#why is it always the ARTS that fucking suffer

[saintsylestine]

Abaddon's [Favorite?] Inquisitor

afab!reader x Abaddon the Despoiler

A/n: I came up with so many scenes to get to this one...safe to say, more to come (///ω///)♪ I wanna ruin this man. But warning - I'm a tease for posting this.

Cw: NSFW, dubcon, free use, bondage/restraints, whipping (not crazily but yeah) powerplay, humiliation, throat fucked with fingers (is there a nicer way to say that lol)

Inspiration by art from the great @magicalduck21

(´－ω－)人

Ok disclaimer I wrote him with his helm on but you can imagine this guy's face as you get on his nerves *blush*

---

You’re drooling again.

It slides down your chin in threads, pooling in the hollow of your throat before spilling across the upper swell of your chest. One strand has glued itself to your breast, now tugging painfully with every sway of the rig. It itches. Everything itches. The barbed binding cinched under your arms, the rope bite of daemonflesh cords crossing your ribs, the harsh seam of your cunt forced open by that infernal split-legged yoke. Sweat stings old lash marks. You can’t twitch without the chains creaking and reminding him you’re alive.

But it’s not the pain that gets you. It’s the waiting.

Your jaw aches from the gag. Big, brutal thing. Not ball-shaped—too simple. This is a bite bar, thick and metallic, hinged to keep your mouth pried wide like a beast’s muzzle. You can just barely move your tongue. Just enough to speak if you don’t mind sounding like you’ve had your jaw broken and sewn back together by a drunk servitor.

“Uhh... uhh wuhh... ‘bout oo fall uh-leep,” you slur, glaring around the room like he’s listening. He always is. That or the walls do it for him.

Nothing. No footfall. No hiss of doors. The silence makes your blood run hotter.

You snort and roll your eyes as best you can. “Ughhh... uff’s sake...”

Your leg’s gone numb again. The high one, raised and bent at the knee, ankle chained upward toward a ceiling hook. The opposite leg is stretched straight and low, foot hovering just off the ground. The asymmetry's surgical—crafted to wreck your hips slowly, to force your cunt open with no dignity or balance. You’re tilted, twisted, hanging like a dissected animal with tits thrust forward and your spine bowed. The only thing holding your posture is suffering.

And of course, your cunt is dripping.

Because that’s the joke.

That’s the game.

You’ve hung like this before. You remember the aches. The first time it was humiliation. The second was anger.

Now it’s a routine.

A sick little habit.

You're about to scream something through the gag—something deeply unwise but satisfyingly profane—when the air changes.

No sound.

Just pressure. That shift. Like an entire cathedral exhaling behind your skull.

He’s here.

You roll your head slowly, spit swinging from your chin like a pendulum, and you see the shape you know too well—black warplate, burning eyes, ruin-wrapped shoulders. He’s already watching.

Of course he is.

You inhale sharply through your nose and let out a long, muffled sound that’s just close enough to a sigh to qualify as mockery.

“Fihh-nuh-wee,” you groan around the gag. “Took oo long uh-fur... fuhhck.”

He steps forward. One step. Solid. Measured.

That’s all.

He always lets the weight of him speak first.

You laugh, though it scrapes your throat. “Whuh... whuh’suh matta?” you coo, words mangled but intent sharp. “Guhh nuhh... nuhh new toy-s, huh?” you slur, thick around the bar. “Oooh ‘fraid I’ll... ou’lass ‘em again?”

He halts.

You grin, or something like it—lips stretched obscenely wide, teeth slick with drool.

“Issh tha’ why oo... keep comin’ back?” you lilt, breath hitching with the ache in your ribs. “Cuhh... can’ break me... sho’ oo jushh... watch.”

That hits. Just slightly. You know his silences by now, and this one shifts—grows heavier. The air tightens. His helm turns. Not enough to admit you’ve scored a hit—but enough to make your gut flip.

You lean into it.

“Uhh ‘member lasss time,” you murmur, rasping through spit. “Uhh ‘member... when oo shuv’d me on tha’ shpine hook... riigh’ when I wuzz ‘bout tuh cuum.”

Your thighs twitch involuntarily. The bindings flex. Tighten.

Pain flares along your hip and shoulder. Your teeth scrape against the bar.

You moan—low, filthy, intentional.

Not submission. Not surrender.

Invitation.

He says nothing.

But he’s listening.

Still looming.

Still deciding.

Good.

Let the Despoiler think it’s his move.

You’ll make him earn it.

...

He moves.

One step.

Two.

The sound is obscene—metal plates grinding, floor trembling under the ruin-weight of him. You can feel your own body brace, just from proximity. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t need to. Warlords don’t hurry for entertainment.

You lift your head slightly, just enough to spit another drool-slick smile around the gag.

“Wuhh... ‘bout time, big boy.”

He doesn’t answer. You didn’t expect him to.

You track him with your eyes as he circles, inspecting you like something inert. Meat. Structure. Not a lover, not even a prisoner—just a thing. A device with too much voice. His fingers twitch, gauntleted and massive, dragging idly across the lowest hanging chain—the one between your thighs.

Your cunt clenches the moment he touches it.

Fuck.

The chain’s connected to the yoke forcing your legs apart—anchored to your hips and fed through a wicked little pulley up above. One tug shifts your entire weight downward and outward, dragging your pelvis deeper into exposure. You barely get a gasp out before he does exactly that.

—clink—

Your leg lifts another few degrees. The yoke bites into the crease of your thighs, the metal unforgiving. Your whole body shifts in the rig—your back arches further, your cunt gapes, and your clit brushes cold air, hypersensitive and angry.

“Nnghh—fuhhhckk,” you groan, helpless and furious.

Your nerves light up. It’s not even direct stimulation—it’s geometry. Your posture’s now one breath away from cramp, your spine so bowed your ribs scream. Every twitch pulls your own cunt taut like a wound.

You try to laugh again. Try.

Comes out more like a whimper.

And he hears that.

His hand lifts.

You feel the shadow first—then the weight of it, right between your legs. One thick, gloved finger presses flat against your slit. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just... flat. Steady. As if he’s bracing himself on a bulkhead.

You moan through your nose.

He moves the finger. Up. Down. Slowly. Just enough to coat the metal in your slick. He doesn't probe. Doesn’t circle your clit. Just gathers evidence.

You jerk your hips in protest—or try. The restraints punish the attempt instantly. The yoke pulls tighter. One of the ropes bites your sternum so hard you gasp.

He knows what he’s doing.

He brings the finger up to eye level.

Examines it.

You choke out a snort. “Wuzz zat for?” you slur, straining to twist your head and look at him. “Geddin’ yer fuckin’ sammple?”

And then he does something that makes your mouth go silent.

He turns his hand over.

And lets your slick drip off his gauntlet.

Onto the floor.

You watch it fall.

Wasted.

A beat.

“Fuhhhck... you,” you hiss, gag mangling it to something desperate and ugly.

He doesn’t respond.

But he steps behind you.

And that’s when your stomach flips.

Because there’s a long, vertical panel of your body he hasn’t touched yet—spine, ass, back of thighs. All raw and twitching from being exposed so long.

You hear a sound.

—kssshht—

A retractable blade? No. Something worse.

Straps.

You twist your neck and barely glimpse it: a thin, whip-like implement, barbed at intervals. Painfully intimate. Not meant to cut.

Meant to sting.

He presses the tip of it to your tailbone.

And waits.

You freeze.

You don’t beg.

But your breath starts to shake.

And you know he’s smiling under that fucking helm.

...

You hold your breath without meaning to.

The whip—if it even deserves that name—is light. Flexible. Too thin to do real damage. That’s what makes it cruel. You know this one. You remember it. It doesn’t open the skin. It makes the nerves feel peeled. The barbs on the cord are dull. Just enough to raise welts. Just enough to force your body into a language of twitching.

He lifts it.

You brace.

The first strike lands low, across the back of your lower thigh.

CRACK.

You scream.

It’s not a choice. It tears through your throat like lightning. Your whole body jolts—your toes curl, your shoulders seize against their bindings, your cunt clenches around nothing. You can’t even process the pain fully before the second one follows.

CRACK.

This one higher—just below your ass. Direct. Cruel. Perfectly placed.

The sound you make is a gurgle, a sob mashed through the bite-bar and soaked in spit. You shake your head. Drool splashes the floor.

He waits.

You feel the stillness again. That calculated pause. He’s watching your breath now. Measuring your ragged little gasps. The rise and fall of your chest, taut and gleaming with sweat, nipples hard from shock and exposure.

You try to say something.

“Fffuhhhk... ooouh—”

But it’s mangled, half-spit, half-sob.

Good.

Let him hear it.

The third strike doesn’t come right away. You feel the whip brush up your spine—mocking. A phantom whisper against the bruises already forming. You know what he’s doing. You just don’t know where the next one will fall.

So you speak.

Because silence would mean he’s winning.

“Guhhh... guh’ a lil ten-shun tuhday, don’choo?” you growl through clenched teeth and leaking drool. “C’mere tuh... tuh beat yer meat on mine?”

You regret it before it finishes leaving your mouth.

CRACK.

Across your ribs. Side-on. The angle hits wrong—intentionally—snapping across bruised muscle and burned skin. It hurts in a way that makes your lungs seize. The sound that comes out of you is wet.

“Ghhha—fuckhh—!”

And still he’s not panting. Not vocal. Not even moving fast.

He lands five more.

Each one paced. Measured. Cruel.

One across your right shoulder blade.

One across your lower back—perfectly parallel to your spine.

Two across the meat of your ass, left and right.

And the final one...

...across your cunt.

It doesn’t slice. It buzzes. The barbs drag through the slickness there like someone dragging teeth through open nerve. Your thighs slam together on reflex—but the yoke holds them apart. You feel yourself spasm.

And then—

then—you moan.

Loud.

Long.

You hate yourself for it.

He steps away.

You hang there, trembling, ribs strobing with pain, slick running down your thighs, drool smearing your chest, your voice a shredded thing you no longer own.

He leaves you in silence again.

To feel it.

...

You’re hanging.

Breathing hard.

Wet.

Marked.

The rig creaks with each tremor of your thighs. The whip’s last kiss still sings through your cunt and ribs. You can taste blood now—somewhere deep in your mouth from biting the gag too hard. Or maybe that’s from trying to speak through it. You don’t know.

You only know he hasn’t left.

He’s watching.

You feel it—his weight in the air behind you. Still. Waiting. Deciding whether you’re worth more or less now.

Then—

He steps forward.

Boots slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

You try to lift your head, but the posture won’t let you. All you can see is his chestplate now—dark, massive, gleaming with tiny smears of you. You’re strung up like an offering. And he stands like a god who never needed prayer.

He doesn’t touch you.

Not yet.

He just speaks.

Low. Brutal.

“Louder than you’re worth.”

You flinch. Not from fear. From heat.

He circles to the side. Another pause. You hear the wet tap of his gauntlet against the chain stretched between your thighs. The rig tightens just slightly.

You groan. Legs spasm. More slick drips to the floor.

He leans in, helm level with your ear.

“Still leaking.”

A pause.

Then one gauntlet against your cheek—slick with your own arousal, dried and flaking.

He smears it there. Slow. Deliberate.

“Pathetic.”

Then nothing.

He steps back again, arms still at his sides, gaze crawling over you like a lash.

“You’re not finished.”

The silence after that is worse than any strike.

Because it means he’s thinking.

Planning.

And you're still open. Still dripping.

Still waiting.

..

You feel him move before you hear him.

That slow, towering shift of shadow in your peripheral vision. One gauntlet lifts. Big. Heavy. You brace for another strike—something to set your ribs screaming again.

Instead, you feel cold metal pinch at the corners of your mouth.

The gag.

The release is mechanical—hinged buckles, unfastened with a slow, surgical detachment. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak. Just unlocks you.

The bar slips from your teeth, thick with spit. Your jaw screams the moment it relaxes. Muscles twitch. Your tongue feels swollen, stupid. You barely register the drool pouring freely from your mouth now, sliding down your chin and between your breasts.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Of course not.

He lets you hang there—open-mouthed, gasping, humiliated.

“Thhh—fuck...,” you rasp. Your voice is shredded, barely a thread of breath.

But you speak anyway.

You have to.

“Th-that’s it?” you spit, voice cracking as it crawls up your throat. “Needed to shut me up just long enough to—nghh—edge your ego, and now you wanna listen?”

Your throat seizes halfway through the insult. But you don’t stop.

“You done staring, or do I need to drip a little louder for you to get the hint?”

A beat.

Silence.

Then—

“Speak clearly.”

His voice.

Short. Low.

So quiet it hurts.

He steps closer. You feel the heat of him again. You don’t dare close your mouth now. Not after that command.

He tilts your head back with two gloved fingers under your jaw—forcing you to look up. Your neck aches. Your whole body shudders from the strain of that angle.

“Last chance.”

You swallow hard. Try not to. Try not to show the fear prickling behind your tongue. But it’s there.

And still, you smile.

Blood and spit painting your teeth.

“Bite me.”

A pause.

Then—so soft you almost miss it:

“I will.”

...

Your jaw aches from the gag’s absence—nerves flaring back to life as your muscles twitch, slack and wet and sore. You can’t fully close your mouth yet. Not that it matters.

He’s in front of you again. Close.

Too close.

Your breath catches when you realize how tall he feels this near. How much bigger he becomes when you're suspended and ruined. You’ve faced warlords across interrogation chambers before. Faced daemons in sanctified blacksteel cages. But you’ve never felt small like this.

Not until now.

His gauntlet comes up again—no flourish, no threat. Just inevitability. He drags two fingers down the line of your jaw. Spit clings to them. He doesn’t care.

“You wanted to be heard.”

He presses those same fingers—thick, metal, wet—against your lips.

“Then speak with this.”

And he pushes them into your mouth.

Not gently.

Not like a lover.

Like a tool checking a gear for fit.

The taste hits first.

Iron. Gunmetal. Skin-temperature steel.

Warp-stained machine oil.

And something fainter beneath it all: your own slick. Dried into the creases of his gauntlet.

He presses two fingers past your lips like he owns them. Like your mouth is waiting. Like this isn’t a punishment, but a test to see if you’re still useful. The gag’s gone—but you’re still not free.

Your lips part with no resistance. He doesn’t ask permission. He fills your mouth, thick-knuckled gauntlet scraping your molars, the cold ridge of each joint dragging across your tongue like you’re being filed down from the inside out.

You groan.

Not because you mean to. Because your tongue panics, trying to move—trying to escape. There’s no space. No room to reposition. His fingers are too big, too deliberate.

And then they deepen.

Not a thrust. Not yet.

Just pressure.

Down.

His middle finger presses hard on your tongue, flattening it toward your jaw. Your throat starts to tickle—a tight itch right where your body knows something’s wrong, where breath shouldn’t be interrupted. You try to suppress the reflex, but he feels it—he wants it.

He shifts again. The ring finger joins.

Three now.

You moan, loud and sharp. Your jaw pops. Your neck strains. Your lips tear at the corners as your teeth scrape across the metal’s seams.

He curls them slightly.

Just the smallest flex.

And your tongue is pinned—helpless beneath him.

“Better than your voice.”

You barely hear it through the haze. But your cunt clenches like it does.

The fingers rock forward. Gently.

Then harder.

Not fast. Not cruel. Insistent.

Your body jerks in the rig as he begins to fuck your mouth with his hand—short, precise strokes. He lets you feel everything. The ridged knuckles scraping your palate. The cold press behind your uvula. The saliva bubbling past your lips and down your chin as your gag reflex fires, again and again.

You choke.

You gag.

You don’t look away.

His helm tilts slightly—watching your throat bulge around the intrusion. Watching you lose shape. Watching you become a vessel.

Your nose runs. Drool pours freely. You sob around the seal of his gauntlet and the thick scrape of his knuckles sawing in and out of your mouth.

He goes deeper.

Your shoulders seize. Your eyes blur.

The sound is obscene—wet, raw, gulping, muffled.

He pulls back just slightly—enough for you to gasp in a rush of breath, your tongue clinging to his fingers like a drowning thing.

But he doesn’t leave.

His hand stays.

His fingers rest on your tongue now—heavy, unmoving. Just resting, like a reminder of your failure to shut up when you had the chance.

“Keep them there,” he says.

And steps back.

His fingers still in your mouth.

His gaze raking you.

Daring you to flinch.

You moan low in your throat, trembling from head to toe, and obey.

Because you don’t want him to stop.

Not yet.

...

You can’t swallow.

Not properly. Not with his fingers on your tongue like a commandment carved in metal. You keep twitching—your throat spasming, your mouth filling again and again with warm spit that you can’t do anything with. It slides past your lips. Down your chin. Along your breasts.

You’re soaked in it.

And still he hasn’t moved.

He’s standing in front of you, gauntlet still lodged in your mouth, watching—measuring. Every flick of your tongue against his knuckles. Every time your lips try to seal tighter, then fail from exhaustion.

You try not to groan.

It leaks out anyway.

He hears it.

And now he moves.

Not with the fingers in your mouth—no. He lifts his other hand, thick and gloved, and presses it between your thighs. Flat palm. Full contact. No penetration. Just weight and heat and the power of attention.

You jerk in the rig, reflexive and raw, legs straining against the yoke that holds them spread. Your cunt’s been wet for so long it’s a shameful flood. His palm glides through it effortlessly. And he doesn’t even seem interested. Just... confirming.

“Still soft,” he mutters.

Then, without warning, his fingers in your mouth thrust forward again.

No buildup.

Just deep.

You gag instantly. A wet, humiliating choke that makes your whole body jolt. Your thighs clench. Your eyes snap open, watering. It hurts.

He holds you there.

Not long.

Just enough.

Just long enough for the fear to rise in your chest.

Just long enough for your spit to start pouring faster, your lungs to beg.

Then he pulls back—slowly.

Lets you breathe.

And you do—gasps sharp and hoarse, his fingers still there, stretching your lips open.

“I said hold.”

And you do. Even as your throat trembles. Even as more saliva spills out past your teeth and runs down your breastbone.

Then he speaks again.

“Good.”

You want to feel victorious. You don’t.

Because he follows it with—

“Now take more.”

And this time, he pushes in a fourth finger.

Your mouth flares in protest. Your jaw splits wider than it ever has—too wide. Your lips tear. Your teeth scrape metal. You scream around it—guttural, ugly, a noise from the back of your throat that barely qualifies as human. It’s too much.

Your gag reflex explodes.

You twitch violently in the rig. Spit floods out in torrents. Your nose runs. Your eyes stream. Your neck burns from the angle, from the intrusion. Every nerve in your face howls.

He thrusts.

Not fast.

But with weight.

Four thick, armored fingers working in and out of your mouth in shallow, deliberate strokes. He doesn’t need to bury them. He’s not looking for depth. Just control. Just the sound of your suffering. Just the proof that your mouth isn’t a weapon—it’s a hole.

He watches every twitch of your tongue trying—and failing—to move. Every spasm of your throat as it tries to clench. Every wet gag as your body tries to reject him.

But your mind doesn’t.

Your mind is on fire.

And your cunt is still dripping.

He holds you there again—gagging, sputtering, wide open—and finally pulls back.

This time, when the fingers leave your mouth, your lips stay parted.

You gasp.

A broken, ragged gasp.

No pride left.

Just need.

Just pain.

And then—

It slips out.

Barely audible.

But real.

"...thank you."

You didn’t plan it.

But you meant it.

And he knows it.

He stands over you in silence.

And says nothing.

Because he doesn’t need to.

You’ve already answered the question he never asked.

---------to be continued... or prefaced...-----------

Hehe. Thank you for reading. I could write foreplay forever.

Tagged: @incrediblethirst @druidwolf21 @kit-williams (maybeee you'll like?)

(*ノ▽ノ)

[twistedappletree]

THIS CITY IS SO FUCKING FAKE “ohhhh we pride ourselves in being an art hub, look at our hundreds of galleries owned by rich white people who don’t even fucking live here and pushed out all the native artists because money talks, aren’t we impressive??? 🤪”

BUT RIGHT NOW MY CIRCUS SCHOOL IS BEING THREATENED WITH EVICTION BC THE GENERIC CORPORATE PLUMBING BUSINESS NEXTDOOR WANTS TO BUY THAT SPACE WHEN THEY ALREADY RENT OVER HALF THE GODDAMN BUILDING

omfg i’m literally losing my mind. the ONE fucking place where kids and young adults can go to express their creativity and learn cool skills regardless of skill and income and they’re gonna lose it because of a fucking greedy ass business who doesn’t give 2 fucks and a pussy ass landlord who only sees 💸💸💸💸

i’m mad i’m mad i’m fucking LIVID ALKSLQKDLAKDKAKS

[bread-is-my-life]

Winter stainmight, winter stainmight! ❄️

Plus a comic

A silly headcanon of mine that is 100% canon/j is that Stain always has some spare pair of gloves with him ONLY because Toshi always forgets his 😭 I think after a while it will just become an ordinary thing for them. Just a small moment of Stain caring for Toshi hehehfd :3

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

👁 EYES ↑ UP ↑ HERE 👁

no text vers:

[camillahect]

ahem. fingers in mouth.

[liamket]

silly fast drawing of CG!Wild with his sheikah-paw bc yeah

planning on doing some sort of comics with these guys to tell what i have in mind for them but first i need to get the ideas turn to words

[bumpscosity]

Vince I will always love you….. (she/he/they/it)

[pastel-rights]

And then I finally end it off with some doodles of them… they make me feel things.

[burningcheese-merchant]

Hey so if everyone that follows me or otherwise sees this reblog can you PLEASE reblog it as well? Because this news needs to be delivered to everyone. I am freaking out so fucking bad right now you have no idea

AO3 has been scraped, once again.

As of the time of this post, AO3 has been scraped by yet another shady individual looking to make a quick buck off the backs of hardworking hobby writers. This Reddit post here has all the details and the most current information. In short, if your fic URL ends in a number between 1 and 63,200,000 (inclusive), AND is not archive locked, your fic has been scraped and added to this database.

I have been trying to hold off on archive locking my fics for as long as possible, and I've managed to get by unscathed up to now. Unfortunately, my luck has run out and I am archive locking all of my current and future stories. I'm sorry to my lovelies who read and comment without an account; I love you all. But I have to do what is best for me and my work. Thank you for your understanding.

[shaddy-bee]

Why is it all so hard.

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | masterlist!

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"God loves you but not enough to save you,"

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡

❝ to my love, Joel.

,...found you just to tell you that I made it real far, i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did.

while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there.

don't think about it too hard, honey. or you'll never sleep a wink at night again.

and don't worry about me and these green eyes,

baby, just know that i love you. and i'll see you when you get here.

i love you forever, Joel... ❞

THE PLAYLIST! (on spotify)👰🏼‍♀️

the preacher's daughter ▪️ dbf! joel miller

MASTERLIST!🐇

Chapter 1: "But I always knew in the end, no one was coming to save me,"

Chapter 2: "Because that's how my daddy raised me,"

Chapter 3: "I watched him show his love through shades of black and blue"

Chapter 4: "He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro reds,"

Chapter 5: "Because for the first time since I was a child, I could see a man who wasn't angry,"

Chapter 6: "Let him make a woman out of me,"

Chapter 7: "You wanna fuck me right now?"

Chapter 8: "The fates already fucked me sideways,"

Chapter 9: "Christ, forgive these bones I'm hiding,"

Chapter 10: "and that's why I could never go back home,"

Chapter 11: "I don't care where as long as you're with me,"

Chapter 12: "If it's meant to be, then it will be."

Chapter 13: "Beautiful people, beautiful problems."

Chapter 14: "You put your hands into your head, and then smile cover your hearts."

Chapter 15: "Something's bad is 'bout to happen to me,"

Chapter 16: "Tag, you're it."

Chapter 17: "If he's a serial killer then what's the worst that could happen to a girl who's already hurt?"

Chapter 18: "He's cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed"

Chapter 19: "Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise,"

Chapter 20: "You poor thing, sweet, mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do."

Chapter 21: "If we die tonight, I'd died yours."

Chapter 22: "I'm always going to be right here, no one's going anywhere"

-THE END-

read it on wattpad!

the preacher's daughter by babyvenoms

ENJOY! and if you guys have any like visuals to this, or art that you made for this I would love to put it here, just let me know! thank you!! 🩵

[daincrediblegg]

no you know what I'm going to scream about the stuff I talked about in the tags of this post publicly

I'm tired of the well-meaning "don't feel bad if your work only gets 20 notes your genius is what counts and do it for you!" bullshit. I've had a good handful of friends who have straight up DEACTIVATED in recent months because their work was not getting reblogged AT ALL. No, it wasn't from lack of not being well-liked, no it wasn't from lack of trying to make sure it was getting out there to the people they knew would engage with it. It was because no matter how much they were praised privately for their work, when push came to shove, absolutely NOBODY reblogged it and gave it the audience that it was due, and I'm tired of people shoving the "unsung genius" narrative as an excuse for it. Nothing excuses that. And the boop event really proved that.

because I know given the opportunity, indiscriminately pressing a button (sometimes 10 thousand times, as I did) is not beyond this website's capability. y'all loved doing that. and look at what it wrought. nothing but love and affection and happiness. just from a couple of quick clicks of a little paw button. sure. nobody knew who you booped but the other person (which is how likes used to work on this website, btw). there was an element of anonymity to it. but that is kind of the core of this website that no other social media platform still has: the ability to be anonymous. and hyper-curating a blog on here like you might on twitter or instagram to project an image is simply not viable. and hey. you wanna know a secret: literally nobody cares what you post or whether it goes with the "theme" of your blog or not. yeah. I know. CRAZY concept in this day and age. but literally. I myself have reblogged things that have had nothing to do with whatever I am currently fixated by and you know what happened to my follower count? not a damn thing. in fact, I actively try to reblog things specifically BECAUSE it's my friends who made them (even though I'm not always good at KEEPING UP WITH HOW MUCH THEY POST @prismatica-the-strange will NEVER GO UNRECOGNIZED by me).

And you know what fucking sucks? I have to deal with this too. surprise right? you ever wonder why I reblog fics or art I post like 20 times the day that I post them? do you ever wonder why I ask about tag lists and beg for asks all the time? IT'S BECAUSE EVEN I GET LIKE. 5 LIKES ON THE THINGS I POST. AND THE REST OF THE REBLOGS ARE MINE SO I CAN MAKE SURE THAT PEOPLE WHO WANT TO SEE WHAT I MAKE GET TO SEE IT. and I say that knowing that I'm certainly not an unpopular blog, or an unpopular writer. I know that people love the stories that I create. Hell, half of the people that I've talked to about lady terror have told me that they consider her to be canon (AND EVEN SOME!! THOUGHT SHE WAS!!! WITHOUT EVEN HAVING WATCHED THE SHOW! WHICH IS STILL SO SO WILD TO ME!!!) But especially in the last 4 years (which really dates this phenomenon), my posts, no matter how well received they've been amongst people I've talked to about them directly, I still go into the notes and at least half (often more than half) are MY reblogs to make sure people saw what I posted. and it happens every single time, and I can't tell you how much it crushes me considering that it used to be that I would be able to post it only once, and people would reblog it sometimes even HUNDREDS of times.

It's not about popularity. it never has been. it's not about anxiety. or shifting website cultures. even if you lurk, the simple fact is, that if you want people to keep making what you love. you have to reblog. your theme won't suffer because you reblogged a fanfiction that you really admire. your posting won't be ruined because you reblogged some fanart from someone in a different fandom. really. I promise. and if people do unfollow you for that? who needs em. followers come and go but you should NEVER have to cater to them. on this website it has ALWAYS been the other way around. lean into it. make it yours. put stuff you ACTUALLY WANT to be seen and that you love and appreciate on your blog. no matter how old it is, how new it is, no matter how niche or off-theme it is.

so please. if you really want to show your appreciation for someone's work? you reblog. it's really as easy as that. check the tags. add some when you reblog if you like. but please for the love of god reblog. it's as easy as booping and even more rewarding for the people who you reblog from. if you want to let someone know that their work is genius and appreciate it? show it. reblog. then DM them if you're too nervous to say what you want to say but not in a public forum. but for christ's sake. REBLOG.

[goodluckchamp]

KISS ME, SON OF GOD (18+)

PAIRING: Patrick Zweig x Art Donaldson x Reader  WORD COUNT: 5737 CONTENT TAGS: Smut with a lot of plot, MMF, catholic church, purity ring, religious imagery, competition, corruption, coercion, cigarettes, blasphemy, bisexuality, college/coming-of-age, Catholic!Art, fwb!Patrick, inspired by Fleabag + my own religious trauma SUMMARY: Patrick Zweig, of all people, goes to church every Sunday. You find out why.

You’ve always thought it was odd for Patrick, of all people, to diligently attend the town’s church every Sunday morning. 

As far as you’re aware, he’s the furthest thing from holy— partly because he’s got an asshole personality that could make anyone want punch him in the face, and partly because he’s fucked you more times than either of you bothered to count. If there’s anyone who’s ever seemed allergic to anything remotely pure, it’s Patrick fucking Zweig. 

You just can’t picture the scene of the curly dark haired boy, sitting in a pew amidst the soft, colourful glow of the stained glass windows, finding solace in prayer— it’s utterly ridiculous. 

So naturally, you find yourself walking down the aisle of the church in your Sunday best, eyes scanning the space for the familiar face. The air is heavy with incense and the people are scattered across the neatly organized benches. Everything is a little too serene, but it’s kind of a vibe with the huge stained windows in blues and reds. casting faint, vibrant patterns across the floor. 

Your gaze drifts as you walk, where oil paintings hang all over the walls. Some have faded and some are confusing to understand— but there’s a clear image of Jesus in the centre of it all, hanging on the infamous cross, wearing nothing but a loin cloth. He is surrounded by fully-clothed men and women who stare at his suffering body in what seems to be awe. You squint at Jesus’ carved chest and muscles gleaming in the light, the bright halo behind his thorny crown, and the blood trickling down his chiselled face. You swallow. 

You look back down at the people, sweeping the back of their heads until you spot the one that you want— sitting in the middle of a pew, his back straight, eyes focused forward, looking completely in peace. Not a hint of the usual loose-limbed arrogance, but just a young man looking to confess his sins and fly straight up into Heaven. Uncanny. 

You slide right onto his side, pressing against Patrick like you came here together. He shoves you away with his body in a subtle way— but the sharp side-eye he shoots at you is definite. He arches a brow and you mimic him, returning the same look with a grin. 

Before he can say anything, the priest lifts his hands. 

“Let us pray.” 

You stare at the man with a blank expression until you turn to the side to see Patrick with his eyes closed, hands clasped together, and head tilted slightly downward. Oh, fuck off. 

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

You copy his pose but lean into him, close enough to breathe on his skin. He sighs, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. He looks at you up and down, taking in your attempt at Catholic modesty.  

“You clean up nice,” Patrick whispers. “Didn’t think you owned a dress that covers this much.” 

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. 

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t think you owned a bible.” 

His lips curl at the edges. “You’d be surprised what I own.” 

Give us this day our daily bread,

Your gaze flicks up to the front of the church, watching the congregation murmur the words along with the priest, who has his arms wide open like he’s absorbing the prayer through his chest. 

And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

You turn back to Patrick. “You come here to confess?” 

His lip twitches. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”  

You snort, then quickly slam your hand across your mouth. Patrick’s shoulders shake. 

And lead us not into temptation, 

You give Patrick a slow, expectant stare, lips pressed together. Come on. Tell the truth. 

Patrick peers back into your eyes for a moment, the familiar lazy smile forming on his face, before he shifts his gaze, flickering past you. You turn your head, following his line of sight. 

But deliver us from evil.

Across the church, to your left, in one row ahead of you— is a boy. 

A boy with the kindest, purest face you have ever seen, half-lit by the dramatic golden lights. He sits with his head bowed, his tousled blonde hair falling just over his forehead. He mouths the words with certainty like he has all the words memorized, and there’s just something so pure about his stance, hands tightly holding each other, devoted. He’s all soft edged and open warmth, the kind of pretty that feels delicate— almost sacred. Like he was meant to kneel at the altar, not sit among sinners. 

For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. 

Around his neck, a silver chain with a simple cross resting against the crisp white fabric of his shirt, just above his heart. A matching ring is on his left hand, glinting faintly as he breathes. 

You turn your head back to Patrick. He’s smiling. 

You feel your own grin tug at the corner of your lips. 

“Amen.”

Mass is long. You try to focus. But your eyes keep betraying you, drifting back to where he sits— perfect posture, attentive eyes, and hands absentmindedly fidgeting with his necklace. Every time you look, you expect to find something imperfect about him. A twitch, a yawn, a cough— but there’s nothing. He’s pristine, listening to the priest like he really, truly understands what it’s about. And it makes you want to ruin him, just a little. Just to see what he’d look like when he falls apart. 

Patrick kicks your ankle. 

“Dibs.”

You kick him back. 

“You can’t call dibs on a person.” 

It’s a childish back and forth of shoes to legs until the mass drags to an end. The priest delivers the final blessing, the congregation murmuring a chorus of amen, and then— movement. People get up from their seats, gathering their coats and purses and bibles, shaking hands and nodding heads toward each other. 

Peace be with you. And also with you. 

Patrick is already ahead, shaking hands and sharing peace with some old lady, while you attempt to follow him— only to be intercepted by a well-dressed man who gives you a firm, approving handshake and some peace to be with you. You return a tight expression before catching up to Patrick. 

He catches your sleeve, pulling you slightly and tips his chin— towards the blonde haired boy. He’s standing just a few feet away, shaking hands and exchanging polite smiles with everyone around him. There’s a whole lot of sincerity in his form, like he’s actually able to distribute peace just by touching skin. You can’t help but notice how his fingers curl gently around each handshake, how his eyes soften when he listens to the replies. 

“His name’s Art.” 

You whip your head around. “You’ve talked to him?” 

“Everybody’s talked to him.” Patrick shrugs. “He’s the deacon's son.” 

“Oh, shit.” 

“Yeah. Poor guy.” He sighs, staring at Art with great concern. “Imagine being raised that close to God.” 

The two of you gawk at him without hiding it, standing in the middle of the aisle, letting the flood of the leaving congregation split around you like a tide. He’s just a few feet away now, talking to someone who looks like his father, his fingers idly twisting the silver band on his ring finger.

“And what’s up with the ring?” You ask. “He can’t be married.” 

“Purity ring.” Patrick answers, like it’s obvious. 

You blink. “What’s a purity ring?” 

Patrick stays silent. He catches Art’s attention with a small wave, changing his face to a far more honest one. Art’s face lights up, genuine— says something to his father before starting towards the two of you, weaving through the last bit of the crowd.

“Peace be with you.”

You hesitate. “Thank you?” 

He laughs— his sweet, brown eyes crinkling along with it— and it completely disarms you for a moment. 

Fuck. He’s exactly your type. But he’s not Patrick’s usual type at all. Patrick likes people who bite back— someone sharp, who can keep him amused, at the very least— but this boy looks like he’s never seen that side of Patrick Zweig. Like Patrick hasn’t had the chance to pounce on him yet. 

You sort of laugh with him, ignoring Patrick’s amusement. 

Art calms. “First time?” 

“Yes.” Patrick puts his hands on your shoulder. “This is (Y/N). She’s been having a tough time in her life, so I brought her here. Thought she could use some guidance in her life.” 

Unbelievable. 

“That’s really kind of you, Patrick.” Art’s face softens. He turns to you, eyes warm with ingenuous concern. “I hope you found some comfort here.” 

You nod. “Oh, yeah. I can see why Patrick comes here.” 

You earn a smile from him. He offers you a hand. 

“I’m Art.” 

You take it. He’s warm. Gentle. Like he’s trying to be reassuring, welcoming, but there’s a slight hesitation in the way his fingers wrap around yours, like he’s not entirely sure of the line between politeness and something else. You feel the cool surface of his ring against your skin.

“I like your ring." You glance down at the jewelry.

There’s a snort from Patrick as Art flushes, a subtle pink spreads across his cheeks. He pulls back from your grasp, his smile flickering into something a little less certain. He swipes his thumb over his ring, as if to hide it. 

“Thank you,” he says with a nervous laugh.

You tilt your head, confused. Patrick fills the silence. 

“She’s completely new to this whole thing." He sighs, shaking his head like you’re a real burden. “I’ve been helping her a lot, but, as you know, faith comes from opening yourself to the lord.” 

You give him a look. “Are you saying you've opened yourself to the lord?” 

“Oh, I’m wide open.”

“Well, I— um—” Art stops, like he’s trying to regain his composure, searching for the right words. It’s cute. “I’m really glad you’re here. I know it might feel overwhelming at first, but the church is always open. If you ever need anything, I’d be happy to help.”

Yeah, you definitely need something from him. You give a quick glance to Patrick— who cannot hide his excitement at Art’s offer. 

“I’d love some help, actually.” You plaster on your sweetest, most hopeful expression on your face. “I’m so lost with this whole thing, and I could use some personal guidance.” 

Art beams. This is what he’s good at. “Of course. Are you interested in participating in Bible study?” 

You blink. “Is that like a one-on-one thing?”

“I— well, Bible study is usually a group thing.” He explains. “But I could help you out with some of the passages if you’re having trouble.” 

Patrick cuts in, like the attention whore that he is. 

“You know,” He taps his finger on his brand new Bible. “I think I could use some guidance too. My faith needs some deepening.”

You tilt your head. “Oh, I thought you already opened yourself to the lord.” 

“I can always go deeper.” He grins. “So, Art. Your place? Sometime this week?”

Art, sweet, oblivious Art, looks between you both, overwhelmed at the sudden pressure. His hand fidgets with his necklace as he looks at the Bible in Patrick’s arms, then the expectant expression from your face. 

He nods. Earnest. 

God bless his soul. 

The three of you eventually figure out a time. You ask for Art's number— only so that he can text you his address, of course— and he gives it to you, easily. You and Patrick keep up your good behaviour, but just as Art leaves, you snap towards Patrick.

“Tell me what the ring means.”

Patrick licks his lips, before leaning in. You catch the hint of a smile in his voice as he whispers the answer into your ear. 

Oh. Oh. 

So that’s why Patrick hasn’t…

You let out a breathy giggle, a rush of heat crawling up your neck. The pieces start to fit together. That soft, pure little lamb you’d just been around. Art. Untouched by anything except the passion of his faith. You never knew such purity could exist in your life, but here he is.

“That’s insane." You sigh, a rather delighted smile on your face. “Why would anyone do that to themselves?” 

“Well, not everyone is a slut like you,” Patrick hums. “Some of us are trying to focus on our spiritual journey.” 

You roll your eyes, heading towards the entrance. “You’re so fucking fake.” 

Patrick swings his arms around you, lowering himself to be face level with you. “I’m not the one who spent half of mass eye-fucking the deacon's son.” 

You jab him in the ribs and run out of the church. 

Art lives alone in a small apartment on campus. It’s small, but neat, curated with annotated religious books on shelves and a wooden cross hanging on the wall. He’s studying theology in university, because apparently, he wants to be a deacon like his father.

“So do deacons need a calling?” Patrick asks. “Or is that for priests?” 

“No, deacons can have a calling too.” Art smiles, a bit sheepish, eyes flicking downward. 

You’re sitting on the ground, across from Art with your back against the base of a couch. Patrick sits beside you, touching your knees, fidgeting a pen between his fingers. He nods to Art’s words, lips pursed, hungry. On the coffee table ahead are three Bibles spread open on top. 

You nod too. “And you’ve had a calling?” 

“I think I always have.” Art looks into your eyes with a soft confidence. “It’s always been a part of me.” 

He is so quiet in his certainty, which makes you wonder if it's even certainty at all. You peer into him and he turns his attention back to the Bible, like you’d catch something in his eyes that you’re not supposed to see. 

Art isn’t the slutty, easy romance you’re used to, rather, he holds an innocent kind of beauty that only alludes to his chastity. The men in your life, including the asshole next to you, have been wolves, but Art— he is but a gentle lamb. Always so bashful, so honest around you. 

Such purity begs to be tainted. 

The three of you have been studying Genesis since 8PM. The basics. The origins of the world, of human life, of sin. It’s not particularly radical to your knowledge but it’s been fun, being able to picture the nakedness of Adam and Eve in that perfect garden, untouched by shame. You wish the Bible was a picture book instead— you’re a visual learner. 

Art continues down the page. “That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh.” 

“One flesh." Patrick repeats, slow, savouring. Like he’s rolling something sweet on his tongue. “This is about sex, yeah?” 

You bite your lips, a breath away from a laugh, but you hold it in. Patrick’s been so good for the whole evening— so good. Didn’t even twitch when you skimmed his thigh under the table, didn’t even blink when you adjusted your shirt, just enough to expose your skin a bit more. You’d started to think he was actually behaving. 

But his comment is like a switch— it breathes permission into the room.

Art flicks the thin page of the Bible. “It’s about unity.”

Patrick persists. “A physical unity.” 

Art looks at you, like he’s asking you for help— but you shrug, pressing into the couch behind you, settling in for a show. He’s a bit thrown off by your silence, like he’s been betrayed— but turns to Patrick anyway. Courageous. 

“Yes, the physical act is part of it. But it’s not just—” He swallows. “Sex for the sake of it. It’s about two people coming one in marriage. It’s part of God’s design.” 

“To have sex?” 

“To be fruitful, and to multiply, and to replenish the Earth.” Art quotes. 

Dear God. It’s your turn to strike. “You can do that without being married.”

“But it’d become an indulgence.” His voice is steady, firm in that self-assured way— but his burning face gives away how he really feels, that only makes it more fun to push him. “It prioritizes pleasure without the sanctity of commitment.” 

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek at Art’s answer, eyes taking over his form to measure just how deep that conviction really runs. He eventually grins, pulling back. 

“Okay, no sex before marriage, got it.” He nods. “What about self-unity?”

“What?”

“You know.” Patrick mimes an exaggerated jerking motion.

You see Art’s finger graze his ring— like he’s reminding himself why he’s here, doing this with the two of you. “It’s not about the act itself but the lustful thoughts and fantasies that lead to it.”

“So if I just jerk off with no thoughts, head empty, then I’m good?” 

“You can’t not think about anything while—” 

Art stops. 

You see it happen— the exact second he realizes what he’s said. The way his lips press shut so fast like he’s trying to shove the words back in. It’s a tiny sliver of vice— that allows the two of you to corner Art like a pack of wolves. 

“Oh?” Patrick’s grin sharpens. His voice drips with delighted mockery, knowing he finally has the upper hand. “How would you know?”

It's quiet until you start to laugh— you really can’t help it. It’s barely contained as your facade slithers away. The sound eases the tension a bit, coiling through Art’s sides— and he shakes his head with a tight smile, like he’s made a mistake. But he can’t take it back. None of it. 

“It’s okay if you’ve jerked off before, Art. We’ve all done it,” You say between giggles. 

Art stares at you like he’s never considered that before. That you, sitting across from him, knees touching Patrick’s, have done it. And is willing to talk about it. 

“So, when was the last time?” Patrick sings. 

Art closes his eyes. “I’m not answering that.” 

“So recent, then.” 

"No, we're not doing this." 

"Do what? We’re just talking.” You tease, sweet. “What do you think about?”

“No,” He groans, pressing his hands to his face, though it does not hide anything. Not the raging colour of his skin, not the rigidness of his structure, and not the silver ring holding the promise of his chastity. “This is wrong, okay? It’s sinful.”

You let the word curl around your chest. Sinful. He says it like it’s meant to scare you, to twist some guilt into your insides. It’s a word he’s clinging to like a shield, the word he thinks is going to save him from the overwhelming heat that's seething in the room. Like he’s afraid to admit anything else that could be available to him without the thought. Suspense. Pleasure. Relief. 

Patrick turns to you with a face of amusement and sympathy— as if to say, Pitiful, pitiful Art. He just doesn’t get it. Patrick knows he’s responsible for Art’s conflict. He should be the one to fix it. 

“(Y/N.)” Patrick tilts his head. “Come here.”

You glance back at Art, who lowers his hand, slowly. He’s a stifled, frantic thing, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nothing. You slink closer to Patrick, legs ending up in a kneeling position beside him. 

You smile at Art. It’s okay. 

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick asks, before pressing a short kiss to your lips. As if it’s nothing. Just a little taste. 

The two of you turn to Art, who is clutching the bible with his hands, fingers digging into the worn leather cover. “No, but—” 

“Okay, what about this?”  

Patrick pulls you closer, taking your face, pushing your hair behind your ear before his mouth brushes against yours. It’s slow, purposeful, measuring every bit of his actions to be as tempting as possible. He checks Art, gauging his reaction— ears flushed red, legs pressed together, and eyes completely focused on the two of you. Patrick grins, and it’s you who lean into the kiss, the impatient feeling growing between your legs. 

Patrick’s hands find the back of your neck, gripping you a little too tightly. You open your lips to let him in, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with practiced ease. His lips move against yours like he's starved, dragging each sound, each movement out with an almost theatrical precision. You let his hand roam down your sides, barely grazing the places that feel good. It’s not about satiating your pleasure, not yet— he’s just showing you off. 

“Does this look sinful to you?” Patrick murmurs between kisses. 

Art does not answer. His eyes, wide, dark— flicker from your mouths to your body, watching your thighs press tightly together, rubbing against each other like you need something more. His lips part slightly, a shaky breath escaping as  if he’s forgotten how to properly breathe. The Bible, now closed, rests against his lap, blatantly hiding his bulge straining beneath his pants.

You pull back, gasping for air as your lips sting from the rough pressure. Patrick laughs at the swollen state of your lips, wiping the side of it with a playful kindness. It’s sweet, and it’s not an action easily forgotten by Art. His gaze locks on the action, as though he’s memorizing the way Patrick touches you, the way you both exist together in this moment. It’s intimate. Easy. 

“Art.”

He flinches at Patrick’s voice, like he’s been under a spell until he spoke his name— and Patrick reaches out, turning your face gently toward Art by your chin. There’s a deliberate edge to it, like he’s claiming you in front of Art. 

“Does she look sinful?” He asks, still holding you, framing you. 

Art’s eyes flicker, darting between you and Patrick— his mouth, still wet from the kiss. His hands on your face, holding you— you, with your chest rising and falling too quickly, still shaken from the intensity. Legs bent at the knee, leaned against Patrick— letting the residue of the kiss hang between the three of you. 

And there’s nothing about you that looks shameful. Nothing desperate or untamed. The way you breathe, the way you look at him— there’s nothing that makes you feel wrong. No fear, nor indignity. It’s just… you. It’s funny, because, you’re the one he’s been warned about. The kind of promiscuous, corrupt girl that haunts the message of every sermon, the kind that makes men stumble and question their every thought. 

And yet. You’re beautiful. 

He shakes his head. No. No, you’re not sinful. 

He feels a knot tightening in his chest. He looks at your eyes— calm, innocent. There’s no sin there. No, it’s not about you— it’s him. He’s not looking at you the way he’s supposed to. The heat pooling in his body, the way his pulse races— it isn’t about you. No, it’s his body that’s betraying him, reacting to the most innocent thing in the most unholy way. 

His throat tightens as he shakes his head harder. He looks down at the Bible pressed against his erection and he’s ashamed— how wicked is he to react like this? And he knows— he knows the two of you are staring at his erection, and it feels like the whole room is closing in on him. 

“I’m sorry,” He stammers, barely able to make out the words. 

Holy fuck. Patrick practically revels in his apology, dropping his hands from you like he got what he wanted. You’re unsure if Art’s saying it to you, to Patrick, or to God— it doesn’t matter. You’ve come so far, so close. 

“Art, it’s okay.” You crawl towards him. “I’m flattered.” 

You slowly pull the Bible away from his crotch, and he watches your eyes stare at his bulge with desire. It’s wrong. He should move away. But he finds himself letting you gently grab his face, body stiffening under your touch. You can feel the tension of his muscles beneath his skin, as if he’s bracing for something sharp, something brutal— but it never comes. 

You worry he might pull away, but then, so quiet you almost miss it, he exhales. It’s small, broken in half, but it’s enough to know— he has fallen.

You smile, before leaning into him, planting your lips against his. 

Art kisses like he’s scared. Like one wrong move and he’ll be electrocuted. He waits for you to make the moves, completely immobile at first. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, his legs, his erection— and lets you guide him through the whole experience, making Patrick snicker as he slides towards Art. 

“You kiss like a middle schooler,” Patrick jokes, turning Art’s face away from you. His fingers grab at his neck, just how he did with yours. Art fuses with it, slowly kissing Patrick, trying to copy how you did it before. And Patrick doesn’t ease him in— he’s been waiting for this, longer than you— he devours him. It’s sloppy, a little more tongue than you think you were putting out, but adorable nonetheless. A whimper breaks from Art’s throat, and you reach for his chest— you want to know what other sounds he can make. 

The thin shirt does nothing to protect him from your touches, prodding and feeling the warmth of his skin beneath. You start from his chest, down the centre, where his heartbeat pounds under your touch. You drag it lightly over his ribs, his stomach, then all the way down— and he shudders in response. You palm him through the fabric of his pants, and he jerks away from Patrick’s mouth with a startled gasp. 

“Wait—” 

Patrick pulls him back, crashing his lips against Art’s. He makes a muffled, helpless noise, protesting— but it’s all tongue and teeth. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss— rough, relentless. For a moment, you think it might be too much. But Art doesn’t push either of you away. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides, not knowing whether to grab onto Patrick or you. 

You press your palm against his boner, firmer this time, fingers curling slightly. His hips buck up before he can stop himself, like he’s working purely on instinct now— and he makes a noise broken in half— soft, wrecked. He’s bigger than you assumed— this guy should not be allowed to be a virgin. You work him up, rubbing him through his pants, watching the way he tenses and shakes. 

It happens faster than any of you expect. Art gets loud, the sounds choked up in his throat— and you barely register what’s happening until he pushes Patrick away, hips stuttering, legs squeezing together like he’s trying to stop it. 

“Wait— no, I’m gonna—” He grabs at your wrists, weak. “I think I’m gonna—”

You stop.

Art makes a confused sort of sound, eyes fluttering open as his whole body shakes, struggling to process the sudden absence. You can see it— how it takes him a second to register that you really, truly stopped. 

“We should probably go back to studying, huh?” You tilt your head, picking up the Bible discarded on the floor. “Got a little sidetracked.” 

Art’s stomach twists— he feels dizzy, overheated, aching in a way that makes him go insane. He tries to keep his mouth shut, swallowing the moan in his throat, trying so hard to keep himself controlled— he knows what you’re doing. He knows what Patrick is doing. 

But fuck— he’s still shaking. Chest heaving, staring at you like he’s been betrayed. 

Art breathes as you flip the book open. He turns to Patrick, like his stunned silence will somehow mean something— but Patrick shrugs, moving to pick up his Bible from the table. 

Art’s finger reaches out, grabbing onto Patrick’s sleeves. “Wait.” 

His eyes are wide, tear-stricken, vulnerable— but the sense of fear has disappeared from his form— like he has forgotten all about the ring on his finger. Like his desires are finally biting him in the neck, puncturing his skin and replacing his voice with pure impulse. 

That’s all you need to see before kissing him again. 

For Art, It has always been quick. Under the blankets. Lights off. No moaning, just furious shame-jacking until he finished, quietly cleaning himself up before falling asleep with his heart pounding in his chest. 

But Patrick’s slow. He’s got one hand around Art’s cock, stroking it slow, patient. His thumb occasionally teases the tip, stopping Art from coming too soon. His boxers are down to his knees, legs splayed and twitching. His shirt is rolled up to his collarbone, exposing his chest— pink and damp, heaving. 

You’ve been playing with him, feeling the insides of his thighs, tracing his hips, brushing over the curbs of his stomach with your nails to watch it contract. He’s a mess, mouth slack, breath catching in his throat as he struggles to let his words out properly. 

“Don’t be mean,” You scold. “It’s his first time.” 

“I’m not being mean,” Patrick murmurs, kissing the side of Art’s cheek. “He’s enjoying it. Right?” 

Art makes a strangled sound in response, his hand gripping your wrists, grounding himself— but not stopping anything. 

You give Patrick a look and he sighs. Fine. He picks up his pace, working Art faster now, no more teasing, slow strokes. Just clean, focused jerks that have his hips lift erratically, like he doesn’t know whether to thrust into Patrick’s hand or run away to your embrace. 

“Good?” Patrick asks, knowing the answer. 

Art nods helplessly, eyes squeezed shut, noticeably reaching closer to the edge. 

“Put your hand on his stomach,” Patrick orders, going faster and faster. “Want you to feel when he comes.” 

You don’t have to be told twice. You press on his stomach, leaning close enough to feel the heat off his skin. You can feel the intense contractions of his muscles, convulsing as Patrick pumps him to the edge. 

“Wait, wait—” Art sobs, fisting your shirt. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming—”

You and Patrick watch in awe as Art comes. He throws his head back, back arching as he sobs through it, hands gripping you as Patrick strokes him through his orgasm. 

“Holy fuck,” Patrick groans, deep and satisfied. He knew Art had it in him.

White liquid splatters over your hand and Art’s stomach as he jerks through the aftershocks. It’s messy, embarrassingly loud, practically obscene— and he folds onto himself like he wants to collapse inwards and hide— but you hold him down by his hips, whispering in his ear that it’s okay, this isn’t sex. He was so good. He’ll be alright. 

When he finally blinks back into himself, looking down— he’s mortified. He presses a shaking hand at his abs, but it only makes it worse. The wet, shameful stickiness stains his palm and he hiccups, jaw clenched tight, like he can’t believe what just happened. 

You can see the way he fights his blissed-out body with his escalating thoughts; I tried to be good. Please forgive me. Please. Please. 

He tries to hold everything in but his tears fall anyway, shoulders shaking as he goes limp in your hold. Patrick brushes his hair away from his face while you pepper kisses and lick the guilt off his cheek.

You’ve half-expected him to taste sweet, mirroring his honeyed hair and mellow eyes.

But he’s all salt, and the taste lingers between your teeth. 

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” 

A giggle slips out, high and breathless, before you can swallow it down. The weight of your words, which are none, loiter in the dim confessional. It’s 1 AM and church doors have no locks, apparently— so you and Patrick have slipped in, a bit tipsy and horny, which seems to be the default setting when the two of you are together. 

“Isn’t this blasphemous?” You whisper, eyes darting to the wooden partition, where the outline of Patrick sits. 

“Probably." He huffs, letting cigarette smoke pass through the patterned holes. “You scared?” 

“No.” You pull your leg up, hugging it with both arms, knees tucked against your chest in the small wooden seat. “It just feels wrong.” 

“Go on, then.” Patrick lowers his voice, something akin to divine. “Confess.” 

You roll your eyes, but smile nonetheless. 

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I had impure thoughts.”

“Shocker.” 

“Shut up.” You swallow. “There’s this boy. He’s…”

Soft, delicate, quiet. With unkissed lips parted open with curiosity and a burdened, guilt-ridden heart. Devout. 

“...Good.” You close your eyes. “And I think we may have ruined that goodness, a little.”

“A little?” Patrick snorts. “He’s going to burn in hell because of us.”

You’re both thinking about him. The way he shook under your touch, the way he gasped when Patrick wrapped a hand around him— the way he twisted himself to deny the pleasure, trying, trying so hard to be righteous and good. All of that, wasted in the span of an hour.

God, you can still taste his tears. 

“Do you feel bad?” 

“Nah.” Patrick shifts, taking another drag of his cigarette. “It was the kind of good that was hanging by a thread anyway.” 

Hm. Your head tilts back against the wood. 

“Maybe next time I can give him a blowjob.” You chew your lip. “That’s not really sex, right?” 

“With that logic, you should just ride him. Technically he won’t be doing anything wrong if he just sits there.” 

It’s meant to be a joke, probably. But the image hangs in the air, and your appetite only heightens. Patrick notices, catching it from your lack of response. He blows the smoke and it slithers through the tight space, hissing into the preceding scent of age and stale prayers. Stifles you as it furnishes your lungs and presses your chest from the inside. 

“We’re such assholes,” you mumble. 

“Yeah.” 

“We should probably leave him alone.” 

“Yeah.” 

A beat of silence is all it takes to know that neither of you believes the other. Then you both dissolve into laughter— outrageous and wicked— foreheads pressed against the wooden panel. Sinful, shameful creatures. And you always will be.

NOTE: My first work that doesn't mention Tashi? I miss her already !!!

[doppel-doodles]

That illustration is making me want to slam my head against solid concrete, Art block said no, and I know when to pick my battles so fuck it we ball-

A normal post about Matthew Hallard from Poppy Playtime

I briefly mentioned this in the Jack post, the fact that I didn't think I had anything new or particularly interesting to say on Matthew as I always thought the Fandom had a lot of the bases covered.

But the more I actually thought about him, the more I wanted to talk about one thing in particular:

Let's talk about Doeys tape.

In game we find a vhs tape recorded by Doey, talking about how he almost ditched everyone in favor of running away, ultimately deciding to go back for them instead. It reveals a lot about how he truly feels about the responsibility that has been given to him.

I think it was so important to include this and the reason why is quite simple:

It humanises Matthew for me.

Why I point him out specifically is due to reasons I mentioned in my other analysis, Jack's control is mostly passive, Kevin only really comes to the forefront when he feels like there is a threat to assess or deal with and it has been confirmed that Matthew is the oldest of the children as well as having been a leader of sorts since he was still a human child, so in the tape it's basically him venting.

Which is great as it makes something crystal clear: He is not a perfect saint.

Matthew is a teenager who has been parentified from an incredibly young age, places immense pressure on himself, is suffering from more burnout than a college kid and not to mention the horror that is his current existence and life-

He doesn't WANT this responsibility, he only takes it on because nobody else will or can.

And nobody even thinks to ask him ONCE how HE is doing, no,no it's him who has to do that, he is not allowed to have breaks.

For godness sake he literally tells us in the tape that he is recording it because he feels like he can't talk to anyone about his problems!

The toys- The children having someone like Doey or more accurately Matthew is not a guarantee, it is a privilege but it's a privilege Matthew needs to!

And you rarely ever see kind characters COMPLAIN about having to be kind all the time, truly looking after everyone else drains you, it's exhausting to fulfill the needs of others, more often than not you'll have to put aside your own and when you really pull the shit end of the stick you get more complains then appreciation for your troubles.

It is such a CHORE and I think a character struggling with being so selfless actually can have such a massive impact instead of just being able to handle everything, it's that tiny bit of realism I love.

Despite how exhausted and miserable Matthew was over being stuck in this position in the end he turned back. Because he loves his friends that much, and he should get massive props for that.

And to think he still did so much but didn't think anything he did was good enough is just painful, like no honey you are enough, more than enough-

Also Poppy having once been the leader makes you think that maybe Matthew might have been hurt the most by her disappearing.

Like her leading was the closest thing to a break he ever got- and then she just up and disappears?? And it's all up to him now? Not to mention the concern? The worry??

Boy it speaks volumes that he doesn't seem to display more hostility towards her considering Poppy doesn't even EXPLAIN herself on why she left or why she couldn't come back.

He is even civil in discussing the fact that she demands for them to be okay with being blown up(also correct me if I'm wrong but didn't Poppy also include in her plan that SHE will get to live? If I heard that I would be flabbergasted.) But that's something I should discuss in another post.

For now that is everything I have about my boy, if you want to see what I have to say about other characters here is Kevin annnnnnd Jack, plus some extra stuff on Doey

[slashersdaddy]

Hiii! How would slashers react if their usually soft s/o ask them to kill someone for whatever reason?

OOOOHH I LOVE this idea!! give me a sec to whip something up!! (Post production edit: I'm so sorry it took so long! I had a long spell of creative rut!)

VARIOUS SLASHERS WITH SOFT S/O ASKING THEIR PARTNER TO KILL SOMEONE FOR THEM!

Includes: Jason, Micheal, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Bo Sinclair, bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Charles Lee Ray, Freddy Krueger

AS ALWAYS MDNI! I AM AN 18+ PAGE! THANK YOU!

Jason Voorhees:

Jason was confused to say the least- you WANTED him to kill someone? What did that bastard do?

When you first come to Jason, your usually cheerful face set in grim determination, and almost resignation- he feared the worst, that you wanted to leave him.

But when you uttered the question, when you asked him to kill someone- his already dead heart felt like it may break again- what did they do? Why did you feel the need for him to kill them?

Does he need to make them suffer? How badly did they hurt you?

It may be overwhelming how many questions he asks (signs) you.

Of course in the end he will of course kill the person- if for nothing else than because he cares for you and your mental health.

He will set you up all cozy before he leaves to do the deed, leaving you with blankets and movies and hot cocoa.

Michael Myers:

No questions asked- he is out the door.

dont even expect to be able to explain WHY you want this guy/girl dead- he will already be grabbing his weapon and heading for the door.

Of course he will make it especially painful- they hurt his S/O after all.

But once its done, he'll slink home, wrapping his arms around you from behind and burying his face in your neck, still bloodied from the asshat who DARED make you upset.

And of course he would cuddle you close, silently holding you and stroking your tummy, low growls are expected if you try to get up at all.

he probably will keep you home for the next few weeks- for your 'protection'

and he does mean it!!!

he wants you safe!!

Even in his own fucked up way <3

Vincent Sinclair:

Vincent will pause- eyes scanning you- thinking perhaps it was a joke

you HAD to be joking right?

but when he realized you weren't his stomach turned-

what the hell had this bastard done? clearly he didn't DESERVE to be immortalized- so of course Vincent wouldn't use him at all in his art

rather making Lester 'dispose' of the body quietly

he would make it painful- violent; much more than usual

Once the deed is done he will coddle you, showing you little sculptures, or if you are interested in art- draw and paint with you, his watchful gaze never leaving you- you were his messiah, his god/dess you were his everything-

he would make sure you were safe.

even though he would usually leave this to his brother, it's personal now

Lester Sinclair

Now Lester, he's taken off gaurd by this request, you his sweet lil angel cakes are asking him to off someone?

But of course he won't tell you no.

He will make sure to get his Bowie knife all ready to 'take ojt the trash'

He will ask how painful it should to be

If your crying when you ask, even more reason for him to make that bastard suffer worse than they made you suffer.

Bo Sinclair

Bo doesn't ask anymore questions.

All he needs to know is when where and who.

Of course he will make it painful

And of course he will make the fucker suffer, maybe he will even remove a few fingers to torture them.

He wants his partner happy, so hearing you ask him to kill someone sent him off the fucking rails.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba sees red

Why would you of all people want someone dead?

Unless they hurt you real bad.

That makes him really angry

He doesn't like the idea of you being hurt, let alone someone else hurting you so bad you don't want them alive anymore.

It will be painful

And slow

He knows how to kill fast, so it stands to reason if he doesn't hit vital points he can make them suffer longer

Thomas Hewitt

Tommy sees red, very similar to bubba

Except he will put on a full on manhunt for the fucker

Using more phycological methods first, stalking them like prey

Before snatching them up and ending them brutally

Charles Lee ray

An excuse to kill some sad mother fucker? Gladly.

But when he sees the tears in your eyes, the way you are shaking, it's personal.

It isn't any longer something to waste time.

This fucker hurt his partner.

This bastard dated touch what was his.

Honestly he will probably fillet the fucker

Freddy Krueger

He won't make it easy.

He will torment the bastard for weeks in their dreams before finally striking.

And of course he won't let you forget that you asked him to kill someone

Of course he is worried, he doesn't fully grasp what the sudden change was about, but he doesn't mind killing for you.

[zarnzarn]

Hob Gadling as a husband is vastly different than Hob Gadling as a boyfriend.

Dream had known this vaguely- held old memories of how things settle after marriage, how arguments become commonplace with contentment, how people grow out into the reassurance to become different people.

What he wasn't quite expecting was the certainty.

He had no idea how much Hob was holding back in their courtship- or how insecure he must have felt, perhaps, to be so reserved. Dream had done his best to assuage the other's idiocies as they came up- why there was surprise that he would never choose to deal with this and that latest sycopanth when he had been tipped off that his husband was waiting for him at home in new clothing, he still doesn't know- but there annoyingly still seemed to have been hidden trepidations that he couldn't root out.

But proposing marriage seemed to have thrown all of this out of the window. The hidden steel-backed spine that Hob has had to prop him up all these years shines through much more freely now, and Hob is less and less afraid to show it.

("If I'd known how much you'd change if I married you," He'd snarled during one of their worst fights. "I'd have thought better of it."

Hob had put his hands on his hips. "Oh, is that what we're doing now? Alright, then." He'd poked his right hand into Dream's chest roughly, then held it out, one eyebrow raised. "Take the ring off then. No, you want a fucking divorce, take the damn ring off yourself, Dreamlord. Go ahe-"

"That's what I thought," Hob had said with due smugness 48 hours later- as was his right- as he slipped coffee and held the newspaper up for both of them. Dream hummed, curled in his lap and idly tracing his fingers over the many bruises over his husband's neck, and privately congratulated himself for the stroke of luck he finally seemed to have found, winning over a man who both loved him and liked him.)

"If you can't handle even the land parcel you currently have without Dream having to intervene every decade," Hob snaps now, crossing his arms as he glares at the Weavers of the Sa-Inaa'l galaxy. "How do you even have the audacity to ask for more?"

They hiss at him, raising their mandibles in threat. Hob raises an eyebrow back.

"It is not enough for our Weavers," The Elder says, voice even. "We cannot sustain on what we have."

"Not enough for your Weavers, or not enough for your greed?" Hob shoots back. "I've heard that the Sa-Inaa'l is being patronized now by the Western Forces. Just because you're willing to whore out your ancient art for money-"

"We do business with the Dream King, peasant ape," One of them snarls, banging a fist on the table. "We do not bargain with the likes of you!"

"Mind your tongue," Dream says mildly. "He is my husband in my ways, his ways and yours. Also, he is older than most of you."

"He is not even of royal blood!" The Elder bursts out, the first show of emotion from them that Dream has seen from them since they were a juvenile. "Surely this is unbefitting of your station!"

"Oh, because you're so befitting of yours. How much have you lost in profit within one year again?"

"You are out of place!" One of the younger ones shouts. It is amusing as always when they look Dream's way after saying it, as if Dream is in any way capable of putting Hob back in any places whatsoever. Dream is lucky if he gets Hob to listen to him once a week. Dream has not won a single conversation about food since the rings slid onto their fingers. They are quite satisfied with this setup, overall. "You are nothing but filthy peasant scum."

"Filthy peasant scum who is right about his information," Hob snaps. "Don't think we don't know that you're trying to distract us from the topic. Also fuck you."

Dream stirs and stops admiring the pitiful expressions on the Weaver's faces- honestly the farmer's market suffer his husband more than they are, the dramatic things- to look over at his husband, frowning at the last bit. He cannot decide whether that was hurt or frustration. Better not to take the risk.

He stands. "As entertaining as this has been," He cuts into the shouting. "My husband is correct. You will not receive any more land than you have. Also- my consort is worth a hundred generations of your Elders. Do not try to ever say or imply otherwise, or I shall make you regret it."

They are all cowering in the corner when he is finished speaking. He dips his head in dismissal and they shakily bow and scatter out.

Hob huffs as he watches them go, scowling. Dream drifts over and presses a kiss to his cheek. "I hope you don't believe their words, lover."

"I stopped feeling insecure about this whole prince thing the fifth time you shoved me into a scratchy outfit, ducks," Hob replies. He softens as he turns to Dream, and kisses his cheek back. "Don't worry."

"I worry," Dream returns. "I love you."

Hob smiles. It is not as wide and awe-filled as it used to be, and Dream feels pleasure hum in his throat at the sight of it. "I know."