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ragnarockz · 2 days ago

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Prompt: Butch!Vidal/Agnes fic inspired by Garden of Eden by Lady Gaga 😏 (if you're comfortable writing more Butch!Vidal ofc. Also okay with Butch!Agnes/Vidal)

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FIRST OFF. I FUCKING L O V E this song!

Had to let this one sit and stew for a little (which I feel is common for a lot of my prompts) BUT

B U T

OH...I finally found a good way to explore some gender fuckery and even like, Agnes feeling safe in a way I hadn't really explored with her yet. A level has been shifted here and there's of course just some really good growth from Agnes when it comes to her own image and safety and what makes her comfortable 💙💚

Vidal and Agnes had been invited to some FBI after-hours party in the city on Saturday night which Vidal had accepted before she even told Agnes they were going. It had felt like they hadn't gone out to something like this in a while; something a little out of their comfort zone that wasn't a small-town bar. Vidal wanted to dress up and she, maybe not so secretly, wanted to see Agnes dressed up as well.

"Come on,"

Vidal coaxed as she slipped her hands up and under Agnes' tank top before she helped her girlfriend undress.

"You dress up so I won't be able to keep my eyes off of you all night and I dress up so you won't be able to keep your hands off of me all night."

Agnes didn't need anymore push than that with agreeing to attend.

You started slurrin', and I start to squeal/I'm fallin' over in my nine-inch heels

The night had truly been a blur. Vidal and Agnes were met at the club doors by the friends from the academy that had invited her with drinks already presented to them. Agnes and Vidal took what was offered and followed the group into the club. Agnes felt out of sorts but the moment she stepped into the darkness with the lights strobing and flickering all around, she knew that no one would be that close enough to really see that she was a sore thumb sticking out. No one, but Vidal and Vidal, loved what Agnes was wearing.

Black slacks with a dark navy almost black buttoned up shirt tucked in with one of her favorite belts. She made sure the sleeves were rolled up and out of her way; made sure her hair was somewhat combed back into a tighter ponytail. She looked effortlessly good and strong and masculine and Vidal just about jumped her before they headed out.

Agnes however, hadn't let her gaze wander from Vidal the second she saw her girlfriend come down the stairs back at home. Vidal told her to close her mouth and pick her tongue up off of the floor as she playfully swatted at Agnes' shoulder rattling on about being late and not finding a good parking spot. Agnes hadn't been listening as she devoured Vidal with her eyes and imagined what it would feel like to have her hands run up against her leg and under her dress.

It was tight and emerald green and hugged every fucking curve Agnes couldn't even imagine until she saw it right in front of her. Heels that easily gave Vidal a head and a half over Agnes which, that alone, rocked Agnes to her core. Vidal had decided on a half-up half-down look for her hair that accentuated her cheek bones and eyes; made them seem like they could suck you in with just a flick of recognition thrown your way. Agnes felt like she was drowning and didn't know up from down. Not that she really wanted to know; not when her girlfriend looked this good.

Agnes had lost count of how many drinks she had and just how Vidal managed to drag her out onto the dance floor. It was mostly fast songs; pop and r&b that was made to be danced to. Agnes remembered the smell of Vidal's perfume; her hair against her face as Vidal danced against her. Agnes' hands held tightly onto Vidal's waist as she felt the agent dancing and grinding basically into her. The club swayed and the lights made Agnes dizzy but the way Vidal was dancing and giving her attention made her remember; wouldn't dare forget this display of desire.

Vidal on the opposite side of it, did her absolute best to make Agnes feel at ease. This place wasn't what she was used to, nor the people in it. This wasn't the music that made her feel relaxed, nor the drinks she was handed. Vidal knew she was Agnes' vice when it came to safety and safety to Agnes meant a lot of things but, proximity was high on the detective's list. Vidal had made her way over to Agnes on the dance floor; cornered her and left her standing in a stupor as she slowly turned herself in a semi-circle so she could dance up against her partner.

Vidal hadn't even been sure if Agnes was coherent enough to understand what she was watching happen in front of her but, the way Agnes' hands gripped tightly onto her waist and pulled her in. Vidal wasn't surprised at all to learn that when she started to move closer and grind into Agnes, that she was packing. Vidal played into what Agnes wanted, what made her feel comfortable. She was signaling to her in a very intimate dance that she was wanted and desired; that her efforts weren't in vain.

I could be your girlfriend for the weekend/You could be my boyfriend for the night

Agnes watched what felt like in slow motion as Vidal turned around to face her; Agnes' hands slipping off of her waist. It was Vidal's turn to lead Agnes as she took those hands in hers and walked backwards while Agnes walked towards her. They walked off of the dance floor and Vidal let go of one of Agnes' hands so she could drag her along with just the one.

"...where are we goin'?"

Agnes mumbled under her breath as every step felt like her feet were made of concrete. The lights blinded her and the music drowned out her thoughts. Vidal probably hadn't heard her as she continued to walk forward and lead Agnes away from the heart of the party.

Agnes hadn't noticed when Vidal pulled her into a private room and dropped her down onto one of the couches there. Everything was dim and shaded a dark colour; maybe blue? Possibly purple but Agnes truly couldn't tell as Vidal climbed her way onto Agnes' lap and sat there. Vidal was facing the detective and her slender hands were already working on the buttons of Agnes' shirt.

"You just sit there and look handsome, ok?"

Vidal mumbled as her hands worked quickly to undress the detective. Agnes let her head hang backwards and rest against the back of the couch. Everything was still spinning behind closed eyes but she trusted Vidal in whatever the fuck she was concocting.

I'll t-t-take you to the Garden of Eden/You're turnin' green from the adrenaline

Agnes was stripped bare minus her sports bra and boxers and socks and shoes. Her shirt, her pants, her strap were no longer clothed to her body. Even her hair tie was gone. The detective finally focused as she realized this sudden and noticeable change. Something was happening she didn't remember unfolding until her eyes adjusted in the dark green light of the room and she saw Agent Vidal standing before her.

She was dressed in Agnes' outfit minus the shoes.

Hands tucked smugly into the pocket of the pants that were held up by Agnes' favorite belt and that dark navy shirt tucked in had Agnes reeling. The icing on the cake was of course the way Vidal had changed her hair to match the infamous messy ponytail that was Agnes' signature look. The cherry on top was the fact that Vidal decided to keep her heels on.

"Vidal-"

Agnes was cut off by Vidal shaking her head and taking steps closer; heels clicking on the floor.

"Get up, detective..."

Agnes blinked once, twice before she slowly pressed the palms of her hands down onto the couch cushion to give herself some leverage to stand up. She no longer felt dizzy on her feet and the sudden stark realization of the scene unfolding in front of her was happening rapidly.

Vidal took Agnes' spot on the couch and spread her legs and stared Agnes down without a word. Something shifted between the two of them and Agnes had a sudden inherent thought as she looked around the room and stopped only when she laid eyes on the thing she was looking for.

Vidal's dress.

"Only if you want to."

Agnes didn't give it a second thought as she picked up the dress. Her mind wasn't screaming at her; wasn't telling her she was reverting backwards to somewhere she didn't belong. She belonged to Vidal and so did this dress and so did the outfit Vidal had changed into. Agnes kept herself facing Vidal as she slipped the dress on and pulled it up. It fit her surprisingly well despite being tight and form fitting. Agnes lifted up her loose hair so it wouldn't get caught in the neckline; letting it hang down freely at her shoulders.

Vidal's gaze lingered on Agnes in her new outfit and then very quickly, started to burn.

"Come take a seat, pretty thing..."

Agnes chewed at the inside of her lip as she walked towards Vidal now in her clunky shoes that didn't match the rest of her outfit. Maybe that was what kept her safe in this dress and what kept Vidal safe in her pants and shirt.

It was Agnes turn to take a seat down on Vidal's lap. She watched in fascination as Vidal's dress rose up her thighs and exposed her legs as she felt the bulge between Vidal's legs underneath her pants.

"I thought I would return the favor finally..."

Vidal's words were whispered as she moved in close, brought her hand behind Agnes' head to guide the detective towards her. Their lips met, a slow kiss until, Vidal slipped her tongue in past Agnes' lips.

A whirlwind. A tidal wave. A crack of thunder followed by lightning. A cosmic boom that chased and followed hands and fingers, teeth and tongue. Vidal's hands were pushing their way up under the hem of the dress that Agnes wore so surprisingly well and Agnes' hands were shoved down the front of Vidal's pants that undoubtedly suited her well.

Some wall had been swung at and knocked down; some sort of line that was daring to be crossed had been and then some.

Agnes couldn't wait for Vidal to pull her boxers down fast enough so she could ride Vidal's cock and watch with hooded eyelids as she emerald green dress shifted against her own thighs.

The detective couldn't bear to be patient; couldn't keep herself back from relishing in the sensation of her own hair hanging lose in her face as Vidal used her hands to pull down the front of the dress and expose Agnes' bra in which, the agent pulled down as well.

Agnes could see in her minds eye the opposite end of this image; the way Vidal had looked countless times in her own lap just like this.

Now, it was her and finally, finally Vidal was getting the entire cake with the icing and the cherry on top as Agnes shifted her dress clad hips and sat herself down onto Vidal's erect and painfully waiting cock. Bold and purple and not entirely hers.

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anghimalaaynasapuso · 2 months ago

Text

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

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