#even typing that out feels sacrilegious

[larrylimericks]

23Oct24

Grief whispers he’s gone; I deny. But she says it again, by and by. Then she swears he’s still here: “It’s not real, what you hear”— I’m trapped in her back-and-forth lie.

[madamechrissy]

✞ Forgive me For I have Sinned ✞

✞ Pairings: Priest Gojo x Fem Reader

✞ Word count - 5.7k

✞ Content/Warnings- You keep having dreams about Father Gojo, and he decides to try to save your slutty soul <3 NSFW, sacrilegious, confessional fucking, rosaries as bondage, lots of filling you w/love and light, oral (both receiving) fingering, explicit church sex, reader is a lil bimbo and innocent fr, Gojo has a HELL of a God complex (canon tbh) overall kinky asf

A/N- Booking the tix to hell-who's coming with!? I based off this drabble of mine: Priest! Gojo (you can read it first if you want!) Reader and Gojo are in their mid 20s. Enjoy!

It was hot outside, a scorching summer day, the type that made you want to jump in an icy cool lake naked, but in the sanctuary of this pristine church which is kept rather cool, you still have a drip of sweat beading down your collarbone. You’re wearing a pretty red summer dress, your little hat right next to you in the pew, as you watch him with avid attention.

Father Satoru Gojo.

The entire church is in love with him, enamored by him, there are admiring whispers even amongst the most vigilant catholics, the ones who would judge you for coming not in your Sunday best. They hid it well enough, acting as if they only cared so much because his sermons were so powerful, because he was so young and profound already.

But you know better, and they know better deep down, that Father Gojo was just gorgeous, a face chiseled to perfection, tall and broad shouldered, swoon worthy by all accounts. His husky voice and insane presence that shines brilliantly like a million diamonds certainly helps, but his face itself is so pretty it’s angelic.

When he looks at you with those brilliant blue eyes, swirling like a moody storm, all glittery behind those snowy white lashes? Well you feel…

You’re going to hell.

Last night you’d had this insane dream of him, where he has asked you to serve him on your knees, just as he would offer that eucharist and wine to you, but instead it’s his cum you’re swallowing. And you’re a good, God fearing girl, so, you certainly should not do or think of such things! And worst of all, with your priest, Father Gojo. He has vows too, yet you’d committed much sin already.

Just last night you’d awakened throbbing, having dreamt of pleasuring him, on your knees before him, and you’d been soaking wet and dripping down your shorts, even the sheet had a wet spot. You’d rubbed your swollen little clit in circles, gasping and arching your back, feeling fevered as you committed such sins, as picturing Father Gojo had you climaxing all over your own fingers.

You’d been so ashamed this morning! You’d splashed cold water on your face, staring at yourself in your mirror, shivering as the cool water dripped down your skin, knowing you should stay home, find some new church. You are full of impure thoughts and sin, and it’s all because of him, how could you confide in him that you feel this way, think this way?

What would he do if he knew? Cast you out or…

Stop it.

But as you’re crossing your legs, shifting your hips, you see Satoru Gojo’s full, pouty lips part, his eyes directly on you. You pause then, eyes wide, you must be imagining it, your sin surely is carrying over too far… but you test it, crossing your legs once more, and sure enough, his eyes follow your legs up, between your thighs, surely seeing your panties.

That gives you a fucking thrill you can’t describe, as does him licking his thumb, going to another page as he continues his sermon, women all over are fanning themselves, enamored by him. But perhaps none so much as you, picturing what’s under that cassock, under those white robes he wears, what that long, lithe body would feel like against yours.

You imagine your dream vividly later when he’s giving you the eucharist, placing the biscuit on your tongue as you hold your mouth open on your knees, then you see it, the hunger mirrored in his eyes. You tremble when he brushes a thumb over your lower lip, and your eyes drift to his lap, where you clearly see he’s hard. You gulp it down, looking up at him and taking the wine now.

Father Gojo looks down at you, white hair falling over a brow, finding your beautiful eyes are affecting him as much as your stance on your knees, his thumb finds your chin now, imagining shoving his cock between perfect lips. Surely, you are here to tempt him, to ruin him, you are sin itself, haunting his dreams, making him hard in the middle of church, right in his own service.

You look at it then, his cock under the cassock that’s becoming too tight, before licking your lip, eyes back up to his hungrily. You look like such a good girl, but your eyes tell another story, a story of wanting to get fucked hard, to be filled by him, wanting to have his cum all over your pretty face. He imagines that as the wine drips down your lips now.

Fuck he’s going to hell if he stays around you, surely even he has rules to uphold even if he certainly is God’s chosen. But… perhaps since he is God's chosen, it’s his duty to help a little sinful girl like you. And as you rise, holding his hand, and your breasts brush against his chest, you’re far too close, he vividly pictures yanking them out of that dress, tempting him to no end.

Of course you ask for confessional, and he’s dying at the thought of being so close to you, when all he thinks of is how good you look, how good you smell, and he is left to wonder, do you taste that good? Your pretty neck, your delicate collarbone, your pussy? Surely he should not think such things, but as he looks at you through the lattice of the confessional separating you both, he cannot stop his mind.

“Father Gojo… I fear my confession is most wicked.” Comes your breathy little voice, only serving to make Father Gojo’s thick length harden, picturing what your little moans must sound like when properly fucked.

“Go on, my pr- my child, you may tell me anything.” He says, coughing a bit, because he’d rather call you a pretty little slut, and he has no clue why the devil likes to try him so hard. It’s all your fault, truly. Pretty little thing.

“Okay… but…” You take a breath. “I have dreams of someone fucking me, someone I should not.” You say nervously, and watch him shift in his seat, you can smell his cologne so much in here, making you thirst more for him.

“It’s natural to have thoughts, my child.”

“No, Father Gojo… I’m playing with myself, thinking of him. Of… sucking him, or of him laying on top of me.” You hear Father Gojo making a choking sound, and you panic. “I’m so sorry! I…”

“Ahem, no, no… continue.” Father Gojo’s cock is straining, he can already feel precum sticking to his tip, picuring you touching your pussy, he bets it’s so pretty, bet it tastes so-

Sinful girl, aren’t you?

Surely that’s all this is, not… him wanting to sin! Father Satoru Gojo certainly is perfect, he’s God’s perfect creature, so if he wants this, it must be on you. Sin in a perfect little body with a perfect little face, and a voice that drives him to utter distraction. Surely, Father Gojo must try to save you.

“Father, I cannot stop thinking of him, he’s in all my dreams. What should my penance be, how many hail marys?”

Father Gojo has to stroke himself to adjust his huge, throbbing cock now, as he watches you through the lattice, biting your full lower lip, your head falling back, hair cascading. Hair he wants to pull as he fucks you from behind, making you arch your back to take more of his cock.

“I have to ask how you’re doing it… so that I can tell you your penance, so that I may try to save you.” He says, husky now, and you whimper softly, shifting on the bench, your pussy throbbing around nothing, picturing his cock filling you.

“How I do it, Father Gojo?”

“Yes, it’s… important to confess.”

“Well, I take my fingers, and I find my pussy with them, I roll them around my clit over and over, I get so wet that they slip- Father are you okay?” Satoru can’t stand it, he’s stroking his bare cock under his robes, resting his head against the wall, struggling not to cry out as he’s pumping.

“Ahem… indeed I am. So you finger your little pussy then?” At his words you’re a blushing mess, breaths coming more rapidly, your hands gripping the bench, dying for friction as you’re soaking your panties.

“Y-yes.”

“Do you slip your fingers in?”

“I… no! Um… no.”

“And you cum?”

“I… yes. I do cum. Imagining him.” You’re watching those robes rise and fall, then you know it, Father Gojo is stroking his cock right next to you.

“I see… I think I can help alleviate some of this, perhaps give you some guidance so that you do not afflict yourself so.” You want to touch yourself now, when you hear those breathy pants, your fingers clinging to the lattice.

“Yes, father, I need your guidance.” Cock, fingers, mouth… fuck you’re a full sinner, aren’t you!?

“Then come here, let us have our first attempt at saving you.”

Now you’re standing in front of him in the itty bitty room, face to face with Satoru Gojo, your Priest, and fuck if your nipples don’t tighten up, if your tummy isn’t clenching with desire. You’re nervously fiddling with your hands as he leans back, spreading his long legs as wide as they can in the tight quarters, his glittering blue eyes dilated as he licks his lips, making them glossy.

“You must show me how, and do not fret, sweet girl, it’s through god’s will of course, through me.” Father Gojo says, your breaths come faster as you slip up your sundress, and his eyes hungrily drink the sight of your bare thighs in. He leans forward, sliding those panties down, eyeing your glistening cunt now, his breath almost hitting it, making you jerk.

“Father… I cannot show you…”

“You can, I am here to help, have no fear.” He notices you’ve drenched your panties, a wet spot formed, sticky little strands of your arousal apparent as he pulls them down, hands touching the smooth skin of your thighs.

You put your hand on your pussy now, the other nervously holding up your dress, and you run your fingers in circles on your clit, crying out softly, as he lets out a low, guttural moan. You’re getting wetter as you play, as his large, sexy hands clench, the veins popping up out of the thin skin, and you’re trembling, imagining his long fingers working you instead.

Satoru is close to cumming as he watches your pretty face, your brows drawing together, your lips parted, eyes so dilated your pupils are taking over, just a thin ring of your iris left. Your lashes are lowered, and his hand stops yours now, as it’s playing with your soppy little cunt, you tremble before him.

“I see, I must help you, guide you. To get this… affliction taken care of. Yes?” You nod eagerly, then Father Gojo pulls you to his lap, and you’re straddling him, your hands sliding up to feel his strong shoulders under his robe, and he is touching your pussy instead, making you whimper. “Need me to save you, pretty little sinner?”

“Please save me. Please. Ah!” Satoru sinks two long fingers deep inside your eager little entrance, you gasp at it as he slips into your gummy walls, drippy and so tight. He’s paused, moaning and looking right into your eyes, you drown in his blue gaze, as your cunt drools down his hand. “Father Gojo… please…”

“Begging for it, are you? So tight, it’s so… have you had anything inside this perfect little pussy?” He huffs, feeling how you’re squeezing his fingers, then he hits some spot that makes you see stars, pumping up and down over and over. You cling to him, eyes fluttering shut. “Answer me, be a good girl for once, would you?”

Good girl for once.

There’s no hope for you.

“Nothing… no one… just you, Father Gojo. Mmm!” You’re covering your mouth as he keeps pumping, and he moans, dreaming of breaking you in all the ways he could, taking your innocence for himself. It’s surely what god is wanting, and who is he but god’s disciple himself? He thrusts those fingers knuckles deep, watching you fall apart over him.

“There, you’re loving this, fingers stretching your pussy, don’t you?” You nod weakly, gushing down his hand, you can hear the squishing wetness of your pussy as he now slides a thumb, rolling it over your clit.

“F-father Gojo!”

“Sinful girl.” He huffs, as you’ve buried your face against his neck, rocking against his hand, those long fingers fucking you so good it’s painful, moaning.

“Mmm! Father Gojo, I will… be good… for you…”

“Will you?” You nod weakly, as Satoru rolls your clit expertly, and you feel the pressure building, you’re panting, ready to combust. “I feel it, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You’re nodding, hips grinding, now you’re soaking his robes, he’s picturing sliding his cock inside you, breaking you, until your sins are cleansed, and you’re picturing him taking you, defiling you in every way your hectic mind can picture. Both of you are about to cum, you’re not even touching Satoru though, you want to, fuck you want to.

“Close, m’close… p-please…” You’re begging for release, seeing stars as he works your now sloppy cunt.

“I've got you, you can let go, you're safe with me, let me see your sins so I can cleanse them.” He urges you on, bringing you higher and higher with those long, slick fingers.

“Father, it's... I'm gonna... mmm!” You're so close, soaking the sleeve of his robe now. And he's so ready to slide into your eager cunt, looking up at you behind snowy lashes.

“Show me how you sin, let me watch you cum, so I can... help you.” He whispers, and you fall apart then, pulsing around his fingers, and he groans as he watches you, pressing up so deep. You’re gushing so much arousal, he can smell your sweet scent, as you scream out into your little hand, shaking.

Satoru is now sliding his fingers out, you whine, wanting more, especially when he is sucking your juices off his fingers, making you gasp. His cheeks hollow, his eyes fluttering shut as he tastes you, your mouth drops open, breaths making you quicken, your heart pounding in your ears as you try to come down.

Your thighs are trembling over him, entire body lit up from cumming so hard, his snowy lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, before fluttering up, looking at you, your arousal coating his lips. “Oh my God.”

More sinning.

“You’re not being a very good girl.” He admonishes, but then his lips quirk up. “But, you taste too sweet to be bad. Or perhaps you yourself are sin.” Father Gojo whispers to you now, and you’re leaning closer, rolling your hips, making him groan, his hands gripping your little waist as your heat brushes against his cock. “Has it alleviated some of your… need, my child?”

He’s smirking at you, in a way no priest should! You sigh then, shaking your head. “No, Father, it’s only made it worse! You must help me more, I’m afraid now I’m thinking of sinning even more, and who I’ve been dreaming of.” You say then, it’s a whisper, as the room is hot from your breaths, smelling like sweet arousal.

Satoru blinks then, thin white brows going together, jaw clenching. “You’re thinking of fucking your own priest? That is a sin.”

“I know! It’s a terrible affliction. Oh Father, I’m going to hell.” You whisper, blinking back tears, still reeling from the aftershocks of cumming. Satoru arches his hips now, brushing his cock against your pussy, and you nearly scream out, head falling back, exposing your throat to him, and he pictures his hand wrapping a rosary around your neck, pulling tight.

You’ve dreamt of him too!? Surely this must be a sign.

A temptation.

But does he want to fight it? Your taste is all over his mouth now, as he feels your sexy little body against him, his hands brushing against your breasts, watching your nipples perk up. You look at him with intoxicated eyes, lips parted, your tiny hands clinging to his robes as you grind again, and he shudders at how fucking good it feels, your heat on him.

“I see… Well you must come to me tomorrow, and we will have to try harder, to save your soul.” He says huskily, you nod eagerly, as he helps you off him, his cock close to cumming, already twitching, he slides your soaked, ruined panties into his robes, you surely do not need them anymore.

“What if I have another dream father!”

“Do not touch yourself, I will help you when you come in, that’s so we can try to save you, yes?” You nod then, leaning close to his lips.

“Father, is it a sin to kiss your lips?”

“Not if you feel a calling, surely God wishes you to.” He murmurs, and you peck a sweet kiss on his lips, tasting yourself on him, before forcing yourself out of the cramped quarters, body on fire, leaving Satoru to finish stroking his cock, cumming as he shoves your panties against his face.

******

You’re dreaming of him again, of Father Gojo, this time his snowy white hair is brushing against your thighs, his tongue is lapping up all the dripping wetness, his big hands pressing into the plush of your thighs. You wake up throbbing, crying out, seeing how wet you are, as the ceiling fan whirls, failing to cool your overheated flesh. Father Gojo’s fingers made it worse, your affliction!

The next day you’re painfully turned on, pussy aching for more, you followed his instructions and did not touch yourself, instead you forced yourself to go back to sleep, now you’re in the nearly empty church, knocking at the door of Father Gojo’s office. You hear his deep voice speak.

“Come in.” You nervously walk in, you are wearing a shorter blue sundress today, and no panties. You know Father Gojo will see how sinful you are, but when you see his perfect face, and him wearing a thinner, lighter white robe, your pussy is already making your thighs sticky. “My child, lock that door, so we can have privacy… we would not want your confessions judged.”

“Yes, thank you Father.” You lock the door with a click, stepping to him, your heels clicking on the wooden floor of his room. He’s sitting in his chair, fingers steepled, studying your body carefully.

“Do you have any updates on your affliction, pretty girl?”

“Pretty girl…” You’re blushing worse now.

“I feel I must call you what the lord is telling me. Is that alright with you?” You nod nervously, standing before him, the desk separating you. “So how were your dreams last night?”

“They were of you again, Father Gojo. I’m so sorry!”

You cover your face in embarrassment, hearing the soft thumps of his shoes as he comes to you, taking you by your wrists, big hands enveloping the delicate wrists entirely. Your head tilts back to look at him, he’s so tall and big… you’re drinking in the sight of him, his black rosaries hanging across his broad chest.

“You must tell me these dreams, so I may help you. Perhaps they’re some sign that we must see.”

“You… you were licking me, between my thighs.” His nostrils flare slightly, those swirling blue eyes thirsty as he studies you, your thighs shift, his hands still tight on your wrists.

“Your slutty little pussy, I was licking it?” Your pussy is clenching, tummy coiling, at his nasty, sinful words, from such a pure man. You nod then. “I see, there’s no choice, we must see what enacting your dreams does. To try to save you.”

“Y-yes, father, I think so too.” You whisper, hands sliding up and down his chest, watching his Adam's apple bob under that white collar. “Does it ever get uncomfortable, Father Gojo?”

“At times. Take it off for me.” He turns and you undo the collar, when he turns back you see it, his strong neck, the muscles corded, you bite your lower lip, earning him pulling it from your teeth. “This dream, describe it, so I can help you.”

You’re a flustered mess, especially after his fingers yesterday, and all the dreams you’ve been having. You take several breaths now. “You were licking me.”

“More descriptive.” He murmurs now, sitting you up on his desk, shocking you, then he slides up your skirt and smirks, wicked priest that he is, blue eyes darting back up to yours. “No panties, your soul is so slutty.”

“I… well… Father Gojo!” Satoru’s rubbing your clit with his thumb, watching you writhe on his desk now, as he sits back in his black chair, scooting up, his breath right against you.

“You wanted this, to be bare in front of me, didn’t you pretty little sinner?”

“Y-yes, I told you, I’m going to hell, mmm!”

He’s kissing your thighs, your hands enwrap in his silky white hair now, his breaths higher and higher, eying your perfect, glistening pussy. He’s dying to feel you dripping down his tongue, dying to drink your sweet nectar flowing when he’s opening up the lips of your pussy, and you’re making those pretty sounds, you’re so pathetic already, he thinks.

“No, I will save you, don’t you believe in me, pretty? I alone speak for God, I’m the honored one.” His words along with his eyes, those glittery blue storms that see right through you, as if they know your every sin, wreck you now. He surely must be the honored one.

“You’ll save me, I know you will.” You whisper, caressing his cheek now, and he moans softly, just urging you on more.

“That’s a good girl. Now tell me, what did I do in this dream?”

“You licked me, here.” You touch your slit, and he slides his tongue up it now, making you gasp, his tongue is so hot and wet, you’re gushing just from that. Satoru moans, kissing right over your clit before swiping his tongue again. “Father!”

“Shh, lest they hear your sinful mouth.” He whispers, and you clench your teeth, nodding as you watch him, he is placing your feet on either arm of his chair. “And you did not play with yourself?”

“I swear I did not, Father Gojo! I listened. Please…” You arch your hips up, full pussy in his face, and Satoru begins to devour you now, spreading your lips and flicking his tongue on your little swollen clit over and over. You have to slap a hand over your mouth, his rosary is cool against your inner thigh as he works your pussy, just like your dream.

Satoru’s tongue is wicked, for such a holy man you think, and it does the most wicked things to you, no dream could prepare you, even his fingers had not. He sucks your clit into his hot open mouth, moaning as your juices coat his tongue, looking up at you as you cling to his hair with one hand, the other muffling your cry as you feel yourself begin to cum.

Soon you are cumming right on Father Gojo’s face, your thighs shaking on either side of his head, pussy pulsing around nothing, and he’s drinking you up, so lewd in the quiet church office. You’re jerking now, as he leans up, half his pretty face shining with your slick, making you flush at how much there was. Your hand eases down, now just gasping for breath as you look at him.

“And now, my child, how is this affliction?” He whispers, leaning up and laying atop you, pressing you into the wooden desk. You lean up, kissing him once more, earning his moan, tasting yourself all over him, he grabs you by the throat then, long fingers wrapping as he pulls back. “How hard do I have to work to save your slutty little soul, hmm?”

“I’m sorry, Father Gojo. It was so amazing… but I just want more, I fear I’m having more lustful thoughts of you now.” Your hand slides down now, cupping him where he’s thick and hard, and he squeezes your throat harder now, his thumb on your racing pulse.

“And what else is in that little brain of yours? What lewd fantasies of your priest, hmm?”

“Sucking your cock, that’s what.” He groans now, pulling you down and putting you to your knees. You look up eagerly, now Satoru is undressing, and you finally get glimpses of his body, of hard muscles and planes as he’s taking off his robes, now opening his pants for you, revealing a huge, thick cock. You gulp as you drink in the sight of it.

“And do you know what to do, how to serve me, my child?” He asks, you shake your head. “Yet you’ve dreamt it?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then it’s surely meant to be, hmm? First, slide down your top.” You do as he says, and he moans as he sits back in his chair, gripping your bare breasts. “My God,  you’re made to ruin me. Come here, open your mouth.”

You do as he says, and Father Gojo now guides you by your hair, hair he wraps around his fist, guiding you down on his cock. His curved pink tip is leaking white pearly substance, which you tongue out, earning his grown, his head falling back. You suck him eagerly, swirling your tongue, as his eyes watch you, lidded and dazed, tasting his saltiness and sweetness eagerly.

“You’re far too good at this, are you sure you haven’t been sucking cock, like a sinful brat?” You pull back with a pop, saliva dripping down your lips.

“No, I only want to serve you, Father.”

“Mmm, you’re so precious.” He whispers, before shoving your mouth back on him, and you’re bobbing up and down as he pulls your hair, using it to glide you up and down his length. Your eyes water, your nose starts running as his cock is choking you, your pussy throbbing even more. “Fuck…”

“Father, did you cuss?” You ask, pulling back, with a shy little grin, earning Father Gojo’s smirk.

“I’m allowed to, it’s all God’s words. Now are you finally satisfied, or do we need to go further? Do I need to break your pretty little pussy?” He murmurs, his words like a drug, running his thumb across your lower lip. You nod then, weakly, and his lips part, eyes studying you. “Then ask me, on your knees so pretty, like you’re praying.” He puts your hands in prayer position, blue eyes lighting up.

“Please, break me, Father Gojo.” He pulls you up now, kissing you deeply, tongues so unpracticed and messy, you’ve never really even kissed, but now you feel him, filling you once more with those two fingers as he bends low.

“Turn around and bend over, sweet sinner.” You turn, and now Father Gojo has slid your dress down, leaving you in just your heels, his big hands gliding down every line and curve of your bare body. “I said bend over.”

He smacks you sharply on your backside, making you gasp then whine out, as he presses your upper back between your shoulder blades, your face against his desk. He then takes your hands, putting them behind your back and wrapping them with his black beaded rosary. You whine out at the sensation, he pulls it so tightly it’s digging in, shoving the cross in your palms.

“Hold on to that cross while I fuck your innocent little pussy. Feel it against your skin as I do.” He says, whispering in your ear. You nod, feeling the sharp cool silver digging in, as the beads dig into your bound wrists. “Good girl, spread those thighs.”

You do as he says, and then his tip is in, stretching you, and you’re shivering, breaths coming faster and faster. Satoru shoves his cock inside you, tearing at your little barrier. You cry out at the pain, and he pauses for a moment, moaning, letting you adjust. “H-hurts…”

“Just a moment of pain to fill you with my light.” He murmurs, sinking deeper, and your walls are fluttering around his cock, earning his groan. “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you? Did you want me to take it, your innocence?”

“I’ve w-wanted you, so long… played with… a long ah- time.” He moans now, sliding back out and in, you’re so wet and ready the pain eases quickly, as he takes you from behind now, pulling on your neck, pressing your bound hands firmer against your back, whispering in your ear.

“You sinned so long, playing with this pussy thinking of me?” You nod weakly, hiccuping on a cry as he’s pumping now, taking you over, stretching your tight cunt out so much, your skin burns, but you crave it.

You’re going to hell, surely.

But it seems worth it to be stretched by his cock so well.

“Y-yes… a long time. S-sorry Father…”

“Just Satoru when you cum all over my cock, hmm?” You nod weakly, then he fucks you harder now, thighs smacking your skin, his pelvis smacking your now sore ass cheeks, balls smacking your clit. “Ah, and you’re close already and your first time? You were made for this, weren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Satoru!” You scream out so loud he’s palming your mouth with his huge hand, taking over your face, shoving his cock in and rolling his hips, making you climax so hard you cannot see. You weakly drool out of your lips onto his hand, as he feels your velvety walls fluttering around him.

You are made for this, for his cock, to take him. Your sweet virgin pussy is getting so filled by Father Gojo’s huge cock, but you’re already taking him so well. Father Gojo knows then that your dreams and his must be for a better purpose, to fuck you and fill you with all of his light, surely. You’re taking him more and more, cumming so hard your cunt is drooling everywhere.

He lets your face go, looking at your fucked out expression, your mouth is wide open, that drool dangling out the corner, your eyes are rolled back, lashes fluttering, your ass arching up for more. You’re such a sinful creature, but he knows your innocence was made for just him, clearly. You would not have anyone else, he would surely see to it.

It’s God's calling.

You’re pounded and stuffed by his huge cock, your breasts bouncing with each thrust, ass jiggling with the force, then Satoru pulls your chin to face him, he’s so fuzzy, you keep shutting your eyes.

“Look at me, my child, now.” He whispers, and you open your eyes, staring into his weakly as his thrusts slow.

“Y-yes, Satoru…” He moans at the use of his name from your pretty lips.

“I’m saving you, through… mmm… God’s wisdom.”

“Thank you, thank you!” You’re trembling, he’s rolling his hips and that tip is dragging on your spot, you struggle to focus on his pretty face, the sun from the blinds filtering in behind his head, and then he looks like an angel. The cross is digging in so much your hand is bleeding just a bit, but you truly couldn’t care, his cock feels too good inside you.

“Do you want me to… fill you…” He’s crying out then, grabbing you so tightly you can’t breathe. “With God’s love… and light?”

“Please, fill me Father- ah!” Satoru starts pumping faster and faster, yanking on your rosary so hard it breaks as he begins to cum, the beads flinging and clattering all over the wooden floor, the cross still digging into your broken palm.

“Going to put… so much… light in you… fill you-” He moans loudly then, and you feel hot liquid pumping inside, bringing you to cum with him, as it coats your walls, hot and sticky. “Feel it? Feel me filling you with it?”

“I do! I do… Father Gojo… feel it.” You whine out, rolling your hips to milk him for every bit of his hot white ropes.

“Oh… Mmm…” He’s pumping more cum inside you now, but you’re so wet and still convulsing, so it’s dripping down his cock with your arousal. Satoru exhales, pulling out and then wiping you up, turning you gently, gulping as he kisses you once more. “You were sent here to destroy me.”

“Father, I’m afraid… I only want to do it more.” You whisper, he groans, cupping your face, as you bring up your hand to him, where the cross has left red marks on your palm, he traces it, the perfect symbol of the cross, with little blood drops streaking. You wince in pain.

“I see, it’s a sign we must continue.” He says, and you nod eagerly, as he holds your hand in his.

“We must, Father Gojo.”

*****

The next Sunday, you’re sitting in the very front for the sermon, watching as Father Gojo is licking a thumb and turning a page, his blue eyes darting to your thighs, today you’re wearing a pink summer dress. Father Gojo has stolen a pair of your panties, he thinks you don’t notice, but you do, so you decide not to wear any again, opening your legs for a moment.

Father Gojo gets a glimpse of your bare, glistening pussy right in that church, making his cock hard in front of a room full of hundreds of his followers. Luckily the brown stand in front of him covers up such evidence, as he looks over at your face when you cross your sexy legs, you smile up at him, blinking innocently.

But you’re not innocent, not anymore, are you? No, you’re the worst sinner he’s tried to save, and he thinks he’ll have to work harder to save you. And when you’re riding his cock in the confessional later that evening, and he’s biting on your breasts, you’re riding him so well, moans muffled in the tiny room, he’s not sure he can save you truly, you’re too full of sin.

Father Gojo enjoys your slutty soul and your soaking wet pussy on him far, far too much, especially filling you with his cum light.

Serving Father Gojo is perfectly fine, it's God's will after all 🙏 Nanami and Geto drabbles coming some time too <3 Reblog if you're a sinner <3

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60569476

[furioussouls]

It will come back.

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[yandere! academic rival x plus sized! reader]

🌔

Warning: yandere behaviour ( I dont condone this sort of behaviour in real life, but this is fiction. Enjoy), cursing, suggestive themes), mention of self harm and smoking, sacrilegious themes

Reader uses she/ her pronouns

Song: It will come back by Hozier

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Yandere type: masochistic, attention- seeker, clingy

You stared at the big grandfather clock behind your Professor, your own hands cupping your chubby cheeks. Worn down by time, one would assume that it looked less elegant, but it didn’t. Ever since you started going to Krepstom Academy 7 years ago, the huge clock has been there with you in every lesson and exam. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the wooden clock that accompanied you through every step of the way.

„(Y/N) (L/N)“, the voice of your Professor, Mr. Bailey, shook you out of your thoughts.

Your eyes snapped towards him and a wave of embarrassment creeped it‘s way up your neck. You could feel the leering looks of some of your classmates behind your back accompanied by some hidden chuckles.

„Yes, Professor Bailey?“, you asked after clearing your throat.

„Where is Mr. Synovic?“, he inquired after glancing at the empty spot behind you.

Your eyebrows rose in annoyance at the mention of his name , but you immediately relaxed your face when Mr. Bailey‘s eyes found their way to yours.

„With all due respect, Professor. How am I supposed to know where he is?“ you asked him with genuine curiosity and a sweet smile.

Mr. Bailey‘s bushy, white eyebrows furrowed in confusion and then the right side of his mouth gently turned upwards. „Oh, I apologise. I thought the both of you continue this cat and mouse chase outside of the classroom as well. I shouldn’t have assumed“

Your saccharine smile turned bittersweet in a matter of a few seconds and you fidgeted in your creaky chair. Smiling uncomfortably at him, you crossed your plump arms.

Jesse Synovic was a thorn in your eye. You would not give him the satisfaction of having him play a bigger role in your life than necessary, so even his annoying existence was only bothersome - at most. The two of you have been competing in Mr. Bailey‘s class ever since your journey at the Academy began. In some cases, he’s the best in class and sometimes you are. It’s a constant futile battle, considering that neither the students nor the teachers care about who ‚the best‘ is. The whole „battle“ is entirely between you two. Suddenly you heard a few knocks. Somebody opened the creaky, oak door after hearing the affirmative hum of Professor Bailey.

Speak of the devil and he shall disappear. Jesse Synovic stood under the threshold of the door and apologised to your Professor for being late and sat down. His freckles adorning his aquiline nose and his familiar scent invaded your nose: mint and hibiscus.

You rolled your eyes when you heard him sit down behind you. The lesson could have been perfect; no annoying Jesse in the background, correcting your every participation in class. However, seems like you were not amongst any god‘s favourite mortals.

You looked outside of the stained window; the pitter-patter of the hammering raindrops against the glass mirrored not only your mood, but also perfectly reflects the season, which you are in right now; autumn. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed his eyes on you. Your eyes switched from the window to him.

„What do you want?“, you mouthed to him. His mouth twitched up into a crooked smile and he shook his head, as if to say „nothing“. You stared at his face and his shoulders relaxed underneath your glare. He smiled lazily at you and fixed some of his black curls.

You rolled your eyes at him and focused back on Professor Bailey‘s lesson until the end.

After the lesson, you walked along the huge corridors of the academy. The huge stone pillars of the building reminded you of the fantastical buildings of your favourite fantasy books. While admiring the architectural designs of the building, you suddenly heard a deep, male voice from behind you call out your name, causing you to spin around quickly. Your mood dampened seeing Jesse‘s face.

„What?“, you demanded. He walked towards you with raised hands, his frame towering over your deliciously rounded one. You crossed your arms over your busty chest, causing Jesse‘s eyes to pause there and his eyes scanned you again from top to bottom and then settled on your stunning eyes.

„I‘m not here to cause a scene.“, he grinned at you, „ I just wanted to walk with you for a little while… and wanted to ask about your Astrophysics grade“, he asked with an innocent grin. His cheeks dimpled.

A ball of annoyance tightened your belly. Your nostrils flared and you pinched the bridge of your nose. His soft chuckle echoed through the hallway. “I’ve got 93%“, you hissed out and clenched your jaw. You turned around and made a move to start walking again, but he stopped you.

„Pretty good!“ he exclaimed and stretched his arms out and closed his long lashed eyes. You crossed your arms and looked up to the sky, already knowing what’s happening next. He opened one eye and looked at you. „I got 97%”, he smiled, opening his other eye as well and exposing infuriating pearly white teeth with naturally pointy canines.

“Uh huh, very nice”, you pressed out and continued to walk away.

“Wait, wait!“, he walked beside you and matched your pace. „Don’t you want to congratulate me?“, he beamed at your annoyed expression and tightened the tie of his school uniform around his neck.

„Why would I?“, you grumbled out. „The only reason you‘re in the Academy in the first place is because of your parents money. That I can congratulate for: Congratulations for being well bred“, you replied sarcastically.

He tutted three times. „Oh baby, we’ve been doing this for 7 years and your only argument is the fact that my parents are rich? I thought your argumentative skills were better than that. God should’ve spent more time on your brain, and not all of it on your body, yes?“ he retorted condescendingly.

Your steps slowed down and Jesse matched your pace, looking at you from the side in a questioning manner. His smile dropped slowly and his eyes scanned every part of your face, his own face reflecting uncertainty. As quickly as the uncertainty appeared, the expression left his face again.

You raised an eyebrow at him and the one side of your mouth tucked upwards. “ Was that a compliment, Scrooge Mcduck? Do you think my body is pretty?”, you grinned at him from one ear to the other.

His shoulders relaxed and he exhaled softly. He closed his eyes and then laughed „You crave my validation that badly?“, You made a gagging sound at the idea of you needing male validation and started walking. Your dog, following obediently behind you.

🌔

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Jesse‘s hands shook. He clenched and unclenched his veiny, long hand. Matching the speed of his curvy darling was easy, the few seconds before they continued walking weren’t; seeing her face drop at (what he assumed was) his insult made his heart clench. He wanted to die right then and there. It teared him apart like spiky thorns, which dug themselves further and further into his beating heart.

Well, he didn’t lie. Your body was carefully carved by the gods. Every curve was attentively sculpted. Every line carefully drawn with the most precise of utensils, and every round limb diligently molded. The strech marks on your body carefully designed after billions and billions of shooting stars and every dip in a curve accurately measured after the most beautiful mountains of this planet.

However, it’s not only your body that he is in love with. Your intelligence shocks him from day to day. You weren’t lying either; he can afford the most qualified tutors and the most intricate advanced courses to deepen his knowledge. You can not, and you are one of the smartest people he has ever met. And to think that he almost insulted and hurt you, and not in a bickering matter, made him want to throw up. Thankfully, you only cared about the part where he complimented your body. Jesse’s chest tingled and he could not help the grin that came over his face. God, he loves his darling so much.

Continuing the walk in comfortable silence for once without biting insults, and hearing both your steps ring throughout the halls of the corridor, made Jesse think of when you first met each other; You were both very young, and he was the embodiment of a broody, edgy teenager. Nobody talked to him, because of his reputation. Well, nobody except for.. well, you. You stood there with the biggest smile on your squishy cheeks and showed him kindness by hugging him. Little Jesse’s body warmed and tensed up. Not even his parents were kind to him like that. But no, they didn’t mistreat him. No, because mistreating him would mean actually spending time with him, and they are not the type of parents to do that. Indifference is so much crueler than hatred. You on the other hand, ruffled his hair and showed him affection. And like a sponge, he soaked it all up, like a stray dog after being fed, he came running back to you once he needed more. And what guaranteed your attention more than academically being on your level? What guaranteed your attention on him more than you showing your beautiful infuriation towards him?

His belly warmed at the idea of your pretty face scrunching up in anger at him. Pointing your pretty finger at him and roughing him up a little. He knows that he cannot make anybody as mad as you. You are special.

Jesse was completely lost in thoughts, reminiscing about the past when you ripped him out his trance with your beautiful voice: „I’ll get going then. Not all of us can bribe the Professors with money, can we? Some of us actually need to study and let our abilities speak for themselves.“, you nodded at him and turned around.

Jesse smiled at you, put his fist up in the air and called out: „Study hard! We‘ll need someone to secure the second place again!“

You kept walking and lifted your middle finger, causing him to throw his head back and laugh.

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Jesse was sitting in the garden of the Academy, watching you study diligently. His veiny fingers gently put a cigarette in his mouth and he inhaled the toxic substance. Looking carefully around to make sure none of the teachers would catch him and interrupt his favourite pastime; observing you and your little habits.

The few birds around him, that haven’t started their journey to the south yet, sung the song of their people and the autumn sun shone brightly in his face. The garden around him looked like an idyllic landscape, but he doesn’t need to spend his time looking elsewhere for heavenly projections. He has found his own salvation. His beautiful, ethereal goddess sitting a few meters away from him.

Taking another drag of his cigarette, his eyes looked down at the faint scars on his palm and his wrist. The era of his life where he hadn’t met you yet; naturally it was the worst time of his life. He chuckled lowly and remembered the anguish he felt. Unnecessary, wasted energy. There’s somebody else that can spend all of their energy on him; the good emotions, the bad. Somebody that can order him around and insult him and.. more. Goosebumps of pleasure rose on his body and he shivered happily. He grinned and gently licked his portruding canine teeth and threw away his cigarette safely, his eyes never leaving your gorgeous form.

Do you guys want more of Jesse?

(Please do not copy, rewrite or translate my ideas:) )

[frollosversion]

Why is Hellfire (AND JUDGE CLAUDE FROLLO'S PERSONALITY) creepy in itself?

Take it from a Theater Major! Let's dive in his song breakdown!

In a musical, there are 3 types of songs. There are "establishing/new songs", an "I am song", and an "I want" song.

Establishing/new songs are made to— self explanatory— establish the existence of the set and the characters without getting much depth as it focuses on the build up of the world the characters are living in or what the center of that place is supposed to be.

Let's not stray too far. Let's use The Bells of Notre Dame. Clopin, as the narrator, elaborates that an object, or a phenomena is linked to the character but doesn't really say what the character's in depth wants, needs etc are included (Which is the Bells and the Cathedral herself). 'The bells of Notre Dame' is played at the first part of the film/musical to establish a backstory or a character's focal point and a glimpse of moral standpoint (Claude's backstory and the Existence of Quasimodo) and to establish the setting (Which is Paris 1482 + 1462 flashback). That's the establishing/new song. It is also used as breathers like Flight into Egypt.

Next is an "I want Song". "I want" songs are automatically given to the main characters so the audience can get a peek of the beliefs of these characters and resonate with them in a sense. This kind of song elaborates the purpose and goals they try to achieve.

Quasimodo's "Out There" is a very good example of an "I want" song. He sings about his dream/goal to go down the bell tower without any consequences— "Just to live one day out there" as he would quote (love you quasi). That's where he's at and that's what he wants. To feel like he belongs. (ALSO, GOD HELP THE OUTCASTS IS AN I WANT SONG)

Next is an "I am" song. Now, an "I am" song isn't directly given to villains/anti-heroes either. These can be used as a type of song to other characters. But in most cases, villains own these songs. Good example of an "I am" song is:

“Gaston” from Beauty and the Beast,

“Poor Unfortunate Souls” from The Little Mermaid,

“Mother Knows Best” from Rapunzel,

or “Be Prepared” from The Lion King.

All of these songs explain who they are not just on one fragment. But the entirety of it.

Villains use this to establish the dynamic and the power they are trying to uphold and "shove in" the viewer's faces to who they are.

Now, the problem (the situation, rather) in Hellfire, is Frollo gets an I WANT song instead of an I AM song. Again, An I WANT song is used for the protagonists— to allow us to see the goodness in their hearts and what they want best.

He tried to just do an I AM song, given that the first verse is literally

“Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man of my virtue I am justly proud.

Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than the common vulgar weak licentious crowd.”

He tries to convey that Hellfire is an I AM song but eventually slips into the lines like he wanted her bad. Like... BAD bad.

And now since Frollo got an I WANT song, we saw what he wanted, which is lusting on Esmeralda + his moral dilemma. AND WE DON'T REALLY WANT TO SEE THAT, DO WE?? (I do. hehe). We saw things that we didn't really want to see. In this instance, his "little trouble at the fireplace."

And it's disgusting and disturbing to see how twisted a person is when left repressed and pushed. Not to mention that he's being sacrilegious himself because he blames that it's the Most High's plan that he made the devil "so much stronger than the man.". It's creepy. I know. sighs.

He's given a divine intervention (film), when he said "Let her taste the fires of hell or else let her be mine and mine alone!" Which he straight up rejects even if he asked for the sign himself AND PROCEEDS TO SING AND FINISH THE WHOLE DAMN THING.

So yeah, he's creepy, hellfire is twisted as it is. You get the gist. Thanks for listening to me yap. Take notes in case you wanted to write a musical. Yun lang! Mwah. HAHAHAHAHA

[4everhyucks]

— 6:08PM

cw. dubcon, sacrilegious themes, manipulation, loss of virginity, creampie.

it is just another sunday morning of you going to church, secretly glancing the cute boy standing at the front row while the priest reads from the gospel. it’s been a couple months since you found out that you developed a tiny crush on him despite not knowing a single thing about him, only overhearing some of his conversations with his friends on accident. that was how you got to know his name as well. you decided today will be the day to confess your love to him. you don’t really expect anything out of it when you do, just wanting to be honest with your own feelings.

when the church starts to clear out, you hurry over to him before he could leave, softly tapping on his shoulder, “mark.”

he turns around to meet your eyes, you’ve never once stood so close to him, suddenly noticing all his beautiful facial features.

“hey,” mark is giving off an awkward energy, barely noticeable, considering you both have certainly not interacted before. he adds, “do we know each other..?”

“no,” you’re quick to respond, “no we don’t, but i have something to uh tell you.”

“i’m all ears.”

you gathered up your courage and told him that you have a thing for him, you didn’t get to say much as he cut you off halfway, “so you like me?” he says, voice sounding cocky for no reason.

“yes- no- wait, i mean yeah! i do but i don’t uhm want anything from this, i’m just telling you, you know? you can forget about it, it’s not really that important.. it’s not like i wanted us to be together or anything,” you feel so tense, like every hair on your skin is standing up straight, you laugh lightly after you realise you have been rambling a whole lot. this is your first time confessing to someone, you’re not quite sure how to do it but you’re sure that you probably messed this one up.

mark didn’t give you a reply of any sort as he pulls you by your wrist into the confessional. you’re stunned by his actions, wondering why he brought you in here. you’re even more stunned when he stepped in too, tugging the curtains closed.

“what are we doing in here?” you nervously question him, standing together in such a close proximity is making you lose your mind. you can feel the warmth of his body on your cold skin.

“baby,” the word rolling off his tongue so smoothly like he’s used to calling you that. he places both his hands on your waist gently, slotting his knee in between your legs. you’ve never had someone touch you before, but it felt nice, it felt good.

“mark,” you whimper when he lifts his knee up higher until it hits your core. from the moment you opened your mouth to initiate a conversation, he knew you weren’t the type to go for parties, to go get laid and come for church to accommodate your sins. you’re actually as innocent as you look, and mark loves girls like you.

“yeah?” his replies, voice so gentle while moving your hips for you to grind on his thigh.

“feels- weird..” you mutter, fingers gripping onto his arm for balance.

“weird? how?” he asks, honestly not caring about what your response would be. before you could give him an answer, he adds, “want me to stop?”

you hastily shake your head. mark’s smirking when he sees your mouth dropping open. the sounds that leaves your lips made mark extremely aroused as he dips his head in your neck, the smell of your perfume intoxicating him, making his mind go hazy.

as if mark never noticed you every single time he showed up for church, the prettiest girl in the room, wearing the skimpiest sundresses known to humankind. he keeps finding himself jerking off to the thought about you whenever the hem of your dress flies up a little too high, giving him a whole view of your cute panty. on some days it’s baby blue, on some days it’s light pink with polka dots on it. all so innocent.

god must be on his side, for making his dream a whole fucking reality. he didn’t even need to try and here you are, handing yourself to him on a silver platter.

mark stops his movements when he feels your wetness soaking through his jeans. you are pushed up against the uncomfortable wooden prickly wall in the confessional as mark pulls your dress up, mouth salivating at the sight of your panty, white with a little pink bow on it. holy shit, you’re just so pure, way too pure for someone so dirty and corrupted like him.

“mark wait—” you softly hold his hands when he was about to touch your private part, snapping him out of his thoughts for just a moment but he’s already thinking of ways to let you let him have it his way.

“you like me right?” he tugs a strand of hair behind your ear when you nod, “this is what people do when they like someone.”

“does that mean you like me too?” you ask, gazing up at him with the most innocent looking eyes ever

mark hums, ignoring your question, “you’re so pretty, so so pretty.” and when he feels your hand leaving his, he wastes no time at all, shoving his fingers through your folds. you’re so wet, pussy dripping with arousal. you have both palms over your mouth, trying to stop the weird noises that were coming out on their own.

“does this feel weird?” he wants you to talk regardless of your hands blocking your mouth. “answer me baby.”

you slowly retreat your hands, “n-no, feels good..” accidentally letting out a moan when mark curls his fingers in you. shit you sound so angelic, and he wants to hear more.

“want me to make you feel even better?” he suggests. being the easily trusting person you are, you nod again with no hesitation. he slips his fingers out of you, placing them on your lips, “open up baby.” and you did so obediently, tasting your liquid with your tongue when he pushes his fingers through your lips.

mark unbuttons his jeans quickly, pulling his cock out of his briefs, lazily pumping it with his tip on your clit. you gag when his fingertips hit the back of your throat, tears welling up in your eyes. he retrieves his wet fingers, grabbing the bottom of your thigh, pushing it up to your chest. he glances down at your dripping soft cunt as he lines his painfully hard cock at your entrance, unable to hold out any longer.

“mark im scared,” your voice is shaking, you don’t think something that big could ever fit inside of you. you’re afraid that you might break, but mark wants to break you.

“don’t be scared baby, i promise it’ll feel real good.” already pushing the tip in, the stretch is unbearable, but you wanted to do your best, you didn’t want to disappoint him, you wanted him to feel good.

“so tight- taking me in so well,” mark huffs as he sinks his length into you all the way to the base, “see, wasn’t so bad right?” he lifts his eyes to meet yours, tears threatening to fall out of your eyes. mark didn’t think it was possible for his dick to get any harder than it already was, but it did.

“fuck- try to stay quiet baby,” he immediately starts moving after rushing his words.

“ahh i-i can’t,” despite trying so hard, gasps and whines kept slipping through your lips.

mark leans in close as he hungrily plants his lips on yours, swallowing down your pretty moans while he’s sucking on your tongue, groaning whenever your walls tighten up around his cock. while one of his hands are on the back of your thighs, his other is found wrapped around your throat, squeezing tighter and tighter by the second. oxygen is getting cut out of your lungs and with the way mark is pounding into you, it’s impossible for you to get a word out, much less a sentence. you can feel your knees starting to give out. you place your hands on either sides of marks’ shoulder, hoping he’ll go slower on you.

when mark parts away from your lips to let you breathe, you cough a little, “mark, i’m feeling weird again..”

“just relax,” he says, picking up his pace, he’s so close to finishing too.

with just a few more thrusts, you moan his name out loud as your body trembled, unable to control the volume of your voice. mark grunts at the feeling of your walls convulsing around him, letting out strings of curses as he came inside of you, filling you up to the brim.

“at least there’s something for me to look forward to during church sundays now,” you hear him say, feeling on cloud nine, mistaking his lust for love. never realising that mark did not once called you by your name.

[luvlyycy]

hii andi !

idk if your requests are open or not, but i was wondering if you can write anything for lee (from tekken , ofc) ?

idc if it’s sfw or nsfw, i’m just craving him so bad omgomgomg

omg...for you anna... anything for you.. in this lee is older than you and kinda sugar daddy-ish vibes,— its really just me rambling. (sfw at first but gradually becomes nsfw lol) nsfw under cut !!!!!!

Lee spoils you. He gives you anything you want, that necklace you want? It's already on your bed. Hell, a puppy dog? He's asking you whether you want a female doggy or a male, what breed you want, and what you want to name the dog so he can get custom-made water 'n food bowls.

He loves taking you on dates, always the romantic type. He reserves the whole restaurant so the both of you are alone, and he orders the whole menu— just so you can eat what you want without worries. If you don't wanna go out and stay in, guess what? He'll cook for you. It doesn't bother him that he has maids to cook for you, but he wants to do it for you— he wants it to be special for you, because he loves you.

Something even better is if you have anything that needs to be paid. He'll pay for it. All of it. He finds it cute that you want to be independent and pay for it yourself,,, but— he's going to inevitably pay for it all because, why would he let his princess work?

To elaborate, he doesn't let you do anything. Not because he doesn't think you can do it yourself but because you're his Princess. He goes to work while you stay snuggled up in bed. If you let him, he'll choose your clothes for the day, only choosing the most comfortable clothes you own. Lee also never lets you pay anything at all, in fact you suspect that he switched your card with one of his.

His princess treatment also translates into how he treats you during sex. He makes you dependent on him and makes sure that you're always the one receiving pleasure rather than him. He'll finger your pussy until you're trying to pull away— lick at your sticky clit until you're holding back your squirt.

You're just so adorable he can't help himself. Even when he fucks you it's about you, and always will be. Lee will rock his cock into you slowly, fingers expertly rubbing circles on your sensitive clit as he does so. He'll suck on your nipples, blow on them until they're hard and rubbing against his chest.

It drives him insane, the way you scrunch up your face in pleasure, or the way you grab onto his shoulders when you're on the brink of cumming. Fuck, it makes him dizzy. Especially when you cry out his name— it's almost as if an angel is calling him. Albeit, feeling as if the heavens are calling when he's fucking into your delicious cunt is a bit, sacrilegious, it still feels that way to him. He'll go out of his way to fuck you harder, the blunt tip of his cock hitting against your cervix— just so you can leave those red marks on his back.. the ones he shows off to everyone every chance he gets.

He can't put into words how much he loves you, your body, your smile, your laugh, your— and so on. If he could it would take decades just so he could pick and point out each and every little detail that he loves about you. Even if he is older than you by a few years, he doesn't mind— he doesn't care that you can possibly be seen as a gold digger, in his eyes you are already his wife, and he plans to make it official.

"Aahh, Princess, you feel amazing. G'nna make sure your cunt remembers me forever, yeah? I'll have to keep fucking her.. Fuuu—ck. I love you so much..So.. so much.."

[hatosaur]

i realized that i hadn't said anything here so this is a bit belated but i'm super unhappy with the casting choices of tlou hbo, and just the general direction it's going toward.

in abby's case, it's been well-pointed out at this point her body type is a narrative device, a catalyst for showing just how her dedication and obsession with tracking joel down and killing him. i don't doubt that kaitlyn dever will be working out for this role but i can only imagine she'll end with a sort of lean muscular physique that will hardly illustrate the point of the body type, rather than one that takes fat into consideration. dever is far too small to achieve it, and what's more is, i think it's super unethical to bank on someone working out in order to fit a role. the announcement of the casting came about a month after the trailer for that new kristen stewart movie, the one where she falls for a bodybuilder, came out. there are fully actresses who lift and bodybuilder and have similar body types, and yet their choice leaves us wanting.

dina's case feels a lot more sacrilegious. isabel merced isn't jewish, nor has any of dina's defining features. granted, i'm well-aware that neither cascina caradonna, her face model, nor shannon woodward, her voice actor, are jewish, but i feel like this is what made the casting choice matter all the more. dina's a character whose heritage matters to her character, and there was such a clear chance to have her be portrayed by a jewish actor.

like a lot of people, i think that they chose the more palatable route, considering the massive backlash against both abby's body type and dina's more prominent features, which is both incredibly sad to see but also infuriating. particularly with the issue of neil druckmann's batting for jewish rep under the veil of his allegiance with israel. i obviously can't speak for the feelings of jewish fans but i imagine to pull the rug out from underneath us on a character that he has said is a connection to his jewish like this would be like spit in the face.

the whole thing has just made me disinterested with season 2 of tlou hbo. there are already issues with the games' representation of people of color, and seeing as i could tell there was a small (i cannot stress how miniscule) attempt to "fix it, i'd held out hope prior to this but...no.

IN ALL HONESTY, i'd already been content to not engage with s2. i was skeptical enough from the get-go when it was announced, but truth be told, too many red flags are cropping up. obviously, there's the zionist stuff that i think, right now especially, literally everyone can do without (though i'm sure neil and craig are rubbing their hands together over how the people NEED a great "both sides are bad, completely and totally biased view of the conflict in palestine" story), but even to like pirate is a no-go for me.

all of this to say, since i've already gotten some people asking, you shouldn't expect me to draw or indulge in any of the content from it.

[solomons-poison]

Kissing prompt number 1 with gojo from Jujutsu kaisen because he'll be a baby when he's sick ☠️

Agreed, anon 😔 he gets some kind of wound in battle, he acts like he's fine. But the second he has a cold, and especially if he knows you'll dote on him, he'll be such a baby about it haha

Gojo Satoru x GN!reader

♡ kissing their forehead to check for a temperature when they’re sick

Gojo was one of those people that never got sick. You weren't sure if it was just his particularly sturdy constitution, or perhaps the pathogens somehow knew he was the strongest sorcerer alive. He'd often joke the same, stating that perhaps his infinity protected him, though that felt a little sacrilegious to you in truth. Regardless, you never saw so much as a sniffle from him for the longest time, and it was easy to start to believe that he really couldn't get sick like other people. But of course, per Murphy's Law, "If anything can happen, it will happen".

Lo and behold, you were shocked, to say the least, when you woke one morning to your sweetheart's flushed face, expression distorted in discomfort and nose sniffling grossly. You urged Gojo to get up, try to take him to the doctor or at least out of bed to clean up and get some food and liquids. Though he didn't look the best, you figured he was still okay. What was a little sickness to someone that regularly dealt with so much more, physically demanding work? He'd need to rest, sure, but you expected him to just shrug you off like usual and go on with his day.

However, the surprises kept coming as he only clung to you, telling you how truly awful he felt and how you were so mean to push him on. He was sick, shouldn't you be doting on him, giving him breakfast in bed, sitting at his bedside like a loving spouse? It was clear he was laying it on thick, his pretty lips tugged down in the most childish pout you'd ever seen. But his baby blues really called out to your heart and you couldn't bear to say no, not when he actually was sick and probably needing a little help.

Thus, the mission to help Gojo feel better began. Making him tea, getting some bone broth and making rice porridge, and of course fetching him blankets and tissues galore. The sniffling and pouting continued here and there, particularly if you refused him something, and it was always quick to turn around the moment you gave in. You knew he was laying it on thick, taking advantage of his lover's kindness to have you dote on him. But every so often, when he thought you were busy, you would catch a glimpse of him and his true state, his cheeky smirk replaced with a frown.

If anything told you just how sick he actually was, or how uncomfortable he felt, it was that, letting his guard drop to show you rare moments of sincerity. So you accepted it, maybe he deserved a little one-on-one attention from you anyway. As you brought him some porridge, hands occupied with the tray, you automatically leaned forward, pressing your lips to his forehead to check his temperature. He'd started to ask you something, but the gesture stopped him in his tracks, his already-flushed face somehow managing to flush even further. He couldn't help giving you a goofy smile in return, sniffling a little, and you knew you'd do anything to help your lover feel better.

—

Send me a type of kiss and a character!

[amethystina]

wondering about n9: To Live In Sin 😈🔥 tell us more if you’d like (whenever you have time, of course)

To Live In Sin is one of those fics that I started working on because there were simply too many thoughts and impressions crowding inside my head after I had finished watching The Guest. I was just so filled with emotions that I needed an outlet, if you know what I mean?

And, seriously: how could I possibly resist writing about a stoic, repressed Catholic priest realising he's having Gay Feelings™ for a reckless, annoying little shit he somehow ended up getting really attached to?

I have a type, okay?

But, admittedly, I didn't get very far before I was derailed by other projects. Or was guilted into putting it on hiatus, rather. But someday — maybe after a rewatch — I'll get back to it? I have about 1 000 words right now and it would end up being fairly short, I think.

Well, fairly short for being me, that is. Which means anything between 5-20k. Though it would get longer than that if I decide to make a second part where I turn it into a thruple. Because God knows my girl Gil Young deserves some love after putting up with the other two idiots for as long as she does.

ANYHOW. Here's a little snippet, specifically the part that just wouldn't leave me alone unless I wrote it down. Though keep in mind that it's set after the drama ends so warning for spoilers! (sort of)

---

Choi Yoon was living in sin.

It wasn't the kind of sin that most people indulged in but, then again, he wasn't most people. To the average person, sin was drinking too much, stealing, committing adultery, or perhaps gambling away their family's saving. Selfish acts of greed and violence, hurting both themselves and those around them.

Yoon had very few vices along those lines, but he was still a sinner.

Because Choi Yoon coveted.

He yearned.

When he'd first realized it, what he coveted had been something he couldn't have — something he thought was forever out of his reach. Lost to the deep, bottomless darkness of the East Sea. And, in many ways, that had made it safe. Still a sin, for sure, but a temptation that tasted of grief and loss, over before it even began.

It wasn't dangerous to covet something he knew he could never have.

And so, despite knowing he shouldn't, he'd allowed the yearning to gain hold — didn't immediately push it away as he should have. Didn't admit to his treacherous thoughts during confession so they could be forgiven and cleansed, leaving him pure again.

He didn't want purity.

He didn't want to be forgiven.

He didn't want to forget.

Instead, he'd clung to the bone-deep, aching yearning, desperate for a fraction of what he'd lost, hungry for that spark of sacrilegious desire, reveling in how alive it made him feel. He found solace in how fiercely the emotions burned.

It had made it easier to deal with the grief.

---

Yoon is doing GREAT, thanks for asking xD

WIP Tag Game

[cloudypinkblink]

yo here is a fun headcanon i have that you might like

ex delinquent Sayuri, Satsuma knows about it and knows she can easily beat him up

masaru and chika are unaware about it and just think that their mom was in some kind of school club that involve fighting or something

This energized me for the day, so please have these doodles and a new AU/personal HC

So this is the Sayuri ex-Deliquent thing; my personal little HC for it is that she and Satsuma are actually childhood friends (neighbors, probably) and that Sayuri and Suguru met in school, and clashed heads (a lot like our two beloved boys in the modern era....) (thie little chibis of the main trio represent their mirror for the back in time AU trio) Rentarou (calling him by first name feels sacrilegious, but it feels even weirder if I don't bc I refer to the other two by first name LMAO) does have a crush on Sayuri, but it's the type of thing that passes/is dealt with as they get older, bc he respects her and Suguru. He is very very much the one that kinda reigns them both in, but also gets dragged along. Suguru is a doctor, which is why he's being deligated Smartie Pants role; after all, Touma is a genius but also loves to box and isn't a weakling, so I figure Suguru is similar. Suyuri is very rambunctious; I think she's not only a regular delinquent, but definitely one of those girls that don't want to be looked down on for being a girl. So she likes to be tough and fight like the boys, and she doesn't take it well when someone (coughcough Suguru coughcough) criticizes her because he means well- the only person she kinda listens to is Rentarou, because he's her childhood friend. Suguru is fairly polite, actually; he's not an overly violent guy and while strong and athletic, has a more passive personality where he tries to solve things with words. It's Sayuri that later changes that mindset a bit, and gets him to enjoy and see the merits of talking with one's fists LMAO (so a good influence!). Rentarou comes from a strict, law enforcement family and he is under a lot of pressure to do good; his family isn't fond of Sayuri given her delinquency, but they're friends and there is no stopping that. He often feels more refreshed and encouraged after spending time with her, which is one of the reasons he develops a crush on her. Suguru and Sayuri try to avoid each other, and get into fights and arguments nearly any time they DO see each other- but then they keep getting into silly shenanigans (with poor Rentarou dragged along one way or another) I kinda want them to find out abt Digimon around this time, but I'll delve into it later.

Sayuri is a little embarassed about her past? She was quite a bit worse than Masaru; yes he gets into street fights but he's also good about chores, caring for his sister and trying to do right by her- he doesn't skip as much school as she had, and usually she can find a valid reason why. Embarassment aside, she wasn't going to let Masaru tackle the world without knowing proper technique, and Suguru left too early to really teach him (but late enough to get him riled up, and you know Sayuri gave him an earful abt that when he came back LOL) She lets her kids believe whatever, not really ready to tell them she was a wild child herself. (Chika later finds out; Masaru does not and Chika is both excited she knows something Masaru doesn't know, but sad she can't share her findings, given they theorized about it) Sayuri of course chilled out and became softer as she got older, but it was mostly when she got her kids that she really calmed down. She wanted to be someone that they could tell mistakes to, who they could be honest with, etc etc., But when Masaru or Chika get out of line, there's a certain edge to her voice that definitely has their backs straightening. This is a really fun AU and I bet you weren't expecting me to want to delve into it but I 10/10 will. This is gripping me by the THROAT what have you DONE to me.

[gabessquishytum]

Hiiii warprize anon here! Glad to see people are still warprizing hob, I think it’s good for him. Truly, anons, you are doing glorious work with that AU.

I wanted to write dark obsessive dream next in all his dubcon glory next but no one cooperated? Have some less porny character introspection instead ig…

It’s amazing how little it takes for a grown man to become used to being a pet. As weeks stretch into months, Hob revels, just a little. In the lustful linger of eyes on his body. In the quirk of that cruel mouth when Hob pleases the king. The eager stirring of his cock even before he eats aphrodisiacs. Even his punishments—even the hot lash of the whip—begins to feel like sacrilegious worship. Gasping for breath, holding his thighs spread as the king buries himself in his body certainly is. In the blackest and most honest hours of the night, Hob knows the truth. He is starting to like it.

That’s the danger of the king’s service.

Hour by orgasmic hour, the king is twisting himself into Hob’s mind and body like a key carving out its own lock. He demands Hob’s submission, his pleasure and his desire for his own. But how many people had the king had in such a way? How many prizes have knelt, and learned to live at his pleasure? And where are they now? Abandoned surely, replaced. Hob is the chalice the king sips from now but he is one of dozens, maybe even hundreds. The king might have taken a prize from every battle won.

Hob is…not special.

He kneels on his cushion, waiting for the king who has stepped from the throne room, and reminds himself.

Footsteps approach and stop just behind him. Always, when the king is away, a guard is assigned to keep a close eye for Hob’s protection, though none are allowed to take his chains in their grip. Not unless Hob runs. Daring, the guard plucks at the chain between his nipples until it swings against Hob’s chest. He holds his breath.

“How’s it going?” A voice drawls. “Knees a little tired?”

Hob glances at the door for the absent king before raising his head. The guard above him smirks like he knows a joke and Hob is the punchline.

“Yes, rather,” Hob replies. “Even with the cushion.”

“His majesty seems to like that,” he muses.

Corinthian. That is his name. He’d heard the king give him orders with iron in his voice. The way one talked to a guard dog who wasn’t trusted. A creature who couldn’t be taught to fear the whip.

“You’d know better than me.” Hob meets his eye as best he can through the man’s dark glasses. He is very handsome, golden and strong. Perhaps this is the answer. Perhaps prizes who lose their luster are given other ways to serve.

Corinthian tilts his head. Hob feels his eyes trace down the marks the king left. Lurid love bites at his throat and faint fingertip bruises on his hips. “I really don’t. Suppose I’m not his type.”

“Surely you’ve seen the others then.” Hob replies. He keeps his hands folded where they’re bound at the small of his back.

“Other … prizes?” Corinthian’s grin only grows. “Sweetheart, no. You’re the first.”

Hon stares but senses no lie. “Can’t be.“

“Picking a prize always been his right but he’s never felt the need to use it until now. Until you.” The man leans closer, dangerously into his space. Hob feels him breathing, he’s so close. “I’ve heard the sounds he pulls from you at night. He must have years of pent up energy.”

Hob’s throat is dry. Something fragile, winged and stupid flutters in his chest. But before he has to think of a reply, Corinthian snaps back to a respectful distance an instant before the doors swing open, and the king sweeps in. He climbs the stairs, slinks back to claim his throne. Hob is still reeling when his cool hand finds his chin and tilts his head up.

“You did not move,” the king says. It is not a question but an expectation.

Hob shakes his head. For a long moment his eyes glitter down on him, simply watching. Then fingers card through his hair and he is guided to rest his head against his king’s knee.

Lying face down on the floor after reading this tbh. Like. What can I say? What can I add?

Knowing that he's the only one is a further kind of beautiful torture for Hob, because once again he's asking himself over and over again: why? Why him, above anyone else? There's a part of him in agony over his imprisonment, the curtailing of his freedoms, the fact that his mind and body are no longer his own. Then there's the part of him who wants to know why, so he can be good. He needs to know how he can keep the favour that he has miraculously obtained.

And Dream? He never gives answers. If Hob even dared to ask more than a small, sobbed "why me?" in the midst of some blissful torture, Dream wouldn't bother to answer. Hob thinks that the king likes him kept ignorant and confused. It's another way to keep him in line. He's always dancing on a knife's edge, wondering whether the king will eventually toss him aside - never knowing if he's truly safe.

So he'd better be as good as he can. Never give Dream a reason to throw him away. But he will slip up eventually - its only a matter of time...

[ithinkyouhealedmyheart]

89 for JaLyn 👉👈 🥺

You got:

I do not apologize for the amount of Drake Bell songs on my wrapped playlist, but you have been warned.

"I'm in love with Lynette!"

James covered his mouth, and his eyes widened. This didn't come as a surprise to his friends. They knew the brunette's feelings for the Kat's Crew dancer. The singer bent backward for her unintentionally, or maybe it was intentional. James spent most of his time with Kendall, Carlos, and Logan, but now his time is divided between his friends and Lynette. He takes every excuse to see her.

"Okay?" Logan didn't look up from his homework.

"Aren't you guys going to gasp or say this is sacrilegious because Kat's Crew was brought on to replace us?" James pouted and crossed his arms. "I'm like Romeo announcing his love for Juliet."

"Dude, you are not star-crossed lovers." Kendall was lying on the orange couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth.

"Not true! Our bands will never get along, and it'll tear our love to shreds!" James put a hand to his forehead and sighed dramatically.

The door to 2J squeaked open, and James snapped his head towards the door. He grinned when he saw Lynette standing there. Her purple cropped leather jacket was his favorite article of clothing she owned since his favorite color was purple, but it was stylish.

"There's an event at the boardwalk, and Ronnie is busy, apparently." She shot Kendall a sarcastic glare. "James, do you want to come with me?"

"Us? Alone?" James swore his heart skipped a beat.

"Alone? No, Kat, Shay, and Jay Jay are coming too, but it's not like we'll be in this massive group. Kat's mom has a lot of room in her minivan." Lynette leaned against the doorway.

James didn't bother grabbing a jacket as he practically raced out of the apartment. Lynette stayed behind momentarily, trying to process how fast the brunette moved.

"Nothing below the waist," Kendall commented with a knowing look.

"What does that- " Lynette's shoulders scrunched up, and she shut the door quickly.

James was practically squished against the door with Lynette at his side. Kat rode in the front because it was her mom's van. Jay Jay and Shay were glued to their phones while Lynette bobbed her head to the faint sound of music playing over the radio. James had not interacted with Kat's Crew since their first interaction when Gustavo pitted them against each other to take his last remaining slot. Of course, Gustavo would never give up on Big Time Rush. He wanted to scare them because no one was taking this seriously.

He learned from Ronnie that Kat's Crew had left Hawk Records, and Griffin welcomed the girls back to Rocque Records with open arms. Lynette was a background singer, but her strength was dancing. She preferred it compared to singing with the other three girls. James couldn't understand why someone would like dancing better than singing, but he would never ask her why if it seemed like he was judging her.

For some reason, the brunette wasn't expecting the boardwalk to be crowded. He didn't know what to expect when he heard about the carnival. Kat, Shay, and Jay Jay separated from the group when they left the car, leaving Lynette and James. He didn't know why he was so nervous. He squeaked when she took his hand and led him through the crowds. Even if it wasn't anything more than platonic, James couldn't deny holding hands with her made him happy. Butterflies were fluttering in his stomach.

Lynette didn't mind the crowds. She mentally prepared herself for the number of people on the car ride. Holding James' hand was a way to ground herself. It was also just lovely to hold his hand. It fit in hers like a puzzle piece.

"Oh! Let's go here!"

She pointed to one of the stalls, and her eyes lit up. It was one of those stalls where the objective was to pop as many balloons as possible. James was a bit uneasy, but he walked over with her. He could have been better at these types of games back home. There were far too many stuffed animal prizes he could never win. But, for some reason, he was determined to win something.

He gave the carney the money in exchange for three darts, which felt heavy in his hand. If Logan had been there, he would have said the darts were weighted, and the game was rigged, but James was a bit naive. With Lynette watching, he felt even more nervous. What if he screwed up? What if he hit her with one of the darts? What if he hit himself with one of the darts instead? He took a shaky breath and threw the first dart.

The balloon pop was like an explosion, and it startled him. He threw the other two darts with a bit more confidence than before. One of them managed to pop two balloons, which seemed like they could have been more logistically possible, but James wasn't the logical one. He got to choose one of the prizes and noticed how intently Lynette was staring at that big, fluffy dog.

The girl squealed when he handed her the large German Shepard. She giggled and hugged it to her chest.

"This is awesome! Thank you!"

"Yeah, of course!" The singer coughed awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. Could she see him blushing?

[prettycottonmouthlamia]

This is probably going to be a little sacrilegious but something that I'm finding is that when I play IS3, I am actually enjoying myself a lot. Honestly, I'm enjoying myself a lot more than I was playing IS2. This isn't to say that IS3 is perfect or anything, or even than IS2 is bad, but I find that I'm enjoying my time in IS3 just a lot more.

Now keep in mind I'm not really a hard mode grinder by any means. I didn't enjoy the difficulty mechanics in IS1 very much, and their return in IS2 really did not inspire me with much desire to tackle IS2 on a harder difficulty. IS3's difficulty is a bit...infamous for being a bit much, and honestly I'm kind of content with just poking my toes into the water in the future if I feel I want to. If you asked me to do A15 Izumik or die, I think i'd take the gun personally.

The point here is that I'm taking both of these themes from their base standpoint, and that means on the surface level that IS3 is just going to be easier. Two of IS3's unique squads (Mind Over Matter and People-Oriented) not only feel stronger than any squad in IS2, but they're dramatically more interesting to play. You also start off with significantly higher buffs in IS3 over IS2. You have stronger statistical buffs, you have more resources, you have the frankly crazy perfect clear about 8 Max HP buff, and the new node types, all of which are good.

I don't really want to come in from the difficulty angle, although it is maybe unavoidable that more runs in IS3 for me feel like they actually finish compared to IS2. This is partly due to difficulty and partly do to factors that extend into the design of stages themselves.

I will summarize my thoughts here and maybe make a point later on to elaborate them in a different post

-IS3 gives you more opportunities to develop runs, mostly through the use of keys -Keys fuck, and honestly I will probably enjoy IS4 even more given it uses keys in a much cooler way. Having more control over a run feels really nice -Map design in IS3 is a LOT better than in IS2. A lot of IS2's map design is based on IS1, which I'm going to be brave and say is by and large total shit, and IS2 relies a LOT on what are basically pranks -Seriously, fuck the Lost Colossus stage in IS2. -This makes it so its a lot easier to get a sense of flow in IS3. You can look at a stage in IS3, and know how to reasonable tackle it. This isn't consistently true in IS2. Shit in IS2 just fucking, moves. -Also the fact that IS2 kept the absolutely awful Bear and Duck stages where you just contend with increasing numbers of bullshit, and decided to make one version with fucking Sandbeasts makes me really ticked off. These stages are so much better in IS3 -Corrosion is a significantly better mechanic than Sanity. I am not a Sanity defender and I think it says something that I consider Scarlet Singers so dangerous you have to always account for them -Granted Sea Skimmers also suck dick, Low-Altitude Hovering my beloathed -Paranoia Illusion is a much fairer boss than Lucian, Blood Diamond. I feel like if IS2 had an A15 people would legit hate this boss. You're generally priced into trying to kill him on the first pass or develop enough life to deal with leaks from the defender side. It's never worth actually developing that side if he breaks the roadblocks. -I also like Ishar'mla more than Troupe Mouthpiece. Mouthpiece's stage has a really baller design, but it is maybe the ending out of the 8 in the first two IS that requires the most specific set of units. -Also unlocking Ishar'mla is generally a bit easier than Mouthpiece and doesn't require you giving up a boss relic and THEN hitting a random event

But like, IS3 isn't perfect. It has its bad stages and frankly really annoying bullshit (Territorial Tendencies and Ubi bona somnia are quite bad as Emergency Operations). The Light mechanic is annoyingly useless and not even really fun to interact with. Izumik is uh

well frankly I kind of stopping wanting to do it that entire thing is beans

and the Resourceful Squad exists to remind me that I am not Fate's Favorite Child, I will roll nat 1s on my D12s

[ichigojamjar]

surrender — pyotr verkhovensky

“And the angels who did not stay within their own position of authority, but left their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains under gloomy darkness until the judgment of the great day —” Jude 1:6, ESV

this work is the second installment in the pandemonium regnat series on my ao3, and happens after the events of “decadence”; i chose to only publish this here, however. this is dedicated to one of my beloved twitter moots: nika, the one and only mrs. verkhovenskaya. (i hope you like it!)

tw: non/dubcon, drugging by scent, and sacrilegious themes. pyotr has a snake-like tongue.

You don’t remember what happened yesterday.

Somehow, for whatever reason unbeknownst to you, you’re now lying in your bed; it’s morning, and the only thing that’s separating you from truly acknowledging the new day is the blinds that are drawn shut. Well, they always have been. With a soft groan, you lift your head slightly from your pillow and get your bearings — you’re back in your room, and it smells awfully like someone just spilled an entire bottle of strong smelling vanilla perfume all over your carpet, the kind that reminds you of a pastry shop, but thicker and borderline unpleasant. The haze of just having woken up disables you from finding a believable, logical reason as to why you currently have no recollection of last night. After letting a few drowsy noises escape your throat, you kick off your duvet; though your legs have not fully been freed, and as a result you end up stumbling out of bed. The first thing that you recall is that you went out drinking last night, judging by the inebriated state you are in. That can also probably explain why there’s a weird smell present in your apartment, but to your knowledge, you’ve yet to encounter liquor with such a striking sweet odor. 

The first thing you reach for — a habit you’ve formed over the years; really, you had to unlearn this sooner or later — is your phone. Surprisingly, you barely used it, as it still has around sixty percent as shown at the top right. You squint at the screen, before finally deciding that it’s time to open your blinds. You curse loudly when blinding sunlight floods your room; your arm comes up to shield your poor, still-adjusting eyes from the morning sun before moving away from the window, your phone in hand and the other rubbing at your face. Retreating to the kitchen, which is at the farthest end of the apartment, you sit down at the small dining table and begin checking your phone in hopes of remembering whatever the hell happened  last night.

Panic immediately floods you when it crosses your mind that you were with your friend the other day, and that you two had gone to some fancy frat party that you haven’t even heard of before — it worsens when your brain reminds you that you two had indeed been drinking, but the even bigger problem (yes, it can get worse!) is the realization that you left them there, only for you to now be here, in your apartment, clueless and disoriented about last night’s events. Your fingers move at an almost inhuman speed as you type a text to your friend, asking how they are and where they are currently. The alarming feeling makes you sit up, and it has temporarily wiped away the idea of eating breakfast any time soon; you didn’t feel like eating right now, anyway.

The reply comes after roughly thirty minutes, and by this point your hunger has gotten the best of you. You abandon the piece of toast to see what your friend has to say. She’s fine, she says. You relax in your seat, and any remaining adrenaline that originated from the anxiety of hoping for a positive answer slowly fades away from your system. You deflate in your seat, and after a few moments, you muster up enough willpower to fill your stomach for the day. All that alcohol last night makes you crave for something salty, so in the toaster goes two slices of sourdough bread — not homemade, of course, and you remind yourself that you have to stop by the nearest supermarket to grab another loaf — and a couple of strips of bacon which you fry on a pan. You figure you had spare energy for scrambled eggs, so you go and make those. Exhausted, you plop back down on the dining table and have breakfast, your gaze soft and unfocused. Your mind tries to work through the fog that has settled upon your recollection of last night. There’s a Bonheur painting; peach and plum slices on a crystal saucer; the sound of ice clinking against a bulbous whiskey glass, and the voice of someone whispering in your ear… and then nothing more. You check your phone again, confirming that today is Saturday. Good, you think to yourself. I won’t feel any guilt staying indoors today.

Committing to your decision to spend the day leisurely, your pending work remains untouched — you’ve got some papers to pass, but their deadlines aren’t until after a few days, and you assure yourself that it won’t be much of a bother to write them once you finally feel like it. After burning hours in bed with your show streaming on your laptop, you decide that you want to eat outside for lunch, and to get some much needed air after spending time soaked in that horrid scent that has mysteriously taken root in your room. Before leaving, you make sure to leave your windows open, in hopes that the air would carry the odor out of the enclosed space while you’re outside. You put on a light coat, slip into your shoes and make a mental note of the only belongings you ought to bring: your wallet, phone, and keys. There are some students in the lobby of the university dorm, but you recognize none of them, and slink past them as you step outside. Cold autumn air hits your face as soon as you begin walking down the sidewalk; today’s agenda is to get lunch at a dumpling place near the campus. You and your friend often go there for cheap meals and when you can’t be bothered to cook at the dormitory, which is quite frequent; more frequent than you would like to admit. 

After alighting from the bus, you step inside; the warm, jovial atmosphere of the interior is a stark difference from the chilly, desolate cityscape, and the lively murmurs of the restaurant goers serve as a welcome distraction for you as you take a seat near the window. A waiter takes your order and you wait patiently for it scrolling on your phone to help kill time. For some unknown reason — though you know or recognize no one in this restaurant, you feel watched — your eyes sweep over the other customers, and then out into the street. There’s no one there. You redirect your attention to your phone, but the feeling doesn’t leave you even until you finish your meal and get on the bus back to the dorms.

—♱—

It’s around three when you arrive home. The smell has finally left your room, you observe, but the lingering chill of being surveyed against your will has replaced this, and you hurry closing your windows, dodging to even direct your eyes out on the streets below which are now illuminated only by the lamp posts. Out of caution, you glance at your door, more specifically at the dead bolt. You sigh. It’s safely snug in its notch. You peel off your coat and hang your purse by a hook near your desk. Another shiver wracks your body as you walk across the room, thinking about how perhaps a shower could allay the pounding of your heart. Growing up, you’ve heard stories about the paranormal; of ghosts, ghouls, demons. These tales are simply legends, grounded upon no solid foundation of the reliable kind, and are only meant to strike fear into one’s heart, especially upon children, so that they would never stray from their guardian’s guidance. They offer little dependable solution, too; the most one can do was to utter a prayer, in hopes of being rid of the presence of such a malevolent entity. 

Under your breath, you whisper a prayer as the water hits you and cascades rapidly down your body. You don’t really know why you recited it, but something within you just cannot feel at ease if you did not do so. You sigh, attempting to focus on being enswathed by warmth instead of wallowing in such unsettling thoughts. 

After getting dressed, you spend a few hours on your phone, again, getting your daily dose of dopamine from mindless scrolling. There’s a party going on again somewhere on campus from what you can tell from a couple of people’s stories on Instagram. You suddenly think back on the one you attended yesterday. It still unnerves you that you can't remember what happened at that random frat party. The thing that stood out to you the most is how oddly… polished it was. Frat parties are messy; they’re loud; the venue is almost always packed with people, and you would see the raunchiest shit happening at the most random corner and no one would even bat an eye, because they’re too focused on getting shit-faced drunk. At that party yesterday, however, everyone was dressed nicely; there was no loud, obnoxious music that made you feel like your eardrums were bleeding, and the guests were all on an invite-basis. Upon recalling this, you scramble to get up and walk towards your desk. You put your phone down as you sift through your things strewn atop the surface, and under a pile of printed notes, finally you see that particular dark blue envelope. It’s small, and fits perfectly in your hand. You open it and pull the card out to read its contents. On it is simply the venue, your name and your friend’s name — the one who you asked to come along with you — and other things like the recommended attire  and the purpose of the event. Your eyes close in on that. It reads:

“Epsilon Tau Kappa invites you to its annual soiree, a tradition long practiced since its conception. Join us as we celebrate the fraternity’s 100th anniversary, for the night will remember you even as you leave.”

Those last few words send a shiver down your spine. You put the card back in the envelope and retreat to your bed, huffing as your back hits the sheets. This is all beginning to confuse you. Why are you being so… fussy about a random night out, anyway? It isn’t like yesterday was your first time; you’ve had your fair share of parties throughout your years in university, and the most recent one you attended is no different.

You stop there. No, no way. Something within you told you that you aren’t privy to certain information about the party. The mere fact that you don’t even remember what happened after being separated from your friend is already alarming, and now that you’re having such a strange day, it’s now occupying such a large space in your head that you can’t seem to think of anything else. Deciding to get to the bottom of this, you look for your friend’s name in your contacts and press ‘call’. She picks up after a few rings.

“Hey, what’s up?”

You take a second to respond. “Hi, uh… I have something I want to ask, you know, about last night, at the party we went to.”

“Yeah?”

“Right, ‘cause, I don’t know why, but…” You begin fiddling with the corner of your duvet. “I can’t remember what happened. All I can recall is when I said I was going to get drinks, and after that, just — whoosh — gone. Next thing I know, I’m back in my room.”

A few moments pass before your friend responds. “I… Honestly, it’s all foggy for me, too. It was the same for me, I just ‘magically’ woke up in my bed.”

“God, that’s so strange,” you sighed. “Let’s not go to any of that frat’s parties ever again.”

Your friend laughs. The two of you exchange a few words — recent events in uni, your complaints about finals, and plans for winter break — and then you hang up. The brewing worry in your heart is allayed, and somehow you are assured that whatever is bothering you at the moment has been pushed off the main stage, enough for you to be motivated to start dinner. With a sigh, you swing your legs off the edge and pad towards the kitchen. You whip something up while having your favorite show playing in the background just to fill the silence and not make you feel even more alone. 

Time flies as you have dinner and get ready for bed, and the moment your body has relaxed back onto the mattress, your eyes feel strangely… heavy. Your body feels sapped of energy, and you consider whether the cold has gotten to you and you’re now on the verge of having a fever.  You try to think of what you did today, but you conclude that none of them required so much physical exertion to render you exhausted like this. You sigh. Perhaps getting enough sleep will alleviate it, you think — you are kind of still suffering from the effects of a hangover, so you switch off your lamp and close your eyes, hopeful that you’ll be refreshed and recharged once you wake up. You have never been so wrong your entire life.

—♱—

Your mind is roused from sleep, but the world you wake up in isn’t yours. Terror floods your veins when you realize that you can’t move your body, nor can you utter a word. You can hear your thoughts, however that offers you little to no comfort in this state of partial wakefulness. The sight that greets your eyes dispels any hope that may have come to life, like the smallest candle flame being snuffed out amid a pitch black room. Your bedroom is bathed in pale blue; everything around you is in a haze, as if the entire apartment is filled with thick smoke. What you’re seeing right now seems… wrong; fabricated, even; like someone has taken a picture of your room and was asked to draw it from memory alone. Even the soft fabric of your sheets feels false. 

And there’s that smell again. Nausea invades your senses next, and your head spins as you hold onto whatever remains of your reasoning. Breathing becomes laborious to you, and the scent only serves to act as a sickly, poisonous fume that permeates your lungs. Your heart begins hammering inside your chest like a piece of overworked machinery, because that sensation isn’t the most horrifying part of what you are currently able to perceive. At the foot of your bed is a figure; it stands directly in front of you in a placid stance, its head tilted off to the side as it languorously surveys you. Its eyes are glowing, and you can make out the gleam of its teeth amid the darkness that besets you. Your entire being grows cold. It’s smiling at you.

The first thing your floundering mind grasps is a prayer. It’s something you learned a few years back, after you did a paper for a world religions class — except it’s been ages ago, and you can only recall fragments of the entire thing, much to your disadvantage. Still, you decide that it’s better to recite what you can remember rather than simply laying there, exposed and vulnerable like an animal caught in a trap; your death imminent and unavoidable.

Well, it never hurts to try.

‘Vade retro satana,’ you begin, saying the prayer in your head since you can’t open your mouth to speak. You struggle to remember the next line. ‘Numquam… s-suade mihi vana…’

You hear the dark unknown entity chuckling, thoroughly amused by your imploring. A large metal ball feels like it’s just been dropped in your stomach, and your fingertips grow frigid. Even your sweat was cold. The mattress by your feet dips from the creatures’ weight as it creeps up towards you, inching closer and closer like a predator on the prowl. You’re prompted to close your eyes. The fear coursing through your system convinces you that nothing can ever help you fall back asleep to escape the clutches of this nightmare. Then, you feel its finger — a thumb — running over your lips gently, as if it was marveling at a rare flower, sliding off the morning dew that rested on a petal. Even though you’ve blocked your vision, you swear you can feel it smiling wider upon witnessing your trembling, fear-ridden condition. Your blood freezes. Tears start welling up in your eyes. ‘S-sunt mala quae libas…’ You recite further. This is a prayer that is falling on deaf ears; you’re well-aware of this, but you go on anyway.

The creature straddles you; its hands are on either side of your head, and his knees planted firmly by your hips. His mere presence is so unbearably heavy; it’s oppressive and deeply unsettling, as if he has two more hands wrapped around your neck and another set pressing down on your chest. It watches you with much fascination and enjoyment for a moment, and after that, you finally hear it speak.

“What’s next, little one…?” It is the voice of a man; he speaks with a lilting, playful tone, but calm and dangerously soft; as if he’ll change it up into a roar if you utter something that isn’t to his liking. He tilts your chin up a tad. “Come on… Continue.”

‘I-ipse… Ipse…’

He smiles wickedly. “Ipse venena bibas.” He inches his face towards yours until his lips ghost over yours. Every puff of breath is warm and smelled of that awful scent that has been plaguing you since yesterday. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

‘No,’ you warily protest in your head.

In response, he grabs your wrists forcefully from your sides, and he pins them by your ears; it seems he’s the only one able to command your body in this otherworldly plane, as your limbs feel heavy as lead when you woke up earlier. His grip is painfully tight and strong. 

“You think you’re in a position to deny me?” His words plunge you deeper into despair. He can hear you talking in your head. Tilting his face closer to your neck, he inhales the scent emanating from your skin. The satisfied hum he lets out rumbles from his chest. “See, you smell like me already… It would do you well to say yes to me,” he starts stroking your hair. “—just like you did last night, drinking everything I gave you like an obedient little thing. I liked you more then, but you can still convince me to maintain that opinion of you now… If you obey me, that is.”

You don’t even remember what he’s saying. Saying yes? Drinking? You scramble once more to use the prayer to ward him off. ‘Crux sacra sit mihi lux —’

The hold he has on your wrists only tighten, and you start to think that he would leave marks of his grip on you when you finally wake up later.  “Non draco sit mihi dux. Vade retro satana, numquam suade mihi vana…” He laughs as he throws the prayer back to you mockingly, savoring each word as it rolls off his slithering tongue. A finger traces the shape of your face. “You poor lamb… God isn’t coming to save you,” he dips down once more, grazing his teeth against your neck as if threatening to latch onto your skin. “He won’t hear you here, little one. He never does…”

You can no longer hold it off; your tears roll down your cheeks as the reality of your situation dawns upon you. This only riles him up, however; he laughs louder, and even resorts to mockingly cooing at your pathetic sobbing, mimicking your frightened noises. Your heart sinks deeper into your belly when you feel him licking off each of the tears that escape your eyes.

“Why the tears, pretty  lamb? I haven’t even started yet.” He taunts you as his grin turns even more vile. When you refuse to answer, he grabs your chin with a hand. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

‘No,’ you resist once more.

Anger flares within him from your lack of compliance. “I said look at me.” 

You don’t know how it happened, but some invisible force compels you greater than your own will, and soon your eyes are open. What you see before you is nothing less than frightening. The creatures assumes the form of a man: slight build; flaxen hair that frames his thin face — though, it’s quite hard to see in this lighting, save for his eyes that carried a glint of malice — the only features that stood out to you are the ram-like horns which protrude from his forehead, and the swishing tail behind him. He’s fully bare, and the heat from his body is so potent that you can barely stand being trapped so near him. You forget how to breathe as your eyes attempt uselessly to make him out in the dark. Then it clicks. Fear gains mastery of you, and you lay there in pure horror when you realize that it’s him: Pyotr, from last night; the one who welcomed you at that party. He’s here, in your apartment, perched on your bed. He isn’t human at all.

“There you are…” He sighs, tracing the curve of your cheek again. “That wasn’t so hard was it?”

You stare at him, speechless and overcome with primal trepidation. He shifts so that he is now pressing against your body. His arms are wrapped around your midsection as he nuzzles into the valley of your breasts. He purrs, pleased with what he’s touching and feeling. “Humans are always so delicate… So soft… I wonder how I’ll start with you…”

The whimper he produces from you remains as an echo in your head. He lifts his head to look at your face, and he smiles, hearing your every thought and reveling at every reaction you’re having at the moment. As he mulls over what he wants to do with you, he gets obscenely handsy; the tips of his fingers — nimble; lithe, yet bold — ghost over your skin with every stroke and caress. He cups your breasts under your shirt, which he removes with ease; he pinches and thumbs at your nipples, smiling wickedly to himself when he feels them perk up under his touch. Then, his hands travel further down. His vermillion stare doesn’t leave you as his palms memorize every dip and curve of your body. He touches you like he’s mapping you out; learning what you like, and seeing which areas you react to the most. At some point, he decorates you with kisses; your chest, the soft swell of your stomach, and where your legs and torso meet. For a fraction of a second, you forget that this was a demon toying with your body, not some regular person who’s about to make love to you. Pyotr follows the contour of your form until he’s met with the hem of your bottoms. It’s promptly yanked off of you — you still can’t move, but he can maneuver you anyway he wants — and now, you’re fully naked before him.

“What’s my real name, you ask? You don’t like the one I told you yesterday?” He chuckles derisively, almost slighted that you dare challenge him in this way. He looks up at you from between your legs, and your feet are now planted on the mattress. From the whirlpool of thoughts that are swimming in your faltering mind, he hears one of them again as he uses his fingertips to softly rake down the length of your thighs. “You should get used to it. After all, you will need a name to scream later…”

You berate yourself for finding the sensation ticklish and almost pleasant — an observation he has probably already known — but as it is, the influence of the scent that has permeated your apartment earlier and the strange pheromonic odor emanating from this creature creeping dangerously close to your core has been eating away at you ever since you were thrown into this bottomless descent. Your resolve stands on a pillar of salt and sand, and this demonic entity is a gigantic ocean wave, threatening to melt away whatever you have left of it.

Demanding fingers push your thighs farther apart, and your worst fear manifests as the first languid stripe that his elongated tongue makes along your pussy. Pleasure pricks at you in an instant, and they only develop into stronger, more constant electric currents as you feel his arms snake around both of your thighs to keep you nice and spread out for him to gorge upon. You don’t realize this yet, but he is just as affected by the scent that lingers inside your room. Ripples of lascivious intoxication run through this form he assumes before you; he eats you out in manic abandon, and it has you shamelessly shivering within yourself. It’s futile, of course; it does nothing to alleviate the sensations scoring your veins, and helps not the immense feeling of damnation flooding your soul as you come to terms with the fact that you are deriving some sort of maligned, twisted satisfaction from all of this. The heat that burns inside you is the hellfire that is lying in wait to make ash out of you; it’s a hand that’s dragging you deeper and deeper into the abyss, way past the point of any possible redemption. 

This incubus — Pyotr, as you have now settled to call him — clearly knows what he is doing to you. He’s utterly pleased by your inner struggle, and he does not relent at all as he keeps on lapping and nipping at your dripping pussy. The forked tip of his tongue teases erratic circles around your clit, going around it before directly stimulating the nub. If you had the ability to control your body now, you would have most likely been flailing about, but you remain perfectly still and pliant for Pyotr; the perfect doll for him to have his way with. You’re left to just take it all.

While you whine inwardly from feeling so helpless, Pyotr starts wiggling his tongue past the tight seam of your entrance, and he does so with much ease. A moan rumbles through his chest as you clamp down on the muscle. Your eyes are pinched shut once more in an attempt to weather through this torrential onslaught which aims to break you from the inside out. Guilt chokes you as you secretly wish you could tangle your fingers in his hair and scratch at his scalp so —

Pyotr pauses. He lifts his gaze, and for a brief moment, he withdraws his tongue. “You want to touch me, pretty lamb?” He grins. Glistening webs and ribbons of slick adorn his lips and chin. They’re from you, no doubt. You fall silent, and he continues.

“Has your god not taught you well?” Pyotr licks teasingly over your slit. Your eyes are begging to roll to the back of your head. “Come on, little one, you know this. Ask, and you shall receive… So ask. Ask me to let you move.”

There’s an itch that introduces itself at the back of your throat. It begs to be scratched, to be given attention. The serpent offers you the forbidden fruit, and much like your foremother, you land right into his guileful palm. He tricks you, and you willingly bite into the pulp of his temptation.

‘Please.’ Your voice is but a whisper.

“Please what?”

‘Let me touch you.’

Something rushes through you, and suddenly you’re granted control over your own body, albeit still under the spell of that sickly vanilla scent. You also notice that it has changed; now you smelled of brandy, and the memory attached to this unlocks a dormant portion of your brain, the one that is responsible for recalling what happened to you on that fateful night. After you went away to get drinks for you and your friend, Pyotr had whisked you away. The details are still too hazy to uncover, but you have a faint memory of him pulling you somewhere, hidden from prying eyes. Within that span of time, he must have done something to you — marked you, perhaps, and now here you are.

You don’t have enough time to indulge in more retrospection, because Pyotr starts devouring you as if heavenly nectar dripped from your cunt. His slithering tongue rubs so sinfully against your walls, flicking and laving upon you like splashes of magma. Your hand flies to his head and tangles in his hair. Your willpower gradually wanes as the previously muffled noises rising from your throat earlier develop into soft, breathy moans, and when your attempts at stifling your sounds finally fail, you can feel Pyotr smiling against your cunt. He knows you’re enjoying this, and it goes straight to his ego… and his cock.

Your head falls back into the pillow when Pyotr decides to start teasing your clit with a finger, not stopping at all his use of his tongue. Your fingers pull at his hair more forcefully, which draws out a satisfied hum from him, and all this does is encourage him to guide you further down into depravity. Little by little, you approach that cliff — your heart beat follows a delirious rhythm in your ribs as you do, and you fail to even register just how wet you’ve gotten from all this. There is no going back now.

Before you can tip over the edge of that devilish ravine, Pyotr withdraws himself from you, but not without an arrogant, cheeky lick over your pussy. Glossy strings of your arousal hang around his mouth, shining from whatever dim source of light there is in this fabricated rendition of your room. He’s come up on his knees, towering over you while smirking in triumph as he manages to delay your release. You whine a little when the feeling slowly pulls away and dissipates from your loins. 

“No, no; not yet,” Pyotr says, his tongue darting out from between his lips to clean off your slick on his chin and mouth. Before you can stop your eyes from drifting down along his body, you see his fist stroking his cock. His tail is making perfectly timed thumps on the crumpled bedclothes as it swings back and forth, communicating his own excitement to you. The scent too, has become more potent, but for some reason unknown only to you, your lungs aren’t… complaining anymore. You also don’t feel sickened by the smell; in fact, you’re starting to develop a sense of familiarity towards it, crossing the border that separates repugnance from anticipation.

Pyotr pushes your knees up, and he settles between them. He looms over you and he tilts his head, as if he’s sizing you up; scrutinizing you and thinking about what other form of debauchery he can exact upon you. The answer materializes when you feel his fingers trace your pussy once more. He runs along the slit, simpering as he watches you twitch pathetically beneath him, particularly when he nudges even the slightest bit at your clit. You shiver and whine, recalling how he did not let you come earlier with his mouth and only fed off you. The remnants of your denied orgasm come beckoning at you, and this desperate call transforms into inaudible screams as soon as Pyotr slips in two digits inside of you. You, however, are incapable of masking your own depraved nature, for he has you mewling at the rapid pace of his fingers. He angles them up on purpose, and he laughs when he feels your cunt practically drooling on his hand. 

Your resolve cracks even more when Pyotr decides to tease you further. Now, he’s interchanging between that merciless tempo and a slow, sensuous rhythm that has you digging your head deeper into your pillow. Your hair’s matted to the perimeter of your face and on your neck, and your body wants so badly to jerk upward and away from him, but you can’t — his free hand is splayed on your belly, holding you down to prevent you from slipping away from his grasp, and so you’re held hostage under his influence, subjected to this torturous alternation between persistent attention, and the mind-numbing succor of light, kittenish caresses against that bundle of nerves that has you feeling like you’re being consumed by a thousand mouths. 

And Pyotr, well… he’s entertained, and thoroughly amused. Unbeknownst to you, you’re putting on quite a show for him, and he has never seen a human succumb so easily to him. Normally, even while drunk on the aphrodisiac he has fed them, his victims would be struggling to expel him — though they’re subservient to him physically, they would still be rejecting him in their thoughts. The human mind is fascinating like that, but you… You’re a special case to him. Not only did you bargain with him to let you touch him, but your every thought at the moment isn’t focused on getting away from him at all — no, you’re actually revelling, however superficially reluctant, from the fact that you’re feeling so damn good you can’t even fathom the suggestion of fighting back anymore. And so Pyotr laughs to himself, and he coos mockingly at you as you’re reduced to tears from his relentless teasing. 

Like before, he stops and retracts when he feels you approach a little too close to your climax, leaving you even more frustrated than the last. You’re too fucked out to even plead verbally at him, but Pyotr hears your inner cries, and in response, he glides the back of his unused hand along your tear-stained cheek. 

“Oh, sweet little lamb,” he sighs derisively. “You came so close again, didn’t you?”

You nod weakly, and your lower lip trembles. This pleases him even more.

“I suppose I’ve played enough with you already,” Pyotr easily maneuvers you so you’re laying on your stomach. An arm hooks under the junction where your thigh meets your upper body, lifting your ass up to press against his hard length. You swear you feel it twitch as the two of you come into contact. His chest is warm against your back, and he moves closer so his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. “Remember, I can hear everything that goes on in that pretty little head of yours, and I…” he reaches between you to align himself to your aching pussy. He chuckles darkly and begins to press into you. You feel him smirk against your skin. “I know you want this, too.”

There’s quite literally nothing that keeps Pyotr from entering you, not when you’re absolutely soaked. He slides into your heat so easily that even he’s taken aback; he recovers quickly, however, and from there on out, all you can do is hold onto the headboard for dear life as he pistons his hips into yours. While you’re bent over, he also indulges in the act of pushing his fingers into your mouth and on your tongue, and you taste yourself on him as you willingly suck on them, in time with his thrusts, which seems as though he’s carving your walls into a shape that’s meant for him and him only. Amid the swaying of the bed, you hear Pyotr grunting and sighing. He’s just as fragile as you are, and though he won’t admit to this, he’s already beginning to consider coming back to you the next time he’s going to feed. You’re pliant and weak — you can’t even remember the very prayer meant to ward him off, much less gather the conviction to rebuke him. He knows what you fear and what you love, and it’s crystal clear to him that deep inside your subconscious mind, you find pleasure in catering to his every whim. To Pyotr, you’re perfect; you’re what he’s been looking for; a willing host, one who can amuse and satiate him at the same time.

You have just gotten used to moaning out his name when the steady string of wanton sounds coming from your lips is unceremoniously cut off by a gasp which was caused by Pyotr pulling you up. Now your back flush against his torso. He continues fucking you, this time pointedly faster. You’re nothing but putty in his gasp as his cock rams into that familiar spot, eliciting louder cries from you. Blinding hot euphoria spreads throughout your entire being, and your veins sing a profane hymn in praise of Pyotr as he pounds into you. You scrabble to grab onto the nearest support, which is him, and he welcomes your desperation, as he holds you tighter to himself. Pyotr buries his face into your neck, mouthing and kissing your skin to muffle his sounds of pleasure, his hands groping you anywhere he pleases. You tip your head back to give him more access to your body, and he smiles triumphantly, knowing that he’s got you exactly where he wants you to be.

“P-Petya, Petya!” you rasp out a variation of his name, or at least the name that he gave you. Your fingers curl into his damp hair. “Let me come, please… Please, ah…!”

“You will come when I tell you to,” he replies, equally lost in the haze as you are, as it sounds like he’s telling it to himself, too. “Or I’ll have to do it all over again.”

You whine in protest, but instead of punishing your bratty behavior, Pyotr only chuckles. He captures your lips in a kiss, and he parts from you as soon as he gathers himself. There’s no point in disciplining you further anyway, because he’s fully cognizant of the fact that he has you wrapped tightly around his finger. He keeps at his brutal pace, all while the room starts to reek of sex; the heady, shimmering heat of your arousal radiating off your body becomes more and more visible in Pyotr’s eyes. The scent is so strong, even more than his, and it only serves to fan the flames of his hunger, which he has been ignoring ever since he got to touch you earlier tonight. Your hands, which are holding onto his arms with a vice grip, let go and transfer up to his horns, which sends Pyotr into a spiral himself. Pleasure trickles down from his head down to his toes, and for a split second he forgets his rhythm. He grumbles at this, but through the stupor, you’re aware that he’s anything but displeased, because he’s leaning into your touch in an instant like a newfound addiction. His ragged breath fans over the back of your neck and along your upper back, indicative of his impending unraveling. 

You’re steadily approaching yours, too, and the climb is so frustrating; that is, until Pyotr hears your final plea and he relents — he snakes a hand towards the front of your body and between your thighs, and he proceeds to rub tight circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. In response, your back arches against his, and it’s like you’re suddenly being dragged up an excruciating slope without any word of advice. You don’t need it anyway, not when you’re clamping around his cock and finally, finally letting that taut rope in your abdomen snap into two, and when it does, it’s like you’re flung off into a realm where no solid ground exists. You wail as you gush all over Pyotr, your cum trickling down your thighs and soaking your sheets. Your entire body is convulsing, but things aren’t over yet. 

Pyotr follows suit after a couple of faltering thrusts, and he releases inside of you, pumping you full of his cum that your body absorbs the warmth of it almost immediately. From exhaustion, you slowly slump back down on your bed, completely wrecked and fucked out. The last remnants of this nightmare (shall we even call it one, at this point?) are the sounds of your labored breathing fading into nothing, and the faint brush of Pyotr’s lips against the shell of your ear, whispering what can barely be discerned as a promise of his return.

—♱—

And so you finally wake, in the real world this time. 

You’re back in your room, which is still dimly lit, but you can make out sunlight peeking through the small slits of the blinds. You’re lying face down on your stomach, still clad in your sleepwear and wrapped under the duvet, though you instantly notice that your pajama bottoms are markedly damp. Groaning, you shift around and try to sit up, only to find yourself feeling incredibly exhausted and spent. The first thing you grab is the glass of water you’ve kept by your bed last night, and drink a good amount to provide some comfort to your parched throat. You lean against the headboard.

There’s none of that sickly, vanilla smell anymore, you realize, but what replaced it is another different odor. You look for its source, and you find the culprit sitting on your desk: a cigarette, which seems to have been just lit and then put out, right on time as you woke up from your slumber. You squint at it. You don’t smoke, so what’s that doing there? 

The confusion on your face melts away, and the events of your nightmare come rushing back to you, as if you’re viewing a  fast-paced reel of segmented but coherent sequences of events. What happened last night isn’t a nightmare. It was a covenant.

[baatarthefirst]

Did you read the Karim short story yet

"After Darkness" was brutal, but I loved it. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I want a Sunfire spinoff aimed towards an older audience (and a prequel series), that could be described as a "GOT: Lite".

It shows off Karim's motivations, and makes me feel really bad for him, but it emphasizes all of the flaws we've been calling him out on, things that would make him a horrible king for the Sunfire to have; especially right now.

He's too impatient.

He's single-minded and shortsighted.

He's overconfident.

He can't let go of the past.

He gatekeeps.

He lets his emotions (more specifically anger and grief) run away with him.

(Before I say this, I would be willing to write this incident off as shock and grief [BECAUSE IT WAS], but he does show the same behavior with the candle incident, so I'd like to mention it).

He wants to stay longer than what would be safe, ignoring Tijana's warning that it's too late for the corrupted elves. Luckily she did get through to Osato, and he could actually convince Karim to flee (meaning her logic was sound, it just came from the wrong type of person).

Tijana saved his life, but he's not grateful, he's just angry that she made a joke. She saved his life again, the purification spell failed to save Osato, but he insists that he could have saved him and accuses her of murder. He tries to take away her right to mourn him. Because Osato was HIS friend. Her friendship doesn't matter because HE decided it didn't.

It's the same in the show, the humans are GUESTS, they should not get comfortable, or have any official ties to Xadia. They are welcome to visit, but only if they meet HIS standards. Amaya can even stay because she makes Janai happy...as long as they both agree to HIS conditions (that they never actually get married).

Not long after we see this mentality, we see him ignore the fact Yonnis could have burned down the city of tents (possibly killing many people including elves without a heat-being mode, not to mention destroying their food and shelter which could lead to more death), because a human extinguished the Soul Candle.

Which in some way is sympathetic, it's very easy to see why Karim would be angry, that's someone's soul who can't make it to the afterlife (whether 'lost' means destroyed or doomed to wander, I don't know). But at the same time, he's so hyperfixated on his anger, he can't look at the whole issue.

Janai, however, does. She doesn't focus so much on that fact 'the human committed a sacrilegious crime' that she can't see the problem 'we need a place INSIDE the city where we can preform the sacred rituals safely'.

Karim would have executed Lucia on the spot and been done with it, but the problem that created the situation in the first place would remain unsolved. The next time someone lit a candle, no one would dare snuff it out, and the whole camp could go up in flames.

Miyana constantly tells Karim that overthrowing Janai would not be easy, that it will take time. He ignores her warnings, because he's so sure that he knows everything; Janai will back down. And on the SLIM chance she doesn't, he's a great mage, he can win and everyone will side with him. The exact opposite happens, but he doesn't let himself be humbled, choosing to be stubborn instead.

This would make him a bad king for his people. He would always push forward even when the cost wasn't worth the gain and/or there was no chance of success, and favor the side that falls in line with his own beliefs while ignoring the facts that don't.

[paragonrobits]

Transformers AU where Transformers cannot change the basic shape of their alt mode, which is determined by a very complex number of factors based on their environment, the terrain they live in, their lineage (which is itself a complex factor because they reproduce in extremely complex ways) and more, but the end result is that they can ADAPT their forms to things around them, but they can’t completely alter what they are except through surgical means, which is considered incredibly extreme and equivalent to gender reassignment surgeries. Some approve of it, some don’t, but it is usually considered a very important identity detail to want a particular form badly enough to go through this process.

A truck-type transformer can’t become a car. They can’t become a plane, or a submarine, or a boat, or a spaceship; they might become a semi-truck, or a flatback truck, because these are close enough to their native Cybertronian forms that they can mimic these things, but they can’t outright bend it out of shape.

And the whole point here is that a beastformer cannot be anything but a beast.

Exactly how they feel about this varies from one to the other. Some are proud of their shapes, particularly in those from the city-state of Simfur which in this context is presumably populated heavily by beastformers. Others, in the modern day of the Autobots, regard being a beastformer as not really any different from being any other alt mode; in their modern culture, all are equal regardless of the utility of their forms.

Those from older generations, though, remember a different kind of Cybertron. They remember the functionalist era, when to assume the shape of a beast was to be a beast.

To be legally designated as an animal. A thing. Below even the ranks of the disposable castes, to be designated as aberrant animals flawed enough to intrude on the domain of true Cybertronians, allowed to live only as attack dogs and killing machines in Functionalist-dominant regions. They were treated as monsters by every corner of society, and it was drilled into their heads.

Some of them really let it sink in, growing bitter and angry and determined to think: well, if the world treats them like animals, and will never allow them to be anything but monsters born to kill with nothing else they’re good for, then they’ll slagging well act like monsters. This may be a valid origin for the Dinobots, and Grimlock in particular; centuries if not even longer of rage building up and up, and when the Autobots rebelled he let it loose, and when the Decepticons rose up to ensnare the galaxy in tyranny he turned it against them, and he’s just been unleashing that fire over and over again for eons, with no end in sight. Maybe he hates himself. Maybe on some level he internalized the idea that he is a monster, a thing with claws and fangs and no wheels or engines; if an alt mode is a purpose, what purpose has a terror-beast but to kill other Cybertronians?

But this ultimately amounts to a digression. What this boils down to, is this:

When you call a beastformer a furry, and thus implying that they chose to transform into beasts (whether that is a native mechanical-like form, or the use of Pretender technology to disguise themselves as the fauna of a world), at BEST you’re probably insulting them on some level. At worst you might get hit while they start snarling ‘you think I CHOSE to be a slaggin’ ANIMAL??’ and at worst, you might just end up ripped into pieces. (And to refer to Onyx Prime, oft worshiped by beastformers as the progenitor of all things monstrous and yet loving them all even as the Functionalists decried them, as a furry is deeply sacrilegious and insulting. The Black Prime did not choose to be all beasts in one, they simply are.)

The most angry among them decided a long time ago that if they’re legally treated as animals, might as well act like it. That doesn’t go away even after the perpetrators are long dead.