cw: kinktober prompt (whipping/flogging), blasphemy, inaccurate religious practices, lyrical sadomasochism (more so sadism on his part), erotic religious imagery and references, this dynamic is so weird, implied (as in in my mind) bi reader and charlie, plus sized reader, reader’s chest referred to as ‘breasts’ & ‘tits’ and their crotch referred to as a ‘hole’ but they do have a seperate one other than their ass, pregnancy fantasy, vomit mention, don’t know shit about the show fuck you ryan, blood kink, interchangeable ‘charlie’ & ‘mayhew’ based on pov
do not translate, repost, or feed this work to ai |
kinktober 2024
“Shh, let me clean you up, Father.” You smile, so softly, he could snap your neck if he squeezed hard enough.
You run your nails over his back, trimmed to an appropriate length. Father Mayhew sighs the way Adam might’ve when Eve’s walls clenched around him, God never being more important than this bliss. You’re so devoted, so devout in your worship but he’s beginning to think that you cry out to a different God than he does. If you even believe in an invisible one anymore when you have a savior in the flesh.
“Thank you, dear. That’d be great.” The pulls are pulled from his lips like rotund wooden beads, as if he has no choice but to endure the stretch as they exit his body one by one.
You shuffle off the bed and kneel behind him, stroking your fingertips down his back like he’s a marble statue you just can’t help but reach out and touch. The opposite of Delilah cutting Samson’s hair, you only want to imbue him with your pure love from the inside out. Spooning milk and honey over the tender welts.
His eyelids crinkle as you kiss the nape of his neck, blotting your lips with rouge. There is no inch of his back left without, and when you arrive at the bigger gashes you lavish the cut with your tongue. Drinking his life away and cleaning him up like a good little whore, servicing the man becomes the only thing of importance to you. You dip the tip of your tongue in the recess of the deeper wounds, and caress his tensing abs from behind when he grits his teeth and traps a curse behind them. You only kitten lick him, but often he wishes you would get real dirty with it, caressing your tongue over his muscles in broad and messy swipes.
His scars from previous lashings glint in the low light of the candles surrounding you. You give them their just desserts of course, grateful pecks of attention and acknowledgement. Soothing his pain, that is the only excuse you have to encroach on the verge of breaking your vows. Father Mayhew gives you a purpose and stops your bleating with a heavy hand if you forget your place. Stern hand to raw and stinging flesh.
Sometimes there is no pillow when you kneel behind him.
The next step is that you turn around and face the wall after picking up the cattail whip off the bed and returning it to its rightful owner. You’ve already discarded your habit, no tunic, coif, or veil left on your person. They’re folded neatly beside you, only your rosary nestled in the embrace of your heaving breasts. Your peaks harden in the stuffy humid air, all the oxygen in the world confined to this small room.
He saddles up behind you, his sweaty chest so close to the flesh and contours of your back. Father Charlie breathes you in, taking whiffs of your debauched scent in between silent prayers. He never allows himself to be as forward as you are, his thread of control over his desire has not snapped yet. There are boundaries he can push, but lines he can never cross.
“Good lamb, God recognizes your penance and forgives your soul.” He whispers, dragging the strips of leather down your back until goosebumps rise to the surface.
When you least expect it, he strikes. You muffle a shout into the wall and Father Charlie’s cock jumps under his towel. Briefly he imagines slamming into your tempting body dry, with no preparation, making you sure you feel as much pain as possible. The way you’d wince with every step around the church, the begging in your puppy dog eyes when you’d take communion. How he could hold it above your head like a bone in the shape of a fractured cross, dangling just out of reach of your gorgeous mouth.
The devil gives him dreams of fucking your throat until you’re vomiting and hoarse.
Every droplet of bed peeking out from the cracks of your skin to say hello nourishes him. He shushes you when you’re unable to hold back your sounds, cooing when he notices you humping the air after the fifteenth hit. You just can’t help yourself, nerdy by nature and nurture.
You start soaking the pillow beneath you, imagining what he must look like. A man and his broad hulking body curling around you as he hurts you. Your hole suddenly feels so empty, you have a night of riding your pillow ahead of you, you just want to be good for him in all the ways you’re supposed to be.
As you let a demon of sex control your body, he spies a flash of a white lacy thong nestled between your plump ass cheeks. He knows that if you had also worn a towel, he would’ve hooked his fingers under the fabric and pulled it off. You don’t get to hide any part of yourself from your Father. And he knows he will have to give himself another lashing for those thoughts alone. Even the secret wedding he plans as he strokes his angry red cock, always edging himself, he’s afraid of what would happen if he lets go. How loud the iron gates would be when they creak open. Like the way he wants to spread your ass open and toy with the hidden puckered hole.
His words are in his actions, reopening your old wounds and bringing the warm leather across your back one last time, he hopes your blood soaks through the material. Staining it, the way you have already stained his heart. Father Charlie grins despite himself when you slump against the wall, sliding his bible-roughened hands over your love handles and sticks his pecs to your shoulders.
“You did lovely, today. The Lord thanks you, and I’m so proud of you, you know that?” His thick fingers brush along the bottoms of your tits, never going higher.
He wants to slap them, wrap the beads of your rosary around them until the flesh bulges, painting your nipples in a mix of both of your blood. Marking your souls irreversibly. Marriage of the spirit, a ritualistic wedding in the eyes of the beholder. You shiver like a mouse in front of a snake, and beads of precum fall from his cockhead.
Did Saint Teresa have these feelings when she had the vision of an angel piercing her heart with their golden spear? Did Saint Sebastian when he was pierced by those arrows under the order of the Emperor? Did David when he wrenched Goliath’s head back by his hair and bested him into humiliation? Did it compare to the covenant he formed with Jonathan?
He kisses your glittering scars in thanks and washes your blood away with his lips and tongue too. But unlike any other day in which you’ve done this, he stands up with a grunt and pulls you up with him. Father Mayhew falls backwards onto his bed and so you follow dutifully, and because the hold he has on your wrist is strong to the point of bruising. You lay your head over his heart and pant into his skin as he teases your plush thigh, tracing crosses into the chubby expanse of skin.
“No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.” He cajoles, walking on that burning tightrope with you.
He wonders if your cunt would be just as chubby, if you’ve ever thought about humping the organ bench, riper than the forbidden fruit, and he mentally catalogs an extra long session of repentance. To be fresh and clean again. Father Charlie will go through his sermons with his lighthearted tone and charming personality, desperate to hide that he’s thinking of plunging his tongue in your asshole. Sipping and slurping up your musk like it’s the only holy water he needs to live. Or entice you into eating his ass, you would love being able to serve him properly, no doubt.
To nourish you with his fragments, his vertebrae and viscera. The body and the blood. The teeth and the testicles.
He’ll sit in quiet contemplation in front of the pulpit, pouring wine over your body in his mind. Following the red trail with his tongue as it trickles down the valley of your chest and dips in and out the folds of your belly. He’ll leisurely open his mouth on a silent moan at the top of your mound, the hairs like yellowing blades of glades against his philtrum, in a perfect paradise there’d be blood there too. His own personal, pervertedly literal, red sea.
You’d look so beautiful, swollen and fat with a child growing in your womb. A shame that can never happen, but a blessing that no heretic of a man could snatch you up and take you away from him. Your flock is here, and the heavy crook of his staff is all you need to guide you back home when you go astray. Trapped in his thighs, molded by his hands, punctured into line with his cock.
Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night
Dom!Oliver Queen x Sub!Fem!Reader
Word count: 1534
Warnings: SMUT
Y/N: Your Name
Summary: You came without permission and now you have to deal with your punishment
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My eyes fluttered open as the fog of sleep slowly started leaving me. I could tell from the light streaming through the window that it was morning. I turned to roll over, but something prevented me from doing so. There were bounds on my wrists and ankles, holding me in a spread eagle position. I pulled against them, I could move a little bit, but just barely. Oliver was nowhere to be seen as I struggled. I wondered why I was tied to his bed, but then I remembered. I had been a very bad girl.
I waited for what felt like forever, the tension building. The ideas of what Oliver could do to me were racing through my mind. I wasn’t allowed to cum without Oliver’s permission and I blatantly disobeyed him. The door finally opened and he walked in, holding a black silk blindfold. He smirked and sat on the bed next to me. I gulped and looked up at him nervously.
“ I see you’re finally awake, pet. Do you know why you’re tied up?” He asked.
“I think so, Sir…” I answered and he raised a brow.
“You think? I’m pretty sure you know. Why don’t you tell me the reason you’re all tied up, pet?” He said.
“Because I disobeyed you, Sir.” I said.
“How did you disobey?” He asked.
“I came without permission, Sir.” I answered.
“You did, slut, and now you’re going to get what’s coming to you.” He said as he placed the blindfold over my eyes. My heart started to race and I strained against the bounds. I felt him get off the bed, but I couldn’t tell what he was doing.
Suddenly, I heard the whoosh and felt an impact on my breast. I tested and gasped in shock. A flogger. I felt him lightly drag the strings across my body. They danced across my face, down my neck, circling my tits, and finally down to my pussy. The strands slowly dragged down my pussy, causing me to shiver. Then I feel his fingers stroke my cunt.
“Wet already? You naughty girl, only dirty sluts get excited from punishments.” He said. His fingers slid inside my pussy and I moaned, trying to push against him to get more inside me. He took his fingers away and then crack! The flogger snapped against my pussy. I cried out, trying to move away, but I couldn’t. I felt his breath fan against my ear.
“Greedy little slut, trying to get fuck, hmm? Well, this isn’t for your pleasure, this is a punishment. This is what you deserve for disobeying.” He growled. I whimpered and gripped the bounds, desperate to cling to something.
Crack! Crack! Crack! Three quick swats snapped against my tits, stomach, and pussy. I moaned, feeling the pain and adrenalin course through my body. The blows kept coming and I cried out each time, especially when I felt the flog slap against my nipples. Even though it hurt, I felt so safe. I knew I was getting what I deserved and I loved it. My body felt like it was on fire. My breasts must be glowing red judging by how many times he’s struck them. My nipples are beyond sensitive from the abuse and I all but scream when it comes down on them once again.
I felt his hands rub my tits, rolling my nipples between his fingertips. I bucked my hips and cried out, the sensation was like a lightning bold driving down to my clit. I heard him chuckle.
“Sensitive, slut?” He asked.
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.” I answered.
“Then you’re gonna love this.” He said before I felt a familiar pressure on both sides of my nipples. The clamps. My nipples were already so sensitive, I don’t think I can handle the clamps.
“Sir, I can’t…” I whimpered.
“Can’t what, pet? Use your words.” He said.
“I can’t take the clamps, Sir, please no…” I begged. A sharp slap was felt against my tits, making me squeal.
“You can take them. Your body is mine to do with as I please, slut, don’t forget that.” He said. The clamp tightened on one of my nipples. I rolled my body to try and escape the next one, but that just earned me another slap on my breasts. The pain mixed with pleasure coursed through my body as the second clamp was tightened. He pulled the chain that connected the clamps, causing me to moan in protest.
“There. You look good enough to eat right now, pet. All hot and wet for me, and your skin is such a pretty shade of red.” He whispered in my ear. I smiled, comforted by his voice.
I heard the flick of a lighter and furrowed my brow. What was he using a lighter for? Then I felt it. A drop of something fell onto my stomach and the stinging heat radiates out from my already reddened skin. Hot wax. Before I could even process it, more drops of wax fell onto my skin. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but it still hurts. Some drop more than others. I can feel the heat of the flame at times, and that’s when the hottest drops fall. The pain makes me squirm. I tried to push into the bed, he just moved the flame closer. He tugged on the chain connecting the clamps and immediately after a heated drop of wax fell between my breasts. My body tenses.
“Oh god, please, Sir, not my tits! Please don’t, it hurts so much…” I begged.
“Not your tits, hmm?” He hummed.
“Yes, Sir, please…” I begged again. He jerked the chair again and even more drops of wax fell between my breasts. I cried out in both pain and shock.
“I don’t think you’re understanding what’s going on here. You don’t get to make requests.” He said as I felt the drops of wax spiral around one of my breasts, circling towards my nipple. A whine escaped my lips as my body twisted and turned in anticipation. I felt the head close to my nipple and cried out, tensing my body pre-emptively, but it moved away. I feel the same wax pattern drip onto my other breast and the head close to my nipple once again.
“Are you ready, little one?” He asked in my ear, his tone gentle. I knew he was checking in, making sure I didn’t want to safeword. As much as I didn’t want to feel what was coming I knew I deserved it for disobeying him. Slowly I nodded my head.
“Yes Sir…” I answered breathily. The words barely escaped my mouth before I felt the drop of heated wax fall onto one of my nipples. I screamed with pain. The combination of the clamps and heated wax was too much, but I wanted to be good for him. I had to take it. My body heaved with each breath and he stroked the side of my face, lovingly.
“One more.” He said. I tensed again, but he brushed his fingers through my hair until I relaxed a little. Then the drop fell onto my other nipple. I screamed out again, twisting my body in pain. I heard him blow out the candle and lie next to me. He gently kissed my lips.
“Good girl. That was a lot, wasn’t it?” He asked.
“Yes Sir, but I deserved it…” I answered.
“Yes, you did, pet. But there’s still one last thing.” He said. My eyes widened under the blindfold. His hand moved to the chain, making the clamps move slightly. I cried out again, my nipples were incredibly sensitive. The chain lifted and I felt a tug.
“Prepare yourself, pet.” He said.
“For wha- OH FUCK! SIRRR!” I screamed as he tugged on the chain so hard that the clamps were pulled away from my nipples. I felt all the blood rush back into them, creating a throbbing sensation. I let out a wail as I thrashed against the pain. My tears were wetting the silk, but eventually, the pain subsided to a gentle throb. A wet washcloth slid across my skin, rubbing away the hardened wax. He was extremely careful around my nipples, but the shock still coursed through my body when I felt the rough towel against them. The bounds were removed from the wrists and ankles and then the blindfold was lifted. The first thing I saw when my eyes adjusted were his gorgeous blue-green eyes.
“Hey there, pet.” He smiled and I smiled back.
“Hi, Sir.” I replied shyly. He pushed some hair from my face.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, caressing my cheek.
“Better Sir, thank you.” I answered.
“Are you sorry for disobeying me?” He asked.
“Yes Sir. I won’t do it again.” I answered with a small smirk and he chuckled.
“Oh, I think you’ll do it again. You are a very bad girl after all.” He said and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Maybe…” I said as he gathered me in his arms.
“I love you, Y/N.” He said.
“I love you too, Oliver.” I said, knowing our playtime was over for now.
short story, captive siblings, public beating, for those who are into that sort of thing.
Characters are cis m and cis f, 24 and 26 years old, respectively.
CWs: slavery, beating, whipping, bleeding, bruising, humiliation, exposure, family trauma
Her knees hit the wet planks painfully hard as they shoved her down and tied her hands around to the weathered wooden post. She was trembling all over. From the cold drizzle, from fear, from anger…she wasn’t sure which. The Lashmaster tore her sodden tunic apart from the neck down to waist, allowing the fabric to fall away and expose her naked back. The tunic had been her only garment. They probably knew that.
The petty official overseeing the affair barked out her name.
“Lyra Stael, slave. Accused of theft from a registered merchant. The sentence is thirteen lashes.”
The Lashmaster unfurled the meter-and-a-half of treated ox leather with which Lyra would be tortured. Lyra leaned in toward the post, bracing herself against the soggy timber. She took a deep breath in.
The lash cracked like exploding gunpowder.
The breath was punched out of her chest from behind.
The streak of pain ignited across her back, a white-hot flare.
She blinked away tears and tried to writhe the pain away, her mouth opening in a wordless howl. She pressed her forehead against the wood, beginning to hyperventilate.
Another lash. Another breathless jolt. Her scream died in her throat, coming out as a raspy choked whimper. She hiccupped. Her eyes were streaming, nose leaking.
They struck her again. And again.
Then came the sound she most dreaded in the world.
“Stop, you bastards!”
Her brother, his voice hoarse with rage, came barreling into the square. His eyes were wide, his taut, wiry physique animated by a vengeful fury. Two guards jumped on him mid-charge, one slamming a club into his ribs, the other twisting his arms behind his back. He still thrashed, still fought, kicking out with mud-blackened bare feet as they beat him to the ground.
“Cullen,” Lyra rasped at him, her voice thin and quavering, “Please don’t.”
Twenty-four summers since her brother had come into this world. Twenty-four years since she became duty-bound to keep him from hurting himself. With his temperament, it had always been a losing battle.
And she was about to lose it again.
“If you touch her again-!” He choked on the rest of his threat, spitting as they pushed his face into the dirt.
The presiding official cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose this one is her responsibility as well. Very well. Tie him up on the other side.”
Lyra was vaguely aware of herself pleading with them as they stripped Cullen naked to the waist and dragged him to the post. Pleading not for herself, but for him. He didn’t resist as they roped his arms around the post, his hands together with hers, the cords biting into his wrists.
He pressed his forehead to the wood and looked up at his sister, his eyes meeting hers through the damp, matted tendrils of his dark hair.
“I said I would take the next one,” he said gravely, wincing as they tightened his restraints.
He blurred in front of her as her eyes welled.
“I never asked you to,” she whispered. “You idiot.”
He closed his eyes and gave her hand his best attempt at a reassuring squeeze.
“For obstructing a punishment,” the official announced. “And for assaulting a judicial officer, the combined sentence for the lad will be eighteen lashes!” He stepped away from the platform again, making room for a deputy with another whip to join the Lashmaster.
“…with nine lashes still to go for the girl.”
The whips, in chorus, whistled through the cold, damp air and snapped across their shivering backs.
They both buckled under the blows, Lyra gasping, Cullen groaning. Their fingers tightened around each other’s wrists as they fought with all their strength to remain upright.
Another pair of biting, shocking blows beat them down again. The Lashmasters worked methodically, prolonging each lash into its own trial of endurance. The rains fell harder now, and the siblings’ wet, tender skin began to split and weep. The modest crowd had grown. Some grimacing, some flinching sympathetically, and some just staring impassively.
Lyra slumped to the ground when she had taken her thirteen, her arms still suspended from the pillar but her legs curled up defensively, hissing and whimpering as the rainwater ran pink down her aching sides. And still she had to wait as her baby brother took nine more evil strokes.
When at last the final lash had fallen and the dripping black leather was coiled again in the Lashmaster’s hand, Lyra gripped the post and pulled herself forward with all her strength, her bound hands reaching out for her only family. He was slumped forward, his shoulder resting against the wood, his head fallen forward, moaning piteously with each breath, but still there.
“Hey, hey,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “You did it. You made it. We made it.”
His eyelids flickered. The corner of his mouth twitched in the barest hint of an acknowledging smile.
Hot tears mixed with the rain running down her face, steaming in the chilly air.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Lyra whispered. “Don’t you ever. Ever.”
“No, no! This will not do!” Whumper groaned. They dropped their flogger on the nearby table. Whumper walked around the whipping post to face Whumpee. They got into Whumpee’s face. “You need to be louder. Nobody will be able to hear you! They need to be able to hear you.”
Whumpee rolled their eyes up to meet Whumper’s gaze. “Sorry my cries of pain aren’t enough for you,” they spat sarcastically.
Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s chin in a bruising grip. “They’re paying good money to watch this. They need to hear you. So be better. Or you won’t like what happens next.”
“I’m not going to like what happens next anyway, so why should I care?” Whumpee continued to glare at Whumper.
“Because I will break you. You think this is unpleasant? You’ve got another thing coming.” They slapped Whumpee. “Now, let’s try again. Remember, louder. With feeling. And show us those pretty eyes. So much feeling in those eyes.”
Whumpee glared even more at Whumper.
“Yes! Just like that! Beautiful!” They kissed Whumpee’s cheek. “I’m mildly annoyed right now. You make this good, all will be forgiven. You make this worse, well, let’s just say I won’t be annoyed any longer either.” Whumper took up their flogger again.
You don't know it yet, but I'm the cupid of things. That you just didn't get, that you struggled to say. I'm the saint of the paint that was left in the pot. I'm your angel ellipsis, your devil of dots.
“I’m an insubordinate idiot,” Ariadne repeats unhappily, “And I need to control my temper. Can I go yet?”
She’s on her hands and knees in the middle of the rec room. Shaking. Staring at the floor between her hands because she can’t face the eyes of her peers.
Behind her, Interrogator Riven taps the knotted rope against his gloved palm. The little sound makes her flinch. Her back throbs. Bruised muscles spasm and send sharper pains shooting up and down her spine.
“I’m not convinced you mean that, acolyte.”
Ariadne hangs her head. “I’m sorry, Interrogator.”
Tap, tap, tap.
He’s thinking about giving her more. Each impact drives the breath from her lungs and makes her elbows buckle. Each one is worse than the one before, slamming into already-bruised tissues.
“I’m an insubordinate idiot,” she repeats, face burning. Tears prickle her eyes, threatening to spill over. “I’m... a hot-tempered reckless stupid bitch, and I act without thinking, and I need to do better.”
“That’s right,” the Interrogator agrees. His smug satisfaction crawls across her skin. “Are you going to do better, acolyte?”
“Yes Interrogator,” she promises miserably. “It won’t happen again.”
It’s not the first time she’s made that promise. They both know it probably won’t be the last. Ariadne shivers, waiting anxiously for his verdict. She wishes he wouldn’t drag it out like this.
Tap, tap, tap.
“I’m sorry, Interrogator,” she insists, voice brittle and hollow. “I’m sorry, I’ll try harder, I’ll keep my temper.”
“That’s my girl,” he chuckles. “I will hold you to that promise!”
She swallows repeatedly, struggling to hold back the tears of shame.
“May I go, Interrogator? Please?”
“Yes.” She can hear him smiling, magnanimous in his victory. “You are dismissed. Run along, acolyte. Get yourself cleaned up.”
[ HEADCANON : HANNIBAL LECTER : KINK VS SEXUAL GRATIFICATION ]
Before we talk a little more about this, it’s important to note that kink itself, to me anyways, encompasses many spectrums. Whether that be what you’re ‘into’ so to speak or what, say, titles / roles someone earns ( or fancies ) - the kink community in and of itself is massive and far more than ‘50 Shades’, so there’s of course variety in who ( and why ) folks are participating.
I am by no means an educator or historian ( that’s my partner, hah ) but I do enjoy some degree of realism in how I go about my headcanons. And, you know, if I’m able to debunk some of the ( admittedly ) toxic mindsets Tumblr writers have about kink, well, here we go ---
A basic, core concept: kink is not inherently sexual.
Follow up concept: you do not need to experience sexual stimulation or any sort of sexual gratification to take part in kink.
For Hannibal Lecter, there is cross-over, though since I headcanon Dr. Lecter as very reliant on finding someone intelligent enough / interesting enough to engage at a deeper level with - well? At first, Hannibal playing with someone likely has no sexual intent at all. Having experienced such a severe level of abuse and neglect whilst being abducted - I doubt it would surprise many that I fully believe Hannibal is some variation of ace. I lean toward aceflux myself, personally.
That being said, there are many ways in which one can take part in play without making things sexual, so here is a small ( but not conclusive list ) of scenarios which Hannibal has likely been a part of in his decades as a leatherman.
1) Tying folks up - a lot of people just enjoy the look / feel of it & it makes them feel more confident. Others enjoy the mental release of being suspended while tied / in sub space.
2) Cigar play - Can be very therapeutic in the sense that it’s a task with a very specific order in which things need to be done. Folks that enjoy routines often really enjoy play involving smoking. The task is learnable, repeatable, and many nd kinksters use smoking as a stim. There’s a lot of emotional intimacy in this form of play!
3) Whipping / Flogging - While there’s lost of folks that get sexual gratification of pain, there’s a decent handful of folks that purely enjoy it because of pain itself, enjoy the emotional release during / after a session, or flat out enjoy pretty marks on themselves.
Again, these are just bare bones scenarios, but Hannibal is rarely horny when he’s actively domming someone. There are also, in fact, folks in the community that are entirely sex repulsed. Make room for inclusivity in your kinky hcs too! I guarantee you it’s more fun!
