#mm hell

[good-advice-ganondorf]

Tfw you're transported to the alternate universe where everything is a metaphor for your complicated relationship with what it means to be grown up

[bacchuschucklefuck]

doing chibi is a good design exercise bc it forces u to think on shapes n essential details, essentially thumbnailing ur designs. its also a terrible design exercise bc it ends up looking cute no matter what

[n1ebieski]

Not a Leafs fan but forever a Mitch Marner sympathizer and defender, and so I had to say something. We are barely into the preseason, and I'm already seeing the complaints and whining about him. They didn't even have anything of substance to complain about, the posts weren't even about his playing. One post was a screencap of him mid-sentance with the coach, and the MAIN complaint about it was "He looks too zesty". Zesty??? That's your problem here? You couldn't find anything else to nitpick, or anything constructive to point out, so you made a post to complain he looks too "zesty" when he talks? ffs. You are a grown man. Keep it together.

[sashimew-the-cat]

Trying out more Perspective illustrations with Raph

(Click for better quality)

[our-wishes-and-whispers]

Niles

[bunmurdock]

hey bun :) what you said ab performance anxiety got me thinking... i love the new/young lawyer take, but may i present to you: bitter academic rivals w dark!mean!matt

you’re an anxiety-ridden student at Columbia Law and you have a visceral hate for Matthew Murdock. he’s always been cocky and smug, sometimes even downright mean with the snide comments he makes about your test scores falling just short of his. you have no clue what the hell you did to make an enemy of him, but when two weeks pass and he still makes an effort to contradict every point you make in front of the entire class, you’re over him being a menace and start being snippy back. 

thus begins a long, long semester of the two of you trading thinly veiled insults and barbed comments, only cordial when in front of professors (and sometimes Foggy, who’s become something of a neutral mediator that both of you had an unspoken agreement to respect). 

but as finals approach, you’re starting to work yourself into a frenzy. your caffeine intake has skyrocketed. you barely eat, and when you do, it’s granola bars and chips and sometimes fruit roll ups (i.e. library snacks that can be easily stowed in your bag), not actual food. you’re always in the library, leaving in the early hours of the morning to trudge to your dorm to catch a few hours of sleep before dragging yourself out of bed to get to the dining commons as soon as they open, scarfing down whatever is quickest, and then hightailing it back to the library before it gets packed. 

it’s become something of a routine for you, to the point that even Matt has noticed. and far from being relieved that his academic rival was driving herself into the ground trying to beat him (which strokes his ego, i’m sure), Matt is more… irritated? like, you and Foggy are the only people he really keeps a metaphorical eye on. it’d be hard not to with Foggy because that’s his roommate, but with you, he’d actually had to put some effort into getting to know you (i.e. stalking recon), so he’s more than a little miffed that your downfall is going to be at your own hands instead of his own. sure, he’d still win this little cat and mouse game you two have been playing, but it wouldn’t be as satisfying, you know?

the day before your final, you’re barely even functioning. you’ve been running off caffeine and empty calories for so long that your memory has started to suffer, a fact you’d become forced to come to terms with when you got to the library and realized you’d been in such a hurry to leave that you’d left your laptop—which held all your notes and court documents—on your desk, charging. 

you’d been close to tears as you made the trek back to your dorm, feeling as though everyone you passed was staring at you, aware of your monumental mistake. 

as you fumble with your keys in front of your door, you could already feel yourself choking up, your vision blurry as the tears well up in your eyes. god, you’d been working so fucking hard for the past week. you were in the home stretch now, the second most important day of the semester (the first being actual day of the final, of course) and you somehow managed to screw up in the most pathetic way possible. it was your fucking laptop, for god’s sake! how stupid could you be to forget the one object that was arguably the most important thing in your life at this moment. 

sniffling, you just managed to get your door open when you hear someone say your name behind you. you turn around and see Matt of all people. you’re too sleep-deprived to be mad (or wonder how he’d gotten in your building without a key, or how he’d even known what building you lived in), and it takes all your energy to tell him, “i’m not in the mood.” 

it comes out more defeated than you’d wanted it to, but you’re too tired to care, hurrying inside and going to shut the door—only for Matt to shoot out a hand and stop it just before it closes. 

“the fuck do you want, Murdock?” you ask, your voice shaky and exasperated. “i promise you can’t make my day any worse than it is, so don’t waste your time.”

his expression is one of contemplation, his eyebrows furrowed behind his dark glasses. “you’re upset,” he states, sounding almost… disappointed?

you can’t help but laugh wetly at how fucking pathetic you must be for the blind guy to notice. “and?” you challenge, the word feisty despite your obvious distress. you try to shut the door again, but he doesn’t let you, an aggravated noise leaving you as the conversation is prolonged. “why do you care?” 

he pauses for a moment, weighing his words carefully. “you need an 89% on the final to stay at an A,” he says evenly, and you’re too tired to wonder how he knows your grade. “if you want to go up to an A+, though, you need at least a 94%.”

your eye twitches in irritation, and you get the strong urge to punch him right in his stupid face. you manage to control yourself though, gritting out, “get to the point or i’m breaking your nose.”

it’s a bluff. you’ve never punched anyone in your life, but you know how to make a fist without breaking your thumb and you’re angry enough to not be worried about the consequences of violence against another student—a dangerous combination as far as you’re concerned. Matt, however, seems delighted at the prospect, his eyebrows raising in silent challenge as the cocky grin you’ve grown to hate slides onto his face. 

“my point,” he says slowly, as though explaining it to a child, “is that i’m already going to get points taken off my final because of that little stunt i pulled last week.” he’s referring to last Wednesday, when he’d gotten so pissed off at the professor’s reasoning for a case he’d been a judge for that he’d blatantly insulted him in front of the entire class, and had been swiftly told that points would be docked for ‘unprofessionalism’. “so even if i ace the test, i won’t be getting any higher than an A in the course.”

you blink once in the 10-second silence that follows, understanding what Matt was saying but not understanding why he was saying it. 

Matt sighs, as though not sure why you weren’t quite getting it. “you want to beat me, right?” he asks exasperatedly. 

“well, duh,” you say, though your thoughts are admittedly more along the lines of physically beating him rather than beating him academically. 

“so stop fucking crying,” he spits condescendingly, leaning in close to hiss the words mere inches away from your face.

you’re not totally sure what comes over you, but your fuse is so short that you don’t even hesitate, flinging the door open and smacking him across the face. the sound echoes through the deserted hallway, and in the silence that follows, you’re not sure who’s more surprised, you or Matt. 

apologizing is out of the question. he was being an asshole. he’s been an asshole to you all semester, and though you’d done your best to give as good as you got, it was tiring to have to mentally prepare yourself for every 2-hour lecture just because Matt was going to pick on you. he was an asshole. he’d deserved it. but still, smacking a blind guy who had no real way to defend himself didn’t exactly sit right with you.

for a moment, you both stare at each other, jaws dropped, and in the next, Matt has surged forward, crashing your lips together. the kiss is rough and messy, but you’re too tired (and he’s too horny) to care. his foot kicks the door shut and he spins you around so that you’re pressed against it, caging you in with his body. you have half a mind to try and shove him off, to hit him again and tell him to get the fuck out. Matt had been a pain in your ass since day one, constantly taunting you and belittling your knowledge of the law. he wasn’t someone you’d ever pictured yourself doing this with… but then he shoves a leg between yours, chucking menacingly at the strangled sound that leaves you, and your mind begins to spiral with a mix of fatigue and—surprisingly—arousal. 

“always so fucking difficult,” he mutters between kisses, his fingers already dipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. “if i’d known all it took to shut you up was some goading and a kiss, i’d’ve done this sooner.”

he dips his head to kiss you again, and you bite at his lip and palm at his hard on in retaliation, smugly noting the way his hips twitch and his jaw clenches. 

“funny,” you say breathily, all thoughts of the library and studying and your forgotten laptop drifting away. “i was about to say the same thing.”

both of you are breathing heavily, sharing the same air, but you gasp as Matt’s fingers slip between your legs, gently running along the hem of your underwear, as though the stitching was a boundary he wouldn’t dare cross without permission. 

“i have a proposition,” he says, his tone strained. “every time i make you come, you get three hours of sleep.” 

you blink, surprised. “t-that’s your proposition? you want me to get more sleep?” the next moment, your eyes narrow, your sleepy, paranoid mind wondering if this is all some ploy to get you to study less and do worse on the final. “are you trying to make me fail?”

Matt huffs out a laugh, and—weirdly—your heart skips a beat. “i’m trying to make sure you don’t.” 

you lick your lips, thinking quickly. “counteroffer,” you say, your own mischievous grin mirroring Matt’s. “every time i make you come, you get a question wrong.”

a triumphant smile makes its way onto your face as Matt’s grin falters, his eyebrows jumping up in surprise. you’d been around Matt long enough to know that he’d have no problem acing the test, but with the professor already docking points for his antics during class, if you could get him to intentionally answer 1 or 2 questions wrong, his grade would drop to an A- or maybe even to a B+, giving you the chance to finally take his spot as #1. 

“you can’t be serious,” he says, seeming astonished that you would even propose that.

you make a nonchalant noise, shrugging. “you’d be surprised,” you say, impressed with your own ruthlessness. “if you’re not willing to take the risk, though…” you trail off, pointedly removing your hand from the bulge in his pants and smirking at the way his mouth immediately twists into a scowl. 

you’ve got him—hook, line, and sinker. 

“fine,” he grits out, taking off his dark glasses. his voice is aggravated but there’s a bit of a manic pride to the smile that makes its way back onto his face, as though he was reveling in the (minimal) danger posed by your suggestion but also proud of that you had thought of such a scheme. 

you barely get the chance to celebrate your victory—and admire just how pretty his eyes are—before his lips are on yours again, his fingers rubbing at your clit until you’re a panting mess. you come once against the door, your moans muffled by his mouth on yours. by the time you’ve quieted down, he pulls back, suave and cocky once more. 

“one.” 

leading him to your bed takes a while, as you’re both shedding clothes while simultaneously trying not to trip on them as they’re discarded. your fingers are fumbling with the button of his pants when he shoves you down onto the bed, kneeling down and resting your legs on his shoulders as he dips his head down and starts licking and sucking at your still-sensitive clit, easing a finger into you as he works you back up again. he’s able to fit three of his fingers in your pussy before you come again, this time having to use a pillow to muffle the sounds you make and avoid being found out. 

“two,” Matt pants, his voiced strained as he rests his forehead against your thigh, his cock throbbing. 

it’s halfway to your third orgasm that he finally breaks, spilling inside his boxers like a fucking teenager as he eats you out, the taste of you on his tongue too much for him to handle. you raise yourself up on your elbows, half-surprised and half-flattered at the dark spot on his front. 

“one,” you giggly teasingly, your mind so foggy with both fatigue and pleasure that everything seems funny. 

Matt only grins in response, quickly shucking off his pants and boxers as he catches his breath, a wicked gleam in his unfocused hazel eyes. 

“i'm still winning,” he says, catching his breath. “i’ll take those odds."

long story short, you sleep 9 hours, the irresistible tug of sleep trying to pull your eyes shut almost immediately after your third orgasm, your body completely wrung out. Matt makes you drink some water before he redresses, pulling a granola bar and some fruit gummies from the bag he’d had slung over his shoulder and placing them on your nightstand, knowing that at this point you're really only half-conscious and trying to get you to eat now would be impossible.

he dresses you in his shirt and helps you back into bed, chuckling softly as how you immediately burrow beneath the blankets, snug and warm and... cute. he brushes the hair out of your face in a movement that’s much too fond for what’s supposed to be a casual hookup borne of spite. you think you feel soft lips ghost against your temple right as your eyes slide shut, but you’re probably just imagining it… right? 

-⭐️

BROOOO YOU WROTE HIM LIKE A MEAN VERSION OF COCKY!S1 MM SOBBBBING SO HARDDDD 

matt murdock who is doubly cocky and triply intelligent and will play cruel, twisted mind games with you but not let you sabotage yourself WHIMPERING SO LOUD SMOKE COMING OUT OF MY EARS BANGING MY FISTS ON THE TABLE

also:

“so stop fucking crying,” he spits condescendingly, leaning in close to hiss the words mere inches away from your face.

H- HEY. *visibly shaking and tearing up* HEY UM WHY.. HOW DID YOUR BRAIN THINK THAT UP AND NOT EXPLO- *explodes*

reader in this fic is so so cute i’m gnawing on my fist. i love the way you characterize both of them, it’s hypnotizing. and maddeningly hot how toxic he is before they hook up whimper.. ꩜_꩜

ANYWAY, THIS FIC IS MY LAST STRAW OKAY. i’ve been getting many a masterpiece in my inbox, i will be creating a masterlist soon so followers can read and reread these posts, attributions to respective emoji friends and all. this is too good to get lost in my inbox tag. thank you so much for sharing, please come back.

share your mm thoughts

[synthshenanigans]

condemn him to chonnys inferno or memento mori

[foolishgroovy]

XMAS TURTLES!!!!!

[natasha-in-space]

Uhm... Thinking about sitting on Unknown's lap today (original, I know) and how this one simple action can reflect on your relationship with him as a whole.

The initial experience is very awkward. Uncomfortable. Weird. For you both, in fact. Of course, you wouldn't know that. Unknown would rather choke on his own words and die than acknowledge that you are causing him to feel out of place. He needs to be in control... And he will go above and beyond to keep that control, even if it makes things more difficult for him in the long run.

He is keeping you on his lap because he hasn't got a setup for you yet. He never intended to bring you here, after all. Not beyond fantasizing about being the cause of your laughter or telling you about his favorite ice cream flavor. He doesn't know why he thought of such stupid things while researching your routine. In any case, it was pointless. The effort he put in was not worth it. All because you made the choice to do what he hates the most.

Lie to his face.

He'll get you for that later, of course. But he keeps you where he can see you for the time being. He could have let you sit on the cold floor, but he didn't. Unknown isn't willing to admit to himself that the thought of letting you sit there reminds him too much of the days spent curled up on the floor of his childhood home.

You have just arrived here, and you are already causing trouble just by being in the same space as him. Causing his thoughts to become erratic when he has so many tasks to complete.

You both look stiff as hell. Your aim is to maintain as much distance between you as possible, mostly for the sake of decency. Unknown allows you to do as you please. He is unaware of how people cuddle, anyway. He is utterly clueless about where to put his hands or what angle to have his head in order to view all that he requires to see on the monitors. Your body is feeling cold and tense. But both of you are silent.

It persists like this for a few days.

His first attempt to pull you close to his chest occurs on impulse. A sudden alert went out, and he had to act quickly to immediately assess the issues. So, he yanked you close, placing his head right on your shoulder, as his nose scrunched up in displeasure.

Only, he stays put even after the problem is resolved. You do the same. Your back feels more relaxed since you don't have to keep your posture upright all the time, and receiving extra warmth from his chest pressed up against your back is a wonderful gift, to say the least. And Unknown finds himself liking the feeling of your body pressing up against his, more than he would like to admit.

It feels soft. And warm. And grounding. He would usually only feel desperate for something like that during short periods of distress when the nightmares are plaguing his mind again. But now, it's very much a reality.

He gets a bit grabby after that. He truly doesn't have any ulterior motives with his actions, but it's only natural for you to get rather uncomfortable when he suddenly kneads at your upper thigh or squishes your sides. Unknown has no clue about what is acceptable or not according to society's standards. And, in his mind, he's only using you as a living stress relief or a stimming toy. Without having a grasp of the concepts, of course.

In fact, if you were to express your discomfort, he would likely offer a muffled apology. He sure doesn't like it when other people touch him without his permission. In a way, he'll understand if you explain why you don't like him doing that.

You are a mystery to him, just as he is to you.

It's only when you two start opening up to each other as people that your working arrangements start to shift. You become more comfortable settling into a relaxed position against him, and Unknown no longer sits stiff as a wooden board, nor does he grab at you like a plush toy or something. You two begin conversing with each other as you go about your duties. Making jokes. Mostly with you doing the jokes and Unknown simply raising a confused eyebrow at you.

You start seeing him as more than just some weird guy who snatched you away into some god-forsaken place, and he starts seeing you as a genuine companion to share his time and thoughts with.

Unknown becomes more relaxed, his shoulders slumped as he rests his chin on the top of your head or on your shoulder, depending on his mood and your height. He starts trying out different positions, and at times you provide him with small hints on where to put his hands, which he actually listens to. He finds that having one arm wrapped snuggly around your middle is one of the most calming things ever, even if his workflow slows a little due to him only typing with one hand. And you find that you can always fiddle with his hair once you feel him get tense or frustrated when something doesn't go his way. One time, he even got so lost in the moment that he hummed and leaned his head into your touch like an affectionate cat begging for pets.

You have never commented on it.

Unknown never knew how touch-starved he was until he had you. The feeling of being touched was pleasant. And it was pleasant to touch someone in return. Your touches were not painful, nor were they conditional. He never had such affection before. He becomes rather hungry for it.

This is why he snarles and tells the unlucky believer who finally brought you a new chair to fuck right off. Rather rudely. Not like he cared.

And once your relationship progresses and becomes romantic, the stiffness and awkwardness of your initial impression feels like a distant dream. Unknown grows bold in his affection for you. Casually peppering the side of your neck with light kisses as he scrolls through the recent log, randomly biting down on your shoulder for... no particular reason at all (is he a cat or something?), nuzzling into your hair with a frustrated huff when things don't go his way.

It's cute. But also a bit annoying. You find yourself working even less effectively than you did when you were just starting out. It's hard to do any work when your boss is actively nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck to keep himself awake. But he doesn't care. It seems that your 'usefulness' is not as important to him as he said.

Your company is more than enough.

[vroomian]

Oc accidentally summons Lucifer through stupid means and it turns out to be just kind of a chill time? The oc is just a regular human who’s kind of living their life and Lucifer is a little weirded out by how this human seems to have no real vices?? But also might be the least judgemental person he’s ever met including god themselves???

But Lucifer can’t go back because oc hasn’t made any sort of wish or deal, and he needs to take ocs soul to send himself home.

Anyway Lucifer gets therapy, a qpr, and to see the good in humanity while he’s on earth. The deal does eventually end but they both find a way to get through it without taking ocs soul, but oc is like well. You can keep being my friend after I die? And Lucifer agrees! Deal made by accident lol.

(Oc dies and ends up in heaven as a winner but requests to go to hell because hey that’s where their friend is)

[misiahasahardname]

hmmm i wonder who my favourite april is…..

idk if i‘ve ever posted the drawing with the purple background. if i have then whatever i really like it

(full doodlesheet below lol)

[borgerrat]

FINALLY MADE SOME ART

[lemurianmaster]

These 2 should have their own netflix show

[ha-bloody-ha]

What we know about the musical episode so far

It airs on March 25

Murdoch hallucinates the whole thing while comatose from a gunshot (apparently to the head?)

It's been floating around at Shaftesbury for nearly a decade

Brackenreid sings a song called "Bloody Hell," written by Paul Aitken and recorded at least eight years ago (I'm guessing this means all the other songs are original as well)

Thomas Craig can SING

Everybody sings! Including Higgins!

Gay! Dancing! Constables!

Have I missed anything?

[recordsplayer]

MARILYN MANSON for LONG HARD ROAD OUT OF HELL

[whump-queen]

In Relief and Reverie

continuation from this

Tags: vampire whump, creepy/intimate whumper, prettyboy vampire whumpee, starvation, worship and withdrawl ~ my usual nonsense

The vampire’s knees were starting to go numb.

He had no idea how long he’d been made to kneel there, at his owner's feet.

Aris didn’t move from where he’d been placed--the heavy rings of steel locked around his neck and his wrists weighed him down and tethered him to them.

Rowe leaned back in their seat, slowly wrapping one hand around the chain on the vampire’s collar. There was a tug on the chain, forcing a sharp exhale from Aris' throat as he was forced to lean in.

Rowe smiled.

The vampire’s eyes stayed locked to the floor, perhaps not willing to give Rowe the satisfaction. But Rowe was fine with that. They knew how to get the mutt’s attention. 

Rowe reached for their pocket, grinning wider. Fingers found what they were looking for; they slid a small shining object from the dark folds of fabric and flicked it open with practiced ease.

Sure enough, those red eyes darted up the moment he heard it—that all too familiar metallic shing that seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room. 

It was the scalpel. 

Again. 

Aris flinched back, expecting the pain, before he saw his owner bring it to their own skin and his eyes went wide.

Rowe snickered and aligned the blade, smug eyes never leaving the vampire for long; they began to carefully drag the blade through the skin on their own shoulder. It slid painfully slowly through the uppermost layers of skin, and Aris’ held his breath–it was so silent he swore he could hear his master’s skin ripping.

He knew nothing cloud prepare him for what was about to happen.

The moment the first bead of blood hit the air, his eyes shot alarmingly wide—irises glowing a bright, hungry red. 

He was panting; his fangs extended to full length without him even realizing. He bit back a whine and exhaled sharply through gritted teeth—his breath was coming in hot and fast—his chest was heaving with desperation—he instantly lunged forward when—

Rowe’s foot moved just slightly, the toe of their boot pressing forward to firmly meet the vampire’s sternum.

The vampire froze instantly. His eyes snapped up to his owner—wide and terrified, yet still alight with that deep hungry red, shining like glowing tail lights.

Rowe just sat there, looking casual as ever. The sole of their boot pressed more firmly into Aris’ chest, pushing him back a bit, and allowing absolutely no room to move forward. It wasn’t a rough gesture, but the message was clear enough.

“Move one more inch without permission and this boot will be buried in your mouth.”

Rowe could feel Aris shudder at the threat– poorly hidden.

“I should whip your back to shreds for what you just did.”

The vampire cringed at the whine that escaped his own lips. He wanted to sink into the floor. He sounded utterly pathetic.

Rowe couldn't help but crack a smile, a low, pleased hum buzzing just behind their teeth.

“You’re lucky you make for such a nice view.”

Rowe sat back, getting comfortable, vowing themselves to enjoy this.

“Today I’m feeling… generous. I might give you a chance to prove you can control yourself before I decide just how badly you’ve fucked up.” 

They leaned casually against the armrest of the chair with their chin resting on their hand. An amused hum slipped past their lips; their features twisted into a narrow-eyed smile as the vampire desperately tried—and failed—to compose himself over and over. 

Rowe let the blood drip freely.

...

It was a losing game, really.

Aris knew it was.

He knew it had been weeks now.

Weeks since he had last been allowed to feed.

But the blood was right there—fresh, delicious, hot, red, human blood—god, his owner had the best blood he had ever tasted—and it was trickling down their collarbone right in front of him and—

He didn’t deserve it.

He had lunged.

Was this all just a trick?

Was he not going to be hurt for this?

He’d rather just get it over with, so he could stop waiting around and suffocating in whatever terrifying limbo this was. 

So he could just suffer and make it better.

Aris knew.

He knew.

He had lunged. He was so sorry.

God, he’d take the beating gratefully if it meant an end to this—to the twisting poisonous feeling that squeezed around his insides.

It was torture, to not know where he stood.

Maybe if Aris took it well, he’d be allowed to beg, to plead and apologize over and over, as many times as Rowe allowed.

But it was a losing game, wasn’t it? 

A game against his own hunger, his instincts, his desperation—against that smell.

And then he understood.

This was his punishment.

To be made to wait.

To be made to fail.

To be locked in an unwinnable battle against the part of his mind that was screaming at him to lunge, to bite, to gnash his teeth like a wild animal, to clamp his jaws around anything he could reach.

It was right there. It was right there— in front of his face.

Rowe held him there for what seemed like ages, watching him with a pleased smirk—pressing the sole of their boot into his chest and swirling around the trickling blood on their own shoulder until the vampire was fucking drooling and whining, ensnared by the smell wafting through the room and the screaming voices in his own head.

At last, Rowe was sure that the vampire had reached his breaking point, that he would say or do anything if it got him out of this. They relished in his pitiful expression when Aris raised his gaze—the defeat in his teary eyes—and God he was pleading—

“Please— it’s been so long since… since you fed me.”

Rowe snickered, uncrossing their legs for a better view.

Perfect.

“Beg properly, pretty thing, and maybe I won’t make your punishment worse.”

The vampire bit straight through his lip trying to stop the low pained whine that slipped out through gritted teeth when he heard them say it. 

’Beg.’

“Please — you— you can’t make me do this—”

“What do you think, another three weeks? Or should we do four? You know I can starve you as long as I want to. It's not like you’ll die.”

Aris choked on his words, his throat closed up at every attempt, and nothing came out but a pitiful, terrified whimper.

Oh, he loathed it. A prouder version of himself might have held out, just to spare himself the shame. But it had been weeks. It had been weeks and god—it was the smell of them.

It was the sound of Rowe’s heart beating.

The way he could feel the blood pulsing through his owner’s veins—it was driving him beyond insane—he could barely think at all—

Fuck it.

His voice cracked and he felt the tears spill over.

That was no time for pride.

A icy pang of dread accompanied the realization that he had never been allowed to beg for forgiveness like this. Not for something this bad.

He only had one chance.

What if he got it wrong?

What if Rowe changed their mind—and—

please, I don’t know what you—

I—I don’t—

I don’t know how to please you.

He gazed desperately at the cut on Rowe’s shoulder through teary, glistening eyes.

Please—this has to work.

Slowly, he lowered himself to the floor, all the way down to Rowe’s shoes.

When that boot didn’t immediately rise up to crack across his face, he allowed himself to exhale, brushing his lips just barely against the cool leather.

The steel toe.

Kissing the thing that could slam into his face at any moment, that could shatter his entire jaw in a second, if Rowe so chose it. He was desperate.

He could only pray that this would please them.

His voice was a shaky whisper against the freshly shined leather—

”Please—please, please, please-”

Slowly but firmly, Rowe's boot hooked under his chin, forcing his head up to face them.

“Almost there, sweetheart.” A sickly sweet smile spread across their face. They could feel him shaking through the leather.

‘God, you're so gorgeous like this.’

“Please what... Come on, pet, tell me what you want.”

Rowe looped the chain that connected to his collar around in their palm once more, and Aris nearly choked when the metal tightened around his throat.

But he stayed down.

He knew better.

“Don’t be shy now, pretty. Tell me what you need.”

Every time Rowe opened their mouth, Aris felt another pang of humiliation hit his chest. He wanted to curl in on himself and cry.

But he knew better, and he pressed his lips once more against the leather of Rowe’s shoes, trailing slow kisses from the steel tip to the laces.

Though the thought of blood never faded from his mind, he started to drift into the task without realizing it.

His head felt fuzzy and so... heavy.

He heard Rowe give a pleased hum from somewhere above him, and felt his mind slowly melting into a foggy, desperate sludge—disorienting waves wrapped around his chest and his head until he was open-mouthed and tonguing at the laces and whining again.

Each breath was laced with an edge of something from deep within his chest. Something that had long since wound itself around his mind--a slow, slithering python that had now found its moment strike.

And when he felt the weight of Rowe’s other boot rest heavily on the back of his neck, he groaned.

It was bliss.

It was forgiveness.

It was a relief to be good.

To obey.

To have pleased them.

It was a relief dwarfed only by an imagined end to his hunger, but a relief he would take nonetheless.

Aris remained there, lips and tongue pressed to his owner’s shoe, worshiping in relief and in reverie, for as long as Rowe decided to keep him there.

—

Update 11/23: I did a rewrite of this I think its much better now <33

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