#PFFFFFFFFFT LOVE THIS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blkkizzat · 6 months ago

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HOLYYYYYY GAAAAAWD

Suguru’s tone rubs the folds in your brain smooth.

It’s quite literally rubbing everything he can literally rub anything he wants smooth.

My actual legs were rubbing together and my breath was in my throat and my coochie literally screaming at their cliff scene together.

Also Ezra think he’s about to show our lovely merman something about the sea?? Pffffffffft!!

And the HANDMAID REFERENCESSS?!? Urghhhhh why do you embody literally everything that speaks to my heart, mind and coochie in your writing.

This was literal art. Another masterpiece tbh.

I’m literally laying in bed rn wondering how imma start work in like 10 mins when all I can think about is Father Geto destroying my walls just knocking them all down like they were the walls of Babylon.

Urgajahjskakakaa I’m not gonna be normal for a while let me just lay here

For I Have Sinned ୨୧ Chapter III

“Abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul.” 1 Peter 2:11

Priest Geto has unfaltering faith in his hands. They have traversed deadly straits. Blossomed gardens. Taken and given life.

Can he trust his hands to mold you for another man?

Pairing: Geto x Female reader

Art credit: Grartss on tumblr/insta

A/N: someone needs to peel me away from I wanna Be Yours x Artic Monkeys and the third scene. That song fits TOO perfectly to my ears. I hope this chapter edges you just as much as it did me.

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CHAPTER III: Courtside

Duchess,

Allow me to apologize. It was inappropriate to end our session so abruptly.

You have been on my mind. It will serve your marriage best for you and the Duke Ahriman to pursue individual counseling prior to pre-marital counseling.

I cannot guide you to love one another, your hearts will make that determination. But I can help unravel your layers; to allow for independent growth. Having a strong sense of self, above all, is paramount for successful matrimony.

Think on this proposal. If you both accept, we will proceed.

Warmly,

Suguru Geto

Suguru Geto.

His name tastes just as rich as it reads.

Elegant.

Too ethereal to be bound by ink and manila paper.

A name like that is meant to be said out loud. Shouted from the mountain top. Meant to be worshipped.

Praised.

“Darling? Are you decent?” Ezra calls from the other side of your heavy chamber doors.

You flicker down to your robe. Technically you aren’t. But your continued attempts to avoid your betrothed — conscious or not — remain futile.

Especially, today. Your formal introduction to court. The future Duchess Ahriman. You will be fused to Ezra’s side for hours on end. Grateful to have been bestowed the honor. An honor you will spend your life upholding.

Pro Deo et patria.

For God and Country.

“Yes, I’m decent.” Hoping whatever he needs can be addressed from behind your barrier.

“May I, my love?”

A bitter scoff glides down your throat, but your words seep sweet. “Yes of course!”

Arella, who is diligently arranging your formal attire on the golden rack, fetters over to welcome the Duke.

Instinctively, your hand tightens the silk knot as he steps into view in your mirror. Ezra’s emerald gaze is warmer than the Grecian sun. Excitement buzzing off of his boyish grin and short strides to your vanity.

The Priest’s letter finds its away into your pocket, just as strong hands land on your shoulders.

Ezra didn’t notice. And why would he? The letter isn’t illegal.

“How are you feeling?” Like plush Evergreens withstanding all seasons, Ezra peers into you and roots you in place.

He’s unwavering, your fiancé. He doesn’t yield so easily.

“Are you ready for tonight?”

“Not like I have a choice in the matter.”

Almost instantly you regret the response. The Duke offers you a pained smile and tender kiss on the crown.

A sudden gust of wind brings the bouquet of fresh Dahlias to everyone’s attention. Ezra rubs a soft petal between his fingers.

“These are outstanding, darling. Who brought them to you?”

Before a half truth drips off your tongue, Arella speaks up, taking stride toward where you sit.

“I picked them this morning. From the garden.”

She grazes over your empty, half parted mouth. Planting her own kiss on your warm canvas.

“We should get ready for the ball, yes little Dove?”

Ezra’s good natured laugh overflows. He raises both palms in feigned retreat.

“I suppose that is my queue. I’ll take my leave.” Your handsome fiance keeps his word. Shutting the heavy doors behind him.

“Arella!” Your head whips around to face your beautiful handmaiden.

She is swanlike. Coordinating the intimate pieces of your gown. Not another word on her lips but a whole diary on her face.

“Why did you lie for me?” Your hands steady her busy ones.

Arella’s voice is small enough to fit through the cracks in the walls.

“My allegiance is to you and only you, little Dove.”

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

“Under His Eye, Father.”

“Under His Eye, Rhea.”

“Blessed Be The Fruit, Father.”

Of course. The greeting used when women are trying for child, the handmaiden chose to use with him. Suguru offers a polite, but pointedly distant smile.

Since his arrival to the compound, there hasn’t been a shortage of high court handmaids and the women they tend to ‘greeting’ him in a similar way.

Well within the unspoken rules of engagement, but a message served loud and clear.

“May The Lord Open, Seren.” Suguru returns the pleasantry as scripted.

The pretty maiden smiles like a Cheshire kitten. Taking her position in line behind the clergymen. Suguru keeps his gaze ahead. Remaining neutral in the midst of hushed giggles and whispered praises.

His index finger wires beneath the formal collar. Tonight is the first of a long line of celebrations he will have to stomach.

A commemoration of a new contract between families. A new marriage of countries. A long awaited treaty as precarious as the peak of Mauna Kea.

And as the appointed Chaplain he is tasked with praying over each event. Handing out blessings to the soon-to-be-wed and those that wish them no harm.

He’s already exhausted.

The processional begins and all extraneous chatter settles to the ground. Just in time for you and the Duke to step into view. At the height of the sprawling staircase, there you stand.

Regal.

Breathtaking.

Not a single strand out of place. The rigid corset digs into the small of your waist — accenting the feminine swell of your hips. Sage satin drips off the rolls and hills of your mind-altering lines.

Curve and dip.

Your figure could render the most veteran fishermen seasick.

Then your eyes collide with his and Suguru nearly falls backward. Knocking more air out of his lungs than any sea storm ever has. Ten times more deadly than the waves he rode along Drake’s Passage.

The infamous strait holds legend amongst seamen, old and new. The lethal dance between the South Atlantic, Pacific and Southern oceans gives way to the notorious Ship’s Graveyard.

At 60 degrees south of the Equator, Suguru’s father tweaked his usual saying before he dove off their vessel.

“Below 40, there are no laws. Below 50, there is no God. Don’t go trying to find One, Son.”

Suguru strips his eyes away from you. Currently plunging well below 60 degrees south, he will drown in you if he keeps gawking up like that.

Focus, Suguru.

Lines from tonight’s production begin circulating in the Chaplain’s mind. Every moment rehearsed down to the breath. The night is already stifling. And he still has to look you in the eye and bid you a lifetime of love and prosperity with Ezra Ahriman.

He’ll have to repent for the lie tomorrow.

Patent leather dress shoes echo a path into the ballroom. Suguru and the rest of the priesthood fall behind the last line of noblemen. His stomach suddenly plummets lower than its usual residence.

Public speaking isn’t the issue.

A room full of eyes trained on his every word has never shaken his nerves.

The problem is the air around him suddenly deciding to shed its layers.

Leaving one, thin strip of sustenance left for Suguru to breathe in. While he rehearses the lies he has to spew in front of a congregation.

Half of which is so forbidden. Basking in the thrill of lusting after a “Man of God” bound by law — biblical and not — to remain pure in the face of temptation. It’s thrilling for that half of the congregation.

Then there’s the other half.

Seeing him for the foreigner that he is.

The other. A man with eyes more inclement than the worst of Heaven’s rainfall. Who bares tattoos of a past life. Acting as if that part of himself is so far lost at sea.

That half of the congregation is counting the seconds until Suguru can be properly burned at the stake. Words he reads directly from the Bible sound like lies to their ears.

Which half of the congregation do you reside in?

“Father, I have a hard copy of your speech if you want it.” Noel whispers, just a few paces away from entering the ballroom.

And Suguru is so fond of the boy. The little brother he never got to grow up with.

“I think I have a handle on it, Noel. Thank you.” The Chaplain flashes a brief smile his way before taking in the last gust of oxygen. Praying that it gets him through the dreaded speech.

Violin notes reverberate in sync with Suguru’s footsteps toward the podium. You are somewhere behind him. Probably 20 paces or so. Polite about your wave. Genuine about your smile. Convincing the masses that you are one of them.

The decades your home country spent in war with them mean nothing.

Welcome home, Duchess.

Suguru’s deft fingers wrap around the microphone.

“Welcome in.” He starts. It takes nothing for the room to come to an obedient silence. Listening intently. Taking in every word.

“Please, may the congregation rise? To give and receive blessings this evening.” Suguru prompts the room, a gentle up-flick of his wrist, raising all to their feet.

“I’d happily kneel, Father.” A muffled comment from the pretty handmaiden that made a point to greet him a few moments earlier.

Normally, Suguru wouldn’t entertain it. But something about this being his first formal engagement strips his usual restraint.

“Such a dedicated servant of the Lord, Seren.”The Chaplain glances over to the blushing crowd of women at his right.

Seren’s outburst crumbles to nothing under his pointed gaze. And a collective chuckle fills the room.

That should be enough to stifle any additional outbursts.

Here he goes.

“To the Duke Ahriman, and the Duchess-To-Be.” Suguru tilts his glass of water up at the noble pews — everyone else holding goblets of red wine.

Beauty and grace lock his eyes into place. Coaxing words out of his parched throat. He couldn’t deny you his voice if he wanted to.

“I pray the Lord brings you unwavering love,” A lie whipped sweeter than cream rolls off his tongue. Suguru’s eyes float from you to the Duke. An eager smile on his face.

But, what is the expression you’re currently wearing, Duchess?

Are you desperate to come up for air, too?

“A never ending fountain of peace.” Suguru continues to bless the ‘happy’ couple. With eyes that can see with inhuman clarity below the level of sea that receives penetrance from Helios.

The Midnight Zone may as well be daybreak to the Chaplain. And those same sharp eyes see something other than joy in your face. Something other than peace.

But he continues his script, nonetheless.

“An unconditional well of prosperity.” Suguru shamelessly sips from your tantalizing presence. If someone whispered to him that you two were the last beings on earth right now, he’d believe it without question.

The finishing lines cause physical pain.

“And most importantly, to an Ahriman heir.” Suguru chokes out. “For God and Country.”

The room erupts in near uncontrollable cheer.

“For God and Country!”

“For God and Country.”

You mirror the Preist’s words and he memorizes every twitch in your lips. Every intonation of your voice is burned into the most permanent part of his mind.

Festivities flicker past Suguru’s short term memory. The night is a complete daze. Hundreds of courteous smiles. Dozens of handshakes. A handful of empathic stares and one all-consuming gaze that halts the Father in his tracks.

How are you allowed to exist when lust is apparently a sin?

The answer to that never comes.

Boisterous music. Drunken celebration. Complete disinhibition comes in full force instead.

Suguru wires around the women flinging themselves into his embrace.

No matter the intention, he wants no part of it. In fact, if he could make it home to steal a few hours of uninterrupted sleep he would consider the night a roaring success. There’s no telling how many seconds, minutes, hours have passed since the start of the celebration.

Not until his eyes find you swallowing more than a mouthful of red wine at the edge of your seat. Avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room as if the clouds are your native home.

“Blessed be the fruit, Duchess.” An inebriated noble nearly trips into your arms.

You narrowly miss his impact. The flame in your campfire gaze ascends high enough to singe the crescent moon.

“May the Lord open.” Each one of your words sharper than swords made of dragonstone.

Suguru starts to make his way over to flailing man, to rip him away from you at the very least.

But you are more skilled than he is in still waters. Beneath your fiancés nose and a host of prying eyes you find an exit to slip past.

The Chaplain’s feet move before a knowing smile tugs on his lips.

Suguru knows exactly where to find the woman who doesn’t want to be found.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Saline seabreeze intertwines with your loose mane. Erupting goosebumps along your exposed décolletage. Expanding the lungs imprisoned by your steel-boned corset.

Breathe.

The moon is curved and high. Super-terrestrial hands knead the low tide crashing along the cliffside.

To what end?

Your mind searches for a finish line to the marathon. Desperately seeking refuge from the journey with no endpoint. Traveling further than Pheidippides, who ran hundreds of miles from the battlefield to the citadel to deliver news of victory.

All before dropping dead.

A chuckle more bitter than the goblet of wine escapes you.

You would travel further just to be home. Even if it meant instant death in return.

“For God and Country.” Sharp words through terse lips. “For God and Country.”

Thick, unforgiving fog fills your brain space. Heels echo through the chapel garden, pebbling the stone path to the rocky edge. Red wine powers your clumsy stumble. Chasing an ever elusive clarity.

The marathon continues.

“What if…what if I don’t serve your God.” You hiss at the stars above.

Resentment more potent on your tongue than the spirits you ingested tonight. Before rules of conduct blare through your drunken haze, rolls of sage satin fill your balmy fists and you take a seat on the ground. Legs dangling over the edge. Enticing the dangers below.

“For God and — what if I think your God is deaf and dumb and…and—“

“And He loves you all the same, Duchess.”

Oh, that voice.

That voice that smells like honey. And tastes like a dream. And sounds like lilac.

No.

Violet.

Like the eyes of its owner.

“Suguru!! I-I mean Father. Shit. I’m sorry.” Bitter resentment is replaced with sour regret.

Did you really need that last serving of truth elixir?

The Chaplain lets out a deep, velvet chuckle. It runs smooth along the curve of your flushed cheeks. He takes a seat on the ledge. A full hand width or two away and yet, his presence kisses you in the way sun rays do, when they tuck in for the night.

“You must think I’m a petulant woman, Father.” Shockingly sober words, thanks to the company beside you.

Another rich, truffle laugh. You cant help but notice his prominent Adams Apple gliding down the muscular column of his throat.

“My name sounds like a ballad when you say it.” Irises softer than an oil painting cement you in place.

“Please use it.”

Because it is, Father.

His name is a ballad. A sonnet. A monologue in its own right.

A love letter.

“And what of my name, Suguru? When will you use it?”

Sobriety flutters away as quickly as it cloaked you in the first place. Cobalt winds lift the hem of your dress. A sheet of goosebumps along your bare thighs now on display.

From the glacial breeze? The damp earth beneath you?

…Or is it the way the Chaplain’s Adam’s Apple and gaze descends?

“When I’ve earned it, Duchess.”

Long, deft fingers reach over to re-drape the satin over your knees. You swallow a gasp before it erupts.

Of course he fixed your dress. It’s where your hem belongs. Especially around a man who has taken a vow of celibacy.

No, no.

Especially as a woman who is engaged. Spoken for. Under the God he serves and the law you abide by.

“I trust you’ll have enough..” Suguru’s lips curl up at a thought reserved for himself only.

And somehow, the perfectly centered dimple on his appled left cheek comes to your attention for the first time.

“Enough what?” You probe, sinking in the cavern you’ve discovered.

“Conviction.” Volcanic eyes trail up to the moon. “To tell me the exact moment when I’ve earned the privilege.”

Suguru gives you ample space to bathe in him while he bathes in moonlight.

It’s uncanny.

How the Priest exists in two different places at once. Down here, with you on the cliff edge. He’s tangible. Thick locks in a poetic cascade down his back. Limbs nearly twice as long as yours, beckoning creatures that only break the surface of Leviathan’s playground to wreak havoc.

Sure, he’s down here.

But he’s also up there.

Somewhere in the ether. Traversing altitudes well above the average, simple minded being. High enough for the Gods to confess their sins. Because Suguru is the only one worthy enough to forgive them.

“You’re staring, Duchess.” His voice holds a grin, and that grin has fingers.

Cruel, torturous fingers that pet and stroke and tease your throbbing core until it’s plush. Your cunt is more intoxicated than you are.

“Eyesight is not a sin, Father.” You retort, crossing your legs before any more arousal leaks from your warm sex. Your gall entirely fueled by Arella’s quote imbedded in your mind.

“Suguru.” The Priest corrects. His sleek, jet black brow elevates. You must be an amusing drunk.

“Suguru.” You acquiesce with a bashful nod.

“So demanding.”

He gifts you his left dimple once more. A feature that is rapidly soaring through your mind’s construct. Undoubtedly the only boyish thing about the stallion of a man next to you.

Straight from Poseidon’s steed.

“Very.” He agrees. “Only when the time calls for it.”

And what time would that be?

“The Dahlias I sent, did you enjoy them?” Suguru deftly redirects the conversation like a captain navigating treacherous waters. As if he heard the blasphemous thoughts starting to brew.

“They are gorgeous.”

Stifling heat emanates from your cheeks. You were so fond of the bouquet that you felt compelled to lie to your betrothed about the source.

“Good.” His eyes capture a moon ray and holds it hostage.

“And the letter?”

“I loved it!” A slurred confession. “I’ve re-read it more times than I can count on my fingers and toes.”

How does his laugh sprint down your spine the way that it does?

Unraveling you bit, by bit. You would stay drunk and stupid if it meant you could keep drawing that addicting sound out of his full lips.

“I was referencing the proposal in the letter, Duchess.”

Suguru’s eyes drop to your bottom lip, now rolled under your teeth. Not even a second passes before he flickers back out to the sea. And you’re grateful for the privacy to darken like Pinot Noir on a corkscrew. Both hands cup your reddened cheeks.

“Yes, of course.” You wave, a matter-of-fact, of course.

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

That response draws something new from the enigmatic Priest.

Raven locks lift off his back from the speed at which his gaze recoils back to you. Lightning strikes the volcanoes in his eyes. A clenched fist and tense arm drops between his legs.

Is he…steadying himself?

You can’t quite name his expression. Wine or not, you’ve never seen anything like it.

It’s dark. Ominous. Full of bloodlust.

And you’d gladly offer up a vein.

“Pardon?” He rasps, completely fixated on your lips. As to not miss a single word of your answer.

Your hips roll around under his unrelenting stare. “I-I mean, you know best. I will do whatever you think is best for my marriage.”

Suguru barely hears your repeated answer, judging by the way he briefly makes eye contact, before re-settling on your mouth. Heat swells in your puffy cunt. Already hugging your thin, sodden undergarment.

The Priest offers no words.

Just a heady, quiet that pins you to the ground. And your mind, suddenly promiscuous, wonders if this is what it feels like to be beneath a man’s weight. Caged in by muscular arms. Scalded by fiery eyes tracing inch by inch.

Not that you would know.

Not that you know anything about making love. Or men. Or loving a man.

“Will you…can you teach me how to love a man?” The tips of your ears threaten to melt off your head the second your sentence is complete.

Another shocking blow to the Father. His lips hang open in disbelief. For one, two, three seconds before he zips back up. Concealing his thoughts behind a courteous but very present steel barrier.

“I—“ He starts carefully, averting away. “Surely you don’t need to be taught—“

“But I’m pure, Father.” You counter. Searing into his angular profile. “I’ve never…I don’t know how to—“

Cool fingers gently tilt your chin upward. To brand his correction into your memory.

“Suguru.” The Chaplain’s voice glides lower than your inhibition.

Something says that he won’t correct you a third time.

Despite the temperature maintaining the same degree, a sharp jolt of pleasure straightens your spine as your nipples pebble against the silky fabric. You gnaw your cheeks to keep from physically squirming.

“S—Suguru.” You repeat. Subservience wets your drooling sex in a way that makes you want to keep following commands.

Suguru’s tone rubs the folds in your brain smooth.

“Good. Quick learner.” A pleased grin blooms across his lips. “I’ll start with focusing on you.”

The two of you slowly peel away from one another. Crashing waves replace the heady silence.

Well, silence other than your heartbeat rattling between your ears. In your periphery, the Chaplain is now peering outward, at his true home. The coast is clear to return your greedy eyes back to his acute, feline features.

Just enough of his mane is tied back to reveal a pretty mulberry dusting his high cheekbones and pointed nose.

A pleasant surprise to know the demigod warms like the mortals he walks amongst.

“You’re blushing, Suguru.” Girlish satisfaction heavy on your tongue.

Another decadent chuckle pets your womanhood. And this time you have to swallow a moan.

“As are you, Duchess.”

“Darling? There you are!” Ezra’s voice is just as, if not more sobering than his footsteps approaching.

Too soon.

Time bows at Suguru’s feet. The concept doesn’t exist around him. Someone, be it Arella or Noel or now, your soon-to-be husband, someone always has to physically draw you back to the present.

Reality never comes on time. Always too late. Or in your case, always a little too early.

The Chaplain is on his feet in seconds. He swiftly lifts you from the edge and sets you on solid ground. Leaving you dizzied and breathless on the surface.

Guilty and red-handed beneath it.

“Oh sweetheart,” Ezra paws at the soiled fabric, concern etched into his face. “Your dress is completely ruined.”

“I’ll live.” You’re sharper than intended. Surely, from the spirits still thrumming through your veins.

Ezra falters like a wounded puppy. And it tugs on your tattered heartstrings.

“Thank you for the concern, Ezra.” You soften, thumbing his cheek. Purposefully avoiding the violet beams aimed at your face. And shoulders. And hands.

As if the Priest is daring you to keep provoking his searing gaze.

But your fiancé unravels under your rare display of affection. He eagerly leans over to kiss your forehead. Meanwhile your hand desperately magnets to your side.

“Sorry for leaving so abruptly Ezra, I—I had a bit too much to drink and I needed air then—“

“Don’t give it a second thought, my love.”

Your fiancé is gentle with you. Little strokes along the small of your back. And maybe…just maybe your reaction time is dulled because for don’t immediately flinch away.

“Individual counseling starting early then?” Ezra jests. Pristine jade eyes dance between you and Suguru.

The Priest offers a smile about as warm as the Siberian tundra.

“Hardly. Just ensuring the Duchess is out of harm’s way.”

Like your fiancé did with you, you flower under the pad of Suguru’s thumb. A brief swipe, to remove a stray saltwater droplet. But your skin scorches all the same. Unreasonably missing a touch that lasted all of half a moment.

Ezra clears his throat and drops his broad, but not nearly as broad, shoulders.

“I received the memo from your office staff, Father. Please accept this as my formal agreement to proceed with individual counseling.” He reaches out and Suguru takes his hand firmly.

“Duchess,” Suguru beckons without breaking focus on Ezra.

“We will be begin your sessions in three days. Meet me around 8:00 AM in our garden. Yes?”

Our garden.

You are a dirty woman.

The way your core aches at his meaningless, frivolous, harmless words.

“Y-yes. I will be there.” A half-baked attempt at maintaining neutrality.

Your agreement earns you Suguru’s left dimple again. You toss your gaze elsewhere before your knees commit treason.

“Duke, is there an activity you enjoy?” Suguru probes Ezra.

“Sailing.”

“Sailing…?” Suguru lifts an incredulous brow. Blatantly amused by his automatic response.

Granted, you don’t know your future husband that well, but he’s never made mention of any maritime activities.

Meanwhile everyone in this country, two countries over, possibly your home country knows that water belongs to the Chaplain. The element bends to his will.

“Are you certain about that, Duke Ahriman?”

“Yes, Father. We have quite the fleet. I think you would be impressed.”

“Understood. You and I will set sail before Sunrise the day after tomorrow.”

The men exchange pleasantries as they do. Ezra intertwines his loving fingers into your reluctant ones. He ushers the long night to a welcome end.

Five steps into your path home, a blistering heat snakes up your spine. Fanning your shoulders like high noon during summer solstice.

You don’t have to do it.

You know the source, already.

But you do it anyway.

Over your left shoulder, you find the Naval Prince strolling along the unstable rocky ledge with as much grace as he does flat terrain. Eyeing the tide. Searching for the perfect entry home.

Suguru’s trident reflects stark against the moonlight. Upper body completely shed of clothing, lower body with a long, black compression garment. Heavy locks now woven in the same singular braid you met him with. Dark overhead skies somehow illuminating the ridges and shadows of his sculpted arms, and back…and chest.

A glimpse of heaven.

…is staring right back at you.

Possessing you.

“Enjoy your swim!”

The words string together without your consent. Ezra lands his attention on you, startled by the sudden crack in silence.

And the demigod shakes his head. One part disbelief, two parts fond.

“Enjoy your dreams!” Suguru calls back before turning his trident to you. His night has just begun.

You walk away with your betrothed, cloaked in soiled satin and guilt.

Were you in the wrong? Maybe so.

But your heart didn’t choose Ezra. Not yet. You aren’t sure if your heart has even chosen you.

Arella’s gentle wave from the patio welcomes you home. Sleep suddenly descending on your heavy lids.

At least you’re safe, here in your mind’s haven.

For now.

· ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

“Fuck.”

A tormented hand swipes the bead of moisture tickling a path down Suguru’s temple.

0345

Obscenities seem to spill from his lips a little too easily these days. And his usual coping mechanisms are falling a little too short.

The chaplain drags the hem of his sleepwear down to his thighs.

Each bone, muscle and tendon is utterly spent after tonight’s swim. Every part of his body except the thick rod that springs free from its cage.

Glistening with beads of lust. Taunting him. Making a mockery of his code of conduct.

Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Wife.

“Really?” Suguru scoffs and screws his eyes shut. His nails dig into the abused sheets to keep from gripping his cock and tugging himself numb.

How convenient.

The Holy Book of Answers and all of its rules makes no mention of how to survive the likes of you.

How does one circumvent murky waters when Thy Neighbor’s Wife is Aphrodite’s reincarnate?

Suguru’s heavy, oversized length pulsates. Its blushing head lays flush with his abdomen, a few inches past his belly button. Leaking pearly arousal onto his damp skin. Still not fully air-dried from the second icy bath since returning to his quarters.

‘I’ll do whatever you ask of me.’

You dangled your submission in front of him.

Him, a red-blooded man.

A ravenous, touch starved, cunt-drunk beast of man. And you sat there. With your dizzying silhouette. And puffy lips. And pert nipples, pebbling from his gaze alone.

Did you think he couldn’t see?

How you pressed your mouth-watering thighs together? With wide, gorgeous eyes. Desperately trying to deny yourself the indulgence.

What if he asked you to spread your legs then and there, pretty girl?

What if he asked you to watch his fingers pet that weeping little cunt of yours? Watch how much honey he could coax out of your needy opening.

Because you were.

So fucking needy.

Suguru could see it from a mile away much less sitting next to you. Tensed legs. Short gasps. Studying his features when you thought his attention lapsed.

‘Can you teach me how to love a man?’

“Oh, sweet girl,” Suguru rolls over to settle a plush pillow between his thighs. The cool, soft cotton rubs blinding friction against his aching length.

This is wrong.

Immoral.

He’s a filthy, disgusting, pervert.

Suguru lurches his hips forward in a deep thrust against the cushion. A shattered groan pushes past his clenched jaw.

It’s a disgrace, the way saliva pooled in his mouth and cum drooled from his cock when you unveiled your purity.

Suguru’s hips rut faster. Brutalizing the pillow. Animalistic sounds bubble out of him.

“Fuck…fuck no..don’t..” Pathetic pleas contradict the pace he humps the fabric. Chasing the whirlpool of lust in his groin.

Demons in hell couldn’t concoct the vile things his mind is showing him. The intricate ways he wants to violate you.

A moral stain for the church

The priest tilts up on his knees. Fucking the pillow in earnest. Picturing its your precious, dewy center that he’s defiling.

He could teach you, gorgeous.

He could shape your untouched core to fit his cock like a sleeve. Perfectly molded to his veins. Slotting into your warm, wet, noble sheath with ease.

He would have you sit on his lap for your first lesson.

His swollen length buried inside you to the hilt. He wouldn’t thrust, not yet. Your body would just clench and squeeze and leak around his intrusion. Suguru wouldn’t retreat out of your cunt until you were begging him to. Teary eyed and drooling from every single opening.

He could teach you. Break you. Turn you into a pretty little cockdumb puppet at his touch.

“God..nngh fuck.” Opaque fog fills his head and lungs.

Sordid moans echo against the walls. Reflecting his sinful behavior, but Suguru is too intoxicated to care. He curls around his swollen cockhead. Feverishly jerking his abused sex. Grinding so pitifully into his hand.

Suguru drops his head. Mumbling your name in full before spewing himself empty into his grasp, the sheets, his pillow.

Shame warmer than the mess of cum he’s currently laying descends. Filling the fuzzy corners of his brain.

Is he really so weak?

“Be stronger than this.” The priest hisses angrily.

Unable to lay in filth for another second, Suguru rockets out of bed. Pulling his sheets, folding his sins away. To be cleansed in the next load of laundry.

A third, icy shower serves the same purpose for him a few minutes later. Glacial droplets soak the length of his mane, again. His manhood hangs away from his body, bucking every couple moments. Threatening to steal his virtue for a second time.

He’ll be a better man when the sun rises.

A tired sigh escapes his lips. At least Suguru is safe, here in his mind’s haven.

For now.

E/N: Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Chaplain, you really have to get a handle on those pesky hands of yours. 🤭

Taglist: @blkkizzat @hayakawalove @rotteneyess

#literally like someone get this woman a book deal #6 volumes minimum please #the world needs it #another one hit out the park #kizzatreblogs #kizzatrecs #kizzatmoots

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