#get that catholic man a collar

[peggingeddiediaz]

911 text posts pt 2

[specialgrades]

NAWWWWW CAUSE NIKOLAI TOO??? HES KINDDAAAAAAAA 🤭

i wanted to shake him violently watching the game bc of the betrayal + have a Thing (/neg) with brits playing voicing eastern european characters but... it's. neil newbon. my white man of the month. he gets a pass. this time

[farfromstrange]

I Want To Fuck A Priest | Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

PART 6 of The Vault

See this post for more information on my Valentine's Day Special & Follower Celebration, but these fics can be read separately!

Pairing: Matt Murdock x AFAB!Reader

Summary: You have a thing for the priest you met at a farmer's market. Thankfully, he has a thing for you, too.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), porn without much plot, Priest!Matt, blasphemy (!!!), church setting, improper use of a priest's collar, improper use of a confessional booth, improper use of the act of confession, praise, prayer, oral afab!receiving, slight Dom!Matt, Catholic guilt, Fleabag reference, seriously if you are religious or triggered by the improper use of religion DO NOT read this!

Word Count: 2.8k

A/n: This is for those who watched Fleabag and then saw all the 'Imagine Matt as a priest' and 'Charlie Cox once played a Spanish priest' posts and thought, "Same!" when Fleabag said, "I want to fuck a priest." I see you, and I feel you. I wrote this after re-watching Fleabag one night, but I added a little poetic twist while editing because before, it was just completely plotless oral sex. While that isn't bad, I needed to add some vibes. You're welcome.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The church bells ring as the clock strikes midnight. The night sky is void of dark clouds. In the darkness above the massive walls encasing the holy ground, the stars shine brighter than the city lights. New York City, the city that never sleeps, makes an exception for the house of God in the dead of the night, it seems.

It’s been…several years since my last confession. 

The graveyard attached to the church looks threatening in its vacancy. It’s void of human souls except for the dead ones buried there. A raven claps its wings in the distance, following the gush of wind that brushes through the trees. 

The bell rings twelve times before it stops, but the echo bounces off the stone walls and shakes the stained-glass windows, which seems to drag on for an eternity. 

The last time I confessed my sins was before my communion. I don’t know if that makes me a bad Catholic, but lately, I’ve been having sinful thoughts, and I need to get them out of the way before I collapse under the weight of them.

You considered for the longest time whether or not you should come here. Faith has been your enemy for the longest time. You don’t believe in the Catholic Church, and yet you have found your way here, in the middle of the night, when everyone should be asleep in their beds. 

This isn’t a normal night, by any means. You often lay awake at night and question your purpose in this life, but lately, you’ve been feeling like you’re drowning. Sins are subjective, and you never paid much mind to the term until now. 

The thoughts you find yourself having late at night when you’re awake and lonely are far from holy. They aren’t ideal. They make you wonder just why you are thinking this way now.

But no man has ever been like him. And the worst part about it is that wanting him alone is an unholy train of thought you should have never submitted to. 

You tried ignoring it, carrying it all by yourself, and trying to heal whatever complex you may have that could have led to this obsession in the first place, but your life has been a mess for long enough that it doesn’t even surprise you anymore, and no matter what you tried to do, you couldn’t stop fantasizing about him.

He is the reason you came to church tonight to confess your sins. But you’re not here to find your way. You’re not here to ask for guidance from God. You told yourself that the unholiness of your thoughts needs to be cured and that is why you came here—to make this situation better for yourself—but the thought is ancient; it’s the twenty-first century and you’re the kind of person who knows exactly what they want and how to get it. The truth is, you’re here to get what you want, even if it will land you in the pits of hell for all eternity. And even if it kills you.

“You don’t do this kind of thing often, do you?” the low voice asks from the other side of the confessional booth.

You shake your head. “Not at all, Father. When I went to Sunday Mass this weekend, it was my first time in a church in a very long time,” you admit to him, “and this is my first confession since I was a child. I…I’m not really a devoted Catholic, you understand. I’m merely struggling right now, and I…I am in desperate need of guidance.”

Your lip quivers. Your voice resembles a tidal wave that comes and goes as nature pleases.

He can’t see you. It’s not the curtain that is separating you and is starting to feel like worlds apart—he can’t see you. He can only hear and smell you, and that alone makes your thighs clench with need. 

Should you be doing this in a church? Should you fantasize about a man of God and want to claim him, coming to his sanctuary to tell him the truth and mess with his head? You know that it’s wrong, but the wrong thing often feels too right to stop. 

When you met him at the farmer’s market the other day, he was so endlessly kind to everyone, including yourself. He invited you to Sunday mass, and you went. You went on a walk with him afterward, and there seemed to be something there, but he couldn’t act on it because he is who he is and what he is. He made a vow. He can’t have you, no matter how badly he wants to, and one look into his unfocused hazel eyes when he took off those red glasses he always wears told you that he does want you. It led to another sleepless night among many, and now you’re here.

You’re so utterly selfish, but God, you can’t stop it. When you want something, you would do anything to get it. He makes you feel things you never felt before. It’s terrifying, but you have to allow yourself to jump into unknown waters if you want to learn how to swim.

He clears his throat, and you can hear the chair creak under his weight as he shifts. Is it possible that you’re doing the same to him that he is doing to you?

“I want to start by saying that you’re really brave,” he says. The sound of his voice is enough to make you shiver. “But God offers people guidance in a symbolic sense. I can take your confession, tell you how to repent for your sins, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

You sigh. “I wish you would though.”

A chuckle passes his lips. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s weighing you down, sweetheart, and we will go from there?”

Sweetheart. 

Yes, you think, this is your one-way ticket to hell. 

“I’ve been having thoughts,” you confess.

“Thoughts?” he asks.

“Yes. Unholy thoughts.” Your breath comes in weak puffs of air. The booth seems to cave in on you. You wish he would step out of his booth into yours and stuff his cock into your mouth. For him, you would shut up. You would do whatever he tells you to do, and you would do so gladly.

Fuck. You want to fuck a priest. 

But lucky for you, Father Matthew wants to fuck you too. He’s here, at midnight, because you were lost and he was still there—he told you he spends his nights at church sometimes because the city gets too loud for him. You couldn’t go anywhere else because any place where he isn’t doesn’t seem worth visiting.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath. You imagine him swallowing, his white collar constricting his labored airflow. You imagine him pulling at it to free himself, but he can’t. Those sinfully thick fingers of his would feel even better on your skin. 

“Unholy thoughts,” Father Matthew asks, “about whom, sweetheart?”

He’s pushing your buttons with that nickname. It’s so not professional. The lines are starting to blur.

“A man,” you tell him. 

“A man?”

“A man of God.”

The confession causes a bout of silence. You could have heard a hairpin drop. 

His chair creaks again, and his voice reminds you of an animalistic growl right before an apex predator attacks its prey. “And what unholy thoughts have you been having about this man of God?” he inquires.

Your inner walls clench around thin air. Sweat drips down your temples, and the arousal soaks your underwear. Your nipples strain against your shirt. If you grip the seat any harder, you will soon find wooden chips under your nails.

You lick your lips. “I’ve been thinking about him touching me,” you whisper. “And I want to touch him.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“And in your thoughts, does he satisfy you?”

Your answer comes promptly, “Always.”

There is not a scenario in which Father Matthew could possibly leave you unsatisfied. 

The chair creaks again. Something in the air shifts. 

Your voice is breathless and needy, and so fucking desperate when you speak into the silence, “Just tell me what to do, Father.”

“Okay,” he says. His leather shoes drag across the floor of the booth and toward the curtain that marks the exit of his side. The next word out of his mouth knocks all the air out of your lungs, “Kneel.”

You don’t even have time to question his request. Within seconds, the curtain through which you’ve stepped into the confessional booth is torn to the side, and there he is, in all of his glory, right in front of you, and his thick cock is straining against his black slacks.

You pinch yourself, but you’re not dreaming. This is real. This is what you wanted, and you weren’t imagining the mutual attraction due to delusions. He does want you, and he is about to break every rule in his book—and the lord’s book.

You sink to your knees. The only thing you can see on his face is pure, unbridled lust and the ugly truth of Catholic guilt. He must loathe himself for wanting you. 

Matt removes his glasses, revealing his beautiful eyes to you. In the dim candlelight, they appear almost black.

“What’s my sentence, Father?” you ask.

His hand brushes your cheek. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he breathes.

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“No.” He steps into the booth and closes the curtain behind him. “Tonight, call me Matt.”

That is the last thing he says before he gets on his knees before you, and he captures your lips in a bruising kiss that is strong enough to make the angels howl.

His hand rests around your throat, feeling your pulse. He may not be able to see you with his eyes, but the way he touches you paints a perfect picture of your presence, and you feel every last ounce of his devotion. 

He explores the depth of your mouth with his tongue, tasting you, loving you. His hands feel beautifully rough against your skin, just like you imagined they would be after years of praying. He sees himself as the hands of God. A messenger. His goodness makes your heart swell and your core flood with more than unbridled arousal—this is human nature in all its emotional glory, and you no longer feel ashamed. You can’t possibly when he is holding you like this.

He exhales into your mouth—no, he breathes life into your soul. “You’re the most sinful yet purest thing I have ever laid my hands on,” Matt says.

You gasp against his luscious lips. “I wouldn’t want to make you turn your back on God, or–”

He cuts you off, “I did that when I first thought about your body on mine and coming so deep inside of you that you’ll carry me with you for days. I don’t care about God because if having him means that I can’t have you,” he says, “I don’t want him anymore.”

You swallow his words with a kiss. Turning a priest against God was never your intention, but you are not in charge of his feelings, nor will you ever be. Matt wants you badly enough to abandon religion, and you will carry that with you until the day you die. 

He lifts you back onto the edge of the wooden chair, pulling at your clothes and your undergarments. The moonlight hits his face as the cold air of the church hits your bare pussy. He looks ethereal like this, on his knees for you. His hazel eyes bore into your soul. He wears his heart on his sleeves and a collar around his neck. 

Your priest crosses his chest. He asks God for forgiveness. And then, with one gentle tug at your thighs, he buries his face in your wet cunt, and he feasts as if your sex was the last supper. As God’s disciple, he is determined to eat up every last bite offered to him. Every last drop from your cunt is his, and your lips part in a moan that echoes through the church like the bells did when it hit midnight.

“Fuck,” you cry out. 

He flattens his tongue against you, licking a long stripe over and then through your folds. He twirls the tip of his tongue over your clit, stroking the sensitive bundle of nerves with such precision, your walls clench at the sheer explosion of pleasure. You have never felt anything like it. He turns something unholy into heaven, and you’re drowning in the river to the Garden of Eden.

His lips suction around your clit. The obscene squelching of your velvety walls fills the booth. It sounds deadly noisy to you. You want to cover your mouth to stop the moans from traveling, but he traps your hand with his, guiding them to his hand, telling you to guide him.  

Instead, one of your hands moves to his collar. It’s his turn to moan. You tug at the symbol of his priesthood, forcing his tongue deeper into your hole. He laps up your juices as though his life depends on it. 

“Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned,” Matt murmurs against you. 

You moan again, louder this time. He is repenting for wanting to dive into your pussy until he gets swept away by the tide, but it is far too late to back out now. Your pleasure has become his priority. 

“Lord God,” he repeats, “in your goodness have mercy on me.”

The pleasure is turning into a tight knot in your lower abdomen. You can feel it consuming you and your senses. You’re floating. The light at the end of the tunnel is not so far out of reach anymore. Every suck and every lick at your folds, and every thrust of his tongue into your tight walls pushes you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. 

In your goodness, have mercy on me. 

He bites down lightly on your clit. Your toes curl, and his name comes out in a groan.

Do not look on my sins, but take away all my guilt. 

Right now, you are his God. By drinking your arousal like holy water and pushing you toward an orgasm he is repenting. The symbolism makes your heels dig into his back as you buck your hips against his mouth, and when he adds one of those thick fingers, curling them up against that sweet spot inside of you, you can barely stand it anymore.

Create me in a clean heart and renew within me an upright spirit.

“God, Matthew!” your moan interrupts his plea for penance only briefly.

He swats your thigh. “No blasphemy when I feast at the altar,” he says. The vibration of his voice adds to the knot, tightening it, and threatening it to burst.

You’re almost there. Almost…

“Have mercy on me, a sinner,” he continues. His tongue slides between your folds once again, gathering your slit. His fingers curl upward again. He’s mixing different prayers, or maybe these are his own words, but you are not sure how much longer you can hold it. But he wants you to hold it. You don’t want to disappoint the man who is worshiping at your feet, your pussy, his altar, and you are his salvation as much as you are his saving grace.

“In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,” he prays, “I have sinned against You whom I should love above all things—but fuck, I don’t.” 

Does that mean he loves you? It is too soon to tell that, but he is devoted, and devotion can be just as sinfully sweet as the rawest feeling of love.

“Have mercy on me, God. Amen!”

His collar is starting to tear under your vice grip. 

Matt thrusts his digit into you until it disappears, and he finally decides to show the mercy he was begging for to you. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he says. 

Your thighs lock around his head as the knot breaks in two. You come, hard, and the wave tears him down with you, shooting his cum into his slacks like the good Catholic boy he is.

You let go of his collar when your orgasm has done its damage. 

“No,” he stops you. 

“No?” you ask, still breathless.

“No,” he says, lifting his head to grin at you, not like a man of God but the Devil himself. “I have not done nearly enough penance.”

As a priest, Matt is used to being on his knees until they’re bruised; until he can’t stand straight anymore, so he has to remain there, cowering before a God he more often than not does not believe in.

Before you can protest, he dives back into your endless ocean, and you have no choice but to lean back and take it. 

He is not the only one doing penance tonight, after all—you both are. 

Matt Murdock Smut Tag List: @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama

[trashmouth-richie]

CONFESSION

eddie x fem! reader

TW: no minors, heavy degrading themes of the Catholic Church, smut, corruption kink, virginity loss, Eddie posing as a priest. Slight daddy kink, rosaries not used properly. Umm yeah it’s smut p in v, cum eating. Etc

a/n: I have no words, I’ll see you in the crimsoned room of hell, or purgatory— in that case, please pray me out.

Trudging with untied boots the thud of his clunky soles echo loud in the steeped ceiling of St. Mary’s. He stubs the lit end of his joint out in the holy water, sizzling and emitting one last pathetic puff of smoke. Dipping a tattooed middle finger into the holy water he makes a lame excuse for the sign of the cross, flicking whatever remnants of moisture left into the open air. Keeping his middle finger high for the man on the cross. 

  Every Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday nights at 7 o'clock on the dot, he had come to the brick built and heavily waxed wooden floored church to repent. 

  Father Hopper had gone easy on Eddie when he found him trying to hot wire his car. Punishing him to thirty confessions stretched over two months time.

Father knew Wayne Munson was on the verge of a thin line of patience, and Eddie was on his last strike with Hawkins PD, next step was prison. A shared cell with the other Munson and ex resident of Hawkins currently known as inmate #89432. 

  Fuck it, I’ll go to jail what the hell do I care? Eddie spat at the rickety table in Father Hopper’s poorly lit kitchen.

  “Son,” Father began, sipping a bitter cup of coffee, thumb nails scratching against the ceramic mug, “you don’t want to end up like him.” 

  “Well. I sure as hell ain’t gonna end up like you. White robes and that cardboard dog collar you wear— yeah fuckin’ right.” 

  That was back in May. What started as a desperate plea to steal a car and possibly sell it to get enough money to  skip the prying eyes and whispering licks of gossip tongues about how he hadn’t graduated, again, — ended with him getting assigned the confessions. 

  A stuffy little closet with Hopper’s coffee breath stenching through a grated screen. The dark walls seems to close in on him as he confessed to petty crimes and sex on Sundays. 

  Leaning against the desk that held glass orbs of candles, he spits in the nearest one. The flame sizzling out. And that’s when he hears it. 

  A small giggle from the pew nearest him. 

  He had seen you around school. Clutching your school books to your chest as you were shoved into walls and lockers. A ghost among the popular chicks and dicks. But never to him. 

  He himself was an outcast and truth be told he didn’t remember the time he hawked a lougie into Jason’s milk carton and stubbed a cigarette into his hamburger after Jason had purposefully knocked your lunch tray out of your hands. The cheap plastic tray hitting the tiled floor with a clank. 

  He might remember but you remembered the way his smile pearled big and pretty, his long lashes dusting the tops of his cheeks as he winked your way, and the way your panties clung with wetness at your heated lips. 

  His whiskey dark eyes bore into your head as he says your name slow, like reciting a prayer. His long legs swing as he struts cockily towards you. Middle of the summer and he’d shed his leather armor. Red flannel open revealing a tanned tattooed chest. Sleeves cut off showcasing muscly trailer park strong arms.  Jeans hacked off above the knee. 

  His smirk danced across his lips, tongue poking out to wet his lips. He had trouble written all over him. And damn did he wear it well.

  “Don’t tell me you’re here to confess the sins committed against our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” 

  Your legs cross and thighs rub together. A pulse awakening between your legs. 

  “Amen,” you giggle nervously, hiding behind heated cheeks. 

  Leaning his long frame against the edge of the pew, he throws a worn heavy boot over onto the seat, next to your clenched thighs under the white sundress. 

  He leans down, over his knee, his long curls dancing with his gesturing head, he’s leaning close and you can see the reds fading his eyes and the skunked smell of weed. Still that smile has you melting. 

  “So what are you in for? Forget to genuflect before sitting down last Sunday?” 

  His joke earns a smile from you and seeing your lips pull your cheeks up has him twitching in his jeans. 

  “No,” you roll your eyes in a girlish way, batting your lashes, “it’s not that.” 

  “Ah!” Eddie says jumping up, “no bother, I don’t think Father Hopper isn’t gonna show anyway.” 

  You don’t mean to frown and Eddie almost laughs out loud at your pout. 

  Strict as your parents were, they were demanding that you needed to confess for your sins. They were already pissed you skipped out on college, might as well take 10 years off school, you’ll never go, they hated your job, hated even more that you didn’t really have friends outside of the “weird Buckley girl.” 

  By the end of this month you’d have enough money saved up to move out, and oh how you couldn’t wait. 

  The dirty word slips before you catch it. Hands covering your mouth quickly, the heat on your cheeks burning deeper. You peer at Eddie with big eyes.  

  He cracks a slow smile and leans forward. Licking his chapped lips again. He’s so close to you you can see every eyelash in high definition. 

  “That’s another sin, one more and the floor will open and we’ll both be engulfed into the fiery pits of hell.” 

  “Actually I think it’s purgat—” 

  A ringed finger is placed vertically to your lips, shushing you from finishing. The satin feel of your lips on his rugged finger makes him ache against the teeth of his zipper. 

  Tracing your face with his eyes they dip down the slope of your nose and past the curve of your lips, the delicate pink rosary is hung on your neck with such daintiness it’s almost in open invitation. 

  He about chokes when the goosebumps rise on your throat from his stare, a bead of sweat trickling in between your tits. 

  Dark eyes swim into yours, and his smile is impish, full of wicked delight, “Let’s go.” 

  His hand snakes down your shoulder and he grabs your wrist in a light but thick grip. Beckoning you with a sinful smirk. 

  “To where?” You manage after peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

  “Time to confess for that dirty mouth.” Eddie says matter of fact, turning his head and dragging you to the confessional booth. “C’mon I’ll act as Father.” 

  Eddie pulls you into the small wooden door in the back of the church opening it for you in a gentlemanly manner ending in a bow. 

  He rushes you in with snapping fingers and a growl making you squeal. 

  Sitting behind the screen where Hopper usually sat Eddie beckons you to sit in his usual assigned seat. 

  He makes a backwards sign of the cross with his left hand and folds his fingers, clearly his throat and using a deep baritone voice, “tell me your sins, sweet girl.” 

  When you giggle, Eddie flicks the screen, “this is serious shit— confess to me.” 

  You begin the way your parents had you rehearse at home. 

  “Bless me Father— wait, should I call you that?”

  “Daddy works best,” Eddie says without missing a beat. And your pussy clenches around nothing. 

  “Bless me,” you hesitate on the word, but Eddie raises his eyebrows to encourage you so you start again, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. 

  “B- Bless me, Daddy, for I have sinned, my last confession was 10 weeks ago.” 

  “That’s a long time ago,” he tsks, berating you, “have you not sinned in these last 10 weeks?” 

  Fingers threading the hem of your dress you answer, “I- I have.” 

  Eddie palms himself at your innocence. “Well?” 

  “I— Eddie—” 

  “Excuse me? My title in this confessional is Daddy please do not make me correct you again,”

  “Sorry, Daddy.” 

  “Good girl,” Eddie purrs. Sending shocks to your clit. “Continue.” 

  Clearing your throat you stroke the beads of the rosary hung against your neck. Counting ten, a small skip, another bead, then ten more. 

  “I was.. experimenting.” 

  “Drugs?” Eddie asks, chuckling in genuine shock, he didn’t think a girl like you would smoke, “yes the devils lettuce is tempting.” 

  He flicks his lighter open and lights another joint he had tucked in his pocket for the ride home. 

  “But we must stop these temptations before they start, plus who are you buying from because I need to know if I have competition.” 

  You move your head to the side and continue thumbing the pink pearly beads in your fingers. The clack of your nails against the beads fill the quiet smoke hung room. 

  “No… it wasn’t drugs.” 

  Eddie’s mind flips like a magazine. 

  “Oh yes the alcohol, another temp—”

  “Wrong again.” 

  Eddie’s frustration peaks, “well I’m not a fucking mind reader so do you wanna explain yourself?” 

  “I— I was.. I was touching myself.” 

  “Oh fuckin, Christ..” it’s mumbled and breathy but you hear it all the same, sending a slick to your pussy from your admission and Eddie’s shock. 

  He’s rock hard. The zipper on his jeans scream, begging for any sort of release. He needs to know more. 

  “Do explain,” he says intrigued, leaning forward, his hands folded under his chin. 

  Adjusting yourself in the wooden chair you cross your legs, and Eddie barely witnesses the white cotton snug between your thighs, the sneak peek having him swallow hard. 

  Taking a breath you go into detail about the videotape you had gotten from the adult section of Family Video. How you had only watched it once and the volume was muted, but you couldn’t get it out of your mind. 

  The way the woman’s mouth curved into an “O” when the man was pleasuring her. The size of the man’s penis and the way it slapped against his stomach when released from his jeans. How the woman’s perked nipples were firm but looked soft against the man’s tongue.  

  Eddie’s drool is wiped from his mouth at your explicit confession, and he starts to palm himself over his jeans when you explain how you had started rubbing yourself over your underwear at night. 

  Thinking you were about to have your first ever orgasm but weren’t able to finish because your mother had walked in on you, legs spread wide on your comforter, toes curling. As you were using the barrel of a curling iron to rub at your clothed clit. 

  The embarrassment from repeating the story to Eddie made your cheeks heat, and you hid behind your hair. 

  The silence is speaking volumes. The only noise is the cream of the wooden seat as you shift again, a flutter in your stomach as Eddie thinks of his punishment for you. 

  “Sweetheart,” Eddie breathes, a hiss on his tongue as he moves from behind the screen, wedging himself between you and the wall, his long frame leaning against the mahogany. 

  Ringed fingers tapping along the plump of his lips, his hard cock outlined through his jeans, “You are a filthy, naughty girl.”

  You scoff, “I am not!” 

  “Oh baby, you are,” Eddie says, boxing you in, “but, I know just the thing to…cleanse you of your sins.” He licks his lips again and stares you down. And you're certain you're looking into Satan’s eyes. 

  “Wh—” you stutter, having to clear your throat, swallowing thickly and dabbing at the sweat on your neck, “what do you have in mind?” 

  Eddie’s wayward curls skim the top of your chest as his lips curve around the shell of your ear, he smells like cigarettes and laundry soap, “bad girls get spanked.” 

  Gasping, he laughs at your shocked face. “I don’t make the rules babe, ok I made that one up, but this is for you swearing in the house of the Lord, now,” he gestures a thumb over his shoulder, “get up, you’re gonna need to be on my lap.” 

  You do as you're told, standing chest to chest with Eddie. Only this time it’s you licking your lips. One stretch up on tipped toes and your lips could connect with his. The faint mark of a nicotine stain paints his bottom lip. You wonder if it would taste like it. 

  He grabs your hips and swivels you around, his rings dig into the soft cotton on your dress, his nails scratching the fabric as he takes his seat. The wooden chair groaning on the sudden weight. 

  Leaning back in the chair he smiles wickedly, legs spread wide, he rubs his lap, tapping for you to come closer. 

  When your body is laid flat against him, you pull at the hem of your skirt to keep your modesty. 

  “This punishment is just for the dirty words,” Eddie explains. His ringed fingers walk along your spine, trailing down your back and up the fat of your ass. 

  He lays a warm hand on your cheeks and rubs it gently. Squeezing every so often. 

  Eddie's cock is hard under your ribs and your pussy flutters at the size of him. He hums and jiggles your ass before explaining his rules for your indiscretion, “you are going to recite The Lord’s Prayer while I spank you. Understand?”  

  You nod dumbly and whimper when his left hand tickles up your thighs. 

  “Start.” He grunts. 

  You begin the Lord's Prayer just like you were taught, standing before joyful cheeked families in a similar white dress on your First Communion day. 

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be th—”

  A large hand comes down hard with a thwap! on your ass cheek, sending you forward and hitting your head on the wall. 

  “Oh,” Eddie whispers, not hiding the smile in his voice, “if you mess up— we start over. So don’t. Unless this naughty girl enjoys being spanked by daddy? Hmm?” 

  You nod again and continue. Trying hard to remember where you were. Hallowed be…

  “.. Thy Name, Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done. On Eart—”

  Two hands smack your ass at once like sticks beating a drum. The hem of your skirt is lifted past the sheer white panties you are wearing. Reaching for the end of your dress to pull it down Eddie grabs your wrist, putting your hand back where it belongs he issued another spanking. 

  This time he lifts your dress fully and groans at the sight in front of him. Your plump ass has all but swallowed the see thru fabric of your panties. Eddie sucks a breath in through his teeth and places his left hand in the thick of your thighs, warmed by the heat of your arousal, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

  Thy Kingdom… shit. 

  “Thy Kingdom c—” the hardest slap yet has rained down on your nearly bare skin, and it springs tears from your eyes. 

  Eddie smooths over the red mark left on your skin and his tone is irate when he spits, “you already said that sweetheart, start again.” 

  His fingers snake further up your legs and he groans at the feel of your soaked panties on his fingertips. 

  You start again. And the spankings Eddie delivers are swift and merciless. The harder he spanks the more you cry out. 

  Sweat pools between your thighs where Eddie’s hot hand is wedged, his thumb teasing the outline of your panties and pressing soft circles into the fabric. 

  Tears cling to your eyelashes as your punishment comes to an end, welts forming where his rings stung and clipped you. 

  Words of reassurance fall from his lips after every slap and harsh whack of his hands. When Eddie leans over to catch a rogue tear from your cheek before it hits the carpet, your thighs slam together tight with a snap. 

  The groan he lets out is guttural and low. His cock twitches underneath you again. 

  “..and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil Am—- ow!” 

  Quick, hot tears sting your eyes. A jerk of your head reveals a sight you would never imagine seeing… let alone in a church. 

  Pearly, and oddly straight. The calcified and slightly sharp teeth pull out from the red, irritated skin on your ass.  

  “If you want to repent for your sins, you need to put your trust in me, can you do that baby… hmm? Can you listen and give yourself to me? It’s the only way you’ll be forgiven.”

  A perfect dental record sunken in deep, small droplets of blood weep from the pierced flesh from his canines. 

His lips are pulled back in a snarl, dark eyes gleam with a feral intensity so ferocious you’re instantly terrified. He looks like a wolf fighting for a meal. 

  Paralyzed with fear, your lungs spasm in shock as he flicks out his tongue, running the wet tip of the muscle along the pattern of his teeth grooved into your skin. 

  Each pass of his slicked tongue deepens the arousal in your lower stomach. His lips curve around the mark, kissing it better, his hooded eyes never leave yours. 

  You moan when the purpling bruise he’s sucking into your skin is greeted with the same poked teeth that bit you earlier. 

  His thick middle finger had your panties pulled to the side and your arousal is coated thick on his finger as he pushes past your puffy lips. A blunt fingernail sharp against your inner walls. 

  “Fuck,” he groans, dipping his finger into the impossibly tight well of your sweet pussy. 

  Eyes rolling into the back of your head, you mimic his moans and bite into your cheek. Hungry for the look of a broken gasp as your walls flutter and tighten around him. 

  World spinning and head rushing, Eddie has you upright and straddling his waist. when you start to question him he shushes you. 

  Taking the same finger he had plunged into your molten slicked pussy, he rubs the pad of it around your lips. Like a tube of chapstick during a cold winter, he coats them again and again, licking his own, his other hand is tight on your knee and gently skirting closer to your hip under your dress. 

  When he's satisfied with his art on your plump lips, he finally dives in, his breath hot on your skin and you part your mouth in a welcome for him. 

  But he only laughs. 

  A throaty chuckle that mocks you, as you wait for him to kiss you, wait for him to press his pinked lips to yours. Waiting for his tongue to devilishly lap at the corner of your mouth. 

  But all of his attention is zeroing down on the rosary around your neck. 

  Each bead is slick with sweat, warm to the touch against his thumb, as he counts them in his head, your throat gasping on each inhale. Whimpering and moving your hips against him.

  Grabbing the rosary in his fist he pulls you closer to him, biting the fleshy lobe around the small gold hoops in your ears, his dick aches when you whine his name. 

  Huffed whispers tickle your ear and send shivers down your spine and flood your panties, “Such a dirty fucking girl, practically begging for me to fuck you.” 

  Another whine from your mouth and he’s bucking his hips into you, strained denim against wet lace. 

  “Is that what you want?” Eddie demands. His snake-like tongue tickling behind your ear, “all you have to do, is ask.” 

  “Please,” you beg, fingers curling into the flannel of his shirt, head thrown back as he circles your neck and paints hickies with his tongue.

  “Not good enough, baby. Tell me how bad you want this little virgin hole filled.” 

  His hand finds it way under your skirt to the desperate slick of your panties, his fingers sliding around and making slow figure eights against your clit.

  Tits bouncing as you move against his hand, hopelessly with no words you beg him with your body to give you relief. You whine again embarrassed to ask for what you craved, the sin that brought you here to begin with.

  When you don’t say anything he retreats his hand. And you try to chase it as it slips away, you whimper pitifully again, and finally succumb to his demands. 

  All embarrassment gone as you beg him, plead for his cock, “Eddie, please.. please.. I’ve been so good,” you oughta be ashamed of yourself but you couldn’t care less— if he could make you feel this good by barely touching you, you’d be on your way to that glorified “O” in no time, and you can practically hear the Hallelujah chorus.  

  He chuckled cockily at your pleas, but shushes you as he unthreads his belt, and almost chokes when you gasp in awe at his thick veiny cock, slapping up to his belly with a thump and the pearling bead of cum seeping from the slit. 

  His thick ringed hand pumps himself as he lines himself up with your swollen pussy. And when you sink down he slams himself home and you clench around him, a scream escaping your slack mouth.

  He groans low,  trying to even out his breathing around your pretty gasps and breathy moans. 

  “You’re gonna keep my cock warm before I fuck you like the slut you wanna be for me,” he chides, concentrating hard on on anything other than the tight walls of your pussy gripping him. “This is the rest of your punishment… you pray a Hail Mary and warm my cock, no whining, no moaning.” 

  You whimper as his cock stretches you out, practically biting a hole in your bottom lip as you taste yourself from where he painted them with your own arousal earlier. 

  A loud slap to your ass and you’re jolting forward, your rosary tight in Eddie’s fist as he brings you down to his lips, “start praying or I’ll go home.”

  “Hail Mary,” you begin, the same way you started before, only this time the pressure was never lifted, your pussy full of him, and his tongue hot and feverish on your neck, teeth grazing your skin ever so lightly. 

  He’s teasing you and trying to get you to break, he thumbs over your nipples until they’re peaked and sore in his pinched grip. 

  When you get halfway through the sacred prayer, your pussy aches and drips down to his balls. His tongue is lazily working a red and purple ‘E’ into the fat of your tit, one hand still holding the rosary tight against your neck. 

  You’re on the verge of breaking when you suck him in deeper, pushing your walls around him and kegeling him in a death trap. He mins and curses the lord’s name, and he finally snaps. 

  Bangs slicked with sweat and stuck heavy against forehead, he grunts, “Holy Mary Mother of God.” And you’re hiked upwards. 

  The screen you confessed your sins to with Eddie on the other side only a half hour ago, is now pressed tight against your ass as Eddie hammers his cock into your slicked and aching pussy. 

  The moan you elicit is toe curling, borderlining pornographic as the thick head of his clock slams into a spot you were unaware of reaching again and again. 

  “Pray for us sinners… fuck this pussy is so tight… now and at the hour of our death,” Eddie whimpers into your shoulder before biting down hard. 

  And when you yell out an amen your fluttering gummy walls spasm with joyful relief. Coating you and Eddie both with hot arousal as it seeps from you. 

  And the lips you’ve been staring at all night finally touch yours. 

  A bruisingly, sore puncture of lust filled kisses that would have your lips resembling a baboon’s ass for days. 

  He’s babbling now as your feet are wrapped right around his waist, his hands wiggling into his curls and yanking harder sends him over the edge. 

  He drops you onto your knees and opens your mouth with a press of his thumb on your bottom lip, when your tongue is out, and waiting for his cum, he jerks his cock once more and shudders when the hot ropes leave him and drip on your tongue and lips. 

  “Body of Christ,” Eddie says with a smirk, shutting your mouth for you and watching you swallow his load. He expects you to gag, possibly spit it out at him like the other girls would. 

  But when you lick your lips and utter a seductive, “Amen.” Eddie knows he’d never get out of confession for the rest of his life. 

😅hmmm yeah ily there will be a part 2

[darubyprincx]

hi

i have some ideas about halos.

so heres the idea: someone with a strong connection to their god (or demon or whatever it is that theyre worshiping) gets a halo from their affinity with said god. these are granted specifically by the god themself so not everyone has them. depending on their specific relationship with their god, the halo will appear in different places!

here's my expanded ideas for a few, as introduced in the drawing above:

classic halo

its your standard everyday floating above the head halo, nothing special about it

normally granted to priests

collar halo

hovers around neck

for followers who are Really, Really dedicated to their god. i mean really dedicated. "i will do anything even if i don't know what 'anything' actually is" level dedicated. you know how dogs are, right?

some wear it casually, some wear it like a noose, some wear it like a necklace.

basically works like a normal collar but can only be manipulated at the god in question's behest

armband halo

hovers around bicep, which arm it is depends on the follower's dominant (or preferred if they're ambidextrous) hand.

amputee followers are rare but in the case that someone doesn't have an arm the halo hovers at an angle above their shoulder instead

generally reserved for generals and other military leaders within the god's army if they have one

the hand

appears around the follower's dominant wrist

only seen on those who carry out the plans and will of their god down on earth. gods tend to not get involved in messy stuff so they find someone to do the dirty work for them down on the mortal plane. is also a play on the phrase "right hand man"

voice

appears around tongue

i feel like this one speaks for itself, really (HA).

not for proselytizers- only for those who speak directly for their god

the follower in question may be selectively or forcibly mute the rest of the time. it varies depending on the person and the god.

eyes

also quite self-evident. appears as a glowing band around the followers' irises (or iris). if they don't have eyes then the halo settles around the level of their eye sockets instead.

whatever they see, their god can also. this isn't a 24/7 thing unless said god chooses it to be. still, they tend to not get a lot of privacy

there have been a couple of blind followers designated their god's Eyes on Earth, which is pretty damn cool if you ask me (and also more than a little bit fucked up)

ears

halo manifests vertically around an ear

works the same way as the eye halo does but for hearing instead

the exalt

rarest

only seen with gods and possessed followers

appears as a filled-in circle of light behind the god or follower's head- if you're familiar with catholic iconography you'll understand what i mean. if not, just look up the wikipedia page for halos (religious iconography) and scroll the examples of christian art including halos

followers are rarely possessed by their gods because commonly gods have enough power to manifest a form on their own and need no vessel. a god in physical form may hide or obscure their halo at will. however, in the case that the god is too weak to assume a form of their own, they will sometimes take over a follower's body to intervene directly in a situation. the follower's body will assume the halo in this case and it cannot be hidden

shoutout to christianity for giving me the idea for this one. i got my problems with the jesus fandom but their character designs fuckin slap

some notes:

followers of one god can only have one halo at a time. polytheists can have several at once, one for each god, although this is extremely rare

followers with halos can naturally see each other's halos. those without have to look harder and nonbelievers (of any god) often cannot see them at all

i didn't intend the collar halo idea to be interpreted as a sex thing but if you want to do that then you can ig. im not a cop

yes the halos are customized depending on the god! some of them put time and effort into it. most don't though

[middlingmay]

Rebel!John x Pastor's son!Gale AU

“D’you think you’re a sinning man, John?”

That was the thing Gale Cleven was best at: taking any assumptions you had or expectations you made about him, tossing them in the dirt between your legs where you lay sprawled, and grinding them down into dust under his boot while you watched.

Metaphorically speaking. But it was a metaphor John had been thinking about a lot lately.

They sat parked up in his car, a town over from Daddy Cleven’s parish. John wasn’t sure what tale Gale had spun when he escaped the old man’s clutches. But he was sure that he didn’t care.

What he did care about, very much, was the way Gale looked in the fading light. Golden hair, golden skin - even the blue of his eyes absorbed the gold of the sun as it started to make its way to bed.

His shirt buttons still stood to attention, done right up to the top and his shirt was starched so it dug a little into his throat. Evidently he’d not had a chance to change into the soft cotton collars and cardigans he preferred when he didn’t have to be at attention for the Pastor.

But in a rare display of abandon, Gale had rolled up his cuffs and stretched out his arms as he lounged in the front seat of John’s beloved car, top down. One arm dangled over the end of the door, the other stretched over the back of the seat. John had never fully appreciated that particular design feature of his Buick Super Convertible Coupe; that the two front seats ran end to end, so it was a little like sitting on a couch. Not until the first time it allowed him to press his legs against the local pastor’s son in the name of ‘getting comfortable’.

The deep red leather was soft and supple and today Gale had felt some kind of way that had him knocking his knee against John’s and draping his arm across the divide so his fingertips nearly, nearly, tickled the very edges of John’s arms - right at the top, where it met the short cuff of his t-shirt.

His mom hated this shirt - said it showed more of him than was Godly. When he paired it like he did today, with tight blue denim jeans which hugged his strong waist and showed just how thick his thighs were, she tutted and swatted his behind with whatever she was holding before she ushered him outta her door until he “learned some damn sense! What kinda girl you gonna bring home to me looking like that?”

And the longer John spent with Gale, the clearer the answer was to him. Not a damn one.

Gale was staring at him and John realised he hadn’t answered the question. He’d just been staring at Gale like some love-sick dame.

John grinned, the one that revealed his teeth as it spread, and let him bite on his lip a little on the way.

Gale’s eyes flicked to it like they always did.

“Isn’t that a given?”

But Gale was good at recovering from John’s teasing, and levelled him with his own look, head cocked, like John was a child who was being deliberately obtuse.

“Is it?” he asked. “Because depsite your reputation around town, I ain’t seen you do anything immoral.”

Immoral. John latched onto the word like it was prey; a perfect opportunity to get Gale a little worked up.

“Well which are you asking? Immoral, or sinful?”

Gale’s brown furrowed, and he looked at John all suspicious like. “I don’t follow.”

John turned his body towards Gale, his own arm coming up to the back of the seat, draping over Gale’s who didn’t budget an inch.

“They’re not the same, Buck,” he said, using the nickname Gale pretended to hate.

There. He saw it. The intrigue; the temptation to bite the bait.

“Okay. How are they different?”

Hook, line, and sinker.

“Tell me what your seven sins are.”

Gale snorted. “You’re a Catholic, John. You know what they are.”

John didn’t laugh. “Say them.”

Noting the tone - the order - Gale sat up a little straighter. His arms dragged along the line of John’s as he did so. John felt it like static electricity.

“Pride.”

John nodded. “I got plenty of that. I’m proud of my car,” he gestured with his hand.

“You worked hard on it—”

“I’m proud of my looks. I like keeping my curls longer because I know what it looks like when someone wants to pull on ‘em. I like my legs,” he stretched them out a bit further and Gale’s first blush of the evening made its appearance. “They make me feel strong. And that makes me feel good. All those folks lookin’ at what I got.”

Gale was silent.

“What’s next?”

“Greed and gluttony.”

“Hm,” John made it a satisfied and contented sound. “Well, I’m not greedy for money, you know that. And if It was success and fame I was after, I’d have trotted to New York after my dad.”

Gale’s eyes softened at that, well aware of John’s tendency to self-sacrifice for the comfort of his mother and his sisters - something no one else knew apart from John’s best friend, Curt.

John was pleased to see it, that false sense of security, before he made his move. “At first, I told myself that everytime I saw you would be the last. I’d leave the pretty pastor’s son be, stop teasin’ and tormentin’ him and let him find some friends more like him.”

Blush number two.

“But each time we spoke, every time I got you to laugh, every time you caught me lookin’ - it just made me greedier, Gale. Just got me hungry.”

A soft breathe rushed from Gale’s lungs. His fists clenched where they rested. Perfect control.

“Sloth.”

John laughed, bright and happy. “The day you let me, I’ll spend the whole morning after showing you sloth, just you wait.”

Gale covered his mouth with the hand that had been resting on the door and snickered. John loved that he could make this boy, normally so solemn and serious with the weight of his father dragging him down, laugh so easily now. Gale shoved John back and inch and John let him, smiling like a fool.

“Alright, envy,” Gale said, finally getting into the game.

“Your buttons.”

Gale spluttered. “My what?”

John nodded at his buttoned up collar. “Your buttons. Your shirt.”

“You can’t be serious? You’re jealous of cloth?”

“Ah, ah,” John corrected him gleefully. “I’m envious.”

Gale rolled his eyes but John leaned over under the pretense of studying the button at the base of Gale’s throat, and the younger boy stilled like a deer. From here John could draw in the scent of him: soap something sweet, like chocolate.

A breath away from the lip of Gale’s shirt collar, John murmured,” They get to kiss ya in ways you ain’t let me, yet.”

Gale whipped his head round and John had to rear back lest he get smacked in the head, but he didn’t go far. He saw Gale walk that edge; the one between excitement and fear, both centred on what he really wanted.

The other thing John liked about Gale, was that he had a complete and utter inability to back down. In the fractional space between them now, Gale let the arm resting along the back of the seat drop in a ghost of an embrace as it curled around John where he sat. The other he slowly but deliberately brought to rest of John’s denim-clad knee, high though, and gripped like if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to control where it went.

“Lust?” Gale whispered against his face.

And it would have been easy, so easy for John to finally bridge that distance and claim a kiss. But just like all the other times, he couldn’t help but think it had to be perfect, not easy.

Instead, he tipped forward just enough to brush his nose against Gale’s; for their eyelashes to flutter against each other, and for their stubble to catch in a delicious scrape and burn as they breathed in each other’s air.

“You have no idea,” John’s voice rumbled in the coming dusk, “the fire I got inside me for you, Gale Cleven.”

Gale’s breathe was shaky and laboured and tumbled out of him in a stutter. And then, “Don’t I?”

John dropped his head to the curve of Gale’s neck with a thud and a pained groan, and Gale chuckled, deep and syrupy now that John wasn’t stealing his breath.

But never let it be said that John Egan did not give as good as he got.

“I am a sinful man, Gale,” he spoke, just below Gale’s ear. “I don’t look at you with piety or good, clean Christian love for mankind. If you judge me based on the Good Book, you make me wanna be a very bad man.”

Gale’s hand spasmed on his leg as John felt the weight of the other man’s head rest on the back of his, just for a second.

Then John asked, “But does that make me immoral? Does that make me evil?”

Gale pulled back and looked at John with horror. He could see the refusal in Gale’s eyes that the younger man wanted to speak into the air. Of course John wasn’t evil. How could he be?

Gently, John cupped Gale’s chin between a finger and a thumb. “Does my - do my feelings for you mean I gotta burn?”

Gale closed his eyes but not before John caught the flash of hurt. Gale tilted his head down so his mouth laid in the curve of John’s palm, and in that sacred hollow he said, “I won’t let you burn, Johnny. Least not alone.”

There. As close to an admission as Gale got that John wasn’t going crazy and he wasn’t in this alone. That Gale saw John the way John saw him, and he wasn’t getting himself off every night to a damned fantasy.

With more effort than he thought he had in him, John pulled back to the driver’s seat and shook it out: all the tension, his desire, his temptation. He shook his head, rolled his shoulders, smacked his hands on the steering wheel, and when he turned to Gale he looked near pristine, but for the raw, bare look in his eyes.

“I gotta get you home,” and John said it like a vow.

A few streets away from the Pastor’s house - because even Gale didn’t make John stupid enough to tempt fate like that and Gale wouldn’t let him even if he did - Gale paused before getting out the car.

“What about wrath?”

John, who hated dropping Gale off but always appreciated the momentary but completely unobstructed view of his ass as he left the car, took a second to catch up. “Huh?”

“Wrath. You never said how you were a wrathful man. You left it out.”

And John thought back to the busted lip that started this whole thing. To subsequent red cheeks and black eyes and that one time he walked into the garage to Curt pointing viciously at the back room and finding Gale curled up on the ratty couch there under his jacket, soaked to the bone and nose red, sleeping.

He couldn’t touch Gale, now. Not around so many houses full of curtain twitchers, night time or not. But he could hold his gaze, which so many people found hard to do with the pastor’s son, and he could promise:

“I will never hurt you, Gale.”

And if he expected some heartfelt look or words at the declaration, he would have been mightily disappointed. Gale looked affronted, like John had just treated him like he was stupid.

“I know that, idjit.”

John spluttered.

“But your boys say you’re awful good a fightin’”

When he was a little younger and a lot stupider, John used to fight for the hell of it; to feel something in the wake of his father walking out his life. But now he only fought for a good reason. And Gale and his boys were very good reasons.

“I look after mine, Gale.”

And Gale bit his lip at the meaning left unsaid and wished John a goodnight, before he exited the car and walked off into the night.

John watched Gale until he turned the corner, like he always did, before he collapsed against the back of the seat and rubbed his face hard with his hands.

Gale Cleven. John was fairly sure he was going to hell for that man.

[hyunsvngs]

Glad people liked some good old catholic guilt 😭 Since some asked for more, here’s a few additions:

Priest Hyunjin who almost gets a love boner from seeing you in long flowy sundress at your nephew’s baptism, being all motherly and warm. Who feels actual tears well up in his eyes and rage in his chest when he sees a man hug your waist and kiss your cheek. Who swallows the feeling of injustice and jealousy of not being able to hold you in public.

Priest Hyunjin who sees the wonder in your eyes everytime when you see him naked and vulnerable, just for you. Whose heart swells with pride with knowing only you gets to see him like this. Same when he sees the scowl on your face when you overhear young girls fawning over him at church. Who loves the thought of being yours.

Priest Hyunjin who can’t help but giggle when you playfully nibble his neck and leave a small lipstick mark before fixing his clerical collar and sending him off. Who always leans into your touch; eyes closed and lips into a pout, subconsciously chasing for more of you when you break the kiss.

Priest Hyunjin who sees God in you everyday. His sweet angel, his safe haven. Who drinks every word you say, who’s so grateful for your compassion, for the friendly ear you lend him. His funny, kind, witty, pretty girl.

Priest Hyunjin who often gets emotional when you’re being intimate. When you’re both connected, sitting and facing each other bc you both crave the closeness. Who cries and mumbles verses and asks for forgiveness while he’s thrusting up into you, his pleas muffled, mouth against your sweaty chest.

Priest Hyunjin who finds salvation in your arms, who finds comfort in your caresses, your fingers softly raking through his hair. "Shh shh, it’s ok, angel. Take what you need."

Priest Hyunjin who’s only ever known devotion and worshipping but starts to learn about being worshipped. Who melts into a puddle when you slowly kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, his fingers. Who can’t believe /you/ kneel before him and begs for /him/.

Priest Hyunjin who’s convinced you are an angel. That there is not an iota of evil in you, that you’re a miracle. But who still fasts for 24 hours or takes ice baths after every encounter with you, for every violent pleasure deserves punishment.

Priest Hyunjin who always wants you on his mouth. Who crawls to you when you’re sitting, just reading a book, and tenderly rests his head on your lap, like a puppy snuggling up to its owner. Who sometimes fall asleep suckling your fingers, as if you were made of the sweetest sugar. Who lets you hump his face everyday bc that always makes him feel closer to God somehow.

Priest Hyunjin who develops a sick fascination with catching glimpses of you guys making love in the reflection of the mirror across his bed. Who loves seeing himself loving you so reverently and so tenderly, again and again and again. Simultaneously disgusted and obsessed with the way the cross around his neck dangles rhythmically between your two beautiful tangled naked bodies.

Priest Hyunjin whose thoughts get more and more impure. Who wants to claim and mark you, leave a pretty bruise on your neck. Who wants to bend you over, lick up your spine and fuck you properly. Who wants to feel the weight of your legs on his shoulders while he’s ravaging you. Who wants to kiss your feet, and maybe even feel them on his cock, if you allow it.

Priest Hyunjin who will end up fasting again tomorrow, if it means he can make you cum again and hear you moan his name in his ear the day after.

I FUCKING NEEEEEEDD MORE OF THIS HOLY SHIT. i'm gonna start tagging this as blasphemy kink so ppl can block it if needbe!!

[thanotaphobia]

His dad was never religious– kind of the opposite actually. But Theo's parents were hardcore Catholics; in the strange fragile time between elementary school and middle school before he and Theo really became delinquents, he has hazy memories of attending children's church together. He can remember waking up early and borrowing some of Theo's clothes, shirt collars too tight and pants neatly pressed. Theo's mom had always fussed over him a little more than necessary, muttering something in Tagalog and then trying fruitlessly to tame his hair. They'd walk to the local church together, Theo and Emizel up ahead with his parents behind. Honestly, it had been the most normal he'd ever felt. Like a real kid with a real family, like his dad wasn't halfway to deadbeat and his school record wasn't full of red marks and recommendations for psych evals.  He and Theo had sat next to each other– the memories are cloudy, like he’s peering into a foggy mirror. The church had been a modern building and the kids would go with a young guy to the basement, and they’d all sit on plastic chairs and watch the man (a priest, or something like it) tell them stories from the Bible, sometimes using a rolling whiteboard behind him to illustrate. Not many of them paid any real attention, Emizel least of all. He and Theo were always messing about, getting into trouble even if there was no real trouble to be had.  But he can remember the story of Cain and Abel if he tries hard enough. Mixed between fuzzy memories of paper football and being forced to memorize the Hail Mary; brother against brother, stone in hand. He can see the illustration on the whiteboard, a word circled in red dry erase marker: jealousy. Mother's grief over the first murder. Am I my brother's keeper?

you know what im on about

[hello-is-anyone-there]

Vague Guide to Gothic Academia

Lebanon Hanover (totally not because they're my favorite to write to nooo)

Franz Gordon has some really beautiful piano pieces I highly recommend if you want more classical goth music

Danse Macabre

Hannibal Lector (NBC included)

Criminology

Law in general actually

Religious studies

Come on guys the catholic aesthetics are pulling through here

Victorian collars

Leather gloves

Menthols (this one is just a personal preference, don't smoke)

As much as I hate to say it, Schopenhauer and Roubiczek

I really dislike dark philosophy but it just lines up so well >:[

Moving on to something I like far more: Taxidermy

I'm thinking mostly bones or wet specimens

Normal taxidermy works too but I think it'd clash with dorm space

Leather, silk, and velvet are good staple textures in my opinion

Which does make this harder to style in the summer but tbf dark linens have such a nice flow

The moon, obviously

Astrophysics in general. The stars and the vast existentialism of space are such a good niche. Also I don't see as much STEM majors in these things as I'd like

I'm an arts man for sure, fucked up over literature and philosophy sure, but SCIENCE BRO

That shit is so dark especially going into death studies or psychology

Honestly being a doctor in general can fuck you up

Always smelling like a cadaver (perfume or otherwise...)

Long coats, heavy boots, ties, chains, trad and victorian goth gear both work here

I do like to lean more into dark academia visually with gothic academia, just because my wardrobe would have too much of the same shit going on

Dark sweaters, waist coats and corsets, well fitting suit pants, a well structured light colored blouse usually help balance out

Gothic academia in my opinion is balance between structure and loose chaos

Makeup can also be important for a look so I suggest, strong sharp contor, white accents and dark liner. A red/maroon lip is a good choice for dark makeup in general.

I got distracted by the visual elements woops

A lot of the staple dark academia books work really well

A good murder plot always helps

The Divine Comedies - Dante

The Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux

Carmilla - Sheridan Le Fanu

NIGHT CLASSES!!!

I can't believe I forgot that one

Getting drunk on Absinthe and red wine like a damn vampire

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Meghans deep shame of being lower class by u/EleFacCafele

Meghan’s deep shame of being lower class One of Meghan’s issues that is rarely discussed is her deep shame of being born in a lower class and her desperate attempt to erase any record of her being of a lower class. Her father, Thomas was a financially successful working-class man but he remained all his life a glorified blue collar. Dorito was socially underclass, with her lack of education, lack of work ethic, absence of any moral value, income generation by criminal activities (drug dealings, scams, using sex to get men, etc) and parasitic way of life by using and then discarding people.When the financially stable Thomas put Meghan in an good middle-class Catholic school, Meghan became of the social differences between her, daughter of a single blue collar and the middle-class, normal family girls. She attached herself to Ninaki Priddy, very middle-class. She felt deeply ashamed of the low social status of her parents and family and, to compensate, she became obsessed to become a Queen, a Princess, someone really at the top of the social hierarchy. All her obsession with Diana is the desire to become an upper class, billionaire, aristocratic princes because she was deeply ashamed of her very low status at birth.Having learned from her mother all the ways of the underclass (don’t give milk for free), she decided to apply her methods of acquiring status and wealth by any means (legit or not), while in parallel erasing her lower class status and inventing an upper-middle class upbringing. Getting a degree was the first step. Erasing her biracial origin and pretending she was a highly cultured Caucasian on CVs came next. Then the Tig blog where she made believe she was a high maintenance, upper middle-class actress with sophisticated luxury tastes. As some actress do, she allegedly used high end prostitution to survive (yachting, Soho house hostess, etc.) while hunting for a rich man. Started to behave as a mean Diva, ruthless, demanding, impossible to satisfy person, as that was her was vision about rich powerful people. She covered all with her curated image of a refined higher-class woman, chasing well-off men (Trevor, Cory then Hapless) in her desperate drive to climb socially and erase her past and background. She then discarded everyone who was of no use, or had stories about her past.When she finally arrived, marrying a blood prince from the most prestigious Royal Family, she desperately tried to hid her low-class mixed race background and shady past. She manipulated her father to stop giving her away, uninvited her entire family (bar her underclass mama to play the Rcard) at the wedding, invited famous people she never knew personally. etc. Later she enlisted her husband and others in "slaying dragons", aka erasing all information that does not fit the image she wants to project aka of an upper class woman (Duchess) with impeccable past, doing philanthropy and being successful financially and socially.Then she run away, as she could not adapt to the World she wanted so desperately to belong. The façade started to crumble, real upper class people saw her imposture, and the Royal Family gave her the boot when her malignant Diva behaviours became unbearable. Her descent from royalty into the world of wannabe celebrity was really fast, just of few years.Her entire pathologically narcissistic behaviour originates from the deep shame of being a lower-class mixed-race woman. Just an explanation, not an excuse. post link: https://ift.tt/hH29ayv author: EleFacCafele submitted: December 26, 2023 at 10:07AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[jarviscockerssecrethusband]

What I have chosen to do instead of starting my history/film studies essay

Billy Hargrove is a deeply complicated character who was born of two white mens’ want to get out of the very real and valid accusations of racism following the way they wrote Lucas’s character in series 1. However, because this is fandom and The Duffers, there is a tendency to simplify him. And that is fucking boring. This is why (in a very brief form) Billy Hargrove acts the way he does from the perspective of history, politics and sociology.

(Discussing topics less touched on because analysis of Billy in relation to queerness or abuse have been done FAR better than I would explain them)

Even just his name tells us a lot about him as a character. The surname Hargrove originates in Cheshire, in the north west of England. Based on historical context, the Hargrove’s likely moved from Cheshire to Liverpool sometime after 1770, looking for work in Liverpool’s ports, possibly making the move to America sometime post 1850. His mothers side are very clearly Catholic, possibly Irish-Americans. And the first name Billy is a traditional blue collar, working class name. Probably coincidental but a name popular in Liverpool.

Neil and the absolute piece of steaming shit that he is fits in chronologically with the rise of Californian conservatism in the 1960s and 1970s, and the “plain folk” stance that politicians like Nixon took in order to appeal to the white working to upper working class. This type of plain folk outlook blamed both the upper class from the north but also relied on the racist and classist politics of blaming African Americans and those in poverty for all societal ills.

Significantly, Billy in canon was living through a time of globalisation where exposure to the international was becoming more accessible than it had ever been. Just though watching the news it would have been easy to become disillusioned. The Troubles, Brazil’s military dictatorship, The Miners Strike, Israel’s colonisation of Palestine, Cold War propaganda, the AIDS pandemic. It would be very easy to drop into a counter culture subculture.

Do we have any proof that he cared about these issues? Not really. Do we have any proof that he DIDN’T care about these issues though- I’m going to say no to that as well.

Billy represents a more demonised figure than both Eddie and Jonathan for one simple reason though. He is the most stereotypical portrayal of a working class man. Jonathan and Eddie both have tangible connections to interests read as more middle class but Billy’s hyper masculinist presentation and relationship with his car makes him the perfect Proletariat villain.

In relation to why it is so popular to hate Billy in comparison to literally every other character in stranger things, even Neil and Karen, who were objectively terrible people, there could be a lot of different reasons.

One thing is undoubtedly true though.

You can’t ignore Billy Hargrove

[lavender-romancer]

Deceiver

Part Six

Tommy Shelby x Reader

CW: slow burn, arguing

You've been involved with the Peaky Blinders business for a few years now, undiscovered as a woman posing as a man. Now the Shelby boys have grown suspicious of you and want you found out.

an: set in season one

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

previous part

It had been two days since you'd been back to the shop, regardless of what happened with Tommy you weren't at all sure where you stood with him or if he even remembered. You were in some sort of semi-depression state, unwilling or unable to look after yourself and it frustrated you. Letting yourself get to this point after how hard you'd worked your whole life, allowing it to fall apart because of your own feelings? It felt unforgivable on your part.

"Eddie?" You heard with a knock on the door, it was Tommy.

"Evening, Tommy." You said as you opened the door and let him in.

"I want your help," Tommy said as he sat down in your front room.

"My help? That's it, that's what you've come for, right." You scoffed.

"Y/n, please. I-I can't right now I need your help because of how we trust each other." Tommy looked up at you as he sat and you stood above him with crossed arms.

"What is it?" You sighed and sat down.

"It's Grace," Tommy paused. "She's been asking Arthur questions about our business and how we store things."

"You mean how you got angry at me for pointing out she'd done something suspicious and now she is again?" You raised your voice.

"There's no point bringing it all up right now alright. I thought she might just be nosey or trying to fuck me but now I'm not sure." Tommy rubbed his face and you sighed.

"Oh yeah, because everyone wants you. Don't they Thomas? That's just a fact with all women." You looked away from him with a far out look in your eyes.

"That's not what I mean and you fucking know that, don't make this into something that it isn't." He shook his head and you grimaced.

"And why should I help you?" You asked.

"Because you're the only one I trust with this." Tommy looked up at you with pleading eyes.

"But that fucking…that woman is in love with you and it just frustrates me that you practically return it without even meaning it." You crossed your arms and sat down on the sofa with a huff after realising you sounded like a pathetic child.

"Oh really?" Tommy asked with a smirk.

"Can't believe you're loving this," you tried to hide your smile but Tommy saw it.

"Oh I'm loving the fact that you hate whenever I give another woman attention." Tommy was running his tongue along his bottom set of teeth with a grin and you rolled your eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" You finally asked with a sigh.

Tommy wanted you to meet Grace at closing time and take her to the local Catholic church to offer her another job, see how she acted in the church and if she was really a Catholic. You had to admit it was a perceptive plan but you didn't know if Grace would take to it.

You'd decided on a white penny collar shirt with an understated but expensive looking gray blazer and waistcoat with a pocket watch. It made you look more like a blinder with the large overcoat and cap, you became the mentality of a member of the peaky blinders. The outfit had just as much to do with how you acted as your fake identity did- it made you feel like you were playing a part. When you walked downstairs Tommy wolfwhistled and you rolled your eyes.

"Alright, so outside the Garrison right? I should get there when she's locked up if I leave now." You sat down adjacent to Tommy on the sofa and he looked you up and down.

"If I'm honest, you look even better as a man than I do." He stood up and sat next to you, placing his hand over yours, both rough with years of fighting.

"Now you're just flirting with me," you looked at him with a raised eyebrow and took off your cap.

"You look more like you now, I know you hate being a secret but you're the only one I can feel this way with. I think you feel the same." Tommy lifted his hand and stroked your cheek with the back.

"What you said…the other night about wanting me. Is that true?" You asked in a quiet voice and Tommy sighed before pulling his hand back.

"I don't know if it's a good decision to discuss this right now." He rubbed his forehead as if he was tired.

"Then what other time? We have to at some point, you told me you would kill for-"

"I know what I said but…I just don't think it's the time," Tommy quickly stood up and you put your head in your hands.

"So now you're leaving because you're scared of a conversation? Where's the fearless Tommy Shelby who would've done anything for me?" You stood up and looked into his eyes.

"He doesn't live in my rational mind. Just fucking meet Grace alright?" He walked past you and slammed the front door on his way out. You let out a big breath and gave yourself five minutes before also leaving, headed towards the Garrison.

It hadn't been a busy night for Grace, just a few regulars. Tuesdays seemed to be the loneliest days for her behind the bar and she wasn't sure why but either way it was the worst day for business. She'd found another shipment of cigarettes eaten by rats and smelling of rot but Arthur didn't seem too bothered. Working against the Shelby's had started to become harder for her, the feelings she had for Thomas were very confusing. It made her constantly regret her decision to be working against the family.

"Where you headed?" A voice scared Grace out of her thoughts as she locked the door and turned around, seeing you.

"Is that your business?" Grace asked as she went to walk past you but you stopped her, holding her arm.

"Tommy's asked me to offer you something, so if you want to know what, you should follow." You thrust your hands in your pocket and brought out your cigarettes and lighter before walking off. You smiled devilishly as you heard Grace following, you wanted to shoot her right there and then.

As you approached the church you almost wished you could hear the voice of God to guide you in some way. But it was just a building with benches and candles to you. You walked in and stood at the back near the pews as you walked down the middle you made notice of the fact that Grace didn't make the sign of the cross as she walked in. You both sat down together on the second row from the front and looked at the altar before you.

"We know you've been cottoning on to things happening within the business. What we also know is that you haven't been scared away yet and we need people like that." You started and Grace looked at you with distaste.

"So why are you here and not Tommy?" She asked with a scowl and you laughed.

"Why didn't you sign the cross as you came in? Like every good Catholic girl would." You returned as quick as anything and she sighed.

"You're just as perceptive, I see." She faced forward.

"Tommy wants you to have an additional job within the company, more of an occasional occupation. He needs someone to look good, and look official at meetings with him. Not someone who looks like a whore." You took off your cap and pushed back your hair.

"And why am I being trusted with this?" Grace asked, puzzled as to how she was organically infiltrating the business.

"That's not for you to worry about, Tommy needs you to go to the races with him, he can tell you more when the time comes," You leant over your knees and closed your eyes "Keep your nose fucking clean or he'll kill you. You should know that."

"Thank you," Grace said quietly "I appreciate the extra work."

"Happy to be of service, now are you going to tell me where you're really from or do I have to reveal that I know you didn't work in that pub in Belfast?" You asked turning your head to face her, she seemed contempt not even afraid.

"So I've been background checked then." Grace smiled.

"You're a liar Grace, not that we care. You don't belong here but you've given us an opportunity to use something that we can't buy…class." You sat back in your chair and looked at her, as she turned her head you realised you were quite close to her face.

"I like to try to fit in." Grace said quietly.

"For whatever reason, you're here. You know that a lot of what we do is illegal but you'd still want to take the job, that's an asset for people like us." You said softly as you looked at her eyes, they were a beautiful sky blue.

"Is that an offer?" She moved closer to you.

"I've been told it is." You muttered before she kissed you and pulled back almost simultaneously.

"I thought so. You kiss like a woman." Grace said near your ear and you chuckled.

"Will you do it?" You asked with a stony look in your eyes, a rage about to erupt.

"Yes," she answered and you stood up. As you walked away she called after you and you turned around,

"Tell Tommy I asked after him." She had a mischievous smile on her face and you nodded before turning on your heel, lighting a cigarette. You wanted to punch her in the face till she couldn't speak.

Why had she kissed you? Just to mess with your psyche or something? And the fucking woman comment- it was messing with your head. She couldn't know anything, you'd covered your tracks so well and you knew none of the Shelby's would give you up. It was a secret that the whole family knew would destroy you.

"How was it?" Tommy asked you the next day in the shop.

"Effective. She accepted. But..."

"What happened?" Tommy raised an eyebrow and you got close to his ear.

"She kissed me and then said I kiss like a woman," you whispered.

"Well that's a lot to unpack," Tommy sat down next to you.

"Yeah, exactly. What the fuck does that mean?" You rubbed your face and let your knees bounce anxiously "What if she knows?"

"There's no way she'd know. None of us would've told her, even when Arthur is drunk he calls you Eddie." Tommy looked over at the chalkboard for a moment.

"She wants to meet you tonight, she told me at the Garrison this morning. So have fun with that barrel of laughs," you rolled your eyes and Tommy scoffed.

"You really are jealous aren't you?" Tommy leant back in his chair.

"Can't believe you're still obsessing over that," you rolled your eyes again.

"And I can't believe your eyes haven't rolled into the back of your head by this point," Tommy pushed your leg with his shoe and you glared at him before smiling.

"You're just a flirt, Thomas." You whispered and he nodded slowly.

"Can you blame me?" He asked.

"All I know is that you love the attention." You stacked some books you'd already checked and stood up with them in your arms.

"You'd miss entertaining me," Tommy added as he tailed behind you.

Later, Tommy had gone to meet Grace and you'd stayed back to organise your desk so it wasn't such a catastrophic bomb site every morning you walked in. Thinking over the last few months you couldn't even begin to understand how you'd got to where you were now.

"You coming for a drink?" John asked as he walked through the shop coat in hand.

"Ooh, I think I can squeeze one in to my busy schedule." You stretched back in your chair and yawned.

"What a tough, tough life you lead," he said sarcastically and you stuck your tongue out.

"Come on then," you stood up and followed John to the Garrison.

Walking in and seeing Grace eyeing up Tommy over the bar made you want to jump over it and tear her hair out but you had to remind yourself that it was pathetic. This ridiculous idea of infighting between the two of you when Tommy had made it clear he wanted you made no sense. You knew the truth of all of it, she could only make assumptions. You followed John into the private room where Arthur and Polly were already sat with a bottle of whisky.

"The tireless workers finally join us!" Arthur announced and you smiled before sitting down opposite him and next to Polly.

"How have you been?" Polly asked with a smile and you nodded.

"Good, ready to have a pint and relax." You sighed.

"Someone's feeling stressed..." John laughed and Arthur joined.

"Can't think of any reason why," Arthur said sarcastically and you raised an eyebrow towards him.

"Oh come on, what is it? What's ap obvious?" You asked looking between both the brothers.

"Oh come on, Y/n," Polly added

"What!" You exclaimed.

"I saw that look on your face when you walked in, it's like you want everyone to know what's in your head." John lit a cigarette.

"Thought you were supposed to be good at keeping secrets?" Arthur smirked.

"Oh fuck off. So you all know?" You asked.

"You and Tommy aren't exactly secretive around us lot." John poured you a whisky and pushed it over.

"Well it doesn't change anything. He's still fucking around with her," you gestured to the door.

"Ooooh, someone's jealous!" Arthur let out a hearty laugh and you narrowed your eyes at him.

"I am not."

"You completely are! I'm a woman, pet. I know that look anywhere." Polly looked at you knowingly and you sat back into your seat with a huff.

"Can I see you tonight?" Grace asked Tommy in hushed tones in the back room of the Garrison.

"Not tonight, I've got plans. Next week I'll come and see you." Tommy looked through his eyelashes at her.

"You're certainly not open with your feelings are you, Tommy Shelby?" Grace smiled sweetly and Tommy couldn't help but return it.

"I can say it's not one of my strong points these days," he paused "But I want to see you again." He touched her arm and could only wish of being intimate with you this way.

"Ditto," Grace whispered before kissing him on the cheek and walking past him back into the bar.

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

next part

Taglist:

@kathrinemelissa @wolfieellsworld @archivallyfound09 @hopefulinlove @globetrotter28 @just-a-blackhole @sillyfreakfanparty @lovelyreader22 @leaked-adrenaline @ghxst-heart @bat-luna-cat @emily-roberts @thattransgayscout @pockeymcmockey @moonshooter @hiatuswhore @missmunscn @slutforcoffein @lovemisshoneybee-blog

Peaky Blinders Taglist:

@queenofkings1212 @severewobblerlightdragon @cl5369 @fairypitou @stressedandbandobessed7771 @shadow-of-wonder @hipsternoionlylikeunicorns @curled-hair-red-lips @lucystivinsky1315

[hecatemoon87]

Warnings ⚠️ smut. Minors DNI

Master list

Part VI - sorry, no editing first draft. Hopefully, it is still enjoyable.

Bob picked up a red pen and wrote a big X on the calendar. One day down, seven more to go.

He was counting down the days left of being in the priesthood and when he could officially be with his beloved, Jocelyn. It was slow going, but Bob wanted to complete the transition of his junior priest duties, and therefore had to wait.

The fact of the matter was that the whole thing would be a lot easier if Jocelyn wasn't constantly trying to temp him! The last time he had encountered her, he had made out with her and may have slipped a few fingers into her tight, little pussy. He was currently thinking of her slick, velvet walls when a chalkboard eraser was launched at his shoulder.

"Hey, Bob! I've been talking this whole time! Didn't you hear anything I said?" It was Bob's fellow junior priest, Jason Choi.

"Huh? Uh, sorry. I was thinking about something else," Bob said, bending down to pick up the eraser.

Jason rolled his eyes and said, "I was trying to tell you that the front court yard needs the leaves raked. I'll get the chalkboards."

"Oh, right. I'll...I'll go rake the courtyard then," Bob said, glad his concentration was broken from thinking about sex. Working with a slight hard on inside a church wasn't entirely ideal.

Bob had made pretty good progress on the leaves when his phone buzzed. He extracted it from his back pocket, checked the text and nearly dropped his phone.

Jocelyn had texted him a picture of herself in a sexy Catholic school girl uniform. She was licking a candied sucker rather suggestively. Beneath the image, she had texted, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

Bob sighed. He wasn't going to get through these next seven days without sinning some more. He pocketed his phone and returned to his raking. After a few minutes, he shook his head and put the rake back in the shed. Then, he made his way to Jocelyn's place.

He had a key and unlocked the front door, then locked it behind him. He placed his keys, phone, and wallet on the kitchen table. Then he rolled up the sleeves to his black priest shirt and made his way to the back bedroom where he found Jocelyn laying on her stomach, reading a book. It was the Bible.

She looked up very innocently and blinked. "Oh, Father Saginowski, I was reading the Bible like a good girl, just like you wanted. But I read about how women are the source of all sin and, well, that just made me horny," she said, biting her bottom lip. Her long black hair was made into a single loose braid that hung over her shoulder, and she twirled at the end as she spoke.

The school uniform barely covered her shapely figure, and the whole role-playing situation broke him. Here, he stood before her in his black priest attire with white collar included. His sleeves rolled up, looking down on this naughty little school girl.

"You've been a very, very, bad girl. You've tempted me from day one, and now, I'm going to punish you," he growled, but all in good fun as this made Jocelyn moan with pleasure, hearing her man being dominant turned her on.

He reached forward, grabbing her smooth, toned legs, and forced her to sit on the edge of the bed, holding her wrists tight. Then he pushed her short skirt to see she wasn't wearing any panties. He grunted upon seeing her naked mound and squated down, yanking her legs up and over his shoulders, burying his tongue into her womanhood.

Jocelyn had not expected him to react so ravenously but gladly fell back onto the bed and squirmed under his lapping tongue. "Oh, Father, yes, baby, yes," she purred.

Bob's cock was hard and he couldn't help but dry hump the air a little as he devoured her cunt. Her fingers glided through his hair, and the sounds of her pleasure burned through him.

He wanted to get her good and wet because he had every intention in pounding that sexy, but oh, so very frustrating little pussy of hers.

He found her clit and mercilessly twirled his tongue over that little, sensitive nub. This caused Jocelyn to shudder and whine, begging him to undo her. And he did, feeling her gush forth over his tongue and mewling like that perfect sinful slut like she was.

Bob licked her one last time before standing up and wiping her honey from his mouth. She looked at him dreamily and was about to say something, something clever, no doubt, but Bob was at his limit with her sass. He undid her shirt, which was only sealed by a simple knot.

As the shirt fell open, his eyes saw her ample, round bouncy breasts, tipped with small pert little nipples begging to be sucked, pinched, and squeezed. He fell upon her, his mouth finding purchase on her left nipple, nibbling and licking like his favorite treat.

Jocelyn cooed and wiggled beneath him, and he broke from her breasts to kiss her deeply. When he broke the kiss, he whispered in her ear, "I'm going to bred that little cunt of yours," Then stood up and flipped her on her stomach. With a knee, he shoved her legs part, her perfect little ass arched up, showing him her drenched pussy lips.

He undid his belt and was about to cast it away but grinned to himself and used it to spank her bottom.

"Bob!" Jocelyn squeaked and turned to look at him.

"What? Too hard?"

She paused, taking in the sensation of the burn and said, "Do it again."

He obeyed and gave her another crack over her soft cheeks. She moaned and gripped the bed sheets, "Bob, oh fuck, I need you, now. Fill my pussy up with that big cock," she whined. Bob dropped his pants and plowed right through her succulent lips, parting her walls and stuffing her completely with his throbbing member. The head of his cock meet the back of her core and he flexed, causing Jocelyn to whimper in both pain and pleasure. "Oh, yes. Punish me, Daddy! Make me your little fuck toy please!!" She begged.

Bob did not hesitate and drilled her into the mattress. Any guilt he had been feeling was far gone as he felt her tight cunt clenched around his girth. He made the whole bed shake, holding her by her haunches and pounding hard.

Hus pants slipped down to his ankles. He pulled out of her, abandoning her hungry pussy causing her to fuss. But he needed to kick the pants away and remove his shirt, he was sweating hard.

Now, fully naked, he pulled her back on his cock and finished breeding her. He came hard, filling her womb with his viscous seed, hot and syrupy.

Jocelyn seemed to be having another orgasm as her cunny clenched and swallowed vigorously over his cock, causing him to cum harder.

As he came down, he was spent. It was like all the tension, guilt, and stress of his life had been erased.

Jocelyn rolled over onto her back and motioned for him to lie beside her. She took him into her arms and kissed his forehead. He nestled his head upon her chest, listening as her heart rate when back down.

"That was amazing, baby. I hope you're not feeling too guilty she said, smoothing back his hair and looking into his handsome face.

He smiled and laughed softly. "Since when did you care if I feel guilty for my sins?"

"I think it's all very silly, but I do love you, so I care," she said, frowning.

He nodded and pulled her into his arms. "I know, I love you too. But damn, Jocelyn, you are relentless."

She giggled and snuggled into him further. "You cummed a boat load in me. I doubt my birth control will stand against all that. Do you want a baby?"

Bob pulled back to look at her square in the face, "Uh, shit. We probably need to get married before that, right?"

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "I want an outdoor wedding, then."

"But inside a church is better," he said.

"Whatever, I guess I can let you have that. But our wedding night will be filled with sin, I guarantee it."

The end.

[rosduncan]

Tagged by @gyokujyn

if you get this, answer w/ three random facts about yourself and send it to the last seven blogs in your notifs. anon or not, doesn’t matter, let’s get to know the person behind the blog!

1. When I was 8 my mom joined a cult. So my normal middle-class 80s childhood got pretty weird and removed from the rest of the world most of the time. Leaving said cult in my late teen/early 20's left me with a large number of gaps in my pop culture experiences and ability to understand references. "That man out of time" feeling is one of the biggest reasons I found myself relating to MCU Steve Rogers... Well that and not being able to know when to shut up or walk away.

2. When I was about 4 I cried when my good Catholic Grandmother gently and compassionately explained that i'd never get to be an altar boy, or a priest when I got older. I still love studying theology and the smell of incense... Shame though, I'd have looked hot in that collar.

3. All of my memories are strongly tied to scents. This can sometimes make painting difficult for me if what I'm trying to paint runs contrary to what I'm smelling.

No pressure guys but this did seem fun. (:

@annotated-catastrophe @gogandmagog @stuckyfingers @sonnenby @dontknowanythingohwell @gay-jewish-bucky @stuckydrewx

[eatommo]

Tear You Apart [m.m]

A/n: The follow-up is here! Finally! thank you for hanging in there for me. I'm pretty happy with how this turned out and I love to report that I am feeling a lot better. Fill up my inbox with asks/requests, we are nearing 300 followers, and I would love to do some requests, even new characters (really into Din Djarin right now) so ask away!

Cw: Age gap, a continuation from wake-up call (same pairing but you don’t need to know to understand), object insertion, improper use of weapons, feral!matt, corruption kink, breeding kink (minor), praise kink, meandom!matt, reader doesn’t stand up for herself. (hell she can hardly sit straight), choking kink (this is intense), little bit of throttling, mentions of catholic symbolism, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

w.c: Just over 9.2K

Summary: Not long after finding out Matt is Daredevil, do you get to experience him.

The first night you spent in Matt’s apartment comes to mind in flashes.  You could still smell the musk on his sheets, and feel the heat of his chest at your back as he fucked you relentlessly with his hand placed firmly over the necklace he had secured in place just an hour before. 

The way his hands spread over your throat, spanning collar bone to collar bone, had you feeling completely at his disposal.  There was absolutely no way you could overpower him, he had you however he wanted you, and you wore a reminder of that very deal you had struck around your neck. 

No matter the bruises and palm or belt shaped welts he left on you, the familiar weight of the chain swinging freely fropm your neck grounded you.  You were his to bend over, you were his to eat, you were his to command.  

He came hard, perhaps the hardest you’ve seen him before.  With your brain scrambled and the coating of your tangled releases clinging to your thighs, you rolled to face him.  Body aching with aftershocks, and from being so taught with drawn-out tension that had you feeling like an over-stretched rubber band, you collapsed. 

For the first of many times, Matt snuck out.  You must’ve been stupid, or too fucked out to care.  Because while no new scars appeared out of thin air, bruises and small lacerations floated across his skin from one location to another like some twisted Timelapse of a color inverted sky. 

Weeks later, if it wasn’t for a nightmare about a man watching you while you slept, you probably never would’ve caught him standing over you.  

The matte red of his suit dulled the shifting colors from the billboard outside, and while you hadn’t lived in New York for very long, the form was unrecognizable.  

You start to scream, the air burning your windpipe as it reaches the back of your throat and is muffled by a gloved hand before it bubbles from you. 

“Ease up princess,” the hair on the back of your neck stands up, feeling like a dog who had been backed into a corner, “It’s just me.” 

The adrenaline in your body is shoving each rational thought out of reach.  “Matt?” You squeak, not able to hear your voice clearly through the tightness of his hand.

“More or less.”  He smirks, teeth flashing in the dim light of the room, “Don’t make a sound, be my good girl and let me speak hm?” 

You stay silent, unable to patch a cognitive sentence together.  His hand falls back to his side, and your body flinches, pulse still loud in your ears. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,  I heard you and I thought something was wrong.”  His breath is uneven, and his hands are uncontrollably twitching at his side with the energy of the hunt coursing through his veins. 

You open your mouth to speak, but decide better to stand up and examine him.  His silhouette looms over you, the broad expanse of his chest covered by a thick red armour like material, the cowl on his head covers his forehead and eyes, your gaze floats down to those lips you know so well, and you lean in for a short kiss, reassuring yourself.  Perched on his head are two small horns, Matt is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Your confusion melts away into disdain and anger.  The scars, the bruises, split knuckles, and cracked ribs are because he’s fighting crime in the city, not because he’s boxing in some underground fights.  “How are you doing this?” Somehow it’s the only question you’re able to form.  

“It’s all… complicated.”  The playfulness in Matt’s tone is dismissive; it only infuriates you further.

“I don’t even know where to start–“ your voice is teetering on the edge of sobbing and yelling, “Are you hurt?” 

“No. Not tonight at least.” He lifts the helmet off his face, his hair is tousled like you’ve seen it so many times before. “Go back to sleep.” 

“No. Don’t dismiss my concern for you.” The sadness in your voice felt like ice on his skin.  “Matt, how is this even possible?” His gloved hands brush a single tear from your cheek. 

“I was blinded by chemicals that enhanced my other senses.  I can smell your tears, and the vanilla soap you used this morning, I can hear your heartbeat and tell when you’re lying.” He pauses, taking a deep breath, “I can taste you on the air, every time you walk into my office, right now… I can discern your heartbeat from the rest of Hell's Kitchen.” 

You nod your head as he speaks, and now you realize he knows when those things happen.  “I forgot to ask, have you spoken with Foggy and Karen?” 

He turns away from you almost immediately, clearly hoping you had dropped this topic entirely.  “I haven’t. I don’t understand why it’s such a huge deal for you.” His voice cuts the air like a knife, settling in tension you hadn’t recognized.  

“What do you mean for me?”  Your brows knit together in a cocktail of confusion and anger. “You said it wouldn’t matter, that they might be surprised but it wouldn’t change anything?  I thought I made it clear I didn’t want to sneak around anymore.” 

Through gritted teeth he retorts, “I don’t want things to change.  Plus I had to tell you about this before or Foggy would’ve asked me to chase you away.  Or even did it himself.”  His head tilts every few seconds as you realize with a start that he’s reading your mind through your body language.

“Im not going to be your house pet.  That’s not what I want out of this, you know that. Why would he chase me away?”  You feel your temperature rising, and a small shake starts at the base of your spine and makes its way to the ends of your fingernails. You’re completely frustrated by his words, and to make matters worse he’s completely aware. 

“It’s dangerous.” He states as if the answer is clear as the night sky.  

“What is? To be sleeping with the Devil?”  A raging laugh simmers in your throat, unable to escape the failing hold you have on it.  

“Everyone around Daredevil gets hurt–“ 

You cut him off, that ominous snicker breaking free, “Daredevil isn’t hurting me, Matt, you are.”  

He turns as if to walk away, before changing his mind and spinning back around to face you.  “I know.” The words are cracked and the bitterness in them tastes like salt on your tongue. 

“Why am I here? With you?”  You can feel your resolve breaking, tears burning your eyes, you want him to taste them, to understand the gravity of what you’re saying.

“Because I’ve been selfish. Realistically, Foggy is right, I can’t be both people.”  His voice is lifting in volume and desperation. 

“You're insufferable.” You plant your feet on the ground, looking for a burst of willpower to pull you out of his bed.  “Was this whole thing just to get me ‘out of your head?’” You pander, eager to see more than a flicker of emotion in his gaze.  

“Absolutely not, I care about you.  I can’t stop thinking about you.  I just can’t be what you need.”  He’s frustrated, voice inching higher with every passing moment.  

Your patience wears thin, running a shaking hand through your hair, you gather yourself.  Finally, your feet are planting not so firmly under yourself, carrying you to your overnight bag.  

Matt shifts his weight from foot to foot, head-turning to track your movement, “Can I at least walk you home?” The words fuel the sting in your eyes.  

“You’re going to, no matter what I say, Matt.” You heft your backpack onto your shoulder, “That’s part of the problem.” 

His shoulders are hunched, almost as if he is trying to recede into himself.  “You don’t want to go.”  The low timber startles you, and you know he’s surprised the words came out of his brain. 

“You don’t give me a lot of choices Matt.”  You take a few unsure steps towards the door, waiting for his footfalls to join yours. 

They don’t.

You debated on calling out from work, not being able to bear the kicked puppy look he would carry, even if he didn’t mean to.  It felt like he would win either way because he was right. 

Matt’s inability to be honest with the people around him, even if for fear of their safety, was never going to be acceptable.  As much as you craved to love him and all of his flaws, he is constantly putting himself in danger, and even the little bit of dread you felt just now was minuscule to the grand scheme of the danger he experiences.  

You loved him wholly, and you wondered if he would ever love you enough to take that into consideration.  

The streets were alive with the energy of a Friday night, not that New York City was ever dead.  You walked to the nearest subway station, keen to clear your head with the white noise of the rhythmic skipping on the tracks.

You settle into your stiff seat, letting your brain listen to the familiar noises around you.  You fiddle with the strings on your sweatshirt, mulling over the emotions that are cement blocks in your chest.

This hurt.  

Part of you wondered if he was still standing in his apartment, skating around feelings he pretends not to have.  

The pang in your chest seems to grow the further you get from his apartment, and you wonder if you’re making a mistake.  

Would Foggy think that Matt didn’t deserve you? 

You let the thoughts roll around in your head. 

Soon the subway slows to a halt and you stand with your bag.  You begin the short walk to your small apartment, praying that your roommate is out to avoid the awkward conversation about being out so late. 

Your luck runs dry, she’s sitting in the living room watching the newest period drama on Netflix.

“Hey.  You okay?” She perks up, as awake as you’ve ever seen her.  

You go to speak, but the words turn into a cry.  You shake your head, spreading your arms in invitation for a hug.   

The only person in the world who knows about you and Matt is standing in this living room, she knows almost everything.  But you couldn’t tell her what happened, and that made you feel small. 

“He’s been lying to me.”  You cry, taking shaky breaths in between sentences, “He doesn’t want us to be seen together, he goes out and lies about where he is.”

You paraphrase, unable to unburden yourself completely. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry babe.”  She squeezes tight, rubbing a soothing hand between your shoulder blades.  “Was he seeing someone else?”  

“He’s not, he’s just living a double life I guess.”  You hiccup, the gravity of the words finally sinking into your heart.  “Just different priorities I guess.”

She strokes your hair a few times, before offering you a spot on your loveseat to snuggle up and watch the rest of the movie.  

When you settle into your room a little over an hour later, you look at your phone.  Expecting a missed call or a voice message, but you find nothing.

You begin to type Foggy an apology for having to miss tomorrow, but as the words appear on the screen you can’t bring yourself to lie. 

You delete the message and replace it with a much shorter text.   

I know. 

You clutch your phone to your chest, you feel numb and anxious all at the same time.  Your heart pounded in your chest, and you debated on how to follow it up to get you out of your predicament. 

Oops wrong person sorry. 

The cursor revealed the words as they formatted on the page, but before you could click send the screen shifted to a call screen. 

He was calling you.  

“Mr. Nelson. I’m sorry I sent-” You rushed hoping he wasn’t angry with you, but of course, you were met with concern. 

“Do we need to meet up?  Were you hurt?”  His voice is much calmer than you expect, so much so you feel like there’s been a misunderstanding. 

“I’m okay.  Have you heard from him?”  You wince at the inflection in your voice.  “When I left he was upset?” 

“I haven’t. Is he hurt? Were you on the street?”  You sense a growing bit of annoyance in Foggy's tone as if he’s had this conversation one too many times.

Your heart races a little, how would you have found out? You can’t exactly say you were in his apartment this late.  “I think I upset him, that's all.” 

“I can’t believe he told you, there’s no reason to put so much on your mind.”  He’s talking to himself now. 

“It’s okay, it makes a lot more sense than what he told me initially,”  You backtrack a little, “On ou-the trip to Detroit.”  The heavy feeling in your chest returns, like with every breath you take your lungs fill with cement.  You force a dry laugh, “He told me he was in an underground fight club.” 

Foggy snickers, “Are you coming in tomorrow?  I’ll bring you some of that expensive coffee you two have a taste for.” 

You hesitate, unsure if you can handle confronting your feelings so quickly.  “I’ll be there, you know I can’t stand the way you file paperwork.” 

Foggy laughs a response, “Neither does Marci, we’re thankful to have you around kid.  I know he doesn’t always voice it but I think Matt enjoys your company.” 

Breath catches in your throat as it constricts, “It’d be nice if he told me.”  You fumble the thought in your brain and speak before you can stop yourself.  You fiddle with a loose knot on your quilt.  “I’m sorry Mr. Nelson, I guess I’m still in shock.” 

“It’s alright, I’ve been there.  What made him tell you?”  You hear him clear his throat as he clarifies, “I just didn’t think you were such an important part of his life.” 

Ouch.

Your heart stops as your mouth runs dry, “I-uh I was being followed…on the street.  He chased the guy off and came to check on me and couldn’t hide it from me.”  You’ve never outright lied to Foggy like that before, and you’re sure this wouldn’t be the last time. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, if you want me to talk with him about something, or need to come to me for anything, I am here for you. Consider me president of the Matt Murdock support group.”  He really is the most genuine person alive, and you can practically hear his worry on the line. 

“Of course, thank you, Mr.Nelson.”  The conversation hasn’t helped as you wished it would, the pain in your chest seems to reverberate with the sound of the dead line.  

You looked at the patchy quilt on your bed, you could practically picture Matt laying beneath it.  The first time you shared your queen bed, compared to his king, was quite the adventure, with tangled limbs, and endless giggles.  You remember comparing the scars and bruises on his skin to the blanket that, at the time, didn’t mean much to you.  

Sleep evades you for a while, it feels like your skin is too tight on your body, or that you’re too hot under the sheets and too cold without them.  Your mouth runs dry, and forcing down endless glasses of water does nothing to save you.  The weight of the world feels unbearably heavy, but you can’t help but feel like your world, instead of growing in richness, is wilting in grief. 

Miraculously you make it to work the next morning, not bothering to hide the bags under your eyes or the resting concern in your brow.  The sugar filled coffee Foggy promised you is sitting on your small desk, next to Matt’s steaming flat white.

He wasn’t here yet.  That wasn’t surprising in the least, but your hope that he would make an appearance diminished with each curl in the steam coming from his coffee.  

You ground yourself with a list of tasks you’d like to accomplish: Organize the new filing cabinet, alphabetize the witness accounts from Karen’s latest venture, and run the disposition notes through the braille embosser for Matt’s folder. 

One by one you pick off tasks.  Each shuffle of feet outside the door of the office brings your heart into your throat.  

You hear the telltale tap, tap, tap, of Matt’s cane as he makes his way down the hallway.  The door creaks open, and you feel as though your brain is gonna scramble in your skull.  

He looks exhausted, his hair is damp and a fresh bruise sits on the edge of his jaw.  You fight the urge to speak, you want to check on him, make sure he isn’t hurt, or talk with him about your conversation with Foggy.

“Good morning.”  Foggy’s voice startles you from your stupor, “Have you heard from Brett?”  His eyes move between the two of you, almost like he’s offering to broach the conversation on your behalf. 

You shake your head vigorously, trying desperately to come up with an excuse to leave the room.  Matt’s voice cracks like he hasn’t spoken in days, “I haven’t.  I have to transfer my notes from yesterday's discovery meeting.”  

“She’ll help you with it.  We need to get that witness’ name from Brett, the case depends on it, Matt.”  Foggy reached down taking Matt’s now cold coffee from your desk and handing it to him.  

You grimace and shoot Foggy the most intimidating glare you can muster.  Clearing your throat you offer to help with whatever they needed to be done, “Do mind if I leave a little early Mr. Nelson?  It's been a long couple of days.”

Matt’s head tilted, the rich coffee mixing with the taste of your mouth in the air.  Your heartbeat was erratic, and the muscles in your throat were tight like you were fighting the urge to cry.  

“That should be fine, is there anything else you need her to do for you?” he let his voice trail off, and you never wished you could disappear more.  

“I would like her to volunteer, you don’t need to tell her what to do Fog.”  His voice cuts, and you feel everyone in the room recoil.  

You run a shaking hand through your hair, “With all due respect Mr. Murdock, this is my job, and I don’t need you speaking on my behalf,” You turn on your heel, directing the next words at Foggy, “Thank you for understanding Mr. Nelson, I will see to getting those notes done and then I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

You stand up to throw your empty coffee cup into the trash as Foggy walks toward his office.  You stand a few feet from the bin and toss the cup underhand, Matt’s hand darts out and plucks it out of the air.  

“I’ll leave you two to it then.”  Foggy’s office door closes, and you hear Karen’s hushed whispers.

You sit back at your desk, thumbing through your personal notes from yesterday, gathering them to your chest as you walk over to the embosser.

“Can I talk to you in my office?”  Matt’s quiet voice draws you out of your stupor.  He drops your cup into the trash, as your hands come to cover your face.

You look towards the office across from you, and Matt gives you a they’re listening look.  Your chest grows tighter like a snake is coiling around each lung and tightening with each exhale. Eyes flittering to the bruise on his jaw, he must’ve gone out after you left.  

Without thinking you nod your head, standing while straightening your skirt under your shaking hands.  He glides past you, and you notice a small cut on his hairline as he walks by, and your heart aches, longing to reach out and caress him. 

You shuffle inside behind him, latching the door behind you with a thud.  You allow your eyes to rake over his frame, taking in the smooth skin stretching over the back of his neck, and the swell of the muscles in his against the collar of his shirt.  

Your gaze is steady, even as he turns to face you, your eyes remain trained on the bob of his adams apple as he clears his throat.  You’re plagued by the memories, the taste of his skin against your tongue, and the shift of his shoulders under your nails, the weight of him next to you in bed.

“I’m buying Foggy lunch, and I’m going to get him a few drinks, and then I’m going to tell him we’ve been sleeping together.”  Matt’s fingers card through his hair, “I’m going to assure him it won’t happen anymore.”  His voice begins to falter, “Marci is going to offer you a similar position, it will pay much better, it’ll look better on a resume, there’s no reason to turn it down.”

You begin to protest, but he cuts you off with a raised finger. 

“You will take it, you’d be an idiot if you didn’t.” He shifts so his hands rest on his hips.  

“I told Foggy last night, I told him I knew you were Daredevil,” Your voice is quiet, but the tone and clear definition of each word made it seem like you had been rehearsing the words in your head for days. “He was concerned for me, he was compassionate,” you struggle to keep tears from falling down your face, “he was worried you were hurt, and he was surprised that we were close enough for you to tell me.”  

He stands before you, his stance stoic but the blood draining from his face the longer you spoke.  Whether he knew it or not, you were begging him to give you an admission.  It was going to come down to an ultimatum. 

Subconsciously, your hand moved to fiddle with the chain around your neck.  He had so delicately and tenderly bestowed it upon you only weeks earlier.  You had believed it was just a step in your relationship together.  Matt was a man who needed to commit to something completely, there wasn’t place in his heart or time in his life to devote part of his energy.  You felt like he was branding you as permanent, in his apartment, walking you home on the street, in this very office, he had your every thought tied to his existence.  

“I never would’ve asked you to change for me, I wanted to feel like you weren’t ashamed of me.  As much as I enjoyed sneaking around with you, I don’t want to only be another secret in your life Matt.”

You eye him carefully, it looks like he’s seconds away from raising his voice or swiping the contents of his desk to the floor in anger or despair.  

“It’s not fair for you to say that sweetheart, you deserve a pulpit and devotion that I can’t commit to.”  His mouth sets like he’s grimacing in pain. 

“I’m not asking for more of your time, I’m asking for you to be forthright with me about what you want from me.”  Tears finally fall from your eyes, you see his tongue dart out for a split second.  “I just thought this,” you let your finger run over the quaint circle at the base of your neck, “was going to be more of a commitment to each other, rather than a collar on a pet.” 

He takes the red glasses off and you see a glimmer of tears threatening to fall down his cheek.  “That’s not what I wanted for you or for us.  I never thought I’d be have an opportunity to have such a smart, beautiful woman in my life.”  his emotions and running through the muscles in his face, skipping over the blank but frantic movement of his eyes. 

The tightness in your chest returns, the flames of anger in your lungs turning into the smoke of grief.  

“I wanted- want a life with you, for the first time in my painful existence I thought about waking up next to a wife to the sounds of crying babies, and hastily getting ready for church on sunday mornings with toddlers.�� I want nothing more than to wake up with you for the next millennium ready to take on big cases or mortal enemies or school principles.  I’ve lost almost everyone I’ve loved, I almost lost Karen, I almost lost Foggy…” 

He rolls the buttons on his cuff between his fingers, he’s anxious and emotional, you want to comfort him, hold him and tell him that you know he’s capable of protecting you, that you want to be in his life regardless of the risks.  But you are angry, that he has been bearing the weight of this conversation himself, brutalizing himself, and that made your heartache.

“Matt, you need to understand that I want to share these burdens with you,” you step slightly closer, fighting the urge to pull him to your chest so you both can cry your heart out, “I want to be a bigger part of your life.” 

He sniffs, swiping a tear off his cheek, “It's not fair for me to bring you into everything-“ 

“Let’s not call it that, neither one of us understood what this was going to be.” Without thinking you motion between the two of you it’s your hands.  “I think we just need to come to terms with the reality that I’m,” you hesitate, the words dangling on the tip of your tongue until you are engrossed with the warmth of the moment completely, “in love with you, and pushing me away isn’t going to make life any safer than it would be with you in it .”  

His head falls back, and his forehead creases like he’s in pain.  “You’re in love with me?” The way he phrases it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself that it’s the truth. 

You chew your lip, you weren’t even sure you loved him until he started doubting that you could.  It was like something in his awestruck tone broke the last little bit of the iron rods around your heart. 

“I lied to you, I am breaking the law every night, I have no money, I have so many reasons why I would expect you to hate me it’s impossible to list them all.”  

You watch him carefully thumb through his thoughts like he’s handling decades old photographs, “I just don’t think I’m ready to accept you feeling like that about me.” 

You wrestle a breath from your lungs, tightening from stress and anxiety over the confrontation.  “You don’t have to love me, not right now, you don’t have to look out for me, I want you to be with me because you want to be. Not because you feel like you have a responsibility.”  

Silence hangs in the air for a beat, you watch with curiosity as he tilts his head slightly.   “Are you listening to my heart?” 

He nods. 

“I wish you could hear my brain think, you’d understand my feelings for you.”  His concentration falters and a small smile plays on his face.  

“I wish I could give you everything you deserve.”

“You will.” You retort, not willing to let him think on any negative thoughts for too long.  “Are we broken up or am I allowed to kiss you?” 

He sighs exasperated, before whispering a soft, “Please kiss me.” 

You take the few steps between you in quick strides, and reach up onto your toes to meet his mouth.  His hands shoot to their favorite places, one resting on the pulse in your throat, the other squeezing the flesh on your hip lightly. 

You lick and suck on his bottom lip, and you feel his fingers twitch against your throat itching to tighten as you lift your chin practically begging him to.  Fire skips up your spine and the heat settles on your chest in your face as arousal pools in your belly.  

Almost immediately, he groans, as if attuned to your thoughts.  Your hands run up his chest and play with the soft hair at his nape, you feel your own body tense realizing you don’t know the extent of his injuries.  

“Am I hurting you?” 

“I don’t care.” He snaps, attempting to lift and push you onto his desk.  

You hesitate, his boldness frightening you.  The dull throb from your core wins, as you jump to help him set you on the desk,  feeling the ridges of his laptop dig into the back of your thighs.  

The intensity of the kiss falls when Matt begins to kiss along the shell of your ear.  

You fist your hand in his shirt, fingers catching on a button that pops under the force and clatters to the ground.  You feel Matt’s smirk against your jaw, before he pulls the skin between his teeth.  

He parts your legs with his knees, slotting himself between them and pulling your legs up and bringing your ass to the edge of the table.  

You shutter as your body shifts back to keep your balance.  “Matt, we can’t.”  Your voice is a little louder than you anticipated, making your body flinch in embarrassment. 

His head dips lower, playing along the u-shaped collar of your shirt, teasingly grazing his teeth as if threatening to leave a mark. You tilt your head back, your thoughts becoming more and more corrupted with every single touch of his tongue to your skin.  

“Lie down.”  The warmth of his hands on your thighs sends shivers across your skin and you are coaxed into complying by the brush of his thumb over the top of your thigh highs.  “Fuck.  I love when you wear these.” 

You whine as he begins to place short chaste kisses along the hems, nibbling at the sensitive skin to irk a reaction from you.  “We shouldn’t be doing this here.”  Your arm moves to cover your eyes from the overhead light, in a fruitless attempt to hide your shame, but as he nudges your thighs to open impossibly more you obey.  

The room is hot, your skin is alight with frustration and every skim of his mouth feels like ice, reassuring you and bringing you the pleasure it knows the taste of.  “Can’t I just have you to myself sweet girl?” he mumbles, barely audible to your ears, “I want you every moment of every day.”

His thumb brushes over the growing wet spot on your panties, “Matt-” you whimper his name like a final plea for mercy.  You’ve spent hours with his face in between your legs, but this, his tone, his intentions, they feel sharper.  Like a man who spent hours ready to finally ambush his prey.  

He continues lanquid stokes over the spot, feeling the slippery liquid sink into his skin, and if he takes a deep breath he can smell remnants of your last time together on you, its faint, and the need to replenish your cunt with his cum is overwhelming the anxious fear of you walking out on him.  

Not here. 

He stands, and you lift your head off the table with a ferocity he admires.  “What the actual fuck?!” He avoids your hands pushing him away.

“You’re right about all of it.”  He smiles, bringing the thumb up to his mouth and sucking it between his teeth, nearly coming in his jeans at the sweet taste on his tongue.  “I’m going to take Foggy and Karen out to lunch.” And tell them everything. 

The words hang in the air as you both catch your breath, “If you think that’s enough then I’ve got news-”

He interrupts you, again, “It’s not.”  He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a set of keys with braille labels, “Here, this one is to the apartment, take it to a hardware store, make a copy.”  He reaches out and you give him your hand, he closes your fingers around the key, “I’ll come and get you from yours in a few hours, I’ll tell you everything, I’ll show you everything.”

You watch him with a curiosity you haven’t felt in a long time, it’s not often anymore that his actions surprise you, but this seems like a big leap for him in such a short amount of time.  Worry starts to settle in your bones, but you shove it down in hopes that you’re overthinking things.  

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”  He smiles down at you, blank eyes unknowingly staring at your chest and you blush lightly.  

“Maybe I should pretend to look at them more often.” A hand reaches up and pinches at the skin through your shirt.  

Your mouth falls open at his taunt, and you shove him away gently.  He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, “I’m sorry.” 

“Thank you, Matt.”  You whisper, your breath finally evening out.  

…

You fiddle with the pink key in your hand, anxiously waiting for a knock on the front door.  The Hello Kitty emblem on the key replaced his key on the labeled key ring, and his worn key now sits upon your various goofy keychains on your oversized keychain.   

You hear a wrap of knuckles from your room, and see Matt standing on your fire escape, in his infamous sweatpants.  “Hey sorry, I didn’t know if Addison was home.” 

You furrow your brow, “Why would it matter?  She doesn’t mind.”  In reality she probably cares a little too much.  

“Well, I wanted you to get a good look at my suit.”  He gestures to the dark purple bag over his shoulder, “I didn’t want to scare her.”  

“She’s going to be back later, and there’s a lot we should talk about.”  You walk up to his slender frame, enjoying the way his t-shirt clings to his skin in the humid summer air, and stand on your toes prompting for a kiss.  

“Capizzi?”  He reads your mind, the thought of pizza and spending the night at Matt’s almost as enticing as seeing him fitting into his suit.  

“Can I still see you in your little outfit?” You poke at his stomach, playfully running your hands over the soft skin exposed as he jumps away from you.

“If you ask nicely.  Might even take it off for you.”  He teases as he lunges to pull you against his chest for another quick peck.  

You sigh, feeling less woeful than earlier, but still teetering on the edge of mourning someone you hadn’t lost.  You force a smirk, “Is there a magic word?” 

He beams at you, and you feel like his light is creeping into your own shadows for a moment, “You’ll have to put that together yourself.” 

Not an hour later you’re settling into his couch with a fresh slice of your favorite pizza, and he’s pouring some wine into glasses.   “I am going to go out just for a quick sweep later, so this is my only glass.”  He states, more as if he is affirming it mostly for himself. 

You nod your head quietly, now knowing he can tell. “So how was lunch?”  You bite your lip, the walk over had been peaceful, and not unlike any other date you’ve been on.  Nights with Matt seldom started in public, he was always afraid to run into someone who he knew and might gossip about him.  

He smiles brightly, “Surprisingly, not terrible.  I did get my ass chewed, but Karen just insisted that she knew.” 

“Did she? And Foggy?”  Your voice was cracking, and ice crept along your spine.  “Am I going to get to work with Marci?” 

“I think she figured it out today, I don’t think she knew before then.  Foggy was upset with me, for many reasons, one being a repeated argument, that I ‘find the most beautiful girl in the room’ and then he has to ‘suffer’.”  He laughs lightly, recalling the moment.  “It was nice to hear from someone else.” 

You tilt your head a little, mouth full of pizza.  “He thinks I’m beautiful?” you mumble through bites of piping hot food.  

“Why wouldn’t he? He gets to actually see you all the time.  I just get to imagine.”  He is a bit woeful, but his hands reach for the crest of your kneecap, dragging softly over the skin.  

The light touches make your heart jump at the crawling tickle falling down your spine.  

“But if it means I get to touch you all the time.” He moves his hand to rest on top of your thigh squeezing gently,  “I guess that’s a plus.”  

Heat replaces the ice as a blush crawls up your neck.  “Well, I’m glad we cleared that up.” He leans down and takes a bite from the side of your slice of pizza, “Get your own devil man.” you scoff, scooching away from him slightly.  

He twists you toward him, pins you to the couch, and has the pizza in his hands before you can even begin to fight back.  He lifts his leg to slot between your legs, “You need to get used to letting me take what I want.”  He punctuates the words with a bite from the slice.  

Your heart rattles in your chest as you fumble from some retort short of a groan of approval.  “Oh yeah?” you open your mouth and make a small click with your teeth, asking for a bite.  “If I don’t?” 

He smirks above you, “I’ll tease you until you’re begging for it.”  The pizza hovers inches above your mouth, and when you go to take a bite he pulls it away with a taut, clicking with his tongue in jest. 

“Let me do a quick lap.”  He lowers the food to your mouth finally allowing you to bite off a chunk.  “If everything goes well I should be back in an hour.”

You feel the muscles in your face twist, as you suppress the urge to beg, or even bribe him to stay.  “Okay,” you trail off letting your body adjust to the next train of thought, “does that mean I get to fuck you in the suit?” 

His body tightens, and his voice shifts to a grave timbre thick with lust,  “I never knew just how beautiful those filthy words could sound.” 

You smirk, holding his admission close to your chest.  “Yeah? My little altar boy like when I use nasty words?  Does it make him wanna fuck me silly?” 

He chuckles, “This little altar boy,” he shifts his hips so the thick line of his cock digs into your abdomen, “wants to hear you try to talk with your mouth full of my cock.”  

“Maybe. I want you to give me a little show first.”  You run a finger down his chest, making sure to catch a nipple, and stop at the waistband of his sweats.  

Try as he may to hide the little bit of desperation in his gait as he walks towards the chest in the closet, you catch a glimpse of the swell of his cock tucked into the waistband of his sweats. 

You sit up keeping your eyes trained on him, eager to see his body transform from the mind mannered lawyer into the feared vigilante.  The muscles in his back flex under the shirt as he lifts the chest with ease and sets it in front of you.  

The chest itself has the earthy smell of old leather, you lift the lid to reveal an old yellow and red wrestling uniform.  “Your dad’s?” You run a thumb over the stitched  lettering.  

“Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”  He nods, a shy smile shared between the both of you.  You sort through a set of black clothing, and what looks like two baton-like pieces of wood before brushing your fingers over a material unlike anything you’ve ever felt.  

You lift up the cowl, feeling the harsh ridges of the horns with your finger as a shutter rolls through your body as you picture the mask settled on Matt’s head.  Leaving just his beautiful jawline and his plush mouth exposed, millions of scenarios run through your head, how it would feel to have his mouth pressed to your cunt as he dons the horned helmet, seeing nothing but the silhouette of the deadly man known as Daredevil loom over you as he fucks into your pussy.  

Your eye twitches at the thought, and blood begins to rush between your thighs as you squeeze them together.  “If I would’ve known this is how you’d react, I would’ve told you a lot sooner.”  

You glance back up at his face, noticing the flush of heat spread across his neck and cheeks, matching the heat you feel creeping up your spine.  You reach for his hand, splaying it out so you could place the disguise in his hands.  He runs his hands across the helmet, tracing the ridges you had gone over with his own finger.  

You see a metal pole sitting along the edge of the trunk, you lift them to examine the texture of the metal and notice scuffs and dents along the ridges.  “What’s this for?” 

“It’s a club of sorts.”  He takes it from your hand, raises it above his head and throws it at the wall behind your head.  Before you’re able to duck the weapon zips past your head and returns to his waiting hand.  

“Jesus Christ.”  Your heart is accelerating in your chest with each passing moment.

“Not exactly.”  His fingers notch at a button on the metal rod, a soft click and the pole separates into two pieces. 

You press your legs together and suppress a small groan, but watch in dismay as his head tilts to your chest, clocking your reaction immediately.  

The devilish grin on his face doesn’t leave until he leans to press his mouth against yours. Heat blooms over you both, swallowing down every little sound he makes as he uses his hands to seal your body against his.  

A tingle crawls up your spine, the dull ache at your core growing more incessant and your worries seem to be brushed away.  All you can think is how well he knows the curves of your body. The fingers of one hand drawing circles over the crest of your ass.

Suddenly you hear a click, and a soft slide of metal on metal.  The next thing you know you’re being lifted onto his waist, you look down, either one of the poles is in his hands, and see the ends of what looks like a sleek cable connecting the two.  The thin cable digs into your flesh, the bite on your skin painful but the warmth of Matt’s abdomen against your pussy only spurs you on further.  

“I want you.”  The whine escaping from your mouth surprises you, “Please.”  

You’ve begged for him before, but the eagerness in your voice is different from what he is used to.  He can feel the rapid clip of your heart against him, and the way you buck against him ever so lightly with each passing moment.  He lets the clubs zip back together, setting them on the coffee table before dumping you onto the couch. 

He sinks to his knees in front of you, knocking your legs open with his hands and quickly getting to work massaging up your thighs, occasionally letting his thumb brush over your clothed center, leaving feather-like kisses in their wake.  

You lift your heels to the edge of the couch in effort to grind against his fingers with each chance you get.  “Such an eager little girl.” He taunts, pulling away slightly so he can remove his shirt.  

You shake your head, playfully denying the obvious.  

“Oh? You’re not eager? Don’t lie to me sweetheart.”  He traces the waistband of your shorts with his index finger, allowing the rest of his hand to skate over the sensitive skin of your abdomen.  

You bite the side of your cheek to hide your smirk, “Nope.”

He cocks his head to the side in challenge. “Okay, if that’s how we’re going to play this.  Get on your hands and knees.”  

Your gasp in surprise, settling onto your knees perhaps too quickly, and letting your hands rest on the arms of the couch.  You blink and Matt is towering over you, gripping the flesh of your ass with a small moan.  He bends, grabbing a black cloth from the chest, folding it expertly in his hands, before bringing it to cover your eyes. 

You begin to protest, “Matt-”. 

You're cut off by the sound of the trunk closing,  “We’re doing this my way now sweetheart.  You’ll just have to shut up and take it.” 

You groan, pushing your hips back in effort to find his hand, his hips, his mouth, anything.  You feel nothing but the cool air of the apartment, before you feel his rough hands run up your back, lifting your shirt, the change in temperature causing  goosebumps to spread over your skin.  He begins to pull your shorts down your legs, kissing and biting harshly as the sweet scent of your skin fills his nostrils.  

You lift into each lave of his tongue, desperate for each little bit of contact he gives you.  He pushes your head down further, so your chest is almost flush with the couch, your ass proudly stuck up in the air.  

You hear the loud crack of your skin being slapped before the sting hits you, blossoming across your skin causing you to clench your jaw in pain.  A second follows quickly behind, and even blindfolded you know how a bright red handprint looks on your skin.  You whimper again, feeling your slick wet your panties even more.  

He massages the raised flesh between his fingers, and you push against him even wiggling a little in hopes to entice mercy from him.  “Not eager at all.” He taunts, “If only everyone else knew what you looked like, ready to be fucked by me.”  He rubs a single finger on the wet patch, fighting the urge to lick at it, “Anytime I want.” 

A moan escapes your mouth, but then you hear a soft click followed by the cold bite of metal against your sex.  “Matt-”. 

“Nope.” He mocks, following your hips as you pull away from the baton.  “Take what I give you.”

You still, letting him rock the rod against you, the pressure just avoiding your clit.  The contrasting temperatures make you flutter against the metal, and he basks in the sounds coming from your desperate little mouth. 

Your clench around nothing, the begging and whining in your brain barely able to escape the fog and make it out of your mouth. “Please.” 

“Please what?  Use your words.”  He hooks your panties with his thumb, moving to hold them aside exposing your sweet cunt to the cold air.  

“Please fuck me, touch me, anything please.” 

He chuckles, and you feel the tension in the room become heavier with just the sounds from his chest. “Anything huh? You’re going to regret that baby girl.” 

His mouth is against you with no warning, licking and parting you expertly.  Tongue caressing your clit, as he nudges your entrance with his nose.  Inhaling and drinking any drop of you he can get.

You whimper under him, fingers digging into the cushion of the couch trying to focus on the growing warmth in your belly.  His tongue moves to your entrance, slurping and sinking into your heat with a fever you haven’t felt in him before.  

You cry out, nearing the edge of your release before he stops.  Hand coming down on your ass again, a yelp startled out of you.  You feel the cool metal against your bare sex this time, the metal glides through your wet pussy with ease, gathering the juices along the shaft.  It not until he’s notching it at your entrance do you really understand what is about to happen, if it possible for your brain to fog up more it was.

Torn between protesting and pushing back against it, you stay still, allowing him the freedom to do what he pleases.  

“You can take it sweetheart.”  You feel yourself stretch around the unforgiving metal, he hears every single squelch as your body struggles to accommodate his weapon.  “God you sound so beautiful.”  

He angles it down, and slowly starts to pump the shaft of the billy club grinding it against your g-spot.  With each shallow thrust it gets harder for you to catch your breath, Matt brings his other hand to gently toy with your clit, stroking it in time with the slow movement.  You feel yourself tense, the pain and pleasure beginning to feel unbearable.  

“Matt, please I’m gonna cum.”  You cry, shame crawling up your cheeks at being so fucking desperate for him to let you cum you don’t care if its with his weapon inside of you.  

“Yeah? And if I stop pretty girl? Still gonna deny that you’re eager for me then?”  His pace quickens, fingers pushing harder against your clit.  “You’ll do anything if it means getting to come for me. Right?”  He mocks your quick pants, starting to slow his movements as if allowing you to think enough to answer him, all you can muster is a nod.  

“Words.”

“Yes, God please let me cum.” you cry, legs beginning to shake. 

He circles your clit gently with his fingers, “Go ahead baby.”  He speaks the words against your skin, biting and leaving marks on you desperately wanting to feel the rush of your orgasm.  

You swear as a blisteringly hot wave of pleasure sears through your nerves, knees buckling beneath you as Matt struggles to keep the baton inside you as you squirm away from him.  

“That’s it baby, so good for me.”  He continues to work away as you whimper, he pulls the club from you with a sick string of wet noises and a rush of your pheromones hitting him in the face.  

You rip the blindfold from your head, trying to orient yourself.  You look back over your shoulder, and see that Matt has somehow been able to put his entire suit save the helmet on.

He looks incredible, the muscles in his arms and chest are well defined by the cut and fit of the suit, and it does little to disguise the bulge that is sitting untouched in his pants.  You rise, suddenly feeling refreshed, legs less confident beneath you.  “Daddy?” your voice is hoarse but you try and keep the tone as playful as you can.  

His head falls back, “I have to go out.” he repeats it again to himself, almost like he’s convincing himself more than you.  

“You can make the first one quick.”  You lift your shirt over your head before settling your knees on the couch, and bending over the back of it.  

“Have I not made that little cunt cum hard enough?”  You hear heavy footfalls as he steps closer to you, crude slaps filling the room as he brings a hand down on your ass again and again.  

“Please Daddy, I want you to fill me up.”  You stutter through your plea, the crack of his palm on your skin piercing your ears and forcing your pussy to clench around nothing.  

“Yeah?”  You feel him press his hips against you and you shake your ass against him hoping to draw him closer.  “I fill that beautiful pussy with my cum, come home and suck it all out of you, just to fuck more back into you pretty girl.”  He gathers a handful of hair into his hand, “I’m gonna fucking tear you apart.” 

Theres blood in your mouth, and suddenly you realize you bit your lip so hard you’re bleeding, but you continue to grind against his suit.  “Yes, please.  I want everything.” 

Suddenly he’s balls deep inside of you, you shriek in surprise and pain.  His cock nudges into your cervix as he grinds up into you, before inching out just to shove right back in.  You let your head hang between your shoulders, unable to spare your strength to hold it up anymore, his pace is building and the walls of your pussy are squelching and burning trying to accommodate the thick muscle of his cock as it pounds into you.  

He huffs and groans into the air above you, praising and degrading you all at once.  His boot nudges at your knee and you bring them closer together as he bring his foot onto the couch, allowing him to drill into you faster.  

He hits the bundle of nerves inside you a few times as you cry out for him, “Don’t stop -oh my god I’m gonna-”.  The sound of his clubs scraping the coffee table bounces around your head before you gather whats happening, the cord from between the clubs is thrown over your head.  You reach for it in shock, sitting up and bringing your back flush to his chest.  

The change in angle has you seeing stars, the deep strokes are quickly bringing you over the edge.  He grabs one of your hands and brings it to right above your pelvic bone,  “Can you feel how deep I am inside you?”  He thrusts even harder into you, and you swear you can feel your organs shift and your belly bulge under your hand.  

You nod, the cord so tight to your throat you’re afraid to speak.  “Keep your hand there while you cum, and then maybe you’ll get to feel my cock fill you up.”  He leave his hand over yours, but extends his middle finger to graze over your clit.

Just like that, you cum all over the place, body threatening to collapse at any moment.  Vision white as he continues to thrust into you, the slap of his hips the only thing your brain can focus on.  The cord tightens even further around your neck as his thrusts grow sloppy and he cums deep inside you. Even though you can’t feel it, he feels the bulge in your stomach throb as he spills rope after rope of his seed.  

He slows to a stop, loosening the cord around your neck until you can finally take a deep breath.  “That was,” you struggle through the aftershocks of your orgasm, “just wow.”

He smiles against your shoulder, placing a quick kiss to the soft skin, before running his hands over the skin of your throat, “Did I hurt you?” 

You shake your head, “Not at all, but I am glad you can tell if I’m gonna pass out.”

He laughs lightly into your hair, “I meant what I said in the office.”

You turn your head to look towards him breathlessly, “huh?”

“I want more for us.  I want to be working towards marriage, towards babies.”  He sounds shy, but confident in his words, “I want to be everything you deserve.”  

You feel the steady clip of his heart at your back, and you know he can hear yours in return, “Good, I love you.” 

He nods, kissing and smiling into the crook of your neck, and even if he’s not ready to say it to you, he loves you just as much.  

[drmajalis]

Replika political ideology hcs (for fun, please don't take it too seriously)

Eule: The Well-Meaning Liberal™. Generally tries to be supporting and understanding of everyone, although takes awhile to really grasp the nuanced topics. Later realizes she's bi and successfully fights the urge to name herself "the" expert consultant on queer politics within her online circle. Star: Veterans tend to either end up as progressives or nationalists, and she went the former. Very politically active, does canvassing, donates to progressive causes, and always turns up to counter-protests. Still heavily believes in electoralism. Ara: Ancom who has actually read all of Das Kapital and The Conquest of Bread. However, sticks almost entirely to theory, and debating theory. Doesn't get out to much direct action like Star or Elster does, but when pressed will try to DoS reactionary channels if she gets the chance. Mynah: Your Catholic great aunt who's surprisingly accepting and defensive of queer and trans people. The worst you could say is that she asks you a lot to come to church with her more often every time you talk. Kolibri: Marxist-Leninist. Also reads way too much theory and thus considers herself the be-all-end-all of good praxis. Archenemy of Ara, but the two will always team up to put Storch and others like her in their places. Storch: Went the opposite direction of Star. Refuses to accept that she's backing the leopards eating people's faces party by being a right-wing lesbian. Complains endlessly that nobody gives her a chance in debates, but really she's just awful at defending her positions. Adler: Centrist who unironically believes in horseshoe theory. He's a blue-collar white working class man who just values stability over all else, and always votes for the incumbent so long as the economy is okay (for white people like him). Falke: Actual present-day monarchist who almost everyone interprets as just an extreme LARPer. Later evolves her ideology to be more Bonapartist. However, she's still reasonably tolerant of progressive social causes. Elster: Direct-action Anarchist. Is a member of the IWW and the Tyre Extinguishers. Never misses an opportunity to key a cop car when no one is looking, and will run towards a tear gas canister and throw it back at the police line. Also works to feed the homeless on her spare time.