#i think it comes back to being ashamed of my body. tbh

[lapismaid]

😔

[moyazaika]

tbh jaded lawyer darling trying to save yan crime kingpin from getting his ass thrown into prison for life — yet again.

he’s lingering at the court’s steps, entertaining the news reporters with a dazzling smile, the entire world waiting with bated breath to see whether this is the day his billion dollar criminal empire comes crumbling down—

“the whole world knows you did it!”

“are you ashamed of yourself?”

“do you really think you’ll walk away a free man after today?”

that gets his attention.

“darling, don’t ‘ya worry about me,” he turns to the journalist, and tilts his head to the side, pulling out his lollipop from between those lips, curled in a sly grin. “i ain’t gotta worry ‘bout no fuckin’ laws when i got the world’s best damn lawyer on my side.”

a young man, then. thick glasses and braces on his teeth. far too thin and lanky, for all his balls of steel as he speaks up. “are you implying that your lawyer is an accessory to your crimes? a corrupt lawyer for a guilty man on his way to the gallows?”

he hears you approach before he can think to respond. the familiar, expensive echo of the dress shoes he’d bought you the first time you’d won a case, before you’re there where he thinks you belong; right by his side.

“alleged crimes,” you correct, and your kingpin turns to greet you with a million dollar smile. “now, my client will not be taking any more questions. kindly, fuck off.”

cameras flash instantly and countless more mics are shoved into his pretty face, still mesmerised by you, even when you grab him by the back of his collar (unironed, you notice with absolute dismay) and pull him inside, away from prying eyes.

“you’re being tried for sixteen drug and weapons counts,” you hiss, digging your newly manicured nails into his skin, as you pull the lollipop he’s sucking on right out of his mouth with a wet ‘pop’ and toss it to the side, seething. “when will you fucking get serious!”

he only dumbly stares back at you with a slack jaw, and stars in his eyes. his voice dips an octave lower, deep in his throat when he speaks. “oh, i could get very serious if you wanted to give me a kiss. or, y’know, maybe you could act as a replacement to that sweet lollipop of mine ‘ya just—oh, fuck!”

when you stride into the courtroom later, in your neat, pressed suit and slicked back hair, nobody dares ask why the infamous ‘alleged’ crime lord is following after you with a bruise blossoming on cheeks that flush a deep, deep scarlet.

-

the judge announces the jury's verdict, and you don’t even look up from the documents you’re perusing when he’s found ‘not guilty’ in a court of law, yet again—

“jesus fuckin’ christ, i knew you were gonna save me!” your kingpin jumps up from where he’s sitting besides you, pressing his face into your shoulder as he breathes you in with an elated, shuddering breath. “can’t even imagine which ditch i’d be rottin’ in without ‘ya, sweet pea.”

“excuse me, sir.” you pry his hands off you with a detached air of reservation you reserve for when the two of you are in public, but the way your knuckles are white when you gather the countless files and papers of yours scattered on your desk tell him everything he needs to know about how pissed you are. “hands off.”

he knows he’s in for it when the two of you get home, and yet, he looks forward to the sight.

it’s always more… exciting than it should be; when you’ve got him shoved right up against a well, going off about how ‘irresponsible’ and ‘immature’ he is, nails leaving his skin bleeding from how deep you sink them into his body, too caught up in your own irritation to notice or, honestly, care.

and maybe, he thinks, as he follows you out, tonight he’ll go pay a visit to someone after you’re done with him.

a man’s got needs, y’know?

he’s high off the rush of his latest win when he walks up the porch steps hours later. it's really only the latest achievement in a long line he attributes solely to you and your efforts.

he’ll make sure to repay you one day, with all you’ve done for him. he’ll take such good care of you; let you do whatever you wanted to him, as a token of his appreciation for how hard you've worked to keep him on the streets he rules and out of the prisons he knows he belongs in.

in fact, his efforts start right here and right now; on the steps of a nice, suburban house, that belongs to the journalist with thick glasses and braces and a wiry frame. the white picket fence and 'keep off the grass' sign do little to deter the man outside. then again, the poor bastard could have had gates of iron, and he still would have found a way to creep inside.

he never knew being a journalist paid so well. shit, maybe he should’ve gone down this path instead of, y’know, running a criminal empire. this bastard's got balls of steel, for what he had the nerve to say about you. but it’s okay! hey! he’s here to take care of it for you!

you don’t ever need to find out what he’s done in your name. ♡

he’s very adamant about this, choosing to see the job to completion all alone, slinking away from your critical, watchful gaze—only once he’s made sure you’re knocked out by watching you sleep, crouched by your bedside, for a few hours—to make sure the problem’s all taken care of.

the kingpin rings the doorbell, and patiently waits for the door to open with his scarred hands held behind his back. there’s a glock in his left back pocket, and a silencer in the right. a swiss army knife curled in his fingers, because he’s always been creative.

yeah, can you believe that? his teachers used to tell him he would make a great artist one day. and he is, he likes to think. only that his canvases are a little less traditional, and not in the banksy way. you know how it is! life imitates art... or some hippie shit like that.

there's no rules in art for what you can paint with, right? or what surfaces you can carve up into pretty shapes...

and so, when the lock clicks open, and the handle turns, it’s exactly like he said; a man’s got needs!

so sue him! really, so what if his needs mean his heavy hands are clamping over the journalist’s mouth, twisted into a silent scream—

so what if he knocks the smaller man back, a fist flying to his face, those wide eyes and all, slack jaw stupidly hanging open in disbelief—

so what if he shoves him inside and kicks the door behind them shut?

your kingpin knows what comes with the life he chose, and sullying his name is one thing—but nobody gets to drag your name through the dirt and live.

he makes sure of that, personally.

-

“where did you go last night?” you ask, not taking your eyes off the weekly newspaper in your hands. there, on the front page, a greyscale photo of you and your headache of a client, descending the court’s steps after the verdict. “and why didn’t you ask for my permission before you left?”

the headline, in big, bold letters, splashed above the picture; INTERNATIONAL OUTRAGE AS INFAMOUS DRUG LORD EVADES LAW YET AGAIN. SHADY LAWYER TO BLAME?

“just takin’ out the trash, lovely. don’t you worry ‘yer pretty little mind about it.” as he says that, he abandons his own breakfast, suddenly snatching the paper out of your hands and ripping it up, but not before noting the name of the article’s author, tucking it away for later.

shreds of the weekly paper you hadn't even gotten to read yet fall to the floor, fluttering this way and that. you close your eyes and smile. “haha. funny. well, my ‘pretty little mind’ is telling me to throw the coffee in my hands all over you.”

“tryna mark me up?” he purrs, “if you really wanna wake me up, can i suggest somethin’ else ‘ya could throw at me? or on me, really. but—”

“i’m going to kill you in your sleep, one of these days.” you deadpan, turning back to your food. he’s like a little kid, and you’re not about to indulge him by giving him the attention he so desperately wants from you.

“'yer serious??" he grins, hands flying to his face in elation, a curious blush colouring his skin a deep pink. “you mean you actually wanna step into my bedroom— at night— of 'yer own damn will?“

you take another sip of your coffee, fingers trembling around the cup. don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what he wants don’t throw it at him it’s what—

“damn... guess i should start sleeping naked, then.”

extra; what if darling was a prosecutor instead?

[nymphomatique]

special affair

dbf!miguel o’hara x fem!reader

art credit: _insomniac_red_ on ig. pictures are for mood setting, reader has no specific race or physical descriptions.

cw: a lil angsty, this is just shameless smut im sorry guys i don’t know what came over me, daddy kink, dbf!miguel <3, unspecified age gap but reader is legal, rough sex, squirting, unprotected sex, miguel is not a good man, conflicted reader, creampie, lowkey breeding kink, degrading language, choking/breath play, face slapping, spitting, mentions of oral (m), overstimulation, crying/dacryphillia, pubic hair grinding? lmao idk, reader is alluded to being in sub space. not proofread lol. 18+ only.

wc: ~1.5k

❤︎ an: hi my loves!! this is a sorta part two to this drabble, but can be read as a stand alone one shot. tbh i wrote this w my pussy.. i’m ovulating rn i’m so ashamed of myself 😔 nevertheless, enjoy! if you guys want more don’t hesitate to lmk!!

from that first night he fucked you from behind, you knew you strayed too far from the status quo in your life, you’re at the point of no return. that night, when he finished pounding you from behind and defiling you further with his seed all over your back and ass, you had laid in that position— spent and on your stomach- for the rest of the night, silently sobbing. you had betrayed your father, that much you were aware of the day you started rubbing at yourself meekly in the dead of the night thinking about his best friend.

you had long come to terms with that guilt, accepting whatever image of a burning inferno there is in the afterlife. what you cannot come to terms with, is the fact that he- miguel- had actually fucked you, indulged in what you considered your own taboo thoughts, ripping them from page and making your crude thoughts a sick reality. the worst part of this all is that amidst it all, the mental beratement, the nights you spent crying, the sick feeling the memories of miguel’s cock stretching you absolutely thin, showing you a climax like no other— you want to hate yourself for it, for being weak. for being such a bad girl. but you didn’t know why your body decided to betray your brain, the physical craving for the older man’s body possessing you whole. you can’t bear this feeling, holding it up inside you and trying to keep it at bay. fuck- you needed to talk to someone, you had to, even if it’s the last person you want to speak to.

nevertheless, you end up two houses down, sniffling and heaving in the dead of the night, knocking the door as hard as your trembling hands would let you. the door swings open and at the sight of him you keen, your body aching at the sight of the burly muscles covered in sun kissed skin. dark brown hair streaked with grey at the temples. a slight five o’clock shadow, he must not have shaved this morning. and then you look into those eyes, swallowing you up whole and you begin to tear up again. miguel is silent, leaning against the door with messy hair, glazed eyes and clad in boxers, and boxers only. fuck, you shouldn’t have come here.

“I-.. Miguel, it hurts,” you sob quietly, aflame with shame and embarrassment at how little resolve you had. He grabs your face with his warm hands and you’re trembling now, ready for him. your lips ghost for a moment before he breathes out. “i’m not a good man, sweetheart. if you don’t say no, i’m gonna break you.” he sounds sincere with his words and his eyes go stern. you wish you had some self of self control, or maybe having better discernment. but the only thing you say to him only confirms what you already knew about yourself; you’re a terrible fucking person. 

“violate me.”

your lips are smashed against each other, tongues dancing and it feels so good to be in his embrace again. your tears fall down your cheeks, meeting at the junction of your mouths in a pool of saliva. miguel groans and you know why, remembering what he had said to you the last time.

“i like when you cry.”

you’re grabbed up at the hips, legs wrapped around a thick torso, pressed up against a firm chest and a heavy cock. the moments up to the bedroom are cloudy, drunk off his lips against yours. you come to slightly when cold plush sheets hit your back and a pair of lips leave yours. you whine, yearning for his touch again. he looks down at you, bringing your right foot to his mouth, he licks lightly up the sole- kissing the ball of your foot before he leans down, caging your between his elbows, face to face.

“you gonna be good for your daddy?” he asks softly, kissing between the bridge of your nose once. 

“y-yes,” you breathe out with a slow nod. 

“mmm. gonna let me violate this tight little body too?” he asks, still soft in tone and you think you’re gonna go crazy by the end of the night. “yes, daddy,” you murmur, lost in his eyes. 

“sick fucking little girl. but that’s how i like it,” he chuckles, kissing you softly before getting up stripping you bare.

“letting your daddy undress you like a good girl. so obedient f’me,” he coos at you, touching you softly and you’re almost in tears. you need him. and you let it be known. a lone tear falls down your cheek and you mewl, “n-need you to make it better down there, daddy.”

his large hand engulfs you cheek, thumb wiping your tear softly before squishing your face, putting his tear stained thumb in your mouth. “you think you’re a big girl now, hmm? telling your daddy what to do?” you look up at him teary eyed, suckling his thick finger.

“you take what i give you, when i give it to you.” he squeezes you cheek a little harder before softly slapping your cheek and you squeak at the contact. a rough laugh leaves miguel’s mouth at your reaction. “you have no idea how bad i’m gonna treat you, baby.”

you’re non verbal at this point, mouth agape and leaking saliva down your jaw seeping into the sheets and the junction of your neck and chest. a hand slaps your cheek again, you’ve lost how many that is now. “i fucked you stupid already?” miguel laughs, hard thrusts sending you flying up the bed. his hands on your hips bring you down back to him each time, poking you right in that sweet spot in your pussy. you’ve lost count of how many orgasms you’ve head, body wracked and numb with pleasure. throat hoarse from the near-violent throat fuck he gave you.

a glob of spit hits your forehead and you groan a bit. the one thing you’re sure of is that you look a goddamned mess. a crude picture of the activity you’ve been partaking in for the past two hours. a hand leaves your hip to wrap around your neck and squeeze roughly, making you gasp for air, your body finally moving.

“there we go, got you moving now. thought i fucked you to sleep for a second.” 

your eyes are glossy, at the lack of air and building pressure. your hand meekly wraps around his wrist as he fucks into you. you know you shouldn’t like the way he toys with you like this, waking the line of torment and pleasure with no care in the world. but you do. and you can’t deny it anymore.

“you’re tightening up on me again. you gonna cum for me again?” miguel asks you, and he laughs after knowing you can’t even answer him. “sick little girl. you like it when i choke you? make you feel weak? worthless?” 

it’s barely audible, but the moan you let out vibrates in your neck and miguel can feel it with the hand pressed against your throat. he throws his head back with a groan. “nasty, naughty girl. fuck baby, gonna cum in that little pussy.”

you’re almost there, and quite frankly impressed that you haven’t fully passed out yet. your head feels light, and you begin to tremble violently, gushing out spurts of liquid as your head falls to the side. if this is hell, you’re not so sure you could give this up for heaven. your eyes close and you feel so close to falling asleep when he removes his hand from your neck, grabbing your head by the nape of your neck, craning you up to where you can see his thick cock slip and slide between your thighs. you groan at the image. 

“need you awake to see me cum in you, don’t i?” miguel groans. “you like watching me fuck you, like letting me dirty you.”

 his tuft of black pubic hair rubs against yours as his thrusts become increasingly sporadic and intense, and it has you trembling at the stimulation it gives your clit. you weakly squirt each time his pelvis brushes against your clit, your body letting you know you have only so much left in you before you’re drained empty.

“fuck, love it when you wet the bed. my pissy little girl. daddy loves the messes you make.” he’s nearly breathless and you pray he’s going to cum in the next minute, the ache in your neck and dull sensation in your pussy building slowly.

“c-cum in me. wanna give you a baby,” you moan, looking up from the fast thrusts and into miguel’s eyes. 

“fuck! so n-naughty, baby. gonna give me another one, huh? fucking take it, then.” with a final thrust, you feel the warmth of his cum shoot and blossom somewhere deep within you. you moan weakly, one final weak spurt of squirt coming out of you. miguel pulls out and you watch him look at the mess he made of you and your pussy, covered in spit, cum and the beginnings of handprint bruises blossoming on your hips and ass from how hard he gripped and spanked you. 

you can feel his cum slowly trickle out of you, and your body feels like it’s no longer your own. after so many orgasms, your limbs are on fire, and you can do nothing but breathe and weakly murmur a “d-daddy..” while your eyes close.

tags: @realhotgirlshitah @obsessed-with-miguels-ass @maxiethestrange

message me to be removed!

[halfbloodfics]

Gentle dom! snape headcanons

Hi im procastinating the number of requests in my inboxes so until I get around to them, have another headcanon post to tie you over.

warnings: NSFW, smutty, minors DNI, mentions of kinks

I've written quite a bit of sub!snape fics that now I'm starting to miss dom!snape.

I'd like to preface this by saying that these are obviously just headcanons. Personally, I think severus is likely very sexually reserved, due to both trauma and honestly, isolation. I don't see him as being this overtly sexual person, as everything within him from canon, in books and the movies, shows him as very conservative and reserved. His clothing, his skills in occlumency, his facial expressions... everything about himself is very, reserved and controlled.

So I find that important to preface this by saying, that anything specifically kinky, especially dominant, would take a lot of time and patience coming from sev. I think at first, sex would definitely be more gentle, passionate, loving thing, if not a tad bit submissive.

However after awhile, once he becomes more comfortable, I can see him beginning to get more confident with his sexuality and more sure in the fac that you really want him. I can see his nerves slowly fading away into that kind of repressed longing and desire that he's denied himself for so long. I can also see him enjoying this because his whole life, he was so powerless. I mean, constantly being used as a pawn in a game that was bigger than him, obeying a different master.. I think it would be nice to be the one with the control for once.

Also this is specifically for gentle dom! snape, so there will be another one for hard dom! snape. Anyways enough yappin, here are the headcanons.

~

The first time he doms

I need to write a fic on this tbh, but I imagine it starts off by him relising how much you actually need him

The concept of you, needing him; of someone needing him that way, craving him?? Insane. he craves it. he wants it. he wants to hear it. see it.

I think something would have to happen for him to really realise this, either you admitting that you've masterbated to him... or maybe even him accidentaly catching you in the act.. Picturing/seeing you touching yourself, you wishing it was him, moaning his name, drives him wild

Something switches in him, where as before he might be flustered, embarassed, even ashamed. now he simply stands there.. watching, still... until he moves approaches

Then I imagine he's asking you if you were thinking about him.. and then specifically what you were thinking of...

And then he gives you exactly what you were asking for.. Or tells you to keep going while he watches

Once he's more comfortable... here are my headcanons about

Kissing

When he's in a dom mode, making it just does something to him. I mean in general, any sort of touch does something to him; but french kissing, hearing you moan into the kiss?? Gripping the back of your head?? Your throat?? That man kisses you like he's drowning.

Kinks

Names: I think, as a gentle dom, he wouldn't like to be called any names other than his name. I think the big part for him, is that much needed ego boost that you need HIM

I think he's very big on you saying his name, making you say it again and again, asking you who you belong to, who's making you feel that good, etc

Speed? I think it's usually a steady pace, depending on the day and what you need/want. I don't think he's afraid of going fast or rough, but not slapping, choking, or heavy degrading.

Bondage: I think he would however, be into being on top of you, pinning you down with his body in some way. Restraining you, with himself. Perhaps sometimes, using something to tie you up or tie your hands behind your back, but for the most part I imagine he likes using his hands, holding your wrists behind your back, pinning them above your head, beside your head, pinning your hips down to stop you from squirming, that sorta thang

Praise: especially as gentle dom, he loves to praise you. I don't imagine he's very vocal, but I do imagine he talks you through it. Praising you as you take him, as you orgasm. I don't think as a gentle dom, he would be interested in degrading you

Begging: slight begging, I think he more so wants to take care of you as a gentle dom, make you feel good. I think he'd find it attractive, once again as an ego and control thing, that you're begging for him, but I think he'd give in quite easily as a gentle dom

Idk what this is called but instructing you how to masterbate? Him sitting on the edge of the bed, or standing across the room... Telling you exactly how fast to go, how many fingers to use, how to touch yourself etc.

Positions

Missionary: gentle dom sev LOVES missionary and you can't convince me otherwise. He still gets all the fun parts of being dom, being on top of you, being able to pin you down, but he also gets to see ALL of you.. Your reactions, your body, your eyes

Doggy: I think this is more for hard dom snape tbh, which is a whole other post of its own. But I really, truly think he'd love this one. Pinning your shoulders down, leaning over you, taking you from the back... Or pinning your wrists behind your back while he yk.. Gripping your chin, whispering praise in your ear.. Yeah

Spooning: I also think he's like this one, especially as a gentle dom, cause it's still dominant for him, but you also both get to be comfy and in bed. And he gets to wrap his arms around you, hold you. It's romantic, dominant, gentle, all in one

Oral: As a gentle dom, I can see him liking recieving oral more than him being a switch. I still think he prefers to give, but I imagine that he likes to have you on your knees, his hand in your hair, just gently guiding your movements, praising you the entire time

Misc

Clothing: I think he loves being clothed while you're naked, not only does it make him more comfortable, he also gets to see all of you and it kinda adds to the power vibe. However, seeing you in any type of slightly revealing clothing does something to him. Even if it's just a little tight, or if your shirt is a little low.. He's spent his entire life ruling with an iron fist over his emotions and now somehow its crumbling all because of a damn scoop neck t-shirt. Mans could fight voldemort but not the power of tiddies. Also really loves nightgowns.

Moans: He loves hearing you. any type of sounds at all, even the slightest gasp to you crying out for him. It makes him want to hear more. especially if you're moaning his name. I don't imagine he moans much, more so small grunts and groans

He's a boob guy. For sure. That's it.

Aftercare: He is very, set on aftercare. Always. Especially after he has been dom. Even if he hasn't been rough, he knows aftercare is important. Brings you water, makes sure you drink it. Makes sure you use the washroom after. Holds you, praises you.

And i think thats it, for now, though I'll probably come up with more eventually.

Cheerio

xx

[wonton4rang]

how do u think bnd boys wld act around you when they’re high?

bnd legal line being high or involved in drugs is one of my favorite concepts, oh myyy. plus, most of these came out as smut kinda thingy so yeah 😔

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

why'd you only call me when you're high?

pairing: bnd legal line x reader.

warnings: +18, smut, mentions of drugs usage, dirty talk, pet names.

summary: how would bnd legal line act around you when they are high.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sungho; let's go to a parallel world where he might do drugs cause i honestly don't see him into it but yeah. i feel like he would turn into this excessively touchy/ funny guy that would just not know the concept of personal space. he would sit besides you, his hand on your thigh while it went dangerously close to your heat only for him to laugh at your blushed cheeks and kiss your lips to whisper against them "you would look so pretty sucking my dick right now". and it was great, yeah, if the other members were not sitting across the room in the other couch.

riwoo; he goes into subspace and i'm a 100% sure, he would be so lovey dovey and happy, making those awful jokes with a numb tongue before he goes completely quiet. tbh you didn't noticed at first but when you looked for him with your eyes and saw him facing the floor while he played with his fingers, you knew he was wasted. so you just made your way to him, holding his hands and softly kissing his lips, whispering a loving "wanna get out of here, baby?" that only made him excited because he knew what you meant, whenever you looked at him like that he ended up w his dick wrapped by your pussy and his legs shaking and hurting due to the intense sex you gave him. and he quickly forgot anything and everything that was making his head go to places.

jaehyun; myungjae is such an ecstasy boy, damn. he's horny asf 24/7 and when he gets high?? he could even come across as too dirty or pushy because he is making you rethink everything you say when he makes a sexual joke about it, his hands getting freaky on your body, grazing your boobs under that shirt, your thighs and even lifting your skirt a bit so he could go further. but it was all in public so you would tell him to shut it off, only for him to take you to his car and fuck the shit out of you on the backseat.

taesan; dongmin gives me one of the strongest "if i did drugs, i'd smoke weed" vibes ever, like damn. so be aware that when he got high he would be almost the opposite, his jokes wouldn't be as innocent as always, his eyes won't look at you the soft and loving way they always did, and his voice would turn two tones down while he barely responded to whatever you were saying because he was so lost in the way your lips moved he did not gave a single fuck about what you were saying. so he would start a kiss, a rough one, suddenly towering over your body and giving zero to none space for you to even backup or take the lead if you wanted to. he would be demanding, rougher than usual and very quiet, he would probably adventure and try new stuff only to be really ashamed when he came down from his high. but it was that or him simply listening to the music blasting out his speakers while he starred at the ceiling with your head laying on his shoulder or his lap and he played with your hair.

leehan; i feel like leehan could be two sides of a coin, no in between, he could either be super scary or super cute. i feel like he wouldn't like to do drugs as a daily basis so he would do it at a party, his head spinning so much his eyes could only register light schemes, he would love the vibe too, specially because you always were there with him to take care of his pathetic self. yeah, that until you both got back at home, he is typically one to be very active sexually so if he is on his "scary" side of the high, he would push you against the wall, whispering a mean "you're such a fucking slut. teasing me all night when you knew i couldn't fuck you there", his voice low and his alcohol infused breath hitting your face and it honestly made you nervous because you knew he wasn't thinking right. but oh well, he still fucked you and you were the one asking for more afterwards.

[gor3-hound]

sunflower

ft. chris redfield x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, fluff, ddlg, use of princess parts(sorry) oral(f!recieving), mating press, really sweet chris tbh, pacifier usage, non-sexual intimacy also included, hand holding during sex, p in v, creampie, squirting, multiple orgasms(reader)

a/n: more ddlg w chris... he's so perfect for it sorry... same universe as 'sweet girl' but a complete standalone. ddlg always scares me to write sksjsksjs but hope you all like it <3 feedback appreciated as always :3

word count: 1.6k words

Chris can feel the stress radiating from your body as soon as you walk into the home. He hears you drop the car keys haphazardly on the table. He walks out of his office just as you're hanging your coat up, brows furrowed in frustration with your jaw clenched.

You always got like this after visiting your dad. Chris isn't even allowed to come with you anymore after the last time. He came close to breaking the asshole's nose after he made you cry. He didn't even know why you still put up with him after everything he's done to you, but you always tell Chris ‘family is family’, and he doesn't want to push you.

He'd always be there for you when you got back, anyway. He walks up to you slowly, pulling you into his arms. He can feel the tension in your body, and it makes him frown. He tilts your head up to look at him, his thumb gently rubbing at the crease between your brows until it softens and you're looking up at him with those bright eyes he loves so much.

“There's my baby.” He coos, leaning down to plant kisses all over your face with a smile. He combs his fingers through your hair, carefully untangling a few knots that formed. He finds himself smiling even wider when you finally start to relax in his arms, rubbing your cheek against his chest sweetly.

“Daddy…” You breathe out, hugging him tight. His large hand runs down your back, stopping before rubbing small circles right above your ass. He hums softly, kissing the crown of your head. He knew you needed this when you got like this. Needed him.

“It's okay, baby. Daddy's got you. Let me take care of you, yeah?” He whispers, his breath tickling your hairline as he leans down slightly to be more on your level.

He runs a bath for you, peeling the clothes off of your body slowly. He even puts in your favourite glittery pink bath bomb, despite it being a pain in the ass to clean up. He'd be scrubbing the discolouration off the tub for weeks, and by then, you'd have used it again. An endless cycle, but one he'd endure for as long as he lived if it was for you. He picks you up and sets you in, massaging soap into your body as you sit in the warm water. You melt under his touches, practically purring like a little kitten.

He's careful not to get your hair wet as he washes you, being as gentle as he can. He dries you off with the fluffiest towel in the cabinet and slips you into the comfiest pyjamas you own.  He ends up setting you between his legs in the bedroom with your pacifier in your mouth and hair supplies in his hand, the TV playing Tangled for the fourth time this week. 

It's Wednesday.

He genuinely thinks he might have to get a lobotomy if he hopes to ever get ‘I Have A Dream’ out of his head. He's more than ashamed to admit he's been humming it between sets at the gym. Oh, well. A small price to pay for your happiness.

He cares for your hair as you focus on the movie, detangling any knots gently, just as you’ve taught him to do before. He tries his best to part your hair into two sections, but it ends up being a little messy. At least he learned how to braid. He was quite proud of himself for that one. It only took a dozen YouTube tutorials to figure it out. He carefully twists your hair into two plaits, kissing the nape of your neck once he's done.

“You're so cute, princess.” He coos, his big hands coming to rest on your waist so he can tug you into his lap. He runs his hands under your shirt, gently caressing the skin of your stomach. “I could just eat you up.”

He runs his stubble against your neck, feeling warmth flood his chest as you start to squirm and giggle, teeth clinging onto your pacifier to keep it in place. He laughs softly at the sight, nipping the side of your neck playfully before picking you up, lying you down on your back in the bed. He raises your shirt up, dipping his head down to your stomach.

“Maybe I should. You look so sweet.” He teases, planting kisses all over your soft stomach as you wriggle underneath him. Your paci slips from your mouth as you laugh, your hands coming down to try and push him away by his head. 

“Daddy, you can't eat me!” You say between giggles, kicking your feet out slightly. He doesn't relent, blowing raspberries against your tummy, making you squeal. “You're so silly.”

“Oh, but I can.” He says, grinning against your soft skin. His head trails lower, nudging your clit through the fabric of your pyjama shorts, peeking up at your face as he hears a soft gasp coming from you. “In fact, I thought you liked when daddy did that.”

You don't really get a chance to reply, ‘cause he's grabbing your discarded pacifier and slotting it into your mouth, tapping your hips twice in a gesture that you've come to understand means up.

He slips your shorts and panties off in one motion, his eyes locked onto the sticky string of arousal that connects the gusset of your panties to your pretty cunt as he peels them off. He shudders as he chucks then to the side, his big hands grabbing the fat of your thighs to spread your legs. He dives in, pressing a kiss to the hood of your clit. He chuckles as you whine, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure up your spine.

“You like it when daddy kisses your princess parts, baby?” His tone is sickly sweet as he speaks just before diving in, tonguing into your entrance to gather up the slick pooling there. All you can do is nod dumbly, biting down on the pacifier in your mouth as you moan around it, your noises muffled by the plastic.

He only ever pauses in fucking you with his tongue to shower you with kisses and praise, talking about how pretty you are as he presses his lips against your tummy and the inside of your thighs. He coos at you and squeezes your hips in his hands, making sure to show you how much he loves you.

He laps eagerly at your release when you finally tense up and come, relishing in the sweet taste that coats his tongue, lips and stubble. He just pulls back and grins, wiping it off with the bottom of his shirt before tugging it up entirely.

Your gaze is locked onto him as he strips, the pacifier in your mouth bobbing as you suck on it. You wriggle slightly on the bed, propping yourself up against the plush pillows so you can watch as he prods at you before slowly sinking into you with a groan.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He says through gritted teeth, doing his best to stay still as your tight heat envelops him. “Not too sensitive?”

“M'good, daddy.” You slur around your paci, your brows furrowed slightly from the stretch of his fat cock. Your thighs are shaking slightly, but he trusts you're telling the truth. His little princess knows better than to lie to daddy.

“Good… good girl.” He hums, running a hand up your side, gripping your waist before he starts to move his hips, slowly fucking into you.  He moves his hands to the back of your knees, pulling your ass flush against his thighs before folding you in half, pressing your knees to your chest by leaning his weight down on you, your legs thrown over his shoulders.

“Fuuuuck.” He hisses, kissing the tip of your nose before pressing his forehead against yours, fucking deep into you with every thrust. He gets so deep like this - filling every inch of you up in a way that has you gasping and whining.

Your pacifier slips from your mouth and drops onto the bed again, one of your hands opening and closing in a grabbing motion. “Hand, daddy.”

His hand finds yours, locking your fingers together and giving it a little squeeze. He smiles softly, his thick length rutting into you as he presses you further into the mattress. He grunts as he feels your walls starting to clamp down on him, his breaths coming out in short pants.

“That's it, cutie. Cum for me.”

“Daddy!” You moan, back arching as your orgasm hits. You squirt all over him, bursts of sticky fluid covering his lower abdomen. It drips down his cock and coats his balls, soaking the sheets underneath you.

“Such a messy baby, huh?” He breathes out, his hips stuttering as you flutter around him, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully. “Your pretty sheets are all ruined.”

He drops his head into the crook of your shoulder, panting as he bottoms out, shooting thick ropes of cum deep into your pussy. He can't bring himself to pull out, so he pulls you against his body and manoeuvres you so you're lying on top of him without ever leaving you.

“There we go. Such a good girl. My precious angel.” He whispers breathlessly, his chest heaving slightly from the intensity of the orgasm. He runs his hand up and down your back, petting you gently.

“I love you, princess.” He murmurs against the shell of your ear, kissing it lightly.

“Love you more, daddy.”

[blog-o-meter]

Absolution - Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May our lord absolve me of my sins.

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

How can one lust over a man of the cloth?

Another yank of the band — SNAP.

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

SNAP.

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

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

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

SNAP.

God, give me strength.

SNAP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For a moment,” I mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Continue,” he ordered.

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

THWIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple of weeks pass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pretty,” I heard behind me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a distraction,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

SNAP.

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

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

He is my sin and my saving grace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amen,” I whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charlie,” I moaned into his ear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For now, that had to be enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[heartshapedbubble]

Ooo could you write luchino and wu chang walking in on their s/o getting punched in the mouth. The context that they missed is that s/o tried to stop a fight but ended up getting their ass handed to em, it did work tho! Fight did stop, mission failed successfully lol

Oh hey look a scorpion 🦂

i love asks like these they make me smile so hard when i get them (these r a bit short tho sorry :c)

scorpion i hope you're still with us now in the moment of posting🙏🙏 you're a real warrior

luchino diruse and wu chang walking in on their s/o getting punched in the mouth hcs🦎☂️

luchino diruse🦎

"Amore mio, where are y- What just happened? What have you done to them!?"

jumps the second he sees the scene in front of him, going straight for the other person's head

you'll have to restrain (warning: very hard considering he weighs the same as an adult grizzly bear and your hands will hurt due to his scales) and keep convincing him for a good 5 minutes that it's your fault, not theirs

good luck with having the patience to get that through tho since he's going to be spewing insults in italian at them and hissing, seeing only red

once it finally gets to him he's... confused? but at the same time he feels incredibly ashamed and will apologize profusely to the other person

as you two get going he's going to groan about how careless you can be and how sometimes you should rethink things before acting

all that complaining while he simultaneously plants you on his shoulder and wipes the blood from your face :')

"Tsk, splendore, you should really think things through first with that head of yours... promise me that you'll be more careful next time, piantagrane, will you? "

wu chang☂️

"___, dearest? Where are you- Oh my!"

xie tries to avoid conflict at all costs so he's quite stumped at first

the first thing he goes for is you, kneeling down and grabbing you the second before you lose your balance and hit the floor

not releasing you from his grip (in fact, he pulls you even closer to him), he starts questioning the other person, his tone hostile and less composed than usual

he's not that much of a hothead so telling him the truth won't take long, and he'll formally apologize to the other person for accusing them, although puzzled on why you're being so defensive of them - you were the one who got hit, after all...

the second you two get a bit further away he starts tending to your injury, not wasting any time, wiping blood off of your lips and nose with his sleeve and checking your jaw in case of broken teeth

"I'm so relieved it wasn't anything worse than this... but please, sweetie, will you be more careful next time? You almost gave me a heart attack... I know you had good intentions, but sometimes you really have to know how to control yourself."

~

"___? Come here, where did you g- Ah, god."

fan would barely supress his laughter tbh

goes up to you, picks up the entirety of your body weight with one hand and puts you back on your feet

starts nagging the other person for details, not even being mad, until you tell him what actually happened and he just loses it and starts laughing uncontrollably

takes you by your hand and yanks you away with him, still laughing as he says his goodbyes

wujiu can be evil yes (especially in this scenario) but he's not a complete asshole 😞 although he'll annoy you to no end about your failed little heroic attempt to stop a fight he'll be doing it so you're going to be less focused on him brushing the blood off your chin with his thumb (GOD FORBID wujiu shows affection without sneaking in something mean)

"Jeez, ___, you should have seen your face when you got hit! You should have known what was coming the second you tried to intervene... H-hey now, would you stop wriggling?! There's more blood under your nose..."

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for getting angry with my mom for trying to help me with my self-esteem?

Okay so I honestly have no idea if I’m the AH or not, bc I’ve come up with mental arguments for both. It’s nothing too serious, just something I’ve been wondering about for a while. The whole situation is just so weird that I’m throwing it to the courts of Tumblr.

To make a long story short, I (2XF) dislike being perceived just like… in general. I’m fine in private contexts but whenever I’m going out in public I’ll typically wear looser clothing, long sleeves, etc. There’s no particular trauma or anything for this, it’s just the way I’ve always been since I can remember.

Recently I told my mom (5X F) about my reasoning (don’t like to be looked at) and after a brief panic where she thought I meant someone was making me uncomfortable she understood that it’s just like. A general thing. I know it’s kind of weird but I thought that was it and moved on.

After that conversation started bringing home clothes for me that were more form-fitting, low cut, sheer, etc. I liked them and wore them around the house and when visiting friends but again, not in public. I didn’t think much of it bc she’d say things like “I bought this for myself but I don’t like how it looks on me, if you like it you can keep it” or “my friend was getting rid of this, do you want it?” but apparently she was actually buying these things. I didn’t think anything of it (before I knew she was buying the clothes) bc we do that sort of thing all the time, one of the things we bond over is secondhand searching and clothing swaps.

But one day she came back with a bikini. On one hand this was very thoughtful of her, bc she knew I was looking for a new swimsuit since mine had gotten all faded. On the other hand, my previous swim suit was a tennis skirt and a tee shirt so. It was a large departure from my norm.

I told her I wasn’t going to wear it. Eventually it escalated to an actual fight, and she ended up admitting that she was encouraged I was wearing the clothes she gave me regularly and was really worried about my self esteem. Specifically she said I “shouldn’t be ashamed of my body” and that wearing a bikini was “the next step”. Our argument went in circles and both if us walked away mad.

This remains unresolved but has since blown over.

On one hand, I think it’s AH behavior to try to force someone to change how they dress just bc you don’t agree with it, and to assign meaning to what they wear - in either direction! Clothes don’t equal consent but also. On the flip side. Just bc someone is layered it doesn’t mean they have some sort of body issues. I’m an adult, I can choose what I’m comfortable with, and if I’m not comfortable with a bikini then that should be that.

On the other hand, the way she tried to “help” was subtle and respectful, and tbh I know the whole “don’t perceive me” thing is weird so I get where she’s coming from and I don’t think I should’ve gotten so upset with her over it. And part of me says I should’ve just gone with it bc what’s the harm? If I felt uncomfortable then lesson learned, if not then maybe I’m “getting better”.

Idk man. I don’t think I should’ve yelled at her, but I also think it’s weird she brought it up in those terms. So *shrug* it’s up to ya’ll now

What are these acronyms?

[idesireelysian]

discovering their gun kink

how i think you would discover tokrev men’s gun kinks

characters: sanzu, naoto, mikey

wordcount: 0.6k

cw/tw: gn!reader, guns, gun kink, pet names (once; baby), slight talk of kink, suggestive but not nsfw, you can interpret this as a romantic relationship qpr fwbs etc tried to keep it ambigous but what’s established is that you’re fucking

☆—`sanzu

he’s known about his gun kink for a while now

has even lived out the fantasy with someone before you two started fucking

so he’s wanted to tell you for a while

he’s not insecure or embarassed about it at all but communication is kind of hard for him, which is why he thought he could maybe just hint at it. which didn’t work at all

one day, the two of you are on a party hosted by the haitani brothers

somehow, you end up playing truth or dare, and sanzu gets asked what one of his biggest kinks is

he admits that he has a gun kink

later, when you’re in private, you tell him that you’re surprised but certainly open to try it out sometime

he grabs your face and hungrily kisses you right then & there.

☆—`naoto

he hasn’t discovered his gun kink yet.

as a detective, he has his own gun. he decides to show it to you one day because you seemed interested

he lets you hold it and all that, but he unloaded it beforehand for safety

so you jokingly point it at him, slowly drawing closer

naoto doesn’t react at all, which is why you decide to only stop walking right in front of him. you lay a hand on his nape and hold the gun to his temple

so close to him, you can see a blush spread from his cheeks all the way up to his ears

he stays still, no signs of moving away. ,,y/n, can you put the gun down, please?’’, he asks, voice raspy

you do as you’re told, lowering your hand with the gun. ,,why’s that, though? i can see that you’re enjoying it, you know...’’

,,i just- i didn’t expect to get turned on by being held at gunpoint’’, he admits, not looking into your eyes

,,oh? if you want to, we can explore your newly discovered kink’’, you offer and smile

his blush gets even darker, and he nods. ,,please put it back on my temple’’, he asks shyly

,,of course, baby.’’ you shove him against the nearest wall and comply.

☆—`mikey

i feel like he straight up tells you tbh

you’re coming home after work, and see him standing in the kitchen, reaching for his beloved taiyaki

obviously, you decide to sneak up on him and hug him from behind. it earns you a surprised yelp

,,y/n! now you made me drop my food..’’, he complains, but doesn’t make any attempts to leave your grasp and pick it up again

,,yeah, yeah, love you too.’’ you roll your eyes, though can’t help to smile

mikey leans back into your touch, tilting his head back to look at your face

you gently kiss his forehead

,,more..?’’, he asks, and grins

you like kissing him anyway, so you comply, spinning him around to face you first

he immediately leans in to kiss your lips, trying not to smile too much to ruin it

after a few kisses, it starts to get more and more heated, and mikey’s clinging to your body, trying to find naked skin

you shove him against the counter, taiyaki long forgotten

,,y/n? could we.. try something a little more extreme today, maybe?’’, he asks against your lips

,,like what, exactly?’’

,,well, you know. i have a sort of gun kink..’’, he admits, looking right into your eyes. he isn’t ashamed of it

,,hm... sure, if you’d like that!’’ you smile, and cup his cheeks, pulling him into another passionate kiss.

[nellygwyn]

girl ignore this ask if it's invasive or anything but i was enjoying gleaning details about your reconnection with The Boy and would love more tidbits if you care to share. it's very nice thing to be romancing and romanced and i do love to hear of it.

It's not invasive!

There's a line from Sally Rooney's 'Normal People' that I keep turning over and over in my head with regards to George (for that is his name! As many know!): 'I'm not a religious person, Marianne, but I do sometimes think God made you for me.' Insert Jane Eyre quote about invisible strings here too, with a tiny dash of Persuasion by Austen. I have known this boy for 11 years. I feel it isn't silly to say I have had a connection, in varying degrees, with this boy for the same amount of time. To be given a second chance at a relationship feels like, genuinely, a miracle. What's even crazier is that, even though we were together the first time around 7 years ago, the connection was still there, for me at least, like...yes, I am re-acquainting myself with him and he with me, but I just feel like I'm revisiting a favourite book I've not read for a little while.

He's so sweet to me, makes me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world even though I am not (and he must know I'm not tbh sjdisadj). He takes my little hands in his occasionally and kisses them gently, and he puts up with all my little foibles, like the fact I have to be holding his hand at all times and swing it back and forth occasionally. We are relatively long-distance (I say relatively because he's only about 2 hours away from me on the train which, to someone who travels by train all the time, is really inconsequential) so I don't get to see him as often as I would like but we do see each other as often as we can, and I enjoy every little second with him! We are so similar (not EXACTLY the same, but that doesn't matter, I wouldn't want to be the mirror image of my partner) and it makes him v easy to adore. I think he's beautiful, inside and out. He's so smart, he's handsome, he's kind, he's polite, well-dressed, I could listen to him talk about his interests (even when they don't always directly correspond with mine) for hours, he's ambitious, he has promise and potential, and I can see him wowing the country one day, like as a politician (a good, decent one) or something. He wows me very regularly so!!!

I don't wanna like, martyr myself, but I've had a genuinely difficult two years. Don't really wanna go over it all again, but it just feels like I've been surrounded by abuse and disease and death for way too long. Obviously I was pretty ill myself, I did talk about it a bit on here when it was really getting me down. Had a particular chronic reproductive health issue which has only recently been resolved, and it changed my body, it meant that I actually physically could not be intimate, I went from being a sensual person to being a bit touch-repulsed actually (but not bc I found it repulsive, but I genuinely thought I might contaminate or repulse someone else), I didn't even feel like a woman, I felt like a diseased and defective creature...I wanna say it's been difficult to pull myself out of that place but.....it kind of hasn't, because George makes it v easy? I mean, I'm still getting used to the way my body has changed and I genuinely hate myself 99% of the time...HOWEVER....George is gentle, he's attentive, he's genuinely attracted to me (delusional LOL) but he also cares about me as I am, as me, as Olivia. That makes every gesture with him, affectionate, intimate, romantic, sexy, cute, WHATEVER, come so naturally to me. I don't feel ashamed of myself. And.....as much as it pains me to say because I don't think I'm a good person most of the time....I think I deserve to not feel ashamed.

[cannedbeefaroni]

do you do NSFW alphabets? if so could you do one for eli? :)))

Eli Sunday NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He’s crying. He’s unable to control his emotions after climaxing. His post nut clarity would be an absolute nightmare, so he would either need to be held tenderly or to be left completely alone so he can sulk (depending on his mood). 

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He’s a massive prude, so he loses his mind over the slightest bit of immodesty. He loses his composure at the sight of exposed collarbone, chest, shoulders, and even legs. I think his brain would short circuit if he saw an entirely nude body, that's why he’d prefer clothed sex. I think he’d cry upon seeing someone’s bare breasts. He definitely fixates on the chest area more than others. 

His partner would love his ass. He’s got a nice bubble butt. 

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

He swallows as to not waste any semen.

D = Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He gets constant boners. He’s usually unable to relieve himself, but even when he gets the chance he most likely won't. When he’s doing his weird faith healer preaching bullshit his dick probably leaks a little in his pants. He’s way too into it. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s very experienced, but he swears he’s a virgin. Let’s just say he’s been around the block. 

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He’s a bottom forever. He wants to be on his knees, ass up, face down, getting railed. He’d also love sucking dick because he’s obsessed with serving others. 

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

Yes but unintentionally. He says phrases such as “oh! Great heavens!” and “oh dear!”

H = Hair (How well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I don’t think people shaved their body hair back then. I don’t think he’d shave at least tbh. He would have lighter body hair so it wouldn't be all that noticeable anyway. 

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

He’s very back and forth on romantic intimacy. There are times where he feels blissed out and totally in love during the act, and other times he’ll feel mostly ashamed. When he feels romantic he’s very obsessive and praises them as if they’re a gift from god. 

J = Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

He masturbates a lot. Multiple times a day. Sometimes he cums untouched. He has to relieve himself in the fucking haybales surrounded by smelly bleating goats as they drown out his sobbing, because it’s the only place he has privacy. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Hierophilia all the way.  He wants to be degraded for being the disgusting man whore he is as he prays for forgiveness, clutching a rosary as he gets railed. He wants to be a good little lamb for his dom and crave their praise. He wants to be manhandled and slapped around like a stupid little fuckdoll. 

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Probably in a bed considering it would be so rare for him to be able to do it in one without being caught. However he loves getting fucked in church, even if he finds it detestable to do. 

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Big strong men, especially if they’re in either tight or revealing clothing. He also likes older men (COUGH COUGH DANIEL PLAINVIEW COUGH). 

N = No (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He is gay he wouldn’t fuck women (in my opinion). 

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He is obsessed with sucking cock. He is a natural born cocksucker. He needs his throat abused by a big dick. He comes from giving oral alone. If he had his dick sucked or ass ate his eyes would roll to the back of his head and he would ascend. 

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He fucks like a rabbit. He’s just so horny he can't help it. Usually he isn’t the one to set the pace, but while riding he goes pretty fast. 

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Most of his sexual encounters would have to be pretty quick in fear of being walked in on. He usually wants more but beggars can't be choosers. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Everything about him having sex (especially with men, no less) is a risk, so I’d say yes. He’d probably be down for anything. 

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

His dick might be comatose tbh. Sometimes he’s unable to cum at all and other times he cums randomly. That religious trauma does numbers on your cock ngl. 

T = Toys (Do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He would love having any phallic shaped object up his ass. He would shove a crucifix up his ass then cry in guilt after. 

U = Unfair (How much they like to tease)

He’s a bitchy little whiny brat. He thinks he’s so fucking funny and smart but he’s just annoying. He needs to be put in his damn place. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Too loud. Needs a gag during sex. He’s screaming and hollering. 

W = Wild card (A random headcanon for the character)

Not rly a headcanon but he has a big fat ass. 

X = X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Beautiful dick. about 7 inches, perfect girth to length ratio, perfectly circumcised, very smooth, the skin of it is soft. He would however be shy about his dick size, thinking it's obscene, worried that it can't be concealed well. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

On a scale of 1 to 10 he would be a solid 95 

Z = Zzz (How quickly do they fall asleep afterwards?)

I don’t think he sleeps.

[lookismaddict]

Lookism Chapter 439 Memes/Thoughts I Have:

(SPOILERS !!! I don’t own any of the Lookism panels and the translations. Only the memes that I made.)

God, I was looking forward to doing this chapter review today but then my day really started off not as good as I hope for. But it’s ok. I just hope that this review will be uplifting for me while it’s being made. Anyways, CH. 439 EVERYBODY!! WOOOOOOOO!!! I LOVED READING THIS CHAPTER. SO, LET’S GET INTO IT.

Um... Jichang? Try him. 😀

UMMM... SORRY JICHANG, WHAT WAS THAT? CAN'T HEAR YOU FROM THE SOUNDS OF GETTING YOUR ASS BEAT... 🙄

Wow. So it really has come to this, huh? I didn't wanna do a Master vs. Student comparison because Daniel was trained by Gun, not James. Although James didn't personally train him, Daniel did get some of his moves from him so he's clearly a beast... Damn.

Daniel Park, a model? 👀 I can't believe I made a clothing brand flyer out of these panels. 💀💀💀

Tbh the Allied shirt that Daniel is wearing looks so fucking dope. 🔥 If PTJ ever drops the actual merch for Allied, I really wanna purchase one so badly. The design is so sick, and you already know Imma stunt on them hoes if I ever get my hands on a shirt. 🤪

He's really just playing around with them, huh? Especially Daniel. 😭

I swear, Hudson and Jay are only in this chapter to provide reactions to the fight. They really do be representing the crowd. 🔥 THE CROWD SAYS :O

This shot of Jichang is so cool ngl... and hot. 💀💀

Bruh he really do be thinking this.

JESUS CHRIST- DANIEL IS GETTING SLICED AND DICED LIKE HE'S A STALK OF VEGETABLES. PEPPERS? OK! ONIONS? YOU GOT IT! GARLIC? I GOT YA COVERED!!! 😜🌶🧄🧅

Jichang looking all sinister, like he about to end Daniel with the most deadliest Karate chop of the century. BUT OH GOD, DANIEL NOOOOOOOOO!!! 😭😭😭😭

*inhales* Bro... you guys had no idea how much I was jumping at that first panel right here. Jumping and running around and shit. My reaction was literally, "No... Noooo wayyyy... Nooooo FUCKING WAAAAYYYYYYYYY... PTJ, YOU'RE LYING!!!!!! IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING????? OH MY FUCKING GOD!!! LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! UI DANIEL IS BAAAAAACCCCCKKKKKK!!!!!!!" 😤😤😤😤😤😤😤

And not me anticipating a Gun Park memory because it always happens whenever Daniel is in UI... (or at least, Gun is mentioned whenever he's in the zone... Auto Zone. 😩 If you get the reference, ily.)

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT'S GUNNNNNNN!!!! I KNEW IT, WE'RE GONNA GET ANOTHER SCENE WITH THIS HOT ASS MESS OF A MAN. 😩😩🔥🔥🔥🔥 UGGGHHHH IMMA CREAM ON HIM I SWEEEAAAARRRRRRRRR. HE CAN EAT ME UPPPPP AND BEAT THIS COOCH UP ANYDAY. GOT ME QUIVERING SHIIIIIII 😩😩😩💢💢💢💢💢 Also, is he NAKED??? 😳 Bruh. He's naked around Daniel, but he isn't naked around his previous successors. Hmmm... do I sense... favoritism? And why is Daniel kneeling down in front of him. Don't tell me they "fought". 👁👁 Or he gave Gun a good suck. Pero come on Daniel, tell us that his dick is huge. GINORMOUS. MASSIVE. LENGTHY. THICK. HEAVY??? LMFAAAOOOOOOOO OK, I'LL STOP.

Hehehe, if you aren't familiar with this by now-

*N S F W M E M E W A R N I N G*

(If you're not comfortable with inappropriate memes, then just scroll past them.)

This really is my mind 24/7. You should know me by now and how I want this man soooooooo badlyyyyyy. God, I want this man to ram me so goddamn good. Legs shaking, loud moaning, ass smacking, hair pulling, back blowing... AEUUUUGGGGHHHHH. 😩😩😩💗💗💗💗 I just wanna keep it real. I'm not ashamed or sorry. 🤷🏽‍♀️ If you don't want me to simp so badly, then you shouldn't have followed a Gun simp in the first place. 😤

OH MY GOD- OF COURSE HE'S INTO CHOKING. 😩😩 PTJ, YOU'RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE. MAKING ME EVEN MORE NEEDY FOR HIM, FUUUUUCCCCKKKKK.

"Leave your body to Lady Death." God, that gave me chills. 🥴HNNNNNNGGGGHHHH EVEN THAT SMIRK TOO. GOD, I'M GOING FERALLLLLLLL. HE'S SO SEXY!!! CHOKE ME, DADDY GUN. 😭😭😭 HE REALLY GOT ME IN A MENTAL CHOKEHOLD, I'M JUST SAYINGGGGGG.

CALL ME DELUSIONAL. IDC AND IDGAF. I WANT GUN TO CHOKE ME. 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️

Ok I'm done. *sighs*

*E N D O F N S F W M E M E S*

Man... I love psychotic men. Men who go crazy insane with power. Men who are overpowered. Men who can silence anyone. Men who can dominate others. Men who can beat the shit out of anything and anyone. MEN WHO CAN RUIN OTHER PEOPLE'S SELF-ESTEEM. MEN WHO CAN TAKE AWAY THEIR WILL TO FIGHT. MEN WHO CAN SLAUGHTER ALL OF THEIR ENEMIES ONE BY ONE WITHOUT CARING. MEN WHO- ok I'll shut up about my taste in men.

Oh my lord, look at UI Daniel fight so diligently and so swiftly too. AND DAAAANNNGGG DUDE, LOOK AT THE IMPACT HE HAD ON JICHANG'S BACK!!! He for sure is a menace, no doubt about it.

I love how hyped their fight was. LOOK AT JICHANG'S FACIAL EXPRESSION TOO!! HE REMINDS ME OF SAMUEL IN SOME OF HIS FIGHTS HAHAHAHAHAHA INSAAAAAAANE

BRUH, ISN'T THAT THE OLD MAN ON THAT TRACTOR??? 👀

I KNEW ITTTTT BRO. IT'S THE SEOUL GRANDPA. Also, I'd like to point out how interesting it is that UI Daniel suddenly faded away as if he doesn't exist anymore, when Daniel suddenly retreated from subconsciousness. I almost forgot that it took UI Daniel a while to cease due to the drugs that Daniel's other body was on in that room full of shrooms, back in that arc with Vivi's Club.

YEAH BRO, YOU BETTER RESPECT DANIEL NOW. And how did Jichang not notice that he looked like Jinyoung Park? Like... everybody did except for him. Come on sir, get with the program. 🧍🏽‍♀️

OMG...??? GAPRYONG KIM'S DRIVER??? 🤭🤭🤭 DAMN, EVERYONE WHO WAS A PART OF GAPRYONG'S FIST CAN BEAT ANYONE UP. EVEN HIS DRIVER CAN KICK ASS. 😧 Also... bro. Wtf. Does that mean that they fought for no reason? They got THEIR ASSES BEAT FOR NO REASON??? MAAAAAANNNN WHAT DID I FUCKIN TELL YOU, JICHANG AND DANIEL??? IN THE PREV REVIEW, I SAID THAT YOU COULD'VE SETTLED THIS THE CIVILIZED WAY, BUT WHAT DID Y'ALL DO? Y'ALL THREW HANDS. And poor Jay and Hudson. They fought their asses off against some people of Chungcheong and FOR WHAT??? 😭😭😭 WELL, I GET IT. IT'S FOR DANIEL. BUT COME ON MAN, THEY BEEN THROUGH SOME TRASH-TALKING AND SOME INJURIES FOR NOTHINGGGGG. Idk, that just pissed me off. But, the purpose of those fights was to show how much they improved. I admit though, they did improve A LOT and I'm proud of the both of them. Even Daniel too, who just fought with a First Generation King to the point that Jichang had to get into serious FIGHTING MODE. Here kings, your crowns. 👑👑👑 I keep saying this repeatedly, but we better get the full explanation of Jinyoung's backstory or else. Imma go over to PTJ, grab him by the collar, and- 😤😤👊🏽👊🏽👊🏽👊🏽 /j

Not kidding. Oops-

[crescentpaws]

the character everyone gets wrong

a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

what was the last straw that made you finally block that annoying person?

worst discord server and why

which ship fans are the most annoying?

what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

worst part of canon

worst part of fanon

number of fandom-related words you've filtered

the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

worst blorboficiation

that one thing you see in fics all the time

that one thing you see in fanart all the time

you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

there should be more of this type of fic/art

it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

part of canon you found tedious or boring

part of canon you think is overhyped

your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

ship you've unwillingly come around to

topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

Answer all of em!!!!

(For KOTLC or any fandom that you really wanna do)

LMAO ok… if you insist ☝️ (dashes are for questions i’ve already answered)

1. -

2. still no comment on this one.

3. idk i can’t rlly remember any awful takes off the top of my head LMAO. haven’t even been here that long so

4. bold of you to assume i remember anyone i block

5. i don’t use rlly discord (wow these answers are so exciting)

6. sokeefe for SURE and i don’t think anyone can disagree with me on this

7. already answered but i need to say it again. KEEFE. maybe i’d like him a bit more if some people didn’t make literally EVERYTHING about him (also if people stopped commenting “this looks like keefe” on my art)

8. once again using this as an opportunity to spread my short haired fintan propaganda. that guy would not be able to maintain long hair. he’d accidentally burn it off or something. also dex is not a cinnamon roll. marella is bisexual, not a lesbian. king dimitar is irrelevant to me and the bit is sometimes annoying. alden is not abusive. fitz is not manipulative. keefe is not mature enough for a relationship with sophie. (+ princess purryfins is the size of a goldfish, not a full-sized cat! vertina is literally only a head, she does not have a body!)

9. -

10. sokeefe vs sophitz. like we’re not getting anywhere by arguing about this why don’t we all just take a deep breath and calm down a bit

actually i guess that’s more the fandom itself ummm idrk i hate how some of y’all demonize characters for the stupidest reasons (just being silly btw don’t take any of this too seriously)

11. -

12. -

13. dex honestly. tam too but personally i’ve seen it happen with dex wayyy more

14. i don’t read fics 😜👍 can’t ever find ones that sound interesting

15. people forgetting to draw the registry pendants 😢 guys give them back their pretty little necklaces

16. -

17. -

18. -

19. honestly no idea… i’ll get back to this one

20. again, the love triangle. also pretty much all of stellarlune LMAO. i swear most of that book was just them talking about stuff they were going to do instead of actually doing it 💀 also shannon was pushing the kenric / oralie agenda way too hard in that book tbh like guys kenric is dead literally nothing can come out of this. it’s irrelevant and i don’t care!!!

21. keefe 😊👍 again. does not deserve all that hype

22. fintan on the other hand….. also the peace summit scene is under appreciated it’s so funny (as well as every other fintan scene tbh)

23. gonna be so real back in 2019/2020 i was a hardcore believer of aroace fintan and i hated pretty much every fintan ship so. old me would be horrified to know what my current favorite ship is. (still basically hate every other fintan ship tho LMAO)

24. once again sokeefe vs sophitz lmao 💀 or honestly just fitz vs keefe. we do not need to be doing this guys.

25. “dex on the cover!” “dex needs more page time!” WRONG! we need more marella page time. we need another marella cover!! we need more fintan page time!!!!!!!!!

[typekiku]

TSUKIHIME FASHION REVIEW 3!!!

under the dark crimson moon, i write this newest entry of the much awaited much beloved tsukihime fashion review.

it's a duty i must carry out for the sake of the generations of lost sheep both before and after my time that have yet to truly appreciate the true depth of style that is contained within the single greatest visual novel known to mankind (according to me)

yet, i feel as if i am not doing my duty to its fullest... how can i possibly adequately sum the glory of todays fashionista? how can i dare attempt to sum that up?? no! i cannot waver in my faith in my incredibly lacking writing skills nor fear people figuring out this barely has anything to do with fashion... I WILL PERSEVERE!!

on with the show as the youth say!

(SPOILER ALERT: i should mention ill probably end up spoiling a shit ton of oghime and whatnot here so watch out)

so without further ado todays subject is:

drum roll

MORE DRUM ROLL

thanks uhh whatever you are from

MICHAEL ROA VALDAMJONG

yes the one and only roa

BROA

the legend himself, the Serpent of Akasha, Uroboros, the founder of the burial agency, the infinite reincarnatior, and professional Arcueid simp.

we have gathered here today to judge his design and uh fashion ig and whatever else i feel like ranting today about.

lets get right to it.

look at this dude all shirtless and shit like cmon so shameless... cover em up damn. seriously tho this man has a thing for showing off his (or should i say others) bodies like you will see soon.

i guess this comes down to him enjoying the freedom of being fully in control of whatever body he is currently occupying actually?

maybe this is some super deep look into the merits of semi nudism or whatever idk im not smart.

probably takeuchi just wanted an excuse to draw some seriously ripped abs actually i mean this might seriously be the most abby abs we ever see in any TM work. its fucking shredded and roa probably knew that. weirdo

on the flipside that majestic hair is simply incredible. DAMN thats some 10/10 hair. only other hair in this series that compares is my wife arcueid's long hair before her mean little (Older actually but idc) Altrouge got all mean and shit.

umm who is this? what happened to my incredible haired roa?? TAKEUCHI WHERE ARE YOU??? someone please give me back long haired roa... this isnt funny...

do you see what we lost? long gorgeous haired roa should've stayed and im genuinely upset we lost him to this admittingly much better dressed roa. im ashamed of you serpent of fraudkasha

fr tho where tf did he even get this rockstar ass drip anyways? we know SHIKI has been locked up in the outside house for awhile before released thanks to a certain maid... did he just drop by the local hot topic or whatever? did he manifest it through sheer willpower and arcueid simpery?

understandable tbh i too acheive things through arcueid simpery such as dirty stares and social exclusion!!

for reference, here is SHIKI

yea

i guess he just uhh changes him which in hindsight is really fucking sad to think about so lets not

uhh ANYWAYS

ok so ignoring ciel on the right elesia or should i say roa decides the very first thing hes gonna do in poor elesias body is to strip it naked

huh?

yea roa is definitely a weird one. no wonder the other ancestors hate him (besides nero because he is #HIM)

sick cape tho

why is he so hot here actually? what the hell? i underestimated his looks like damn

no really why is he so hot anyways he should look like an absolute freak like he actually is. i see you roa. i see you got that long braid wrapped around your neck like damn son... you may have fallen in love with a literal killing machine and never even got to speak to her till the very very end but i see you.

rizzless bastard.

well thats enough from me so ill drop this classic mahoyo line because i found it very funny without context.

ciao!

[godteri-takk]

I hate that i cant remember names of other peeps oc SORRY

But u have coral? It think so

To them 2, 6, 9, 18, 37, 43

And to Kation: 12, 15, 18, 24,

Anddd to u

Coral: A, B, J

Kation A, B, J as well

Oh wow this is a LOT! This'll be so fun to answer thank you :D theres art too! Image:desc in ALT

Coral (she/he)

2: How easy is it for them to laugh?

Laughter doesn't always come easy to him, and for long he was ashamed of her laughter. It's a snorty laugh in short quick puffs, I think it's really cute! She feels comfortable laughing around close friends tho, especially late at night after a long hang-out with candy and music :)

6: Do they consider laws flexible or immovable?

She want to be rebellious but in his heart, he thinks they're immovable.

9: Do they swear? First swear word?

He started swearing only after he'd Fallen, and the first one was shit xD

18: What embarrasses them?

Being wrong, wearing clothes he's not comfortable with, not having control over his body, showing people his vent-art, stuttering, being judged, being messy, a lot of things honestly.

37: Do they have a system to remember things?

She ties the thing she need to remember to a visual picture. For example, if needing to remember how to spell the word "carpet" she'll imagine a little kitty in a car. Car-pet.

43: how would they explain their sexuality?

Ooooh that could've been a post on its own tbh. No! I'll keep it brief! Coral is objectum. He's aroace when it comes to people. His beloved objects, his partners, are Boy! the bunny plushie, Rey the computer, Sugar the flip-phone and Stellar the chain. They're depicted in both the ref-sheets :) So the main type of objects he's attracted to are plushies, technology, chains and sometimes buildings :) But you know, just as with other sexualities, she's not attracted to EVERY object tn these categories, just as lesbians aren't attracted to ALL girls.

Kation (hen/she/it)

12: How do they deal with a itch in a spot they can't reach? (Thats so spesific what XD)

Can only imagine that being its back. Use a stick or rub its back against something like a corner, a tree, the couch, anything

15: How do they speak?

She talks on the spot and use a lot of slang and some swear-words, she's quite outspoken and its emotions affect their tone a lot. Its voice is kinda deep and rough/ragged, with a growl hiding just under the surface of the voice.

18: what embarrasses them?

Failing in things hen thought hen was good at, sharing vulnerable feelings, admitting flaws, being considered weak or mean

24: Are they comfortable talking about sex? With whom?

Kation is very confident in its sexuality and is comfortable with talking about it with anyone who wants to! It's just a casual topic to her.

To Me!

A: What am I excited about these characters?

About Kation I love its design and powers and personality, I love to draw hen and Imagine hen in all kinds of scenarios, how hen interact with others, anything. Designing outfits for both Kation and Coral is super fun, about Coral i love his emotional life, her facial expressions, that she's objectum, his past, his inner conflicts and problems and worries.

B: what inspired me to create them?

Kation was created because I needed a main character in my comic. Hen is a fat, nonbinary demon cus those are all things i think we should see more in media. Well... mostly the first 2, there's a lot of demons lol. But i think those 3 things is a great combo! Coral, as first depicted here, I just drew him cus I wanted to redraw the album photo for Replicas Redux by Gary Numan (with Are 'Friends' Electric? in mind). But I didn't want to draw the guy himself so i just switched him out w a demon i designed on a whim. I liked her design a lot and decided to add her to the lore of the comic i made, and make him Kations best friend, soon with lore of his own!

Question J was only for fandom OCs it seems so ... yeah :)

Wow this was fun!!! Thank you so much I hope it was interesting, either way i now have a cool post with lots of OC lore n stuff!