presence still filled the room. “Tomorrow, I’d like to assign you a task,” he said, his tone more neutral now, though the subtle shift did nothing to ease my discomfort. “The relics in the sacristy need attention. They haven’t been properly cleaned in some time, and you have the most delicate of touches,” he smirked and flickered his eyes downward for a brief moment, then back up to meet mine. “Maybe a bit of quiet reflection could ease your mind.”

My heart pounded in my chest. I forced a smile, standing slowly, hoping he would take the hint and leave me to sleep, “Of course, Father. I’ll take care of it.”

However, as soon as I stood, I found myself too close to him. I could almost smell the cologne under his chin. I couldn’t have him in my room any longer; all that he did and spoke only made my mind race even more. I glanced around the room, slipping past him and making my way toward the door.

He turned and nodded, that faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth again. “Good.”

I opened the door, holding it open by the doorknob, still nervous.

He walked past me but immediately stopped in the door way, backing up and leaning into my ear, his eyes darker in the dim light of the room. His deep voice sent goosebumps through my everything, “Don’t worry, Sister. You’ll find some of the relics will quell your mind.”

He pulled away and didn’t wait for a response, not that I had one, leaving me in the doorway. I stood there frozen in place, my breath shallow and uneven. His words echoed in my mind, their meaning heavy, yet veiled enough to be explained away. But the lingering sensation of his touch, the way his presence filled the room, was impossible to ignore.

Despite my prayers, which have become almost daily now, it seems the Lord was testing me even more. I closed the door to my room and climbed into bed. The more I tried to brush away the echo of Father Mayhew’s voice in my head, the more I couldn’t fall asleep. I could still feel his warm hand on my chin. The image of his smirk replayed in my mind.

I tossed and turned, facing toward my nightstand. I couldn’t stop thinking about Father Mayhew seeing me in my nightdress. Any woman that hadn’t taken her vows would have wanted him to grab at her right then and there. She would’ve wanted him to move his mouth down to her neck and whisper sweet nothings to her skin. He’d tug at her nightdress, slipping his hand under the silky fabric and…

I couldn’t fight the thought any longer. I turned to the photo of Jesus Christ on my nightstand and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before pulling the photo down and slowly slipping my hand under my nightdress.

I woke up suddenly in the morning, not remembering falling asleep. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls of my small room. My body felt heavy, as though weighed down by the thoughts and… dreams of the night before. That’s when I realized that my hand was still inside my underwear. I lay there for a moment, my heart pounding as memories of Father Mayhew flooded back into my consciousness—his touch, his words, the way he made me feel. Shame crept in once more, settling like a heavy blanket over me.

I sat up slowly, my body stiff from the tension I had carried through the night. I glanced at the photo of Christ on my nightstand, face down, as if hiding from my guilt. I hesitated before reaching for it, my fingers brushing the edges of the frame.

“Forgive me,” I whispered again, though the words felt hollow.

I washed and dressed quickly, slipping back into the comfort of my habit. As I made my way to the sacristy, where Father Mayhew had assigned me my task, my mind raced with conflicting thoughts. How could I focus on prayer and penance when my heart and body were so thoroughly confused? I had come to this life to serve, to dedicate myself to something higher. But now, everything felt tainted by the desires I was struggling to suppress.

The sacristy was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and old wood. The relics gleamed faintly in the soft light, their golden surfaces covered in a fine layer of dust. I gathered the cloth and cleaning supplies, kneeling before the altar as I began my work.

For a while, the silence brought me peace. I focused on the repetitive motion of wiping the relics clean, letting the rhythm of my hands lull my thoughts into something more manageable. I admired the bead and embroidery of some of the clothing, awed at the craftsmanship.

I finished dusting off the holy clothing, wiped down all the chalices and processional crosses, and tidied the tithe baskets. The only thing left of my task was to organize whatever was in the big wooden armoire at the end of the room.

I approached the dusty armoire curious, having never opened it before. I pulled at the delicate golden handle to find it stubborn like it hadn’t been opened in a long while. With more force, I busted it open, speechless to find a collection of vintage wooden canes all in display.

They were all unique, some skinny, others more ornate, some longer, others shorter. They all had one thing in common, though — they weren’t for walking. They were all too thin to support a person’s weight. These were whipping canes.

My heart raced as I took in the collection of canes. I hesitated, my hand hovering over one of the canes. It was slender, polished, with intricate carvings along the handle. I felt a pull, a strange mixture of fear and fascination. My fingers grazed the cool wood before I quickly pulled my hand back as if burned.

Suddenly, the memory of Father Mayhew’s words from last night surfaced again, “You’ll find some of the relics will quell your mind.” Was this what he had meant?

Something compelled me to reach and hold one in my hands, admiring its quality and design. My knees felt weak.

I heard the distinct sound of familiar footsteps behind me. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. The heavy footsteps were deliberate, echoing through the stone hallways. I wasn’t quick enough to place the cane back in its rightful position before Father Mayhew entered the sacristy.

“Sister,” Father Mayhew’s voice called out softly, calm yet commanding, “What did you find?”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, “I managed to get the armoire open.”

He slowly approached me, the sound of his footsteps louder with each step. Finally, he stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his body. “Yes, it’s very old,” he chuckled quietly, “We have no use for them, so they might’ve collected some dust.” He grabbed the one I had from my hands, dragging his fingers across its length, smacking it against his open palm, “Intricately made, aren’t they?”

I gulped at the sight of him whipping his own hand. It was like an image straight from one of my dreams. “Very,” I spoke quietly.

Father Mayhew’s gaze lingered on me as he twirled the cane slowly between his fingers, the air thick with unspoken words.

“Do you like it?” He asked, quickly glancing down at my lips.

“Yes, it’s very beautiful,” I answered, staring at his fingers play with the cane.

He smiled, “Why don’t you keep it?” I stood frozen. I wasn’t sure what to say, but that was fine because Father Mayhew opened my hands with his and placed the cane on my palms. “You’ll find a use for it.”

His words seemed to pierce through the quiet of the sacristy, stirring something deep within me that I had been trying so hard to bury. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. I just stood there, my fingers trembling as I clasped the cane in my hands.

His eyes held mine for a long moment before glancing down at the cane in my hand. I felt trapped—by him, by my own thoughts, by the confusion swirling in my chest.

“I—” I started, but the words failed me. What could I say? That I already have my own device for self discipline?

Father Mayhew smiled faintly, an unreadable expression crossing his face. He closed the doors of the armoire. Then, turning toward me, he placed a hand on my shoulder, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of my habit.

“There is no shame in needing guidance,” he whispered, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable authority.

I couldn’t look at him, my head bowed as I tried to steady my breath. His hand remained on my shoulder for a moment longer. Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

“My door is always open if you need it — guidance.” With that, he turned and walked out of the sacristy, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving me standing alone amidst the relics and the whispers of my thoughts.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, my body trembling as I looked back at the closed armoire. The sight of the canes was still burned in my mind, as was Father Mayhew’s touch, his words, his presence.

That night, I kneeled before the chest in my room, Sleep Walk already playing. However, this time I didn’t feel ready to use the cane Father Mayhew had given me. It didn’t feel like it was mine yet; it still felt like it was his and his to use only.

I stood up and stopped the record player, walking over to my armoire and grabbing my shower caddy and nightdress.

had been so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t realize a week had gone by. I spent nights restless, regretfully touching myself to the thought of Father Mayhew during some of those nights. I made sure to punish myself after, though, I still hadn’t found the strength to use the cane.

That restlessness continued during mass. I wasn’t paying attention, which I hope didn’t offend Fagher Mayhew, as I usually am the most attentive in all the masses, but I just couldn’t face him. I sat on top of my hands and stared down at my thighs, thinking maybe if I could just slip away and do a quick routine of self discipline that my mind might clear. But I fear the moment I walk into my room and see the cane on top of the chest that I might freeze again.

The image of Father Mayhew holding the cane in his hand — it was simply too much for my mind. It was driving me crazy.

Father Mayhew had to call on me twice before I realized it was time for communion. I snapped my head up at the mention of my name leaving his mouth. He looked at me confusedly, his brows furrowed before discreetly pointing at the chalice. I was like a deer in headlights, however, some autopilot kicked in and I followed his order.

I grabbed the chalice and scurried over to him, bowing down and presenting him the blood of Christ. He seemed irritated at my lack of focus, his brow still furrowed as he took a sip from the chalice and wiped the print of his lip with a handkerchief. “Amen,” he quietly whispered as he grabbed a wafer from the nun next to him and placed it on his tongue.

He then turned me to me, any gentleness in his eyes that he had currently wasn’t present. He grabbed the chalice, holding it in front of me. “The blood of Christ,” he spoke.

I nodded my head and lead my lips to the cup. He tilted it toward me, and I only expected to take a sip but he tilted it further. I was caught off guard, almost coughing at the bittersweet taste. He retreated the chalice and wiped my lips for me before grabbing a wafer and holding it in front of me. “The body of Christ,” he whispered.

I gazed into his eyes, “Amen,” I quickly whispered.

I opened my mouth slowly and watched him hold my chin as he lead his other hand with the wafer into my mouth. He gently placed the wafer over my tongue and closed my mouth for me, smiling.

After mass, I was sure to keep my distance from Father Mayhew. I didn’t join him in sending off the parishioners by the door, choosing instead to help fix the bibles. I went row by row, as usual, until the very last parishioner left. I heard Father Mayhew’s steps grow closer, more assertive, until he reached me.

I slowly looked up at him, scared to meet his eye. Before he could even open his mouth, though, I spoke. “Father, I’m sorry for not being as present today,” I stumbled, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you during your sermon. It’s just…” my eyes flickered down, “the distractions seem to be more unavoidable this day.”

He was quiet for a beat, “Then, I guess we’ll just have to clear that mind of yours,” he spoke assertively. “Meet me in my room in an hour.” He turned to walk away, but he stopped himself, looking away from me as he spoke, “and bring the cane.” He continued walking, his robe floating in the air.

I watched him walk, gulping the knot in my throat away. I stood frozen, the weight of Father Mayhew’s words pressing down on me like a sledgehammer. My thoughts began to spiral into a mess, my breath hitching as the reality of his request settled over me.

An hour.

I made my way to my room, locking myself in and kneeling in front of the chest, rocking back and forth as I prayed, prayed for an entire hour. Though, I could feel my words didn’t have the same weight to them.

The cane taunted me, ominous. I knew what Father Mayhew was asking of me. The church doesn’t allow such… discipline anymore. It’s antiquated, so they say. However, I find my routine calms me — the repeated snaps of the band against my skin, being able to physically see my punishment instead of just reciting so many Hail Marys or Our Fathers as they direct in confessionals.

The thought of Father Mayhew being at the other end of that discipline… it sent shivers throughout my spine; it made my stomach tighten, and it made me want to squeeze my thighs together and… no. I shouldn’t be thinking that. However, I couldn’t deny that a part of me was waiting for the hour to pass by as fast as possible.

I glanced at the clock. In fact, time did pass by quickly.

My hands trembled as I stood up and towered over the chest, my eyes locked on the cane as I reached for it. As soon as I held it in my hands, I could feel the weight of Father Mayhew’s hands on the other end. How could something so light feel so heavy?

For a moment, I considered not going. I considered staying in my room, hiding away, but deep down, I knew that wouldn’t solve anything. In fact, I think it would make Father Mayhew even more irritated with me.

And so, I gathered my composure and made my way toward Father Mayhew’s room, which was on the second floor, gripping the cane so tightly that I might’ve been strong enough to snap it in half.

As I approached the stairwell, to Father Mayhew’s floor, I could feel my heart beating out of my chest. Each step I took echoed through the space, the sound of my own footsteps unnerving me. The hallway leading to his room was dimly lit, only the evening sun flickering through the trees outside the window. The closer I got to his room, the more I wanted to run back to mine.

When I reached his door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the wood, but the thought of his voice, the warmth of his hand, pulled me forward. I knocked softly.

“Come in,” came his voice, low and smooth.

The door creaked as I pushed it open. Father Mayhew stood by the small alter in front of his window, facing out into nature in nothing but his black pants and red boots. I was frozen in the doorway.

His body was intimidating. Not to idolize a human, but his big, sculpted biceps made him look like a god. What mostly caught my eye were the stitched scars adorning his back like a collage, some old, some new. I had never seen them before. Somehow, they made him seem more endearing to me.

He didn’t turn when I entered, his hands tightly clasped behind his back, though I could feel the shift in the air. The tension was palpable.

“Would you mind closing the door?” he asked quietly, finally turning to face me. His eyes were unreadable, dark in the candlelit room.

I swallowed, nodding as I stepped further into the room, closing the door softly behind me. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words. I hid the cane behind my back, hoping he’d somehow forget what he asked me here for, though I knew that was impossible for him to do.

Father Mayhew walked toward me, his movements slow, deliberate. He stopped just in front of me, our bodies so close that I could smell the eucalyptus body wash coming off his bare shoulders, still damp from a shower.

His gaze was intense as his eyes trailed down from my eyes, to my lips, to my chest, then to my hands. He saw I was hiding them behind my back, so he slowly reached out to my arm, tracing his fingers down to what I was holding — the cane.

He wrapped his hand around mine; I exhaled at his touch, which was warm and dominant. He slipped the cane away from my hands and looked down at me. “I trust you know why I asked you to bring it,” he spoke quietly.

I gulped, nodding my head. He stepped away, giving me room to catch my breath. He held the cane lightly, his gaze never leaving mine as he paced slowly around me, the sound of his steps echoing in the small room. I felt vulnerable in his presence. Again, I was the lamb and he was the lion.

“There’s something sacred about discipline,” he said, his voice soft yet authoritative. “It cleanses the soul, purifies the mind. But it’s not just physical. It’s spiritual.” He stopped behind me, the cane brushing lightly down my entire spine, an intense tickle that made me tremble. “Do you understand, Sister?”

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but the sensation of the cane against my back made it difficult to focus. I nodded again, “Completely,” I whispered.

“Good.” His voice was gentle now, almost tender, though the intensity of the moment remained.

He circled around me once more, finally coming to a stop in front of me. He lifted the cane, dragging it lightly up against my stocking, lifting a bit of my habit. His eyes perked up when he saw the bruises along my thigh. “I see you’ve already begun your penance.”

There was something about the way he seemed to relish in the discovery, something that made me feel both exposed and understood.

“Tell me, Sister, how do you discipline yourself?” He questioned. His words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.

I didn’t know how to answer him. Every bruise on my skin had been an attempt to atone for the thoughts, the feelings I couldn’t control. But now, standing here with him, I wasn’t sure if they had absolved me or if they had only deepened the shame.

“A rubber band,” I meekly answered. I don’t know what it was that I simply couldn’t ignore his questions. I had to tell him, like I wanted his validation.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to lift my chin so that I had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Do you find that the discipline eases your mind?”

“For a moment,” I mumbled.

He stepped back, waving the cane around as he talked, “Until you have to discipline yourself again.”

I nodded my head. He did understand me. How could he not? Clearly, he also does his own penance. He absolutely understands what it is to feel like your mind is betraying you.

He exhaled a deep sigh, choosing his words carefully and he gazed at the tip of the cane, almost mesmerized. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “what you need isn’t more discipline, but someone to help your mind find its way back. Like I told you before, my door is always open for guidance.”

His words stirred something deep within me, a mixture of fire and fear. I wanted to believe him, to believe that he could somehow lead me back to the light. But the way he touched me, the way he looked at me—it felt anything but pure.

“Father Mayhew,” I whispered, barely able to speak.

He caught my nervousness and softened his expression, “We’re here to guide each other, (Y/N).” He walked toward his altar and moved his kneeler to the foot of his bed.

I watched his bare muscles flex as he carried the heavy object, setting it down as gently as possible. He grabbed the Bible beside the window and reached out for me to grab it, patiently waiting. I sheepishly reached out for it and looked down at the leather-bound book, admiring its softness.

He pointed to the kneeler with the end of the cane, “Kneel.”

Carefully, I clutched the Bible in my hands and approached the kneeler, slowly lowering myself onto it and placing the Bible down in front of me. My feeling of nervousness shot up a billion times higher the moment Father Mayhew wasn’t in my line of sight anymore. I could feel him loom over my shoulder, the cane in view of my peripheral.

“Open it to 1 Corinthians chapter 10 verse 13,” he commanded, but not unkindly.

My breath caught in my throat at his request, and for a moment, I hesitated. But something in the quiet power of his presence, compelled me to obey. I flipped the book open, dragging my fingernail along the thin pages, skimming through until I found the passage.

“Read it,” he spoke, his voice unfaltering.

I swallowed, steadying my breath, and began to read aloud, my voice soft and trembling. “No temptation has overtaken you,” my entire body shivered as Father Mayhew dragged the tip of the cane along my spine, lifting my habit and fisting the excess cloth with his large hand. I closed my eyes at the feeling of both the cold air caressing my behind and the fact that I knew Father Mayhew was looking at my choice of underwear — a lacy black pair attached to my stockings, “except what is common to mankind.”

As soon as I was about to continue reading, I felt the cane whip against my butt, a nice, cold sting across both cheeks. I breathily yelped, not expecting him to cane me mid passage reading.

The feeling, the sting… it was thrilling, much better than the sting I receive from my rubber band. Though, I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is from having Father Mayhew be the one to punish me. Yes, it hurt, but it wasn’t painful. It was just right; it was perfect.

I looked back at him, half intimidated, but mostly to see what expression he had on his face. He had closed his eyes, clenching his jaw, breathing heavily. He rested his hand on my shoulder, rubbing the edge of his thumb back and forth, soothing himself. He opened his eyes, locking his gaze to mine, “Continue.”

I turned back to face the open Bible, picking up where I left off, “And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”

The high pitched thwip of the cane cutting the air gave me a split second to brace for its impact. I groaned and clutched the edge of the kneeler, breathing heavily. Father Mayhew was also breathing heavily; I could feel his warm breath barely reach the edge of my ear. Lord, forgive me for thinking that I don’t want it to end.

“Continue,” he ordered.

I prepared myself to finish the final line in the passage, clearing my throat, “But when you are tempted…” I paused for a second, composing myself, “he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”

THWIP.

The last whip stung the most. I whimpered out through my teeth, feeling Father Mayhew’s hand tighten around my shoulder. While resting my cheek to his hand, I reached for his fingers with mine, slowly weaving my fingers between his. He traced his hand along my neck, composing himself. How I wished his touch had lingered a little longer.

The silence that followed felt thick, as though the air between us had grown heavier. Father Mayhew stepped toward the alter and gently placed the cane across the table. With his back to me, I watched it rise and fall slowly as he breathed, collecting his thoughts. The faint glow of candlelight cast shadows across his body, giving him an almost ethereal presence. I stayed kneeling, gripping the edge of the Bible, unsure of what was expected of me next.

“Did our session… satisfy you?” he asked quietly, his voice laced with something deeper than mere authority.

It was a question with layers, one I knew exactly how to answer. My cheeks flushed with heat, I spoke, “Yes, Father.” It was the most honest answer I could give.

Father Mayhew turned toward me then, his eyes softer, though still unreadable. He approached slowly and knelt beside me, his closeness once again sending that familiar shiver up my spine. His hand reached out to rest on the Bible beside my hand, his fingers brushing ever so slightly against the edge of my palm. He held my gaze, and for a brief moment, I saw something vulnerable in his eyes, something that made my chest tighten.

Father Mayhew’s hand tightened on the Bible, his knuckles white. He stood abruptly, turning away from me as if he needed to regain control. His sudden distance left me feeling exposed, as though the air between us had shifted once more, but this time, it felt cold.

“You’re dismissed,” he said, his tone clipped, though I could hear the strain in his voice. “Go back to your room, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I didn’t move immediately, the weight of the moment still pressing down on me. Slowly, I rose from the kneeler, my knees stiff from the strain. As I turned to leave, I glanced at Father Mayhew one last time, hoping for some kind of explanation in his eyes, but he kept his back to me, staring at the flickering candles on the altar.

A couple of weeks pass.

In the morning, I took an early stroll, believing it might satiate my hunger better than a simple bagel. I also thought it prudent to reflect away from the church, without the tempting thought of Father Mayhew in the vicinity.

I quietly hummed, as I hovered my fingers over the tall grass and bushes. Flashes of being in Father Mayhew’s bedroom popped into my head. The Apostle Paul was right; He, God, did provide me with a way out of my temptation — my session with Father Mayhew. I only wish he wasn’t so cold toward me when it finished. I thought it would’ve brought us closer together.

In fact, he had been a little distant ever since. He’d only approach me when he absolutely needs to, usually to tell me about the week’s events or what needs to get done. Of course, though, he’d break that pattern whenever he found that I had done something incorrectly, calling me to his room for another caning session. This ebb and flow of our situation would continue for weeks.

The way he gripped my shoulder, the warmth radiating from it when I pressed my cheek against the back of his hand… the sting of each striking of the cold cane…. I could still feel Father Mayhew’s breath behind my ear.

It was wrong to think, but… I enjoyed every second of having him discipline me. Nobody could make me squirm like he does, and I’m sure he enjoyed watching me do so.

A shiver ran through me, not from the cold, but from the vividness of the memory. The way my body had reacted to him was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the pain, though that had been sharp and real, but the intimacy of it, the way he had wielded control over me so effortlessly. I’d never imagined I would enjoy something like that — the powerlessness, the submission. But in his hands, it had felt like I was offering up something sacred, something he alone could understand.

I stopped beside a tall bush, its leaves brushing against my fingertips, and sighed deeply, taking in the view before retreating back to the convent.

As soon as I arrived, I went up to my room, placing the flowers I collected in a porcelain vase, carefully separating each of them so they could be displayed properly.

“Pretty,” I heard behind me.

I jumped, startled at the presence of somebody standing at the doorway. Of course, I knew who it was. I turned around and clutched my Virgin Mary pendant. “Oh, Father,” I caught my breath, “I didn’t expect to see you until today’s mass.”

He was in his black priest garb, hands clasped behind him. He smiled, stepping into my room and closing the door behind him. He approached me, standing close and reaching his hand out. I thought he was reaching for me, but I watched his hand reach further and gently caress the wild sunflowers, “How was your walk?” He grabbed a stem and pulled it toward his nose, sniffing it before putting it back.

I hesitated to answer. “Introspective,” I replied quietly, smiling to myself. I crossed the room, feeling Father Mayhew’s eyes on me, “Is there anything I can help you with?” I approached my dresser and nervously tidied the objects on top.

“Not right now,” he spoke intimately. He slowly stepped toward the center of my room, standing next to the wooden chest.

I turned around, unafraid to look him in the eye anymore, “Perhaps, later,” I softly spoke, hoping he’d read between the lines.

His eyes looked toward my bed, his fingers trailing the edge, “Yes, maybe.” It was like he was teasing me, purposely letting the silence linger.

He crouched down a bit over the wooden chest. I, thinking he would be curious enough to open it, lunged forward before stopping myself when he sat down on top of it. He saw I had hesitated in my action, motioning me toward him with his hand.

I inched closer. He looked at the contour of my legs and waist, taking a deep breath. He hesitantly reached his hand out to my thigh, slowly dragging his fingertips up and down my leg. “Don’t come to mass today,” he spoke, almost as if he was thinking out loud.

I was confused at his request. “Father, I’ve never missed a day.”

He nodded his head and sighed, gripping the side of my thighs with both of his hands. He studied my body; there wasn’t a single inch he didn’t look at. I cautiously lead my hand up to his head, slowly moving it towards his hair, curious to see if he’d reject my hand. It was already styled in his usually slicked-back manner, so I was careful to not ruin it. I felt him shiver under my touch, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw.

“You’re a distraction,” he whispered.

I was offended by his words, pulling his head back by his hair. I looked down at him unmercifully, “I am not the distraction, Father.”

Father Mayhew’s breath was caught, taken aback by my sudden power. For a moment, there was something wild in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also hunger. I had never seen him like this before, vulnerable and open. His lips parted slightly. He wanted to maintain control, to keep the facade of the untouchable priest. But right now, beneath my hand, that mask was slipping. It was intoxicating.

“Then what are you?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.

His question hung in the air, daring me to answer.

I leaned in, my breath brushing against his face, and whispered, “Justified.”

His grip on my thighs tightened, and I could feel the tension radiating from him. For a second, I thought he might pull me on top of him, s, but instead, he let out a shaky breath and let his hands fall away from me, resting his forehead against my stomach. His back fell up and down as he breathed, “(Y/N), you…” his voice trailed off. He had never said my name without Sister being attached to the front of it. “You turn me into someone else.”

“Something we have in common, then,” I quietly said, running my fingers through his hair, slightly tugging when I reached the back of his head.

I felt his hands grab at my waist, pulling me in closer to him. My breath quickened at his touch. He trailed his finger tips from my ankle all the way up to the hem of my habit, sliding his hand under my dress and finding the edge of my underwear.

He had never reached there before. Usually when he disciplined, all he’d ever do was just pull up my skirt or dress, but not once did he ever touch my underwear. My leg quivered under his touch, but I didn’t want to fight it.

He pulled down my underwear, letting them fall to the floor. The room, usually so calm and familiar, now felt charged, as though it were holding its breath along with me. The cool air hugged every one of my crevices, a feeling I’d describe as… freeing.

I, then, felt his fingers move to the back of my knee, lifting my leg and placing my foot next to him on the chest. I let out a breathy exhale, tightening my grip on his hair.

He paused, his forehead still pressed against me, his breath hot against my clothes. For a moment, I thought he might stop, might pull away, retreat back behind the walls of his priestly composure, but instead, he tightened his grip around my thigh, his fingers pressing into me with a kind of desperation that thrilled me.

"Tell me to stop...” he whispered, his voice thick with restraint, yet his hands betrayed him, pulling me closer still.

A small part of me knew that what we were doing was dangerous, reckless. But in that moment, I didn't care. I couldn't. All I could think about was the way his hands felt on me, the way his body seemed to melt against mine as he gave in to the desire.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my chest. My hand moved to the tip of his chin before I even realized what I was doing. I forced him to look me in the eye. Applying pressure to the situation, I said, “I don’t want you to.”

That was all it took. His control snapped, and before I knew it, he had pulled me onto his lap and ripped the habit off my head. He tugged at the buttons of my shirt, pulling them apart to expose my chest. His lips brushed against my collarbone, hot and urgent, as his fingers traced patterns over my thighs.

His touch was electric, sending a wave of heat coursing through my body. I gasped softly as his lips found the nape of my neck, his kisses desperate and hungry. Father Mayhew's breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as his hands roamed, exploring every inch of exposed skin.

The fabric of my habit bunched in his grip as he pulled me tighter against him, the line between priest and penitent completely obliterated.

I tilted my head back, surrendering to the sensation of his mouth on my skin, the heat of his body pressed against mine. It was a collision of opposites — his restraint, now unraveling, and my control, which I had never truly wielded before. Every kiss, every touch, was a betrayal of everything he had vowed to uphold. And yet, it felt like liberation.

As I unbuttoned Father Mayhew’s shirt, I watched his hands find his belt, and in one swift motion, he unbuckled himself and unzipped his pants, pulling them slightly down and pulling his hard dick out. His eyes, dark with a mix of desire and conflict, locked with mine, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of hesitation. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something far more primal.

He inserted himself into me, immediately letting out a deep moan and digging his hands into my hips while burying his head into my neck. I sharply exhaled feeling him inside me, arching into his touch, his breath hot against my skin.

I looked down at myself slowly bouncing on top of him, unable to fathom this was really happening. The fiction I made up in my head, one I thought was fleeting, had come true — I was fucking the priest.

As we moved together, a heady mix of pleasure and power clouded my mind. His hands on my body, the way he breathed my name — it felt like a prayer, like he was asking for mercy.

He grabbed my waist and guided me, having me ride him faster. As I moaned out Father Mayhew’s name, Charlie, he leaned in and kissed me on the lips, devouring me whole. The taste of his lips sent me into a frenzy. In my head, all I could picture was all of the times I had looked up at him, at his lips, when he gave me the communion wafer and he’d say an ‘Amen.’

As I continued the fast pace, he pulled away from my lips, squinting his eyes and parting his mouth open. “(Y/N),” his voice trembled as he bucked his hips further into me.

As soon as I thought he would cum, he grabbed me by my hips and flipped me onto the bed, my back shivering at the cold sheets below me. He held my hands apart as he thrusted as powerful as he could. It made me go wild, arching my back and moaning as quietly as I could, but it just felt so good I couldn’t keep quiet.

The harder he pushed into me, the more my words became breathy. I couldn’t even get his name out anymore, my words turning into guttural moans the moment I’d manage to spit out a, “Char-“

He lowered his mouth down to my breast, licking one while pinching at the other. That was enough to get my dam to break. I clutched his back, digging my nails into his shoulder and completely forgetting about his wounds.

He had hissed into my ear at the pain, but to him, it was a sensation that had allowed him to cum inside me. He groaned into my ear, breathing deeply as he came and digging his head into the crook of my neck and embracing me with his arms.

The earth stood still. We held each other in that position for a few moments until we both caught our breaths. He removed himself from inside me, his juice dripping out of me like melted ice cream. He buried his face into his hands, deeply sighing. Had he regretted our indiscretion?

He stood over the bed, removing his hands from his face and watching me in a calculating manner. He spoke in a low tone, “Do you have a towel?”

Tired and vulnerable, I weakly pointed over to the cupboard behind me. As he walked around the bed, I flipped onto my side, looking over to the picture of Jesus Christ on my nightstand, which I was too caught up to turn it away.

Father Mayhew walked back around toward me, already having wiped himself down and fixed his pants. He folded the used, red hand towel inward and sat down next to me, carefully flipping me toward him and motioning for me to open my legs. I hesitated. He gently grabbed my leg and pulled it toward him. He slowly wiped away the bodily fluids at my opening, almost studying my anatomy, like he was cleaning some fragile thing.

I twitched at each soft stroke of the towel against my sensitive skin, looking away to avoid looking into Father Mayhew’s eyes as he cleaned me. He finished up, sitting in silence as he folded the dirty towel inward and inward again. I studied him. I desperately wanted to know what turmoil was going on inside him. It felt like I was staring into a deep, dark ocean.

He took a deep breath and stood up from the bed, looking down at his feet with his back toward me, “Don’t come to mass today,” he spoke softly again before walking out of my room.

I was speechless. This feeling of anger and worthlessness bubbled inside me. How could Father Mayhew do something as intimate as this then leave me alone in the room, naked, when I am in just as much uncertainty of this thing as he?

I made my way over to my record player, standing over it trying to fight back a tear. I quivered as I reached for the 7-inch, removing Sleep Walk from its sleeve. That feeling of uneasiness grew inside me as I placed the record on the platter and pressed play.

The sad hums of the steel guitar echoed through my room as I walked to the wooden chest and kneeled. I opened the chest and retrieved my journal, the single pen, and the black rubber exercise band.

Already knowing my routine, I placed my thighs through the rubber band. This time, though, I didn’t bother to start writing before beginning to strike myself, not holding back.

The loud snaps sounded like clockwork, rhythmic and borderline hypnotizing. I fought tears with each snap of the band against my thighs watching the area of impact become inflamed and nearly bloody.

SNAP.

By the end, my legs were bleeding. However, I still wasn’t satisfied. It didn’t feel the same as when Father Mayhew would cane me. I felt empty. He was missing.

As the room fell into silence, a feeling of guilt lingered in me. I stared at my closed journal, feeling badly that I had skipped such an integral step. Before the feeling could grow, I grabbed the pen and opened it to the next blank page, writing one singular sentence.

He is my sin and my saving grace.

With that, I closed the journal and wrapped everything together, placing it inside the chest.

I followed Father Mayhew’s instructions. I didn’t go to today’s mass and neither did I go to mass the day after. Some of the nuns would question me in the hallway about my absence. All I had to say to them was that I had a little bit of a fever and didn’t want to get any of my fellow sisters or parishioners sick. In fact, those two days of mass that I missed, I spent buying the morning after pill and chugging gallons of vitamin C. I wasn’t taking any chances.

As the third day approached, I had to return to the routine of my duties. The absence was becoming too noticeable, and despite my inner turmoil, I knew it would raise further suspicions if I stayed away from the church any longer. I dressed in my habit, wrapped my hair neatly, and made my way to the chapel for the morning mass.

Walking through the halls, I felt different. Each step echoed through the convent, the familiar sights and smells now tinged with a sense of secrecy. The nuns smiled warmly at me as I passed, their kindness making my chest tighten with guilt. If only they knew….

The chapel loomed ahead, its tall doors standing like a gateway to judgment. I paused, hand hovering over the cold wood before finally pushing it open. The moment I stepped inside, I felt a wave of tension roll through me. The air was thick with the scent of incense, the soft murmur of prayer echoing off the stained-glass windows.

And there, at the front of the altar, was Father Mayhew.

His presence dominated the room, even though he was kneeling in prayer, his head bowed in what appeared to be a display of humility. But I knew better now. I could still feel his hands on my body, his breath against my neck. My heart pounded in my chest as I found a seat near the back, trying to avoid his gaze.

The mass began as usual, his voice carrying through the chapel with the practiced cadence of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

As Father Mayhew spoke from the pulpit, I sat in the pews, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. The morning light streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting soft hues of color across the stone floor, but I could barely focus on the beauty around me. All I could see, hear, was Father Mayhew.

“Temptation is subtle,” he said, his eyes scanning the congregation, though I could feel them linger on me for just a moment. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze, my pulse quickening.

“It disguises itself as something innocent, something that feels right in the moment.” His words were heavy with meaning, and I knew the entire room could feel the weight of them, but only I understood the truth behind them.

My fingers trembled as I clutched the rosary in my lap, trying to steady myself. I felt like everyone around me could see it, could sense what had happened between us. Every word he spoke seemed aimed directly at me, a private message hidden within a public sermon.

“To face temptation is to confront the deepest parts of ourselves, the parts we keep hidden, even from God,” Father Mayhew continued, his voice quieter now, almost pained.

Every word he spoke felt like a blade cutting through me, each sermon and prayer now layered with the weight of our sin. My heart pounded in my chest. The memory of his touch, of the way we had crossed that forbidden line, flooded my mind. I could still feel the heat of his body, the pressure of his lips against mine, the sharp contrast between the holiness of this place and the sin we had committed within it.

As his voice filled the chapel once more, I forced myself to look up at him. His face was composed, but there was a darkness in his eyes, a shadow of guilt that mirrored my own. He wasn’t just preaching to the congregation. He was preaching to himself, trying to wrestle with the same demons that haunted me.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as he finished. “Let us not be deceived into thinking that we can hold fire to our chest and not be burned.”

The words stung, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I wanted to believe that what we shared wasn’t wrong, that it could somehow be justified. But hearing him speak like this, hearing him talk about temptation and guilt as if he were naming every sin we had committed, I knew there was no escaping it.

The silence that followed his “Amen” was suffocating. I kept my head down, gripping the edge of the pew as the service went on, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of the congregation’s voices.

When it came time for communion, I hesitated. The thought of approaching him now, after everything, was almost unbearable. Yet, to refuse would be to refuse Christ. I needed to act as if everything was normal, as if I wasn’t silently screaming beneath the surface.

When it was my turn, I made my way to the front, my hands trembling slightly as I held them out for the Eucharist. Father Mayhew’s eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. His expression was unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. His hand shook as he placed the wafer on my tongue, a gesture that now felt tainted, laden with unspoken tension.

“Body of Christ,” he murmured, his voice tight.

“Amen,” I whispered.

I returned to my seat, trying to calm the storm inside me as the mass came to an end. The final blessing was given, the congregation slowly began to rise, their voices mingling in quiet chatter as they prepared to leave, but I stayed rooted to the pew.

As the last of the parishioners filed out of the chapel, I looked up to see Father Mayhew watching me from the altar. His gaze was intense, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the lectern. There was something raw in his expression — anger, shame, perhaps even longing — but he quickly turned away as some of the parishioners approached him at the lectern.

Some unknown force possessed me, picking up my legs and leading me towards Father Mayhew’s bedroom. I don’t know what it was that brought me there; perhaps my subconscious thought it was time for a conversation.

When I got to his room, I closed the door behind me. What caught my eye, though, was the small, red hand towel Father Mayhew had used to clean me was neatly laid out on top of his bed. I walked closer, my steps quiet and light, brushing my fingers against the towel. It was hard and dry, not washed.

I walked to the chair in his room and sat down, patiently waiting.

About an hour passed before I heard the door knob rattle, the door swinging open. Father Mayhew was taken aback by my presence in his room. “Sister, what are you doing here?”

He closed the door behind him, carefully walking across his own room, mindful of his movements. He sat on the bed opposite me, studying my demeanor.

I gathered all of my strength to say, “I like how you make me feel.” I glanced down at the floor, then back up at him to find him surprised by my words.

He sighed, tangling his fingers together, “Our indiscretion was a momentary lapse of judgement.”

“Momentary?” I questioned. “Was it momentary when you touched my lips after every sip of a communion wine? When you’d order me to your room?” I stood up from the chair and walked over to him, “It was never momentary, Charlie.”

The use of his name in a context outside of sex startled both of us, and I saw the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. For a moment, we froze, the tension between us unbearable. I could feel the pull, the same magnetic force that had drawn us together before. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like we were standing at the edge of something dangerous, something we couldn’t come back from.

“I don’t regret it,” he spoke, my voice steady, despite the whirlwind of emotions. “But we can’t keep going like this.”

“And why not?” I asked, caressing his cheek, kneeling before him. “Deuteronomy chapter 11 verse 26,” I recited, “‘See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse.’”

He moved my hand away, standing up and walking toward the altar by the window, “I don’t feel guilty for betraying our vows. I feel guilty about the fact that I don’t feel guilty about it at all. That’s why I’ve tried to keep my distance.”

Charlie stood at the window, the light casting shadows across his face as he stared out in silence. His confession hung in the air like incense, heavy and cloying, filling the space between us with the weight of what we had done. I could see the conflict tearing him apart, the pull between his duty and the desire that neither of us could deny.

I rose from the floor, walking slowly toward him, my hands trembling. “If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

His eyes met mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. For a moment, I thought he would push me away again, would end this before it could go any further. But instead, his hand slowly rose to my cheek, whispering, “Then God help us both.”

In that moment, the world seemed to fall away, and everything we had been fighting against—the guilt, the fear, the shame—melted into the background. There was only the two of us, bound together by something neither of us could fully understand, something that felt more powerful than any vow we had taken.

I stepped closer, resting my head against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath my fingertips. We stood there in the stillness, our breaths mingling, the weight of the world on our shoulders.

He led his hand to the cane in the center of the altar, tracing its edges and holding it in his hands. He opened my hands and placed the cane in them. It felt heavy in my hands, like it was carrying all of the secrets Charlie and I carried.

As I looked down at the cane, I felt his hand caress my cheek again, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I want us to switch this time.”

The words hung in the air between us, sharp and unexpected. I stared down at the cane in my hands, its weight seeming to grow heavier as his meaning settled over me. My breath hitched as I processed the shift, the power he was offering me, the reversal of roles.

I looked up at him, uncertainty swirling in my chest. “You… want me to?” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the silence of the room.

He stepped closer, his gaze intense, unwavering. He brought his lips to my forehead, giving me his blessing. “(Y/N), you are my punishment and my absolution.” His fingers brushed mine where they gripped the cane, his touch sending a familiar shiver through me.

Slowly, I nodded, accepting the responsibility he was placing in my hands. The cane felt cold, foreign, yet somehow fitting as it passed between us. I could sense the anticipation in the air, the tension thick enough to cut. This was a different kind of surrender, one where both of us stood on equal ground, where both of us would be tested.

He took a step back, his breath steady but his expression revealing the storm of emotions beneath the surface. His eyes never left mine as he took his shirt off and grabbed the kneeler, placing it in front of his bed and lowering himself to his knees, his hands resting at his sides in a posture of submission. It was a gesture I never imagined I’d see from him — the man who had once wielded authority over me now kneeling, offering himself up to the consequences of our shared transgressions.

I stood there, my grip tightening around the cane as I stared down at him. The gravity of the moment pressed down on me, but there was no going back now. What lay ahead wasn’t about punishment or power — it was about understanding.

I took a deep breath, stepping forward with slow, deliberate movements. The room was silent, save for the faint creaking of the wood beneath my feet. Charlie remained still, his body tense but unmoving, his back exposed and vulnerable. The act of holding the cane, of standing over him with the authority he had once held over me, was overwhelming in its intensity.

I lifted the cane, my pulse racing, and brought it down with a soft, controlled stroke against his back. The sound was barely audible, more a whisper than a crack, but his body tensed beneath the impact. A breathy moan escaped him, his fingers curling into the wood of the kneeler.

I paused, searching his body for any sign of regret or doubt, but he remained composed, his eyes closed in silent acceptance. He wasn’t asking for punishment; he was asking for release. I struck him again, a little harder this time, the cane leaving a faint red mark on his skin. The tension in the room thickened, the intimacy of the moment deepening.

As I continued, each strike a measured and careful act, his breathing became more ragged, his body trembling ever so slightly beneath the cane. I knew I could stop at any time, that he wouldn’t ask for more than I was willing to give, but in this shared ritual, there was something cleansing — something that felt like a confession neither of us could voice.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was only minutes, I lowered the cane, my hand shaking as I released it. I stood behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips. He nuzzled his cheek into my fingertips, kissing them slowly. Eventually, his kisses grew hungry, turning his head and kissing my hand then moving his mouth up my arm. He pulled me down by the arm and sat me down on the bed.

Charlie’s kisses grew hungrier, his hands moving over my body as if claiming me once again. His lips traveled from my hand to my arm, then up my neck, before finally returning to my mouth with a fervor that made my head spin. There was no hesitation now, no second-guessing. He knew what he wanted, and so did I.

I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him closer, feeling the heat between us build to a fever pitch. His body pressed against mine, the weight of his desire palpable, his hands wandering with an urgency that mirrored my own.

The cane lay discarded on the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment. What had begun as an exchange of control had now become something else entirely.

I could feel the muscles in his arms tense as he positioned himself above me, his breath hot against my skin. The room seemed to shrink around us, the world outside fading into nothingness as we became lost in each other.

There was no room for doubt, no space for guilt or hesitation. The vows we had taken, the lives we had promised to live-none of it mattered in this moment. All that mattered was the way he made me feel, the way l made him feel.

His hands roamed my body, finding every curve, every dip, every place that made me gasp. I responded in kind, my fingers tracing the lines of his back, the ridges of his muscles, the places where I had struck him with the cane just moments before. There was a strange poetry to it all, the way pain and pleasure intertwined, the way power shifted between us with each touch.

I whispered, my voice steady and certain, “I want you."

Charlie looked into my eyes, his expression soft but resolute. "You already have me."

He wasn’t holding back like he was before, but even then it felt so good. This time, it felt even better. I helped him unbuckle his pants as he ripped off my vest and shirt. Our hands couldn’t get enough of each other’s bodies.

As I kissed his shoulder and trailed my way to the corner of his jaw, I could feel his fingers tugging at the underwear under my skirt. He quickly pulled both of them off, tossing them next to the cane on the floor.

He pulled himself back, admiring my body like this had been the first time we’d done this. Suddenly, I grew shy, joining my knees together. He pulled himself out of his underwear and massaged my legs open.

Charlie entered me in one fluid motion, and we both gasped, my back arching as I met his thrusts. There was no gentleness now, no restraint — just the unrelenting drive to lose ourselves in each other.

The sound of our breathless gasps filled the room, mingling with the faint echoes of the world outside—distant, irrelevant. It was only the two of us now, our bodies intertwined, bound by the weight of everything we had done, everything we had become.

“Charlie,” I moaned into his ear.

Hearing his name escape my mouth had triggered him into tightening the grip on my hips, his pace quickening as he pulled me closer, deeper. As the pressure built, my nails dug into his back as I clung to him, both of us lost in the moment.

And then we were both there, teetering on the edge before the dam finally broke. The release was explosive, a rush of pleasure so intense it was almost blinding. We cried out, his name on my lips, mine on his, as the world seemed to shatter around us.

In the aftermath, we collapsed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, our hearts pounding in unison. The silence that followed was heavy but comforting, like the calm after a storm. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, his body still pressed on top of mine as we lay there, both of us trying to catch our breath.

For a long time, neither of us moved. The weight of Charlie’s body on top of me was comforting. His hand trailed down the side of my body trying to find my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, and in that simple gesture, there was more understanding, more connection than any words could have conveyed. He was in no rush to leave this time, which I thought showed some acceptance of this entire thing.

He rolled his body over to the space next to me, pulling me on top of me and laying my head on his chest, kissing my forehead as he dragged his fingernails up and down my back. It was all soothing.

I closed my eyes, listening to Charlie’s heartbeat under my ear. “What does it all mean now?”

Charlie continued to drag his fingers repeatedly, taking a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath me. For a long moment, he said nothing, and I wondered if he was searching for the right words, or if he even had an answer at all.

“It means,” he finally whispered, his voice low and tired, “that we can’t go back.” He sighed, his fingers pausing their movement. “The guilt, the shame, they’ll never go away. But this… what we have…” He trailed off, his hand tightening slightly around mine. “It’s real. That’s what I know for sure. More real than anything else I’ve ever felt.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and I could feel the weight of them pressing against my chest. There was truth in what he said, but it didn’t ease the gnawing uncertainty in my stomach. The gravity of what we had done—and what we were doing—felt overwhelming.

“Where do we go from here?” I asked softly, my voice barely audible against the backdrop of our shared silence.

Charlie shifted beneath me, his fingers resuming their soft strokes against my skin. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough with the weight of his own confusion. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Despite everything, despite the sin, the broken vows, and the uncertainty that lay ahead, there was something undeniably powerful in the bond we had forged. Something that went beyond right or wrong, beyond the confines of our faith.

For now, that had to be enough.

“I’d like to give you something,” I whispered. I stood up from the bed, still without clothes, and walked over to the chair, reaching for that all too familiar wrapped box. I walked back over and sat down next to him. Charlie sat up on the bed, curious. I unwrapped the journal carefully to reveal the deepest part of my soul.

He inspected the journal without opening it when his eyes fell to the rubber band. “This is how you discipline yourself,” he thought out loud. “And this…?” He asked as he opened the journal, skimming through the words, “Your confessions.”

“I want to surrender myself to you, Charlie,” I spoke softly.

He set everything aside and kissed me. Bare, he walked over to the drawer near his alter and opened it, pulling out a flog. My breath hitched at the sight of it. I had no idea this is what he used to discipline himself. He walked back over to me and sat down, wrapping my hands around the flog.

“I surrender myself to you, too, (Y/N),” he whispered.

I studied the flog, looking at every knot at the opposite end of the handle. This flog held every one of Charlie’s secrets and confessions, and he had given it to me. It felt like a holy artifact in my hands. After having seen Charlie act somewhat distant for some time, with the exception of right now, I felt honored to finally be let in.

I set the flog aside and gave him a passionate kiss, falling into an embrace and lying back down on the bed. I pressed a kiss to his chest, closing my eyes as exhaustion began to pull at me.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear was grounding, a soft, comforting pulse that seemed to synchronize with my own. There was a weight to everything that had happened, but in this moment, I allowed myself to be suspended between reality and whatever this was.

The future loomed uncertain, with questions that would demand answers soon enough. But for now, there was only the present—his body against mine, the warmth of our shared breath, and the heavy stillness of the room. For now, we were absolute.

#father charlie mayhew #father charlie x reader #father charlie smut #father charlie grotesquerie #father Charlie Mayhew X reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #Nicholas Alexander Chavez fanfic #nicholas alexander chavez x reader #father Charlie fanfic #grotesqueriefx #grotesquerie father Charlie Mayhew #fic-o-meter

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bagopucks · 1 year ago

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T. Zegras - Can He Sing?

✄————————————

Trevor Zegras x Fem!reader

Requested✨

Word Count: 2.1k

Warning(s): None?

—————————————

“We’re ready when you are.”

“I’m good. Trev?”

“Uh yeah… I think so.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Filming.”

“Hello! I’m Macy Grey and today we’re here with the singer-songwriter who brought you the famous album Silly Love Songs. And her lover Trevor Zegras from the Anaheim Ducks. On behalf of myself and the studio I want to thank you both for coming out today.”

“Of course! I love getting in touch with interviewers. Especially from locally known studios.”

“When I was informed you were in town for the All Stars, I wasn’t sure if you’d have the time, but I’m so happy you were able to fit us into your schedule.”

“Absolutely. I should be thanking you for letting Trevor come though. I know your forte isn’t exactly hockey players.”

Large studio interviews were a waste of time. It was something I always resented, and something that even morally never agreed with me. Large studios only wanted to get news first to make the most money. Smaller places offered a more personal environment and a more comfortable atmosphere. It was the only reason why I had invited Trevor along. I didn’t want him involved too much in the social half of my career, mostly because the industry and jealous fans could be cruel to artists’ lovers. But I reasoned with myself that one interview wouldn’t hurt. Especially with someone like Macy Grey. She was always so kind and open to friends, family, or significant others of musicians.

“To kick us off, I’d love to talk more on the exact reason why you’re in town. Everyone is aware of your successes, but let’s fill the crowd in on Trevor’s.”

“Where to start?” I glanced at Trevor, who let out that awkward wheezy laugh. He was uncharacteristically quiet, but this was a new thing for him. Usually hockey interviews happened when there were loads of other people around. These interviews were far more private. “He was voted in as one of the players this year to play in the All Stars, and he’s competing in a few skills competitions as well. He won a gold medal with Team USA one year before the NHL, he attended Boston University before being drafted.. what else?” I hoped to get him to join in, but Trevor looked fairly comfortable letting me do all the talking. I could fix that though.

“Trevor was voted most likely to cry in a haunted house this year for team superlatives.” I smirked as soon as I heard him gasp.

“Yeah, that’s enough of that,” Trevor cut in. “I’m not a baby, write that down.” He pointed toward Macy, as if the woman had some sort of notepad in her hands. “I’m just jumpy. It’s normal.” His blue eyes shifted toward me with a playful glare, Macy laughed softly at the exchange.

“Well, Trevor. It seems like you’re a pretty successful person yourself. Would you mind me asking how you two met?”

“Oh I love this story.”

“Me too,” Trevor chimed in, crossing his legs one over the other, and leaning forward like a kid during story time.

“So, I was in New York for a performance in MSG, and the Ducks were in town too for a game” I smiled, leaning back in my chair and trying to get comfortable. “My best friend had joined me for the eastern leg of the tour at the time, so we decided to go out for drinks downtown. My favorite bar in the city is 230 Fifth Rooftop Bar. So my best friend, Shelby and I, we just got two glasses of champagne and settled at a high table to watch the sunset. We’re minding our own business.. for the most part, but there’s this group of guys that are just carrying on. They’re loud and obnoxious and they look like your stereotypical frat guys. At one point Shelby had enough, and she got up to go yell at them.” I peeked at Trevor, his smile growing wider. He knew very well that this was the part where he came in. “So Shelby’s yelling at that group of guys, and I finally got up to go wrangle her. And just as I’m approaching.. I kinda stopped and asked myself if it was a good idea. Shelby doesn’t like to be told to stop much. Then I hear this voice right next to me. Scared the shit out of me. And the voice goes, “She yours?” I laughed softly, as did Macy.

“I apologized profusely for her behavior, and-“

“But I told her I wasn’t the one getting yelled at. So it didn’t bother me.” Trevor cut in with a toothy grin. “Then I bought her another glass of champagne and the rest is history.”

“Don’t forget about the part where you booked your hotel room for an extra night to see me perform.” I teased, “And bribed security into getting backstage to see me and ask for my number.”

“Those details don’t make me sound as cool though,” Trevor whined.

“That’s a really sweet story.” Macy chimed in.

“Thank you.”

“So he asked for your number, but who asked who out?”

“To simplify a long story, Trevor was beating around the bush too much for a little while, so one night be brought me flowers before an away game and I told him when he got back, we were going to go on our first date as an official couple.” Macy and I laughed in unison.

“And were there any arguments to that demand?”

“Not from me, no.” Trevor giggled. “I was more than happy to put a label on it.”

“And how long have you been together?”

“Two years. Three at the end of All Star Week.”

“How adorable! You guys must be a strong couple then.”

“Oh one hundred percent.” Trevor smiled as he spoke.

“Now, the question on everyone’s minds is.. can he sing?”

“Yes!”

“Absolutely not.” I corrected Trevor ruthlessly. “He thinks he can.. but he can’t.” I chuckled, glancing at the sandy blonde to see his look of pure betrayal.

“Does that mean we won’t be hearing any duets?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I answered slyly, earning a surprised look from Macy. “Trev is featured on the album.. speaking. His features are mostly just backtracks.”

“I know this may be asking a lot but- is there any chance we could get a sneak peek at that?”

“For you Macy? I would love to.” I watched the girl’s eyes light up. I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my files, scrolling through for a moment before I stood and dragged my chair closer to the woman’s.

“This song is called Spellbound. It was actually the first song I produced for this new album. I took some of my inspiration from the song Witchy Woman by the Eagles. The reason being, this was written during halloween, and that is just one of my favorite spooky songs. For this piece, I wanted it to feel supernaturally devoted to Trevor. Like.. kind of like.. like a love where one person idolizes the other, but not necessarily in an obsessive or toxic way. I think the lyrics and the tune teetering on the edge of insanity really adds to the supernatural edge and it also makes this song unique to Trevor. I can’t say I’ll ever produce another song like this, nor do I think anyone else will. Classic rock isn’t exactly my genre, nor do I plan for it to be. So this track really sticks out. Which is the main reason why I chose to give this song its own cover art. And I’ll be releasing it as the first single.” It was a lot of information to offer, but I was very passionate about the things I dedicated to Trevor. Especially this song.

Most of my music got old after constantly rerecording lyrics and harmonies, or sorting out instruments. But this song never did. I loved it through and through.

“This sounds amazing and so.. intricate. How long did it take in total from thinking of the idea to finalizing the song?”

“A full month maybe? I hadn’t been exactly itching to make a new album, so I knew if I was going to, my basis for it was going to have to be amazing. And I think I did a fairly good job.” I paused. “I hope so..”

“I’m sure it’s amazing. Let’s hear it!”

I wasted no time in playing the track, a steel guitar and stylized keyboard opening the musical scene. I was a person who loved using clips of recordings in my music, whether it was from everyday life, or a random video in my camera roll, or even if I took the recording of the sound specifically for a song. It was one of my many musical signatures, but the one I was most known for. Atop the smooth music, came the faded clinging of pans, and Trevor’s soft voice. “I can’t wait for you to be home.. Fuck I miss you so much.” It had been a voicemail, but my sound producers managed to give it a more authentic feel, as if someone was in the room with him recording instead of it being spoken into a phone mic. The music itself was fairly calm and collected. Certain instruments helped it sound taboo and old, but the lyrics were the driving factor that made it sound almost insane. A part of me worried my audience wouldn’t take to the song well, but Macy seemed enthralled from the start of the track.

I eyed her expressions carefully through every second, smiling to myself when she seemed particularly intrigued by a section. And I had to admit, it boosted my ego to hear Trevor not too far off in his own chair humming the song to himself. I could live with myself if everyone hated the song, as long as he loved it.

Near the bridge, Trevor’s voice returned, “I’m gonna keep you forever.” This section had been specifically recorded in the studio, and despite my endless attempts to get him to take it seriously, he had giggled at the end of every take. Eventually I settled on knowing I wouldn’t have it the exact way I wanted it, and we used the take with the least amount of amusement in his voice. At the end of the day when we put it all together, his laugh only ended up adding to the crazy feel of the song.

Near the end of the track, Macy finally spoke up.

“This is the weirdest and most mentally satisfying song I have ever heard.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Really?”

“You’re so right, it sounds nothing like what you usually produce, but it still has your essence in it. You can tell it’s your songwriting. I think this song is going to be crazy successful. And I also think having Trevor on it is going to make people go nuts” I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of that. I knew my fans would love to see Trevor featured.

“Thank you so much. I’m so excited to release the song.” I admitted with a slight grin.

“I’m just excited that I’ll be able to listen to it without having to say “babe can you sing me that song” every time I wanna hear it.” Trevor teased, causing my cheeks to flush as our eyes met.

“You don’t like her singing to you?” Macy joked.

“God no. I love it when she sings. I just hate how much I get made fun of when I ask her to do it.” The three of us laughed.

“Sounds to me like you have a pretty devoted girlfriend.”

“She did write a weirdly obsessive song about me.” Trevor agreed pridefully. “The first of many, right babe?” His question made my brow rise in surprise.

“We’ll see, Ziggy.”

“That’s a good answer. Can’t give too much away just yet.” My eyes trailed back to Macy. Our time was drawing to a close. “I hate to cut us short but I think we’re reaching our limit. And I know you have your own tight schedule today.” She paused. “I really wanna thank you again for making enough time to come out. It means a lot.”

“Mace, I think I speak for the both of us when I say we had so much fun being here. You always conduct the best interviews.” The woman blushed.

“We can come back anytime.” Trevor added, catching me off guard.

“I’ll have to take you up on that offer the next time you’re in town.” Macy grinned. “I hope you both enjoy the All Stars, and rock the red carpet of course.”

“Thank you so much. We definitely hope to.”

“I’ll be watching on tv.”

✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾

#nhl imagine #nhl x reader #jack hughes #ella’s thoughts #quinn hughes #trevor zegras #nico hischier #ella’s updates #ella’s asks #cole caufield #trevor zegras blurb #trevor zegras imagine #trevor zegras x reader

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nibbelraz · 1 year ago

Note

A scenario I had been toeing writing was a "beings with really ingrained beastly instincts (like, monsters and beasts but mostly those who appeared in Airplane's draft) recognize him as their God and Creator/Owner and obey him like well trained, overly loving doggos". Kinda like this fic on AO3 with Xin Mo recognizing SQH as his Gid& creator, except its an eldritch entity that was supposed to be a Real PlotPoint and Hurt LBH really bad just wagging tail and doing tricks for one tiny ass, sweaty and nervous peak lord.

Also, I don't remember if either Tianlang-Jun or Zhuzhi-Lang ever met gim, but wouldn't it be hilarious if they, too, recognize him as Something Other because they were not part of the plot but the draft and thus "closer" to SQH's "heart/true intentions"?

THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY COOL??? LIKE SO INCREDEBLY COOL I WOULD READ THAT IMMEDIATELY

I 100 percent can definitely see other types of beasts and creatures seeing Shang Qinghua as an otherworldly being but also a lot of concepts were in Qinghuas drafts I wonder if those carry over. Like Binghe getting the ending he was meant to have was a concept and it came to be so would binghe sense Qinghua as something? Maybe that's why he's just glaring at him because he thinks it's jealousy for being near his shizun but nooo it's other things he can't pinpoint.

Thinking of Qinghua having beasts listening him to tho is funny too like

"They listen to him" points to Shang Qinghua whose staring at this huge creature and he's shaking and about to cry while the creature in question is like ":D"

I don't remember either if Tianlang-Jun or Zhuzhi-lang lang met Qinghua actually but if he did I think Tianlang-Jun would look at him real hard and then be incredibly interested in him like "Oh. This one. THIS ONE HERE. He's something for sure." He'd have the same level of enthusiasm as he does with Shen Qingqiu.

If you end up writing it, I would love to read it!!!!

#svsss #shang qinghua #tianlang jun #zhuzhi lang #but fr that concept is so cool!!!!#Tianlang-Jun seeing Shang Qinghua and feeling. something. immediately is intrigued and now he's pestering him non stop #Mobei bringing Shang Qinghua in an important mission that actually was very dangerous but its a breeze because #shang qinghua told the beast to sit and stay while they collected these rare plants #im convinced the northern palace now has a bunch of creatures that follows Qinghua and now stand gaurd and protect #nib text #ask

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deaderisbetter13 · 5 months ago

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Slasher name etymology + name hcs/thoughts!!

I was inspired by a bunch of @charleslee-valentine's posts to do my own version of this with other slashers/horror movie villains and give my hcs too!

I'll link her respective posts to the slashers she covered cause her analysis is really interesting and in depth so go check them out pretty please!

My analysis will only be about the killers, no final girls here. List is in chronological order of first release, mostly sticking to the first movie (Aside from F13, TCM, and Chucky). l've primarily used Behindthename for this with a bit of help from wiktionary and other etymology sites. Looooong post with spoilers for certain movies below!

Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974-1995) (E.J.'s analysis post)

Sawyer Family name:

Sawyer is an occupational name meaning "Woodcutter".

Saw is pretty easy to see in relations to 'The saw is family' line in TCM 2 and carried over into 3 and their usage of chainsaws, not just by Bubba but other members too. The saw represents both their violence and their humble lineage, as well as their connection as a family, staying together no matter what.

The original name for them was meant to be 'slaughter' but it wasn't used until the 4th movie and so I hc that it becomes an eventual nickname in neighboring areas as knowledge and evidence are found of their crimes yet cannot be traced.

Drayton:

Drayton is a surname and locational name that comes from Old English, meaning “Town where logs are dragged” or "Farmstead at or near a portage or slope used for dragging down loads".

This one's a bit hard to think of tbh- but it's very related to the Sawyer family name of logging and I can see it being related to the violence his family brings as, despite claiming he takes no pleasure in killing, he's more than happy to drag people to their deaths.

I headcanon Drayton gets called 'Cook' far more than his actual name and gets fairly annoyed by it.

Nubbins:

Nubbins means "A small lump" or something underdeveloped, stunted, or imperfect (I see it most in reference to ears of corn).

Now, though Nubbins isn't a real name, it's the only one we know him by and, judging by how the other characters use it, it's close enough to one to count. Nubbins referring to something small and imperfect may relate to the fact that he has a much larger birthmark than Chop-Top, which even today will get people inferring him as the 'uglier' twin. It's also interesting that Chop was drafted but not him, which may mean he was unqualified to fight on a physical level, again relating to the idea that his growth was 'stunted'.

Based on a commonly misheard line in TCM 2, directed towards Chop from Drayton, I headcanon that Nubbin's real name is Paul (Meaning small/humble) and he got the nickname Nubbins because his left leg is a few inches shorter than his right.

Bubba:

Bubba is a term of endearment in the south and usually is a nickname from the word brother.

Bubba's name is simple and sweet, just like he is. I think it makes a lot of sense for the youngest brother in the Sawyer family to have a sweet name like this to match his more sensitive and doting personality towards his family. Despite how they're often portrayed as abusing him, he's shown loving them a lot and willing to do everything for them.

I headcanon 'Bubba' isn't actually his legal name, just a nickname he prefers. His legal name is Jedidiah (Beloved/friend of Yahweh), Bubba doesn't mind it but prefers Bubba since he already has a few cousins named Jed.

Chop-top/Robert:

Robert is a Germanic name meaning 'Bright fame'.

Chop may not be bright in the way of intelligence but he is bright in the way of being attention-grabbing and positive. Chop is able to focus Stretch's attention on to him well enough to let Bubba sneak into the radio station and well enough to distract LG and get him killed. Chop is also relatively cheerful with Nubbins' body, his indulgence in lighthearted things (Such as hippie music and fashion), and his purchase of an abandoned theme park. The aspect of fame could come in through his status as a Vietnam veteran or through the unreleased All American Massacre, which has him relaying his family's history to a journalist.

I'm taking 'Robert' as his canon name as both Tobe Hooper's son says it is and the planned spinoff uses it. I headcanon he doesn't like being called 'Robert' all that much and prefers Bobby, and later insisted on 'Chop Top', using his injury as a source of pride as well as taking on a unique nickname to honor and feel closer to Nubbins after his death.

Black Christmas (1974)

Billy Lenz:

Billy comes from the name William, which itself comes from the Germanic name Willehelm, literally 'Will Helmet' or "Desiring Protection". Lenz comes from a German nickname meaning "Springtime".

There's not much I can personally glean from the name as in his original iteration next to nothing is known about Billy, not even his surname, outside of him wanting to harass women. All I can say is that his name, after learning about it, is unfairly cute for such a sinister guy- almost a complete antithesis to both his Christmas aesthetic and aggressive behavior.

Since the surname 'Lenz' came from the 2007 remake, I'm also headcanoning his middle name to be Edward (Which means rich guard). Alongside this I think he calls his victims 'Agnes' (Greek for chaste) not just after his sister but as a way to mock his victims.

Halloween (1978)

Michael Audrey Myers: (If u saw i forgor his middle nome no u didn't)

Michael is a Hebrew name meaning 'Who is like god?'- a rhetorical question, implying no person is like God. Audrey comes from the Old English æðele "noble" and þryþ "strength". Myers is the patronymic form of Myer, which comes form the Old French word for 'Doctor"

Okay gonna be honest, Mike is why I wanted to do this at all. See, in a lot of Christian lore, the archangel Michael is the leader of heaven's angels and the one who ends up dueling Satan in the end days, which is extremely interesting ironic parallel considering Loomis equates Michael to 'the devil'. On top of that, Michael is considered in some teachings to be an archangel of death, carrying souls to heaven, which, again, is extremely fitting!!

Audrey is pretty much exclusively a feminine name so it being used for an (intended) cis guy is very interesting. Possibly it could be a mistake and his middle name was meant to be the gender neutral Aubrey (Meaning 'Elf king'), which is more thematically relevant to his thorn trilogy and book stuff imho. Though Audrey does fit Michael's character overall- not just literally with him widely being regarded as a king of slashers and horror icons, as well as being one of the strongest- but relating to his refined nature as a killer and his mental strength and fortitude.

Myers meaning doctor is also an interesting parallel to Loomis, and contradictory to his unfeeling characterization and violent nature as well. It's also funny how Michael is now considered a patron saint of paramedics, considering how he disguises himself as one in one of the sequels.

In my headcanon, Michael is an absolute drama king and trans, so when learned of Michael in church as a child, he decided to name himself after the angel.

Friday the 13th (1980/1981)

Voorhees family name:

Voorhees is a Dutch name deriving from multiple hamlets, meaning "From the undergrowth/brushwood".

This name is absolutely perfect for both the camp/woodland setting of (almost) all the movies and, of course, Jason's habit of living in the woods. It works for Jason's repeated rising from the grave/the forest to enact revenge. If you take the comic 'Pamela's tale' as canon, it can also work as a metaphor of Pamela stepping out to a new life and escaping her abuser alongside Jason.

Pamela:

Pamela, though invented in the 16th century, wouldn't become popular as a given name until the 20th century, from a 1740 book of the same name, with it likely meaning "All sweetness" from the Greek 'Pan' (All) and 'Meli' (Honey).

Pamela's name is quite ironic, and fitting, considering when we first meet her she acts gentle and kind to Alice, but quickly turns sinister- a bit like the saying "You'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar". Honey is also fitting for her 'mama bear' attitude around Jason.

I headcanon Pam can cook anything and make it taste good, but has a particular knack for pancake recipes with fun additions (Like fruit or veggies). Her recipes are affectionately known as 'Pam-cakes'.

Jason:

Jason comes from Greek and means 'Healer'. This is the name of one of the great heroes of Greek myth who led the Argonauts and died to his ship as well after betraying his wife and insulting Hera.

While Jason isn't very similar to his mythical namesake, the meaning of him being a healer could refer to multiple things. Of them all the two most obvious are his noted healing abilities in Jason X and his possible attempts to revive Pamela after her death by keeping her head. It's also funny how, despite being ruthless in his killing, people often see him as a protector and caretaker of Crystal Lake.

I headcanon Pamela named Jason after the mythical figure, not knowing he was a loser in the stories, because she wanted him to be heroic, virtuous, and good.

I also think 'Jason Voorhees' is a generally strong and intimidating name outside of him as a character and very good for a slasher.

(Bonus) Elias:

Elias is the Greek New Testament version of Elijah, which means "My God is Yahweh".

I find it funny that, of the three of them, the one characterized in the worst light is the one named after a biblical miracle worker and prophet who appeared next to Jesus. The Voorhees' are nothing if not ironic.

I honestly think cute that, alongside their surnames, they all have Greek sourced first names too! Makes them feel really connected. Plus their first names are all deeply ironic to their character's. They are a truly well rounded trio.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

Frederick Charles Krueger:

Freddy comes from Frederick, a German name meaning "Peaceful Ruler". Charles comes from Karl, meaning 'Man'. Krueger comes from the German Krüger, meaning "Tavern-keeper" or "Potter" in lower and central/upper German respectively.

I think Freddy's name fits who he was in life very well- he was assumed to be just another man in the neighborhood, a friendly groundskeeper for a preschool. An innocent facade hiding his inner darkness.

Child's Play (1988/1998) (E.J's analysis post)

Charles Lee Ray:

Charles comes from Karl, meaning "Man". Lee comes from a surname that was derived from Old English leah meaning "Woodland clearing". Ray meanwhile can have a few origins, Rey, either from Old French, Catlan, and Spanish, meaning "King" or from English meaning "Female roe deer" possibly meaning a nervous person.

I think most of these meanings are mildly ironic- Chucky in most of his the movies is a doll, having long since forgone his humanity to save his life and eventually embracing his inhuman form. Even when he does manage to seal a human body, in both cases they're women. He's also deeply attached to cities and suburbs in his lore- unlike a lot of slashers Chucky has never come across as a 'small town' killer but rather a full city slicker. Chucky is certainly not a nervous person nor does he ever have the power of a king, though he may carry the title of one in his own universe due to his fame as the 'Doll serial killer'.

I think Chucky prefers his nickname over the name 'Charles' by a long shot- in part because he doesn't entirely give a shit about sounding very masculine and in part because he finds his name overly stuffy.

Tiffany Valentine:

Tiffany is the medieval form of Theophania, which means "Manifestation of god". This name was traditionally given to girls born on the Epiphany (Jan 6), the festival commemorating the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus. Valentine comes from the Roman name Valentinus meaning "Strong, vigorous, healthy".

Tiffany is such an interesting character and I find her name fits her place in the larger child's play franchise well. Tiff arrives into the series as a savior of Chucky, going out of her way to revive him and get multiple people killed just to bring him back. In the sequels she returns again and again as a symbol of strength for Chucky and getting him out of tight situations or helping him carry out plans. Her appetite for violence and power is as strong, if not stronger in some ways, than Chucky's being his equal match.

I headcanon Tiffany adores nicknames like 'Tif' and 'Tiffy', it always makes her feel more relaxed, especially when they're coming from Chucky.

Scream (1996) (E.J.'s analysis post)

Billy Loomis:

Billy comes from the name William, which itself comes from the Germanic name Willehelm, literally "Will Helmet" or "Desiring Protection". Loomis is an English locational name meaning "Pool nook/recess".

I can't think of anything for his surname, but Billy's first name can be rife with meaning for his character. Billy's breakdown and eventual turn to murder of Maureen and Sidney comes from his desire to avenge his mother, both to protect her honor and because he misses her love and presence (And by extension protection) of him as well.

I headcanon Billy, in aus where they take place in the same universe, is related to Dr. Loomis from Halloween (Great-nephew) and Sam Loomis from Psycho (Second cousin once removed).

Stu Macher:

Stuart comes from the word steward, coming from elements for "house" and "guard" in Old English. Macher has multitude of meanings. It can derive from a locational name for someone from any of several places called Machern, from an ancient Germanic personal name formed with mag "Kinsman" or magan "Might" and hari "Army", or a nickname from Middle/High German macher "Doer". Macher also has a meaning of an important person, or someone who's boastful.

Okay Stu's name has a LOT to say. First off, well, he didn't guard his house very well now did he? Homeboy fucking destroyed it (And let Billy do so) for the sake of committing the perfect crime with Billy and becoming renowned. Forgoing his first name to fulfill the meaning of his last name. This can also extend to a more metaphorical idea of 'house' as he also likely tainted the entire Macher name, forcing his relatives to move away from Woodsboro in shame. Both meanings are even more ironic when you consider that, in the end, he never became famous as in subsequent sequels, people repeatedly downplay or outright forget his position as one of the original killers. Stu failed both his names in the end, which is honestly really sad.

I headcanon Stu spelled his name as 'Stew' until he was 13 at least because he thought it was funny. He still signs his name like that too.

House of Wax (2005) (E.J.'s analysis post)

Sinclair family name:

Sinclair is derived from Saint Clair, the French form of Clara which means "clear, bright, famous".

This name is fitting for the whole family as it not only alludes to their local fame with the House of Wax, but their christian affiliation and shared intelligence (Victor being a doctor, Vincent and Trudy being skilled sculptors, the rigging of the entire electricity of the town and creation of the wax torture chair).

Bo:

Bo in English is a diminutive of multiple names, most often those with Beau (Beautiful) in them or Robert, which means "Bright fame".

Both meanings are fitting for Bo, being a genuinely handsome man and being the most conventionally attractive of his brothers. He was also, in my opinion, the most recognized brother around town, perhaps for his violent tantrums as shown in the intro or perhaps his intelligent work with cars and ability to scheme as well as his desire to go beyond his mother's house of wax into the whole town.

In my headcanon, Bo's name was initially Bob- not Robert, just Bob- and the second 'b' on his high chair was never printed. Trudy and Victor came to regret naming him Bob and let him go by 'Bo' as both twins preferred it. Later on, during an argument, Vincent called Bo "Beauregard", mistakenly thinking it was his full name at the time. Bo adopted it as his full name after using it for most of his life.

Vincent:

Vincent comes from the roman name Vincentius, meaning "to conquer".

On a surface level, this meaning may seem ironic, but i feel like it's perfectly fitting for Vincent's character. Out of the brothers, Vincent gets the most kills and all the violent ones. He not only conquers his victims violently and without mercy (Aside from Carly and Nick, though he gets very close) he's also shown to have bested his mother in his artistic skill and ambition. Which of the Sinclair's decided they should pursue a town of wax is up for debate (Though I headcanon it was Trudy's idea initially), but Vincent chooses to do the work and has a fair bit of control over the situation he's in, in my mind on equal level to Bo and not as a victim to him as many people portray him.

I headcanon Vincent is extremely fond of his name as he shares it with Vincent Van Gogh and Vincent Price, both of whom he admires quite a bit.

Lester:

Lester comes from an English surname that was derived from the name of the city of Leicester, which itself is named after a pre-English river name in the area Latin word for camp. Essentially the name means "Camp by the river".

Again, I think this is a fitting name. Lester is the only one in the family with a locational name and a surname as a first name, already setting himself apart from the others as he's set apart from the direct violence of both parents and his brothers. On top of that Lester's name refers to a camping ground and reminds me of his job as a roadkill collector, out wandering the woods and roadside, and his presence of luring people by said camp. Cool stuff!

Lester finds his name funny, in my headcanon. He's got Parents with strong names like Gertrude and Victor, brothers with fanciful names like Vincent and Beauregard, and here he is being called Lester. He likes that he has an oddball name compared to them.

The Boy (2016)

(Not technically a slasher but tumblr thinks he is so he's going here)

Brahms Heelshire:

Brahms comes from the German surname, deriving from Abraham which means "Father of many" or just "Many". Heelshire doesn't seem to be an actual name but, through some digging I've found that it's likely a habitual name as "shire" is a traditional term for a division of land in Britain, generally synonymous with a county. From my research the surname Heel is a topographical name for someone who lived in a nook or hollow. Therefore Heelshire likely means "Official charge of the nook/hollow".

Brahms has probably the most stereotypically old money rich British name I can imagine if I'm being honest. In regard to it's meaning towards his character- 'Brahms' might relate to his wealth, how he has many toys or has been spoiled by his multitude of things. It could also relate to his parents lack of other children, and like the biblical story of Abraham, had a single son at an older age. Abraham is also the common patriarch of the Abrahamic religions, making it ironic that he shares his name with a man determined to live as a child.

'Heelshire' is pretty easy, as though his parents were the official charges of the manor and the estate, Brahms is the ruler of the walls, the nooks and crannies of the mansion and the darkness that lies within all the Heelshires and their home.

As for headcanons: I think Brahms was homeschooled by 8 because he was bullied for his name. His parents loved the composer and wanted their son to feel special so they named him 'Brahms'. Sadly, even the rich kids could sniff out his weird name and bullied him over it so Brahms hated his name and insisted on being called anything else instead. As an adult he appreciates his name but at 8 he really hated it.

Thanksgiving (2023)

John Carver:

John comes from the Hebrew name Yoḥanan, meaning "Yahweh is gracious". Carver is an occupational surname from someone who works in carving.

Though it comes from an actual historical figure, I can help but think of what a cool coincidence it is that John Carver is an excellent slasher name. I mean, with John being an extremely common name- to the point of it being a fifth of all English boys in the middle ages and keeping that popularity through to the 20th century- like a killer who can vanish into a crowd, as Carver does even in the movie!!Carver just has the edge of being a word associated with aggression and death, much like butcher.

I headcanon part of that is why Newlon chose to hide behind the Carver identity- it's not just a good slasher name but has symbolic meaning to his intentions. Plus it fits with the history of the town and was convenient. Win-win scenario for the drama king!

Eric Newlon:

Eric means "Ever ruler", from the Old Norse name Eiríkr. Newlon comes from the term "New arable land," having derived from the Old English word "niwe," + land.

I find it to be an interesting parallel to the the actual figure of John Carver, for whom he takes the appearance of, as both Plymouth's first governor and a colonist. Literally taking the visage of the 'ruler' of the 'new land'- who's face is forever carried both in history and through the internet.

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