#by saying it would be a sin to lie and that's why it's okay | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

satoruhour · 7 months

Note

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now.

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

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aothotties · 2 months

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Church Boy!Armin as your sneaky link

Since we did JJK men as your sneaky link, we've decide to do the same with AOT!

Warnings: MDNI, swearing, mentions of Christianity, mention of masturbation, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie.

Word Count: 945

________

You had no intentions of ever fucking this man. You’ve known him for years and never once thought of him in that way

Ever since you were younger Armin has been a good boy. Always following the rules and never getting in trouble

In college he started going to church, and before you knew it, he was a goody-two-shoes church boy. He was always trying to convince everyone to go to church with him

He would often send out bible verses, and would even bring his bible to outings with everyone.

You loved Armin, but church wasn’t for you. With your many tattoos and piercings, you felt out of place. So you never went.

Armin would always try and convince you to go, saying things like, “God says come as you are.” and things like that; but like i said, it just wasn't for you.

Out of nowhere, Armin stopped nagging you to go. You thought you were finally off the hook. That is, until he started showing up to your door saying he wanted to have bible study with you.

At first, you repeatedly told him no but eventually gave in. You would sit and listen to him read. Explaining everything to you and then moving on with your day. You thought nothing of it… but Armin? It meant a whole lot to him. Not just because he was so into the bible, but because he was so turned on by you.

He couldn't explain it. The way you sat there and listened, the tattoos on your body, the piercings, the way your lips glistened from the gloss; it was too much for him.

He couldn't understand how he could let himself be provoked to sin, but he couldn't stop.

He started touching himself to the thought of you, he was ashamed but he was so enamored he refused to stop.

One day he came to your house, and as you peaked over his shoulder to read he leaned in to kiss you.

You were beyond shocked.

Armin?? Good boy, church-loving Armin had his tongue in your mouth right now? You couldn’t believe it, but that one kiss lead to him pushing you against the wall and fucking you, and ever since, your bible studies turned into body studies

“y/n, fuck”, he whined as he kissed you

Today the bible didn't even get opened before he pounced on you. He climbed on top of you and started kissing you passionately. His tongue was intertwined with yours. He was grinding his hard dick against your core.

Today you got curious and decided to ask him what he was doing

“Wait Armin”, you said.

He stopped, fearing he did something wrong.

“Is everything okay? Did I do too much?” he questioned, with worry present in his eyes.

“No, you didn't do anything wrong, but… what are we doing? Aren't you super religious? Why do you keep coming over here to have sex with me”, you questioned

He stared at you, shocked by your question, but also feeling guilty.

“I dont know. Y/N you just do something to me”, he said as he moved closer to you.

“Something about you drives me insane. You're like a vixen, I think about you constantly.” He leaned over and started kissing you again.

“If this sends me to hell, so be it.” he said between kisses, “You're my favorite sin.”

Armin started removing your clothes and his kisses trailed down to your neck. He bit on your sweet spot causing you to moan.

He got both of your clothes off and lined his cock up to your cunt. He kissed you passionately before sliding in.

“Fuck- feels so good.” he whispered in your ear.

He pressed his body weight onto you and continuously slammed his hips into yours.

As sweet and fragile as he was, you couldn't lie. Armin had a big dick and knows how to use it.

His tip was hitting your g-spot causing you to moan.

He took one of your legs and lifted it over his shoulder, causing his dick to reach deeper inside you.

“A-armin-” you moaned out.

Hearing you moan his name made him go even harder, bullying his cock deep inside you.

The wet squelching noises were filling the room, and both of your bodies were covered in sweat. The whole time Armin never took his eyes off you.

He was completely enamored by you; the way your eyes glazed over, the way your breasts bounced, the way your mouth looked while you moaned his name, he couldn't get enough of you.

He placed your other leg on his shoulder and pushed your knees to your chest. The new angle caused tears to form in your eyes.

“Right there-fuck I’m gonna cum!” you whined.

Armin picked up the pace.

“Yeah baby, cum for me!” he responded.

He threw his head back from your walls squeezing him, and Armin approached his own high.

“Fuck!” he groaned out.

His thrust got sloppy, and you knew he was close.

“Yeah baby, cum with me!” you said to him.

Your legs shook and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Your whole body got warm, and your orgasm washed over you.

You came on his dick, soaking his thighs and abdomen, and seconds later you felt his warm seed fill you to the brim.

He laid there on top of you for a few seconds before finally getting off.

“That um- that was great.” he said.

“I know.” you said, as you slipped your clothes back on, and he did the same.

“So-” he said, “...um yeah 1st Corinthians, chapter 3, verse 6.”

Rachel

#aot smut #aot x black reader #aot scenarios #aot x reader #aot imagines #armin x black reader #armin arlet x reader #armin arlert smut #armin smut #armin x reader #armin

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winterarmyy · 8 months

Text

Deleted Scene

An alternate ending of Thin Walls, Thin Lines.

Note: Basically the smut content no one asked for our fuckboy!bucky in 《 Thin Walls, Thin Lines 》. So read it first for context! (if you haven't already)

Navigation: Original Version || Deleted Scene* (alt. ending)

Pairing: fuckboy!bucky x female!reader

Words: 3.7k++

Warnings: 18+ content, smut, no minors allowed, nsfw, fluff, lil bit of angst, cunnilingus, finger fucking, unprotected sex, creampie, cockwarming, squirting, cum eating, needy bucky, an absolute filth and i'm sorry for bucky's behaviour in this one, he is just a horny mf on a daily basis also I just want to warn you about the sinful things he might say in this.

P/S: I don't know what to say. I love the fluff ending from the original version, but this... this ending. Even if i feel like it's a messy writing. but pheww. You can just tell why I refused to choose and ended up doing both.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A playful smirk pulled on Bucky's lips when he spoke "Doll, you shouldn't be saying that so carelessly. Who knows I might use it for despicable things." Surely, he love to be the cause to bloom those red shades on her cheeks.

But it didn't happened when she asked quietly, "Will you?"

And the silence that came after was heavy with tenderness while their eyes spoke the truth to one another. As the thin lines in between got blurry, for once, there was just streams of genuine feelings pouring out of them, leaking through and contaminating the air with its magic.

Would he? Take advantage of her?

Of course not. But will he lie just to tease her? Yes. He would. "Maybe. Only if you let me." He shrugged.

And that made her blooming feature fell into a gloom. As if she was having a chaotic crisis within the pretty little troubled head of hers. Y/N didn't want whatever he was suggesting. She wanted more than a brief fling; more than a casual situationship.

Because she loved him; truly. It wasn't just a passing passion, or an accidental chemistry.

Seeing the frown on her face and the panic spiralling in her eyes, Bucky chuckled as he knew she was taking his joke way too seriously, "Okay, how about I let you on with a little secret?" He suggested.

It perked her interest that Y/N simply nodded to his offer. Bucky smiled as he leaned down, lips grazing the shell of her ears whispering a shocking confession.

She wasn't even high from any medication that Dr. Cho had prescribe to her but she couldn't believe what she heard. Her widen eyes questioned his smug smile hovering over her. Until she sneakily pulled the pillow next to her and threw it to his face.

Y/N kicked the blankets and changed into a sitting position, "Urghh you're such a dick, Bucky! I can't believe that I let you make fun of me!" She said with a biting tone.

"But, I'm not though?" Which only triggered her to smack him more with the pillow she was holding. Soon, the silent room were filled with the sound of her angry groans and Bucky's hearty laughter that cascade into a muffled chuckles.

The moment Y/N let her guard down, Bucky quickly stole the soft weapon from her and reclarified his confession, "I'm serious. I've been in love with you for awhile now." It's not she was blind; she saw no lies in his eyes and there was nothing but truth in the gentle of his voice.

She squinted her eyes into a glare and folded her arms across her chest, "Well, you have a rather funny way of showing it."

Bucky only smile to her snarky remarks, his hand finding hers to pull her closer, "I think I made it clear with the endless flirting that you have been blatantly rejecting, doll." He placed her perfectly on his lap, rubbing his big hands on her small back.

Y/N scoffed, "The only thing that was clear from that was how badly you wanted to get in my pants." Despite her objection, she let him pamper her body with his touch.

Bucky grinned, "And I do. But, only because I love you."

When she caught his gaze, she knew there was something magical about it; she have read so many books and poetry describing the look of his steel blues. A look that she can only dream of and not experience it; and if she was to make it come true, then this would be it.

Bucky moved slightly forward to nudge the tip of his nose on her own, hands intertwining with her shaky ones, silently asking for a permission to kiss her.

If she wasn't too focus on his presence on her skin, she would've noticed how the blood rushing to her cheeks were making her blushed in red. It felt good, it felt right.

Y/N gave her answer by leaning her forehead on his and he didn't waste any time to capture her lips, pressing an innocent kiss against it as his flesh hand gripped on hers while his metal hand find her cheek.

Soon enough the surrounding air heated and Bucky managed to slipped his tongue into her parted lips, his tongue wrapped around hers as her free hand reached back to gather his hair in her grasp. As they were blinded in sight by their closed eyes, they let sensory of their body ravel in each other's touch.

Out of instinct, her hand pulled from his back, then resting it on the prickly surface of his jaw before slightly pushing him away. Bucky took the cue and broke the kiss, "Babydoll." His hot breath blew against her cheek as he lean his lips on it.

Y/N realized what she had done; she let him kiss her, touch her but what does this mean? "I..I.." She hesitated.

"You're okay, y/n. Tell me to stop. Tell me to fuck off. It's okay, you can tell me anything." Bucky coaxed softly as he held her closer.

"I want this. I want you, Bucky. But... how can I trust you?" She really do. But, some part of her still reluctant to his history, "You've been sleeping around with those girls for months. Almost every night." Bucky cringed to his own behaviour. "How do I know it? That I'm not becoming one of them? That I'm not just some fucktoy you're gonna use and toss after?" She didn't care if she sound desperate. She needed him to be true because she know this won't work if he isn't willing to.

Bucky breath caught in the middle, as he knew that even the sweetest words won't satisfy her worry, so he only told the truth, "You have been the only one I wanted, y/n. And I know words aren't enough convice you. So let me show you, baby. Let me make love to you until you see how much I truly love you."

And he indeed fulfill his promise on that.

Bucky took his time undressing her until she was bare as the day she was born. He took longer time kissing her skin, loving each part of her perfect body and a much more lingering kisses around the bruises from today's mission.

Now that her pretty little cunt was right in front of him, exposed and bare, he wondered if this was all just a dream. Because it felt like it. No matter though; he'd devour her just the same whether she was just a creation of his dreams or his actual reality.

Bucky pressed several kisses on her clit, leaving the wet kissing noises filling the quiet room. He brought his tongue out slowly and started to lick her up; just to have a taste, "So pretty." he purred in between licking her fluids, teasing her. "So perfect." His fingers went to spread her lips apart and she made a strangled noise when she felt his long wet tongue, flattening through her folds, "Fuck." she cursed.

And after the first taste of her, Bucky realized how greedy he was getting especially when delved right back into her. "Bucky..." she whimpered his name as his warm lips wrapped around her clit, lewdly sucking on as if it was a tasty strawberry flavored sweet, just to release her moments after. He chuckled and slurred against her wetness, "Love the way you moan by name, sweetheart. Need to hear more."

His hands had moved from her waist to her hips in effort to pull her closer. If Y/N had anything to speak up in response then it was too late to say out loud because her head was swiftly wiped clean the moment his lips press into her clit again.

Bucky's grip on her thighs were almost harsh, just to keep her legs spread wide open for him to suckle on her clit, flicking his tongue over it deliciously. Looking down, she can only see the dark mess hair bobbing between her legs as he eats out her needy little cunt.

Y/N's mind was cloudy with ecstacy and pleasure crawling through her with each flick of his warm tongue between her folds. When it felt too good, she couldn't help but to catch his soft hair, holding on for her dear life as he devoured her cunt; noisy and messy.

"So fucking good, doll." He grunted into her weeping pussy, low and sensual as he pushed her legs further, allowing himself more access to her sweetness. "You taste so good."

Unbeknownst to her, Bucky was also enjoying every moment of this. Each time he moaned and groaned into her pussy, was the also time he thrusted his own needy cock against the mattress. The tip of was leaking with so much precum that it had left a wet stain behind.

With him getting that desperate, it felt like he was about to bust his nuts at any given time. But he wanted to wait; at least until Y/N gets her first high of the night. When his slick tongue deliciously fucking her pussy, exploring inside her, litters of curses of his name escaped from her lips as she moaned.

His wet tongue explored her insides as they clenched with lust and she choked out of air, not sure of how much longer she could take it because there was no way to deny it, she was about to cum, "Fuck,, Bucky. I'm cumming,,"

Bucky hummed into her when he pulled his tongue out, switching to rubbing on her clit, up and down, all the while was chasing his own orgasm, frantically humping on the bed like a rabid dog in heat.

Y/N gasped when he alternate between to sucking her clit and licking her up. Her back arched, pushing her cunt further into his hungry mouth in hopes to reach her release, "Please, please, don't stop.. need it, Bucky. Oh fuckkk"

Both of his hands; flesh and metal, slide up to grab her hips, helping her to grind on his tongue until her wetness came leaking out into his mouth, right on his tongue. Bucky came right along with her, grunting needily as the pink tip of his cock spurted out ribbons of his cream on in her mattress, marking his territory.

Bucky continued running his tongue up and down her wet slit throughout her orgasm, lapping away at her release that leaked out then gulping it down his throat as he watched her sighs with content.

When he pressed a soft kiss against her puffy, oversenstive clit, she thought it was end of it. But she couldn't be more wrong. The moment Y/N felt his metal finger trailed along her inner thighs, she knew that he wasn't satisfied with just eating her out.

She yelped when Bucky swiftly pulled her down, until her ass slides through the mess he made earlier, "What...?" Y/N herself didn't know what to ask but he knew exactly how to answer, "That's my cum, babydoll." He swiped some of the fluid from the sheets and smeared it on her throbbing cunt, making her instinctively moan.

Bucky smirked, "Eating your pretty pussy made me cum so hard, doll." With hunger in his gaze, he watched how his mess of a cum made her cunt glisten even more, "And because of that you deserve a reward, don't you think?" She whined as she nodded eagerly.

"Yeah, you do. You deserve to get your tight hole fucked by my metal fingers, don't you?" He continued to draw tight circles on her clit while his middle finger glides through her slit until he found her entrance, and pushed it in.

Y/N's head jerked up to the sudden intrusion. It was cold and reached much deeper than any of her fingers before. When Bucky twisted and curled the metal within her walls she cried out of pleasure. It was such new sensation and so fucking good.

A sudden entrance of another finger making her squeal from how sensitive her insides were to his metal fingers. And it made Bucky so full with pride to see her bending her back, her hips quivering, her walls tighten; all for him, "You can take it, sweetheart."

There was no such thing a pause when Bucky finger-fucked her hard; with his flesh hand pawing at her breast. He had his eyes locked on to the way her eyes roll back, panting breaths through those soft lips of hers, while his fingers drilled her tight pussy over and over and over, "That's it, that's fucking it baby. Such a good girl for me." He praised.

Endless moan were filling the room, along with the squelching sound of her wet cunt getting pounded mercilessly. Y/N lifted her hips higher; the feelings of Bucky's fingers inside her was different than her own. The stimulation and pleasure coming from his ways were distinct; like how the tip of his finger hits her unexplored g-spots or how his thumb pressed and twisted on her clit.

Bucky managed to pull the most sinful and desperate noises from her, "I-I’m going to cum,," she whimpered, hands balling into fists on the bed sheets as her hips followed his thrusts. "Yeah? Already, doll?" He taunted as he rolled her clit between his thumb and index finger.

Y/N nodded eagerly in between her moaning mess, before she let out high-pitched, satisfied whimper of his name as endless of fluid squirted out of her overstimulated pussy. "Oh fuck babydoll." He groaned as watched awe at her gushing cunt. "Did you just squirt? Hmm fuckkkkk, you should've done that when I have my mouth on you, baby. Shit."

Bucky scoot back to leaned his face right in between her legs. He darted his tongue out before he licked and suck the remaining fluid leaking out of her, making her squirm and whimper. And the slurping sound coming from him was such a sinful thing to hear, "Taste so good too. Gotta do that again next time, sweetheart. I wanna drink it all." he proposed.

"But now I need to be inside you." Bucky's declaration were cut short as his mouth captured hers in a heated kiss.

Y/N moaned into his mouth, tasting herself on his tongue as she kissed him back passionately, her body burning from all the pent-up frustration she had been pushing back for months. Bucky broke the kiss after a few mind-numbing minutes, before his hungry lips roamed around her neck, hands trailing over every part of her exposed skin as her heart rate spikes

"Need you, babydoll." Bucky groaned as he pumped his hard cock with his hand, spreading his dribbling pre-cum around his thick length. She whined as he gripped her legs, spreading them as wide as they'll go before rubbing the head of his cock against her slit.

He leaned again to kiss her one more time before sliding inside, slowly. "Oh god," Y/N moaned as she burned deliciously around him while he spreads her open.

Bucky's hands moved up find the crook in between her waist and hips, settling his veiny hands to the shape of her curves. His hips pounded into her, getting faster and harder with each thrust. As Y/N began to wrap her legs around his waist, he grabbed them and pulling he flused against his hips before he continued drilled his cock into her pussy.

The sensation was a combination of pain and pleasure and she feel as though she's in heaven. "Faster," she cried out.

"Look at you. You're so wet for me, doll. Feels so good around me--" Bucky's voice breaks into a groan as his hips meet hers, "--It's like your pussy was made for me. Gotta let me have you everyday now that you're mine, right sweetheart?"

"Mmmmhnn" she moaned; things took a turn when she clutched around him harder, it was abnormally tight as if it was trying to milk him right there and then. Bucky couldn't help but to groan in pleasure to the new sensation, "F-fuck" he cursed.

It took his less than a minute to figure out the reason why. Bucky smirked sinfully, "You like it when I talk dirty to you?" he slurred. Y/N's eyes were getting teary from all the pleasure she was feeling, from the stuffing feelings in her chest to the sensation of his hard cock thrusting in and out of her cunt.

"i- ahh I-i don't hhmmnn shit i don't know." she tried to deny him.

Bucky stopped his pace, pulled back slowly, "Really?" and slammed it back in hard, "Are you sure, princess?" He almost knocked her out of her breath.

"Oh yeah, I'm sure that my pretty girl loves it when I claim her as mine while I'm fucking her tight little pussy. Does she?" Bucky's kept on slow and hard torturous thrust, it was certainly slow but oh it felt so good; especially when he was doting at Y/N like this.

Was she really a sinner? Because this felt way too good to be in hell.

"Can't speak? Come on, my sweetheart. Speak up, let me hear ya." He demanded. Bucking her hips, wanting for more, "Y-yes, Bucky. I love i-it"

Bucky groan as her walls clenched him so good. Fuck, how many times has he thought of this? Dreamt of this? Probably, countless.

"You know why I keep changing girls, doll?" He sneaks his hands between their bodies and started to rub her clit. Her body shivered to the sensation, shaking her head to the sides as answer. "Yeah,, I bet you have no idea why do you?" He taunted.

Bucky let out a satisfied moan before his thrusts started going back to it's original pace. All whilst his cock pumped into her, gradually growing more fervent, her soaking pussy welcoming him in easily. Her whines mixed with Bucky's as she grabbed on the sheets behind her.

"Because I've been moaning your name in their ears, y/n. Everytime I stroke on my cock in anything, I have you in my mind. And when I cum, I imagine your pussy milking me dry. Just like you're doing now. Fuckkk,, doll, just like that."

Bucky's eyes that was fixated on her fucked out face since awhile ago, traveled down to where they were connected. Looking at how her little pussy shallowed his dick so well make him hornier.

Y/N slightly bounced upwards, his blues eyes tended back to her breasts. He used extra strength to see how her small body shook uncontrollably every time his hips met with hers, and to see those beautiful tits bouncing around.

"Bet you have no clue how much I want fuck my baby in you, doll. Or imagining the way your wedding ring glides on the side of my cock when you stroke me in your hand."

Bucky angled her body again by throwing her legs over his shoulders and leaned forward. This new angle made her eyes roll back. "Oh fuckk-- ahhh bucky,," she managed to say between his thrusts. Her entire body shaking from the tension building in her body as Bucky fucks her hard and fast, "I love you, y/n. I love you so. damn. much. I want to live the rest of my life in this cunt." He punctuated his words with hitting her sweet spot each time.

Bucky briefly threw his head back to hold back his orgasm before his hazy gaze landed on her, "Fuck doll, you look so pretty with my cock in you baby, so pretty. And we're so wet now. Hear that? Yeah, that's the sound of your tight little cunt getting wrecked by my cock. You fit me so perfectly. We're perfect." His thoughts were spilling out just as much as his precum leaking inside her.

There were tears in her eyes now, not only her walls but her whole body were stretching under him. It burned and it felt so damn good.

"Need you to cum, baby" Bucky spoke lowly, "I can feel ya, come on doll. Cum for me." He growled while continuing to pound her pussy.

And that would be the final straw for her. "fuck, yes, yes!" her voice hitched as her thighs begin to tremble around him. "...cumming. fuck, bucky i'm cumming." loud and sensual moans falling from her lips without much of an effort. Screaming out his name in pure bliss as her orgasm snapped through her high.

"That's it baby. Squeeze me so good." Bucky coaxed ever-so-tenderly, as her cum leaked around his cock and her pussy continued to milk him; begging and needing to feel his cum inside her.

"Hmm. I'm cumming, doll. Fuck,, oh fucking hell,, you're so good. Making me wanna cum, sweetheart. Where do you want it? Tell me. Where do you want my cum?" Bucky nearly whimpered as he felt his heavy balls were about to combust.

"Inside. Cum inside me," she moaned breathlessly.

Bucky almost growled to her response, "Good. fucking. girl. That's the only choice, baby. I'm gonna cum in you eitherway. Fuck fuck fuck,, I'm cumming shit take it, babydoll take it yeaahhh"

Leaning into her neck in a loud long moan, she felt Bucky's cock ached as he spilled himself inside her. His huge amount cream kept spurting endlessly, so much that it leaked out of her hole. Bucky whined as he continue to roll his hips, unable to stop humping into her stretched out, cum-filled cunt.

As he come down from the high, Bucky tried to pull out but only to be stopped by her circling her legs around him. He chuckled at her needy behaviour; as he found it quite adorable, "Want me to stay, baby?" he whispered softly and got a drunken nod as answer.

Bucky carefully flipped their position without leaving the tightness of her pussy, lying her limping body on his own. "Hmmmm" she hummed sleepily as she snuggled into his chest, eyes heavy with satisfaction.

"Yeah? Need my cock to fill you up for you to sleep well, hmm babydoll?" He cooed as he grind her hips downward, thrusting his cock into her slow and gentle. Y/N whined and mumbled, "Yes, please."

Bucky smiled tenderly, "Okay sweetheart. I'll keep you stuffed as long as you need me to. Now, I need you to go to sleep, okay?" He said, getting simple "okay" from the lady in his arms. Bucky placed a kiss on her head, as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as both of them got more and more drowsy as time goes by.

And at the end of this night, it was safe to say that this had been the best and longest sleep they both had since forever.

End.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Leave some thoughts behind? The sinful the better 🙈

#bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #avenger!bucky #fuckboy!bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #thin walls thin lines au

2K notes · View notes

planete777 · 3 months

Text

my LANDO HEADCANONS because... yes. ones below the cut are 18+, yk the drill!!

💓 💓 💓

☆ミ loves stay-at-home dates.

he travels a lot, so if there's any place to completely let loose and unravel with his girlfriend, it would be on the couch, with a bowl of pop corn wedged between the two of you.

☆ミ being the little spoon.

he just likes being cuddled, surrounded by your warmth and scent. he's very clingy like that, but sometimes he's the big spoon too.

☆ミ overcompetitive

lando is definitely the boyfriend to make everything into a competition. who can get changed first? who can make the other cum first? he almost never wins but it's okay, he loves you anyways.

☆ミ gets shy when you compliment him

i can't be the only one, right?? he's sooo blushing and telling u to stop but deep down, ofc, he loves it. he'd try to downplay them but you're insistent, and he ends up accepting them in the end.

☆ミ manhandling

as my dearest @mariahcarreyyy has mentioned before, he loves throwing you on the bed, over his shoulder, grabbing your face to kiss you. as long as you're okay with it, expect your body to be spent

☆ミ boobs man.

i've said it once, and ill say it again. lando LOVES tits. hold them, lie on them, squeeze them, suck them, have his dick between them. whatever it is, he'd rather die at the mercy of your tits than anything else.

☆ミ choking kink

now why else does he have big hands (pt. 2)?? as long as he has your consent, he'd always be wrapping his hand around your neck while fucking into you. he's open to be choked too when your ride him, the pressure on his throat and, simultaneously, his cock frazzles him.

☆ミ loves watching you masturbate

with your fingers? yes. with a custom dildo of his own dick? fuck yes. seeing you ruined when he hasn't even touched you gets him hot and bothered. he'll talk you throughout it all.

☆ミ mirror sex + chain.

he knows what riles you up, so when he's pounding into u in front of a mirror and there's nothing you can do but watch him, you eyes immediately hone in on the silver chain that jumps with every thrust. lando notices everything though, and he just forces you to, "keep watching, baby".

☆ミ sex in the dark.

yes. yes yes yes. he loves it so much, all because it gets you pent up even more. one second he could be upright, the next, you'd feel hot skin fusing unto your back and he's whispering straight sin into your ear

#‧₊˚✩彡 planete.writes: ln4 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris fic #lando norris smut #lando norris headcanons #f1 fic #formula one x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 #lando norris x y/n #formula one x y/n

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memospacexx · 6 months

Text

Forgot to out my thing on MY BAD u can now send requests i think yayaayayay

Disclaimer!! This MIGHT be OOC cause we dont really know much about mammon as of now, when we get more on him i will be updating my general headcanons for him!!!

- initially he js thought you were the one who brought the most money thats why you stood out to him(sure)

- in this scenario I’ll make it so you work under him, managing his sales and making the advertisments n shit or whatever but its up to you wholeheartedly

- a succubus????did u seduce him???😞

- he genuinely started to get hissy whenever anyone talks to you…not that anyone really knew-

-you did not know he saw that. YOU DIDNT KNOW HE EVEN ACKNOWLEDGED YOU

-tbh if he ever put his ego aside and actually asked you out it would be like this:

“Eyyy if it isnt my favorite Succubus!”

favorite?you have NEVER SPOKEN TO HIM BEFORE

“Hello Sir-“

“Drop the sir sweetheart, anyways, i was wonderin if you would accompany me to this fine new restaurant?to discus the..urm sales of course!”

Lie buzzer sound

You thought it was lies but like…u cant really say that to a sin-

“Oh, of course sir it would be an honor” was he fr is this rlly abt that

-Do people know? NO cant risk that-

-However Fizz did find out- walked into you two laughing together, and to fizz, THATS WEIRD…Mammon??being nice??making someone actually laugh without insulting them?? Time to tell ozzie(before he quit)

-also you and fizz get along. I js wanted to point that out, you managed the sales of his robo-self, thats how he found you, he thinks your funny, and when he found out you and mammon were an item he was like

“Are you alright”

“What🤨”

-yeahhh…Ozzie does threaten him with it, like blackmail, but he wouldn’t actually leak that info unless it was an actual must, he knows how it feels 🤷‍♀️

-you two cant exactlyy go on dates, cos of the public, usually you two just watch a movie in his abode🫶🫶🫶

No he wont share popcorn. Get ur own (he will whine if u dont share yours cos he finished his)

If he were to buy gifts he asks his underlings to buy it. They dont question him (he will throw a hissy fit and probably kill them if they ask ngl😭)

Speeking of underlings they hate u lmaoo

They dont like the special treatment u get smh

But they arent mean to you( mammon will kill them💀)

And they refuse to tell anyone cause the fear they have for the sin of greed is INSANE

He made it clear if they gossiped he will indeed set everything they love on fire 😋

-you mention this new dress? Woah its on your (shared) bed

-scrolling thru ur phone and you linger on a specific item? Damn how did that get on your desk

-Favorite food? Say less(he ate it and had to get another but its okay)

But imma explain your job- basically you managed the sales and in-charge of the the advertisement,making sure it reaches the…right audience

And how you met(you didnt meet him when you got the job, someone else was handling it)

How he noticed you was all on accident

(You tripped infront of him . He thought it was the funniest thing for a day then he couldn’t get you out his head for a week)

He bought you VERY high heels as a joke bc of it😭😭😭

Tho a downside of his, in any relationship, doesn’t matter how much he gives and gives, it always feels like he’s taking too. You always have to be there, but not as a lover at times since your relationship isnt public. You have to always be there when hes out, he promoted you so you could be his “secretary “ so he had an excuse to keep you on a tight leash , he might try to isolate you tbh, hes greedy, he wants you all to himself, after arguing w him abt it he doesnt, thankfully, but hes just painfully possesive, but doesnt isolate you from anyone, just demands most of your time is on him

——————————————————

I hope this is to your likingg🫶🫶🫶

@nachowtoast

#helluva boss mammon x reader #mammon x reader #helluva boss mammon #helluva boss season two #helluva boss ozzie #fizzaroli helluva boss #helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss season 2 #helluva boss x reader #helluva boss #.memospace

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libertyybellls · 4 months

Text

silver soul !

pairing; finnick odair x fem reader

summary; you’ve been reaped for the 68th annual games,as you say your goodbyes you realize the ocean is not the only thing you are leaving behind.

contains ; ANGST, sadness, unconfessed loves.

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

you’re sitting atop the smoothest rock nearing the shoreline, too close to be dry but too far to be soaked. the air is cool despite the season. something somber lays in the air- as if nature can read the silence between you and finnick.

oh, finnick.

you wait for him to speak, for him to say goodbye and let you go. let you move onto your impending doom. but he doesn’t speak- he doesn’t even move. no noise is emitting from him, you’re not even sure you can hear his breathing- the typically obnoxious huffs and puffs he exudes are gone and he remains next to you in these final moments on district 4- refusing to speak.

he’d prayed to any god that would listen for the 68th hunger games to have mercy on you. he wouldn’t give just an arm and a leg for your safety. he would give anything that belonged to him to ensure that you’d return home, back to him, back to whatever you two were in.

he could’ve crumpled to the floor when he’d heard your name called, when nobody had volunteered. why you? why not anyone else? anyone but her.

“i’ll be okay.”

you couldn’t promise that, you knew it was a lie, you’re only 16, you have nothing to depend on getting you through the games.

“i’ll be your mentor. i’ll find you sponsors. let me help you.” finnick pleads, his eyes lowly looking into yours.

it is only then you want to break into pieces in his arms. you want to sob. you want to retreat back to your family, back to his safe presence. he looks so pure with the sparkle of grace in his eye, deeply at variance to the picture that’s been painted to the capitol. his altruistic belief in you when even now, you are certain you won’t make it far in these games, gives you a rush.

you don’t respond to his desperate offers. you only look down to your lap- at your dress playing with the simple garment. you laugh breathily, “what are the odds.”

‘not in my favor’ he selfishly thinks. he may still have a life whether you win or lose this game- but will he be alive? will he have his anchor?

he shames the world, shames the capitol, shames all of the people who sat back and let you walk onto that stage, shames the game makers who would ever let you step foot in that arena. he needs you to be okay. this world is cruel, cruel to do this to his girl.

“please trust me, i will get you out of these games. you will be a victor and we can live in peace, y/n.”

he sins. he lies. he deceives. straight through his teeth. no matter the outcome you will never live in peace once your out of this. you will never be the same girl.

you think back to his own games. though he has yet to directly say his nightly terrors, his daily horrors, the acts he’s committed that he will never say as he looks into your loving eyes. the capitol has not had lenience on this boy, only a boy, but with troubles of a man.

there is no outcome of this predicament that either of you favor. no scenario in which the world grants you the rest you deserve. you want to scream, cry, pour your heart into him. let him fully consume every fiber that holds you together, all the words you’ve never yet said to him lay heavy on your heart. now it is your turn to stay silent, to lose all oxygen in your lungs, let the blood leave your face. but your voice fails you, “i trust you finnick.”

i trust that i am safe with you. i trust that you won’t let me die. i trust that i will make it back to you. i trust you.

he pulls you into him, his cheeks are wet, there’s a lump in his throat but he does not speak. he simply holds your head onto his chest- his fingers lock into yours as if that’s where they were made to lay.

your words continue to lie dormant in the back of your shared minds- but you let the angry waves speak for you. the greying sky share your sadness, the cold drops of water that reach your legs will bring you back to life- rejuvenate your soul ties. this is the peace you’ve been granted- this is all that is fair in your life.

only in this moment will he have you as you are now, in his arms, still so fragile but he holds you intact.

#finnick odair #finnick oneshot #finnick angst #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine #finnick fanfic #finnick fluff #finnick smut #finnick odair fluff #finnick odair smut #finnick odair x you

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vashs-turtleneck · 2 months

Note

Hi! How are you? I hope you are doing well <3 I binge-read all of you trigun fics and i loved them, so i wanted to request something too!

How about a Vash x reader where the reader sleeps on him? Vash is listening to them ramble about something and then boom, they fall asleep on him bc hes warm. <3

Omg my first request. I'm so honoured, and I'm so happy to hear you enjoyed my other fics!! I'm sorry this took so long to complete. It was a busy couple weeks for me, but I hope you like it!

Also this ended up being way longer than I thought it would.

Quiet Nights.

Rating: T Summary: After a less than stellar day, Vash can't seem to get out of his own head. Luckily, he has you. Pairing: Vash the Stampede x Reader Content: pining, angst, fluff. Word Count: 2.7k

It's quiet.

Galaxies paint the skies above him, his thoughts accompanied only by the sound of the wind blowing, the crackling of the fire, and the subtle discomfort of the rock he's leaning on pressing into his spine.

Quiet, but not peaceful.

Not for Vash.

Never for the humanoid typhoon.

His head is in turmoil, recollecting all his sins and keeping him from sleep. All the venom spat his way as the last town cursed the walking disaster, forcing you both out without so much as a chance to breathe, with bullets hitting the ground at your heels as you ran.

He deserved it. Every last word. Every last bullet shell. He knows he did, but you didn't.

He glances down at you, snuggled up so comfortably in your sleeping bag. Now you look awfully peaceful, your face barely peeking out from under the covers, letting him see the fine cut you got on your cheek as a result of today's troubles.

If he had been faster.

If he had been more vigilant.

If you weren't with him.

You'd be safer without him.

He's overthinking again.

Or is he?

Damn it, what's right anymore?

Keeping you around, is it wrong? This selfishness he lets himself indulge in with your presence, it must be wrong. But how can it be when it feels so right, when having you by his side makes his chest swell with a warmth that makes him feel like he's found a home?

Absent-mindedly, his warm hand reaches for you. He can see you. He can see the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. You're right there, but he has to remind himself that you're real.

You're okay, he has to tell himself. You're alive.

But just as his thumb is about to carefully swipe over the scrape on your cheek, your pretty eyes flutter open. You look right at him, and Vash freezes.

“Eep!” The typhoon squeaks out in surprise and pulls his hand away. “S-Sorry! I wasn't doing anything weird, I promise!”

“That makes it sound like you were absolutely doing something weird," you tease back oh so sweetly.

“I promise I wasn't.” He says with a pout, looking away from you.

“Can't sleep, Vash?”

He shakes his head.

“Just thinking.”

“Well, that's no good. You always let that pretty head fill with such stupid thoughts.”

‘Pretty.’

Well you sure know how to get him to blush. He tries to shake off this feeling you give him and swallow down the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, taking a few calming breaths before he speaks again.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It's alright. I wasn't asleep.”

Vash turns back to you, his head tilting questioningly.

“Hmm? Why not?” He asks, and he hopes that your head isn't filling with the same thoughts as his.

“I try to stay up if I know you're awake.”

And you must see the confusion on his face, because you answer his question without him needing to ask.

“Gotta keep my eyes peeled if I wanna make sure you're not running off again.” You chuckle, yet your words hit him like sandsteamer.

Oh.

He can't really argue with you there. Hell, even just now, he was considering it. Part of him wants to reassure you that he won't leave, but he also doesn't want to lie to you. If it came down to choosing between keeping you safe and never seeing you again, he'd be gone in a heartbeat, no matter how much it would rip him to shreds inside.

He cherishes your presence.

When you came into his life, things became just a little bit more lively. Sure, his routine stayed mostly the same; it's not like there's all that many options for how to live his life when he's always on the run, but now he has someone else to share it with. You eat with him, walk with him, and when the double dollars are short and you have to settle for spending the night out under the open sky, you're right there, laying next to him in your own little sleeping bag. He can have a conversation with you as the two of you travel between towns. He can tell you about the stars in the night sky on nights like these, and help point out the constellations draped over your heads.

He's not alone anymore.

He cherishes you, no matter how selfish that may be.

He'd much rather not have to leave you, if he's being completely honest.

“Well,” Vash cuts the somewhat uncomfortable silence between the two of you. “If neither of us are gonna sleep, wanna look at the stars with me, mayfly?”

He sees how your eyes sparkle, and you sit yourself up in your sleeping bag, shuffling yourself closer to him. He leans against you and points up towards the stars, and your gaze follows his index finger.

“Right there. Those ones over there make the shape of a four-pronged fork.”

The side of his face is dangerously close to yours, but you seem too immersed in the sky to notice. Thank goodness for that, or else you might have noticed his cheeks heating up.

“You see it?”

You must be able to see it. You're looking right a-

“I don't see it.”

“H-huh?”

“I have no clue what you're pointing at.”

“Whu- What do you mean?! You're looking right at it!” Vash says, his tone playfully exasperated, and it has you giggling so softly that he has to swallow those butterflies back down.

It takes him a moment to realize he's smiling too, watching you fondly as you try to compose yourself. Surely he's not that funny?

As he sees you refocusing on the stars, a harsh gust of wind passes through, striking the flames of the fire and forcing you to retreat back into your sleeping bag with a subtle shiver that Vash notices all too quickly.

“You cold, mayfly?” Though he doesn't have to ask. He can see it by the way your shoulders tremble.

“Maybe just a bit.”

“You could come closer, if you want. I have plenty of body heat to spare.” He tries to say nonchalantly, tapping at the space in front of him.

‘Closer.’

Closer would be nice.

And to his surprise (and secretly to his delight), you come much closer. You scuttle out of your sleeping bag and carefully situate yourself in front of him, sitting on the ground between his legs and leaning your back against his chest like he's some chair. You tuck the top of your head beneath his chin, an all too close position, but he's definitely not complaining. He only hopes you don't feel his heart hammering in his chest right now, but at least like this you can't see how his cheeks hue a deep scarlet.

You're so close.

Deep breaths.

“Better?”

“Mhm. Much better.” You hum, tucking yourself against him, his body and jacket sheltering you from the wind. “Now where is it again?”

“There,” He says as he points up towards the constellation again. "Do you see it now? If you look up from the tip of my finger, you can see how those stars make the shape of a fork."

"It still just looks like a bunch of pretty splotches to me."

"Mayfly!"

You giggle far too sweetly at his reaction, so purely that it almost eases the unrest in his heart. So carefree, so lighthearted.

Do you not care that you got hurt? Are you so oblivious to the danger he puts you through?

Do you not hate him for it?

Long lanky legs stretch out to your sides, your back pressed to his broad chest. It's easy to forget just how big he is when he hides his frame beneath this jacket of his, how well he hides just how strong he is. This jacket hides the body of something inhuman, a natural disaster, as people call him. Right now though, this jacket is keeping you covered and warm.

His marred body is keeping you warm.

“I'm sorry, mayfly.”

“Hmm?” You hum, tilting your head back slightly to look at him and giving him a close view of your pretty eyes.

“Your cheek. I'm sorry. It's my fault you got hurt.”

He hesitantly reaches for your face again, and when he sees you're not pulling away, his calloused thumb gently brushes along the scuff on your soft cheek, his touch lingering for just a moment longer than friendly.

Warm.

“It's not your fault, Vash. It was all just some stupid misunderstanding and we got caught in the middle of it.”

“Still,” He whispers, and even he can hear the sadness in his own voice despite his attempt to stifle it. “You'd be safer without me.”

You sigh. That same casual sigh you do when he's eaten so many doughnuts that he's given himself a tummy ache, like you're fed up with his silly everyday antics.

“It's like I said– Pretty head, stupid thoughts.” You tell him, turning forward once more and resting your head under his chin again.

“Right here,” You say, playfully tapping the knee he has resting against your side. “This is the safest place I can be, Vash.”

Safe.

Do you really feel that way?

“You're comfy, you know.” You say soundly, and it nearly has Vash choking on his own spit.

“M-Me?!” He blurts.

“I don't see anyone else here,” You snicker. “Very warm too. You weren't kidding about having body heat to spare.”

“I- well I- Uh…” He stumbles over his own words. He doesn't know what to say to something so kind right now, and strangely… intimate. Those butterflies aren’t going down easily.

“Those ones look like you.” You chime, your hand pointing up at the sky.

“Huh? The stars?”

“Yeah, right there. Do you see? That's your spikey hair, and right under is your little mole.”

“How do you see that but not a fork?”

“Don't know, but if I can't see the regular constellations, I might as well make my own.”

Making up your own constellations. How cute.

He's not stupid. He knows you're doing this on purpose, trying to get his mind off whatever is bothering him, but that's just like you. In his mind, you shine brighter than the stars. His guiding light, something to bring him back down to No Man's Land when he gets lost in the maze inside his head.

“That one looks like Kuroneko.” You gush, pointing elsewhere.

“Who?” He says, trying to follow the direction of your finger. Maybe seeing pictures in the stars is harder than he gave you credit for.

“Don't worry about it.” You chuckle, letting your hand fall back down.

“Well that one looks like a doughnut with sprinkles.”

“You would see that.”

“And that one looks like a slice of cake.”

“Is your sweet tooth acting up?”

“...Maybe.”

“We'll get some sweets in the next town then.”

“Mmh. That'd be nice.”

Shared laughter fills the air surrounding the two of you, followed by silence.

Comfortable silence.

His mind is quieter now, no longer buzzing with unanswerable questions, regrets, and ‘what ifs’.

Peaceful.

Because of you.

After a few minutes of silently looking up at the galaxies hanging up high, he breaks the calm air between the two of you.

“Thank you, mayfly.” He whispers, not missing the way his voice trembles ever so slightly.

“I get stuck in my own head sometimes. I-I guess a lot of the time, really. It's… nice to have someone around to help me out of it.”

He clears his throat, trying to get rid of that shakiness in his voice.

“W-Well– y’know– not just someone. You're not just someone. You're one of a kind. Special.”

His heart is hammering in his chest, he can feel it drumming behind his ears. He doesn't want to promise you anything. He doesn't make promises, but if he can just try to express to you how badly he needs you around, then maybe…

“You're, um– you're very precious to me, mayfly. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. Not without you, anyway.”

Oh no. You're not saying anything. Was that too much?

“Ha ha… S-Sorry, didn't mean to bring down the mood.”

God, his heart is pounding. If you didn't already hear it before, there's no way you can't hear it now.

Another few moments of silence pass, and he can't take it anymore. Vash gulps and looks down at you, worried to see the expression on your face, scared he took this too far, but when he does gaze down, you're wearing the most peaceful expression he's ever seen.

You're asleep, nuzzled up against him. Not only that, but you're asleep first, despite what you said earlier. Actually asleep too, he judges based on how deeply you're breathing.

Guess he can't run off if you're keeping him in place.

‘You're comfy.’

Is he really? These hands stained with blood, this body tattered in scars, this unchanged face that he's worn for over a century, this name that has the power to strike fear in the hearts of all. Yet here you are, leaning into him, asleep, vulnerable, and completely trusting of him.

You must be crazy. Don't you know he's the humanoid typhoon?

He's holding you close. A tad too close for what he would consider friendly, but despite the heat he feels rising to his cheeks, he doesn't want to pull away.

His limbs wrap tightly around you, pressing you into his chest, his head leaning slightly against your shoulder until your hair tickles his nose, like he wants to melt into you. Shyly, he takes in the scent of you. That smell that is so inherently you. Just the feeling of you so close to him, grounding him, quieting the thoughts in his head.

‘You're here. You're okay. You're alive.’ He tells himself.

Warm.

Soft.

Safe.

Home.

Truth be told, he could never bring himself to leave. He'd have to be pried away from you, and even then, his hands would cling to you until his nails were cracked and bloody. If he was being honest with himself, you've got him by the heart.

Maybe he'll let himself be selfish.

‘Maybe just for tonight.’ He promises himself, though even he knows that's a lie.

✧ ✧ ✧

Morning comes all too quickly, the suns managing to shine down directly onto you. You groan, bringing a hand to your face to rub the sleep from your eyes. You shift your body to stretch, yet you feel yourself held in place, and look down at your waist to see what it is.

A pair of arms wrapped around your middle, one cooler than the other, but both just as comforting and inviting.

This isn't your sleeping bag. It's far too comfortable, and definitely warmer than that dusty old thing.

“Mayfly.”

The sweet word tickles the shell of your ear, whispered out so softly that it sends a spark of electricity coursing through you.

You lean your head back to look at the source of that sweet sound, letting yourself fall deeper into that comfortable, inviting embrace that you don't ever want to leave, your eyes falling to what, or rather who, is behind you.

Golden hair rivaling the rays of sun shining down on you, eyes like the clear blue sky above, and an alluring warmth that feels like home.

He smiles down at you when your eyes meet, a genuine smile that shows off those cute dimples. You've never seen them from so close.

“Good morni-”

“WHAAAGH!” You cut him off with scream, not expecting to wake up snuggled up so close on your outlaw companion’s chest.

In your surprise, you completely knock your head into his pretty face. He swiftly brings his hand up, groaning, feeling the bit of blood starting to trickle from his nose.

Yeah, okay. He should have known you'd be surprised to see him so close. Maybe he had that coming.

“Oh god! I'm so sorry! I just- I wasn't- I was a bit startled, is all. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm so sorry, Vash.”

“Ehe… I'm fine. Don't worry about it.”

Maybe that's what he gets for letting himself be so selfish.

Though if that's the price he has to pay, he'll gladly let you break his nose every day if it means he gets to hold you that close.

divider.

#trigun #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun maximum #vash #vash the stampede x reader #vash x reader #vash x you #vash the stampede x you

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no-where-new-hero · 5 months

Note

omg I need your thoughts on the terminally o line author culture bc ngl it makes my eye TWITCH, there are authors I deliberately avoid even tho I've heard their stuff is good bc they're like that 🙈

HHHHH oh good lord, okay, from how I see it, there are two angles on this, both aggravating and sad: the official decree one and the spontaneous ecosystem one.

The officious one is that the nature of publishing nowadays demands an author have an online presence. You need Twitter/X. You need to let every potential reader know your book is coming out. You need engagement through reviews and pre-orders incentives (if you buy now you’ll get a special keychain!!) and word of mouth assurances from your peers that yes your book is as cool as you say it is. You need a newsletter with links (more buying! more voting on lists that are simply popularity contests!) and promises you’re still working on the next thing, don’t forget about me in the morass of everyone else doing the same thing. You need an Instagram and TikTok now to post pretty pictures and videos because one or two authors made it big off this kind of promotion and now everyone thinks it’s the ticket to the bestseller list (sadly, it seems to be working). You need an OnlyFans (a joke but I do recall a twt spat that was a joke/not joke about how rupi kaur will always be more beautiful than her critics and people who took issue with the conflation of beauty with talent). At the end of all this, you’re basically an influencer, a content creator creating content for the content you should be focusing on creating, the finished novel. And the novel itself seems to be disappearing behind the masks used to promote it (fanfic-style tropes, moodboards, playlists, memes) until I now no longer trust the book that I’ll pick up to have any resemblance to the enticements that brought me here. I’ve seen an author or two complain about the stress all this self-promotion generates, but it’s become such an entrenched part of the industry, I think people just accept it. And thus spend too much time online hoping that if they tweet just a little more, produce just one more reel, maybe that’ll be the difference between a sale and no sale.

The other side of this, distinct but obviously connected, is the ecosystem created by this panic of being perpetually visible coupled with the fact that so many of the new authors came of age during the rise of internet fandom culture. That opinionated community mindset that blurs the line between anonymity and friendship is the lens they bring to their own work. I mean, it makes sense I suppose—if you love yelling about characters and words, why wouldn’t you do that once you start to produce your own? This really came home to me hearing about that reviewbombgate “scandal” and how people involved were in reylo circles and that was used to provide receipts. You’re interacting with your readers and peers about your intimate work but they are also all strangers. They will not always give you the benefit of the doubt, and now—as opposed to the past when maybe the worst that could happen was a handful of bad reviews in newspapers—you will either be tagged in hate reviews, sub-tweeted, explicitly called out, demanded to atone for your sins. It’s no longer the morality of consumption but the morality of production. Of course, the easy answer is just log-off, touch some grass. But that can work only when you and everyone else are separated by anonymous accounts or when you have no platform to maintain. As an author trying to make your livelihood from this, suddenly it’s do or die. We’re in a strange moment of authorship bringing the Internet’s echo-chamber and claustrophobic into the real world (this is a lie: publishing now is no longer the real world. But it looks like it) and thus you can kind of no longer escape things.

Will the average reader who isn’t aware of all these machinations care about reviewbombgate? Would a reader browsing at Target think about the controversies around Lightlark? Very likely not. But the impression I’m getting more and more is that the average reader isn’t the one buying all the books. Or shall we say—a bestseller’s status relies on bookstore stock. Bookstore stock is only huge when they know a book will be a good investment. They’ll only know a book is a good investment if it and its author has street cred based on booktokkers, bookstagram, bloggers and reviewers (have you noticed how many books out these last maybe 1-3 years have these kinds of accounts thanked in the acknowledgments? Yeah), and THESE are also chronically online people who will Know. And decide the cast of fate.

Honestly, @batrachised, I see why you avoid these kinds of writers, though I wonder how long it’ll be before the disease becomes epidemic.

#i’m very doom and gloom about this if you couldn’t tell from my tone lmao #and of course it’s not a perfect formula; i read a decent debut this year by a writer trying to be very active on socials and idk how much #of a splash her book made because literary sff is a dying genre even with an ecological bent compared to the glut of romantasy #also this feels very timely because the goodreads choice awards were just announced and i am seething at seeing d*vine r*vals #get another accolade to its name #blake’s last braincell #blake talks shit #writing life

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forlorn-crows · 3 months

Text

And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 20 days

Note

AITA for exposing some parents' lies in front of their children?

So I ( at the time 25F) used to be a fast food worker in a mall until last year. In the restaurant we had a very eye catchy gumball machine, and families that walk past the restaurant tend to get stopped by children asking for these. Some parents are okay with it but most are not. Those who refuse to get some tend to deal with the situation questionably sometimes. The ones that get on my nerves the most are the parents who expect ME to convince the children not to buy some, as if I weren't busy already fixing their food. It's a small booth so I'm the only worker there and it's hell when it gets busy. However, for the sake of professionalism, I do try and talk the children out of it. "It's not healthy" is my favorite argument, actually my only argument, I can't think of another reason not to buy it. It doesn't work obviously but at least I tried?

The other type of parents that annoy me are the parents who outright lie to their children to get them to stop asking for gumballs. Like "the machine is broken", "it's just for display, not for sale" are the most popular lies I could remember right now. It's none of my business when this happens, even though I don't agree of this method of parenting. Children are my favorite people (if anyone remembers me, I sent the AITA about hanging out with children and ditching adults- so you'd know how much I love these little people) and I hate it when adult treat them as if they were dumb? Needless to say, most children don't even believe those lies and would argue with their parents. "Why keep it there if it doesn't work/ not for sale?"

Now, whenever children argue with their parents, some times the parents would look for someone else to back them up on their lies. They'd look at me and wink. "It's broken, right?" "It's not allowed for public use, isn't it?" And expect me to agree with them.

I really hate it when this happen. They demand that I side with them adults against those impressionable and innocent children??? To commit acts of dishonesty in the face of a cute child that just wants a candy of a certain color? Okay but my issue is the fact those customers demand I lie. Just like I said, I hate doing that because it's like I'm mocking their their intelligence and encouraging bad parenting. The other reason is, I'm a Muslim and lying is a sin, and putting me in a tough spot where I'm forced to sin is uncomfortable and I draw the line at it. I live in a highly religious Muslim area too so it's not like they aren't aware of that either. Like, I'm not claiming to be perfect, I have absolutely lied before and committed other sins, but I refuse to increase my sin count doings something I'm totally against? The third reason is, I'm Autistic so I happen to be very blunt, so I'm not used to lying at all, I'll suck at it if I try anyway.

So here's where I might be TA:

When the parents seek me to help cover their lies, I act as if I don't understand what they want me to do and contradict them. For example they'll say "Hey, the machine is broken, isn't?"

I pull my innocent confused face and say something along the line of "Oh no, it works perfectly fine, just insert a coin to get it to work!"

If they say something like "It's not for sale it's just decoration, right?"

I'll reply with "no of course you're allowed to use it, sir."

And so on.

I had a blast doing that, for once, I get to be slightly rude with Karens who can't call me out because their children are right in front of them so they'll have to admit they were lying. Also I work alone so there's no superior they can report me to, and it's a huge chain restaurant so one sigle bad review will cause no harm and even go unnoticed, but it's not like any parent bothered looking up how to report me since they are so busy trying to get their children to leave, which means I get to do whatever I want. Also management was very nice for a change and they always shot down any complaints about me.

However, I'm not a parent myself so I don't understand their struggle to keeping their children under control.

Anyway, AITA for not lying with them and exposing them in the process?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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1moremilgram-enjoyer · 7 months

Text

is everyone in milgram just dead

Okay I'm making this post because while I'm not sure how much I believe this, it's a possibility that's been eating at my head for a while, so I gotta share it somewhere even if it's not the most solid theory in the world.

So anyways, hello members of the jury! Today I want to discuss the weirdly recurring theme of the prisoners in Milgram possibly being dead, and Milgram being some sort of afterlife thing. Given the fact it clearly has some supernatural elements, it certainly isn't impossible. So let's get into it!

CW Death, murder and suicide, abortion, child abuse, drowning, cults and indoctrination, waterboarding, gang violence

Yuno and the Allegations

The biggest hint that at least some of the prisoners might be dead is the in Yuno's second VD, Absolute Zero.

Yuno: Oh! Also, that reminds me, there was one thing I'm curious about. Es: What? Go ahead and say it. Y: Am I…really alive? E: That's…what do you…. Y: Hm…if you don't know, then it's fine. E: Yuno…. Y: Hey, it's time, right? E: Y-yes. Prisoner number 2, Yuno. Sing your sins.

Weird thing to say, really. So, presumably, she has some reason to believe she might be dead. Which is especially worrying because Yuno is one of the most intelligent and perceptive prisoners in Milgram, and might even have higher awareness of some of the more supernatural/meta elements of the series, as seen by images from both her cover songs appearing in Umbilical and Tear Drop.

All this is to say, if Yuno has reason to believe she might be dead, we have reason to believe so as well.

There are two points of Yuno's story were I feel she could have died. One is during her abortion, given a question from Trial 2.

(T2) Q20: Did you hate the person you killed?

Y: It was too much of a pain to for me to think about anything.

So her abortion was painful, which likely means it wasn't done in a hospital, as professional abortions typically don't cause too much pain in the moment (source), even if they can cause cramping or discomfort in the recovery period. If it wasn't done professionally, and it hurt a lot, it's very possible she may have died while performing it.

However, because of a few things we'll talk about later, I'm not sure this is very likely. The answer I find more likely is that, unfortunately, she may have committed suicide by jumping off the staircase we see her standing on in her Undercover silhouette shot.

For one, because what the hell would this shot even be otherwise. I've seen people suggest infanticide as opposed to abortion, but that wouldn’t cause physical pain (you could argue that answer is about emotional pain, but I'm not sure how much that works), it doesn't match her kill-shot in Undercover, and she herself has claimed her "muder" was abortion (and I don't see reason for her to lie about that). It also doesn't seem likely she would get pregnant more than once, seeing this question:

(T2) Q10: If you could turn back time, would you commit the same murder once again?

Y: I'd make sure that I won't have to commit it. That's it.

So, then, what the hell is up with that Undercover shot? Usually they say something important about the prisoner or their crime, but it really doesn't seem to have anything to do with anything.

This is where I bring up that Yuno falls off a staircase at the end of Umbilical.

Like, obviously this is more meant to be metaphorical, as in Yuno "slipped up" and now has to avoid falling by grabbing the balloon, which ends up destroying the staircase which had previously been related to the mixing of DNA (long story). But... she still is falling from a staircase. That is what is happening in the video. This is a silly argument, but it does exist.

Now, there's a few other things which could imply this, but that will have to wait for a moment. So while there is very little evidence for now, I'd say this is the most likely reason for why Yuno believes she may be dead. Especially given she might have depression (check out this cool post by weather-cluddy), her comitting suicide is sort of the best guess we can make I feel.

Nevertheless, no matter the reason why, Yuno believes she may be dead, which opens the door to other characters, if not all of them, to be dead as well. Let's take a look at the other prisoner most likely to actually be dead in my opinion, and see if we can establish a pattern.

Haruka's Worrying Situation

I believe, even if no one else is dead, it is highly likely Haruka attempted suicide. I am not going to go too in-depth in here, because moibakadesu already made a really good post about it, which is where I got the theory from in the first place. In fact, the idea Haruka may have at least attempted suicide has existed ever since Trial 1, check out this cool post by Venus from thinkin-bout-milgram. Here's a summary of what the main points of the theory are:

-The repeated motif of water and drowning could indicate the way Haruka killed himself, especially since he lived in Naogaka, Niigata, known as the "city of water."

-Haruka repeatedly attacks and even strangles a younger version of himself in Weakness, in one occasion alongside the lyric "I've become a victim, I've become a victim."

-The young girl in Weakness might actually be a representation of the "ideal Haruka", as he's stated his mother wanted a daughter instead of a son (I don't actually agree with this part, I do think the girl is a literal girl Haruka killed, due to several lines from his VDs, such as him saying Amane "brings back bad memories." However, it's still a possibility)

-The nonchalance with which Haruka speaks of comitting suicide in his second MV, Metamorphosis of the Weak, could imply he's already done it once.

-The line "if with one click, and I can reset everything" in AKAA can be more directly translated to "if with the push of one button I could be reborn", which paired with butterflies being symbols of death and rebirth and being connected to Haruka because of the name of his second VD, could imply Haruka died and was reborn.

-Haruka standing on a chair in AKAA as his shadow lines up with the shadow of the bars in the window to create the ilusion he has a noose around his neck.

-At the end of AKAA, Haruka is surrounded in what looks to be formaldehyde, which is used to preserve the corpses of dead animals, while the aforementioned "I could be reborn" lyric plays.

As you can see, there's a lot here, which is why I think it is highly likely Haruka comitted suicide.

There is an issue with bringing this theory in, which is that part of the theory is that Haruka's silhouette in the Undercover shot doesn't have white noise, which separates him from the others and could imply he's a victim like Hinako and Mahiru's boyfriend, who similarly have no white noise. The problem for our purposes is that this theory assumes a lot of the other prisoners, such as Yuno, may have committed suicide as well, creating an inconsistency with this point. I don't have a good answer for this, beyond a really odd, Hamlet-esque "Haruka is a victim of his own madness" kind of thing which doesn't work very well, so unless any of you have another explanation, it's best for this theory to just sorta ignore the white noise thing.

So, now we have two prisoners who very likely died before Milgram. This vaguely establishes a possible pattern: what if all the prisoners were taken right as they died?

Muu’s Mysterious Memory Mishaps

Es: You said you wanted to go back home, right? And, "suppose" we did let you… Even if you were to leave this place, you'll then have a brush with the police, won't you? Muu: *Surprised* E: I mean, you've killed someone anyway, so are the police not making a move in regards to that? M: Well, I don't know. As of now, I don't have a clear memory of what happened after I did it. And then before I knew it, I was here. E: Is… that so? M: You guys should've known that, being the ones who brought me here after all.

This line from Muu’s first VD has always intrigued me. Muu doesn’t have a very good reason to be lying here when seen in full context, so she’s likely telling the truth. But, why? Why doesn’t Muu remember anything clearly after her crime, and why was she taken so quickly after committing it?

First idea is that perhaps all the prisoners are simply taken right after the murder they’re in Milgram for; even in the case of multiple murders, you can say Milgram just decided to take them for the last one exclusively.

However, Shidou serves as a counter example, because of the ending of Throw Down.

It’s a pretty simple logical progression. Shidou has no reason to kill after the flower person dies, so their death is after his last murder most likely, and yet he does remember it happening. Thus, Shidou has a memory of something which happened an undetermined amount of time after his final murder.

That means the "fuzzy memories" thing isn't universal. This can also be vaguely inferred by the attitudes certain prisoners have regarding their "murder(s)", like Kazui for example.

Now, you could argue Muu simply doesn't remember well because of the Trauma, and she just happened to get taken shortly after her murder. However, there is a chance now that there is a reason she was taken shortly after her murder.

You know what this post is about. You know what I'm about to imply. So I'll make the observation now:

In It's Not my Fault, one of Muu's shoes is off after she kills Rei. And we have seen this imagery of "one shoe off" to represent suicide before.

It's common in Japan to take both shoes off before comitting suicide, but if you want to read into only one of the shoes being off, you could argue it represents they're "half-suicides", as Milgram also considers them murders. In that sense, you (or Muu) could argue were Muu to commit suicide after killing Rei, then she would also become "Rei's victim", the same way Hinako and Mahiru's boyfriend are Kazui and Mahiru's victims.

This idea that Muu might still be a victim in the situation could also be implied by the lyrics here:

[It's Not my Fault] It’s not my fault after all, after all. Everyone wants me to be innocent. What a relief. Can’t be helped. I’m always meant to be pitied!

(Btw I'm using the fan translation in the wiki because the English subs in that video are... odd)

Yes that sentiment is repeated a lot during the song, but Muu does shout "I'm always meant to be pitied" ("I'm always the drama queen") at the top of her lungs here.

Now, the shoe thing isn't quite like that in After Pain, but we never actually see Muu's shoes in the real world, only in the blank inner world with the broken hourglass, and there are other inconsistencies with reality there, namely Rei's body's position.

You can see her right shoe is on there, but again, this scene isn't real.

The concerning thing is that apart from that, After Pain does not help Muu beat the suicide allegations.

In particular, look at the scene of the photo I put there. You can see there's a bunch of people judging Muu for her murder, as it's usually not considered a socially acceptable thing to do. But, hold on, didn't Muu say she didn't remember anything after her murder? Correct! That means she doesn't remember this "judgement" happening, but she imagined it would. Perhaps that's what the one line means:

[After Pain] Counterattack being a suicide note

Counterattacking Rei, killing her, is social suicide. For obvious reasons.

...

But it's still called a suicide note, which is not a good look. And yes, I do think the Japanese lyric explicitly references death, though take that with a lot of salt since that's just Google Translate and DeepL talking.

In fact, that entire set of lyrics is pretty odd.

[After Pain] Let’s meet up inside the pain, a place just for me Postmortem makeup to hide my heart, how to solve it is a secret The stabbing of the little devil’s voice, counterattack being a suicide note “I love YOU”

"Meeting up inside the pain" probably refers to hurting Rei, so now they're hurting together. The "stabbing of a little devil's voice" is probably referring to dangerous impulses, so murderous thoughts. "Counterattack being a suicide note", already explained. "I love YOU", because Muu is a girlkisser.

But the "postmortem makeup" is odd. You could argue the "death" which happened before the "makeup" was applied was the "death" of Muu's reputation, her old persona. Rei "killed" "that Muu", and now Muu is hiding her real feelings with "postmortem makeup."

But then, why would the method to solve it be a secret? Who is she keeping it secret from? Rei, and all of Muu's old 'friends', all know what lies beyond that makeup, they all saw what Muu was like before Rei stepped in.

That means there's another interpretation. If her real feelings are a secret, there's only one person they would be a secret from. Es (and us by extension). In a way, After Pain is hiding part of her heart, the less sympathetic parts shown in full in It's Not My Fault. Muu being a bully was already implied in After Pain, mind you, but it was still relatively "hidden", at least compared to It's Not my Fault.

And if that is the way we're meant to read that line, we run into the allegations again. If the makeup is for Milgram, and it's "postmortem" makeup, then Muu is already dead.

And that's without mentioning how much After Pain seems to imply suicidal tendencies in general.

[After Pain] If I was gone, If I had just disappeared I overheard, I found out How much I’m not needed There’s no special meaning, I got the short end of the stick I overheard, I found out How much I’m not needed

I don’t want tomorrow to come, I want to forget yesterday I was miserable, someone please help me

Maybe I’m done Just one more time before saying goodbye I’m just kidding, please forget I said that

The only lyric that doesn't seem to imply it is:

I want to feel “alive”, is it ok if I breathe?

But feeling alive and being alive isn't quite the same, right? You can be alive without feeling alive, and if someone doesn't feel alive, it's possible they're not a very good state of mind.

So, what could this all imply? If we're going with the idea of murder-suicide, it's possible Muu was very worried about how people would hate her after the murder, as implied by After Pain, decided she didn't want to deal with that, and unfortunately made the decision to kill herself.

One small thing which could serve as a counterpoint is her Trial 1 Voice Reveal distorted line.

Fufufu... It's your fault... for doing horrible things to me.

She seems pretty sure of herself here, and it's very likely this is after her murder. But it's perfectly possible she said this initially, then thought about the social consequences, and that's when she started to feel bad. It's also worth noting the only time in It's Not my Fault where Muu seems to hesitate is right after her murder.

[It's Not my Fault] Wait, wait, just as a hypothetical. What should I do if I’m actually a bad girl? Don’t ever hate me, and don’t look for what lies “after and from” the pain.

This is immediately after the murder, when she comes out of a caccoon, presumably her arriving at Milgram. So, she was initally confident, that's when she says "I’m always meant to be pitied!" in It's Not my Fault and presumably her Voice Reveal line, then hesitated and started to feel awful as we see in After Pain.

... Well, there's also the way more uncharitable reading where Muu killed herself so people also pitied her instead of just hating her for killing Rei, but that's a bit too dark and in bad faith for my tastes. It is there, though.

So, yeah, Muu may be dead too. And she brings with her an interesting implication; the prisoners may not have clear memories of the events leading up to their death. So, even if some of them committed suicide, it's possible they simply don't remember ever taking the decision to do so, explaining their behavior in the prison.

And it also could explain away... one apparent contradiction. One which exists outside of this theory, but that this theory could explain.

Amane and the Voice Reveal Trailers

As most of you know, the Voice Reveal trailers for all these characters contain certain distorted phrases which in general seem closely linked to their murder. And as pointed out by blueepink07 in this post, it seems the First Trial Voice Reveals are things the prisoners said after their murder, while the Second Trial ones are showing a point before their murder. Check out Kazui's, for example.

(T1) "I'm so dumb... Why did I have to dream?"

(T2) "Hinako, I love you more than anything."

There's also Muu's, since I've already brought it up before.

(T1) "Fufufu... It's your fault... for doing horrible things to me."

(T2) "Hey..why don't you listen to me...? I'm telling you... Hey...HEY, I'M TALKING TO YOU"

The second being right before she killed Rei.

That works well enough for all the prisoners... except Amane.

(T1) "Ahh! I'm so sorry...! I'm sorry...! I'm sorry for breaking the rules!"

(T2) "Father is a very praiseworthy person. Once [my/his] virtue increases, he'll come back home, right? It's a little lonely, but I'm fine!"

In theory, Amane would have been punished before her murder, as we see happen after she heals the cat in the taser scene. Meanwhile, if she's lonely without her father, it could perhaps be because her mother is dead after Things Happened (yes I'm going with Mother!Victim theory on this one).

But that's not the case. Following the pattern, the line about her father coming home at some point is before her murder, and apparently, she was punished for breaking some kind of rule after her murder. The implication here, horrid as it is, could be that her father returned home after she killed her mother and punished her for doing so.

Thankfully, this is impossible. After all:

(T1) Q18: Do you regret your "murder"?

A: No. It was a natural obligation.

(T2) Q3: State the name of your victim.

A: There is no victim. Only the punished.

(Taking some liberties on the translation of Trial 2 since the questions are still coming out as I write this)

So Amane genuinely believes she was following her cult's principles to a T when she killed her mom. As much as that likely isn't the case (long story), if she had gotten punished for killing her mom, then she wouldn't think like this. If she had been punished for it, she wouldn't think her murder was a "natural obligation", but rather a mistake on her part.

What this implies is that Amane doesn't remember being punished by her father.

...

Amane... doesn't remember...

Fuck.

Yeah, remember when I said it was possible the prisoners don't have clear memories of the events leading up to their death? Going by the "T1 after - T2 before" logic the Voice Reveals seem to follow, we can infer Amane was likely punished for killing her mother, but we also know she can't remember it happening, otherwise she would regret it. And based on what we learnt from Muu, we do have a way to explain how that could happen. If Amane died while receiving the punishment the T1 Voice Reveal alludes to, she wouldn't have a clear memory of it.

And the thing is, it does seem likely Amane received this punishment. Think about it. Interrogation questions are one thing, since the creators don't fully control them, but why mention her father would possibly return home in the Voice Reveal trailer? Unless he did. Hell, you could argue we might know the exact moment he returned. Amane does look at the entrance of her apartment at the end of Purge March, though that could simply be for dramatic effect rather than being a literal thing which happened.

But there's more. Because if her father returned home, we might actually have an answer for another one of the mysteries surrounding Amane's situation. The Undercover prisoner card.

The image on her card seems to show a bathroom. It is widely assumed the images on these cards are the location the murders happened in, but to my knowledge, this isn't 100% confirmed. However, this creates a small issue with Amane. Just looking at the murder shot in Purge March is enough to confirm that.

I made a more detailed theory on her murder on this post, diagrams included (scroll to the bottom if you're only interested on the murder), but for now, there are two things to note here. One, there's a trail of water which seems to come out of the door with the light on, as the puddles are bigger the closer they get to it, implying that room is the bathroom. And two, the room the murder actually happened in seems to have a window/door behind a curtain, which isn't what Amane's bathroom looks like.

Adittionally, there isn't any blood outside of the murder room, implying the victim's body wasn't dragged there.

All this seems to imply Amane's victim didn't die in the bathroom, which is sorta a problem considering the previously mentioned commonly accepted theory. But this idea that Amane may have died while being punished, perhaps while being drowned as we know that's one of the accepted methods of punishment in her cult, brings up a different possibility.

What if the images in the prisoner cards aren't showing murder location? What if they show the last place the prisoner was seen in, the place they died?

Kotoko, Mikoto, and the Prisoner Cards

So, first, is there any indication either of these might be dead? For Mikoto, not really. Sure, there's the whole Death card at the end of MeMe thing, but that doesn't have to be taken so literally.

Kotoko has a very little potential hint in the fact she's shown alongside a wolf at the start of HARROW, but by the end the wolf is by itself. If the wolf represents a potential partner (long story), then maybe Kotoko died?

Though you can easily argue the wolf is slightly different and thus is meant to just represent Kotoko.

However, the reason I'm bringing them into this is because their prisoner cards are completely nonsensical under "murder location" theory for the images shown. Let's start with Kotoko.

It shows an alleyway, which at first seems like it makes sense. We do see her attacking a man in an alleyway. However, after that happens, one of the pieces of background text says this:

◆ A wanted thief was assaulted by an unknown assailant Early yesterday morning, a nearby shop employee reported hearing screaming and seeing a man lying on the ground. According to the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, the man had lost consciousness after being beaten on his face, stomach, and other areas, and was taken to the hospital. The police are currently trying to identify the suspect. [...] According to previous investigations, the male victim was wanted throughout Tokyo for theft and assault charges and was identified as the suspect, Mikio Oshii.

(Translation by Maristelina)

Mikio Oshii is the name of the man Kotoko assaulted in the alleyway. It seems odd to me that we would learn he was taken to the hospital if he later died in it somehow, especially because Kotoko didn't want to kill him. We can clearly see this because of a crucial difference between her attack on him and her attack on the serial killer who likely is her victim.

She covers her face while attacking Oshii, because she doesn't want to be recognized. She is committing assault, after all. However, that only matters if she's planning to keep him alive. Conversely, she doesn't cover her face while attacking the serial killer, because she knows he won't be a witness. She went into that warehouse planning to kill.

Of course, she could have accidentally done too much damage, but the issue there is that she would probably express some remorse in that case. She doesn't, and the fact she only ever talks about one victim-

[TASK (T1 VD)] I did kill someone. [...] I don't have a single regret.

-it really seems like Oshii was able to survive her attack.

That creates an issue with her prisoner card. It shows an alleyway, but her only victim died in a warehouse. As confusing as that sequence is, he did die in the warehouse.

You know when we do see an alleyway again, though?

But she's not wearing her face covering. And if this was the alley with the one sign about a car accident that shows up over and over in HARROW, I'd imagine we'd see the sign, even if it was obscured in some way. So once again, a silhouette shot which seems to have nothing to do with her murder or her general situation.

So, is it possible she died in this alleyway? That's the only other reason I can imagine why it'd show up in her prisoner card, so. As for what exactly happened, I imagine she may have been murdered at the whim of her victim's father?

Shocking revelation: The heinous criminal behind the crime is the privileged son of a high-ranking official!

(Article referring to Kotoko's victim)

So, she got found out and immediately assassinated? It's a bit out there, but it would explain both her prisoner card and her attitude in the prison.

And then there's Mikoto.

As you can see, his card shows a street. The issue with Mikoto is one of format. The cards only ever show one location, but we know Mikoto has at least two victims.

[Text: To the right, the Subway Murder, which clearly has a ceiling. The murderer has blood on his right cheek, his left cheek is hidden. There's also the bathhtub scene, where the right cheek is hidden, but the left cheek has blood already trailing off, which doesn't quite fit what we see in the other murder if you think about the bath chronologically.

To the left, a murder out in the street, with an open sky. The murderer has blood on their left cheek, but not on their right. This is seen in both the crime and the shower scene]

So yeah, at least two. You could argue the bathtub murder is actually a third one, which... huh. Two things that absolutely exist and a Secret Third Thing, the existance of which is disputed? Trikoto vibes.

Point is, Mikoto has two different murder locations at least. The street, yes, but also the subway. This creates a problem with the "images in the prisoner cards are murder locations" idea, because it only shows one. You could try to gymnastics your way out of this by saying maybe Hostkoto committed the street murder while Orekoto killed the other victim(s), and because only Hostkoto is considered a prisoner by Milgram, only his murder is shown? But I feel that raises more questions than it answers.

Instead, if we assume the images to be death locations, the ambiguity disappears, because Mikoto as a system can only have one death location. The issue is you have to explain how Mikoto died in the middle of the street, which is a bit difficult.

The best guess I can give is related to the subway victim. It's been pointed out before that guy looks a lot like a stereotypical Japanese delinquent, which could imply he was part of a gang. If that's the case, it's possible the killer angered the wrong people by killing him, similar to Kotoko, and thus was later murdered himself. We know that street isn't very safe, on account of one of the alters getting away with murder there. It's a pretty large stretch, and has like zero evidence, but it's physically possible at least.

Let's take a quick look at the other prisoners and see if their images can also be explained by the "death image" theory.

We know Muu would share a death location with her victim if she really committed suicide as the theory states, so nothing weird there. Haruka's a bit more awkward, because it shows the forest he very likely killed the girl in, but I'm not entirely sure if the forests near Nagaoka has bodies of water deep enough to drown oneself. There is the Shinano river, which has... trees, around it.

This was taken from Google Street View in Nagaoka. Again, not sure how deep it is, but assuming it's deep enough to drown, it could work if you ignore the trees don't look too much like the ones irl. Maybe Haruka threw himself off the bridge?

Alternatively, Nagaoka borders the sea, and it seems like there's forest almost all the way up to it. So maybe that could work? Unsure.

Worst comes to worst, we can maybe change it to saying Haruka didn't drown himself, but killed himself in some other way in the forest. Point is, I think Haruka's isn't too big of an issue.

Fuuta, Mahiru and Kazui don't have a lot of evidence towards what the hell would have happened, but the best assumption I can make is they all committed suicide because of guilt. Fuuta in his room, Mahiru in the suicide forest (likely also where her boyfriend committed suicide), and Kazui by jumping off a building like Hinako. As for their evidence...

>Fuuta burns at the end of Backdraft, which is the same thing that happens to Killcheroy, so you could argue that's meant to show he's dying. It's not great, it absolutely is just meant to be metaphorical most likely, but it is there.

Additionally, he's also an outlier for the "muder location image" theory, since what one would consider his "murder location" is very ambiguous. Is it his room, where he sent online hate from? Is it Killcheroy's room, where she assumedly died? Wouldn't it be the front of Killcheroy's house, where Fuuta took the picture to dox her? Again, death location is less ambiguous.

Fuuta's attitude during Trial 1 could be seen as a bit weird if he was suicidal, but I'm not sure we can comfortably say that with the limited information we have.

>Mahiru in I Love You goes to sleep after seeing her boyfriend dead, which could be read as her committing suicide. You know, if you're insane like me.

Especially given this question from Trial 1:

(T1) Q20: What do you think about smoking?

M: I've never smoked before, but I might copy him if who I love smokes.

That, alongside a lot of the bg text from TIHTBILWY, implies Mahiru likes the idea of copying her lover. Not the greatest quality to have when your lover commits suicide.

>Kazui has this:

Where the smoke of his cigarette turns into a noose. Of course, that's meant to represent self-destruction in general, but it could also be taken more literally. He... doesn't have much else.

Thus, everyone else vaguely fits the idea of "death image"... except him.

Our favorite headache inducing doctor strikes again! His card shows a hospital room, which is a very strange death location, but perfectly fits his murders. You could argue he runs into the same issue as Mikoto, but it's actually possible Shidou just killed all his victims in the same room, so.

Yeah, Shidou's probably the biggest counterargument for this theory. Because while it's possible he died in a hospital, there is zero evidence for it, beyond the image itself. Hell, neither Throw Down or Triage ever seems to imply he died in the first place, which is an issue. This theory's already heavily dependant on the extremely flawed "you can't disprove it" argument, but at least most of the other ones have some kind of logical progression which gets you to how they died.

So, to complete the theory, we have to make the pretty big jump that Shidou died inside a hospital room, without knowing how that happened.

... Wait, inside the room?

Wait wait wait, show me Fuuta's and Amane's again.

Hmmm... 0308... hmmmm... 0308... I totally didn't just do this to put the two together... hm...

Yeah, same thing. They both show the inside of a room. Which, along with Shidou's, shows that these images can show the inside of buildings, right?

But, then... why is Yuno's outside?

That very clearly isn't the inside of a building. But this generates a problem for the "murder location image" theory, because Yuno's "murder" was abortion. Even if it wasn't done professionally, she would have still done it inside, presumably. This creates an inconsistency with Fuuta, Amane and Shidou. If their murder locations are shown from inside, why is Yuno different?

However, this inconsistency disappears if we assume the images to be death locations. I previously established if Yuno died, she likely committed suicide by jumping off a staircase, which does vaguely fit this image. It's similar to Kazui's in that way.

Now, I don't want to get too ahead of myself here. Murder location is still absolutely the more straightforward answer, but it does come with its issues. As stated, Fuuta's image would face some ambiguity, Mikoto's would face extreme ambiguity, Amane's seems to contradict the evidence we're shown in Purge March, Yuno's is wildly inconsistent with the other images, and Kotoko's is straight up nonsensical.

Meanwhile, death locations physically work with all the cases, even if Shidou's case is extremely weird, but it requires huge assumptions and stretches. It relies heavily on how impossible it is to disprove, which is not a good sign. Russell's Teapot, and all that.

Summary of the Theory

>Everyone in Milgram is dead, and their prisoner cards in Undercover show the place where they died.

>Prisoner's memories of the events leading up to their deaths are extremely fuzzy, explaining why only Yuno seems to even suspect it.

+Haruka: Committed suicide by drowning himself, possibly in the Shinano river or the sea. [Most likely to be dead]

+Yuno: Committed suicide by jumping off the staircase we see her standing in on her Undercover silhouette shot. [Most likely to be dead]

+Fuuta: Committed suicide in his room out of guilt. [Very little evidence]

+Muu: Murder-suicide, she committed suicide after killing Rei. [A bit more evidence than others]

+Shidou: Died in a hospital room [???]

+Mahiru: "Copied" her boyfriend by killing herself in the suicide forest. [Very little evidence]

+Kazui: Jumped off a building, like Hinako. [Very little evidence]

+Amane: Drowned by her father as "punishment" for her murder. [Unfortunately, sorta likely]

+Mikoto: Murdered by one of the members of Subway Victim's gang. [Sort of filling in the blanks here]

+Kotoko: Murdered at the order of her victim's father. [Very little evidence]

Conclusion

Do I believe this theory? Honestly, I don't know. It makes a few too many assumptions for me to fully believe it, but I do think it's a decent possibility, so I wanted to share it with you all. In any case, that's all I have to say for now. If you have any thoughts about any of this, feel free to share! Also I didn't even touch on Es but you can try to fit them in somehow if you feel like it.

Anyways, if you made it this far, you deserve a hug, this post was depressing. Take care!

#milgram #milgram project #milgram theory #fuuta kajiyama #amane momose #mikoto kayano #shidou kirisaki #haruka sakurai #yuno kashiki #muu kusunoki #mahiru shiina #kazui mukuhara #kotoko yuzuhira

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