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blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

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Anonymous asked: Going through your archive I loved your fantastic long posts on Shakespeare. As you know there is some debate on whether Shakespeare was either a Catholic or Protestant. Where do you stand on this issue?

The issue of Shakespeare’s religion, as you have pointed out, has been an issue that has long vexed both scholars and the educated layman. To be honest it is of little interest to me (beyond a playful parlour game) because it has never stopped me appreciating the greatness of his works.

Of course it would have mattered to Shakespeare. For in his lifetime, atheism was equated with immorality, and Catholicism in England was equated with treason. Queen Elizabeth I had executed Edward Arden, a relative of Shakespeare’s mother, for his supposed Catholic treachery. Religion was a matter of life or death; and Shakespeare, like everyone else, walked a precarious denominational line.

But if pushed I would say he was Protestant but with a Catholic imagination. I suppose this is what fence sitting looks like. But hear me out.

It’s possible to answer this seemingly simple question in lots of different ways. Like other English subjects who lived through the ongoing Reformation, Shakespeare was legally obliged to attend Church of England services. Officially, at least, he was a Protestant. But a number of scholars have argued that there is evidence that Shakespeare had connections through his family and school teachers with Roman Catholicism, a religion which, through the banning of its priests, had effectively become illegal in England. Even so, ancestral and even contemporary links with the faith that had been the country’s official religion as recently as 1558, would make Shakespeare typical of his time. And in any case, to search for a defining religious label is to miss some of what is most interesting about religion in early modern England, and more importantly, what is most interesting about Shakespeare.

Questions such as ‘was Shakespeare a Protestant or a Catholic?’ use terms that are too neat for the reality of post-Reformation England. The simple labels Catholic, Protestant, and Puritan paper over a complex way faith works in our lives. Even in less turbulent times, religion is a framework for belief; actual faith slips in and out of official doctrine. Religion establishes a set of principles about belief and practice, but individuals pick and choose which bits they listen to. I think that’s fair as someone who is a believing Anglican Christian I slip and fall in my faith all the time, but all one can do is ask for sincere forgiveness, get up, dust yourself off, and get on with your life. Until the next prat fall.

My point is that ‘Catholicism’ was an especially tricky category in this era to be definitive about. Under pressure of crippling fines and even execution, early modern Catholics maintained their faith in a variety of ways. Not every so-called papist supported the pope. The Roman Catholic Church of this era encompassed ‘recusants’ (who openly displayed their Catholicism by refusing to attend mandatory Church of England services) and ‘church papists’ (who conformed to the monarch’s protestant customs, but secretly practiced Catholicism). Some Catholics supported Elizabeth politically, looking to the pope only in spiritual matters; others plotted her overthrow.

Catholicism was in the eye of the beholder; other Protestants saw many elements of Elizabeth’s own Church as horrifyingly ‘Romish’, but to average Protestants those puritanical objections seemed hysterical. Some accepted the theology and politics of the reformation, but still harboured an emotional attachment to older traditions, like praying for the dead.

Furthermore, people have a habit of changing their minds over time, shifting their beliefs at different moments of their lives. Asking about the confessional allegiance of any early modern individual is a much more difficult – and interesting – enterprise than figuring out an either/or choice. Whatever Shakespeare’s personal faith was, he wrote plays that worked for audiences who had to feel their way through these dilemmas, audiences for whom Protestantism was the official state religion, but who experienced a far messier reality.

Playhouses provided spaces to explore these anxieties. Even though the direct representation of specific theological controversy was banned, Renaissance plays frequently featured elements of the Roman Catholic religion that had been practically outlawed in real life. Purgatorial ghosts and well-meaning friars still appeared on stage; star-crossed lovers framed their first kiss in terms of saintly intercession and statue veneration (Romeo and Juliet, 1.4.206-19); and various characters swore ‘by the mass’, ‘by the rood’, and ‘by’r lady’.

Shakespeare wrote over sixty years after Henry VIII set the Reformation in motion. By the 1590s, English friars, nuns and hermits belonged firmly to the past, and many writers used them like the formula ‘once upon a time’: to create a safely distant, fictional world. Even so, Catholic Europe and Jesuit missionaries were perceived by state authorities as a very present danger. Anti-Catholic propaganda demonised that faith as fundamentally deceitful; ‘papist’ piety was mere pretence, a cover for lechery, treachery, and sin.

Accordingly, some writers used Catholic settings as a shorthand for corruption (think of the decadent world of Webster’s Duchess of Malfi, with its murderous and lascivious Cardinal). So Catholicism could point in different fictional directions: it could benignly and nostalgically suggest an unreal past, in the manner of a fairytale; or, it could paint a threatening image of a more contemporary fraud.

But it’s striking that Shakespeare uses Catholic content rather differently from his contemporary dramatists, often embracing the contradictory connotations of, say, a friar, exploiting the figure’s nostalgic and threatening associations at the same time. This exploration of ambiguity seems to have been one way in which he thought through not only religious controversies, but also the very act of making fiction itself. A figure who works both like a fairytale and like a fraud tests out what is good and what is dangerous about literary illusion.

All’s Well that Ends Well is a case in point. This comedy tests fantasy ideals against real-life problems. Helen, the clever wench who miraculously cures a king and wins a husband of her own choosing, finds herself in love with a prince who isn’t so charming. But critics have never been too sure about whether Helen herself is a virtuous victim of her snobbish husband, or if she’s simply conniving and self-centred. By putting all of these possibilities in play Shakespeare invites us to interrogate the ideals that underpin romantic comedy: are the conventions we think of as happy endings really all that happy?

One way that Helen secures her own happy ending is by putting on a pilgrim’s habit which allows her to follow (and eventually catch) her runaway husband. But this costume, with its mixed Catholic associations, further complicates the character and the morality of the plot. While the Catholic Church regarded pilgrimage to holy places as “meritorious” (a way of piously working to the salvation that only Christ could enable), Reformers scoffed at the notion that one earthly place could be holier than another, dismissed as idolatrous the intercession of saints usually invoked at shrines, and abhorred the idea that Christ’s gift of salvation needed supplementing. Shakespeare hints both that Helen might be the hypocrite of anti-Catholic polemic, who uses a pious habit to conceal selfish intentions, and that she might be a prayerful woman, who would be justly rewarded with a happy ending.

Furthermore, the comedy also draws on more secular associations of ‘pilgrimage’, which run through the love poetry of the period figuring amorous devotion. We first learn of Helen’s pilgrimage in a letter that takes the form of the sonnet; at this point Helen is painted as something of a Petrarchan stalker, trekking her errant husband in the clothing of well-worn poetic metaphor. But Shakespeare unpicks other threads of meaning in the pilgrim costume too. In anti-Catholic fabliaux pilgrims used their religious journeys for decidedly smutty adventures. It’s probably no mistake that Helen uses her pilgrimage so that she can finally have sex. And again, there’s a question mark hanging over this behaviour. On the one hand her active desire for physical intimacy with her husband is legitimate and liberating, but on the other, she repeatedly removes her husband’s power of consent, most disturbingly in a bed-trick (a ‘wicked meaning in a lawful deed’). The comedy questions her sexual scruples.

Shakespeare exploits the various associations of the pilgrim in post-Reformation England. In Helen, papist and Catholic connotations are compounded: she is meritorious and devious, miraculous and cunning. The ‘happy ending’ of this play sees husband and wife reunited and apparently reconciled. But the ‘real’ wonder of this moment is provisional: ‘All yet seems well’ (my emphasis). The audience is very aware of the pragmatic tricks that Helen had to perform in order win this resolution. By drawing on the contradictory meanings of the pilgrim, Shakespeare creates a paradoxical character that engages his audience with the ethical dilemmas of fiction: when might the means justify the ends?

In this play, as in others, Shakespeare calls on the ambiguous associations of Catholic figures, images and ideas, as a means of engaging his audience with the problems he frames. He seems to revel in the pleasures of slippery meaning. By flirting with stereotypes and sectarian expectations he makes his audience think more deeply about the difficulties of the plays and their own culture. Whatever Shakespeare’s personal religion was, the religion he put on stage was both playful and probing.

But it is an interesting question to speculate what William Shakespeare’s religious beliefs were. I’ve had several fascinating discussions with friends and even work colleagues (between them they have a few English lit PhDs under their belt) to get a better understanding of this question.

When Shakespeare died in 1616 at age 52, he was buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon, which would have been an impossibility for a known atheist. Yet questions about his religion arose early, some 70 years after his death, when Richard Davies, an Anglican clergyman, wrote from local legend that the poet had “dyed a Papyst.”

The controversy continued. In the 18th century, Samuel Johnson considered Shakespeare a brilliant but irreverent poet. Consider the Bard’s lines: “Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once/ And He that might the vantage best have took/ Found out the remedy.” So speaks the Franciscan novice Isabella to the cruel judge Angelo in Shakespeare’s black comedy ‘Measure for Measure’ (1604). Is the poetry here biblical or merely “universal” in its meaning?

A century later Samuel Taylor Coleridge found the Bard’s comedic forgiveness of the judge Angelo to be morally abhorrent. While literary critics believed Shakespeare too “fanciful” and “rustic” to be orthodox, many popular authors noted Shakespeare’s encyclopaedic use of the Bible.

One my Irish work colleagues who has an English Lit PhD pointed to other commentators who entered the fray. For example in 1899, the Rev. H. S. Bowden collected the evidence in The Religion of Shakespeare, using the work of Richard Simpson to compile his pro-Catholic compendium.

She also told me that it was not until G. Wilson Knight successfully argued in The Wheel of Fire (1930) for a Christian and biblical Shakespeare that this view was accepted by what might be called the ‘Shakespeare establishment.’ For the first time in over 200 years, the problem of how the poet of “fancy” could also be a serious, Bible-loving Christian was considered solved. Yet this Shakespeare was the Protestant Shakespeare of the British Empire, not the Catholic poet of Father Bowden.

The “Catholic Shakespeare” thesis entered mainstream English criticism with E. A. J. Honigmann’s book, Shakespeare: The Lost Years (1985). It demonstrated how a butcher’s son from Warwickshire triumphed in London through connections with an aristocratic Catholic family in Lancashire, without implying that the Bard had a continuing allegiance to Rome.

The full development of the Catholic thesis, however, came in the seminal work of Peter Milward S.J. - Shakespeare’s Religious Background (1973), with further work by Ian Wilson in 1993 with this publication of his book, Shakespeare: The Evidence, which meticulously researched Shakespeare’s literary and political ties to Catholic patrons and politics.

All fine and dandy but these books never settled the question once and for all.

The main problem with claiming that Shakespeare was a Catholic recusant is the historical record: He lived and died a member of Holy Trinity Church in Stratford. Other close ties to the Reformed Church include his lodging with Huguenots when in London, and the marriage of his daughter Susanna to a Protestant doctor, John Hall, after she was fined for being a Catholic recusant. That record need not contradict what appears to be sympathy for Catholicism, clearly evident in his plays; but Shakespeare also tried to present an objective approach to Rome. For example, Franciscans are depicted for their honest vocations, although cardinals are notoriously portrayed as murderous cowards.

One possible explanation for this apparent inconsistency may lie in the fact that the English Reformation was still in progress during Shakespeare’s lifetime. England remained Catholic in spirit and practice long after 1534, with parts of Lancashire still practicing the “old faith” openly. It is possible that the post-Reformation Holy Trinity Church in Warwickshire was sufficiently traditional to allow a Catholic-sympathiser like Shakespeare to participate. If the Church of England authorities knew of the poet’s Stratford affiliation, then the fact that Shakespeare’s nonattendance at Puritan-leaning London parishes went unpunished could be explained.

Despite this, the Catholic recusancy thesis - that the plays have a pro-Catholic political subtext - has never received broad acceptance amongst scholars. And as for the general public, I don’t think they care. I wouldn’t take the question too seriously either, especially if it gets in the way of enjoying Shakespeare’s works in itself.

I would conclude that the most promising avenue for appreciating Shakespeare’s Catholicity lies not in biography but rather in the recognition of his Catholic imagination, readily discoverable in his plays. Through metaphor, the poet enlarges the sensibilities through an encounter with inspired meaning. Reformed theology had posited an irreparable break between the divine and the human, whereas the Catholic imagination seeks and finds the divine in broken humanity, bridging the gap between nature and grace.

One example should suffice. A reference to the passage “Why, all the souls…” from “Measure for Measure” demonstrates how a ‘Catholic’ imagination functions poetically. The speaker, Isabella, is a devout if initially self-righteous novice with the Poor Clares of Vienna. In her first meeting with the Puritan Angelo, she pleads for the life of her brother, who is under a death sentence for impregnating his girlfriend. Angelo argues that mercy is impossible because her brother “is a forfeit of the law.” In a Pauline argument, Isabella asserts that all were condemned by sin (Rom 3:23) until the Son of God sacrificed his equality with God to achieve salvation for the world (Rom 3:24-26).

But I wouldn’t push it too far. It can be archetypal or thematic or say something of the Christian world view of sin, fallen-ness, and forgiveness, and redemption, but it’s not in your face and it’s not explicitly obvious. At the end of the day Shakespeare was a genius story teller, not a theologian or ideologue, or anything else.

This brings me to my final point. Speaking for myself as a theatre lover in general, the answer we seek must be in the context of why we love drama and Shakespeare’s theatre especially. The theatre seeks to entertain, preparing the heart and mind for reflection, while the purpose of sermons is to preach and instruct. Drama is never a sermon. And this would apply to the portrayal of Shakespeare as a proselytising Protestant, papist renegade or atheist subversive. When ideology reduces a living drama to apologetics, voices of protest will inevitably be raised. This is something we forget today as woke ideology has infected modern entertainment across the board. The Wokists - artists as activists who relentlessly peel back the onion skin until nothing is left - have forgotten the first rule of drama as truth telling: tell a good story, don’t preach.

Thanks for your question.

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ranilla-bean · 7 months

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culture tips for writing asian settings: naming taboo

naming taboo is a big thing in the chinese cultural sphere. essentially, there's an importance attached to personal names that to certain extent makes it taboo to say the name of/name others after important persons—and by "taboo" i mean if you violated this, you would be seriously audacious

a MAJOR example of this is the name of the emperor. historically, people whose names shared the same characters as the emperor's had to change their names when he came to power. (certain benevolent emperors might change their names to obscure characters to avoid a statewide headache.)

within the family, these taboos discourage naming children after their ancestors (i was always weirded out that bella swan could name her KID after her PARENTS). there are also elaborate naming patterns for relatives, so you don't have to call older relatives by name (like "aunt lin" or "uncle mingchi")—there are terms in chinese that mean "dad's older sister's husband" etc. this is perhaps an extreme example but i only learned my grandma's name a month ago, because no one i know will say it, and it would've been rude for me to ask.

the taboo also applies to the names of famous and important people, like historical figures. this is quite different from, for instance, the catholic practice of naming children after saints.

if i had to explain the impetus behind the taboo, i would say names can be super personal in chinese culture. up until the early 20th century, chinese people could use several names in their lifetime, with different groups of people using different ones. naming someone after an important/respected person feels audacious, like you're prematurely trying to claim some of that importance

disclaimer | more tips

#atla #atla culture #atla meta #avatar the last airbender #asian culture tips #i love this tidbit bc it's just so.... NORMAL to me. and for years i thought it was normal for everyone else too but NO #i mean im sure bella swan is a major weirdo but imagine my shock when my catholic/ orthodox friends said they had like 4 nicks in the fam

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konigsblog · 19 days

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sOAP IN A KILT

soap in a kilt...... 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

usually, scottish men will wear kilts to weddings.

now i enjoy the idea of soap wearing a blue and green kilt, but since he's catholic, he'd probably wear a red kilt. but then again, i'm not sure what clan he is in.. (i'm pretty sure there is a mactavish clan, if i'm correct?)

it's your wedding night, the sky fades from bright orange to deep red, creating an ombre of bright and bold colours in the sky. you're alone together, or at least away from others, after having a couple drunks together and enjoying each other's presence and comfort. although while you're gazing off into the sunset, a romantic moment shared on your wedding night, you notice the sound of johnny's breathing becoming laborious and fast, his eyes fixated on you in the corner of your eye.

fuck, you look absolutely beautiful like this. he feels himself getting hotter and his cock throbbing, becoming harder and more desperate. you're immediately concerned before you notice how flushed and flustered he is and how adamant he is that you have to follow him to a discreet, quiet area, far from the public's eye.

you sink to your knees as soon as you're hidden together, pushing his kilt out of the way, his weeping dick perking out at you, ready to be sucked. you giggle as you begin to fist his lengthy dick, each stroke causing a groan to emit from johnny. he huffs and grunts as you finally wrap your soft lips around his shaft, your lipstick leaving stains along his dick, gazing up at him as he pushes your hair from your beautiful face.

he feels himself relaxing at the soothing sensation—the wetness of your mouth and throat—as you take him all the way down, massaging his balls gently in soothing circles. his eyes roll backwards through delectation and gratification, his chest rising and falling at the tightness of your lips around his girth, his tip already beginning to ooze thick loads of his milky cum. he can't help himself; he can't hold back. the sight leaves him heavy-lidded, exhausted, and delirious. his attempts at concealing his loud moans fruitless as they flow from his lips like a harmony, bucking against your face, his white load running down your throat.

god, you ruin him. you really do, bonnie...

#orla speaks #AGHHH #but now i'm wondering what soap's kilt would look like :P #i would imagine it to be red as catholics usually wear that colour (or so i've heard)#but then again -- i'm not too sure on the whole clan part...#soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap call of duty #soap cod #soap mw2 #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader

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florence-nomachine · 16 days

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Sins of the Flesh - JJ Maybank x Reader

The one where a religious housewife fights temptation with her gardener.

A/N: Second JJ fic! (I haven't forgotten about The Hills!!) This was based off of Charlotte & Trey’s marriage in Sex and the City, specifically the episode where she kisses her gardener! Also, based off Gaby & John in Desperate Housewives, but less weird. Reader is literally the both of them combined, with religious guilt turned up to 100. Check the tags before reading, and minors DNI.

This is a long one, so the ending is a little rushed…Enjoy!

Also credit to @starfxkr and @dulc3vida for their lamb! readers which was a big inspo 🫶🏼✨

Word Count: 5K

Tags: SMUT / Slow burn / Themes of religion / Blasphemy / Infidelity / Cuckolding / Religious guilt / Lots of discussion about pregnancy / Misogyny, kinda / Kook! Reader / Moments of soft! JJ / Unprotected sex / Oral sex, F receiving / Creampies / Corruption & Religion kink / Dirty talk (JJ is a yapper)

Gif by @cyberpunkes !

Your dreams always started off the same.

The sun peeked through the sheer linen curtains, warm rays tickling your nose as it whispered to you that dawn had arrived. Gently, you brushed the sleep away from your eyes as you writhed amongst your silk white sheets, morning breeze making your sensitive nipples harden ever so slightly. As you awoke from your slumber, you stroked the opposite side of your bed, frowning as you found it to be empty.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, glancing around the room in search of something familiar. The hand carved dresser in the opposite corner? Check. Your Bible on the nightstand? Check. The soft, distant cries of a baby from another room? Unfamiliar.

It was always then that you’d wake up, coming to realise that your dream wasn’t so far from reality after all.

You lived on Figure Eight, a place where only the wealthiest and most desirable citizens resided in white palaces with acres of greenery surrounding them. Of course you were no exception; having married an heir to an automotive company just under a year ago.

It wasn’t as if you were unfamiliar to a life of luxury - you’d been born a preacher's daughter right up until you’d become a wife - and had always been told that God had intended for you to be more fortunate than those around you. Yes, you worshipped the crucifix, but yours had always been diamond encrusted. It was just what God wanted.

Much more than anything else, it was your duty to continue his wish by remaining a virgin until you were married, and subsequently continuing the lineage with children of your own.

Apparently, that part did not come as easy.

Hank, your husband, had insisted that it was nothing more than a case of trying, yet at every turn seemed to fail. You’d begun to have a sneaking suspicion that it wasn’t a problem on your end, but his, despite his growing insistence otherwise.

Each passing day meant that your biological clock ticked away, and it was weighing on you that you were failing at the one thing you’d given most of your life towards. On days like these, the only thing that brought you peace was your garden, its lush greens and vibrant purples reminding you of the hours spent at the community garden of the chapel of your fathers church.

Things, whilst relatively breezy, just weren’t so simple anymore.

Gasping, you tightened your baby pink robe around your body as you dragged yourself out of bed, hoping to at least greet Hank with a beverage before he went to work.

You practically glided through the house as you made your way along the mahogany floors, down the grand staircase and out of the double doors, careful not to fall down the porch steps as the slight humidity hit you.

Your husband was by the steps, but he didn’t seem alone.

“Honey, I’m sorry, I —-“

You paused once you realised he was speaking to someone. A young man, with blonde hair, a loose fitting tee and shorts, was sitting on the stairs - as if he were being told off - his face seemingly lethargic and uninterested. You caught his eye as he angled to face you, and he quickly adjusted his cap, shifting the brim around so that he could see you clearer.

You flashed him a brief, somewhat uncomfortable smile before you were pulled into a side hug, with Hank placing a kiss to your lips.

“You were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you,” Hank said softly. “We did get rather rowdy last night, didn’t we?” he murmured, and you patted his chest, not wanting an outsider to hear of such unsavoury things.

“This is the time, I feel it,” he announced before nodding at the blonde. “That’s why I’ve hired a gardener. Now I know you love your plants, and you can still go about the little things, but all that labour just isn’t going to work.” he told you. “We need you in top condition, especially once the baby arrives. The smallest things can affect our chances, you know.” he finished, and you nodded.

There was certainly no denying that Hank was a good husband. What man would want their young wife out in the North Carolina sun for upwards of two hours a day? Not to mention all of the wild plants that could’ve lurked. Even if you weren’t yet pregnant, it just made sense, right?

“I’ve given him a basic rate,” he said, adjusting his tie before lowering his voice. “Money’s on the table and our valuables are in the safe. He’s one of those Pogues…just watch him, you know how they are.” Hank warned quietly, but loud enough to assert dominance.

With a final kiss he was off, and you were left with the strange Pogue boy on the front porch. As odd as it sounded, perhaps the boy’s presence would be a blessing, for as much as you loved solitude, it was rather lonely at times. You supposed it would give you something to do.

“Blink twice if you need help,” a cool voice said, causing you to whip your head towards it. You hadn’t noticed that the blonde had been staring at you, nor that you’d been momentarily zoned out.

“Kidding, I know how you Kooks operate…” he said, vaguely judgmental as he stood to his feet. Even though he was on the step below you, you couldn’t help but notice that he was bigger than you, in height and muscle, making you step back in shock and bunching your robe up in your hands.

“I’m not going to do anything to you, Lady. I’m just here for the money. ‘Names JJ by the way,” he said, and you were surprised to see him stick out his hand.

Regaining your senses, you shook it back, giving him your name and a soft smile. He didn’t respond, instead allowing for a smirk to appear across his face before shoving his hands into his pockets.

“So, uh, where d’ya want me to start?”

༼ ♰ ༽

The first time you’d had an unsavoury encounter with JJ Maybank had actually been later that day. The boy hadn’t been shy - in the slightest - about staring at you, peeking over the bushes as he watched you prune your bonsai on the deck, face as close as possible to its leaves as you made sure it was immaculate. Unfortunately, this had meant that you were hunched over, giving the blonde a view of the top of your cleavage; not enough to be considered adulterous, but enough to tempt him into some lewd thoughts.

You’d made eye contact with him, and he’d made no effort to break it with yours, instead smirking and flashing you a disingenuous nod. Pursing your lips, you remembered the look in his eye; as if he were trying to figure you out and yet simultaneously seeing right through you. Being a preacher's daughter, it was a look you’d been given a thousand times before, and yet you’d never been so unsure of its intentions until now. Perhaps it was because he was a Pogue boy, and you were a Kook housewife, alone in a house together whilst your husband was at least an hour away. You’d heard all the stories about their savagery; how life in The Cut was so brutal that everyone was on edge, just waiting for an opportunity to go off.

What was JJ capable of? Would you be a good enough wife and Catholic to withstand it?

More importantly, why did it worry you so?

“...The bush is lovely, by the way.”

His voice drew you from your thoughts.

“Excuse me?” you blinked.

“Your bush,” JJ said with a grin, pointing to the plant in front of you. “It’s all nice and shit. It’s trimmed perfectly,” he mused. “Either you’ve got a lot of time or you just have magic hands…That’s because of all your Jesus stuff, right?”

You sucked in a breath.

“I adore plants,” you said rather bluntly. “They keep me busy.”

“Funny. I usually prefer to smoke mine…I guess you don’t have much going on anyway,” he continued, dropping the hedge scissors to his side as he stopped his motions, giving you his full attention. “Other than what? Look pretty and have babies? You Kooks are swimming in so much you don’t even know where to begin —“

“Are you rather done?” You interjected, ignoring the fact that he’d complimented you. “We’re not paying you to talk.”

JJ chuckled and scratched the back of his head, seemingly enjoying your outburst.

“Hey,” he shrugged. “What your old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

༼ ♰ ༽

The other time came after a particularly strenuous lunch with Hank’s parents at the country club. As expected, you were met with the question of grandchildren, to which all you could do was nod and drink your sweet tea, insisting that you were “praying to God”. Of course, that wasn’t an entire lie within itself, but the nature of your prayer was much more defamatory to their very son - something that would make your father’s head spin with utter disgust if he’d ever heard. All of the trying, near misses and downright failures were beginning to take a toll on you, and the deepest, most hidden parts of yourself were questioning whether you wanted a baby at all.

Sighing, you remembered how you barely had had a break, as the moment you’d taken your heels off JJ had arrived - surprisingly on time - ready to get to work. It had seemed like he’d just come from the beach; his signature cap jumbled around his blonde locks and his button up rather undone, exposing his toned chest. Whether it had been from the droplets of the ocean, or beads of sweat from the long journey up, you found yourself strangely enticed by the condensation on his chest, only visible when illuminated by the sun, as if it were his own spotlight.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” JJ nodded, flashing you one of his signature cheeky smiles. You mustered a soft, vaguely curt smile, instead taking interest in his necklace.

“Shark tooth,” he said, watching you with wide eyes. “I think it’s pretty cool, but I don’t think it would match with your getup…Those things eat girls like you alive,” he finished, running his tongue over his lips as he let out a smooth hum.

Surprisingly, you laughed.

“I’m not a girl, JJ,” you insisted. “I’m a woman,”

“Yeah,” he scoffed, shifting his weight as he glanced at you, a distant, but glossy look in his eye. “You may be married, but you’re still just a little girl playing make-believe…You and I both know something’s missing.” he finished assuredly, cocking a brow knowingly.

Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek and shook your head.

“Nothing’s missing,” you said through gritted teeth. “And even if it were, it’s between me and my husband.”

“And God?”

You tutted.

“And God.”

You could hear him chuckle at this, and imagined his cheeky smile as you turned to make your way into the house, with JJ following after you, parting off into the garden as you disappeared into another room.

You didn’t know how long later; perhaps thirty minutes or five, but you found yourself by the window to the back door, watching JJ through the sheer curtains as you took in his physique, specifically his lithe fingers and firm grip as they pushed the lawnmower. For some reason, he’d stripped his shirt off, and there was no denying that the sight was making you forget about your terrible afternoon, much more causing a tingling in your loins. You knew all too well that it was the feeling of sin.

Distracted, you hadn’t realised that JJ had caught you looking. He grinned, nodding his head in your erection before he hunched over the handle, flexing his chest muscles in the process.

“I hope you don’t mind, it's pretty hot out here,” he shrugged, a brazen glimmer in his eye before he glanced down at his body, and back up at you. “Plus, I know you liked the look of my necklace, so…”

༼ ♰ ༽

“This is the third smoke sesh you’ve almost missed,” John B said, brow raised as Sarah nodded. “What’s up with that?”

JJ chuckled, shaking his head as he sat down on a chair next to Pope and leisurely cracked open a beer. Around him were faces of intrigue; though more concerned if anything (given his nature), and he tapped an index finger on his lips.

“Getting some of that sweet Kook cash, my friend,” he drawled. “You all should try it sometime,”

“Since when do you work overtime?” Kie snorted, cocking her head.

“Since the day I found out that the business dude's wife is a total MILF,” JJ shrugged, rolling a blunt. “And she’s not even pregnant yet!”

Kie and Sarah scoffed and rolled their eyes, with the tanned girl flicking her hair back before she spoke.

“You know she’s only like, 26, 27? Hank’s like 45 or something, it’s kinda weird…” Sarah said leisurely. “She seems sweet though, even if all the other wives are weird about her,”

JJ excitedly slapped the table before raising his hands in victory.

“So I’m in!” He declared before turning to Pope, who was, if not a little uncomfortable, certainly wide eyed. “I’m telling you, man, say the word and I can get you in on this. It’s like those movies, y’know? Except it��s way hotter because she’s like super religious and is practically a virgin…You should see the dresses she wears - oh, man - they’re like all girly and proper…She’s like the First Lady, bro — I’m telling you, I’m like, in love with her —“

Pope shook his head.

“...That’s not love, dude.”

“It’s gotta be, cause we haven’t even hooked up yet,”

“Yet? She’s married!” Kie exclaimed.

“Marriage doesn’t mean shit, trust me,” JJ shrugged, leaning back as his legs bounced uncontrollably. “I’m this close!” he said, making a motion with his fingers.

“Hank will literally kill you!” Pope spluttered. “And by de facto that probably means us too!”

JJ shrugged, thinking of the way the sweetheart neckline of your sundresses clung to your chest and rode ever so slightly up your thigh as you’d sit down.

“Hey, of all the ways I could die, that would definitely not be the worst,”

༼ ♰ ༽

“Did you take it properly?”

“Yes, Hank,” you sighed, masking your frustration as much as possible. “It’s negative. Perhaps we should wait a while, maybe a family isn’t part of our journey yet —“

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, wiping his hand across his mouth. “We’re inviting the pastor over this Sunday and we’re talking this out. It may be embarrassing but…”

You couldn’t bring yourself to listen to him much longer. What more was there to say? You’d tried every diet, been to every specialist and had tried some rather strenuous positions in bed all to knock you up, and yet somehow it was still a problem on your end. Hank was a stubborn man, and no amount of prayer would change that.

Instead, you noticed JJ, leisurely cutting at your rose bush as he listened into your conversation, his head cocked and jaw clenched. He was dressed in one of his vests; the sides split dangerously low as they exposed his muscular arms and toned stomach, and you hated how much you wanted Hank to leave right there and then so he could peel it off and work shirtless. From your usual view by the window you never noticed how impressive his legs were either; how his calves curved perfectly as they rose up and disappeared into the material of his shorts, nor how they rode up slightly when he’d bend down, exposing his large thighs. He reminded you of all those boys - the ‘charlatans’ who, according to your father, only wanted you for one thing.

It was painfully ironic that this was the one thing you were craving.

Hank was still talking - though the subject had inexplicably changed - when you noticed that JJ was staring at his index finger, squeezing it as red liquid oozed from his fingertip. Your eyes widened, and you seized the opportunity to finally send Hank away.

“Bandages are in the bathroom under the stairs,” you said, turning to the blonde, and breaking the older man from his thoughts. JJ nodded and walked off, all under the watchful eye of your husband.

“You shouldn’t let him in there alone,” he murmured, and you sighed, distracting yourself by fixing his collar.

“He’s been with us for three months now…I trust him,” you said softly with a shrug.

Hank grunted.

“Maybe if you stop talking, I could go in there and supervise him.” you said with a soft, inconspicuous chuckle. He seemed to get the point, and you quickly said your goodbyes, sending him off with a custom kiss to his lips. On all the other days you’d done this, it had felt special, but today it was noticeably empty. Perhaps you needed the pastor more than you’d thought.

As expected, JJ hadn’t returned outside, instead leaning over the marble countertops of your island, a bloodied tissue balled up in front of him. He looked a little different than he did in the direct sun; possibly due to the golden haze affecting your vision (and judgement), as the cool tones of the interior made the cerulean of his irises pop just a little more, showing off his pupils, widened under the wanting glaze in his eyes. You never felt scared around JJ - rather the opposite - but his fixed gaze and silence in the moment was particularly ominous.

“...How’s your hand?” you said, clearing your throat.

“Fine,” he mumbled, glancing down at them before looking up. “I’ve had worse,”

“Let me see,” you announced, walking around the island to sit next to him, closing the gap between you. You took his lithe fingers in your own, analysing how red and raw his knuckles were. For a young man, his hands were somewhat aged; likely because of his life as a rogue, which both somewhat scared you and made you sympathise with him more.

Fixating on his finger, you tried to ignore the way he leaned into you, shifting his weight so that he appeared taller, the warm skin of his arms pressing against your own. He smelt fresh, if not admittedly a little musty, and the smell mingled with your own daisy perfume, making your heart skip a beat.

“You’ve got a splinter,” you continued. “This has to be removed or it could get infected —“

“It’s not —“ JJ said defensively, and you cut him off with pleading eyes.

“Please, I insist,”

He softened, nodding his head before you moved around the room to find your first aid kit. You’d done it with such ease; as if you were some kind of Mary Poppins - or better yet the Virgin Mary - and he suddenly couldn’t seem to figure out whether he wanted to take advantage of your kindness, or be on the receiving end of it. As much as his cock throbbed at the idea of fucking the repressed, religious housewife and cucking her POS husband, he couldn’t help but think of all the times he’d fallen - literally and metaphorically - and all the times his ‘dad’ had hit on him, ultimately coming back to how much he’d needed someone to nurse his wounds. In an alternate world, you could’ve been that somebody, but he was lucky enough to have his friends.

Once you'd made your way back to him, you sat down on one of the stools, careful as you handled his slightly swollen finger, going through the motions of wiping it with antiseptic before you began to poke at the skin with tweezers.

Moments passed, and you’d spent it in silence.

“Any luck?” JJ perked up.

You nodded and wiped the tweezers on a section of gauze.

“It’s all out now, just make sure it’s cov—“

“With the baby,” he said, cutting you off. Your blood ran cold, and you dropped his hand, staring him in the eye. Part of you was mortified, no matter how obvious it had been that JJ was listening in earlier.

“That is far too inappropriate to talk about with you,” you stammered.“And it’s really none of your business,”

JJ pursed his lips and flexed his limbs as he watched you scramble. It was as if this were amusing to him.

“My bad,” he snorted. “I just think he’s an asshole, y’know, and you’re so good to me…” he said, pausing to run his tongue over his lips as he stared at you. “Other than the money, why are you with him? Isn’t the whole point of the Bible to be nice to people and stuff?”

Pitifully, you chuckled at his childishness as you shook your head.

“It’s also about being a provider. He loves me, JJ, he really does —“

“Yeah, ‘cause you being a virgin had nothing to do with it…” he spat, causing you to anxiously tug at your crucifix, “He can’t even give you a baby,”

“…I mean, that’s the thing you want most, right? What does it say that he can’t even give that to you?”

The statement rang true in your head as you ran your palms down the sides of your sundress, strangely desperate to hit something. Was that the right emotion? You couldn’t tell; you just knew that your body was hot, your heart racing as the pulse of blood flooded your ears, and there was an inexplicable urge to surrender, even though you wanted to run. You couldn’t even face the boy as you spoke, instead beginning to make your way out of the room.

“JJ…I-I think you should go…” you stammered, burying your face in your hands as you left, the sound of JJ’s boots hitting your marble floors telling you that you weren’t going to be alone anytime soon. He shook his head and bit his lip in frustration as he followed after you into the sunroom.

“Hey, wait — fuck — I didn’t mean —“

“JJ please!” You begged, facing him as your chest heaved and your eyes were as wide as saucers. You shouldn’t have strolled into here; the heat that poured in from the glass was unbearable, and you longed to open the doors and indulge in the feeling of cool air. If you could just do that, perhaps you’d feel better? If not, you’d certainly be seeing the Reverend about a dip in the water of penance.

Either way, everything was too much, and you had no clue about just how much worse things were about to get.

“You’re not crying, are you?”

“No,” you sighed. “I-I just feel awful. I’m a horrible person, I’m going to hell, I –”

You wanted to fight against the fact that JJ had pulled you into a hug, but as you buried your face into his neck you felt otherwise. There was something strangely arousing about his musky smell, and judging by the feeling of his cock against your thigh, he felt the same.

As if you didn’t know that.

“Shh, it’s okay…You’re fine…” he whispered, pulling away to glance down at you, gauging your reaction. “Let me take care of you…”

“JJ, I can’t —“

Your words were swallowed by his kiss; his lips hungry as they attacked your own, whilst his hands invaded your body, planting themselves on your hips before moving down to grope your ass. You let out a soft moan as he gave it a gentle squeeze before he made his way back up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. He pulled away, eyes burning into your own longingly, yet still a little dumbfounded; and stayed there, his grip unwavering.

“I’m dying for you, Mama,” he said earnestly, gaze flickering down to your heaving bosom, your crucifix twinkling in the sunlight. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you, ‘kay?”

You nodded as you peeled the straps of your dress down your shoulders, heart pounding as you revealed yourself to a man who was not your husband - and yet it felt like your wedding night all over again.

JJ sucked in a breath as he watched you undress, unable to hide his smirk as he shifted off his shorts with ease and palmed his cock through his boxers. He could see the outline of your nipples peeking through the lacy, baby pink material, and knew that he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself once he had his hands on you. Fuck, he could barely even do it now.

“C’mere,” he commanded, silver rings glistening as he beckoned you over. A heat began to pool in your stomach as you walked over to him; sensually, reverently, skin breaking into goosebumps as his fingers danced along the skin of your back, swiftly unhooking the material of your bra. You were straddling him now, running your fingers through his tousled hair as you kissed him, gently grinding along his clothed cock and making JJ let out a soft groan. He revelled in the feeling of your warm skin against his own, and slid his hands down your body to grasp your hips, pushing them down with gentle force against his pelvis.

“JJ…” you gasped. Your heart fluttered, not ready to accept the fact that you were about to take another man’s cock - one that was longer, and probably far more satisfactory. “It’s –”

He shushed you again.

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you…Just let go…”

You couldn’t deny how good the act of dry humping felt, the folds of your aching clit tangible through the sheer material of your panties as his cock traced and embedded on your core; a blob of precum spreading across your inner thighs. JJ’s pink lips were latched onto your nipple, sucking and biting at your skin, determined to leave a mark.

He wanted your husband to see that his property had been defiled - by a Pogue boy no less - all under the watchful eye of God.

After a few moments, he flipped you, your head falling to the other side of the couch as you now found him on top of you, his necklace dangling in your face as he gazed down at you.

“ ‘He ever eaten you out before?” he said snarkily.

“…Huh?”

“Didn’t think so,”

Before you knew it, he’d disappeared between your legs, sliding your panties down in a swift manner and burying his tongue inside of you. He hadn’t given you any warning, but the hot, wet sensation was surprisingly pleasurable.

JJ was touching you like no man had ever before; using his mouth and hands to explore your crevice, flicking and lapping at the obscene amount of juices that coated your folds. You whimpered and gripped a pillow, frantic to find some sense of security - only for JJ to pull it from you, tossing it to the other side of the room.

“Nuh-uh,” he began, his voice muffled. “Fuck the pillow. You hold onto me, baby…” he drawled, a hand sliding under your ass and onto the curve of your lower back to angle you higher; silver rings digging into your skin as he held you there. Biting your lip, you fought the urge to blaspheme and laced your fingers through his hair, digging at his roots as he fucked you with his tongue, searching for that oh-so sweet spot.

“You taste so good, Mama…” JJ cooed, lost in your walls, borderline breathless from the way you were squeezing his head between your thighs and drawing him deeper. “…I bet that pussy feels like heaven,”

Perhaps it was the mention of paradise, but his dirty talk sent you over the edge. It was as if you’d been shocked; as if an electrifying pulse of light had run through you, making your back arch and toes curl, swallowing JJ’s face whole.

It was incredibly obscene.

You’d barely caught your breath when JJ had climbed back up, indulging you in a passionate kiss and smearing your juices all over your face. Tracing your fingers down his spine, you didn’t break eye contact with him as you pushed down his boxers with one hand and palming his aching cock. It was somewhat heavy with a considerable length, and he chuckled as you shut your eyes and said a silent prayer - not only for what you were about to do, but just how much you were going to enjoy it.

“Hold still,” JJ commanded, breaths shaky as he began to push into you. “‘Imma give you what you want baby…Fuck –”

JJ was loud, but you didn’t care.

It was all too overstimulating; from the dull pain that came from your legs spread so pornographically as they dangled off of his shoulders, to the sound of his pelvis slapping against your own as he rutted into you. You left graceful scars along his back as your manicured nails dug into his sun-kissed skin, crawling at him as you begged for him to go deeper.

“You like this, huh? I know Jesus probably wouldn’t be too happy about this, but pretty girls like you deserve to get what they want…Shit…” he groaned, sliding in and out of you with ease. “Besides, if I give you a baby it’s just me being a good neighbour, right?”

A baby.

That had been the whole reason for your foul mood as of late.

Would Hank ever know? Could you explain it away? How could you function with JJ still around? Your family, your friends…God? How could you ever atone for such a sin?

Realistically, none of that mattered now. Especially not when JJ was fucking you like a rabbit; his hair buried in the crook of your neck and his legs bent as he pressed you into the sofa, yearning to consume you.

“JJ…” you whined, “I think I’m gonna –”

“Shit, me too baby,” he groaned. “This pussy is so fucking good…Just swallowing me up ‘n shit — I should’ve started working earlier…”

His balls were slapping against your skin now, and you began to see white as he fucked into you, his tip hitting your sweet spot and making you clench around him, legs trembling as you came. It wasn’t too long until he followed after you, your clear juices mixing with his hot cum as he continued to fuck you, rolling his hips in a slow but sensual manner as he made sure you felt - and were filled - with every inch of him.

Which was why it wasn’t surprising that you found yourself pregnant two weeks later.

#florence writes!!#jj maybank smut #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagine #obx smut #obx x reader #jj maybank x reader smut #catholic! reader #religion kink #obx imagine

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spacedace · 2 months

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Maybe I've just missed it, but I feel like there's not enough discussion on Catholic Jason Todd and his feelings on being seemingly resurrected by God Jeesie-Chreesie style.

Like, we as the readers know that it was a reality bending punch from Superboy Prime that brought Jason back, but in canon no one has any explanation at all for how that happened.

The Lazarus Pit fixed him, but he was already alive (just in super bad shape) to be fixed. He woke up in his own coffin and had to claw out of his own grave and no one in-universe can explain how or why it happened.

And that alone would fuck someone up, but add in Catholic Guilt (TM) and references to the resurrection floating around every Easter and Jason's gotta wonder at least a little bit if the Big G brought him back and if so has to absolutely agonize over what he's done with his big second chance.

I just wanna read 100k words of Jason's complicated feelings on his death, rebirth (resurrection?), Red Hood, God, Bruce and what it all means, if anyone's got any recs please share them I'm begging 😭

#jason todd #batman #dc batman #red hood #catholic jason todd #catholic!jason #the catholic guilt had to be eating him alive even before he died #on account of it being catholic guilt and all #but AFTER he died??? man has to be at Mass four times a week and at Confession daily #the poor priest (who got the job after the last one got eh...*retired* by Red Hood for reasons you can imagine) has to be like #absolutely shaking in the confessional booth and questioning everything as THE Red Hood tells him about his many sins #like Father O'Malley just wanted to serve god and his community and now he knows all the Bats identites and has to grapple with #the idea that Jason “8 heads in a duffle bag” Todd qualifies as a miracle and possible might be up for sainthood

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gaylactic-fire · 2 months

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People will be like "OooOoh snakes are so gross and creepy!" as if ball pythons haven't evolved to be the cutest fucking things on this bitch of an earth

#fires posts #ramblings #ball python #shout out to all “creepy” snakes who don't have the advantage of looking cute. You rule as well.#imagine hating snakes. What are you? Catholic? /lh

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wreckedandpolemic · 3 months

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she's got a boyfriend anyway - matty healy

part iv - got him on the phone

(mdni) the obligatory call me when you're bored fic, alternatively titled does he take care of you?

Michael is grunting on top of you, sweaty and panting. Your eyes are screwed tightly shut as you moan fakely, dead still except for the mattress bouncing in time with his weak thrusts. You slide a hand between your legs and circle your clit, gasping when you finally get a burst of pleasure. Then, Michael pulls your hand away.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, baby,” he insists, and you swallow a disappointed groan. He has this complex about making you come all by himself, as if he’s less of a man if you play with your clit a little. Just a few more days, you tell yourself. Then he’ll go home and you can break up from a safe distance.

Your fabricated moans come out robotically, your hips rocking in an attempt to feel any real pleasure. Matty would never fuck you like this; Matty knows how to make you come, and, crucially, he likes it. You imagine him on top of you instead, fucking you into the mattress; his hips meeting yours in that sweetly desperate way; his calloused fingers playing with your clit, making you squirm with pleasure. His name springs to your lips, and you bite down hard to keep it from escaping.

“Are you close, baby?” Michael moans in your ear, snapping you back to the present moment.

“Yeah,” you reply, voice thick and breathy and utterly fake. He brings a hand down to your cunt and you wonder if this will be the time he finally gets it right, the barest brush over your clit hitching your breath. Then he drags it further down, rubbing futilely at your folds, and you resign yourself back to your artificial whining.

Minutes later, your performed orgasm already faded to the back of your mind, Michael rolls off you and throws away the condom. A shudder runs through you as you remember letting Matty fuck you raw, how all-consuming your need for him was that night, that you’ve longed for him every time Michael has put his hands on you in the days since. You burrow back into your sheets, squeezing your eyes shut against the stab of guilt as Michael speaks.

“Gonna run to Tesco and grab some bits. You need anything?” he asks, smiling that sweet, gentle smile that makes you remember why you fell for him in the first place. God, you’re going to Hell.

You shake your head, blinking sleepily up at him. “No, thanks. You know where you’re going?” you ask, praying he won’t ask you to come with him. He hasn’t noticed, yet, that you’ve been avoiding him as much as physically possible in your two-bedroom house, always engrossed in your phone, or with your nose in a book, or dragging him to meet your friends. If you’re forced to sit with the weight of your sins for too long, you know your house of cards is going to come tumbling down.

He nods, pressing a soft kiss to your temple that aches in your chest. You don’t deserve him, his kindness, his care; your heart is callous, traitorous. Worst of all, even now, it yearns for Matty. The door clicks shut as you grapple with your scruples, your moral compass spinning out of control. It’s almost like your guilt is tethered to him, fading to a faint hum and then falling completely silent when your front door swings closed.

There’s a buzzing under your skin, your body pleading pathetically for the pleasure it was denied, your organs a knotted mess of desire and shame. You can’t keep up the pretence of righteousness for long, can't lie to yourself the way you lie to Michael. Your hands are sure and steady as you dial Matty’s number.

“Hello?” He sounds bleary, sleep-addled. It’s 12pm; practically sunup for him. Closing your eyes, you can almost cast yourself curled up in bed with him, his body warm against yours, his lips soft at your neck.

“Hi,” you begin, biting your lip. “I was just thinking about you…” You trail off, waiting for Matty to pick up his cue. This time, you aren’t going to let him force you into the role of the temptress — you called, the sin is already committed. You just have to let him run with it.

Something rustles on the other end of the line, probably him shuffling around in bed. “Is that so?” he says, and you can practically hear his teasing grin.

“Hard not to, when it’s the only way I can get wet for him.”

“Did you come?” he asks, and you snort. As fucking if. The reminder that Michael has never once made you come, never once asked how to make you feel good, assuages some of your guilt.

“Got bored about halfway through, started thrashing and wailing like a crazy person so he’d get it over with.” You roll your eyes and Matty cackles.

“You want me to come over? Get you there properly?” he asks, and it’s oh-so-tempting, but ultimately not worth the risk. Michael isn’t going to be gone that long, and getting caught would be… less than ideal.

You sigh, rolling onto your back. “Nah. Not a good idea, probably.”

He snorts. “Never stopped us before,” he says, his smirk practically audible.

“Do you wanna help me get off or not?” you snap, but there’s no heat in your words. A deep sigh slips from your lips and you brush your fingers down your body, resting your hand against your lower belly, desperately close to where you need it.

You hear a zipper slide down and stifle a laugh; you can picture him flawlessly, passed out in last night’s clothes, face pressed against the pillow, digging sleep-marks into his face. “Whatever you want, princess,” he murmurs. “How do you feel?”

“Needy,” you whine, pouting at your phone. “Wanna touch,” you add, desire pulsing thickly under your skin.

Matty’s answering chuckle is soft, indulgent. “Go on, angel. Do it just like you showed me.” You obey, heat flooding your body as images of that night swim in your vision, Matty’s gaze heavy on you as his cock disappears into his fist, his tongue skilled and sure between your thighs.

A whine slips from your lips as you rub slow circles into your clit, your phone thudding on your pillow as you pinch your nipple with your other hand. Matty groans, the slick sound of his hand working over his cock tinny over the speaker. “Fuck, want you so bad,” you breathe, heat smouldering between your legs. “Need you,” you choke out, hips grinding down against your hand.

“I’m there,” he answers. “I’m right there with you, princess. Tell me what you need.” His voice is low, weaved through with desire, his words punctuated with his familiar, soft moans.

You dip a finger inside yourself, the faint stretch heavenly between your thighs. “Need you to fuck me,” you gasp, eyes rolling back in your head as you imagine it; your fingers become his, rough and calloused and fucking into you exactly how you want. “Want your cock, Matty, wan’ it s’bad, please.” Your words come out slurred through the haze of pleasure enveloping you, Matty’s rhythmic groans dragging you higher.

“Begging so pretty for me,” he coos. “Miss that pretty cunt so bad, darling. Wanna get my mouth on you again, feel you cumming around my tongue. Miss your taste, princess.”

Thighs clenching, you whimper, the phantasm of his tongue delving between your thighs and lapping at you skilfully as you writhe under the tide of heat that rolls over you. “Want you to fuck me stupid,” you breathe. “Wanna forget everything except you,” you gasp, the admission falling unbidden from your lips, the truth in your words frantic and inescapable.

Matty chokes on a breath, groaning on the exhale. “Fuck, darling, you’re making it so hard not to come over there and fuck your lights out. Need to feel you coming on my cock so fucking bad.”

Reckless desire swirls through you, the protestations of your rational brain muted and fading against the flames licking their way up your body. You’re lost in it, the devil himself kissing at your thighs as you sin and sin and sin. “So come.”

His breathing hitches. “Are you being serious?” he asks, and you hear his hand still as he turns your words over in his mind.

“Yeah. Fuck it. Fuck all of them.” The words come easily, not weighted by some arbitrarily ascribed idea of morality; the truth you can’t delude yourself over any longer.

“God, angel,” he murmurs, voice trembling, thick with an emotion you couldn’t have named before today — one you have to bite back so it doesn’t spill from your lips at this inopportune moment. “So fucking perfect. You feeling good?”

“So good, Matty, fuck,” you say, fucking yourself on your fingers in a sweet, glorious rhythm. “Wish you were touching me,” you whine, hips rolling against your hand as Matty resumes his own motions. “Wanna suck your dick. Want you to make me choke on it.”

His answering moan is obscene, half your name and half a garbled noise of pure desire. “Such a good little slut for me. Want me to fuck your mouth, yeah?” You whine desperately. “God, you’d look so gorgeous like that, all pretty on your knees and drooling for me. Thought about that for so fucking long, princess.”

Your cunt clenches around your fingers, your head so hazy with bliss that you can barely force out the words, “Want you.”

Matty laughs fondly. “Then cum for me, darling. Cum for me and I’ll come over there and give you what you need, I promise,” he swears, voice gravelly through his moans.

“‘M close, ‘m so close, wanna cum for you, Matty, please, fuck,” you babble, incoherent and dazed as ecstasy pools in your belly, buzzing gorgeously through your limbs. The flimsy thread tying you to your sanity suddenly snaps, your stomach lurching as you’re plunged into bone-deep pleasure. A string of obscenities falls from your lips, twined around sticky moans and near-pained whines, your flesh melting off your bones, glueing you in place as euphoria rolls achingly over you.

Matty groans your name as he cums, the picture of him spilling into his fist vivid and rapturous behind your eyelids. You lay in silence for a few moments, letting the aftershocks subsite. “I meant it,” Matty says, cutting through the quiet with uncharacteristic seriousness.

“Me too,” you say instantly. There isn’t even the barest shadow of doubt in your mind. You hardly remember that Michael exists, let alone why you should care. “I want you, Matty. For real. I think…” you bite back the confession, too raw to give through your sketchy connection. “I think you should come over here and let me have you,” you breathe, low and teasing.

The grin in his voice is audible. “Don’t move, princess,” he orders. “Don’t even get dressed. I want you to keep playing with yourself, okay, darling? Keep yourself all pretty and wet for me, yeah?”

Your thighs clench, fire licking at you, stoked by his words. You’re ruined, have been since you set foot back in this town. Matty is the snake, his mouth the poisoned fruit, the temptation luring you into damnation. But as the flames kiss at your skin, you wonder if getting there might just be worth the price. “Yeah, okay,” you murmur, sucking in a sharp breath as your finger brushes over your sensitive clit, your hand coming up soaked with desire. “Hurry.”

“Darling, the devil himself couldn’t keep me away.”

You wonder if it’s a sign that the devil is wandering the plains of his thoughts too. But you’ve never been one for omens, so you let the quiet creep of bliss take over, the buzzing in your brain drowning out the beep of the dial tone. Anticipation creeps up your spine, slow and teasing.

Then, there’s a knock at your front door.

Shit.

#idk why im so heavy on the religious imagery here #i swear im not actually lottiecrabie #maybe reader is a lapsed catholic or something Who knows not i #matty healy x reader #matty healy #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #the 1975 #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #she's got a boyfriend anyway

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