Tumpik
#I WISH IT DOES
drbtinglecannon · 3 months ago
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Looking at the stiff frowns from their OG designs vs the genuine smiles on their most recent designs means a lot to me.
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Like yeah you go, Ex-Emperor's Cult Coven Leaders, go be free to live your best lives!
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quasi-normalcy · 3 months ago
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backonmyblogshit · 28 days ago
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Thank you, Liam O’Brien, for our weekly reminders that Orym is just a Small Guy. He’s a Lil Dude.
Orym has to stand on his chair to push something across the table to you. Orym reaches up and tugs at your clothes to get your attention. Everything Orym does, he does it from three feet off ground, because Orym is your Pocket Sized Halfling Pal.
And Liam O’Brien is going to make sure you don’t forget that.
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shrimpchipsss · 9 days ago
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it’s like this
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spaciebabie · a month ago
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i doodled two of my favorite scenes from @sleepyjuniper's 6th chap of Visions
moon is like the perfect mix of Troll™ and Softie™ just the way i like him
letting the five year old tie up the murdurous shattered animatronic is a serious Good Parent moment he should get a medal n a pat on the back
june ik the "i believe in you" scene was serious but as i was reading it i was rought w/a vision (heh) of moon being kawaii anime desu and the clown shoes dont stop squeakin so-
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phantomrose96 · a year ago
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People in the online generation get so goddamn weird about Internet Content Creators:tm: as soon as those creators start making any kind of money off their work. This is especially true if the person being weird is one of those backers and therefore "entitled" to being horrible because they've paid $5. And it's completely indistinguishable from the way Boomers treat service workers.
Like any Online Millennial or Gen Z would balk at the idea of saying a single mean word to their waiter, but as soon as the creator they toss pennies at on patreon sets a toe out of line, (or not even out of line, maybe just not catering to this person's specifics wants, or not producing content as high-quality as it used to be) suddenly the Terminally Online are happy to unleash their unbridled fury, frothing opinions, and full-blown karen I'll take my business elsewhere and tell everyone to never shop here again-ness.
Except the difference is an entitled Boomer will march out of a store in a huff and be done with it, while the internet will try to snowball and dogpile until the creator is run off.
Like I've seen people get so weird about the McElroy content, and how "not-as-good" this that or the other thing is now, and they say this with such justified fury because the McElroys make money. This isn't "eh I've stopped listening as much since I don't like the direction." This is "how dare the McElroys not live up to my quality expectations when they're making money. don't they know they have to earn the right to have money with a good enough monkey-dance??"
Trust fund babies will ride out their McMansion lives never lifting a finger, but an internet content creator pulling in enough money to make a normal human living in a way that does not cater exactly to some segment of the internet's expectations is grounds for the most dehumanizing vitriol imaginable.
And no, before someone asks this is not apologism for people creating kickstarters and running off with the money. This is about how often a severely bad-faith take or plain cruelty is justified and propagated because the subject under storm is a "professional" on account of being compensated for their work.
I'd so much rather have a faceless corporation sign my paychecks for faceless work until I die than stake my livelihood on creating internet content I'm passionate about. I'd be happy to never receive a single dime from the internet. Because as soon as I do that, the public owns me, and the internet would be allowed to waggle a dollar above my head and say "dance monkey dance" without the slightest hint of irony. Or worse, they can say "remember that time we gave you a dollar?" "remember that time you received a dollar from someone?" as an absolute shut-down to any discussion of whether a content creator should have a right to do anything which does not cater directly to their fans' expectations.
Boomers' entitled harassment of service workers didn't go away with the new generation, it just got rebranded.
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intricatecakes · 6 months ago
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when ur arm don't work so good anymore but it's still good enough to ✨hold ur mando gently✨
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butternaan · a year ago
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idk which young trans person needs to hear this but transmed ideology and the culture surrounding it is not helping you
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idiotaffectionate · 29 days ago
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WoULD dNF 💙💚 Kiss LiKE ThIs ?!?? oR LikE tHIs ?!???!
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ghostlypanda · a month ago
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reasons to watch rise: "wait... why did i just... change? what are we even dressing up for?"
please support rise of the tmnt by watching the show and movie over on netflix!! 🙏💙
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lizmitches · 7 months ago
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ABBOTT ELEMENTARY + Character Tropes
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merevide · 29 days ago
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this show is actually a blast.
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drowning-moonlight · 8 months ago
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if I was George Lucas, then right after the Rise of Skywalker came out, I'd tweet that Star Wars did accidental incest again - but it’s alright because it wasn’t my fault this time around - because I’d confirm that Palpatine was Anakin’s “Force Father” or whatever (which is what’s implied in Revenge of the Sith anyway so it’s not like that confirmation would be coming out of no where) and that would make Kylo Ren and Rey cousins
and then I would just turn off my phone
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essektheylyss · 2 months ago
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Honestly, the way Aabria talks about Laerryn making out with the entire Ring of Brass just makes me think, as I have often, that it is well past time this fandom actually acknowledged that the people building and playing in Exandria as a world are not conceptualizing it as one in which (to use a colloquialism, but it extends also to gender as well as sexuality) straight is the default.
People have been saying for years that it would be fantastic if fantasy worldbuilding actually acknowledged how ridiculous it is to have magical worlds with shapechangers and transmutation in which hetero- and amato- and cisnormativity are still the norm. Yet it feels like fandom still wants to apply that lens to a world that has not operated as such for quite a while, even if it may have started out as such simply because the creator(s) had not yet interrogated it.
I think a lot of the discussion about queer characters in Critical Role would be simpler if we approached it from the understanding that there often isn't a reason for sexuality or gender to be an issue in Exandria, and the isolated incidents where it might cause conflict narratively are not operating under the basis that that prejudice exists structurally. This has been how Matt has discussed many cultures there, how Aabria seems to approach both worldbuilding and character creation, and honestly how most if not all of the players have increasingly seemed to respond to the world—with an assumption that the most common way this could come up in gameplay, flirting with other characters, is not going to be met with any hostility on the basis of perceived sexuality or gender, either within the cast or in the world.
This is, I think, important to recognize as a fandom, because if we don't, we're going to unwittingly continue to reintroduce these same insidious real-world structures into a setting that gives the impression of having been deliberately crafted and expanded over time to imagine a world without them.
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genderfluidvarians · 8 months ago
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And then Tia PEPA, she handles the weather!
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letterfromvienna · 8 months ago
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Penitent (Matt Murdock/f!Reader)
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Summary:
There’s a shifting sound beside you: the creak of wood, the rustle of fabric. Matt’s hand rasps across his cheek as he covers his mouth. “Tell me more.”
Oh, God.
“I—” Your throat feels like it’s filled with ash. You wish you had water to wash it down. “I want him in innocent ways, sometimes. He’s hurting, Father. He’s always hurting, inside and out. I want to take care of him. When I see him in pain, I want to patch his wounds, hold him, tell him it’ll all be okay. I want to let him cry in my arms and wipe away the tears. I want to be that person for him.”
You blink and let your gaze slide to the floor, where the candlelight spills across your shoes, your toes turned in.
“But I want him in other ways, too.”
Rating: M / lemon / 18+ only*
WC: 5.6k words
Tags/warnings: f!reader; priest kink/Hot Priest Matt Murdock; religious roleplay; friends-to-lovers; kissing/making out; nsfw content (voyeurism, dirty talk, frottage, coming in pants); dead dove do not eat (I cannot stress this enough: they fuck in a church, do not read if that is upsetting/offensive to you)
A/N: okay so Matt is not a literal priest in this, but it's like, priest roleplay? I have no idea. it's Fleabag's fault. Phoebe Waller-Bridge made me do it.
*this fic, and my blog, are 18+ only/MDNI. minors and blogs without ages clearly listed will be blocked.
“This is where you grew up?”
The words echo back to you almost as soon as they leave your mouth. The high, arched ceilings capture the syllables and send them ricocheting in return. So much for being quiet. There’s no one else in the nave besides you and Matt, but you still cast a furtive glance around like you expect someone to come running.
As if breaking into the church past midnight wouldn’t have set off alarms already, you think.
Matt turns back to you from where he stands in the aisle. “Not here, no.” He keeps his voice low and he has a funny look on his face. “Did you think I grew up in a church?”
You open your mouth and close it, feeling rather silly. “No.”
Matt smiles and tilts his head towards the ground. His hands flex around the top of his cane. “I didn’t grow up in a church. I grew up at St. Agnes, the orphanage, but we spent a lot of time here too.”
You walk slowly up the aisle, tracing your fingers along the ends of the smooth mahogany pews. “Breaking and entering?”
“Not usually. Going to church, mostly. But yeah, sometimes,” he grins, “breaking and entering.”
You scoff and lean up against the pew to face Matt. “And here I was, thinking you were always an altar boy.”
Matt smiles at his shoes again. He’s doing that demure thing, the one he always does when he’s not really feeling demure at all. “Orphan, remember? We had to find ways to amuse ourselves.”
This time, it’s you that laughs. For a second, you’re imagining a younger Matt standing here, awkward and gangly and baby-faced, making mischief like he always has. It’s fascinating to you how he can make so much light of the tragedies in his past. He never seeks pity when he talks about it. It’s just facts: the accident, his father’s death, the orphanage. It’s part of the reason you asked him to bring you here. His faith and his past are mysterious to you, no matter how often he tries to explain them.
In the short time since he opened the side door and let you into the sanctuary, you can already tell Matt is different here. You stay where you are, leaning up against the bench, and watch him explore this familiar space. He leaves his cane resting on one of the velvet cushions and traces his hand along the lacquered wood of the pews. There’s something different in his posture. His shoulders flatten, no longer held tight to his ears as he fends off the sensory onslaught of the world. Here, it’s calm: the faint smell of incense, the distant sound of cars passing outside. Matt lets his guard down in this place that he knows like the back of his hand.
“Who is the priest here?” You ask, catching up to him. “I mean, who’s in charge?”
Matt nods. He tolerates your questions with remarkable grace. “Father Lantom. He’s a good man.”
“Would he be mad if he found out you broke into his church?”
He snorts. He comes to a stop as he approaches the crossing. “If finding the side door unlocked counts as breaking and entering.” He leans into you, his shoulder bumping into yours. “Don’t worry. Father Lantom isn’t like that. He wouldn’t call the police on us.”
Your eyes widen. “That’s a possibility?”
“Nah.” Matt reaches for the pew beside him and sinks down into it, leaving space next to him. “We never got caught as kids. We won’t get caught now.”
For a while, you sit there in silence, like two congregants at a service. Candles are lit in the aisles on either side and the warm glow flickers off of Matt’s red lenses. The light casts shadows across his face, softening some parts and sharpening the others. Your gaze falls to his lips and you force yourself to snap out of it.
Not here, you chide yourself. Not in a church.
As if Matt senses the need for a change of topic, he leans over to you. “Any more questions?” he prompts.
His question catches you unawares. He’s very patient with you and your clueless curiosity. You rub your forearm nervously and look around, seeking something to ask about. Your gaze lands on the altar, with its spectacular crucifix and stained class. The pulpit catches your eye.
“Does the priest—Father Lantom—does he really preach from there? The pulpit, that is?”
Matt raises his eyebrows. That’s not the question he was expecting. “Yeah, he does.”
“Really? It looks…I don’t know. Decorative.”
When you look back at Matt, he’s smiling faintly.
“Not decorative. He preaches from there every Sunday.”
Matt goes to church most Sundays. One of the few times you’ve spent the night at his apartment, you’ve noticed that. Some days he’s too bruised and bloody to haul himself outside and he prays in his bedroom instead, but most Sundays he puts on a suit and tie and leaves for the church. He tries not to wake you up as he passes you sleeping on the couch, but you always notice. And he always comes back smelling faintly like incense with a worried crinkle between his brows. You wonder what he hears here that makes him look like that afterwards.
“From what you’ve said about him, Father Lantom seems like he’s good at his job,” you venture.
“Yeah, he is.” Matt tilts his chin up, like he’s hearing the ghost of sermons past. “He’s good at cutting through bullshit.”
“Matthew!” you scold, half-expecting lightning to strike the church.
Matt snorts. Then he crosses himself, but he doesn’t look very serious about it, and it doesn’t lessen your concern about divine punishment.
“Like I said, he’s a good man. He cares about his congregation.” Matt looks like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t.
You lean over and bump him with your shoulder. “And he cares about you.”
Matt frowns. He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
You huff in disbelief. “I know even Catholic services don’t last two hours, so I assume you spend the rest of your time here on Sundays bending the Father’s ear about something or another. What do you call that here? Confessional? He’s got to care about you to listen to your Catholic guilt for an hour every weekend.”
That wry smile turns the corners of Matt’s lips. “That’s not confession,” he corrects. “That’s something different.”
“I fail to see the difference.”
“Confession is…” Matt sighs. “It’s a ceremony, in a way. A sacrament. There’s a ritual to it. ‘Bless me father, for I have sinned.’ Most of the time, I’m just talking to the reverend. Not confessing, not formally. Just…looking for guidance.”
Leaning your elbows against the pew in front of you, you glance up at the ceiling of the church, where golden light floods the high arches. There’s holiness about this space, you can feel it. Even if it’s not your faith, you can feel all of the emotions of the people who have sat here before, their tears and sweat soaked into the stone. Prayer brings out the strongest of emotions and the memory of it makes this cavernous space stifling.
“Do you really feel better afterwards?” You turn back to look at Matt. “After confessing. Does it make you feel better, or does it just remind you of what you’ve done?”
Matt raises his eyebrows. “Ah. Now you’re thinking like a Catholic.”
You roll your eyes and look forward again. The dim moonlight outside makes the figures on the stained glass look ghostly. Yet it still feels warm inside the church, the air thick with the smell of candle smoke and the stone walls close around you.
“Sometimes it does,” Matt says, softly. “Sometimes it feels like a weight lifted. Sometimes it doesn’t. But that’s not the point. You don’t do it to feel good. You do it to confront yourself, who you really are, and bare that to God. He makes the judgment. We just ask for forgiveness.”
You hum. Hearing Matt talk about his religion is different than hearing him talk about anything else. There’s a truth to it—a sense that this is the only thing he really believes in, unwaveringly, the only thing certain in his life. You admire his conviction. Leaning back, you settle beside him again.
“Sounds nice. Sounds terrifying,” you murmur.
“It can be,” he agrees. “You get used to it.”
An idea comes to you then, small and uncertain, flickering in your chest like the candles casting shadows across the flagstones. He senses it in the change of your breathing, that little hitch of breath. His chin tilts. You feel exposed, to him, to the ghosts of everyone who has walked in and out of this place. You want more of it.
“What if…” You trail off. Your throat feels dry. “What if you did that for me? Listened to my confession, that is.”
Beside you, Matt goes very still. You train your eyes forward and keep talking over the nerves.
“I know you’re not a priest, but I trust you. I want…” You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the heady air. “I want to feel a fraction of that, Matt. Of that weight lifted. Of that honesty. I can’t tell a priest, because I’m not Catholic, but I can tell you.”
Silence.
You glance over at him, at his guarded expression. “What do you think?”
“I think…” Matt pauses. His tongue flicks out over his lower lip, wetting it slightly. “I think…we shouldn’t.”
Your heart cuts loose in your chest, falls, and cracks on the floor. You’ve pushed him too far. He brought you to his safest space and you desecrated it. Fear slashes through your stomach and you fumble for the right words to apologize.
He senses your discomfort. “I’m not done. We shouldn’t— but— yeah. I will.” He jerks his chin towards the darkened back of the nave, opposite the candlelight apse. “The confessional is back there.”
“Really?”
He nods. You wait for a moment, just to see if he laughs and tells you he’s kidding, but he doesn’t. He’s solemn as the statues around you. Shifting in the seat, you scoot out of the pew and offer him your arm to find his way out. He leads you down the aisle, back towards the door, leaving his cane behind him. His hand lays on the inside of your elbow, right over the pulse point, and your breath catches in your throat. What can he tell about you through the thick fabric of your coat?
The confessional lurks in the back corner of the nave—a sturdy thing, stout and square, made of the same lacquered mahogany of the pews. On each side is an alcove, just the size for one person, with a wine-red curtain drawn across each recess.
You dare to glance at Matt, who faces straight ahead. “Where do you sit?”
“There.” He nods to the left alcove. “That’s the priest’s seat. You sit on the right.”
“Okay.” There’s no concealing the nervousness in your voice.
He turns to you and tilts his head. “We don’t have to.”
“No, no, I want to,” you say. A deep breath steadies you slightly. “Just nervous. A whole life without confession—that’s a lot of sins to share.”
Matt smiles. His hands flex on thin air, like he was expecting his cane there by habit and missed it. “Well,” he says, breaking free of your arm and stepping towards the booth, “you don’t have to share all of them. Just one is a good start.”
The red fabric whispers as he tugs it aside. You step behind it with a murmured thank you and he lets it fall behind you. It’s suddenly very dark in the booth, with the only light coming from under the curtain. You can hear your own heartbeat in this tiny, echoing space. The whisper of the curtain sounds three times louder as Matt pulls the adjacent one aside. His shoes click on the wood floor as he steps in, and the seat creaks as he sits down.
“Feels strange to be on this side,” he says, and he sounds as nervous as you feel.
“Yeah.” It feels too hot in the cramped booth, so you twist around in the tiny space and tug off your jacket. It doesn’t fit on the seat with you, so under the bench it goes.
Matt waits patiently on the other side of the divider. When you look up, you see a dim outline of his face, shrouded by wooden filigree and dark mesh.
“You’re waiting for me, aren’t you?”
He laughs. That you can hear clearly through the screen between you—that soft puff of air through his nose, when he finds something funny but not quite funny enough to laugh aloud. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” You take a deep breath and close your eyes, doing your best to summon something to say—and fail. “Damn it.”
Then you sigh, realizing what you said. “Sorry. Bad word choice.”
“Let’s start with that,” Matt says. His voice sounds very close. “Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” you repeat. You wipe your palms on your pants. “And cursed in a confessional. Sorry.”
“You’re supposed to start with how long it’s been since your last confession,” Matt corrects. His tone is still warm, even amused.
How was I supposed to know that? you think, a little cross.
“Okay. It’s been…I don’t know. My entire life since my last confession. Sorry for that, too.”
Matt stays quiet.
You take another deep breath. “I cursed in a confessional and broke into a church tonight. I don’t know what kind of sin that is, but it seems like a pretty big one,” you say, half-joking. When Matt still stays quiet, you find your joking mood settle a little bit. “Um…”
Your silence stretches into moments, the words on your mind hanging on the dark, close space around you.
“I’m not a good person,” you say. You look down at your hands folded in your lap. “Or at least, I’m not as good as I want to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not grateful.”
Matt shifts, a subtle rustling of fabric floating through the divider. “Go on.”
“I don’t know. It’s dumb. I look around at my life—I have friends, I have a job, I have all this stuff, and I’m still not quite happy. Like there’s something always just out of reach, keeping me from being happy. And I feel bad. That makes me greedy, doesn’t it? Or ungrateful?”
A low hum is all you get in response.
“It’s stupid. I should be satisfied. I have so much, but I’m always looking forward, waiting for the moment when things get better. When I’m finally happy where I am. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I think that makes me a bad person. I mean, we live in New York, for God's sake. There are so many people in this city in need of things that I already have, and I'm sitting here taking all of it for granted. I’m always caught up on what I could have, instead of being grateful for what I already do.”
After a pause, Matt’s voice comes through the screen again.
“I don’t know if that makes you ungrateful,” he says. “It depends on what it is that you’re missing.”
Your jaw tightens. This is dangerous territory: Matt is treading too close to something you’ve been trying to hide from him. The sound of his voice rumbling low and warm through the divider isn’t helping keep it from coming out.
“Is there anything in particular that you’re missing?” he prompts.
You twist one of your gloves between your hands. You look up as if seeking answers from above, but all you see is dark shadows and the grain of the wood around you.
“It’s not something,” you start. Suddenly, your throat feels dry. “It’s someone.”
Someone’s breath catches—either yours or Matt’s or both, you can’t tell. There’s that sharp hitch of breath of someone taken aback. You swallow hard and keep your eyes focused on the dark spot in the corner of the confessional.
“There’s…a man. A man I don’t know that well, but I feel like I do. And I can barely look at him, can barely stand to be around him, because I want him so much. It makes me greedy. That’s one of the seven deadly sins, isn’t it? Greed? That’s what I am, Father. I want him and I want all of him. I want his time and his thoughts and I don’t want to share him, and it’s stupid, because I don’t even really know him.”
There’s a long, agonizing silence as you wait for Matt’s response. Did he know that already? He could probably tell from the way you act around him: that strange mix of childish avoidance, like a schoolgirl shy around her crush, and greed for more of his time. And even if he can tell you’re talking about him—how dedicated is he to this role as a priest? Will he act like he doesn’t know you, like you’re some faceless, anonymous congregant, unburdening your soul? The second or two you wait for his response feels like ten minutes. Like half an hour. Like a day.
After too long in silence, he responds.
“Wanting someone is normal,” he says. “It’s not a sin to— to want companionship.”
The evenness of his tone makes you want to scream. You came here to confess your sins, not to be told that it’s all okay. You need something to be wrong with you. You need someone to tell you that you’re doing bad things. You need to be told that you’re corrupt, evil, debased. Anything—any incentive to put a stop to this.
You laugh without humor. “You make it sound so innocent.”
“It’s not?”
Matt’s tone has shifted. It sends a shiver running through your body. He sounds different now—no longer reserved and far away, he sounds warm now. Curious.
“No. It’s not.”
The words leave your mouth and you want to snatch them back in. But then again—you don’t. There’s the truth of it, plain and simple and bared between you. Is this what Matt meant when he said confessing feels like a weight being lifted?
There’s a shifting sound beside you: the creak of wood, the rustle of fabric. Matt’s hand rasps across his cheek as he covers his mouth.
“Tell me more.”
Oh, God.
“I—” Your throat feels like it’s filled with ash. You wish you had water to wash it down. “I want him in innocent ways, sometimes. He’s hurting, Father. He’s always hurting, inside and out. I want to take care of him. When I see him in pain, I want to patch his wounds, hold him, tell him it’ll all be okay. I want to let him cry in my arms and wipe away the tears. I want to be that person for him.”
You blink and let your gaze slide to the floor, where the candlelight spills across your shoes, your toes turned in.
“But I want him in other ways, too.”
The words stick in your throat. You wouldn’t say these things to a real priest—you wouldn’t need to. Just the vague shape of your desire would be enough. But Matt isn’t a priest, and he isn’t stopping you. If he wanted you to stop, he would’ve told you. He would’ve changed the subject. He’s goading you. You can feel tension in the air, thick even though the screen dividing you.
He wants you to keep talking.
“I try not to think of him that way. It’s so hard not to. He pays attention to me, Father. He can’t— he can’t see me, but I feel like he knows what my soul looks like. It scares me and it just makes me want him more.”
There’s a long pause. In the silence of the booth, your blood rushes in your ears.
“Keep going,” Matt rasps.
“I think about him when I shouldn’t.”
“When?”
Matt’s voice is all you can hear. Everything else fades into darkness.
“When—” Your throat feels thick and sharp and your words catch there. “W-when I touch myself.”
You wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole, but you can’t stop talking. Now that some of it is out in the open, you need to share all of it. You can’t keep carrying this guilt alone.
“I try not to. I know it’s wrong. But I can’t— I try to think of someone faceless, someone anonymous— but I c-can’t get his face out of my head. His voice. I try to think of anyone but him but I can’t stop myself.”
Your breath comes fast and short, like you’ve just run up three flights of stairs. Your palms are sticky with sweat and you wipe them on your pants but you still feel too hot. For a split second, it occurs to you to run, to sprint out of here and out into the cold night air, but the anticipation of Matt’s response keeps you frozen where you are.
“Do it.”
Those two words sound like thunder.
“What?”
“Show me.” There’s a slick sound, like Matt wetting his lips. “Show me your sin.”
All you can do is gasp. You wait for the joke, for the laugh, the I was kidding, but it never comes. Instead there’s just silence. For the first time, you look to the side, searching for some sign from Matt. All you see is the rough outline of his profile, his face forward.
Oh. He’s serious.
You look down at yourself. Nothing about your outfit is sexy—leggings and winter boots and a sweater, your coat crumpled beneath you under the seat. Embarrassingly, you feel your body start to react to his voice: your skin heats and your nipples tighten and you feel warmth growing between your legs. Fuck. Even if you don’t do this—if you don’t do what he asked—he knows too much. You never want to leave this booth. You can’t look him in the face after this.
Better make it worth it.
“Okay,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Okay.”
All you can hear is your own heartbeat and the uncertain rhythm of your breath as you slip your hand between your thighs. You don’t want to touch your own skin directly. That feels like too much—as if this isn’t too far already. Your stomach tightens as your fingers make contact with your core and your breath catches. Fuck, you were aching for this and you didn’t even realize. Matt has always had that effect on you. Pressing lightly between your legs, your free hand clutches the edge of the seat and you shut your eyes tight.
Guilt and arousal twist inside you—not fighting each other for control, but intertwined, each heightening and swelling and making the other grow with it. Matt’s breathing is faster, too, the downbeats of his breath interlocked with the upbeats of yours. You wonder what he’s doing on his side of the booth. Is his face pink, the way it gets when he’s embarrassed? Are his ears that bright red color they go when he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t? You wonder where his hands are. Clutched on his knees, knotting into the fabric of his trousers— or elsewhere— drifting up his thighs to—
“O-ohh,” you moan, and slap your free hand over your mouth to stifle it. “Matt.”
“Is that what you do?” His voice is low and hoarse and it sends a frisson of red-hot desire down your spine. “When you do this. Do you say my name?”
Fuck.
FUCK.
There’s a darkness to Matt, a side of him you rarely see, and it’s all you hear right now. He’s heat and smoke and shadow, just on the other side of the divider.
“What?” You sound breathless, even to your own ears.
“The way you said my name—it sounds familiar. Like you’ve done this before.”
“Oh, God.” You cover your face with your free hand and curl forwards. Guilt lances through your gut but you can’t make yourself stop. “Y-yes. Sometimes. When I can’t stop myself.”
There’s a clink on the other side of the divider and your breath catches. His belt—he’s undoing his belt—shit, shit. You squeeze your eyes tight but you can still hear the rasp of his belt as the leather moves against his belt loops and you picture the way his hand looks as he palms himself over his trousers.
“Matt,” you whine, and it sounds pathetic. Your thighs tighten around your hand. “Matt, tell me what to do. Please. Tell me to stop. I can’t— I can’t make myself stop, you have to tell me.”
There’s a sudden noise, too fast for you to process, and you blink and light floods the tiny alcove. Matt looms in front of you, his shadow enveloping you. His chin is tilted to the side, the way he does when he’s really paying attention. You stop the motion of your hand, although you know you’ve been caught—he can always tell so much more about you than you can tell about him.
Briefly, you consider bolting out of the booth, but Matt stops you. Your eyes widen as he sinks down in front of you. His hands tighten on his pants, briefly, hitching the fabric up so he can kneel before you.
“Matt,” you whisper.
He shuffles closer to you and his right hand lands on the bench just to the side of your left knee. His tongue darts out over his lower lip.
His voice is low and rough. He sounds needy. “Can I kiss you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, please—”
He cuts you off before you can finish your affirmation. Both of his hands find your face, his broad palms cupping your cheek, and he leans into you and chases your mouth. He kisses you once at first, just a chaste brush of lips, but it’s not enough. He pulls back for a sharp breath and surges forward again. Your mouth opens in surprise and he’s there too, flicking his tongue against your lips, curling his hand around the back of your neck to keep you in place.
“Matt,” you whisper. You can’t remember any words but his name.
“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here.”
“‘m sorry, I know I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t want you like this, but…”
“It’s okay.” He captures your lips in another kiss and you moan from deep in your chest. He finds the hand you have pressed against his sternum and guides it down until it’s back between your thighs. “Keep going, sweetheart. Make yourself feel good.”
You rest your forehead against his. “I thought you were supposed to tell me to stop sinning.”
He laughs and the puff of air warms your face. “I don’t think one sinner can tell another to stop. Pot, kettle, et cetera.”
You smile against his lips. “Fair.”
Then he’s kissing you again, leaning in so close that your knees spread around the breadth of his chest, and your fingers find your core again. His kisses slip away from your mouth to your jaw, then just under your ear, and then over your neck where your pulse pounds under your skin. His mouth is searing, sinfully hot, and he kisses you like he can’t have enough. He’s crowding you up against the wall and you’re still touching yourself but you need more.
“Matt, I— oh— please…”
He’s too busy chasing your lips to listen, so you plant your hands on his shoulders and push him back. He frowns and fumbles for the floor to stabilize himself as you press him down until he’s sitting on his heels.
“Sweetheart—” he starts, and then his words end on a choked gasp as you slip off the bench and onto his lap.
It’s too tight in the booth for comfort, but it just presses you closer to him, which is a more than welcome development. The edge of the bench cuts into your back as Matt shifts and tugs you into his lap. When you tilt your hips into him, you feel the hard length of him trapped in his trousers. His belt hangs open and his tie is crooked; he’s the very picture of debauchery.
When he finally gathers his wits, you feel his hands under your ass as he hitches you further up in his lap. One hand comes up to cup the back of your neck and you’re dragged into another kiss. He encourages the roll of your hips with his other hand planted in the small of your back. It’s messy, and the friction is indirect, but his tongue in your mouth and his hand in your hair are more than enough to send your heartbeat racing. You brace yourself with a palm flat against the adjacent wall and press into him harder, faster.
He rests his forehead against yours and pants harshly, the feeling of you and the smell of you and the taste of you too much for his heightened senses. He can taste you in the air—you’re on his tongue. With every kiss he gets more of it; every breath fills his lungs with more of you.
“You drive me crazy,” Matt confesses. “When you stay the night, I can sense you in the other room. I can feel what you’re feeling. I can’t stand it.”
Under any other circumstances, that would be a mortifying revelation. But like this, with him hard in his pants under you and his hands roving all over your body, it’s hardly more embarrassing for you than it is for him.
“Yeah? And what do you do about it?”
He drops his forehead to your sternum. Every roll of your hips punches another breath out of him, fanning hot and humid across your skin.
“Can’t— can’t get off without feeling bad about it. For days,” he groans. “The smell of you—it’s still in the air for days. I can’t do anything without thinking about you. I can’t escape you.”
Your moan is high and breathy in response. Oh, you like that. You like the power you have over him even when you’re not around.
“Sometimes I give up. I think about—shit—if you stayed the night in my bed. If you’d e-ever let me touch you. And I—fuck—come every single time I think about it,” he grits out.
“You can always touch me.” You lean your head back as if for emphasis, letting him kiss and lick the vulnerable skin of your neck and chest. “Just ask. I always want you.”
Your hands tighten on his shoulders as you push into him harder, faster. He can feel your arousal peaking in the thump of your heart against his chest— your breath catches in your throat, his name on your lips, that breathy little Matt, Matthew, Matthew that sends his pulse racing— your fingers tighten on his shirt, your nails digging into his skin—
And you shatter.
He feels your body bow in his arms and guides your face into the crook of his neck as you ride it out. Your breath is hot and fast against his skin, and, when you grind your hips down, he feels the pulse of your orgasm through his pants. His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath but all he catches it the scent of your sex thick in the air. It intermingles with the incense filtering in from the sanctuary and the combination shorts a circuit in Matt's brain. Before he can help it, he chokes on your name and follows you right over the edge.
Underneath you, Matt suddenly tenses up. His full lips fall open and you watch in shock as he comes—with no more stimulation than your clothed body in his lap and your hand curled in the hair at the nape of his neck. He groans when he releases, hoarse and loud, and it fades into sharp gasps as he gropes for your hips and the edge of the bench to center himself again.
It’s not enough.
“Oh, shit,” he says, and falls back on his ass.
You tumble onto the floor with him. He catches himself with his hands behind him, falling out of the booth and planting his palms on the stone floor, and you lean back against the bench with your legs still sprawled open around his hips. With the curtain pulled away by Matt careening into it, the cool air of the nave sweeps in, carrying out the humidity of the tiny booth. Brushing your hair out of your face, you stare at the ceiling in disbelief. Your body is on fire. Matt is still underneath you, his thighs thick and strong under your legs and a dark patch at the front of his slacks, and you feel dazed. Did that really just happen? Did you just— dry-hump Matt in a church until you both came in your pants?
Are you really the reason Matt is sprawled across the floor, looking like he’s just encountered God?
“Matt,” you mumble, groping at his wrinkled shirt. You rise up on your knees and then sink down onto him, chasing his lips like he did yours earlier. “I’m sorry, I got out of control… I shouldn’t have… in a church,” you whisper between kisses.
“S’okay.” He pushes himself up to a sitting position and rests his forehead against yours. “My fault. Stupid idea, the confessional…”
He waves his hands vaguely in the direction of the booth. Your blood runs cold.
“This was a stupid idea?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “No, not— not you, not this.” He sighs heavily and fumbles for your hand to interlace your fingers with his. “I would rather have done this at my apartment,” he confesses.
“You’ve thought about this before?” you demand.
“Yeah.” He smiles and turns his chin to the floor. His hand tightens in yours. “Weren’t you listening?”
“Matt,” you groan.
He hushes you with a sweet kiss. It’s entirely too innocent for what you’ve just done. When you part, he keeps his hand in yours.
“Okay,” he says. He clears his throat. “Can you go outside and hail a cab? While I, uh, clean up. We can go back to my apartment and talk, if you want.”
Hope flickers in your chest, but it’s dim and uncertain. “Talk?”
“About us.”
The uncertainty disappears and you grin at Matt. “Okay. As long as this talking involves more kissing, yeah?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Your grin fades to a soft smile. Matt's hand is big and warm in yours. A little shudder races down your spine when you realize how good, how safe, he makes you feel. “Yeah. Okay.”
[fin.]
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wits-half · 9 months ago
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OBSESSED with these dudes
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alfred: i'm not putting a stuntman out of work:) i don't want to do any stunts, do Not ask me to.
willem: i will Literally Not Play if you don't let me do my own stunts
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