#sacrilegious stitching

[bobceffula]

So I made this patch based on a text post that made me legitimately cackle before taking up residence in my brain for several weeks afterward. I attached a similar post, but I KNOW there’s one with this exact wording floating around tumblr somewhere, I just can’t locate it 😭 if anyone wants to do me a solid and send it to me and/or add it to this post, I’d be eternally grateful 🙌

[redvexillum]

A/N: Get it? Grace-fall? It's Graceful. Lol! This brilliance can only come from licking the most expensive and luxurious of doorknobs made of diamonds. Just saying.

SUMMARY: Once a devoted nun, your mortal life ended steeped in sin, condemning you to Hell. You pray relentlessly for redemption, though salvation seems far out of reach. The claws of lust have sunk deep into your soul, your very being dripping with unholy desire. Fallen from grace, you find yourself ensnared by two devils who revel in your surrender, indulging in your flesh and your corruption with wicked delight.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, p in v, p in a, double penetration, underlying sexual tension between Alastor and Lucifer, corruption kink, Lucifer has it bad for religious kink, nun!reader, threesome

Hell was not supposed to feel this... warm. 

You had been devoted to the Lord, a devout Sister draped in virtue, but even devotion hadn't saved you. Somehow, someway, you’d landed yourself in the depths of Hell. Each morning and every night, you knelt on blistered, infernal ground, your trembling hands clasped in prayer for forgiveness that never came. This place—a supposed refuge for sinners seeking redemption—mocked you. Perhaps your soul was too stained, your sins too vile, to ever dream of Heaven. 

Because you carried a shameful secret. 

By day, you were the perfect image of piety, wrapped in robes and righteous words, sharing scripture with a voice that trembled with supposed faith. But when the moon rose, so did your desires. Behind closed doors, in the hushed, hidden dark, you cast away chastity like trash. You indulged, flesh against flesh, sin layered upon sin, until your moans sounded like prayers to something other. 

And here, in Hell, it seemed you hadn’t changed. 

“A-ah, A-Alastor—!” your voice broke as his hands guided your trembling body back against his chest. His claws traced a teasing path up your bare thigh, the sharp tips leaving tingling trails of heat on your sensitive skin. 

Once he learned about your past, Alastor couldn’t resist. He delighted in theatrics, and what better costume for his new obsession than the very one that had shielded you in life? He’d conjured a habit reminiscent of your old one—but he’d tailored it. 

Or, more accurately, ruined it. 

The fabric was thinner, so sheer you could see every contour of your body beneath the strained, clinging cloth. It was tighter, accentuating every curve you once tried to hide. Worst of all, a scandalous slit cut up the side of the tunic, revealing the sinful truth that you wore nothing beneath. Every step threatened to bare your soul—along with everything else. 

“T-this isn’t w-what we wore,” you stammered, your voice soft, trembling with both shame and something far more dangerous. You prayed he wouldn’t notice how your body betrayed you, prayed his hand wouldn’t slip lower. But you knew if he did, he’d find the damning evidence of your arousal soaking your thighs. 

“Nonsense, dear,” he purred, his voice rolling over you like warm molasses. His breath curled against your ear as his hips pressed insistently into you. "We’re even matching. Look.” 

Despite your better judgment, you dared to glance. Alastor stood behind you, garbed in his own blasphemous rendition of a nun's attire. His coif bore an upside-down cross embroidered in crimson, the stitching precise yet sacrilegious. 

It was wrong. It was so wrong. 

Yet, it set your skin aflame. 

“D-does it please you to torment me?” you whimpered, trembling as his palm ghosted over your breast. His thumb brushed the hardened peak of your nipple through the taut fabric, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper, desperate to muffle the sinful sound that escaped. 

“Torment you?” Alastor chuckled, low and rich, like a velvet sin. His hand slid down, grazing your quivering stomach. “Why, my dear, I would never! I’m simply guiding you on your new path—one of passion, indulgence, and…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that danced over your skin. “…pleasure.” 

You didn’t stop him. 

You couldn’t stop him. 

Shame pooled like molten lead in your chest, mixing with the treacherous pleasure that dripped from your core. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision as you croaked, “P-please, Alastor, d-don’t tease me.” 

“Oh, darling,” he crooned, his tone mocking yet tender, “I don’t tease. I teach.” His fingers edged lower, tracing lower, lower still—almost slipping beneath the slit of your tunic. 

Then— 

The door creaked open. 

Your entire body froze, your muscles locking in mortified panic. The air felt thick, suffocating, as you whipped your head toward the sound. 

“Hey, Alastor, why’d your shadow—” 

The voice halted, the words hanging in the heavy silence. Time seemed to stop as the intruder took in the sight of you—trembling, dishevelled, pressed against Alastor’s chest in your barely there nun’s habit. 

Your breath hitched. 

It was Lucifer standing before you. 

The Morning Star, the fallen angel whose name was both a cautionary tale and a forbidden promise, stood before you in the flesh. His aura radiated power, a blend of overwhelming authority and unearthly beauty that stole your breath. You should hate him. Every scripture had told you to loathe his existence, to see him as the ultimate deceiver, the tempter of mankind. 

But as his crimson, molten eyes softened when they rested on you, it was impossible to feel only hate. 

Your feelings for him were complicated—a tangled web of reverence, fear, and an unwilling fascination. The longer you were in his presence, the harder it became to deny that he was not merely a villain. He was something far more nuanced, far more intoxicating. 

But all thoughts scattered as you felt Alastor’s hardened length press against your backside. His arousal grew unmistakable, and the firm weight of it sent a jolt of heat through your already trembling frame. 

“Ah, did my pesky shadow cause this little interruption?” Alastor mused, his tone smooth yet dripping with mockery. “Hmm, no matter. You can run along now, King,” he added with a laugh that was as sharp as broken glass. “I’m spending time with my dear, after all.” 

You flinched as Alastor’s hand slid down, lifting your leg with practised ease. The slit of your habit widened, the cool air licking against your exposed, soaked core. Every inch of you screamed in humiliation as Lucifer’s gaze dropped, his eyes roving over your quivering body until they landed on the most intimate part of you. 

His crimson eyes widened, his lips parting slightly as if in disbelief. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lucifer finally growled, his composure cracking as his brows furrowed in exasperation. “How many times have I told you not to bastardize this?” He jabbed the apple-shaped head of his cane toward your altered nun’s habit, his disdain palpable. 

But Alastor only chuckled, his amusement unfazed. “Oh, we’re just having a bit of fun, aren’t we, dear?” His voice dipped with a teasing lilt as he pressed his cheek to the crown of your head, the motion emphasizing the sharp grin you knew was stretched across his face. 

His hips moved subtly, his hardness grinding against the cleft of your ass with an agonizingly slow rhythm. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, and despite your better judgment, a soft, breathless moan slipped from your lips. 

“A-ah—” You couldn’t stop the sound, and shame burned hot in your chest. Tears welled in your eyes, spilling down your flushed cheeks as you whispered, “I-I’m sorry… p-please, forgive me.” Your words were breathy, punctuated by quiet cries as your hips began to move on their own, seeking more of the sinful pleasure Alastor offered. 

Lucifer let out a low, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.” His voice was a mix of anger and something darker—something that made your stomach flip. 

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning with a finality that sent a thrill of both fear and anticipation racing through you. 

“You did this on purpose,” Lucifer accused, his voice low as he stalked toward you. His serpentine tongue flicked out briefly, a glint of heat in his crimson eyes as they roamed your trembling form. 

“Hmm, perhaps,” Alastor hummed, his tone light but his actions deliberate. You gasped as you heard the fabric tearing—not yours, but his. You felt the unmistakable heat of his cock sliding against your soaked folds. He moved slowly, deliberately, coating himself in your slickness as if savouring every second. 

“I’d be lying,” Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl, “if I said your little stares every time she prayed didn’t irritate me, Lucifer.” 

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed with golden light, his composure cracking under the weight of Alastor’s accusation. “I-I—!” 

“Oh, you didn’t think I noticed?” Alastor’s grin was audible in his voice, wicked and triumphant. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you with shallow movements that had you sobbing with need. Your chest heaved as desperate pleas spilled from your lips, the heat inside you unbearable. 

“P-please,” you cried, your voice trembling with the weight of shame and lust that burned away all restraint. “I c-can’t—” 

Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his conflicted expression twisting into something more primal. 

Alastor chuckled darkly, his voice a slow ripple of sinister delight as he teased you with the head of his cock. The stretch was exquisite, a sweet, aching burn that had you trembling against him. Every inch he pushed into you was a battle between agony and ecstasy, your body straining to take him deeper. You craved it—wanted it to hurt, to feel the sharp edge of your desires as penance for the sin of yearning for something so profane. 

Yet, Alastor moved with an almost mocking grace, his control absolute as he bared you to him. His slender hands slid the front of your tunic aside, completely exposing the glistening heat of your cunt to the cool air. Without effort, he lifted your other leg, thighs splayed wide in his grip, and fully sheathed himself inside you. 

The sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and you cried out—a broken, helpless apology spilling from your lips. “Forgive me,” you sobbed to a silent heaven, your tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Forgive me, Lord, for indulging in this sin with a devil.” 

Alastor groaned deeply, the sound reverberating through you as his cock throbbed against your quivering walls. “Do you know, dear?” His voice was a sinful melody, tainted with amusement and heat. “You’ve driven the king of Hell to fuckhimself with his hand while watching you pray so sweetly to your Lord.” 

Your tear-filled gaze lifted, meeting Lucifer’s smouldering, fiery eyes. His sharp features were shadowed with hunger, and there—pressing against the fabric of his tailored pants—was the undeniable proof of his desire. 

Alastor’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that, my dear king,” he crooned, his hips moving with agonizing slowness as he withdrew, only to thrust back into you. The slick sound of your arousal filled the air, making you burn with humiliation and desire. “If anything, you should be thanking me for giving you this chance. Go on, my dear,” he growled, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “Beg him. Revere the king of Hell. Pretend it’s just you, alone in your bed, consumed by your wicked little fantasies.” 

Heat flooded your cheeks as the memory clawed its way back into your mind. Last night—your knees sinking into your mattress, your cries muffled by your pillow as your fingers worked frantically to fill the ache inside you. You had moaned for it, begged for it, your body trembling with the desperate need for a cock to stretch you open and take you to pieces. 

Alastor had seen it all. 

A sob broke from your throat, your lips trembling as the weight of his gaze bore down on you. And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, you moaned, “Please…” 

The word lingered in the charged air, and it was all Lucifer needed. The devil sank to his knees, his movements predatory as his hands gripped your hips. His tongue found you—hot, rough, and unrelenting as he licked a path from your swollen clit down to the dripping heat of your folds. 

Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch, and Alastor groaned above you, his breath ragged. The devil king’s tongue swirled and slithered, exploring you with a reverence that bordered on worship. You felt his expert hands move to cradle Alastor’s heavy balls, fondling them with a precision that had the radio demon’s voice breaking into a strained moan. 

And then, in one smooth motion, Alastor withdrew from you. You whimpered at the sudden emptiness, but your eyes widened when you looked down to see Lucifer take him into his mouth. 

The sight was devastatingly sinful: Lucifer’s plush lips wrapped around Alastor’s cock, his throat working as he took him in deeply, while his thumb slipped back to brush over your clit in teasing strokes. Your hips bucked against his hand, your body caught in a storm of sensations as pleasure spiralled higher with every touch. 

Alastor’s hips began to move, thrusting into Lucifer’s eager mouth with low, guttural groans. The sensation of his movements sent shockwaves through you, the mingling sounds of slick arousal filling the air. But Lucifer wasn’t done with you. With a loud, wet pop, he released Alastor’s cock, his hands stroking the length with practised ease, before his mouth returned to you. 

You cried out as his tongue plunged into you, curling and twisting inside your heat. His lips latched onto your swollen clit, sucking with a hunger that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Alastor’s laughter—low and strained—filled the room as he watched Lucifer lose himself in you. 

And you? 

You were drowning in it, consumed by the sheer decadence of being ravaged by two devils who seemed determined to ruin you, body and soul. 

A strangled cry tore from your lips, your tears streaking down in hot, salty trails as you trembled under Alastor's punishing grip. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving faint crescents in your tender flesh, a stark reminder of his control. 

“More… more,” you begged, your voice raw and breathless. Your body ached, caught between the sharp edge of need and the shame of your surrender. 

Alastor’s dark chuckle filled the room, rich with cruel amusement. “Oh, you naughty, naughty girl,” he chided, his voice a silken blade. “This isn’t enough for you, is it? Always craving more, no matter how much you’ve taken.” His words cut deep, each one a taunting echo of your fractured piety, your countless nights spent giving in to your base desires. 

Behind you, the wet sounds of Lucifer’s mouth stilled. His fiery gaze raked over your trembling form, lips glistening from the evidence of his ministrations. Without a word, he snapped his fingers, a crackle of hellfire igniting around you. The fabric of your outfit dissolved into nothingness, replaced by a fleeting, fiery heat that licked over your skin. 

Now bare, you shivered—not from cold, but from the vulnerable intensity of their attention. 

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed—not at you, but at the smug demon holding you open like a feast laid bare. “You…” The words rumbled low in his throat, his fury palpable as Alastor’s grin widened. 

With a growl, Lucifer’s composure snapped. He tore at the front of his pants, shoving them aside with deliberate impatience until his cock stood proud—thick, long, and demanding your attention. 

Your breath hitched, your mouth watering as heat coiled low in your belly. The sheer size of him sent your mind spinning, imagining how it would feel, how he would stretch and fill you. 

Alastor’s voice broke through your haze, a taunting melody dripping with mockery and delight. “Will you pray for forgiveness tonight, my dear?” His words were a cruel caress against your soul. “Perhaps you can taste the king while begging for the Lord’s mercy.” 

Lucifer’s muscles tensed, his eyes widening in shocked restraint as his hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. The tension in his body betrayed the effect of Alastor’s words as his knuckles whitened, trembling. 

“Go on,” Alastor purred, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “Say your prayers now, while your purity is torn asunder by two devils who know no mercy.” 

A broken sob escaped you, a sound dripping with desperation and forbidden lust. Your body quivered as Alastor shifted behind you, the blunt head of his cock pressing insistently against the tight ring of your ass. 

Lucifer growled low in his throat, his cock brushing against your soaked, trembling folds. He lingered, waiting—demanding your surrender not just of body, but of soul. 

“F-forgive me, Father—ah!” The words barely left your lips before Alastor surged forward, breaching you in one merciless thrust. Pain and pleasure collided as your body strained to accommodate him, your cries loud and uninhibited. 

Lucifer didn’t wait. His cock drove into your slick cunt with equal ferocity, stretching and filling you until there was no room for anything but them. 

Your body burned, every nerve alive with the overwhelming sensation of being taken, utterly consumed by them. Tears streaked your face anew as your fingers scrabbled for purchase, finally clutching at Lucifer’s shoulders for support. 

Their groans filled the room, deep and primal, vibrating through you as they moved in tandem. Alastor’s breath ghosted against your ear, his voice a sinful whisper. “Don’t stop, darling. Continue your prayers.” 

The command was both a taunt and a promise, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he thrust into you, sharp and precise. Lucifer’s hands gripped your waist, his movements relentless, dragging cries from your throat that echoed like hymns to your undoing. 

The world blurred, every sensation heightening as their bodies claimed you, leaving you gasping and trembling between them. Your prayers turned to pleas, the words dissolving into moans as you surrendered completely, letting them unravel you piece by sinful piece. 

“F-forgive me—ah—” The words faltered on your lips, swallowed by the sinful symphony of their bodies entwined with yours. Alastor’s hips rolled with an exquisite precision, sending shivers cascading down your spine. Lucifer groaned deeply as the thin wall separating your cunt and ass flexed with every thrust, their cocks filling you beyond what you thought possible. 

“F-Father, f-for I have s-sinned—hah—” Your head fell back against Alastor’s shoulder, your body arching as though in prayer. But this wasn’t piety—this was surrender. Held aloft by their unrelenting grip and their thick, pulsing cocks, you were trapped in a sinful rhythm, their thrusts alternating to keep you on the edge of madness. Sometimes they moved in tandem, stretching you impossibly full, and other times their rhythm broke, their erratic movements overwhelming your senses. 

It was too much—your body couldn’t take it—but never in life had you felt such raw, unbridled pleasure. 

“K-keep praying,” Lucifer growled, his voice husky with need. His lips descended on your breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth. The sharp sensation of his teeth grazing your nipple made you cry out, your back arching further into his touch. He bit down lightly, tugging before resuming his fervent suckling, each sensation sharpening the ache coiling in your core. 

The intensity of it all made your body clench instinctively, gripping the two cocks inside you. Both devils moaned, their pleasure vibrating through you. 

“M-my l-last c-confession—hah—please, ah—” Your voice broke as your body gave itself over to the debauchery, your cries mingling with the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts. The squelching echoed in the room, each sound a testament to your sinful surrender. Your slick dripped down their lengths, leaving trails of debauchery on their thighs. 

Lucifer groaned, his teeth grazing your nipple again before tugging it firmly. His hips rolled with increasing fervour, his cock stroking every sensitive nerve inside you. Behind you, Alastor’s pace quickened, each thrust a deliberate claim as he ensured you would feel his presence long after this moment ended. 

“M-my last confession w-was yesterday,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you turned your head to the side. The vulnerable expanse of your neck was laid bare, and Alastor wasted no time. His teeth sank into your skin, sharp enough to draw blood, the sting mingling with the pleasure coursing through you. The heat of his bite spread through your body, making your thighs tremble as he pulled you open even wider. 

Lucifer took advantage of your vulnerability, slamming his hips into you with reckless abandon. The head of his cock hit your clit with every thrust, sending shockwaves of ecstasy radiating through you. The sensation tore cries from your lips, your voice cracking under the weight of your pleasure. 

Your body began to quake, every muscle tightening as you climbed toward the precipice. “Th-these are my s-sins,” you whimpered, your voice choked with desperation. 

And then it hit you—a tidal wave of release that crashed through your body with devastating force. Your eyes flew open, unseeing, as your orgasm seized you. Your inner walls convulsed wildly, clutching at their cocks in a desperate rhythm as your juices spilled over, drenching them in your shameful surrender. 

A broken, anguished cry tore from your throat, echoing off the walls. 

Lucifer groaned, his glowing red eyes narrowing as his restraint snapped. His fangs elongated, glinting in the dim light as he growled. He gripped your hips tighter, slamming into you with renewed vigor, his movements fuelled by the sight and feel of your release. 

Behind you, Alastor moaned deeply, his hips rolling as he chased his own pleasure. The rhythm of his cock driving into your ass became erratic, his voice trembling with wicked delight. 

Together, they claimed you completely, leaving no part of you untouched or unmarked, their sinful union branding your body and soul in ways you would never recover from. 

Your body quaked, overwhelmed by the sensations tearing through you. The remnants of your first orgasm still pulsed faintly when a second wave began to crest, building swiftly and mercilessly. Your muscles clenched again, pulling tight around them both, every nerve alight with searing pleasure. 

Your cry was raw, piercing the room as your release overtook you once more. Every inch of you spasmed, your inner walls fluttering as the force of your climax rippled through you. Lucifer groaned deeply, the sound guttural and primal as his own restraint snapped. His cock throbbed inside you, releasing hot spurts of his seed into your womb, filling you to the brim. 

Behind you, Alastor followed swiftly, his thrusts faltering as his hips slammed forward one final time. He shuddered, a strangled moan escaping his lips as his warmth flooded your ass, mingling with the sinful heat of Lucifer's release. 

The room stilled, save for the sound of ragged breaths interwoven with the heady scent of sweat and sex. You felt their combined arousal spilling from you, dripping down your quivering holes and pooling onto the floor. The sensation sent another shiver through your body, shame and satisfaction coiling together in an intoxicating mix. 

When Alastor released his grip, you collapsed onto trembling knees. Your hands reached instinctively for Lucifer, your lips finding his softening, spent cock. Pressing reverent kisses along his length, you tasted the salty mixture of his essence and your own arousal on his heated skin. 

“P-please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desperation. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. You were insatiable, a vessel of endless need, the embodiment of Lust itself. Your lips trailed down his shaft, leaving a wet path of kisses before you flicked your tongue over the sensitive head. 

“Please… more,” you murmured, kitten-like licks teasing the tip as a small bead of seed lingered there. 

Lucifer hissed softly, his cock twitching faintly at your touch. His crimson eyes softened, a dark smile gracing his lips as his hand lowered to cradle your head. His fingers combed through your sweat-dampened hair with surprising tenderness, an almost possessive gesture that made your heart race. 

Alastor chuckled from behind, the sound low and indulgent. “Oh, my dear, you are truly something sinful,” he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. “But isn’t that why we adore you?” 

You should have felt shame—a deep, bone-chilling regret for your weakness, your inability to resist this sinful allure. But as Lucifer’s hand guided you back to his cock and Alastor’s fingers traced possessively down your spine, the warmth of their attention ignited something darker inside you. 

Perhaps this was your punishment, a divine reckoning. To know this insatiable hunger, this endless need, and to revel in it despite the crushing weight of shame. 

You opened your lips, ready to receive more, your body trembling with anticipation. If this were to be your punishment, you would take it with open arms, submitting fully to the sinful ecstasy they offered. 

Forever bound by pleasure and despair, you realized one undeniable truth: you would never escape this, nor did you truly want to. 

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[ceesimz]

I Did It All.

"Alexia Putellas, what do you have to say about leaving the pitch for the final time?"

Twenty years done, not enough. Twenty years more, too much. A discrepancy far more complex than it needs to be.

Days spent treading the same grass that legends of the past had once done, winding and weaving fluidly through near faultless defences, roars of awe following as stars returned back to their rightful place in the sky with each jump of celebration.

Nights spent in clubs and restaurants, surrounded by people high on glory with medals around their necks, a privilege some may argue wasn't warranted. Though, when stadiums filled to their capacities chanted just one name over and over as if it was the holiest sacrament of Catalunya, fighting against that was as close to blasmephy as one could get.

To now slip off into the unknown, leaving behind only a name that no longer gave way to the presence of a figure the fields didn't deserve. The future would never know her, only her name, only her stats, only her achievements. Perhaps it was best to keep it that way.

Decades of critics speaking in such a way it was almost sacrilegious, months of shame in the media for purely being a human in the worst era of her life, weeks of slander and insults for fighting for rights in a system built to spite her, twisting her kindness into a weakness. But always, the rightful figure rises, pulling the sword from the stone and raising it to the skies in triumph. The crown could get heavy, but not once did it falter. Not once did it fall.

With the final few imprints of her boot studs as she stepped off of the turf, she simply relinquished the responsibility and handed the legacy over to the next generation, trusting them indefinitely to carry the honour in the same way she did. It wasn't just the handing over of a torch; it was the exchange of a rite of passage, a way of life, and a promise to uphold the standards of excellence and righteousness she had engraved into the sport she gave her life to. This passing of the baton wasn't solely focused on the end of something though, no, it was the beginning of something far more important than people could understand. It was time for the up-and-coming stars of the sport to take the pen and write their own chapters into the history books, encompassing the opportunity to build something even more empowering than those before them.

Allowing the armband she had worn with great pride to slip off her arm, she shed the weight of a thousand battles, all of the lessons she had learnt from each victory and each defeat now etched into every fibre of her being. The world watched as she exited the field for the last time, an understanding wordlessly divulged between millions at the recognition that this was a landmark moment.

Kaleidoscopes of nostalgia flitted past her eyes as if it were an old film roll, freeze-frames of time portraying unimaginably euphoric moments. Only for them to never be experienced again. Though every cheer, every chant, and every image of a shirt worn with her legacy stitched into the fabric of it, flooded through her veins, and would for evermore.

The high regard her peers held her to, whether she had come across them on the pitch time after time or never met them at all, was a testament to the irremovable mark she had left on the beautiful game. Other countless memorable figures that were desperate to meet her, brands desperate to work with her, all these examples of her undeniable impact.

Alexia Putellas never cared about being immortalised in her sport. She was just a girl from the outskirts of Barcelona, chasing a dream with her loved ones holding her hand along the journey. Some of those hands had slipped away as time went on, but that meant she only gained more guardian angels to watch over her. With a family as tight-knit as hers, each member past and present a constant reminder of her purpose, she never lost faith. Sure, there were moments where it faltered a little, but no matter how much people tried to make a mockery of her failures, she would step back up; each comeback better than the last.

Her longevity was unrivalled, performing to the highest standards near enough all the time, even when others didn't deserve to witness it. Still, she gave away every part of herself to a sport that tried to silence her and failed to give equity until the latest moment possible. Always undervalued and unappreciated in her place of work, but did that stop her? Dampen her spirits? No, of course it didn't. And she had ample evidence to prove it; awards, trophies, medals, and most importantly to her, an easier path paved for those following in her footsteps.

The final chapter was about to finish though, the book of a near flawless career soon to slam shut.

Football would feel the loss of her absence, but like the story of Ozymandias, the dust will blow over and erase her stature, the nature of the sport will run its course and she'll be a figment of the past. Her time had come, and she had done everything and more of what she needed to do.

She moved from an ever-present figure to just a silhouette with a few steps.

Here, now, at the crescendo of a note-worthy career run, there was only one way to answer such a question.

"I did it all."

[hazelfoureyes]

HateJokeFuck

*very sacrilegious*

Alastor knew the best way to have a laugh on Halloween! Bother the fuck out of Lucifer. Literally. Nuns don’t wear pants, right?

For my sweetest @minkdelovely

「warnings/promises: TopLucifer x BottomNun!Alastor, hate fucking, clawing skin, wings come out, HCU (hazel cinematic universe), threats to tear Alastor apart, The Lords Prayer bastardized, anal creampie, still ace ass Alastor, rough sex」

Minors dni

Alastor wasn’t particularly excited for a Halloween party at the hotel, even if he knew watching the others could be fun.

But then he had an idea to make the evening positively entertaining.

Which led him to where he was now, pressed against Niffty’s various cleaning supplies in a hallway closet, ass pounded by his furious majesty.

Alastor had thought it would be funny to wear a nun’s habit, having hand stitched little X’s and an inverted cross in red thread to personalize the outfit. 

While heaven did exile Lucifer and systemically murder his subjects, Luci still had a soft spot for what was now religious imagery. Devoting your life and body to the Lord was something he thought to be quite admirable.

So when Alastor walked into the party dressed in holy attire, Luci saw red. And black. And white. The colors of Alastor’s sinful costume. Dressed as Dadcula, Dad Dracula, obviously (Which was just Lucifer in a black cape and bat ear headband), Luci marched up to the radio demon.

“Hallway, now.” He grabbed Alastor by the arm, the nun leaving the party as quickly as he had arrived. Charlie saw the men rush out the room and worried a fight was brewing.

“Yes, your majesty?” Alastor steepled his hands together, “what’s the matter, pray tell?”

Lucifer smacked his hands down, “Stop that! You are making a mockery of centuries of worship!” Sputtering, he gestured up and down. “Take that off right fucking now!” He stomped his foot and managed a calming breath, “Please.”

The grin should have been enough to tell Luci he’d walked into a trap, “Who am I to deny my liege?” Alastor found the zipper in the back and pulled it down, letting the smock open and fall forward off his arms. Lucifer’s eyes followed the habit down from neck, to bare chest, to toned stomach, to-

“Are you-!” Lucifer’s hands came out to hide Alastor’s exposed cock, “naked!?” He seethed.

A voice called from the ballroom entrance, “Dad? Is everything alright?” Charlie was positive her father and Alastor were already tearing into each other. 

To her credit, they would be soon enough.

Panicked and terrible under pressure, Lucifer opened the closest door and shoved both himself and the now nude Alastor into it.

It was, to his despair, a broom closet. Perhaps two people could fit comfortably had it not been occupied with a shelving system of supplies, mops, brooms, and a large outdated vacuum cleaner.

As soon as he pushed them in and closed the door, he found his body pressing into Alastor’s bare ass.

Alastor was certain there was a God now, and he a favored child. What hilarious developments. Even he couldn’t orchestrate such comedy gold.

“Oh, Father, is this confessional? I have a mighty long list.”

Lucifer smacked at Alastor’s back, “Do not call me Father!”

“Daddy?” Alastor asked, coyly looking over his shoulder to the smaller man.

“Dad?” Charlie echoed.

Lucifer’s hands shot up to cover Alastor’s mouth, “Shhh, or I will kill you once and for aAAH,” a moan breaking through his sentence as Alastor ground back into his crotch.

Alastor mumbled into Luci’s palm.

“What’s wrong?” Vaggie joined, her and Charlie now feet from the door.

“I thought Dad and Al were out here bickering…” 

Alastor began grinding himself into Luci, feeling something there for him in the King of Hell’s lap.

Lucifer couldn’t help the reaction, Alastor had been intentionally winding him up for weeks.

Reaching for the newspaper and slipping, hand coming down onto Luci’s crotch. Needing something on a high shelf and just having to press his much larger body upon Luci’s smaller frame. He even sat on Lucifer once, joking, “Oh I didn’t see you there, hmm.” A size joke and groping combo.

He was touch starved and primed, so when he looked down to see skin and curves and warmth offered to him, he simply lost it.

Angel Dust had been so kind as to teach him the word hatefuck recently. And he was going to hatefuck the sass out of Alastor.

Was he using that correctly? Unimportant, a fleeting concern as he fought to undo his belt with one hand.

“They’re probably here somewhere fucking around, don’t worry about it babe. Come back and enjoy your party.” Vaggie, a psychic of some sorts, led her love away just in time.

Luci wasn’t sure he could keep it up knowing his daughter was just outside the door. But that little obstacle was gone. When Luci didn’t immediately remove his hand Alastor snaked his tongue out and around his fingers.

“Gross,” Lucifer took back his hand, thinking for a second as he stared at the wet fingers before sliding them between Alastor’s cheeks. The taller man shivered. “Did you…” the realization he had been played hit him like a piano, oddly familiar but still quite heavy. “Why are you already lubed and stretched?”

Alastor reached down slowly, face smug as he slipped a tiny bottom from a single garter belt on his right thigh. 

“Holy water?”  Luci took it from Alastor before his face fell flat, nose curling as he sniffed the air, “Is this coconut lube oil? You’re foul.” He used his teeth to unscrew the lid and poured the contents down Alastor’s lower back, “I hope you understand. You make me regret  millennia of human free will more than I already did.”

“Your majesty I cannot get any harder, please stop the dirty talk.” Alastor shimmied his hips, elusive plush black-topped, red-bottomed tail swishing along.

Lucifer was briefly mesmerized, why was it so cute? Alastor should enter every room ass first, tail out. He’d be much more palatable. Blinking away the thought he swiped his leaking member up and down the demon’s ass as he spread lubricant on himself.

“I hate you, please don’t forget that.” Lucifer lined himself up and pressed in, groaning as he effortlessly was taken to the hilt. Alastor had prepared well. Another second to imagine Alastor in the nuns' habit, legs spread and hands busy working himself open for Lucifer. Alastor’s breath hitched as Luci’s twitched and grew slightly in him. 

Alastor hadn’t started the night planning to get fucked. Once the outfit was on and he decided pants weren’t necessary, he began to consider all the ways he could fluster Lucifer. Nothing would be funnier than making the king of hell fuck a nun.

So here he was, gripping the shelves as Lucifer’s hips snapped into him.

“Oh fuck,” Luci moaned, Alastor was so tight and hot, how could someone so horrid feel so damn good? His nails dug into Alastor’s hips, pulling him back to meet every thrust.

Lucifer was enjoying himself. It felt good, Alastor not numb to pleasure, but he wanted to rile up Luci even more.

“Our Lucifer, who art in hell,” Alastor began his bastardized prayer. It worked, Luci’s hips slowing.

“Alastor.” He warned.

“Sullied be thy name; my king shall cum,” Alastor’s grin was audible. A growl came from behind him as a faint glow of fire illuminated his face, “thy sin be done,” he choked, Luci’s hips snapping into him with a sting to his ass. The fallen angel’s wings erupting and knocking the supplies off the shelves around them, no space for them to flex. Even though he knew Lucifer couldn’t hear him over the sounds of crashing bottles and broom handles, even though he could barely speak through the painfully rough fucking he was taking, he finished his prayer. 

“On earth as it is in hell,” the sentence was squeaked out in staccato, air sucked in with every stretch of his hole by his king. Alastor gripped the metal shelf side so tightly his fingers were losing blood flow, the rage behind Luci’s punishing cock making his eyes roll back. 

Lucifer gripped onto Alastor’s tail with a silent show of force, “You will stop this sacrilege.” Words forced through clenched teeth, “Or I will rent your dirty existence,” a pause to momentarily bury himself as deep as he could reach, “body and soul, asunder.”

Alastor couldn’t respond, mind slipping into a new realm entirely. He understood a threat had been made, and nodded as best he could with his head hung low between his hunched shoulders. He was making sounds as Lucifer’s nails cut into him, but he couldn’t place from where they came, pain or pleasure, only that his chest rumbled and his mouth was going dry. 

As his hips returned to their literally bruising speed, Lucifer felt his orgasm nearing. He’d never been so angry and so determined to fuck his own seed into someone else. It felt like giving a punishment, like a humiliation. He wanted Alastor to wobble out of the fucking closet, cum dripping out much later from the previously unreached place Lucifer marked.

Alastor’s body was hit up against the shelves as his knees gave out, Lucifer’s strength too much for him to withstand. As Lucifer came his wings pulled back before coming down and in. Alastor felt a heat deep in him, pooling in his guts. On his arms and forehead the soft touch of feathers caressed sweat slick skin.

They both stayed connected, only their chests moving as they heaved in and out. Lucifer waited for himself to go soft before he pulled out, forehead resting on Alastor’s back, both men on their knees.

Sometime after Luci’s wings folded back in and disappeared, Alastor regained enough sense to speak.

“Amen.”

Lucifer pulled him to the floor by his neck, fist cocked back when the door opened.

“Oh sir, not again*. Your jokes are really not funny.” Niffty scurried over Lucifer’s back to retrieve a roll of paper towels before flitting out the room. Before closing the door she huffed, “Please stop telling them. No one ever laughs.”

“Dad, why do you smell like a piña colada?” Charlie leaned into Lucifer, taking in the aroma. “Wait a minute…. I know that smell.” Angel brightened,’“Awww baby’s first hatefuck!!”

*Alastor’s other bad joke

ଳ⊹₊ ⋆ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove  @saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings

@looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith ,

[ghostlysoaps]

Nothing behind the eyes

Simon had thought himself equipped to handle it, the world crumbling down, but even Ghost can’t shield him from the sight of Johnny falling in a hail of crimson, blood pooling around his head like a jagged crown, nor the feeling of stillness as he presses his fingers to the side of his neck.

They leave him there, though he fights tooth and nail against the grip on his vest. They’re not even in the clear when the facility blows. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing since the gunshot and the explosion after helps none. Debris scatters with unbridled force, yet he doesn’t feel the gauges they carve through him until Price presses down on the weeping wounds.

He’d been the lucky one out of them, their captain. Ghost had needed stitches and Gaz a lengthy hospital stay on top of physical therapy before he was fit for fight again, albeit with new shadows haunting his eyes.

Ghost hands his resignation in soon after and does what he does best.

Disappear.

His new flat sees more life than his last one ever did. In the daylight hours he walks shambling trails on the already worn floor, tries to keep his mind and body busy, to acclimate to the sounds and scents of a smaller town where he’s not yet mapped the streets in their entirety. At night it hears him choking on gasps, sees his stirring limbs and the heaving of breaths as he jerks awake, again and again, from nightmares so vivid the taste of gravedirt lingers on his tongue and Johnny’s corpse, grinning from within a coffin his sergeant hadn’t seen, is still imprinted on the backs of his closed eyelids. 

The only torture worse than seeing Soap broken, being the one to further desecrate his corpse to free himself, is seeing him happy. When he’s hail and whole and reaching for Simon with laughter pouring like gold from his mouth. Because he’ll wake from those moments of false tranquillity, where all is right again, only to face a reality wherein it never came to fruition.

-

It’s a small thing. A creak of the floorboards. Something shifting close by. Simon is surprised to have heard it over the low whine in his ears, but instinct is a formidable thing even while on the cusp of sleep.

Ghost catches the steel-bearing arm when it careens for his neck and twists himself out of bed as he works to unsteady the assailant. They’re trained well. When he hooks one foot behind their leg to take them to the floor, they retaliate by grappling him in a move Ghost remembers teaching countless others. He’s at a disadvantage. The person going for his throat is strong and he’s dressed in tactical gear. Heavy where he struggles to pin Ghost down enough to wring his neck or slice the scar running down his chest back open again. 

But he’s not the only one armed, not when Ghost has knives stashed within reach and he manages to fumble one into his palm and drag it down his assailant’s thigh.

The distraction it brings allows him to flip their positions, to bash the man’s head against the floor until his eyes grow dazed.

He’s wearing a mask to shield his lower face, metal akin to a muzzle, and Ghost hesitates when those green irises catch his own – the shade of them unfamiliar though the shape of the eyes carrying them are not.

Cognisance is returning rapidly in that hollow gaze so Ghost does the only logical thing. 

He knocks him unconscious.

It gives him a momentary breather and Ghost uses that time to strip the assailant of his gear, of any hidden weaponry, and to tie him up with firm bands of rope made from hastily repurposed sheets. He doesn’t touch the mask until the overhead light is switched on. It feels sacrilegious to rid someone else of  the very thing Simon had used to protect himself for so long.

Soap stares back at him from beneath it. His mouth and jawline, his facial hair messier than he’d seen before. Ghost’s body had felt it the moment he had his thighs wrapped around the shadowed figure standing over his bed, had known, deep down, and had denied it until the proof was irrefutable. Dread creeps up his spine the longer he stares. Messy locks of brown hair covers his temple and Ghost very nearly rips it out of his scalp in his haste to bare it. A gnarled scar rests underneath, free of new growth, spanning nearly the length of his profiled head.

Pain blooms over his forearm and Ghost hisses, training kicking in to shove the appendage deeper into the teeth lodged there rather than tearing it (and a chunk of his flesh) away. His remaining hand digs fingers into the hinge of Soap’s jaw until it falls open, teeth bloodied and frothing with saliva. Yet the expression on his face barely changes. It remains terrifyingly placid. The way a rabies-stricken animal can go sweet and comfort seeking before the inevitable decline. They stare at one another for a beat, Ghost’s hand now gentled on his face – though a pale show of one considering how he’d been born for violence alone.

“Soap?”

No response.

He goes through every name he remembers them calling him and nothing sparks so much as a blink.

-

Prompts by @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[visceravalentines]

What did you do for Easter, Meg? Oh you know, colored eggs and wrote sacrilegious porn, hbu? Couldn't stop thinking about the comments on this post so surprise whores here you go

Worship

Dilf!Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

Bo has a few sins to confess and in the process he commits a whole bunch of new ones.

2.5k words. Smut. Super blasphemy, like so bad, and lots of religious ideas and phrasing. Oral (fem!receiving) and PnV sex in a semi-public extremely inappropriate place w/ creampie at the end bc that's what we deserve. Soft Bo, almost sub Bo if you squint. Reader wears a dress & heels and uses she/her pronouns. Extensive liberties taken with confessional booth architecture and suit pants physics.

A note: this can be read as a non-chronological part of my ongoing dilf Bo series or as a standalone.

You haven't been in this church since you were a teenager. Your eyes wander up and over the stained glass, the soaring rafters. It's a beautiful building, stately, tranquil.

"Got somethin' I need to confess," Bo whispers with his lips against your ear. Goosebumps roll down your skin.

You shoot a sidelong glance down the pew at your parents, less than two feet away. They're holiday Catholics and the sermon has them rapt, like tourists watching a wild animal from the safety of their vehicle.

You incline your head subtly in Bo's direction and hold your breath so you don't miss his next words.

"I can't get you outta my head."

You exhale slowly and shift on the bench, careful not to set the ancient wood creaking. When you sneak a look at him, he's the picture of innocence, taking in the gospel like a man who doesn't need it. You clasp your hands on your lap.

Casually, like he's commenting on the father's delivery, Bo leans in again and murmurs, "Bet you'd let me touch you here, huh? Get my hands under that little skirt...."

You shiver and shift. The bench tattles on you and your mother sends a reprimand your way with her eyes. You tug the hem of your skirt towards your knees and try to channel a modicum of the faux virtue sitting to your left.

He quiets down and behaves himself for just long enough that the flame flickering in your center dies down to an almost-appropriate level, but the heat of his leg against your bare thigh keeps you from turning all your thoughts to God. The weight of his hand on the small of your back as he guides you out of the pew for Communion is a stitch past purity. The look he manages to slip you as the father places the wafer in his open mouth makes you feel like you need to get back in line for a second pass at contrition, and maybe this time you'll mean it.

His hand brushes across your ass as you scoot back into the pew and you think about obedience, how you hate to be told what to do but you'd drop to your knees for him right now, right here, if he'd promise to quell the simmer he's started between your legs.

The father is thanking those who helped prepare the picnic on the lawn outside and Bo props his arm on the back of the bench, leans close and lets his lips graze your skin, and whispers, "Meet me up there once everybody's outside." He gestures with a nod.

You look at him with wide eyes. "The confessional?" you hiss.

He winks at you.

You follow your parents out onto the green, but Bo doesn't follow you. In fact you lose him immediately in the crowd, can't help but search for him among the abundance of pastel dresses and khaki suits. You agree vapidly with everything your mother says about the mass, nod politely at all your dad's closest acquaintances.

You excuse yourself at the second or third possible opportunity, afraid of running into the father if you sneak back too soon. Your footsteps are deafening in the now silent sanctuary, your eager uncertainty echoing back at you like an accusation.

Bo is nowhere to be seen, but neither is the clergy, so you step lightly across the stone floor and approach the confessional booth. The penitent's bench is hardly private, hung with a red curtain that only conceals from the waist up. You duck instead into the priest's chamber and inch the door closed behind you, letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding once you're safely out of sight.

The small space is dimly lit by a single bulb recessed in the ceiling and the fractured light coming in through the screen on the one side. There's a bench built into the back wall and furnished with a velvet cushion. You sit, adjusting your skirt, and think about guilt.

Abruptly the door flies open and Bo slips inside, closing it all the way behind him. He's appropriately debonair in a blue suit, white shirt, no tie. For a moment, he looks a touch harried, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the door is closed. But then he looks down at you, meets your gaze, and flashes you a grin.

"Well what do we have here?"

You move to stand and he shakes his head, fighting to shrug off his suit coat in the confined space. "Don't get up, darlin', you're perfect right there. Betcha this is the first time anyone with tits has sat in that seat."

You giggle, a touch nervous. He reaches his hand out for yours and brings your knuckles to his lips. His mustache prickles your skin.

"You enjoy the mass?"

You're not sure if he's serious. "...parts of it, yeah."

He smiles. "Which parts?"

You open your mouth for a sharp reply but your gaze is hung up on his lips and when he shifts his weight you become unbearably aware of how close his bulge is to your face.

Bo laughs low and squeezes your hand. "I myself had a hard time focusin' on the good word. Had my mind on...other things." He eyes you with something like mischief. "I was hopin' maybe you could help me...unburden myself."

The smell of him is slowly permeating the tiny space, overwriting the stuffy scent of incense and oiled wood with tobacco and aftershave. He barely fits, too tall, shoulders too broad. He could swallow you whole and you wish he would.

"Anything you want," you say softly.

Bracing himself against the walls, he sinks to his knees in front of you. The pattern of the screen is emblazoned on his face in light. The wood pops and creaks. You remember to breathe.

"I'm a sinner, darlin'." He gazes up at you through those lashes, smiling sheepishly, big hands curving around your calves. "Done too much wrong to confess. Can't even remember it all."

You touch his cheek, brush your thumb over the crow's feet at the corner of his eye. "Start small."

His hands slide down to your ankles and he works at the strap of your heels with ungainly fingers. "I been tellin' lies, baby." He slips off one shoe and starts on the other. "Your mama asked me if I've been seein' anyone and I said no." His thumb runs along the arch of your foot. "Your daddy asked me if I knew where you was the other night and I told him I didn't have a clue."

He wraps his fingers around your ankles and squeezes gently, and then pulls your legs open. You stifle a gasp, try to press your thighs together to maintain a smidgen of modesty.

Bo kisses your knees. His hands creep up the outside of your legs. "Been gamblin'. Riskin' my reputation, my livelihood."

"Why would you do that?" you whisper.

He grins against your skin. His fingers are sneaking beneath your skirt. "Well y'see, there's this girl...."

You bite your lip as he curls one finger around the waistband of your panties on either side and tugs them down your thighs.

"She ain't for me...but she's all I want. And that's another thing." He tucks your panties in his pocket and you pretend you don't notice. "I been plagued by lustful thoughts. Day and night I'm thinkin' about this girl, thinkin' about the sounds she makes...picturin' her underneath me...." He guides your knees apart, drags his mouth over your skin, lighting you up from the outside in. His shoulders are solid under your hands, a foundation to cling to.

"See, I know it's wrong, but whenever she's around me I just...forget myself. Start wonderin' what she's got on under her clothes, what I gotta do to get 'em off of her...." He nips at your flesh, one, two, three up your thigh, and you gasp each time. "Keeps me up at night wishin' she was in my bed." He pauses, looks at you with cocked eyebrows. "I think about her damn near every time I defile myself, which is...often."

You exhale slowly, release the death grip you have on his shirt and run your fingers through his hair. "Sounds like you've got a lot of penance to do."

Bo lets out a helpless chuckle. "I know it, baby. I'm desperate." He blinks up at you, looking earnest. "I'm hopin' you got some salvation to offer me."

"I might." You tug your skirt up, baring yourself to him, and he groans, fingers digging into your flesh. "But you've got to earn it."

He inches forward and pins your legs open on either side of his shoulders. "Never been much of a god-fearin' man," he says, "but I know how to worship." He bows his head and you close your eyes when you feel his breath on your skin. "What d'you know about devotion, angel?"

"Nothing," you say, breathless. "Teach me."

The first pass of his tongue is feather-light and devastating and you sigh as that flickering flame roils brightly back to life. He teases the edge of your entrance, warming you up with the heat of his attention. You make a small sound and he responds with a slow, insistent lick up the length of your slit that makes you whine and clutch at his hair.

He cradles your clit in the cup of his lips and venerates you with his tongue in lazy spirals, up and over, and your blood throbs in the same rhythm. He sucks gently, and then harder, and you moan in the bliss of transubstantiation as his mouth makes the mundane into the divine.

With a growl in the back of his throat he hoists your legs onto his shoulders and penetrates you with his tongue, lapping at your pussy in search of absolution. Your eyes bounce around the blank ceiling of the booth as your hips buck mindlessly against his chin. His mustache tickles your lips, beard coarse against your inner thighs.

"Bo," you gasp as he sucks hard at your clit, "oh, god."

"I'm a bad person, baby," he mumbles. "Promise."

"No." You try and fail to stifle a cry, back arching, toes curled. "You're so good...you're so good."

Between your gasps you hear the sound of footsteps on the stone. Your steady-building climax skids to a halt and you stare wide-eyed at the confessional door.

Bo doesn't stop. In fact, he redoubles his efforts.

You clamp your hand over your mouth, trying desperately to keep still even as your body flexes and writhes against your will. You can hear two voices--you recognize one as the father but the other could be anybody, some stranger, some sinner seeking Easter confession.

Bo seals his mouth over your cunt and grinds his tongue against your clit again and again, gripping your ass, holding you to him as you squirm and seek purchase on the featureless walls.

The voices are getting closer and against all odds, so is your release. You're past the point of redemption, couldn't stave it off if you wanted to.

"Bo," you squeak under your breath, clawing at the back of his neck, grasping the edge of the seat, "please--"

He grunts softly. He's devouring you, hellbent on a miracle, bound and determined to introduce you to God. And seconds later, when your cup runneth over and your spine arches against the velvet and you have to sink your teeth into the meat of your palm to keep from howling his name, you see starbursts of pastel pink and sky blue behind your eyes and figure this is probably the closest you'll get to the pearly gates.

Your breath is hitching in your chest and you feel him slip out of your hands and you whimper, floating back into your body, unsteady as you try to sit up straight on the bench. The voices and footsteps are fading and you breathe a sigh of relief and release.

His hands are on your arms and he's coaxing you to your feet, supporting your weight on behalf of your shaking legs, turning you around in the tight space and murmuring in your ear.

"Need you, baby, right now, c'mere. Need to be inside you. Let me--"

He takes your place on the bench. He's undone his belt, freed his cock from his pants, and you clamber eagerly into his lap and let him guide you down onto him. Your head lolls back as he pushes into you, fills your empty space. The image of him looking desperately up at you is burned into the back of your eyelids.

"Angel," he breathes as he takes your face in his hands and brings your mouth to his. His kisses are hot with lust, with greed, with envy of everyone who's ever touched your lips before him. You can smell yourself in his beard, sweet and heady like original sin.

You move, rocking back and forth on his cock, and he moves you, hands on your hips, your skirt in disarray, his shirt falling open as you wrestle with the buttons. He pulls you closer, pulls himself deeper, and you can feel his heart pounding when you brace yourself on his chest.

"Ain't gonna last long," he pants. "So fuckin' tight, baby, so perfect...."

"That's okay, that's okay," you say, stumbling over your words. The frame of the booth is groaning in legitimate complaint, the entire structure trembling slightly, and you're going to get caught, surely you are, and you'll be cast out together beyond the reach of forgiveness but that might be alright as long as you've got him with you.

You press yourself against him, as close as you can get and not close enough. He cums with his face buried in your chest and your name in his mouth like a prayer. The kick of his cock inside you grants you another little climax, a little death, little moans jarred from your lips with each waning thrust of his hips.

"Kiss me," you whisper, and he obeys, his eyes glazed, his gaze soft and adoring. His needy grip on your waist melts into caresses and you finger the buttons of his shirt like rosary beads. One is missing; you're both hopelessly disheveled, undeniably sin-touched. You push his hair off his forehead and back into place. "Did this help?"

He shakes his head and laughs quietly. "No."

"Made it worse."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."

"'S okay." He kisses you again. "You're forgiven."

[ninyard]

Could we get a continuation of Kevin reacting to riko’s death?

To follow on from that last one, just imagine Kevin sat in a hotel room with David and Abby and the whole world has just come to a standstill. The room is quiet, or at least he thinks it is, and everything feels grey and nothing makes sense. His head is empty, mostly, but his hands can't stay still. He feels his internal temperature drop. He doesn't register it, but Abby notices; how his lip starts to quiver, his pulse almost bursting out of his skin, heart pounding so hard and fast that she can see it in his neck, on his chest. His eyes are wide when he looks at her, not a thought behind his forehead, pupils dilated as he just quietly processes what he'd just been told.

She says something to him about shock, and he nods in feigned understanding.

He's not in that room anymore when a knock comes at the door. He's in the nest, he's drawing on sharpie numbers on cheekbones and he's playing pretend olympics. He's in the nest and he's being held down and hurt and there's nothing he can do about it. Kevin can't remember the order of the words spoken around him, maybe it started with Renee needs to talk to Jean, or did you tell him? or Should I get Andrew?

Neil kneeling down in front of him was only a mirage at that point. There's a hand on his shoulder, and he knows that he's looking at Neil, but it's only his eyes that are moving, his brain unable to process what exactly is happening in his line of sight.

"I'm not going to ask if you're okay," Neil says, or something similar. "I know who he was to you."

"Who told you?" He manages, minutes or years after Neil had come to comfort him. It's Neil's turn to take too long to answer, but before he can, it comes back to Kevin - the staff taking Neil out of the room, how long he was gone for, and the smile on his face when he returned. "You were there?"

Neil nods, but all Kevin sees is that smile on his face. He watched it happen and he smiled. He knew, and he kept it from Kevin, and he smiled. He fucking smiled.

Kevin's hands are on Neil before he realises, before anyone has time to interfere. Wymack is yelling, pointless words lost in the air of shock and anger, and Neil has his arm locked into an outstretched position to keep him off him. But Kevin's arms are longer. The specifics of the scuffle are mostly blurry, but he remembers Neil's foot on his stomach as David pulls him back. Neil cradling his jaw where Kevin had managed to land a slap or a punch. Maybe he was holding his head, was he? Or was it a hand on his chest, soothing where he'd been hit so hard that it almost winded him?

"Who?" Kevin shouts at Neil, as Renee stands in the doorframe, watching. He frees himself from Davids hands and doesn't care about the stitches popping in his shirt as his coach tries to grab at anything to pull him back. He's crossed the room and shoved Neil up against the wall, his shirt balled up into his fists. "Who did it?"

Himself, he hopes to hear, naive and unprepared for Neil's hushed response of, "Ichirou."

Whatever he throws onto the ground smashes into pieces, and whatever piece of furniture follows it crashes so loudly that he almost registers the sound. He doesn't mean to hit David, such a sacrilegious act, but he doesn't care where his fists land. Everything hits him at once, and he needs to get it out. That was his first time meeting Ichirou. Neil was there. Riko is dead. That was his brother. Neil smiled. Riko is dead. His mom is dead. Jean is alone and he's going to find out. Is this sadness? Is he allowed to feel happy? Is he free now that he's dead? Is there a point of living on without him?

Whatever else happens in that room means nothing to Kevin. It's a blur of yelling at the wrong people about the wrong things, a rush of breaking things that the hotel was certainly going to fine him for later. It's a pause for a moment to look at Neil before it all starts up again. It's on the news. Nothing makes sense. At some point Neil and David are holding some part of him hostage to keep him from smacking himself in the head, to stop him from headbutting the wall, to stop him from hitting Neil again or from banging his fists on the carpeted floor. He's sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, Wymack behind him with his arms around his chest and arms, Neil in front holding his wrists to stop him from pulling out his own hair, as he sweats and heaves in pointless breaths. He lets out this anger around a panic attack that he can barely even feel at all. It's overwhelming. Kevin is having a full blown, full body meltdown, and he needs to get this feeling out of his bones before it destroys him from the inside.

"Andrew." Neil says, too soft, too careful. Kevin knew he had to be in the room, but since Neil had come back from Baltimore, his presence around him had become less of a guaranteed constant. Andrew sits down next to them without a word.

"You get it," Kevin says, and it cuts through Andrew like a cold gust of wind, a hundred knives thrown through his chest and embedded into the wall behind him. Kevin doesn't know how he has the mental capacity to know that he was correct, but it wasn't an assumption, either. Andrew knew who Riko was to Kevin, and Kevin knew enough about Andrew to know that it was the truth. "You know how this feels."

There's something there - an acknowledgment of Drake's death, another outburst at the wrong words said, a realisation that Neil understands it too. There's an inconsolable Kevin, and blips in his memory that he can't recount at all. There's him dipping in and out of this lucid, conscious state. Maybe he laughs. Maybe he's not able to cry. Maybe nothing makes sense but he feels it all anyway and he's not able to handle it at all. The pain in his chest and his heart is unbearable. Nobody has ever seen him like this. He's never seen himself like this, in such a flurry of unmanageable feelings.

Maybe Riko would've remembered him like this, from when Kevin found out his mom was dead, but maybe he'd been too controlled to not control his reaction to that news at that time. Maybe this was him feeling anger about the death of his mom, for the first time, too.

Why? is all he can think. Why now? Why Riko? Why did he treat me like this? Why did he let everything get so bad that this was the only possible outcome? Why Ichirou? Why did he not feel good about the death of his abuser? Why was he unable to process the death of the man who destroyed him and built him back up exactly how he wanted? (Maybe that just answered it all for him anyway.)

[imomisoplays]

Nasi Goreng

Halo, tombler!

We are moving to a new household! Today we follow Stella, twin sister of Vienna and daughter of Aria and Kiyoshi Ito. Stella lives in a ranch house in Chestnut Ridge with her husband Kylo, daughter Leia and son Soleil (featured in the Ham Ramen post here). Stella's husband is indeed Kylo Ren -- I originally tried to match-make her with the game's Kylo when I played Journey to Batuu but long story short, I ended up just downloading a very handsome-looking Kylo Ren (based on the real-life actor Adam Driver) from the gallery. Let's try to not think about how Stella's babies are genetically Adam Driver's simchildren. 🥴

Anyway, more about Stella: She studied Education in college and is now a professor. Lately I just made her do the bare minimum at work while focusing on her side-gig as a nectar maker (said side-gig earned the family more than $200,000 already, so...). Stella's traits are snob, cheerful, and active -- which sure is a peculiar combination to work with. But since Kylo is also an active sim, the two of them really matched each other well.

The recipe we are trying today came from the country of Indonesia, but is also commonly found in other countries on the Malay archipelago. Nasi goreng (literal meaning: fried rice) is a popular dish enjoyed nation-wide, from a tin plate at a street-food stall, or on a fine china plate in five-star hotels. The recipe we’re making today is made by @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel (click here to download the recipe). You would also need Custom Food Interactions for the recipe to appear in your game. I would like to send @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel an extra gratitude for reposting the original post in her blog. I didn't keep the draft for this post and would lost it if not because of her reblog. 🥺

Regular Saturday morning in the Ren household is everyone gathering on the kitchen, whether helping in cooking or just doing their own thing. By "their own thing", this week they’re addicted to stitching. The BRAT t-shirt Leia is wearing is from the Apple Set by @serenity-cc.

Prepping the protein and the vegetables for the dish. Most Indonesian recipes don't usually includes onion, but garlic and shallot are usually the base for many Indonesian recipes. Matter fact, there is a folktale based on garlic ("bawang putih") and shallot ("bawang merah") which you can read more here.

Since the recipe has spread and evolved during years and years of traveling in-between cultures, I don't think there's strictly any ingredient that made it a 'nasi goreng' – each and every ingredient can be substituted and alternated with other ingredient depending on the cook's taste buds. But as a Javanese person (who tends to have a preference for sweeter food), the three elements essential for a nasi goreng for me are: kecap manis, or the Indonesian sweet soy sauce; terasi or shrimp paste, and a day-old rice or refrigerated rice that has less moisture.

I love this shot of the family just existing together.

First part is to pan-fry each ingredients by itself -- usually it includes the eggs, the protein, and the vegetable.

The use of pan here is sacrilegious (as Uncle Roger would say "Haiyah!") but I understand the limitation of animations. After each ingredient is pan-fried, starts by adding oil, chopped shallots, chopped garlic, and terasi in another pan -- ideally a wok -- and sauté until aromatic. Combine the ingredients you had pan-fried previously, and add kecap manis and sambal. Cook together until the rice is nicely coated and every grain is separated.

I have to give my regards for @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel for doing an amazing work with this recipe because the condiments looks very well-researched! As displayed in the dish above, nasi goreng is commonly served with acar or Indonesian pickled cucumber, kerupuk or crackers (commonly prawn crackers), sunny side-up eggs, and what I assume look like perkedel or mashed potato fritters.

The family enjoyed nasi goreng together. If you remember Vienna’s monochromatic kitchen and dining area, and you see Stella’s house, you understand why I had a whiplash, right?

The dining table has a window that gives unique sunlight that I definitely needs to show in this photo below. We’ll still be cooking another Southeast Asian food with Stella for the next post, so stay tuned and dag dag!

P.S. History of nasi goreng is taken from this Wikipedia page, while detailed recipe are based on my own experience.

Imomiso’s note: This post is originally posted on the now deleted blog. I was able to retrieve this post thanks to @icemunmun-spicy-scalpel reblogging the post on her Tumblr 🤍

[blood-injections]

Ghoul witnessing Benzedrine doing a surgery or stiching someones wound with such care and precision and just. being floored. because that should be him. Thats his creator, who put him together and made him, who knows his flesh insode and out, who touched him all over but then hardly ever again, and no matter how much he fucking hates Benzedrine he cant help but need him. Because he fucking made him and it cant be undone now. But hes just a monster and in Benzedrine's eyes, sure, a medical miracle, but also a failed experiment. Because ghoul didnt turn out exactly how he wanted to and hes ashamed of it. For a while he treated ghoul like he was holy, he made him, put him together, which might as well be some form of worship, to build a man with your own hands, and then bring him to life- but then ghoul woke up, and the hands that had known every part of him before he was even alive ceased to worship him, there was a handful of checkups to ensure everything was working correctly, but the stiches dissolved on their own and ghoul proved himself a failure of what Benzedrine wanted him to be and hes alone, hes forsaken his creator but also, his creator has fosaken him, and he didnt think it would hurt so much. And he hates himself for after everything, after what Benzedrine did to create him, he hates himself for he fact he misses him, wants his attention, his devotion, and then he sees Benzedrine operating on someone or stiching up a wound with practice and precision, a form of worship like making him, and hes so fucking jealous. Those hands made him, before he was even alive and awake and aware. But now he knows who he is and he wants to indulge so, so bad. Even of he has to beg him he feels the shame might be worth it, just for those hands to worship him again and to exist for it this time. It should be him. He wants to beg Benzedrine to cut him open and look at his own handiwork again, then to sew him back up after tying his stomach in knots, touching him with that practiced care. He wants Benzedrine to know him inside and out and look at him with wonder again, like a miracle, not like a failure. And he also longs to know Benzedrine the same way. Simply because he feels he deserves to know his creator the same way he knows him. He wants even ground. He wants to worship as well. Stitches, scars, an act of pain and of love, of bleeding and needing and something almost religious between them, or maybe sacrilegious. Something twisted, need and shame and need and shame, longing and lonliness and scalpels and scars. Longing turning to curiousity turning to desire while still all along being fueled by rage and hatred and yet all that just creates a fucked up love that as always, spirals into lust. But if they indulge there will be nothing healthy, no tenderness. Just anger, just giving and getting, just primal need that their emotions bleed into. Rage. Shame. Maybe they'd get it all out but also, maybe it'll all build up, or the parts getting pushed down will. The results, of that shame of your creation being a failure, the results of your creator abandoning you. Lonliness. Confusion. Regret. Revenge. And it'll probably spiral into a breakdown, maybe turning to fists, maybe even to knives at throats through tears and a loaded, ragged, "Why?"

[rafent]

Avoiding strangers as if he was waltzing with them Alfred made his way through the halls. As he walked by, some stopped to look at him with curious eyes and others kept on their tracks as their heads turned his way, but the prince didn't think much of it and instead kept on his way until he was met with a closed door. With busy hands he knocked on it to make his entrance known, unlocking the door without dropping or damaging anything he carried proved to be more of a challenge but with a movement of a few free fingers and push with his arm he made his way in.

Walking in he closed the door behind him with his arm and then turned to face the person sitting at the other end of this office. A smile bloomed on his face as Alfred walked closer. "Hey there, Lord Rafal!" He greeted stopping his tracks and eyeing the table separating the two of them, yes there'd be enough space to place everything on top of it. "Today's your birthday and i know you didn't get to celebrate many of them as yourself, so to make up for some you missed i brought some gifts."

In his right hand he carried a big bouquet of red roses, he placed it on the table. "To start, roses, they remind me of you and their bright color makes me think of your eyes—and dragonstone!" Looking at the size of the gift he chuckled, maybe he went overboard with simply asking the florist 'give me a big bouquet!' "Each rose is a birthday wish i didn't get to give you until now."

With one gift down he made his way to the other side of the table and kneeled down, with his free hand he set down one of the gifts. "This one's for last." Having said that, he looked inside the little bag he carried and pulled out a box, opening it a snake-shaped ring with two rubies for eyes and a pair of diamond shaped earrings twinkled. "You're always wearing jewelry so i thought you'd like this one. Let me put the ring on for you."

Reaching for Rafal's left hand, Alfred held his world with his right one. Two digits were enough to pick up the ring and his eyes danced choosing were to place it of the few free ones, in the end he gently slid it on his ring finger. A complacent smile at seeing it fit perfectly.

Lastly he reached for the small fabric placed on the table. Quietly he unfolded it to show a small embroidery with two roses and some diamonds on it—details that reminded him of the dragon—the stitching was far from perfect but he had put effort on it. "I'm not good at sewing but i tried making something myself that would last more than a flowercrown. The embroidery passed down my family is way prettier but it's back in Firene." He laughed, placing it on Rafal's hands. "This is to remind you that even if we are apart, i'm always with you."

"I do want to say something, for as long as i'm alive i will be here to celebrate your birthday and to remind you how precious your life is not only to me but all the people who love you." Standing up his gaze softened as he spoke once again. "Happy birthday Lord Rafal! I'm blessed to have you as my dear friend."

Having taken that off his chest he gently smacked his friend's shoulder. "Anyway! Why don't we go eat dinner together? I know of a place where we could eat a nice birthday cake."

A sweet waft of roses invaded the dragon's lair. Curious. Sacrilegious. Alfred. For all his familiarity with the Firenese prince, a single knock predated the bold vision that resulted in the other's wake - as was often wont to do. Heavy, trundling steps barely succeeded in entering his office and in holding aloft an armful of items. Had there been greetings or questions he first intended, the sight of a thoroughly encumbered Alfred plucked them straight from his mouth.

Countless thoughts whirred in their attempts to reach a conclusion. However, the proclamation of 'happy birthday' left no room for mistake, only further cementing intentions with a bounteous rose bouquet just short of spilling onto the floor and more offerings on its tail. Crimson eyes partook in a slow-inching dawn of understanding, drawn to the ring placed on his hand, the earrings chosen for their memorable ruby color, and then the gift of embroidery. True to word, an amateur product, if not one made lush by time and labor.

. . .the maker's homage to his subject of regard.

Wordlessly, he twisted off the band and set it down without force. He acknowledged the roses with a glance. At last he picked up the fabric, turning it over in his fingers with a blasé look of measurement, this way and that, sparing no corner from sight. And, at last, he spoke: "This stitchwork is not anything special. It is of a quality that the average onlooker would not inspect twice. The roses intended as embellishments are not perfectly aligned. These edges look to be unraveling."

Each word snapped into line without hesitation, piercing as the gaze that analyzed every defect that dared exist before it with visibility. Not a single mistake did he fail to bring to light and, after planting the cloth down, silent judgment lapsed across the course of several seconds. Several more.

". . .I approve."

He pushed onto his heels with a fond twitch of lips. Rising from his chair and brushing past the prince in one seamless motion, only with two feet set firmly before the door did he halt. "I am grateful, Alfred, your sentiments and gifts have not only been generous, but they have revealed to me the true blessings to be had. They have made this a special birthday." Anticipatory appraisal over his shoulder. "—and dinner would make the occasion happier still."

[therisingsun777]

Every angel knows the tale of Arielle and Kate, the two that Broke the Rules. Every sacred order was changed in one way or another because of them. It wasn't long before other Angels began to realize that breaking a rule came with no punishment, none at all. So, just like curious cats, some began to descend the trees of heaven, lazily floating into human form.

The first few years were, admittedly, rough. There was war upon the sacred Earth, something none could've predicted. But it wasn't long before Arielle returned, heralding a new age. This age, in-fact began, with a wedding.

Kate, who in recent years had become known as the Healer of Angels, stood at the pew. She wore a dress made of blue, with lines of yellow stitched into the cloth. Arielle, in a bright feathered dress, slowly descended from the roof, a smile brighter than the heavens upon her face. Not even the most devout of angels would call the ceremony sacrilegious, when they saw just how happy the Angel and Human stood.

The demons, however, were not happy. The closer that the angels came to the humans, the more difficult it became to hurt or possess. Deals upon the mortal realm became less and less frequent. Soon, the gates connecting Hell and Earth were closed, and no more could the demonic plane influence that of the living.

Life, everafter, is not made of happy endings. But for an age, for a time, there was indeed peace. And in a small little cottage, off to the side of a small little town, a woman named Kate, and a woman named Arielle, did indeed gain their Happily Ever After.

(I had to continue this. Their love story deserves it)

You’ve always had a literal guardian angel- but she’s currently bleeding out on your bedroom floor.

[son-of-a-ghost]

Can I be a little sacrilegious on main for a moment?

Was intended to be a pin, but is much much bigger than what would be acceptable as a pin. Perhaps a bookmark though....

[dameronology]

trigger (frank castle)

summary: frank castle lives to protect you. he doesn't take it very well when you do the same for him.

warnings: brief mentions of loss, injury, swearing, weapons

mannn i haven't written for frank in ages. i missed him. enjoy.

- jazz

The air in your apartment was so thick that it couldn’t have even been cut with a knife. It was held mostly in the small gap between you and Frank, almost enough to be suffocating but not quite enough to asphyxiate you completely. His actions were sharp and calm as he stitched you up, hands barely wavering. Methodical, steady, routine - a direct opposite to everything he was at every other second of the day. It was a funny contrast to your own state - bruises and blood aside; your palms were clammy, heart pounding in your chest and wasps swarming in your stomach. It wasn’t fear. Not at Frank, at least. No matter how fucking stupid you were, he would never lay a finger on you. The thought alone made him angry at whatever fictional version of himself was capable of that. And then he got angry at his regular self for possessing a mind that even went there.

“Frank-” you tried to speak, voice smashing the cold, hard silence.

“- don’t,” his gruff voice caught you out. “Just…not right now.”

He didn’t have the words, to be frank (though sometimes he wished he wasn’t). He’d always had recurring nightmares about you throwing yourself in the line of fire but hell. Frank had never expected you to actually fucking do it. The worst part was that you hadn’t even hesitated; you hadn’t paused for a single goddamn second to consider the consequences. That was exactly the kind of thing he was supposed to do for you: protect you. Not the other way round. You were pure and golden and worthy of saving and he was…he was The Punisher. He was vexed and sacrilegious as they came, all shades of red and anger. He wasn’t supposed to be worth saving.

And yet here you were, bleeding out on his couch. Because of him; because you’d deemed him important enough to be worth risking your own life for.

You’d gotten lucky. The bullet had barely skimmed your shoulder, but the fight that followed with your assailant had left some nasty cuts and scrapes. They were scattered over your stomach and down your arm - nothing too jarring, but still a little too much for Frank given the circumstances. He worked on your arm first, gently dabbing away at the wounds.

“You’re gonna have to lose the shirt,” he murmured, gently tugging at your top. You let him pull it off of you, exposing the marks on your stomach. His breath caught in his throat.

“Can I just say something-”

“-no,” Frank’s tone was curt and final. “Just let me clean you up, okay? Right now I can’t even fuckin’ look at you in this state and I’m gonna say something I don’t mean.”

His heart broke when you pulled away from him, slinking back into the couch. You folded your arms over your chest and glanced away from him - your eyes were darting around the room, looking at anything but him. The cracks in the wall, the late rent payment hung up on the fridge, piles of boots abandoned by the door. It was the safe haven that you’d built for yourselves and now, it was threatening to implode.

“Hey,” Frank said, voice a little more docile now. “Look at me.”

You wouldn’t. Your eyes stayed put.

“Look at me,” he grabbed your wrists, gently pulling you back towards him. “Don’t make me beg. You know I don’t beg.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“You wanna be like that?” he raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Throw all the tantrums you want. Whatever keeps you busy.”

Large hands worked away to patch you up - again, it was nothing too dire but for Frank Castle, anything more than a paper cut was deemed too much. You were both grateful that none of it had to be stitched up. His stitching skills were a little less than stellar and you didn’t all that much fancy the wonky scarring. Still, he was extremely tender in his actions.

The Punisher’s hands were capable of many things; some bloody, some pleasurable, some less than desirable. They were calloused and scarred and rough around the edges but when he tangled his fingers with yours or ran a large palm down your back, you felt safe. It was a metaphor for who he was, in many ways. Violent to literally every other single person on the planet but gentle with you.

Frank wrapped the final piece of gauze around your stomach; he pinned it in place and reached for one of his shirts out the strewn laundry basket on the floor, guiding it over your head. It smelt like him; cheap laundry detergent, the Lacoste aftershave that he swore by and…the general scent of guns. Whatever that may be.

He stayed silent as he picked you up - one arm under your legs and one under your arms - and carried you through to the bedroom. His movements were still methodical; too methodical. Almost silent and deadly as he placed you on the bed and moved about the room, removing his boots and holsters and belt. The mattress dipped beside you as he sat down, broad back facing away from you.

“Frank,” you began. “If you don’t start talking I’m getting my shit and I’m staying at my mum’s tonight.”

He glanced over at you, a derivative snort escaping his lips. “Do you really fucking think that you can take the high road right now, sweetheart?”

“I almost took a bullet for you and you’re acting like I did the opposite, like I took a gun and pointed it at your head-”

“- it kinda felt like you did!” Frank stood up, turning to face you. “You can’t do shit like that!”

“And you can?!” you shot back. “Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight but hell, Frank, I was trying to save your life!”

“I’ve never asked you to-”

“- you don’t have to-”

“- that’s my job-”

“- it goes both ways-”

“- it shouldn’t -”

“ - you make no fucking sense, Frank-”

“- I can’t lose you, goddammit!”

His voice ripped through the walls like a bullet, right into the core of your chest. You stopped, mouth slightly hanging open as you held his gaze. Frank was red in the face, cheeks stained with tears - you hadn’t seen him cry before - and chest heaving. It felt like time had stopped around you. The noise outside continued - the shouts and beeps and sounds of Manhattan - but you could only hear your heart pounding in your chest.

Neither of you wanted to speak first. It was a battle of wills, really - one part of you was fixated on how idiotic the man sounded, spewing all this bullshit of how he can only save you, but you had to look at the wider picture. Frank had lost everything humanly possible; his wife, his kids, his name. His entire world had been torn apart one too many times and he wasn’t about to let it happen again. Frank was happy to lose anything else - this apartment, his guns, the old piece of shit car you shared - but not you. He could rebuild again; constantly and continuously, but only if you were there. He’d pack up and move across the world, across the street, across the block, but it was all fucking pointless if he didn’t have you. Frank Castle would have bled himself dry just to keep you by his side. God forbid you do the same.

“Hey,” you propped yourself up on your knees, crossing the mattress and opening your arms to him. “C’mere, Frank. C’mere.”

The vigilante fell forward, broad arms meeting the middle of your torso as he picked up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, preparing for impact as he spun around and fell backwards onto the mattress. He held onto you tightly, chest to chest, forehead to forehead.

“I love you,” you pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then the other, and then his nose. “I love you so fucking much and I would do anything for you, okay?”

“I love you too,” he murmured. “But you can’t be doing batshit stuff like that. It scares the fuckin’ daylights outta me. Jumping into bullets left, right and center like some damn ninja? I dunno who the fuck you think you are but best be keeping your pretty ass still-”

“- I can do as I want with my pretty ass,” you cut him off, fighting back a smile. “I get it, though. I don’t want you to lose me as much as I don’t want to lose you and for that reason - by my own choice and not yours, because this is not the 1920s - I will refrain from being a ninja in future.”

His large palms ran up and down your back, gently passing over the bruises. You leaned into him, burying your head under his and letting out a small sigh.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” you quietly said. “I’m not sorry for saving your ass but I am sorry for not thinking beforehand.”

“It’s okay,” Frank replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I just…you know I’d never stop raining on hell on this goddamn city if I lost you, right? I’d go through every bastard, every criminal, every fucking person and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

You felt him tense up beneath you, so you popped your head up, holding his gaze. The thought alone of losing you was starting to get to him again.

“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Frank placed a hand on the back of your head, pulling your head back into his chest and sinking back down in the mattress. It was a tight grip, almost as if he was clinging onto you - it certainly felt that like sometimes. Like you were slipping through his fingers, day by day, bit by bit, until you’d be gone completely, free falling from the hot fucking mess he’d created. The irony was that he couldn’t have been more wrong. He was just as much to you as you were to him.

He’d protect you with his life. You were his life.f

[erabundus]

❝  you  place  an  awful  lot  of  emphasis  on  your  opinion  of  me.  ❞  comes  the  balladeer's  reply  —  words  gone  a  bit  unsteady  from  the  strain  of  holding  back  his  own  AMUSEMENT.  ❝  i  don't  need  your  condemnation  or  your  pity.  if  there  was  someone  more  entertaining  to  talk  to,  do  you  really  think  i  would  waste  my  time  with  YOU?  ❞   a  broken  toy  —  a  stitched  together  mess  of  flesh  and  bone,  barely  clinging  to  the  loosest  vestiges  of  personhood?  ah,  but  he's  sure  losing  interest  is  PRECISELY  what  the  human  wants to hear  —  in  that  (  antithetical  )  sense,  perhaps  there  is  still  value  in  continuing  to  haunt  him  with  his  presence  after  all.  kunikuzushi  would  never  say  he's been  foolish  enough  to  grow  attached,  but  there  is  some  degree  of  begrudging  comfort  in  the  familiar.  the  animosity  between  them  is  no  doubt  a  bitter,  toxic  thing  —  entangling  them  both  in  the  wicked  briars  of  some  weed  sprouted  from  mutual  hatred.  yet  he  would  equate  cyno  to  something  like  clay,  having  grown  soft  and  workable  in  his  hands.  easy  to  warp  as  he  pleases  to  fit  an  artistic  vision  —  easier  than  starting  anew.

case  and  point.  the  question  pulls  forth  a  grin  —  like  the  slow  unveiling  of  a  predator's  teeth  moments  before  SINKING  INTO  an  awaiting  throat.  ❝  what  do  i  mean  by  that?  ❞   and  it's  so  predictable  of  him  to  drag  out  the  reveal  purely  to  squeeze  a  few  extra  drops  of  MISERY  like  tenaciously  wringing  water  from  a  stone.  ❝  maybe  it's  time  for  me  to  try an  EXPERIMENT  of  my  own.  ❞  one  step  closer  punctuates  the  thought.  followed  by  another.  then  another.  it  feels  a  bit  sacrilegious,  like  the  crossing  of  some  unseen  line.  there's  been  a  clear  implication  up  until  that  point  the  balladeer's  torments  would  remain  purely  psychological  —  yet  his  approach  coupled  with  the  declaration  seem  to  herald  intent  to  the  contrary.

at  least  until  he  stops,  just  BARELY  out  of  reach.  what  the  harbinger  lacks  in  stature,  he  makes  up  for  in  presence  —  eyes  glittering  with  cruel  delight  as  he  gazes  upon  him.  (  observing,  in  that  disconcerting  way  he  always  does,  every  entertaining  reaction  he  provokes.  )  ❝  then  again ...  ❞   words  trail  off  with  a  deliberately  THEATRICAL  intent.  ❝  why  should  i  even  bother  when  i  could  just  ASK  you?  ❞  it's  a  solution  too  simple,  too  obvious  to  be  trusted  at  face  value. all without lifting a finger, he had said. that would imply the requirements to satisfy his curiosity have already been met.

❝  cyno ...  ❞  head  tips  to  one  side,  ❝  be  a  good  little  pawn  and  raise  your  right  hand.  ❞

Unfortunately, Cyno held his Archon in nothing but the highest regard. There would be little - save for DEATH ITSELF - that would disrupt such a system of belief. Faithfulness and loyalty were amongst his greatest assets, and even now under threat of death and torment would he not be budged into relinquishing them; much less by request of a FALSE deity. Alas, no amount of verbal laceration would shift him.

"You inherently hold neither understanding nor do you ascribe value to these ideals." He said fiercely, voice simmering with blatant CONTEMPT, a spark of something furious igniting in the depths of his dulled gaze. "I hardly know whether I should condemn or pity you for it."

Were he himself more benevolent and quicker to forgive, the latter might have seemed a viable perspective. But he was only human, and the collective accumulation of his experience with the Balladeer had left enough of an impression to cast any thought of EXONERATION from feasible reality. He was an individual somehow both entirely too cognizant of his standing and supposed purpose, yet simultaneously and thoroughly ignorant of the nature of humanity beyond its most assertive vices. Yet, upon this narrowed view of the world was the fabric of his ideology knit, based upon a budgeted sum of genuine comprehension wholly lacking in compassion.

A ruler earned their right to preside over their people by understanding them. But it seemed that the Sixth was already lacking in this most basic respect. There was little more to say on the matter, even IF the truth of it was abundantly clear. He would not listen, and furthermore rejected any manner of mutual conversation in favour of what Cyno could only imagine he considered entertainment.

How utterly and un-negotiably UNPLEASANT.

But just as quickly as revulsion had risen within him, it was abruptly quashed by the subsequent and vaguely ominous disclosure.

"And... what do you mean by that?"

[ddarker-dreams]

Unholy Revelation. Yan Rosaria x Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mild not SFW implications if you squint.  Word count: 1k.

If there’s anything Rosaria abhors more than the various nuisances who pester her, it’s pity.

She can’t pick any singular reason for disliking it. There are too many, each more grating than the last; a lodged thorn in her side that’s pushed in further with every display. The citizens of Mondstadt mean well. The extra food slid none too discreetly on her plate when she goes to Good Hunter, how the guards allow her to skulk in the shadows without question, every instance of her fellow sisters feigning ignorance to her absence.

Rosaria knows she’s an outsider, they don’t need to constantly remind her, inadvertent as it may be.

Maybe that’s why her heart of stone holds a soft spot for you. The way you treat her is different than anyone else — and while she doesn’t consider herself to be addicted — it’s something close enough to the term.

The moon is at its peak in the night sky, a signal that Rosaria’s work in the dark is to be underway. Though her regular routine of performing thorough surveillance on Mondstadt is currently on hold. Under normal circumstances, nothing could keep her from the self-appointed job she takes so seriously, not even the Archons themselves. As long as air fills her lungs, there is work to be done. Yet here she sits. Fishnet tight covered legs crossed, her magenta eyes fixated on your every precise movement, waiting with uncharacteristic patience for you to finish your task.

“This fabric is a perfect fit for you,” you hum, fastening another stitch into place.

Rosaria appreciates the discretion you exercise with her. When she comes to you at unholy hours of the night, presenting her tattered clothes, you never ask too many questions or look at her with fear. You simply invite her in while you fix the various garments. She’s not always able to accept your invitation, but she allowed herself the privilege of your company tonight. This might not be her favorite activity to partake in involving you at night, but it is enchanting to watch your handiwork with clothes.

Your comment piques her interest in a way only you can. “And why is that?”

“The way it flows may appear without direction to the incompetent eye. Nevertheless, it never fails to retain its shape and purpose.”

She purses her lips to fight off an incoming smile. It’s not like you could see it, with how focused you are on fixing her torn habit, yet she still doesn’t afford herself the vulnerability. For an innocent appearing tailor, you’re far from naïve like the other citizens. How you’ve not grown callous as she has from knowing the truth is a mystery. Rosaria has given credence to some theories. Where she inhabits the shadow of Mondstadt’s sun, you navigate freely between both worlds, never settling down in one. It’s a fine line that you tread upon.

The despair of knowing too much, or the ignorance of knowing too little. The scales that normally tip in favor of one or the other remain at equilibrium for you.

“I see that spending hours in the Knight’s library is starting to affect you,” Rosaria quips. You reward her with that melodious laugh of yours — a sound so lovely it’s almost sacrilegious for besting the beauty of the gods — not taking any offense to her scathing sarcasm.

You pull the needle through and upwards. “Yes, well, I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. Lisa’s starting to run out of poetry books to recommend.”

“Hm.”

Rosaria’s fingers drum against the arm of her chair in tandem, but she offers no rebuttal. Your dexterous hands continue, unimpeded by her heavy stare, the light humming of a favored Mondstadt ballad filling the air. She’s always been partial to your fingers. They can work in the most wonderful ways, she’s learned. A few minutes later, you set your needle and thread onto the side table and smile.

“All done here!” You exclaim, proudly holding up to display your handiwork. It’s like the garment was brand new, but with some alterations, namely the end of the headpiece which is slightly more jagged than it was before. To keep it symmetrical, you had to apply the same look to the side left unaffected by her fight. Rosaria expects she’ll receive some strife for the altered habit, not that it’ll be anything she can’t handle; this look feels more fitting for someone of her disposition anyways.

She stands and approaches you with long, languid strides. “You work fast.”

This is the closest sentiment to a compliment you’ll get from her, not that you seem to mind. She bends over to take the headpiece from your hands, only to find you’ve yet to relinquish your grip; you’re staring up at her through thick eyelashes.

“Rose…” you trail off, the nickname one she claims to detest but always responds to nevertheless, “Can you promise me something?”

She takes in a deep breath. “That depends on what the promise is.”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. So please... stop intimidating my friends.”

You’ve since shut your eyes, a mannerism she associates with you being in deep thought. Rosaria lifts a gloved finger to your exposed collarbone, lightly running it up and to your neck, stopping to hover over your pulse. Your skin has always been far warmer than hers. That’s what you claim, at least, when she asks why you always shiver at her touch.

Rosaria wonders which one of you lies more.

You release the breath you were holding when she peels back, taking her now repaired headpiece with her.

“Intimidating...? I have no idea what it is you’re talking about,” Rosaria replies, all the while fastening the accessory back onto her person. It felt abnormal to go so long without it. She used to disdain the headpiece, feeling like it was nothing but dead weight until you offhandedly complimented how she looks in it. Now, she makes an effort to always have it on.

Your shoulders slump ever so slightly, a weak laugh leaving your lips. “Of course. How… silly of me.”

“How silly indeed.”

Whenever the scales start to tip outside of her favor, she forcefully applies weight to keep it balanced; all so that you remain where she wants you to.

[blenderfullasarcasm]

10 People You Want to Know Better

tagged by @kuroko99

Relationship Status: single

Favorite Colors:  red, black, silver

Favorite Foods: soft pretzels, bubble tea, onigiri, croque madame, cheese toasties

Song Stuck in Your Head: The Beginning - ONE OK ROCK

Last Thing You Googled: oracle (the cloud infrastructure company)

Time: 23:36

Dream Trip: Japan! I went for my study abroad but got sent home a month in bc of the pandemic :/ 

Last Thing You Read: Batman: Urban Legends #20

Last Book You Enjoyed: The Magpie Murders, by Anthony Horowitz

Favorite Thing to Cook/Bake: chocolate crinkle cookies! they're chocolate chocolate chip cookies, dense like brownies, and covered in powdered sugar

Favorite Craft: knitting or embroidery! right now I'm working on knitting a Batman doll and cross-stitching a Kaitou KID embroidery piece

Most Niche Dislike: mushrooms. cannot stand them. even the smell of them makes me want to gag. also generally not a fan of soup, which I have been informed is sacrilegious.

Opinion on Circuses: have only experienced it through Dick Grayson’s backstory. and my time on here i guess.

Sense of Direction? pretty okay. I'm the human GPS whenever I'm with my family, so.

tagging: @summerbummin @artycreaty @rururinchan @helloitstrash @hexfloog @marshmallowgoop