#ooc: {out of the confessional}

[the-devil-less-known]

Very very slowly getting back into the groove of things. Had some major life events occur and had gotten severely burnout with that good ol' adhd paralysis. Really wanting to do something but entirely unable to,, Lucifer being so hard to pick up again without feeling guilty and pulled into fifty directions, but! I'll slowly start getting into the swing of things again, and I even have a joint AO3 where I'll be posting works that a close friend did with me to help get over the hump of this slump, so to speak.

Never thought I would be a good Alastor writer, but it was nice to branch out into a different character like a cheat code until I was ready to pick up Lucifer again! And I've missed my boy! He's a bit different from how he used to be, and I have more of his backstory and mindset nailed down. I'll be sharing snippets of lore along with rp, thank you for sticking it out with me for this long!

[fiirstnephalem]

bloodiedsails asked: Sending Positive Vibes Your Way ✨✨

OOC. Thank you for the positivity axolotl! I shall use their encouragement to try and get some things written!

@bloodiedsails out of character asks / always accepting

[fairymint]

♦ What was a mildly annoying thing that has happened to you rp wise?

mostly lack of communication, including those dumbass confessional blogs that were all the rage 10 or 9 years ago. It's a shame that 'positivity' blogs thereafter didn't seem to pick up, but I can see why- They can make some prime fodder for feelings of FOMO, even in the best of times. Communication has improved over the years, but I still advise to start small- whether that be negative or positive, you don't have to wait until the last second to message your partners! whether that's about having your boundaries crossed or questioning, or giving em praise, or asking about plot/shipping/biography shit. small bites is good!

[spurbleu]

disciple ✞︎

[ken sato x afab reader]

S. if you look for God, you won’t always find him. but you always found Ken.

warnings: mdni, religious imagery, mentions of vaginal sex and oral (both receiving), angst, toxic(ish) situationship, grinding/leg riding, ken before his growth arc, maybe a lil ooc

a/n: this one is a little nasty, sorry. i promise the next one will be cute to make up for it lmfao. inspired by @mitskicain and her beautiful work here.

word count: 3.8k

࿓༚︎︎‧✞︎︎⁎︎✳︎⁎︎‧︎✞︎࿓︎༚︎

Somewhere along the way, you had become devoted.

The Bible’s spine bound to your own- the alters of your chapel nailed to the foot of your bed. Velvet cushions the color of your undereyes- swollen mauve. You slept there, allegiance to something larger than yourself keeping you to its feathered seats, molded into a ceaseless kneel.

You could call him many things- a whore, bastard, a good (no, great) fuck- but Ken Sato was no god. Your spite made sure of it, refusing to enter the coitus infused oak that built your confessional. The stench of sex would not pull the truth from your stubborn lips, white in denial (wedding veil, erotic). His influence on yourself couldn’t be larger than your own. 

It wasn’t. It would never be.

You wrote out that lie on his thigh, your teary cunt on the harsh fabric of his trousers. They felt rich against the lace of your panties- embroidered in every language of your arousal, highlighting the blush as it sheens through the fabric.

“That’s it, baby. Ride yourself out- filthy girl.”

Obedience. You groaned- frustrated, mostly with yourself. It was out of character for you- doing bidding without complaint. Sculpting your body in the ways he wanted you to, foggy minded and pussy drunk. Since when were you willing to take orders?

You supposed it was his drafting party- 3 years ago. Arrogant, young bastard then- high on the birth of his success- talking to you like he had the world in the palm of his large, fledging hand (Atlas, before the world wore him down, too). Despite it, your friend had begged you at the bar,

“Give him a chance.” She was dating a Dodger at the time, albeit a much more mature one.

Reluctant, you entertained. Forcing an airy laugh at his formless jokes, many of them losing the punchline behind his liquored teeth. You would run your hand up his shoulder, massaging muscles under Abercrombie. They had been bigger, then- plumper and less relaxed- yet another desperate attempt to stand out.

Obnoxiously amateur. It was stamped on his forehead, his tongue, and his knuckles as he drove you to his apartment, black ink cracking the faulty persona he had created for himself.

There, he fucked you senseless.

His god given gift must have been stamina, you decided. He made the night endless, morning suspended by the brutality of your next orgasm, the expanse of his mattress (not yet expensive, impatient for his first paycheck) memorizing the way you screamed his name and the taste of your drool (vodka, and the admissions you were wrong- prayers).

It’s when you realized his orders always seemed to align with your desires- spoken or not.

You moaned again, hips curling against the space above his knee, grinding like your orgasm would return your dignity with a fat, blue bow. Replace what you had lost to the shape of him, fill the hole that had once been your own. Now who’s the amateur.

He held your hips with a plum grip- thumbs bruising the patch of skin beneath your dress- folded in careless wrinkles on your waist. It was one of your favorites- not that he cared. He could buy you twenty more of the same ones, if he wanted to. But he didn’t- no, now, he wanted to see you fold and whimper over the shape of his quads.

“C’mon baby. Cum for me, show me what I do to you.”

It’s funny. Your knees were half bent, straddling him in shaky rhythm. Your fingers interlaced behind his neck, hands sailing the nape of his neck, brushing against shore of hair- searching the waters for minimal stability. From far away- it would’ve looked like you were deep in prayer.

The twist of your nose mistaken for devotion, not lust. Your interlaced fingers and touching foreheads a physical vessel for the god you were calling out to- his name spoken quietly in breathy moans that fell from under your tongue. A religious ceremony- the Eucharist between your legs- wine against lace (filth in a chapel, dust on candles).

Your orgasm was sinful, the damnation near worth it as you crumpled into his chest, sighing your reconciliation. His hands slid up from your hips to your waist, eager to hold the space under your arms, palms pressing against your rocky exhale.

He pulled your face from his chest with a single hand, gripping your teeth through your cheeks. It wasn’t rough, but it was strong enough to break you out of your sexed stupor, your eyes meeting his as you searched for answers in the grey of his iris.

How did you get here?

Grinding his leg like it was your deliverance- like it would somehow stop the horns from growing. Your transformation from a devil into something lucid- a little more deserving of limbo. The red of your lips kissed away into a tasteful pink, the dim light above his bed illuminating your mussed hair into the apparition of a halo.

Equally- he torn the putridity from you, smudging the grime in a cross on your forehead (Ash Wednesday, burnt innocence and palm branches). Your crimes, pockets of lust found between your weeping cunt and glossy lips, held you captive to his embrace.

You were one big step away from salvation, and three small ones away from hell.

So instead of moving, you lay stagnant on the bed of your shared apartment, his back turned away from yours. There, you were left to think about what brought you to Ken Sato- God or Satan? Perhaps both, found in the gentle snore of the goliath next to you, his features in sleep contrary to the harsh lines that structured his jaw awake. They were softer, here, innocent.

You knew better.

Ken wasn’t a man of chastity. The way he fucked acting as your testimony, near selfish as he chased your orgasms, each shudder of your legs a building block to his tall ego. How, when he arrived at your dimly lit porch, breath low, there wasn’t that begrudging, drawling slow talk. Pointless questions about the other that neither really cared about.

No, Ken pulled you close. Skipped the part where you get to know each other, or that airy friction before your lips meet. Instead, you both pilfer your manners, settling for the impolite shape of a kiss, a precursor to how he’ll fold you tonight.

Perhaps that’s how you know him well. You’ve become so good at reading his touch on you, palm searing the details of his day with his lifelines into the small of your back, that you don’t even need to ask. People tended to speak with their words- but Ken had a particular fluency for the use of his hands.

They tell you other things, too. How his immaturity can still be found in his desperate sighs and arrogance. How his favorite meal is the one between your legs. How quickly he can fall asleep, and how he talks in it. You listen, wondering if this time, he’ll say something forgiving (like your name).

But that’s where it ends. You both fall somewhere between strangers and lovers, knowing more than a stranger would but significantly less that a lover should.

You still don’t know his favorite color.

But why would you want to? You didn’t- shouldn’t- care. As long as he kept his cock buried the in plush of your cunt, or his mouth on it, you couldn’t. It could be something poetic like sapphire, for all you care. But you knew if he ever asked, he’d say something stupid like,

“The color of your cheeks when I make you cum.” Abhorrently charming, and motivated by his own libido, you’d think, before straddling his thigh. Romantic enough to make the request of you riding his leg, dirty enough to actually get you to do it.

Again, that thoughtless obedience. You were losing your edge, that ardor that made you chaseable, out of reach. But now he had you around his finger, and it drove you mad.

You both knew you have every ability to walk away. To stand up, pack your things, and leave. You could never see him again, find a decent man who doesn’t talk to you like you’re some whore, and settle down. White picket fence- within your reach- just out the door. Ken wouldn’t chase you- but that’s it- isn’t it? He wouldn’t care.

But you wanted him, didn’t you. He fucked the unpredictability out of you- the effortless curl of his index finger bringing you on your knees, mouth open in a worship. You wanted to have him guessing, on his toes, like he had you.

“I only fucked you because my friend had begged me too,” You had said one morning, an attempt at regaining it, “You were charity work.” You watched the ridged lines of his silhouette for a reaction.

But there wasn’t one. He only chuckled, standing as he stretched the inflation of the dawn off his shoulders, “Yeah…I was pretty annoying back then, wasn’t I?”

You were approaching tantrum. Had you lost your bite? Were your canines dulled- since when were you a domesticated dog? Where along the way had he cured you of your rabidity? You came up dry.

So defeated, you had said, “Yeah. You were.”

He turned to you, that familiar glint in his eyes, not dissimilar to a priest before a homily (delivering the truth), “But you came back, didn’t you?”

He was right. You called him- three days later. Midnight, swallowing your pride and your arousal as you asked, “Want to come over?” and hopeful when he replied “I will never say no.”

And he hadn’t. You suppose that’s where your bite came back, canines softer but still effective. That when they tear into the softness of his neck, coming back bloody and hysterical, he bent into you. He started kneeling, eating you out like somewhere, beneath your noxious folds, was redemption.

(Is this where you’re his god? Above him, moaning his name, hips rolling in tandem with his tongue? If so, you feel powerless. Because outside the bursa between your legs, you had nothing to offer.)

But he never said yes either. He would just hang up, and in 15 minutes be at your door, seconds before his mouth was on yours. Maybe, he was saying yes then. Spelling out a y, e and s in the hickeys he left on your neck. But the selfish, younger part of you wanted to hear him say it.

Whisper it in your ear as he fingered you, or as you licked his tip, kneeling before him as he whispered his little plea. Yes, yes, yes, yes. Hear the heat of orgasm in the bobbing of his adam’s apple.

But instead, he talked to you rather than about you, when he was close (delusion- that he saw you in that moment).

“Your littl’ cunt it my favorite- y’know that sweetheart?”

You were folded beneath him, a rare time when you faced each other. His head was against yours, hot breath fanning on your bruised lips as his rutted into you, shroom tip making stars fuzz on the sides of your vision. It made his utterance, motivated by your clenching walls, beyond intimate.

You couldn’t help the weight those words held in your hands. Favorite. Such a complicated feeling.

You knew he fucked other girls- his whorish grin buried into dozens of cunts before yours. But a young, childish creature was born in the cavity of your chest- envy. It’s plump hands tearing the rips in your indifference, revealing the head of your heart. Bent over into the bed that would never be just yours, you felt it leak out of the intimate parts of you, slicking his cock as if it would stain him.

Although, there was an impish pride in it all. That you had bewitched him enough, ass flaring against his hips, flesh opening wide and obediently for him, that he made a mistake in calling you a favorite. A pedestal for you to kiss his feet at, where you looked down at the other disciples and you knew, you fucking knew, he was a close to yours as he was ever going to be.

That’s why, in the normalcy of it all, of being ‘the one’ (less romantic than you had thought it was when you were a girl), you weren’t surprised when he asked you to live with him.

Two years ago, now. He had been lying next to you, the drowse of sex pulling his chest up in a rhythm you found repulsively soothing, he asked you, “Do you want to move in?”

And because you had never been more causal about anything in your life (exhilarating, the apathy an illusion of control), that you replied, “Sure.”

Huge apartment- stench of wealth written in every spotless crevice. Modern, grey arches and colorless domes- highlighted by the rich brown of the oak that surrounded the exterior. The bedroom view overlooked Anaheim, and most mornings you’d catch yourself staring at the sunrise, another sleepless evening behind you. It was your favorite view of the city.

Not that Ken knew- you never told him, and he never asked.

That’s how you planned to keep it. Even if you lived together, nothing about your relationship would change. You weren’t going to role play the happy wife- waiting at the door with his liquor and lace under your apron as you asked him “how was your day?” over dinner. There would be no domesticity. It would stay a house not a home.

But eventually, it became neither. Instead, it became a church.

Business with reality ate away at both of your lungs, that by the time you reached the door, you were breathless and crawling. You found ceremony in asthmatic sex; body already accustomed to the feeling of asphyxiation.

There was never room in your lungs for actual romance. Not all liquor could be rum- not all love could be sweet. You settled with the discovery as you rode out your frustrations on his cock, feeling as he stretched you out (merciless, perdition by pleasure) the grip on your thighs motivating your assault.

Tell me, it would say, tell me with your hips.

Routine.

It was your service. The Gospel, as he whispers in your ear how much he missed you today, how much he needed this- you. How quickly you were brought to your knees, feeling as his cock stretched your throat- more room for the hymn of his name.

How you became the choir, the altar servers, the priest and the attendees all at once. How he made you everything, then (except for of course, God. He played that role in your selfish exhibition). How when you screamed his name, your cunt memorizing the feverish pace he thrust into you, angels heard worship.

You could feel it happening- that subtle, long, change from a devil to a disciple. That as his cock reformed the shape of your walls, your cervix slowly morphing into the shape of a crucifix, he made you a follower.

It was another year before the candles snuffed. His mother disappeared.

You had heard of Ms. Kato before. Not that he would ever take you to her- you aren’t exactly the type of girl you bring home (a vice, really. No mother wants to meet their son’s damnation.) But everyone knew about Ms. Kato.

He talked about her in interviews, and besides slumber you haven’t seen his face that soft before. Admiration- a son who loved his mother. It humanized him, and sometimes you’d find yourself searching for a similar plasticity as he cleaned you up, holding your bambi legs (if you got lucky, he’d place a kiss on your knee, gracious. Hopeful.)

You decided she had no place here, with you. Not because you hated her (far from it)- but out of a compassion. You wouldn’t stain the one thing that made him redeemable. A tenderness that shouldn’t be corrupted. There were equally parts of you that you would never share, and he would never know- for that very same reason.

Because if you do, you’ll be judged empty handed and irredeemable.

But then he cried.

He cried, in front of you. The peak of vulnerability, curling into your arms after breaking a kiss that felt particularly dull, uncharged. You had agreed, so many times, to keep things casual. To ignore the tug at your tendons to reach out, or to ask about him. To find out his favorite color.

And against all your better judgment, you embraced him. You held him as he sobbed into your chest, a boy missing his mother. Your hands bridged the gaps in his hair strands, fiddling the parts of his body he couldn’t feel in that moment (keep some semblance of distance, if that were ever possible).

You both fell asleep like that, tangled in the dips and rifts in your bodies. His tears had stained your shirt, not that you minded. It was nice, having him daub you with something less lewd- placing his tolerance on the crest of your chest.

The next morning, you sat on the edge of the bed as you watched him get dressed. There was a sluggishness about him, a depression between the sleepy jostle of his shirt, stretching over his heavy chest. The daybreak was dimmed by his swollen eyes, the imprint of your chest showing up a red rash on his cheek.

“Do you…want to talk about it?”

A mistake, but an empathetic one. Asking about him. Without sensuality, the motivation to get between his legs, that familiar ache in your cunt. No, this was a different ache- much higher- fluttering in the bluntness of your heartrate.

When he turned to you, it swelled, and you realized you had crossed a boundary. A thick one, the one that glued things together for this long. He didn’t glare at you- in fact there wasn’t expression. Dulled knife without bloodlust, just a utensil, half used and ready for the next meal.

“No,” he had said then, and you knew it was over. End of an era, nail in the coffin.

He told you he was moving to Japan shortly after. As he was packing his things into the U-Haul, you watched him from the doorway, and the world seemed to narrow between his acnetis. You swallowed as he taped the last box.

He stood in front of you.

Thinner, than three years ago. Older, a bit more mature- hell you’d even call him a man. He wasn’t playing dress-up in a fancy suit or in his baseball uniform- no, here you found him rather casual- in sweats and old merch. A hat, brush back your favorite texture- thick rooted hair.

3 years of your life, packed in a U-Haul and out the window of an airplane. Not that you even expected it to last this long.

But what was it anyway? A sorry excuse for a relationship? An exchange of goods that both of you needed but neither knew how to ask for? An empty embrace, without personality but with all the intimacy? You couldn’t figure it out.

What happens to a churchgoer when it’s stolen from them? Candles snuffed, building bulldozed, the beautiful stained glass broken in faithless shards at their feet, eroded by angel tears. Left to find another one, you supposed.

But that’s the thing- you weren’t just going to church to worship something, but someone. And now he was leaving, as you both agreed you would not follow, left to explore the expansive hole he drilled within your body by yourself.

You weren’t bitter- in fact you found yourself understanding. Every God abandons- and it will always feel too soon. There wasn’t a point in begging, praying, kissing. You had done your job, washed his feet, let him move on (why couldn’t you do it with him?).

“What’s your favorite color?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he gave you the apartment keys, half out the door with his last box- photos. Maybe you were in there, somewhere (would he frame it?). “What?”

“You never told me,” you found a goodbye in his eyes, so there wasn’t a need to say one back, “I want to know.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. There wasn’t an answer that would satisfy him anyway. He searched your eyes, perhaps for your own goodbye. When he came up empty handed, his shoulders caved with a sigh.

“Don’t have one. But I…” guilt. There it was. The desire to clean up half the mess you made, recognition that by leaving, you’re destroying a follower and her morale, the goodness and obedience you had built for so long. It flashed across his features in a ripple, rock hitting the water. A weak smile, and for a moment you had been convinced it was real (God’s son, a little more human, a little more tangible).

“I have always loved the color of your eyes.”

Cruelly romantic, and in the most inopportune time.

You caught a glimpse of what could have been as he drove off. Taking you with him, fucking you in the airport bathroom, hand keeping you quiet. On the plane, he’d interlace your fingers through his as you lift off (he finds out your afraid of heights). You live in Japan, he teaches you patiently how to say hello, holding you after making your bed. A domesticity, a place of worship, lost to an inability to talk- to risk.

He didn’t kiss you when he left, but you both know that was for the best. That your frenzied physicality, the only thing that seemed to keep you attending church, was absent in your goodbye.

It really was over.

He left your apartment half empty (church without an alter). He didn’t call like he said he would, neither did you, and your devotion simmered into hardened, bitter lines. Resentment was found in every corner of that apartment (because there wasn’t a place where he hadn’t touched), and truthfully, yourself (again, imprinted).

It didn’t take long before you moved out as well.

While packing, you came across a picture you took together at his draft party. You both looked so much younger, and it reminded you how big you could smile. A memory- that although you had convinced yourself you were never charmed by that amateur, there was a reason you found yourself under him that night.

And, funnily enough, for the next three years.

You burned it.

Fuck him. You would think. Good riddance.

But above your head, a flame flickered to life- orange in its birth, fueled by the ashes of your fervor, the years of your bleeding knees, and that fucking picture.

Even now, he’ll remain in your subconscious fidelity.

What a bastard.

[blvdheart]

life is beautiful, but you don’t have a clue

⇢ getting all bruised up and battered with minimum medical aid from the government is brutal. leon doesn’t believe he deserves to be helped, though. after months of hiding these moments of vulnerability from you, he lets finally lets you in, knowing deep down that you wouldn’t turn him away

cw: fem!reader, established relationship, leon’s alcohol dependency and low self-worth, religious guilt, attempts to hide depression, brief description of wounds, angst, comfort and reassurance, patching him up, small snippet with chris, 3.2k wc

note: i promise there’s more to me than just writing ooc smut for him 😞 i rewatched vendetta and omg i want to hug him so bad. (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ ) i’m not sure if the small font is too straining on the eyes, if it is, lmk!! i’ll change it back to the regular sized one. if you see typos, no you didn’t

divider below is by @/cafekitsune!!

just how many confessionals and assigned prayers would it take for leon to be forgiven for all his wrong doings? probably more than he could keep track of. then again, he hasn’t clasped his hands together and recited a muttered chant for redemption in ages. the belief in a savior dissipated alongside his naive outlook in life once upon a time.

he had laid on a cold hard mattress for hours in the infirmary made specifically for DSO agents. the nurses didn’t give him much care, though. he was patched up, prescribed some pain killers, and sent home. the recovery period was over a month long, but he knew he wouldn’t actually be granted that much rest before he had to be back in action.

two broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder. he’s dealt with those same conditions time and time again, but it never got any easier, especially as he got older. he was busy basking in his misery, longing for only two things: the bitter taste of alcohol on his tongue, and his girlfriend’s soothing presence.

he tried to keep this part of him hidden, he was ashamed. he had already opened up to you about his job, and how he would be away for long periods. what he didn’t tell you was that those said long periods usually included his recovery, so you didn’t have to see him all broken and battered. he usually kept all the lights in his house off even when the evening approached, so you wouldn’t know he was back in town if you happened to drive by his place.

the two of you had gotten together a year and a half ago, and he used to be more…stable. he feared you’d up and leave him if you found out how bad it had gotten for him.

but the thing is, he knew you would take care of him. your love for him was unconditional, and he didn’t know whether to be grateful for it or to feel sorry for you. after all, he was known to have occasional outbursts of irritation, being on edge from all his baggage and his frequent doses of hard liquor. but he wasn’t a bad man, he just needed some TLC.

he could nurse his good ol’ mind numbing beverages stored coldly in his fridge all he wanted, but it wouldn’t make him feel any better. in fact, his self-hatred only grew once he found himself depending on alcohol. in his head, he chose to rely on a drink to feel a buzz. in reality, that was far from the truth. a man like him was drowning in the depths of his baggage. PTSD, survivor’s guilt, and alcohol didn’t mesh well.

it was you who kept him sane, really.

you were the skin-kissing sun after a harsh thunderstorm, like a balm to his traumatized and guilt ridden soul. you saw him for who he was, the selfless and love-yearning man he had always been, not a grouchy killing-machine like some people started to view him as of late.

even when he was overseas, your love always managed to reach him.

it was those heartfelt text messages and voicemails he often received that made him tread through his missions carefully, he knew there was someone back home worth living for.

voicemails:

“hi leon! i know you said you might not have internet connection over there or that your phone might break but…um…i dunno, there’s a chance you’ll hear this, so might as well, right? i really miss you. i was procrastinating during my job the other day, yeah boo me…but i made a list of some movies we can watch when you’re back in town. maybe you can come over and we can cuddle on my couch all night, hehe. anyway, i hope you’re okay. i really don’t want you to get hurt or anything. call me when you fly back in?”

“oh shit, is this voicemail? [incoherent mumbling] uh, okay yeah. hi leon, i’m at rite aid right now. i don’t wanna sound nosy but i saw some of the bloodied medical tape you left in my trash and…and i just got worried and wondered if you needed anything? maybe you didn’t want to concern me but, tell me next time okay? let’s see…there’s a lot of different brands, i dont know which one you’d like. call me back ASAP, i’m gonna stay here for a bit longer just in case you do. bye, i love you!”

“okay i figured you wouldn’t pick up. i know it’s like four am but i just woke up and my dream was about us! it went like…like…oh shit. i think i forgot already, bummer!” silence, and some hums. “i literally just had the dream like five seconds ago and i can’t remember it anymore. i’m pissed! anyway, see you tomorrow? or today, technically. bye!”

messages:

found this meme and it reminded me of you…wait do you even know what a meme is? ha, loser

here’s the link to the letterboxd website i told you about earlier!

come overrrr, i’m off work at 8 today. unless my asshole of a coworker shows up late again, ugh

you left your jacket at my house, it’s mine now!!!

not sure if you fell asleep already but please text me back when you can and when you’re sober. ik we just had an argument but we should talk it over, i want everything to be okay between us, i love you. you’re not mad at me are you??

replaying those sweet voicemails was like a remedy, providing such raw tenderness that nothing else in the universe could. you were the epitome of an angel walking the earth, keeping him from falling into the pits of hell by visiting his dreams whenever fell asleep all splayed out on his floor with an empty bottle by his side. it should be you snuggled against him instead, on a bed.

while you gave leon all your sweet love, there were other people working behind the scenes, dishing out some tough love to leon. like chris, who had hit rock bottom once and didn’t want leon to fall prey to the same thing.

“and how about your girl? you really think she’ll want to deal with you being like this all the time?” chris asked, his voice more agitated than mad. he wasn’t angry, just worried and wanting to push the truth into leon’s head. he had found leon sitting on his ass with a drink too many times to be considered a brief stress relief.

“leave her outta this.” leon scoffed, turning off his phone (he had been staring at his wallpaper that was a picture of you.) “i don’t let her see this side of me.”

“side? leon, it’s not just a side. it’ll consume you whole. what happens when it becomes your whole life, huh? what happens when you start disappearing all the time?”

“get off my ass, chris.” leon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to not lash out. “i came here for some peace and quiet, not for you to nag at me like you’re my mother.”

“i’m not trying to–” chris cut himself off, unsure of how to get across to leon. leon was absolutely miserable, the only time chris saw some hope in his eyes was whenever he soberly rambled about you. “i’m just saying that you’ve got a good thing going for you, and i don’t want you to ruin it by not trying to get better.”

silence, so chris spoke up again. “she cares about you. so try to care about yourself too, okay? i’ve been there, i see myself in you. i know it’s not your fault that you’ve turned to alcohol. but, let her in, let her help.”

leon looked down at his glass, watching his own reflection, some guilt burning in his gut. he hung his head a bit, looking like a kitten that had just gotten in trouble. he knew chris was right.

maybe this once, he could break the cycle of hiding and cowering. his throat felt dry as he reached for his phone, wincing a bit at the shock of pain the movement caused.

his fingers struggled to tap his cracked screen, the brightness of it making his nose scrunch and eyes squint. eventually, he found the phone app, you were at the top of his list, and he dialed.

…

“leon!! hi, hold on, lemme turn my TV off, i was watching a podcast.” and surely enough, he could hear the background noise lower until it was gone completely and your heavenly voice was filling his ears again. “okay, done. i can’t believe you’re calling, i’ve been waiting all week! how are you? not hurt or anything, i hope? need me to pick you up from the airport or?”

his lips twitched, threatening to turn into a small smile at your bombardment of questions. but he bit it back, feeling undeserving of such happiness. your voice overpowered the weak buzzing of his fan and the wind that rusted outside.

“uh, no.” his voice sounded hoarse, so he tried to clear it. “i’m actually at home, was wondering if you could come over? i…kind of need some help. only if you can, i don’t want to bother you.”

the silence that lingered made him feel tense, his heart pumping so loud that the noise reached his ears. then he heard some shuffling over the phone, as well as some keys jingling.

“be there in fifteen.”

it was just like you to drop everything to help someone else, no questions asked (at least not yet.) god, he loved you.

his world had felt muted before you, devoid of any color and saturation. but every time you he thought of you, suddenly colors were blooming as if he was a blank canvas and your paintbrush strokes were bringing him to life and giving him a purpose.

waiting fifteen minutes felt like an hour, maybe because he was counting down the time on his fucked up lock screen. the numbers looked wonky, he could barely make them out. his watch was broken too, no luck there. having no concept of time, even for a moment, felt weird.

he eventually heard his front door lock twisting. he had given you a spare key just in case, he trusted that you would never snoop through his things or take advantage of that privilege.

“um, hello? leon?” you sounded worried.

“god, it’s dark in here…” you then mumbled, splaying your hand against the wall and searching for his light switch. a couple seconds later and bingo, the sudden bright light left you disoriented for a while.

“i’m on the couch. just…don’t say anything, please?”

your brows furrowed at his request, and you rushed on over, your shoes thudding against his wooden floor. surely enough, there he was, laying on his back with agony written on his features. he had his leather jacket off, his arms having nips and tears all over. small ones, at least, but still collectively all painful.

“oh leon…” a worried mutter fell from your lips, and you kneeled down, the harshness of the hard cold floor not even registering because you were too engrossed in him.

you didn’t want to cry in front of him, not when he was the one suffering. but the pain you felt in your chest for seeing your sweetheart look so defeated just had you getting a bit teary. leaning forward, you planted a kiss on his forehead, your hand raising to stroke the crown of his head. his hair was a bit knotted.

he leaned into your touch like a puppy, letting out a pleased sigh. your affection felt like a gift in a bow after the way he had been slammed around by infected enemies earlier.

“what happened? i—“ okay, he said no questions. you could save the context seeking ones for later, but you did have to know what was wrong. “where are you hurt?”

he didn’t dare look into your eyes, knowing that it would break him. he was looking down further at your neck though, so his gaze was at least on you.

“everywhere.” he managed to croak out with a dry chuckle. um, not helping. “if we’re talking specifics though, the doc told me i broke two ribs on my left side. i also dislocated my left shoulder, they put it back into place but um…y’know, it still hurts like hell.”

after taking a breath to compose yourself, you nodded and stood up. “okay. do you have an ice pack?”

leon nodded. “in my freezer.”

you went off to fetch it, also taking one of leon’s small kitchen towels and wrapping it around the ice pack before placing it onto the coffee table. then, you went to his bedroom, getting two of his pillows and the first aid kit in his bedside drawer.

his eyes lit up when you returned. you were so nurturing it made him want to sob into your arms. but he’d open up to you one step at a time, one day at a time.

“can you…can you try sitting up just a bit? you’re supposed to be a bit propped up.”

well, that wasn’t the worst he’s had to do with a broken rib. he could manage. with a grunt of pain, leon slowly propped himself up, giving you some time to slide the two pillows in.

“there we go.” with a small smile, you couldn’t resist but place another kiss against his forehead. it made him feel good, it was like all your gestures were doses of ibuprofen.

the coldness of the icepack had seeped into the towel. and you gently applied it to his left side, your eyes lifting to meet his face to watch for any indicators you might be hurting him.

“down or up?” you asked him, moving the ice pack up further. he hadn’t told you which ribs had been broken, after all.

“down, please.”

you hummed, moving it back down and letting it rest there.

“how do you know so much about this?” he asked. sure, an icepack was probably a no brainer but you seemed so sure of yourself by making him sit up more.

“google works wonders.” you shrugged alongside your answer. “i just figured some knowledge on the most common injuries would be good for me to learn since your job is pretty dangerous. call me psychic but i saw this in my future.”

some brief moments of quietness washed over afterwards, making him feel unsettled. were you angry because he had often kept his bedridden moments from you? he couldn’t tell.

“i’m sorry.” his apology hung in the room, every one of his nerves feeling on edge.

but it was your warm and gentle touch on his face that had him crawling out of his low self-worth and into reality. a reality where someone loved and cherished all parts of him from his darkest to brightest days. you.

“what are you sorry for?” your question was spoken through a whispered tone of voice. “you’re out here risking your life and saving people whose names you don’t even know, yet you’re apologizing?”

you kneeled down again so you could be closer to him, stroking the side of his face with your knuckles. “i wish you had told me, but i think i can understand why you didn’t. i don’t want you to feel like you have to hide this from me. you know i’m here for you.”

“i…i know.” he didn’t doubt how much you cared for him, but it was hard to feel like he deserved someone as great as you. what did he have to offer?

“c’mon, look at me.” you pleaded, having taken note of the way his pretty blue eyes hadn’t met yours even once.

he blinked, his eyes darting around a bit. he bit his bottom lip nervously before releasing it. it was only when he felt your hand slide down to hold his that he finally mustered the courage looked into your eyes.

he looked broken, but willing. a small glimmer in his eyes that begged for devotion and comfort, for his angel to continue guiding him even when he lost his path. to not be cast aside like he was replaceable. he couldn’t leave his job or the hell that was his life even if he wanted to, but you made life worth living.

you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “i love you, leon. through sickness and health.”

you couldn’t suppress the desire to kiss him yet again, this time scattering them all over his face. your affection brought a surge of joy over him.

the wedding vow reference made him crack a grin. he chuckled a bit even though it caused his injured body discomfort. “i love you too.”

“did you think i wouldn’t help you?”

while you asked the question, your eyes skimmed over his body. his clothes were nipped at, the tears revealing some patches of his skin that had dried up blood or that were bruised. geez. you just wanted to cling to him, but you knew that would only strain him.

“i knew you would.” he began, watching as you stood up and disappeared back into the kitchen. he could hear the sink running. “i didn’t want you to spend your time looking after me, you have your own life to live. you shouldn’t have to babysit me.”

you came back with a wet towel, using it to clean up the dirt and blood on his arms, making sure to be gentle.

“babysit you? that’s not what it’s called, leon. i’m taking care of you, is all. i know you’d do the same and be even more stubborn about it.”

his eyes were trained on you, appreciating the concentration you held while cleaning him up. like a feather, your nimble fingers only left fleeting sensations against his skin. so delicately and tenderly, you treated him.

“yeah, i probably would. thank you.”

“don’t mention it.”

you spent the next twenty minutes disinfecting all his open injuries and putting gauzes over them, making some conversation but keeping it light since you needed to focus. there was more of a sparkle in his eyes than before, you had patched him up both physically and emotionally.

“how’re you feeling?”

“better. can’t say i’ll be able to walk properly tomorrow, though.”

“you need lots of rest to recover. you should sleep.”

and he was fucking tired, having stayed up all day. his body had been on fight-or-flight mode so many times that it had exhausted all his emergency energy. and initially he was sure his injuries wouldn’t let him rest, but you were here now, watching over him.

“yeah, i should.” he agreed with you. “will you…will you be here when i wake up?”

okay. you felt warm inside, he was opening up to you, allowing you to stay by his weakened side. “of course. and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, and um, you get the point.”

you lifted a hand to rub at his temples, alleviating the headache he had. leon groaned contentedly, his long eyelashes fluttering as his eyes shut. he could feel some drowsiness kicking in already.

“i could get used to this.”

“mhm, just go to sleep.” you voice was getting quieter and quieter in his mind, when’s the last time he fell asleep this quickly? maybe when he was 20. last time he had a broken rib, he didn’t get a wink of sleep.

maybe life was constantly testing him, disrupting his peace at every turn, seeping into all the crooks and nannies. but he found his person, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his days with, the one who reminded him of how valuable his life and accomplishments were.

yeah, he could see his future, alright. one where he only picked up a bottle of beer during celebrations, one where he could be tangled up with you and be doted on without feeling guilt.

and it was sooner than later that those thoughts would be fulfilled.

[makeucrawl]

PRIESTERMAN

COYLE

NSFW

YES FATHER

“Kneel for me”

Father Easterman fucks Coyle in a church~

((Coyle is kinda OOC in this. I was too into priest easterman okaaaay???? Also this is incredibly long cause I’ve been thinking about priest easterman waaaaay too much.))

“You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you, Leland?” The voice was low, soft, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the stillness of the confessional like a blade.

Coyle’s heart pounded, each beat echoing in his ears as his fingers dug into the edge of the wooden bench beneath him. His throat tightened, his mouth dry, the air in the small space suddenly too thick. He couldn’t see Father Easterman through the lattice screen, but he felt him—his presence filling the confined space, oppressive and inescapable.

He tried to respond, but his voice failed him, leaving only the sound of his shaky breathing. Swallowing hard, he finally forced out, “I… dunno what ya mean, Father.” The words came out trembling, unconvincing.

A low chuckle drifted through the screen, rich and knowing. “Don’t lie to me, Leland. I saw the way you looked at me during Mass. The way your eyes lingered on my hands when I placed the Eucharist on your tongue.”

Coyle’s face burned, the heat spreading to the tips of his ears. He wanted to protest, to deny it, but he couldn’t. The memory of those hands—graceful, deliberate—had haunted him ever since.

Those fingers, pushing the wafer into place, forcing his throat to flex as he swallowed. And now, here they were, alone in the dim light of the confessional, and all Coyle could think about was how badly he wanted those same fingers wrapped around his cock.

“I…” Coyle’s voice cracked, and he shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his hands trembling. “I know it’s…wrong, Father. That’s why I’m here. To confess.”

Silence followed, heavy and expectant. For a fleeting moment, Coyle dared to hope the priest might let it go, offer absolution, and dismiss him with penance. But then Father Easterman spoke again, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

“Tell me, Leland… What do you think of when you look at me?”

The question struck him like a blow, stealing the breath from his lungs. Coyle froze, shame and panic rising in his chest. He couldn’t answer that—not truthfully. Not here. And yet, the priest’s tone, calm and coaxing, pulled at something deep within him, urging him to speak.

“I… I can’t, Father,” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Another chuckle, darker this time, laced with something almost predatory. “You can’t, or you won’t? Remember, God already knows your thoughts, Leland. There’s no hiding from Him. But saying it aloud… that’s how you unburden your soul.”

The air felt charged, the space between them humming with tension. Coyle’s breathing quickened, his body leaning unconsciously closer to the screen. His mind raced, battling the shame and the overwhelming desire to let the words out.

“I’ve thought about… your hands,” he admitted finally, his voice hoarse, trembling. “On me. Touching me- I’ve thought about you telling me what to do. Making me kneel for you…”

The confession tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, and the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. His entire body tensed, bracing for the priest’s condemnation. But the silence that followed was not cold or angry. It was something else—something thick, weighted, and charged with unspoken intent.

And then he heard it: a sharp, audible inhale on the other side of the screen.

“Is that so?” Father Easterman murmured, his tone laced with a quiet amusement, almost teasing. “Tell me more, Leland. What other sinful thoughts have you entertained?”

Coyle’s stomach twisted, his arousal warring with his guilt. He couldn’t believe he was saying these things out loud—especially here, of all places—but now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to stop.

“I’ve imagined… your mouth on me- o-on my cock.. Taking me deep until I… until I spill down your throat.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy and forbidden, and Coyle immediately wished he could take it back. He felt exposed, raw, his deepest desires laid bare for the priest to dissect.

For a long moment, Father Easterman said nothing. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned closer to the screen, his voice dropping to a murmur.

“And what if I told you, Leland, that I’ve thought about you, too?”

Coyle’s breath caught, his entire body going rigid. What was that? His mind reeled, struggling to process the words.

But before he could respond, the latch on the confessional door clicked open, and the priest stepped inside, his tall, lithe frame filling the cramped space.

Coyle’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of him—the stark black of his clerical dress, the white collar pressed against his throat, the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim light filtering through the screen.

Father Easterman reached out, his long, delicate fingers trailing along the line of Coyle’s jaw before sliding down to grip his chin firmly.

“Open your mouth,” the priest commanded, his voice low and steady, leaving no room for argument.

Coyle obeyed without hesitation, his lips parting instinctively. Father Easterman’s thumb brushed against his lower lip, cold and calloused, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Such a good boy,” the priest murmured, his dark eyes gleaming with something that made Coyle’s stomach flip. “Now, let’s see if you can take me as well as you’ve imagined.”

Coyle’s pulse throbbed in his ears, his entire body trembling as Father Easterman leaned in closer, his free hand tangling in Coyle’s hair, pulling just enough to make him moan.

“Remember,” the priest whispered, his breath hot against Coyle’s ear, “this is your penance.”

The air in the confessional was thick, suffocating, and charged with something Coyle couldn’t name—something sinful, electric, and entirely too real. His lips were still parted, waiting, trembling, as the priest loomed over him, a shadow of authority cloaked in God’s garb.

“Strip,” Father Easterman commanded, his voice low and edged with a calm that sent shivers racing down Coyle’s spine. The word wasn’t a request; it was an order, firm and unyielding, like the man himself.

Coyle’s hands shook as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, his mind a haze of panic and arousal. He could barely think straight, but his body moved on its own, obeying without question. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, pooling around his arms before he dropped it to the floor. His belt buckle clinked softly as he unbuckled it, the sound deafening in the small space.

Father Easterman watched him with an intensity that burned, his black eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin. “Kneel,” he said, his tone softer now but no less commanding.

Coyle’s knees hit the floor with a dull thud, the cool wood biting into his skin. He stared up at the priest, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. Father Easterman stepped closer, the hem of his clerical dress brushing against Coyle’s bare thighs. The proximity was overwhelming, the scent of incense and something earthy clinging to the man like a second skin.

“Your thoughts are filthy, aren’t they?” Father Easterman murmured, tilting Coyle’s chin up with two fingers. No lies. That was what those dark eyes seemed to say.

Coyle swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Yes, Father.”

The corner of the priest’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile that melted away almost instantly. “And yet you came here. To me. Seeking absolution.” He leaned down, his face inches from Coyle’s, his breath warm against his lips. “Do you think you deserve it?”

Coyle hesitated, his mind spinning. Did he? Could he even want forgiveness when all he could think about was how Father Easterman’s hands would feel on him, inside him, claiming him for something far darker than salvation?

“I—” His voice cracked, and he licked his lips, desperate for some semblance of composure. “I don’t know.”

Father Easterman hummed, a low, approving sound that made heat flare in Coyle’s stomach. “Let me guide you, then,” he said, his fingers trailing down Coyle’s jaw to his throat, where they rested lightly, not quite pressing, but the threat was there. A warning.

Coyle nodded, his body trembling under the priest’s touch. He was powerless to resist, not that he wanted to. Every nerve in his body was alight, humming with anticipation.

Father Easterman’s hand moved to his chest, fingers curling around the cross draped around his neck. He lifted it slowly, the cross slipping free to dangle from his fingers, gleaming like a weapon.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, his voice smooth and steady, as though this act were the most natural thing in the world.

Coyle obeyed immediately, his lips parting. The tip of the cross brushed against his tongue, cold and bitter, sending a jolt through him. Father Easterman guided the cold metal further in, until it pressed against the back of his throat, making him gag slightly. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

“Good boy,” the priest murmured, his tone rich with approval, his thumb stroking Coyle’s cheek. “You take it so well.”

The praise went straight to Coyle’s core, igniting a fire that threatened to consume him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the weight of the cross in his mouth, the way the priest’s fingers forced his jaw wider, stretched his lips. It was humiliating, yet the intensity of it sparked deep, unshakable thrill.

Slowly, Father Easterman withdrew the cross, a glimmering thread of saliva clinging to it before he wiped it clean on the edge of his garment. His expression was unreadable as he took a step back.

“Touch yourself,” Father Easterman ordered, his gaze piercing. “Show me how much you want this.”

Coyle hesitated for only a moment before his hand moved to his cock, already hard and aching. He wrapped his fingers around himself, his touch tentative at first, but the priest’s sharp inhale spurred him on. He stroked himself slowly, his hips canting upward into his palm, while the priest watched with rapt attention.

“Faster,” the priest urged, his voice rough now, betraying the carefully constructed facade of control.

Coyle obeyed, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps as pleasure coiled tight in his stomach. His other hand braced against the floor, his nails digging into the wood as he worked himself faster, harder.

Father Easterman knelt in front of him, cupping Coyle’s face in one hand. “Look at me,” he demanded.

Coyle’s eyes snapped open, meeting the priest’s gaze. Those dark eyes were full of hunger now, raw and unrelenting.

“You belong to me,” Father Easterman whispered, his voice dripping with possessive certainty. “From this moment on, every sin, every thought, every part of you is mine.”

Coyle moaned, his strokes faltering as the words sank in, wrapping around him like chains. He didn’t care if it was wrong, if it was blasphemous. All he cared about was the man in front of him, commanding him, claiming him.

The priest’s hand moved to the back of his neck, gripping him firmly. “Cum for me, Leland,”

It was all Coyle needed. His orgasm ripped through him, sudden and intense, his body convulsing as he spilled over his hand and onto the floor. His head swam, his vision blurring as he struggled to catch his breath.

Father Easterman watched him with a satisfied gleam in his eyes, but his expression quickly shifted back to that calm, controlled mask. He stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his outfit and fastening the buttons with practiced ease.

“We’re not done,” He reached down, grabbing Coyle by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “Turn around and brace yourself against the wall.”

Coyle stumbled, his legs still weak, but he did as he was told. The wood was cool against his palms as he leaned forward, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Father Easterman stepped close behind him, one hand resting on his hip while the other traced the curve of his spine. “This will hurt,” he warned, his voice steady. “But pain brings clarity, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t have time to respond before he felt the priest’s fingers press against him, slick with spit he hadn’t noticed being prepared.

“Relax,” Father Easterman murmured, his breath hot against Coyle’s neck.

He tried to obey, but his body tensed instinctively as the priest pushed a finger inside him, the stretch foreign and uncomfortable.

“Shh,” the priest soothed, his other hand moving to Coyle’s shoulder, holding him steady. “You can take it.”

The words were reassuring, but Coyle couldn’t help the whimper that escaped his lips as another finger joined the first, scissoring him open.

Father Easterman leaned in closer, murmuring into his ear. “Tell me, do you still want absolution after this?”

Coyle groans longingly as Father Easterman withdrew his fingers, leaving him empty and exposed. The cold air of the confessional brushed against his sensitive skin, sending a shiver down his spine. He could hear the faint rustle of fabric behind him—the priest adjusting, preparing—but he didn’t dare turn around. His hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the wooden bench, knuckles white with tension.

The priest stepped closer, his cassock brushing against Coyle’s bare thighs. Coyle’s mouth went dry as Father Easterman reached for him, his long fingers tracing the curve of his jaw before sliding down to grip his throat.

“You don’t deserve this,” the priest murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point in Coyle’s neck. “But I’ll give it to you anyway.”

Before Coyle could respond, Father Easterman pressed his chest against the unforgiving wood of the confessional wall. The roughness of the surface bit into his skin, grounding him even as his mind spiraled. He heard the sound of a zipper, then the rustle of fabric. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain the entire church could hear it.

The priest’s body pressed flush against his back, hot and solid, and Coyle let out a shaky breath as he felt the tip of the man’s cock nudging between his thighs.

“Relax,” Father Easterman ordered, his voice calm and soothing. One hand splayed across Coyle’s lower back, holding him steady, while the other guided himself to the twitching opening.

Coyle squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself. The first press was slow, deliberate, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the priest pushed inside. The stretch burned, but there was pleasure threaded through the pain, a forbidden sweetness that made his head swim. He couldn’t help the way his body instinctively tried to pull away, but the priest held him firmly in place.

“Stay still,” the priest growled. “You wanted this. You asked for this. Now take it.”

Coyle whimpered, his fingers scrabbling against the wall as the priest began to move. Each thrust was measured, controlled, driving deeper with a precision that left the other man gasping. The priest’s hips snapped forward, forcing Coyle to arch into the wall, his body bending to accommodate the rhythm. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the small space.

It wasn’t just the physical sensation that overwhelmed him—it was the knowledge of where they were, what they were doing. This holy place, once a sanctuary, had become something else entirely. A den of sin. A corruption of faith. And yet, Coyle couldn’t bring himself to care. His thoughts were consumed by the man behind him, by the way Father Easterman filled him completely, claiming him in a way that felt almost sacred.

The priest’s hand moved from his back to grasp his hip, nails digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks. Coyle cried out, the pain sharp and delicious, and Father Easterman chuckled.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered. “Do you understand now? This isn’t about absolution. This is about submission.”

Coyle nodded frantically, unable to form words. His body was alive with sensation, every nerve alight as Father Easterman drove into him with increasing intensity. The pace became erratic, less calculated, and Coyle realized with a jolt that the priest was losing control. That steadfast composure was cracking, breaking apart beneath the weight of their shared desire.

“F-father—” he stammered, the honorific slipping out unbidden.

Father Easterman’s response was a growl, deep and guttural, as he leaned over Coyle’s back, his chest pressing against the other man’s shoulders. His movements grew harder, faster, each thrust punctuated by a grunt of effort. Coyle’s knees threatened to buckle, but the priest held him upright, one arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

“Say my name,” Father Easterman demanded, his voice rough with need.

Coyle hesitated, his mind foggy with pleasure. “H-Hendrick-“ he finally gasped, the name foreign on his tongue. It felt wrong, blasphemous, to address the priest so familiarly at this moment. But the way Father Easterman groaned in response sent a thrill through him.

“Again,” the priest urged, his thrusts becoming almost punishing.

“Hendrick! F-Fffuck!!” Coyle cried out, louder than he meant to. The walls of the confessional seemed to close in around them, amplifying every sound. He could feel the heat building low in his stomach, coiling tighter with each movement. His own cock strained against his abdomen, neglected but throbbing with want.

Father Easterman’s hand slid around to grip him, cold fingers wrapping around his aching hardness. The touch was electric, overwhelming, and Coyle let out a strangled moan, his hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Not yet,” the priest warned, tightening his hold. “You don’t get to cum until I allow it.”

Coyle whined, desperate and pleading, but Father Easterman only laughed—a low, wicked sound that sent shivers down his spine. The priest’s thrusts slowed, drawing out the sensation until Coyle thought he might go mad. Every inch of him was on fire, every nerve screaming for release, but his body wouldn’t disobey.

Father Easterman’s breathing grew ragged, his movements losing their rhythm as he chased his own pleasure. Coyle could feel the moment he teetered on the edge, the way his body stiffened and his grip tightened almost painfully. With a final, forceful thrust, the priest came undone, burying himself deep as he spilled inside. Coyle wasn’t far behind him, panting the wall of the confessional with his spend.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their labored breathing, harsh and uneven in the confined space. Then Father Easterman pulled out slowly, and Coyle sagged against the wall, trembling and overstimulated.

The priest straightened, his hands smoothing over Coyle’s back in a gesture that felt almost tender. His lips brushed against the shell of Coyle’s ear as he whispered, “You did well.”

Coyle turned his head, catching a glimpse of priest’s face. The mask of piety was gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. It sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him, despite his exhaustion.

Father Easterman stepped back, redressing with practiced ease, while Coyle remained where he was, too weak to move. When the priest finally spoke again, his voice was calm, almost detached.

“I’ll see you next Sunday~”

[the-devil-less-known]

Have a rare selfie! I make myself really dysphoric so I don't take them generally, but I had an old pic of me and my son DovahKiing on a good day, so I just threw on a filter, here go

Name: Loon, Loonie, Luce, Luci, I'm pretty easy! I'll respond to pretty much anything haha; if you're looking for my legal business name, I'll just dox myself before PayPal does, HonorRae, yippeee

Most Active Muse: Lucifer and Alastor are fistfighting for first place while Lilith and Vox are sneaking up with a couple of steel chairs — at least on discord. On Tumblr, definitely Lucifer!!

Experience: Hhhhhhhfghjfbhjbbh, define experience? Haha, if you mean just the concept of pretending to be a character and acting it out with your friends, I would do that after middle school with my friends at 13 playing pretend and acting scenes with characters from Animorphs and Lord of the Rings. If you mean actually write down scenes and taking turns round robin style, I would say 17, when I'd crack open my word doc and email 3-8 page replies with my roleplay buddy, haha (Doctor Who, at the time).

But for roleplay on discord using tupper that would be in 2020 (age...24??), and I'm super fresh to Tumblr roleplay, only started with this blog, um, last....may...? 2024 (28).

Fluff, Angst, or Smut: I'm a slut for writing of any kind, haha. My strong suit is angst, I think, I can really pull characters through an emotionally ruinous situation; and had way too many people say "woah there, satan", sooo 🥴 I really do like writing fluff, and expressing love and earnest tenderness of all kinds through it (not necessarily romance, I'm equal opportunity bitch), and making characters feels safe and tended to, and characters healing their own hurts by tending to others and feeling that love vicariously through it.

Smut is... Probably my weakest point, ngl, in concerns for pacing. Sorry in advance if it flops or feels a bit rushed or dragged out. Please just let me know in the moment, I won't be mad, I'd genuinely feel worse if my roleplay partner felt uncomfortable or cringed tf out. Any constructive crit would be appreciated and helpful!

Long or Short Replies: As you can probably see in this post.... I'm a yapper! I'll try really really hard to keep it to 6 or 7 paras max, I really don't want to pressure my roleplay partner into matching if they don't want to ��� often I end up with closer to 8-10 paragraphs and need to reread my reply and cut down extraneous sentences. Please, please, PLEASE, let me know a preference, I'll try to match you!

Pet Peeves: Not enough communication on narrative progression or how to start a thread. Trying to force my character to act a certain way/ignoring the content to rewrite what my character did to force a certain interaction. Or silently resenting my pacing without communicating until too late,, I do tend to drag out scenes or end them awkwardly, please be patient with me.

Are You Like Your Muse: sooo um fUNNY YOU MENTION THIS BUT UH —storytime?? I'm a system/plural, which in super loose terms, "I" have dissociative identity disorder and there's about 40people in this single body trenchcoat. Though, we tend to just try and masquerade as a singular unit, it's easier that way for those not in the know. How this relates is about last year the previous host was going through a time of extreme stress and processing a few traumatic events, and by chance, came across this post. She had no idea who this little guy was, or the community at all. But this post made something click? I guess?

"I" really clung onto it, and some months later, not only me but another alter formed from that feeling, and solidified after more uhhhh,, really traumatic events happened to put it mildly. Our partner brought us into Hazbin and honestly, that and our person is the only reason we were able to cope; and now there's me, and there's a guy named Lucifer, and we share this blog, haha.

I am more like the way blog-Lucifer is portrayed, but my alter does help a LOT with lore and backstory while I write. He also helps me keep out any bleed through as much as possible. It's hard, because all of my personal memories only begin from mid-march(???) 2025 and so much was poured into Hazbin and Lucifer, I (and by I, I mean the entire system) genuinely cannot remember mid-December 2024- to whenever the heck I snapped into existence; and Hazbin is an anchor for the me who is acting as a host.

I, personally, cling so hard because as strange as it is to say for those that don't have some form of dissociative mental illness or memory disorder how terrifying it is to not know who you are or the history your body was physically there for, and wondering when you are gonna disappear or be replaced with someone new, like you never existed... For me, Loon, and Lucifer, this is.. sorta like a way to say we existed? Maybe too deep, but this blog is really a chicken and egg scenario, if we're more like the muse or the muse is more like us.

Stopping here before this gets to be too long, not sure it's really relevant to the question

Time to Write: Currently on a semi-hiatus! Until I finally am able to move out and get into a stable living situation at the end of April, I will be highly sporadic and selective with threads. I really really wish I could write more and had the capacity to write and catch up with everyone, but since last July I haven't really been in a good home life/environment to do anything routine like I had at the start. Pretty much just been writing with one exclusive here, but hoping to reach out to more people!!

This summer, I hope to not only revamp this blog and commission someone to help me with a theme and a custom set of emojis, but a strict regular schedule with a working queue system.

Tagged by: @radioiaci

Tagging: @sashybash (any! But likely PAPERMINT, I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE), @truearchangel , @soulsmuses (lucid? Also,, I miss you,, hewwo🥺🍬🤍), @lapisdragon01 (FIZZIROLLIMOLLI!!), @tinyfieryghost , @sunshinecackle (I MISS YOU VAL AND KEYYY)

[the-devil-less-known]

If you enjoy my writing here and you enjoy writing Hazbin Hotel characters, then this server might indeed be a good fit for you:

I will be playing Lucifer and Lilith for the Mafia AU, as well as Michael, so nothing anymore different than you've seen portrayed here, except, perhaps, a softer Lucifer. There are plenty of roles open and the people are warm and welcoming.

Feel free to come and apply to our dear Charlie's venture! Keep in mind if there is a canon character you play that you do not see listed that you are welcome to still apply for them anyway!

18+ only Hazbin Hotel roleplay server!

I play Husk, Papermint and Gabriel but there are many character slots open!

We currently have a mafia au we're currently working on along side little canon rps.

The advertisement art was made by our Charlie, who is also the owner.

If you're interested feel free to come join us and apply for one of the vaccant characters!

[fiirstnephalem]

Anonymous asked: bucky barnes

Using the Princess because she literally beamed at the fact that almost immediately, someone came in saying her husband's name. Us to nonnie, Us too! Sima & Bucky are one of my main OTPs and I will die on my hill to shout about how beautiful they are together! No, but seriously, I could scream and gush about them so much and write paragraph after paragraph about them because I love them so much together, so I'm trying to keep it as brief as possible right now.

@salvationofsouls ( tagging because her husband right there! )

anonymous on anon or not, tell me who you ship my muse with / accepting.

[tsbs-confessionverse]

[BOOT SEQUENCE INITIATED] LOADING... SYSTEM ONLINE. WELCOME TO THE LORE DATABASE.

Hello, user. I am the Computer; central processing unit for all things related to the TSBS Confessionverse. Primary function is to store, organize, and retrieve data to ensure optimal comprehension and efficiency in this roleplay universe. All mods of CVAU have access to this database.

CHARACTER FILES

Sun - @tsbs-sunfessions Moon - @tsamsconfessions123 Eclipse - @crappy-tsbs-confession-blog Bloodmoon - @tsams-bloody-confessions Lunar - @tsbsconfessions Killcode - [Data Unavailable At This Time] Solar Flare - @flare-tsamsfessions Solar - @tsbs-shipfessions Earth - @tsbs-group-therapy Ruin - @ruinous-confessions Nexus - @ilikescience-confession-blog Jack - [Error. Data Retrieval Corrupted.] Miku - @tsbs-miku-confessional Solstice - @tsbs-darksun-confessions Puppet - @thepuppeteerpodcast Foxy - @foxyconfessions FC - @foxifulconfessions (Glamrock) Ballora - @confess-to-ur-queen Charlie - @gift-box-confessions Orion (Lord Eclipse) - @confess-to-the-lord Sirius (Servant Sun) - @confessions-to-a-humble-servant

PARAMETERS

Each blog sets its own boundaries; please read and follow them.

Do not pressure creators or participants to answer asks, roleplay, or produce content.

Questions and submissions should be relevant to the "TSBS Confessionverse (CVAU)."

Avoid spamming unrelated content, memes, or personal matters.

Treat participants and characters with courtesy.

Do not send hate, criticism, or unwelcome feedback to anyone in the group.

Tag triggering or NSFW content appropriately to ensure accessibility for others.

Do not send triggering or NSFW content to Lunar, Earth, FC, Solar Flare, Moon, or any other blog that has set boundaries against NSFW content.

If you want to involve yourself in the roleplay (e.g., sending an IC ask or contributing content), check whether the participants are open to outside interaction at the time. Often times members of the group have planned out in universe plot days in advance.

Respect if the group prefers to keep certain plotlines closed to external input.

Do not repost group content without permission and proper credit.

Do not plagiarize ideas, writing, or art from the group.

Constructive feedback is welcome if requested, but negativity and drama are not.

Ensure your interactions adhere to Tumblr’s community guidelines.

FAQ MODULE

Q: Can I join CVAU? A: Applications are open.

Q: What is the TSBS Confessionverse (CVAU)? A: CVAU is a collaborative alternate universe roleplay inspired by TSAMS. It’s a mix of storytelling and creativity from various Tumblr blogs working together.

Q: Who can participate? A: This roleplay is limited to the current group of participants. Audience members are welcome to interact by sending asks or comments, but direct participation in the story is closed unless stated otherwise. If you'd like to participate directly in the lore consider filling out an application.

Q: What is the age rating for this roleplay? 16+ for violence, swears, and sometimes suggestive content

Q: What is this blog for? A: The "computer" blog serves as the loremaster for the TSBS Confessionverse. It organizes, stores, and shares information about the AU, including character profiles, world-building, and timelines.

Q: Can I submit lore ideas? A: Suggestions are welcome, but major plot points are decided by the participants. Submit your ideas respectfully, and keep in mind they may not always be used.

Q: How should I interact with this blog? A: Feel free to send questions about the lore or CVAU-specific clarifications. However, this blog will not respond to OOC questions unrelated to the AU or personal topics.

Q: I want to learn more about a specific character or event. Where should I start? A: This blog will use an organized tagging system for easy navigation.

Q: Why didn’t they answer my ask? A: Not all asks will be answered. Your ask may have been off-topic, already covered, or something outside the blog's scope. Check the FAQ and existing posts first.

SYSTEM STANDBY MODE ENGAGED.

I am not sentient. Emotional appeals and personal confessions are illogical and will be processed as corrupted data. Proceed accordingly.

[righteous-pinkie-pie]

MOD POST/OOC: Hey everypony!

Unfortunately the confessional will be closed for a bit longer. I’ve caught up on asks, but i have two other IRL projects I want to finish before I spend more time on the confessions.

I also will be focusing on the main storyline more going forward so asks will probably take longer to come out in general.

[the-devil-less-known]

If it's my Lucifer, there's actually a good reason for that and part of why I use the color coding system of blues, reds, and purples (though I will admit this is the most purple I've used in one sitting, haha).

He doesn't inherently hate or distrust the younger angels, in fact he feels deeply sorry for them since they never got the chance to see the mask slip or be informed of anything regarding the truth of what it means to Fall or be truly "Good". And in concerns to Lucid...

All he's focused on currently is getting Lucid safely back home without anyone being the wiser of what he had done. He's absolutely terrified of what they might do if his replacement shows any sign of corruption or too much similarity to himself. But not for himself, there's very very little more they can do to him anymore to make things worse... but Lucid... Lucid could lose it all.

And he can't, he can't let that happen, he couldn't bear the thought of not only fucking up so bad that he lost it all, can barely cope with that currently, but to be the cause to have it ripped away from someone who's only purpose was to satisfy the guilt and loss of those above? Someone who would always be looked through as if seeing someone else by the older guard? By God?

Someone already vibrating at the seams in knowing that there's something deeply Wrong but no one will answer or reassure it? Someone already doing what their fabricated nature is making them seek out since they were based off of someone defected?

He'll have his break down in private, release his grief over being so fundamentally replaceable and the cruel nature of being forced to compete against another only to always fall short (whether this means Lucid or Lucifer... does it really matter? It hold so painfully true for both). If he hadn't understood Cain before, he did now. That feeling. But he would sooner kill the Father than the one that never asked to be created.

There's a few paths where this could ultimately lead, one of which being DIVINICIDE/PATRICIDE, but all he sees is who he used to be, and hates himself for being unable to see the individual in front of him for who he is. And will later seek out differences in preferences and tastes, just to celebrate and encourage them.

Of course, that's just him overcorrecting, and will likely lead to a breakdown of some kind, and a very very hard heart-to-heart talk about what makes a soul and who does Lucid want to be, and who does he feel like he can't be, and what those look like.

As a mun, I can't entirely say it's fatherly? More like that's a default reaction to seeing someone vulnerable. He doesn't see Lucid as a child, has no idea if Lucid was immediately created after Lucifer was cast out of even last week— but he sees him for when he was sneaking down to Eden with Gabriel... Only this time... Lucid is doing so alone and in a blatantly dangerous place.

I can see as time goes on as a mentor and friend before eventually seeing Lucid as an equal, and an entirely separate individual. He has to.

That one Lucifer seems unusually fond of you.... odd, don't you think?

There’s a long pause, Lucid seeming to hesitate on how to respond.

“…Which one?”

@helluva-hazbins @hells-greatestdad @themosthatedbeingg @kingdomofhell @the-devil-less-known

[living-dead-author]

Hail Mary: Negan Smith x GN AFAB reader smut

I have a thing for Priests and also Negan. Today is Jeffery Dean Morgan's birthday also so perfect unintentional timing for me. This one shot is 18+ do not read if you are under the age of 18

Content includes: Pre season 7 Negan, Age gap (reader is mid/late 20's Negan is in his 40's), dub con in the beginning if you squint, spanking, reader orgasms from clit stimulation, praying while being spanked and stimulated, praise, pet names, some aftercare, maybe ooc Negan, not proof read

You step into the makeshift confessional booth in The Sanctuary. A couple of priests being here, one of them Catholic, has helped you retain your faith throughout this hell on earth. You shut the door and make yourself comfortable. 

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” You say, waiting for a reply, but you don’t get one. You can see the priest on the other side of the booth, but you decide to go on with it anyway, you need to get this off your chest. “I’ve sinned minorly and one sin that I think is bigger. A couple of days ago I stole a needle and thread from a bunkmate of mine to sew back up a sweater I have.” You pause, waiting for any kind of reply, but you don’t get one. You sigh and keep going. “Then about a week ago I lied and said I don’t have any experience watching children when I do. I only said that because I knew I was in no place to watch over someone else’s child at that time.” 

You pause again, moving a hand up to the cross necklace around your neck. You shut your eyes and continue on. “I spoke back to someone in a position above me. I apologized and they forgave me. I purposefully avoided some people because I didn’t want to speak to them, and I um…I’ve been having some very sinful thoughts.” You say, pressing your lips together tightly. You sit in silence with the priest on the other side of the confessional.

“What kind of sinful thoughts?” Your eyes quickly open and you know that the other person in the booth isn’t the Catholic priest here, it’s Negan. You feel your body get frozen with fear. Your hand grips your necklace tighter as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Don’t keep me waiting now.” He says in a bit of a playful tone, but all you can hear is how his voice has boomed before. You take a deep, shaking breath before you continue. 

“There’s a man here. His name is Warren. He’s an older man, barely old enough to be my father. He’s been very kind to me since we’ve met and I um…I’ve been having thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him. Thoughts of what it would be like to have him touch me in pleasurable areas. I um…” You hesitate. Knowing that the man who’s basically a god of his own here is listening, it's hard to find the right words. 

“You what? Come on now darlin’ don’t leave me hangin’.” He says in that same playful tone. You can tell he’s smirking behind that wall, getting aroused by your words. The problem is, you’re getting turned on too. You swallow hard against a lump in your throat and you speak. 

“I touched myself to the thought of him. I um…I had an orgasm too. I just couldn’t stop myself. It felt so good and those thoughts of him made me keep going.” You hang your head a bit lower as you hear him chuckle. After a brief silence he speaks again. 

“I know what you need. Now, you’re going to say five “Hail Mary’s”. But you’re going to have to finish them while I give you a bit of corporal punishment of my own.”  He chuckles again and you feel your face flush pink. The thought of him spanking you gets you wet and oh lord you’re biting your bottom lip to keep in your excitement at the thought of that. “Now, you’re going to come out of the booth and walk with me to a better place for this to happen. Somewhere private.” 

“Yes sir.” You say, slowly standing up as you fidget with your hands. It feels like eternities as you open your door and step out of the booth. Soon you’re looking up at Negan from where he stands. He’s got a huge grin on his face as he grips his bat, Lucile in one of his hands. He takes his other hand and firmly grabs your bicep. 

“God can forgive you for this, you’ve just got to take your punishment.” He says with that wide grin on his face as he leads you out of the makeshift church. You walk with him down the hallways and up some stairs, getting curious glances from people passing by as you try and hide your own growing excitement at what’s to come. 

Soon Negan takes you into a room with a couple long folding tables lined up together. You can assume this is a meeting room. 

“Now, bend over the table in whatever way you please and drop your pants.” He says, his tone teasing and excited as you do as you’re told. You hear him lock the door as you undo your belt and drop your pants and underwear, feeling the air hit your wet cunt and throbbing clit. You bite your bottom lip as you feel his gloved hand run over your bare ass. He sets Lucile down on the table next to you and he speaks. “Five Hail Mary’s. Remember that.” You stay silent, biting your bottom lip before he delivers a small smack on your rear, making you squeak and jump slightly. 

“Hail Mary, full of Grace, the lord is with thee.” You say as he rubs his hand over your ass before spanking it again, this time a bit harder in a deliciously painful way. You jerk slightly with the shock and pain but you continue on. “Blessed art thou amongst women-” He spanks you again, making you let out a soft noise and jerk again, “And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” 

“You’re doing so good for me darlin’. Keep going you’re almost done with the first one.” He says in a sweetly mocking tone as he spanks you again, getting another jerk and moan from you before you continue on. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God-” Another spank, this time you don’t jerk but you bite your bottom lip and moan before you go on. “Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.” He delivers another spank and you moan again. Negan starts to rub your pink rear.

“Oh you’re being so good for me. So obedient. Now, keep going.” He says, spanking you again, this time a bit harder. You moan louder at the harder spank and you shut your eyes before continuing. 

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord it with thee.” He spanks you again, at that same, harder rate and you moan, taking a breath before you continue. “Blessed art thou among-” Another spank, “women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” He spanks you again and you whine out in pleasure at the perfectly painful sensation. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us-” Negan spanks you again, your hips buck forwards and he quickly pulls them back. 

“Come on now, be good for me. Be good for God.” He says in that same teasing tone before you continue. 

“Sinners now, and at the hour of our death, amen.” He spanks you again before rubbing your bright red ass. You feel your clit throbbing as your slit grows wetter and wetter. “Hail Mary-” You can’t even get the third word out before he spanks you harder than before, earning a loud, gasping moan from your mouth before you’re able to recover and continue. “Full of grace, the lord is with the.” Another deliciously painful spank hits your red ass and you moan again. “Blessed art thou among women-” Another spank and you’re barely able to take how turned on you are, your poor clit is throbbing at how badly it needs to be rubbed. “And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray-” This spank hits you right in a sweet spot and your knees bend down as you moan loud and long. 

“Do you need to stop?” Negan asks, that smug tone wearing off a bit as he grips your hips and helps you stand. You shake your head and moan again, biting your bottom lip before you continue. 

“I’m fine. Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.” Negan spanks you again, but this time it’s softer. You rest your entire upper body against the table as Negan starts to rub your aching, red, rear. You take a deep breath and continue on, only two more to go. “Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with the.” As you continue on he just keeps rubbing your rear, his hand slowly moving towards your cunt. “Blessed art thou among women, and blesses is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” You take another deep breath and moan as he starts to rub your aching clit. You start to grind against his fingers as you pant out the last of your fourth prayer. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” 

Negan chuckles as you grind against his fingers on your clit. He leans down and whispers in your ear. “One more to go darlin’. Now Once you finish this last Hail Mary, I’m going to let you cum. How does that sound?” He asks in a smug, husky tone. You bite your bottom lip so hard you swear it’s going to bleed but you nod your head. You take a deep breath and start your final Hail Mary. 

“Hail Mary…full of grace…the Lord is with the.” You say, your tone getting shakier and your words spaced apart as you feel him rub your clit in the perfect way. “Blessed…Blessed art thou among women, and…blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” You’re basically moaning the words now as he keeps rubbing your clit perfectly. “Holy Mary…Mother…Mother of God…Pray for us sinners, now and…at the hour of our death, Amen.” You finish, your hips moving with his fingers as you feel your orgasm getting closer.

“Oh yes honey. God has forgiven you now.” Negan says, his pleasure evident in his tone as he keeps rubbing your clit at the perfect pace, almost like he knows exactly how to make you cum. 

“Oh Negan please~” You moan, your fingers trying to grip the plastic table you’re laying on top of as your body gets overtaken with pleasure. You pant and moan as your orgasm finally comes. You raise up your hips and you hold your breath as he keeps rubbing your clit, making you ride out your orgasm. Once you’re breathing again he moves his hand out of between your legs and he goes back to rubbing your sore ass. 

“You did such a good job darlin’.” He says, his tone still smug but you can tell he’s trying to sound more genuine. “Now, I’m going to get you set up in a room of your own. It’ll be small, but I promise ya that this won’t be the last time you’ll be cumming because of me.” He says with a chuckle, that smug, teasing persona coming back. “Now your pretty little ass is going to be sore for quite a while. So I think you should let me take you back to that room so I can properly help you recover.” You know that it’s not an offer. But lord if you knew that getting in Negan’s good graces would get you your own room you would’ve done this a lot sooner. 

“Thank you. I appreciate this.” You say, pulling your pants back up, carefully doing your belt and turning to face him again. He wraps an arm around your waist and he walks you out of the little conference room. You wonder what other benefits you’re going to get from going to him for your confession. 

[spicymalepolls]

ROUND THREE: POLL #2 - Semifinals

ROUND 3 ALL POLLS [HERE]

PROPAGANDA BELOW

🔞 18 + Content Ahead 🔞

Shen Qingqiu/Yuan:

*Warning! Light spoilers for the entire book!*

There are canonical, in-world, ooc hardcore rpf porn of him and his husband written by other characters, heavily featuring how sexy and domninatable he is. Shen Qingqiu has his chest stripped, causing his love interests gay awakening, his clothes torn sexily when in prison, his clothes torn and his waist caressed under house arrest, had the narrative interrupt his 'I must look like an old man' inner monolog to say he was looking fine as hell, and had an evil alternate version of his husband try to sleep with him despite looking just like that guy's childhood abuser.

Shen Qingqiu is also described as having a fat ass and long sexy legs in the explicit extras.

Image #1 (Rule 34)

Image #2 (Rule 34)

Olivine:

He's a guy from a BL porn gacha, so he quite literally exists to be lewded. Facts about him that make me feral:

- he's a big titted priest with nipple piercings, and it's all but stated that he pierced himself

- you see the outfit in the back in the official art? that's his formal preaching outfit. he preaches in that. not all the time, but that's because the outfit is, in his words, too formal.

- is a masochist. NuCa is one of those gachas that has damaged clothes portraits when characters take damage in battle, and in every single one of his variants, he has an ahegao in the max damage portrait. in all but one variant he has heart eyes with that ahegao. I have chosen my favorite from many choices to include in the image propaganda.

- one of his home screen lines is thinking out loud about how he's heard that having a dick piercing feels good, but then he realizes he's talking out loud and goes "ah! never mind, you didn't hear that..." it's adorable.

- has a scene where he gives a tit job, and cums just from giving said tit job. it was his first time giving a tit job and apparently he has a natural talent for it, and got turned on when he was praised for this.

- and also he loves sucking cock.

- and also loves being creampied.

- one time he fucked in a confessional booth. has a lot of public sex scenes, actually. he's also into exhibitionism.

I know he's going to immediately get swept because NuCa isn't /that/ well known as a game but like. Look at him. He's so submissive and breedable and incredibly lewdable

Image #1 (Official Art)

Image #2 (Danbooru)

Image #3 (Twitter)

Image #4 (Twitter)

Image #5 (Twitter)

[quantumripple]

Figured it might be neat to give post-mortems of fics I’ve written (in no particular order)

Gonna call this Quantum’s Post-Moretem Mondays even though I’m almost certain I’m never going to post this again on a Monday (work was just suuuuper slow)

So to start off we’ve got Pen Pals: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51609454

Premise: in early 2010 Taylor and Sveta become pen pals (hence the name).

Very much the definition of a rarepair since there’s only one other Taylor/Sveta fic that I’m aware of and it’s not even tagged.

And honestly hot take: the reason it’s a rarepair is that it lowkey just does not work as a ship. Taylor and Sveta are just not compatible, Taylor is far too… her. Sveta deserves better honestly.

What I like about the fic:

The bits of humour always blindside me when I do a reread. This one definitely leans on the sort of online humour you sometimes get with lesbians. Particularly the meme of two girls commiserating you each other that they “wish they could get a gf frfr”

I also just stole some funny bits from worm and adapted them but idk if I should count those bc they were just yoinked from worm.

I’m pretty proud of the background plot that’s happening in the fic. It’s pretty fun to explore those through only the lens of texts between two people. Things diverge a little bit and we end up with Echidna happening early, but the fight goes a lot differently. Ends up being a much longer fight/conflict but upside is case 53 stuff didn’t get leaked. Taylor eventually ended it by tag-teaming with a few heroes, getting the right power combo. S9 shows up after and a while after they’re there Amy takes Victoria. Taylor, thinking the s9 did it went on the warpath, she broke into the prt hq and stole the Bakuda bombs which she used to take out a few members before she found Amy and Victoria, made Amy fix her, then just fully executed her.

What I don’t like:

Taylor is extremely out of character. She’s too like… it’s hard to explain but she’s too cutesy, or dorky in a way that doesn’t really fit with how she is in canon. Triple especially anytime they’re discussing feelings. Honestly the only parts of her that feels in character is latter on in the fic when it starts getting into the broader hero plot stuff.

Sveta is also pretty ooc but not quite as bad as Taylor. She’s a hard character to write because while yea she’s got a lot going on at the end of the day she’s just a really nice person and that’s hard to write out unless you want something super fluffy.

And speaking of: the fic is just way too fluffy for my tastes these days. Like I had to skim the final scene where they’re being all sappy and confessional bc it made me feel ill lmao.

What I would do if I were to redo/re-explore:

Honestly this might be one of my few fics where I’d just cop it and say that it kinda doesn’t work conceptually. Taylor and Sveta just aren’t really compatible without changing one or the other.

Honestly if I were returning to it I’d probably drop Sveta (sorry) and actually just focus on the Brockton Bay plot stuff. So it’d be Taylor joining the wards, getting frustrated and then leaving and teaming up w Victoria and the focus is more in them becoming friends. And the other changes with Echidna and the s9 could be fun to explore.

Or alternatively I keep Sveta and lean into the doomed nature of the relationship, have it be a much more deep exploration of their characters and how they could interact. Follow Sveta as she makes an online friend but slowly realise that this friend of hers is weirdly violent as a cape. Have that introduce a lot more friction with Sveta judging Taylors methods more and more and Taylor just getting really defensive etc. and like…. It wouldn’t even need to have a bad ending per se. It would just be them realising that they’re really not compatible and that getting this invested in each other was a bad idea. Or the super good ending where Sveta comes around to Taylor’s way of thinking and they wage bloody war against evil, that could also be p fun. And not entirely impossible especially if Taylor is literally Svetas only friend.

Final thoughts:

This is one of those fics that still gets the odd random comment on ao3 which makes me remember it more often than other fics despite the fact that I don’t really have much to say/think about the fic beyond what I’ve already thrown up. It sits in my mind as a firm “basically ok, has its moments”

Curious to know what others think of it because honestly I barely do. I think I just picked it bc it was one of my shorter fics and sfw so I could read it between waiting for stuff to happen at work.

[roykleinberg]

Unpopular Tron opinion: Dyson is waaay less interesting in canon than the fandom makes him out to be. 🤷‍♂️

(I elaborated on this but changed my mind and cut three paragraphs lol)

tron confessional with moss

ohoh see now this is a Hot Take

and one that I don’t necessarily disagree with

I’ve said before and I’ll say again that I have gripes with Uprising, and unfortunately I think a good number of them come down to the fact that it’s an unfinished narrative. I really didn’t feel like the characters started to gel in an interesting way until post-Scars, and then the rug got pulled out from under us. so many plot threads and character development pieces never came to fruition — and I think that can definitely be felt with Dyson. it’s natural for any fandom to expand on characters well past their canon, especially in situations where things were cut and opportunities for canonical development were lost. I clearly have side character brainrot so I can’t really judge lol

but regarding Dyson specifically. hmm. yeahhhh. he seemed relatively one note in the show to me, honestly more so than Clu even — and there’s a sidebar discussion to be had there, because my tangential unpopular opinion is that I think Uprising took away from Clu as a character by having so many secondary villains. I liked the Argon antagonist trio a lot, but Dyson’s presence specifically removed some of the personal edge that made Clu’s whole deal interesting to me in the first place. by having Dyson be Tron’s bestie that turned on him and tortured him while Clu was kinda just. there. it squashed a lot of the tension between Tron and Clu, because I always felt like Tron’s repurposing was another deeply personal middle finger at Flynn — and foisting that process (or at least the start of it) off on Dyson just didn’t hit the same for me

and other than that there’s just never been anything super compelling about Dyson to me personally. or at least there’s nothing particularly unique about him? Cyrus also turned on Tron and whatever was wrong with him was way more interesting. Paige was a willing Occupation participant based on anti-ISO lies and was again more interesting to me. Dyson apparently just has a massive shift to fantasy racism after a single incident, and then proceeds to become an evil cop about it — without any of the nuance that Paige had

one other additional point that ties into this a bit but also my general why does everyone hate Flynn sentiments — it drives me up a wall that no one acknowledges that one of Flynn’s biggest dickhead moments, when he brushes Dyson off after the riot, comes entirely from a flashback from Dyson’s perspective. and based on his feelings and present day loyalties I don’t think we have any reason to believe he’s a reliable narrator, or that his memory of that interaction isn’t tainted by super obvious biases. Flynn clearly wasn’t perfect, but I’ve always side eyed that scene for being a little ooc based on who was recounting it

but like I said, I do wonder if a second season would’ve added more to Dyson, and I don’t suppose we’ll ever know :’) also please come back with your paragraphs I would always love to hear More Thoughts