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poweringthroughthis · 8 months ago

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birthday cake | lee sangyeon

nsfw, mature content, mdni

desc: (name) isn't a big fan of his birthdays, so his friends decide to cheer him up with a particularly handsome gift this year.

warnings: oral, rimming, anal s*x, fluff

Birthdays are no easy feat for (name). Between corporate slavery, a horrendous economy and a dead love life, there really isn't much to celebrate. Well, maybe except for his friends. With New constantly reprimanding him for his bad decisions, Changmin being the sweetest guy ever, Juyeon raising his standards in men and Kevin teaching him all the naughty things of the world, (name) appreciated those little troublemakers deeply.

So, despite not being the biggest self-lover on birthdays, the male did expect his friends would, at the very least, come over to his place, watch horror movies and build pillow forts as they bitch about anyone and everyone. Being far away from family made (name) cherish the boys' efforts all the more.

However, with no one even replying to his texts, let alone showing up at his apartment, he was more than a bit confused. The male was just about to call New and demand the reason behind their sudden silence when the doorbell rang.

(name) was more than relieved to hear the chime and was quick to open the door, not wanting the person to ring it again. The man's mouth opened, a bright smile already on his lips but before any words could leave him, a cake was shoved into his face and his vision was obstructed by the sugary mess.

The male was still blinking in surprise when the candles were blown off and someone clapped happily, a voice exclaiming, "Happy birthday!"

(name) finally managed to pry the cake away from his eyes, looking at the group of four that stood before him. They were all holding gifts and smiling widely at him.

"You're here," he mumbled, not even bothering to hide the happiness in his voice.

"Of course," Kevin exclaimed, stepping inside the house and taking off his shoes. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"I'm surprised you guys are here, to be honest," the birthday boy mumbled, still wiping the icing from his eyes and nose.

"And why is that?" Changmin asked.

"You weren't answering your phones."

"Oh, those..." Juyeon mumbled, looking at the other three for a brief second before continuing. "We left them in the car. You know how the signal sucks here."

(name) nodded. He didn't believe a word of it. "And who brought the cake?"

"Me," the black-haired male replied. "You said you loved that cheesecake so I decided to surprise you."

"Thank you, Chanhee." (name) smiled.

"No problem, dude. Now let's go and open your gifts!"

"Yes, please. I have a present too and I've been dying to give it to you!" Juyeon added excitedly, pushing past his friends and into the house.

The others followed him, leaving their shoes at the door.

(name) was feeling like the happiest person alive. His friends came to visit, brought him gifts and baked a cake for him. They didn't have to, but they did it anyway.

Chanhee noticed (name) and gave him a small smile. "It was a pretty last minute decision. Sorry, we couldn't do better."

"I think this is already amazing," the male replied, mirroring the other's smile.

"Hey! Stop flirting and get your asses in here," Juyeon called out.

Chanhee rolled his eyes. "We should go and stop him before he does something stupid."

The younger one nodded, following his friend into the living room.

They did all that (name) had envisioned. Watching horror movies(The Amityville franchise this year), eating the cake Chanhee baked and talking smack. Like clockwork. The smile didn't leave (name)'s face the entire night. A few drinks in and the guys were still sober, but way more relaxed.

"Guys, I have to say something." (name) began, the boys turning around to look at him with fond smiles on their faces.

"Thank you. Thank you for doing this every year. And on days when it's not even my birthday. Life is a lot less shittier because I have you all."

Perhaps it was the soju talking, but (name) felt like he needed to make it known how grateful he was for his boys.

"Aww you cutie, c'mere.." Kevin cooed at the male, making kissy faces as he tackled him into a hug, the birthday boy yelling for him to get away.

"Ewww cringe!" Chanhee fake-gagged as he made a disgusted expression.

"Shut up, Chanhee. We know you're the biggest crybaby deep down" Changmin shushed him.

"I think it's time to give you your gift," Juyeon whispered into (name)'s ear, his hot breath sending shivers down (name)'s spine.

"O-okay."

Juyeon smiled, standing up and walking towards the door, leaving (name) confused. Why didn't Juyeon bring the gift inside with him initially? He glanced over at the others who were looking into space, avoiding his gaze. Alert number 1.

"I swear to god y'all if this is something stupid like last ti-"

"Hello."

(name) stopped dead in his tracks as a deep, matured voice interrupted him. He turned around to see: Lee Sangyeon. His very attractive, very charming and very well-spoken neighbor, though (name) had barely exchanged anything past normal greetings with the man.

"So, remember how we were late? We were hastily searching for a good gift shop as the old one recently closed, and ran into this guy who was kind enough to help us navigate to a new one. Guess who it was?" Juyeon explained the last bit in a sing-song voice. "Exactly! Sangyeon hyung."

"And when we left for the same way, we talked a little more and realized he's your neighbor! What a small world." Changmin added.

Hyung? Damn Juyeon and his extroverted nature. And yes, Changmin, (name) is well aware of his hot neighbor. Thank yew. He's been purposely treading carefully around him in order to NOT make a fool of himself, which you've kinda defeated the whole point of?!

"Happy birthday! I hope you don't mind me. I was free and your friends insisted I join." Sangyeon offered a charming grin.

"Thank you. And ,N-no, no, not at all! I don't mind. Please, feel free to join anytime you'd like. I mean-" (name) rambled.

"Oh boy. I knew he was gonna shit himself" New sighed.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing. It's kinda cute. YOU'RE kinda cute." Sangyeon chuckled, and if the sound of it didn't send an electric jolt down (name)'s spine.

"So are we done yet or..?" Kevin yawned, leaning onto the couch. Everyone scurried off back to their places in the living room, continuing the movie they'd paused to drink. For a while, the boys made small talk with Sangyeon, (name) getting to know the man better. As time passed, they all became increasingly sleepy, but (name) and Sangyeon hardly ceased talking to each other, now cuddled up with each other. They clicked rather well.

"So, I think there's one last gift left. For both of you." Chanhee smirked.

"I agree," Sangyeon whispered.

Before (name) could blink, he was pulled into a warm embrace and his lips met Sangyeon's. It was gentle, yet firm, and (name) felt like he could die and be satisfied. The latter tasted of sweet wine, and the older's scent filled his senses as he pulled him closer, a soft sigh escaping him. Sangyeon's lips were soft and warm, and his tongue moved confidently against his own, making (name)'s toes curl.

As Sangyeon pulled back, a smile appeared on his face. (name) had been crushing over him for 2 weeks now. So is it safe to assume his feelings are somewhat reciprocated?

"How was that?" Sangyeon asked, his fingers stroking (name)'s hair.

"Amazing.." the latter breathed.

"I'm glad." The elder smiled, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Well, I hope you had a good birthday."

"Yes, and I have you to thank for it."

"Then perhaps we should do this again?"

"Definitely."

And (name) was sure his heart was about to burst with joy.

"Ahem."

New's voice caught their attention.

"Sorry for the interruption but it's getting late and we should leave," he announced, gesturing at the other 3 who were already gathering their belongings.

"Alright. You guys have fun and behave yourselves." Kevin grinned, bidding them a goodbye.

(name)'s eyes widened. "Yeah, bye Kevin!" he offered a tight-lipped smile, mouthing "I.will.Kill.You", knowing fully well it must have been the Canadian's idea to pull this stunt. "You needed this babe" Kevin whispered in the other's ear. "Thank me later", he left after blowing (name) a kiss, Chanhee and Changmin dragging him.

"Sangyeon, we hope we can see you around soon." Juyeon said.

"Definitely."

The birthday boy's eyes met with Sangyeon's, and (name) didn't miss the way the man's pupils dilated. He wasn't alone in his feelings.

"Happy birthday, again." The eldest of the 4 leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on (name)'s cheek, the gesture sending warmth throughout his body.

The moment the 4 left, (name) plopped onto the couch, still dazed from what had transpired.

"They really thought of everything."

"It seems so."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes, very."

"Good, that's what matters."

"Can I...can I kiss you again?"

"Of course."

Sangyeon cupped his cheeks, bringing their lips together. It was gentle and slow, yet there was a hint of hunger behind it.

"I've been thinking about this for a long time," Sangyeon admitted, his thumb brushing over (name)'s bottom lip.

"So have I."

"That's good to know."

The eldest captured (name)'s lips again, this time with more urgency. He sucked on his bottom lip, drawing a low moan from him. The sound spurred Sangyeon on, and his tongue slipped into the younger's mouth, eliciting another moan.

"I'm not quite finished yet. There are many other things I'd like to do to you."

"Such as?"

"You'll just have to wait and see."

The next thing (name) knew, he was being lifted up, the male's legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Sangyeon carried him to his room, and the two fell onto the bed in a heap of tangled limbs. Their lips met again, the kiss becoming more passionate and urgent.

"Do you want me to keep going?" Sangyeon whispered against his lips, his fingers brushing the younger's cheek.

"Yes, please," (name) whined.

The older one wasted no time and started undressing the male beneath him. After he had stripped him down, the two kissed some more, their hands roaming each other's bodies.

"I'm going to make you feel good," Sangyeon breathed against his ear, his fingers trailing down his abdomen, causing him to shiver.

(name)'s eyes widened as the elder stood up and stripped down his lower half, his thick member on full display. The birthday boy swallowed nervously, his cock throbbing at the sight.

"You're already so hard." (name) breathed.

The latter was about to apologize, but his words were caught in his throat when he felt a wet heat envelope his length. He couldn't hold back a moan as he threw his head back.

(name) continued to suck on his length, eliciting a chorus of moans from the elder.

After a few minutes, Sangyeon hurriedly pulled (name)'s mouth away, biting his lips to stop himself from cumming.

"Mmh, I think you're ready," Sangyeon mumbled, and (name) let go of his member, wiping his mouth with his hand.

He reached the hem of the birthday boy's underwear, tugging it down. The cool air of the room caused the latter's member to twitch, and Sangyeon smiled. He laid (name) down face first on the bed, spread out. Kneeling between the younger's legs, he leaned down and spread his ass cheeks apart using his hands, licking his lips at the sight of the male's pink, puckered hole.

(name) gasped as he felt the wet heat of the elder's tongue circling his entrance. He gripped the sheets tightly as he felt the sensation of being stretched.

The younger male could only moan in response, the feeling of being penetrated by the elder's tongue was intoxicating. He could feel his orgasm approaching, and he arched his back, pressing his hips against Sangyeon's face.

"It's your birthday, but i'm the one eating the cake," the elder chuckled, and (name) whimpered, feeling the latter's tongue slide in deeper.

"Oh fuck," he moaned, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.

Sangyeon continued to fuck (name) with his tongue, and the younger male couldn't help but cry out in pleasure.

"I-I'm gonna cum," (name) whined.

"Go ahead, baby," the elder encouraged, and the younger male could only gasp and shudder as his orgasm ripped through him.

Sangyeon sat up and grabbed the bottle of lube on the bedside table. He squirted a generous amount onto his palm and spread it over his length.

"Ready, baby?"

"Yes, please," (name) nodded, spreading his legs wider.

Sangyeon lined himself up with the younger's entrance and pushed inside, eliciting a loud moan from the younger.

"F-fuck, you're so tight," the elder moaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Feels so good," (name) panted.

The elder started to thrust in and out of the younger male, and the latter could only moan in response.

"You feel so good around me," Sangyeon moaned, and (name) could only whine in response, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.

The older one leaned over, capturing his lips in a heated kiss.

The elder started thrusting faster, the sound of their skin slapping filling the room.

"Fuck, I'm close," the elder moaned, his eyes screwed shut.

"M-me too," (name) gasped.

Sangyeon gripped the younger's hips tighter and increased his pace, causing the latter to moan loudly.

"Fuck, I'm cumming," the elder growled, and he spilled inside the birthday boy.

"Holy shit," (name) breathed, his orgasm rippling through him.

The elder pulled out, the latter's cum coating the tip of his cock.

"Happy birthday to you," Sangyeon breathed, leaning down to kiss the birthday boy.

(name) sighed contently. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Making my birthday special."

"I'll make every birthday special, if you'll let me," the elder smiled, and the two kissed once more.

When the 4 were far away, New's voice broke the silence.

"Hey Juyeon.."

"Yes?"

"Do you think he'll actually thank us for setting him up with his crush?"

"Probably not.." Juyeon answered.

"Should we start running?"

"Yup."

"We're doomed."

"Well, it was worth it."

"Definitely."

"Happy Birthday, (name)." Kevin yelled into the night, wishing nothing but happiness for their friend, as the 4 walked home.

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astudyincontrasts · 1 year ago

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Penance IX (redux)

Priest!Silco x Fem!Reader AU (nsfw)

A/N: Its my birthday! Last year everyone in this fandom and all the friends I have made because of it made today one of the most special birthdays I have had in a long time. I felt more loved and surrounded in celebration with sweet friends then I had in years, and the cup of that happiness has not stopped running over. There are not enough ways to express my love and gratitude for everyone I've had the joy of meeting here.

So this year, I wanted to offer a gift to all of you. Everyone has been exceedingly patient about my writing struggles to continue Penance, so I'd like to give you the alternate Penance XI chapter- blood I have managed to wring from that stone of writers block. The fate of the continuation of this story may still be up in the air until inspiration comes knocking again, but at least I can share this with you today.

To all my fandom friends, and everyone who has been so supportive of this silly little smutty story. You have my heart.

This picks up after Chapter VIII

“Girl, are you listening?”

Sister Marta’s sharply scolding voice brought you back down to earth with a little jerk, blinking as you turned attention back to the tall, thin, sallow faced nun to meet the exasperated gaze of her cataract-hazed grey eyes.

“Sorry Sister.” You mumbled, casting about for a context clue of whatever it was she might have been speaking about while you’d been off daydreaming about the priest of her parish. Nothing jumped out at you in the dusty old store room of the basement where you both stood in the dim light of one naked and straining lightbulb still swinging gently upon its cord from the nun’s yank of its chain a moment before.

You hadn’t meant to drift off, but it had been four days since you’d seen Father Silco last and that painful, sweet contrition you’d done across the desk of his office was still fresh in your mind as if it had just happened. You ought to have been angry at the fact he’d left you such an unsatisfied mess, and the fact he’d spanked you like a wicked child, in spite of his promise he’d never hurt you as they had back in school.

Truly, he had not. Those sharp little slaps of his open hand were nothing compared to the cruelty of a sharp ruler across knuckles or the backs of thighs delivered by an angry, bitter nun. You smiled faintly at Sister Marta’s increasingly irritated, withered old face and privately thought perhaps she could teach the Father a few things about corporal punishment.

“The candles, girl!” Sister Marta exhorted at last, the thin limit of her patience snapping.

Unlike the ‘my child’ diminutive that the other nuns like Sister Eleanor or Sister Angelica were so fond of using with you and other parishioners, Sister Marta had no use for any such hollow faithful endearments. You hadn’t yet made up your mind if it was an honest gruffness about her you liked, or an insulting mein you did not. You had the notion it would have hardly mattered to the old woman either way.

She nudged one of the pair of low boxes with the toe of her sensible black shoe from under her long, dark habit.

“Take them to the Father to be blessed and then kindly refill the votive stands. You can remove the spent ones and toss them.” She explained, slower this time as if she was speaking to a simpleton.

You bore it with a tight little smile and bent to lift the box on top, surprised by the weight of it, staggering a bit upon rising only to catch a smugly satisfied look on the wrinkled old pucker of a face before Sister Marta reached up to pull the chain of the light and leave you to struggle out the door of the closet and back up the rickety old stairs of the basement in the dark, save for the light from the open door at the top of the steps.

Quietly you wondered if you accidentally fell and broke your neck, if the church would have their endowment free of the burden of your presence that came with it.

Cold comfort, knowing you’d crush the brittle bird-boned old woman climbing up, wheezing softly behind you, and take her with you if you did pitch backward down the steps.

The real trial wasn’t making it to the top of the stairs with the heavy box full of candles, though. No, that one still lay ahead once you’d reached the top without incident. The real trial lay in taking that armload into the rectory to face Father Silco once more and ask his blessing.

You’d thought you’d be safe if you came on a Thursday. You’d avoided the parish planning committee on Monday, as well as your usual Wednesday session with the Father. You’d hardly doubted you’d be missed at the planning meeting, and Wednesday, well. You’d chosen to skip it half in a little act of spite, half just to see what might happen. When no scolding phone call or visit had been forthcoming after shirking both of those commitments the victory felt hollow.

Turning up to make yourself useful to the nuns on Thursday seemed like a good way to cover for your failed gambit and to keep from looking as if you were avoiding the church. Foolishly, you’d thought perhaps you’d manage to skim by with just catching a glimpse of Father Silco in passing.

Unsure if it was because you wanted to see him, or wanted him to see you.

You’d been on rocky footing ever since your little transgression in the confessional, and you knew it.

The door to the rectory lay open just across from the basement door in the open nave of the large narthex, and you waited until Sister Marta crested the steps behind you and shut the basement door to hobble off heavily upon her cane, before you started the slow walk toward his office. You didn’t let yourself hesitate in the doorway, and didn’t have a free hand to knock on the open door with anyway. Instead, summoning all the calm composure you could muster, you simply walked in and paused before his desk.

He sat there, scribbling away in an open book, papers and letters and other books opened in a slightly scattered mess about his work, dark head bent and eyepatch on. He left you standing there until he’d finished what he was writing. Until your elbows and wrists had begun to ache a little from the weight of the box you held. Only then he sat back, letting his pen drop upon the desk as elbows found the armrests of his tall-backed chair and he turned the cool glint of that duplicitously calm ocean colored eye upward.

The thin, scarred cut of his mouth tugged a hint of a smile at one corner.

“Lamb.” He stated mildly, as if unsurprised in the least to see you there and only half interested as to what you might want with him.

Infuriating, how badly you liked hearing that little endearment again. How flustered it made you feel to get hooked on the edge of that smile.

The box shifted heavily in your hands as you juggled its weight and stepped forward to set it upon his desk. Damn his paperwork.

“Sister Marta asked if you’d bless these candles so I could put them in the votive holders.” Your attempt to keep your voice as even and disaffected as possible only resulted in it coming out far softer than you’d meant for it to be.

Leaning forward a touch, Silco flipped one of the flaps of the cardboard lid back to glance at the candles inside with a little hum. One by one he folded each of the other three flaps back and rose to his feet. Elegant fingers stroked absently along the edge of one packaging dividers hashed between the votives within before he plucked a single candle out and set it aside.

Letting that cool eye of his drift shut he made the sign of the cross over the open box of remaining candles before opening both hands before himself, palms cupped upward.

“Lord Jesus Christ, true light that enlightens every man who comes into this world, bestow thy blessing upon these candles, and sanctify them with the light of thy grace. As these tapers burn with visible fire and dispel the darkness of night, so may our hearts with the help of thy grace be enlightened by the invisible fire of the splendor of the Holy Ghost, and may be free from all blindness of sin.”

His eye opened and fell upon you, and suddenly you were profoundly aware of how you just stood there, staring at the tall, lean lines of him in that dark cassock, soaking in the sound of his voice and very obviously not with your hands folded in reverent prayer or eyes downcast as they ought to have been. Something entirely ungodly flickered at the edge of Father Silco’s mouth as he continued on, holding your immobilized gaze.

“Clarify the eyes of our minds that we may see what is pleasing to thee and conducive to our salvation. After the dark perils of this life let us be worthy to reach the eternal light.” His eye closed once more and again he made the sign of the cross over the box as he finished, “Through thee, Jesus Christ, Savior of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest, God, for ever and ever. Amen.”

His hands lowered, one coming to settle over the glass edge of the candle he’d set to one side, and he considered you as you crossed yourself hastily and reached forward to gather the box back up again. He stopped you lifting it with a touch of the fingertips to its lid.

“When you are through with these, perhaps you’d come back here?” Couched so carefully as a question, yet all you could hear was the quiet order in it. Come back here. Your head was nodding before he even finished speaking and the thin, dark brow not covered by his eyepatch quirked slightly.

“Yes, Father.” Your correction of yourself came nearly automatically.

Another little humming assent and with a slow blink he removed the touch that had stopped you lifting the box, resuming his seat. You hoped he’d resume his work as well, but instead he sat there, watching you go, fingertips drumming thoughtfully upon the little glass votive.

You took your time with the candles, mostly because your hands were shaking and the very last thing you wanted to do was drop one of the blessed things and have it shatter across the church floor. But also, to give you time to scrape yourself together, collect calm and poise. It was no good, heart hammering anticipation equal parts nervousness and excitement. The part of yourself that had wanted so badly to keep up this little charade of wishing to avoid him had succumbed without so much as a whimper.

Again thoughts drifted back to Sunday. To the stinging warmth of skin under his hand, to how he’d teased you to a sodden mess without once slipping fingers beneath the barrier of cotton that had separated you. To how he’d left you wanting and writhing and nearly in tears. A perfect act of contrition, indeed.

It was a struggle not to let yourself wonder what next punishment he could possibly have in store for you.

Spent votives replaced with fresh ones, and the box filled with the clatter of the empty candleholders, you made your way back to his office. Dropping the detritus of other people’s prayers off in the dumpster out back could wait. You had your own worship to attend to.

Father Silco’s desk was far less littered with papers when you returned, open books stacked neatly to one side now and everything else put away save for the book he was still writing in. And that little candle he’d taken. His dark head didn’t even lift as you set the softly clattering box down upon the settee against the wall.

“Office hours are over.” He intoned flatly as you wiped palms nervously over the skirt of the dress covering your thighs.

It froze you, cold like ice water suddenly filling the pit of your belly. Had he just dismissed you after ordering you to return?

“...Father?” It came out a strangled little question and you almost hated how needy the note of your voice made that singular word.

He glanced up and you realized with a start that he’d removed that eyepatch, the hellish orange-red fire of his darkened eye a constant little shock every single time. Ruined eye and teal flicked from you to the door and back again as if in blatant explanation.

“Lock the door.” He elaborated.

It should not have been a matter of pride that you managed to turn and do his bidding without falling all over yourself or scrambling in an embarrassing rush of eagerness, and yet. Far more collected than you felt within, you managed to push the door shut soundlessly and throw the latch, pausing for a moment with your back to him, safely sheltered in the little alcove of the doorway, to breathe through the easing of that sudden cold panic that had surfaced at your earlier misunderstanding.

When you returned to him he’d shut his notebook and set it aside atop the others, and reached to slide that pilfered votive candle before himself as he watched you sidle up to his desk. Watched you stop, smooth the skirt of your dress only to fist it again in fitful hands, watched the tight little press of thighs as he drew out the silence.

“Do you know what these are called?” He asked, nudging the little candle forward with the press of one elegant fingertip before rising from his seat.

“Devotionaries.” You answered, and watched him cross to the wall to the right of you, to a tall coat stand that stood near the door to his quarters.

“Very good.”

A child could have answered that question, but it did not stop the little smile of pleasure that tugged at the corners of your mouth. His praise as euphoric as a drug and twice as addictive, even for the smallest of successes.

Your mouth went dry however, as he turned profile to you, tugged a button or two open upon the throat of his cassock, and then turned his back to undo the rest before shrugging out of the long, dark cloth to hang it upon the coat stand. The black fabric fell in a long and shapeless mass without him, hem puddling ever so slightly on the floor.

It put you in mind of Peter Pan hanging up his shadow, or it would have done, had you not been so preoccupied with the shape of him divested of the dark habit. Of that petulant posture and taut lovely lines, proud set of shoulders and careless, dangerous beauty in how he moved. It was patently unfair that a man sporting licks of sliver at his temples and etched crows feet at the outset edges of his eye should have the lithe shape of youth the way he did.

Devoid of the cassock, he was left instead in the black roman-collared linen shirt and dark, sharply pleated trousers he wore beneath.

He turned back to you and came wandering back toward the desk, unbuttoning the cuffs at his wrists.

“Do you have a lighter?” The question was so casual it caught you off guard and you had to shake your head, tugging at the pocketless skirt of your dress on either side of thighs by way of explanation.

His mouth twisted the merest fraction of a smile as he tucked the cuff of one of his sleeves back, began rolling it neatly toward his elbow. Lean hips turned a fraction as he stepped closer.

“Left pocket.” He instructed, helpfully.

Hesitation grasped you but a moment before you inched forward, stepped into his space and paused. Glancing upward, you found his attention fixed upon meticulously still folding his sleeves back, crisp turn by turn. The focus of those mismatched eyes not even flickering to you, to how every fine hair upon your bare arms stood on end like they were aching toward him, toward that magnetic draw of snapping static thrumming in the air between you both.

Easing half behind him, you reached for the little gap of the pocket and slowly slid fingers into the warmth of its silken confines. Over the bone of his hip and down, wrist deep until you hit the bottom of the pocket and touched the smooth, rectangular shape of the lighter within. Metal heated to body temperature from where it nestled.

Fingers curled around it before you stopped. Let it go, and moved just a little closer, pressed fingers flat to that join between hip and thigh his pocket lay against. Pushed the delve of that pocket just a little deeper and felt his stomach tense beneath your fingertips as your cheek brushed the outside of his upper arm.

“The lighter, lamb. If you please.” His tone was darkly amused at least, though if you kept pushing your luck it would be at your own cost. That much was clear.

You scooped up the lighter once more, but withdrew your hand slow, knuckles grazing softly along the cut of muscle you could feel running from his hip inward and down. Air felt unwelcomely cold against your skin once you pulled your hand free, and before you could step back, he moved away for you. Walked away to resume his seat behind the desk as he finished doing up his other cuff to just below his right elbow.

A small push of his foot made space between the seat and the desk, and you only needed the flick of his eyes from you to the room he’d made to set you in motion to come and stand before him, his lighter clenched tight in your closed fist, unwilling to relinquish the little bit of his heat you held in your palm.

Gazing up at you, his attention licked over the details of your dress, your posture, your hesitant composure, as he tugged at the give of trousers a little at the bend of thigh and hip and settled himself more comfortably.

“You weren’t here yesterday.” He observed as he relaxed back against the tall chair, a flicker of a blink over that oceanic eye. You held your tongue and his gaze fell to the candle upon the desk just beside where you stood, and you wondered if your absence had made him angry, filled him with regret, or perhaps just left him lonesome. You wished there was a way to tell, any little crack in that stoic mask of scarred features and sharpness to let the truth of what he was thinking seep out. Nothing there though but that calculating, penetrating gaze and a subtle shrug of broad, lean shoulders, “I suppose we might make up for lost time, then. Contrition may be an important facet of faith, but so is devotion.”

He reached forward to scoop into fingers the loose end of the bow that tied the wrap of your dress shut beside your waist. His good eye narrowed, the fine lines of crowsfoot deepening. He’d seen that dress before, yes– the same one you’d worn to catch him by surprise in the confessional.

You allowed yourself the most innocent little smile you could manage when those mismatched eyes flicked sharply to your face, and willed breath to stay even, slow, no matter how skin had begun to sing his name in soft coursing waves of prickling goosebumps.

“I don’t suppose you have your rosary?” He asked archly, letting the ribbon of the bow drop from his open hand as he sat back once more.

He’d every right to ask it of you so dryly, given your lack of pockets. And you had every right to feel as smug as you did when you lifted a hand, reached into the low, criss-crossed neckline of your dress and drew out the strand of little purple beads from the nestle of your bra.

The war between shock, dark delight, the struggle to keep his poker face, and perhaps even a hint of righteous outrage that overtook the sharply handsome ruin of his features was nothing short of spectacular. You’d replay it, over and over again at night. Reveling in how well you toppled the high and mighty cold ivory pillar he so often perched upon.

Out and out you drew the beads until the little cross popped free and the rosary hung, swinging, upon your forefinger.

His hand, resting upon his knee, tightened, fingers twitching slightly, before it stilled, then lifted, palm open in demand.

You dropped that little holy object into his hand and watched his fist close around it, knowing full well he now held a little piece of your heat as surely as you held his within your other hand. There was a slight softening to the creases where thin brows met over that sharp nose that told you he felt it, too.

“Good girl.” He murmured, and the flush that crept up to warm your ears was nearly as delicious as the thrill that both chased up your spine and tugged at the backs of your knees to fold, to kneel. You rested the heel of your palm upon the desk behind you and let it take your weight so that you did not cave.

By the time he turned his face back up to you he’d mastered his expression once more, beatific calm singed at its hard edges.

“Turn around,” He instructed, making the simple order sound heavy, dangerous. Bringing thighs together from their slight sprawl, he patted the top of one, “Have a seat.”

Heart thudded hard in your ears as you did as you were bade, turning to sink onto his lap carefully, perched upon his knees. He sucked chipped teeth softly at it.

“Have a seat,” That grit velvet voice scolded gently from behind you as both his hands curled about your waist and urged you backward, until you sat comfortably fully upon him, back fitted to his front.

A hand upon your hip skimmed over stomach and waist, back to the bow of your dress.

“Why do we say devotions?” He asked, and you could feel the question purring through his chest against your back as he claimed the thick ribbon of the bow and tugged. The knot gave with no resistance, and the part of it he held served nicely to pull the cross of your dress open, just enough to part the skirt of it and leave you bare from stomach to thighs.

The shudder that overtook you was sweet and slow, wringing from core to limbs, leaving a little shivering tingle rising over scalp and curling toes, that familiar little throbbing ache back with a hot and hungry vengeance. Hips shifted in your seat as his fingertips ghosted skin to part fabric and push it aside, leaving your lower half bare save for the dark, smooth satin of underwear in the same shade of inky black as his habit.

“To remember the dead?” You chanced, feeling halfway there yourself, pulse racing erratically.

“Sometimes,” He agreed, and you swore you felt the whisper of scarred lips at your neck. Certainly felt the wash of warm breath plume over skin, “More generally devotions are an act of prayer or private worship. Remembrance is one act, as are service, reflection, beseeching, prostration… your rosary, for example, is considered a devotion.”

His hands slid along your arms, touch warm, bringing your hands together to press in prayer before he began to wind the beaded strings around your wrists again to bind them together.

“I thought that was a penance.” You exhaled in a shuddering little rasp.

“It can be, but not today.” The tip of his sharp nose drew a long, slow line against the rise of your spine, above the neckline of your dress between shoulder blades and to the base of your skull, “although that can be a devotion too.”

The heel of his foot caught the floor and pulled the seat with you both in it forward towards his desk, so that he could reach around you and lift the candle from where it sat before pushing you both back again. He held the votive before you.

“Light it,” he asked, free arm curling about you, fingers trailing the soft of your stomach from navel on down, “I owe you a devotion, lamb.”

Fingers bound in prayer fumbled with the thick golden rectangle of the lighter as you struggled not to simply sink back against him with a little shiver and beg that he stroke that little path across vulnerable skin once more. A flick of your thumb sent the hinged lid open and the circular little flint struck on the second attempt, hot flame bursting to life. Silco turned the candle so that you could light it and then pulled it away as you flicked the lighter shut and slipped it back between folded hands.

“Do you know the devotional prayer?” He asked, hand holding the candle coming to settle upon an armrest as his lap shifted beneath you, lean legs pressing together beneath your own and lifting before spreading wide, the hook of his knees beneath your thighs opening them in an indecent slow splay.

It set you writhing; the kissing chill of the air of the room contrasting sharply with the heat of him beneath you, so very bare, bound in his lap, spread open like an invitation. The door was locked, yes, you’d made sure of it but what if you were wrong? What if someone had a key? There’d be no explanation for the position you found yourself in, no way to hide.

The thrill of that little licking fear warred with the light caress of his free hand as it curled over the top of one thigh and smoothed toward your knee, only to hook it better in its drape over his own before it began the slow teasing, lazy circles that drew it back toward the little throbbing want hidden beneath the black satin gusset of thin panties.

“Bare legs.” He murmured, and you gave another little squirm, folded hands pressing together tighter. You’d not worn what you were coming to suspect was his favorite item of your clothing because you’d not expected to see him, and also to spite him if you did. The move seemed to have backfired spectacularly. When you had no excuse or answer, Father Silco simply carried on, a note of pleased amusement in his tone, “The prayer?”

“N-no. That is, no I don’t know it.”

“Hmn.” His little hum of disapproval at the gaps still existing in your liturgical knowledge colored your cheeks, and you could only hope that from his position he could not see the frustration that joined the embarrassment upon your face.

You watched him lift the candle slowly from where he’d held it at your side, bring it to hover over your open lap. His hand upon your thigh stilled its toying little strokes and instead closed in a taut grip of your leg, soft skin denting tenderly beneath his fingers.

“That’s alright,” he reassured you quietly, and you could hear the dark little smile in it, “This is my devotion anyhow.”

The flickering little candle he held hovering before you began to tilt, turn, and the inward gasp of breath caught in your throat as the clear melted wax welled at the lip of the red glass before spilling over, heat spattering in a little drip against the sensitive skin of your knee.

He paused, and you could feel him shift under your restless hips, feel the little roll of his own and the way his breath strained ever so slightly for just a moment.

“Does that hurt?” Low and velvet that voice mumbled up against the skin behind the fold of your ear and again he tipped a little burning drop of wax onto waiting skin.

Your knee jumped the barest fraction, reflexive little jerk at the soft scalding that faded quickly into gentle warmth, and you nodded, folded hands pressing the knuckles of forefingers tight to your lips.

“A little.” You breathed, raggedly.

“Enough to stop?” He pressed, and the soft moan of a sigh that broke from you when the warmth of his mouth touched to the hard thrum of your pulse answered well enough for you before your shattered little ‘no’ eked out.

His fingers had strayed far up the leg they’d been casually toying across, toward the heat that he had to feel absolutely radiating from the apex of thighs. One long forefinger drew a tracing line around the triangle of slippery black satin, up both edges and across your lower stomach slowly.

Air seized in your throat as his fingertips plucked at the smooth waistband.

“Lord, may this candle which I light illuminate all my difficulties and decisions.” Silco began, waiting to feel the tension stringing through you begin to ease before he spilled another dollop of wax, and then a second and third a bit further up each time. The soft sting of it had you writhing, the little shock of burning heat fading to a warm tickle as the wax rolled down in heavy drips, cooling against your skin.

Behind you, Silco’s breath caught in a little huff once more, a soft whistle between clenched chipped teeth on the inhale.

“May this candle be a fire,” He continued after a beat, spreading the warm little shocks and sudden pinching stings to the tender inner thigh of your other leg, “that burns away all my pride, selfishness…”

Writhing and shifting, you struggled in his lap, not wanting to escape yet fighting the way every fibre of you recoiled from the spattering searing sting of the wax in a reflexive, uncontrollable urge. Several of these squirming jerks of your hips and the hand teasing at the edge of your panties caught suddenly in a taut cup between your legs as you felt Silco’s own hips give a hard little shove upward.

Stilling breathlessly, he kept you waiting a long moment while he seemed to struggle to master himself, the fingers cupping you picking up an almost absent little up and down stroke over the satin covering the shape of your sex, unerringly finding the cleft between lips.

Cooling wax flexed and tugged at skin as you tried to spread a bit further for him, to press into his touch, scared if you were to beg for more with words that it might stop the tease entirely, as it had the last time he’d had his hand between your thighs. God, how he’d tormented you, brought you so terribly close… Hips rolled hard and slow against him in retaliation as you relived your humiliation.

As if reading your mind, his touch skimmed higher, and fingertips tucked themselves beneath the satin confines of the upper edge of panties, teasing little strokes at skin that tensed and trembled beneath his touch before they began to slip lower, “and all my other sins.”

Wax was flowing freely, dripping to punctuate each word, taking his sweet time as you wriggled and bucked in his lap, swallowing little gasps and hisses as your skin sang.

At least one shift of your hips must have caught him just right because for a moment you could hear him choke on his words, feel him tense beneath you again. Determined to give as good as you got you did it again and felt the rush of his breath fan against your neck.

His free hand tensed where it lay, fingertips so tremulously close to the cleft of lips, and delved to catch a second taut grip over the shape of your bare sex. The sudden hard grasp of naked contact had you spiraling, arching hard back against him. He was hard beneath you, you could feel it, and caught between his hand and that hint of hardness digging into the soft of your bottom you rocked slowly, only to be rewarded with a long pour of hot wax up your thigh that turned the gentle motion of hips to a wild little ride.

“May this candle be a flame,” He continued, and the broken rasp of his voice was nearly, nearly as sweet as the single slow caress of his finger that found the slick part of your folds and pressed between slippery skin to drag upward. Unerringly found the proud, eager little swell of your clit and sent your lower back into a hard strung arch with one little nudge, “that warms my heart and incites me to love.” He concluded, raggedly, and you swore you felt the graze of chipped teeth scrape over your shoulder.

Riding the light touch of his fingertip and behind you, the hard press of his cock through his pants and your open dress, you sprawled redolently back against him, let your neck find a home in a comfortable arch over his shoulder before turning your head, nestling forehead in the hollow of his throat before shifting to tuck a begging little kiss to the sharp of his jaw.

“Amen.” You finished for him, and felt the sting of wax hit your hip and then your stomach that made you hiss and buck hips once more. Your reward a groan of breath from him and another lingering stroke of his fingertips through soaked folds to flick caressingly at the sweet throbbing ache of your clit.

How long, how many bitter nights now had you wished for this, how many feverish and filthy dreams had you endured, just longing to feel his bare touch? It had become so much worse after your last meeting, all that sharp longing redoubled after his heartless punishing teasing.

No more, no more thin cotton or sheer lace or anything at all between his touch and you. The heat of his hand was nothing to the splashes of searing wax you’d endured, yet it was so much sweeter. That little flicking touch came ghosting over the sensitive little nub of your clit and you writhed unashamedly, trying every which way to force his touch more, closer, deeper.

The prayer was far too short for your liking. What good were hollow words meant to convey something as strong and fervent an ideal as devotion if they were over in mere minutes? Grumbling a little whinging protest you pushed back against him with a hard roll of hips.

“Father…” You objected, voice cracked with pleading.

“Who?” The grit dark velvet of his voice asked at your ear, delighted and tormented as the devil himself.

“Daddy.” The word was out before you could even think it, like it teetered perpetually on the edge of your teeth ever since the first time he prised it out of you, “P-please, please, daddy…”

The sharp blade of his nose shoved hard behind your ear, his ragged breathing a hushed tickling whuffle from narrow nostrils, and any further pleading you were on the verge of was stifled with a squealed little gasp as he spread the sodden petals of your pussy with the splay of three fingers, and the center one of those long, elegant digits found its way down between slicking folds, delving deep into the welcoming clenching grip of your want… only to withdraw his entire hand in a long, slow drag, tracing a line of accusatory wet all the way up to the dip of your navel.

It left you sobbing tearlessly, gasping and gulping and lifting hips in a wordless eagerness that only earned you another splattering of scalding wax across the strain of thighs.

Father Silco ignored your plight as steadfastly as any man of the cloth could ignore temptation, and began a new prayer.

“Earnestly I seek you;

I thirst for you,

my whole being longs for you,

in a dry and parched land

where there is no water.”

The psalm he recited washed over you like a slow caress while you squirmed fitfully on his lap and watched his hand lift, middle finger glossed to its base with your wet. Vanishing in your periphery, the sound of him sucking that long digit thoughtfully clean acted perfect punctuation to the sacrilege of his misappropriated prayer.

Guilt spiced the edge of half-denied pleasure and soft pain. As his hand slid back down your skin and toward the clenching, shivering yearning of your core, you’d never felt so debased, so deeply wicked and wrong. Burning wax hit your thigh once more in heavy, rolling drops and you arched, straining, hissing between clenched teeth; become more serpent in the garden of Eden than Eve.

“I have seen you in the sanctuary

and beheld your power and your glory.

Because your love is better than life,

my lips will glorify you.”

He teased the upper edge of soaked panties once more, tracing the pucker of their hem, slipping fingertips just beneath them, savoring the softness of skin and the way the taut of your stomach quivered beneath his touch. Desire welled like a dark stone filling your throat, heart coated in the sticky sap of filthy blasphemous sin as his scarred mouth tickled at the hook of your jaw and tender line of your throat. This was wrong, so wrong, so deliciously perfectly throbbingly wrong.

Heat flooded your face as you crushed the press of prayer folded hands to your forehead, eyes shut tight against the rushing high of mortifying lust. Forbidden, taboo, illicit; whatever you wanted to call that gut-deep and undisputed knowledge that this was unforgivably wrong, it excited you in a way nothing else ever had.

He could see it in you, you knew he could. He saw how horrible your deepest darkest thoughts could be and he just kept dragging them out into the light, smiling as he let you dirty yourself with the honesty of your predilections.

The line of his arm tightened against your side as he reached to slip fingers back into your heat, another lazy circling tease to against clit that left you wrung out and breathless before he delved back inside of you and let you ride the slow pumping slide of one long finger.

“I will praise you as long as I live,

and in your name I will lift up my hands.

I will be fully satisfied as with the richest of foods;

with singing lips my mouth will praise you.”

Your head rocked as he butted his forehead gently to your temple, words a warm, seeping whisper at your cheek, that stern, gravel worn seduction of his voice undoing you, taking you apart at the seams until you felt sure you’d fall open there in his lap like a ragdoll with the sin-like sawdust spilled out.

Inside of you, he was inside of you- and just that knowledge, just the wretchedly wonderful wrongness of it made the whole of you jerk in a taut little shiver of surrender. That slender artful finger kept up its torment like he had no notion of your mortal struggle; curling, thrusting, buried deep. It had you in a tailspin, hips working devoid of conscious thought, all sensation dialed down to the hard, hot, fluttering building to a crescendo within. Greed, gluttony, lust… were they called deadly sins because you felt fit to die if you did not satisfy each one right this moment?

The stinging pain of the wax he kept dripping in erratic little patterns jerked you from the sinking, seeping pit of ecstatic bliss over and over again, a cruel and wonderful see-saw that kept you gripping white-knuckled on the sharp edge of insensible pleasure.

“On my bed I remember you;

I think of you through the watches of the night.

Because you are my help,

I sing in the shadow of your wings.

I cling to you;

your right hand upholds me.”

His right hand was all that stood between you and heaven; the grinding press of the heel of his palm to the throb of your clit, the smooth slow fucking his single finger was giving you, all of it an overwhelming agony of delight but just shy of what you needed to crest the rising wave of tense bliss he was intent on drowning you with.

Head tossed back, you groaned that little, broken, sordid version of his holy title once more, hands bound at the wrists with your rosary clenched in fervent prayer to your chest that he’d let you come, please God just let you come...

And with that one word, beneath you Father Silco went suddenly still and rigid, something like a strangled gasp caught in his throat as hips pinned under your writhing ones jerked their own stilted thrust upward… and held for a long and breathless moment before you felt him sag with a rushing, panting release. His hand cupped to you had gone quite still, and you could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest against your back.

Had he… had he just…? You shifted hips experimentally and heard him hiss a wordless scolding as his hand gripped the shape of your pussy hard. Stilling obediently, you had to struggle not to smile sinful bliss.

Just a little touch of you combined with the friction of your hips working in his lap and he’d cum those dark, well tailored pants of his.

In spite of being robbed of your own relief, for the moment you felt nothing but powerful, smug and heady with the evidence of how your infatuation was not one-sided, just as you had in the confessional, and it made you foolishly proud.

Proud, right up to the point when he withdrew his finger from within you and in the space of a half second, just before your mouth could open in complaint, caught a little pinch of your clit between thumb and middle finger only to assault that overstimulated cluster of slick nerves with his forefinger in such lashing that you pitched clean into the waiting arms of your release.

It was hard and fast, unmerciful, the lovely strain nearly ruined by how long he’d kept you waiting and how hard he’d teased you up to it.

“Amen.” He was purring in your ear, voice near drowned out by the hard thrumming pound of blood rushing in your brain. Thighs shivered in their hook over top of his own, gone weak as every ounce of tension bled out of you, leaving you lolling, warmly pliant and sighing devoutness far more fervent than any stale saint could have possibly understood.

There was a little click of glass as he set the remains of the candle back upon his desk and turned your face toward himself where your head lay back upon his shoulder. Fingers traced the curve of your cheek, and when he licked at the open part of your lips the faint taste of yourself mingled with him lingered. Bless me father, for I have sinned.

Profane and perfect, you felt his smile stretch against your mouth.

“Do you doubt my devotion, lamb?” He asked quietly, hands smoothing away the cooled and peeling wax in long strokes that left gently welted and red splotched skin stinging sweetly.

Your head shook infinitesimally, not wanting to break the scant contact of his mouth to your own.

“Do you pray for me, Father?” The urge to know felt crushing, the weight of guilt creeping in to gnaw at the edges of sordid bliss.

“Oh lamb. You’re the only thing I pray for anymore.”

#penance #silco #father silco #priest silco #silco au #arcane au #silco x reader #silco arcane x reader #no y/n #more penance at last! rejoice!#my birthday gift to you

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delulustateofmind · 1 month ago

Text

Office Romance

Switching careers? Meeting your soul mate? What could go wrong...

Nanami x Reader

TW: Angst, all hurt no comfort, implied death, implied sexual acts. MDNI

WC: around 2k

A/n: Probably not my best but the idea would not leave my noggin until I wrote it down!

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

Living in the moment—something everyone seems to overlook. Life pulls people in a hundred directions: work, promotions, money, the latest trends. All distractions that keep them from holding onto what really matters. Moments disappear like whispers in the wind, fading to memory before they’re even recognized.

Nanami knew he’d taken things for granted too, and now, in the silence, he couldn’t escape the regret. He wished he had savored every moment with you, held onto them just a bit longer, cherished each second instead of letting it slip away.

His first corporate job was where he met you. Just a quiet HR assistant handling his onboarding. Yet, he’d never forget the way you looked up at him with a smile, even though it was just paperwork. You were the opposite of him in every way—a gentle chaos of mismatched socks, sitting at a desk cluttered with half-finished drinks, each one sipped in an odd rotation. But it was that very chaos, that warmth, that caught him off guard. He was a man who clung to order, but you—well, you were a living, breathing exception.

��So, I need you to sign here… and here,” you said, pointing out each line with a bright pink highlighter, the pen somehow ending up tucked behind your ear as you smiled up at him. He could still remember that look, that smile.

From that moment, he found himself glancing your way. It was like trying to drink in sunlight—quietly, carefully, as if he’d disturb the moment by looking too closely. He didn’t understand it at first, why he felt lighter in your presence, why your laugh seemed to stay with him long after he’d walked away. Eventually, when he gathered the courage to ask you for coffee, the world shifted. You became the one person he wanted beside him in all things.

Years later, the gold band on his finger as he clicked away at his keyboard. Your parents, stubborn and traditional, had insisted on marriage before you moved in together, and it hadn’t mattered to him. Nothing did if it meant being with you. You’d filled his life with small, irreplaceable moments—a note tucked into his lunch bag, a silly doodle hidden in his briefcase, pranks that softened his frown even on the hardest days. He loved you more than words, more than he’d ever thought he could love someone.

The idea of going back to sorcery seemed absurd. How could he, when every day with you, was a gift?

Until that one night.

You’d been trapped at the office late, rushing to submit some project by midnight. Nanami was at home, preparing your favorite meal with meticulous care, remembering the exact wine you liked, already chilling in the fridge. He even lit a candle—an unusual move for him, but he wanted to make that night feel special. He wanted you to know, in his own quiet way, that he loved you deeply.

But as the hours slipped away and your replies went silent, an unease settled over him. He called, each ring met with an unending, empty silence. He didn’t know why, but with each unanswered ring, he felt the quiet dread building in his chest.

Dinner was getting cold.

Finally, he grabbed your portion and set out to find you. On his way out, his old blade caught his eye, tucked away in the back of the closet. The thought of needing it felt absurd, but a familiar pull told him to take it. So he wrapped it in that bright, ridiculous tie you’d gifted him, a splash of your presence to steady him.

When he arrived, the office was thick with something dark—a heaviness he knew too well. A special-grade curse, clinging to you like a suffocating shadow, born of the despair trapped within those walls. It felt unfair, seeing you wrapped in that darkness. The world had no right to touch you, to taint you, with all your brightness and warmth.

He moved swiftly, exorcising the curse with a force that felt almost personal. He couldn’t explain it, but anger boiled within him, knowing it had dared to touch you. As the room fell quiet, he dropped his blade and rushed to your side, taking you into his arms as he checked you over, his heart still pounding.

You were alive, but you were cursed. How could he let this happen? How had he let you walk so close to this world he’d thought he left behind? Guilt gnawed at him, if he remained a sorcerer before meeting you. Would you have experienced such a horrific event?

In that moment, he felt his failure acutely, like a weight in his chest. He’d tried to leave sorcery, but he couldn’t escape the truth: his world, his life, would never be free of curses. And now, you—his beautiful, pure light—were dragged into it because of him. His hands trembled, brushing over your face, his voice breaking as he whispered reassurances he wished he believed himself.

He thought of your bright colors, your laugh, the way you breathed joy into every small moment. He wanted to protect that, protect you, at all costs.

That night, as you rested, he made the call. Gojo answered with his usual lightness, unaware of the pain in Nanami’s voice. Nanami’s words were few, but his resolve was steel: he was coming back. Back to the world of sorcery—a world you were blissfully unaware of. He’d protect you, even if it meant walking back into the shadows he’d long left behind.

You would never know, and he’d keep it that way. He’d shoulder that burden alone, carry it quietly, because that’s what he did. That’s who he was—a man bound by duty, by loyalty, by love. And for you, he’d bear it all.

The curse seemed to spare the small routines of your life together. On the good days, you’d still wake him with those gentle, peppered kisses, soft giggles slipping from your lips as he stirred, half-awake, only to pull you close. His arm would wrap around you, pressing you to the warmth of his chest, his voice a murmur as he whispered, “I love you,” and “let’s just stay in bed all weekend.” You’d laugh, lips brushing his, and he’d let his hands roam under the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from him, fingers gliding along your skin as he tickled you, his own low laughter rumbling in his chest.

Those were the good days. But Nanami held onto them like a lifeline, knowing they were slipping through his grasp, one by one.

Because then came the bad days.

Those days, you’d look at him as though he were a stranger. His name would sit, unspoken, on the tip of your tongue, a word you couldn’t quite remember. Fear filled your gaze instead of love, and Nanami could feel his own heart twisting every time you stared at him with those empty, lost eyes.

“My love… it’s me,” he’d whisper, voice soft, steadying his breath as he sat across from you. His hands would remain open, unmoving, as though reaching for you might break you.

One minute would pass.

Then two.

Sometimes it would stretch to five, to ten, an endless moment of silence where he waited, hoping, watching as the confusion on your face softened, piecing back together with every flicker of memory.

But there were days when the minutes became hours, when the recognition wouldn’t return. And all he could do was sit by you, helpless, a stranger to the one person he loved most in the world.

And then, just when the ache threatened to break him, the recognition would dawn in your eyes, and you’d choke on a sob, collapsing against him with apologies that tore him apart.

“Kento, I’m so sorry,” you’d cry, fingers gripping his shirt, clutching him as if he were the only thing keeping you afloat. “I don't understand..”

“Shh, it’s okay,” he’d murmur, his voice breaking as he cradled you, hands running through your hair, his arms a refuge even as his heart splintered. The pain in your voice was like salt in a wound he’d grown used to bearing in silence.

But each time, a piece of him chipped away, watching you vanish only to return in his arms, wrapped in guilt he could never take from you. He’d brush away your tears, over and over, whispering that it wasn’t your fault, that he loved you, that he’d stay right here, no matter how many times he had to remind you.

Yet, each time he held you, the weight of the curse bore down on him—because he was losing you piece by piece, watching you slip away, powerless to stop it. And the cruelest part was that you were losing him too, a little more each day, left to feel the devastation of forgetting the person who meant everything to you.

Memories like your wedding night, your first kiss, all slipping through your fingers…

Every night, as you lay asleep in his arms, Nanami would stay awake, eyes fixed on the ceiling, clutching you close as if he could hold onto both of you long enough to erase the curse’s hold. How much longer until you never recognized him again?

Nanami refused overtime, turned down late-night missions, rejected anything that would take him away from your side. The risk was too great. He couldn’t leave you by yourself—not with the curse eating away at your memory of him. Every night, he made sure to be there beside you, fearing that if he didn’t go to bed with you, you might wake up the next morning and look at him with those vacant, unrecognizing eyes.

But then came the call on Halloween night, a horrible night when curses stirred, restless in the chaos of Shibuya. He knew he shouldn’t go. Knew that leaving could cost him everything. But the choice was stolen from him, the urgency pulling at him. Just one mission, he promised himself. Just one last mission.

As he laced his fingers through yours, his grip firm and steady, he whispered, “I’ll be back before our flight in the morning. We need a good trip… the cabin’s ready for us.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering a moment as though memorizing the warmth of your skin, and then he was gone.

The next morning, you stood at the airport, a slight feeling of dread tugging at you as you clutched your boarding pass. The plane was waiting, but… something felt wrong. You looked over your shoulder, scanning the crowd. The feeling gnawed at you like a faint ache. Was there something you’d forgotten? Or… someone?

You waited by the gate, shifting your weight, glancing down the hallway as if expecting someone to appear, but no one came. Eventually, the call to board echoed through the terminal, and you took a deep breath, shaking off the strange sense of loss. Whatever it was, you reasoned, you’d remember it soon enough. If it was important, it would find its way back to you.

Settling into your seat, you reached into your purse to tuck your boarding pass and passport away. As you did, a small metallic clink sounded, and a wedding band tumbled from your bag. It glimmered under the cabin lights, but you didn’t notice. Your mind was already drifting, drawn to the thought of the books waiting in the cabin, the quiet of the Malaysian beaches.

The ring lay there on the floor, unnoticed, as you closed your eyes, drifting off with a gentle sigh, unaware of the love you’d left behind in Tokyo.

As you drifted to sleep, you dreamt of that beautiful blonde haired man who always appeared in your dreams. You hoped that you'd get to meet him one day.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x reader angst #nanami x you #kento x reader #kento x you

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underdark-dreams · 1 year ago

Text

Rolan x Fem!Tav Unnamed: Hurt/Comfort.

Grateful thanks to @obibail for letting me take inspiration from their headcanons for our beloved Tief sibs. (read them here---they are excellent!)

In Corpore Sano

"Where does it hurt?" Rolan accepts her offer to mend his broken self. To his reluctant surprise, she is tending to more than his flesh.

Tags: Fem Unnamed Tav, Hurt/Comfort, Injury

Word Count: 2,213 [Read on AO3]

"Welcome to the infirmary!"

Rolan’s favorite cleric stood at the entrance to her tent, holding the flap open for him with a smile. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the campfire. Cal and Lia were still sitting deep in conversation with the loud friendly one—Karlach, he seemed to recall.

Yet again, Rolan wondered whether he made the right choice accepting her invitation tonight. She had posed it as a social event to reunite his family and her motley group of companions—a credit to her discretion, one that he appreciated. She and Rolan both knew the true reason.

One bright morning last week, she had walked into the Sundries with her companions in tow. He droned the usual greeting before catching sight of who it was. She was intelligent; one look at his face and a short conversation were all it took for her to piece things together.

She'd respected his pride, however, not asking any prying questions in front of her friends. Only after she descended the stairs from a meeting with his master did she pull him aside privately.

Rolan knew from personal experience that she was a gifted healer, but she could be very convincing as well. She phrased it as if he'd be doing her the favor: as if she'd be so grateful if he just agreed to let her help him. Her eyes swayed his resolve.

Perhaps it was his reluctant happiness at seeing her again and the chance to spend even more time with her. Or perhaps it was the lingering ache in his ribs that made it painful to breathe let alone incant. Rolan gave in.

And now he was here, and whether or not he might wish he could, it was too late to back out now. Rolan ducked under her waiting arm.

Inside, his nose was hit with the smell of fresh herbs and candle tallow. She’d packed her bedroll away in the corner; instead, a couple threadbare cushions lay in the center of the space. An abundance of candles burned here and there, shedding enough light for her to work no doubt.

"Have a seat," she invited, fastening the tent flap securely behind them.

Rolan did so, sitting cross-legged on one of the waiting pillows. He tucked his tail in carefully, mindful of all the hot candle wax surrounding him.

She kneeled down opposite with a little "right." He pushed away the knowledge that she would be laying hands on him in a moment.

"Where does it hurt?" She began.

"Where doesn't it," Rolan grumbled. He'd instantly made himself sound pathetic—excellent start.

Her eyes flashed with something, but she moved on. "Let's start at the top," she suggested.

She pushed up her sleeves and pressed palms together to concentrate her magic; a pale light glowed between them. Then she reached out to place them on the top of his head.

The gentle pressure on his scalp was pleasant in a way he didn't expect. He felt her magic reaching out through him, searching steadily for any signs of injury, soft as a bird's wing. He ducked his head to let her reach past his horns more comfortably.

"So, want to tell me why you're doing this to yourself?"

From this angle he couldn't scowl at her the way he wished to. "Jumping right in, are you?" A scabbed wound under his hair closed up as he spoke.

"I just don't understand why you're putting yourself through this," she said calmly. "You always seemed smart to me."

"It's hardly any of your damn business." Rolan's hackles rose in defense. He thought he'd have longer to prepare before her inevitable meddling.

"I disagree, actually." Her fingers searched lightly through the rest of his hair. "You're my patient now."

Though she made a fair point, and he already felt her touch soothing away the aches and pains, Rolan wasn't about to entertain this conversation to any lengths. "You wouldn't know the first thing about what an apprenticeship with an archwizard is supposed to be."

"Maybe," she admitted, and guided his head back up to continue the exam; her expression was impassive. "I certainly don't understand how this helps you study the Weave."

"You don't just study the—" He momentarily lost focus as her fingers felt along his pointed ears. "It's about attuning each of your senses with the Weave, learning how to channel it with your whole self each time you cast the simplest spell. Master Lorroakan is teaching me how to set aside distractions of the body." He would probably earn a losing mark on that subject at the moment.

"Doesn't the pain make it harder, though?" She asked. Her focus had moved to his face, which he knew was in a pathetic state.

"At times," Rolan said, begrudging. "But that only proves I can focus harder."

They were both silent for a while, and he was relieved to feel the subject finally drop. Outside the walls of her tent a chorus of nocturnal insects and the muffled conversations near the fire were the only sounds filling the air.

He sneaked a glance at her face as she hovered close, concentrating on a deep bruise over his temple and cheekbone. He knew she'd healed the spot once the dull headache lifted from him. It had been there so long he forgot how light his head could feel without it, and he sighed to release a knot of tension curled up in his chest.

"I never noticed you had so many freckles," she said suddenly, her lips curving up in a smile. "They're cute."

Rolan had no clue how to respond to that; no one had ever described him in such terms before.

"Other children used to tease me," he said, the admission surprising even himself. When was the last time he thought about those days? Why bring up the miserable past now, with her of all people.

She met his eye with curiosity. “In Elturel, right? That’s where you and Cal and Lia grew up?”

As her hands continued to ease the bruised flesh on his cheek and jawline, he decided she deserved a simplified version of the truth, at least.

“Where we met. They’re brother and sister, but we’re not blood kin.” Rolan closed his eyes to focus on the soothing ease that spread outwards from every spot she touched. Not seeing her face also made the talking easier.

“We were orphans. We met each other in one of the city’s worse homes." Behind his eyelids, snatches of those days floated back to him. Dark, crowded rooms. Gnawing hunger in his gut. Always someone crying. Rolan steered his mind past them like always.

"After a while they just wouldn’t leave me to my damn self. They were young and hungry. And I was old enough to work, and I didn’t have anything else keeping me from—” He stopped, redirected himself. “They needed me to protect them from some of the world. I told myself I took them in, but in truth, they adopted me.”

She had paused her work as she listened. "No wonder they love you so much."

"They're a couple of damn idiots," he said, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with frustration just at the thought. "But they're my responsibility."

His eyes were still closed, but he could hear a soft note in her voice. "I'm sorry that little Rolan went through all that. But I appreciate that you told me…it means something to know."

Something soft grazed Rolan's forehead, and he realized with a jolt that she had kissed him. His eyes flew open.

"Sorry," she said, looking just as shocked by her own actions as he felt. "It's—an old human folk remedy. Forget it.”

There was not a gods damned chance of that, but she was already leaning back on her knees to a professional distance. "Did I get everything? Any other spots?" She asked.

As his heart drummed against his ribs, the wound there twinged in reminder. The idea somehow felt far more personal than her hands on his face. Then there was the embarrassing thought of having to disrobe in front of her. Could she heal him through his clothes? Healing magic was not Rolan's area of expertise; he couldn't be sure.

She was a battle cleric, he reminded himself, she certainly wouldn't be affected by his bare torso. Not the way he would, anyway. To her he was just another poor stray in need of her kindness.

"Here," he said, indicating the spot. "Feels like a cracked rib."

Her brow furrowed. "Show me?"

Rolan undid the clasps of his robe, just enough to gingerly work it over his shoulder, clenching his teeth as he freed his one arm. The motion hurt like hell.

She leaned close to inspect him in the candle light. He felt the same searching warmth of her magic around the spot. Whatever she discovered, her face was somber as she drew up to meet his eyes.

"I don't care if he's the archwizard of Baldur's Gate," she said. "Find someone else to teach you. Please. Anyone."

Her face was almost enough to make him ashamed of defending his choices. Almost. "If you're going to bring this up again—"

"You've been hit here other times, haven't you?" She pressed. "Recently."

Rolan set his jaw. "He's got a temper."

"Rolan, I am begging you." She truly was, hands clasped toward him, her eyes large. "Don't go back to that tower tomorrow. What if next time—what if he—" There was no need for her to finish.

Rolan stared her down with every shred of his stubborn certainty. "Whether he knows it yet or not, Lorroakan of Ramazith is going to make me the most powerful wizard in Faerûn," he told her. Told himself. "I've known it's where I belonged ever since I was that little nothing on the streets of Elturel. And if this is the price it costs, then I'll fucking pay it."

He hadn't convinced her, would never convince her, he saw that in her face. As he watched, her eyes welled with liquid that spilled out, one droplet rolling a path down her cheek. Rolan had never felt more fucking monstrous.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry," he repeated dumbly, grand ideals gone from his head for the moment. Whatever it took to stop her tears. Her palm wiped the wetness away as she looked down at him.

"You're always sorry for the wrong person," she sniffed. "I can fix you. You're the one who's going to keep getting broken."

She was crying for him, and he couldn't remember the last time anyone did that. Before he could find what to say, she gave herself a little shake back to herself and bent wordlessly to tend to his side.

Rolan sat quiet in his guilt as she worked on him. Before long a prickling sensation of warmth spread out along his ribcage, as if his sinews were stitching themselves back together under his skin.

"Your collar bone was broken as well, wasn't it?" She was bent in such a way that Rolan couldn't see her expression, but her tone was almost back to normal. Cautious relief filled his chest.

She went on. "It's healed, but the bones are set wrong. Does it hurt to raise your arm?" Without waiting for his assent, she straightened up to start gathering the magical energy between her hands again. "I can fix that too, but it'll take a while."

"Thank you," he finally said, far later in the evening than he should have.

She gave him a little smile. "You're welcome. Now, hold still."

Her face leaned very close beside his while she worked. A short pang of discomfort in his shoulder was followed by the same sensation of his viscera being mended from the inside out. Her fingertips brushed his skin as she guided small bursts of magic through him.

Rolan examined her features in the moment, bathed as they were in the pale light of her own spell. There was a tenacity to her that he found irritating and endearing in equal measure.

A strange spirit possessed him, and he brought his hands up to rest them on her hips as she worked. Her fingers paused almost imperceptibly on his skin, but she didn't look at him.

"There." She pulled away slightly, though not out of reach of his grasp.

Rolan flexed his shoulder forward and back, testing the range of motion. "Damn that feels good," he said appreciatively.

"I'm glad," she said with a smile. "Is there anything else?"

The question hung in the air between them. Rolan's hands still held her as he tried to decide how best to proceed.

"Would you mind if we stayed here for a while?" He asked boldly.

She cocked her head at him. "That depends. Are you planning to be nice?"

He was, he very much was. Rolan drew her a little closer to him in answer. Cal and Lia would interrogate him endlessly at the soonest chance, he just knew it, but he'd deal with them later.

Her forearms rested on his shoulders, drawing him nearer to her through the candle light. "Come here, then."

And he did, and he did.

#rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #rolan bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

Note

*Ghost A appears*

Ghost A:Wazzupp! You must be the new temporary student I was hearing about! My pal, Prefect wanted to gift you this since you staying here for a short amount of time. Hope you like em'! *gives Rollo a plastic covered basket of goods with orange and red decorations around it, with a tag that reads 'For Rollo, from Prefect =)'*

He’s so mad and friendless :((

Like Fire, Hellfire.

He startled slightly at the ghost's appearance, taking a tentative step back from the spot it occupied. Not that it would have mattered--there was no corporeal form to them. The ghost was a staunch thing, face round and nose bulbous... and, most importantly, far too friendly for Rollo's liking.

"The temporary student... Yes, I suppose that would be me," he stated evenly, careful to not let his contempt slip through his facade.

"Hey, I got the right guy on my first try! What are the odds, huh?"

"Pretty good, considering that I'm the only person wandering about campus in a completely different uniform than the others," Rollo grumbled under his breath.

"Prefect didn't tell me you had a killer sense of humor on top of the fancy-lookin' clothes!" Ghost A laughed heartily, setting a hefty covered wicker basket into Rollo's arms. "Here ya go! Knock yourself out!"

He summoned a tight smile. "You have my thanks. Please send them my regards as well."

"Will do, kid!" The ghost gave a salute. He then slowly vanished into thin air, becoming one with the whipping autumn winds. "Hasta la vista...!"

Rollo tensed, opting to wait a full 5 minutes to ensure the pesky presence was gone before he pulled back the cloth covering his basket and inspected what was hidden underneath. Various items were shoved inside: a candle, stationary supplies, a few meal coupons, a sleeping mask... The Prefect had even taken care to dress the basket up with shredded tissue paper in warm colors, little plastic flowers in the same shades sticking out.

For Rollo, from Prefect =), read a little tag attached to the welcoming gift. Enjoy your stay at Night Raven College!

Rollo sneered at the sentiment. Enjoy himself? Here? At a school teeming with scoundrels and sinners? Surely they had to be making a joke in poor taste.

But then why go to the trouble of preparing this...?

A worrying thought gathered in the back of his mind. Something vaguely warm and fuzzy, a similar high that many mages chased. Not magic, but the warmth of an outstretched hand.

Companionship, connection.

His stomach lurched, sickened by the concept. He furiously batted it away with a scowl. Not them, not the mage sympathizer.

They were a fool to offer an olive branch, to attempt to make friends with him. As though we could ever see eye-to-eye.

Rollo could picture it now: their silly face contorted in a lazy grin, calling out to him from afar. Eyes gleaming so brightly. Waving as they drew near. Closer and closer, to clasp his hand in theirs.

"Let's be friends, Rollo!" they'd say insistently.

He found himself frowning--or rather, trying to.

“… How troublesome.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #Rollo Flamme #twisted wonderland interactions #twst interactions #Ramshackle Ghosts #Reader #self insert #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk

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marvelmusing · 2 years ago

Text

A Marriage of Sins

Pairing: Forest Demon!Billy x Demon Hunter!Fem!Reader

Summary: When you hear of a demon living in an abandoned church in the woods, you know you need to investigate. But how could you know that the demon was just your soulmate waiting to marry you?

Warnings [18+]: smut, unprotected sex, dub con vibes (there’s no explicit consent given, but they’re soulmates so the reader gives in pretty easily), bondage, religious imagery, spitting, wife kink, praise kink, tiny bit of spanking.

A/N: not extensively proofread so sorry if there’s some mistakes.

My Masterlist

The church was abandoned.

That’s what the nearby villagers had told you. But as you push your shoulder against the dark oak door, light spills out towards you. The candles are lit and there’s a pleasant warmth that spreads through your body, urging you to step further inside.

Despite the vines crawling in through the cracks in the walls and the roots that are beginning to crush some of the pews, the church looks untouched by the world outside.

But there’s a reason why you’re here.

For a demon to inhabit such a sacred place, they must be incredibly powerful.

As you walk down the aisle, there’s a snap of broken glass being crushed beneath someone’s heel. When you turn, knife already in your hand, there’s no one there.

Continuing to venture further into the church, you stop at the altar, examining the contents laid out on the stone table there.

An ornate dagger, a small wooden bowl, two pieces of ribbon - one black, one white - both made of velvet. It looks like some sort of ritual is being prepared.

On a worn piece of paper, an incantation has been written in Latin and you almost make the mistake of reading it aloud. It’s then that you hear a soft chuckle, carried on a light breeze.

Heart pounding, you spin around.

The demon is tall, even as you stand on the slightly raised dais, he towers over you, his shadow creeping towards you as he steps closer.

His dark facial hair is trimmed neatly, his equally dark hair slicked back to reveal the deep brown horns sitting on the top of his head. Darkened eyes eyes roam over your figure as he continues to move towards you.

He raises a brow at the sight of your knife, then he smirks, his tongue tracing over his teeth as he tilts his head at you.

“An unconventional wedding gift, but thank you.”

“Wedding?”

He hums, his brows creasing lightly as he looks you up and down appraisingly. You don’t know why you’re standing still, waiting for his response instead of immediately sending him back to hell.

“What colour’s your underwear?” he asks.

You gape at him.

“What?”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he observes your shocked expression.

“You heard me.”

“That’s none of your business,” you protest.

He nods.

“You see, the prophecy said my wife would be clothed in white.”

Once again, he looks down at you and you follow his gaze. You’re wearing your usual hunting gear, khaki jacket with a black top and trousers, accompanied by your black boots and collection of knives tucked away in various compartments.

“And whilst I really want those fuckers down below to be wrong.” He steps closer, close enough that you could reach out and touch him. “I kinda hope you’re wearing something pretty underneath all that.”

Heart beating wildly in your chest, you attempt to slow down your thoughts. How does he know about your prophecy? You had sworn the seer to secrecy, she had vowed to tell no one about your soulmate - a demon of three sins.

Raising your chin confidently, you attempt to stare him down as you claim,

“You’ll never find out.”

He grins.

Goosebumps spread over your skin and your instincts finally kick in.

His fingers curl tightly around your wrist, the tip of your knife inches from his chest. He cocks his head aside, looking down at you with a smirk.

“This the first time you’ve fought a corporeal demon?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you growl in frustration as you push harder against his grip with both arms.

“No.”

He breathes out a laugh, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as he pushes you backwards. His other hand curls under your elbow, giving him the leverage to hoist you up onto the altar.

Struggling against him, you continue to push the knife towards him with little success. He looks almost disappointed at your feeble attempt.

“I think you’ve forgotten something, demon,” you hiss at him. He raises a brow at you with a bored expression.

“Enlighten me then.”

“You’re in the mortal world, and this is my domain. I have the upper hand here.” You let go of the knife with one hand, calling out the words, “Flamma in manibus.”

Instantly, the flames from the candles dissipate, flooding quickly to gather in the palm of your hand. When he sees the fire blooming in front of him the demon lets go of you, disappearing into thin air.

Stunned, you stare at the empty church for a moment before you push away from the altar, taking a few tentative steps forward. Surely a little fire hadn’t scared such a powerful demon?

Then arms wrap tightly around your body, pulling you back against a firm chest. The flames in your hand extinguish as your arms are pinned down by his hold on you.

“Looking for something?” he purrs against your ear. As his nose traces over the shell of your ear you shiver, his lips hovering above the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “I gotta admit, you’re a smart one.”

As you attempt to tug away from him, his scent fills your senses. Is this demon wearing cologne? With every breath you take, more of his scent sends a burning down your throat that urges you to press your face into the crook of his neck and breathe it in directly from the source.

He smirks.

“You starting to feel it now?” You frown at him. “I’m impressed little bride, most people would be throwing themselves at me by now.”

Blinking in confusion, you turn and meet his dark eyes. When your eyes lock, you can feel the blood flooding down your body, warming your most intimate parts and stealing your ability to think clearly.

“You’re a lust demon.”

He nods with a wicked grin.

“Among other things.” At the sight of confusion filling your eyes he shrugs lightly before he admits, “I have my moments of wrath.”

A shiver runs down your spine. Most demons specialise in only one of the seven sins.

Typically you could sense it as soon as you interacted with them. But with this demon it appeared that physical contact was the only way for you to know what he’s capable of.

The pull towards him is indescribable.

Lust tugs at your body, urging you to turn around in his arms and let him kiss you. His perfect lips would feel divine on your body, his tongue tracing over your skin and his teeth leaving delightfully painful marks in their wake.

Wrath simmers under his skin, you can see the violence hidden in his dark eyes and the firm hold of his hands as his fingers tighten on your body. There’s a beauty in it, the darkness that lurks inside him, and you wonder what it would take to bring it out to play.

Underneath the pull of those two sins, there’s something else. A deep gnawing that settles in your own stomach, a wanting that hurts. The need to be the best, to have everything that you’ve ever wanted. Greed.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he hears you gasp in realisation. A demon of three sins.

“No one ever gets that far,” he muses quietly. “They just see me as a lustful temptation or a devil on their shoulder urging them to act on their darkest thoughts.”

A cool breeze ghosts over your bare stomach, making you notice that he had slowly unbuttoned your shirt. He slides his hand over your stomach, reaching up to cup your breast.

“They don’t see that greed is what really fuels me. The sex and the violence are just means to an end, so I can get whatever it is I want.”

His thumb circles over your nipple that hardens underneath the thin fabric of your bra as he continues,

“Now you’re a stubborn one, I can tell.”

The demon traces his other hand over the waistband of your trousers, tugging occasionally at the material. He clicks his tongue when the fabric doesn’t move to his liking.

“Are you going to tell me what you want?” he asks you. He dips his hand under the waistband of your trousers, running his fingers over your pantie-clad mound.

Sparks of pleasure flood through your wobbling legs and you shake your head at him, even as you whine desperately. He mimics your shaking head mockingly with a pout on his lips before he smiles.

“I think you want me to marry you. I think you wanna belong to me. Want to tie our souls together.”

His lips press a long line of kisses from the shell of your right down to the nape of your neck. With each brush of his lips, pleasure sinks into your body, your mind growing hazy from his words and his touch.

“I think you want me to fuck you over this altar. Make you mine. Stain your soul with my cock.”

A whimper leaves your lips as he slides your jacket and shirt down, dropping them onto the cold stone floor. His hand in your trousers still doesn’t move and a shuddering breath leaves your lips as you rock your hips forwards.

“I think you want to be my wife, hm?”

“What- what about you?”

He blinks at you in confusion, a small frown creasing at his brows at the sight of you looking so uncertain. Despite the flood of arousal and wanting you’re feeling, self consciousness stops you from giving yourself over to him.

“Do you want to be my husband?” you ask, almost shyly.

His eyes darken and in an instant his lips are meeting yours in a fierce kiss. Fingers curling over the back of your neck, he spins you around and hoists you up onto the altar.

A gasp falls from your lips at the chill of the stone surface against your bare thighs. He must have dematerialised your trousers at some point, though that fades away as he continues to kiss you.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans lowly. “Yes I wanna be your husband.”

Tugging at his dark clothing, you whine when it doesn’t budge and he chuckles. You blink once and by the time your eyes are open again his clothes are gone.

As your jaw drops at the sight of him, all lean muscle and scars, he takes the opportunity to tilt your head back, spitting onto your tongue. Shock prickles over your body as you moan wantonly. He grins as you swallow eagerly.

Stepping between your parted thighs, he reaches around your body with both hands, searching for the clasp of your bra. He finds it easily, but instead of undoing it, he rips it in half before tugging at the material and dropping it to the floor.

He dips his head down, tongue flattening over your hardened nipple before he takes it lightly between his teeth.

Arching into his mouth, you gasp and whimper as his hand provides your other breast with an equal amount of attention. The pads of his fingers are calloused and they prickle delightfully over your sensitive skin.

At first you grip onto the hard stone beneath you, but then you sink a hand into his hair which makes him groan. Encouraged by his reaction, you seize a tight fistful of his dark locks.

When your nails accidentally scratch one of his horns he growls deeply, tilting his head back to look up at you. The look in his eyes makes your whole body want to melt into a puddle, allowing him to reshape you into whatever he wants.

His lips move back up, trailing a line of harsh kisses over your throat.

“Well they were right,” he breathes against your lips before he kisses you firmly. “You were wearing white.”

Blinking, you look down at your torn white bra and the soaked white panties that are clinging to the wet lips of your cunt. He slides your panties delicately down your legs, pressing kisses to whatever part of you is closest.

His thumb circles your clit slowly and you whine loudly at the bare minimum you’re being granted. When you try to grasp his wrist as swats your hand away and his obsidian eyes flash with danger.

“Patience,” he warns you, and you can’t help but tease,

“I thought patience was a virtue?”

He growls.

Your knees land on the altar as he turns you around, your cheek pressing against the cool polished stone and you breathe in sharply as his cock presses against your sopping entrance.

He slaps your ass and you whimper, giving his restraint the final push.

He groans loudly as he pushes inside you, and your hands scramble for purchase, nails scratching against the stone as the sensation of him filling you so thoroughly overtakes your senses.

Once he’s all the way inside, he breathes out harshly, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades. He picks up the black ribbon from beside you, using it to tie your hands in front of you.

He runs his hands soothingly over your shoulders, massaging gently before he uses his weight to pin you beneath him. Then he begins to fuck you.

Hands bound, body bent into the position of his choosing, you can do nothing but accept the pleasure he’s giving you. He swipes his thumb over your clit, and you clench hard around him as the head of his cock knocks against that spot deep inside you.

As you begin to near the edge of your climax, he speeds up and soon you’re squeezing tightly around his cock as your orgasm hits you. Tension fills your muscles as you clench with a groan, the aftershocks pushing your body through a violent wave of pleasure.

He growls lowly, gritting his teeth and taking even breaths as you twitch beneath him, feeling stunned from your sudden high.

When you finally relax, your muscles loosening with pleasure, he pulls out of you. Before you can protest, he’s turning you around to lie on your back with your bound hands resting on your stomach.

Then he picks up the white ribbon.

“You think you can manage a few knots?”

You blink at him, still dazed with pleasure. Then you realise.

You’re getting married.

The black ribbon currently tied expertly around your wrists represents his soul. The ribbon that he’s holding now represents yours. A pure, delicate white.

The aftershocks of your orgasm make your shake and you struggle slightly with the ribbon as you tie his wrists together with a little slack between them. He grins, using his bound hands to position his cock against your cunt for the second time.

He’s slower this time, urging you to take him into your body with a surprising amount of intimacy. He takes your face between both of his hands and you can feel the ribbon that binds his hands together as it brushes against the back of your neck.

His forehead presses against yours, allowing the two of you to share long kisses that steal your breath away as he rocks inside you. Rolling your hips against his, you hear him inhale sharply before he’s thrusting harder.

Soon, you’re both moaning desperately into the kisses. Your bound hands smooth up his chest, taking his chin between your fingers. The scratch of his stubble prickles over your fingertips.

He groans loudly as he feels you clenching rapidly around his cock and praise spills from his lips, making your head fuzzy with warmth.

“Such a good little wife, with a gorgeous little cunt. You’re gonna let me cum in you, aren’t you? Gonna let me fill my wife up.”

“Yes,” you breathe out against his lips. Then he slams his hips down hard. “Yes,” you cry into the empty church. “Yes please.”

“Fuck,” he moans. Your nails dig into his hips, scratching lightly as you try to ground yourself. But pleasure is already sweeping its way through your body, lighting every nerve on fire.

Legs shaking constantly, you gasp against his lips as he kisses you.

“Let go, little bride. Let me marry you properly. Give me another orgasm, you feel so good when you cum.”

Squeezing your eyes shut, stars bloom over your closed eyelids as your hips jerk wildly. Then you climax hard around his cock. A long stream of moans escape from your worn throat, as your cunt spasms frantically.

With a few more thrusts, you’re dizzy with pleasure and he spills inside you. He rolls his hips as he rides out his high, only stopping when your whimpers become too loud and your hands nudge him away.

Withdrawing his hands from you, he reaches down to untie the ribbon around your wrists. He breathes out a chuckle at the dazed look in your eyes, and he guides your fingers towards the loose end of his own bindings.

Still dealing with the toll taken on your body, a few weak tugs is all you can manage, but soon enough the white ribbon falls to the floor alongside the black.

He runs his freed hands over your wrists, easing any discomfort caused with a gentle brush over his palm. A kiss is pressed against your damp forehead, before he rocks his hips forward.

Tensing suddenly, you stare at him with widened eyes. Then he pulls out slowly and a confusing mixture of relief and sadness fills you, but you don’t have the energy to analyse your reaction.

He traces his fingers through your folds, pushing his thick spend back inside you. Heart still pounding in your chest, you almost don’t hear him as he says,

“My name’s Billy by the way.”

Between shuddering breaths, you manage a small laugh before you tell him your own name. He smiles widely, licking his finger clean as he looks down at you.

Billy murmurs your name softly, attracting your attention. As he leans closer, you thread a hand through his hair, then stroke a single fingertip against one of his horns.

He shivers.

Then he reaches for you, tracing his fingers gently over your cheek.

“My beautiful little wife.”

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch

Billy Russo Tag List: @blackbirddaredevil23 @rafaelakelley @theysayitscrazy @nyx2021 @skybridgerton @dragon-of-winterfell @chickensarentcheap @stardustmorozov @sweetwritingfanficfriend @witchcraftandwit @ladyofsoa

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #demon!billy russo #billy russo x female reader #billy russo x y/n #billy russo x you #billy russo imagine #billy russo the punisher #the punisher au #billy russo smut #billy russo moodboard

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