#like an anatomically fucked up arm

[morningmask27]

god, one mild problem of asking friends who don't draw a lot for criticism is that They Don't See Shit. I'm obviously going to be Extra Critical of my own art and that's why I ask for their advise, but they just tell me it's pretty without warning me that one arm had a very fucked up anatomy or the chair I had straight up forgotten to draw for a good while.

I told them the thing was done (I meant a fucking table I had procrastinated to draw for eons and was a blue sketch in all those wip updates) while all the characters were still just colored sketches and the chair was missing and they just didn't see it; they rolled with the drawing as is.

They're wonderful people, but they are definitely not the people to go to for actual art advise and it's a bit annoying tbh

[gatoburr0]

They should make monster sized couches (although Frye looks really comfortable anyway)

[135-film]

every time i hear anything art-related on tiktok, i immediately get really like... upset? annoyed? idk. unpleasant feeling because it's literally always "we're making fun of this child/beginner for their anatomy or how they color" or whatever else or pretending that an artists deserve to be treated like a piece of corporate media.

i know tiktok is literally the devil and hell incarnate, but i don't think any artist deserves to be targets of mass harassment especially not people who are just starting out (and even more especially not children).

if tiktok was a thing when i was younger and i was posting my art on there, i would never fucking draw ever again. my art career would've ended after a few months of drawing "seriously," and i really do mean it lol. call me sensitive or whatever, but a 13-15 year old does not need to hear whatever criticism you think they need to hear i promise.

[sh1-n0bu]

thinking abt monsterfuckers but instead of the reader being the monsterfucker, it’s the CHARACTERS

mmm characters who are considered tall, big and intimidating in human standards. big buff arms, thick thighs and strong calloused hands that can crush a grown man’s skull in. but compared to you? their lover? they’re nothing but a tiny creature. an incomplete being, a small little toy for you to pick up or poke around for your own amusement. their large and heavy weapon is nothing but a stick in your hand, a mere small wand you wave around with a bellowing amused laugh

hand holding? they’re just thinking of how you can forcibly keep their legs open during intimate times. an innocent peck or you licking off something on your lip? they’re staring, drooling, closing their legs shut as they wonder how deep that forked tongue can be showed down their throat. how you could practically rearrange their guts with that thick tongue

don’t even get them started on the way they unashamedly stare at your crotch or chest or strong thighs when you do simple stretches. they have a hole and a goal, they’ll forcefully make your cock fit inside their warm walls. anatomically impossible be damned, they want your babies, they want you to use them like they’re nothing but an onehole to you, a stress toy you can blow off steam on. mouth? jaws open and looking up at you prettily. prefer their tight walls? already prepped, a whole bottle of lube ready and bending over for you in any position, place you want. want to use their thighs? legs closed, raised high, ready to drool as they see your heavy, inhuman cock disappear and appear through the flesh of their thighs. you have clawed fingers? it doesn’t matter, they’re already squirming in their seat as they see your claws gets clipped a bit on the front, dulling the sharpness. for them

it doesn’t matter how many times you two have sex, every goddamn time they’ll be squirming, thrashing around, sobbing and getting drunk on the feeling of your cockhead pushing past their walls. just the head in and they’re already feeling like they’re gonna cum. you slowly ease them down into your thickness, their hole tightening around you so much to the point you nearly think that the blood circulation will stop. you would ask if they wanna stop, want you to pull out or have a break. they’ll vehemently shake their head no, asking you to keep going, fuck them dumb, use their body and fill every one of their holes until they’re overflowing with your cum

sweet little thing, so small compared to your monstrous form, already shrieking and squirting when you bottom out inside their soft warmth. they’ll try to weakly bounce themselves on your cock, trying to get some friction but all they can manage is meager grinds. you would chuckle, lean back and watch them make themselves stupid with just a few movements when you two haven’t even properly started yet. such an eager mortal

watch them get dumb, getting all the logics fucked out of their head as pretty eyes roll back, pupils so wide you can’t see their original eye color. mouth always open, punched out breathy “aanhh… ah ah angh mmgh! s-so bigg… f-fucckiinngh my guts♡︎♡︎!!” come out, already lost as they clench around you again. cute little mortal lover of yours, getting their holes stretched by their inhuman lover. circle your finger or claw over the bump in their belly and they’ll squeal, kicking their legs as they lean back against your chest

if they get too loud, don’t worry, you have large fingers and long tongue for a reason. kiss their lips gently as a silent form of warning before showing your tongue down their throat. place the tip of your finger pad right against their adam’s apple and feel as their esophagus widen just a bit with your tongue inside them. lick the insides of their mouth, exploring the wet cavern and feeling their tongue flatten against yours as a muscle memory. only to pull out and shove a finger into the first knuckle, making them choke due to the change in thickness. just a single finger to the first knuckle and they can’t handle it

if they bite down on your finger or tongue or even your cock, you can bite back too. just gently add some pressure onto your fangs that rest just over the back of their neck. they’ll thrash around like they don’t want it but their bucks into your awaiting jaws says otherwise. they’re just waiting for the day you would finally mark them, make them your mate so they can tell other monsters of your race to fuck off

but your human lover becomes hundred times worse when your heat cycle hits. it’s over for both them and you. you’re not getting out of the house and they can’t even feel their own body but they will always drunkenly blabber for you to “c-cummmgh!! cum insiidee♥︎♥︎k-knock meengh up♡︎knock me up!! make me yo-oongh your your mate...♡︎♥︎♥︎!!” while they stare at you with drunk eyes and drooling lips. since they asked so nicely, surely you can fulfill their wish this year and knock them up right? and mark them as yours while at it too

in conclusion; pls send help i’m horni and want to be a monster

characters: jing yuan, blade, dan feng, dan heng il, himeko, gepard, wriothesley, neuvillette, zhongli, baizhu, capitano, pantalone, dottore, childe, pierro, sampo, gallagher, ayato, alhaitham, kaeya, diluc, calcharo, jiyan, geshu lin, yuanwu, yhan, scar, aalto, diavolo, beelzebub, lucifer, mephistopheles, thirteen, raiden ei, black swan, kafka, yae miko, clorinde, navia, baizhi, rover, taoqi, changli, yelan, xianyun, welt yang + anyone you like

[caitlinbueckers]

baby daddy.

paige bueckers x reader

3.2k

like guys . I don’t even know what to say rn . this is PURE fucking filth like yas there is some exposition in the beginning and its dialogue heavy but like ✋✋ just know this is fucking porn . So sorry for anon if this isn’t up to par but the wormz took over my brain and this is all i have to show for it . Love u so much for the idea tho <3

ANYWAYZZZ !!!! you and paige buy a strap. filth ensues.

MAJOR 18+ WARNING!!!!

“babe.”

it’s deadpan, borderline exasperated as you turn your head, meeting a wildly unimpressed expression from paige that makes you snort out loud, hand coming up to cover your mouth.

in your girlfriends hand, dangling from her fingers, is a dildo of some sorts, shaped horrifically in the form of an anatomically incorrect fist, and it’s almost impossible to keep your surprised laughter from bubbling out, taking a step closer with a look of awe.

“dude, you’re kidding,”

“babe, why are we even here? like, deadass i have two hands and ten fingers, this is so extra.”

to be fair, she had a point— those two hands and ten fingers had never done you wrong in the slightest, but this was simply an act of impulse, deciding just that morning after you guys had spent the time with each others hands down each others pants, you’d declared in a sudden rush of post-nut clarity, that you simply had to see paige in a strap.

which, was met with a bit of intrigue and then, obviously, because paige bueckers is competitive in anything she can consider herself good at, couldn’t help but interrogate you in outright disbelief.

‘so, what i’m hearing is that i’m not enough?” it was said in the tone she uses when her sarcasm is over the top, and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, slapping her arm.

‘baby, stop being so dramatic, oh my god.”

you’d kissed her to silence her delusions as to why you’d even brought it up in the first place, before explaining ever so gently that it was never a matter of what paige couldn’t do, and more so about the capabilities of what she could do, and that you promised it would be fun.

truly, she was on board after you’d told her that for some girls it was hard to use, so that, ‘if she couldn’t handle it, she could give up’ — of course paige would never back down from a challenge.

“you do have two hands, and i love them just the same. i just wanna try it, okay? is that okay?” you say it in your quiet, softest voice, and maybe you’re kinda being a brat because you know paige could never say no to you when you talk like that, or when you walk up to her, tracing a thumb against her cheek before pulling her down to peck her nose.

it’s immediate the way she chases your lips, presses a quick one to your mouth before she’s rolling her eyes, “anything for my baby, i guess.” but, she’s smiling, and that feels like more progress than before.

in the end, you guys end up picking something pretty beginner level— it’s only six inches, has a dual ended pleasure vibrator nestled in the crotch for the one wearing it and due to paige’s prompt request, it is in fact purple, which only makes you laugh at the excited shimmy she does as you both walk out, hand in hand, the black privacy sack swinging between her fingers.

“thought you were so against the idea?” you couldn’t help but tease her once you guys are in the car, music already blasting— you know all her music without really knowing it, but it’s definitely something by brent faiyaz.

“yeah,” she shrugs, “until i thought about getting to fuck you with it.” she says coyly, glancing over at you with a raised eyebrow before she’s pulling out of the lot, hand secured on your thigh.

you guys don’t really get to it that night, or the next day— instead settling for the slow, tired morning sex that you guys indulge in before her practice and then after, the languid, loving type of sex you both revel in for the evening when she’s back at the dorms.

no, for some reason, it isn’t until a week or so later that it suddenly comes up— and even then, you weren’t necessarily thinking about it too hard, not until the teams all at dinner. you, paige, KK, and aubrey all sit together, and it’s really in moments like these that you love to actually participate in conversations with the team— KK and aubrey had been one of the first to welcome you in with open arms after you and paige had begun dating, so you really felt most at ease with them, even if they could be complete idiots.

not like paige was any better.

it had started with someone making a tiktok, going around asking who they’d never let their son or daughter date— resoundingly, enough people said paige, which was both parts hilarious for you, and astounding for paige.

“bro! literally i’m like, the best girlfriend, that’s some bull.” she couldn’t help but scoff, even if she’s smiling just a little, “baby, i’m a good girlfriend, right?”

you purposely take a minute to answer, pretending to think about it until she grasps your thigh beneath the table, making you snicker as she squeezes, and suddenly, you know exactly the angle she’s playing.

“girl, i don’t trust you,“ KK snorts, making a face, “you’d probably get my kid pregnant or somethin’, like—“

KK’s words make paige snort, shrugging a bit, “shoot, i mean, no wonder they call me baby daddy.” she sticks her tongue out, entirely too immature for the setting of the restaurant, but it makes you warm all over anyway— you love her, even when she’s being childish, which is pretty much most of the time.

the conversation continues after that, and though you pay attention, laugh when it’s funny and answer when you need to, you can’t quite get that out of your head— baby daddy.

it makes you think.

it’s late by the time you guys get home, and true to paige’s fashion, the door is only shut and locked for a second before she’s behind you, pressing kisses to your neck and sliding hands up your shirt, humming quietly— “i’m a good girlfriend, yeah?”

it’s not often that paige asks for reassurance, mostly because she usually already knows, but it’s why it makes it extra special when she does.

“duh.” you whisper out, tilting your head back to grant her more access while she sneaks a hand into your jeans, forgoing the button entirely. her fingers are prodding against your clit when you let out a soft moan, your fluttering eyes only opening for half a second before they spot the black sack from across the room, your own hand gently grasping her wrist to still its movements.

“baby, why don’t we…?” your tilt your head in the direction, leaning your head sideways to try and capture her reaction.

surprisingly, she looks just as interested.

it’s comes out quietly, pressed to your temple, “get on the bed then.”

you don’t waste much time, stepping out of your jeans and your top until there’s nothing left but the black, simple thong that rests against your hips, crawling back against her purple sheets with an inquisitive look on your face while she pulled the thing from its plastic package.

“remember what you said earlier?” you say offhandedly as you watch paige’s muscles flex and tighten, looping the belt around her before she glances up at you, “which part?”

“baby daddy,” you can’t help but grin, tossing your head back against the bed, “just wanted to see how true that is.”

paige scoffs, and it’s obvious she likes that, plays into it even as she crawls onto the bed, looking down at you with a narrowed glance, “how true what is? that i could get you pregnant?”

it’s almost immediate the way your body flushes at that, the subconscious squeeze of your thighs together as you look up at her through lidded eyes, “mhm. is that bad?”

“i mean,” she’s smirking though, and her hand wraps around the strap on slowly, as if simulating it to be an extension of herself— it’s really fucking hot, “it’s sexy that you even thought about it like that,” she whispers, and you can practically see the confidence rising within her at the prospect, before her eyes flicker up at you. “wanna suck me off, ma?”

it makes something within you go haywire, and your mouth practically fills with saliva as if to prepare for it before you nod slowly, propping yourself up on your elbows before you stick your tongue out, paige’s blue orbs never leaving you for one second, before she’s sighing, hard under her breath, “fuuuck.”

she gets up on her knees, running her hands through your hair to gently guide your mouth down to the tip, her teeth teasing the bottom of her lip as you slowly slid the length into your mouth. it felt foreign, heavy on the tongue, but the texture was so lifelike, it almost felt like it was attached to paige.

“shit, baby,” she sounds out of breath as she thumbs your hair from your eyes, wanting to catch every dirty look you send up to her, mouth full and eyes watering, “god, you’re such… a slut.”

it must’ve been the strap or something, that had the endless string of dirty talk spilling from paige’s mouth, not entirely too uncommon and yet it had shifted the atmosphere completely. it felt lavacious, provocative, tantalizing even.

still, it makes the arousal pool between your legs, making you practically squeeze your thighs together again and again, chasing the feeling of some type of friction as paige pushed her hips up slightly, the tip only then touching the back of your throat and eliciting the first drop of a tear from your eye.

she notices, because she doesn’t miss a thing, and is slow as she pulls it from your mouth, eyes lingering on the string of saliva that connected your bottom lip from the tip of the strap.

she’s breathing heavy, blonde strands falling into her face, loose from the usual braid she kept her front pieces in as she grasps your jaw, “does that hurt?”

it doesn’t, but it makes you smirk that she even asks, shaking your head before you lean back now, head hitting the mattress as you open your thighs, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

“you can make it hurt,” you suggest, and paige lets out a slow exhale, a teasing grin on her smile as she grasps it by the hilt, “you’re driving me fucking crazy, y’know that?” the words are hissed down at you, spoken between her lips, chapped from how hard she’d been breathing as she rubs the tip of the now warmed, messily lubricated length against your cunt, eyes narrowed and focused as she drags it up, then down.

“you’re so wet,” it sighs out of paige as if she doesn’t even realize that she’d said it, a whine puffing past your lips involuntarily, ready to spit some type of urgency towards her, until she pushes in, finally, and you fucking gasp.

it was unlike what you’d really ever felt before— especially having never been with men or experimenting with penetration on this degree. it’s thicker than you expect, thicker than paige’s fingers combined, and your back arches upwards off the bed, right as paige grasps your hip to keep you right in place. “shh, shh— fuck, you’re so good, baby.”

“ohhh- oh fuck, paige—“ the words come out in a mess of noises, as you fling an arm over your face to try and focus on the comforting rub of paige’s thumb, the smell of her cologne, instead of the stretching, hot pressure that’s collected between your legs.

it only takes a couple moments before it doesn’t completely hurt, but the second that it does, you can finally blink your watery eyes open, letting out a soft moan at the furrowed eyebrows on paige’s face, her own lips parted as she carefully gives a shallow thrust into you, the subsequent friction of the dull, now audible buzzing of the vibrator on the other end of the dildo against her clit and it’s obvious.

it’s in the way she grunts, tongue darting out to seek attention to her bottom lip. “s’that feel good?” she’s panting already, and it makes your stomach swirl in arousal, nodding quickly as she gives another slow, but shallow thrust that sends immediate shivers up your spine, a rush of rampant pleasure up your stomach as you let out a groan, “more?”

it doesn’t take long for paige to find a rhythm— surprising considering her dancing abilities— and once she does, you can practically sense the confidence that radiates off of her. it’s in the way she wraps an arm around your thigh to hoist your leg up, higher, higher, until your cunt is on full display, and she’s leaning atop you, pressing wet kisses to your breasts as she drags her hips into you, each push making you both shudder out a moan.

“shit, baby— so fucking— so fucking wet. wan’me to fuck a baby into you, huh?” paige always has a habit of going on these fuck-drunk tangents, ones that usually send you careening over the edge in due time, but this— it makes you mewl into her ear, the thick, heavy weight of the strap punching into you, deeper than you or paige could ever reach, and it makes your hips jerk upwards, wanting more of it, all of it.

for half a second, you hoped, by some weird anatomical technique, she could get you pregnant.

“ohhh— fuck! paige, paige— pleasepleaseplease—“ what you’re begging for, even you can’t decipher, but it’s really just to make sure that she rocks into you like that again.

and she does— again and again, drool collecting in the corner of your mouth from how long your lips have been parted, and paige looks at you, delirious and flushed as she drags her thumb over your mouth, wipes away the spit and reaches between you two.

before you can figure it out, you feel her finger tracing the outside of your stretched cunt, the wetness that’s collected there as she lets out a wanton sigh, something more high pitched than what paige usually grunts out, “stretching you s’good, baby— fucking- take it, jus’ like that— fuck, wanna fuck you stupid, baby.”

it’s almost too much. your head presses hard against the comforter as paige’s hips push flush against your own, the final stab of the length being inside of you makes your head swim, your body acting upon it’s own accord as your thighs, shaking, squeeze around paige’s hips, your stomach flexing and jumping as paige gives up whatever bit of composure or control she has left, before she’s quick to fuck into you without a single strand of resistance.

it’s hot, heady, and the sweat that collects on the surface of your skin is almost like a sense of accomplishment as her face falls into your neck, your thighs pushed impossibly high to give her the best angle, as she ruts into you. the slight curve of the dildo somehow gives a direct angle to your g-spot, and it punches a shout out of you, one that’s followed with a crying whine that even you knew was bound to get you both caught.

“fffuck— shhh- shut the fuck up—“ her mouth is on your neck in an instant, other hand quick to clamp over your mouth, but the friction against paige’s clit has her bottom lip quivering, struggling to close as each of her gravelly, breathy moans launch right into your ear, and it’s clear that she’s being greedy, grinding the strap into your cunt for the effort of chasing her own high, and it’s fucking sexy.

this deep, you can almost feel the fucking vibrator, and it reduces you into nothing— fingers twine into paige’s hair, sweaty and sticky, as she fucks into you with reckless abandon, the bed frame squeaking in protest, your cunt wet enough that you can fucking hear it, can feel it drip onto the bed below, feel it coating the sheets and paige’s thighs and you think she’s about to orgasm with how quick her breath has gotten, how shaky her hips are with each incessant thrust, like an earthquake pulsing through your body and it makes you sob, because it feels so fucking good, and paige is so deep, you can feel her everywhere.

“wanna cum inside of’you— ohmyfuck- please, wanna fuck my babies into you— iloveyou, so, fucking- so fu-ucking sexy, baby, fuck.”

it’s all gibberish really, a promise that makes you turn into a pile of mush, because you can feel your cunt tighten around it— delusionally, you imagine paige can feel it too— because even her declaration of love is enough to send you flying over the edge as your legs tighten around her hips, the vibrator nestled deep against paige’s clit until she’s coming too, and it’s a glorious thing to hear— ripping from her throat in a cacophony of throaty groans and whines that mimic yours, only deeper, grittier.

she thrusts into you, sloppy and out of control until you can feel her release on your cunt, spread against your thighs, the dull vibration now pressing hot and wet against you, so much so that it makes your body flood in aftershock, pleasure wracking through you in earnest as your body twitches and jumps, every embarrassingly high pitched noise ripping from your throat, as paige’s go muddled and unintelligible against your neck.

it’s like a cathartic release of sorts, leaving you feeling boneless and jellied in the wake as you slowly return to your senses, fucked out and exhausted as you try to experimentally move your hips, but the soreness between your legs is almost unfathomable.

“shit—“ you hiss as paige finally lifts her head, her own hand slow to guide the strap from your abused cunt, and it’s clear by, not only the tired, almost loopy smirk on her face, but the redness in her eyes, the wetness coating her lashes, that she’d enjoyed herself as much as you had— and while sex between you had always been mutual, it wasn’t often you got to see her fully release like that.

“was that good, hm? did i do okay?” she’s always quick to look for approval, her hand coming up to brush the tears from your face, to pepper a light array of kisses against your lips, chapped and puffy, as you let out a tired laugh, “fucking duh, that shit was… so hot,” you trace her blonde strands, plastered to her forehead, away from her face, “don’t think i’ve ever heard you sound like that.”

it makes her cheeks red, eyes rolling with a scoff, as she lets out a quiet laugh, already trying to play it off as cocky instead of flushed, “well- yeah, ‘cause, i was watching you take my dick.” you slap her arm weakly with a snort, wincing at her usage of words, “ew, you’re so gross.”

“and you’re so pretty,” she counters, before pressing a quick kiss to your mouth.

you both don’t really try to address the fact that there was probably no way you’d both been quiet enough to not at least alert one of the girls, but you ignore it anyway.

besides, it’s only KK that ends up putting you both in a group message the next morning, sending a string of angry emojis and a text that says, ‘bye. im moving rooms’.

you both laugh, because you know she’s not, and more so, you all three know it wasn’t the first time and definitely not the last.

[slamminslamminmcgill]

had sex with my daddy fwb last night and he inspires a LOT of my content soooo

warning: breeding, daddy kink, premature ejaculation (sorta??? but not really idfk)

anatomical terms: pussy/cunt

Joel was a good fuck. An exceptional fuck, even. You never left his bed feeling underwhelmed. On an average night, your vocal cords would be shredded and raw from screaming for him. Your pussy would feel similarly worn out, but it’d be nourished by the thick load of cum pumped inside it. Your knees would buckle when you stand, having lost all muscle memory to walk in the few hours you spent as his sex doll.

But tonight, something was different.

Not worse, not by any means.

But different.

Perhaps it was your fault. You’d overwhelmed him. There’s no way he could be expected to last long in a slingshot cunt like yours. But he usually does, what happened tonight? Maybe he was just going through a dry spell, and you happened to stop by with just the right place for him to empty his achingly blue balls. Well, it couldn’t have been THAT long of a dry spell, right? When’s the last time you were over here?

You could feel him coming soon after you did, again. He tried to hold out, to his credit. He’d been slamming away to your incessant cries of “fuck! right there, right there, oh god, daddy, please right there! fuck me right there!”, and then he’d stop. Then he’d start back up, and so would you, with the “fuck! yes, yes, oh my god, so close, so close, right there, please!”

And then he’d stop.

To be fair, you were kinda rubbing it in his face with “so close”. As if he needed you to remind him.

Poor Joel. He really tried to hold on. But you were just too needy, weren’t you? You couldn’t let the old man rest. He was so embarrassed to admit it, but you’d forced his hand.

“…’m gonna cum.”

You took the news surprisingly well.

“Cum inside me! Please, Daddy, fill me up! Fill me with your cum, I want it! I want it, I want it, cum inside me!”

And in a few thrusts, he did, gritting his teeth as he sprayed his hot load all inside your spasming cunt. His whole body shivered against you, the comedown from such an intense rush. He sighed, wiped his brow, and pulled out, then rolled onto his back so you could cuddle up to his chest.

“Comfy?” He asked.

“Mhm,” you nodded, “Feels like a lot.” Curiosity got the best of you, and you slipped your hand between your legs to swipe at your hole. Two fingers splotched with white, you popped them into your mouth to taste him. Milky, a little salty, sorta tangy. Not bad.

Joel chuckled at your antics and ruffled your hair. “Yeah, I’m prolly not gonna cum again, tonight.”

“So are we done?” You asked.

“Nah, nah. We’ll just rest up for a few minutes and we’ll go again, okay?”

“Okay!”

A few minutes passed in Joel’s arms as he chit-chatted to you about this one job where he had to redo the insulation in some old lady’s house. You weren’t really listening, until out of the blue, he said,

“Suck it.”

And in no time at all, his spit-shined cock was hard once more, digging his seed even deeper into you.

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[searchingsomewhere]

Self Control

Zayne × Reader

A little something based off my LADS Headcannons. I think I'll do one for each of the guys, what do yall think?👀

- Nero

Cw: smut. Choking, office sex.

Moonlight shines through the window brightly, casting the room in a shimmering blue light. Its a small room, something of an office, with papers scattered around the once neat desk. The after hours silence of the empty hospital is only broken by the faintest of gasps.

You know the hospital was empty, because you were supposed to leave hours ago. But there you are, eyes screwed shut, biting your lip to keep quiet just in case a stray janitor is still roaming about. Zayne sits below you, breathing heavily. His hands grip your hips tightly, dragging your clothed cunt across his hardened length. Your blouse is unbuttoned, breasts heaving with every breath and your skin flush from his mouth.

It was wrong.

Inappropriate.

Zayne knew it. Not only were you his patient, but his childhood friend. For years, he averted his green eyed gaze from your form, too shy to ever treat you as anything more than that. Friends don't want each other the way he wants you. Don't fist their cock to orgasm every night thinking of you. So when you came to his office that night to ask about upcoming appointments, the last thing he expected was to have you in his lap. His self control is slipping by the second.

You put your hands against his chest to grind your hips against him. The newfound pressure shocks you through your core. A high pitched moan escapes you and you look away from his dark gaze. You're steadily climbing that high, growing closer and closer to the edge, but it isn't enough.

"Z-Zayne," You whine, "I- Please, I need you so bad."

His deep chuckle vibrates his chest. "Be specific. Tell me what you need."

His hands slow your hips, tearing away that glorious friction that makes your thighs feel like jelly. You whimper pathetically.

"I- I need..." Your voice trails off, embarrassed. You can't look at him. Instead you look off to the side.

"What was that? Speak up," he says. His hands wander up your skirt. Your panties are soaked through. You jump as his fingers begin tracing circles over your clit.

"I need...your cock. Please," Your voice is stronger this time, desperate.

The way his eyes darken goes straight to your aching core.

"Once we start, darling..." he says, low, "I don't think I'll be able to stop."

"I don't want you to stop," you beg, "I just want you inside me."

The small piece of self control he has shatters. He hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting you off his lap to stand. You yelp in surprise, clinging to his neck until he lays you down on his desk. A small voice tells him there's paperwork there that needs to be moved. A bigger voice tells him to forget about the fucking paperwork.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him rip his belt from his slacks. By god are you a sight to see. Pupils blown wide with lust, red lips bitten and swollen from his mouth. The moonlight catches the curves of your breasts, the way your skirt is rucked up around your hips. Your mouth parts, watering at the sight of his cock as he pulls it from his pants. It's rock hard, girthy in his hand as he pumps his shaft to the sight of you alone. A low moan leaves his lips. You spread your legs as an invitation.

Zayne pulls your panties to the side. Your pussy is a marvel. Glistening in the moonlight, a work of anatomical art in it's folds and curves. The sight alone has him nearly finishing in his hand. Instead he taps your cunt with the head of his cock. Both of you moan. You throw your head back as he slides himself against you, lubricating his head with your essence.

When he finally presses his cock into you, your mind short circuits.

"Oh- Oh fuck," You manage. Your fingers instinctively go to your clit, circling it madly. He's so big and filling you up so good.

He bottoms out, eyes screwed shut. You squeeze him so well, your body molding to him perfectly. He opens his eyes as you pull his faced to yours, moaning into his mouth as he begins to thrust into you. It takes everything in him to go slow. He didn't know if you could handle him fucking you like he wanted to.

"H-harder," You beg.

He snaps his hips to yours and you nearly cry out. The pang of pleasure is sharp, jolting through you just the way you want. You urge him on with breathless affirmations, yes yes yes just like thatpleasegod-

"You feel so good," His hand sneaks up to grab your throat and your eyes roll back. You're moaning his name and his grip only tightens, hips pistoning faster and faster into you. "So...fuck...so good."

You hear a creaking sound- the desk is moving in time to his thrusts. Papers shift around you and flutter to the floor. Your moans get louder and you fumble around, grasping for anything to hold on to.

"Please make me cum, please," you beg.

Almost there, almost therealmostthere-

Your wet pussy clenches around him. That coil springing tight in your stomach unfurls. White streaks across your vision. You arch your back, obscenities spilling out of your mouth. Zayne is panting your name, hips hammering his cock into your cunt.

Your breasts bounce in time to his thrusts- he leans down to suckle your nipple, ears full of your moans. It's music to his soul.

"I- So close-" he grunts, pulling your head up to press his forehead against yours.

You're fucked out of your mind. The new position has the angry, fat tip of his cock is hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you so good, so good. Your orgasm is quickly building again.

"Cumming, I'm cumming!" You sob, throwing your head back.

Zayne pulls out, pumping his cock in his hand. Ragged moans leave his lips and he tilts his head, eyebrows screwing up in pleasure. Thick ropes of cum spurt out his tip, soaking your stomach.

You both still, breathing heavily. Zayne runs his hand through his hair, pushing dark locks from his sweaty forehead. His face is flushed red. He seems so embarrassed now, as if he hadn't just fucked you senseless. You reach for him, grinning, and he helps you sit up fully on the desk. You wrap your arms around his shoulders.

"So," You pant, a lopsided smile on your lips, "When was my next appointment, again?"

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, a drabble

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Set before chapter 2. A sliver of those early days in room number 2.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 Nonnie this is for you 🧡 Unhinged but not unbeta-ed thanks to @frannyzooey who is the angel that watches over my gothic ass with her kind heart and genius brain. My anatomical heart beats for you, Kelli 🧡

Word count: 3.6k

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Drabble: Wrecked

“I’m gonna fuck your ass, now. Stop me.”

Before you lost count, there was a first time. And a second. And a third.  

And before all of it, there was this one time. Nothing short of a humiliation. A suggestion you’d offered, a shy and clumsy attempt at understanding Adrian’s perfunctory physical contacts with you. Not exactly a lack of interest, more of a tepid enthusiasm. Intercourse performed in the dark, his body clinically clean, his ministrations dejectedly proper. 

You’d been dating for a little over two years. Adrian being five years your elder, and a well-traveled man; you were acutely aware of your inexperience and had thought your lack of practice was to blame.  

You’d searched for ideas, for clues, in loud and colorful magazines, descending into a tunnel of shame catered to you on the internet in private windows. 

You’d gathered your strength and all of your courage, and you’d asked him if he’d like to try something else, something different. 

His cold answer sliced through your chest, scorching your skin from the neck up. 

The glaring horror in his eyes, the disgust curling down his thin lips. 

“Don’t be crass, Lee. Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.”

Women like you. 

This had been your first clue, perhaps. If women like you didn’t perform such acts, then other women had to. 

And then, then there was him. 

“I’m gonna fuck your ass, now. Stop me.”

Wrists bound to the headboard, black zip ties biting into your flesh, your fists balled the dirty bedspread.  You gasped into the pillow, a strangled moan, in a stranger’s voice. The voice of the woman you were allowed to be in room number 2. 

You were exhausted. Exhausted and sore from coming too hard and too many times, with your arms outstretched in front of you, your shoulders bent at an odd angle, and your ass perked up. And you struggled to make sense of his own endurance as he kept you in this position, kneeled behind you, eating you up, relentless, insatiable. 

You could have asked for a reprieve. You could have simply said, Stop. When you were not mewling through another release, that is. 

But you were high, high on pleasure, all lightheaded and weighed limbs, only coming down to soar through another orgasm. High on his unrelenting hunger for you, on the way he used you, on his commanding desire and his obscene irreverence. 

The vibrations from his primal grunts rippled from your core to your neck, and whenever your breathing slowed down, you could hear the slick sound of his thick fingers sliding along his stiff cock. 

The wet glide of his tongue, licking you from clit to hole in broad, pointed stripes. His plush lips wrapped around your swollen bud, sucking harshly. The tip of his tongue flickered and, dipped into your cunt to lap at your walls, his face buried between your cheeks, the sharp ridge of his nose a dangerous tease over your tight ring. 

Another release violently quaked through you and you lost balance, and his large hand caught you, splayed fingers furrowing into the swell of your ass to keep you upright.

The mattress moved as he straightened up, smacking his lips. His large palm crashed over your cheek with a loud crack. 

“I’m gonna fuck your ass now. Stop me.”

He bent down again, and sucked hard on your asshole, working saliva into you, as your guttural moans poured into the pillow. 

You felt him move behind you, and he spat on your asshole, once, twice, thrice, smearing his spit around it, pushing his finger in to the knuckle, quickly adding a second. Your cunt clenched at the pleasure-pain sensation. You pushed back into it with renewed strength, and your flesh gushed through his splayed grip on your cheek as he drew you in. 

His fingers slid out of you, quickly replaced by the blunt tip of his cock, and you heard him groan as he sucked on the digit. 

“Fucking taste good all over.”

The obscenity of it all sent a powerful wave that shook your body, uprooting your whole world. The transgression felt like a vengeance. 

He pushed in, slowly, with a low and drawn out grunt, and he stayed there, stilled, deliberate, throbbing inside your tight hole. He let you and your body and your entire life adjust, to the impossible size and meaning of him. 

—

The second time, you begged him for it. 

The room was plunged in darkness. The rectangle of sky beyond the curtains a friendly pitch black. 

Resting prone on your stomach over the rumpled sheet, your head tilted to the side and your arms a loose curl around the pillow, you were lost in the contemplation of the dramatic ridges of his sharp profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest, as he laid on his back next to you, eyes opened, facing the ceiling. 

What thoughts lived inside of his head?

He turned to face you, hard cold stare, soft sad eyes. Glaring crease and silent questions. Are you real? What’s your name? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?

Between your lungs, the wild creature stirred, stretching its paws, clawing at your rib cage. 

Your eyes glimmered, a wanton, wanting glow, a fever and a fire. The need to feel alive underneath him. You could tell. You could see their light reflected on his face. 

He moved over you, covering your body with his, forcing the air out of your chest with his weight. 

Your grip on the pillow tightened as his face dived into your neck, warm breath fanning over your thin skin, a welcome constraint, the musky smell of him everywhere around you. 

Like a tidal surge, like a rippling ocean, his body began moving, a steady pace, an hypnotic rhythm, undulating over yours. Skin on skin, sweat to sweat, scent to scent. His hardening cock slotted in the cleft of your cheeks, as he snaked a strong arm between your stomach and the mattress. Nimble fingers parting your folds, where they found you soaked. 

He huffed smugly into your neck, rippling body, tidal ocean, submerging waves. 

“What do you want?”

The question painted your vision crimson. Crimson like blood, like a revolution. 

A grating sound scraped your throat raw, a gasp, or a sob, a life’s worth of apologies and hesitation. 

“Tell me what you want”, he asked again, tapping into the strength of his rippling motion to arch your back into him.

“I want– I want you,” you blurted.

“Where do you want me?”

Clenching your eyelids, you pressed your face into the pillow, for fear of crying. For fear of saying it, and being granted it. For fear of opening a breach. 

Holding your breath, you bucked again, and his low, husky chuckle grazed your ear. 

“You can’t even say it, can you?”

“Please, Frankie,” you begged, “please, I can’t–”

“‘S okay, I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” he said, spreading you open with a shove of his knee behind your thigh. 

—

The third time, he wrecked you. 

He’d walked into the room in a different kind of rush, something in the way his lips latched to your skin that had you thinking that, maybe, what moved him tonight was sheer desire for you. 

He got you naked before you had a chance to draw the yellow curtains closed, and laid you sideways across the bed, over the bedspread. Assertive movements, arranging your docile body with ease and deftness. 

He undressed leisurely under your gaze. The diffuse amber hues of the quaint side lamps drew dancing shadows of gold on his shifting body, highlighting his breadth, the dip in his collarbone, the plane of his chest, the strong round of his shoulders. Saliva pooled into your mouth when he slid his denim down, revealing the thickness of his thighs, the telling tenting of his underwear. Unhurried, he watched you watch him, pulling himself out of the black boxer briefs, stiff and thick and ready for you. He walked to the side of the bed, readjusting your position, so your head hung a little from the edge, and you caught yourself licking your lips in anticipation. 

In a teasing glide, he traced your parted lips with the round tip of his cock. Eyes drifting shut, your tongue peeked out, catching the dribbling stickiness of his arousal. You moaned, head spinning, dizzied by your hunger, and reached back with both hands to anchor yourself to his body, skimming your hands to the back of his thighs, palms brushing along his hair. 

Tipping your head back, you opened your mouth, his dense muscles twitching. 

He breathed hard, through his nose, and there was that word again, that one word in Spanish that you’ve never quite caught. 

He thrust into your mouth, slowly, trembling muscles under your palms, and you squirmed on the slippery fabric of the bedspread, brain buzzed out with the heady scent of his sex. Wrapping your tongue around his cock, you took it all in, his taste, his girth, his warmth, his weight. The throbbing stiffness, the impressive length. 

He dragged his cock over your tongue, in and out, and your cheeks hollowed around it, greedy and eager. 

He paused at the close of your throat, nudging tentatively, with unusual gentleness, and you breathed in deep before tilting your head further back, urging him in. Fingernails sinking in, nearly breaking his skin. 

“Alright, then,” he gritted, curling a hand on your nape, and he pushed inside your throat down to his base, brisk and sudden.

So much. He’s always been so much. Yet never quite a match for just how much you want him, everywhere inside you. Your grip tightened as he started fucking your throat in earnest, a relentless, punishing pace, the wet, explicit sounds of your pooling spit filling the room. Eyes watering, you eased your throat, staving off the reflexive caving of your chest, breathing in through your nose, and took the unrelenting shove of his cock. 

He bent down over you, his large hand a loose wrap over your neck.

“Shit,” he groaned, feeling your neck full to bursting with his cock, “fucking shit, you feel so fucking good.”

His words stirred something heavy down your core, something coiling hot and slow, swirling like lava, and your hips swirled along with the searing stream of it, as it flowed down your walls.

A few more strokes and he pulled out, a thick string of saliva threading your lips to his cock. You gulped loudly for air, before you could let out a disgruntled moan. Chest heaving violently, you made to sit up on your elbows before his voice halted you.

“Don’t move. Stay like this.”

He rounded the bed. You watched him with glassy, teary eyes, eyelashes glued with clumps of mascara, as he stood at your feet, prompting your legs open with a tap of his hand on your ankles. Climbing on his knees onto the mattress, he settled his massive figure between your parted legs. 

At his back, the dark rectangle of the window enhanced the breadth of his chest in chiaroscuro. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of him, sitting straight on his knees, erect and mighty before you. His skin painted gold by the tangerine light, a shin of sweat glinting all over him. His tousled curls a mass of dark waves, the depthless black oceans of his eyes. 

A pagan idol, a sacrificial offering at his feet. 

The reptilian rippling of his lean muscles as he skimmed his hands along the back of your legs tore something open inside your chest. The wild creature hissed and spat, fierce and untamed, and white noise filled your ears. 

“Oh god,” you whispered, no more than a faint thread of a voice, laced with lust, in the still silence of the room.

His gaze found yours, stern and threatening under his creased brow, and for one terrifying instant, you thought he might ask you again, What do you want?

The corner of his plush lips pulled to the side, a predatory grin, and you felt bound to him, forever and beyond, with no will to escape, and no intention to leave. Your heart swelled within your chest and inside your mind, the clear vision of its anatomical shape and design as it thumped loud and frantic, pumping blood of crimson through your veins, vessels, and arteries. Your eyes widened as his trailed down to your pulse point, down to the valley between your breasts, and you knew, you knew with unsettling certitude that he could see it too, he could see it through your flesh and skin. Your swollen heart in its anatomical shape, your coursing blood, your pumping veins. 

He pressed down on your knees, spreading your folds with a lewd sound. His eyes traveled back up to your face, you might have been crying, for you felt stray tears rolling down your temples. 

Your mouth parted, and you smiled around a silent plea, a soundless invite. The crease in his brow shifted, ever so slightly, a pleading arch mirroring your need.

He ran his knuckles along your seam, and a quivering breath rushed past your lips. 

“Stop me,” a murmur, and you shook your head No over the dirty bedspread, your hair catching at the synthetic fabric. 

He sunk a finger inside your heat, pumping in rhythm with your pounding blood, and you tried chasing it with your hips, but behind your rib cage, your swollen heart was too heavy. 

Thick, sticky slick leaked down your folds, dripping into the cleft of your ass, onto the bedding. Straightening up, he used it to coat his length and lined himself up at your entrance. Slowly, he thrust in and you watched, subdued, unable to move, his dark, feverish gaze trained on your cunt, fixed on where he was splitting you open, his thick cock a snug glide along your walls. 

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he drew you in over his lap, your hair sprawled out above your head over the bed. He kept you there, hips tilted up, as he rocked into you steady and slow, sinking in deeper and deeper with each deliberate stroke, seemingly entranced by the motion, just like you were transfixed by his eyes, until he reached so deep the pleasure turned to pain. 

You moaned with discomfort, with relief, too, and at last, his eyes flickered back to your face. His fingers burrowed into your flesh as he pulled you in closer, grinding against your spread hips, letting you feel every vein and ridge of his cock, the nudging of his head at your cervix, the coarse hair at his base scraping the tender flesh of your lips. 

Another teardrop spilled down into your hairline, and this time, you voiced it. 

“Wreck me.”

Rebuild me anew. 

For a fleeting moment, the pleading arch of his brow lingered on his face, before his carnivorous grin obliterated it. 

He released the grasp on your thighs, just enough to nudge you away and pull out of your heat, before his clutching hold over you tightened again, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your tight ring. 

“Frankie,” you moaned, nodding.  

Arching off the mattress, you linked your ankles over the small of his back and his answer was immediate. He drove himself forward, brutally breaching you there, nearly doubling over with the strength of his shove and you whimpered loudly, wincing, head thrashing back, fingers frantically scrabbling for purchase. 

His groan tore through the white noise scrambling your brain and you lifted your head to see him. 

He was still, an eerie kind of stillness, like a wild beast locked on its prey, a testimony to a practiced self-restraint, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his teeth painfully clenched, lips curled over them. 

You willed yourself to relax, for your body to relent and your mind to let go, but he was too much, too thick and too stiff and too fucking gorgeous, a beaming god of gold, blinding, breathtaking, dangerous to behold. 

He pulled out just a little, before pushing in again with a louder grunt, a droplet of sweat rolling down his temple into his sideburns. A slow rocking motion he repeated, again and again, hips swaying into you, readjusting his hold, an arm hooked under your thigh. 

Pleasure surprised you, flooded you through every sense. Full with him, slack under his gripping touch, the coppery smell of his sex filling your nostrils, his taste on your tongue and his grunts in your ears. The vision of his shifting, gleaming chest. 

“Touch yourself,” he said. 

A demand, but you were already torn open for him and what more could you do? What more could you give? Your mind couldn’t comply. But your body, your body sent a tremor down your spine, raised the thin hair on your arms, slick leaking down your seam.  

“You can do as I say or you can stop me, but I won’t be repeating myself,” he husked. 

You swallowed thickly, limbs like lead. 

His gaze softened imperceptibly, as did his voice when he added, “Gonna give you everything you want.”

At first, it was a tentative touch. A shy and shallow reenactment of what you would sometimes do in the dark, behind the secrecy of the locked bathroom door, until shame would take over, and you’d have to stop yourself.

The pad of your middle finger glided over the swollen bud of your clit and you clenched your eyes shut. There was too much light, and Frankie’s boring gaze on your face, and you were so wet, wet and still leaking, and the embarrassment had your skin burning and your chest constricted. 

The rolling of his hips resumed, sending jolting waves of pleasure radiating to the confines of your body. Of their own volition, your fingers started stroking, drawing circles in rhythm with his movements as he picked up the pace. 

Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.

Adrian’s voice rang out in your ears and your eyelids flew open to Frankie’s silhouette towering over you, shifting shadows of gold, predatory grin. A beacon and an anchor.

You plunged a finger inside your heat, and his grin widened when you gasped.

“I feel you,” you breathed out, “I feel you inside me.”

“Oh fuck, yea,” he groaned, darkening eyes and stretching lips. 

Releasing your thigh, he knocked your hand off and thrust two thick fingers where yours had been, overwhelming you instantly. He stayed there, fucking into your ass harder, reveling in the snug drag of his cock, eyes locked on your face. You were a fever, cheeks, neck and chest on fire, beads of sweat mixing with tears of pleasure, and your fingers reached for your clit again, pressing fast, shameless circles over it.

“Look at you, fucking look at you,” he panted. 

Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.

“So fucking beautiful. Fucking look at you.” 

Women like you. 

“Gonna watch you make yourself come while I fuck your tight ass.”

Women like you. 

He thrust in hard, down to his base. 

“Oh god,” you keened, cunt fluttering, walls collapsing around his fingers, a high like no other seizing your every nerve, a powerful swell, a blinding shock. Your body lifted and crashed, eyes rolling to the back of your head, legs trembling, slick pooling down thick and sticky onto his hand. 

“Oh shit, I can feel you coming, you’re gonna make me come, shit.”

He pulled out with a pained groan, clutching your hip to a bruising point, pearly ropes of come spurting onto your spread cunt, and you sunk into the mattress, landing somewhere beyond contentment, beyond rapture. 

His ragged breathing echoed in the room, reminding you to take in some air. With half-lidded eyes, you tried focusing on his anchoring figure. You wished for his body to cover yours, for the reassurance of his skin, for a wrapping embrace. You blinked away more tears, grinding your teeth, chewing down on your pathetic needs and emotions.

Women like you. 

He looked up at you and your transparency was unbearable. You retreated, folding your arms over your quivering chest, shutting your eyelids, your swollen heart and all of your hopes, burying your face into the dirty bedspread.

Women like you. 

He jerked your body back into the room when he slid a finger inside your cunt, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare trained on your face. Pushing his come into you, lacing his spend with yours. Leaning forward, he propped his hand onto the mattress next to your head, and brought his finger to your lips. 

There was a beat, before you could open up. An endless stretch of time during which you stared back at him, tore between need and pride. 

Gonna give you everything you want.

A bead of sweat dripped from the pebbled skin of his neck into the dip at the base of yours. Your lips parted, tongue curling around the sweet and tangy taste of your release and his. Reaching back, he collected some more, bringing his fingers to his plush lips. His eyes on yours throughout all of it, the thrusting, the licking, the working of his throat. 

It was over in an instant. 

He got up, cold air hitting your body, and started gathering his clothes. You lied there, sprawled, silent and limp, on the rumpled bedding. With your combined taste on your lips, your aching, swollen heart, and the wild creature lapping blood between your lungs. 

Wrecked.

****

[cat3ch1sm]

💚~ hi!! this is my first fic in so long, im so sorry for disappearing for almost two months ... idk I've been at a loss for motivation for a while. happy new years i guess😭. but it's a story based off of @a-hazbin-reader recent headcanons about alastor (first hazbin hotel writing!! exciting !!) i happened to come across it and immediately saw a fic idea finally. all credits to them and the person who requested the original writing (hope they see this too lololol) !!! also yes my anime writings will also return so yayy im officially back!!

heads up this is super long it's like 15 pages cause ya girl got a little carried away 😅 i hope you all enjoy and reqs are open for all!

🌲❦(๑˙❥˙๑)~ mentions of violence , abuse, bit of blood, alcohol, language, lewd language a little bit at the start, fem!reader

alastor x fem!reader

"Angel. Are you able to draw absolutely anything else?"

The aforementioned spider demon stared straight at Charlie with his brow arched and a shit-eating smirk on his lips. Beside his face he haughtily held up a sheet of paper with one of four hands, a drawing depicting nothing other than a giant penis.

"Nope." He popped the "p."

The hotel residents and employees, including Angel, Husk, Vaggie, Nifty, you, and Alastor were doing Charlie's usual scheduled feel-good activity. The devil's daughter had given out paper and pencils, gathered everyone in a circle and told everyone to draw something that made them happy. And of course Angel Dust, lewd as always, had spent a frankly concerning amount of time drawing the member currently on display on his paper.

Everyone just stared at the drawing in silence. Examining it while Angel continued to hold it up with not an ounce of shame on his face.

"Why is it... anatomically correct?" you finally questioned, tilting your head and squinting at the piece.

Vaggie, sitting beside her girlfriend, let out an exasperated groan, looking from the drawing to Angel with undisguised revulsion. "Angel Dust. First you drew pills, then you drew a liquor bottle, and for the last three goddamn turns we've given you, you've drawn a dick. Come on. Are you even trying-"

"Whadd'ya mean?" Angel asked innocently. "Charlie said to draw somethin' that makes me happy. Dicks make me happy. And as a worker here, you shouldn't be judgin' me," the porn star added smugly, making Vaggie let out an impatient growl.

Business as usual in the Hazbin Hotel.

"Well, I mean, you can't really say he didn't try," Husk deadpanned in a gravelly voice. "I mean, look at the vein-"

Ding dong!

"Oh, wow, hey, someone's at the door!" You'd never seen anyone move as fast as Charlie in that moment, and Vaggie was in close pursuit. In a split second, Nifty's tiny frame was flying after them both.

"Someone's at the door!" Nifty repeated in a high-pitched voice.

"Right. While they're distracted, I need a damn dick- fuck. Drink," Husk snapped, rising from his place on the floor. Angel immediately started laughing while Husk wasted no time lighting into him. "Shut up. You and your fucking anatomically correct dick got into my head," you could hear Husk snarl while Angel's taunting laughs never ceased as they headed off to the bar.

With those two gone, it was just you sitting in the circle, blinking. "Right," you murmured, standing up and dusting yourself off.

"Well, my dear? What did you draw?" came the oh-so-familiar drone of the Radio Demon's voice from the corner of the room. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your lips at the sound of it, and glanced up to see Alastor standing with his trusty mic stand, beckoning you to come closer. Of course, you obliged.

You scoffed a little, smile turned slightly sarcastic. "Well... I was going to draw you, but Angel suddenly became the Picasso of Penises and I didn't get around to it."

Alastor laughed good-naturedly, wrapping an arm around your waist and planting a gentle kiss on your head. "Ah, always the sentimental one, aren't you, my dear? Well, no matter. It's the thought that counts."

Your smile turned genuine again at his gesture and Alastor noticed. "There's that smile, sweetheart. Now, if you'd just keep it on your face at all times without fail, we could be quite the formidable pair."

You kissed your teeth with mock exasperation and lightly shoved Alastor away. "Oh, here you go again. And I thought we were having a moment. Alastor, my face just cannot stay like yours for that long-"

Before you could finish your sentence, Charlie came rushing back into the room, her sudden entrance startling you a little. She made her way up to you and Alastor. "Hey, um, Y/N? There's a woman at the door who says she's looking for you. She seems really upset."

Your face wrinkled in confusion. Someone looking for you? You weren't friends with anyone really outside the Hotel and those affiliated with it, so you had no clue who would be searching for you. You glanced at Charlie with a "What's going on?" look and with some reluctance pulled away from your boyfriend's grip to follow her.

As you neared the lobby, you heard a distressed-sounding voice in the door, and confusion growing you walked a little faster to the entrance. But before you could even register who the visitor was, she'd thrown her arms around you, fingernails digging painfully into your skin. But the stench of her familiar perfume wafting unwelcomed into your nose, into your mouth, smothering you and strangling you let you know the identity of this woman without even having to see her face.

You instantly stiffened, limbs suddenly like metal rods, not at all softening into her embrace. Your eyes went wide and you could feel your pulse speeding up.

"Mother?"

"My love! Oh, my precious girl!" she cried, pulling out of that suffocating hug for a moment to cup your cheeks in her cold hands, hands that no matter how gently they touched you their touch would always sting. She peered into your eyes with watery ones of her own, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I missed you so, my dear. This is where you've been hiding? I was so dreadfully worried!" Her eyes, always scrutinizing, ran up and down your figure in the way that made you want to tear the flesh from your bones.

"Oh, and I was worried you were starving somewhere. You were such a frail, skinny thing before on Earth. It's a great relief to see you've put some weight on your bones."

And the first stone was thrown.

"Mother." It was the only word you could seem to utter, fighting the urge to throw up, bile collecting in your throat. Her voice was like a slap to the face, and it was only your mother's grip that kept you from actually staggering backward. And how the others were just staring, awed, at the scene, Charlie's eyes sparkling with tears, Vaggie with a hand on her shoulder and a knowing smile, Angel and Husk watching contentedly from a distance, and Nifty clinging to Alastor who was smiling as usual. God, if you didn't vomit right fucking now, you'd be surprised. But you knew what they all saw in their clouded vision- a heartfelt reunion between mother and daughter. But really? It more closely resembled a predator at last capturing its prey.

You really couldn't hear what she was saying over the pounding in your head, but somehow you were in her arms again, and she was fawning and cooing over you like you were a child, showering you with kisses that burned like molten iron and rocking you back and forth. Always she loved to put on a show, loved being the center of attention.

It made you sick.

You managed to come out of your stupor long enough to shove your wailing mother away, unfazed by her crocodile tears. It was like waking up from a haze. She stumbled back slightly, and you backed away, your entire demeanor hardening. Your tone was flat when you spoke.

"What are you doing here?"

You apparently weren't doing that clean a job of masking your emotions, because the venom in your voice caught even you off guard. Your mother looked hurt- that act wasn't new to you, either- and your friends and partner surrounding you shot you disapproving and mildly disgusted looks that clearly wondered why you were being so cold to your own mother. You dropped your eyes to avoid the accusing stares, unable to slow your breathing and fighting the desire to lash out. Charlie looked bewildered and hurt, Angel Dust arched a brow, Husk appeared disapproving and Vaggie’s venomous expression said everything she wanted it to. How dare they look at you like you were the bad guy without knowing shit! She couldn't care less if you lived or died. She was here because she wanted something, and nothing more. Perhaps she heard about your role in the extermination of the Extermination and wanted a piece of the popularity you'd recently found yourself gaining. Or she came because she was probably destitute, the frivolous bitch, and wanted to suck up to either you or the powerful people you were now associated with. Whatever it was, you didn't care. You wanted her gone.

But it was clear she had no intention of leaving.

"All this time, and not one visit. And she never calls," your mother moaned in anguish, now addressing her new audience. "Perhaps I wouldn't have to track you down like a bloodhound if you would just come see your poor mother every once in a while." Her voice was overflowing with hurt and heartbreak you just could feel wasn't genuine. Before you knew it, she had broken down into sobs again, and you could only stand there stiffly, rage boiling, while the always empathetic Charlie moved to comfort the woman, rubbing her back soothingly while she sent Nifty off to get her tissues for her tears. The dirty look Vaggie shot you- "How cruel of you to do this to your innocent mother,” it said- sent heat rushing straight to your chest. Jesus fucking Christ, how could they fall for this shit? Your stomach twisted again, and this time you actually did nearly puke, suppressing a dry heave.

You did not pay any mind to your mother's display- you refused to give her the satisfaction. You turned in the opposite direction, arms folded, nails digging into your skin hard. You felt nothing seeing her cry but bitterness and icy detachment.

"I don't want to see you-"

"Well, now- who do we have here?"

Alastor appeared from the shadows with his sharp-toothed grin, glancing at you first and then your weeping mother. Before you could stifle it, a rush of hope surged through you- if anybody could get this infernal woman to leave, it would be Alastor. You turned towards him, hoping he would see how distressed you were- he was typically fairly perceptive when it came to you and your feelings. But alas, your mother caught his attention first, peering up at the Radio Demon standing over her with teary eyes and wet cheeks, a piteous expression on her face.

"The Radio Demon? Oh, well, a being like you mustn't worry about who I am. I'm just- a poor mother come to visit her daughter. But she... doesn't seem to want to see me." She sighed in a melancholy manner and slowly unburied her face from the tissue she'd been holding. "I suppose I will simply see myself out."

"Oh, nonsense. Y/N's mother, are you? I absolutely cannot allow you to remain on the streets. I insist that you stay." Alastor extended a hand out to your mother, his maniacal smile gone suspiciously gentle. It was disgustingly familiar; it was the smile he reserved normally just for you. "As... abrasive as your daughter may seem at the moment"- you felt him cast a look over at your back turned to him- "I'm sure she wouldn't want you suffering like this. Please, you're welcome to remain here."

You wanted to cry when he said this- could he really not see who this woman was? Did he really think you were just being testy? And when your mother took his hand and held it for much too long, you could take it no longer. And as everyone crowded your mother, showering her with welcomes and greetings and kindness, you pushed past everybody and walked straight out of the hotel doors, the last thing you saw being the tauntingly smug smirk on your mother's face before you slammed the doors behind you.

When you returned to the hotel, drunk, night had fallen. You hadn't seen any of your hotel mates since you'd left, and as far as you knew nobody went after you after your abrupt exit. Who the hell cared about that now, though? You'd talk to them about your deranged mother when you got inside, without her presence. Perhaps Alastor had just been being nice when he told her she could stay, and they hadn't actually been blind to why you were acting the way you were. Maybe they were just being supportive of a guest when they saw you acting out of the ordinary, knowing you usually were never snappy and stony, and still took her side. Maybe so.

You wished you hadn't had so much to drink.The pounding in your head was worse than when your mother had shown up earlier and your eyelids felt heavy. You had tripped a minimum of ten times on the way back and almost let two thugs take you in their car with them. You hated being drunk, but your mother you hated more.

With unsteady hands you pushed open the doors of the Hazbin Hotel, vision blurring a little. You weren't amazing with alcohol, and again, being drunk wasn't your favorite thing. But the moment you entered, you realized you weren't nearly drunk enough.

In the lobby sat your boyfriend, Alastor, enjoying a cup of tea with none other than your mother. The two were laughing together, which incensed you enough, but what made you wish you'd just blacked out at that bar was when you caught sight of your mother's hand on top of Alastor's as they shared a laugh over God knows what.

It didn't take long for the two to notice you in the doorway, a turbulent, unreadable expression on your face, standing as still as a statue as you took in the scene. Your mother turned to you and smiled, waving the hand with the cup of tea in it.

"Why, darling, we hadn't realized you left! Alastor is quite a charming gentleman. We were just having a moment." She slipped her hand from on top of his with a slightly mischievous smile.

Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing. You had no fucking clue how, but somehow your mother had discovered that Alastor and you were an item. She wasn't sitting here with anyone else but Alastor, drinking tea with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. And she was wearing makeup she hadn’t had on when she’d first come in the hotel- red painted on her lips, blush dotted on her cheeks and glitter on her eyelids in a display clearly meant to make an impression on Alastor and Alastor alone. It wouldn’t be the first time she'd gone after one of your partners, but it angered you no less- it was like the woman wanted to take your place somehow.

Alastor turned to you as well with a smile, but when he saw the look in your eyes, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. However, he made no comment at your slightly disheveled appearance and picked up his expression once more. 

“Why, hello, my dear. Your lovely mother was just telling me about her life before you,” Alastor enthused. “A lively woman she was! I’ve heard story after exciting story. Quite a wild one, indeed- rather unlike you, sweetheart.”

You gave Alastor what could only be described as what is called ‘the thousand-yard stare,’ expression flat, not knowing really what to say to that. Despite the fact that you were in a bit of a daze still, either from the alcohol or the fact that your mother was on a date with your boyfriend, the haughty, self-superior expression on your mother’s face was not lost on you. Nor were the cow eyes she was giving him, or how when Alastor reached for the teapot to refill his cup her hand was conveniently already on the dish, lingering beneath his for what felt like hours.

She turned to Alastor, looking up at him with that sickly sweet, beaming grin of hers that she always plastered on her face when she was really about to lay it on. “I’m still wild if you ever care to find out,” she purred, batting her lashes at Alastor with an unmistakable air of seduction. 

Before you could even register it, you heard yourself saying, “Get out.”

Both your mother and Alastor turned to face you, your mother’s face having dropped and Alastor’s eyes piercing into yours. 

“What?” your mother asked, looking at you with wide, glassy eyes. You truly saw red for a moment, knowing damn well those tears were as false as Angel’s lashes, and the twitching in your muscles to just lash out was almost painfully difficult to stifle. Alastor’s smile wavered a little as his eyes darted from you to your blubbering mother, who had already started her shit.

You advanced forward, your stride making your mother jump and Alastor stand, and without hesitation tore her hand from Alastor’s, yanking her arm with force that momentarily startled even you. She was pulled from her chair and forced to stand up. 

Her voice full of anguish, she pleaded, “Baby girl, what did I do wrong?” However, unmoved by her over-the-top performance, you’d already started dragging her out, not bothering to respond to her or explain why you were throwing her out. She already knew; you could see past the tears and wails and her struggles to pull away from you. Fueled by fury, distress and the afterbuzz of the alcohol, you hauled your protesting mother out of the hotel, pitilessly leaving her outside in the dark, and forcefully slammed the doors behind her. There were muffled screams of your name coming from the other side, her fists pounding on the door, but after a bit they faded away.

The moment she was gone you instantly felt as if a weight had been lifted off of your chest, slumping against the door with a breath of exertion and relief. But that relief quickly dissipated when you locked eyes with Alastor, who was advancing on you, his smile obviously strained. The way he spat your name at you made you shrink back slightly, realizing that he was actually not pleased.

“You cannot just throw your own mother out like that. Into the streets? My dear, that is no way to treat your mother. And frankly, it’s rude.”

You felt anger rising once more, but you didn’t want to start anything with Alastor despite the fact that he had no idea what he was talking about. Of course it looked simply like bad etiquette from his standpoint; he had no idea who your mother was. And somehow you didn’t feel it was proper to tell him- you knew how much he valued his own mother and mothers in general, and as sweet as you had always thought that was, you knew he and his rosy view of maternal relationships wouldn’t understand and perhaps not allow for your turbulent relationship with your own mother. And you didn’t want to be the one to tarnish his otherwise endearing perspective by explaining how abhorrent of a person your mother was. So despite how much you just wanted to scream at him, to tell him he had no clue what was really going on, you kept your composure, inhaling shakily.

“Alastor, please. You- you don’t know what you’re talking about. So just stay out of it, alright?”

“She’s your mother, not the devil, dear.” Alastor’s tone was back to normal, and he was speaking in his usual radio voice as if he was talking to just anyone, and it made your stomach churn. 

“She’s not innocent, Alastor, she’s in Hell-”

“Ah, but so are you and I, sweetheart.”

Your face crumpled, and you found yourself coming up short for a rebuttal. Before you could stop them, tears started to well in your eyes, frustrated that you couldn’t get through to him. Out of spite and pride, you blinked them back harshly. Alastor tilted his head and started to come towards you, his mic stand clacking on the ground as he walked, and for a moment you felt a glimmer of hope, thinking that he truly wanted to talk and get to the bottom of your animosity towards your mother. 

But the Radio Demon breezed right past you and, before you could stop him, opened the door, and your mother whom you’d thought had given up at last and left waltzed right back in, suddenly no longer the aggrieved mother you’d thrown out and back to beaming a mile a minute. The self-assured smirk she sent your way had your blood boiling with rage, and you felt powerless to act. You wanted to slap that smirk off of her face, but why wouldn’t she smirk? She had Alastor exactly where she wanted him, and both of you knew it. 

“I apologize sincerely for the earlier… incident,” Alastor told your mother with a note olf sympathy in his voice, and again he took her hand; you had to tear your eyes away, back to the scene.

“Aren’t you charming!” your mother exclaimed, voice pleasant and upbeat. ‘Don’t even think of it, I’ve already forgotten.”

“You’re too kind, miss. But in order to make up for it, I’d like to offer you to spend the night. I would hate to send a lovely woman such as yourself out on the streets of Hell after sundown. I implore you.”

Fucking Christ. You didn’t even have to see her to know the way she was grinning at you. Your shoulders tensed, rising to your ears, and the tears burned hot in your eyes. Not wanting to give her the satisfaction, you bit your inner cheek hard enough to draw blood so as to not make the slightest sound alerting her to your tears.

“What a kind invitation. It’s nice to know at least somebody wants me here.” An icy silence from you. “It’d be rather rude not to accept; I would be happy to spend the night.”

“Lovely!” Alastor praised. 

You couldn’t take any more. Unable to stifle your sobs, hot tears falling down your cheeks, you tossed back a cracked “I’m going to bed,” and stormed out of the lobby with your head down, rushing upstairs as fast as you could and ignoring Alastor’s calls of your name. Just as you slammed the door to your room, you heard your mother say, “Oh, don’t worry about her. Let her cool off for a bit, and then I’ll go after her. A mother always knows how to cheer up her child.”

It was quiet now. Hours ago Angel Dust had returned from his work and Charlie and Vaggie had locked up for the night. Nifty had been, though with much effort, put to bed by Husk who had then closed up the bar and retired himself. You didn’t know where your mother or Alastor were, and you didn’t want to. 

You were the only one up now, and you had finally run out of tears. Your head was stuffy, your eyes were sore and bloodshot, and you could feel the beginnings of a hangover coming on. It felt like days you’d spent just crying in your bed, unable to suppress the emotion you’d felt since your mother reappeared that morning. Charlie had actually come to check on you earlier, worried, along with Vaggie, but Alastor had told them to let you be for now. You’d heard their muffled conversation from outside your door.

You just wished Alastor would understand, that they all would understand. Your mother wasn’t a mother. She didn’t nurture, she didn’t love, all she did was belittle you, bully you, and take from you. Yet never once had you been able to figure out what you’d ever done to her. You had tried so hard to help and to please her as a living child, then teenager, then adult- tending to your siblings when she was out on the town, working multiple jobs to take care of the house while she spent the day blackout drunk and the nights in the city, and still desperately believing she would change, you sent her portions of your salary when you grew older and begged her to utilize the money, but she always blew it on material shit. And as if it wasn’t enough that you had to be the mother to yourself and your siblings, she beat you too, mostly when she was drunk but sometimes you felt it was just for her amusement or to make you feel small and worthless. As a teenager she did nothing but sabotage you- you couldn’t ever have friends over because she was always passed out on the couch or acting erratic and stinking of cheap liquor, and you had to fight like hell to get your siblings out of there after you left home for school. And yet you had still had hope for her.

That all changed when you came to Hell. It was the end of the road for real now, and you figured there was no point trying to reconcile with your mother anymore. So you’d left her in the past, thinking it was over, finally allowing yourself a little peace. But you hadn’t realized the extent of the resent you’d been harboring until she showed up at the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel. All those feelings just came rushing back.

Another hour or so passed and your swollen eyes were dried out and heavy-lidded. Exhausted from fretting about your mother and regretting the amount you'd had to drink, you turned over in your bed with a stifled groan and closed your eyes, hoping that sleep would finally find you and you could escape the events of the day at least for a little while. But just as you were drifting off, you were startled by the sound of your bedroom door opening.

You let out a moan that was half confusion and half sleepiness, and rolled over just a little to glance at the door through hazy eyes. “Alastor?” you mumbled questioningly, rubbing your eyes groggily.

But the voice that responded woke you right up.

“Not a chance, pet.”

You sat up instantly, knocking the bedcovers off. In the doorway, a shadowy silhouette in the dimly lit hallway, was your mother. A discordant note of exasperation sounded in your head; the woman couldn't let you be even at this hour? For the moment at least, you were more mildly annoyed than pissed like you were earlier, just wondering what in the hell she could possibly want now.

“Why are you even-”

You cut yourself off and immediately jumped out of the bed just as your mother lunged at you like a pouncing tigress; you'd sensed the attack in the way she had been moving and acted accordingly before she could maul you. It didn't mean it didn't still catch you off guard, though.

Your voice rising, you snapped, “What the hell are you-”

Again you were interrupted when she sprung off the bed and snatched your wrists in her iron grip before you could dodge again; her clasp was tight and bruising and you winced painfully. You caught a glimpse of her eyes in the faint light, and they were inflamed, wild with fury she'd probably been suppressing this whole time. It wasn't a new expression.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she snarled, voice trembling with fury. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you demanded, tearing your wrists from her grasp and moving a distance away from her so she was on one side of the bed and you were on the other. By the bewildered look on her face, she was clearly not expecting you to break away so effortlessly; maybe thinking she could just abuse you like she did when you were a defenseless child.

Like hell.

“What the hell are you even mad at me for?”

Your mother, seething, launched more accusations at you. “You think you're better than me, now, is it? Saw your sorry ass on the news after that damn Extermination rebellion. Bet it took your ego up a few notches killing those Exorcists, huh? And now that you're in some fancy hotel, dating some powerful boytoy and hiding behind hell's princess, you think you can just get rid of me?”

“Apparently fucking not, because here you are. And I'm not hiding. I'm trying to get away from you.”

Your mother let out a bitter, droll laugh. “Oh, you think that's how this works?” she hissed in an icy manner, and even though you were already a good distance away you backed up further still. “Think again, whore. I'm the one who deserves to be here, not some ungrateful little cunt who just happened to fall out of me. If I have to live destitute in the back alleys of Hell, so do you.”

The heartless insults and vulgarities she hurled your way would have shattered the living version of you. But it was about time your mother learned that you were no longer the pleading daughter you’d been on Earth, and instead of piercing your heart the names merely bounced off of you.

“You might recall I spent my whole damn life trying to help you,” you answered with equal coldness. “And for nothing, too, because here the hell we both are. Don't blame me because you turned out to be the nothing you always were.”

Without warning, she lunged at you, rushing forward like a charging bull, and though you tried to dodge she managed to snatch a handful of your hair and slam your head into the wall. You let out a cry of shock and pain and spots exploded in front of your vision before you reached up, tore her hand from your head and shoved her forward. You advanced again, teeth bared and fists balled, unwilling to let her get up- but before you could swing, there was a crackle in the air- and what followed was a cacophony of static, crackling, and microphone feedback that would've deafened an elephant. But the sound wasn't new to you, and you weren't surprised in the least when you lifted your eyes to see Alastor, smile maniacal and glowing red eyes wild as he entered the room. The sudden explosion of sound made your mother flinch and clap her hands over her ears, and seeing your opening, you kicked her to the ground; her head hit the wall rather roughly and she lost consciousness, her body going limp. You were breathing heavily, staring at her body sprawled on the ground without pity.

Alastor's eyes lost their luminescence and his smile softened; and he came over to you, attempting to touch you, but you shied away. You weren't necessarily ready to forgive him; if he'd just done a little more pushing and hadn't invited your mother here with you, this could have been avoided. You dropped your eyes to the floor.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” Alastor offered in a voice that was sufficiently staticky. “I wasn't too kind to you today.”

You wanted to say, no shit, but held your tongue, back to him still. Feelings of resent still swirled within you, but admittedly, hearing his apology did make them dissipate a little.

“Why is it you didn't simply tell me she was like this?”

Now you were silent not out of spite but more because…you simply didn't know what to say? Where were you to even begin? How would you explain that you didn't want to somehow tarnish his view of mothers by explaining your history with your own? And that you didn't want him to feel guilty about having a good relationship with his mother while yours was knocked out on the floor in front of you? And that you didn't want him to lose his love of mothers because you were unfortunate enough to have a shitty one? 

Somehow you managed to splutter all of that into something coherent, because Alastor gathered you in his arms without waiting for your approval, which you didn't mind, finally feeling somewhat okay since your mother had first shown up. You felt his hands in your hair, taming the out of place strands, and he lifted your wrists to his eyes, tutting in disapproval when he saw the bruises beginning to form. He settled for wordlessly kissing the deepening marks gently, but when he spotted the gash on your head where your mother had slammed you into the wall, his smile turned positively venomous. His head did a full 180 on his neck, which always made you cringe, to glare at your groggily awakening mother, who froze in her position on the floor when she caught his alarming gaze.

Alastor turned back to you, static popping in the air, and his smile grew- if that was even possible. “Well, sweetheart? What would you like me to do with her?”

You were frankly tired now of fighting your mother, who had staggered from the ground, rage still evident in her visage but with Alastor present she wasn’t about to act. So with a weary sigh, slumping into Alastor’s chest, you muttered, “I just want her gone.”

“Anything you wish.” And within the next few minutes, Alastor had summoned Nifty, who was more than eager to take out the trash, and had the tiny janitor drag your mother from your room by her hair. You lost sight of the two after they left, but by the way Nifty was giggling the entire time she was hauling your mother, you had a feeling the next several hours wouldn’t be too enjoyable for her.

You’d been on edge the whole day, but you didn’t quite realize the sheer amount of tension your mother’s presence had placed on you until it was only you and Alastor inside the room. His hand traced soothing circles around your back, and you finally felt like you could breathe.

The morning, after what seemed like centuries, finally did arrive. You were already up although day had barely broken, and that was because the earlier commotion had disturbed the hotel residents and they had literally gotten you and Alastor (who had evidently felt bad enough to spend the rest of the night with you, which he didn’t often do for posterity reasons, kissing the side of your head where it was wounded and apologizing once more) up out of bed to barrage you both with an onslaught of questions (and Nifty remaining suspiciously silent save the occasional maniacal giggle). With some reluctance you gave the group a brief explanation of everything that had gone down, Alastor standing beside you with a protective hand on your shoulder. Long story short, everyone basically grasped that they’d fucked up by allowing your mother in and judging you harshly about it, and before long Charlie was in tears and begging for you to forgive her, Vaggie had admitted her remorse over it, Angel Dust was shifty-eyed and sheepish, and Husk apologized to you formally. You dismissed the apologies with a grateful look, and that seemed to satisfy them all except Charlie, who you had to tell straight out you truly did forgive her at least five times and that only set her off bawling again to the point Vaggie had to carry the girl out.

Alastor, although one couldn’t tell by his face, apparently did feel guilty about his involvement in the whole fiasco because he took you out for breakfast and spent the rest of the day with you, and by the time night fell once more your cheeks hurt from smiling so much and your spirits were significantly lifted. It wasn’t until the two of you were in bed together (again, your lucky day, you didn’t even have to convince him) that he broke the long, contented silence you two had been sharing to inform you curtly:

“You didn’t ruin my opinion of mothers, you know.”

You sat up at this, eyes wide with hope and relief. He rose along with you to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t?”

“Oh, no. My dear, I love my own mother dearly, but don’t think I’m not aware that others may not have the same relationship with their own mothers. I did admire your resilience, though, and though it really wasn’t necessary, I do appreciate your attempt to spare my feelings. If I do say so myself”- his hand came to rest on your lower belly- “you seem like you’d make quite a stellar mother yourself.”

“Alastor.”

“Merely a thought.”

[slay00ryu]

The Devil's Celebrations.

For our dearest Devil's birthday.

November the 18th shall be remembered as the day Devil stepped onto earth to bring corruption to us all. - N, the so-called god of writing who curves Ronin into your hearts.

Birthdays.

Ronin didn't particularly hate them, he simply didn't care until someone made a big deal out of it, be it Angel or Ther.

So on the 18th of November he watched as the server was flooded with birthday wishes, even V dropped one. Ronin chuckled at how dedicated he was to wish him a good day even if he did intend to catch him.

Ronin read through the whole channel again, that's when he noticed that you didn't send anything, no wish, no message. Well it was midnight and you were offline so you were probably asleep after another tiring day full of writing and editing news reports. He shrugged.

"Guess they'll send it tomorrow."

He turned his computer off and pushed his chair back with his foot so it would arrive at his bed.

"G'night sad world, the Devil still lives to bring ruin. Hah, what an edgy bullshit."

He laughed at his own words and fell onto his bed to sleep.

.

.

.

Six in the morning, that's what Ronin's phone said when he opened his eyes. Even the world wanted the Devil awake at the right hour on his day of birth.

He noticed zero new messages, weird, you're usually awake and trying to get out of his bed while he pulled you closer and stopped you from leaving for hours.

But you weren't there, even weirder. You would come to bother him or call to wake him up o he can talk to you.

He decided to think about it when he eats something, takes his T and maybe bothers the server. As he walked out of his room he heard someone humming, the sound coming from his kitchen. He went there, his steps quiet, careful, not to disturb whoever was in his kitchen.

To his surprise it was you.

Swaying to some song on your headphones while you were preparing something. He leaned on the doorway, admiring your carelessness about his presence. He was waiting for you to turn around, but when you didn't he took the initiative.

"Ah! Ronin! Fuck... You scared me."

You exclaimed when Ronin wrapped his arms around your waist. He chuckled at your reaction.

"Awh, you didn't come to wake me up or texted me, I wanted to see you."

He whispered into your ear, moving his lips lower to kiss your neck and shoulder.

"Yeah, because it was supposed to be a surprise Ronin."

You titled your head to the side and sighed.

"Do you seriously have to?"

Your tired and annoyed voice made him chuckle.

"What do you have here?"

He looked over your shoulder. in the middle of the table there was a cake, a beautiful cake shaped and made into an anatomical heart, it looked absolutely insane how detailed it was.

"It's all edible?"

Ronin asked in awe of your hard work, this couldn't be an edible cake with all the detail,

"No, it's plastic."

You rolled your eyes.

"Do you think I spent all this time, watched all those baking videos ,and even took a few classes to bring you something that you can't even eat?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

"Aw, you worked so hard darling."

He kissed your cheek with a teasing grin.

"So what now?"

He asked.

"You blow out the candles."

"What candles-"

Before he could finish you stuck three candles with the number six on them and light them up.

"These. Now blow, I want to eat."

You said with a sweet smile. Ronin laughed, finding this amusing. Of course you would do something like this!

He stood next to you and thought for a bit, then he blew at the candles.

"So now comes my wish."

He turned to you.

"Ronin you're not supposed to say it or it-"

He stopped you from talking with his lips. The kiss was sweet, passionate. Ronin was totally in euphoria from what you did for him.

To his surprise, while you were kissing, you pulled something on his head. He broke the kiss and reached out in confusion. What he took of his head was a crocheted black beanie with white curled horns, bigger than the ones on his old beanie. He smirked and kissed your forehead.

"Awh babe, this is great, a little sloppy tho."

He raised his hands in surrender when you elbowed him.

"Shut up, you don't even know how long it took..."

You sighed and looked him in his eyes with a genuine smile.

"Happy Birthday Ro, I wish to spend every single one with you from now on."

[roseykat]

can you maybe possibly hopefully write kitty reader with other members..? I'm more curious about your thoughts on hyung line

thank you anon! Here is hyung line and I might do a maknae line at some point to follow this one up.

(these are nsfw so read with caution)

I've mentioned Chan before with this idea but to reiterate, Chan can usually deal with her whenever she goes into heat - to a certain extent. He can tame her whenever she misbehaves such as by telling her off or setting up soft rules for her to follow - nothing harsh or drastic. But, my hard thoughts about kitty!reader and Chan are here x

Minho is a cat magnet and just has a lot of knowledge about them, their nature, behaviour, habits and whatnot. So when he and reader first met, and after she told him about her complexes to do with her anatomy, he just instantly knew and understood. There was no judgement whatsoever.

Now, Minho is physically articulate with how to 'deal' with her especially when it comes to her heat. He can't comprehend how exhausting it is for her to go through it and tries to make it as comfortable as possible and tends to her needs as much as he can - as much as his stamina can.

At times she wants to stop, to stop cumming whenever she needs to use dildos or vibrators to satiate her primal needs. Then again, Minho knows she can't help it. This is literally how she was designed. Now if it's kitty!Minho and kitty!reader, he would have her heats covered. He'd be able to handle them every day of the week, no sweat. He gives her his seed when she wants it - breeds her when she asks for it and would never get tired.

Changbin is a very observant person and every day that goes by, he learns something new about his kitty!reader. He discovers that she won't let others play with her tail, but when it comes to him it's fine. He knows that she likes being scratched lightly behind her ears and prefers to rest between his legs whenever they both get the chance.

Then at times, she can be so stubborn and doesn’t listen to him. Changbin notices that this is usually the case three or four days out from the first day of her heat to which he does his best track. She gets aggressive. Won't let him touch her, won't let him go near her space, becomes a bit irrational - but the second her heat hits, she’s all over Changbin.

He can keep up with her for a certain amount of time each day of the week and eventually gets worn out. But that still doesn't stop him from helping her. At the end of her heat, she's run to the ground and completely exhausted. That's when Changbin will pull out the best self-care methods such as running her hot baths, giving her massages to relieve her tired and sore muscles, feeding her well, and relaxing with her - all so she can come down from an incredibly tough week.

Hyunjin just loves, loves, loooooves teasing his pretty kitty!reader. He thinks she’s so cute when he does something annoying to make her hiss. For instance, he knows the most sensitive parts of her body, in particular her neck and ears, so sometimes he will just come up behind her and start kissing her neck to which she can’t help but submit to the feeling and starts melting in his arms. It’s in her nature after all.

In saying that, when it comes to her heats, Hyunjin is just as annoying if not slightly sadistic about it. He finds it interesting how antsy, clingy, handsy and horny she can get during the days where she has to claw at Hyunjin to fuck her. He makes use of her being in this state by overstimulating her until she’s crying and begging him to stop even though, anatomically speaking, she needs him to continue.

Every day throughout the week, Hyunjin has new ways of subduing her primal needs. On the occasion, he will use toys to help her. But he finds that making her cum himself, whether it’s with his fingers, mouth or cock, is much more rewarding.

[kairiscorner]

what if miguel and y/n switched bodies for a day bc of sum villain that put a spell on them or smth imagine how weirded out the hq would be to see miguel smiling and all cheerful just not being his usual self 💀💀 and y/n being grumpy and petty

HFIREOGHRJTNVEIFBBREUFI BOO, I ... you have awoken my younger self's love for freaky friday (yeah i liked that movie as a kid BWAHHAHAHAHAH) anyway, I LOVE THAT

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

being in your shoes. — miguel o'hara x reader

"wow... i'm a fucking statue come to life." said miguel's awestruck voice with a chuckle following his statement of disbelief. he admired his palms, then his knuckles and the backs of his hands and arms—every vein and every curve, groove, and bump of his muscular arms were just a sight to behold; and the way his fists looked when clenched, and the way his fingers unfolded like the blooming petals of a flower... it was too much for your heart to handle, which, in this case, was technically his heart—anatomically speaking. as he admired the beauty of, well, himself–you went up to him with widened eyes, which quickly morphed into a scowl. "this is... humiliating." your own voice muttered in a low voice, almost as a growl, but miguel chuckled and ruffled your hair. "ooh," the big man let out a soft sound of curiosity at the discovery that he was practically twice your size.

he pressed his elbow down onto your head, making you–rather, miguel–grumble at this act of degradation and disrespect upon shorter people. "wow, y'know, i wouldn't blame you for doing this to me if we ever got back to normal. hell, i don't even want to go back to normal! have you seen this body?" you asked him aloud with a chuckle, his own chuckle that was hardly ever heard, reverberating out into the atmosphere and making the you inside of his body swoon. "stop laughing, it's not funny, this is a cause for concern." he said with your voice as he folded your arms over your chest and glared at you, instinctively pouting despite his lips not appearing as pouty on purpose anymore.

"oh, shit, you do pout?" you asked him with a chuckle that made you giggle internally. miguel didn't appreciate how you abused his laugh so much that he grumbled and turned on his heel–in this scenario, it was your heel–and stormed out of his office as you remained there; admiring his wonderful body and flexing, asking lyla to take pictures of this rare moment when the photo shots of miguel are candid but also taken with such flare that you'd think he was crazy for agreeing to this–the miguel o'hara everyone knew was... nothing like this.

as you walked down the halls in a pink compression shirt and yoga volleyball shorts, as opposed to the usual spider suit miguel donned on every day–you smiled at everyone you met, even if they didn't greet you first–stunning and shocking everyone out of their minds. wide-eyed lenses and hung open mouths greeted you as you greeted them with a warm smile that nobody had ever witnessed before. it was like an silver lining had unexpectedly shown through as the eternal, dark and thunderous clouds tore the sky asunder and welcomed the first rays of sunshine that the spider society had sworn they saw before... on you. but that sunshine was replaced by a gray rainy day hovering over your head and furrowed eyebrows that didn't complement your soft, adorable, amicable face.

whenever anyone greeted you, with miguel in your body, he'd practically growl at them to a loud silence–he'd nod without even looking anybody's way, confusing everyone into thinking you woke up on the wrong side of the bed today or something really bad had happened to you. as everyone went over to you, patting your shoulder, asking you if you're okay–he's scream in your higher pitched voice that you were just peachy.

everyone was astonished at how boldly angry and furious you were being, and at how boldly sweet and darling miguel was being today–everyone kept referencing that a freaky friday situation must've happened to you two, with only miguel in your body explaining that was exactly the situation, but they all laughed it off as a joke, since it came out of your mouth. "yeah, pequeña–oh, fuck, that sounds sexy–yeah, uh, chiquita–you're acting out of your mind right now, darl." "darl?!" your voice snarled in an angry, squeaky voice, making miguel chuckle and ruffle your hair again. "so sweet for me, chiquita." you said in miguel's voice, teasing him in your body as he grumbled.

oh, this was not gonna be fun for him, at all... but it was gonna be way, way too much fun for you.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @hearts4gabri @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @fictarian @yuridopted0 @simsrandomstuff @luvstarrstruck @popeheywardssecretgf @meeom @arachnoia @melovetitties @fable-library @ophanimgold @smokeywhalee @capnshtfce

[amiserableseriesofevents]

Did any of you guys say they liked Gale in a dress?

Mh? Oh, my bad.

John barely has the time to think Hey, are they having him play the butler? before the world tilts on its axis and the entirety of his attention focuses only on on Buck, like a spotlight. John’s mouth dries suddenly and he feels his heart roaring in his chest like a plane engine as he grabs the chair’s armrest with both hands and barely stops an inhuman sound from escaping his lips because Buck is dressed as a fucking housemaid. Maybe I’ve died and this is Heaven, John’s otherwise blank mind conjures as he stares at Buck’s long legs clad in black fishnets of all things, his lean thighs barely covered by the black skirt of his dress, the white apron on top of it making everything just more sinful. Somehow the entire dress fits him like it’s been sewed over his skin, hugging his narrow waist in a way that makes John’s mouth actually water; same goes for his shoulders, that John can see roll with anatomical precision, and the strong arms that emerge from the black and white short sleeves. There’s makeup on his face, white powder and a deep red lipstick, and some heavy dark around his eyes that only make them stand out more — John feels like they’re swallowing him whole from where he’s sitting at the end of the first sector and his heartbeat speeds up at the mere thought of being subjected to that magnetic look from Buck more up close later. He can even forgive the hideous red, curly wig they’ve put on him because dressed like that, and splendidly at ease like he only looks when he’s on stage, Buck is the most beautiful, sensual thing John’s ever seen. He wants to rip that dress off of him and fuck him like tomorrow is not a certainty.

I'm having so much fun with the Halloween special

[thefiendio]

‘Sleepy Indulgence’ - Giyuu Tomioka

I have a sudden motivation, and potentially something planned with Kokushibo ;)

Warnings : Sleeping!reader, this is consensual and was talked about from both parties, Giyuu gets horny, thigh fucking, Giyuu feels guilty afterward, potentially afab!reader because of any anatomical reasons (but amabs can do whatever :]), Kinda possessive Giyuu, established relationship, sleepy sexual interactions, doesn’t jump right into the smut for once (but has sexual enough themes to need a cut after the GIF), intentional lack of dialogue, not proofread

You breathed out a laugh as Giyuu brought up his current ‘issue’ with you, which consisted of him getting excited in the middle of the night, but not being able to take care of it in peace without fear of waking you up.

“Well, if you want to, you’re allowed to use me to get rid of your little ‘issue’,” you spoke, your response almost sending him into cardiac arrest as his face flushed with a rosy pink color, him turning away to try and hide his embarrassment.

“W-Well, I don’t- Are you sure? Do you want me to?” He stuttered out, looking into your eyes hopefully at the end of his statement. You smiled and nodded, confirming his hopes, and he gave a hesitant one in return, avoiding your eyes and getting shy again.

You both talked about it, and came to an agreement. As long as he told you what he did, and didn’t cum inside, he could do as he pleased with you.

That night, you both were getting ready for bed, and you purposefully made sure to not wear any undergarments, having a hunch that he was going to need it. You also put on an easy-access kimono, that he could easily pull up or down as he pleased.

You both got settle into the futon, and his nervous demeanor came back as he asked for your consent again, in case anything happened between your earlier conversation and now, which nothing did and you gave him consent and reminded him of the agreement terms.

He smiled, now reassured, and he then got snuggled up closer to you and you both fell asleep in each other’s arms, like almost every night spent together.

After a few hours of sleeping, Giyuu woke up with the familiar ache between his legs and turned to face you with a blush on his face. Looking at your form, curled up, facing away from him and completely at peace, his mind wandered to how you could take him completely, and sometimes with a little struggle when you haven’t done anything in a while. He also thought about the other sexual encounters that you’ve had with him, which didn’t help with his ‘issue.’

He mentally cursed himself for his thoughts, acting like you didn’t have semi-regular sex with him. He felt like he was violating you with this sort of thing, but he remembered your talk and how you reassured him that he had your complete and total consent with this.

He sighed and mentally reassured himself, and when he felt that he was ready to do this, and pulled down his Hakama pants, stopping periodically to make sure that you were totally asleep for this and that you wouldn’t wake up while he was doing this.

Once his cock was completely out, he softly crept over toward you and pulled up your sleeping kimono, marveling at how you weren’t wearing any undergarments underneath it. This reminded him that you completely consented to this, and how he shouldn’t be nervous.

He then placed his body directly behind you, holding you close as he placed his painfully hard cock in between your thighs, spitting into his hands and using his saliva as a way to make this easier.

Once he got himself settled in between your thighs, he let out a soft groan, all worries of making you uncomfortable left his mind. He wrapped his arms around your waist, trying to pull you impossibly closer to him, and him to you.

With a shaky breath, Giyuu started moving. He started off with a few test thrusts, slow and far apart, seeing what you do in response.

He got more comfortable in this situation, speeding up a little bit, but getting rougher with his thrusts.

Not wanting to wake you, he muffled his whines and moans in the crook of your neck, peppering kisses along your shoulder.

Giyuu wasn’t expecting it to feel this good, which was evident in the way his hips stuttered as he got close to his impending orgasm already.

The heat in his belly was growing more intense with each passing second and movement of his hips, making his gentle thrusts irregular and varying in strength.

As if on a nonexistent cue, the coil in his stomach tightened and snapped, bringing him over the edge of his orgasm.

Your shoulder was barely enough to muffle the moan that he let out, the volume of this woke you up, but Giyuu was far too into pleasure to care at this moment.

Giyuu gave a few weak thrusts to help him ride out his orgasm, and he snuggled up to you, completely spent.

It was at this moment that you realized what happened, and you spoke out, making him jump,

“Did you have fun there Giyuu?”

He really needed to do this again, and maybe to allow you to return the favor

————

Hope you enjoyed this!

If you would like to see more of my works, requests are open! They’re free and I’d be happy to write for (almost) anything!

[slamminslamminmcgill]

I need to be high off my ass while deadpool fucks me. That’s it. that’s the post. Wade wilson the man that you are. Hurfgghdhhhh. yeah. weed makes me horny so definitely that…… Deadpool….. save me………….. headlock….. his arms…. ehhshhhshhhhh

deadpool headlock on drugs inspired by my last dick appointment coming right up!!

warning: intox (weed), choking, oral, daddy kink, humiliation, transphobic slurs

anatomical terms: cunt/pussy

suggested listening: Gorillaz - Superfast Jellyfish (trying something new w/ poolposting!! i love the deadpool soundtrack and the vibes the music creates for each scene so im trying to emulate that. also discovered recently that this is a perfect song to smoke and get your pussy ate to 😌)

“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that, sugarcunt. Speak up for me, will ya?”

“F-Feels so… feels so fucking gooooood…”

“Mm, but does it? If you’re still speaking in complete sentences, then my work’s not done. Go ahead and take another hit. Or two. Y’know what? Just finish the bowl. I’ll pack you another if you’re still too smart for my liking.”

Wade punctuated his order with a sharp smack to your cunt, sloppy with his spit and your need. His mask was pulled up just over his mouth so he could service you.

This motherfucker was trying to kill you. Or at the very least, give you some form of brain damage. Every consecutive orgasm reduced your cognitive functioning. To his credit, though, it sounded like a generous offer when he first proposed it.

“You need to relax, honey-boo. How’s about you smoke up while I go down, if you catch my drift?"

He was lying on his stomach, his chin resting in his hands, his legs in the air kicking back and forth, watching as you took rapid fire bong hits. You tried your best to burn through the bowl as quickly as you could, and you got about three solid clouds out before you started coughing. Hard.

“That’s it. You got it,” Wade cooed, stroking your inner thigh, “Just cough out all those neurons for me, good boy. Daddypool’s stupid little boy, I’m so proud of you!” He used your coughing fit as an opportunity to sneak two fingers inside you, and gawked at how you hard you clenched them. “Ooh, yeah, you got some good grip strength in you, cupcake. Squeezing those fingers like a hug from a church-going grandma. 'Am I gonna see you next week at the bake sale, honey?' Oh, yes, you will, Miss Nancy!"

What? What in the actual fuck is he yapping about? Was that supposed to be a joke? You had no mental bandwidth left to even speak, let alone dissect Wade's meandering, confusing, drawn-out metaphors for your pussy. "Wh… Wha-a-a?"

"Oh, that’s sounding much dumber, baby! Good boy!" He said cheerily, sliding his fingers out and wiping them on his suit. "Seems like you’re just about ready for Daddy."

--

"Oh my god, look at you! You look so cute pinned down like this! Aw, you can’t move, can you, dummy? Nowhere for you to go, huh? Except back onto Daddy’s cock where you belong."

Wade had you on your back, your ankles on his shoulders, his hands gripping your thighs as he pounded into you, over and over, deeper and deeper. So deep, in fact, it was as if he was shoving your womb up into your throat. Choking on that and a mouthful of drool, you cried out for him, pawing at his arms just to feel him close to you.

“Daddy—Da-! Daddy, Daddyyy-y-y~!”

Wade could see the desperation on your face, that yearning for closeness, and dangled it over your head. “Aw, poor baby, you need a hug? But you’re already hugging me so tight, with that—f-fucking wet honey-pot cunt you’ve got there—ah! Fuck! Ah… shit, I got’cha, come here.”

Wade withdrew his hips, leaving you gaping and empty without his cock stretching you out. He leaned down to wrap his arms tightly around you, though before you could hug him back, he flipped you onto your stomach. He pressed a firm hand onto your back to keep you lying prone on the mattress. With you trapped beneath him once again, he pushed back in.

“Ooooh, that’s it, babyboy, that’s the ticket.”

You sobbed into the pillows, keeping your sounds timid and muffled, and your dignity somewhat intact. But Wade wouldn’t let you off that easy. He hooked his arms around your neck and yanked you up into him. The pressure on your windpipe turned your moans into weak gasps and sputters. The lack of oxygen set your nerves alight, burning with hypersensitivity. And to make matters worse, he wouldn’t stop growling filth right into your ear.

“God, I can feel my balls smacking your tiny little tranny dick like this… Can feel you twitching… So fuck—so fucking wet… Mmmm, I’m gonna shoot the biggest fuckin’ load into you... Not… not yet though… No, I’m not done with you, yet, slutter-butter. I can just… mmm, edge myself inside you… keep you nice and full… All. Fucking. Night.”