#tw self flagellation

[marchwardenofmordor]

“With a voice like thunder and a tongue to drown out all that is pure in the world, by the ice that flows through my veins, I would slaughter every man, woman, child, elf and dwarf so that he may conquer the world alone. And I, at his feet, reverently resting my head upon the fairest of all laps, would remain at his side. His one true faithful.

No matter how many times I administer my own penance with these skilled and loving hands, no matter how the scourge stings, how my muscles sing and scream in the same breath, nor how the cilice belts constrict and bite my tender thigh-flesh, the greatest honour would be to be finally slaughtered by him at his throne at the end of all things. To know he would cradle my severed head so lovingly and use it as he saw fit.

My duties are boundless. Endless. And I shall never rest; even when this weak flesh has crumbled into dust, when the maggots have earnestly chewed away at my carcass, my hope is that I might yet still serve him, even in death, as a wraith, and be permitted to behold the wonder of his greatness forevermore.

And then upon that mournful day of his demise, what is left of my soul would weep, but then rejoice, for the world would be lost to oblivion, and we might bask in the darkness together, as one. Always as one, and ready to be birthed again. And in that new life, this Lord of Gifts may grant me his greatest yet; to run him through first. O, what pleasure, what paramour paramount, and I would slather his viscera over myself, that it may yet retain the last of his warmth, and I would partake of his body, devouring him as mine own body most naturally dictates, for to sup upon him would be to hold him inside of me, close as can be. And then I would snuff myself out again. And again. And again. The most original sin, in all of its profane glory. I would let him murder me a thousand times over, and my rancid blood would dance through my veins at the prospect of bestowing such a gift upon him in return.

I am a simple creature, prone to desire and violence, and nothing grants me greater satisfaction, nothing can melt my brain nor shatter my body, better than seeing my affections returned in those terrible, wonderful eyes as his pupils expand and swallow the light. And I feel hungry. Ravenous.

Call me not a martyr, for I would have wantonly yearned for every second of it.”

- The Marchwarden

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 30

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt; "Self-Harm"

Day 30 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV/Whumpee/Whumper; Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

- (mentioned) Gawain - The Green Knight

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 676

TWs; self harm, knives, self harm using knives, mental health, auditory hallucinations, reference to previous self-flagellation, trauma, self hatred, religious trauma, blood <- PLEASE READ THESE TWS THIS SNIPPET EXPLICITLY COVERS VERY DARK THEMES.

"Quiet! Be Quiet..." Lancelot snapped, though at who he knew not, and the voices that tormented him in the silence of his tent certainly didn't harken his words.

A terrible thought crossed his mind and no sooner than it had did he know the only way to silence them.

His fingers itched for the flail he no longer owned. The voices cried out for blood. His heart pounded in anticipation.

His back ached to be torn apart.

Lancelot clamped his hands over his ears, panting.

"Please..." he moaned, whimpering as he curled up on himself, kneeling on the ground and begging like a frenzied man at church for salvation and relief, drowning in guilt, yet as always, ignored.

This terrible thought had become a need, one so desperate and clawing he felt it might suffocate him. His rational mind fled, so consumed as he was now by the urge to split himself open, to release this terrible pressure building up inside that felt like it might stop his heart in his chest and drag him down to hell.

"I can't!" He cried, but still they did not listen, howling in his mind like demented wolves braying at the moon.

"I have not the scourge... please..."

You have a knife.

Steel glinted with the dancing flame of his candle. Lancelot found himself watching how the light glanced from the blade as he turned it this way and that, unknowing quite how or when the hilt had found his hand, nor when he'd stripped his upper half of clothes which now lay discarded beside him.

He could not answer the call of his back, but he could pay off his demons in blood all the same. Sweat beaded up on his brow as he lowered his gaze to his arm, that need so almost satiated by the mere idea of what he was about to do that he found himself hesitating just for a moment...

A moment as his heartbeat pounded louder than the screaming chorus. A moment that his bare, whole arm filled his vision instead of the forces in his mind that sought to claim him. A moment whilst the fog of his mind cleared for the breifest of seconds before the hungry beasts tore anguish through his soul again.

He lowered the blade into his arm.

Blood welled up and began to spill slowly, like a crimson river rising from the sundered valley of torn skin across his outer forearm, weaving over old scars and staining the green leaves below him scarlet. He found himself watching it, mesmerised. How much of his life had been filled with pain for the curse of what now flowed down his skin?

This sinful demon blood must be purged from his veins.

Again and again he drew the knife upon himself, a savage smile gracing his face as the voices sighed in relief, the demons drunk their fill of him, pain driving the haze from his brain into this single-minded focus, to slice and to main.

To punish himself and force the anguish of his mind out onto broken skin and scars.

Oh the bliss, as the voices ceased, the demons returned to their cages, satiated. He did not stop, not yet, though he could not see skin for blood, basking in the pleasure of being, of feeling just for a second, truly alive.

He cared not for the pain which he no longer felt, cared not for the mess or the injury he dealt. He cared only for the blade that bit into his skin again and again and again and aga--

"Stop! Lancelot, no..."

The bloodied blade slipped through trembling fingers, his breathing came ragged, cheeks wet with tears.

He was dimly aware of strong arms wrapping around him, a pair of emerald eyes wide with shock and concern. He let himself fall against the chest that pulled him close, breathing in a scent of pine and leather, of fear and blood and sweat.

His Green Knight come to save him and make his shattered pieces whole.

Final Augusnippets Prompt Path; Whumperless Whump is now complete! As mentioned, I am doing the optional day 31, stay tuned for that tomorrow :)

A heavy one today, I'll admit to finding this one difficult to write and very personal, but cathartic too. Yes, Gawain found him and helped him afterwards, and yes, this will be included in the main fic at some point. I really felt it was important for me to explore this darker theme with Lancelot, I definitely felt like he'd have a tendency towards harming himself given the self-flagellation we see in Cursed and his internal conflicts, especially if it's been a while since he was injured in battle so he had less or no pain to focus on. But I also want to show a hopeful arc with him too, and hope that throughout my planned story he'll need to resort to it less and less as the urges fade away. Still! All that is for future anyways.

Thanks for reading, let me know if you enjoyed reading this, onto the final day tomorrow!

[russenoire]

that scene in season 1 where teruki hanazawa exorcises ekubo mid-sentence... and shigeo's eyes widen in shock?

i really want to talk about it, specifically the explosion meter accompanying it.

normally, when the teenager's emotions aren't obvious to the audience, that meter relays to us a sense of what he is actually feeling. but we cannot trust the meter here. we see it jump up a few points at teru's 'psycho wave' sending the sleazy ghost to the shadow realms, and remain steady at 50% upon shigeo's recollections of the spirit's unsavory nature. the boy outright tells teru that he isn't bothered. and it's funny!

but shigeo isn't being honest with himself here either.

his face briefly gives his feelings away before resettling into its normal flat affect. (to be fair, what he's really feeling isn't teru's business. this kid is trying to provoke a fight out of him, after all.) after he's basically tortured into exploding, shigeo spends three hours in the pouring rain, searching everywhere for ekubo.

three. hours.

these are not the actions of someone who isn't bothered. letting himself get drenched to the point of sickness,

even though he literally holds the power to shield himself from it,

reads to me like unconscious self-punishment for allowing all this to happen.

after a large chunk of his short life spent denying and fearing them for good reason, shigeo's first impulse is often not to use his psychic powers -- even after his integration at the story's end. i wish this was discussed more, because many watchers cannot fathom why this boy with world-breaking psychic abilities would ever refuse to use them.

also: the explosion meter lying to us / representing shigeo's detachment from his own emotions alexithymia may occur elsewhere in the series as well, especially when he's not close to an explosion; i'm reminded of the tiny dent ritsu's provocation of him makes in it a few episodes later.

[lieutenantjirv]

(John's glare nearly falters. He hadn't meant to hit the steward so hard.)

Good. Then... a warning should suffice.

Is that correct, Mr. Jopson?

(He thinks of the lash on his own back, a vain attempt at salvation that had done nothing more than earn him a fever and an extended stay in the infirmary with a surgeon who promised not to tell.)

I do not wish to cause you pain. But you have set this entire expedition at risk with your seduction of our captain. I cannot stand by and watch it happen without taking up arms against the man responsible.

That is my duty, Mr. Jopson. I hope you know it is not with any personal grievance towards you that I shall write you up in my next report.

*he gets up and tries to meander over to @lieutenantjirv as unnoticed as possible in order to direct him away from the captain’s surroundings after his outburst at the lieutenant*

(He is not looking to comfort the lieutenant or to really talk to him, but he knows he will probably have to end up listening to the other’s ramblings anyways. He doesn’t try to stop anything he doesnt really want from happening anymore.)

[polito0]

[I can't]

[zu-is-here]

Hey Zu!

Can we please see more rockband kross? I wanna see that two gay again.

I hope you have a good day/ night! :]

<– • –>

[deviantplum]

Me: Your religion has like, an entire term for literally beating the sin out of yourself. In a process that is supposed to bring you closer to God, which one could reasonably interpret as a euphoric state. So, idk feels like Catholics deserve some credit for torture kinks. High Five!

The Pope: [not high fiving me] I'm protected by a literal army, how the hell did you get in here?!

[balrogballs]

Never say Balls doesn’t suffer for her art because I just sat through an hour-long phone call with my chattiest uncle who has asked me a good 300 questions about my life and what I had for lunch for the last two weeks, because he practices a certain folk/religious trance-flagellation ritual that I have written Maedhros to be a practitioner of in my Postcolonial!AU (as an allegory for the Oath) and I wanted to write an accurate portrayal of it 😭

(sorry for the definition being from some academic paper but there’s very little about it online because it’s a VERY niche regional practice and I only remember it because I’ve seen it done IRL)

yes i am indeed using my family consisting of an intermix of a good 4-5 religions for fic writing purposes

[viciouslyfilthy]

Slaps these bad boys here immediately now that i have a proper tag for the muse up and running.

[blissfulanguish]

The smaller let's out an indignant huff as they force the other to sit, half sitting on the other to keep him pinned and inspect the wounds. Clear frustration is painted across their face as they finally look up to the male. A faint buzzing can be heard emanating from the being, and they speak firmly. "Humans are fragile - you should not be doing these. They could get infected like this... Sit back. This will take us a while." Angery swarm is angry

He's never quite seen eye to eye with their resident Beast and is expecting some manner of ridicule or disgust for his... enthusiastic ritual worship of His Holiness. The lashes on his forearms and chest were nothing compared to the latticework of scars upon scars that made up his back- Ravines of hypertrophic scar tissue mapping out years of perfecting his technique for flaying skin with little more than a braided leather strop with a tapered end.

Pain was a fuzzy afterthought in lieu of the serotonin rush that accompanied each strike, twisting what would normally be torturous into a near holy experience. He didn't expect other people to understand what it meant- To him. To his God.

Legato exhales a rasp of a laugh, gesturing to the blood smeared against dusky skin and black lines of inkwork tracing patterns in the peaks and valleys of scourged flesh.

"I've been attending to these for quite some time on my own, Beast. Normally, I would have the good doctor Conrad help with the dressings, but I suppose I can't refuse such a generous offer."

Curious, the collective seemed irritated by something... If the steady drone of low buzzing was anything to go by, which Legato did not profess to be an expert on such behaviors in insects. Even insects that could possess one massive consciousness and bear the name of the very planet's whims.

[needlebeetles]

i know it’s hella pathetic to be this stressed over not understanding something the minute you come into contact with it like some sort of infant or perhaps toddler but also i’m going to flay myself and pay a rogue agent to drop my skinless screaming body in front of my past-self’s bedroom door. why would he do this to me

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 20

Path of Comfort Prompt; Alt. "Gentle Touch"

Day 20 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV: Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

- Caretaker: Gawain - The Green Knight

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 607

TWs; Tending to wounds, referenced self-flagellation, lashings

"I can help, if you'd like?"

Lancelot looked up to see Gawain standing at the entrance of their tent. Too preoccupied attempting to fold himself like an origami bird in order to salve the wounds on his back, he hadn't noticed the Green Knight's approach.

"I can... do it..." Lancelot huffed, cheeks flaming in embarassment at being caught like this.

Gawain held his hands up in mock surrender, ducking past him further into the tent. Lancelot heard the telltale signs of water being poured into the washbasin, the methodical scrape of knife against cheek as the Knight began to shave.

After several more minutes of wishing he had eyes in the back of his head, or perhaps that he could detatch one of his arms, Lancelot had managed to smear salve on approximately four-and-a-half of the lashings, as well as into his hair somehow and all up one of his arms.

Lancelot sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens in a silent plea for mercy, glancing back when he heard the knife thud softly as Gawain placed it down and stood.

"Let me."

Lancelot sighed again, but begrudingly nodded permission, willing himself to relax though he found it nigh on impossible. It was strange, he thought, the difference in how willing he was to hurt himself unhesitatingly, yet waiting for pain given by another had him arguably more nervous.

As anticipated, Gawain's touch was indeed painful. Lancelot couldn't help but tense to keep still despite trying not to react at all.

Lancelot was, by nature, intimately familiar with pain. This sensation at a base level was indeed the same as ever, yet it had a depth to it most unlike anything he had experienced before, the gentleness of how Gawain tended to him... 

It was oddly comforting. Soothing even.

"Gods, I wish all my patients were as well behaved as you are..."

"Well... behaved?" Lancelot repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Gawain chuckled behind him.

"Aye. They never stay so bloody still."

Lancelot heard a distinctly impressed note in Gawain's voice, unable to resist closing his eyes to the feel of Gawain's soft but sure touches. Unbidden, he wondered if Gawain had a lover somewhere. He'd certainly revealed nothing of himself despite being tortured, yet it felt too personal a question for Lancelot to ask, so he remained silent. He knew Fey had odd customs, not least that it made no difference to most if one was man or woman, or even both, neither, or somewhere in between. Perhaps his lover was a man, given the ease with which his hands roamed Lancelot's back...

"Is it nice where you are?" Gawain asked, mildly.

"I- What?" 

"Is it nice? In your thoughts. You look very... lost in them." 

Lancelot didn't have an answer for that, but gave a wry laugh all the same. Usually, the answer was a quite definite no. Sometimes he'd rather be anywhere but in his own head.

In this instance he certainly had zero intentions of admitting he'd been pondering whether or not the Green Knight was single... Yet the way in which he'd spoken suggested Gawain may have guessed at their subject. 

You're just being paranoid now...

Now that his mind had gone down this particular road, he couldn't deny Gawain's gentle touch was beginning to set a fire through his veins, something else he daren't say. He bit back an involuntary groan as pain mingled with pleasure.

"Sorry, Ashman."

Lancelot smiled slightly at the apology, as unneeded as it was it was nice of Gawain to offer it. Perhaps if he focused on the pain, it would stop his traitorous mind from wandering...

Whoops, posted this one REAL early, yes I was meant to put it in my drafts for tomorrow when I'm at work, no, I did not in fact click "save to drafts"... oops.

An alternate prompt because I was really struggling to write for the given prompts, but I had two ideas I couldn't pick between for Day 23 so I wrote one of them for today!

As always, thanks for reading, onto the next!

[headgear-smelvin-fart]

is it anywhere near normal to wish to be physically harmed for the bad things you've done? I feel like I need to be genuinely punished or I can't walk free in life.

[chinzhilla]

had a passing thought about how my dog is gonna die one day, then proceeded to spiral into a full-on sobbing mess about it for no reason, so that’s where my mental health is on this fine saturday

[erajunex]

The House of Sin. (part 1)

Rating: 18+ MDNI. You read at your own risk.

Pairing: Father Charlie Mayhew x housekeeper!fem!reader

Summary: Your very religious family decides to preserve you from the evil of the world by entrusting you to Father Charlie as his housekeeper. You’re welcome in the House of Sin.

TW (for this part): NSFW. SMUT. blasphemy; mentions and references to catholic themes (some of them are prob inaccurate sorry); reader is very religious (but not innocent); mentions of blood; graphic description of self-inflicted flagellation; masturbation; voyeurism; swearing.

a/n: English is not my first language, so please be kind bc this took me so long to translate (lol), if you wanna be added to the tag-list for the next part lemme know with a comment pls

Enjoy xx

Father Charlie Mayhew had always been faithful and devoted to the promises he made before God when he decided to please Him for the rest of his earthly life, and with the same devotion he always made an effort to spread love for God within his parish.

In his whole life, he never felt the slightest desire to act in opposition to the Lord's word, he never succumbed to temptation, and his spirit never entertained the idea of sinning.

He was the perfect servant, the best guide for his parish, and for the faithful whom the Lord entrusted to him.

Or at least that was what everyone believed about him, including your parents, who thought that offering you the position of Father Charlie’s housekeeper would be the best way to protect you from the vices and dangers of the outside world.

Your father was a strict and religious man who raised you with rules and discipline, so you accepted his decisions without question.

Father Charlie knew your family well and recognized your parents' honesty and devotion, so he had high expectations for you, and you would’ve met all of them.

The initial period of living together at his house was quite peaceful, and being with him felt comfortable from the very first day. You spent your days peacefully working for him, cleaning his house and the church, doing laundry, and preparing lunch and dinner. Nevertheless, you always found a moment for prayer. You shared everything with him and you were grateful and respectful at the point you considered him a master despite his young age.

You recognized your parents' admiration for him, and you shared it too because he was a decent man who cared for all his faithful and his mission as God's servant. He was charismatic, persuasive, and seemingly flawless. To be honest, his personality intrigued you. You had to admit that sometimes you found him charming, but those were just fleeting thoughts that you quickly pushed aside— till tonight.

It’s late at night; all the lights are off, and Father Charlie has retired to his room about an hour ago.

You’ve just finished washing the dishes and are getting ready for the night. As you prepare to head to the room he had assigned to you when you first arrived, a flicker of light and subtle noise from his door catch your attention as you walk through the hallway.

At first, you think it’s just a perception, but as your feet slow down until they stop in the hallway, you realize your ears are not wrong.

Driven by curiosity you approach the door slowly, trying not to make a sound as you peek through the half-closed door to see out what is happening inside his room. But, you know, sometimes curiosity can kill.

You freeze. Your jaw drops, and your eyes widen as they look straight at the scene being etched in your memory.

Father Charlie sits at the edge of the bed, fully exposed to your gaze, the soft light casting shadows on his bare skin. His back is turned to the painting of Jesus Christ hanging on the wall, a watchful presence above him from which he is trying to hide himself.

He’s panting. He’s completely naked. With one hand around his cock.

His eyes are closed and his slightly parted lips release soft moans of pleasure, the rhythm of his breath filling the quiet room. A sheen of sweat glistens on his naked body as he keeps moving his left hand at a rapid pace, trying to set himself free from the lustful thoughts that had taken over his body as soon as possible.

Your breath breaks.

You can’t believe it. Father Charlie has succumbed to the desire of the flesh, his soul becoming stained by a sin he should never have committed. Not him. Not a priest like him.

And without knowing, he‘s pulling you into the Devil��s claws with him.

Because no matter how shocked you are, and no matter how hard you’re mentally cursing yourself for being overcome by curiosity, your eyes are glued to his magnificent body and cannot tear themselves away from it.

You are expected to go, but you can't. You don't want to.

For the first time in your whole yet short life, you hear it. That voice. The voice of temptation.

You continue to stare at him with bated breath, wishing that show will never end.

"Ah, fuck..." he groans and you shudder.

A shiver goes straight to your core, and you immediately feel an urge to clench your thighs together to hold back an unusual tickle that you had never experienced so strongly before.

However, it is not sufficient.

Forgive me, Father… you think. Your cheeks redden with shame as the last bit of reason fades away from you at that precise moment your right hand goes straight under the cloth of your sundress, and just as if it has been guided by a dark and sinister force it sneaks between your legs, right in your cotton panties.

For I have sinned.

You aren’t used to touching yourself, and even if you had done it on rare occasions you'd never imagined doing it like this— secretly watching your priest as he does the same thing.

Soon you realize that something inside you is changing rapidly. It‘s just a tiny spark, but it can set your whole body on fire in no time.

And it’s all his fault.

Your fingertips slide between your already-soaked folds, coating in juices that flow out of you like a river, and then you start teasing yourself shamefully, trying to focus on the scene in front of you to avoid those pitiful and lonely voices that keep whispering to you to stop.

“Yes…” he licks his lower lip and for a brief moment you imagine how good, how pleasant it could be the feeling of his wet tongue on your skin, exactly where your hand is. It’s so, so wrong and you know it, but you can’t control yourself. It’s overwhelming.

His nudity contrasts sharply with the solemnity of the image behind him. He looks so vulnerable, so…

“So good…” he says between moans. You want to know what he’s thinking, what kind of images are guiding his imagination— if you’re part of them too.

His forearm anchors on the mattress to balance himself, and his hips buck against his hand to gain more friction.

“Oh, God…” his broad chest is heaving with every breath that escapes his lungs as you try your best to swallow every squeak, careful not to get caught right there.

Sweat covers his forehead, small drops sliding down his ecstatic face and neck, igniting your deepest fantasies while your fingertips rub at your clit in circular motions, mimicking the pace at which he’s stroking his length.

You can’t help but look at it. Thick and veiny, the tip red and leaking with precum, your pussy throbs around nothing at the mere idea of putting his whole girth in your virgin mouth and knowing how good it could taste.

The man bites his lips and you do it too in reflection.

You are a mess. Your trembling thighs are soaked by the juices dripping from your aching pussy as you frantically touch yourself. Your entire being lies completely under the tight grip of the Devil, ensnared in a web of darkness that seeks to control every thought, feeling, and action.

His strokes become erratic, and his eyebrows knit together in a mixture of pain and bliss. He is close… and in such a short time you are too. Your teeth bite your lower lip until it bleeds, in a desperate attempt to hold back a whine. But you don't stop. You will not do it until he will too.

All of a sudden, his hand stops. A guttural sound of satisfaction slips past his throat reaching your ears as he throws his head back and the orgasm washes over him.

The tight knot in your belly snaps and thousands of shocks invade your body from head to toe. Your vision goes blurry, your mind goes fuzzy and your knees get weak like jelly.

You’ve just reached the peak without even knowing it.

Thick ropes of his white seed spill from his throbbing cock, falling right on his palm and stomach.

Your mouth waters at the sight, you can swear that if only it had been possible you’d walk into that damn room and kneel in between his huge thighs just to lick him clean and suck the soul out of him, making him cum again and again and again.

For God’s sake, those thoughts will send you straight to hell!

Silence takes his moans’ place, and his eyes open slightly as his breathing searches for a more regular pace, just like yours.

You pull out your hand from your soaked panties. A wave of post-orgasmic sense of guilt crashes over you. You have just sinned. Right now is time to go to your room and get some rest, forgetting what have just happened and never thinking again about it, and yet your eyes and your feet are stuck right here, quivering for his next moves.

Everything has been so tempting and your body wants more.

He suddenly gets up from the mattress and makes his way towards the antique dresser next to the bed. A bowl full of water is on top of it, and he quickly dips both his hands inside of it to his wrists, washing away every sign of the sinful act he had just committed—unaware it’s happened in front of you.

From that spot, his body is perfectly exposed to your gaze, and your mind takes advantage of this to explore new, undiscovered places.

He‘s tall, radiant, and huge. He looks like a classical statue. His broad chest and chiseled abs seem to be sculpted in marble, just like his thick thighs and the strong and muscular arms he usually hides under the vestments.

He’s handsome.

Only the Lord knows what those arms are capable of, how those big and veiny hands would be able to touch and grab a woman’s body- your body. How good his mouth would be able to kiss you, bite you, lick you, satisfying the most private parts of you like no one ever did. If only he didn’t have to respect the vows of celibacy and obedience... if only he didn't choose to refuse lust and resist temptation for the rest of his life…

He wipes his hands with a clean towel near the basin, heavy breathing releasing from his lungs as if he wants to get rid of that slamming weight on his shoulders. The weight of the mortal sin he has just given into, the reason why he deserves to be punished— and maybe you deserve it too.

You see him going through the drawer and picking something before he lifts the wooden kneeler to the side. And when he approaches the bed again, you recognize the scourge in his hand.

Your heartbeat down faster as soon as you realize what’s going to happen. Father Charlie places the kneeler in front of the bed, exactly where he was before, and turnes his back to you, revealing his broad shoulders and his back previously tortured by the hits he self-inflicted with the tool he’s now placing on the sheets.

A bunch of shivers flood your body from head to toe, trepassing your spine. You see the still-opened wounds and cuts on his pale skin, the clear signs of every time he sinned and begged for forgiveness.

He kneels and firmly takes the scourge in his right hand. Seven cords, seven barbs for the seven deadly sins, and seven virtues.

The mortification of the flesh.

It‘s the only way to deaden his sinful nature and bring back his focus to the only thing he pledged to honour even after his bodily death.

He rests his elbows on the board, with his back straight as he looks at the white wall in front of him, his eyes filled with certainty and confidence.

He stands right there unshaken, keeping you on edge for his next move before his lips parts and he speaks.

"Merciful Lord, I come before You seeking forgiveness and healing" with a rapid flick of his hand he whips himself violently, making you gasp in shock. You hear him holding his breath, trying his best not to cry and scream from pain, and then he spakes again.

"f-for the sin of lust that… dwells within me." another lash, another flinch from you. Cords are already leaving marks and bruises, you can feel how much they sting on his skin and on his previous wounds as the sharp edges sink on his back mercilessly.

"I confess m-my weakness in giving in to… impure desires" his stomach jolts in pain, and his dilated pupils stare blankly at the painting on the wall as his lips tremble with each syllable "and… indulging in lustful t-thoughts and actions t-that offend… You."

A lot of blood starts gushing out from his wounds, staining the cords with a bright red color.

You cover your mouth in shock. You can see the pained look on his face, pleasure has completely abandoned his now-suffering body that‘s writhing at the feeling of those rusty barbs tearing his flesh apart at every whipping, painting the cold floor with the spatters of his own blood.

Father Charlie is asking for forgiveness, pleading the Lord to save him and have mercy on his damned soul, because he is aware of the burden on his shoulders and he wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible.

And the only way to regain his purity is through suffering, through that physical pain that can purify both his body and soul, leaving him weak and miserable like a dazed sailor who lost his compass and cannot find the horizon.

"Purify my heart" he barely mutters, too exhausted "renew my mind" his forearms lost their grip on the rubbed wood of the kneeler forcing him to cling to it as strength slowly leaves his body. You watch him with an alarmed look on your face, worried about his state "and sanctify my body as Your temple."

A final statement spoken with a broken voice before Father Charlie immediately collapses on the wooden structure, visibly in a worn out state. Spurting blood stains his bare back, his eyelids squeeze trying to kill the pain of that one last whip that completely slashed his flesh.

You accidentally step back with your left foot, producing a nearly undetectable noise that forces you to lean your hand against the wall to keep balance in an attempt not to get caught. Too late.

Father Charlie turns around quickly, towards the door he previously left slightly ajar. His gloomy eyes meet yours even if shrouded in darkness. Your heart stops in your chest, becoming like a stone falling into a bottomless pit.

Shit.

a/n: part 2?

[yameoto]

caitlyn kiramman fucking you with her mask on

tw: dark!caitlyn, mask kink, sex in a bloodbath, cnc but its noncon, sex if it was self-flagellation, angst, caitlyn hates everyone including herself and takes it out on her exception (you).

when one is in the midst of fighting a war, and seized by two arms locking around their waist—the logical conclusion is; someone is trying to kill you, so the only logical response is; you try to kill them first.

of course you startle, teeth bared and ready to plow whoever the fuck this is, down—before a hand snaps up around your wrists, wrenching you into a the gallows of the city, the battlegrounds; and in the midst of the green smog. this all happens, in approximately 0.2 seconds. you’re not sure who the fuck is staring back at you through blood-splattered goggles, only that it’s a fucking enforcer. not a noxian. you stall, relaxing momentarily. they exhale through the vent, hot and humid and pluming around your face.

then, you’re shoved against the ground, thrown around like some glorified ragdoll. you’re pinned by a gloved hand, fisting the back of your hair and pushing your head into the sullied ground, two thighs straddling your back and crushing onto the back of your legs, as you lurch upwards with a snarl.

“fuck you, what the fuck? we’re on the same—“

metal-clad fingers cram themselves into your mouth, gagging you, as your chest is yanked up by the scruff and something hot and hard press up against the divot of your back. you thrash, then, and they hiss in annoyance, like you’re being petulant, smacking you roughly against the jaw.

“shut up.” it’s ordered harshly, fingers stuffing deeper as if they could jam your voicebox shut if they reached down far enough—their own voice mangled by the mask’s modulator, as it is.

your limbs lock, in shock, when their free hand snakes down around your waist to unflick your belt buckle, grasping your hem and yanking your pants just past your ass. almost too easy, too familiar, despite all your lashing. you inhale at the sharp sting of air that hits your bare cunt, flashing in the dingy back-alley as bodies are gutted like fish on the floor—on a cutting board that all of a sudden, seems miles away, as if you weren't just on it.

panic seizes. you bite down, hard, against the knuckle in your mouth. they go ramrod, but don’t drag their hand out. only pin you upwards, against their torso, by the arm in your mouth—your chest tightening.

“you fuckin—ah, fuck—! you fuckin bastard bitch—ngh—“

the second time you bite, it’s involuntary. they wrench their hand out, if only to shove your face into the floor as the unmistakable swell of their cock presses against your entrance.

“baby. i said shut. up.” they growl, and you rise up off the pavement and their cock splits you open, a battering-ram to a dam. baby. baby. even in the throes of fury, fear, and a blood-stricken haze—you know that tone of voice, anywhere.

“caitlyn.” the name rips from your throat, you’re quaking, the fight momentarily sweeps away in the shock, betrayal—and sickening crunch of relief as your knees buckle.

“i’m sorry.” her voice is scraped, harrowingly raw without the garbling of the mask. still, she keeps going. because you’re tight and wet and warm and hers, and she needs this. needs somewhere to put away the boiling black bubble of hatred that seizes her every waking moment. thinks you could drain her of her sorrows and her bitterness and anger and her cum, if you just keep crying out so prettily like that, grip rigid in your hair. your body strings, sharp and taut with pain, cunt throbbing and leaking onto the battleground—ass raised high in the air as she forces herself into your pussy, twisting a little as she pants above your back, shoulder blades quaking to support the weight. each thrust is punctuated by a strangled apology. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. i just—"

“why the fuck are you—’

“i had the shot.” she gasps, hollowly, head arching back as her girth is wrangled by the tight, tight tight walls of your pussy—restrained and repellant and god, so hot. her cock spreads you thin. you hiss, panting against spattered pavement—though you’re no longer bucking her wildly, and she’s no longer shoving her fingers down your throat like she’s trying to choke you from the inside out.

“cait, cait—“ you don’t know what you’re saying. hands slippery with red, knees slicked with red, red red red, everywhere. bloodying your hands, leaking down your thighs.

caitlyn just shakes her head, breaths ragged and heaving. she grips you by the throat, as she only snaps into your slackening body, the ferocity drained out of you with each desperate pummel of caitlyn’s cock.

“i had the—fuck!” her grip tightens around your shoulder, and it’s a howl. tearing deep from her chest as her gun clatters to the side and both her hands clamp down on your hips to barrel you into the ground, you cry out, with each vicious rut of her hips as the two of you tremble, grinding your chin in the dirt.

the rhythmic is sloppy, staccato. caitlyn’s hand slips. grappling at nothing but viscera, still warm, and she slams down in a crumple against you—the full-weight of her body sending you both in a spiralling tangle amidst filth. you roll, groaning, pitched high, at the sharp spike of pain pulsing into your cunt as caitlyn shoves further into you. she topples. elbows bracing on either side of your head, barely able to keep herself up, arms quavering with each laboured breath.

caitlyn can’t see through the steam glassing her goggles and it's only when she grasps your jaw and your cheeks come away wet is that she realises it's not your tears, but her own. filling up the visors of her mask as she fucks you. chest shuddering, nails burying tenets into the earth and she sobs, once. pumps weakly, into you.

you wrench the sorry thing off her, and the gasmask gives away to a flash of red-rimmed eyes that you don't get to see for more than second before she's burrowing into your neck and biting into your shoulder, like she's ashamed to even look at you. caitlyn doesn't make a sound when she cums. creamy white, pushing out from your cunt with the shaky slant of caitlyn's cock—your folds, slick in a way that scares—and droplets of it bead down your thighs and mingle with the blood beneath the both of you, spoiled purity. you feel her tremble within you, caitlyn slumping into the hollow concave between your arms. you kiss, and everything hurts.

at least now, there is blood in both your mouths.