#i dont know lighting. nor anatomy.

[careyyss]

Recovering memories

Hey girl why your arm so long

[nvuy]

dulcet — sunday

summary. it is within the safest parts of the world that sunday loses himself, and it seems that only you can provide him the salvation he desperately searches for.

notes. i wrote this for mags :)))) hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! confiteor part three THATS IT. DONT ASK ME FOR ANOTHER ONE. you can read part one and two here or on tumblr if you want. i'd recommend because this series is mind boggling. i wish you all an open mind, because if this confuses you, that's the point.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader with fem anatomy, you are implied to do street work, crazy freaky shit, long ass 11k post, whatever form of body worship this counts as, sunday needs to be medicated asap and needs therapy, angst if you look at it with your eyes open, religious guilt & themes, and again its literally just a dirty smashing session. nobody is surprised.

Sunday laid and simply waited for sleep to come. It was dark now, and the clock on the other side of his room was ticking and ticking with each minute that passed. Something twitched with every noise; a finger, his eye, his lips. 

Exhaustion crept behind his eyes, and yet they refused to remain shut. Every tick of the clock, every creak of the bed, every single noise he heard put him on edge. He stiffened like a corpse when the sheets moved. 

It’s just him. 

It was just him and nobody else. It had become harder and harder to convince himself that he was alone. This was his bedroom; the same four walls he surrendered himself to every night and prayed to see tomorrow morning. A home such as his didn’t warrant nor promise his safety when he laid his head to rest. 

And that was what had scared him. The window to his bedroom was cracked open just a tad; he had his rhythm. All the windows shut and the door locked tight from the inside. Any draft of wind from outside would stir him awake in an instant, as well as the fact that anyone would contort through the gap and come forth and touch him and– 

Sunday only clutched at the neckline of his shirt to calm himself. Usually, he’d twist his hand into the pendant he wore around his throat, but that was stowed away in its jewellery box — and Robin had highly discouraged the bad habit because he was growing ghastly scars on his palm from repeatedly splitting the skin open on the white gold charm. 

He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat remained. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight in frustration. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his shoulders and stiffness in his legs, but he locked up again almost immediately.

Like a corpse. 

He could hear tapping outside of his room again. Clicking of heels, footsteps trailing back and forth down the hall. There was no light bleeding beneath the door, but shadows passed beneath as if someone was standing outside. Waiting. 

Sunday turned over and faced the window. It’s open. He stiffened up even more and swallowed even harder. It shouldn’t be open. He found no courage to stand up and close it himself; the floor would be too cold. His feet are bare. The wind picked up hastily and the silk curtains drifted lazily like the breeze did not freeze him to his bones. 

At the same time, he felt hot in his skin. Burning like the sun, like hot wax and sweat glittering down his skin. Like rain and sand and molten metal mixed into his chest, ready to burst through the flesh and leave him without a heart. The pathetic muscle beat frantically despite having to convince himself there was nobody here. 

He knew there was nobody in the room with him. He knows this. There’s never anyone with him. 

And yet, he felt as if one thousand different eyes were peering down from the shadowed corners and staring and peeling back every layer of his skin and delving into his very being. And it hurt. Like lead weighed down his bones. Like he couldn’t move a single muscle in his body. 

So he laid there and hurt. 

He tried to breathe as the feeling entrenched through his veins and twisted against the walls of his organs until he was swallowed whole by whatever this was. Stabbing and burning and bruising blossomed in his legs. Breathe. Just breathe. 

He tried to think of birds. The old small doves outside of the window that used to visit him when he was very, very small. Small enough that he remembered being accompanied by his mother, and too little that Robin wasn’t even in the picture yet. He would lean over the windowsill and reach out a small hand to one of them. Usually, they’d run away, but he found if he remained still for long enough, they’d curiously come close and use his hand as a branch. 

That was years ago. 

He shook harder and pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he could see something in the corner of the bedroom, but he couldn’t move his head to affirm it. He felt eyes. Eyes and mouths and hands and they reach lower and lower and beneath his clothes and he can’t breathe. 

He felt claws. 

The pointed ends of them sank deep into his stomach, the flesh denting and daring to tear beneath the tips. He swallowed hard, hard enough that the lump in his throat cut into his jugular. 

And that familiar sensation of heat began to return. Again. He finally found the strength to let a finger by his side twitch, and he realised then the hand delving towards his navel was his own. His nails tap at the skin again and again as if waiting, as if his hand had its own mind. He felt it did. 

He felt it was yours. 

He finally turned over to face away from the window and tucked his hands beneath the pillow underneath his head. The clock in his room ticked away. His heart beat in tune. 

Why does it hurt? 

Paranoia set its teeth into his neck, and he had the love bites to show for it. He remembered the feeling of sharp canines digging into his flesh and ruining his throat. And he remembered crying out, not from fear as he did now, but from the pain, the rushing of blood through his veins, and the hot press of skin against skin. And that feeling. 

Alive. 

That’s what it was. His blood boiled, and he was afraid, but he felt alive. Above this plain, and the next, and in your arms instead. 

The paranoia persisted. 

He finally sat up and stared at the back wall of his room. The walls were barren, stripped of character, and his room was something of the same. There isn’t much on display. That’s too much clutter. There’s a jewellery box for his earrings in front of the mirror he refuses to look into. He doesn’t own a lot of things — and what is there to own? Other than a few books he has at his disposal, they tell nothing of his character. 

If he had it his way, the bookshelf would be filled with romance novels. The terrible kind. The ones that were so over the top that he simply had to put them down and stare at nothing for five minutes before turning to the next page. 

And then he’d think of you. 

Idiot. 

He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, careful to readjust his shirt. A light sheen of sweat stuck to his skin like hot glue as he stood up. The floor was freezing, and he promptly made it over to shut his window and lock it tight. He did it quietly, tip-toeing across the floorboards with shaking fingers. 

He ignored the pain in his limbs, tugging on the window until he was sure the lock wouldn’t slip free. He did this hours ago before he tried to sleep. His mind was muddied. 

He closed the curtains swiftly before trudging towards the bathroom. He locked that door, too, and tried to cool his face with water. It seemed to work for only a second before the burning returned. That sweltering heat lingered again and again, and the bruise on his neck was only growing darker. 

The only thing on the bench is his toothbrush and a pair of scissors. There were bits of leftover blue feather tufts on the sharp ends. 

He doesn’t look at his reflection, afraid of the silhouette forming behind him. 

And then there was a creak from outside the door. 

He choked on his breath before he held it silently. The window. He recognised that sound; the dry hard rubbing of the sill against the joints. His teeth gritted hard, and he swore the shells cracked in his mouth. And that is pain. Pain and pain and pain and fear and it swallows him whole and he feels small still. Like he’s little. Like he’s that little boy who cried with a scraped knee for his mother. 

And that hurt. 

His heart ached and his stomach dropped. He held onto the bench, leaning his weight against it, afraid he’d double over and dry heave — when’s the last time he ate anything? 

Breathe. 

It’s nothing. This has happened before. Many times. 

He stood up straighter and pushed off of the bench. He ignored the pain shooting up his legs, and he grew lightheaded as he tried to move towards the door. The blood rushed to his head and his vision dimmed into nothing for a moment. 

His hand rested against the door handle, and his fingers wrapped tight around the cold steel. It bit at his fingers like ice and he fought the urge to retreat and stay locked inside of the bathroom. It was too cold here. He was already shaking just staying in here for three minutes. 

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing. 

And then, and only then, did Sunday swing open the door as quick as he could and shut it briskly behind him. He rested his back against the hardwood of the door and held his breath. Hold. Hold. Breathe. 

The window was open. 

He could’ve sworn he closed it. 

He could’ve sworn he–

He could still feel the cold wood of the sill on his fingers. He did. He can’t do this again because he knew he closed it and he remembered closing it and why is it so hard to breathe–

He barreled toward the window sill and shut it again. His stomach twisted and his lips parted to try and suck in more air. He only succeeded in accelerating his heartbeat. 

He stepped away. Closed. It’s closed. It’s closed it’s closed. He closed it. He knew it now. He breathed out again, this time slower, trying to calm himself down. The back of his heels hit the foot of his bed and he sat down on top of the blankets. It’s cold. 

It’s cold but the window was closed. He knew it. He knew it, he knew it. 

He heard a knock from the wardrobe. 

The inside. 

His breathing stuttered and stirred in his chest, and it felt like small animals crawling through his lungs and clogging his throat. Like rats. Creeping rodents clawing into the weak muscle tissue and tearing through his bronchi. Violating. 

It was dark. So dark he couldn’t see the figures in the corners of the bedroom. His feet were cold from the floorboards. The acid in his stomach churned and burned, and feared the worst. He scanned over the room once, twice, before he slowly took a step towards the wardrobe. 

It knocked again, and this time the door jolted on its hinges as if something were trying to break out. 

Another step. 

He hurt. 

Just go back to sleep. 

He opened the closet. 

Two shadowy figures, one hunching over the other, too close for comfort, and ants wedged themselves through every pore and blemish in his skin. It’s him, and you. You’re half undressed, and he looks worse for wear, covered in stains and spit and taking it all in stride. His clothes were a mess; pants ruffled and loose, his hair was wild from being tugged on, and despite your hands roaming dangerously low around his hips, his own hands drew around your face and pulled your lips onto his again and again. 

One blink, and he was there. In the church again, in the back in a storage cupboard, and he was startled. He’s dreaming. He had to be. His clothes were different; his usual attire, though he’s shedded his overcoat and you were busying yourself undoing the buttons of his shirt. 

“I told you not to come back,” he remembered whispering defeatedly. 

Your hands dipped lower down his navel. 

“Getting cold feet, priest?” 

And, yes. His feet were cold, because now the closet was empty, and he was standing in his bedroom again with his hand on the knob. The bruises on his neck ached with the memory. 

He shut the door. 

Then, he turned, almost like less of a person and more of a shell, and stumbled back to bed. The sheets were still warm from the imprint of him, and he held the blankets to his chest defensively as his eyes searched around the bedroom again. 

Nothing to see. All empty and dark and neat. 

His eyes flitted toward the window. 

It’s open again. 

His heart skipped a beat, but he made no move. The draft froze him stiff. He contemplated leaving and searching for Robin’s room; he was sure she’d understand — and she would. She’d make room on her bed instantly for him. 

But he’s not a child anymore. Humiliation stirred in his stomach like acid, and he swallowed the fear rising in his throat. It’s closed, he reminded himself. He has closed it. Twice now. It’s just all tricks of the light, or his own mind, or you. 

There was the familiar rhythmic tapping of heeled shoes from outside his door. They sounded louder than before, but he knew they weren’t really there. He had heard the same footsteps for weeks now, bordering close to months. He had purple rings beneath his eyes to show the constant dreams he’d been forced to endure. 

Ignore it. He laid down again, curling beneath the blankets. Pain withered and whittled his bones like frostbite, and the wind that blew through the gap in the window made him shiver. 

The blankets were still warm, at least. It must have been only just past midnight. He still had hours to hold onto and toss and turn. 

“What have you done?” he asked you one day, the only soul remaining on the podium in the church. “What did you do?” 

You stood quickly. “Nothing, sire,” you answered. “What are you talking about?” 

“You play dumb when the sun is out and crawl on your knees at night.” 

You stood, stiffening like a corpse. “What are you–” You cut yourself off, frantically searching around the room for some sort of answer to your question. 

He stepped forward, finding a somewhat semblance of strength to face you fully. He wanted to scream, or fight, or flee, or do something other than gape like a fish. 

Lying. Bearing false witness. It’s all the same cardinal treachery he knows too well. He saw it now on your face like you were carved permanently in the stone of the statue behind him on the podium. 

“It’s my job, sir,” you responded meekly. “I didn’t willingly–” 

“I don’t care whether this is a job. You don’t understand,” he snapped quickly. “I am not paying you to torment me.” 

“‘Paying me?’” you repeated. “Sire, you have not asked me for my service.” You took a step back, closer to the entrance of the church, but the aisle was long, and you had an even longer way to go until you reached the exit. “I only attend here because I am guilty of where my life has led me.” 

“I did not ask for your service, nor did I ask you to lead me down your path of destruction.” 

“We have not slept together, Reverend.” 

Sunday stirred again. The same thing. His pendant being discarded left him only to clutch the neckline of his shirt and breathe harder. He’d already torn his palm to shreds. The cut through the bandage around his hand still stung, but it was no longer bleeding. 

Maybe he is losing his mind. Maybe he’d be locked away again and forced into confinement until he was finally let out. Maybe he’d be brought to his death; he’d wake up standing on a chair with his hands tied and a rope around his neck. 

And you’d be the one standing by his side with your foot ready to nudge the chair out beneath his feet. 

He swallowed hard, and his hand moved to soothe the ache around his neck. Like rope burn. He’d already been shunned from church today for an inadequate morning service. One of the priests had commented on his behaviour. 

Sunday had thought nothing of it at first. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, and any sleep he did achieve was plagued with you, your scent, and your legs, and his fingers twisted into the soft and warm flesh of your breasts. And he’d woken up without failure after every single one with his hands clammy, sweat pouring down his neck, and a flaming ache between his legs. 

Liar. It’s just shame and guilt that wracked your rotten guts. He wanted to rip your organs from you and tie your neck with them. And the fear ate at him again, and again, and again until his bones were gnawed to their limits. 

“Y’know, Rev,” he started slowly. “You’ve been… distant.” 

Sunday’s eyes flitted away from you quietly chatting to another attendee on the pew. He said nothing but only gave the priest a strange look. 

“Are you feeling okay?” The priest placed a hand on his shoulder after a moment. “If you need to talk, or… confess…” 

“‘Confess,’” Sunday echoed quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes searched for you again, and you were still attentively listening to the other person with your hands laced together in your lap. 

Beautiful. 

You glanced up and found his eyes as if you’d impeded through his head and gotten to his mind. 

He sneered. 

Your face twisted with confusion for a moment, maybe even guilt, before you offered a small nod of your head and an awkward smile before you turned back to continue your conversation. 

“I am only looking out for you.” The priest’s eyes followed Sunday’s gaze. He grimaced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. You look tired.” 

Robin thought the same, that poor girl. She’d sit by him before service and try to coax him with some encouraging words, maybe even singing if he allowed it. She couldn’t get through. She couldn’t understand what was going on. She tried with all her might, and all the care in her small frail little heart to find the strength to make his beat again, but nothing would work. 

Because nothing was going on. 

It’s just him. 

There was another creak from the window. He stiffened up harder to the point where his limbs threatened to snap from their tendons. 

He doesn’t understand what it is. Attraction, fear, interest, connection, loneliness. If this is love, he doesn’t want it. It hurt, like a rope around his neck, like being pelted with stones until his skin and bone caved, like being tied and burned, like being nailed through the hands and feet and left for dead. 

Just him. Just him. 

“Are you lonely?” 

He lost his breath. 

There were arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and there was hot breath running down his neck. And it’s so familiar, and it’s so warm, and he startled a gasp from his throat. 

Sunday tried not to throw his head back as he’d done so many times before. Instead, his hands almost immediately found yours, as they had so many times before. 

His tongue failed him. 

There were lips on his neck. Gentle, warm, and so so familiar he grew breathless within an instant. The bed was soft, and he melted into the mattress, and the warmth. He swallowed hard, and he was so exhausted he must have been dreaming. He mumbled under his breath, and his hands instinctively moved to yours. 

They’re yours, right? 

“‘Lonely?’” he murmured. 

You hummed in acknowledgement. “You look lonely.” 

He’s just tired. 

His hands wrapped securely around yours, holding tight. Let this be okay. He dreamed it for so long. This is what he wants. He wants your warmth, and you, and your devotion. To use whatever faith he has in the church, in THEM, and everything you’ve ever worshipped, and spin all these twisted lies into him. Him and only him. 

Just love him. 

That’s all. 

He couldn’t admit it then. “Your concerns are appreciated,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.” 

“I can help you sleep,” you promised. Your hands grazed over his hips. 

“I beg your pardon?” His teeth dug into his lips hard enough to draw blood. But he knew what you meant because it is what he meant. It’s just him. He refused to turn around and face you, and thus found content with the disillusion of your warmth draped over his back. It was comfortable, as two lovers should be, but it was all the more wicked when, through your body, he felt the breeze from the window. 

His breathing shook when your lips returned to his neck. 

Vile, this is. He had admitted it so many times before. All of this was vile and disgusting, and wretched and wrong. 

And he loved it. He loved the traitorous words that spilled from your lips, and the trembling of your fingers, unsure — just as his were — as they delved beneath his clothes as they had done so many times before. He remembered every other second he’d spent with you. 

Where he’d met you, where you’d returned again and again before you’d pulled open the confessional door and had taken him in the booth, and where you’d pried and delved deep into his head, up when you sat innocently during service and refused to look at him. 

Where you’d forced his head down between your legs and ordered his tongue, or he’d stood frozen stiff as your hands delved over his thighs, or when you’d touched him in all the places he never used to dare venture. 

Because it is real. 

He found himself unable to ask if it was, much too afraid of the answer. 

“Tire you out,” you explained softly. “Make you dizzy.” 

He already was. He was grateful he was already lying down, for he was sure he’d have fallen to the floor by now. 

He hummed lightly and your teeth set softly below his jaw. He hoped in some twisted part of him that you’d leave scars upon his flesh. 

Then, he mewled when your teeth grazed over the joint where his wing protruded below his ear. Sensitive things, the feathers. The bones were brittle too, and thin enough to snap with one wrong move. 

This wasn’t right. 

It wasn’t right to convince himself he’d be fine if you cracked every bone in his body and left if you’d touched him all over and kept him yours to do as you pleased, or if you did nothing but bite and tear into his skin until he was nothing but shredded flesh and bone. And still yours. That’s what mattered. 

He had been raised to climb above personal desires, much less his own carnal ones. This shouldn’t be what he wants — he should want nothing. It’s selfish of him to think of you like this, and to feel your hands on him every night, and to indulge in your touch. It was sin like hot wax dripping down his stomach, and it tasted like warm sugar. 

He hummed lightly, heart fluttering as you kissed another bruise onto his throat. His thighs ached to part and to grab your hand and move your fingers between his legs. He was already throbbing with need and it made his stomach churn. 

Your lips were warm, and they served well to block off the wind blowing in from the cracked window. 

Your lips grazed down over his shoulder before your hands slowly slid over his throat and reached from behind to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He let it happen. Because he wanted it to. Anxiety jittered in his limbs and his throat, but he helped you in undoing his buttons. He was much too afraid to shed the item off entirely, terrified of judgment and his willing vulnerability. 

Terrified of his own skin, he shut his eyes tight and turned his head to kiss you properly. 

His stomach exploded, he felt. Warm lips and an even hotter tongue that slid past his mouth. He wanted to choke and swallow your spit, and as disgusting as it felt to realise all of these thoughts, it only made him dizzier. 

And he fell in love. 

He felt warmth burst in his chest. His hands trembled before they wandered. They settled hesitantly on your hips, and he was pushed roughly onto his back. His chest pressed against yours, and he felt your heart race against his skin. The familiar pulse put his mind at ease and his head pounded with the scent of your flesh. 

He grew dizzier as the time passed. His lips refused to part from yours, spit stuck like glue. His face grew hot, and his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink. Sweat pooled down his throat and his hands and he gripped harder at your hips and felt the world spin. Vertigo grabbed at the chains clasped around his wrists and ankles and pulled, and he spun around again and again with you until he pressed you into his mattress, and one of your knees lifted to rub between his legs. 

His breathing stuttered and he gasped out your name, as ridiculous as it was. 

This was pathetic. He knew it so. His stomach twisted with pleasure and panic and the dizziness surged so hard in his head he had to stop for a moment and bury his lips into your shoulder. 

Your hands were busy pushing past the waistband of his pants and venturing low between his legs. Your hands were hot, palms tracing the smooth skin of his hips before your thumbs brushed over the side of his cock. He shuddered, already hard and growing worse with every second. 

He moaned. Moaned. Him. The Head of the Oak Family. That simple touch made his knees buckle, and he almost toppled on top of you. 

Instead, you shoved him over, and you weighed him down onto the mattress. He let out a startled noise when your hand abandoned his cock. Instead, your nails trailed upwards. Up and up and up until your fingers grasped at his neckline and pulled him up from the bed. 

“You seek reverence,” he murmured against your lips. “At a time like this.” 

“Surely you can fight it this time?” you asked. 

He tried to kiss you again, but your grip held strong and your other hand twisted into his face, holding him still. 

He swallowed hard. Anxiety bubbled in his veins like boiling water. “This happens every night.” 

“And you’re still pining?” 

He’s sick. That’s what this is. Sick and in love. 

His father had told him that to love is to give in. Giving in was not a part of him; he wasn’t supposed to cut open his chest and offer you his beating heart on a silver platter. That was the consequence of obsession. 

“This is your fault,” he tried. 

“Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck your own hand every night?” 

The humiliation stirred deep within his chest. He hadn’t even realised his hand had snuck beneath his pants to tease the head of his cock, flushed a furious red and weeping. He wanted you to ruin him and scar him and make him yours and– 

“I’m in love,” he admitted to nobody. His words were muffled as you grabbed his face harder. He looked to the left. The window was closed. “And I’m a heretic.” 

His heart leapt through his throat. 

He understood it now. He knew then a nightingale was watching from the window. He knew it. This would taint him if whatever was left of his purity was not already stained the shade of your skin. 

His wings fluttered. Fear. It crawled back up his spine. 

He fought through your grip and kissed you again, this time with that newfound anger that had been boiling in his blood. His nerves and fury mixed to create some sort of poison that fueled him forward, grabbing your face and ignoring his twitching cock with a frustrated sound. He ended up sprawled on top of you, desperately trying to smother you with his lips, and pressing his hips to yours slowly. So slowly. 

His kisses were frantic, uncertain. He wasn’t sure where to touch, what to do, how to respond when you nipped at his lip or your tongue crawled to press against his teeth teasingly. He found you tasted of nothing, but that was to be expected. Because it’s not–

His hands found the buttons of your shirt. That same shirt you wore when he first laid his eyes on you. All buttons and silk, and that awful embroidered stocking pattern ran up your legs. 

Sunday slotted himself between your thighs, and his bedroom spun in a circle. The mattress dipped as he leaned against you, his hand sprawling across your chest to feel the rhythmic muscle beat frantically. He was sure he was in a worse condition; he felt as though the pathetic heart beneath his ribs would give out any second. 

His cock twitched in his pants. 

But he was a patient, patient man. He’d been drilled with this mindset, this front since he was little. So little he couldn’t think for himself. Now, he could, and he was distracted and losing sleep every night touching himself to the curve of your legs. Gopher Wood would be laughing in his grave, he’s sure. Laughing and jeering and shaming. 

“What do you want, Reverend?” 

He didn’t know. 

He couldn’t answer. 

Instead, he chose to kiss downwards from your throat, following the intricate lines of the bones and trying to remember what the scent of your skin was like. And it hurt to try because it was a reminder. 

He decided to ignore it. Ignore everything entirely and focus on you, and solely you, and nothing else. It helped, if only a little. 

Reverend Sunday worshipped like no other. It was instilled in him for so long that it was second nature, but never in his life had he been at the mercy of something much more important than a God. He’d never believed it to be true, but the way your breath hitched and you squirmed when his thumbs brushed over your nipples riled him further than he would have thought. He sighed, overwhelmed, and his teeth ran over the expanse of your breast, desperately coaxing that same noise from you again and again. 

His heart spiked once, twice, and when he was convinced the muscle was truly about to stop, his lips continued downwards, centring lower to your navel. You squirmed, but his heart fluttered at the feeling. 

“I want this to be–” He stopped himself, lips and nose squashed against the soft skin between your hips. “I’m–” 

His father would be laughing at him. 

Misery plagued his bones, and his halo flickered quickly the lower his lips dragged. Devotion. In and out. Pure, unbridled devotion. Taste and touch and blood and sweat. He breathed out finally, and his teeth came forth to pull at the waistband of your skirt. His canines caught on your stockings, and the fabric was dry on his tongue. He tugged downwards, snagging the wiring between his teeth. 

He wanted to tear through the rose pattern, but he decided otherwise. 

Instead, he pulled them down past your thighs, to your knees, and then your ankles, careful with the thin and delicate material. You kicked what remained off. 

He grinned, but it was shaky and uncertain. It was suddenly cold. Another draft he felt from the window. He couldn’t undo the button of your skirt with his mouth, so his trembling fingers pulled their weight and decided to just shuck it upwards to your hips. Your bones splayed so nicely all for him, and his mind ventured elsewhere for a moment. 

How many others have seen you like this? All pliant and pretty, covered in sweat and his spit and the marks from his teeth. His thumb pressed to the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Maybe it was twisted, the image of you both. A poor pining priest and the object of his desires. A scared little boy looming over the image of an Aeon. The scent of your skin and the touch of your hands. He pulled back for a moment, simply leaning over to admire you.

You reached up towards him and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. You tugged once, twice, before you said, “come, Reverend. Make this one real.” 

“You cannot tempt me like this,” he argued weakly. Still, his hands splayed over your thighs, soothing over them. He couldn’t bear to look down past your hips. 

“Scared?” you asked him. 

And he was. Very, very scared. 

When he glanced down at his hands, he noticed his fingers warped. 

He ignored it. 

He followed his hands then to your hips again, careful with his movements, slow and unsure. He moved between your thighs, watching closely for any twitches. His cock throbbed when he brushed his hips against the mattress. 

He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure about anything, really. But your thighs parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, then his head and his heart almost burst when you swung a leg over his shoulder. It pinned him further into the mattress, and a soft pull at his left wing closer to your hips made his cock twitch. 

Devotion. 

His unsteady hands held on tight to your hips, and one of yours found solace in interlacing your fingers with his. 

Hesitantly, he brought himself forward to taste. 

The mind plays funny tricks on its victims. Sunday knows he’s no stranger to disillusions, illusions, and the like. To the decayed mind, all things seem real. His tongue tasted, his hands felt, and he heard your breathing and your quiet mewls, and yet his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open for more than seconds at a time. 

Funny. 

Sunday lost his breath at the noise you made. It was a stir in his stomach like fine wine, and your hips encouragingly ground back on his lips when he reeled back for a moment. His mind grew foggy, and his eyes fluttered shut again. 

Oh, is he a man in love. 

His tongue moved slowly over your cunt, languidly stroking up and down with wet passes to test the waters. The tip of the muscle inched upwards slightly, curling over the small bump of nerves. That managed a sharp inhale, to which he curiously tried again. Any noise that escaped your lips, he chased it, over and over again like an addict. 

The taste was, again, nothing. 

Because it’s–

He shut his eyes tight. 

Your hand found the back of his head, fingers curling in soft locks before you pulled him forward, closer, until his nose bumped against your clit and his lips were smushed against you. 

His wings fluttered again, and the feathers tickled your thighs. His hands wanted to wander and touch himself, and he could have sobbed out at the relief he sought when his hips ground up against the mattress, but he couldn’t. Selfishness wasn’t a part of him. It never truly had been. He’d have much rathered to feel your legs wind tight around his face before anything else. 

His tongue tried again, the flat of the muscle grazing along your clit until you twitched at the sensitivity and pulled his head back for a moment. 

Sunday’s hand splayed on your hip moved to your cunt, and his thumb pulled back the wet plush skin until your hole stretched wide. He swallowed and his lips pulled taut and he kissed at the entrance once, twice, until you were giggling like an idiot, and a newfound delirium grew haze in his brain. 

Your free hand pushed the hair from his face when he delved in again, tonguing at your clit before he decided to kiss there as well. Devotion. It is worship. It is the sight of you writhing—it’s everything. 

His mouth followed you as your hips twisted and squirmed, teeth lightly sinking in around your clit in warning. He was still in control, for the most part. Maybe not of himself, but for how he kept you on his bed. He sucked lightly, feeling you jolt and squirm, and a smile grew on his lips at the sight. 

He wanted to burn the imprint of his lips on your thighs, and he tried. He abandoned your cunt, now slick with his saliva, to try and mark your legs as his. He hummed to try and release the pressure of his nerves gathering inside of him, but it didn’t do much to help. Your thighs bruised easily. He could bite and tear if he wanted to. 

He pressed his lips to the new bruise before his nose pressed against your clit again and he mouthed at your entrance. He held you firmly, enough to scar with his nails, and tasted again and again and found nothing and everything in all of the wrong places. Perhaps he was too enamoured, for when you grew too sensitive and attempted to push him away, he held stronger and tilted his head to push harder with his tongue. 

Your clit swelled, and he felt it all the way. His hips stuttered against the mattress. His eyes remained screwed tight, even when your fingers petted his head gently. 

He was being good. He knew it, and his heart thrummed at the idea. That was his job, his entire life. To be good, and to understand, and to please. He fell in love with every mumble and moan that left your lips. Every babble of praise, or every time you pushed his hair behind his ears. His cock grew harder somehow, despite his resistance. 

His skin was growing cold again. 

You were growing wetter with every pass of his tongue, and every flit of his lashes against your thighs when he tilted his head downwards to taste. His longing had grown into overdrive. He never should have been tempted like this. He was beyond temptations and desires and wants. He did not want anything. He had no need for things and love and music and art. 

And yet, what’s it to a man of the church who falls in love with something as wretchedly beautiful as you? 

All ruined and sweaty and mangled and all his to enjoy. That’s what you were — all his. 

His mouth was slow, lips wrapping delicately around your clit to suck hard. It made you shiver without fail, and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling over and over again. The entire premise that it was him, and nobody else, that had you as you were now, almost made him cry out at that very moment. 

It hurt to breathe and think and feel, but his fingers pulled at your skin to ground himself and press his tongue into your entrance. You clenched instinctively around him, and he tried again and again, forcing his tongue as deep as it would go. Your legs squeezed around his head and the warmth of your pulse and your blood beneath your skin only aided further in making his head spin. 

He was sure his face was red to match. 

Your legs wrapped tighter around him, enough to keep him still and his tongue on you as he returned his attention to your clit. You mumbled a spiel of praise he barely picked up on, and it went straight to his cock. 

It would stay and remain devotion the more he ruined your cunt with his lips, but he couldn’t think straight. The world spun on its irregular axes, his hips winded quicker into the mattress, and your breathing was slowly growing into something heavier and harder. 

He couldn’t hear your thoughts — he needn’t try. He was sure he’d be able to see pink and white and stars and nothing but the vile image of his head between your legs and your slick coating his face. Some priest. Lowly and unserving. He did not deserve any praise, nor nothing he received. If anything, he was born to remain here, by your side, and grabbed at the throat and the hips until he could think of nothing but your hand twisting around his cock again and again. 

Complete pain and humiliation climbed up his spine when he pressed his cock hard into the mattress. It was instinctive at this point. His mind wasn’t working, and his hips moved of their own accord again and again until he came and still tortured himself with it. The fabric of his pants only made everything seem hotter and tighter, and as his hips twitched with every brush against the mattress, he moaned or whimpered, or made whatever other pathetic noise he didn’t realise he could. 

You said nothing comprehensible, murmuring whispers of pleasure that only served to make him hard again. And so quickly, too, that he throbbed and outwardly cried out at the feeling, though it was muffled.

Curse his stupid tongue that was so smart and silver for tiring when he needed it working more than ever. Never could he exhaust himself of words, but he pushed and pushed now with whatever fleeting strength he had, and the blood rushed to his face when you stirred and pulled on his hair to lessen the distance. Grateful for some sort of grounding, Sunday nosed at your clit while his lips kept busy teasing more slick from your hole. 

In love. 

Funny how it works. It torments and shames and lusts and ruins. 

He lost his mind. 

The want to taste your cum grew stronger, as did the press of his tongue against your clit until you were mewling and squirming at the pressure. A finger brushed up against your thigh before it sank deep into your cunt. You clenched instinctively, and he rubbed at that sweet little spot that made you writhe around him. 

He ached and ached and felt you twitch and tremble and he could have cum again if he wasn’t so distracted by the feeling of your legs squeezing around his head. 

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should be resting and trying to get better. He’s sick. He hasn’t taken his medication in so long. He shouldn’t be trapped in a confessional booth with a whore, or locked away in the wine cellar and brought to his knees, or– 

You came, then, and his heart fluttered and stammered and stopped and started anew. You coated his tongue with slick, and his heart raced so quickly he was worried it would burst from his chest and run. 

He was so enamoured and frazzled with how his mind could do this to him. How he’d been trapped in his own head for so long and curled in his blankets with all the doors in his room shut and the window closed and blinds pulled over. 

A terrible blush painted his face when you weakly reached down to pet his hair again. His halo shimmered. He’s so well behaved. So, so good to you, and good for you, and he can be your everything if you’d let him. 

Your thigh rubbed against his cheek, warm and trembling. 

He reeled back after overstaying, and your clit throbbed when his lips kissed the poor bud one last time. Your hole clenched desperately for more of him, and his heart jolted. 

His hands remained between your legs as you found the strength to grab his shirt and pull him upwards and over you. His heart pressed to yours and he kissed you again, this time intent on making his lips bruise. Eyes wound shut, he ground his hips up against yours. 

You kissed at his jaw. 

“Wretch,” he mumbled. His halo flickered again. His blood burned beneath his skin. He hummed, pleased at the warmth of your flesh. His hands wandered to yours and gripped your fingers tight. Another shove and his legs were entangled with yours in his side. 

“You’re in love,” you whispered. 

And he kissed you, again and again and again until he was breathless. Until his heart warmed and burst, until he was sure he could taste and smell nothing but you, and feel only you. 

His lips were still unsure. His teeth clicked against yours, and perhaps his heart was thrumming so loudly in his chest it deafened him, but he pulled you harder against him. His hips were rough against yours, dragging his cock through his pants against your cunt in languid strokes. It hurt. The friction was too much for him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. 

And he was moaning and moaning and it was disgusting what terrible sounds ripped from his throat. He mewled and flustered and breathed so heavily that his lungs were about to combust. 

That feeling was slowly returning. That guilt and fury and humiliation burned horribly in his stomach. You did this. All of you. He was not at fault for this. For the way you sat pretty in the church and kept your gaze locked onto the floor. How your hands would hesitantly touch the donation baskets as if you were unsure if it was worth the precious pennies you had left. 

And he would watch silently. As he always did. 

He’d watch silently, and then he’d go home that night and cum on his own hands with his eyes shut tight, trying to imagine they’re your fingers instead. 

His hand rested in its rightful place between your legs, and his fingers returned wet. Soaked, even. And he realised then he’s brought upon much more than a twisted version of romance; this is desolate, and this is Hell. He is home in all of the Nine Circles, blown about in an endless storm with no hope of rest, a heretic victim to the clutches of flames, and he burns and burns and burns and burns but the pain never dulls, nor ends. 

His pants were ruined with his cum and your own, and as vile as it was, he desperately clawed until he found leverage to finally be selfish and free the stupid awful thing and grind his cock up against you. The skin was already wet, and yet grew wetter and warmer with the friction. Slippery and grotesque, and yet he felt you clench every time the tip slipped around your hole, enticing him. 

A fog grew heavy in his mind, and he went blind for a moment. He witnessed pure white and burning. And it was Hell. 

Despite the incessant grinding, his fingers slid and slipped over your clit, desperate to hear your voice again. His free hand searched for the pendant that was usually strung around his neck. He found nothing. 

Still, his eyes were shut. 

He felt as though he was somewhere else. In the church again, where you’d ridiculed him as if this was his fault, and then you’d fucked him over the altar. Or maybe back in the confessional booth where you both had barely fit inside, and you bounced on his lap until he grew dizzy. Or maybe when you’d mouthed at his cock in the bathroom at a dinner to celebrate his sister’s success. Or maybe when you’d thrown him in the backseat of his own car and made him see stars. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But this was different. This was his bed, his four walls, his private quarters, his everything, and you were his, and this was the intimacy he’d been craving since he was a child. He’d been denied the closeness of another person, anyone, for so long he had forgotten the feeling of skin. Even his own skin, which he’d hidden away each day beneath layers of clothing. 

Because he wasn’t a person, really. He did not think his own thoughts. He did not have the passion and desires others had; he had no interest in the mundane—not anymore, at least—like art and music and literature. He had no end goal that was his and his alone. The money he used to purchase things was not his. Nothing he had in his bedroom was really his. 

But you. 

He held tight onto your thighs and stopped.

His heart melted into mush when he realised you were still lazily grinding upon his cock, and the veins throbbed desperately. 

You. Imperfect and terrible and everything he shouldn’t have loved in another person. And so disastrously awful for him, and all of the subtle changes of this face, and your real one. He can’t truly remember everything—there’s a small glint in your eyes when you’re perplexed, and there are few patches of colour across your features, and perhaps your eyes are a tad too light, but this is what he remembered. 

And as imperfect as it was, and as unsatisfying as it was, and ignoring the fact that it gnawed at his insides, he was okay with this. He was okay, somewhat, with what he felt. 

His palms were embarrassingly wet when he held you open, and guided the tip of his cock towards your hole. He swallowed hard before he softly canted his hips forward and drowned. He held tight, anxiety shooting up his veins and bursting at the seams. 

He felt you tighten instinctively, trying to swallow him whole while he panted like a hellhound and pushed his hips deeper until the bones were pressed to yours. He stuttered, heat encircling his cock like a vice, and then swallowed as hard as he could to mask his voice. 

He should be used to this feeling now. He’s done this before — has he really? Everything felt so familiar, yet so so strange, and so so foreign he held his breath and wished it all to be real. He held on so tightly he grew breathless. 

His forehead pressed to yours.

You hummed. 

He felt his lips twitch. “This is wrong.” 

“But you keep doing it.” 

He had no excuse then, and he still had no excuse now. 

He’s just like his father. 

He gritted his teeth. “I’m in love.” 

You laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “There it is.” His hips twitched forward and he buried himself deep inside of you. “You’re doing so well.” 

Oh. The wings below his ears fluttered. His face burned hot like the sun, and a hand dropped low to grasp yours tight. You squeezed his fingers in affirmation, maybe even encouragement to move. He was stuck, frozen, twitching, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He simply nodded along like an idiot.  

Warm. So disgusting and warm and his breath grew staggered and uneven with every twitch of his hips. His stomach felt odd, but maybe that was the sickness that warped in his guts. Something so extremely nauseating that he felt alive. He swallowed hard and his fingers moved to your arms to steady himself. He buried his face in your neck. Pear and jasmine and vanilla. He recognised that scent every time he was given that sacramental wine. It was almost the same, yet so so different. 

He laughed, then, right into your shoulder. It was much more of a huff of hot air against your skin. Because this was insanity. His knees sank further into the mattress, and his pillows were tossed askew. Hurt and pain and heat. It was all the same, for he knew no better. 

It was so good. Cardinal sin and blood and skin. Good. Great, even. Greater than anything he'd ever tried before. You tasted amazing, better than the flesh of an Aeon. So soft and warm and all his. 

Something to call his. 

His stomach turned. 

He couldn’t get enough. His hips bucked slow, so excruciatingly slow, as if to savour. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever feel like this again, if he ever would. If his body would ever want him to do this again. 

His arms shook with his own weight, and he tried not to double over. Good. So, so good. His hips twitched impossibly closer to you and he breathed upon your lips. He melted when you kissed him, as chaste as it was. He hadn’t felt this way ever in his measly, putrid existence. 

All for you. 

He pulled away slowly, attempting to forget the feeling of you, only to stuff himself back inside, rocking his hips hard until his own met your bone. 

His heart warmed. How twisted. Your tongue prodded out to poke at the corner of his lip and he buried his nose into your shoulder afterwards, trying to muffle the disgusting noises that snuck from his mouth. He wanted to cry; that familiar prickling behind his eyes teased him. 

His stomach jolted when he rocked his hips softly. He was sure a tear slipped down his cheek, and it dropped silently on the marred sheets of his bed. He’d have to clean it later. 

Slowly taking what he needed. He continued, slowly, slowly, slowly, because he was a thief,

and he did not deserve to force his pleasure upon you. Not like this. Not with you pressed down onto his bed and waiting. 

He understood the addiction of scent, and blood, and skin, and why he would hear the same telltale stories through the mesh of the confessional booth. He used to scrunch his nose up at the topic—how could someone be so insistent that carnal cravings were a cure to anger, and hate, and treachery, and violence, and everything? 

Your lip pressed to his ear gently. 

It can’t be a cure. It’s not. He certainly didn’t feel fixed, or any better. For the moment, maybe, he felt as though he was in Heaven, but it was much more warped than that. Heaven was not a feeling; Heaven is not a place, or a person, or cardinal sin. 

Truly, he’s not sure what it is. It can’t be you. You’re different, maybe even the opposite. You didn’t make him feel beyond the clouds. You made him feel… terrible. 

Infatuated, but terrible. 

You were whispering something in his ear, and he laughed softly, but he wasn’t quite sure what he heard. If anything, he’s relieved for the attention. You could have blatantly insulted him, and his skin would’ve melted like hot wax. 

“You’re overthinking again,” you reminded him. Your voice was strangely steady. 

His hand tightened around his sleeves. “You come for…” 

“Salvation, I suppose.” That was you. You came here. To see him. Or hear him. And seek his guidance and better judgement. He wasn’t sure if he could offer you much of himself, seeing that his brain had short circuited the moment he’d heard your voice through the booth. 

He had imagined this all before. If anything, he remained silent to see if he could listen to anything vulgar. 

Seconds passed and Sunday swallowed hard. 

“Reverend?” 

“Of course,” he forced out. You’re not going to do anything—it’s all in his head. You’re not going to plead for him to open the booth and let you have his way with him. You don’t even know him, and he doesn’t even know you. 

It’s all in his head. 

“Just try to enjoy it,” you told him. 

His hips thrusted harder and he could hear the awful noises that escaped from your throat, and he wanted to tear the vocal cords free so you would never sing again, and also kiss you until you were breathless and bruised. Just try to enjoy it. Just stay in your head. It’s better that way. 

He could feel himself snapping at the seams. 

You were probably in your own home, wherever you lived, sleeping soundly. Maybe you were doing the same as him, or maybe you were fucking another man and enjoying him rather than—

He had a headache. A blazing pounding behind his eyes. 

Yet, he persisted. He held you tight against his chest, hoisting you upwards from his bed so your heart could press against his. He fell in love with how he felt around you, even if it made him ill and horrible. Even if it disfigured his mind; even if you killed him. 

He kissed you again, this time harder. He tried to ground himself firmer to remain on this terrible planet with you, but his mind continued to wander. Overworking, overthinking. 

Sunday couldn’t find himself to care about it anymore. He strangely welcomed the feeling of you attempting to suck on his tongue. He held onto your throat now, only gently, and his finger pressed to your jaw to keep you still. 

He panted once, twice, and then his breath hitched when he managed to move into you with an increased pace. He tried to keep his rocking even, but he was quickly losing his strength again. 

How vile. One of your legs was slotted nicely around his own, calf rubbing against his hip as he slammed his own against you. Hard enough to burn and bleed, and his cock twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched. 

“What…” He leaned against the side of the booth. “What troubles you?” 

He heard you laugh, though it wasn’t at all mirthful. Still, it may have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever been blessed to hear. “Everything.” You paused to take a breath. “My job… my life… my everything.” 

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew exactly how you felt. 

“I don’t think I was made to live in a world like this.” 

You’re the same. Maybe that’s why he had developed this estranged one-sided affection; this sickening obsession that’s torn through every working cell in his brain. That’s left him a horrible, shaken mess of a person. 

The sounds are abhorrent. The way you wriggled in his grasp to force him deeper inside of you, and the sighs and whispers that left your lips are somehow worse. 

Sunday lost his strength in one of his wrists, and he almost toppled over you. That only stirred him harder, and his hips winded and jolted when you squeezed tight around him. He could certainly get used to this. One day. With you. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked. 

He was enjoying you, but he refused to voice it. He understood. He understood the need to escape, to run to somebody else’s bedroom, to fix everything this way. 

He kissed you impossibly harder, his lips purpling at the pressure, and that mere feeling brought him so close to the edge he stammered on his own breath. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, and he cared less about how you felt, and more of that edge he was chasing and trying to grab by the reins. 

So good. He could feel his cock bubbling at the tip, squishing up against your walls and the skin stretched and ached and warmth burst through his stomach. He wanted to fill you up again, and eventually, one day. He’d imagined this so many times before; the way you’d sound, or beg, or do whatever you really did. Whatever you did, he’d embrace it, and he’d thank you for a thousand years. 

He’d cum again and again and he’d let you use him as your own personal toy to play with if it satisfied you. Even if you tossed him aside when you grew bored—he was used to that. 

He’d feel this terrible feeling forever if you would just love him. 

He hoped. 

His stomach burned, and his cock was throbbing. 

His bones grew tired, but he persisted, in and out and in and out until nothing left his lips but babbles of worship as he swung his arms around your neck and traced his lips along your ear. You’re so good to him. So good. 

You would sit there all pliant and pretty and he’d take and take and take until the only thing left of you was the part that only cared for him, and nothing else. And then you’d watch as he was dragged down below the ground, while you would rise above the clouds. Because that’s what he deserved, and you and him did not share the same fate. 

The clutches of a Sinner’s hands rest on his face, and they’re yours, just for a moment. 

His hips stuttered. 

“C’mon,” you whispered. His nose was cold against yours. 

“I–” 

“–Close?” you finished. 

He frantically nodded his head like an idiot. 

His lips twitched in some sort of pathetic smile. 

You reciprocated. “I know.” 

He couldn’t handle the teasing. If anything, it only made the headache worse. He wanted to cum. That was the only thing that mattered at this point. He wanted to ruin you, as you did to him. 

He couldn’t afford to choke in the air as his cock twitched. He was right there, and his hip bones were aching as they smacked against your skin. 

“I’ll be all yours, Priest,” you told him. “One day.” 

Sunday’s eyes shot open in horror as he came, and he clutched desperately onto some semblance of skin—whatever his brain could attempt to conjure in a last-ditch effort to make this nightmare real. 

His hand was twisted tight around his cock, covered in spit and sweat and his own filth, and he wretched the treacherous limb away as if it had developed a mind of his own.

He was trembling, layered in cold sweat as he shivered, his stomach convulsing as his cock slid against the mattress, an angry red flush enveloping the tip. 

He couldn’t develop a coherent thought, nor movement, for when he felt around blindly for you, you were nowhere, and he was alive and awake again. 

He choked on his own saliva as he tried to sit up. His pillows were soaked with drool, and his clothes were askew. He rested his back against his head and tried to breathe. 

He glanced at the window. Closed. 

Because he had closed it. He’d locked the bedroom door, too, and the bathroom. How would he have forgotten? That had been his routine for almost sixteen years. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Not ever. If anything, he’d have grown well aware of the old habit being missed that he’d scratch at his skin until he’d forced himself to get up and fix the window. 

He heaved at what he had done. 

He swallowed hard as if there were rocks stuck in his throat. His lungs refused to take in air. He kicked off the tangled blankets and they fell in a pathetic heap onto the floor. Dizziness surged in his mind, and the back of his eyes pounded and pounded the longer he sat there staring blankly at the wall.

His heart swelled horribly. 

Oh. 

His eyes slowly dragged over to the bedroom door.

Closed. No light bleeding beneath the door. No footsteps in the hall. Not Robin’s, certainly not yours. He faintly heard the echo of your heels, but that was drowned out by the aching in his head. 

“Your services…” the priest started quietly. The booth creaked. “What do they entail?” 

You didn’t answer for the moment. Perhaps you were nervous, or apprehensive, or a strange string of both. Maybe, even, your hands were busying themselves around the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuckling the belt and then–

“Men, sire,” you responded quickly, honestly. You tapped the mesh wiring of the confessional window in a strange rhythm. “I’ve never been proud. It’s dirty work.” 

Sunday blinked awake. His hands were pulled tight at his sleeves. 

“But you don’t have a choice?” 

You made a noise. “Did you have a choice to be in the position you are now?” 

“My position is very different from yours,” Sunday reminded lightly. 

“Is it? We both serve to please the worst of people.” 

And, in some sort of twisted way, you were right. 

Just as if he was made to please you. That is his sole purpose; to be yours. It is why he felt this way. It’s why he was put in this terrible position; to meet you, and be yours, and nobody else’s, and escape off this treacherous planet and kiss you until he couldn’t bear to breathe the air that wasn’t yours. 

That’s love, right? 

Devotion. 

He found it in himself to peel away from his bed and trudge to the bathroom. 

He couldn’t bear to see his reflection.

He was afraid he’d see you standing behind him. 

*ೃ༄

The next evening was like every other. He leaned against the confessional booth, eyelids slowly drooping shut as he listened and listened until his feathers shrivelled and his ears picked up on nothing but static. 

Please the public. 

He nodded along mindlessly to whoever was speaking to him through the wiring. He was grateful the booth was dark, and cold, for he was forming a sweat. His mind was running in circles, and though he responded to the lone soul through the window, he felt as though what he said was automated, and not at all a production from his heart. 

That being said, he was thanked anyway, and they left.

That must have been the final one, for when he called for the next churchgoer, he was met with silence. There were no hushed shuffles of feet against the floor, nor the rustle of clothing, or breathing. 

Nothing. 

Alone again. 

Sunday unlocked the door to the booth and stepped out, grateful he could stretch his limbs properly. He’d been cramped inside for what felt like days, but was only a few hours. Still, he felt his bones pop and crack as he exited. 

He took the keys from his pocket and locked the small door. 

Another day. 

He could endure. It was what he was made for. He knew no better. 

To breathe and feel for others. 

That was all.

Now what? 

Now, he’d go home. He’d go home, do the same mundane routine in order as he had always done for every day of his life—get changed, maybe have dinner, fill out forms until he was almost asleep at his desk, and then he’d try and sleep. And the same as always, he’d toss and turn and whine that it was too hot and then it was too cold, and all the while you’d mouth at his neck and strip him of his clothes. 

He inwardly shuddered at the thought. 

He grew sick with worry as he stared helplessly at the confessional. 

“Room for one more?” 

His heart leapt out of his throat, and he froze. His fingers tightened around the window of the booth and the material of his gloves stretched and squeaked. 

He swallowed, unable to turn around. He pulled out the keys again. “Of course.” His hands were shaking. 

He heard you let out a troubled hum. “You don’t have to–” 

Sunday stopped you short, perhaps too quickly. “Nonsense. This is my job.” 

“–We can talk face to face,” you finished. “If… if that’s easier.” 

Right. He certainly could. It wasn’t so much easier for him, but if it pleased you. If that’s what you wanted. 

Truly, you didn’t care too much about his final decision. But he was pretty in the face, and it was nice to speak to him properly for a change. 

Sunday stepped away from the booth finally and turned to look at you. 

He lost his breath almost instantly. 

You grinned. “Hi.” 

His lips managed to twitch into a smile. “Hi.” 

Your feet shuffled against the tiled floor. He recognised the sound of your heels clicking quietly. The same noise he heard in his hallway, and he still heard it every night. 

He held the keys tight in his clenched fist. The jagged ends punctured a hole through the palm of his glove. The scar that remained from his incessant habit would be opened soon. 

Your eyes were slightly lighter than he’d imagined, and you wore your clothes neater, and you didn’t run your tongue rampant with terrible sullied words. That wasn’t you. That was his idea of you. 

And now, reality sets itself upon him, and he still cannot grasp what is untrue. 

“You haven’t visited the confessional in a while,” he started softly. 

You shook your head. “No.” You glanced back towards the door, perhaps wondering whether it was locked, or maybe even contemplating running for it. “But I do sometimes attend service.” 

He knows this because he’s searched and waited for you every morning. 

Sunday was simply staring at you. “And what has prompted your change of heart?” 

A laugh bubbled from your throat, and the sun bled through the stained-glass windows of the church, and flashes of green and yellow and pink and blue dotted along your face. 

“You do generous and kind work, Reverend,” you whispered to him. “I hope it makes you happy.” 

The offer of praise made him sit up slightly in the seat in the booth. Nothing made him quite as happy as your voice, and he’d hear you sing again and again until he grew deaf. Even then, he was sure he could remember the way your lips formed every syllable that spilled from your throat. 

If anything, he remembered your sound, because your words were what mattered.  

If anything, he hopes he can make you happy. 

“I fell in love with a man.” 

And he’d never let go of that hope for as long as he lived. 

[yellowistheraddest]

changing your art style and trying to improve is so unfairly hard and does not feel rewarding at first, like, at all, but i do want to say that i like your art a lot and think it looks great all the time!! you mostly post stuff for fandoms i'm not even in but it still has great coloring, poses and demonstrates skill overall, so i like it very much anyway? idk what the point of this ask is, just that you got this, probably.

probably is a very good word, but honestly i wouldn't be completely shocked if my style doesn't change much... it's just that my current style is limiting what i can do as it doesn't work well in turnarounds for characters and its hard to make different body types look appropriate to the style (because the current style doesn't really think about muscle nor fat placement.) overall im aiming for one (or both) of two things: 1. getting a better grasp on the entire human anatomy and 2. learning lighting and shapes better so i can rander more impressively..

anyways i dont know how long this will take so i hope you stick through with me until i can achieve a skill level which makes me confident in my abilities!

[peonycats]

your art is so so good! how did you get good at it haha like besides the practice were there any things you watched to help? how should i stop myeelf from getting discouraged at the start when i'm just a beginner and my art looks.. bad lol

hmmm, well this is a complicated topic for something as big and expansive as the topic of art but! 

I’ve been basically drawing as far back as I can remember, and it’s probably the great love of my life; like... not to get dramatic but art is just something I wholeheartedly adore and love doing, and I would be despondent if I couldn’t draw again asjdjgskjas

Here’s some things that have helped me:

Skool: I have taken formal art lessons when I was ~12 to 18, so that helped a lot with my realism, along with working in other mediums!

Save things that give you inspiration: I save both a lot of art, like pieces that I like/inspire me, and photos, things I want to draw/study from! (I rarely take photos myself tho I don’t travel a lot and I know nothing about photography lmaooo) I also follow a lot of photography accounts on social media! This is why my photo album has over 4,000 images oop-  But this does help me get inspiration or ideas for drawings! that and the 10 million requests in my inbox gdsfjjdsjfhsj

Study anatomy: It’s a pain but it’s so so important!! Manga Materials and miyuli on twitter have lots of great drawing resources pointing out common anatomical drawing mistakes and they’re great!

I would also recommend you to study your own body in the mirror and observe how it looks from certain angles, or the way that your body shifts and changes as you move or pose. Now, this will be limited to only your own body type, but reference photos on the internet are there for you to learn about others!

Catch your mistakes early: Please frequently horizontally flip your art I beg you- and on that matter, stay longer in your rough art stage, and try to fix all your art mistakes there, because it is 1000% harder trying to fix them in the late stages

Lighting: it’s also super mega important, especially without lineart, but I hate it >: ((((((( 

OH AND A VERY IMPORANT TIP, BOTH FROM MY TEACHER AND ME: ZOOM OUT ON YOUR CANVAS FOR GOD’S SAKE- the forest is much more important than the trees!!!! nobody is looking at your art as closely as you do, and most people will glance at it for a seconds at least a feet away on a screen, so you need to make sure your drawing is clear and good looking from that perspective !!

generally, learn the rules before you break the rules is good practice!

Certain exercises/practices I recommend:

hmmmm I dont really watch a lot of youtube art channels tbh? I prefer to listen to videos over watch them sdhjfjsjkkjsd so I can’t really help you there ‘’’

Try drawing a reference photo, looking at it much as you need to. Then, try to draw the reference photo a second time, without looking at any references. This exercise is very useful for observing your default art style- what techniques do you rely on most? what things do you naturally emphasize? What are certain aberrations you don’t wanna keep and will need to look out for

To take an example, through this exercise, I found out that I tend to elongate the neck. Nowadays, I try to keep that in mind as I draw and keep a careful on my characters’ neck length dshgfjdsjfhd

Tracing other ppls artwork is good for practice!! Just don’t post it publicly without their permission!! 

Tbh, I think it’s more important to draw consistently and frequently for a beginner than it is to create like a few high quality, high effort drawings. This doesn’t mean never finish a drawing, what I mean is moreso- the goal for a drawing shouldn’t automatically mean a finished, well-lined/fully colored and shaded drawing. Like... you don’t need every piece of art to be a masterpiece- that’s just impossible. Your goal could be “I want to draw lots of hands here and get comfortable with their basic shape”- therefore, not every hand will be perfect, nor will you need to create something appealing for viewers. You could draw a thumb there, an ugly, unshaded pose here, whatever helps you fulfil your goal!

gesture drawings are massively helpful because they force you to use less details to convey your drawings- you can’t just keep on layering details on a flawed base in hopes that it’ll turn out okay in the end. In a similar vein, try putting limitations on your drawings! like, drawin in only straight lines, or limit your line strokes! 

Social media is a hellscape for artists because of the constant feeling of competing with your fellow artists and frequently pushing out content for attention and “engagement” and instant rewards- for the love of all that is holy, do not make your own self worth dependent on your social media success man. It’s hard, and I don’t think we can fully separate ourselves, but do not let the algorithm decide your worth!!

Time: yeah this shit’s gonna take a while; don’t be impatient!! just focus on how far you’ve come (especially compared to the vast majority of people who’ve and will never draw) and the now!!!

Experiment! Find a way of drawing that is sustainable and works for you!! There’s nothing wrong with spending some time practicing/experimenting with painting or painstakingly inking everything, but if it’s not doing it for you, or you can’t maintain that level of output, there’s nothing wrong with dropping an element from your art style?? you can always add it back or experiment again!

(take this tip with the “learn the rules before you break the rules” tip- there are certain things I think you should have a pretty good handle on, but then if you wanna break them for a reason, go for it!)

[rockshortage]

maybe???

can’t be bothered to clean this up nicely but I might be betting somewhere

really didn’t care for this when it was just black and white, but it started looking a lot better when I added some color

how the fuck is he still able to see anything when there are bright lights RIGHT by his eyes? fuck if i know. I just like how the mojave manhunter mask has a glowy thing going on and it would be neat to add that here. I’ll explain it away via night vision being turned on or something and the light isn’t actually bothersome because of it, I dont know dude

don’t like how the rim on the filters looks here but one of the gas masks I own (the swiss one) has a thin red rim around the filter just like that and it looks really nice so i’ll jot this down to not drawing it good

make the edges of the coat a little more tattered perhaps or add some more pointy places, don’t quite like what it looks like here. but i also don’t wanna make it too complicated :V

here’s a blank png if anyone wants to fuck around and clothe the man

yes the anatomy is wonky and no I don’t know how to fix it nor do I have the patience to try and figure it out

[illusionlockarchive]

pazam: a mess, truly a mess

so i usually dont do these kind of posts, i guess you could say its a call out of some sort? but i never liked that word, i prefer rather to just compile sources on WHY people would believe that a certain person is not truly as nice and understanding as they seem. consider this more of a psa post, detailing on whats going on with pazam on the sfm community, why so many people are against them.

So, a while back, tumblr user jymble made a post on the main tag stating that pazam was transphobic. they linked back to this post, which contains screenshots of pazam in a group chat stating that they do not feel comfortable with the idea of trans people. now, this did happen 9 months ago, true. however, for the record, pazam is already an adult, 24 years old, so they should have some tact. and as further and more recent events will show, they actually havent changed that much at all, at least not as they claim.

the screenshots should be in the post, but here is a transcript

[Screenshot one]

Pazam:

What????? Why?????

I literally HAVE NOT been doing ANYTHING malicious to them

And if it did I apologized

Yes I do have discomfort about them but I keep it to myself

Why are you doing this????

[End screenshot one]

‘Them’ here refers to trans people in general. Notice the defensive and victimizing stance they almost immediately take upon being confronted about their feelings on trans people.

[Screenshot two]

elliott:

of COURSE you dont

sammaku:

Like specifically

Elliott hush

Pazam:

This whole concept of transness and changing your gender physically

I hate to say it again but it weirds me out and it makes me question my own gender which flings me into anxiety, depression, and obsession

sammaku:

Its fine to not understand but are you willing to learn about it

Pazam:

I don’t want to talk about this anymore

sammaku:

That depression anxiety and obsession just comes with gender issues

(the rest of the text is cut off)

[End Screenshot two]

notice once summaku asks them if they would at least be willing to learn about it, pazam immediately deflects it by saying they dont want to talk about it anymore.

[Screenshot three]

Pazam:

Seriously??? That’s all it takes????

Wow I’m a moron

I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused to you

@.aziraphale @.elliott @.sammaku

I just don’t get this stuff period

And I’ve gotten into trouble with this stuff before

I’ll probably never understand it for the rest of my life but I’ll try to be more tactful around y’all

Especially since you’re all young

And I’m like an adult

[End screenshot three]

While at first this would seem like they had finally learned their lesson and apologized, the things they add on after the @s become quickly worrying. Not only do they admit to ‘have gotten into trouble with this stuff before’, meaning they have probably shown their transphobia in other places and been called out, but they also stand firmly on the fact that they will never understand it or ‘get’ it.

And of course, as jymble points out, the implication that the people they were talking to were only acting like that because they were young.

A while after this post was made, Pazam had posted an apology, and went onto contact jymble asking for the post with the evidence of their transphobic to be taken down. The reason? They were afraid people would see it and think they were still transphobic and not give them a chance.

In this more recent post, you can see the conversation play out between Pazam and jymbles. Long story short, Pazam feels that it’s unfair that that post is still up after they apologized, and jymble of course said they would rather not take it down, people deserve to know what they did and take their own conclusions, even if that involves avoiding them. How does Pazam respond? By flat out deleting the apology post. I’d love to show the apology post to give you both sides of the story but I cannot anymore, because Pazam in a very bizarre move just deleted it because they got mad a trans blogger wouldn’t take down their post with proof.

Here’s the transcript of the screenshots:

[Begin Conversation]

rebloggidy (Pazam’s personal):

I’m by no means transphobia-free after learning what I’ve done but at least I know my actions and am making an effort to be a better person towards trans people.

rebloggidy:

Hi again. So I hate to be that person but would it be ok if you took down that post about the transphobia claims? I know it took me 9 months to apologize but if people only see your side of the story and not realize the post I saw they’ll take it out of context and still think I’m transphobic. Do you understand?

jymble:

... i already told you im not taking down the post.

[jymble sends a screenshot of her own message in a previous conversation, the screenshot reads as follows:

however, i dont think im taking the post down, nor am i entirely comfortable with you interacting with me either. people deserve to know how you acted with this stuff, until youre really and truly *better* with it instead of just trying, and i was a direct target of it]

jymble:

you oughright told me "im by no means transphobia-free", word for word sorry, but i told you before. im not taking the post down.

rebloggidy:

I remember that. But what I'm trying to say to you is that if people who read it out of context will immediately think I'm still transphobic without the other side of it (my comment)

And I don't want people to think that in the future

jymble:

if people make assumptions without looking at the entire situation, thats on them

i am not deleting the post and thats final. people have a right to know what youve done, and they have a right to be uncomfortable

rebloggidy:

I'm ready to take down my post because frankly, I'm sick and tired of having to justifiy something that I did 9 months ago, and that people grow and learn even not 100% during that time and I'm ready to move on.

I'm still into smile for me and feel free to make a blacklist of my name so anybody who rbs my work on your dash can have it hidden or something.

Take care.

[End conversation]

a lot to unpack here, but perhaps most notable is when jymble simply stands her ground and tells pazam she wont take down the post, pazam straight up decides, without being told to or anything, that they should take down their apology. later on, they made a post stating why they deleted the post, and saying they had ‘been forced to’.

I also would love to link it here, but as of now of writing this, like, not even an hour or so after I had seen that post, it got deleted. The only memory I have of it is a conversation I had with my boyfriend about Pazam, in which I copypasted a fragment from that post that read:

“ So for those wondering where the apology post went, I was forced to delete it. I wanted to archive it in some way so I could pull it up for reference, but there was no way I could. Also I didn’t really want to see it every time on my blog because quite honestly it’s upsetting to look at.”

There are some lies and twisting of truths here. Pazam wasn’t forced to delete it, they decided they should do it as a way to somehow get back at jymble. And the excuse that it was upsetting for them to look at is just inexcusable, what matters most, letting people know of what youve done and that youre sorry, or just never addressing the situation?

But, well, I’m just hoping you’ll take my word for it. As you see, Pazam has officially deleted ANY traces of acknowledging this situation on their blog.

This worries me. If Pazam is truly as concerned that they will be seen as transphobic as they claim, why are they deleting anything that could give them a chance of showing their own side of the story?

Now, that is the end, for now, of Pazam’s history with transphobia. However! It is not the end for some other very shady things.

Namely, Pazam has consistently whitewashed characters from Smile For Me, specially Kamal, and when called out on it, simply deletes the asks.

Want to know how I know this?

I sent them an ask myself. I had come across this picture of Boris and Kamal:

And I knew that this wasn’t right. I can understand using light colors and doing watercolor, but if they can make Boris’ hair brown and vivid enough, why not Kamal? He looks like another character completely, or like he’s deathly sick! 

So I sent them an anonymous ask, perhaps a bit exhasperated, true, and my wording could be better. It went something like: “i am begging you to draw kamal with darker skin”.

I waited, checked. But nothing came of it. They never answered it.

Pazam flat out ignored when they were told they had drawn a canonically brown man with skin way too light. Not even a lone text post saying ‘hey anon, i dont agree with you’ or ‘hey anon im sorry it wont happen again’. Nothing. No word, no opinion.

And with this situation going on with them evading responsibility, I can’t say I’m fully surprised.

And, yet another thing. People had expressed concern over the fact they had drawn their Flower Kid, who is 17, in very intimate and close positions with Dr. Habit. It included nuzzling faces, cuddling in bed together, wearing his coat...

And they did hear the claims this time. As of now, their Flower Kid is 24, according to them.

Except... They do not look 24. At. All.

this is a 12 year old. at best. short body, stubby legs, big head. those are all attributes of a very young character, usually children. like, legitimately, thats how childrens anatomy is in real life. the younger the person, the bigger their head is in proportion to their body.

We have already had an adult trying to justify drawing their flower kid who barely looked like an adult if at all in intimate situations with Habit. Let’s not let it slide by again.

And yes, I’m aware Pazam claims that those pictures were not supposed to be interpreted as romantic, ‘only platonic fluff’ and that they intend to keep it that way, but I have talked to my boyfriend who is a survivor and he said it very well could be a case of someone just trying to cover their tracks.

BUT, all that being said, maybe this one particular instance could be just us being wary. Still, it does not diminish all that they have done, specially ignoring the whitewashing claims.

What you are going to do with this information, I do not know. Maybe you don’t care and will keep reblogging their content. Maybe you’re disgusted by them. But I’m just here to give you the facts. Personally though, I’m not willing to give them much of a chance after the way they’ve behaved. They are 24 years old, three years older than me, and I think I could do a better job of handling a situation like this, frankly.

[madamquacklemore]

Self help

Ok, so first off I am in no position nor am I the last person who can lecture people on how to look after their mental health..(stay with me here people there is good news) 

But the last few days I’ve decided to take action, Rome wasn’t built in a day, yes but baby steps here people. 

One of the tips these “experts” “lifestyle gurus” etc recommend is exercise and yeah sure it works if you can find the motivation to leave your bed (most days im not working I dont) not to mention it feels like a chore, a last ditch attempt. 

SO.. Today I decided to do an at home aerobics thing. You know like they did in the 80s. and yeah it’s pretty cringy. So what did madamquacklemore do you ask? Waited until it’s dark and turned off the lights. and put this on:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mR9td6t5mTc 

Only because it said “fun” and “beginners” Made a total twat of myself and certainly couldn’t keep up but you know what? It was FUN. and the only people that saw me were my furbabys and they tried to join in too. 

TLDR: 

Watch the vid turn of the lights and let loose. There is a Jane Austen quote in P&P where Miss Bingley suggests going for a walk around the room because its refereshing (yeah that scheming madam had her own motives-but she wasn’t wrong.) 

Jumping around like a lunatic and actually letting loose for 15mins does make a difference. Remember all those times in Greys anatomy? 

Or just take it from Kasabian those guys really know to “get loose get loose” (bonus points if you get my reference)

[iwishnomore]

there are mostly civilians in the camp people and kids that wouldnt be able to defend themselves well so V gets put there with a handful people to keep an eye out for them and

the camp gets in trouble with some other grp that take their supplies away before they can pick them up

so these people seem to have their base close to that camp and V being V wants to investigate and see if these guys are just talking big or if they really can take the camp out like they say if the camp doesnt pay to get THEIR OWN STUFF back sneaking her way to those people its not only clear that these guys are full of shit- but they also have beef with each other in their own little gangster grp

she witnesses how they basically ruin themselves drinking, fighting and taking their compadres out so problem solved itself u may think as V suprise hits the last guy standing who is just happy he has a lot of shit to live off of

so while she checks how much of the supplies these greasy guys had their hands on already she gets surprised by a RANDOM LOL patrol of aliens (what kawa u drunk go home)

seems those guys had their stuff a little too close to a checkpoint and the noise they made when they killed each other resulted in alien troops coming to check what the shit is going on

So far, V’s day is a rollercoaster of ups and downs she gets wounded on her leg but manages to take out 2 out of 3 aliens

hunter shows up and oh boi does she like him but also she does not trust him bc the last time he just dissappeared after she helped him and he helped her and now she thinks that he might just go ahead and kill her rollercoaster down so to speak he shoots the last alien saying something along the lines of ‘this one I am taking care of myself~’ meaning her, obv and she thinks its her last seconds lol so while she scrambles backwards and he casually walks towards her ANOTHER PERSON SHOWS UP

so in case u cant already tell from my rambling: ASSASSIN shows up- turns out hunter has ignored the elders call and she came to check up on her annoying brother lol he reacts quickly, making sure she doesnt notice V V IS HELLA CONFUSED BUT WHY NOT while they 'talk things out’ (rather get onto each others throat pretty much immediately) she takes her leave slowly and bleeding bc of that darn wound on her leg she tries to stop the bleeding and cover her tracks

not trusting her own ability and fearing that she might get followed anyways once her absence at the scene is noticed she avoids going straight to the camp doing all the indiana jones things she even wades thru a friggin river ….that rollercoaster keeps spiraling down eh?

tired, scared, bleeding and now also soaking wet and without her jacket bc thats what she used to get rid of the blood that might drip from her leg, pants,shoes whatevs and the supplies still are theoretically lost meh so she ends up exhausted somewhere in the woods like at this point V doesnt even care? she’s gonna do something …right after she rested her eyes for a minute mind u u.u bad idea

no amount of wading thru water and trying not to bleed everywhere helped and who shows up with the most satisfied shit eating grin under the sun? aye u might have guessed it hunter wastes no time telling her all the things she did wrong while funnily enough he also without explanation or anything he just inspects her wound and does some funny psi stuff this rollercoaster is confusing V is angry, she is pissed at herself and him of course- scolding her and gloating abt how she messed up but she is also confused af werent they done with helping? shoudltn he be just …skinning her alive or some shit since thats what they say he did to some people or maybe roast her

on a kebab stick but there he is

numbing the pain in her leg somehow and deciding that she needs to get somewhere else if she had more energy she might have tried to resist

but as things are nothing stops him when he picks her up (not elegantly in the least i might mention) and starts off to who knows where

so however much time passes V has no idea but it feels like not more than 5 minutes have gone by….then again…who knows…she might have fallen unconscious somewhere along the way

she gets plopped down and its soft wherever this is it looks better than anything she knows

she is so dumbfounded by her surroundings she doesnt even talk back at first when he tells her to get out of the wet clothes

she’s in the middle of stripping down all the while still oggling the room with the sleek surfaces and the outrageously comfy looking bed…how dare they…whoever owns this place should get beaten with a stick

so before her undies fall she snaps out of her thoughts and wants to yell at him Buuuut he is nowhere to be sen seen* ok so off with the undies

V wraps herself in a blanket and (WHY IS IT SO SOFT HOW DARE THEY)

V is still taking in the room wrapped in that blanket, her clothes sprawled over a now-not-pristine-white-anymore chair this room looks pretty but empty like someone had planned to live here

its pretty and empty and although the matress she sits on is insultingly cozy and the blanket a dream come true….its still cold and V has to make a concious effort to stop her teeth from chattering where the fuck did 'he’ go tho for a moment V imagines complete strangers entering the room to see a freezing V sitting on their bed and wrapped in their blanket

thats funny almost the whole situation is ridiculous

V is ready to walk back to that chair and wring herself into those wet clothes again

leaving this place and probably dying of hypothermia outside sounds just as bad as sitting here and waiting for kingdom come this is way too similar to the last time she was stranded with this guy speaking of which maybe he already left

with her bare feet she slowly tip taps thru the room, checking windows and closets and making her way to the only door in sight the second her fingers make contact with the handle the door opens

'gotcha. nessing with the doors again.’ messing* (lol jk) no lights for now he says but the place will warm up eventually theres electricity

he somewhat inores her °_° face and walks past her and she cringes when she realizes he goes straight to her stuff V almost trips over herself to make sure he cant get a hold of anything what are you doing making sure these will dry- or would you rather have them stay wet I dont mind you like this [insert rude smile here] so the clothes get taken care of

its still cold V is still confused by his charitable behaviour wtf is he thinking wtf is SHE thinking she completely forgot abt the whole 'he is gonna kill me’ story so, with newly found waryness she starts asking questions why help me why follow me why not kill me

whose place is this we gotta remember last time they met was when she helped him and he taunted her

and she bluntly spat out that she doesnt know why she does it but whats so wrong with that- maybe she just cant help it- maybe its not her fault she likes this guy so he pulls up a chair in front of her, sits down on it, his arms on the back of it whats so wrong with that i cant help it- its your fault

nothing else he grins he is fucking crazy and V isnt so sure but it almost felt like he could have said he liked her she huffs

i could have killed you countless times you snuck right thru those wannabes today like it was nothing but you wouldnt do that to me (ah so he had watched her? hello stalker how are u today) just like u cant hide your tracks or take care of yourself

her motions at her- probably talking abt her leg which is not helaed just not hurting bad very bad in fact bed and blanket have a nice new decal in rusty red by now (I SHOULD GET BETTER AT SHIT LLIKE THIS BUT WHATEVS)

'so you dont kill me you rather lecture me abt how unable i am to stay alive by myself?’ V is showing her best side today but oh well

maybe its the rollercoaster maybe its the whole situation

so V is ready to argue but hunter isnt in the mood lol he rather laughs at how its so easy to get her riled up

and he gets over to her mentioning something about her big ego in such a tiny body no wonder she got in trouble before he gets uncomfortably close but only to take care of her leg AGAIN

this time she struggles because 1 she is shamefully aware of her nudity under that blanket 2 he has zero problems pushing her from left to right as if she was a doll not funny so he manages to take care of the wound (i will just claim that he can do it with psi so ….pls dont slaughter me) and it only leaves a thick line of fresh pink skin on her leg- no wound but that pink skin is not nearly as pink as her face would be…if it wasnt so cold

seems the warmth he spoke abt earlier is still not coming around?

he had helped her with warmth before so why not do it again only this time she has no clothes and if he hasnt seen her blue lips from the cold he has definitely felt how icy her leg still was so off goes the armor

after the armor drops his hood drops he even takes off that sleeveless shirt

okay now Vs face definitely gets SOME shades pinker and not bc she is suddenly feeling less cold 'what the hell are u doing she scoots as far back on the bed as possible but OH MAN DOES SHE STARE

this guy is toned no weird alien anatomy apart from a slight difference in proportions but man lean and toned no wonder he picked her up like an acorn or a feather or whatever else V can come up with as a comparison 'so shy all of a sudden’ its true

V is staring with big eyes but not a single word comes out of her mouth as he comes closer he is not completely unclothed and its not like she hasnt seen men before but its different when u have to admit that u wanted to see something…and then like it too much when u do although u really neither shouldnt want to see it nor like it should/shouldnt whatever V knows this is wrong on more than one level

last time he’d had the blanket and she had bedgrudgingly come to him this time she has the blanket

and she wishes she could hide in it

she tenses up as his chest touches her cheek and his arms pull her close. he says something about deja vu and her being like a stray kitten but V doesnt listen last time his clothes had been like a shield between them this time her cheek presses against his skin

so they are, once again, in this position

V finds herself relax after a while bc feeling him like this and having the scent of his skin in her nose is getting her drowsy her head is filled with clouds and there is this incredibly need to nuzzle into him how to resist this is the most cruel seven minutes in heaven she has ever taken part in normally this would feel like the moment to do all the things and her heartbeat is saying just that nuzzle deeper breathe in this scent some more feel his skin

put your arms around this man instead she sits there like a marble statue but if she brushes her cheek against his skin just a little bit he wont notice right? he wont notice if she inhales a tiny bit longer than neccessary right?

would he notice if she moved a little, not much, just to feel his warmth some more and to lean into this not-really-embrace some more? shifting carefully and only a little was the plan

but when she feels his hands on her back move as well —her body moves as if on its own and she stretches and shifts enough to bury her face in the nape of his neck. …good job V. Very subtle she can barely hold back from sighing

it doesnt matter tho bc as if some silent agreement between them took place right as her fingertip gingerly move across his collarbone and to his jawilne one of his hands finds the back of her neck and guides her u.u and it happens no taunting no arguing no words at all

just warmth and silence and locked lips in a kiss

one kiss becomes two kisses three four each one greedier than the one before

bodys pressing against each other as if trying to melt into each other, hands roaming and breathless sighs gasping for air

V’s arms are wrapped around his neck, the blanket she was holding onto forgotten, her mind a mess, filled with the haze of want and a deep longing for his touch skin aginast skin

he is either gifted with natural talent or simply knows how to kiss and touch his hands are big and warm and they hold her tightly one more kiss they pause theres maybe 5milimeters between them none of them willing to let go

catching their breath

V feels a simmering ache between her thighs…and his arousal…well its obvious this is wrong no more she thinks but hesitantly places yet another kiss on his lips to betray her own thoughts there is not a hint of his usual smug smile on his lips the playful shimmer in his eyes she has seen so often is nowhere to be found

he is thinking

he bites back words as she kisses him again a chaste kiss on the lips and his fingertips gently caress the back of her head as he kisses back

with her hand against his chest she can feel that his heart is hammering just as fast as hers

He leans forward pushing V onto her back and into the heap of pillows behind her

with the blanket barely covering her nether regions she lies there, cheeks flushed and her hands timidly pulling back to cover herself. He is towering over her. V had almost forgotten how tall he is while kissing him- every touch had felt so natural so right. This view is a little intimidating to her….and exciting as well. The look on her face brings the smile back on his lips

he sits up, now kneeling between her legs. 'Now you’ve done it…’ he trails his hand over her healed thigh, his fingertips lightly brushing over the soft patch of pink. ’…your fault if you regret this..’ swift movements of his free hand undo his pants while the other hand disappears underneath the blanket covering V.

There was no denying it. V’s was dripping wet from the kisses and body contact alone…she’d felt the growing bulge in his pants. She couldn’t even think straight seeing it now although it was still hidden underneath the thick layer of fabric. Her eyes were transfixed on his hand on the pants hemline above it. V wanted him. Possible regrets or not.

She only realized where his other hand was wandering to when he slipped a finger between her wet folds. HE dragged his finger along the narrow path from her entrance to her clit and back, then teased her entrance, drawing circles around the overflowing heat- dipping into her from time to time ever so slightly but always leaving her wanting for more. He had her mewling and writhing in no time. Everytime she bucked her hips to meet his fingers he pulled back to deny her the pleasure she was seeking so depserately. Deeper. She wanted to feel it deeper inside. Sweet torture…. ’….please….’ It was a whimper so small and shy it was almost inaudible. The heat inside of her was unbearable. The small plea that had escaped her lips giving away how helplessly needy he had made her for him. With a low chuckle and a satisfied hiss he removed his hand from her fully. V bit her lip. She WAS like a stray kitten. Needy and outright begging. And now she had given herself away like an idiot as well. Yes, she wanted him. Maybe had wanted him from the start. Now he knew. And he would reject her. She closed her eyes, ready to hear the taunting and teasing. Oh silly human….why would he want you…. She waited for the words but they didnt come. Instead, the matress shifted. Movement. (would he leave her here like this??) V peeked through her lashes . He looked godly. Broad shoulders, sleek collarbones, smooth skin, defined abs. The lower her eyes wandered the more she asked herself what was not perfect abt him…he had strong hip bones as well…and even lower… The Hunter was moving slowly, he could tell she’d have her eyes on him. Some freedom from the tight pants was much needed and he smirked at her small gasp when his already leaking erection was revealed. He removed the last bits of clothing before he returned his attention to her…and his needs. His fingers were still wet from touching V when he wrapped them around his shaft. He was painfully hard and throbbing with arousal. There was nothing else he wanted more in this moment than burying himself deep inside of her.

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Ask Ausiello: Spoilers on Good Place, Riverdale, Timeless, B99, Resident, Million Little Things, Flash and More

Got a scoop request? An anonymous tip you’re dying to share? Send any/all of the above to askausiello@tvline.com

Question: Got any Riverdale scoop? What’s next for Archie? —Kerri Ausiello: When we last saw Archie in the fall finale, he was dyeing his famous red locks and making a run for the Canadian border. Executive producer Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa won’t tell us who he finds when he gets there, but “he is headed into the Canadian wilderness, for sure.” He won’t be seeing his dad Fred in the flesh anytime soon, though: It wasn’t shown on-screen, but the EP confirms that Fred did make it back into Riverdale before the quarantine came down.

Question: Any Million Little Things scoop? My friends and I are obsessed with it and hope it’s back for another season. —Montreal4 Ausiello: Remember how showrunner DJ Nash said that everyone in the group of friends has a secret they’ve kept? Look for Regina’s to come to light in Episode 14.

Question: Any scoop on what to expect when Grey’s Anatomy returns? —Al Ausiello: I will have a special holiday treat for you this coming Monday, so sit tight. In the meantime, I tried to get showrunner Krista Vernoff to share even the tiniest bit of intel about Jennifer Grey’s mysterious character and… I struck out. “I can’t [say anything],” she responded. “Because it would really ruin a twist and turn that I don’t want to ruin.” Hmm… I’m sticking with my initial prediction: She’s Jo’s mom.

Question: Anything on The Good Place? (Janet, specifically.) —Whitney Ausiello: Everyone’s favorite not-a-robot will be forever changed by having the humans materialize in Janet form, creator Michael Schur teases: “The way to really have empathy for people is to walk a mile in their shoes, and she did, like, the inverse of that. A bunch of people walked in her weird body for a decent amount of time… so that is another contributing factor to her evolution.” He adds that the season finale “has some pretty wonderful ‘compare this version of Janet to the one you saw in the pilot’ kinds of scenes.” So enjoy, Janet fans!

Question: I’m glad Dorian finally confronted Kaleb about his feeding problem on this week’s Legacies. Can I stop worrying about MG now? —Susan Ausiello: I don’t think it’s ever safe to stop worrying about MG, but as far as Kaleb goes, it sounds like Dorian’s pep talk was just the beginning. “Kaleb has a lot of really big ideas, and a lot of opinions about how things should work,” series creator Julie Plec says. “Much like in the real world when a hot-headed teenager thinks he can second guess what makes the rules the rules, he’s going to have a rude awakening pretty soon where he realizes he doesn’t know as much as he thinks he knows.”

Question: The ending of New Amsterdam‘s fall finale makes me think that Max’s cancer is progressing quicker than first assessed. Will this affect the clinical trial Dr. Sharpe has gotten him into? —Malasha Ausiello: We brought your query to showrunner David Schulner, and he said: “While we can’t reveal here what happened to Max on that dock, we will in our first episode back January 8. But, you’re right to ask if this will affect Max’s clinical trial. It most definitely will. This setback will change a lot of things in Max’s life. And Dr. Sharpe’s too. Thanks for watching and caring and writing to TVLine about the show.”

Question: Will The Flash give us any more hints about what Nora seems to be hiding? —SSH Ausiello: Now that we know there is some sort of alliance with Eobard Thawne, you should expect “a flash-forward flashback episode” that explains “how all that came to be, which will be a lot of fun,” says showrunner Todd Helbing. “You’ll slowly start to get the pieces of info that you need, but there will probably be one episode where we explain how that all happened to get her to come back [in time].”

Question: Challenge: Make me look forward to the Schitt’s Creek holiday episode more than I am already. — Belinda Ausiello: TVLine’s resident Schitthead Charlie Mason promises me that, no matter how great your expectations are, you won’t be disappointed — the special totally “sleighs.” What’s more, he issues a warning that the episode reveals a potential stumbling block to Alexis and Ted’s rekindled romance that neither she nor we anticipated.

Question: I need to know two things about Timeless: First, will #lyatt have a baby? Two, is Jessica really pregnant with Wyatt’s baby? —Miwako Ausiello: In response to your second question, star Matt Lanter says, “We address that [in the series finale, airing Dec. 20]. We’ll find out.” As for Wyatt, he’s not suspicious of Jessica and her baby news. “We’ve seen Wyatt be blinded by love throughout the last two seasons, though, and this is nothing new for him,” Lanter says. “Inherently, he’s a good person with a good heart, and I think he has a hard time accepting that people he loves or cares about … wouldn’t be good. So I think it’s easier as an audience member to look at Jessica and go, ‘Yeah, she’s lying.’ But I think Wyatt is just more blind to things.”

Question: How many time periods will we see in the Timeless finale? —Amanda Ausiello: “There are two-plus time periods, I will say that, that we have not visited before,” showrunner Arika Lisanne Mittman shares, adding that the historical time trips highlight “ethnic representations that we have not seen before [on the show]. Both of these stories are things that [are about] lesser known historical figures. You get to meet some new people that you’ve probably never heard of.”

Question: I’d love a Resident scoop on Conrad/Nic. —Holly Ausiello: I hope you enjoyed the couple’s honeymoon phase while it lasted, because the back half of Season 2 will be “nothing but obstacles” for the pair, according to executive producer Todd Harthan. “In just about every episode, there’s a new one for them to overcome… and they just start stacking up,” Harthan says, adding that the couple will be especially preoccupied with the health of Conrad’s father and Nic’s sister. “It’s going to be a ‘hold on and hope that they make it’ kind of ride,” he teases.

Question: Any hints on how to solve the Blindspot episode title puzzle for Season 4? —Hannah Ausiello: “Oh man! We finally built a title puzzle this season that is legit very hard to crack,” showrunner Martin Gero answers. “I will say this: The puzzle is an homage to some our favorite TV series and how they title the shows. Figure out which, and you might be a step closer.”

Question: Creek’s death on Midnight, Texas was so awful. Please promise me no one dies in tonight’s episode! —Rina Ausiello: I cannot make that promise. But I can tell you that Mr. Snuggly makes it through OK. So that’s something… right?

Question: Got any red-hot Chicago Fire scoopage, Aus? —Gene Ausiello: I see what you did there and I’m… very amused. Well done. The NBC drama is planning some girls-only bonding time for Sylvie, Stella and Emily. “They’re going to go on a road trip to [Sylvie] Brett’s hometown,” showrunner Derek Haas previews. The episode will air the week of Valentine’s Day, “so we’re calling it the Galentine’s trip.” Before that, though, the show will explore Emily’s “attitudes towards dating, which are different than Brett’s, and I don’t mean LGBTQ,” Haas explains. “I mean more of what [Emily, who is bisexual] considers casual versus what Brett considers casual. All of those dynamics are going to be deepened.”

Question: March is far away. I want American Gods scoop now! —Rob Ausiello: Well, because you asked so nicely… Pablo Schrieber says the “antagonist and ally” relationship between Mad Sweeney and Laura Moon will be tested big time by his allegiance to Mr. Wednesday when the Starz drama returns for Season 2. The leprechaun’s destiny “is tied to [Wednesday], no matter what, but it’s also very thoroughly tied to her,” the actor says. “So Sweeney is walking the line, balancing what he owes Wednesday and what he’s realizing he feels in other places.” Hmm. Sounds a lot like we’ll see Laura kissing the Blarney Stone before the season’s over, am I right?

Question: Can you give us any Outlander spoilers? (Especially involving Brianna’s and Jamie’s meeting!?!) This is my first time doing this — hope I’m doing it correctly! —Carolina Ausiello: You did OK. I’ll send you some notes about how to refine your approach in a separate email. Regarding the question at hand, I turn it over to our resident sassenach, Kim Roots, who has seen the scene in question: “I have rather high standards for the huge moments on this show — the wedding night, the print shop reunion, etc. — and I was incredibly satisfied by how the father-daughter plays out in [episode number redacted according to Starz’s spoiler restrictions]. Fans of the book definitely won’t be disappointed.”

Question: Elizabeth and Henry on Madam Secretary are #couplegoals. Please tell me anything you can. —Mary Ausiello: An upcoming episode opens with the McCords taking a tango lesson. And one of them is significantly more skilled than the other.

This AAnd That… ♦ THE BLACKLIST: As teased in the Season 6 trailer, Red will spend some time behind bars after being double-crossed by a close confidant — but don’t count him out just yet. “He’s really been stripped of his superpowers,” series creator Jon Bokenkamp shares. “He’s disconnected from his resources, he may have friends who will fall away and he’s sort of on his heels, which is new for us.” But Bokenkamp assures fans that “if anyone could embrace the solitude of a cell and the experience of incarceration with open arms, it would be Raymond Reddington. We have really high stakes, but we also have some of the most fun we’ve had, as well.” ♦ BROOKLYN NINE-NINE: There will be one major.hilarious change when the sitcom makes the leap from Fox to NBC in January. “We’re allowed to bleep and blur [now],” series co-creator Dan Goor recently told us. “Fox had a no bleeping and no pixelation policy.” Now the gloves are off. “Some filthy, filthy things have been said,” added Terry Crews. “I had one [joke] where I’m ashamed. I’m actually very, very ashamed. It was so jarring that everyone was like, ‘Whoa,’ and we needed to regroup… But holy cow, we never heard language like that on the show.” ♦ CHICAGO PD: Burgess is not the only one who will have a reaction to Upton and Ruzek’s romance. In an upcoming episode, Jay “responds in a way I think you’d expect Halstead to respond,” showrunner Rick Eid teases, “and I think what’s going on in his head is a little different than what he says.” Eid also adds that Jay’s “relationship [with] Upton is interesting and evolving, so don’t sleep on that.” ♦ HOUSEKEEPING NOTE: This is the last AA of ’18 so happy holidays and all that jazz!

That’s a wrap! Please send questions, comments and anonymous tips to askausiello@tvline.com. (Additional reporting by Kim Roots, Andy Swift, Dave Nemetz, Vlada Gelman and Diane Gordon)

Source: https://tvline.com/2018/12/14/million-little-things-spoilers-season-1-episode-14-regina-secret/